Sunday, John and Annette came to visit. They asked how potty training Sara was going, seeing that she was in a diaper. "I've stopped. When I went to put the big girl pants on her Friday, she had an absolute fit of temper and fear. I'm not going to force the issue," I said. I could handle the temper tantrum, they're common enough recently. But she was actually afraid to wear them and afraid to go potty. I'm not damaging her like that.
Annette, who has a five month old son, who has never even seen anyone actually potty train a child the way I intend to do it - with love and pride, she's only seen it done with fear and shame ("That's disgusting, why am I changing a big boy's diaper, that's so disgusting?" direct quote from her sister to her two year old son, saw it with my own eyes.) - actually had the balls to say to "She'll just have to get over it, won't she?" I left the room. Annoyed, but able to see that Sara is my child, not hers and that all decisions regarding Sara are mine - not hers.
Monday, John called me at 5:30 asking if I could go get Jonah from daycare because they were stuck in some horrible traffic jam. Of course, I said yes. Drop everything I'm doing (painting), load up Sara into her carseat - Rebecca stayed home with Steve - and rush over to the daycare to find out he's the last baby there. Grab McDonald's for supper, since the kitchen is unusable at the moment. Get home, and John calls again. This time he wants to know if I got enough for them to eat, too. "No, I just assumed you were simply picking Jonah up and going home." "Okay, we'll grab something then. No problem." You know what? It IS a problem. We are in the middle of painting the downstairs. I have no where to put Rebecca and Sara as it is, but you be sure to add Jonah into the mix. Steve and I just continued painting, eating cheeseburgers as we went.
While waiting for a coat to dry, Annette came into the dining room. She was talking about something that I can't recall. And she said something like "It's a good thing you kept Rebecca's carseat, huh?" Yes, it's handy when I have to do your job, bitch. "Works out well," I said. "I called my mom to go get him, but my sister has the carseat in *nearby town*. So my mom couldn't go get him. "Oh, well. No biggie, I guess." What I'm thinking is that I am the emergency contact at daycare, because I'm always home. Her mother works. And I'm fine with that, they asked me first. The thing is, she didn't even once thank me for dropping everything to go get her son. Just informed me that I was her last resort. F.U.C.K. Y.O.U. I tried to let it roll off, but it's still annoying me.
They were scheduled to come over for dinner on Wednesday. Since I had to go to the grocery store anyway, I emailed John at work to see if I could pick up Jonah. That way they wouldn't have to go all the way over there before coming to my house. And we could eat supper at a normal time. He agrees and I do it.
They can't get Jonah to sleep for more than thirty minutes at daycare*. John and Annette can't get him to sleep for more than fifteen at a time. When I got home with all three kids, I fed everyone their lunch. Changed all the diapers. And laid them all down. The girls slept for about two hours, which is normal. Jonah slept for four and I still had to wake him up. Because I wasn't holding him, he was actually able to sleep. Because I fed him the proper amount, he was actually able to sleep. What John emailed me to feed him, I did. But I also added a jar of baby bananas. And four more ounces of formula. Of which he ate the entire TWO TABLESPOONS of baby cereal I was told to feed him; the four ounces of formula I was told to feed him; the entire jar of baby bananas (#1) and three of the additional four ounces.
When I woke him up, I gave him the container of vegetables I was told to feed him as well as another six ounces of formula. And he was cheerful! The entire time he was here. They (Annette) have him on a ridiculous feeding schedule. They'll wake him up to eat, they'll tell he has to wait another fifteen minutes while he's screaming his little head off, obviously hungry. So, when he's here and they're not, Steve and I have agreed that we will keep a can of his formula in the house so we can feed him when he's HUNGRY. Not when it suits Annette's social life. She can kiss my ass.
It's also apparently odd that my three year old still sleeps in a crib. I guess she should be in a big girl bed by now.
Also, Sara does not so much talk. She has a few words and she's getting more every day. But, she is almost three. She does not speak in complete sentences. Any further than to say 'No, Mommy' or 'Yes, Mommy.' Which is yet another obstacle to the whole potty training thing. While it does bother me to a degree, I try very hard to accept my children the way they are. When she has something to say, she'll say it. It was very hard for me to accepy my former babysitter's (both of them's) advice to relax. It was very hard for me to accept the pediatrician's statement that as long as she can make her needs known, and she follows direction well for her age to relax. It has been difficult. Some days I spend time surfing the internet on Autism. And speech delays. And things I've done to cause my baby not to speak. It's fun. NOT! Ahem.
This bitch that is my daughter in law went behind my back and scheduled my child for an Early Intervention Assessment. Something that was not recommended by Sara's doctor. Something that Annette thought was needed. When they called to confirm the appointment, I was naturally shocked and cancelled it. When I told Annette that I cancelled the appointment, she didn't take it well. "Don't you think there's something wrong? She's almost three and she doesn't talk well at all." "No, I don't think there's anything wrong. And this isn't going purely by my gut - which tells me there's nothing wrong. And it isn't going by watching Sara and comparing her to other children. This is going by MY pediatrician's advice that she IS FINE. Don't ever do anything like again. Ever."
And now I'm back to doubting myself. I know that she's fine. She really is. She's bright, cheerful, friendly and smart. She doesn't need to talk because the four adults that she lives with talk for her all the time. We need to stop. We're working on it. She's perfectly fine.
It pisses me off that that pretentious, uptight bitch has gotten to me. I know that I'm a good mother. I know that my daughters will grow up to be their own people, whatever that may be. They both have strengths and weaknesses, but they are perfectly healthy, intelligent little girls.
I do not agree with the choices that John and Annette have made for their son, but other than feeding him on the sly, I respect those choices. Annette needs to work to support their lifestyle. It's not my lifestyle, but it's not my life. It's not my child. I don't need to work to support our lifestyle. Sure, if I worked, we could have more things. I had alot of things as a child. I never had my mother to see my first steps, color with me at one o'clock in the afternoon, or whatever. My children will.
If I can see that, why can't Annette? Why is she so determined to fuck with me?
*When they told us Annette was pregnant, and that the baby would be going to daycare, I offered to keep him here, and they could eat here whenever they wanted. For half the amount daycare was going to (and is) charging them. John was into it. He wouldn't be with strangers all day, he would be under my care all day, etc. Annette said no, flat out. Because? "There aren't any kids for him to socialize with." I guess an 'aunt' who's two and another 'aunt' who's seven months older than him don't count. Also? Infants don't so much socialize, you dumbass. They sleep. If you FEED THEM!!! Such an absolute little bitch.
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