Peevish

I’m going to delve into some scary territory here, something I don’t usually discuss on this here blog:  The toilet.  More specifically, how men use the toilet.  I know.  I should have warned you, huh?  If you were eating breakfast or lunch or dinner… I apologize.  But this is a subject that causes me great amounts of wonder and disgust (ha, that was too easy!).

See, it wasn’t until I met and married Kile that I really noticed how guys like to go sit in the bathroom for ages on end.  WHAT IS UP WITH THAT?  I just plainly don’t get it.  Even on my stalling-est day, I can’t be in there more than 15 minutes without my legs going numb or just plain wanting to claw the walls (I guess it doesn’t help that we have a little claustrophobic closet for our toilet in our master bathroom).  But Kile?  Give him a magazine (doesn’t even have to be a NEW one) and he can spend a half hour, 45 minutes or MORE.

He once told me that it’s the only place he can go to be by himself.  SERIOUSLY?  Can I just take a few minutes to poke some monster-sized holes in this one?  THANKS.  I owe you one.

• First off, do I even have to mention that I get like zero time to myself?  If I do manage to get in the bathroom without Liam on my heels, then I have him literally throwing himself at the door until I’m back out.  And most times, I just quick use the bathroom while I’m in there changing Evie (our changing table is in the half bath).
• ANYHOW, if I were to take some blessed time for myself, it would NOT (I repeat, NOT) be in the bathroom.  EEE GADS.  I mean, we’re pretty awful housekeepers but even if our bathrooms were consistently sparkling, I still wouldn’t want to spend quality time in there.  It’s a BATHROOM.
• I gotta wonder why needs needs so much alone time since he gets to go to work.  Yes, I said “gets to”.  Not that work is fun, I realize that.  But shoot, even the drive into work is alone time.  No one but himself to worry about.  And at work, I’m sure there’s a time or two he can close his office door and try for a semblance of peace.  I imagine he even gets to eat his lunch most times without someone hollering at him.  MUST BE NICE.
• Lately, he’s also taken up running three times a week.  He gets up at 5:30 or so on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and goes for a run.  By himself.  He doesn’t even take a dog or anything.  Just him and his iPod.  When he gets back, he often sits downstairs checking email on his laptop or watching tv or sipping water for a while before coming up to shower and get ready for work.  If that isn’t time to himself then I obviously don’t understand the meaning of the phrase because all I can think is MUST BE NICE.
• (If you’re all wondering why I don’t get up early and go for runs or whatever it is because I’m generally EXHAUSTED by the end of the night.  There is no such thing as uninterrupted sleep when there’s a baby in the house.)

Who me, bitter?  NOPE, surely you’re talking about someone else.

The fact of the matter is that there is no such thing as time to myself anymore.  Even my showers are hurried as more often than not I hear Evie start to fuss as soon as I get the shampoo on my head.  During the day, there is MAYBE a one hour chunk of time that no one needs me.  And let me tell you, that is the best hour of my day.  Harry is still at school, Evie is napping, Liam is napping… I can actually watch what I want to watch on TV for a change (most often it’s a DVR’d episode of “Touched by an Angel”).  It doesn’t happen every day (yesterday I fell asleep with Evie because I was seriously pooped), but when it does, I cherish it.  I never know, from day to day, if Evie will sleep without my presence or Liam will get up early from his nap.  And then there are the Fridays where Harry has a half day at school (like this week, I believe?) and there is no time alone.

Lest you think I’m too much of a complainer, I realize this is par for the course in the early childhood years.  You sign up to have kids, you pretty much forfeit time for yourself.  But that’s just it, isn’t it?  Is it only the MOM who gives up her privacy (and sanity) and Dad doesn’t have to?  How is that fair?

(And I can just hear my mom’s voice in my head, saying that because he works and is the primary and only wage earner in the house, that he DESERVES this time to himself because his job is HARD and supporting a family is HARD.  I do get that.  But I also get that staying at home with kids all day can quickly drain your sanity when there is no break and no outside influences.)

So yeah.  This is why guys sitting on the toilet for more than about 10-15 minutes at a time really chaps my hide.  I’d say I’m jealous but DUDE, it’s a BATHROOM.  Eww!  _{(I am jealous about the alone time though.)}

I read this post over at Suburban Turmoil and had I guess what you would call a physical reaction to it.  I kinda wanted to crawl through my laptop screen, find this meddling little old woman and beat her with her purse.  Who does this lady think she is?  That just because she’s lived a handful of years more than some of us that it gives her the right to be a complete unthinking asshole?  That maybe we’ll even THANK HER for her assholery?  Little old ladies get a bad reputation and it’s from women like this one who I’m sure THINK they’re doing us all a huge favor but who are actually being complete assholes.

(Want me to say it again?  ASSHOLE!)

Something similar happened to me once.  I may have mentioned it on this here blog but if I did I a) don’t remember it and b) don’t care because I’m going to talk about it again.  This happened years ago, back when life was The Suck for us.  Actually, I think it was before things got REALLY sucky.  But just barely.  If I recall correctly, we had gone to church that morning and were going out to lunch afterward at one of my favorite restaurants, Romano’s Macaroni Grill.  This was done in an effort to cheer me up.  We were still trying SO HARD to have another baby but hadn’t made the leap to Clomid yet.  I’m pretty sure this was after I had seen the reproductive endocrinologist and before my thyroid issues were diagnosed.  All I knew was that I had been told that I was not ovulating and that if I wanted to ovulate, I would have to take Clomid.

I like to think of that period of my life as The Great Denial.  I was told to call up the doctor’s office when I got my next period and they would run all the necessary bloodwork and get me started on Clomid.  That just scared the crap out of me, for whatever reason.  I didn’t want to have to take Clomid.  I didn’t want to have to go get an exam on day 2 of my period.  I wanted to get pregnant normally, damnit.

Of course, I didn’t know that the thyroid was junking things up.  That it was why I was feeling so tired and cranky and fat.  But tired and cranky and fat I was definitely feeling.  And that week had been a particularly rough one.  So Kile took me to the Macaroni Grill to do something nice.  Harry was about 3 at the time, if I remember right.  He’s a good kid but even good kids have off days and this was an off day.  He was being frustrating and I was feeling frustrated.  While we were sitting at our table, waiting for our lunches to be served, I had to reprimand him a time or two.  We have always expected all of our children to behave when eating out in public.  I don’t recall him doing anything especially bad (because he rarely ever did), but I probably snapped at him to keep his voice down or to stop throwing his bread or somesuch.  And yes, I was probably a little more annoyed than usual. I had a lot on my mind, with my recent INFERTILE diagnosis and all.

Well, the next thing I knew, a line of little old ladies was filing past our table on their way out of the restaurant.  One of them stopped and leaned down to speak to me.  For a minute, I thought she was going to praise Harry.  That often happened while we were out.  Random strangers have often stopped to tell us how impressed they were with how he behaved in public or how cute he was, etc and so forth.  So imagine my shock when said something to the effect of, “I’m going to pray for you that you can look past your venom and see what a sweet little boy you have.  You really should have more patience with him, they’re only little for such a short time.  So I’m going to pray that are able to fully appreciate your little angel while you still can.”

Do you know what that did to me?  Do you know how those words ate a hole in my soul that afternoon?  It was a noisy restaurant and she spoke rather quietly so I was the only one who heard her words.  At the time, I was so stunned, that I just nodded dumbly while she went on her way.  Kile smiled at her, thinking she had stopped to praise Harry, much like I had initially thought.  Next think Kile knew, I was crying into my lemonade.

Of course, how could this lady know all the stress we were under, trying to have another baby?  Still, to have my parenting called into question at a time where I was yearning so MUCH to have another child was gut-wrenching.  It introduced that evilest of all little voices in my head: “This is why you don’t have another baby yet.  You don’t deserve one.  You are a BAD MOTHER.”

I would remember this incident for years.  Every time I would ache over empty arms, negative pregnancy tests, stillborn babies and heartbreaking miscarriages, I would remember that little old lady.  And I would hear that voice, “You don’t deserve another baby.  YOU ARE A BAD MOTHER.”

Rational or not, true or not…  we all know that such thoughts don’t spring forth from a rational part of our minds and hearts.  If I could go back to that afternoon, would I have the strength to say something to that woman?  What would I say?  “I do appreciate my son and I would thank you to mind your own business.  You don’t know anything about me and my family.  I’m going to pray for you, that you find peace in your own life and stop feeling the need to spread your negativity to others.”

Who am I kidding?  I would never have that sort of courage.  Still.  It sure would have felt good to see the look on her face.  That or I could have beat her with her own purse.  That would have felt good too.

So we’ve already established that Marilyn (which is me, I’m talking about myself in the third person, apparently) is in something of a mood this week.  But even if I weren’t, I would probably STILL write this post which is why I’m going to go ahead and publish it, even if it does push the boundaries of the sort of cattiness I prefer to talk about on my blog.

I guess my point here is: There are a LOT of whiners out there.

Honestly, I think BlogHer is almost just an excuse at this point.  These are feelings that course through the community in general and the mommy blogging community in particular all year long.  The jealousy, the bitterness, the snarking and complaining.  And I am SO SICK OF IT.

Let it be known that I am most definitely NOT a member of the “a-list” (whatever the heck that even MEANS).  I never have been, my entire life.  Shoot, according to that one website, my blog is “c-list”.  So it’s not like I’m sitting up here on some magical perch looking down on the minions or anything.  Growing up, I was never at the “bottom of the pack” but neither was I ever at the top either.  I always had a solid group of friends and was pretty content with my status.  GEE, kinda like I am now, huh?

What I’m sick of most is the people who are complaining who didn’t even GO TO BLOGHER.  But they’re blaming not going on… what… that they don’t think the a-list will like them?  WTF?  Or that they feel like the conference is one big “clique” (it’s called a spell-check, ya’ll) and they’ll be hopelessly on the outs.  OH PLEASE.  Feeling this way is one thing, but whining about it on your blog is another.  Then there’s whining about it on your blog and then inviting the “a-list” over so you can, what, get traffic?  Or something?  WTF??

What you perceive as a clique might actually be a group of friends who are happy to see one another after an entire year has passed and they are excited to spend time with each other over the course of a two-day conference.  Just because they are “a-list” doesn’t mean they don’t have their own group of friends.  They don’t HAVE to want to hang out with you.  That’s what doesn’t make sense to me.  We can’t get on these bloggers for not spreading themselves around when we do the same thing with our own little groups of friends.  No one is trying to make anyone else feel bad.  Which means one thing:  If you feel bad it’s pretty much due to your own insecurities.  Sorry to have to break it to ya.

I think T at Send Chocolate said it best in her post from earlier today:

I guess what I am trying to say is that there were over a thousand women attending BlogHer. And you couldn’t find anyone to connect with? Really? Or you just couldn’t be part of the A Crowd, and it felt too much like your experiences in high school so you sat in a corner to pout? If I see one more post that compares BlogHer to high school or college, I swear, I am going to lose it.

AMEN, sister.  Preach it.  I feel 100% the same way.  SO WHAT if the big names didn’t give you the time of day (did you even try to say hi?)?  SO WHAT if they don’t visit your blog and leave you comments and follow you on Twitter respond to your @ replies.  SO WHAT.  There about a bazillion other blogs out there authored by equally awsome women that you could always fit yourself in with. That’s the way I feel about it.  I don’t go to BlogHer harboring any notions that I’ll sit down for lunch with the Big Wigs.  But I do expect to find a bloggy friend or two, someone I know I can connect with.  And I do expect to meet new people and make new connections.

Some people want it easy.  The fame, the popularity, the respect, the admiration, the traffic, the money… Being friends with the “a-list” is a fast pass to that kind of life, isn’t it?  It just doesn’t work that way.  I don’t know why some bloggers are “popular” and some aren’t.  I imagine a lot of these “a-listers” would tell you the same thing.  They don’t really KNOW why they’re popular.  You can’t always say it’s because they’re good writers because there are plenty of awesome writers out there who haven’t been discovered.  You can’t always say it’s because they’re friends with so-and-so, because someone else is too and no one hardly ever comments on their blog.  It just is what it is.

And really.  WHO REALLY CARES.  We’re all bloggers, and if we’re mommy bloggers then we all have someone’s butt to wipe at the end of the day (and the beginning of the day, and the middle of the day… ).  How about instead of feeling sorry for yourself, you pull yourself out of your Pity Rut and engage in the community.  Find peace with yourself and with your blog and your own little niche of blog friends.  You will be MUCH happier in the end for it.

It’s days like this that make a person realize why stay at home parents aren’t paid for what they do.

“And why is that?” you ask.

And I answer: Because, there isn’t enough money IN THE WORLD to make up for all the shit we have to put up with.

It really hasn’t been a bad day in the classical sense of the term.  But, it’s been a DAY.  The sort that you rather hope ends with an alcoholic beverage and perhaps a neckrub sometime before your head hits the pillow and you are able to embrace blessed, blessed oblivion.

Liam had his 2 year old well-check appointment with the pediatrician this morning.  And, amazingly enough, I was able to get myself and the two wee ones out the door with little difficulty.  Huzzah!  Of course, I noticed a shimmy as I drove down the road (we have a slow leak on one of our tires and it needs to be aired up from time to time), plus the van needed gas.  I tend to see 1/4 of a tank as being empty and it was 1/4 of a tank.  But… no time to fill it.

Bah.

The appointment went well enough.  Liam is still our puny runt.  We got a sheet of paper with suggestions for feeding picky eaters.  The doctor approved our giving him pedia-sure and suggested that on the days we didn’t give him that, that he had some sort of multi-vitamin.  And to keep trying to get him to eat fruits and vegetables.  Especially vegetables.

The big thing was his speech.  No big surprise to us, he has a delay.  Harry did too, at the same age, and it hasn’t hurt him much.  Still, we don’t see any reason to turn down speech therapy because it couldn’t possibly hurt and could only help.  However, it would mean more driving around for me (figures we don’t have anyone around here that comes to the home, right?).  I’ll do what I have to do.

I don’t believe that this means he’ll be behind all his life or anything.  I really have no other reason to be concerned.  I know he’s a clever boy.  He just isn’t where his peers are verbally yet.  And hopefully, this will help him get there.  No pressure.  I’m not worried.

After the appointment, we were all starved for lunch.  We headed to the university to eat there, as is the custom.  Lunch was good and I had food that was decidedly unhealthy for me.  It was delicious.  But then it was time to go home.

So many things went wrong from there.  Liam fell asleep in the van, which as you mothers of toddlers know, that just completely fux’s with the whole nap schedule.  Evie screamed in the van at first, before settling down.  She commenced screaming again as soon as we got home.  I carried Liam in, still sleeping, and put him up in his crib.  Back downstairs, I let the dogs out and noticed that Beetoe (I could call her something really, really bad right here and not have a lick of guilt) had torn through a bag of garbage and strewn it everywhere.

I then fetched Evie out of her seat and set her on the changing table.  She had just had a monstrous poop and the clean up was about as much fun as you’d expect.  Meanwhile, I can hear Beetoe losing her shit out on the back step because, “OMG, I’m OUTSIDE.  And it’s above 70 degrees!!!  I’M DYING!!!”  Evie doesn’t settle down as I clean her up, and instead ramps up her displeasure.  My blood pressure starts to do scary things.

I set her in the bouncer seat so I can clean up the mess Beetoe made.  Of course, Evie is still going thermonuclear and Beetoe is now flinging herself uselessly at the sliding door.  Everything gets cleaned up, the dogs get let in and I pick up Evie.  Seems all is right with the world, right?

I settle her down and we go upstairs to lay down.  Which, you know, sorta works for a while.  But Evie starts to get restless and as we STILL have no monitor, I’m reluctant to leave her upstairs unmonitored so I bring her downstairs.  She falls asleep in her bouncer.  I had opened Liam’s bedroom door in the hopes that some of the cool air coming from the a/c unit in our bedroom would waft into his room which gets really hot in the afternoon.

This worked against me because he woke up.  I then made the collossal mistake of handing him his sippy cup.  This only made him mad because he recognized I was putting him off.  I came downstairs and sorted through the clean cloth diapers that came out of the dryer that morning, listening to Liam cry.  I start to think that the door being opened is making him upset.  So what do I do?  I go up and close it.  Which pissed him off again, but then he was already pissed.

Now, he has been crying and sleeping in 5 minute intervals.  It occurs to me that perhaps his leg is bothering him where they gave him his shot.  Perhaps I should have given him some Motrin before laying him down.  Which, you know, I WOULD HAVE, had he not fallen asleep in the van on the way home.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So there you have it.  That’s my day so far.