I apologise for not posting yesterday, but in all honesty I was out there getting shit done so that I would actually HAVE summat to blog about!
Little O and I spent yesterday and today getting up to and in to loads of stuff. First we went to a craniofacial appointment at CHOW on Monday morning, which is one of my least favourite clinics to visit because they have such appalling time-management. Once I was a there for nearly two hours, and saw the doc for about five or ten minutes of that. Yesterday was a little better though, and we were there for only about an hour or so, seeing the doc for about ten minutes. Doesn't mean I don't still hate them though.
After that went to see my friend up in Milwaukee for lunch, and she's lost loads of weight from having the stomach flu so she looked a bit gaunt. Still beautiful though. Then we went to buy Little O a new swimsuit and supplies for swimming in the afternoon. I LOVE buying clothes for my son, but shopping in Babies R Us is VERY dangerous. I seriously had to set myself a budget and only walk out of there with a new swimsuit and those fancy diapers that don't explode when your kid gets in the pool. I got so close, too! I walked out with diapers, swimsuit, and a new sheet for Little O's bed that cost $4.99. That's actually pretty amazing. His new shorts are rainbow-coloured and I bought a UV-protective t-shirt in orange to match. It says Beach Bum on it. It's awesome. :)
After that we went swimming! It was kinda rubbish, actually, because the pool was advertising that time as designated for special needs users only, but it was no different to any other time of day. It's a water park too, which meant there were loads of slides and cool shit for older children, but nothing that suitable for babies. Little O is trying to figure out to crawl, and when we were in the zero depth section he kept trying to put his face in the water and crawl into the deeper sections. I was terrified he'd inhale water and start drowning! I think if I go again I'll take my husband.
Today we've being doing chores, seeing therapists, and running errands. I even got something very special sent to Butterfly Charlie in the mail! (Shh... don't tell her...). My kitchen is finally tidy again, after a weekend of not doing any dishes AT ALL - I am disgusted at myself, but mature enough to blame my husband - and I am trying to get caught up on laundry. But, more importantly, I have been playing with my son. He is pulling himself to stand all the time now, and figuring out this crawling and walking malarky, and he's just so much FUN at the moment! It's been like having a 12-month-old in the house, when they learn all this new cool stuff suddenly, and I'm just enjoying it so much.
I'm also enjoying "An Idiot Abroad", which is currently airing over here. Sooo funny!
Happy 100th International Women's Day, everyone! May the next 100 years be even better than the last.
Tina.
Showing posts with label Work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Work. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
4. D is for Drilling
We have the electricians in. Oh dear.
We only have ourselves to blame. We bought this house in 2009 knowing full well it needed A LOT of work doing to it, and knowing that we had neither the time nor the money to get it all done at once. So here we are, two years later, finally getting around to finishing off the "nice" side of the basement and changing it from a dumping ground for old baby junk and stuff we want to sell this summer in our first-ever Yard Sale (eek! I'm so American!), to a dumping ground for new baby junk and stuff my husband thinks is important. The idea is that all the video games, consoles, too-big-for-the-living-room TV and other assorted gear will now have a place to go, and the upstairs will be a nice place for entertaining guests. We're putting in a fourth bedroom too, although we can't technically call it a bedroom because the only window down there is too small and high up the wall for anyone to escape in an emergency, and another walk-in closet. Hopefully the closet will end up being large enough for future prospective buyers to imagine upgrading it to an en-suite bathroom, but we have neither the need nor the money to do that just yet.
The basement is split into two halves: the side to the left of the stairs houses our washing machine and dryer, all the electrical maintenance and plumbing stuff for the house, the sump pump (if you're British, don't ask), my husband's tools, and shelving for all the boxes of holiday decorations, baby clothes Little O grew out of, and some random carpet tiles my husband imagines he will get around to laying down one day. On the other side, to the right of the stairs, is where the action is happening. When we first moved in, it had rust-coloured carpet sitting on top of bare concrete (not stuck down, or over insulation... just sitting there), and the vilest dark-brown fake wood panelling covering every available inch of wall and ceiling. It was so dark and grim that for the last two years I've not even ventured into the gloom to investigate what's under the stairs. I swear Gollum lived there, muttering about some bloody ring and being generally creepy.
Anyway, in January my in-laws came to visit and drywalled the entire right side of the basement, covering up the wood panelling with clean, bright plasterboard, and ripping up the carpet ready for fresh flooring. It already looks so much nicer, and I'm excited to get down there and start finishing it up. We're having all the lighting re-done today so that the bedroom and closet actually HAVE lights, and getting recessed lights added overhead in the living space because the ceilings are so low. The people who owned the house before us obviously did a lot of this work themselves, because it's taken Sparky the entire morning just to get everything to a state where he can stop ripping out and start installing. There's noise, and dust, and drilling, but progress is good and I think it's going to look so much better when they're done.
Next step: the ceiling!
Oh, and if anyone does want to give us a few million dollars to help speed this process along, please feel free.
Tina.
We only have ourselves to blame. We bought this house in 2009 knowing full well it needed A LOT of work doing to it, and knowing that we had neither the time nor the money to get it all done at once. So here we are, two years later, finally getting around to finishing off the "nice" side of the basement and changing it from a dumping ground for old baby junk and stuff we want to sell this summer in our first-ever Yard Sale (eek! I'm so American!), to a dumping ground for new baby junk and stuff my husband thinks is important. The idea is that all the video games, consoles, too-big-for-the-living-room TV and other assorted gear will now have a place to go, and the upstairs will be a nice place for entertaining guests. We're putting in a fourth bedroom too, although we can't technically call it a bedroom because the only window down there is too small and high up the wall for anyone to escape in an emergency, and another walk-in closet. Hopefully the closet will end up being large enough for future prospective buyers to imagine upgrading it to an en-suite bathroom, but we have neither the need nor the money to do that just yet.
The basement is split into two halves: the side to the left of the stairs houses our washing machine and dryer, all the electrical maintenance and plumbing stuff for the house, the sump pump (if you're British, don't ask), my husband's tools, and shelving for all the boxes of holiday decorations, baby clothes Little O grew out of, and some random carpet tiles my husband imagines he will get around to laying down one day. On the other side, to the right of the stairs, is where the action is happening. When we first moved in, it had rust-coloured carpet sitting on top of bare concrete (not stuck down, or over insulation... just sitting there), and the vilest dark-brown fake wood panelling covering every available inch of wall and ceiling. It was so dark and grim that for the last two years I've not even ventured into the gloom to investigate what's under the stairs. I swear Gollum lived there, muttering about some bloody ring and being generally creepy.
Anyway, in January my in-laws came to visit and drywalled the entire right side of the basement, covering up the wood panelling with clean, bright plasterboard, and ripping up the carpet ready for fresh flooring. It already looks so much nicer, and I'm excited to get down there and start finishing it up. We're having all the lighting re-done today so that the bedroom and closet actually HAVE lights, and getting recessed lights added overhead in the living space because the ceilings are so low. The people who owned the house before us obviously did a lot of this work themselves, because it's taken Sparky the entire morning just to get everything to a state where he can stop ripping out and start installing. There's noise, and dust, and drilling, but progress is good and I think it's going to look so much better when they're done.
Next step: the ceiling!
Oh, and if anyone does want to give us a few million dollars to help speed this process along, please feel free.
Tina.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Let's catch up, shall we?
Ha! The last post I wrote on here was called My newly insane life, and how apt that turned out to be. My apologies for not having updated recently, but... well... it's been a bit insane.
When I last wrote, my son was still in the hospital, recieving IV fluids for dehydration and the stomach flu. It was a Thursday, if I recall correctly. Well, my own father flew in from the UK to spend time with us that Saturday, and it was the same day Little O was discharged. He came home to see his Grandad, and we were thrilled his doctor thought he was well enough to come home back on a regular feeding schedule. We were all looking forward to getting some sleep, some food, and spending time with my dad.
That night, Little O took a turn for the worse, and we ended up being rushed to CHOW on Sunday afternoon by ambulance so he could be re-admitted up there. It was scary to be told your child was in a worse state than ever, just 24 hours after being discharged. His stomach flu and dehydration had led to a critical inbalance of electrolytes, and everyone was very concerned. It wasn't until later that I finally had time to sit and think about everything, but it scares me now to consider the possibilities of what could have happened if we hadn't taken him in again. It's possible we could have lost him.
The doctors on-call up at CHOW told us they would not be releasing him until they were 100% sure he had fully recovered, which implied they felt the staff at All Saints hadn't done their jobs properly and had fixed the symptoms, not the cause. Little O had blood drawn every hour until he screamed because his veins were so bruised and sore, and his diapers were weighed constantly to see how much fluid he was putting out. The most frightening score I saw was his weight. Before he was ill, Little O had worked hard to get to 25lb; when he was admitted to All Saints, he had dropped to 22lb, and when they took an initial set of measurements at CHOW only a few days later, he was between 18 and 19lb. For a little boy like that, losing 6lb is a scary, scary amount. Most of it was fluid, which he put on again fairly quickly with the IV rehydration, but it's still a significant part of this whole ordeal.
When he started getting better properly, the doctors told me what they thought was going on. Initially they suspected C. Difficile, which Little O had a few months ago, and we all had to wear protective gowns, masks, and gloves when he touched him. (I didn't, because I'm his mother and I thought it was ridiculous to wear protection after changing dirty diapers for over a week with bare hands.) Then those tests came back negative after 48 hours, which meant they settled on a diagnosis of several components:
1. Borderline compromised immune system
2. Catches stomach flu, like anyone else
3. Body can't fight off the flu easily because of the compromised immune system
4. Parents continue to feed liquid nutrition and fluids as instructed by healthcare staff
5. Body tries to absorb fluids but is also fighting off flu still
6. Fluids cannot be absorbed, so get 'washed out' of gut
7. As fluids pass through, they also wash out all the 'good' bacteria and enzymes, which cannot get a good grip because they body is still fighting the flu
8. No enzymes or bactera = no absorbtion = dehydration
9. Dehydration makes the diarrhea worse
10. Diarrhea makes the dehydration worse, which makes the diarrhea worse, which makes the dehydration worse... etc...
So, once Little O was discharged from All Saints and came home on a normal feeding routine again, his body actually couldn't cope and the dehydration got worse. In order to break the cycle, all food and fluids had to be stopped, and Little O had to be maintained on IV fluids only. It worked after 72 hours and we managed to get his body to accept small amounts of Pedialyte and formula again by Wednesday afternoon. He was discharged late on Thursday, after being in the hospital for five days (eight, if you include All Saints). He now has a different feeding plan altogether, and different liquid nutrition. It seems to be working, although it's a shame the new formula is made by Nestle, because Nestle is evil. I'm choosing my battles though, and have accepted this minor inconvenience because it's literally keeping my son alive. Hopefully it's not forever and he can move onto something less annoying as he continues to recover.
So, I went back to work and things pottered along for a bit until Little O got his cast. Remember that? He's wearing a cast for 3-6 months to help improve his scoliosis, and then a brace for another 3-6 months to keep his spine in place as he grows. The cast is incredibly heavy, and bright green. It's also a bitch to keep clean, as it comes down very low on the back - almost to Little O's tailbone. Because Little O has very loose poops anyway (which are further exacerbated by an overgrowth of bacteria in the small intestine, for which he is now on Flagyl for), the diapers cannot contain everything they need to. We've had to actually change diaper brands from Target (cheap, and we've never had a problem with them) to Pampers (horrifically expensive) because they're smaller, lighter, and use a different system of keeping the contents of diapers in its place. It's all very disgusting and technical, and it's such a colossal pain in the neck to deal with. Changing diapers isn't particularly enjoyable at the best of times, but trying to change one that cannot be secured in the usual manner because there's a giant fucking plaster cast in the way just gets ridiculous. Thankfully most of Little O's blowouts happen in the middle of the day, so the daycare staff have to deal with it more than we do. Small mercies, right?
There's more to say but I'm all typed-out for now. I shall endevour to provide another update shortly on the highs and lows of being back at work while juggling more freelance projects than I've ever had at any one time, and sinking further back into a grey depressive state (mmm... meds...), but for now I shall leave it here. Little O is home, and healthy(-ish), and it's nearly Christmas. I am thankful.
Tina.
When I last wrote, my son was still in the hospital, recieving IV fluids for dehydration and the stomach flu. It was a Thursday, if I recall correctly. Well, my own father flew in from the UK to spend time with us that Saturday, and it was the same day Little O was discharged. He came home to see his Grandad, and we were thrilled his doctor thought he was well enough to come home back on a regular feeding schedule. We were all looking forward to getting some sleep, some food, and spending time with my dad.
That night, Little O took a turn for the worse, and we ended up being rushed to CHOW on Sunday afternoon by ambulance so he could be re-admitted up there. It was scary to be told your child was in a worse state than ever, just 24 hours after being discharged. His stomach flu and dehydration had led to a critical inbalance of electrolytes, and everyone was very concerned. It wasn't until later that I finally had time to sit and think about everything, but it scares me now to consider the possibilities of what could have happened if we hadn't taken him in again. It's possible we could have lost him.
The doctors on-call up at CHOW told us they would not be releasing him until they were 100% sure he had fully recovered, which implied they felt the staff at All Saints hadn't done their jobs properly and had fixed the symptoms, not the cause. Little O had blood drawn every hour until he screamed because his veins were so bruised and sore, and his diapers were weighed constantly to see how much fluid he was putting out. The most frightening score I saw was his weight. Before he was ill, Little O had worked hard to get to 25lb; when he was admitted to All Saints, he had dropped to 22lb, and when they took an initial set of measurements at CHOW only a few days later, he was between 18 and 19lb. For a little boy like that, losing 6lb is a scary, scary amount. Most of it was fluid, which he put on again fairly quickly with the IV rehydration, but it's still a significant part of this whole ordeal.
When he started getting better properly, the doctors told me what they thought was going on. Initially they suspected C. Difficile, which Little O had a few months ago, and we all had to wear protective gowns, masks, and gloves when he touched him. (I didn't, because I'm his mother and I thought it was ridiculous to wear protection after changing dirty diapers for over a week with bare hands.) Then those tests came back negative after 48 hours, which meant they settled on a diagnosis of several components:
1. Borderline compromised immune system
2. Catches stomach flu, like anyone else
3. Body can't fight off the flu easily because of the compromised immune system
4. Parents continue to feed liquid nutrition and fluids as instructed by healthcare staff
5. Body tries to absorb fluids but is also fighting off flu still
6. Fluids cannot be absorbed, so get 'washed out' of gut
7. As fluids pass through, they also wash out all the 'good' bacteria and enzymes, which cannot get a good grip because they body is still fighting the flu
8. No enzymes or bactera = no absorbtion = dehydration
9. Dehydration makes the diarrhea worse
10. Diarrhea makes the dehydration worse, which makes the diarrhea worse, which makes the dehydration worse... etc...
So, once Little O was discharged from All Saints and came home on a normal feeding routine again, his body actually couldn't cope and the dehydration got worse. In order to break the cycle, all food and fluids had to be stopped, and Little O had to be maintained on IV fluids only. It worked after 72 hours and we managed to get his body to accept small amounts of Pedialyte and formula again by Wednesday afternoon. He was discharged late on Thursday, after being in the hospital for five days (eight, if you include All Saints). He now has a different feeding plan altogether, and different liquid nutrition. It seems to be working, although it's a shame the new formula is made by Nestle, because Nestle is evil. I'm choosing my battles though, and have accepted this minor inconvenience because it's literally keeping my son alive. Hopefully it's not forever and he can move onto something less annoying as he continues to recover.
So, I went back to work and things pottered along for a bit until Little O got his cast. Remember that? He's wearing a cast for 3-6 months to help improve his scoliosis, and then a brace for another 3-6 months to keep his spine in place as he grows. The cast is incredibly heavy, and bright green. It's also a bitch to keep clean, as it comes down very low on the back - almost to Little O's tailbone. Because Little O has very loose poops anyway (which are further exacerbated by an overgrowth of bacteria in the small intestine, for which he is now on Flagyl for), the diapers cannot contain everything they need to. We've had to actually change diaper brands from Target (cheap, and we've never had a problem with them) to Pampers (horrifically expensive) because they're smaller, lighter, and use a different system of keeping the contents of diapers in its place. It's all very disgusting and technical, and it's such a colossal pain in the neck to deal with. Changing diapers isn't particularly enjoyable at the best of times, but trying to change one that cannot be secured in the usual manner because there's a giant fucking plaster cast in the way just gets ridiculous. Thankfully most of Little O's blowouts happen in the middle of the day, so the daycare staff have to deal with it more than we do. Small mercies, right?
There's more to say but I'm all typed-out for now. I shall endevour to provide another update shortly on the highs and lows of being back at work while juggling more freelance projects than I've ever had at any one time, and sinking further back into a grey depressive state (mmm... meds...), but for now I shall leave it here. Little O is home, and healthy(-ish), and it's nearly Christmas. I am thankful.
Tina.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
My newly insane life
Wow. My life in the last few weeks has taken such a dramatic turnabout that I'm exhausted just sitting here typing it out. And I'm not complaining, either... it's just... different.
So, I got the job I wanted, and I organised my life around a brand new routine. I organised it. Me. Not my husband; not my friends or family. Me. I, and I alone, set up Little O's new daycare arrangements; I called my mother-in-law to come out for two weeks to help us transition everything; I got the job and bought new work clothes; I researched the best route for avoiding traffic; and I typed up the daily instruction sheets for Little O's carers to follow. It has been a bit of a marathon, to be honest, but I felt as though life was slowly coming together this weekend when my mother-in-law returned home and my husband and I were facing our first week of full-time employment and daycare simultaneously.
Then Little O got sick.
Saturday morning he came down with the most unpleasant stomach flu I've ever seen, and by Sunday he had a raging fever and kindly donated his germs to his parents. My husband and I therefore came down with the same stomach flu, which crippled us entirely and made the entire house stink of illness, poo, vomit, and stale laundry. We both took Monday off, which would normally have been something to celebrate, but instead we just rolled around the living room carpet in a state of helpless misery. It was like being pregnant again, but this time my husband felt just as bad and was no help whatsoever. Incidentally... my husband is NOT good at being ill. Our cat developed a limp over the weekend, to add further insult to injury, so seeing as we had taken the day off, I sucked up my stale, sickly breath, and took him to the vet. I also ran to get some groceries and made soup for lunch... all before 12pm and while having stomach cramps from the flu bug. I returned home to find my husband laying pathetically on the couch, a quivering hand extended in my direction to pass him a sip of water for his parched throat. He hadn't done a single thing in my absence.
That man got no sympathy. He also got no sympathy when I got a phone call telling me Little O's glasses had arrived and we needed to take him down to the opticians the same day to get them fitted correctly. My husband did not want to come, but there was no way in hell I was doing ALL the chores by myself so he grumpily accompanied me.
So, bearing all this unpleasantness in mind, Monday evening came around with a significant improvement in mine and my husband's health, but none in Little O's. In fact, he seemed worse than on Saturday. We gave him a nice warm bath and attempted to put him into bed for an early night, but he seemed so fitful and restless that I decided to take him into Prompt Care. My husband was extremely reluctant, but I had a niggling feeling that all wasn't right, so I got my way and off we set. When we arrived we were seen by a nurse and then a doctor, who both agreed Little O needed some blood tests and possibly IV fluids to get him feeling better. We don't like the ER attached to our local Prompt Care (been there before and they look at Little O like he's a fuckin' unicorn), so we told the nice doctor we'd take him up to CHOW to their children's ER instead.
WELL!! On the way home, my husband said he didn't want to go all the way to Milwaukee (a good 40 min drive away) only to sit in an ER all night and be told nothing was wrong, so he turned the car into our house. I understood. He felt unwell. I felt unwell. Little O needed fluids, which we could give him at home via his feeding pump. After all, one of the advantages to having to feed a child with a pump is that you can keep them hydrated even when they're refusing to eat or drink. I understood. I strongly disagreed, but I understood. I pointed out that I've never once been wrong about taking Little O in to be seen, and I've never created an emergency where there hasn't been one. I've always trusted my instincts, and they've always been right.
But I understood. And I let it slide. I agreed, against my better judgement, against my Mama-instincts, against everything my heart and head were telling me, to keep Little O at home in his own bed and to allow my husband's body time to fully recover. (Never mind the fact I was also still feeling shit - I'd sorta forgotten about that in all the fuss over my baby's health.) We spent the night at home and I took Tuesday off work to give Little O some extra care and love. By this point, I must have changed over 100 diapers in about 72 hours, and they were still coming strong. My baby's bottom was red and raw and he was so fussy and irritable that he was almost inconsolable non-stop.
By Wednesday morning I decided to take him into daycare and go back to work myself. I felt miserable having to choose work over him, but I've just started a new job! What else was I supposed to do? It also isn't helped my the fact my husband leaves for work at 5.30am, two whole hours before I do. If Little O is sick, he won't know about it until he's already been at work for several hours... so I have to make the decision. Anyway, I told the daycare to call my husband with any concerns as he was 'on duty', and drove in.
Around 3pm I got a call saying Little O had a fever. The daycare called my husband but he wasn't answering either his cell phone or his work number, and they really felt Little O needed to be seen by a doctor immediately. I was SO angry! I'd been fretting and worrying all day about my baby; why hadn't my husband?! Why wasn't his cell phone glued to his head? Why wasn't he chewing his nails to the quick every time his work phone rang? I was so mad I had him paged. The last time I did that I was in premature labor, so he knew something was up when I finally got him on the phone. And he left work. Immediately. Because he had no other choice.
Little O was admitted to hospital Wednesday night for severe dehydration and dangerously high sodium levels. I'm typing this out on my laptop in a hospital room while he naps peacefully, comfortable for the first time in nearly a week. It's Thursday afternoon and he's hopefully coming home tomorrow. I feel three things: 1) Anger towards my husband for not taking Little O to CHOW on Monday night; 2) Guilt at my own decision to keep him at home, despite my instincts telling me otherwise; and 3) Happiness that Little O is finally getting the help and comfort that he needs to feel better. But mainly anger and guilt.
I spent the night here; my husband went home. I took today and tomorrow off; my husband plans on working a full shift both days. I am proactive in seeking out support and assistance; my husband won't even speak to his HR team about FMLA law. It's deeply, deeply upsetting that I am still expected to carry the burden of Little O's care while also holding down (or not) a full-time job. Right now I'm seriously considering quitting work. I don't want to, but I also don't want to be 'that' employee who always has to take time off for her child. I don't want to get fired. I don't want that on my record. I don't want to let my new employers down, who have been wonderful and kind and generous, but whose patience will not last forever.
I was so invigorated starting a new job. Today I feel utterly exhausted again, and back in the same place I was a month ago.
Tina.
(I wish this were a happier post, but it isn't. So I'll round it off with a happy ending instead: Happy Anniversary, Anthea and Husband! Four years of marriage, and ten years together. Well done you.)
So, I got the job I wanted, and I organised my life around a brand new routine. I organised it. Me. Not my husband; not my friends or family. Me. I, and I alone, set up Little O's new daycare arrangements; I called my mother-in-law to come out for two weeks to help us transition everything; I got the job and bought new work clothes; I researched the best route for avoiding traffic; and I typed up the daily instruction sheets for Little O's carers to follow. It has been a bit of a marathon, to be honest, but I felt as though life was slowly coming together this weekend when my mother-in-law returned home and my husband and I were facing our first week of full-time employment and daycare simultaneously.
Then Little O got sick.
Saturday morning he came down with the most unpleasant stomach flu I've ever seen, and by Sunday he had a raging fever and kindly donated his germs to his parents. My husband and I therefore came down with the same stomach flu, which crippled us entirely and made the entire house stink of illness, poo, vomit, and stale laundry. We both took Monday off, which would normally have been something to celebrate, but instead we just rolled around the living room carpet in a state of helpless misery. It was like being pregnant again, but this time my husband felt just as bad and was no help whatsoever. Incidentally... my husband is NOT good at being ill. Our cat developed a limp over the weekend, to add further insult to injury, so seeing as we had taken the day off, I sucked up my stale, sickly breath, and took him to the vet. I also ran to get some groceries and made soup for lunch... all before 12pm and while having stomach cramps from the flu bug. I returned home to find my husband laying pathetically on the couch, a quivering hand extended in my direction to pass him a sip of water for his parched throat. He hadn't done a single thing in my absence.
That man got no sympathy. He also got no sympathy when I got a phone call telling me Little O's glasses had arrived and we needed to take him down to the opticians the same day to get them fitted correctly. My husband did not want to come, but there was no way in hell I was doing ALL the chores by myself so he grumpily accompanied me.
So, bearing all this unpleasantness in mind, Monday evening came around with a significant improvement in mine and my husband's health, but none in Little O's. In fact, he seemed worse than on Saturday. We gave him a nice warm bath and attempted to put him into bed for an early night, but he seemed so fitful and restless that I decided to take him into Prompt Care. My husband was extremely reluctant, but I had a niggling feeling that all wasn't right, so I got my way and off we set. When we arrived we were seen by a nurse and then a doctor, who both agreed Little O needed some blood tests and possibly IV fluids to get him feeling better. We don't like the ER attached to our local Prompt Care (been there before and they look at Little O like he's a fuckin' unicorn), so we told the nice doctor we'd take him up to CHOW to their children's ER instead.
WELL!! On the way home, my husband said he didn't want to go all the way to Milwaukee (a good 40 min drive away) only to sit in an ER all night and be told nothing was wrong, so he turned the car into our house. I understood. He felt unwell. I felt unwell. Little O needed fluids, which we could give him at home via his feeding pump. After all, one of the advantages to having to feed a child with a pump is that you can keep them hydrated even when they're refusing to eat or drink. I understood. I strongly disagreed, but I understood. I pointed out that I've never once been wrong about taking Little O in to be seen, and I've never created an emergency where there hasn't been one. I've always trusted my instincts, and they've always been right.
But I understood. And I let it slide. I agreed, against my better judgement, against my Mama-instincts, against everything my heart and head were telling me, to keep Little O at home in his own bed and to allow my husband's body time to fully recover. (Never mind the fact I was also still feeling shit - I'd sorta forgotten about that in all the fuss over my baby's health.) We spent the night at home and I took Tuesday off work to give Little O some extra care and love. By this point, I must have changed over 100 diapers in about 72 hours, and they were still coming strong. My baby's bottom was red and raw and he was so fussy and irritable that he was almost inconsolable non-stop.
By Wednesday morning I decided to take him into daycare and go back to work myself. I felt miserable having to choose work over him, but I've just started a new job! What else was I supposed to do? It also isn't helped my the fact my husband leaves for work at 5.30am, two whole hours before I do. If Little O is sick, he won't know about it until he's already been at work for several hours... so I have to make the decision. Anyway, I told the daycare to call my husband with any concerns as he was 'on duty', and drove in.
Around 3pm I got a call saying Little O had a fever. The daycare called my husband but he wasn't answering either his cell phone or his work number, and they really felt Little O needed to be seen by a doctor immediately. I was SO angry! I'd been fretting and worrying all day about my baby; why hadn't my husband?! Why wasn't his cell phone glued to his head? Why wasn't he chewing his nails to the quick every time his work phone rang? I was so mad I had him paged. The last time I did that I was in premature labor, so he knew something was up when I finally got him on the phone. And he left work. Immediately. Because he had no other choice.
Little O was admitted to hospital Wednesday night for severe dehydration and dangerously high sodium levels. I'm typing this out on my laptop in a hospital room while he naps peacefully, comfortable for the first time in nearly a week. It's Thursday afternoon and he's hopefully coming home tomorrow. I feel three things: 1) Anger towards my husband for not taking Little O to CHOW on Monday night; 2) Guilt at my own decision to keep him at home, despite my instincts telling me otherwise; and 3) Happiness that Little O is finally getting the help and comfort that he needs to feel better. But mainly anger and guilt.
I spent the night here; my husband went home. I took today and tomorrow off; my husband plans on working a full shift both days. I am proactive in seeking out support and assistance; my husband won't even speak to his HR team about FMLA law. It's deeply, deeply upsetting that I am still expected to carry the burden of Little O's care while also holding down (or not) a full-time job. Right now I'm seriously considering quitting work. I don't want to, but I also don't want to be 'that' employee who always has to take time off for her child. I don't want to get fired. I don't want that on my record. I don't want to let my new employers down, who have been wonderful and kind and generous, but whose patience will not last forever.
I was so invigorated starting a new job. Today I feel utterly exhausted again, and back in the same place I was a month ago.
Tina.
(I wish this were a happier post, but it isn't. So I'll round it off with a happy ending instead: Happy Anniversary, Anthea and Husband! Four years of marriage, and ten years together. Well done you.)
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Why do I even care what you think, anyway?
As we know, I am telling quite a lot of people about my current pregnancy, and when I do so, I have developed the need to follow the news up with the information that I don't intend to have any more.
This is because I want to pre-empt them thinking that I'm some kind of manic breeder, who either has no idea how to use contraceptives, or who is some martyr who just wants to devote herself to discomfort and the needs of others, I dunno. Well, what's wrong with either of those? It's not a sin to have children. It's not a sin to have 12 children! But I still don't want to be perceived as either of them, for some reason.
Yes, the pregnancies have followed in somewhat quick succession, but they're not really that close compared to, say, me and my sister, or my husband and his brother. These babies will be 23 months apart, perfectly respectable. There were many reasons why I chose to have a baby at this time, to do with my age, my career at this point, my finances and the desire for S to have a sibling he could have fun with. These were my reasons, dammit! Nothing to do with what anyone else thinks! Yes, there have been gasps of, "Oh! You didn't give yourself much breathing space did you?!" and, "Congratulations, you mad thing!" but who gives a crap what they think?
Apparently I do. And I was unable to stop myself from frowning and muttering, "Well, it's a lot to put your body through..." when judgy friend from a few posts back mentioned that she had stopped using contraception. (She has two children under the age of 2). I'm telling myself I was just getting my own back for her calling me silly the other week.
But really, have I too absorbed society's message that procreation and women's pregnant bodies and childbirth are obscene and that they should be controlled and constrained? Probably.
Anthea
This is because I want to pre-empt them thinking that I'm some kind of manic breeder, who either has no idea how to use contraceptives, or who is some martyr who just wants to devote herself to discomfort and the needs of others, I dunno. Well, what's wrong with either of those? It's not a sin to have children. It's not a sin to have 12 children! But I still don't want to be perceived as either of them, for some reason.
Yes, the pregnancies have followed in somewhat quick succession, but they're not really that close compared to, say, me and my sister, or my husband and his brother. These babies will be 23 months apart, perfectly respectable. There were many reasons why I chose to have a baby at this time, to do with my age, my career at this point, my finances and the desire for S to have a sibling he could have fun with. These were my reasons, dammit! Nothing to do with what anyone else thinks! Yes, there have been gasps of, "Oh! You didn't give yourself much breathing space did you?!" and, "Congratulations, you mad thing!" but who gives a crap what they think?
Apparently I do. And I was unable to stop myself from frowning and muttering, "Well, it's a lot to put your body through..." when judgy friend from a few posts back mentioned that she had stopped using contraception. (She has two children under the age of 2). I'm telling myself I was just getting my own back for her calling me silly the other week.
But really, have I too absorbed society's message that procreation and women's pregnant bodies and childbirth are obscene and that they should be controlled and constrained? Probably.
Anthea
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The big secret
I'm about 6 weeks pregnant, I think, and have told a lot of people. I told my family immediately. I found out on a Saturday, and told everyone at work on the Monday. I haven't told many friends, just a close few. Any others I'm going to tell as and when I see them. I'll do the big Facebook broadcast once I've had my first scan.
Last time I was pregnant, I was horribly sick - puking most mornings, the works. I came in late, left early and was a fetching shade of green. As a primary school teacher, the majority of my colleagues are women and as such many of them are mothers. Most people suspected I was pregnant and grilled my closest work friends about it (who denied all knowledge, bless 'em). But no-one actually came and spoke to me! Everyone was talking about me, but no-one was talking to me! The stupid thing is, if anybody had approached me and said, "are you pregnant?" I would have answered, "yes, but please keep it to yourself".
I posted here:
http://thegoodbodies.blogspot.com/2008/10/and-puking-began-here.html
about how unfair it is that during the first trimester, the time when you feel the worst and need the most support, you are not supposed to tell anyone. The reasons for this are that something like 95% of miscarriages happen some time in the first 12 weeks. So presumably, you wouldn't want to follow up the exciting announcement of a pregnancy with the sad one of a miscarriage.
Or would you? In a workplace full of women, mothers, children and family problems, my colleagues are a fabulous support network. We see each other through private and professional dramas, and rally round when somone is having a crisis, however large or small. In fact, I think that if I were to suffer a miscarriage - which is not that likely anyway, I'm not in any of the high-risk categories and have already had one straightforward pregnancy - my colleagues would provide me with tremendous support. If I suffered any other sort of loss or bereavement, I would want the support of the people around me. I wouldn't really want to soldier on as if nothing had happened. I wouldn't want it to be a secret. And therefore I can't see any good reason for me keeping early pregnancy a secret.
I'm lucky in that my employer is fully supportive (to the point of over-enthusiastic!) of staff having children. In other workplaces, it might be a good idea to keep it quiet until your maternity arrangments are fully in place, I don't know. But I've told everyone at work so that they know there's a good reason why I might not be keeping up properly, or be rather absent-minded, or be green. I want their support through this, because it's a big upheaval, even second time around. (Mind you, I seem to be getting evening sickness rather than morning sickness this time so maybe it would have been easy to conceal, I don't know!)
I play in a brass band and told one of my friends there, who herself has two children under the age of two, at the same time as another friend. She asked me how far along I was and I told her only a few weeks. "Well that's a bit silly, announcing it this early, isn't it?" she said, all judgemental. "Why?" I asked. "Well, you'd better hope nothing happens," she replied, implying a miscarriage. "But then I'd want people to know that as well," I said.
OK, so this particular friend is a bit like that, a bit judgy and speaks without thinking, but I reckon her comments only demonstrate the prevailing attitude in society. Where does this come from? Why should miscarriage be such a shameful secret? Why should early pregnancy be so embarrassing? Does this date back to a time when reproduction - and naturally, women's bodies in general - was just so shameful that it wasn't mentioned in public until the physical evidence was unavoidable: i.e. the bump began to show, at the start of the second trimester? Probably.
Ugh, in other news, a friend has just found out she is expecting twins! Please God no! I haven't got room for two more, just one please! It hadn't even occured to me until she told me that of course, she hadn't known either until the scan. And mine is about 6 weeks away! Fingers crossed, just the one baby please!
Anthea
Last time I was pregnant, I was horribly sick - puking most mornings, the works. I came in late, left early and was a fetching shade of green. As a primary school teacher, the majority of my colleagues are women and as such many of them are mothers. Most people suspected I was pregnant and grilled my closest work friends about it (who denied all knowledge, bless 'em). But no-one actually came and spoke to me! Everyone was talking about me, but no-one was talking to me! The stupid thing is, if anybody had approached me and said, "are you pregnant?" I would have answered, "yes, but please keep it to yourself".
I posted here:
http://thegoodbodies.blogspot.com/2008/10/and-puking-began-here.html
about how unfair it is that during the first trimester, the time when you feel the worst and need the most support, you are not supposed to tell anyone. The reasons for this are that something like 95% of miscarriages happen some time in the first 12 weeks. So presumably, you wouldn't want to follow up the exciting announcement of a pregnancy with the sad one of a miscarriage.
Or would you? In a workplace full of women, mothers, children and family problems, my colleagues are a fabulous support network. We see each other through private and professional dramas, and rally round when somone is having a crisis, however large or small. In fact, I think that if I were to suffer a miscarriage - which is not that likely anyway, I'm not in any of the high-risk categories and have already had one straightforward pregnancy - my colleagues would provide me with tremendous support. If I suffered any other sort of loss or bereavement, I would want the support of the people around me. I wouldn't really want to soldier on as if nothing had happened. I wouldn't want it to be a secret. And therefore I can't see any good reason for me keeping early pregnancy a secret.
I'm lucky in that my employer is fully supportive (to the point of over-enthusiastic!) of staff having children. In other workplaces, it might be a good idea to keep it quiet until your maternity arrangments are fully in place, I don't know. But I've told everyone at work so that they know there's a good reason why I might not be keeping up properly, or be rather absent-minded, or be green. I want their support through this, because it's a big upheaval, even second time around. (Mind you, I seem to be getting evening sickness rather than morning sickness this time so maybe it would have been easy to conceal, I don't know!)
I play in a brass band and told one of my friends there, who herself has two children under the age of two, at the same time as another friend. She asked me how far along I was and I told her only a few weeks. "Well that's a bit silly, announcing it this early, isn't it?" she said, all judgemental. "Why?" I asked. "Well, you'd better hope nothing happens," she replied, implying a miscarriage. "But then I'd want people to know that as well," I said.
OK, so this particular friend is a bit like that, a bit judgy and speaks without thinking, but I reckon her comments only demonstrate the prevailing attitude in society. Where does this come from? Why should miscarriage be such a shameful secret? Why should early pregnancy be so embarrassing? Does this date back to a time when reproduction - and naturally, women's bodies in general - was just so shameful that it wasn't mentioned in public until the physical evidence was unavoidable: i.e. the bump began to show, at the start of the second trimester? Probably.
Ugh, in other news, a friend has just found out she is expecting twins! Please God no! I haven't got room for two more, just one please! It hadn't even occured to me until she told me that of course, she hadn't known either until the scan. And mine is about 6 weeks away! Fingers crossed, just the one baby please!
Anthea
Friday, September 17, 2010
The eternal question
I'm facing that eternal question; the one that plagues mothers everywhere:
"Should I go back to work?"
Yesterday I was sent an invitation to apply for a proofreading position at a pharmaceutical company 30 miles away, based in the same business park my husband used to work in (although for a different company). We know the company and we know how far away it is (40 min commute), and we know that I am absolutely desperate to find meaning in my life beyond that of a-mother-with-a-special-needs-kid-who-does-some-freelancing-stuff-when-she-has-time. So when this opportunity came up I was really interested, but I delayed in answering the e-mail because any decision I make involves the whole family. It really does.
I spoke to my husband about it when he called home at lunchtime and he was very positive, saying I should definitely apply and totalling up how much extra income we would have if I got the job. But something still stopped me, and it took me a while to figure it out.
Daycare isn't really an issue long-term. I'm visiting a nursery on Monday that caters for children like Little O, and they seem very keen to have him on board, but they can't offer him a week-long placement until mid-October, which is awkward. I'd be able to get him in all day Monday and Friday for a few weeks, but that would still leave Tues-Thurs with no care. Then my Dad comes out to visit at the end of October and it would be a shame to have Little O in daycare the whole time, and me at a new job. But come November, and daycare and family issues will be resolved, and I'll have plenty of time for a full-time position.
The commute also doesn't bother me, although the hours are a little sticky. It would be 50 hrs a week, plus occasional Saturdays, depending on deadlines. Thankfully I'm a very fast worker when I know what I'm doing, so I anticipate meeting their expectations and then surpassing them, and not actually having to work many Saturdays at all. I'm also not afraid to commit a large portion of my time to a new job if I really enjoy it. I actually love working in offices, but I've never found a JOB that I like. Perhaps that would change.
No, the thing that bothered me and took a while to surface, was my husband's attitude to Little O's care. My husband is almost as much of a feminist as I am, but on this particular topic it's as though he's thrown all notion of equal parenting out of the window. When we were discussing specifics last night in bed, I reminded him that if I were to work full-time, it would mean I couldn't take Little O to all the appointments and therapy sessions that I do now. Actually, at least initially, I wouldn't be able to do ANY of them because I'd be in a new job and trying to make a good impression. So I requested that he look into his employer's flexi-time policy, and find out whether he can start shifting his hours a little to accomodate Little O's care.
His response was quite astounding. He said, "No, they won't go for that", and turned over in bed. End of discussion. I was gobsmacked, so I pulled him back over to face me and asked him why. He said they're really busy, and besides, WE need the money. It struck me that he sees his job and my (potential) job differently. As far as he's concerned, it's ME who needs to ask for flexi-time because HIS job is already stable, and because it's MY responsibility to take care of Little O. I was lost for words. I had always assumed that if I worked full-time again, that parenting our son would be shared equally - indeed, before we knew about Little O's problems, I'd intended to go back to work much sooner than this. So what the hell is going on?
I feel like I'm meeting everyone else's needs and schedules... what about mine? I've given up my career to this point to be an advocate and parent to my son, but I feel like it's my time again. I WANT to go back to work, but I CAN'T do it if my husband won't meet me halfway. I just can't roll up to a new employer and tell them I need three days off a month to take my son to appointments because my husband won't help me. It isn't fair to ask that of me, or my (potential) company. I don't know what's going on. Maybe my husband's afraid of losing his job, or taking on extra responsibility at home; I don't know. But I do know that I can't have a full-time job AND be the primary caregiver. Not with Little O.
In the end, I did apply for the job, via an agency. I explained my situation to them and they seemed accomodating, but they recommended I don't tell the company until I'm offered a position. If and when that happens I'm going to feel really guilty, because it will feel like I've misled them. I'm already panicking about finding childcare for Little O for when I have to go to an interview - how the hell do I pick up those extra three days a week too? Frankly, I feel confident that I'll get the job if I get an interview, because unlike other jobs I've gone for where I just need the money, in this instance I'm really invested in the position itself. And I'm fucking good at what I do and I'm confident in my abilities, so selling myself to an employer should be okay. It's just post-interview that I'm worried about.
I need a grandparent around for about a month, I think. Someone to take care of Little O while I get a job organised; someone who can take him to his appointments and act on my behalf. But I also need a husband who supports my decision to go back to work properly, on MY terms. It's all very difficult. Exciting, but difficult.
Tina.
"Should I go back to work?"
Yesterday I was sent an invitation to apply for a proofreading position at a pharmaceutical company 30 miles away, based in the same business park my husband used to work in (although for a different company). We know the company and we know how far away it is (40 min commute), and we know that I am absolutely desperate to find meaning in my life beyond that of a-mother-with-a-special-needs-kid-who-does-some-freelancing-stuff-when-she-has-time. So when this opportunity came up I was really interested, but I delayed in answering the e-mail because any decision I make involves the whole family. It really does.
I spoke to my husband about it when he called home at lunchtime and he was very positive, saying I should definitely apply and totalling up how much extra income we would have if I got the job. But something still stopped me, and it took me a while to figure it out.
Daycare isn't really an issue long-term. I'm visiting a nursery on Monday that caters for children like Little O, and they seem very keen to have him on board, but they can't offer him a week-long placement until mid-October, which is awkward. I'd be able to get him in all day Monday and Friday for a few weeks, but that would still leave Tues-Thurs with no care. Then my Dad comes out to visit at the end of October and it would be a shame to have Little O in daycare the whole time, and me at a new job. But come November, and daycare and family issues will be resolved, and I'll have plenty of time for a full-time position.
The commute also doesn't bother me, although the hours are a little sticky. It would be 50 hrs a week, plus occasional Saturdays, depending on deadlines. Thankfully I'm a very fast worker when I know what I'm doing, so I anticipate meeting their expectations and then surpassing them, and not actually having to work many Saturdays at all. I'm also not afraid to commit a large portion of my time to a new job if I really enjoy it. I actually love working in offices, but I've never found a JOB that I like. Perhaps that would change.
No, the thing that bothered me and took a while to surface, was my husband's attitude to Little O's care. My husband is almost as much of a feminist as I am, but on this particular topic it's as though he's thrown all notion of equal parenting out of the window. When we were discussing specifics last night in bed, I reminded him that if I were to work full-time, it would mean I couldn't take Little O to all the appointments and therapy sessions that I do now. Actually, at least initially, I wouldn't be able to do ANY of them because I'd be in a new job and trying to make a good impression. So I requested that he look into his employer's flexi-time policy, and find out whether he can start shifting his hours a little to accomodate Little O's care.
His response was quite astounding. He said, "No, they won't go for that", and turned over in bed. End of discussion. I was gobsmacked, so I pulled him back over to face me and asked him why. He said they're really busy, and besides, WE need the money. It struck me that he sees his job and my (potential) job differently. As far as he's concerned, it's ME who needs to ask for flexi-time because HIS job is already stable, and because it's MY responsibility to take care of Little O. I was lost for words. I had always assumed that if I worked full-time again, that parenting our son would be shared equally - indeed, before we knew about Little O's problems, I'd intended to go back to work much sooner than this. So what the hell is going on?
I feel like I'm meeting everyone else's needs and schedules... what about mine? I've given up my career to this point to be an advocate and parent to my son, but I feel like it's my time again. I WANT to go back to work, but I CAN'T do it if my husband won't meet me halfway. I just can't roll up to a new employer and tell them I need three days off a month to take my son to appointments because my husband won't help me. It isn't fair to ask that of me, or my (potential) company. I don't know what's going on. Maybe my husband's afraid of losing his job, or taking on extra responsibility at home; I don't know. But I do know that I can't have a full-time job AND be the primary caregiver. Not with Little O.
In the end, I did apply for the job, via an agency. I explained my situation to them and they seemed accomodating, but they recommended I don't tell the company until I'm offered a position. If and when that happens I'm going to feel really guilty, because it will feel like I've misled them. I'm already panicking about finding childcare for Little O for when I have to go to an interview - how the hell do I pick up those extra three days a week too? Frankly, I feel confident that I'll get the job if I get an interview, because unlike other jobs I've gone for where I just need the money, in this instance I'm really invested in the position itself. And I'm fucking good at what I do and I'm confident in my abilities, so selling myself to an employer should be okay. It's just post-interview that I'm worried about.
I need a grandparent around for about a month, I think. Someone to take care of Little O while I get a job organised; someone who can take him to his appointments and act on my behalf. But I also need a husband who supports my decision to go back to work properly, on MY terms. It's all very difficult. Exciting, but difficult.
Tina.
Friday, August 27, 2010
I'm so tired I could...
thump.
That's the sound of my head hitting the pillow this afternoon for a well-deserved nap... or rather, it would have been if Little O hadn't been such a godawful ratbag and woken up time and time again to scream the house down or throw up.
I bloody hate Fridays. Traditionally Tuesdays were my least favourite day of the week because while you can get a good nights sleep over the weekend and charge your batteries for Monday, there's no such opportunity for Tuesdays. You've still got to get up and have a day of misery at work, but you're running on less sleep and more angst than the day before. It's traditionally been a bit shit.
But now Fridays are a bit shit. I'm just so tired and fed up with being forced to be stay-at-home-mom that I spend the whole day watching the clock and waiting for my husband to get home. I had to get my sorry arse out of bed early this morning to take Bob to the vet for some vaccinations, so I prayed Little O would do the decent thing and let me sleep as long as possible... no such luck. He woke up AS SOON as my husband left for work at 5.45am (a common theme, and I feel the two aren't entirely unrelated) and threw up, did a poo, then yelled at me to come and clean both messes up. And of course I couldn't get back to sleep after that, so I was all kinds of moody at the vet and have continued to simmer and seethe ever since.
Little O is just driving me mental. He's my favourite person in the whole wide world, which is why when he acts up I get a bit demented. I feel like he's deliberately pushing my buttons( which of course he isn't), and sometimes when he cries or coughs or poos and MAKES himself throw up it feels really personal. It feels as though I'm failing him somehow, and he knows it. We have a procedure next week to try Botox injections into Little O's stomach. And an endoscopy. And a contrast study. And anaesthesia. And all kinds of other bollocks that I'm too tired and miserable to discuss. I just want something to change. I want the doctor to point at a screen, go, "Oh look! That's the problem!", and fucking fix it. Little O and I have been dealing with this for 15 months now. It isn't fair. MAKE THIS REFLUX GO AWAY.
I was at the gym yesterday doing a Zumba class, and right slap bang in the middle of some kind of ridiculous twisty move, two things happened. One, I felt a rib go 'pop'; and two, it struck me how pointless everything else in my life is until this reflux gets sorted. Why the hell am I investing my time and energy into an extremely camp exercise class, when my child is at home throwing his guts up every two hours? My mother wants me to go and visit the UK in February with Little O. By myself. For 'a break', as she put it. Yeah, right. Because travelling for nine hours on a plane with a baby who won't stop throwing up will of course be 'a break'. That's it's very definition. Don't get me wrong: I don't mind going to the UK and taking a small child with me, but I don't want to do it alone. It took all the strength in both of us to keep calm and carry on when my husband and I flew over at Christmas, and it took even MORE strength in me to do the same in Seattle. It's just different when you're by yourself, and it's hugely different when you're dealing with a baby with special needs.
Still, Sunday beckons, and with it the enticing invitation to appear on BBC Radio. I'm naturally a night owl so I'm actually really, really looking forward to drinking loads of Diet Coke and staying awake until the wee small hours. And I'll have a fantastic, legitimate reason for poking my husband to get out of bed in the morning to deal with Little O's vomit/poo/screaming, because I'll have been working until 3am.
It's amazing that I consider that 'a break'.
Tina.
That's the sound of my head hitting the pillow this afternoon for a well-deserved nap... or rather, it would have been if Little O hadn't been such a godawful ratbag and woken up time and time again to scream the house down or throw up.
I bloody hate Fridays. Traditionally Tuesdays were my least favourite day of the week because while you can get a good nights sleep over the weekend and charge your batteries for Monday, there's no such opportunity for Tuesdays. You've still got to get up and have a day of misery at work, but you're running on less sleep and more angst than the day before. It's traditionally been a bit shit.
But now Fridays are a bit shit. I'm just so tired and fed up with being forced to be stay-at-home-mom that I spend the whole day watching the clock and waiting for my husband to get home. I had to get my sorry arse out of bed early this morning to take Bob to the vet for some vaccinations, so I prayed Little O would do the decent thing and let me sleep as long as possible... no such luck. He woke up AS SOON as my husband left for work at 5.45am (a common theme, and I feel the two aren't entirely unrelated) and threw up, did a poo, then yelled at me to come and clean both messes up. And of course I couldn't get back to sleep after that, so I was all kinds of moody at the vet and have continued to simmer and seethe ever since.
Little O is just driving me mental. He's my favourite person in the whole wide world, which is why when he acts up I get a bit demented. I feel like he's deliberately pushing my buttons( which of course he isn't), and sometimes when he cries or coughs or poos and MAKES himself throw up it feels really personal. It feels as though I'm failing him somehow, and he knows it. We have a procedure next week to try Botox injections into Little O's stomach. And an endoscopy. And a contrast study. And anaesthesia. And all kinds of other bollocks that I'm too tired and miserable to discuss. I just want something to change. I want the doctor to point at a screen, go, "Oh look! That's the problem!", and fucking fix it. Little O and I have been dealing with this for 15 months now. It isn't fair. MAKE THIS REFLUX GO AWAY.
I was at the gym yesterday doing a Zumba class, and right slap bang in the middle of some kind of ridiculous twisty move, two things happened. One, I felt a rib go 'pop'; and two, it struck me how pointless everything else in my life is until this reflux gets sorted. Why the hell am I investing my time and energy into an extremely camp exercise class, when my child is at home throwing his guts up every two hours? My mother wants me to go and visit the UK in February with Little O. By myself. For 'a break', as she put it. Yeah, right. Because travelling for nine hours on a plane with a baby who won't stop throwing up will of course be 'a break'. That's it's very definition. Don't get me wrong: I don't mind going to the UK and taking a small child with me, but I don't want to do it alone. It took all the strength in both of us to keep calm and carry on when my husband and I flew over at Christmas, and it took even MORE strength in me to do the same in Seattle. It's just different when you're by yourself, and it's hugely different when you're dealing with a baby with special needs.
Still, Sunday beckons, and with it the enticing invitation to appear on BBC Radio. I'm naturally a night owl so I'm actually really, really looking forward to drinking loads of Diet Coke and staying awake until the wee small hours. And I'll have a fantastic, legitimate reason for poking my husband to get out of bed in the morning to deal with Little O's vomit/poo/screaming, because I'll have been working until 3am.
It's amazing that I consider that 'a break'.
Tina.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Visitors
As ABBA once said, "I have been waiting for these visitors..."
I'm going to come back to the My Pookie Bear testimony soon, but there are some other things we must discuss first.
My Mum is out visiting at the moment, with D. It was also my birthday last week (27... sigh...) and I was embarrassingly disappointed with the whole affair. Since I was little, right up until recently, I have looked forward to my next birthday right after I got done with the last one. However, for the last four years I have felt absolutely nothing. No excitement, no anticipation, no nothing. It's going to be incredibly selfish of me to say this, but ever since 2007 something has kind of stolen my thunder. In 2007 I was forced to live in the UK while we waited for immigration paperwork to be processed, but my husband had no legal right to work over there so we spent the whole year (our first year of marriage) living in two different countries. On my 24th birthday, therefore, I was sleeping on my sister's couch working as a credit-control temp for a food company, and it SUCKED. In 2008 I was happily living in WI and took a week off in the summer for my birthday and for my family's visit, but I go so excited about them coming over that I completely forgot about my birthday and felt a bit weird on the day itself. Same story in 2009, and exactly the same in 2010. I'm so lucky that my family wants to come and visit me, but I wish we could spread things out a little. I'd love for them to come over every year, but perhaps they could make it a week or two later next time? I'd really like to celebrate with just my husband and Little O, and feel special about my birthday again. I want to DO something... not feel like I have to entertain guests or watch my alcohol intake in front of my parents. Maybe next year if they're back again, they can look after Little O for a weekend and my husband and I will bugger off and get pissed at a hotel somewhere. I'm really not looking forward to asking my family about that though...
It's weird having my Mum here with D. Admittedly he's helping to diffuse potentially hazardous situations, for which I am very grateful, but it's still strange watching their relationship. For example, my Mum stopped kissing and hugging us goodnight when we were teenagers, but with D she makes sure they say a 'proper' goodnight... every night. It's sweet and not inappropriate (he's gay, remember?), but it just strikes me as odd that she'll give him a hug and peck on the cheek before bed, but then turn to me and wave goodnight as she goes up the stairs. I dunno. Maybe this is all at D's request: not her's. Maybe it makes her feel weird doing it in front of me too. It's just that I don't have a great relationship with Mum on my own, and seeing her be comfortable and motherly to someone who isn't her child is... hmm... uncomfortable.
Another thing that's making me feel uncomfortable is how my Mum is around my son. She clearly adores him and has frequently demanded to hold him or play with him, but she's never once offered to HELP with him. I know he's a lot of work and that learning how to take care of him is a bit of a minefield, but even if I turned down the offer of help I'd still appreciate the gesture! She has never once offered to feed him, change him, put him to bed, give him a bath, get him dressed, hold him while I deal with another crisis... nothing at all. As far as she's concerned, she's his Grandma and her prerogative is to enjoy cuddles and playtime. My in-laws, however, offer to do EVERYTHING. They have been the most helpful, supportive grandparents for Little O, and I feel more confident in their abilities to take care of him in an emergency than anyone else. Yes, they've seen him more often, and yes, they live considerably closer, but that's not it. They're better with Little O because they WANT to be. When we visit them they make sure we have everything we need to get comfortable, and they will happily and without complaint rearrange anything at all to fit around us. They want to administer medications, feed him via g-tube, change diapers, give him his nebulizer, bathe him. They're happy to do it because not only do they love him, but they realize how much pressure my husband and I are under and they want to help relieve it. My Mum, on the other hand, wants to be treated like a guest. So I have to run around cleaning up after her and D as well as all my usual Little O-related business. It would just be nice for her to offer to change him when he's dirty, or feed him something tasty... just once. That's all. Because that's the kind of Grandma Little O needs.
Thanksfully my Dad is coming to visit in October and he's more like my in-laws. He's happy to get stuck in there and help out as much as possible, so I'm looking forward to seeing him and trusting him to take care of his grandson. I think he's a wonderful father and a brilliant Grandad. I miss him a lot.
In other news, I got offered another copyediting project! Thank FUCK for that! I was beginning to think my publishers didn't love me anymore...
Tina.
I'm going to come back to the My Pookie Bear testimony soon, but there are some other things we must discuss first.
My Mum is out visiting at the moment, with D. It was also my birthday last week (27... sigh...) and I was embarrassingly disappointed with the whole affair. Since I was little, right up until recently, I have looked forward to my next birthday right after I got done with the last one. However, for the last four years I have felt absolutely nothing. No excitement, no anticipation, no nothing. It's going to be incredibly selfish of me to say this, but ever since 2007 something has kind of stolen my thunder. In 2007 I was forced to live in the UK while we waited for immigration paperwork to be processed, but my husband had no legal right to work over there so we spent the whole year (our first year of marriage) living in two different countries. On my 24th birthday, therefore, I was sleeping on my sister's couch working as a credit-control temp for a food company, and it SUCKED. In 2008 I was happily living in WI and took a week off in the summer for my birthday and for my family's visit, but I go so excited about them coming over that I completely forgot about my birthday and felt a bit weird on the day itself. Same story in 2009, and exactly the same in 2010. I'm so lucky that my family wants to come and visit me, but I wish we could spread things out a little. I'd love for them to come over every year, but perhaps they could make it a week or two later next time? I'd really like to celebrate with just my husband and Little O, and feel special about my birthday again. I want to DO something... not feel like I have to entertain guests or watch my alcohol intake in front of my parents. Maybe next year if they're back again, they can look after Little O for a weekend and my husband and I will bugger off and get pissed at a hotel somewhere. I'm really not looking forward to asking my family about that though...
It's weird having my Mum here with D. Admittedly he's helping to diffuse potentially hazardous situations, for which I am very grateful, but it's still strange watching their relationship. For example, my Mum stopped kissing and hugging us goodnight when we were teenagers, but with D she makes sure they say a 'proper' goodnight... every night. It's sweet and not inappropriate (he's gay, remember?), but it just strikes me as odd that she'll give him a hug and peck on the cheek before bed, but then turn to me and wave goodnight as she goes up the stairs. I dunno. Maybe this is all at D's request: not her's. Maybe it makes her feel weird doing it in front of me too. It's just that I don't have a great relationship with Mum on my own, and seeing her be comfortable and motherly to someone who isn't her child is... hmm... uncomfortable.
Another thing that's making me feel uncomfortable is how my Mum is around my son. She clearly adores him and has frequently demanded to hold him or play with him, but she's never once offered to HELP with him. I know he's a lot of work and that learning how to take care of him is a bit of a minefield, but even if I turned down the offer of help I'd still appreciate the gesture! She has never once offered to feed him, change him, put him to bed, give him a bath, get him dressed, hold him while I deal with another crisis... nothing at all. As far as she's concerned, she's his Grandma and her prerogative is to enjoy cuddles and playtime. My in-laws, however, offer to do EVERYTHING. They have been the most helpful, supportive grandparents for Little O, and I feel more confident in their abilities to take care of him in an emergency than anyone else. Yes, they've seen him more often, and yes, they live considerably closer, but that's not it. They're better with Little O because they WANT to be. When we visit them they make sure we have everything we need to get comfortable, and they will happily and without complaint rearrange anything at all to fit around us. They want to administer medications, feed him via g-tube, change diapers, give him his nebulizer, bathe him. They're happy to do it because not only do they love him, but they realize how much pressure my husband and I are under and they want to help relieve it. My Mum, on the other hand, wants to be treated like a guest. So I have to run around cleaning up after her and D as well as all my usual Little O-related business. It would just be nice for her to offer to change him when he's dirty, or feed him something tasty... just once. That's all. Because that's the kind of Grandma Little O needs.
Thanksfully my Dad is coming to visit in October and he's more like my in-laws. He's happy to get stuck in there and help out as much as possible, so I'm looking forward to seeing him and trusting him to take care of his grandson. I think he's a wonderful father and a brilliant Grandad. I miss him a lot.
In other news, I got offered another copyediting project! Thank FUCK for that! I was beginning to think my publishers didn't love me anymore...
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.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
F*ckitty f*ck f*ck f*ck
So, I finished a copyediting project at the beginning of the week (a day early, I might add) and in my e-mail to the sub-editor, I casually mentioned that I hadn't yet been given a brief for Baby Names 2011 (US edition), and seeing as she had told me the manuscript needed to be finished by July, I wanted more information pretty sharpish. I mean, leaving me two and a half weeks to re-write an entire book wasn't really good enough. So she replied by thanking me for my copyedit, and told me that she hadn't yet been given the go-ahead for Baby Names 2011 (US), but she'd let me know as soon as she had.
Then today, I received an e-mail telling me it's no longer going ahead! Ahhhhhh!! Apparently their acquisitions department has royally screwed up, and they have to delay the title by another year ... which means it'll be Baby Names 2012 (US), and I'll start work next May. NEXT MAY!! Honey, I need that cheque THIS year, not next! And let me remind you, YOU approached ME about this title, not the other way around. I was quite content to just mooch along with the UK edition, but the second you told me Crimson was planning a US edition, I got all excited and essentially cleared some time so I could work on it. Now I have nothing. Nada. Zilch. I am at your mercy, and it's not something I'm remotely comfortabe with.
The other balls-up was that Mike forgot to put the bins out this morning. They collect recycling every other week, and now Little O's formula comes in handy-dandy pre-mixed cans, we have A LOT of recycling to get rid of. It's now going to stink up the garage for two weeks and multiply. And I am going to yell at Mike, because it was his fault.
Little O still has an upset stomach, and I've already changed him four times this morning (it's 9.20am). The GI clinic called me back yesterday and they're putting him on some kind of bacteria-bustin' medication because they reckon his digestive tract is still trying to figure out the new formula and is working overtime, producing too much bacteria and whipping food through him too quickly. He's hasn't gained any weight in over a month (hasn't lost any either though, which I suppose is something) and just seems pretty miserable these days. His poor little bottom is absolutely COVERED in a rash, too, because sometimes his poop doesn't smell and I don't catch it in time, so he has to sit in it for a while. The rash has been bleeding the last couple of days, so the GI clinic has also prescribed some fancy-schmancy cream to help clear things up. Poor little baby. I feel very helpless and sorry for him.
Immunology appointment this afternoon. Fingers crossed things aren't THAT bad and he dosn't need transfusions or a bone marrow transplant ... I'll post more once we've seen the docs.
Then today, I received an e-mail telling me it's no longer going ahead! Ahhhhhh!! Apparently their acquisitions department has royally screwed up, and they have to delay the title by another year ... which means it'll be Baby Names 2012 (US), and I'll start work next May. NEXT MAY!! Honey, I need that cheque THIS year, not next! And let me remind you, YOU approached ME about this title, not the other way around. I was quite content to just mooch along with the UK edition, but the second you told me Crimson was planning a US edition, I got all excited and essentially cleared some time so I could work on it. Now I have nothing. Nada. Zilch. I am at your mercy, and it's not something I'm remotely comfortabe with.
The other balls-up was that Mike forgot to put the bins out this morning. They collect recycling every other week, and now Little O's formula comes in handy-dandy pre-mixed cans, we have A LOT of recycling to get rid of. It's now going to stink up the garage for two weeks and multiply. And I am going to yell at Mike, because it was his fault.
Little O still has an upset stomach, and I've already changed him four times this morning (it's 9.20am). The GI clinic called me back yesterday and they're putting him on some kind of bacteria-bustin' medication because they reckon his digestive tract is still trying to figure out the new formula and is working overtime, producing too much bacteria and whipping food through him too quickly. He's hasn't gained any weight in over a month (hasn't lost any either though, which I suppose is something) and just seems pretty miserable these days. His poor little bottom is absolutely COVERED in a rash, too, because sometimes his poop doesn't smell and I don't catch it in time, so he has to sit in it for a while. The rash has been bleeding the last couple of days, so the GI clinic has also prescribed some fancy-schmancy cream to help clear things up. Poor little baby. I feel very helpless and sorry for him.
Immunology appointment this afternoon. Fingers crossed things aren't THAT bad and he dosn't need transfusions or a bone marrow transplant ... I'll post more once we've seen the docs.
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.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Ideas and work
I finished off a copyediting project last night and diligently sent it off to the publishers so they had it first thing Monday morning. Finishing writing projects always gets me really fired up, so I had a terrible night's sleep and was up an HOUR before the alarm clock went off. Thing is, I haven't even felt the effects yet because while I was working on the manuscript over the weekend, I had a fantastic idea for a book. I put something together last night and asked my publishers if they would accept a book proposal from me today, which they said they would. So this morning I put together my first ever book proposal... which is weird considering I've already had two of the blighters published... but now I'm extremely nervous waiting to hear back from them. It's like waiting for your essay marks back at university, or even better: a pregnancy test.
I personally think my proposal is a total winner, but then I would say that, wouldn't I? I'm not going to tempt fate and start spreading my ideas all over the internet like Nutella (nom nom nom), but I really do think it's a corker. I'm also rather chuffed with the way I wrote the proposal, managing to incorporate all the things I love about Crimson without sucking up, and really getting detailed on the chapter synopses. I really, really hope they pick it up, and that all this waiting and no news is actually good news. Maybe my editor has taken it to someone higher up the chain of command and they're mulling it over during a morning meeting tomorrow. Either way, I'm still checking my e-mails every other minute - even though I know the UK is six hours ahead and they'll have all gone home by now.
If this one does go into publication it'll be my third book, but the only one I'll own the rights to. I think I can choose to sell the copyright to the publishers for a fee, or receive royalties instead. It's kind of a niche market I'm aiming at so I'll probably go with the fee, but even so... THIRD BOOK! Mike said I'll sound like a proper author now.
Oh, and Baby Names 2011 is going ahead, which will technically be a second edition (the first being Baby Names 2010), but I'm counting it as a whole 'nother book. So there. Creepy Rich (*shudder*) bought a copy of Baby Names 2010 for his wife as she's expecting their first child, and messaged me on Facebook to sign it. So far I've avoided that particular minefield but it's only a matter of time before my ego is stroked to excess and I give in. After all, there is something wickedly cool about signing your own books.
Tina.
I personally think my proposal is a total winner, but then I would say that, wouldn't I? I'm not going to tempt fate and start spreading my ideas all over the internet like Nutella (nom nom nom), but I really do think it's a corker. I'm also rather chuffed with the way I wrote the proposal, managing to incorporate all the things I love about Crimson without sucking up, and really getting detailed on the chapter synopses. I really, really hope they pick it up, and that all this waiting and no news is actually good news. Maybe my editor has taken it to someone higher up the chain of command and they're mulling it over during a morning meeting tomorrow. Either way, I'm still checking my e-mails every other minute - even though I know the UK is six hours ahead and they'll have all gone home by now.
If this one does go into publication it'll be my third book, but the only one I'll own the rights to. I think I can choose to sell the copyright to the publishers for a fee, or receive royalties instead. It's kind of a niche market I'm aiming at so I'll probably go with the fee, but even so... THIRD BOOK! Mike said I'll sound like a proper author now.
Oh, and Baby Names 2011 is going ahead, which will technically be a second edition (the first being Baby Names 2010), but I'm counting it as a whole 'nother book. So there. Creepy Rich (*shudder*) bought a copy of Baby Names 2010 for his wife as she's expecting their first child, and messaged me on Facebook to sign it. So far I've avoided that particular minefield but it's only a matter of time before my ego is stroked to excess and I give in. After all, there is something wickedly cool about signing your own books.
Tina.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Been busy...
I'm sorry I've been absent since before my baby's birth - I've understandably been very busy since then! I promise to fill in the gaps and keep up a bit more now! Watch this space.
Anthea
Anthea
Monday, October 5, 2009
Learning to accept
Something I'm finding very hard to accept is the new title I have. Usually, whenever I'm asked what I do for a living or whether I'm working while Owen is a baby, I answer, "Yeah, I work from home as a freelance writer." Today however, it was very firmly drummed in to me that I am a stay-at-home-mother. And I didn't like hearing that. I didn't like it because I have a pride in me that says I'm somehow more than that: I'm an EARNING mother, a financial contributor to the household income... even though I spend all day mopping up baby sick and only start my writing projects when my husband comes home in the evenings.
I REALLY don't have a problem with women (or men) staying at home after the birth of their children instead of leaving the home to work, and I wish we were all able to routinely spend more time with our kids instead of working. Some people choose this; others don't have a choice. I am very fortunate that I am able to earn some money while wearing my pyjamas and taking care of my son, as not every woman who wants to do this, is able to. The money I earn is minimal, but I do enjoy my work and I get a small thrill every time I'm offered a new project because I'm able to get paid for doing something I love. It's a wonderful feeling and it gives me a sense I'm contributing something more than childcare and housework to my family - as well as helping me avoid the financial guilt I used to have every time I spent money. These days, if I want to treat myself to something small, I can do so without feeling as though I've somehow betrayed my husband.
Today though, I was talking to my therapist about ways to connect with other young parents during the week, and she used the phrase "Women Who Stay At Home" to describe us. It really struck me that this is my true title. I AM a "Woman Who Stays At Home" and I do so because I both want to and I am able to. I'm also a working mother though, so where does that leave me? Should I keep describing myself as a freelance writer, or should I answer more honestly and say I'm a stay-at-home-mother? I'd much rather be a freelance writer, but perhaps that's no longer accurate.
Maybe, just maybe, I can be both.
Tina.
I REALLY don't have a problem with women (or men) staying at home after the birth of their children instead of leaving the home to work, and I wish we were all able to routinely spend more time with our kids instead of working. Some people choose this; others don't have a choice. I am very fortunate that I am able to earn some money while wearing my pyjamas and taking care of my son, as not every woman who wants to do this, is able to. The money I earn is minimal, but I do enjoy my work and I get a small thrill every time I'm offered a new project because I'm able to get paid for doing something I love. It's a wonderful feeling and it gives me a sense I'm contributing something more than childcare and housework to my family - as well as helping me avoid the financial guilt I used to have every time I spent money. These days, if I want to treat myself to something small, I can do so without feeling as though I've somehow betrayed my husband.
Today though, I was talking to my therapist about ways to connect with other young parents during the week, and she used the phrase "Women Who Stay At Home" to describe us. It really struck me that this is my true title. I AM a "Woman Who Stays At Home" and I do so because I both want to and I am able to. I'm also a working mother though, so where does that leave me? Should I keep describing myself as a freelance writer, or should I answer more honestly and say I'm a stay-at-home-mother? I'd much rather be a freelance writer, but perhaps that's no longer accurate.
Maybe, just maybe, I can be both.
Tina.
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