Nobody Likes Me, Everybody Hates Me, Guess I'll Go Eat Worms

I was going to write a post today about the push-pull of motherhood and work and staying at home with children and the external intrusions that try to define women. Instead, here's what I'm writing:

So, I'm watching "The Real Housewives of New York" and here's another person who is going on and on about a career that is fabulous and enriching (both for soul and for purse) for which she was not particularly trained that was a hobby and just blossomed like a big ol' freaking flower and now has her all on TV with a book and I'm sitting here with squat.

Where's my stuff? Man, I suck.





*P.S. And here's what else I'm wondering: If you could (or had to) enter a totally different field, what would it be?

You've Got to Read the Job Description

Okay, this is stupid. You are a pirate. You take a hostage. You don't think you may get shot?

I don't understand why the pirates are upset that their pirate friends got shot (aside from the fact that their friends are dead). But they said since America shot their cohorts, they will now deal more violently with future American hostages. As if they have been wronged! It's not like they are farmers whose fields have been trampled by trespassers. They are pirates! They illegally board ships that do not belong to them in any way to forcibly take things or people that they have no right to. What are they thinking?

When you go into the pirating field, you have to know that there are some job hazards. The same way I know that as a professor, I will be forced to read the dribble that masquerades as student papers, you must know that as a pirate, you will be forced to put your life in jeopardy. And quite frankly, you gotta just take that as par for the course. Don't get mad when the crappy part of the job creeps up. Oh wait, I do get mad when I have to read the dribble. But still, you're a pirate. . . .

Happy Easter

I couldn't really get my daughter a new Easter dress or make her an Easter basket (I can't wait to do both), but I could tell her the Easter story (which is probably the most relevant thing to do anyway). So, as I held her tonight, I began telling the story of how Jesus was sent to Earth to save humanity from sin. And there I had to stop. What? Sin? Was this appropriate for a 35-weeker/2-month-old? I mean, really, the Easter story is filled with betrayal, abuse, pain, and murder. What is that to tell a child? She has to deal with heel sticks and horribly invasive breathing machines already so I try to fill her mind with only good words and images.

Unfortunately, bible stories do not fit the bill. Once, when I attempted to switch up the reading of Oh, Baby, the Places You'll Go with the story of David and Goliath, I had to edit mid-read. There was war and killing and decapitation. Horribly inappropriate. The baby must have thought so, too, because she had her first apnea spell with us that day. I'll give that book away to someone who has older kids.

Growing up in the church caused bible stories to become interwoven into the fabric of my consciousness so that I knew them, but I didn't really see the details of them. I didn't realize how violent and racy they are. Now, I see that in addition to the abuse and murder, there are swindlers, and hookers and rapists and people turning into salt. I am going to have to sanitize all of this for the baby before she can hear any of these stories. (By the way, that David and Goliath book was a children's book so I think they had already tried to sanitize it.)

In the meantime, DH doesn't want to tell her stories about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Although I'm definitely going to rail against that request at Christmas time, I am considering railing now. I've always thought the idea of a gigantic rabbit bringing candy and eggs (what do rabbits have to do with eggs, anyway?) to kids to be a ridiculous notion. Now, however, the Easter Bunny seems quite benign. He's already sanitized and kid-friendly. Perhaps that is the story I will tell. At least until she's two.

I'm confused

So, I was watching this sports show (see how much I love TV--I'll watch practically anything!) with a profile about a recent high school graduate who has choosen to play basketball in Rome rather than sit out the required year before he can play in the NBA. He seems fairly miserable, not enjoying his new surroundings, even while living in what some might call an enviable vacation spot. I mean, how many people get to live in Europe the year after they graduate . . . and get paid fistfuls of money? When the interviewer asks if he's happy, the baller says, "Not really. But it's better than being in college. I could be sitting in class right now."

Huh?

So, sitting in class is a horrible condition? Isn't that what college is actually for? I know the whole back-and-forth about how sports brings money and recognition to universities, that they pay for themselves, and how the academics should basically shut up and be glad that the money's rolling in. I don't really have a dog in that fight since I went to college for, uh, college and had to take out loans for my trouble; I was too slow to be a quarterback, my jump shot sucks, and besides, I'm a girl. But maybe there's something to that argument, as annoying as it is.

My issue is that this dude seems to suggest that "sitting in a class" something nobody would want to do. That's really disturbing. But we still, perhaps, have to wonder what college is for. If it's the whole experience of learning, he can do that inside or outside a classroom. But this attitude seems to be that it's the actual learning that's objectionable. I feel sad for this fellow. There is pleasure to be found in the exchange of ideas and the fervor of intellectual pursuit. Is he experiencing that in any way? Even if he were only excited about basketball and learning about it, well, okay. Learning is about exploring the world. College should be a journey towards that. If the NBA is the only destination, what good is an new, alternate avenue when the journey doesn't matter? There's something sad about this.

Pain . . . and Relief

Fabulous, Diva! Holding your baby is one of the most special parts of being a mother, I think. Touching that soft, perfect skin and looking down into those sweet, bright eyes is an indescribable joy. I'm so glad that you and DH have reached this milestone. Congratulations!

While you all were experiencing gentle, baby touches, I was being touched by a drill. Let me tell you, I'd sooooo rather be holding your baby. I was expecting to only have two of the wisdom teeth removed, but the oral surgeon suggested that they all should come out, so I acquiesced. The receptionist had told me that I would be able to drive home if I only used the nitrous oxide instead of being put all the way under. I had some fears about anaesthesia, so I opted for the gas. Still, I had to wonder what in the world this receptionist was thinking. Yes, I could have driven myself home--if there were no other cars on the road. Or buildings. Or people. And the car drove itself. My blood pressure was high, I was jittery, and I couldn't think about anything except the pain. Thank goodness my husband came with me.

Now, let's talk about the drugs. Oh, wonderful, beautiful drugs. I sent DH straight to the pharmacy for the numerous prescriptions; they told him they would be ready in two hours. Two hours?! In two hours I would have beaten myself with a baseball bat, just so I could pass out. I sat staring at the clock, telling myself, "Okay, let's just try to get through the next fifteen minutes. I can get through the next fifteen minutes. It's just like labor. Breathe, girl." I was in the fetal position, trying not to seem like an "Intervention" reject. It was awful. I asked DH to go ask if they could get the prescription ready earlier. Then I called him while he was there. Then I heard the garage door and ran downstairs to meet my drugs--I mean DH--with a cup of juice. Then I felt the sweet rush of pain relief and zonked out for the next few hours.

So now, I'm not in nearly as much pain, but still a little zonked out. I started to think, "What kind of person wants to do this stuff to people?" Who is this oral surgeon dude and what's wrong with him? I mean, he's digging around in my mouth and poking me. He actually had to brace himself against the chair in order to pull out one of the teeth. As much as I despise this career limbo, I can't imagine that excruciating-pain-inflicter would ever be high on my list of choices. Just how does one decide that this is a good idea? But then, one look at the bill probably explains a lot, huh?

I'm looking like Marlon Brando, but I'm hanging in. Let's not do this again.

The Human Touch

We got to hold our baby this past week. We've done so three times now. The first time I held her I was nervous and could only think about not dropping her. Although I was sitting in the cushioned rocker/glider that they provide for mommies to comfortably sit in while holding their child, I was not really comfortable and had to remind myself to un-tense my arms because babies can sense nervousness. But I couldn't help it because she's so tiny and fragile--a fact reaffirmed for me as I was holding her. Actually looking down into her face, and not through the contorting glass of the isolette, I was made acutely aware of how small and precious she actually is.

The second time I held her I was not nearly as nervous and could focus on bonding. Which I totally did. She had been sleeping while DH held her and when I got her, she turned in toward me and started making suckling motions with her mouth. Ohhh. I really wanted to oblige her. She looked so sweet and I felt so close to her.

Each time I hold her I want that much more to take her home.

Ouchee

I've been in pain all week. I thought my wisdom teeth might be coming in on account of the way it feels like the Incredible Hulk is breaking through my gums. Turns out, the suckers have already arrived and commenced to decaying. I'm having them out next week. I'll be sure to give you too much information. For now, the dentist's response to my excrutiating pain was to prescribe a bunch of really big ibuprofen pills. (Really? That's all you got for me? I need something that's barely legal!) Consequently, I may be going to bed until the surgery.

Talk among yourselves . . . .