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You’d think that because of my raging facebook addiction that this blog would have had it’s own facebook page long long ago.  Well it did… I made it… then forgot about it.  Until today when I saw that a couple people who I don’t know “liked” it and I’m not sure why, especially since I’ve never posted anything on it.

But I will now.  So if you want a heads up when I write stuff here (in addition to other fabulous things) showing up in your facebook newsfeed, to go the Plaid Sheep page and “like” it.  Remember to hover over the “like” button and “add to interest list” or you won’t see updates.

And just to keep it classy, here’s a 90s rap song written in Old English.

frozen water

The Five Stages of Presidental Debate Watching

Stage 1: Denial

When the presidential candidates take the stage and you think to yourself this might be ok, maybe these guys will be ok. Just because they’re politicians doesn’t mean they can’t be reasonable, logical people… right?  Just because every experience in your entire life indicates otherwise this time could be different… right?  Right?

Then they start talking and the first couple things out of their mouths aren’t terrible.  Political rhetoric that doesn’t mean anything yes, but it’s not SO bad, and you’re getting more and more convinced that this time, for the first time in memorable history, this debate is going to be an exchange of ideas between two reasonable people with the good of the American people at heart.

Stage 2: Anger

With each passing word you realize it didn’t sound that bad because they were just setting the metaphorical table, now that the forks, knives, and plates are down they can get onto the main course; a nonsense burrito smothered in crazy sauce and served with a side of WTF.

Stage two is when you start getting pissed.  Screaming at the TV, throwing things across the room, until eventually you’re so upset and flustered you’re mixing your profanities around until what you’re saying makes as little sense as what they’re saying.

That’s when stage 3 sets in.

Stage 3: Bargaining

“I can deal with economic policies that screw us all over in the long run, as long as you keep half heartedly attempting to fight for civil rights I’ll still vote for you.”  “On a 1-10 scale of awful, as long as your main talking points are a 6 or below I promise I won’t move to Canada.”  “God as long as you don’t let that jag win I swear I will… oh I don’t know just please don’t let it happen.”

If any of the above phrases sound familiar you’re in stage 3.

Stage 4: Depression

Despair sets in.  All the swearing has worn you out and all you can do is melt into the couch and groan while occasionally muttering things like “We’re all so screwed.”, “Why do we even try?”, and mumble a sentence nobody can decipher with the word “hopeless” in the middle of it.

You remain a semi-catatonic lump of anguish on the couch, broken pieces of hope scattering the floor around you, occasionally punctuating the TV noise with a dejected cry of “Ugh, no!” followed by burying your head further in the pillow until…

Stage 5: Acceptance

You remember these are just a couple political chimps throwing bumper sticker slogan feces at each other, and while it does impact your life this is also something that you have to go though every four years and something that they and a couple hundred other poo-flinging mamals we elected do every single day in Washington.  And the world hasn’t come crumbling around you yet, so it’s probably ok to peel yourself off the couch now.

Moral of the story: You should never watch political debates unless you’re going to turn it into a drinking game, the stress isn’t good for you.

Night at the Plaid Sheep House

My kids are weird, and they only get weirder after night fall.

Last night I was laying down with V while she went to sleep,

everything was getting quiet when suddenly…

She kept telling me to “hang on a minute” while she very urgently bunched herself under the blanket, then decided that wasn’t enough and crawled under the sheet, then kept going further and further until eventually she was in a tiny ball under the fitted sheet next to the mattress.  Then I heard a little muffled but determined voice say from underneath it all…

I did what any good mother of a crazy person would do and felt around until I touched what I was pretty sure was her clavical, and that seemed to satisfied her because she came out and got into bed like a normal human again.

As I lay there listening to her sing a made up song about unicorns and unicycles I felt a tiny hand touch my face and turned to see Finn and woken up and was trying to crawl into bed with us.  So I pulled him up in and he squirreled around while Verona continued singing for a moment until he stopped, looked me dead in the eyes, and vomited all over the bed.

I sighed, got up and got a rag to wipe him and the bed down with, but as soon as he saw it in my hand he freaked out and started grabbing handfuls of vomit and furiously shoving it in his mouth like I was about the steal the only nourishment he’d ever get again.

Once everyone was cleaned up I decided I was going to bed even if they weren’t.  I shut the door so there was no chance of escape and curled up in bed while they crawled around playing.  Eventually they both passed out… Verona on the floor spooning with Barney the morbidly obese basset hound…

…and Finn across my face.

How to fuck with your dog

Daisy, every night for the past five years or so, has slept happily by my feet on the bed.

I gave the dogs an IQ test a year or two ago to find out once and for all whether Barney is really retarded or that’s just a big mean joke, (he actually is retarded… it didn’t surprise anyone) which is how I know that Daisy is a really smart dog.  She just over thinks things and isn’t very good at change.

Which is why occasionally I like to fuck with her by randomly sleeping the wrong way in the bed.

Then I just lay back and watch how messed up it makes her.

After looking back and forth from one end of the bed to the other for a good ten minutes she’ll half heartedly go lay by my feet.  Then a few minutes later she’ll come lay by my face where she normally is, toss and turn and stare at me like “goddamnit mom.”, then end up flopping somewhere in between and moving around all night long while I laugh at her.

I’m so mean.

Let the children out of the cage!

A few weeks ago Lenore Skenazy, author of the book “Free Range Kids” and the blog of the same name invited parents interested in the concept to get together across the country with other like-minded families.  Like any good crazy lady I thought “The chance to hang out with strangers!  Yes!” and posted an open invitation on her blog for a picnic at the park by my house.

It was a blast.  A handful of parents, a small soccer teams’ worth of kids between the ages of teeny tiny and 9 (claiming to be 10), and a vast over abundance of food which I’m sure stray animals will be enjoying the remaining bits of all night long.

It was a perfect place to have it.  All the adults could shoot the shit in the grass while the kids flowed freely between us, the playground, the surrounding fields of grass, and a few giant colonies of crazy bugs they found.

Verona found a new bff in the other little girl there, and proved that you can love making snow angels even if you’ve never seen snow in your young life.

Farms and Things

It occurred to me that, aside from not posting nearly enough lately, I haven’t put any pictures up in FAR too long… I’m turning into one of those boring text blogs.  I’m here to remedy that today.

This past weekend we got to spend some time on David’s extended family’s farm down in Yuma.  For these little ferrel children of mine there aint nothing better than a farm.

Verona has ridden horses a few times before with her older cousins but this was Finn’s first time up on one, he didn’t get to ride it, just sat for a few minutes while Verona squealed with glee.

Finn got more attention than he can handle from aunts and uncles.

The best part though was that Verona found a tortoise, Jhenaveve, who lives on the ranch.

It was love at first sight.  At least for Verona… I don’t really think Jhenaveve gave a shit.  Verona spent the majority of the afternoon following the poor thing around where ever she went, giving her hugs and kisses and little neck scratches which she assumed tortoises would like since dogs do.  Reasonable assumption I guess.  And Jhenaveve never bit her so I’m taking that as a sign that she agreed.

That time I popped a baby out of my lady hole.

The fabulous Wilson over at Not Quite What I Expected gave the run down of her just popping her new little girl out and I realized I never did that with either of my kids.  So put on your seatbelts folks, I promise never to use the word mucus and to use as many euphamisms of vag as possible.

With Verona I was dead set not on having a natural birth (I find it laughable to say I WILL DO THIS about a situation you have no first hand experience with) but on giving the whole natural birth thing my best effort.  However, after 72 hours in active labor I decided that 72 hours totally counts as “my best/anyone’s best”, so after three days with lots of excruciating pain and little to no sleep I wept with joy when the beloved anesthesiologist stabbed that amazing giant needle into my spine… then promptly fell asleep, dreaming dreams of the pain-free delivery I was now sure I would have.

But there’s a dirty little secret your OB doesn’t tell you… epidurals have a finite time frame on their effectiveness.  So by that night when Verona finally made her grand arrival into the world (SOOO many more hours later than I or any medical professional thought) it had totally worn off, and her birth was 100% natural… just like I had thought I wanted.

I’ve heard of people crying tears of joy right after they have their baby, praying, or developing a sudden inability to stop smiling.  All I can remember is swearing.  Swearing up and down at the doctor as he put stitch after stitch after endless stitch in the massive damage Verona’s abnormally large head (in the 99th percentile) had done… all with zero pain killers.

Needless to say, I was a little traumatized by the entire experience, and for the entire 40 weeks of Finn’s pregnancy I was in complete and utter terror that the same thing would happen.

So I scheduled an induction for 39 weeks… and I knew people were judging me but I didn’t give a shit.  Not even a little shit.  Not even one of those tiny round turds that rabbits poop.  You know what I did give a shit about?  My lady garden not being ripped open like a ziploc snack bag full grahm crackers in the hands of a hungry toddler.  I also didn’t give a shit about attempting a “natural birth” because with the exception of that nice 10 hour rest in the middle of V’s labor I had already done that, and I had little to no interest in doing it again.

I was already in early labor when we went in for the induction so they helped keep things humming (none of this four day labor bullshit again) but it wasn’t a full induction in any sense.  And as soon as things started hurting bad enough I couldn’t focus on the movie David and I were watching a stunningly handsome anesthesiologist came in at my request and shot me up with all sorts of horrible drugs.

Because hey, my baby and I were both having a really big rough day, and I thought we deserved to be a little high on something to help us deal with it.  If you’re judging me right now… remember that story about the tiny bunny turds from earlier?  Go reread it… it applies again.

And (thank the LORD!) after the trail that his big sister blazed the little monster slid out of there like my business was a freaking water slide.  Weeeee!

There was no swearing after he was born.  Well, there probably was (I’m part sailor) but it was the good happy kind, not the angry painful kind.  The doctor immediately put him in my arms and David and I ooooed and awwwed, and talked about how perfect he was, and about how we couldn’t remember Verona ever being this small (which we later found out was because he was a full 2lbs smaller than her) until sudden the room started spinning and my vision started blurring and I looked at David and said “take this baby, take this baby right now or I’m going to drop him on the floor” right as he scooped the baby up and I lost consciousness.

Nothing says “love at first sight” like throwing your baby at someone else so you can take a little involuntary nap.  But he was born into a family of people who do everything weird, it was good he found that out right from the start.

After my blood pressure stabilized and I came to we continued the love fest.

And then I had two kids instead of one.  And the rest has been at least partially documented on here.  I hope you enjoyed this little trip through yoni memory lane as much as I have.