Fun with Dough

Feeling especially crafty yesterday, Eowyn and I followed this recipe to make our own play dough. The result was pretty nice. Not too sticky, not too dry, and nice bright colors (until Eowyn blended them into a solid Army green). To make separate colors from the same batch of play dough, divide the finished dough into balls, make a divot with your finger, drop in some food coloring, then knead it carefully through the dough until the color is even.

starting out with nice, pretty colors...

and the final result.

What Halloween means to me...

...hiding in the kitchen to eat your daughter's candy.




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPod Touch

Hello again

It's been quite a while since I've posted anything to this blog. Just about eight months--which coincides with the age of my son, Espen. Caring for two little ones has depleted any excess energy I used to employ at the end of the day to do such things as write blog posts.

However, on my sister's recommendation, I have recently embraced the usefulness of a caffeinated beverage in the afternoon. What a difference a drug makes!

The other main contributing factor to my bereft blog? The iPhone (and subsequently, the iPod Touch). These handy devices have almost entirely replaced the PC for me--whether I'm browsing the web, managing email, contacts, and calendars, or performing a host of other activities.

Yet until this point, I lacked a convenient, free app for writing and managing blogspot blogs, and so my blog sat desolate. Perhaps this recent discovery will allow me to post more regularly once again.





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPod Touch

When he's good and ready

Yes, I’ve been feeling anxious about Espen's arrival. I think a lot of it has to do with the notion of a “due date.” It’s hard for me to remember that I’m not technically overdue yet—and I won’t be overdue for a few more weeks! A true overdue pregnancy is one that goes beyond a full 42 weeks. My EDD (which stands for estimated due date) really is just an estimate, and the fact that I'm still nursing Eowyn (which can effect ovulation) means the EDD can be especially hard to pinpoint.

Still, I’m asked frequently by well-meaning, caring friends and family why the baby isn’t here yet. I ask myself that, too--especially since Eowyn came a week early! The fact that Meredith had her baby on Monday causes me to wonder even more.

This time around, I’m not that uncomfortable, and I know that babies are a lot easier to care for while they’re still inside your body. My main concern is for Espen’s health, but I also know that the risk of complications from a true overdue pregnancy is actually very low, and the chance of me going truly overdue is very low as well. I still feel Espen move plenty, and all the other vitals check out fine at my office visits.

Mostly, it’s that I’ve got to combat this expectation that he should have been here by now. You can pray that I trust the Lord for Espen, and that I will take this extra time as a gift. I’m also thankful that I’m seeing a midwife, who doesn’t pressure me at all about induction.

I need to cultivate patience in myself.

Dressed for Success

Believe it or not, Eowyn started this morning with pants on, onesie buttoned, and socks on feet. She had other ideas, though.

Scooba Woes

Way back in the beginning of this blog, I posted about my longing for the iRobot Scooba. I received one from Christian for Christmas, and it's been great. Our house felt cleaner than it ever did before. The single best thing about it was that it actually got Christian proactive about housecleaning. Mopping the floors became fun for him, because he was getting to play with a robot to do it. He inadvertently took charge of this realm of the housework. For this reason alone, I consider the machine nearly miraculous.

But, I must qualify my above statement. The iRobot Scooba has been great, but only while it lasted. You would think that a piece of electronic equipment which costs as much or more than an iPhone (the purchase of which Christian sweetly postponed in order to get this for me) would work reliably for more than two weeks. Alas, that is not the case. Within those first two weeks, strange beeping and flashing of indicator lights began. The Scooba would refuse to clean. Our internet research uncovered that it was getting stuck in 'diagnostic mode.' This problem came and went at first, but now no manner of prompting on our part will get it to clean again.

Fortunately, it's still under warranty, but we have to pay to ship the robot back to the company, then wait up to a month to receive a replacement. Just the matter of finding an appropriate box and packing the thing irks me. For such an expensive piece of equipment, I think this is colossaly lame.

Start planning the intervention

Have you heard of the nasal decongestant, Afrin? I'm not sure how I ever missed this stuff. With my due date only days away, I'm suffering once more from the kind of cold and ensuing congestion that make you feel like you're about to suffocate if you ever close your mouth. At this point, I've lost my patience with "natural" remedies and self-hypnosis. My midwife would not be pleased to hear this. She advised me to consume copious amounts of garlic and Emergen-C. No, thanks. Espen's almost here. Let's bring on some drugs!

On the recommendation of friends, I picked up this little wonder spray. But with their recommendation came warnings--stories of people addicted to the stuff, unable to breathe clearly without it, continuing to use it even when it was tearing up their nasal cavity. 'And this is available over the counter?' I wondered incredulously. Somehow, yes. But even the package warns not to use for more than three days.

Well, I tried it, and it works so well, it's scary. Within five minutes, my monster congestion disappeared, and I was breathing clearer than when I have no cold at all (allergies also give me trouble at night). Sudafed used to be my go-to drug of choice for colds, but now I can see it has nothing on Afrin. I used to wait around for a half-hour for limited relief with that stuff. What a sucker I was!

I've used it two days in a row now. Only one more day before I have to lay off the drug. I'm afraid. Will I soon be sneaking around, hording stockpiles of Afrin, addicted and ashamed? I think Christian is already planning the intevention.

Recent Projects, Part 3: Hybrid Ring-Sling

I'm a big fan of baby slings. When Eowyn was tiny, I used a ring sling. This type of sling, though it can be difficult and/or tedious to adjust, offers the most versatility in terms of positions you can wear your baby. Eowyn loved being curled upright against my chest in those early months, so this sling was quite a boon for those times when, for example, I wanted to use the bathroom or eat without incessant crying.

After Eowyn gained head, neck, and back control, I began using a pouch sling.The pouch sling accommodates fewer positions, but there's no adjusting so it's easy to slip on and off quickly. Eowyn sat in the forward-facing hold (also called the kangaroo carry) and then spent months on my hip with this sling.

But, I discovered such a thing as a hybrid ring sling. Like a normal ring sling, you can use it in all kinds of different positions. But, it has a curved seam sewn into it like a pouch does, so theoretically it takes less time to adjust than a regular ring sling. Rather than paying a gazillion dollars to buy one, I decided to make one myself. The UpMama site provides instructions on how to make one yourself. Online, I purchased three yards of bottom weight cotton sateen fabric and some sling rings. One length of fabric yields enough for two slings.

The most time-consuming part of the project, for me, was cutting the three yards of fabric evenly, and hemming it. It's a lot of hemming! On the first one I made, I rather obsessively ironed a half-inch hem on the entire length of the sling (that's six yards total) before sewing. The second time, I just rolled the hem in my fingers as I sewed. It saved a bunch of time, and the results are practically the same. As far as saving time on cutting goes, I think I just need more experience in that area to accomplish accurate and quick cuts. Does anyone have any cutting tips? I use a cutting mat and a rotary blade, and I still have problems with the fabric shifting.

One more tip, if you attempt to make this sling, is to make sure to take the extra few minutes to hand-baste and then machine-baste the fabric folded over the rings before putting in the permanent stitch. There's so much fabric sewn down in such a small area, that it's almost impossible to keep it lined up evenly otherwise.

The finished hybrid sling hasn't seen any action yet. I'll report back on its usefulness after Espen's been born and I've had opportunity to use it with him.

The finished sling

Recent Projects, Part 2: Upholstered Headboard

In the course of redecorating Espen's room, I decided to reuse the decades-old headboard instead of simply throwing it out as I was tempted. Christian helped me reupholster it, and I'm quite happy with the transformation.

I started off by buying a few yards of cheap cotton duck cloth at Walmart, and a quarter yard of duck cloth in a contrasting color for the buttons. I also purchased a package of queen-size quilt batting there, and some button-making sets (here are some sold at Joann's). At Joann's, I purchased some florist's wire (I think around 22 gauge) to attach the buttons. We tried to use jewelry wire (also from Walmart) at first, but it was too thin and kept snapping. We already owned a heavy-duty stapler and staples.

We stapled two layers of quilt batting over the headboard, pulling it tight (but not too tight) all around. We experimented with just one layer at first, but it wasn't fluffy enough. Then, we stapled the duck cloth over. It took some trial and error to get it to lie mostly right, as the headboard has a lot of curves on top that cause the fabric to wrinkle when it's pulled over. We covered the buttons with fabric, which was very easy to do, then attached them with florist's wire to staples we put on the front of the headboard.

In all, this project cost about $20. It could cost more or less depending on the quality of the fabric you use and how many buttons (if any) you decide to make. If you don't have an old headboard to start with, you can cut a shape out of plywood, attach legs, and cover that.

Happy Little Chef

For Christmas, Eowyn received a play kitchen. At first, I was a little concerned about purchasing such a large and fairly pricey gift for my not-yet-two-year-old daughter. However, it's been wonderful. I'm so glad we got it!

Eowyn will play with it for hours. That's saying a lot, considering her age. On mornings when we don't have errands to run or places to be, it keeps her occupied from almost the time she wakes up until lunch. It's also been quite helpful in that, while I'm finishing up dinner, she will "cook" at her own kitchen too. This doesn't usually last the entire time I'm cooking, but any respite from a screaming toddler hanging on your ankles while you are working with hot pans is welcome.

Below are some pictures of Eowyn at her kitchen. Upon taking these pictures, I learned that she knows to say "cheese" when a camera is pointed at her (that accounts for the grimace on her face). I didn't teach her that, but it's awfully cute!

Recent Projects, Part 1: Charging Station

Perhaps there's some truth to the so-called "nesting instinct" in the final stages of pregnancy, because I've been very uncharacteristically motivated to organize, de-clutter, decorate, and craft in anticipation of the baby's arrival. Since Christmas, every weekend has been taken up with such activities.

Christian has been enthusiastic about helping me in these endeavors, which is a notable occurence in itself. For those who know him well, his enthusiasm usually doesn't extend beyond the couch or the computer.

The first crafty project I feel proud to share is the charging station we made. Over Christmas, I looked for one in stores but found them to be too large, too tacky-looking, too small, or sold-out. That's when I decided to make one myself, because my agitation at seeing masses of unkempt power cord on the counter would not abate.

I found a decorative photo box on clearance at Target (sort of like this one, but brown). It consisted of a slot for a photo album, which I removed, and a lidded compartment on top. We coiled our cell phone power cords and connected them to a small brown extension cord we happened to have lying around. All of this was placed in the lower slot of the photo box. In the lidded compartment, Christian cut two small holes to thread the cell phone plugs through, and attached two decorative scrapbooking "bookplates" to the holes to give it a finished look. I placed some decorative paper in the photo cutout on the top of the box. Presto! An attractive charging station that's just the right size for about $10.

If you can't find a photo box like this one, you could use any fairly deep, decorative box with a lid. Just cut a platform to fit the box out of sturdy cardboard or wood. Use spray adhesive to cover the platform with decorative scrapbooking paper or fabric. Glue pieces of a dowel (which you can pick up at Wal-mart for less than a dollar) in the corners of the box and put the platform on top. Cut holes in the platform for gadget plugs, and a hole in the bottom half of the box for the extension cord.

The Great Name Debate

The name of our son, whose arrival is imminent, has been decided: Esp*n Joshua Buhl.The only problem is that one small detail that we cannot agree on: the last vowel in his first name. I'm pushing for Espen, but Christian is adamant about Espyn.

I first encountered the name Espen in graduate school. A fellow classmate, married to a Norwegian, named her son this. The name struck me, and I've liked it ever since. I like how it's unusual, but not totally unheard of (at least, not unheard of in Scandinavian countries). For me, it evokes the trendiness of names like Ethan and Aiden while maintaining originality.

It also brings to mind the word aspen, a tree (and a city) found in the western United States, which will always carry special significance for me since I spent the first several years of my marriage beyond the continental divide. The meaning, "bear of God," seems pretty cool, too. I didn't think much about the similarity to the sports network ESPN until Christian told me that's what all his coworkers mentioned when they heard it. Granted, Christian works on a college football video game, so a sports link is unavoidable.

My reasons for wanting to keep the original spelling, Espen:

1. Names with alternate spellings have always bothered me.
2. The name Espen is already fairly unusual. Why make it more so by changing the spelling?
3. The "-yn" ending is often found on feminine names.
4. Googling espen yields actual men with this name. Googling espyn yields girl's myspace pages and the like.

Christian's reasons, as far as I can discern, for wanting to use the alternate spelling, Espyn:

1. For Christian, the more unusual and unique, the better (hence the name of our daughter, Eowyn).
2. Using "-yn" links it to Eowyn's name, which Christian thinks would be cool.

When I was shopping for wooden letters to paint and hang in Esp*n's room, Wal-mart had only one "E" available. They've been sold out ever since (that was a month and a half ago). Christian takes this as a sign of fate. As for me, I don't want to name our son based on Wal-mart's inventory, or because we're too lazy to buy another "E" and paint it.

We're both standing our ground on this. But the moment is fast approaching when we must finally decide.

Post-Christmas, Post-Cheer

Having listened to many, many holiday carols this past Christmas season, I can tell you my all-time least favorite song: "The Christmas Shoes" by Newsong.

Picture this: a group of down-on-their luck holiday carol writers, giddy from an excess of spiked egg nog, lament their lack of a holiday hit. "We've lost too much market share to songs with actual meaning!" says one. "How about this idea?" offers another. "Let's create a song that pulls together every sentimental cliche we can think of. It will be so emotionally manipulative, it's sure to reel 'em in!" And lo, "The Christmas Shoes" was born.

This song features a young, penniless, soon-to-be orphaned boy trying to buy a Christmas gift for his mother, who lies on her deathbed and is sure to "meet Jesus tonight." And what does the boy want to buy for his mother, you ask? Why, a pair of shoes, of course! Having pretty shoes is important to Jesus, apparently. Naturally, the singer offers to pay for the boy's purchase, teaching us all an important lesson about the true meaning of Christmas...which is what, exactly? I certainly hope it's not "leave your dying mother alone so you can beg others to buy stuff she doesn't need."

In case your heartstrings are not sufficiently tugged by the song, be sure to check out the novelization and the made-for-TV movie.

You may ask, what is my favorite Christmas song? Well, near the top of the list is "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch."

Hypnobirthing (or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb)

All glory to the hypnotoad

Lesson learned: don't knock that hippie stuff 'till you've tried it! Actually, go ahead and knock much of it. But this new-age sounding 'birthing' technique (which eschews negative terms such as 'labor', by the way) has already helped me, and I've not even had any contractions yet--erm, I mean uterine surges.

Yes, I'm already a believer. Even Christian, and that's saying a lot! We've both had occasion to use the self-hypnosis techniques when we've suffered from sinus pain and congestion that refused to yield to any amount of drugs, nose-blowing, or flushing with saline spray gadgetry. At his wit's end late one night, Christian resigned himself to sitting up in the living room until utter exhaustion took him. "Wait!" I said. "Let me try that light-touch massage we just learned about in class tonight!" I wasn't expecting much, but it worked. Christian was amazed that the sensation of the massage overwhelmed his pain and he was able to fall asleep.

A few hours after midnight last night, I laid awake in misery. The Sudafed that I risked Espen's well-being to take before bed had done nothing. Neither had Tylenol or saline. Rising to go to the couch and wallow in self-pity, a thought occurred to me--what if I try that relaxation CD from the Hypnobirthing class, the one I've been putting off listening to? Again, not expecting much, I turned it on. And to my surprise, I soon found that listening, deep breathing and relaxing had supplanted my pain, and I could even breathe through my nose again.

I've been asked many times: what is Hypnobirthing? Am I going to cluck like a chicken during labor? Will I be unconscious or in some weird trance? No--the bulk of what I've learned boils down to deep relaxation techniques. You learn methods of self-relaxation, mainly slow breathing and visualization, that allow you to birth with more control and more comfort. You are always aware of your surroundings. Supposedly, self-hypnosis is similar to the sort of focus one slips into while engrossed in a book, watching a movie, or driving a familiar route.

One of the first benefits I gleaned from the course is that I no longer look forward to Espen's birth with fear and anxiety. With Eowyn, that was a big issue for me. The closer I got to the due date, the more I anticipated with dread that she needed to emerge from my body somehow, and it wasn't going to be pleasant. Now, I'm actually anticipating Espen's birth with excitement. The absence of drugs makes me happy.

According to Hypnobirthers, our pain during labor is the product of cultural misinformation and fear, developed over centuries of Western society's mistreatment of childbirth. They point to women in non-Western cultures who labor without fear or agonizing pain. Not that labor isn't intense and hard work, but it doesn't necessitate anesthesia or terror. This whole spiel had me skeptical. So, the main thing causing pain in labor is a cycle of fear, tension, and pain? Yeah, right.

To quote Yente: "Of course right!" (Check back in a month or so and we'll see if all this confidence in hypnobirthing has truly paid off).

Death by Chocolate

In the last week I've consumed more sweets than in the past several months combined. I have attended two separate Thanksgiving dinners, one UCF football game, one birthday/anniversary party, one baptism brunch and one book club meeting, where I've eaten pumpkin pie, pecan pie, trifle, pumpkin cake, red velvet cake, vanilla cupcakes, cinnamon rolls, egg nog ice cream, a vanilla ice cream bar, berry tart, chocolate drop cookies and shortbread. Usually I've taken much more than a moderate serving, and had leftovers on other days besides.

I expected that the holidays would introduce more than the usual calories and sugar to my diet; what I didn't anticipate was just how many desserts would be available, and how low my threshold of self-control would be. Being pregnant, I'm hungry constantly, and dessert beckons at every turn. My pregnancy weight gain so far has been on a healthy track, but the week-long binge does not bode well for my next appointment on Monday. I'm not particularly looking forward to stepping on the scale.

Last night I laid awake, guilt-ridden and vowing to throw out the remaining ice cream, pie and cookies and replace them with fresh fruit and vegetables. During this time of year, and with the abundance we have at our disposal, it seems there's always a reason to celebrate something with a sugary confection. Most of the year, I don't allow myself to purchase ice cream or cookies, and I rarely bake desserts. It should be clear why these measures are necessary for me, given this past week's track record.

No, I haven't yet thrown out the remaining desserts in the house.

More volatile than the stock market

There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was horrid.
--Longfellow

The range of Eowyn's mood swings has been taking its toll on me. It's been difficult to keep perspective on it. On days when she wakes up from her nap cheerful and easygoing, all is right with the world and I feel blissfully happy to be a mother. We laugh and sing while we pretend with her baby dolls, read books, and play on the swings. I cook dinner without incident while she pretends to cook, too.

But--it feels more often than not--other days she wakes up in a delicate temper. Tickling might make her scowl, or she'll throw her books in frustration. She cries to be in her swing, then cries to be out. She clings, screaming, to my leg as I attempt to provide our dinner. She clamors to be held, then protests to be put down again. Those days, I count the minutes until her bedtime, when I can have respite from the emotional energy it takes to handle her.

After she's in bed (and often through the long afternoon) the self-doubt and finger-pointing begin. What am I doing wrong as a mother, that she is like this? Why can't Christian be home before 8:00 to help me? Is it because he just doesn't care enough about us? The evening often plays out with fits of crying and venting of anger and frustration on an unsuspecting husband.

At this moment, I can see clearly the ridiculousness of the situation. Eowyn is like a prairie field, covered in bright sunlight one minute, the next minute tossed by a tempest which leaves as quickly as it came. But when I'm in the middle of the storm, it is just so difficult for me to remember that there is ever a beginning or an end to it.

I'm praying for perspective and grace.

One of the reasons I'm looking forward to Christmas

In these pictures, Eowyn is playing at the stove, complete with oven mitt. She has become very intent on pretend play, and can occupy herself with such play for long stretches of time. This is quite remarkable, from my perspective as a mom who had taken her daughter for a mini-shadow. I'm excited for Christmas, as I'm hoping to give her a play kitchen and perhaps a little grocery cart she can push (you may notice in the background a laundry basket--it has various objects inside--because she loves to push her toys around the house).

In the bottom picture you may also notice that Eowyn's face is in less than pristine condition. Over the course of a week, she fell into the corner of the coffee table, tripped and splat on the sidewalk twice, and antagonized Rizzo into snapping at her cheek. Her face is now the worse for wear.

A dog's life

Poor, poor Rizzo. Since the birth of Eowyn, she has moved far down the totem pole of my attention and affection. And as she ages, she has grown more...incontinent. Let's just say I'm looking forward to a time when I can have rugs in the house without them getting peed all over. When I can lay a clean bath mat on the floor, reach to grab a towel, and turn back without discovering fresh pee on it. When the smell of dog urine doesn't threaten to assail my nostrils at unexpected moments.

I used to be quite the dog person. I could identify many of the different breeds, and even what kind of breed it was--toy dog, working dog, etc. Rizzo herself was treated tantamount to my own offspring.

The night Eowyn came home, that all changed. Rizzo's spot by my side in the bed was forfeited without mercy, since Eowyn slept best those first few months by nursing in bed at night. So often ignored or pushed away, Rizzo ceased following me from room to room or curling up next to me on the couch.

I can see, intellectually, that this is sad, yet I'm not sad about it. My love for Eowyn and the priority of her needs are just so much greater to me. Rizzo is now a creature to be tolerated, cared for adequately, and shown moderate affection when I'm not too tired to do so.

Christian, or course, thinks this is monstrous. Rizzo will always be the original princess to him.

Her spot in the sun grows smaller

And they call it a "game"

Perhaps you've seen Penny Arcade's comic on the subject. Apparently, Mega Man 9 has an old-school draw that I simply can't relate to. I can understand the nostalgic pull of Mario, of course, and ancient RPG's make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Heck, I even get the pull of Kirby and Sonic. But Mega Man was not a game I ever witnessed as I peeked around the doorjamb to watch my brother play (if he caught me watching him play video games, he'd beat me up, since he sought to extinguish any bit of my happiness that he could). It was not a game I played myself.

Christian recently downloaded it on the Wii, and is enjoying it immensely, or so he assures me. At first glance, it seems to me to be a cross between Metroid and Mario, but far more difficult and far less forgiving. I sit by him and watch as he dies over and over. Much sighing and cursing can be heard. Rows of spikes, which inflict death at a mere touch, loom everywhere. Gaping holes of death must be crossed via blocks that appear and reappear according to some infernal pattern. Checkpoints, and extra lives, are few and far between. When you die, you must start all the way back at the beginning.

In order to progress, you must memorize the layout of each level with agonizing precision, from the firing patterns of the enemies to the timing of the swinging platforms. If you manage to make it to a checkpoint, you likely have only one life left, meaning you will very soon be going back to the beginning again. Progression, as you may guess, is maddeningly slow, especially compared the quick pace of most current-gen fare.

Clearly, there's an appeal to this game that I'm missing. If I'm playing a game, it's for escapism and stress-relief. This game would have me pull out my hair in frustration. It's the kind of game I expect to be forced to play as punishment in a POW camp. "And you're sure you're having fun, Christian?" I ask repeatedly. "Definitely!" he replies immediately.

Parting is such sweet sorrow

The weekend before last, I attended the UPC women's retreat. This was my first time away from Eowyn overnight, and I was struck by a surprising sadness in the days leading up to the retreat. I was startled to realize just how much I would miss her, and how much I worried whether Christian would feed her well, change her diaper enough, pay her enough attention and get her to sleep without too much trouble. I cried a fair amount! When it came time to leave, I choked up again. Fortunately, gabbing with the other girls in the carpool helped distract me quickly.

I was under the misconception I would get more sleep while on the retreat. Instead, I struggled with a bout of insomnia and found myself listening for Eowyn's cry in my sleep even though she was nowhere near. Still, spending time away, completely free of responsibility for her, was quite nice. Chatting with other adult women without distractions was amazingly refreshing.

As it turns out, Eowyn survived just fine without me. I'm not as indispensable as I believed. She ate and slept peachy for Christian. She didn't mope or otherwise appear to notice much that I was gone. And that's...really...great...hmph.