sueeeus

Maybe I should be calling you GB instead of LB, my Giggle Box, Gorgeous Boy, Googlie Bear.  You are just so darned adorable, especially when you giggle.  And I hate to stifle you in any way, but when I have an international teleconference discussing very important work matters, it would certainly help my fragile semblance of professionalism if you could, ummmmm, keep it down a bit?

It’s a very good thing that I have a mute button on my headset.  It’s also a good thing that I didn’t need to contribute much to the discussion.

You are so much more active during the day than your brother was.  I recall he slept most of the time during my working hours, up until he was five months old.   You, on the other hand, are a GIGGLE BOX!!  Which I love.  Absolutely adore.  However.  I think I will be sending you to daycare after we herald in the new year.  Because, how can I concentrate on the serious matters of Corporate America when I’ve got a Googlie Bear Giggle Box bouncing away in his bouncy chair at my feet?  I ask you!  So I’ve just perused my work calendar, and it looks like I have between 10 to 14 working days until the new work year begins, depending on how many vacation days I take.  I think we’ll be able to make it.

I’m sure going to miss you, but that will just make the moments when I do see you all the more sweet.  Prepare to be covered in kisses!

There are two main trains of thought milling about my head right now.  One is that I need to go back to the office.  Need to.  Need some adult interaction, a change of environment, and a better defined routine.  Need it.

The other is that I have a new goal that I need to explore and fully define, but it’s a goal, nonetheless, and it’s important.  I’m sure it’s a repeat goal that I’ve attempted before, and abandoned, but it’s time for a resurrection.

There.  About the office.  I don’t recall feeling this caged the last time I was telecommuting full time.  Maybe it has something to do with the time of year.  BB was born in January, so spring was springing when I was returning to work.  There was more sunshine, there were flowers blooming, there were afternoon walks.  LB was born at the end of August, and we’re fast forwarding past autumn and into winter.  There is rain, and more rain, and wind and more rain.  The sky is darkening by 4 p.m.  Did I mention the rain?  There are no lovely afternoon walks, unless mad dashes through Costco and Fred Meyer count.  I’m only working three days a week, taking Tuesdays and Thursdays as vacation days so I can catch up on the sleep I missed while working Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.  Having over 20 years under my belt has its advantages.  I get 4 weeks of paid vacation a year, and I can roll a full year over, so I’ve banked 8 weeks that I’m using now, and I can spread it out for quite some time.  I think I can work 3 days a week until April, in fact, and still get paid for full time.  Woot!

But something is different and I’m feeling house-bound.  Stir crazy.  I don’t necessarily get more work done at the office, but it sure is nice to see people, and, dare I say it, social anxiety or not, be seen.  I miss my peeps.  Over twenty years with some of these people make them family.  We’ve spent the better part of our lives together.  I miss that.  I miss them.  I actually brought up the mother’s room calendar today, to see how many people were using it, and if I could fit my pumping schedule in.  A couple of the women have dropped out, and there’s a new one, but it looks like there is room for me.  Do I want to drag my pumping gear around with me?

And then there’s the pang, big time, I feel when considering sending LB off to daycare earlier than later.  He’s only a baby for such a short short time, and what kind of a person am I to send him off when I actually could keep him with me for a little while longer.  As long as he’s not interfering with my work, it’s reasonable to allow him to stay, and since he’s still sleeping through most of my working hours, it’s okay.  So if he’s sleeping, does it matter that he sleeps at my house or at the daycare?  I think I’ll consider starting him at daycare in January, after the bustle of the holidays is over.  He’ll be a little over 4 months old.

Sigh.

Did I mention that I Googled child care rates across the country and found that I’m fortunate enough to live in one of the more expensive states?  I wonder if that means our per capita earnings are accordingly higher?  Right.  I doubt it.  Anyhow, I’ll be getting a blazing steal of a bargain at $300/week for the two kids.  It’s way under the average, so I shouldn’t complain.

And now for the other item.  My goal.  I need to get to know myself better, get over myself, and fall in love with myself, if any of that makes sense.  Get over myself, because I get wrapped up in the same patterns and thoughts and depressions and cycles, over and over and over again.  It’s getting old.  I’m getting old.  And fall in love with myself, so that I can honor myself and accept myself and be comfortable with myself, and just cut myself some slack.  Walk the talk, so to speak.  Not have ridiculous expectations that can’t be met.  Relax a little, alright, already.  No conditions.  That’s the goal.  Unconditional love.  For my self.  I have no idea how to get there, but there it is.  That’s my goal.

I think that unconditional love will wash away a lot of stress and anxiety.  And guilt.

And just like that, maternity leave is over.

Look at you, Mister Eight Weeks Old Today!

Where did the time go?  I don’t think I squeezed in enough snuggles and cuddles and smoochies and hugs.  I think I spent too much time doing housework and not enough time sleeping.  I could have done better.  I could have (and should have) played more, instead of being wrapped up in the business of mothering — harping, snapping, reprimanding, disciplining, and completely losing my patience with BB, pumping, feeding, bathing, consoling.  How do I remind myself, and actually get myself, to play more?  How do I put the blinders on, to hide the myriad things that are calling to be done, and just concentrate on the moment that is a delicious little bundle of boyness?

And now it’s back to the frazzle dazzle working mom’s routine, so it’s all that much more important to magnify those moments of baby yumminess.

In retrospect, the first day back wasn’t so bad.  I think we’re going to be okay.  After a nap, that is.

Swinging, as in mood swings. And not so much swinging as a general tendency towards irritability. Directed mainly at Gadget. Of course. It doesn’t help that he snaps back, rather than graciously understanding and accepting that I’m at the mercy of raging hormones, and this is just another stage in the journey. See how cleverly I don’t take any responsibility for my behavior?

Swelling. As if there wasn’t enough of that already. It seems to contribute to the full body aches. The weight is climbing rapidly now, as evidenced by the indentations left in my skin from even the least amount of pressure. I decided to rest for a while around 8:30 p.m., fell asleep until 10:30, awoke with hands numb, tingling, and swollen. I might have tried to continue sleeping, except I’d forgotten to administer my insulin and I decided I ought to drink more fluids in an attempt to address the swelling situation. Then I started thinking of this, that, and the other thing (we shall call it nesting), so couldn’t go back to sleep anyway.

Nesting. Instead, I emptied two kitchen drawers and filled them with bottles, breast-pump supplies, burp towels and bibs. The diaper station is well on its way to being nicely stocked with teensy tiny diapers, wipes, Desitin, A&D ointment, towels and baby blankets. Still milling about my mind are other things to do. Nothing critical, at this point. Just some sewing projects.

I’ve pre-registered with the hospital and with my insurance company, submitted my leave of absence paperwork and submitted my short term disability claim, coordinated my leave and return to work schedule with my boss and lead, registered for the use of the mother’s room at the office (which is nearly fully booked, but since I will have the luxury, thank the heavens above, of telecommuting most days for several months, I can take care of the lactation business in the comfort and privacy of my own home), and updated my on-line calendars with my leave and return schedules. As far as work goes, I’m good to go. Apart from actually wrapping up all the projects I’m working on, that is.

There are three people in my little corner of the world who do the particular line of work that we do, and both my lead (the Guru) and I (the Capable Sidekick) will be gone for a full week at the end of August, leaving Chicken Little alone with the sky falling. My lead said it will be good for him, which prompted me to ask how he (the Guru) remains so calm all the time, and he said, simply, will it matter in six months? If not, then it’s not worth getting all worked up over now. Genius! Why has it never occurred to me to apply such criteria? I could have skipped that whole Zoloft phase. In our work, we deal with multi-million-dollar products and the owners thereof, and it’s so easy to be whipped into a frenzy by their demands, so this golden nugget of learning how to put things in perspective and place a little distance between the stress and the bigger picture is just that. Golden. So. The work projects that I don’t finish? Will it matter in six months that I haven’t finished them? Probably not. If someone else doesn’t finish them (and they won’t –I generally work independently on these special projects), then I’ll just pick up where I left off when I return. No sweat. It’s so liberating!

Well, the daily brush fires will have to be dealt with, but my own projects will wait if need be.  The Guru will, of course, be fine, and Chicken Little will have to find a way to cope. I will not worry. Nay, I will not even think of them! I’ll be swaddling, snuggling, caring for and reveling in my beautiful little boy.

I confirmed that my insurance covers 96 hours of hospital stay following the birth of the baby, during which time such special services as lactation specialists are covered, and after which they are not, therefore my plan is to demand that I stay in hospital until my milk comes in and I’m confident that my little guy is feeding well, assuming this takes place within 4 days. Surely my milk will come in by then. Our hospitals are notorious for moving mothers through as quickly as possible, so I’m planning to stand firm on this. I don’t want a repeat of the lactation nightmares endured with my first beautiful boy, and want to take full advantage of what the insurance plan will allow.

And my beautiful boy’s birth date has been changed to August 27th. I’ll have the amnio done on the morning of the 25th and find out by that afternoon whether his lungs are ready, and if so, it’s a go. If not, we wait until the next week. I’m fairly confident that he’ll be ready, but I have nothing at all to base that upon, other than I’ve been controlling the blood sugar fairly well, so his development shouldn’t be impaired by the diabetes. He might not even be a hulking Goliath after all. So far, he’s measuring a bit smaller than my first was at this stage, and he’s coming a full week earlier as well, which may translate to a pound or so. He sure seems bigger, though. I feel bigger, and I think I am bigger, even though I weigh less than I did last time. It’s a head scratcher. We shall see. He’ll show us.

Meanwhile…

…I’m getting so excited!

Today I happened across a blog in which the author is a young (looking) gorgeous mother of three, who is a mixed media artist living in a showcase home in Long Island. I gaze upon the photos of her home and her studio and see nothing but success, and wonder how on earth can such a young person have so much (seeming) perfection in her life. The answer may be that she is married to someone who provided that incredible home, and that she is free to work her crafts, mother, and fulfill her soul. Or maybe she or they inherited. She has lovely craft, but it doesn’t seem to be the volume or price to afford such a home.

For so many, the mere act of providing a home, any home, is nearly overwhelming, and in order to do so, one often has to sacrifice one’s crafts, one’s self-expressive dreams, whatever they may be, to make the ends meet. And we make nice homes for ourselves, with what we have within our reach. They may not be showcases with gleaming surfaces and architectural intricacies, but they are the places that we call our own.  And our lives may seem harried, with the strains of mothering, working, and wifing consuming us, leaving us spent and too weary to pursue our craft with the purity we’d like to afford it.

How I imagine I’d love to have a showcase home, studio, and life!   Not to showcase, but just to love and enjoy. Because I love beautiful design and style. And quality. My home is an average suburban home. It’s a comfortable and lived in home. A showcase home is not within my immediate means (without taking on substantial debt). Some day, perhaps… …but not now.  And a showcase life may never be in my stars.

I’m not a business woman, so the peddling of craft is a mystery to me. I’d so much rather give it away. Something about putting things up for sale takes away from the joy of the craft. Or maybe it’s because the price I’d want for the effort and love and thought put toward something is so much more than I’d feel that I could or should ask, so I’d rather just not ask. (Also, the quality that I’d produce most likely wouldn’t pass my expectations, so I’d not entitle myself to price things anyway. Perfectionism can be a curse.) Idyllic as it seems, if I crafted for a living, perhaps I wouldn’t enjoy it as much. I’m not sure that I’d know how to marry business with pleasure.

There was a brief twinge of jealousy, while browsing that blog. Living in a beautiful home, working one’s art, mothering and wifing. It seemed so ideal. And so far away. And reading of recent events in local blogland as well. Other people’s lives. They seem so charming, or so full, or so successful, or so something. Something that mine is not.

It’s crazy, though, because my life is actually incredible, and full to overflowing with blessings, if I’d only take a moment to count them.

For instance.

For as long as I can remember, I haven’t considered myself a career-person.  The word itself put a sour taste in my mouth.  I’ve let it be known that the work I’ve done has been just that.  Work.  A job.  But not a career.  I’m not sure what I thought the word career implied.  Maybe to call my line of work a career is in some way to call myself some sort of conformist.  One of them.  I don’t know.  It all seems a bit silly now.

I never wanted to define myself by the work I do.  Had I found a line of work that I’d have considered worth defining me, well, then perhaps I’d have called that a career.  But that line of work hasn’t materialized (yet).  And now, here I am, forty three, about to have my second child.  It’s been twenty two years since I graduated from university and entered the engineering work force.  Twenty two years.

Although I’ve always just called it a job, of course I’ve done my best and given it my all.  And now that I’m over forty and have a family, suddenly my perspective is somewhat different, and I’m almost willing to accede that I am, in fact, a career woman.  I’ve grown up in this company.  I’ve spent the better part of my life here.  The people are like family in many ways.  We’ve lived our lives here together, day in and day out.  We’ve been there for marriages, divorces, children, graduations, retirements, tragedies, victories, sorrows and joys.  There is history there.  Upswings, downturns.

Where I used to be arrogant and considered that the company was lucky that I chose to grace it with my presence, now I am grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to live my life in the presence of some very fine people and partake in some interesting and rewarding work.  The company has afforded me the roof over my head and the clothes on my back.  I’ve been blessed to have decent health benefits and good working conditions.  There have been some troubled times along the way in which I worked with difficult people in a difficult organization, but even so, the rough spots opened doors to brighter pastures.  It’s all been worth it.  I have a great position now.  I’m settled.  I get to do a variety of things, and I’ve made it to a good place.  I’m respected among my peers and by my management.  There’s no glass ceiling here.  I am very content.  I think I’ve made it.

Until I became a mother, I never imagined I’d want to stay with this company until I retire.  But now that I’m a mother, with the responsibility of raising and nurturing two boys to (God-willing and hopefully) grow into fine upstanding men, the prospect of working until I’m fifty five is no longer unthinkable.  What is another twelve years in the scheme of things?  Or more than twelve years, even.  These boys won’t even be through high school in another twelve years.  I can easily imagine working through their high school graduations, and perhaps even beyond.

I’ve given this company my life, and this company has given me my life.

Twenty two years today.

Happy Anniversary.

Now there’s a joyful looking woman. It’s amazing, really, how one can achieve so many different looks, depending on the angle of the camera. I don’t think this looks anything like me. But for a not very joyful person, she looks sort of pretty.

This looks more like me, but again, I cheat by taking the photo from a vantage so as to obliterate the multiple chin factor. Tricks of the trade. I like the blonde, but it still takes me by surprise once in a while.

So what’s new around here?

• I’m pretty sure I’m going to be ordered to start injecting insulin, after I see my doctor tomorrow. The numbers have remained bad. Sure, it coincides with the presence of the step-kids, coupled with an incredibly stressful bout of work, but it also coincides with third trimester or whatever that magical placental week is when all hell breaks loose in the realm of blood sugar control. I feel somewhat of a failure, as I thought I’d be able to manage the sugars on my own, but I’m no match for my present circumstances. Now, to try and coordinate a 3-month prescription before the end of June, because my medical insurance is switching to a new plan, thanks to my company’s unrelenting cost-cutting measures, and the new plan is fraught with more paperwork, claims, copays, and deductibles.
• Gadget thinks I’m being anti-social. Hey, my laptop is at the dining table, and everyone else is watching TV. That’s as social as I feel like being. And besides, these people aren’t the most considerate of youngsters. When I do enter the family room, nobody makes a move to make room for me on the couch. Our couch is a sectional with a chaise, so it can seat 5 very comfortably, but Gadget’s in his spot (the chaise), Sissy is next to him, and Bubba is stretched out over the remainder, stinky feet and all. Now, another, well-mannered, well-raised child (like any of Suse’s fine bunch) would hop up immediately to offer a seat. But not these. No. In fact, I actually did want to join them the other day, but met with the afore-described scenario, to which Gadget was disappointingly oblivious, so went to the dining table instead. My Beautiful Boy, BB (soon to be Big Brother), sweetly asked me, “Don’t you want to come sit with me, Mommy?” I told him there’s no room for me over there. He went and made a little spot for us on the floor. What an angel. Melts my heart. But I told him I didn’t want to sit on the floor. Especially with self-centered teenagers who are oblivious to the physical constraints of a large, pregnant woman.
• My work has been crazy ridiculous. I work in customer service, supporting very expensive widgets. Once in a while we get demanding requests in which we are expected to be miracle workers. Decode this data and tell me if my widget is in compliance with the widget regulators, and by the way, we bought it from somebody who changed it, and we don’t have any information that describes the changes. But do it anyway. And do it now. Because if you don’t, this widget will not be able to service our valued customers and we will lose tons of money. So do it now. And if you find anything wrong, tell us what it is and tell us how to fix it. So. Some people have amazing faculties in which they remain undaunted by such demands, but I have yet to achieve, let alone master that particular skill. I was able to get something put together, by the skin of my teeth, but it’s not at all satisfying. I sent the final report out today, with a big ‘FAIL’ marked on it, so I’ve been half expecting a phone call at home, requesting emergency troubleshooting to resolve those items which I failed. But what can I say? Dudes. If you don’t tell me how it’s wired, I can’t tell you how to fix it. Leave me alone!  As if I could really say that.
• BB loves having his half-sister and step-brother here, but he’s regressing and there will have to be a period of damage control in which we (that means I) re-establish good behavior. I do like how much fun he has. He has laughing fits and plays hard, hard, hard. But he also picks up on the belligerence and other attitudes milling about, so that part I don’t like so much.
• I discovered that my right ear has a mutant skin condition, much to my chagrin. My ears used to be my only near-perfect physical attribute, so it was with some horror that I discovered this condition today. I don’t know why it’s only one ear (thankful that it’s not two!) or if it’s stress-related or blood-sugar related (does diabetes affect the skin?) or what. Maybe I just got a sunburn and it’s peeling. It’s all red with flaky skin, so maybe it’s an eczema or something. Whatever it is, it’s not pretty, and I don’t like it.  I’m blaming the step-kids.  😉
• I should take a picture of my belly.  At 28 weeks, it’s magnificent, in the sense that a manatee is magnificent.
• I’ve lost my temper with Bubba a few times.  It makes my blood boil when he barks, yells, reprimands, or scolds my BB.  I told him NOT to do that any more, that I will do the reprimanding, and he’s supposed to be an adult, and take into consideration that three year olds behave like three year olds and learn to manage his own words and reactions.  July 8th can’t come soon enough for me.  I’m not proud of myself, but I just don’t have the time or energy to invest in nurturing him into a considerate, thoughtful, well-mannered, pleasant person.  That ship has sailed.
• I’m doing okay with Sissy, which is a relief, because she is Gadget’s flesh and blood.
• The magnesium is working.  No leg cramps!
• I’m going to have a 4D ultrasound of LB (Little Brother) on Thursday — I will get to see his beautiful face!  It’s a splurge, but I’m not likely to have any more children, and I had it done with BB.  I’m excited to get a look at this beautiful little boy.  Pictures to come!
• I’m spending a good part of my waking time trying not to be on the verge of tears; chalking it up to hormones and the home invasion.  I really need some good alone time.
• Blogging away ad-nauseum like this helps.  I’ve thankfully consumed the better part of the evening.
• Some day I’ll probably look back on this time and be even more ashamed of myself for my attitude re the home invasion.  But if I know myself well, I’ll likely deny it.
• Over and out.

Cyclone has taken to asking me whether I’m mad, when he does things that busy 3 year old boys like to do. Such as crushing styrofoam packing peanuts into thousands of pieces all over the floor. Are you mad? Three seconds later. Are you still mad? Another three seconds pass. Are you mad? Are you happy?

He likes to test me. Blowing bubbles in his soup. Are you mad? Blowing more, making a bigger mess. Eating with his fingers. Are you mad? Are you still mad? Are you happy?

In his world there are only two states. Happy and mad. I love how simple it is!

Unusual sounds coming from the living room. He heard me get up to investigate and I saw him scurrying for a place to hide under the table. He knew he was up to mischief!

Are you mad?

It’s been a quiet Sunday morning, if one can count all of the above as quiet. Which I can.

The best thing about Sunday morning is if someone stays up until 2:20 a.m. reading a book* that she started on Saturday evening, she doesn’t have to worry about going to work and managing to get through the day on too little sleep, especially when the resident 3 year old insists on her being up somewhere between 7:30 and 8 a.m. On Sunday, naps are a viable possibility (although not probable).

Of course, if an urgent call comes in from work, in which something has to absolutely be done NOW, well, that can put a damper on things. Luckily, I have my equipment at home so can get it done without going to the office. Now that would make me crabby, going to the office on a Sunday. It would also be nice if we got paid time and a half (or more!) for overtime, but alas, we do not. Even so, my job is a service oriented job, and it’s a rarity to be called to action on a weekend, so in the large scheme of things, I’m happy to be of assistance.

It’s also an excellent excuse not to go outside and pull weeds.

*Kite Runner – another Suse recommendation, and very good (even though it was predictable as to the villain and the outcome, I still happily gobbled it up).

I perform fairly well under pressure. I just don’t like it.

This morning* I discovered that one of my important applications had a bug that was affecting customers world wide. Not good! So I had to scurry to figure out what changed between Friday and today. Because I certainly hadn’t changed anything. It’s so frustrating. More of why I hate Information Technology — nothing ever just stays put, and I like stability. Hence, I despise IT. It’s a quandary, because it affords a good part of my bread and butter. So. I found the problem and discovered it was most likely due to a server migration that took place two weeks ago, which I thought I had tested thoroughly. Apparently not. Argggggghh. So frustrating.

The point is, I was too busy frantically fixing everything and releasing the updated code, that when Harry woke up, I let him lounge about at my feet until I was finished. I’ve learned that the best way to have a harmonious morning is to get him dressed and out the door first thing. No lallygagging about. Just stick to the routine. No questions, no options. Stick to the routine. Break from the routine? The pleas begin, but once I get him in the car he’s okay because I distract him with a cd player and headphones. He feels special, wearing his own grown up headphones, and listens contently to his Disney tunes. When we get to the daycare, however, the floodgates open. He looks so sad and they don’t seem like crocodile tears. He hugs me and begs me to take him home. I hug him, kiss him, tell him I love him, and say “Have a happy day!” in my happiest voice. Then I leave. And feel awful.

I know he will be fine in 30 seconds or less. Even so. It gets me.

*I work from home on Mondays and Fridays. Lucky me!

BHAG

Bee-hag. Best pronounced with a southern drawl.

Big Hairy Audacious Goal

Go ahead, look it up. Google or Wikipedia will do fine.

It’s not actually the acronym of this day, but it was used in a recent meeting, and struck me at the time. I most likely rolled my eyes. There was a time when I’d get more worked up, but after 21 years, I just roll my eyes. And get back to work.

I will say, though, that in theory, it’s a good thing. I’m all for efficiency, progress, doing the impossible and striving for perfection.  I could just do without the abundance of acronyms and buzz words.