I don't know what I want to be. I know some things I want to be, like a good person, a good wife, a good mama, but other than that, I'm kind of floundering.
I'm a teacher. I teach second grade at a Catholic school, and I'm not sure I want to be a second grade teacher, a teacher at a Catholic school, or a teacher in general. I've never felt especially good at teaching, but I'm not sure if this is a valid feeling or if it's my general lack of confidence. I became a teacher because I thought it would be interesting, I love being in school, and I couldn't find a job teaching religion or working at a church. I find the students interesting, but I don't know that I find the work stimulating. I worry that my students are bored or that I'm not conveying the information clearly. When I decided to go back to school to pursue teaching certification, Husband and I agreed that teaching would be it, for a long time. My first two years as a teacher, I commuted for two hours a day. Most of my dissatisfaction with my job was blamed on the commute, or, last year, on being pregnant.
Being on maternity leave gave me a lot of time to think, and the longer I was off of work, the more I questioned whether or not I should teach. It wasn't just that I wanted to stay home with Baby, it was my thoughts that maybe I wasn't good at it or am actually called to do something else.
School has started well this year, but I find myself questioning my career more than I have in the past. I don't have the commute anymore, and I've gotten used to being apart from Baby and Husband all day, but I still dread going to work each day. Sometimes I enjoy it when I get there, but other days I come home crying or frustrated. I know part of that is the nature of teaching. Teaching is full of pressure-from parents who really only want the best for their children but communicate it in ways that imply my innate stupidity, from 20 expectant faces who truly believe that they'd be better off at home watching television, and from myself and my own expectations of what a good teacher should be. I'm worried that I'm only teaching because of the schedule. If I can't be a stay at home mama, at least I get to be one three months out of the year. In that respect I'm more fortunate than a lot of people. Husband says that if I'm only a teacher because of the schedule than I certainly shouldn't be a teacher. I agree. I don't think it's fair to my little ones.
I've been doing some soul searching and toyed with different ideas. I enjoy cooking, so I've thought of going to culinary school and getting a job in a bakery or something. I'm a good cook, but I don't think I'm good enough to sell my wares. And really, I'm just looking to make food that will cause Husband to want to eat at home, not in a restaurant and that will mildly impress my family and friends. For awhile I was thinking of getting an MSW. I have the academic background to do it with my BA in psychology, and I could be an adoption social worker. Adoption is something I feel truly called to do, and maybe if I were a social worker, I'd learn more about the process or somehow get an in. I looked at the social work classes, and it seems like I'd be taking a lot of classes that don't interest me in order to do a job that would be interesting. But I have a lot of anxiety, and I'm not sure social work would be good for that. While there is certainly a lot of joy in being an adoption social worker, I don't think I have it in me to tell someone that they can't get a child. I am almost certain I couldn't do that to someone. I've thought of getting an MA in reading. This would help me in my current job, would give me more skills in order to switch to a different job if I wanted, and it might help me with my lack of confidence. Again, I'm not sure I find the classes all that interesting.
So I've been thinking about what I did find interesting, the classes I liked in college. I remember sitting in my archaeology class my first year and thinking I can do this forever. I enjoyed my history class, and I took an English class that I liked. I started taking psychology classes because I wanted to take the intro class, liked the professor, took a class from his wife, and ended up taking more classes with her because she was a really good teacher and taught interesting classes. I was pretty far into psychology when I realized that I don't like it much. I even talked to my parents about staying in college an extra year, but that idea got vetoed. My Bible and religion classes in college were great too and led to a graduate degree that prepared me for a whole lot of debt.
I have no skills that I know of and no money to obtain more skills. I'm not even sure what I would do if I had unlimited funds and could do whatever I wanted. I also can't imagine working for 50 weeks of the year, but maybe if I was doing something I felt passionate about I wouldn't mind. I know I often enjoy my job, but I don't feel passionate about it. My current fear is that I will wake up when I'm 60 and realize I haven't done anything I felt passionate about.
30 September 2007
28 September 2007
The Fight
A few weeks ago Husband and I got into an argument over household responsibilities. We both seem to feel like we're burdened with our various school commitments, childcare responsibilities, and lack of free time. So a few weeks ago, I was feeling rather overwhelmed by the messiness of the house, and I mentioned this to Husband. The conversation was a calm one, and I told him all the things he doesn't do to help around the house, he told me I was being unreasonable, and I told him to fuck off and cleaned the kitchen out of spite. At 11:30 p.m. I was pretty tired and cranky at work the next day, and without going into detail or laying blame, I mentioned to some coworkers that Husband and I had had an argument over chores which ended with me saying what I said. They nodded and said things like "Oh yeah, that's a bad one," or "I hate having that fight," or "We've had that fight too," in sympathetic tones. They offered unsolicited suggestions ranging from the passive aggressive (let the dishes pile up in the sink until so much time has passed that you no longer own dishes because it's 3,000 years later, you're dead and some archaeologist is rejoicing in the tremendous find of your sink full of dirty dishes and what can be learned from it) to the practical (just make a chore chart and divide up the chores).
I like the chore chart idea, but we've done it before. Husband and I are both blessed with an incredible lack of follow-through that makes the chore chart challenging. When we tried it before, we wrote down the list of chores, assigned each chore a point value, and divided the list so we'd have a roughly even number of points to complete on a daily, weekly, and monthly basis. I stopped doing my chores pretty quickly, under the banner of "I have to drive an hour each way to work." I stopped doing a lot of things under that banner. Not only did I stop doing my chores, I also started panning them off on Husband. I'd ask, in a whiny voice that gets me nothing but eye rolling and heavy sighs from him, "Could you pleeeeeaase put some laundry in/wash the dishes/put away laundry?" He'd roll his eyes, sigh, remind me that it was my chore that I was asking him to do, and ask me when was the last time I went to the grocery store/cleaned the toilet/folded laundry/put gas in the car. I'd remind him that I drove an hour to work and the least he could do was understand how tired I was. He'd roll his eyes again, sigh again, and promise to do whatever I'd requested. I'd cry and go to bed. Eventually we stopped even pretending we had a chore chart, and Husband did the majority of household upkeep. I tried to remember to pay the bills, but that was the extent of my contributions.
When we moved, I told Husband that I didn't want to buy a house if we were going to live in squalor like we did in our apartment. He agreed, and we both agreed that we needed to come up with some system. We don't have a system, and we look around and say "Well, it's better than it was before," like someone who's quit doing crack and is now just doing pot.
I try really hard, but I feel overwhelmed. The state of the house makes me feel really tense, but the it's an overwhelming prospect to get it in shape. For awhile I was trying to fold laundry while watching The Sopranos, but I got chastised for not paying attention, the laundry piled up, and now it's just too daunting for me. I've been doing okay with controlling the clutter in the living room, but clutter is sneaky. Then there's the kitchen. I hate a messy kitchen, and because of some fruit that was accidentally left out, our kitchen is now a breeding ground for fruit flies. I'm generally the one who messes up the kitchen. I firmly believe that the kitchen should be cleaned up right after eating, and cleaned with counters scrubbed and floors swept. I hate cleaning the kitchen, though. I hate the way dishwashing soap makes my hands feel, I hate scrubbing things because I leave fingerprints on them, and I especially hate putting away dishes. That's my most hated chore of all. I'd rather scrub the toilet than put away dishes. It's weird, I know.
I'm not sure where the compromise is on all this. In my mind, it's something like me doing all the cooking, unless it's chicken nuggets or frozen pizza night, the vacuuming, paying the bills, dusting, cleaning the bathroom, going to the grocery store sans Baby, and washing the sheets and Baby's clothes. Husband will be in charge of cleaning up the kitchen immediately after we eat, emptying the dishwasher within 24 hours of it being run, putting away clean dishes within 24 hours of them being done, doing and folding the laundry so that we always have clothes when we need them, and taking out the trash and recycling as soon as it's necessary (i.e. when I want it done). But that's just what makes sense to me. We don't really talk very often about a solution, other than offer platitudes like "We'll work something out." I know I'm all for avoiding tension these days. I hope we do work something out, and soon. Otherwise the archaeologists are going to find us buried under a mountain of dirty laundry 3,000 years from now.
I like the chore chart idea, but we've done it before. Husband and I are both blessed with an incredible lack of follow-through that makes the chore chart challenging. When we tried it before, we wrote down the list of chores, assigned each chore a point value, and divided the list so we'd have a roughly even number of points to complete on a daily, weekly, and monthly basis. I stopped doing my chores pretty quickly, under the banner of "I have to drive an hour each way to work." I stopped doing a lot of things under that banner. Not only did I stop doing my chores, I also started panning them off on Husband. I'd ask, in a whiny voice that gets me nothing but eye rolling and heavy sighs from him, "Could you pleeeeeaase put some laundry in/wash the dishes/put away laundry?" He'd roll his eyes, sigh, remind me that it was my chore that I was asking him to do, and ask me when was the last time I went to the grocery store/cleaned the toilet/folded laundry/put gas in the car. I'd remind him that I drove an hour to work and the least he could do was understand how tired I was. He'd roll his eyes again, sigh again, and promise to do whatever I'd requested. I'd cry and go to bed. Eventually we stopped even pretending we had a chore chart, and Husband did the majority of household upkeep. I tried to remember to pay the bills, but that was the extent of my contributions.
When we moved, I told Husband that I didn't want to buy a house if we were going to live in squalor like we did in our apartment. He agreed, and we both agreed that we needed to come up with some system. We don't have a system, and we look around and say "Well, it's better than it was before," like someone who's quit doing crack and is now just doing pot.
I try really hard, but I feel overwhelmed. The state of the house makes me feel really tense, but the it's an overwhelming prospect to get it in shape. For awhile I was trying to fold laundry while watching The Sopranos, but I got chastised for not paying attention, the laundry piled up, and now it's just too daunting for me. I've been doing okay with controlling the clutter in the living room, but clutter is sneaky. Then there's the kitchen. I hate a messy kitchen, and because of some fruit that was accidentally left out, our kitchen is now a breeding ground for fruit flies. I'm generally the one who messes up the kitchen. I firmly believe that the kitchen should be cleaned up right after eating, and cleaned with counters scrubbed and floors swept. I hate cleaning the kitchen, though. I hate the way dishwashing soap makes my hands feel, I hate scrubbing things because I leave fingerprints on them, and I especially hate putting away dishes. That's my most hated chore of all. I'd rather scrub the toilet than put away dishes. It's weird, I know.
I'm not sure where the compromise is on all this. In my mind, it's something like me doing all the cooking, unless it's chicken nuggets or frozen pizza night, the vacuuming, paying the bills, dusting, cleaning the bathroom, going to the grocery store sans Baby, and washing the sheets and Baby's clothes. Husband will be in charge of cleaning up the kitchen immediately after we eat, emptying the dishwasher within 24 hours of it being run, putting away clean dishes within 24 hours of them being done, doing and folding the laundry so that we always have clothes when we need them, and taking out the trash and recycling as soon as it's necessary (i.e. when I want it done). But that's just what makes sense to me. We don't really talk very often about a solution, other than offer platitudes like "We'll work something out." I know I'm all for avoiding tension these days. I hope we do work something out, and soon. Otherwise the archaeologists are going to find us buried under a mountain of dirty laundry 3,000 years from now.
25 September 2007
When it rains...
It fucking pours. We've had all sorts of illness and mishaps in our household over the last couple of weeks. It started with my burned hand, which is all better now.
Then, last Thursday, Husband emailed me saying, "Daycare just called. Baby's sick. He's vomited twice. I haven't done my work for class this afternoon, so when can I drop him off at school with you?" I, of course, filipped out and went into a shame spiral of guilt over sending my child to daycare rather than staying home with him, because obviously if he were at home with me, he wouldn't have picked up whatever bug was making him vomit. I found someone to watch my students while I made arrangements with Husband. I went back to teaching for another 45 minutes or so, collected Baby from Husband, and took him to our shit for brains pediatrician's office. We actually saw a doctor this time, and the doctor took one look inside Baby's diaper and said, "He has a yeast infection."
"What about his throwing up?" I asked.
"He probably got the yeast infection from the antibiotics we gave him for his sinus infection. Look, it's in his mouth, too. When it's in their mouths, it's called thrush. I'm not really going to treat his vomiting or congestion," the doctor told me. I was happy to be educated, but I was actually more curious about what was causing my child's vomiting.
"Is the throwing up because of his formula?" I asked. "Daycare wanted me to ask about his formula."
"No, if he's been on this formula awhile then that wouldn't be it," the doctor replied, trying desperately to get out the door.
"Well, is it a problem with him having both formula and breastmilk? Cause my friend's baby had a problem with formula and breastmilk."
"Nope, I don't think it's that," he said and opened the door. "Wait, you're still nursing him?" He turned back around, practically knocking over the medical student who was trailing him that day.
"Yep," I said, all proud of myself.
"Okay, then you've got a yeast infection too," he told me. "You've probably noticed a rash and had some pain and itching while nursing? I can't give you any medication, but if you call your doctor and explain the situation, they can give you some Diflucan as well, since that's what I'm going to give your baby."
Awesome, I thought. I left the office, prescriptions in hand and immediately started compulsively calling Husband. He didn't answer, and after about five tries, I gave up. I called 411 to get the number for my doctor's office, and, failing with that, called Leighann to have her look up the phone number for my doctor's office. I scrawled the number on my arm, which I never do, and continued to drive home. When I got home, Baby was cranky, so I rocked him with his pacifier and called my doctor. I explained the situation and was put on hold. When the receptionist came back, she said, "We can't do anything unless you come in. Can you come at 9:45 tomorrow morning?" I explained that I absolutely could not come in at that time, and should I just go to urgent care. She asked when I could come in. I replied that I couldn't come in during the day, due to the nature of my job. I repeated my urgent care question. She was silent for a very long time. I thanked her for her effort and told her I'd just go to urgent care. I was so pissed at everything that I called Jen and vented. It was a big step for me.
When Husband got home, I let him know what was going on, and he decided that we'd make urgent care a family outing. We didn't want to go back to the one we were at less than a week earlier, so we went to another branch. It was crowded, so we decided to try a third urgent care center. It was equally crowded, but it was 6:30 at that point, so we stuck it out. Pretty much as soon as we got there, Baby took a massive crap in his diaper. Being the brilliant mama that I am, I didn't have any diapers on me. I was preoccupied with my sick boobs, and since Baby typically reserves pooping for day care, bringing diapers never occurred to me. I sent Husband to the car to look for diapers, and when that failed, I sent Husband to Rite Aid. I finally saw a doctor, after a 45 minute wait. She seemed decidedly unknowledgeable about my issues and at one point left the room and came back with a little book and looked in the book while deciding what medication she was going to put me on. I was relieved when she decided on Diflucan. Her reasoning was "Diflucan has a + next to it, which means it's okay for breastfeeding." We left and headed to CVS to get our prescriptions filled. I spent my time at CVS looking at the greeting cards and mocking the mushy sentiments in my head. Husband and I don't really do cards-occasionally we'll write notes to each other-and I stood there wondering about who would send cards where the messages compare their spouses to kitten paws and rainbows and glasses of champagne and use words like love and forever. Yeah, not me. A fuck up at the prescription counter forced me back to the greeting card section, and I noticed the special Max Lucado display. That'll be good for a laugh, I thought, and opened a card featuring two people lying on their stomachs in bed with their feet toward the front of the picture. The photograph was black and white, of course. The inside said "My favorite place is the world is next to you." Okay, so that wasn't so bad. It was just a fluke. Apparently not, because none of them were maudlin or vomit inducing. I was disappointed and wondered if maybe my cynical side is slowly disappearing. We finally got home around 9, and I put a very cranky Baby to bed while Husband went to pick up dinner.
The next day I came down with a cold and spent the weekend sleeping. Poor Husband had to spend the weekend watching football and entertaining Baby because I was of absolutely no help. He skipped a graduate school function in order to take care of me.
My cold started to feel better on Sunday, right around the time my insides started feeling awful. I chalked it up to a bad chicken sandwich, but I spent yesterday feeling too nauseous to stand, and I spent today on the couch.
This afternoon, Husband mentioned to me that his throat was sore. And Baby seems like he's feeling pretty crappy too. I'm wondering when the end will come.
Then, last Thursday, Husband emailed me saying, "Daycare just called. Baby's sick. He's vomited twice. I haven't done my work for class this afternoon, so when can I drop him off at school with you?" I, of course, filipped out and went into a shame spiral of guilt over sending my child to daycare rather than staying home with him, because obviously if he were at home with me, he wouldn't have picked up whatever bug was making him vomit. I found someone to watch my students while I made arrangements with Husband. I went back to teaching for another 45 minutes or so, collected Baby from Husband, and took him to our shit for brains pediatrician's office. We actually saw a doctor this time, and the doctor took one look inside Baby's diaper and said, "He has a yeast infection."
"What about his throwing up?" I asked.
"He probably got the yeast infection from the antibiotics we gave him for his sinus infection. Look, it's in his mouth, too. When it's in their mouths, it's called thrush. I'm not really going to treat his vomiting or congestion," the doctor told me. I was happy to be educated, but I was actually more curious about what was causing my child's vomiting.
"Is the throwing up because of his formula?" I asked. "Daycare wanted me to ask about his formula."
"No, if he's been on this formula awhile then that wouldn't be it," the doctor replied, trying desperately to get out the door.
"Well, is it a problem with him having both formula and breastmilk? Cause my friend's baby had a problem with formula and breastmilk."
"Nope, I don't think it's that," he said and opened the door. "Wait, you're still nursing him?" He turned back around, practically knocking over the medical student who was trailing him that day.
"Yep," I said, all proud of myself.
"Okay, then you've got a yeast infection too," he told me. "You've probably noticed a rash and had some pain and itching while nursing? I can't give you any medication, but if you call your doctor and explain the situation, they can give you some Diflucan as well, since that's what I'm going to give your baby."
Awesome, I thought. I left the office, prescriptions in hand and immediately started compulsively calling Husband. He didn't answer, and after about five tries, I gave up. I called 411 to get the number for my doctor's office, and, failing with that, called Leighann to have her look up the phone number for my doctor's office. I scrawled the number on my arm, which I never do, and continued to drive home. When I got home, Baby was cranky, so I rocked him with his pacifier and called my doctor. I explained the situation and was put on hold. When the receptionist came back, she said, "We can't do anything unless you come in. Can you come at 9:45 tomorrow morning?" I explained that I absolutely could not come in at that time, and should I just go to urgent care. She asked when I could come in. I replied that I couldn't come in during the day, due to the nature of my job. I repeated my urgent care question. She was silent for a very long time. I thanked her for her effort and told her I'd just go to urgent care. I was so pissed at everything that I called Jen and vented. It was a big step for me.
When Husband got home, I let him know what was going on, and he decided that we'd make urgent care a family outing. We didn't want to go back to the one we were at less than a week earlier, so we went to another branch. It was crowded, so we decided to try a third urgent care center. It was equally crowded, but it was 6:30 at that point, so we stuck it out. Pretty much as soon as we got there, Baby took a massive crap in his diaper. Being the brilliant mama that I am, I didn't have any diapers on me. I was preoccupied with my sick boobs, and since Baby typically reserves pooping for day care, bringing diapers never occurred to me. I sent Husband to the car to look for diapers, and when that failed, I sent Husband to Rite Aid. I finally saw a doctor, after a 45 minute wait. She seemed decidedly unknowledgeable about my issues and at one point left the room and came back with a little book and looked in the book while deciding what medication she was going to put me on. I was relieved when she decided on Diflucan. Her reasoning was "Diflucan has a + next to it, which means it's okay for breastfeeding." We left and headed to CVS to get our prescriptions filled. I spent my time at CVS looking at the greeting cards and mocking the mushy sentiments in my head. Husband and I don't really do cards-occasionally we'll write notes to each other-and I stood there wondering about who would send cards where the messages compare their spouses to kitten paws and rainbows and glasses of champagne and use words like love and forever. Yeah, not me. A fuck up at the prescription counter forced me back to the greeting card section, and I noticed the special Max Lucado display. That'll be good for a laugh, I thought, and opened a card featuring two people lying on their stomachs in bed with their feet toward the front of the picture. The photograph was black and white, of course. The inside said "My favorite place is the world is next to you." Okay, so that wasn't so bad. It was just a fluke. Apparently not, because none of them were maudlin or vomit inducing. I was disappointed and wondered if maybe my cynical side is slowly disappearing. We finally got home around 9, and I put a very cranky Baby to bed while Husband went to pick up dinner.
The next day I came down with a cold and spent the weekend sleeping. Poor Husband had to spend the weekend watching football and entertaining Baby because I was of absolutely no help. He skipped a graduate school function in order to take care of me.
My cold started to feel better on Sunday, right around the time my insides started feeling awful. I chalked it up to a bad chicken sandwich, but I spent yesterday feeling too nauseous to stand, and I spent today on the couch.
This afternoon, Husband mentioned to me that his throat was sore. And Baby seems like he's feeling pretty crappy too. I'm wondering when the end will come.
8 Random Things...
Jen tagged me with this. Reading hers was a fun learning experience for me, so I figured why not...I'm also home sick, and unlike most days when I stay home sick, I have decided I'm not going to spend the day doing work. So, here goes...
1. I met Husband on a train.
2. I throw up when I get really nervous. I threw up twice on my wedding day-once before the ceremony and once after. I threw up in a trashcan on 34th Street in NYC while I was on my way to meet Husband at the train station the first time he came to visit me. Once I threw up in a trashcan in Penn Station. Some woman was standing right next to it, and I said, "Excuse me, but I really need to throw up." I expected her to move, but she didn't, and I threw up anyway. She looked disgusted and walked away.
3. I bought Baby's first Halloween costume yesterday. We don't know what we're doing for Halloween, and he won't have any concept of what's going on, but we feel that we should dress him up anyway. This is probably the only year that he won't be able to weigh in on what he gets to be for Halloween. Husband had the brilliant idea of dressing him up as Charlie Brown, because he's fat and doesn't have a whole lot of hair, but I think it might be too cold and Target doesn't seem to have yellow t-shirts right now. Or even yellow polos. At least not in the 6-9 month size. So I purchased a costume, we tried it on him yesterday, and he's fucking adorable in it. Yea!
4. I have slept in the Brussels and Salzburg train stations and London's Heathrow airport. I think it was Heathrow, anyway.
5. I used to want to be an archaeologist. I still kind of want to be an archaeologist.
6. When Husband and I got married, our individual book collections nearly doubled. We gave away several bags of books before we moved this summer, but I recently unearthed several crates of books that I'd been missing for several years. We don't have the space for all of these books, but I can't seem to let them go.
7. I've recently gotten really into cooking, so much so that I am considering pursuing a culinary arts certificate in the near future. I'm relatively adept at cooking and baking. I pretty much just follow recipes in Cooking Light, and for the most part, they've been well-received. I've not so much gotten into the whole cleaning up after cooking thing though.
8. In the last year or so, I've gotten into running. I was trying to get in shape for a race when I found out I was pregnant, so I quit running for about a year. I did a 5K in July, and I am planning on doing an 8K in November (walking/running), but between Baby being sick and me being sick, the training for that's been put on hold for about a week, unfortunately.
So that's it. This was enjoyable because it allowed me to indulge my self-centeredness. I don't really know other blog-people to tag. Sigh.
1. I met Husband on a train.
2. I throw up when I get really nervous. I threw up twice on my wedding day-once before the ceremony and once after. I threw up in a trashcan on 34th Street in NYC while I was on my way to meet Husband at the train station the first time he came to visit me. Once I threw up in a trashcan in Penn Station. Some woman was standing right next to it, and I said, "Excuse me, but I really need to throw up." I expected her to move, but she didn't, and I threw up anyway. She looked disgusted and walked away.
3. I bought Baby's first Halloween costume yesterday. We don't know what we're doing for Halloween, and he won't have any concept of what's going on, but we feel that we should dress him up anyway. This is probably the only year that he won't be able to weigh in on what he gets to be for Halloween. Husband had the brilliant idea of dressing him up as Charlie Brown, because he's fat and doesn't have a whole lot of hair, but I think it might be too cold and Target doesn't seem to have yellow t-shirts right now. Or even yellow polos. At least not in the 6-9 month size. So I purchased a costume, we tried it on him yesterday, and he's fucking adorable in it. Yea!
4. I have slept in the Brussels and Salzburg train stations and London's Heathrow airport. I think it was Heathrow, anyway.
5. I used to want to be an archaeologist. I still kind of want to be an archaeologist.
6. When Husband and I got married, our individual book collections nearly doubled. We gave away several bags of books before we moved this summer, but I recently unearthed several crates of books that I'd been missing for several years. We don't have the space for all of these books, but I can't seem to let them go.
7. I've recently gotten really into cooking, so much so that I am considering pursuing a culinary arts certificate in the near future. I'm relatively adept at cooking and baking. I pretty much just follow recipes in Cooking Light, and for the most part, they've been well-received. I've not so much gotten into the whole cleaning up after cooking thing though.
8. In the last year or so, I've gotten into running. I was trying to get in shape for a race when I found out I was pregnant, so I quit running for about a year. I did a 5K in July, and I am planning on doing an 8K in November (walking/running), but between Baby being sick and me being sick, the training for that's been put on hold for about a week, unfortunately.
So that's it. This was enjoyable because it allowed me to indulge my self-centeredness. I don't really know other blog-people to tag. Sigh.
16 September 2007
Hot, Hot, Hot!
Okay, here's a story about my dumbassedness.
I was having a grand old time on Friday night, hanging out in the kitchen, cooking pork tenderloin and listening to my new ipod that Husband got me. In this particular recipe, the pork is cooked first in a skillet on the stove, then in the skillet in the oven. After the skillet is taken out of the oven, it sits for a few minutes before being sliced and dumped with chutney. Yum. I've made this recipe a few times now, and it's always been great. On Friday night, all went according to plan, and I even discovered that my food processor is not, in fact, broken, rather I just wasn't setting it up correctly. I braced myself for all sorts of comments and compliments from Husband along the lines of "You are the most awesome cook I've ever personally known, and if you want to quit your job and go to cooking school, I'd completely support that, and of course I will clean up all the dishes and mess in the kitchen as soon as we're finished eating."
Everything was going great. The combination of my ipod's volume and my singing off key drowned out any fussiness from Baby. The problem started when I took the skillet out of the oven. I set the skillet on the stove and started poking around at the pork. I was horrified to discover that the bottom of the pork was burned. I'd never burned this dish before, and I knew that if Husband saw it, he wouldn't eat it. I decided I'd just scrape the burnt part off, and the rest would be fine. A quick inspection of the middle of the meat confirmed this. While I was figuring all of this out, I was also trying to cook rice and chutney, so two of my burners were in use. I decided to rearrange my workspace in order to have an area to scrape the burnt part off the pork. I picked up the skillet, the same skillet that had just come out of a 425 degree oven, yelled "FUCK!" and ran over to the sink to run water over my hand. Husband came into the kitchen and immediately removed my ipod from my ears. I told him to get me some ice, and he went to check the internet to make sure that was okay It wasn't. I was in pain and worried for Baby who was screaming like a fucking banshee (He's not had a good weekend). Husband called our local urgent care center, and we decided to go in. Husband later told me that he wanted me to go in because "I've seen what you're like when you stub your toe. I'd hate to see how you are with an actual injury."
I couldn't stand to have my hand away from cold water for more than 11 seconds at a time, so we filled a ziploc with cold water so I could stand the car ride. Baby screamed the entire way to urgent care, but as soon as he was picked up, he was fine. Apparently we're going through that again. Urgent care was surprisingly empty for 8:00 pm on a Friday. I'd kind of expected drunks and prostitutes like the one in Fairfax.
I saw a nurse and a doctor almost immediately. The nurse seemed knowledgeable, but the doctor seemed more interested in Baby and Baby's jellycat than in tending to my wound. He glanced at my hand and said "Oh, it's not blistered." It was blistered. "I'll get you a prescription for some burn cream and painkillers. Is that a jellycat? How old's your baby?"
"Um, will these painkillers affect breastmilk?" I asked.
He looked hurt. "My wife breastfed our baby for sixteen months. I would never prescribe anything to a breastfeeding mother that would adversely affect the breastmilk." The doctor turned and walked out of the room.
The nurse came back a few minutes later. "Do you want a shot of painkillers, or are you okay just taking the pills?" she asked.
"Um, I took a couple tylenols before I came here."
"Oh, you can't take your pain pills then. You have to wait six hours since they already have tylenols in them. Do you want something to take the edge off?" I wanted to throw myself on the floor at her feet and beg her for something to take the edge off, but I just said, "I think that would be a good idea."
Husband turned to me and said, "That shot's going to go in your anus." I got all indignant and said they don't do that, but he was insistent. The nurse returned a few minutes later and said, "Okay, this shot's going to go in your butt. Pull your pants down." I was stunned and pulled my pants down to the sound of Husband's gleeful laughter. The shot hurt like a bitch, but it worked quickly. As soon as we got into the car, I called Leighann. I had to share my mortification with someone. No answer. I left a brief message on her voicemail, hung up the phone and said to Husband, "My head feels really heavy." By the time we got home I couldn't walk in a straight line. I was vomiting soon after that and was unable to care for my child.
Then I started insisting on making phone calls. My recall is a little fuzzy at this point, but Husband said I "drunked out" all my friends.
I called Caroline, and I remember her telling something about fixing the mouse touchpad on a Mac.
I called Jen, and I remember Husband trying to talk me out of it by saying she was probably asleep. I remember my argument as to why she'd be awake was that she's always awake at 10 p.m. when we're at her house.
I left a message for Scottie and another for Leighann. I insisted Husband eat his smelly pizza in bed with me, and I remember nothing after that.
My hand hurt like a bitch the next day, but my other sister-in-law was coming to see Baby, so I didn't take a painkiller until after she'd been here for awhile. Apparently the pills have a similar effect to the shot.
I had to keep my hand wrapped in gauze. On Saturday it was completely wrapped, to the point where I looked like I had a KKK puppet on my hand. Even though I'm not a racist, it was hard to resist the temptation to draw a face on it. By Saturday night I couldn't stand have my entire hand wrapped up, so I redid the gauze with my fingers exposed, took another pain pill and did my lesson plans.
I'm pretty much fine now; my hand's not even bandaged anymore. I have a couple small blisters, and I think I might end up with a small scar, but I'll just have to wait and see. It only hurts a little, mostly when I type or push the stroller, so there's no need for a pain pill. I guess you're all safe to leave your phones on.
I was having a grand old time on Friday night, hanging out in the kitchen, cooking pork tenderloin and listening to my new ipod that Husband got me. In this particular recipe, the pork is cooked first in a skillet on the stove, then in the skillet in the oven. After the skillet is taken out of the oven, it sits for a few minutes before being sliced and dumped with chutney. Yum. I've made this recipe a few times now, and it's always been great. On Friday night, all went according to plan, and I even discovered that my food processor is not, in fact, broken, rather I just wasn't setting it up correctly. I braced myself for all sorts of comments and compliments from Husband along the lines of "You are the most awesome cook I've ever personally known, and if you want to quit your job and go to cooking school, I'd completely support that, and of course I will clean up all the dishes and mess in the kitchen as soon as we're finished eating."
Everything was going great. The combination of my ipod's volume and my singing off key drowned out any fussiness from Baby. The problem started when I took the skillet out of the oven. I set the skillet on the stove and started poking around at the pork. I was horrified to discover that the bottom of the pork was burned. I'd never burned this dish before, and I knew that if Husband saw it, he wouldn't eat it. I decided I'd just scrape the burnt part off, and the rest would be fine. A quick inspection of the middle of the meat confirmed this. While I was figuring all of this out, I was also trying to cook rice and chutney, so two of my burners were in use. I decided to rearrange my workspace in order to have an area to scrape the burnt part off the pork. I picked up the skillet, the same skillet that had just come out of a 425 degree oven, yelled "FUCK!" and ran over to the sink to run water over my hand. Husband came into the kitchen and immediately removed my ipod from my ears. I told him to get me some ice, and he went to check the internet to make sure that was okay It wasn't. I was in pain and worried for Baby who was screaming like a fucking banshee (He's not had a good weekend). Husband called our local urgent care center, and we decided to go in. Husband later told me that he wanted me to go in because "I've seen what you're like when you stub your toe. I'd hate to see how you are with an actual injury."
I couldn't stand to have my hand away from cold water for more than 11 seconds at a time, so we filled a ziploc with cold water so I could stand the car ride. Baby screamed the entire way to urgent care, but as soon as he was picked up, he was fine. Apparently we're going through that again. Urgent care was surprisingly empty for 8:00 pm on a Friday. I'd kind of expected drunks and prostitutes like the one in Fairfax.
I saw a nurse and a doctor almost immediately. The nurse seemed knowledgeable, but the doctor seemed more interested in Baby and Baby's jellycat than in tending to my wound. He glanced at my hand and said "Oh, it's not blistered." It was blistered. "I'll get you a prescription for some burn cream and painkillers. Is that a jellycat? How old's your baby?"
"Um, will these painkillers affect breastmilk?" I asked.
He looked hurt. "My wife breastfed our baby for sixteen months. I would never prescribe anything to a breastfeeding mother that would adversely affect the breastmilk." The doctor turned and walked out of the room.
The nurse came back a few minutes later. "Do you want a shot of painkillers, or are you okay just taking the pills?" she asked.
"Um, I took a couple tylenols before I came here."
"Oh, you can't take your pain pills then. You have to wait six hours since they already have tylenols in them. Do you want something to take the edge off?" I wanted to throw myself on the floor at her feet and beg her for something to take the edge off, but I just said, "I think that would be a good idea."
Husband turned to me and said, "That shot's going to go in your anus." I got all indignant and said they don't do that, but he was insistent. The nurse returned a few minutes later and said, "Okay, this shot's going to go in your butt. Pull your pants down." I was stunned and pulled my pants down to the sound of Husband's gleeful laughter. The shot hurt like a bitch, but it worked quickly. As soon as we got into the car, I called Leighann. I had to share my mortification with someone. No answer. I left a brief message on her voicemail, hung up the phone and said to Husband, "My head feels really heavy." By the time we got home I couldn't walk in a straight line. I was vomiting soon after that and was unable to care for my child.
Then I started insisting on making phone calls. My recall is a little fuzzy at this point, but Husband said I "drunked out" all my friends.
I called Caroline, and I remember her telling something about fixing the mouse touchpad on a Mac.
I called Jen, and I remember Husband trying to talk me out of it by saying she was probably asleep. I remember my argument as to why she'd be awake was that she's always awake at 10 p.m. when we're at her house.
I left a message for Scottie and another for Leighann. I insisted Husband eat his smelly pizza in bed with me, and I remember nothing after that.
My hand hurt like a bitch the next day, but my other sister-in-law was coming to see Baby, so I didn't take a painkiller until after she'd been here for awhile. Apparently the pills have a similar effect to the shot.
I had to keep my hand wrapped in gauze. On Saturday it was completely wrapped, to the point where I looked like I had a KKK puppet on my hand. Even though I'm not a racist, it was hard to resist the temptation to draw a face on it. By Saturday night I couldn't stand have my entire hand wrapped up, so I redid the gauze with my fingers exposed, took another pain pill and did my lesson plans.
I'm pretty much fine now; my hand's not even bandaged anymore. I have a couple small blisters, and I think I might end up with a small scar, but I'll just have to wait and see. It only hurts a little, mostly when I type or push the stroller, so there's no need for a pain pill. I guess you're all safe to leave your phones on.
09 September 2007
A Confession
Husband and I are very poor. Our poorness comes from several bad habits, including eating out way too much and purchasing things we don't need. On that note, I went to Barnes and Noble yesterday. I had to go get a prescription filled for Baby's sinus infection, and I had a 45 minute wait. I also really wanted Starbucks, so it was convenient. Barnes and Noble often does a "Buy 2 get the 3rd free" deal, and the books on that table tend to be non-fiction, like memoirs and the history of interesting things, so I wandered over. We don't have money to buy books, I kept thinking to myself. Then I thought I'd just look. I looked and saw four books I wanted. That wouldn't do a whole lot for the 3 for 2 deal, so I walked away. Then I wandered back. I saw another book I wanted, so the count was up to five. I made a bargain with myself, the whole time thinking that I really should just leave the store immediately. But I didn't. I told myself that if I could find one more book I was interested in, I could get the five I wanted, cause the third and sixth books would be free anyway. I did a few laps around the table, but I didn't see anything I wanted enough to justify my purchasing all the other books. Then I noticed that the books on sale weren't just on top of the table; they were also underneath it. I found about six more books I wanted, and finally settled on Suze Orman's 9 Steps to Financial Freedom or something like that. I figured it was fitting, although whenever I buy financial advice books, I always wonder why they don't start with "Don't buy this book. Get it from the library instead." I took my books to the checkout counter, put them on my credit card, and decided I'd have the small frappucino rather than the large, since I'd already spent money on books. Then I hid the books in the trunk of the car, since I wasn't supposed to be buying books in the first place. As far as I know, they are still there. I haven't had a chance to sneak more than two into the house just yet. To make all of this worse, school's started, Baby's in KinderCare, and I see him for all of 3 hours a day at most. When am I going to find the time to read these six books?
In what might be a good mood for me, however, I don't feel as guilty as I should. I'm not sure what Husband's reaction is going to be. I guess I'm hoping he doesn't need to open the trunk of his car for awhile...
In what might be a good mood for me, however, I don't feel as guilty as I should. I'm not sure what Husband's reaction is going to be. I guess I'm hoping he doesn't need to open the trunk of his car for awhile...
Compatability
Husband and I went to church tonight. This church happened to have a time before the service actually began where the priest asked visitors and newcomers to please stand. A handful of people bashfully stood up and looked around awkwardly as the congregation clapped. Even though it was our first time at this church, Husband, Baby, and I stayed seated. There was no discussion or eye movement messages to communicate that neither of us were going to get up. We just stayed in our seats as though we'd been going to this church for ages. That, ladies and gentlemen, is why my marriage works.
01 September 2007
The Babysitter Blues
Part of the reason we moved was so Husband could go back to school at night and stay home with Baby during the day. We knew we'd have to do some child care, but we figured we'd need so little that we could hire a college student to come in a few hours a week. All summer I've been nagging him to find someone so we (I) have one less thing to worry about as I'm preparing to go back to school. All summer he's been saying it'll work itself out once his university gives him his schedule. Well, I go back in a week and a half, and he still doesn't know his schedule. He does, however, know enough about it to know that we will need almost full time care. I'm pretty bummed about this because I think it's important for one parent to stay home. I was feeling jealous of Husband being able to get to spend all this extra time with Baby, while I had to work, but at least Baby was going to be home with one of us.
Once we realized we'd need full time care, I started flipping out, as I am more than prone to do. The flipping out got so bad that I actually picked up the phone and started calling day care centers in the area, and I will do almost anything to get out of making a phone call. My phone anxiety is so bad that I hardly even even talk to close friends on the phone anymore because I get so worried about how the conversation will go. I probably called five different places and emailed several more. Overwhelmingly they did not take infants or were full. I was panicking, but by noon, Husband and I had an appointment to look at a center about 15 minutes from our house. As we drove, the area became more and more run down, until we came to a nearly abandoned strip mall which housed the daycare, a dollar store, and a church which looked like the type of church where you have to bring your own snake. I gripped Husband's hand, and we walked through the unlocked front door. We saw two dim, crowded rooms filled with the cutest children I'd ever seen. They were all napping or trying not to nap, so the center was very quiet. The director led us into the infant room, which was a narrow room lined with cribs on two of the walls. The infant room smelled really funny. So did the rest of the center. One employee was sitting in a rocking chair, and the other was standing up changing a diaper. The center director led us through the infant room, answered our questions, gave us a brochure, and escorted us out of the center. On the way home, Husband and I discussed the center. We had no problem with Baby being the only Caucasian baby there, but we did take issue with the lack of space. And I just did not like the smell one bit. On the way home, I worked myself up into another little tizzy about our lack of childcare options. I looked on craigslist, sent a few emails, and then we left to visit KinderCare. The KinderCare facility was clean, bright, the employees were friendly, and Husband mused "I can see where the extra $70 a week goes." We felt comfortable with the atmosphere and employees, but not the cost.
When we arrived home, I had several replies to my emails, including the mother of a former student. I called her right away and set up a time for her to meet Baby and Husband.
The meeting was a little awkward, but her rates were reasonable, and she could drop Baby off at school with me when she picked up her kids. Within a week she had Baby napping two hours each morning in a pack-n-play. I felt a little less guilty for going off to work each morning because I knew I could see Baby by 3 p.m. each day. I got to show him off too my co-workers who offered to hold him, talked to him, and told me how exceedingly cute my child is. He's very cute when he shows off, which he does for other people.
The babysitter quit on Thursday. She sent me an email on Thursday morning. I called Husband sobbing during my first break of the day. I tried not to cry or be emotional about it because I don't want to be the teacher who cries in her classroom, but I couldn't help it. I was panicky and devastated, clutching a tissue and wishing I could be a stay at home mom. Husband assured me that everything would be fine, and we set up a plan for him to call places and me to call places and by my next break, I was all set to go back to KinderCare and register Baby for their last infant spot. The director kept giving me a look as though she knew all along that we'd come crawling back. I wrote her a very large check and feel nauseous over the thought that our childcare is as expensive as our share of the mortgage. I have a mountain of paperwork to fill out.
My tears are slowly drying up, and I am seeing the benefits of the situation. We don't have to worry about what happens when a babysitter's child gets sick. I can get more done in my classroom after school, and then I'll have more time with Baby and Husband in the evenings. Theoretically, I could go to the gym between school and picking Baby up from day care. I'm just crushed that I have to look at these benefits at all.
Maybe someday we'll be in a position financially for me to be able to stay home and hang out with my kid. Probably not, but at least we know he's being taken care of at a place where there are other kids for him to play with and grown-ups who will interact with him. I just wish I could be the grown-up interacting with him each day.
Once we realized we'd need full time care, I started flipping out, as I am more than prone to do. The flipping out got so bad that I actually picked up the phone and started calling day care centers in the area, and I will do almost anything to get out of making a phone call. My phone anxiety is so bad that I hardly even even talk to close friends on the phone anymore because I get so worried about how the conversation will go. I probably called five different places and emailed several more. Overwhelmingly they did not take infants or were full. I was panicking, but by noon, Husband and I had an appointment to look at a center about 15 minutes from our house. As we drove, the area became more and more run down, until we came to a nearly abandoned strip mall which housed the daycare, a dollar store, and a church which looked like the type of church where you have to bring your own snake. I gripped Husband's hand, and we walked through the unlocked front door. We saw two dim, crowded rooms filled with the cutest children I'd ever seen. They were all napping or trying not to nap, so the center was very quiet. The director led us into the infant room, which was a narrow room lined with cribs on two of the walls. The infant room smelled really funny. So did the rest of the center. One employee was sitting in a rocking chair, and the other was standing up changing a diaper. The center director led us through the infant room, answered our questions, gave us a brochure, and escorted us out of the center. On the way home, Husband and I discussed the center. We had no problem with Baby being the only Caucasian baby there, but we did take issue with the lack of space. And I just did not like the smell one bit. On the way home, I worked myself up into another little tizzy about our lack of childcare options. I looked on craigslist, sent a few emails, and then we left to visit KinderCare. The KinderCare facility was clean, bright, the employees were friendly, and Husband mused "I can see where the extra $70 a week goes." We felt comfortable with the atmosphere and employees, but not the cost.
When we arrived home, I had several replies to my emails, including the mother of a former student. I called her right away and set up a time for her to meet Baby and Husband.
The meeting was a little awkward, but her rates were reasonable, and she could drop Baby off at school with me when she picked up her kids. Within a week she had Baby napping two hours each morning in a pack-n-play. I felt a little less guilty for going off to work each morning because I knew I could see Baby by 3 p.m. each day. I got to show him off too my co-workers who offered to hold him, talked to him, and told me how exceedingly cute my child is. He's very cute when he shows off, which he does for other people.
The babysitter quit on Thursday. She sent me an email on Thursday morning. I called Husband sobbing during my first break of the day. I tried not to cry or be emotional about it because I don't want to be the teacher who cries in her classroom, but I couldn't help it. I was panicky and devastated, clutching a tissue and wishing I could be a stay at home mom. Husband assured me that everything would be fine, and we set up a plan for him to call places and me to call places and by my next break, I was all set to go back to KinderCare and register Baby for their last infant spot. The director kept giving me a look as though she knew all along that we'd come crawling back. I wrote her a very large check and feel nauseous over the thought that our childcare is as expensive as our share of the mortgage. I have a mountain of paperwork to fill out.
My tears are slowly drying up, and I am seeing the benefits of the situation. We don't have to worry about what happens when a babysitter's child gets sick. I can get more done in my classroom after school, and then I'll have more time with Baby and Husband in the evenings. Theoretically, I could go to the gym between school and picking Baby up from day care. I'm just crushed that I have to look at these benefits at all.
Maybe someday we'll be in a position financially for me to be able to stay home and hang out with my kid. Probably not, but at least we know he's being taken care of at a place where there are other kids for him to play with and grown-ups who will interact with him. I just wish I could be the grown-up interacting with him each day.
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