sueeeus

Good Things

• 3 a.m. – realizing there is a warm little body burrowed against mine, even though he was soundly sleeping in his own bed at last recollection. I do want him to feel safe, secure, and confident, and I do want him to develop healthy independence, but I also want to savor the snuggle time for as long as I can.
• coffee at 4 a.m. when I’m all swollen and can’t sleep (not so much the swollen and can’t sleep part, though)
• colostrum. 34 weeks and it’s here – my body is working! This pleases me immensely.
• a peaceful quiet house, all to myself (even though I’ll be paying for it in a few hours). Not so much the rude awakening that I’m not alone, and sharing the otherwise tranquility with a monstrously large moth, and where the hell did it come from anyway? (Swearing, although a rarity with me, is not uncommon when monstrously large flying creatures invade one’s space.)
• broccoli, steamed and smothered in butter. Normally I wouldn’t indulge in the decadence of butter, but when I do, oh my. Yesterday’s dinner.
• sweet corn. Miraculously enough, it doesn’t wreak havoc on the blood sugar. The broccoli wasn’t enough, so I had corn too. Yes, we’re all about fine and lovingly prepared meals around here.
• the prospect of a healthy baby

Not so Good Things

• insomnia
• bladder capacity (lack thereof)
• monstrously large flying creatures invading one’s space
• edema
• full body aches
• muscle cramps
• insulin resistance; diabetes
• employer changed medical insurance plans mid-year requiring more out of pocket expenses, additional paperwork, deductibles, and higher copays
• the strange numb and unpleasant but not so much painful feeling on the surface of my skin at the peak of my belly (by my navel, which somehow remains an innie) when my belly inadvertently but invariably brushes against anything

Things to Do

• buy newborn size diapers. I have a case of size 1, but they may be a bit big for the first couple of weeks.
• set up the baby hammock
• unpack baby items – bibs, burp cloths, breast pump, all that good stuff
• preregister at the hospital
• pack my hospital bag
• discuss leave of absence and return to work plans with my boss
• make daycare arrangements – the babysitter is going to Poland on August 20th, without consulting me first. Imagine.
• wrap up work projects. HAHAHAHAAHAHAAHHAHAHAHH. Actually, I probably will leave things in good shape for my backups. I’m responsible and considerate that way.
• clean and organize the fridge and freezer
• get more rest

Breathing is becoming a laborious effort. No pun intended. Really.

Seriously, I can hardly breathe. At least while sitting. And I can’t stand for long, either. I’ve got an appointment tomorrow, and I’ll mention these things. Perhaps I’ll be placed on bed rest after all. Or not. I wouldn’t mind, actually. It might bore me to tears, but I’ve never actually had the luxury of any sort of extended repose. Of course, when one is limited such, it’s hardly considered a luxury, is it?

Apart from being exhausted and the inability to breathe, I feel great. Gadget might argue that I’m practicing selective memory, having not mentioned the frequent bouts of short temper and snappiness that punctuate most days. Enjoying the journey.

I even bought a couple of books last week, in a moment of inspiration, and guess what? I read them! Two books! Now, I’m not even going to attempt a review, lacking the confidence for such in the shadow of the bookie bloggers I adore. But I enjoyed them. The first was the curious incident of the dog in the night-time, by Mark Haddon. It made me chuckle and it made me cry. I think the main character was autistic and the author captured his perspective very well. Although what do I know of these things?

The second book was The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. I had a bit of a time keeping track of the characters and hopping back and forth in time, but it was very good. Something that makes the heart ache. I sobbed towards the end.

I’ve also been meaning to make some baby angel fairy things, inspired by my March visit to Australia and Winterwood Toys. I’m calling them pea pod angels. Because they’re a gorgeous green. And they’re babies. And they remind me of peas in a pod. Sweet Pea Pod Angel Babies.

First, it took me ages to collect the bits and pieces and put the ideas together.

I didn’t have any clear thread, and the only fishing line Gadget has is for salmon. That is, it’s very thick, and not suitable for hanging the crystal. So I used plain white thread. Even so, I think it turned out okay. Not perfect, but still adorable. I stitched on, ignoring the boys and their “what are you doing? — why are you making those? — what are you going to do with them? — I don’t get it, what a waste of time… — why don’t they have any faces? –why?” comments. Boys. Hrumph.

I made three. They’re teensy tiny. Only a couple of inches long. I think they’re sweet. They make me smile.

Today I happened across a blog in which the author is a young (looking) gorgeous mother of three, who is a mixed media artist living in a showcase home in Long Island. I gaze upon the photos of her home and her studio and see nothing but success, and wonder how on earth can such a young person have so much (seeming) perfection in her life. The answer may be that she is married to someone who provided that incredible home, and that she is free to work her crafts, mother, and fulfill her soul. Or maybe she or they inherited. She has lovely craft, but it doesn’t seem to be the volume or price to afford such a home.

For so many, the mere act of providing a home, any home, is nearly overwhelming, and in order to do so, one often has to sacrifice one’s crafts, one’s self-expressive dreams, whatever they may be, to make the ends meet. And we make nice homes for ourselves, with what we have within our reach. They may not be showcases with gleaming surfaces and architectural intricacies, but they are the places that we call our own.  And our lives may seem harried, with the strains of mothering, working, and wifing consuming us, leaving us spent and too weary to pursue our craft with the purity we’d like to afford it.

How I imagine I’d love to have a showcase home, studio, and life!   Not to showcase, but just to love and enjoy. Because I love beautiful design and style. And quality. My home is an average suburban home. It’s a comfortable and lived in home. A showcase home is not within my immediate means (without taking on substantial debt). Some day, perhaps… …but not now.  And a showcase life may never be in my stars.

I’m not a business woman, so the peddling of craft is a mystery to me. I’d so much rather give it away. Something about putting things up for sale takes away from the joy of the craft. Or maybe it’s because the price I’d want for the effort and love and thought put toward something is so much more than I’d feel that I could or should ask, so I’d rather just not ask. (Also, the quality that I’d produce most likely wouldn’t pass my expectations, so I’d not entitle myself to price things anyway. Perfectionism can be a curse.) Idyllic as it seems, if I crafted for a living, perhaps I wouldn’t enjoy it as much. I’m not sure that I’d know how to marry business with pleasure.

There was a brief twinge of jealousy, while browsing that blog. Living in a beautiful home, working one’s art, mothering and wifing. It seemed so ideal. And so far away. And reading of recent events in local blogland as well. Other people’s lives. They seem so charming, or so full, or so successful, or so something. Something that mine is not.

It’s crazy, though, because my life is actually incredible, and full to overflowing with blessings, if I’d only take a moment to count them.

For instance.

• For 32 weeks, I’m larger than life. My last fundal measurement was 40. Already. And I’m stretched tight. It’s a sort of odd, numb feeling, being stretched that far. My boobs don’t even look big any more. In comparison.
• I have a tentative birth date set.  August 28, 2008.  I know, it’s almost two weeks early, but seriously, it’s hard to imagine how massive this child could get, by 40 weeks.  Who knows, anyway, when one might actually go into labor.  My sister’s baby came that early, on his own.  I’ll be getting that amnio test for lung development, just to be sure he’s ready.  Because of the GD, it’s required.  I think that it’s not generally required after 38 weeks under normal circumstances.  I still have time to change my mind and wait until 39 weeks, but I’m having a hard time imagining how well my body’s going to hold up, if I go that long.  I can barely move as is.  I LOVE this giant belly, but I could do without the aching hips, legs, and feet.  And the walnut sized bladder capacity.  And the inability to breathe.  When there’s so much child inside, everything else gets squished.  And I have nearly 8 official weeks more of rapid growth, because now is when the growth really starts taking off.  Yikes!
• My swanky new serger is on the blink.  The needle fell out during coverstitch operation and now it isn’t working.  I took it to the dealer and they found even more things wrong with it than I did – they would know, since they are familiar with sergers.  This is my first, and I have no prior knowledge to compare it to, so I’m actually relieved that they found other problems.  It’s all under warranty, so off for repair it goes, and hopefully it will be smooth, sweet, and deeeeeeeluxe when it returns.  Meanwhile, my nesting mode sewing projects are on hold.
• I cleaned BB’s room today.  I asked him if we could give some of his toys away, and he actually agreed!  So I took advantage of his magnanimity and filled two huge bins with giveaways.  It’s one of the mysteries of the universe, how I can go through every single toy, from the smallest lego, and go through every corner and every inch of his room, and yet things are still missing.  The bottom tray of the Boggle game.  Nearly all the pieces of the superheroes memory game.  The shoes for his doll.  I don’t throw anything away, and when I go through his things, I go through them meticulously.  So where are these things?  Hopefully not down the air vents.  Or the toilet.  BB could have thrown things away, I suppose.
• I put his bed back in his room.  Positive thinking.  We’ll see how that goes.  He was all for it this morning, but I imagine once sleepy time rolls around, the tune may change.
• Less than six weeks!  It’s just around the corner, and it seems like the next days will fly by in a whir and a blur.  And then the next chapter will begin, a whir and blur of its own.
• I already bought a case of size 1 diapers.  It makes me smile.

I bought four different combs to address the issue. Here they are soaking in alcohol. The first one, big blue, is by far the most effective of the lot, but the other three are much more tolerable to young children and large men who behave like young children, when having their hair combed mercilessly by the resident woman with a mission.

When dealing with such an issue, what good is comfort if it doesn’t effectively address the situation? I used the long red comb first, progressed to the short red (the short blue is actually a dog flea comb, but is virtually the same as the small red comb) and did the final pass with big blue.

But first, I shaved BB’s head with the 1/8″ attachment. Because when I tried big blue on him the first time, it was too torturous. I mean, I was practically in tears myself, when I did my own first pass. It pulled out clumps of hair. Literally. I thought it would be much kinder to give him a ‘special’ haircut, than to wrestle with him and that unforgiving comb.

He’s still beautiful (to me), even without hair. When he saw his reflection he said, “Juss like Uncle T!” Because when my dear brother joined us the other week for our short family get together, he was sporting his summer shaved do. And everyone loves Uncle T. He’s a great guy, all around.

I love the bright attitude that my little one is blessed with. He is my shining star.

And the best news is, that after combing, shaving, combing, combing, combing, I found absolutely nothing on my little guy’s head. So I pronounce him clean. He wasn’t the carrier.

And more good news, is that after yesterday’s thorough combings, I found absolutely nothing in my hair, and nothing in Gadget’s (except dandruff, in his case). So I am pronouncing our home and heads louse free. I did buy a spare set of sheets (we had only one set, because we have a new bed, and I was waiting for a sale to get a spare set) so we wouldn’t have to stay up so late waiting for them to dry after washing nightly. We were up until 2 a.m. that first night, since the whole combing process took hours, and I didn’t think to strip the sheets until after I’d finished combing.

We’ll still go through a thorough combing every few days for the next two weeks, to be completely and absolutely certain, but it was SO very heartening to find nothing at all yesterday.

The previous day was, understandably, a freak-out, not having faced such a thing before, and then to discover those nasty egg pods. I’ve since learned that nits are the empty pods left after hatching. So we found no nits, actually, and we found no lice or nymphs. What we did find were some eggs, in both my hair and Gadget’s, but we removed them, and hopefully, hopefully, we’ve eradicated the problem. Finding them in Gadget’s spurred me to shave BB, because Gadget’s hair is already very very short, and I found nothing upon visual inspection, but that comb, big blue, found about five or six of the very same pod things that I found in mine. And under my microscope (yes, I have a mini scope for inspecting saliva for crystal patterns to detect potential fertility, from days gone by, and it does come in handy once in a while, although, it IS freaky to see what things look like that close up), they sadly and undoubtedly looked exactly like the photos I found on Doctor Google. So yes. Freak-out.

It’s amazing what something like that can do to one’s mental state. Yes, it can happen to anyone. No, it doesn’t mean you live in a pigsty. But all the same, it makes one feel so unclean. An outcast. A leper. That’s the second time I’ve used that word this week.

Conversely, the elation and relief one feels when one can say the problem has passed, is simply wonderful.  And sleeping in fresh sheets two nights in a row is kind of nice too.

Still a bit befuddled as to where the lice came from.  Not daycare.  Not us.  I wonder if possibly Sissy had them already, and brought them with her.  They don’t jump, leap, or fly.  We did go to a theme park, and possibly they were transmitted by contact with the head rest.  Or could it have happened via the head rest on an airplane?  Eeegads, one would hope not!  It remains a mystery.  Poor girl has very thick, long, luscious curly locks.  I can’t imagine her being able to comb through it with something like big blue.  I wish her well.

So this morning we got a phone call from Sissy’s mother. Apparently, she has quite a case of head lice.

She said she’s been itching a lot, for about a week. Of course she didn’t mention this to us while she was here.

Never having experienced such a thing, I consulted Doctor Google. And read horrifying things about chemical treatments. And heartening things about dealing with the situation. Thankfully.

I bought a special comb and inspected BB. He seems to be okay. The comb hurts him too much and he won’t hold still long enough to do any sort of reasonable job, but I just cut his hair the other day, and it’s very short. I don’t see anything there.

Similarly, I cut Gadget’s hair very short the other day as well, and don’t see anything there.

I spent an hour and a half in the shower, working through my own hair. And found nits. About six of them. Or maybe ten. I don’t know. It’s very distressing. The comb yanked out handfuls of hair, like a razor blade, and left my scalp feeling raw, so no wonder BB wouldn’t cooperate.

I’m going to go through Gadget’s next, with the comb. He had more contact with his daughter than I did, but he has so much less hair than I do. Hopefully he’s nit free.

Now I have to go through this scalp raking for a while until I am certain I’m nit free. At least I didn’t find anything hatched, which means I might have caught it in time. I hope.

Maybe I’ll just shave BB and Gadget’s heads, for good measure.

For me, I’m not ready for the Sinead O’Connor look.

And I have a lot more laundry to do.

• Shopping may be in order.  For something very expensive.  Like furniture.  Or diamonds.  (Not really)
• Or a vacation.  A nice room in a quiet place.  By myself.
• Maybe just a day in the city.  A hair appointment.  A coffee.  A walk along the water.  By myself.
• Maybe an art or craft project.
• Wine would be nice.  So very nice.  Alas.
• One thing I will begin this day is a freshening of the home.  Open all the windows, strip all the bedclothes, wash all the pillows, sheets, towels and throws.  Scrub away all traces.
• I need to get back into a good head space.  Back to my old self.  That nice person with an easy smile.  She who I can barely remember.  I hope it doesn’t take too long to find her.

I didn’t go to the airport. And I really did have meetings. Three of them. Honest! (Seriously. I really did.)

Somebody, please write something happy and joyful about gumdrops and lollipops! Google reader has been sparse of late, and I’m teetering on the brink of emotional meltdown.

Yes, I’m hiding out in my room, while the rest of the family is sprawled on the couch watching TV. I’m in and out of tears, and can’t be around them. I think it’s safe to say that my limits have been exceeded.

The two teenagers were rough-housing this afternoon, and I could hear yelling and slapping or something like that going on. Part of me wanted to just scream at them, but I didn’t want to give such a display around my little guy, so I squelched it and just kept him away from them, distracting him with a book. Transformers. There’s a picture in the table of contents with an array of Transformers across the bottom of the page, and he pointed to and correctly named every single one. He’s a smartie, my little guy. I’m very impressed. And proud of him.

Tonight I made pasta with two sauces. Some prefer red, some prefer white. But I’m wicked, and I minced two whole onions and cooked them into the sauce. Because both kids hate onions.

Two days ago, while the teenagers were putting the dinner leftovers away, I noticed that Bubba, who has been loudly and expressively coughing into his hands, use those very hands to put the chopped onions in a container. I told him that the reason I have tongs out is so that the foods don’t have to make contact with people’s germy hands. “Then I’ll eat them,” he said. A flat out blatant lip serving lie. He hates onions, and would not in a million years eat them. I almost told him to eat them NOW, in front of me, to make good on his word, and teach him a lesson in not giving lip service. If he were my kid, I would have. But if he were my kid, surely he wouldn’t be such an ass. I’m just so tired of it. But I refrained.

Yesterday I made a salad with peas, kidney beans, corn, peppers (the more civilized peoples of the earth call them capsicum), and chopped red onions. Mostly for me (I know, high carb, but relatively good carbs), because I can’t be eating the junk they prefer. I made them a diabetic’s nightmare of baked beans, red beans and rice (which I actually love, but can’t have), and hot dogs. So Bubba took a good sized portion of the salad, even though I told him it had onions in it, and he proceeded to pick out each and every fragment of onion, and expressively gulp and laboriously choke down the remainder. He also claimed to have discovered three short pieces of hair in his beans and rice, and comment on how disgusting that was.

I know it does little to no good to go to such length in describing and reliving these irks, but I need to vent, for my own sanity.

Last night, we gave them a huge bag of candy to take home with them, which delighted them immensely. I had only one caveat. Please don’t eat any of that in front of BB. So tonight, here comes Bubba, chomping on candy, right in front of BB. So I reiterated that I asked that he not do that. “I didn’t hear you say that.” It’s infuriating. He apparently hears NOTHING I say. I could scream. But instead I’m just cold, and try my best to ignore him, not look at him, not be in the same room with him, and not speak to him. He’s a leper.

Every day I look for something good. Some kind words. Something. Anything. But every day I hear only sarcasm, ridicule, criticism, and an endless array of exaggerated body noises. Smacking lips, loud gulping of liquids, coughs, hacks, and on and on and on. Screaming for attention.

The sad thing is, I could go on and on with two or three times as many examples of things that have transpired. But this is exhausting, and I hate that I’ve stooped to such a low level of humanity to take the time and trouble to spew this forth. I could be the better person, and just suck it up. But I’m not the better person. Not today.

For as long as I can remember, I haven’t considered myself a career-person.  The word itself put a sour taste in my mouth.  I’ve let it be known that the work I’ve done has been just that.  Work.  A job.  But not a career.  I’m not sure what I thought the word career implied.  Maybe to call my line of work a career is in some way to call myself some sort of conformist.  One of them.  I don’t know.  It all seems a bit silly now.

I never wanted to define myself by the work I do.  Had I found a line of work that I’d have considered worth defining me, well, then perhaps I’d have called that a career.  But that line of work hasn’t materialized (yet).  And now, here I am, forty three, about to have my second child.  It’s been twenty two years since I graduated from university and entered the engineering work force.  Twenty two years.

Although I’ve always just called it a job, of course I’ve done my best and given it my all.  And now that I’m over forty and have a family, suddenly my perspective is somewhat different, and I’m almost willing to accede that I am, in fact, a career woman.  I’ve grown up in this company.  I’ve spent the better part of my life here.  The people are like family in many ways.  We’ve lived our lives here together, day in and day out.  We’ve been there for marriages, divorces, children, graduations, retirements, tragedies, victories, sorrows and joys.  There is history there.  Upswings, downturns.

Where I used to be arrogant and considered that the company was lucky that I chose to grace it with my presence, now I am grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to live my life in the presence of some very fine people and partake in some interesting and rewarding work.  The company has afforded me the roof over my head and the clothes on my back.  I’ve been blessed to have decent health benefits and good working conditions.  There have been some troubled times along the way in which I worked with difficult people in a difficult organization, but even so, the rough spots opened doors to brighter pastures.  It’s all been worth it.  I have a great position now.  I’m settled.  I get to do a variety of things, and I’ve made it to a good place.  I’m respected among my peers and by my management.  There’s no glass ceiling here.  I am very content.  I think I’ve made it.

Until I became a mother, I never imagined I’d want to stay with this company until I retire.  But now that I’m a mother, with the responsibility of raising and nurturing two boys to (God-willing and hopefully) grow into fine upstanding men, the prospect of working until I’m fifty five is no longer unthinkable.  What is another twelve years in the scheme of things?  Or more than twelve years, even.  These boys won’t even be through high school in another twelve years.  I can easily imagine working through their high school graduations, and perhaps even beyond.

I’ve given this company my life, and this company has given me my life.

Twenty two years today.

Happy Anniversary.

I don’t really understand the social security system, and I have mixed feelings about what little I see, in my ignorance. Gadget has a brother in his 50s who’s been collecting social security income for his entire life, because he’s disabled. I don’t really understand his disability. He’s not got Down’s Syndrome, but I guess he’s what one calls ‘retarded’. Or something. The man can read and write. He hasn’t got the most common sense in the world, and he has a snarly attitude, but it seems to me like he could work and do something somewhat productive with his life, rather than sit around with a snarly attitude, watching TV, collecting SSI and food stamps. It seems like he could work, but he won’t work, because it’s too hard to overcome the snarly attitude and actually do something productive and giving in life. I’m bitter. I know. And I obviously don’t understand disability. If I did, I might be much more gracious in attitude. But I don’t understand it. I understand hardship and making choices and sacrifices to get through and overcome hardships. I understand physical disabilities, and some mental disabilities, but there’s this big gray area that I can’t comprehend. And it’s not like I don’t try. (But it’s entirely possible that I don’t try hard enough, because when I think about it, I get too frustrated, and I find myself at an impasse, time and again.)

Gadget’s stepson is another case. He had leukemia when he was two. It was a tragedy, for certain, and the treatment took its toll on his body, as it does. He’s stunted in stature – he’s maybe 5’2″ or so, and he takes human growth hormone for something – maybe his pituitary is shot. I don’t know. But a shot pituitary isn’t a disability. Someone very dear to me has a shot pituitary with a slew of other physical challenges, and she has an amazing, full life, and the last thing she’d ever consider herself is disabled. She’s worked hard her entire life, and is very successful, full, and happy. And she’s never collected a penny of assistance.  Back to the stepson. He’s drawn SSI for his entire life, as he’s considered disabled. And I don’t know what it is that constitutes the disability. He’s 19, and has never had a recurrence. I think one is pronounced healed after ten years of remission. So what gives? He prides himself on his physical abilities when it comes to manly things like weight lifting, but good Lord, the level of grumbling when that strength is called into action for any sort of manual labor. He’s been here for a little over a month, and filled my home with his sour and snarly attitude. He’s big on talk, saying he’ll never put up with lame manual work and such, and that he’ll have nice things, but he doesn’t grasp that with such an attitude he may find it difficult to find, let alone hold, any sort of job. And it makes me wonder if he’ll somehow be one of those people who can somehow hold onto his disability claim, and skirt through life with the government (which means the tax payer, which means ME) paying his way. I’m very bitter, I know.  I don’t want to pay his way.  I want him to step up, grow up, change his attitude, and make a contribution to the planet.

Gadget is frustrated and disappointed and even embarrassed by these kids, because they have no incentive to be constructive in life, and they have no ambition. Of course many teenagers are self-centered in general. It’s part of being a teen. We’re all idiots who don’t know anything, as far as they’re concerned. They’ve lived their entire lives collecting money without having to work for it.   (At least they’re not drug addicts or criminals, though.)  They’ve lived, albeit meagerly, on child support from two separate fathers, SSI, and food stamps.   Something for nothing.  No actual work.  They have no work ethic, no desire to rise above their circumstances, no reason to think there’s anything wrong with getting assistance.

Now, I’m all for assisting those truly in need. I’m just so very much against free-loading and laziness. And snarly attitudes. And all I see is free-loading and laziness. And snarly attitudes. So I’m bitter. And worn out. And ready for them to go home.

Gadget’s not entirely happy with me. It bothers him that I clearly don’t like his stepson. But what can I do? I should be like Jesus and just turn the other cheek and love unconditionally. But instead I feel like throwing a tirade and toppling the tables in the temple, shouting something about dens of thieves.

One more day. I was considering staying home Tuesday, so I could go to the airport with them, but now I’m hoping wondering if I have meetings (surely I do) that can’t be missed, so I can just get up, go to work as usual, and come home to an empty and glorious home.

I’m hoping the bitterness wanes quickly.  It’s not good for me, or anyone.

And then I have to begin the damage control, and reprogram BB’s attitude and vocabulary.  I may remain bitter for a while.  And I’m never inviting that person back.