Posted by: theteet | March 29, 2011

Kid stories! (musical interlude)

Now is the time on the blog for Kid Stories.

People LOVE to hear stories about other people’s kids! I know this to be true for a FACT!

Here is a story about Molly Mae Teter.  She is my kid.

Molly and I were baking bread today. She was sitting on the counter helping me mix the ingredients when I said, “Molly, I think this bread needs a little bit more flour.”

I turned my back on the wee one for a quick second to grab the bread flour out of the pantry, and when I turned around, Molly had taken a basket of  flowers from the countertop, and she was sprinkling them into the bowl.

The bits of dried leaves and petals probably weren’t a bad idea, actually.

This is why I love her.

bread flower

Posted by: theteet | March 24, 2011

The worst $30 I ever spent

Did I tell you that we killed a goat?

RIP tiny unnamed goat from, like, a day or so ago.

We have a record of 1-1 when it comes to keeping goats alive on the Teter Homestead. (The other, more alive goat is the one with her head in the feed bag. Yikes! Dangerous! But she’s preggo. And STARVING.)

We’re hoping to improve  our average here directly.

Despite the advice of people who own goats, and just about every manual or website published on God’s green earth that devotes so much as a chapter to goat-rearin’, we bought a goat from the livestock auction. This is a big no-no. That’s because shady sellers sometimes dump their sick animals at the sale barn. To sell to suckers. We knew it was a risk, but we figured that sure, there would be bad eggs, but at least a few of the animals sold had to be healthy, right? Maybe we’d get lucky. On the cheap!

We did not get lucky.

Looking back, I should’ve known something was about to go terribly wrong. After we successfully bid on the goat,  we assumed — wrongly — that we’d be able to find out who the seller was, contact him or her and find out how old the goat was, whether it has been weaned, wormed, vaccinated — you know. etc. etc. I mean, it was a live animal. It needed a few instructions.

Turns out I would know more about my produce auction tomatoes than I ever did about that goat. 😦

I spoke with the owner of the auction, but when I gave him our goat’s lot number, he who told me, “I can run down to the barn and check the records, but you’ll probably never know anything about a deal like that.”

He told me to “take good care of the goat and you’ll have a good goat.”

Easy enough.

Almost immediately upon arriving home, the goat kid started acting lethargic. However, at the time, we didn’t really know what “lethargic goat kid” looked like because it was our first baby goat. We thought it didn’t have much spunk and that it must be depressed because it likely had a couple stressful days, so we gave it our best alfalfa hay and some grain to nibble on … and eventually after some googling we determined by its weight, etc, that it was probably — maybe? — big enough to be totally weaned.  But when it didn’t eat and started sucking on our fingers like a madman, we decided we should try to give it a bottle. (Whole Cow’s milk + corn syrup, fyi)

It perked up for a minute. But eventually it started walking into things.

We joked about how we probably bought a blind goat and wouldn’t that be our luck.

Hours later, she started acting drunk, stumbling around and just looking … gawd awful. She just stood there with her head down when she wasn’t staggering around. Meanwhile, the goat kids on YouTube were running around, karate-kicking the straw and doing backflips off the barn walls. You didn’t have to be a real farmer to realize this goat had issues.

We got worried and moved the goat into the dog crate and into the back room for the night. She started bleating like she was in a great deal of pain. It was awful.

Massive amounts of Googling, one trip to TSC and a lot of guessing and Goat 911 later, despite our best efforts to be after-hours goat medics (we drenched, we baking soda’d, we electrolyted) (and I should say that these are all things you do for sick goats) we had  what they call a “flat” goat on our hands. She would not get up or move. She was breathing with what can only be described only as a death rattle. That lasted for a lot of hours. All night long, basically. We tried repeatedly to prop her up and get her some nutrients. To rub her belly, which started to bloat. We tried everything but Penicillin shots, which we planned to buy at the farm store when it opened at 8 a.m. She wouldn’t make it that long. She died in the early morning hours.

It was awful. I cried.

I mean, I was up feeding Miss Eleanor anyway, but. It was awful. That poor goat. Seth buried its little body back behind the barn. So sad.

It’s impossible to know exactly what killed her, but we have it narrowed down to about 37 different diseases. It’s impossible to know whether we could have done something to save her, (Goat 911, God Bless Them,  said we likely couldn’t have, and that the goat had goat polio and would have always been “a little off,” a.k.a. “permanently brain damaged” if she had survived — awesome.) but I don’t think the goat seller set us up for success.

Maybe they didn’t know that they were selling a sick goat. Maybe the goat got exposed to some awful, other sick goat in the barn. Maybe the seller did know and just wanted some money from a sucker to ease the financial loss of a sick kid. Oh well. I was looking for a sale barn to pawn the poor critter off on around 4 or 5 a.m.

The bad news is that the goat most likely would’ve died wherever it stayed on Sunday night. The good news is that it landed at my house, and now I know so much about goat diseases that I could probably, maybe, possibly recognize when something doesn’t look right because of a massive late-night goat disease cram session.

I also learned the lesson as memorialized on Facebook, which it this:

A word of wisdom for would-be homesteaders: Put down the book of goat’s milk recipes and please memorize the book of diseases and stock your goat medicine cabinet. #farmerFAIL

You need to be prepared because when you care for animals, they are relying on you to, well, prevent them from dying. At least until slaughter time. Shit!

When you think of hardy animals, I assumed that goats would top the list. But this whole rumen thing — wow.

Having four stomachs is just as complicated as it sounds. Worms and parasites get in the stomachs and just go berserk. They turn the goat’s inner eye white! With this rumen, there has to be a perfect ratio of grass to grain to browse, or else the whole thing will go to hell. It’ll sort of blow up inside the goat!

And here I though they ate boots and tin cans and everything was fine by them.

With chickens you just sort of buy them, feed them grain and let them get eaten by predators. With pigs, well, nothing ever went wrong with our pig. Goats require much more tinkering. And baking soda. One of the suggested treatments for a surprising number of goat ailments is baking soda. It’s like that mysterious green pill they gave you at Hudson Student Health Center. A cure-all, remember?

The demise also prompted Facebook friend and Patron Goat Saint Tracy Foy to send me a package of goat medical supplies. A Goat Starter Kit, if you will, along with a spreadsheet of dosages and instructions on how to properly store the medicines, etc. I am studying to give my first goat vaccination. Like, with a needle.

I am going to inject something with medication.

Did you know that certain parts of the country are deficient in selenium — a mineral goats need to thrive? And that you have to inject it into them?

I’m a real farmer now, bi-yatch.

Or, you know, I will be. After the stabby-stabby.

Posted by: theteet | March 20, 2011

March Madness

Two things about this video:

1.) I was feeding Miss Eleanor while filming, and
2.) Someone left the tag on that poor goat.

Every time we leave the house, we come home with another critter.


So far the count is up to: 59.5 mouths to feed
51 meat chickens
2.5 goats
1 bulldog
1 cat
2 children
2 adults

a BFing champ

Can I just tell you how much of a relief it is to have a baby who eats? I was reading old posts from Molly’s infancy, and reliving the terror of possessing an infant who is not gaining weight. Ugh. Drama.

So far Miss Eleanor is eating like a champ — she gained 2 ounces on her birthweight in the first week of her life — something Miss Molly took, like, a month to do. She also latched on to the ol’ boob within a few minutes of delivery — something that took, like, three weeks for Molly to do.

At her one week check-up she was 6-10 and 20 inches. She is in the 25th percentile for weight and the … get this! … the 60th for height. Have we produced a human-sized baby?! Stay tuned! Imagine the short jokes she could avoid …

I’m not saying that Ellie is superior or that I love her more, but I do love her like three percent more than Molly. I’m just kidding, guys. With Eleanor, things just have been much more relaxed. I don’t have a stress attack every two hours and I don’t have to freak out through every feeding. Apparently, I can use my Flipcam. I can blog. I can do dishes or whatever. We are so in our rhythm and she hasn’t been on the outside a week yet! Is that obnoxious? I’m sorry. It’s just a huge surprise. I’m a pessimist and was expecting the transition to be much more hectic. I’m sure it will get there when this little lump of joy starts moving around a little more.

I’m also pleasantly surprised about how much more quickly I bounced back with my second freshening. At this point last time, Seth was scraping me off the shower floor. I couldn’t even walk up the stairs. Now I’m carrying Molly up them with no problems. You really do get better at kidding. Just like goats!

The only problem is that I will never be able to go anywhere by myself ever again.

Mothers of two or more might remember those first few trips to the grocery store with two babies? That will never happen for me. If I have a carrier in one hand, how is Molly supposed to get inside the store? When I say,  “Follow Mommy,” she hears, “Wander in circles near the traffic and pick up something dangerous to eat.” I will need an assistant from now until the day these critters go to college.

Eleanor had a lot of firsts in her first week on Earth — she’s already been to a restaurant (Applebees. Welcome to the Midwest, little one.) and she’s been to her first livestock auction. I’m not sure how much of that she caught wrapped up in a blanket ball and snuggled to my bosom. But there will be additional livestock auctions, I’m sure. Did I mention that Seth had to go into work this week? So I had some “firsts” as well. Thank God everyone was exhausted and pretty much slept the entire time. And Team Baby provided the meals. Thank God for that. 

So Miss Eleanor has just folded herself into our world.

I love her. I think she is great.

Molly, on the other hand, is warming up to her. She’s uninterested most of the time, and the rest of the time she’s confused about why she doesn’t have 100 percent access to my lap. The few moments out of the day I’m NOT feeding Ellie, Molly puts her arms around me and clings to me as if she hasn’t seen me for a week. It breaks my heart into tiny fragments. She has “helped” me dress Ellie and change her as well. I’m hoping the gal who has been the center of attention will warm to the idea of sharing the spotlight. She’ll get there, I think.

 At one point this week I executed a double-decker diaper change with Molly in the pack-n-play bassinet and Ellie on the pack-n-play changing table.

I have two babies. That is fun.

Posted by: theteet | March 15, 2011

The Story of Eleanor Marie

and away we go



Just about every night last week I’d been on the verge of heading to the hospital, but ultimately, I never felt pains serious enough to pull the trigger on Team Baby. This time, instead of just going to the hospital and feeling silly, false labor would entail packing up Molly and taking her to Padulas, getting the goats, chickens and dogs stocked with food and supplies and a whole host of logistical embarrassments I hadn’t been willing to risk.

I needed some Serious Cramps before I’d demand Seth take us to the hospital.

I got my wish around 6 a.m. Saturday. Seth said he knew something was up when he saw me come down the stairs at 6 a.m. on a weekend. (This is because I am lazy and tend to sleep in.) Knowing it would be much, much easier on the world if we had a baby NEXT weekend, I tried to ignore the situation for almost two hours before we executed plans to drive 50 minutes to the hospital.

After we dropped Molly off at Team Padulas, Seth and I made a leisurely trip to Dublin, chatting on the way about how if I wasn’t properly dilated, maybe we’d go to the zoo or Der Dutchman while Molly was with Rebecca. (MWAHAHA, Rebecca) We also discussed how much more calm we were than the last time. Circa 2009, I would’ve spent the last 4 months pouring over pregnancy and labor books, obsessing over every detail of my ‘Birth Plan,’ worried sick about the pain of getting a Life Bomb into the world.

This time we were like, “How much grain should we leave with the goats?” and “Who has the infant car seat again?” It was much more chill and our concerns were 100 percent more practical.

I had barely taken any time at all to think about the act of getting a baby out of my body. I wasn’t too concerned by it. A couple of good cramps in the car ride, however, and I remembered, “Oh, crap. This is going to hurt really, really bad and probably for a long time.”

I arrived at the hospital at about 4 cm dilated, and almost immediately upon arrival my contractions started lessening in frequency and intensity. The docs sent me on an hour-long walk to see if I’d progress, which, for the uninitiated, means you have 60 minutes to make your cervix an additional 1 cm dilated or they will send you home. There was a lot of squatting and eyeing the bamboo decorations wondering whether they could be fashioned into a tool to break my water in that 60 minutes. I did not want to get sent packing. It was a long commute.

The Ghost of Rotunda paces the halls of Dublin Methodist Hospital

Faced with the realization that I might NOT have a baby that day, and that I might be sent back home in shame to collect my child and try again later, I became a bit annoyed. After great introspection and a series of exercises in maturity, I decided it was okay to be sent home for false labor. No sense forcing an eviction before Little Girl was ready to come into the world. Maybe we could go to a matinée!

I had accepted my fate when they came in and told me that during one of my contractions, the monitors indicated that Ellie’s heart rate had decelerated, and that this “event” was enough to warrant additional monitoring before they sent me home.

Meanwhile, the rest of Team Baby is waiting to be deployed.

So I wasn’t in labor-labor enough to stay and have a baby. I was only in labor enough to cramp uncomfortably through non-labor while lying flat on my back so that baby could be monitored. This is one of the least ideal scenarios imaginable.

Hours went by with really no plan or indication that I would be having a baby that day. Just uncomfortable cramps. Flat on my back. I became unruly and got up off the bed and started moving around despite what the nurses told me.

Around 2 p.m., Ellie decided that she had had enough of this crap and would be coming out now. My contractions went from ‘Do Not Ignore’ to ‘ScreamingBloody Murder into the Night,’ and no one on the medical staff seemed to notice. About the time I had Tweeted “My country for a cervical exam,”  my midwife came in and informed me that I was 7 cm dilated. Better call in the cavalry. This was 2:37 p.m.

Luckily, long before this call was made, my mother and sister had become so bored waiting for me to tell them what was going on that they got in the car and drove to the hospital. Still, it became evident really fast that even they might not make it for the delivery. Meanwhile, Seth’s mama, who was also planning to attend the delivery, was waiting for her call to deploy. It was a very tenuous time for Team Baby.

Seth held my hand with fervor as 7 cm turned to 9-10 in a second or two and everything got really frantic. I asked for Nubaine but the nurse told me I was doing fine. I did not protest. Natural labor, as it turns out, can be more unpredictable than even those Pitocin-induced deliveries I love so much.

Right up till the end I had the wherewithal between contractions to realize that my baby was coming out and that mom and Amanda were en route. The doctor made fun of me for calmly looking through the address book on my phone so Seth could call them and see if they were anywhere near the hospital while I was 10 cm dilated.

Seth made the call and it turns out they were in the parking lot.

I soon heard the footsteps of two women running into the room, which is funny, because Amanda has not run since 1999. It felt very much like a movie. I don’t know what it is about those Johnson girls, maybe it’s because we all shared a bathroom growing up, but with them in the room, I felt comfortable proceeding. I remember looking at my sister and saying, “Crap. Now that you’re here I have to push out a baby.”

Seth said that I immediately started screaming “God, God Goooood!” which I feel a little bit bad about, but within like 2 and a half pushes — maybe two and a half minutes? — baby Eleanor was thrust into the world.

This miraculous event did not occur before my water broke, and made a sound similar to that of a shotgun blast. I thought the baby had exploded, and Seth said that it looked like I had thrown a water balloon at the midwife, who did not flinch, but rather, handled the situation with such calm demeanor that it transferred to the rest of the room. Girl has been hit with amniotic fluid before, that’s for sure. I’m just glad it wasn’t the sound of the baby exploding. Birth is weird.

All in all, it was a surreal labor and delivery. The whole time, even as I was pulling Ellie out of my own crotch, I couldn’t help but thinking, “This is not so bad. Not bad at all.”

My second freshening

I guess that means I’m getting good at this. Can’t wait to do it again nine months from now!

Eleanor Marie Teter

3:52 p.m. 03/12/2001

6 lbs. 8 oz, 20 inches long

Posted by: theteet | March 11, 2011

Lil’Peckers 2011: The Revolution!

It’s too bad she thinks they are ducks, or rather, ‘DUCKS!’

We have decided to grow our favorite crock pot/grill fare a little slower this year. Normal meat birds (NOTE: If you are shopping in TSC and you want to sound cool, you say ‘broilers’) are bred to grow to butchering weight between 6 and 8 weeks.

In the past, we always have these hungry fellas out on pasture, which helps them get exercise and keeps them from developing health problems related to their rapid growth and insane appetites, but they still come with warnings like, “please take away their food for 12 hours per day or they probably COULD have a heart attack.”

In other words, they are very hungry all the time, so we’re trying something a little less intense.

“Normal” heavier breed chickens take about 17-20 weeks to reach adult size, and even then, they butcher at about 3-4 pounds. Our little guys are somewhere right in the middle. They take about 10-12 weeks of care before they are ready to visit the Pluck Poultry facilities on Cull Road. Plus, they are bred by the French and they are called Rainbow Rangers. Who can resist that?

12 weeks = a little longer to keeping them safe from the feral cats, the skunks, raccoons, hawks and weasels, but it’s a risk we’re willing to take to avoid the somewhat intense growing habits of the traditional meat birds.

We are raising a couple batches of these and plan to sell some from the farm again, so let me know if you want to reserve a couple. They arrived today, so they’ll be ready for dinner in … I dunno … June. 

So far, these are about the happiest chickens we’ve ever had. They arrived this morning and were chirping up a storm at the MV Post Office. There were no deaths over the shipping trip, which is a first for us, and they are already running around like wildmen during this, their first day on earth. Normally they take a day or so to adjust, but they must’ve had an easy trip. Or maybe, and I’m thinking this is the right answer, maybe these chickens are magic.

Posted by: theteet | March 2, 2011

Got her goat

this is not my goat. but she looks a lot like this.

If all goes as planned, our dairy goat will arrive in Bangs on Thursday.

Her name is Rose, and we are going to be the best of friends. Rose is a Knox county resident who unexpectedly found herself pregnant with her second!  Sound familiar? We’ll both spend these last few miserable weeks together, waiting to welcome our immaculately conceived kids!

Rose the Goat is due at the end of April, so I will have a month on her, but her total gestation is 150 days and mine is … like, more than 300, so we’ll call it even.

Can you even believe that we’re starting the month of March with 5 mouths to feed, and we’ll end the month with 57. And that’s BEFORE Rose has her baby. Or babies. 

Kooky situations like this are usually the fault of Seth, but this time it was my idea.

For many years I have protested Seth’s desire to get a dairy cow, for fear that such a critter would require copious amounts of maintenance that would prevent us from ever leaving the house again. Plus, what is any self-respecting homesteading family expected to do with, like, six gallons of milk per day?!

For a couple of weeks I was really into the miniature cow idea, but the cost of this rare creature is prohibitive.

Then I learned of an animal that both provides dairy AND happily consumes all the poison ivy and weeds that comprise our ten acres on earth! We realized one day that we’re paying mortgage and taxes for land that sits vacant, and that’s just not the way god intended. Enter: GOATS!

Why am I so excited about goats? I have no idea.

But I cannot stop reading and thinking about them.

Maybe it’s because I’m on the verge of freshening myself, but I can conjure no more pleasant thought than wrapping our newborn baby in a sling and heading out to milk mama goat on a crisp spring morning. You can do this twice per day and they can provide up to a gallon of milk–usually a couple quarts or less when they are feeding their own babies.

So the plan is to buy a goat who is pregnant, then she’ll give birth to either her companion or a very nice meat goat, depending on the sex. Maybe a couple of each. Here is a video of what that could look like. You need at least two goats because no one wants to see a lonely goat.

My sister is getting married June 4 and we’re due to kid ourselves here in March.

Seth was hesitant at first, but quickly became very supportive of the goat idea. I think he is excited that he’s not the one dragging the family down some insane path–for once. I started second-guessing our decision tonight when he encouraged me to go ahead and pull the trigger.

“Sometimes you’ve just gotta force yourself to live life,” he said.

Posted by: theteet | March 1, 2011


Dear Baby Ellie,

It is March, so that means it is time to have you. A newborn baby! Your original due date was March 8, and then, at some point very early in the game, the doctor measured you and, based on your millimeters, he said you are expected to arrive March 22. At that point I was very excited to hear about the deadline extension. Now, I’m not so sure another two weeks will be necessary.

I mean, we bought newborn diapers and set out 0-3month old clothes — and that’s pretty much the extent of needed preparation. We’re pretty much already set up for you, which is nice. How kind of you to come at such a convenient time for the family!

Based on my personal gestation history, I feel like you might come early. This is a very dangerous way of thinking. That’s because when you think you’re at the end of something and later find out that you are not, there can be anxiety. And the man to whom you are married might suffer an unusually high risk of domestic violence if he doesn’t keep the chocolate milkshakes coming.

The other day Molly had been stung by a wasp and Maybel had been sprayed by a skunk or something and the thought did cross my mind that we’re not ready or capable of handling another human child … but that soon faded. I feel relaxed about bringing you into the fold. This is very uncharacteristic.

Unlike my pregnancy with your sister, I’ve had wholly uneventful, delightfully enrage-free medical visits throughout our 37 weeks together.

I switched OBGYN providers, and I’ll never look back. This practice has kept appointments, clearly communicated procedures and just overall met general, basic expectations without a single unpleasant encounter with an ill-informed receptionist. Not ONCE have I had to whip out an appointment card to prove I was actually told to meet the doctor at a predetermined time and place.

As a trade-off, at our current practice, I rotate among 10 or so doctors and nurse midwives.  (I’m not actually sure how many there are.  It might be a brothel.) You encounter a lot of different bedside manners when you operate like that. I have been pleased with every single doctor/midwife, and consider all of them highly capable of pulling you out: Most are perky blonds who tell me how easy and early my labor will be. This is what I’d pay them to say.

Last week, however, I met a fiery brunette who had the courtesy to provide decent blog fodder at our 36-week check-up.

It was a weird experience with her.

Despite the fact that I, having been told to derobe,  was sitting in the exam room with no pants on, this doctor REALLY did not want to do a cervical exam. She said such personal checks give women false impressions and that she wasn’t going to do it unless I was having problems. She said women read too much into the exxams and that she didn’t do them until 38 weeks. I was just over 36 weeks at that point.

Seeing that I looked confused, she softened, telling me that it was “up to me,” and that exams “don’t make labor happen any faster,” and that she didn’t expect me to be dilated for a few more weeks and she gave a little sermon about the evil mindfreak that a cervical exam represents. I think I remember reading something along these lines in one of those hippy childbirth books.

The problem is that I know all that stuff already, and plus — my last baby arrived at 38 1/2 weeks. I would hate to deprive myself of fun and invasive medical procedures. I explained that I’ve been having cramps and I was wondering if that meant anything. I know that the numbers she would report ultimately mean nothing and that I very well could be walking around at 3 cm for five weeks, but at this point, I’m just a huge science experiment and I’m just, you know, curious.
Not to mention sitting pantsless on her exam table.
Eventually, perhaps once convinced that I was mentally capable of handling a cervical exam, she finally, reluctantly offered the two-second procedure and then seemed disappointed that I was 1 cm dilated and 70 percent effaced.
As the good doctor will remind you, these numbers mean nothing. Eventually you want to get to 10 cm dilated and 100 percent effaced, but until then, you really can’t read anything into the numbers. Active labor starts at 4 cm, I think. I forget.
Regardless, I still feel comfortable letting this doctor catch you when you come out. I just hope she doesn’t take as much time to assure I’m emotionally ready to have another baby before she allows me to push.
Anyway, here we are nearing the end and I really feel awful for not documenting every second of this pregnancy. But you get it. You seem like a pretty chill baby. Plus, according to your 20-week ultrasound, you have a chin. Your sister did not, so I’m assuming you have a lot more Seth in you and therefore won’t be the kind of person to search through my archives when you are 16 while screaming, “WHY DON;T YOU LOVE ME AS MUCH MOLLY?!?!?!”
I promise that your first year will not be as dreadfully journaled.
Ready when you are, sweet baby.

Mama Teet

ps- Do you have any strong feelings one way or the other about goats?

Posted by: theteet | February 5, 2011

history lessons

ps – My mom was gracious enough to remind me that there are between 31 and 45 days, Lord willing, until this happens to MY family.

Posted by: theteet | January 18, 2011

Pregnancy craving: Old water

If you leave water sitting out overnight, it develops a taste similar to that of paper.

In my pregnancy, I have acquired a taste for old water.

At Christmas, I learned that I can replicate this taste somewhat by drinking water out of a Dixie cup, but the only place I can find those present-day is at my grandmother’s house in Washington Court House. Gone are the days where the bathroom Dixie-cup dispenser is the norm.

So I’m forced to age my water with time. So old-fashioned.

FYI, that’s why there are half-full mason jars sitting around everywhere. And that’s why my house looks like the set of a bad M. Night Shyamalan movie.

Maybe I can get one of those freak shows on a fancy cable network!

Posted by: theteet | January 14, 2011

Daughter of a pregnant person

'Is that going to happen to my stomach, mommy?'

Molly’s mind is a little sponge right now, and I feel kinda bad for the lessons I am accidentally teaching her about the way she should move her body.

The words “baby” and “belly” are pretty close, but she uses them interchangeably, presumably because she thinks everyone is supposed to have a baby in their tummy. She taps on her own and says, “baby!” all the time. This is unnerving.

The poor thing is very confused about my shrinking lap.

She used to plop down and there’d be plenty of room to spare for her pile of books. Now, she sits on the edge of my knees and sort of scoots back as far as she can, butting her little rump up against her sister over and over until she looks back at me confused.  I can’t help ya, kid.

Then, there’s the grunting.

Every time I get up off the couch or bend over to pick something up, my flesh-covered basketball abdomen requires that I moan and groan like a retiree who’s forgotten to take arthritis medication. Molly has picked up on this, and I’m pretty sure she thinks that women are supposed to walk and move that way, and she grunts and moans around the house in a way that is more than sympathetic. It’s her normal!

The other day I think my ankle crushed under the weight of my body or something, so I’ve been limping a little on my right leg, and I’m sure she’ll catch on to that later this weekend.

Why did she have to start being so damn observant during the third trimester?!

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