It’s A Phase, Right?

I am exhausted. Right now, every tiny thing turns into a senseless argument, even stuff that’s been part of the regular routine for the entire year. It’s a constant struggle to get things done. I don’t understand. My conversations go like this:

“Time to get up!”

“I don’t wanna!”

“Get up. Now”.

*screaming tantrum commences*

Or this:

“Here’s your lunch!”

“I’m not eating that.”

“You like carrots and broccoli. You love salad.”

“No. I want McDonald’s.”

“Forget it.”

*screaming tantrum commences*

Or even this:

“Time for walkies!”

“NO! I don’t wanna go!”

“C’mon! You love to go for walks!”

“No! I won’t!”

“Get up now!”

“NO! You can’t make me! I’m gonna sit here aaaallllll day long!”

“We’re going. Get up.”

*screaming tantrum commences*

I know logically that this phase will pass. One day, I will grow up and do the things that I know are good for me. One day.  But for now, don’t you tell me what to do!  Because I don’t wanna! You can’t make me!

I think I may need a time out, or a nap. They tell you about the Terrible Twos, but no one thinks to warn us about the Terrible Forties.

 

Innocence Lost

I went to the hospital last week. It was horrible. The emotional scars may never heal.

It wasn’t the doctors, though they did get my diet orders mixed up. Carbs are essential for managing my condition. When I started to have a flare-up, my personal doctor asked me to take in about 80-120 grams of carbs per meal. That’s a loaf of French bread, folks. I love my doctor. But the hospital team got my condition confused with a related one and had me on a diabetic diet. I had to choose between a muffin or a glass of juice. They did get it straightened out within a couple of days, so no harm no foul. And in the meantime my peeps kept sneaking me in stuff to keep me from dying. The doctors weren’t the issue.

The food wasn’t bad, either. “Not bad” doesn’t actually imply “good,” but I could eat it for the most part. Eventually they gave up trying to calculate carbs and just sent icky vanilla Ensure shakes on every tray. I am now using them as bowling pins. But the food didn’t ruin me forever.

The nurses were amazing. And the CNAs. They have to do some pretty awful and uncomfortable jobs in the course of their day, but they were always pleasant and accommodating and tried to help maintain my dignity. I didn’t know for three days that there were no sodas available on the floor because every time I asked my nurse for a Coke, one magical, lifesaving beverage appeared. With a smile. They made my stay bearable. Hug a nurse or CNA today. I really mean that.

The television was the problem. I knew I was a goner when we were admitted through the ER and were trapped in a room with cable television. My doctor had called ahead to get treatment set up, but it was still a lot of hurry up and wait. The TV was stuck on ESPN. The announcers continually blabbed on about NFL drafts. Which wouldn’t happen for another eight hours. Grown men playing pretend. “What will happen if Team Z chooses this quarterback? And then this team chooses that guy over there? And then they’ll invite Roger Staubach (the only football player whose name I actually know) over for  a tea party, and they’ll all wear fancy hats?” I think that last part happened. Anyway, I thought Sports Center was bad. And then someone changed the channel.

They finished my treatment and were trying to decide if I was well enough to go home. Picture it. My husband had to leave to pick up kids from school. The medical team left to let me get some “rest.” I was flat on my back, unable to stand on my own. And the Kardashians came on the screen. No remote control. No emergency call button.

I have heard of Kardashians, of course. But I thought maybe they were a line of expensive shoes or handbags or something. I was taken quite by surprise. After watching those hate-filled Barbie dolls for five minutes, I was writhing in a whole new agony as my brain cells spontaneously combusted . I begged for an anti-emetic. And for someone to change the channel. Good grief! I had been forced to pee in front of five different people with my tushy hanging out of the back of my gown, and I still had more dignity about me than that sad family.

An angel of mercy did finally appear. Though she declined my fervent request to hit me over the head with a croquet mallet, she did at least change the channel. And I am grateful. But I will never be the same.

 

*** I couldn’t bring myself to include any images of Kardashians. Their dead, haunted eyes give me the willies. If you’ve never heard of them, count yourself lucky. Or just Google them.

 

Now Where Did I Put My Groove?

I just got back from the weirdest spa. I think it was a spa. I had a nice, quiet room and an entire staff at my beck and call. I even had cable television, including a special station called “Hand Washing to Avoid Infection.”. I highly recommend the acupuncture. One needle stick, and I was out for hours. I was a little surprised at how often they asked for a urine sample or poked around for my blood, and they woke me at all hours to check my blood pressure. There were never any mints on my pillow, either. Maybe the occasional alcohol wipe or specimen cup, but whatever. Got to take the bad with the good, right? And at least this time they didn’t give me a baby when I left.

So now I’m home. Yay. I am slowly getting back into the swing of things. Yesterday, my husband took me for a car-ride, which perked me right up and confirmed my long-held suspicion that I am part golden retriever. I am no longer taking meds that restrict my ability to drive, so in theory, I am good to go. So for the first time in two weeks, I am alone with Squish. And I am terrified.

It seemed like a good idea. I can safely operate heavy machinery, after all, so how much more trouble can it be to keep up with a four year old? Quite a bit more, as it turns out. I’ll take the heavy machinery. It’s easier to win an argument with a belt sander than with a preschooler, and table saws come with an off-switch. Pray for me. I did not think this through.

Yeah, he’s laying on the back of the couch. Because why not. He’ll be good, right?

 

Nearly Wordless Wednesday: Decorating With Heather

In the market for a new centerpiece for Spring? So were we. And here you are.

You know you want one. Admit it.

 

What is it? I’m so glad you asked.

Yeah. They’re bullfrogs. Because it’s me.

 

New pillows? New centerpiece?Just call me Martha Stewart.

 

.

 

Conservation note: These are captive bred and will not be re-released. It’s illegal here to take animals out of the wild, and there’s a fatal fungus that can be transmitted to wild populations if they are released into a local pond.

 

Bad Hair Day, Meet Bad Belly Button Day

There’s a new arrival at the zoo. I wanted to blog about it sooner, but I couldn’t. I’ll explain in just a bit. You remember Short Stack, the pancake tortoise that hatched in February?

Baby Pancake Tortoise

The zoo has two pairs of pancake tortoises. Both laid eggs this winter that were intact and able to be incubated. This species is apparently a little tricky to incubate, and there can be as much as 40 days’ variation in hatch-times, unlike mammal gestation which can often be narrowed down to a two day window. A couple of weeks ago, Short Stack was joined by our second pancake hatching.

Each morning, keepers check the eggs in the incubator for signs if hatching, also known as pipping. The assistant curator knows how much I love this species, so he sent me an email to let me know the little critter was making its way into the world. I missed his email. Because I was already at the zoo. I got pictures. Crazy pictures.

Remember this turtle from last year?

See how its shell is folded over like a little burrito?

And how after a few days it looked like this?

It’s a Spiny Hill turtle. It took it a couple of days to flatten out.

I thought all flat shelled tortoises and turtles developed in the egg the same way, with the sides folded down. Not Pancake tortoises! They actually develop rolled front to back. Look at how the baby flattens out over a few days’ time.

Day 1 – lots of curvature. Look at the arch at the bottom of the shell.

Day 2 – less curved, but still not flat enough.

Day 3 – There’s still a slight arch to the carapace (top shell)

Day 1 – look at how wrinkled the plastron is. Like, it has actual wrinkles!

Day 2 – It’s looking a little flatter. Check out that belly button!

Day 3 – still pretty wrinkled. The belly button is becoming an “innie.”

The reason it has taken so long to blog about this guy is because I don’t write about them until they have been accessioned (added) into the collection. And they can’t be accessioned without complete measurements of their shell. It’s hard to measure something that has been folded up like origami. It normally takes a couple of days for a tortoise to unfold completely. It took this guy about a week before it was flat enough to measure!

Day 5. Still a little wrinkled.

And here he is about two weeks after hatching, looking all ironed out. Finally.

.

Definitely an “innie!”

I love the markings on the shell.

With big buddy, Short Stack

I call him Squashy.

*** Nancy over at Not Quite Old asked why tortoises have a belly button at all. It was such a good question that I thought I’d answer it for those who are new to reptiles. Animals that develop in an egg are fed during their incubation by their yolk. They are attached to that yolk by an umbilical cord. After they emerge from the egg, the umbilicus closes. Sometimes that process takes a few days, sometimes traces can be seen a year later, but at that point it is nothing more than a mark on the shell.

 

An Open Letter to the Thief Who Steals My Jewelry Box

Dear Sir or Madame,

In response to some recent break-ins, our neighborhood has met and formed a neighborhood watch. The first meeting was eye-opening. The coordinators shared things that Sneaky McSneakersons tend to look for when planning their next big heist. Toys in the yard apparently attract thieves because where there are kids, there are video game systems. I won’t deny that we have one. (I’m sure you’ll get a pretty penny for our Super Nintendo, once you’ve knocked off all the dust and vacuumed out the kitty litter. And shaken out the goldfish crackers. And after you replace the left controller that hasn’t worked right since someone dropped it in the aquarium.)

Then we went around the room sharing any experience we’ve had with theft and vandalism. All three robbery victims reported the same thing; that their jewelry boxes had been stolen. I was shocked and horrified I knew then that I needed to write you this letter. I owe you a bit of an apology.

You have clearly gone to a lot of trouble to get to this point. You’ve made it past alarm and canine, braved the gauntlet of snake cages, maybe even turned an ankle on the assorted Legos decorating my floor, and for what? My jewelry box. Yeah, about that.

I’m sorry about my necklaces. I found most of them at thrift stores. Some of them may turn your neck green, but a scrub with baking soda will take it off. A little cocoa butter will clear the rash right up. And if you have any food allergies, best avoid eating the macaroni necklace.

Sorry about the little suede bag of baby teeth, too. If you’re not a parent yourself, it can seem a little ghoulish to hang on to them. If you are a parent, you’ll know just how precious every little piece of their childhood is. Even though I’m not totally sure which tooth came from which kid.

I am sincerely sorry for my ring collection. If I were wearing those mood rings right now, you could see just how sincere I am. And don’t get too excited about that other one with the sparkly blue stone. It’s not real. In fact, it may actually be rock candy. My bracelets won’t bring you much, either. Except the Grim Reaper silly band. You may be able to get something for that one. I know my son will give you three Harry Potter silly bands. Of your choice. So there’s that.

But I am the most deeply apologetic for the brooch made out of elephant dung. It was a gift. I won’t even try to explain. But it’s environmentally friendly, and I swear it doesn’t smell. Just don’t get it wet and you’ll be fine. It would dress up your orange jump suit and make you look real pretty.

You could try again in about ten years when I’ve really made it as a writer. I might have some better stuff then. But probably not. After all, you’re talking to the person who kept a piece of jewelry made out of elephant dung. For five years. My financial clout may improve, but my taste probably won’t. Sorry for your trouble.

Respectfully yours,

Heather

PS: If you have the time to sort your loot before the police arrive, would you be so kind as to leave behind the macaroni necklace and the baby teeth? Those things are priceless.

 

How To Take the Joy Out of Education

I am honored to be guest-posting today over on the Official How-To Blog. Come and pay me a visit. Please? It’s relatively painless. All you have to do is click here:

How To Take the Joy Out of Education

 

Thanks to everyone who is popping over there to take a read! I love you guys!

 

Priorities: Or Why You Don’t Want Me On Pinterest

I haven’t owned a hair dryer in over a year. Okay, more like three. I’m a wash and wear kind of gal. Nothing fancy here. I know that comes as a shock to everyone. I just can’t see putting a lot of effort into *this* ‘do when there’s so little hope of a good outcome.

Every winter, I begin to question whether or not I should make the purchase. On days when my hair freezes to icicles walking my son to school, it seems like a good idea. But then it thaws out again, and I forget. Or I decide that rather than buiying an item I’ll use three months out of a year, I’ll just quit washing my hair altogether. My bathroom cabinet space is a valuable commodity, after all.  So drip dry it is. Or was.

That’s right. I now own a hair dryer. I bought it about three weeks ago. Have I used it? Yes. For the purpose for which it was intended? Um, no.

I went out shopping all wired up and fired up to find a dryer. Because it had a purpose! I needed one. The selection was daunting. It has been so long since I’ve bought one that I wasn’t sure which extra features were the most important. Or why. Good grief. A dryer is designed to blow air. Hot, cold, fast, slow. What else do you need? If I’m going to pay $50 for a hair dryer, it had better dry my hair, fold my laundry, and file my taxes. I bought the $10 model. And it works just fine.

Oh, wait. Maybe I forgot to mention why I needed it. For snake sheds, of course.

Reptile skin doesn’t grow, so the animal gets rid of the old skin as they get larger. Some snake folks I know find sheds that would normally be discarded and give them to me. I laminate them and use them when I give talks about my snakes.

Recently I acquired the discarded shed of an enormous eastern diamondback rattlesnake. It was heavy with sand from the animal’s bedding and couldn’t be laminated in that state, but it was too fragile to simply shake the dirt loose. The solution? A hair dryer. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve spent the last three years drip-drying every morning, but my snake shed sent me straight to Target. I have my priorities in order. It was a spectacular shed, after all.

And this is why I am not on Pinterest. If I were, this is the kind of craft project you could expect from me:

 

How to create a beautiful memory creepy craft

Be sure to clean off those belly scutes! They’re heavily keeled, so you’ll have to pay close attention to get the dirt out.

 

Be sure to put newspaper underneath to protect your floor. What a great way to repurpose all that packing material from buying craft supplies on Ebay!

There’s loose dirt on the inside, too, because the snake took its clothes off inside out. For the best laminated shed, be sure to clean that, too.

 

Next, simply run it through your heavy-duty laminator, preferably using a carrier sleeve. Don’t have a laminating machine of your own? Loser No worries! Run down to Staples or Office Depot and use theirs. I’ll wait.

Tip: print a small photo of the snake and laminate it with the shed, along with the snake’s scientific name.

The final result:

Note the eye caps on the right. It’s difficult to find a shed with the head intact. We’ll add this one to our gold medal shed collection.

Well done! Now you’re ready to add it to your collection.

Your collection is growing! Way to go!

 

Stay tuned for the next installment of Creepy Crafts With Heather when we learn how to shellac an elephant turd!

 

Nearly Wordless Wednesday: I Guess He’s Not Faking

Squish said he’s too sick for school.

Okay, maybe when a preschooler is still enough that a cat collects his body heat like a furry vulture scavenging for scraps, he’s sick.

 

He might be right.

 

Virgin Shaming

I had another post all lined up for today. It was a happy one. I wanted it to run this morning, but I am frustrated. Yesterday, I was too angry to write about it. Today, the rage has faded, leaving me sad and without a lot of hope.

I’m not sure exactly how to start. I don’t even know quite how to tag this post. Is it about religion? books? stupid things that people say? stereotypes? I guess? yes? all of the above? This is hard. I don’t want it to be a long, rambly rant. I have points, and I’d love for other people to understand them. Here goes.

I unfollowed two blogs this weekend. I don’t do that often because I am pretty selective about who I follow in the first place. But I clicked “unsubscribe” with no hesitation at all. In the last few days, I dumped two blogs whose authors vilified parents who teach abstinence to their teens. Don’t leave yet! Hang with me for a few more sentences.

Let me be really clear here. These authors weren’t merely disagreeing with the stance. I follow all kinds of blogs whose authors have views different than my own. It’s a big world. If I only hung out with people who see things my way, I would have a very small circle indeed. In this circumstance, the authors were angry, disrespectful, and tried to present us as stupid. Not just ignorant. Stupid. Me no likey.

This is a loaded issue, and a personal one. That’s what really gets me. It was so personal. One of the authors went so far as to say that she felt sorry for our kids. She tried to clarify that statement in her comments, but her explanation was even muddier than the original phrasing. What I did see quite clearly is that there are underlying assumptions about teaching abstinence that border on myth.

Myth #1 – People who believe in abstinence are uptight. 

You might be surprised.

Myth #2 Teaching abstinence means that sex education involves saying “Don’t have sex until you’re married. I’ll give you a pamphlet on your wedding night.” 

I am not going into too much detail because it’s not necessary, and I’m also trying to keep this post under a million words. Suffice it to say that sex ed in my opinion should never be so black and white. There are many shades of grey. (Insert requisite Fifty Shades reference  and guffaw like a middle schooler here. Because I know I did.)

Myth #3 – By teaching my children to wait until they are married to have sex, I am judging those who do not. 

I think this may be the biggest one. There’s often the assumption that by saying something is wrong for my family, I am pointing a finger at the rest of the world. Trust me. If I’m looking for a someone to shake my finger at, I need look no further than my mirror. I’ve got enough to be going on with right here, thanks.

Myth #4 – Abstinence is unrealistic. 

I won’t disagree that it’s difficult. Learning to drive is hard, too, but if I think it’s not a good idea to run into mailboxes and school children, I’m going to teach my kids the skills to avoid them. I would be selling my kids short if I didn’t have high ideals for them. It would be inconsistent, actually. I’m going to tell my kids that they can be a marine biologist or an artist if they’re willing to work hard enough, so it would be strange to say I don’t have faith that they can delay certain pleasures until they’re married.

Both blog posts in question were in reference to things that are happening within the publishing industry, specifically with young adult fiction. I’ll address that particular topic in a future post, now that you know where I’m coming from.

If you’re new to my blog, welcome! If you’ve been here a long time, welcome back! Feel free to leave a comment below.