To quote Rick Perry, “Oops”
I missed a day of NaBloPoMo. I blame The Child Who Will Not Go the Fuck to Sleep.
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On time
I have spent nearly all day trying to finish one of my articles so my editor won’t regret hiring me, but a certain Boy Genius is making it difficult. First, and in spite of our patient explanations, he didn’t care for the time change and awoke at 5:20. Then he decided two short naps wasn’t enough and added a new one. At eight-WTF-o’clock.
Nap, you say. Well then Chelsey has time to write, doesn’t she. While he naps.
Yes. I thought so too. I opened my laptop, the document I’m working on, all nine sources I’m using, and wrote a paragraph. ONE WHOLE PARAGRAPH. And then the Boy Who Barely Slept awoke. This was repeated twice throughout the day. Otherwise, if I tried to work on it while he was playing with his toys, he’d invariably fall, or bonk his head, or try to do dental work on the dog who is generally quite long-suffering but has her limits.
This is why freelance writing and stay-at-home-motherhood are incompatible. If I had childcare or even a child who napped in long, solid blocks — which, I believe, are a myth visited upon us by sadistic writers of sleep-training manuals — then yeah, I’d be productive. As it is, I have to wait for a break, which comes in the evening when the husband gets home, but first we have dinner, and then I leave to write, but I have to be back within an hour and a half for Cranky Genius Bedtime (still nursing), and by the time the Bedtime Ordeal is over and the little Evil Genius is in bed, yea, asleep, well by then it’s almost eight o’clock and I’ve been up since five-something and the words go onto the page, but when I see them again in the light of the next day, I know there’s no way in hell my editor wants to see this linguistic concoction.
So that’s how the freelance thing is going.
Then it must be true
I was recently treated to an opinion on how “all Washington drivers are bad.”
Eh? All? sez I.
Yeah. All of ‘em, she clarified, failing to register the fact that I am a Washington driver.
Sometimes I wonder why I don’t have as many friends as other people. It’s probably because I quit listening to people like this.
On insurance
Because I work in education — moreover, in a grant-funded education program — my field is the first to take budget cuts and usually the last to see the money return, and take them we did this year. One-third of our funding went away, so my employer immediately began looking to cut the teaching loads of people who get benefits. That included me, and is why I quit teaching after this quarter (since I did not want to teach a reduced load for no benefits — childcare costs alone would nearly wipe out what income I would make). My (our) health insurance ends June 30; as such, I’ve been looking for individual health insurance, which
1. is fucking expensive;
2. has poor options (see also “fucking expensive”);
3. has enrollment periods, which are stringent for children.
Now, I get why enrollment periods exist: you don’t want people signing up when they get sick; you want them covered all the time. Fine. But when there’s a change of employment status, you’re supposed to be able to get insurance. Well, I can. But, oddly, my dependent cannot.
Why? In spite of my change in employment, I did not exhaust my COBRA benefits; so while I can buy a plan any time, he, because of his age, cannot. But I CAN’T AFFORD COBRA, in case the “change in employment status” was unclear. COBRA benefits would cost us almost $900/month. I wasn’t making much more than $900/month when I was employed.
But the good news is that I can either pay $900/month for COBRA until September 15, at which time I can reapply for an individual plan for him, or I can add him to my husband’s plan (for an equally ridiculous sum of money per month*), or I can buy a short-term policy for him, but it doesn’t cover the ONE THING that we need for sure: well-baby care. SERIOUSLY? THE ONE THING YOU DON’T COVER IS PREVENTIVE CARE? YOU KNOW, THE THING THAT HELPS PREVENT THE EXPENSIVE CARE?
Fuck you, insurance bureaucrats and actuaries. You make America worse.
*Employers don’t WANT you to have children or add them to your plan: it’s why my teaching load was reduced and why it costs a couple hundred bucks to add a kid to your plan.**
**Ironically, there seems to be a buy-one,-get-as-many-as-you-want-for-free–approach to adding kids to the plan: have one kid or eight — it all costs the same. Somehow, though, I don’t see that as a sign to have more kids…just another loophole in a Swiss-cheese–style industry.
And I quote: “Dear Sam Sample”
Background: I contacted Taco Bell, like, two months ago, and asked them to consider lowering the amount of salt in their products. I mean, I look forward to heart failure as much as the next American, but I do hate being thirsty for five hours after a single bean burrito. Well, apparently they don’t like “unsolicited ideas,” “suggestions,” or “idea submissions.” Like, y’know, feedback. On their product. Which is really salty food. Nor do they like to take the time to customize their templates.
This is the response I got, word for word:
Dear Chelsey
Dear Sam Sample,
On behalf of Taco Bell Corp. (¿Taco Bell¿), I want to thank you for taking the time to contact our Company. Because your communication contained within it a suggestion for either a product or advertising idea, we felt that is important that we clarify Taco Bell’s policy regarding accepting unsolicited ideas. As experience has proven that the practice of considering unsolicited ideas can give rise to misunderstandings as to the origin and ownership of such ideas, Taco Bell has adopted a general policy of not accepting unsolicited ideas and suggestions. Although we regularly receive many unsolicited ideas concerning our products, advertising and a wide range of other subjects, experience has shown that most of the unsolicited ideas we receive have already been considered or used by Taco Bell or its competitors. While we thank you for taking the time and effort to submit an idea or suggestion, in keeping with our Company’s policy of not accepting such ideas, we will be unable to pursue your idea submission.
Sincerely,
Guest Service RepresentativeSincerely
Raye S Taco Bell Customer Support
Mr. S. Taco Bell Customer Support, can I just say that you should win an award for shoddiest customer service? And by “shoddy” of course I mean nonexistent. Also you missed a couple important commas. Idiot.
Pain
It’s been almost 24 hours since I slipped on the ice heading to my swim class last night. Nothing dramatic — just enough to tweak my back bad enough to land me in bed/on the couch all day today with a heated pad, a snoozing bulldog on the floor beside me, and Veronica Mars on DVD. In these 24 hours I have contemplated (1) that I can handle pain, but (2) why the hell should I handle pain when pain relief is possible; (3) speaking of which, why does anyone buy Tylenol? it’s the most useless shit; and (4) I hope I don’t go into labor with back pain like this; hmm, also (5) if I don’t get a hospital suite with a jetted tub, so help me god I’ll walk to St. Mary’s and check in there instead, and if they’re full up, well, the Marcus Whitman’s honeymoon suite is only another couple blocks away.
39 weeks: Research isn’t just for writing
Yesterday I came across an online discussion about episiotomies,* one that culminated in me spending precious football time researching peer-reviewed journal articles about the procedure’s necessity and efficacy. This rabbit-holed into reviewing methods of natural labor induction and labor positions and techniques; by the end of the evening, I’d probably spent a good few hours on Academic Search Premier, something I wouldn’t've dreamed of doing back when I took research writing. It’s also something I wouldn’t've dreamed of doing when there’s football to be watched, but yesterday’s games roundly sucked and, well, it was actually kind of fun to learn stuff.
Anyway, when I returned to the forum to see how the episiotomy discussion had progressed, I discovered that these particular pregnant women were far more interested in the bandwagon approach to pregnancy decisions, and an immoderate number of women voiced their decision to avoid an episiotomy “at all costs” because they’d “heard it’s easier to heal if you tear naturally.”
Yeah, well, I hear that ninety percent of bad decisions are based on hearsay.
I don’t say this because episiotomies are a good idea; I just think having a categorical refusal to have one is ignorant (have you read about anal fissures**? NOT FUN), and I’m kind of alarmed at how these women made healthcare decisions — based on not evidence, but on what they’ve heard. Perhaps a great deal of the blame falls on the medical community for not educating patients as to evidence-based medicine (and, in some cases, not performing evidence-based medicine), but as patients I think we need to step up and educate ourselves. And by that I don’t mean the first Google search result or polling other pregnant women in an online forum.
* I assume I lost nearly half my potential readers at this point; oops.
** And I probably lost the other half here.
My day, at 8 a.m.
Midnight: Awake.
1 a.m.: Awake. Get up to use bathroom.
2 a.m.: Awake.
3 a.m.: Awake. Dog is shaking her collar. Hope that she doesn’t need to go out, because it’s effing cold in the house.
3:30 a.m.: Dog is whining. Get up, locate bathrobe, think unkind thoughts about roasting a bulldog instead of a turkey for Thanksgiving.
3:32 a.m.: DOG WON’T LEAVE THE FUCKING PORCH. I know it’s like two degrees Fahrenheit out there, but for fuck’s sake.
3:34 a.m.: Dog has left fucking porch after I threatened her with broom to bottom.
3:38 a.m.: DOG WON’T COME BACK IN THE HOUSE. Decide to water and potty self while waiting.
3:40 a.m.: Dog wants to play instead of go back to bed. Effing dog is stuffed into effing crate without effing treat.
3:45 a.m.: WIDE EFFING AWAKE.
3:46 – 4:30 a.m.: Internet.
4:30 a.m.: Wide awake. Bathroom, again. Back to bed. House is bloody freezing and got two degrees colder while letting dog in and out.
5 a.m.: Sleep, finally.
6:15 a.m.: Husband’s alarm goes off. Consider roasting him for Thanksgiving in addition to dog and turkey.
6:50: Husband is waiting for car to finish defrosting and comes inside. Following conversation ensues:
me: The furnace didn’t come on last night. The heat pump ran all night instead and it hasn’t warmed up.
him: Furnace?
me: THE. FURNACE. Downstairs. That big thing next to the hot water heater?
him: It didn’t come on?
me, the one who slept for maybe an hour and a half: YES.
him, the one with a full night’s sleep: Huh.
him: (goes and checks temperature): It’s 55 degrees.
me: I KNOW.
him: It’s set for 59.
me: I KNOW.
him: So…the furnace didn’t come on?
6:52 a.m.: Husband leaves for work. Finds Trollop on porch and brings her in to bed with me, possibly because she is crying on the porch even though she has a heated bed, but probably in retaliation for my explanation of where he could stick the effing furnace.
6:53 – 6:55 a.m.: Pet Trollop. Wish she were always this sweet.
6:56 a.m.: Bitten by Trollop.
7 – 7:15 a.m.: Trollop bathes. Contemplate dinner of roasted turkey, bulldog, husband, and cat, but probably protein overload.
7:16 a.m.: Trollop jumps off bed; I levitate from bed (what enormous belly?) in time to grab her before she pees on anything and stuff her outside. Free Lucy from crate; dog heads straight for back door. Let her out; she stands on porch looking in, all like “This isn’t what I wanted; do you KNOW how cold it is? Lemme back in and I’ll pee on the nice warm floor.”
7:18 a.m.: Stomp outside and start to yell, “GO POTTY!” but words are frozen in my throat and can’t catch breath. Somehow, through skull of concrete, dog gets message and pees three inches away from porch, then streaks back up and inside.
7:20 a.m.: Breakfast for both of us.
7:30 a.m.: Dog comes over and slimes couch with food-encrusted drool.
7:31 a.m.: Dog back in crate. Me back in bed.
Excerpt from real life
Me: Oh, hey, if you’re calling your mom, find out if [names redacted] are coming to the shower this weekend.
Husband: Okay.
Me: But don’t tell her I asked! It’s not my job to pry.
Husband: Right.
[He dials, his mom answers, they exchanges pleasantries]
Husband: Chelsey was talking to her mom and they were wondering who all is coming to the shower this weekend — glarbl, glug, gulpey, oof
[Wife releases husband's throat]
The end.
Teetering
Why, Internets, WHY is baby stuff so ugly?! If it’s not a clichéd pastel like Pepto-pink or baby blue soup, it’s bright and garish and cheap and plastic or it has polka dots marring the surface (you know, polka dots used to be a sign of the plague… JUST SAYIN’), or it has malformed baby animals because lions and alligators and bears are just so goddamned cute and cuddly, right, or it has a zillion mind-numbing patterns that make me want to tear. out. my. hair. Will my child’s brain not develop sufficiently if he is presented with a normal, day-to-day palette of colors? Will it melt and ooze out his nose if he has to see pictures of real animals? Will a muted upholstery patterned with yellow and gray instead of BARN RED WITH NEON GREEN CIRCLES!!! stop him from going to Harvard some day? Will he, alas, sit toyless and unimaginative on the carpet, day after day, his little fists empty of Made-in-China plastic, staring at his boring beige wall as the dog licks the drool from his chubby chin?
Childbirth education, part two: the creep
Men: I don’t care how genuine or sarcastic you’re being when you do it, but let me just say that it is NOT OKAY to pump your fist and say “YES!” when the childbirth educator announces that next week we’ll be talking about breastfeeding. Icky ick ick ick ick creepy creeperson. I will be skipping next week’s class, thank you.