sueeeus

Oh dang.

SMOKIN’ HOT new guy at work; young buck on loan for a few months from Ireland.  Probably in his twenties or maybe early thirties.

S – M – O – K – I – N ‘   H – O – T

My. Oh. My.

Cougar on the prowl.

How one word can represent so many things.

A substantial part of what I do for a living is evaluate things for reasonability.

With interpersonal relationships, I expect reasonability.  I don’t get it, but I expect it.  It would seem that it would be a reasonable expectation.

I had such a busy work day yesterday.  I have to say that I rocked, considering the quantity and diversity of things I had to do.   And I did it all.  I pulled it off.  Sometimes I astound myself, because seriously, I don’t know how I managed it, except that I was in the zone.  And in the midst of the fray, I received an advance copy of the magazine in which my article is published.

It’s just a short article, and it’s been revised so many times I can hardly recognize it any more.  It’s probably crap, mostly, and boring to read.  Even so, there’s no way to explain the magnitude of what that small article represents –how much energy and life was consumed in that project.  My marriage gave up the ghost while that project came to life.

Volumes of life, my life and breath, reduced to a few pages.  It’s small, probably trivial to most, but it means something to me.  I have a small sense of pride and accomplishment.  I worked so hard.  And then I got to write about it, for the world to see.  These things don’t happen every day.  There are only so many writing opportunities in my sphere.    (Actually, I write all day, every day, in one form or another, but it’s not the stuff for glossy print.)

The moments in the spotlight are few and far between, and I don’t seek the spotlight anyway.  I did get a moment of glory, way back when, though.  It was exciting, but in all honesty, I didn’t think I did anything that remarkable.  I was just doing my job, and my team happened to be involved in something that got a lot of attention at the time.

Even so, it’s kind of fun to have this yellowed newspaper article stashed away in my memorabilia.  Few and far between, indeed.  Twenty years span these two accomplishments.

All in all, I think I’ve done well for myself.  It’s not the career I intended –how many years I obstinately refused to call my job a career!  Only in the past few years have I acknowledged that it is, after all, a career.  The better part of my life.  Twenty four years.  It’s turned out well;  I am so fortunate, so blessed!  I’m as high as I can go.

I think that means that I have arrived.

Yay me.

I’m going to be a published author soon.  It’s crap, really.  A technical article in a technical magazine, and it’s been revised and edited so much it’s barely discernible as anything I could really put my mark on, but nonetheless, it has to do with the project that consumed my professional energies for the better part of the last year.  So in a way, it’s kind of a big deal.   A culmination of sorts.

There was some talk of pulling the plug on one of my other major projects today.  That’s a bit disconcerting.  We’ll work it out, I’m sure, and all will be fine.  Even so, it’s sort of a shocker.

Ex-spouses had various things to say today, both his and mine.  His?  Some squabbling over child support.  That’s always a sensitive subject, for either party involved.  They’ll figure it out.   Mine?  Is getting married.  In October.  I’m happy for him, truly.  I want him to have happiness in life, so I’m glad he found somebody else.   It seems sudden, but it’s his MO, so I’m not all that surprised.  I wish him well.

The bride to be is going through a divorce that is under contest, and a guardian ad litem has been appointed to see to the best interests of her three children.  The GAL wanted my number to inquire about Gadget, since the new family will be living with him soon.  Of course she can have my number, but he wanted to know what I was going to tell her about him.  He thinks I’m vindictive and will say things to spite him.  Shows how much he knows me.  He said she was going to ask about what went wrong with our marriage.  What went right? Not a whole hell of a lot.  Two beautiful boys.

My 84 year old dad has had his driver’s license revoked, so now he thinks he wants to move to an apartment in the city.  There is much family debate on how to accomplish this.  The logistics alone are daunting– he has a staggering collection of books.  His main complaint is the inconvenience of senior transportation.  I’m sort of cold, I guess, because time is all he has, so if it takes a bit longer to get from point A to point B because public transport is involved, what is the big deal?  It’s far better than being behind the wheel when you’re practically blind and you can’t feel your feet to know whether or  how much you’re braking or accelerating.  He would still have to deal with public transportation if he lived in the city, and it might even take longer since there is more population and with that, more stops.  He might be better off to stay put.  He lives in a mild climate.  Either way.  There is drama, discussion, mixed up communication, and bruised feelings.  Why do I think it’s my job to sort it out so that there is peace within the land?

There is the matter of my niece – she has a sadness that I don’t know how to reach or address.  It hurts me, for the people I love to be hurting, and for me not to know what to do about it or how to help it, when all I want is for them to feel joy.

There is the matter of my sisters being protective of me, and cautioning me to believe more in myself and acknowledge or give more credence to that which I have to offer, which is a lot.  This translates to ‘he better be good enough for you’.  They speak it out of love for me, not out of disregard or disrespect to Skills, yet there he is on trial, defenseless, guilty until proven innocent.  So unfair.

To compound it all, my emotional state is railing.  I had the Mirena installed yesterday, so a foreign object, extra progesterone, cramps, headache, nausea, and constipation all add to the already prevailing PMS which only exacerbates all of the above.

I can only take so much at any given time.

These are some of the things that filled my head today and spilled into my evening that had been set aside to be sweet and magical.  I totally blew it.  Had I had my wits about me, I could have taken a moment to assess each thing as it crossed my day, and said, hey, do the thoughts I have about this particular thing serve me well?  And if they don’t serve me well, then adjust the way I think about them — either dismiss them completely, or find a way to look at them in a positive light.

But no, I didn’t do that.  Guard down.  Reactionary all day.  I brought him down, I brought myself down.

And all the while, I’m frantic, because I have only the tiniest window of time in my life that I can carve out for togetherness and I want so much for that time to be rich and full.  Watching it vanish in a split second rips me to shreds and I feel so frustrated that I’ve wasted time, when time is so, so, so precious and I just can’t afford for this to happen.

Recognizing that destruction only serves to make things worse, because then I berate myself for not being stronger and more vigilant and more prepared, and there’s nothing left to do but go home, try to regroup, get some sleep, and hope to God things look better in the morning.

It’s tragic though.  I can’t get back wasted time.  It’s gone.

I can’t get out of myself.  I can curl up in fetal position and cry my eyes out, but I can’t get away.

So here I am.  Hysterical.  Untouchable.  Alone.

It’s been quite a ride, the past few weeks.  Months.  Year.

And just now, Gadget came and got the kids for the very first time since his departure.  He’s taking them to see Santa at the mall, and to see his new place.  I have mixed feelings.  Happiness that he’s reaching out to them.  Relief to have a moment to myself.  Anxiety that they’re not in my hands.

I might not have felt so anxious had he not wrecked the truck two weeks ago.

Until then, he wasn’t playing nice.  And then.

It humbled him.  Before he was just acting out in anger, and being very childish and selfish (IMO).  After,  he was more broken and afraid.  The latter is more real, and I can see someone I recognize again, whereas the angry man was such a stranger.

The weekend after that, a pipe burst, and I had to call on him for help.  It was traumatic, but he came through.  And I appreciate it, probably much more than he knows or believes.  I told him as much, but his ears are mostly closed to me now.

And last week.  Work.  Oh, my goodness, work.  It was a momentous week.  We had first flight.  It’s a big, big deal, and it stirs some sort of pride in me, even though I’m far removed from anything specific to do with that effort.  Add to that an emergency server migration, and for icing on the cake, the maiden release of the software application that has consumed me for the better part of the year.  It doesn’t sound like much, when parsed into these few words, but for me, it’s huge.

I was and am so close to an emotional meltdown.  The sheer exhaustion resulting from the pressures and strains from all aspects of life of late.  It’s a lot to bear, and I try to take it in stride, and carry it gracefully.

Of course it all culminates during the holiday season, which in and of itself is a time when depression and stress tend to surface with a vengeance.

BB and I were talking about Christmas, and how exciting it is to wake up on Christmas morning and open your stocking to see what Santa brought.  I started to tell him about how, as children, we’d be SO excited, and we weren’t allowed to open any presents until our parents were up and ready, but we were allowed to take our stockings.  Oh, the joy, wonder and excitement.  And I burst into tears, just thinking about our ratty tatty stockings, and what my destitute mother must have had to go through emotionally every year, to try and find a way to make Christmas for nine children a magical event.  She always pulled it off, though.  It was always wondrous for me, and I think it was as well for the others.

How fortunate my children are, not to know poverty.  Yet, dire straits can teach some great life lessons about the true value of life experiences in contrast with material things.  I know I overindulge them, but I hope I will always be able to temper it.  I hope I can teach them to be considerate of others and not to be selfish.

BB asked me if Santa was going to bring just one present or a whole bunch.  I told him I didn’t know, that we’d have to wait and see.  I bought myself a little time.  Help!  Part of me wants to establish the Santa ground rules.  Does Santa just bring one present?  What if other kids will get lots of presents from Santa?  How does one sort out the comparisons?  So far there is nothing under the tree except things for other people.  What to do.  I’m tempted to say that Santa brings just one present.  If that’s the case, maybe I can put some things under the tree now, and that will be exciting for them to see.  Oh, what to do, what to do.

I’ve got loads of work to do, but am so, so tired.  I just can’t bear it right now.  I end up feeling anxious because the load is looming, but I have to remind myself that in the grand scheme of things, it will get done, and the world will keep on spinning.  It doesn’t have to get done this instant.

I’m referring to the day job.   I don’t have nearly as much trouble procrastinating when it comes to the rest- of- the- day- job.  I’ve got back-burner projects that have been on simmer for ages now.  I get the important things done.  The clothes get washed, the meals get prepared, the dishes get washed.  The boys get tucked in to bed.  I get a shower every now and then.

I had a three day exercise streak last week in which I managed to drop by the gym on my way home from the office.  Then Gadget got called out of town so I had to give up the gym in order to pick up the kids in time from daycare.  Late fees are very steep.

Gadget’s dad passed away a few weeks ago.  He was 87 and ready to go.  There was a flurry of coordinating family gatherings and preparing for the memorial.  He was a neat man, and we will miss him.  LB is named in part after him, and I’m proud of that.  The circumstances were sad, but the family gatherings were so nice.  I got to meet Gadget’s twin brother, who lives in New York and hasn’t seen his sibs for 15 years, and hadn’t seen some of the older sibs for 25 years!  It was sort of intriguing to observe the (fraternal) twin and get a chuckle out of the similar looks, expressions and mannerisms.  There were late nights with a room full of brothers playing guitars and singing, and they had good appetites and gobbled everything down that I made, which made me feel very happy.  Gadget says things like, “What in God’s green earth prompted you to buy pulled pork?” instead of, “Wow, pulled pork is quite delicious in tacos.”  His brothers were always thanking me and complimenting me on the delicious food.  Of course, their respective domestic partnerships may have contributed to their level of gratitude.  And similarly Gadget’s level of take- it- for- grantedness.  It felt great to feel appreciated, while it lasted.

My niece had her son at 31 weeks, the day before LB’s birthday, due to toxemia.  He was 2lbs 4oz.  Both mama and baby are fine, thank God, and the baby is breathing on his own!  He’ll be in the NICU for a while, but he’s growing and putting on weight.

I finally got to meet another niece’s son last week, who is now 2.  He’s a miracle boy, born with hydrocephalus.  He’s amazing to see, really.  He’s doing SO WELL!  He is a trooper.  Cognitively, he seems fine.  Physically, he’s a bit delayed, but everything works, and he’s figuring it out.  Truly, he’s a miracle boy.  His sister is BB’s age, and is as sharp as a tack.  She talks circles around BB.  She’s got an amazing vocabulary.  Granted, BB’s a brute, but he seems to be a smart boy, so she’s a super-duper smarty.   They were playing a game where one was supposed to cover their eyes while the other hid an object.  When the item was hidden, the hider would say, ” Ready or not, here I come, peekaboo!”  How cute is that?  BB had a hard time not peeking, and when he was the hider, he would tell her where to look.  Suspense is not his thing.  Silly goose.  Bless his heart.

I seem to have pulled a back muscle in my sleep.  If I turn or move just right, it takes my breath away.  Hrumph.

LB has developed separation anxiety.  When I drop him off at daycare, he flails his body and screams and spouts tears.  I remember BB did this also, but don’t remember how long it lasted.  Hopefully not long.

In the world of corporate takeovers, Gadget and his boss did such a good job shutting down the last warehouse that they’ve been asked to take care of the rest of the warehouse closures across the country.  That’s good for him, in that it helps elevate him in the eyes of the new company (which hopefully means he will get to keep his job), and gives him some bachelor time, but bad for me in that it leaves me a single mom.  Although, somehow I managed to take care of everything and then some, while he was gone.  Go figure.  Maybe I’ll take a couple of days off the next time leaves, and go visit my sister.

Lordy, I need a vacation.

Hayfever bites the big one.  When the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and daffodils are bursting with color, one might think such glory would be cause for jubilation.  And it would, if it weren’t for this wretched lack of tolerance for so many varieties of pollen.  Bah.

It’s going to be a very busy work week.  It was going to be busy anyway, with Athos out on vacation, but now Porthos is out for the week as well, with a family matter.  Which leaves me (Aramis*) to hold down the fort.  All of it. And I tend to have a full workload of my own anyway, and even more so this week due to an impending major deadline.  That’s the flip side to specialization.  With very few backups, occasionally one is left holding the bag.  I am glad to have a bag to hold, though.

Part of me is wrestling over the weaning decision.  How I look forward to life beyond the pump, yet, at the same time, I almost don’t want to stop.  Maybe because it marks the end of a path I’ll never walk down again.  I won’t be having another child.  I won’t be making milk again.  I will be wistful, when it’s time to close that door.  I’m wistful now, just thinking of it.

There is also a part of me that is trying not to be afraid.  I thought LB’s lower back looked a bit more hunched than I remember BB’s looking at that age, and inquired about it at his 6 month well-child checkup.  His doctor didn’t think it seemed too unusual, but ordered an x-ray as a precautionary measure.  The report came back with some frightening words and we were referred to a specialist.   When we got there, the diagnostic imaging service had put the wrong x-rays on the CD (it’s all digital these days), so the specialist couldn’t look at them.  He said that we could take more, or reschedule for a later date, since he wanted to order an ultrasound anyway, to look at the kidneys and thereabouts.  I chose to reschedule.  I don’t want to bombard my baby with any more radiation than absolutely necessary.  He also mentioned that an MRI might be needed, but I don’t want to make that decision until we have more information from the ultrasound results, and the evaluation of the x-rays.  With an infant, an MRI requires general anesthesia, and I don’t want to put him through that unless it’s necessary.  Anyhow, there are many hanging questions, and there may be nothing at all wrong, which is my deepest hope.  I’m doing my best not to allow myself to worry over the what ifs until or unless there is cause.  But it’s very hard for me.   I’m not so good at letting things roll.

I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’ve been feeling a bit melancholy of late.  Consequently, I’ve been overly indulgent with the food scene.

I’ve also been feeling more aware of my age, for some reason.  I don’t feel old, per se, but I clearly remember thinking how old my own mother was when she was 42, and here I am, 44.  When she was 42, I was in college, and had made the decision to give up the big V, being that I thought I was an adult and all.  She wasn’t very happy about that news, when I shared it with her.  That was the end of our mother-daughter-friend-friend relationship, which in retrospect was mostly a sham anyway, initiated by me under some self-imposed sense of what a mother-daughter relationship should be like.

Poof.

Anyway.  She was 42 and I was ‘grown up.’  I’m 44, and I have a baby.  Different worlds.  Different generations.  In my world, now, I’m going to try to be a real friend to my boys.  To listen.   To hear.

This means, of course, that I need to get over myself, so I can be there for them.  Not so easy.  At least, not for me.  Else I’d have managed it by now.  Getting over myself, being 44, and all.

~~*~~*~~*~~

*Okay, so I watched Slumdog Millionaire this weekend, and it’s fresh in my mind.  Excellent movie.

This little love is breaking my heart.  He knows when I’m leaving him at daycare.  Now his lower lip protrudes and the tears well up when we walk through the door of our care giver’s home.  At first I distracted him with peek-a-boo, and ran out when he was under the blanket.  That worked one time.  I keep trying to find ways to distract him.  Yesterday I sat him down with his back to the door, put some toys in front of him and sat down with him to play for a moment.  That worked great.  I tried it again this morning, and out came the lip the moment I brought the toys over.  The tears, the sobs.   I’m fresh out of distractions.   Oh, how it wrenches my heart!

Such is the plight of the working mom.

A coworker of mine died in his sleep the other day.  He was only 41.  He had two engineering masters degrees, was working on a law degree, and was an accomplished cellist and violinist.   So young.  I found myself pondering, as I walked up and down the halls of my office, whether I am where I want to be.

These halls, these walls.  I’ve spent the better part of 23 years behind these walls, earning my keep.  I was restless in the early years, thinking this was but a stepping stone on my life path, and I was anxious to find the other path.  The one I really wanted to follow.  But somewhere down this very road I realized that it’s a very good road to travel.  I am happy here.  There is a comfortable rapport, standing shoulder to shoulder among these people with whom I share my life.

I’ve written a bit on mortality recently, the main point being that I dearly hope to live long enough (at the very least!) to see my children to adulthood.  But if today were my last day, could I say that I have lived well, that I am living well?

I could say that.

Yes.

The answer is yes.

I am surrounded by fine people.  I have stimulating and important work.  I have a husband.  I have children.  I have a comfortable home and reliable transportation.  A closet filled with clothes.  A pantry stocked with food.  I have a blessed and beautiful life.  Certainly there were rocky passages, but here, now, the way is smooth.

And with cheeks like these to nibble on?  Could life be any better?

Finding the bright side

I really like being at the office, in the flesh.  I like seeing the people, walking down the hallways exchanging hellos, sitting at my desk and hearing the buzz around me.  It’s a boost.

I like that LB is such a laid back little boy.  He’s happy to see me when we get home, and he doesn’t appear to hold anything against being left with a caregiver all day.  I hold him and he stands on his strong little legs and gives me that, -I’m the coolest thing ever- look.  He is just so pleased with himself and his new discovery that he can use his legs for more than kicking, and it’s literally written all over his face.  I love that.  LOVE IT.

I like that, since LB is an every other day pooper, and generally a daytime pooper, I have very few poopy diapers to contend with.  Nice!

Daycare is frighteningly expensive, and I’m still getting used to the thought of it, but I can afford it, so I’m grateful.  The part about having to pay for it whether or not we actually go still bothers me, but I have to remember that our caregiver’s living depends on contracted service, and it’s not her fault if the roads are flooded or frozen or otherwise impassable.  Also, if we didn’t contract, then we wouldn’t be guaranteed placement, and that could be far worse.

Even if all this adjustment makes me dry up (the supply has plummeted this week, which in itself freaks me out which then causes it to dwindle further; it’s a horrible, vicious cycle -I was three ounces short in just one pumping session, this morning, which is SUBSTANTIAL), it won’t be the end of the world to have to switch to formula, and I can still be grateful that my baby has gotten over 4 months of breast milk and all its benefits.  I still hope I can recover (which is why I’m spending all this time trying to think of the bright side of things and get my head into a better place).

The yin

(Why is it that the negative and dark yin is the feminine attribute, whereas the positive and light yang is the masculine?)

The other morning while I was getting everything ready (even though I’d gotten as much ready the previous night as possible, there is still a lot to do in a morning before getting out the door), BB kept asking, -Mommy, why are you running so fast everywhere?-

I tried a new tactic of feeding LB as much as possible just before I went to bed, to try and hold him through the night.  He would only take 5 ounces, and by morning there was a smell to the remaining 2-3 ounces, so I had to dump it.  I can’t say how wrenching it is to have to dump that substance for which I work so hard and sacrifice so much!  Maybe it was still okay, but normally I can barely detect only the slightest sweet scent, and I’d rather not take any chances.

Part of me wouldn’t be too heartbroken to wean at this point, but the better part of me is concerned about the hormonal effects and the appetite effects.  I’m a bit leery of sending myself into a psychological tailspin by rocking the hormonal boat, since I can feel myself teetering as is.  And as far as appetite goes, I’d hate to find myself sustaining a large appetite without having my body work some of it off in the milk factory.  I’ve put on some belly fat since having LB, and am somewhat afraid of exacerbating the condition.  Okay, terrified.

There is also a part of me that wonders if this stubborn and neurotic obsession with lactation is hurting my developing relationship with my child.  If I weren’t obsessing so much, would I be snuggling with him more?

In need of a paradigm shift

Paradigm in itself is a good word, but it’s been so abused in corporate circles that it is forever tarnished. Tarnished or not, I am in need of a paradigm shift.

It’s hardly the norm any more for women to be (just the) homemakers and men to be (just the) breadwinners, yet somehow it’s been etched in my mind that this is the ideal, the way it’s supposed to be (even with those commercials in the 70s where the woman, hear her roar, sings -I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan…Because I’m a woman, W-O-M-A-N…-)   And because of this, I have a tendency to resent the fact that I am the main breadwinner, when I should celebrate that there has been no glass ceiling for me.  I envy those women who get to be SAHMs in this day and age, or, gasp, SAHWs, yet at the same time I feel guilty that I am out in the paid work force eking out a living, as though I should give it up and buck it up and just find a way to live with the one (lesser) income, because I’m a mother and should be home with my children.  I tend to fall into the thought pattern that if I weren’t the main breadwinner, maybe I’d have more of a choice to be a SAHM.  Hence the resentment.  Poor Gadget.  He’s good at what he does, and he’d be a terrible SAHD.  Truly, the essence of this narcissistic spiral is that deep down I just want to be a princess, dammit, and spend my time leisurely kissing the children (while the nanny does the work), playing the spinet, and sipping tea from the finest translucent porcelain while my dear husband dotes on me and lavishes me with lovely gowns and jewels.

Then, because I happen to like my work, I feel even guiltier, because when it comes down to it, I get cabin fever when trapped home all day, and crave exposure with more people.  So I can’t win for losing, what with the tangled mess that is my mind.

I need to make peace with the fact of being a career woman.  I need to find a way to convince myself that it doesn’t make me less of a mother.

It may be PPD trying to get its grip on me.  I suppose, if I’d read through the convoluted diatribe I’ve just written, I’d concede that it HAS taken root, and just bust out my Zoloft, for God’s sake.