Mark and I are do-it-yourselfers.
We're the type of people who would prefer to NOT pay someone else to do a job that we're capable of doing ourselves. And the list of jobs we're willing to tackle, aided by eHow, YouTube and the DIY Network, is pretty long.
However, we're in solemn agreement on one job we absolutely refuse to attempt or delegate to anyone who's not a professional and that is to deliver this baby.
I'm reading a lot about people who prefer home births and doulas over hospitals and doctors and, while thank God we have choices, I can't wrap my head around why anyone would avoid a hospital when it comes to having a kid.
Seriously.
I'm willing to fumble around and tinker my way through a home-improvement project, but when it comes to babies, blood and pain, I'm willing to spend the extra cash to involve medical professionals.
Meds free. Under water. Hypnobirthing. To me, this is insanity. Give me drugs and a board-certified OB-GYN in a hospital equipped with a state-of-the-art NICU, please.
I'm 1,000% sure a hospital birth with a team of trained professionals beats trying to do it at home, in my bathtub. (Have you seen the soap-scum ring in there?!?)
And while Mark's a very handy guy, I just can't thrust that kind of responsibility on his shoulders. He's totally capable of watching This Old House and then installing new replacement windows, but to force him through a marathon of A Baby Story and then expect him to deliver our own kid is a bit of a stretch.
Plus, we've got home-improvement projects that are a little, shall we say, stalled out (hello, parts of my kitchen have no counter tops!). Do I really want him to leave while the baby's crowning to run out to Walgreens (or God forbid, Menards) to get something we need for the delivery but don't have on hand?
Uh, that'd be a big negatory.
Yeah, we're handy, resourceful -- and quite thrifty, but we're not stupid. We know our limitations.
Hospital = good.
Pain meds = good.
Birth handled by trained medical professionals = good.
I'd like this baby to come into the world in a cold, sterile hospital vs. my warm, cozy bed. I prefer it. This is less about my comfort and more about the baby's safety.
And the fact that there's enough dog hair on my comforter to knit another dog.
Cleaning the house when the contractions begin = not good.
Showing posts with label Rants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rants. Show all posts
Fine, thanks!
When I see people on the street or in the halls at work and am asked, "How are you?" I always, always answer with a chipper, "Fine, thanks!"
I say, "Fine, thanks!" regardless of if I really am or not, because, let's be honest, "Fine, thanks" is all people really want to hear.
I've probably said it to some of you recently too.
I really am fine. Feeling fine. Getting along just fine. But this third-trimester pregnancy thing is becoming kind of a pain in the butt (an enormous one at that) and for once, I'd like to NOT respond with a "Fine, thanks" and instead cock off with one of these:
"How are you?"
"Well, to be perfectly honest, a little less than fine. I'm a little up to *here* waddling around like a whale with my thighs rubbing together and all. This ginormous belly, which don't get me wrong, currently houses one of God's dearest blessings, is huge, itchy, heavy and makes my back ache. And these boobs. Don't even get me started on these boobs. They're huge and heavy and weird looking. They totally feel like they belong to someone else. I hate lugging them around all day long and cannot fathom why women pay big bucks to artificially inflate their racks to elephantine proportions. Trust me, ladies. Big boobs are not all they're cracked up to be. And my legs! They look like tree trunks. Full of nicks and scratches from trying to shave them left handed because I can't reach around this huge belly. And my toes? They look like plump little sausages - at least I think they do, because I can barely see them beyond this big-ass belly! I can't sleep, I can't hardly breathe and I can't stand anything tight or remotely constricting on my body. I wish I could ride out these last several weeks at home, in my comfy clothes, on my couch, all alone. So... How are you?"
OK, phew. That felt good. Just had to get it all off my chest - this ridonkulously huge, utterly gigantic chest.
I'm better now. Really.
I'm fine.
I say, "Fine, thanks!" regardless of if I really am or not, because, let's be honest, "Fine, thanks" is all people really want to hear.
I've probably said it to some of you recently too.
I really am fine. Feeling fine. Getting along just fine. But this third-trimester pregnancy thing is becoming kind of a pain in the butt (an enormous one at that) and for once, I'd like to NOT respond with a "Fine, thanks" and instead cock off with one of these:
"How are you?"
"Well, to be perfectly honest, a little less than fine. I'm a little up to *here* waddling around like a whale with my thighs rubbing together and all. This ginormous belly, which don't get me wrong, currently houses one of God's dearest blessings, is huge, itchy, heavy and makes my back ache. And these boobs. Don't even get me started on these boobs. They're huge and heavy and weird looking. They totally feel like they belong to someone else. I hate lugging them around all day long and cannot fathom why women pay big bucks to artificially inflate their racks to elephantine proportions. Trust me, ladies. Big boobs are not all they're cracked up to be. And my legs! They look like tree trunks. Full of nicks and scratches from trying to shave them left handed because I can't reach around this huge belly. And my toes? They look like plump little sausages - at least I think they do, because I can barely see them beyond this big-ass belly! I can't sleep, I can't hardly breathe and I can't stand anything tight or remotely constricting on my body. I wish I could ride out these last several weeks at home, in my comfy clothes, on my couch, all alone. So... How are you?"
OK, phew. That felt good. Just had to get it all off my chest - this ridonkulously huge, utterly gigantic chest.
I'm better now. Really.
I'm fine.
Dumb Shit My Husband Does.
I need to preface this post by saying, I don't just love my husband. I LOVE him.
He is, WITHOUT A DOUBT, one of the most capable, talented and inspired people I know. I tell him often how he's clearly the smartest out of the two of us, not to mention the luckiest SOB I've ever met. Take him to a casino. Really. You won't be disappointed.
He's handy. He's handsome. And he's mine. I'm truly blessed to have him in my life.
That said...
There are things he does that simply defy logic -- things that leave him howling in pain and both of us scratching our heads in amazement.
Here's a brief list:
He is, WITHOUT A DOUBT, one of the most capable, talented and inspired people I know. I tell him often how he's clearly the smartest out of the two of us, not to mention the luckiest SOB I've ever met. Take him to a casino. Really. You won't be disappointed.
He's handy. He's handsome. And he's mine. I'm truly blessed to have him in my life.
That said...
There are things he does that simply defy logic -- things that leave him howling in pain and both of us scratching our heads in amazement.
Here's a brief list:
He is forever banging his head on things. Sure, he's tall and doesn't have as much clearance when it comes to doorways and hatchbacks, but if I have to watch him whack his head on the freezer door while reaching in the fridge for a root beer ONE MORE TIME, I think I'm going to lose my shit.
And he doesn't just whack it, say, "ouch" and move on. He whacks it HARD. So hard, in fact, that he'll fall to the floor, shout in pain, and instantly grow a ginormous goose egg. (It's quite a scene.) When he makes contact, we both see stars and little cartoon tweetie birds, circling his sore noggin.
The first time I saw him whack his head, I rushed to his side, prepared to provide first aid. The second through fortieth time, I did the same. Now when he whacks his skull, a nearly bi-monthly occurrence, I briefly glance over, look for blood, and then simply shake my head.
He burns his mouth on hot food at least once a week. Seriously. I know I should take it as a compliment that my cooking is so darn tasty, that despite the fact it's just been pulled from the oven and is visibly steaming, he crams a heaping forkful into his mouth and then winces in searing, scalding pain.
Again, if this happened only a few times in our marriage, I'd be more sympathetic, but he scalds his mouth damn-near weekly, if not more often. Everyone else on the planet knows to skim that first forkful off the top, blow gently and proceed cautiously. But that basic survival skill is truly lost on the guy. And I can't figure out why.
(And BTW, when the baby starts on solid food, there's no way I'm letting him heat and serve her anything I haven't temperature tested first. )
He's constantly biting his lips, tongue and cheeks. Again, an every once in a while thing isn't a big deal, but this happens so frequently - and with such startling, bloody results - I can barely sit through a meal with the guy.
The other day we went for dinner at a local restaurant, where he chomped into a sandwich, simultaneously biting through the tough, French bread and the tip of his tongue. I spent the rest of the meal watching him dab away blood in his dinner napkin.
So gross.
I've heard of people who are blessed with intelligence, but lack common sense. I had a college roommate like that. A talented architecture student, he regularly aced exams and dazzled his professors, but the guy couldn't work a washing machine, heat a can of Spaghetti O's or remember to pay rent to save his life.
Mark's not like that.
He's not absent minded or forgetful. He's quite the contrary. I guess he's just somewhat accident prone -- to the SAME accidents over and over.
We both joke about his inability to learn from these mishaps. We both marvel that he hasn't figured out to duck each time he unloads the back of the van. Maybe he's losing brain cells with all those lumps he's taking.
He calls himself "the dumbest smart guy in the world" and, while I wouldn't go that far, he does get pretty close sometimes.
Maybe I should've seen the signs. When I met him, his medicine cabinet was stocked with every kind of bandage conceivable. His band-aid supply included small, medium and large sizes, special shapes for fingertips and knuckles and even gigantic gauze bandages. (Mine had two kinds: Toy Story and Disney Princess.)
Too bad they don't make one for self-inflicted, nearly severed tongue injuries.
So as we anticipate the birth of our baby and pontificate on if she'll have his black hair or my brown eyes, I whisper silent prayers that she inherits my basic, innate survival skills -- skills that her dear father lacks.
His family legacy depends on it.
Week in Review: Back to School.
It's been a while since I've given a decent week in review. And this, being our first almost-full week of school, has been a busy one.
The new kindergartner, Crowbar, still loves going to the big-kid school. However, on Wednesday of this week, he asked if he could take a break and stay home. As much as we'd like to oblige so we could all take a break, we sent him off on the big yellow bus.
He still sits in the backseat with the 5th graders, by the way.
The twins, Mad Dog and The Deuce, newly minted fifth graders, are back in the groove and I can tell an increase in maturity this year from last. They don't groan at homework time and are able to get themselves dressed, cleaned up and breakfasted (or perhaps breakfed?) without much if any assistance.
Something new this year is that they're way more into their looks than before. Not as in an "I'm So Vain, I Really Wrote This Song About Me" way -- but more in a they actually prefer to leave the house with hair brushed and deodorant applied.
I'm doing my best to teach them good habits and to care (without overly caring) about their looks. This is tough for someone whose never considered herself a girlie girl. I never learned how to do a decent braid -- nor really cared to -- or spent my hard-earned money (made as a 15 year-old cashier at the local sub shop) at the mall. I had friends who worked at the Clinique counter so they could be closer to Deb (remember the pink shag carpet?) and get a discount on makeup.
Only my brothers were in the house during those preteen years. My sister was already off to college, so instead of adopting her great fashion habits, which at the time included blue mascara, I adopted a self-care philosophy that more resembled that of my ape-like brothers. (But that's a story for another time -- or perhaps therapy.)
Anyhow, back to my point. I'm trying to teach them proper skin care, hair care and...well... to just plain care about if they smell like longshoremen or not.
Then, there's the new back-to-school schedule...
Mark and I made a plan last year to offset our work hours so one of us could see the kids off on the bus in the morning and the other could intercept the crew after school. This was in effort to eliminate the before/after school care fees that were near $800 a month.
So Mark took the early shift (with the kids) and I take the late one. It's his job to get the troops up and off to school -- a job made easier once he applied some of what he learned in the Air Force. The kids line up when he calls out, "FRONT AND CENTER" and grab their backpacks and lunch boxes when he gives the "GEAR UP" command.
My late shift involves getting everyone an after-school snack, started on homework and making dinner. In truth, I love getting home early. I'm no longer fighting the clock to fit everything in at night -- especially since we can mostly finish eating by 6:30 p.m. (It used to be more like 7:30.)
The thing I'm having trouble with though is my 6:30 a.m. start time. It wasn't as bad last year when I could fuel up on several cups of coffee, but now, being 7 months pregnant, my caffeine intake is severely limited. I can have a small cup -- half a mug -- tops.
On top of it, I'm unsure how I'm going to manage this gawd-awful early shift after a sleepless night with a newborn, but we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it.
In the past, my weeks in review contained Mom's Tolerability Index, a graphic which measured the awfulness of the week in boxes of Franzia.
Seeing as I haven't enjoyed a box (or two) of vino in several months, I need a new unit of measure.
Pints of Moosetracks ice cream?
4-packs of chocolate pudding cups?
I've got to think about that one for a while.
The new kindergartner, Crowbar, still loves going to the big-kid school. However, on Wednesday of this week, he asked if he could take a break and stay home. As much as we'd like to oblige so we could all take a break, we sent him off on the big yellow bus.
He still sits in the backseat with the 5th graders, by the way.
The twins, Mad Dog and The Deuce, newly minted fifth graders, are back in the groove and I can tell an increase in maturity this year from last. They don't groan at homework time and are able to get themselves dressed, cleaned up and breakfasted (or perhaps breakfed?) without much if any assistance.
Something new this year is that they're way more into their looks than before. Not as in an "I'm So Vain, I Really Wrote This Song About Me" way -- but more in a they actually prefer to leave the house with hair brushed and deodorant applied.
I'm doing my best to teach them good habits and to care (without overly caring) about their looks. This is tough for someone whose never considered herself a girlie girl. I never learned how to do a decent braid -- nor really cared to -- or spent my hard-earned money (made as a 15 year-old cashier at the local sub shop) at the mall. I had friends who worked at the Clinique counter so they could be closer to Deb (remember the pink shag carpet?) and get a discount on makeup.
Only my brothers were in the house during those preteen years. My sister was already off to college, so instead of adopting her great fashion habits, which at the time included blue mascara, I adopted a self-care philosophy that more resembled that of my ape-like brothers. (But that's a story for another time -- or perhaps therapy.)
Anyhow, back to my point. I'm trying to teach them proper skin care, hair care and...well... to just plain care about if they smell like longshoremen or not.
Then, there's the new back-to-school schedule...
Mark and I made a plan last year to offset our work hours so one of us could see the kids off on the bus in the morning and the other could intercept the crew after school. This was in effort to eliminate the before/after school care fees that were near $800 a month.
So Mark took the early shift (with the kids) and I take the late one. It's his job to get the troops up and off to school -- a job made easier once he applied some of what he learned in the Air Force. The kids line up when he calls out, "FRONT AND CENTER" and grab their backpacks and lunch boxes when he gives the "GEAR UP" command.
My late shift involves getting everyone an after-school snack, started on homework and making dinner. In truth, I love getting home early. I'm no longer fighting the clock to fit everything in at night -- especially since we can mostly finish eating by 6:30 p.m. (It used to be more like 7:30.)
The thing I'm having trouble with though is my 6:30 a.m. start time. It wasn't as bad last year when I could fuel up on several cups of coffee, but now, being 7 months pregnant, my caffeine intake is severely limited. I can have a small cup -- half a mug -- tops.
On top of it, I'm unsure how I'm going to manage this gawd-awful early shift after a sleepless night with a newborn, but we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it.
In the past, my weeks in review contained Mom's Tolerability Index, a graphic which measured the awfulness of the week in boxes of Franzia.
Seeing as I haven't enjoyed a box (or two) of vino in several months, I need a new unit of measure.
Pints of Moosetracks ice cream?
4-packs of chocolate pudding cups?
I've got to think about that one for a while.
PreggoQuest 2010: Cheesy crackers
Warning: Yet another preggo-inspired post. And this one's fairly lame.
- - -
This afternoon I had an overwhelming craving for cheese crackers. Goldfish, Tid-Bits, Cheese-Its -- whatever. All I knew is that I wanted those crackers and had to have them.
Mark called to ask me a question about a letter I was working on for him. (We work together.)
"Hi, I was wondering if--"
"Don't Goldfish Crackers sound good right now?" I asked, interrupting him. I continued on, barely taking a breath:
"I mean REALLY good and I could totally go for some right now but all I have in my desk are gummy bears and I really want something salty and cheesy and crunchy couldn't you because I know there are some pretzels in the vending machine but they're not cheesy so that won't work and the only other thing remotely close are the animal crackers but they're not salty or cheesy and won't cut it either so I suppose I could run across the street to the store and get some cheese crackers but I really shouldn't because I've gotta finish your letter but I just can't get those crackers out of my mind and I think I'm going to go crazy unless I get some really I am."
Silence on the other end. I continued:
"Isn't it funny how just the other day all I could think about were these gummy bears but now I don't want them because they're too sweet and will just stick in my teeth which is why I want those crunchy crackers but they have to be cheesy. And salty."
I took a breath and rambled on:
"I'm going to go and check the vending machine again you know just in case it recently got stocked see you later."
I hung up on him and made a break for the elevator.
I ran into a co-worker and asked if she knew where I could score some cheesy crackers. She glanced around to see if anyone was nearby and, in a hushed voice, told me about a vending machine in the other building on our campus that had all sorts of exotic goodies. She explained that because the machine is near the 24/7 call center, it was well-stocked with junk food and was way better than the machines in our building -- machines full of heart-healthy options like pretzels, sunflower seeds and low-fat wafers.
Just then, the light bulb above my head lit up. Mark works in that building and was probably sitting less than 400 feet from cheesy crackers.
I excused myself and darted back to my desk (darting as quickly as a preggo can dart) and dialed Mark. Before I could say a word, he told me he'd checked the vending machine, found some Cheese-Its and successfully procured them. Just for me.
By this time, it was nearly time to go, so I grabbed my keys and sprinted (sprinting as quickly as a preggo can sprint) to the van where Mark met me, cheesy crackers in hand. He opened the package and took a step back to avoid losing a digit or getting sprayed by flying crumbs, I'd imagine.
I devoured the bag in .3 seconds.
I love that man. Even more than cheesy crackers -- and that's a lot.
- - -
This afternoon I had an overwhelming craving for cheese crackers. Goldfish, Tid-Bits, Cheese-Its -- whatever. All I knew is that I wanted those crackers and had to have them.
Mark called to ask me a question about a letter I was working on for him. (We work together.)
"Hi, I was wondering if--"
"Don't Goldfish Crackers sound good right now?" I asked, interrupting him. I continued on, barely taking a breath:
"I mean REALLY good and I could totally go for some right now but all I have in my desk are gummy bears and I really want something salty and cheesy and crunchy couldn't you because I know there are some pretzels in the vending machine but they're not cheesy so that won't work and the only other thing remotely close are the animal crackers but they're not salty or cheesy and won't cut it either so I suppose I could run across the street to the store and get some cheese crackers but I really shouldn't because I've gotta finish your letter but I just can't get those crackers out of my mind and I think I'm going to go crazy unless I get some really I am."
Silence on the other end. I continued:
"Isn't it funny how just the other day all I could think about were these gummy bears but now I don't want them because they're too sweet and will just stick in my teeth which is why I want those crunchy crackers but they have to be cheesy. And salty."
I took a breath and rambled on:
"I'm going to go and check the vending machine again you know just in case it recently got stocked see you later."
I hung up on him and made a break for the elevator.
I ran into a co-worker and asked if she knew where I could score some cheesy crackers. She glanced around to see if anyone was nearby and, in a hushed voice, told me about a vending machine in the other building on our campus that had all sorts of exotic goodies. She explained that because the machine is near the 24/7 call center, it was well-stocked with junk food and was way better than the machines in our building -- machines full of heart-healthy options like pretzels, sunflower seeds and low-fat wafers.
Just then, the light bulb above my head lit up. Mark works in that building and was probably sitting less than 400 feet from cheesy crackers.
I excused myself and darted back to my desk (darting as quickly as a preggo can dart) and dialed Mark. Before I could say a word, he told me he'd checked the vending machine, found some Cheese-Its and successfully procured them. Just for me.
By this time, it was nearly time to go, so I grabbed my keys and sprinted (sprinting as quickly as a preggo can sprint) to the van where Mark met me, cheesy crackers in hand. He opened the package and took a step back to avoid losing a digit or getting sprayed by flying crumbs, I'd imagine.
I devoured the bag in .3 seconds.
I love that man. Even more than cheesy crackers -- and that's a lot.
Overheard
Believe it or not, I teach Sunday School at my church. Last year was my first year and I taught the first and second graders, which I enjoyed tremendously. My kids were in different classes down the hall.
This year, I've been asked to switch it up and teach the older kids -- a class of fifth and sixth graders.
Mad Dog and The Deuce are fifth graders. And this all led to this interesting exchange:
Scene opens: Mad Dog and I are sitting side by side, each eating a bowl of cold cereal.
"Hey, guess what? I'm going to be your Sunday School teacher next year. Cool huh?"
"You'll be my teacher?"
"Yep, the Director of Christian Education asked me to last night. Isn't that great?"
"It's freaky, Mom."
"Does 'freaky' mean 'awesome?'"
"Yeah, let's say, 'awesome.'"
And... end scene.
This year, I've been asked to switch it up and teach the older kids -- a class of fifth and sixth graders.
Mad Dog and The Deuce are fifth graders. And this all led to this interesting exchange:
Scene opens: Mad Dog and I are sitting side by side, each eating a bowl of cold cereal.
"Hey, guess what? I'm going to be your Sunday School teacher next year. Cool huh?"
"You'll be my teacher?"
"Yep, the Director of Christian Education asked me to last night. Isn't that great?"
"It's freaky, Mom."
"Does 'freaky' mean 'awesome?'"
"Yeah, let's say, 'awesome.'"
And... end scene.
Ranty McGee
Warning: Another pregnancy-related post.
You know, I think I've been pretty good about not being a hormonal nightmare during this pregnancy so far.
With a few pregnancies under my belt, I've been able to recognize that I've had way fewer of those out-of-body experiences where you stand aside and watch yourself act like a raving lunatic, realizing you're being nuts, but helpless to do anything other than apologize later.
I haven't had any uncontrollable crying jags or wildly irrational behavior -- at least nothing that's noteworthy anyway.
Not like my girlfriend who, upon watching an MTV marathon of Newlyweds -- which included the one where Nick filled the house with several bushels of long-stemmed roses for his beloved Jessica just because -- totally bitched out her husband for not being as sweet, thoughtful or apparently rich as Nick.
Or even me, while pregnant with the twins and after driving through McDonald's to satisfy my daily McGriddle craving (oh, the thought now grosses me out!), heard a lady win $100 on the radio and cried all the way to work because she sounded like she needed the money so badly. I was such a blubbering mess, my boss asked if I was OK.
But I've noticed a few rant-heavy posts around here that make me think I may be channeling my bizarro behavior here to my blog. And I fear you may wonder if I'm starting to lose it.
So, regardless of what you've read here or here, things are actually going pretty well on the pregnancy front. And my family is not huddled in the basement, fearing for my next outburst.
My food cravings have been fairly minimal -- only a few times when I just had to have pineapple-orange juice or baby carrots (which I consumed in the grocery store parking lot), oh, and a couple trips to McDonald's for the McSkillet Burrito. (I know, what is it with fast-food breakfast?!?)
Some friends of mine were sharing their preggo cravings stories, making mine sound ridiculously trivial. One stopped at a local diner every morning for months on end and ordered the same, big breakfast. When, late into her pregnancy, she failed to show up one morning (overslept or some benign reason), everyone breathed a sigh of relief when she appeared the next day.
"Oh, baby," said the big lady behind the counter. "We were so worried about you."
Did I mention that when she'd walk in, they'd have her order ready and waiting for her?
My other friend told me she'd wake up in the middle of the night and eat an entire box of fruit loops nearly every night. Also, at her lunch break, she'd walk/waddle down to the corner street vendor and buy two Mexican chorizo sausages. She'd eat one on the way back and the other would be an afternoon snack. Chorizo. The greasiest sausage known to man. Every. Single. Day. She said the thought of it now makes her stomach turn.
No, I've been pretty tame so far. Just a few light-to-moderate cravings and hormonal outbursts that rank pretty low on the Richter Scale.
But I do so love hearing stories of pregnancy-induced crazy. They make me feel normal at a time when my body feels so out of control.
Trying to negotiate around the belly is getting increasingly challenging and the number on the scale is starting to freak me out a little. But I know, it's a temporary state with temporary complaints that will completely disappear when Sweet Pea arrives.
The weight will come off and my sense of order will return and this blog will look a little less ranty.
At least I hope so.
You know, I think I've been pretty good about not being a hormonal nightmare during this pregnancy so far.
With a few pregnancies under my belt, I've been able to recognize that I've had way fewer of those out-of-body experiences where you stand aside and watch yourself act like a raving lunatic, realizing you're being nuts, but helpless to do anything other than apologize later.
I haven't had any uncontrollable crying jags or wildly irrational behavior -- at least nothing that's noteworthy anyway.
Not like my girlfriend who, upon watching an MTV marathon of Newlyweds -- which included the one where Nick filled the house with several bushels of long-stemmed roses for his beloved Jessica just because -- totally bitched out her husband for not being as sweet, thoughtful or apparently rich as Nick.
Or even me, while pregnant with the twins and after driving through McDonald's to satisfy my daily McGriddle craving (oh, the thought now grosses me out!), heard a lady win $100 on the radio and cried all the way to work because she sounded like she needed the money so badly. I was such a blubbering mess, my boss asked if I was OK.
But I've noticed a few rant-heavy posts around here that make me think I may be channeling my bizarro behavior here to my blog. And I fear you may wonder if I'm starting to lose it.
So, regardless of what you've read here or here, things are actually going pretty well on the pregnancy front. And my family is not huddled in the basement, fearing for my next outburst.
My food cravings have been fairly minimal -- only a few times when I just had to have pineapple-orange juice or baby carrots (which I consumed in the grocery store parking lot), oh, and a couple trips to McDonald's for the McSkillet Burrito. (I know, what is it with fast-food breakfast?!?)
Some friends of mine were sharing their preggo cravings stories, making mine sound ridiculously trivial. One stopped at a local diner every morning for months on end and ordered the same, big breakfast. When, late into her pregnancy, she failed to show up one morning (overslept or some benign reason), everyone breathed a sigh of relief when she appeared the next day.
"Oh, baby," said the big lady behind the counter. "We were so worried about you."
Did I mention that when she'd walk in, they'd have her order ready and waiting for her?
My other friend told me she'd wake up in the middle of the night and eat an entire box of fruit loops nearly every night. Also, at her lunch break, she'd walk/waddle down to the corner street vendor and buy two Mexican chorizo sausages. She'd eat one on the way back and the other would be an afternoon snack. Chorizo. The greasiest sausage known to man. Every. Single. Day. She said the thought of it now makes her stomach turn.
No, I've been pretty tame so far. Just a few light-to-moderate cravings and hormonal outbursts that rank pretty low on the Richter Scale.
But I do so love hearing stories of pregnancy-induced crazy. They make me feel normal at a time when my body feels so out of control.
Trying to negotiate around the belly is getting increasingly challenging and the number on the scale is starting to freak me out a little. But I know, it's a temporary state with temporary complaints that will completely disappear when Sweet Pea arrives.
The weight will come off and my sense of order will return and this blog will look a little less ranty.
At least I hope so.
Here's what's cookin'.
Meal planning, shopping and preparation stress me out.
It's not the high-anxiety kind, like making-a-presentation-to-a-room-full-of-grumpy-VPs stress or the oh-crap-I'm-late-for-an-important-appointment-and-stuck-in-traffic stress. Rather, it's this sort of low-frequency, nagging kind of stress that just never seems to go away.
The family's gotta eat and I've gotta feed them. It's as simple as that.
I try to be organized and I try to be realistic, but inevitably I come home from a long day at work and don't look forward to spending the next 3 hours+ in the kitchen, cooking and then cleaning up.
But, more often than not, I do it. I manage to make home-cooked meals -- complete with a protein, starch and veggie -- on a regular basis. And, more often than not, I'm stuck in the kitchen until well past 7, cleaning up and thinking about all the laundry and other housework that still needs to get done.
If coming up with manageable, semi-interesting menus wasn't enough, there's also the whole cost-containment aspect. I try to be economical. I choose recipes that don't cost an arm and a leg per serving and I shop at our local Aldi, a store that often gets a bad rap, but that saves me a bundle on our weekly grocery bill.
I'm not dumb. I know what to do: I always go with meals in mind and a complete list in hand. I buy versatile ingredients, those that can be used in more than one dish. Plus, I try to buy only what we really need -- not impulse purchases that'll die slow painful deaths, expiring in the back of my pantry.
But from time to time, and most often on weekends, I throw in the towel. I've put in my time during the work week.
I'm done. Finished. Ka-put.
So when everyone looks to me Saturday night and asks, what's for dinner? -- especially when I need to sit down and plan meals for the week ahead, my response is: "We're eating out."
The whole thing is exhausting.
So surely you can understand why I got a little defensive when Mark asked me why our family food costs are so high and did I think we could, say, cut them in half?
He asked me this in a perfectly non-threatening way, but, weary from the day-in-day-out challenge of feeding our family, I took it as a you're-spending-WAY-too-much-on-groceries accusation.
I'm not proud of how I reacted.
My first instinct was to tell him to go f--- himself. (I did not.) My second instinct was better, but not by much. I barely managed to hold back pregnancy-induced, hormonally charged tears and confessed to feeling overwhelmed by bearing the brunt of this major household chore solely on my shoulders. I told him how I work really hard to feed all of us, but doing so is thankless, exhausting and expensive.
And so I asked if he would he be willing to share the load a little.
I was hoping for him to volunteer to pick up one meal a week, tops, but what I didn't expect was Mark's offer to plan and prepare meals for an entire week.
He proposed we alternate meal planning responsibilities week by week. He rationalized that the arrangement would help him improve his own cooking skills and repertoire (which he genuinely wants), to understand where our food budget was going and, as a bonus, it would ease my workload.
I eagerly accepted his offer.
So, we're nearing the end of Chef Mark's first week.
He planned seven day's worth of meals, shopped for groceries and has made something every night. His meals are tasty and, despite a few setbacks, like realizing he'd forgotten key ingredients, has gained confidence by going off-recipe and improvising to still-delicious results.
While Mark never made me feel my meal-prep efforts were unappreciated, I think he has a new appreciation for how challenging it can be -- especially after putting in a full day at work. But it remains to be seen if he's been able to cut our grocery bill in half.
I'll admit that having some free time to do other household chores and, in one case, take a nap after work, thrills me to no end. But I don't want to simply shift the stress of dinner prep from one of us to the other. I'm happy that he's understanding that it's not a simple (or cheap) chore, but I don't delight in seeing him get frustrated. That's not what this should be about. That's not good for our marriage.
I'm not sure if this week-on, week-off thing will continue or not, but for now, I'm happy to approach meal prep more equitably. I'm happy to even things out a little.
And I'm certain I'll learn a few things along the way. I'll expand my own mental recipe index, pick up a few cooking tips and use my off-weeks to better manage other household chores -- the ones that often get neglected.
And if I can get a nap or two in there somehow...it's even better.
It's not the high-anxiety kind, like making-a-presentation-to-a-room-full-of-grumpy-VPs stress or the oh-crap-I'm-late-for-an-important-appointment-and-stuck-in-traffic stress. Rather, it's this sort of low-frequency, nagging kind of stress that just never seems to go away.
The family's gotta eat and I've gotta feed them. It's as simple as that.
I try to be organized and I try to be realistic, but inevitably I come home from a long day at work and don't look forward to spending the next 3 hours+ in the kitchen, cooking and then cleaning up.
But, more often than not, I do it. I manage to make home-cooked meals -- complete with a protein, starch and veggie -- on a regular basis. And, more often than not, I'm stuck in the kitchen until well past 7, cleaning up and thinking about all the laundry and other housework that still needs to get done.
If coming up with manageable, semi-interesting menus wasn't enough, there's also the whole cost-containment aspect. I try to be economical. I choose recipes that don't cost an arm and a leg per serving and I shop at our local Aldi, a store that often gets a bad rap, but that saves me a bundle on our weekly grocery bill.
I'm not dumb. I know what to do: I always go with meals in mind and a complete list in hand. I buy versatile ingredients, those that can be used in more than one dish. Plus, I try to buy only what we really need -- not impulse purchases that'll die slow painful deaths, expiring in the back of my pantry.
But from time to time, and most often on weekends, I throw in the towel. I've put in my time during the work week.
I'm done. Finished. Ka-put.
So when everyone looks to me Saturday night and asks, what's for dinner? -- especially when I need to sit down and plan meals for the week ahead, my response is: "We're eating out."
The whole thing is exhausting.
So surely you can understand why I got a little defensive when Mark asked me why our family food costs are so high and did I think we could, say, cut them in half?
He asked me this in a perfectly non-threatening way, but, weary from the day-in-day-out challenge of feeding our family, I took it as a you're-spending-WAY-too-much-on-groceries accusation.
I'm not proud of how I reacted.
My first instinct was to tell him to go f--- himself. (I did not.) My second instinct was better, but not by much. I barely managed to hold back pregnancy-induced, hormonally charged tears and confessed to feeling overwhelmed by bearing the brunt of this major household chore solely on my shoulders. I told him how I work really hard to feed all of us, but doing so is thankless, exhausting and expensive.
And so I asked if he would he be willing to share the load a little.
I was hoping for him to volunteer to pick up one meal a week, tops, but what I didn't expect was Mark's offer to plan and prepare meals for an entire week.
He proposed we alternate meal planning responsibilities week by week. He rationalized that the arrangement would help him improve his own cooking skills and repertoire (which he genuinely wants), to understand where our food budget was going and, as a bonus, it would ease my workload.
I eagerly accepted his offer.
So, we're nearing the end of Chef Mark's first week.
He planned seven day's worth of meals, shopped for groceries and has made something every night. His meals are tasty and, despite a few setbacks, like realizing he'd forgotten key ingredients, has gained confidence by going off-recipe and improvising to still-delicious results.
While Mark never made me feel my meal-prep efforts were unappreciated, I think he has a new appreciation for how challenging it can be -- especially after putting in a full day at work. But it remains to be seen if he's been able to cut our grocery bill in half.
I'll admit that having some free time to do other household chores and, in one case, take a nap after work, thrills me to no end. But I don't want to simply shift the stress of dinner prep from one of us to the other. I'm happy that he's understanding that it's not a simple (or cheap) chore, but I don't delight in seeing him get frustrated. That's not what this should be about. That's not good for our marriage.
I'm not sure if this week-on, week-off thing will continue or not, but for now, I'm happy to approach meal prep more equitably. I'm happy to even things out a little.
And I'm certain I'll learn a few things along the way. I'll expand my own mental recipe index, pick up a few cooking tips and use my off-weeks to better manage other household chores -- the ones that often get neglected.
And if I can get a nap or two in there somehow...it's even better.
I'm glad it's not you either.
People say the dumbest things.
When I was pregnant with the girls, when someone would find out I was carrying twins, inevitably I'd hear surprised (and often uncensored) responses. The one I heard the most often, that bothered me the most, went along the lines of:
"Holy shit. I'm glad it's not me."
Seriously. I heard it all the time, in varying forms.
"I could never do that."
"Are you freaking out? No way I could handle more than one kid at a time."
"I'd go crazy for sure."
Every time I'd get a reaction like that, I'd be polite and smile, but think to myself, "Yeah, we all should be glad it's not you, jackass."
Well, dumb people are at it again. This time, it happened when I told a co-worker I'm expecting my fourth child. I was met with that familiar look of shock, surprise and overwhelm. Without a second's hesitation, she responded,
"Holy shit. I'm glad it's not me."
I responded to her the same way I did all those years ago. I was perfectly pleasant on the outside, but inside, I want to grab and shake her.
Back when I was expecting the twins, that particular response really bothered me. I know it was because I really was freaked out and overwhelmed at the prospect. I needed a supportive, encouraging response -- not one that cast doubt on a person's ability to manage.
So when people would drop the line, I'd smile, but walk away wondering and worrying if I was up to the challenge.
But now, things are different.
With three kids in tow, the prospect of having another and expanding my family doesn't worry me in the least. I'm not overwhelmed or freaked out. I'm genuinely excited about the baby. I don't doubt my ability to handle another mouth to feed, or butt to swat.
Maybe it's because I really enjoy being a mom. I like my kids. Sure I have moments where the responsibility and work can get overwhelming, but I let the moment pass, pick myself up and move on.
I'm sure ten years of experience have something to do with it. I've spent a decade juggling a full-time job, housework and parenting -- several years of it on my own -- and have emerged more confident and sure of myself than ever before.
So when I think of adding another baby to our bustling 3-kid, 2-dog, 1-fish household, I say:
Bring it the fuck on.
And too bad for the next sorry sap who tells me, "Four kids? I'd have to kill myself," because I just might be the one to help them pull the trigger.
When I was pregnant with the girls, when someone would find out I was carrying twins, inevitably I'd hear surprised (and often uncensored) responses. The one I heard the most often, that bothered me the most, went along the lines of:
"Holy shit. I'm glad it's not me."
Seriously. I heard it all the time, in varying forms.
"I could never do that."
"Are you freaking out? No way I could handle more than one kid at a time."
"I'd go crazy for sure."
Every time I'd get a reaction like that, I'd be polite and smile, but think to myself, "Yeah, we all should be glad it's not you, jackass."
Well, dumb people are at it again. This time, it happened when I told a co-worker I'm expecting my fourth child. I was met with that familiar look of shock, surprise and overwhelm. Without a second's hesitation, she responded,
"Holy shit. I'm glad it's not me."
I responded to her the same way I did all those years ago. I was perfectly pleasant on the outside, but inside, I want to grab and shake her.
Back when I was expecting the twins, that particular response really bothered me. I know it was because I really was freaked out and overwhelmed at the prospect. I needed a supportive, encouraging response -- not one that cast doubt on a person's ability to manage.
So when people would drop the line, I'd smile, but walk away wondering and worrying if I was up to the challenge.
But now, things are different.
With three kids in tow, the prospect of having another and expanding my family doesn't worry me in the least. I'm not overwhelmed or freaked out. I'm genuinely excited about the baby. I don't doubt my ability to handle another mouth to feed, or butt to swat.
Maybe it's because I really enjoy being a mom. I like my kids. Sure I have moments where the responsibility and work can get overwhelming, but I let the moment pass, pick myself up and move on.
I'm sure ten years of experience have something to do with it. I've spent a decade juggling a full-time job, housework and parenting -- several years of it on my own -- and have emerged more confident and sure of myself than ever before.
So when I think of adding another baby to our bustling 3-kid, 2-dog, 1-fish household, I say:
Bring it the fuck on.
And too bad for the next sorry sap who tells me, "Four kids? I'd have to kill myself," because I just might be the one to help them pull the trigger.
Who are you? A cop?
The art of conversation is completely lost on my kids.
They don't understand that proper communication is an exchange of thoughts and experiences by one or more equally engaged parties.
Instead, I get 20 questions. No, make that 200 questions.
From the minute I pick Crowbar up from daycare it starts:
What's for dinner?
Where are the girls?
Can I sit in the front?
Can I watch TV when I get home?
Did you bring me a snack?
Can Freddy come over?
Can I play with my Bakugans tonight?
Can we go to the library now?
What's for dinner?
Is today Tuesday?
Do we have to stop at the store?
Can I watch a movie?
Why are we going this way?
What's for dinner?
Yeah, did you catch that? Dinner? THREE TIMES? Throughout the barrage of questions, he doesn't even register my answers.
The girls are no better. I think they ask questions just to ask questions. And they for things way far out in the future. It goes beyond asking what's for dinner while they're eating breakfast. They'll ask if they can play video games next week, Thursday.
I don't know exactly how or when this all started. I don't mind being asked questions or permission to do things. In fact, in many cases, I prefer it. I like that they ask permission to play video games and before raiding the pantry.
But this relentless barrage is getting to be too much. I've gotten to the point where, if they repeat a question I've already answered (which is, like, ALL THE TIME) I tell them that I've already answered that one and to find the answer from someone who was listening.
I think tonight I'm going to turn the tables. I'm going to hit those kids with a few questions of my own as soon as I see them.
How was school?
Do you have homework?
What did you play at recess?
Did you eat your lunch?
All of it?
What did you eat?
Is your teacher nice?
Did you have a good day?
What did you eat for lunch?
Who are the kids in your reading group?
What did you learn about today?
Is your seat belt buckled?
Do have all your things?
Did you play outside today?
What did they give you for snack?
Who were you playing with just now?
What did you eat for lunch?
We'll see if turning the tables has any effect. But if this is what my kids think conversation is, I seriously doubt it.
They don't understand that proper communication is an exchange of thoughts and experiences by one or more equally engaged parties.
Instead, I get 20 questions. No, make that 200 questions.
From the minute I pick Crowbar up from daycare it starts:
What's for dinner?
Where are the girls?
Can I sit in the front?
Can I watch TV when I get home?
Did you bring me a snack?
Can Freddy come over?
Can I play with my Bakugans tonight?
Can we go to the library now?
What's for dinner?
Is today Tuesday?
Do we have to stop at the store?
Can I watch a movie?
Why are we going this way?
What's for dinner?
Yeah, did you catch that? Dinner? THREE TIMES? Throughout the barrage of questions, he doesn't even register my answers.
The girls are no better. I think they ask questions just to ask questions. And they for things way far out in the future. It goes beyond asking what's for dinner while they're eating breakfast. They'll ask if they can play video games next week, Thursday.
I don't know exactly how or when this all started. I don't mind being asked questions or permission to do things. In fact, in many cases, I prefer it. I like that they ask permission to play video games and before raiding the pantry.
But this relentless barrage is getting to be too much. I've gotten to the point where, if they repeat a question I've already answered (which is, like, ALL THE TIME) I tell them that I've already answered that one and to find the answer from someone who was listening.
I think tonight I'm going to turn the tables. I'm going to hit those kids with a few questions of my own as soon as I see them.
How was school?
Do you have homework?
What did you play at recess?
Did you eat your lunch?
All of it?
What did you eat?
Is your teacher nice?
Did you have a good day?
What did you eat for lunch?
Who are the kids in your reading group?
What did you learn about today?
Is your seat belt buckled?
Do have all your things?
Did you play outside today?
What did they give you for snack?
Who were you playing with just now?
What did you eat for lunch?
We'll see if turning the tables has any effect. But if this is what my kids think conversation is, I seriously doubt it.
Off kilter.
I've been feeling off lately. My whole routine, the rhythm of my life has been completely and utterly off kilter for the better part of two weeks now.
Everyone has daily rituals. Everyone. And when some monkey wrench upsets the apple cart, it can take a while to get your feet back under you.
For me, it's been a combination of things:
The puppy.
As cute and lovable as she is, she's thrown my schedule for a loop. Up in the middle of the night, occupying my precious mornings, she's the main reason why I haven't been able to write regularly. I still get up early, but find myself racing to work to avoid being late because of her. And something as simple as making dinner can be a tremendous pain in the ass.
I know this high-maintenance puppy phase will end, and I don't regret getting her for one instant, but I'm ready for her -- and her teeny tiny bladder -- to grow some.
Allergies.
This has been the worst allergy season for me in a while. Being allergic to many varieties of trees and living on the edge of one of the biggest parks in the county has made this a tough spring. My normal remedies aren't an option and I've been checking into alternate ways to manage.
I feel like I've been walking around in a fog, unable to do much without bursting into a sneezing-wheezing fit. Feeling all stuffed up has made it hard to write -- or even identify things worth writing about. (Hence this lame post.) I'm tempted to get a Netty pot, but until then, lots of steam, fluids and Kleenex are a must until all the trees are done budding.
This clunky old computer.
Wait a minute. Is five years old for a computer? It must be. This clunky thing has given me fits of late. I can spend 20 minutes waiting for the system to come online. I know. I waited this morning.
I'm hoping to turn things around this week. My allergies have given me temporary reprieve, allowing me to emerge from the haze with a renewed sense of purpose.
Today I will turn over a new leaf and a new routine -- one that factors in long computer delays and time spent cleaning up the dog's piddles.
And if that doesn't work, hold my calls. I'll be in the shower.
Everyone has daily rituals. Everyone. And when some monkey wrench upsets the apple cart, it can take a while to get your feet back under you.
For me, it's been a combination of things:
The puppy.
As cute and lovable as she is, she's thrown my schedule for a loop. Up in the middle of the night, occupying my precious mornings, she's the main reason why I haven't been able to write regularly. I still get up early, but find myself racing to work to avoid being late because of her. And something as simple as making dinner can be a tremendous pain in the ass.
I know this high-maintenance puppy phase will end, and I don't regret getting her for one instant, but I'm ready for her -- and her teeny tiny bladder -- to grow some.
Allergies.
This has been the worst allergy season for me in a while. Being allergic to many varieties of trees and living on the edge of one of the biggest parks in the county has made this a tough spring. My normal remedies aren't an option and I've been checking into alternate ways to manage.
I feel like I've been walking around in a fog, unable to do much without bursting into a sneezing-wheezing fit. Feeling all stuffed up has made it hard to write -- or even identify things worth writing about. (Hence this lame post.) I'm tempted to get a Netty pot, but until then, lots of steam, fluids and Kleenex are a must until all the trees are done budding.
This clunky old computer.
Wait a minute. Is five years old for a computer? It must be. This clunky thing has given me fits of late. I can spend 20 minutes waiting for the system to come online. I know. I waited this morning.
I'm hoping to turn things around this week. My allergies have given me temporary reprieve, allowing me to emerge from the haze with a renewed sense of purpose.
Today I will turn over a new leaf and a new routine -- one that factors in long computer delays and time spent cleaning up the dog's piddles.
And if that doesn't work, hold my calls. I'll be in the shower.
Housebreaking Haiku
Little golden pools
lie wait on linolium.
lie wait on linolium.
Unsuspecting me.
The puppy won't pee.
Outside. In grass lotus green.
Need more paper towel.
We tether to belts
Watching water in and out.
Accidents happen.
Weary. Frustrated.
Patience grows thin. Breaks like ice.
At least she can fetch.
Puppy, where's your brain?
You have to catch on real soon.
Good thing you're so cute.
Libby. She who refuses to be housebroken.
My point exactly.
So last Friday I took a vacation day, partly to get over my horrible start to the week and partly to have some good house-training time with the puppy.
Crowbar, nearly 5, had his own tough week. For a couple days in a row, his best friend wouldn't let him be Batman. The kid insisted that Crowbar leave the lead superhero duties to him and instead offered him the role of Robin, Batman's trusty sidekick and ward.
Crowbar, unwilling to be a 4 year-old's ward (good boy!), resigned to play house with the girls, where he was perfectly content to assume the role of family dog. (Go figure.)
Anyhow, when Friday finally rolled around, Crowbar looked up with his bright blue eyes and asked if he could stay home with me. There was no denying that he'd earned it. We both had. So we both stayed home to lick our wounds and recharge with a three-day weekend.
Out on a quick run to the store, we decided to catch lunch.
"Where should we go?" I asked, knowing the only answer a kid under 14 could possibly offer.
"McDonald's," he said, right on cue.
"It'd be nice to get something healthier. I don't want anything fried today. It's not good for our hearts."
It's not that I'm anti-McDonald's. We go there often enough that I have loads of cheap plastic toys laying around, waiting to be stepped on.
"Aww, Mom!" He pitched into a fit. "You only want to go to restaurants," he spitted in disgust.
"McDonald's isn't a restaurant?"
"No. It's got a drive thru -- and toys. I don't want a restaurant. I want McDonald's!"
In the end, his wails were met with disappointment. I opted for a local deli where they have neither a drive-thru or toys.
Mom 1, Crowbar and the McDonald's Corporation 0.
Crowbar, nearly 5, had his own tough week. For a couple days in a row, his best friend wouldn't let him be Batman. The kid insisted that Crowbar leave the lead superhero duties to him and instead offered him the role of Robin, Batman's trusty sidekick and ward.
Crowbar, unwilling to be a 4 year-old's ward (good boy!), resigned to play house with the girls, where he was perfectly content to assume the role of family dog. (Go figure.)
Anyhow, when Friday finally rolled around, Crowbar looked up with his bright blue eyes and asked if he could stay home with me. There was no denying that he'd earned it. We both had. So we both stayed home to lick our wounds and recharge with a three-day weekend.
Out on a quick run to the store, we decided to catch lunch.
"Where should we go?" I asked, knowing the only answer a kid under 14 could possibly offer.
"McDonald's," he said, right on cue.
"It'd be nice to get something healthier. I don't want anything fried today. It's not good for our hearts."
It's not that I'm anti-McDonald's. We go there often enough that I have loads of cheap plastic toys laying around, waiting to be stepped on.
"Aww, Mom!" He pitched into a fit. "You only want to go to restaurants," he spitted in disgust.
"McDonald's isn't a restaurant?"
"No. It's got a drive thru -- and toys. I don't want a restaurant. I want McDonald's!"
In the end, his wails were met with disappointment. I opted for a local deli where they have neither a drive-thru or toys.
Mom 1, Crowbar and the McDonald's Corporation 0.
A week of wine and whining.
It's only Wednesday and I'm already considering cracking a box of wine -- or four.
Clearly, it's time to dust of my favorite barometer of sanity:
It's just been one of those weeks. The highs have been high and the lows pretty damn low.
Monday was probably the worst day I've had at work in a long time. The kind of day where tears of frustration lurked just below the surface, threatening to jeopardize my image as a fairly sane, relatively competent professional.
Somehow I managed to make it home without a meltdown. Though, I don't think I've dropped quite so many f-bombs in a 24-hour period. Luckily they were all in a whiny phone call to Mark where I vented the day's frustrations.
Add to the work stuff a crazy-hectic week, full of meetings and after-school activities -- one of which we missed because I simply forgot to write it down. Very unlike me.
Sprinkle in some drama with the ex and a whole lotta poop.
Yeah, I said poop.
Which leads me to one of our ups: Libby, our 8-week old Goldendoodle puppy.
It's like having a baby -- that bites you.*
Clearly, it's time to dust of my favorite barometer of sanity:
It's just been one of those weeks. The highs have been high and the lows pretty damn low.
Monday was probably the worst day I've had at work in a long time. The kind of day where tears of frustration lurked just below the surface, threatening to jeopardize my image as a fairly sane, relatively competent professional.
Somehow I managed to make it home without a meltdown. Though, I don't think I've dropped quite so many f-bombs in a 24-hour period. Luckily they were all in a whiny phone call to Mark where I vented the day's frustrations.
Add to the work stuff a crazy-hectic week, full of meetings and after-school activities -- one of which we missed because I simply forgot to write it down. Very unlike me.
Sprinkle in some drama with the ex and a whole lotta poop.
Yeah, I said poop.
Which leads me to one of our ups: Libby, our 8-week old Goldendoodle puppy.
It's like having a baby -- that bites you.*She's crazy-cute and such a sweetie and everyone fights over who gets to snuggle with her next.
But, alas, that's where the poop comes in. Potty training's a bitch.
I've scrubbed out her crate and bathed her more times than I'd care to. I know it's just for a little while, but still. After coming home from a crummy day, scraping poop off the floor is the last thing I want to do.
But then again, after the scent of Monday's puppy poo dissipated, we had a day full of potty breakthroughs where a good 80% of her messes occured outside as desired. Another up!
We're only half way through the week and I'm hoping things continue to improve.
Until then, I'm calling dibs on snuggling with Libby.
* As much as I'd love to take credit for this clever observation, I must attribute this quote to my beloved sis-in-law, Bees. It sums up raising a puppy perfectly, don't you think?
For the love of all that's holy, please stop with all the fundraising crap!
You know how I feel about fundraisers.
This fall is off to a rockin' start. To date we've been inundated by fundraising requests from school, scouts and daycare and I've had it up to here.
First came the nut sale from scouts. Then the movie theater ticket sale from school. A day later, daycare's selling wrapping paper, pizza and a bunch of overpriced crap that always looks good in the catalog, but when you get it, it woefully tiny/flimsy/stale.
Next came the tubs of cookie dough and "gourmet" popcorn, which, with the twins' new braces, cannot even enter the house. And shortly after that, the kids came home wearing heart-shaped stickers that say:
"If my mom really loved me, she'd take me to Papa Murphy's tonight."
Okay, so I'm exaggerating - but just a little. It's all I can do to keep my sanity.
I get it. I know why fundraisers are important. I do. But I just don't have it in me to have my kids guilt our family, friends and neighbors into buying all of this stuff.
If you're a close friend or family member, you're probably scratching your head reading this. You're right. I never sent the kids over to flip open their trench coats and say, "Hey, buddy. Wanna buy some Garlic Nuggets?"
I usually pick one fundraiser each year for the kids to pimp to y'all. But this year, with the economy being what it is and my parents' fixed income and all, we've essentially boycotted all fundraising requests.
I just haven't had the heart. Hell, I even passed on the opportunity to turn the kids loose on a houseful of tipsy relatives last weekend. It would've been like shooting fish in a barrel.
No. I've put my foot down. I'm actually willing to pay cash for the next field trip and I fully expect my daycare rates to increase after the first of the year.
It's a small price to pay for being able to look the neighbors in the eye.
~ ~ ~
Out of curiosity, does anyone else feel this way? Does your school or daycare make you feel like an a-hole if you don't sell their crap? And are you afraid you own mother's going to stop calling you back some day out of fear you're trying to sell her yet another magazine subscription?
Please share!
This fall is off to a rockin' start. To date we've been inundated by fundraising requests from school, scouts and daycare and I've had it up to here.
First came the nut sale from scouts. Then the movie theater ticket sale from school. A day later, daycare's selling wrapping paper, pizza and a bunch of overpriced crap that always looks good in the catalog, but when you get it, it woefully tiny/flimsy/stale.
Next came the tubs of cookie dough and "gourmet" popcorn, which, with the twins' new braces, cannot even enter the house. And shortly after that, the kids came home wearing heart-shaped stickers that say:
"If my mom really loved me, she'd take me to Papa Murphy's tonight."
Okay, so I'm exaggerating - but just a little. It's all I can do to keep my sanity.
I get it. I know why fundraisers are important. I do. But I just don't have it in me to have my kids guilt our family, friends and neighbors into buying all of this stuff.
If you're a close friend or family member, you're probably scratching your head reading this. You're right. I never sent the kids over to flip open their trench coats and say, "Hey, buddy. Wanna buy some Garlic Nuggets?"
I usually pick one fundraiser each year for the kids to pimp to y'all. But this year, with the economy being what it is and my parents' fixed income and all, we've essentially boycotted all fundraising requests.
I just haven't had the heart. Hell, I even passed on the opportunity to turn the kids loose on a houseful of tipsy relatives last weekend. It would've been like shooting fish in a barrel.
No. I've put my foot down. I'm actually willing to pay cash for the next field trip and I fully expect my daycare rates to increase after the first of the year.
It's a small price to pay for being able to look the neighbors in the eye.
~ ~ ~
Out of curiosity, does anyone else feel this way? Does your school or daycare make you feel like an a-hole if you don't sell their crap? And are you afraid you own mother's going to stop calling you back some day out of fear you're trying to sell her yet another magazine subscription?
Please share!
It's always darkest before it goes pitch black.
Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, we were told on Thursday that we would most likely not be able to close on our house this month. We were told to make alternate plans - plans that would involve storing our belongings and moving in with my parents indefinitely.
After holding it together for the past month, I finally broke down and cried. Well actually, I sobbed.
Day after day of 'maybe this'll be the day' had taken it's toll. I had lost all hope and with it any shred of optimism I had left. I was emotionally spent and all I could think of was this:
But then, late Friday afternoon, we got the call we'd been waiting for. Our final approval had gone through. We were cleared to close and that date would be the following Thursday.
You'd think we'd be excited. You'd think we'd be bouncing off the walls, but weeks and weeks of waiting and wondering had effectively sucked all joy out of it.
We've had a bottle of champagne sitting in the fridge since the first week in April. We thought we'd pop it on May 8 - our first scheduled closing date. When that day came and went, the bottle got pushed to the back of the fridge with various containers of moldy leftovers.
Last night, I considered digging it out. But instead of popping the cork and making a toast, all I could think to do was use it to bash my brains in.
Ultimately, I left it there, next to a Tupperware of old mac and cheese, and just went to bed.
For now, it's time to focus on the task of moving. Maybe we'll use the champagne when we spend our first night in our new home. Maybe we'll pull it out after the last box has been unpacked.
Though, the way I feel right now, it won't be for toasting. Instead, I'll probably just use it to ice down sore muscles.
Overdue.
You know what all this waiting is like?
It's like being a big, huge pregnant lady who's 2 weeks overdue.
We're miserable in our current state and so anxious for the next stage that we just can't stand it. We know this can't go on forever, but there's seriously no end in sight. We keep thinking, today's the day, every single day, but ultimately it isn't.
It just keeps dragging on and on and on.
The good news is that our landlord has finally moved on. He's got a new girlfriend, uh, I mean renter for our townhouse. The sad and sorry break up seems to be almost behind us, but it wasn't without drama.
As you'll recall, when I gave my landlord notice to leave, he acted shocked and hurt, backing me into a semi-defensive, it's-not-you-it's-me mode.
Seriously, this place is great. We love living here, really we do. It's just we're ready to move on and own our own house.
There was also an uncomfortable encounter in the grocery store.
Hi, Jess. You're looking well. How are your moving plans coming?
Um, good thanks. Look, I've gotta run. You take care now, okay?
Then he even tried to coax us back by buying us dinner.
In an effort to make as few waves as possible, every time he asked to show our place, I obliged. As a sign of thanks, he showed up on our doorstep one night with a pizza and 2-liter of root beer. I thanked him profusely and gushed on how he really didn't have to go through the trouble. To which he replied:
If you guys want to still stay here through the end of the summer, you can.
And there was even yet another angry telephone hang up, this time over who'd pay for carpet cleaning. He hung up on me when I told him I'd clean and vacuum the place, but would not have the carpets shampooed.
Yeah, this move can't come soon enough.
So we continue to wait. Like the big, fat preggo, we're constantly nesting -- actually just talking about nesting in the new house -- and looking at the calendar wondering when this all will end.
At least these preggos can drink.
It's like being a big, huge pregnant lady who's 2 weeks overdue.
We're miserable in our current state and so anxious for the next stage that we just can't stand it. We know this can't go on forever, but there's seriously no end in sight. We keep thinking, today's the day, every single day, but ultimately it isn't.
It just keeps dragging on and on and on.
The good news is that our landlord has finally moved on. He's got a new girlfriend, uh, I mean renter for our townhouse. The sad and sorry break up seems to be almost behind us, but it wasn't without drama.
As you'll recall, when I gave my landlord notice to leave, he acted shocked and hurt, backing me into a semi-defensive, it's-not-you-it's-me mode.
Seriously, this place is great. We love living here, really we do. It's just we're ready to move on and own our own house.
There was also an uncomfortable encounter in the grocery store.
Hi, Jess. You're looking well. How are your moving plans coming?
Um, good thanks. Look, I've gotta run. You take care now, okay?
Then he even tried to coax us back by buying us dinner.
In an effort to make as few waves as possible, every time he asked to show our place, I obliged. As a sign of thanks, he showed up on our doorstep one night with a pizza and 2-liter of root beer. I thanked him profusely and gushed on how he really didn't have to go through the trouble. To which he replied:
If you guys want to still stay here through the end of the summer, you can.
And there was even yet another angry telephone hang up, this time over who'd pay for carpet cleaning. He hung up on me when I told him I'd clean and vacuum the place, but would not have the carpets shampooed.
Yeah, this move can't come soon enough.
So we continue to wait. Like the big, fat preggo, we're constantly nesting -- actually just talking about nesting in the new house -- and looking at the calendar wondering when this all will end.
At least these preggos can drink.
Welcome to Limboland.
This past week has been the ultimate test of patience. Our yet-to-be scheduled house closing has been pushed back another week - to the last week of May.
The holdup? The appraiser needs to verify that some painting work was done (it was) and give the underwriter the go ahead to finalize the loan. This task should take a total of 5 minutes, excluding the time it takes to drive over there.
The problem? He's been out on vacation this past week.
Mark and I tried to nudge the process along, offering to help by taking photos of the freshly painted soffits. We even asked if there was anyone else in his office who could step in, but were told that unfortunately only the original appraiser can verify that the work was done. (Ethics be damned!)
So while we sat here all week, wringing our hands and growing gray hair, I've been imagining our appraiser -- probably a big-bellied, bald guy named Lou, Don or Carl -- sitting on a sunny beach, sipping mai tais.
We're told Lou gets back to work on Monday and that there's a slim chance we could close this week Friday or next week Tuesday. Though... realistically, it may be late next week.
It's all getting a little too close for comfort. There's so much in the air. We can't confirm a mover, child care or even begin forwarding our mail. While we've packed some (quite a bit actually), we're at an impasse, unable to pack anything we'll need for the next week and a half.
I've never been a very patient person, but this process has forced me to relax and let go. We can't always control what happens to us, but we can control how we react to it. Rather than stress out, freak out or check out, I've tried to maintain a sense of humor and focus on the little things I can do - not what I can't do.
It very well may be the only thing keeping me sane.
The holdup? The appraiser needs to verify that some painting work was done (it was) and give the underwriter the go ahead to finalize the loan. This task should take a total of 5 minutes, excluding the time it takes to drive over there.
The problem? He's been out on vacation this past week.
Mark and I tried to nudge the process along, offering to help by taking photos of the freshly painted soffits. We even asked if there was anyone else in his office who could step in, but were told that unfortunately only the original appraiser can verify that the work was done. (Ethics be damned!)
So while we sat here all week, wringing our hands and growing gray hair, I've been imagining our appraiser -- probably a big-bellied, bald guy named Lou, Don or Carl -- sitting on a sunny beach, sipping mai tais.
We're told Lou gets back to work on Monday and that there's a slim chance we could close this week Friday or next week Tuesday. Though... realistically, it may be late next week.
It's all getting a little too close for comfort. There's so much in the air. We can't confirm a mover, child care or even begin forwarding our mail. While we've packed some (quite a bit actually), we're at an impasse, unable to pack anything we'll need for the next week and a half.
I've never been a very patient person, but this process has forced me to relax and let go. We can't always control what happens to us, but we can control how we react to it. Rather than stress out, freak out or check out, I've tried to maintain a sense of humor and focus on the little things I can do - not what I can't do.
It very well may be the only thing keeping me sane.
Keeping an eye on the prize
This has been one of the most stressful weeks I've had for a long time.
Thankfully, the kids have been amazingly well-behaved (Crowbar's not calling his daycare friends 'stupid asses' anymore, which, you know, is good.) and every one's managed to stay healthy, despite all the swine flu hoopla.
The house-buying process however, has been less than enjoyable. And it's factored heavily into the tolerability index this week:
Early in the week, we were told that there was a possibility we wouldn't be able to close in early-to-mid May, like we'd expected. We were told there was an outside chance we wouldn't be able to close until sometime in June.
Uh... remember this? Yeah, we're homeless after May 31.
So we went through all the possible scenarios of when we might close and move, including the dreaded Plan X which involved having a moving company load our stuff on a truck and hold it while we shack in a hotel. There's no way we're staying here another month.
While moving late in the month shouldn't be a huge deal, it is, considering we're planning to host our wedding reception at our new house on June 20. I'd really like to be in and relatively unpacked before guests arrive.
So what's the hangup? We were told that our lender (all lenders, actually) is backlogged with loans and refinance requests. Thanks to low interest rates and the first-time buyer tax credit, there's a lot of activity in the pipeline. Couple that with cautious lenders who scrutinize every prospective buyer and you've got a bottleneck.
Luckily, on Wednesday, we learned our loan was in the process of being underwritten and we could expect to get our new closing date sometime next week. Geeked with the news, we made another excuse to drive by and gawk at the house.
I call it 'keeping an eye on the prize.'
We'll drive by slowly in our blue minivan and drool out the windows. We envision our cars parked out front and our kids playing in the lawn. We wonder out loud when they'll change the sign from 'Accepted Offer' to 'SOLD."
As Mark studies the bare patch in the front, desperately in need of TLC, he lets out a dreamy sigh.
Do you think anyone would mind if I jumped out and raked a little?
I reach over and take his hand.
Some day, honey. Some day.
Thankfully, the kids have been amazingly well-behaved (Crowbar's not calling his daycare friends 'stupid asses' anymore, which, you know, is good.) and every one's managed to stay healthy, despite all the swine flu hoopla.
The house-buying process however, has been less than enjoyable. And it's factored heavily into the tolerability index this week:
Early in the week, we were told that there was a possibility we wouldn't be able to close in early-to-mid May, like we'd expected. We were told there was an outside chance we wouldn't be able to close until sometime in June.
Uh... remember this? Yeah, we're homeless after May 31.
So we went through all the possible scenarios of when we might close and move, including the dreaded Plan X which involved having a moving company load our stuff on a truck and hold it while we shack in a hotel. There's no way we're staying here another month.
While moving late in the month shouldn't be a huge deal, it is, considering we're planning to host our wedding reception at our new house on June 20. I'd really like to be in and relatively unpacked before guests arrive.
So what's the hangup? We were told that our lender (all lenders, actually) is backlogged with loans and refinance requests. Thanks to low interest rates and the first-time buyer tax credit, there's a lot of activity in the pipeline. Couple that with cautious lenders who scrutinize every prospective buyer and you've got a bottleneck.
Luckily, on Wednesday, we learned our loan was in the process of being underwritten and we could expect to get our new closing date sometime next week. Geeked with the news, we made another excuse to drive by and gawk at the house.
I call it 'keeping an eye on the prize.'
We'll drive by slowly in our blue minivan and drool out the windows. We envision our cars parked out front and our kids playing in the lawn. We wonder out loud when they'll change the sign from 'Accepted Offer' to 'SOLD."
As Mark studies the bare patch in the front, desperately in need of TLC, he lets out a dreamy sigh.
Do you think anyone would mind if I jumped out and raked a little?
I reach over and take his hand.
Some day, honey. Some day.
On my honor, I will try...to watch HSM3 99 times.
Last night Mad Dog and The Deuce graduated from Brownies to Junior Girl Scouts. There was a little ceremony in the gym, complete with a color guard, oaths and, of course, Girl Scout cookies.
We stood at attention as 50 little girls marched in, carrying American flags. We recited the pledge of allegiance and we watched as our girls crossed a little wooden bridge decked out in silk flowers, symbolizing a crossing over from one Girl Scout milestone to another.
Oh, and we laughed our asses off.
The ceremony marked the end of a year full of bowling alleys and roller skating parties -- with no legitimate service projects to speak of.
Perusing the official Girl Scout website, I see badges for activities like:
On my honor, I will try:
To serve God and my country,
To help people at all times,
And to live by the Girl Scout Law.
Mark, my ex and I sat in the back row, snickering.
Really? How did that outing to watch High School Musical 3 serve our country? When during all those games of ski-ball did they help anyone? (Besides themselves to more cotton candy.)
Now, don't get bent out of shape.
I can imagine that leading 16 eight-year olds is a tough job. I can also appreciate that at this age, creating camaraderie and teaching respect and honesty are important. And, I also understand that scouting provides fun outlets for kids who may not be able to do fun activities like these. But I guess I was hoping for a more balanced experience. Instead of going to the movies, they could've gone caroling at a nursing home or planted flowers or visited a recycling center.
The girls will be changing schools after we move and we plan to sign them up for that school's troop next year. I can't help but wonder if the new leader will take the service aspect more seriously.
And if she does, and has the girls out on the side of the road picking up litter instead of visiting a water park, what will my kids think?
I guess only time will tell.
We stood at attention as 50 little girls marched in, carrying American flags. We recited the pledge of allegiance and we watched as our girls crossed a little wooden bridge decked out in silk flowers, symbolizing a crossing over from one Girl Scout milestone to another.
Oh, and we laughed our asses off.
The ceremony marked the end of a year full of bowling alleys and roller skating parties -- with no legitimate service projects to speak of.
Perusing the official Girl Scout website, I see badges for activities like:
- Careers
- Caring and Sharing
- Healthy Habits
- Math Fun
- Manners
- Penny Power
- Watching Wildlife
My girls earned patches for:
- Going to the Zoo
- Movie Night
- Rollerskating
- Bowling
- Sleepover Fun
On my honor, I will try:
To serve God and my country,
To help people at all times,
And to live by the Girl Scout Law.
Mark, my ex and I sat in the back row, snickering.
Really? How did that outing to watch High School Musical 3 serve our country? When during all those games of ski-ball did they help anyone? (Besides themselves to more cotton candy.)
Now, don't get bent out of shape.
I can imagine that leading 16 eight-year olds is a tough job. I can also appreciate that at this age, creating camaraderie and teaching respect and honesty are important. And, I also understand that scouting provides fun outlets for kids who may not be able to do fun activities like these. But I guess I was hoping for a more balanced experience. Instead of going to the movies, they could've gone caroling at a nursing home or planted flowers or visited a recycling center.
The girls will be changing schools after we move and we plan to sign them up for that school's troop next year. I can't help but wonder if the new leader will take the service aspect more seriously.
And if she does, and has the girls out on the side of the road picking up litter instead of visiting a water park, what will my kids think?
I guess only time will tell.
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