Kids, Man

Max and I spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon with our friends Laila and Walter and their goats. Mama goat, Wink, had her twins about a month ago. Not only have we been lucky to get some delicious fresh goat's milk, but Max gets to hang out with baby goats. At first I was a little nervous as the babies, particularly the girl, are rambunctious. Turns out, 3 week old baby goats and 17 month old baby humans are on about the same wavelength. The goats didn't mind Max and Walter chasing them and hugging them. Max and Walter didn't mind getting jumped on and head-butted. In fact, Walter, all 11 months old of him, head-butted right back. All babies, goats and humans, were equally affectionate and curious and playful with one another and evenly matched on strength. Max and the twins shared a love of exploring the random piles of wood and old farm machinery, jumping and climbing, while mama goat and mama humans looked on. It was an awesome day.

Someone Got a New Camera For Her Birthday/Mother's Day

Lucky for my family my birthday and Mother's Day come hot on each other's heels every year. I don't ask for much, just acknowledging the day is usually good enough for me. This year Dave went all out. I had a relaxing massage and shopping day in Door County last weekend and a new camera to play with this weekend while we hung out on the island.

Vacation Summation

...in pictures only. I'm still recovering from said vacation...not firing on all the old cylinders again just yet.

Charmed Life

...at least it feels that way at the outset of a long visit to the Sunshine State. Sleeping child on the flight, 85 degrees on the thermometer, and lunch on the beach today.



More pictures to follow!

A Matter of Perspective

I knew my time would come. It was bound to happen. No mother emerges from motherhood unscathed by the grocery store screamfest.

Woodman's on a Saturday afternoon wasn't my best idea ever, but after living in the boonies for awhile, I've gotten soft. I forgot that there's a damn good reason I hadn't been in a supermarket on a weekend in ten years. (And that was PRE-bebe.) Supermarkets on weekends are hell. Hell. I worked in one for seven years for christ's sake. I know. Unfortunately, blinded by the promise of produce variety, organic meats and two whole health food aisles, I ran headlong into disaster, carting (quite literally) my 15 month old with me.

The first half hour was one of Max's finest. Flirting with strangers while mama deliberated over brussel sprouts and blood oranges, he was all smiles. Then squirrellyness, boredom, the presence of so many strangers, hunger and those flourescent lights (I read something once about how the lights in malls and supermarkets and big box stores have been proven to be disturbing to humans, particularly children, and the likely cause of many a public meltdown. Totally makes sense) combined in a shitstorm of "I want OUT! Hold me NOW!" which in 15 month old sounds like this: "EEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMA!!!! MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!! sob sob sob".

Lather, rinse, repeat. I placated him briefly with one of those vile foil squeezy packet things which ended up being shoved through the metal bars of the cart, squirting puree all over said cart and child. More screaming ensued. I was halfway done and not about to give up. If I lived somewhere other than an island, I would've ditched my cart and returned later, sans bebe. But alas.

Of course I left my babywearing wrap in the car (never entering a store again without it), so I picked him up, smearing myself with snot and pumpkin-colored puree, parked my cart at the end of the aisle, and dodged other shoppers, grabbing anything that looked appealing, dropping it back in the cart, hoping my purse doesn't get stolen, hoping my arm doesn't fall off, hoping Max doesn't start arching his back and wriggling, hoping I don't look like a lunatic (fat chance). Made it to the checkout lane. More screaming as I had to put him down to pay. We finally made it outside in the fresh air and sunshine and I put him down to walk along the pavement in front of the store while we waited for Dave to pick us up.

I'd like to say I'd kept my cool in the store, cuz I did, mostly. I certainly didn't get mad at Max. Don't blame him for freaking out. It was way more than a little one could handle and the fact he handled it with such aplomb for the first half hour is amazing. Like I said, I should've picked a less busy time to go and worn him instead of putting him in the cart. But it wasn't til I was outside I realized I was sweating buckets. So as I took deep breaths and followed behind my now-happily toddling, exploring (and by "exploring" I mean "picking up garbage on the ground and making sporadic breaks for the busy parking lot") child, a teenage boy pushing a cart, followed by his mom passed us. The woman smiled at Max and smiled at me. Her son called back to her, "You okay back there Mom?" to which she replied, "Yes, I just can't keep up with your long legs anymore" and then she smiled at me and Max again.

I wasn't imagining the wistful look on her face.

Poor Me

For the second morning in a row we were awakened by a very unhappy little boy, crying in his crib, rather than babbling cheerily to his comrades, Bear, Bob and Kangaroo. I suppose I'd be crying too (and very nearly was at one point) if I spent the first moments of my day covered in my own poop. As it was I spent the first moments of my day covered in my kid's poop (you can't NOT pick him up.) That's right folks, its diarrhea time in the Small household. Of the explosive variety.

Mama was supposed to get together with some girlfriends and get her hair done and have some well-deserved solo time this weekend. But alas, it was not to be, thanks to the gastrointestinal machinations of her little son. So there was that disappointment. Add to it a lot (a LOT) of smelly laundry, clingy behavior ("Maaaaaaaama, Maaaama, Mamaaaaaa!") and some ill-conceived Facebook stalking (old acquaintances who are single and child-free and living what appear to be seriously glamorous lives) and you get one hot mess of self-pity. I'm not proud of this reaction. I'd like to say I gracefully and nobly decided to stay home with my little intestinally-challenged baby and nurse him back to health but that would be a huge load of crap and really, there's quite enough crap around here already. So I pouted and lashed out at my virtual saint of a husband and just generally acted like a self-indulgent a-hole. Life has a way of slapping one upside the head and forcing one to lighten up and laugh at oneself however.

After going back to sleep for a couple hours after the craptastic morning (right, I know, my life is so hard. Saint Husband hung out with little Mr. Poopypants while Cranky Mommy went back to bed. I KNOW.), I emerged, still out of sorts. Things were beginning to look up as I perused one of my favorite blogs, which had this link: http://www.phdinparenting.com/2011/12/11/toddlers-the-hours-are-long-the-years-are-short-video/#.Tz6oqvk3Yqc


Its a great video, about different moms' experiences with toddlers, a real commiserating, put it in perspective-type thing. So there I am, enjoying the video, sipping my coffee, Max is in my lap, cheery and cuddly, when it happens. Blowout #2 for the day. In my lap. Through my sweatpants. My NICE sweatpants. (Yes, I have nice sweatpants. Shut up.) While I'm watching a video about the trials of parenting a toddler.

Can't make this stuff up people.

I'm not going to end this post with some sappy conclusion about how I wouldn't trade all the poop and crying and "maaaaaama"-ing for anything in the world, because I would. I totally would. I'd trade it for a glamorous carefree existence wherein I get plenty of sleep, have long, delicious dinners at trendy restaurants and scintillating conversation over $60 bottles of wine. I'd trade it for blown-out, shiny hair and a pedicure. The problem is, the poop and the crying and the need are part of Max. And I wouldn't trade him for anything in the world.



I'd better go, I think my sweatpants are done drying.

Up North

Some would argue that I now reside in the region known by all Wisconsinites as "up north"...however, I'm not sure I would completely agree. Technically Washington Island is north of the state halfway point and we're part of northeastern Wisconsin, so geographically? We're up north. But as anyone from America's Dairyland knows, up north is more flavor than physicality. Native American reservations abound, snowmobiles are the preferred method of transportation in winter (in fact, some taverns are only accessible by snowmobile trail), antlers are standard decor, supper clubs do a thriving business, old-fashioneds are downed with regularity, and more often than not, businesses have "northwoods" somewhere in the title. There's also the inescapable feeling of being surrounded by more uninhabited land than not. Its the same feeling one gets out west in places like Wyoming and the Dakotas...a reminder that America still has a great deal of wilderness. My aunt and uncle and grandmother definitely live up north. And we went to visit them recently. Check it out:

Sledding!





Look Ma! No snowshoes!



Its a Subaru commercial. (We didn't realize we bought the same color...)



The UTV used to get Grandma up and down the steep slope to the house (aka The Popemobile). Naturally Max loved it.



Ah, family.



One West Highland Terrier kiss too many.



All tuckered out.