What We Leave Behind

Each crystal slipped between my fingers, wet with the cleaning spray. One wipe and they were dry, sparkling again. Only two, maybe three times have I cleaned the chandelier. The first time it was a two hour job. Preparing for our wedding, my husband's mother and sister and I worked together. We took off every piece and scrubbed them in warm, sudsy water. We removed years of grime and specks of ceiling paint. We readied the new house.

Our new apartment is comfortable. We have two small dark bedrooms, an efficient kitchen with a farm table in the center, a small family room off the kitchen that extends the kids' room. There is a peaceful living room with windows on three sides, the world's smallest bathroom and a laundry. We have a view of palm and plum trees and the shop signs on Grand Avenue. Today the kids' room is an oasis in the stacks of boxes.

The laundry door frame has half a dozen pencil lines marking growth of a teenager in 2005. I noticed the marks while putting in a load of curtains from the old house. Dread knocked me down. I forgot to photograph or trace our marks. Now they're painted over! There are few irreplaceables. During this move, I have understood how a person who has lost her belongings to flood or fire can exclaim, "I feel free!" We are burdened by so much Stuff. But a growth chart with dates and names? There is really no way to let it go, really no way to carry it with us.

Post Election Blues

Last week we were on the way to swim class and we passed a large group of people chanting and waving YES on 8 signs. "What are they doing, Mama?" Stella asked from her car seat. "Well..." I thought about how to explain the California proposition to change the constitution.

Me: "You know that Papai and I are married, right?"
Stella: "Right."
Me: "Do you think that's OK?"
Stella (a little confused): "Yeah."
Me: "And you know Mark and Lina's Daddy and Poppy are married, right?"
Stella: "Yeah."
Me: "Do you think that's OK?"
Stella: "Yeah."
Me: "And do you think two girls could get married?"
Stella (thinking this is silly): "Yeah."
Me: "I think so too, but those people with the signs think that only a boy and a girl should be able to get married."
Stella: "WHAT?!" (as if I told her there was no more color blue)

Today I am elated with Obama's victory.

I need to let that statement stand alone. But (WHY does there need to be a "but"?), I am sad too. Living in the Bay Area bubble, I really thought Prop 8 wouldn't pass. I shared my little legislative lesson in hate with Mark and Lina's Poppy and he said, "We lost the battle, but we won the war."

True.

There is hope for the next generation.

This one is up there on the list of really shitty days

How can you not imagine the details of your new home when you offer fifty thousand dollars over asking price on a house your whole family genuinely loves? Who would think that when you offer to close in 21 days and say you won't even inspect the home that someone else would nab it from you?

I am heartbroken tonight. It was honestly a shitty day from start to finish. I woke at 5:40am to a jealous, screaming Stella, who wailed "pick me UUUUP!" when I managed to get Otto to sleep again in bed. He was asleep on top of me, so I couldn't get out from under and Stella would not shut up. I finally moved him to grab her and put her in bed with us (Augusto left before 5 am for an overnight to LA). Naturally he woke, cranky again after I jostled him. So that's how it began. We fought over shoes and teeth and exactly how to get into the car, and I arrived late to work only to learn that a term pregnant patient's entire family and fiancee were killed in a political-religious fire bomb riot half a world away. And another woman's baby died. And a colleague's father murdered his mother when he was a kid. And then we were out bid by someone who offered a little bit more and could close on the house in 14 days. And then the kids were shitheads, so I chugged two glasses of wine and bickered with them until they finally went to bed at 9:45 pm.

Oh, but they wanted to sell the house to us. We've heard that twice now and it only makes me feel worse. We wrote a letter to the sellers, spilling our visions of the future. What if we do find another house to bid on? How can any other letter be genuine after that one?

Now it's night two, up too late, barely keeping my eyes open, and I am still imagining our now non-existent lives in the house on the hill, not getting out of my head the many children under age five who live a house or two away, where I would put the hook for the dog's leash, curl up to read the paper, or plug in my phone to charge. And I am totally unable to imagine how you undo the visions of your life with baby and husband and grandparents and suddenly a friend of the family calls long distance and it is all gone.

I wish I could offer some perky optimism, but I used up this week's hope already.

The last moments of Mage's "two-breasted life"

We didn't get the house.

Before we got the bad news, I took the kids to the local farmer's market and park and dreamily drove by the house. As I stalked by the house for the 15th time, I felt it was gone. I just knew they had accepted the other offer. I was really funked up about it. The letdown deepened this evening when I didn't find anything on zip realty that would work even in a pinch.

And then I read my young friend's latest entries in her brand new blog. She shares the (would have been surprisingly silly if it were anyone else's) details of her 8/8/08 mastectomy:

I know for sure that my breast looked okay in the conveyer belt room because as Eric #1 was pulling back my robe to get my breast exposed for the procedure, I told him, "You're the last person who is ever going to see my breast like this, so will you just take a moment and appreciate it?" This seemed to embarrass him. At the time I thought he was just uncomfortable because he was just trying to do his job and didn't want to think about the fact that I was a nice lady with a nice breast who was about to lose it forever. But, now that I am writing about it, it really does seem like the waffle-iron room happened first. In which case, maybe he just looked uncomfortable because I was asking him to appreciate a breast that looked like it was smeared with mud and had been attacked by bees. Poor guy.

Mage is one of those people who makes lemonade out of lemons. She has cancer and hasn't hit 40 yet. You need one hell of a juicer to inject humor into that scenario. Thanks for the mind-shift, dear friend. I'll take my two-breasted life into some other house some other day.

That's an Awful Thing to Call Your Husband

After he pulled the tube from my nose and throat, the urge to sneeze went away, but tears kept pouring from my right eye. "Early nodules," he said. People who haven't seen me in a while ask about my nasty cold. My speech therapist friend said I needed to see an ENT. I put it off, like most things I need to do for myself, and ALL things medical.

I have always wanted a husky voice. I have often listened to my answering machine messages with disbelief. Is that flat, nasal voice really mine? And then it happened. I woke up on December 23, 2007 with a Demi
Moore voice. No cold, no pain, just pure sex appeal. Neighbors, co-workers, and old friends have commented on how I could parlay my voice for work or other more interesting favors. Naturally, the voice has been lost on my husband. He's thankfully attracted to my other, somewhat more stable attributes. Like my face and boobs and personality. Somewhat more stable.

My voice is low because of little callous-like growths on my vocal cords. Why do I have vocal nodules? Because I abuse my voice. I don't whisper very often, so that means I scream too much. Don't jump to conclusions. I do scream at the kids more than I want, and we do yell across the house a fair amount. Is the dishwasher clean?! Can you grab a diaper?!

But it's partly the dog's fault. Honestly. We got Rex less than two months before my voice changed. And since then I have been intercepting the kids' favorite toys, our food, clothing, and shoes. "NO, REX! DROP IT! DROP IT!" I've been deflecting his enthusiastic attention. "OFF! GET DOWN!" Rex's trainer (we've only been twice.... and come to think of it really should go back) said the dog is not deaf. We should just speak to him and not repeat ourselves. But it will take him hearing "No" 1000 times before he understands it. Huh? Not in a row, I guess. So I know what to do, I just don't know how not to react.

Scenario Option 1:

Kid drops lovey that she can't sleep without. Dog lunges for it. "NO, REX! DROP IT! DROP IT!" Dog runs, so happy now that I'm playing with him. I lunge for his throat. He whizzes by. "REX!!! DROP IT YOU DAMN DOG!"

Scenario Option 2:

Kid drops lovey that she can't sleep without. Dog lunges for it. "N0, Rex. Drop it." Dog runs, so happy now that I'm playing with him. I stand still. I trust he won't actually rip apart this essential stuffed bunny who is already by some odd design only a blanket on the bottom half. "Rex. Sit. Drop it." Rex obeys and I return the slobbery but intact lovey to a very relieved little girl.

How do I cure vocal nodules? Voice rest. No whispering, no screaming and talk as little as possible. Yes, this is expected of me, the one who talks with patients all day, who got poor conduct marks in middle school -talks too much-, who has a preschooler that asks why at the end of every answer. It is a ridiculous order, but the concept of voice rest has got me thinking. Talking is so core to who I am, that I don't have any idea how to proceed other than to just go for it. Every day I venture into where I've never been, like today: two kids and a mess of finger paints. So I'll just shoot from the hip, as it were. Or from above as is the case here.

 

And as it is with most forced endeavors, I'm already learning. Changing for the better. Do I really want to teach my kids to scream at animals? Do I really need to explain etiologies and treatment recommendations in such detail? When I go to work tomorrow morning, can't I just say "OK, we went to a nice parade. How about you?" rather than getting into how we were late for the parade, and the guy who took pictures of Otto, and the fireworks too? Haven't I always wanted to be the one who waits for the rest of the group to voice their opinions and then shares mine? To be the girl in class who never says anything and then one day opens her mouth and what comes out is so insightful and smart that everyone stops to listen? Won't I benefit from more listening?

Here's my chance. The doctor told me stop yelling at the dog. "That's an awful thing to call your husband," said my friend when I told her the doctor's orders. There is room for much humor, but I believe there is also room for much, much more.

 

Coffee can't fix everything.

Tonight I saw a woman doing something I have done more than a few times before. She was waiting outside the bathroom door at Barnes and Noble, determining if intervention would be needed, curious and scared to see who emerged. A kind gesture toward a child or other recipient of someone's wrath. The sad part is that this woman was waiting for me.

The evening had gone well up until about 10 minutes prior to the bathroom. Augusto is out of town, so I took the kids shopping. We picked out a twin futon for Stella to delighted mattress diving and lollipop games. We went to the noodle place at her request (load back in the car, drive, wrangle the van into a spot...). We waited for a table. We got silly and impressed the patrons with two charming kids scarfing down tofu and broccoli. I cleaned Otto's mess. I let Stella eat a lollipop. We paid and left the restaurant.

And then Stella asked to go to the bookstore. I knew this meant play with the train table and then ask for a book. It was already 7:40. I wanted to go home. Otto was tired. I was tired. I sensed a tantrum in the air. She had already hit the pavement before we went to the noodle place. I just couldn't handle another melt down. So I said yes. My first mistake. She wanted another Dora book. Dora is ok in theory, but she is a TV series, not a book character. We have never seen her show, but the books suck. Thin TV-based plot, stupid lines. "Say no swiping, Swiper!" Say, what?! She loves Dora books, but they're killing me. The she wanted Strawberry Shortcake. I could only imagine how much I would like it. I don't want to squelch her desires, but how does she even know about this crap? She doesn't watch TV! I want to read real stories with her. Or poetry. Or at least cool rhyme. So I directed her to some Caldecott winners. And some Dr. Seuss. We were on to tantrum three and she still had a jumbo Blow Pop in her mouth. And it was 8:30 or some similar ridiculous time. And I had to pee and change Otto's diaper before we left.

After threating to take away the lolli, leave her in the store, and not get her any more books, she hastily picked an actual book (as opposed to every crappy book with batteries). Somehow I managed to storm her off to the bathroom. Of course, on the way in she wanted to drink from the fountain (to high for her to do it on her own). My arm was killing with Otto. My bladder was dying. I said no. The stall time was equally perfect. Otto touched every disgusting surface and Stella whined about wanting to finish her lolli, not go home, etc. We made it to the sink. Otto first, Stella second. While I was washing Stella's hands, Otto sneaked off and put his hand into an unflushed toilet. I was already obviously peeved at my kids and not even trying anymore to conceal my anger, frustration, and general sense of impending doom. But the dirty toilet sealed the deal. I slammed down her new book and told her to stop making trouble as she cried for her book while I washed Otto's hands about 23 million times.

That's when I exited to the eavesdropping woman. I don't know what she thought. Maybe she heard the slamming book and, "SHIT!" and though I had hit my kid. Perhaps she just felt bad for Stella who more than once said (tears streaming), "Sorry, Mama."

Walking to the car, Stella asked, "Are you mad at Otto?" No, I was mad at myself.

Drunk Without the Buzz

I am Mama tired. Mononucleosis tired. Mt. Everest tired.

Otto is 7 months old today. He is still not sleeping longer than 4 hours at a time. I’m getting up 2, 3, 4 times a night and working 3 days a week. And I got whatever sniffly, coughing, raspy, achey virus the kids had. A nurse at work told me when her son was 5 months old she ran away for one night. Literally left with barely a warning. She pointed her husband to the frozen breastmilk and spent the night in a hotel.

I’ve never been a night away from the kids, but I have a screaming loud physical need to curl up in a bed for 24 hours. Any bed. I’d take even 8 hours if they could be free from baby coughs, nursing, Stella night-talking, husband farts, pee habits, and post nasal drip. I don’t have any more frozen milk, but we do have formula and a baby that needs night weaning anyway. Could I do it? Sneak away? I don’t know if I could, but I know I need it.

A local man forgot his 11-month-old son in the car and went to work all day (only realizing it too late when his wife called to ask why daycare said the son was never dropped off). In the wake of that tragedy, the paper published a you-think-it-couldn’t-happen-to-you piece- and convinced us that it could- with results from a UCSF sleep study. It found that people who are sleep deprived (only 4 or 5 hours a night for as little as a week or regularly interrupted sleep) perform on tests at the same level as a person who is legally drunk. I can’t imagine forgetting my children in a locked car, but I can relate to a busy, sleep-deprived life where a slight change in routine can throw off a whole day. And make you do something you’d regret forever.

Fortunately my offenses include putting cereal boxes back in the fridge and showing up at work in my flip-flops. I’m legally drunk without the buzz. Whoo hoo.


***

On a more positive note (strictly, oddly related the mouths), Otto cut his first tooth on Sunday. Stella chewed her first gum tonight.

***

I had so many other deep and clever things to write about, but like a drunkard, I can’t remember what they were. So I’ll just pass out now.

Just Thinking

Just when you think it’s safe to share a new trend, it changes. I was silly enough to brag about Otto’s longer sleep nights. He was finally sleeping 5 ½ to 6 hour stretches and I rejoiced in the company of other parents. “Oh, how much better I feel today than the past 7 months!” I told one woman who is due to have her first baby any minute. Stupid.

I am sitting here pre 7 am (way before my pre-kid days) after one measly 4 hour stretch last night and then Stella woke up to pee. And then Otto was up an hour and a half later. You do the math. I know how short it was without counting. Augusto up for the 4 am potty break, but the slightest loud breath wakes me these days. Lying in bed is far better than carrying 30 something pounds to the bathroom. So I can’t really complain about it.

It makes me crazy how much of the time I want for the past or hope for a change in the future. The focus of our childbirth prep class was being in the present. Meditation. Taking a big breath. Dropping the Doom of Dwell. I worked really hard at it. Or didn’t work hard. Whatever I was supposed to do. Let go into the moment. I sucked at the practice. There is nothing like labor or a newborn to keep you mindful of the present. I hung around for those… but now I’m a time traveler. Monday I was so grateful for my job and looking forward to my increased hours. Yesterday I was pining for my maternity leave as I strolled to the playground and library, latte in hand. (When out on a weekday, I’m always amazed at how many people are window shopping, sitting at cafes, not working or caring for children. What ARE they doing? Self employed? Trust fund? Laid off and taking a break from the job hunt?)

Anyway. I’m up after too little sleep and will be heading to work in an hour, so let me be present with this gift: this happy, babbling little guy all to myself before the rest of the house wakes and the rush of the day begins.

And why am I still awake?

Sleep is one of those essentials like food and water. Sleep deprivation is a common form of torture that is deplored by human rights groups. This is Otto’s sleep schedule from last night:

8 pm go to sleep in crib

12:30 nurse in chair, go back to crib

2:30 cry for 12 minutes, fall back asleep while mom buries her head under the pillows

3:30 come into bed, nurse

5:30 nurse in bed

7 am wake up

I went to bed at 10pm, so I was up 4 times with a maximum 2.5 hour stretch. Did I feel tortured? A bit. Otto is 5 months old and weighs over 13 pounds. He should be able to sleep longer stretches than 2 to 4 hours. Add to this rumination playground chats about babies who actually do sleep, mamas who have a glow in their cheeks, and in-laws who think letting a baby cry is cause for calling Amnesty International, and we have one crazy, exhausted, working mama in Oakland.

He got 2 decent naps today, 10- 11am & 2-5 pm so we’ll see how tonight goes… Supposedly sleep begets sleep. I better start mine.

Midwives Misunderstod.... Again

Every time Augusto puts some midwife news from the SF Chronicle in my To Read pile by the toilet, I feel dread. Truthfully, the dread follows naïve excitement- ooh! Somebody is paying attention! Quickly I come to my senses. I remember that only a select group understands midwives. The mainstream media is not part of this group.

Glaring from the pile is the headline “Fewer options for those who seek natural births: Midwives becoming less popular as cesarean sections gain ground.” The empathetic (?) journalist covered the upcoming closure of Homestyle Midwifery. Homestyle is a popular, personalized in-hospital midwifery service. Contrary to the headline, I actually met two people in Hawaii who delivered with that service. After we passed on our homebirth practice, my former partner, Cynthia Banks, worked for Homestyle for a couple of years. She is an excellent midwife, and she loved that practice. Then California Pacific Medical Center came in, took over St. Luke’s Hospital, and the well-loved, extremely safe midwives are done.

It’s all very sad, but what is worse is that the media can’t get it right, so the general public doesn’t understand, and with the pressure of OBs who are threatened midwives will steal their normal birth- big business, i.e. medical systems like CPMC, follows suit. Let me state two facts:1.Midwives are autonomous providers. 2. Birth with midwives is safe. The article gets it wrong on both accounts. It’s a common misconception, as follows:

1. “For doctors, the decision to allow a midwife to handle the birth or to intervene medically is often a matter of weighing the potential risks against a woman's wishes during labor. The vast majority of births are trouble-free, but few doctors want to risk complications just because a woman would prefer to avoid a medical procedure, physicians say.” Doctors don’t decide to ALLOW a midwife to do anything. We have our own patients. If they meet set criteria for having a low-risk pregnancy, they choose us. When there is a concern of complication with a woman’s health, we consult with a doctor. That means we ask for their opinion, consultation, guidance, or to take over care of the patient- whatever is appropriate.

2. "Some women may say, 'I'm willing to risk a little in terms of safety to have the birth I want.'” Dr. Elaine Gates, vice chair of the obstetrics and gynecology department at UCSF made that statement. Birth with midwives has been shown over and over again to be as safe as or safer than birth with OB-GYNs when you match women of similar risk in similar settings.

It’s really a shame that midwifery is so misunderstood- since the research also shows that patients of midwives are overall more satisfied with their experiences than patents of doctors.

The Attack of Everything

The end of the Attack of Snot is near. I hesitate venturing into the subject, but what would a parent’s musings be without snot? There’s so much of it everywhere.

“Runny nose, Mama!”

“Just a second, I’m getting some paper.”

“Runny nose, Mama!”
“Runny nose, Mama!”

“OK, blow”

Day care allows runny noses, but no other ill children. No fevers or coughs (although a few sneak through). Definitely no puking or diarrhea. Stella’s runny nose is nearly constant- usually clear and allergy related, I believe. But this nose is impressive. Rivers of yellow-green snot. And she spiked a fever of 106.2. You read it right. 107 is seizure-zone, so I was just a bit freaked when I took her back to the vet pediatrician (she’s 2 ½ and I keep saying it wrong). Yes, back. We had been there in the am and were told to watch and wait, but by the time we got home her fever was climbing faster than I could find the office number. Thanks to ibuprofen, it went down that fast too. But the doc said get your butt here ASAP, so I lugged sleeping infant in car seat and roasting toddler on my hip the thirteen stairs to the car, 10 minutes to the office and a long lot from the car. She improved while we were there and found that she doesn’t have a septic kidney infection (cheer!), but probably has some resistant sinusitis that’s in our community. While we waited for her Augmentin and probiotic, she explored the lobby barefoot. I forgot her shoes at home. Nothing gets disapproving stares like a barefoot child in a medical setting. Add the unkempt hair, unshowered mama, and all three people in messy clothes- certainly not “outfits.” We looked like a mini old mother and the shoe or whatever it is.

I was apprehensive about the big-gun antibiotic, but more apprehensive about the wacky high fever. I was also making decisions on 5 hours of breastfeeding-interrupted-jetlag sleep. I didn’t even have time to get my caffeine. It was one of those days that makes me the woman who is always in the center of a crisis. You know that friend or cousin who has some shit happening every time you just call you say hi.

“Hi, Friend, How are ya’?”

“Well, not so great. My car got broken into when I was at the DMV trying to replace my lost license and then I couldn’t get anyone to care for the kids so they’re here with me while I’m giving the police report. Shit- I just dropped my keys in the mud! I gotta go.”

Yeah. I’m THAT friend these days. Every week it’s something new. I hate to hear myself speak. While we were dealing with Stella yesterday, I completely ignored the cat- not the one who got sick and ran away/died last month, but the other one who has a rectal mass and can’t make a bowel movement. She looked so miserable this morning, trying to poop in vain, crying out. She’s lighter than a week ago. Which was lighter than two and three weeks ago. Her skin is tenting with dehydration. She wobbles. She’s had two enemas just so she can shit (that’s added some lightness to the conversation: California Freaks Give High Colonic to Cat). What an embarrassment for the fastidious cat. I have an appointment for her tonight. This might be it. I don’t want to say goodbye to her too, but I hate seeing her suffer- and know it won’t turn around. The vet says it’s cancer. Inoperable. And I’m not putting a 16-year-old cat through chemo or some other miserable treatment. The kids will be up soon and they will simultaneously need me for everything, so I’m going to go pet the cat and/or bury my head in the unused kitty litter.

Today Stella’s temp is lower and her mood improved. But her nose is still flowing.

“Runny nose, Mama!”

“You know, you need to learn to do this yourself...OK, blow.”

“Mama, runny nose again!”

Pay for Shade?

Last night we returned from 9 days in Hawaii. I didn't mention it before because I have this thing about announcing to the world that we're going out of town. My husband is that way when I shout it across the street so the neighbors know to look out for our house. He is sure some opportunistic robber will over hear. I think he's too paranoid about the street thing. But I'm like that in my blog. Crime is up in our hood. We're both a little jittery.

Anyway, Augusto had a conference at the Ritz in Maui. The Ritz- I KNOW, what luck?! How could the kids and I not tag along? By coincidence, friends with kids the same ages as ours were staying nearby. A few of the days we all went to the beach as one gear-toting hoard and took turns with the kids. Travel with other families is fantastic. Every time we've gone somewhere with another family or more, it has been a huge success for all involved. Even when the kids aren't playing well together, we adults can share responsibility for redirecting, imagining creative games, cooking and all the other parenting jobs. It also shakes up our own family dynamics, so we end up having less stupid bickering and more overall quality adult time. I can't recommend it enough.

Hawaii was lovely. The sun was out. The views were stunning. Our marble bathroom had a separate room for the toilet. The ocean was warm and seemingly stocked for our snorkeling pleasure. There were two major exceptions to the loveliness: 1. the food and drinks at the resort are too expensive for a person of regular means to consume on a daily basis; and 2. guests are expected to pay for shade. Yes, I said pay for shade. So we tired of kid grilled cheese (pool bar, $5), instant oats (brought from home), and baby carrots (Safeway in Lahaina) while we kept moving to stay in the wispy shade of the tall palms. The Ritz has cabanas for four people and pairs of lounge chairs with awnings. These can be reserved for $75 and $50 per day! They do not provide any other umbrellas at the pool or beach. I can't get over either of these ridiculous features of the Ritz. As I nursed Otto under a shade tent made by stretching a kanga from my Oakland baseball cap to my knees, I scanned the pool menu thinking I must have missed the one affordable item (chips and salsa $11, chicken sandwich without fries $16, cup of coffee $5). I imagined the staff gathered at some planning meeting, wringing their hands, whining and cackling..."If they'll pay $300 and up for a room at a resort a 10 minute drive from the nearest hotel, we can charge $13 for a Mai Tai and $15 for a mediocre Pinot Gris no problem. And why the hell not?! Get 'um for all they're worth. Hey, let's charge for SHADE while we're at it. It'll be hilarious!"

Who's a liar?

Before I continue, I have a confession. I've been fabricating the publication dates on this armoire tale. There, I've said it. I am a terrible liar. I've been wanting to write about the desk drama, but haven't found the time. I've been using my energy to fight this all-talk company, decide about quitting my job, and manage the rest of my life. Excuses that could have been left unsaid if I had kept my mouth shut just now. The dates have been chosen to represent the approximate times of the events.

So Bob and his Daddy made these promises- promises they couldn't keep. Bob received the furniture, put it together at the store, and holy moly! there was a 5/16 of an inch difference between the upper dowels and the lower holes. Bob went to plan D and offered us the floor model at a 30% discount. I think we should go for it even though we have no idea how they got that one together. I just want the stacks put away and don't care about a few scratches or rigging. My man feels differently. For 70% off he'll take the display. No less. He can wait months more for the imaginary furniture and endure my nagging and bitching about this company who bills itself at Not-IKEA. Hah! Let me share the differences:
1. EQ3 labels the parts for assembly;
2. IKEA doesn't run to its Swedish Daddy when there is a problem;
3. We have the joy of paying 3 times more at EQ3.

We leave for Brazil in a few days. Perhaps we'll have some insight there which will bring a close to the drama.

Promises, Promises

Bob was so eager to please. He called Canada and promised he would get us a matched armoire. Canada promised that they had never seen this problem before. Canada said they would ship a new top. It came, Bob brought it over in the back of his van. He assembled the piece itself. Surprize, it didn't fit. Then Canada, parental Canada, asked for photo of the mismatch and accurate diagrams. We insisted on a new top and bottom.

Bob has promised that Canada has promised to assemble, disassemble, and ship the beautiful, 1K solution to our marital woes.

No More Whining

I have enough self-awareness to admit that I've done nothing but complain so far. It's so easy. No one to tell me to shut up or add these rants to some accumulating list of Times She Complained. It's great! See, this is an occasion for smiley faces and positive exclamation points!! :)

A blog is a safe haven for complainers. A free analyst (minus the analysis). A wide shoulder. It's where I've discovered either a. My Inner Complainer or b. a passion for chronicling complaint. The rest of the time I'm bragging about her clucking prowess to other mothers at the coffee shop and couching the sleep deprivation in the context of personal growth. Oh, puke! Why can't two unshaven, powerbar-fed mother-strangers standing upright thanks only to a full-fat latte admit that it's hard? Even the full-fat milk is shameful. We talk about how hard mothering is only in reference to other women, with our inner circle moms group, or in an I-always-change-more-diapers-than-you outburst.

Yesterday I met two women and their babies. The girl, Skye, is two months younger than Stella. The other is still brewing in her mama's belly. What did we discuss? Whose chin Stella favors, how many teeth Syke has, the inconvenient juxtaposition of ribs and the growing uterus (ha, ha). Advice to the pregnant one? Sleep. Get in as much sex and foreign film as you can (I should have said foreign sex... something exotic sure sounds nice right about now). But what was going on in my head right before our strollers rafted together in front of the cooperative bakery? Complaints, of course. Today was so long, and I have another hour and a half before she goes to bed. My husband won't be home to help. He's never home to help. My right shoulder blade is killing me. I don't want to go to work tomorrow. It's not fair that other women have nannies and don't even go to work... Of course, to these strangers, these of all people who could relate and find relief in a little honesty, I was an upbeat champion for motherhood.