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.

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.

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.

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 Representative

Sincerely

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.

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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.

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.

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.

I may, come to think of it, have a bit of a control issue.

Anyway, this is relevant because in last night’s childbirth education class, I found myself mentally critiquing the educator, which of course is ridiculously hypocritical since it’s not like I’m the most fabulous teacher to spin the magic web of rhetoric. But seriously, I give you the following situations:

1. To start with, she made a sexist generalization at the beginning of class, something about how women’s labor stories are like men’s fish stories (implying something about lying about the length thereof, I guess), and mostly I was offended because I fish, too. And I have not yet lied about my labor experience (head’s up: I WILL win), so the expectation rankled.

2. Then there was this dandy question, clearly meant to gin up some discussion in the class:

Educator: How do you time contractions?

[ten seconds dead silence]

Me: Um, with a watch?

I knew what she was getting at, although not exactly — something to do with frequency and/or duration of contractions — but when you ask an unclear question and no one answers, rephrase and clarify what you mean. Or else you get smart-asses like me answering. (Though, professional confessional time: I love smart-asses. They make class fun and keep me on my toes. Double bonus. Although I’m not sure this educator feels that way about me.)

3. This is a rhetorical complaint: Everything she says is declarative: You WILL do this, you WILL do that, you WILL like this, you WILL not like that, etc. Um, no, thank you. Being told what I will and won’t do or think works about as well on this 30-year-old as it did on this 15-year-old. I realize I’m knocking my own maturity level here, but thanks to feminism and consumerism AND SCIENCE, women have a lot more childbirth choices than we used to, and I don’t appreciate childbirth “education” being presented as a map with stations where you get your hand stamped before moving on to the next level. If that works for the next woman, great — but not me.

Tangential confession: Last night I was a little taken aback when the educator asked who all was reading books on childbirth and I was the only one who raised a hand. Seriously?! How can you approach one of the biggest events in your life without planning? (And no, I don’t think childbirth education indoctrination counts.) I mean, I know I like to plan, but … HOW DO YOU NOT PLAN?

4. Finally, this childbirth educator pronounces the word “dilated” “dillatated.” THAT IS NOT A WORD, and I know because I triple-checked it on dictionary.com so as to not be made an ass of (which happens often enough as it is).  And I know I should be more worried about what it means to be 10 cm “dillatated” than how she mispronounces the word, but it strikes at the heart of her ethos and those twelve or whatever years she spent on a Labor and Delivery ward.

Ugh. Somehow in my life I have morphed from the back-row, I’m-not-here student into the front-row, know-it-all critic. What’s worse, I remember how I hated those people in college, and thus this post is halfway between a cry for help and a blubbering confession. I guess when I’m stuck spreadlegged and naked at 8 cm dillatated and wondering why my epidural isn’t working, I’ll have time to ponder this further.

My ire was not terribly aroused by this purchase because he’d saved up for it, is selling his iPod and just sold his old iPhone to pay for the new thing. So fine, get the new phone, see if I care, as long as my bank account doesn’t change.

Life could have been just fine, oh yes it could’ve, if he’d just outlined the cost, how he was paying for it, and never said another word. BUT COULD HE DO THAT? OH NO. Here’s what happened instead, night after night.

So I’m pregnant, right?

(“Oh  my god, yes, we get it. Shut up already about being pregnant.”)

Well, fine, but that state of being plays a prominent role in my going to sleep before @misteranthropic and getting up well after he’s left for work. Because I don’t actually sleep during that time: I fall asleep, sure, for a few, blissful hours. Then at about one in the morning, I wake up and begin to worry: what if the house isn’t warm enough in the winter? What if I give birth at home? If my water breaks in bed, do we have to get a new mattress? What if the baby has five heads and two fingers? What if we never, ever, agree on a girl’s name and it’s a girl — will we just live in the hospital until one of us offs the other and signs the damn birth certificate? And then at about six, when I’ve exhausted all my worries, I fall asleep again. It’s ridiculous, and it makes me extra grouchy.

So when it’s 10:15 and I’ve just drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by a sharp jab to the shoulder, I’m not all cheery.

“What?”

“Oh, were you sleeping?”

“YES.”

“Oh. Never mind.”

“WHAT.”

“Oh, well, look–” And he’s handing me his old iPhone. I can make out the UPS logo, but I have to put on my glasses to read anything on THAT GODDAMN TINY SCREEN. Then I see that he’s pleased, because his new phone has now been shipped from Anchorage, Alaska, to Trenton, New Jersey. Whoopdeefuckingdo.

The first night, I glared for only a second because the look of pure, boyish glee was — gag alert — heart-melting. It was so cute, I may have kissed him.

The second night, when the phone moved from New Jersey to Kuala Lampur or wherever, I rolled over without a word.

The third night, when the phone moved from Kuala Lampur to Jodhuppurstonfordinghamopolis, I sat up when he nudged me and said, “Oh, really? Wow, honey, that’s great” and then threw the damn thing across the room.

The fourth night, I slept like a baby.

Okay. So the phone finally arrives, and what does this dignified, white-collar worker do? He quits work early that day to go get it, and it’s like he’s found a new mistress: one with smaller pixel-pores who he can carry in his pocket and croon lullabies to at night when they fucking sleep together.

Yeah. Italics AND all caps.

So there you have it: we’re having a new baby, and my husband has found a new, sleek, shiny, non-bloated wife. My only consolation is that my order of Greek Nescafé Frappé mix has left Greece and arrived in Jacksonville, FL, with an estimated delivery date of July 6.

I turned and looked in a very Miss-Manners-ish way, not quite believing my ears. Have you heard our symphony? Have you been to the chamber music series? Hell, even the senior recitals around here are pretty good. And jazz at Merchants and Backstage has been good, and I’ve even heard a good fiddler in downtown playing for tips. Hence my look.

He continued: “And I think it’s a disservice to music to play what people want to hear instead of what is good.” Other said something I couldn’t understand; PA said, “All anyone wants around here is butt rock.”

This time when I turned and glared, I made sure he saw me. He had the grace to look uncomfortable and lower his voice. Arse.

I would bet good money that both these guys are Seattle-area transplants, not native or recent Walla Wallans. Sure, we leave potholes in our streets and have a century-old sewer and water system that no one wants to pay to upgrade, but dammit if we don’t like all kinds of music in Walla Walla. And gentlemen, it doesn’t take balls to come into a community and [wrongly] criticize it; it takes ignorance. Fuckers.

Hell.

Teaching three writing classes is not doable, or at least not for me. The only way I have a single nostril above water right now is because my research writing class is in the research phase; even that is slated to end this week as the annotated bibliographies come in. Of course part of the stress is teaching two new classes, where I have to devise new lesson plans (oddly, it’s the daily grammar lessons that are sapping my will to live…hmm, tangent:

I learned this teaching ESL learners: if you don’t teach grammar, students complain that they don’t learn grammar. If you do teach grammar, students either don’t apply what you’ve learned (because writing is more complicated that sample sentences on an overhead projector), or they don’t care, or they believe they are the exceptions who may abuse grammar because they think they know better. Which they don’t. In my experience, the only way to learn grammar is to use grammar, and revise until you learn how to use it correctly. I don’t know how to teach this effectively.).

Anyway. This is week five, I think, so we’re nearly halfway through. That does not, however, in any way help me get started on what needs to be done this week. It’s a strangely paralytic feeling, knowing how much needs to be done and not being able to actually summon the strength to do it, then stressing about the mounting stress, then imagining my dad saying, “Quit fiddling around and get started,” which only further stymies my will to live.

And the water, I can feel it seeping into that last remaining nostril.

###

Edit: five hours later, I have more or less gotten my shit together, have quit feeling quite so sorry for myself, and am … er, don’t remember how this sentence was going to end, as I’m not fixated on whether “gotten” is a word. Okay, it is. Life can go on.

###

Edit No. 2: six hours later, I am finished; better yet, the last few papers were great!

Thanks a lot. You’re a real credit to your organization.