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.

Taking on the World

Four by four by four

Jen tagged me with this...

4 jobs I've had
Haunted hayride attraction
waitress in an Irish hotel
crappy librarian
second grade teacher

4 movies I could watch over and over
Life as a House
Where the Heart Is (hanging my head in shame)
The Sound of Music
Roman Holiday (how Notting Hill should have ended)

4 TV shows I watch
The Office
30 Rock
Scrubs
Top Chef

4 places I've lived
Fairfax, VA (twice)
Richmond, VA (on and off for 16 years)
Bronx, NY (I'm not kidding)
Charlottesville, VA

4 favorite foods
polenta
ramen
breakfast (Husband says "breakfast is not a food!")
cheese enchiladas (especially from Rancho)

4 favorite colors
Yellow
Red
Pink
Black

4 places I'd love to be right now
New York City
Ireland
Italy
New York City

4 names I love but could/would not use for my children
Charlotte, Julia, Mobius (Husband's idea, the one I actually liked), Hannah (Husband vetoed, and we got a boy anyway)

If any of my friends-such as Caroline and Leighann, etc, wanted to start blogging, I'd tag them with this...

Awesome

And now we've got an ear infection.

Jesus Loves Me

I have to teach religion as part of my job. It's funny that I say I have to teach religion when I spent two years preparing to get a job in a religious field and time after that searching for a job teaching religion. But now, I do say that I have to teach religion as part of my job.
My students and I were having a discussion during religion one day recently. One student raised her hand and said, "Yeah, but why did Jesus die on the cross for us?" I gave the standard answer which is something along the lines of He wanted us to be happy and live with him forever in heaven, but we couldn't because of sin, so instead of us dying for our sins, Jesus died for us so we wouldn't have to and could still be with God forever. She looked confused and dissatisfied, as she probably should have been, so I continued, "Let me put it a different way. Pretend everyone else who ever lived was perfect. Never sinned. Never did anything wrong. And the only thing you've ever done wrong was kick your brother. Once. Jesus still would have died for you. He loves you that much that even if nobody else had ever sinned, he would still want to be with you so badly that he'd go through all that pain, just for you. That's how much he loves you and that's why he died on the cross." She said "OOOOOOHHHHHH," that sound of either deep understanding or of feigned deep understanding. I mentally said "OOOOOHHHHHHH," because the truth of what I said hit me out of nowhere, and as much as I was capable, I understood how deeply God loves us.

I just want to bang on the drum all day

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.