Disclaimer: This post intends no disrespect to working moms or non-working moms or military (wife) moms (who I know deal with this issue on a MUCH LARGER scale) or moms who can’t get a job. Or my husband. Amen.

Thank you for joining me for yet ANOTHER edition of Wordy Whiny Wednesday. Today’s whine will be brought to you by my bad attitude, PMS and generally a childish outlook. If you’re one of those perpetually pleasant people you may want to come back in a couple of days. And if per chance you do make it to the end of the Whine, I thank you kindly and ask that you would please leave a comment… Either 1. Telling me to stop whining and being a baby 2. Telling me you that empathize with my pathetic outlook or 3. Something about cake. Like perhaps I should eat one.

I am JEALOUS of my husband’s job. Whhhhhiiiinnnnnne.

There. I said it. *Sigh*

Now when I say I am jealous I don’t mean I wish I could work. Noooooo. No. No. While I do periodically miss the fulfillment of producing something other than clean laundry, breastmilk and a lovely cupcake I have no desire WHATSOEVER to be in the workforce. Ever. I very much enjoy the ‘work’ of this house. Therefore this Whine should be taken with the grain of salt that it is worth.

We now proceed with the Whining:

You may or may not know that 3 days a week my husband is GONE. Like AWAY. Away from this house. He leaves. Get what I’m saying? He goes to work, but work as it so happens, is in a land far, far from here. He packs a bag. He gets in his car. He drives away. And I. Stay. Here.

Now you should also know that we knew FULL well that this was going to be the case when we were first dating. We knew it when we moved in together. We knew it when we got pregnant. Annnd when we got married. Annnnnd when Ella was born. Annnnnnnd when I quit working. And if we get pregnant again we will know it then too. We KNEW he would have to drive away to work and yet, we did it all anyway. We had to. It was love. But yeah. I don’t like it. Not a fan.

Before I further proceed with the Whine let me say this:

1. My husband is AWESOME. He is kind and caring and loving. He is smart and funny. (Also he’s hawt)
2. My husband does not WANT to leave here. He’d much rather be here changing diapers and playing with his baby girl. He’d rather drive kids all over creation and listen to tales of elementary/jr. high/high school woe. He’d rather sit on the sofa and watch Twin Peaks and snuggle with me at night in OUR bed. But he cannot. Because he has to go far, far away to work.
And
3. He does not GO to work far, far away with the intention of having any fun while I cook and clean and become perpetually sleep deprived. It’s just that sometimes… fun finds him.

Furthermore, I am not suggesting that my husband would rather be playing tennis while I fold the 87th load of laundry this week. But you know, maybe he gets the chance to play tennis (or run or whatever). And pretty sure no laundry. And I’m not saying that he’d rather be having a rare beer with a buddy while I’m bouncing a fussing baby or getting her BACK to sleep for the 11th time, but yeah, sometimes, that too. Beer. No baby crying. Also I’m not saying he’d rather get an ENTIRE HOUR to play guitar with no one grabbing him and asking him for anything AT ALL EVER. But yeah, he’s alone soooo. That. And not saying he’d rather be getting SEVEN STRAIGHT HOURS OF SLEEP IN A MOTHEREFFING ROW than be here with me next to him tossing and turning and co-sleeping with a wiggling 8 month old. But those things are in fact happening because he goes AWAY to WORK.

Ah work.

See most of the time it’s just boring stupid work that I’m sure he wishes he didn’t have to do. He just goes to his big office and does it ALL DAY for like a hundred hours and then goes to a lonely empty room (sounds awesome right?) where he calls me, tells me about his day and then sleeps 7 hours, gets up at the ass crack of dawn then goes BACK to the office where he works out, showers and then goes BACK to his desk, usually well before 8 am. At his desk he gets to have maybe a pastry he finds at a meeting room oooor a bagel on Wednesdays, cause that’s bagel day. And coffee. OH and leftovers he brought to eat from home. But every now and then things happen… like this one time when I was HUGE and pregnant (and I mean HUGE) and I was killing ants upstairs and falling over the cat and sobbing like a HUGE PREGNANT LADY while his office was throwing “us” a baby shower. With CHAMPAGNE. And CAKE people. CAKE. And when he called he said, “It was so nice. They gave us a shower.” And I replied lovingly, ‘WELL WHERE THE HELL IS MY EFFING CHAMPAGNE THEN?” Because I was not invited to the shower. I was only invited to the ant killing and falling down party. And ha, whaddya know I was the ONLY PERSON at that party. And sometimes he gets to go to lovely lunch where there is food that is not peanut butter that he doesn’t have to pay for. Food like lobster ravioli. And wine. Or beer. Or other drinks that are not cold coffee or water that tastes like feet (no really). And I am eating a stale sandwich that I made like 2 hours ago but never got to because someone started crying and then something else and something else. Etc. Etc. You get the point. And sometimes, ok only once so far but still, this is his view for two days:

THAT. IS. HIS. VIEW.

(In case you can’t tell. That is the OCEAN.)

Because in the world of the internet, companies fight to gain and keep loyalty. They fight hard. And dirty. And apparently that means a 4 star resort in Santa Cruz. Where there is a big soft EMPTY bed with no baby keeping you up all night. And there is no laundry. At ALL. And where they will cook for you. FOR YOU. And there are no DISHES. And they will give you an open bar (that my actually be untrue, but there will for sure be plenty of beer). And they will let you play ON THE BEACH. GAMES. On the BEACH, people. The Beach.

And I’m jealous. It’s the ugliest of all the seven deadly sins, I KNOW, but there it is. Rearing it’s ugly sinning deadly head. And he says “the weather isn’t going to be very good” OR “there is fire soot {from the BONFIRE on the BEACH} and I’m having to breathe it” or “I’ll try not to have too much fun”. And I say. PLEASE. SHUT. THE. HELL. UP (that’s hyperbole, I’d never actually say that) be quiet. Because I have a migraine from the screaming AND I WANT TO RUN DOWN THE STREET AND POSSIBLY TO THE NEXT TOWN AND MAYBE PULL A FORREST GUMP RIGHT NOW (I’ve never actually had a migraine. Also I’d die if I ran more than 3 miles.)

*sigh*

I feel bad about myself.

Because this is my view:

This is NOT THE BEACH PEOPLE. Even if there is some water somewhere in that hose.

But also there’s this:

So I KNOW I really CAN’T complain. I know this. Because I’m getting to do what I want. I’m getting to be with our sweet little baby every hour of every day. I get to see her grow and change and I know I’m INCREDIBLY LUCKY. I know.

It’s just that I REALLY would like to be lucky on the beach sometimes.

Thanks for playing.

Anyone get this? Anyone? Bueler?

marriage , messed up crap , mothering , wordy whiny wednesday , work

Oh wait. It’s Wednesday. My bad.

Last weeks Tuesday was brought to you from a luxurious resort in Scottsdale. This Tuesday… uh I mean Wednesday? From the sofa.

Let’s recap the week. Last week found us enjoying the sights and thrifty shopping adventures of Arizona. It was lovely.
Until:

I should have known things were only going to go downhill from there. I mean this is not a baby that just FALLS asleep on a bed unprovoked. Even if it is an ultra awesome down comforted resort bed. The rest of that day was spent celebrating (er, shopping) with my sister for her 23rd birthday celebration (which was Saturday). Then we were on the plane to come home:

Ella enjoyed the plane ride and wasn’t at all fussy. Clue #2.

The three episodes of unusual poop should have tipped me off. Clue #3. I blamed the travel. We arrived home late Thursday. Tired but in one piece. Mostly.

Then came the vomiting. And more pooping. More vomiting. I was up and down most of the night. Mostly up. Friday 8:30 am I was calling the Big Kids to pick them up from their dads (they had just returned from a ski trip with grandparents). By 8:30 more vomiting. And the lethargy. She couldn’t even hold her head up. I was genuinely concerned and shortly thereafter we were making an appointment to see our pediatrician. We haven’t seen him since Ella was literally 18 hours old. (That’s another story.) In any case by the time we reached his office things were looking up. Ella was able to nurse and keep it down. The diagnosis: Something viral. Awesome. We stayed there for a while just to be sure and then came home. I breathed a sigh of relief. The Man picked up the Big Kids. And our day proceeded on.

I was tired. Like really tired.

Later Friday there was more pooping. And Friday night more pooping. There was luggage and clothing all over the place that had to be put away.

I was tired. Like really really tired.

Did I mention I was tired?

Why am I so tired?

Saturday night more pooping. More. Pooping. Less. Sleeping. I just cannot sleep when kids are sick.

Again. Tired.

Sunday looked better. Kind of. Oh yeah and it was Easter. Oops. Thanks to Staci’s mom for getting me stuff at Costco to throw together some kind of Easter meal that wasn’t pizza. (I should have just gotten pizza.) Ella seemed to be herself and we had a kind of pathetic Easter celebration. There were no fancy dresses. No baskets. No egg hunts. No photo ops. We gave the big kids itunes gift cards purely because we didn’t want to support the tiny plastic crappy Chinese toy industry.

I’m a lousy mother. I was purely in functional mode. Cooking. And trying not to fall asleep standing up. I didn’t even get the camera OUT.

Except for this:

And this (it’s pie):

And this (it’s beer):

And this… The Big Kids teaching Ella to play blackjack.

Hit me.

Sunday night the Big Kids laundry was all done and the vomit was mostly cleaned up and they went back to their dad’s for a couple of days. Sunday night, more pooping. And then more vomiting. What. The. Hell. I gave up and sat on the sofa. All. Night. Long. Every time I’d put her down she would cry in pain. So I didn’t put her down. Instead I watched Brothers & Sisters on netflix (not a bad show, even when cradling an ill infant). At 5:45 I made the handoff to daddy (who had been taking her every morning because I refuse to wake him up at night). Slept 2 and a half hours. Got up.

She looked like this:

I looked like I’d been hit by a truck. Not a small truck either.

And on that note…

Here’s some things:

1. I CANNOT tolerate sleep deprivation like I used to. I just can’t. I’m either too old. Or I’m too old. I used to go 24 to 36 or more hours without a wink of sleep. Now one night and I feel like death. What happened? Oh yeah. I’m old.

2. I am a RN. I have been doused in every body fluid imaginable. Blood? Amniotic fluid? Bring it on. But I. hate. vomit. Not the vomit itself just the act of vomiting and seeing people vomit. Case in point, I myself have not vomiting since I was 5. No shit. (OK I dry heaved when I had my wisdom teeth out. But it took 4 vicodin on an empty stomach to make that happen). I don’t like it.

3. The way that I have learned to cope with vomiting (or sick in general) children is to get up and pretend it’s day time. That’s how I cope. It’s a control thing. This means a couple of things: 1. I’m not awakened abruptly by anyone vomiting on me. Which is nice. 2. I don’t sleep. At all. and 3. My Big Kids actually didn’t mind being sick in the night too much cause it meant they got to watch whatever they wanted on TV while mom set about disinfecting every imaginable surface.

Anyway. Ella is better now.

I still feel a little like I’m spinning in the middle of my own personal tornado.

Thanks for listening.

ella , messed up crap , mothering , OVERACHIEVERITIS , wordy whiny wednesday

Or whatever agency is responsible or this sort of thing… Maybe the FBI. I hope it’s just the local police. I know some of them. They might pity me for my sleep deprivation and PMS.

You know why I love blogging (and other bloggers)? Because blogging unites us all. As women and mothers it unites us in the human experience in a way that other things do not. We are a community and it takes a community to keep us all sane. Or me sane. Yeah, probably just me. That was just a PSA. Thanks for listening.

Sometimes what I say makes people upset. For example, last week, when I was talking about guilt. And immediately after I posted that on twitter I lost like a jillion followers (ok like 20, but whatever that might as well be a jillion on this little ol’ blog). I can hear them now… “Oh I’m not reading HER blog ANYMORE. SHE let her baby cry scream itself into a brain damaged frenzy. She is NOT an attached parent. She is a hypocrite and I am SO much better than her.” (Or whatever.)

Goodbye. I will miss you.

Anyway, respect to all government workers in advance.

(All government workers have probably now unfollowed me).

Last week I went to the social security office.

I can think of better ways to spend a Tuesday. No offense intended. It’s awful.

Anyway this was yet another entry in the series we like to call “All the bullcrap you have to do yourself if you have a homebirth” ie. Get a social security card. In my haze of sleep deprivation and forgetfulness and general avoidance I forgot to get Ella a card. That needs to be in our hands to file our taxes. Next week. Oops. Fail. I blame the sleep deprivation.

So I went (with the baby, and friend Staci in tow to share in my misery keep me company). I took a number. We sat. We waited. We waited some more. Finally after a hundred thousand hours it was my turn. So I said the the nice lady, “Nice Lady I need to get a social security number for this here baby I had. See.” And she said…

“Um. Uh. Well. Where was she born? (ie WHY DON’T YOU ALREADY HAVE ONE THE HOSPITAL DOES THAT FOR YOU, YOU IDIOT?)

Me: My kitchen.

Her: WHAT? Uh….. Ummmmmm…. huh…. hang on I need… to… go… uh… somewhere.

(I presume to the back of the office to say, “HEY YOU GUYS THIS CRAZY LADY HAD HER BABY IN HER KITCHEN. COME LOOK. SHE’S CRA-ZAY.”)

Her (returned from her foray to the back office): OK. I need her vaccination records.

Me: Well that’s going to be a problem because she doesn’t have any. She’s my baby though. I swear. She weighed 10 and a half pounds.  I can’t make this stuff up.

Her: Uh….. Ummmmmm…. huh…. hang on I need… to… go… uh… somewhere. Be right back.

Me: Okey dokey. {waiting}

Eventually the nice lady helped me out. And before I left she said (AND I QUOTE), ” OK if you need the number you can call probably this Friday and we can give it to you for the taxes.”

Wow. What a nice lady.

Which brings us to today. It’s not Friday. Again, the sleep deprivation.

I have like four important things to do this week aside from keep the baby alive. 1. Fill out insurance papers. 2. Do some banking stuff with stocks and crap. 3. Get rid of the dog? (The dog lovers have now unfollowed me) 4. Get. The. Number.

So being the obedient person I am I called.

First let me preface this by saying the baby woke up at 5:15 am. OH also 12 am. 1 am. 2 am. 3 am. aaaaand 4 am.  Oh let’s just go ahead and say she never slept. Oh and the cat vomited on the rug. For the fifth time in a day (credit to my husband who cleaned up three fifths). Oh and the dog pissed all over the kitchen floor. Again. (see. #3) And like every time I touch him (This is not going to help me find him a home I realize.) Then because I was sotiredicouldntseestraight I drank a cup of coffee. And then I went to put Ella down for her nap at 8 am (which is an hour and half earlier than usual because let’s face it she’d already been up 17 hours). And she slept 15 minutes. Probably because I jacked her on caffeine in my breastmilk. So fail. Fail. Fail. (The anti-caffeine people have probably now unfollowed me).

Anyway, then I got a massage. That was a lovely treat. Thank you Staci.

And I came home. And the baby was crying. Like constantly. And I’m looking around like, “Hey anyone want to help me out here? I haven’t peed since like 8 am. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?”

Yeah. It’s just me here.

Sooo crying baby in arms I call. Because I have four things to do and I have to do at least ONE today or I suck at life. So I call and I get The Automated System. You know the one. And fifteen minutes later I am literally SCREAMING into the phone for the 11th time after the computerized voice keeps saying “I’m sorry I’m having trouble understanding you. Can you please repeat that again?” I’m screaming, “GET AN ORIGINAL NUMBER YOU MOTHEREFFINGBASTARDSSONSOFBEECHES. PLLLLEASE JUST LET ME TALK TO SOMEONE. PLEASE PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.”

And Eloise answers.

“Social Security Administration, this is Eloise, how can I help you today?”

Oh thank you little baby Jesus in the little manger. It’s Eloise. Eloise is a nice little gramma.

Me: Hi Eloise (or whatever her name was, I actually can’t remember) I am calling because {blah blah blah} last week I {blah blah blah} and she said to {blah blah blah} and I need to file my taxes {blah blah} and I need the number and….

Her: {Interrupting} No. No way. No one would have EVER TOLD YOU THAT {EVER in a million years}.We don’t do that. Ever. Never. (Note: This lady is not nice like a gramma AT ALL.)

Me: Well she told me to call on Friday but I didn’t have time Friday. So…

Her: {Interrupting. AGAIN.} No. She did not. Because no one from here WOULD EVER {NEVER EVER in a million years} tell you to call for a number because WE DON’T DO THAT OVER THE PHONE {never. ever.}. (I am not a real fan of her tone at this point.)

Me: Well Eloise I’m not trying to be difficult, i just really need this number. Is there something I can do? She told me to call. The baby you hear CRYING (because she HATES YOU you evil evil spawn of Satan) is mine and I just need her number so I can pay my {30 ridiculous %} taxes.

Her: She did NOT. You’re making THAT UP.

{I’m sorry. Did she accuse me of MAKING IT UP?}

{Yes. Yes she did. She obviously does not know how much sleep I got last night. Or about the PMS. Or the cat vomit.}

Me: I’m sorry are you saying I’m AM LYING? You’re not nice and I don’t like you.

 

So item Number One. Incomplete. Thanks a load Eloise.

 

Dear Social Security Administration,

I appreciate your ultra high Pentagon/Alcatraz/White House/Fort Knox level of security in an attempt to prevent fraud. But is it really necessary to hire Meanie McMeanertons?

Sincerely,

{ASTRONOMICALLY HIGH} Tax Paying Citizen

 

Dear ELOISE,

I don’t like you. At all. You’re not nice. And you sound old but you don’t act ANYTHING like a sweet gramma which is FRAUD.

And furthermore your mom should have told you it’s rude to interrupt people.

Suck it,

Lady Holding the Crying Infant

 

Thanks for your support y’all.

messed up crap , wordy whiny wednesday