Choice

Choice. Everybody talks about it like it's something we're entitled to, but the minute you try to actually choose something, everyone gets all up in your business and tells you that You can't do that! For instance, with all this bruhaha going on with the hospital goliath in our city, I am looking for a non-affiliated FP who can provide care for me for my pre-existing condition. I called a few places today (after having been sent to collections again, you could say that I am highly motivated). I spoke to one nurse who was supposed to take my medical history, and then give the info to the doctors in the practice, who would then decide if they can take on a new patient. So I gave her my information: my pre-existing condition, the fact that I'm currently pregnant (I made it very clear that I am not looking for prenatal care, or any pregnancy-related care), how I heard about their practice, when I'm due, and who my pregnancy care provider is. I told her that I was receiving care from a midwife and that we were planning a home birth.

I got a call later that afternoon telling me that because I have this condition and am choosing to home birth, they cannot provide any sort of medical care for me ("But best of luck with all of your future endeavors, etc., etc.,"). Seriously? Because they don't agree with my choice to home birth, they are not going to help me. Now, obviously, I know that choice goes both ways, and they're free to choose not to help me if they don't want to, but it's just a little aggravating that I'm never the one that gets to make any choices here. And it's not just with this. I mean, the whole reason we started home birthing in the first place was because I was given no choices my first pregnancy (there are standard-of-care protocols for people with my condition, and regardless of a person's individual situation, these protocols must never be deviated from, even if it puts the individual in danger, or causes poorer outcomes). I ended up with a c-section because the OB who insisted on inducing me at 37.5 weeks had the nurses turn the pitocin up so high that it sent my baby into fetal distress (more on that another time). Then, when I became pregnant with my second baby, none of the doctors in my area were willing to support my choice for a vbac. So I found a home birth midwife who would, and did it myself, thankyouverymuch. Which ended up being the awesomest thing ever.

During my third pregnancy, people pretty much left me alone, which was actually refreshing, and I was feeling pretty good about this whole choice thing.

Fast-forward to this pregnancy: the care provider that provided early prenatal care to me in my last pregnancy informed me that she was no longer able to provide prenatal care because I birth at home. "Take your business elsewhere, fool!" So then I called around to other care providers at the other goliath hospital system in town, and was told that I could only be seen by actual OBs; no NPs, no CNMs, no FPs. When I went into be seen for my first visit (which, ironically was with an NP, because everyone sees the NP first at this system), I was criticized for choosing home birth. Which, you know—I can handle criticism.

So, now, it's this. I can't choose my care provider. I can't choose home birth. I'm supposed to bow down and let everyone take care of me. Because, last I checked, people taking responsibility for their health is the best way to, you know, be healthy. But apparently, it's frowned upon in the medical community, and all doctors are spoiled brats who take their toys and go home unless you play their way.

At least, that's the way I choose to see it. Because, darn it, that's one choice they're making it easy for me to make.

Well, I Guess I Know Where I Stand, Now, Anyway

I got sent to collections. Again. For $10. A scant three weeks after I was sent to collections the last time. Like, somewhere in there I was supposed to make a third payment to them (during a one-month period)? Like, apparently they didn't like my nasty letter, and just sent me to collections without calling or notifying me in any way so we could discuss things further? Like, even though I technically fulfilled all the requirements that I was supposed to fulfill for their little pay-your-bill-in-smaller-increments thingy (they demanded all kinds of info from me, and told me to send a letter of explanation for any information I did not provide. Which, I most certainly did), and even though they technically are not supposed to send me to collections when I'm working out a payment plan with them (or so I'm told by the billing CSRs), apparently, we're both playing passive aggressive, and I'm the one getting screwed over by it.

It really is frustrating, actually. I mean, I feel totally powerless, because I'm sure that technically they have every legal right in this situation, and I have none (and, if I do have any legal rights here, it's not like I can afford a lawyer to find out that I do), so they're bullying me into doing something that I really can't do. Note to Sanford Health System: just because you have a legal leg to stand on, doesn't mean you ought to go around standing on it. Stop being a bloated, bureaucratic, feelingless automaton, and recognize that, you know, you're dealing with individuals here, with individual situations. We are not patient numbers.

So, anyway, I'm going to fight this the best way I can (and they darn well better take that $10 bill back from collections!), and I am going to take my business elsewhere, because I refuse to pay for crap service, and I absolutely, positively refuse to be bullied.

And now, I am angry.

Thanks for Nothing, Folks!

The third trimester exhaustion has hit me. Hard. My husband keeps subtly suggesting that maybe a little exercise would boost my energy levels a bit. I disagree. Plus, it's hard to muster up the energy to exercise, when I can barely muster up the energy to go pee. Again. Which is—serious—to say the least. Other than the exhaustion, though, I've not really had any third trimester symptoms; no swelling, no difficulty breathing (well, except for when I'm trying to chase the toddler up the stairs), no real discomfort. Well, maybe insomnia, but, since I'm exhausted, anyway, who really cares. Right?

Other than that, I'm embroiled in a battle with the billing department of the hospital from which I receive all my medical care for my pre-existing condition. As in, I have, like a $500 bill running with them right now, and they sent me to collections over $45. Which I was totally incensed about, because I'd been making monthly payments to them, like, every single month this year, and a couple of months I actually made two payments to them. So I called them to square all of that up, and I was told that the remainder of my bill would be sent to collections if I didn't set up a payment plan. But when I tried to set that up, they wanted waaaaaay more money per month than I can afford. I mean, we keep it cheap at our house. As in, we don't do cable or Netflix, my husband's cell is paid for by his employer, and I have a cheap no-contract phone so that I have a way of keeping in touch with civilization in case I'm stranded out in the middle of nowhere with three kids while making the 30-60 mile drive that I have to make whenever I need things like groceries, gas, and medication. As in, if I wanted to make these obnoxious monthly payments, I'd have to take them out of my grocery budget. Which, I ain't doing.

Now, let me explain: I've been receiving services from this hospital for the past seven years. In seven years, I've never, ever, ever not paid my bill. Ever. But, apparently, they've totally redone their billing system, and the new one has no long-term memory. Or something. So the CSR said that if I wanted to negotiate lower payments, I would have to fill out an application. Fill out an application, folks. Like, regardless of whether I fill out an application, I can't pay more than what I've offered to pay. But I said, fine, so she mailed it out to me.

Yeah. I got the "application" in the mail a few days later, and, let me tell you: my mortgage application didn't even require as much information as this "application" required. Plus, they wanted the last two pay stubs of every adult member of the household, and permission to check our credit. Um—let me think—NO. So I was totally insulted, because the little letter that they sent with the application was totally demanding and demeaning ("We don't trust you or believe you, so prove that you're too poor to pay the monthly amount of money that we think you should pay."), and the application was ridiculous. As I said, I've been making payments on my bills for the past seven years, and I've always paid them off. Dude, I'm not "applying" for financial aid or bill reduction. I'm simply telling them that I can't pay the monthly amount that they're demanding; here's what I will pay.

So, instead of enabling this pettiness, I sent them their empty application back, along with a nasty letter (they said that if I didn't send the requisite information, it had better be accompanied by a letter of explanation—well, they asked for it!) explaining just what I thought of their system and their demands and their overall suckiness. Or something. This is what I said:

To whom it may concern:

Last week, I received a very unexpected letter from [collection agency name], informing me that [hospital name] had turned my account over to them for collections because of a $45.77 outstanding balance. I immediately called [hospital name]'s billing department regarding the letter because not only had I been making monthly payments on my [hospital name] bills for the entire year (I have enclosed bank records that indicate this), but I had received no phone calls or any indication that [hospital name] was somehow not satisfied with my payments. When I spoke to the CSR in billing, I was informed that [hospital name] has been implementing a new billing/patient records system, and that my account had not had any payments made on it for several months and was past due. The CSR also informed me that the new system automatically sends all past-due accounts to collections. Apparently, because I had been paying off a bill (that I had received prior to the bill sent to collections) from the old system, the monthly payments that I had been making were completely irrelevant. I paid the balance that had been sent to collections over the phone, but I was absolutely insulted that my bill was sent to collections at all, despite my best efforts to make payments, and I was beyond frustrated that your system, apparently, has no actual person reviewing whether an account really needs to be sent to collections.

I called your billing department again, later that day, and spoke to a different CSR about setting up a payment plan so that the remainder of my bill would not be sent to collections, but the CSR informed me that I would have to make the first payment immediately, and, furthermore, the minimum payment that your system would have allowed me to make was much, much more than I can afford. I told the CSR that I could pay a lower amount, and she said that I would have to fill out a form, provide copies of my last two pay stubs, and would probably want to provide information regarding my monthly expenses. I agreed to do this, so she mailed the form to me.

I received the form in the mail on Friday, 12/21, and as I looked over it, I was again completely insulted. The letter accompanying the form was extremely demeaning and petty, and the information that your form is demanding I supply is completely irrelevant to the situation. My mortgage company didn't even require all of the information that your form requires, when my husband and I were applying for a home loan. I can possibly understand asking for every minute detail of my financial situation if I were applying for financial aid or a bill reduction, but that's not the case. I am simply trying to pay my bill—in its entirety—in increments that are affordable to my family's budget. You do not need to know who the lien-holders are on my mortgage and car loans; you don't need to make inquiries into my credit. None of this information will get my bill paid any faster than I am able to pay it, and it is a gross invasion of my privacy.

If you review my payment records, you will see that in the seven years that I have been receiving healthcare services from [hospital name], I have never once failed to pay my bills. And let me be very clear: I will be paying this bill—all of it. I will pay it as quickly as I can, in increments that are amenable to my family's budget. You can take my word for that, you can let my seven-year bill-payment record speak for itself, or you can take this letter as a written contract. But I will not be providing the very personal financial details that your insulting form is demanding. I have enclosed my family's monthly budget for 2012, and while I object strongly to providing this information to you, I have also enclosed copies of my husband's last two pay stubs. If your billing system can't work with this, then perhaps it's time to reintroduce a little human reason, understanding, and compassion to your new system.

If you would like to discuss my account further, you are welcome to contact me.

I may have just totally ruined my really, really good credit. But, dude, it felt so good to mail that letter.

Sackloth and Ashes

In the circles in which I grew up, the name Jack Hyles was big. Really big. Really, really big. If we had been catholic, he would have been the Pope. If we had been Mormons, he would have been Brigham Young. We were not, of course, associated with any of those sinful cults, so he was simply called "The Founder of Fundamentalism." Or something. His church, First Baptist Church of Hammond, was the bastion of fundamentalism. Books and sermon tapes poured out of our Mecca at an alarming rate, telling us how to live, how to raise our children, how to dress, how to be good, upstanding Christian men, and meek, submissive Christian women. I remember a great many hard-bound books on my mom's bookshelves bearing the names of Jack Hyles and his family members as authors. When I was in middle school, my school (it was a Christian school, of course) took a part-day field trip to a local church to hear The Man himself speak. He was well past his prime by then, and I don't really remember much about him or his sermon, other than the fact that for some reason, I thought he looked a lot like my grandma on my mom's side. On the bus ride there and back, I heard stories of stage antics in which he threw microphones, jumped off pews and pulpits, yelled, screeched, hollered, slammed books down, and did all manner of strange and wondrous things. He didn't do any of that this day, and I must admit, I was mildly disappointed, but he was an old man by then, so I understood. Anyway, he was a really, really, really big deal.

I remember, as a teenager, hearing whispers here and there about The Man, and some supposed sexual forays. My mom viciously discounted these rumors and forbad me to speak of them, saying they were stories made up by jealous men who were trying to destroy the Cause of Christ®, and the great name of Jack Hyles. I accepted this, mostly because I was young and dumb, and honestly, I didn't know enough about sex to really understand the significance of this accusation, other than that it was a Bad Thing. Later on, in college, when I was old enough to think for myself, and understand the import of such stories, I read Robert Sumner's expose of Jack Hyles, "The Saddest Story I've Ever Told," in The Biblical Evangelist. I delved further into Jack Hyles' teachings, writings, life, and family, and his church, First Baptist Church of Hammond (FBCH). I admit it was mostly morbid curiosity, since by this time, Jack Hyles had been dead for some years, but it was also somewhat of a Truth-Finding mission, since I was going through a crisis of faith, of sorts, and wanted to know if all that I had been taught as a child was based on actual Bible, or on some sexual deviant that got his kicks out of making up crazy rules that people had to follow in order to be "godly."

The truth, as I discerned it eventually, fell somewhere in between these choices, although closer to the crazy side than to the biblical side. I've had to reconsider a lot of what I believed about God and His demands, but honestly, I'm totally okay with that. God makes a lot more sense, now that I know Him better. Mom never has come around to the Truth about The Man, or about God (as I see it), so we just don't talk about that stuff. Maybe someday.

Anyway, I say all of that to say that I've happily been out of that world for quite some time now, and all of a sudden it all came crashing back into my reality this past week, when The Man's predecessor and son-in-law, the newest Archbishop of Fundamentalism, Jack Schaap, was ousted from FBCH for some kind of sexual mishap with a teenage girl. And this is what I want to talk about. Because obviously, the Schaap-haters are out en masse vilifying him, posting YouTube links to every crazy sermon and sound-bite he ever made, saying, "Dude! You're surprised about this?" (a la "The Polished Shaft"). And I have to admit, as a Schaap-hater myself, I sort of agree with them. I mean, there is definitely something wrong with the guy. Has been for a while. But of course, when the Schaap-haters come out, the Schaap-lovers come out, and defend him. Tirelessly. Sometimes crazily. They flood message boards and Facebook pages and blog posts with messages of support and love and grammatical malfeasance. And you kind of feel badly for them, because you know they're yelling so loudly because their world is crumbling around them and they're trying desperately to grab at something firm and truthful. At least, that's what I hope is their reasoning. Otherwise, they pretty much just need to be committed and medicated. 

I head him speak a time or two, as a teenager. He was a big deal, like his father-in-law. The only sermon of his that I really remember was something about sackcloth and ashes, and I think he came out on stage wearing sackcloth and ashes to illustrate whatever point he was making. I don't really remember what the point was, but I know he played clips of an Amy Grant music video that showed her dancing around and taking a scarf off her shoulders, and he told us that's why we shouldn't listen to the world's music, because it's all about sex. As a fourteen-year-old teenage girl, I didn't really get it, and I kinda liked the song, but it certainly wasn't a new message (my parents told me the same thing all the time), so I figured he was right, and whatever. Sackcloth and ashes, right? 

Later, I started hearing all the crazy, crazy stuff he wrote and preached about, but by then, I was waaaay out of the movement, so I just kind of chuckled at him and took a moment to be grateful that I was in a much happier, saner place now, and--end thinking about it. So when crap hit the fan at the end of July, and rumors started seeping out of Mecca about the Archbishop stepping down indefinitely for "medical reasons," and the Word About Town was that he was indeed sick, but not of the physical variety, I can't say that I was either surprised or sad. Yes, to my shame, I was just a little bit glad that maybe crazy was finally going to have it's microphone shut off. Hate me if you must, Schaap-lovers. 

So as the story came out (for yea, verily, it always shall), his ailment was one of a much darker variety than stress or Crohn's disease or irritable bowel syndrome. Mostly, it was sex. With teenage girls, apparently, among (I suspect) other things. So this is what I'm getting to with all this. There has been some discussion amongst, well, just about everyone, as to whether or not Schaap's fall should be labelled "Adultery" or "Abuse." Cue angry opinions on both sides, and toss around words and phrases like consensual, molestation, legally of age, old enough to choose abortion so she's old enough to choose sex. Really, I'm not interested in any of these words and phrases, because they have absolutely no bearing on Schaap and his actions. 

Here's the truth, folks: Schaap is a 54-year-old man (I'm using the term man loosely, of course) who was supposed to be counseling a 16/17 year-old girl for sexual abuse (a "bus girl," from what I understand, although the details are hazy on this point). Stop right there and think about that for a minute. A teenage girl has been sexually abused by someone, probably someone close to her, since statistically, that's who it is, and she goes to her pastor for counseling, because obviously, she's troubled about it. She's vulnerable and emotionally fragile and she probably doesn't have a really great support structure at home, if I may be allowed to use stereotypes for a moment, because most bus kids don't. (No, really--what good parent in his right mind would send his kids off on a rickety church bus, staffed by teenagers and over-exuberant college kids, and one old guy (the driver), to spend all day at some church somewhere that he has never seen and knows nothing about?) Her pastor, a man she has been taught to look up to, admire, and trust, a man old enough to be her grandfather, starts to shower her with "attention" and "love." He tells her she is special, and means a lot to him, and she's been dying all her life to hear this. I mean from someone--credible. He hugs her. Maybe kisses her. Suddenly, he's having his secretary transport her across state lines so he can "counsel" her when he's out of town. Did she tell him "No!"? Did she gladly lay down in the bed with him? Does it really matter? Really? No. No, it doesn't. Regardless of what she did, or what she said, every shred of responsibility falls smack at Jack Schaap's feet. He is at fault. He took advantage of her, yea, preyed upon her. He failed to have another woman counsel her (or, at the very least, attend the counseling sessions with her). He is the adult. Regardless of the "age of consent" in Indiana, she could not consent, truly, because she was not in a position to do so. Regardless of whether she is old enough to operate a motor vehicle, or have an abortion, or buy alcohol (oh. wait.), she was not in a proper frame of mind and understanding and emotional stability to truly consent to his advances. She was not some brazen hussy who wooed him with her wily, teenage-girl charms. She was not a temptress or a slut. She was a broken, bruised, and wounded young girl who came to him for help, and found--the furthest possible thing from that. He sexually abused her. Which, whether it is recognized as such by the legal system in Indiana, is, of course, called rape. Ugly word, huh? It takes an ugly man to rape a teenage girl. And Jack Schaap is an ugly, ugly man.

So why do I care? Why am I even talking about this? Because it bothers me. It bothers me that anyone can possibly be placing any kind of culpability on this teen girl, thereby lessening--softening--the ugliness of Schaap's evil deeds. She is a victim, twice over (or many, many times over, possibly). She is a victim. He is evil. He has destroyed her. He has destroyed his family. He has grossly misused the trust that was placed upon him as a pastor, an adult man, and a counselor. He has, I have no doubt, injured his marriage beyond reclamation. Whether his wife stands by him or not, he has damaged that relationship irreparably. He has dirtied his name--the name that his children must now ignominiously bear forever. He has shamed and broken his wife. He has raped this young girl, sexually abused her, taken advantage of her trust. He is evil. He is wicked. He bears all the responsibility. Don't you dare say otherwise, because you know you're wrong.

Sackcloth and ashes, dude. Sackcloth and ashes.

Waiting Around

Baby number 4 is kind of up in the air right now for us. My hcg levels are rising slower than normal (but still rising), and I've been having a lot of bleeding--the kind of bright red bleeding that freaks you out even though it never gets in your underwear (well, I said vagina on the internet, so it only follows that at some point I would talk about underwear, right?). It could be one of several things: a slow miscarriage, an ectopic pregnancy, something related to my low progesterone issue, or just random pregnancy bleeding that is happening for the sole purpose of making me turn prematurely gray. Obviously, we're hoping for option 4, or at worst, option 3, but we shall see. I am finding it difficult to think of myself as pregnant, or get excited about having a baby, when I don't know if it will stick. And waiting around to find out? Yeah. That's a big wretch.

Version 4.0 Coming March, 2013

Well, I can't say that with absolute certainty, since I haven't taken a test yet; but I am fairly sure. For all of you lovely people who chart, you can see my little implantation dip at 7 dpo (days past ovulation, for those of you who don't chart).

I had a teeny little bit of pink this morning when I went to the bathroom (yes, I'm putting that on the internet. At least I didn't say vagina. Oh. Wait.), but nothing came of it (I've been half-expecting my period, because I'm suffering from a progesterone deficiency, so my luteal phase has been between 6 and 7 days long). So the only other thing I can think of is--that we'll be needing a minivan before March of next year. Yay!

(Edit to Add:)
This new version has now been confirmed!

Wandering Thoughts for a Bleak Day

It's 1:39 am, and even though my eyes are crossing and my head is pounding, I can. not. sleep. Today, my dear friend Linda took her sweet little 8-week-old baby girl to the emergency room because she was doing poorly (the baby was born with hypoplastic left-heart syndrome), and she is at home now, with empty arms and full breasts, and mountains and oceans of grief that she will have to climb up and be buried beneath and swim through and drown in, and I cannot bear to think about it, but I cannot stop thinking about it.

It doesn't make sense to me, that God would allow little babies to die. I know He is, well, God. I know He has His own plans and that He exists in a completely different realm from us, so even though His action seem horrifically unkind to me, that to Him they are completely rational, and probably just. But I have to admit, I am just a little bit mad at Him right now. How dare He give them a baby, let them have her for a few weeks, and then take her away again, leaving them saddled with mounds of hospital bills, an empty nursery, and broken hearts? 

The worst part, or one of the worst parts (because how can you choose which part is "worst," when you're talking about a baby dying) is that it was completely unexpected. There was no preparation time, no getting ready for it. She had been doing well. Very well. She was feisty and fighting. They were making plans for the future--not college plans, or career plans, or even starting-kindergarten plans. But plans--she was to have some surgeries later this year to correct several things that were bothering her. She was having casts fitted to correct her club foot. Lowell, Linda's husband, left for work this morning planning to come home and snuggle his infant daughter to sleep. Linda planned to awaken many times in the night to tend to her sweet little girl. And all of a sudden, she was ripped from them, leaving a gaping wound and--why? She was a baby. 

She was a beautiful baby, actually; and I say that in complete honesty, not in the coochy-coo way that we say it to wrinkled and blotchy old newborns. She was beautiful. She had chubby little cheeks, and squinty little eyes, and the pinkest, sweetest skin, and a little smudgy nose that would just break your heart to look at, it was that adorable. She had a little scar on her chest from her first heart surgery, and a giant cast engulfing her little misshapen foot (and yet, it wasn't misshapen at all!), and a tube coming from her nose and taped to her face for feedings, so that she wouldn't exert herself too much at the breast or with her bottle. She was perfect and amazing, and wonderful, and I just knew that she was going to grow up, and...grow up. 

And yet, here they are, picking out caskets, and folding empty little shirts, and jumping up to check on a baby that they no longer have. And I really wish I had some conclusive piece of pithy wisdom to wrap these wandering, venting thoughts up with, but the truth is, I don't. I keep coming up empty. And a little bit angry. And a lot sad. And guilty, because while I ache inside for her, there is a little part of me that is so very thankful that it is her and not me. I kind of hate myself for that. 

A Few of My Favorite Things

300 piece Battat Krinkle Blocks set, available on Amazon.com for $69.95

Krinkle Blocks 
Or, as they are known at my house: "Spikey Blocks." Next to Legos, these have to be the best invention in the entire world. My kids can make everything out of these things, from guns to houses to cars, and if the baby gets a hold of them, which he inevitably does, I don't have to worry about a) performing the Heimlich  maneuver or b) finding little half-digested lego pieces in his poop. I also don't have to fear walking around my house in the dark, because while stepping on these things isn't exactly a "spa experience," it's no "steppingonsharplittleLegosinthedark" experience, either. Win/Win, right?

Image from http://www.equinenow.com

Adjustable Waist Bands

My kids are all skinny. My oldest finally grew into his 6-9 month pants at 15 months. Of course by then, they were much closer to capris than pants, which is, fashionably speaking, unacceptable for little boys. At least, as far as I know. My daughter and youngest son followed this trend, as well, which makes it a horrible chore to keep my kids in pants. Last Christmas, my mother-in-law bought my daughter several pair of blue jeans that had these amazing little elastic contraptions built into the waistbands. They are amazing; I can just pull out the little piece of elastic hidden in the waistband until the pants are tight enough, then hook  the little hidden slit in the elastic over the button, and voila! instant happiness. Or, as the case may be, a perpetually clothed child. More or less, anyway.

Hershey's Take5 Candy Bar

Take5 Candy Bars

I go grocery shopping every two weeks. I shop for the entire two-week period, which means a) it takes a while to finish, and b) I sometimes have to visit several stores. No biggie, right? Except that I am accompanied on my shopping forays by a four-year-old, a two-year-old, and an eight-month-old. By myself. Without any help. So, at the end of my shopping trip, I reward myself for not a) being reduced to a screaming, slobbering hunk of crazy, or b) "accidentally" leaving my kids in the public restroom, by buying a Take5 bar. It's pretzels, peanuts, caramel, and peanut butter, shoved into a creamy chocolate pouch--it satisfies my sweet/salty, soft/crunchy cravings in one blow. And, of course, keeps me sane enough to drive me, my three kids, and two weeks worth of groceries home safely. 

Melba Toast

The baby recently started eating solid food, which is nice, because he's starting to see that the world consists of more than just mommy's milkie dispensers, but it's frustrating, because I don't always have the time to go cook up veggies for him, and cut them into little bite-sized pieces, so he can safely ingest them. Melba toast is amazing because it's (relatively) healthy--I mean, it's not a combination of high-fructose corn syrup, sodium, and artificial apple flavoring--so I don't feel terribly guilty doling it out to him. Also, he doesn't need help eating it (although, the dogs do volunteer their services, anyway). It's crunchy to make his little teething gums feel better, and it sogs up nicely, which is the number one most important feature in any food that babies eat. I mean, how else is he supposed to get really-hard-to-get-out white streaks on my only clean pair of black church pants?

Dog Crate
And why would I include this in my "Favorite Things" list? Because ^ this prevents this:

Image from http://www.fark.com/comments/4152360/

 which is definitely not one of my favorite things.

A Little This, A Little That

It's time. I've been spending too much time on Facebook, and not nearly enough time, well, doing everything else. So this is my solution. Think of it as a dumping ground for all the chaos in my life: I'll whine about how the dogs keep mistaking the sun-room carpet for a toilet, and show off pictures of my uber-cute kids, and talk a lot about birth and breastfeeding and co-sleeping and all of those topics that bring out the passion in me. And make people start edging away from me cautiously at social gatherings. I'll talk about my current crochet projects, and any other craft project that I mistakenly think is a good idea to undertake. You know: a little this; a little that. It'll be fun. Like Facebook. And cleaning dog poop out of the sun-room carpet.