Look here for Part One and Part Two!

Twenty four hours later we arrived at the hospital– again. And yes, they let me stay even though I was at only three centimeters. “Three centimeters, are you kidding me – THREE!” They assigned us to a room that was the size of a closet somewhere off in Wing Z. I was pretty sure that this was where they left the “no insurance” mothers to labor and deliver on there own. Or, quite possibly, with the help of members of the janitorial staff. I started to cry.

The next twenty four hours were a blur of ice chips and jello. They would come in and check me every few hours and tell me I was going slow, (“Really, really?”) and doing well. But I knew the truth, you were never coming out. I cried some more, and blamed your father.

Just when I thought that all was lost, and I was going to go into Ripley Believe It Or Not as the worlds longest labor, it happened – transition. It was a big contraction, a real winner, and then it didn’t end. It just went right into another, and another, and another. I could barely gather enough breath to scream at your father. “Make it stop! Turn it off! You jack-ass, do something!!!!” He tried giving me ice chips and I backhanded them across the room. He took out the tennis ball to rub my back, and I tore it in two with my teeth. He told me to breathe slowly and I just glared at him. He said later that it was like something out of the movie the Exorcist. When my eyes turned a strange shade of green, and I started hissing through my teeth – off he went for the nurse.

They laid me back on the bed with a few pillows, knees up and spread to check me and to direct the pushing. Grunt, groan, agony. Grunt, groan, agony. Over and over till you finally started moving – just as I felt some forward momentum and possibly crowning the nurse brought in the wheelchair. “WHAT? Are you *%#@- ing kidding me, you want me to get up and get in the chair now?” Yep, that was the plan. Into the chair and then a short ride to the delivery room, where I had to climb into a birthing chair that I had never seen and didn’t know how to use. By the time I was situated the doctor had appeared on the scene with twenty three students, four interns, a half dozen residents, and the homeless guy from the corner. They were three deep in places – it was like a home football game – they needed bleachers.

“This won’t hurt..” Never trust a doctor who says that, it is a lie from the pit of hell. Snip, snip, and I had an episiotomy. Grunting, groaning, and agony for a few minutes and then that devil pulled out the Vacuum Extractor! I guess things were not moving along fast enough for him. It looked like a small plunger attached to a vacuum hose. And yep, you guessed it, they stuck it up my hoo-haa and attached it to your head. Then they started pulling —– Aghhhh —— I screamed. It was like someone was pulling my intestines out with their bare hands. The doctor (sick sadist bastard) was on some sort of power trip and quickly told me “No need for that now (meaning the scream)…” as he pulled again. Completely full to the brim with anger, I gave one final push I birthed you and a hemorrhoid the size and color of a plum.

Your APGAR was eight – and I only had a slight panic attack when I had another contraction to deliver the placenta – “Twins?” The intern that was set to catch it assured me labor was not starting again! Praise God! “Are we done?” I asked as they wrapped you in a blanket and set you in my arms. “All done but the sewing… “ and so it went on for another twenty minutes – stabbing and pulling.

The intern that sewed me up forgot to remove the Vag-pack (a round pack of gauze the size of my fist) , I managed to deliver that the next day through my stitches. That was fun! You nursed like a trooper, pooped on schedule, and three days later we got to go home. And that my darling Honey, is your birth story.

Love from your Mother,

Queen B.

Dear Honey,
This is your Mother speaking.

Well that is a dandy little “doo-dad” you have there, the outdoory dog-privy!  What’s not to love about that I tell you?  May I suggest one small accessory? Put a toilet seat on top and call it the “Man-privy”  Maybe we could mass produce them – and sell them – and make pooh-piles of money?? I know I want one! 

I would send your father (Left Brain) out regularly.  I have had it with the way he be-fouls the bathroom and then snickers when I walk in after him.  I could make up little coupons to charge him when I make his favorite dinners…. Burritos? One Man-Privy coupon.  Chili or Cooked Cabbage? That will cost him two Man-privy coupons. 

I am liking this better by the minute. 

 We could even use his truck to deliver the Man-privy sets to women who are to weakened by their husbands flatulence…  We could make a deluxe set with it’s own shovel and matching work gloves…  On Fathers Day we can put a bow on top and a magazine holder on the side……  

Let me know what you think Honey?
Love from your Mother,
Queen B.

So, we have two giant Labradors- they’re adorable, but they are 200lbs of dog who eat 30lbs of dog food a week, and put out quite a bit of dog doo in our yard. We tried composting it traditionally (above ground in a mesh-type composter) but we needed it to decompose faster. You can buy commercial kits, but we were unable to find anything as big as we were hoping for (we made a 30-gallon bin) and the 10-gallon systems are easily $50-60+ online. Onto the interwebs for inspiration, and a Saturday project later, we have a working doggy doo waste bin for about $41.

To do this project we used a large heavy-duty plastic garbage bin with lid, some rocks (we bought a bag of river rock), and some septic tank bacteria solution.

1) First, we cleared an area where we wanted the doggy doo bin, at least ten feet away from the vegetable garden. We chose an area under some bushes where it wasn’t easily visible, but still right near the yard for easy waste disposal.

2) Marmot dug a hole, deep and wide enough that the garbage bin can sit in it, but not so deep that we can’t still get the lid on.

2) We  cut the bottom out of the garbage bin, although you can always drill holes in the bottom too.

3) We put the bin in the hole, and packed the dirt around it, building up towards the top.

4) Poured the rock into the bottom.

5) And then added doggy doo! I’ll spare you a picture of that, and highlight one of our adorable doggy doo suppliers instead.

6) Last step was adding some septic tank bacteria solution, which we’ll do about once a month. The bottle we bought is enough for a 500-gallon septic tank, so with a 30-gallon bin we’re thinking the bottle should last over a year.

And ta-da, we have a great doggy doo composter that will allow the doggy doo to degrade and be absorbed back into the soil!

With the heavy-duty garbage bin ($31.99), river rock ($2.59), and septic treatment solution ($6.99), our total was $41.57.

I always think that I would greatly enjoy being the Keeper of the Karma Stick. You know what I’m talking about, that event or happening that follows a proclamation that is begging to be refuted.

Yesterday I had the privilege of babysitting one of the cutest kids ever. As planned, I was meeting my Mom for lunch with Baby G in tow, at the local food co-op (they have an awesome restaurant/deli) so we drove over. I got G, her diaper bag, her sippy cup, a toy, and my purse and we went over to the door of my Mom’s SUV. She took one look at me and cackled. Why would my so supportive mother cackle at me?

I was wearing the shorts that my sister had told me to never wear in public again, along with a dingy white tshirt that had G’s breakfast goo-ed all over the shoulder. I had (at most) half brushed my hair into a pitiful ponytail, I had no makeup on (violating my own rule, which I have not done since college), and I was carrying the crankiest two year old ever on my hip.

It was one of those moments where I think that Karma is a she, and she’s a mother, and she was laughing her ass of at me yesterday.