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.
25 September 2007
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.
21 August 2007
Awww...Baby's First EEG
Having a baby means lots of new experiences-getting pooped or puked or peed on, the first smile, the first seven-hour scream fest, etc. These new experiences are experiences to learn from or cherish or serve as reminders of why Baby will not be having any brothers or sisters. Ever.
A few weeks ago, an experience I'd dreaded ever since Husband and I even abstractly discussed having kids occurred. When we visited the pediatrician, I'd actually forgotten about the great potential for Baby to have to have an EEG, so when the doctor told us we needed to get one, and the sooner the better, all my old anxieties dropped in for an extended visit.
I had epilepsy as a child. Not the convulsing on the floor type of epilepsy, but the other kind, petit mal seizures. It wasn't a big deal, but it was embarrassing having to take medicine every day, and it was really fucking annoying when I was fourteen, and my mother wouldn't let me go on the Back to the Future ride at Universal Studios. I really didn't want to pass on these little inconveniences to my child, but then it appeared that maybe I did.
I was feeding Baby one Sunday morning, and he relaxed more and more as he ate his bottle. His entire body suddenly started shaking. "Baby," I said. "What are you doing?" He kept shaking. "Baby," I repeated, louder and more firmly. "What the hell are you doing?" He kept shaking, then stopped, glared at me, and finished his bottle.
When the same thing happened the next day, we called the pediatrician, and the told us to come in right away. This visit turned out to be our one non-negative experience with this practice so far. They got us an appointment with a neurologist and got us set up with an EEG the next day and told us not to worry. I worried. A lot. I felt guilty and blamed myself. I thought of all sorts of terrible things that could be wrong with my child, the least of which was mild epilepsy.
At the hospital the next day, I watched my child's brainwaves scroll across a computer screen and wished I knew right then what the squiggles and zigzags meant. The technician put an army green cap on his head, making him look like a little baby bomber pilot (Husband pointed out that similarity). All he needed was the leather jacket. I tried to hold him still as he twisted on the table and cried when the technician put the gel in his hair. Husband and I took turns holding him on the table and then holding his hand as he slept.
We had an angry baby on our hands when he woke up and the test wasn't over, and we had an angry baby on our hands in the neurologist's office the next day, as the doctor told us our child was perfectly fine, he didn't need to see him again, and anyway, he's a baby, so if he did have my kind of epilepsy we wouldn't know it, given the normal results of the EEG.
I was relieved.
A few weeks ago, an experience I'd dreaded ever since Husband and I even abstractly discussed having kids occurred. When we visited the pediatrician, I'd actually forgotten about the great potential for Baby to have to have an EEG, so when the doctor told us we needed to get one, and the sooner the better, all my old anxieties dropped in for an extended visit.
I had epilepsy as a child. Not the convulsing on the floor type of epilepsy, but the other kind, petit mal seizures. It wasn't a big deal, but it was embarrassing having to take medicine every day, and it was really fucking annoying when I was fourteen, and my mother wouldn't let me go on the Back to the Future ride at Universal Studios. I really didn't want to pass on these little inconveniences to my child, but then it appeared that maybe I did.
I was feeding Baby one Sunday morning, and he relaxed more and more as he ate his bottle. His entire body suddenly started shaking. "Baby," I said. "What are you doing?" He kept shaking. "Baby," I repeated, louder and more firmly. "What the hell are you doing?" He kept shaking, then stopped, glared at me, and finished his bottle.
When the same thing happened the next day, we called the pediatrician, and the told us to come in right away. This visit turned out to be our one non-negative experience with this practice so far. They got us an appointment with a neurologist and got us set up with an EEG the next day and told us not to worry. I worried. A lot. I felt guilty and blamed myself. I thought of all sorts of terrible things that could be wrong with my child, the least of which was mild epilepsy.
At the hospital the next day, I watched my child's brainwaves scroll across a computer screen and wished I knew right then what the squiggles and zigzags meant. The technician put an army green cap on his head, making him look like a little baby bomber pilot (Husband pointed out that similarity). All he needed was the leather jacket. I tried to hold him still as he twisted on the table and cried when the technician put the gel in his hair. Husband and I took turns holding him on the table and then holding his hand as he slept.
We had an angry baby on our hands when he woke up and the test wasn't over, and we had an angry baby on our hands in the neurologist's office the next day, as the doctor told us our child was perfectly fine, he didn't need to see him again, and anyway, he's a baby, so if he did have my kind of epilepsy we wouldn't know it, given the normal results of the EEG.
I was relieved.
18 August 2007
Shopping!
Husband's starting graduate school next week, and he decided he needed to upgrade his wardrobe a bit. Going shopping isn't always fun for either of us, and now we have a baby who isn't always patient while in his stroller.
We went to a local outdoor mall, and Husband decided to try jcrew first. I noticed that they were having a sale on polos right away. Husband was clear that he didn't want polos, but I mentioned them anyway. Husband only wanted short sleeved button up shirts. I supported his preference by telling him he should try on polos. He then suggested that I take Baby and wander around outside and leave him alone.
I obliged and went to make an appointment for a haircut. I know I don't need to lose anymore hair, but I haven't had it cut since before Baby was born. It's time. While I was in the quiet salon waiting my turn, Baby decided he was going to hold a protest against his stroller. I hurriedly unhooked him from his shackles and continued to wait. After spending about 10 minutes waiting, Baby and I were able to book me an appointment and leave the salon.
Husband and I met back up, and I learned that he hadn't purchased anything. I was already kind of bored; after all, the shopping clearly was not for me in any way. Husband had been helping me a lot in my classroom, however, so I was happy to be supportive of his need for new clothes.
We hit clothing gold at Eddie Bauer. I spent about 30 minutes in the store trying to bribe a squirmy, fussy baby to shut up and settle down (please, Baby, if you stop making noise, I promise not to get mad in a year or two when you decide to cut your own hair). I was bored and antsy, and Husband found several shirts he wanted to try on. I walked around philosophizing to myself and Baby about what it now means that I like some of the clothes at Eddie Bauer. My mother used to drag me into that store when I was younger, and I still twitch when I pass by. My twitching ceased when I found a pair of cute green pants and a lavender top. I mentioned the outfit to Husband, and he grunted. Then he disappeared for a very long time. I deduced that he was trying on a mountain of shirts and tried to keep myself entertained and patient. Husband emerged from the dressing room triumphant and went back to the racks to select more shirts. He tried to escape the store then. He really did. But the sales-college dropout had commission in his eyes, and I think he had a killer instinct when it comes to picking out people who really want clothes but whose husbands need a laptop for school and whose babies need shots and formula and clothing and toys, and the sales-college dropout asked me if I had seen anything I liked.
"Oh, we're not shopping for me today," I replied, glaring at Husband. He rolled his eyes.
"Really? You're not getting anything?" he asked incrediously.
"Nope," I said. "Even though I'm going back to work this week and haven't had any clothes in such a long time and feel frumpy and ugly." I was no longer talking to the sales-college dropout. "You're not letting her get anything?" he asked Husband. "Let her try something on," he urged. "I'll hold the baby."
"Fine," Husband said. "You can get one thing. And it has to be from the sale rack."
"Six things? Great." I threw Baby to Husband and sprinted to the sale rack. Everything on the sale rack was frumpy. "If I wanted to look like frumpy troll teacher, I could get this t-shirt," I explained to Husband and held up a striped t. "But I don't want to look like frumpy troll teacher. I want to look like hip young mama teacher."
Husband actually agreed with me and gave me his blessing to head to the front of the store. I tried on the cute green pants and a slutty black top and came out of the dressing room.
"Well, I can't wear the top to work," I told Husband.
"No, but you could wear it out to dinner," he replied. Then we broke into hysterics. Out to dinner. Haha.
We decided I'd get the cute green pants, and I was no longer bored with the shopping trip. It was a successful trip for 2/3 of the shopping trio. I had a new pair of pants, and Husband, as he continues to remind me, bought seven shirts for $90. So now I just need to work on getting more pants, some tops, and a skirt or two. School starts in less than a week...
We went to a local outdoor mall, and Husband decided to try jcrew first. I noticed that they were having a sale on polos right away. Husband was clear that he didn't want polos, but I mentioned them anyway. Husband only wanted short sleeved button up shirts. I supported his preference by telling him he should try on polos. He then suggested that I take Baby and wander around outside and leave him alone.
I obliged and went to make an appointment for a haircut. I know I don't need to lose anymore hair, but I haven't had it cut since before Baby was born. It's time. While I was in the quiet salon waiting my turn, Baby decided he was going to hold a protest against his stroller. I hurriedly unhooked him from his shackles and continued to wait. After spending about 10 minutes waiting, Baby and I were able to book me an appointment and leave the salon.
Husband and I met back up, and I learned that he hadn't purchased anything. I was already kind of bored; after all, the shopping clearly was not for me in any way. Husband had been helping me a lot in my classroom, however, so I was happy to be supportive of his need for new clothes.
We hit clothing gold at Eddie Bauer. I spent about 30 minutes in the store trying to bribe a squirmy, fussy baby to shut up and settle down (please, Baby, if you stop making noise, I promise not to get mad in a year or two when you decide to cut your own hair). I was bored and antsy, and Husband found several shirts he wanted to try on. I walked around philosophizing to myself and Baby about what it now means that I like some of the clothes at Eddie Bauer. My mother used to drag me into that store when I was younger, and I still twitch when I pass by. My twitching ceased when I found a pair of cute green pants and a lavender top. I mentioned the outfit to Husband, and he grunted. Then he disappeared for a very long time. I deduced that he was trying on a mountain of shirts and tried to keep myself entertained and patient. Husband emerged from the dressing room triumphant and went back to the racks to select more shirts. He tried to escape the store then. He really did. But the sales-college dropout had commission in his eyes, and I think he had a killer instinct when it comes to picking out people who really want clothes but whose husbands need a laptop for school and whose babies need shots and formula and clothing and toys, and the sales-college dropout asked me if I had seen anything I liked.
"Oh, we're not shopping for me today," I replied, glaring at Husband. He rolled his eyes.
"Really? You're not getting anything?" he asked incrediously.
"Nope," I said. "Even though I'm going back to work this week and haven't had any clothes in such a long time and feel frumpy and ugly." I was no longer talking to the sales-college dropout. "You're not letting her get anything?" he asked Husband. "Let her try something on," he urged. "I'll hold the baby."
"Fine," Husband said. "You can get one thing. And it has to be from the sale rack."
"Six things? Great." I threw Baby to Husband and sprinted to the sale rack. Everything on the sale rack was frumpy. "If I wanted to look like frumpy troll teacher, I could get this t-shirt," I explained to Husband and held up a striped t. "But I don't want to look like frumpy troll teacher. I want to look like hip young mama teacher."
Husband actually agreed with me and gave me his blessing to head to the front of the store. I tried on the cute green pants and a slutty black top and came out of the dressing room.
"Well, I can't wear the top to work," I told Husband.
"No, but you could wear it out to dinner," he replied. Then we broke into hysterics. Out to dinner. Haha.
We decided I'd get the cute green pants, and I was no longer bored with the shopping trip. It was a successful trip for 2/3 of the shopping trio. I had a new pair of pants, and Husband, as he continues to remind me, bought seven shirts for $90. So now I just need to work on getting more pants, some tops, and a skirt or two. School starts in less than a week...
The Church Lady, Part 2
At the beginning of the summer, I vowed to go to church each week. To make myself stomach church each week I viewed it as a social observation/experiment. I went one week, which sucked, and never went again. I intended to go the second week, but apparently I was so tired that I fell asleep on the couch on the way to the shower, and Husband had to put me back to bed. I say apparently because I remember none of this. After that second week, we got busy with moving and unpacking and living between two houses, so church wasn't a priority. Who am I kidding, though? Church hasn't been a priority since I got married.
Church was so important to me in college and graduate school, but it's easy for things to be important when surrounded by others who also find them important. In college and graduate school, I surrounded myself with people who saw their faith as central to themselves. That's not to say that all my friends were Christians, but I had a huge support network of people who'd go to church with me, discuss the Bible and theology with me, pray for me, and challenge me. These were people who weren't of the be a Christian and everything will be great persuasion; they were more of the be a Christian and you may very well be just as fucked up as anyone else, that's right, fucked, but it's important to love God and do your very best to learn about Him, serve Him, and help others learn about Him persuasion.
Church/spending time with God/having a support system for all of that fell apart soon after I left graduate school. That's the tune of so many areas of my life right now. I know it's not an excuse; it's more of an explanation. It became harder and harder to even half-assedly keep up without support, and I quickly gave up. For three + years. I miss it, though. I miss it terribly. I miss having people close by that I can talk theology with in person. I miss being able to tell people I'm praying for them without them thinking I'm weird, or being able to bring God and God's will into a conversation about a decision or life or whatever.
So I've decided I have to get off my ass and find a church. While I doubt I will ever find people who will be as dear to me as Scottie or Caroline and Leighann, I am certain that in this city there are people who love God, and not in a crazy snake handling type of way. I just need to get off my ass and find them. This will be difficult for me, as I lack follow through on pretty much everything I attempt. It will also be difficult because my suspicion is that I will largely be on my own for this.
I'm currently searching the internet for nearby churches. I'm thinking of going to church tomorrow morning, but I'm not sure where to start. Because I'm Catholic, a Catholic church seems like the logical place to start but I'm currently dissatisfied with Holy Mother Church and its entities in Virginia. I'm not ready to say F.U. to the Catholic Church, but I might need a break for awhile and the thought of not being Catholic is often both a relief and crushing to me.
I like the Episcopal church because it's worship style is close to Catholic, but since it's an offshoot of the Church of England, I don't think I could ever be Episcopalian. I plan to try some Episcopal churches, however, because I'm curious to see what a casual service there is like.
I'm also running across a lot of Methodist churches. Scottie and I used to talk about how Methodist churches seemed like the safe churches-nothing crazy in worship, no altar calls, like snakes, or head coverings required. I don't know that I've been to a Methodist church since my uncle's wedding in 1995.
I'm vetting these churches online before vetting them in real life. I'm interested in finding a church that has young families, a casual worship option, Communion every week, and an organized liturgy. The church must also have a website with a decent amount of information about their worship, philosophy, ministries, and overall mission. If a church doesn't have a website, I won't go. It's also unlikely that I'll go to a church that appears to have snakes there, or a church where people speak in tongues. I'm assuming I'm not going to try a church with the word Baptist or Pentecostal in its name.
I'd really like to go tomorrow, go and wear the cute green pants I bought today, but it's probably unlikely.
Church was so important to me in college and graduate school, but it's easy for things to be important when surrounded by others who also find them important. In college and graduate school, I surrounded myself with people who saw their faith as central to themselves. That's not to say that all my friends were Christians, but I had a huge support network of people who'd go to church with me, discuss the Bible and theology with me, pray for me, and challenge me. These were people who weren't of the be a Christian and everything will be great persuasion; they were more of the be a Christian and you may very well be just as fucked up as anyone else, that's right, fucked, but it's important to love God and do your very best to learn about Him, serve Him, and help others learn about Him persuasion.
Church/spending time with God/having a support system for all of that fell apart soon after I left graduate school. That's the tune of so many areas of my life right now. I know it's not an excuse; it's more of an explanation. It became harder and harder to even half-assedly keep up without support, and I quickly gave up. For three + years. I miss it, though. I miss it terribly. I miss having people close by that I can talk theology with in person. I miss being able to tell people I'm praying for them without them thinking I'm weird, or being able to bring God and God's will into a conversation about a decision or life or whatever.
So I've decided I have to get off my ass and find a church. While I doubt I will ever find people who will be as dear to me as Scottie or Caroline and Leighann, I am certain that in this city there are people who love God, and not in a crazy snake handling type of way. I just need to get off my ass and find them. This will be difficult for me, as I lack follow through on pretty much everything I attempt. It will also be difficult because my suspicion is that I will largely be on my own for this.
I'm currently searching the internet for nearby churches. I'm thinking of going to church tomorrow morning, but I'm not sure where to start. Because I'm Catholic, a Catholic church seems like the logical place to start but I'm currently dissatisfied with Holy Mother Church and its entities in Virginia. I'm not ready to say F.U. to the Catholic Church, but I might need a break for awhile and the thought of not being Catholic is often both a relief and crushing to me.
I like the Episcopal church because it's worship style is close to Catholic, but since it's an offshoot of the Church of England, I don't think I could ever be Episcopalian. I plan to try some Episcopal churches, however, because I'm curious to see what a casual service there is like.
I'm also running across a lot of Methodist churches. Scottie and I used to talk about how Methodist churches seemed like the safe churches-nothing crazy in worship, no altar calls, like snakes, or head coverings required. I don't know that I've been to a Methodist church since my uncle's wedding in 1995.
I'm vetting these churches online before vetting them in real life. I'm interested in finding a church that has young families, a casual worship option, Communion every week, and an organized liturgy. The church must also have a website with a decent amount of information about their worship, philosophy, ministries, and overall mission. If a church doesn't have a website, I won't go. It's also unlikely that I'll go to a church that appears to have snakes there, or a church where people speak in tongues. I'm assuming I'm not going to try a church with the word Baptist or Pentecostal in its name.
I'd really like to go tomorrow, go and wear the cute green pants I bought today, but it's probably unlikely.
11 August 2007
First Dates
Four years ago, today, I drove my mom's car to a city an hour away to hang out with someone I'd met once, and that was a few weeks earlier on a train. Tonight, I was thinking about that day four years ago when I wore clothes that don't fit me now, when I hadn't ever been in a relationship longer than eight weeks, when I hadn't ever had sex before, when I lived in a different state and didn't plan on living in Virginia ever again, when I hadn't ever thought about what my wedding ring might look like, when I didn't completely loathe myself, when my hair wasn't falling out in huge clumps and my abdomen wasn't covered with a scar and stretch marks, when I didn't even know what stretch marks looked like. Tonight, I was thinking about all that and about how on that day, four years ago, I could have never predicted that I'd be driving down a rural highway with a screaming baby in the backseat.
It's the anniversary of my first date with Husband, and the anniversary of when we got engaged a year later. As far as first dates go, I thought it kind of sucked, but not many first dates end up in an eventual marriage, so we must have done something right. My first date with Husband was basically just an extended afternoon of hanging out at his apartment. Nothing illicit, just two people hanging out and chatting (we also went to lunch). I had really high expectations for this date because we'd been emailing for about three weeks before the date, and I was certain that this guy either liked me (something I'd never been certain of before) or that this guy would be my new best friend. I spent the days before the date talking with my friends about this guy and trying to figure out if he liked me as a friend or as more than a friend. After hours and hours of circular conversation, my friend Tim finally said, "Look. He's 24. Guys that are 24 aren't looking for more friends who live six hours away." Tim, Scottie, and I then proceeded to pick out my outfit for the date and talk more about whether or not this guy liked me.
The date's high point was when Husband told me I reminded him of a college aged guy. By the time the date was over, I was confused and didn't understand what had gone wrong. We'd connected those weeks when we emailed. At least I thought we had. After the date, I was on the phone with Tim by the time I got to the first traffic light. Leighann beeped in while I was in the middle of telling Tim how much the date sucked. "It sucked!" I cried to her.
"What the fuck?" she responded, in typical Leighann fashion. "That's fucking impossible."
"No, it's true. Isn't that fucked up?" I got off the phone and proceeded to bitch to Tim, then Scottie about the fucked-upness of said date. I drove to Fairfax and bitched to Caroline and Leighann about the date, and we discussed how it could have possibly been so painfully awkward. During the four hours it took me to drive home from Fairfax, I berated myself for letting the date be so horrible and talked myself out of liking this guy who was so great. When I got home at 3 a.m., I had an email waiting for me. It was from Husband, telling me how much he'd enjoyed the date and how he thought there was "potential for something more than friendship." Instead of replying with my thoughts, as he requested, I left the computer room and cried in my bed. I didn't reply when I woke up the next morning. Instead, I got up, drove back to Fairfax, and discussed the situation with my friend Kara. Then Kara and I discussed the situation with our friend Shayleen. After I'd said about fourteen self-deprecating comments, Shayleen interrupted me.
"Relax," she said. "This is normal. This is good. Things like this are supposed to happen for you. I cannot believe you left this poor guy hanging all day and haven't responded to his email!" I hung my head in shame and promised her I'd respond as soon as I got home. Later, as Kara and I were driving and discussing "trainboy," as we refered to Husband back then, she had to pull over so I could vomit in front of someone's house because I was so freaked out at the idea of me liking someone and him liking me back at the same time. And that started the series of days I like to call "vomit week," where I couldn't eat and threw up every time I thought about Husband, which was quite a bit.
But that was four years ago. Husband rarely makes me throw up these days, and now it's generally in response to an argument or being pregnant. I don't agonize over what I'm going to wear when he's around because he's around all the time. He's lucky if I get time to shave my legs these days. He's seen me at my best, and he's seen me in labor. There's not a whole lot that's left to be revealed, at least not physically. Conversation got a lot easier the more we talked, and we don't have many awkward moments these days. When we do, we laugh about it, usually. We've said things to each other that are more terrible than I thought possible, and he's built me up more than I ever thought possible. I know it's maudlin and sappy, but I'm glad I went on that crappy date.
It's the anniversary of my first date with Husband, and the anniversary of when we got engaged a year later. As far as first dates go, I thought it kind of sucked, but not many first dates end up in an eventual marriage, so we must have done something right. My first date with Husband was basically just an extended afternoon of hanging out at his apartment. Nothing illicit, just two people hanging out and chatting (we also went to lunch). I had really high expectations for this date because we'd been emailing for about three weeks before the date, and I was certain that this guy either liked me (something I'd never been certain of before) or that this guy would be my new best friend. I spent the days before the date talking with my friends about this guy and trying to figure out if he liked me as a friend or as more than a friend. After hours and hours of circular conversation, my friend Tim finally said, "Look. He's 24. Guys that are 24 aren't looking for more friends who live six hours away." Tim, Scottie, and I then proceeded to pick out my outfit for the date and talk more about whether or not this guy liked me.
The date's high point was when Husband told me I reminded him of a college aged guy. By the time the date was over, I was confused and didn't understand what had gone wrong. We'd connected those weeks when we emailed. At least I thought we had. After the date, I was on the phone with Tim by the time I got to the first traffic light. Leighann beeped in while I was in the middle of telling Tim how much the date sucked. "It sucked!" I cried to her.
"What the fuck?" she responded, in typical Leighann fashion. "That's fucking impossible."
"No, it's true. Isn't that fucked up?" I got off the phone and proceeded to bitch to Tim, then Scottie about the fucked-upness of said date. I drove to Fairfax and bitched to Caroline and Leighann about the date, and we discussed how it could have possibly been so painfully awkward. During the four hours it took me to drive home from Fairfax, I berated myself for letting the date be so horrible and talked myself out of liking this guy who was so great. When I got home at 3 a.m., I had an email waiting for me. It was from Husband, telling me how much he'd enjoyed the date and how he thought there was "potential for something more than friendship." Instead of replying with my thoughts, as he requested, I left the computer room and cried in my bed. I didn't reply when I woke up the next morning. Instead, I got up, drove back to Fairfax, and discussed the situation with my friend Kara. Then Kara and I discussed the situation with our friend Shayleen. After I'd said about fourteen self-deprecating comments, Shayleen interrupted me.
"Relax," she said. "This is normal. This is good. Things like this are supposed to happen for you. I cannot believe you left this poor guy hanging all day and haven't responded to his email!" I hung my head in shame and promised her I'd respond as soon as I got home. Later, as Kara and I were driving and discussing "trainboy," as we refered to Husband back then, she had to pull over so I could vomit in front of someone's house because I was so freaked out at the idea of me liking someone and him liking me back at the same time. And that started the series of days I like to call "vomit week," where I couldn't eat and threw up every time I thought about Husband, which was quite a bit.
But that was four years ago. Husband rarely makes me throw up these days, and now it's generally in response to an argument or being pregnant. I don't agonize over what I'm going to wear when he's around because he's around all the time. He's lucky if I get time to shave my legs these days. He's seen me at my best, and he's seen me in labor. There's not a whole lot that's left to be revealed, at least not physically. Conversation got a lot easier the more we talked, and we don't have many awkward moments these days. When we do, we laugh about it, usually. We've said things to each other that are more terrible than I thought possible, and he's built me up more than I ever thought possible. I know it's maudlin and sappy, but I'm glad I went on that crappy date.
Eating My Words, Part 1
When I had a baby, I swore I'd never be the mom who took neck-ed pictures of her baby. I wanted very much to preserve Baby's dignity throughout his childhood and beyond. Well, since the bathtub at the new house has crappy shower doors on it, we've been forced to bathe Baby in the kitchen sink. Sorry, Baby. I held out as long as I could.
Stupid Babies Need the Most Love, Part 3
So Baby can roll over both ways now, and he can scoot himself around in a circle. We're really proud of these new developments, and he's trying so hard to crawl. Baby can do all of the movements individually, but he just can't put it all together. Husband and I continue to encourage him mostly by getting down on the floor and playing with him or putting toys just out of arms reach to encourage him to move toward the toys he wants.
Baby tries so hard. He stretches his arms out and grunts, lifts his knees and pushes off with his feet. And he moves! Backwards. He looks around, confused, and repeats the process, over and over until he's finally several feet away from the toy he wants, is about to crash himself into something dangerous like a fireplace, and is crying that agitated Baby cry that so quickly escalates into full-blown banshee screaming.
My dad says Baby's only going in reverse because he doesn't know he's going in reverse. I don't know if that's the case or not, but it's pretty entertaining to watch.
Baby tries so hard. He stretches his arms out and grunts, lifts his knees and pushes off with his feet. And he moves! Backwards. He looks around, confused, and repeats the process, over and over until he's finally several feet away from the toy he wants, is about to crash himself into something dangerous like a fireplace, and is crying that agitated Baby cry that so quickly escalates into full-blown banshee screaming.
My dad says Baby's only going in reverse because he doesn't know he's going in reverse. I don't know if that's the case or not, but it's pretty entertaining to watch.
Gracias!
So I turned 27 yesterday, as someone who is not me posted on here. We all know it was Husband, although he denies it.
I had a good 27th. It was much better than last year, which was spent either vomiting or on the couch trying not to vomit. That totally sucked. Yesterday was pretty low key. We are at my parents' house again, so we all went out to dinner last night. It was a little stressful, and I found I couldn't relax much because Baby acted like he was about to lose it the entire time. I don't think I've relaxed from it yet. It was like he was at Arby's or something.
I got some awesome presents. Husband gave me three graphic novels. I'm not really into graphic novels, but I am interested in these three. He got me Maus II, since I've read Maus, but not the second one, V for Vendetta, since we just watched it and both thought it was fucking awesome, and Y, which I heard about on NPR a couple years ago, and mentioned twice or something that I was interested. Clearly, he knows how to pay attention. My parents got me a gift card to a fabric store so my mother can make couch pillows for us. That's great cause we don't have the money to purchase couch pillows right now, and I can't be bothered to learn how to sew. My parents and Husband also went in together and got me a gift certificate for cooking classes taught by local chefs. I am so excited about that because I love cooking but have only recently gained a bit of confidence in that area.
So yeah, all in all a good day. I also just want to say a big thank you to everyone who left me messages, comments, e-cards, etc. That made my day so much nicer!
I had a good 27th. It was much better than last year, which was spent either vomiting or on the couch trying not to vomit. That totally sucked. Yesterday was pretty low key. We are at my parents' house again, so we all went out to dinner last night. It was a little stressful, and I found I couldn't relax much because Baby acted like he was about to lose it the entire time. I don't think I've relaxed from it yet. It was like he was at Arby's or something.
I got some awesome presents. Husband gave me three graphic novels. I'm not really into graphic novels, but I am interested in these three. He got me Maus II, since I've read Maus, but not the second one, V for Vendetta, since we just watched it and both thought it was fucking awesome, and Y, which I heard about on NPR a couple years ago, and mentioned twice or something that I was interested. Clearly, he knows how to pay attention. My parents got me a gift card to a fabric store so my mother can make couch pillows for us. That's great cause we don't have the money to purchase couch pillows right now, and I can't be bothered to learn how to sew. My parents and Husband also went in together and got me a gift certificate for cooking classes taught by local chefs. I am so excited about that because I love cooking but have only recently gained a bit of confidence in that area.
So yeah, all in all a good day. I also just want to say a big thank you to everyone who left me messages, comments, e-cards, etc. That made my day so much nicer!
10 August 2007
Today is Grace's birthday...
Today is Grace's birthday. You should send her emails, leave her voicemails and/or comments. It would be great.
Sincerely,
Not Grace
Sincerely,
Not Grace
05 August 2007
That Boy's Head's Like Sputnik
When Baby was born, his head was in the 5th percentile. At his one month check up, his doctor sent us to the hospital to get his head ultrasounded because his head circumference had skyrocketed to the 95th percentile. The ultrasound showed no abnormalities, and when I took him back for his two month check up, the doctor said "Well, his head is still on the charts." At his recent four month check up, the nurse practitioner told us that his weighty head is no longer on the chart. It's just that big. A virtual planetoid. For awhile, I was worried that the weight of his head was what was holding him back from being able to roll over, but that theory's been dispelled now. From certain angles, Baby looks like the Brain from Pinky and the Brain.
Husband and I tell people about Baby's head with a mixture of shame, self-consciousness, and amusement. When some people (generally of my mother's generation) hear of this, they say, "It's just because of that big, smart brain of his." Others will respond by joining us in quoting this.
I really don't think Baby's head is that big. It's not like he's a Kennedy. I really wasn't worried until I got this chilling glimpse into Baby's future. Oh my.
Husband and I tell people about Baby's head with a mixture of shame, self-consciousness, and amusement. When some people (generally of my mother's generation) hear of this, they say, "It's just because of that big, smart brain of his." Others will respond by joining us in quoting this.
I really don't think Baby's head is that big. It's not like he's a Kennedy. I really wasn't worried until I got this chilling glimpse into Baby's future. Oh my.
Adam did it better...*
*Click
Baby owns an obscene number of stuffed animals. When I was knocked up, almost every gift I got included a stuffed animal of some sort. The smallest is a little teddy bear that was part of a clothing/washcloth/towel/bib/hat set, and the largest is a tall Pat the Bunny. I started unpacking Baby's orange room last week, and I set Baby in his crib to play while I did that. Every time I found a stuffed animal, I threw it into his crib for him to play with. Baby loved on his new friends, and since I can't focus on a task for more than fifteen seconds at a time, I managed to get distracted and name Baby's stuffed animals.
"Okay, Baby," I'd say, "Here's Frog," and pitch the frog Caroline and Leighann brought to the hospital for him the day he was born.
"Here's Chomps," I said, and threw the stuffed alligator my sister bought him.
"Okay, here's Jellycat," I told him and tossed a stuffed monkey into the crib (Jellycat is Baby's favorite, despite my efforts to make Frog his best inanimate friend).
"Baby, meet Frogball." I bounced a ball with a frog's head and body into the crib.
"Here's Eeyore." Then Husband walked in. I introduced him to all the stuffed animals I'd named so far.
"Wait. Aren't I allowed to name anything?" he complained.
"Um, I already named everything. You weren't in here. Oh, wait, you can name this," I said, holding up a ring rattle with Tigger's head on it.
"Okay, that's Tigger."
"No it's not. It's a ring rattle with Tigger's head on it. Think of a different name," I instructed.
"Okay, Cockring."
I glared at him. "MY baby is not having a toy named Cockring." I was firm about this.
"Fine." Husband rolled his eyes and left the room.
I've since unpacked even more stuffed animals, and when I find a working camera and camera cord, I'll post Baby and his inanimate friends. Husband's been allowed to name a couple, so now we also have Athletic Bear and Flamboyant Lion. They're currently living under Baby's crib. Husband also named the ginormous cricket who's taken up residence in our house, and every night we have a loud visit with Hoppy.
Baby owns an obscene number of stuffed animals. When I was knocked up, almost every gift I got included a stuffed animal of some sort. The smallest is a little teddy bear that was part of a clothing/washcloth/towel/bib/hat set, and the largest is a tall Pat the Bunny. I started unpacking Baby's orange room last week, and I set Baby in his crib to play while I did that. Every time I found a stuffed animal, I threw it into his crib for him to play with. Baby loved on his new friends, and since I can't focus on a task for more than fifteen seconds at a time, I managed to get distracted and name Baby's stuffed animals.
"Okay, Baby," I'd say, "Here's Frog," and pitch the frog Caroline and Leighann brought to the hospital for him the day he was born.
"Here's Chomps," I said, and threw the stuffed alligator my sister bought him.
"Okay, here's Jellycat," I told him and tossed a stuffed monkey into the crib (Jellycat is Baby's favorite, despite my efforts to make Frog his best inanimate friend).
"Baby, meet Frogball." I bounced a ball with a frog's head and body into the crib.
"Here's Eeyore." Then Husband walked in. I introduced him to all the stuffed animals I'd named so far.
"Wait. Aren't I allowed to name anything?" he complained.
"Um, I already named everything. You weren't in here. Oh, wait, you can name this," I said, holding up a ring rattle with Tigger's head on it.
"Okay, that's Tigger."
"No it's not. It's a ring rattle with Tigger's head on it. Think of a different name," I instructed.
"Okay, Cockring."
I glared at him. "MY baby is not having a toy named Cockring." I was firm about this.
"Fine." Husband rolled his eyes and left the room.
I've since unpacked even more stuffed animals, and when I find a working camera and camera cord, I'll post Baby and his inanimate friends. Husband's been allowed to name a couple, so now we also have Athletic Bear and Flamboyant Lion. They're currently living under Baby's crib. Husband also named the ginormous cricket who's taken up residence in our house, and every night we have a loud visit with Hoppy.
Rollover Baby
Baby has been rolling over from front to back for quite awhile. It first happened sometime between one and two months old, and I actually missed the first time. I felt like a crappy mom because not only did I place my baby on his stomach, which he hated at the time, I also left the room to get a yogurt from the fridge. When I came back, he was on his back and yelling. Oops. As he's developed, he's hated being on his belly less and less, until earlier in the summer when he actually started to enjoy being on his stomach. He's trying to crawl and will try to scoot himself to a toy as he gets angrier and angrier until he finally collapses into a pissed little mound on the rug, and I have to pick him up.
For the last couple of weeks, Husband and I have noticed Baby trying really hard to roll over from his back to his front. Like any normal parents, we've put increasing pressure on him. We initially encouraged him by saying things like, "Okay, Baby, you can do it! You're so close," and soothing him. We later encouraged him by saying things like, "Okay, Baby, you're not going to get into college if you can't roll from your back to stomach." He's been really close for about a week and a half. We've been on roll over watch at this house. Every night when my mother came home, I'd tell her that he hadn't done it yet. We had family over yesterday, and Baby still couldn't manage to do it. About an hour after our visitors left, Husband went up to check his email, and Baby finally did it. I was excited and immediately yelled up the stairs. Baby did not roll over again, despite my attempts to get him to do it for Husband.
I thought Baby's latest trick was a fluke until this afternoon. He was a rolling over machine. Since we're still trying to get the house unpacked, Baby spends a lot of time playing on the rug while we talk to him and put things away. Baby rolled over from front to back then back to front over and over and over all afternoon. It's kind of dumb, but I just watched and watched and wasn't bored at all.
For the last couple of weeks, Husband and I have noticed Baby trying really hard to roll over from his back to his front. Like any normal parents, we've put increasing pressure on him. We initially encouraged him by saying things like, "Okay, Baby, you can do it! You're so close," and soothing him. We later encouraged him by saying things like, "Okay, Baby, you're not going to get into college if you can't roll from your back to stomach." He's been really close for about a week and a half. We've been on roll over watch at this house. Every night when my mother came home, I'd tell her that he hadn't done it yet. We had family over yesterday, and Baby still couldn't manage to do it. About an hour after our visitors left, Husband went up to check his email, and Baby finally did it. I was excited and immediately yelled up the stairs. Baby did not roll over again, despite my attempts to get him to do it for Husband.
I thought Baby's latest trick was a fluke until this afternoon. He was a rolling over machine. Since we're still trying to get the house unpacked, Baby spends a lot of time playing on the rug while we talk to him and put things away. Baby rolled over from front to back then back to front over and over and over all afternoon. It's kind of dumb, but I just watched and watched and wasn't bored at all.
28 July 2007
Sad again...
Yesterday should have been the greatest day of my life, a day surpassing getting engaged, married, or having Baby. Yesterday, The Simpsons Movie opened. I've been a fan of The Simpsons since early on. I didn't watch The Tracy Ullman Show, but I remember one day, in fourth grade, coming home and telling my parents that we needed to start watching America's Funniest Home Videos and The Simpsons. That's what a lot of the kids in my class were doing, and I was just starting to realize that I wasn't, in any form, cool. I grew out of America's Funniest Home Videos and never got into its subsequent incarnations, but The Simpsons stuck. I've been more committed to that television show than I've ever been to anything else in my life, and The Simpsons has been part of my life longer than Catholicism or Husband. A large chunk of my master's thesis was devoted to religious themes in that particular animated television show. Rumors of a movie have floated around for years; I remember discussing this with friends in college.
I should have been there yesterday for the first showing. I should have driven to the closest 7-11 that's been turned into a Kwik-E-Mart. I should have posted a review of the movie and all it's greatness (or crapiness) on my blog.
I have a baby, and when babies come around, life changes. I'm not going to be the mama taking a baby into a movie theatre. I think the noise would likely scare him, and seeing as how I hate going to movie theatres because people always talk and ruin the experience for me, I'm not going to do it to someone else. Nor do I think seeing a movie is the best thing for Baby. So I'll have to wait a few days, until my mom can babysit, before seeing this movie. Had the movie come out a year ago, I would have been there on opening day. But it didn't, and my priorities have changed.
I should have been there yesterday for the first showing. I should have driven to the closest 7-11 that's been turned into a Kwik-E-Mart. I should have posted a review of the movie and all it's greatness (or crapiness) on my blog.
I have a baby, and when babies come around, life changes. I'm not going to be the mama taking a baby into a movie theatre. I think the noise would likely scare him, and seeing as how I hate going to movie theatres because people always talk and ruin the experience for me, I'm not going to do it to someone else. Nor do I think seeing a movie is the best thing for Baby. So I'll have to wait a few days, until my mom can babysit, before seeing this movie. Had the movie come out a year ago, I would have been there on opening day. But it didn't, and my priorities have changed.
25 July 2007
The Price of Being Laid-Back
I'm the most uptight laid-back person I know. By that, I mean that while I'm completely anal about things like drawers being closed all the way and pillows facing the correct way (that's the open end facing out, in case anyone was wondering), and I worry incessantly, I'm completely laid back about most other things. In some ways, being laid back is really good. I'm not concerned about not having make up on when I leave the house, and I think that's something about me that's really great. I acknowledge that I look way better with make up on than without, but I'm not going to fuss and fret if I can't put my eyeliner on. I don't especially like dirt or clutter, but, as evidenced by the state of my house, I often can't be bothered to clean, especially when there's a Moving Up marathon on TV. I know cleaning will get done when we get around to it, just like I know I'll cut my hair when I get around to it (or, more likely won't have to since it's falling out so dramatically).
Yesterday was Baby's four month check up, and he was supposed to get another round of shots. I called Anthem last week to find him a pediatrician, since we weren't going to drive an hour every time he needed to see a doctor. Anthem gave me the name and number of a pediatrician here in town, and I called and set up an appointment for this morning. I was a little worried because I knew that at least part of the street where the doctor's office was located was in a less than desirable area of town. I wasn't too worried, however, because this is a town which goes from really nice to really crappy really quickly. We looked at one house, for example, which was on what our realtor called a "transitional" street. From the backyard of that house, we could see mansions that cost upwards of $600,000. So I wasn't too concerned on our way to the doctor's when we stopped passing mansions and started driving through an area that closely resembled the Bronx. Husband started making comments like, "Why the hell would someone put a doctor's office here?" or "Why the fuck would Anthem send you here?" but I tried to ignore the ball of dread that grew as each block reminded me more and more of Tremont Avenue. The dread didn't go away as we approached the doctor's office. The doctor's office was a huge two-story brick building that hadn't been landscaped or had any type of aesthetic appeal ever. We had a hard time figuring out which door to go in, since they were all covered in greenish blinds and had no sign directing one where to go. Our first attempt at finding the pediatrician's office led us to an attorney's office. The receptionist at the lawyer's office told us how to find the pediatrician, so we walked out the door, around the building, through a set of double doors with the greenish blinds on them, up a set of greenish stairs, and into a room with about 20 blue, plastic chairs lining the walls. In each plastic chair sat either a sick child, a sibling of a sick child, or a parent/relative/caretaker of a sick child. While I went to check in, Husband and Baby went and claimed the only empty seats left in the room. It was about 11:10, and our appointment was at 11:15. I wasn't holding out a whole lot of hope that we'd be seen at 11:15.
I took the clipboard and form and sat down next to Husband. He was nervous and kept glancing at me and fidgeting. He also seemed to be trying to stay calm, and played with Baby a bit, while I wrote down insurance information.
Then a Small Child wandered over to Baby. Baby was sitting calmly in his carseat, staring at the toys we'd attached. He had three toys on his carseat, Multicolored Lion, Baby Keys, and Yellow Cow. Small Child, who seemed to be about two years old and not much bigger than Baby, decided she wanted Yellow Cow. She'd take a few steps, stop, then take a few more steps, until she was within reach of Yellow Cow. She extended her arm and wrapped her tiny fist around Yellow Cow. Small Child's mother jumped out of her seat and yelled, "Small Child! You get away from that toy! You're going to get that baby sick!" As soon as Small Child's name was called, and she, her mother, and four siblings went through the door to see the doctor, Husband took Yellow Cow off of Baby's carseat and told me not to let him have it. Yellow Cow has now had it's first visit through the washer and dryer.
I brought the form and clipboard back to the receptionist, a frazzled looking older woman with papers stacked high up on her desk. While I was waiting for her to take my form and copy my insurance card, I noticed the doctor's rules, one of which was "Cash or check only. We do not accept credit cards." Husband and I never carry cash, and we use our checkbook even less. I explained to the receptionist that we didn't have cash or checks with us, and asked if she'd like to reschedule. She directed me to the pharmacy downstairs and said they had an ATM. Husband sighed and ventured downstairs, only to return two minutes later without cash. The pharmacy downstairs did not, in fact, have an ATM. I informed the receptionist that the pharmacy downstairs did not have an ATM and offered to leave and reschedule. She told me that really wasn't necessary and I could just go downstairs to the ATM. I reminded her that Husband had just discovered that downstairs did not have an ATM. She said that was fine and she could either give me an envelope to mail in payment or we could run to the bank. I conferred with Husband, who appeared to be about to start twitching, and he said, "Let's 'run to the bank.'" He picked up the carseat and sprinted out the door. I told the receptionist we were running to the bank and would return shortly. She commanded me and Baby to stay and let Husband run to the bank on his own. I told her I'd try to catch them, walked out the door, and did not return.
On the drive home, between various combinations of swear words, Husband and I decided we'd spend some time finding a doctor for Baby that was in an area where we felt a little more comfortable. We tried putting in the zip code for my school (a fairly affluent zip code) and found a group practice with high patient satisfaction rating. After about an hour of phone calls to Anthem, our old pediatrician's office, and the new pediatrician's office trying to get his medical and immunization records send in time for today's appointment, we finally decided it would just be faster to drive the hour to the old pediatrician's office, get the records ourselves, and drive home. So that's what we did. In the future, I might consider being a little more proactive when it comes to stuff like this and not let Anthem decide what's best for my baby.
Yesterday was Baby's four month check up, and he was supposed to get another round of shots. I called Anthem last week to find him a pediatrician, since we weren't going to drive an hour every time he needed to see a doctor. Anthem gave me the name and number of a pediatrician here in town, and I called and set up an appointment for this morning. I was a little worried because I knew that at least part of the street where the doctor's office was located was in a less than desirable area of town. I wasn't too worried, however, because this is a town which goes from really nice to really crappy really quickly. We looked at one house, for example, which was on what our realtor called a "transitional" street. From the backyard of that house, we could see mansions that cost upwards of $600,000. So I wasn't too concerned on our way to the doctor's when we stopped passing mansions and started driving through an area that closely resembled the Bronx. Husband started making comments like, "Why the hell would someone put a doctor's office here?" or "Why the fuck would Anthem send you here?" but I tried to ignore the ball of dread that grew as each block reminded me more and more of Tremont Avenue. The dread didn't go away as we approached the doctor's office. The doctor's office was a huge two-story brick building that hadn't been landscaped or had any type of aesthetic appeal ever. We had a hard time figuring out which door to go in, since they were all covered in greenish blinds and had no sign directing one where to go. Our first attempt at finding the pediatrician's office led us to an attorney's office. The receptionist at the lawyer's office told us how to find the pediatrician, so we walked out the door, around the building, through a set of double doors with the greenish blinds on them, up a set of greenish stairs, and into a room with about 20 blue, plastic chairs lining the walls. In each plastic chair sat either a sick child, a sibling of a sick child, or a parent/relative/caretaker of a sick child. While I went to check in, Husband and Baby went and claimed the only empty seats left in the room. It was about 11:10, and our appointment was at 11:15. I wasn't holding out a whole lot of hope that we'd be seen at 11:15.
I took the clipboard and form and sat down next to Husband. He was nervous and kept glancing at me and fidgeting. He also seemed to be trying to stay calm, and played with Baby a bit, while I wrote down insurance information.
Then a Small Child wandered over to Baby. Baby was sitting calmly in his carseat, staring at the toys we'd attached. He had three toys on his carseat, Multicolored Lion, Baby Keys, and Yellow Cow. Small Child, who seemed to be about two years old and not much bigger than Baby, decided she wanted Yellow Cow. She'd take a few steps, stop, then take a few more steps, until she was within reach of Yellow Cow. She extended her arm and wrapped her tiny fist around Yellow Cow. Small Child's mother jumped out of her seat and yelled, "Small Child! You get away from that toy! You're going to get that baby sick!" As soon as Small Child's name was called, and she, her mother, and four siblings went through the door to see the doctor, Husband took Yellow Cow off of Baby's carseat and told me not to let him have it. Yellow Cow has now had it's first visit through the washer and dryer.
I brought the form and clipboard back to the receptionist, a frazzled looking older woman with papers stacked high up on her desk. While I was waiting for her to take my form and copy my insurance card, I noticed the doctor's rules, one of which was "Cash or check only. We do not accept credit cards." Husband and I never carry cash, and we use our checkbook even less. I explained to the receptionist that we didn't have cash or checks with us, and asked if she'd like to reschedule. She directed me to the pharmacy downstairs and said they had an ATM. Husband sighed and ventured downstairs, only to return two minutes later without cash. The pharmacy downstairs did not, in fact, have an ATM. I informed the receptionist that the pharmacy downstairs did not have an ATM and offered to leave and reschedule. She told me that really wasn't necessary and I could just go downstairs to the ATM. I reminded her that Husband had just discovered that downstairs did not have an ATM. She said that was fine and she could either give me an envelope to mail in payment or we could run to the bank. I conferred with Husband, who appeared to be about to start twitching, and he said, "Let's 'run to the bank.'" He picked up the carseat and sprinted out the door. I told the receptionist we were running to the bank and would return shortly. She commanded me and Baby to stay and let Husband run to the bank on his own. I told her I'd try to catch them, walked out the door, and did not return.
On the drive home, between various combinations of swear words, Husband and I decided we'd spend some time finding a doctor for Baby that was in an area where we felt a little more comfortable. We tried putting in the zip code for my school (a fairly affluent zip code) and found a group practice with high patient satisfaction rating. After about an hour of phone calls to Anthem, our old pediatrician's office, and the new pediatrician's office trying to get his medical and immunization records send in time for today's appointment, we finally decided it would just be faster to drive the hour to the old pediatrician's office, get the records ourselves, and drive home. So that's what we did. In the future, I might consider being a little more proactive when it comes to stuff like this and not let Anthem decide what's best for my baby.
20 July 2007
I'm sad...
Husband and his brother just left. It's 11:48 p.m., and they went to Wal-Mart to purchase the final Harry Potter. My job is to miss out on buying Harry Potter at midnight and stay home with Baby. Earlier today I seriously debated taking Baby and going with them. I had visions of Husband's brother taking a picture of me, Husband, and Baby outside of Wal-Mart holding Harry Potter 7, and years later telling Baby "we took you to get the last Harry Potter book as soon as it was released. I really wanted to go, especially since I've gotten the last two at midnight. In the end, I knew it wasn't the best thing for him. Sigh.
My job tomorrow is to watch Baby while Husband and Husband's brother read Harry Potter. We've already discussed how they will not be discussing plot points around me. We're doing our best to avoid spoliers, but I think Husband might be going slightly overboard. A few minutes ago, we were watching Adult Swim on Cartoon Network, and he mused, "You know, maybe we should go ahead and turn the TV off now." I reminded him that we are watching cartoon Network, not MSNBC.
So I'm sure that Baby and I will have all sorts of fun adventures tomorrow. We might go explore the neighborhood some or go to Short Pump to spend my gift card.
When I got pregnant, I should have considered how having a baby would affect my Harry Potter reading. I'm not a huge fan, but I'm the type who will get the book as soon as it's released and spend all day and night reading it. But like a lot of other things in my life, it's just not a possibility right now. Husband, however, has graciously agreed to take over all parenting (except feeding) once he finishes, so I can read. I can wait a day or two.
My job tomorrow is to watch Baby while Husband and Husband's brother read Harry Potter. We've already discussed how they will not be discussing plot points around me. We're doing our best to avoid spoliers, but I think Husband might be going slightly overboard. A few minutes ago, we were watching Adult Swim on Cartoon Network, and he mused, "You know, maybe we should go ahead and turn the TV off now." I reminded him that we are watching cartoon Network, not MSNBC.
So I'm sure that Baby and I will have all sorts of fun adventures tomorrow. We might go explore the neighborhood some or go to Short Pump to spend my gift card.
When I got pregnant, I should have considered how having a baby would affect my Harry Potter reading. I'm not a huge fan, but I'm the type who will get the book as soon as it's released and spend all day and night reading it. But like a lot of other things in my life, it's just not a possibility right now. Husband, however, has graciously agreed to take over all parenting (except feeding) once he finishes, so I can read. I can wait a day or two.
18 July 2007
Double Standards?
Husband and I have a game we play with Baby a lot. It's called "Up in the Air Baby!" To play, one of us holds Baby under his arms so he's facing us and standing on our lap. We bounce him and say, "One, two, three, up in the air baby, up in the air!" and thrust him up into the air so he's horizontal. Baby thinks this is great and will occasionally pout until we play it with him. I learned pretty early on not to play this game immediately after Baby's eaten. I usually wait about 30 minutes or so. I used to get spit up on a lot due to this game and Baby's immature digestive system. Baby also tends to drool a lot when playing, and I've had him come very close to drooling in my mouth. He's drooled in my eye and hair and down my shirt plenty of times, and Husband finds this to be great. Husband has even been known to say, "I hope he throws up in your mouth," or "I hope that drool gets on you."
Today, Husband was playing "Up in the Air Baby!" with Baby, and I was watching. As I watched, a substance resembling watery cottage cheese came out of Baby's mouth and landed on Husband's face, shirt, and shorts. The part that landed on his face landed in his beard, very close to his mouth. Being a great wife, I immediately went to get Husband a spit up cloth to clean himself us. Being a not so great wife, I also immediately started laughing and said, "This is the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life." Husband didn't talk to me for a really long time after that.
Today, Husband was playing "Up in the Air Baby!" with Baby, and I was watching. As I watched, a substance resembling watery cottage cheese came out of Baby's mouth and landed on Husband's face, shirt, and shorts. The part that landed on his face landed in his beard, very close to his mouth. Being a great wife, I immediately went to get Husband a spit up cloth to clean himself us. Being a not so great wife, I also immediately started laughing and said, "This is the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life." Husband didn't talk to me for a really long time after that.
17 July 2007
What Not to Wear
Since my parents have satellite and Husband and I have cable at the new house, I've been watching an obscene amount of TV. I'm actually disgusted with the amount of TV I've been watching lately, and my book reading has suffered as a result.
I've gotten back into What Not to Wear, a show were two catty hosts berate some poor woman about her wardrobe (much like fashion conversations between me and my mom go), instruct her on how to shop and dress herself, then give her a $5,000 credit card to go shopping.
I was watching What Not to Wear the other day, and the girl on the show had clothes that looked like clothes I would wear. I didn't think her clothes were awful because Stacey and Clinton told me they were awful; just seeing them on someone did.
So I'd like to recruit help. I'm too poor to go shopping, but I would like some assistance in cleaning out my closet. I feel pretty frumpy most of the time and would like to start the school year being the hippest second grade teacher there. If you are available to help (at the new house), please let me know. No girl should have to make this important life step on her own.
I've gotten back into What Not to Wear, a show were two catty hosts berate some poor woman about her wardrobe (much like fashion conversations between me and my mom go), instruct her on how to shop and dress herself, then give her a $5,000 credit card to go shopping.
I was watching What Not to Wear the other day, and the girl on the show had clothes that looked like clothes I would wear. I didn't think her clothes were awful because Stacey and Clinton told me they were awful; just seeing them on someone did.
So I'd like to recruit help. I'm too poor to go shopping, but I would like some assistance in cleaning out my closet. I feel pretty frumpy most of the time and would like to start the school year being the hippest second grade teacher there. If you are available to help (at the new house), please let me know. No girl should have to make this important life step on her own.
This little piggy did body shots
I've been playing "This Little Piggy" with Baby occasionally. For whatever reason, I thought the fourth little piggy, the one who "had none," actually drank rum. So when I play with Baby, I say,
"This little piggy went to market.
This little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy ate roast beef.
This little piggy drank rum."
Husband informs me this is not the correct rendition of the rhyme.
"This little piggy went to market.
This little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy ate roast beef.
This little piggy drank rum."
Husband informs me this is not the correct rendition of the rhyme.
15 July 2007
On Attachment and Security
I've been thinking a lot about attachment these days, especially as it relates to a person's security or insecurity. I've been thinking about it mostly in the context of Baby and the person I'd like him to be, which is to say, pretty much the opposite of me. I've read things that instruct me to be baby-directed for the first three months, or the baby will be warped. I've seen things that warn of never letting a baby cry, if possible, because then they won't be secure. Ever. On the opposite end of that, I've read things that say if babies aren't left to cry, then they'll turn into dependent, drug-abusing, therapy-needing adults. Obviously I don't want my child to be warped, thinking that I don't adore him above almost all else, but I also don't want him to be clingy and dependent on me forever. I understand that's he's just four months old and has to be totally dependent on me right now, but my mind also immediately goes to the long term. The more I think about it, the more I wonder how much effect what I do right now will have on him for the long term.
I think about how my parents told me that they pretty much indulged my every whim as a baby and rarely left me to cry it out. I don't remember what I was like as a baby or toddler, but at some point in my life I lost a lot of confidence and became somewhat insecure. I can easily pinpoint other events in my life or other sentiments that could have impacted how I turned out more than my parents letting me wail in my crib for two hours.
So then, I started wondering how I became so insecure. I've never been brimming with self confidence or faith in myself, but I haven't always been as insecure as I am now. I can sort of look back and see two levels of insecurity, one that lasted until I was about 23 and didn't impact my every thought and action and didn't leave me constantly questioning my worth, my abilities, my general decent-personhood. It was more of a slightly self-deprecating insecurity, one that came out in drunk nights, often followed by bouts of uncharacteristic confidence. This insecurity often came at times like when a boy showed interest in me, or I was working towards some academic achievement. The insecurities would set up shop for a few days, wreak havoc for a bit, and then I'd get distracted and move on to something a little more productive than self-loathing.
Obviously I'm pretty far from that right now. I am constantly eaten alive by terrible thoughts of myself and my value. I compare myself and my life to others. I think back to when I was the happiest and wonder what changed and why. I curse myself for my mistakes and I curse myself for living a life that's different that I imagined. Some days, the bad days, I loathe everything about myself: my looks, my thoughts, my parenting, my faith, my actions within my marriage, my teaching, my personality, etc. On the good days, I can distract myself for stretches of several hours at a time, and I find indescribable joy and contentment in my baby, my marriage, my house. I'm lucky that there are more good days than bad ones recently, but the bad ones really suck.
For a long time now, I've wondered how I went from being this somewhat insecure, lacking confidence girl to this completely self-loathing girl. I thought and thought and couldn't figure out what happened; all I could think about was how much I liked myself and how much happier I was a few years ago, and how I am pretty much the opposite of that now. Trying to fall asleep one night a couple weeks ago, I figured it out. About three and a half to four years ago, I compromised some beliefs that were very important to me. I comprised more and more beliefs until there was nothing left to compromise. After that, the anxiety started manifesting itself in ways I couldn't have ever predicted. Then I got sad, for almost three years. Then the freakish shyness got worse and the self-loathing came out in full force. For a long time, I blamed all of that on my life going through some major transitions, but that didn't make a whole lot of sense, especially once my life stabilized some.
I'm not sure why it's taken me three years to figure this out, nor am I sure why I'm still beating myself up over my compromised beliefs. I went to Confession, I had long talks with friends, and I genuinely tried to move on. I shouldn't still be insecure; I should have reverted to the somewhat humorously insecure girl that I was, rather than rooting myself deeper and deeper into the pit of self-loathing.
I think compromising those beliefs led to my more severe insecurity because I realized I was not the person I thought I was. If I could compromise beliefs I thought were so strongly held, what else am I capable of? I truly don't want to find out.
In a way, coming to this realization that I am the most likely cause of a lot of my insecurity, has made me feel better. I'm inevitably going to warp Baby. I've been aware of this since well before he was born. I'll do something in raising him that he won't like and will choose not to replicate if he has children. But it's nice to think that if I let him cry in the car for an hour, which has happened quite a bit, it's probably not going to determine the direction our relationship takes. Probably the things I do when he's eight or ten or twelve will have more of a lasting impact. And the choices he makes as a teenager or a semi-adult or an actual adult will probably help shape how he views himself more than me giving him a bottle of formula at night or going back to work will. I hope anyway. And I guess my mother can relax now, since I've realized that it's not completely her fault that I'm the way I am. I'm sure she'll be relieved.
I think about how my parents told me that they pretty much indulged my every whim as a baby and rarely left me to cry it out. I don't remember what I was like as a baby or toddler, but at some point in my life I lost a lot of confidence and became somewhat insecure. I can easily pinpoint other events in my life or other sentiments that could have impacted how I turned out more than my parents letting me wail in my crib for two hours.
So then, I started wondering how I became so insecure. I've never been brimming with self confidence or faith in myself, but I haven't always been as insecure as I am now. I can sort of look back and see two levels of insecurity, one that lasted until I was about 23 and didn't impact my every thought and action and didn't leave me constantly questioning my worth, my abilities, my general decent-personhood. It was more of a slightly self-deprecating insecurity, one that came out in drunk nights, often followed by bouts of uncharacteristic confidence. This insecurity often came at times like when a boy showed interest in me, or I was working towards some academic achievement. The insecurities would set up shop for a few days, wreak havoc for a bit, and then I'd get distracted and move on to something a little more productive than self-loathing.
Obviously I'm pretty far from that right now. I am constantly eaten alive by terrible thoughts of myself and my value. I compare myself and my life to others. I think back to when I was the happiest and wonder what changed and why. I curse myself for my mistakes and I curse myself for living a life that's different that I imagined. Some days, the bad days, I loathe everything about myself: my looks, my thoughts, my parenting, my faith, my actions within my marriage, my teaching, my personality, etc. On the good days, I can distract myself for stretches of several hours at a time, and I find indescribable joy and contentment in my baby, my marriage, my house. I'm lucky that there are more good days than bad ones recently, but the bad ones really suck.
For a long time now, I've wondered how I went from being this somewhat insecure, lacking confidence girl to this completely self-loathing girl. I thought and thought and couldn't figure out what happened; all I could think about was how much I liked myself and how much happier I was a few years ago, and how I am pretty much the opposite of that now. Trying to fall asleep one night a couple weeks ago, I figured it out. About three and a half to four years ago, I compromised some beliefs that were very important to me. I comprised more and more beliefs until there was nothing left to compromise. After that, the anxiety started manifesting itself in ways I couldn't have ever predicted. Then I got sad, for almost three years. Then the freakish shyness got worse and the self-loathing came out in full force. For a long time, I blamed all of that on my life going through some major transitions, but that didn't make a whole lot of sense, especially once my life stabilized some.
I'm not sure why it's taken me three years to figure this out, nor am I sure why I'm still beating myself up over my compromised beliefs. I went to Confession, I had long talks with friends, and I genuinely tried to move on. I shouldn't still be insecure; I should have reverted to the somewhat humorously insecure girl that I was, rather than rooting myself deeper and deeper into the pit of self-loathing.
I think compromising those beliefs led to my more severe insecurity because I realized I was not the person I thought I was. If I could compromise beliefs I thought were so strongly held, what else am I capable of? I truly don't want to find out.
In a way, coming to this realization that I am the most likely cause of a lot of my insecurity, has made me feel better. I'm inevitably going to warp Baby. I've been aware of this since well before he was born. I'll do something in raising him that he won't like and will choose not to replicate if he has children. But it's nice to think that if I let him cry in the car for an hour, which has happened quite a bit, it's probably not going to determine the direction our relationship takes. Probably the things I do when he's eight or ten or twelve will have more of a lasting impact. And the choices he makes as a teenager or a semi-adult or an actual adult will probably help shape how he views himself more than me giving him a bottle of formula at night or going back to work will. I hope anyway. And I guess my mother can relax now, since I've realized that it's not completely her fault that I'm the way I am. I'm sure she'll be relieved.
14 July 2007
My Self Loathing, Part 4
For the past several weeks, Husband's been after me to make a doctor's appointment. In addition to probably needing a check up, we think I might have a touch of post partum depression, and I can't get full, no matter how much or how often I eat. I've been putting it off, making excuses, and generally avoiding the whole thing because I'm secretly scared something is wrong with me-like I'm dying of some terrible disease that has yet to be discovered, much less cured and will not get to spend the next 60 years with the husband I love and will not get to see Baby grow up. My excuses have ranged from, "Let's just get through the closing and see how I feel after that," to "We can't afford the $25 co-pay," to "I don't feel like it."
I'm totally disgusted with myself, though, because I think we've now stumbled upon the symptom that will cause me to navigate the horrible Anthem website and find a doctor. I am going bald. I am not kidding. Last week, I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and noticed two huge bald spots on either side of my forehead. I told Husband and he just humored me and said something like, "You're not going bald." Every single time I mentioned my baldness to him, he just continued to humor me, so I didn't even mention to him that my hair is falling out in clumps. Huge clumps. I think I can fill a trashcan with all the clumps of hair that fall out of my head in a day. I'm totally grossed out by this. I'm having nightmares of the clumps forming little hair clump armies and recruiting other hair clumps to fall out of my head and me waking up totally bald one morning.
I know that during pregnancy hair doesn't fall out nearly as much as it did pre-pregnancy, and after doing some research tonight I learned that many women go through a phase three to four months post delivery where hair falls out excessively, I'm not sure it's supposed to fall out at this rate.
Tonight, Husband came into the computer room to talk to me, and said, "Oh. I thought you were exaggerating. That's a pretty big bald spot. Maybe you should go to the doctor." I agreed immediately because while I can handle being a little sad sometimes, I can handle gaining weight, and I can handle pain in my abdomen, I am vain enough that I can't handle going bald. It's kind of sad that my health, mental and physical aren't enough to motivate me to call the doctor. It's even sadder that the thought of doing it for my baby doesn't motivate me. I'm completely ashamed that vanity is what's going to motivate me to climb the stairs to our unairconditioned office first thing Monday morning and make the call. Now that I think about it, though, maybe I am doing it for Baby. It would be pretty embarrassing for him to grow up with a bald mama.
I'm totally disgusted with myself, though, because I think we've now stumbled upon the symptom that will cause me to navigate the horrible Anthem website and find a doctor. I am going bald. I am not kidding. Last week, I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and noticed two huge bald spots on either side of my forehead. I told Husband and he just humored me and said something like, "You're not going bald." Every single time I mentioned my baldness to him, he just continued to humor me, so I didn't even mention to him that my hair is falling out in clumps. Huge clumps. I think I can fill a trashcan with all the clumps of hair that fall out of my head in a day. I'm totally grossed out by this. I'm having nightmares of the clumps forming little hair clump armies and recruiting other hair clumps to fall out of my head and me waking up totally bald one morning.
I know that during pregnancy hair doesn't fall out nearly as much as it did pre-pregnancy, and after doing some research tonight I learned that many women go through a phase three to four months post delivery where hair falls out excessively, I'm not sure it's supposed to fall out at this rate.
Tonight, Husband came into the computer room to talk to me, and said, "Oh. I thought you were exaggerating. That's a pretty big bald spot. Maybe you should go to the doctor." I agreed immediately because while I can handle being a little sad sometimes, I can handle gaining weight, and I can handle pain in my abdomen, I am vain enough that I can't handle going bald. It's kind of sad that my health, mental and physical aren't enough to motivate me to call the doctor. It's even sadder that the thought of doing it for my baby doesn't motivate me. I'm completely ashamed that vanity is what's going to motivate me to climb the stairs to our unairconditioned office first thing Monday morning and make the call. Now that I think about it, though, maybe I am doing it for Baby. It would be pretty embarrassing for him to grow up with a bald mama.
11 July 2007
Painting 101
We messed up big time. When we bought this house, I decided I wanted to paint. At first I wanted to paint every room, but Husband talked me down from that disaster. We compromised and decided we'd paint our room and Baby's room and leave everything else as is for now. We went to Lowe's on Sunday night. I imagined a soft khaki color for Baby's room, something soothing and peaceful and not overstimulating. Baby's room is now orange. I'm not quite sure how we came to that decision, but it happened after we eliminated khaki, red and an orange/blue combo because I told Husband "My baby is not having a UVA room. At least not yet. If he wants a UVA room when he's eight, fine, but right now, my baby is not having a UVA room."
Husband and I spent an hour in Lowe's picking out paint and supplies. On Monday morning I started prepping Baby's room. The first thing I did was tape up half a window. Then I slapped some paint on the wall to test the color. Since the color we're painting the room is darker than the old color, I wanted to see if we could get away with not priming the room. I waited for the paint to dry, then consulted Husband. We were in agreement that no priming was necessary. Husband set to work while I watched Baby (he's decided, once again, that sleep is for losers). He worked for awhile, and then we switched responsibilities. I painted, and painted, and painted. I stood in the middle of the room to inspect my work and almost cried. Some parts of the wall were rust colored. Some were tangerine. Some were still the soft yellow from the room's previous occupant. I could see where the roller had stopped and started. Clearly, I had done something wrong. I was discouraged, but I continued to paint. As I painted I realized that part of the problem was due to the paint going on light and drying darker. I couldn't tell which spots needed to be repainted and which spots were in the process of drying.
Since I wasn't really painting with any sort of focus or plan anyway, Husband went ahead and started doing the edges of the room: around the windows, door, and ceiling. Since we'd bought one of those nifty edger things that are occasionally advertised on TV, we didn't bother to tape much. We figured the edger would prevent paint from getting on the window trim and ceiling. We figured wrong. The trim in Baby's room is still white, at least most of it is. Same with the ceiling.
We let the paint dry and busied ourselves with other house chores, like testing out our cable. For eight hours straight.
When I inspected the room again, I noticed several different shades of orange on Baby's walls, especially where the edger sections ended and the roller sections began. Panicked, I found Husband watching Top Chef and bouncing Baby on his knee. "Something ain't right," I told him.
"Huh?" he replied. "Look, they're cooking alligator."
"Ooooh." I sat down and watched the rest of the episode of Top Chef. Three hours later, I showed Husband my concerns. "See, over there, it's like four different shades of orange. And it's streaky. It just doesn't look good."
"Oh. Those are all the parts I painted," he said.
"No, no, no, I think it's just because we didn't prime it. It's going on all uneven. And apparently orange paint doesn't cover up pencil marks."
"Just keep painting," he instructed. "You're doing a better job than I did."
The more I painted, the more even the color became until there were only a few large areas that needed to be filled in. I sent Husband to the store to get a small roller so I could work on blending in the areas where the edger and roller parts met. I told him that running out of paint was a distinct possibility, but he told me to make do. Jen was coming the next day, and we wanted to have the room done before she came. He came back from Lowe's with the small roller, and I promptly ran out of paint.
The next day, Husband went and got another gallon of "Field Poppy." After Jen left, I happily got back to painting. I worked for about an hour, then decided it was time for a dinner/Jeopardy break. I'd noticed, while I was painting, that the paint from the new bucket seemed a bit lighter than the paint from the old bucket, but I figured it just needed to dry. When I inspected my progress after eating Pizza Rolls and TGI Friday's frozen popcorn chicken, I swore. And swore. And swore. The work I'd done, thinking I was getting closer to finishing Baby's room, set me back several hours. Not only did the new bucket of paint go on lighter, it also dried lighter than the original. I compared the labels on the top and everything was the same, except for the store number. I compared the color splashes that the Lowe's employees had put on the top of the can, and the second was significantly lighter. Each wall had huge patches from where I thought I was blending and evening out the paint. I dreaded telling Husband and very slowly walked the ten feet from Baby's room to the living room.
"Look, they're cooking rattlesnake," he told me. Then he saw the dejected/angry look on my face. "What's wrong?"
"I think the paint in the new bucket is the wrong color," I said.
Husband swore. And swore. And swore. Then he got up to inspect the room and swore some more. "What time does Lowe's close?" he asked.
"Um, ten?"
"Okay, put Baby in his carseat. Let's go. I'm not spending another day painting. We're going back to the first Lowe's and making sure we get the right color, then we're going to come home and finish painting. We've spent four fucking days doing this, and we've got too much to do to spend another day on it." As soon as he said that, I thought: But I wanted to watch The Office and 30 Rock. I was smart enough not to say it.
We drove to Lowe's with a screaming baby and spent 20 minutes getting yet another bucket of paint and questioning the Lowe's employee about quality control. After driving a screaming baby home and putting a screaming baby to bed, we got back to the painting. We had to throw away everything that had the wrong color on it and find new rollers and paint trays. We worked for a couple hours, then I gave up and went to bed. Husband said he'd stay up and finish, on the condition that I agreed to no more painting the next day. I reluctantly agreed since I was so tired.
The next morning, Husband said, "I finished the room last night. When you go in there, you're going to see some uneven parts, but you're just going to have to live with it. We have to move on." I went in, and I did see some spots, but I decided I could live with it. We celebrated the room being done by taking a two hour nap, where I tricked Baby into going to sleep. Later that afternoon, we took the tape off the trim and admired our handiwork. As I pulled the last strips of tape off of the last wall, swear words once again left my mouth. When I taped the trim, I taped garbage bags to the bottom part of the wall, painted, then moved the garbage bags down to the edge of the trim, in order to avoid having orange paint splatter on the wood floor. Apparently, I forgot to retape one section of the wall. Husband saw it and told me that there would be no touching up of the wall anytime soon. We are going to have to learn to live with three walls that are fine and one that's almost fine.
I learned many important lessons during this painting project.
1. Husband and I will not be painting our bedroom any time soon. Sure it's lavender, a color no self-respecting man would choose, but as Husband rationalized, it's okay because he didn't choose it. It was already there.
2. The nifty edger thingies don't work all that well.
3. Primer is important. I can't stress this enough, people.
4. I keep seeing a commercial for Scotch Painter's Tape. The couple in the commercial is so happy and pleased to be painting and pleased with their results. This commercial enrages me. Their orange wall looks great.
5. Taping is also important. Tape EVERYTHING.
6. I'm not painting again for a long, long, long time. I hope Baby likes orange.
I will post photos of my fuck up once I find the camera cord. That might be awhile.
Husband and I spent an hour in Lowe's picking out paint and supplies. On Monday morning I started prepping Baby's room. The first thing I did was tape up half a window. Then I slapped some paint on the wall to test the color. Since the color we're painting the room is darker than the old color, I wanted to see if we could get away with not priming the room. I waited for the paint to dry, then consulted Husband. We were in agreement that no priming was necessary. Husband set to work while I watched Baby (he's decided, once again, that sleep is for losers). He worked for awhile, and then we switched responsibilities. I painted, and painted, and painted. I stood in the middle of the room to inspect my work and almost cried. Some parts of the wall were rust colored. Some were tangerine. Some were still the soft yellow from the room's previous occupant. I could see where the roller had stopped and started. Clearly, I had done something wrong. I was discouraged, but I continued to paint. As I painted I realized that part of the problem was due to the paint going on light and drying darker. I couldn't tell which spots needed to be repainted and which spots were in the process of drying.
Since I wasn't really painting with any sort of focus or plan anyway, Husband went ahead and started doing the edges of the room: around the windows, door, and ceiling. Since we'd bought one of those nifty edger things that are occasionally advertised on TV, we didn't bother to tape much. We figured the edger would prevent paint from getting on the window trim and ceiling. We figured wrong. The trim in Baby's room is still white, at least most of it is. Same with the ceiling.
We let the paint dry and busied ourselves with other house chores, like testing out our cable. For eight hours straight.
When I inspected the room again, I noticed several different shades of orange on Baby's walls, especially where the edger sections ended and the roller sections began. Panicked, I found Husband watching Top Chef and bouncing Baby on his knee. "Something ain't right," I told him.
"Huh?" he replied. "Look, they're cooking alligator."
"Ooooh." I sat down and watched the rest of the episode of Top Chef. Three hours later, I showed Husband my concerns. "See, over there, it's like four different shades of orange. And it's streaky. It just doesn't look good."
"Oh. Those are all the parts I painted," he said.
"No, no, no, I think it's just because we didn't prime it. It's going on all uneven. And apparently orange paint doesn't cover up pencil marks."
"Just keep painting," he instructed. "You're doing a better job than I did."
The more I painted, the more even the color became until there were only a few large areas that needed to be filled in. I sent Husband to the store to get a small roller so I could work on blending in the areas where the edger and roller parts met. I told him that running out of paint was a distinct possibility, but he told me to make do. Jen was coming the next day, and we wanted to have the room done before she came. He came back from Lowe's with the small roller, and I promptly ran out of paint.
The next day, Husband went and got another gallon of "Field Poppy." After Jen left, I happily got back to painting. I worked for about an hour, then decided it was time for a dinner/Jeopardy break. I'd noticed, while I was painting, that the paint from the new bucket seemed a bit lighter than the paint from the old bucket, but I figured it just needed to dry. When I inspected my progress after eating Pizza Rolls and TGI Friday's frozen popcorn chicken, I swore. And swore. And swore. The work I'd done, thinking I was getting closer to finishing Baby's room, set me back several hours. Not only did the new bucket of paint go on lighter, it also dried lighter than the original. I compared the labels on the top and everything was the same, except for the store number. I compared the color splashes that the Lowe's employees had put on the top of the can, and the second was significantly lighter. Each wall had huge patches from where I thought I was blending and evening out the paint. I dreaded telling Husband and very slowly walked the ten feet from Baby's room to the living room.
"Look, they're cooking rattlesnake," he told me. Then he saw the dejected/angry look on my face. "What's wrong?"
"I think the paint in the new bucket is the wrong color," I said.
Husband swore. And swore. And swore. Then he got up to inspect the room and swore some more. "What time does Lowe's close?" he asked.
"Um, ten?"
"Okay, put Baby in his carseat. Let's go. I'm not spending another day painting. We're going back to the first Lowe's and making sure we get the right color, then we're going to come home and finish painting. We've spent four fucking days doing this, and we've got too much to do to spend another day on it." As soon as he said that, I thought: But I wanted to watch The Office and 30 Rock. I was smart enough not to say it.
We drove to Lowe's with a screaming baby and spent 20 minutes getting yet another bucket of paint and questioning the Lowe's employee about quality control. After driving a screaming baby home and putting a screaming baby to bed, we got back to the painting. We had to throw away everything that had the wrong color on it and find new rollers and paint trays. We worked for a couple hours, then I gave up and went to bed. Husband said he'd stay up and finish, on the condition that I agreed to no more painting the next day. I reluctantly agreed since I was so tired.
The next morning, Husband said, "I finished the room last night. When you go in there, you're going to see some uneven parts, but you're just going to have to live with it. We have to move on." I went in, and I did see some spots, but I decided I could live with it. We celebrated the room being done by taking a two hour nap, where I tricked Baby into going to sleep. Later that afternoon, we took the tape off the trim and admired our handiwork. As I pulled the last strips of tape off of the last wall, swear words once again left my mouth. When I taped the trim, I taped garbage bags to the bottom part of the wall, painted, then moved the garbage bags down to the edge of the trim, in order to avoid having orange paint splatter on the wood floor. Apparently, I forgot to retape one section of the wall. Husband saw it and told me that there would be no touching up of the wall anytime soon. We are going to have to learn to live with three walls that are fine and one that's almost fine.
I learned many important lessons during this painting project.
1. Husband and I will not be painting our bedroom any time soon. Sure it's lavender, a color no self-respecting man would choose, but as Husband rationalized, it's okay because he didn't choose it. It was already there.
2. The nifty edger thingies don't work all that well.
3. Primer is important. I can't stress this enough, people.
4. I keep seeing a commercial for Scotch Painter's Tape. The couple in the commercial is so happy and pleased to be painting and pleased with their results. This commercial enrages me. Their orange wall looks great.
5. Taping is also important. Tape EVERYTHING.
6. I'm not painting again for a long, long, long time. I hope Baby likes orange.
I will post photos of my fuck up once I find the camera cord. That might be awhile.
06 July 2007
Entering the World of Grown-ups
I know I've been to college. I know I have a full time job, and have had it for a few years now. I know I've been engaged, gotten married, and had a baby. I know all of those things are adult things to do, but today I think I crossed the final threshold. I bought a house. This is what the house looks like. The person walking away is Husband. He's carrying the carseat where Baby's hanging out.
Buying a house was a pretty involved process, but I think Husband and I managed to do it in the least grown-up way possible. Awhile back, I broached the idea of living with my mother for the next few years until she can live at her weekend home full-time. Both Husband and my mother were surprisingly receptive of this idea, and when Baby was about six weeks old, I got my ass in gear and started house hunting. My mother found our realtor and mortgage broker. All I had to do was fill out a few forms and go look at some houses. My mother wrote check after check after check. Husband and I went to the closing. Seriously. That's pretty much it. She sponsored the whole thing, but our names are on the deed, and if something happens, we're the ones up shit creek. It's frightening.
House buying is something I didn't expect to do, but I guess it's part of my life rapidly changing for these past few years. I hope things settle down soon. I wish buying a house was something Husband and I could have done on our own, but with him going to graduate school, me teaching Catholic school, and us having recently reproduced, it wasn't feasible. I'm thankful that my mother was willing to help out, and I'm interested in seeing how the living situation unfolds.
The house is small, about 1600 square feet. It seems like a lot of square footage, but the ceilings upstairs are very low due to the way the roof is built. The rooms are also small, as is the kitchen. It's also black and white tile, which I'm not super fond of, and the floor is this horrible yellow vinyl pattern that was in the bathrooms of our old apartment
. It's strange how the house that seemed so perfect when we walked through and discussed it's potential as a home seems so different now that we own it. Today I noticed so many aspects of the house that I want to change. Some are little things, like the light switch covers the previous owner left.
Others are bigger, like refinishing the hardwood floors or replacing the hideous frosted glass in the downstairs bathroom. Those are changes that can wait until we have the time, money, or absolute need to change.
One reason this house is great though, is the yard. I will have to learn to garden, at least some.
The previous owner also left a doghouse, which will be awesome for when we never get a dog again.
I built today up a lot. For the last month I've been nervous that something would fall through and it wouldn't actually happen. For the past two days my anxiety has skyrocketed. I couldn't sleep last night and have been up since 4:30 a.m. I equated today with getting engaged or getting married or having a baby. I thought it would be some great day where Husband and I would feel really close and there'd even be a hint of romance or excitement or anticipation or something. We'd optimistically speculate on how wonderful our lives would be in this new house in this new town. Instead we bickered all day, a hazard of being up since the wee hours of the morning. I got disparaging looks every time I wanted to take a picture.
Every time he said how tired he was, I secretly thought I was more tired. I asked all sorts of annoying questions about what was bothering him, even though the constant answer was "I don't know."
But now we're back at the River, and we've had some rest and time to regroup. I'm terribly excited about living here, but overwhelmed at how to organize and fit all of our stuff. We're planning on painting our room and Baby's, and eventually I want to do the dining room and kitchen. I'm about to peruse various websites looking for fun rugs, if Baby stays asleep. I really can't wait to start living here, even if it means that I am now, undoubtedly, a grown-up.
Buying a house was a pretty involved process, but I think Husband and I managed to do it in the least grown-up way possible. Awhile back, I broached the idea of living with my mother for the next few years until she can live at her weekend home full-time. Both Husband and my mother were surprisingly receptive of this idea, and when Baby was about six weeks old, I got my ass in gear and started house hunting. My mother found our realtor and mortgage broker. All I had to do was fill out a few forms and go look at some houses. My mother wrote check after check after check. Husband and I went to the closing. Seriously. That's pretty much it. She sponsored the whole thing, but our names are on the deed, and if something happens, we're the ones up shit creek. It's frightening.
House buying is something I didn't expect to do, but I guess it's part of my life rapidly changing for these past few years. I hope things settle down soon. I wish buying a house was something Husband and I could have done on our own, but with him going to graduate school, me teaching Catholic school, and us having recently reproduced, it wasn't feasible. I'm thankful that my mother was willing to help out, and I'm interested in seeing how the living situation unfolds.
The house is small, about 1600 square feet. It seems like a lot of square footage, but the ceilings upstairs are very low due to the way the roof is built. The rooms are also small, as is the kitchen. It's also black and white tile, which I'm not super fond of, and the floor is this horrible yellow vinyl pattern that was in the bathrooms of our old apartment
. It's strange how the house that seemed so perfect when we walked through and discussed it's potential as a home seems so different now that we own it. Today I noticed so many aspects of the house that I want to change. Some are little things, like the light switch covers the previous owner left.
Others are bigger, like refinishing the hardwood floors or replacing the hideous frosted glass in the downstairs bathroom. Those are changes that can wait until we have the time, money, or absolute need to change.
One reason this house is great though, is the yard. I will have to learn to garden, at least some.
The previous owner also left a doghouse, which will be awesome for when we never get a dog again.
I built today up a lot. For the last month I've been nervous that something would fall through and it wouldn't actually happen. For the past two days my anxiety has skyrocketed. I couldn't sleep last night and have been up since 4:30 a.m. I equated today with getting engaged or getting married or having a baby. I thought it would be some great day where Husband and I would feel really close and there'd even be a hint of romance or excitement or anticipation or something. We'd optimistically speculate on how wonderful our lives would be in this new house in this new town. Instead we bickered all day, a hazard of being up since the wee hours of the morning. I got disparaging looks every time I wanted to take a picture.
Every time he said how tired he was, I secretly thought I was more tired. I asked all sorts of annoying questions about what was bothering him, even though the constant answer was "I don't know."But now we're back at the River, and we've had some rest and time to regroup. I'm terribly excited about living here, but overwhelmed at how to organize and fit all of our stuff. We're planning on painting our room and Baby's, and eventually I want to do the dining room and kitchen. I'm about to peruse various websites looking for fun rugs, if Baby stays asleep. I really can't wait to start living here, even if it means that I am now, undoubtedly, a grown-up.
Crawling Back
I'm dialing in again. Satellite internet hasn't failed me yet; it's 5:30 a.m., my sister's staying in the room with the computer, I can't sleep, so I'm dialing in. I can't sleep because Husband and I have something very important to do in a few hours. The alarm's set for 6:30 and then again for 7:00 to make sure we're up in time. I won't go into details about what we're scheduled to do because I don't want to jinx anything. I know that's stupid, but that's how I am. I'm very nervous because it's a very grown-up thing to be doing. My stomach is spinning and flip-flopping and not in a good way. I want to get up and eat breakfast so we don't have to spend money stopping at Mickey D's, but I'm not sure I can keep anything down. When I get nervous, I tend to vomit, and I haven't vomited since I was pregnant. I definitely don't want to revisit those days. So I'll go and see what Direct TV has to offer at 5:30 a.m. I'm sure it'll be better than our former without cable options.
05 July 2007
F.U., dial-up!
I'm back! I think. Since I've been living out in rural Va, I've had to deal with old-fashioned internet. The kind that involves wires and modems and a landline and AOL. I want to curl into the fetal position just thinking of it.
The past few weeks, I've gotten pretty good at Spider Solitaire. I leave a window open so I have something to do while I'm waiting for AOL to connect me or my websites to load. I don't think I've Husband ever swear as much as he did when we dialed in. AOL has this lovely little trick of connecting us, not loading what we want it to load, disconnecting us, then not telling us we'd been booted. Whenever this happened, Husband usually said something like, "Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit. I fucking hate AOL." Similar sentiments left my mouth as well.
It's not my parents' fault that we are slaves to dial-up out here. The broadband and DSL companies haven't made the Northern Neck a priority, at least not this area. They also can't get cable, so they have Direct TV instead. Direct TV is great, but that's not the point of this. Since I started living here full time, and consequently started bitching about the internet situation full time, my mother put me in charge of researching high speed options other than broadband or DSL. Dialing into AOL, I researched two different satellite internet companies. With both companies, I managed to get as far as the part where they asked me to give them a credit card. At that point, I made more progress with the company that had a local outlet, explained the situation, and told him my mother would call him back with a credit card shortly. He made two visits to the house, one of which was on a Saturday afternoon, and at some point today, we got high speed internet. Husband and I were gone all day, but every once in awhile I'd remind him that I wanted some time online tonight to "type," as I call it. By the time we got close to home, I was practically salivating in anticipation. I'm ashamed to say that I rushed Baby's bedtime routine just a bit, but he didn't seem to mind.
I've wasted almost two hours on here now. I tend to write pretty slowly, so while I'm typing a post, I'm also doing other things, like reading or answering emails, being a myspace stalker, flipping out about my credit card balances or catching up on celebrity gossip. I couldn't do any of that while dialing in.
I know I should be grateful that I even get to use the internet when there are so many people in the world who don't have access to instant gratification, but I have to say, I think I'm spoiled and have entitlement issues. I expect for my internet to be able to handle multiple tabs and switch back and forth among several websites instantly. I know I'm selfish, but I'm also a product of the times.
Sadly, it's after midnight now, and even though I've got a lot of nervous energy right now-more about that tomorrow, hopefully-I should try to sleep. I have to get up at 6ish tomorrow morning, and Baby will probably be awake soon and want to eat.
The past few weeks, I've gotten pretty good at Spider Solitaire. I leave a window open so I have something to do while I'm waiting for AOL to connect me or my websites to load. I don't think I've Husband ever swear as much as he did when we dialed in. AOL has this lovely little trick of connecting us, not loading what we want it to load, disconnecting us, then not telling us we'd been booted. Whenever this happened, Husband usually said something like, "Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit. I fucking hate AOL." Similar sentiments left my mouth as well.
It's not my parents' fault that we are slaves to dial-up out here. The broadband and DSL companies haven't made the Northern Neck a priority, at least not this area. They also can't get cable, so they have Direct TV instead. Direct TV is great, but that's not the point of this. Since I started living here full time, and consequently started bitching about the internet situation full time, my mother put me in charge of researching high speed options other than broadband or DSL. Dialing into AOL, I researched two different satellite internet companies. With both companies, I managed to get as far as the part where they asked me to give them a credit card. At that point, I made more progress with the company that had a local outlet, explained the situation, and told him my mother would call him back with a credit card shortly. He made two visits to the house, one of which was on a Saturday afternoon, and at some point today, we got high speed internet. Husband and I were gone all day, but every once in awhile I'd remind him that I wanted some time online tonight to "type," as I call it. By the time we got close to home, I was practically salivating in anticipation. I'm ashamed to say that I rushed Baby's bedtime routine just a bit, but he didn't seem to mind.
I've wasted almost two hours on here now. I tend to write pretty slowly, so while I'm typing a post, I'm also doing other things, like reading or answering emails, being a myspace stalker, flipping out about my credit card balances or catching up on celebrity gossip. I couldn't do any of that while dialing in.
I know I should be grateful that I even get to use the internet when there are so many people in the world who don't have access to instant gratification, but I have to say, I think I'm spoiled and have entitlement issues. I expect for my internet to be able to handle multiple tabs and switch back and forth among several websites instantly. I know I'm selfish, but I'm also a product of the times.
Sadly, it's after midnight now, and even though I've got a lot of nervous energy right now-more about that tomorrow, hopefully-I should try to sleep. I have to get up at 6ish tomorrow morning, and Baby will probably be awake soon and want to eat.
03 July 2007
Rural Restaurant Review, Part 2: The Baconator
I got paid last Friday, and as a way of celebrating my paycheck being less than what we expected, Husband and I went out to eat. Since I'd denied his request for Wendy's a few days earlier, I didn't put up a fight, and we loaded Baby into the car and headed for the closest Wendy's, 45 minutes away. About halfway to Wendy's, we started discussing where we'd eat our food. It was an exciting and stimulating conversation: Would we go into the restaurant? Would we go through the drive-thru and eat in the car in the parking lot? I, being in a foul mood, wasn't pleased with either choice, so I suggested we go through the drive-thru and eat in the car while driving around. I had a perfectly selfish reason for this; Baby was asleep, and if he woke up I'd have to feed him. I was so so so tired of feeding him. And I was fully aware that Husband, being the constant driver in our family would be stuck eating his Baconator in the car. Yep, I am that selfish. We spent a few minutes discussing whether or not it was possible to eat the Baconator while driving, and I finally gave in, said I'd feed the baby inside Wendy's and eat my chicken sandwich cold. As we pulled into the parking lot, Husband inspected the sign on the window advertising the Baconator. He said, "Well, sweetie, from that picture, it looks like something I can eat while driving. Let's just stay in the car." He's so good to put up with my shit. We pulled up to the little drive-thru speaker, and Husband got very excited. The Baconator was the #4 combo on the menu. He was happy about this for two reasons: 1) He didn't have to actually say the word Baconator while ordering, and 2) He thinks it's a sign of the Baconator's permanence.
As the non-driver, I had the all-important task of doling out the food. Being in a terrible mood, I wanted to get my food situated first, but somewhat patiently unveiled the Baconator as Husband foamed at the mouth. I have to admit I was worried for him. I thought maybe he'd built up the Baconator so much that it couldn't possibly meet his expectations. My stomach was spinning as we pulled back the foil wrapper. Then silence. Finally he looked at me and said, "I can't eat this and drive at the same time." We stared at the grease soaked bun with 18 slices of bacon, a bottle of Heinz 57, and 64 pieces of melting American cheese spilling out of it. The standard lettuce and tomato were gone, lest there be anything nutritious on this burger.
We quickly decided that I should eat my food while Husband drove around, then we'd find a place to pull over, switch drivers, and then I'd drive while he experienced his food of the gods. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we ended up in Saluda.
Husband was pleased with the Baconator. He felt that the level of baconness was appropriate and appreciated the lack of lettuce and tomato. He mulled over whether or not pickles would improve the Baconator, but I think he finally decided that perfection doesn't need improvement. He was thrilled when we ended up having to help my mother move the next day because it meant we'd stop at Wendy's for lunch on the way, and he'd get another Baconator.
I can't give my own opinion because I don't like bacon on cheeseburgers, and I haven't eaten Wendy's cheeseburgers since Christmas break of 1994 when I ate one and vomited about 45 minutes later. It turned out that I had a bad case of the flu, but I haven't been able to eat one since. It's classical conditioning at it's best.
As the non-driver, I had the all-important task of doling out the food. Being in a terrible mood, I wanted to get my food situated first, but somewhat patiently unveiled the Baconator as Husband foamed at the mouth. I have to admit I was worried for him. I thought maybe he'd built up the Baconator so much that it couldn't possibly meet his expectations. My stomach was spinning as we pulled back the foil wrapper. Then silence. Finally he looked at me and said, "I can't eat this and drive at the same time." We stared at the grease soaked bun with 18 slices of bacon, a bottle of Heinz 57, and 64 pieces of melting American cheese spilling out of it. The standard lettuce and tomato were gone, lest there be anything nutritious on this burger.
We quickly decided that I should eat my food while Husband drove around, then we'd find a place to pull over, switch drivers, and then I'd drive while he experienced his food of the gods. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we ended up in Saluda.
Husband was pleased with the Baconator. He felt that the level of baconness was appropriate and appreciated the lack of lettuce and tomato. He mulled over whether or not pickles would improve the Baconator, but I think he finally decided that perfection doesn't need improvement. He was thrilled when we ended up having to help my mother move the next day because it meant we'd stop at Wendy's for lunch on the way, and he'd get another Baconator.
I can't give my own opinion because I don't like bacon on cheeseburgers, and I haven't eaten Wendy's cheeseburgers since Christmas break of 1994 when I ate one and vomited about 45 minutes later. It turned out that I had a bad case of the flu, but I haven't been able to eat one since. It's classical conditioning at it's best.
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