Red Pen Mama

I set out this month with every intention of posting daily. Then, I dropped a day due to a day chock full of activity and accidents.

And then the girls came down with Coxsackie virus (this is the non-scary link; for the scary one, click here).

The Coxsackie virus, as some of you may be aware, is highly contagious and is the cause of foot-hand-and-mouth disease.

So far the foot/hand involvement has been minimal for my girls (knock wood). A few little pimples; Bun had a blister on her thumb. The mouth involvement, however, was brutal. Imagine how it would feel if your throat were lined with canker sores.

Now imagine being 15 months old.

On Wednesday, after I had been at the office for about 45 minutes, DearDR called.

“Bun is very clingy and whiny, and she’s still feverish,” he said.

“Do you want me to come home?” I asked.

“Yes.”

So I drove the half-hour home to hang with Bun. I just figured she as running a fever as a reaction to her MMR last week. (And if you want to read some really scary Internet stuff, just google “fever after MMR shot”, and read the non-official sites.) After she woke from a short, restless nap, I got a look down into Bun’s throat. She was screaming at the time, so it was real easy.

When the doctor saw it, he said, “Hmm. That doesn’t look like strep.”

They did a culture anyway. Negative for strep throat.

I have to admit here, that for the first time, my pediatrician’s office let me down. I don’t know if the doctor (one of our regulars) was booked or in a hurry to get out of there, but he gave no advice (except for the parting shot, “Tylenol” over his shoulder as he walked out the door) and answered no questions. A nurse answered some of my questions; my brother (a dermatologist) answered a couple more; and the Internet alternately scared me and soothed my fears (see links above).

And no one — not the doc, not the nurses, not even DCL — suggested I keep the girls at home. I mean, how dumb is that?

I think the reasoning was that they had a virus (well, to this point, Monkey didn’t have it, but she was raging with a juicy fever by the time I picked them up from daycare Thursday), and the other kids were already exposed anyway.

In short, I did end up staying home with them on Friday. And somehow or another, I actually got things done around the house over the weekend (this is where the in-laws were invaluable). I sorted through the girls’ clothes, swapping out fall/winter clothes for spring/summer, next sizes up. I got through a mountain of paperwork in the office (this due to a three-and-a-half hour nap on Bun’s part and DearDR’s occupying Monkey during that time).

Also, somehow or another, DearDR and I managed to spend some quality time as a couple. I think our mutual support and team-work fostered a sense of intimacy.

We weathered Bun clinging to me like a barnacle all day on Sunday, and the whining from both girls all weekend (this is where the beer proved invaluable). And now it’s Monday, the in-laws have the girls — we figured one more day at home would be in everyone’s best interest — and I am back at the office. I have my fingers crossed that everyone is on the mend.

Edited to add: Of course, I should have sucked it up and stayed home Thursday, too, but I felt… I don’t know, weird about it. Worried about my job and what my boss/employer would think. I was worried about the wrong, thing, I can safely admit now. I don’t know if I will lose vacation/personal time, or if it will count as sick time, and that doesn’t really matter, either. Everyone’s okay, and I’m certainly glad I stayed home on Friday, and that we’ve made it through the weekend.

I wish I could post a photo of you. You, pants that I am wearing today, you get more compliments than any other piece of clothing I own. You are cute red, black, and white pedal pushers, 100% nylon, with a groovy floral pattern, white piping, and — my favorite feature — a velcro-fly fastening. I thought it was going to be a lot more spring-like today and threw you on with black ballet flats and a white blouse. I’m lunching with DearDR, so I wanted to look nice. Based on the comments I’ve gotten from some of my female co-workers, I look cute, even.

Pants, I bought you eight years ago in Chicago at a little store called Urban Outfitters. I don’t know if Urban Outfitters (where I also purchased my first Paul Frank t-shirt) was as big then as it is now. It was pretty big in Chicago, I guess, but until that trip, I hadn’t heard of it. And let’s remember that eight years ago I was (technically) single and had no children. I was a little more in touch (okay a lot) with pop culture than I am today.

That Chicago trip was a memorable one for many, many reasons. Not least of which was the fact that DearDR and I had recently become lovers, after dating for about six months. And boy, did we mess up our host’s bed.

Chicago was our second long-distance trip as a couple. We drove to New York City in the early spring of 2000. That trip, we hadn’t been sleeping together yet. There was a lot of sexual tension, but in a good way. I hadn’t been to New York City, yet. We talked about moving to Hoboken, New Jersey. We dreamed.

We were in Chicago for the Sixteenth Annual Blues Festival, and it was awesome. It was my first Blues Festival, DearDR’s… oh, say, tenth. It was June; Chicago was hot; the music was burning. And, what the hell, we were in love, in lust, in Chicago.

Pants, you always make me think of Chicago. Of how good DearDR and I were – and are – as a couple. You recall to me those heady days: pre-marriage, pre-children, even though by then I strongly suspected that DearDR was my husband-to-be and future-father-of-my-children. You don’t make me regret anything, just fondly remember.

Plus, pants, you always make me feel attractive, because of the compliments I get. I honestly don’t think I have ever worn you and you have failed to illicit a favorable comment.

Thanks, Pants. For all the good times.

Love,
rpm

I am having garden envy.

Many of the people at work have gardens. They have begun talking about what they are planting this year, what was successful or unsuccessful last year, and the best way to deal with pests.

I have wanted a garden since we moved to our house in the suburbs. I daydream about composting, weeding, and picking fresh tomatoes. I know you, too, have a yen to garden, a desire to be the type of guy/husband/dad that goes out to mow the lawn and putter around the yard.

As you are aware, I have never had a garden. I have enough trouble keeping houseplants alive (must remember to water houseplants). We killed an azalea last summer – a death that you completely attribute to me.

But I want a garden. You are a garden veteran — you’ve done garlic, basil, tomatoes, zucchini, other herbs and flowers. Remember when we were dating, and you gave me all those herbs? I had to freeze them, there were so many. Thank goodness I had the bright idea to do flavored vinegar for an early Christmas of ours together. They would still be in that freezer if I hadn’t.

We are starting our second spring and our third summer in this house. We have talked about gardening; I have checked books out of the library.

We haven’t even broken ground yet.

First of all, I don’t know the ideal placement of a garden in our yard. The side yard has too many trees; the front yard slopes too much, and is too shady; the backyard… well, there’s that tree there, and the concrete “patio” there, and the air conditioner there, and the shed. Unless we stick it smack in the middle of the backyard, I just don’t know. Then where would we put the kiddie pool?

Secondly, although you are the prime candidate to decide on the placement and do the ground- and back-breaking work of digging up the yard, you barely have one day off a week. I’m not sure how you would feel about creating a vegetable garden on that one day.

Thirdly, between deer, rabbits, and that groundhog, I’m not sure what would survive. What will keep our plants safely growing?

Actually, I have some great plans for a flower garden around that concrete block we refer to as our front porch. Let’s dig up the “lawn” we have there – let’s set a date. Monkey can help – she loves dirt! We’ll do it some Sunday, when Bun is napping. Whaddaya say?

In the meantime, my garden envy is the only thing growing.

Yer ever-loving,
rpm

I was sitting at work today, and I realized something.

I was pretty happy.

Since starting this job, I have discovered I am less anxious, less stressed, more relaxed. I feel more like myself than I have since I had Bun.

I like going to work. I like getting up and out the door in the morning, in the quiet, before anyone else is stirring.

Is it crazy that I am happier getting up at 6 a.m. and going to a full-time job, than I was staying at home with my children? If it is, I don’t really want to know.

My house is actually in better order now. I feel more on top of things, not less. True, I am much more tired in the evenings (can’t keep my eyes open past 10 p.m.), but aside from that, physically I am feeling better than I have in some time. I’m sure the hallway walks (about four or five women take a 15 minute walking break around 3 p.m.) and the early a.m. “workouts” are helping.

When I was with my children all day, I felt so much pressure. I had so many decisions to make: what to do, how to keep them occupied, what to feed them, when to change them, how to get them in for rests, what to do for dinner, bath, bed. And then, how was I supposed to do the other stuff: laundry, cleaning, blogging (ha!), reading?

I was driving myself crazy.

Now, I am going to add this next paragraph, even though, if you know me at all, it’s not necessary. Yes, I miss my girls. Yes, I love my children. To be honest, I’m not crazy about Day Care Lady (too much TV, not enough other activities — she’s no MaryP!), but at this point she is in our price range. I plan to look for other, more structured care when we can afford it. And in any case, Monkey will probably start pre-school in the fall.

Yes, Bun is having some adjustment issues. She is very clingy until after dinner. It worries me a little, but it’s not been 10 days yet. If she’s still clingy and whiny in three months, I’ll reassess the situation. Monkey had some potty issues, but they are resolved.

I am not going to beat myself up for being relieved to once more be working. I’m not going to give myself a guilt trip for being happy going to work. I’m not going to label myself a bad mommy, even in jest.

Plus, the money rocks.

I’m letting myself off the hook. And if anyone tries a guilt trip on me? They are goin’ down. Because they don’t know me; they don’t know what’s best for my children. I do.

On a related note: DearDR has stepped it up. I expected a little balking, a little whining, I admit it. But he has taken on child-care duties with nary a peep. (Oh, well, I did have to start setting out daily outfits for the girls.) And he has gone above and beyond. He lobbied for family-time on Sunday (we went up to the mall). He changed the brakes on his car. Today, he didn’t have anyone scheduled until 2 p.m. — so he went grocery shopping, people. I didn’t even ask him; he offered last night.

Is it any wonder he’s getting laid (at home — come on, we’re Catholic) more often?

No, I’m not pregnant. Not even “trying”.

It’s just that the other night, out of the blue (okay, not totally apropos of nothing; we were watching Lost Season 3 on DVD, and Juliette had just told Jack she was a fertility doctor) DearDR said, “Do you want to try for another baby?”

To which I was quick to respond, “Not right now.” I’m such a wit. Or twit. Your pick.

But it’s had me thinking for a couple of days now.

In truth, I always thought I would have three children. Technically speaking I did have three children, of course, but I thought I would be raising three children.

I don’t know why three. My mother had three children (really three, not three with an asterisk like me). I mean, I have never made plans according to what my mother did (as she can well tell you), so I doubt that’s it. (Although, as the third aside in this paragraph alone, I will admit I am turning into her. That’s to pre-empt DearDR from pointing it out later, if he ever reads this.)

Another truth is: I really want another boy. I mentioned this in my Crazy Eights post. And I know DearDR brought it up because he, too, wants another boy. It’s a guy thing. Especially an Italian guy thing. Although it turns out, we are firmly in the majority in preferring a boy over a girl (in a future pregnancy; I wouldn’t trade my girls for anything…). For completely different reasons than those listed in that article. (I know in part DearDR wants a boy to carry on the family name. He’s the last shot.)

I don’t want a boy for him, though, I want a boy for me. Because (rumor has it) mothers and sons have a completely different relationship than mothers and daughters. More akin to the father-daughter dynamic.

As a first-hand witness to my mother’s relationship with my brother, and comparing said relationship to my relationship with my mother, yeah, I get that. He was special to her — not more loved by her — it’s just that there was truly something different about their dynamic. It was more peaceful, maybe… more hopeful. It’s hard to describe. Suffice to say that I remember being on the outside and looking in at my mother’s relationship with my brother, and thinking, “I want that at some point in my life.” (Not the relationship with my mother; a relationship with a son.)

To clarify: I did not have a bad relationship with my mother (with either of my parents). As a teen, I butted heads with my father — we were each as stubborn as the other. In my early 20s, after Mom saw my tattoo, she did threaten (in writing, in a letter about three days later) to never speak to me again, because of, and I quote, “the things you have done to and with your body”. Which, to sum up in my mother’s eyes, included piercing my lip, losing my virginity, smoking, and getting a tattoo (not necessarily in that order). I’m not sure she knew about the birth control pills.

Anyhoo, I have gotten way off track here.

To attempt to return to the subject and in the spirit of High Fidelity (the movie with John Cusack, not the book by Nick Hornby; I haven’t read it yet, and I just caught some of the movie today), here are the Top Five Reasons to Immediately Have My Tubes Tied:

5. I have very stressful pregnancies. Der.
4. Every child I have seems to put my writing career further out of my reach.
3. As if it’s not bad enough, I’m sure another child would be financial suicide.
2. I’m pretty sure my perinatologists’ reactions would be, “You again? What are you, out of your mind?”
1. I’m almost sure my midwives would kill me.

(I would never, ever have my tubes tied, for the record. DearDR’s not getting snipped, either.)

Plus, what if I have another girl? I mean, I wouldn’t care, as long as she was healthy and happy and all that, but poor DearDR. I don’t think he would be able to handle the hormones, especially once they hit puberty and I hit menopause.

Top Five Reasons to Try One More Time:

5. It’s a baby!
4. It would totally mess with my in-laws.
3. It’s actually possible it will be a boy. I thought it was more likely that older moms had girls, but not according to this article. She adds, “(Actually, there is about a 51% chance that everyone will have a boy! Older mothers are also more likely to have boys according to some recent studies.)” I wish she had linked to those studies!
2. I just don’t feel like we’re done. Even after Bun was born, I didn’t have the feeling, “That’s it; we’re done.” More like, “Oh, good. She’s here; she made it. Maybe when I get over this, I’ll think about having another one. It’d be nice to have a healthy, living baby boy.”
1. We would have an excuse to have lots and lots of sex.

Listen, people, not having sex as a method of birth control is fool proof, but frankly, it sucks. And technically, NFP isn’t NO sex, but it’s so… rigid about when to avoid sex if you don’t want to be pregnant that it feels that way sometimes. Especially when we’re horny at the same time (DearDR, it probably goes without saying, is horny almost all the time) and/or I want to feel close to my husband.

Also… well, let’s just say, I was no virgin when I got hitched. But, baby, I saved the best for last.