Month: January 2025

Baby Blues

We were a good couple.  Long before we got married, we agreed completely on important things…foreign policy, religion, life plans.  Then we got married.  Life was idyllic.  We were both in college, working student jobs.  Bud had saved over $500 and student loans covered my tuition.

Budgeting was easy.  At the first of the month we paid our rent, utilities, bought some dried beans, rice, flour, meal, spaghetti, and coffee.   If we had a couple of dollars left, we could buy a little gasoline for Bud’s old truck.  We walked to class, work, and the grocery store.   Carrying home our four bags of groceries (once a month) was not a struggle.  Sometimes we fished in the afternoons.  This doubled as a budget assist.  If we caught fish, we ate them as soon as we got home.  No luck…we had grits.  Our social life was relaxed.  We visited other impoverished students for entertainment and had a wonderful time, cherishing this poverty since we wouldn’t always be this poor and carefree.

A couple of years later, we started noticing other people’s kids, and decided to see what we could cook up.  We were out of college, both working, and having a hard time figuring how to spend all that money after the poverty of college.  Unconcerned that we were just starting out, I knew we could handle a baby just fine.  I imagined a little guy with dark, curly hair, smart, sweet, and adorable.  As smart as we both were, our child was sure to be a genius.  It never crossed my mind that our kid was free to exercise the options of our genetic pools, with all their messy subsets.  With all the sisters and brothers between us, we knew all about kids.  Since we already agreed on everything, and got along great, what could go wrong?  Our main goal was not to mess up like our parents had.  We’d cooperate, back each other up, and never, never speak or act without thinking of the effect on a tender child.

Sure enough, before too long, that tender child was on the way.  Pregnancy wasn’t too bad, but finding out we had to pay the doctor ourselves when Bud’s insurance didn’t cover was startling, but good practice for the many surprises to follow.  Every one of our dollars had a place to go now.  At a hundred dollars per pound, John was a quality baby.

I couldn’t wait to get home from the hospital and get the baby to myself. The new grandparents were waiting at the house, just dying to get their hands on him.  I was miffed when they grabbed him up before I even got him settled in, passing him from hand to hand, just like I wasn’t there.  Mother rushed to change his first diaper at home and he washed her face for her.  I thought that was just right.  They finally put him down after his first feeding.  He looked so sweet in his crib.  Eventually everyone left and Bud and I had him alone.  I was exhausted and settled in for a nap.

Twenty minutes in, I heard the rustling of sheets and some grunting.  It didn’t disturb me much.  Bud knew what to do.  I was right.  In a minute and a half Bud and the baby came calling.  It seemed the baby’s pooper had kicked into overdrive and overwhelmed his diaper, clothes, crib, and Bud’s clothes.  Bud was literally in over his head, sliding the slimy, malodorous baby in bed with me and was racing for the shower.  Stripping and gagging, he left a trail of dirty clothes and baby poop splatters locked outside the bathroom door.  I was right behind him, trying to get the baby’s bath stuff.

It was hopeless, so John’s first bath was in the cold kitchen – not the relaxing, calm bath I had planned for tomorrow morning. No rubber ducky, no velvety baby bath cloths, hooded towels, or gentle baby soap.  I dangled him awkwardly over the kitchen sink, bathing him with dish detergent and rinsing him with the pull out sprayer, running mustard-colored baby poop down the drain.  I dried him with dishtowels, the only thing handy.  Between the three of us, we managed to mess up all our bedding, our clothes, the crib sheets and blankets, six towels, a throw rug, and several dishtowels.  I think that’s probably the first time I called Bud a Stupid A**hole.

By the time the baby was bathed, fed, and settled back in his nice clean crib, we had piled up two full loads of laundry. We were all exhausted and starving.  Bud hadn’t gotten to the grocery store while I was in the hospital, so we had grits, fish sticks, and orange juice for supper, before passing out at 8:30, too tired to even put sheets back on our bed.  Uttering “Please, God let this baby sleep till at least 08:00 in the morning,” I wonder, “What in the world have I done?”

Well, I won’t say God wasn’t listening, but if he was, the answer was , “Hah!” John was not concerned about stereotypes and didn’t care that babies could sleep for twenty-two hours a day.  At 10:00 P.M. he howled, furious at our neglect. I was in another world and took a minute or two to realize what was going on.  I grabbed him up and changed him while Bud fumbled to heat a bottle.   He took about an ounce and a half, produced another impressive mustard poop, and was ready to go back to bed, totally unappreciative of his second cleanup of the night.  Not knowing if refrigerating and giving him the rest of that bottle later would kill him, I pitched it.

The hospital had sent six four-ounce bottles of formula home with us. We hadn’t bought formula ahead of time, since we didn’t know exactly what to buy.  One down, five to go.  Bud was going to make a supply run in the morning, so we’d be fine.    We settled in for the rest of the night.  Short night!  At 11:30, John was ready to go again.  I had already noticed that he was moody when he first woke up.

Since the literature said babies only cried when they were hungry or wet, I changed him while Bud went for the bottle, even though it had only been an hour and a half.  He took another ounce and a half, pooped, and nodded off.  I was starting to notice a pattern.  Next time we’d feed, then change.  It didn’t occur to me that it might be a good idea to jostle him awake to feed a little better.  Another bottle gone.  We shared quality time again at 01:30 and 03:30.  Two more bottles gone.

He was up for the day by 05:00…wide-eyed!  I fed him, bathed him, in the nice warm bathroom with all the proper accessories this time. I rocked him again, and waited for him to start on that twenty-two hour nap I was promised.  Bud was whipped and slipped back to bed while I waited.  I thought about putting him in his crib, but thought he might die, so I rocked.  By this time, the formula situation was getting serious, so I woke Bud to go find a store that opened early.

While living in a tiny town can have its advantages, access to well-stocked stores is not one of them.  After checking three local stores, Bud drove eleven miles into the next town for formula.  He bought one big can of Ready to Feed, and a case of the kind you mix at home, squeaking back in just before John was due a feeding.

Satisfied that he had the day going his way, John knocked back four ounces of formula and slept six hours.  He woke up just long enough to feed and slept another six hours.  Bud settled on the sofa and got a nice nap, too.  Not understanding the situation I had gotten myself into, I cleaned up the bathroom, kitchen, remade our bed, and did three loads of laundry.  I was exhausted, but got a nap mid-afternoon.  Bud was a fast learner.  He assumed I didn’t want to miss anything, and made sure to rouse me as soon as John woke in the early evening.

For the next three months, John and I spent a lot of time together at night.  I had to entertain myself during the day while he rested up. I learned a lot about babies, Bud, and myself in the next few days.

  1. John’s agenda did not include sleeping twenty-two hours a day.
  2. Bud was a better critic, than provider of baby care and always knew just what I was doing wrong. He couldn’t stay up at night because he had to work.
  3. I was in way over my head.
  4. The person you married may bear little resemblance to the person with whom you share responsibility of an infant, deteriorating rapidly from “My Love” to “You Stupid %$#&^” in a few hours.
  5. It doesn’t take long to get over wanting the baby “all to myself” once it actually happens.
  6. I was in way over my head.

Eventually, things settled down and we figured it all out. John is sleeping all night now.  We’re hoping to get him out of our bed soon.  He will be forty-one his next birthday!

Heights

What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?

I don’t like heights. An elevator with glass sides gives me the willies. There’s no way I would willingly go out on a ledge unless someone I loved needed a rescue.

Housework

What do you complain about the most?

I probably complain the most about housework, in my head if not aloud. I want to live in a clean house but I wish the cleaning didn’t involve me. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to drop my towel to the floor and come back later to find it hanging to dry? I’d love to stroll through to find a nice dinner on the table that magically cleared itself when I’m done. What a luxury it would be to drop my clothes on the floor only to have them launder themselves. It would be heaven to slide out of the bed and walk away knowing it would take care of itself.

I guess I want someone just like me to do it all……sigh.

The Rumbles of Our Appalachian School Bus Journey

Mr. Holliman, our schoolbus driver was deaf as a post. He couldn’t have heard a cannon fired directly behind him which probably made driving a schoolbus much more pleasant. Unless he was hit in the head by a flying object, he never acknowledged the mayhem in progress behind him. When he could no longer ignore aggressive behavior, he looked in the rearview mirror, took off his dirty old cap, and swatted his knee. He’d mumble “rumble, grumble, mumble,” in the manner of old deaf men. A time or two he became overwrought enough to look in the mirror and shake his finger at anyone who was interested. Of course his own three boys were the worst of the lot, in close competition with his many nieces and nephews. It was up to older riders to ensure their younger siblings survived the ride.

My family was the first to board at six forty-five and last dropped off at four fifteen giving us plenty of time to critique Mr. Holliman’s techniques. We took a long rambling route through the woods and hills to the tiny rural school deep in the Appalachian hills.

Though Mr. Holliman was able to overlook agressive behavior among his riders, he did notice buxom young ladies, a habit which didn’t enhance his driving skills. One day, lovely Mabel Barton wore a highwater, button-popping dress which should have already been handed down to her Irish twin Bessie. She sat next to the aisle in the third seat on the left.

Like us, Mabel had a long ride. Exhausted, she leaned back and sprawled out. Her legs splayed and arms opened wide, her nubile charm was on display for all. She certainly caught Mr. Holliman’s attention. He ran the bus off on the muddy shoulder as we approached the narrow bridge crossing Revar Lake. The shrieks of terrified kids changed tenor and caught his attention just in time for him to jerk the wheel and right the bus.

“I just did that to scare ‘y’all and make you behave.” He grunted.

We all knew better.

Lesson from a Blackbird

I grew up on a farm.  My brother and I were out in a field with his shotgun one day when a flock of blackbirds flew over.  I fired into the flock, hitting one unfortunate bird.  I was thrilled at my marksmanship, never having expected to hit anything.  Feeling victorious, I picked the little bird up, only to find he wasn’t dead yet.  He wrapped his little claws around my finger reflexively, like a newborn baby does.  It broke my heart that I had taken his life for no reason other than my own pleasure.  That was when I learned every creature’s life is as precious to it as mine is to me.  I’ve never wanted to harm another since then.

Afternoon Funny

'I dare you to ask Jeeves about the birds and the bees!'

Bnb 4Bnb 5

Beatrice wished her husband was around to have 'the talk' with their maturing son, The she remembered his absence was her fault,

Beatrice wished her husband was around to have ‘the talk’ with their maturing son, The she remembered his absence was her fault,

Hoping for a boy or girl?

Hoping for a boy or girl?

birds-bees 1

Until I was eleven the only knowledge I had of how boy’s anatomy was an occasional peek at a little boy during a diaper change and a quick image of a whirling behind if I happened to walk catch a brother, or a cousin sneaking a pee outdoors.  From that, I mainly felt envy that I couldn’t pee on stuff.

Imagine my surprise when my friend Margaret informed me exactly what the facts of life entailed. She even called it “The Facts of Life.”  Her story:  Mr. Brown who topped three hundred pounds easily, took off all his clothes, every night, and stuck his peanut in Mrs. Brown, who coincidentally weighed at least two hundred pounds.  He peed inside her and laid on top of her all night.  I knew this wasn’t possible.  Anybody that walrus laid on all night would be smushed.  Mrs. Brown was not smushed.  She had enormous breasts, and a pendulous belly.  I told Margaret she was lying and went straight to my mother.

I told Mother, Margaret had told me a big lie, the “Facts of Life.”  I guess Mother thought I had gotten a prettier version.  She was annoyed, saying she intended to tell me herself.  She went ahead and gave me her version, involving a boy and girl falling in love and getting married.  True, they did indulge in some “intimacies”, her word.  These “intimacies” would result in a baby.  I was never to even consider such a thing until I was married.

Armed with her confirmation of the truth Margaret had told me, the picture of Mr. and Mrs. Brown burned in my mind, I assured her it would NEVER happen!  They should teach this version in schools.

Sports

What are your favorite sports to watch and play?

I have no interest in watching sports. I am reminded of what my four-year-old son said. He watched nearly a quarter of football before inquiring of Bud, “Dad, how do that keep their socks up?”

The Hilarious Truth Behind My Brother’s School Picture

 

My brother Bill realized he was a comedian just as he had his school picture made.  All his friends loved it, but Mother had no sense of humor.  “I’m not buying those ridiculous pictures!” She fumed.

”Oh yes we are!”  Daddy put his foot down.  His family had never been able to buy school pictures, so he was rewriting his childhood. He would not be shamed.

Daddy ruled the roost, so Mother seethed as she sent a check to school on the last possible day.   Billy wasn’t worried.  He’d already impressed his friends.  He had endured an impressive lecture and threat of grave repercussions should he pull that stunt again, but that was a condition he’d learned to live with, so it wasn’t a problem.  All his buddies wanted a picture.  He was flushed with pride.

It wasn’t long till the class picture came out.  His teacher opened her copy before she passed the envelopes out to the students.  She was livid, landing on him like an old wet hen.  He’d enjoyed so much success with his individual school pictures, that he’d repeated his trick in the class picture.  There he sat, sat prominently in the front row with his tongue out and crossed eyes. This picture would be in the yearbook!

The teacher was mad.  Mamas were mad.  I’m sure the photographer was mad since he wouldn’t  have sold many prints with a clown in the front row.  Needless to say, my parents didn’t buy one. I am sorry I couldn’t find one for this post.

 

 

 

 

Lottery

What would you do if you won the lottery?

It would be a true miracle if I won the lottery since I never buy a ticket.