Tales of a Goddess

This cold is not bringing out the smiley, softer side of me. I hate being sick. I especially hate being sick 3 different ways in the course of 3 days. It started with the sore throat from hell, and then my nose took a turn for the chapped as my sinuses gushed, and finally I’m stuck with it in my lungs. Up, down, all-around. It doesn’t help that I finally have my appointment with the doctor today… not a good time to come down with a chest cold. I don’t want her thinking my pains are related to this mess. Gack. There is just something terribly wrong with coming down with a cold on the cusp of AUGUST!!

Among other news, sort of, I found out my entire family has heart issues, and nobody bothered to tell me until Saturday. I think my mother mentioned it as an afterthought. She spent most of the time telling me I was fat and that she thinks I’ll be “one fucked-up woman” by the time I’m her age. For anybody who cares, that’ll be in 23 years. When I explained that my weight issues had a smidge to do with my depression, her tiny flow of compassion instantly dried up. I think that’s when she made the above quote. She ended our conversation (I feigned having to pee) by saying that I’ll still be her kid no matter what’s wrong with me. It may sound nice to some, but it was more of a ‘you’re my only kid, with my only grandkids, I’ll try not to alienate you completely’ feeling.

I no longer feel bad about not sending my mother a birthday gift yet. I do need to loose weight, but I don’t need my mother to tell me. My mother needs to stop drinking, but I’d never tell her ‘you’re an alky, stop drinking wino.’ Maybe I should. Her mother hated her, and that relationship poisoned any mother-daughter instinct that she had.

My mother makes me cry and hate myself; my mother-in-law treats me like a trusted friend and favorite daughter. Honestly, I think I can live with that.

Sigh.

I’m sick. Of course, not just in the perverted, twisted sense, although I won’t deny that charge either. Besides the painful heartbeats, I have a sore throat. It wasn’t so bad for the last few days, until about 10 last night when it took a turn for the painful. Minute by minute, my swallowing became agonizingly hard, and my nose started running, but only on the right side. I’m grateful the left is sitting out the marathon for now. Yesterday at this time, it was all a mild annoyance; I slept 2 hours last night sitting up so that I would cough, and so that the pain would be bearable enough to get some rest. Laying down makes everything worse. Oh, don’t let me forget the chest spasms/coughing and the head-pounding sneezing. The funny thing is my throat glands aren’t even swollen.

So, I sit here and type because my husband is hogging the bed, and I want to sleep so bad that if I joined him, I wouldn’t have the energy to keep upright against the wall. I asked him to go to the store, so that I could have swallowing aid ASAP, and he might have heard me before he went back to sleep. This was not 10 minutes ago. I’m tired, grumpy, and having trouble putting a coherent thought together. The thought thing is worse than normal. Above all, I’m frakking hungry, but it’s hard enough swallowing my own saliva that the thought of actual food makes me sick. I’ve been eating banana pops, and if that’s the only thing getting into my belly, at 45 calories a stick, I’m going to start losing some weight. It’s wrong, I know it, but I am so hoping that’ll happen. I’ll take what I can get, and I’m looking for the happy in my misery.

For three days I have been attempting to get an appointment with my primary care doctor. I know her name, but in the 9 or so months we’ve been down here, I’ve never met her. The one time I had an appointment of a routine nature, she was so busy I saw a different doctor. She’s got appointments at some other clinic too, but it seems I can’t get appointments there either. Ordinarily, this would not irk me much, as I spend enough time seeing people about my mental health, I don’t have the time for things of a more physical nature.

I can’t ignore this any longer. It’s freaking me out, badly. I’ve been having on-again, off-again pain in my chest, with episodes of labored breathing, lightheadedness, and concentration/drowsy issues. Also, when I get the pain, sometimes my heart thumps very strongly and loudly, like it’s trying to get out of my chest, and my heart stops beating regularly. That in itself is quite uncomfortable, and doesn’t always accompany the other pain. It doesn’t matter if I’m active or at rest;sitting, standing, or sleeping. I don’t think it’s serious enough to go to the Portsmouth ER, because I do not see the light and I’m not one foot in the grave. Even then, they’d probably send me home. It was serious enough for me to call to make an appointment, on Wednesday, only to be told the next available was on Friday, but the sched wasn’t out yet. Call early. I called this morning at 7:30 am, and they’re booked today and tomorrow. I could keep calling back for a cancellation, but that’s too short-term for someone to find childcare for. Usually, they don’t tell you about cancellations much more than 45 minutes beforehand.

I suppose there are a bunch of really sick people out there who needed the slots badly too. Of course, I’ve known people to make urgent appointments for colds. The appointment clerk didn’t even ask me what was wrong; maybe she just assumed I wasn’t lying. So I get to deal with at least 3 more days of this until I can even call again to try for a slot. At least I’m not paying for all of this; if we were, I’d switch insurance companies in order to find a better provider.

Today is my husband’s birthday. I’m feeling a little bad because it’s a work day, and he’s got duty and is stuck at work until 8 tonight. He did sleep in a bit today, which I know he loved, but I didn’t get up early enough to make him breakfast in bed (which he got Saturday on a whim). There will be no celebration really, and only a few presents remain unknown (and unarrived, damn you Amazon). The cake has been baked (by me) and decorated (by Little Miss), but all in all it’s a pretty low-key event. In fact, he actually received his primary gift, a mp3 player slightly larger than the AA battery that powers it, several weeks ago. He went out last night with a friend to Hooters, and tonight he can’t even come home for dinner (but he’s getting Subway). I guess I should be happy that there’s no stress-inducing shindig (I like that word) that I have meticulously planned for tonight, but I’m feeling a bit bummed.

This is the first birthday of my husband’s that we’ve been together for in 3 years. We were engaged, but not yet married. The year after that, he was in Bahrain. Last year, he was in San Diego tearing apart his ship. I suppose now that we’re adults, we don’t really need parties, except for milestone years. Heck, after this year, I’m not even going to acknowledge that I have a birthday. I’m afraid of aging. I myself have only ever had a single party, held nearly a month after the fact, and it was when I was 16. It was late because my mom closed on our house on my birthday, and I think it took her a while to accept the notion that my friends wanted me to celebrate. My husband being a summer babe, it’s not that hard to gather friends and family to mark the progression of life. Well, unless you’re in the military. I wanted to have people over, or go out to dinner (sans kids), do something remarkably special for the man I love. Maybe next year. And I am grateful that he’ll share our bed tonight. I just hope he likes the cake that we baked… I’m not known for my baking prowess. I can’t be a Goddess of everything.

Happy Birthday Honey. From all of us, even the cat.

That about sums up yesterday’s playdate experience. Oh, I guess I could go into detail. Yesterday, I was Super Goddess Momma. I awoke at around 6, worked on my blogs, showered and got dressed. This was all before 8:30, which is unheard of for me. I made breakfast for the kids, and ran two loads of dishes and a load of laundry before 10. I’m pretty sure every pot, pan, and large bowl was dirty yesterday just so that I could spend that much more time cleaning (our dishwasher requires one to actually pre-wash, or the whole operation is in vain). So, being SGM, I did about two days’ worth of chores in one morning! Yowza! The kids were dressed, the diaper bag packed, the mascara on, cat taken care of, and I open the door to see… rain. It was precipitating a little too heavily for my taste, seeing how I had two heavy babies to carry to the car. That turned out to be the least of my worries.

When the storm door was opened, out of the jungle-type foliage in our yard emerged a family of ducklings. There were up to 8 of them, and they weren’t the fluffy, newly-hatched sort either. They were big, and completely unafraid of me. I can’t say the feeling was mutual. The ducklings waddled up to me en masse, bills wide open in hopes of some tasty morsel I might fork over. Two words: F%#%&$ no. I do not feed wildlife, and I don’t expect wildlife to feed me. It’s an agreement stretching back ages. So, I stepped over them (in a full-length peasant skirt no less), and prayed they’d go away. Ha! When Little Miss came outside, they had her surrounded in a heartbeat. She was fascinated about the ducks, but terrified because usually they run from her (smart thinking). She was crying and smiling at the same time. The mother duck at this point was alternating between begging for food and trying to keep me away from her babies (who were between me and the car). We ended up getting soaked, and happily they were gone when we arrived back home 2 hours later.

We got to the hostess’ house a few minutes after 11. Now, I hate calling people on the phone if I don’t know them, and I really don’t like ringing doorbells of strangers either. I was nervous because most of the moms already knew each other, and I was a lone mom out. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but I think the multi-mom playdate system is not for me. Too many kids, and too many moms. There were a few moms there I’d like to get to know better, and a couple were military wives too. It’s not that I disliked anybody, but a couple were a tad aloof. I’m chalking it up to the weather. My boys enjoyed playing with two little girls about the same age, but Little Miss wasn’t too happy. She wanted to play with her brothers, and then she wanted to go to the mall. She saw the play area outside and wanted to go there. She wasn’t too keen on the other kids there that were her age/size, and she threw a record 3 tantrums and a block into a mom’s face. We left after that. I think it was just a bit much for us girls. If only I could invite one or two moms over for a small shindig without excluding the others and without the inherit chaos of several kids… I guess I’ll just wait and see.

The so-called ‘Mommy Wars’ are raging. While most of us average mothers just struggle with motherhood in the way best for them, there are those who insist that they have the only correct way to be a good parent. I’m pretty sure that sometime during their pregnancy, their hormone-riddled brain just stopped working the way it used to. Who am I kidding; this happens to all of us. But for this select few, the mother instinct seems to morph into the bitch instinct, and they have an urge to proclaim that their shit has lost its odor. These women are the generals of the war that none of us should be fighting.

Here’s my first (and for the time only) example: Amy Sohn. Maybe you’ve heard of her, maybe not. I don’t know who she is, but she’s apparently a writer. Oh, and a mother, but I’m not too sure she wants you to know that. This link was being circulated by the mom’s group I’m in, and to be sure, the woman has a unique ability to combine hatred and disdain on a website: http://www.amysohn.com/askamy/2006/summer06.htm

Ms. Sohn is quite apparently of the notion that only working mothers have any sense, and that those of us at home with our children are little poop-cleaning drones who are wasting our lives. She must be bosom-buddies with Linda Hirshman. Well, Ms. Sohn, this is what I think. True, I’m not completely college-educated (working on it), and I don’t exactly stay home completely by choice, but oh well. This is what I think of your classist, racist, and baseless point of view:

I am not brain-dead. I read the news online everyday, and I often watch Fox News at night. I used to be in the intel business, and motherhood has failed to erase the spark of world event-curiosity from my mind. If I’m not boning up on the latest events, I’m probably reading. On good days, I’ll read between 500-600 pages a day. I’m not reading much now because I’ve read all the books in our house. I do cross-stitch. I’ve been doing that for years. I like to craft with my hands instead of sitting idle while my kids play. Over the years I’ve learned several languages, and my kids hear English and Russian on a daily basis. My twins have the benefit of long, leisurely lunches, and my daughter has the time to engage in whatever activities suit her pleasure (usually drawing or Dora). I, on the other hand, pick and choose which chores to neglect so that I may pursue my personal interests (blogging). Free time is for the childless.

If I get the pleasure of meeting another mother, the subject of our children naturally comes up. This is because at first glance the only thing I might have in common with her is that fact that we indeed do have offspring. An obvious deviation from this is if I’m at a place without my kids, which is rare and therefore more appreciated. I digress. As this preliminary conversation gets flowing, we learn more about each other. Some women choose not to befriend others who have radically different parenting styles; there’s too much room for disagreement later. Meeting other mother friends is like dating. You don’t rush right in and start talking about 10 years from now. You get to know her. Sometimes, you come across a new mother who is scared and feels alone among all the older, more experienced moms. It’s good to reassure her she’s not harming her baby if she’s not feeding solids/resents the baby/trying to maintain a bit of her old self. Mothers need to stick together, because we’re raising the next generation of parents ourselves.

Ah, speaking of raising kids… I will not ‘out-source’ child care. Well, I won’t out-source to a personal nanny. One, we don’t have the money. My husband’s meager paycheck covers the basics, and in the end with three kids we don’t have enough to put the kids in care unless I was making a chunk o’ change. I’ll touch on this in a minute. Two, I don’t have the time to do the careful research to make sure the nanny is completely legal. Three, there are no Tibetan nannies down my way. And it’s not Tibet’s job to send citizens over here to raise my kids. They do spend a bit of time with me during the day, but I don’t always play with them. The twins are old enough to interact with the older girl, and so that frees up time to tackle the dishes or the laundry, or more likely the next several chapters of a book. I resent the fact that you believe I’m passing down whatever neuroses you think I have down into my children. Yes, I’m a tad crazy, and I used to be on Zoloft. I’m crazy because I am. There’s no helping that. I am receiving treatment for Post-partum Depression. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, but it happens to a lot of moms. I delayed treatment for the better part of 7 months because I thought it signified failure on my part. My failing was not getting help.

One of the things I have done to get myself right again was to apply to college. I need a more usable degree path than the Russian language credits I have obtained, but unfortunately I didn’t get in. I’m applying to a community college now and I’ll start there. I tried getting a full-time job, but whoring a security clearance in my area is an exercise in futility (unless you have a master’s degree or ship-building knowledge). My husband and I even discussed me moving back to the Beltway to work up there. He’d keep the kids. I didn’t want to live away from my husband, and we set that option aside. Have you gathered the gist of this part yet, Ms. Sohn? I am not a SAHM because of choice-feminism, I’m here because I don’t have a viable alternative. Neither do thousands of other SAHMs. In fact, I harbor an extreme distaste for feminism. I abhor such radical thought, because it’s been corrupted and misused by people like Linda Hirshman. I’ll bitch and moan and groan about my lack of a job right now, mostly because I terribly miss mine. However, I was military, and I’m not able to get back in (bad knee). My husband is military, and since we move every so often, for us it’s best for me to be home.

I’m trying to remember if I’ve covered everything I wanted to, but sleep-deprivation is fogging my memory. I don’t envy you. Not one bit. I read your writing and wonder how you became a published person. I look at your opinion of your child’s care-giver, and it screams elitism. I’m sure she enjoys the cable, though. I can’t help but to wonder where you go for comfort if your child is acting strange. I know you lean on your nanny, but do you worry? Do you care? I wonder why you chose to reproduce if you’re so happy with your career and you can’t be bothered by your own daughter. Let me put it this way: Motherhood is something precious, and at the same time draining. It’s hard work. Being a mother changes not just your body and way of life, it physically rewires the pathways of the brain. It causes you to hear every little squeak in the middle of the night, the ability to handle to work diaper ever, the ‘maternal instinct’ as they say. Most moms worry about silly things, because to them, their child is the most precious being alive. This is not the result of being batty; it’s called love. You seem to treat motherhood as a burden, something to be dealt with by those poorer than you. Women who have education and money should not be bothered with a sick baby; that’s what immigrants are for. Children who are loved grow up to be loving people themselves. One day your daughter is going to Google your name and see that when she needed you, she was tossed to the nanny. She’ll notice that she’s not the important thing in your life, your job is. Sure, not every SAHM does the right thing either. Nobody’s perfect. So, Ms. Sohn, enjoy your career. Try to find time to enjoy your daughter. Just remember these two things: Your daughter will be grown up before you know it, and Ann Coulter would wipe the floor with you.

Now, if you’d all excuse me, I have a shower to take, dishes to do, and a playdate to prepare for in the next 30 minutes. I’ll see if I can squeeze that into my leisure time.

Nothing beats the feeling of accomplishment, especially when a particularly hard task has been completed. I’m basking in the glow of pride; I figured out how to manipulate HTML/CSS. Sure, other people have been doing it for years, and I’m part of the small minority of 20-somethings that are computer-illiterate. I don’t care. I did it. It may have taken me hours and hours to figure out how to arrange columns, but finally I have the colors I like (or as close to them as I could get), I have 3 columns, my title, a picture, and biscuits. I’m feeling good.

On the flip side, today is Monday. Mondays blow monkey-chunks. Yesterday was my mother’s birthday, but I got to speak with her for all of two seconds before she ducked into the VFW to have breakfast and vodka. Too bad I know damn well her cell phone works inside the building, and she could have waited for Little Miss to sing her ‘Happy Birthday.’ To come up with a lame excuse for my mother, I’ll say that at least she’s still young enough to go drinking on a Sunday. And they serve breakfast until 1pm, so it wasn’t 8am when we called. So, it’s Monday, and I’ve yet to mail her gift. I don’t feel bad about it… And that in itself makes me feel good.

Speaking of birthdays, mine is 5 months away. This is extremely important, because it means I have less than 6 months to prepare for yet another crappy birthday. Never be born the week of Christmas if you can help it; it’s much better to be born in the middle of nothingness, away from holidays, like my husband. His birthday is Wednesday. Naturally, because the Navy hates us, he has to work all evening that day. So, tomorrow, he’s going out with his friends. His family gets the honor of celebrating on Thursday. He’s had to be on duty on his birthday before too, and while I’m glad he’ll be around that day, it’s still uncool. Yes, he’s not deployed, but we’ve been there, done that, got all the Middle Eastern souvenirs. All told, his birthday is still better situated than mine.

In between the festivities of this week, other exciting/new and improved! Things are going down. We have a playdate tomorrow, and I’m beyond nervous. Mothers can be cliquey, and I’m not exactly the model of a good SAHM. Or a good mom. Or a good anything. I’m terrified that they will be financially better off than me, and that it will cause me shame. I don’t want my kids destroying anything for the obvious reasons. I’m not sure whether to be my geek self or pretend I have any clue about being the usual wife/mother. I know one of the moms is into scrap-booking, and I’m kinda into card-making, so that might be a good sign; however, I’m not the type of mom who takes pictures of my kids regularly, and I feel a bit guilty about that. I’m not even sure why I’m going, other than the kids need to get out of the house. I suppose it will be a great chance to deal front-on with my insecurities… But really, I just want to make a friend.

Wrapping things up, I just want to mention the column to your left. I’ve decided to rant weekly about an issue near and dear to my shriveled-up heart. I’ll archive them (when I figure out how). This week is about the Mommy wars. In a later post I’ll elaborate more about what prompted this. Also, the site is still being tweaked, but I’ll estimate that all finishing touches will be completed by 02 August 3246. If August is still around by then.

If anybody is out there, you’re bound to notice there have been a few changes to my site. Believe me, it’s a work in progress. I’ve figured out how to do all kinds of neat things; somehow Blogger kills it between the ‘preview’ page and the ‘republish’ button. So, my site looks half-assed and kinda not good. I know, words are failing me. We’ve been cleaning this weekend, and I’ve learned that we have all sorts of clothing I never knew about – just waiting to be folded. Ick. So, in my obviously copious amount of free time, I’ve been fiddling around with my template using CSS. It stands for ‘Crappy Stupid Something-or-other.’ I’m all about the technical details. With my newly-acquired tech savvy (by means of a free template generator and the pull-out from HTML 4 for Dummies) I have slowly but surely been destroying whatever blog I might have had. I know how to pick colors; too bad I don’t like many of them. I kinda-sorta know how to modify margins. That’s about it. So please forgive me in the meantime until I figure this out. Or until I slam the keyboard down in utter despair and just slink back to my commonly-unique black template (that everybody else has too). One of them is bound to happen soon enough.

In other news, Little Miss busted her nose while playing in a plastic tub in full view of both of her parents. Her nose set a new record for blood-spattered in places where no blood has gone before. How the hell she hurt her nose so badly, reporters are still on the scene investigating. This is the second time in about 45 days that Little Miss has injured her nose on a seemingly harmless piece of plastic. This also marks the second time her mother has had to copiously pour H2O2 on the carpet, the bed, the child, and an adult’s article of clothing. Fortunately, the swelling has gone down, and the boo-boo was miraculously cured by the external application of a band-aid. Little Miss’ mother is terrified that the nose will sport a nasty bruise just in time for the family’s first playdate on Tuesday. Further elaborating, the mother admitted that the poor girl is just accident-prone and her legs “…Get quite black and blue from various run-ins with gravity and toys.” She hurriedly stated that no inquiries should be made, “…As this must be genetic” and “We’re both Polacks, besides, every kid who loves to play looks like that.”
This has been Shisa Klutzikido reporting from the Goddess’ master bedroom. Back to you in the studios, Vlad.

For the past few nights, I have gotten little sleep. It’s too hot; then it’s too cold. My husband hogs the bed. I get weird dreams that freak me out. Peaceful slumber hates me. I spent a lot of weekends when I was younger purposely avoiding sleep… I’m thinking karma has it out for me.

The worst impediment to my shut-eye is my little girl. For clarity’s sake, I’ll start calling her Lesser Daemon. Too much? How about Lil Devil. Seriously, she’s on the Dark Side. They had cookies. Oh, yeah, okay, I’ll call her Princess, but only because I like a good bit of irony. Little Miss comes slowly into our bedroom, inching the door forward just enough to pop half of her head in. She whispers my name, asking if she can get into bed. The act of waking me up causes me to lose all cognitive abilities; if I were in a wakeful state of mind, I’d know better. So, hearing a ‘whatever’ or similarly-phrased reply, she runs full speed and then leaps kung fu style into our bed. She may be a Princess, but her parents neither sleep on a King nor a Queen.

So, within a minute or two, I find myself squished up next to my husband, who finds part-time work subbing for a nuclear-power plant. He positively radiates heat; I prefer to sleep in colder conditions. I’m pretty sure Death Valley has nothing on him. Okay, back to being stuck between U238 and the Princess of Bed Hogs. If it’s early enough in the morning, I end up on the floor out of sheer desperation. Berber is not the most comfy surface. Usually I’m too lazy to sleep on the couch, and my hubby usually wakes me up so that I can jump into bed when he gets up for work. Unfortunately, today is Saturday, so he’s sleeping in. She’s sleeping in. The twins are sleeping in. I’m… Not.

In 15 years or so, she’ll be getting ready to head off to college. Or the military. But it’s not like I regularly calculate how long I have ’til they’re all out of the house. I only do it on the days I get kicked out of my own bed.

I’m not happy unless I’m bitching. Or sleeping. Seeing how I have a profound shortage of the latter, I’ll expound upon the bitching. Now, I’ve had plenty of people, mostly men, who have told me this several times. Well, it’s true. Misery loves company, and it’s about the only time I’ll act like a gracious hostess to boot. I don’t know why I thrive on griping; maybe my mother dropped me on my head too many times, or it was those carob dog treats I once ate out of hunger. Icky, icky, fake chocolate. For canines. I have been making a concerted effort of late to look for the sunny side of things. Unfortunately, the phrase ’sunny side’ makes me think of runny, snotty-looking eggs, and I fail miserably. Well, not really. When daughter dear hurled a rock inside my car, I thought she had a damn good arm. When ODU decided I wasn’t Monarch material, I told myself that they were freaking idiots. It’s just not going so smoothly. The windshield isn’t repaired yet, and I swear it’s getting bigger. The daughter’s arm keeps throwing things. (Although to be truthful, she uses both arms. She’s neither right nor left handed.) I’m still broken up about the rejection from the university. A little voice in my head tells me that even though I know several languages, I’m just not smart enough for higher education. I’m currently offering a reward for the capture of that voice, dead or alive, preferably beaten to a bloody pulp.

Right now I’m agonizing over yet another issue, financial in nature. Now, this is a bit of a touchy subject for our family; until just over a year ago, we had two paychecks and one kid, now we have one paycheck, 3 kids, a cat, and a woman who sorely misses her lost income. My husband is a whiz with numbers, and he’s very good when dealing with microeconomics. I’m better at macroeconomics. I’m not interested in the stock market, but I know how to read the signs, that sort of thing. In any case, I’m having serious regrets about a decision made last year. Since it deals with money, and that’s the second-biggest catalyst of my misery (not too far behind the future major league window-breaker), I cannot let it go. I am clinging to how much it pisses me off, thriving on the anger it builds inside of me. I know it’s unhealthy to keep bad ju-ju stuff around, but I can’t. I mustn’t. I won’t. It’s munching on my spleen, and I’m bitching about it, and I know that it’s a vicious cycle I’m too scared to break. Maybe I should get the girl to bust it for me. At least she’d be doing something useful with her innate destructive skills.

I think I need some chocolate. Chocolate and Tums. Sounds like I’m the patron deity of two more things. Oh, and bitching-for-pleasure. Can’t forget that.