Thursday, December 27, 2007

This post has no title

Ahem. I feel as though I have things to say, but I couldn't tell you what they are if you chased me through the village with torches and a pitchfork.

It was Christmas. Whatever. It was actually a lot less bad than previous years (thank you, one-gift-only rule! I am such a genius for coming up with that one.) Husband and I had a long talk on Christmas Eve, wherein we decided that we are both unhappy, but not really sure what to do to fix it. I have finally figured out that he is unhappy because when we got married, he expected me to stay fun, carefree, spontaneous, interesting Jane. I, however, courtesy of two babies in 18 months, morphed into sensible, practical, harried, mostly depressed Jane. He's not liking that one so much. That girl is gone. Dead. Buried. He needs to learn to love me as I am right now, instead of wishing I was still some previous incarnation of myself.

Long talk on Christmas Eve was followed by a Christmas Day of puke. A particularly virulent gastrointestinal something has ravaged my entire family - first my dad, then me, then Husband, and now my mother. Only my 88-year-old grandmother and the girls were spared, thank goodness. Oh, the carnage. I haven't been that sick in ages - I would rather eat my own toenails than vomit. Seriously. I'd rather eat someone else's toenails than vomit. We're just now starting to recover.

The children have been fairly well-behaved, or as well as can be expected when the only adult supervision comes from the couch in the form of vague groaning. I miss Husband, who left mid-day on the 25th (I think - I was lying in bed in the fetal position at the time) but was struck down before he even got home. He's back at work today, but it's hard to communicate when we're in different states. I wish I could call, but my cell phone doesn't get reception here (damn you, Sprint PCS!) and I never know when he's working or not. I want to be able to talk to him - I want to see him. We've got a lot to talk about - I want to get started already!

I'm making a New Year's resolution, which I never ever do. Mostly because they suck. Also because I can never keep them. And they suck. But.

2008 is The Year Of No More Soda. Period. It is also supposed to be The Year Of Losing 35 Pounds, The Year Of Good Hair, The Year Of Moving, The Year Of Falling In Love Again, The Year Of Renewing Vows, The Year of Financial Planning, The Year Of No More Debt... you get the picture. But that's seriously a lot of shit, which is why I never make resolutions. So, 2008 - no soda for you! Not one single drop of those fizzy lifting drinks. No more Dr. Pepper, much as it pains me. I will not drink it from a can - I do not need it, Sam I Am! (A little too much time with my children, perhaps?)

It's also going to be The Year Of Me. I'm not quite sure what that means, but I feel like if I can focus a little more on the things that make me happy (whatever those are), then the people that I love will be happier, too. Or not. But it sounds like a good plan to me.

Did you know that Dr. Seuss is filled with vulgar language? We received a copy of Mr. Brown Can Moo. Can You? in the Tank's stocking. In it, we are told that a rooster says cock-a-doodle-doo. In the last 72 hours, this has come out as so many variations on cock, caca, doodie, dookie, etc. that I am having a hard time not laughing. Because then, Mommy, why are you laughing? Do you think it's funny when I call my sister a "doodie-cock"? Well, let me do it again! And again! Ad nauseum, ad infinitum. Stupid fucking Dr. Seuss, always acting so child-friendly. I see right through you, you old lecher.

You're a doodie-cock.

Thursday, December 20, 2007


Oh, good lord. I am dying over here. I am melting into a little tiny puddle on the carpet. I will need to be spot-cleaned.

On the couch opposite me, it's bedtime storytime. Husband and Bear are ensconced on the couch with the encyclopedia of airplanes. A sampling:

"Now, this is an F-15, Bear. Do you see these things right here on the wings? They're for... (something or other - I couldn't understand)."

and also,

"This one actually moves faster than the speed of sound. When I say something, it *seems* like you hear it right away. But really, it takes a little tiny second for the sound to get from my mouth to your ears. It moves so fast, you can't tell at all. But this airplane? Goes even faster. How cool is that?"

The Bear is absolutely fascinated - there are big arm movements and cries of "Daddy, what does *this* one do? Can I see the inside? Is this like the ones that you work on?" And he's just eating it up. This is something he loves to talk about, and he has her complete attention and total adoration. He's explaining about how afterburners work, and she's just loving it.

This is why I love him. He's such a good father when he wants to be. And there is nothing sexier than a man with a bedtime story and a small girl in pink footie pajamas. Nothing.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

I get no respect

I would just like to state for the record that I am feeling very much underappreciated right now. Here's why:

My husband works. A lot. This is a good thing. Work pays money. Money pays bills. World keeps spinning. Fine.

I work. A lot. Also a good thing. Work pays (some) money. Great.

This wouldn't ordinarily sound like a problem, but that's where you're wrong.

He has this weird schedule thing. He runs on his own sweet time, and no one and nothing can do anything about it. He likes to stay up late. He likes to sleep in late. No matter what his schedule is, that's what he wants to do.

For example:

Right now, there is an assload of work to be done at his workplace. Tons of overtime, has to work all weekend, can't make my school Christmas party, have to leave later for Christmas vacation assload of work. He works late every night. That's fine. Work needs doing, we need paying, all is well.

Last night, he came home from work, say, nine-ish. That's not too bad. Missed dinner, kids all asleep, but whatever. But then he stayed up until TWO IN THE MORNING on the computer. Came to bed at 2. I get up at 4. He was *supposed* to get up at 5. Was still sleeping at 7 when I called home. Just now walked in the door at 9:30. Again, hasn't seen the kids in two days now. Haven't had a meal as a family in days. Doesn't seem to bother him in the least.

In my head, he does this on purpose because he doesn't want to spend time with me and the kids. He cares more about his sleep and doing his own thing than about being a part of our family. Now, I know that technically that's not the case, or at least that's the least charitable viewpoint. I think I'm just jealous. I don't have that kind of freedom. If I'm not here, the family falls apart. I can't just decide to sleep in when I feel like it. I can't just do what I feel like, trusting that everyone else will take care of everything. I'm not responsible for only myself. I'm responsible for three of us, and everything I do is dependent on others. I guess I'm just envious of his freedom.

That, or I'm pissed because he's irresponsible and I wish he would just buck up and shoulder some of the responsibilities of child-rearing, getting up on time, coming home on time, making time for his kids, coming home before I'm too tired to even see straight, much less carry on an intelligent conversation or think about sex, getting up on a Saturday morning to share our ritual pancakes...

Or (secret option C) maybe I have some raging PMDD right now, ready to slit throats and shoot laser beams at the drop of a hat. I have been on razor's edge all day - I just finally figured it out tonight when I sat down with a calendar and did some counting.

And you know what the serious bitch of this whole thing is? I love him so much. In spite of the whatever. I don't care. I still get that feeling whenever he walks in the door, no matter how late it is. And that makes up for a lot of things.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

I owe myself a Coke

I jinxed myself yesterday. While Tank screamed non-stop all night long, even while being held, rocked, given her Nuk, snuggled, bounced, jounced, sung to, petted, etc., the Bear chose 3 am as the ideal time to start spewing all over the bed she happened to be sharing with her dad. Lucky me, I think, that I was on the couch with Tank, or I would have gotten hosed and had to poke her with stick, as per yesterday's warning.

Tonight, at least, we mastered a new skill - puking into the trash can. Which, as she informs me, is how big people do it. Nothing on the carpet, nothing on the clothes. Stealth vomit. "That's so awesome!" I told her in appreciation. "You're welcome for me puking in the trash can, Mom," she said, in her most nonchalant voice. Ridiculous child. She's about 15 inside that little frame.

Right now, though, everyone is asleep, soundly - no coughing, no puking, no screaming. I'll take what I can get.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Top this

Oh my sweet merciful Jesus. If things get any worse around here, I'm going to take out a hit on myself, just so Husband can collect the insurance money and feed the kids.

This is not just pointless bitching. It's competitive bitching. If you can top this, I'll bake you something yummy and mail it to you. Pumpkin gingerbread, anyone?

So, let's see. The ginormous ice storm of doom has kept some potential buyers from visiting our house THREE TIMES now. They seem to be interested, and I get a good feeling about it, but still. If you can't *get* to the house and/or *see* the house, it's not doing me any good.

On that front, shall we sell? Shall we rent it out? What if it doesn't sell quickly? Then do we rent? What if we decide to rent it out, then someone wants to buy it? Then can we sell? What if the housing market doesn't bottom out til 2012?

What if we all die in 2012?

How far behind am I on my grading? (Hint: I've started measuring in assloads - tons just weren't cutting it.)

How inadequate am I feeling as a teacher, when I realize that my students are nowhere *near* where I thought they would be by December? Am I going too slow? Too fast? Are they not getting it? Are they bored? Shouldn't I be able to tell this? How pissed am I that December is full of crap stupid activities and hardly any class time? (Again, it's a lot.)

My whole family is sick. Sick sick sick. And I am sick sick sick and tired of taking care of them. The next person who shits on me, pukes on the table, or claims to have a fever is going to get a sharp stick in the eye. And then, I'm going to retire to my room for at least 48 hours. Alone.

What's more, things with Husband are stuck in a rut. We sucked for a long time, and then it was looking up, and now I feel like we're just spinning our wheels. Or, rather, our wheels are spinning, and we don't have the time or energy to pay attention to them. I want to draw him closer, but really, I find myself lashing out at him, just because I'm frustrated by our situation, not by him. I have one of those stupid personality things where I get angry when I'm really scared. And where I eat when I'm sad.

Wow. Have I mentioned how much I eat when I'm sad? Wait - don't hold still for more than a minute. I might eat you, too. The pounds just keep piling on, and the fatter I get, the sadder I get, which means I eat more. And the wheels just keep spinning...

Um, there are bills in here, but Husband thinks I blog about money too much. (Hi, dear!) Mr. Micawber probably put it best: "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen pounds nineteen and six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery." Our income is something rather less than our expenditures. Ahem.

But wait. The piece de resistance is yet to come:

Today, on my commute home, in the wet slushy slick nasty mess that is my lot in life, I fell asleep at the wheel and rear-ended someone. Awesome. Luckily, it was low speed, since we were in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and there were no airbags, no cops, and no injuries. But still. My fault. My deductible. My rate hike. My smashed grill. My bad.

I win. You get no pumpkin gingerbread from me. In fact, I think you now owe *me* some sort of holiday baked good. Butter is better, folks.

Friday, December 07, 2007

Breaking the hearts of small children everywhere

I hate Santa.

I just wanted to put that out there.

Santa is dumb.

Until now, this has never posed an issue. Santa sucks, blah blah blah, ignore him and silently pity the silly people who go in for that crap. Until this year.

Suddenly, the Bear is in preschool, and all of a sudden, Santa is everywhere. They tell the kids about him in school. They sing about him on the radio. Everyone asks what you want Santa to bring you.

Up until last year, whenever she saw a guy in a red suit with a hat, she called it a snowman. It was just another holiday decoration, and I encouraged that. I didn't see the need to tell her anything more than that.

Today, in the parking lot, I gave her all my pocket change to give to the Salvation Army bellringer. She put it in (oh so carefully - one coin at a time), and the bellringer said "Thank you! I bet Santa will bring you something nice this year, since you're such a nice little girl!"*

In the car, she was telling me all about how she has to write a list with her name on it, because if it doesn't have her name on it, then he won't know who she is. I tried to figure out why he has to know who she is, and she finally got to the point - if he doesn't know who you are, he won't bring you "stuff."


The whole reason I'm opposed to Santa is because he encourages rampant commercialism and capitalistic greed, which are totally *not* the purpose of the holidays. Whatever happened to family, togetherness, gratitude, charity, perpetual hope, etc? Not anymore. Screw the loftier ideals of the season - I need a Wii. My father once had a student who asked him, in all seriousness, if the little baby in the manger grew up to be Santa.

So, I never wanted to tell my kids about Santa. I was just sort of putting it off, wondering if I'd have the strength to tell the truth when the moment came. I want to teach the girls that it's not about the number of gifts under the tree, it's about the number of gifts in your life. Can you do that with a fat guy in your chimney?

But today, in all her wide-eyed innocence and wonder, I couldn't bring myself to come out and say that Santa is just a fairy tale. I asked several leading questions to find out what her take on the situation was, and she thinks he's real. I didn't have the heart to tell her. She wasn't very urgent about it - it was just another one of those neat things she learned at school, like how to do up her buttons. But still, she is fairly confident in the knowledge that Santa will bring her a toy on Christmas. So, for her, for now, Santa lives on.

*Don't get me started.

Thursday, December 06, 2007

Please don't read this

I had to get this off my chest, but I can't say anything at home.

My MIL's meatloaf gravy looks exactly like the Tank's vomit. They were both on the dinner table this evening, and the resemblance was uncanny. Equally unappetizing.

That's a cruel and disgusting thing to say, but it's true, and I couldn't help it.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007


Which is to say, meh.

I feel as though I am depressed. Wherefore?

I am tired. Like, inordinately tired. All of the time. If I sleep for 9 hours straight? Still tired.

I eat. A lot. Normal people will not typically consume an entire box of Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies in a single sitting just because they're there.*

Sleepy. Tired. Eating everything that doesn't eat me first. And? Did I mention the grouchiness? All classic signs of depression.

Tonight was a kind of grouchy night. The girls were fractious and/or mischevious by turns. There was shrieking and tears and galloping and eating of catfood by turns. I caught Tank down the hall sticking Q-tips in her ears. The Bear was surprised by the cat around a corner and you would have thought she ran into an axe-wielding zombie. I caught the cat balanced on the edge of the baby's crib, just waiting to cause trouble. The Bear woke up after ten minutes asleep, crying for Other Grandma and Other Grandpa. My patience was shot by about 7:45.

I think that one of the reasons I'm irritated is that I'm the go-to person for the kids. All the time. Most days, they don't even see their father. He's off to work before they're up, and home after they're asleep. If they're up in the night, it's me. Weekends? Me. It's not that he doesn't love them. He does. It's that he's never around. They're used to me taking care of their every need, and so now I'm the only one that they want. Hurt? Mom. Scared? Mom. Sad? Mom. Sick? Mom. Need someone to reach the light switch? Mom. Can't do your buttons? Mom. Poop during dinner and need someone to leave the table and come wipe your ass? Mom. Notice that the cat needs food and won't stop pestering someone til she gets fed? Mom.

Am I beating a dead horse here? You get it. They just have no desire to let Dad help them do anything. The Bear has come right out and said it - don't want Dad, only want Mom. That's a lot of pressure on me. There are times when they'll let him do things - read a story, put them to bed, etc., and I love to see that. It's just not all the time.

Sure, we have extenuating circumstances. He works a lot of overtime, and it brings in a lot of extra money for us. He purposely works the overtime during the week so that he can (usually) spend the weekends home with us. He's carrying a huge part of the burden of moving, bill paying, house selling, etc., and he does it without ever complaining. He does a lot of the communicating between his parents and me. All of that makes a decent trade-off for being an absentee parent. It's just bothering me lately because the girls are a little edgy. It's that wintertime, cooped up in the house, no place to get out all that energy, cabin fever sort of edgy, I think.

Whatever. Enough rambling. I'm not even sure what I'm trying to say, except that I'm tired and frazzled and depressed.


Tuesday, December 04, 2007

The Voices

In the car tonight:

Me, trying to answer one of the Bear's convoluted "why" questions. I'm blithely explaining things, when she:

Stop Talking!

Me, ignoring the rudeness, talking away, when again...

I'm Talking!

Me: Oh, I'm sorry. Did you say something? I wasn't...

Let! Me! Talk!

Geez, fine, Cruella.

Thirty seconds of dead silence ensue.

Her: Oh, wait! I forgot! I didn't have anything to say! ::giggles uproariously::

I can't decide if I think it was funny or obnoxious. Since she's three, I'm going for funny.


It's snowing outside. The first real good snowfall of the year. It's falling thickly and silently past the streetlights - no wind, falling straight down. It's absolutely gorgeous - the whole world is muffled and soft, the edges blurred. At five thirty tomorrow morning, I'm going to be cursing it to the ends of the earth, but right now, it's just perfect.