Category Archives: trials and tribulations

Getting a Sick Day

So remember back when I was bitching about how the suckiest part of being a SAHM is no sick days? Well, little did I realize that we, too, can have them, just by following these few simple steps:

  1. Catch your three-year-old’s vicious stomach virus, which turns your entire insides into liquid.
  2. Spend evening from 5 pm to 11:30 pm violently retching every 15 minutes, incidentally scaring the bejeezus out of said three-year-old. (Hard to reassure someone that you’re OK when you’re puking your guts out. Hatchling: Mama, oh no! What’s wrong, Mama? Me: BLAEAHHEHGHRHG. (brightly) Mama’s fine, honey! Mama just feels a little sick! BLOURHGEAHRGHG. Hatchling: Mama!! (crying hysterically) Me: It’s ok, honey, Mama’s ok! Can you hand Mama the wipes?)
  3. Get up approx. every 45 minutes, all night long, to, um, well, basically vomit from the other end, if you know what I’m saying.
  4. Pray frequently for death or at least coma.
  5. Spend next day in bed with intense body aches, a fever, and a fear of solid foods, too tired to even read. (Which, if you know me, is like being too tired to breathe or something.)

See? Just five easy steps and your longed-for sick day can actually come to pass. Though frankly, if I’m being honest, I gotta say it’s not really worth it.

Clearly, we’re having some karmic problems here

So I’ve been sick for basically the last three and a half weeks, much of the time the kind of sick where you’re really only fit for lying on the sofa and drinking hot tea. (I’m still not completely over it, but I have returned to functionality.) Now, usually when I get sick, I like to cut myself some slack for a few days, rest up, push fluids and recover, and then get back into the swing of things. This works pretty well for your average 5-7 day cold. Not so much with a three week fucker of a virus. This past month, even when I’ve been feeling my worst, I’ve still had to take care of the girls, ferry people around to preschool and playgroups, run errands, teach classes, go to meetings, etc. I’ve canceled when and where I could, but my life is currently arranged such that there’s not a lot of wiggle room for cancellations. I have, in other words, been “pushing through” and “soldiering on,” even though I am really not a “soldiering on” kind of squab. More of a “civilian-ing off” kind of one, actually.

The unpleasant side-effect of this unwonted stoicism has been that I’ve been madder than a wet hen pretty much all month. I mean, ANGRY. Angry about everything. Angry that I can’t get un-sick, angry that the weather is so damn cold and wet, angry that we don’t have any money and the kids need winter coats and boots and none of my shoes fit since the baby and all my clothes are cheap and ill-fitting, angry that being tired and sick all the time makes me an ill-tempered and impatient parent, angry that I haven’t gotten any writing done in weeks and months, angry that I don’t get any sick days, angry that I feel like I’m half-assing everything I do, as a parent, as a wife, as a teacher, as a friend, angry that I’m being whiny and annoying all the time, angryangryangry. And I guess maybe anger is a better response to crap than depression, but not by much.

So as I usually do when I’m having a problem, after stewing on it unproductively and no doubt alienating my friends with my bitching, I talked about it with Mr. Squab. “I’m angry all the time,” I said, “and I know it’s not fair, because you’re already doing more than your share, and I feel terrible about that all the time too, but I can’t keep being angry like this.” And we talked about ways that I could get some kind of break if I really need one, and things to do to make me feel less crazy, and Mr. Squab said all the things that truly superior partners say and I felt like, okay, I can make it through this. I can’t be sick forever, and things will be all right.

The next night (Friday) Mr. Squab sprained his ankle trying to avoid stepping on the cat.

Saturday the Hatchling had a complete breakdown while we were at an out of town birthday celebration, and we spent two hours at a local urgent care clinic diagnosing a raging ear infection.

Today I woke up with the entire right side of my head stuffed up, and the Sprout is either coming down with something or teething.

Breaks. I would like one.

I write letters

Dear Minnesota,

WTF, Minnesota? Really? Snow TWICE before the first two weeks of October are up? That’s how you’re gonna play it this year? It wasn’t bad enough to have one of the coldest summers on record, you gotta fuck up autumn, too? You KNOW autumn is everyone’s favorite season. Don’t give me that look. You know exactly what you’re doing. You like making me crazy, don’t you? Last winter nearly killed me what with the pregs and the toddler and ALL THE FUCKING SNOW but I thought, hey, this coming winter is supposed to be mild! Surely this godforsaken state can give me a goddamn break just ONCE in the weather department. But no. You’ve made your position plain. There will be no breaks. There will only be cold. And snow. And freezing winds. And chilling damp. You don’t want me to live here, do you? I’m getting your message, loud and clear: MOVE SOMEWHERE ELSE, BITCH. Well, you know what? Right about now, nothing would make me happier, but financial reasons prevent me from making it so. Also, I happen to have a lot of wonderful friends and family members here and a great moms-network and ties to the local theatre community and I will move on MY OWN TIME, not yours, you stupid arctic tundra of a has-been territory. So knock it the fuck off, or so help me, I will CUT YOU.

Sincerely yours,
The Squab

Tired.

Well, hello. Ahem. Anybody still out there? Soooo … it’s been awhile. I guess I needed a break or something. Actually, that would be “or something” because it’s not so much that I needed a break from blogging (I mentally narrate my day in blog posts; it’s sad) as it is … other stuff. Part of it was the realization that many of my posts were causing concern among certain friends and family members as to my mental and emotional stability. I mean, I don’t want to make people think I’m about to go over the edge, here! And part of it was the realization that lately I’ve been feeling a lot like I’m about to go over the edge, here.

My stock answer when people ask me what it’s like, having two kids, is “It’s kicking my ass!” This is said – and meant – semi-jocularly, but the fact of the matter is that it’s also objectively true about 75% of the time. I constantly feel frazzled, stretched too thin, unfocused, inadequate, lacking direction, dysfunctional, and frustrated. In short, I am a BUSHEL BASKET OF FUN these days. Whoo. During one of my recent meltdowns, I explained to Mr. Squab that I don’t feel like I’m living up to my own (dwindling) standards in any aspect of my life right now: I’m not being the kind of mother I want to be, I’m not being a good partner to Mr. Squab, I’m completely overwhelmed even by minimal housework, I’m not making any progress in my professional life, and god knows I’m not taking great care of myself. My inner honors student is appalled at my inability to Get. Anything. Done. And while cognitively I’m aware that this, too, shall pass, I’ve been spending too much time lately feeling hopeless and dissatisfied. Which, let’s face it, is not the most fun way to be in the world. Also it is booooorrrrrriiiiiiiiinnnnnnggggg to talk about.

Mr. Squab, who I should say right now is basically a saint, pointed out that almost all of my funk can be traced back to one overarching cause: the lack of sleep. The Sprout, like her sister before her, wakes up every two hours all night long. Every night. Sometimes even more often than that. During the day, she takes wee naps in the morning and then a longer nap – as long as three hours, sometimes – in the afternoon, while the Hatchling sleeps. Which means that for the last five months I have not slept for longer than maybe three hours at one go … uh, at all. When the Hatchling was this same age, I was also profoundly sleep-deprived, but at least I could sleep whenever she did all through the day if I was really out of it. No such luck with two! And as any veteran parent can attest, after a few months of completely inadequate rest, you start to get a little psycho, and the worst of it is that you’re too tired to remember that fatigue is the source of your misery. I casually mentioned the Sprout’s poor sleeping habits at my weekly playgroup recently, and everyone immediately offered sympathy, remarking on how rough it is, how much you lose your mind, how everything goes all to hell when you’re so, so, so, so tired. It was like a revelation: Oh, yeah! That IS why I feel so shitty! Because I NEVER GET ANY SLEEP. It’s not that I’m an inadequate person! I’m just an inadequately rested person!

This realization does not, of course, help me get any more sleep – that will have to wait for sleep training in a month – but it does make me feel a little bit better about being such a mess. Because, really, I’m doing fine: I have lovely children and a wonderful partner and a good support system and a roof over my head and enough to eat etc., etc. I’m just bloody tired, is all.

Status updates I have considered putting on Facebook today

Elise has really had it.

Elise swears to god, if she hits one more red light she is going to hurt someone.

Elise is reaching the end of her tether.

Elise would sell her ovaries for a kid who sleeps and/or does not scream at pitches just below what only a dog can hear.

Elise is about to pull a Nora.

Elise would just like to be able to DRIVE somewhere ONCE without needing EARPLUGS to block the SCREAMING.

Elise is DONE. DONE, I tell you.

Elise would like to know just who she pissed off, so she can tell them she’s sorry already!

Elise is getting her ass handed to her on a plate by two girls who can’t read or use a toilet.

Elise wishes she was handling things better. Or at all.

Daily Inventory

So far today, the Hatchling has:

1. Pushed one of her friends at playgroup;

2. Thrown sand in the face of another friend;

3. Pitched fits about various trivial things;

4. Peed through her pull-up and all over Mr. Squab’s recliner (the fourth such incident in two days).

I think the age of three is trying to kill me, y’all.

The image of grace and dignity

You know what makes an outing to the park on an absolutely lovely spring day somewhat LESS enjoyable? When your nearly-three-year-old makes one of her patented breaks for freedom combined with an attempt to steal another kid’s ball, thereby making it necessary for you to leap up, nursing baby still attached to your left boob, yelling COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW and mouthing “I’m so sorry” to the other kid’s mom, at which point the baby comes unattached, leaving your boob right out there for the whole park to see.

Not that I’m particularly modest or anything. But still. It’s a little wearing.

Kids = Stress, Parenting = Anxiety

OK. So, we’re back home and starting the process of getting used to being a family of four. The good stuff: I totally missed the Hatchling (and the feeling was definitely mutual) so it’s been good to be back at home and get some snuggle time with my first baby. Baby 2.0 – let’s call her Sprout, shall we? – is (so far) an extremely mellow baby, sleeping like a champ, only cries when she’s hungry or needs her diaper changed, and is generally a very sweet little girl. The weather is getting warmer, we have lovely friends and relatives bringing us food and helping us out – I mean, objectively speaking, things are going pretty well.

So why do I feel like such a basket case? OK, some of it is post-partum hormones. Seriously, I could weep at the drop of a hat these days. It’s annoying. And some of it is cumulative lack of sleep and the whole recovering from major surgery thing. But also, Sprout is having some eating problems and it’s kind of making me want to stab my eyes out with a fork. Those of you who’ve been reading this blog since the early days will remember that the Hatchling had myriad problems on the nursing front, starting with being tongue tied and compounded by my low milk-supply and other fun. We had to supplement her with formula from the get-go and never managed to get her completely on the breast, though we did get into a decent groove with it and I nursed her until she was 14 months old. I had a lot of friends who had similar difficulties getting started with breastfeeding, and many of them had it much easier the second time around – copious milk supply, easy nursing, etc. And I had convinced myself that I’d be the same – you know, I put in my time in with the first one, this one would be easy sailing!

I should have known better. Now, Sprout isn’t tongue-tied, and she knows how to nurse. But she is also an extremely big baby, and my supply is not keeping pace with her dietary needs. So we’re supplementing again, which feels like failure. Sometimes she gets so mad that the milk isn’t coming out fast enough that she won’t even nurse. When I had to resort to putting droppers full of formula on my boobs while nursing so she’d keep sucking – something we had to do with the Hatchling – it REALLY felt like failure. Sprout had her first doctor’s appointment today, and she’s not gained any weight, so the doctor says we need to supplement even more, which at this point I’d be happy to do, only for the last day and a half she’s been so sleepy it’s hard to get her to eat anything at ALL. At a rational level (not a place I’m having an easy time getting to today) I know that this is something that we’ll work out, we’ll get past it, if I can’t nurse her it’s not the end of the world, etc., etc. But it’s driving me nuts. I’m not enjoying the really excellent baby she is because I’m feeling so bad about not being able to feed her. (Also feeling bad about: the upheaval to the Hatchling’s life; being a basket case all the time; not drinking enough water – yeah, we’ve hit absurd levels.) I HATE that I feel like a failure for the nursing not coming easily. I hate how much it will bother me if I end up not being able to nurse Sprout. I hate that I’m feeling so anxious when I really thought that the anxiety would be better this time around – when it SHOULD be better this time around. I hate that I’m already projecting that things will always suck when chances are that next week or even tomorrow I’ll probably feel much better. Argh. I also hate that I can’t write a more engaging damn blog post. OK. Sorry for the venting. Here are the positive things I’m trying to focus on when I feel fail-ey:

1. Look, she’s really damn cute, OK? I mean, she is a Very. Cute. Baby.
2. Having had feeding problems before, we’re at least prepared with all the techniques, so I have some idea what to do in response.
3. The Hatchling is being a total trouper even though all this is clearly stressing her out.
4. Mr. Squab continues to be a tower of strength.
5. This baby actually sleeps in the car, something the Hatchling never quite grasped.
6. My mother-in-law is here, cooking and taking care of us, and she brought a huge batch of my favorite molasses cookies with her, one of which I am going to go eat.

Just … remind me to focus on this list, ok?

Final Countdown: T minus 3+ days

Under normal circumstances, I think I’m a fairly patient, even easygoing, person. However, as has been extremely well-documented on this blog, normal circumstances do not include the late stages of the third trimester. Which is why if I ever chance to meet Fate in a dark alley, that motherfucking bastard had better WATCH HIS STEP, because giving me a full-blown head cold this morning? NOT. COOL.

Not fit for public consumption

Oh, y’all. I am so bitchy and irritable. Today marks the two week countdown: assuming nothing happens early, we’ll be greeting kid 2.o sometime around 1pm two weeks from today. Which means I should be seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, right? The pregnancy is almost over! I should be happy about that! And I would be, except the heartburn and the sleeplessness and the sheer inability to MOVE is making me a total crabass all the time. Everyone and everything is just getting on my last nerve, which makes me SO MUCH FUN to live with. Gah. I don’t even like living with myself right now. I’M GETTING ON MY OWN NERVES. What’s the cure for that, I’d like to know? So, anyway: blogging may be light, unless I can think of anything worthwhile to say that doesn’t involve being annoyed by everything.