One Where I Don't Complain. Imagine That.

Sara's sick. Rebecca's sick. The only good thing to come out of two sick little kids is that they sleep alot. Which means I get things done. I made myself a list of everything that's not an 'everyday' to do item. And guess what! I'm actually crossing stuff of it. On a daily basis.

There's just one more major major task to tackle, and I'm going to wait until they're better. Then I'm going to call the lady that babysat them while I was working and see if she'll take them for a day. It's the attic. It needs to be cleaned, purged and reorganized. I can't do that with little helpers. I just can't.

At any rate. I promised no complaining in the title. This was after I read in some Valetine's Day issue of a magazine (no clue which one, mind you) that you should tell the person you love why you love them. Not just on special occasions, but randomly.

Also, I think it's a shampoo ad that tells you to make a wish list, not a to-do list. My current plan to deal with my mental issues is to try to be more positive and to take each day as it comes.

Here we go:

1. Tackle one major item on the to-do list every
day. When I'm getting something productive done, I feel better about myself.

2. Remind myself why I love Steve - every day.

3. Tell him.
Every day.

4. Find a place that will pay me to write. Any tips there?

5. Do something 'fun' that each child wants to do - every day. Sara
wants to do puzzles for three straight hours? Do it. Rebecca wants to play with
the shape blocks for an hour? Do it.

6. Do something 'fun' that I want
to do for myself - every day. Be it sewing new curtains or taking a bubble bath.
Something just for me.

7. Prepare and serve a beautiful meal. Spaghetti
can be beautiful. Serve it with love to these people who have given me a family.
Even when they annoy the piss out of me.

8. Do not stress over the
little stuff. That's all it is. Little. Before I freak, ask myself if it will
matter in five years anyway? If the answer is no, let it go.

9. Take
more photos. I'm not sure if it's possible, but I'm going to try.

10.
Find my honest voice to write, speak and live with. I'm doing that here. Writing
honestly. I need to work on the other two.

What would be on your wish list?

I love him. Now, where can I put the body?

I love Steve. Truly. But sometimes, I would like to throttle him.

Exhibit 1: The other day, John called and needed some help at his house. I know, surprise. Off Steve goes to fix whatever John's got himself into this time. John has a Master's Degree. Unfortunately, he doesn't know which end of a screwdriver is up. Steve goes running off to do John's bidding - leaving me home alone with a baby and a sick toddler. Thank you very much, jackass.

When he comes home, we have a nice little chat about how the 'boys' are technically grown men and maybe you could remember that you have this new little girly family and maybe you could put them at the top of the list? Perhaps. We kiss and make up.

Exhibit 2: Steve recently had an interview for a very well paying job at a local university. We hear nothing from the hiring guy. Steve says 'If I don't get this job at the university, I think we should move closer to my dad*.' I say, okay. That would actually be very nice.

We find out he didn't get the job at the university. Steve says 'We can't move because of your parents.' Huh? 'Well, they're going to be moving closer to us, and then we pack up and move? That won't work.' I remind him that moving closer to his dad would actually suit my parents better and besides, they're not going to be moving for at least another year or two.

'Oh, well. We can't move anyway because we can't afford it.' I remind him of the income tax return we will be getting, as well as this new tax rebate that's being proposed. Assuming the rebate goes through, we could, conceivably move.

'But, what would the boys do? They can't support themselves.' And this is the real reason he won't ever ever move.

I glare at him and walk away. We've had this conversation a zillion times. There is no new ground to be covered here and all that will happen is a HUGE argument over something that isn't going to change anyway.

And then he goes to work the next day and I have the argument with him anyway, only in my head. (It's a sign of mental health to have a two-sided imaginary conversation, didn't you know?) And then I feel better, it's resolved to my liking - if only in my imagination - and we can move on.

But, for some reason, this time is different. This time, I can't quit thinking about it. I've had the conversation in my head. And it wasn't resolved to my satisfaction. It's just hanging over me.

***

Here's the rundown. Steve and ex-wife (Jane) date in high school. Jane gets pregnant. Steve and Jane get married. They have three sons. When the youngest turns 18, Jane splits. Leaving the eldest (John) in college, the middle (Luke) in college, and the youngest (Matt) just graduated from high school.

In an effort to keep his sons on 'his side' Steve racks up massive debt trying to keep the household afloat. This works marvelously, except that the younger two have never learned to be anything approaching self-sufficient. Jane (and Steve) never taught them how to clean up after themselves, never taught them that it's not okay to spend forty-eight straight hours playing video games, etc.

Four years after Jane leaves, Steve meets Prudence. They fall in love and get married. Prudence tries to get Matt and Luke to grow up some. After all, she's only four years older than them. Maturity is elusive. So are table manners, for that matter.

Matt and Luke have both graduated from higher education and have jobs. Not the best-paying jobs, but it's an income. Matt and Luke are informed that they will have to start contributing to the grocery bill. $100/month each. They comply. The original plan is to put that money aside to return to them when they decide to move out. It is soon recognized that the plan isn't going to work. It's simply too hard to support a family this size on what Steve makes. Also, they're apparently NEVER leaving.

Sara and Rebecca are born and it gets even harder. Diapers are expensive, y'all.

Three years into the marriage, Steve and Prudence buy a bigger house to accomodate the growing family. Three bedrooms. One for the girls, one for the boys, and one for the parents. Just like the damn Brady Bunch.

Rebecca has colic. Prudence begins to resent that the 'boys' are still here, because if they weren't the girls could each have their own room. Life would be much more pleasant. Eventually, Rebecca grows out of the colic, and life returns to what passes for normal here.

Until this latest hare-brained idea to move.

Look, I would love to get out of this dead town. I would love to live near in-laws that we actually liked. Just don't tell me unless you can grow a set and leave your grown ass sons.

The sons that are continually sponging off of us. The sons that make it impossible for us to have anything because we either can't afford it (see: six people, one income) or because if we do buy anything nice (see: living room furniture) it will be destroyed within a month. The sons that want to know why we didn't/haven't taken the girls to get their professional photos done every month like John and Annette do for Jonah. Um, because we can't afford to be dropping $100 (or more) a month for pictures, we have to FEED YOU. AND HOUSE YOU. AND WASH YOUR CLOTHES. AND PAY FOR THE WATER THAT WASHED YOUR BODY.

This situation is getting very old.

Which reminds me. About six months after we got married, we had the opportunity to move to Colorado. It would have been strained at first, money-wise, but we could have done it. Why didn't we? The 'boys'.

Two years ago, right after we bought this house, we had the opportunity to move out of state. Steve, me and Sara. We could have done it. Why didn't we? The fucking 'boys' that's why.

We used to discuss the possibility of Steve and I buying John and Annette's house when they move. It's a duplex/townhouse. Perfect for us and the girls. John keeps saying that they'll be moving out and buying a bigger house in two years. 'Just give me two years to get the 'boys' to grow up,' he says. I'm not sure why, but both Matt and Luke have an inordinate amount of respect for John and usually listen to him.

The problem with that plan, is that that's what he said four years ago. Just two more years.

I don't want to 'kick them out.' I've been kicked out, I know how that feels. I just want them to accept some responsibility for themselves, take some initiative to not be 30 and still living with your parents.

I'd like it if Steve would stand up to them and say something like 'You know what? It's time. Why don't you guys get an apartment somewhere together?'

I simply feel that my life has been in limbo since we got married. Somehow we're the Conners. Struggling to make ends meet constantly. Warding off bill collectors at every turn because we never have the money. Having to buy my daughters clothes at the goodwill or yard sales. Not that I would buy major brands anyway, it's just that I HAVE to buy them there. Because we're supporting two grown men.

Two grown men who go about buying hundreds of dollars of things that they don't need on eBay. Grown men who think nothing of going to wal?%mart and drop hundreds on clothes that they don't even wear. Or video games. Or iPods that they never even bother to download onto, but had to have.

It's just ridiculous. I'm tired of raising Jane's sons, when the job should have been much more complete when I got them.

Depression Versus Anxiety

Right after Sara was born, I went on a mental vacation. I was mean to everyone except the baby. I was absolutely unbearable to live with. After much urging (nagging?) from Steve, I called my midwife and told her what was going on. She prescribed a low dose of Prozac. Two days later, I was much happier and easier to be around. The midwife and I went with a diagnoses of Post Partum Depression, or PPD.

When I was in the hospital after delivering Rebecca to the kind hands of the Neo-Natal Intensive Care staff, a social worker came into my room and brought up the 'severe post partum depression' I had experienced after Sara's birth. It was a basic 'do you know when to ask for help?' type deal. Was I aware of the resources out there, the things that could alleviate PPD besides medication, etc. I told her that I was well aware of what to look out for, and would handle it. When the midwife came in later, I just asked for the same Prozac prescription. She obliged.

Nine months later, I'm not sure I should still be taking a PPD prescription.

Constantly, horrible images run through my mind. After Steve leaves for work in the morning, I spend the next hour worrying about whether or not he's run off the road and is laying in a ditch somewhere. After he's to have been at work for a half an hour, I assume he made it because they're not calling looking for him.

Sara's latest thing is going up and down the stairs all be herself. As I stand at the bottom, I'm imagining the various speeds and contortions I'd have to make to catch her if she were to fall.

Rebecca likes to sleep on her stomach. Every morning, I imagine what I would do if I went in to get her and she wasn't breathing.

I agonize over what bad news is going to be in the mail every single day. I come up with contingency plans for every possible situation.

What if the stove decides to come unhooked from the gas line and there's a gas leak and where are we going to go, we can't afford a hotel for six people, we can't even afford to get the stove reconnected by a professional... and on and on and on.

Understand, the stove is not hooked up half-assed. It's on there nice and tight. But this is what goes through my mind when a burner fails to light in 0.012 seconds.

This anxiety, or whatever it is, is starting to really affect my life. I don't do anything but play with the kids while they're up because what if they hurt themselves somehow? I have to be rightthere to stop the blood flow.

That used to be the prime time to do cleaning (a built in little helper and all).

And when they're asleep, I don't do anything for fear of waking them up. Because we all know that if a kid doesn't get their required sleep, they'll be screwed up for the rest of their lives, right?

I definately need to see someone. But what if they tell me that I'm just insane, here's your pass to the rubber room.

See? I need help.

Dinner Guests

John, Annette and Jonah are coming over for supper tonight. (Does it seem like I have food on the brain lately?) We originally planned for them to come tomorrow night, but Annette has choir practice, so we had to change it.

Get that? We invited them for supper and then we had to change our plans. Which isn't that big of a deal, but yet it is.

We invited them for the very simple reason that that's the only time we ever see them. When we're feeding them. John and Annette, between them, make approximately $100,000 per year. We are supporting a household of six people - two in diapers - and two dogs on half of that. Yet we feed them at least once a week, usually more.

I've finally stopped going all out with the Food Network recipes, now they eat whatever we're eating. I am a hell of a good cook (and modest, too) and can work miracles with a pound of hamburger.

It's just getting a little old that we have to bribe them with food to get them to come over here when they're at Annette's mother's house every Sunday, and at least twice during the week. Not to mention all the times that Annette's mother is at their house. Or the times that Steve's ex-wife is at their house.

The last time we were invited to their house was the day Jonah came home from the hospital. In October. And Steve ended up hanging a wall-mount television bracket so Annette could watch TV from the bed while nursing Jonah. Any time we go over there, it's so Steve can help John with something around the house. Never just because.

Oh, well. Not much that can be done about it at this point, I guess.

On Spending The Weekend At Home

And by home, I mean my childhood home. The home where the neurosis started. The one about no clutter. The one about actually sitting down to supper before bedtime.

We go there to relax. It's my time to be away from Luke and Matt. It's my time to be with Steve. Without all the kids. Only two of them.

Only, I end up doing all the cooking. I end up doing all the cleaning up. I end up finding whatever important piece of information they've misplaced. Even if they misplacd it fifteen years ago but need it now. I end up taking my mother shopping because she hates going with my father but since she can't see to drive anymore, has to.

Don't get me wrong, I love my mother. We don't have a lot of money to be throwing around (see above: four kids at home) and I really hate shopping. I do it as infrequently as possible. I take her because I want her to have as much time with my kids as possible before she can't see them anymore and/or before she doesn't remember them anymore.

My parents think that it's perfectly acceptable to sit down to supper at eight o'clock at night. I do not. Six thirty is late for me, anymore.

My parents think that it's perfectly acceptable to let a weekend's worth of dishes sit in the sink. I do not.

My parents think that it's perfectly acceptable to feed a kid a dozen cookies for breakfast and call it good. Me? Not so much.

I think that's where the biggest problem lies. I've grown used to their slobbyness. I can either deal with it or clean it myself. I usually end up doing the latter. That's just me. But when they start teaching my child that it's okay to not take care of her body, I have a problem.

Breakfast Saturday morning consisted of the following: belgian waffles, bacon, sausage, toast with jelly/jam and scrambled eggs. Breakfast at home usually only involves oatmeal and a piece of fruit. Sometimes we have breakfast for dinner and that would involve waffles and bacon OR sausage. Not both.

I don't want to impose my issues with food onto my daughters, but I do want them to have a healthy respect for what they put into their bodies. I don't want my daughters to be anorexic or bulemic, but I do want them to understand that being overweight is not healthy.

Both of my parents are overwieght. Almost obscenely overweight. My mother is five foot nothing and weighs 205 pounds. My father is five foot eleven and weighs 245 pounds. I'm five foot one and weigh 129 pounds. Still a little overweight, but I did just have a baby nine months ago. My parent's weight problem was entirely self-inflicted. There is no medical condition that caused it. Bored? Eat. Depressed? Eat. Hungry? Eat twice as much because it's a 'meal' not a 'snack'.

Now, of course, they have the weight induced medical conditions. High blood pressure; Diabetes, you name it, they've probably got it.

I've struggled with my weight and my own body image. I know what it's like to look in the mirror and hate what you see. I love food too much to have an eating disorder (I know, that's probably not PC but I don't know how else to say it). The trick is to eat a moderate amount. The trick is to get off your ass and do something. The trick is to not eat like it's your last meal at every opportunity.

Also, because I'm an only child I will get to deal with their failing health as they age. I'm the one that will have to limit their salt or whatever. I'm the one that will pay for their weight issues, if you look at it in an entirely egocentric way (which is what a blog is for, right?). They eat whatever and whenever and I'll get to deal with it.

Why Does This Confuse Me?

Steve is a wonderful husband. Let me just say that right up front. He loves me, even when I'm losing my mind. Maybe I defer to him alot in front of people, but not as a general rule. When he's on my last nerve, I still love him. I just want him to go find something to do besides annoy me.

Steve does not drink to excess; he does not gamble his hard earned paychecks away; he's not keeping a mistress; he does not take his anger out on me physically. He gets up, goes to work, comes home and spends his time with his family. He has two hobbies that keep him out of the house for about a month total all year. Total, spread out over the year. He hunts and he fishes. That's it.

Steve is the son my parents didn't have. He treats them as if they were his, and vice versa. It's a great, wonderful thing.

Earlier in the week, I had to give Steve some bad news about a situation from a few years ago. My father kept repeatedly calling to get his reaction. Like he was waiting for Steve to decide that this would be a good time to start smacking me around or something.

I told Steve what I had to and he was - as usual - quite supportive of me and assured me that we'll get through this. Don't we always?

The next day, I saw my parents for lunch. My father kept asking me if Steve was talking to me yet? I was like, what are you talking about? Well, you know, I figured he wouldn't be speaking to you.

What the hell?

Let me just tell y'all that I was in an abusive relationship before I met Steve, I sort of know the warning signs. However, my family remained completely oblivious to it. When I did finally leave him, I moved back home for a bit and then was unceremoniously kicked out two months later. While I had a job and responsibilities, I was not just sponging off my parents.

NOW they're concerned? Gimme a break.

While I kind of appreciate their alleged concern, I also resent it. Alot. Like this: you didn't want anything to do with me when I actually needed you to be there for me, so why don't you just butt the fuck out, shut the fuck up and leave me alone. You don't get to only be there for me in the good times.

But then, I think. They're trying, anyway. That counts for something, right? And as long as they're the only grandparents my children will ever know (which means for the rest of time) I sort of have to tolerate their behavior.

I think it was Erma Bombeck who said "Be kind to your children as they'll be the ones choosing your nursing home." Maybe that's why they're trying to be all involved now. They're getting older and approaching the nursing home age bracket.

It just confused the piss out of me. And yes, made me angry.

Rule One: Keep One End Full And The Other End Dry

Yesterday morning, the phone rang. It was John, asking if I could watch Jonah for the day because the daycare center had no power. (Big storm the night before, you understand.) Naturally, I said yes. That's just the kind of Gramma I am.

Jonah is on a very, very strict feeding schedule. Every three hours. No wiggle room. If he's asleep, he's to be woken up and fed. If he's squalling and it's twenty minutes early, he's to be allowed to squawk until the appointed feeding time.

In addition to that, he's only changed after he's done eating. You know, when he's asleep. So, he's woken up for that too.

Does this make sense to you? It does not to me. And you know what? I don't follow it.

When John and Annette dropped Jonah off, I was given his feeding times for the day. Instead of just leaving him in his carseat asleep, they insisted on waking him up to take him out. So, now it's two hours ahead of feeding time and he's wide awake. So we cuddled, and talked. He smiled. The diaper felt squishy, so I went ahead and changed him. Get this: for a ten hour day, I was given four diapers. Guess who wore too big diapers most of the day?

John was also kind enough to point out to me that he didn't sleep very well the night before so he would probably sleep all day.

Now it's one hour before feeding time and he's starting to give me cues that he's tired. Yawning, rubbing his eyes, etc. The he starts winding up. I go heat up his bottle and feed him.

And what do you know, he slept right through his next feeding time. When he did wake up, I changed him again, fed him again and he was pleasant. Until about an hour before the subsequent feeding time. At which point, I changed him and fed him again and he slept for another four solid hours.

Could it be that he's not sleeping at night because he's HUNGRY? Ya think?

Annette has decided that Jonah will be on a schedule. Just not his schedule - hers. And that's just wrong. Jonah knows what he needs and when he needs it. If you supply it on an as-needed basis, you will have a happier baby. Trust me on this.

I know why Jonah's on this schedule, too. Annette has three sisters and they all have children. They are all incredibly badly behaved, whiny and generally miserable to be around children. I know this because there are often full, two family functions.

Two of the three sisters had premature twins. Yes, two sets of twins. Preemies must be on a schedule, I get it. Jonah was born one week early and weighed just under nine pounds at birth. Not a preemie.

But, Annette listens to every single word that her sisters say and takes it as the Gospel. Also, her mother tells her what they did when Annette and her sisters were babies. Just under thirty years ago. She listens to Steve and I not one iota. You know, the people that had a baby seven months before you? And are therefore up on what is actually going on right this second in your life? Not one little bit.

And poor Jonah, he's held all the time. Yesterday, I laid a blanket on the floor and he was the happiest little boy ever. He could move, he could practice rolling over, he could kick his little legs and flail his arms. Babies need to be able to be not held. Sure, he wasn't happy about it at first. I went and threw a load of wash in the laundry and before I was done with that, he'd discovered his toes.

I guess I've succumbed to the dreaded Mother In Law That Does, In Fact, Think You're Doing It All Wrong.

Starbucks: I Love You But I Don't Understand You

The thing about Starbucks is this: I don’t know how to order.

My daughter in law goes there all the time. She really digs the Caramel Machiatto. (See? I don’t even know how to spell it.)

So, that’s what I order. A Caramel Machiatto. I went into my local starbucks – one of about seven – and ordered just plain old coffee. They thought I was clearly insane. Or maybe it was the caffeine. Hard to tell the way they were bouncing off the walls.

The next to the last time I went into one, I ordered a White Chocolate Peppermint Something or other. And it was incredible. Of course, the next time I went there I went through the drive through. And it wasn't on the menu out there. Naturally, I couldn't remember what in Heaven's name it was.

With two kids under three; four kids over twenty; and one grandbaby, I need all the caffeine I can get. Why do you have to make it difficult, O Starbucks?

I'll just have a Caramel Machiatto and we'll call it good.