“I’ll have that for you right away” and other dumb stuff I say

Husband and I both work from home. He’s physically in the office three days a week, and I am physically in the classroom three hours a week, but for the remainder of the time for him, and about 20 hours a week for me, we’re laboring over our laptops at home. Of course, he works during normal business hours, while Little Girl and I go to storytime and put away the laundry and whatnot, and I generally toil away from bedtime (8 PM) until, occasionally, the early morning.

That totally sucks, by the way. Since Little Girl doesn’t nap, that means I don’t get that much-vaunted “break” during the day, and then I don’t really have any free time at night, because even when I cut myself some slack on my research job, I really ought to be preparing for my class, the curriculum for which is entirely new and up to me. I am often pretty tired, too.

Work is even busier for me right now (both jobs) as I’ve been asked to create and present an in-service to the other instructors on, basically, how to be as totally awesome an ESL instructor as I am. This comes as a result of my recent teaching observation, and is of course wonderful and flattering, but is a whole extra bunch of work and stressful to boot.

And things with my research job are basically fine, but right now there’s a joke about my doing “participatory research” into the use of a newly-popular mind-altering substance among the VPs (all I said was maybe we should add it to our list of substances youths abuse if it’s common enough even I’ve heard of it!), and plus I’m having to hammer out this contract with this really problematic vendor we have to use for stupid political reasons, and I also realized that I really ought to be higher up on the totem pole, job title- and compensation-wise, so I’m gearing up for my arguments on these points in my upcoming performance review.

So with all this my work is spilling into my days, which equals Little Girl in front of the television, because no other method of keeping her quiet during conference calls or careful parsing of phrases in important emails works as well. And that’s the exact opposite of how I want work to fit into my life. I want it to be this thing I do she knows nothing about, that affects her in no way, while nevertheless affording me monetary and self-esteem gains as well as an increased feeling of security and progress and, well, fulfillment in my professional and intellectual lives. I want to be an attentive full-time mother but also something of a career woman. Keep dreaming, Antropóloga.

Recipe

1 vague geocaching intent
0 geocaching experience
0 geocaching plan
1 fussy three-year-old
2 lazy dogs
0 strollers
0 containers of water
0 snacks
0 maps
and…
1 faulty motherfucking GPS device

This post writes itself, right? You can probably even infer the huge fight in the middle of nowhere after wandering around for two hours and arriving absolutely nowhere.

There’s a happy ending: Husband can run really fast, so he finally went and got the car so we didn’t have to drag ourselves all the way back, and then later we used his cell phone, which has GPS that actually functions, to, uh, drive to the spot, two miles away.

We spent all day downtown

Little Girl today noticed our dog, Loki’s, penis. This has only served to heighten her recent desire to discuss genitalia and who has what. And why. She’s in that phase where she wants to know the whys and wherefores of everything.

–Loki has a penis, why?
–He’s a boy. Just like Daddy!
–He’s a boy, why?
–Some people are boys and some are girls. Girls have vulvas and boys have penises.
–Why some people are boys and some people are girls?
–Because we need some to be girls and some to be boys.
–Why we need that?
Uh…

And so forth. This usually continues until I use some phrase with which she is unfamiliar, like “Because that’s the social norm!” (that was about leg shaving) and she has to stop and think about it for a minute. I do try to give her real, comprehensible answers as much as I can, and encourage her inquisitiveness, but it isn’t always easy.

At any rate today’s main topic was about everyone’s equipment. She’s been getting the various elements and purposes of her own personal anatomy straight in her head, and her interest extends to those around her.

–I need to see Loki’s penis some more. Where he put it?
–Well, Loki likes to keep that private. So we don’t look at it a lot. It’s just for him. Just like your vulva is just for you. It’s private.
–It’s private, why?

She sees her father and me naked a fair amount; typically after we swim in the ocean, or at any rate wear our bathing suits at the beach (which, yes, the week before Halloween we were able to do, despite my recent dithering about The End of Summer for All Eternity), we all shower together. She has no interest in her father’s personal area except insofar as it relates to his getting to stand to pee, which she considers the height of awesomeness, and is something she frequently mimics. “I Little Daddy! I pee pee standing up!”

And tonight was her pièce de résistance. She managed to straddle her little potty, facing the wall, and really and truly pee standing up like daddy. I’ve never seen such joy. We were very proud. What a talented and curious little girl!

I’m not a woman, and she’s not my daughter

Three years in and I’m as yet unable to refer to Little Girl as my daughter. I can say, “my kid,” “my little girl,” or her name, but absolutely not “my daughter.” I am somewhat taken aback when other people call her my daughter. Of course she is, but…do they have to use that word?

And in what I think is the same vein, it weirds me out if someone refers to me as a woman. Sure, I’m female, but “lady” or “[Little Girl's name]’s mommy” or [Husband's name]’s wife” or my name are all much less discomfiting. Actually the wife thing may be a little alarming, too. Can I just be me?

Normally with a post like this I’d do some self-analysis and come to some conclusions, but really I can’t quite figure out why I have aversions to these perfectly common, perfectly accurate terms. And it’s not really a problem, just a quirk. I don’t, like, correct people who use them. But I wonder. Are the words perhaps too generic for me? Too grown-up? Threatening in some way? Do they refer to someone else in my head? Am I having identity problems? Am I a goofball?

Troublesome

It makes sense, of course. We’ve had a hard year. Husband’s had lots of work worries; I got pregnant to mixed feelings; we realized we had to move out of our neighborhood, newly plagued by crime; I had a lengthy, expensive, painful miscarriage; we sold/gave away many of our belongings and had the rest packed away; we moved; we sold our house and lost a shitload of money; we’re in limbo until the next move; Husband is gone more than half the time for work.

So I’m not surprised that Husband and I are, let’s say, less than delighted with each other these days. We’re having a hard time getting along, being friends, liking each other. Usually my prescription for this kind of situation is more sex, but like I said, he’s gone a lot, and the master bed here in the beach house has this weird bed frame where the headboard is a shelf with all these knick knacks on it and, well, it just makes things ungodly loud. Plus I am all freaked out about getting pregnant again which is also an enthusiasm-damper.

I’m sure any couple in this situation would be testy. I hope once we’re settled in Sweden–and perhaps after his parents, with whom we’ll be living for a while, move out–we’ll get back into some normal relationship mode, that’s not only switched on the four days of the week, max, we see each other. We’ll feel like a team instead of the combatants we sometimes find ourselves these days. And it’s not all bad, now. Today we’re buddies.

It’s just that sometimes, horrifyingly, I’m content to see him leave, and I don’t miss him when he’s gone.

Of course I called him in the end

I received some important mail today. My passport came back from the Swedish embassy and in it is a VERY fancy sticker, all in Swedish. I had no idea what it said so I googled some of the bigger words and…it looks like my Swedish residency permit, a permanent one, has arrived! This is really fast, people. It’s supposed to take half a year to ten months, and it took just two.

I’m not gonna lie: I thought about, uh, not mentioning it to Husband right away. Because now it’s here, we have no major obstacles to moving.

Sure, there are the unbelievably complicated requirements for our pets to complete, rules I’ve studied for hours and still don’t quite understand, though I have determined that we need to take our pets to a special vet, three hours away, for a special microchipping, and then have special bloodwork samples sent to a special lab in Kansas, and that’s only the beginning. And Husband is having trouble finding jobs to apply to, not so much because they’re in short supply, but because all the ones in his field require lots of travel, something we’d all rather he’d avoid, having had our fill of it: it’s not good for Little Girl and it’s not good for our relationship. (And excuse me if I don’t feel like moving to a foreign country where I don’t speak the language and then having Husband traipse freely around Europe and I have to figure everything out all by myself). And we were hoping to go after the bathroom renovations were finished there, and to arrive not too long before our stuff, which will take six weeks to ship.

But basically the move could, potentially, be only a matter of weeks away. We won’t do it that soon–for one thing, I have a teaching contract through very early December to complete–but it’ll probably be earlier than I’d imagined, and during the middle of winter. As with selling the house, though I’d purposefully and mindfully set all this in motion, the reality of it is freaking me out a bit. I’m moving to Sweden, you guys! Ack!

Which isn’t to say I’m recommending it

I have a cold. It sucks. I’ve been in bed a lot. And I’ve realized that much of the time when sleeping my hand is up by my mouth. Specifically, my thumb is near my lips. I’m guessing this might be a comfort holdover from back when I sucked my thumb before my grandparents put quinine on it and got me to stop. I sucked my thumb last night to see if it still had the magical happy-making powers for me it has for Little Girl (though we’ve gotten her to do it a bit less all-consumingly often), and the experiment was distracting rather than soothing. Anyway, back to bed. I’m just happy I had the good sense to get sick on the weekend when Husband is here to keep Little Girl busy so I can stay in bed and read! When that’s the case, illness is almost like a vacation.

Homefront

We’ve come to visit my hometown for a few days. I like to try to visit pretty regularly–it’s only a few hours away–and plus I was getting pretty lonely with Husband gone for basically a month straight. And since soon enough I’ll be very far from my family, and my grandparents are in poor health, I try to see them since I can.

But while I know my mom likes us to come, and my stepfather seems to, despite the fact that this time I brought every last one of our pets (though we’re down from a high of seven to merely three), and my grandfather does as well, the visits are not actually that enjoyable for my grandmother.

Her Alzheimer’s advances apace, and she’s now wheelchair-bound when she leaves the house (for restaurants and doctors’ visits) as she can barely walk, and she’s starting to mix up fantasy and reality. Recently when watching an old Western (the TV is always, always on there), my grandmother began to weep because she thought that my grandfather had had a baby with an Indian princess in the film. I’ve sat with her while she thumbed fumblingly through a magazine which she started to see as an old scrapbook, and she kept trying to connect the images–ads featuring bananas, pictures of people riding bikes–with events from her past. And the fact was that she had turned to that magazine rather than talk to me, sitting right there, ready to visit with her, since holding a conversation can just be too taxing for her.

And sweet-faced Little Girl is pretty overwhelming. My grandmother will get peevish about some little, innocently little kid thing she is doing–pretending her fork is an airplane, examining a small, pre-existing rip in her placemat–and scold her and try to wrestle the item away from her. Little Girl requires rationalizations for these kind of interventions, and doesn’t understand why she’s getting on her case. She’s learning that she just has to do whatever my grandmother says when she’s worked up, even if it doesn’t seem fair or reasonable. My grandmother simply can’t be reasonable anymore, after all. When they enjoy each other, it’s brief and simple, as when they’re playing with stuffed animals, or clapping along to the fight song from the state university’s football team as sung by an animated plush bulldog, or Little Girl climbs up on her knees for a hug. So we keep visiting, looking for those moments.

Not to mention that being at my mom’s means I don’t have to come up with any meals.

Tears

You know sometimes, you read a post, and the comments are all, “you brought me to tears, that was so ___” and I always figured that for hyperbole, maybe a figure of speech. But then I read something about how women on average spend 2.5 hours a week crying, and wondered. Is crying really that common? I was pretty hysterical when I realized my cat, Tang, who just died, was so sick, and I had cried a bit (maybe about ten minutes?) the night before the surgery for my miscarriage.

In fact, I can tell you about every time I’ve cried at least since getting married: when my rabbit was killed; a bunch of times during all the infertility stuff; the newborn phase, mostly for breastfeeding reasons; and weaning. That’s it. Evidently, compared to most people, that’s not a lot.

I understand each tear contains the hormones related to the emotional upset, and shedding them releases your emotional burden (I’m glad this is a blog and I don’t have to find a citation for this assertion–but I read it somewhere respectable enough). It’s possible I just don’t get as emotional about things as others, but more likely that I’m just not showing it. I’ve had enough therapy to realize that it all stems from my problems with my mother. With her, my way to assert myself was nonchalance. Whatever, mom, it doesn’t matter what you say. I was all about the sangfroid.

Husband can’t stand this about me. When we’re arguing and I’m being condescending about his upsetness instead of being hurt myself, he thinks it means I don’t care about whatever the topic is, or his feelings. That’s not true, but I also can’t let myself show any vulnerability. The way I was raised, showing your feelings was the quickest way to get them pummeled further. So now, for the most part, I do sadness as anger, and injured feelings as brittleness.

I’m trying to teach Little Girl it’s okay to be sad, but I know actions speak louder than words. Maybe her father–who is never afraid to show his feelings–will be her guide there.

Sometimes daddies are too far away

The season is winding down and so this week was the locally famous children’s singer’s last. The shows start at 8 PM, way too late normally, but I made a bedtime exception this week for Little Girl. The stage was a semi-circular platform underneath an ancient oak, and children sat cross-legged there with the parents on benches down a few stairs from the stage. Little Girl isn’t the type to separate from mommy easily, but she got into the music (when she wasn’t digging in the sand at my feet) and got up on stage (still facing me), pinwheeling her arms in her own self-taught dancing style, occasionally attempting splits and somersaults. (She later got several compliments on her moves.)

The singer has been working this gig for more than thirty years and it really showed. He was full of snarky comments about the posters the children had made, their endless delight in the ABC song, their regional accents. He made a lot of jokes about beatings and spankings. I’m not saying he wasn’t funny–to adults–or that the children didn’t enjoy the songs, but his attitude was weirdly off. It wasn’t really a patter that I’d want Little Girl much exposed to.

Or maybe the bad taste left in my mouth after the performance resulted from another Bad Tourist Parent episode. While most of the little kids dutifully sat and watched, another young girl, like mine, felt compelled to move to the music. She was pretty independent-minded and wandered the stage a bit in her pretty pink dress and pigtails (and occasionally the singer would show his irritation with her through some sarcastic remark about ADHD), and at one point moved towards the pretty blinking lights of his sound system. He turned and yelled, “Don’t you touch that!” and went back to his song.

This little girl reacted just like my own would when spoken to so sharply by a stranger and she froze, stuck out her lip, covered her face in her hands, and started sobbing. The crowd waited and soon started murmuring, “Where’s her mommy?” while looking around, watching for someone to come up and rescue her. No one came. I couldn’t take it anymore–it was heartbreaking, and it was just as if it were Little Girl were up there. I was close, so I popped up, lifted her, and brought her back to my bench on my lap where Little Girl waited.

“We’ll find your mommy, it’s okay,” I told her, as I continued to look around for the girl’s caregivers. Another lady beside me said she thought she’d seen the parents earlier in the evening and she looked about, too, but still no one was coming to fetch the scared toddler. The poor pigtailed thing started to ask for her mommy, and just when I was about to carry her to find a police officer, a pissed-looking guy came up, put his arms out for her, and said, “You didn’t have to go get her.” But I did. I couldn’t let that poor dear be scared and humiliated all alone on the stage when her parents obviously weren’t coming anytime soon. Where had he been, anyway? The bar?

So I’ll be glad when the tourist season is sewn up, though it’ll mean the end of The Perpetual Beach Vacation, and that, for company, we’ll be left just with the retirees. I overheard the dullest conversation between two of them today wherein the old guy detailed what yard work he had done that morning, in what way, with what equipment, for how long, and then moved on to what he would have done had the rain not started, and where he likes to buy his gardening supplies, and how he knows what to select, and how he decides to–OMIGOD I felt so sorry for his date, who sadly, and mutely, was probably just happy to have the attention of one of the few men available in her age bracket.

Speaking of men, Husband hasn’t even been gone half of the two weeks of this current trip, and Little Girl is already kind of a wreck about his absence. “I’m sad about my Daddy,” she tells me, and strangers (I can’t imagine what they make of that), often. “I want my Daddy come home.”

Unbalanced

When Husband is abroad for weeks at a time, I frequently get emails like, “Place sucks, everyone is an idiot,” followed by phone talks that consist largely of his venting about his unhappiness about his work. Meanwhile I am torn between sharing what we’re up to with not wanting to make him jealous (e.g. “We went to the playground and then rode the free trolley around and then did some window shopping and then danced to some live music and then fed the turtles under the bridge and then walked on the beach with the dogs, and that was all after 5 PM!).

Everyone he’s surrounded by is really into this macho work-is-everything attitude that’s anathema to Husband. I mean, he’s brilliant and hardworking at what he does, but at the end of the day he wants to put it aside, go home at a reasonable hour, and be with me and Little Girl (if he’s here), or take some pictures, or play on the internet, whatever. But whenever he’s not working at home, and particularly when he and his co-workers are all in Europe, he has to put in 12-hour days and then several more each evening at bars, at restaurants, hanging around with these men, most of whom he not only is tired of seeing all the time but doesn’t even like to begin with. This evening (his time) he had to go out with the big wigs, despite plans he was excited about to photograph an abandoned mine, where they boasted about all the birthdays of their children they’d missed, made fun of the mere 38-hour work weeks of the staff there, and shared wisdom like, “You can always get another wife, but you can’t get a new career.”

Being the main money-maker around here, Husband just has to put up with that crap for now. But I’m not sure what he’s more excited about with regards to relocating: being closer to his family, or having an excuse to quit his job.

Since last we spoke

Hey! We’ve been busy. Sometimes when you leave it too long so much happens and then it feels impossible to parse it all. I’m sure you know what I mean. Here are the salient details:

The trip back to where we just moved from was mostly successful. The resort relaxing, the friends entertaining. We did not close on the house, however. Somebody screwed up the paperwork. But we signed power of attorney over to the realtor on this matter so when it’s ready to close–by the end of August if people can find time to do their jobs–we won’t have to go back, since it’s a long trip and anyway Husband is in Belgium until Labor Day.

The Swedish Embassy is moving extremely quickly with my application for residency. They contacted us with two questions: Where will we live? What will Husband do for work? (I have to say I am peeved that no one seemed interested in my career plans.) We were also told that an interview would be unlikely, given the length of our marriage. Husband of course finds this rapidity to be a relief; for my part, as the move gets more and more imminent, I feel a mixture of regret about leaving the US and excitement about the new adventure.

Our dogs were very, very bad for our pet sitter, the fourteen-year-old girl across the street whom I’d engaged to walk them when we were gone. They escaped from the kitchen one night, ate the litter box, became ill, and shat in various rooms of the house on fine needlepoint throw rugs. They even managed to stain the hardwood floors. And while we were gone my mother decided to come to town–thank goodness we’d cleaned the house and done the yard before leaving town–and she and the handyman, who was around trying to fix the roof leak, couldn’t get the dogs to stay penned up either as there was a thunderstorm and apparently there was this chaotic scene where the dogs kept eluding them, escaping out either end of the galley kitchen, vomiting intermittently. Goodness.

Pudding has been mourning her dead brother. In the middle of the night, she cries and yowls in the dark living room. I go pick her up and bring her to bed with us and pet her until she relaxes enough to rest. It’s beyond sad. She’s been talking a lot in general, partly because, as I’d promised Tang on his deathbed I’d give Pudding salmon, she’s now quite keen to have wet food every evening, and also because she’s always been a talker, and now she has serious questions for me.

Now that summer’s almost done, about which I am rather broken up, I finally learned that we could have been using the three community pools around here all this time. The jellyfish are out now and I looked into getting a pool pass for a few weeks when I discovered that was unnecessary. So now we get to do truly awesome things like play in a large, nearly empty pool with old oaks overhanging, listening to restaurants’ live music, where Little Girl swims like an otter (she can really move underwater; the only thing she can’t do is not drown, i.e. come back up to breathe, so usually I have her in a vest), and then we can hop in the car or on the bike and go to the ocean for a romp in the waves.

Oh, and Little Girl turned three!