Signs that it's time to keep sweatshirts and blankets in the car instead of just reusable shopping bags

I did something kind of stupid.

Despite the ick feeling I had in my gut, I took a preliminary writing job for Mr. Gray. He's the employer I interviewed with back in June who was concerned that, because I have children, an emergency might arise while I was at work, thus making me an unreliable/shitty employee. I never did submit a writing sample; instead he decided to give me a press release to write, with no deadline.

After he emailed me the contacts' names and phone numbers for the release he wrote, "I'm counting on you!"

"You got it!" I shot back.

No sooner had I hit send email than Cam walked into my room, clutched his stomach and puked all over the floor. That delayed my writing for a few days because, as luck would have it, the other two boys got it within 24 hours. (I should have known to run the other way when I was dropping Cam off for pre-school and one of his classmates was yacking on the sidewalk. Rookie move!)

At least I'd laid the ground work: I'd done my research on the topic, emailed and called my sources and started to shape my story.

As soon as the boys were back on their feet, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. Except that I had two freelance jobs that had been sitting on the back burner. As soon as I finished those I could get to work on Mr. Gray's release.

Then the sitter started throwing up. My mom too. Then Chuck. 

Childcare became a mirage in the desert.

Days passed. Then a few more days.

Finally! I finally had time to write the release.

Then my eyeball started to ache. Then it stung. Then it felt like someone was stabbing it with a dagger. When I looked at a computer screen it only felt worse, so I covered the bad eye with an eye patch from one of the kid's Halloween costumes and typed as much as I could.

"Rest your eye," Chuck ordered when he caught me wincing at the computer in my pirate patch. He shut off my computer and walked me to bed. I was asleep by 8:15 p.m.

When I woke up the next morning my eyelid was swollen shut, and the skin around it looked like a football.

"Agh!" Chuck cried in horror. "You're going to the doctor!"

By that time, light hurt my eye too, and of course the day was cloudless, so I grabbed what I could from the car to cover it — which was, of course, a reusable shopping bag (at least it was clean) — and put it over my head. We live an hour from our in-network eye doctor; thank you Affordable Care Act. I half expected someone to glance over on the highway, see me with a bag over my head, and call me in as an attempted abduction, but we arrived unbothered.

I guess Chuck doesn't look suspicious enough.

"You have what could be a fatal eye infection," the eye doctor told me after he examined me. "If the infection goes to your brain that's it for you."

But I have a press release to write, I thought to myself. The doctor wrote me a prescription and told me to come back in two days.

I asked Chuck to email Mr. Gray from my account and explain I had a life-threatening illness but that the release was 90% done. A few days passed. My eye improved. Mr. Gray didn't reply. A few more days passed; my eye was almost completely healed. Still no word from Mr. Gray. Even though it still stung to look at the computer, I finished the damn press release.  

I was about to email it to Mr. Gray when I saw that the local media had written a story about the very topic of my press release. Using the same sources. Touting the same product launch. Then I understood: Mr. Gray had wanted the release pre-launch and he'd wanted me to sleuth out the launch date to see how much I'd been paying attention. To see how with it I was.

But I wasn't with it. Oh no, I was as far from with it as your earlobe is from your ass crack. I had crawled out of a vomit hole and I'd worn a pirate patch. I'd driven on the interstate with my head in a shopping bag.

I'd been exactly the person Mr. Gray had believed I was: someone who is derailed by motherhood's emergencies.

I sent him the release anyway. I didn't charge him, and I never heard from him again. I guess I could have listened to my gut, and said "no thanks" after my strange interview. Instead I had to listen to my eyeball.

Seriously, if all of your body parts are telling you the same thing, it probably wasn't meant to be. And man, this really was not meant to be.

5 ways motherhood has made me stealthlier. Alternate title: My brain now has tentacles

That was a bold declaration I made in my last post. You know, the one where I patted myself on the back and pronounced that I rock motherhood sometimes. It's true though, some days I do feel like I have a handle on things. I really, really do.

Then one of the kids will grow up a little more and change the rules a little bit and I'll look at him and think, Frick, this is uncharted territory. Now what?

It's like making it to the next level of a video game only to find that the magic torch and invisible cloak with which you'd defeated the wizard in the previous level are now worthless.

But I'm wiser for having children. Here are 5 ways how:

1. Reinforcing basic people skills ("Say you're sorry to Billy for taking his toy") has made me a better communicator.
Before having kids I would have sat back and enjoyed the fireworks of a good argument. Now, if someone is having a disagreement, I feel more confident helping them work it out. I've reasoned with this, after all:

2. Five years of explaining things to a child ("Trees produce oxygen, so we shouldn't cut them all down") has improved my professional career.
Before having kids I would have just written off a colleague as inept if she/he didn't understand a point I was making. Now, I know better how to put 1 + 2 together for him/her. Spelling things out makes everyone happy, especially bosses.

3. Trying to anticipate the irrational needs of a little person ("You wanted a blue one? But your favorite color is red!") has challenged me to prepare for anything and everything.
Before having kids I would have forgotten my own tampons. Now, instead of thinking in linear terms, the tentacles in my brain stretch to the far recesses. I pack supplies for everyone, even the cat. I trouble shoot for Scenario A, G, and Q. You'd be amazed at how often Q happens. 

4. Being continuously interrupted in the bathroom (Knock! Bang! "Mom, I need you now!") has made me a whiz at finding "me time" anywhere.
Before having kids I would have gone in, done my business, and gotten out. Now I sneak upstairs, lock the door, sit on the bath mat and read a few chapters from my favorite book or Real Simple magazine. If anyone were to call me out, a simple toilet flush would silence them (yes, two can play at that game, Chuck). 

5. Being under constant surveillance ("Mom, are you eating ice cream? Can I have some? Can I??") has made me adept at product placement.
Before having kids I would have shoved whatever I wanted into my mouth whenever I wanted to. Now, small beady eyes watch me like scavengers. I have to be better, faster, smarter. I'll put Oreos in the broccoli bag, chocolate bars in the soap dish. As long as you pass the first suspicious glance, you have a few minutes to actually taste the food on the way down. Although, it's amazing how much you can cram into your mouth while rummaging through the fridge for that darn apple juice.

Shoot, is it really 9:15? Arg. I just thought of another one: Being constantly robbed of my sleep ("Mom, I dropped my bear! I need to pee!) has made me a skittish sleeper. Dear God, they could be up at any hour for any issue.

Goodnight. Go to bed!

The crux of it

I had some time to reread my blog. Yes, I just blogged about not having enough time for anything, now suddenly I'm blogging every two days and rereading posts to boot.

Life is weird like that.

In rereading some posts, I realized what a crazed, whiny nutbrain I sound like. Granted, life is chaotic right now (two kids, two working parents, overeager grandparents), but I want do better. I want to see better.

The first step is this.

The second step is...well, the second step is usually the harder one, isn't it? The second step is when you actually get off the pot, then the ensuing steps kind of fall into place.

One hopes.

All I know is this: Last week I tacked up the following quote from Anaïs Nin on my wall at work. My co-workers have since accused me of being a nerd. I don't care. They don't get it:

“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death. Some never awaken.”

I think I am going to quit.

Which side of the rope are you on?

Before my maternity leave and when I was working full-time, it always bothered me to hear stay-at-home moms say, "I'm so sick of my kids." The women who bemoaned days at home and summer break because their kids were around all the time seemed, to me, to have a lucky problem.

Claiming you're sick of your children is a luxury; it denotes an abundance of time spent together. An overabundance, some might say.

As a working mother, I didn't have that luxury.

Now, after five months of being home full-time with two children under the age of five I can honestly say that I've reached the point at which I could pull out my hair and cry, "Make them disappear!" I know what it feels like to be eaten alive. There's no off switch for Junior's mouth. He questions everything. Diddly wants to practice standing and to see the world. He grabs for everything.

And for God's sake I can't count the times I've had to poop with both of them sitting in the bathroom with me—Diddly in the bouncy seat and Junior (who doesn't want to be left out) sitting on his stool, as if they're audience members at a silent and awkward show.

The thing is, they're happy sitting there. They're happy to do anything, as long as it's with me.

It's bittersweet then, this summit I've reached of I-need-a-break-they're-suffocating-me. I always wanted to be here because it's born of bountiful time together, but it won't go on forever. I only have two and a half months of maternity leave left. For a lot of women, especially those in the United States, they've had far less time than I.

So yah, the bittersweet summit. I'm not sure how to get down from here. Or if I even want to.

Behold the haggard housewife

This morning, when my mother arrived bright and bushy tailed to watch Junior for the day, she took one look at me and said, “Today you look like a tired working mother.”

Then she saw Charles’ medieval tunics on the couch (which is where he puts his dirty laundry, slovenly creature that he is) and said, “That Charles! I think it’s just great he has such a flair for adventure.” (If you didn’t already know, Charles is about to travel back in time to partake in a freak convention known as Pennsic.)

Hmmm. Let’s break this down, shall we?

It appears that:

a) I am haggard and a cliché

b) my husband has a real zest for life.

Now why the hell would that be? Could Charles’ colorful persona be attributed to the fact that he is about to embark on a weeklong excursion consisting of complete and utter debauchery? That for seven days he will be free to rise when he wants (or not rise at all), drink and be merry, and not be responsible for the ever-demanding bundle of joy that, up until now, we have co-parented?

And poor moi! Destined to spend my week as Junior’s solitary caregiver, dragging my stiff, aching bones from house to office, feeding and dressing Junior in a zombie daze, calling out for assistance—help, someone!—only to realize that my weakened vocal chords—and they will be weakened because I sing to Junior every chance I get, I’m that dedicated—are so fatigued I might as well be a mouse whispering into a wind tunnel.

Add to that the fact that our house was broken into one month ago and that even with the Fort Knox conditions—thank you Brink's—I still have a panic attack when I hear a strange noise. Fine, most often the noise is our hefty kitties trying to hoist their bellies off the floor as they climb over Junior’s toy collection but still…

Still…

If my mother weren’t such a loving caregiver—and a free one at that—I would have opened up a can of whoop ass on her.

I know she means well. I know my anger is more justifiably directed at Charles, who is leaving me to run the house, Junior, and myself (ragged).

But ultimately, yes, I am angry at myself for saying, “Sure, honey! Have a blast, we’ll be fine” when Charles asked if he could go in the first place.

If Linda thought I looked like a tired working mother today just wait until she sees me next week. (Is anyone else having flashbacks to Donna Summer's “She Works Hard For The Money?”)