... deep doo-doo, that is.
The million-dollar dog, now just a whopping sixteen months of age, had major surgery in December. In January, he acquired tapeworms. Now, in February, he has giardia. Tonight, I had to give him his ORAL medication. Do you know how hard it is to get a syringe in a dog's mouth and squirt a bunch of white liquid into him when he doesn't want you to? In the meantime, he has been depositing piles of literally steaming dog diarrhea on the rug in the family room.
The sixteen-year-old cat, who has never really liked anyone but Husband and never emerges for anything but food and water, has taken to defecating all over the house. I was ready to put her down, with the support of even the craziest of my animal-loving friends, but my vet convinced me to bring her in for testing one last time and he believes she just needs her thyroid regulated better and her allergies to fleas managed. She's active, she eats and drinks, and I have no real reason to put her down... other than the fact that now I need to replace two rooms of carpeting because she has peed through to the sub-floor and because I gag every time I find the dog eating her poo. And the little fact that I am bringing a newborn home to the same master bedroom that she considers her very large litterbox in about ten weeks.
Saturday night, C. fell to the stomach bug going around the elementary school like a wildfire. By mid-Sunday morning, he was out of the woods. Monday, I decided to take advantage of the day off from school and get the kids to Legoland before I grow any larger or more unwieldy -- I am already huffing at the slightest exertion and swelling up like the fat lady at the circus. Apparently, going to Legoland was the idea of, well, EVERYONE on Monday, as we were joined by the rest of the universe there. Still, we made it through the day and started home, believing traffic would be light because of the holiday.
Yeah, no. Traffic was not light at all. And about twenty minutes into our trek, Firstborn started barfing into an empty Legoland gift shop bag in the back seat. Unfortunately, C. is extremely sensitive to smells and noise, and he started squealing like a stuck pig at the smell. My very mature mother, who was along for the trip, acted similarly. That left exactly one adult in her right mind -- yeah, me -- practicing Zen breathing from the steering wheel.
About an hour later, we were stuck in heavy interstate traffic, barely moving, when little B. woke up from a nap and started barfing all over himself from his carseat in the middle row. Repeat scene above.
My car smells like kid barf. My family room now smells like a mixture of dog diarrhea and orange Gatorade barf. My master bedroom smells like barf, cat pee, and cat poop along with sick dog. Who wants to come party at my house?
Stop telling me what to do.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Don't take this the wrong way, Internet/world/news sources/Facebook, but... shut up.
After my initial reflex to read every pregnancy book imaginable, and after I figured out how to get babies to sleep, I mostly stopped reading parenting books. Over the years, I have perused a few... 123 Magic, How to Talk So Your Kids Will Listen and Listen So Your Kids Will Talk, NurtureShock, et al. I have found some value in them. But really, what they taught me the most is that no parenting book knows me or my kids. One size does not fit all.
Lately, it seems I don't have to read parenting books. Instead, on Facebook and on Twitter and on blogs galore, there are articles and book reviews and blog posts telling me how to parent instead. Or -- even better -- telling me why my parenting must suck and how to do it better. The voices, I tell you. They are loud inside my addled brain.
I was interested in the Tiger Mom stuff. I read a lot of what my friends pass on through Facebook. But when the latest, predictably sensationalized, articles came out recently about the new book Bringing Up Bebe about why French parenting is "superior," I just realized that I. Have. Had. It.
You know, it all sounds good to me. I have talked to enough Chinese high school students to know that the Chinese educational system has some very good points... and some not so good points. I can see why Amy Chua was motivated to parent the way she did. I can get behind some Tiger Mom tactics.
I can also see why the French culture and attitude could yield different behavior in their children. I like the French lifestyle. I especially like their food, if I am being honest. Hello, crepes. But I admire too the way their school day is set up and how education is handled in that country.
The thing is, I'm not Chinese. Also? Not French. I don't live in China OR France, either. My kids go to American schools, eat American food, and are raised by American parents, for better or for worse. And while I am open to hearing about other cultures and parenting strategies, I am dang tired of being told how much mine suck because I am an American.
While we are at it, I am also tired of hearing about how I am a lazy parent because my kids watch television, about how I over-schedule my children, how they don't get enough time to play outside, how I over coddle them, and about how our diet is terrible. Just, you know, if we are being honest.
Here's the thing: I am doing the best I can. I'm parenting by my own instincts. I'm parenting within the resources of what I have, what my skill set is, what I can afford, and where I live. I'm being the best parent I know how to be. But all these articles, books, and blog posts? They are not helping. At all. They make me question myself, they make me anxious, they make me feel like no matter how hard I try or what I do or what I say, I am a big, fat failure.
So to everyone out there who is so certain that the American mother is a disaster, I say: You're not the boss of me. Also, because I grew up in the '80s and graduated from high school in the early '90s, I say: We didn't start the fire. My kids do play outside, do take risks, do learn to behave, do have great thoughts, do understand what structure is, do drink organic milk and eat whole grains, do get down time, also do have to learn and master skills they might not want to. Not all the time. Not every day. Not with military-like precision, and not with just an arched French eyebrow, no. But they do. So step off.
Furthermore, I LIKE American children. I like the optimism. I like the cheekiness. I like the cocksure attitude. I like the "think different." Yeah, our economy sucks, our politicians are ridonkulous in both parties and at every level, our public schools are a mess, and we can shake our heads sadly at the evening news every single day. But if you look around, you'll see that we still have some freaking amazing children. I like them. I refuse to believe that every one of them is amazing despite their disastrous American-style childhoods.
I'm determined now to drown out the voices. It's clear to me, almost four children into this motherhood gig, that my society and culture has a self-loathing attitude they are happy to place on the shoulders of the country's mothers. I can't win no matter whether I "stay home" or work outside the home, whether I breastfeed or formula feed, whether I use a pacifier or not, whether I co-sleep or Ferberize. I'll be criticized for being a helicopter parent or for being too free-range. It's inevitable. So no offense, but again, shut up. I'm doing just fine, thanks.
After my initial reflex to read every pregnancy book imaginable, and after I figured out how to get babies to sleep, I mostly stopped reading parenting books. Over the years, I have perused a few... 123 Magic, How to Talk So Your Kids Will Listen and Listen So Your Kids Will Talk, NurtureShock, et al. I have found some value in them. But really, what they taught me the most is that no parenting book knows me or my kids. One size does not fit all.
Lately, it seems I don't have to read parenting books. Instead, on Facebook and on Twitter and on blogs galore, there are articles and book reviews and blog posts telling me how to parent instead. Or -- even better -- telling me why my parenting must suck and how to do it better. The voices, I tell you. They are loud inside my addled brain.
I was interested in the Tiger Mom stuff. I read a lot of what my friends pass on through Facebook. But when the latest, predictably sensationalized, articles came out recently about the new book Bringing Up Bebe about why French parenting is "superior," I just realized that I. Have. Had. It.
You know, it all sounds good to me. I have talked to enough Chinese high school students to know that the Chinese educational system has some very good points... and some not so good points. I can see why Amy Chua was motivated to parent the way she did. I can get behind some Tiger Mom tactics.
I can also see why the French culture and attitude could yield different behavior in their children. I like the French lifestyle. I especially like their food, if I am being honest. Hello, crepes. But I admire too the way their school day is set up and how education is handled in that country.
The thing is, I'm not Chinese. Also? Not French. I don't live in China OR France, either. My kids go to American schools, eat American food, and are raised by American parents, for better or for worse. And while I am open to hearing about other cultures and parenting strategies, I am dang tired of being told how much mine suck because I am an American.
While we are at it, I am also tired of hearing about how I am a lazy parent because my kids watch television, about how I over-schedule my children, how they don't get enough time to play outside, how I over coddle them, and about how our diet is terrible. Just, you know, if we are being honest.
Here's the thing: I am doing the best I can. I'm parenting by my own instincts. I'm parenting within the resources of what I have, what my skill set is, what I can afford, and where I live. I'm being the best parent I know how to be. But all these articles, books, and blog posts? They are not helping. At all. They make me question myself, they make me anxious, they make me feel like no matter how hard I try or what I do or what I say, I am a big, fat failure.
So to everyone out there who is so certain that the American mother is a disaster, I say: You're not the boss of me. Also, because I grew up in the '80s and graduated from high school in the early '90s, I say: We didn't start the fire. My kids do play outside, do take risks, do learn to behave, do have great thoughts, do understand what structure is, do drink organic milk and eat whole grains, do get down time, also do have to learn and master skills they might not want to. Not all the time. Not every day. Not with military-like precision, and not with just an arched French eyebrow, no. But they do. So step off.
Furthermore, I LIKE American children. I like the optimism. I like the cheekiness. I like the cocksure attitude. I like the "think different." Yeah, our economy sucks, our politicians are ridonkulous in both parties and at every level, our public schools are a mess, and we can shake our heads sadly at the evening news every single day. But if you look around, you'll see that we still have some freaking amazing children. I like them. I refuse to believe that every one of them is amazing despite their disastrous American-style childhoods.
I'm determined now to drown out the voices. It's clear to me, almost four children into this motherhood gig, that my society and culture has a self-loathing attitude they are happy to place on the shoulders of the country's mothers. I can't win no matter whether I "stay home" or work outside the home, whether I breastfeed or formula feed, whether I use a pacifier or not, whether I co-sleep or Ferberize. I'll be criticized for being a helicopter parent or for being too free-range. It's inevitable. So no offense, but again, shut up. I'm doing just fine, thanks.
No rainbows or butterflies here
Sunday, February 5, 2012
You know the women who wax rhapsodic about pregnancy? The ones who talk about the wonder of life and birth and the miracle of it all and how great they feel and they never felt more like a woman and...
Yeah, that's not me. I'm the antidote to that, I think.
I know, I'm not supposed to say it. I'm supposed to just be plain grateful the entire pregnancy -- grateful that conception is easy for us, grateful for healthy babies, grateful for my own health, grateful for the whole dang process. Well, I AM grateful for all of that. I know how very lucky I am in all respects. I hope to continue to be lucky -- and grateful that with this birth, I won't have to take that kind of Russian roulette shot at everything falling into place as I hope again. Conception and birth are tricky, tricky processes, after all, and nothing is ever guaranteed.
But in the meantime, I am just not a happy pregnant person. Whether that makes me ungrateful or whatever, I cannot help. My body has done me well in that I haven't had any major health issues in my pregnancies. Even so, pregnancy is no fun affair for me. Yes, I appreciate the baby kicks and the crazy miracle of it all. I get that. But along with the baby kicks and the miracle comes...
Heartburn. Oh my GAWD, the heartburn. This pregnancy and last, it has been unbearable -- the keep me up at night kind. I am so looking forward to eating food again without the looming threat of acid reflux.
The weight gain. My body blows up like a balloon. This time, I can honestly say I have eaten like crap. I have. I haven't followed the recommended diets, I haven't adhered to any regimens. I threw up the first twenty weeks, and when I felt good enough to eat, I ate whatever the hell I wanted to in any quantity I wanted to. I have craved powdered doughnuts, Slurpees, pizza, ice cream, candy bars. I have been in no way, shape, or form healthy or careful. But I have felt like I am simply surviving, and it just is what it is. But I will have hell to pay postpartum.
The swelling. It's HOT here, and it's only going to get hotter. My fingers and feet are alreasy swelling. I hate it.
The sleeplessness and the exhaustion. I am so. tired. all. the. time. Except at night, when I could sleep. Then I can't sleep, of course. Mostly because I am like a beached whale and can't get comfortable in bed and, oh yeah, the damn heartburn.
The nerves. I am on edge. It feels so hard just to lumber through my days. When other people don't cooperate in making my days easier, I get angry. Quickly. You can imagine how that goes around here.
The clothes. I am not a cute pregnant person. I gain weight EVERYWHERE. My bras don't fit, my pants are tight, and I am not comfortable. My face is a bloated, pale mess.
The questions. I am blessed that people care, but still. Over and over and over. Yes, I'm excited. May. No, I'm not ready. No, we don't have a name. I feel large and tired.
I feel so lucky to be having another baby. I just can't wait to actually HAVE that baby and start to get my body and life back in order. I feel like I am wading through molasses. With heartburn. And sometimes, hemorrhoids.
I think my distaste for pregnancy might have something to do with my laissez-faire attitude about childbirth -- unlike most of my friends, I really don't care how I give birth or where. I like hospitals and I like epidurals. I don't mind being induced. I've been lucky to escape C-sections, especially considering the size of my babies, but if I had one, I wouldn't consider it a failure or a disappointment. I just have never had surgery before, so I would be scared of that. But the "institutional" birth doesn't bother me at all -- I'm just happy to do it and be done and yeah, I even enjoy staying in the hospital. I don't have to clean up there. I don't have to do laundry there. I order my meals. I watch TV. It's kind of awesome. I stay as long as they will let me. I know, I'm totally weird.
Yeah, that's not me. I'm the antidote to that, I think.
I know, I'm not supposed to say it. I'm supposed to just be plain grateful the entire pregnancy -- grateful that conception is easy for us, grateful for healthy babies, grateful for my own health, grateful for the whole dang process. Well, I AM grateful for all of that. I know how very lucky I am in all respects. I hope to continue to be lucky -- and grateful that with this birth, I won't have to take that kind of Russian roulette shot at everything falling into place as I hope again. Conception and birth are tricky, tricky processes, after all, and nothing is ever guaranteed.
But in the meantime, I am just not a happy pregnant person. Whether that makes me ungrateful or whatever, I cannot help. My body has done me well in that I haven't had any major health issues in my pregnancies. Even so, pregnancy is no fun affair for me. Yes, I appreciate the baby kicks and the crazy miracle of it all. I get that. But along with the baby kicks and the miracle comes...
Heartburn. Oh my GAWD, the heartburn. This pregnancy and last, it has been unbearable -- the keep me up at night kind. I am so looking forward to eating food again without the looming threat of acid reflux.
The weight gain. My body blows up like a balloon. This time, I can honestly say I have eaten like crap. I have. I haven't followed the recommended diets, I haven't adhered to any regimens. I threw up the first twenty weeks, and when I felt good enough to eat, I ate whatever the hell I wanted to in any quantity I wanted to. I have craved powdered doughnuts, Slurpees, pizza, ice cream, candy bars. I have been in no way, shape, or form healthy or careful. But I have felt like I am simply surviving, and it just is what it is. But I will have hell to pay postpartum.
The swelling. It's HOT here, and it's only going to get hotter. My fingers and feet are alreasy swelling. I hate it.
The sleeplessness and the exhaustion. I am so. tired. all. the. time. Except at night, when I could sleep. Then I can't sleep, of course. Mostly because I am like a beached whale and can't get comfortable in bed and, oh yeah, the damn heartburn.
The nerves. I am on edge. It feels so hard just to lumber through my days. When other people don't cooperate in making my days easier, I get angry. Quickly. You can imagine how that goes around here.
The clothes. I am not a cute pregnant person. I gain weight EVERYWHERE. My bras don't fit, my pants are tight, and I am not comfortable. My face is a bloated, pale mess.
The questions. I am blessed that people care, but still. Over and over and over. Yes, I'm excited. May. No, I'm not ready. No, we don't have a name. I feel large and tired.
I feel so lucky to be having another baby. I just can't wait to actually HAVE that baby and start to get my body and life back in order. I feel like I am wading through molasses. With heartburn. And sometimes, hemorrhoids.
I think my distaste for pregnancy might have something to do with my laissez-faire attitude about childbirth -- unlike most of my friends, I really don't care how I give birth or where. I like hospitals and I like epidurals. I don't mind being induced. I've been lucky to escape C-sections, especially considering the size of my babies, but if I had one, I wouldn't consider it a failure or a disappointment. I just have never had surgery before, so I would be scared of that. But the "institutional" birth doesn't bother me at all -- I'm just happy to do it and be done and yeah, I even enjoy staying in the hospital. I don't have to clean up there. I don't have to do laundry there. I order my meals. I watch TV. It's kind of awesome. I stay as long as they will let me. I know, I'm totally weird.
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