girlfiend

Let’s recap:
1. pudge
2. beach cart thrown out by “workmen”
3. freshly laundered sheets, reminiscent of Thanksgiving floors
4. B’s clothes mysteriously disappeared

The next several hours were fairly uneventful. The beach was lovely, we got the kids showered and dressed, my mother made dinner, her bitey fucking dog snapped at T twice, and I put the kids to bed after she hopped them up on ice cream at 8.30. It was time to talk. Now the talk should have been something she was waiting for. When we spoke about the family going to see her, I asked if she planned to sit down and talk about the situation/disagreement/bullshit with B. She assured me that she had every intention of working it out with him. So when we stood in the kitchen, the three of us alone without children, and she started to ask us about our current television viewing habits, we just stared, answered lamely and waited for her to stop so we could move on.

After she finished recapping several seasons of Breaking Bad, she said that the new Sunday shows were starting and she was off to watch them. B stopped her and asked if she was ready to sit down to talk through some of the problems. She said, “Can it wait?” No. We sat around the kitchen table and B started the conversation. My mother seemed confident that there was nothing to work out. So confident she asked, “What do we have to talk about?” B reminded her that he called her two months ago to try to work things out and thought they’d come to some sort of agreement, but since she hadn’t spoken to him in two months it was clear that nothing had been resolved. She interrupted B and restarted the conversation.

According to my mother, the root of the problem is that she and B are like two ships passing in the night. They view the world through different prisms because of how their experiences differ. She is 67. He is not. They have different values. She doesn’t understand his values. He doesn’t understand hers. That doesn’t make them right or wrong, just different. This little monologue, in which she repeated the bit about prisms, and lenses, and values went on for several minutes. We didn’t interrupt, we just let her finish. Then told her that she wasn’t actually saying anything or addressing the issue. She said she didn’t know what the issue was.

(A few things I may not have written about. These are not the issues, but these are a few of the things she is furious about: 1. She claims that the cigarette smoke B smelled was not cigarette smoke, she just lit a book of matches to cover up a smell. This explanation came two weeks after the initial incident in which she denied smelling any smoke at all. 2. She wanted to take F to the museum by bus for a day trip. We said no. 3.She wanted her sister here the night we came home from the hospital. We said no. )

We reminded her of the issues and she continued to talk in circles about prisms and values for a while before she let loose. It became clear that she was angry because we’d said no to her. And when I say angry, I mean a crazy, ranting lunatic. She was banging on the table, shouting, calling us fucking crazy, telling B to shut the fuck up, and screaming, “I am your mother. Your mother. You do not say no to me because I am your mother,” spittle flying from her mouth. We tried to get away from the screaming and back to the conversation.

I was stunned. I knew she’d be angry but I wasn’t expecting her to verbally attack me. I wasn’t ready for the screaming and banging on the table. With some help from Boyfiend, here are some other highlights of the conversation:

Mother: Who cares if I took F home in a taxi without a car seat? It was raining. So what if I didn’t feed him or change his diaper? He’s fine. He just remembers that he had a good time?

Me:We are adults. We have children. We are allowed to say no to you. If we don’t want your sister here our first night home from the hospital we can say no.
Mother:NO, I am your mother. That is disrespectful.

Me: You are my mother. If something upsets me, if I don’t like something you do, you need to acknowledge it, apologize, something, because you are my mother.
Mother: I don’t have to acknowledge anything. I am your MOTHER.

Mother: You don’t care about my feelings. You only care about yourself.
Me: But mom, I called you. I apologized. I said I was sorry. You never called me back.
Mother: You don’t care about my feelings.

Mother: Our values are different.
Boyfiend: But you lied to me. You lied. You told me was no smoke. You were the adult in charge. I come home, there is smoke in the laundry room. I’m worried about that and you tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. Two weeks later you said you lit a book of matches. You lied and never acknowledged your wrongdoing.
Mother: I didn’t lie. I explained.
Boyfiend: An explanation doesn’t mean that it’s not a lie. You explained why you lied.
Mother: I don’t have to apologize for anything. Why does everything have to be so black and white with you?

Mother: You don’t think I can do things by myself? I’m capable. I’m resourceful. I did all this by myself. I worked hard for everything I have.
Me: [silently, because I wanted to make things better, not worse] By yourself? You are still collecting alimony. My father gives you money for every gift you buy for me or the children on top of the alimony. Resourceful? You sell shit online. Capable? You switched schools every two years because you couldn’t maintain relationships to stay in the same place for any longer.

Me: Mom, I was home from the hospital with a new baby. I wanted help, not a fight.
Mother:It was my special weekend and Boyfiend ruined it for me.
Boyfiend: It wasn’t your special weekend. It was our baby. We wanted to be alone with the family for a quiet weekend. Just us and the kids. For things to return to normal as best as possible.  And honestly, after the mystery smoke in the laundry room the day before that you claimed you didn’t know anything about. That you said you couldn’t even notice.  Under the circumstances, I just wanted you to go.
Mother: Oh, you’re still hung up on that! It was my new grandchild and you ruined it for me.

Boyfiend: You’re ruining this for yourself. We’ve both reached out to you to try to fix this but you don’t respond.

Mother: I’ve racked my brain and I can’t think of a single thing that would please you. I just don’t know what to do.

Boyfiend: Here is what we need you to do. Recognize that you have done things that are not in the best interest of the children. Like riding in a cab with a baby. Acknowledge that we are their parents and respect what we think is in the best interest of the children. We can say no to you.

Mother: That’s bullshit. You’re both fucking crazy do you know that? You both fucking idiots! I don’t have to do anything (voice now rising to a fevered pitch) I am your mother! Do you hear me (both hands with palms rise above her head and come crashing down on the table.) Again she screams, I am your mother, wild rage in her eyes, spit flying with her words and her hands rise and slam down again on the table, I am your mother. You don’t say no to me! And she repeats this again and again, punctuating each sentence of her with a slam of the hands. I stare at her until Boyfiend turns to me and says, “You don’t need to listen to this any longer.”

Mother screams, “Let her decide when she’s done listening.”

Boyfiend apologizes and says to me, “Girlfiend, you can listen to this for as long as you want. I was merely suggesting that there are other options. Either way, I think we’re nearing the end here and we decide how things are going to work from now on. If you want to have a meaningful relationship with the boys you need to have a relationship with us. You need to do things differently.

Mother: I don’t want anything to do with either one of you.

The conversation, obviously, went badly. When she wasn’t bullshitting about how there is no problem, we’re just different, she was ranting and berating me. She said we were control freaks and wouldn’t be able to control everything forever. I told her it’s not about control, it’s about her respecting our wishes and not doing things with our children we don’t want her to do. I tried to get her to meet us halfway. We kept trying to get her back to the point, which was that she needs to respect us by apologizing or acknowledging her mistakes. She refused because she is my mother and we have to think about her feelings. I can’t say no because she is my mother. We left it with her saying that she wasn’t willing to bend, to change, or to apologize. She has no interest in repairing our relationship, she just wants to see the kids, not us.

Boyfiend wanted to pack up and leave right away. I decided to wait until morning. The night wasn’t easy. B started loading the car. I got into bed. The baby woke up once to eat and not long after I fell back to sleep T fell out of bed and got trapped underneath it trying to get his sippy cup. It took over an hour to get him back to sleep and I fell asleep in the twin bed with him.

When the boys got up I made the beds and packed our bags. We had tentative plans to see a family friend who was at her parent’s house on the bay with her children. The Fiendling was looking forward to seeing them and playing at their house. My mother told B the plan was off. I called to follow up, and sure enough, my mother just made that decision to punish us. My mother wanted to speak to me alone. I told her no, and we got into the car and left. We stopped for breakfast then went to our friend’s house for the morning before we drove back to the city. The Fiendling was sad about leaving and told us so, quietly. He wasn’t hysterical or tantrumming, just sad. He cried a little, softly, which was only evident from his tear-stained face. I felt terrible, but there was nothing else to do but leave.

So that’s that. She’s already told her sister that we’ve forbidden her from seeing the children, but that’s just untrue. She lies, and that lie was created both to make us look bad and to excuse her from trying to get along with us. She says we are hurting the children but she is just hurting herself.

This is long, and I need to spend some time with the second part before I post it. So here is the beginning.

Boyfiend and I were dreading the visit. We were both on edge the entire ride, wondering just how bad it could be. I know my mother is crazy. I expect very little from her. B has just begun to realize that when I say crazy I actually mean crazy. Not eccentric, not odd, not funny, just plain crazy. He wanted an apology, or at least some acknowledgment of wrongdoing. I wanted her to try to let go of some of her rage so I wouldn’t have all of the stress hanging over my head every time we see her. I know she’ll never be helpful. I know she’ll never really be capable of caring for my children for an extended period of time. I know that it’s bad that Boyfiend is currently on her shit list as she is a grudge holder (she hasn’t seen or spoken to her brother in 16 years) and she is convinced that she is always the victim. The visit went about as well as I expected. Let’s start with the petty.

First, my aunt was there. She is just as bad as my mother. I never quite understood why my cousin, M, stopped attending family gatherings for holidays and birthdays. Now I get it. Anyway, we got out of the car and walked up to the porch. My aunt stood up, gave me a kiss and a half hug, squeezed my upper arm and said, “Pudge.” Seriously? Fuck you.

We went in, my mother immediately showed the boys the toys she gave them then took away, so we brought our stuff to the bedrooms and made uncomfortable small talk. B installed a window AC in the bedroom we were to sleep in and moved the mini crib into the room. My mother told me the sheets on the crib were freshly laundered. By freshly laundered she meant covered in dirt, hair, and crumbs. I took off the sheet and replaced it with another, and said nothing about it.

B went out to the shed to get our beach stuff together and couldn’t find our beach cart. Our beach cart was a homemade contraption, made from PVC pipes, Wheeleez, and a Rubbermaid storage bin. Boyfiend located the storage bin with her trash cans holding a bag of trash. The rest of the cart was nowhere to be found. When pressed, my mother claimed she didn’t know anything about it. The workmen were in the shed. Perhaps the workmen threw it out. Yes, the workmen.

I didn’t pack much for Boyfiend other than underwear since he’d left a bunch of clothes behind when we last visited. His clothes were not in the drawer. My clothes were in the drawer, the kids’ clothes were in the drawer, but B’s? My mother wasn’t sure, but she thought that perhaps they’d turn up somewhere. He grabbed a bathing suit he keeps in the car and we got dressed, fed the kids, and walked to the beach. Yes, he keeps a bathing suit in the car. Clearly it comes in handy sometimes.

My baby boy has decided to potty train himself. I adore him. As long as he is not wearing pants he goes to the bathroom, pees in the potty then empties it into the toilet and flushes. The emptying part I could live without, considering he splashes urine all over the toilet and floor, but I am still thrilled. The problem is that he can not be without pants at all times and he is happy to use his diaper the rest of the time. I am not sure how to transition to full time potty use with pants on. The other issue is that he is too short to pee in a real toilet standing up and has no desire to pee sitting down. But these problems are minor. He just turned two last month and I am overjoyed that he is peeing in the potty at all. Two kids in cloth diapers is a lot of laundry.

My mother, who I have only seen once since she left the weekend after Miss N’s birth, is still crazy. She sent the boys toys which I wanted to save for later since we are currently at capacity after T’s birthday and N’s birth (for which the boys received big brother gifts from my mother) last month. She was angry that I didn’t give the boys the gifts right away and sent my father over to pick them up RIGHT AWAY. I lied and told him over the phone that I’d felt badly and given the boys the gifts and they were playing with them. HE told me she didn’t care and that he was supposed to get them immediately then call her as soon as he had them in his possession. Fucked up, right? He picked them up and I called my mother who did not answer and left a message of apology. I did not wish to apologize, but B and I figured it was the best approach. She did not return the call or acknowledge the apology. Today, 3 days later I received an email:

Dear Girlfiend:

I have decided not to rent my apt. Instead, i will move back in at the end of September. I will be able to help out with the children several days a week and give you a chance to get out and do your errands, etc.

I look forward to your reply to this as soon as possible.

Love,

Mom

What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

T is currently covering himself in aloe gel. I will have to cut this post short.

I made a stir fry for dinner. Bok choy, green onions, sugar snap peas, carrots and steak over rice. F ate two bowls of the veggies and three servings of rice (separately, of course) and T ate three servings of rice and possibly a vegetable and maybe even a bite of steak. Either way I count it as a success.

Little Miss N is four weeks old today. She is suddenly huge. I had to pack away all of the newborn size clothes that she’s outgrown. She has even grown out of the newborn diapers- I had to switch from orange edge to yellow. She’s waking up some and holds up her head and looks around. I hung a few toys from the play mat today and for a moment, after looking through the rest of the box, I wondered if I should get some new baby toys for her to play with. Then I remembered that she is a baby and will most likely shun 90% of age appropriate toys in favor of choking hazards and my cell phone.

I failed my middle child in two ways today:

1. He wanted to use the potty after his bath while I was giving Miss N her bath. He took the potty seat and tried to put it on the toilet but got it backwards. F fixed it for him, but T needed help getting up to sit. By the time I was able to get to him, at least a minute or two after he told me he wanted the potty, he was peeing on the floor next to the toilet.

2. A few minutes later I was getting Miss N into her pajamas. T followed me in the room and sat on the glider/recliner which was in the reclined position. Somehow he managed to get his leg stuck in the chair’s footrest. Really stuck. I tried to get it out, but couldn’t- I’d already broken one child’s leg and was afraid I’d break his too. I had to call for B to come up and get him unstuck. Nothing was broken, but there is a nasty bruise on both the front and back of his leg.

It’s getting easier. I wouldn’t call it easy, but I’m managing. I keep forcing myself to get out of the house and take the boys places so I can prove that I can do it. Not just the easy places like the library or the playground, but hard places like when I took all three out to get the boys haircuts and when we went to the Please Touch Museum and to the zoo. It’s hard, but it’s not as bad as I’d anticipated. The transition from two children to three isn’t nearly as difficult as the transition from one to two. I wouldn’t recommend having three kids so close in age, ages four, two and zero as F likes to tell people, but it’s okay.

When I ask my mother to help I expect very little from her. She has let me down so many times in the past that my expectations get exponentially lower each time she helps. I expect that my children will be hungry, cranky, and dirty upon my return. I expect that they will eat crap if they eat at all, and that a child in diapers will not be changed until the urine soaks through his pants. I expect that the children will go to sleep well past their bedtime and that my mother will not have the energy to do anything but put them in front of the TV. But still, somewhere deep inside I hope that maybe one of these days she’ll learn how to be a grandmother, not a playmate. That if she’s given specific instructions she will follow them, not ignore them.

When I last spoke to my mother she had several concerns about the way she was treated during her stay here a few weeks ago. She felt that she was treated like a babysitter and a maid. She was upset that I did not have dinner waiting for her when she arrived. She was upset that there was no food in the house to eat. She was upset that no one made her meals and that we wanted her to clean up after herself. She was annoyed that B’s sister was spying on her and brought dinner over one of the nights that she stayed. She also expressed anger that B told her no when she asked if her sister could come over. She felt that she’d been shit on.

First I’ll address the food. We have more food in our house right now than my mother has probably had in her house over the course of the last year. In my downstairs freezer alone I have at least 2 weeks of homemade meals frozen and a week’s worth of meals from Trader Joe’s. We are low on cereal, which means we only have 10 unopened boxes in the basement in addition to the 3 open boxes in the kitchen. There is no shortage of food here. We have bread, meat, fruit, vegetables, rice, pasta, and snack food. There are ingredients to make just about any type of baked good or ethnic meal. The night before we left, with my help she made a list of foods that the boys would eat during her stay. The list consisted of breakfast, lunch and dinner ideas as well as snacks and treats. All of the food on the list was in the house. Very little of the food on the list was actually consumed by the boys in my absence. I suppose that since she didn’t actually feed it to the children it did not occur to her to eat anything on her list. She was probably offended that we did not provide her with Fiddle Faddle or Pepsi. She did have coke and she did finish a box of ice cream sandwiches. Upon our return she was eating a bag of goldfish that she’d swiped from the diaper bag. I later picked up the empty bag from the floor and threw it away.

Her sister was welcomed into our home the day after we got home from the hospital, not the day of our return. B, that asshole, wanted our first night home to be low key.

B’s sister brought dinner (to be helpful) after she was told that the previous evening my mother failed to provide dinner for the boys and B was forced to feed them in the hospital cafeteria. Before leaving the hospital a few hours after Miss N’s birth, B called home and let my mother know that he was coming to get them and could she please feed the children first. After some discussion he told her to order a pizza. When he got home my mother was asleep on the couch, T was upstairs crying in his crib and no pizza had been ordered. The following night B’s sister brought dinner to insult, rather than help, my mother.

For the record, when we asked her to stay here it was to provide two main services. The primary service was to watch the boys while I was in the hospital pushing a baby out of my vagina and recovering. The secondary service was to try and keep the house in order for the two nights I was gone. In other words, we asked invited her into our home to act as a babysitter and maid. In other, other words, we asked her to be a grandmother for two nights.

I will get into the rest another time. The part with the lies and the smoking in the house and her thinly veiled rage. It’s all infuriating. But this, the part where she can’t look outside of herself for one minute, the part where she’s angry with us for not waiting on her when we were so clearly unable to, is it for me. I was in the hospital pushing out a baby. I was not out frolicking in the Caribbean or backpacking through Europe. I wasn’t out banging hookers and snorting cocaine. I was in the hospital with a newborn and a stitch where I tore pushing her out. We asked my mother to watch the boys. She was upset that she was not treated like a guest. I just had a baby, my third in four years. I needed help- help with the baby, help with the housework, help with the boys- not a fight. I’m done. I’m sure I will talk to her and see her on occasion. I have no plans to shut her out entirely since she is my mother and I have some bizarre loyalty to her. But I’m done. We’re better off without her.

I’m sure that Iris didn’t mean to completely offend me when she referred, in a comment, to the physical and emotional abuse I suffer at the hands of my three year old, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the comment and feel like I should explain.

I am (was, anyway) a teacher. I worked in some of the most poverty stricken neighborhoods in Philadelphia. I taught children who had seen people killed in front of them. I taught children who came to school reeking of pot and alcohol because their homes reeked of pot and alcohol. I had parent teacher conferences with parents who were visibly intoxicated. My first year of teaching, at 21 years old, I had kindergarten students who had been left back with parents that were younger than I was. In other words, I am no stranger to fucked up kids.

My kid is not fucked up. Yes, he is overly emotional right now, partly because of his age and partly because I am pregnant again. He was a wreck after T was born and even though he probably doesn’t remember it, he understands on some level that his little world is about to be completely disrupted again. On top of that he wants to do things that he is not allowed to do. He does not like limits and boundaries, but he has them, and it makes him angry.

If it were up to him he’d watch a combination of Caillou, Barney, and Teletubbies all day long while playing games on PBS Kids. He’d eat nothing but potato chips and sandwich creme cookies washed down with apple juice and lemonade. I’d read him the same two stories 7000 times in a row while ignoring his brother. He would stand naked in front of the television, peeing wherever he wanted. I would clean up the mess. On occasion he would emerge from his television/video game haze to play at the playground. I would push him in the stroller so he wouldn’t get too tired walking. On the way there we’d stop at Dunkin Donuts and Bohema, the local hippie store he loves to browse in. On the way home we’d stop at the bakery for cookies, the first pizza place for chicken fingers and french fries and the second pizza place for pizza. He would mostly likely eat none of the foods he asked me to purchase, because he actually prefers not to eat because he is too busy. We would also go to the zoo and the children’s museum and the playhouse and every other playground he’s ever seen before returning to his den of irritating children’s programming. And I’d buy him Thomas trains. All of them. Battery powered, wooden, Take-along, the whole line and all of the accessories.

His three year old fantasy is not too far off from his three year old reality. He gets to do all of the things he wants in moderation. He doesn’t watch TV or play video games all day, but he gets to play while his brother naps. He doesn’t get to play at the playground for seven hours straight, but on most days, even when I’m freezing my ass off he gets to play for a little while. I let him eat junk food sometimes after he’s eaten a decent lunch and he gets to drink watered down juice on occasion. We go to the places he likes to visit on a pretty regular basis considering how fucking tired I am all of the time. Sometimes I even buy him donuts or cookies on the way home.

He’s got it pretty good, but he’s not spoiled. He loses toys, television and computer privileges when he doesn’t listen. There are still trains in the basement from the last time he hit his brother with a toy. He knows that screaming gets him nothing and that he has to speak nicely if he wants me to do things for him. But knowing that there are consequences doesn’t ensure good behavior. He is three, almost four and he can’t control himself. He’s overtired and hungry many days because he refuses to go to sleep at a regular hour and doesn’t want to eat. The combination of tired and hungry is more than he can take. He just can’t control his behavior sometimes.

Like last night. Yesterday was a pretty good day. We went to story hour at the library then picked out books and movies and played on the library computers. He ate lunch and drank lemonade, watched Barney while I put his brother down for a nap. Then we read the 7 stories we picked out, some of them twice, and built a giant train set on the floor. He got to watch Dinosaur Train while I cleaned up and prepped some things for dinner, then we played with trains together until his brother woke up. He played some games on PBS Kids then had a snack. He said he wasn’t hungry for dinner yet, even though it was ready for him and went to swim lessons at 6. He got home in a good mood. Then he refused to eat his dinner. I made him eat half. He asked for a bagel and refused to eat it once it was ready. That’s where it all went downhill. For the next two hours everything was a battle. Everything. B took over so I could get T to sleep, but T couldn’t sleep through the screams. F refused to pee and refused to eat and only wanted to wear wet pajamas to bed because he doesn’t like dry pajamas any more. 2 bedtime stories wasn’t good enough he needed 3. Then he wanted the bagel he didn’t like because he was hungry and I just wanted him to shut the fuck up so his brother could sleep. By the time he did quieted down so T could sleep and fell asleep himself I was exhausted. Then he had nightmares all night long, whimpering about pajamas and shouting for us to go away and leave him alone. At one point he had his hands on Boyfiend’s face and was shouting at him to stop touching him. B tried to explain that F was touching him, not the other way around, but how do you argue with a kid in the middle of a nightmare? B went upstairs to sleep. And of course F was overtired this morning from screaming and staying up too late and nightmares, and I am overtired from the screaming and being kicked awake all night. And the cycle continues.

He did not want to go to school today. Well, any day really- he just wants to stay home with me and watch Caillou. Today I asked his teacher, Miss P, how he was doing. I told her about his behavior at home and explained that he doesn’t want to go to school any more. She seemed completely surprised. She told me that he always plays nicely, alone, one-on-one, or in groups. She said he never raises his voice and never misbehaves. She said he’s got a sweet personality and gets along with everyone. The assistant teacher said she’s never had to correct him. Ever. He’s just a sweet kid. Miss P told me that her daughter is having the same problems with her three year old. He’s terrible with her, nasty, but at school or with Miss P he’s helpful. He, like F, has taken to throwing fits, refusing to eat, refusing to sleep and running away.

It was a relief to hear my kid is not the only one who acts that way. I mean, I know my kid is not the only one who acts that way. There is an entire book, Your Three-Year-Old: Friend or Enemy, that explains the behavior and says that the parent is their child’s worthiest adversary. They recommend getting a good babysitter. But still, I don’t really see F’s friends act that way, and the kids at his preschool all seem to be able to leave the playground afterwards without throwing shit fits, so it was really good to hear from his teacher, a woman who has been teaching 3 and 4 year olds for 15 years that F is not the only one, and that he’s a great kid at school.

I feel like I’m just babbling. My point is that my kid doesn’t need a referral. He’s a sweetheart (when he’s not acting like an asshole) and this is just a stage. He will grow out of it. At some point the good days will begin to outnumber the bad days again and chances are that I will then be venting about T or the new baby. The Fiendling is a great kid. I just don’t get to see much of the good stuff these days. He reserves it for everyone else because he knows I will still love him even when he acts out.

A quick list before my mom gets here to help. Remember my mom’s help? Send xanax.

Vacuum and dust downstairs

remove clutter from areas to be occupied by guests

mop kitchen floor

fold and put away the three five clean loads of laundry.

Get to cooking:

1. green bean casserole. I’ve never in my life made a green bean casserole as it  sounds vile, but I found a recipe that uses real ingredients, not cream of mushroom soup. Iwouldn’t have considered it, but the green beans or whatever green veg always get cold as soon as I bring it to the table and no one ever eats them. So casserole. At least it will stay hot.  We’ll see how it goes.

2. Pies, chocolate pecan and pumpkin. The pie crust ingredients are chilling and the pumpkin pie fillings is made.

3. Brine the turkey

4. Possibly make a squash and potato casserole. My aunt is making the mashed potatoes and I don’t trust her to bring enough.

5. Caramelize onions for casserole. Perhaps this should be #1. I should reevaluate the order of this list.

The rolls are made, they need to thaw overnight and rise a little before I bake them tomorrow. I also have a mashed potato casserole I can bake frozen in case of a potato emergency tomorrow. I made cranberry sauce too.My mother in law is bringing the sweet potatoes.

We should bring sodas up from the basement and set the table for tomorrow to0.

I think that’s it. I’m probably forgetting a thousand things.

F refused to go trick or treating and was disappointed that he only had two Halloween parties. For some reason he was expecting five. Because of his refusal to trick or treat, I have no Halloween candy except for the two bags we did not hand out, and I’m torn between ripping them open and eating them myself and returning them. We bought our candy at 4.30 on Halloween and the selection was limited. I have Twix and Fifth Avenue left. If it was Take 5 or a variety bag there would be no decision to make.  (Candy has since been returned)

For breakfast F is eating Cheerios with no milk and carrot sticks. He’s really into carrot sticks. I appreciate that he’s into carrot sticks, but the problem, and yes, there is always a problem, is that our carrots came from our garden so they are dirty and misshapen. In order to provide him with carrot sticks I must wash off the dirt, peel the knobby, stubby things, and cut them into “sticks.” It is a hassle.

Everyone in my family- F first, followed by B then T had a quick, freak illness. Perhaps it wasn’t so quick. It started with days of mild intestinal discomfort (the two boys for more than a week- a trip to the pediatrician provided no answers) and ended with a random burst of vomiting. Two or three times in a one or two hour period, then done. F’s vomiting started at dinnertime. He was fine by morning. B’s started in the middle of the night two nights later. T’s the next morning. So far I have no symptoms. But I’m waiting. Anxiously. I’m sure to be next.  If I avoid this I’m sure to get something far worse.

My mother was here for B and T’s illness. B was sick in the night and kept me up a bit so when I heard my mother up with F in the morning I decided to ignore the sounds of the baby and let her take care of it. At the time I didn’t realize he was sick too. I slept in for another half hour or so, though it was hardly sleeping since I heard every word, every piece of conversation between my mother and the boys. I came down to see what, if anything, my mother was feeding the children and I saw the baby, with a nasty clump of something in his hair eating goldfish. Not the healthiest breakfast, but it could have been worse. I got myself something to eat, released the baby from his high chair and he promptly vomited all over my feet. He didn’t seem too distressed by it, so I grabbed a towel to cover the mess and he vomited again. Two more towels and I got him upstairs and in the bath where he splashed happily.
I went into his room to get him some clean clothes and found that he’d vomited sometime in the night or morning, probably the morning. There was vomit all over his crib. Everywhere. Both sides. How my mother managed to miss it, or the smell, I don’t know. The nasty clump in his hair was, of course, dried vomit. Awesome. I took a look in the laundry and yes, his pajamas were covered in vomit too. My mother changed him without noticing.

Clean and dry the baby drank some water and took a bite of B’s bagel. And vomited all over the floor again. I changed him, put him down for a nap and went downstairs to properly clean the kitchen. My mother came down and told me I need to start taking better care of the dining room furniture. I used to keep it covered, why don’t I cover it anymore?

This is furniture that was my grandmothers. A year or two ago my mom decided that the salt air at the shore was no good for the furniture so she should trade furniture with me. Mine was more casual anyway, which was better for the shore. So we traded, and I immediately covered the table and buffet with tablecloths so the furniture wouldn’t get destroyed by children or cats. My mother complained bitterly about the cloths. She could not understand why I needed to cover such beautiful furniture. She’d had it for 30 years and it was still in great shape. My grandmother had had it for 20 and it was still beautiful. Why did I insist upon covering it. So I uncover it and voila, now she’s fucking complaining that I don’t get better care of it.

I told her that if she didn’t want me to have it we should trade back. I was perfectly happy with the other dining room set and I’d be happy to return the nicer one. I then told her that perhaps she could pick a better time to bitch to me about how I don’t care of things. My husband and child are both sick and I”M CLEANING UP VOMIT from the kitchen floor. I explained that I probably wouldn’t be quite so enraged about her poor timing if she hadn’t insisted I uncover the goddamn furniture in the first place. She didn’t say another word. Not even a word of apology. For once I didn’t say another word either.

And that was that. The boys are fine, B is fine, I am fine. I am waiting to see if I don’t get something far worse. I’m bound to get something far worse since I’m the only one who made it through that minor illness unscathed.

The baby’s evaluation went well, I guess, and he’s due to receive services.  We live in a nice (white!) part of the city so his case manager informed us that he should be assigned a speech therapist pretty quickly. In some parts of the city it takes weeks or months to find the appropriate (willing) therapist.

The Fiendling is still sleeping in my bed. It’s been weeks, and most nights he doesn’t even bother falling asleep in his own bed. As soon as we leave his room he walks down the stairs, announces he’s getting in our bed, tucks himself in and goes to sleep. If we move him back upstairs he comes back down. I’ve been sleeping okay with him in bed so it’s not too bothersome. I just wonder how long it will last.

We go through an insane amount of eggs. If I’m doing a lot of baking we can easily go through a carton of 18 in a week. Eggs used to languish in my refrigerator for months, so this is taking some getting used to.  Our every other week egg share is not enough.

I’m trying to sell our Joovy Caboose stroller on craigslist. I hate it. I seriously hate it. I’m sure that it’s a great stroller for some people, but we are outdoorsy people who walk all over the place and the Joovy is best for people who mostly walk in malls, museums and parking lots. It sucks for bumby sidewalks, gravel paths, and grass. Anyway, the stroller was barely used since I hated it and is in fantastic shape. I priced it at $90, which is less than what some people have listed and more than others. I’m in no hurry to get rid of it and I know it will sell eventually for either the price I’ve listed or $10 less. But, the emails, my god, the emails. No, I will not sell you the stroller for $40. No, I don’t need to go to a website to learn how to earn money so I don’t have to sell my stuff. No, you can’t “take it off my hands” for $70.  I looked at a Maclaren double that was listed for $120. It’s on the high end of the spectrum, but Maclarens are great, lightweight strollers. Turns out the woman was trying to sell a 10 year old stroller for $120. Seriously? The model isn’t even manufactured any more. I’m more than willing to pay a decent price for a used stroller in good shape, but this stroller was a decade old. Good luck with that.

In addition to stroller shopping we’re car shopping. Turns out our 1995 Corolla was far superior to the 2007 Corolla we bought to replace it. I’m sorry to say I just don’t love this car. I loved my 1986 Corolla more than this one. I hate car shopping, but we have to do it now while we can still get a good price for it.

Boyfiend’s birthday was last week. I ended up baking a sourdough chocolate cake with fudge icing, but initially I wanted to make a red velvet cake. The idea using all of that food coloring bothered me so I found a recipe that uses beets instead. To test it out F and I made mini cupcakes. They were so good that the boys devoured them long before we even got to the part where we made the frosting ( I still hadn’t decided between a cooked frosting or a cream cheese frosting.) I give the beet cupcakes two enthusiastic thumbs up even though the reddish, purplish batter turned brown when it was baked.

My aunt gave me a stovetop cappuccino maker a while back.  The first time I used it the coffee overflowed and put out the burner. It was messy and irritating so I put it away and forgot about it. Yesterday I pulled it out and gave it another go. The first attempt was slightly disastrous- slightly because I caught the overflow before the mess was made. But I tried again and made a perfectly acceptable cappuccino. This morning it was a mess and I ended up drinking coffee flavored hot milk. I can’t decide if the pot is defective or if I am.

I’ve been knitting a lot. I’ve made a bunch of cute little baby skull hats and I’m making a cute striped pinwheel sweater right now. I should post pictures some time.

I’m taking a sewing class too. We haven’t actually started sewing yet since our last class was canceled because the instructor was sick, but I have high hopes that I may actually conquer the sewing machine.

So what’s up with you?

The night before was awful. F, who has insisted upon sleeping in our bed for the last several weeks (sneaking down in the middle of the night, or before we get into bed), was unable to fall asleep until 10.30, tossing and turning and keeping me awake. Thankfully the baby slept through the night, not awakening until just before 6 when I was able to nurse him and get him (and me) back to sleep for another hour, until F woke me up telling me he was ready to get dressed.  His loud demands for me to get out of bed right this minute woke the baby, so we all got up together.

F wanted pancakes for breakfast, and thanks to the ingenious spray can* I was able to make exactly two. Two pancakes that he did not eat. The baby ate two eggs with cheese. I ate one on a sandwich. F ate wheat thins.

I dropped F off at preschool and T and I headed back to the house. Freaking out over the morning’s guest I quickly folded 4 loads of laundry and vacuumed. T’s case manager, his service coordinator, was right on time.  It took an hour to schedule the multidisciplinary evaluation with the provider and go through the paperwork and description of Early Intervention. As soon as he left I loaded T back into the car to pick up F from preschool.

T fell asleep in the car. I left him in the car (window open, doors locked) and signed F out for the day. F, of course, wanted to play on the playground, so I let him while his brother slept. The baby woke up after about 45 minutes, sweaty from his nap in the car. He drank some water, ate some pretzels and played on the playground with the other kids for a while before we headed home.

I made farfalle with butter and cheese for lunch, which the baby ate and the Fiendling did not even though he was the one who requested it. While T ate I mixed the dough for two loaves of oatmeal bread and set them out to rise. I took pork and beef and chicken stock out of the freezer to defrost for dinner.

The baby was exhausted but he refused to take a nap. He played nicely with his brother while I started a load of laundry and sorted through some paperwork for my library meeting. I went out to the garden and cut some chives, thyme, and oregano for dinner. I scrubbed the thick dirt off of a pint of fingerling potatoes. I read The Way Back Home about thirty times, then read The Runaway Bunny about ten times.

I shaped the dough into loaves and put it in loaf pans for the second rise then looked through my cookbooks  for a meatloaf recipe that doesn’t use three eggs, because I only had three eggs and don’t get new eggs until CSA pickup on Thursday (I did not want to leave the baby without the option of an egg for breakfast.) I rediscovered my New York Times Cookbook, the first cookbook I ever bought for myself.  I decided that I need to refer to it more often, as it’s a classic and posted about it on Facebook before getting back to work. I used up all of the oatmeal in the bread and never have dried breadcrumbs in the house (unless they are panko, which I wouldn’t use in meatloaf) so I dug through the freezer looking for some bread heels. I found two and supplemented with a frozen hamburger bun and ground them into crumbs in the food processor.

While the oven preheated I mixed up the meatloaf, using only two eggs. I compromised on the oven temperature, figuring the bread would be fine baking at 350 instead of 375. It was. The baby, still exhausted, needed a snack. I made him half of a peanut butter and jelly with some sliced pear. I ate some pear too. B got home from work and took the boys for a little to drop off keys at his aunt’s office. While they were out I started the potatoes, cooking them on the stovetop in the chicken stock with garlic and thyme. (The recipe sounded good, but it wasn’t really, so I won’t link to it.) The site where I found the recipe had an ad for these Mummy Dogs. I think I may need to use some of my 10,000 pillsbury coupons and make them. I posted the recipe to facebook.

I washed dishes. The boys came home as the bread came out of the oven. The temperature did not affect it. B’s aunt loaded F up with an envelope of candy. We shared a box of Dots while I washed and chopped a bunch of swiss chard. B came in the kitchen with the baby and asked what was for dinner, looking at the pot with the potatoes, which looked clearly like potatoes to me, but then again I am not a man. I told him they were potatoes. He seemed to think that was okay.

He went upstairs to change out of his work clothes. F and I shared another box of Dots. I washed more dishes. The meatloaf came out of the oven and I drained the fat. I sauteed the chard in some olive oil. B came back into the kitchen and said, “Meatloaf! Oh, you were joking with me. I love you.” I realized immediately that he asked what I was cooking for dinner, not because he didn’t recognize the potatoes, but because he was hoping for something more. But I played along like I had been joking with him. I washed a few more dishes. We sat down to eat.

F ate cold, leftover noodles and swiss chard. The baby ate cold, leftover noodles and meatloaf. B and I did not eat cold, leftover noodles. We did eat the rest of the meal I prepared.

I gathered my bags and went to my library meeting. We made a little less than $500 on the bus trip we ran in September. It was the first bus trip in the two years since I’ve been the treasurer of the organization that we did not lose money. It was our last trip. No one in the group has any interest in organizing. The children’s librarian, goodhearted as she is, seems to think our funds should be spent on providing her with candy to distribute to the children at events. The executive committee feels we should be distributing books to the children at events. She has decided to ask the local markets for donations.

The meeting ended and I went to Starbucks for my weekly knitting group. I realized that I’d forgotten my wallet. I ran into a woman who had attended the group once before. She told me no one else was there and bought me a coffee. We chatted about schools and our kids while I knitted and she made jewelry.  I walked home and checked my email to learn the group had been canceled for the evening.  B was cleaning up. I washed more dishes. I dicked around online for an hour. I brushed my teeth and went to bed where F was asleep on my pillow again. I read for a while even though the book I’m reading sucks.  I fell asleep.

I woke up to the sound of the baby crying. It was 11.30. B was in bed next to me reading. He asked, “Do you want me to go in there?” I had to go to the bathroom so I got up and rocked the baby back to sleep. For future reference, if your wife is asleep in bed and you are awake reading while the baby cries there is no need to ask if she wants you to go in there. The answer is yes. In fact, if your wife is sleeping and you are awake you should get up before she wakes up to get the baby back to sleep and tell her about it in the morning.

*I had a coupon and the store had a promotion where they came with a free carton of 18 eggs. I couldn’t resist.