Archive | May 2011

Useless fertility information

And to think I gave up coffee while I was doing IVF.  My eggs didn’t have to go down a  silly fallopian tube, they were right there in a petri dish!    It’s a good thing I like so much coffee NOW, it’s practically contraception!

And speaking of eggs, did you know that there was a number that could INCREASE your odd of a live birth?

Just what women need, more bits of useless  and contradictory information to hang onto for hope.

The Politics of Sleeping

To sleep or not to sleep.  With a toddler in the house.  Oh. Mi.God. What the heck is going on?

These days the Precious is sleeping all night through.  It’s a recent development.  Never on my watch of course.  Friday night, I stay up late cause yahoo it’s my turn to sleep in on Saturday.  By Fridays, I’m tired, my back is aching from wrangling him and the dog.  I force myself to stay up late on principle.  Of course he sleeps all night but rouses at 6am.  Hubby decides to let him keep making noise in hopes he’ll settle.  Instead of trying a bit of formula.  So of course, the kid keeps it up, you can hear him whipping his toys out the crib.  DH FINALLY gets up 45 minutes later, and they go downstairs.  I doze a bit before the shrieking fun time wakes me up for good.  Grrr.  Sigh.  It’s overcast after a couple of wonderful sunny days, so I’m a little bitter.  Okay, I’m very bitter.

Next night, he sleeps through again.  Ah, heaven. We’re both exhausted and sleeping happily.  Until 7 am when the phone rings.  My mind reasons that it can’t be about my mother, they would call my cell, so I refuse to move.  The phone rings again and hubby gets it.  It’s never good news, is it?   It’s from my frantic sister who is completely stressed out over the latest chapter of hell in her life.  I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say there were tears.  (Everything is better now, don’t worry.) Ah, let’s move on to coffee.  Which is too weak to cheer me up physically.

Now let me remind you I’ve been taken to task that I don’t let him start the day before 7am ever.  Cause I’m a selfish bitch for wanting to have a cup of coffee and read my emails in peace and make it through the day without snapping.  It’s not a secret that  I hate getting up early, but everybody’s day always goes smoother when he gets up later rather than at dawn.  If he gets up too early he won’t make it through his weekly little friends class or he’ll fall asleep while we’re walking the dog or doing errands in the morning.  So of course, because he’s been up early all weekend, getting him down in the afternoon has been very, very difficult.  He gets tired after hitting the ground like a whirling dervish, so he inevitably falls asleep (even if it’s only for 10 minutes in the stroller) a few hours later  and then recharges magically after you put him down for his afternoon nap.  No afternoon nap means I don’t a head start on dinner or eat lunch or do laundry or make phone calls or go to the bathroom by myself…..you get the picture.  Obviously, he won’t be able to make it to dinnertime/bathtime without a meltdown and bedtime will VERY early which GUARANTEES a 5am wake up  call or a 2am party.

This morning, unwilling to endure his 6am  shenanigans, I got up and got him some milk.  It didn’t work.  OH. NO.  He can no longer tolerate his teddies in his crib and pitches everything across the room and yanks the bedroom curtains into his bed and puts on the Riverdance show from what I’m hearing.

He’s been so tired by 8pm, he’s practically nodding off but as soon as DH gives him a bottle and puts him down, he proceeds to talk and babble and look out the window for over an hour and a half.  I’m thinking perhaps it’s the long days.  His drapes are heavy and his room is darkened, but not of course, when he pulls the drape off the rod or peeps out of the window. One of us goes back in his room and cuddles and coos to him, and he’s happy to chill out, but sleep?  Not so much. This can’t be the beginning of no naps, right?  He’s only 17 months old.  Please, tell me that.

This is why I make it a daily routine to go to the park or find some activity to run his little butt into the ground.  He can now walk home on his own steam from the park which is a ten minute brisk walk from where we live.  It takes 45 minutes on his schedule with frequent breaks for drumming on the sidewalk with twigs, but he can do it.

This little powerhouse is building his endurance.

I bought more Red Bull.

Fantasy life

Bloodsigns wrote this very evocative post. It made me think of the times growing up when I wished I was somebody else.

I remember when I was a kid, I had this fantasy that my family wasn’t really my family.  That one day, my real family, one with tons of money, would come rescue me from this pack of backward people.  We would have lovely meals (no more thin crappy pork chops, tough steak or chicken thighs)  at the table and we would talk and laugh at the dinner table.  They would really want to hear what delightful things I had to say.  I would be able to choose what I would wear to school every day and I would get stuff that I wanted at the mall. I’d have cool runners.   I would have my own room and watch TV in it all night long if I wanted.  They would help me with homework and I’d have ALL the encyclopedias in the alphabet. There’d be no yelling, screaming, crying or violence either. Especially that.

I also wondered what it would be like if I was white.  I was pretty sure my life would be better.  Like on the Brady Bunch.  First of all, I’d have long, flowing, silky hair.  Neither I or my sisters were blessed with “good” hair.  I would spend entire Saturdays in a hair salon with some crazy woman eating over my head and wielding a hot comb through my nappy hair and usually burning my ear.  I bet ya Buddha couldn’t have meditated his way through that.  Mother was always trying to find a new product to grease up our scalps so our hair would grow.    If I had long hair, I would be pretty and boys would be nicer to me.  I’d have more friends and therefore more sleepovers.  I would be invited to all the birthday parties.  If I was white, we would have better loot bags for our birthday parties.  And a real cake, not one of those things my mum made, but a white cake with perfect white frosting.  I’d have boyfriends and go on double dates and put Sun-In in my hair.  No one would follow me around in the stores assuming I was planning on shoplifting.

I was friends with this little blonde boy, his hair was almost white he was that blonde.  His mother had a birthday party and took us and his friends to the movies.  We watched a Charlie Chaplin movie and had popcorn and pop.  I was in heaven!  She talked to me, was so kind to me, I couldn’t believe an adult actually paid any attention to me at all.  I think she was European, Swedish or something, she had long, blonde hair.  One of the most amazing things was that they had lots of food in their fridge and something called yogurt.  I tried it, didn’t think much of it at all, but I really wanted to like it.  Once she even let me wear one of her snowsuits home when it started to snow.  I was pretty darn sure that happiness lived in that house with the huge fridge stocked with yogurt.  Years later, when it wasn’t cool for boys to hang out with girls anymore, and he pretty much ignored me, I heard his mum died.  I grieved in silence.  No one ever knew how much her kindness meant to me.  I still remember the boy’s name. I always wished I could have told her thanks for including me.

The “having nice things” part I didn’t associate with money or class per se, but skin colour.  I learned about class later.  When I was grown and went to Barbados on my own to visit relatives, mum told me that I should act better than anybody else and that people would respect me and the town boys wouldn’t bother me.  I tested out her theory.  Oddly, she was correct.  It’s a lesson I never forgot.  Not that I act that way anymore, but the second I feel that I’m out of my element and in hostile territory, that’s exactly what I do.   It works in those high end stores where you can’t even find the price tags and in high end hotels when you want a better room.  Odd, but true.  I suppose she felt that it added an extra layer of armour when your mere existence was not enough.

When I got older, I realized the advantages of class and privilege.  Most people I knew had to apply for jobs, no one had a family business to work in.  Not many of my friends had vehicles bought for them by their parents, or could afford a masters degree.  Nobody “hooked me up” with anything.  We didn’t have a cottage or go on family vacations  or go skiing.  I went to music camp once. that was a big deal and my mum had to beg my dad for the money for that one.   The viola I played in school belonged to the school.  It had to be returned.    If you wanted money for anything, you had to get a job.   Or go without it.  The only way I got to study acting in the States, was because my mother took out a bank loan.  I worked all summer waitressing and instead of getting the root canal I need to save a tooth, I opted to keep the money for school.  It was a one shot deal.

It’s odd for know my friend has medals from her equestrian days in high school.  She had ski equipment and exotic vacations and tons of fashionable clothes growing up. She had a joe job.  Once.  For the experience of it.   She’s always had fancy, new cars.  Not that her life was picture perfect,  but she’s never had to choose between one thing or another.  Never had a can of beans waiting for you in the cupboard or rolling pennies and bringing them into the bank in a bag.

I’m no longer envious of that kind of stuff, I just find it curious.  Like life on a foreign planet.  But I remember those days when I would stare out my window and wait for my “real” family to come get me.  I don’t think it’s the material things I missed so much, I just wanted to know what it was like to live without uncertainty and dread.