Being a stay-at-home mom has its costs. When I was working, we had a cleaning service, a lawn service, we went on trips, I got pedicures. I got my hair colored more than once every three months. My clothes were better and didn't consist of tee-shirts. If I had gone back to work, Helen was going to go to a daycare where they learned French. So I guess by staying home, I'm costing my children the opportunity to be bilingual at the age of two. Although sometimes I do wake Helen up by saying "bonjour."
But the real cost is that I have had to take on a lot of tasks that Matt and I used to share. For example, I go to the grocery store. Obviously it makes a lot more sense for me to go during the day than for Matt to go at night. I do the laundry. Again its a lot easier to throw on a load during the day than for Matt to have to do it after a day of working.
But the one task that I cannot stand is that now I have to kill bugs. When Helen was a newborn, a salamander got into our house. I actually called Matt and asked him to come home on his lunch break and get rid of it. He told me that if I was going to stay at home then I would just have to take care of the creatures that sneak into our house during the day (to be fair, he did say he would still take on any nighttime killings). So in order to prove that I could handle any situation that cropped up during the day-whether it be a child or a bug emergency-I decided to rid our home of the salamander. I put on Matt's boots (bigger, stronger, taller). I got a broom and some Raid. That's right, I "Raided" the salamander. Raid doesn't really kill salamanders, it sort of tortures them into some sort of frantic seizure state. I actually felt bad about that. So after torturing the salamander, it was still alive. I tried to sweep it outside, but it would just flop around. Finally I got it near the backdoor only to have it flop into the little crevice at the bottom of the door. I finally shoveled it out with a spatula and threw it outside. I also threw the spatula away. It did eventually die a Raid-induced torture death on our patio.
That was almost two years ago. I guess I proved to Matt that I could handle it because I am still staying home and still handling the bugs that appear during the day. Although my methods are much more sophisticated. Today I just used the dust-buster to nab a spider. I can't actually touch a bug! But I still put on Matt's boots...just in case.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Its birthday-day!
Since today is May 14, that means its birthday-day at our house. Patrick is 2 months old, Helen is 21 months old, and Matt is 29 and 4 months old. What a day! Everyone is celebrating except me...who had to be born on the 8th day of a month!
It seems like a bit of a milestone...I'll start talking about how old Patrick is in months instead of weeks. Helen is turning the big 21. Well, 21 months. Which means she's getting incredibly close to being 2. And well, Matt is inching closer to 30. I guess that means I'm not too far behind.
It seems like a bit of a milestone...I'll start talking about how old Patrick is in months instead of weeks. Helen is turning the big 21. Well, 21 months. Which means she's getting incredibly close to being 2. And well, Matt is inching closer to 30. I guess that means I'm not too far behind.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Hello, Poison Control
Yesterday I had to call poison control for the first time. I say first because all of my girlfriends insist there will be a second time...
If you are looking for customer service, for someone to tell you everything will be okay, or someone to tell you "don't worry this happens to everyone." Don't call poison control. If you are looking for someone to make you feel like an idiot for letting your 21 month old eat cold sore medicine, then dial away.
Yesterday (with our playgroup on the way to the house), Helen opened the door to our bathroom (which to be fair, I did know she was capable of doing), opened some cabinets, and pulled out some cold sore medicine. By the time I got to her, the cap was off, some was running down her chin, and her breath smelled a bit medicinal. Yikes. A quick Google to find the number for poison control and it was official, I am now one of "those" moms. A mom who lets her kid eat poison. Meanwhile, just as the phone was ringing, my playgroup arrives. Imagine welcoming people to your home with "come on in, make yourself at home, I'm just on the phone with poison control." Who wants to play at that mom's house?
This is a bit of how the conversation went:
Poison Control: Poison control. What is the problem?
Me: My 21 month old ate some cold sore med---
PC: What is the name of the medicine?
Me: Zilactin. I don't know how she got into it. I was feeding my new---
PC: How much does your 21 month old weigh?
Me: 27 pounds. I just don't know how she did it.
PC: How much did she eat?
Me: I'm not sure...there is still a lot---
PC (interrupting): Well, how big is the tube.
Me: 0.25 ounces. Again, there is still a good bit in---
PC (again, interrupting): How did she get into it?
Me (incredulous since I kept trying to explain): I was feeding my newborn and she stepped out of sight, opened the cabinet---
PC: Well, she'd have to eat 3 tubes of it for something to be wrong. Do you think she ate 3 tubes (spoken with attitude)?
Me: No, we only have one as far as I---
PC: What's her name?
Me: Helen
PC: Your zip code?
Me (C-R-A-P...thinking I am now on some weird poison mom list): *****
PC: Feed her lunch.
Me: What?
PC: Its fine to feed her lunch.
Me: Okay, well thank you. Is there anything I should be looking---
PC: No. She's fine.
Me: Thank you.
PC: Goodbye (hanging up).
Obviously if your child eats some poison, go ahead and call. But prepare yourself...you won't be coddled. No one will tell you that it happens to everyone and you are still a good mom. So I will say it...even though Helen ate cold sore medicine, she's okay. As it turns out, its happened to a lot of moms. A lot of good moms. But I'll say it again...I think its time we do some childproofing.
If you are looking for customer service, for someone to tell you everything will be okay, or someone to tell you "don't worry this happens to everyone." Don't call poison control. If you are looking for someone to make you feel like an idiot for letting your 21 month old eat cold sore medicine, then dial away.
Yesterday (with our playgroup on the way to the house), Helen opened the door to our bathroom (which to be fair, I did know she was capable of doing), opened some cabinets, and pulled out some cold sore medicine. By the time I got to her, the cap was off, some was running down her chin, and her breath smelled a bit medicinal. Yikes. A quick Google to find the number for poison control and it was official, I am now one of "those" moms. A mom who lets her kid eat poison. Meanwhile, just as the phone was ringing, my playgroup arrives. Imagine welcoming people to your home with "come on in, make yourself at home, I'm just on the phone with poison control." Who wants to play at that mom's house?
This is a bit of how the conversation went:
Poison Control: Poison control. What is the problem?
Me: My 21 month old ate some cold sore med---
PC: What is the name of the medicine?
Me: Zilactin. I don't know how she got into it. I was feeding my new---
PC: How much does your 21 month old weigh?
Me: 27 pounds. I just don't know how she did it.
PC: How much did she eat?
Me: I'm not sure...there is still a lot---
PC (interrupting): Well, how big is the tube.
Me: 0.25 ounces. Again, there is still a good bit in---
PC (again, interrupting): How did she get into it?
Me (incredulous since I kept trying to explain): I was feeding my newborn and she stepped out of sight, opened the cabinet---
PC: Well, she'd have to eat 3 tubes of it for something to be wrong. Do you think she ate 3 tubes (spoken with attitude)?
Me: No, we only have one as far as I---
PC: What's her name?
Me: Helen
PC: Your zip code?
Me (C-R-A-P...thinking I am now on some weird poison mom list): *****
PC: Feed her lunch.
Me: What?
PC: Its fine to feed her lunch.
Me: Okay, well thank you. Is there anything I should be looking---
PC: No. She's fine.
Me: Thank you.
PC: Goodbye (hanging up).
Obviously if your child eats some poison, go ahead and call. But prepare yourself...you won't be coddled. No one will tell you that it happens to everyone and you are still a good mom. So I will say it...even though Helen ate cold sore medicine, she's okay. As it turns out, its happened to a lot of moms. A lot of good moms. But I'll say it again...I think its time we do some childproofing.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Dream Interpretation
Last night I dreamed that I was being held hostage by a baby. Not one of my own babies, but just some non-descript baby. In the dream we (Matt was also a hostage) kept driving around in a car hoping the baby would fall asleep and we could escape.
I thought I would do a little research on dream interpretation. Let's see...baby. That means innocence, warmth, vulnerability. Being held hostage...feeling powerless or limited in your choices. A car...if you are a passenger in the car (which I was) it means that you have a passive role in a transitional phase in your life.
Hmmm...that just doesn't sound right. Let me take a crack at it. I'm no dream expert, but I read this dream to mean that my babies hold me hostage until they fall asleep and then I can escape, i.e. watch TV and lay around.
I thought I would do a little research on dream interpretation. Let's see...baby. That means innocence, warmth, vulnerability. Being held hostage...feeling powerless or limited in your choices. A car...if you are a passenger in the car (which I was) it means that you have a passive role in a transitional phase in your life.
Hmmm...that just doesn't sound right. Let me take a crack at it. I'm no dream expert, but I read this dream to mean that my babies hold me hostage until they fall asleep and then I can escape, i.e. watch TV and lay around.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Cinco de Mayo
When I was a senior in college, we loved Cinco de Mayo. We went out, had fun...one year I got my belly button pierced on Cinco de Mayo. It hurt...a lot. This Cinco de Mayo I did the following:
1) Cleaned the house. 2) Unloaded the dishwasher. 3) Did laundry. 4) Did more laundry. 5) Waited for the exterminator. 6) Picked a giant boogie out of Patrick's nose that the bulb couldn't retrieve. 7) Cleaned crayon off the couch. 8) Gave two baths. 9) Played with blocks. 10) Watched the Backyardigans. 11) Heated up leftover mac-n-cheese for dinner. 12) Changed a lot of diapers.
All in all, it was the best Cinco de Mayo I've had yet. And it hurt a lot less.
1) Cleaned the house. 2) Unloaded the dishwasher. 3) Did laundry. 4) Did more laundry. 5) Waited for the exterminator. 6) Picked a giant boogie out of Patrick's nose that the bulb couldn't retrieve. 7) Cleaned crayon off the couch. 8) Gave two baths. 9) Played with blocks. 10) Watched the Backyardigans. 11) Heated up leftover mac-n-cheese for dinner. 12) Changed a lot of diapers.
All in all, it was the best Cinco de Mayo I've had yet. And it hurt a lot less.
Matt
Matt is a strange fellow. He does things that are totally foreign to me. He keeps baked goods (i.e. cookies, bread, etc.) in the microwave to keep them fresh. He cleans dishes with the hand soap we have beside the sink instead of the dish soap that is under it. He is a pack-rat. He doesn't mind clutter. He thinks that old Cool Whip containers should be kept as bowls. He likes to watch South Park. I hate South Park. He always leaves those little dry-cleaning tags on the dresser instead of throwing them away. He thinks the garage is for storage and not for my car.
He drives me crazy. Everyday I think I'm about to cross over into certifiable crazy territory as I pick up those dry-cleaning tags. Yesterday when I watched him wash something with hand soap I think my eyes got stuck in the back of my head they rolled so far back.
But he is the most amazing father. He takes Helen fishing in the lakes around our house. He changes Patrick's diapers. Everyday when Helen gets home, he takes her outside to look for planes. He hung a bird feeder outside on our patio so we can all watch the birds. He takes everyone on walks on the weekends so I can read my book or catch up around the house without interruption. He makes dinner on occasion and doesn't mind eating cereal when the day has been to hectic to actually cook. He doesn't mind that I am crazy picky about keeping the house neat and how we raise our kids. He doesn't mind that I'd rather stay home on the weekends with the family than go out. In fact, he likes to stay in as much as I do. He'll stop at the grocery store when all I need is milk because he knows that its not worth it to take two little ones to the store just for one thing. He works a million hours a week and travels all the time so I don't have to.
So tomorrow morning when I throw away his dry-cleaning tags, wash all the water spots off the mirror, and hang up his wet towel, I'm going to try to remember that sometimes its hard for him to do it all. And I'd much rather him be out looking for planes than picking up those tags. But if he could do both, that would be great too.
He drives me crazy. Everyday I think I'm about to cross over into certifiable crazy territory as I pick up those dry-cleaning tags. Yesterday when I watched him wash something with hand soap I think my eyes got stuck in the back of my head they rolled so far back.
But he is the most amazing father. He takes Helen fishing in the lakes around our house. He changes Patrick's diapers. Everyday when Helen gets home, he takes her outside to look for planes. He hung a bird feeder outside on our patio so we can all watch the birds. He takes everyone on walks on the weekends so I can read my book or catch up around the house without interruption. He makes dinner on occasion and doesn't mind eating cereal when the day has been to hectic to actually cook. He doesn't mind that I am crazy picky about keeping the house neat and how we raise our kids. He doesn't mind that I'd rather stay home on the weekends with the family than go out. In fact, he likes to stay in as much as I do. He'll stop at the grocery store when all I need is milk because he knows that its not worth it to take two little ones to the store just for one thing. He works a million hours a week and travels all the time so I don't have to.
So tomorrow morning when I throw away his dry-cleaning tags, wash all the water spots off the mirror, and hang up his wet towel, I'm going to try to remember that sometimes its hard for him to do it all. And I'd much rather him be out looking for planes than picking up those tags. But if he could do both, that would be great too.
They are finally worth it...literally.
Today I went to protest our property tax appraisal. In Matt's never-ending quest to save money and in mine to be a know-it-all lawyer, we thought it might be a fun exercise.
I loaded up Helen and Patrick and drove the 45 minutes to Angleton and the county appraisal office. I was armed with documents, arguments about fair market versus appraised values, and my winning personality. Little did I know the strongest weapons in my arsenal were strapped into a neon green double stroller.
While I was meeting with the appraiser Helen kept asking for cookies. I gave her raisins. She threw them on the ground. Patrick was screaming. His paci kept falling out of his mouth. Helen took the bow out of her hair and tossed it on the ground next to the raisins. I looked down and Patrick was sliding out of the stroller. His legs were hanging out and Helen was kicking them. He screamed even louder. Helen wanted to play with my documents. I gave her a scrap piece of paper and she took a bite out of it.
The appraiser's office was the size of Helen and Patrick's bathroom. She kept having to step out to make copies of my documents. She had to climb over the stroller, the screaming 7 week old, and the 20 month old chewing on paper. I kept apologizing. She remained pretty silent.
After her second trip to the copy machine, Helen took off her shoes and threw them. At that point, the appraiser offered me a settlement of my protest. I hadn't even scratched the surface of my argument. Our settlement reduced the county appraised value of our house by $70,000 from last year. I'd like to think that I really wore them down. My preparation and well-reasoned arguments were that good. But in reality, I think bringing two kids under two might have given me the edge. I think the county thought that it was worth losing the extra tax revenues just to get me out of there.
I loaded up Helen and Patrick and drove the 45 minutes to Angleton and the county appraisal office. I was armed with documents, arguments about fair market versus appraised values, and my winning personality. Little did I know the strongest weapons in my arsenal were strapped into a neon green double stroller.
While I was meeting with the appraiser Helen kept asking for cookies. I gave her raisins. She threw them on the ground. Patrick was screaming. His paci kept falling out of his mouth. Helen took the bow out of her hair and tossed it on the ground next to the raisins. I looked down and Patrick was sliding out of the stroller. His legs were hanging out and Helen was kicking them. He screamed even louder. Helen wanted to play with my documents. I gave her a scrap piece of paper and she took a bite out of it.
The appraiser's office was the size of Helen and Patrick's bathroom. She kept having to step out to make copies of my documents. She had to climb over the stroller, the screaming 7 week old, and the 20 month old chewing on paper. I kept apologizing. She remained pretty silent.
After her second trip to the copy machine, Helen took off her shoes and threw them. At that point, the appraiser offered me a settlement of my protest. I hadn't even scratched the surface of my argument. Our settlement reduced the county appraised value of our house by $70,000 from last year. I'd like to think that I really wore them down. My preparation and well-reasoned arguments were that good. But in reality, I think bringing two kids under two might have given me the edge. I think the county thought that it was worth losing the extra tax revenues just to get me out of there.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Being a boy's mom...
So its quite interesting for me being a boy's mother...There are a lot of things I didn't know about.
First of all, diaper changes are a whole new world. This penis bit is a little hard to get used to. I have to admit every time I open one of Patrick's diapers, I forget that there is one in there. It sprays pee on me. It sprays pee everywhere frankly. The other day it sprayed pee on my shoe. How that is possible, I don't know. But I'm telling you, my shoe (while on my foot) got peed on.
Second of all, Patrick is stinky. I know he is only 7 weeks old, but he is a stinky boy. He just never has had that sweet new baby smell that Helen did. Now this could be because he gets baths only about twice a week (seriously, I only have time to bathe one baby a day, and Helen wins because she plays outside, eats food, and hangs out with other dirty kids). But I think boys just might have an inherent stinkiness about them. I understand that this stink will only get worse as he gets older.
I understand that boys like trucks, construction equipment, trains, and balls. I don't know anything about these things. I also hear that boys like to be dirty. How strange. I don't understand the rules of baseball. I have a moderate understanding of the rules of football. I suspect I will have to brush up on these things. What is tee ball? When do boys start shaving? These are the questions I have.
I also think a lot about what my future will be like with Patrick. When he gets engaged, I won't be the first person he and his fiance call. I won't be the first one to know they are pregnant. I won't share in the big events in his life the way I likely will with Helen. Chances are he'll spend holidays somewhere else. And you know, I'm really okay with that. I think that girls, as they get older, maybe still need their moms a little bit. They need advice...what their mother went through, how they handled it, etc. Girls and their moms become good friends. For Patrick, I won't fill that same role. I think the best thing I can do for Patrick is to raise him to be a strong, independent man. A good provider, a good husband, a good father. Then he can step away from me and be those things for someone else. In the meantime, I'm just going to do a little research about tee ball.
First of all, diaper changes are a whole new world. This penis bit is a little hard to get used to. I have to admit every time I open one of Patrick's diapers, I forget that there is one in there. It sprays pee on me. It sprays pee everywhere frankly. The other day it sprayed pee on my shoe. How that is possible, I don't know. But I'm telling you, my shoe (while on my foot) got peed on.
Second of all, Patrick is stinky. I know he is only 7 weeks old, but he is a stinky boy. He just never has had that sweet new baby smell that Helen did. Now this could be because he gets baths only about twice a week (seriously, I only have time to bathe one baby a day, and Helen wins because she plays outside, eats food, and hangs out with other dirty kids). But I think boys just might have an inherent stinkiness about them. I understand that this stink will only get worse as he gets older.
I understand that boys like trucks, construction equipment, trains, and balls. I don't know anything about these things. I also hear that boys like to be dirty. How strange. I don't understand the rules of baseball. I have a moderate understanding of the rules of football. I suspect I will have to brush up on these things. What is tee ball? When do boys start shaving? These are the questions I have.
I also think a lot about what my future will be like with Patrick. When he gets engaged, I won't be the first person he and his fiance call. I won't be the first one to know they are pregnant. I won't share in the big events in his life the way I likely will with Helen. Chances are he'll spend holidays somewhere else. And you know, I'm really okay with that. I think that girls, as they get older, maybe still need their moms a little bit. They need advice...what their mother went through, how they handled it, etc. Girls and their moms become good friends. For Patrick, I won't fill that same role. I think the best thing I can do for Patrick is to raise him to be a strong, independent man. A good provider, a good husband, a good father. Then he can step away from me and be those things for someone else. In the meantime, I'm just going to do a little research about tee ball.
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