Halloweiner

We hadn’t planned on doing anything extravagant for Halloween.  The Buddha certainly doesn’t care and, although I do love candy very much, I have enough pride that using my non-candy-eating baby as a ruse to beg from the neighbors seemed a bit distasteful.  But I believe that one of the benefits of having a baby is the chance to dress them up in outfits that will embarrass them later.  And, really, how many chances do you get for that?

As endless Babycenter spam e-mails has proven to me, there are a lot of ridiculously cute costumes for babies.  But, personally, I prefer Halloween costumes to be…Halloween-y.  I’ve got nothing against bunnies and frogs and monkeys and princesses (well, I have SOMETHING against princesses) but what do they have to do with Halloween?  Nothing, that’s what.  I’m not saying the Buddha has to go as a mini-Michael Myers, but I did want something that at least touched on the Halloween theme.

Several weeks ago I stopped in a nearby thrift store and there, hanging on the wall, was a gently used, Old Navy, 6-12 month sized pumpkin outfit.  Perfect!  Except that it cost $10.  I’ve mentioned before and I’ll mention again that I am, among other things, a Cheap Yankee.  And $10 for a used baby outfit that she will wear once was too much money.  I refused.  I decided that I would make her a costume.  That’s what Good Mothers do, right?

A pumpkin seemed a little complicated, so instead I decided to make her a black cat.  Dye some pants and a onesie black, make ears and a tail, draw on whiskers, ta da!  Done!  The perfect cute, yet Halloween-appropriate, costume.

Clearly I forgot who I am.  Apparently I was under the delusion that I was actually Caley and that I have some kind of crafting talent.  I have no crafting talent.  I am a non-crafter.  I like the IDEA of crafting, but the actual PROCESS of crafting baffles me.  I’m prone to doing things like starting to knit a hat in October, actually finishing the hat in June, and trying on the hat only to discover that I decreased too quickly and now the bloody thing makes me look like a Conehead.

I don’t craft.

But, for some reason, I decided to be a Good Mother and craft a black cat costume for the Buddha.

Then I promptly forgot about this decision until I was leaving work yesterday afternoon, which is when I realized Halloween was the NEXT DAY.

So I picked up the Buddha and then hauled a very cranky baby to the drugstore so I could buy black dye and a headband to hold ears.  I figured I’d forage in my house for the rest.  I raced home and changed the Buddha and fed the Buddha and cleaned up the kitchen and rummaged for costume items and put the Buddha to bed and then holy crap!  It was 8 PM, and I still needed to dye and wash and dry and sew and stuff and oh fer pity’s sake! 

Which is when my friend called me up to ask if we had a costume yet.  Because she found a bunny costume that her now-three-year old wore way back when and did we want it?  A bunny?  A BUNNY?  I believe I have made my feelings known on bunnies.

I looked at the pile of currently non-black clothing.  I looked at the unopened package of dye.  I looked at the shirt I was about to rip apart and make into ears and a tail.  I looked at the clock.

I said, “Yes, please.”

So the Buddha is going as a bunny.  My friend dropped the costume off this morning.  It’s very cute and white and pink and non-scary.  It’s very not Halloween.

I figure I have two options.  I can either go get some fake blood and make it look like the bunny got shot (too grim?) or I can tell everyone she’s the Rabbit of Caerbannog (too obscure?).  Preference?

(Oh, and by the way, the cost of all the stuff I purchased but never used for the failed cat costume?  $9.74.  See there, thrift store?  That’ll teach you!)

I think this is what is known as “anti-climactic”

As of today, the Buddha is 344 days old.

11 months, 9 days, and [checks time] 2 hours old.

And today marks the first time that the Buddha tasted formula.

After weeks of a combination of being too busy to pump and not being able to pump quite enough, I finally exhausted my frozen breastmilk supply.

So this morning I pulled out the sample can of formula I got in the hospital.  I looked at the four ounces of breastmilk I had.  I looked back at the can.  I checked the expiration date.  I shook it experimentally.  I read the directions.  I read the ingredients list.  I frowned and shook the can again.  I double-checked the freezer to make sure I hadn’t missed something.  I sighed.

I picked up the can.  I popped the lid off.  I looked at the powder.  I looked back at the breastmilk.  I sniffed the powder.  I read the directions again.  I dug out the little scoop.  I noticed how it was sized to dump nicely into a bottle.  I checked the directions again.  I filled the scoop.  I dumped it back out into the can.  I filled it again.  I frowned at it.  I dumped it into an empty bottle.  I checked the directions again.  I filled the scoop a third time.  I dumped that one into the bottle, too.  I checked the directions again.  I filled the bottle with the required amount of water.  I shook the bottle.  I eyed the liquid.  I picked up the breastmilk.  I sighed again.  With head pulled back like I was performing a dangerous experiment, I poured the two together.

I screwed the nipple on the bottle.  I shook it.  I eyed it.  I put it in the cooler for daycare.  I drove to daycare.  I took it out of the cooler.  I warned the daycare providers that she might not like it.  I made sure they understood that.  I went to work.  I wrung my hands.  I resisted calling.  I went to pick her up.  I checked her chart.  She drank the whole thing.  I looked at the Buddha.  She smiled back at me.

I went home.  I unpacked the pump bag and discovered I’d have to do the same thing tomorrow.

I didn’t care.

Things I did instead of sleeping after the Buddha woke me up at 5 o’clock this morning

Watched a short film on the Documentary Film Channel about people white water rafting in Ethiopia.  Thought about how, despite loving Ethiopian food, I have no desire to ever go to Ethiopia.  Looks dusty.

Baked apple muffins for breakfast using the apples some friends gave us about three weeks ago.  As a result, delayed breakfast so long that I started snapping at every living creature in the house once my blood sugar plummeted to single digits.

Generously put the dogs out and fed them so that the Alias Father could sleep in longer.  Then picked a fight with him when he insisted on getting up with his alarm anyway, thus negating my generosity.

Decided to make the good coffee using the stove top espresso maker.  Then whined out continuous complaints about how long it took while waiting for the water to boil.

Took the time to actually iron my pants instead of just shaking them vigorously before donning them.  Refused to look in the mirror to see the improvement because I didn’t want to trap myself into having to do it every day.

Had an extensive one-sided conversation with the Alias Father about how I think I am becoming a morning person after all.

Performed Heimlich maneuver to dislodge apple muffin from Alias Father’s throat after he inhaled it from laughing so hard.

And now for something completely different: The Poverty Party

So Bossy…do you all know Bossy?  She’s over there on my sidebar, Bossy is.  I like me some Bossy and I read Bossy every morning while I drink my coffee at work.  Sometimes I have to quickly cover Bossy up with a spreadsheet if a coworker needs to talk to me, but I’m pretty sure Bossy doesn’t mind.

Anyway, as a new feature, Bossy is running a Poverty Party in which she will chronicle her family’s efforts to get out of debt and she kindly invited the internet to go along.

Now, as my inability to actually produce a post for Aud’s Dinner Party proves, I’m not real good at bandwagons.  I tend to think the bandwagon is pretty and I think about climbing on and picking up a tuba but then…oh look! Over there! Someone is selling cotton candy.  I’ll catch up with the bandwagon in a second.  Then I have to run after the bandwagon, but now I’m trying to carry this huge thing of cotton candy and hey I’m almost there and oh look!  The ring toss booth!

Clearly, bandwagons aren’t really my gig.  Also, I’m a real pain at carnivals, too.

But I think this bandwagon is particularly important.  I’m not a financial advisor, or a banker, or an accountant, nor do I work with money in any real fashion, but I have Strong Opinions about money and getting out of debt.  Strong Opinions that were earned with serious battle scars.

So me and my sticky cotton candy fingers are going to get on this bandwagon.

Here we go.

I was married five years ago this October.  When we got married, I had approximately $18,000 in student loan debt to my name.  Not great, I think we’d agree, but understandable given how things work these days.  My husband had $25,000 in debt. $10,000 was his student loans.  $15,000 was credit cards and other bad, bad debt including an old car loan for a car he no longer owned.  That particular debt he decided to deal with in an ideal manner, in that he ignored it and desperately hoped it would go away.  Which I don’t recommend that you do unless you like getting phone calls from debt collection agencies and developing ongoing relationships with polite but persistent debt collector agents named Nancy.

Anyway, let’s whip out the calculator, shall we?  Combining my debt and his debt, we learn that I started my blissful journey on the marital path with a debt load of $43,000.  Happy honeymoon!  

Today?  Today we are at about $27,000.  $17,000 paid off in five years.  Except, not.  Because we have a car loan now that we didn’t have then (it was necessary. You’ll have to trust me on this) that is now at $14,000.  So we actually paid off $31,000 in debt in five years.  Yes, a lot remains.  But the vast majority of that is still my student loan.  And that stupid, yet necessary, car loan.  We are making progress.  We see the light at the end of the tunnel.  It’s a pinprick, but it is there.

Through this journey I developed my Strong Opinions about money.  About debt.  About the sacrifices one needs to make to get out of debt.  About what I will teach my children about money.  About the way debt can destroy a marriage.  About the way debt can build a marriage back up.  About how I truly believe that if we can do it, anyone can do it.  About exactly what I will do to celebrate the day we write our last debt-payment check.  Over the next few weeks and months I’m going to share my Strong Opinions, because I can’t wait until the Buddha is old enough for the lecture.

If you need to blame someone, blame Bossy.  She invited me.

Dear Universe: I get it

Figures that the day I write a ridiculously self-indulgent post, I go home to learn that some acquaintances undergoing a troubled pregnancy lost their baby in the seventh month.

This is the second time this has happened to them.

That’ll do, universe, that’ll do.

Message received.

Blessings counted.

There’s little doubt in my family about who is the Crazy Aunt

Yesterday morning I became an aunt for the fifth time.  This post is not about that.

My new, redonkulously cute little niece was born to my sister-in-law, a sweet woman that I love very much even though, seriously, you would be hard-pressed to find someone more completely my opposite.  We actually lived next door to one another in a duplex for the first few years of my marriage.  I acknowledge that this would be a terrifying thought for many people, but we had a good time.  Plus, since we are married to brothers, we had a built-in sympathetic ear whenever one of us needed to complain about why he always had to do that, as they were always doing the same things.  So, yes, I love her very much.  But this post isn’t about that either.

What this post is about is how I am a really lousy, petty person with deep ugly bits in my soul.

Let’s start at the beginning. Nearly 11 months ago (dear heavens, really?) I gave birth.  If you are new here, and would like to read the story, it can be found here, here, and here.  Yes, I did split my birth story into three parts.  It totally was necessary and not narcissistic at all. *cough*  If you don’t want to read the whole birth novel, here’s the short version: 16 hours into a natural childbirth I had a c-section.

Here’s how I felt about the c-section at the time: it was absolutely necessary.  Here’s how I felt about the c-section a week later: it was absolutely necessary?  Here’s how I felt a month later: was it absolutely necessary?  Here’s how I feel almost a year (DEAR HEAVENS, REALLY?) later: I didn’t fight hard enough.

I know that I am not the only c-section woman to feel this way, despite the fact that it is kind of stupid.  I mean, if I had my gallbladder out, I wouldn’t be fretting a year later that my doctor was wrong, that I didn’t really need my gallbladder taken out, give me back my gaaaaallblaaaaadder.  I would trust my doctor, accept that it needed to happen, and get on with my gallbladder-less life.

But that’s the tricky thing about feelings.  You can’t think them away.

My sister-in-law was in active labor for right around 16 hours when my husband checked in with his brother and learned that they were considering a c-section.  Her water had broken nearly 24 hours earlier and the baby wasn’t progressing.  The doctors were getting concerned about infection and were putting surgery on the table as an option.  I thought, “Oh, poor girl.  I wish they didn’t have to do that.”  Then we went to bed.

At 7 AM we learned that she gave birth vaginally after 30 hours of labor.  When I talked to my brother-in-law, he said it all went rather quickly, “once the baby cleared the pubic bone.”

And my ugly little bits sat up straight and said, “AHA.”

That’s why I needed a c-section: because the Buddha wouldn’t clear the pubic bone.  Clearly, I didn’t fight hard enough.

Never mind that the Buddha was over 10 pounds and the new niece was under 6.  Never mind that my sister-in-law chose to have an epideral so she could get some sleep and rest for the pushing and I bullied my way through without.  Never mind that we are totally different women with totally different bodies.

She fought.  I didn’t.

Remember what I said about feelings?  That you can’t think them away?

Anne Lamott in (I think) her book Operating Instructions talks about having a Swiss Cheese Soul.  That deep down there are all of these little black holes of ugliness that she is secretly ashamed of, things that she’s convinced Jesus doesn’t know about or he wouldn’t love her.  Of all the little ugly bits in my soul, the one that produces some of the nastiest by-products is my need to be the toughest damn woman in the room.  You are strong?  I am stronger.   You can take pain?  I can take more.  If I were a marathoner, I would be that person crawling across the finish line on bloody stumps because I will not give up.  This is not internal motivation.  This is completely external.  I will not let you see me as weak.  Ever.  I am She-Ra.  You are mere mortal.  (Insert roaring sound here.)

Pretty obvious why I chose natural childbirth, isn’t it?

So learning that my sister-in-law, a girly-girl who always has perfect make-up, who is scared to stay at home alone, who refuses to put up with any discomfort and believes that camping involves room service, learning that she was able to fight it out and I couldn’t…well.  I’ve been living very deep in my Swiss Cheese Soul for the last day.  Let’s just say that.

There’s nowhere to go on this particular train of feelings, is there?  No place but to the deeper and even uglier bits and I don’t think that is really an option, is it?

So I guess I’ll just keep feeling the feelings until I work my way out of them.  In the meantime, I’ll just keep looking at the e-mailed picture of my little, beautiful, sweet new niece and hope that the light that she brings will outshine the darkness of my ugly.

I think we have a future in child photography

Less than a week after taking the Buddha’s 10 month pictures, I finally remembered to pick them up from the photo shop.  I know, right? GO ME.  And despite all the drama around taking these pictures, I think they came out rather

FLASH!

(Yes, that’s the Alias Father’s arm.  I know. Sexxxxy.)

It could have gone horribly wrong but instead I think the effect is rather

FLASH!

(Okay, yes, the house is a mess. What of it?)

As I was saying, what matters is recording these little moments of Buddha history and the format is merely a vehicle for

FLASH!

(And, fine, we do own the most boring living room rug in history.  But we keep it because it is also scratchy and uncomfortable.)

What do you think, Buddha?  You don’t mind that some of the pictures are a little

FLASH!

I didn’t think so.

PS- That last photo is so blurry that it wasn’t until the third proofing of this post that I realized that blue, black, and pasty blob in the background is me.  Good luck identifying me from that photo, suckers!

The Unimaginative Update

The verdict: He is indeed out of a job.

The downside: We’ve lost a very stable source of income.  Just like the rest of the bloody country.

The practical upside: He’s got a lot of good leads for other jobs working with people with similar management philosophies doing work he likes better.

The kumbaya-singing upside: As soon as he accepted that he wasn’t working with that contractor anymore, he was a new man.  It really is amazing how much a bad job crushes the other areas of your life, isn’t it?

My state of mind: mildly optimistic and holding steady.

An answer that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike an answer*

The Alias Father finally called.  At 3:41. Yes, nearly four hours of me tap, tap, tapping my fingers impatiently until my Next Cube Neighbor came over and sawed them off with an old Microsoft Word CD.  So then I started tapping my foot.

(Um, if you have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about, you should start here.  And then work your way back up to this post.  Okay then.)

There’s been a long game of phone tag going on all day, apparently, hence the silence.  A manly game of phone tag in which little is communicated beyond, “Hey, man” and “I dunno.”  Getting the gist of these messages from my husband is rather like trying to interpret the language of the apes. 

Him: He said, blah blah, you know.
Me: No, I don’t know.
Him: He said whatever, then he didn’t call back.
Me: Why would he call back? You were talking to him.
Him: NO. That was a message.
Me: Oh. Did you call him back?
Him: Yeah.
Me: And what did you say?
Him: Nothing. I got his voicemail. So I was like, look dude, I dunno, if you need me, blah blah, you know.
Me: NO! I DON’T KNOW. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
Him: Why are you always yelling at me? I’m trying to tell you what happened. 

When we have these conversations, I’m always hunched over my cell phone like Dian Fossey, trying to take notes in code so that I can go back to my tent and figure out whether a grunt and a scratch to the armpit means “I’m hungry,” “I have cooties,” or “I’m completely out of a job, good luck with the mortgage.” 

Anyway, after extensive use of the Socratic method, I managed to discover that while there has been no resolution to the problem, the Alias Father has spent the day calling contacts and securing at least two weeks worth of work should there be no job after they do talk.  Which might be tonight.  Hopefully while I am out of the room so that the sound of me banging my head into a wall won’t be distracting.

*I think I’m done now.  Maybe.  Possibly.  Either way I think I gotta re-read the book.

I’m going to go spoon with Marvin*

8:15

Him: I’ve tried calling him [the general contractor] but he’s not answering his phone.  I think he’s ignoring me.  How do long do you think I should give him to call back before I quit?
Me: I dunno.  Lunchtime?
Him: Okay.  Sounds good.
Me: Keep me updated, okay?
Him: Will do.

12:03

*ticktockticktockticktock*

WHY IS HE NOT CALLING ME?  OR ANSWERING HIS PHONE?

*Seriously, I apologize to non-Douglas Adams fans, but I have a THEME now.  I must stick with it.