Changing Tides

We have had an enormous change here in the Bitchypants household. Mr. Bitchypants, who has been unemployed for six years, went to work yesterday.

It’s been a long time. His unemployment started out by choice when the line he worked at in a hospital-equipment company moved to Mexico. Thanks, NAFTA. Anyhow, he was having a hard time finding a position to replace his earnings. Evan was in half-day kindergarten and we were paying full price for him to go half-days, and another $50 per week for the school bus to take him to school from the daycare in the small, rural community in which we lived. Instead of him just taking any job with a paycheck and paying $1000 per month for that arrangement, it made more sense for him to just stay home. Yes, I said it.

That is when it all started. Having him home was….different. First of all, while I am a feminist of sorts, my husband is the Man’s Man. USMC veteran. Country Boy. His wife supporting him while he stays home? Ummm, it didn’t sit well. Not with him, not with his family, not with society. Regardless of how progressive we think we have become, there are some deep-seated traditionalist views we all have. I had no problem with it, but the world in which we live had big problems, and I could see it everywhere we turned. I found myself defending our lifestyle. If the roles were reversed, and a man had an infinitely larger earning potential than his wife, and it cost the wife almost as much in childcare as she was earning by working out of the home, we would not bat an eye at her choice to stay home.

Make that woman a man. That wife a husband, That mother a father. Replace the vagina with a penis. Does the arrangement make any less sense?

Regardless of the rationality of our choices, we faced mud-slinging from everywhere. To my colleagues, my husband was constantly a “bum”. To our debtors, there was disbelief that he didn’t work. They wanted to put everything in his name, and he would tell them that his wife was the breadwinner, much to their shock. His parents would lecture him to get a job, that he would have no retirement when the time came. Of course, this was coming from his mother, who was living on her husband’s pension, with none of her own because she retired too soon. And the other objection: “What if Andrea leaves you, John?” Well, “Andrea” has been here for almost 12 years. Through homelessness, hunger, illness, poverty. And when the going got tough, I am the one who pulled myself up by the bootstraps, got a higher education and pulled my family out of that situation. And what of all of those stay-at-home moms? Does anybody ask them what they would do if the husband left them? So yeah, we heard it.

A couple of years ago, with the introduction of Zachary into our family, we really could use the extra income of John’s work. He began looking for work. The arrangement no longer made sense with diapers to buy and another mouth to feed. But with my establishment as the breadwinner for so many years, he couldn’t just take any job. We needed something that would A) not conflict with my odd schedule, or B) pay enough to compensate us for putting 2 children in childcare. And if one child was expensive in rural Indiana approximately 4 years earlier, the cost of 2 kids full-time in Cincinnati was damned near prohibitive. So John had trouble just finding positions for which to apply, let alone accept a position.

Enter the tension.

With two kids, we began bickering and fighting. I would come home from working God-awful hours to a house that was trashed. I would get ready to go somewhere and have no clean clothes. You see, John never was much of a housekeeper and I’m a little obsessive-compulsive. So we would fight. I would be upset that, while I was working my ass off to make ends meet, he was showing flagrant disregard by allowing our house to get trashed. I remember a particularly awful day where I found some of the boys’ expensive designer clothes molded because hey were under a wet towel in the basement laundry room for God knows how long. I began to try anything to get him to understand my point of view.  That is where I made my near-fatal mistake. Since he is a hard worker when he is getting a paycheck, I thought it would motivate him to do better by presenting it as if he was getting paid. With food and shelter and medical benefits, all provided by me.

How awful of me. I didn’t mean to hurt his self-image. I did not mean to completely emasculate him. I just wanted clean laundry and felt that I deserved it.

And with the pressure I was dishing, John issued his own counter-pressure. He wanted a job. Desperately. But he was still limited on the types of positions he could take. Then when he would find one that could work, he had to explain a years-long period of unemployment. Society still just could not handle that from a man. “You were a what? A stay-at-home-dad? What’s that?” So even if he made it through to an interview from the piles of applications, he never got an offer. In the meantime, I wanted him to find work. If I was going to clean the house anyway, at least he could bring home some money so I could maybe stop working all of the overtime. But nobody would give John a chance. And in John’s eyes, it was all my fault. I am the one who said, all those years ago, that he should just stay home. That it made more sense. And now, he couldn’t find work.

The man who served his country. The man who is such a hard worker. The man who, despite his own desires for his own life, put everything on hold to meet the needs of his family when the time came for it.

Well, yesterday, the phone rang. He was backing out of the driveway to go and put in yet another application, and I had to flag him down. It was a job offer, but the employer really needed someone. They wanted him to start then and there. So he left. The pay is only a quarter of what I make, but it is enough to compensate for childcare for Zachary one day a week. The only time we will need it is on Friday so I can sleep a little before going into work. Evan is old enough to play on the computer or watch a couple of movies while I nap, and he knows to wake me if he needs something. And we found a center that will do just one day a week without charging us for full-time care. In the fall, when I start my MBA program, they also allow flexible scheduling so I can pay by the hour while I am in class three afternoons a week. John’s schedule is 8-5, Monday through Friday, no weekends. In other words, perfect.

So the tides have shifted. Because while he may not have been a great housekeeper, I never had to worry about the kids destroying the house while I take a simple shower. If I mentioned that I wanted coffee, he would brew it for me before I even thought of moving. When I had to get ready for work, he would have my clean scrubs waiting for me. When we were hungry, he would cook…

I never realized just how much he did.

So while, with my career now and my future MBA, I will always be the breadwinner, John’s new job has done something monumental in our little family. I have a newfound appreciation for the partner I have had in John. I have taken him for granted. And with the first day of work, I have seen a change in him. He smiled all night last night. He was slower to lose patience with the boys last night. He seemed….fulfilled. And I had to realize that working is so much more than a paycheck. Being as into my career as I am, as motivated and driven as I am, I should have realized this all along.

Benefits to a job include medical, dental, vision, life insurance, vacation time, 401K. They also include self-esteem, self-worth, dignity. I feel like I have robbed John of that. I said it was all about the math, but I was so wrong. It’s more than math. It’s more than a Women’s Rights Statement and a big middle finger to the “establishment”. I’m still the breadwinner. I am stil the tough woman who will take the male-dominated world by storm one day. But this way, we all get what we need. Most of all, John.

Eleven

I started to write this on the eve of Chrstmas Eve. The eve of our eleventh anniversary.

Eleven years. 11. More than a decade. Double digits.

Somehow, as I started to write, words failed me. How has my life been impacted by John’s presence in it? Could I ever sum that all up in a blog post? Really?

I’m not going to insult your intelligence by reporting on rose-tinted images of what we are all raised to believe of marriage. It hasn’t been all roses. It has been real work, real sruggles at times. There have even been times where either one of us was tempted to throw in the towel. We never have. Sometimes this is out of love for each other and sometimes this is simply because we are just too damned stubborn to give up on this life we have built together. One thing has remained constant: I love him and he loves me. He gets me. The career and education I value so much? They are fires that he started. When it becomes too much, and I am about to give up–when it would be so much easier to just give up–he is the one to tell me I cnnot do so. He is my best friend. Not in the cliched way, but truly. When I am off of work, I don’t crave time with female friends. Instead, I run home to my husband. Not because I have to, but because I want to. He is where I belong.

Over the past week, I’ve been pondering some of the memories of the past eleven years. We sure have had some good ones. And some bad. Regardless, we stick it out together. That is how it should be and just how it is. But as I think of these times, I am taken back to the day they happened, as if I am there.

January, 2001. We hadn’t even been married a month. But something was different and I sent John to the store at 8AM for a pregnancy test. And that is when we found out Evan was coming. John was so excited that he picked me up and spun me around and around in our kitchen of that tiny apartment. We were so happy. Looking back, I see how dumb this truly was. But then we had no idea of what was to come with the pregnancy. Or that we should have taken more time to be an “us” before we tried to bring children into the mix. But we were so young and so in love, and it just seemed perfect.

November, 2003. John was on academic probation because he had mismanaged his time and didn’t study. We were going to meet with the Dean of Academic Affairs at the college to speak to her about getting him back on track. And in the midst of the conversation, he told her I was “too smart to not go back to school”. With that one little statement, I quit my job as a third-shift clerk at a convenience store and strapped on a backpack for the first time in almost 9 years on January 4, 2004. After a 4.0 semester, I applied for early admission to the respiratory program and was accepted. After many semesters of petitioning that same dean for permission to take more than the maximum allowable credits, I finished. But it was like a fire was lit and I needed more.

May, 2006. I was graduating. John was supposed to graduate with me, but the night before his most difficult final, he stayed up watching dvd’s. He ended up missing the grade he needed by 3 points. It was heartbreaking for him, but that didn’t stop him. As I walked across the stage to be handed my degree, the lights were blinding. I walked down the steps and regained my sight, and there he was. Arms open. Beaming smile. He was so proud of me. It had been years since my mother and father had both died and I remember thinking that it was nice to once again have someone who was so proud of me, who was that invested in my success.

April, 2008. I was getting an MRI. They had found a brain tumor on the right side of the frontal lobe. I had been having blinding headaches, and had to be on a pretty strong cocktail of drugs to even get out of bed. I was sad for what could come of my family, scared we were going to lose everything, that I was going to need a surgery that, according to the neurosurgeon, would have wiped out my memories. Memories of my child’s name, my mother’s existence, my wedding day. All of it, gone. There was so much riding on that scan, which was to be the determining factor in whether I needed the surgery. But I was claustrophobic and the emotions and anxiety flooded me as they attempted to advance me into the scanner. “Get John,” I croaked. The tech tried to protest, citing radiation exposure. But I couldn’t do it. Not just the scan. The whole damned thing. I needed him. And I realized suddenly that it was the first time I really needed anyone, ever. And suddenly, he was there. Lead apron and all. And as they advanced me into the scanner, I told him to make sure he did something to let me know he was there, even when I couldn’t see him. He did. For almost an hour, while I lay in that tube, he rested his hand on my right shin. He never took it off for a second. Sometimes, he would even absentmindedly tap out the rhythm of the magnets as they spun in an orbit around my head inside the scanner, and I would giggle. I didn’t fall asleep. I didn’t concentrate on the music they piped in to me. I concentrated on the warm spot where his hand was. My John. And I realized that I could do anything with him by my side. Anything.

July, 2008. We did lose everything. I lost my job–wrongfully–after the brain tumor. And he is the one who prompted me, after medical clearance, to go and apply for a job in my hometown. And I did. And I got it. And though John and I were pros when it came to throwing our stuff into U-Hauls, this time they hired a moving company to come and pack my house for me and move it all to the new address. And John and I, since Evan was in school, drove to Cincinnati. That was the day he drove out of the way so I could see the skyline of my hometown as I made my big return. And as we did, he looked at me and said, “Welcome Home, Baby.” Because he gets me.

May 13, 2010. Zachary was in the NICU and I was in the recovery room. John kept running in, breathless and excited, to tell me something new. “Andrea! They took off his hat and he has this black hair that sticks up all over! It is so awesome!” Or to show me a photo on the camera. Or to tell me how cute Zach was as he curled up in his little isolette. And I had to keep telling him to go and sit with the baby. To go and be with him, since I couldn’t. And when they finally brought Zach to me, John led the way as the nurse brought Zach into the room. Almost like a little kid presenting you with macaroni art–that look that says, “Look what I made.”

John and I will have many more memories. Some good and some not so good. It’s life. It’s love. It’s marriage. But I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else. Without him here, dreams have no meaning. Nothing would be worth it.

I’ll close this with a video. John and I don’t really have a song. We have a couple that come close, but the cool part of our relationship is that any love song I hear still brings visions of him wherever I am. But this one, though he doesn’t like it, is one of the ones that sums John up to me.

Here’s to another year.

Why the am I Getting a Call From a Liquor Store at 10 AM?

So today, I am figuring bills, and just like every late-November/ December, there never seems to be enough money. The car needs new tires. My last car, a little compact, took about $300 to do this. My car now? Well, the cheapest estimate is $775. And then there is Christmas presents. Evan wants an iPod Touch, and music seems to soothe him, and he really uses the El-Cheapo mp3 player he has now, so he shall get what he wants. And he needs a new bike. And scooter. And anything else I can give him to get him active. In other words, we are long-removed from the days where several $20-toys satisfied him. And John broke the artificial tree the last year that we put one up–years ago. I know, I know. I’m a horrible mom. But those are expensive, and I really wanted to put one up this year…..

I was just about to have a mini Andi meltdown when the phone rang this morning. John had left to fill a prescription. And it was the landline, which never rings anymore. “Deters Liquors” said the caller ID. W….T….F?????? It was 10 AM.

And I answer. It’s John. My eyes immediately diverted to the desk, where his cell was wedged in between the modem, printer, and laptop. And then my next reaction: HE HAS ZACH WITH HIM! AT A FUCKING LIQUOR STORE! Parenting at its best, right there. And then my next thought, “This has got to be bad.” We don’t drink. Not wine, not beer. Once every few years, I will have a Grey Goose and tonic on New Years’ when I am not working. Every. Few. Years. Why is my husband at a liquor store that isn’t even on the way to the pharmacy, with my toddler in tow?

“Ummmm, Andrea?”

“WHAT THE….”

” I’m gonna be a little longer. I got held up.”

“Whaddya mean, ‘held up’? You have Zach with you. At a liquor store, Dude.”

“Well……I-know-you-hate-when-I-play-the-lottery-and-say-it’s-a-total-waste, but…….”

“BUT WHAT?!?!”

“I bought a $3 ticket and…….I kinda won. Well, no, I did win. A thousand dollars. I’m waiting for them to cash it now, but she had to call her manager to get into the safe to get it.”

I couldn’t really be mad anymore, could I? Though I was still pondering the liquor store. And having visions of my husband having a secret problem that I didn’t know about. Hittin’ the bottle in the wee hours while I’m at work or something. But I should’ve known that that was never John’s style. He had a little incident while drunk in his Marine Corps days that turned him off a long time ago. That and cheating are the two things I never have to worry about with John.

It turned out the story was really innocent. He had stopped to get gas and bought the ticket at a gas station. The place was packed, with really skeevy-looking people. And while John isn’t afraid of anyone, he had enough sense to know that he did not want to get mugged with Zachy in his arms. He had the $1K, plus a substantial sum of my pay on his person, which equated to a pretty healthy sum. He was being protective. And smart. And he went to the liquor store that I used to stop at on the way anywhere to get a Diet Coke. They knew us there, because we would stop because they were never crowded. And he knew this. And so he drove a little out of the way to cash the ticket in where there weren’t skeevy eyes watching him fold the wad of bills into his wallet. I find it all incredibly cute, actually.

So the moral of the story is that we had $997 more than we had when he went to the pharmacy. I felt like I had to do something with the money, so we took a trunk-full of diapers to a local charity for single parents who said they were in desperate need of size 3 diapers. You know—Karma and all. And I replaced the Christmas tree. And paid some bills, all with free money.

If I were a religious person, I would’ve said someone was looking out for me.

Holidays

It’s cold outside. It finally is starting to feel a little wintery. Thanksgiving is next week, which means Christmas is right around the corner. I’m not sure what is going on this year, but it seems as if everyone is rushing the holidays this year. Stores and local businesses were blaring Christmas music immediately after Halloween. My neighbors, who usually grace us with their tackiest of tacky decorations, are already in full swing. There is a countdown on the board at work–X number of days left. The trees have been up for weeks now, and stores have all of their Christmas decorations on full display.

I don’t usually buy into all of this. Last year, I didn’t even put up a tree. Our only real holiday tradition has only ever been going to visit John’s family. Even for the years I have had to work Christmas, this has been the case. For those years, we would just celebrate early or late, depending on my work schedule. This year, things are a little different.

For some reason, I am feeling a little Clark Griswold-ish. I want the family Christmas.  I want to bake cookes with Evan. I want the tree, and the surprises on Christmas morning. I want wreaths and garland. The problem is that I want those things…NOW! It really is far enough away from my norm to be bizarre. I’m not sure what is to blame. Could it be that the stores rushed me? Or that John and I will have been married eleven years as of Christmas Eve? Maybe it is Zach, and that this will be the first real Christmas he will be able to enjoy. Or the difficulties we have had with Evan that make me want to be close to these three guys in my life. Regardless, I just want to be here with them, We’ll put up a tree, bake the damned cookies. I’ll hang stockings with my babies. There’s no fireplace, but we can burn candles and make this place smell like a pine forest. Of course, John isn’t on board for any of this. Well, he is and he isn’t. I’ve tried twice now to get him to go with me to a store to buy a new artificial tree already. (Thought about a live tree this year, but the thought of Zachy eating pine needles doesn’t do it for me.) Of course both of these attempts were shot down. I plan on trying again today, but he insists that we are to wait until after Thanksgiving. (Side Note: I bought a turkey this year, for the first time in many years–for our little family.) He’s right. hat has been the tradition for both of us growing up. After the dishes are washed and leftover turkey is put away, you’re supposed to watch a Christmas special–most likey Rudolph–and trim the tree. But I want to do it now. Not next week, but now.

I just want to be with them. Only them. I don’t even want to buy gifts for anyone else. Just them. What is wrong with me?

What I Have in Common With Michelle Dugger

Okay, I don’t know where to start with this one.

Michelle Dugger (Duggar? Hell, I don’t know) is pregnant again, this time with Baby Number Twenty.

Holy shitballs.

I won’t forget her last one. I watch the show on occasion out of freaky curiosity. They don’t get welfare or anything. They support all of their children themselves and appear to do well. The kids all appear to be well-adjusted and well-mannered. But I cannot get the last one out of my head. I was just beyond the first trimester with Zach, and looking back, it was about a month before I went into preterm labor for the first time and my problems started. All I had to go on was that I had this complicated history with my pregnancy with Evan and was foolishly hoping it would be different, though all signs said it wouldn’t be. I had already suffered a placental tear. And I watched as they delivered her 19th baby at 25 weeks. I cried. I cried as a pregnant woman fearing for her new baby. I cried as a NICU RT who has had a hand in resuscitating preemies. Most of all I cried because I was watching a family go through what we could have gone through with Evan and mercifully escaped.

And my first thought when I just found out she is expecting the 20th was, “how fucking irresponsible of them!”. I mean, yes, the 25 weeker is now almost 2 years old and doing well. They credit God for that, and I credit modern medicine. I’m glad the baby is okay. I can see how this would give them license to do it again. But then again, she came close to death multiple times. She could have been horrifically disabled and had the quality of life of a rock. She didn’t die, she has a shot at a decent life, but she almost didn’t. Why tempt fate? Why have another one, given that you have already gone through this ordeal, and chance doing that to another baby? And doesn’t the likelihood of complications increase with maternal age?

Oh.

Maybe this makes me an alarmist. Maybe it makes me practical and concerned for a yet-to-be-born child. Either way, it makes me the biggest hypocrite I know.

I haven’t had 20 kids. I have 2. The oldest almost didn’t make it into this world. The last one was a complete surprise, but we armed ourselves with the “every pregnancy is different” mentality until it proved to be the same horriffic experience. My doctors advised me that I shouldn’t have any more. Not that I couldn’t. Big difference. But then they later retracted the statement and now joke with me that it is time for another when they see me at the hospital. And just three days ago, John ‘fessed up that he really wants another one. Truth be told, I do too. We agreed that it shouldn’t be now, considering our current financial slump. I should complete my MBA first. We need a bigger house and a bigger car. We want Zach to be out of diapers and the issues with Evan to be somewhat stabilized. John needs to be working to offset some of my income in the event that bedrest happens. It needs to be done in a very controlled manner, with me starting off the pregnancy on the kind of footing one doesn’t have when it comes as a surprise. We want to first visit the OB practice and request that, since it doesn’t seem to help, I not be placed on strict bedrest, but am allowed to work as tolerated. And I will say no to the brethine pump and uterine monitor that is behind 36 hospital trips and admissions. I will accept the progesterone injections because we have no way of knowing if they aren’t behind they fact that Zachy wasn’t born until they took him out surgically. And I absolutely have to be under the age of 40. I had problems in my mid-20′s, after all. Beyond 40 seems to be pushing it too far for someone with my hustory.

Am I as bad as Michelle Dugger? Isn’t this reckless of me to even think this way? To chance something awful happening to me or to another baby? Evan was born at 34 weeks and Zach at 33. What if a third one is born even earlier, per the trend?

But we want a girl. And we will try in a couple of years. We will do so with the hope that I won’t have the same problems. That if I do, the baby will have the same luck as Evan and Zach and suffer limited effects of prematurity. Maybe we are tempting fate a little too much, also.

From a Different Place

Something funny happened over the past 24 hours. It started from the dark place of yesterday’s post. That was prompted by my discovery that I had miscalculated my pay for this payday. So this morning, I went to the bank. I was worried about an education loan that reaches maturity in 2 weeks and has a balloon payment due. And I was talking to the manager.

“I’m just tired,” I said. “I’m tired of working this hard and making the money I do, and having nothing to show for it at the end of the day.”

And he did something I didn’t expect. He pivoted his computer screen around so I could see it from my side of his desk.

“Not for nothing, Andrea. This check right here? Well, it was written to a school. A certain elementary school. And the memo says ‘tuition-Evan’.”

“And this right here? It tells me that you have a very late-model car that is over halfway paid off. And this line? That line shows me that your husband has a motorcycle-a toy- worth more than that late model car. And here is your personal loan. And the beauty of it all is in these columns right here,” he said as he pointed to 2 columns of zeros. One being days past due, and one being balance owed today. Zeros all the way down the screen. My bills are paid. Not completely paid off, but paid.

And this morning, as I was trying to figure how to squeeze bill payments out of a smaller than expected paycheck, I began to look into stuff. Turns out it is November, the next to last month in the year. And I have accrued a bunch of vacation time that has to be used by December 31st. No vacays for me, but I can cash it out and have it added to my next payceck. Plus, according to the bank manager, I am allowed to skip one month of each loan. In all of the years I have been doing business with this bank, I never knew this. It’s a sort of freebie thing they do. So no more car or motorcycle payments for November, which frees up about $700. And last night, I got called into work. You know what I make in one overtime shift? About $580. In one fucking day of work. So just like that, with a little mental power, I came up with an extra $2700 for this month’s budget. Just like that.

The bank manager is so right.

I have no reason to bitch. Tonight, we went to the grocery store. I was able to buy an entire case of diapers for Zach. Not generic ones, but Pampers Cruisers, which are the most expensive diapers I have found. (Those are the only ones that don’t break him out.) There are parents all over this country who can’t buy enough diapers for the day, let alone for the month. We bought food. Granted I was a little more frugal–I bought the veggies that were on sale instead of just grabbing what I always buy. We bought the cereal we like, but instead of the snacky cereal we usually buy for Zach, we bought the gigantic bag that is cheaper. I bought the pasta sauce that was on sale and store-brand coffee creamer. But I left with a cart full of food and was able to fill the fridge and freezer with food while only going one dollar over my budget. And tonight, we are going to eat dinner on a table that is only a couple months old. In a house that is warm and has electricity. While dinner is cooking, I am blogging this on a month-old laptop with my highspeed internet access. My beautiful, healthy ten-year old, who was never even supposed to make it into this world, is sitting on a newer sofa watching our digital cable on a tv that may not be the latest technology, but is more than adequate. My husband is laying on the living room floor completing a homework assignment for the math class that I paid for. And when he gets stumped on a problem, I am able to help him. After dinner, when the beautiful, healthy toddler , who also shouldn’t have made it into this world, gets his bath and dressed in pajamas, he will give me the big Zachy smile and sloppy baby goodnight kiss before he is tucked into bed. And then I can complete the homework for the businesses classes I paid for and are going to be my ticket to a better tomorrow. And then I will study with a 5-inch thick book that says “GMAT” on the cover, which will be my ticket to an even better better tomorrow. And tomorrow morning, I will walk to the park with my beautiful baby and we will spend my day off laughing and giggling while Daddy and Bubby are both at school.

The moral of the story? I don’t have a damned thing to bitch about. I have everything to be grateful for tonight. That’s what this month is supposed to be, right? To pause and give thanks?

No, I don’t have a huge balance in the bank account. But it’s in the black for right now. And I have this life that is so…full. And I did it. I did it all.

I’m not wealthy. But I sure am rich as hell.

(Thanks to Mary for the inspiration. Something about her words today just drove home what I have been thinking all day.)

 

The First Big Boo-Boo

I was sleeping. I had been up all night, and then John had class and so I stayed up with Zachy for that, too. When John got home, I sank into my bed like a rock and after a chapter of Little Bee, I was down for the count.

Sometime later…30 minutes? An hour? 12 hours? …after I fell asleep, I was awakened by a frantic John.

“Andrea, WAKE UP! There’s a PROBLEM WITH ZACH!!!!!“

Wtf? A problem with Zach? What sort of problem? Bleary-eyed, I tried to make sense of the scene. He was holding Zach, wasn’t he? But wait! OMG. OhmyfuckingGod!!!!

Blood everywhere. Everywhere. Literally pouring from his nose. From his mouth. I kept wailing, “What happened to him, John?!?” But John was in hysterics and couldn’t answer me. It was all rather dramatic. We couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from, Zach was screaming. I was trying to put on clothes, for which John was cussing me. ( ”I’m glad it’s not an EMERGENCY or anything!”—more on this later.) And I was trying to catch the story. Something about a kitchen chair. And he was pushing it around. Everything was fine. John rounded the corner and was just right there, picking up a few toys from the floor when he heard the BANG-CRASH-BOOM! Zachy apparently had pushed the chair over to the counter where there was a carousel of his sippy cups drying. Damnit, the smart baby wanted a drink! And he pushed the chair to the counter and climbed up. He can deduce from the blood smear on the couter that he hit there first as he fell, raking his face first on the edge of the counter, then the door of the dishwasher, then the chair and the floor. Ouch. Holy shit.

The problem for me wasn’t the blood. I’m conditioned for blood, even when it is my own or my child’s. What got to me was the possibility of teeth/ jaw/skull/nose fractures with those kinds of blows to the face. “Get him checked out, just to be sure.”, I was thinking calmly in my head. So we went to the ER, where sweet, adorable Zachy wooed all of my coworkers, and I heard someone explain that we have the baby and then we have a ten year old!!! Yeah, that’s right. We’re somewhat rusty on this toddler shit.

Zach is fine. Since he won’t have anything to do with ice packs, he is getting popsicles galore. Turns out he tore his frenulum and he has the fat lip from hell. Some monster bruises appeared to be forming, but now, further removed from the incident, even those don’t look as if they are going to be that bad. No stitches, no head injuries. Just some antibiotics for the mouth laceration to prevent infection, ibuprofen for pain, and a little boy who looks like he’s been on the losing end of a fist fight. But some analysis is required here.

I’m the mom. I think, by most standards, I am supposed to be the one to freak out. That so is not the case here in this house. No, I don’t like seeing my kids hurt. And I react a little differently when it is my kids as opposed to one of my patients. Now John? John freaks out. Picture a hysterical woman in a hoop skirt running and screaming, “ATLANTA IS BURNING! ATLANTA IS BURNING!” and you kind of get  a picture of John in a first-aid siuation. He did it when Evan had croup. He didn’t think to wake the respiratory therapist in the house who treats croup allthefuckingtime. He just ran around screaming and rushing me out of the house, and when we finally get to the ER, I stop and realize what is going on and that, while it sounds bad, it truly sounds worse than it is. And then the time Evan cut his foot: John was carrying 7-year-old Evan, fireman-style, through the house, screaming, “we’ve got to go now, he needs stitches! He may need surgery! It’s bad. SO BAD!”, all while freaking Evan out, too. Turns out that once I cleaned the blood off of his foot, it was a tiny cut that a Steri-Strip and band-aid from the medicine counter would fix. But while I was working on it, John was still freaking out. As in, “Andrea you aren’t a doctor yet and he needs to go to the hospital NOW! Are you depriving him of medical care?” No, I’m giving him medical care right now. He’s getting a Band-Aid and some Neosporin, Asshole. And then today, with Zach. I got yelled at for putting clothes on first. Because while it was bad, I was at least able to do what I always do.

Take a quick second. Assess the situation. Okay, Zach is bleeding badly. His color is good, so he isn’t bleeding too much. He hit his head, but he is alert, so likely no massive head injury. he is crying, and those of us in the industry know that the problems are when they stop crying or cannot cry. Then you have a big problem. He won’t let me get close enough to it to see where all of the blood is coming from, and since neither of us saw exactly how he hit, we don’t know. He could have injured underlying structures, so let’s get him looked at and make sure he’s okay. That’s what insurance is for. No need to call 911. Throw on clothes, grab a change of clothes for him now that his sleeper is all bloody. A couple of diapers and my cell phone and out the door we go. On the way, call Ev’s school and let them know we will be late picking him up because we have an emergency. Simple as that. Within 3 minutes, we were en route to the ER, and I even got to wear clothes! No need for screaming or hysterics or cussing or carrying on. Yes, Zach is hurt, but it isn’t life threatening. See, assess, decide on a course of action, and then do. Don’t react. That makes it even worse.

Somehow I will get all of this through to my Drama Queen of a husband. In the meantime, I have a little boy who is fine, and is getting spoiled like it’s nobody’s bid-ness because today, he sustained his first (and hopefully last) big boo-boo.

Blocks: A Pictorial

For his birthday this past Spring, Zachy got a set of old-school wooden blocks. You know the kind–lowercase on one side, uppercase on the other, numbers, some naked sides and some painted. No frills, no batteries. Just what I wanted for him. The problem was that up unil now, Zach has only been interested in the toys the flash, blink, spin, and screech. Today, John and I were trying to distract him while Evan sat at the kitchen table working on his math and spelling. Lately, Zach will go up to Bubby and harrass him, not understanding why Evan isn’t playing, and Evan will then be too distracted and will stop doing his homework that was an epic battle to get him started on in the first place. it’s ugly, so we’ve resorted to this tactic. This time, on a whim, we got the blocks out. I was building, John was building. And yes, Zach was building. He can stack blocks now, which is a big milestone in fine motor development, mind you. But then we realized something: Zach can be mean! He kept destroying John’s buildings, and of course, Daddy being the ultimate kid, John was more into the building than Zach was. John was even spelling words out like a little kid. And then Zach started picking the blocks up and chucking them at John’s head, giggling the whole time. Of course I got photos for you!

Playing peacefully. So sweet and innocent.

Zach at work.

My boys.

Daddy learned to spell his name with blocks!

Zach won't let Daddy build.

"Maybe I can while he's not looking. Hurry! Hurry!"

Here he comes. Dunh-dunh duuuuuuuunh!

"No, Zachy!"

Zachy SMASH! And then walks away...

Daddy starts again...

Annnnnnd he's back!

And this is right before he started firing them at our heads like missiles.

"All that destruction was tiring. I'll just sit right here."

Why Do They Make It So Hard?

So the latest news in the Bitchypants household is The Diet Felt ‘Round the World.

It started with a convo between the hubster and I. About how we are currently fat-assed and desire to be skinny-assed. We feel like, since we put the goal of being there to see our children get married and have babies back by about 8 years when we had Zachary, we need to live longer. And being fat-assed, we are not as likely to be able to do this. So we decided that we are going to do this, damnit. And so we schemed and planned. We figured out a weekly menu, and we made a grocery list and went to the store with said list.

And we spent $360 compared to the normal $150-$200 we normally spend. We didn’t even get any frozen pizzas! No Hot Pockets. No (gasp!) Diet Mt. Dew. Really. Why in the helll are apples and green shit so damned expensive? And then they have a shelf life of about 5 hours. No wonder, America! No wonder we are all fat and childhood obesity is at epidemic status. It isn’t the fries in Happy Meals. It’s the fucking price of the Happy Meals. A grilled chicken sandwich is one of the healthiest on the menu at McDonald’s, but John and I could eat one each for the cost it would be to feed the whole damned family. And poor people can’t afford this crap. All the poor kids are getting is Cheetos and chicken nuggets and hot dogs because it costs too damned much to feed them anything else. On a side note, maybe this is the approach to get Evan to eat more healthful foods: healthful, wholesome foods as a status symbol that the poor kids can’t afford! (yeah, I’m going straight to hell for that one!)

So anyway, we were in the living room and I was writing a paper on the laptop on the sofa while John watched some goofy stuff on tv. And we decided we were starving. We tried so hard. I tried a protein bar, and John ate some fruit or something. And then I checked my damned email. Shit. Turns out that when you order pizza, you get points. And when you get enough points, you get a free pizza. And since A) we eat entirely too much pizza–I mean we used to–, and B) I didn’t know this existed, I had enough points for 10 pizzas. Really.

.I mean, you can’t waste free pizza, can you? It’s kind of a slap in the face to the starving children in third world countries or something. So we ordered a pizza. We were kind of behaving a little because we didn’t order soda. No wings, no breadsticks, no garlic butter/ fat mixture to dip the pizza crust. Just a pie.

And it arrived before we knew what was happening. We didn’t even have the opportunity to feel remorse for reverting to our fat-assed ways. And I opened that box and smelled the pepperoni goodness of its contents.

We ate the shit out of that pizza and then hid the damned evidence as if we had murdered someone here in the living room. Oh my God, we didn’t even bother to get plates from the cupboard. We just ate it. Ate it ALL! And then John ran the box to the garbage can outside so we wouldn’t have to stare at it. I seriously felt like a crack ‘ho getting her fix. It was that bad.

Tomorrow we are getting back on the wagon. And I am going to get out that all-terrain stroller I paid a small fortune for, and I am going to repent for my sins.

But seriously. Why? Why does our culture have to make it so damned hard????

She may not be eating pizza, but she's way classier than me--she has a plate and fork.

This House

We moved into this house when being pregnant with Zach was still new to me. I hadn’t started having many complications yet, and thus no bedrest. But being the pessismist that I was, I knew what was coming and wanted to find something as cheap as possible. Our old place, though huge and roomy enough, was more expensive in every way: rent was $300 more monthly. It was an old rehabbed mansion, so the electric bills were enormous. I was paying it–and I am talking between $800 and $1000 per month–only to discover, upon moving out, that we were supplying all of the common areas for the multi-unit building.

I found this house. Smaller, but much, much cheaper. It needed work. Lots of work. The owner told me to do whatever I needed to make it acceptable for us, that he hadn’t had any time to do so on his own. He would take whatever improvements we made off of our rent. Then bedrest happened, and we never got a chance to do anything. And then we had Zach, and I had to learn to budget for 4 people instead of 3. And there were the pregnancy medical bills. And it still didn’t happen. And then last October, while working overtime like a dog to pay off some bills, I brought home bedbugs from work. Not bad. We caught it early. But still, treatment was thousands of dollars. Plus, in my paranoid state, I trashed all of our furniture just to be sure. We needed new stuff anyway. Since then, we lived like vagabonds. An air mattress at first, though the kids still had their beds. No living room furniture. Piles of stuff everywhere, as we had thrown out several dressers/ storage pieces. Despite all of this, I still could not be comfortable here. I would be fine at work, but when home, I would feel this psychsomatic itching, as if something was crawling all over me. I was convinced I was not crazy, and so I called the pest control company back. I made them spray again. I was sure there was something going on, and I was afraid I would have to trash more furniture in my paranoia, so I just didn’t buy anymore. When the pest control company assured me the house was fine, I tried to relax, but couldn’t. I called a second company, who told me that, while they would love to take my money, they saw nothing here and I should get on with my life, that I never should have trashed my furniture in the first place, that they could have treated it. I waited a couple of more months, and then I called a third company in. Again, just to be sure. Again, I waited a couple of months.

This past week, I took a lot of money and I bought new stuff. Sofa, recliner, coffee table, end tables. 2 area rugs. A new dining room table and chairs. A new mattress and boxspring for us. New chests for the bedroom. I need to replace my desk and our entertainment center, but that’s all that’s left to replace. And window treatments, since the blinds are in horrible disrepair, and really have been since we moved in.  The massive Yoko Ono bed that was in the living room? Well, it wouldn’t fit the new mattress, and thus it is now Evan’s bed, as we had originally planned. John and I spent 2 back-breaking days working on de-cluttering, arranging, moving out what we didn’t want anymore. Packing up what we wanted and didn’t need. I got a little sad when we packed up Zach’s Pack&Play–are those days really gone so soon? Lo and behold, this looks like a home again.

I haven’t felt uncomfortable here since. I look forward to coming home from work now. I can relax here again. Except for the bedroom. I cannot sleep there for some reason, unless I am so tired that I pass out. I lay there in the bed and I look at the walls, the ceiling above me. That second slat on the intake vent that it slightly bent. A small knick in the paint in that one corner. I know those walls, that ceiling. I stared at them for months of my life. I focused on that chip in the paint as I was breathing through all of those contractions. I bit the corner of that pillow to keep from screaming from the pain of the progesterone injections sometimes when they were really bad. That room, those walls—they were my prison, really. For months and months. Sure, I would break orders and switch rooms, go to doctors’ appointments and ultrasounds, trips to the hospital. They were always so short, and I would always return to the room. And even now, As I lay there, unless I drop off to sleep immediately, it starts to feel like the walls are closing in on me. It’s almost like a panic attack and I have to squeeze my eyes shut and put myself someplace else. A coworker/ friend suggested I have PTSD from my pregnancy. How bizarre is that? What’s even more bizarre is that I think she may be a tad right. And then I feel really silly. I mean, Zach is 16 months old and I still can’t stand that room? I guess this is really the first time I am sleeping there since he was just  a few months old.

John hates this house. He wants to move. I don’t want to yet. I think that, if we can make this work a couple of more years, we can build a house. I’m worried about the expense. I make the money and I manage it, and I know that there are some things coming up. Big things. Autism spectrum disorders are notoriously expensive. As is grad school. And this house, though horribly flawed and small, is cheap. And as a result of us living here, we can afford to enjoy life a little more. I can take the boys to Toys ‘R’ Us on a whim and buy them each something they like for no reason at all. I can keep Evan in parochial school and not worry that the tuition is going to kill us. In a couple of years, I will have an MBA, John will hopefully be employed full-time, and I can afford to build new and still do all of those things in comfort.

This house? It isn’t a palace by any means. And yet it is. Because we have history here. And we have each other. This house is filled with all of the things and people I love most in the world. And while there are some scars, there are some pretty awesome memories. The best 5 weeks of my life were spent here: newborn Zach, Evan out of school for the summer, me on maternity leave and not bedrest. And it was just us. My boys and I. Family. And that spot over there? It was there that I would nurse Zach in the early days. And this other place over here? I would sit and help Evan with his homework. And over there, John and I would cuddle and watch movies together, ever the homebodies, as he would place his hands on my pregnant belly and feel Zach kick, talk to him through me.

It isn’t that I think that the memories will disappear when we move. I know they will always be with me. And I know that a home is more than just walls and roof. We will make new memories wherever we go. I guess this is the reason this house doesn’t bother me so much anymore. No house will ever be my home. No. My boys are my home. This house is just my physical address.