Baby Talk

No, I'm not pregnant and unfortunately am not planning to be any time (too) soon.

That was the disclaimer. Now for the post.

I think I'm a hippie.

I'm a hippie at least when it comes to babies. See, I used to believe in the birth control pill, epidurals, hospital deliveries and short breastfeeding periods. I was an all the way Make-Life-Easy-On-Mom kinda gal. But then I met this wonderful woman, Kathy, who turned my life around (and hippified me). She convinced me of, first, the importance of breastfeeding, as she would, seeing as she is what they call a "lactation consultant". So it came to be that I believed in longer breastfeeding periods (like beyond a year, though I recognise a lot depends on the baby). Soon after, it wasn't hard for her to show me the beauty of midwifery. I came to believe in midwives all the way, as they have a completely different approach to pregnancy and delivery than most doctors. I decided I will most certainly be going the midwife route; I love the idea of planning how I'm going to have my child beforehand, and then having my wishes actually granted come labour! (My current delivery-of-choice is water birth.) Oh, and no drugs, of course. That comes with the natural pregnancy/midwife territory. (Dulas are wonderful things, too, if you do not feel comfortable with midwifery - they know how you want to have your baby and even when you are screaming your head off and just begging for the drugs, they will speak on behalf of your former sanity to the doctors and ensure you get the treatment you intended.)

I wasn't so convinced about Natural Family Planning, though, and I resisted her there. But only for a short while. After discovering what utter crap the Pill is, I (along with Scott) was quickly converted to the NFP way. Hippie, hippie, hippie.

But it gets worse.

I thought I could go no further in the hippie baby-rearing, short of dreading the child's hair, but today I've gone to new levels. ALL NEW LEVELS.

Cloth diapers.

Again, Kathy's influence. For a couple of weeks in college I helped out at the Diaper Depot, a cloth diaper cleaning company, folding small and larger cloth diapers (post cleaning), but I wasn't convinced. Seeing all those dirty diapers rumbling and tumbling in the economy-sized washing machines did not make me a believer. In fact, though I've always recognised the advantages of cloth diapers (better for the baby, better for the wallet, better for the environment), I was totally against it for myself. I mean, sure I plan to be a stay-at-home mom, but certainly I'll have better things to do than clean pooh out of cloth diapers!

But this dear woman, in only one short speel, converted me.

Friends and family, I have reached an all-time high (or low?) in my personal baby beliefs. No one is going to want to babysit my poor children. (If I even believe in babysitting by the time they come along.)

Other Interesting Facts About My Hippie-ness:
1. I do not believe in "elimination communication", or "infant potty training".
2. I do believe in baby sign language (and not because of Meet the Fokkers).
3. Though I am for natural birth and midwifery, I do not plan to have my babies at home. Ideally, I'd like to find a midwife clinic or a midwife hospital ward where the midwife is in total control of the birthing process, unless a major complication arises, at which point I'd appreciate the interference of a medical doctor. I know it's not totally hippie, but I don't think Scott would let me risk it.
4. I'd like to breastfeed my children for up to a year and a half (though I think it's great to do it longer), but Scott would rather I leave it at one, which I will happily do.
5. I do not intend to co-sleep with my babies, because I can't even co-sleep with my husband without leaving him bruised and battered by morning. For me, in the too-true words of Jenny, "Sleeping is a sport".
6. I am offended by people who think breastfeeding in public is shameful. It ought to be done tastefully, yes, and discreetly, but to disallow it is a complete load of bull.
7. I've always wanted dreadlocks.

C.S. Lewis, aka "Jack"

A guy approached Jack on the street one day and asked him if he could spare a few shillings. And Jack immediately dove into his pocket and brought out all his change and handed it over to this beggar. And the chap he was with—I think it was Tolkien—said, "Jack, you shouldn't have given that fellow all that money, he'll just spend it on drink." Jack said, "Well if I had kept it, I would have only spent it on drink."

Read the rest of stepson Douglas Gresham's interview here.

Out Tonight

Oh. My. Pounding Heart. Goodness. (Click it.)

To My Dad's Grand Dismay...

...if all goes according to plan,
this weekend marks
the recommencement of...


the nose ring.

Top Threes

Top Three Places To Live:
1. Scotland. As much as I complain about it (and it does warrant a good deal of complaint), it is becoming home and I don’t fancy leaving home again. Though the rain is a pain and the summer is a bummer, I think I’ll stay. (I’ve got real furniture now – what would I do with it if I moved?)
2. France. South, North, East, West, Mid - it doesn’t matter. I can think of no way of life more pleasant than speaking French all day and wearing lots of black. These romantic ideas of drinking un vin chaud au un café au lait wearing un robe noir are undoubtedly based on anything but real life, but regardless, I could live in France and be quite happy, I think, if only for the fact that I was living in France avec mon cher mari and wearing Chanel No. 19.
3. America. If I simply had to leave Scotland, and there was no room for me amongst les enfants de la patrie, I would move back to America. Personally, if Scott didn’t have any say in the matter, I’d move back to Arkansas, where the armadillos run free and the ‘coons steal your meat, but since Scott invariably does have a say, I could happily settle in Boston or Philadelphia – somewhere on the East Coast – though Scott feels he’d be much more of a West Coast man…

Top Three Perfect Jobs:
1. Editor of an independent literary magazine. I’d like to get about five creative, innovative aspiring writers together who love to read and talk about books and want to provide an outlet for new and unpublished creative, innovative aspiring writers to get their foot in the door. (Model: the Quiet Feather) (Any takers, by the way?)
2. Housewife. Cook, clean, raise the kids to be good, outstanding citizens, gain the laud of mothers everywhere, possibly adopting the title “SuperWoman”…
3. Cell Biologist. Spending all day doing stuff to cells and getting to know those little things like the inside of my colour-coordinated closet.... I can’t imagine anything more interesting. I’d like to research cancer.

Top Three Names for Pets:
1. Remedios the Beauty. Taken from the character of said name in 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez, this the planned name of our forthcoming kitten.
2. Zeno of Elea. Taken from the character of said name in one of my own budding short stories, I think this name is dead cool for a cat (which it is in the short story). It is also the name of a mathematician.
3. Erasmus. Dog. Clever dead guy.

Top Three Things that Annoy – No, Infuriate – You:
1. Scientology. Particularly the don’t-make-a-sound-while-squeezing-a-baby-out-your-vagina-and-then-don’t-speak-to-the-baby-for-seven-days-because-your-voice-reminds-it-of-the-pain-of-being-born thing.
2. Sectarianism. The Catholic-versus-Protestant/Green-versus-Blue crap really, really chaps my hide.
3. Hollywood depictions of Christianity. I don’t think this needs an explanation, does it? Or does it? Christians aren’t all middle-class, suburban, pulpit-pounding Republicans who bomb abortion clinics while sleeping with the next-door-neighbour’s wife.

(*Stolen from this guy MCF’s pop-quiz because it’s a good question*)
Top Three Famous People Who Shouldn’t Be Famous:
1. Paris Hilton. (Also see the The Happy Husband’s other answers – Ashlee Simpson and Keanu Reeves. I’m fighting hard to find answers as good as these, but I couldn’t help but 3000% agree about Paris.)
2. Mary-Kate-and-Ashley Olsen. Since they are one in the same, they go together as one of the Top Three Famous people Who Shouldn’t Be Famous. I mean, they were cute (kinda) on “Full House” (though how many times did we have to hear “You got it, dude!” to get the picture?)
3. Kelly Osbourne. (But actually, Keanu Reeves.)


Your answers?

And how my moods change drastically.

Thirty minutes after posting “I feel happy” last night, I was down in the dumps. In the pits. In the “depths of despair”, as my fictional bosom friend would say.

I felt cynical and crabby and not to be messed with. I felt sad and disappointed with myself. As I talked with an old English major friend on MSN Messenger about his writing, I felt more and more depressed with the fact that I’m not writing. I used to be a poet – what has happened to me? The mere thought of trying to write a poem is like tying a stone to my heart and dropping it in a lake. It seems impossible; it seems futile; it seems a million miles away.

Then as I talked to another old friend about the loss of faith, I felt all the more depressed. Where is my faith? Where is the joy of my salvation? Why do I hold on when everything around me seems to contradict what I believe? (My answer: “‘You do not want to leave too, do you?’ Jesus asked the Twelve. Simon Peter answered him, ‘Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We believe and know that you are the Holy One of God.’”)

And that rain that I thought made the night so “quiet and cool”? It sucks. It really sucks. I hate the rain. There is too much of it all year ‘round, and I’m sick of it. (But at least it’s not a hurricane, right?)

Scotland is just depressing. I know it sounds romantic and brave and beautiful, but if you believe that, you’ve never lived here. And it’s not just me – ask any Scot and they will tell you – it’s a miserable land. I didn’t understand for the first wee while why everyone gave me the raised eyebrow when they heard that my husband and I decided to live here instead of there, but now I fully understand – and I raise my own eyebrow at our decision.

But of course, it’s not as bad as I make it out to be. Well, actually, it is, but I’m not taking it as badly as I could. If I really let the rain soak into my soul, the way it has the power of doing, I’d be in bad shape. But something holds me up. Something has always held me up, in the lowest of days. I’m not able to scrape across the floor in utter hopelessness, because the rope that holds me upright isn’t long enough. Sometimes I’m fair swinging upside down with my arms outstretched, reaching for the bottom, but the rope is still knotted firmly around my waist. I couldn’t let go if I tried.

As the psalmist said, the waters have come up to my neck. But they will not drown me. God’s that faithful.

Holiday Season

I know I'm a bit of an "early riser" when it comes to holidays, but I'm already très excited about Christmas and Thanksgiving. I got my Christmas cards in the mail today that I ordered from a charity shop; it made me giddy. (<-- That's not the card, by the way.) I finally started my Christmas shopping on Saturday, after a very late start (the end of October?! I was a month overdue.), and it felt great. A few gifts are already wrapped and waiting in a shopping bag for the arrival of a tree to live under.

I've been excited about Thanksgiving even longer. And certainly longer than most Americans living in America - we Americans living abroad seem to have been thinking about it a lot sooner and with more gusto. (I look back to the emails circulating between me, Sarah and Ashley from early September/ late August regarding who was bringing what to Thanksgiving dinner...) This year for Thanksgiving, we're having a dinner at our house for family and friends in the Greenock/Glasgow area, and then possibly heading down to Edinburgh on Saturday for desserts with the Edinburghers. I can't wait. Our school chef said today he'd get me a turkey, either cooked or uncooked, however I wanted it. It's going to be a feast. It's going to be Thanksgiving. There will be kids at our dinner.

I feel thoroughly in the holiday spirit. I just had a bowl of hot cream of red pepper soup (made from scratch, I might add), and the house is quiet and cool, and it's nearly November, and it's all just perfect holidayness everywhere. I think this (wet, cold) evening calls for a lit pumpkin candle and a cinnamon bath. And a good CD, though I don't know which one. I feel happy.

RENT- Video Clips and Blog

Just in case any of you RENTheads out there don't know about this, you've got to go here. So far up (besides blog entries by all the cast) are clips of Maureen's "Take Me or Leave Me" and Collins' "Santa Fe". Oh. My. Gosh. This is going to be such a freaking amazing film.

Now, for the quick synopsis I've promised for those who don't know about RENT (but should still go see the movie)-
It's a story about eight friends (if you can call Benny, the once good friend who gets married to a rich girl and ditches his pals, a friend) who are all in some way struggling with life. Roger, Mimi, Collins and Angel all have AIDS. Roger is an ex-junkie and Mimi still is one. Mark is lonely and has just lost his girlfriend Maureen to the young lesbian lawyer Joanne, and Maureen and Joanne just can't seem to make things work.

Basically it's the story of "a year in the life of friends". They struggle to learn how to love and how to live each day as if it were their last - and as several of them are dying of AIDS or drug addiction, their last could come at any time.

For more info, visit IMDB or the RENT the Movie or RENT the Broadway Musical.

Now- Reader Participation Question:
Who is your favourite RENT character and why?

(Choices - Mark, Roger, Collins, Angel, Mimi, Maureen, Joanne, Benny.)

I don't know if I can answer that question myself...
I love Roger because he is the most dynamic character in the story. In 525,600 minutes, he makes the biggest turn-around. After finding out that he has contracted AIDS and his girlfriend commits suicide, he more or less locks himself up in his apartment with his guitar and waits to die. He struggles to write just one song that will "redeem this empty life". It isn't until precocious Mimi interrupts his solitude and self-deprication that things start to change. He starts out depressed, refusing to love again, waiting for his inevitable death inside a cold and bare apartment, to a man with a will to live and a heart that can love.

But then, who couldn't love Mark, his antithesis who at the end of the story has changed very little except that he has become more true to himself and has faced the position he is in and embraced it? He, though he isn't dying of AIDS, has decided to quit dying in his loneliness and make the best of what life has given him. Life has given him amazing friends, which he realises only after they are gone.

Perhaps I'll talk about what I love about the other characters in another post (which few people will bother to read).

October Holiday

I won't go into what a crap morning it's been, like how I stalled the car on a busy hill and it wouldn't restart, or how I pulled out in front of a car and nearly hit it, or how there was a hole in the roof over the gas pump which poured rain onto my head while getting gas, or how I went to my doctor's appointment at 9:30am this morning just to find out it's actually set for TOMORROW, I won't go into any of that. I'll just say-

Thank goodness I've finally started my October week holiday.

Operation: Total Destruction

All was set. Papaw's shed had been fully ransacked- old radio? Check. Wheelbarrow? Check. Things smashed with the rusty smashy thing? Check. Toy pistols? Check.

We were off. The Babies were hiding somewhere, we were certain. Wherever they were, we were bound to attack them unawares. We crept with inconceivable stealth around the house. With our backs against the wall, Danny peeked around the corner, toy pistol at his chest, ready to shoot, if necessary. They were not in the garage; we noiselessly dashed across the lawn to the shelter of the enourmous rose bush. There we paused for a quick breath.

Danny was the ringleader; that day he was calling all the shots. Nathan was in charge of telecommunications; he held the radio to his ear in anticipation of any new intelligence that might aid us in our attack. I pushed the wheelbarrow, which contained rocks, bolts, washers, plastic darts, leaves and wild onions. One could never be too prepared in these situations.

Danny furtively spied through a hole in the rose bush - the Babies were in sight! He signaled to us his decision to go with Plan A. Nathan and I nodded in agreement. Within seconds we all shot out around the rose bush in different directions, all armed with pistols. The Babies were caught by surprise. They were forced to relinquish their digging for worms to fight. They were unarmed, but their weapons of manipulation were too great for us. They screamed. Matt and Josh took turns kicking and hitting while the other screamed for back-up. We fired aimlessly - they refused to be hit. Danny, unwilling to lose to the defenseless Babies, held the gun to Matt's chest and shot point-blank. Matthew screamed but appeared to be unhurt. Angry, we began shouting.

"You've been hit! You can't say you weren't!" I shouted.

"He shot you! You're dead!" shouted Nathan in agreement.

"I just shot you in the chest!" protested Danny.

The shouting did no good. The Babies ran away in the direction of their back-up. Undaunted, we chased them, shooting and shouting. We were certain to win this battle. Nothing could stop us.

Danny was the first to go down.

As we were chasing the Babies, Danny turned to us to encourage us to run faster - and ran straight into the Babies' Commander.

"Daniel, are you harrassing the boys?" asked Matt's terrifying and powerful mother. Danny tried to deny that he had attacked, but the evidence was in our hands and in the Babies' screams.

"Lori. Nathan. Leave these boys alone," demanded the dreaded Aunt Donna.

The Babies hid behind their mothers and stuck out their tongues. They had won yet again: not by might nor strategy nor firepower, but by their evil alliance with the grown-ups.

We were forced to retreat. We gathered our equipment - radio, wheelbarrow, pistols - and made way to our fort, the small apple tree. We climbed to the lowest limbs in defeat. However, we did not lick our wounds for long; we immediately began planning our next attack.

We may have lost the battle, but we would win the war.


*****

Happy birthday, Matt. I can't believe you are twenty. You're still a Baby to me. I hope no matter how old you get, you never forget who's boss.

Love,
Lori