"The Deed is Done. Let's Start Day 1. You're Stuck With Me!"

I guess the day officially started at 5:12 AM when the phone rang and Julie couldn't figure out how to answer the damn thing until the 4th or 5th ring. In reality it had started at some point between 1:17 AM  ( when Mickey woke up and needed backrubs to fall back to sleep) and 5:12 when the extremely perky prerecorded voice of Julie's Superintendent informed her that there would be a 2 hour delay- because it was between those hours that it started snowing. Though, in the end, the snow is really just the icing on the cake.

Today we brought home Princess.

We were prepared for this-- sort of. We have blankets. Cat food. Water. Litter. What we didn't have on hand or have ready I was going to prepare during the 3 hours that Mickey was at nursery school. I would pick her up, give her a bunch of easy-to-eat lunch items for her car seat, drive down to Mount Vernon (an hour away), get the cat and head home. Challenging. Overwhelming. But do-able.

Two hour delay, huh? Ok. What we didn't have on hand I was going to prepare in the 1 hour while Mickey was at nursery school. Fixing her lunch was out, so we'd pick up something on the way and then drive down to Mount Vernon, get the cat and head home. More challenging. More overwhelming. But still do-able.

Step 1- Get home and prepare. Check.

Step 2- Get Mickey from nursery school. Check.

Step 3- Pick up food. This is where thing started to get interesting. First, I forgot that between Step 1 and Step 2 there was supposed to be Step 1.5- Get Gas. So I squeeze that in before Step 3. So, back to Step 3. Pizza is out, because I'm not carrying my giant shears, and she will only eat pizza cut into tiny squares. Chinese food is out because she won't eat it. There are no good bagel places near where we live, or in the direction we're going, so we can't do that. She doesn't eat sandwiches and I'm afraid she'll choke to death on an apple or hot-dog while strapped backwards into her car seat, so that's out too. This leaves me with only one logical solution. Greek Food. The kid won't eat a chicken nugget or grilled cheese, but she's nuts for pita's and Taziki sauce. We arrive at the awesome Greek place (that I just happen to love too) and I discover that at some point between Step 2.5 and Step 3 she has taken her shoes AND socks off and flung them to far corners of the car. With my ass hanging out into busy main-street traffic I find the shoes and socks and get them back on her, telling her that I'm angry. She bursts into tears and doesn't stop sobbing until a waitress brings her the pita. Then she wipes her tears and tucks in.

Step 4- Drive to Mount Vernon. Check. Turns out I still know my way around the old 'hood.

Step 5- Pick up cat. So we arrive at the least inviting animal shelter I think I've been to and go in to get Princess. When the lady at the desk sees me walk in carrying a cat carrier I think she nearly has a heart attack- they are under order from the city not to accept any more cats, to get rid of or euthanize the ones they already have (Princess was on the chopping bloc, hence our insane decision to adopt her). I explain that I've come to take a kitty and she recovers and sends a volunteer back to get Princess. He returns with her, nudges her into the carrier and closes the door. No introduction. No petting her or saying hello. Nothing.

At this point, Mickey realizes that there is a real, live crying cat in the carrier and it is COMING HOME WITH US!!! At this point they also ask me to sit down and fill out a whole pile of paperwork. Not surprisingly, this doesn't go so well. Mickey spends the next 5 minutes trying to shove disgusting, dirty cat toys through the vents in the carrier and I totally blank of the name of ANYONE in my life who I could use as a reference to the fact that I am not a cat-sacrificing nut-job because I'm too busy trying to keep Mickey from catching fleas. At one point she tries to shove a tennis ball through the front of the carrier just as I start muttering to myself and crossing off reference names and I SWEAR the two women running the shelter were about to tell me that the cat was better off being euthanized than sent home with me. (I put down the pen, picked up the toddler, gave her a lollipop and threatened her with eternal time out if she moved again and then assured the women that they were not sending this sweet elderly cat home to the house of a crazy toddler who was just going to torture it. They both laughed a little too quickly.) Another 10 minutes go by and we are ready to go, paperwork filled out, cat hesitantly packed into my car.

Step 5- Text references and let them know that an animal shelter might be calling them.

Step 6- Call vet. We were not initially planning on taking her to our own vet, but once I had her in my car I couldn't help it. I called them up and asked if there was any chance they had an appointment for... say... now? I explained the situation and they said they had an opening at 3:30. I checked the clock- 1:45. That should be fine, I told them. We might be a bit early? No problem, she said.

Step 7- Drive to vet, cat screaming, toddler threatening to escape from car seat and come up front to pet the cat.

Step 8- Arrive at vet. It's barely 2:40. Drag toddler and cat inside, apologize for being so early, fill out health information sheet by answering "I don't know, we just met" for every question-- Kinda like on House when Thirteen is hooking up with that chick and she has some kinda seizure and Thirteen drives her to the emergency room where House works?

Step 9- Visit with vet. Right away he says that there is no way she's 12. Maybe 10. Probably 8. Oddly, I feel like I've been duped. Eyes are clean, nose is good, ears are a mess and she probably has mites, teeth are a disaster and she needs dental care. The rest of her is fine, her nails are like talons and they cut those for me. She just keeps trying to rub up against me and purr. Mickey is starting to fade and gets up set when they hold her down so she can check their ears, so I have to hold her down while she screams at the doctor, "LET HER GO!!" I give her a packet of yogurt in a squeezy pouch, put the cat back into the carrier and go out to wait for my bill. While I'm digging for my credit card Mickey runs away and climbs onto the "Large Dog" scale in one of the exams rooms. Turns out she weighs 31.1 pounds with sneakers and jacket.

Step 10- Back in car, head for home. We finally arrive, more than 4 hours after I left. Wrangle Mickey and Princess out of the car and onto the front steps. Despite the snow on the ground and the plummeting temperatures, I strip Mickey down to her socks and underwear before putting her into the house because I'm afraid she has picked up rabid monkey disease or something similar at the shelter (she was crawling around on the filthy floor). Dress half naked kid in pink leopard print pants, turn on DragonTales, release screaming traumatized cat into the bathroom that will be serving as Administrative Segregation for at least the next 3 days and we are home free.

Seriously? Piece of cake...

Burn Baby, Burn!!!

I kinda hate Max and Ruby (the Nick Jr show, not the books). It is loud, repetitive and extremely annoying-- especially before 7 AM.

For those who aren't familiar, the show is based on the books by Rosemary Wells and follows two little bunnies (Max, the 3 year old brother and his 7 year old sister Ruby) who have no parental supervision (in fact, parents are never seen, though there is a grandmother who pops in from time to time). Ruby is a prissy self-important princess and Max is the stereotypically annoying little brother who is either a genius or a manipulative sociopath. Not surprisingly, each episode is about the ways in which they clash as Ruby tries to do something that she thinks is important while Max constantly interferes. Throughout the episode she talks a blue streak and Max interjects with mostly repetitious single-word utterances- for example, in one episode, the only word he says might be "candy." In each case, this one word generally starts out as something Max wants (or is interested in) and, in the end, is the lynchpin to solving some sort of problem that Ruby is having (so in the candy example, Ruby is helping the owner of a candy store take inventory so that she can earn a "Bunny Scout" badge, and Max keeps pointing to things and asking for "Candy!" Ruby keeps telling him no and giving him fruit, while stuffing herself silly with candy, claiming that she has to try everything. In the end, she is sick and the owner of the candy store asks her what's wrong. "I think I had too much," Ruby begins and Max interjects, "CANDY!".) Similar scenarios play out in every episode. Once in awhile the word changes, but it's rare. As teachers we started out suspecting that Max might be somewhere on the autism/aspergers spectrum, but the only thing that really supported that was his repetitive speech and his seemingly ingenious way of knowing so early on in the episode what the seceret will be to solving the overarching problem. After watching a ridiculous number of these, I'm now firmly in the psychopath camp. I mean, look at those eyes...

There's an even creepier look he gets when he's angry with Ruby... If I was her, I'd start looking into where our parents had gone.

So, along these lines we're watching an episode right now where it is still too early tell how it's going to end, but Max's word-of-the-episode is "Fire Truck!". Ruby is trying to practice playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on the piano for a recital and Max keeps interrupting by yelling "FIRE TRUCK!" Ruby's getting annoyed. Max is getting frustrated.

I'm kinda hoping that he's gonna just torch the place.

And one more makes 8?

We've sworn that we've got a 1:1 human:cat ratio in this house. That 3 is enough. That there's no mor room on the Queen size bed for another kitty-- even Klakky has moved into Doc's room. That we are paying more than enough for Wellness and litter in this house and that we couldn't possibly support another furry mouth.

Then, on Saturday, Julie read that the Mt. Vernon Animal Shelter will be putting down any remaining sick/aggressive/elderly cats because they have lost permission from the city to keep cats in the shelter because they went over their maximum capacity in the wake of Superstorm Sandy. And on Sunday I was stupid enough to go out to their website and take a quick look around for any elderly female cats who were still looking for a home (after our experience with Mishi we have sworn off kittens). And there I found Princess.

Princess is a 12 year old kitty who was abandoned in her apartment when her family's lease was up or they were foreclosed on or something. She is supposedly, sweet, docile and more of a warm furry lump on a piece of furniture than anything else. Currently she lives in a tiny room with several other kitties where she has grounds privileges for good behavior. Like Mishi  she seems to be a rather tortie leaning calico who is a bit small in stature. The majority of cats have been adopted out to families or sent to other shelters, but no one wants to take her because she is so old. She's got a few days before they have to euthanize her.

One e-mail led to a phone call, which led to another phone call, and another phone call and another phone call, and today Princess went to the shelter's vet to make sure she is up to date on her shots and healthy enough to, potentially, be introduced into a house with 3 healthy cats. We are awaiting word from her "case worker" (a volunteer who has taken a personal interest in her). We have agreed to nothing. But she should be ready to go to a theoretical home on Wednesday.

http://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/21100765

Things wander in our house. Remotes wind up in the freezer. Frogs in the sink. Cat food dishes on the couch. Jeans on top of the piano. Cheerios EVERYWHERE. Entire pop-tarts gone forever. So I find it telling that both my coffee mug and my wine opener were found on the couch-side cat perch this morning.
I don’t really have to question how they got there- I’m responsible for the coffee mug and Stuffie was the last person seen holding the wine opener (she has recently started going into the kitchen drawers and pulling out can openers, wine bottle openers, spatulas, chopsticks and bottlebrushes). I did wonder for a bit about the juxtaposition of these two items, representing my morning and evening beverages of choice. Did Stuffie notice my coffee mug and bring over the wine opener on purpose? Did the coffee mug magically attract the bottle opener by the power of some lonely beverage force field? Was the universe trying to tell me that it’s time to start drinking? If so, I’m game. Noon is totally respectable.
Looking at our house through the eyes of our toddler is, well, eye opening. We never really childproofed, thinking that teaching her what not to touch or play with was better than blocking access to everything in our house. We replaced the glass coffee table with jagged edges with a wooden coffee table (albeit not until LONG after she had learned to walk, suffered one really nice welt and learned to stay away from the corner of the table) and locked the under-the-sink cabinet that contained cleaning supplies and recyclable cat food cans. And… yeah. That was it. So we’ve had some really interesting conversations. “Permanent markers are NOT for arms!” “You never, NEVER use nail scissors on the kitty’s fur!” “You DO NOT climb the big cat post!” “STAY OUT OF THE LIQUOR CABINET!!!!!” I am amazed by her creativity and a wee bit frightened. She’s done normal things, like lodging marbles in her ears, rearranging living room furniture and wearing VHS covers as mittens. But there are stranger things too. Erasers treated like puppies, necklaces repurposed as compasses, measuring spoons spirited away for who knows what purpose, outlet extenders worn as jewelry, Christmas ornaments bitten into like glittery clear apples. Bizarre as each of these things are, none of them would really have been prevented by conventional childproofing. This makes us feel vindicated.

Breakfast Cookies

Sometimes Skits likes oatmeal for breakfast- and making it for her makes me feel like a pretty good mom. When I was breastfeeding I lived on Irish steel cut oats- they were as close as I came to a craving and could be made in giant vats in those few moments when our new little charge was dozing in her blue bouncy chair. Once little Skits was able to eat solid food I started to share my oats with her, gently spiked with brown sugar and cinnamon. In the mornings before daycare I'd pack up her purple gruel- a pureed mix of berries, applesauce (or pearsauce), oats and yogurt- in little containers labeled by day of the week. If there wasn't time for the steel cut oats to simmer for 45 minutes in a milk and buttermilk bath, we'd pinch hit with Trader Joe's Quick-Cut Steel Cut Oats. These take only 8 minutes and can be made and cooled in less time than it takes her to watch an episode of Little Bear. She soon came to prefer this kind and dubbed it "Better Oatmeal." If we didn't have 8 minutes I'd pull out a plain microwavable packet and mix it up with milk, cinnamon and sugar and, after a few failed tries on account of texture, Skits learned to eat those too. Then came the day when we were out of plain oats and we didn't have the 8 minutes (plus cooling time) to make Better Oatmeal, so I grabbed one of Mommy's Maple and Brown Sugar packets, mixed it with milk and served it up to a very happy little customer.

So what about those days when I don't have 1 minute (plus cooling time)? Days when I've been up since 5:30 and I haven't yet eaten breakfast or showered off the sweat from the previous night's 2 hour workout and it's already 9 AM and I'm struggling to get Mr. White Rabbit/Mr. Yetti/Skits/Whatever-the-Heck-She's-Calling-Herself-Today out of her pajamas, into clean clothes, socks and shoes so I can take her to the nursery at the gym and fight crazy people for a bike in the 9:30 spin-- only to realize, as I'm strapping her into her carseat, that Skits needs a second breakfast? Those are the days when I've started to reach for Quaker Oatmeal Soft Cookies.

I mean... it SAYS Quaker Oatmeal right there on the front of the box. That's gotta count for something, right?? At least, that is precisely what I've been telling myself when I hand her a cookie at 8:45 in the morning. So today I decided to figure out where on the Bad Mama scale this was going to fall. Was this more of an "Opps, my kid's socks don't match today," or an, "I affix my kid to the couch with duct tape and turn on CNN so I can go out drinking with friends on a Wednesday night,"?

Here's what I found:

Made with milk (as I usually make her microwavable oatmeal), Quaker Oats Strawberry and Cream has

227 calories
67 calories from fat
16 mg of cholestrol
244 mg of sodium
20 grams of sugar
8 grams of protien
2 grams of fiber

One Cranberry and Yogurt Cookies, right out of the package has

170 calories
60 calories from fat
15 mg of cholestrol
140 mg of sodium
12 grams of sugar
2 grams of protien
4 grams of fiber

Suddenly feeling quite a bit better about that breakfast cookie now...

If I'd Been Able To Stay Awake

Things I might have written about tonight if I hadn't fallen asleep on the couch before 8:30...

- Taking The Little White Rabbit to a women's shelter to drop off donation items and unexpectedly meeting with the executive director and having our photo taken for their newsletter

-The lone chicken still wandering around in the coop at Pace University

-The 40lb box of vegetables sitting in our hallway

- Our trip to Muscoot farm and Gromit the cat

- My heart rate

- Family Handyman magazine

- Alf

-Robbing CVS blind

-Dumpster diving

- Chicken nuggets

Week 1

I'd write more... explain a bit about how I got into this whole couponing thing or give some amusing anecdotes... but I just got my printer working again and I've got  A LOT of coupons to print out!!

Spent: $22. Saved: $175. Go first full week of January!!!

And one more makes seven...

We were certain by Mr. Yeti's 2nd birthday that she was going to remain an only child for the foreseeable future. Yet, somehow, our family didn't feel quite complete. From time to time we tried to figure out what was missing... another cat? (We have a 1 cat per human maximum, so we're currently at quota) Another lizard? (Our beloved dragon recently passed away after nearly 10 happy sun and cricket filled years). A Kitchen-aid stand mixer? (We decided to adopt one, and though it has made us very happy, that wasn't it either.) As time passed we decided to wait and see what the gods put in our path.

And then, in early December, the gods brought us Audry II.

Actually, it was a king (though, if you ask Jean Bodin, they are actually one in the same...). King Arthur of Norwich, Vermont. You see, I find it hard to pass up a deal (wait for future posts on couponing for more explanation here!). For several weeks in a row, King Arthur Flour had a series of amazing pre-holiday shopping offers that I managed to combine with promotional codes and gift cards from previous orders to score crazy good deals on baking goods. And man, do we love baking. We placed 4 orders in 2 weeks swearing that each one was the last-- and we would have made good on our oath if their 12/12/12 sale hadn't come along. You see, they offered up a once in a century deal. Spend $12, get 12% off and pay only $0.12 for shipping. Combined with the $10 off coupon code that I had received as a reward from a previous order this meant that we could order the sourdough crock and starter kit that we'd had our eyes on for just about $10 dollars... more than half off the original $27.95!

Our sourdough kit arrived 2 days before Yule and I read the care sheet that came with it several times before taking the starter out of the box and feeding it. One feeding and it started to expand in its large glass bowl. Two feedings and it was bubbling and starting to froth a bit. Three feedings and I swear I heard it burp.

Once the starter was well fed I pulled a cup out to use in a pair of loaves, fed the remaining starter once more, settled it into its new little crock and tucked it away in the back of the fridge to fester for a week until its next feeding. We now take it out once a week, remove a cup for baking or passing along, feed it a bit more and give it some downtime behind the Brita. Since Audry II arrived we've had 4 delicious loaves of sourdough bread and are looking forward to some kick-ass buttermilk pancakes tomorrow morning.

Me, Julie, Mr. Yeti, Lois, Klakky, Mishi and Audry II. Our family finally feels complete.

Two freshly baked loaves, Audry II in her crock and a bowl of buttermilk pancake sponge set up to grow overnight.

Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary

I haven't had a Bloody Mary since I was about 7. Partly because no one makes them as spicy as my dad, partly because I swore off vodka when I was 13 but mostly because I had simply forgotten about how good they are.

Bloody Marys were my mom's drink of choice when I was a kid. They would appear early on in the meal at special dinners-- at the Lobster Pot on our first night in Cape Cod every year, perching on the edge of the table among the appetizers on New Year's Eve or hanging out on the kitchen counter while my parents prepared Christmas Eve dinner. I'd clamor for the tall green stalk of celery soaking in the spicy brine and someone would usually pass it to me and replace it with another- I'm pretty sure there were times when entire packs of celery lived in a pitcher of the stuff in our fridge. Most kids ordered Shirley Temples; I ordered Virgin Marys, two stalks of celery, extra spicy.

I experimented with V8 and horseradish sauce a few times as a teenager, but something was always missing; occasionally I overcompensated by eating cocktail sauce piled high on lettuce leaves once everyone else had finished off the shrimp at family parties. When I learned to like shrimp at some point in college I started perfecting my own spicy dipping concoctions, never realizing that I was trying to fill the Bloody Mary void.

This afternoon Julie and I decided to chance taking The Little White Rabbit out for brunch at the Birdsall House. (We are currently limited to restaurants that serve pizza, pita and taziki sauce, pickles or pancakes). Birdsall offers a price fix- $19 for an appetizer, an entree and your choice of a mimosa, a beer or a Bloody Mary. After deciding on a cup of chili and some corned beef hash (what can I say, I'm Irish!) I was stuck on the drink. For some reason, I was leaning towards the Bloody Mary.

"Virgin?" Julie asked

"No.... I don't think so..."

It didn't take long for our drinks to arrive and Holy Mother of God, this was no ordinary Bloody Mary.

Cocktail glass? Check.
Tall stalk of celery? Check.
Deep red flecked with off-white? Check.

What first caught my attention was what I assumed to be a halved cherry tomato sitting next to the straw. I poked at it a bit with my straw and was surprised to see it burst apart into a number of tiny seeds and 5 or 6 round red discs. What the hell? I fished out one of the disks and bit into it; I still can't be sure, but I think it was pickled horseradish. By this time all of the tiny balls had sunk to the bottom of the glass, so I gave them a swirl and took a sip. My eyes watered, my nose burned, I took a deep breath and grinned. Mustard seeds! It was love at first sip.

In addition to the cherry tomato surprise, a cornichon (teeny tiny pickle) was floating alongside the straw. Knowing that my Little White Rabbit has no desire to eat celery, I offered the pickle to her and she devoured it while waiting for her pancakes.

Second best use EVER for a crock pot!!

At some point during my Junior or Senior year of college I decided it was imperative that I learn how to dismember a raw chicken. I think Alton Brown gave me the idea and the magic of YouTube gave me the skills. For several weekends in a row I would set up the laptop in the kitchen and practice breaking whole chickens down into 9 distinct pieces-- wings, drumsticks, thighs, breasts and leftover carcasses. The carcasses piled up in the freezer to be turned into broth ("When I get 5, Val makes me throw them away") and, while many of my classmates were busy frying their brains like eggs in a cast iron skillet, I was busy making southern fried chicken (http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/alton-brown/fried-chicken-recipe/index.html) and buttermilk biscuit topped pot pies. There were many failures and a few successes, and I still owe a lot to Christy and Kelly for the number of mistakes they willing to eat.

While I can still dismantle a chicken quicker than most men can change a tire, I've also learned to appreciate that it's even easier not to bother. Several weeks ago I acquired a crock-pot large enough to hold surgically intact bird, and since then I've fallen in love with a new technique.

1. Cover chicken in herbs and spices.

2. Marinate in the fridge overnight. Or not.

3. Slice whole onion. Put onion on bottom of crock pot.

4. Put chicken in crock pot.

5. Put crock pot on high. Cook until it splits in half.

6. Eat

For people hell bent on specifics, here they are:

http://www.food.com/recipe/crock-pot-whole-chicken-33671

For the record, you could probably substitute a whole chicken with a pack of pre-cut chicken pieces.

Cream and Sugar?

There are just some times when you NEED coffee... after a long night or an early morning, before meetings or after a fabulous date, while working on a last minute project or on days that end in "y". This morning my 2 1/2 year old woke up on the wrong side of the crib. I walked into her room and she immediately demanded that I "GET OUT" and get Mommy...she did not, under any circumstances, want to deal with me. Unfortunate, because I am the one who is home with her all day.

As we went through the following hour her mood did not improve. She took off her night diaper but refused to sit on the toilet. She wanted to go downstairs, but refused to walk. She asked for yogurt, and then threatened to throw it on the floor. She was the no smoking sign on my cigarette break; an absolute killjoy across the board. After about 45 minutes my partner and I turned to each other and asked, "Doesn't it just seem like she needs a cup of coffee?"

I know there is a lot of debate out there about how to raise a child. Organic or not organic? TV or no TV? Sugar or no sugar? Naps or no nap? Cloth or disposable? Family bed or dog crate? Attachment parenting or boarding school in Switzerland?  Up to this point in my reading of fear based parent literature ::cough::What To Expect When You're Expecting::cough:: I hadn't seen the coffee issue addressed, so I did what any self respecting 21st century parent would do and asked Dr. Google what s/he thought about giving coffee to 2 year olds to help them get going in the morning. After telling me that caffeine will kill me, turn me into a clumsy addict, make me more creative and ensure that I live longer, Dr. Google assured me that people the world over wonder whether or not to give coffee to toddlers to brighten their day. Apparently experts agree that, like consuming alcohol while pregnant, the only truly safe thing to do is abstain all together because they haven't been able to determine a level at which it becomes harmful. Other desperate parents, however, seemed to agree that there is nothing wrong with a tiny cup 'o Joe for the under 3 set, provided the child likes the taste.

So we decided to experiment. 1/4 cup of coffee mixed with a 1/2 cup of milk and a teaspoon of sugar in a little mug set before our extremely grumpy little human. I'd love to say that it worked like a charm, but, like a toddler, she spilled the entire thing on her lap/highchir/the floor before even taking a sip. Which led to her being stripped naked in the dining room and screaming bloody murder while I used her pajamas to mop up the mess and her other mother gave everyone a quick kiss and bolted out the door for an early meeting.

After which I needed a cup of coffee.

Is this what Craig intended?

Guy meets girl on Craigslist and decides to meet up at a bar. One thing leads to another and they wind up heading back to his/her place for the night. Girl pulls out a typed up paper saying that, if she gets pregnant, she promises not to hold him responsible. Guy couldn't care less what she is saying at that moment. Girl gets pregnant. Girl files for welfare for the child. State asks who the father is and why he isn't paying. Girl says, OH... I told him he didn't have to. State goes after guy and wants money for the kid. Guy is shocked.

Quote Charlie Brown:

"It is signed. A signed document. I guess if you have a signed document in your possession, you can't go wrong."

Quote Lucy:

"Funny thing about this document. It was never notarized."

Would anyone really be surprised if the state goes after the guy for child support, rather than supporting the child solely on taxpayer money? I'm gonna take a guess and say no.

So where am I going with this?

Well, sometimes I get these e-mails from my mother-in-law. She forwards me job links, humorous memes, articles about cats, cancer, ceiling fans, Dr. Oz and, occasionally, news and politics (she used to include religion, but we've mostly put a stop to that). Today I got an email with nothing but a link to an article about a pair of women, often known as lesbians, who used a sperm donor to get pregnant... but are now surprised to find that the state of Kansas is going after the donor for child support because one of the women tried to get state health-care for the kid. (Not, however, as surprised as the poor schmuck who donated the sperm!) Long story short... in Kansas it is illegal for two women to get married, it is illegal for them to adopt a child together and the only way to legally have a sperm donor who is NOT considered the father of the child is to go through a medical doctor. So what did these women do? They decided to have a kid together by finding a donor on... wait for it...

Craigslist.

My MIL's subject heading simply read, "Interesting Article. Laws need to catch up?"

http://news.yahoo.com/child-support-claim-rankles-sperm-donor-lesbian-couple-014725388.html

Indeed they do. My reply is below.
-----------------------------------------------

Ugh... there's so much politics embedded in this case. 

In the end, yes. Laws need to catch up-- but the laws that need to catch up are the ones banning same sex marriage and second parent adoptions. 

In this specific case, I think the parents and the donor are all at fault for their own stupidity-- the women more than the men. In a state where it is illegal for them to be married and where the second mom can't legally adopt the child, they decided to try and circumvent the only law that would have legally distanced them from the child's biological father by going on Craigslist instead of through a doctor's office. The "written agreement" would hold no more water than if a guy showed up at a bar for a one-night-stand arranged on Craigslist and the woman signed a piece of paper saying, "Don't worry, if I get pregnant I won' t come after you for child support." He was stupid to think that that was enough to waive his rights and responsibility, they were stupider to propose it. 

From there, the state of Kansas has a stake in this as well to both avoid paying any kind of benefits to the child (simply on a financial level) and politically to avoid lending any validation to the familial relationship. To the state, there is no difference between a single mother with a child who was the result of a one night stand and the mother of the child in the case (hell, the federal government sees me as a unwed, unemployed single mother!). Their laws recognize one traditional definition of family, and the state of Kansas is working to uphold those laws. By the letter and spirit of the law, they are in the right here. Morally and ethically, I think the laws are wrong. 

We are, of course, talking about Kansas here. In March they voted to legalize housing and job discrimination against gays and lesbians. 

Sigh

-Christi

View From the Cat Perch

Though I can see in hindsight how cruel it is, I never intended to torture my cats when I set up a quadruple bird feeding station just beyond their cat post. I can't tell if they appreciate the view, or if it is slowly driving them mad, as I believe that a cat's natural state tips towards the unsteady. Even my daughter, who today insisted on going by the name of Mr. Scrooge (I blame NPR and Jonathan Winters), has begun to spend a significant amount of time sitting in the cat perch-- and so quietly that I have revised my "Sitting in the cat perch gets you a time-out" rule down to "Sitting in the cat perch gets you a time-out-- unless you are watching the birds."

I have worked steadily from the time I was 16. CVS in High School, 20 hours a week at Dunkin' Donuts my freshman year of college, 30 hours a week in Day and Afterschool Care centers the following 3 years, straight into a 3 year stint as an inner city school teacher that was followed up by 6 years in a private school and 2 hellish months in a suburban public school. When I threw in the towel after those final two months and decided to stay home with my then 1 1/2 year old and "reevaluate" my options I was petrified by the seemingly endless stretches of unstructured, unproductive time ahead of me. Take breakfast. For me, breakfast is easy. 3 mugs of coffee. Piece of bread. Jar of peanut butter. Combine in logical amounts. Done. Mr Scrooge, however, was just discovering the joys of using a spoon. A spoon for her yogurt. A spoon for her Cheerios. A spoon dipped in yogurt and then covered with Cheerios. A spoon dipped in yogurt and Cheerios wiped in her hair. Pincer grip to get the Cheerios out of her hair. Spoon dipped in yogurt and smeared on her sippi cup. Cheerios fed to the cat. Cat dipped in yogurt streaking across the dining room floor. This generally took at least an hour during which I sat helplessly beside her, gripping mug #3 and cringing because I hate yogurt.

This is how I discovered birds. Unacknowledged by me, my partner had long been quietly tending a single feeder which dangled, in the colder months, just beyond our patio door. As I sat at the table one morning, picking Cheerios from the cat's fur, I noticed that one of the little brown birds hopping around under the feeder looked different from the others. Wait... are there different kinds, I wondered? Leaving Mr. Scrooge in the loving care of her 3 feline companions I drifted towards my computer and began trying to identify the two species on the patio. I narrowed it down to about 5 nearly identical species, printed out identification lists for the suspects and returned to the table, pleased to find that someone had eaten the rest of the Mr. Scrooge's yogurt.

From here my indifference to the feeder grew into an interest and then into a hobby. One feeder became 2, then 3, then eventually 6 with a smattering of things tossed by the handful out the sliding glass door and into the grass for specific visitors (peanuts for the blue jays, seeds for the juncos, corn for Squirrely McFatFat). I've been known to squeal and dive for my camera when someone new appears at my feeder and, when a Northern Flicker woodpecker arrived for the first time today I gambled being a few minutes late picking up my daughter in exchange for an awesome photo. On cold snowy mornings they generally get fed before I do and Mr. Scrooge has no doubt that I'm serious when I threaten to give her uneaten breakfast food to the birdies. They have developed one hell of an appetite for Cheerios.

Pictured above: Female Downy Woodpecker, House Sparrow, Male Downy Woodpecker, Northern flicker, Junco, Carolina Wren and, in the center, Squirrely McFatFat

Obligatory Intro Post

I just turned on the heat.

Yup. Cranked it all the way up to steamin' hot 68 degrees Fahrenheit.

Not that you should care. Not that anyone should, really, but I figure I've got to start this blog somewhere, and that's as good a place as any. Especially if I'm being cliche enough to start my new blog on New Years Day, rather than, say January 9th. 

My goal here? To jot something down every day that exceeds the 140 character limit for Twitter or goes just a bit deeper than my usual Facebook musings. Writing was my first love (ok... maybe that was Cool Ranch Doritos...). For a long time, the notebook page was my only safe space; the place where I could escape, explore, imagine, create, dream, rant, vent, rave, wonder, think and live a life aside from the one I muddled through every day. Writing is what I was studied and what I am trained to do. It was one of the first links forged in the real-life relationship which became my anchor and has carried me through 17 unpredictable years. Writing has opened doors for me and has slammed them shut on my prying fingers. My words are unpredictable; they sneak up on me at times, flutter out from between the pages of forgotten novels, turn up in the middle of empty notebooks, snake angrily across old photographs and appear out of nowhere on the web pages of angsty teenage girls. For a long time Writing and I fell out of touch; our interactions became brief and utilitarian- relegated to lesson plan books, worksheets, formal paperwork and the occasional 5 paragraph essay. When we met up unexpectedly we were awkward and stilted- I wasn't sure where stood anymore. A year ago, however, when I left my full time job as a teacher to stay home with my not-yet-a-toddler, Writing and I began crossing paths more frequently. As I started to fall back on Writing to pick up a few pennies here and there, I was surprised that it was there to catch me.

So I guess the point of this blog is to work on rekindling some of what was once there... to see if I can get a bit of the magic back. To heat things up a bit, if you will :-P