Recently (ok, today) the 11 year old got an award at school for something. I wish I could tell you what the award was actually FOR but to be perfectly honest I’m not really sure. And the reason I’m not sure is it seems like kids get awards for just about anything these days. Like if you showed up and didn’t punch anyone in the face… CONGRATS you get an award for Citizenship. You sir, are a good Citizen. Because you went to school and when some kid made a joke about yo mama you didn’t kick him in the man business. Well done.
Don’t get me wrong…. I’m a big fan of positive reinforcement. I firmly believe in Shamu Parenting. Serious. But COME ON. Must kids DO nothing to get awarded for just existing? Have we reached the point of such desperation that we now award people for just showing up? I made the honor roll EVERY FLIPPIN QUARTER When I Was A Kid. Most of the time with a 4.0. AND furthermore I never punched anyone in the face (ok once I punched Vernon Avila because he told the entire school I wasn’t a virgin after he kissed me inside a tractor tire. Which was NOT TRUE. Cause I was 8. Turns out he didn’t even know what a virgin was. And I only threatened to hit him with a rock. So… bygones.) Anyway I didn’t cut school. I came almost every day (like it or not, cause I had to be bleeding from my eyes to miss school). I even managed to get good grades while my mom was getting married and divorced and married and divorced and not even home… and you get the idea. And no one ever gave me any kind of award for any of that. My award was… wait for it… an EDUCATION.
While I don’t begrudge the kids their ‘Citizenship’ and ‘Merit’ I’m really just kind of jealous that those kind of awards don’t exist for adults.
Did you get out of bed this morning? Was it DESPITE having been up all night with a teething baby or someone with a fever or someone throwing up on you?
BAM. You get the ‘I Didn’t Want To But I Did Anyway’ award. Cause I’m THAT good.
Did your toddler poop on the floor? For the third time today? Or did your 12 year old spill yet ANOTHER glass of juice on the couch because he was watching tv instead of looking at his glass? Did your 15 year old take your blush? AGAIN? And through all of this did you manage to not scream? Or maybe you screamed, but it was just a little bit?
Oh SNAP. For you, the ‘I Can Get Through a Day Without Strangling Anyone or Running For The Hills Screaming’ award.
Did you look in the fridge and concoct something for dinner out of some tortillas and a couple of wrinkly apples and some half molded cheese? Because you wanted to get to the store but you just couldn’t on account of the fact that you couldn’t bring yourself to get out of your pj pants? Because of the aforementioned vomit/teeth/fever?
Well ALRIGHTY. For you, the ‘I Make Food Magically Appear’ award.
OK lets say it was a REALLY bad day and ALL you managed to do was keep the cranky baby fed and changed and you never got a shower or got to brush your hair or teeth but that’s ok cause the baby didn’t die?
AMEN sister. You get the ‘SHUT YO MOUTH HATERZ I kept the Baby ALIVE’ award. Well done. Mission accomplished.
I had a 10 and half pound baby. In MY KITCHEN.
I’m giving myself the ‘HOLY SHIT You Had a 10 and Half Pound HUMAN BEING in YOUR KITCHEN’ award. I deserve it. Totally. If that was all I did ALL YEAR, it really should suffice.
My husband? He worked 16 hours a day almost every day this week (and actually every day of the last 3 weeks). The majority of it away from his family, eating food he concocted in a microwave with two day old french fries and sitting in an office until 10 pm, usually alone, and he didn’t get any kind of award. (Though he did get his paycheck which is LIKE an award but somehow seems inadequate in the face of a zillion hour workweek.) What he got was hearing his crying wife say she was going to pull her hair out. Oh AND to sleep in an uncomfortable bed.
I’m giving him the ‘I Have No Idea What You Did But WOW You Did It’ award. You’re awesome honey. You survived.
And me? Well I kept the kids alive while he was gone. Despite getting very little sleep (see: teething up all night award), having a few moments of tears (ok maybe a few more than a few) and eating cereal for dinner. Twice. There should be points for all that too. Even though nothing earthshattering happened. I didn’t get the toilets scrubbed but I did mop twice because of Mange-y Dog hair. Oh AND I made the bed. THREE TIMES. Award for me.
I think you get what I’m saying. There are days when I get up and I have really good intentions. Like I MEAN to make a dress or headband. OR I WANT to bake something really yummy. Or some days I just aim to get my sheets changed. Some days I want to go shopping. Some days I want to write a blog post or call an old friend (you Holly).
Some days none of those things happen.
Some days I just keep the kids alive.
And some days, that’s enough.
Points for participation people.
For the love of motherhood,
If you were about the blog yesterday you might remember this little gem. The one where I was a whiny little be-otch. Last night the Man and I had to have a heart to heart about the dog. In other words, I told him the dog was making me insane. He concurred.
At least the dog wasn’t vomiting all over the house. And with the tofu incident of Tuesday behind us. I was feeling like things might be moving in a positive direction. Despite the dog crap and urine in the house.
That’s when I saw the Man bend down to wipe the floor.
“What are you doing?” said I.
“Just picking something up.” said he.
“It looks like….. a tick.”
“A WHAT THE HOLY HELL DID YOU JUST SAY?” (it was in fact, slightly less dramatic. But only slightly.)
OK so there are now creepy crawling biting infecting mites and burrowing blood sucking ticks. Awesome.
While all of this was going on I received news from a friend (Emily @ Joyful Abode) that another friend was quite ill and having an issue with her milk supply (that is, breastmilk supply). She wondered if I had any frozen. I did not have much as most of it has been eaten in the form of a breastmilk popsicle but I said I’d get to pumping. And pump I did. Last night. Twice this morning. Once this afternoon. I managed to get quite a few ounces of pretty fatty milk for her wee babe. Yay boobs.We can keep her baby fed until she’s mended. No sweat. I bet we end up with more milk than she even needs.
Then this afternoon a phone call from one of my Hospice friends. Seems the son of a former very dear patient of mine was killed. That’s two deaths in a year for that family.
With these two pieces of knowledge and a piece of humble pie, I managed to get some distance from myself. As I sat pumping and thinking (because it requires both hands so what else could I do). I thought about losing a son and I thought about my friend.
And I thought about the ticks. And the bitey mites. And the smelly dog. And about 671 other things that are stressing me out right now. And what I came up with was this:
I’m really glad I have four healthy kids. And I’m really glad my boobs can make milk for two babies. I’m glad I have a nice pump that I can pump with. I’m so glad I have a friend like Emily who would call me on behalf of a woman who needed help. I’m glad I have a husband who is here to help, and kids who are HERE even if their rooms look like a nuclear bomb explosion site) I’m glad I have a nice house. And clothes. And food. And cake.
The glad list kept getting longer. And less vital to survival than something like, say, cake, for example.
I’m glad I got this brand new (40 year old) sewing machine.With all these fancy knobs for fancy stitches.
And that I have an enviable yarn stash. (of which this is about 1/18th)
And I’m glad for this dog.
Mostly because he’s sleeping.
(Actually the dog is still making me batshitcrazy, but I’m trying to gain perspective here people.)
breastfeeding , crafts , crochet , knitting , whine
I know every other blogger in the blogging universe will be participating fully in wordless Wednesday. And usually I look forward to Wednesday for that reason. Post a photo and move along. But this isn’t any normal Wednesday for me so I’m going to create a new Wednesday tradition.
I bring you: Wordy Whiny Wednesday.
Sponsored in part by Milo, Hormonal Imbalance and Tofu.
If that title sounds as awful as I think it does I wouldn’t blame you if you just closed this page and moved on to the next blog. If you decide to read on, I warn you, there will be whining. In excess.
If you remember Monday. There were woes. Woes and sighs of doggy distress. $165 and three medications later, we find, the dog, Milo, as it were, turns out has sarcoptic mange. (If you are susceptible to suggestion and prone to psychosomatic medical disorders and imaginary itching, do not click that link. I beg of you.) What that link does NOT tell you is that if you find out your dog does in fact HAVE sarcoptic mange (aka dog scabies) you will immediately become a crazybugobsessedinsanewoman and set about cleaning everything in your house. OR you will sit in front of the computer in tears looking at photos of bugs and imagining your baby crawling with invisible biting dog mites while your husband tries ineffectively to soothe you by taking the cushion covers off the couch. Or both. And you will itch.Most certainly. Because while the mite responsible for my current misery does not actually COMPLETE it’s life cycle on humans that doesn’t stop it from trying.
In the aftermath of The Scabies, the house was in complete disarray.
The next morning, Tuesday, it was still in disarray, only now, it was in disarray and I couldn’t move.
In the frenzy of cleaning I managed to hurt my back. So off to the trusty Hunting-White-Coated-Face-Lifted Chiropractor I went. (No really, that’s what we call him.) After much gasping and scolding at the sounds my back made he sends me home. To bed.
Which is where Ella and I spent much of yesterday. While the house continued in it’s downward spiral of further disarray and what I like to refer to as The Bad Hormones were ravaging my body (along with other unpleasant things I won’t subject you to), I laid there. Which was actually quite lovely. For approximately five minutes.
At which point I began to lose my mind.
I busied myself knitting and I was able to finish this:
My phone cover, without incident. (pattern and tut to follow)
Ella nursed a fair amount because it was so readily available and within her grasp (quite literally) and she cooed and smiled and babbled to me.
Until she was obviously sick of looking at my face.
Which took about an hour.
I busied her with toys and moved on to working a bit on the blog. Productivity in the face of despair. Yes. Brilliant. I spent a bit fussing the sidebar and such until I was satisfied and when I saved some changes and loaded the page, excited to see my changes, I was not so excited at what I saw.
My sidebar was gone.
To fully understand this you must understand that I worked over a week on that sidebar. WordPress. If you’re reading, I hate you. I wish upon you the plague or that thing with the locusts. Either of those.
Did I save a copy of my HTML? No. Of course not.
For a while.
Thankfully the Man was able to run after the children. Once the children were home from school I set about having them put things back in order. You know, to what ever degree kids can do that sort of thing. Like putting the wrong covers on the couch and vacuuming half a room and those kind of things. During this time I tried, without sobbing uncontrollably, to piece the sidebar back together. As some point the 15 year old said something like “Mom, why do you have two pimples? Are you stressed out or something?”
No. Not at all.
Because it was clear that I couldn’t under any circumstances cook dinner, we went out to Chinese food. It was nice to be sitting up. In a chair. And the kids were all agreeable and in a good mood. Lovely. And as he does often the Man offered the 15 year old $5 to eat tofu. It took her a while to work up to putting it in her mouth (15 agonizing minutes, but who’s counting). She eventually did.
And then she promptly began to gag and throw up.
At the table.
And then she went to the bathroom to throw up.
And while she was gone the boys started with the third degree about whether or not they were going to throw up.
And then I went to the bathroom to soothe her and hold her hair out of her vomit and dry her vomit-y tears and tell her she never ever had to eat tofu again ever in her whole life.
And I wanted to throw up.
But I don’t throw up, so we just left. And came home. And when we got home we gave the dog his $165 pills.
And he started to throw up.
On the rug. (And why can’t animals EVER throw up on the linoleum anyway?)
And when he was done throwing up he ate the throw up. Which made the 11 year old say he was going to throw up. Now everyone was nauseated and no one wanted to touch the dog anyway but if the vomit wasn’t enough he started itching. And I’m 117% certain I could see the microscopic mites literally flying off of him and into the air we breathe. And that made me itchy.
So I gave up and went to bed.
Today I don’t feel so much like I want to die. And the dog isn’t AS smelly or itchy. And no one is throwing up.
So that’s a vast improvement over yesterday.
I’m looking at things from a glass half full perspective.
It looks like it’s about half full of a bottle of Cabernet.
Woe. Is. Me.
Before animal lovers all over the world unite to flame me to my internet death, let me say, I too am a lover of animals. At one time in my life I even thought I’d be a veterinarian. But that day is long, looong gone. I have reached my capacity for animal love. Let’s review: my contempt for the cat. And now…
Milo is a dog. He is a Boston Terrier as far as I can tell. Or part Boston, part sweet, part pain in the hiney, if that breed exists. We found him. On the road. In the country. No one claimed him, and he seemed alright, cute even, so we kept him.
Mistake number 2.
Mistake number 1 was getting the other dog. Lucy. If you haven’t see the Man’s blog about her. I’m not even going into it. I can’t bear it.
Anyway we kept him. We had him fixed and all that jazz. Got him chipped. Cause we’s responsible pet owners. Yes we are. Or we like to think so anyway. *pat pat on the back*
Well Milo has a bit of a complex. He’s little. But he doesn’t know. Also he doesn’t know when a much bigger dog can WHIP HIS ASS. So he fights. Over everyathang. Food. Toys. Balls. Name it. He is up in Lucy’s face. She’s going to eat him eventually. Because of this we decided that Milo would be better off inside.
I see now why Milo was in the middle of a country road. It’s becoming very clear.
In addition to thinking he’s a Great Dane, Milo pees. Every time he gets excited. So he pees on the floor. On people. And frequently on himself.
And he poops. Usually outside. But not always.
The day after Milo came inside I noticed he was scratching. WITH RECKLESS ABANDON. Then the hair. All. Over. The. Place. The couch. The floor. Ella’s mouth. In my FOOD.
I swept FIVE TIMES. IN ONE DAY. And I vacuumed. Twice. And my vacuum sucks. Or actually it doesn’t, so that’s another problem altogether.
Then I realized (and it took me a while because I like to live in a place called Denial). CRAPTASTIC. He’s not just scratching and shedding. He’ sick. And I KNOW you’re supposed to feel bad for creatures that are helpless. Like babies and DOGS. I knooooow. But ARGH. WE FOUND THIS DOG ON THE STREET. Babies are cute.
Milo is a scabby snorting snoring balding mess of stench and annoyance.
And I have to take him to the vet. Because I’m a responsible pet owner. And before he was a scrabby snorting snoring balding mess of stench and annoyance he was kind of cute.
You know, like before I ate his hair for breakfast.
And the vet smells. Like bleach. And other stinky dogs. I don’t like it.
Thank you in advance for your time and commiseration.
In pet owning misery,