31 July 2009
Attention Deficit Disorder, defined
The condition of the house and its inhabitants the day after you've waved the grandparents out of your driveway.
30 July 2009
Troth and its plight
It is normal for me to go through a whole day interacting with no adult other than my husband. On those days when I do personally interact with another adult, it is often only in passing. The non-home events in my week are church, church stuff, and a frantic shopping trip. It's gotten to the point that a conversation with an adult can make me feel genuinely anxious, like I'm going to forget my lines. I almost never interact with men.
This is a not inconsiderable source of not un-tense relations between not-at-home moms and not-un-at-home moms. Those not-at-home moms are the faces and bodies our husbands see all day. They laugh at our husbands' jokes, congratulate him on his successes, know why he's in the foul mood he never explains to us. They're more familiar with his daily life than we are because he's too much of a man to bring his problems home. And that's without even considering how their existence negates the validity of ours.
Small church pastors' wives don't have this too bad. Most of the women with whom my husband interacts most regularly and personally are honorably crowned in white. But I think almost every woman is at least somewhat afraid of Jolene. I won't spell out potentials, because no matter how unlikely your situation, you've probably got at least one like this, or this, or [shudder] that. If we were at a ministry hive swarming with chirpy DCEs and Worship Conceptualizresses and Ministrices of Hot Chick Ministry, I'd be dark about his invisible days spent in human commerce while I sat home getting saggy and puked on, making suppers no one likes as the un-held baby yowls, and having no earnings or tales of my genius with which to charm him. Their familiarity breeds her contempt.
Waving one's husband off every morning as he goes out into a world packed with Other Women is uncool. There's an appeal to joining that world yourself just for the appearance of leverage: How's about if we're neither of us too friendly, see? This is not to say that I don't trust him (if I didn't, I obviously wouldn't be writing this). It's just an objection to current social norms, which I do my best not to practice even though I'm stuck breathing the corrosive fallout.
One of the hardest person-types for me to be civil to or about is a known Jolene.
This is a not inconsiderable source of not un-tense relations between not-at-home moms and not-un-at-home moms. Those not-at-home moms are the faces and bodies our husbands see all day. They laugh at our husbands' jokes, congratulate him on his successes, know why he's in the foul mood he never explains to us. They're more familiar with his daily life than we are because he's too much of a man to bring his problems home. And that's without even considering how their existence negates the validity of ours.
Small church pastors' wives don't have this too bad. Most of the women with whom my husband interacts most regularly and personally are honorably crowned in white. But I think almost every woman is at least somewhat afraid of Jolene. I won't spell out potentials, because no matter how unlikely your situation, you've probably got at least one like this, or this, or [shudder] that. If we were at a ministry hive swarming with chirpy DCEs and Worship Conceptualizresses and Ministrices of Hot Chick Ministry, I'd be dark about his invisible days spent in human commerce while I sat home getting saggy and puked on, making suppers no one likes as the un-held baby yowls, and having no earnings or tales of my genius with which to charm him. Their familiarity breeds her contempt.
Waving one's husband off every morning as he goes out into a world packed with Other Women is uncool. There's an appeal to joining that world yourself just for the appearance of leverage: How's about if we're neither of us too friendly, see? This is not to say that I don't trust him (if I didn't, I obviously wouldn't be writing this). It's just an objection to current social norms, which I do my best not to practice even though I'm stuck breathing the corrosive fallout.
One of the hardest person-types for me to be civil to or about is a known Jolene.
29 July 2009
O sister, where art thou?
This is one of those things that seems obvious to me, but I have a problem with thinking that things I think are obvious.
When I extol the virtues of those marvelous women who undertake tireless feats of faithful maternity, I am not referring to myself AT ALL. I may be breaking rocks in the hot sun, but it's because I fought the law and somebody else won. Whether it was Law or Gospel depends on whom you talk to.
Reb. Mary, Gauntlets, and I are on a chain gang. We wish we were good people, but we aren't. So if we say something nice about an abstract principle, any syllogism it may interest you to apply should lead you to conclusions about other people. Like, people who don't write whiny blogs about how hard their lives are.
"Y' know what's powerful commendable is them folks what haul logs honest-like."
When I extol the virtues of those marvelous women who undertake tireless feats of faithful maternity, I am not referring to myself AT ALL. I may be breaking rocks in the hot sun, but it's because I fought the law and somebody else won. Whether it was Law or Gospel depends on whom you talk to.
Reb. Mary, Gauntlets, and I are on a chain gang. We wish we were good people, but we aren't. So if we say something nice about an abstract principle, any syllogism it may interest you to apply should lead you to conclusions about other people. Like, people who don't write whiny blogs about how hard their lives are.
"Y' know what's powerful commendable is them folks what haul logs honest-like."28 July 2009
Choose Your Own Adventure: Buying a Pregnancy Test In a Small Town
You're probably pregnant! Even though you know the signs well, you want to buy a test. There's just something about that definitive line that makes it easier to say goodbye to cocktail hour with Dad. But you live in a really small town. Where are you going to get your test?
(To ride your bike immediately to the really tiny store in your town which may not even carry pregnancy tests and carries a high risk of running into someone from church and the certainty of running into someone who knows someone from church, read paragraph 1)
(To drive immediately to the somewhat larger store in the next little town over which is more likely to carry pregnancy tests and carries a considerable risk of running into someone from church or someone from the church across the field and the possibility of running into someone who knows both you and many of the aforementioned risky individuals, read paragraph 2)
(To wait until your next regularly scheduled shopping trip to the exurbs and a store which is certain to have pregnancy tests and carries a moderate risk of running into someone who knows you, read paragraph 3)
1. You get on your bike and ride four blocks. Your brakes don't work so you have to swerve onto the sidewalk to avoid being hit by the one car which happens to driving down your town's "busy" street right when you want to turn onto it. Ride two more blocks to the store. There are four cars parked out front, which is a lot. You lean your bike, which has no kickstand, against the big trash can outside the store. You walk to the short shelf of personal care items and see the pregnancy tests. They only have the off brand kind requiring inconvenient testing procedures. It costs $6.99. There are lots of people (like, six) leaning on the checkout counter and talking to the clerk. You don't know any of them, but between the cost and the crowd and the fact that the baby is still nursing enough that you don't know if you've really waited long enough to test yet, you go home without buying a test.
(To drive to the somewhat larger store in the next little town, read paragraph 2)
(To wait until your next regularly scheduled shopping trip to the exurbs, skip to paragraph 3)
2. You tell the kids and Dad you'll be back in a minute and drive to the next town over. The parking lot is almost completely full, which is unusual and figures. You look for cars you know, and although you don't see any from your church, you don't know what anyone in this town drives so you don't feel all that safe. When you go inside, there is enough of a line at the checkout counter that you're not keen on standing in it with that incriminating box in your hand. But you really want to know, so you find the personal care aisle and start looking. They don't appear to have any.
You look up and down the other aisles to make sure you're looking in the right place--nothing. You go back to the personal care aisle since it seems pretty impossible that a store wouldn't stock pregnancy tests. There they are! Way up on the top shelf. Good thing you're on the tall side. You consider writing a note to the store explaining that a lady who needs a pregnancy test doesn't want to ask for help getting it down. They have expensive EPTs and also the cheap kind--really cheap! Less than two dollars! Thank you, modern science. You grab the cheap one. Should you pick out something else to give the appearance of nonchalance, or is that too much like the guy who came through your line when you were a checker in high school and put a snow shovel and a box of Trojans on the counter?
Let's just get out of here. Head to the line, which is now way longer. As you walk toward it, the lady at the end is totally staring at you. She saw you take the test off the shelf and is studying you for maternal fitness. Sheesh. A guy gets in line behind you and starts unloading his stuff, but there's no way you're putting your test on the belt for all the world to judge. You watch the door nervously, but no one dangerous comes through. You put your box on the counter at the last minute, and the clerk embarrasses the heck out of the guy behind you by asking if your stuff is all together. You have to pay with a credit card because you didn't think you had enough cash at home--lesson learned.
(If your test is negative but all other signs point to yes, remember it was the cheap test and this happened last time too, what with the nursing baby messing things up. Wait a few days and go back to the beginning of the post.)
3. You wait for your weekend trip to Walmart. When you get there, you pick up all your other stuff first so you can hide the pregnancy test under it in your cart. You thank God again for your rock star husband who keeps the kids so you can go shopping alone--it's bad enough having to buy these things without dragging four other kids along to invite idiotic comments. You think about doing the test right here, but decide you've waited this long and can stand to drive home and avoid killing time in the rank Walmart bathroom while you wait for the lines.
(If your test is negative but you're still suspicious, go back to the intro and start over.)
When you test positive, this post ends. Congratulations!
(BTW, I have recently come into a better-equipped bike, so don't you worry bout that.)
(To ride your bike immediately to the really tiny store in your town which may not even carry pregnancy tests and carries a high risk of running into someone from church and the certainty of running into someone who knows someone from church, read paragraph 1)
(To drive immediately to the somewhat larger store in the next little town over which is more likely to carry pregnancy tests and carries a considerable risk of running into someone from church or someone from the church across the field and the possibility of running into someone who knows both you and many of the aforementioned risky individuals, read paragraph 2)
(To wait until your next regularly scheduled shopping trip to the exurbs and a store which is certain to have pregnancy tests and carries a moderate risk of running into someone who knows you, read paragraph 3)
1. You get on your bike and ride four blocks. Your brakes don't work so you have to swerve onto the sidewalk to avoid being hit by the one car which happens to driving down your town's "busy" street right when you want to turn onto it. Ride two more blocks to the store. There are four cars parked out front, which is a lot. You lean your bike, which has no kickstand, against the big trash can outside the store. You walk to the short shelf of personal care items and see the pregnancy tests. They only have the off brand kind requiring inconvenient testing procedures. It costs $6.99. There are lots of people (like, six) leaning on the checkout counter and talking to the clerk. You don't know any of them, but between the cost and the crowd and the fact that the baby is still nursing enough that you don't know if you've really waited long enough to test yet, you go home without buying a test.
(To drive to the somewhat larger store in the next little town, read paragraph 2)
(To wait until your next regularly scheduled shopping trip to the exurbs, skip to paragraph 3)
2. You tell the kids and Dad you'll be back in a minute and drive to the next town over. The parking lot is almost completely full, which is unusual and figures. You look for cars you know, and although you don't see any from your church, you don't know what anyone in this town drives so you don't feel all that safe. When you go inside, there is enough of a line at the checkout counter that you're not keen on standing in it with that incriminating box in your hand. But you really want to know, so you find the personal care aisle and start looking. They don't appear to have any.
You look up and down the other aisles to make sure you're looking in the right place--nothing. You go back to the personal care aisle since it seems pretty impossible that a store wouldn't stock pregnancy tests. There they are! Way up on the top shelf. Good thing you're on the tall side. You consider writing a note to the store explaining that a lady who needs a pregnancy test doesn't want to ask for help getting it down. They have expensive EPTs and also the cheap kind--really cheap! Less than two dollars! Thank you, modern science. You grab the cheap one. Should you pick out something else to give the appearance of nonchalance, or is that too much like the guy who came through your line when you were a checker in high school and put a snow shovel and a box of Trojans on the counter?
Let's just get out of here. Head to the line, which is now way longer. As you walk toward it, the lady at the end is totally staring at you. She saw you take the test off the shelf and is studying you for maternal fitness. Sheesh. A guy gets in line behind you and starts unloading his stuff, but there's no way you're putting your test on the belt for all the world to judge. You watch the door nervously, but no one dangerous comes through. You put your box on the counter at the last minute, and the clerk embarrasses the heck out of the guy behind you by asking if your stuff is all together. You have to pay with a credit card because you didn't think you had enough cash at home--lesson learned.
(If your test is negative but all other signs point to yes, remember it was the cheap test and this happened last time too, what with the nursing baby messing things up. Wait a few days and go back to the beginning of the post.)
3. You wait for your weekend trip to Walmart. When you get there, you pick up all your other stuff first so you can hide the pregnancy test under it in your cart. You thank God again for your rock star husband who keeps the kids so you can go shopping alone--it's bad enough having to buy these things without dragging four other kids along to invite idiotic comments. You think about doing the test right here, but decide you've waited this long and can stand to drive home and avoid killing time in the rank Walmart bathroom while you wait for the lines.
(If your test is negative but you're still suspicious, go back to the intro and start over.)
When you test positive, this post ends. Congratulations!
(BTW, I have recently come into a better-equipped bike, so don't you worry bout that.)
27 July 2009
Survey says . . . (a little early because I've got a minute)
I have to be honest--Justice Scalia has never commented on this blog that I know of, although I am pretty sure he's a regular reader. I was just trying to get him to come clean by including his name in the poll. Coy, that one.
There is potential for mischief when it comes to speculating exactly why I named my personal sidearm after one of our commenters, particularly considering the options presented . . . but I'll leave that fun to you. The correct answer is Monique, a person I've never met but whose comments (particularly those on the last post!) and personal correspondence I have appreciated. I think she and I were in contact about something around the time I acquired this sidearm, and her francophonic variation on one of the Church's great mothers fit perfectly. And speaking of fitting perfectly, I'm surprised that Bella Band doesn't list "holster" among the applications of its versatile product.
(Need I mention that we are not idiots and are very serious about gun safety, and yes we've heard that scary statistic? Well, just in case.)
There is potential for mischief when it comes to speculating exactly why I named my personal sidearm after one of our commenters, particularly considering the options presented . . . but I'll leave that fun to you. The correct answer is Monique, a person I've never met but whose comments (particularly those on the last post!) and personal correspondence I have appreciated. I think she and I were in contact about something around the time I acquired this sidearm, and her francophonic variation on one of the Church's great mothers fit perfectly. And speaking of fitting perfectly, I'm surprised that Bella Band doesn't list "holster" among the applications of its versatile product.
(Need I mention that we are not idiots and are very serious about gun safety, and yes we've heard that scary statistic? Well, just in case.)
25 July 2009
Cloth diapers: the war rages on
Oh, cloth diapers. I am so tired of you making me think about diapers all the time.
Ok. Little Dude has been in cloth diapers for most of his life. I didn't have them until he was about three months old, and I had a relapse for a couple of months, and I don't use them when we travel. But it is time for me to admit the truth. He has developed a chronic rash in them, and it goes away whenever he's in disposables.
This rash persists despite the fact that I am good about changing him very promptly, and he usually stays dry during his nap of his own accord. I cannot find a balm or emollient which suffices preventatively or remedially. He's a manly baby man, but he still has sensitive skin. He'll probably be in Gillette commercials someday and buy me a nice trailer and let me live in his backyard.
I'm just not board with disposables being carcinogenic or otherwise personally hazardous (and totally unqualified to have come to this conclusion, since there is no way of knowing which side in the absurdly inflated argument not untainted by the premise that babies are bad is actually right), so I'm making one final attempt. I'm now experimenting with Chinese prefolds, thanks again to my diaper sugar mama aka Grandma, and if they work, that will be great and mean a lot less dryer time in the winter and I'll buy me some Snappis because pins stink.
But if they don't, that imaginary stack of rank disposables on my ridiculous Al Gore-influenced conscience and my dogmatic notion that it only makes sense for people with a lot of kids to use cloth diapers just cannot outweigh my baby's comfort any longer. I KNOW that the cloth diapers I've been using are personally hazardous to this particular person. He cries whenever I change him. It's terrible.
This all came into focus a few mornings ago when my husband found me retching in the bathroom as I pregnantly sprayed out a really noxious specimen, informed me that this is completely insane, and offered to contribute the MONEY he earns at his JOB so that his son and I will no longer be afflicted in our bodies by this matter of principle. Um . . . right.
So, maybe the prefolds will work, or maybe Baby 5 will be a better candidate for cloth, or maybe Jesus will come back before I have to find out.
Ok. Little Dude has been in cloth diapers for most of his life. I didn't have them until he was about three months old, and I had a relapse for a couple of months, and I don't use them when we travel. But it is time for me to admit the truth. He has developed a chronic rash in them, and it goes away whenever he's in disposables.
This rash persists despite the fact that I am good about changing him very promptly, and he usually stays dry during his nap of his own accord. I cannot find a balm or emollient which suffices preventatively or remedially. He's a manly baby man, but he still has sensitive skin. He'll probably be in Gillette commercials someday and buy me a nice trailer and let me live in his backyard.
I'm just not board with disposables being carcinogenic or otherwise personally hazardous (and totally unqualified to have come to this conclusion, since there is no way of knowing which side in the absurdly inflated argument not untainted by the premise that babies are bad is actually right), so I'm making one final attempt. I'm now experimenting with Chinese prefolds, thanks again to my diaper sugar mama aka Grandma, and if they work, that will be great and mean a lot less dryer time in the winter and I'll buy me some Snappis because pins stink.
But if they don't, that imaginary stack of rank disposables on my ridiculous Al Gore-influenced conscience and my dogmatic notion that it only makes sense for people with a lot of kids to use cloth diapers just cannot outweigh my baby's comfort any longer. I KNOW that the cloth diapers I've been using are personally hazardous to this particular person. He cries whenever I change him. It's terrible.
This all came into focus a few mornings ago when my husband found me retching in the bathroom as I pregnantly sprayed out a really noxious specimen, informed me that this is completely insane, and offered to contribute the MONEY he earns at his JOB so that his son and I will no longer be afflicted in our bodies by this matter of principle. Um . . . right.
So, maybe the prefolds will work, or maybe Baby 5 will be a better candidate for cloth, or maybe Jesus will come back before I have to find out.
23 July 2009
"Tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away."
Father Hollywood on Mary Magdalene:
Full text here, and recommended.
UPDATE: Cyberstones too.
The godly Christian woman is epitomized by St. Mary Magdalene. For as much as Satan hates her, tries to possess her, seeks to mislead and deceive her, and even savages her reputation – she is a servant, a steadfast witness to her Lord, and a servant to those whom she has been placed in submission.
St. Mary is “far more precious than jewels” as our dear sister in the faith, as a godly example of womanhood, as a blessed pattern of service to all Christians, men and women alike, whose lives are to be lived in godly submission to our Bridegroom, our Husband who lays down His life for us, giving Himself completely to His bride, and sharing with us, His Church, the good news that He has risen and that the cunning devil has been defeated.
Full text here, and recommended.
UPDATE: Cyberstones too.
You are baptized into Christ and no one, no thing, not you, not the devil, not your sins, can snatch you away. You belong to Him and you you will follow Him out of this valley of sorrows, out of this den of iniquity, our of your own selfish desires, to Himself in heaven. If that brings tears to your eyes, as it did to the Magdalene, so be it. Do not be ashamed. Many a bride has wept with joy to see a Bridegroom so gentle and competent, so faithful and true, so loving and gracious.
22 July 2009
Usage you can use: offensive language
Vulgarity: offensive language of a scatological nature or pertaining to the body in non-sexual context. If a farmer uses it, he is likely to be doing so literally.
Obscenity: offensive language of a sexual nature.
Profanity: offensive language of a religious nature. Considered blasphemy by religious adherents. Words sometimes considered profane may be used literally by religious adherents in religious context.
Some words considered offensive may be applied to fit more than one category, but context normally indicates into which category a particular usage fits.
Please note, if a mother describes frankly what she had to get out of the carpet after some clever child escaped his diaper, she has not used profanity or obscenity. (Mothers are basically farmers.)
Obscenity: offensive language of a sexual nature.
Profanity: offensive language of a religious nature. Considered blasphemy by religious adherents. Words sometimes considered profane may be used literally by religious adherents in religious context.
Some words considered offensive may be applied to fit more than one category, but context normally indicates into which category a particular usage fits.
Please note, if a mother describes frankly what she had to get out of the carpet after some clever child escaped his diaper, she has not used profanity or obscenity. (Mothers are basically farmers.)
20 July 2009
And now for something completely different
On the Vanguard, a play in 26 lines.
Characters:
Gauntlets -- a 32-year-old mother of four, dressed in camouflage (which hides the poop marks), in pretty good mood, all things considered.
College Guy -- probably somewhere around 20 years old, dressed in pink button-up shirt, no tie, dress slacks, and terribly confused about his place in the universe
The scene opens on a normal afternoon in the Gauntlet household--kids running pell-mell without any real or perceived cause, Mom on couch feeding baby--when the relative peace is disturbed by a confident knock knock on the door. And:
Gauntlets (G): opening door, babe on hip. Yes?
College Guy (CG): smiling widely. Are you the lady of the house?
G: kids begin crowding around legs. That's right.
CG: Ha! You seem to have a lot of kids!
G: So call it?
CG: Ha! Well, you see ma'am. hands over a flier. I'm with Kirby Vacuum Sales. We're touring your neighborhood today, offering free carpet cleaning! And, the good news for me is that for every carpet I clean, I get $20 toward my college education!
G: . . .
CG: continues smiling.
G: So?
CG: smile falters a bit. Well! So, you just give me the word and I'll clean any carpet in your home, absolutely free! eyes the baby. I'm sure you have a carpet with a few stains on it! Ha!
G: closing door. That's awfully nice of you, but no. Thank you.
CG: catches door and holds it open. Wait! Ha! Before you have all your kids beat me up, let me mention a few things about our great product!
G: tightening grip on door handle. Actually, you were here last year. So, we've been through this already.
CG: smiling at half mast. Oh. Well then you know how great our product is! Surely, you'd like it if someone else cleaned your carpet, just this once?
G: pulling at door. No. I really wouldn't. Thank you, anyway.
CG: pulling back at door. Look, our boss man is right over there in that purple van. See him? He says we can't go home until we've worked an hour or cleaned a carpet. Can I just come in and clean that front hallway there?
G: pulling harder at door. No.
CG: begging. Can't I clean anything?
G: getting amused. There's that door mat right there. You might bang it up against the side of the house or something.
CG: not amused. It has to be a carpet.
G: wresting door away. Well, then, I don't think I can help you.
CG: with a hint of sneer. . . . I'll take back my flier.
G: handing flier over. Wow, dude. Tough job, you know?
CG: desperate. It wouldn't be tough if you would just let me in your house!
G: . . . Well. Um. Goodbye, then.
CG: slumps away.
The end.
So, look out America. The Kirby sales guy drives a purple van and apparently has some sort of horrible control over his serfs, making them desperate and powerfully confused. If he sends one to your house, I strongly suggest not opening the door to begin with. The one I encountered was strong.
Characters:
Gauntlets -- a 32-year-old mother of four, dressed in camouflage (which hides the poop marks), in pretty good mood, all things considered.
College Guy -- probably somewhere around 20 years old, dressed in pink button-up shirt, no tie, dress slacks, and terribly confused about his place in the universe
The scene opens on a normal afternoon in the Gauntlet household--kids running pell-mell without any real or perceived cause, Mom on couch feeding baby--when the relative peace is disturbed by a confident knock knock on the door. And:
Gauntlets (G): opening door, babe on hip. Yes?
College Guy (CG): smiling widely. Are you the lady of the house?
G: kids begin crowding around legs. That's right.
CG: Ha! You seem to have a lot of kids!
G: So call it?
CG: Ha! Well, you see ma'am. hands over a flier. I'm with Kirby Vacuum Sales. We're touring your neighborhood today, offering free carpet cleaning! And, the good news for me is that for every carpet I clean, I get $20 toward my college education!
G: . . .
CG: continues smiling.
G: So?
CG: smile falters a bit. Well! So, you just give me the word and I'll clean any carpet in your home, absolutely free! eyes the baby. I'm sure you have a carpet with a few stains on it! Ha!
G: closing door. That's awfully nice of you, but no. Thank you.
CG: catches door and holds it open. Wait! Ha! Before you have all your kids beat me up, let me mention a few things about our great product!
G: tightening grip on door handle. Actually, you were here last year. So, we've been through this already.
CG: smiling at half mast. Oh. Well then you know how great our product is! Surely, you'd like it if someone else cleaned your carpet, just this once?
G: pulling at door. No. I really wouldn't. Thank you, anyway.
CG: pulling back at door. Look, our boss man is right over there in that purple van. See him? He says we can't go home until we've worked an hour or cleaned a carpet. Can I just come in and clean that front hallway there?
G: pulling harder at door. No.
CG: begging. Can't I clean anything?
G: getting amused. There's that door mat right there. You might bang it up against the side of the house or something.
CG: not amused. It has to be a carpet.
G: wresting door away. Well, then, I don't think I can help you.
CG: with a hint of sneer. . . . I'll take back my flier.
G: handing flier over. Wow, dude. Tough job, you know?
CG: desperate. It wouldn't be tough if you would just let me in your house!
G: . . . Well. Um. Goodbye, then.
CG: slumps away.
The end.
So, look out America. The Kirby sales guy drives a purple van and apparently has some sort of horrible control over his serfs, making them desperate and powerfully confused. If he sends one to your house, I strongly suggest not opening the door to begin with. The one I encountered was strong.
Anonymity
FYI: we do not remain quasi-anonymous because we are afraid to put our names on what we say or because we think it gives us some rhetorical advantage for our insidious political agenda (<-----irony. The verbal kind. All the homeschoolers already knew this). We stay undercoverish as a matter of personal security. We live in small towns where anyone on the street could probably point an inquiring stranger to our houses. Given the nasty things that have been in the headlines in recent years about violence against pregnant ladies, we'd rather not have strangers who know exactly how pregnant we are show up on our porches. So if you know us, thanks for keeping it on the downlow. We also ask that all readers return the favor to our commenters and just address them by the names they offer here.
As I am the person who is probably least anonymous, it only seems fair to warn you that my husband maintains a rather large arsenal and for my last birthday purchased me a very stylish personal sidearm. I am comfortable firing this sidearm and pleased with my performance in terms of "minutes of man." It also has a really awesome laser grip on it so you'll know you're a goner. This sidearm is named after one of our readers. Can you guess which? I'll put up a poll later but I don't have time now.
As I am the person who is probably least anonymous, it only seems fair to warn you that my husband maintains a rather large arsenal and for my last birthday purchased me a very stylish personal sidearm. I am comfortable firing this sidearm and pleased with my performance in terms of "minutes of man." It also has a really awesome laser grip on it so you'll know you're a goner. This sidearm is named after one of our readers. Can you guess which? I'll put up a poll later but I don't have time now.
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