We had my entire side of the family over to celebrate Sara and Rebecca's birthdays on Sunday. With them being only a month apart, I decided it would be thoughtful and kind to only have one party; therefore giving the family only one sixty plus mile trip to make. I'm nice, no?
My parents arrived Saturday afternoon. Three hours late, but they're here. Fine. Here's the thing about that. My father can turn any conversation around to be about his (and my mother's) sex life. Example: Mom says "I'm going to have some salad for lunch." He says "I have some salad dressing for you." It makes me insane on two levels. First, neither me and Steve nor the 'boys' want to hear it; and we don't talk about it. Second, I really don't want Sara and Rebecca to grow up with that sort of behavior. I don't want them to only remember the dirty comments their grandfather makes. By bedtime Saturday, we're already tired of hearing it.
On Sunday, I woke up later than I planned to (the snooze button is the bane of my existence sometimes) and hurried to get the balloons filled and everything in place. Why? Because my aunt and uncle (let's call them Jim and Jane) were supposed to be here at 10. He's on midnight shift this week and they would have to leave early so he could catch a nap. I agreed to this, mind you, in the same email that I told them when we would be eating and what we would be eating. A full meal. Around 2. We were eating at that time because Matt also had to leave early to go in to work. Jim responded to my email with 'okay, see you then.' It's not like he didn't get the email.
For the record, I had enough food for thirty people. That's how I plan parties. Enough food and drink, I'm happy with it.
At 1, a different aunt and uncle showed up. At 2, my grandfather showed up. At 2:30, Jim and Jane - who were supposed to be here at 10 - finally arrived. With a pie from a local restaurant - I figure they ate on the way. That will be important in a bit.
I originally thought that both the girls could skip their afternoon nap for this special day. Rebecca wasn't having any of that, so she was asleep. Sara was in Grandma Mode and could care less what anyone else was doing at that point.
A friend and her family were supposed to come as well, but her mother was in the hospital with some serious health issues and I sort of figured they wouldn't be here. Which is fine, moms trump friends any day of the week and twice on Sunday. (Food for five, not being eaten.)
When Steve was in the hospital, I had invited his buddy and his family as well, but Steve wouldn't call to confirm if they were coming or not. His buddy, his call to make. I planned food for them, but wasn't holding my breath. They, of course, didn't come. (Food for six, not being eaten.)
We ate at 2:45. When I noticed that Jane wasn't eating, I told her to have something. She says to me 'I didn't know you were having a full meal, so we already ate.'
EXCUSE ME? Food for FOURTEEN in total, not being eaten. Now I have half the food that I bought, made and begged not. being. eaten.*
Because my family is so spread out, and everyone wants to be with their families on holidays, we do Christmas at Jim and Jane's house either the Sunday before or the Sunday after, depending on when Christmas falls.
The first Christmas Steve and I were married, Jim invited us, of course. He also invited the 'boys' and Annette. (This was before John and Annette were married.) That's adding four people to the family size of fourteen. I don't know about you, but when I'm planning to have people over I plan the food. I plan like a leprechaun on speed. In my world, if there's enough food and drink, nothing can go wrong at a party. She's British, so maybe they do things differently in England, I don't know.
Whatever, we walk in the door. And Jane has the audacity to say to me 'I didn't know you were bringing all these people, I hope we enough food.' Not only does she say it, she says it within earshot of my new family. Resulting in them not eating anything and all of us stopping at McDonald's on the way home. They 'boys' haven't been back since. Understandably.
Back to my party on Sunday. People started arriving at 1. By 4, everyone was gone. Except my parents who stayed until yesterday evening.
I don't get it. Everyone goes on about how they don't know my kids, but you'll stay a maximum of three hours?
I'm not sure if this is limited to my family or what, but it pisses me off. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd stop having these events. You want to get to know my children? Then come when it's convienent for both of us, and spend some actual time with them. For God's sake.
Unfortunately, because my grandfather is big on these Family Events, I can't get away with it. When he passes away (hopefully thirty years or more from now) things will change. That will probably the end of the Family Event era. Which is sad, but maybe for the best.
I mean, clearly, we can't stand to be all together for any amount of time.
*Friend, I'm not upset that you weren't there. I understand. Truly. We're cool. I'll send you your share of the food. Oh wait. I can't. My father ate it all!
Which is another thing. My parents did NOT ask if they could stay for days. They just announced that they would be here until Wednesday. Which, I mean, is good that they want to spend time with their grandchildren. But is it a requirement that they eat and drink us out of house and home? In the four and a half days they were here, we went through four bags of potato chips, two bags of frito-type chips, seventy four pieces of chicken, a dozen eggs, two gallons of iced tea, three boxes of cereal (the good, brand name adult cereal no less. NOT the cheap store brand cheerios and whatnot.), a gallon of milk, two family packs each of both pork chops and hamburger, three pounds of lunch meat, and two loaves of bread.
I don't want to be mean, but I plan food for the family based on the actual serving size listed on the package. Two loaves of bread normally lasts us two weeks. Four bags of potato chips last through two weeks of three brown bag lunches a day. The chicken was for the party, and that much was supposed to feed thirty some people. I figured we'd be eating it until the Second Coming. Nope. It was gone by Sunday at bedtime.
We buy the brand name cereal for adult breakfasts. Three boxes last for over two weeks. Not four days. I buy the kids the store brand version of their cereal. You know, Oaty O's instead of Cheerio's. Fruit Rounds instead of Froot Loops. Those are still there.
It's just so annoying. We don't eat like them. I swear to you, my father eats seven meals a day. Plus what he calls 'snacks.' His snack is my meal. My mother only eats five. The males in my house eat three, most of the time. Sometimes it's only two. I only eat once a day. Not for vanity reasons, I'm just not hungry most of the time. The girls eat three meals and one snack. Other than my one meal habit (not good, I know) I think we eat fairly normal. I try to make healthy, nutritious meals. I try to limit meals to one helping wonders. The average American is overweight. I don't want my family to be average. I want them to be underachievers in that area. Why don't my parents get that?
Why don't they get that everything they do is seen and observed by two sets of highly impressionable eyeballs? Sara now thinks it's okay to eat two leftover chicken breasts and a hunk of birthday cake for breakfast. (Not really, but she could.) It's not okay!
Is it possible to get a new family at this stage of the game? One that gets along with each other and understands actual nutrition? Which aisle is that in?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Okay.
I've been on the Zoloft now for about a week. I have noticed some things. The first, it works. Obivously, this is a for me thing. But, it does work. I'm more calm, I'm more able to handle things.
Saturday, my beloved Steve was trying to change something on his beater car. Whatever, something else broke. Two weeks ago, it would have been the end of the world as we know it. Saturday, all I did was start working the phones trying to find one. Had the auto parts place order it, everything will be fine. He can take my car to work until the part comes in on Monday.
Monday comes and it's the wrong part. Again, two weeks ago I would have been through the roof, yelling at the poor auto parts guy, trying to get him to get me something that he just couldn't. Instead, when I returned it and he told me that the part we needed was a dealer only part, I simply ratcheted up the price in my head, bit the bullet and called the dealer. (I was right, the price went up by about $50, by the way.)
When the dealer told me it would be an $20 freight to actually have the part the next day, or I could wait a week and a half, I swallowed hard and said "okay."
So, the Zoloft is working. The headache is gone, the shakes are gone. Everything is going swimmingly.
Except. (C'mon. You knew there'd be an exception.)
One of the biggest things that would have set me off two weeks ago was everyone being in the kitchen when I was trying to dish up supper. Without fail, the second I pick up the serving utensils, the dogs have to go out (through the kitchen door - right beside the stove) everyone needs a drink (from the fridge) everyone needs silverware, etc.
The last two nights I've been dishing up supper, Matt has just been returning home from work and has come into get his drink. And both nights, he's said 'I'm just getting a drink, I don't want you to yell at me.'
Let me be clear. It's not that it bothers me he's in there - it does not. At all.
What bothers me is that apparently I've made everyone I live with completely miserable while going on about how I'm just fine. When, obviously I wasn't fine.
Steve is the only one who would say anything to me about it. I mean, I guess it wasn't the 'boys' place, but still. You'd think someone else could have said something? I don't know. It's wierd.
On another note, my not-quite-three-year-old apparently knows how to work the DVD player. She can even switch movies. Does this frighten anyone else? No? Just me, then. Okie dokie.
Saturday, my beloved Steve was trying to change something on his beater car. Whatever, something else broke. Two weeks ago, it would have been the end of the world as we know it. Saturday, all I did was start working the phones trying to find one. Had the auto parts place order it, everything will be fine. He can take my car to work until the part comes in on Monday.
Monday comes and it's the wrong part. Again, two weeks ago I would have been through the roof, yelling at the poor auto parts guy, trying to get him to get me something that he just couldn't. Instead, when I returned it and he told me that the part we needed was a dealer only part, I simply ratcheted up the price in my head, bit the bullet and called the dealer. (I was right, the price went up by about $50, by the way.)
When the dealer told me it would be an $20 freight to actually have the part the next day, or I could wait a week and a half, I swallowed hard and said "okay."
So, the Zoloft is working. The headache is gone, the shakes are gone. Everything is going swimmingly.
Except. (C'mon. You knew there'd be an exception.)
One of the biggest things that would have set me off two weeks ago was everyone being in the kitchen when I was trying to dish up supper. Without fail, the second I pick up the serving utensils, the dogs have to go out (through the kitchen door - right beside the stove) everyone needs a drink (from the fridge) everyone needs silverware, etc.
The last two nights I've been dishing up supper, Matt has just been returning home from work and has come into get his drink. And both nights, he's said 'I'm just getting a drink, I don't want you to yell at me.'
Let me be clear. It's not that it bothers me he's in there - it does not. At all.
What bothers me is that apparently I've made everyone I live with completely miserable while going on about how I'm just fine. When, obviously I wasn't fine.
Steve is the only one who would say anything to me about it. I mean, I guess it wasn't the 'boys' place, but still. You'd think someone else could have said something? I don't know. It's wierd.
On another note, my not-quite-three-year-old apparently knows how to work the DVD player. She can even switch movies. Does this frighten anyone else? No? Just me, then. Okie dokie.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Zoloft: Day One
I went to the doctor yesterday, as promised. I told her everything. For the first time, I was completely honest with another human being about what's going on in my mind.
She listened to me. Asked if I heard voices. No. Asked if I was hallucinating. No. It's just that everyday normal events make me so jumpy and nervous and well, anxious. All the time. That's what the voices and the guy in the corner told me to say. (That's a joke, I swear.)
After what felt like two hours, but was really only about 45 minutes of me pouring everything out onto this unsuspecting woman, she diagnosed a General Anxiety Disorder. And prescribed Zoloft. 50mg. I immediately went to the pharmacy and bought goldfish crackers for lunch while it was filled.
When we got home, I fed the girls lunch and put them down for their naps. Yes, Sara's almost three and she still naps. In a crib. Poor developmentally challenged child. [/sarcasm]
I took the first one, and sat down. Within an hour, I felt like I had just mainlined four glasses of wine. I was silly, slightly hysterical in that drunken buzz kind of way. I was trembling, but not alot.
I decided to have a cigarette. Yes, I smoke. Yes, I know it's bad. One trauma at a time, please. When I went outside to my smoking terrace, aka the front porch, I saw that the mail had come.
Yes, the mail had come without me meeting the mailman in the street. And no, there were no catastrophes in it. Imagine that.
A little while later, the phone rang. It was someone trying to get Luke to buy some timeshare. My heart did not go into palpitations thinking it was some horrible thing.
When Steve came home from work, I actually gave him the sheet with all the things you're to watch for when you're on Zoloft. Things like suicidal thoughts, tremors, hallucinations, etc. He can watch for them with me. I'm not even trying to be SuperWoman and handle it all by myself. I can't do it.
How's that go? God grant me the serenity to handle the things I can, pass on the things I can't and the wisdom to know the difference? Like that. I'm learning.
I'm going to call it progress.
I know, in my head, that there is not enough Zoloft in my bloodstream to have actually stopped the episodes. In my head, I know that it's just the simple act of doing something to stop them that is making me feel better.
I have been assured by my friend that the headache and drunken buzz will go away. This headache is a bitch, but since my children are used to sitting around waiting for Mommy to explode, they're quiet anyway. When they're running around like the hooligans they should be, I hope the headache's gone by then.
In my heart, I just know that I am a little better than I was Tuesday.
Today, while the girls are napping, I'm going to do up the dishes and then make fingerpaint. Those poor children have had a screaming bitch of a mother for months now, they deserve a special treat.
I am a little worried that they'll remember the way I have been for so long, and think it's normal. I can only hope that they'll remember what I was before, and what I hope I am after.
And that's the best I can do right now. It has to be enough.
She listened to me. Asked if I heard voices. No. Asked if I was hallucinating. No. It's just that everyday normal events make me so jumpy and nervous and well, anxious. All the time. That's what the voices and the guy in the corner told me to say. (That's a joke, I swear.)
After what felt like two hours, but was really only about 45 minutes of me pouring everything out onto this unsuspecting woman, she diagnosed a General Anxiety Disorder. And prescribed Zoloft. 50mg. I immediately went to the pharmacy and bought goldfish crackers for lunch while it was filled.
When we got home, I fed the girls lunch and put them down for their naps. Yes, Sara's almost three and she still naps. In a crib. Poor developmentally challenged child. [/sarcasm]
I took the first one, and sat down. Within an hour, I felt like I had just mainlined four glasses of wine. I was silly, slightly hysterical in that drunken buzz kind of way. I was trembling, but not alot.
I decided to have a cigarette. Yes, I smoke. Yes, I know it's bad. One trauma at a time, please. When I went outside to my smoking terrace, aka the front porch, I saw that the mail had come.
Yes, the mail had come without me meeting the mailman in the street. And no, there were no catastrophes in it. Imagine that.
A little while later, the phone rang. It was someone trying to get Luke to buy some timeshare. My heart did not go into palpitations thinking it was some horrible thing.
When Steve came home from work, I actually gave him the sheet with all the things you're to watch for when you're on Zoloft. Things like suicidal thoughts, tremors, hallucinations, etc. He can watch for them with me. I'm not even trying to be SuperWoman and handle it all by myself. I can't do it.
How's that go? God grant me the serenity to handle the things I can, pass on the things I can't and the wisdom to know the difference? Like that. I'm learning.
I'm going to call it progress.
I know, in my head, that there is not enough Zoloft in my bloodstream to have actually stopped the episodes. In my head, I know that it's just the simple act of doing something to stop them that is making me feel better.
I have been assured by my friend that the headache and drunken buzz will go away. This headache is a bitch, but since my children are used to sitting around waiting for Mommy to explode, they're quiet anyway. When they're running around like the hooligans they should be, I hope the headache's gone by then.
In my heart, I just know that I am a little better than I was Tuesday.
Today, while the girls are napping, I'm going to do up the dishes and then make fingerpaint. Those poor children have had a screaming bitch of a mother for months now, they deserve a special treat.
I am a little worried that they'll remember the way I have been for so long, and think it's normal. I can only hope that they'll remember what I was before, and what I hope I am after.
And that's the best I can do right now. It has to be enough.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Well, This Should Be Interesting
When I started this blog, it was to be a place to vent where the family couldn't read it. No one knows about this blog, I delete it from the history, etc. It's turned into a bitchfest mainly about Annette and John. Which, since the readership equals one whole person, is okay.
Today, though. Today I need to bitch about someone else. Myself. And it's going to be a total downer. Fair warning.
After Sara was born, I went through a difficult time, mentally. I had this gorgeous new baby girl that I wanted more than anything. I loved her more than life itself. She was an easy baby, truly. But everyone else I lived with? They could all go to hell. For real. They were incapable of doing anything to please me. From putting the lid on the jelly wrong to slamming doors, it all made me go nuts.
I called the midwife about two months after Sara was born and she hooked me up with some Prozac. And that made life a little more manageable. I'd like to say it was all PPD, but it wasn't. We were losing our house. I had just been to court over my stupidity and escaped with probation and restitution. We had no money and I couldn't get a job. See: felon. (If you're going to judge me, go away.) Not to mention that my glorious plan to breastfeed my child since it's free and all was shot to hell because of a fuckup during my open-heart surgery which prevented my body from producing breastmilk. Which led to us getting WIC. Which is a wonderful program, does all sorts of good things for women and their babies. But it still felt like a handout. Still does. But, with six people living here, it's kind of a necessity.
Whatever. Just as we're making the move to this house, that Luke actually financed for us, because we couldn't what with a foreclosure and all, I miss a period. I figured it was stress keeping it away. It came back the next month, very light, and only lasted two days. New home, new routine, no biggie. And hey! A two day period? Who wouldn't love that?
I did, in fact, have a very light, very short period for the entire time I was pregnant with Rebecca. Not on any sort of schedule, but that wasn't out of the routine, as it were. Believe what you like, but I did. And then, one day, I was putting gas in the car and tripped over the hose. And fell. Hurt my hip but good. Two weeks later, it was still bothering me so I went to the doctor, thinking I may have actually cracked something. That was a Monday. While the doctor was probing my hip, she asked me when the baby was due. I told her that I'm not pregnant, I actually just had my (new and improved) period.
Rebecca was born on Friday. So, now not only am I a felon, incapable of doing a Goddamned thing to improve my family's situation unless the prospective employer does not run a background check. Not only that, but I'm too Goddamned stupid to know that I'm knocked up.
Yes, I only gained about seven pounds. Yes, I had a period the whole time. No, I never felt Rebecca move. The only thing I ever got was on Christmas Day, I thought I had gas. That was the only time, and on Christmas Day, after eating everything in sight, that was perfectly normal.
Then, last fall, Steve was in the hospital. I actually found a holiday temp job where there was no background check. Since I wasn't actually handling money, it was all good. There was an extra $350/week. Things were looking up. I found a great baby-sitter (not daycare, private home) that was affordable. I was helping my family. I felt awesome. Since Rebecca had been born, I was dropping pounds left and right.
Ten days before Thanksgiving, I discovered one of my fellow temps stealing $40,000 in activated gift cards. I told my boss, she told her boss, and on up the chain it went. The next day, background check forms were filled out by all the temps. I went to the 'big' boss and told him. I also said that I hoped my part in finding this guy out, since it had also led to the discovery of several other orders that the customers never got, would count for something. He assured me that it would.
That Friday, they let me go. Which, I understand. I do. They can't be bonded and insured with a felon working for them. But it hit me right in my pride. What the fuck kind of person am I? This will follow me around the rest of my life. Because, the terms of my probation include restitution. But, I can't make restitution without a job, and I can't get a job until I pay restitution to have it removed from my record. It's a vicious cycle that does a real number on my self-esteem.
But, at least I was back to being with my girls all the time. If it paid better, it would be perfect. [/Joke.]
A few weeks ago, Steve was in the hospital again. I almost lost him. I actually did lose half a paycheck. No comparison, I know. But, still. He was out for a week. He went back to work two days after he came home from the hospital, simply because we can't afford for him to not go to work. It sucks. It pisses me off. It makes me feel like even more of a failure as a wife, partner, whatever you want to call it.
Then, John and Annette got Jonah's whatever month picture taken. And had the balls to ask why we haven't had an actual portrait of the girls taken? The last time we were at a studio for my children, Sara was eleven months old. She'll be three next month. I started crying and left the room.
Why? Because we don't have any money. That's why, you dumb cunt. I can't afford to buy my children the things I'd like them to have. I can't get a job. No, not even at Jonah's daycare (where there's an opening). Even if I did have a job, there would be no extra money for formal studio portraits.
Saturday, Steve and I were discussing if we were going to church the next day. When I mentioned that I would wear my black pants (I have no idea why clothing was an issue, but there you have it), he got all upset. 'What about that orange dress, with the flowers?' The one that no longer fits across my post-two children chest? None of my clothes fit. I wear sweatpants and jeans. That's fine. But, not to church. Which launched a full debate over my spending money on clothes for myself. At that point, I reminded him, I thought gently, that we have $60 to last until payday. On April 8th. We did get the bills paid. We will be making the mortgage payment within the grace period, barely. We did get the food bought. And now we have $60 in a coffee can to hold us over for a week and a half.
We have no savings. We have no emergency cushion. Which leads to discussions as to why we don't. The simple answer? The 'boys.' We're supporting two grown men, as well as two toddlers and two adults. That's alot of stress on one paycheck. The in-depth answer? I don't have a job. The last time he was in the hospital, we had my first paycheck as a buffer. Which takes us right back to what the hell kind of person am I?
And, you know what? He likes to joke that he's worth more dead than alive. He actually has a life-insurance policy. I don't. Because of my heart surgery, I don't qualify for anything but a Colonial Penn policy, and I'm too young for them. If he were to die, I would get $100,000. Not much, but enough to pay off all our bills, including the house. I wouldn't have any income, but minor detail. I also would NOT HAVE A HUSBAND, you jackass. Sometimes, I want to slap him into next week.
Which brings me to the next portion of my fuck-up-edness.
My husband gets up at the ballcrack of dawn. Everyday. He goes to work for ten hours a day. Everyday. He comes straight home from work. Everyday. He spends the entire time he's not at work, at home. Everyday. Except in hunting season, of course.
If he's ten minutes late to get home because he had to get gas or something like that, I have him in an affair. If he wants to/needs to spend time in the garage or the basement, I have him so mad at me he's ready to file for divorce. Because, in my head, everything wrong with his life is my fault. We lost our home because I couldn't manage the money properly. We have a baby that I'm not convinced he wanted because I couldn't manage to notice that I was pregnant. We don't have the things he wants because he has me and the girls to support. See? I'm not saying these things are based in logic, or even in fact. I'm telling you how my mind works.
We lost our home because we couldn't afford the ever higher mortgage payments. It's hard to write a check for $900 when the money coming in is only $1000. We have a baby that he loves to distraction. A baby that we were going to have at some point anyway. We don't have the things he wants to have because we're still raising his grown ass sons.
I'm back to snapping at everyone. All the damn time. When I was working, I was still on Rebecca's PPD Prozac. The prescription ran out and I never got a new one, because I was feeling so great. Now, of course, we can't afford an office visit to get a slip of paper filled out by the OB/GYN. Not to mention the fact that we owe them some three grand for Sara's delivery. We are slowly paying it off, but really damn slowly. (We had no health insurance for the month she happened to be born in. Change of employer type mix-up. For whatever that's worth.)
Turns out, you shouldn't just stop taking Prozac. You should wean off it. Also, it's not so much depression as it is anxiety. My heart rate goes up when there's a knock at the door. When the mailman is coming, I have to go out to meet him or my heart is going to come clear out of my chest. When something unexpected happens, I'm worth shit. I can't handle anything out of my routine. Nothing.
If the phone rings and the caller ID shows an 800 number, my mouth gets dry, again my heart rate goes up, thinking what fresh hell is this? What's going to come crashing down on me now? I can't handle it.
If one of the girls is having a particularly rough day, I am able to handle her. I can fix it, or make it tolerable. As soon as the first guy get home from work, I lose it on them. 'Hi, Pru. How was your day?' Totally innocent question. My answer? 'It was hell, as if you actually give a shit. Leave me alone.'
This is no way for me live. This is no way for my family to live. And this sure as hell is no way for my daughter to see their mother behaving.
I've thought about leaving. Since my presence is the catalyst for all the shit in Steve's life. (In my head, see.) But then I come back to logic and remember that it really isn't. Plus, if the choice is hell with Steve or heaven without him, I'll take hell every day of the week and twice on Sunday.
I've thought about ending it all. We have guns, lots of them. Not that I'll ever admit that to anyone but you, Internets. But I simply don't want my daughters to grow up without me. They are sometimes the only reason I'm still here, blathering to you.
So, I have to find a way to muddle through this. I have to find a way to handle it. I have a doctor's appointment made for Wednesday at 11. If I don't keep it, Steve'll have my ass on a platter, so I'd better keep it. And I promise to tell her the truth. Except for that last little paragraph. That's our secret. KTHX.
I hope she can wave her magic wand over me and fix me. Or, at the very least, give me some hope. And maybe medication. As long as she doesn't commit me, I'll try anything. (And yes, illogical as it may seem, I am worried that she'll want to commit me. I'm a retard, I know.)
Today, though. Today I need to bitch about someone else. Myself. And it's going to be a total downer. Fair warning.
After Sara was born, I went through a difficult time, mentally. I had this gorgeous new baby girl that I wanted more than anything. I loved her more than life itself. She was an easy baby, truly. But everyone else I lived with? They could all go to hell. For real. They were incapable of doing anything to please me. From putting the lid on the jelly wrong to slamming doors, it all made me go nuts.
I called the midwife about two months after Sara was born and she hooked me up with some Prozac. And that made life a little more manageable. I'd like to say it was all PPD, but it wasn't. We were losing our house. I had just been to court over my stupidity and escaped with probation and restitution. We had no money and I couldn't get a job. See: felon. (If you're going to judge me, go away.) Not to mention that my glorious plan to breastfeed my child since it's free and all was shot to hell because of a fuckup during my open-heart surgery which prevented my body from producing breastmilk. Which led to us getting WIC. Which is a wonderful program, does all sorts of good things for women and their babies. But it still felt like a handout. Still does. But, with six people living here, it's kind of a necessity.
Whatever. Just as we're making the move to this house, that Luke actually financed for us, because we couldn't what with a foreclosure and all, I miss a period. I figured it was stress keeping it away. It came back the next month, very light, and only lasted two days. New home, new routine, no biggie. And hey! A two day period? Who wouldn't love that?
I did, in fact, have a very light, very short period for the entire time I was pregnant with Rebecca. Not on any sort of schedule, but that wasn't out of the routine, as it were. Believe what you like, but I did. And then, one day, I was putting gas in the car and tripped over the hose. And fell. Hurt my hip but good. Two weeks later, it was still bothering me so I went to the doctor, thinking I may have actually cracked something. That was a Monday. While the doctor was probing my hip, she asked me when the baby was due. I told her that I'm not pregnant, I actually just had my (new and improved) period.
Rebecca was born on Friday. So, now not only am I a felon, incapable of doing a Goddamned thing to improve my family's situation unless the prospective employer does not run a background check. Not only that, but I'm too Goddamned stupid to know that I'm knocked up.
Yes, I only gained about seven pounds. Yes, I had a period the whole time. No, I never felt Rebecca move. The only thing I ever got was on Christmas Day, I thought I had gas. That was the only time, and on Christmas Day, after eating everything in sight, that was perfectly normal.
Then, last fall, Steve was in the hospital. I actually found a holiday temp job where there was no background check. Since I wasn't actually handling money, it was all good. There was an extra $350/week. Things were looking up. I found a great baby-sitter (not daycare, private home) that was affordable. I was helping my family. I felt awesome. Since Rebecca had been born, I was dropping pounds left and right.
Ten days before Thanksgiving, I discovered one of my fellow temps stealing $40,000 in activated gift cards. I told my boss, she told her boss, and on up the chain it went. The next day, background check forms were filled out by all the temps. I went to the 'big' boss and told him. I also said that I hoped my part in finding this guy out, since it had also led to the discovery of several other orders that the customers never got, would count for something. He assured me that it would.
That Friday, they let me go. Which, I understand. I do. They can't be bonded and insured with a felon working for them. But it hit me right in my pride. What the fuck kind of person am I? This will follow me around the rest of my life. Because, the terms of my probation include restitution. But, I can't make restitution without a job, and I can't get a job until I pay restitution to have it removed from my record. It's a vicious cycle that does a real number on my self-esteem.
But, at least I was back to being with my girls all the time. If it paid better, it would be perfect. [/Joke.]
A few weeks ago, Steve was in the hospital again. I almost lost him. I actually did lose half a paycheck. No comparison, I know. But, still. He was out for a week. He went back to work two days after he came home from the hospital, simply because we can't afford for him to not go to work. It sucks. It pisses me off. It makes me feel like even more of a failure as a wife, partner, whatever you want to call it.
Then, John and Annette got Jonah's whatever month picture taken. And had the balls to ask why we haven't had an actual portrait of the girls taken? The last time we were at a studio for my children, Sara was eleven months old. She'll be three next month. I started crying and left the room.
Why? Because we don't have any money. That's why, you dumb cunt. I can't afford to buy my children the things I'd like them to have. I can't get a job. No, not even at Jonah's daycare (where there's an opening). Even if I did have a job, there would be no extra money for formal studio portraits.
Saturday, Steve and I were discussing if we were going to church the next day. When I mentioned that I would wear my black pants (I have no idea why clothing was an issue, but there you have it), he got all upset. 'What about that orange dress, with the flowers?' The one that no longer fits across my post-two children chest? None of my clothes fit. I wear sweatpants and jeans. That's fine. But, not to church. Which launched a full debate over my spending money on clothes for myself. At that point, I reminded him, I thought gently, that we have $60 to last until payday. On April 8th. We did get the bills paid. We will be making the mortgage payment within the grace period, barely. We did get the food bought. And now we have $60 in a coffee can to hold us over for a week and a half.
We have no savings. We have no emergency cushion. Which leads to discussions as to why we don't. The simple answer? The 'boys.' We're supporting two grown men, as well as two toddlers and two adults. That's alot of stress on one paycheck. The in-depth answer? I don't have a job. The last time he was in the hospital, we had my first paycheck as a buffer. Which takes us right back to what the hell kind of person am I?
And, you know what? He likes to joke that he's worth more dead than alive. He actually has a life-insurance policy. I don't. Because of my heart surgery, I don't qualify for anything but a Colonial Penn policy, and I'm too young for them. If he were to die, I would get $100,000. Not much, but enough to pay off all our bills, including the house. I wouldn't have any income, but minor detail. I also would NOT HAVE A HUSBAND, you jackass. Sometimes, I want to slap him into next week.
Which brings me to the next portion of my fuck-up-edness.
My husband gets up at the ballcrack of dawn. Everyday. He goes to work for ten hours a day. Everyday. He comes straight home from work. Everyday. He spends the entire time he's not at work, at home. Everyday. Except in hunting season, of course.
If he's ten minutes late to get home because he had to get gas or something like that, I have him in an affair. If he wants to/needs to spend time in the garage or the basement, I have him so mad at me he's ready to file for divorce. Because, in my head, everything wrong with his life is my fault. We lost our home because I couldn't manage the money properly. We have a baby that I'm not convinced he wanted because I couldn't manage to notice that I was pregnant. We don't have the things he wants because he has me and the girls to support. See? I'm not saying these things are based in logic, or even in fact. I'm telling you how my mind works.
We lost our home because we couldn't afford the ever higher mortgage payments. It's hard to write a check for $900 when the money coming in is only $1000. We have a baby that he loves to distraction. A baby that we were going to have at some point anyway. We don't have the things he wants to have because we're still raising his grown ass sons.
I'm back to snapping at everyone. All the damn time. When I was working, I was still on Rebecca's PPD Prozac. The prescription ran out and I never got a new one, because I was feeling so great. Now, of course, we can't afford an office visit to get a slip of paper filled out by the OB/GYN. Not to mention the fact that we owe them some three grand for Sara's delivery. We are slowly paying it off, but really damn slowly. (We had no health insurance for the month she happened to be born in. Change of employer type mix-up. For whatever that's worth.)
Turns out, you shouldn't just stop taking Prozac. You should wean off it. Also, it's not so much depression as it is anxiety. My heart rate goes up when there's a knock at the door. When the mailman is coming, I have to go out to meet him or my heart is going to come clear out of my chest. When something unexpected happens, I'm worth shit. I can't handle anything out of my routine. Nothing.
If the phone rings and the caller ID shows an 800 number, my mouth gets dry, again my heart rate goes up, thinking what fresh hell is this? What's going to come crashing down on me now? I can't handle it.
If one of the girls is having a particularly rough day, I am able to handle her. I can fix it, or make it tolerable. As soon as the first guy get home from work, I lose it on them. 'Hi, Pru. How was your day?' Totally innocent question. My answer? 'It was hell, as if you actually give a shit. Leave me alone.'
This is no way for me live. This is no way for my family to live. And this sure as hell is no way for my daughter to see their mother behaving.
I've thought about leaving. Since my presence is the catalyst for all the shit in Steve's life. (In my head, see.) But then I come back to logic and remember that it really isn't. Plus, if the choice is hell with Steve or heaven without him, I'll take hell every day of the week and twice on Sunday.
I've thought about ending it all. We have guns, lots of them. Not that I'll ever admit that to anyone but you, Internets. But I simply don't want my daughters to grow up without me. They are sometimes the only reason I'm still here, blathering to you.
So, I have to find a way to muddle through this. I have to find a way to handle it. I have a doctor's appointment made for Wednesday at 11. If I don't keep it, Steve'll have my ass on a platter, so I'd better keep it. And I promise to tell her the truth. Except for that last little paragraph. That's our secret. KTHX.
I hope she can wave her magic wand over me and fix me. Or, at the very least, give me some hope. And maybe medication. As long as she doesn't commit me, I'll try anything. (And yes, illogical as it may seem, I am worried that she'll want to commit me. I'm a retard, I know.)
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Annette...AGAIN
My husband underwent 'emergency' surgery two weeks ago. Then he was off for a week with no pay. That's what I've been up to.
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.
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.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Isn't it...
Ironic? No.
Prophetic. I guess. One minute, you're gliding along thinking about how much you'd like to throttle your partner. The next, you're thinking about all the things you couldn't live without about your partner.
Examples:
You can't stand the way he caters to his sons. But, you can't help but admire it, even respect it. When the whole world was falling away from these 17 and 18 year old boys, your husband stuck it out.
You can't stand the way he caters to those same sons. But you can't help but admire how they rally around the 'old man.' How they worry about what might happen to him.
You spend the one night you have had in six months alone with your husbad having a bonny fight about his DAMN SONS only for him to wind up in the hospital.
But, before that even happened.
Your mother calls to tell you that she and your father made it home safely. While you're lying in bed with your husband - whom you've vowed to love above all others- your mother tells you that a certain debonair former beau (never really a lover, despite the gossip) has called her asking about you. Whether you're happy. Whether you've got that house full of children you always wanted.
You lie in bed, thinking of how differently your life might have worked out if you had stuck with Boyfriend A, or Boyfriend B. Instead of Boyfriend C. Not that you don't love Boyfriend C. You do, with all your heart. But, it's only human to wonder, right? Your husband is snoring away, while you ponder.
Boyfriend A was a domineering, possesive son of a bitch. Maybe that was what you needed at the time, but no more. Boyfriend A was an asshole. You are sincerely better off without him.
Boyfriend B was 82 years old when you knew him. Eighty-Two. He wasn't a 'boyfriend' in the typical sense of the word. You weren't lovers, not really. He'd never driven you to that particular edge. He'd never touched your flesh with the fervent prayer that he could get you into bed that night. He was a comfortable shoe. He was the one you turned to when life went to hell. He simply...understood you.
Maybe it was his age. Maybe is was his wiseness. Maybe he was the only person you'd known up to that point to appreciate you for you. Even though he is roughly the age of boyfriend A's parents, he seems to understand what it is that you need. He seemed to know when you wanted to relax over a bottle of wine and he knew when you want to get stoned on margaritas. He knew when a night out on the town was the ticket (and i do mean on the town - city, anyone?), as well as when a night home with the DVD player was. He's one of the Old Breed. He is class and acceptance. He is gentlemanly sophistication. He is the Rhett to your Scarlett. He is what you wanted when you were a foolish child. He's Fucking Clark Goddamned Gable. But without the loyalty...he knows he can't - won't - give you babies. And that kills you. He teaches you the Country Club Manners, but without the actual club. He teaches you which wife goes to which mistress, without ever actually condoning it. He's the one that teaches you that the upper class? They have a set of rules for the wife and a set of rules for the mistress, and each knows the other's rules.
Movies have been shot on his property, you've seen the photgraphs, but somehow it's even less real. Paul Newman does not reality make. Slapshot. Check it out. I've been in that house. I've made love in that house. I was making love, he was getting laid. I did love him, in a way.
Instead of shacking up with some country club floozy, Boyfriend B seems to genuinely care about you. He still calls your parents. He won't call you, because of the fistfight he and Steve got in one night - over you. How goddamned out of character for both of them is that?! Still can't believe that. Not stupid, Boyfriend B. With a certainty, not Boyfriend C.
And then you grew up. In a few short weeks. Thirteen to be exact.
Boyfriend C is the man you marry. The man that has the best of both of A & B. He is your 'soulmate.' He accepts you with all of your flaws. Just as you accept his flaws. He too, understands the difference between a wine bottle night and a bottle of Jose night. He too, understands the demons you have. Without being told in so many words, he understands the demons you face. They may be small demons to him, but demons nontheless. He gets it.
He gets you.
And when he's lying, defenseless, with an oxygen tube in his nose...you remember. You remember how it was when you danced that first dance as husband and wife. You remember how it was to watch his face as he saw the ocean for the very first time. You remember how he cried with you when your babies were born.
And you fall in love all over again...
You remember.
And you love.
Simply love. That's all there is.
Does what came before mold us? Or do we mold what comes after?
Prophetic. I guess. One minute, you're gliding along thinking about how much you'd like to throttle your partner. The next, you're thinking about all the things you couldn't live without about your partner.
Examples:
You can't stand the way he caters to his sons. But, you can't help but admire it, even respect it. When the whole world was falling away from these 17 and 18 year old boys, your husband stuck it out.
You can't stand the way he caters to those same sons. But you can't help but admire how they rally around the 'old man.' How they worry about what might happen to him.
You spend the one night you have had in six months alone with your husbad having a bonny fight about his DAMN SONS only for him to wind up in the hospital.
But, before that even happened.
Your mother calls to tell you that she and your father made it home safely. While you're lying in bed with your husband - whom you've vowed to love above all others- your mother tells you that a certain debonair former beau (never really a lover, despite the gossip) has called her asking about you. Whether you're happy. Whether you've got that house full of children you always wanted.
You lie in bed, thinking of how differently your life might have worked out if you had stuck with Boyfriend A, or Boyfriend B. Instead of Boyfriend C. Not that you don't love Boyfriend C. You do, with all your heart. But, it's only human to wonder, right? Your husband is snoring away, while you ponder.
Boyfriend A was a domineering, possesive son of a bitch. Maybe that was what you needed at the time, but no more. Boyfriend A was an asshole. You are sincerely better off without him.
Boyfriend B was 82 years old when you knew him. Eighty-Two. He wasn't a 'boyfriend' in the typical sense of the word. You weren't lovers, not really. He'd never driven you to that particular edge. He'd never touched your flesh with the fervent prayer that he could get you into bed that night. He was a comfortable shoe. He was the one you turned to when life went to hell. He simply...understood you.
Maybe it was his age. Maybe is was his wiseness. Maybe he was the only person you'd known up to that point to appreciate you for you. Even though he is roughly the age of boyfriend A's parents, he seems to understand what it is that you need. He seemed to know when you wanted to relax over a bottle of wine and he knew when you want to get stoned on margaritas. He knew when a night out on the town was the ticket (and i do mean on the town - city, anyone?), as well as when a night home with the DVD player was. He's one of the Old Breed. He is class and acceptance. He is gentlemanly sophistication. He is the Rhett to your Scarlett. He is what you wanted when you were a foolish child. He's Fucking Clark Goddamned Gable. But without the loyalty...he knows he can't - won't - give you babies. And that kills you. He teaches you the Country Club Manners, but without the actual club. He teaches you which wife goes to which mistress, without ever actually condoning it. He's the one that teaches you that the upper class? They have a set of rules for the wife and a set of rules for the mistress, and each knows the other's rules.
Movies have been shot on his property, you've seen the photgraphs, but somehow it's even less real. Paul Newman does not reality make. Slapshot. Check it out. I've been in that house. I've made love in that house. I was making love, he was getting laid. I did love him, in a way.
Instead of shacking up with some country club floozy, Boyfriend B seems to genuinely care about you. He still calls your parents. He won't call you, because of the fistfight he and Steve got in one night - over you. How goddamned out of character for both of them is that?! Still can't believe that. Not stupid, Boyfriend B. With a certainty, not Boyfriend C.
And then you grew up. In a few short weeks. Thirteen to be exact.
Boyfriend C is the man you marry. The man that has the best of both of A & B. He is your 'soulmate.' He accepts you with all of your flaws. Just as you accept his flaws. He too, understands the difference between a wine bottle night and a bottle of Jose night. He too, understands the demons you have. Without being told in so many words, he understands the demons you face. They may be small demons to him, but demons nontheless. He gets it.
He gets you.
And when he's lying, defenseless, with an oxygen tube in his nose...you remember. You remember how it was when you danced that first dance as husband and wife. You remember how it was to watch his face as he saw the ocean for the very first time. You remember how he cried with you when your babies were born.
And you fall in love all over again...
You remember.
And you love.
Simply love. That's all there is.
Does what came before mold us? Or do we mold what comes after?
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Random Things, Edition One
Well, we went and bought Steve his beater. It's actually pretty nice if you take into account that it was $1100. And, he actually listed his dead truck for sale. A little tricky because we don't have the title, but it's really only good for parts so we don't need it. We lost it in the move and I refuse to pay the state to get the title on a truck that hasn't moved in three years, except on a flatbed. However, he's managed to drop the price everytime someone calls. Which totally pisses me off.
Before we left to get his 'new' car, he asked if he could get a new sight for his bow. It's a super duper 3D sight and they run about $100. Keeping in mind that he got a car for work, so that doesn't really count I ordered his sight. There's $134 I'll never see again. But, there's still plenty of money left for me to get the camera that I want. To be honest, our marriage doesn't work on the concept of he got this, now what do I get? I truly don't really ever want anything. As long as I get to stay home with the girls, I'm cool. Mostly. But I really want a new camera.
And then we get to the dealership (I'm using that term very loosely, trust me) and realize that I didn't think about pesky little things like taxes and plate fees. So. I'm not getting my camera. At least until he sells the truck. At which point I'll talk myself right out of it again. Which is okay. Today. Talk to me tomorrow and see how I feel, mkay?
***
As far as the 'boys' doing their own laundry, etc.? That lasted until I remembered that Luke broke my brand new Maytag heavy duty, super capacity washing machine three days after I got it - while we were on our honeymoon! - and decided that was a bad idea. So, that's a no-go until I get Steve to get his balls out of his purse and make them go to the laundro-mat.
However, the other day we had spaghetti for supper. Usually, I make two pounds. I only made one. There was salad and breadsticks also. They were both bitching that there wasn't enough. I looked Luke in the eye and told him "That's how much I made. You just ate a quarter of a pound of spaghetti. Don't you think that's enough? Seriously? If you're still hungry, go to Wendy's. There is nothing else being cooked in this house tonight."
Then last night, we had eight people for supper. Nine, if you count Sara. I made chili and I used 2.85 pounds of hamburger. There was enough for one bowl per person. Also, I made two eight by eight pans of cornbread. My mother brought a cake for dessert. I cut the cake into ten slices. That wasn't enough. Luke and Matt both had the decency to wait until John and Annette left before they started bitching about being hungry. They had just eaten supper and dessert thrity minutes earlier.
When Steve or I pack lunches there's a sandwich, and baggie of chips, a baggie of cookies and a piece of fruit. That's it. We now hide the potato chips and the cookies. Not to be vindictive, but to show them how much they really do eat. It's ridiculous.
Steve also told Luke that with this new job, where Luke will be making more money than Steve, that his 'rent' is going up from $50 a pay to $100 and that he will be taking over his entire portion of the car insurance. As it stands right now, we pay half of it because Steve was driving Luke's truck every day to work. We have now both mentioned the changes to him individually. Yesterday, we reminded him that more of his paycheck on Friday is coming to us for the insurance. "What? You never told me that," in his high-pitched twelve year old girl whine. "Luke, we've both told you. And we've both told you that the cost of living is going up for you."
He actually had the balls to say "Well, I have bills to pay, you know." Again, I assumed the role of Evil StepMother (because my husband just looked at him in shock) and said "You know what? So do your father and I. We have considerably more. And yet, you bitch about three credit cards? Stop it. I don't want to hear it. We take care of everything but the satellite that YOU had to have. You're getting off easy." Then I left the room.
It's getting very tense in this house.
***
On the moving front, my parents' elderly neighbor is considering moving closer to town to be near his wife who is in a nursing home. Steve said that maybe he'd allow us to rent if from him, assuming we could find Steve a job reasonably local.
I was outside talking to our neighbor Charlie and he mentioned that someone had broken into his house and his aunt's house over the weekend. He mentioned if after I said something about the police being in front of his aunt's house and I hoped she was okay.
As it is, I keep the dogs in the house for an alarm system. The doors are always locked. The cars are always locked. I feel reasonably safe. There's a registered sex offender that lives one block up the hill and two blocks down the street. But, my kids aren't out wandering by themselves, so I'm okay. But, now. People are breaking into the house right next door to mine and walking out with guns.
I want the fuck out of this town, this house.
I'm pushing the renting the neighbor's house theory, people. Pushing it real good.
***
And the topper of the shit cake that was my weekend, I wasn't going to write about this because that makes it real. But I promised myself this blog would be honest. I think Steve kind of threatened me with divorce.
See, I'm real big on trying to 'fix' whatever's wrong. And since he walks around looking pissed off 98% of the time, I'm always asking him what's wrong. On the way to check out the car we ended up buying, he blew up at me. "That's what's wrong with me. You're always asking me that. I've told you and told you. The boys are annoying me. My back hurts. I'm tired. If you want us to separate, just keep asking me what's wrong. That's what's wrong, Prudence. Everything is wrong. We have to buy a car, which we can't afford really, because my sons screwed everything up again."
Being me, I just my mouth and looked out the window. Then, ironically, he asked me what was wrong. "Doesn't matter. Just go." "You have to tell me what's bothering you so I can fix it. You always want to know what I'm thinking about but when I tell you, you get mad." "Well genius. Telling me that you're going to divorce me because I want to know what's wrong with you? Not helping. So I'll stop asking you and then you can be miserable all by yourself. Okay? Happy now?" "I didn't mean separate as in divorce, I meant separate like not connected the way we used to be." "Sure you did. Fine." Not one more word was spoked until we got to the dealership.
And it's still bugging me. Just one more thing that I've done wrong. Only this time, it was supposed to be for keeps. This time I've got babies in it. This time, I'm not quitting. He can, but it'll be all on him.
These mother-fucking-goddamned-sons-a-bitching 'boys' are ruining my marriage. And I really don't know how much longer I can put up with it. Something's got to give. Soon.
Before we left to get his 'new' car, he asked if he could get a new sight for his bow. It's a super duper 3D sight and they run about $100. Keeping in mind that he got a car for work, so that doesn't really count I ordered his sight. There's $134 I'll never see again. But, there's still plenty of money left for me to get the camera that I want. To be honest, our marriage doesn't work on the concept of he got this, now what do I get? I truly don't really ever want anything. As long as I get to stay home with the girls, I'm cool. Mostly. But I really want a new camera.
And then we get to the dealership (I'm using that term very loosely, trust me) and realize that I didn't think about pesky little things like taxes and plate fees. So. I'm not getting my camera. At least until he sells the truck. At which point I'll talk myself right out of it again. Which is okay. Today. Talk to me tomorrow and see how I feel, mkay?
***
As far as the 'boys' doing their own laundry, etc.? That lasted until I remembered that Luke broke my brand new Maytag heavy duty, super capacity washing machine three days after I got it - while we were on our honeymoon! - and decided that was a bad idea. So, that's a no-go until I get Steve to get his balls out of his purse and make them go to the laundro-mat.
However, the other day we had spaghetti for supper. Usually, I make two pounds. I only made one. There was salad and breadsticks also. They were both bitching that there wasn't enough. I looked Luke in the eye and told him "That's how much I made. You just ate a quarter of a pound of spaghetti. Don't you think that's enough? Seriously? If you're still hungry, go to Wendy's. There is nothing else being cooked in this house tonight."
Then last night, we had eight people for supper. Nine, if you count Sara. I made chili and I used 2.85 pounds of hamburger. There was enough for one bowl per person. Also, I made two eight by eight pans of cornbread. My mother brought a cake for dessert. I cut the cake into ten slices. That wasn't enough. Luke and Matt both had the decency to wait until John and Annette left before they started bitching about being hungry. They had just eaten supper and dessert thrity minutes earlier.
When Steve or I pack lunches there's a sandwich, and baggie of chips, a baggie of cookies and a piece of fruit. That's it. We now hide the potato chips and the cookies. Not to be vindictive, but to show them how much they really do eat. It's ridiculous.
Steve also told Luke that with this new job, where Luke will be making more money than Steve, that his 'rent' is going up from $50 a pay to $100 and that he will be taking over his entire portion of the car insurance. As it stands right now, we pay half of it because Steve was driving Luke's truck every day to work. We have now both mentioned the changes to him individually. Yesterday, we reminded him that more of his paycheck on Friday is coming to us for the insurance. "What? You never told me that," in his high-pitched twelve year old girl whine. "Luke, we've both told you. And we've both told you that the cost of living is going up for you."
He actually had the balls to say "Well, I have bills to pay, you know." Again, I assumed the role of Evil StepMother (because my husband just looked at him in shock) and said "You know what? So do your father and I. We have considerably more. And yet, you bitch about three credit cards? Stop it. I don't want to hear it. We take care of everything but the satellite that YOU had to have. You're getting off easy." Then I left the room.
It's getting very tense in this house.
***
On the moving front, my parents' elderly neighbor is considering moving closer to town to be near his wife who is in a nursing home. Steve said that maybe he'd allow us to rent if from him, assuming we could find Steve a job reasonably local.
I was outside talking to our neighbor Charlie and he mentioned that someone had broken into his house and his aunt's house over the weekend. He mentioned if after I said something about the police being in front of his aunt's house and I hoped she was okay.
As it is, I keep the dogs in the house for an alarm system. The doors are always locked. The cars are always locked. I feel reasonably safe. There's a registered sex offender that lives one block up the hill and two blocks down the street. But, my kids aren't out wandering by themselves, so I'm okay. But, now. People are breaking into the house right next door to mine and walking out with guns.
I want the fuck out of this town, this house.
I'm pushing the renting the neighbor's house theory, people. Pushing it real good.
***
And the topper of the shit cake that was my weekend, I wasn't going to write about this because that makes it real. But I promised myself this blog would be honest. I think Steve kind of threatened me with divorce.
See, I'm real big on trying to 'fix' whatever's wrong. And since he walks around looking pissed off 98% of the time, I'm always asking him what's wrong. On the way to check out the car we ended up buying, he blew up at me. "That's what's wrong with me. You're always asking me that. I've told you and told you. The boys are annoying me. My back hurts. I'm tired. If you want us to separate, just keep asking me what's wrong. That's what's wrong, Prudence. Everything is wrong. We have to buy a car, which we can't afford really, because my sons screwed everything up again."
Being me, I just my mouth and looked out the window. Then, ironically, he asked me what was wrong. "Doesn't matter. Just go." "You have to tell me what's bothering you so I can fix it. You always want to know what I'm thinking about but when I tell you, you get mad." "Well genius. Telling me that you're going to divorce me because I want to know what's wrong with you? Not helping. So I'll stop asking you and then you can be miserable all by yourself. Okay? Happy now?" "I didn't mean separate as in divorce, I meant separate like not connected the way we used to be." "Sure you did. Fine." Not one more word was spoked until we got to the dealership.
And it's still bugging me. Just one more thing that I've done wrong. Only this time, it was supposed to be for keeps. This time I've got babies in it. This time, I'm not quitting. He can, but it'll be all on him.
These mother-fucking-goddamned-sons-a-bitching 'boys' are ruining my marriage. And I really don't know how much longer I can put up with it. Something's got to give. Soon.
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