Category — Things That Piss Me Off

Yeah, I said it.

I’ve always had a penchant for sending crazy emails. Random, empty can in my 12-pack of Sunkist? Email to the manufacturer. Typo on a menu? Email to the restaurant.  I enjoy the smell of your new line of deodorants? Email to Degree.

But now that there are children involved, my electronic correspondence is getting nasty. Since becoming a mother, I’ve become shameless. Hormonal, even, to the point of employing ALL CAPS the angrier I get.

The story:

While I was pregnant, I registered for this baby monitor. I’m really not sure why. The two-monitors thing kind of turned me on, me daydreaming that I’d be out in the yard gardening while Chris re-tiled the pool and the babies slept peacefully for six or seven hours at a time. You know, because babies don’t cramp your style or anything. And because having twins would magically motivate the two laziest people on the planet to become DIYers.

Anyhow, after the girls were born, they slept in their bassinet next to our bed for the first four months so we didn’t use the monitor. When Althea started to roll over, she also started smashing Elise and waking her up, so we moved them to their own cribs in their room. This is when we finally tried out the baby monitor. It worked for exactly one night before the damned thing stopped transmitting a signal.

Because it’d been so long since we purchased it, Babies R Us wouldn’t take it back. I had to contact Fisher-Price directly. The half-wit on the phone convinced me that I needed to unscrew the back of the receiver piece, even after I insisted it was the transmitter piece that was broken. After I destroyed the receiver trying to follower her instructions, the company sent me a new receiver.

But I still had a broken monitor. Because the f’n TRANSMITTER was broken, lady. Ugh.

Keep in mind that this entire time, I’d been sleeping in the girls’ room on the spare bed because we didn’t have a monitor.

Anyway.

Once the new piece arrived, I promptly called the customer support line again. This person listened to me and agreed to send a voucher for a new monitor in the mail once I mailed back the faulty monitor. Cool. Except for the part that I had to pay for the shipping costs to mail back a piece of shit monitor that they manufactured.

Dammit.

I waited more than two weeks. No voucher. This is when the nasty emails began. Note the use of ALL CAPS GODDAMMIT to convey my anger.

From: Me
To: Fisher-Price

Hello -

I mailed the monitor to you over two weeks ago and still have not received a voucher. I’m really getting frustrated with your company and lack of attention to a faulty product. I haven’t been able to sleep in my own bed for weeks because of this. Now that I’m looking around the house, EVERYTHING that we have for our twins that has broken has been Fisher-Price. I will NEVER buy anything of yours again and will warn fellow parents to not purchase from Fisher-Price either.

Please inform me of the status of my voucher. I’m angry that I’m being forced to purchase another one of your products.

***

From: Fisher-Price
To: Me

Thank you for contacting Mattel regarding your Private Dual Monitor.  We apologize for any disappointment or concern this may have caused and thank you for bringing this matter to our attention.

We have attached a traceable United States Postal Service mailing label for the return of your item.  You will need to pay the appropriate postage for your package when you take it to the post office.  It’s important that you request and retain an insurance receipt for protection against loss during transit.

Our mailing label has been sent in PDF format, which can be viewed using Adobe Acrobat.  If you do not have Adobe Acrobat, you can download it for free at the Adobe website, http://www.adobe.com/.

Please return your Private Dual Monitor to us within 30 days.  Upon receipt of your returned package, a voucher in the amount of $56.00 will be sent within 4 to 6 weeks.  If your product is still within the service policy and if the purchase price is more than this amount, it is necessary to include your original sales receipt showing the retail store name, the product name, the purchase price and date.

We appreciate this opportunity to assist you.

Sincerely,

Mattel, Inc.
Consumer Relations

***

From: Me
To: Fisher-Price

Today, I received the voucher you sent. The problem now is that the monitor we bought cost $64.99 and you sent a voucher for $56.

I cannot even begin to tell you how FURIOUS I am with Mattel/Fisher-Price. I demand that you send a voucher that will cover the FULL price of the monitor, including taxes. I can’t believe I’m even having to ask for you to pay for a defective product that your company made. On top of all of this, you made me pay for shipping to send the monitor back to you! Unbelievable!

Florida state sales tax is 7% for a total of $4.55, bringing the cost of the monitor to 69.54. Please send a voucher for the remaining amount immediately.

***

From: Fisher-Price
To: Me

Thank you for contacting Fisher-Price. We appreciate the opportunity to respond.

Under separate cover, we are sending an additional $14.00 voucher, for the difference in the cost you paid for your item.  We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.

We appreciate the time you took to check with us.  If you have any questions or concerns in the future, please feel free to call us at 800-432-5437, Monday – Friday, 9:00 am – 7:00 pm, ET, and Saturday, 11:00 am to 5:00 pm, ET.

Sincerely,
Mattel Consumer Relations

***

So we went back to Babies R Us and got another of the same damned monitor! But I sure fooled Fisher-Price. I had a coupon that made my monitor much cheaper. This allowed me to use the vouchers for more Fisher-Price products, so we bought toys! There was a $16 overage that I had to pay in the end, but . . .

Wait.

Dammit.

They won again.

I fit into my old size six pants.

Okay, so “fitting” is a stretch. However, I can stuff my multi-layered ass into the pants and zip them up without splitting any seams or breaking any buttons. 

Okay, so I only tried one particular pair of size sixes.

And I didn’t dare bend or sit.

There was muffin top involved.

BUT.

I got them on, goddammit. And that counts for something.

I think I’m about seven pounds away from comfortably fitting into some of my old pants, and realistically I’m 12 pounds away from being in the neighborhood of my pre-pregnancy weight.

I really don’t try hard enough, though. I do work out four to five days a week. I even started doing a pseudo-jog thing while pushing the girls in a totally non-jogging stroller.

(You must understand that I am not a runner. I am not athletic. I don’t “do” exercise in the way that some people “do” exercise. But I do it because I have to and ultimately my ass heart thanks me for it.)

But I don’t consistently watch what I eat. I have ice cream every single night in serving sizes that defy any caloric quantification, which I stuff into a tiny ramekin because it makes me believe that I’m eating less than I actually am. I eat bacon, mayonnaise and cheese, but insist on buying 1% milk and pouring it over mulch-in-a-bowl cereal for breakfast. As I type this, I have splatters of oil all over my shirt from tonight’s dinner — something called “chicken-fried chicken,” which I prepared with homemade buttermilk ranch dressing. 

And served it over organic spring salad greens.

I used to eat like shit. But I’d only eat, like, four bites of shit. I just can’t do that anymore, not now that I’m trying to, you know, nourish two babies and all.

Sigh.

As I run errands at Burlington and Kohl’s and Target, I’ve started eyeballing bathing suits too. Not bikinis, mind you, because although my stomach is less scary than I thought it would look, it’s still not ready for its beach debut. No, this year will be the Year of the Tankini. And boy, those things are uuugggglyyyyy. The patterns are horrifying. And breast support? Nada! My boobs look like lactating pancakes underneath swaths of Lycra-psychedelic-grandma prints. Since I’ve never had boobs before in my life, I’m not sure if this is normal.

(Here’s a visual for you: Hold up a flip-flop to your breast area. That’s what my boobs will look like after I stop breast feeding.)

Anyhow, what I’m finding interesting about this whole post-partum body experience (which is not unlike an out-of-body experience) is that, while I have every right to be — nay, I should be self-conscious about what has happened to my body, I just kind of don’t. I have brazenly stripped off my shirt and pumped or breastfed in front of friends and family, knowing full well that they see my bizarre-o stomach shape and stretch marks, but I just haven’t cared enough to be modest. It’s almost as though I defy anyone to say shit to me because if I can carry 13 pounds of people in my uterus, I pretty much have the right to throttle anyone who dares say anything about my body.

After one week of staying at home with the babies, I feel, in (mostly) no particular order . . .

Guilt. I think this has been my overarching emotion this week, creeping up unexpectedly throughout the day. The first couple of days were the worst. I cleaned, did laundry, made mental to-do lists, over-played with the girls, searched for jobs.

After just two days, I broke down to Chris about my feelings of guilt. I felt — no, feel – horrible about not bringing in money. It makes me feel useless and guilty, like I’m not contributing in any significant or tangible way to the house. And frankly, when it comes down to it, I’m not. Is it great that I get to stay home? Uh, YES. Is it helpful? In a practical sense, not really. Without income, there’s no house to come home to.

Fear. Maybe paralyzing terror is more like it. I just realized that there are only a couple more paychecks coming in during the next month, and then we’re kaput on my end. Scary.

Separately, there’s the very physical fear of being home alone and vulnerable. What would I do if someone busted down the door — and I was nursing? What would happen if I took the girls out on a walk and some maniac attacked us at the lonely end of the park? What if we went out to run errands and I got in a car accident?

Loneliness. Toward the end of the week, I really just started feeling lonely. The girls are wonderful and amazing and beautiful, but having that many one-sided conversations with two infants can start to weigh on a body. I can see how so many women just become insulated in their homes. You feel lonely, you start to get paranoid, so you stay inside with the doors locked and chained. Plus, the thought of getting presentable for the public and packing up two babies just seems overwhelming.

Disbelief. I can’t believe I’m actually a stay-at-home mom. It feels like maternity leave again, except a lot harder.

Also, and honestly, I can’t even believe I feel this way at all. All of these conflicting emotions. The almost-painful love and tenderness I feel toward my babies. I never liked kids, really. And now I feel this way? To the point of quitting my job? I just can’t believe it.

Gratitude. Toward my husband, who is eternally supportive and optimistic. Thank you. I remind myself constantly of the women who would love more than anything to be able to stay home with their babies.

Toward my mom, whose feedback has been nothing short of amazing.

Relief. I have these horrible flashbacks of the look on Elise’s face when I left them that one day at daycare — that look on that innocent, wide-eyed face. “Ama, where are you going?” I left her there in that too-small swing with those indifferent strangers. My eyes were blinded with tears. My heart broke — no, ripped, burned and withered. That look. Good god, I’ll never forget that look on her face. If only to never see that unknowing look again, I would live under a bridge if I had to.

Finally. Finally. I don’t have to worry about who is taking care of my babies and how.

Opening up a can of worms here . . .

The girls had their four-ish month appointment last Tuesday. Doing well, growing steadily along the 25th-ish percentile. Elise is at 12 lb 12 oz, Althea’s at 12 lb 9 oz (both gained exactly 1 lb 3 oz each since their last appointment last month). Etc. Because we thought we were doing daycare, I had to get a regular round of shots this time, whereas we’d been staggering their shot schedule to not do more than two at once previously. 

And the shit hits the fan. 

The day of the shots isn’t bad, really. It’s the weeks after that scare me. Since this last round of shots, Althea has been a royal pain. Crying. Whining. Complaining. Unhappy. She arches her back violently, rolls all over the place, complains incessantly. Her previously stable sleep schedule has all gone to shit. Two of her three daily naps are sucking.

Elise, on the other hand, is sleeping more than ever. A two-hour nap is now easily three or more hours if we let her. She’s happy enough, at least. Both girls are back to being up multiple times at night, where they used to wake up just once.

The same thing happened for about two weeks after the last round of shots, too. I chalked it up to their four-month growth spurt, but now I’m wondering. And worrying.

I had this conversation with a friend this weekend. We both raised the same suspicion that there’s something rotten in the pharmaceutical industry. I recently heard a pediatrician say that we’re lucky anyone even makes vaccines because there’s no money in them. I find that incredibly hard to believe.

The whole thing scares the hell out of me. So I want to know, dear readers (I know I have more than two, c’mon guys): What are your opinions? Go ahead, cite research, give me anecdotes, spill your shit. I don’t have the answers, but I know what I’m seeing and I don’t like it.

As a new mom, and a mom of multiples no less, I am shocked…SHOCKED!…at the idiotic remarks people make. So, here’s my list of Things That Are Currently Pissing Me Off:

• “Oh, a boy and a girl!” sometimes with the more-polite interrogatory inflection of “Oh, boy and a girl?” Okay. I understand that most babies are pretty ambiguous when it comes to their exterior gender markers (unless they’re naked…and even then, some things could be suspect). But 80% of the time that we’re out with the girls, people pull out the “oh-a-boy-and-a-girl” remark. Come on, people. Just TRY to look at the babies before you say something stupid, will ya? I will do many things to scar my children’s psyches, but dressing a boy in girl’s clothing is not one of them. This is currently my #1 cringe-inducing comment. (In case you’re wondering, Elise is my “son.” And no, we didn’t circumcise.)
• “You’ve got your hands full”;”Better you than me”;”You poor thing”, etc. Parents of multiples have an arsenal of retorts to comments like these – “Better full than empty!” “I’m glad it’s me and not you, too.” Believe it or not, having multiples is not a reason to pity us. It’s a freakin’ blessing, folks. A goddamned miracle. We don’t need pity. (I do, however, need a good part-time babysitter, so if you want to make yourself useful, get to work.)
• “How much weight did you gain?” I was in Publix, pushing my bad-ass double Snap-n-Go toward the lettuce, when I was stopped by a couple of nice ladies. After the usual “Boy and a girl?” “How much did they weigh?” “Do twins run in your family?” nonsense, one of the ladies turned to me and asked, without flinching, “How much weight did you gain?” Um. Stop the presses, people. Since when is it EVER okay to ask a woman about her weight? Your inappropriate curiosity doesn’t turn me into your fucking court jester. I’m not here to amuse you. (I gained 60 pounds, okay? You happy now?)
• “Oh, twins! So, do you watch that show? The one on cable with all the kids? Kate Plus Eight?” Why, yes! Yes, I do LOVE that show. It’s such an inspiration! Next time I get pregnant, I’m going to try for sextuplets! Let’s get something straight: NO. I do not watch that effing show on cable! And it’s “Jon and Kate Plus Eight,” so if you’re going to ask a lame question like that, at least get the title right. (So maybe I’ve seen the show a few times, but it was only to affirm that I indeed hate it and that wretched woman with that sorry excuse of a man. Okay, that was unfair of me to say. Having eight kids is bound to turn anyone a little sour.)
• “I had my kids x-number-of-months apart, so it’s just like having twins.” No. It’s not. You have no clue what you’re talking about. Did two babies emerge from your vagina at the same time? Did you breast- or bottle-feed them both at the same time? Did you ever get stopped by 79 people on your way to the goddamned pickles so that germ-infested strangers could ogle at your children? No? Then it’s NOT just like having twins.
• “Make sure you wipe front to back,” and other strange baby care reminders. On our first retail outing with the girls to Babies R Us, another set of parents of twins was in the store. After exchanging stories and pleasantries, the mom actually said to us in all seriousness, “Remember to wipe front to back!” I could not believe that a WOMAN had just said this to ANOTHER WOMAN in reference to changing a GIRL’S diaper. I was in a slight sleep-deprived stupor at the time, but I threw back something along the lines of, “Yeah, I know that from having my own vagina.”
• “I’m a twin,” “My mom’s a twin,” “My uncle’s best friend’s neighbor is a twin.” Um. Congratulations? I do understand the desire to connect with other twins, but it’s getting old.
• People who go out of their way to ogle my babies. On our almost-daily walk yesterday, a woman actually pulled her car over to look at the babies. And you know what she said when she stopped? You guessed it: “I’m a twin!” Insert the sound of me blowing my brains out here.