Dear Friends,
I get it. Kids get sick. From what I've heard, your kid turning into a permanently sniffly, glassy-eyed snot monster the second she started daycare was practically inevitable. And believe me, I understand that sometimes you just have to take your kid and get things done, whether they're sick or not. What you do not have to do is visit people with young kids, or invite them to your house without a heads up about the state of your fever-ridden, coughing, maybe stomach flu having outbreak monkey.
The first time, you did give us a heads up. Sniffles and a bit of a tickle in her throat. Didn't mention the pink eye. Didn't mention the cough was a persistent, wet bark. I got pink eye. My kids got pink eye. Both got the cough - my oldest got bronchitis. And you were apologetic. You'd had no idea she was so sick and I told you, these things happen.
And boy, do they ever. The second time it happened, we didn't get a warning and the boys were sick for a couple of weeks.
Somewhere around the 3rd or 4th time, I started seriously questioning whether it was worth visiting. You are awesome people. Our kids love yours. We love spending time with you. But there's a serious cost-benefit analysis that goes into it now. Is it worth the risk? Now, every time we visit, we surreptitiously look your little one over: does she have snot on her face, are her eyes glassy, is there a rasp in her little voice, does she have a visible rash? It's a weird set of things to look for off the bat, but it is what it is, I guess.
You know how I told you we decided to have the Hobgoblin's 1st birthday just be a quiet, family affair? We decided that because I didn't want my baby's first birthday present to be a case of whatever bug your daughter is carrying. Because you're great friends, and we couldn't have a party with out you, but I'm tired, I've got other shit going on and my kids have been sick enough this winter.
You're not the only people who bring your sick kids places. The Monster's favourite winter activity is his indoor play group. He loves it. His doctor recommends it for his social development. It's often the only thing we do outside of the house in a given week and it's absolutely the highlight for my boys. As a rule, people stay home when their kids are sick, but one time a kid there was coughing all over everything and everything on the way out - and the monster got sick and missed 2 weeks of playgroup, which is a big deal when you're 3.
His first day back was the day of your party. We went to your party in the evening, we looked over your daughter. She looked fine. We had a great time.
Well over an hour after we arrived, after our kids had been playing in close proximity in your daughter's bedroom, one of your other guests told us that the Hobgoblin getting sick now would be good, as it would build his immune system. I asked why my 1 year old is supposedly getting sick.
Oh, because our daughter has a fever, you blithely said. Because a kid at daycare has the stomach flu.
It was loud at your party. Your kid didn't cough in front of me until we were on our way out the door. But she must have coughed in front of you. You must have known this wasn't a case of the sniffles or being a bit under the weather. You knew, and you didn't care and I'm having a really hard time reconciling that with the intelligent, fun, caring people we've been friends with for nearly a decade.
So, my kids got sick. Again. Because I do care if other people's kids catch what mine have got, we kept them home from play group. Every week, for over a month, I've checked the monster's temperature, or listened to his cough and told him, "sorry, Bud, maybe next week." I've watched him stoically accept this, and blink tears out of his eyes.
We've visited the ER 4 times in the last month. 3, I strongly suspect, were related to our last visit with you. Like the time the Monster spent the morning vomiting because the sheer amount of mucous this virus produces meant that he swallowed enough to make him puke. Or the time the Hobgoblin's fever got frighteningly high and wouldn't come down for several days. You know what's not fun? Watching your baby get a plastic bag taped to his junk for a urine catch (but hey, it's better than a catheter, right?). You know what else isn't fun? Holding your baby down so they can take blood for cultures; wondering how they can take that much blood out of such a little body and have it still be safe. You know what really isn't fun? Listening to your baby scream when he's restrained inside a horrible plastic tube with his arms over his head, so they can X-ray his chest.
Which brings us to today. They're better. Finally. Fevers are down, coughs are gone. It's over. You know what else is over?
INDOOR FUCKING PLAY GROUP.
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
Sunday, November 19, 2017
So Tired of Life
I'm just physically, mentally and emotionally drained. Like, ready to collapse.
There's a bunch of stuff going on with the hobgoblin that needs its own post. But that's not what this is about.
Today's rant is brought to you by Mr. Wolfman, who seems to be going out of his way to make me feel like shit.
After yet another night of no sleep, I went to bed when he got up at 9am. He woke me up at 10, because an hour is a reasonable amount of sleep, I guess. Ok, fine. I made us breakfast, and wanted to mess around a bit on Facebook, then do the dishes. As I finished my reading, the hobgoblin wanted to eat, so I started nursing him.
Mr. Wolfman, who, incidentally, has been playing Legos by himself for half an hour (he had been playing with the Monster, who had gotten bored and wandered away) asked if I had done the dishes. No, I'm feeding the Hobgoblin. 10 minutes later, Hobgoblin is still eating, he asks if I've done the dishes yet.
Yes. I got up, ran to the kitchen, unloaded, reloaded and ran the dishwasher, then got back here and snuck the baby back onto my breast.
So, I was a little tetchy.
I go to do the dishes and the smell of diaper shit in the kitchen is overwhelming, so I say to Mr. Wolfman (not accusingly, mind you, even though it was him who decided to get rid of our last garbage can) that we really ought to get one that closes because it smells. And he goes off on me. We have millions of garbage cans, and I never use any of them. We have 2 garbage cans. One in the bathroom and one for compostable garbage in the kitchen. The compostable one I use multiple times per day. The one in the bathroom... well, admittedly, I tend to put the garbage on top of it because I almost never use that bathroom, and when I do, it's like, a single Q-tip. There are papers and stuff stacked on the lid, and I've been lazy about cleaning it off so it can actually be used. He took the garbage out of the other bathroom because I never emptied it, apparently. Because it's solely my responsibility to empty. Obviously.
Then there was a bag of clean laundry, which, being crammed into a bag, I assumed was dirty, so I put the monster's dirty shirt in there, and that earned me a a snappy comment, a sigh and an eyeroll. Like, fuck, just take it out if it's in the wrong place. Or tell me and I'll do it. But this sullen, huffy, the world is over because Mummy put a dirty shirt in the wrong spot shit needs to end (He constantly puts dirty clothes BACK IN THE CLOSET because he thinks that clothes are clean until there's a visible stain. So he'll keep lo in the same clothes for literally days, if I don't change him. Like, bathe him and put him back in the same PJs, and when it comes time to change him into something else, will put the 3-day old PJs in the closet to be worn next time. I've actually pulled clothes with food stuck on them out of the boys' closet a few times).
Hmm, what else did I fuck up today? Apparently I've ruined my Fitbit by not installing the updates that it never asked me to install and now it's broken forever, because that makes total sense. I didn't wash his espresso cups by hand when he was done with them, so he didn't have one ready when he wanted it, and actually had to open the dishwasher, take one out and wash it himself! I know. I'm fucking awful.
I'm sure there's other stuff that I'm forgetting, but don't worry, he'll definitely remind me about it when he gets home from work.
I am REALLY, REALLY not looking forward to spending the holidays with my MIL martyring herself for her kids and husband and Mr. Wolfman thinking this is normal. She doesn't even eat Christmas dinner with the family, she's too busy serving it, and then she eats alone in the kitchen or joins half-way through the meal, eats and then starts tidying while everyone else is still talking. Which, fine, whatever floats her boat. But that's not me, and if he wanted a doormat housemaid, maybe he should have married one.
There's a bunch of stuff going on with the hobgoblin that needs its own post. But that's not what this is about.
Today's rant is brought to you by Mr. Wolfman, who seems to be going out of his way to make me feel like shit.
After yet another night of no sleep, I went to bed when he got up at 9am. He woke me up at 10, because an hour is a reasonable amount of sleep, I guess. Ok, fine. I made us breakfast, and wanted to mess around a bit on Facebook, then do the dishes. As I finished my reading, the hobgoblin wanted to eat, so I started nursing him.
Mr. Wolfman, who, incidentally, has been playing Legos by himself for half an hour (he had been playing with the Monster, who had gotten bored and wandered away) asked if I had done the dishes. No, I'm feeding the Hobgoblin. 10 minutes later, Hobgoblin is still eating, he asks if I've done the dishes yet.
Yes. I got up, ran to the kitchen, unloaded, reloaded and ran the dishwasher, then got back here and snuck the baby back onto my breast.
So, I was a little tetchy.
I go to do the dishes and the smell of diaper shit in the kitchen is overwhelming, so I say to Mr. Wolfman (not accusingly, mind you, even though it was him who decided to get rid of our last garbage can) that we really ought to get one that closes because it smells. And he goes off on me. We have millions of garbage cans, and I never use any of them. We have 2 garbage cans. One in the bathroom and one for compostable garbage in the kitchen. The compostable one I use multiple times per day. The one in the bathroom... well, admittedly, I tend to put the garbage on top of it because I almost never use that bathroom, and when I do, it's like, a single Q-tip. There are papers and stuff stacked on the lid, and I've been lazy about cleaning it off so it can actually be used. He took the garbage out of the other bathroom because I never emptied it, apparently. Because it's solely my responsibility to empty. Obviously.
Then there was a bag of clean laundry, which, being crammed into a bag, I assumed was dirty, so I put the monster's dirty shirt in there, and that earned me a a snappy comment, a sigh and an eyeroll. Like, fuck, just take it out if it's in the wrong place. Or tell me and I'll do it. But this sullen, huffy, the world is over because Mummy put a dirty shirt in the wrong spot shit needs to end (He constantly puts dirty clothes BACK IN THE CLOSET because he thinks that clothes are clean until there's a visible stain. So he'll keep lo in the same clothes for literally days, if I don't change him. Like, bathe him and put him back in the same PJs, and when it comes time to change him into something else, will put the 3-day old PJs in the closet to be worn next time. I've actually pulled clothes with food stuck on them out of the boys' closet a few times).
Hmm, what else did I fuck up today? Apparently I've ruined my Fitbit by not installing the updates that it never asked me to install and now it's broken forever, because that makes total sense. I didn't wash his espresso cups by hand when he was done with them, so he didn't have one ready when he wanted it, and actually had to open the dishwasher, take one out and wash it himself! I know. I'm fucking awful.
I'm sure there's other stuff that I'm forgetting, but don't worry, he'll definitely remind me about it when he gets home from work.
I am REALLY, REALLY not looking forward to spending the holidays with my MIL martyring herself for her kids and husband and Mr. Wolfman thinking this is normal. She doesn't even eat Christmas dinner with the family, she's too busy serving it, and then she eats alone in the kitchen or joins half-way through the meal, eats and then starts tidying while everyone else is still talking. Which, fine, whatever floats her boat. But that's not me, and if he wanted a doormat housemaid, maybe he should have married one.
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
*Hurk* (on dating your own kids)
The hobgoblin is obsessed with computer wires, so I was on Pinterest digging for a way to secure them, when I came across this gem: To My Son, Expectations on Dating. Now I feel queasy.
To start with, the blogger (not the letter writer) refers to her son as her boyfriend. As the mother of two amazing boys, who I fully believe anyone in the (distant) future would be lucky to date, allow me to just say, Ew. I have never understood or been able to get behind this whole, little boys are their mommies' princes or boyfriends, little girls are their daddies' princesses or little ladies thing. People. No. You're not dating or romantically involved with your children. At least, you really, really shouldn't be. This isn't cute, it's icky*
The letter itself isn't all bad. But whenever I read something for Moms of Boys, I'm almost always disappointed by the way it pigeonholes boys or moms or both. And this was no exception. It starts with a pretty big assumption.
At 3 and 8 months, I don't pretend to know my kids' sexualities. Or, really, their gender(s). Or their views on marriage. I mean, yes, most people are cishet, so statistically, the chances are pretty high that my boys will be, too. But I'm not dreaming about their girlfriends and wives and children yet. I'm still getting to know them. I dunno, maybe her kid is older - but it seems a bit presumptive.
The letter goes on with numbered pieces of advice for dating. Number one, I can get behind (if we replace a girl with the person you want to go out with. I agree with it whole-heartedly, but I have to admit that may be generational prejudice.
Number two is already giving me overbearing mom vibes.
Or, you know, don't. How about just, open doors for people? I would feel serious anxiety if I was expected to sit in a car, waiting for my door to be opened. That would honestly spoil the entire date for me. And for getting into a car - just awkward, especially if the date gets to the car first.
This is sexist, classist garbage. I mean, I know it's to her own son, but there's a reason it was published online and why it's being heralded as something all moms should read. So, basically, if you're poor, or you know, your parents have other priorities than paying for your dates, you shouldn't date? Per rule #2, kid isn't supposed to stay home with the girl, right? So if Mom and Dad can't foot the bill, then no getting to know the woman who, per the opening paragraph, might become his wife?
^^^Agree! Actually, numbers five through sixteen* are all good advice for dating, about making sure your partner is comfortable, kissing the right [person], not getting physical too quickly (it seems to be aimed at when the kid is a younger teenager? So I'm on board with this), telling someone when you're in love, often. All good stuff to consider throughout dating life.
*Except number 12.
And then we have... some more sexist nonsense.
*To be very clear: parents dancing with their children, holding hands with them, hugging and kissing them, having special one-on-one time, etc. - all great in my mind. The Monster and I have tea parties pretty frequently, with special music, no electronics allowed, and enjoy our tea and biscuits and each other's company. We do not, however, date.
To start with, the blogger (not the letter writer) refers to her son as her boyfriend. As the mother of two amazing boys, who I fully believe anyone in the (distant) future would be lucky to date, allow me to just say, Ew. I have never understood or been able to get behind this whole, little boys are their mommies' princes or boyfriends, little girls are their daddies' princesses or little ladies thing. People. No. You're not dating or romantically involved with your children. At least, you really, really shouldn't be. This isn't cute, it's icky*
The letter itself isn't all bad. But whenever I read something for Moms of Boys, I'm almost always disappointed by the way it pigeonholes boys or moms or both. And this was no exception. It starts with a pretty big assumption.
...honestly [dating is] the most important thing you will ever do. Because how you date will dictate who you date. And who you date will become your wife.
At 3 and 8 months, I don't pretend to know my kids' sexualities. Or, really, their gender(s). Or their views on marriage. I mean, yes, most people are cishet, so statistically, the chances are pretty high that my boys will be, too. But I'm not dreaming about their girlfriends and wives and children yet. I'm still getting to know them. I dunno, maybe her kid is older - but it seems a bit presumptive.
The letter goes on with numbered pieces of advice for dating. Number one, I can get behind (if we replace a girl with the person you want to go out with. I agree with it whole-heartedly, but I have to admit that may be generational prejudice.
1. Always ask a girl on a date. Straight forward & direct. AND always ask in person. If that just isn’t possible then ask over the phone. Never, I mean never, ask a girl on a date through a text, instant message, or email.
Number two is already giving me overbearing mom vibes.
2. Always take a girl out on a date. None of this “let’s hang out at my place & watch a movie” nonsense. I expect you to pick her up & take her somewhere. It doesn’t have to be fancy or elaborate or immensely creative. Sometimes the best dates are simple, like a picnic in the park. You should always make sure you take her to a place you know she will feel comfortable & enjoy.I like the last bit, about taking your date somewhere they'll feel comfortable and enjoy. Beyond that, Mom needs to butt TF out.
3. Open the car door for your date. Open all doors for your date.
Or, you know, don't. How about just, open doors for people? I would feel serious anxiety if I was expected to sit in a car, waiting for my door to be opened. That would honestly spoil the entire date for me. And for getting into a car - just awkward, especially if the date gets to the car first.
4. Pay for your date. No questions asked. Your father & I will make sure you always have money for your dates. Do not ever split the bill.
This is sexist, classist garbage. I mean, I know it's to her own son, but there's a reason it was published online and why it's being heralded as something all moms should read. So, basically, if you're poor, or you know, your parents have other priorities than paying for your dates, you shouldn't date? Per rule #2, kid isn't supposed to stay home with the girl, right? So if Mom and Dad can't foot the bill, then no getting to know the woman who, per the opening paragraph, might become his wife?
5. Walk to the door to pick up your date. Never text from the car, or worse yet, HONK! And always walk your date to the door at the end of the night.
^^^Agree! Actually, numbers five through sixteen* are all good advice for dating, about making sure your partner is comfortable, kissing the right [person], not getting physical too quickly (it seems to be aimed at when the kid is a younger teenager? So I'm on board with this), telling someone when you're in love, often. All good stuff to consider throughout dating life.
*Except number 12.
12. Get to know her family & friends and let your family & friends get to know her. Especially Me.I've never bought into the whole you marry the family thing. Like, no. I married Mr. Wolfman. I did not marry his father or mother or brother. They're nice, and I'm glad that I did get to know them, but knowing them or not has zero to do with our relationship. And some families (I suspect, including the author's with her Especially Me) can be a bit overwhelming. There's a reason Mr. Wolfman didn't meet my parents until after we were living together.
And then we have... some more sexist nonsense.
17. When the time is right & you’ve found that special someone, get down on one knee & ask her those 4 special words.
This is a touchy one for me, because I proposed to my husband. After discussing our lives together, children, etc. The time being right leaves it open to interpretation, so I'm giving this lady the benefit of the doubt and assuming that she means once the necessary discussions have been had and both parties have agreed, equally, that the time is right. But, even so, WHY is her son the one that's expected to propose?
My hope for my boys is that, when the time is right, IF marriage is their end goal, that they'll propose - or accept their partner's proposal. Or come to the decision jointly without anyone ever "officially" asking. Mostly, I just hope they'll be happy.
*To be very clear: parents dancing with their children, holding hands with them, hugging and kissing them, having special one-on-one time, etc. - all great in my mind. The Monster and I have tea parties pretty frequently, with special music, no electronics allowed, and enjoy our tea and biscuits and each other's company. We do not, however, date.
Friday, June 2, 2017
"Kiss the Baby"
Dear Random Lady,
No.
My three month old neither wants nor needs kisses from your toddler. I'm sure in your eyes, your child is the shit, but that doesn't mean I want his germy mouth on my baby.
Since we've never been introduced or had even a cursory conversation (and you didn't bother to ask my or my baby's name before instructing your son to kiss him), let me tell you something about our family: we believe in bodily autonomy. We don't believe in forcing kisses and we sure as shit don't believe in kissing strangers to appease their parents' sense of what would be really cute to see.
As mothers of boys, I think it's especially important that we teach them about consent from the get-go. That doesn't mean we have to discuss sex with toddlers, but it does mean that we probably shouldn't be instructing them to show physical affection to strangers with no regard for the strangers themselves.
Luckily for you, your son showed better judgement than you did and was about as interested in giving kisses as mine was in getting them. That saved us both from making an awkward scene at another kid's birthday party. Bully for us.
Neither of our children are dolls. They're not there for you to play pretend with. If you want to make things kiss for your own amusement, go buy some Barbies and leave my baby out of it.
My three month old can't speak for himself. It's my job to be his voice until he has one of his own. So on his behalf, let me just say:
Kindly back the fuck up.
Tuesday, January 3, 2017
"Boys Books"
On my local buy&sell Facebook page, I saw a post for Baby Books and Boy Books.
And I thought to myself: What the fuck is a boy book?
The baby books, presumably, are the stack that include a potty book (the only book in the bunch that could conceivably be just for boys), a Sandra Boynton book and a couple of Sesame Street books that have the titles obscured. The boy books, I'm guessing, are the others: Cars, Thomas and Spiderman.
Of course. A book that (I'm guessing) tells you how/where to pee from your genitals can be for anyone. But a book that has something manly like a mode of transportation or a superhero, that's only for boys. I mean, it's not like women and girls drive or take public transit, after all. And why would they want to read about Spiderman? A girl can't get superpowers from being bitten by a radioactive spider; that would be so unrealistic.
The monster would enjoy all of these. He loooves Thomas. He doesn't know what Cars is, but he is a big fan of anthropomorphized vehicles as a general category. He likes Spiderman well enough (although, in the world of superheroes, Spiderman is a distant 3rd behind Superman and Batman). But, just to clear it up, for anyone who might think otherwise, NONE OF THAT IS BECAUSE HE HAS A PENIS.
Let me break it down:
He loves Thomas because a) Thomas is a train and we live relatively close to the train station; b) His Dad likes trains; c) His aforementioned enjoyment of anthropomorphic vehicles; and d) The biggest reason, he has two Thomas books. Books are are the best things in the monster's world and a character that appears is a book is, to him, infinitely better than any other.
He loves cars because a) Mr. Wolfman and I (you know, the parent without a penis) both love cars. We collected them as kids and started collecting them the Monster. He has about 30; and b) They have wheels. Wheels are cool. He loves faces on cars because... he's creepy? I don't know what's up with the faces, but I'm pretty sure it has more to do with him being two than it does with having an XY chromosomal makeup.
And he passingly likes Spiderman because I found a bag in the shape of Spiderman's head about a year ago and bought it for him. It has a zipper and it's sparkly. He loves zippers. He loves sparkles. It may also have something to do with Spiderman being red and blue, which were his favourite colours until he discovered purple. Spiderman, incidentally, also has eyes and at 16 months old, when he got this wonderful bag, eyes were one of the few body parts he could name.
I know this was an individual post and not a marketing campaign, but this mindset, this divide between boys and girls, is exactly what every industry has been shoving down our throats for (at the very least) my entire life. We're told not just this is for boys and this is for girls, but actually tricked into believing this is for boys because they like it better, this is for boys because girls wouldn't be interested. Gendered nonsense exists because the market demands it, not because products and marketing create a demand.
I think campaigns like Let Toys Be Toys, Let Books Be Books and Let Clothes Be Clothes are so important. Not just to get producers and marketers to change the way they operate, but to get parents to think about why they buy what they buy and why they teach their kids what they do.
Obviously, I don't have a problem with what are often considered boy books or characters or toys. My son, as I've mentioned, adores a lot of things that would fall into that category and I'm happy to buy him the things he likes. But I'll be damned if I let either of my boys believe for a second that they have special rights to superheroes, tools, sports, the automobile industry or carnivorous animals* just because of what's in their underwear.
*except cats, 'cause they're for girls. Obviously.
And I thought to myself: What the fuck is a boy book?
The baby books, presumably, are the stack that include a potty book (the only book in the bunch that could conceivably be just for boys), a Sandra Boynton book and a couple of Sesame Street books that have the titles obscured. The boy books, I'm guessing, are the others: Cars, Thomas and Spiderman.
Of course. A book that (I'm guessing) tells you how/where to pee from your genitals can be for anyone. But a book that has something manly like a mode of transportation or a superhero, that's only for boys. I mean, it's not like women and girls drive or take public transit, after all. And why would they want to read about Spiderman? A girl can't get superpowers from being bitten by a radioactive spider; that would be so unrealistic.
The monster would enjoy all of these. He loooves Thomas. He doesn't know what Cars is, but he is a big fan of anthropomorphized vehicles as a general category. He likes Spiderman well enough (although, in the world of superheroes, Spiderman is a distant 3rd behind Superman and Batman). But, just to clear it up, for anyone who might think otherwise, NONE OF THAT IS BECAUSE HE HAS A PENIS.
Let me break it down:
He loves Thomas because a) Thomas is a train and we live relatively close to the train station; b) His Dad likes trains; c) His aforementioned enjoyment of anthropomorphic vehicles; and d) The biggest reason, he has two Thomas books. Books are are the best things in the monster's world and a character that appears is a book is, to him, infinitely better than any other.
He loves cars because a) Mr. Wolfman and I (you know, the parent without a penis) both love cars. We collected them as kids and started collecting them the Monster. He has about 30; and b) They have wheels. Wheels are cool. He loves faces on cars because... he's creepy? I don't know what's up with the faces, but I'm pretty sure it has more to do with him being two than it does with having an XY chromosomal makeup.
And he passingly likes Spiderman because I found a bag in the shape of Spiderman's head about a year ago and bought it for him. It has a zipper and it's sparkly. He loves zippers. He loves sparkles. It may also have something to do with Spiderman being red and blue, which were his favourite colours until he discovered purple. Spiderman, incidentally, also has eyes and at 16 months old, when he got this wonderful bag, eyes were one of the few body parts he could name.
I know this was an individual post and not a marketing campaign, but this mindset, this divide between boys and girls, is exactly what every industry has been shoving down our throats for (at the very least) my entire life. We're told not just this is for boys and this is for girls, but actually tricked into believing this is for boys because they like it better, this is for boys because girls wouldn't be interested. Gendered nonsense exists because the market demands it, not because products and marketing create a demand.
I think campaigns like Let Toys Be Toys, Let Books Be Books and Let Clothes Be Clothes are so important. Not just to get producers and marketers to change the way they operate, but to get parents to think about why they buy what they buy and why they teach their kids what they do.
Obviously, I don't have a problem with what are often considered boy books or characters or toys. My son, as I've mentioned, adores a lot of things that would fall into that category and I'm happy to buy him the things he likes. But I'll be damned if I let either of my boys believe for a second that they have special rights to superheroes, tools, sports, the automobile industry or carnivorous animals* just because of what's in their underwear.
*except cats, 'cause they're for girls. Obviously.
Monday, December 26, 2016
I Hate Everything
Ok, not everything. But I need to bitch about Xmas.
I LOVE Christmas. I all-caps, italics LOVE it. Way more than halloween, which I used to think of as my holiday. This being the monster's last Christmas as an only child, and the first one where he had any idea what was going on, I was of course looking forward to it.
I mentioned in a previous post that I would likely have to work and that I had a small glimmer of hope to switch a shift with a coworker. Well, as predicted, dick coworkers will be dicks, so while he did agree to work my shift, he wouldn't switch with me. Which would have meant that despite still having to work Christmas day, I'd lose out on over $100. Not something a pregnant Mummy of a toddler and baking Hobgoblin can afford - especially when I only work 16 hours per week.
So Mr. Wolfman and I decided we'd do his traditional Xmas on Xmas eve, then I would go to work and we would move Christmas day entirely (we're doing that later this week). I thought I was going to be ok with this, but I spent last night fighting back tears, realizing that Christmas was over, that I'd missed out on the one Christmas eve tradition I've been following my entire life, that this was going to be the Monster's last only child Christmas, etc., etc.
Then a giant toner cartridge exploded at work causing all sorts of trouble, because why the Hell not?
So, since Christmas morning is later this week, I'd arranged with my brother and sister to get our families together tomorrow for dinner and presents (my parents sent presents for everyone, too, that we were going to open then). I checked with my brother like 10 times that he was definitely free. He messaged me on the 24th to tell me he works tomorrow. Of course I was on a work-sleep-zombie schedule. I went to check with him today to find out about another day, and it turns out he works every day this week. Except Saturday, when, of course, I work. My presents for both my brother and sister are homemade cookies. Which really can't sit out for another week. So, yeah.
None of which really matters, since my brother still hasn't gotten back to me with his schedule for next week, so I don't even know if it's possible to have it next week anyway. And honestly, I just don't feel like bothering if it goes past New Year's. I don't even understand why this is all on me to arrange. I tried a group message and no one responded with anything concrete, so I've been messaging my brother and sister individually, and it's just getting stupid. Last year, my brother in law was over 2 hours late (an hour of which was after he finished work, but apparently he needed to go home and shower for an hour) and we waited for him, so after spending all day cooking (not to mention babysitting my sister's kids because even though she was right there, she doesn't watch them), we ate cold food, tried to take family pics, the kids got overwhelmed by presents and they left without helping clean up (to be fair, my sister did offer, but she often half-asses cleaning and then gets offended if you say anything).
Oh, and the camera we got for the monster, which he absolutely loves, refuses to connect to the computer. So there's no way to get his pictures off it and when the battery dies, the pictures (the first he ever took on his own camera) will be erased. So, yay.
I LOVE Christmas. I all-caps, italics LOVE it. Way more than halloween, which I used to think of as my holiday. This being the monster's last Christmas as an only child, and the first one where he had any idea what was going on, I was of course looking forward to it.
I mentioned in a previous post that I would likely have to work and that I had a small glimmer of hope to switch a shift with a coworker. Well, as predicted, dick coworkers will be dicks, so while he did agree to work my shift, he wouldn't switch with me. Which would have meant that despite still having to work Christmas day, I'd lose out on over $100. Not something a pregnant Mummy of a toddler and baking Hobgoblin can afford - especially when I only work 16 hours per week.
So Mr. Wolfman and I decided we'd do his traditional Xmas on Xmas eve, then I would go to work and we would move Christmas day entirely (we're doing that later this week). I thought I was going to be ok with this, but I spent last night fighting back tears, realizing that Christmas was over, that I'd missed out on the one Christmas eve tradition I've been following my entire life, that this was going to be the Monster's last only child Christmas, etc., etc.
Then a giant toner cartridge exploded at work causing all sorts of trouble, because why the Hell not?
So, since Christmas morning is later this week, I'd arranged with my brother and sister to get our families together tomorrow for dinner and presents (my parents sent presents for everyone, too, that we were going to open then). I checked with my brother like 10 times that he was definitely free. He messaged me on the 24th to tell me he works tomorrow. Of course I was on a work-sleep-zombie schedule. I went to check with him today to find out about another day, and it turns out he works every day this week. Except Saturday, when, of course, I work. My presents for both my brother and sister are homemade cookies. Which really can't sit out for another week. So, yeah.
None of which really matters, since my brother still hasn't gotten back to me with his schedule for next week, so I don't even know if it's possible to have it next week anyway. And honestly, I just don't feel like bothering if it goes past New Year's. I don't even understand why this is all on me to arrange. I tried a group message and no one responded with anything concrete, so I've been messaging my brother and sister individually, and it's just getting stupid. Last year, my brother in law was over 2 hours late (an hour of which was after he finished work, but apparently he needed to go home and shower for an hour) and we waited for him, so after spending all day cooking (not to mention babysitting my sister's kids because even though she was right there, she doesn't watch them), we ate cold food, tried to take family pics, the kids got overwhelmed by presents and they left without helping clean up (to be fair, my sister did offer, but she often half-asses cleaning and then gets offended if you say anything).
Oh, and the camera we got for the monster, which he absolutely loves, refuses to connect to the computer. So there's no way to get his pictures off it and when the battery dies, the pictures (the first he ever took on his own camera) will be erased. So, yay.
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
Can I Just Bitch for a Minute?
Yesterday left me so tired and stressed, I'm still very much feeling it today. I'm in an absolute funk and don't seem to be able to claw my way out of it.
So Saturday and Sunday nights, I worked graveyards, as per usual. Sunday before work, I was talking with Mr. Wolfman about the monster and how advanced he is, and how we need to figure out what we're going to do for extra academic stimulation in our tiny town. I made some comment about how we may not even be here by the time he starts school in a couple of years and if we move somewhere bigger, they may have more options for special classes*.
Mr. Wolfman then starts asking me what I'm talking about, and come to find out, what I thought was our very solid, agreed upon plan of finding out in the spring if there's any more room for advancement in his current job - and if not, looking for work outside of this town - was actually not our plan, and that the earliest we will likely move is the end of summer, 2018. 18. We will have been in this shit village for 5 years. I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE ANYMORE. It's not really a shit village. It's nice, if you're an outdoors person (I'd like to be, but I can't take the monster out hiking alone, because there's a reasonable chance we'd be eaten by wild animals - not an exaggeration. There are wolves, bears, mountain lions and coyotes around here). It's also nice if you're into winter sports (I'm not. And anyway, I'm pregnant this winter, next winter I will have a toddler and an infant, the next winter I'll have a preschooler and a toddler). Property here is prohibitively expensive, daycare here is prohibitively expensive. So basically, I'm going to remain a mostly SAHM until 2018, whether I want to or not (not that there's anything approaching a fulfilling job for me here, even if I had the education and experience, which I don't). At which point, I'll still have no education, and I'll have been out of the workforce for 4 years. I'm sure that'll look great on my resume.
So I went to bed, woke up to none of the food DH had said he was going to cook, went work at 11pm in a shit mood, got home around 8am, Mr. Wolfman let me sleep until almost 11, so nearly 3 hours, yay. I wanted to go out, Mr. Wolfman said he needed to shower before doing anything else. Two hours of sitting on the couch later, he finally has his shower, comes out saying I should be ready to go (even though he hadn't said whether he wanted to go anywhere), because he thought he was driving me to the store to buy a plunger (oh yeah, I clogged the toilet on Saturday). I said I could walk to the store, so he says ok and sits back down on the couch and reads until it's time to go to work.
My plan was to work on cleaning the new glider (I got it for free from a buy&sell site. One of the things about our small village is that people leave frequently, and big, ugly furniture tends to get given away, so it being free was not suspicious at all. She said it was smoke and pet free. The lady's house smelled a little funky, but I didn't want to sniff this thing right in front of her. I should have. It smelled awful, but I didn't realize that until I got home and started to clean it. I had already gone out on Sunday afternoon to buy pet odour and urine stain remover). The cleaning solution seemed to bring whatever locked-in stench to the surface, so I was going to spray it, open all the windows, then go out to buy the plunger. I also needed to go grocery shopping because DH had decided that he didn't want the meal he didn't cook on Sunday night, he wanted something else that we needed more supplies for.
It took over 2 hours to leave the house, mostly due to the monster getting a tiny bit dressed, then needing to pee. So I've been smelling this stupid cleaner/random chair stink this whole time and starting to get a headache.
We finally got out of the house, walked about 15-20 minutes, then the monster has to pee. I tell him hang on, we run to the nearest bathroom (about 3 mins away) and he's had his first accident in over 2 weeks, soaked through his underwear, pants, shirt and sweater and wetted his coat and stroller. Get him cleaned up. But it hadn't occurred to me to bring an extra shirt or sweater and it was cold outside, so I put him in my hoodie ("Monster will have no sweater. Too long!") and go to the store to find a shirt for him that doesn't leave half his chest exposed. No luck there. He needs to pee again, so we end up using the staff bathroom in the back of the store. Grab plunger.
Go to an outdoor store and buy him an expensive base layer shirt. He has to pee again. Rush him to the nearest toilet.
Go to go to another store because I just got invited to my sister's baby shower (3rd in 4 years) and I need to find a reasonably cheap present for her.
Go to the bank. He needs to pee again. Bank is closed, so the nearest one is about 7-10 mins away. I tell him to hold it, finish at the ATM and bloody run to the grocery store. He's already had another accident. Change him, get him cleaned up (thank God I had a ridiculous stash of clean underwear and pants with me). Put him in a random diaper I found in the stroller, because fuck. Finish grocery shopping.
Go to visit Mr. Wolfman at work to drop off the apple he'd requested (at this point I'd been out for some 3.5 hours, on food, dealing with all of this). The monster fell asleep on the way there, so after dropping off the apple and a snack for Mr. Wolfman, I go home, leave the monster in the stroller and collapse for a bit (maybe an hour and a half).
At the monster's bedtime, he was still asleep so I carefully transferred him to his own bed, go to cook food, and of course he wakes up. Wants food, wants stories, wants EVERYTHING. Mr. Wolfman gets home and immediately starts complaining about various things that I haven't done around the house. He hangs up laundry - after complaining, because he works - then sits on the computer, because apparently getting the monster ready for bed is 100% my responsibility, for no fucking reason. I said I could cook and he could put the monster to bed, or he could cook and I could put the monster to bed. He is really resistant to doing bedtime.
Oh, and during this time, I discover massive haemorrhoids. I've been insisting I need that stupid damn glider for ages and telling Mr. Wolfman that if he keeps making me do bedtime (I usually have to sit on a step stool, because the monster's bed is so little), I'm going to get them. DH didn't see the point of buying a glider or any comfortable furniture and thought it was a waste of money/space. I only got the one I got because it was free. So yay for fire ass for the next 15 weeks.
So I finally get the monster ready for bed, get him to pee again (his diaper, after all that, was miraculously dry). Finally drag him to bed, read him his stories and try to get him to sleep. He won't sleep. After nearly an hour, he's asleep, I try to sneak out of the room, he wakes up and starts crying. I have to lie in his toddler bed with him and hug him until he's asleep, apparently. So I do this. He drifts off. I'm about to sneak out when Mr. Wolfman opens the door, letting in light, then comes and stands over the bed, waking the monster up, then goes back out of the room (... thanks?). So I lie there some more and eventually both the monster and I drift off. Mr. Wolfman comes back in to go to bed. I get up to take my pill and find some food (Wolfman didn't cook anything, big surprise), monster wakes up and starts crying. I take my pill and hurry back to bed without even brushing my teeth.
Eventually I bring the monster to my bed, because, remember, I'm doing all this on 3 hours of sleep and I don't have the energy to enforce him sleeping in his own bed. By now it's well after midnight. He squirms around and fusses and takes probably another hour to fall asleep. Then he tosses and turns all night, waking me up repeatedly, but, of course, not Mr. Wolfman, who sleeps through anything.
Monster is up before 8am, because why the fuck not?
aaand, that's been my week so far. I'm starving and now have to cook dinner for lunch because Wolfman's insistence we get ingredients for a meal he apparently didn't even want (he ate at work, so he was fine) screwed up our budget for today.
Fuck. I'm so exhausted and so bitter and so at a loose end. All I want to do is curl into a ball and sleep for the next 10 years. And this is supposed to be the relaxing time, before number two gets here.
Fuck.
*Maybe jumping the gun a bit here, but the monster has surpassed every non-motor-related milestone (as well as a few motor ones) incredibly early, so far. He already knows the alphabet, his shapes, colours, how to count to 10 in two languages and can count in his head. He can name all 30(!) of his toy cars (just make and/or model, not year). Generally, I think a lot of the stuff he knows is stuff that they go over in JK, two years from now, so we're a little concerned.
So Saturday and Sunday nights, I worked graveyards, as per usual. Sunday before work, I was talking with Mr. Wolfman about the monster and how advanced he is, and how we need to figure out what we're going to do for extra academic stimulation in our tiny town. I made some comment about how we may not even be here by the time he starts school in a couple of years and if we move somewhere bigger, they may have more options for special classes*.
Mr. Wolfman then starts asking me what I'm talking about, and come to find out, what I thought was our very solid, agreed upon plan of finding out in the spring if there's any more room for advancement in his current job - and if not, looking for work outside of this town - was actually not our plan, and that the earliest we will likely move is the end of summer, 2018. 18. We will have been in this shit village for 5 years. I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE ANYMORE. It's not really a shit village. It's nice, if you're an outdoors person (I'd like to be, but I can't take the monster out hiking alone, because there's a reasonable chance we'd be eaten by wild animals - not an exaggeration. There are wolves, bears, mountain lions and coyotes around here). It's also nice if you're into winter sports (I'm not. And anyway, I'm pregnant this winter, next winter I will have a toddler and an infant, the next winter I'll have a preschooler and a toddler). Property here is prohibitively expensive, daycare here is prohibitively expensive. So basically, I'm going to remain a mostly SAHM until 2018, whether I want to or not (not that there's anything approaching a fulfilling job for me here, even if I had the education and experience, which I don't). At which point, I'll still have no education, and I'll have been out of the workforce for 4 years. I'm sure that'll look great on my resume.
So I went to bed, woke up to none of the food DH had said he was going to cook, went work at 11pm in a shit mood, got home around 8am, Mr. Wolfman let me sleep until almost 11, so nearly 3 hours, yay. I wanted to go out, Mr. Wolfman said he needed to shower before doing anything else. Two hours of sitting on the couch later, he finally has his shower, comes out saying I should be ready to go (even though he hadn't said whether he wanted to go anywhere), because he thought he was driving me to the store to buy a plunger (oh yeah, I clogged the toilet on Saturday). I said I could walk to the store, so he says ok and sits back down on the couch and reads until it's time to go to work.
My plan was to work on cleaning the new glider (I got it for free from a buy&sell site. One of the things about our small village is that people leave frequently, and big, ugly furniture tends to get given away, so it being free was not suspicious at all. She said it was smoke and pet free. The lady's house smelled a little funky, but I didn't want to sniff this thing right in front of her. I should have. It smelled awful, but I didn't realize that until I got home and started to clean it. I had already gone out on Sunday afternoon to buy pet odour and urine stain remover). The cleaning solution seemed to bring whatever locked-in stench to the surface, so I was going to spray it, open all the windows, then go out to buy the plunger. I also needed to go grocery shopping because DH had decided that he didn't want the meal he didn't cook on Sunday night, he wanted something else that we needed more supplies for.
It took over 2 hours to leave the house, mostly due to the monster getting a tiny bit dressed, then needing to pee. So I've been smelling this stupid cleaner/random chair stink this whole time and starting to get a headache.
We finally got out of the house, walked about 15-20 minutes, then the monster has to pee. I tell him hang on, we run to the nearest bathroom (about 3 mins away) and he's had his first accident in over 2 weeks, soaked through his underwear, pants, shirt and sweater and wetted his coat and stroller. Get him cleaned up. But it hadn't occurred to me to bring an extra shirt or sweater and it was cold outside, so I put him in my hoodie ("Monster will have no sweater. Too long!") and go to the store to find a shirt for him that doesn't leave half his chest exposed. No luck there. He needs to pee again, so we end up using the staff bathroom in the back of the store. Grab plunger.
Go to an outdoor store and buy him an expensive base layer shirt. He has to pee again. Rush him to the nearest toilet.
Go to go to another store because I just got invited to my sister's baby shower (3rd in 4 years) and I need to find a reasonably cheap present for her.
Go to the bank. He needs to pee again. Bank is closed, so the nearest one is about 7-10 mins away. I tell him to hold it, finish at the ATM and bloody run to the grocery store. He's already had another accident. Change him, get him cleaned up (thank God I had a ridiculous stash of clean underwear and pants with me). Put him in a random diaper I found in the stroller, because fuck. Finish grocery shopping.
Go to visit Mr. Wolfman at work to drop off the apple he'd requested (at this point I'd been out for some 3.5 hours, on food, dealing with all of this). The monster fell asleep on the way there, so after dropping off the apple and a snack for Mr. Wolfman, I go home, leave the monster in the stroller and collapse for a bit (maybe an hour and a half).
At the monster's bedtime, he was still asleep so I carefully transferred him to his own bed, go to cook food, and of course he wakes up. Wants food, wants stories, wants EVERYTHING. Mr. Wolfman gets home and immediately starts complaining about various things that I haven't done around the house. He hangs up laundry - after complaining, because he works - then sits on the computer, because apparently getting the monster ready for bed is 100% my responsibility, for no fucking reason. I said I could cook and he could put the monster to bed, or he could cook and I could put the monster to bed. He is really resistant to doing bedtime.
Oh, and during this time, I discover massive haemorrhoids. I've been insisting I need that stupid damn glider for ages and telling Mr. Wolfman that if he keeps making me do bedtime (I usually have to sit on a step stool, because the monster's bed is so little), I'm going to get them. DH didn't see the point of buying a glider or any comfortable furniture and thought it was a waste of money/space. I only got the one I got because it was free. So yay for fire ass for the next 15 weeks.
So I finally get the monster ready for bed, get him to pee again (his diaper, after all that, was miraculously dry). Finally drag him to bed, read him his stories and try to get him to sleep. He won't sleep. After nearly an hour, he's asleep, I try to sneak out of the room, he wakes up and starts crying. I have to lie in his toddler bed with him and hug him until he's asleep, apparently. So I do this. He drifts off. I'm about to sneak out when Mr. Wolfman opens the door, letting in light, then comes and stands over the bed, waking the monster up, then goes back out of the room (... thanks?). So I lie there some more and eventually both the monster and I drift off. Mr. Wolfman comes back in to go to bed. I get up to take my pill and find some food (Wolfman didn't cook anything, big surprise), monster wakes up and starts crying. I take my pill and hurry back to bed without even brushing my teeth.
Eventually I bring the monster to my bed, because, remember, I'm doing all this on 3 hours of sleep and I don't have the energy to enforce him sleeping in his own bed. By now it's well after midnight. He squirms around and fusses and takes probably another hour to fall asleep. Then he tosses and turns all night, waking me up repeatedly, but, of course, not Mr. Wolfman, who sleeps through anything.
Monster is up before 8am, because why the fuck not?
aaand, that's been my week so far. I'm starving and now have to cook dinner for lunch because Wolfman's insistence we get ingredients for a meal he apparently didn't even want (he ate at work, so he was fine) screwed up our budget for today.
Fuck. I'm so exhausted and so bitter and so at a loose end. All I want to do is curl into a ball and sleep for the next 10 years. And this is supposed to be the relaxing time, before number two gets here.
Fuck.
*Maybe jumping the gun a bit here, but the monster has surpassed every non-motor-related milestone (as well as a few motor ones) incredibly early, so far. He already knows the alphabet, his shapes, colours, how to count to 10 in two languages and can count in his head. He can name all 30(!) of his toy cars (just make and/or model, not year). Generally, I think a lot of the stuff he knows is stuff that they go over in JK, two years from now, so we're a little concerned.
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Xmas Woes
Can I just whine for a minute?
So, last night, with daylight savings time, my shift went from 8 hours to 9 hours. Ok, that sucks, but it's an extra hour of pay, so whatever. I only got two hours of sleep yesterday afternoon because pregnancy heartburn has set in and it's kicking my ass. Luckily, it was a pretty quiet night, no extra work for me, so other than extreme tiredness, it was pretty good.
Until my manager showed up. Not that I have anything against her, but I'd asked her for Christmas eve off (not Christmas, just the one day) because my schedule has me working Xmas eve, Xmas, New Years Eve and New Years. So, I thought, hell, maybe she'll see that it's insane and wildly unfair for me to have to work every single important holiday (oh yeah, Thanksgiving, too) in the fall/winter, and I offered to work any other shift that week, or the next week, or whenever the guy who would be taking over for me wanted, if I could just have Xmas eve off. No dice. Apparently it wouldn't be fair because he has to work New Year's Eve, because everyone in my department has to work that day, because we're supposedly insanely busy. So... it's fair for me to work NYE and Xmas eve and Xmas and NYD, but not for him.
She said I can talk to him and if he's happy to switch with me, then she doesn't mind. This guy (the only other person trained in my role) is the biggest asshole. I fully intend to ask him, to be as sweet as pie, to keep my original offer to work literally any other night he wants me to. I'll bake him cookies, I'll bring him dinner, whatever he wants - but I fully expect him to say no. He has no family in town and I'm pretty sure he never leaves his house except for work (we live in a very small town and I have literally never seen him outside of work, ever). Other colleagues have told me he hates Christmas and thinks it's stupid, but he just seems like the type of person to get a kick out of making people's lives miserable. He's rude to our customers, to our coworkers, to everyone. When he trained me, I would ask questions and he would go on 25 minute tirades designed to make me feel stupid (none of which ever answered what I'd asked). Management seems to see him as a loveable grump. If he was my employee, he'd have been fired long ago.
And this is who I have to hope has a little compassion so that I can actually enjoy Christmas with my kid. I don't think I should get special treatment because of the monster, but I'd like to think that if I had a business and one of my employee's regular schedule had them working on every single winter holiday, that I'd move things around so that everyone at least had the chance to celebrate.
Mr. Wolfman and I combine our cultures' Christmases, so we celebrate his way on the 24th (traditional meal, one gift each) and my way on the 25th (stockings, one more small gift, turkey dinner).
Except this year, it will look like:
I go to bed when Mr. Wolfman gets home from work on the 24th (3:30pm). Mr. Wolfman cooks the entire meal alone while watching DS because I need to sleep. 7-8pm, I wake up and we have dinner and one present, then I go to work. Come home at 7:30am. Maybe DS can squeeze his stocking in there, because Mr. Wolfman starts work at 8. Then Mr. Wolfman gets home at 3:30 and I go to bed. No turkey dinner because I have to sleep and I'm not going to ask Mr. Wolfman to cook a way more complicated meal that I won't even have time to eat. And then I work all night and come home on boxing day... which I guess is when we get our Xmas day presents.
FUCK.
I am well aware that this falls squarely in the realm of a first world problem. I know it's just a date. I know that there are people who are starving, people who can't even spend one day of the holidays with their families, people who would balk at 6 presents and a stocking (and an advent calendar) for a family of 3, who would never waste money on two big, elaborate meals in as many days. But it still sucks. And I still ugly cried the entire 15 minute walk home this morning. And yeah, I'm crying right now.
I'm really afraid this will ruin the whole season for me, that I'll lose it every time I look at Christmas lights or someone asks me about my holiday plans. This is the first year that the monster is going to be interested in anything going on around Christmas and his last year as an only child. I wanted it to be really special for him. And part of me knows it still can be, if I stop being a weepy mess, but at the moment, that seems impossible.
FUCK.
So, last night, with daylight savings time, my shift went from 8 hours to 9 hours. Ok, that sucks, but it's an extra hour of pay, so whatever. I only got two hours of sleep yesterday afternoon because pregnancy heartburn has set in and it's kicking my ass. Luckily, it was a pretty quiet night, no extra work for me, so other than extreme tiredness, it was pretty good.
Until my manager showed up. Not that I have anything against her, but I'd asked her for Christmas eve off (not Christmas, just the one day) because my schedule has me working Xmas eve, Xmas, New Years Eve and New Years. So, I thought, hell, maybe she'll see that it's insane and wildly unfair for me to have to work every single important holiday (oh yeah, Thanksgiving, too) in the fall/winter, and I offered to work any other shift that week, or the next week, or whenever the guy who would be taking over for me wanted, if I could just have Xmas eve off. No dice. Apparently it wouldn't be fair because he has to work New Year's Eve, because everyone in my department has to work that day, because we're supposedly insanely busy. So... it's fair for me to work NYE and Xmas eve and Xmas and NYD, but not for him.
She said I can talk to him and if he's happy to switch with me, then she doesn't mind. This guy (the only other person trained in my role) is the biggest asshole. I fully intend to ask him, to be as sweet as pie, to keep my original offer to work literally any other night he wants me to. I'll bake him cookies, I'll bring him dinner, whatever he wants - but I fully expect him to say no. He has no family in town and I'm pretty sure he never leaves his house except for work (we live in a very small town and I have literally never seen him outside of work, ever). Other colleagues have told me he hates Christmas and thinks it's stupid, but he just seems like the type of person to get a kick out of making people's lives miserable. He's rude to our customers, to our coworkers, to everyone. When he trained me, I would ask questions and he would go on 25 minute tirades designed to make me feel stupid (none of which ever answered what I'd asked). Management seems to see him as a loveable grump. If he was my employee, he'd have been fired long ago.
And this is who I have to hope has a little compassion so that I can actually enjoy Christmas with my kid. I don't think I should get special treatment because of the monster, but I'd like to think that if I had a business and one of my employee's regular schedule had them working on every single winter holiday, that I'd move things around so that everyone at least had the chance to celebrate.
Mr. Wolfman and I combine our cultures' Christmases, so we celebrate his way on the 24th (traditional meal, one gift each) and my way on the 25th (stockings, one more small gift, turkey dinner).
Except this year, it will look like:
I go to bed when Mr. Wolfman gets home from work on the 24th (3:30pm). Mr. Wolfman cooks the entire meal alone while watching DS because I need to sleep. 7-8pm, I wake up and we have dinner and one present, then I go to work. Come home at 7:30am. Maybe DS can squeeze his stocking in there, because Mr. Wolfman starts work at 8. Then Mr. Wolfman gets home at 3:30 and I go to bed. No turkey dinner because I have to sleep and I'm not going to ask Mr. Wolfman to cook a way more complicated meal that I won't even have time to eat. And then I work all night and come home on boxing day... which I guess is when we get our Xmas day presents.
FUCK.
I am well aware that this falls squarely in the realm of a first world problem. I know it's just a date. I know that there are people who are starving, people who can't even spend one day of the holidays with their families, people who would balk at 6 presents and a stocking (and an advent calendar) for a family of 3, who would never waste money on two big, elaborate meals in as many days. But it still sucks. And I still ugly cried the entire 15 minute walk home this morning. And yeah, I'm crying right now.
I'm really afraid this will ruin the whole season for me, that I'll lose it every time I look at Christmas lights or someone asks me about my holiday plans. This is the first year that the monster is going to be interested in anything going on around Christmas and his last year as an only child. I wanted it to be really special for him. And part of me knows it still can be, if I stop being a weepy mess, but at the moment, that seems impossible.
FUCK.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Now That I'm Calmer...
I can write a less explitive-laden post than I would have initially.
I mentioned that we'd been to get the results from my anatomy scan. Everything, apparently, looks good. I was measuring 4 days ahead of where I thought I was (I was one day ahead at 12 weeks. Maybe I'm having a giant?), organs and everything look good, so great.
(Dr. Illegible is on vacation for the next month or so, and has been since the beginning of July, so I've been seeing Dr. Ginger, who was on call in the emergency room when I took the monster in a while back.)
So after telling us that everything with the ultrasound looked good, Dr. Ginger tells us there was something weird with the genetic screening blood work. Of course, my heart jumped into my throat. Then she proceeds to tell us that the weird thing is, they didn't run the labs. Apparently, they lab (not the one in the hospital here, the one they send blood to) somehow got the impression that my due date was a full month earlier than it actually is. The screening has to be done between 16 and 21 weeks. I was 17 weeks when I got my blood drawn, but they thought I was 21. They didn't bother to call my doctor or the lab here to find out why they'd be requesting those tests, or to clarify what was going on. They just didn't do it.
Of course, I didn't find this out until I went back in for the anatomy scan results, so at that point, I was actually 20 weeks + 4 days. On a Friday. They won't even draw the blood here past 20+6, so I had to go straight to the hospital lab to get the blood drawn again. The lab tech was very nice (and annoyed on my behalf) and told me that honestly there's a chance that the lab won't run the tests now, since I actually was so close to the cut off. They will only send the results to Dr. Ginger, not to the lab, so I have no way to know if they did it, or what the results are, until November 1st.
TRIGGER
I'll be 23W1D. Of course it's not something I ever even want to think about, but if there was something severe (I mean like incompatible with life type severe), they basically would have forced me into either a late term abortion, or carrying a baby to term and watching it die in the hospital. Because they can't fucking read paperwork.
END TRIGGER
I also had thyroid blood work done, or it should have been done, at the same time, which I completely forgot to ask the doctor about, 'cause my head was still swimming from the unexpected news that this little goblin is a boy, plus being pissed about the genetic screening. I'm supposed to have my thyroid checked every 3 months, especially since they've recently changed the dose on my medication. So if they didn't bother to run those tests, I'm going to be even more pissed. Actually, I'm going to call the clinic on Monday and find out if they bothered with that or not, because otherwise, I need to get my blood done again.
I kind of suspect that the issue lies with Dr. Ginger, because of a couple of things: one, when she was filling out my paperwork for the second set of tests, she asked if this was my first pregnancy - while my 2 year old played a couple feet away - after we'd discussed my pregnancy with him earlier in the appointment. And two, when I went to get said blood work, I noticed she'd written on the requisition that this isn't a singleton pregnancy, which it definitely is. I like her, she's nice, she actually explains stuff when you ask her, rather than assuming that you couldn't possibly understand without a medical degree. But she is absent minded. I wouldn't be all that surprised if she wrote a date down wrong, somewhere.
So, that's where we are with all that. Just counting down the days, waiting for them to tell me that the goblin is good and healthy and that he's negative for any of the markers that indicate a genetic issue. Fingers and toes crossed.
I mentioned that we'd been to get the results from my anatomy scan. Everything, apparently, looks good. I was measuring 4 days ahead of where I thought I was (I was one day ahead at 12 weeks. Maybe I'm having a giant?), organs and everything look good, so great.
(Dr. Illegible is on vacation for the next month or so, and has been since the beginning of July, so I've been seeing Dr. Ginger, who was on call in the emergency room when I took the monster in a while back.)
So after telling us that everything with the ultrasound looked good, Dr. Ginger tells us there was something weird with the genetic screening blood work. Of course, my heart jumped into my throat. Then she proceeds to tell us that the weird thing is, they didn't run the labs. Apparently, they lab (not the one in the hospital here, the one they send blood to) somehow got the impression that my due date was a full month earlier than it actually is. The screening has to be done between 16 and 21 weeks. I was 17 weeks when I got my blood drawn, but they thought I was 21. They didn't bother to call my doctor or the lab here to find out why they'd be requesting those tests, or to clarify what was going on. They just didn't do it.
Of course, I didn't find this out until I went back in for the anatomy scan results, so at that point, I was actually 20 weeks + 4 days. On a Friday. They won't even draw the blood here past 20+6, so I had to go straight to the hospital lab to get the blood drawn again. The lab tech was very nice (and annoyed on my behalf) and told me that honestly there's a chance that the lab won't run the tests now, since I actually was so close to the cut off. They will only send the results to Dr. Ginger, not to the lab, so I have no way to know if they did it, or what the results are, until November 1st.
TRIGGER
I'll be 23W1D. Of course it's not something I ever even want to think about, but if there was something severe (I mean like incompatible with life type severe), they basically would have forced me into either a late term abortion, or carrying a baby to term and watching it die in the hospital. Because they can't fucking read paperwork.
END TRIGGER
I also had thyroid blood work done, or it should have been done, at the same time, which I completely forgot to ask the doctor about, 'cause my head was still swimming from the unexpected news that this little goblin is a boy, plus being pissed about the genetic screening. I'm supposed to have my thyroid checked every 3 months, especially since they've recently changed the dose on my medication. So if they didn't bother to run those tests, I'm going to be even more pissed. Actually, I'm going to call the clinic on Monday and find out if they bothered with that or not, because otherwise, I need to get my blood done again.
I kind of suspect that the issue lies with Dr. Ginger, because of a couple of things: one, when she was filling out my paperwork for the second set of tests, she asked if this was my first pregnancy - while my 2 year old played a couple feet away - after we'd discussed my pregnancy with him earlier in the appointment. And two, when I went to get said blood work, I noticed she'd written on the requisition that this isn't a singleton pregnancy, which it definitely is. I like her, she's nice, she actually explains stuff when you ask her, rather than assuming that you couldn't possibly understand without a medical degree. But she is absent minded. I wouldn't be all that surprised if she wrote a date down wrong, somewhere.
So, that's where we are with all that. Just counting down the days, waiting for them to tell me that the goblin is good and healthy and that he's negative for any of the markers that indicate a genetic issue. Fingers and toes crossed.
Saturday, April 23, 2016
The Great Potty Training Saga & a Book Review
It's been slower going than I thought it would, mostly because of a lack of discipline on my an Mr. Wolfman's part. But! The Monster now tells us when he pees. Not when he has to pee, mind you, but when he's in the process of doing so. I'm good with it; it's a start.
I have to give some credit to the horrible potty training book I got him a while back. I ordered it on Amazon, sight unseen, with only a bunch of positive reviews to guide me. It's called Potty Superhero: Get Ready for Big Boy Pants. I figured, it has a dog and a superhero, It will be perfect. Let me just say, I hate this book. I hate it a lot. Even more so now that the Monster insists on reading it every single time we visit the bathroom.
Firstly, I don't like to buy gender-specific books or toys, but I assumed that as a potty training book, it might have a reason for being aimed only at boys. It doesn't. Girls just aren't superhero material, I guess.
The story, which isn't explained in the online synopsis, doesn't apply to my son at all. Basically, this kid gets tired of sitting on the potty, waiting for the pee that never comes, so he goes out to play, only to have an accident. He learns to be patient, actually pees in the potty and then graduates to big boy underwear. Patience is not our issue. The Monster will happily sit on the toilet for 20 minutes or more, reading this goddamn book. There is a bit of an explanation that the kid knows it's time to sit on the potty because his tummy feels funny... maybe it's different for boys, but personally, I've never felt the urge to urinate emanating from my stomach. Since the only issue the Monster seems to be having is figuring out he needs to go before he needs to go, the vague, anatomically incorrect approach isn't likely to help much.
So, when I tell the story, there's no accident, and both times the kid sits on the "toilet" (we don't use a potty), he pees or poops or farts.
Now, in fairness, I should say that the Monster loves the pictures in this book, and he is the target audience, so I guess the artist gets points there. But holy hell. You can actually see where the artist just said "Fuck it, no one will notice," and gave up. Like when the kid's boxing gloves change to regular gloves, or when, for one picture only, the underside of his cape is light blue instead of orange. Or, when he takes off his diaper and his entire lower torso disappears. Like, his legs just come out of his T shirt, which still only comes to his waist.
I guess overall, the book is doing what it's supposed to, which is making toilet time fun, and letting the monster know that people outside our family do, in fact, use the bathroom. But I will be so glad to see it gone. Just one more reason to keep on keeping on.
I have to give some credit to the horrible potty training book I got him a while back. I ordered it on Amazon, sight unseen, with only a bunch of positive reviews to guide me. It's called Potty Superhero: Get Ready for Big Boy Pants. I figured, it has a dog and a superhero, It will be perfect. Let me just say, I hate this book. I hate it a lot. Even more so now that the Monster insists on reading it every single time we visit the bathroom.
Firstly, I don't like to buy gender-specific books or toys, but I assumed that as a potty training book, it might have a reason for being aimed only at boys. It doesn't. Girls just aren't superhero material, I guess.
The story, which isn't explained in the online synopsis, doesn't apply to my son at all. Basically, this kid gets tired of sitting on the potty, waiting for the pee that never comes, so he goes out to play, only to have an accident. He learns to be patient, actually pees in the potty and then graduates to big boy underwear. Patience is not our issue. The Monster will happily sit on the toilet for 20 minutes or more, reading this goddamn book. There is a bit of an explanation that the kid knows it's time to sit on the potty because his tummy feels funny... maybe it's different for boys, but personally, I've never felt the urge to urinate emanating from my stomach. Since the only issue the Monster seems to be having is figuring out he needs to go before he needs to go, the vague, anatomically incorrect approach isn't likely to help much.
So, when I tell the story, there's no accident, and both times the kid sits on the "toilet" (we don't use a potty), he pees or poops or farts.
Now, in fairness, I should say that the Monster loves the pictures in this book, and he is the target audience, so I guess the artist gets points there. But holy hell. You can actually see where the artist just said "Fuck it, no one will notice," and gave up. Like when the kid's boxing gloves change to regular gloves, or when, for one picture only, the underside of his cape is light blue instead of orange. Or, when he takes off his diaper and his entire lower torso disappears. Like, his legs just come out of his T shirt, which still only comes to his waist.
I guess overall, the book is doing what it's supposed to, which is making toilet time fun, and letting the monster know that people outside our family do, in fact, use the bathroom. But I will be so glad to see it gone. Just one more reason to keep on keeping on.
Saturday, March 19, 2016
More about "Boy" stuff.
I mentioned in my last post that we got the monster underwear with little tools all over them. I wanted to get him ones with monsters, but those are only available in 4T and he's not quite there. I also mentioned that the ones with "boy stuff" on them, were cheaper than the ones that were just solid colours. Because apparently we have to be financially motivated to enforce gender stereotypes (I'm poor, so this worked on me). I like building stuff, I want the monster to like building stuff; tools are cool - but since the girl equivalent underwear were a) more expensive again, b) covered in flowers, and c) had little, less comfortable lacy bands around the legs and waste instead of thick flat, comfy bands, this grated.
Anywho, after a walk to the fabric aisle for PUL fabric for the outside of said underwear (girls' available in pink, white and leopard print; boys' in monkey, owls and orange), we went to the toy section so that Mr. Wolfman could pick out a car for the monster (I think this is his favourite part of going shopping - Mr. Wolfman's, I mean). He took a while to choose the best possible car for the monster*, so I wandered the aisles and found, in 2016, this:
The "girl" aisle, which was a veritable sea of pink and purple, contained, big-eyed, alien looking animals, baby dolls and accessories (all the baby dolls were white, all of their accessories were pink), Barbie dolls, toy housewares and "girl" Lego. Just the Lego Friends and Disney Princess sets.
A couple aisles over, the "boy" aisle contained Ninja Turtles, superheros, various modes of transportation, Star Wars, video game characters, dinosaurs, astronauts, Playmobile and ALL THE FUCKING OTHER LEGO. Including the sets of just plain blocks. The First Builder Mega Bloks that come in "boy" (primary) and "girl" (pink, purple and neon green) colours were both there, as well, just to drive home the message that if you want to be creative and build something from your imagination, rather than Elsa's ice castle, you need the girl version of a toy that's actually for boys.
Oh, just to double up on that message, the one thing in the girl aisle that wasn't pink or purple was a blue and green toy vacuum. It was next to the pink and purple one, so if you're a boy and you want to play house, you need the boy version of a toy that's actually for girls.
The one seeming place of refuge, the baby aisle, is ostensibly just for babies. No genders in there. Until you look closer and realize that one small section of the aisle has princesses and ponies and pink and rest has everything else. The educational toys, the animals, the cars for littler hands, everything. This teaches kids that for boys is the default, and for girls is the exception. Also, it teaches them that for boys and for girls are things that exist. And they're not, other than in our brainwashed, apathetic minds.
I don't have a problem with the toys themselves, for the most part. I like tools and cars and dinosaurs and the rest, and my monster does, too. So while they're not promoting violence or animal cruelty or something, I'm happy to get them for him. I also like baby dolls and barbies and ponies, and I'd be happy to by those for the monster as well. But the colourcoding and weird segregation gets to me. I mean, wouldn't it make more sense to have a Lego aisle, organized by age appropriateness? or a playing house section with all the little irons and dishes and lawnmowers and barbecues in one spot?
I really think it is up to us as parents to combat this, actively. I've said before, I think it's especially incumbent on the parents of boys to teach our sons that there's nothing inherently feminine in playing with baby dolls or toy irons or whatever - and also that there's nothing wrong with being feminine. Because while Tomboy at least sometimes has some positive connotations, Tomina Girl probably never will. Our society, in 2016, still values boys and men above girls and women - no matter how much we collectively try to deny, ignore or avoid the fact. And it starts from the time they're born.
I'm beginning to think that all this isn't just a matter of corporations wanting profits and not caring about the possible negative effects they're having on kids; I'm honestly starting to think that they have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo, and they're intentionally planting these stereotypical ideas in the minds of very young children.
*I love my husband. He is such an awesome Dad.
Anywho, after a walk to the fabric aisle for PUL fabric for the outside of said underwear (girls' available in pink, white and leopard print; boys' in monkey, owls and orange), we went to the toy section so that Mr. Wolfman could pick out a car for the monster (I think this is his favourite part of going shopping - Mr. Wolfman's, I mean). He took a while to choose the best possible car for the monster*, so I wandered the aisles and found, in 2016, this:
The "girl" aisle, which was a veritable sea of pink and purple, contained, big-eyed, alien looking animals, baby dolls and accessories (all the baby dolls were white, all of their accessories were pink), Barbie dolls, toy housewares and "girl" Lego. Just the Lego Friends and Disney Princess sets.
A couple aisles over, the "boy" aisle contained Ninja Turtles, superheros, various modes of transportation, Star Wars, video game characters, dinosaurs, astronauts, Playmobile and ALL THE FUCKING OTHER LEGO. Including the sets of just plain blocks. The First Builder Mega Bloks that come in "boy" (primary) and "girl" (pink, purple and neon green) colours were both there, as well, just to drive home the message that if you want to be creative and build something from your imagination, rather than Elsa's ice castle, you need the girl version of a toy that's actually for boys.
Oh, just to double up on that message, the one thing in the girl aisle that wasn't pink or purple was a blue and green toy vacuum. It was next to the pink and purple one, so if you're a boy and you want to play house, you need the boy version of a toy that's actually for girls.
The one seeming place of refuge, the baby aisle, is ostensibly just for babies. No genders in there. Until you look closer and realize that one small section of the aisle has princesses and ponies and pink and rest has everything else. The educational toys, the animals, the cars for littler hands, everything. This teaches kids that for boys is the default, and for girls is the exception. Also, it teaches them that for boys and for girls are things that exist. And they're not, other than in our brainwashed, apathetic minds.
I don't have a problem with the toys themselves, for the most part. I like tools and cars and dinosaurs and the rest, and my monster does, too. So while they're not promoting violence or animal cruelty or something, I'm happy to get them for him. I also like baby dolls and barbies and ponies, and I'd be happy to by those for the monster as well. But the colourcoding and weird segregation gets to me. I mean, wouldn't it make more sense to have a Lego aisle, organized by age appropriateness? or a playing house section with all the little irons and dishes and lawnmowers and barbecues in one spot?
I really think it is up to us as parents to combat this, actively. I've said before, I think it's especially incumbent on the parents of boys to teach our sons that there's nothing inherently feminine in playing with baby dolls or toy irons or whatever - and also that there's nothing wrong with being feminine. Because while Tomboy at least sometimes has some positive connotations, Tomina Girl probably never will. Our society, in 2016, still values boys and men above girls and women - no matter how much we collectively try to deny, ignore or avoid the fact. And it starts from the time they're born.
I'm beginning to think that all this isn't just a matter of corporations wanting profits and not caring about the possible negative effects they're having on kids; I'm honestly starting to think that they have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo, and they're intentionally planting these stereotypical ideas in the minds of very young children.
*I love my husband. He is such an awesome Dad.
Friday, March 11, 2016
My Son, the Crossdresser
#letclothesbeclothes
Yesterday, we bought the monster some long-sleeved T-shirts from the sale rack. One shriek-of-joy inducing Superman shirt and one plain white one. The actual mall was a bit colder than the store, so we decided to put the white one on over the shirt he was already wearing. Whereupon, I discovered that it's a girl's shirt.
Whatever. I don't really care. But when I offhandedly pointed it out to Mr. Wolfman, he asked a question which really made me think: How did I know?
He wasn't being glib. In the logical, less jaded mind of my husband, a plain white shirt for a toddler is without gender. I mean, how could something so basic, for children who will be essentially the same shape until puberty, be for one gender or the other? And what made it suddenly obvious to me that this was a little girl's shirt, instead of a little boy's?
The answer, which I gave while all of these thoughts were still forming in my head, was this: It's skin-tight (even a 3T, a full size bigger than what we usually buy for the monster, hugged his torso to the point it was actually a bit difficult to get on) - on closer examination, it's actually made out of a different, stretchier fabric - and it has a swooped neck.
Apparently, even 2-3 year old girls need to wear skin-tight, low(er) cut tops. Because... well, I can't think of a because. To show off their curves (aka baby fat)?
I actually find this kind of thing way more worrisome than fluffy skirts or cap sleeves or other 'girly' fare - because it's so insidious. Parents could easily buy a shirt like this for their daughter (or son), without even realizing what it is. And in so doing, they could be propagating stereotypes, or getting their child accustomed, from a painfully early age, to the type of clothing that some people will expect her to wear for the rest of her life.
My monster will go on wearing this shirt until he outgrows it. Probably as an undershirt, because that stupid swooped neck means it's not very snug for this time of year (toddler girls should sacrifice warmth for style, apparently). Part of me kind of hopes that someone will see it, notice it's "for girls" and ask themselves why that is.
Yesterday, we bought the monster some long-sleeved T-shirts from the sale rack. One shriek-of-joy inducing Superman shirt and one plain white one. The actual mall was a bit colder than the store, so we decided to put the white one on over the shirt he was already wearing. Whereupon, I discovered that it's a girl's shirt.
Whatever. I don't really care. But when I offhandedly pointed it out to Mr. Wolfman, he asked a question which really made me think: How did I know?
He wasn't being glib. In the logical, less jaded mind of my husband, a plain white shirt for a toddler is without gender. I mean, how could something so basic, for children who will be essentially the same shape until puberty, be for one gender or the other? And what made it suddenly obvious to me that this was a little girl's shirt, instead of a little boy's?
The answer, which I gave while all of these thoughts were still forming in my head, was this: It's skin-tight (even a 3T, a full size bigger than what we usually buy for the monster, hugged his torso to the point it was actually a bit difficult to get on) - on closer examination, it's actually made out of a different, stretchier fabric - and it has a swooped neck.
Apparently, even 2-3 year old girls need to wear skin-tight, low(er) cut tops. Because... well, I can't think of a because. To show off their curves (aka baby fat)?
I actually find this kind of thing way more worrisome than fluffy skirts or cap sleeves or other 'girly' fare - because it's so insidious. Parents could easily buy a shirt like this for their daughter (or son), without even realizing what it is. And in so doing, they could be propagating stereotypes, or getting their child accustomed, from a painfully early age, to the type of clothing that some people will expect her to wear for the rest of her life.
My monster will go on wearing this shirt until he outgrows it. Probably as an undershirt, because that stupid swooped neck means it's not very snug for this time of year (toddler girls should sacrifice warmth for style, apparently). Part of me kind of hopes that someone will see it, notice it's "for girls" and ask themselves why that is.
Saturday, March 5, 2016
When I Grow Up...
Firstly, I guess Whine in your blog and you shall receive is now a thing. The job I interviewed for where the manager was surprised to hear from me after not calling me back - I got it. My new boss said she knew she wanted me right away, but her bosses wanted her to interview more than one person, so she did that, then hired me :) It's not my dream job, but it's one I've done before and it's part time graveyards, so Mr. Wolfman doesn't have to bugger up his schedule except for my training, and I still get to be home with the Monster.
That kind of works as a segue into what I want to talk about, which is what I want to be when I grow up (aka, now). When I was a kid, I wanted to be an artist and a writer. Maybe a jewelry maker or a carpenter, basically, I wanted to do something creative and work with my hands.
By the time I was 9, I wanted to have a highly technical engineering job, the title of which I didn't understand, even a little, and which no person I had ever heard of (real or imaginary) held. Translation: my mother convinced me that this mystery job would be the perfect thing for me, because, I assume, she thought it made her look good to have a kid who wanted to be a _______. When I told people that's what I wanted to be, they were always amazed or incredulous, and either one fed into my ego quite nicely. When they would ask what that job was, I would act like they were dumb, and tell them it was probably a little difficult to understand.
When, as a teenager, I stopped painting, because my hands shook too much when I tried to do detail, my parents just accepted it. They didn't, you know, try to find out why the fuck a teenage girl's hands shook uncontrollably (knowing what I do now, I'm guessing extreme anxiety, but unlike my parents, I'm not big on self-diagnosis). No, they just kind of collectively shrugged while I gave up something I had always loved and was kinda good at.
By the end of high school, one specific class with one fantastic teacher had me wanting to write again. But when I told my parents that I didn't think an English degree was going to help me in terms of becoming a published author, my mother convinced me to major in something totally different. Neither of us had any comprehension of what kind of jobs you could get with that major (spoiler: one other than teaching - and I didn't want to do it or teach), but she talked me into it, nonetheless.
Anyway, all this ranting and woe is me stuff aside, I started thinking a couple of days ago about joining the local artists' guild; about doing some paintings and possibly, when I've gotten good enough, selling them. I've been seriously wanting to make jewelry again since 2012. I've written and illustrated one children's book and I'm working on another... and today, walking home from the store, it hit me: I should just effing do it.
I grew up. Now it's time to be who and what I want. I want to write. I want to paint - and I'm going to.
That kind of works as a segue into what I want to talk about, which is what I want to be when I grow up (aka, now). When I was a kid, I wanted to be an artist and a writer. Maybe a jewelry maker or a carpenter, basically, I wanted to do something creative and work with my hands.
By the time I was 9, I wanted to have a highly technical engineering job, the title of which I didn't understand, even a little, and which no person I had ever heard of (real or imaginary) held. Translation: my mother convinced me that this mystery job would be the perfect thing for me, because, I assume, she thought it made her look good to have a kid who wanted to be a _______. When I told people that's what I wanted to be, they were always amazed or incredulous, and either one fed into my ego quite nicely. When they would ask what that job was, I would act like they were dumb, and tell them it was probably a little difficult to understand.
When, as a teenager, I stopped painting, because my hands shook too much when I tried to do detail, my parents just accepted it. They didn't, you know, try to find out why the fuck a teenage girl's hands shook uncontrollably (knowing what I do now, I'm guessing extreme anxiety, but unlike my parents, I'm not big on self-diagnosis). No, they just kind of collectively shrugged while I gave up something I had always loved and was kinda good at.
By the end of high school, one specific class with one fantastic teacher had me wanting to write again. But when I told my parents that I didn't think an English degree was going to help me in terms of becoming a published author, my mother convinced me to major in something totally different. Neither of us had any comprehension of what kind of jobs you could get with that major (spoiler: one other than teaching - and I didn't want to do it or teach), but she talked me into it, nonetheless.
Anyway, all this ranting and woe is me stuff aside, I started thinking a couple of days ago about joining the local artists' guild; about doing some paintings and possibly, when I've gotten good enough, selling them. I've been seriously wanting to make jewelry again since 2012. I've written and illustrated one children's book and I'm working on another... and today, walking home from the store, it hit me: I should just effing do it.
I grew up. Now it's time to be who and what I want. I want to write. I want to paint - and I'm going to.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Can Someone Please Just Hire Me?
The job search continues.
Honestly, I didn't think it would be this hard to find something after the monster was born. I've bounced from menial job to menial job most of my life, but I'm good at writing resumes, and at finding things to help me get by.
This time, when I actually have a plan - namely work some crap job until I can save enough for further qualifications, then get a slightly less crap job - everything falls apart. I keep having all these promising things come up and then at the last minute, kabloohey. I was all but promised a bookkeeping job, only to have the guy flake on me at the last minute, then offer me a serving(??) job at a cafe for "slightly less" (the commute would have made this useless financially). I got most of the way through the interview and training process for an online job, only to fail the final test because their results were totally arbitrary and they refused to acknowledge bugs within the tests. I had an interview and was told I'd hear back on Wednesday; crickets. Called Thursday and was told I'd definitely hear something within the week... so here's hoping that that's true, because the lady seemed really surprised to hear from me on Thursday. Of course the job market sucks right now. It doesn't help that I live in a town that does whatever it can to avoid paying people a living wage. I have to look for part time work, because I won't be able to afford childcare, with my (lack of) education.
Mr. Wolfman decided to work two jobs last summer, despite my protests. He earned more than the cap for individual earnings for our subsidized housing, and now, even though I don't work and we have zero money, we're probably going to have to move somewhere less nice and more expensive. I have been telling him for 5 years that he needs to figure out where he wants to be and what he wants to do, so we can go there and work toward him doing it - and so that I can finally put some serious work into doing what I want to do, without having an impending move / start everything over / whatever hanging over my head. I've been begging him for over a year to sit down and make a 5 year plan with me. I guess it's a four year plan now? He doesn't seem to get that I don't want to be starting a tide us over career at 30. I want to actually have a fucking plan of what I'm going to do with my life. Because right now, I'm very well on my way to being that mum whose whole world implodes the minute her kids move away, because she doesn't have any kind of life of her own. His plan, right now, is to wait and see where we are in Summer 2017 and then make a plan - and apparently I'm nuts for thinking that waiting ANOTHER FUCKING YEAR before starting to make a plan is a really dumb idea.
So that is my rant for this evening. I've spent today trying desperately to find something that fits with Mr. Wolfman's schedule, and applying for everything I find. If I don't get something soon, I'm pretty sure he's going to start making noise about how he has to work two jobs again... 'cause, you know, ruining my last two summers just wasn't enough.
Honestly, I didn't think it would be this hard to find something after the monster was born. I've bounced from menial job to menial job most of my life, but I'm good at writing resumes, and at finding things to help me get by.
This time, when I actually have a plan - namely work some crap job until I can save enough for further qualifications, then get a slightly less crap job - everything falls apart. I keep having all these promising things come up and then at the last minute, kabloohey. I was all but promised a bookkeeping job, only to have the guy flake on me at the last minute, then offer me a serving(??) job at a cafe for "slightly less" (the commute would have made this useless financially). I got most of the way through the interview and training process for an online job, only to fail the final test because their results were totally arbitrary and they refused to acknowledge bugs within the tests. I had an interview and was told I'd hear back on Wednesday; crickets. Called Thursday and was told I'd definitely hear something within the week... so here's hoping that that's true, because the lady seemed really surprised to hear from me on Thursday. Of course the job market sucks right now. It doesn't help that I live in a town that does whatever it can to avoid paying people a living wage. I have to look for part time work, because I won't be able to afford childcare, with my (lack of) education.
Mr. Wolfman decided to work two jobs last summer, despite my protests. He earned more than the cap for individual earnings for our subsidized housing, and now, even though I don't work and we have zero money, we're probably going to have to move somewhere less nice and more expensive. I have been telling him for 5 years that he needs to figure out where he wants to be and what he wants to do, so we can go there and work toward him doing it - and so that I can finally put some serious work into doing what I want to do, without having an impending move / start everything over / whatever hanging over my head. I've been begging him for over a year to sit down and make a 5 year plan with me. I guess it's a four year plan now? He doesn't seem to get that I don't want to be starting a tide us over career at 30. I want to actually have a fucking plan of what I'm going to do with my life. Because right now, I'm very well on my way to being that mum whose whole world implodes the minute her kids move away, because she doesn't have any kind of life of her own. His plan, right now, is to wait and see where we are in Summer 2017 and then make a plan - and apparently I'm nuts for thinking that waiting ANOTHER FUCKING YEAR before starting to make a plan is a really dumb idea.
So that is my rant for this evening. I've spent today trying desperately to find something that fits with Mr. Wolfman's schedule, and applying for everything I find. If I don't get something soon, I'm pretty sure he's going to start making noise about how he has to work two jobs again... 'cause, you know, ruining my last two summers just wasn't enough.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
On Being Poor & "Must Be Nice"
Possibly I'm extra emotional about this today because my kitchen is a disgusting mess*. I grew up with a kitchen that was a perpetual disgusting mess, and this is dredging up all sorts of childhood unpleasantness. But I don't want to talk about messy kitchens, I want to talk about being poor (and yes, I recognize that there are plenty of poor people with clean, not disgusting kitchens).
This post was sparked by a couple of threads on my birth board, but I already know it's going to be waaaay too long for Babycenter, which is why I'm putting it here - that, and I'm not really looking for advice.
The first thing, was the assertion that poor people don't home school - and by extension, poor kids don't get home schooled (and have better access to post secondary, more opportunities, etc, etc.). The second was a comment basically saying that parents who advocate no screen time for toddlers must have hired help to prepare their meals and clean their house.
To both opinions, let me just say, Fuck you.
I hate this attitude that if you make decisions for the benefit of your family (and I have no intention here to wax poetic on the joys** of being homeschooled, or the evils of watching TV - not what I'm getting at right now), if you make sacrifices and take what you believe to be the high road / better path / worthwhile detour / what the hell ever - then, somehow, you must have had the cards stacked in your favour. You must be some sheltered, middle class, lucky bastard, because how else would you avoid handing your toddler a tablet? How else could you make decisions regarding your kids' education on anything other than convenience?
I was raised poor. Dirt fucking poor (and yet, still nowhere near as poor as a lot of kids elsewhere in the world. This isn't a pity party). So poor that Mr. Wolfman, after being with me for 5 years, is still shocked by stories from my childhood. We were frequently without food, hot water and heat. I took out massive student loans to go to university, loans which, 10 years and no degree later, still haunt me.
So the it must be nice attitude really gets to me. Because everything I have (not a lot, materially speaking), I worked for. We have a nice, modest apartment, nicer than anywhere I've ever lived before. We have heat, hot water and food on the table - and honestly, those things alone make this the best living situation I've ever had. Mr. Wolfman and I have worked hard for this, and we work hard to raise the Monster the best way we can.
So yeah, it is nice that we have a child who can entertain himself (usually) long enough for us to cook dinner, but then, we raised him that way. And yes, it is nice that I've been able to spend as much time home with him as I have, but I worked and saved and budgeted to be able to do that, and now that that option is no longer financially viable, I'm looking for work.
I'm sure it's nice for those parents who want to home school to do that, but I'm equally sure that it's not without sacrifice. It's not an option that's just magically available to them; they have to work for it. Just like I'll work to get the monster into extra curriculars, just like Mr. Wolfman and I will always work, as hard as we need to, to do what we feel is best for our child(ren).
So you can take your hired help and well-off theories and shove them up your ass. If you want something in this world, you have to be willing to work for it. At least that's how it's always been for me.
*My dishwasher broke and sprayed dirty food all over the load that was in there. I thought it was a freak thing, and tried again... so now there are 3 loads worth of dishes piled on the counter, 1 that came out dirty and 2 that built up during attempts to get the first load clean. And yeah, I could wash them by hand, but I actually feel an anxiety attack coming on every time I go in the kitchen, right now.
**in my opinion, all but nonexistent
This post was sparked by a couple of threads on my birth board, but I already know it's going to be waaaay too long for Babycenter, which is why I'm putting it here - that, and I'm not really looking for advice.
The first thing, was the assertion that poor people don't home school - and by extension, poor kids don't get home schooled (and have better access to post secondary, more opportunities, etc, etc.). The second was a comment basically saying that parents who advocate no screen time for toddlers must have hired help to prepare their meals and clean their house.
To both opinions, let me just say, Fuck you.
I hate this attitude that if you make decisions for the benefit of your family (and I have no intention here to wax poetic on the joys** of being homeschooled, or the evils of watching TV - not what I'm getting at right now), if you make sacrifices and take what you believe to be the high road / better path / worthwhile detour / what the hell ever - then, somehow, you must have had the cards stacked in your favour. You must be some sheltered, middle class, lucky bastard, because how else would you avoid handing your toddler a tablet? How else could you make decisions regarding your kids' education on anything other than convenience?
I was raised poor. Dirt fucking poor (and yet, still nowhere near as poor as a lot of kids elsewhere in the world. This isn't a pity party). So poor that Mr. Wolfman, after being with me for 5 years, is still shocked by stories from my childhood. We were frequently without food, hot water and heat. I took out massive student loans to go to university, loans which, 10 years and no degree later, still haunt me.
So the it must be nice attitude really gets to me. Because everything I have (not a lot, materially speaking), I worked for. We have a nice, modest apartment, nicer than anywhere I've ever lived before. We have heat, hot water and food on the table - and honestly, those things alone make this the best living situation I've ever had. Mr. Wolfman and I have worked hard for this, and we work hard to raise the Monster the best way we can.
So yeah, it is nice that we have a child who can entertain himself (usually) long enough for us to cook dinner, but then, we raised him that way. And yes, it is nice that I've been able to spend as much time home with him as I have, but I worked and saved and budgeted to be able to do that, and now that that option is no longer financially viable, I'm looking for work.
I'm sure it's nice for those parents who want to home school to do that, but I'm equally sure that it's not without sacrifice. It's not an option that's just magically available to them; they have to work for it. Just like I'll work to get the monster into extra curriculars, just like Mr. Wolfman and I will always work, as hard as we need to, to do what we feel is best for our child(ren).
So you can take your hired help and well-off theories and shove them up your ass. If you want something in this world, you have to be willing to work for it. At least that's how it's always been for me.
*My dishwasher broke and sprayed dirty food all over the load that was in there. I thought it was a freak thing, and tried again... so now there are 3 loads worth of dishes piled on the counter, 1 that came out dirty and 2 that built up during attempts to get the first load clean. And yeah, I could wash them by hand, but I actually feel an anxiety attack coming on every time I go in the kitchen, right now.
**in my opinion, all but nonexistent
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Dear People Without Kids:
7pm is not a good time for dinner, when you're meeting a family who has a one year old (or when you're meeting two families with 3 kids 3 and under between them). That's an hour before bedtime. He should be in the bath.
Dear Mr. Wolfman: instead of agreeing to whatever time people suggest and then informing me after the fact, how about you take a second to remember when our kid's bedtime is, and consider the fact that I do the entire bedtime routine alone.
Le Sigh.
Sincerely,
A disgruntled, queasy and very tired Mummy.
Dear Mr. Wolfman: instead of agreeing to whatever time people suggest and then informing me after the fact, how about you take a second to remember when our kid's bedtime is, and consider the fact that I do the entire bedtime routine alone.
Le Sigh.
Sincerely,
A disgruntled, queasy and very tired Mummy.
Saturday, December 19, 2015
What is it with Boys and Sports?
...or, more accurately, boys' stuff and sports.
Probably about 75% of the monster's clothes and toys are 2nd hand. Which means that it's not always about style when I'm shopping for clothes; it's about what condition something is in, whether or not it will be comfortable, and how long it will fit.
I look everything over before I buy it, but I don't really look at it. I'm looking to see if there are stains, tears, worn patches, etc.
So I bought the monster a pair of fuzzy PJs. A little pilling, but in otherwise good condition. Plus the nice guy was working at the thrift shop, so them, the other pair of PJs I bought, 9 pairs of socks, 1 pair of mittens, 2 decorative spoons and a book only cost me $4. The PJs are cookie monster - pretty cute.
And then I got them home and noticed... football helmets?
The fabric is seriously: baby cookie monster eating a cookie, baby cookie monster in a diaper eating a cookie, jugs of milk, cookies on their own... and random sports equipment. Helmets, sneakers and whistles.
They're sadly not footie pajamas, so I grab the monster one of his new pairs of socks. Giant 9s on the side, in the same font you get on the back of football jerseys.
And this isn't even the first time it's happened. Not long ago, he outgrew some great quality PJs that were covered in various sports paraphernalia and had numbers and a baseball applique on them; when he was a newborn, I bought a set of hats on sale, only to get them home and find out that the cute little bulldogs were surrounded by footballs.
I could pay closer attention, if it bothered me that much. But it's not so much that some of his clothes are sports-related, that gets to me. It's more the insidious way that sports and construction themes get sneaked onto boys' clothes, and the glaringly obvious way they're omitted from girls'.
It's all the: this is for boys, this is for girls bullshit that's still going on, even though it's nearly 2016. You know what you never see on boys' clothes? Horses. Unless there are cowboys involved. You never just see a horse, on its own, on a boy's sweater. Or a cat. And you're equally unlikely to see a dump truck on a girl's shirt.
It's like, at some point, there was a secret meeting, and not only did all the various activities, professions and interests get divided by genitals, the fucking animals did as well.
Dinosaurs? Obviously for boys. Dolphins? Girls. Cats and horses are for girls, too. Lizards and sharks, boys. Dogs can go either way, but need accessories to gender things up. A bow or a sparkly collar indicates a girl-appropriate dog, while a surfboard or suspenders make it for a boy. Nerdy glasses are a bit too ambiguous, so a second accessory is usually required.
Seriously, people, what the crap are we teaching our kids?
Probably about 75% of the monster's clothes and toys are 2nd hand. Which means that it's not always about style when I'm shopping for clothes; it's about what condition something is in, whether or not it will be comfortable, and how long it will fit.
I look everything over before I buy it, but I don't really look at it. I'm looking to see if there are stains, tears, worn patches, etc.
So I bought the monster a pair of fuzzy PJs. A little pilling, but in otherwise good condition. Plus the nice guy was working at the thrift shop, so them, the other pair of PJs I bought, 9 pairs of socks, 1 pair of mittens, 2 decorative spoons and a book only cost me $4. The PJs are cookie monster - pretty cute.
And then I got them home and noticed... football helmets?
The fabric is seriously: baby cookie monster eating a cookie, baby cookie monster in a diaper eating a cookie, jugs of milk, cookies on their own... and random sports equipment. Helmets, sneakers and whistles.
They're sadly not footie pajamas, so I grab the monster one of his new pairs of socks. Giant 9s on the side, in the same font you get on the back of football jerseys.
And this isn't even the first time it's happened. Not long ago, he outgrew some great quality PJs that were covered in various sports paraphernalia and had numbers and a baseball applique on them; when he was a newborn, I bought a set of hats on sale, only to get them home and find out that the cute little bulldogs were surrounded by footballs.
I could pay closer attention, if it bothered me that much. But it's not so much that some of his clothes are sports-related, that gets to me. It's more the insidious way that sports and construction themes get sneaked onto boys' clothes, and the glaringly obvious way they're omitted from girls'.
It's all the: this is for boys, this is for girls bullshit that's still going on, even though it's nearly 2016. You know what you never see on boys' clothes? Horses. Unless there are cowboys involved. You never just see a horse, on its own, on a boy's sweater. Or a cat. And you're equally unlikely to see a dump truck on a girl's shirt.
It's like, at some point, there was a secret meeting, and not only did all the various activities, professions and interests get divided by genitals, the fucking animals did as well.
Dinosaurs? Obviously for boys. Dolphins? Girls. Cats and horses are for girls, too. Lizards and sharks, boys. Dogs can go either way, but need accessories to gender things up. A bow or a sparkly collar indicates a girl-appropriate dog, while a surfboard or suspenders make it for a boy. Nerdy glasses are a bit too ambiguous, so a second accessory is usually required.
Seriously, people, what the crap are we teaching our kids?
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
Mall Santas Suck and So Do You
Mall Santas. I effing hate mall Santas.
Perhaps not the individuals, who I suspect by and large are just looking to make some extra money and/or bring joy to children - but the whole concept of mall Santas in general is just... gross.
It's that time of year when my social media gets flooded with pictures of people's small children, crying their eyes out on the lap of a stranger - and every time I see it, it makes me want to puke.
And, of course, there are the captions. Not a fan of Santa, lol. What? You mean to tell me your toddler didn't enjoy being thrust into the hands of a funny-smelling stranger in a cheap polyester suit while an artificially cheerful elf took pictures? How surprising (and sooooo funny)! Then there's: We were expecting him to cry but... But what? You're an asshole, so you didn't care? The picture was worth more to you than your kid's comfort and ability to trust you? It may be time to face the fact that you're just not a very nice person.
I came across this gem today: It'll be a good memory. FOR FUCKING WHOM? Your one year old won't remember crying on Santa's knee (at least not this year) - and I'm guessing, if they somehow did remember, it wouldn't be something they'd look back on with fondness. Ooooh, you mean it'll be a good memory for you. I can just picture you, snuggled up by the fireplace* one Christmas many years from now, looking at old pictures. "Hey Honey, remember this? This is from that time we gave Billy to a strange man and he didn't know why and thought we were going to leave him so he cried. What a great day that was." "Oh yes, Honey, it was the best."
I want a Santa picture every year. Why? What are you going to do with those (let's be realistic) seven or eight Santa pictures? Especially if your kid is crying in the first three? Hang them on the wall? No, I know: post them on Facebook so everyone can see them. Of course. (Hint: no one, except maybe your mom, cares about your shitty Santa picture. They'd much rather see a picture of your kid that was well-taken by a professional, or a candid shot of your child happy or doing something cute. The zoomed out photo of your red-eyed, snot-nosed child crying on some dude's knee is not something any of your friends care to see. Trust me).
I haven't even gotten into the issues surrounding mall Santas and older kids. The teaching-kids-strangers-are-safe, the lying to kids about Santa in general, the issues that arise when the mall Santa is a fucking creep (not saying it happens often, but it happens) - I'll leave that for another day (and possibly another Christmas). Right now, I just want to mention (in case you missed it) that giving your toddler to a weird stranger and taking pictures of their misery as if it's cute is plain messed up. Please consider starting your own, non-creepy tradition instead.
*You know what? No. You don't get a fireplace. You get an electric baseboard heater. Fuck you.
Perhaps not the individuals, who I suspect by and large are just looking to make some extra money and/or bring joy to children - but the whole concept of mall Santas in general is just... gross.
It's that time of year when my social media gets flooded with pictures of people's small children, crying their eyes out on the lap of a stranger - and every time I see it, it makes me want to puke.
And, of course, there are the captions. Not a fan of Santa, lol. What? You mean to tell me your toddler didn't enjoy being thrust into the hands of a funny-smelling stranger in a cheap polyester suit while an artificially cheerful elf took pictures? How surprising (and sooooo funny)! Then there's: We were expecting him to cry but... But what? You're an asshole, so you didn't care? The picture was worth more to you than your kid's comfort and ability to trust you? It may be time to face the fact that you're just not a very nice person.
I came across this gem today: It'll be a good memory. FOR FUCKING WHOM? Your one year old won't remember crying on Santa's knee (at least not this year) - and I'm guessing, if they somehow did remember, it wouldn't be something they'd look back on with fondness. Ooooh, you mean it'll be a good memory for you. I can just picture you, snuggled up by the fireplace* one Christmas many years from now, looking at old pictures. "Hey Honey, remember this? This is from that time we gave Billy to a strange man and he didn't know why and thought we were going to leave him so he cried. What a great day that was." "Oh yes, Honey, it was the best."
I want a Santa picture every year. Why? What are you going to do with those (let's be realistic) seven or eight Santa pictures? Especially if your kid is crying in the first three? Hang them on the wall? No, I know: post them on Facebook so everyone can see them. Of course. (Hint: no one, except maybe your mom, cares about your shitty Santa picture. They'd much rather see a picture of your kid that was well-taken by a professional, or a candid shot of your child happy or doing something cute. The zoomed out photo of your red-eyed, snot-nosed child crying on some dude's knee is not something any of your friends care to see. Trust me).
I haven't even gotten into the issues surrounding mall Santas and older kids. The teaching-kids-strangers-are-safe, the lying to kids about Santa in general, the issues that arise when the mall Santa is a fucking creep (not saying it happens often, but it happens) - I'll leave that for another day (and possibly another Christmas). Right now, I just want to mention (in case you missed it) that giving your toddler to a weird stranger and taking pictures of their misery as if it's cute is plain messed up. Please consider starting your own, non-creepy tradition instead.
*You know what? No. You don't get a fireplace. You get an electric baseboard heater. Fuck you.
Friday, September 4, 2015
12 Reasons Why Your Rant About Peanut Free Schools is a Whiny Load of Crap: an Open Letter
So, in my Internetting, I came across this: http://www.decisive-empowered-resilient.com/12-reasons-why-peanut-free-schools-are-not-okay/
Fair warning, I didn't actually go to the bother of writing out 12 counter points, because it just wasn't worth the time.
I actually had to stop reading the thing part way through, because, well, I actually like English, and reading it was like being stabbed in the soul with a rusty fork. But I digress.
Dear Annoying Purveyor of Clickbait,
I'm assuming you have never experienced anaphylaxis. I'm assuming this because anyone who has, and has offspring, would realize that having their child forgo peanuts for one meal a day is a tiny, infinitesimal bother, barely worth mentioning (let alone composing a badly written, rambling "article" about) when compared with the prospect of a child losing consciousness for the last time, unable even to gasp for breath. Imagine your tongue swollen to the size of a balloon in your mouth, and the edges of your vision turning grey. That ought to shut you up - not least because you can't actually talk with your tongue swollen like that. Can't talk, can't yell for help - believe me, I've tried.
Let me tell you something. No, my child is not important than yours. No, it is not your responsibility to look out for my child. But you can be damn sure, even if your kid was the only one, I would happily have my kid miss out on something for one effing meal a day, rather than expose your child to something which could kill her horribly. Because your normal, healthy child actually is more important to me than my supposedly disabled child's need to eat something at every fucking meal. Unless your kid is the Wicked Witch of the West, yes, I will make concessions to stop my child from accidentally killing yours.
You go on a lot about living in the real world and responsibility and learning to live with the hand you're dealt - and I agree, to an extent. My own peanut allergy was discovered at a time before epipens and as a very young child, I carried a glass vile of epinephrine and a syringe. I was taught to ask about the ingredients in *everything*. But we're not talking about a situation where "live and learn" applies. We're talking about one slip up could KILL A CHILD. As in, that normal, healthy child you're so proud of, who shouldn't have to cater to a "peanut allergy kid"? You would have to explain to her where people go when they die, and why little Billy won't be back to class. "Well, you see, peanut protein is very important. And Billy didn't ask what was in the cookie you offered him (or you didn't know, or maybe you lied because you didn't comprehend the severity of the situation and thought it would be funny), so now he's dead. Don't worry, though; not your responsibility."
A lot of your points centre around other allergies that schools don't make allowances for, like soap, etc. First of all, unscented soaps are a healthier option for everyone - second and more important - we're not talking about a rash or a reaction that can be easily avoided by a kid using their own supplies. Some peanut allergies are severe enough that touching something that's been touched by another person with peanut butter on their hand could be deadly. I hope your normal, healthy child is good at washing her hands after lunch - oh wait, my bad, it doesn't matter, because the "peanut allergy kids" should be at home wrapped in cellophane anyway, where they won't bother your normal, healthy, athletic child with their inconvenient habit of having a potentially deadly allergy.
Your whole argument is basically that you shouldn't be mildly inconvenienced in order to help avoid a potentially life-threatening situation for someone else's child. Well, maybe you shouldn't. But what can I say? Life is. Schools shouldn't have to change the rules to accommodate your inability to adapt. And if your kids' health is so frail that they can't make it through the day without that healthy peanut protein, maybe you should consider home schooling.
Fair warning, I didn't actually go to the bother of writing out 12 counter points, because it just wasn't worth the time.
I actually had to stop reading the thing part way through, because, well, I actually like English, and reading it was like being stabbed in the soul with a rusty fork. But I digress.
Dear Annoying Purveyor of Clickbait,
I'm assuming you have never experienced anaphylaxis. I'm assuming this because anyone who has, and has offspring, would realize that having their child forgo peanuts for one meal a day is a tiny, infinitesimal bother, barely worth mentioning (let alone composing a badly written, rambling "article" about) when compared with the prospect of a child losing consciousness for the last time, unable even to gasp for breath. Imagine your tongue swollen to the size of a balloon in your mouth, and the edges of your vision turning grey. That ought to shut you up - not least because you can't actually talk with your tongue swollen like that. Can't talk, can't yell for help - believe me, I've tried.
Let me tell you something. No, my child is not important than yours. No, it is not your responsibility to look out for my child. But you can be damn sure, even if your kid was the only one, I would happily have my kid miss out on something for one effing meal a day, rather than expose your child to something which could kill her horribly. Because your normal, healthy child actually is more important to me than my supposedly disabled child's need to eat something at every fucking meal. Unless your kid is the Wicked Witch of the West, yes, I will make concessions to stop my child from accidentally killing yours.
You go on a lot about living in the real world and responsibility and learning to live with the hand you're dealt - and I agree, to an extent. My own peanut allergy was discovered at a time before epipens and as a very young child, I carried a glass vile of epinephrine and a syringe. I was taught to ask about the ingredients in *everything*. But we're not talking about a situation where "live and learn" applies. We're talking about one slip up could KILL A CHILD. As in, that normal, healthy child you're so proud of, who shouldn't have to cater to a "peanut allergy kid"? You would have to explain to her where people go when they die, and why little Billy won't be back to class. "Well, you see, peanut protein is very important. And Billy didn't ask what was in the cookie you offered him (or you didn't know, or maybe you lied because you didn't comprehend the severity of the situation and thought it would be funny), so now he's dead. Don't worry, though; not your responsibility."
A lot of your points centre around other allergies that schools don't make allowances for, like soap, etc. First of all, unscented soaps are a healthier option for everyone - second and more important - we're not talking about a rash or a reaction that can be easily avoided by a kid using their own supplies. Some peanut allergies are severe enough that touching something that's been touched by another person with peanut butter on their hand could be deadly. I hope your normal, healthy child is good at washing her hands after lunch - oh wait, my bad, it doesn't matter, because the "peanut allergy kids" should be at home wrapped in cellophane anyway, where they won't bother your normal, healthy, athletic child with their inconvenient habit of having a potentially deadly allergy.
Not a single other student should be accommodating for another child’s inability to meet basic expectations and requirements of being in a public, social environment.Ok, what the Hell? Really? So, your magical, normal, healthy, athletic, second-coming-of-Christ with a cherry on top sees a blind child walking toward them and you teach them, what, exactly? To say Fuck you, blind kid! I'm not moving out of your way; if you can't get around me, you should be home schooled? Or, a deaf child asks to swap seats with your perfect specimen of health and normalcy, so that they can see the teacher (or, the horror!, the ASL interpreter)? I assume your kid has been well trained to sneer and thumb her nose?
Your whole argument is basically that you shouldn't be mildly inconvenienced in order to help avoid a potentially life-threatening situation for someone else's child. Well, maybe you shouldn't. But what can I say? Life is. Schools shouldn't have to change the rules to accommodate your inability to adapt. And if your kids' health is so frail that they can't make it through the day without that healthy peanut protein, maybe you should consider home schooling.
Friday, August 28, 2015
Genius Baby Part 7: Det? & a rant
So the monster has started to use "Det?" / "Dat?" with pointing and upward intonation to ask what things are. He smiles or laughs delightedly when I answer.
I thought this was a bit soon, so I looked it up, apparently it usually starts around 21 months, so that's kinda cool. I know it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but I always feel proud about these things - proud of him, of course, but also a little proud of Mr. Wolfman and myself, for making his environment one that's conducive to learning.
My parents came for a short visit with my brother last night. Of course a lot of the visit was them saying to my brother, "You were doing _____ at his age," and similar. When I pointed out the monster's new question, my mom just kinda shrugged and said, "Yeah," not in an intentionally mean way, but in a all babies do that kind of way.
No mention of what I was doing at the monster's age. No questions for Mr. Wolfman about what he was doing or what milestones he'd reached. Before, the only things that mattered were the made up similarities between my monster and my brother, but now it seems like those aren't enough* and we're in some sort of fucked up competition.
Newsflash, guys: I don't care if my brother was more advanced at the same age. I give literally no shits. Since the ages at which he first did various things change with every retelling of the story, I kind of suspect he wasn't. But maybe he was. WHO THE FUCK CARES?
My monster is a baby now. My brother is an adult with his own shit going on - and while I understand the desire to wax nostalgic, my son is not - and never will be - in competition with yours. For anything. Likewise, I am not in competition with you over who the better parent is. That's not a question I need answered. Mr. Wolfman and I do the best we can, we give 100% and we have a happy, healthy, intelligent and active baby to show for it. That is what matters to us.
*perhaps because they were tenuous at best when the monster was fresh, and now that he's a monstrous bear child who basically only shares his ethnicity with my brother, they're downright laughable.
I thought this was a bit soon, so I looked it up, apparently it usually starts around 21 months, so that's kinda cool. I know it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but I always feel proud about these things - proud of him, of course, but also a little proud of Mr. Wolfman and myself, for making his environment one that's conducive to learning.
My parents came for a short visit with my brother last night. Of course a lot of the visit was them saying to my brother, "You were doing _____ at his age," and similar. When I pointed out the monster's new question, my mom just kinda shrugged and said, "Yeah," not in an intentionally mean way, but in a all babies do that kind of way.
No mention of what I was doing at the monster's age. No questions for Mr. Wolfman about what he was doing or what milestones he'd reached. Before, the only things that mattered were the made up similarities between my monster and my brother, but now it seems like those aren't enough* and we're in some sort of fucked up competition.
Newsflash, guys: I don't care if my brother was more advanced at the same age. I give literally no shits. Since the ages at which he first did various things change with every retelling of the story, I kind of suspect he wasn't. But maybe he was. WHO THE FUCK CARES?
My monster is a baby now. My brother is an adult with his own shit going on - and while I understand the desire to wax nostalgic, my son is not - and never will be - in competition with yours. For anything. Likewise, I am not in competition with you over who the better parent is. That's not a question I need answered. Mr. Wolfman and I do the best we can, we give 100% and we have a happy, healthy, intelligent and active baby to show for it. That is what matters to us.
*perhaps because they were tenuous at best when the monster was fresh, and now that he's a monstrous bear child who basically only shares his ethnicity with my brother, they're downright laughable.
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