Weasel Of Doom

[I am wallowing in self-pity. You have been warned.]

So far, this trip has been totally not what I expected. From my mother’s comments on my weight — “Look at Aunt T., do you want to be like her? Nobody will say it to your face, but privately they will say K. and J. are thin, and you are fat.” When she talks to her friends, she tells them how much weight I have gained. My Dad told me I have become “square-shaped.” It hurts so much.

I am going slowly insane being with the kids all day long. It is becoming crystal-clear to me that I should never had children to begin with.

D. keeps destroying things. Almost every day, he breaks a toy, or throws one away, and then he expects us to fix it or get it back or buy him a new one. Nothing I do or say gets through to him.

S. keeps whining about everything. EVERYTHING. I am so sick and tired of it. He treats X. roughly, starts fights with D. and then complains when D. retaliates, disobeys simple rules (“don’t touch the TV” should not be this hard to master, now should it?). As above, nothing I do or say gets through.

X. does not want to drink milk. I only nurse him once or twice a day, and he sees these sessions as an opportunity to bite my boobs. He is eating tons of solid food (almost as much as his brothers) but I am worried that he is not getting enough liquids. I know he is not dehydrated because he drools and cries with tears, but he absolutely refuses to drink milk from the bottle. I don’t know what to do.

I am struggling to put in 20 hours of work a week. In part it’s because the only time I can be assured of no interruptions is after the kids go to bed, which sometimes means 11:30 pm. In the mornings Dad takes the older boys outside, and Mom watches X, but sometimes I sleep then because I am not sleeping at nights and because when I do sleep D. and S. are in bed with me, and they are restless sleepers.

I did not realize that going part-time would mean having to pay my employer’s share of health insurance, which is more than what they will pay me for 20 hours a week, so when I get back to being full-time in September, money will be subtracted from my paychecks to cover the difference. It has cost us so much financially to come here (tickets, visas for the boys, loss of income, fine for pulling X. out of summer day care) and now that I am here, it sucks.

My parents don’t really talk to me. When I try to explain things to them, they don’t understand. When I complain about things, they play the devil’s advocate (“If the higher-ups at your work are so stupid, how come they are the management, and you are in a dead-end position where nobody listens to you?”) Mom tells me I should find things for the kids to do, but does not offer any suggestions (Sorry, Mom, but it seems like the only thing they like doing is getting into trouble, and you are against that). We are like strangers sharing a house. This sounds so pathetic, but I don’t think they like me.

I know things will get better. Lights at the end of tunnels, etc. Right now, though, it all just looks so bleak, I want to cry.

(First, I want to thank all of you for your kind thoughts and condolences. I will write a nice long post in memory of my grandma soon. But for now, something to (hopefully) make you smile.)

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[My Mom, helpfully]: You need to work out to get rid of the weight around your middle.
[Me]: Nah, this way if the hard times come, the family will have something to eat.
[Mom]: How can you say something like that?! You have three children!
[Me]: That’s right, we’ll start with Squeektar, he is the fattest.

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[Dad]: We need to go to the store, we have nothing to eat!
[Me]: I’ve got milk.

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[OldestOne mutters something unintelligible at the dinner table]
[Mom]: What did he say?
[Me]: I have no idea, but I am pretty sure he was mouthing off.

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My poor parents, see what they have to put up with?

But if my mother-in-law tells us one more time how when she was laid off she actually made money because she did not have to pay for daycare, and how it was so great and she had no stress and got to spend time with her kids, I am going to SCREAM. Loudly.

One of the higher-ups at my workplace emailed us the following today:

So I went online and looked up various translations of the verse in question.

• NIV: The heart of the wise inclines to the right, but the heart of the fool to the left.
• King James: A wise man’s heart is at his right hand; but a fool’s heart at his left.
• Contemporary English: Sensible thoughts lead you to do right; foolish thoughts lead you to do wrong.
• New Living Translation: A wise person chooses the right road; a fool takes the wrong one.

(translations courtesy of BibleGateway.com)

And now I am so, so pissed off… And dammit, I was in a good mood today before that little gem arrived in my inbox.

P.S. For those of us unencumbered by religious teachings, the right/left thing is referring to the belief that an angel sits on our right shoulder, and a devil on our left, so our decisions should be pleasing to god (on the right side), and not the devil (on the left side). That is also why in Russia we spit over our left shoulder (into the devil’s face) when we don’t want something bad to happen. That is also why the priest got so mad at Dad at my baptism, when Dad accidentally crossed himself left-to-right instead of right-to-left. It has NOTHING to do with politics.

DemonChild, a week or so ago: “Mommy, I want some nookie!” Me: “You are way to young for that! Maybe in 15 years or so….” BelovedSpouse: “And hopefully never from Mommy, because that’s just wrong!”

Squeektar, during “Meet Your Teacher Night” at daycare. As I sit down next to him, he grabs my boobs, looks at me adoringly, and announces to the whole room, “Nipples! Nipples! Nipples!”

DemonChild, getting into the car on Friday: “I have blue eyes!”
Me: “Yes, you do! What color is Squeektar’s eyes?”
DemonChild (after double-checking): “Blue!”
Me: “What color are Mommy’s eyes?”
DemonChild: “Blue!” Long thoughtful pause. “I don’t LIKE blue eyes! I want BROWN eyes!”

Before 8 am this morning:

• Squeektar climbed onto the picture window where the hoya plant lives, abused the said plant, and smashed a glass candle holder to pieces
• DemonChild, under pretext of washing hands, ate a bunch of soap and got the whole counter in the bathroom downstairs covered in water

In response:

• They got yelled at (aka Mommy went nuclear)
• They got a long time-out in their bedroom while I spent an hour cleaning up the mess
• New hard-ass rules are now in effect

It is 9 am on a Saturday, and I am ready to go back to work. Lovely start to the weekend, don’t you think?

Sunday, around 2 pm. Phone message from World’s Most Useless Grandma (WMUG):

“Would today be a good day to come over? I am gone until 3:30, give me a call after that.”

Sunday, around 8 pm. Phone conversation with WMUG:

“We already arranged for baby-sitters today. Feel free to come on Monday around 5:30-6:00. See you then!”

Monday, 5:25 pm. I tell DemonChild that Grandma is coming over tonight. DemonChild is excited.

5:45 pm. No WMUG.

6:15 pm. Still no WMUG. We stuff ourselves on mac and cheese.

7:00 pm. I call WMUG’s house, on the off chance she fell and broke a leg or something. She picks up the phone. Does not sound on the brink of death. Was doing her taxes and lost track of time. So sorry and all that. Let’s try again on Sunday, or maybe next Monday.

And somehow it is OUR fault she does not get the see the kids enough…

[me:] “DemonChild, do you need to go potty?”
[DemonChild:] “No.”
[me:] “OK, Mommy is going to run upstairs and get some laundry quick.”

60 seconds go by. I am coming down the stairs with the laundry. On the edge of the living room carpet, there is a grinning Squeeker, holding the potty. In the background, DemonChild is frantically pulling up his pants.

[Squeeker:] WHEEEEEE!

Squeeker triumphantly wields the potty. Pee splatters all over the tile. As I am frantically trying to mop it up, the happy duo toodles off to the bathroom, and closes the door behind them.

Two minutes later. Disturbing sounds of happiness from the bathroom, accompanied by some splashing. I charge in just in time to see Squeeker attempting to bail water out of the toilet with the potty. DemonChild is laughing his skinny ass off. The only one not amused is Mommy.

….

For the record, they never pull this crap when their dad is around. I feel special, and not in a good way :-)

BelovedSpouse turned 40 today. He is celebrating by trying to ignore it. I was planning to have a surprise party for him, but first-trimester crappiness have nixed that, so he is on his own. I did promise to get the kids out of his hair on Saturday, so he can do whatever he wants. He has made absolutely no plans, so I won’t be surprised if he spends Saturday playing World of Warcraft. Which is totally fine with me.

However, our lack of enthusiasm for the big Four Oh is apparently galling to my mother-in-law. Who, according to BelovedSpouse, is less than thrilled that there is no party plans that include her. Ummm, yeah. Because that’s how everybody wants to spend their fortieth birthday – hanging out with Mom. NOT!

Then we get an email, tantalizingly titled “Birthday Selections.” Stupid me, ignoring 10 years of experience, reads the title and thinks, “Maybe she’ll watch the kids some evening so we can go out to dinner! Or maybe she’ll even feel brave and keep them overnight!” Yeah, I am a slow learner. Here are the actual selections offered to us:

(1) tickets for us two and DemonChild to see a young children’s theater production, designed especially for 3-5 year olds
(2) yearly family pass to the zoo
(3) yearly family pass to the museum

I am having some trouble working up an appropriate level of enthusiasm.

Got into a fight with my mom at Pick’n'Save. She wanted to buy meds for Dad, who has a bad cough. Mom wanted to buy the stuff that’s available in Russia for it – pieces of paper coated with mustard that you put on people’s chest to heat it up. As far as I know, THEY DO NOT SELL IT HERE. Of course, Mom kept ignoring me. Ignored me telling her Icy-Heat was not it. While I was trying to figure out what Vick’s vapor-rub patches are for, she kept asking me what they were, and when I snapped that there were no instructions on the box, Mom got pissed off. Yelled at me that I care only about myself, that I don’t give a damn about my father who is sick, etc, and stormed off. And haven’t said a word to me since.

And you know what? I don’t give a flying fuck that she is upset anymore. Yeah, I should have been more patient. On the other hand, she should behave like an adult, too. I know my parents don’t like me (love, yes; like as a person, no). They have an idea of what a daughter should be, and I am not it, that’s been made very clear over the years. I am so close to just telling them, “If I am such a big fucking disappointment, disown me and get it over with. I will never be what you want me to be, and I am sick and tired of trying.” Of course, then Mom will just tell me how selfish, melodramatic, and pathetic I am, how I over-react to everything, and what a difficult person I am to deal with. So I am not even going to bother.

(yup, more of my boring whining)

I forgot to call my cousin on her birthday. That’s with the Outlook calendar giving me reminders about it every day for two weeks. I called three days later, and it was obvious that my apology was not cutting it. Turns out a lot of people forgot to wish her happy birthday, including our other cousin, her husband’s family, and many friends. We talked for a little bit, but it was quite clear that her heart wasn’t in it. Our connection was bad, and you could almost hear her relief in her voice when she used that as an excuse to end the conversation.

I know I am at fault here. I fucked up. And it seems like yet another step backward in the “one step forward, two steps back” relationship that we have.

Julie and I grew up together; she is four months older than me. Kate is three years younger than us. So always, it was “Julie is the eldest, do what she says.” When we became teenagers, Julie was a social butterfly, while I was socially awkward. Guys flocked to her; they only wanted me for the copies of my homework. She was fun and pretty; I was neither. She would rather hang out; I would rather read a book. She had a sunny and caring disposition, I was moody and spoke without thinking first. If adolescence is a song, “Why can’t you be more like Julie?” was a refrain in mine. And I resented that.

We came to America. Julie’s host parents liked her; mine tolerated me for the monthly allowance they were paid. I stayed in Wisconsin to go to college; she transferred to California after two years. I liked hanging out with people older than myself; she once asked me, “Don’t you have any friends who are NOT retired?” She had sex with her boyfriend; mine told me he was gay. I struggled with depression, and across the ocean you could hear my parents thinking, “Why can’t you be more like Julie?” And I resented that.

BelovedSpouse and I got married. “Never thought you’d get married before I do,” said my cousin. My parents came to America for the first time, and we were not getting along at all. “Why can’t you love me for who I am?” I wanted to know. “Why can’t you be more like Julie?” they said. And I resented that.

So it went. Julie got married. We talked a once a month or so. When we saw each other (usually in the company of my parents), the contrast was inescapable. Julie, the perfect hostess. Me, the clueless one. Julie, sweet and caring. Me, passive-aggressive. “Why can’t you be more like Julie?” I saw the question in my parents’ eyes, and I resented that.

Julie and her husband started trying to have a baby. She’d tell me that we should try, too. I was already pregnant with DemonChild, but we did not want to tell anybody until the second trimester. When I finally told Julie, she was hurt that I did not tell her right away. I felt bad, but what could I do? To make matters worse, Julie’s attempts to conceive kept failing. She was diagnosed with unexplained infertility. Mindful of past mistakes, we told her right away when I got pregnant with Squeeker, even though it felt like twisting the knife and putting salt on wounds. I offered to be a gestational surrogate for her, but I doubt they will take me up on it.

Which brings us to the present. BelovedSpouse and I are trying for baby #3. I haven’t told Julie about it. When we do talk, our conversations are either so good that I wonder why I don’t call her more often, or so bad that I wonder why I bothered calling at all. Julie is a very nice person. She is sweet, caring, and loyal. She is a great friend. She makes people feel loved. I will never be more like her, but at least I stopped resenting that. Maybe I am finally growing up.

What’s really surprising is that it had taken this long.

It’s around 5 pm, I am half-asleep on the couch, Alan and his daughter are playing videogames on the PS2, BelovedSpouse is watching the kids and cooking dinner. Kids are roaming around the first floor. Kids get suspiciously quiet. After a brief search, kids are located in the bathroom, giving Squeektar’s hat and DemonChild’s “monkey” (knitted Easter egg) a bath in the toilet bowl. Water everywhere.

BelovedSpouse: “DemonChild, stay RIGHT THERE! Wife, get the camera and take a picture.” So we have photographic evidence. Then BelovedSpouse and I told the kids exactly what we thought about their bathroom activities. BelovedSpouse cleaned up the floor, then the boys got an early bath.

Here’s hoping dunking things into the toilet won’t become their new favorite activity. Little miscreants :-)

1. Set your vocal expression default to “Scream head off.” Proceed to scream head off for any and all reason, including no apparent reason at all.

2. Throw temper tantrums on hard surfaces. If possible, attempt to slam head into a wall, door, or cabinet for emphasis.

3. Go for things you are expressly forbidden. Scream head off when thwarted in your attempts to do yourself bodily harm.

4. Freak out every time your parents step away from you. Scream head off, slam head into floor. Look hurt when parents start screaming back.

5. When not interested in the food given to you, attempt to throw it as far as possible. Bonus if you can hit the carpet. If the food in question does not lend itself well to throwing, try to smear it over all available surfaces, and some surfaces that technically are not available.

6. Scream head off the moment you are put in bed. Fall back asleep the second you are picked up. Repeat until parents give up and put you in their bed. Once there, proceed to roll around and kick them in the face.

7. Ignore board books. Instead, find the ones your parents read, fold the pages over, and chew holes in the middle. It’s art! Also, they would not have made them paperbacks if they haven’t meant for you to be able to rip the jackets off.

8. Declare happiness anathema. When with Daddy, demand Mommy. When with Mommy, demand Daddy. When both parents are around, leave the room and scream your loneliness to the world. Have a full-blown tantrum, bang head on something in case they are not getting the message.

9. Sneak behind your parents when they are distracted. Then, as they accidentally step on you, scream bloody murder. Watch them freak out. As soon as parents turn around, sneak behind them again, gather breath for blood-curdling screams. Repeat until parents develop a disturbing habit of sidling along walls in order to get anywhere.

10. Undergo a total personality transplant when at daycare, becoming a perfect little angel full of lovings, hugs, and good behavior.

Him [out loud]: I never would have married a smoker!

Me [thinking]: Well, I never would have married a passive-aggressive asshole with a fucked up family, and look at me now!

(full disclosure: I shared what I thought with him later, a few days after that fight, and he was amused. So this is posted with permission.)

I love my parents, but…

[exhibit A]

It is 10:30 pm, and both kids are bouncing off the walls.
Me: “Why won’t I put the kids in the stroller and go for a walk with them?”
Them: “Dad went for a walk with DemonChild two hours ago and that did not work.”
Me (thinking): “It worked earlier today for his nap, though… And perhaps now he is ready to fall asleep.”
Fast forward to 11 am. Both kids still up.
Dad: “What do you do in a situation like that?”
Me: “We put the kids in the stroller and go for a walk.”
Dad (not what he wanted to hear): “Even this late?”
Me: “Well, yeah. Though normally if they are still up like that by 10 pm, we head out – we don’t wait longer.”
Dad: “…”
Me: “Or we can take them for a drive. That usually works, too.”
Dad: “They’ll fall asleep soon.”
Me (thinking): “A car ride worked for DemonChild’s nap yesterday. The two of you have been wasting the last two hours trying to put the kids to bed. And you look at me like I am the idiot here?”
Me (out loud): “You ask what we do. I tell you, and you don’t want to try any of that. Then why do you even ask?”
Dad: “…”
It is now almost midnight and Squeektar is still awake. I wash my hands of this mess.
12:30. Mom gets Squeektar to fall asleep by giving him a stroller ride inside the house.
Mom: “Well, why DIDN’T you take them for a walk in the stroller?”
Me (thinking): “Because you and Dad said not to. Duh.”

[exhibit B]
Me (on the phone to parents a couple weeks ago): “And DemonChild picks up every single piece of junk he sees! And puts everything in his mouth! And does not obey when you say No.”
Mom: “What do you expect? He is a boy.”
Present day. Mom returns from her first walk with DemonChild.
Mom: “He picks up every single piece of junk he sees! And puts everything in his mouth! And does not obey when you say No.”
Me: “Ummm…. Told you….”
It took every ounce of willpower I have not to say, “What do you expect? He is a boy!”