My husband snores. It's an issue.
Have you ever slept next to a snorer on a regular basis? My God, it's awful. I am a person who needs a lot if sleep (between eight and ten hours a night usually does me right) and recently I've been getting around five or six. Between Little O being sick, having to get up early for work or therapists visiting the house, and my husband snoring his blasted head off ever night, it's driving me mental. I can't fix Little O and I can't stop the therapists coming over, but I CAN get my other half to do something about his nocturnal soundtrack.
The thing that drives me round the bend with snoring is that it's so inconsistent. At least with a ticking clock there's a definite pattern to it, and you can predict when the next sounds will come. With snoring, each person has their own cycle and variety of delightful nuances in tone and volume, and it's hard to fall asleep when you're laying there waiting for the next shuddering breath to make an appearance. It's so stupid to get so worked up about it, but night after night of trying to drop off for up to three hours is getting really annoying.
So, my husbands has been given an ultimatum. Either he does something about his snoring, or he sleeps in the guest room. It's perfectly fair, given that it's HIS problem, not mine, and it has already started to work. He has now been looking for snoring remedies online and in the shops, although he has yet to buy anything. Yes, I could use ear plugs, and yes, I have used them routinely for years and years since having to share houses with noisy housemates as a student, but it isn't treating the problem itself. Besides, why should I have to give myself ear infections and the like because HE'S snoring? It doesn't make any sense.
We had my brother-in-law stay with us last weekend, and we have guests staying next weekend too. The guest room is therefore unavailable, so my husband sleeps with me. It's no fun for either of us though, because I get so frustrated that I wake him up whenever he starts snoring just to let him know he's at it again. Then he gets mad and doesn't sleep, and I feel guilty but also satisfied I'm making a point, and then we're both not sleeping and get up cranky e next day.
We really need a better solution, but until we find one the guest room beckons...
Tina.
Showing posts with label Frustration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Frustration. Show all posts
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
From good to bad to worse
Yeah, so I started today out feeling better about the 'situation' and even got as far as to write a post about the good news. Then the rest of my day took over and now I feel desperately unhappy again.
I'm just not getting a good grip on Little O's feeds. I've been trying for so long to adapt and persevere, but it seems like there's a constant wall up ahead that I can't climb over. Since he came home from the hospital on June 10th, 2009, my husband and I have battled and battled to make sure Little O has been fed properly and makes gains in his growth and development. We've tried so hard to offer him a variety of foods; changed formulas three times (four if you include breastmilk); worked with gravity feeds, pump feeds, bottle feeds, spoon feeds, safety-feeder feeds; and all along we've had experts in our ears telling us to 'switch this', or 'stick with that'.
I'm exhausted, and I've spent a great deal of today in tears. Last week we weighed Little O on our home scales and were dismayed to see he still hasn't gained any weight since April. April! I took him to Seattle in April.... it seems a very long time ago. After noticing this problem I called his nutritionist and suggested to her we try feeding him his PediaSure when he's asleep ONLY. He's generally a very good sleeper and will sleep for about 11 or 12 hours at night and another three or four in the afternoon, so the idea of slowly pump-feeding him while he naps seems like a good solution. The theory is that he'll not only stop throwing up (because the rate is so slow on the pump), but it will also free up large portions of the day to concentrate on oral feeds. If I'm not having to force liquid nutrition into him while also forcing a spoon into his mouth, it means he's less likely to throw up solids, AND he'll hopefully enjoy oral feeds more. And then, the more oral intake he has, the less liquid nutrition he needs.
IMAGINE! Imagine this glorious world where your baby boy doesn't live in constant pain. Imagine packing the burp cloths and wipe-up rags into storage because you don't have to mop up sick five times a day. Imagine feeding your child like any other family, where dinner time isn't battle-time and you don't have to mentally and physically gear yourself up for war. Imagine putting your child to bed knowing they've felt no discomfort all day and that they can look forward to a tomorrow where eating is a nice, enjoyable activity. Just imagine...
Today I can't imagine this world. This world seems very far away. My baby boy is nearly 15-months-old and his reflux is still the hardest challenge he faces. He woke up several times in the night to throw up or just scream, and even when I went in at 7.30am, the pump still had nearly 100ml left to go. I don't know what to do. I can't set the pump to go any faster because he'll just throw it up, and I can't leave the food in the bag because he needs the nutrition to grow. I can't run the pump for longer because he needs to be asleep, and I can't let him sleep for longer because then he won't nap in the afternoon...
Yesterday I was so pleased that Little O went down for his nap at 12pm and slept right through until 3.30pm. I was pleased, because it meant he got all his PediaSure and I didn't have to worry about a thing. That was, until I went to wake him up and saw that the med-port on his extension tube (the tube that clicks into his stomach) had popped open during his nap, and he was laying in a large, wet pool of pink PediaSure. So after three and a half hours of pump operation, Little O had digested exactly nothing. Nada. Zilch. And this morning I went in at 7.30am because he was yelling his head off, only to discover that he'd thrown up a large volume of goo, and was now laying in a large, wet pool of chocolate PediaSure. And that brown stuff STAINS. So, for the second time in two days I had to change his bedclothes, comfort a soaking wet little boy, and fret about the fact he's not getting enough food digested.
I am just SO DONE WITH REFLUX! I cannot, cannot keep fighting this battle. I just can't do it. I don't have the patience. I certainly don't have the energy. I cannot keep explaining to experts how horrific our lives have become only to have them dismiss my words. I'm so sad and angry and frustrated. I need for this to go away; I need a Fairy Godmother to come and visit my house and whisk us all away to that lovely other world where Little O doesn't cry out in pain in the middle of the night and where bedsheets aren't stained to the point of embarrasment. I need for someone else to take care of us. I need to be able to focus on something, anything else but whether my son is growing and eating and comfortable. I need a break. A real, honest break.
I need to see to my sister. I really miss her. I miss both my sisters, but sometimes you just need a hug from your big sister and you get the energy back to fight another day.
God, I need some help. And I need to stop crying.
Tina.
I'm just not getting a good grip on Little O's feeds. I've been trying for so long to adapt and persevere, but it seems like there's a constant wall up ahead that I can't climb over. Since he came home from the hospital on June 10th, 2009, my husband and I have battled and battled to make sure Little O has been fed properly and makes gains in his growth and development. We've tried so hard to offer him a variety of foods; changed formulas three times (four if you include breastmilk); worked with gravity feeds, pump feeds, bottle feeds, spoon feeds, safety-feeder feeds; and all along we've had experts in our ears telling us to 'switch this', or 'stick with that'.
I'm exhausted, and I've spent a great deal of today in tears. Last week we weighed Little O on our home scales and were dismayed to see he still hasn't gained any weight since April. April! I took him to Seattle in April.... it seems a very long time ago. After noticing this problem I called his nutritionist and suggested to her we try feeding him his PediaSure when he's asleep ONLY. He's generally a very good sleeper and will sleep for about 11 or 12 hours at night and another three or four in the afternoon, so the idea of slowly pump-feeding him while he naps seems like a good solution. The theory is that he'll not only stop throwing up (because the rate is so slow on the pump), but it will also free up large portions of the day to concentrate on oral feeds. If I'm not having to force liquid nutrition into him while also forcing a spoon into his mouth, it means he's less likely to throw up solids, AND he'll hopefully enjoy oral feeds more. And then, the more oral intake he has, the less liquid nutrition he needs.
IMAGINE! Imagine this glorious world where your baby boy doesn't live in constant pain. Imagine packing the burp cloths and wipe-up rags into storage because you don't have to mop up sick five times a day. Imagine feeding your child like any other family, where dinner time isn't battle-time and you don't have to mentally and physically gear yourself up for war. Imagine putting your child to bed knowing they've felt no discomfort all day and that they can look forward to a tomorrow where eating is a nice, enjoyable activity. Just imagine...
Today I can't imagine this world. This world seems very far away. My baby boy is nearly 15-months-old and his reflux is still the hardest challenge he faces. He woke up several times in the night to throw up or just scream, and even when I went in at 7.30am, the pump still had nearly 100ml left to go. I don't know what to do. I can't set the pump to go any faster because he'll just throw it up, and I can't leave the food in the bag because he needs the nutrition to grow. I can't run the pump for longer because he needs to be asleep, and I can't let him sleep for longer because then he won't nap in the afternoon...
Yesterday I was so pleased that Little O went down for his nap at 12pm and slept right through until 3.30pm. I was pleased, because it meant he got all his PediaSure and I didn't have to worry about a thing. That was, until I went to wake him up and saw that the med-port on his extension tube (the tube that clicks into his stomach) had popped open during his nap, and he was laying in a large, wet pool of pink PediaSure. So after three and a half hours of pump operation, Little O had digested exactly nothing. Nada. Zilch. And this morning I went in at 7.30am because he was yelling his head off, only to discover that he'd thrown up a large volume of goo, and was now laying in a large, wet pool of chocolate PediaSure. And that brown stuff STAINS. So, for the second time in two days I had to change his bedclothes, comfort a soaking wet little boy, and fret about the fact he's not getting enough food digested.
I am just SO DONE WITH REFLUX! I cannot, cannot keep fighting this battle. I just can't do it. I don't have the patience. I certainly don't have the energy. I cannot keep explaining to experts how horrific our lives have become only to have them dismiss my words. I'm so sad and angry and frustrated. I need for this to go away; I need a Fairy Godmother to come and visit my house and whisk us all away to that lovely other world where Little O doesn't cry out in pain in the middle of the night and where bedsheets aren't stained to the point of embarrasment. I need for someone else to take care of us. I need to be able to focus on something, anything else but whether my son is growing and eating and comfortable. I need a break. A real, honest break.
I need to see to my sister. I really miss her. I miss both my sisters, but sometimes you just need a hug from your big sister and you get the energy back to fight another day.
God, I need some help. And I need to stop crying.
Tina.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Stop being SO SMUG!
Money troubles are really starting to get to me. Although Mike's salary can handle the mortgage and bills, if we want to ever have any fun then we need something extra coming in: namely, ME working. My usual client isn't sending any projects my way at the moment, and no-one else is biting when I send out e-mails and make enquiries.
So, while we wait for other people to figure out how much of a fuckin' genius I am at making their work look brilliant, we have to figure out some ways to cut costs. We're not massive spenders, to be honest (I can't remember the last time I bought a new piece of clothing), and most of our 'fun' money goes on the odd meal at Subway or buying new clothes for Little O because he grows like a weed. Actually, he hasn't gained a single ounce in the last three months so we haven't needed any clothes recently, but the tales about his weight gains and losses are enough to fill an entirely new post, so I'll leave it there.
One of the things we've considered doing to save money is investing in cloth diapers. I KNOW they're called nappies in the UK, but if I'm going to start translating British and American English every time I mention them then things will get very boring, so please just accept that Little O knows his bum-coverings as diapers, and we'll all be happy. So yes, cloth diapers. I've read a lot about them recently, but until Little O turned a year old, we had no time to devote to extra piles of laundry and we've simply chosen the more convenient route. I think you'd find it hard to argue that we didn't deserve a little convenience in his first year....
So yesterday we started looking at purchasing some cloth diapers for real. I went on to the Fuzzi Bunz website and had a poke around, watching the helpful 'care for' and 'application' videos, and generally cooing over all the lovely little baby bottoms wearing fluffy, colourful diapers. However, nowhere on this website does it give prices, so you have to explore their sellers and distributors for a break down in costs. I went to the Fuzzi Bunz Store website and was excited to see they sell packages of cloth diapers to save customers money. "Whoo hoo!", I thought. "This will be A LOT cheaper than buying disposibles!"
Oh, how wrong I was. Numerous websites recommend buying four- to five-dozen cloth diapers so that you can do a completely separate load of laundry for them and not risk ruining your silk sheets with baby poop and extreme temperatures (one load hot, one load freezing cold). Have enough, and you can spend only one or two days a week washing diapers, while your little one wears the dry ones. So, when I was looking at costs, this figure of four- to five-dozen was firmly in my mind, and I went straight to the packages of 18 or 24 diapers to do some calculations.
18 One-size Fuzzi Bunz: $284.25
24 One-size Fuzzi Bunz : $442.80
(NOT including sales tax)
If you want to buy the recommended four- to five-dozen diapers, then you're looking at start-up costs for JUST DIAPERS of at least $1,000!! Then you have to consider how to store dirty diapers (handy diaper pails or some smart drawstring pouches for about $15 each), how to wash dirty diapers (two washes: one hot, one cold), how to dry diapers in the horrible winters we have (tumble drier), and then all the other incremental costs like wipes, spare pads, paper liners ($7 for 100) that you don't necessarily NEED, but they make the cloth diapering experience much less stressful.
So... to get us up and running, we'd be looking at around $1,000 to $1,200. The diapers are one-size, which is nice, and they'd last us until Little O potty-trains (if he's capable of it - we don't know yet), but we'd still have a larger water and electricity bill every month, as well as purchasing paper liners and wipes. So every month we'd probably be forking out an extra $20 anyway.
Generic, Target-brand diapers are $13.82 for 82 size four disposible diapers. We get through a box about every three weeks, so our monthly out-goings for diapers is about $20, and that's being generous. Wipes are bought in massive, commercial-size boxes containing nine packages for about $9. We go through one box about every six months, so our wipes cost us about $1.30 a month.
Let's run some numbers for the next two years, assuming it will take us that long to potty-train Little O.
Cloth diapers: Year One (12 months)
$1,000 start-up
$15.60 wipes
$12.00 spare pads (9)
$84.00 paper liners (100 liners for $7)
$30 - $50 extra water and electricity
= $1,161.60
Cloth diapers: Year Two (12 months)
$15.60 wipes
$84.00 paper liners
$30 - $50 extra water and electricity
= $149.60
TOTAL for two years: $1,311.20
Disposible diapers: Year One (12 months)
$240 diapers
$15.60 wipes
= $255.60
Disposible diapers: Year Two (12 months)
$240 diapers
$15.60 wipes
= $255.60
TOTAL for two years: $511.20
DID YOU READ THAT?! We would actually spend nearly THREE TIMES as much on cloth diapers if we made the switch! That's quite remarkable.
I have a theory on cloth diapers and the people who buy them. Parents can be a little... smug... sometimes. We hit upon a magic formula (and I'm as guilty as the rest of them - Little O sleeps like a fuckin' baby and everyone remarks on how well we must have taught him) and we like to feel that our parenting skills are infinitely superior to everyone else's. Parents who spend a large of money upfront on cloth diapers watch other parents throwing disposible diapers in the shopping cart every month and feel VERY, VERY smug. They forget, of course, that they spent a thousand dollars when their child was first born, and they forget how much extra water and electricity they use because it's absorbed in to their household costs.
Handily chosing to ignore the enviromental impact of disposible diapers (and this is actually a major concern for me, living half a mile from a landfill), I'd have to say that the myths about costs and convenience are just ludicrous. Even if you invested in one-size diapers and used them for two children (presumably buying a few more because you still need that four- to five-dozen per child), you're still looking at extraordinary costs. Yes, Fuzzi Bunz are in the premier league of cloth diapers and there are cheaper brands available, but if you're the type of parent who's going to invest in your baby's comfort, your own sense of smugness, and saving the environment, wouldn't you go for the brand that offers the most convenience, cuteness and brand-security? I would.
So, cloth diapering families, stop being SO SMUG! You are NOT saving any money! Perhaps if I believed in buying Pampers or Huggies the pricing would work out more in your favour, but I don't. My son craps in his diapers so we only buy generic brands, and I'm afraid that this equation just doesn't add up.
The next person who tells me they save $4,000 a year by cloth diapering will get an earful. And a small lapel pin that says: "I am a self-righteous cloth diapering prick".
Tina.
So, while we wait for other people to figure out how much of a fuckin' genius I am at making their work look brilliant, we have to figure out some ways to cut costs. We're not massive spenders, to be honest (I can't remember the last time I bought a new piece of clothing), and most of our 'fun' money goes on the odd meal at Subway or buying new clothes for Little O because he grows like a weed. Actually, he hasn't gained a single ounce in the last three months so we haven't needed any clothes recently, but the tales about his weight gains and losses are enough to fill an entirely new post, so I'll leave it there.
One of the things we've considered doing to save money is investing in cloth diapers. I KNOW they're called nappies in the UK, but if I'm going to start translating British and American English every time I mention them then things will get very boring, so please just accept that Little O knows his bum-coverings as diapers, and we'll all be happy. So yes, cloth diapers. I've read a lot about them recently, but until Little O turned a year old, we had no time to devote to extra piles of laundry and we've simply chosen the more convenient route. I think you'd find it hard to argue that we didn't deserve a little convenience in his first year....
So yesterday we started looking at purchasing some cloth diapers for real. I went on to the Fuzzi Bunz website and had a poke around, watching the helpful 'care for' and 'application' videos, and generally cooing over all the lovely little baby bottoms wearing fluffy, colourful diapers. However, nowhere on this website does it give prices, so you have to explore their sellers and distributors for a break down in costs. I went to the Fuzzi Bunz Store website and was excited to see they sell packages of cloth diapers to save customers money. "Whoo hoo!", I thought. "This will be A LOT cheaper than buying disposibles!"
Oh, how wrong I was. Numerous websites recommend buying four- to five-dozen cloth diapers so that you can do a completely separate load of laundry for them and not risk ruining your silk sheets with baby poop and extreme temperatures (one load hot, one load freezing cold). Have enough, and you can spend only one or two days a week washing diapers, while your little one wears the dry ones. So, when I was looking at costs, this figure of four- to five-dozen was firmly in my mind, and I went straight to the packages of 18 or 24 diapers to do some calculations.
18 One-size Fuzzi Bunz: $284.25
24 One-size Fuzzi Bunz : $442.80
(NOT including sales tax)
If you want to buy the recommended four- to five-dozen diapers, then you're looking at start-up costs for JUST DIAPERS of at least $1,000!! Then you have to consider how to store dirty diapers (handy diaper pails or some smart drawstring pouches for about $15 each), how to wash dirty diapers (two washes: one hot, one cold), how to dry diapers in the horrible winters we have (tumble drier), and then all the other incremental costs like wipes, spare pads, paper liners ($7 for 100) that you don't necessarily NEED, but they make the cloth diapering experience much less stressful.
So... to get us up and running, we'd be looking at around $1,000 to $1,200. The diapers are one-size, which is nice, and they'd last us until Little O potty-trains (if he's capable of it - we don't know yet), but we'd still have a larger water and electricity bill every month, as well as purchasing paper liners and wipes. So every month we'd probably be forking out an extra $20 anyway.
Generic, Target-brand diapers are $13.82 for 82 size four disposible diapers. We get through a box about every three weeks, so our monthly out-goings for diapers is about $20, and that's being generous. Wipes are bought in massive, commercial-size boxes containing nine packages for about $9. We go through one box about every six months, so our wipes cost us about $1.30 a month.
Let's run some numbers for the next two years, assuming it will take us that long to potty-train Little O.
Cloth diapers: Year One (12 months)
$1,000 start-up
$15.60 wipes
$12.00 spare pads (9)
$84.00 paper liners (100 liners for $7)
$30 - $50 extra water and electricity
= $1,161.60
Cloth diapers: Year Two (12 months)
$15.60 wipes
$84.00 paper liners
$30 - $50 extra water and electricity
= $149.60
TOTAL for two years: $1,311.20
Disposible diapers: Year One (12 months)
$240 diapers
$15.60 wipes
= $255.60
Disposible diapers: Year Two (12 months)
$240 diapers
$15.60 wipes
= $255.60
TOTAL for two years: $511.20
DID YOU READ THAT?! We would actually spend nearly THREE TIMES as much on cloth diapers if we made the switch! That's quite remarkable.
I have a theory on cloth diapers and the people who buy them. Parents can be a little... smug... sometimes. We hit upon a magic formula (and I'm as guilty as the rest of them - Little O sleeps like a fuckin' baby and everyone remarks on how well we must have taught him) and we like to feel that our parenting skills are infinitely superior to everyone else's. Parents who spend a large of money upfront on cloth diapers watch other parents throwing disposible diapers in the shopping cart every month and feel VERY, VERY smug. They forget, of course, that they spent a thousand dollars when their child was first born, and they forget how much extra water and electricity they use because it's absorbed in to their household costs.
Handily chosing to ignore the enviromental impact of disposible diapers (and this is actually a major concern for me, living half a mile from a landfill), I'd have to say that the myths about costs and convenience are just ludicrous. Even if you invested in one-size diapers and used them for two children (presumably buying a few more because you still need that four- to five-dozen per child), you're still looking at extraordinary costs. Yes, Fuzzi Bunz are in the premier league of cloth diapers and there are cheaper brands available, but if you're the type of parent who's going to invest in your baby's comfort, your own sense of smugness, and saving the environment, wouldn't you go for the brand that offers the most convenience, cuteness and brand-security? I would.
So, cloth diapering families, stop being SO SMUG! You are NOT saving any money! Perhaps if I believed in buying Pampers or Huggies the pricing would work out more in your favour, but I don't. My son craps in his diapers so we only buy generic brands, and I'm afraid that this equation just doesn't add up.
The next person who tells me they save $4,000 a year by cloth diapering will get an earful. And a small lapel pin that says: "I am a self-righteous cloth diapering prick".
Tina.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Two things
Two things of interest have happened to me the last few days. Just two, no more.
Firstly, I have started applying for more work. For someone who NEEDS to stay at home, this isn't exactly easy, but I've spent a few hours trawling Monster and Craigs List and have applied for four freelance proofreading positions that sound hopeful. I'd really rather be doing copyediting or content writing, but unfortunately most of those positions aren't freelance or electronic. So the idea now is to secure some kind of distance proofreading job with a single company, earn some dolla dolla, and then impress them so much with my mad skillz that they're begging me to take on more work of a copyediting- or content writer-nature. Naturally, because I've only been at this for two days I'm optimistic. After a month or two I will probably have given up and decided I'm useless.
Secondly, I had a row with some rather unpleasant characters over on BritishExpats.com and managed to win the argument for once. This is pretty impressive, even for me, because normally I'm keen to keep up my oh-so-hilarious-feminist-parent vibe and don't really engage douchebags in conversations when it isn't worth it. But last night there was a 100+ post thread all about ginger hair, and it wasn't exactly saying having red hair was a blessing. On the contrary, people were posting jokes, comments, cruel vibes, and generally disgusting turns of phrases, and I just saw... well... red.
Yeah yeah yeah, having red hair is HILARIOUS. I mean look at it! It's GINGER! Ya big freak.
The thing is though, it isn't really. It's just my hair. And I can't do a thing about it, either. I could dye it, admittedly, but my freckles and pale skin would still reveal the truth, and anyway I don't think I should have to. I went through a phase in high school of dying it various shades of brown or even brighter red, but since I reached the age of 18 I've pretty much left it alone. Because actually, I quite like it. It has always made me stand out (not that I've needed any help there, playing the tuba for thirteen years and being quite gobby), but it's also made me an incredibly strong person. I mean, I've been made fun of for the colour of my hair since I was born. Yup, since the very day I was born. And I'm completely sick of it. I'm sick of the disgusting jokes made about my crotch in particular (oh, pur-lease), and I just don't think anyone has the right to say the things they do to me in such revolting ways.
It's hair. It isn't remotely funny, and now I'm at an age (and height) where I can stand up and spit at you without remorse, may I suggest you leave off the ginger jokes? The contributors to that thread on BE.com were forced to acknowledge my opinion when the mods shut it down, and I'm not in the least bit afraid to delete YOU out of my life either.
Sometimes I'm in the mood for a joke and sometimes I'm not. You'd have to know me exeptionally well to know the difference. And as Tim Minchin so aptly put it: "Only a Ginger can call another Ginger ginger".
Tina.
Firstly, I have started applying for more work. For someone who NEEDS to stay at home, this isn't exactly easy, but I've spent a few hours trawling Monster and Craigs List and have applied for four freelance proofreading positions that sound hopeful. I'd really rather be doing copyediting or content writing, but unfortunately most of those positions aren't freelance or electronic. So the idea now is to secure some kind of distance proofreading job with a single company, earn some dolla dolla, and then impress them so much with my mad skillz that they're begging me to take on more work of a copyediting- or content writer-nature. Naturally, because I've only been at this for two days I'm optimistic. After a month or two I will probably have given up and decided I'm useless.
Secondly, I had a row with some rather unpleasant characters over on BritishExpats.com and managed to win the argument for once. This is pretty impressive, even for me, because normally I'm keen to keep up my oh-so-hilarious-feminist-parent vibe and don't really engage douchebags in conversations when it isn't worth it. But last night there was a 100+ post thread all about ginger hair, and it wasn't exactly saying having red hair was a blessing. On the contrary, people were posting jokes, comments, cruel vibes, and generally disgusting turns of phrases, and I just saw... well... red.
Yeah yeah yeah, having red hair is HILARIOUS. I mean look at it! It's GINGER! Ya big freak.
The thing is though, it isn't really. It's just my hair. And I can't do a thing about it, either. I could dye it, admittedly, but my freckles and pale skin would still reveal the truth, and anyway I don't think I should have to. I went through a phase in high school of dying it various shades of brown or even brighter red, but since I reached the age of 18 I've pretty much left it alone. Because actually, I quite like it. It has always made me stand out (not that I've needed any help there, playing the tuba for thirteen years and being quite gobby), but it's also made me an incredibly strong person. I mean, I've been made fun of for the colour of my hair since I was born. Yup, since the very day I was born. And I'm completely sick of it. I'm sick of the disgusting jokes made about my crotch in particular (oh, pur-lease), and I just don't think anyone has the right to say the things they do to me in such revolting ways.
It's hair. It isn't remotely funny, and now I'm at an age (and height) where I can stand up and spit at you without remorse, may I suggest you leave off the ginger jokes? The contributors to that thread on BE.com were forced to acknowledge my opinion when the mods shut it down, and I'm not in the least bit afraid to delete YOU out of my life either.
Sometimes I'm in the mood for a joke and sometimes I'm not. You'd have to know me exeptionally well to know the difference. And as Tim Minchin so aptly put it: "Only a Ginger can call another Ginger ginger".
Tina.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
And repeat!
This week has been rather lovely for me and Owen because all three of his therapists have gone dun a bunk and he hasn't had any Speech, PT or OT. Which means I haven't had to clean the house in preparation for their visits (because, let's face it: if I didn't HAVE to clean the house, I WOULDN'T clean the house), and we've had some more free time than usual.
However.
Because this is the sixth month of the year, and because I am a diligent, organised parent, a lot of Owen's routine appointments have cropped up and I have chosen to attend them instead of buggering off on holiday for a week or seven. This has meant that two appointments, genetics and Stepping Stones, have occurred back-to-back in the same week. And neither of them are up at CHOW or at my own house, so it's kind of a bitch to get to them and remember how long they're going to take. Anyway, genetics was yesterday and aside from it being a colossal waste of time, it was rather nice to present my son to them and go, "SEE? Isn't he MARVELLOUS?", and for them to go, "Oh yes! What a lovely little boy you have there, and what a REMARKABLE job you're doing with him!" in return. Which is what always happens at these types of appointments. Honestly, I think there must be some real douchebag parents out there, because whenever I see any of Little O's specialists I'm always commended on my parenting skills - particularly my ability to remember which medications he takes, which doctors he sees, dates, times, and past medical history, all without referring to something I've written down.
The trick to remembering it all is quite simple: repeat. Often. At least once a week. Tell every doctor, therapist, nurse, specialist, interested friend, and family members as often as possible, because chances are they won't have remembered a single sodding thing from the last time they saw Little O, and haven't bothered to look at his chart before they entered the room. Trust me, you can get a reputation as an outstanding parent very quickly if you are forced to repeat, repeat, and repeat again your son's medical history every time he sees someone.
The thing is, I'm usually a wreck. Emotionally and physically, I'm a wreck. Because attending appointments means adhering to someone else's schedule, I always arrive looking and feeling completely frazzled. I can't remember the last time I bothered to dry my hair instead of sticking it up in a mess, and as for make-up or checking to see if my clothes are baby-fluid-free ... well ... let's just say they're low on my list of priorities. I turn up at least five minutes early, because to me "on-time" is late, and I have always, always busted a gut to get out of the house with a semi-clean Little O and chewy toys, wipes, diapers, special butt cream, clean t-shirts, clean trousers/shorts, several burp cloths, wallet, diary (planner), phone, car keys, and feeding supplies if they're needed (milk, water, bottles, extension tubing, 60cc syringe, 10ml syringe, bib, sippy cup, semi-solid food, bowl, spoon, plastic baggies, freezer pack, insulated bag). And it always takes me an hour to get to most of our appointments, so I have to shift Little O's feeds around to make sure he's done puking by the time I sit him in his car seat. It isn't fun pulling over on to the hard shoulder to mop him up; oh no, it isn't. Today for example, I was up at 6am just to make sure we arrived at our 10.30am Stepping Stones (SS) clinic appointment on time.
That, quite frankly, is ridiculous.
It's also ridiculous to ask me to add a single sodding thing to my already scheduled-to-death life. The therapists we see at SS all make very helpful suggestions whenever we go, and I'm always pleased to see them, but they make it sound SO simple and they need to know it isn't. Asking me to prepare fresh baby food instead of shop-bought is just not an option right now. I don't have the time to dry my hair, let alone mash some vegetables up! It's completely maddening and today I was kind of at the end of my tether. I sobbed quite a lot this morning before I left the house and I just didn't have the patience to sit through another "helpful suggestion", so I told them quite honestly the things I was, and wasn't, prepared to do. And making fresh food for a child who will not eat anything at all, is so low on my list of priorities that it doesn't even register.
Wait one sec ... this post is nowhere near finished, but Little O has a stinky bottom and the phone's ringing.
To be continued ...
Tina.
However.
Because this is the sixth month of the year, and because I am a diligent, organised parent, a lot of Owen's routine appointments have cropped up and I have chosen to attend them instead of buggering off on holiday for a week or seven. This has meant that two appointments, genetics and Stepping Stones, have occurred back-to-back in the same week. And neither of them are up at CHOW or at my own house, so it's kind of a bitch to get to them and remember how long they're going to take. Anyway, genetics was yesterday and aside from it being a colossal waste of time, it was rather nice to present my son to them and go, "SEE? Isn't he MARVELLOUS?", and for them to go, "Oh yes! What a lovely little boy you have there, and what a REMARKABLE job you're doing with him!" in return. Which is what always happens at these types of appointments. Honestly, I think there must be some real douchebag parents out there, because whenever I see any of Little O's specialists I'm always commended on my parenting skills - particularly my ability to remember which medications he takes, which doctors he sees, dates, times, and past medical history, all without referring to something I've written down.
The trick to remembering it all is quite simple: repeat. Often. At least once a week. Tell every doctor, therapist, nurse, specialist, interested friend, and family members as often as possible, because chances are they won't have remembered a single sodding thing from the last time they saw Little O, and haven't bothered to look at his chart before they entered the room. Trust me, you can get a reputation as an outstanding parent very quickly if you are forced to repeat, repeat, and repeat again your son's medical history every time he sees someone.
The thing is, I'm usually a wreck. Emotionally and physically, I'm a wreck. Because attending appointments means adhering to someone else's schedule, I always arrive looking and feeling completely frazzled. I can't remember the last time I bothered to dry my hair instead of sticking it up in a mess, and as for make-up or checking to see if my clothes are baby-fluid-free ... well ... let's just say they're low on my list of priorities. I turn up at least five minutes early, because to me "on-time" is late, and I have always, always busted a gut to get out of the house with a semi-clean Little O and chewy toys, wipes, diapers, special butt cream, clean t-shirts, clean trousers/shorts, several burp cloths, wallet, diary (planner), phone, car keys, and feeding supplies if they're needed (milk, water, bottles, extension tubing, 60cc syringe, 10ml syringe, bib, sippy cup, semi-solid food, bowl, spoon, plastic baggies, freezer pack, insulated bag). And it always takes me an hour to get to most of our appointments, so I have to shift Little O's feeds around to make sure he's done puking by the time I sit him in his car seat. It isn't fun pulling over on to the hard shoulder to mop him up; oh no, it isn't. Today for example, I was up at 6am just to make sure we arrived at our 10.30am Stepping Stones (SS) clinic appointment on time.
That, quite frankly, is ridiculous.
It's also ridiculous to ask me to add a single sodding thing to my already scheduled-to-death life. The therapists we see at SS all make very helpful suggestions whenever we go, and I'm always pleased to see them, but they make it sound SO simple and they need to know it isn't. Asking me to prepare fresh baby food instead of shop-bought is just not an option right now. I don't have the time to dry my hair, let alone mash some vegetables up! It's completely maddening and today I was kind of at the end of my tether. I sobbed quite a lot this morning before I left the house and I just didn't have the patience to sit through another "helpful suggestion", so I told them quite honestly the things I was, and wasn't, prepared to do. And making fresh food for a child who will not eat anything at all, is so low on my list of priorities that it doesn't even register.
Wait one sec ... this post is nowhere near finished, but Little O has a stinky bottom and the phone's ringing.
To be continued ...
Tina.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Let's set some stuff straight.
Apparently I've caused quite a stir.
Thankfully, because I'm not obsessed with Twitter I have managed to avoid the 'discussion' (read: people telling me off like a naughty child) about my previous post. And I don't WANT to know what people are saying about me, because a) they do not know me, and b) only three of them have bothered to start a real 'discussion' with me about it on my own sodding blog.
This whole thing started off with this headline: Spoons aren't just for sick people. Apparently this has been deemed EXTREMELY inappropriate in the blogosphere (and I thank my only positive commentator, Jemimaaslana, for bringing this to my attention), EVEN THOUGH the author of the article I linked to (here) uses the word 'sick' herself! Imagine my dismay when I find out people haven't even bothered to look at the original article and explore the rhetoric for themselves. I'd say that's almost as bad as judging me and my blog without engaging me in debate.
So the heading of my post enraged 'Annoymous' (and Anji, I'm totally calling you out on this one. I know it was you and I'm gobsmacked a woman of your drive and passion didn't have the guts to put their name to that comment), and that started a small snowball of anger, judgement and (hee hee) visits to my and Anthea's little innocuous blog about parenting, health and lifestyle choices. People with disabilities (I looked this up in the Guardian Style Guide to be certain, and this is the correct term, so don't you dare shoot me down for any terminology I'm about to use) are apparently very upset that: a) I wrote about a theory which they, and ONLY they are allowed to claim for themselves; b) that I myself am not disabled; and c) that I have the audacity to use the word 'sick' instead of 'disabled', even though (as I mentioned earlier) that is the phrase the author of the original article used herself.
The whole thing has surprised me, to be honest. Readers of my blog posts will know my history of managing a mental illness, looking after a disabled child, and growing up with another. I am not claiming to be disabled myself; I think that's rather stretching it a little, to be honest. What I AM claiming, however, is that I can EMPATHISE with the author of the original article (and if you look back, you'll see that's exactly what I wrote), and use her theory in my own situation. I have been criticised for not 'checking my privilege' and trying to claim words and devices people with disabilities claim for themselves, and themselves only. To me, I can see both sides of the debate. I can understand why a woman would not want a man to claim certain words as his, and I can understand why a man claiming 'female' words for his own is also important to the development of equality. Apply this to any other dichotomy and you'll come up with the same. But no, I do not pretend, or claim, or anything else, to be disabled. I do not qualify for Medicaid, which my son does as he has chronic conditions that cost him, his family, and the state money - so we are assisted. But I do receive treatment for an adjustment disorder with depression and anxiety. It certainly doesn't ENABLE me in any way, but it doesn't DISABLE me, either. I consider it to be neither.
Not that it's anyone else's Goddam business, but I do know a little something of disability. I grew up with it, for a start, and very rarely, if ever, discuss my younger sister's conditions because she is not able to grant me permission to do so. But she has had such a massive impact on my and Anthea's life that for people to fling around comments that I know nothing about disability, is just rude. I also have a son with various health issues, and being a mother to him has caused my mental health to suffer. So again, saying I know nothing is just plain rude. And wrong. And irritating. YOU, on the other hand, know nothing about V, or Little O, or my mental health, because you haven't bothered to ask.
I'm going to keep my previous post up because I stand by what I've said. I also apologise to anyone I've upset or offended, because that was not my intention (and you must see that, if you're honest with yourselves). Perhaps I'll use the Spoon Theory again to illustrate a point, and perhaps I won't. I haven't decided yet. But next Friday, when I'm so exhausted that I cannot lift my head of the floor, I will think about you lot. And I will think about how closed-minded YOU'RE being that you cannot believe a young mother with a mental health issue can ever feel as tired, challenged, or frustrated as you. Because believe me, it isn't the case.
Please, engage with me in a sensible, adult debate on MY blog, where I can respond to you. Don't be cowards and hide your Twitter posts. If you feel that strongly, you shouldn't be afraid of the challenge.
With respect,
Tina.
Thankfully, because I'm not obsessed with Twitter I have managed to avoid the 'discussion' (read: people telling me off like a naughty child) about my previous post. And I don't WANT to know what people are saying about me, because a) they do not know me, and b) only three of them have bothered to start a real 'discussion' with me about it on my own sodding blog.
This whole thing started off with this headline: Spoons aren't just for sick people. Apparently this has been deemed EXTREMELY inappropriate in the blogosphere (and I thank my only positive commentator, Jemimaaslana, for bringing this to my attention), EVEN THOUGH the author of the article I linked to (here) uses the word 'sick' herself! Imagine my dismay when I find out people haven't even bothered to look at the original article and explore the rhetoric for themselves. I'd say that's almost as bad as judging me and my blog without engaging me in debate.
So the heading of my post enraged 'Annoymous' (and Anji, I'm totally calling you out on this one. I know it was you and I'm gobsmacked a woman of your drive and passion didn't have the guts to put their name to that comment), and that started a small snowball of anger, judgement and (hee hee) visits to my and Anthea's little innocuous blog about parenting, health and lifestyle choices. People with disabilities (I looked this up in the Guardian Style Guide to be certain, and this is the correct term, so don't you dare shoot me down for any terminology I'm about to use) are apparently very upset that: a) I wrote about a theory which they, and ONLY they are allowed to claim for themselves; b) that I myself am not disabled; and c) that I have the audacity to use the word 'sick' instead of 'disabled', even though (as I mentioned earlier) that is the phrase the author of the original article used herself.
The whole thing has surprised me, to be honest. Readers of my blog posts will know my history of managing a mental illness, looking after a disabled child, and growing up with another. I am not claiming to be disabled myself; I think that's rather stretching it a little, to be honest. What I AM claiming, however, is that I can EMPATHISE with the author of the original article (and if you look back, you'll see that's exactly what I wrote), and use her theory in my own situation. I have been criticised for not 'checking my privilege' and trying to claim words and devices people with disabilities claim for themselves, and themselves only. To me, I can see both sides of the debate. I can understand why a woman would not want a man to claim certain words as his, and I can understand why a man claiming 'female' words for his own is also important to the development of equality. Apply this to any other dichotomy and you'll come up with the same. But no, I do not pretend, or claim, or anything else, to be disabled. I do not qualify for Medicaid, which my son does as he has chronic conditions that cost him, his family, and the state money - so we are assisted. But I do receive treatment for an adjustment disorder with depression and anxiety. It certainly doesn't ENABLE me in any way, but it doesn't DISABLE me, either. I consider it to be neither.
Not that it's anyone else's Goddam business, but I do know a little something of disability. I grew up with it, for a start, and very rarely, if ever, discuss my younger sister's conditions because she is not able to grant me permission to do so. But she has had such a massive impact on my and Anthea's life that for people to fling around comments that I know nothing about disability, is just rude. I also have a son with various health issues, and being a mother to him has caused my mental health to suffer. So again, saying I know nothing is just plain rude. And wrong. And irritating. YOU, on the other hand, know nothing about V, or Little O, or my mental health, because you haven't bothered to ask.
I'm going to keep my previous post up because I stand by what I've said. I also apologise to anyone I've upset or offended, because that was not my intention (and you must see that, if you're honest with yourselves). Perhaps I'll use the Spoon Theory again to illustrate a point, and perhaps I won't. I haven't decided yet. But next Friday, when I'm so exhausted that I cannot lift my head of the floor, I will think about you lot. And I will think about how closed-minded YOU'RE being that you cannot believe a young mother with a mental health issue can ever feel as tired, challenged, or frustrated as you. Because believe me, it isn't the case.
Please, engage with me in a sensible, adult debate on MY blog, where I can respond to you. Don't be cowards and hide your Twitter posts. If you feel that strongly, you shouldn't be afraid of the challenge.
With respect,
Tina.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Week...err... four?
Weight: 211.2lb
This, obviously, is a big kick in the gonads. I am extrememely irritated I didn't reach 210, which was my goal for this week. I feel like eating a big slice of cake just to piss off my scale.
In other news, my weekend was a complete and utter disaster from start to finish. I had a deadline due Monday morning for Crimson and because I am both excellent at working under pressure AND being a lazy bum until the last minute, I didn't start my work until last Thursday. This is not normally an issue because I'm pretty quick at what I do, but I didn't expect BOTH our computers to pack in on Saturday morning. I cannot describe with enough anger and frustration exactly what happened, but just know this: Windows 7, Microsoft, Office and our internet can all take a scalding hot bath in some freshly laid cow shit. I finally gave in on Sunday and took my poorly laptop in to Geek Squad, and after threatening to cut off various parts of their anatomies, those chaps fixed my machine that afternoon. Our iMac is still down (still blaming the idiots at Best Buy who swore blind to us that just inserting a Windows 7 disc on a machine with Snow Leopard would work... oh how WRONG THEY WERE) and we're kind of afraid to turn it on again, because every time we do it reboots and reboots and reboots and reboots and reboots... and either the iMac is going out the window or one of us is...
Poor Mac. We miss you.
Owen is doing well and still laughing at everything we wave in front of his face. He's starting to look like a little boy rather than a baby, which is both incredibly exciting and yet leaves me a little bit sad. I've already forgotten what he sounded like as a premature babba (a kitten, incidentally, but I can no longer bring it to memory), and while I love the way he interacts with us now, I do miss just lying back on our oh-so-American recliner chair and falling asleep with him on my shoulder. Jey-sus, if I tried to do that now I'd either get an elbow in the eye or a kick in the stomach.
We've changed his feeding schedule (again) and we're trying out a new thing with our food pump. Now he eats only three times a day, and the rest of his food is pumped continuously in to his tummy overnight. We scoffed at first and were extremely reluctant to try it, but I'm so glad we overcame our intense dislike of the pump and got it working, because he is an absolute champion at using this method. He didn't like it at first because ever since we brought him home from the NICU almost a year ago, he's fallen asleep in the living room in either his high chair or our arms while being fed. Now he has to go to sleep by himself in his cot a whole half-hour before he used to (9.30pm instead of 10pm) and pretty much stay there until 7.30am. Thankfully he takes after moi, because once we've settled him, he does stay asleep all night and is happy to remain in bed the next morning. If he were more like Mike he'd be fast asleep at 7pm and wake my sorry arse up at 5am. We did feel sorry for him when we first changed things around because he was so confused and cried and cried and cried, but four nights in and he's settling down after only five minutes. Result! He's sleeping so much better and of course, his food is staying in his tummy. Our next challenge is to build up the amount he gets overnight and reduce his day time feeds, so that he's only eating enough during the day to satisfy his hunger, and not so much he's puking his guts out. Watch this space.
Tina.
This, obviously, is a big kick in the gonads. I am extrememely irritated I didn't reach 210, which was my goal for this week. I feel like eating a big slice of cake just to piss off my scale.
In other news, my weekend was a complete and utter disaster from start to finish. I had a deadline due Monday morning for Crimson and because I am both excellent at working under pressure AND being a lazy bum until the last minute, I didn't start my work until last Thursday. This is not normally an issue because I'm pretty quick at what I do, but I didn't expect BOTH our computers to pack in on Saturday morning. I cannot describe with enough anger and frustration exactly what happened, but just know this: Windows 7, Microsoft, Office and our internet can all take a scalding hot bath in some freshly laid cow shit. I finally gave in on Sunday and took my poorly laptop in to Geek Squad, and after threatening to cut off various parts of their anatomies, those chaps fixed my machine that afternoon. Our iMac is still down (still blaming the idiots at Best Buy who swore blind to us that just inserting a Windows 7 disc on a machine with Snow Leopard would work... oh how WRONG THEY WERE) and we're kind of afraid to turn it on again, because every time we do it reboots and reboots and reboots and reboots and reboots... and either the iMac is going out the window or one of us is...
Poor Mac. We miss you.
Owen is doing well and still laughing at everything we wave in front of his face. He's starting to look like a little boy rather than a baby, which is both incredibly exciting and yet leaves me a little bit sad. I've already forgotten what he sounded like as a premature babba (a kitten, incidentally, but I can no longer bring it to memory), and while I love the way he interacts with us now, I do miss just lying back on our oh-so-American recliner chair and falling asleep with him on my shoulder. Jey-sus, if I tried to do that now I'd either get an elbow in the eye or a kick in the stomach.
We've changed his feeding schedule (again) and we're trying out a new thing with our food pump. Now he eats only three times a day, and the rest of his food is pumped continuously in to his tummy overnight. We scoffed at first and were extremely reluctant to try it, but I'm so glad we overcame our intense dislike of the pump and got it working, because he is an absolute champion at using this method. He didn't like it at first because ever since we brought him home from the NICU almost a year ago, he's fallen asleep in the living room in either his high chair or our arms while being fed. Now he has to go to sleep by himself in his cot a whole half-hour before he used to (9.30pm instead of 10pm) and pretty much stay there until 7.30am. Thankfully he takes after moi, because once we've settled him, he does stay asleep all night and is happy to remain in bed the next morning. If he were more like Mike he'd be fast asleep at 7pm and wake my sorry arse up at 5am. We did feel sorry for him when we first changed things around because he was so confused and cried and cried and cried, but four nights in and he's settling down after only five minutes. Result! He's sleeping so much better and of course, his food is staying in his tummy. Our next challenge is to build up the amount he gets overnight and reduce his day time feeds, so that he's only eating enough during the day to satisfy his hunger, and not so much he's puking his guts out. Watch this space.
Tina.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Some days you just have to throw in the towel
Today did NOT start off well, I'll be honest with you.
First off, Mike's car is on the blink and he's not the most organised of people so it's still at the mechanics, a mere three days after he took it in. I wouldn't mind so much if they were actually working on the thing, but seeing as they can't identify the problem yet and Mike hasn't given them permission to do any unauthorised work, it's been there since Friday in the same blinkin' state it started in. Sigh. So today he has my car, which means I can't leave the house. I got all excited for about ten minutes planning a walk with Owen, but then I remembered the buggy's in the boot and Mike won't have thought to take it out before he left at 5.30am. Double sigh.
The next thing to go wrong was Owen waking up at 6am. This isn't SO bad, but seeing as I don't usually feed him until 7am, it was kind of irritating to have to go in to his room and shush him, then not be able to go back to sleep for the extra hour because my body assumed getting out of bed meant getting out of bed.
Well, Owen's feed was, as usual, a spectacular fountain of puke. We are down to the barest essentials now with his clothes as he's growing at an alarming rate (he's nine months old and yesterday we noticed he'd grown out of his 12-month babygrows. Awesome), and all the burp cloths are filthy from the weekend. I know it's not much, but not having anything clean and/or fitting for him just really, really gets to me. I mean, if he HAS to throw up constantly, the very least I can do for him as a parent is keep him clean and wearing clothes. I dunno... it just seemed relentless this morning.
So, after all this nonsense, I settled down on the laptop to load the internet... and the thing doesn't work. Argh. After FOUR attempts to get to my desktop in an hour it finally calmed down... and the internet doesn't work! Apparently there's an issue with my wireless card and I'm so far past caring about the waste of my life I just invested in it that I can't even bring myself to discuss it. Needless to say, the laptop is now lying abandoned on the floor and I'm on the big Mac. Mac = much better. I think my next machine will be a Notebook Air, or whatever they're called. They just never seem to fail!
Well... after FINALLY getting online here, I check my e-mails and what do I find? An innocent e-mail from my publishers. After waiting a whole week, sleeping badly and chewing my nails down to the quick... they are not picking up my proposal.
BASTARDS!!
I sulked for a good hour after reading that, then sent them a cursory e-mail thanking them for their time and informing them I'll be finding another publisher. It WILL get published, mark my words.
Anyway, after all this mayhem and foolishness this morning, I decided to treat myself to some new music on iTunes. I finally found that bitchin' song I love from Abby and Luka's wedding on Season 13 of ER and have been jamming away to it ever since. Because sometimes when things go wrong, you just have to throw in the towel and jam out to this:
"Can't Stop" by Ozomatli
Tina.
First off, Mike's car is on the blink and he's not the most organised of people so it's still at the mechanics, a mere three days after he took it in. I wouldn't mind so much if they were actually working on the thing, but seeing as they can't identify the problem yet and Mike hasn't given them permission to do any unauthorised work, it's been there since Friday in the same blinkin' state it started in. Sigh. So today he has my car, which means I can't leave the house. I got all excited for about ten minutes planning a walk with Owen, but then I remembered the buggy's in the boot and Mike won't have thought to take it out before he left at 5.30am. Double sigh.
The next thing to go wrong was Owen waking up at 6am. This isn't SO bad, but seeing as I don't usually feed him until 7am, it was kind of irritating to have to go in to his room and shush him, then not be able to go back to sleep for the extra hour because my body assumed getting out of bed meant getting out of bed.
Well, Owen's feed was, as usual, a spectacular fountain of puke. We are down to the barest essentials now with his clothes as he's growing at an alarming rate (he's nine months old and yesterday we noticed he'd grown out of his 12-month babygrows. Awesome), and all the burp cloths are filthy from the weekend. I know it's not much, but not having anything clean and/or fitting for him just really, really gets to me. I mean, if he HAS to throw up constantly, the very least I can do for him as a parent is keep him clean and wearing clothes. I dunno... it just seemed relentless this morning.
So, after all this nonsense, I settled down on the laptop to load the internet... and the thing doesn't work. Argh. After FOUR attempts to get to my desktop in an hour it finally calmed down... and the internet doesn't work! Apparently there's an issue with my wireless card and I'm so far past caring about the waste of my life I just invested in it that I can't even bring myself to discuss it. Needless to say, the laptop is now lying abandoned on the floor and I'm on the big Mac. Mac = much better. I think my next machine will be a Notebook Air, or whatever they're called. They just never seem to fail!
Well... after FINALLY getting online here, I check my e-mails and what do I find? An innocent e-mail from my publishers. After waiting a whole week, sleeping badly and chewing my nails down to the quick... they are not picking up my proposal.
BASTARDS!!
I sulked for a good hour after reading that, then sent them a cursory e-mail thanking them for their time and informing them I'll be finding another publisher. It WILL get published, mark my words.
Anyway, after all this mayhem and foolishness this morning, I decided to treat myself to some new music on iTunes. I finally found that bitchin' song I love from Abby and Luka's wedding on Season 13 of ER and have been jamming away to it ever since. Because sometimes when things go wrong, you just have to throw in the towel and jam out to this:
"Can't Stop" by Ozomatli
Tina.
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