F16’s Don’t Kill People, 500 Lb. Bombs Kill People

We have a king sized, heavy mahogany sleigh bed in our bedroom. It is a bit large for the room; so we have the headboard pretty much flush against the wall, save for about two inches. Two inches is apparently enough for a toddler to lean his head over and begin vomiting a stream of egg salad and green beans down the headboard and wall. Then, just because-oh I dunno, because it’s Monday, he turned around (still puking) and decided to dump the rest of his dinner on my pillows and quilt. Funny how this kid never manages to puke in his own bed. It’s a good thing we love him. Did I mention he’s still breaking out in new hives?

His pop is bathing him now-we’ll pull the bed out and scrape eggy vomit off the wall later.

*Bonus Gross-Out

There is a trail of rubbery cubes of regurgitated egg white from my bedroom to the bathroom. One of the best things motherhood has given me is the ability to calmly walk the hallway picking up cubes of puke with my bare hands. Not that I expect to put that skill to use outside of the home-still, one never knows.

Things I didn’t find time to write about but I found interesting nonetheless.

Household drudgery prevents cancer.

Is your blog banned in China? Find Out HERE.

When historians cook.

Now they’re serving drug warrants on middle aged people for simple possession. It should be noted that David City is a very small, rural town. Not exactly a place teeming with criminal activity. At least they didn’t send in a SWAT team.

And now a third Renault worker has killed himself at a plant in France. From the article it sounds like pretty horrific working conditions.

Another day, another database.

 And finally,finding the humour in wildlife biology.

There would have been cake, if my son hadn’t developed a very sudden allergic reaction to penicillin. I pulled the half-baked cake from the oven and made the mad dash (twenty minutes) into Ashland to buy children’s benadryl. The pharmacist was great, giving us a syringe and helping me figure out the right dosage for his weight. It is a small independent pharmacy that does mostly compounding and all I can say is thank God they were open.

I’ve never had a bad case of hives, so it came as a complete surprise to me to see how quickly and aggressively they covered Danny’s body. We’re talking minutes. It happened on day nine of ten days of penicillin. Go figure. He’s had the drug twice before, but I guess this was just his time to react to exposure. Poor kid, he looks like something out of a horror movie. By the time I got him to the doctor, he was pretty much bouncing off the walls from the antihistamines (some kids react that way, I’m told) and was all too pleased to lift his t-shirt and show off his belly welts to anyone willing to look. From my son’s perspective, this is just about the coolest thing that’s ever happened to him. He’s been spending a good deal of time admiring them in the full length mirror in my bedroom. At least he’s not uncomfortable or itchy.

It took just about everything I possess in the control-your-emotions department to keep from sitting down in the middle of the pharmacy and bawling my eyes out. I don’t tend to freak-out easily, but jeepers those hives look scary. We live so far out in the country (and as I recently found out through a not-so-fun experience with my own chronic illness, it takes a whopping nine minutes for an ambulance to get to our house) that in an emergency situation, every minute counts. I had no way of knowing if the hives would escalate into breathing difficulties or shock. The paediatrician suggested a paediatric eppi pen (I have an adult one due to nut allergies) and I readily agreed. Our insurance (that we keep paying more and more money for as it covers less and less) paid six dollars towards the pen and we picked up the remaining $57.00. I’m sure glad we don’t have socialised medicine in the United States because it would really cut down on the quality of care that we get from our private insurance. Bastards.

Danny is doing much better. The hives will take a few days to go away, and at least we know that he can never have penicillin again (subsequent exposures would be even more serious). As both of his parents are allergic to penicillin, it isn’t completely shocking that he had a reaction-I just thought we were clear of it as he’d had it a few times before without any reaction. Ugh. Can’t wait to see if he’s allergic to nuts like I am.

As I write this, he’s running laps around the dining room table singing “I’m A Little Teapot.”

Poor Dannypants.

It’s Exterminator Day. No, that isn’t a nod to the works of William S. Burroughs (though our exterminator is a bit on the “Burroughsish” side, though I can’t quite imagine him pulling the William Tell stunt on his wife). Our “Bug Guy” (out here in the country, everyone is a “guy” even the women. You have your Bank Guy, your Insurance Guy, your Seed and Feed Guy, etc.) is coming over this evening to spray the hell out of the house and around the outside foundation. That means everything out of the kitchen cabinets (did that last evening) and then, out of the house for a few hours afterward. He insists the substance he uses is “safe” but come on. I won’t let him spray Danny’s room, and mostly he gets behind the bookcases and places where children and dogs cannot go-just in case. I think he’s largely using boric acid-indoors at least. Whatever he applied last year for the ants worked great and we didn’t see a single trail all season.

We began a tradition of going out to the same fast-food joint for dinner on Exterminator Day about five years ago. This is a once-a year outing for us (though last year I was taken out to breakfast on Mother’s Day, so technically that was two meals eaten outside the home last year) and while I cannot claim to actually look forward to it, the break from the kitchen is nice. Unfortunately, the food at Culvers has not been very appetising the last couple of times. Since they are considerably more expensive than other fast-food type restaurants, there’s sort of an expectation of some quality-at least to our minds. So I don’t know. I hate to spend money and eat something I don’t like just to say we went out. I’m thinking that it might make more sense to pack sandwiches and eat in the car. I need to do a few errands which could be accomplished this evening instead of sitting around a fast food place smelling the endlessly re-used grease from the deep fryer. But that’s me.

Last year, Danny sat in a highchair quietly eating his dinner as a family at another table chased after their toddler alternately demanding and pleading that the child sit down and eat. On the way out, the dad jokingly said to us;

“Enjoy his behaviour now-in a year you’ll miss it.”

A year has passed and I’m pleased to report that Daniel does not run about during meals, nor do we plead, demand or cajole. On the weekend, when I do my grocery shopping, Danny eats a sack lunch from home with his Pop in the dining area of the grocery (thus far no one has complained about us bringing-in Danny’s lunch-we do purchase drinks). This permits me to shop alone (and quickly) and gives Danny the experience of dining in a public place. He has never been permitted to run about or bother other customers in any way. He has, on occasion, been known to play “peek-a-boo” with elderly women at nearby tables, but that’s about it. Now that he can sit without a highchair, he still understands that being at the table means eating-not running about being a nuisance to others.

I realise this sounds harsh, and largely, it is intended to be. A crying or whiny child is one thing, and I’m fairly sympathetic on that score. However, by the time a child is a toddler, and old enough to understand that there are acceptable behaviours in particular situations, they need to sit the hell down and eat dinner. It is unfair to other diners, and a major obstacle to servers. Furthermore, it is never appropriate for a child to tear apart sugar packets, pats of butter, or any other condiments on the table. Ever. Mealtime is not playtime. I blame the chain fast-food places that stick playgrounds inside the restaurants. No, I take that back-I blame the parents. I really do. I think my son is adorable, but I also understand that others are not likely to share the feeling. I cannot imagine feeling “entitled” to impose my child’s poor manners on strangers.

Now watch, from my mouth to God’s ears, twenty bucks says Daniel decides to be horrible at dinner tonight. I can assure you this much, if he does, we’re leaving. I don’t negotiate with two year olds.

Rather than have spy cameras in waste bins to catch people who fail to separate their rubbish properly, why not install those cameras used on the street that permit an observer at a remote location to actually shout at the offender?

“Hey you there, no mixing glass with the tins. Police have been dispatched, thank you.”

A pretty well written take on the British police state may be read HERE.

A child falls out of a baby swing because the daycare provider forgot to buckle her in-and the provider is subsequently charged with child abuse.

The article indicates that the hospital called the police. I guess I’m just shocked that they filed charges. Even if it is dismissed, this woman’s life is ruined.

When I was in pre-school, I broke my arm when the teacher looked away for a second and did not catch me as I came down the large slide. Was Mrs. Chandelson a child abuser (Anyone that ever heard her sing might be inclined to answer "yes"-talk about abuse)?

As someone noted in the comments-pretty soon no one will be willing to watch children-it is not worth the risk of careless, baseless accusations. There was a case a few months ago (also in Lincoln) where a teacher was charged with child sexual assault because he had a hole in his pants and didn’t realise it and one of the students caught a peek at his man parts.

You’d have to be out of your mind to work with children today.

We’re bracing for a line of severe storms heading through here this afternoon and evening. From Friday through Sunday, it looks like another potentially dangerous system will be moving into the area. Right now, it is in the mid seventies and very, very humid, sauna-like. I knew it was going to be a strange day when I found a frog in the middle of my kitchen floor (yes, I set him loose in the back yard). At the moment, the wind is dead-still and the sky has that funny overcast yellowish look that scares the daylights out of me. One tornado in my lifetime was plenty, thank you very much. Subsequently, every formation I spot looks funnel-ish (what? You want “technical” terms?) or potentially “wall cloud-ish.”  I grew up in the Midwest, and spent enough school time engaged in tornado drills with my head bent to my knees and arms shielding the back of my neck to know what’s required in a dangerous weather situation-but that still doesn’t make it any less frightening. I guess I’ll go open the storm cellar-just in case.

In the event that we don’t

A) Lose power

B) Get hit by a tornado

C) Get baseball sized hail

I’ll be doing some interesting cooking today and should have updated posts at the cooking blog late this evening or early tomorrow. I’m not holding my breath though. In my experience, these storms seem to hit precisely at the dinner hour. Just as the heat of the day cools rapidly with the coming front, the weather radio begins beeping, and the Soubise that I prepared ahead save for the cream sauce sits congealing on the no-longer-warmed vegetable dish whilst we take cover underground. Don’t bother asking about the glazed turnips and carrots-we all know about the glazed turnips and carrots. Did I mention an apple tart? Oh, there’s apple tart (French style with an applesauce filling). None of that will matter however, as we’ll almost certainly be sitting on the dirt floor of the storm cellar listening for sirens. Have I mentioned how much I dislike this time of year?

There’s a bill before the Nebraska Unicameral that will require couples seeking a marriage license to submit to eight hours of marriage counseling, or pay a one hundred dollar fee.

Aside from the obvious-that eight hours of marriage counseling isn’t likely to do much, there’s the more serious issue of whether the State ought to be in the business of legitimising a questionable practice (i.e. therapy/counseling) by requiring participation. As I’ve stated before, if a consenting adult wishes to seek counseling/therapy, join a cult, or worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster-it’s all fine and well, so long as they keep it the hell away from me.

Perhaps I’m looking at the issue from the wrong angle in that it would ultimately be better for all parties concerned if the State would just get out of granting marriage status completely. We should all have civil unions. Honestly, when these sorts of bills are offered up in the legislature, they do seem a bit suspect. It is quite a simple matter to hide behind "family values" as code for discrimination. Saying outright that people who take marriage "seriously" will submit to the counseling lays the groundwork for those who see themselves as morally superior to begin defining what is and is not marriage, how one ought to behave, and so forth. Those who object will be required to pay a $100.00 fee for their ideological differences.

I see a very slippery slope ahead.

A seven year old is cuffed and arrested for sitting on his bike on a city sidewalk in Baltimore. Seriously. A seven year old.

I’ll bet those cops felt really, really powerful scaring the shit out of a first grader who was clearly, headed down a path of hardened crime.

I have a commentary up at Unknown News, if anyone feels like reading it. The post is a response to one of those "blame the victims for their own misery" type letters the site often receives.

It’s so easy to tell people what they ought to do with their lives, when it is someone else’s suffering.

Well, I did it. You can also view a couple of magnificent rye breads and a salmon pie that any self-respecting Canadian would laugh at.

Hope everyone has a lovely weekend.

I might take tomorrow off from cakeblogging as I’m somewhat busy at the moment. We’ll see. The cooking blog has been getting a fair number of search engine hits from people looking for “Lenten cakes” and in some ways I feel obligated to provide some recipes if people are willing to observe old traditions. I sort of think gingerbread would work, if you used applesauce to replace the moisture. The more I thought about it, most vegan cakes are egg and dairy free, though they do tend to go overboard on cocoa powder something many people give up for Lent. There are also many, many old recipes from the Depression era that were designed to save eggs and butter, which could be useful. We’ll see, if there is a cake tomorrow, it will likely be posted late in the day or early evening.

-why I had pretty much nothing to say about the Scooter Libby/Plame "outing" nonsense. Counterpunch has a lead story today about the rise of Latin America by none other than Philip Agee.

I wonder,  if the people who’ve been screaming the loudest about the "traitors" that outed Plame’s identity would have similar reactions to Mr. Agee’s work? Well of course not silly, he’d be a hero then. You can see why reading all the self-congratulatory articles about "justice being served" are kind of, sort of…idiotic.

Oh for crying out loud. I just read some insane thing about children in the US being required to hop on one foot for five steps before being considered ready for school. At least in the US we can blame all this scrutiny and parental anxiety on the "early intervention" industry convincing people there is something defective with their children. What’s the British government’s excuse? Someone, somewhere is making money off of this-mark my words.

Read some of the examples-they are horribly vague and subjective. Sure, touch your toes is pretty straightforward, but "contribute to your own well being?" How? Making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Brushing their teeth? Positive daily affirmations (oh good lord, they just might require that)?

You can be certain (I’m certain) that these criteria will be used selectively against parents in the lower income brackets who already find themselves the targets of these intrusive government schemes. Watch, you’ll see people lose their council flats for having children that do not coo convincingly enough when evaluated by social workers.

THIS is an interesting programme where a trip to the paediatrician’s office has children coming home with a new book. That’s quite an improvement over ours where we spent over an hour today trapped in the waiting room under the glare of a massive television screen sponsored by the Company of the Mouse flashing god-awful cartoons and advertising loops for corresponding products. Ugh. Not a book to be found, though they did have some rather disgusting magazines that seemed to be on the verge of Vogue for youngsters filled with all manner of high-end clothing and gear. Danny was too sick to care and pretty much sat on my lap slumped against me.

After the appointment, they have a box filled with “toys” like free bean-bag toys advertising the latest pharmaceutical (last visit we got “Mr. Mucus” from Mucinex) and small plastic toys that a paediatrician’s office ought to realise pose a hell of a chocking hazard. Danny left with a basketball keychain which of course, I hope he forgets about as it is way too dangerous to be played with unsupervised.

It is sort of amazing to me how many people think that a book must be “new” for a child to read it. The place where we typically purchase our books are 5 for a dollar on children’s. Even the Goodwill is only .39 cents per book. I cannot imagine how people claim to be unable to afford books for their children. I mean, come on. Still, if someone isn’t inclined to read to a child, the free book at the office visit might be an incentive, however the fixation people have with new items really eludes me.

I do have an amusing anecdote from the visit. The nurse came to give Daniel a bit of Tylenol and some water as he was running a fever (that he didn’t have when we left the house)and after squirting the liquid in his mouth Danny looked at her and said;

“That was good. Thank You.”

Poor kid.