Unfreakingbelievably, the bathroom is now completely painted, which ends my current foray into home improvements.
One half of the bathroom is a light blue and the other is chocolate brown, which Dave (btw–go visit that duder, he’s feeling lonesome) is too tactful to actually come out and admit that he hates. I reminded him that no matter WHAT we did to that room, it couldn’t be worse than it already was. The bathroom looked like a runaway from some stuffy old lady’s house who had died in approximately 1974. To give an example, we pulled down the light fixture from there and threw it into the garage where it is currently sitting. I may never part with it, because I imagine that anytime I am feeling sad or mad or whatever, all I will have to do is have a look at it, and I will burst into gales of laughter. Like blogging, it’s cheaper than therapy.
Ashley called it Testicleeeez (say it out loud, for once I intended to mispell something) whereas I happen to think that it looks more like boobs. Sweet Jesus, these people had no taste.
So YAY! bathroom is done. Well, I should clarify that: MY part of the bathroom is completed, and the ball is in Dave’s proverbial court (because we don’t ACTUALLY have a court here, dumbass), where I am sure it will remain for the next several months until I learn how to install a toliet tank and bathroom sink. I don’t know what is scarier, the thought of me installing a toliet by myself or the thought of having to sit on the couch, phone in hand while I dial 9-1 and wait for the screams before I hit the next 1. I’m thinking about having a Housewarming Party in my bathroom, providing I can clean up the blood in time.
To celebrate the possible demise of my husband by toliet, I give you a video:
(I SOOOO want to learn to do the robot.)
My relationship with Ben’s father has improved significantly over the years, which makes my life easier in many ways. No longer do I have to (constantly) bite my tongue while he insults me and my life, and aside from the occasional jab (comment today: “Wow, you still don’t dress to match, do you?”) life has become quite peaceful.
There are some things you just don’t think about when you find yourself unmarried and pregnant. Deep down in there, I think that I always knew that Nat and I would never, ever get married, mainly because he does happen to be a douche bag, but even after the whole “we didn’t get much SLEEPING done, Becky” fiasco, I wanted to give things a chance, if not for me then for my unborn babe. It was a battle royale, for sure, but I gave in and Ben’s last name matched his father’s (but his middle name is my maiden name). So on time marched. I got used to (but always hated) the accidental Mrs. Ben’s Last Name that I would get now and then, but things were all right.
Then school began. Suddenly birthday party invites would arrive at my house bearing Ben’s name with the postmasters scrawl next to it: ‘Here?’ they read. And then I got mad. Stark raving mad. Why is it fair that Ben get HIS last name when *we* were the parents scheduling doctors appointments, dentist appointments, and taking him there? (As an aside, each and every time that Ben has attempted to call Daver “Daddy Dave” Nat has become livid. He wants the glory without the responsibility which infuriates me).
The straw that broke the camel’s back arrived when I informed Nat of when Back to School night is, to which he replied “I’m not going. It was boring last time.” This on the heels of him not showing up to ANY of Ben’s school functions like Open House or Kindergarten Graduation, even after he promised to do so.
Boiling point reached. I called the school and informed them that Ben’s new last name would be a hypenation of His Last Name-My Last Name. As far as the Social Security office would be concerned, nothing had changed, but now, the postmaster will have no more doubts.
Ah, the things I wish I could inform those who get pregnant out of wedlock…see, as a baby none of this matters. It’s only as the years pass that it becomes a “God, I wish I’d not given in.”
And as for me, I am completely aware of the Battle Extrodinaire that will ensue from this, providing Nat ever notices, and for once, I feel perfectly justified.
Alex is on what the experts call a “nursing strike,” and despite my conflicted emotions about breastfeeding in general (I love it most of the time, but sometimes I do hate it) I am literally wracked with guilt.
Ah, guilt, the other primary emotion of motherhood. Guilt, guilt, guilt. What did I do wrong? How is my body failing me? Etc, etc, etc. Maybe it’s not strictly a maternal thing, though, maybe some father’s experience it as well, I’m not sure. I married a man who, God love him, is quick to reassure me that things that happen to or with either of our children cannot be classified as my fault, nor are they his fault. It’s meant to be sweet, of course, and most of the time it is, but sometimes there is a more banal part of myself that wants to scream at him that “YES, *I* did this to our kids! It’s MY fault that I cannot find a Mead ™ brand red plastic covered 3 subject notebook!!!” It’s not rational and it’s not fair, which is why I bite my tongue.
It’s interesting to note that ANYTHING that I did with/to Ben as a baby was my fault in Nat’s eyes. It was MY fault that Ben didn’t breastfeed (although it was later determined that Ben cannot stand to be touched); Ben was screamy because *I* decided to try solids on him too early, the icecaps are melting because I dared to not listen to NPR on an hourly basis. He was always convinced of my guilt before I even did whatever it was that I was to feel guilty about, although I never once saw him guilty about anything that he did.
Maybe it’s just me, then. Having grown the daughter of a bipolar alcoholic does happen to make a person rather guilt ridden. I’ve been known to feel guilty about things that I have had absolutely no control over. Take September 11, 2001, which was approximately 3 weeks after Ben was born: I FELT GUILTY ABOUT BRINGING BEN INTO THE WORLD DURING SUCH A TIME, as though I’d have been able to predict that would happen while unintentionally getting pregnant. Today, one of the cats pissed in the living room. I felt guilty about that, obviously I wasn’t fit to be the parent to the furbabies. I finished priming the bathroom last night and this morning I noticed that the walls were nowhere as smooth as I’d have liked them to be, especially considering the labor I put into them. This made me feel guilty.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t sit around prostrate with grief (although if I were prostrate with grief, I doubt I’d be sitting, I’d probably be laying somewhere dramatically) day in and day out. Overall, I’m pretty well-hinged and even tempered (somewhere, Dave is laughing silently, while weeping), but situations like this nursing strike tend to make me feel overly guilty about something outside of my control. He’s teething, the rational part of my mind screams, get over it, he’ll be back on the nip soon enough. Then I google “nursing strike” and Dr. Google reminds me that it’s somehow my fault that he’s not nursing: I’ve been drinking too much coffee, I’ve been eating something he doesn’t like, I’ve been snorting too much blow.
Seriously, 90% of material about pregnancy, breastfeeding and parenting place the blame for most poor behavior, including that of newborn infants squarely on the mother, which is interesting, because last I checked, children have a biological father somewhere, too, even if he’s not in the picture. He is, apparently, never to blame for anything whatsoever. I suppose that reading that kind of shit just reinforces what is inborn to mothers: you are to blame for most everything that goes wrong with your child.
I don’t know about all of this. All that I do know is that I am terribly, ridiculously sad right now.