I just got back from a long weekend attending a wedding back in my hometown. It was lovely. The wedding, I mean. The drama that inevitably erupts anytime I attempt to spend time with my family was categorically un-lovely. Do you people have functional families? Anyone? Bueller?
A few things I am left with:
- I love my child, but holy shit I cannot look after him full time. He is getting too big to manhandle but still wants to be held by me and only me. My back is killing me, and I have BITE MARKS. Yes, this is Chick’s latest way of expressing that he is tired. I mean, I get cranky when I’m sleepy but biting is not okay. Like ever. Today, I never felt better about dropping him off at daycare.
- After a weekend in small town/suburbia, I want to buy a house. Bad. I have loved city living for the past 15 years, but I need a nest to call my own. Also realized that moving out West is likely not happening soon, for other reasons I won’t go into now. Good reasons, like an impending promotion. In the meantime, I yearn for a yard.
- Came back to a job a generally love, but man… its days like this I wish I were an archivist at a tiny presidential library for someone no one cares about, like James Polk or Chester Arthur. I want to retreat into my brain and have no one talk to me for a few days. The bonus of being surrounded by dusty books and handling antiquities with care… swoon.
I have 20 minutes between meetings, and I will not spend that checking emails or planning out the rest of my day. No, I will spend it attempting to update you all on my liiiiiiife.
Here’s what’s been going on:
- Last weekend I threw a 25 anniversary party for my in-laws. To abbreviate a very long story, Mr. O and I were emotionally blackmailed into throwing this and I did 90% of the work. (Nope. Not bitter. Not one tiny bit.) I spent the last month or so running around picking up decorations, planning the menu, and other logistics. It went off okay (because TRAFFIC meant we got there after everyone else and were setting up while every one stood around watching.) I thought it was nice, and almost all the guests who attended said we did a lovely job. You know who hasn’t said that? MY IN-LAWS. The same in-laws who refused to help with our baby shower. Sometimes they baffle me.
- I have stopped pumping at work as of Monday. I tapered like a pro, I think in large part for myself than for Chick. Because I am a weirdo, I brought my pump equipment “just in case”, and it sung its demented siren song on my desk ALL DAY. But I resisted the urge and I now have massive chunks of my day back. Is it strange to say I miss it? Not the pumping (flanges can f*ck themselves!) but I do miss taking time out of my day every day to think about something else, or just breathe. Or binge watch Netflix shows.
- Good friends who have been trying to get babied for almost 3 years are pregnant with twins. My heart swells with joy for them. I wonder if this is what healing looks like, as I have felt zero pangs of sadness/envy/any of the other icky feelings I used to feel about pregnancy announcements.
- Got into it big time on Facebook about gendered baby clothes. A friend got pissed that the Ghostbusters shirt for boys was just the logo, while the one for girls said “In Training.” #lame Of course, this got me all ranty about how gendered clothes for kids are and I went a little nuts… See, if you dress a boy in a pink shirt, people get hella uncomfortable. I do think we’ve taken some strides (some tiny teeny strides) at allowing girls to like pink and also dinosaurs. If you put a little boy in something blue with unicorns on it? Wait…. I can’t find boy t-shirts with unicorns on them. As a feminist raising a feminist, this annoys the SHIT out of me because we’re implying that it is okay for little girls to blend being feminine with traditional masculine traits or interests, but boys can’t do the same because being “girly” is bad. Or literally not an option. I don’t mean to imply that the crap going on in the girls clothing departments of America is the same. Systemic sexism is a real thing and it disproportionately impacts women from the day we are born. [shakes angry fists in the air] To combat that, we need to attack this problem from both sides, allowing girls and boys to be brave, kind, and courageous. No one gender should corner the market on those traits. I do worry that my tendency to frame this up as “What Sucks in Little Boys Fashion” takes away from the real bullshit in girls choices. I don’t want to co-opt the conversation, but at the same time I find the challenge of raising a feminist son real and one I wasn’t entirely prepared for.
- Chick took his first steps! He is 14 months, and of course I was just starting to worry that his relative lack of mobility meant *something.* As usual, he took his first tiny leap forward just as I was about to google. Chick still prefers crawling since it is a lot faster, but still… he is on his way. I revel in watching him grow and learn new things. It’s like magic or something.
And like that, my 20 minutes are up. The whirlwind of life continues.
This week Chick had his annual Early Intervention screening. It is a two-hour long screening, a combination of questions and hands-on exercises that determines whether or not Chick still qualifies for the program.
It was conducted by a speech therapist and Chick’s EI coordinator who has been working with him every week for the last year. His comfort level with her is very high- he smiles when he sees her and gives her giant, spontaneous hugs. It’s darling
Both Mr. O and I were there at the assessment, answering a ton of questions like “Can he feed himself?,” “Does he acknowledge you when you walk into a room?” You know… basic stuff. Since his coordinator sees him so regularly, she was actually able to answer a lot of the questions. It made me realize just how much she has seen him develop over the past year.
I won’t lie, there were some times when I felt nervous when we determined Chick wasn’t doing something yet. Like feeding himself with a spoon- he is trying but really it is mostly using a utensil to mush food around. What does it all meeeeaaaan?! (Thankfully, I couldn’t not really google during the screening, or I’m sure I would have found tons of examples of how this lack of regular spoon-feeding resorts in children who are miserable and hate their mothers.)
It turns out that it all means that Chick is now officially average. With the exception of language skills where he needs work, he even scores above average in several categories. This is a big deal. Let us remember when I brought Chick home, he was basically a fetus. He should have been cooking for another 6 weeks, and I was warned how that may impact his development. I’ve long toggled between his chronological age v. his gestational age when I chart his growth. Now, it’s like that whole being born early never happened. And now that my child is average, he no longer qualifies for EI services.
I am relieved? Kinda? Yeah, I think that’s the word for it. Maybe. I’m also a little bit sad. Okay, yes. I am sad my child no longer qualifies for early intervention. Ick. That makes me sound terrible. I don’t mean that I want him to be delayed. It was just so nice to have someone who was singularly focused on my child’s development, in a way that most daycares can’t really provide.
Don’t get me wrong- Daycare is really good for Chick. They seem to have intuited that he likes a lot of “hands off” playtime. He prefers less guidance so he can explore stuff on his own. In fact, even after all the dramz with EI, our coordinator noted that this is a good environment for him. I chalk his steady development up to their care, as well as our own and Early Intervention.
In a way, having these weekly EI visits meant that I got the benefits of a fancy schmancy daycare without having to pay for it. Chick got one-on-one assessments. As his parents, we got weekly development reports and plans. I would be paying $30K a year for that some place else.
And then there is the other thing. I actually really like Chick’s coordinator. I would hang out with her, if that would not be unprofessional. She is compassionate, funny, and committed to her work. (Hell, you’d have to be to work in early intervention.) I love all these things about her.
When the assessment was over and we tallied Chick’s score, it was a happy/sad moment. I don’t think any of us are quite ready to say good bye. Which is why we’ve scheduled one more visit for next week to transition. I suspect it is more for me and her than for Chick.
It was baaaaad, y’all.
I suppose you could say that it all started Friday afternoon. I’m fortunate enough to work on a team that has something called “Summer Fridays” where we leave around noon every Friday until the end of August. It’s lovely. In my previous non-baby days, I would get an iced coffee and stroll. Maybe get home by 3:00 and take a nap.
So far this summer I have spent them manically doing whatever it is that I can’t manage to accomplish during the week. These things include cooking, cleaning, putting away Chick’s old clothes, dropping things off at Goodwill… you get the picture. By the time dinner rolls around, I’m exhausted and twitchy.
This Friday was no different. I mopped the floors, sorted through some of Chick’s baby things to donate to a local family, and made dinner. Perhaps there is some lingering resentment because I remember how carefree these afternoons used to be. But I was not a happy ostrich by the end of the evening.
We put Chick down, and I read for about 20 minutes before falling asleep. At 4:15 am, Chick woke up crying. No, make that wailing. So I went in, reacquainted him with his pacifier and lovey, and went back to bed. This kid knows how to self-soothe. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, so I had no idea what his damage was. And yet, the crying continues. On and off for TWO HOURS. Either Mr. O or I checked on him periodically to make sure nothing horrible was happening. At 6:30 am, I said “Screw it.” and took him into bed with us where he thrashed around for another hour until we admitted defeat.
I was a zombie the whole morning. I bitched out the utility worker who asked me to move my car because he needed to do construction, and proceeded to bitch out every living creature I came into contact with. In a fit of frustration, I actually punched my breakfast sandwich. That happened.
On our list of to-dos that morning were going to the farmers market and opening a checking account for Chick– we needed somewhere to officially put his birthday money, rather than just hiding it in our mattress.
The farmer’s market was hot and sticky. We got a late start, so missed the baby-friendly drumming circle at 10. Though I love our farmer’s market, I also sorta hate the process because I’m usually doing the actual shopping. Mr. O sits back with Chick in a stroller while I decide what we’re eating for the week and (wo)man-handle the produce.
After this, we go to the bank to open the account. I will spare you the gory details, only to say that this took an hour and a half to do. At first, I was pleasant with the banker since it was her first time setting up an account for a minor. Then Chick started to fuss. Then she kept trying to get me to sign up for ancillary services I didn’t need. Then Chick freaked the f*ck out. Then I became surly.
Once at home, we all ate lunch and then all took a much needed nap. (Aside: There are few things sweeter than napping with a baby.)
In the afternoon, we installed Chick’s new car seat and did a few other home-related stuff. I harrumphed a little because the day felt like such a let down. Mr. O felt it was a success because we “got shit done.”
The next day was a little better. We went to a fellow one year old’s birthday, where there was a pool. Chick was the most adorable, loved playing in the water with a bright red ball. For that fleeting 30 minutes, I was light. Watching his little face light up when we tossed the ball toward him, or when he splashed in the water… I don’t know how to explain it other than to say I was grateful to that family for inviting us to their kid’s birthday so we could have a few minutes as a family just being happy.
And then we went back to reality.
Folks, I’m just going to come out and say it. I’m not happy. I don’t get how other people do this. Why can’t I just hold on to that 30 minutes at the pool and build my life around that? Instead, I feel the collective weight of the dirty floors, the chores, the inept bank tellers, the meals that need to be made, the unending cycle of the STUFF that needs to be done or our little family can’t function.
Earlier, I picked a fight with Mr. O where I was nitpicking what he spends money on each week. It was a total dick move on my part. I don’t know where it came from, but it wasn’t a color that looked good on me. After we cooled down, I sat in the living room crying because I just don’t enjoy anything anymore.
I feel like I’m drowning. In the last few weeks, I’ve had trouble eating. I’ll be in the middle of a meal, and I’m all of a sudden just off my food. I kept thinking that this would go away once I was past Chick’s first birthday and a big project launch at work. But that was weeks ago, and I still feel like I’m on an hamster wheel.
I punched a sandwich, for Christ sake. Not everyone resorts to abusing breakfast foods because they’ve got shit to do.
With Chick’s first year down and an egg in the freezer, Mr. O and I decided to start talking about the possibility of Chick Part Deux. Of course, in order to do this, I need to talk with a medical professional. Having a baby is kinda a big deal for your body and I want to know how I’ve recovered, outstanding concerns, etc.
So I took the first step and called my OB-GYN’s office for an appointment.
The soonest available appointment at her office (with ANY available doctor) is September 22nd.