Let me preface this by saying I am not like this everyday. Most days I am a semi-normal person who looks and functions like the rest of the world.
Tonight I am having a lovely anxiety attack. These tend to creep up on me when all is right in the world. This is another reason I need things to keep me busy. Brad came home early today. He showered and was here as Turner woke up from his nap. He dressed himself and our son in matching shirts and similar shorts. We all went and got their haircut, then out to dinner. After dinner we came home and watched Turner drive his four wheeler. The boys showered and had a piece of cake, then we put Turner to bed. Brad and I watched a movie, and now my husband is sleeping. A perfect day on all accounts.
So why am I worrying? Because on perfect days when I have everything done, my mind has time to step back and see how great my life is. From that removed vantage point I can't help but notice how fragile the balance is. I have always been an incessant worrier, and it doesn't look to be stopping any time soon.
When I was little my dad was in a volunteer fire department. I would hear his alarm go off in the middle of the night. I would lay in bed praying for him to come home safe. I would then stay awake and listen to hear "Roseland one, ten-nineteen"". I knew that meant the fire was out and my dad was coming home. I should have been able to go back to sleep, but I never did. I would lay awake for the three or four hours he was gone and wait. Like my being awake meant he would come back safe.
I can be struck by fear over the silliest things. Brad being a little late coming home, especially if it's snowing. I know we live four miles from the job. I also know he doesn't wear his seat belt. I hear Turner cough in the middle of the night, and from a dead sleep I fear that he is choking. My heart skips multiple beats if my phone rings past nine at night. I can usually keep all these useless worries shoved down, but it's like a pressure release valve. They build up and catch up with me and I have to worry. I will pray for things that God doesn't place control over. I will beg for my children to have long healthy lives, I will then go down my list of things to protect them from: Disease, illness(should any be classified different from disease), cancer, leukemia, car accidents, accidents, pedophiles, poison in our food, kidnapping, and on and on. God knows when I simply ask for him to watch over my two angels that is what I mean. But when this helpless felling comes over me I am compelled to ask for specifics.
I have decided that most people with big personalities, us "Type A" folks, like being loud and bossy because we believe we can control our surroundings. I can control a few things, but not what I really desire. I want a written in stone guarantee that my loved ones will be granted long happy healthy lives. Too bad those aren't being sold on QVC. My normal rational mind knows that is a guarantee that can not be made, doesn't stop me from wanting it.
The flip side to my craziness coin goes something like this: I must, at all times, appreciate and cherish every single moment with my son and family. Sounds simple. But it is another stay awake and they'll be safe crazy rule. It is exhausting trying to remain present and appreciative in every moment of every day. I don't' ever want to forget one single day of my son's life. I want to remember every smile, every word, every smell, every everything that happens. Part of me thinks if I start just letting the days roll by and not knowing that everyone is special, then I won't be aloud more to enjoy. Is my God so cruel and maliced that if I let a day be blah, or worse- bad, he will take good days from me? No, and I know that. I said this was my irrational side talking, the one I should not let out or admit to having.
I realize that anxiety is fear of the unreasonable and unlikely, duh. Hey, it happens to every one once in a while, right? Mine happens more when I am pregnant or have just had a child. I don't do well with estrogen, never liked the stuff. It makes the world just a little too close for comfort.
There is an upside. I now have an outlet for my craziness. An open diary that I can dump all of this foolishness into and then rest. It is amazing what a little putting down your thoughts can do for a person. As I sit here my head clears and I feel sleep being with in my grasp. So off to to check one last time on the world's best boy, then to lay next to the world's best man. I will pray again, but this time for things of a more reasonable nature, like for God to help me hang on til this estrogen roller coaster is over
Monday, April 30, 2007
Saturday, April 28, 2007
You'll be home when?
I think I am bitchy today, no I'm only kidding, I know I am in full on bitch mode. I am trying to maintain my happy demeanor of supportive wife but it is wearing thin. Brad has worked every single day for the past several weeks. For the past fourteen days or so he has worked late. No big deal, I should be sympathetic and loving. I should cater to his every need and appreciate the stress he is under. I did, I swear for the first thirteen days. That is apparently my max.
I am a selfish brat who is only concerned with how the world affects me, no shit, the condition is called being human. My son has been a joy to be around. He's not being bad or too much to handle. My life is pretty much in order and I have gotten a lot accomplished over the past couple weeks. So why am I pissed that my husband is MIA? Damn it, I like our regular routine. I love when he and Turner play and have time together. But what is bothering me most is Brad's complete and total lack of concern over his over the top work schedule. He is pictured beside the definition of work-a-holic. I am bothered by how completely consumed he is by work. I am infuriated when the only conversation I have with him is the twenty second phone call I get daily to let me know he'll be late again. FYI: I know you're fucking busy and the world's most important person, but add an extra ten seconds on to your call and say you hate being there late, take the damn smile out of your voice, and even though it is not your fault, say you're sorry for never being home.
I hate how jolly he is when he calls to tell me he'll be late. Sound pissed off, fake it. Act like you'd rather be here with us instead of at work, aka your nirvana. I know you love your job. I know you're really good at what you do, but act like you like doing the whole "family thing" from time to time. Use some of the massive machinery that you are surrounded by and pull your head out of your ass and ask your wife how her day was every once in a while. Perhaps even ask how she is feeling, being that she's carrying your unborn child and all.
I know I wax poetic about what a good husband Brad is and what a fantastic father, none of that changes. He just hasn't been around to show me those shinning examples lately. Being in a constant state of very low grade pain is not helping my mood. My pelvic bone is killing me. I have eight weeks to go and my daughter is apparently already three feet tall. How else could this much pressure be exerted on my bones. The endless tedium of pregnancy is consuming my brain. Contractions come and go fifteen or twenty times a day, things are gearing up. I can't clear my head and I am impatient like no other. While all of this is going on there is also the drone of everyday life. I am just sour today. Boredom is not my forte.
I need something new to tackle. I taught my self the sew and made countless baby gifts, constructed a whole nursery set- mission complete. I am loosing the ability to do some of my normal activities, I am tired but I need something to fill my day with. Idle hands are the devils workshop, true. Bored housewives are the harbingers of chaos. The more I have to do, the more organized my life is. Empty days turn into unproductive days where nothing gets done. I need to be bombarded with tasks, then all of them seem important. When all I have to do in an entire day is care for my son, wash clothes and cook, I don't feel like doing the menial house work. Now let me be trying to build furniture or rearrange the house and I feel even more accomplished to complete my extra work and thrilled to do the day to day on top of it.
I wonder if all housewives go through these stints of complete and utter boredom with their job? I know it's titled burn out when you are a paid employee, but when your job is your house, it's called laziness. I often feel the need to go above and beyond. I like teaching myself new skills, partly because I like learning, partly because I feel the need to never be thought of as lazy. Sitting around eating bon-bons and watching soaps is not the identity I desire. I hate napping for this reason. I am compelled to do it on some days because I am tired from being pregnant. When not pregnant I try not to nap at all unless I have spent a sleepless night up with Turner.
So was there a point to my endless bitching? Not really. I married the man knowing his work ethic and work habits. I know that the "Steam blow" part of the job comes at the end. I know it also makes steam shoot from my ears. I know complete exhaustion makes Brad deliriously happy and he looses himself in his work. I know it will pass and we'll get back to normal. I know I will be thrilled to see him when he's walking through our door at six pm like he should be. Does any of this stop me from titling him "Stupid asshole" in my mental notes? No. Will I continue to grumble when the phone rings? Yep, just like he'll continue to sound entirely too damn happy when he is yelling over the job site noise that he's gonna be late again. Life is not meant to be perfect everyday. It makes the perfect days so much more special when they come after the days that leave you less than thrilled. So I await an honest to goodness weekend, one where my husband is mine and Turner's for two whole days. It will come, even if I have to go into labor and force him to take off a couple days til one of our parents gets here to help with Turner.
I am a selfish brat who is only concerned with how the world affects me, no shit, the condition is called being human. My son has been a joy to be around. He's not being bad or too much to handle. My life is pretty much in order and I have gotten a lot accomplished over the past couple weeks. So why am I pissed that my husband is MIA? Damn it, I like our regular routine. I love when he and Turner play and have time together. But what is bothering me most is Brad's complete and total lack of concern over his over the top work schedule. He is pictured beside the definition of work-a-holic. I am bothered by how completely consumed he is by work. I am infuriated when the only conversation I have with him is the twenty second phone call I get daily to let me know he'll be late again. FYI: I know you're fucking busy and the world's most important person, but add an extra ten seconds on to your call and say you hate being there late, take the damn smile out of your voice, and even though it is not your fault, say you're sorry for never being home.
I hate how jolly he is when he calls to tell me he'll be late. Sound pissed off, fake it. Act like you'd rather be here with us instead of at work, aka your nirvana. I know you love your job. I know you're really good at what you do, but act like you like doing the whole "family thing" from time to time. Use some of the massive machinery that you are surrounded by and pull your head out of your ass and ask your wife how her day was every once in a while. Perhaps even ask how she is feeling, being that she's carrying your unborn child and all.
I know I wax poetic about what a good husband Brad is and what a fantastic father, none of that changes. He just hasn't been around to show me those shinning examples lately. Being in a constant state of very low grade pain is not helping my mood. My pelvic bone is killing me. I have eight weeks to go and my daughter is apparently already three feet tall. How else could this much pressure be exerted on my bones. The endless tedium of pregnancy is consuming my brain. Contractions come and go fifteen or twenty times a day, things are gearing up. I can't clear my head and I am impatient like no other. While all of this is going on there is also the drone of everyday life. I am just sour today. Boredom is not my forte.
I need something new to tackle. I taught my self the sew and made countless baby gifts, constructed a whole nursery set- mission complete. I am loosing the ability to do some of my normal activities, I am tired but I need something to fill my day with. Idle hands are the devils workshop, true. Bored housewives are the harbingers of chaos. The more I have to do, the more organized my life is. Empty days turn into unproductive days where nothing gets done. I need to be bombarded with tasks, then all of them seem important. When all I have to do in an entire day is care for my son, wash clothes and cook, I don't feel like doing the menial house work. Now let me be trying to build furniture or rearrange the house and I feel even more accomplished to complete my extra work and thrilled to do the day to day on top of it.
I wonder if all housewives go through these stints of complete and utter boredom with their job? I know it's titled burn out when you are a paid employee, but when your job is your house, it's called laziness. I often feel the need to go above and beyond. I like teaching myself new skills, partly because I like learning, partly because I feel the need to never be thought of as lazy. Sitting around eating bon-bons and watching soaps is not the identity I desire. I hate napping for this reason. I am compelled to do it on some days because I am tired from being pregnant. When not pregnant I try not to nap at all unless I have spent a sleepless night up with Turner.
So was there a point to my endless bitching? Not really. I married the man knowing his work ethic and work habits. I know that the "Steam blow" part of the job comes at the end. I know it also makes steam shoot from my ears. I know complete exhaustion makes Brad deliriously happy and he looses himself in his work. I know it will pass and we'll get back to normal. I know I will be thrilled to see him when he's walking through our door at six pm like he should be. Does any of this stop me from titling him "Stupid asshole" in my mental notes? No. Will I continue to grumble when the phone rings? Yep, just like he'll continue to sound entirely too damn happy when he is yelling over the job site noise that he's gonna be late again. Life is not meant to be perfect everyday. It makes the perfect days so much more special when they come after the days that leave you less than thrilled. So I await an honest to goodness weekend, one where my husband is mine and Turner's for two whole days. It will come, even if I have to go into labor and force him to take off a couple days til one of our parents gets here to help with Turner.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
ONe flew over the koo koo's nest
I should be enjoying my last few weeks of being able to sleep through the night, but I'm not. It's two am and I am up. What on earth could tear me away from my bed and my husband? Well, it's a few things that are keeping me up tonight. First there is the heart burn that, no matter how many Tums I chew up, is scalding the back of my throat. There is the sensation that my pelvic bone is about to break in two. There is also my restless mind.
The pain is pretty much self explanatory, but what could be on my mind at this time in the morning? Things of utmost importance: What dresser to buy for Tate? I have been going over my mental check list of things to get prepared before the new arrival. I think the common term for this version of insanity is "Nesting". Nesting sounds like some animalisic task, well it is. I now know why birds tear their feathers out, and rabbits rip at their own fur. Mothers by nature loose their minds shortly before the arrival of their offspring.
Isn't my baby still a few weeks away from getting here? Yes, but I nest when I have the energy. I lost my mind with Turner at about this same time. I mercilessly scrubbed the baseboards and floors of our house for hours, days even. I then rearranged the garage and every room in the house. At the time it seemed perfectly logical for a seven and half month pregnant woman to move furniture.
This time I have left the couch where it is, but I have ripped apart the garage, and rearranged the office, you can come eat off my baseboards too. What is wrong with me? The very tiny part of my brain that can observe this behavior as a bystander is dieing laughing. There is no reason to be up at two am every night, but I am every night. I lay in bed til I can take it no more. Then I get up to spare Brad the tossing and turning.
What do I do every night? Well, I get on line and shop for baby essentials. I can't read product reviews during the day because I am busy with a bucket of Murphy's wood soap, or sewing like a crazy person. This week I found the most perfect crib set, but it was three hundred and fifty dollars. Not even if I had won the lottery would I spend that much on a tiny comforter for a baby. So I decided to make it myself. I bought a pattern, all the fabric, and I am half way done with an exact replica of the overpriced version.
One would think that a couple hours sewing and puttying together "baby things" would be enough to satisfy even the most ardent of nesters. Not so much. I fall asleep at about nine thirty and by one am I am up making lists of things to do, stuff to make, stuff yet to be bought. Needing to lay awake and estimate diaper usage is important you know. Part of my insanity is the fact that my daughter has no nursery. Turner had a beautiful room all ready for him to come home to. Now mind you, he slept in our room exclusively for eight months. But he had a room and I would walk him in there and let him look at it any time he wanted.
Because of the impending move we have decided to for go the nursery til we are moved into the next house. We'll only be here for a few weeks after she's born, so why drag it all out? My mind knows this makes the most sense, my uterus on the other hand is not wanting to hear it. I have turned the office into a mini nursery but it is not appeasing the uterine gods of crazy mountain. I work like Cinderella sewing during every nap time and I am quiet impressed with my wears. I play with Turner the whole day while he's up. I still go to the gym and to play dates. Still cook every day, keep the house straight, all of this every day. So why is it not enough to keep my sleeping a whole night through? My theory is God is preparing pregnant women for the sleepless marathon ahead. I know God knows what He is doing but if it were left up to me I would just assume get to the starting line well rested before I start down the long road of sleepless nights.
So tonight I have looked for dressers, checked fuel economy of all the SUV's I would consider driving, found a dealer for the gun safe Brad and I talked about, compared reviews of the latest Sit and Stand double strollers, gone over what I would like to get finished sewing tomorrow during nap time, and gone down stairs and put on a load of clothes on to wash. Now it's three am and I will at least go lay next to Brad, or as close as I can get without having a heat stroke. Good night, hope someone in the world is having sweet dreams....
The pain is pretty much self explanatory, but what could be on my mind at this time in the morning? Things of utmost importance: What dresser to buy for Tate? I have been going over my mental check list of things to get prepared before the new arrival. I think the common term for this version of insanity is "Nesting". Nesting sounds like some animalisic task, well it is. I now know why birds tear their feathers out, and rabbits rip at their own fur. Mothers by nature loose their minds shortly before the arrival of their offspring.
Isn't my baby still a few weeks away from getting here? Yes, but I nest when I have the energy. I lost my mind with Turner at about this same time. I mercilessly scrubbed the baseboards and floors of our house for hours, days even. I then rearranged the garage and every room in the house. At the time it seemed perfectly logical for a seven and half month pregnant woman to move furniture.
This time I have left the couch where it is, but I have ripped apart the garage, and rearranged the office, you can come eat off my baseboards too. What is wrong with me? The very tiny part of my brain that can observe this behavior as a bystander is dieing laughing. There is no reason to be up at two am every night, but I am every night. I lay in bed til I can take it no more. Then I get up to spare Brad the tossing and turning.
What do I do every night? Well, I get on line and shop for baby essentials. I can't read product reviews during the day because I am busy with a bucket of Murphy's wood soap, or sewing like a crazy person. This week I found the most perfect crib set, but it was three hundred and fifty dollars. Not even if I had won the lottery would I spend that much on a tiny comforter for a baby. So I decided to make it myself. I bought a pattern, all the fabric, and I am half way done with an exact replica of the overpriced version.
One would think that a couple hours sewing and puttying together "baby things" would be enough to satisfy even the most ardent of nesters. Not so much. I fall asleep at about nine thirty and by one am I am up making lists of things to do, stuff to make, stuff yet to be bought. Needing to lay awake and estimate diaper usage is important you know. Part of my insanity is the fact that my daughter has no nursery. Turner had a beautiful room all ready for him to come home to. Now mind you, he slept in our room exclusively for eight months. But he had a room and I would walk him in there and let him look at it any time he wanted.
Because of the impending move we have decided to for go the nursery til we are moved into the next house. We'll only be here for a few weeks after she's born, so why drag it all out? My mind knows this makes the most sense, my uterus on the other hand is not wanting to hear it. I have turned the office into a mini nursery but it is not appeasing the uterine gods of crazy mountain. I work like Cinderella sewing during every nap time and I am quiet impressed with my wears. I play with Turner the whole day while he's up. I still go to the gym and to play dates. Still cook every day, keep the house straight, all of this every day. So why is it not enough to keep my sleeping a whole night through? My theory is God is preparing pregnant women for the sleepless marathon ahead. I know God knows what He is doing but if it were left up to me I would just assume get to the starting line well rested before I start down the long road of sleepless nights.
So tonight I have looked for dressers, checked fuel economy of all the SUV's I would consider driving, found a dealer for the gun safe Brad and I talked about, compared reviews of the latest Sit and Stand double strollers, gone over what I would like to get finished sewing tomorrow during nap time, and gone down stairs and put on a load of clothes on to wash. Now it's three am and I will at least go lay next to Brad, or as close as I can get without having a heat stroke. Good night, hope someone in the world is having sweet dreams....
Monday, April 16, 2007
Calgon take me away
I love being an at home mom, I swear I do. But there are some days when the only way I can keep from screaming is to pull my own hair out and stuff it in my mouth. Today is one of those days. Turner has been waking up at five am again. He sits quietly in his room and talks to himself til five thirty when Brad gets up. He then gets out of bed to pee and Brad lays him down with me. I am a morning person, I have no problem getting up before the sun. What I do have a problem with is my son wanting to get up and start the day at five thirty am. There is nothing to do at that hour of the day. It makes the time between breakfast and lunch seem like an eternity. Besides that, it turns Turner into Little Monster at about ten am. He is so tired at that point all he can do is whine and cry over every little thing.
Perhaps I have less patience. I am huge and uncomfortable and trying to make room in me for this growing baby, so maybe there's no room left for patience. I try to keep him busy. I try to be entertaining. But nothing appeases a melting, sobbing child when they are tired and pissy.
Today noon couldn't come soon enough. I knew we could make it. That way he'd go down at a decent time and keep himself somewhat on a schedule. I could have two hours (or more, please let it be three) of quiet with no one pulling my hair. We made it, noon!
"Turner, let's go get ready to nap. I'll read you a story." The response needs to be imagined as being spoken through gut wrenching sobs with tearful eyes. "No I stay wake. Please stay up? I eat cake. Why I have to nap? Mommy please stay up!!!!!" I am the adult so I read a quick story and kiss him on the head and leave him to cry. Yes, I am cold. He doesn't usually act this way, but I am not gonna start letting a few tears ruin nap time. It takes about ten minutes but all is blessedly silent. Hallelujah!
I creep down stairs to work on a few baby gifts. I figure this way I am being productive and keeping it quiet to ensure a nice recharge time for us both. Well the fates are against me today. Turner, who has not peed in the bed or in his sleep in two full months, cries out that he's wet after only being down for forty five minutes. I love my son, I don't want him to be uncomfortable. I feel horrible that all I can think at this moment is how I pray he'll lay back down and go back to sleep. I can not have him wake up now, completely unrested and deal with him the rest of the day. He starts his argument for staying awake. I don't even answer him. I am a woman on a mission: Change the sheets, change his clothes, lay him back down, and run for the hills. And that is what I did.
Thankfully for all parties involved he is laying down. I don't know if he is sleeping, but it's quiet and that is what's important right now. I feel horrible when I have days like this. When I am short tempered and every little thing is on my nerves. Turner is two, he maks lots of noise. Usually this noise makes me smile. He's cute when he's singing or talking about everything under the sun. It's sweet when he is climbing all over me and shadowing my every move. But then days like today come. The days that I haven't gotten enough sleep because he's been up for three mornings in a row by five am or before. He is wild, my fuse is short, and he is whinning instead of talking. Into the house marches "Mommy Guilt". I hate that feeling. "You should appreciate every moment with your son. Do you know how many women would give anything to be at home with their children? He's just two and is acting the way all two year olds act, what is your problem?" And on and on it goes.
I do love every minute. But if there were no stessful times how would I appreciate the great days when everything goes right and we hate to go to bed and make it come to an end? Tomorrow I will wake up, maybe at five maybe at six thirty. I will love the little monster who sleeps across the hall. We will have a great day, one with no whining or temper tantrums. Or, I will simply pull the hair out of the left side of my head so it matches the right side, aren't mowhawks coming back anyway?
Perhaps I have less patience. I am huge and uncomfortable and trying to make room in me for this growing baby, so maybe there's no room left for patience. I try to keep him busy. I try to be entertaining. But nothing appeases a melting, sobbing child when they are tired and pissy.
Today noon couldn't come soon enough. I knew we could make it. That way he'd go down at a decent time and keep himself somewhat on a schedule. I could have two hours (or more, please let it be three) of quiet with no one pulling my hair. We made it, noon!
"Turner, let's go get ready to nap. I'll read you a story." The response needs to be imagined as being spoken through gut wrenching sobs with tearful eyes. "No I stay wake. Please stay up? I eat cake. Why I have to nap? Mommy please stay up!!!!!" I am the adult so I read a quick story and kiss him on the head and leave him to cry. Yes, I am cold. He doesn't usually act this way, but I am not gonna start letting a few tears ruin nap time. It takes about ten minutes but all is blessedly silent. Hallelujah!
I creep down stairs to work on a few baby gifts. I figure this way I am being productive and keeping it quiet to ensure a nice recharge time for us both. Well the fates are against me today. Turner, who has not peed in the bed or in his sleep in two full months, cries out that he's wet after only being down for forty five minutes. I love my son, I don't want him to be uncomfortable. I feel horrible that all I can think at this moment is how I pray he'll lay back down and go back to sleep. I can not have him wake up now, completely unrested and deal with him the rest of the day. He starts his argument for staying awake. I don't even answer him. I am a woman on a mission: Change the sheets, change his clothes, lay him back down, and run for the hills. And that is what I did.
Thankfully for all parties involved he is laying down. I don't know if he is sleeping, but it's quiet and that is what's important right now. I feel horrible when I have days like this. When I am short tempered and every little thing is on my nerves. Turner is two, he maks lots of noise. Usually this noise makes me smile. He's cute when he's singing or talking about everything under the sun. It's sweet when he is climbing all over me and shadowing my every move. But then days like today come. The days that I haven't gotten enough sleep because he's been up for three mornings in a row by five am or before. He is wild, my fuse is short, and he is whinning instead of talking. Into the house marches "Mommy Guilt". I hate that feeling. "You should appreciate every moment with your son. Do you know how many women would give anything to be at home with their children? He's just two and is acting the way all two year olds act, what is your problem?" And on and on it goes.
I do love every minute. But if there were no stessful times how would I appreciate the great days when everything goes right and we hate to go to bed and make it come to an end? Tomorrow I will wake up, maybe at five maybe at six thirty. I will love the little monster who sleeps across the hall. We will have a great day, one with no whining or temper tantrums. Or, I will simply pull the hair out of the left side of my head so it matches the right side, aren't mowhawks coming back anyway?
Monday, April 9, 2007
You can lead a horse to water
Pissy little bitch. That is what I have called my husband all holiday weekend. OK I called him that in my head, not so much out loud. Why? He's sick and can't help it, right? No it's not the being sick, I don't mind taking care of him at all. It's the crappy attitude and quick to bite my head off part I mind. I have drawn the conclusion that his little attitude problem is less from illness than it is from a nicotine fit.
Brad dips. I HATE it with all of my being. He didn't dip when I met him, he didn't dip while we dated, or even through the first two years of marriage. But he decided to pick up the lovely habit when I was pregnant with Turner. Boy did I throw a fit when I found out. Brad assured me it was just something he did at work. This did not appease me in the least.
If Brad brought home a tin of Copenhagen I threw it away or poured dish soap in it. I sat down and calculated what he was spending in a year on the hideous vice, seventeen hundred bucks. I then multiplied that by twenty years to show him the small fortune he was wasting, thinking that money is a language that Brad understands. I emailed him every gruesome picture of oral cancer I could find. I bribed dentists to scare him, but none of that has worked. But Tiffany, didn't you smoke for years? Yep. I quit when we started thinking about having kids. I have been smoke free for almost four years.
My smoking is another point to my rant. I never did it in the house or car. Brad threw any cigarettes he found into the toilette. He bitched and moaned in unending fashion. The difference? I quit and stayed "quit". Brad tried to dip in the house once. I am not exaggerating when I say dipping makes me sick. So I picked up his spit cup and proceeded to walk out the door. On the way I asked him if he wanted it in or out. In or out of what? On the inside or outside of he beloved very clean truck. I vowed that if he ever dipped in my house again I would pour his spit on the interior of his truck, that ended him dipping inside. Dipping in the car is another story.
Since the man works seven days a week it isn't usually an issue. He par takes of his filthy habit at work and comes home just in time to eat supper and go to bed, no real temptation there. Weekends or off days are another story. He has tried dipping with me in the car before, all it does is bring out the wrath of the most evil bitch the world has ever seen. So he abstains while around me. He has taken to dipping while outside at our house, say while working in the yard. We argue and yell. He points out that he is a "Grown ass man" and can do what he wants. I let him know that if he had dipped when I met him I would never had given him a second look.
Well, aren't I uppity? Yes I am. It is a habit so beneath such an intelligent not to mention devastatingly handsome man. It infuriates me. His teeth are perfectly straight, and used to be so white. Why would he want to ruin that? Why now that I have vowed to try and live as long as I can to be around for my kids, why does he in his middle age fight for such a nasty and potentially life shortening habit?
I have heard plenty of theories that dipping or using smokeless tobacco is harder to give up than smoking. I don't know because I have never dipped. I did smoke and know that it wasn't a piece of cake to lay down. So get the gum or the patch, no shame in it. But I can not will my husband to quit. No matter what I do I cannot make him want to quit. I hate not being able to sway him. I move for him, I left my family and friends back in Louisiana, I left college shortly before graduating so I could be with my husband, I gave up smoking so I could give him a beautiful son, shortly he'll have a lovely daughter. Why can I do all this but he won't stop dipping and hurting himself?
So when Brad is home I have noticed a little pattern. In the very beginning of the morning he is nice, sweet even. By lunch he turns into a pissy little bitch. He snaps at everything I say or ask. Even though he doesn't realize it he is short tempered with Turner. If he happens to be home for more than one day it only gets worse as time goes on. Vacations aren't fun because we're together the whole time and he's fiening for nicotine and hating me for not letting him have it. Wouldn't it be easier to ease up and give in? No. I will not let my son watch the man he reveers most dip and think it is OK, cool, or acceptable. I know I can't keep Turner from doing it when he's older, but I can keep him from thinking it's OK because Papa does it.
Part of it is vanity, I love the way Brad looks. I have been wild about him since I first laid eyes on him. The thought of him having to have his lower jaw removed terrifies me. His beautiful teeth should stay beautiful. I worked in a dentist office as an assistant for two years during college. I saw what this stuff does to people's mouths. His gums will recede, his teeth will get loose, and he will loose them, it may take fifteen more years but it will happen. The term Copenhagen Smile was not coined because people who dip have lovely grins. It's because their mouth start to look black and their dental hygiene is terrible. So it'll be fifteen or twenty or more years down the road, so what? Well I have not become any less attracted to my husband in the seven years I have known him. Conversely, I am more attracted to him the older he gets. I'd like to still be head over heels for him and wanting to kiss him when we've been married for twenty five years. I do not want to be holding his hand when the doctor tells us he has cancer of the mouth, gums, or esophagus.
I don't smoke, I don't tan, I am the sunscreen queen, I try to eat right, keep my weight healthy, take vitamins, have good blood pressure, go to regular check ups etc. Why does my husband who already suffers form hypertension, asthma, chronic heart burn, and possibly sleep apnea, why does he want to add one more thing to make himself unhealthy? The world may never know.
Well I don't feel any better, no amount of venting makes me feel better when the topic is Brad's dipping habit. No amount of yelling, screaming, or bitching does any good to change it. And no matter what I try to tell him he'll never listen or get what about it makes me so damn mad. He's an oak tree all right, he listens as well as one that's for sure. He's stubborn and bull headed, two thing that I really love and respect about him. I just wish for this once he would listen, bend, and give in.
Brad dips. I HATE it with all of my being. He didn't dip when I met him, he didn't dip while we dated, or even through the first two years of marriage. But he decided to pick up the lovely habit when I was pregnant with Turner. Boy did I throw a fit when I found out. Brad assured me it was just something he did at work. This did not appease me in the least.
If Brad brought home a tin of Copenhagen I threw it away or poured dish soap in it. I sat down and calculated what he was spending in a year on the hideous vice, seventeen hundred bucks. I then multiplied that by twenty years to show him the small fortune he was wasting, thinking that money is a language that Brad understands. I emailed him every gruesome picture of oral cancer I could find. I bribed dentists to scare him, but none of that has worked. But Tiffany, didn't you smoke for years? Yep. I quit when we started thinking about having kids. I have been smoke free for almost four years.
My smoking is another point to my rant. I never did it in the house or car. Brad threw any cigarettes he found into the toilette. He bitched and moaned in unending fashion. The difference? I quit and stayed "quit". Brad tried to dip in the house once. I am not exaggerating when I say dipping makes me sick. So I picked up his spit cup and proceeded to walk out the door. On the way I asked him if he wanted it in or out. In or out of what? On the inside or outside of he beloved very clean truck. I vowed that if he ever dipped in my house again I would pour his spit on the interior of his truck, that ended him dipping inside. Dipping in the car is another story.
Since the man works seven days a week it isn't usually an issue. He par takes of his filthy habit at work and comes home just in time to eat supper and go to bed, no real temptation there. Weekends or off days are another story. He has tried dipping with me in the car before, all it does is bring out the wrath of the most evil bitch the world has ever seen. So he abstains while around me. He has taken to dipping while outside at our house, say while working in the yard. We argue and yell. He points out that he is a "Grown ass man" and can do what he wants. I let him know that if he had dipped when I met him I would never had given him a second look.
Well, aren't I uppity? Yes I am. It is a habit so beneath such an intelligent not to mention devastatingly handsome man. It infuriates me. His teeth are perfectly straight, and used to be so white. Why would he want to ruin that? Why now that I have vowed to try and live as long as I can to be around for my kids, why does he in his middle age fight for such a nasty and potentially life shortening habit?
I have heard plenty of theories that dipping or using smokeless tobacco is harder to give up than smoking. I don't know because I have never dipped. I did smoke and know that it wasn't a piece of cake to lay down. So get the gum or the patch, no shame in it. But I can not will my husband to quit. No matter what I do I cannot make him want to quit. I hate not being able to sway him. I move for him, I left my family and friends back in Louisiana, I left college shortly before graduating so I could be with my husband, I gave up smoking so I could give him a beautiful son, shortly he'll have a lovely daughter. Why can I do all this but he won't stop dipping and hurting himself?
So when Brad is home I have noticed a little pattern. In the very beginning of the morning he is nice, sweet even. By lunch he turns into a pissy little bitch. He snaps at everything I say or ask. Even though he doesn't realize it he is short tempered with Turner. If he happens to be home for more than one day it only gets worse as time goes on. Vacations aren't fun because we're together the whole time and he's fiening for nicotine and hating me for not letting him have it. Wouldn't it be easier to ease up and give in? No. I will not let my son watch the man he reveers most dip and think it is OK, cool, or acceptable. I know I can't keep Turner from doing it when he's older, but I can keep him from thinking it's OK because Papa does it.
Part of it is vanity, I love the way Brad looks. I have been wild about him since I first laid eyes on him. The thought of him having to have his lower jaw removed terrifies me. His beautiful teeth should stay beautiful. I worked in a dentist office as an assistant for two years during college. I saw what this stuff does to people's mouths. His gums will recede, his teeth will get loose, and he will loose them, it may take fifteen more years but it will happen. The term Copenhagen Smile was not coined because people who dip have lovely grins. It's because their mouth start to look black and their dental hygiene is terrible. So it'll be fifteen or twenty or more years down the road, so what? Well I have not become any less attracted to my husband in the seven years I have known him. Conversely, I am more attracted to him the older he gets. I'd like to still be head over heels for him and wanting to kiss him when we've been married for twenty five years. I do not want to be holding his hand when the doctor tells us he has cancer of the mouth, gums, or esophagus.
I don't smoke, I don't tan, I am the sunscreen queen, I try to eat right, keep my weight healthy, take vitamins, have good blood pressure, go to regular check ups etc. Why does my husband who already suffers form hypertension, asthma, chronic heart burn, and possibly sleep apnea, why does he want to add one more thing to make himself unhealthy? The world may never know.
Well I don't feel any better, no amount of venting makes me feel better when the topic is Brad's dipping habit. No amount of yelling, screaming, or bitching does any good to change it. And no matter what I try to tell him he'll never listen or get what about it makes me so damn mad. He's an oak tree all right, he listens as well as one that's for sure. He's stubborn and bull headed, two thing that I really love and respect about him. I just wish for this once he would listen, bend, and give in.
Friday, April 6, 2007
Night Owl
The two men I love most in this world are sleeping. It was a rough night at our house last night. Brad is sick with a virus, he then shared it with Turner. They both ran very high fevers all night long. While sitting awake watching them last night I thought of a few things. Here's my list of advice that no one ever asked for:
-Trust your instinct. If you think something is wrong, it probably is. Never hurts to go check on your baby.
-Never feel silly/stupid for bringing your child to the doctor. It's what doctors are for. Turner has had several ER trips already, I do not regret a one of them. None were too serious but I felt better having him checked out by a unbiased trained professional.
-A mothers lips and hands are the most accurate thermometer. I can tell when Turner has a fever by kissing him or running a hand over his chest. I couldn't do this before having children. But I know every inch of him and I know what he feels like when he kisses me. I can tell when he or Brad have the slightest fever.
-Use your nose. Turner's room is across the hall from ours and I can smell when he pees, poops, or throws up even when I can't hear it. I can smell his breath and tell if he's congested or having sinus problems.
-In the night when your kids are sick and you lay awake, take that time to thank God for them. Holding a sick helpless baby brings me to my knees. I know that under no circumstances could I ever sacrifice my son, not even to save every last person on earth, the way God gave His son for me. So I talk to God and thank him for His sacrifices, I thank him repeatedly for the embarrassment of blessings he's given me, and I am quiet and try to he ear what He has to tell me.
-When all else fails, get them french fries. Turner will eat french fries when nothing else will do. No, they are not nutritionally balanced, but it's something in his stomach when he's sick.
-When you can't sleep, close your eyes anyway. Lay a hand on your baby, and close your eyes. You are no good if you are too tired to take care of them the next day and the day after that.
-The house can be dirty. Take care of your baby first. Whether that baby is two or thirty-three. No one cares about or will remember the toys on the floor and the dishes in the sink. They will remember you sitting in the recliner watching Curious George for the eighth time.
-When you are exhausted keep your patience. Dealing with sick people is tiring at best. You sleep less than they do, nothing makes them feel better, and you can't really do anything to change how they feel. Viruses just have to run their course. Your kids will whine and cry, your husband probably will too, but be loving. My switch gets turned off when my boys are sick. They can ask anything of me and I will do it. I can be puked on and never bat an eye. All I can think of is making them more comfortable, it's another one of those things that changes when you become a mom.
-Try your best not to get sick, but never withhold kisses or cuddles. Mom's don't get sick days. No matter how sick we all are I still have to clean the vomit, monitor the medicines, cook, and make sure we're all hydrated.
That's what I came up with. None of it too earth shattering, just what I think about from the hours of midnight to six am while I listen to my boys breathe and watch to make sure they are OK. Nothing is sweeter after a long sleepless night than hearing your tired child's breath fall into a slow steady rhythm. I can tell right when Brad or Turner fall asleep, their tempo changes. They are in rhythm now as they nap. Think I'll go listen to them and close my eyes.
-Trust your instinct. If you think something is wrong, it probably is. Never hurts to go check on your baby.
-Never feel silly/stupid for bringing your child to the doctor. It's what doctors are for. Turner has had several ER trips already, I do not regret a one of them. None were too serious but I felt better having him checked out by a unbiased trained professional.
-A mothers lips and hands are the most accurate thermometer. I can tell when Turner has a fever by kissing him or running a hand over his chest. I couldn't do this before having children. But I know every inch of him and I know what he feels like when he kisses me. I can tell when he or Brad have the slightest fever.
-Use your nose. Turner's room is across the hall from ours and I can smell when he pees, poops, or throws up even when I can't hear it. I can smell his breath and tell if he's congested or having sinus problems.
-In the night when your kids are sick and you lay awake, take that time to thank God for them. Holding a sick helpless baby brings me to my knees. I know that under no circumstances could I ever sacrifice my son, not even to save every last person on earth, the way God gave His son for me. So I talk to God and thank him for His sacrifices, I thank him repeatedly for the embarrassment of blessings he's given me, and I am quiet and try to he ear what He has to tell me.
-When all else fails, get them french fries. Turner will eat french fries when nothing else will do. No, they are not nutritionally balanced, but it's something in his stomach when he's sick.
-When you can't sleep, close your eyes anyway. Lay a hand on your baby, and close your eyes. You are no good if you are too tired to take care of them the next day and the day after that.
-The house can be dirty. Take care of your baby first. Whether that baby is two or thirty-three. No one cares about or will remember the toys on the floor and the dishes in the sink. They will remember you sitting in the recliner watching Curious George for the eighth time.
-When you are exhausted keep your patience. Dealing with sick people is tiring at best. You sleep less than they do, nothing makes them feel better, and you can't really do anything to change how they feel. Viruses just have to run their course. Your kids will whine and cry, your husband probably will too, but be loving. My switch gets turned off when my boys are sick. They can ask anything of me and I will do it. I can be puked on and never bat an eye. All I can think of is making them more comfortable, it's another one of those things that changes when you become a mom.
-Try your best not to get sick, but never withhold kisses or cuddles. Mom's don't get sick days. No matter how sick we all are I still have to clean the vomit, monitor the medicines, cook, and make sure we're all hydrated.
That's what I came up with. None of it too earth shattering, just what I think about from the hours of midnight to six am while I listen to my boys breathe and watch to make sure they are OK. Nothing is sweeter after a long sleepless night than hearing your tired child's breath fall into a slow steady rhythm. I can tell right when Brad or Turner fall asleep, their tempo changes. They are in rhythm now as they nap. Think I'll go listen to them and close my eyes.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Who is up?
Last night was rough. My boys, my poor, poor, boys spent all night coughing. I know Turner isn't sick, just allergies tickling his throat. Brad is sick. He should be home, but I'll give you three guesses where he is. That's right Mr Responsible is at work.
I have read that too much work weakens the human being's ability to fight illness. I completely believe it. Brad needs a weekend. Not just an early ending day on Sunday, a whole Saturday and Sunday to be like the rest of us. This is how the end of a job goes though. Work til you can't work anymore.
I sit and await the anouncement of our future residence. Nope, we still don't know where we'll be going. Yep, I am still holding onto hope that it'll be some where not in Colorado. We'll know eventually, and by then I'll be so big I won't care.
How do women have sixteen kids? Being pregnant with the second one is wearing me out. Do they not expeiernce the rib pain, pelvic pain, inability to sleep, and inability to breathe? I watch all of the shows on the Discovery Channel about "married with sixteen children". The wife seems perpetually happy and organized. She seems delighted to spend her entire adult life pregnant. All this tells me is she's a little on the crazy side. No sane person smiles that much and talks in that sing song way all the time. She probably lost it right around the time child number four came into the picture.
My crass and completely unscientific observations have led me to come up with a theory: Two children are managable, three- you start loosing your grip, and anything over four and you've bought your ticket to crazyville.
I live in a really nice picture perfect little subdivision. The yards are pretty, the house neat and tidy, families walk after supper to enjoy the end of a day together, very Norman Rockwell. One house that is roughly in the middle of the neighborhood looks like a bomb exploded. My three year old little cousin was walking with me and she told me "That house is broken". She was right. It is a mess. Too many cars, both running and ornimental, too many toys-mostly the broken kind, not enough yard care or TLC. Why would one family put a smudge on such a pretty neighborhood? Because they have seven kids. They have no choice. There aren't enough hours in their day to keep up with appereances, much less mow the grass. Even if they had the time they still probably wouldn't care because they left the land of reason years ago.
I have long believed that pregnancy zaps braincells, nursing melts them completely and you are left a few IQ points short of what you started out with. Each pregnancy worsens this effect. By the time number three and four start toddling around you should probably have an adult supervisor for yourself.
My delirous notion of having four kids is not looking so charming at the moment. Right now all I can think of is having my body back to myself. Even that is going to take a while. Delivery starts the journey, but I won't have myself back for at least another year. Nursing, teaching a baby to sleep through the night, sleep deprivation, sharring our room with a baby, all what lies ahead. I can't wait for most of it. I think it will be so good this time because I know that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.
With Turner I wasn't sure if Brad and I would ever have our room back to just the two of us. I had a hard time imagining that I would ever sleep all the way through the night again. After Turner was sleeping a solid eight hours at a stretch at night I still got up every hour or so to go look at him. Eventually, it got to be every three or four hours, then it happened. I laid down one night, blinked my eyes and it was six am when I opened them. I panicked. I ran to my neglected infant, who lay sleeping peacfully.
Now my body is in prep mode. God eases you into sleeplessness by making you pee every hour in the last moths of pregnancy. Even if you don't pee that often you can't lay still because some part of you will begin hurting enough to wake you up. That's where I'm at now. Unable to sleep, walking the halls listening to Turner cough. Bringing Brad Tylenol when I know he needs it. What elese should a mom be doing?
I wonder if when your kids are grown you sleep any better? I don't mean teenage kids, I mean those of us who are nearly thirty. My parents know I am not out past dark hardley ever. My sister is a responsible school teacher. We're pretty boring, does this allow Mom and Dad to sleep the whole night through? One can only hope.
I have read that too much work weakens the human being's ability to fight illness. I completely believe it. Brad needs a weekend. Not just an early ending day on Sunday, a whole Saturday and Sunday to be like the rest of us. This is how the end of a job goes though. Work til you can't work anymore.
I sit and await the anouncement of our future residence. Nope, we still don't know where we'll be going. Yep, I am still holding onto hope that it'll be some where not in Colorado. We'll know eventually, and by then I'll be so big I won't care.
How do women have sixteen kids? Being pregnant with the second one is wearing me out. Do they not expeiernce the rib pain, pelvic pain, inability to sleep, and inability to breathe? I watch all of the shows on the Discovery Channel about "married with sixteen children". The wife seems perpetually happy and organized. She seems delighted to spend her entire adult life pregnant. All this tells me is she's a little on the crazy side. No sane person smiles that much and talks in that sing song way all the time. She probably lost it right around the time child number four came into the picture.
My crass and completely unscientific observations have led me to come up with a theory: Two children are managable, three- you start loosing your grip, and anything over four and you've bought your ticket to crazyville.
I live in a really nice picture perfect little subdivision. The yards are pretty, the house neat and tidy, families walk after supper to enjoy the end of a day together, very Norman Rockwell. One house that is roughly in the middle of the neighborhood looks like a bomb exploded. My three year old little cousin was walking with me and she told me "That house is broken". She was right. It is a mess. Too many cars, both running and ornimental, too many toys-mostly the broken kind, not enough yard care or TLC. Why would one family put a smudge on such a pretty neighborhood? Because they have seven kids. They have no choice. There aren't enough hours in their day to keep up with appereances, much less mow the grass. Even if they had the time they still probably wouldn't care because they left the land of reason years ago.
I have long believed that pregnancy zaps braincells, nursing melts them completely and you are left a few IQ points short of what you started out with. Each pregnancy worsens this effect. By the time number three and four start toddling around you should probably have an adult supervisor for yourself.
My delirous notion of having four kids is not looking so charming at the moment. Right now all I can think of is having my body back to myself. Even that is going to take a while. Delivery starts the journey, but I won't have myself back for at least another year. Nursing, teaching a baby to sleep through the night, sleep deprivation, sharring our room with a baby, all what lies ahead. I can't wait for most of it. I think it will be so good this time because I know that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.
With Turner I wasn't sure if Brad and I would ever have our room back to just the two of us. I had a hard time imagining that I would ever sleep all the way through the night again. After Turner was sleeping a solid eight hours at a stretch at night I still got up every hour or so to go look at him. Eventually, it got to be every three or four hours, then it happened. I laid down one night, blinked my eyes and it was six am when I opened them. I panicked. I ran to my neglected infant, who lay sleeping peacfully.
Now my body is in prep mode. God eases you into sleeplessness by making you pee every hour in the last moths of pregnancy. Even if you don't pee that often you can't lay still because some part of you will begin hurting enough to wake you up. That's where I'm at now. Unable to sleep, walking the halls listening to Turner cough. Bringing Brad Tylenol when I know he needs it. What elese should a mom be doing?
I wonder if when your kids are grown you sleep any better? I don't mean teenage kids, I mean those of us who are nearly thirty. My parents know I am not out past dark hardley ever. My sister is a responsible school teacher. We're pretty boring, does this allow Mom and Dad to sleep the whole night through? One can only hope.
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