girlfiend

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.

Our bedtime experiment results have been mixed. T has adjusted nicely to the new room and likes climbing up on the big double bed to read stories before he goes to sleep for bed or nap. He didn’t nap particularly well most of last week, but I think that’s due mostly to his incoming 2 year molars and a slight cold. When I remembered to dose him with Motrin he slept through the night and took his usual 2-3 hour nap.

F isn’t adjusting. After the first night, when he woke up twice and woke me and his brother in the process, he went right back to sleeping in our bed. Right now this isn’t much of a problem. Except for the sideways sleeping. He likes to sleep sideways right beneath the pillows. Head by me, feet by B. Sometimes he switches and I get stuck with the feet. Most nights B moves him so that his head and feet are where they should be, but he doesn’t like sleeping with blankets and kicks himself out.

Early this morning I awoke to little feet kicking me on the legs and back. F was sideways, and angry. I don’t know what kind of dream he was having or what pissed him off, but his kicks, instead of accidental became shoves and he started yelling, “Go away,” and “leave me alone.” B woke up and went to the bathroom. I tried to calm F and turn him around, but he just got more and more angry and so did I. After a minute he seemed fully awake and aware so I told him that if he wanted to stay in our bed he was going to have to stop yelling at me and kicking. I told him I was going to bring him into the other room to sleep on the couch if he didn’t stop. He responded by throwing his water bottle then ripping a pillow out from under my head and throwing it. I lost my temper, picked him up and carried him into the other room where I dumped him on the couch. He got up and tried to run back into my room. I stopped him and put him back on the couch. He got off and tried to escape again. Same thing. By this point, really just a minute or two after he’d woken up in the first place, I was done.

B came out of the bathroom. I gave him the rundown of the previous minute and told him I was done. I went to the bathroom, then ignored the still angry and fighting Fiendling on my way back to bed. A few minutes later B and F got back into bed. I pretended to be asleep. F told B he wanted some water. His water bottle, which I’d collected from the floor was on my bedside table so I handed it to him. He said thank you then gave me a kiss. We all went back to sleep.

F didn’t wake up for the day until 8.30. I thought about waking him earlier but decided I’d rather have a peaceful hour or so with T. When he woke up he yelled for me. I went in to say good morning and sit with him for a few minutes while he adjusted to being awake. I asked if he remembered waking up in the night. He told me no. I reminded him of the events of the night before, glossing over the parts where he kicked me, threw his water, stole my pillow and got forcefully ejected from bed for a few minutes. He didn’t remember any of it.

I don’t know how I’m going to get my bed back before this baby comes. There’s no way I’m going to be able to share a bed with Boyfiend and the Fiendling and nurse a baby on and off all night. Even if I manage to stay awake for each nursing session and put the baby back in the pack n play, it’s still going to be a challenge.

Some (asshole) commenter, joe, wrote that he(she?) was just reading to see how many times I call my kid an asshole. This got me thinking. Is it wrong to express my frustration with my child by calling him an asshole? Should I instead smile sweetly on the internet and use words that aren’t quite so insulting? Out of curiosity, just to see how bad of a mother I am, I did a search for the word on my blog. In the past year (I looked, but there was no incidence of the word asshole when referring to my child before 1/09) I’ve directly called him an asshole two times. I did describe three-year-olds as assholes, so I’ll take a hit and say three times. And I almost entitled a post Asshole when F was potty training and refused to pee in the potty, but I reconsidered and did not. But I’ll count that and say four. Four times too many?

Right now F is clearly going through a rough time emotionally. I would like to be sympathetic, but it’s difficult when he spends the majority of his awake time arguing with me. When he is visibly sad or upset it’s easier to be understanding. But when he’s screaming at me, raising his hand as though to hit me, yelling no at everything I say, hitting his brother, stealing his brother’s toys, peeing on the rug just to spite me, running away from me so that I have to chase him in public places, stomping and screaming, I just want to throttle him, not hold or comfort him. I have not throttled him yet. In my own delicate emotional state I think I should get a medal for that.

So what other words besides asshole can I use? Lets see. He is generally sweet to everyone else, but with the people who live in this house, the people who love him most of all, he is emotional, volatile, argumentative, stubborn, miserable, cranky, fussy, mean, cruel, violent, temperamental, grouchy, grumpy, irrational, illogical, defiant. That’s all I can up with without consulting a thesaurus. Perhaps if other descriptors or adjectives come to mind I’ll update the list. But until then, when I’m frustrated I think it may be easier just to use the word asshole. Unfortunately, if you’re keeping count at home, I don’t think you’ll read it enough to make it a drinking game.

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?

I got to the asthma doctor on time but she was running 50 minutes late. While I waited and waited I knit three rows too many and missed a pattern change. Then I looked down and realized my new shirt that I am wearing for the first time has a hole in it. And my breathing is worse than it was in the spring.

On my way out of the parking garage I learned that they don’t take credit cards. The first time in five years that I’ve been there without cash and they don’t take cards. I gave the parking attendant $1.35. She said, “No you need $5, you get from the ATM inside, ” but the gate opened and I left.

I went in to get the baby after his nap and he’d reached into his diaper, removed a handful of shit, and smeared it all over his sheet, crib, hands, legs and face. Then he got shit all over the tub. Then I puked.

I had to drag both of the kids to my library meeting. Considering the meeting took place during bedtime things could have been worse. But when we got home F was still hungry and of course T saw food so he needed to eat too. And somehow I managed to drop a glass which shattered all over the playroom. I put both kids in T’s room to clean up the mess while they finished eating, but F decided that T wasn’t allowed to play with anything in his own room and T started wailing and trying to escape so I swept the pile under the (gated) fireplace and let them loose so I could put T to bed. I told F that he could either play in his room, watch a movie on the couch, or sit in T’s room on the floor while I rocked him. I gave him specific boundaries and moved furniture so he could see his boundaries. But instead he crawled under the fucking fireplace gate to play with glass and cut himself. I heard him touch the glass before the cut happened and unceremoniously dumped the baby in his crib and ran into the room. The cut wasn’t bad, but fingers bleed a lot.

F had to sit on the changing table with his hand raised above his head squeezing his wound while I finished cleaning up the mess that he’d spread. I had to sweep, vacuum, sweep again and vacuum some more, the baby screaming all the while.

Now I have to clean up the kitchen.

Yesterday I went back to school shopping for Boyfiend. Gap and Old Navy were both having great sales that I was able to combine with discount coupons, but they didn’t have much in the way of dress shirts or pants in the sale section. I ended up at Ross where I purchased the majority of the stuff on his list- socks, underwear, shirts, slacks and ties- and my major impulse buy, the counter top composter.

Of course almost none of it fit him. So I went back to the stores today to return the ill-fitting items and buy some stuff that fit. Gap was easy, Old Navy was crowded and the lines took forever, but the returns took no time (even the bathing suit purchased in July that I’d lost the receipt for) and I found a variety of pants in different styles that I’d dismissed yesterday. Ross was a nightmare. The store was mobbed. I planned on picking up a belt for him since I accidentally bought a child’s size belt yesterday, but the line was so long and so full of angry looking people that I decided B would do just fine without.

By the time I reached the front, the line behind me stretched across the store and the cashier in whose line I was stuck clearly hated his job and wasn’t very good at it. He was muttering, sighing and rolling his eyes. Not at the customers- he wasn’t blatantly rude or anything, but he was exasperated and asking his coworkers why there weren’t more cashiers working. He moved as slow as molasses and each customer seemed to take longer than the one before. Finally, after what seemed like hours, I handed him my receipt and the return items. He slowly, slowly looked at each tag and highlighted the corresponding item on the receipt. It seemed to tax him as though he was doing quadratic equations. He then scanned each item, making sure the scanner and the tag were aligned just so, until the register made a noise and spit out a receipt. “You can’t return this,” he told me and went back to his meticulous scanning. I asked why and he shrugged and told me he didn’t know.

Another employee who seemed to be in charge of returns came over and he asked her why I couldn’t return the shirt. She looked at the receipt, looked at the shirt and told him she didn’t know. They called over another employee. She didn’t know either. Then another. This one figured out that the highlighted item did not match the tag on the shirt. None of the items on the receipt matched the tag on the shirt. It took another ten minutes of poring through the receipt before someone came to the conclusion that I hadn’t actually been charged for the shirt the day before, hence the register’s insistence that it could not be returned. All of that confusion and endless waiting for a shirt I didn’t actually pay for. Shit, if I’d known I would have had him keep the damn shirt and wear it anyway. Instead they took the shirt, processed my return, and I left. In the rain.

My small intestine was infected. I don’t know how it got infected, or why my symptoms did not include the diarrhea that would lead one to believe that one’s intestine could be infected, but infected it was. And after two weeks of mild indigestion, random vomiting, and sporadic excruciating pain, I went to the ER. I was doubled over in pain for hours before I got there and hours until they got me back to the room. Of course by the time I was back in a room the pain had subsided and I was convinced that it was nothing. My white blood cell count was way high so they did a CT scan and my small intestine was enlarged and there was fluid around my stomach. It was not just my fibromyalgia acting up, as B joked.

Because an infected small intestine wasn’t bad enough, the two antibiotics they gave me made me feel even worse. I was on clear liquids and bland foods for days and I had no energy and could barely push the stroller to the playground, let alone play with my kids once I was there. One of the antibiotics made me more susceptible to sunburn. The other had an alcohol warning which I ignored. Who knew that this was the one antibiotic you really can’t drink on? About an hour after a very weak drink I started spinning. Then I started puking. It was alcohol poisoning without the binge drinking. I avoided food and drink for another few days until the course of antibiotics was over.

Two days after I finished the antibiotics we took an overnight trip to the Strasburg Railroad. We stayed at a hotel with both indoor and outdoor swimming pools. The plan was to enjoy a glass of wine in the courtyard after the kids were asleep. At dinner I had about half of a Margarita. Within half an hour I was spinning. 20 minutes after that I was puking. The antibiotic was out of my system, but the alcohol-processing enzyme that the antibiotic destroyed had not yet been replenished. Will it ever be replenished? I am scared of a glass of wine.

Back at home the next night I heard a crash from upstairs, the expected tears, and the unexpected, “Oh shit, oh my god.” B yelled for me to come upstairs and he and F were both covered in F’s blood. I grabbed a washcloth to blot F’s forehead and see how bad it was and my god, it was bad. I packed a bag, pulled the car out of the driveway, and grabbed a popsicle for the ride. We dropped the baby off at my sister-in-law’s and drove to CHOP. This was our first CHOP experience- we’ve see CHOP doctors at satellite offices- and while I certainly don’t wish to return their ER, we are very lucky to live so close to such an amazing place. The doctors, nurses, residents, and front desk staff were all fantastic. F was calm and easy going throughout the entire experience- even while they stitched up his forehead.

F also managed to pee in the potty two times while we were there. Unfuckingbelievable. He’d been peeing in a Flyers cup for the past week, still refusing to use the potty, but with no Flyers cup available he chose to use the toilet, not soak his underwear.

To recap, I was sick for two weeks before I went to the ER and now, two weeks later I’m still feeling like crap, only less crappy than I felt a week ago. F is using the potty, only it’s not a potty it’s a Flyers cup, and he’s got three stitches in his forehead and can’t get wet. I have accomplished nothing on my to-do list and the summer is flying. I miss drinking.

La la Loush left a comment on my housewife’s lament post that pretty much summed everything up.  You can read the whole comment in its entirety here, but the part that got me was this: People, mostly men will try to find solutions for you because that’s what they think you want. You know there isn’t much of a solution, but I sympathise and know what you are going through.

After reading my post Boyfiend was pretty upset. Despite the fact that I tried to make it clear in the post that Boyfiend was not to blame for how disconnected I felt, he took the post personally and offered solutions. There are no solutions. I have been breastfeeding and/or pregnant for four years and mothering full time. My interactions with the adult world are pretty limited. It is what it is. He can help with the kids and give me time to myself (which he’s done quite generously this past week) but it still doesn’t make the situation different.

This weekend we went to my mom’s house at the beach. It is never restful or relaxing for me to be at her house, but Boyfiend has a great time there,  the Fiendling loves it, and I always enjoy the time spent on the beach. My mother wants to be helpful, but she always fall short. She wants to give me a break but she doesn’t know how and usually ends up creating more work for me. And the insults, my god, the barrage of insults. They never end.

The first evening wasn’t too bad. But sometime in the middle of the night the baby woke up coughing. And it wasn’t just a normal baby cough it was the bark of a seal. Each cough made him cry and the more he cried the louder the coughs became. He was wheezing and crying and barking and clutching his throat and shoving his fingers in his mouth and distressed and it was awful. I suspected he had Croup and went down to use my mother’s computer to comfirm.

She was passed out on the couch with her bitey little dog with the TV on volume 7000. It was deafening, but I was afraid to turn it down for fear she’d wake up and I’d have to involve her. Google told me I was right and I went back upstairs prepared to spend the rest of the night in a steamy shower. But B had T asleep on his chest when I returned and the rest of the night was bad, but not as bad as I was expecting. T woke coughing and crying regularly throughout the night, but each time he was easily settled.

The next morning my mother watched the kids so B and I could sleep in a little. I came down around 9 and immediately called our pediatrician’s office. I left a message with the on-call operator. In the interim T was ready for a nap and F was ready for the beach so I prepared both of the kids and got our stuff ready our walk to the beach. A trip across the street to my mom’s neighbor’s house to use a pump for the stroller tires was necessary and through a series of events that Mix jokes sounded like a drug deal, later that afternoon we ended up getting the baby a prescription for steroids from my mom’s neighbor’s girlfriend’s cousin’s husband rather than taking him to the city to our pediatrician or to the emergency room. The neighbor’s girlfriend’s cousin’s husband is an ER doctor with three kids of his own. He told us that the steroids should help the cough but that it might get worse before it gets better and that we should expect a high fever.

After helping us with our sick baby the neighbor and his girlfriend  invited us over for dinner that night. After the kids were in bed we went across the street to join them and their other guests. It was nice to be in adult company enjoying adult beverages without small children running or crawling about, but I wasn’t completely there. I knew that across the street my baby was sleeping, but he probably wouldn’t be sleeping for long. I knew that I would have another night of interrupted sleep and that it might be worse than the night before.

The reason for the story is that it’s yet another example of me not getting a break. Even though in theory I had a break while my mom was at the house with two sleeping children so B and I could have drinks with friends, I couldn’t fully engage. I was on edge, waiting for the phone call that the baby was awake. I was on edge, anticipating the restless night ahead. My time, even when I have it, isn’t really my own.

It is what it is and I don’t expect or want anything different. I am completely wrapped up in my children and right now that’s the way it has to be. They are little. They need me. They need us.  I don’t want a different life than the one I have. I don’t need solutions. There are no solutions. I’m sad right now, overwhelmed by motherhood and the weight of staying home with two small children. I love my children and I enjoy my children.  But  children get sick and need attention. They pull and tug at me and cry for things they want. They need to be occupied and active and sometimes need my undivided attention. They don’t always listen and they don’t always sleep. When it was a two year old and a baby it was easier. But my baby isn’t  a baby anymore. He’s become a tiny little person with wants and needs and preferences. Newborns are easy. One year olds are work. This stage is more difficult than the last and it can be suffocating sometimes.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I am depressed. I don’t know if it will stick for a while or if it’s just a few weeks of the blues, but my guess is that it will pass. I have  just had several shitty, shitty weeks in a row. It would make you depressed too.

But this makes me giggle.  Does your family have photos as awkward as this one? Or this one? The more I read the archives the better they get.

Last night someone twittered something about how it was Sunday night already and I was truly taken aback because I didn’t even realize it was Sunday. I could have sworn it was just any other week night. Now it’s Monday and it doesn’t really feel like Monday as much as it feels like Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. It doesn’t feel like a Friday though. Fridays feel a little more hopeful, like there is some room to breathe. But it’s Monday, and it doesn’t feel like a Monday because another weekend went by where I just didn’t get a break.

I spent Saturday at the neighborhood clean-up with both of the boys, picking trash up off of the sidewalks, pulling weeds and sweeping up debris, while B did the neighborhood clean up at the park working on the garden 100% child-free. Sunday was spent at home with the boys while B was out in the driveway working on his boat until he left for the lake to put his boat in the water. Another weekend where I’m solely in charge of childcare. If mothering is my full time job why don’t I get a break on the weekend? Why didn’t I participate in the neighborhood clean up without a stroller and three-year-old to manage?

To be fair to Boyfiend, I got an hour to go to the gym on Friday. And he gave me a little break around 7 last night when he gave the boys a bath and put the Fiendling to bed. He also let me sleep in yesterday, after I begged him to the night before. But in the grand scheme of things, an extra hour and a half of sleep and a night off of putting the 3 year old to bed isn’t much of break.

It’s not just this past weekend, it feels like all the time. I’m not blaming B. He’s not off in Atlantic City with whores and cocaine. Most of the time he’s working on things around the house. He has been up early several weekend mornings to procure free firewood for next winter and spent an entire weekend splitting the logs. Even if he’s off doing things for himself, like this weekend with the boat, and bike rides with his brother I don’t begrudge him the time. He should have time to enjoy himself unencumbered. But where’s my time?

The problem is that I don’t know how to carve it out for myself anymore. I feel so completely shut off from my friends who don’t have children, and none of my friends from before I had kids have children. None of them. Most of them don’t even call me anymore. I ran into Junkiegirl twice over the past week and we talked more on the street in front of the laundromat than we’ve talked in the past six months. I don’t think it even occurs to her to ever call me to hang out because I haven’t been able to for so long.

My new friends, the ones who have children, spend weekends with their husbands and kids together. And I call them friends, but when I think about it have I ever actually spent any substantial time with them without our kids involved? Of all of the women I spend time with, I don’t even know that we’d be friends if we didn’t have kids. What common interests do we have? What shared experiences? Aside from my book club and the occasional “girl’s night out,” (and my god, I hate that it’s called a fucking girl’s night out when someone organizes it. I find the description to be trite and mildly offensive) I don’t know any of them.

When I have a few hours to myself on the weekend I spend it the only way I know how- at the gym or at the supermarket. It’s pathetic. B suggested I take a day and do something, but what? With whom? Where am I supposed to go and what am I supposed to do? What did I even do before? I want time to myself, but I don’t want to spend it all by myself.

Anyway, it’s Monday. I’ve got another five days without a break in front of me. I have to go fish a used tissue out of the baby’s hand.