Grabapple.net

I work with two women and a supervisor at my current temp job. It’s not that hard a job, except that there are a lot of arcane rules for entering the data into the database that aren’t written anywhere and can’t be intuited from looking at the forms. So I have to ask a lot of questions.

This annoys one of the women I work for, the one the supervisor dumped me on assigned me to the first day. I’ll call her A. She’s a middle aged mom, with three kids she appears to be disappointed in, a job she doesn’t seem to enjoy though she’s been there for 11 years (I cannot imagine) and basically, she hates her life and anyone who walks into it. Which includes me. My questions annoy her. My inability to magically instantaneously grasp the minutiae of this corporation annoys her. My finishing up work so she has to find more for me annoys her. My attempting to stretch work out when things are slow….that’s right. Annoys her.

The other woman in the department, D., is a stranger duck, a thin woman in her forties who has what for all appearances is the beginning of a hump. Or else the worst posture I’ve ever seen. I don’t know if it’s osteoporosis or something else, but I keep wanting to tell her, stop stooping! Get a back brace or something before it gets worse, dear God! She’s wary of me, Temp Girl, but not angry about it. She will try to find me things to do if I press her.

So anyway, there’s lots of time between occasional filing jobs or POs to surf the internet, though I wonder if the IT guys are taking note of the non-work surfing I do. Probably they’re too busy downloading episodes of Battlestar Galactica to notice. The problem is, the longer I have to slack off, the more I tend to forget what exactly I’m supposed to do with these maddeningly complex forms. And then I have to go annoy A. again.

Because we were out late last night (getting a bed at IKEA! Because we just got our own apartment! Woo!) I didn’t see Nathan all day. He was asleep when I left for work, and asleep when I got back. I got up with him to feed him at four, but he never opens his eyes then.

So this morning, I dallied and dillied around after I got ready for work, knowing he liked to get up at 7 on the dot. Sure enough, I heard his morning grunting and “ooooh” ing, right on time. Screw being late. I ran in to kiss him and rub his soft little face against mine, crazed as a junkie needing a fix. He grinned and lit up when I bent down to grab him, and it melted me down to a puddle of mom goo. Just being away from him for 24 hours was enough to make me crazy. When did that happen?

I finally had to go, and it was hard. Up till now, it’d been different…work was an escape from the stress of being broke and dealing with a cute but non-napping baby. But he has so much personality now and is so sweet and funny, and yes, more beautiful than any other child who ever lived, and I just want to sit around and rub his face against mine 100 times a day.

The other day I got all sad, because I realized someday he’d grow up and be pimply and whiskery and his soft little baby face will be changed forever. I will love the person he becomes, but all the same, I’ll miss this little gurgly person who is always happy to see me. He’s snagged me good.

Over on Metafilter, there was a good post about the possible evolutionary origins of mammaries–an article about how they might just be outgrowths of our immune system. Good stuff. That’s why I go to Metafilter, because it excels at odd and interesting links.

But the post title was, in the frat-boy-jocular way typical of metafilter and other geek sites, “the origin of fun bags.” And a few of us women posters called out the poster on it. Because really, what an awful thing to call them, and how immature can you get? The immediate response was one familiar to any feminist who calls out sexist language–dismissiveness of our oversensitivity, prudishness, inability to understand a joke, etc.

And then I had to think about why I found so many “funny” terms for women’s genitalia/mammaries offensive anyway? I mean, I don’t have any trouble with blue humor in general, and think the word “cooter”, especially when used by women of my acquaintance, hella funny. Maybe because I’ve heard Tina Fey use it.

What I came up with illustrates to me the impact of patriarchy, even on something as trivial as sillly euphemisms for naughty bits. Because “fun bags” isn’t a term made up by women themselves…nor are most of the funny terms for breasts. Men make them up (new ones every day, it seems sometimes) and then large groups of moronic men yell them at unsuspecting women who dare to walk down the street. That’s how I learned most of those slang terms, when some gross pimply type sneered it at me on the bus. And that’s what women associate those terms with…embarrassment and bullying and the undefined sense that being female was somehow gross and shameful. That you weren’t a person, just a collection of silly and disgusting parts.

Hey, I know. I know when some guy says “Girl you got nice titties” he tells himself it’s a compliment. And when jokes are made about ta-tas and headlights, it’s not because the person making them is trying to enforce the patriarchy. But language carries a history with it. Women can’t make men feel as we do by using slang terms for penis, because men have also made up those terms and even take pride in using them to refer to themselves. And because none of the words for penis have the sort of vague shameful dirtyness of a word like cunt. Calling a guy a penis implies that he’s just stupid. Calling a girl a cunt implies that she’s a vicious whore with a venereal disease. There is no direct comparison, because sleeping around is not shameful for a man.

Plus, women aren’t supposed to talk dirty, so we don’t do as adolescent boys do and sit around thinking up new words for our genitalia. Though I have seen some new terms that seem to come more from women around the blogosphere (”pretty pink princess” was one of my favorites, hee), and those I have no problem with. They don’t carry the same baggage as the old terms, the ones guys whispered at any girl walking by in sixth grade.

So I guess, if you have to use a slang term, make it one that isn’t vaguely repulsive or insulting. Nobody wants to be referred to as possessing “bags” on their chest, however fun (and fun for whom, I might ask? I think we know, and it ain’t the ladies who own them). Pick a better, cuter, euphemism…”sweater bunnies” is kind of cute, though a bit confusing metaphorically. Or just, you know, call them breasts, if you’re over the age of 12.

I do understand why men can get frustrated with all the new rules. The old jokes aren’t acceptable, and we haven’t written a lot of new jokes yet. But you know, when I was a kid, my sister told me n-word jokes and Mexican jokes and Polish jokes, because that was considered ok then. And it’s not now. But I don’t find myself laughing any less. Sex is inherently comedic–sweaty (often) awkward, frustrating, confusing, and forbidden. We’re not going to have any trouble making new jokes about it.

When Nathan was born, I was convinced he would never let me sleep more than 20 minutes at a time. He wasn’t even a screamy, colicky baby, just one that had no concept of regular sleep times, and no way of calming himself. He flailed around like he was having a seizure and grunted and whined that peculiar newborn cry that sounds a little bit like a cat. And every peep made me and his daddy jump and sweat like the panicked newbies we were.

It was a while before the trauma of that wore off and we realized he was in fact sleeping more. Trouble was, it was mostly in our arms, in the daytime, or at night while sucking on a bottle. And he woke every 2-3 hours. Not much sleep on his own. And he was a terrible co-sleeper, sweaty and kicking and complaining every time you breathed too hard.

We went on that way for a while. One day we looked at each other with red, dark ringed eyes and said, OK, we’re going to try letting him cry at bedtime and not going to him at night. Because otherwise, we’ll just be dead. So one night we arranged to sleep in the living room and leave him in his crib in bed. And it worked. He grumped about 5 minutes, went to sleep at 9, and woke up once, at 4ish, then back to sleep till 7. And that’s been his pattern ever since.

He has trouble sometimes, when he’s teething or sick. He does seem to have nightmares now and then, crying in a frightened way without ever opening his eyes..he had one an hour ago, actually, and I just held him and gave him a little milk and back he went.

His worst problem now is 4am to 7am…he can be cranky and wakeful, and of course we hit our deepest sleep then and have the hardest time getting up for him. I’m hoping that the move will help…his window right now faces east, and since it’s my mom’s I can’t really put up new curtains. In the new place, maybe it will be darker and more restful. Or maybe since he’ll actually be in another room (so AWESOME) we just won’t hear his grumping and can sleep until he’s ready to make some serious noise.

Tonight, he even fell asleep by himself an hour earlier than usual. I dare not hope that that’s going to be a pattern too, but I’ll take what I can get.

Anyway, I post all this by way of encouragement to any new moms thinking it Will Never Get Better, or that they have to try some sort of exotic sleep juju to transition their baby from no sleep to regular sleep. Not all babies require a week of screaming at night before they’ll settle in, not all babies like or need cosleeping, and you will eventually be able to tell when to let them grump and when it’s serious enough to get out of bed. It may be as simple as just giving them some space and making sure they’re comfortable. And it certainly is ok if sometimes, you just put them down when YOU need to, whether they’re ready for sleep or not. Being angry and crying for a few minutes while Mommy brushes her teeth or hey, drinks some coffee will not damage them. I put Nathan down a couple of times a day in his crib whether he’s napping or not…lots of times, he will sleep, sometimes he’ll just play with his feet for 10 minutes. But that’s ten minutes I can use to check email or stretch my back out.

I take great comfort right now that whatever I do, I know Nathan won’t remember any of it. When he hits 3 or so, I guess I can have that guilt, but no one remembers being 6 months old and pissed because their formula bottle was 5 minutes late.

Let us pray

Originally uploaded by emjaybee.

I swear, I didn’t pose him. I took out the camera and he did this all on his own. The oatmeal in his eyebrows only seems to add to the moment’s solemnity, doesn’t it?

So we’re this close (no jinxies!) to getting our own place. We like what we’ve seen of the complex, and there’s room for our stuff and Nathan. I have a long-term temp assignment to provide the bread, and the relatives who initially offered to let us move in have basically told us they’d pay us NOT to live with them. Win-win! Except for the crushing blow to our self esteem.

No actually, we know we weren’t turned down due to terrible BO that no one is brave enough to tell us about, just for space and convenience reasons, and that’s fine. It was always an extraordinary favor and we were flabbergasted when they made the offer in the first place.

It does put paid to pursuing my original career plans to find something in Austin, at least till our lease is up. But Austin wasn’t returning my calls anyway. And hell, work is work right now. I’m not actually as upset as I expected to be staying in the Metroplex for a while. Though I don’t really know what to expect going forward. I have a book I want to write, and that’s important, but I still need to work, and it needs to not suck all the dignity from my soul, and that’s important too. Eating and paying rent remain important, and now and then spending time with my son.

Living in Austin, while still something I’d love to do one day, just isn’t something I can keep at the top of my list for now. Actually I don’t want to live in Austin, just in the Hill Country, which I think is the prettiest part of Texas and has lots of little towns that look interesting. But not today.

I end up focusing on just our move, and living without roommates for the first time in nearly 2 years, and yes, that is a wonderful thing. The new place is half the price and twice the nice of anything we could have gotten in NY, including such niceties as a garbage disposal, more than one closet, new carpeting and flooring, and central a/c and heat (I hated those damn radiators, HATED them. Every single one leaked and ruined the floor and they ate up precious wall space and you could never regulate them yourself. the pipes rattled like an army of elves was tapping on them all the time. HATE.)

Of course, to get all that you have to live in Euless, and yes, you will hear the jetliners overhead going to and from DFW. But then, in our first Brooklyn apartment, we were 1 block from the BQE and could hear the trucks rumble past all night. So, tradeoffs. I will run barefoot over the carpet and walk into the walk in closets and run the garbage disposal and rejoice. I will not slump too often into existential despair over why No One Will Hire My Damn Highly Qualified Ass, Goddammit too often. I will take Nathan to see his grandparents or make them come see us. It’ll be fine.

Well damn. Appears I should have gone to give birth in the Czech Republic.

I’ll say this about my experience with socialized medicine: Bring it on. Absolutely I paid higher taxes in the Czech Republic while I was living and working there, but there is no way that what I paid in taxes even comes close to what we’re paying out now in premiums, deductibles, and prescriptions. It’s like night and day. And when I needed my insurance to work–when we had Connery–I didn’t have to fill out any paperwork, file any forms, endure endless bills and statements of coverage and non-coverage, it was just covered. I paid cash for a private room for five nights–the standard maternity stay in the Czech Republic for a non-C-section birth–and everything else, from Connery’s nursery care to painkillers to meals, was covered.

Before I gave birth, I went on paid maternity leave, as required by the state, about a month before my due date. After I got home from the hospital I had another six months of paid leave at two-thirds of my salary. After that paid leave was up, I continued to get “baby payments” of around $150 a month. I would have continued to get those so long as I remained in the Czech Republic, up to four years after Connery was born.

Guess I ‘ll keep that in mind if there’s a next time. I wonder how pregnant you can be and still get on an international flight? hmm….

Well, little boy, it’s your half-birthday this month. And while the whole reason I write these posts is so I can remember all that you did later, this month it got really hard to keep up with you.

Let’s see; you can sit up almost by yourself, something you just woke up being able to do one day. You continue to talk “bababBAba” but now and then you sprinkle in some “ma’s” and “da’s” too. You like to snack on your own toes and look adorable while you do so. You have two choppers on the bottom gum that you like to show off. You don’t know what a chicken is, but chicken noises are the funniest thing you ever heard. You try to imitate your dad when he does the Vulcan “live long and prosper” hand thingy, and do surprisingly well, not knowing that you are dooming yourself to geekdom. And this week, all of a sudden, eating from a spoon got more interesting. I see a lot of oatmeal and pureed fruit in your immediate future.

You still have the horrible horrible blocked tear duct you’ve had since your first month that gives you a pus-crusted eye, and thus makes it impossible for us to Culkin you into child stardom. Oh well. The doctor tells us it’s likely to go away, but I really hate cleaning it every day, and you hate when I do, so it can’t heal fast enough for me.

You move your toes and rotate your feet almost all the time you are awake, and can push up on your fat little legs for a few minutes at a time. I think you’ll crawl first, but I’m betting you will move on to walking as soon as you can manage it. You just (like this week) started making pincher movements with your forefinger and thumb, meaning that eating your own Cheerios isn’t far off either. Maybe you’ll be like your cousin and drop them down your diaper while you walk around, saving them for later.

I can’t believe you’ll be walking. I can’t believe that this chattery, flirty, gap-toothed, solid-food-eating baby is the same one I brought home from the hospital. What’s next, senior prom?

I was so anxious when you came home, even apart from all the depression I was going through anyway. I had never done the baby thing before, and the potential to mess you up seemed limitless. Tightrope walking without a net. And now I don’t feel that way, though technically, I could still mess you up but good. But six months of just day to day taking care of you has worn most of the edges off. I’m not complacent about you, but I have a little more faith in my ability to handle you. And your dad is so good with you, just like I knew he would be.

We’re doing ok here, in this little lull before crawling/walking/eating solids really kicks in. It’s been a heck of a climb, but the view is pretty cool.

sorry that I had “log in needed” set for the comments. No wonder ya’ll been so quiet. Should be fixed now.

I’m sure the patriarchy is somehow to blame for that, also.

Have you had one of those weeks where it was just bad news + slap in the face + bad news + depression etc. etc. until it all got so bad that you started giggling hysterically and entirely inappropriately? Because it was just getting fucking ridiculous, the way the universe/blind chance/insert your god-concept here kept piling on the crap?

Yeah. This is one of those. I’ve gone right past depressive to manic. (cue insane cackling). Matt came home tonight to tell me that oh, by the way, the place we were going to move to at the end of the month fell through, and so I’ve got to get a real job, any real job, pronto so we can get our own place. Because my mom’s kicking us out…did I mention that? Yeah! To the curb, baby! Her original offer was “as long as it takes” which actually meant “four months, tops.” And our other family members who had said “yeah, stay with us, don’t take the crap job,” suddenly Changed Their Minds, too late for me to take the crap job I was just offered. Ah, family. Unconditional love, and a boot to the ass.

And anyway, on receiving this latest piece of news, something snapped, (not, hopefully, my brain) because all day I’d been thinking “this is so bad it’s ridiculous.” And now we’re officially into Ridiculously Bad.

Oh, is that another boot to my ass? There’s so many there already, I hardly noticed!

You know, whatever. I’ll go get the crap job, then, having done my level best to avoid it. I’ll live. I’ll find something better and quit the crap job and move on. It’s not how I wanted it to go, not the ideal path by any means. I pretty much hate it. But I have spent so much time being angry and sad and confused the past five months that it’s almost anticlimactic for this to happen.

Maybe I’m just reacting this way because madness is preferable to throwing oneself off the overpass. Or because Matt’s beside himself with anger, and two of us frothing at the mouth is no good at all. I don’t care, about any of it. Tomorrow, I start applying for crap jobs, and once I get one, at least I can go get my own apartment again. I’m using that as my calming mechanism; close your eyes and think of getting all your books and cd’s unpacked finally.

Ah. That’s better. Cackle.