sueeeus

Most of the time Sometimes I feel as though my life resembles a circus performer’s spinning plates trick.  Up goes a plate, then another and another.  And another.  And so on.  The trick is to keep them spinning or they all come crashing down.

It’s all I can do to keep my life pulled together.  I don’t know if it’s my age (closer to 44 than 43, oh my), the challenges posed by my nearly 4 year old, the challenges posed by my new love (3 months!), the effect of post partum hormonal changes, the effect of domperidone on the pituitary (the reason it works for milk production is the boost to prolactin, a powerful hormone), the full time job, the lack of sleep, the commitment to provide breast milk to my baby, or all of the above.  I’m sure it’s all of the above, and then some.  I’m tapering from the domperidone now, so hopefully in a month or so the various side effects will have departed, leaving at least one less plate spinning.

I’ve barely gotten any fresh air since LB was born.  I’ve been on a walk only a couple of times.  The movement I get is from laundry and housework and schlepping through stores getting groceries.  I keep meaning to get outside and/or get some exercise, any exercise, but one thing gets in the way of another and the next thing I know it’s 2 a.m., I’m finally in bed, thinking back on the day and getting ready for the next (which starts at 6), telling myself that maybe I’ll do better tomorrow.

Today I did manage to turn on the Wii and play DDR, which is big, all things considered.  It’s a step, and it’s in the right direction.  I wore my heart monitor and confirmed that I really did get some aerobic action out of it.  Now it’s just a matter of placing one foot in front of the other.  It’s how I get through each day of pumping, each day of working, each day of living.  One step at a time.

I need to love the moment more, though.  This is the life that I wanted, and now that I have it, I need to find more ways to love each moment, rather than just get through each moment.  It’s pathetic, really.  I almost need to make it a mantra that I repeat constantly, all the day long, “Love the moment, love the moment.”

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.

I used to think depression was a character flaw, and that one had merely to change one’s mind and just SNAP OUT OF IT, already.  You know, just GET OVER IT.  Decide to be happy.  Let that glass be half full.

I’m not so sure any more.

Because it occurred to me last night that I’m depressed.  Again.  And it sneaked up on me.

I realized that I’ve been overeating for days, if not weeks.  I noticed that although it was a glorious sunny day, the kind of crisp autumn day I love best, with a bright blue sky, fresh crisp air, and multitudes of changing colors in the leaves on the trees everywhere I look, I couldn’t find a smile.  And I watched myself, as if it were an out of body experience, scolding my nearly four-year-old, and wondering who that woman was simultaneously shaking my head and saying that’s not the kind of person I want to be.

I found myself entertaining the thought of returning to Zoloft, because it took the edge off and gave me that buffer in which it wouldn’t occur to me to eat something unless I was actually hungry, and shielded me from immediately considering the things that Gadget says and does as assinine, and gave me that small wedge of time to process the goings on of my young child and handle him in a more kind and loving manner.  I went so far as to consult Doctor Internet as to the long term effects, as in decades or a lifetime long term, of the drug, and as well, the effects while lactating.  Long term, because I have to say I’m kidding myself if I think I’m going to go through any major changes in character, if the past thirty years are any indication.

Long term withdrawal side effects are frightening.  I’ve read several accounts of zapping.  Electrical zapping sensations in one’s brain. Not for me!  And some of the drug does pass through to the milk, so I don’t want to be feeding this to my babe.  And will the drug continue to work at a low dose for years on end?  I don’t want to be gradually increasing and increasing and find myself on a slippery slope in an even more precarious position.

Depression defies reason, and reason is how I find comfort.  Given an explanation, I can package something up neatly and put it away.

How I wish I understood depression!  I’m coming to terms with accepting that it is a beast that’s bigger than just the act of changing my mind, but I don’t want to, because it makes a sort of sense that it be something that’s just messed up in my mind, and if only I would clean out those thoughts –voila, all would be well.

And yes, I can list several things to justify some melancholy:

• hormonal changes and postpartum —
• sleep deprivation
• constant low-grade nagging physical pain
• the recent loss of a dear friend, which took me completely by surprise
• and this day, in particular, is the day my brother died, three years ago

I had a different attitude about depression back then.  I thought more strongly that people can just decide to get over it, get over themselves, cut the drama king or drama queen scene.  He was a diagnosed bipolar sufferer.  And he was doing well.  His life was turning around.  There seemed to be light at the end of the tunnel.  And then he blew his brains out.

It defies explanation.  There are no answers.  Nor will there ever be, other than that he is finally at peace, and wrestles no more with that which held him captive.  People may be quick to judge, and say biting things like there is no forgiveness for taking one’s own life, especially when there are children, but dare I say these people might not have walked a mile, let alone a step, in the shoes of one under the grasp of depression.  They can’t possibly understand.  And who can?  It’s beyond comprehension.

I don’t ever want to find myself anywhere near where he was, and I don’t think I have any inclinations toward bipolar disorder, but obviously I have depression of a kind, and I think it’s time that I acknowledge that it may not be a simple matter of self-discipline and snapping myself out of it.

Because I have countless more things to be exceedingly grateful and joyful for (my beautiful boys, my family, my home, my job, freedom, and so much more), than things which I have to bring me down, it makes almost no sense why the joys wouldn’t fill my world with sunshine and blast out the darkness of the downs.  And yet they don’t.

So I need to do something about it.  Because life is a gift, and it is fleeting.  Every moment spent out of joy is a moment of something beautiful wasted.

The question is, what do I do?

(I’m already snuggling my delicious little boy, and yes, it helps, but no, not completely.)

(I feel like I should ‘slap myself up the side of my head’.)

I’ve had thoughts milling about that I was considering writing about, but at this point all I have is a quagmire and the best thing to do would be to get some rest, and let sleep bring on its healing restoration, and hopefully with the dawn I’ll have a better grasp.

I might not be feeling so irritated that it’s past midnight and BB is still awake.  Irritated that he doesn’t obey when he’s asked to go to bed, irritated that if a bed time is to be enforced, it appears that it’s entirely up to me to make it happen.  Irritated that I tried to go to bed over two hours ago, knowing full well I’d need to pump around midnight, and that in getting some rest ahead of time, I might have a chance at not feeling like a trainwreck in the morning when I need to be working.  Irritated that all the time passed, and still he’s awake, and I can’t postpone it any longer and absolutely must pump NOW, but in so doing, will give him yet more cause to force himself to stay awake.

After thinking a bit more about that last post, the words that come to mind are vulture and predator.

I think I will leave the foreclosures and defaults to some other opportunistic people.  It’s not for me.

(Hello again, Gorgeous Boy!)

Counting today, I have three week days of leave remaining, and I find myself teetering on the brink of anxiety.  So there are things that I try to remind myself:

• there will always be laundry to wash, dry, fold, and put away
• there will always be dishes to wash, dry, and put away
• there will always be groceries to buy and meals to plan and prepare
• there will always be bills to pay, accounts to reconcile, errands to be run
• there will always be work to do
• there will not always be a teeny tiny snuggly baby to have and to hold

This helps me put things in perspective, when I begin to panic, wondering where the time has gone and find that my days are consumed with mostly mundane things, and that soon I will have to add to each day several hours of computer working time.  It’s not that I won’t have time for all that I have now.  I will just have to rearrange the manner in which I do things.  I spend a good amount of time each day pumping, and concurrently on the computer.  Soon I’ll be doing bona fide work during much of this time, so that should have little impact to the overall picture.  I’ll just be adding a few more hours to this.

Rather than be anxious and wistful that my leave is coming to an end, I should stop and smell the roses.  I should see the forest and the trees.  I should savor the teeny tiny snuggly baby times, because they are fleeting.

That being said, I love the middle of the night feedings the best.  My precious LB is mostly asleep and not fighting himself or me, and takes the bottle with little or no fuss.  When I pick him up he draws his little legs up to his body like a froggie, and I snuggle him close and listen to his funny rythmic feeding sounds, which are somewhere between a very softly braying donkey and a very softly honking goose.  I need to capture that sound!  Rather than try to sleep through the night, I’ve decided to do a pumping session between 2 and 4 a.m., as I’ve learned that there tends to be more milk during this time.  I feed him prior to pumping, so I’m awake enough to savor the time, aware of the smile on my face as I hear those funny sounds and feel the warmth of his tiny body snuggled close to mine.  It’s a magical, fleeting time that I treasure to the utmost.

As for everything else, I must try not to panic.  There is time for all of it.  It’s just life being lived.

I’m about ten pounds less than my pre-pregnancy weight, which is nice, but still nowhere near any sort of ideal range.  And when I look in the mirror, I’d think I’d be happy that I’ve lost some weight, but what I see reflected back is so shockingly unattractive.  And then I stumbled across this site, the shape of a mother, and it helps me feel better.

I was thinking about the well-intended comments from the well-intended doctors about the need to lose weight, and how irksome I find it, as though it never occurred to me that I might be heavy and that it might have health ramifications at some point in life.  No, I didn’t notice that I was obese.  I missed that one.

At least my own ob/gyn isn’t making mention of it.  He’s been my doctor for fifteen years or so, through the whole fertility challenge, the pregnancies, the miscarriages, both cases of GD and both deliveries.  He probably said something at some point, but he doesn’t keep repeating things, and I appreciate that.

Part of me has been thinking that maybe this time will be the time — that my life is in a place where all the pieces are fitting together — I have my family, two beautiful boys!  I have a good job, good health insurance coverage, good retirement/pension prospects, a stable home, and I live in a mostly decent neighborhood (apart from one set of troublesome neighbors).

This may be the time when emotionally I’m ready to tackle my self.  And possibly it won’t be that hard.  That is my hope.

I’ve been wondering about what might be the best exercise choice for me.  I still don’t have all that much energy, at this point, three weeks post-partum.  My belly still hurts and has alot of numb and tingly spots that ache much much more if/when I get constipated.  Supposedly this new pain is due to the abdominal wall as things are shrinking their way back to normal. Apparently my uterus and all things female are okay, which is goodness.

I think I’ll start doing my wii Dance Dance Revolution again.  That was fun and got me sweating nicely, so surely it must have been a reasonable amount of exercise.  I can also walk, but why is it that the thought of getting dressed and going outside seems overwhelming?  It feels so nice to be outside, once there, but the getting there is the hurdle.  I can rejoin the gym, but not for at least a couple more months, and if I do, I will want to go enroute to or from the office, so I don’t have to wrangle the kids.  That will mean that I absolutely will have to count on Gadget to be there for daycare pickup.  And here I am, only three weeks into my LB’s life, and thinking about daycare.  I ought to just be thinking of the moment, which is sleep, pump, feed, wash bottles, sleep, pump, feed, wash bottles.

This baby time is so fleeting.  I absolutely must savor every moment.  And try not to think about body image for a while.

Sometimes, when you’re a woman of advanced maternal age, and you are overweight (obese, technically), and you have type II diabetes (but you really think that you are more borderline and not actually over the edge) which has escalated to insulin dependent gestational diabetes, and you are 36 weeks along, and when your fundal measurement is 43, and you’ve gained five pounds in one week, and when your regular doctor is on vacation, you might find yourself face to face with some stranger who knows nothing about you, and asks you why you didn’t bring your blood sugar log in to this appointment (when you brought it to the last appointment and that substitute doctor didn’t even ask to see it until you told her that your usual doctor had wanted you to show it to her, and then she didn’t show any real interest in it, anyway, so you figured you’d not bother this time, especially because there are about three or four really bad entries in it, and why subject oneself to the tsk tsk bad girl you shouldn’t have eaten that rice or that muffin reprimand, especially when you’re on the teetering edge of tears with the least infliction of guilt, judgment, or criticism) so you tell him that your morning sugars have been in the 90s and your post-prandials around 140 or so (which is more or less true, except for the few odd points)…

…that substitute doctor with the charming bedside manner might say, “Someone hasn’t been watching what she eats very well,” and then insist that an appointment be scheduled sooner than later to go over the numbers to determine whether any additional adjustments to the insulin should be made.

…and that same doctor with the charming bedside manner might wrinkle up his face and remeasure you two or three times and scratch his head and say something to the effect of “do you realize how big you are measuring, and we ought to get you in for another ultrasound,” after which you assure him that yes, you know you are measuring big, your last child measured big, and your normal doctor is well aware of it, and you are scheduled for a c-section anyway, because you already know you’ve got a giant baby growing in there.

…after which that same substitute doctor with the charming bedside manner might ask whether you’re getting your tubes tied during the c-section, and when you say no, you are not planning on it, and he looks at you with shock and horror and asks why not, and you answer that you don’t want to do that, and possibly your husband might get the snip instead, to which he asks why on earth you would subject your husband to an unnecessary procedure when you will be open already and the procedure will take less than a minute to put the little tiny clamps on the tubes and there will be no hormonal ramifications because the ovaries are not affected in the least, and in fact, your chance of various female cancer(s) is actually reduced…

…if you’re anything like me, you have a very difficult time maintaining your composure until you’re safely tucked away inside your car-pod at which time you sob your eyes out all the way home, at the same time wondering vaguely what all the passersby are thinking of the overweight forty-something pregnant woman bawling her eyes out…

…and you try to be objective about it and wonder why you are really so upset, but you just can’t seem to get past the part about NOT BEING READY TO MAKE A DECISION TO COMPLETELY SHUT THE DOOR ON ANY FUTURE CHILDREN, even though you know you probably shouldn’t even consider the possibility, given all the factors, and you may actually not even want to have more, and most likely you wouldn’t even be able to have any more, based simply on how hard it was to get to here, but you just don’t one hundred percent know what you want, and what you should do, and you’re just NOT READY TO MAKE THAT KIND OF A DECISION NOW, or in the next two weeks, for that matter, and even though he claims there are no hormonal ramifications, you are oh, so very leery, because you’ve lived a lifetime with tweaked-out hormones and the last thing you want to do is rock that boat any more than it’s already rocked.

…and then, when your husband calls, because he’s working late and he needs you to do the daycare pickup, and he can hear in your voice that you’ve been crying, and you say it’s because you didn’t much like the doctor you saw today, and he demands to know WHO it was, so he could call him and bawl him out for being such a jerk, you completely skip the whole part about the tubal ligation, which is really what you’re most upset about (because of course it’s as perplexing to your husband as it is to the charming doctor as to why one wouldn’t want to get a tubal when one is already laid out open on the operating table, and how selfish it is to even suggest something as vile and emasculating as a vasectomy to a perfectly healthy and whole male, God forbid.)

…So I guess that’s what it’s mostly all about. I don’t want to make a decision. I thought I’d already made the decision, which is, let Gadget get snipped, and if he’s not amicable to that (which he isn’t much), take our chances or just be abstinent (which is basically the same thing, when it comes down to it).

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.

Other People’s Children.

I suspect that the next month or so will be filled with laborious posts about me working through my lack of graciousness as a host, step-mother, and human being.

It could be, in part, due to pregnancy hormones. I suspect it’s mostly just me, though.

My blood sugar is up. Way up. It’s been a few days, and I want to try to regroup my inner self and work my way to a place of relative tranquility, and reassess before I call my doctor and get the order for injectable insulin. I know that stress wreaks havoc on blood sugar control.

I don’t know why I let things get to me. I think I might feel a bit helpless, in that I’m sort of forced into the situation of sharing my home and my life with near strangers for a while. It rocks the boat somewhat, and add to that the fact that I’m the one who is basically shouldering the expense for the better part of all of it. Not that I’m complaining that much about the cost (yet). I sort of doubt Gadget would be able to see his kids if he weren’t married to me (unless he moved to Kentucky). He doesn’t make enough to cover more than the child support (and it’s only for the one) and basic living expenses, so if he had to come up with enough to cover plane tickets, entertainment, and food, I think he’d be hard pressed. And of course he wants to bring both kids out. Which is fine for now, but the boy is 19 now, and at some point this summer I’m going to have to let it be known that he’s welcome to visit in future, but he has to get here on his own dime. Or else I’ll tell Gadget that he’ll have to come up with the tickets on his own. Oh, I don’t know. I sound like such a selfish money grabbing cow.

And of course, Gadget takes every opportunity to bring out the comparisons, that I don’t freak out when MY nieces and nephew are here, and I have a much higher threshold of tolerance for them than I do for his kids. It’s true. I tell him that of course I’m more comfortable with my people, just like he’s more comfortable with his. He’s been making comments about how spoiled and privileged mine are, and how annoying that is to him. All of which I don’t appreciate one bit. I think its in defense of his own kids, but it’s a childish way to reason things out, and I wish he wouldn’t do it. Just accept that his kids are the way they are, and don’t compare them to mine. Please!

In many ways, I think his kids are more spoiled. They’re not raised to be independent thinkers. They’re not raised to learn responsibilities. If they had more income to work with, they’d have more privileges and conspicuous consumption. As is, they each have their own TVs, VCRs, and DVD players in their own rooms. They have video games. They don’t have the latest and greatest, but they have much. I don’t plan on allowing my little one to have his own TV, ever! If there is TV time, I want it to be family time, and limited. The same goes for video game time. Bedrooms are for sleeping and imaginative toys/play, but not mind-numbing electronics.

People can live rich and fulfilling lives with very little income. There are many wholesome and satisfying things to do. But these people have very limited vision and imagination. I think Gadget is just as guilty of this as anyone. Why else would I call him Gadget? He always wants things. Motorcycle (unauthorized acquisition), boat, big screen TV, hot tub (another acquisition that I regret, frequently), fancy truck, electronics, and on and on and on. And he’s got most of these things! (I’m an enabler, and I need to make it stop.) I do make sure that I often express that there will be no boat, ever, unless it’s a rowboat or canoe. No snowmobiles. No ATVs. No dirt bikes. No, no, NO!

Anyhow. I’m trying to put my finger on what’s causing me the most immediate stress. I’m finding myself very weary with the boy’s attitude and mannerisms. He’s constantly making noises. There’s a steady commentary. Or else just body sounds, like noisy throat clearing, or grunts and groans. Lip smacking. Loud gulping when he drinks. And he sniffs everything. He opened a box of cereal and stuck his whole face in the box, then inhaled. I don’t know why, but it bugs the hell out of me. When I’ve got the food laid out on the table, he sticks his face close to the various dishes and inhales. It makes my skin crawl. And I think I saw him sneeze without attempting to cover his mouth, with the silverware drawer open. I hope it’s not true, but I suspect it is. I didn’t empty the drawer and re-wash everything. But I felt like it. I have kitchen towels for drying dishes and separate ones for drying hands. I have a huge stack of towels for kitchen use. I don’t want anybody using the dish towels for hands. And I find that it bothers me to use the same hand towels, even, after I see him using one. I think my OCD is teetering on the brink of something more serious. I’m a little ashamed of myself, but at the same time, think that maybe I need to just respect that this is the way I am for whatever reason, and work with it so that there can be as little rocking of the boat as possible. So I can always just get myself a fresh hand towel, and reiterate that the dish towels are only for dishes. It’s easy enough without making him feel like he’s untouchable. I think that may be what it boils down to though. Or else it’s just the aftermath of how I process the extreme lack of common sense and independence that I’m witnessing on a near constant basis. It’s very wearisome to hear I can’t spoken over and over and over again, without actually taking a moment to assess and at least try to figure out ____. I can tolerate it with my three year old. He’s three, and I’m trying to teach him to think about things and try things, rather than say he can’t. But these folks are not three. And I was over half way through college when I was 19.

It makes me grateful for my own upbringing. Yes, my dad was a tyrant and my mom was a martyr, and living conditions were generally deplorable, but they were both strong and independent people and they both had a good hard work ethic. Yankee Ingenuity. It’s something my dad would often say in reference to my mom. While he had the scholarly genius (and complete lack of common sense), she had the practical genius (and somewhat lack of scholarly intellect). And although neither were active in teaching us anything, that I can recall, we learned much from observation and example. We (some of us, anyway) learned that we can find a way to do nearly anything, given the will. We left home and struck out on our own at the earliest opportunity.

I can hardly imagine this boy on his own, making his own way. It sounds as though he wants and hopes to live at home, that his mother wants him home, but the stepdad wants him out. Of course he despises his stepdad. I can sort of see the stepdad’s point of view though. Even though neither adult is working, he does and has worked sporadically, so he is the only income generator in that household. I can’t even begin to comprehend the mother. I can’t put the points from A-to-B, that a person can live without contributing or generating some of that living. My mother was a homemaker, a SAHM, who generated no income, but she worked her ass off. She was in no way or shape any kind of a drain or burden on anybody. But their mother… They learn from observation that they can get by without actually working. It’s a shame, and it bothers me deeply. I guess she thinks she contributes financially, because she collects the child support from Gadget, and they use that to live on. So by bearing his child, she’s done her part until the girl turns 18. Of course I think Gadget should support his child. And so does he. It just seems that she should make an attempt to do so as well. If she were teaching them life skills, values, and simple appreciation, that would be one thing.

Maybe it’s a Southern thing. A Southern, cultural thing. I don’t know. It seems like there are hard-working, intelligent, and responsible people who come from the South. And if I think of it, there are plenty of unimaginative lazy people in every part of the country. Even here.  So it can’t just be a Southern thing.

Meanwhile, I need to get a grip.  I took my little one and left the house on Saturday morning, went to the gym, then got groceries.  I needed to be AWAY.  I felt bad, knowing those kids were feeling housebound and would love to go grocery shopping, but I needed to be AWAY.  We were gone for over four hours.  It helped a little.  Yesterday I left again, alone, just to go to the store for more groceries.  (These people eat a LOT!)  I’m used to quiet, so having people underfoot all day, making strange sounds on top of everything else, is grating on me.

Selfish cow.