Resolve

For the past few years, since I left graduate school, really, I've thought that I don't read enough. I used to read constantly, but I have a really hard time getting iton books these days, what with a real job and a baby and all. But Husband's brother spent a few days with us, and as they tend to do, they spent a lot of time talking about books I haven't read and movies I haven't seen. So I'm going to try to read more. I'll take books in chunks of 20, and when I'm done with one set of 20, I'll make up another set. I'm also trying to find books that I either borrow, already have, or can find at the library because our home library easily tops 2000 books. So here's the first list.

Grace’s Book List #1

1. Paradise-Toni Morrison
2. Beloved-Toni Morrison
3. Intuition-Allegra Goodman
4. David McCullough-The Johnstown Flood
5. Blink-Malcom Gladwell
6. The Professor and the Madman-Simon Winchester
7. Spook-Mary Roach
8. The Kite Runner-Khaled Hosseini
9. Cry, The Beloved Country-Alan Paton
10. She Got Up Off the Couch-Haven Kimmel
11. Wonder Boys-Michael Chabon
12. Everything is Illuminated-Jonathan Saffron Foer
13. His Dark Materials-Philip Pullman (13, 14, and 15)
16. Friday Night Lights-H.G. Bissinger
17. 740 Park-Michael Gross
18. The Almost Moon-Alice Sebold
19. The Ringmaster’s Daughter-Jostein Gaarder
20. Don’t Try This At Home-ed. Kimberly Witherspoon and Andrew Friedman


Wish me luck!

My baby doesn't wear socks...

Confidential to Jen: This post is not in response to your comment on the earlier post.


Here's the thing. I don't need people to tell me how to parent. I don't need strangers at Kroger to tell me that my child isn't wearing socks/a hat/pants/shoes.

I'm already aware.

I'm not sure anyone ever considers that I already know this. I'm not sure the mom who has two children under the age of three and is shopping next to me, comes up to my cart and says to Baby "Where are your socks?" in a baby talk voice (which Husband and I do not do in our house) is aware of the conversations I have with Baby:

Me: Baby, you've got to stop kicking your socks off in the car.
Baby: Gah.
Me: I'm serious. People in the grocery store will give me looks like I am an unfit mama if you kick your socks off.
Baby: Dadada.
Me (sighing): Dadada is at work. He's not here. I just told you that. But if he was here, he'd tell you to keep your socks on so people don't think I'm an unfit mama.
Baby: mamama. (shriek) Goo!

Or his coat. I know my child needs a coat. I also know he sweats profusely, especially when he falls asleep, so Husband and I are very discriminating about when he wears his fabulous coat. Sometimes the 35 seconds of cold he has to tolerate when he goes from the door to the car or the car to the door are preferable to the hour+ of discomfort that he will endure if he wears his coat.

When Baby was two months old, minus two days, Caroline came to visit. We went to Target so I could buy something to wear to my friend Jaimee's wedding. At the time, Baby thought Target was the crappiest place on earth and screamed every time we went. During this particular visit, Baby held up pretty well while Caroline and I did the world's fastest clothes shopping trip. He held up pretty well, that is, until we got to the register. The cashier was particularly slow that day, my guess is due to a hangover or something similar, and Baby started to fuss. We took turns holding him and rocking him. That seemed to make the situation worse. The elderly gentleman in front of us turned around and smiled. "You need to sing to him," he said. Caroline and I just looked at each other. "You need to sing Rock a Bye My Baby to him," the senior citizen continued. Again, Caroline and I looked at each other. Then we looked down at the ground, at Baby, and finally at the parenting instructor. "Go ahead," he encouraged, as Baby's volume steadily increased. Caroline and I gave each other wary looks and started mumbling "Rock a bye baby, in the tree tops..."
"No," the old man interrupted. "You have to do it like this," and belted out "ROCK A BYE MY BABY, WITH A DIXIE MELODY..." and I looked for a hole in the ground big enough for me, Caroline, and Baby to escape.

I try to tell myself that people do things like this because they love babies so much and want to make sure that babies are properly taken care of, but really it just comes across as them judging my parenting.

I know I'm not a perfect mama. I know my house is messy, and I work, a lot, and sometimes I don't feel like playing with Baby. Sometimes I'd rather read a book/take a shower/sleep than do my mama duties. But I put those desires aside and I do what is best for my child. I know my child better than anyone else in the world does, and I know when I need to feed him more or feed him less. I know when it's okay for him to be socksless or jacketless or have green beans on his face. I know when he needs to be cuddled and when he needs to cry it out a bit. I know the cries he makes that require immediate attention and the cries he makes that don't. I know these things because I am his mama. I have spent the last 18 months getting to know this child, and I know how to be the mama he needs.

When I first had Baby, I wasn't confident at all. When I was pregnant, I wasn't sure that I'd even love him. Husband can attest that I'm not a particularly nurturing or comforting presence, but I am with my child. And it took awhile, but I figured out how to be the parent I want to be, and more importantly how to be the parent he needs. I know all of this because I see how my child lights up when he sees me. I know this because I can put him down in his crib at 8 p.m., and it's unlikely that I will hear from him again until 6 a.m. I know all this because he's thriving. He's gaining weight, happy, and interested in everything. My child explores the world and learns as much as he possibly can. He is secure, and his needs are met. I have learned how to take care of him and will continue learning how to take care of him.

I don't tell other people how to parent/quit smoking/get sober/dress/break up with their significant other/stop their child from screaming/get off welfare. So, Random Stranger Who Clearly Knows How to Parent My Child Better than I Do, I'm already aware that "that baby ain't wearing no socks." I'm allowing it. When you spend 9 months vomiting because of this child and another 9 months getting vomited on because of this child, or when you get up with him in the middle of the night and hold him until he goes back to sleep-if he goes back to sleep-or when you make faces with him and dry his tears and make him baby food and get sick because of nursing, THEN you may tell me how to parent or question my abilities and decisions. Until then, your opinion is worthless to me.

Oh yeah, there's this, too...

I neglected to mention, when bragging on my Sangria, that Caroline, Leighann, and I apparently make a mean enchiladas verde. It was really labor intensive but so worth it. The recipe can be found here. We added some lime juice to the sauce to cut the spiciness, but it still needed some sour cream. I'd recommend this recipe to anyone. Oh, yum. We topped of the evening with Caroline's magic brownies, but I can't tell what makes them magic.

Sobbing in My Car

I make a strong effort not to pay attention to the news. I've learned that it's better for all involved if I don't know about impending bird flu, the war on terror, negative campaigning, or credit crises. But I love NPR and hate the radio in general. So when I'm, driving around, either on the way to work in the morning or on the way home from work/the gym, I tend to put NPR on rather than listen to inane prattle and crappy music. So despite my efforts to stick my head in the sand, I hear a fair amount of what's going on in the news.
I turned on NPR this afternoon while Baby and I headed to the liquor store, and I learned of the former prime minister of Pakistan's assassination. I found myself at first distressed by this news and later saddened, saddened to the point that if affected my mood and demeanor for the rest of the day. As I drove to the grocery store to replace some chilies that had gone bad, I heard more news on this subject and found myself in the driver's seat sobbing for a woman I know almost nothing about, from a country I know nothing about. I can't figure this out. I am still devastated by this woman's death. I still want to cry for her, for her family, for her country, and I think I will end up shedding a few more tears for a woman I didn't care about, a country I don't care about. I can't figure out my sadness, except that maybe I'm sad because this is not what the world should be. We should be better than this. I know there's nothing I can do about it, bit I don't want the world to be a place where people are assassinated or blown up or get their houses taken away or can't eat or get educated. I want better. My baby deserves a world better than this.

Satisfaction

Apparently, with the guidance of my brother in law, I make an excellent sangria. Go me.

We'll do anything!

Just don't hurt the tigger.

Timing

Baby has pinkeye and can't go to day care tomorrow. Husband has to be at work at 7 a.m. Tomorrow is the second grade Christmas play. Timing fucking sucks sometimes.

First Cheerios

These are a few weeks old.

Monotony

Sometimes my mother pays me or Husband $15/hour to do jobs she doesn't want to do, doesn't have time to do, or doesn't know she needs to do. I am currently working my way through boxes of old photos. This isn't a new project; Husband and I started it in the summer of 2006, but we only managed to get through 2 boxes. Scanning photographs takes a fucking long time. I started tonight at 9:37, and at 9:51, I'd scanned a mere 10 photos. My mother has requested that not every picture be scanned, rather I should take a "representative sample" from each box or each envelope within the box. Basically what I do is this:
1. Take a box and check the year
2. Create a folder on my computer that corresponds with the years on the box
3. Choose an envelope from the box and create a sub-folder for the envelope
4. Scan picture
5. Name the picture in such a way that people, events, and/or locations are easily identified
6. Replace photos in envelope and envelope in box
6. Repeat the process
It's half mind-numbing, half fun, half embarrassing. I come across my baby and toddler pictures:








I'm currently working on the 1991-1994 box. I'm coming across pictures of before we moved, pictures of my cat who's now dead, and gems such as the following:


This was taken at my 12th birthday party. By the age of 12, I was deeply entrenched in what is commonly known as "The Ugly Phase." Until I went to college, I thought I was the only girl who went through the ugly phase. Turns out EVERY girl goes through the ugly phase. It starts around 4th grade and lasts through middle school, and in some cases runs through high school as well. During the ugly phase, a girl makes poor choices in terms of clothing, hair, and make up, only she doesn't know she's making poor choices until many, many years later when she sees a photograph from this time period and cringes because she's confronted with images she'd spent 10 or 15 years repressing.
I'm about to quit scanning for the night. I've been working for an hour, and I need to get to bed since it's a school night. I'm only four envelopes into the 1991-1994 box, so there's a lot more of the ugly phase to see. I'm taking wine with me tomorrow. There's too much ugly to confront without wine.

Facing the Fat

Jen has been writing about her journey on Weight Watchers for a few weeks now, both on her blog and on Fight the Fluffy. I offhandedly mentioned to my mother that maybe we should do sign up as well, after the holidays, since Jen has had so much success with it. She came home after Thanksgiving and asked if I'd signed up yet. I said I hadn't, and she handed me her credit card. I had so many reasons not to do it. I was waiting until all the Cherry Cokes in the fridge were gone. I wanted to enjoy Christmas. I love food. And when I look in the mirror, I don't see a fat girl. I truly don't see a fat girl in the mirror, but when I see photographs of myself, I do. The way my clothes fit back up the photos' assertions that I am not a skinny girl. One of my students asked me why me and everyone in my family is chubby.
So I signed up. As of November 27, I have been a member of Weight Watchers. I'm not a going to meetings and crying with other women type of member. I'm a sitting at home in front of my computer meticulously entering every single morsel of food I've eaten for the day type of member.
I haven't told anyone, except for one co-worker who offered me some of her granola my first day on the plan, Caroline, and Scottie. For whatever reason, I feel ashamed that I am doing WW. I think it's because signing up, talking about it, forces me to face my weight and face how I look.
I'm hungry all the time, and I've found WW's online system to be a bit addicting. I just spent several minutes trying to figure out how many points 14 M&Ms are worth. In the morning, I experiment with exactly how little cream cheese I can have on my English muffin and still have some taste to it. I've become very disciplined about not going over my alloted 20 points a day, disciplined to the point where I often don't hit my 20 points, which kind of defeats the purpose. I am supposed to hit the 20 points each day.
My 20 points are based on my weight (150 pounds) and my goal weight (110.1 pounds). I am supposed to weigh myself every Monday, and the first week I lost either four or six pounds. I don't remember. I question the reliability of my scale, because I bought it at a little market in New York five years ago, but it gets the job done for now.
I eat very slowly now. I savor each bite, and I try to make my small portions last as long as they possibly can. Everything is measured and will be until I can eyeball what a teaspoon looks like or a cup looks like. I am constantly hungry. I am constantly thinking about food. I think that's a good thing. Before, I used to think about food then go and eat some. Whatever I wanted. Now, I think about food, think about how I'm hungry, and I think about my choices. I eat some grapes or some popcorn.
WW is big on "lite" foods, foods that have been artificially sweetened. I won't do artificial sweeteners, so I've basically given up things like sodas and ice cream, at least for now.
While I both want to be a skinny girl and fit into my clothes again, I'm not really doing this for me. I'm doing this for my kid. It's my responsibility as his Mama to model a healthy lifestyle for him. It's my job to be the best person I can possibly be, and being healthy with food is a small part of that.

Excuses

I've been away for awhile. I've been what we refer to over here as "sad for no reason." I think the generally accepted term is "depressed." I've been fighting that for awhile. The sad for no reason leads me to vary between periods of great lethargy and great productivity. My bedroom is almost clean for the first time since August because of this. I've spent a couple hours most nights tackling laundry that's piled up and trash that's scattered. A few nights I haven't done anything at all. Nothing. Put Baby to bed and just sat.
I've also been very tired. Baby's not sleeping much these days. He wants to go to bed early, but he also wants to wake up early.
Work has me occupied during the day, and work issues have my mind occupied at night.
Husband is working a second job and trying to finish up the semester, so I've been the primary parent even more than usual.
So I've been away for awhile.

Quiche

My quiche was fucking awesome. It was also fucking awesome as lunch today. Go me.

Ambition?

I just made a quiche. I've never made quiche before; in fact, I always thought I hated it until the summer of '99 when I finally tried it on one of my European adventures. But I decided the other day that I wanted quiche, and tonight I finally had a chance to make it. I made a cheese and bacon quiche with an arugula salad and grape vinaigrette. I tried the vinaigrette, and it's a little too vinegary, but not terrible. I'm interested in seeing how it works with the arugula. I'm waiting until Husband comes home from class to try the quiche. I hope it works out, because I do love me some quiche, and 10 p.m. is entirely too late to have to deal with a kitchen failure.

Baby No Sleep

Regardless of bedtime, my child will not sleep past 5 or 5:30. He's cheerful and ready to play, and I'm bitchy and fighting a massive headache.

Coming this holiday season: Teeth

Baby's been working on a tooth for a week now. This is exciting for me because now he occasionally accidentally bites. I didn't expect a bite from a baby to hurt, but it sort of did. I thought he'd be crankier, but he's really been very cheerful. He's usually very cheerful. He's done this whole week without Tylenol or Baby Orajel. I have the awesomest baby ever.*













*Now that I've written these words, they will come back to bite me in the ass and he will no longer be cheerful teething Baby, but will be angry teething Baby. For the next 17 years.

I still feel sick

What I ate yesterday:

Breakfast 1: Bowl of Fruity Pebbles
Breakfast 2: 3-egg omelet with cheese and scallions
1 piece of bacon
cheesy oven potatoes
1 can Cherry Coke
Lunch: 1 can of Spaghetti-os
1/4 bag of Tostidos
1 can Cherry Coke
Snack: 1/4 "medium" bag of M&Ms
Dinner: Turkey
Gravy
Oatmeal Roll
Stuffing with bacon
Dried Cherry/Cranberry Compote
Mashed Potatoes
Corn pudding
1 glass red zinfendel
Dessert: 2 bites apple pie
1 mug mulled red wine/apple cider

I make poor choices sometimes.

We're done

I didn't make it a year. Despite my bitching and moaning about nursing Baby, I really wanted to make it a year. I really wanted to do what's best for him because I am certain that there will be many times in his life that I don't do what's best for him. The no-turning back, no more discussions about this came on Thursday night while I was at cooking class. I ate some peanut brittle and that sealed the decision.
Husband and I had already made the decision earlier that day. I'd gone to my doctor because I had a cold that wasn't going away. She wanted to put me on antibiotics, and since we have some penicillin allergies in my family, I told her I didn't want penicillin. She prescribed something else and then told me that there wasn't enough information to know conclusively what the drug does during lactation. But, it's probably okay, she said. Here's the thing. Husband and I tend to be somewhat laid back people, but we don't do well with "it's probably okay," at least not when it comes to our child.
I'm a lot sadder about this than I expected to be. I've hated nursing, except when it allowed me to get away with reading or watching TV or playing online. But to know that it's never going to happen again is making me strangely sad. I'm not sure why. I've felt more bonded to Baby when we've played or when I rock him before bed or when we nap, rather than when he nursed. I'm going to chalk it all up to hormones.
I haven't had any alcohol yet, nor have I eaten any peanut butter, but the peanut brittle from cooking class is long gone.

The Promised Pictures

Here are the pictures from our hospital adventure two weeks ago.


Needing oxygen Baby



The Baby Cage


Subdued Baby in Hospital Gown


No Longer Subdued Baby Crawling Out of Hospital Gown





Standing Up Baby

I am awesome, or My Dumbassedness

The other night I had my semi-weekly diaper change scheduled. I stripped Baby down threw away his diaper, reached for the diapers on the shelf and found that Not Me hadn't replaced them, meaning I had a neck-ed Baby wiggling on a changing table and nothing to protect me from a potential stream of pee or explosion of poo. I stood Baby in his crib and prayed, please, God, don't let him pee, and sprinted into the other room, grabbed a handful of diapers and sprinted back into Baby's room.
Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, I breathed upon returning to a pee and poo free room. "Baby, why is your boy part wet?" I asked. Yes, I actually said boy part, and I know I should have used the proper terminology. "Maybe you're about to pee," I answered. "I better hurry." Then I noticed the floor about three feet away from Baby's crib. The wet floor. The wet, sticky floor. "Well, kiddo, that's quite the range you've got there. Please don't point that thing at me," I told Baby and sighed.
I diapered Baby and told him never to do something like that again. I wiped up the floor and stripped the sheet from his bed. Since it was close to bedtime, I had to remake the bed. I wiped the mattress and left Baby crawling on the floor while I sprinted to find a new sheet. I was gone approximately 30 seconds. This is what I found upon my return:



Those clothes on the floor? They weren't there when I left.

I made it to level 9

This Traveler IQ challenge is brought to you by the Web's Original Travel Blog

4.96

I mentioned on here the other day that I ran a race this past Saturday. What I didn't mention is that this was a major accomplishment for me. I can't run. I suck at running. I can run 6/10 of a mile before I have to walk, and usually when I run I want to vomit. I also hadn't been able to exercise for about a month due to me being sick and Baby being sick so much. I was really nervous.
For the week leading up to the event, I was worried that I wouldn't be able to do the race, that my cold would just kick my ass too much. When my cold (found out today NOT a cold but bronchitis, awesome) got slightly better I worried that I would come in last or that everyone else would be skinnier than me. I worried that I would vomit on the course or that I'd be kicked out of the race for illegally using my ipod.
None of those worries were founded. I got to the race on Saturday morning and saw some people wearing jeans. When I saw that I felt better. I felt less better when the race began and the people wearing jeans passed me.
I run for the endorphins. I exorcise the demons that haunt my head all the time. The first mile or so was spent getting rid of the demons. I thought about people who've hurt me and prayed for them and prayed that I would stop thinking of them someday. I thought about things that have hurt me and prayed that I would stop thinking of them someday. I thanked God for Husband and Baby and that's when I knew I was set to get this thing done.
I wanted to quit several times, but each time I wanted to quit I thought of how Husband and Baby would be waiting for me when I finished. I thought maybe Husband would be proud of me for doing this and how I'd get to hold my sweet baby very soon. I couldn't wait. I thought of how I was doing this for Baby-to model an active, semi-healthy lifestyle that involves exercise and taking care of myself. I thought of how it was okay that I was doing this alone-I do most things alone these days (these days being the last 3 1/2 years)-because even though I was alone, I was still doing something. And I'd see Husband and Baby very soon. I passed a makeshift pet-a-pet zoo towards the end of the course, I thought that I would take Baby to see the animals and I would take a picture of Baby fascinated with the animals. I couldn't wait. I crossed the finish line and saw my mother with no Husband and no Baby. They weren't there. They hadn't come to see me. I was crushed and told my mother I was fine, in the curt tone I reserve only for people who know me really well.
Husband told me that he'd felt sick and thought it best to stay home. He said it was okay that he stayed home because I'd been saying all week that he didn't have to come. Clearly, he's never met a girl before.
I have a souvenir medal and my race number. I got an email today with a link to pictures of me on the course. You can see me in all my fat dorkdom. My favorites are the ones where I can see me crossing the finish line and someone else crossing the finish line after me. I didn't come in last! Go me. My dad, who's in Africa still, sent me flowers. I love getting flowers, so I was excited.
I think doing races might be addicting. My uncle's girlfriend said she does them because it helps motivate her to exercise if she's got something to train for. Baby and I are planning on doing a 10k up in NoVa in December. This time I might try to coordinate my headband better.

Mmmmm...4 lbs of bacon...

A few months ago I made another babystep into adulthood and joined Costco. I reasoned that it would be cheaper to buy diapers, formula, and 15 gallon vats of olive oil. The first time I went to Costco, Baby and I strolled around the store for 90 minutes, both of us equally mesmerized by the sheer volume of people and bulk products. We came out of that trip $96 poorer, having acquired a 19 pack of dry erase markers, a 100 calorie bulk snack pack, 3,000 Clorox wipes, and 6 boxes of gallon sized freezer bags.
We ran out of formula last night, and I have promised my students a goldfish (the snack that smiles back) party, so I knew it was time for another trip to Costco. I loaded a fussy Baby into the car and drove the 15 minutes past Target, Sam's Club, and Wal-Mart. I circled the parking lot, finally finding a space next to the cart return. As a parent with an infant, a spot next to the cart return is more important to me than a close spot.
I forgot to switch cars with Husband, so I was stuck in my we don't need to get a family friendly car, Husband, it'll be like six years before we have a kid Honda Civic coupe. My first trip to Costco was also in this car and it took some Tetris-like maneuvering to get everything to fit. I was pissed that I'd managed to come to Costco in this car once again. One of the problems with my super fun Civic coupe is that it's a two door. In order to get Baby in or out of the car I have to fold the seat forward, push it all the way up, and yank really hard on the release button on the carseat. At this point, the carseat doesn't budge, and I repeat the process, only this time I brace my foot against the door jamb and pull again, or push, if I'm trying to get him in. Then I find myself actually hunching in the car in a space that's not big enough for both me and a babyseat. I brace myself against the back of the passenger seat and yank until the carseat comes flying at me and hits me on the head. True story. I go through this every day when I come home from picking Baby up from daycare. So I was not thrilled to have to repeat the process, this time with a 400 pack of Gatorade or something like that.
I snagged a cart from the convenient cart return and headed inside. Baby was fussing and squirming, so I started singing him songs like this one, which I made up while he was in the hospital. I made it up because he had this thing on his toe which turned it red. The tune is the same as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer:
Baby, the red toed baby,
Had a very shiny toe.
And if you ever saw it,
You would even say it glowed (like a light bulb)
All of the other babies
Used to laugh and call him names (like Toe-noccio).
They never let poor Baby,
Join in any baby games (like Monopoly).
Then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa came to say (ho, ho, ho)
"Baby, with your toe so bright,
Won't you guide my sleigh tonight?"
Then how the babies loved him,
As they shouted out with glee (Yippie!)
Baby, the red toed baby,
You'll go down in his-tor-y (like Colombus!)

My song held Baby long enough for me to find the baby formula-not the kind we normally use, but if we're getting an extra 12 ounces for $5 more, he can switch-and throw it in the cart.
Diapers were more of a struggle for me. They had Huggies, which we use, but they had snug fit, not natural fit, and I wasn't sure my Civic had room for 300+ diapers in it. I decided I'd think about it while I found my other purchases.
Husband had asked for snacks, so I wandered through the snack food aisle. I had no direction and a Baby to distract, so it wasn't my most focused snack search. I came up empty handed and before I knew better, I was in the kitchenware section.
I love kitchenwares-overly specific gadgets, storage units, canisters. I really wanted some canisters, but I didn't see any. My kitchen isn't really big enough for canisters anyway. I almost bought a 48 piece set of food storage containers for when I actually get around to making homemade baby food. I talked myself down from that ledge and stumbled upon a selection of tea kettles. I love me a hot cuppa, and I haven't had one since before I got knocked up. I recently decided to part with my beloved electric kettle, and I haven't really felt like I should spend the money on a new stovetop one. But here I was, in Costco, staring at $18 tea kettles. I surveyed the selection. Two colors, blue and red. I chose red and picked one up. Then, I noticed a little sticker on the box: sell by Nov. 11. The tea kettle was expired! Fuck that, I thought. I'm not buying an expired tea kettle. I put it back for some other sucker to purchase and found one that did not have an expiration date sticker on it.
Focus, I told Baby. We've got to focus. We beelined for the food section, determined to find Husband some snacks and Baby some baby food. I wandered through that fucking food section 10 times. I disgustedly looked at a 4lb pack of bacon. Who would eat that? Who would be able to eat bacon after seeing it in 4lb form? I thought. Oh yeah, Husband would. Maybe I should get him 96 mini cream puffs. He likes mini cream puffs. I like mini cream puffs, too. Oooooh, maybe they have mini quiches, and instead of making home made mac and cheese for dinner, I can make mini quiches. Oh, yum.
At the end of this stream of consciousness, I found myself needing to calm an exceedingly fussy Baby and staring at The Cheesecake Factory section. This section sold frozen Cheesecake Factory cheesecakes. The box informed me that each cheesecake weighed 3.5 lbs. I asked myself, do I really need 3.5 lbs of cheesecake? I answered myself, why yes, I do need 3.5 lbs of cheesecake.
I didn't get the cheesecake. At that point Baby only wanted to be held, and I discovered that holding a baby while pushing a shopping cart leads to other Costco shoppers seeing my cha-chas, as the weight of Baby and no hands free equals low cut shirt becoming even lower cut. Good times were had by all.
I made one last frantic search for baby food. Nothing. I sprinted up to the register and put my one can of formula and one tea kettle on the belt. I asked the cashier if they sold baby food, and she directed me towards Sam's Club, right down the road. Maybe next year. I'm not shelling out another $50 just so I can get a three gallon container of mushed up green beans.
After I got home and put Baby to bed, I turned on the stove and placed my new kettle on top. 30 minutes later, my kitchen smelled like gas mixed with homemade mac and cheese and the water still hadn't boiled. I'm still waiting for the water to boil...

The Race

I ran (walked) an 8K today. I will tell more about it when I am not on a painfully slow computer.

Quittin' Time?

People with boy parts of feel like what is coming next might be TMI, you've been warned...

So I haven't nursed Baby in two days. Two days ago, I did my semi-weekly diaper changing and noticed red spots that looked an awful lot like the red spots he had when we got thrush. No fucking way I'm doing this again, I thought, and decided to give him a bottle. When Husband came home from class I told him about the rash and my decision to withhold the boob until after his doctor's appointment the next day. Husband agreed that was sound logic and supported my decision. We discussed whether or not we might be over the whole breastfeeding thing. The pediatrician confirmed the thrush, and I am taking aggressive measures to combat it. I'm not nursing Baby until the rash in his diaper region is cleared up.
The problem lies in that if I don't nurse, my milk might dry up, and we won't make it to the year-mark.
Cause it's me, I'm very conflicted over this. We're supposed to go a year, which means I've got about 4 1/2 months left. It's the best thing for him, and I very much want to do what is best for him. I keep telling myself that. On the other hand, I'm tired of wrestling him every time I try to nurse him. He takes his bottles really well now and just doesn't seem interested in nursing. The pediatrician says it's cause he's not feeling good rather than him trying to wean himself. The hospital said he is trying to wean himself.
To be perfectly honest, I'm kind of over the whole breastfeeding thing. To be even more honest, I've been over it from the beginning. Breastfeeding has been a lot easier for me than it has been for a lot of people, but it's never been something I've enjoyed. I don't feel like I really bonded with Baby because of this. I've bonded with him more by holding him or napping with him or playing with him. And I'm dying for a glass of wine and peanut butter crackers. Not at the same time. I'd love for someone else to occasionally put him to bed.
So Husband and I decided we are going to wait until the thrush clears up and see what happens. If I dry up, I dry up. I'll be gleefully drowning my sorrows in a bottle of pinot grigio.

Willpower

I spent some time in Walgreen's today picking up Baby's latest prescription. I wandered to the pharmacy counter by way of the hair color aisle and was struck with a very strong urge to color my hair red. I haven't colored my hair red since December of 2002, when an aunt of mine, someone I'm no longer associated with, did it for me one Christmas. I haven't colored my hair in general since right before I got married, and I swore I'd never color my hair from a box again.
But there I was, holding the box of Garnier in one hand, a squirmy Baby in the other arm, trying to stifle the urge to become a redhead sometime tonight. I wasn't even going to tell anyone. I was just going to do it.
I'm not sure where the urge came from. I think it was part boredom, part a rebellious streak I've found myself having since Baby was born. The rebellious streak manifests itself in really small ways. When someone has to yield to me at a yield sign, I yell "YIELD, MOTHERFUCKER." I get the urge to take something-like a pack of gum-from a store (I never do). Tonight I had to grab my bag from the car, and as I walked to the street, I thought, I could just leave. Leave and not come back for awhile. It didn't matter that Husband was waiting on me to help give Baby his nebulizer treatment and put him to bed. It didn't matter that I didn't have my wallet, ID, or phone. I had the keys and 1/2 a tank of gas. I could have just left. So I think that's where the urge to dye my hair red came from.
I didn't purchase the hair color just then. I figured that I'd need to come back to actually pick up the prescription, so I could just get it then, along with baby Tylenol, baby Florastor, and various other baby things. I also wondered a little about the dangers of the chemicals, especially while breastfeeding. I knew I had to make a stop at the fundamentalist Christian grocery store, and I thought maybe I'd look in their organic section to see if they had something henna based. I also thought I could duck into the organic natural food market across the street from Walgreen's to see what they had.
The whole time I was debating this, Baby fussed and squirmed in my arms. Eventually I put the box of Garnier down and headed to the pharmacy counter. I dropped off the prescription, wrestled a socksless Baby into his carseat and wondered why I hadn't just walked the 1/2 block to the grocery store. Once in the grocery store, I headed straight for the organic hair color aisle, scrutinized the four choices, sang "Disco Inferno" to a screaming Baby, and decided to focus on my actual task-buying groceries for dinner. I left the grocery store without any red hair dye and headed back to Walgreens.
Back at Walgreens I meandered through the hair care aisle. I checked the warning and cautions and walked to the pharmacy counter with "Pomegranate" in my hand. I thought about $9.99 price tag and felt guilty. I bitch and moan all the time about our lack of money and how we really can't afford for me to spend $9.99 on something so vain. I told myself it's just $10, so why not. My superego and my id argued back and forth about the expense and the vanity and the innate selfishness in this desire. I really really really wanted to color my hair.
My hair is still dishwater brown. Instead of paying $10 for hair coloring, I got a temporary fix by purchasing a tube of Carmex, which I hadn't done since early college. I still want to color my hair, but I can hold out a little longer.

I'm not sure why it's funny, but it is...

Husband has made this the background of his mac.

Our Hospital Adventure

We spent the better part of the last few days in the hospital. What began as a phone call to the after hours pediatrician ended four days later with Husband, me, and Baby ready to gauge each other's eyes out after being trapped in a hospital room waaaaaaaaaaaaay too long.
On Saturday evening, Baby spiked a very high fever. On the advice of my mother in law, via Jen, I called the pediatrician. She said to go to the ER. I didn't freak out or anything, and Husband and I both figured the doctor would see Baby, give him some antibiotics, and send us on our way. That was our naive thinking at 7:30 pm. At 12:30 am (really 1:30 am, but the clocks had been set back) I was being vomited on while in an elevator going to the 6th floor of the hospital-the pediatric wing.
The nurse made up beds for us-chairs that unfolded, a sheet, a crappy pillow and blanket, and examined Baby. She took his blood pressure and temperature and attached something to his toe that monitored the amount of oxygen he was taking in. She put him on oxygen. Husband found us food from the wing's freezer, and we inhaled Healthy Choice dinners. Eventually we all fell into a restless sleep.
We spent Sunday in the hospital. Husband left at dawn to take a shower and returned at lunchtime. I spent the morning reading and holding a sleeping Baby. After lunch, I left to shower and purchase jeans, since the ones I was wearing were covered in vomit and other Baby goo and pretty much had to be destroyed.
We got a roommate Sunday night. She was a two year old who also had RSV and apparently liked to shriek and cry. She and her mother got to the hospital just as Husband and I were finishing our dinner of crappy Chinese food. Baby and two-year old stared and stared at each other. The two-year old seemed very interested in Baby, and he seemed interested in her. Husband left me and went home to sleep. I lay in bed and cried.
The hospital's rule for going home was that Baby had to be off of the oxygen for 24 hours before we could go home. We hoped that he'd make it through Sunday night without needing the oxygen, but on Monday morning, the nurse woke me, apologized, and said we'd have to stay another night. Husband showed up, and I left to shower and pick up some stuff from work. We spent another mind-numbing day in the hospital. Husband got to leave because he had class. Our roommate got released; her mom sprinted out of the hotel room. We encouraged Baby over and over to stay off of the oxygen that night. Husband woke me around 1 am, telling me he had to go home since we were getting a new roommate. He left, and I called him to tell him I thought he should stay in the lobby with the other dads. He disagreed. I lay in my bed and cried. The roommate, a three month old baby, had a mama who looked to be about 19. She was MIA most of the night while her child cried and cried and my child then cried and cried, and I got a few 45 minute stretches that night.
Baby made it through the night, and we made it home yesterday morning. I am exhausted. Baby is cranky, sleepier than usual, not eating, but other than that, back to normal. Let's not let this happen again.

Yippie!

We are home with a much better, although somewhat sleepy/cranky Baby. I will give a full update tomorrow, I hope.

I've failed...

I didn't get to post yesterday. I will not post again today. I don't actually know when I will get to post again, but it's unlikely that it will happen before my kid leaves the hospital.

30 Days of Thanks

I joined a group called 30 Days of Thanks. It's purpose is to post something you're thankful for each day this month. I missed yesterday. I guess I'll go with the obvious today-Husband and Baby.
I also decided to try this with my students. We are writing our names and something we are thankful for on die-cut leaves each day this month. They seemed into it, so I guess I'm thankful for that as well.

And I've posted

We are now the proud owners of a nebulizer.

I swear, it's not a cop out!

Baby is sick again. I've been projectile vomited on twice in the last hour and in between had to listen to his tortured cries as Husband and I gave him a nebulizer treatment. I have 20 spelling tests to grade, 20 reading quizzes to grade, 20 dictations to grade, and 2 story questions to grade. I've not yet eaten dinner, and I inhaled lunch. At noon. I've eaten a twizzlers and half of a fun size hershey bar. My hand still hurts like a bitch. I can't type on here tonight.

NaBloPoMo, or Yeah, Right

Cause I need more things to take up my time.
Someone on an online forum I frequent posted a link to NaBloPoMo. Basically it's a challenge for people who write on blogs to post at least once a day during the month of November. I signed up. I'm interested to see how far I make it. My guess is that I make it to All Souls Day before quitting.
You can join groups on NaBloPoMo. I joined three. The first is a group of tattooed blog people. I have two tattoos and am working out the details of my future third. The second is a for Christian parents. The third is for people who use their blogs for group therapy. Since I bitch and moan on here, I figured that counts.
So yeah, NaBloPoMo. We'll see if it works.

Poor Choice 101

Since I'm going to hell for posting this anyway, I have to say I'm disappointed in myself for not managing to capture him scratching his butt with his flag.
If karma exists, and I kind of think it does, I will now inevitably do something horribly embarrassing, like fart in front of my students.

ee cummings and stalking the people across the street

I've been thinking a lot about this ee cummings poem lately, mostly because I've been lonely. I'm lonely pretty much all the time, but I'm not lonely in the sitting around feeling sorry for myself sort of way. It's more of an I wish things were different sort of way, or an I wish I was different type of loneliness.
Today's bout was kicked off at work, when I heard a few people talking about going to eat lunch together, since we had a half day. Nobody stopped by my room to see if I wanted to go to lunch. I worked solidly through lunchtime, then ate during the faculty meeting. I admit I felt pretty sorry for myself this afternoon, but I'm kind of over it now. I'm more just wondering what exactly is so toxic about my personality that I can't seem to make or retain friends. I'm not wondering this in a feeling sorry for myself sort of way; I'm wondering it in a more objective way. It's like I'm trying to look at myself from an outsider's point of view and picking apart my personality once again. I'm also trying not to be overly sensitive, because I do have that tendency. But I spent a good chunk of the afternoon wondering what it was about me that made it so that no one wanted to eat lunch with me. No one. I feel like I make lots of efforts to be funny or friendly or listen to others, in an attempt to get to know other people. I know I'm socially awkward to the point where it's often painful to be in a conversation, but I do try; I really do try. I'm dorky to the point that it's almost unbelievable, and I never know what to say, so I usually end up saying something so incredibly dumb that I beat myself up for days (years) over it. I'm also HORRIBLE about keeping in touch, but again, I do try. I really do try. This afternoon, all I wanted to do was quit my job, go back to school, and hang out with people with other people who are going to school who'd be just as dorky as I am, because why else would they be going to school to get a PhD in history or archaeology?
A few weeks ago I hatched a brilliant plan. I decided that Husband and I should walk around the neighborhood, on Halloween, with Baby dressed up in his penguin costume. I figured this way we'd meet people in the neighborhood, and an adorable baby is always a good conversation starter. I thought there'd be lots of people pushing their not quite as adorable babies around, and we could have a few awkward moments of making small talk and staring at the ground before moving on. The doors would then be open for the next time we bumped into each other, this time with our babies sans costumes.
My brilliant plan failed. Husband and I walked around the neighborhood for 30 minutes. The only people we passed were people walking their dogs. We also saw a hayride full of smiling people wearing costumes and a few children. They waved at us and smiled and continued their Halloween adventure.
Then a car drove by. The driver turned his head and looked at us as he slowed to the stop sign. I noticed a baby seat in the back.
"Husband!" I yelled.
"What? Stop yelling!" he replied.
"That car has a baby seat in the back."
"Um, okay."
"A BABYSEAT," I reiterated.
"Yeah, okay, it's probably the people across the street who have a baby," he said patronizingly.
"Yeah, but he looked at us. You know, he was checking us out." I tried to emphasize how great this was to Husband. "Do you think it would be too much to just sprint down the street with the stroller and try to catch up with him?"
"Um, yeah, that would be pathetic."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." My heart felt sad.
When we got home, Husband told me I should go introduce myself. He told me that this is the one night a year that it's socially acceptable to randomly ring a stranger's doorbell. I said there's no way in hell I was going to ring a stranger's doorbell, and besides, we've got no proof that they have a baby. He pointed out the evidence: the "IT'S A GIRL" sign in the front yard, the baby seat in the car, the streams of people who have been showing up with gifts over the last month or two, and the stroller on the front porch. I wasn't convinced, and as a side note, we don't spend our time peering out the front windows spying on our neighbors. We've just noticed these things over the last month or two. I finally agreed to go across the street on two conditions. The first condition was that Husband had to come with me. The second condition was that he do all of the initial talking. Husband chickened out.
I'm not being too hard on myself. My suspicion is that most people go through this at some point or another, and most people often have bouts of extreme self doubt. I just have to keep telling myself that meeting people takes time, and the people I become friends with might not be people I work with, and that's okay. It just gets hard sometimes in the day to day, when I only really see Husband, my mother, and Baby. Sometimes I'd just like to hang out with someone else my age or someone else with a baby or someone else that's someone else. I think it would be good for me.

Baby's First Halloween

That was today. We sent him to daycare in a skeleton outfit his Aunt Meredith bought him. Apparently he shit through his pants as soon as he got there, so when I picked him up, I picked up hip, khaki cargo pants baby who was wearing a skeleton long sleeved t-shirt.
Here's a before picture. He was in his toy, so the full effect isn't possible.



When we got home tonight, we took him for a walk around the neighborhood. He wore his penguin costume.


After we got home, we played on the floor. He got progressively angrier and decided to he was going to be ONLY WANTS TO BE HELD BY MAMA Baby.



We got almost no trick-or-treaters, so Husband and I must get busy eating the bowls of leftover candy.

My Shit for Brains

I burned my hand again last night. Same hand, once again, burned while cooking. This time it was melted butter splattering. It hurts like a mofo and looks like Gorbachev's birthmark.

Phoning it in...

From our trip to the pumpkin patch a couple of weeks ago...

The Standing Up Baby

Dr. Beardface

This is my child, channeling Dr. Beardface.

Incompetence?

Somebody out there might be wondering why I was in CVS at 11:45 yesterday morning holding Baby and singing Simple Minds' Don't You Forget About Me. Allow me to explain.
I've mentioned on here once or twice about how Husband, Baby, and I have been taking Baby to the offices of Drs. Shit for Brains, Asshole, and Fuck-Up Pediatrics, Inc. I've also mentioned that they've done almost nothing to improve my child's health-namely the congestion he's had since August. Baby woke up yesterday morning with his left eye crusted shut. He could not open it. His other eye had greenish yellow goo oozing out of it. Now, when something appears to be wrong with Baby, I immediately think something is wrong-something awful, and have to talk myself down. Yesterday I looked at Baby, looked at his eyes, remembered that he'd been up every 90 minutes the last two nights and decided I was taking him to the pediatrician. I called work over and over and over until someone picked up. I emailed spotty lesson plans and requested a specific substitute. I attacked Baby's eyes with a wet washcloth, and my cheerful, happy child could open his left eye about halfway. I loaded him into the car and headed for our semi-weekly visit with the pediatrician.
The pediatrician's office was swarming with sick children-at least 30, plus parents, plus siblings. I signed in at 8:55. At 8:25 the receptionist called me to collect my copay. All around me parents had struck up in depth conversations with the no-longer stranger next to them, engaging in pissing contests of who's waited longer. Because I'm freakishly shy, I didn't join them, but I did eavesdrop. I waited two hours last time, whispered one parent. I really wanted to see Dr. Asshole, but I got Dr. Shit for Brains instead. And that was just last week. Now we're back here again. It was like that parent was describing my life.
I got called to the exam room at 9:55. At 10, Dr. Asshole walked into the room, booming hello, what seems to be the problem so loudly that Baby startled. I started to explain the greenish yellow goo oozing from my baby's eyes, his congestion that he'd had since August, and the strange new cry he'd made the night before, but Dr. A cut me off.
"How old is he?" he asked.
"Seven months," I replied.
"Seven months. Okay."
"Now, how old is he?"
"Um, seven months."
Dr. A started poking around Baby. As soon as he touched Baby's neck, Baby started screaming like I've never heard. "He's got an ear infection. Has he been tugging at his left ear?" Dr. A asked.
"Um, he just finished ear infection medicine."
"He's got an ear infection. Has he been tugging at his left ear? That's why he's been irritable."
"Uh..."
"Now, the eyes," Dr. A continued. "He has an infected tear duct. The congestion from his nose has backed up and clogged his tear ducts, and now they are infected."
I was angry. So many swears were fighting my super-ego for permission to come out. I didn't say: The congestion he's had since August? The congestion that you and the other doctor's kept blowing off? Is that the congestion you're talking about?
Instead, I said, "Okay."
"We're going to give him some antibiotics," Dr. A said.
"That's fine," I said, "But I'd prefer that he not have penicillin."
"And why is that?" Dr. A asked irritably. I explained my reasons, endured Dr. A's condescending looks and had a mind numbing conversation about what antibiotic Baby would be getting.
"What did he have last time?" Dr. A asked. "I don't have his chart in front of me."
"I don't remember the name. It started with a c. C-F-D something." Dr. A said the name of a drug that was decidedly not what Baby had been given.
"No, that's not it," I informed him.
"Yes it is," he responded.
"Do you want his medical records? I have them in my bag." Dr. A ignored me, wrote the script, said he'd like to see Baby back in a week, and headed out the door. The time was 10:05.
When I got home, I called Anthem to switch Baby's provider. Since I'd already been to the pediatrician's this month (4 times, now), we have to wait until November before Baby can see a new doctor. How fucked up is that?
I am now certain that my child has not received adequate medical care. I understand that babies get congestion, as do adults, but they've blown off our concerns about his congestion for two months now. Look at where it's gotten us: me missing a day from work, him on antibiotics for the 4th time, at least.
I'm too tired right now to list all the things that were wrong with this most recent visit. Husband and I are pissed-and this practice came highly recommended from several coworkers of mine. I just can't believe these people are fine with the care they provide. It's appalling what we've been through in three months.

Big Bird and Boobs

Someone linked to this video-it was on here, if anyone cares. I know it's supposed to be a beautiful thing and all, but honestly, I'm a little creeped out. Husband was too. When I found the YouTube link, he said, very sternly, "Don't watch it again. Just link to it." I don't remember this being on Sesame Street in the 80s when I was watching. Here's the thing. I do this several times a day. I've explained to my nieces that Baby has to eat from my boobs. Pretty much all of my friends and family have now seen my cha chas (sorry, everyone!). I've done it in the car and in restaurants and on four different airplanes. But conversing about it with Big Bird? That's beyond what I am humanly capable of.

Potter Puppet Pals

Harry Potter fans, enjoy!

Um....

The sink got clogged, so my mother tried to unclog it. When Drano didn't work, she stuck a kebab skewer down it. She poked a hole in the pipe. The hole necessitated a trip to Lowe's, so she took the pipe apart so she'd know what to get. She went to Lowe's and got a piece of pipe. She and Husband tried to attach the piece of pipe. We now have a plumber coming tomorrow afternoon.

Baby's Night Out

Hmmm...perhaps I'll wet my whistle

Oh yeah, that's the stuff


Dancing on the Table Baby

Gregarious Drunk Baby

Angry Drunk Baby

Them's fightin words




*Scene Missing*

Drug Bust Baby



*Scene Missing*

Nick Nolte Mug Shot Baby



*Scene Missing*

Passed Out in a Jail Cell Baby

giving credit where credit is due

Dr. Shit for Brains

We had a wonderful pediatrician before we moved. Unfortunately, we moved when Baby was about three months old, so we had to leave a practice where we felt comfortable and find someone new to care for our child. I called Anthem soon after we moved, and they directed me to a doctor who seemed to be running an inner city clinic for children without health insurance. Since Husband and I didn't feel comfortable driving through the Bronx to get to the pediatrician's office, we decided we'd find a different practice. We may have been better sticking with the do-gooder in the ghetto.

Exhibit A: We called the new practice to set up Baby's four month well visit. We requested a specific doctor, and the receptionist said, "Well, we can either get you in with Doctor Shit for Brains tomorrow, or in three weeks." Baby needed his shots, so we said tomorrow. We drove an hour to pick up his medical records from the old pediatrician's office, had an episode in which Baby shit through his outfit, and listened to him scream for most of both legs of the journey. It was great. When we got to the doctor's office the next afternoon, we didn't actually see the doctor; we saw the nurse practitioner. I've nothing against nurse practitioners; however, I'm not one who enjoys surprises. Husband and I rearranged our schedule in order to be able to see Doctor SFB, and I expected that we'd see Dr. SFB. Nurse practitioner was very brisk with Baby, writing a prescription for Pepcid almost before the words "spit up" were out of my mouth. She advocated letting him cry himself to sleep and discouraged me from trying to pump at work or give Baby solids. I was uneasy, but I decided I was just being a little over-sensitive.
Exhibit B: This is a semi-neutral experience. Baby started shaking-convulsing when I fed him his bottle. Because of my family history of epilepsy, I was a little concerned (freaking out), and Husband called the pediatrician. They told us to come right in, so we did. After waiting an hour, we saw a different nurse practitioner. She was very good with Baby, asked us lots of questions, and helped get us in for an EEG the next day. She called twice and had Dr. SFB call us, even though he'd never met us before. My concerns from the previous visit were slightly relieved.
Exhibit C: A week or so after the EEG incident, Baby started coughing. He sounded like a smoker and was cranky; he's usually a very happy baby. Husband called the pediatrician's office, and the nurse who spoke with him blew him off, saying something along the lines of "babies cough." Then she continued, "sometimes mucus from the birth gets stuck in their lungs and takes awhile to come out." She didn't even let Husband say that Baby was five months old at that point and was delivered via C-section.
Exhibit D: Baby's cough got worse. And worse. And his temperature went up. Since it was a Friday night, we called the after hours line, and the recording said their office opened at 9 a.m. for sick visits. By 8:40, we were waiting in the parking lot. We thought it odd that people kept walking in with sick children, but we knew what the recording said, and waited in the car. Around 8:40 we thought maybe they unlock the doors early, so we went in. The receptionist said that while patients are not guaranteed to see a doctor until 9, they can come in as early as 8. It would have been nice to know that, seeing as how we were supposed to be somewhere else that morning. After waiting an hour with a happy but green-snotted baby, we saw a doctor. She was very nice, seemed surprised that Baby was not yet eating solids, took her time, and answered our questions. He had a sinus infection, so she wrote him a prescription and sent us on our way. Our visit with her made us reconsider switching practices.
Exhibit E: Baby threw up at daycare. He hadn't really seemed like himself that morning, and I worried, but we took him to daycare anyway. Husband emailed me at work to see if he could drop Baby off, since he hadn't done his work for class that afternoon. I made arrangements for my students and rushed over to the pediatrician's office. After waiting only 30 minutes this time, I actually saw Dr. SFB. Dr. SFB was being shadowed by a medical student that day. I explained the vomiting to Dr. SFB, and I also expressed my concerns about my child's apparent smoking habit. Dr. SFB seemed unconcerned about Baby's vomiting, took one look in the diaper and told me Baby had a yeast infection and thrush. The yeast infection had come from the antibiotics he'd been given for his sinus infection. He wrote me a prescription for some yeast killers and tried to escape the room. "But what about his formula?" I asked. "Daycare wanted me to ask about his formula."
"Oh, it's fine," Dr. SFB said, sprinting for the door.
"Okay, well is he throwing up because of the combination of formula and breastmilk? Cause my friend's baby had trouble with both."
"No, that's fine." His hand was on the doorknob and sweat beads were forming since he'd been with a patient for more than five minutes. "Wait, you're still putting him to the breast?" he asked.
"Yup," I replied proudly and expected to be hailed for my commitment to my child's well being, even if it was by doing something I hate and feel uncomfortable about.
"Okay, well, then you've got it too," he said, quickly told me to see my doctor and headed out the door.
Exhibit F: Baby's six month well checkup. This appointment, although made in July, was rescheduled twice. We'd decided we were pretty much done with this practice, but we wanted to keep the appointment and get Baby his shots. When Baby and I arrived I requested a medical records release form. I had to write my reason for requesting the records, so I wrote "We are likely leaving the practice, but are unsure." I was ushered into a room after a 30 minute wait, and the nurse said, "I'm sorry, this is part of my job, but I have to ask why you are thinking of leaving us." I explained that we felt like our concerns hadn't been acknowledged, we'd felt like we'd been blown off, etc. She listened, and apologized, and said she understood. She told me Dr. SFB would be with me shortly, and after about 20 minutes, he was. He introduced himself, and asked if there was anything I especially wanted him to check out. I mentioned the rash on Baby's back and also asked him for tips on getting my child to stop smoking. He promptly looked in Baby's ears and said, "Oh, he's got an ear infection." I'm not sure how I didn't blurt out "You're completely shitting me, right?" He finished checking over Baby-it took all of 30 seconds, told me to get him dressed, and said he'd let me know when we could talk in his office. 20 minutes later his nurse led me into the office. I waited for five minutes with an increasingly fussy baby. He asked me several questions, and then spent the rest of the visit asking me to explain why we were likely leaving the practice. I explained what had happened up until that point, and said that it just seemed like maybe the practice was a little over-extended. He aptly said, "Well, if you feel like your concerns aren't being met..." I explained how Husband got completely blown off by the nurse he'd spoken to, and Dr. SFB said, "Oh, but he did actually talk to someone?" Yes, because since he actually spoke with someone, everything is hunky-dory. "Well, if there's anything I can do," Dr. SFB repeated over and over again, as he practically hoisted me and Baby out the door. "Oh, and he can't get his shots today, cause of his ears. So you'll have to come back in a couple weeks, and we'll check his ears and give him his shots then." I asked if I needed an appointment, and Dr. SFB said, "No, it's just a walk-in thing." I said, "Well, what about the rash on his back?"
"Oh, that's fine. Babies get rashes," Dr. SFB replied. "Oh, wait," he continued. "I didn't actually look at it." He pulled down Baby's onesie, glanced at the rash, and reaffirmed that it was fine.
Exhibit G: Husband took Baby in to the pediatrician's office to get his ears checked and his shots. The lab technician blew him off, was rude, and muttered under her breath "Thinks he can just walk in here. 4:30 on a Friday afternoon." Husband explained that Dr. SFB told us that we just needed to walk in, but she'd hear nothing of it.

So yeah, we're pissed. Pissed to the point of not only switching practices, but of somehow formally complaining. I went ahead and made an appointment with a new pediatrician at a different practice, so Baby can re-have his six-month check up. While it's likely that everything is fine, I'm not at all comfortable with the level of care he's received. I'm willing to shell out the $25 copay just for some peace of mind. Husband said he hasn't ever received customer service this poor, not even at McDonald's. I hope the new doctor works out, and if Dr. SFB is out there, I say a resounding Fuck you and your crappy ass medical care. I know my child isn't important to the random stranger, but it's your fucking job to treat him as though he is.

Admire my child!

Professional Development, or I just want to bang on the drum all day, part 2

I just returned from a one day conference, which was branded as "Professional Development," but really just gave me the opportunity to get some grading done and think about my job and life.
Four ideas, conversations, really, keep coming back to me.
The first is something my father said to me before I went to college: I think you should work really hard for the next four years in order to get into a good graduate school. Then I think you should work your butt off for another five in order to get a Ph.D. Then I think you should work your butt off for five more years and get tenured. Then you'll be set for life.
The second is an ad I saw in my college newspaper. All I remember of the ad is ARE YOU CALLED TO SERVE JESUS CHRIST AS A SCHOLAR? I wasn't Christian at the time, but I remember, even then, thinking that yes, I was in fact called to do that. It was a little strange, honestly.
The third is something Pastor Rod said in Bible study once when I was in college. I'm not sure what the discussion topic was that led him to say: The problem people have is that they keep getting off their horse and getting on another horse. If they could just stay on the horse they're supposed to be on, they'd be a lot happier.
The last is the conversation I had with my father when I was trying to decide if I should go to NYU or not. I'd gotten in to their individualized studies MA program, but I wasn't sure I should go. I didn't really know what I wanted to do. He said: There are lots of people competing for jobs right now, lots of people with lots of skills, and there aren't really a lot of jobs to be had. Maybe in two years the job front will be better for you. Translation: We don't want you back home, living in the basement, waiting tables for the next five years while you figure it out.

Then I made a chart.

Field	Jobs	Pros	Cons
Education	teacher reading teacher history teacher English teacher guidance counselor	schedule 3 months off (get to stay home with Micah!) people centered often rewarding	pressure often boring not intellectually stimulating lack of pay/financial support for continuing education/supplies will need more school to advance/be successful lack of confidence often frustrating parents
Anthropology/ archaeology	archaeologist college teacher museum person	very interesting travel intellectually stimulating	possibly not family friendly lots more school (i.e. more debt) schedule?
Food	baker pastry chef	good at it possibly family friendly instant gratification	maybe not talented, just adept hours could suck
law school	lawyer	concrete time table helping profession make more money	super expensive hard might be boring lack of confidence court
religion	?????	interesting	can kill the spirit
psychology	college professor counselor	some interesting aspects, esp. development/religion and psychology	lots of boring parts, esp. cognitive need more school

Then I discussed the chart with the co-worker sitting next to me, and I decided archeology looked really good.

Then I analyzed my chart. Was archaeology looking good to me because I'm currently dissatisfied with my current career or because that was the horse I should have been on all the time? I once again cursed L'abri and their discussion based intellectual approach for killing college for me and opening my mind to all sorts of ideas. I thought about how I really wanted to get a PhD-for several years really, and then for some reason gave up on the idea, even thought I had a graduate school professor tell me I should apply to Harvard and Yale in a few years. I don't know that anyone else has ever thought I was Harvard material. I started wondering why I gave up anthropology in the first place and how I've always been interested in the past and how it relates to the present and the future. Being an archaeologist was something I could always see myself doing forever, but I fear that if it is what I decide I want to do (for real this time, Husband, I swear!), it's just not practical. My life belongs to Husband and Baby, and I have to do what's right for them, not just what's right for myself. Becoming an anthropologist/professor would take an ass load of school-which I am certain I have in me-and an ass load of money-which I am certain I definitely can't come up with.
I turned to the education section of my chart. While I didn't hate my job this week, at least not until today, and in fairness, I only worked yesterday, looking my chart seems to indicate that education is certainly not for me. I'm likely to stay in it, at least for now, because I need to be home with my baby when I can. He pulled up for the first time yesterday, and I wasn't there to see it. I was thrilled my his new trick and crushed that someone else, a virtual stranger, got to witness the first time. I don't know of a more family friendly job, except for maybe the job Jen has, and I don't have the skills to do a job like that.
I moved on to food. I recently learned that I can cook well, and I have enjoyed making meals and treats for Husband and my mother. The idea of getting up in the morning and working at a bakery seems really soothing to me right now. Really, though, I'm not a morning person, nor am I certain that I can cook and bake well enough to please people other than my relatives. I'm interested in culinary school, but I'm such a picky eater I don't know if that's practical.
I thought about law school next, mostly because it was something my dad "encouraged" me to pursue. I quickly vetoed that because, although it would lead to a helping position, I don't think I can commit to three years of studying something I don't love.
I also vetoed religion. It's strange that it's a veto now when I spent so many years studying it. I loved studying religion and theology, but in many ways it killed my spirit. Still, I really long for people around me who love to talk about God and the Bible and not just in the "how's God working in your life these days" way, but the meaty wrestling with the text and tradition and challenging our lives and choices sort of way. I've not had that in so many years, and I ache for it.
Next, I thought about psychology. I majored in psychology in college, but I think it's just because I had some really good teachers and kept taking classes with them. I find some aspects of psychology really boring, like the cognitive stuff, but the developmental areas were really interesting to me. I'm not sure it's a passion of mine, although I could do it and be good at it.
Finally, I came back to education. Education is such a struggle because it's my current profession, and Husband and I decided this would be it for me. We are deep into educational debt from one degree I don't use, and I don't want to perpetuate it. I know I am getting better as a teacher, but I wonder if there's not something out there I'd love. Teaching reading or history or English, maybe? Teaching in a public school? I think about this all the time. I told Husband today that I don't want a good day to be a day when I come home and tell him that I didn't hate my job that day.

After I mulled all of this for awhile, I made a list of my goals for my life. It's not in order, nor is it definitive.

1. Sent Baby to private school
2. Hike through Spain
3. Get out of credit card debt
4. Learn to sew
5. Drive cross country
6. Go to Vancouver
7. Learn to garden
8. Be a good mama
9. Model an active/healthy lifestyle for Baby
10. Continue learning
11. Financial security/stability
12. Be a good wife
13. Go to Antarctica
14. Go to Asia
15. Run a marathon by 30
16. Own a Vespa

I think I need to figure out how to mesh my career interests/goals with my life interests/goals. I think if working for the Church paid a living wage, I might not be having this struggle, or at least not to the extent that I'm having it. I think I'm asking myself good questions, but I'm not sure where I will find the answers.