WildGirl Is A Berserker

OK look, I'm a barbarian, but my 5 year old daughter WildGirl (who has autism) is a full fledged berserker and goes into berserker rages So. Many. Times.  I'm frankly exhausted.  She woke me up this morning at 5am and wouldn't stop beating on me the whole morning.  Anyone who's ever been punched, kicked, pushed, elbowed, and fishhooked repeatedly for a whole morning straight can tell you it takes the fun right out of your day.

(Little trickster.)

So today is the open house/conference day for my younger 2, and then school starts on Thursday. 

IT CANNOT GET HERE SOON ENOUGH!!

We already had one conference (in which I warned the teacher repeatedly of WildBoy's barbarian ways) and she laughed and smiled and showed me a new behavior plan in which they emphasize rewarding good behavior.  I smiled and nodded.  "You're screwed," I thought to myself.  We'll see how often I get called about WildBoy's behavior this year.  Last year, he was banned from wearing elastic waisted pants because he kept pulling his pants down in gym.  I'd get a call every week saying he'd hit someone on the bus.

(That about sums it up.)

I won't mind WildGirl's conference today, because all I really have to do is give adequate warning about her berserker ways.  We'll flesh the rest of it out in her IEP meeting tomorrow (which I'm not looking forward to because I have to negotiate. 
Barbarians suck at negotiation. 
I'd much rather swing my axes around but noooooo.)

However, I've dealt with WildGirl's berserker frenzies this entire summer and, miraculously, I handled most things with quite a bit of patience!  Who knew!  I feel like, after dealing with her the past couple days, I should be considered a saint.

(Like this guy)

(Ummm.... leaves something to be desired.  And yes, that is a bed sheet and a Kobudo bo.  It's the symbol of my sainthood.  I'm the patron saint of taking naps and hitting things.)  :P

And, in case that photo wasn't enough blasphemy for the day, here's me as "buddy Jesus".

(Catholicism Wow!)

That's all, folks!  I'm sure I'll get around to offending the rest of the population at a later date.

Sad Barbarian Is Sad

Barbarian Mom is sad today.  Yesterday I was informed that WEAP will no longer be covering WildGirl's ABA therapy (an intensive in-home therapy that teaches daily living skills to kids with autism). 

At first, I was all

(WTF is happening???)

Then I was all

(This makes no sense.  Explain.)

So they explained that the changed in their program require them to drop most school-aged children because they are focusing on pre-school and early intervention skills.

After that, I was all

(Which really doesn't make any sense, as barbarians are not, as a whole, calm people.)

But I was calm... idiotically so, as I thought I had options.  Silly me.  I figured I would just switch ABA providers to someone who does work with school-aged children.

I forgot that I live in Butt Fucking Egypt (i.e. Rural Wisconsin).  Many, many google searches later revealed only expired links, "page coming soon", and providers that either only work with 0-4 year olds or are outside my area, or both.  On the surface, there are options.  There are quite a few links on Autism Speaks.  But the links lead to barren deserts within the internet where only death and loneliness dwell.

I wrote a bunch of reasons why my child NEEDS ABA (the reasons are myriad), in case someone tries to question why she needs it, and to start on the many rehearsed speeches I'm giving to my school in my head, trying to mentally convince them to pay for ABA in school (an unlikely prospect).  So far, my arguments are stressing me out, and basically amount to

I also have to talk to my county worker, but she is on vacation until the I.E.P meeting.  Maybe she'll attend the I.E.P meeting with me, maybe not.  Maybe there are options that I have not been able to find on google. 

In the meantime, Barbarian Mom is seriously stressed the fuck out.  I may be panicking a little.

(Just a little.)

At least I'll have plenty of time to dwell on Everything Falling Apart, as I have to get up at 3:30AM for work tomorrow.

(Sorry I can't end on a positive note, but I really don't give a shit if every article you read has to have a ray of fucking sunshine at the end.)

Jujitsu Camp Part 1: Tomahawk Throwing

So, I got to do this awesome Jujitsu/Judo camp (Camp Kodenkan) in Duluth a week ago.  It was amazing, both in class and out of class.  They had lots of awesome classes and I learned a lot.  I also got to hang out with cool people, do a zipline while inebriated (really fun), and cut a bamboo mat into little pieces with a katana (even more fun)!  They also had a healing tent for some relaxing massages and adjustment.  It was a perfect weekend for a barbarian like me to have some fun, learn some cool shit, and engage in some cathartic drinking.

I don't have pictures for most of that stuff yet, but I do have the pictures from when I showed a couple of people (and a very inquisitive audience) how to throw tomahawks.  I've only been throwing for about a month, so I'm no expert, but I could guide people on the basics.  I also stuck my hawk 4 times in a row, which is a record for me.  :)  And it looked impressive to the other martial artists, who greatly appreciate prowess with a weapon.

First, I had to find suitable targets.  I needed either soft wood or punky wood, always deadfall, so I had to walk around in the woods in my Jujitsu gi holding a tomahawk.  I got quite a few sideways glances, and one guy asked what I was doing, so I told him I was looking for a suitable target and raised my throwing arm as if to demonstrate.  When he didn't immediately run for cover, I knew I had found my "tribe."  >:)  He found a dead tree lying a few feet from the path, but it was a bit too hard for the hawk to stick.  I found the perfect standing dead tree, but it was right next to a marshy spot.  I didn't care to lose my hawk in the marsh, so I kept going.  Finally, next to the wood burning pile I found a couple suitably punky chunks, and my new friend and I rolled them over to the wood burning pile and created a target.

Then, the fun part!  Throwing the hawks and teaching the others how to throw, too!

 (Teaching correct form when throwing.)

(My SOG fasthawk has 2 pointy ends, which makes novice throwing a little easier.  You can also buy hawks that have a pointy handle too, but that seemed a little too easy.)

(Stick it with the pointy end.)

In the future, I'll work on throwing while standing farther away from the target, and trying to get my medium sized throwing ax to stick.

Barbarians and Braids

I really wanted to write a post detailing how hairstyles mattered a hell of a lot to warriors in most cultures, so I started doing some research.  Turns out most of that is just people's stereotypes, and either we don't know enough about the culture to say what certain hairstyles meant, or they had more to do with identifying each other by clan, social status, or marital status than martial prowess.  There are a few exceptions- the Ukrainian Cossacks would wear mohawks to battle, the samurai would shave the fronts of their heads, a few tribes had specific hairstyles for warriors (i.e. the Aztec) etc... (hair ornamentation is a different thing) but the trope of braids being "for warriors" doesn't really have a lot of documentation to support it.  Fair enough.

Which is fine with me, really.  Vikings especially are stereotyped for their braids and beards, but it turns out they mostly wore whatever hairstyle was practical or looked cool.  (Beards are well documented, though being female I have yet to grow out a proper Viking beard.  Every once in a while my upper lip decides to start a mustache, but then quits halfway through because it's a lot of work growing a decent beard and mustache combo as a woman, leaving to me the task of getting rid of that pathetically tiny excuse for facial hair.)

(Bearded, braided barbarians.  Try saying that three times fast.)

So, basically, Vikings and a lot of other ancient warriors mostly wore their hair however the fuck they wanted to.  It's exactly that type of mentality that a barbarian can appreciate.

I decide to wear a braid, specifically a small braid on the right side, because it keeps my hellishly thick and long hair from flying in my face when I'm doing shit, like decapitating my enemies, or wrestling a feisty 5 year old into her socks.  Plus it looks fairly cool.  Not a lot of other people walk around with a small braid in their hair, so it's something that makes me stand out.  And, if I put it in right after a shower, it's quick and easy to do and stays in, unlike pony tails that are constantly falling apart and need re-adjusting throughout the day.

(Although to be fair my unkempt eyebrows also make me stand out in a crowd.)

Barbarians are usually shown with long hair, but I tend to grow my hair out, then get irritated with it, cut it, forget to keep it cut, let it grow out, and then repeat the process.  Right now I'm fairly irritated with my long hair, as it gets in the way when I'm doing groundwork in Jujitsu, but I can't cut it yet because I need it long for a role in a B movie horror flick that my friend is shooting.  I'm one of the main characters, so I still have a few scenes to shoot before I can cut it.  Until then, I'll be rocking the "warrior braid".

(When it's dry it looks like this.)

Fixing the Fucking Sinkhole Part 3

All the time we were "fixing" the kitchen, we had to cart out all the myriad crap that was in our kitchen.  All the dishes, pots, pans, questionable liquids that sat for years under the kitchen sink, etc...
They all piled up in our dining and living rooms, so that we had one tiny, snaking path that went through the jumble of stuff.  We had to clean out and move the chest freezer, and when we moved the fridge to the dining room we had to tie it together so that our slanting floor and gravity wouldn't pull the door open, spilling the contents across the room.

That wasn't the only reason we had to tie the fridge together.  WildGirl LOVES to get into stuff she shouldn't.  She has severe autism and a hellish determination that combine to make her the most fearsome troublemaker in the history of troublesome children. 

(She's also devilishly cute)

 We pretty much had to construct a gate similar to the Great Wall of China to keep her out of the kitchen in the first place, where she could have experimented with ovens and freezers and generally gotten herself killed in so many ways it'd take a whole blog just to list them all.  So, over the years, we've been storing the stuff she couldn't have in the kitchen, protected by the Great Gate.  Without the protection of the Great Gate, stuff started happening.

WildGirl started finding juice in the piles of stuff and drinking some, pouring the rest down the sink.
She found WildBoy's epi-pens and hid them.
She stole all the spoons and laid them out on the floor.
She scattered food, destroyed papers, ate a couple styrofoam cups, and dumped out containers full of random crap that we stored in the kitchen for sorting later.

We had no access to a kitchen sink, so we had to wash dishes upstairs in the bathtub, which was a pain in the arse.  WildGirl would frequently steal said dishes and play with them.  I started buying paper and styrofoam dishes, frankly just not wanting to deal with it.

We also had to eat out a lot, not having access to freezers, refrigerators, or a stove.  It got so bad the smell of greasy fast food would send me into a rage (we have roughly 5 fast food joints in our dinky little town, plus one take out Chinese place).  I missed eating something other than cheeseburgers.  The children, however, never tired of MacDonalds.  Of course.

After our haphazard attempts to fix things, I was a little worried.  To be fair, I was also struggling with a bout of depression that had me scowling even when things were going ok.  And this project was going fairly well considering a horde of barbarians were running the show, but all the same I was worried. 

(When barbarians are depressed we look like this.)

(Or this.)

So I talked to VikingDad about it, in a serious heart to heart that went something like this.

Me: I'm kind of worried about the kitchen project.
Him: Why?
Me: Look at all the other house projects you've done.
Him: What about them?
Me: The hole you punched in the wall, the gate, all this stuff you tried to fix looks fucked up.  That hole in the wall looks like a lumpy pile of white lava melted down the side of the wall.  And the gate scrapes up the wall on the hinge side so it looks like pieces of the house are fleeing in terror.  The whole house is falling apart.
Him: .... And your point is?
Me: I want to make sure when you fix the kitchen it actually looks like a real kitchen.
Him: So, you want it to be pretty?
Me: I want it to both look good and be functional, yes.  Can you do that?
He gives me a doubtful look.
Me: You're fired.  You need to call your dad and see if he'll help us.

And so the rest of the kitchen was fixed with VikingGrandpa's expertise and help, with VikingGrandma and VikingLad helping.  I picked out and bought all the things, and the rest of the crew worked on the kitchen while I was busy keeping WildBoy and WildGirl from throwing themselves into the wet mortar.  (To be fair, it does look pretty fun to squish between your toes.)

Eventually, the giant, huge, pain-in-the-arse project was completed!  (Well, the floor anyway.  It took a couple weeks after that to get the cabinets and sink installed.)  

(It's a real floor!)
And,

(It's a real kitchen!)
And the peasants rejoiced!

Fixing the Fucking Sinkhole Part 2

To recap: We had a huge fucking sinkhole in our kitchen for a long, long time, and whenever we wanted a snack we had to cross a plywood bridge over the gaping chasm to get through. 

Now, it finally got bad enough that even VikingDad thought, "This is ridiculous" and declared that the time had come for us to fix the sinkhole.
"Time for YOU to fix the sinkhole," I corrected, "With my input and direction."
So we argued a bit about who would do what, and who would decide what, and how to go about it.    VikingDad would do most of it.  And so we proceeded to destroy the floor.

Wielding a mighty pry bar, VikingDad smashed and pried, scooped out the mushy stuff, slammed through the solid stuff.  He made a huge mess.

I had to clean it up.  So I did.  It smelled horrible, and felt like those slimy rocks that sit on the bottom of a pond.  The tile was light, but the boards were heavy and soaked through with some vile sludge mix of mold, dirt, and whatever remained of those who fell victim to the sinkhole's vile clutches.  VikingDad would spend a day smashing through the tile and floorboards, and I would spend a day and a half hauling the chunks out to the trash can.  The sinkhole stopped looking like a sinkhole, and more like a huge chasm in our floor.  Progress!

After we got that huge mess taken care of, I had to scrape the sludge and rotten wood off the bottom of the floor.  So I got a scraper and got to it, toiling day and night in the heat, scraping all the sludge and rotten wood off the bottom and sides.  It was not as fun as VikingDad's "hulk smash" method of tearing out our floor, but it was just as physically difficult.  For weeks upon weeks I toiled, sweat running down my face, scraper in hand.  And after that, I had to haul out the chunks I scraped and sweep and shovel up the smaller chunks.

(It kind of felt like that. )

VikingDad enlisted VikingLad to help take care of the wall, where part of the sludge started creeping up the drywall.  He was SUPPOSED to cut out the moldy parts in a squared off line, so we could get replacement drywall.  The "square" he cut out looked more like a jagged wave.  VikingDad and I scrutinized the finished work with narrow eyes and confused looks.  Whose idea of a straight line is that, anyway?  This is what happens when barbarian teenagers are put in charge of doing something!

Then, came the bleaching.  It was VikingDad who did that, since I morally object to having to do all the cleaning myself.  After that, it looked kind of good, like maybe the hole actually belonged there instead of stumbled upon our floor accidentally in a drunken, chaotic stupor.

After that, VikingDad tried to fit the drywall I bought into the haphazard lines VikingLad cut, filled in the cracks and holes, used his authority to compel VikingLad into sanding everything, and then I painted the walls.

(The plywood bridge came back so we could set our crap on it while I slathered paint on the walls.)

Hey, it started looking like a real kitchen (kind of)!

The Day I Helped Aprehend a Thief

I work as a security guard for a lumber yard.  For the most part, it's a boring job (but a good one, as I get to read books on my downtime.  Yay books!)  But a couple days ago, work was very exciting. 

First, it was confusing.  I was working when, all of a sudden, a woman ran behind the yard wall into the bushes.  She had dark hair, lean, ragged features, a purple shirt, and capris.  She was clutching a purse and looked scared.

My first thought was, "What the fuck?"  My second was, "I'd better see what she's doing behind our wall."  So I got up and looked at the tangle of bushes and brambles behind our wall.  Who in their right mind would be running through that at full speed?  She tripped and fell a few times as she ran.
Was someone chasing her?  I didn't see anyone behind her at all.
Does she live in one of the houses on top of the hill?  I saw her head farther into the brush, not toward any house that I could see.
Does she really, really have to go to the bathroom?  After this last thought, I looked away in case she needed privacy to do her thing.  If I were racing into thick brush behind a wall, it'd probably be because I really, really had to pee.  Especially when I was pregnant.  Is she pregnant?  I thought of what I knew about civilized people.  Civilized people (i.e. not me) usually want to pee in a civilized place, and there are perfectly civilized bathrooms within a few hundred yards inside the store.  So, that's probably not the reason.
Is she a thief?  Possible, but what kind of hairbrained thief goes running around in the brush in plain sight of a security guard in the middle of the day?
Is she having a mental breakdown?
I decided to call to her to see if she needed help.

"Hey, whoever's there!"  I called, "Do you need any help?"  Because I'm helpful like that.  And subtle.

No reply... in fact, she picked up her pace.  OK, probably not doing anything wholesome like taking a shit, then.
I called the guys in the yard through my radio, telling them that there was a crazy person running around behind the yard, and to keep a lookout.
"Does she know there's lions, tigers, and bears back there?" Was the reply.  We all laughed a little.  I had no idea what she was doing back there.

About half an hour later, I got a call on my radio saying the woman I saw had just stolen a bunch of stuff from Walmart.  Huh.  I texted my friend who also worked at the yard, because I knew he'd be suitably impressed.  He was, but I was insatiably curious.  Had the cops picked her up?  Was she still at large?  No way to know, so I went back to work.

(That's the wall and underbrush that she went running into.)

Then, later in the day, I saw a white SUV pull up and thought nothing of it- cars pull up in the employee spots next to me all the time.  But then a woman who looked exactly like the woman I saw before trudged out to the bushes, cigarette in hand, purse nowhere to be seen.  I had a moment of self-doubt.  What if it's not the same woman?  I really do have a horrible memory, so I made sure I was seeing things correctly.

(An aside: One thing this job has taught me is to trust my judgment more than ever.  Because of my ADHD, I don't always have a correct understanding or memory of things.  I miss details.  I overlook obvious things.  But, in this job, I have to project confidence.  I have to rely on my own judgment and skills over those of the customer.  Surprisingly, a lot of the time, I'm right and the customer is wrong!  That's mind blowing to me.  I'm so used to being the one in the wrong.)

Of course, the evidence clearly suggested it was the same woman.  I called the yard and let them know.  "Should I call the cops?" I asked, nonchalantly.  My voice was calm but my hands started shaking.  Ah, adrenaline. 
"Well, she is wanted," was the reply. 
"OK, I'm calling the cops," I said, and dialed 911.  I only vaguely remember talking on the phone with them, because stuff was happening in my environment at the same time.  The guy in the SUV that drove her up caught on to the fact I was on the phone and started pulling out of the parking space.  When it was parked, I couldn't get a good read on the license plate, but as it pulled out, I was able to see the numbers.  While I was relating what I saw to the police, I took out a pen and started writing down the license numbers.

I hung up with 911 and went out of my station.  Other employees came out- one was my manager- and asked me which way she went.  I pointed out the route she took, and they started circling around. 

Suddenly, I saw her directly in front of me, coming out the way she came in.
"There she is," I yelled.  She came barrelling towards me (I was blocking her way out) with a bunch of stuff in her arms.  I thought of all the cop shows I'd seen.
"Ma'am, please stay where you are," I calmly told her.  (While thinking, hey!  It's pretty fun pretending to be a cop.  Wheee!)  (Did I mention that adrenaline makes me slightly giddy?)
She didn't stop, but she did try to go around me.  I grabbed her arm and repeated, "Ma'am, you need to stay here."  She dropped the stuff she was carrying and the other employees, who were coming up behind her, told me to just let her go. I let her go.  (But I really, really wanted to take her down.)  At that point, I saw that an officer was coming out of the bushes right behind her, so I watched them run past, around a corner and out of sight, where another unit was waiting.  They apparently arrested her there.

I gave the officers the license number and description of the SUV, and they have an APB on it now.  I looked over the stuff she dropped.  Shoes, underwear, jewelry, random knick knacks.  As I looked at the items I felt bad for her.  Maybe $30 worth of merchandise, taken from Walmart, the most evil of corporations.  Did I do the right thing, getting the police involved?  If she would have approached me at Walmart and asked me to pay for those things for her, I would have.  She looked like someone who had a rough life- maybe she needed that stuff.  Walmart certainly wouldn't miss $30 worth of profits.  I felt awful.

On the other hand, she stole that stuff and hid it on my watch, on my turf.  I simply couldn't do my job properly and let her get away with it.  If she would have come back after my shift, there would be no security guard here overnight, and she could have easily gotten away with it.  What possessed her to do all this in the middle of the day?  I simply could not ignore such blatant criminal activity.  Still, I hope she gets the help she needs.  She didn't seem dangerous at all, just damaged and not that bright.  Not a very formidable opponent for this barbarian.  I felt like a cat dragging around a stuffed animal.

(I is a formidable hunter!  Grar!)

But, I also feel like I have something impressive to put on my resume, so... *shrug*

My Friend and My Arch-Nemesis

Today I will introduce you to my Arch-Nemesis.  The problem with this Arch-Nemesis is that I keep vanquishing them, only for them to return, stronger and more problematic than last time.  My life is a series of battles, despair, victory, followed by brief periods of bliss and peace, followed by more battles and even more despair.  Are you ready to behold the face of such a worthy opponent?  OK, but I'll warn you: it's hideous.  The mere sight of it might cause lesser men and women to soil themselves, or run screaming from the room.  Here it is:
(dun dun duuuunnnnnn)
......
......
......
......
......

(In the background: AAAAAAHHHHH!  The dreaded Pantry Moth!  Run AWAAAYYYYY!)


Seriously, these motherfuckers are a huge pain in the ass.  I have tried everything short of burning my house down to get rid of them for good, and they ALWAYS come back, stronger and more numerous than before.  The first time I saw these moths hanging around I was vaguely curious, but I have a habit of letting strange creatures alone until they pose a threat to me or my family's health or sanity.

WELL.

Consider my sanity threatened!  I declare War on you, O Mighty Pantry Moth, and I will slay you violently and with no mercy!  I will kill your very children in front of your eyes until nothing remains but the faintly annoying memory of your all too brief existence!

Let me list all the things I have tried to get rid of these fuckers:

1.  Throwing ALL my food away.  Pantry moths live in people food, eat people food, bathe in people food, lay their eggs in people food, turn into larva in people food, and destroy people food.  Their existence is dependent upon people food.  YOU WOULD THINK.  Except that, even after putting traps out and throwing out all my food, I found pantry moth larva in the dog food, in corners of the room, in the toy box, and on top of the refrigerator.  Apparently there is enough food-like substance lurking in all corners of the house (don't really want to think about that, actually) to sustain these stupid little pests.

2. Traps.  Pantry moth traps work, and they work well.  We caught so, SO many pantry moths in those traps.  I used to feel slightly bad for killing moths with traps because, as a barbarian, I prefer to end my enemies' lives with quick and sudden violence, not allow them to slowly starve to death trapped on a sticky surface.  Now?  I laugh at their suffering, letting the thought of their slow and painful demise somewhat mollify me when I think of all the beautiful food I've had to throw out because of them.  The traps are out pretty much all the time, now.  Having traps scattered throughout the house is my new normal.  Despite how effective traps are, the moths STILL find ways to reproduce enough to keep them in business, and every once in a while I still have to throw out a whole box of cereal because my blissful desire for a snack turns into a disgusted rage as I find eggs and larva in the bottom of my cereal box.  UGH.

3.  Flyswatters.  The pantry moth pictured above met its violent, untimely end at the hands of such a weapon.  This weapon, in fact.

Flyswatters aren't the best for getting rid of moths long term, but they can certainly help, and it feels so satisfying to take out the fuckers and leave their corpses pasted to the kitchen ceiling as a grim warning to the rest of them.

4.  Letting my friends help out.  Yes, spiders are my friends.  Yes, I realize that most people are deathly afraid of them, or hate them for other (irrational) reasons, but whatever.  I love them.  Get over it.  AND they eat pantry moths, so I rejoice when I see them in the house.  Especially the one I found yesterday, a beautiful beautiful garden spider (Argiope aurantia).  She had the smart idea to make camp on our light fixture.  The light attracts the moths, and she gets a snack.  I named her Auri after a character in the Kingkiller Chronicle (plus the name is a play on her scientific name and also the light fixture where she made her home.)  Yes, I'm crazy for naming spiders that pass through my life.  No, I don't give a shit.

So, there you have it.  My battles with the Dreaded Pantry Moth continues to this day, even as recently as this morning, when I took out my flyswatter and wreaked havoc on their pathetic little lives and replaced the traps (depressingly full, as usual).  Now, my ceiling is decorated with the corpses of my enemies once again.

My New Toys

My birthday was August 7th.  I went up to level 29!  Woohoo!  I guess most people are sad about getting older, but trust me, it's been no small feat to survive this long.  I'm going to enjoy every year (level) I've earned.

(Victory!)

I usually have to work weekends, but I had my birthday off.  :)  VikingPrincess and VikingLad were on vacation, so they couldn't watch the little kids, so I had a family friendly birthday.  I did want to go see Suicide Squad, but that was not to be.  VikingDad also wants to see that, so we'll have to wait until we have a free night.  Instead I took myself to see Ghostbusters, which is light and entertaining.  As a geek, I completely object to the whole idea of a Ghostbusters remake, but, aside from that, it was a fun movie... plus there were cameos from the original, which I enjoyed.

Another enjoyable thing about my birthday was the cake and ice cream.  Woot!

But the best thing about it was MY NEW TOYS!  When I was in Summerland (a wonderful Pagan festival in NW Wisconsin), I got to try throwing tomahawks for the first time.  It was loads of fun, so for my birthday I bought myself two throwing axes.  One is a SOG fasthawk, the other is a medium sized Nordic style throwing ax with a wooden handle.  I also bought a leather sheath for it.

So, like any honorable barbarian, I went to try out my new throwing axes in whatever I could find that looked somewhat like a target.  (I learned if you miss and hit a villager on the head with the blunt end instead of the pointy end, they might still die.  Good to know.)  ;)
I threw those suckers into any dead tree I could find.  Some were too hard and I could not (yet) stick the axes.  (I'll work on it)  After that, I thought I should throw them into a softer target so I picked a large round hay bale.  Not a good idea.  I managed to throw my Nordic ax all the way to the exact center of the bale, so I then had to dig it out.  I tried dead trees in various stages of decay.  While a very decayed tree practically explodes on impact, it's not very satisfying because you could probably attain the same result with a rock.  Finally, I settled on wedging a partially burnt log from a past bonfire into the old couch that VikingDad put next to the fire pit.  (When our couches get too clawed up from our feral children and dogs, instead of trashing them, VikingDad loads them up in his tractor and drives to the middle of the pasture where our bonfire pit is.  Then, when we have a bonfire, we burn them.)
Wedged Burnt Log In A Couch worked fairly well as a target for my new sharp pointies. 

At this point, I decided to be a good mom and teach WildGreenBoy how to throw pointy things.  He just recently had a birthday (he turned 7), so I determined he should also share in the birthday fun. 

His form could be better, but it's the thought that counts (the kinds of thought that goes, "Kill it with a pointy thing!").
And, like a proper barbarian child, he also had fun climbing trees and running around in the woods.

The problem with running around in the pasture finding targets for my fledgling throwing abilities is that, when I miss, although my fasthawk is fairly easy to find in the tall grass and brush, sometimes the head of my Nordic ax comes off... and the ax head is horribly hard to find in the tall grass.  So I determined to make myself a suitable target to put in the front yard at some point.

So a couple days passed.  One night, I came home late when it was dark and raining.  The next morning, I was telling VikingDad of my troubles finding my ax head when I miss, and he was kind of smirking the whole time.  "Why are you smirking?"  I asked him.  "Look in the front yard," he replied.  I went to the window, drew back the curtain, and right in our front yard was a huge upright log, obviously a new target for me and my axes.  :)  Apparently VikingDad set it up for me the day before when I was away, and when I came back I didn't see it because it was dark and raining. 

It makes a wonderful target, although, as you can see, I've already gouged out entire chunks of it.  That's the most thoughtful thing VikingDad has done for me recently, so I am appropriately pleased with him.

Fixing The Fucking Sinkhole Part 1

So, for about a year now, we've had a sinkhole in our kitchen.  Yes, you read that right- a sinkhole.  You see, the former owners of our house had to finish the kitchen before selling it to us, and they were... reluctant at best.  To wit, they were surly and pouty about having to do it.  So they just put down the cheapest stuff they could find.

When VikingPrincess and VikingLad came to live with us after the passing of their mother (VikingPrincess and VikingLad are my stepchildren- they lived with their mother until the age of 13 and 12 when their mother passed away from cancer), the family began generating too many dirty dishes for this mom to keep up, so I started using the craptastic dishwasher.  I hadn't been using the craptastic dishwasher, because it was craptastic.  It didn't get the dishes very clean, and wouldn't shut all the way so we had to shove something heavy in front of it to get it to stay shut while washing the dishes.  VikingDad had to fix some pipes and connections in order to even get it to run at first.

Unbeknownst to us, hellish fiends (rats or mice) started to chew through the pipes in back of the dishwasher, creating a slow leak that seeped down through the flimsy cheap tiles and into the floorboards.  (As an aside, yes, we live in the country in a "fixer upper" farmhouse, so there are sometimes rats and mice that decide to attempt to move into our house.  Usually, the cats get them (we have two beautiful Maine Coon cats named Dresden and McCoy that delight in catching and killing rodents in the house), but every once in a while there will be a particularly fiendish rat or mouse that gives the cats a run for their money and does some damage before finally being caught and eaten.)

We first noticed that the floor in front of the dishwasher was getting kind of... spongy.  But by the time we figured out the problem, the damage was done.  The paper thin cheapo tiles were starting to crack and break.  The floorboards started to rot and collapse.  Our kitchen has a high amount of traffic (see post about ravenous hoard), so it didn't take long before a few well-placed steps caused the floor to collapse down into itself, leaving spongy floorboards around a sizeable dent that would sink down whenever someone stepped on it.  Eventually, it collapsed entirely, become a huge gaping hole in the middle of our kitchen floor.

For months, we precariously dodged the sinkhole, watching in dismay as it grew larger and started spreading.  Children and small animals would wander into the kitchen, never to be seen again.  We had to sacrifice a few virgins to keep it from spreading to the living room.

One day, I marched straight up to VikingDad and, with my best barbarian glower, demanded that he fix the giant sinkhole in the kitchen.  Not even looking up from his computer game (and therefore avoiding my intimidating glower entirely, the bastard), he replied, "we don't have the money."  I stood there, arms crossed, glowering and waiting for him to get off his ass and do something.  I had no knowledge of fixing sinkholes, and it was VikingDad who wanted to buy this godsforsaken "fixer upper" of a house anyway.  (The point of a fixer upper is, in my opinion, to fix it up, not to let it fall down around you while you play computer games.)  Eventually, he noticed that I was not going to go away until he did something, so he found an old plywood board and dumped it over said sinkhole, allowing us to avoid its gaping maw while it slowly took over the floor.

So, for months, we traipsed along the plywood bridge to get our snacks, and every time money was mentioned or argued about, I always interjected, "...and we STILL need to save up to fix that fucking sinkhole!"  The good news is that we did, eventually, save up for enough money to fix it, but the bad news is that a lot of our floor and part of our wall could not be saved!  (It may not look like much, but that hole took up about 1/3 of our kitchen.  We have a small kitchen.)

A Recipe

Raw Goat Heart

Ingredients: 
A goat
Butcher knife
Lasso (optional)

Directions:
1.  Catch a goat (this is harder than it sounds)
2.  Kill goat with butcher knife
3.  Drain blood
4.  Skin goat (optional)
5.  Eviscerate goat
6.  Find goat heart
7.  Eat goat heart

The Ravenously Hungry Hoard

Unsurprisingly, barbarians are often ravenously hungry.  As a rule, I am not, being kind of freakish even for a barbarian, but my offspring are ALWAYS hungry.  And, like most non-barbarian offspring, they won't eat what's put in front of them.  The result is food-obsessed zombies (if zombies had the energy of super-bouncy balls, that is) that blatantly ignore the wholesome barbarian food I place before them, and instead wander around in search of grub, complaining all the while that there is nothing to eat in the house and they are hungry. 

VikingDad has the appetite of a lion- he will gorge himself on 3 goat corpses and then not eat for days afterward.  This means he cycles through a few phases- "hungry phase" where he is, for lack of a better word, hangry, and you'd better leave him the fuck alone because if not he will eat you.  At the end of his hangry phase, even the offspring start to look delicious.  Thankfully, we live in a day and age where food is abundant, so he can at any time grab 6 goat burgers and enter the next phase, "consuming all the things."  While consuming all the things, he usually puts on an old samurai movie, which gets him in the mood for eating, and then devours everything on hand, especially if it is Chipotle.  This phase only lasts about 5 minutes but in the meantime he has consumed 2 Chipotle burritos, half a gallon of ice cream, 3 bags of cheese curds, and the still beating heart of a moose.  The next phase is "food coma", where he finishes his samurai movie plus 2 more that Netflix has recommended, all while lying down on his back on the bed, groaning loudly, and farting whenever he can.  Seriously, if you've never seen a documentary about lions, watch one and you will know exactly how VikingDad operates.  After his food coma phase, he enters the "satisfied" phase where he doesn't care about food at all, and if you ask him what he wants to do for dinner he will reply, "I'm not hungry" and continue on playing his computer game.  As a result of his weird lion phases, I hardly every bother feeding VikingDad, because he's either not hungry or wants way more food than I can reasonably acquire in 5 minutes' time.  He feeds himself, and usually things work out.

VikingPrincess, who is 17, goes through phases, too.  She goes through gluten-free phases, phases where she cares about healthy food, and phases where she will eat every donut in sight.  Good luck determining which phase she's on at any given day. 

VikingLad, who is 15, eats... and eats... and eats!  He will eat through $100 in fast food per meal if you allow it (I don't).  Buy something he likes and he'll eat the entire week's portion in one afternoon.  He'll eat entire pizzas, entire jars of nutella, go through 3 2 liter bottles of Mt Dew a day.  He will not eat wholesome barbarian food like raw steak, so I've determined he is a lost cause and just try to lock down any snacks I don't want to be ravenously devoured 2 minutes after I buy them.  Feeding VikingLad is like placating a giant, hungry Tarrasque- pretty much impossible, and you have to use a Wish spell to get enough food to satisfy him.  (And, being a barbarian, I have no spells, only manly punches.)

WildGreenBoy, who is 7, is hungry ALL the time.  Even when pooping.  Even when sleeping.  Even when swimming.  Nothing escapes his constant hunger.  He complains of being hungry literally ALL the time, even when he is currently eating.  And he looks like he is made of twigs, that's how skinny this boy is.  Every other day I'll ask him about his poop to make sure he doesn't have worms.  I have no idea how one child can be as ravenous as this child is.

WildPurpleGirl, who is 5, has digestive issues, so she gets a pass for her fickle appetite.  Although, she may just take after her dad and it's her nature to eat all the things one day and nothing the next.  Sigh. 

And then there's me.  I am generally not ravenously hungry.  However, there are exceptions.  During menstruation I must eat all the things, and doom and death to those who steal my chocolate!  And during pregnancy I had to eat constantly, but my fickle stomach could not handle most things, so I hoarded my chosen food like a dragon hoards gold.  Only I would defend my food even more fiercely than the fiercest dragon.  If you so much as LOOKED at my food I would be liable to flay you on sight.  And woe to those who would try to tell me what to eat!  I would enter berserker frenzy and tear anyone around me limb from limb and then dine on their liver (liver contains lots of nutrients- good for the baby).  I suspect that's why I didn't have many friends while I was pregnant.

Tip for being a barbarian: Eat All The Things.  Especially if it's raw meat.  Rawr!

What Is A Barbarian?

Hello!  My name is BarbarianMom.  I live in the country with my husband, VikingDad.  We have 4 kids and lots of assorted critters.  If you're reading this, you must be wondering what it's like to be a Barbarian Mom.  It's EPIC!

You may be wondering, What IS a Barbarian?
Well, historically, barbarians were just foreigners that no one could understand.  But, since that's lame, I'm going to go with the more exciting definition- barbarians are epic unbreakable warriors that wield fierce weapons, act uncivilized, cause mayhem, defeat their enemies, and have a riotously fun time.  Think Viking berserkers only with more blood spurting everywhere.  If you play D&D, Pathfinder, or other tabletop roleplaying games, you understand the awesomeness that is the Barbarian Class.  If not, you will soon learn exactly what it means (sometimes in horrifying detail).  And, just in case anyone wants to emulate my awesomeness and become a barbarian parent themselves, I often give tips and tricks on how you, too, can bring barbarian ways into your life.

Disclaimer: Contains profanity and adult content.  I exaggerate for the sake of humor, which means that no, I do not, in real life, go ripping out people's spleens for looking at me wrong (just in case you were wondering).  The stories I tell you are true, but have been greatly exaggerated.