Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Snowpocalypse 2014 (or, Why I am Excited to Go to the Gyno)

My house is a wreck. My hair is dirty. My child is slowly going insane and dragging me down that rabbit hold with her. This, my friends, is Snowpocalypse 2014. Also known as an inch-ish of snow and panic in the streets. 

I live in the south. Where whispering the words "wintry mix" sends the masses out for milk and liquor and toilet paper. Southerners don't do cold adverse weather well. We totally rock hurricanes, and can even handle ourselves in the occasional flood. But dear lord, do not expect us to act even remotely competent when anything frozen, near frozen, or almost frozen falls from the heavens. It drives us mad. Just ask the mothers from states that specialize in blue skies and flip flops and garden parties. At the mere hint of winter weather we automatically go into survival mode, descending upon Target and the Teeter and Kroger, emptying the aisles of all things vital to life--wine, coffee, movies, snow boots, milk, sleds, and bread. We then wait, camped out in front of the TV on our phones, checking the local news website, Facebook, and the school website in a manic rotation while watching the scrolling lists of closings to know the exact moment that school is called off. And then, when we know that the mere threat of the white stuff has so stressed out school officials that they decide it would be crazy dangerous to attempt school, we experience that odd mix of jubilation that we get to sleep in and terror that we have to fill a full day with child entertainment.

Our preschool follows the school calendar. No school, no preschool. Early dismissals, delays, and missed days. We do what they do. This week that means out early on Tuesday, no school today and none again tomorrow. That is a lot of hours that I have to figure out what to do with a four year old who is used to going to preschool every day. She played outside for exactly 12 minutes this morning, but due to the Baby Bear being only 5 weeks old and it was roughly 12 degrees, we couldn't go sledding or for a walk or build a snowman. Instead I spent that 12 minutes standing on the porch in my pajamas where I could see the baby and the child at the same time, drinking my coffee and shivering. She was over it quickly due to the frigid temps, which left like another million hours to entertain her. What to do? 

Do all the things. And then do dishes in your undies. 
We watched movies. We watched TV. I signed her up for the PBS "educational" website which she played on for almost an hour. That is like 17 years in 4 year old time. We ate popcorn and lolly pops and drank hot chocolate and chewed gum. We played the princess cupcake game and Go Fish and Barbies. We gave the baby a bath. She changed clothes 42 times, had 3 timeouts, asked for a treat 75 times, and fell asleep for an hour and a half. After lunch, in a moment of panic and insanity, I turned to Pinterest to find something to do. And, lord help me, I attempted to do a Valentine craft. I lost her halfway through after a disagreement over the best way to sharpen a crayon, and I finished the heart sun-catchers alone while she used up my hand soap and washed Tupperware in the kitchen sink in various stages of undress. At this point I would like to inform you that just because Martha Stewart can use wax paper and crayons and her iron to make a lovely valentine craft does not mean that you can. I speak from experience. 

I now understand how Jack felt. 

And I still have 12 hours to fill up tomorrow. The good news is I have my 6 week postpartum check tomorrow morning. I never knew I could be so excited for a pelvic. Godspeed Southern mamas. May you too be lucky enough to have a gyno appointment tomorrow. 

Monday, January 13, 2014

Good Help is Hard to Find

I start back to work today. Before you all freak out and tell me I am crazy, it was my idea. I mean I am crazy, but that is my natural state and has nothing to do with this. And, I am taking it slow, easing into things. Hour or two a day until I get totally adjusted (hilarious, as if I will ever be totally adjusted). I am back and already having to deal with employee issues. I am having some "problems" with my new assistant...

He is lazy---he literally slept the entire time we were supposed to be working this morning. I was all, um could you please take dictation about this claim...and he was all, snore 'ZZZZZ snurfle snarfle. Unhelpful much?

He is a crybaby---every time I get on the phone he cries. That was the only time he wasn't sleeping. SO annoying. He also cries when he is hungry, when he is cold, and when the air hits his tush. How about less crying and more getting me some coffee. And a donut. Mmmmkay?

He is needy---needy employees are the worst, am I right? They want your attention and they will do anything to get it. Like crapping their pants. I get it. You don't have to barf on me. Repeatedly. I hear your needs. Your file has been noted.

He is obsessed with my boobs---he won't stop staring at them. Seriously. All. The. Time.  Earlier he nonchalantly groped me. I think I should call HR and file a formal complaint. 

Despite his performance issues and lack of attention to detail (except my boobs, of course) he is the cutest assistant ever. And a good snuggler. And he doesn't talk back. But he also ignores me when I am trying to bounce ideas off of him, so that is kind of wash. But he keeps his whining to a minimum and is a good listener. I guess I will keep him around. And maybe once he can hold his head up he will be able to actually get some valuable work done, and then I can take a nap instead of him. 
Makin' it happen while he chills. He could at least go pick
up my dry cleaning or arrange some meetings.  Worthless.
The office groper. I am pretty sure that is harassment.


Monday, January 6, 2014

145 Weeks to Perfection

We are three weeks in as a family of four. That is three weeks back in diapers. Three weeks of not sleeping through the night. Three weeks of having a sweet baby who really is a little dream. Some days, in the middle of feeding him or letting him sleep cuddled on my chest, I can't believe he is finally here. We waited so long for him. I now have an idea of what I can withstand. How long I can wait for what I want. How patient I can be. I can survive anything for 145 weeks. 

145 weeks is the two years it took us to get pregnant, plus the 41 weeks I carried the little dude. Once he was here, and I was holding him, it was like those 145 weeks were the blink of an eye. Every tear, every shot, every headache, every pound gained, every negative pregnancy test, every dollar spent. Having him here and seeing his little face was balm on my damaged mama soul. 

The birth of my son healed me, but it did not make me forget. I will always know what it is like to experience disappointment in myself and my body month after month. Having to admit that yet again I couldn't do the one thing women were doing every day without even trying. Living with the pain of having a body that continued to betray me. 

Every time I failed to get pregnant I felt that I failed in so many ways. Not making a baby. Or not having it implant in the right place. Not being able to give my daughter a sibling. Knowing that I was costing our family money that we would never get back. Watching our plans to have our kids close together slipping away. All fails. But the fails were the catalyst for my eventual bliss. They were what brought me to this moment, of watching my girl kiss her brother while she gently pats his fuzzy head. At some point soon after the Dude was born, I turned away from the anger I have carried for so long. I embraced that this was how things were meant to be. I was supposed to have this baby at this perfect time. I needed to have this guy when his sister was almost 4. My children were supposed to be further apart to enable me enjoy this time with new brother since big sister is now so independent. I realized that what we wanted and planned for our family didn't matter, because the universe knew better. 

The scars from two years of pain and fury and sadness will never go away. But they have faded to the pale silver of an old injury. The kind that you only think about once in awhile now, when you see it in the mirror and remember how much it hurt when you fell. Thank you universe for gifting me with the perfect child for our life. Thank you for allowing me to heal. Thank you for creating the family that I was meant to have, despite how much I tried for something entirely different. And know that every time I look into my boy's sweet face, I forgive you for making me survive the 145 weeks it took me to get to this perfection.

So worth the wait. I mean, look at those cheeks.


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