Welcome to earth, little Bennett David Clear!

Ya-hoooo! We welcome, with hearts full of surprise and joy, my adorable nephew, Bennett David Clear!

He was born at home in the wee morning hours of July 21st, at 38 1/2 weeks. Rachel was so calm in her communication with the midwives, covinced she wasn't really in labor, that they broke no speed laws to get here. They made it only 20 minutes before Bennett flew out. And fly out he did, his first activity being to go for a swim around the birthing tub while the crowd frantically groped through the water for him. He was very alert and grown up, though just a little toot at 4 pounds, 13 ounces.

Our family had jumped in the car and driven all night from Montana, but we missed the birth by two and a half hours. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful labor and delivery, and Rachel was supported and strong. We couldn't have asked for it to be better.

Unfortunately, we didn't realize how little collosrum Bennett was getting during his first day and a half. He had a blood sugar crash that resulted in us rushing him to the hospital, where he was admitted to the NICU to get his fluids up and be monitored. If it hadn't been the weekend, he may have been released quickly, because they could find nothing else wrong with him, despite his small size. But we are waiting until Monday to get test results back, to rule out other problems. So, we appreciate prayers and thoughts. I really am stoked for you to see all kinds of pictures. He is seriously precious. Here are a few phone pics. We can't upload most of the real camera shots to this particular laptop of Rachel's, because we lack the appropriate cords, and it doesn't have a card reader.

four precious days with Papa

packing up the trailer

Gunther

We had our dog, Gunther, put to sleep in May. I wrote about it then but had already posted the story of Blindey the Chicken and thought it was too much morbidity in a row. So, after a nice respite, here's more animal death for ya. But go on and read - it has some redeeming parts too.

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Fourteen years ago, I and my boyfriend at the time saw a pack of free puppies in a pickup bed at Walmart. While most of the puppies were rolling around and playing with each other, one laid against the wheel well, head up, poised like a lion, relaxed and cool even as a cozy fluff ball. He was the one I wanted. That nonchalant pose matched his personality, and whenever I saw him lying that way over his life, I thought back to our first day with him. He pooped on the floor of the pickup on the way home.

We all stood in the kitchen watching Gunther run around on the linoleum. I looked up at Dad, who'd been the lesser of the annoyed parents at our bringing home a dog, and Dad was smiling. He said something about Gunther being one of the cutest puppies ever, and he was right. Plus, he was the most wonderfully random addition to our family in awhile. And I do like random. He was part blue heeler, part rottweiler, part Sharpe. You could always feel a few rolls of extra skin underneath his strangely course, brown fur. He was enough heeler to chase the horses, but enough cat to not care exactly where he should herd them to.

Gunther came home a few times with barbed wire slits in his legs or claw marks on his body, having narrowly escaped a coyote or mountain lion. After one such incident, Hugh the Vet stitched him up good and put a white cone over his head to keep him from scratching or nibbling at the sores. One of our clearest family memories of Gunther is him chasing the horses through the pasture with that cone on his head, looking like a flower in a children's play. 

Gunther always maintained a certain detachment, obedient only if it suited him. I had him for a couple of months, before I left home for the summer and was then off to college. He slept cuddled into the covers with me. I failed to potty train him (because I didn't know what I was doing), and whenever he wanted to, he'd go on the floor if he didn't feel like going outside. It was maddening. I always felt guilty for abandoning him so young and wondered if every one of his indoor poops was delivered with a side of resentment for me. Not that this household was a bad place to be left. He became David's dog and would sleep on his bed whether David was home or not. He was most happy when David was home.

I didn't feel much sadness in having to put him down, somewhat because his health was failing, but somewhat because his catlike ways sort of bugged me. In fact, I felt eerily unmoved throughout his actual day of reckoning. I was only fearful of being there for it, because my emotions were a little raw from a series of upheavals, some self-inflicted like too much travel. But it has become a family tradition that whomever's around goes together when we're ready to let our dogs go, and we stand in a circle over the dog and say our goodbyes. We cry a lot. We crack jokes. It's easier on everybody that way. Then we watch the vet give the injection, and we pet the dog and cry over him for several minutes after they've listened for the heartbeat and said, "He's gone." We bring him home and bury him under the big tree.

And even though I knew how it'd go, that day the fear started lifting only when I helped Dad dig the hole. I guess it was in the doing something that I stopped being paralyzed by fear. Plus, when I saw how sad Mom was, I knew I could make it through - for her. When the moment came, I gave Gunther a good scruffle and hug and a couple of tears. Luke lifted Gunther onto the table, and we all surrounded him.

There was another layer of sadness to this letting go. My parents had had the same veterinarian for years and years; Hugh had dealt with all of our pet-related needs, including coming to our home to put down several horses. Tragically, he died last year in a plane crash on his 50th birthday. This was our first animal death since his, and we more than ever missed his tenderness. The technician we had instead was in a hurry since it was the end of the day, and she must've been sick the day they covered "empathy, even feigned empathy" in school. All I wanted was for Gunther to be at ease, in death as he was in life. It took a little sedative and some helpful suggestions from the accompanying, more astute technician, and soon Gunther calmed down.

Heather held Zoralee, who waived very sweetly to Gunther when we asked her to tell him goodbye. She didn't seem alarmed by the proceedings, including our burying him. I thought about it ahead of time and knew I wanted her to be there, because it's part of life, death is. And this wasn't violent or gory, just sad. The next day when Mom gave Zoralee a treat to give to Molly, she said, "Gunther?" because she had always given him one first. We told her Gunther had gone bye bye and gave her two treats for Molly. She still asks about him, over two months later, and when we say, "Gunther died, honey. Remember? Gunther went bye bye," she says, "Good boy, Gunther. Good boy," with a hint of sadness, and then goes about the day.

Recently we started reading a Little Golden book rendition of Cinderella. At the beginning, it tells of Cinderella's widowed father marrying another woman with two daughters so as to have a family for Cinderella. It says, "But alas! The kindly gentleman soon died." When I got to that line, Zoralee stopped me and said, "Gunther? Good boy, Gunther." Somehow, someway, she recognized that both Gunther and the father had done the same thing. She said it again when we read the story a couple days later. There are times I find myself staring at this child and not breathing.

So, Gunther. Yes, you were a good boy, most of the time, when you wanted to be, and I'll take the blame for what training you lacked. May your body rest in peace under the big tree in the yard with Rags, Sheba, and the memory of Job and Beth. May your soul sense that you are known and remembered, even by the littlest of us. And say hello to Cinderella's kindly father.

the other side of nursing confidence

Yeah, so I can only leave a tough girl entry at the top of my blog for, well, a couple of hours, before I feel weird. Truth is, though I am confident in my decision to let Zoralee nurse as long as she and I are both happy and healthy about it, I have wondered if I should be drawing bolder lines from nursing to the quandries I face.

Namely, is there a chance Zoralee's not getting everything she needs nutritionally, and that's why she's a fusser? She's a good food eater, as far as variety - she'll eat practically anything we set before her - but she rarely eats a lot at once. So, is she holding off on food, knowing she can fill up on milk, and then the milk is lacking??? But her energy levels are over-the-top adequate, other than when she's teething or has a cold. So, is the fussing a habit unrelated to nutrition?

Second namely, is there a chance nursing is keeping me so doggone tired? Am I not getting enough nutritionally?

Third namely, is Zoralee's poor sleep quality related to nursing? Of everything about her first year and a half, I will say that sleeping has been the biggest trial. I know a lot of it is my fault, and I'm trying to improve. Be consistent with routines. Get her to bed earlier. Yada yada. If she goes to bed by 9 p.m. (which I understand to be late for a toddler), she'll wake up twice, sometimes three times before 7:30 a.m. And those are full wakeups that require my attention. She rustles around another time or two, but generally fusses a bit and falls back asleep. We transitioned out of co-sleeping a month ago, and the main way that has helped is to allow me to sleep deeper. Both of us are light sleepers, so even if she has a great night, it's no guarantee I will. Very frustrating.

Even as I'm writing, I am working out that I don't think nursing is the problem. I think getting proper sleep is. Because whenever we do both have a great night, we have plenty of energy and are happy, and she's less fussy.

And on that, I really should get to bed. And I shall. After I catch up on one single blog, or two. I give myself 8 minutes, starting now.

nursing conversations

family friend at a recent gathering: You're still nursing there, Mama?!
me, nursing Zoralee under a blanket: Yep.
friend: [semi-disapproving silence]

I didn't bother explaining that I'm in no hurry to lose our precious bonding time or that I'm happy Zoralee's still getting good antibodies, or that I think it's weird that Americans are uniquely concerned about what we call "extended" nursing, though a lot of the world considers it normal to let a child wean naturally anytime between 18 months and three years. I didn't say anything more. Nope. I just sat there feeling like part of a really cool club of informed people who do things the way they think is best, despite other people's opinions. Because, honestly, I haven't gotten much grief up to this point, and she's a really nice lady.

I do wish, however, that I would have thought to tell her about the following recurring conversations I get to have with my little nursling. But maybe it wouldn't have helped my cause, since a common line I hear among Hurry-Up-And-Quit-Nursing proponents is that "If a kid can ask for milk, they're too old for it." And of course, to that I say, "hogwash." If you had your baby peeing in the toilet at three weeks of age, you can lecture me on nursing. Shazaaam!

Okay, here are the best conversations:

1.    Zoralee: Milk, milk, milk, milk!
       me: You want some milk?
       Zoralee: oh-kaaaay!

2.    Zoralee: Milk, milk, milk, milk!
       me: Okay, let's have milk.
       Zoralee: Good boy, Mama! Good boy, Mama! Good boy!

3.    Zoralee, reaching into my shirt: Come on, boobie. Come on, boobie. Come on, boobie.


P.S. You guys know I'm not judging those who nurse for three months or six - or none at all, if they can't! There are a lot of factors to consider, especially nowadays when we have a choice about it. My point here is that I like to see mothers (and be one myself) making decisions based on knowledge/insight rather than public opinion, especially modern-day public opinion.

The End.

bulk gum, spices, and rye crackers, and product recognition with 18 month babies

It just feels right to me to buy things in bulk. I have a giddy little sensation of being a prudent consumer: economical, organized, and prepared for natural disasters or other end-of-world scenarios. Also, it's like I'm pretty much the long lost sister to Laura Ingalls Wilder. This is the exact opposite feeling as when I open a packet of three pretzels on an airplane. Before the flight attendant gets to the next row, we've all eaten ours. Who's gonna be the sheepish turd that holds up progress by touching her elbow and asking for more?

So. These are some bulk items I dig. Please share what you buy!!

GUM - Didya know you can get good, naturally sweetened gum in vitamin-style bottles at health food stores? I know of Peelu and Spry, and they come in bottles of 100 pieces for $8-10, in a variety of flavors. They come in bigger bottles than that too, as well as the normal sized push-em-out tinfoil packages, so you could test it first. I prefer Spry, which is much softer. Both are made with xylitol, a naturally occuring sweetner that has a lower glycemic index than sugar. I like for Zoralee to chew on it; it's a tricky, occasional bucky-brushing substitute.

SPICES  - Health food stores and some regular grocery stores have bulk spice bins, so you can buy just a wee bit of cardamom or orange peel or whatever you don't want to pay $5-10 to get a whole container of. Here's the thing: it is super inexpensive, even to get organic spices. You take your little baggy to the counter, and it rings through as thirty-four cents! Additionally, I write the item number on the baggie instead of using a weighty twist tie to write on. Look, let's get serious about this. 

RYE CHIPS - I just learned this through my good brother, Luke, when we were sharing a handful of the Gardetto's mix and there were only two delightsome rye chips left. We both like those the best. Well, they have started making bags of JUST THOSE. Every once in a while, you get the impression that somebody somewhere is listening to the public. Yes, they're listening with the goal of emptying our wallets, but still.

In closing, I would like to report a related, freaky, first-hand discovery: product recognition is working for babies at 18 months, maybe younger. The other day, Zoralee was saying, "video, video, video" while pointing to something in a magazine. I looked, and it was a tiny Youtube symbol. We show her youtube videos of all kinds of interesting things, but who knew she paid attention to the icon?! Tonight she was looking at a magazine again and said, "coffee, cofee, coffee." It was a Starbucks symbol on a gallon of icecream. No actual coffee was anywhere in the photograph. Um, hellllooooo. We go to Starbucks once in a blue - the rare Antwerp blue -moon. We have a Starbucks mug, but we have about thirty mugs, and we drink other things from them besides coffee. How does she know that symbol is related to coffee?!

z and the beat box keyboard

This is Zoralee discovering a little Yamaha keyboard I received my 10th or 11th year. I can't believe it has lain practically dormant for 20 plus years, the beautiful and artful machine that it is. I told the family if they'd only buy me this keyboard, it would be the Christmas present to end all Christmas presents. Within a couple of weeks, I realized the foolishness of my rash wish. But, it's a lifelong commitment - no Christmas presents ever again. Booooo.

Well, enjoy miss Zoralee as she dances and plays! This video is a little on the loud (annoying side) at points, but the ending is the best; she goes into horror film mode around 1:40 as she executes the oft neglected Full-Body Keyboard Playing.



Those of you who don't know Z personally might not realize how unusual it is for her to be giggly and huggy, which you'll see in the first footage from Day 1. She's just so excited about this thing and all its buttons.

sheet music beauties

Okay, this is an entirely worthless blog post. It's late, and I should be getting into bed, but I'll make it snappy. Maybe you'll get a chuckle, like I did, out of this selection of sheet music covers someone had passed along to me at some point.

Rrright. And that's why I requested the restraining order.

a bold proclamation of it being no secret,

and then - cautiously, in parentheses, secretly? - of what God can do

in case you are unclear on the pronunciation of ricochet...

Wait, maybe it's a play on words about an Irish guy. I should've read the lyrics.

I suspect there was a mirror around when these gals decided on their name.

They only later must've realized that for every album cover,

they'd have to turn sideways for their identity to be fully believed.

That has GOT to be Eddie Murphy's great grandfather on the left.

The expressions are perfectly nailed.

waaay outside, with that kind of look and cleavage

Nice try, Pat Boone. I ain't fallin' for the old "Look up there!" trick again.

Instead of that smart side-step, how's about you stop right there and empty your trousers.  

This does not remind me of a guy who cares about little white clouds that cry.

But then, let's be honest. Who of us does?

I do apologize to any American soccer fans, but...

...Zoralee received this gift at birth and just now, by strange coincidence, fits into it.

(She looks like a natural, doesn't she - attitude and all?)

old magazines, old (good) ways of arguing, & an old soap maker

As I'm making piles of our stuff - pile A bound for destination A in less than a month, pile B bound for destination B in less than a year, pile C for the thrift store/craigslist/give-away, and pile D for decisions to be made/sorting to be done - I found a box of magazines, back issues of National Geographic, Mother Earth News, and Utne that we saved for one reason or another.

I knew that it was time to get rid of them, the whole lot. Mourn the articles unread (or at least un-memorized or un-put to use), the photos un-ooh'd-and-aah'd over. Chalk them up to lost opportunities, plain and simple. It feels like trashing a collection of gems, but we've got to be serious about lightening the load, now more than ever. You get so much junk piled on to your psyche that you can't really focus on any one project or hobby. 

But I couldn't toss 'em without one final look-see. I picked a magazine from the box at random, Utne Nov-Dec '07. And it was so amazing! In a quick browse through, I read this article: "The Great Divide - How do we talk when we disagree?". It's an interview given by Julie Hanus of Stephen Miller, author of Conversation: A History of a Declining Art. You can click on the article name above, if you wish. Here are some snippets of Miller's answers from the interview:

• "The best conversations are playful. They go different places; people are throwing out ideas, and no one is pronouncing on things." [This is Lori now: and isn't that the truth?! I love rabbit trails. They lead to the best laughter and to the best learning of random tidbits about people, and sometimes, because every one's guards are down, to the best solutions to problems or better ways of seeing.]

• "Disagreement has to be good-humored...Quite often people don't discuss anything because they're afraid of offending - or if they do discuss something, they're screaming. I have a bunch of friends I've met...we talk about politics and religion. We have people all over the political spectrum, and we criticize each other mercilessly. But it's all in good spirit; we say things like, 'That's a load of crap, Joe!'"

• "In the United States, people fail to see the distinction between attacking an idea and attacking a person, and they tend to be more offended...It's so easy not to deal with an actual idea and instead just say, 'Oh, you're repressed, you're a Marxist, you're a whatever.' Don't make it personal. There has to be restraint for conversation to succeed."

__________

Then I saw a film review on page 24 by Peter Schilling. Dr. Bronner's Magic Soapbox is a documentary about Emanuel Bronner, the founder of Dr. Bronner's soaps. Directed by Sara Lamm. Very good timing to see this article, because I just bought a couple bottles of lotion on clearance at The EC Store online, where I was also buying tiny baby underwears. We dig Dr. Bronner's soaps and lotions, though we scratch our heads at the indecipherable moral and religious lingo on the soap bottles. So, now I'm writing down a reminder to somehow come by that film, and I won't have to save the article I tore out. One more thing to toss!

Goodbye, the Nov-Dec '07 issue of Utne. And gee whiz, with as easy as inspiration comes,  don't let me do any more quick browse-throughs. I'll never get packed.