girlfiend

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.

My mother has a zebra skin rug. Not a zebra pattern, but an actual zebra skin. It is creepy and weird and bristly. I think the eye holes are the worst part.

Stand up and look at your walls. If you have to look up to see the art it is hanging too high. Art should be hung eye level. There are exceptions- above a headboard or a fireplace mantle,for example- but generally speaking you shouldn’t get a crick in your neck looking at the pictures on your wall.

After six weeks of vomiting every time I had a small amount of alcohol I think I have recovered. I had a few ounces of beer yesterday and about 3/4 oz of vodka the day before with no ill effect. I am thrilled. If you have to take flagyl (metronidazole) take the no alcohol warning seriously. When I first ignored the alcohol warning I was still taking the drug and I puked for hours and had the spins for even longer. A week after I’d finished the drugs the effects were the same. Weeks after that, I still couldn’t drink. I don’t know why the effects of the drug lasted as long as they did. The internet, two pharmacists, a physician’s assistant, and a doctor friend had no answers for me. I am a medical mystery.

Let me be honest for a minute. The baby is my favorite. I know that I shouldn’t play favorites, or at least I shouldn’t admit to playing favorites, but in this case I can only assume that this is temporary. The baby is my favorite because he isn’t three. There will come a time, in just a few short years, when he will be three, and I’m almost positive that when he turns three he will cease to be my favorite. Why? Because three-year-olds suck. They are assholes, I tell you. Assholes.

Yesterday the Fiendling was not happy. I don’t know what the fuck his problem was, but he woke up in the morning and was just an absolute terror. He was whiny and mean, and made one unreasonable demand after another. He absolutely refused to pee telling me that he was going to pee on the floor instead. He would not pee in the potty and when I tried to put him in a diaper he ripped it off. He threatened to pee in the trashcan, in the sink, on the rug, on the kitchen floor and on the bathroom floor. There were strong words, threats and tears. Eventually he chilled out and peed in the goddamn potty for what seemed like 20 minutes. The kid clearly had to pee and was just refusing because of his three year old control issues. Last night, after I read him his stories, I was cuddling with him in bed. I warned him that I would be leaving his bed and his room in ten minutes. He said, and this is a direct quote, “I’m going to be mad when you leave. I’m going to take off my clothes and pee on the rug.” What a little fucker.

In comparison, here’s an example of a one-year-old tantrum. Last week we were cell phone shopping. The baby was not happy. To show us he was not happy he threw himself to the floor, cried, kicked and screamed. We gave him a snack and he threw it. We gave him a sippy cup and he threw it. We gave him a dummy, floor model cell phone and he immediately stopped screaming and was an absolute pleasure for the rest of the shopping experience. The tantrum lasted all of two minutes. One-year-olds are easy. They want things and stop crying when they get them. Or they want things that they cannot have and can usually be bought off with something else. They may arch their backs and scream and fuss, but they are easily appeased and do not threaten to pee on things to express their rage.

Some day the baby will be three. He, by nature of his age, will probably be an asshole. He will have wants and needs that I am unable to meet because he will be totally unwilling to express them. Instead of telling me what he wants he will hold his pee and tell me he is going to pee on the kitchen floor and make a big puddle. He will probably throw tantrums and be willful and mean and tell me no when I tell him that I love him. He will probably hit and kick and make me want to throttle him.

F, at that point in time, will be five. I cannot speak from experience with my own child, but I’ve taught kindergarten and five-year-olds are fairly reasonable. They might think talking about pee is funny, but they’d rather pee in the toilet than soil themselves. They also like to please adults. In addition, by the time he is five F will be in school full time. He will no longer be trying my nerves all day long. Instead, he will have hours out of my presence and may even want to please me. Instead of making me carry him screaming to the car when it is time to leave someplace he may follow willingly. Instead of refusing to eat until bedtime he may actually realize that food isn’t that bad and eat at meal times.

Truly, I cannot accurately predict what he will be like at five. While I’m sure he will still be stubborn and willful I know for a fact that he will not be three. His brother will be. And his brother will have ceased to be my favorite.

Remember the last time I posted, about a week and a half ago, when I said that the previous week had been the longest week ever? I was wrong. Last week, when Boyfiend and I were both sick with the same damn things the kids were miserable with the week before was the longest week ever. Last week, when we should have been drinking and gardening and gallivanting and generally just enjoying each other and margaritas, we were feverish (me) and sinus-infected (him) and just plain miserable taking care of kids that were pretty much fine.

We made it out of the house for seder on Wednesday and dinner with friends on Thursday but we really weren’t ourselves. Then we had Easter festivities on Saturday but neither of us were well enough to drink and enjoy them. Yesterday was the first day I felt almost normal. Boyfiend is still on the mend and I still have a touch of the old whiskey and cigarettes (fine, phlegm) voice and now spring break is over and he’s back to work.

Somehow Boyfiend managed to suffer through his illness and put together and fill the Square Foot Garden boxes. We have one box planted with strawberries, lettuce, spinach, and broccolini. The two remaining boxes are ready to be planted. The basil seeds I’d given up on finally sprouted and I have more seeds to start and more to plant after the last spring frost. I haven’t yet plotted out the remaining garden boxes, and I have more seeds to order. I think I’m going to try fava beans and watermelon in addition to the plants I’ve had success with in the past.

Today a woman walking down the street complimented me on the tulips in my yard. They really do brighten up a rainy, miserable day.

I have mastitis. On the holiday weekend. I caught it early and it’s not as bad as it could be but it still sucks that I feel tired and run down and sore. I was hoping for a margarita and all I got was a breast infection. Awesome.

The Fiendling (who has recently added grinding and clicking his teeth to his list of ways to show mom he’s unhappy about his baby brother) is also sick. He has a runny nose, a slight cough and had an unfortunate diaper incident that led to an immediate bath and load of laundry. This morning, after waking up once in the middle of the night, he woke up just before five and couldn’t go back to sleep despite my best efforts. I hope he’s feeling better tomorrow. Though I appreciate how cuddly he is when he’s sick (and his brother isn’t around), I don’t appreciate the excess bodily fluids and the night waking.

Tomorrow is my neighborhood’s sad little Memorial Day parade then we’re going to a barbecue at my in-laws’ house. Hopefully we’ll find time to put the flowers and herbs we bought on Mother’s Day in pots. My garden has been seriously neglected.

I am tired and the baby who is peacefully sleeping beside me smells like spit up and cord stump and desperately needs a bath. I don’t want to wake him, but it’s inevitable.