Pros/con's

Pros of having another baby:

I make really, really cute humans
I have some awesome names
I love babies.
I want another one
We already have a minivan
We have the bedroom space

Cons to having another baby:

We'd be outnumbered
Financial setbacks
Delay me going back to work or school by another 3 years or so
What if it's twins?
We'd lose our spare bedroom
I've been getting rid of baby clothes
We already have a boy and a girl - zero population growth (pro?)
The current baby is still not sleeping through the night

Even farther away.

It seems lately that the county in which we live is hell bent on screwing us over.  Firstly, they have proposed budget cuts that will affect Papa B's job.  He'll likely have one if the measure passes, but he may be making less than he is now.  Also in the proposed cut is to close the elementary school that the Cees are set to attend.  It's a small school, but not under enrolled. We are fighting hard to save it, and it comes down to whether or not the school board can be persuaded to cut the budget elsewhere and it's not financially feasible to close one school.  In addition to that, our county is considering using its power of eminent domain to seize a neighboring property to build a larger fire station to keep up with the rapid growth in our town.  Growth that is slowly encroaching on us like a rising flood.

We have property in a neighboring state that has two homes on the property.  Right now, we are fixing up the larger home to rent out to generate income, and slowly fixing up the smaller home to use as a summer/winter getaway.  We have long considered what would spur us to move out there (4.5 hours from where we currently are).  I told Papa B that I would move there under two conditions.  One, I want city water at the house.  As it is now, the small cabin has no running water, but that is part of the fixing up.  The well is rusty and not my preferred water source.  Thankfully, a city water pumping station is a few hundred yards away.  Two, is I want Internet.  If I am to move half a day's drive from my family and friends, then I want reliable means to contact them.

But I asked myself on our most recent trip if I would be HAPPY out there.  The property is, at best, a 30 minute drive to a town.  And it's not a thriving metropolis.  It's a little town that boasts a Wal-Mart, Tractor Supply, and a large bridge.  That's about it.  If you want more civilization, then another half hour's drive is necessary.  This part of the country is poor.  Poor and rural.  Would I be out of place here?  Yes.  Very much so.  Would my son get a Mt. Dew addition?  Probably.  Would I be seen as 'uppity', because I want my children to educate themselves to their highest potential?  Absolutely.  Would our family be targets for theft because we would be considered 'rich' and have nicer things?  Perhaps.  It's things like that that give me pause about moving out there.  But, for me, is how isolated I'd feel.  I'd feel intellectually isolated.  I'd feel socially isolated, since I think I'd have difficulty finding women who I can talk to that would stimulate me intellectually.  Women who have had education, jobs, and been on a similar path that I've been on.

If there is a move in the works, it would be until the youngest C is out of elementary school.  We feel that their best opportunity educationally is here (in spite of the whole school closing possibility).  But it is in the back of our minds, and is yet to be decided.

Don't piss me off. I have a plan.

I swear, I'm not a sociopath.  But I spend way too much of my brainticular efforts on whether or not I could successfully get away with killing someone.  Who I'd pick (someone I have no connection to, so friends and family are safe :-) ), how I'd do it (not sure) and where I'd hide the body. 

Every time I pass a good looking wooded hillside, I consider its suitability for body dumping.  How late at night is the optimal body dumping hour?  Do I use my own car? 

Anyhow.  Am I the only one who has these scenarios rolling around in their head? 

Unprofound post of the day

You know, sometimes in the morning I weigh myself before and after I poop. Because, you know, science.

One step closer to family cloth.

If you haven't yet been enlightened as to what family cloth is - let me be the first to tell you. 


Family cloth is not using toilet paper, but instead using scrap bits of cloth (or fancy schmancy specialized wipes) that are washed, dried, and reused. 


Since I cloth diaper, I am not unfamiliar with this concept.  Boy C's butt is wiped with wipes that previously wiped Girl C's butt.  And, I was gifted some used wipes from a friend, so another unrelated butt has been wiped with them before they wiped my kid's butt. 


I will admit, I do love a good moist wipe now and again after a good sit down, ya know?  And the fact that I already have tons of wipes in my possession makes it even more tempting. And I'd never have to worry about buying toilet paper ever again!  EVER!  But then I stop and think about when we have guests over and I think a few of them would object to this concept.  And when I say 'few' I probably mean 'all'.


So, at a play date today one mom commented that she has to buy toilet paper today since they are subsisting on napkins.  Well - not to be outdone, I told her that about 2 weeks ago, the bathroom upstairs (which gets little use) ran out of toilet paper.  Girl C has used that toilet numerous times and since there was no toilet paper, I just handed her a washcloth.  And here's where is just gets downright gross - I didn't bother to swap out the washcloth. 


I KNOW, I KNOW.


So, today, I did what I had to do and I put two rolls of TP in the bathroom and took the washcloth downstairs to be washed.  So, don't call CPS on me for neglecting to give my child toilet paper. 

Goodbye

There's something therapeutic about being the one to dig the hole for a deceased pet.

Not an hour ago, I made the decision to euthanize our oldest pet, Leila.  The 'queen bee' of the house, she was the feisty old lady of our menagerie.  We noticed her appetite decreasing and she was losing weight.  After bribing her with wet food and tuna over the weekend, we decided that a vet trip was needed.  She'd always been a lean cat, and her weight loss troubled both Papa B and myself.  She barely registered on the scale at the vets - she was five pounds on the nose.  Her previous weight was eight pounds, so it was a significant change over the past weeks.  The vet determined her kidneys were not just in failure, they had shut down completely.  He could have given her fluids and electrolytes which would have perked her up, but her age and the numbers from her blood work did not point to a happy outcome.

The vet tech was kind and brought in a tub of toys for Girl C to play with while I went to be with Leila. A quick needle jab and a few scratches under her chin and she crossed the rainbow bridge in peace and comfort.

It's hard explaining to a child about life and death.  I decided to be matter of face with Girl C and I told her that Leila was too sick to be alive anymore.  I could see her trying to process this information of what 'alive' meant.  And, as children do, said to me in a soft, yet profound voice, "Let's bring her home."

And that we did.

It's cold out today and I picked out a sunny spot between two trees to bury her.  The chickens did their part and were pecking at the worms in the overturned soil.  I have never dug a hole large enough for an animal larger than a hamster, so I was sort of proud of myself for this hole.  My hands were cold from the wind, and I unwrapped Leila from the towel that the vet wrapped her in.  And, as if she  knew I had done this last act of love for her, she was still warm in my cold hands and she gently warmed them for me.  I gave her one last nuzzle and arranged her in her final resting place and committed her body to the ground.

Rest easy, Leila.

Now my chickens aren't organic.

So, it had come to my attention that my Facebook posts were becoming too, shall we say, unsavory for public consumption?  Most people found what I had to say funny, albeit a little gross.  Which is totally my intention.

But for this little glimpse into my life, I thought a medium where folks could choose to read about it would be my best bet.

One of our chickens, Cassiopeia (Cassie for short), all of a sudden was refusing to roost.  She would climb into the nesting box and sleep there.  The problem with this was she would poop in the box and the other hens wouldn't want to go lay in there.  We tried blocking off her access to the boxes at night, but she would huddle in a corner and still not roost.  Then she got limpy.  I immediately suspected bumblefoot, but she never developed any abcesses.  I was stumped.  She would limp and flap around and generally hop along with the other girls.  She was still laying and eating.

But today we decided to bring her inside for a little R&R and some electrolytes and probiotics.  I inspected her feet again and thought I saw the nigglings of bumblefoot, so I drew Cassie a warm epsom salt bath.  When I picked her up, I noticed the odor.  A very distinct odor of infection, and then I saw her little claw (do chickens have dew claws?) was torn.  So, I plopped Cassie in the bath and she soaked nicely for about 20 minutes.  I wrapped her up in a towel and then inspected her toe again.  The toe was hanging on by a little bit of tendon, and we knew we had to amputate.  I held Ms. Cassie in the towel and Papa B did the surgery.  She didn't flinch or wince a bit.  Brave chicken.  And she then got a nice bandage of gauze and vet wrap and she is back in the crate in the basement.  We got some chicken antibiotics and hopefully she'll be on the mend and back with the flock in a few days.

We're expecting a bit of snow tomorrow, so she is living the high life for a while.  Maybe I should just bring the rest of the girls in to keep her company?