Meanwhile, back in the real world

This week nearly kicked my ass. I have a nagging, death rattle of a cough that only fires up when I need to sleep. How convenient for the lady who has such a limited number of opportunities to sleep, right? On top of that, I had to hastily plan Dos' baptism with the added stress of in-laws being involved. People? Planning a baptism should NOT be a stressful thing. Seriously. I've seen some big time baptisms with crowds of 50 people or so and, ok, THAT can be stressful. But getting 10 people in a room on a Saturday afternoon should not cause nightmares.

Much to our surprise, things went well. The baby is no longer doomed to spend eternity roaming the halls of purgatory and Saturday night she actually slept through the night for the first time ever so maybe there's something to this after all. More than just getting our parents off our backs, I mean.

And, oh, the colonoscopy? All clear and not a big deal at all. Actually, I'm such a big fan of the drugs they gave me during the process I might just go back for another. Seriously. That was a damn fine sleep. You know the way you remember a great meal, or a good wine or sex so good you can't walk right for a couple of hours? That's the way I remember the nap I took during and after the colonoscopy. The best sleep I've had in nearly three years. To hell with Rum and Coke. Versed and Demerol is my new favorite cocktail. Straight up.

When the doctor told me I'd have to have a colonoscopy, I was pretty bummed. I automatically started thinking of excuses not to have it. Then I started thinking about who I knew who had had one and what advice they could give me. Then I remembered Belinda's story. Good. Great. What did she say again? Butthole. That's all I could remember. Belinda, in all her fancy word glory, used the word butthole. Giggle. I was still in the doctor's office, mind you, and I couldn't stop smirking. Butthole. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to giggle. In front of someone who looks at a lot of these things all day long and probably sees absolutely NOTHING funny about it. Which made me want to laugh even harder. I looked down at her desk in an effort to keep my composure and what did she have on her desk? A plastic model. Of a butthole. I finally left the office and got into an empty elevator where I proceded to laugh like an idiot over the word butthole.

My name is Heather and I have the mentality of a 10-year-old boy. It's Belinda's fault.

Making Family Ties

Seems like everywhere I go with Bug and Dos, someone asks Bug, "Is that your baby?"

Bug is a very literal kid. When someone asks her this stupid question, I can see the look in her eyes. "Nooooo. It's obviously NOT my baby. It's my mom's. Duh." But she's too shy to say anything so she just gives them the silent treatment.

The questions keep coming. "Are you a good sister? Do you love your baby? Are you sweet to the baby? Do you help your mommy with the baby?" Bug never answers any of these questions so I do the talking for her. The answer is, yes, she is a wonderful big sister and a wonderful helper.

Bug met her little sister for the first time on the day we checked out of the hospital. The moment they laid eyes on each other, Bug went silent and stayed that way for about four hours. She stared at Dos, watched me with her, held her in her lap, touched her hands and stroked her head. When she finally decided it was safe to speak again, she said, "I love my little baby sister." Did your heart just go ::squish:: or was that just me?

As Dos comes out of the CrySuckSleep Blob phase and more into the Real Live Little Person phase, she takes more and more notice of her big sister. When Bug cries, Dos looks concerned and muh-muh-muhs a pout. When Bug laughs, Dos is wide-eyed and chuckles cautiously. "Is this funny? 'Cause she thinks it's funny. I think it's funny, right? Huh. huhuhuhuhuhhhh...." Dos is just happy to be in Bug's orbit right now. It's lovely and I wish it could stay that way forver. But being a baby sister myself, I know that it won't.

One day, they'll be fighting over toys, the next it'll be clothes. Please, God, let them never fight over a boy because that just isn't worth it and how do you moderate an argument like that? I can't use the "share" command with that one.

Sometimes I feel sorry for the Bug because having Dos in the picture has rocked her world like nothing else. She went from being star of "The Bug Show" with no co-stars and two adoring fans to being a bit player in "The Family Von Nutters." I feel sorry for Dos, too because she'll never get the crazy amount of attention that the Bug got the first two years of her life.

Grinch was always sure he wanted two kids. His two older brothers had each other as playmates and seemed happy as clams to him. He got left out a lot and figures if he'd had a sibling, he would have had a lifelong playmate, too. I took a lot more convincing. I had six older siblings and they regarded me familial bacteria until I was well into my 20s. I didn't think having siblings guaranteed anything other than two decades of misery.

So here we are with two kids and the optimist in me says, "Look! They love each other! Yay!" the pessimist that still feels the sting of a million brotherly wedgies says, "Give it time. They'll be killing each other before you know it."

I've Seen You Somewhere

Can we lighten up the mood around here a little? I mean really. It's been about five months worth of "blah blah blah I'm so sad, life sucks, weh." Get over myself, please.

Schmutzie has taken up a challenge to write about a different person every day for a year. It's usually just a couple of lines and the person can be someone who made a huge impact in her life or just crossed her path for a moment. I don't think I have enough of those kinds of stories (or time) to fill up a whole year, so here's my abbreviated version.

Thomas W. You kept my ego in check when it was in danger of growing out of control. We had some hilarious adventures together. I actually remember some of them, despite the drugs. I remember climbing up flight after flight of stairs with you, stepping out onto the library roof and feeling like I'd fall right over the edge if I moved a muscle. Somehow, you got me to lean over the ledge to feel the hot, city wind rush past our faces. Another day we snuck into the basement to gawk at the aged power station, groaning and shooting sparks at our feet. I miss the doodles you drew for me and our long, rambling conversations about EVERYTHING.

Donna L. One of the meanest, most ruthless people I have ever known. You were my childhood playmate by default. We lived next door to each other and were close in age. I was desperate for companionship and you were desperate for someone to dominate. You gave me some of the worst beatings I have ever endured and yet defended me from other bullies. You promised to be my best friend, then told me not to speak to you at school because your "cool" friends didn't like me. I'm pretty sure I have some trust issues because of you.

Buddy Everytime I saw you, you opened your little plastic change purse for me and told me to "grab some silver" and go buy some candy. I thought you were being nice. Now I wonder if you were just trying to get rid of me. Still, whenever a see a big display of candy, I think of you.

Marylynn You were heavyset and had a penchant for floral blouses and too much perfume. You were one of my sister's friends. I loved it when you came around because you were nice to me, unlike her. You took me to my first concert and let me hang out with you at the pool. Was it because you liked having someone look up to you?

This was kinda fun. Maybe I'll do this every so often. What do you think?

Checking In

Oh, hi! Remember me? Yes, the wayward blogger. Big on promises to share stories from my life, not so big on delivery. I'm new at this and I do have two full time jobs in real life. We're cool, right? Good.

One reason I've been blogquiet lately is that things have been very busy at home and work. I've also been feeling pretty gross and NO one wants to hear about that. Trust me. You do? Really? Can we just leave it at "scheduled colonoscopy"? Thanks.

It's also occurred to me that one reason for starting this blog was that I wanted to share details of our adventures/experiences as tag team parents and I haven't really done that. I hesitate to write about it now because I don't have a lot of good things to say. I don't want to scare anyone away from tag team parenting, but I guess I should be honest about it so that if you're thinking about doing it then you can go in with good information. Bottom line: tag team parenting sucks. Hard.

After the bug was born, we jumped into the ring feet first, fists pumping, determined to show all the nay sayers that it COULD be done and that we weren't crazy to take it on. We did that. The first few months were awful but after a while we hit our stride and everything worked nearly seamlessly. There were misunderstandings and miscommunications, I was tired all the time and seemed to catch every cold that went around but generally we did ok.

Then the schedule changed and everything went to hell.

If you're thinking about tag team parenting, let me urge you this: make sure you and your spouse have at least one day off together. It makes a huge difference. When I started working weekends (Not by choice. No fucking way.) it put an end to any adult time for the Grinch and I. No conversations, no movies, no cuddling. Is it any surprise that I got pregnant BEFORE the schedule change?

Working weekends also put an end to any "me" time. No workouts, no pedicures, no gardening, nada. I'm either at work, parenting or asleep. It's exhausting. Never mind the stupid hours.

When I went back to work after maternity leave for Bug, I cried on the way to work every day for a week because I was leaving this beautiful little baby who I loved so much and how could I leave herohmygoodness. This time around, I started crying two weeks before my return to work and pretty much haven't stopped crying since. Not only because of the beautiful baby factor, but "good lord I hate working overnights and never seeing my husband and it's been so nice seeing him and being a real family and I wish I could stay at home waaaaaahhhhhh. sniff."

I find myself aching to see Grinch, to get the chance to fall asleep in his lap again or nuzzle his neck. I want to spend quiet time reading to the Bug or putting her to bed instead of rushing off to bed myself. I want to feel rested more than one day a week. I want to feel like I have my act together instead of feeling like I'm a frazzled, barely washed, bumbling idiot. Harupmh. Want, want, want.

There are good reasons we do the tag team parenting thing. But I wonder if there are better reasons NOT to.

Making Happy

Do you know Bossy? Bossy has a most excellent blog. Bossy is hilarious, has fabulous hair and a really cute teenaged son (who is way too young for me or my friends, but still. Cute. And smart!).

Bossy recently asked her readers to sum up in 10 words what's been going on in their lives. Here is my comment:

"Ate chocolate. Nursed baby. Chased toddler. Cried. Didn't sleep. Worked."

And that, my friends, pretty much sums up my life for the past two and a half years. Except the crying part. I haven't cried EVERY day. MOST but not EVERY. I probably laugh more than I cry, thanks to friends like Laura and the Moms and the general silliness that comes from the Bug but this has been a rough week.

I listen to friends and acquaintances complain about the slow delivery of their new laptops or super-sized TVs. They fume about how TIVO messed up and didn't record LOST. They sigh plaintively about how hard life is what with dropping the kids off at daycare and having to go get manicures and shop. I listen to this, purse my lips and nod blankly. What I really want to do is climb on top of them, dig my knees into their chests, jab at their noses and scream, "YOU DON'T KNOW HARD!"

I think of my four hours of sleep a night. My frazzled nerves. My anxieties about work. The stack of books that looks like I'll never read. The laundry that needs to be done. The groceries that haven't been bought. The relationships that are suffering because I'm always tired and cranky and have no time to spare for lunches or parties or simple conversations. The fear that keeps me from quitting my job and committing to my family the way I really want.

I think of all this and remind myself: I have a job. My eyes work and I can read. I have a home and money to buy groceries. My husband and friends are wonderfully patient people. I made a choice about work and home and I can change it. Frankly, I really don't know hard either.

Hard is losing your home or your marriage. Losing your child. Hard is struggling with illness. Hard is not having anyone to turn to. We all think we have it hard until we meet someone who has it harder.

"Count your blessings" is what my parents used to tell me. It's not easy. It's not easy when all you want to do is sleep and cry and punch pillows. It's not easy when you believe that you can acutally feel the weight of your decisions bearing down on your shoulders. It's not easy when it seems like everyone around you gets exactly what they need and want and never suffer. But we all suffer. Everyone does to varying degrees and we all show it differently.

I don't want to feel better because someone feels worse than me. I want to feel better because I choose to. I can feel better and even if I don't right now, I will. I will feel better because I will make things better.

Whatcha Say, Sonny?

I was feeling pretty good about getting through my whole first week back at work. I did it without caffeine. I did it on four hours of sleep a night. I did it without crying...much. Everyone is still alive at home. We've eaten a lot of leftovers and some frozen pizzas, but we're still alive the kids are happy as far as we can tell.

So I was checking up on some insurance coverage details and came across some of the details of my recent claims, like Dos' birth. That's when I saw the words "Elderly Multigravida" next to my name. Dear Google, what is this interesting term and WHY is it being applied to me? "Elderly multigravida. Second or more pregnancy in a woman who will be 35 years of age or older at expected date of delivery." Well, yeah. That WOULD be me, wouldn't it?

Elderly. I'm elderly. I'm 39 years old and ELDERLY.

I feel a sudden need to wear pink polyester pants with an elastic waist, a flowery shirt, squishy shoes and go to Shoney's for the early bird special.

Didja hear me, sonny? I'm elllllllllllderlllllllllllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyy.

So far, So not so good

So what kind of blogger am I to tell you I'm about to embark upon a major life change, then disappear for a couple of weeks, no updates, no nothing? A sucky one. I know. Dude, I'm new at this ok? Slack, please. Looooooootsa slack.

Going back to the tag team schedule has been hard on everyone. Hard on Grinch because Dos isn't sleeping through the night and he has to figure out how to get her back to sleep without the benefit of lactating boobs.

Hard on the Bug because she'd love to go see her friends, but there's no time in the schedule to get her to play dates and because I have about 10 micrograms of patience left by the time I get home and those get sucked dry the first time she says no to the simplest request.

Hard on Dos because she's not a big fan of the bottle but, until Grinch lactates, the bottle is as good as its gonna get.

Hard on me because I get no sleep, the whole time I'm at work I worry about what's going on at home and when I come home all I want to do is sleep but there are diapers to change, lunches to fix, groceries to buy, dinners to fix, kitchens to clean and laundry to do. (Did you notice there is no time in there to blog? See. I'm doin' stuff.)

Also, the no sleep thing? It makes me kinda crabby. Which is to say that it actually makes me very crabby but this is my blog and I'm not gonna just lay it out there that I'm an insufferable bitch. Which I kinda just did.

Grinch has tried to put it in the nicest terms what sleep deprivation does to me. "I don't like the effect it has on you." he says. (Translation: "You're an insufferable bitch. More so than usual.") He also says it's not worth it to him, the toll it takes on me, on him, on the family.

Sitting here with a splitting headache, dark circles under my eyes, unwashed hair and unpumped boobs, I'm starting to agree. I just have a hard time admitting it to myself. I have a hard time letting go. I'm having a hard time giving up.