Nips, Lips, Hips, ‘N Fingertips

{September 15, 2006}   Can I have a do-over?

A fly kept me up almost all night and it is still pestering me now. I started to use the word “terrorizing”– that is how oversued that word, and that whole ism of terrorism, is. I know, I know, I need to learn to write more better without the dangling participles but for now, just dip the extra bread in the runny yolk that is my writing style and slurp it up.

Morning comes whether or not mothers have slept, and boys who have slept have no sympathy for mothers who have not. My boys are high-spirited to boot; right now, one is taking pictures and the other is sailing on a pirate ship he built. This is before breakfast.

What kept me up last night is the issue of Homeshooling/Unschooling. It has been eating at me since the real estate agent told us, over a month ago now, that I would be doing our boys a disservice by homeschooling them here as the schools are so good. It was a hard pill to swallow, because I really liked the man up until then, and I should have just spit it out at his feet and told him how bitter it was and how I would never swallow something so nasty but I was trying to be The Good Mommy, The DotingWife, and The Easygoing Buyer Who Just Wanted To Find A House WIth A Biggish Yard.

What made the whole deal worse is that I had this sort of crush on the man, although it was a platonic crush. He was an older, successful family man with a family business and I think it was just a huge craving-a-father-figure thing. So I didn’t say what I wanted to say to him, I just sucked it up and let it eat away at my spirit (and I ate away at it, too, with bread and candy) until now. I am regurgitating everyting today. I want a do-over.

Here is what I wish I had said to Jim Pollock, and what I am saying to him now: 

“No, Jim, we don’t want to put in an offer on the tiny little cookie-cutter house that is right across the street from the elementary school because then it would be too easy to send our bright child into the sheeple factory which could completely crush his spirit.”

(We actually did put in an offer on said house and they rejected it so we walked away, taking it as a sign that it wasn’t the house or neighborhood for us. I have since had severe “Buyers Remorse” for the neighborhood we didn’t buy into, because after all it was called Park View and was right across the street from an extensive, paved walking trail.)

“A disservice?! Did I hear that right? I beg your pardon! You mean to tell me that you think that those ‘cottages’that they have had to put up over there in what used to be a field due to overcrowded classrooms would be a better learning environment for my gifted and talented son than a loving, (mostly, unless I am PMS’ing) nurturing home where he gets 1:1 attention most of the day (although he will tell you his brother gets more because his little brother is still nursing) and that a ‘certified educator’ who doesn’t know my son and his interests (photography, nature, science, anatomy and physiology) or his preferred modes of learning (he can count to 100 while jumping on a trampoline) would do a better job of seeing to it that he learns what he wants and needs to know in life? I think you’re off-track there, Jim, but I will forgive your illogical comment.”

I thought I wanted a big-time do-over last night at about 2:23 a.m. when I still hadn’t slept and had tried to do so in three different places. I thought, maybe “They” are right and maybe I ought to send Liam to public preschool now that he is 4 and they will come and get him on a bus and we are down to one vehicle (“Minivan Lite”) to save money because gas is so high and it is so expensive to live here andI am not working outside the home and besides I really need to focus on myself and getting my “Arthritis” and my weight under control so that I can be more active and grow our business and write more.

No. Stop it! (Coffee makes the brain work better). This is not an all or nothing deal. I can do all the above things much more easily *while* homeschooling, especially when my boys are young and we are homeprescooling and unschooling most days. Yesterday, they helped me pack up an order, a six-pack of lotions, for one of our best customers. They “read” the pictures on the lotion bottles and COUNTED them to help me assemble 2 Key Limes, 1 Grapefruit, 1 Jasmine, 1 Lavender, and 1 Rosemary. How many 4 and 2 y.o.’s can recognize herbs? How many 2 y.o.’s are learning how to run an at-home business? They helped me inventory all of the lotions I have on hand for a BOGO Free Sale while we were at it. And that was just one of about fifty things we did together yesterday. We are  truly living The Continuum Concept and living proof that children are little info sponges.

I will not drive nor will I allow my little lamb to be bussed into the woods. He is just way too smart for public school; and I don’t care if it is the best school district in the country, it is the public school system and its learning process in general that we have a problem with. When we can afford a private Montessori or Waldorf school, we’ll look into it.

So there.  Do-over done.


{September 3, 2006}   Transplanted again!

Well, we’ve driven our wagon train east again, from Utah to Colorado, and settled south of the Denver metro area. Centennial seems just a stones throw from Ogden, and yet worlds apart. I didn’t realize how unhappy I had been in Utah until I got out of that dreaded state. It’s such a huge relief to be back in a state where people have bumperstickers on their cars! Where people express opinions that are not the mainstream! Where people question authority and truly believe in and practice religious freedom! Where the term “ward” refers to a geographical voting region! WOO followed by HOO!!

Alas, Colorado being the leanest state in the nation, my DH and I are probably some of the fatter people in this glorious state (but, but we’re average size in Missouri!). Apparently, Coloradans actually take advantage of the many opportunities for biking and hiking and other outdoor recreation offered in this breathtaking state. There are also indoor Recreation Centers everywhere, I mean everywhere, and there is a really nice one right down the road which we plan to take advantage of this  for a few months Winter when it is too cold to go for bike rides and walks with the kiddoes.

Speaking of the kiddoes, my firstborn son who came into this world via an incision in my abdomen, will be FOUR in nine days. I have no idea-o how in the heck this has happened. His much-anticipated Pirate Party is in less than a week and he has invited four people, only one of whom is a child! So, I’m feeling like it is time for the annual purge-a-thon where I rant and vent all of my issues about how he was plucked too soon from my womb by an ignorant Obstetrician, and I know all too well that it is best to get this stuff out before the festivities! Better to get it out here than when I’m cutting the cake.

Issue 1: I am only just now coming to terms with the fact that I was depressed during my pregnancy, and definitely following the “emergency” (emergent) Cesarean (although I was not encouraged to express my feelings until about 5.5 to 6 months postpartum when I met a fiesty woman who was going by the name of “Ahleemah” on the YAHOO! EC list).

Issue 2: I am REALLY MAD now that I was not allowed to be even a little bit mad then.

Issue 3: I am really, really dissappointed that no one seemed to care how *I* was feeling.

Issue 4: I am so so so so sad for my sweet son who had a sad mother for about a year.

Issue 5: I am upset that no one saw my pain or bothered to ask how *I* was doing.

Issue 6: I shouldn’t have had to start my own support group for my HBAC/VBAC (but I am also glad that I did as the St. Louis ICAN chapter has grown into a really great group that even does Blessingways for all the expectant mommas!).

Issue 7: I am wistful that I didn’t have time to heal more from my Cesarean before getting pregnant again just 13 months later. I still long for more time with only my firstborn.

Issue 8: I feel guilty and horribly regretful for allowing our son to be circumcised, adding injury to injury, merely so that he would have a penis that looked like his father’s penis.

Issue 9: I feel awful, horrible and terrible for allowing my own husband to give our son formula in the hospital. And I feel especially sick and twisted for taking a picture of it.

Issue 10: I feel like a complete idiot for allowing the OB who cut me for no good reason to also give me Depo-Provera for no good reason at my six week follow-up appointment. It wreaked havoc on me emotionally and physically and I discontinued it, but I agreed to it without first researching it myself. I attribute it to the Survivor syndrome, whatever it is called, where a victim begins to identify with the abductor/attacker as a way of coping with the overwhelming abuse.

That’s all I have the time for now, my sweet child is awake and I want to give him all of my attention.

Thanks for listening…

{March 8, 2006}   Chiropractical Continued

So I never did follow up with the results of my x-rays. Keep in mind that I have been wanting x-rays of my back for oh, about TEN YEARS NOW- ever since the summer of 1996 when I injured my lower back lifting a radiator out of the very low trunk of my 1965 Pontiac Starchief while I was still in college (paid for by grants loans and myself thank you very much) and working part-time jobs without benefits to support myself {read: I did not have health insurance so I had to go to the university Student Health (Death) Clinic}.

One of the major findings of the x-rays totally caught me off guard, the rest of them didn’t surprise me at all since I have been living in my body most of my life (and my mantra for the past three years or so has been “There is something wrong with my right hip. I think I need a new hip.”)

First off, let me just say it is nigh impossible to tell whether or not the biggest finding was present at birth or happened from a trauma at a young age, since I didn’t get x-rays at birth. I believe the first time I ever had an x-ray was in the emergency room at North Kansas City Memorial Hospital after a nasty bike wreck. I had been racing Jeffery Donovan and Kevin Kolka down the big hill on the grounds of Crestview Elementary, and I looked over my shoulder to see how far behind me they were (that’s right, boys- I was winning), lost control of my bike and wiped out. I then proceeded to pass out, and the next thing I remember my dad was carrying me across the street to our house and putting me in his truck. I recall vividly the feel of the cold hard stainless steel of the x-ray table and being told to lie still. It hurt to put my raw hamburger face on the table but I did it. Nothing was broken. No stitches were necessary. I must have been eight or nine years old.

Then there was the time I fell out of Mrs. Beatty’s tree on Milrey, and landed on my tailbone atop some ginormous exposed tree roots. Luckily, my Uncle Bobby was a Chiropractor at the time so I got a good spinal exam and treatment but no x-rays that my mom and I can remember. I was in fifth grade, so I must have been what? Ten or eleven?

But back to the story of now: Starting with the brain and working down the spinal cord, I basically have cervical spondolysis. I don’t even want to blog about that right now, as it is completely freaking me out. As of last night, I attended a “class” (indoctrination) on postural and structural retraining (spending more money than I already am on copays) that will hopefully help me achieve a state of homeostasis again (just in case I don’t feel better after the 90-180 days, remember no one promised to cure me). If you detected a bit of skepticism in that last run-on sentence, that is because I felt very marketed to last night and am looking for a new chiropractor, AGAIN.

Anyway, here’s a site that helped me understand my cervical (not that cervical) situtation:

Next, my x-rays showed *fusion* at T3. As in T3 is almost totally fused to T4. T is for thoracic and refers to the mid-back region. T3 controls some important functions, including blood pressure and heart functions {I wonder if that explains my Mitral Valve Prolapse (MVP!) that has given my health scare providers cause for concern in both of my pregnancies due to increased blood flow?} As usual, MVP has been historically misunderstood and was once attributed (by men of course) to hysteria in women. “William Osler, an eminent physician, noted the similarity between symptoms associated with irritable heart mentioned by others and those occurring in the general population, particularly in women. Some physicians believed the problem was not the heart, but one of a psychiatric nature.”

The interesting thing to note is that my nephew who was born with Spina Bifida also has fusion at T3 and T4. I was completely prepared for the Chiropractor to tell me I had fusion or something nasty in the lumbar area. But this finding in the thoracic area threw me.  

The last most unsurprising and in a wau affirming finding of my x-ray was that my right sacroiliac joint (SI joint) is almost completely *calcified*. this totally explains the pain I have been ahving in my “hip” for years, the fact that a typical chiro adjustment doesn’t treat that area, and why I ended up giving birth to my second child standing up with one leg (my right one) up on the bed. Basically, I was listening to my body and getting into the position I needed to in order to open up my pelvis as much as possible. By the way, in case I haven’t told you this already: my son was born at home, sunny side up, weighing ten pounds, eight ounces and twenty-three inches long. His head and chest circumferences were both fifteen inches. I probably ought to post my HBAC story here one of these days. Meanwhile, suffice to say that I was supported in every way by my husband, midwife and her nurse friend to do what felt right; and I know in every cell of my body that such support and the liberty to move around and get into whatever positions necessary are the biggest reasons why I was able to give birth to my son despite such an “unfavorable presentation” (posterior presentation, after face and brow presentations!!). The overarcing reason why is of course that BIRTH WORKS.

I think that’s it for my report. Some items to be concerned about to be sure. This definitely explains my chronic pain and why there are days I can do yoga and days I just can’t. This is one of those days I can’t due to a sudden bottoming-out of the barometer here yesterday, and that is usually when I write. Goddess forbid, if I am ever trapped inside of my failing body, I pray oh Great Mother that I will at least have a keyboard on which to type. Should my brain fail first, I hope that my loved ones will let my body go so I can complete my karma this time.

Now, I am not saying that everyone reading this ought to run out and get to a Chiropractor quick! Goodness knows there are enough quacks out there that such a knee-jerk reaction could kill you! Please, please, please, if you only ever listen (read) to one thing I say (type), pay attention to this: There are some really bad chiropractors out there and there are a few good ones. The good ones don’t usually try to get you to buy into a big class that involves a series of x-rays and slew of products you need to buy. They don’t try to convert you to their philosophy. They just listen to you and try to guide your spine into a state of self-stabilization. Here’s a really good link for the chiro skeptic side:

And before you resort to Chiropractic, try stretching and doing yoga at home. It can’t hurt.

{February 28, 2006}   Not-so-fat Tuesday

Never having been to Mardi Gras in New Orleans, I can only compare this year’s celebration to celebrations past based on what I see on TV. Obviously, this year’s event holds more meaning for most. Hopefully no one is there this year just to see tits. And then again, the city does need the money, and a fool and his money are so easily parted. But, as usual, I digress…

What jumps out at me is that it’s SIX MONTHS later and we as a country have moved on. We are still passing the buck, playing the blame game, turning away. We have moved on to the next big story.

Just in case you haven’t been paying attention, or haven’t seen any of the “news” coverage of the ninth ward today, it’s still a big fucking mess there. Entire blocks are still in total ruin. There is rubble everywhere. Sheets and hoses and windows hang from the trees. Homes that were destroyed are still destroyed, they’re just not full of water anymore. Instead, they are now full of mold and rats and who knows what else.

The various news channels have their typical takes on the scene: some are reporting a “Frozen in Time” city, a “Tale of Two Cities”- the spins are as ridiculous as ever. One local news channel pretty much blamed N.O. residents for voting to have some say in what is done to their homes, for not letting them just bulldoze it and haul it off without so much as a prayer. That newscaster, or whatever idiot news editor came up with that particularly demeaning and unenlightened spin on the story, has obviously never been in a natural disaster.

Yes, when you have survived death, you are glad to be alive. Yes, you are aware that your things can be replaced but you and loved ones are irreplaceable. But that doesn’t change the fact that you need to sift through your personal rubble. It’s part of a process that helps people to heal. They need to see it for themselves, to feel the loss fully, in order to let go and move on. People who don’t understand that need to work with computers, not with people. And they need to get the damn microphones out of their faces, and let someone with a heart do the talking. I’m just sick of the talking heads without hearts.

How long will it take us to rebuild one of our greatest cities? What does this say about how we treat the poor in our country? Why is New Orleans still at ground zero?

“Poverty is the worst form of violence.” ~Gandhi

{February 27, 2006}   Porn and marriage…

go together like a horse and carriage?!

If you google porn and marriage, you get a lot of interesting articles, mostly from a Christian perspective. I wonder, what does the UU church have to say about porn? And how many other non-Christian women like me are out there struggling with their partners use of porn? How many other intelligent, liberal women have a problem with their so-called partner’s secretive porn use?

There’s a lot of online opinions from the guy’s/husband’s perspective. One compelling argument (but from a writer using a pseudonym, what a wus!), asserts that internet porn keeps men from going out to strip clubs or those sticky adult theaters (I dated a guy in college who worked in an adult bookstore where they had those booths and he had to clean them out after closing- ewww!) and  maybe “Richard Easton” has a point (hehe, or at least he did before he logged in this morning) but I just don’t know if I buy it. {You can read Easton’s article at}

I want to believe there is a higher purpose for my marriage than just meeting our sex needs. I want to know that my mate puts me first, that he worships me and not just women in general. I want to not be bothered by my husbands porn habit, but I am.

Men claim they have a biological drive or “need” to see other naked women, that they are hard-wired for it. Many men (and even some women, in defense of men) will argue that this goes back to times past when men had to spread their seed as far and as wide as possible in order to ensure the continuation of their genetic line. Well, wake up and smell the coffee, Ladies! We are no longer living in the Paleolithic era. And this broad isn’t falling for it. I think it’s just a lame excuse for men to ogle other women now that it is sooo incredibly fast and easy {unless you are like my friend Princess (not her real name) who switched to dial-up in order to curb her hubby’s addiction to instant gratification}.

I want my husband to look at ONE naked woman- me. The one and only who he agreed to love, cherish, respect, honor, and in a handfasting ceremony on August 15, 1999 in A.P. Green Chapel (I’m serious) on the campus of the University of Missouri-Columbia (my alma mater).  And actually, come to think of it (no pun intended I swear) I really don’t want him to see me naked. So maybe therein lies the problem. Men need to see flesh.  I can believe that. I swear my husband still gets excited when I take out my breast to feed our second child (I’ve been breastfeeding for pretty much three years straight now, you’d think he’d be used to it by now, and he says he isn’t even looking but he always does).   

Now, where do I go with *my* unmet needs? Perhaps I ought to dial into one of those local chat lines and hook up with some guy who has a deep voice for some free phone romance. That isn’t cheating really, right? I mean, I would just be talking about sex with other men, not having it. That isn’t any worse than looking at other women naked, is it? If men are aroused visually, and women are aroused mentally- then phone chat seems the equivalent of internet porn. 

What is the big deal about looking at other naked women? Want a list?

Yes, I am a feminist- and a feminist who wrote a research paper in defense of pornography in college at that- and I am also a Libertarian. But right now, I am just an average, every day wife who is sick and tired of the porn that makes its way into my husbands psyche through the internet. I like to imagine that it would feel different if he was looking at tastefully erotic art or woman-centered/woman-created porn. But he likes the really explicit stuff with lots of so-called taboo acts and excessive bodily fluids. I know this because I have seen the sites he goes to in the history cache on our PC.

Is it bad porn just because I don’t like it? I guess that’s not fair. But if I am not sitting there looking at other naked people with my husband, then it feels like he is cheating to me.  This porn habit of his feels like it is a pox on our otherwise blissful marriage- and even if I am the only person in our house who has a problem with it, isn’t that enough?

{February 26, 2006}   An Earth Prayer

Okay, this has been building up for a long time and I finally feel like I have created the safe space in which to spit it out: It sucks to be a non-Mormon in Utah. It sucks that we moved from “the bad part of Ogden City” to “a nice subdivison in Shadow Valley” where no one talks to us at all now, presumably because we do not go to the church around the corner. Yes, it’s good that it’s quiet- but it’s a little too quiet.

I let our sheepdog bark his fool head off this morning because it’s Sunday and I figure all of our neighbors are up getting ready for church anyway. I never really pay attention, but I have heard that a lot of LDS families walk to church- which would be great to see- yet somehow, the parking lot of the church around the corner is always overflowing (and it’s a big, big parking lot) with Audi’s, BMW’s, Excursions, Lexuses (Lexii?), and Yukons.  I have seen a few people walking from the church to their cars. I wonder where they all come from? Don’t the people in the neighborhood go to the neighborhood church? Maybe they are all from the really nice houses up the mountain? The ones with the view of the lake. 

We have a really choice view of the church from our bedroom window. It’s especially breathtaking when there is fog. The church looks a bit gothic and spooky then, but maybe only because I am an outsider. I am a not-Mormon.

And even though we have found some solace in the Unitarian Universalist Church of Ogden’s Sunday service, lately my partner has had to go in to work for a few hours on Sundays at 1 a.m. (that’s Saturday night if you ask me). Then this morning he got called back in at 8 a.m. So we may or may not go to “church”. I got this great book at the Antelope Island visitor’s center, called Earth Prayers From Around the World: 365 Prayers, Poems, and Invocations for Honoring the Earth. Here is one of my favorite poems from it- I especially appreciate the lines about pleasing women!!):

So, friends, every day do something

that won’t compute.  Love the Lord.

Love the world.  Work for nothing.

Take all that you have and be poor.

Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace

the flag.  Hope to live in that free

republic for which it stands.

Give your approval to all you cannot

understand.  Praise ignorance, for what man 

has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.

Invest in the millenium.  Plant sequoias.

Say that your main crop is the forest

that you did not plant,

that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested

when they have rooted into the mold.

Call that profit.  Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus

that will build under the trees

every thousand years.

Listen to the carrion— put your ear

close, and hear the faint chattering

of the songs that are to come.

Expect the end of the world.  Laugh.

Laughter is immeasurable.  Be joyful

though you have considered all the facts.

So long as women do not go cheap

for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself, will this satisfy

a woman satisfied to bear a child?

Will this disturb the sleep

of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.

Lie easy in the shade.  Rest your head

in her lap.  Swear allegiance

to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos

can predict the motions of your mind,

lose it.  Leave it as a sign

to mark the false trail, the way

you didn’t go.  Be like the fox

who makes more tracks than necessary,

some in the wrong direction.

Practice resurrection.

~Wendell Berry

I don’t know who Wendell Berry is! But I thank him for that. 

Great Mother, I pray that more Utahns will become environmentalists this year, especially because Utah is about to become home to even more nuclear waste- and unfortunately, it will travel through and be stored near Native American land.

Okay, for those of you who aren’t in the know:

ICAN = International Cesarean Awareness Network  (

VBAC = Vaginal Birth After Cesarean (

First, let me say that the ideal thing to do is to prevent the first Cesarean. But with one out of four women in the USA being cut open in birth (and in some hospitals, one in two!), this obviously ain’t happening. More and more women are being cut for no good reason and then finding they are not allowed to VBAC in the hospital with the very OB that cut them open. So, where do we go from here? Well, some of us go to La Leche League meetings, maybe a Moms Club, or maybe a psychiatrist. Too many of us isolate and think we’re broken and/or crazy. lazy and weak- and, perhaps even worse, alone in thinking we are broken and/or crazy, lazy and weak. Some of us find our way to ICAN, and I was reminded at an ICAN meeting last night how crucial it is that we find those moms so they don’t remain alone in their anger, guilt, regret, remorse and sadness.

I found ICAN when my eldest son was about 5.5 months old. I was on a Yahoo list for Elimination Communication (EC) a.k.a. “diaper free” babies, when I met a goddess named Krista. She was smart and witty and for some reason I trusted her. So it really shivered me timbers when she suggested, ever so gently, that my so-called emergency C-section may not have been a true emergency. She even went as far as to tell me that I may not have even needed a Cesarean. In other words, it might have been avoidable, preventable, unnecessary, or whatever adjective you want to use to describe it. The very suggestion kept me awake for a few nights. I scoured the internet for The Truth, and I found various versions of it. But time and time again, on sites like Birthlove (, and ICAN and Kmom’s Plus-size Pregnancy site (), I read my own very raw story over and over again. It seemed the more I read, the more I realized that my situation wasn’t so unique, that my Cesarean may not have been a life-saving procedure (in fact, it may have been life-threatening), and worse still that I may have consented to it by agreeing to an induction on my due date for no reason other than fear of a large baby.

More to come…

{February 22, 2006}   Meet my robot brain

Okay, it’s time I introduce you to a quintessential part of me that my partner and I lovingly refer to as my “robot brain”. It is the analytical, hypercritical, always trying to find fault in everything part of my brain that most likely evolved quickly and more completely than most during my shall we say troubled and brief childhood.

My robot brain is the alarm that goes off in the event of any discrepancies in anything I do, eat, feel, say, think or write. It alerts me to things I have forgotten every.single.time. I leave the house. It tells me when I have forgotten toiletries that I rarely even use when we are in the next state on a roadtrip (see, it doesn’t know what is important and what’s not- it’s up to the big me to act as a filter for the information). “Too late to turn back now!” my partner has told it ad nauseum. Sometimes I try not to let my robot brain alerts slip past my lips. I know that I don’t need my Lansinoh or Smooshie’s teething tablets or whatever and that anyway, they can be purchased at Walgreen’s since they are now pretty much on every fucking corner in the US. But my robot brain doesn’t care. It will cause me to blurt out “sippy cups” in the middle of an otherwise stimulating roadtrip conversation. This usually has the disastrous effect of giving the person I am talking with the impression that rather than listening to them I was thinking about sippy cups or teething tablets- which is rarely the case. My robot brain is like a computer spyware program that is always running in the background. It monitors everything and is always ticking its way through various lists of things to do, things to remember, things to say, things not to say…or rehashing conversations I had years ago and papers I wrote in college. I am totally serious!

Some people get on mind-altering medication for less (and I have in the past myself, in an attempt to quiet my robot brain and a cast of other characters mostly including my family members), but I have since accepted it as a part of Me. Luckily, so has my partner.

So my robot brain pointed out (when I was trying to sleep) that the title of my blog would be so much more perfect (perfection, that’s always the goal isn’t it?!) if I replaced the word tits with nips.

“But it won’t have that feminazi, glossy magazine, gutsy feel I was aiming for!” I cried.

     “Change tits to nips, ” droned my robot brain.  

“But it wasn’t what I came up with on my own!” I lamented.

      “Change tits to nips.”

“But I didn’t ask you to proofread my fucking title!” I yelled out.

      “Change tits to nips.”

Alas, while I hate to cow-tow* to the robot brain, it most likely will not rest until I make this change. The manifesto that I issued the other day (din’t know I issued a manifesto, didja? See “Why the Provocative Title?”) still stands, as does the spirit of my blog. *I know, it’s kowtow- it was a jokey milk reference that perhaps only Hathor would get (

And I had typed a bunch of other witty stuff that somehow didn’t make it (I think I accidentally clicked on Path at some point? Is it out there somewhere on a different path? That would be cool!) so this is it for today folks. Cailou or however the hell you spell it is over and it is time for what we like to call “homepreschool”. It is unschooling at its best, and structured playtime at its worst. We make a craft, color or paint, listen to music, roll around on the exercise balls, put together puzzles, play trains, read, put on plays, pretend grocery store and kitchen, ands sometimes draw on the fireplace with chalk.

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain one once he grows up.” -Pablo Picasso

{February 19, 2006}   Why the provacative title?

You might be asking.

Well, first and furmost, I figure if you can’t get past the word nips, it’s for the best. If you’re offended by the word or my use of it, you will most likely be offended by something I blog. IMHO, nips is a pretty innocent way of referring to nipples. But my BIL was in a band called Aureole, a name which I loved, so I’m probably not your run-of-the-mill Mommy Blogger.

And besides, I’ve gotten so good at dis-ap-pointing teenage boys on the internet, I thought I’d keep it up (pun intended- and note that what I have in boldface type I intend to hyperlink someday when my partner isn’t too busy watching our monkey boys so I can write, in other words when they are sleeping and the stars are aligned just so…which, by my most recent calculations will be in about 2 years– true fans will wait).

Alas, here’s a brief synopsis of the meaning behind the title as I see it:

Nips = As in NIPPLES, Breastfeeding, Lactivism, Nursing In Public (NIP)

Lips = Being outspoken, Oral Sex, Orating, Ranting, Spoken Word, and Uppityness 

Hips = Birthing, Curves, Fat, and Femininity

Fingertips = Blogging, Bodywork & Massage, Sewing (Yes me, sewing!)

BTW, you should know now that: A) BTW stands for by the way, B) I alphabetize everything, C) because I have mild to moderate anxiety and OCD, D) I am unmedicated, E) I threw in the bit about oral sex to keep up with my stiff competition (free online porn), and F) off. {I often make explanations in such list form just to get to F) off or G) I don’t know why. DH thinks it’s funny and we live to make each other laugh.} 

NLH&F (Nips, Lips, Hips, ‘N Fingertips abbreviated- why didn’t I think of something short and sassy?) is not a reference to Russ Meyer (although I saw more than my fair share of his films in college when I was dating a film major) but it just might be a shout-out or throwback to the TILT tune. I used to TILT ’til it hurt and I suppose that I could have TILT on the brain as a result of it.

In general, I will most likely blog about nips, boobs, breasts, storage containers, yayas, and/or whatever you want to call them, not to further objectify myself or other women, but to take that part of the body, and thus the body of women as a whole, back from men and rampant commercialism. Breasts are for breastfeeding (although they also make nice pillows) and I just happen to be a mother who has used my breasts and the rest of my body to nurture two boys well into toddlerhood. I consider the ancient art of breastfeeding to be performing nothing less than a miracle and feel I deserve to be worshipped like a Goddess. Luckily, I have a partner who feels the same way, and I consider myself very lucky.

To make a short story even longer, and put too fine a point on it: I satisfy my toddler with my nips at least once daily, I flap my lips constantly, I shake my hips three to four times a week, and I use my fingertips in all that I do which is creative and sustaining. So there, now you know.

Nips, nips, nips…if you have a problem with them, please go somewhere else because I talk about them a lot so I imagine I will blog about them a lot, too. And if you are just here to see nipple photos: move along, as there’s nothing to see here if only because I can’t finger out how to upload them- which is so funny I’m almost peeing myself (another entry for another time; look for a future post titled “Urinary Incontinence and the Importance of Kegels”)

That’s all I have the caffeine for now!

On February 2, in honor of Imbolc (or Oimelc, whichever you prefer), I posted a photo of a breast (gasp!) and a baby getting ready to use the breast on my 360 degree (where is that degree symbol on my keyboard, lol) blog at YAHOO!. YAHOO! promptly removed it and sent me a message afer the fact saying that it did not fit into their “approved” content. (Apparently, according to YAHOO! a woman’s breast, even in the context of breastfeeding, is obscene.) I felt like I had been pickpocketed. The photo had been sent to me by a sister La Leche League Leader from St. Louis in an email titled “The Original Happy Meal”. I loved it! I will post it here now for your enjoyment. It is a beautiful, full breast, about to be used by a baby for (imagine this) BREAST FEEDING. Like I said, YAHOO! sucks. So I am here now, thanks to alazyknitter I know from the ICAN list. And I’m glad to be in a much better blogspace than the yahoos at YAHOO! have to offer.

Okay, just tried to upload the photo here. I got this message: “File type does not meet security guidelines. Try another.” WTF?! Must email wordpress robot. Maybe it’s too big. And then again, maybe I am squirting milk into the wind. I will try to upload one of my personal pix. No nipple but still.

et cetera