Tag Archives: existential crisis

The finest drops

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At first, having a ybab is sort of like being a recovering alcoholic. There’s a lot of counting days involved. Then weeks. I realized I’ve stopped counting days and started counting in months. This is Good News. A ybab is 196 days old tomorrow. I figured that out, just now, with my pocket calculator.

I’ve been trying to work on some terms of emotional surrender on a variety of issues, and I’m still not there yet. My new rules for 2007 are simple: No Being a Shit. And instead of curbing my occasional irrational rage responses, I’ve decided that others need to simply be better and faster at any interaction that must involve me. Why, did I ever tell you about the time that Mr. H’s former employer mistakenly cancelled our health insurance prematurely and forgot to fund our FSA? That time would be yesterday, when I found out. Outsourcing is working very well in that they don’t have voicemail in those offices, so I can’t call up and scream at them for the length of time that voicemail records. Their loss!!!!!

The rest of you are On Notice. No Being a Shit.

Chief operating visionary

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I’m getting new business cards made up. In my mind, I am smart and capable and earn a fabulous living while balancing the needs of my family. My mind is a liar. Actually, I am behind on everything to the point where no one will ever call me again, not wearing pants (which meant I had to hide from Fed-Ex, thus vexing Mr. H, who is awaiting some shiny electronic jimcrack from Apple), and my ybab hates me. I know this because she stayed up all night plotting on how best to kick me in the abdomen. Oh, mummy, come closer…closer…just a little…WHAP. Now she’s sleeping the sleep of the guilty. Unfortunately, this is on the couch. If I move her, she will wake up. If I move, she will roll over and die somehow.

So I’m using this productive naptime to delete all my email. Currently, I’m expunging August 2004. Just try to subpoena me now! I don’t know what I’m trying to erase. Proof that my life used to be so much easier? At the time I did not think it was easy. I am a sucker. I will regret deleting later, but it feels so good at the time. I sort of regret throwing out all my concert ticket stubs and all my cassette tapes, but a little pain has a salutatory effect on the soul. Right? No, I am just an idiot. And when I want to hear that particular mix tape that contained that one song, I will not be able to do so.

A post about nothing*

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[Recently, at the Ministry of Silly Hats]

I have Sunday evening quick-onset dysthymia. Shut up, it’s in the DSM-IV. Symptoms include having snippets of that “Always on Sunday” song that was used in an HBO promo severeal years ago stuck in one’s head. Ooooon Sunday. Ooooon Sunday, the prospect of a week alone all day wrangling a baby stretches before one**. It’s a delicate tightrope act performed while juggling a bear, er, the needs of a tiny human, housework, and work work all at the same time! I’ve totally caught ADD. Perhaps it is the fault of television? Fold laundry for three minutes, jiggle baby, check email, change diaper, back to laundry, empty dishwasher, dance with baby, prep file for press, bastardize Tears for Fears lyrics by using them in a humorous manner incorporating the actions of a baby, take call and explain that the background noises are an infant, not a kidnapped drifter, pee if I’m lucky…. You get the idea.

Mr. H and little H and I had a loverly three-day weekend, wherein we saw many friends and enjoyed a homecooked meal from his ancestral abode. Mr. H has a new job, and I am already scheming to get him to abuse working from home. Maybe that way we can both get nothing done! I was born to do nothing. I shouldn’t complain.

*Should I retitle this “Dumber than a Boston-area book report? Because that was just so hilarious on Family Guy.

**OK, mainly wrangling a baby between the witching hours of 5-6pm are the issue. She is soothed by speakerphone. Don’t be surprised if you get a call.

Hail to the cheese sandwich

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How about all that politics and that guy who did that thing? Remember when I cared? The last election cycle sent me onto heavy antidepressants. Although I don’t take those anymore, I am still pleasantly dumb thanks to related short term memory loss and the brainfog that comes from all things to do with a baby. Hey! I like socks! Do you? My anti-drug is avoidance.

And WTF is with all you packy-loving sonsofbitches who don’t want to buy boxed wine at the same time you pick up your VeganHelper crumbled substance? I hate you! I bet you’ll still go to Starbucks, despite all your blah blah about preferring to support local businesses. Knobs. Do you all live in my condo association too*?

In other news, I am trying to craft the perfect bib for babies to wear to Thanksgiving. I’m thinking of “Don’t feed me. My mommy bites.” Or maybe “Don’t feed me. You had your chance to make your own kids fat.” A baby is still too young to eat food, pish.

*A baby and I compromised and signed the rudest neighbor up for casual encounters ads on Craigslist. You: must have own python.

Fucktoberfest

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My October surprise? Something in the living room smells funny, and I can’t find the source. Dead animal? Spot of vomit? We may never know.

In other surprises, a baby has learned to drink out of a sippy cup*. She will attain four months of age on Monday. Now she reaches for my cup while sitting in my lap. Does this mean I have to stop drinking? What next, no more blowing lines off the unbreakable mirror in her play gym?

This whole post was just so I could use the subject line. It came to me on my ten millionth walk with a baby today. Yes, really, ten millionth. Balloons did not drop out of the sky, and I did not get a year’s worth of free groceries. I almost got run over by a Puerto Rican kid on a mini bike. Yes, he was Puerto Rican. I’m not just being an assumption racist. The giant flag on his shirt tipped me off. It was sort of like getting mowed down by Ralph the mouse, proportion-wise. Anyway, so I walked for the ten millionth time. Then I gave up on walking and stood by the railing at the edge of the river and bounced up and down so a baby would stay asleep in the wrap. Bounce bounce bounce.

*She gets mommy milk in her cup, not Dr. Pepper, so shut it, would-be drive-by-ers. No Dr. Pepper until five months.

Watching you watching me

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Oh hi, Content Challenge! Hi! You look so pretty! Is that your prettiest outfit? I think it is. Let’s have an adventure, shall we?

I mentioned I’d gone back to a therapist after a baby was born, but that’s not the full story. I went all of four times. The first two times, I wept uncontrollably for fifty minutes. The next two times, she was able to get a word in edgewise now and then. I received such helpful advice as “make time for you” and “schedule a date night.” What, is she going to come to my house and put her doctorate to use babysitting while I take a relaxing Me Time bath? It’s hard enough to arrange baby wrangling to go to therapy, for fuck’s sake. Each hour I spend away from a baby is an hour when a baby may accidentally learn a Massachusetts accent.

And lately I’ve been trying to decide if I’m nuts or not, but I can’t go back to that therapist. The reason why probably answers the nuts question once and for all. I can’t go back because she drinks twenty ounce full-calorie sodas. At 10 a.m., not even in conjunction with a meal. And there are more empties on her desk. I hate seeing people eat or drink things. And soda! A slurry of corn syrup! Don’t people with degrees know there are calories in soda? You could have a croissant or something actually delicious instead! Like maybe some Emergency Chocolate.

With all the time I save not going to therapy, I’m able to learn new ways to tie a baby to my body. Tomorrow we will try this at the post office.

Hi, I see from my notes that you’re crazy!

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Yesterday I got a call from someone at my health insurance company (“the home of the whopper deductible”). She pussyfooted around describing how their team of nurses helps manage chronic conditions without saying which one, but would I be interested in participating? Hmm, are they talking about my combination skin? My distaste for people who write checks at the supermarket? I’ll bite.

“Why are you calling me?”

“Uh…we see you’ve sought counseling in the past.”

“Well, I’m not actively depressed now, believe it or not. I’m slowly killing time until a baby is old enough to do my taxes, but unless you’ve got a time machine, I think I’m all set.”

Silence…scribbling…”We see you entered counseling again this summer.”

“Yes, having a child tends to throw one for a loop and require at least 3 therapy hours. Did you know babies are kind of passive-aggressive?”

“I see….”

“But I assure you, I know the drill about the depression business. It’s about as exciting as coming down with a cold for me. When I feel bad, I get help. I don’t enjoy being depressed.”

“Oh! That’s great! Some people do.”

Silence on my end….

“Well, the initial interview for this program takes twenty minutes.” A baby began to shriek violently. No, I did not pinch her. She probably needs mental health help more than I do. I think she must be bi-polar. I caught her emptying my savings account and buying tickets to Moscow last week.

I hustled the lady off the phone by putting the mouthpiece right by a baby. Yell your way to privacy! Maybe I will write them a nice letter suggesting that if they really want to help improve my life, they will opt to cover more of the crap that costs me money. No, clearly that is batshit nuts! Calling and poking around for personal information about non-critical situations is obviously far more effective.

Content…challenging

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I am a failure as a human being. I did not write a post yesterday. I started one, and it got erased. Nor did I vote in the Democratic primary today. The terrorists are winning! I should be more politically active than ever, what with having to hand this shitbucket of an earth over to an innocent child, but said innocent child is going through a phase not unlike the tortured adolescence of a Tasmanian Devil. This makes basic tasks im-fucking-possible. We reap what we sow. I guess. I also did not recycle. And I fired the babysitter. One day… a new record in didn’t work out. Reproduction…a supremely stupid idea. Er, I mean “it’s all worth it.” And it is worth it, for the five minutes of gummy smiling a day. But, you argue, you could hire an elderly homeless person if gummy smiling is your thing. I’m sorry, I am not breastfeeding the homeless. No matter how often that one guy on the third bench to the left of my house may ask. Speaking of breastfeeding, I was reading the “mystery diagnosis” column in the NYT magazine the other day, and a banner ad nagged “Babies were born to breastfeed.” I was already breastfeeding a baby right at that moment, and I got this mega defensive feeling, like “what the fuck more do you want from me, banner ad?” That banner ad wants to smoke a cigarette when it’s already smoking.

In closing, tits tits tits tits tits tits.