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.

The One Where My Car is Toast

Let me start by saying that I have never gotten a ticket or been in any sort of accident. Period. Until last week. That is when this happened:

Yes, we’re all okay. My car, as you can plainly see, is not.

We were loaded into the car to go to the grocery store. Seatbelts buckled. Phones put away. John looked both ways before backing out of the driveway. He let cars pass. The coast was clear, so he backed out. Just as he stopped the car and put it into gear to pull forward and go on our way, we felt the impact. We didn’t see a thing. We didn’t hear squealing tires to indicate someone had slammed on their brakes. We didn’t hear a horn. Nuthin’. We just felt the impact. And when I got out of the car, I was standing in my front yard from where the vehicle was hit with enough force that it was thrown there. I was spitting blood and gagging as more and more blood filled my mouth where I had bitten clear through the right side of my tongue. Evan was as white as a ghost and Zachy was screaming his head off.  But we were okay. And then I realized that the other driver hadn’t stopped yet, and so while dialing 911, I was jumping up and down, waving my arms in the air, shouting, “No! Stop!” She finally did by my neighbor’s driveway. And this all happened in one blurry instant. I remember telling the 911 operator to send the police, the no, I didn’t think anyone needed an ambulance, that I was a healthcare professional and would speak up if I thought we did. It was craziness.

So what happened? Well, we live on a connecting road between a really bad neighborhood and a really good neighborhood. About two miles from my house are those metaphorical tracks on which you do not want to be on the wrong side. Everyday, they fly by here, with no regard to the speed limit or that our children might be outside playing. You can tell the cars: older, no mufflers, beat-up. But for some reason, they tend to have really nice sound systems. And so, when John ensured the coast was clear, he backed out. I would say that my car was 3/4 of the way out of the driveway when one of those drivers came flying around a curve that is about 500 ft. from our driveway. She was apparently talking on a cell phone since her boyfriend arrived before the police did. We were nice, as were they. But they struck me as the type of people to observe everything, even remarking  that “Her purse must have been at least $500!”  Yeah, bitch, it was. I work hard for my money. But regardless, we made the police report and I called my insurance company. We proceeded on to dinner, since there was no way I was up to grocery shopping with Mr. Asperger and his toddler sidekick. And I sure as hell was not going to cook. But on the way to dinner, we hear this wop wop wop wop sound. No, that is not an ethnic slur. I’m German/ Italian, so even if it was, I have license. Our only hope at 7PM was to stop at a tire place, which is where we found out that the damned frame of my car was bent, that the back passenger side wheel, though not dramatic, was bent inward. “Dog-legged”, he called it. And that, no, my car was not safe. That I could hit a pothole and have my damned wheel break off. I was upset. Then Evan started complaining of neck and shoulder pain. Enter a trip to the ER with my poor baby for whiplash. He was okay, though. Ice and antiinflammatories for a couple of days.

And then I got kinda okay. Then maybe a little relieved. I mean, we needed a bigger car, right? But I was too stubborn and insisted on paying off this one and making it last as long as possible, since I bought it brand-new 3 years ago. So I started looking online.

And then I found out that they can fix it, that it is not totaled because they can “pull” the frame. So instead, I get a whopping repair bill to the tune of $6K. Well, insurance does. I just have a huge deductible. And I was expecting to not have to pay it. We were still waiting on the official police report, but she was negligent. Speeding, most likely talking on the phone, no attempt to warn us, no attempt to stop, evasive behavior.

Wrong. Fucking Wrongwrongwrongwrong.

Because the police report was wrong. It said we backed into her, not that she hit us in the side. So my insurance adjuster told me to call the police to have it amended. The proof is in the cars: mine is obviously nailed on the side, sweeping toward the back. Hers is on the headlight. There is no physical possibility that we backed into her. And the police? Well they wouldn’t fix it. They said it makes no difference, since we were backing out.

So in other words, do whatever the hell you want to do. If you hit a car that is in reverse, regardless of what you are doing, it will always be their fault. It’s complete bullshit. It isn’t fair.

So now? Now we have a beast of a rental car. And I am awaiting a body shop to give me an entirely new ass end. To the car, that is.

So much for my record.

If This is Sexism…

There is a photo I posted on Facebook a couple of days ago. It is the screen shot of my new schedule of my first MBA semester. The comment I put along with it was, “Can I just say how totally kick-ass I think it is that all of my professors for my first semester of my MBA are women?” I think most people got it. Some did not, and one of the comments I got was from the girlfriend of my father-in-law, who prides herself on being more progressive. She asked why this would matter and stated that, to her, I sounded sexist.

Hmmm.

I remember when we moved after I had finished school. We had actually been homeless for a month before hand. We needed money. And somehow, after one of my first job interviews, I had a job making real money for the first time in my life. Complete with a sign-on bonus, relocation assistance, and other benefits. We went from sleeping in a fleabag motel with most of our posessions in storage to moving into a upscale, expensive rental. I did that. John didn’t have a job. But I studied my ass off as a nontraditional student in order to get straight-A’s, a list of professional contacts, and more, to set me apart from all of the other new grads in my field and land a good job. I was so proud. And when I called to get utilities turned on at our new, nice house, what happened? They didn’t want to turn them on, and told me to have my husband call back. I remember my response to this day: “Ma’am, I would be glad to have my Master call back, but when it comes time for a bill to generate and you expect to be paid, you will have to deal with me, as my husband doesn’t work. I am the head of this household.”

But it did something to me. That, along with my upbringing, have shaped me.

My mother raised seven children. Seven of the most ungrateful children in the world. She was married to my father all of her life. And she never had a job outside of the home. She did a good job, as we never wanted for a thing. I grew up with elaborate meals prepared three times a day. I never did laundry or dishes because my mother never wanted us to. Mom made our world go ’round and Dad footed the bill. But then Mom started to get sick. And by the time I was a senior in high school, she was too ill to take care of herself, let alone any of us. What did we do? We got her signed up for Meals on Wheels and a home health nurse. I was just a kid, still in school, but the next child in line from me was eight years’ my senior. And she lived right around the corner with her husband, didn’t work, and her children were in school. Interestingly enough, nobody had time for the woman who had raised them, who had surrendered her entire life to doing right by us. While I was at school, nobody could even be bothered to bring her lunch. She would be hospitalized and in the ICU, and nobody would come and see her. I would try to leave school, but by then I was a freshman in college and prohibited from having a car on campus, so I was reliant on family to get me home when the situation called for it. The night she finally died, however, they all remembered their way to the house to raid her jewelry box of the diamonds and emeralds (her favorite and her birthstone) that Dad had bought her in their 35 years of marriage. One sister even had her 4ct. solitaire into a jeweler for appraisal and sizing the very next morning. And what about Mom’s last days? She would cry because her kids didn’t come to see her. She was miserable because, once she had no more to give, they lost interest.

Never in a million years would I allow that to be my life. I don’t want it. She wouldn’t have wanted it for me, and I refuse to let her down. I am bound and determined to shirk the traditional gender roles and live my life how I see fit. You could call this selfish of me, but then I would remind you that I make my living helping people breathe when they cannot do so for themselves. And while this is most decidedly not a commentary on being a homemaker, it is a testament to the fact that, while my mother may have had limited choices, I do not. And I have made my choice. I will never buy into the idea that my ownership of a  vajayjay means there is a damned thing that I cannot do in this world.

So life has taken me down many paths. I’ve had many plans, some of which have worked and some of which have not. Sometimes I have had to backtrack to where the road forked and take the other path. This is the case with business. I came into the world of business because my life took a turn when I was surprised with a pregnancy right before applying to medical school. Sometimes, I mourn that, but Zachary is amazing and I do not regret the path one bit. I surprised myself with an aptitude for this subject: business. I believe I can reach the top of my game. But if I do, I will be in limited company.

Let’s crunch some numbers:

15.4%= The percentage of female corporate officers in Fortune 500 companies, as of 2011.

14.8%= the number of board seats held by women in the same.

2.4%= The percentage of female CEOs of Fortune 500 companies.

22= the number of female CEOs in  the Fortune 1000 companies.

Out of a thousand companies, only 22 have female CEOs.

(Source: Susan Gunelius @ www.womenonbusiness.com.)

With all of this in mind, I can say that it is “kick-ass” that all of my professors are female for my first semester of my MBA program. At a program that is competitive, nationally-ranked, and highly revered, at least in local business circles, these women are full professors, at the top of their game. I could say that there is a sparkling, crystal-clear ceiling made of glass that I would love to shatter, but these women have done it for me. For my mother, who died feeling like her life had no purpose. It is women like these who will ensure that my sons will grow up in a world where they do not believe that their gender makes them superior or inferior, but equal to their female counterparts. It is women like these who will change those God-awful statistics I just cited. And then there is the richness of the idea that, while women are so outnumbered in top business positions, they can make careeers of educating the men that edge them out for the top spots at these companies.

I thought the definition of sexism was believing in the superiority of one gender over the other, not the equality of the two. Am I wrong? Is it sexist to want more for your life? To have the personality that translates to the desire to challenge yourself and not stagnate? To expect that your gender will not hold you back and be happy when you find evidence that it will not? Is it sexist to believe that, because I have worked my ass off to improve the lives of my loved ones, I can do even more?

If this is sexism, sign me up.

No, I Do Not Need the Police

My own personal Hell. Really.

It all started wih Lego KidsFest. Fuckin’ Lego Fest, my ass.

I have been bribing the Medium Male in the house for months. I already told you how he has this rationale that he can simply pass all of his subjects simply by showing up for tests without doing homework. He just scores that well on his tests. So his therapist and I concocted this plan. Somehow, someway, I had to get Evan interested in doing homework. We had to find what motivates him and exploit the shit out of it. She helped me come up with the token system. For each day Evan came home and did homework without meltdowns, he could earn up to two tokens. I actually agreed to give him $5 for every token he earned to be spent in the store inside of Lego Fest. Because they were coming from the actual company, I knew they would have some seriously cool stuff that he can’t find in Toys’R'Us or Wal-Mart, and that he would want said stuff. Come hell or high water, I was going to motivate this kid to do homework. His therapist actually calculated and he had the potential to earn up to $560 to spend on fucking Legos. She kind of looked at me as if I were the one needing therapy, but whatevs. I am that desperate to end the fucking homework drama. Plus, in the back of my mind, I never thought for a second that this shit would work.

We made a big production of the token system. We went to the store that night and picked out a special jar. I let him pick out what we were going to use as tokens, and he picked those glass beads you use in floral arrangements. We bought a calendar for him to use to count down and track his progress. We even made a label for the jar on the computer. Well, Evan did. He called it the “Evan Did A Good Job Jar”. Except it really says “Evan Did Good Job Jar”. And I held to my word. He earned…….wait for it…….$45. Forty-fucking-five out five hundred and sixty. See, I told you. And then he got desperate, and we caught him shoveling handfuls of tokens into the jar one night, as if I was dumb enough to not keep track of how much money I would have to ultimately spend. So he had $45. If you know anything about Legos, you cannot buy shit for $45.

Two nights before the big event, I had to get some groceries. We all went to the store. Evan wanted his $45. No way. I know how this works. I’ve been to this show before and I know how it ends. I give him the $45 and tell him that’s it, not to cry at Lego Fest because I am not giving him anymore money if he spends it now. It doesn’t work because he will have a meltdown, and in order to prevent the calling of social services, I eventually give in. He gets what he wants. But this time, I am resolute. I am NOT DOING IT!

I get my groceries while trying to keep Zachy calm, as it is a little late for him and he’s fussy. We “Oh, Oh, OHYEAH” our way through the store with a nonverbal toddler who is on the verge of his own meltdown around every corner because he wants something and there are so  many things to want that we cannot tell what it is. I get to the checkout and for some reason, my bill is about $150 more than I thought I had spent. I paid it, but was seriously perplexed. I spend about $250 in groceries every two weeks, unless it’s diaper-buying week and then it is around $300. Since there were no cases of Pampers or wipes in the cart, why was my bill $408.63?????

So we get to the car, and I am doing my usual of glancing in each bag before loading it in the car. I try to keep the cold stuff easily recognizable because, with my two kids, you may not get an entire trunkful unloaded at once and have to pick your priorities. And as I am doing this, I start seeing the most random……shit.

An economy pack of toothbrushes–ten fucking toothbrushes.

Those Rubbery bath squirter toys for babies.

A couple of paperback books. One was a Harlequin romance-type, which, hey, is really not my style.

A toy truck.

A bath loofah.

Women’s El-Cheapo body spray that has nothing on the Versace shit I use–I’m a high-class bitch, y’all.

The list goes on, but I see what happened. We gather as much of it as we can find as we are loading the groceries, and John heads back into the store with the receipt to explain what happened and get my money back. We managed to recover $95 of it. Which is when it happens. Evan melts down. And I mean MELTS DOWN!

He locks me out of the car. He starts screaming and flailing arms and legs, elbows and knobby knees. Thankfully Zach wasn’t in the car, as John had sensed what was going to happen and took him back in the store with him. So Evan is kicking up HELL, smashed a dozen eggs with his fists on purpose, was punching the glass and kicking my seats as hard as he could. (Incidentally, thank you to Dodge for making a car that doesn’t easily destruct on the inside–the designer must have a kid with issues!) He gets out, gets back in just so he can slam the doors. He gets out and runs, totally barefooted through the parking lot, yelling that I am abusive and he is going to walk home. He must not have liked the dark or the feeling of his bare feet on concrete, so he runs back and gets back in. tries to lock me out again. 3 sets of people…..THREE….stop me to see if I need help. All I can do at this point is hold up my cell and my little remote car-unlocker thingy to signify that I can get in my car and am just choosing not to at the moment, as I suck the living hell out of a Marlboro Ultralight. (yeah, I know I shouldn’t smoke, but as an RT, my foolish decision was at least an educated one, and now is not the time to deprive me of that damned cigarette. I wasn’tinthe car smoking it.) As many more people asked me if I needed them to call the police for me. other than that, everyone else was just staring in the direction of my car as the screams carried across the parking lot.

No, I do not need you to call the police for me. I need you to turn your head while I fuck this kid up. I don’t want to be on the news tomorrow: “Health Care Professional Beats Child in Wal-Mart Parking Lot”. No, not really. I would never do that. But God, how I wanted to at that moment. And I could be angry that they didn’t see that this was not just a run-of-the-mill tantrum and be angry that they thought that this was a proper suggestion. In truth, I had thought the same thing. After 15 minutes of this, I was checking my pocket to make sure my phone was outside of the car in case I had to call the police. And by the way, where the fuck was John? Wal-Mart people, you seriously need to do something about the wait time in your lines.

Do you know what it is like to think you may have to call the police to protect you from your own ten-year-old kid? To protect him from himself?

Well, let me tell you, if I can. Because this is me and we all know I am going to tell you. It is pretty sucky. In the time the thought is going through your mind, what you feel is a barrage of emotions. Regret that you ever procreated, mixed with fierce love and desperation that there has got to be something you can do to fix your kid. Sheer loathing for your own life mixed with gratitude that it is you who has to do this because another parent would have probably killed him by now. Angst. Utter and complete angst. Reluctance, as in, can I really start this ball rolling? Fear. For him, for you, for the innocent person he would hurt if they got in his path at that moment. Knowing it will probably do him some good, but unable to handle it yourself. Embarrassment that it is possible that you did something wrong and maybe it is your fault, and what fucking parent needs law enforcement to step in? And so you keep a death grip on your phone, knowing it is there, and maybe if you wait it out one more minute, one more second, the fit will be over and he will just be your baby again. But if he doesn’t, the phone is still there, right in your hand. Just in case. Just in case.

The turmoil stopped. We went home. Evan, acting as if nothing had ever happened, asked if he could get on the computer to play a game. All I could do was look at him through tired eyes and tell him no, that he had to get a bath and go to bed. To which his response was to do just that without fight.

As we unloaded the groceries, we found even more of his stuff. Women’s deodorant. Toddler toothpaste. Kitchen sponges.

John actually cracked up when he found the last item. A trial-size pack of Tampax Pearl tampons. Regular.

Hey, Evan. I’ve had two kids. At least next time, get the Supers.

How Legos Pissed Me Off

I wrote a post bitching about this experience, so when I posted it, what I wrote disappeared and just the photos remained, so you are going to get an abridged version of Lego KidsFest.

$70 for my family to get in. Fine. But Evan didn’t get to do much because the lines were so long and the tickets were only good for 4-hour sessions. Ours were for 8:30 AM the morning after a work night for me. So I was tired. And crabby. And I could’ve stomached it a little better if it had been children in those lines. But they were all adults. Some of the rudest adults I have ever met. One almost knocked over Zachy’s stroller. There was lots of cursing, and not on my part. At a kids’ event. I actually heard someone shout, “Suck my D###!”, at one point. And for the most part, all of the kids were fine. My only gripe there was the big kids romping around the Duplo area, which was intended to be a safe place for toddlers. But again, this went back to the adults, who should’ve gotten the big kids out of there. And so I was getting angry. So we left after only two hours, lest I lose my cool and cut a bitch.

The statues were cool. Some of the activities would’ve been cool if Evan would’ve actually got to do them. So here are the photos I got.

Kinda like his room.

And for Zachy, a huge pile of Duplo bricks.

Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?

Hello, SpongeBob!

One of the few things the kid got to do.

The coolest of the statues--a life-size Lightening McQueen

Just parked the car

The Great Cabbage Patch Controversy

My name is Andrea, and I bought my son a doll. There, I said it. You would’ve thought I bought him a machine gun. Wait. Perhaps that would be more acceptable, more masculine.

The Offender

Zach plays with his stuffed animals by cradling them and hugging them as if they are babies, but yet when he gets close to a human, he swats and bats at faces, inflicting pain. I thought about it, and thought perhaps a doll that looked more like a baby would help him. He could do some role play and learn to be gentle and nurturing.

I knew his dad would hate the idea, so I knew better than to buy him a doll that was dressed in a frilly pink outfit or had bows in her hair. That really would have been pushing the envelope. What I needed was a masculine-looking doll. A doll that looked like a boy, was dressed like a boy. A less girly doll. Yeah. Have you ever tried to find anything that has anything to do with traditionl domestic role play that is not pink and frilly and…..grrrrrrr. Toy vaccuums, shopping carts, kitchens. Toy mops and brooms, dishes. All of them. Why? My real vaccuum isn’t pink. My dishes aren’t, either. My stove, refrigerator….none of it is pink. Why in the hell are we doing this to our children?

So  after scouring the internet and finding nothing, I gave up on the doll. Until last week. We were at Toys ‘R’Us when I saw a boy Cabbage Patch Kid. I had been looking at the dolls, reliving memories of my childhood. I had been the first on my block to get one when they first came out. Parents were getting in fist fights over the dolls, and my mom was right in the middle of that. The limit to buy was 10, and she bought all 10 to give to the girls in the family as Christmas presents. But not me. I got one of mine that day. I’ll never forget it. His name was Earl. He had on a blue cuorduroy outfit, was bald with big blue eyes. I was remembering all of this and thinking if I knew a little girl who would want one. As I moved the boxes around, looking at the different dolls, I saw the boy way in the back. A doll. No pink. Big blue eyes like Zachy’s.

And I bought it. The boy doll I had been looking for all of that time. We brought him home and I took him out of the box. His name is Kelton. And I handed him to Zachy, who promptly hugged him and put the doll next to him on the seat of his Cozy Coupe. Success.

Until I absentmindedly posted something on Facebook about, “Yay! I found the boy doll I was looking for for Zachy.”

I started getting e-mails. The phone rang a few times. People, who shall remain nameless and were too cowardly to post anything publically on Facebook, have a serious problem with this. Finally, John, who was with me when I bought it and had no protest then, is making snide comments when Zach so much as looks at the doll. I am going to confuse Zach. I am going to upset the balance. I am going to —GASP!—TURN HIM GAY!!!!! (These aren’t John’s words, but some of the comments I got from others.)

Zach and Evan are growing up in a family where the mom is the breadwinner and has the career, is on the fast track to an MBA. Their dad does the laundry, the cleaning. He runs the vacuum about three times a day (don’t ever get chocolate-brown area rugs, people–they show every speck of lint!) and washes the dishes. We split the cooking. He is the one to taxi Ev to and from school. To the point that one time, we went to a school function and one of the other mothers mentioned that she thought we were divorced because she never sees Evan’s Mommy. I believe there are inherent diferences between men and women. Some of it is put upon us by society. Some of it is hard-wired by biology. Both nature and nurture win. A prime example? I love pink. I like smelling like flowers. I hate getting dirty. You would never catch me fishing because I will not handle a fish. I hate most sports, other than college football. I watch chick flicks and cry when the situation calls for it. My husband can bench press a lot more than I can. But I am driven, aggressive, down-to-business. If you piss me off, I will let you know. If you are wrong, I’ll let you know that, too. I hate bullshit and will not allow you to dish it to me. I multi-task with the best of them.

Do not ever make the mistake of telling me something is not my job because I am a woman. Other than peeing while standing, I doubt there is anything I could not learn to do. Hell, if I were willing and had some practice, I could probably even manage that one. And if there is nothing I cannot do, and it is unacceptable to place me in a little stereotypical box, then it is certainly unacceptable to do so to either of my children at a time when they are growing and developing and learning who they are. At some point, they will choose the paths they want to take. They may be gay or straight. They may  choose to play in dirt or stay indoors and bake cupcakes. They may be construction workers, chefs, teachers, doctors, lawyers. Presidents of the United States. Or they could choose to stay home and be caregivers to their children while supporting their significant other so he or she can go out and kick ass in the world.

Just like I can do whatever I want, so can they. And whatever they choose, it will have not one damned thing to do with a doll I bought them while they were a toddler.

If It Weren’t For Nuns, My Child Would Starve

IF YOU CAN’T TOLERATE THE F-BOMB, JUST FUCKING MOVE ALONG ON THIS ONE.

As if we didn’t have enough drama in this house…

It doesn’t matter what I do. I send Evan in with lunch money to be put on his account. Or I can pack his lunch. Whatever. We still get cafeteria bills. In general, it costs about $100 per month to feed Evan school lunches. Remember when we were kids and it took like 75 cents per day? And an extra quarter got you an extra helping on pizza day? Those days are gone. They went bye-bye along with the little rubber squeezy change holders that held your lunch money daily. Now my kid has a name badge thay he swipes like a debit card, and we have to add money to it.

Sometimes, in the craziness that is my household, I forget. And sometimes I don’t. Regardless, we get the bill.

Two days ago, we got hate mail from the cafeteria lady. Evan has a bill. Again. And it needs to be paid. So I went to get money out and discovered that instead of deducting my normal monthly car insurance premium, Geico took enough to cover the entire policy. Oops. When I renewed, I forget to opt for the monthly payments. My fault. But oh, shit, we have no money! So I tried to call the cafeteria lady and got no answer. Since I had no cash, and Evan has to have lunch, I sent him in with enough to cover one day’s worth. There! Evan gets lunch until my payroll hit this morning.

Yesterday, when Evan returned from school, he had more hatemail. Another copy of his bill, and in black marker and block letters at the bottom, the cafeteria lady basically stated that I am the scumofthefuckingearth and sending Evan in with enough to cover one lunch was NOT ACCEPTABLE–her emphasis, not mine–and that we owed a bill. Again, we tried to call and got no answer.

This morning, I sent Evan to school as normal. I told him to let them know that we would go to an ATM and bring money in for his cafeteria bill and to tell whoever this information. John overslept and didn’t have time to stop at an ATM on the way, so he would have to bring the money back to the school. So what happened?

My kid calls me, crying, from the office. “Mommy, they said you have to bring me a sandwich or s-s-s-s-something for lunch, that I cannot go h-h-h-h-hungry. I told them what you told me to tell them, but they still made me call you!”

To which my response was to make Evan put an adult on the damned phone. Basically, the nun that answered told me that they are concerned for Evan, that he has to eat and how did I plan on feeding him. Blah blah blah. How their only concern was Evan.

Are you serious? MY  only concern is Evan. I will ensure that he eats. We are bringing in money, for God’s sake. We are not trying to starve our kid. His bill is thirteen fucking dollars and we are acting like it is a federal crisis and poor Evan is going to go hungry and never eat again. And for the record, I would have packed Evan a lunch today and just sent the money in with Evan tomorrow, but I was out of fucking bread for a God-forsaken PB&J and Evan refused an Uncrustable in place of his fucking PB&J-with-the-fucking-crusts-cut-off. So ta-daaaaa. You have to wait for me to get one of us to an ATM. And while we on the topic of my failure to feed my kid, John would have had time to stop at an ATM before school had Evan not nibbled on his breakfast, insisting on eating one fucking Cheerio at a time, citing that too big a bite is a fucking choking hazard. What 10-year-old speaks of choking hazards, anyway? Mine, that’s who!

Maybe I should just revert to my passive aggressive bitchiness and really prove my point. I wonder if that five-star place around the corner caters school lunches!?!? Better yet, how would the nuns react to the waiter showing up with a silver platter and tucking the linen napkin neatly onto Evan’s lap for him?

A Good Ol’ Ass-Whoopin’

Okay, first of all, I’m angry.

Evan isn’t doing so well these days. Remember the post about bullying and Evan being the receiver? Turns out that isn’t so true. It was all a huge manipulation, and it turns out that, while Evan can occassionally be on the receiving end, he is often the giver, too. There is no “poor Evan” in this. None whatsoever. I was so angry and shocked, and even hurt. How could he lie like that? I just do not undersand. We give him love and attention everyday.

The issues he has been having are getting worse, too. I have, so far this year, bought multiple coats and belts. A belt is required as a part of his uniform. He always loses his. And gets sent home wearing a lost-and-found belt that has to be returned. And I buy a new one. The coat…I have no idea there. He did the same thing last year. He wears one to school in the morning and doesn’t come home with it. Gym clothes, we cannot seem to remember those…EVER. And the homework. Gah, the homework. It is unbelievable haw bad the turmoil can be in this house. It goes on for hours and hours. He lies to us about what has to be done, only to have a note sent home the next day, yet he still has straight-A’s.

There is more. I was wondering, and fearing, and hoping it wasn’t true. Little Zachy flinches if you reach out to touch him quickly. It’s even worse if it is his face–as in to smooth his hair or brush a crumb off of his face. I wanted to know why. That is a learned reaction, after all. Who in the fuck has been hiting my baby? So I grilled John. No answers. And I tried to help Zachy know that he will not be hurt by being extra gentle with him. No swatting of hands when he gets into something, no pats on he diapered butt. NOTHING from ANYBODY.

And then my heart sank. A few days ago, during one of his rages, Evan reached up from his place on the floor and shoved Zach as hard as he could. I unleashed hell on him, I was so angry. Zach is just a baby. I was sure it would never happen again. My reaction actually seemed to scare Evan. And then he did it again the next day–not a shove, but an actual slap.

Earlier in the week, we had to call the after-hours psychiatry line. I had worked 3 in a row, which means that I was only here to sleep. After the weekend was over, John let me know that Evan had not slept. For days. On one particularly bad night, John said he had to get Evan out of the living room 10 times throughout the night. And no wonder he can’t sleep in his room. I wouldn’t be able to either. It looks like it belongs on an episode of Hoarders, even though it was just thoroughly cleaned by me a couple of days ago. He hoards trash, broken toys, outgrown clothes. As soon as it is all cleaned up, which takes a whole day, it is back like that before you know it.

There is something wrong with my son. I’m not even sure this is Asperger’s anymore. I am very scared for him. I want him to get better. The psychiatry people are questioning Bipolar Disorder now, and wondering if he is in some sort of mania. My heart is broken. We cannot stand the thought of admitting him to the hospital, and the psychiatry people think this may be more traumatic for him, as we would have to leave him on a locked unit for many days and nights, only seeing him during visiting hours. There is such an animal as partial hospitalization, where he goes to the hospital and stays there from 8AM to 5PM everyday and sleeps at home with us. They are talking about that as a feasible option that may help him. Which brings me to the whole point.

Tonight, John called his mother to let her know that we may not be able to visit for Thanksgiving afer all. He told her Evan wasn’t doing so well and they were talking about partial hospitalization. That we are having a hard time. Mind you, we have been stock-piling this stuff for John’s niece who just had a baby yesterday. She is breastfeeding, and I offered to let her use one of my pumps. I bought her all of the supplies for pumping, a high chair, and about $500 in brand-name baby clothes. Even then, she had the gall to ask me to stop everything and bring her the pump—4 hours away–a month ago. I told her the baby is full term and she really needs to be physically nursing right now, anyway. I was going to take her the stuff when we go down to visit for Thanksgiving. If it is that damned important that she have a pump now, she can rent one from Babies ‘R’Us for about $60 until I take mine down there. I shouldn’t do anything because, after all I have done, she asked me to buy her a very specific crib and mattress. So there is already a sort of soreness there. So tonight, John tells his mom that our son is possibly going to be receiving inpatient psych care—her grandson—and her response isn’t words of concern for Evan, but asking how we are going to get our niece–her granddaugher–the stuff we bought. I was so pissed. But that isn’t the best part.

Not long after, John’s dad calls. He wants to know why Evan is possibly going to need this care and why we are letting this happen. John told him the psychiatrist–from a world-reknowned children’s hospital, mind you–thinks it may be best for Evan right now, that he is having bad problems. So then John’s dad asked why we took Evan to psychiatrist in the first place. Ummmm, because we were referred by our doctor and because Evan has been having worsening problems for years? To which John’s dad responded that Evan just needs a GOOD OL’ ASS-WHOOPIN’.

Thanks. Because I never thought of that. What would I do without him?

Yeah, I’m ashamed to admit that we have thought of this a long time ago. We tried spanking. I don’t believe in it, but we were desperate and honestly just thought Evan was misbehaving. You know what happened? Evan laughed at us and continued with the behavior while I cried that I endorsed hitting my kid. And we vowed to never do it again. When Evan is in one of his rages, I would dare say he doesn’t feel physical pain. Spanking will not work. We would have to beat him to within an inch of his life to make him feel it. I cannot hurt my child, for one.

And since when does abuse cure illness? Mental illness is as much an illness as cancer or a heart condition. If you’re having a heart attack, I am not going to be able to beat it out of you. I am so tired of this shit.

Yes, I’ve thought about extracurriculars for Evan. They didn’t work. Not Cub Scouts, Basketball, Karate, Foresters.

Yeah, I’ve tried spanking before we realized there was something seriously wrong. Other things I’ve tried? Removal of privileges, taking his things he loves away, grounding, time-outs, positive discipline, rewards for desired behavior, points and demerits systems, money. None of that shit worked, either.

I have even opted to send him to small, expensive parochial school so he would receive more attention. Spending money I really could use for something else, by the way.

None of this has worked because Evan is sick. So sick. And I am done with my in-laws. Completely finished. You know what they say about a straw and the camel’s back. Well that shit is as broken as it gets.

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.

Oops, They Did it Again. (All Night Blog-a-Thon #3)

We’re going back. Waaaaaaay Back. And I’m not talking about the Thompson Twins I am listening to now. I’m taking about way back when Bichypants was Veruca. Okay, yeah, I know that was only this time last year when I wrote this post.

The calendar turned pages on me. And it is October, and time for Halloween. That means costumes. Candy. Trick-or-Treating with my babies. But wait! Our neighbors weren’t putting out the tacky decorations like they did last year. may be they weren’t going to do it this year! Score!

So I was here in the house with Zachy and Zach kept hearing noise and running to the door, thinking his “Daddeeeeeeeee” had arrived home from class. Must be the mailman, I thought. But it kept happening. And then there was a knock at the door and my neighbor asked if he could put the decorations on our side of the duplex too, you know, in the name of symmetry. Because if there is one thing that is awful and unsightly, it’s when your tacky fucking holiday decorations aren’t symmetrical. And so I glance outside and see that Halloween has thrown up all over the house. Of course I said yes, because at this point it isn’t going to make a bit of difference where the decorations are. It’s that bad.

There’s a cartoon-looking ghost hanging on fishing line. Some weird sculpture he whittled out of wood hanging in the tree. Caution tape everywhere. Plastic skulls and tombstones sticking out of the ground. The fake cottony spider-webby shit everywhere. I hate my life.

Dude, I’ll cover the Christmas decorations this year. And there will be no Tacky Plastic. It’s a new edict.