Just How Lame Am I?

Here's a pop quiz, just to see how well you know me.

How sadly, embarrassingly, craptacularly lame am I? So much so that...

A: Not only am I still nursing Matilda (something is in and of itself not a source of embarrassment), but, at 18 months old, I am still nursing her to sleep (that is). From the time she was born, she was in our bedroom, and I've always nursed the babies to sleep when they were little. Zachary took to the pacifier right away, and Ezra decided it was pure gold around his first birthday, but Matilda has never thought it was anything more than slightly amusing--definitely not comforting. Around her first birthday, it seemed like time to put my foot down and insist that she learn to put herself to sleep. But then construction started and Ezra was moved into our bedroom with her for the duration; it was hard enough to get them both to sleep at all, never mind if she was fussy because she didn't get to nurse to sleep. Almost as soon as the construction ended, we left for a vacation--11 days in a pop-up camper together, again not time to insist that she learn to put herself to sleep. Now we're home, and she's in her own room, and it would seem to be the time. But she's decided that now is the time for teething and unexplained diarrhea, plus the fact that my husband fell on some rocks and seriously damaged his shoulder. So anything that leads in the direction of a good night's sleep ranks above theories about parenting. But seriously, at this rate, I'll be having to stop into her kindergarten class to nurse her before rest time. It's getting out of hand.

B: Back in March, I slipped up a flight of stairs and broke my wrist. Fortunately it's my right wrist and I'm left handed. But that was not fun, having to explain over and over again that no, I'm not being mistreated in any way, I honestly fell up a flight of stairs and did this to myself. It's healed fine, but it still gets sore sometimes, especially when it's expected to sit in a position under pressure for more than about ten minutes, like, say, when I'm nursing Matilda to sleep for the second time that night. Then that mother aches like nobody's business, and all I want is to move it so it will stop hurting, but I know that if I do, she will wake up and all hell will break loose. And it's all because I can't climb a flight of stairs like a normal person.

C: I can't boil an egg. I can boil water and put an egg in it and take it out a while later, but no matter what I do, I always end up with slightly soft-boiled eggs that I then have to peel and put in the microwave because, of course, you don't know that it's soft-boiled until you peel it and it feels too soft, and at that point, you're not really going to start the water boiling process all over at the beginning. I honestly feel like I end up pulling out "The Joy of Cooking" every time I want a hard-boiled egg, and it's really ridiculous. Maybe I need to laminate the instructions and tape them to the inside of the refrigerator so that at least I can pretend that I can boil a damn egg without instructions. Or maybe I can try to convince the kids that eggs are supposed to be that way, that there was something wrong with all the hard-boiled eggs they've ever seen and eaten, and that Mommy's way is actually superior in a way she can't quite articulate.

or D: All of the above.

What do you think?

What would happen if a 17-month-old drank most of a can of Pepsi?

Seriously... does anyone know? Because I left a can on the coffee table and then got wrapped up in some baked on crap on a cookie sheet, and the next thing I know, Ezra's walking into the kitchen telling me that he thinks Matilda is drinking pop. And then Zachary appears with a nearly empty can and tells me he got it from her hand. And when I go out to the living room, she's looking especially bright-eyed and her shirt and pants are soaked and she smells like baby and Pepsi.

Though I'm not a health food nazi, I don't give my kids caffeinated soda; so other than whatever is in the occasional M&M, she's never had caffeine. I'm worried. Very, very worried.

Where have I been?

Thank you so much to Jasmine for letting me know that I am not alone in the world and that there actually are people who read this blog--when I get around to writing in it!

It's been a pretty busy summer; I'm a little inclined to say lousy, but let's go with busy instead. If you are ever inclined to do any major home renovation, take a deep breath and ask yourself if it's truly worth it. The first week in May, we broke ground on an addition to the house. The second week in June, Zachary finished school and has since been home. Around the middle of June, we lost the use of Ezra's room, since they knocked out the wall to expand the room so the boys can share it; since then, he's slept in our room. Since Matilda is already sleeping in there, this almost immediately meant that he stopped napping. A couple of weeks later, we lost the upstairs bathroom when they ripped it apart to add onto it, and we lost much of the use of the basement bathroom, since they tore apart the ceiling in there to get to the pipes. Somewhere in there, we were also informed that we needed a new roof and that insurance ought to pay for it; but of course we had to fight with claims adjustors for a few weeks.

Last week, I got an email from the mother of the victim of Matilda's biting; she'd been bitten again on Friday, and they decided to take a couple of weeks to decide what to do next. I cannot overstate the anxiety this created in me. I have already been all worked up about the biting, have taken two classes about it, and have consulted my child care licensor and another child care provider, who is the person I go to whenever I have a question. I have done--and am doing--all I can, and now it's just a matter of waiting to see if it gets better. I understand that's a lousy thing to hear when it's your kid getting bitten, but it's also pretty upsetting when you feel like you're the only person in the world who doesn't think your 16-month-old is a little monster. There actually hasn't been a single biting incident in the two weeks that this baby has been gone; and though I don't blame the other baby at all (she is just a baby, I realize that), it's so much less stressful when she's not here and I don't have to wait, poised, to see if Matilda is going to strike.

So yesterday this family gave me their notice that they're going to pull their daughter out of my day care. After a couple of weeks to think it over, I'm not surprised or extremely upset. I've talked with a lot of people about it and believe that she's a little caveman, not a bad person, and though I can't tolerate biting, I can accept that it's common for kids her age.

The house is almost done. Though the backyard is a mud pit, the bedroom and bathroom are just about done; I think the boys are going to move in tonight. We tried to find a baby sitter and only found a guy who kind of creeped us out and now won't stop emailing to ask why we didn't hire him. We decided to use my husband's nephew instead, and he was great the first weekend but just didn't show up last weekend. We have a woman who comes every two weeks and cleans the main floor of the house, making our lives easier and my father-in-law's room a more pleasant place for him to live; she also didn't show up, for the fourth week in a row. I need a haircut. It's dumb, but it really bothers me because I have short hair and have been in in the "I need a haircut" stage for at least a month.

Today I had a screaming match with Ezra during nap time. He wouldn't stop screaming, and eventually it made me scream, and there was a lot of screaming and crying, from both of us. I feel like I haven't had more than three seconds in a row to call my own since April. Sorry if this sounds bitchy, but I can't tell you how good it feels just to complain about it all, to get it out and admit that there is all this stuff that is bothering me. As I've been writing, the kids have been eating supper--eating ketchup with their fingers instead of eating actual chicken dipped in the ketchup, insisting that they give their crackers to the dog and then needing new ones, wanting to "try something" on me that they saw on TV. They're being kids--my delightful, annoying kids. Tonight I'm going to help the boys move into their new room, and sometime soon Matilda will move into her new room, Zachary's current room. And then I will have a bedroom with only adults in it, something that has been true only sporadically since Zachary was born almost six years ago.

I keep thinking of a line from The Simpsons, one of my favorite shows. Homer is upset about something, as usual, and says, "Why do I have three kids and no money? Why can't I have no kids and three money?" I admit, I feel that way sometimes, especially about the total absence of space and time to call my own. I've never had high financial aspirations, but space and time used to be things I could claim for myself. Sometimes I wish I could have "three space" and "three time," but most of the time, most days, I'm still overwhelmingly grateful to have three kids instead. Especially ones as delightful and annoying as mine.

So Long, Fortress of Solitude

I posted a while ago about my relationship with the bathroom. It's been an emotional one, full of missed chances to take advantage of such small joys as peeing by yourself. But my bathroom is no more. Literally. My bathroom is no more. In the bastardized words of John Cleese, my bathroom has ceased to be. It is an ex-bathroom.

You see, we live in a 1958 house that is, really, much too small for our family at its current size. My father-in-law has a bedroom on the main floor, technically the master bedroom, and Ezra has the other bedroom on the main floor. In the basement, my husband and I share a bedroom with Matilda, and Zachary sleeps in what is really a study, across the hall from us. If I ever want a decent night's sleep, we have to get her out of our room--and so a plan was born. We're adding on to the house. We knocked out the wall of Ezra's room and, next to it, the bathroom, extending both those rooms into the backyard 10 feet. When the project is done, Zachary and Ezra will share a nice big bedroom, and we'll be able to open the bathroom door without banging into the vanity. Sheer heaven. However, in the meantime, we have construction going on, in the house, where I spend approximately 23 hours a day.

First we had a giant hole in the backyard for the foundation. That lasted about 2 weeks, with a giant pile of dirt, no backyard to play in, and a frustrating lack of progress. Then suddenly there was a floor, then walls--progress! Of course, we had a rainstorm in there that caused the entire basement to flood at 5 AM on a Monday morning. And the giant pile of dirt was "graded" all over the backyard, killing the strawberries and most of the lawn. And we lost power to the garage. And we have no outside water, so it takes about 50 watering cans and many trips to the sink to water the garden. But that's progress!

Along with the progress, of course, came messes. So first Ezra had to move out of his room and into ours. Just one big happy family--all in one room. He contends that he's afraid of the dark, so we have to sleep with a giant night light, which wakes Matilda fairly often, and I keep waking up disoriented by the light. Still, progress!

Then Monday of this week, they gutted the bathroom. So we had to empty out all the accumulated crap in the bathroom (Sudafed that expired two years ago? Can that still be good?) and create a temporary shower in the basement. Nothing like showering next to the washing machine and the dog's kennel to make you feel sexy and refreshed. And when they gutted the bathroom, they knocked a lot of sawdust and sheet rock all over the downstairs bathroom and the pantry, but we can clean that up, right? Progress!

Then they had to cut a hole on the ceiling of the downstairs bathroom so they could get to the pipes. This is a slight mess, and I couldn't use the bathroom for about 7 hours without asking a guy I've only just met to move his ladder so I can pee. That's not such a problem. But they did have to cut a hole in the floor of the upstairs bathroom so they can move pipes around, meaning that I can (and nearly did) sit on the toilet and look up and see the feet of my contractor, his assistant, the plumber, the electrician, and whoever else has stopped by to see the mess that is my house. Plus they had to move our bed into the middle of the room so they could get into the crawlspace, which means that our bed, Ezra's bed, and Matilda's crib are all now pretty much touching in the middle of the bedroom. But that's the price for progress, right?

And did I mention my underwear? You would be right to wonder how that could possibly figure in, but it's really quite logical. You see, I am a slob and we have a bedroom in the basement. For these reasons, I don't really keep close track of my clothes as I discard them. I kick them around for a few days and then gather them up on laundry day. It's a system that has served me well and that my husband has more or less learned to live with. It is also a system that does not account for the massive numbers of people who will be wandering through my bedroom, to deal with a leak, to cut holes in the ceiling, to crawl out through windows. And it is, of course, only after they've all been wandering through there for several days that I realize that my bra is hanging on a hook next to the bathroom door and I've got a pile of underwear on my dresser. Progress, dammit!

And the roof. We mustn't forget the real icing on this "burn it down and buy a new one; heck, in this economy, they're practically free anyway" cake. As they were assembling the roof for the addition, the contractor came and grabbed me one afternoon (I was probably nursing at the time; my dignity is so long gone with these people) and asked if I could come take a look at something. I was unprepared for the suggestion that I climb up onto the roof. But once I was (in most undignified fashion) settled up there, he proceeded to show me that our roof has signs of major wind and hail damage. Since I was up on a roof and don't know what they're supposed to look like anyway, I immediately agreed and called the insurance company. Many phone calls later, an insurance adjustor arrived and informed us that it was mild damage and he was going to recommend a repair, not a replacement. Since then, we've had him try to find a matching shingle (he says he did, but it clearly doesn't match our current shingles), my husband has cussed out the adjustor and our insurance agent, we've had several estimates for the roof repair, I've gone back and played "good cop" with the insurance agent and managed to get the case appealed to another adjustor, and I've called our friendly adjustor to tell him that his so-called "matching" shingle isn't going to work (if there is no match, it seems they have to pay to replace them all). And while all this is going on? Sure, our roof is in need of replacement; we knew we'd only be able to make it another year or two. But on the addition, we only have a tarp. We can't pick shingles for the addition until we know what's going on the rest of the roof. So when it rained the other night, we had to fill the boys' room and the bathroom with wading pools and laundry tubs to catch the rain where it leaks, because though they're almost complete rooms, they have no roof! But it's all in the name of goddamned progress!

And you want to know what the saddest part is? (Arguably the saddest part is that I would think that anyone would want to read about my home improvement woes, but we're going to set that aside for the time being.) It has taken me three days to write this post. Little by little, my house has been whittled away to almost nothing as the bathroom and Ezra's room have entirely ceased to be, the backyard is mostly unusable, and with all the plumbing activity taking place in our bedroom, Matilda has been napping in Zachary's room. Zachary has only been out of school for the summer for a couple of weeks, and he and Ezra are completely on top of each other. Not only are they used to having more time apart, but they're used to being able to get away from one another when they're both home. So now my days seem to consist entirely of "stop that," "give that back," and "if you do that one more time, so help me, you will spend the rest of your life in time out and we will never go outside again!" (I've actually said that. Not my finest moment.)

Someday all this will be done, and I will almost certainly (please, please, please) be glad we did it. But until then, I time my bathroom visits for when there's no work going on, put out buckets when it rains, and try not to think about how great it was when all I was upset about was how many people wanted to be in the bathroom with me. Unlike the legs that threaten to appear in the bathroom these days, at least they're related to me.

Taking a Bite Out of Crime--or other people

Well, yes, I did disappear off the face of the earth, but only for about a week. We had a terrific camping vacation full of all kinds of interesting stories about my cute kids and hiking with a stroller and the evil that is tent caterpillars.

But is that what finally got me to the computer? No, of course not. It was Matilda and her incessant biting of her friends. I've kept thinking it was a phase, every time she would bite another little girl I watch, who is 10 months old and her closest playmate. She was teething, or she had an ear infection, or there was some other excuse. But today I thought she'd been doing a really good job of being gentle, touching her friends with her gentle hands to show me what a good baby she was, and yet when they got home, her mom called to tell me that she had a big bite mark on her arm!

So how did I not notice that? I'm a little upset, first, because I swear I looked her over several times to make sure there was nothing I hadn't seen. But possibly worse, will she ever stop this? I've never had a biter; Zachary is really easygoing and is more likely to cry than to lash out (though he did get in trouble for hitting at school the other day--but that's another story). And Ezra is a fighter, but he's been one to scratch, and the kid he used to scratch would hit back just as hard, so there was no real sense that my kid was being a bully.

She's got her 15-month-checkup tomorrow, and I've also registered for a class on toddler biting. But I think at the heart of it is this feeling that my kid, my baby, is somehow bad, that only bad kids bite, and I've failed her and everyone else. My wonderful, beautiful, last baby is a biter! And my day care mom (who's kind of been becoming a friend) is upset--understandably. And I just feel like everything that's wrong in the world is wrapped up in my baby girl and the things she continues to do with her teeth.

I need a vacation from my family.

My Fortress of Solitude

I have recently realized something: I am never going to be really alone in the bathroom again.



When I was about 22, I moved into a miniscule apartment in downtown Minneapolis. It was the first time I'd ever lived alone--no roommates, no parents, no nothing. Just me and 200 or so square feet. So I immediately went out and got a cat--apparently it was vital that I start living up to crazy-cat-lady stereotypes right away. Many things happened, of course, when I was living in that apartment. The battery on my phone died as I was talking to my dad after I'd only been living there a few days, and he sped the entire half hour from his house, to come make sure I was okay. I sublet my apartment to a coworker and moved to LA for three months (three of the most painful months ever, but that's another story). I met the man who would become my husband. And I learned to pee with the door open.


Now, as a woman, and a pretty self-conscious one at that, closing the door when I entered the bathroom was kind of a requirement. But if you've ever had a kitten who was somewhat over attached to you, you know what happens if you try to close the bathroom door. First comes the whining, then the scratching, then the incredibly pathetic little paw starts feeling around under the door, trying to figure out where you've gone and how to get you back. So rather than dealing with that every time I wanted to go to the bathroom, I started just leaving the door open. It was an incredibly freeing development in my life. I even started wandering around my apartment (sometimes) naked (partly). I couldn't turn into a free-thinking nudist overnight, but it was a big change for me nonetheless.

Of course, when I met my husband, I realized that I was still the kind of person who would prefer to close the door. I can live with a cat wandering around the sink while I pee, but I can't be one of those "I'm on the toilet while you're brushing your teeth and we're both fine with this" people. We moved in together a few months after I got back from LA, and while we were living together, his father stayed with us for several weeks after he had a stroke. He moved back into his own apartment later, but when we decided to buy a house, we concluded that having him move in with us was a good idea for everyone involved. Another reason to be a "bathroom door closed" kind of person.

Now we've come to a point I probably could not have envisioned when I was trying to get the cat to leave the bathroom door alone. My father-in-law's bedroom is across the hall from the bathroom. I have three small children who apparently cannot exist unless they are interacting with me in some way. I usually have a house full of other people's children, who are in all likelihood fighting with one or more of my kids. And the bathroom door? Well, until recently, I was convinced it was the one thing separating me--just for a few minutes--from all that. Right? I don't get to take leisurely baths; I don't even get showers without a 5-year-old suddenly needing to potty the second I turn the water on. I don't have a commute to complain about the other drivers while secretly enjoying this time that doesn't belong to my family or my employer. I don't have a bedroom to disappear to; while I do officially have a bedroom, it's shared by our daughter until the addition to the house is complete. So I am not out of line to expect that I get to go potty without interruption.

Except it seems that I am. One of the things about the blogosphere is that it's like having lots and lots of mom friends, and you can ask them anything you want or listen to them rant about anything they want, as though you had this endless back fence you can talk over anytime you want. And one thing I keep running up against is that no mom in the world can claim that she is left alone in the bathroom. There is always a kid who needs you the very moment you close the door, a dog who is scratching at the door, a spouse who doesn't understand that maybe you don't want to answer any questions right now.

I know that someday my kids will want to be left alone, that I will not think of the bathroom as the only place in the house I can hide. Someday I will miss them. I will bug them in their rooms when they just want to close the door and be left alone for a little while. I know that I ought to cherish these years, when they just want to be near me. But inside, I will grieve for the bathroom I once knew, the place I could think my thoughts, my onetime fortress of solitude.

Stupid Layouts

Well, it occurred to me finally that though I liked my old layout, it wasn't the most interesting thing in the world. And though I may not myself actually be the most interesting thing in the world, I like to think that I am at least a little interesting, and it would be nice if the appearance of my blog reflected that. So off I went in search of a new layout for my blog.

And then I was immediately reminded of two things: one, the world (as it is represented by the inernet) is an extremely big place. And two: I am not good at anything more technologically advanced than an egg beater. So it took me most of my free time yesterday (which is probably a couple of hours in real time), but I did find a layout that I liked and that seemed to function with the limited instructions I was able to give it. ("Here. Go here. Be Pretty.")

So please let me know what you think. How does it look? Should I just go back to the old look? Does the new one work on computers other than mine? Are you there, Internet? It's me, Kendra. Any and all feedback is appreciated, since it lets me know I'm not completely talking to myself here.

Good One, God!

So remember all the sobbing on the floor after the hitting the head? (I still have a big red scab there, by the way--very sexy.) This was followed by much crying about pretty much nothing, leading to a few possibilities: one, my medication isn't working. Since I'm on an insanely high dosage of antidepressants, I hesitate even to think that's an option. In fact, I was just thinking that it was about time to talk to my psychiatrist about lowering my dosage, now that all the having babies and other stressors are done with. Two: maybe I'm just crazy. This is a logical next step in my head, that if I'm not dealing well with whatever is going on around me, I must therefore be "broken." That was mostly what I had concluded until... this afternoon, in a moment that confirms that God has a sense of humor, I got my period!

Now, this might not be very exciting news, but for a few things. One, it does seem to explain a lot; I've just been been PMS'ing. But I'm nursing, and I have a body (and kids) such that I don't get a period for a year or so after baby is born, what with the refual to sleep in their own beds and such. Additionally, I've been on the pill since, oh, 1999. Seriously. When we got married in 2002, I decided to switch brands over to the good-for-your-skin one before the wedding. Dumbass. I spent our honeymoon dealing with spotting and finally decided to go off it for a month or two and reset my system; I was pregnant before I got my first period off the pill. (We had been planning to try "soon," just hadn't decided on "immediately.") I went on the mini-pill as soon as he was born and was on it until he was 15 months old. I was pregnant within a month. I lost that pregnancy but was pregnant within a month after that. (3 C-sections; my body dearly loves to make babies, and it would keep them forever if it could.) After Ezra was born, I went back on the mini-pill and then onto the regular one. It was while I was on that pill that I got pregnant with Matilda. (Yes, I obviously screwed up somewhere; everyone asks if I forgot to take it. Apparently I did. And of course, I will be forever grateful that I did, since if I had been more responsible, I would be missing one of the things that makes my life whole.) After Matilda was born, I had my tubes tied.

So you see, I have not been without strange hormones of some kind coursing through my veins in about 10 years. I've been pregnant or on the pill pretty much the entire time. And I'm terrified. I first started the pill because of the severity of my periods, and now they're back, with no artificial hormones to dampen them down? (Could I even go back on the pill now, if they're intolerable? Would they think I was crazy if I tried?)

What's more, we're leaving tomorrow for the weekend. It's not a romantic getaway, at least there's that. And we're not camping. My potential discomfort would put a real damper on the outdoor experience. No, instead, my husband, three children, and father-in-law are driving 3 hours to visit my husband's brother (who we see a couple of times a year) and his wife. So for the next few days, I will be dealing with cramps, diarrhea, cold sweats, and all the shit that goes with something I was so grateful not to have to deal with for the last, well, two years at least. And I'm going to do it all while dealing with extended family who don't know me very well and make me nervous at the best of times. I'll be placating everyone, watching the little kids while my husband takes Zachary into the hotel swimming pool, being the good daughter-in-law and making sure his dad has everything he needs, and generally trying not to think about how much I wish I was alone, in my bed, with a novel and a glass of wine.

God, you crack me up!

I hate all things sharp and pointy

That's it, I am clearing out the house. At the curb, I am placing all things pointy. Forks, knives, pens, scissors, all yours for the taking. Everything must go. Especially shelves that stick out of the wall at forehead level and then attack without warning when all you did was drop a can of juice that you were trying to put in the recycling like a responsible person until you bent down to pick it up and then--wham! On the floor, sobbing, for five minutes.

It had been a cruddy afternoon. No one was listening to a word I said, then they decided to pull out every single puzzle. Some time ago, I took all our jigsaw puzzles of 100 pieces or so and put them in zip-loc bags and put the bags in a plastic tub. Clever storage, no? Yes, until they decide to open the tub, take out every puzzle, and open the puzzles on the floor in Ezra's room. I told them several times that as soon as all the puzzles were picked up, we could go outside. But every time I turned around, there were more. So I was near the end of my rope anyway. I decided to take a break from the puzzle-related anger and make more juice. And then came the dreaded shelf to the forehead. I was bending over, didn't realize it was right there, and now I have a giant, red, swollen rectangle on my forehead. It hurt enough to justify some serious swearing, but probably not the actual crying that ensued. I just couldn't believe that the world was being that mean to me today--and that the house full of children, whose owies I kiss, whose butts I clean, whose fights I referee, not one of them asked if I was okay, as I lay on the floor crying.

That was several hours ago, and it still hurts. When I suggested that it would be a good night for a pizza, my husband reminded me that we're going out of town this weekend and will be eating out for several meals. Of course, he's not doing any cooking tonight, so what does he care? My head hurts, and no one is being nice to me. Zachary and Ezra are playing "sneak up tp Mommy and pull her hair, because we're spies... or something." Matilda is following them around and getting pushed over occasionally. They need baths, and I don't feel like giving them. I'm so cranky and really want someone to take over my jobs--all my stupid keeping-everything-in-this-house-clean-and-alive jobs--for just a few hours.

On second throught, maybe I won't put all the pointy things out on the curb. Maybe I'll just sit out there. Maybe someone will offer to take me away, or maybe I'll just get a little time to myself.