Wanderlust

Fauschnaut Day, One Week Later

One week ago was Fauschnaut Day. We ended up making about 6 dozen of the tasty donuts three days before the big day. They were really good, and we didn't even use Crisco for the recipe. We used this non-partially-hydrogenated "hippie" shortening. They weren't exactly the same, but they didn't make me feel like shit after eating four one of them. (uh did I just say four? I would never eat that many in a row...) They were excellent and very tasty. I even brought 2 dozen to work so I can explain over and over what a Fauschnaut is.

Two days I ago we finished the last of the fresh ones, and we still have about 8 left in the freezer. Yummy in my Tummy!™ Owen had some, but he didn't like them. We've been raising him like a good hippie without lots of juice, fruit, and sugar type things. Mostly veggies and some meat. And in fact, I just finished a Clossal Chocolate Chip Cookie and offered Owen a piece. He looked at me like I was offering him a piece of poop. If it's not brown rice, it's gotta be poop I guess....

Welcome!

For the demented frequenters of this site, it may come as no surprise to you that I have been moonlighting elsewhere. I recently joined a parenting site called Parentography and have been writing reviews and recommendations of kid friendly excursions throughout the U.S. In the last month I've compiled quite a little collection, enough to earn me the numero uno ranking on the site and a profile piece in the Parentography newsletter. You can scope out my reviews here.

To those of you who have found us by wandering off Parentography, welcome to our corner of the blogosphere! We serve up baby babble, political nonsense, and a healthy dose of sarcasm daily. George and I are Utah transplants who were mesmerized by the mountains several years ago and are now trapped in the suburbs with the rest of the child bearing populace. We have a passion for travel, specifically camping and hiking, that continues to drain our wallet and fill our lives with wonder and satisfaction. Our one year old son, Owen, and our two Labradors Miles (aged 3) and Timber (aged 2) are along for the ride. I periodically give my long winded opinions about all manner of baby paraphernalia, the few movies we manage to stay awake for, and any other items whose novelty impresses me weekly in the We Recommend section, which you'll find located in the sidebar. I also offer up parenting observations and commiserations in my sporadic "Memoirs on Mommihood" postings. Now that you've found us, we hope you'll come back and visit our home on the Internets often, where the journey into traveling, toddlerhood and total insanity never ends.

Gotta Get Me A Piece of That Action

Every time I cruise around Ebay I am always mystified. When Ebay was first introduced, it was a pretty good place to snag a deal on used or new items. But it has progressed into an auction site for the shopping obsessed and, apparently, the ridiculously naive. I periodically log on to dig up deals on toys and such from Owen's Amazon wishlist. Since it's not garage sale season around here yet, this satisfies my yen for bargain shopping. But these days, the bargains to be had on Ebay are few and far between. When researching toys, I came across people paying just as much or more for used items on Ebay as they would pay for new on Amazon. This was not just in a few instances but across the board in about 80% of the items I looked into. Often, it's the shipping that really drives the price up and I wonder if the buyers just fail to take this factor into account or if they simply don't do the research. In some cases when we're talking about used toys though, they can be classified as vintage and become collector's items and I can see the attraction for that type of item. But I'm talking recent, new toys in the box or barely a year old. I can go to yard sales and get this stuff for five bucks or less. Hell, I can buy it off Amazon when there's a sale and spread it out on Ebay and make a killing. Who are these Ebay junkies? Because they sure as hell aren't bargain hunters or any consumer with half a brain. It makes me want to email the sellers and say-"I can get this new off Amazon for five dollars less with free shipping. Why would I buy it from you with your shitty 98.5% rating and torn box?"

I've even noticed this trend in Craig's List. Last year when I logged in and perused their ads, there were some great deals to be had. Lately it's full of overpriced, crappy stuff that you couldn't pay someone to take at a garage sale. Who in their right mind thinks that because their crappy metal folding table is listed as "vintage" 70's they'll get 50 bucks for it? Seriously. You guys are wasting my time. I guess the online world of auction sales is becoming another saturated consumer marketplace. The moral of the story is there are no shortcuts- you have to do the real footwork to find bargains.

Letters to the O

Thirteen Months

This month was, literally, action packed. You began with long bouts of unassisted standing and lots of toddling around the house behind the wheel of your block cart, pushing it off course into walls and tumbling over. Now, at the end of the month, you are walking across the room, struggle to balance your awkward body with every step and smiling gleefully at our encouragements. You can scramble up the stairs in the blink of an eye and often do, giggling breathlessly when you sense my imminent approach, swooping in to return you to the neutral zone where you are not in constant danger of cracking your skull open. You even accomplished the entirely predictable task of falling down the stairs, although you escaped without injury because you took the safety gate with you and rode down on top of it like it was a surfboard. Brilliant, Einstein. Absolutely brilliant. Your new thing is to lean over as if you're going to do a head stand and peer at the world upside down from between your legs. It's so damn cute I can't watch for fear I'll laugh and you'll just do it over and over until I no longer find it endearing. And that would be a shame.

Your sense of humor has really developed this month and borders on the silly, crass and ridiculous. Gee, wonder who you got THAT from? You'll join in with anyone who's laughing. Understanding the joke, it seems, is not necessary. It is also, in your opinion, quite funny to fart in the bath. Glad you're catching onto that one. You love to dance to the tune of a counting song on your learning house, which mostly involves buckling your knees over and over again and holding onto the roof of the house for support. Dad has also taught you one of the most important life skills you will ever learn- how to drum. Previously you were of the opinion that drumsticks made great teething material or fantastic projectiles.

And finally, you NEVER shut the hell up. NEVER. When you are not fawning over your pacifiers and taste testing each one, you are babbling endlessly. Your vocabulary has grown to four or five words already, including your favorite command- "Quiet, dog!" Not sure where you heard that one, but whoever taught it to you must be really serious about it because you lean over and spit out the phrase like you are hurling the words at their canine heads. When we were on a walk earlier this month, you saw a dog far off in someone else's driveway and leaned out of your stroller, pointed and shrieked "Dog!" As if to say, "I know what that four footed furry thing is. We have some of those. They're stupid dogs!" I was nearly as excited as you were.

I've finally given in and allowed you to feed yourself things that have the potential to become liquid and volatile. I supply you with utensils, secure your suction cup bowl, and simply close my eyes and hope for the best. Most of the pictures your father and I have of you this month you are plastered in food. You look like you are attempting to cover yourself in every color of the rainbow at least once. My favorite was when you rubbed yogurt into your eyes. Smart one, kid. Your Daddy also took it upon himself to give you your first haircut this month. Make no mistake about it, you were starting to look like a girl.

Just a few days ago you came down with your first cold. You were a constant river of snot, as if you were piping it in from somewhere else on the cheap. I never knew I could spend so many hours sleeping in a recliner, trying to keep you upright so you could breathe and I could doze fitfully. Every once in awhile you would reach up to stroke the side of my face, reassuring yourself that I was still there. As if I had anywhere better to be at 4 am than with you, listening to the crackle of your snores. Honestly.

Memoirs on Mommihood XIX

HUMBLE PIE
I started taking the O-face to our local county library about a month ago. It was the dead of winter, we were severely bored with one another and short of peanut butter wrestling in the bathtub, I couldn't come up with a better idea. They have a half decent children's section with a few toys, tables and even a puppet theater. And of course books. Shelves and shelves of books.

I read to Owen three times a day, three books each session. I guess that works out to be nine books a day for all those stellar mathematicians out there who must have missed their calling for a career in statistics. Nine books divided into the moderate library I have compiled from used bookstores and yard sales still means I see the same book once every couple of days. And lately, that has seemed one time too many. So we've been checking out board books. Sturdy, impenetrable cardboard things that will withstand accidental encounters without costing my library card and my wallet pain.

We'd been to the library twice already with some success. While Owen was not overly impressed with this temple of learning, he was fairly quiet and content to page through the books I dolled out to him on the floor. Occasionally he would waddled away a few feet when the voice of another child or the wildly patterned rug beckoned. This week was a complete disaster for an entirely predictable reason that should have hit me over the head days ago.

Owen has been going through a shelf clearing phase recently. My bookshelves are in the living room and while we have devoted the rest of the living room to Owen's empire of toys, I was not in any hurry to relocate my collection. A few weeks ago he began making great heaps on the floor of all of the titles he could throw off the shelves. Thomas Wolfe, Cormac McCarthy, Ayn Rand- he was alarmingly indiscriminate. He wasn't interested in anything between the covers, thankfully. Just in creating a large, heavy mess that resembled a leaning tower of literature. I had resolved this issue by packing the books in so tightly on the shelves Owen frequents that he was not able to wedge his little fingers in. Problem solved by ingenious mommy type. Next step, world dominance.

But then, without a second thought, I took him to the library and set him down in front of a long, low shelf full of board books. This was like giving a prison inmate a loaded gun. He began throwing books off the shelves as fast as I could put them back. And because there was no space in which to contain him, no convenient door to throw him behind, no way to avoid a screaming tantrum in the middle of a public place devoted to quiet introspection, I created the perfect storm. Owen giggled and shrieked with delight- there were hundreds of possibilities for destruction and upheaval. I quietly followed behind, fuming at my own stupidity and secretly appalled. Because if you know anything about me, you will understand the reverence I have for books. Throwing a work of literature is the same as if we were Jewish and Owen decided to light a big, fat doobie with the menorah candles. It was so wildly inappropriate that it took my breath away and I could only stare. I may be atheist but libraries are like temples to me, sacred places entombed with the knowledge of the ages. Places where we walk softly and speak hushed because there is an understanding that this is sacred ground. And here was my OWN son, yelling like a lunatic and dismantling an entire section of books. I was as horrified as my grandmother would have been if my father had dared to get hit by a car and shown up at the hospital in dirty underwear.

Lesson learned. All those parents who put their toddlers on the end of leashes that were the secret subjects of my ridicule... I have just one question for you. Where do you buy kiddie handcuffs?

Better late than never...

Yeah, so we finally have pictures up now that Owen's nearly a month older. Sorry 'bout that. George is the Photoshop bitch and as afore mentioned, he's been a bit BUSY. This batch includes some my my favorite photos in a hoodie set my Mom gave Owen for Christmas. We also have videos to post of Owen walking. Yes, I said WALKING. He took his first steps last weekend and he's quickly on the path to becoming fully upright and mobile. He's such a good homosapien. We'll get that on You Tube for you this week. He's also learned how to yell "Quiet, Dogs!" I tried to teach him how to say "Shut up, fuckers!" but he seemed to prefer the other version. Perhaps there was a mix up at the hospital?

Government proposals

Yesterday I helped finish a 3 month long (not full time) government proposal for the Navy. This is a proposal to provide equipment (that I/we design and build) to the Navy to replace equipment that was designed in the late 70's. Currently all Navy carriers have this equipment on them that was designed over 25 years ago, and is unbelievably old. The Navy is looking for some new stuff, and that is exactly what I am designing.

Now this isn't some small grant, this is a 200 page (for Volume 2 of 3), document going into great detail about what we propose, how were are going to do it, and how much it's going to cost. I have learned a great deal about technical writing, and proposal writing. Proposal writing is like technical writing, except at the same time you have to sell what you are doing. Things like: how our design is low cost, lasts for 20 years, easy to maintain, reliably, simple interface, easy to understand, nice colors, etc. You have to write about how you design is better than the competition without saying it. And you have to make it seem you know exactly what you are doing, and it is the best design anyone has ever come up with. It also requires all sorts of things to make sure it is correct, and in the right format. Like page numbering, text size, double spacing, section headings, naming conventions. Not to forget the actual technical part describing something that is very complicated, especially a complete system.

I've worked very very hard on it, and I'm very glad it's over. I've become Microsoft Word's BITCH and I fucking hate that program. I can't count how many times I've tried to format anything, and it took an additional 10 minutes to figure out why adding a graphic moves a page break for no reason. And how many times I've had to call someone to fix a bad formatted caption, title or heading.

The cool thing is that usually you don't write this type of proposal until your more of a upper level 20+ year experience engineer. I guess I am moving up in the ranks because I was one of the key people for the technical side (rather than the program management side). In the end, I was one of three people finishing up a 200 page document. I am amazed at how much I learned from people who have gone through writing a proposal. One guy told me that when you are a key person writing a proposal, you will get noticed and then you move up in the ranks a little easier. But the paradox is this, if you are good at it, you will also get noticed to write more proposals. And no one wants to be the guy writing proposals. Certainly not me.

So What do you do all day?

If any of you have ever been a SAHM, this question will sound familiar. It's usually asked by some casual acquaintance, in line at the supermarket checkout, and almost exclusively by other women. Men, who are not always the most tactful tools in the shed, are entirely too smart to fall for this one. They've learned that if they value their kneecaps, there are certain questions you must never ask and this one ranks right up there with asking a woman's jean size. This is one of those questions that makes me froth and boil almost immediately and I find I feel a little like an armadillo, my back rigid and full of spitefulness. It conjures up pictures of me laying around the house in my slippers, watching Oprah and licking chocolate sprinkles off cupcakes while Owen runs around in a dirty diaper, sticking crayons in the electrical outlets and toilet papering the dogs. This, I feel, is not an accurate representation of my day. What is a day at home alone with Owen like? It goes something like this.

5AM: Owen fusses. He used to nurse at this time and resents the absence of boob juice. It takes half an hour to settle him back down to a fitful sleep.
5:30 AM: Just as I am sinking back beneath the covers, George's alarm goes off. As I am drifting off again, he turns on the light and I throw the covers over my head and try to pretend I live in a deep, dark, silent cave. It doesn't work.
6:00 AM: I awake from my dozing state to the sounds of NPR coming from the shower radio. George sits on the bed to put his shoes on and I roll over, pretending I am not annoyingly wide awake. Miles is lying on George's pillow, snoring.
6:30 AM: Owen awakes. Both Miles and Timber jump off the bed and shake loudly, their tags jingling, anxious to greet the world by peeing on it.
7:00 AM: I have a warm cup of tea and am hunched sleepily over the computer, checking my email and feeds. Owen plays and babbles to himself in the living room.
7:30 AM: Both Owen and I have breakfast. Owen eats a piece of whole wheat toast with butter and jam and a handful of blueberries as well as organic oatmeal with fruit puree mixed in.
8AM: I clean up the stickiness that is Owen, strip him and deposit him on the ground in his diaper. He toddles off to reek a path of death and destruction while I do dishes, laundry, trash and any other small household tasks that require attention.
8:30 AM: Owen watches a snippet of TV in the bedroom and plays with his toys while I either shower or get ready for our day.
9 AM: Owen plays downstairs in the living room with me while I do yoga. Every time I do cat and dog pose combos he crawls over and uses me as a footstool. Owen also nibbles on an AM snack, usually a cinnamon rice cake and some soymilk.
9:30 AM: The morning nap routine begins with a diaper change, toothbrushing, and then three books.
10:00 AM: Owen is asleep. I tiptoe out of his room and use this time to do any tasks that require my full attention- updating the website, correspondence, making baby food, household baking, emptying my overflowing inbox, cleaning bathrooms, feeding and grooming the dogs, etc. At least once a week I use this time slot to take a nap, especially after one of those grueling Owen is up every forty five minutes and I have no idea why nights.
10:40 AM: Owen awakes. When I go in he is always standing, already talking before I even open the door. I take him out into the living room and we play for a bit, practicing whatever skill he is currently focused on- walking, sorting, doing wheelies.
11:00 AM: I prepare our lunch. Owen eats a tortilla with PB and some raisins as well as about a cup of yogurt. I still have to feed him things that require a utensil at this point so meals feel like one long drawn out rendition of "Waiting for Godot."
11:45AM: Hosing down commences. After being cleansed of most traces of peanut butter by the dogs, I change Owen again, this time into an outfit for our afternoon walk.
12:00PM: Owen and I walk both dogs, first Miles, and then Timber. The reason for this order is that Timber is so enormously intelligent that if you don't take him last, he forgets he already went first when you come home and sulks. We walk about 2.5 miles
12:45 PM: We use this time in a variety of ways. Usually we end up either having to run errands like the bank, store, etc. or I have household chores like vacuuming or folding laundry that are begging for attention. Lately, I've tried to make sure we go to the library or the park once a week. I understand that there is only so much of me one sane baby can handle.
2:00 PM: Owen has a snack, usually a few graham crackers. Every other day he watches a Baby Einstein video while I run 2.5 miles on the treadmill.
2:30PM: Afternoon nap proceedings begin. A diaper change, toothbrushing, three books and then bed.
3:00 PM: Owen is usually asleep by this time. Every other day I do a forty five minute Tae Bo routine or spend the time writing.
3:45 PM: Owen awakes. I try to lay him back down. He falls back asleep about 75% of the time.
4:30 PM: Owen is awake, this time for good. I take him out into the living room and we play for a bit.
5:00 PM: Dinner prep begins. This takes awhile because every five minutes I have to extract Owen from whatever mess he is currently in, including eating dog food, burying himself under a pile of books he's thrown off the shelf, or fishing for paper in the toilet.
6:00 PM: Owen and I eat. Owen usually has a few crackers, a veggie burger with cheese and some raisins. I also try to get him to eat some pureed veggies and either soup or brown rice.
6:45 PM: I extract squirming baby from the highchair, somewhat clean, and deposit him back into his natural habitat in his diaper. He toddles around while I clean up the kitchen until Daddy gets home.
7:00 PM: George arrives home and I serve him his dinner. We all go downstairs and watch a bit of TV, usually The Daily Show.
7:30 PM: Owen bath time. He is always eager for this event and helps me undress him so he can hurry along the process. I usually read a book while he bathes. I used to work on the laptop now and again, but the SPLASHING has reached an intensity that has rendered this dangerous and unwise.
8:00 PM: Bedtime proceedings begin. A full rubdown with lotion, soothing music, diaper change, fresh PJs, toothbrushing, teething tablets and oil. Then dim lighting and three books. We turn lights off and cuddle into the recliner and I nurse him. This is Owen's only feeding now and will be cut off in another week or two. He is fairly sleepy after eating and 50% of the time I can put him right in his bed, turn on the space heater and leave.
8:30 PM: I pick up toys in the bedroom, bathroom, living room and downstairs. I make coffee, breakfast and lunch for George for the next day. I check my email one last time and put away any leftovers. I also try to remember to feed the dogs if I've missed that detail in my earlier evening prep. Miles reminds me by standing in the kitchen and staring at me mournfully like I am the worst excuse for a doggie mama he has ever seen.
9:00 PM: I stumble downstairs where George is most likely already asleep and finally sit down. We watch maybe an hour of TV before giving up and heading off to bed. This is what being old has come to.
10:00 PM: I brush my teeth, wash my face, and climb into bed. George is still watching TV and typically I can't sleep with it on. I try to doze.
10:30PM: I nudge George, who has fallen asleep, and ask him to turn the TV off. He grunts and does so. I finally fall asleep. Ahhhh....
11:30 PM: Owen awakes. I sneak in, give him his pacifier, and sneak out.
12:30 PM: Owen wakes up about 50% of the time right about now. By doing something resembling the breaststroke all night, he's shoved himself into a corner of the crib. I move him down to the bottom of the bed, give him his pacifier and soothe him. It takes anywhere from 15-20 minutes for him to really fall back asleep.
5 AM: It starts all over again.

So this... this is what I do. Every day. Over and over again, with barely a minute to spare. Curl my hair, watch a movie, eat chocolate??? Are you kidding? I don't have time! And at the end of the day, even I'm not sure where all the time goes. All I know is, it's gone.