In Which I Was Going To Whine At Great Length

Then I decided, I can summarize my whinyness in a few points:

1) WAAAAAAH.

2) I have fucking RINGWORM on my leg, and some weird itchy rash of six months' duration on my boobs.  (Diagnosis from midwives: Here, have some steroid cream.) Still better than thrush, but WTF.

3) My spouse Bug-wrangles when he gets home.  I hold the baby for hours.  We each resent the other.

4) I have not returned to the midwives because a) I've had enough medical appointments with a toddler to last a lifetime and b) I have no plans to use those parts any time soon.  For anything.

5) I long for an hour- possibly two!- without either of my children.  Preferably in a bubble bath with a glass of wine and a trashy novel, but, at a minimum?  NOT AT THE DENTIST.  Where I have to go again next week.

In Which I Complain About My In-Laws

My in-laws are retired with no pets, small children, or elderly persons for whom they are responsible. My FIL is mild and inoffensive but does not prevent the Crazy.  My MIL has spent her entire life in two small towns as a teacher, but cannot admit that Dr. S or I know anything, or have had any different experiences.  (Her: "All employers are like that about parental leave."  Dr. S:  "One, you quit your job when I was born, and two, J's [large, industry] employer emailed her once while on leave, to ask what day she'd be back.")

Anyhow.

At first they said they wouldn't visit when Little Bit was born.  In October.  You know, because it might snow.  (Unlike in OHIO where it never snows, or RURAL WEST VIRGINIA, where they were last week.)  Okay, fine, whatever.

Then they called on Wednesday and said "Hey, we're coming on Friday!"  And I had a fit.  One, my mom, who is not retired, had arranged, four months in advance, to take three weeks of vacation and come.  Two, Friday was his bris.  Three, two days' notice???

Dr. S said "Er... another day?"  Friday, they said. "Monday?"  Friday.  I had another fit and said, any day but Friday, or a divorce, darling.  He called them back and said, "I'll be on leave starting Tuesday!  How about you come then?"  A doctor's appointment, they said.  (This could have been prevented by planning in advance, I said.)  "After that!"  It might snow, they said.  So they're not coming.  And we are not going there (twelve hours in a car with two small children; think Sartre).  And it's just sad. 

They're like two-year-olds: if thwarted, they must throw a tantrum.  Their way or not at all.  But we're adults, it's our family, and they can live with it or... live with it.

P.S.  It still has not snowed here.

Sweet Baby of Mine

Little Bit spent an hour last night jumping up and down on me, cooing, and waving his chubby little arms.  It was adorable.  It was also four in the morning.

Five Minute Blogging Again: Teaching Difference

I have three inspirations tonight:

1) An excellent post by Lesbian Dad, which I have not the time to find, about explaining to their kids that most people are either boys or girls but some are in between and some boys are 'girly' and some girls are kind of 'boyish' and so on.  I hope one day Bug and Little Bit are interested enough that we can talk about it.  So far we haven't gotten past "Yes, our friend M has two daddies."  Also, he is only two and a half.

On a related note, I just made Little Bit a purple sleep sack.  Not really because I feel the need to impose counter-heteronormative clothing colors on a five-week-old.  Mostly because that was the fabric scrap I had.  Anyhow.

2) A few weeks ago I saw a 3-year-old ask, "What is that [scooter] for?"  And in a spectacular parental FAIL the dad said, "Uh... it's for people... with disabilities!"  Yes.  Way to give your kid a meaningful framework.  I've told Bug in the past "Some people need more help to get around and they use wheelchairs."  And so on.

3) Last week we saw a couple who looked like they had achondroplasia.  Bug was fascinated: people only a little taller than him, but who were behaving like adults!  WHOA!!!  And I was completely exhausted and did not know what to do about my child staring.  Except... if I had had more energy, I would have gone over and had him say hi- "Look, they have a baby just like our baby; how old is she?" is a good opener.  Any other suggestions?

Screaming baby!  Time's up!  Happy Thanksgiving!

One Minute Blogging: Snark At Spouse

Specifically, about fatigue. You think YOU'RE tired??  You've slept more than three hours in a row in the last month!  Sometimes you get to sleep all night for eight whole hours.  (If the baby only wants a new diaper and some milk, there's no point in waking up the milk-less person; I can re-diaper him before the spouse staggers up from the basement.)  I know you've been watching the surly toddler for weeks.  Thank you.

However.

I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT.

Five Minute Blogging: Housework and Gender

I have five minutes with two hands!  GO!!

Inspired by Alyssa and others: Housework with a working partner and a housewife!!

Before we had children, Dr. S and I split everything pretty much evenly, according to time, talent, and inclination.  We grocery shopped together; we traded off laundry; we both cooked and swept. 

Now that I'm a housewife, it's a little more uneven, partly because, hey!  This is my job now, and partly because there are a lot of stereotypically gendered things I hate.  Like taking out the trash.  Also, because when the spouse gets home, I'd rather cook than play with the toddler for another hour (I love him, but I've already played all day!). 

So Dr. S does: dishes, laundry folding, sweeping, trash, compost, mowing, most of snow shoveling, part of bill paying, all the investments, midnight baby-walking, and anything involving an electric saw.  Plus he has a full-time job and all. 

I do: meal planning, grocery shopping, cooking, procurement of clothing and other items (mainly via the Internet), laundry washing, the rest of the bill paying, mending/sewing, repairs not involving large sharp pointy fast-rotating things, scheduling appointments, midnight baby-nursing*, and a whole lot of child-wrangling. 

I think it's still fairly even despite our traditionally-gendered roles, and a lot of the stereotyping really is just our personal preferences.  I hate hate hate sweeping, and he doesn't care; he hates shopping, and I hate it less.  And although I spend more time per day doing house-related things, I think it's still split fairly evenly for such an asymmetric out-of-home workload.

Five minutes are up: DING!


*Because he lacks the relevant equipment.

Toddler Sentence of the Day

"Many trucks are driving fast on the highway next to our small car!"

(It's even grammatically correct.)

(Unlike my one-handed typing.)

Family

Itty-Bitty is named after my father's father, Fred.  (It's Ashkenazi tradition to not name after living relatives, or we would have named him for my father.)  So before his bris, I called my father and asked him to tell me about Grandpa Fred.  Sadly, most of what he told me was not repeatable in polite company, but it was interesting, so I shall share it with you, dear readers.

Grandpa was a first-generation immigrant from Alsace; Grandpa's mother, who was a cast-iron bitch, always made a point of speaking Alsatien when my grandmother was around.

Fred's father had a general store in Russia (pronounced Rooshy!) and as a young man, Fred took around a huckster wagon.

In the Depression, Fred and his cousin went to Illinois to work on the farms.  During Prohibition, he and his father ran a still, and they were so good at it that they were contracting bootleggers.  Uncle Jughead ran sugar for the Mob, too.  (Such reputable relatives!)

During the war, he worked at NCR, which had made cash registers, but switched over to machine guns.  There he met my grandmother; he was 40, and she was 20.  My mother once asked Nanna how she had convinced the merry bachelor to settle down and if she had enticed him, Nanna replied indignantly, "Certainly not!  It was a whole two years before our daughter was born!"

Fred couldn't afford to buy a farm while he was working in the factory, but afterwards he and Nanna bought one, right after their first child was born.  It was outside town, and had a wood stove for heat, and Nanna sat right down in the kitchen and cried when she saw it. 

And finally, to quote, "Fred was never one to use the word 'manure' when 'shit' would do. He was an ornery little Frenchie."

P.S.  Frederick is the baby's middle name.  And if you know our real last name, you'll immediately see why.

Bounded In A Nutshell

Why, yes!  When you never sleep more than two hours in a row, you have really strange dreams.

Really, Not That You Asked (3)

7:30 AM: My contractions slow down to every ten minutes again. "Pitocin!" the nurse chirps, and hangs a bag. I don't care.

Until 10 AM: I think nothing is happening because the intensity never goes past 20 on the LYING BASTARD of a contraction monitor.

10 AM: I start feeling pressure.  I don't mention it because I don't want anyone to BOTHER me.

10:45 AM: I decide that perhaps I should mention it.  Also, I decide that the contraction monitor has been LYING.  The nurse and midwife have a genteel tiff: the midwife is upset that the nurse checked me; the nurse points out that she paged the midwife five times with no response.  I ignore them all, including when the midwife tries to coach my pushing.

The rest is pretty mundane. At about 11:15, the baby popped out in the usual eel-like fashion, looked around, and screamed.

The thing is, I already did a drug-free childbirth; this time, I felt like I had nothing to prove to anyone, including myself, and I didn't want to be in that much pain any more.  Having done it the other way, I didn't feel like I was missing anything by getting an epidural and a little pitocin.  And you know what?  It was great.

And I had been in labor for SIX DAYS, too.