Category — SAHM-hood

We’re back from our week-long trip to California.

I know! I didn’t even tell you guys. I was just nervous about someone breaking in and stealing all of our . . . books?

Anyhow, we visited my mom in Southern California. The O.C., to be specific. If you’ve seen “Desperate Housewives of Orange County” or “Laguna Hills” or “The O.C.” — yeah, it’s pretty much like that for reals.

I grew up in one of the most white-bread places on earth. Even Daniel Tosh, one of the finest comedians in recent memory, remarked in a stand-up routine that the O.C. is well known for its diversity.

<cue hysterical laughter>

Every California trip prior to this one has been overcast by my sarcasm and disgust for all things Orange County. I was a creative and rebellious teenager in a sterile, cookie-cutter city with one of the lowest crime rates in the nation. No wonder I smoked, boozed and hallucinated my way through high school. I mean, what other way is there to deal with all that . . . pleasantness?

I’ve now lived in Florida for more than seven years. Sure, Florida has its fair share of generic-ness. But the Florida I’ve experienced is different from So Cal. Nowadays, I think neighborhoods with sidewalks are “fancy.” I know what it’s like to be hit by a hurricane. I live within an hour’s drive of the world’s largest Confederate flag.

Oh, and I don’t pay state income tax. Score.

The point of this is to say that things are different for me now. I now have a husband and kids.

So on this trip, all of those stupid Orange County greenbelts and stupid Orange County generic houses and stupid Orange County engineered streetscapes all started looking kind of nice. There were parks everywhere. We took the girls to one park that I used to go to when I was a tweener and it was suddenly way better than I remembered it. There were infant swings and rubber floors and toddler-sized slides and fake sand with no cigarette butts in it.

When workers showed up to blow fallen leaves and dirt off the playgrounds, I was like damn. So that’s where property taxes go.

Later in the week, we went to a regional park that had a freaking choo-choo train and six playgrounds. Six!! ARGH.

Awesome? Of course. It’s a modern mother’s wet dream. Would I move back? Hells to the N-O.

I guess I’ve spent enough time away from So Cal to just see it as it is: Not something awful — just something that didn’t fit me.

As much as I’ve missed seat protectors in every public toilet, liquor sold in grocery stores and legally required smog checks for cars, I couldn’t go back to 18-lane freeways, double-D boob jobs and all that dry air.

I mean, have you seen the O.C. housewives? They age like old beef jerky.

The girls are teething. Really, really teething.

With the bottom two teeth, Althea suffered badly while Elise hardly complained. As you might have guessed, Althea’s hardly bothered while Elise is a VERY miserable little baby. She purses her lips together in a way that makes it look like she has a mouthful of braces. She moans and moans and moans. She cries. She clings. She wants to nurse, then pushes me away. She wakes up several times a night.

It’s a freaking nightmare.

It’s been getting rough. This past week, I was home most all of the week, even taking care of three babies for a few days. I barely managed to shower, let alone get anything else done (well, except get busted cheating on my husband with a gnarly-looking handyman).

Cabin fever started to set in. Add to that the cries and whimpers and pain of teething, and you can just imagine the thoughts that ran through my mind. Shall I pluck my pubic hairs out, one by one, with splintered chop sticks? Or perhaps pierce my eyeballs with rusted corn-cob holders? Oh, I know! I’ll brush my teeth with some Ajax and floss with barbed wire!

One day, I was very very very close to LOSING MY SHIT. I generally stay pretty chipper and humorous with the girls, even when they’re both crying. But man, this was tugging on my last nerve.

So I went old school. I plopped the girls in the middle of the kitchen floor with some water-filled Tupperware and measuring spoons.

All day long, hugging and singing and playing and distracting, to no avail. But some measuring spoons and plastic containers? They were quiet and happy as pigs in shit for 40 minutes, until we had to tear them away for bath time. Go figure.

I’m so f’n busy. We’re so f’n busy. Most recently, I decided that, just before having family stay with us in August, it’d be a super fantastic idea to take on a serious painting/redecorating/summer cleaning (because I was way too lazy in the spring) project. It’s genuinely needed but horribly badly timed.

Do I care? No. Because I’ve got the wild hair up my ass and I’m going to get this shit done.

In order to get everything crossed off my to-do list, I needed help. Like, Man Help. Like, my husband would need to take out the power tools and break shit and have leftover parts that would keep me up at night, wondering if a pipe was going to burst or something would catch on fire due to his disdain for instruction manuals-type of help.

Problem is, the poor guy is working his ass off at his job. (Thank you thank you thank you.) He comes home and loves on me, coos at his daughters, takes his dinner dishes to the sink, then falls asleep on the couch watching soccer. Every. Single. Night.

So. My to-do list was getting desperate. And desperate times . . .

I called a handyman without telling my husband. Secret Handyman came over and gave me an estimate for all the work I wanted done. We made an appointment for him to come today to get started. I went to Lowe’s and bought all the tools. I transferred money from the remaining pennies in my savings account to pay for it myself.

All without telling my husband. Cue the gasps and groans of every married woman reading this.

Should I have been surprised, then, that Chris messaged me today to say he was coming home for lunch? As Secret Handyman banged my pipes and screwed holes in my drywall? (Sexual innuendos totally intended for comic effect. Har har.)

Of course! Of course Chris is coming home for lunch. Because why in the world would I get away with something like this?

Thing is, I’m also babysitting a friend’s daughter this week. And Secret Handyman had gone to Lowe’s to exchange a part. So when Chris got home for lunch, everyone else managed to show up at the house at the same time. It was a chaotic convergence of friend-crying babies-Chris-handyman, such that Chris was totally disoriented and had NO IDEA what was going on. And I had to introduce Chris to Secret Handyman.

Me: “Chris, this is Bill.”

Chris: “Oh, hi Bill.” — strange look at me.

Me: “Bill is here to fix stuff. And hang a light.”

Chris: “Oh. Okay.” — furrowed brow furrowed brow furrowed brow.

Me: “Well, I’m going to take all these kids on a walk! Bye!”

And I took the girls and the friend’s daughter on a walk. While I panicked my way around the block with three babies sweating half to death in the 95-degree oppressive heat and humidity, Chris texts me with exactly this:

“What the shit who the hell is that and wtf is going on????”

Thankfully, it all blew over. Secret Handyman did enough work around the house to get us motivated, I think, to pick up a few DIY projects. Or finish all this goddamned painting and decorating I’ve started. Or maybe clean out a closet.

I think I can get the laundry done, at least. Yes, I think I can do that.

Today, I saw Althea learn to sit up all by herself.

She was on all fours. Then she slowly tilted her body toward the back left so that she sat on her left butt cheek. Then she teetered into an upright position and found herself happily sitting up.

All by herself.

Things are a little rocky right now. Sometimes I question why I’m not working full time. I question if the financial difficulties and the stress and the constant cleaning and cooking and feeding and rapidly deteriorating sense of self is really worth it.

And then I see Althea learn to do something for the first time, the very first time she does it, on the very day she learns to do it.

And I think, when it’s worth it, it’s really, really worth it.

I’m having a tough time, guys.

I’m stressed, sad and tired. The latest events with our cats is wearing on me. Kramer developed a fever and I took him in to the vet. The way he has his jaw wired in place makes him drool and backwash everywhere, including into his food bowl. He drips and sprays slobbery cat food EVERYWHERE, including the walls, my hair and all over the floor. I spend a good portion of the day cleaning up fish stink and shielding myself from flying cat food.

I feed him meds through a tube in his neck. I’m pretty sure he’s blind in his right eye. The vets have all assured us we did the right thing, his quality of life will be great. They assure us. And the bills pile up. And the guilt, the guilt, the guilt of what I’ve done . . .

I picked up Vincent’s ashes. I sobbed like a child. Seeing his urn meant he was really dead. Really, really dead. Killed. We miss you, man.

(I felt a very strange and very unmistakable presence in the house today. Twice. Like someone walking by, behind me. Definitely a person. Kramer started meowing like Vincent. I wasn’t even drunk.)

We missed a mortgage payment and we’ll never make it up. We just won’t. We’ve never been late on a payment. I have perfect credit. Not so much anymore. Talking to the bank today didn’t help.

We still plan to buy a better camera and somehow, I only feel slightly guilty.

I’ve barely left the house in almost two weeks. I’m so tired that I don’t want to deal with anyone. I have a million things to do around the house and zero motivation or money to do them.

I’ve only exercised a couple of times in two weeks and I’m terrified to step on the scale. I just wanted to lose six lousy pounds by August and I can’t even do that.

I spent a good five hours in the kitchen today, cleaning and cooking and cooking and cleaning. Dishes. Making baby food. Cleaning cat food syringes. Cleaning stinky cat food bowls. Dishes. Cleaning up cat slobber. Spilling an entire can of Coke. Entertaining babies. Feeding. Cooking. Feeding.

Now that I’m staying home with the girls, I’ll never be able to go back to work. Being a SAHM is not legitimate. You don’t get a line for that on your resume. Just because it’s a 24/7 job, constantly on, never rest, only work work work. At this point, I couldn’t act smart enough to get a job anyway.

I wonder if my years-long battle with depression is finally creeping back after my pregnancy euphoria. Dammit. My old shrink doesn’t take our new insurance.

Not that I’ve checked.

I have bags under my eyes. The bags have bags. I feel like shit. I’m lonely. I’m a failure. I want to hide.

I need, need, need. I need help.

I have begun way too many sentences with “I” in this post. <–Stated with complete self-awareness.

Lesson of the evening: Don’t blog and bitch. Because man, that publish button is a bitch . . .

This post hurts to write because if there’s something that’s a testament to a woman’s womanliness, it’s her ability to cook.

I really like to cook. Correction: I really like to think I can cook. Much of my 20′s was spent watching hour after hour of the Food Network. (Holy shit, a channel where all they do is cook all day long? God bless America.)

Just recently, I rediscovered the wonder of the Food Network. Did you know they have a hi def channel? I watch it a lot.

Anyway, I get it. Via osmosis, I’ve learned how the different seasonings harmonize, how to pan fry meats, how to cook once and eat twice, etc.

So far, I’ve tried:

• Buttermilk Pecan Chicken – This was just a bad idea, in retrospect. However, marinating chicken breast in buttermilk is really the only way to go.
• Blue Cheese Stuffed Fillets – Not horrible, but the butter blob you stuff into the meat just kind of disappears into the ether
• One Pot Chicken Over Cheesy Rice – Tasteless is the best I can describe it. That, and gross. Also, what’s up with Emeril’s mug shot? Creepy.
• Black Bean Salad – This would have come out awesome had I realized that the canned corn was already salted. The end product came out tasting like I’d taken a big lick of Guy Fieri’s sweaty forehead. (I love you, Guy.)

Tonight, I came dangerously close to crying because the goddamned pecan-and-panko breading for the chicken breasts ONCE AGAIN stuck to the stupid frying pan. WHY CAN’T I GET THE BREADING TO STICK TO THE CHICKEN.

Considering I usually follow the recipe as stated, is it possible that every single recipe I’ve tried just happens to suck? Maybe it’s my pots and pans. Maybe it’s my electric stove. Maybe it’s my oven that smokes when I turn it on because I really need to clean it.

It’s me, isn’t it?

I honestly don’t understand what fails in the translation between the recipe on paper and the horrible execution of the cooking process. It’s remarkable. I mean, the food is edible (tonight’s semi-raw chicken breasts notwithstanding). But the flavor sucks.

In the end, I really just feel bad for my husband. He knows better than to say anything because, at this point, he’s just trying to avoid rickets and scurvy.

Week Three: I’m still trying to find my balance at the whole stay-at-home mom thing.

The first week at home, as I reported earlier, was really lonely and slow and weird and emotional.

Then, on Wednesday of week two, I discovered Mommy Group.

Mommy Group is hosted by the hospital where I delivered. The first group is for 0-6 month olds; the second is for 6 month to one-year olds. This means I’m slipping into the group and getting to know people just as I’m ready to “graduate” to the next group. Dammit.

Anyway, I showed up to Mommy Group early. I’m particular about punctuality. Always have been. I plan my entire day around arriving early or on time for appointments. This, apparently, is not good practice with moms (or doctors, or hair stylists, or walking buddies, or movies, or dinner dates, or phone calls) because nobody else ever bothers to be on time to anything. This royally annoys me.

Moving on.

I sat on the floor with the girls on a blanket and waited. After a while, other moms with their (singleton) babies started filtering in. We discussed our concerns, observations, struggles, anecdotes. Afterward, most of us went out to lunch. And the whole time, all I could think was braaaainnnnss peeeeople. After being cooped up in the house for a week and a half, I was high on the presence of other adults.

It was like a drug. I needed more.

Through the end of the week and all this week, I kept myself busy. Grocery shopping. Walking. Visiting with other moms. Most embarrassing? I actually went to see Kate from “Jon and Kate Plus 8″ sign her book. I don’t even like her. At all. And yet, here she is in all her spiky-haired glory, taking up space on my camera phone.

But after several days of errands, car rides, meet-ups and missed nap times, the babies couldn’t take anymore. Several epic, sleep-deprived baby meltdowns later, I canceled tomorrow’s mom coffee date. I realized that, shit, I’ve been running all over the place for my own good, not necessarily for my daughters’ entertainment.

My apologies in advance, and I know I’ll regret saying this, and obviously no offense if you currently or previous or plan to have spit-up in your hair for potentially days on end — but I’m scared of turning into a mom who has spit-up in her hair for days on end. Do you know what I mean? I just have this image of Roseanne Barr with corn-chip toenails and hammer toes and a bad perm that I’d really like to avoid.

(Okay, so I’ve actually gone to work with spit-up in my hair. Whatev.)

This is all so new to me and kinda sorta daunting. Being a mom. Being relied on by a crying child who will not be comforted unless I come in to hold her or nurse her.

Maybe . . . maybe . . . what I’m scared of is raising my own babies. I generally feel pretty good about trusting my gut when it comes to being with the girls and doing the right things for them. But that innate self-doubting mechanism kicks in and I wonder what the hell I’m doing trying to raise two babies at the same time. Seriously? Me? The girl who never wanted to get married or have kids?

But at the end of week three, I’m starting to feel okay. Don’t get me wrong — the finances are not a good thing. But emotionally, I feel like this is a new life, a new job, a new purpose. I’m recognizing things about the girls’ behaviors and personalities that I’d wouldn’t so easily see if I were away now. I suspect things will just get more challenging as we start on solid foods (ugh, in the next week or two) and the girls get mobile and vocal. But for now, I’m feeling better and more comfortable with being an at-home mama.