Tears and fears

Yesterday, B had planned to go straight from work to his cousin’s house, and spend the night there. His cousin lives right near our storage unit, so it made sense for him to be closeby so he could wake up this morning and easily get there.

Instead, he took a detour on the way to his cousin’s house and decided to “go out to dinner with his sister.” I immediately smelled trouble. “Going out to dinner” meant going to a bar with his sister, her alcoholic husband, and his asshole friend.

B does not do well in these kinds of situations, although he likes to think he does. At 145 pounds, he’s a bit of a lightweight, and especially with beer. For some reason, beer fucks him up. It also gives him incredible hangovers. And yet, he was chugging beer. This is what I call “competetive drinking.” It’s what boys do when they socialize, trying to keep up with each other and look manly. And so of course, B had too much to drink.

Now when B has too much to drink in a “competetive drinking atmosphere”, he turns into a major dick. He gets a whole shitload of liquid courage and turns from the passive nice guy that he is into the world’s biggest asshole. He pokes fun at everyone in sight and keeps prodding and needling until you just want to smack him upside the head. Apparently, one of the guys couldn’t take it anymore, and proceeded to bitch B out. The guy told him that he “was a dick to his friends and a dick to his family.” B flipped out, walked out the bar, throwing his beer glass down on the ground as he exited. And even though his sister had firmly told him that he WOULDN’T be driving, he drove. He drove drunk on New Year’s weekend. And while he drove, he called me. And while he drove and called me, he sobbed like a baby. Now this part is important. I have NEVER, EVER seen or heard B cry. Not even when his grandmother died, not even when our children were born. He claims that he hasn’t cried since he was 12 years old. I was pissed at him, pissed at his sister for not doing more to stop him from driving, and I was shocked at his tears. Over and over he was saying things like “I’m a dick and nobody likes me. You hate me, my family hates me, and I don’t like the person I am. I give up, I’m not doing it anymore, I just give up.” It was really, really distressing. I made him hang up the phone while I frantically called his cousin to explain the situation and to warn him that a very intoxicated B was on his way there.

His cousin is in AA and has been sober for several years. I knew this would make for a very interesting night.

I shook violently and my teeth chattered until I got the call that he had arrived safely and was sobering up. I spoke to him for a few minutes and assured him that he was a good person, that everyone liked him, but yes, he IS a dick when he drinks, and that perhaps it’s time to say goodbye to The Drink. Perhaps for me too.

I’ve never loved him more.

Absolute Insanity

Things are crazy here. Absolutely positively fucking crazy.

In about an hour, I leave to go sign the lease and get the keys (!) to my new place. From that moment forward, the entire world starts going apeshit. The weekend is so jam-packed full of activity that I had to write out a detailed, complicated and intricate itinerary to refer back to every several hours. Otherwise I’d probably just stand around with a very confused/distressed look on my face. It really is a lot harder than you think to rent a truck, load it up from a storage unit, drive it a few hours north, unpack, return the truck, and get your new house in order whilst trying to wrangle in three little boys. Oh, and I forgot to mention–we’re having a New Year’s Eve party. Hah! Ha. Ha. Ha. I hope you’re amused, because my panic attack is already beginning to set in.

On a more exciting depressing note, we have sold our beautiful 36″ inch flat screen television for $250 and the sale of our 1 year old couch and loveseat is pending at a price of $700. It’s a strange thing, watching my posessions fly right out the window. Strange and quite scary but still…freeing. We’ll see how I feel when everything is gone. Except for the Dyson Animal. I didn’t pay $600 for the world’s greatest vacuum cleaner to sell it to someone who won’t love and cherish it the way that I have. There. My love affair with my vacuum is out there in the open. Call me a desperate housewife. Or anal retentive. Even OCD. But now you know.

More updates to follow.

I keep trying to tell you how hot I am!

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The Compact

Only a few days left, and we will be hauling box after box and miserably heavy pieces of furniture from storage unit to diesel truck to new home. After which, we will be wading through mountains of posessions and tunneling out a path to the bathroom and kitchen.

In the last few weeks, I have come across a group of individuals now known as “compacters.” During 2006, they made a vow to buy NOTHING new. An article can be found here.

The Compact has several aims (more or less prioritized below):

To go beyond recycling in trying to counteract the negative global environmental and socioeconomic impacts of disposable consumer culture and to support local businesses, farms, etc. — a step that, we hope, inherits the revolutionary impulse of the Mayflower Compact.
To reduce clutter and waste in our homes (as in trash Compact-er).
To simplify our lives (as in Calm-pact)
We’ve agreed to follow two principles (see exceptions etc. on our blog).

#1 Don’t buy new products of any kind (from stores, web sites, etc.)
#2 Borrow, barter, or buy used.

And so, ladies and gentleman, B and I have decided to join in the fun for 2007. Our personal reasons/goals for this decision are as follows:

1. To reduce clutter in our new home and to provide more living space, thus reducing chaos, uncleanliness, and stress.
This will be accomplished by selling or donating any items that we do not use regularly.

2. To save money and pay off debt. Our hope is that any profit made from selling off our posessions will make it possible to become debt free by 2008. Our refusal to buy new should also greatly minimize spending and allow us to continue to survive on one income.

3. To simplify our lives and allow us to focus more attention on our children. We have too many ‘things’ that take us away from quality family time (i.e. this computer!) We also have lost the ability to find pleasure in simplicity, and our hope is to reclaim this for ourselves and our boys.

4. To curb consumerism and commercialism in our children by refusing to hook up cable television, shopping new, and by doing what we can to “live green.” (Recycling, reusing, and by becoming ecologically responsible.)

I’ve been planning a second blog for the sole purpose of documenting our journey. However, my digital camera has bit the dust, and until I can find someone to fix it, or I can find a good used cam, the blogging plans have been put on hold.

Happy New Year everyone–and wish us luck!

Oh, and P.S: B’s also on a mission to quit smoking for yet another New Year’s resolution. Wish HIM even more luck!

There Will Be Time

There is time still
for sitting in cafes
in Paris
sipping wine.
Time still
for going to meet
the guru.
There is time still.
Now I am caring for eternity.
Carrying bodies soft with sleep
to beds of flowered
quilts and pillows.
Answering cries deep out of
nighttime fears.
Buckling shoes.
Opening doors.
Pretending.
My soul now is dwelling in
the house of tomorrow.
Tomorrow there will be time
for long leisurely conversations,
for poems to write,
and dances to perform.
Time still.
So I surrender now
to them and this,
knowing it is they
who will teach me
how to do it all.

Peggy O’Mara

Christmas #1

This morning at 7AM, we had our first Christmas with one half of the fam. Here are my fave gifts:

Piece by a local artist that I have been lusting after for months:

Coffee cup from the local espresso stand. (I am TOTALLY a genuine islander now.)

Bath & Body Works warm vanilla sugar body wash. *Orgasm*

PURPLE monogrammed stationary. (The “R” doesn’t give away my true identity, does it?)

Oh yeah, and here’s a cool picture of my brother:

I’ll be gone for Christmas #2, so I’ll see ya’ll back here on the 26th!!! Happy Holidays!

A Man’s World

Yesterday, Pigpen jumped off the bus and came trudging up the steps to the front door. The first thing he said to me, even before our usual hug, was “I got PUNCHED in the NECK today!” You could tell that he had been keeping this bit of information bottled up inside of him all day long and that it was bubbling it’s way up to the surface, furiously pushing it’s way out. I took him inside and asked, “What? By whom? Why? Did you tell on him? Did you say something to him first? Did you hit him back? Did you get in trouble?” After quite the interrogation, he gave me no information except that he didn’t know why the kid hit him, he didn’t do anything to him first, he didn’t tell on him, didn’t retaliate and didn’t get in trouble. Apparently, nobody saw a thing. I told him we’d sort it all out when Daddy got home.

A few hours later, when B arrived, he took Pigpen into the bedroom and closed the door. I stood outside, listening. He asked the same questions again. He got the same answers. And then Pigpen began to cry. After B had reassured him that everything was going to be okay and that he wasn’t in trouble, I heard him speak the words I have been dreading since I found out that my destiny involved three sons.

“Pigpen, listen to me. This is important. If anyone ever hurts you again, you don’t just stand there and do nothing. You hit back. You make sure that people know that they can’t mess with you, that you won’t put up with that. You need to defend yourself.”

And then Pigpen’s little voice saying “But then I’ll get in trouble!”

“Well you won’t get in trouble with me. And if they punish you at school, I will come to school and talk to the teachers and the principal personally. You don’t worry about that part.”

I’ve known this was a conversation that was going to happen eventually. It’s one of the few things that B and I completely disagree on when it comes to parenting. In my opinion, retaliation with fists is the pussy way out. It doesn’t take any talent to get pissed off and hit someone back. It takes self control and integrity to walk away or find another solution. And yet, B can still vividly remember being 7 years old and being beat on by classmates. He remembers not fighting back, hearing his Dad’s voice inside his head, scaring him into submission. He maintains that his weakness and refusal to stand up for himself set an image in stone, and all through his school years, he was never respected.

We debated it again last night. His new argument is that “most boys will fight and be friends afterwards.” He says that “it’s a man’s world out there and sometimes, this is how problems between men get solved.”

I can see where he’s coming from. I don’t want my kid getting hurt. I certainly don’t want some big bully walking up to my sweet little angel on the playground and punching him in the neck for no reason at all. In fact, all I want to do is march out there during recess and grab that little fuck by the collar and shake the fear of God into him. But somewhere deep inside, I know that teaching my children about non-violent communication and problem solving is what is right. It’s something that will set them up for the challenges and fear and pain and hurdles of life. And so, after B’s lecture I stand there and look my boy’s in the eyes and I say, “But if you ask me, a bully isn’t worth your time and energy. Show him how little his actions mean to you by walking away.” They look at me and roll their eyes. At least I’ve said my piece and can go to bed with a clear conscience.

What do the rest of you think? To retaliate in self defense or not?

Becoming Auntie

One of my greatest desires in life is to become an aunt. Both B and I have been waiting and waiting for someone to give us a little niece or nephew. I guess there’s just something so exciting and wonderful about being the “hero” to a little kid that you adore and never having to be “the bad guy” because they’re your own offspring.

It seems like it would totally be possible for me to become an aunt. I have 4 siblings and 2 sister-in-laws. Being fair, a few of them are too young to be thinking about babies. (Go to school, Caitlin!) My brother will also never have children. And then there leaves the last two couples. One is incapable of having children, now into their 40’s without ever having any success at pregnancy. The other couple has been our last shred of hope for Aunt and Unclehood anytime soon. They’ve been trying for years. One miscarriage, and then nothing but years of failure. This woman is amazing. She’s incredibly successful, has a fabulous career, and now two (TWO!) waterfront homes. She throws fabulous parties and is wonderful to my children and is so much fun to be around. And still, you can tell that there is something missing. It just breaks my heart to bits. I invited her to be at Rylan’s birth, and I was so happy to share it with her. She seemed so grateful to be there, but now I wonder if I had been insensitive and did more damage than good.

Last night B came home to tell me that she had miscarried again at 11 weeks. 11 weeks! One more week and they would have hit that “magical safe point” and they would have happily announced the pregnancy to the family. She was so close to the 2nd trimester…so close to having the morning sickness fading away. She went through 11 weeks planning, planning, planning. I can’t even imagine the pain. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to have all of the material posessions you want, to have the life you’ve always dreamed of, but to be missing the children. To be just watching the years rolls past and knowing that you’re only getting older–that soon it will be too late.

I know that this is her story, her tragedy, her pain. I know that it is my job to feel empathy, to give my condolences. And yet I feel myself grieving as well. I was so close. So close to becoming an aunt. Is that selfish of me?

There’s another thing as well. The past few years I have toyed with the idea of surrogacy. I can’t think of anything greater that I could do with my fertility, my healthy pregnancies, and my uncomplicated labors than to put my body on loan for 10+ months. And better yet, how amazing it would be to give that gift to a family member. Technically speaking, I only have a few years left to be considered for surrogacy. It makes me wonder if I should send this option out to my family member. And if so–how? Would she be offended? Would the timing be bad? When would the timing be right? Should I wait another year, wait for another miscarriage? I’m at a loss. Anyone’s thoughts on this would be appreciated. I’d especially like to hear from anyone who has experienced loss and how an offer of surrogacy would come across, emotionally. Thanks, everyone.

Estella

I think I have a yeast infection.

LOL. Is this a lovely blog topic or what? I am envisioning several of you groaning at this very moment, squirming in your seat. Too bad. Look away now if you’re going to be a pussy about it. (Pun intended.)

I’ve only had one yeast infection in my life, during my first pregnancy. From what I hear, yeast during gestation is common. But outside of that one incident…nada. I’m just not a yeasty person. I firmly believe that I managed to avoid subsequent infections by faithfully eating a carton of yogurt every day during the following pregnancies. By the way, I also had ZERO incidents of super-painful-middle-of-the-night-leg-cramps by eating a banana a day and taking a calcium/magnesium supplement. I also had NO heartburn by taking digestive enzymes regularly.

Anyway, this whole thing started after the motherfucking (excuse my French, but this is exactly how I feel about it) IUD caused my last period to drag on for NINE DAYS. Nine days! And because I am strongly opposed to the feeling of a sanitary napkin in my underpants, I wore a tampon inserted into my vaginal canal 24/9. I’m pretty sure that was enough to kickstart a nasty yeast infection. To solve this problem in the future, I have already decided on using a Diva Cup next month. For those of you who don’t know, the Diva Cup is a little silicone “cup” you insert into your vagina, where it collects menstrual blood and only needs to be emptied 2 or 3 times per 24 hour period.

But for now, I need to deal with the yeast issue. Because I’m too cheap to see a doctor, and because I’m anti-antibiotic (haha) anyway, I’ve decided to call upon some natural remedies. I’m really hoping the first one works. I’ve got to be at the in-laws on Saturday for a long Christmas holiday, and I’d rather not be seen with my hand continually down my pants a la Al Bundy.

So today, I am embarking on the yogurt-on-tampon remedy. In order to attempt this, you must first purchase a carton of PLAIN yogurt with active cultures. (NO ADDED SUGAR!) You then dip a tampon into the yogurt, and insert into vagina. One hour in the morning, one at night. I’m a little sketchy about tampon use again, but the thought of cool yogurt to calm the nether-regions has won me over.

I’ll let you all know how it goes. And please, let me know–has anyone tried this before? Thoughts?

Breaking the mold

Here is what you will see if you are following behind my green crapovan:

It took me a long time to decide on a bumper sticker. I knew that I only wanted ONE, and I wanted it to be GOOD. So many things I believe in, so many stances to take, so many witty little thoughts to convey. For a long while, I debated this one, but was afraid that I might get gunned down or something by a bitter and hostile mama.

To be fair, I would rather the sticker said “homebirthing’” instead of “babywearing’” since I now only wear Animal when the terrain is too rough for stroller pushing. It also could say “non vaccinating”, but then people would probably avoid my van like it was the plague or something. Actually, that might be a great anti-theft device.

Last week I took Animal to a pediatrician. He had his last checkup when he was 6 months old. Because we’re not vaccinating, I wasn’t seeing much of a reason for his checkups. He’s always been the picture of health. However, since we’ve relocated, I thought that it was best to get him hooked up with a doctor here. I found out the hard way that when you actually NEED to see a doctor, it’s damn near impossible unless you’re already an established patient. I checked around with some of the La Leche league moms to get a recommendation for a doctor who wouldn’t harass me about my decision to refuse vaccinations. I had several mamas refer me to the same pediatrician. I figured that was a pretty good sign. However, when we went to see him, he asked me why I had chosen not to vaccinate. He said that since it was our first visit, he wanted to know my reasons so that he could make sure I was making an informed decision, and then he wouldn’t bring it up again. He went on to ask me about 15 questions. Things like, “Do you know how many children experiece a side effect from the DtaP vaccine?” Now, not only am I a non-confrontational sort, I don’t retain information well and I certainly don’t memorize statistics to use in debates with my doctor. Perhaps I should. I had no clue what any of the answers were, and still am really suspicious about the accuracy of his responses. He went on to tell me that I can’t listen to anecdotes, stories from parents whose children have died from vaccines. He talked about how the media blows up ONE bad case to instill fear and paranoia. He told me that I couldn’t trust anything that I read on the internet, and that if I wanted “to go looking for info against vaccines, I’d find it.” (Insinuating that I was only looking at one sided sources.) He filled up the entire tissue paper used to cover the exam table with graphs and statistics. He told me that the chance of death from a pertussis vaccine was 1 in 1 trillion, but that he had personally treated a 7 year old boy for whooping cough and the child had ended up mentally retarded. He said that for the money that had been spent to treat this one child, they could have paid to vaccinate every child in the state of California. It just went on and on and on. It was terrible. Truly terrible. I knew that arguing or even asking questions would make the visit even longer, and the last thing I wanted to do was continue to trap myself in this stuffy exam room with Dr. Save The Country From My Unvaccinated Child.

I’ve been replaying the entire situation in my mind for days. I spent close to a year researching this issue. I pored over some of the most mind numbing medical literature out there. It was nothing but sheer torture. There was a time when I was confident. But now, I’m just tired of fighting. I know that rationally, I cannot dwell on the horror stories. And yet I cannot stop thinking about the healthy 7 year old whose life was completely ruined by a disease that could have possibly been prevented by a vaccine. I’ve talked with B about it. He’s never been very supportive of my choice, but has been draggged along with it. We’re considering shelling out the money to see the naturopath, and possibly creating a delayed vaccination schedule.

Today, I went on my favorite discussion boards to get some support and encouragement from the natural moms. I explained the above situation, the pediatrician, my fears, etc. The replies came pouring in, and every single one felt judgmental. “I can’t believe you would give in to vaccination just to get a pediatrician off your back. What are you AFRAID of?”

I also posted another topic about leaving Animal for a week while I go to Florida. I wanted to see if anyone had any experience with leaving a nursing toddler for an extended period of time. Again, the responses were negative. “I would never leave my nursing child–our breastfeeding relationship means more to me than that.”

The comments just made me so flippin’ angry. I feel that I am labeled no matter what. I had a homebirth. I breastfeed. I am breastfeeding a toddler. I cloth diaper. I wear my baby. I practice gentle discipline and attachment parenting. At times, I co-sleep. I am training to become a doula. I don’t vaccinate. I strive to eat organic. It feels like I’m being pushed into a mold, and if I decide against something that doesn’t perfectly fit the mold, I get cast out from the group and discarded. I no longer fit into the elitist, yuppie, neo-hippie revolution. It makes me want to go all teenage-rebellious, rip that sticker off my car, buy a pack of Huggies and enjoy a little Walmart spending spree.