Long story for another post, but we will be heading back to DC sometime in 2014 (hopefully summer). I'm late to the bidding game and I'm trying to make it all work now, but I find myself ultimately unapologetic for ignoring the HR aspects of my job.
My husband is in Afghanistan.
My son is awash in school and therapy and sensory-seeking extracurriculars.
My daughter is a pip who, for the first time, isn't constantly being overshadowed by all that is her brother.
For once I am not taking a work call in my office with a sick kid screaming in the background. I'm not taking a work call at home while putting PJs on an exhausted toddler. I speak to my child's teacher every. single. day. I volunteer in his class once a week.
I'm not apologizing.
This LWOP undoubtedly dinged my career a bit and, given my very strong bent toward ridiculously competitive and the Foreign Service's emphasis on ridiculously competitive, that's a bit hard to swallow.
I'm not apologizing.
With any luck, this year plus in Colorado will make it less likely that I'll be scrambling for childcare for my suspended child. It will make it slightly less likely that I'll be blamed for putting his needs on the backburner for too many years. (I say slightly less likely, because I'm not naive enough to think my children won't blame me for most things.)
I am not apologizing.
I have to keep telling myself that.
On that note, before I delve into the logistical nightmare of bidding on short notice with no access to the State system and a number of timing issues, I am going to focus on Boy, and what we find to be helpful, as there may be another stressed parent of a high-needs pugilist out there.
Here's what we've tried:
Hoping it will just go away: FAIL.
Soccer: FAIL. Boy was quite good at soccer, but couldn't handle the sensory input of a gaggle of kids rushing toward him and a ball and a whistle. There were tears more often than not.
Swimming: WIN. Did you know Boy can freestyle across a small pool? He can. He could not do that a few months ago. The first time we took him to a pool this summer, he screamed and pantsed himself because he didn't like the sensation of wet swim trunks grabbing his legs. So we went to SwimLabs (for FS families: they have a location in Vienna, VA!). The pools are small, very warm, and have an adjustable current. They also have a small class size (max 4) and a camera with monitors in the waiting room for parents and in the corners in the lab. Even at Boy's young age, teachers discuss technique with their students using video footage.
Gymnastics: WIN. For sensory seeking kids, the jumping, climbing, pushing, rolling is heaven. It helps that Boy's teacher is a middle-aged tough guy. Boy relates to that well.
Group Behavioral Therapy: WIN. Boy has been going to a school skills group for several months now, and has a vocabulary and context for discussing things that do not come naturally to him, not even in the slightest. Body space, volume, sharing, conflict resolution: it's all been invaluable.
Sensory Camp: WIN. Boy attended sensory camp this summer. He learned about body speed and control and I learned about intervention techniques. He's always used a weighted blanket, and indeed one is in his classroom for him when he flips out, but they expanded my toolkit to include a variety of deep pressure techniques.
IEP Process: We'll see? The special education coordinator needs six weeks to monitor his academic progress and his classroom behavior, and then we jump knee deep into meetings upon meetings with the nurse, psychologist, occupational therapist, speech therapist, the works. Best case scenario is he no longer qualifies for an IEP because all the rest is working. That would be great, but I'm not holding my breath.
LEGO club: WIN. Boy does LEGO Engineering after school once a week. He is exhausted when he's done, but he is so genuinely enthusiastic to have 90 minutes when he just excels, no qualifiers. He is a savant of building, and he needs that weekly success.
Kindergarten: WIN (so far). Oh, oh, oh. How thankful I am that we are back. There was no good kindergarten option for him in Estonia--he's too high needs. He's one of the youngest in his class--if not the youngest--but he's already taking off academically. He went from writing only a few of his letters to writing sentences and starting books in about four weeks. His teacher runs that classroom so tightly it's a bit intimidating, but it's what he needs. He needs rigid boundaries, constant assignments, and a challenge. I've volunteered a number of times, and I am almost always shocked at how on task he is. "On Task" isn't normal on Boy's resume. He's easier at home, he's proud of his work, and he's simply rising to the occasion.
To be clear, he's already been sent to the principal's office. But only once!
I worried at first about overloading his schedule. He wakes up so early (4:44 this morning) and is so frenetic that he's beat by 6:45 most nights. He is responding well to physical, individual activities that meet his sensory needs. He enjoys having a club where he is a star (and I enjoy outsourcing complex LEGO projects, because that's not on my resume). His iPad time chart has been changed to reward good behavior at school. I'm afraid to jinx myself, but after a year of this, we should be set.
I am not apologizing.
Showing posts with label Working motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Working motherhood. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Metro Revisited
I sat in the handicapped seats, suitcase between my knees, trying to remain out of everyone's way and keep a continuous scan going in case someone with a legitimate need for the handicapped seats showed up. The metro was filled with metro sounds--on a June Saturday that's usually kids and their parents, the sounds of fanny packs planning outings to the Smithsonian. The first stop after I got on was National Airport, and my neighbors glanced first expectantly and then in confusion at my suitcase as I remain seated. I stayed there, headphones in, picking up the ambient noise in between songs on my playlist. I was hunched over, hand cautiously on the suitcase, arm tattooed, nose ring in. No wedding ring on. It occurred to me in that moment that people might make certain assumptions about me: probably that I was younger than I am (thanks, Muse Salon), that I was aimless. I wanted to hold a sign announcing that I am a mother, a diplomat, that this is my one chance to have headphones in, and that on another Saturday two years ago I would have brought my own roiling cacophony onto the train, also headed to the Smithsonian while wondering why my day off felt like so much work. No fanny pack, though. No tattoos yet.
I paid inordinate attention to the landscape in front and then below us when the plane took off from Denver. The front range stretched before me, snow marking the famous fourteeners. The dips and marks of the ground stayed within view for several thousands of feet. God's own country, no doubt. I felt in awe and thankful that--for now, anyway--I can call this place home.
Coming in over the Potomac pulled a different string. Washington always was and always will be my true north. I saw the neat rows of headstones in Arlington and the glittering water and placed a tick mark in the D.C.'s pro column. I stepped into an immediate soup of humidity--not bad by local standards but brutal after a few months in Colorado. One tick in the con.
Friends, acquaintances, classmates, alums wanted to know where my brood was, and I answer that they were in Denver. I'd loved to have shown them off, but I was relieved to have my headphones in, to process the whats and the what nexts on my own. We video-chatted in the middle of a reunion event, Girl blowing raspberries and Boy inserting "poop" between words. I bought a new Georgetown shirt. I lamented the removal of the my favorite tree, the one that I would climb instead of attending Western Civ. I wondered if I would ever step foot in FSI again, if I would ever write another EER, if I would ever keep up with the amazingly talented people I know and love from college. I wondered if I wanted to keep up.
And then No Diggity came on, and I danced. A lot. Class of 2003: Word.
I paid inordinate attention to the landscape in front and then below us when the plane took off from Denver. The front range stretched before me, snow marking the famous fourteeners. The dips and marks of the ground stayed within view for several thousands of feet. God's own country, no doubt. I felt in awe and thankful that--for now, anyway--I can call this place home.
Coming in over the Potomac pulled a different string. Washington always was and always will be my true north. I saw the neat rows of headstones in Arlington and the glittering water and placed a tick mark in the D.C.'s pro column. I stepped into an immediate soup of humidity--not bad by local standards but brutal after a few months in Colorado. One tick in the con.
Friends, acquaintances, classmates, alums wanted to know where my brood was, and I answer that they were in Denver. I'd loved to have shown them off, but I was relieved to have my headphones in, to process the whats and the what nexts on my own. We video-chatted in the middle of a reunion event, Girl blowing raspberries and Boy inserting "poop" between words. I bought a new Georgetown shirt. I lamented the removal of the my favorite tree, the one that I would climb instead of attending Western Civ. I wondered if I would ever step foot in FSI again, if I would ever write another EER, if I would ever keep up with the amazingly talented people I know and love from college. I wondered if I wanted to keep up.
And then No Diggity came on, and I danced. A lot. Class of 2003: Word.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
UT: A Progress Report
This is not our first shot an unaccompanied tour. Last time Husband was in Iraq, Boy and I in India. That set-up had its own challenges, not least of which that was after, er, R&R number two, I was pregnant, working full time, parenting a toddler solo and, oh yeah, in India.
This UT is completely different, and more akin to those faced by most Foreign Service families. One spouse is employed in a warzone, the other is managing the rest of life divorced from OpenNet and any other resources that keep you connected to the Department. As an employee, I've watched my bidding season come and go, and unless someone can churn up a FS position at the closest passport agency (which I'd happily take), I'll likely watch the next come and go as well. We have no idea what resources Boy will need in school next year, so we are in no position to say whether we can go overseas again or whether we can both work full-time in Washington. There are a lot of question marks still, a theme of recent times.
So, three months in, with the first R&R halfway over, where are we? I am still on LWOP, Husband is still assigned to Afghanistan. His professional life is in flux, due to the crossroads of drawdown and tragedy, and therefore has some unanticipated stressors. I miss my work and colleagues. I miss seeing adults. I don't miss the panicked rush to find childcare or the always marriage-enhancing game of Who Is More Important at Work Today? when the kids are suddenly sick. I don't miss the chaos of getting two kids to separate schools for their ten hour days, then taking separate cars to pick them up so we can get both of them in the narrow window between the end of the work day and the end of their school hours. I don't miss taking phone calls from Washington while trying to dress a screaming, exhausted toddler for bedtime. I don't miss the guilt when we explain that no, both of us can't be at a 6:00 a.m. event because someone has to feed our children, dress them, and get them to school.
On the flip side, at home I'm on all the time. No adult comes to rescue me (except for some awesome aunts*). No one takes duty calls. Boy wakes up by 5:30 (before 5:00 for the past week), and because Girl sleeps later and naps, she doesn't go down until 7:30 or even 8:00 some nights. I put in 14 hour days of full-on parenting more often than not, and follow them up with dishes and laundry. The extent of my adult interaction is some local family members (oh thank Jeebus*) and the great people at the gym. Coincidentally, I'm at the gym A LOT. Well, a lot for me. They have a daycare there and I lose weight. Everyone wins.
I've mastered ___________ to the extent it will ever be mastered. [Choices: Grocery shopping with two kids; Cleaning the house with two kids; Mowing the lawn with two kids; All of the above.]
I quickly learned that the only way to slow the inevitable losing of my mind was to insist that the children help with everything they can. Boy helps with laundry. Girl helps unload the dishwasher. Both dust. Boy cleans up his Legos every night. Girl helps put away toys in the playroom. Boy buckles himself into his carseat. They can both feed the pets. Boy lets the dog in and out. These are little things, but they make me feel like it is slightly less all on me.
I fill out paperwork and add Boy to waitlist after waitlist. Socialization groups, behavioral therapy, IEPs. We're waiting.
Denver was the right choice for us, and a blog post is evolving in my mind reviewing Denver for families. That said, this is the first time I've lived in America, but not in DC or New York, so my friends seem so close and far at the same time. Luckily I jet to my college reunion in a few days. Thanks to Husband for holding down the fort. I want to see my people.
Oh, and I pierced my nose. Sorry, Dad! It won't stay in forever, just for LWOP. Promise.
*When we made the decision not to go to Washington, we flirted with the idea of Portland or Austin. Thankfully flirting was all it was, because without the family that's here I would have been up a sad, frustrating creek. And all our stuff would still be in boxes.
This UT is completely different, and more akin to those faced by most Foreign Service families. One spouse is employed in a warzone, the other is managing the rest of life divorced from OpenNet and any other resources that keep you connected to the Department. As an employee, I've watched my bidding season come and go, and unless someone can churn up a FS position at the closest passport agency (which I'd happily take), I'll likely watch the next come and go as well. We have no idea what resources Boy will need in school next year, so we are in no position to say whether we can go overseas again or whether we can both work full-time in Washington. There are a lot of question marks still, a theme of recent times.
So, three months in, with the first R&R halfway over, where are we? I am still on LWOP, Husband is still assigned to Afghanistan. His professional life is in flux, due to the crossroads of drawdown and tragedy, and therefore has some unanticipated stressors. I miss my work and colleagues. I miss seeing adults. I don't miss the panicked rush to find childcare or the always marriage-enhancing game of Who Is More Important at Work Today? when the kids are suddenly sick. I don't miss the chaos of getting two kids to separate schools for their ten hour days, then taking separate cars to pick them up so we can get both of them in the narrow window between the end of the work day and the end of their school hours. I don't miss taking phone calls from Washington while trying to dress a screaming, exhausted toddler for bedtime. I don't miss the guilt when we explain that no, both of us can't be at a 6:00 a.m. event because someone has to feed our children, dress them, and get them to school.
On the flip side, at home I'm on all the time. No adult comes to rescue me (except for some awesome aunts*). No one takes duty calls. Boy wakes up by 5:30 (before 5:00 for the past week), and because Girl sleeps later and naps, she doesn't go down until 7:30 or even 8:00 some nights. I put in 14 hour days of full-on parenting more often than not, and follow them up with dishes and laundry. The extent of my adult interaction is some local family members (oh thank Jeebus*) and the great people at the gym. Coincidentally, I'm at the gym A LOT. Well, a lot for me. They have a daycare there and I lose weight. Everyone wins.
I've mastered ___________ to the extent it will ever be mastered. [Choices: Grocery shopping with two kids; Cleaning the house with two kids; Mowing the lawn with two kids; All of the above.]
I quickly learned that the only way to slow the inevitable losing of my mind was to insist that the children help with everything they can. Boy helps with laundry. Girl helps unload the dishwasher. Both dust. Boy cleans up his Legos every night. Girl helps put away toys in the playroom. Boy buckles himself into his carseat. They can both feed the pets. Boy lets the dog in and out. These are little things, but they make me feel like it is slightly less all on me.
I fill out paperwork and add Boy to waitlist after waitlist. Socialization groups, behavioral therapy, IEPs. We're waiting.
Denver was the right choice for us, and a blog post is evolving in my mind reviewing Denver for families. That said, this is the first time I've lived in America, but not in DC or New York, so my friends seem so close and far at the same time. Luckily I jet to my college reunion in a few days. Thanks to Husband for holding down the fort. I want to see my people.
Oh, and I pierced my nose. Sorry, Dad! It won't stay in forever, just for LWOP. Promise.
*When we made the decision not to go to Washington, we flirted with the idea of Portland or Austin. Thankfully flirting was all it was, because without the family that's here I would have been up a sad, frustrating creek. And all our stuff would still be in boxes.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
She's Here Too
Boy seems to be getting all the attention in this space, no? That could extend to other spaces as well, although Boy would probably point out that he gets all the negative attention. He wouldn't be wrong on our worst days. The Service gets almost no attention at all. I don't know what to say. I'm not used to thinking about the Department from the outside. Husband missed being in the wrong place and the very wrong time a month ago, but the officer in me reminds myself that we never know when the wrong place and the wrong time were a misplaced set of keys, a search for a purse, a last minute phone call away from striking us. Here in Denver. There in Kandahar. Maybe I'm a fatalist, but the other option is to obsess over all the things that could be happening to him at this very moment, and that doesn't seem like a wise choice either.
Girl, though, is here and well and is blooming in that way that nearly-two-and-a-half year old children do. Everyday she's more the child, less the baby. I don't know precisely when it happened, but she became the Great Communicator, mimicking everyone (for better or worse) and verbalizing her needs and wants (trust me: for better or worse). We are starting potty training, though we are still on that awesome stage where she tells me she needs the potty the second pee starts puddling on the floor. Nailed it! Today she made it to the bathroom three times, so we are making progress. In the meantime, she's nothing short of hilarious.
She's mastered the preteen Awww. The one that follows your announcement that no, she cannot play outside because it's bath time or no she cannot have a cookie. Awww.
She calls me by my first name.
She's mastered the preteen histrionics. I no want to take a nap. I no take a nap ever. I no do it. Not ever. (Followed almost immediately by a three hour nap.)
Our bedtime routine goes likes this:
Lights out.
Girl: Cuddle me! For one minute!
Me: Okay, but then I have to go clean. [often not true]
(a couple of minutes later)
Me: Okay, Girl, I have to clean now [still not true]. I love you.
Girl: I love you too. I see you in the mornin'!
Me: Sweet dreams.
Girl: Sweet dreams!
Me: Thank you, Girl.
Girl: Oh, you're welcome!
She's made a little friend across the street. Her friend speaks only Spanish; Girl only English, save for the occasional Mis on? or kampsun. They get along great, seeking refuge from the stressors of older brothers.
Only a month or two after calling every color blue, she's mastered the rainbow, showing her grandparents via Skype Candyland cards as they request a hue. Green pink blue red orange, they say. Okay, I try to, she says. Nails it. This time for real.
Girl really isn't ignored. She gets much more attention than she did when I was working. If we have to spend 15 hours a week focusing on Boy's, er, challenges, then we do that even if we only have 20 waking hours with Girl. But now I have all the time in the world. Not all the patience, not all the energy, and not all the confidence, but all the time. And I don't worry anyway, because I know when she's feeling a bit left out, she'll burst in the bathroom and when I ask for privacy, she'll shake her head.
No, I just want to watch.
Kids. If they weren't cute, they'd be total creepers.
Girl, though, is here and well and is blooming in that way that nearly-two-and-a-half year old children do. Everyday she's more the child, less the baby. I don't know precisely when it happened, but she became the Great Communicator, mimicking everyone (for better or worse) and verbalizing her needs and wants (trust me: for better or worse). We are starting potty training, though we are still on that awesome stage where she tells me she needs the potty the second pee starts puddling on the floor. Nailed it! Today she made it to the bathroom three times, so we are making progress. In the meantime, she's nothing short of hilarious.
She's mastered the preteen Awww. The one that follows your announcement that no, she cannot play outside because it's bath time or no she cannot have a cookie. Awww.
She calls me by my first name.
She's mastered the preteen histrionics. I no want to take a nap. I no take a nap ever. I no do it. Not ever. (Followed almost immediately by a three hour nap.)
Our bedtime routine goes likes this:
Lights out.
Girl: Cuddle me! For one minute!
Me: Okay, but then I have to go clean. [often not true]
(a couple of minutes later)
Me: Okay, Girl, I have to clean now [still not true]. I love you.
Girl: I love you too. I see you in the mornin'!
Me: Sweet dreams.
Girl: Sweet dreams!
Me: Thank you, Girl.
Girl: Oh, you're welcome!
She's made a little friend across the street. Her friend speaks only Spanish; Girl only English, save for the occasional Mis on? or kampsun. They get along great, seeking refuge from the stressors of older brothers.
Only a month or two after calling every color blue, she's mastered the rainbow, showing her grandparents via Skype Candyland cards as they request a hue. Green pink blue red orange, they say. Okay, I try to, she says. Nails it. This time for real.
Girl really isn't ignored. She gets much more attention than she did when I was working. If we have to spend 15 hours a week focusing on Boy's, er, challenges, then we do that even if we only have 20 waking hours with Girl. But now I have all the time in the world. Not all the patience, not all the energy, and not all the confidence, but all the time. And I don't worry anyway, because I know when she's feeling a bit left out, she'll burst in the bathroom and when I ask for privacy, she'll shake her head.
No, I just want to watch.
Kids. If they weren't cute, they'd be total creepers.
 |
| Boy makes bubbles. Girl catches bubbles. |
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Falling Short
Boy opened the front door yesterday to throw out his apple core, "so the bugs can eat it," and I added a compost pile to my growing list of domestic aspirations. Like many Washingtonians, I strive to overachieve, and though I fall short regularly and spectacularly, I cannot stop pinning DIY detergents and fabric organizers and memory books.
When Husband and I were debating how best to handle this massive shift to one stay-at-home parent, he told me that I needed to direct his ambition. That he was going to be ambitious was a given, but I had to tell him whether I wanted him to have career ambition or stay-at-home-dad ambition. I am similar, and so I strive to can, and sew, and generally make a home.
I haven't added "grow kale" to my list, but I figure with a sleeve of tattoos and at least one bird-print dress, I'm one pin away from growing some in a repurposed crate. I know my children will eye a kale smoothie with intense skepticism, as would I, but it seems to be what I should be aiming for, so aim I shall.
It would be great if I could pretend that's not how this ambition works, that I'm not competitive with myself and the world, but that would be a lie and you all would know it, so let's just dispense with such notions now.
Stepping back from the Service is harder than I thought it would be. I squeezed in a few precious minutes to read the Washington Post the other day, and as I read "Secretary Kerry" over and over again it hit me that the Department moves on without me. His first day was my last, and that was just one of many changes that will surely come. I know when I return the software will be different, the procedures will be different, and--possibly--immigration and nationality law in itself could be different. My friends and colleagues will be promoted over me. We are an intensely competitive service, staffed with people who genuinely like their work and each other, but who all aspire to superstar status. I am that way by nature, but I've had to step back for my kids. Even if Boy were your average child, I can't work 14 hour days with two small kids at home and a husband with a full-time job. So I end up in a life were I spend most of my day giving not-quite-enough at the office, and the rest of it giving not-nearly-enough at home. It's tough on your soul.
I'm hoping to enjoy this break from paid employment, however long it will be, as a break from the pressure and competition and, in my case, the omnipresent sense of inadequacy. I am still me, though, and as I finished re-upholstering our dining room chairs, I put out a cloth and called the kids over to paint embroidery hoops for Girl's room (pictures will soon explain). I whipped up some pumpkin bread this morning, and after the kids wake up from their nap, my mom and I will caravan to the other side of the city to pick up some great mid-century modern vintage vinyl chairs for my porch. I joined the local food co-op this morning, I bought kids chalk for their new chalkboard wall, and I even took a shower. It sounds great, right? I'm somewhat productive, I'm nesting, and I'm even clean.
All I can think is I haven't planted any kale and I haven't been anybody's staff assistant. And so my list keeps growing, passing aspirational and approaching delusional, as I calculate not how I can have it all, but how I can do it all. I'm still hoping that some day, in some way, I'll finally walk on water.
When Husband and I were debating how best to handle this massive shift to one stay-at-home parent, he told me that I needed to direct his ambition. That he was going to be ambitious was a given, but I had to tell him whether I wanted him to have career ambition or stay-at-home-dad ambition. I am similar, and so I strive to can, and sew, and generally make a home.
I haven't added "grow kale" to my list, but I figure with a sleeve of tattoos and at least one bird-print dress, I'm one pin away from growing some in a repurposed crate. I know my children will eye a kale smoothie with intense skepticism, as would I, but it seems to be what I should be aiming for, so aim I shall.
It would be great if I could pretend that's not how this ambition works, that I'm not competitive with myself and the world, but that would be a lie and you all would know it, so let's just dispense with such notions now.
Stepping back from the Service is harder than I thought it would be. I squeezed in a few precious minutes to read the Washington Post the other day, and as I read "Secretary Kerry" over and over again it hit me that the Department moves on without me. His first day was my last, and that was just one of many changes that will surely come. I know when I return the software will be different, the procedures will be different, and--possibly--immigration and nationality law in itself could be different. My friends and colleagues will be promoted over me. We are an intensely competitive service, staffed with people who genuinely like their work and each other, but who all aspire to superstar status. I am that way by nature, but I've had to step back for my kids. Even if Boy were your average child, I can't work 14 hour days with two small kids at home and a husband with a full-time job. So I end up in a life were I spend most of my day giving not-quite-enough at the office, and the rest of it giving not-nearly-enough at home. It's tough on your soul.
I'm hoping to enjoy this break from paid employment, however long it will be, as a break from the pressure and competition and, in my case, the omnipresent sense of inadequacy. I am still me, though, and as I finished re-upholstering our dining room chairs, I put out a cloth and called the kids over to paint embroidery hoops for Girl's room (pictures will soon explain). I whipped up some pumpkin bread this morning, and after the kids wake up from their nap, my mom and I will caravan to the other side of the city to pick up some great mid-century modern vintage vinyl chairs for my porch. I joined the local food co-op this morning, I bought kids chalk for their new chalkboard wall, and I even took a shower. It sounds great, right? I'm somewhat productive, I'm nesting, and I'm even clean.
All I can think is I haven't planted any kale and I haven't been anybody's staff assistant. And so my list keeps growing, passing aspirational and approaching delusional, as I calculate not how I can have it all, but how I can do it all. I'm still hoping that some day, in some way, I'll finally walk on water.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Being Half of Something
Praise Jeebus, I have internet. My eyes and fingertips were near death following a few weeks of ferocious iPhone-ing. As of today I had used 90% of my monthly data allowance (with two weeks to go), mostly Facetiming Husband, who is in Fakistan, aka Indianastan, aka Fake Afghanistan. Hashtag FirstWorldProblems HashtagOhMyGodThisIsntTwitterStopHashtagging.
We bought a house. I signed a lot of documents, twice. They didn't like my finely-honed squiggle of a signature, so I had to write out my full name, and Husband's Full Name by My Full Name as Attorney-in-Fact, about a million times. Still easier than getting my TSP password. HashtagFedProblems HashtagStopIt.
Observations about Denver: WHERE HAVE ALL THE CYNICS GONE. East Coasters please come visit. Also: seriously, they talk about the powder on the radio. The local weather has a segment just for skiing conditions. I'm fairly certain a genuine Mountain Man was driving the luggage truck when we arrived at the airport. Pony sightings: zero, but I still have high hopes. Unlike Mumbai, there are no cattle in the street, but there are cattle in every other advertisement. These people love their beer.
Observations about being a homeowner: Window coverings are hugely expensive and you'll have never seen the price tag coming. Your happiest day will not be closing, but the day internet is installed. Buying a loft bed for your son to preserve usable space in his small room is smart. Adding a slide (yes, really) to it negates the space savings. Don't worry, he can slide into the closet (yes, really). Even if you are just putting up a swatch of paint to test the color, put tape on your moulding.
Observations about the SAHM transition: I almost can't think about my career right now. It's like a break up with someone you love intensely, but you know you can't make it work. Put the blinders on and move forward, lest you become overwhelmed with self-doubt. I'll tackle the Having It All and Doing It All and Being It All or Being Half of Something another day.
Observations about The Children: They both speak with Estonglish grammar, meaning slightly Yoda-like. I thought Girl couldn't count, but turns out she just can't count in English (well, she can, but she starts with five and can only get to eight). She'll easily do an üks, kaks, kolm, neli, viis, kuus, seitse, kümme. Yes, Estonian speakers, she does all that in a perfect Estonian accent, but she still skips eight and nine because they make no freaking sense. Even Girl knows this.
Observations about the Menagerie: Out of the clink and pretty well adjusted. The cats are troopers and expert travelers, and the dog is just too dog-like to get overworked about being in a new place.
As I tackle the main project here, which is Boy, I'll share some of the highs and lows and what works and what doesn't, but I'm trying to do so in a way that protects his privacy. I hope against hope that someday the outbursts and pugilism and mood swings will be unrecognizable behaviors, but I don't want him to stumble across this a few years down the road and think for half a second that I only focused on what's wrong. There's a lot right with him, and I will share that too. That is a narrow and difficult line to walk, but with time I will figure it out.
Onward.
We bought a house. I signed a lot of documents, twice. They didn't like my finely-honed squiggle of a signature, so I had to write out my full name, and Husband's Full Name by My Full Name as Attorney-in-Fact, about a million times. Still easier than getting my TSP password. HashtagFedProblems HashtagStopIt.
Observations about Denver: WHERE HAVE ALL THE CYNICS GONE. East Coasters please come visit. Also: seriously, they talk about the powder on the radio. The local weather has a segment just for skiing conditions. I'm fairly certain a genuine Mountain Man was driving the luggage truck when we arrived at the airport. Pony sightings: zero, but I still have high hopes. Unlike Mumbai, there are no cattle in the street, but there are cattle in every other advertisement. These people love their beer.
Observations about being a homeowner: Window coverings are hugely expensive and you'll have never seen the price tag coming. Your happiest day will not be closing, but the day internet is installed. Buying a loft bed for your son to preserve usable space in his small room is smart. Adding a slide (yes, really) to it negates the space savings. Don't worry, he can slide into the closet (yes, really). Even if you are just putting up a swatch of paint to test the color, put tape on your moulding.
Observations about the SAHM transition: I almost can't think about my career right now. It's like a break up with someone you love intensely, but you know you can't make it work. Put the blinders on and move forward, lest you become overwhelmed with self-doubt. I'll tackle the Having It All and Doing It All and Being It All or Being Half of Something another day.
Observations about The Children: They both speak with Estonglish grammar, meaning slightly Yoda-like. I thought Girl couldn't count, but turns out she just can't count in English (well, she can, but she starts with five and can only get to eight). She'll easily do an üks, kaks, kolm, neli, viis, kuus, seitse, kümme. Yes, Estonian speakers, she does all that in a perfect Estonian accent, but she still skips eight and nine because they make no freaking sense. Even Girl knows this.
Observations about the Menagerie: Out of the clink and pretty well adjusted. The cats are troopers and expert travelers, and the dog is just too dog-like to get overworked about being in a new place.
As I tackle the main project here, which is Boy, I'll share some of the highs and lows and what works and what doesn't, but I'm trying to do so in a way that protects his privacy. I hope against hope that someday the outbursts and pugilism and mood swings will be unrecognizable behaviors, but I don't want him to stumble across this a few years down the road and think for half a second that I only focused on what's wrong. There's a lot right with him, and I will share that too. That is a narrow and difficult line to walk, but with time I will figure it out.
Onward.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
The Transitive Vampire
I am coming up for air.
We made it to Colorado. In the Ledger of Good and Bad--as if it worked that way--it's a wash so far. Husband and I attempted to go out one last time on his final night in town, but between placing our order and the arrival of our margaritas, we got a call that Girl had woken up with a very high fever. Alas. Boy mostly recovered, but woke from a nap screaming with ear pain yesterday afternoon. I suppose congestion plus long flights resulted in too much trapped fluid and a proper ear infection.
On the plus side, fingers crossed we'll close on our house on Wednesday, two weeks early. This is great for many reasons, not least of which is our poor menagerie is languishing in a pet resort (I kid you not, that's what it's called). The kids and I visited yesterday, and young Dali was out of her mind with excitement. Incidentally, I put in an email to a dog trainer who does house calls. Best get started on that soonest.
Ho hum ho hum. Sick kids. Moving.
I'm forgetting something.
Oh yes! The utter fear! That's right. Minor detail, but I'm terrified. Today, as Boy yelled for the millionth time that he hates me more than anyone and tacked on the horrible claim that he hates himself too, I realized how long this road is going to be. I miss Husband, and it's only been a week. We've been married six years, and apart for over two of those. The past two and a half years is the longest continuous time we have lived in the same country and it was nice. I didn't only have my co-parent, I had my friend. A lunch buddy. Someone to watch TV with in the evening. Someone to share a bottle of wine and fret about the state of American politics. While of course we each traveled a fair bit in the past few years, it was never more than a couple weeks at a shot. Now I'm measuring out spoonfuls of time, one day on top of the next.
Boy told me he loves his dad best of all, which I knew. He apologized for yelling at me in Ikea, and matter-of-factly explained that he only did that because he doesn't like me very much. I don't really take this to heart--if you can't blame your mom for everything, who can you blame? It does wear on me a bit, though. In his more charming moments, he confesses that even when he says he hates me, he still loves me. I know that too. He explained that when he becomes a vampire bat--not if, when--he will not suck his family's blood, but rather will only suck the blood of other people's families.
If that's not love, I don't know what is.
We made it to Colorado. In the Ledger of Good and Bad--as if it worked that way--it's a wash so far. Husband and I attempted to go out one last time on his final night in town, but between placing our order and the arrival of our margaritas, we got a call that Girl had woken up with a very high fever. Alas. Boy mostly recovered, but woke from a nap screaming with ear pain yesterday afternoon. I suppose congestion plus long flights resulted in too much trapped fluid and a proper ear infection.
On the plus side, fingers crossed we'll close on our house on Wednesday, two weeks early. This is great for many reasons, not least of which is our poor menagerie is languishing in a pet resort (I kid you not, that's what it's called). The kids and I visited yesterday, and young Dali was out of her mind with excitement. Incidentally, I put in an email to a dog trainer who does house calls. Best get started on that soonest.
Ho hum ho hum. Sick kids. Moving.
I'm forgetting something.
Oh yes! The utter fear! That's right. Minor detail, but I'm terrified. Today, as Boy yelled for the millionth time that he hates me more than anyone and tacked on the horrible claim that he hates himself too, I realized how long this road is going to be. I miss Husband, and it's only been a week. We've been married six years, and apart for over two of those. The past two and a half years is the longest continuous time we have lived in the same country and it was nice. I didn't only have my co-parent, I had my friend. A lunch buddy. Someone to watch TV with in the evening. Someone to share a bottle of wine and fret about the state of American politics. While of course we each traveled a fair bit in the past few years, it was never more than a couple weeks at a shot. Now I'm measuring out spoonfuls of time, one day on top of the next.
Boy told me he loves his dad best of all, which I knew. He apologized for yelling at me in Ikea, and matter-of-factly explained that he only did that because he doesn't like me very much. I don't really take this to heart--if you can't blame your mom for everything, who can you blame? It does wear on me a bit, though. In his more charming moments, he confesses that even when he says he hates me, he still loves me. I know that too. He explained that when he becomes a vampire bat--not if, when--he will not suck his family's blood, but rather will only suck the blood of other people's families.
If that's not love, I don't know what is.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Time Management
We packed out last week. Husband and Boy were to take the dog to Colorado on Tuesday, and Girl and I were to follow with the cats on Wednesday. That didn't happen. OF COURSE.
I didn't have orders until early evening, Tuesday. OF COURSE. Too late to ship my car or confirm the ticket.
But more than that, Boy was in the hospital overnight on Tuesday. OF COURSE. Because that is how we do.
I could have sworn he had the flu, as he was the only one of us without the vaccine and had a crazy high fever (105.4 degrees, FTW). He didn't, but there is a virus circulating that mimics the flu in almost every way except there is no vaccine. At any rate, no more fever, but we do have a surly preschooler with a persistent cough. This might be warping into bronchitis, which means the next few weeks will be fun.
Husband and Girl and Dog left this morning and should be landing in Atlanta soon. Girl is healthy and was so excited to travel that she had an outright fit before bedtime last night. Somehow she was convinced that we were supposed to go to America right. then. and that Husband would leave without her. She was crying and kicking, screaming I wanna go Amurica! because it's just cuter that way. I finally persuaded her that the pilot wouldn't let her on if she didn't sleep. I then persuaded her that I couldn't stay in bed with her because I had to clean the kitchen. Total lie, of course. I had to split a bottle of wine with Husband and eat some cheese.
Boy and I leave tomorrow. In the meantime, he is asleep, as he has been for most of the day, and I amcleaning out all the glurge and leftover stuff from our house blogging.
I'd feel sad and liberated, stepping onto a whole new (temporary) trajectory toward stay-at-home-parenting, unencumbered by responsibilities at work. I still haven't finished my EER, though, so mostly I feel irritated and sad. Liberated will have to wait, if it ever comes.
I didn't have orders until early evening, Tuesday. OF COURSE. Too late to ship my car or confirm the ticket.
But more than that, Boy was in the hospital overnight on Tuesday. OF COURSE. Because that is how we do.
I could have sworn he had the flu, as he was the only one of us without the vaccine and had a crazy high fever (105.4 degrees, FTW). He didn't, but there is a virus circulating that mimics the flu in almost every way except there is no vaccine. At any rate, no more fever, but we do have a surly preschooler with a persistent cough. This might be warping into bronchitis, which means the next few weeks will be fun.
Husband and Girl and Dog left this morning and should be landing in Atlanta soon. Girl is healthy and was so excited to travel that she had an outright fit before bedtime last night. Somehow she was convinced that we were supposed to go to America right. then. and that Husband would leave without her. She was crying and kicking, screaming I wanna go Amurica! because it's just cuter that way. I finally persuaded her that the pilot wouldn't let her on if she didn't sleep. I then persuaded her that I couldn't stay in bed with her because I had to clean the kitchen. Total lie, of course. I had to split a bottle of wine with Husband and eat some cheese.
Boy and I leave tomorrow. In the meantime, he is asleep, as he has been for most of the day, and I am
I'd feel sad and liberated, stepping onto a whole new (temporary) trajectory toward stay-at-home-parenting, unencumbered by responsibilities at work. I still haven't finished my EER, though, so mostly I feel irritated and sad. Liberated will have to wait, if it ever comes.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Emotional Escrow...
...financial escrow.
Life is nuts right now, so let's throw a bunch of stuff at the wall, shall we?
First things first: Ankara. Digger's post over at Life After Jerusalem has gone a bit viral on Facebook, and deservedly so. She nails something that saddens me now and pained me (and others) throughout the Benghazi hullaballoo. For those of us in the field, the safety of American employees is not a higher priority than that of our local staff (in some respects Ambassador aside, for obvious reasons). We're all one team and--as is true in places that experience suicide bombings on regular places--security guards are often the first line of defense, and the most likely victims. Mourn Mustafa Akarsu, please.
Onto less important things: We beat a cash offer and are under contract. At our broker's urging, we wrote a letter explaining what that house would mean to us, and the seller supposedly liked it enough to go through the expense and time of closing on a very-much-so-not-cash deal.
TSP denied our loan for cash for down payment, etc. DENIED. And then, in that very TSP way, the only explanation online was a non-explanation. They sent the real explanation to our address on record, which will of course arrive long after we've left. You can call and ask, but you have to have your PIN, which we do not. This is not the same as your internet password, which we do have but can never lose, as that too will only be sent to your address on record. Why is it harder to get into your TSP account than it is to buy a gun?
At any rate, I'm hoping the problem was that I faxed the app multiple times, as I didn't get a confirmation sheet. This is my hunch, as an hour after it stated we were rejected, a second, newer message said we were in process. If that is the case, I'll bet you $50 they deducted the $50 application fee for each faxed application.
We have assignment notifications, but not orders. I may have to cost-construct to Denver, since as an employee on LWOP I'm assigned to Washington, though once I'm on LWOP, I'm entitled to ISMA as an EFM for all intents and purposes. Don't know! No one knows! This may actually be the first time this has happened (tandem, curtail, one to LWOP not-in-DC, other to Afghanistan, things to ship under both names, kids in there somewhere).
Boy was a bit distraught today packing up his Legos in order to prepare for packout. He doesn't want to leave Estonia. But just in case we're going to make him leave anyway, he put together a Polyvore with his ideal bedroom.
And somewhere, in all of this, I have moments of extreme sadness. I never thought I'd want to stay home with the kids (oomph, that sounds awful). It never occurred to me to do so until fairly recently, and even then it was appealing because it is just so difficult to help Boy from the office. Right now I plan to come back on duty, but we are open to the possibility that--should life work better in the U.S., should Boy do better with a parent home--we'll have to figure out how to make this change permanent. Chances are I'd end up working and Husband would stay home, at least for a while, but I don't know what I'll do for a living if I don't do this.
But! One step at a time. My suitcase is packed so it doesn't end up in a sea shipment, and it's filled with cardigans and knit jersey and leggings. Not a blazer in sight.
Life is nuts right now, so let's throw a bunch of stuff at the wall, shall we?
First things first: Ankara. Digger's post over at Life After Jerusalem has gone a bit viral on Facebook, and deservedly so. She nails something that saddens me now and pained me (and others) throughout the Benghazi hullaballoo. For those of us in the field, the safety of American employees is not a higher priority than that of our local staff (in some respects Ambassador aside, for obvious reasons). We're all one team and--as is true in places that experience suicide bombings on regular places--security guards are often the first line of defense, and the most likely victims. Mourn Mustafa Akarsu, please.
Onto less important things: We beat a cash offer and are under contract. At our broker's urging, we wrote a letter explaining what that house would mean to us, and the seller supposedly liked it enough to go through the expense and time of closing on a very-much-so-not-cash deal.
TSP denied our loan for cash for down payment, etc. DENIED. And then, in that very TSP way, the only explanation online was a non-explanation. They sent the real explanation to our address on record, which will of course arrive long after we've left. You can call and ask, but you have to have your PIN, which we do not. This is not the same as your internet password, which we do have but can never lose, as that too will only be sent to your address on record. Why is it harder to get into your TSP account than it is to buy a gun?
At any rate, I'm hoping the problem was that I faxed the app multiple times, as I didn't get a confirmation sheet. This is my hunch, as an hour after it stated we were rejected, a second, newer message said we were in process. If that is the case, I'll bet you $50 they deducted the $50 application fee for each faxed application.
We have assignment notifications, but not orders. I may have to cost-construct to Denver, since as an employee on LWOP I'm assigned to Washington, though once I'm on LWOP, I'm entitled to ISMA as an EFM for all intents and purposes. Don't know! No one knows! This may actually be the first time this has happened (tandem, curtail, one to LWOP not-in-DC, other to Afghanistan, things to ship under both names, kids in there somewhere).
Boy was a bit distraught today packing up his Legos in order to prepare for packout. He doesn't want to leave Estonia. But just in case we're going to make him leave anyway, he put together a Polyvore with his ideal bedroom.
And somewhere, in all of this, I have moments of extreme sadness. I never thought I'd want to stay home with the kids (oomph, that sounds awful). It never occurred to me to do so until fairly recently, and even then it was appealing because it is just so difficult to help Boy from the office. Right now I plan to come back on duty, but we are open to the possibility that--should life work better in the U.S., should Boy do better with a parent home--we'll have to figure out how to make this change permanent. Chances are I'd end up working and Husband would stay home, at least for a while, but I don't know what I'll do for a living if I don't do this.
But! One step at a time. My suitcase is packed so it doesn't end up in a sea shipment, and it's filled with cardigans and knit jersey and leggings. Not a blazer in sight.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Thump
I've told anyone who would listen, and at least three who wouldn't, how I was certain I was going to have a heart attack today. Just fall over and that would be it. Why else would my left arm hurt, my heart thump wildly, my thoughts race?
I even walked into the nurse's office and declared Welp, sorry, probably going to die on you today. Don't worry, I'll make sure they call you. She offered me some magic drops that would do something magical, but considering I had decisions to make regarding border security and some of our taxpayers to meet that night, I declined. Seemed irresponsible to do otherwise.
We submitted an offer on a house tonight and we're awaiting the answer. So far this experience of trying to buy a house--our first--has felt uncannily like having a horse step on my chest. I've googled a lot of things about buying a house and while I'm proud I finally understand what escrow is (kinda), googling "horse stepping on chest" and "earnest money" yields few useful results.
In order to have the best chance of a successful offer, we wrote a letter to the property owner, per our excellent agent's request. It took me only a few minutes to tap out our reasons for the house. We've lived everywhere, we've lived together, we've lived apart. We have a child with special needs and Husband's going to Afghanistan. We need sun and support and a community. Please please please take our offer.
So we'll see. We have no orders, no firm flight plans. Boy is hanging in there, though last week he came home from school and declared that he bit "lots of people." Today, though, we learned that he drew this:
During his IQ test in Baltimore, the only task he performed only at the 4 year old level was drawing a person. I maintained it was because he doesn't actually like people and has no interest in drawing them. Check out his sense of perspective on the airplane. That little omega-looking thing is a mouse hole. Look closely and see a little tail and mouse bottom sticking out the right side. His cat is already better than mine.
No orders, no firm flight plans. But possibly a house, and definitely some hope.
I even walked into the nurse's office and declared Welp, sorry, probably going to die on you today. Don't worry, I'll make sure they call you. She offered me some magic drops that would do something magical, but considering I had decisions to make regarding border security and some of our taxpayers to meet that night, I declined. Seemed irresponsible to do otherwise.
We submitted an offer on a house tonight and we're awaiting the answer. So far this experience of trying to buy a house--our first--has felt uncannily like having a horse step on my chest. I've googled a lot of things about buying a house and while I'm proud I finally understand what escrow is (kinda), googling "horse stepping on chest" and "earnest money" yields few useful results.
In order to have the best chance of a successful offer, we wrote a letter to the property owner, per our excellent agent's request. It took me only a few minutes to tap out our reasons for the house. We've lived everywhere, we've lived together, we've lived apart. We have a child with special needs and Husband's going to Afghanistan. We need sun and support and a community. Please please please take our offer.
So we'll see. We have no orders, no firm flight plans. Boy is hanging in there, though last week he came home from school and declared that he bit "lots of people." Today, though, we learned that he drew this:
During his IQ test in Baltimore, the only task he performed only at the 4 year old level was drawing a person. I maintained it was because he doesn't actually like people and has no interest in drawing them. Check out his sense of perspective on the airplane. That little omega-looking thing is a mouse hole. Look closely and see a little tail and mouse bottom sticking out the right side. His cat is already better than mine.
No orders, no firm flight plans. But possibly a house, and definitely some hope.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Don't Know Nothin' 'Bout Nothin'
I grew up in Virginia--southern Virginia. Taaahdwahter. Well, that's partially true. I spent ages 8 to 18 there, but those are some pretty formative years.
I always attended Catholic school. Always. The habit was hard to break, so even grad school was a former Catholic college.
The nuns hated, absolutely hated, when we said "ain't." Which we did. A lot. It was a struggle to get me in shoes and to actually shower regularly.* My neighborhood friends and I spent our afternoons playing in the ditch that ran behind our cul-de-sac, catching tadpoles, minnows and snails, and not paying nearly enough attention to the location of water moccasins and--of slightly less concern--muskrats. Of course I said "ain't." My dad's dad, who lived in Chicago and wore a suit to church and on a plane and would never say "ain't," regularly accused me of being a downright hillbilly when I ran around the house barefoot.
I was always barefoot.
I started wearing paddock boots when I finally got to spend all my free time with horses.
This did not improve the condition of my feet.
I stopped riding horses when I went to college andI had to pay tuition and Georgetown rents instead of show fees my folks had to pay tuition and Georgetown rents instead of show fees, but I went back to being barefoot as much as possible, often while sitting in a tree. I lacked a certain gravitas. Still do, most days.
After college, I kicked my way to a black belt to alleviate stress, lose weight, and feel bad-ass. This did not improve the condition of my feet either.
Today Girl catches sight of my feet and points, exclaiming in horror, "Boo boo!" This tickles husband to no end, although that quickly ends when I punish him by putting my foot on him. Oh, the squeals! Delightful!
This was going somewhere.
Oh yes. Virginia to ain't to hillbilly to barefoot to horses to college to Tae Kwon Do to parenthood to Don't know nothin' 'bout nothin'. The nuns wouldn't have liked that one either, but it surely seems to apply as we navigate the purchase of our very first (as of yet unidentified) house. I would get into the specifics that confuse me, but I don't understand them so I can't.
In the meantime, I pop up to take a deep breath and realize the colossal reality shift we are about to experience. Husband will be back in a War Zone and I won't have to wear shoes. It seems so unfair for him and both so delightful and terrifying for me. Do I really have to do this all on my own? No housekeeper this time? Does he really have to Skype his kids every night? With a bigger time difference? Can we really just take a road trip to see our friends in Tucson? I mean: Can we really just find a pet sitter and then take a road trip to see our friends in Tucson?
Am I ruining Girl? Will she resent this some day? She reportedly stood at the door of her daycare this evening, waving goodbye to each child, declaring Homseni! ("Until tomorrow!") She loves school and is quite good at it.
On the other hand, she was the first child in and the last child out. That can't be good either.
I can't even begin to list the questions I have about Boy. I really hope I don't mess this up.
Oh, the opportunity costs. That's how I'll sum up all of this. Every single bit.
Oh, the opportunity costs.
*Pre-puberty. Figured it out in middle school. Unlearned it in parenthood.
I always attended Catholic school. Always. The habit was hard to break, so even grad school was a former Catholic college.
The nuns hated, absolutely hated, when we said "ain't." Which we did. A lot. It was a struggle to get me in shoes and to actually shower regularly.* My neighborhood friends and I spent our afternoons playing in the ditch that ran behind our cul-de-sac, catching tadpoles, minnows and snails, and not paying nearly enough attention to the location of water moccasins and--of slightly less concern--muskrats. Of course I said "ain't." My dad's dad, who lived in Chicago and wore a suit to church and on a plane and would never say "ain't," regularly accused me of being a downright hillbilly when I ran around the house barefoot.
I was always barefoot.
I started wearing paddock boots when I finally got to spend all my free time with horses.
This did not improve the condition of my feet.
I stopped riding horses when I went to college and
After college, I kicked my way to a black belt to alleviate stress, lose weight, and feel bad-ass. This did not improve the condition of my feet either.
Today Girl catches sight of my feet and points, exclaiming in horror, "Boo boo!" This tickles husband to no end, although that quickly ends when I punish him by putting my foot on him. Oh, the squeals! Delightful!
This was going somewhere.
Oh yes. Virginia to ain't to hillbilly to barefoot to horses to college to Tae Kwon Do to parenthood to Don't know nothin' 'bout nothin'. The nuns wouldn't have liked that one either, but it surely seems to apply as we navigate the purchase of our very first (as of yet unidentified) house. I would get into the specifics that confuse me, but I don't understand them so I can't.
In the meantime, I pop up to take a deep breath and realize the colossal reality shift we are about to experience. Husband will be back in a War Zone and I won't have to wear shoes. It seems so unfair for him and both so delightful and terrifying for me. Do I really have to do this all on my own? No housekeeper this time? Does he really have to Skype his kids every night? With a bigger time difference? Can we really just take a road trip to see our friends in Tucson? I mean: Can we really just find a pet sitter and then take a road trip to see our friends in Tucson?
Am I ruining Girl? Will she resent this some day? She reportedly stood at the door of her daycare this evening, waving goodbye to each child, declaring Homseni! ("Until tomorrow!") She loves school and is quite good at it.
On the other hand, she was the first child in and the last child out. That can't be good either.
I can't even begin to list the questions I have about Boy. I really hope I don't mess this up.
Oh, the opportunity costs. That's how I'll sum up all of this. Every single bit.
Oh, the opportunity costs.
*Pre-puberty. Figured it out in middle school. Unlearned it in parenthood.
Friday, January 11, 2013
On the Other Side
As we prepared to leave for our R&R a year ago, Boy's school said it might be good for him to have a few weeks away from the social pressure of group rules and norms. They were right. While our trip was never easy, really, we all breathed a little better. Some space and a lot of sun did Boy some good.
Somewhere during that trip, or shortly thereafter, we started wondering if we were doing this parenting thing all wrong. Was it worth it to drag our kids around the world? What would we do if we weren't dragging our kids around the world? I, for one, am completely unemployable in the private sector.
I love my job. I do. Along the way, though, I felt like I couldn't do it well or parent well or at least not both at the same time. A small doubt crept in and blossomed into surrender. I'm not cut out for this. Every other officer who is a parent makes it work. What's wrong with me?
Well, as the avalanche of articles on doing it all would attest: no, not every person makes it work. And, for better or worse, many Foreign Service families have one parent at home to work as the family manager and do the heavy lifting when life gets difficult.
We brainstormed and brainstormed, wondered how we could survive on one salary (what salary? at what job?) and eventually decided the best thing we could do is deal with it in summer 2014 as we left Tallinn. No need to rock the boat. Got some tattoos instead.
I made one mistake, though, which is assuming I'd have to seriously consider leaving the Foreign Service after Tallinn to care for my children.
Boy's medical clearance for Tallinn was revoked this week. We knew this was a possibility when MED sent us to Baltimore and we agreed with MED that we would do whatever we had to do to address his needs now, even if there were no viable options in Estonia. That email, though, sent me into a tailspin of guilt. I felt I let Post down, let all of working womanhood down (seriously, Rachel, get a grip), let my friends who are coming to Tallinn to replace Husband down. How? I don't know. By not being a better parent and solving this without turning the world upside down? I should file that under "Would if I Could."
Then, in a moment that was almost embarrassingly emotional, I felt more than anything that I've spent the past two years letting my son down. Buried under layers of guilt is an immense sense of relief: I can deal with this now, and in a way I couldn't if I had to work full time in a foreign country.
The kids and I will go the U.S., and Husband will go on another unaccompanied tour to allow us to do so. Turns out, if you email the Department in December and say you might not be able to stay at post because of your kid, but maybe you'll be able to stay at post, but you don't know so is there anything in AIP* available just in case?, they will find something in AIP.
I hated to tell our front office. I hated to tell Washington. I hated to tell our friends. To a one, they have all been supportive.
Here's the deal: this job is inherently not family-friendly. Potentially long hours, high pressure, lots of travel, increasing amounts of responsibility, no local support network. That's diplomacy, my friends! The Department, however, has shown itself to be incredibly family-friendly on this one. Let's be clear: this is inconvenient for everyone, and not cheap. No one has told us to do anything other than what works for the family. I thought I had to give up this career, but now I know I can hit pause and try again in a year or so. It's not ideal, but that's life. I'm thankful to everyone who has made it possible to be the mom I have to be, so I can ultimately be the employee I want to be.
And now to pack out.
*Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Title Goes Here
Before I get down to business, I am happy share Girl's new (and only) joke:
G: Knock knock.
Me: Who's there?
G: Diapers! [pronounced dia-puhs]
Me: Diapers who?
G: [belly laughs] Knock knock!
(and so it goes...)
Last year I dutifully came up with twelve resolutions for 2012. That was ambitious and ultimately completely unsuccessful. This follows the trend of the past couple decades of resolutions, so yea for consistency!
I can't come up with 13 resolutions this year. We have too many question marks. A million, per yesterday's accounting.
The good folks at MED and the good folks at the renowned Kennedy Krieger Institute in Baltimore managed to get Boy in for over a week of evaluations and therapy sessions. It's no small feat to get appointments at KKI in just a month and a half. We found out we were traveling only three days before we were wheels-up and we ended up extending our stay once we arrived.
It was excellent and I wish I could have stayed. The behavioral psych therapy sessions were a huge insight into his behavior and how to manage it, and I wish I had one a week or one a month to look forward to, so I could bring our frustrations and confusion to the therapist and have her guidance in developing solutions. We only scratched the surface.
What was clear is that it's going to take incredible consistency from all caregivers to see actual improvements. As promised, it's gotten worse before it's gotten better. In fact, we're still waiting for better.
What was also clear is that he is smart. We always knew that, but man. That kid smoked his development/IQ test. The developmental pediatrician said it's going to be critical to challenge him and for.the.love.of.God don't hold him back from kindergarten a year.
He turns five in August.
So there's a lot. I've only been in the office for 4.5 days since December 6th. I am so far from figuring out how to do right by Boy, do right by Girl, and do right by the Foreign Service that I'm running in circles trying to get started.
My only resolution for 2013 is to figure out what it is my kids need and to give it to them. Stay tuned.
G: Knock knock.
Me: Who's there?
G: Diapers! [pronounced dia-puhs]
Me: Diapers who?
G: [belly laughs] Knock knock!
(and so it goes...)
Last year I dutifully came up with twelve resolutions for 2012. That was ambitious and ultimately completely unsuccessful. This follows the trend of the past couple decades of resolutions, so yea for consistency!
I can't come up with 13 resolutions this year. We have too many question marks. A million, per yesterday's accounting.
The good folks at MED and the good folks at the renowned Kennedy Krieger Institute in Baltimore managed to get Boy in for over a week of evaluations and therapy sessions. It's no small feat to get appointments at KKI in just a month and a half. We found out we were traveling only three days before we were wheels-up and we ended up extending our stay once we arrived.
It was excellent and I wish I could have stayed. The behavioral psych therapy sessions were a huge insight into his behavior and how to manage it, and I wish I had one a week or one a month to look forward to, so I could bring our frustrations and confusion to the therapist and have her guidance in developing solutions. We only scratched the surface.
What was clear is that it's going to take incredible consistency from all caregivers to see actual improvements. As promised, it's gotten worse before it's gotten better. In fact, we're still waiting for better.
What was also clear is that he is smart. We always knew that, but man. That kid smoked his development/IQ test. The developmental pediatrician said it's going to be critical to challenge him and for.the.love.of.God don't hold him back from kindergarten a year.
He turns five in August.
So there's a lot. I've only been in the office for 4.5 days since December 6th. I am so far from figuring out how to do right by Boy, do right by Girl, and do right by the Foreign Service that I'm running in circles trying to get started.
My only resolution for 2013 is to figure out what it is my kids need and to give it to them. Stay tuned.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Hygiene: A Decision Tree
Before I had kids, my morning routine involved my staring into my closet, wondering which pair of adorable heels I'd wear with my adorable size 4 ensemble. All while yawning, because I had only squeezed out 8 hours of sleep.
I hate that person. And I hate that she ever thought she was fat and that her shoe options were inadequate. She sucks.
Parenthood changed everything. Now I search for the clothes that are the least wrinkly and go together kinda while matching them with the flats I can a) find and (only if I find multiple pairs--not a given, I should add) b) don't have obvious holes. When my SAHM friends imagine out loud how nice it would be to do their hair and makeup everyday, I wonder right along with them. What must that be like? I've forgotten.
Here's my shower decision tree:
I'd present my wardrobe decision tree, but it's straightforward: Clean Enough Dress + Clean Tights + Clean Enough Cardigan or Blazer = Everyone Should Be Happy I Didn't Show Up in Pajamas. I attempted for a while to manage a nice stock of suits, but that was way too much Dry Clean Only to ever work, so I stick with dresses + another layer to cover tattoos/turn it work-y. Plus, it played nicely into my patented screed on why suits are another tool of the patriarchy to keep us chicks down (entitled, "Why Do I Have to Dress Like a Man to Be Taken Seriously?" or, when I'm being honest, "I Just Really Don't Like Suits, Okay?").
No matter what I put on, it will end up with child smudged on it before I walk out the door. What exactly "child" is is almost always a mystery.
But seriously, Patriarchy, did you know that the Estonian word for a woman's suit is "kostüüm"?
I hate that person. And I hate that she ever thought she was fat and that her shoe options were inadequate. She sucks.
Parenthood changed everything. Now I search for the clothes that are the least wrinkly and go together kinda while matching them with the flats I can a) find and (only if I find multiple pairs--not a given, I should add) b) don't have obvious holes. When my SAHM friends imagine out loud how nice it would be to do their hair and makeup everyday, I wonder right along with them. What must that be like? I've forgotten.
Here's my shower decision tree:
I'd present my wardrobe decision tree, but it's straightforward: Clean Enough Dress + Clean Tights + Clean Enough Cardigan or Blazer = Everyone Should Be Happy I Didn't Show Up in Pajamas. I attempted for a while to manage a nice stock of suits, but that was way too much Dry Clean Only to ever work, so I stick with dresses + another layer to cover tattoos/turn it work-y. Plus, it played nicely into my patented screed on why suits are another tool of the patriarchy to keep us chicks down (entitled, "Why Do I Have to Dress Like a Man to Be Taken Seriously?" or, when I'm being honest, "I Just Really Don't Like Suits, Okay?").
No matter what I put on, it will end up with child smudged on it before I walk out the door. What exactly "child" is is almost always a mystery.
But seriously, Patriarchy, did you know that the Estonian word for a woman's suit is "kostüüm"?
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Lagging
Girl and I returned home from a whirlwind trip to Washington, packed with a leadership course for me, quality family time for both of us, a little bit of spoiling for her, and a wedding for a dear friend. For anyone I didn't manage to see, I'm sorry. I did my best.
It's 1:00 a.m. and we are on our third episode of Dora. Doooora, as Girl says. It's a unique form of torture. Jet lag this direction is particularly hard because work dictates that I must rise before, say, 11 a.m. Waaaay before. While I'm so sleep deprived that I almost don't experience jet lag, Girl does not share that immunity, so here we are. Sleep deprivation + endless Dora episodes = Sad Mommy.
Girl is also alternating between drinking water and spilling it. If I try to take it, she yells, "Mine!" When she spills it, she yells, "Spill! Wet! Derrrryyyy!" I try to take it, she yells, "Mine!" I think you get the picture. It's a fun night.
As for leadership training: as I'm sure all you Foreign Service types out there are dying to know, I'm an ESTP. I was an ENTJ in A-100, but I think this assessment was more accurate. Essentially, I'm an outgoing space cadet who works well with firm deadlines and horribly with theoretical ones. This is not news, but I walked away with a few pointers for staff, boss, and coworkers on how to manage me. First on this list: if you want it done, give me a due date. Second: I think out loud, so don't think I'm wedded to every idea I throw out there. If it sounds looney and half-baked, that's because it is. It's okay if we skip that one. Third: I thrive under pressure, but if you call me to ask for an update on something that's not due for another week, I'll panic. Just trust that I'll get it done. Most importantly: if I'm sitting on something that you need, for the love of Sweet Baby Jesus just tell me. I juggle a lot of tasks at once, and if you need me to focus on one thing so I can hand it over to you, don't be shy.
Because I'm me, I also spent a fair amount of time sitting in class feeling sad about my weaknesses. I don't know why. In fact, I think I'm quite forgiving of others. I pride myself on acknowledging their strengths and putting their flaws in perspective, but I can't do that about my own merits and faults.
Believe it or not, that isn't the thing I'm going to focus on first. My immediate goal is to stick to my own deadlines and/or set deadlines that are more realistic given the nature of my day-to-day. I think I can I think I can.
Well, this has been riveting. Blogging about Myers-Briggs! What a treat for my readers! Doooora #4 just started and Girl is no longer wearing a shirt, having drenched her second one of the night completely. I think that is my cue to read Tom and Lorenzo and anticipate the brutal fatigue that is set to overwhelm me in approximately five short hours. Working Motherhood strikes again.
It's 1:00 a.m. and we are on our third episode of Dora. Doooora, as Girl says. It's a unique form of torture. Jet lag this direction is particularly hard because work dictates that I must rise before, say, 11 a.m. Waaaay before. While I'm so sleep deprived that I almost don't experience jet lag, Girl does not share that immunity, so here we are. Sleep deprivation + endless Dora episodes = Sad Mommy.
Girl is also alternating between drinking water and spilling it. If I try to take it, she yells, "Mine!" When she spills it, she yells, "Spill! Wet! Derrrryyyy!" I try to take it, she yells, "Mine!" I think you get the picture. It's a fun night.
As for leadership training: as I'm sure all you Foreign Service types out there are dying to know, I'm an ESTP. I was an ENTJ in A-100, but I think this assessment was more accurate. Essentially, I'm an outgoing space cadet who works well with firm deadlines and horribly with theoretical ones. This is not news, but I walked away with a few pointers for staff, boss, and coworkers on how to manage me. First on this list: if you want it done, give me a due date. Second: I think out loud, so don't think I'm wedded to every idea I throw out there. If it sounds looney and half-baked, that's because it is. It's okay if we skip that one. Third: I thrive under pressure, but if you call me to ask for an update on something that's not due for another week, I'll panic. Just trust that I'll get it done. Most importantly: if I'm sitting on something that you need, for the love of Sweet Baby Jesus just tell me. I juggle a lot of tasks at once, and if you need me to focus on one thing so I can hand it over to you, don't be shy.
Because I'm me, I also spent a fair amount of time sitting in class feeling sad about my weaknesses. I don't know why. In fact, I think I'm quite forgiving of others. I pride myself on acknowledging their strengths and putting their flaws in perspective, but I can't do that about my own merits and faults.
Believe it or not, that isn't the thing I'm going to focus on first. My immediate goal is to stick to my own deadlines and/or set deadlines that are more realistic given the nature of my day-to-day. I think I can I think I can.
Well, this has been riveting. Blogging about Myers-Briggs! What a treat for my readers! Doooora #4 just started and Girl is no longer wearing a shirt, having drenched her second one of the night completely. I think that is my cue to read Tom and Lorenzo and anticipate the brutal fatigue that is set to overwhelm me in approximately five short hours. Working Motherhood strikes again.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
The Years are Short
Yesterday was my birthday. In two weeks, we'll have been in Estonia for one year. A day after that, Boy will turn 4.
Four, my God. Four.
There is a common quip about parenting young children: The days are long but the years are short. As I round the bend to completing seven years in this career, I'd posit that that's equally true of the Foreign Service.
There are some days with small kids that seem they'll never end: diapers, tantrums, Dora, playing hide n' seek again, cooking, cleaning, more diapers, administering more time outs than is actually productive, reading a story for one-millionth time. Despite the fact that I average only two full days like that a week, I often catch myself eagerly awaiting bedtime, ready to move from the monotony of play to the not-at-all-monotonous state of watching TV on the couch.
Boy has a new babysitter after school, and on their first day together I hovered a bit after bringing him home, waiting for tantrums or to soothe his new-person nerves. Needn't have bothered. He sent me back to work with nary a wave. While he still has his baby moments, with every day he grows closer to the teenager who won't want me to pick him up from school, to the grown man I'll hope I hear from once a week. Where has this time gone? Why was I ever wishing it away?
I'm sure my parents were thinking something similar yesterday. My God, I get it now. Don't grow up too fast. You have your whole life to be an adult.
When people ask about serving in India, I now have the perspective to explain it in a similar way: it went fast, and was an amazing experience. Each day dragged and I couldn't wait to get out of there. I imagine even the toughest posting goes by in a flash, at least in hindsight. I thought my sweaty Mumbai days, trapped in an apartment with a difficult toddler, would never end. Here we are: 31 and almost-4, with a year in our new home under our belt.
When I consider each previous assignment and place--even pre-Foreign Service--I imagine it a box. It's packed, sealed, done. New York, Israel, Korea, India. Just like Boy's toddlerhood or Girl's infancy. It's over; the crucial memories are packed up and safe, but the details--the stuff that composed a lazy Saturday in Seoul or each day with a 15-month old--they're gone.
I'm terrible with time. I keep thinking I have more of it, and inevitably I blink a few times and understand that a day, a week, a year has passed when I had said I'd get to it in a moment, an hour, the next afternoon. I call it my adult ADD, but the truth is it's just a lack of self-discipline and a stubborn refusal to acknowledge that this moment is all I know for certain that I have.
It's a rare sunny day in Tallinn, and I'm home with Girl, who is recovering from a mild cold. When she wakes up from her nap, I think I'll ditch the usual routine of helping her build a tower while I compulsively check my phone, and take her on a bike ride. After all, tomorrow it might be raining, and soon she too will have left her toddlerhood behind.
Four, my God. Four.
There is a common quip about parenting young children: The days are long but the years are short. As I round the bend to completing seven years in this career, I'd posit that that's equally true of the Foreign Service.
There are some days with small kids that seem they'll never end: diapers, tantrums, Dora, playing hide n' seek again, cooking, cleaning, more diapers, administering more time outs than is actually productive, reading a story for one-millionth time. Despite the fact that I average only two full days like that a week, I often catch myself eagerly awaiting bedtime, ready to move from the monotony of play to the not-at-all-monotonous state of watching TV on the couch.
Boy has a new babysitter after school, and on their first day together I hovered a bit after bringing him home, waiting for tantrums or to soothe his new-person nerves. Needn't have bothered. He sent me back to work with nary a wave. While he still has his baby moments, with every day he grows closer to the teenager who won't want me to pick him up from school, to the grown man I'll hope I hear from once a week. Where has this time gone? Why was I ever wishing it away?
I'm sure my parents were thinking something similar yesterday. My God, I get it now. Don't grow up too fast. You have your whole life to be an adult.
When people ask about serving in India, I now have the perspective to explain it in a similar way: it went fast, and was an amazing experience. Each day dragged and I couldn't wait to get out of there. I imagine even the toughest posting goes by in a flash, at least in hindsight. I thought my sweaty Mumbai days, trapped in an apartment with a difficult toddler, would never end. Here we are: 31 and almost-4, with a year in our new home under our belt.
When I consider each previous assignment and place--even pre-Foreign Service--I imagine it a box. It's packed, sealed, done. New York, Israel, Korea, India. Just like Boy's toddlerhood or Girl's infancy. It's over; the crucial memories are packed up and safe, but the details--the stuff that composed a lazy Saturday in Seoul or each day with a 15-month old--they're gone.
I'm terrible with time. I keep thinking I have more of it, and inevitably I blink a few times and understand that a day, a week, a year has passed when I had said I'd get to it in a moment, an hour, the next afternoon. I call it my adult ADD, but the truth is it's just a lack of self-discipline and a stubborn refusal to acknowledge that this moment is all I know for certain that I have.
It's a rare sunny day in Tallinn, and I'm home with Girl, who is recovering from a mild cold. When she wakes up from her nap, I think I'll ditch the usual routine of helping her build a tower while I compulsively check my phone, and take her on a bike ride. After all, tomorrow it might be raining, and soon she too will have left her toddlerhood behind.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Have Angst, Will Travel
As if I could not talk about the Slaughter article in The Atlantic. It's like someone got paid to express my angst.
I think Slaughter's article is good, but loses some of the best observations in a) her poor framing of feminism as striving to have a model, high-power career while raising happy children and a great marriage; b) forgetting that the "time macho" problem affects the physical and mental health of men as well; c) and failing to consider how single parents and same-sex parents conceive of the same overwhelming pressure.
And it is overwhelming pressure. My general experience as a working mother is filled with despair that I am half-assing it at work and half-assing it at home. Ideally, I let work happen at work and home happen at home, but even on my more successful days, the reality remains that parenthood does not have defined borders. Only I can do my current assignment at the moment--literally, as I have no back-up in my section. Only two people can parent our small children and both of us are sitting in the same building all day. Husband and I have complete economic parity, and we are co-parents in the true sense of the word. This is good. We both would like to win the lottery and just stay home with our kids. This is unlikely. We frequently discuss the state of emergency the constant juggle feels like.
"Why Women Still Can't Have It All" by Anne-Marie Slaughter (Atlantic)
"Can Modern Women 'Have It All'?" by Rebecca Traister (Salon)
We don’t lay the same booby traps for men. We don’t constantly quiz and evaluate and poke and prod and take their emotional temperature, asking if they feel fulfilled and happy, if they have everything they want, if their every youthful aspiration has been met sufficiently, if they feel that they’re measuring up at the office, in the kitchen, in bed. If we did, we might find out that they – especially younger ones, increasingly used to sharing workplaces and domestic and familial responsibilities with women – also feel stressed, guilty, anxiety-stricken, unfulfilled, questioning. But it’s not likely that we would then use their admissions of discontent to diagnose a larger male inability to balance effectively, or conclude that they are not realistically able to maintain the dominance they’ve enjoyed for millennia because having so much power is a) bad for them, b) unnatural or c) impossible. We’d probably just blame their dissatisfaction on feminism.
Can You Have It All? Talking About the Atlantic Piece That Everyone Is Talking About (Slate)
Farhad Manjoo: Even though Traister argues that "having it all" is a straw man, I suspect that a lot of striving young parents—men and women—really do believe they can have it all, and are shocked when confronted with the reality. I certainly thought so. I thought that my wife could continue in her career, I could continue in mine, and that we could simultaneously be the sort of extremely doting two-parent couple who used to annoy me. But in our situation, for more or less exactly the reasons that Slaughter describes, my wife's career had to go on hold.
I Don't Want to Have It All by Doree Shafrir (Buzzfeed)
A few weeks ago, I was having lunch with a friend who's a top editor at a women's magazine. She has two small children, and she's finding it increasingly difficult to balance the hours and stress of her job with raising her kids. "I just don't think I want to be an editor-in-chief," she told me. "I never thought I'd be someone who said that — I spent my 20s working harder than anyone else so I could get where I am now. But now that I'm here, I see what I would need to do to become an editor-in-chief, and it just doesn't appeal to me anymore."
I think Slaughter's article is good, but loses some of the best observations in a) her poor framing of feminism as striving to have a model, high-power career while raising happy children and a great marriage; b) forgetting that the "time macho" problem affects the physical and mental health of men as well; c) and failing to consider how single parents and same-sex parents conceive of the same overwhelming pressure.
And it is overwhelming pressure. My general experience as a working mother is filled with despair that I am half-assing it at work and half-assing it at home. Ideally, I let work happen at work and home happen at home, but even on my more successful days, the reality remains that parenthood does not have defined borders. Only I can do my current assignment at the moment--literally, as I have no back-up in my section. Only two people can parent our small children and both of us are sitting in the same building all day. Husband and I have complete economic parity, and we are co-parents in the true sense of the word. This is good. We both would like to win the lottery and just stay home with our kids. This is unlikely. We frequently discuss the state of emergency the constant juggle feels like.
I'll be in Country A, you'll be in Country B. Who will have the kids? How much will that cost? I have to work late, can you put them to bed? You have a meeting, but I have a meeting! Who will pick up Child? How much do we owe Nanny in overtime?
This is something that every working parent deals with, as no matter what your profession or your marital status you have two opposing forces at all time: Your Income/Contribution to the Way the World Works, and the People Who Depend on You to Literally Survive. In some other places, you might have grandparents and aunt and uncles to help you, a village even, but not here.
Under no circumstances do I think there is a magical fairytale land where both parents have shining careers that result in Lots of Power while their well-adjusted children don't get thrown out of school or contract viruses and everyone rides unicorns ALL THE TIME. I think my colleagues with or without children who are helping aging parents or a sick spouse feel similar pressure. I do think, however, that we seem to have concocted a parallel fantasyland, where employees are beholden to their employer's needs above all things and shall never let real life interfere. Needs of the Service, and all.
It's Are You Mom Enough? versus Are You Employee Enough?
At any rate, as you probably know from reading my hand-wringing, I haven't yet grasped the solution. Below is the original article and some of the responses it has generated (along with excerpts that had me nodding along).
"Why Women Still Can't Have It All" by Anne-Marie Slaughter (Atlantic)
"Can Modern Women 'Have It All'?" by Rebecca Traister (Salon)
We don’t lay the same booby traps for men. We don’t constantly quiz and evaluate and poke and prod and take their emotional temperature, asking if they feel fulfilled and happy, if they have everything they want, if their every youthful aspiration has been met sufficiently, if they feel that they’re measuring up at the office, in the kitchen, in bed. If we did, we might find out that they – especially younger ones, increasingly used to sharing workplaces and domestic and familial responsibilities with women – also feel stressed, guilty, anxiety-stricken, unfulfilled, questioning. But it’s not likely that we would then use their admissions of discontent to diagnose a larger male inability to balance effectively, or conclude that they are not realistically able to maintain the dominance they’ve enjoyed for millennia because having so much power is a) bad for them, b) unnatural or c) impossible. We’d probably just blame their dissatisfaction on feminism.
Can You Have It All? Talking About the Atlantic Piece That Everyone Is Talking About (Slate)
Farhad Manjoo: Even though Traister argues that "having it all" is a straw man, I suspect that a lot of striving young parents—men and women—really do believe they can have it all, and are shocked when confronted with the reality. I certainly thought so. I thought that my wife could continue in her career, I could continue in mine, and that we could simultaneously be the sort of extremely doting two-parent couple who used to annoy me. But in our situation, for more or less exactly the reasons that Slaughter describes, my wife's career had to go on hold.
I Don't Want to Have It All by Doree Shafrir (Buzzfeed)
A few weeks ago, I was having lunch with a friend who's a top editor at a women's magazine. She has two small children, and she's finding it increasingly difficult to balance the hours and stress of her job with raising her kids. "I just don't think I want to be an editor-in-chief," she told me. "I never thought I'd be someone who said that — I spent my 20s working harder than anyone else so I could get where I am now. But now that I'm here, I see what I would need to do to become an editor-in-chief, and it just doesn't appeal to me anymore."
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Area for Improvement: Motherhood
Husband is out of town this weekend and for the whopping second time in my life, I find myself handling two kids entirely on my own for more than just a night. Neither napped this afternoon, but I boldly attempted to attend the going away party for a colleague and his (really lovely) family. Boy is younger than most of the community's kids by a few years, and Girl until recently was the only toddler. I am the only full-time working mother.
I dread these things. I like my colleagues--and I've come to consider a number of them friends--and their families. A potluck gathering of families, especially on a weekend when Husband is gone, is the perfect stage to illustrate just how in adequate a parent I am. Our potluck offering? The remainder of last night's dinner (I quadrupled the recipe so I wouldn't have to scramble today). My kids? Un-napped. Me? Though I've been hacking away at this mother gig for almost four years, and I did it solo for 15 months, I am thoroughly untested. Handling one kid on my own seems like cake in retrospect. Handling two on my own is a rare challenge. There are a decent number of work nights when one of us puts them to bed alone, but most of the time I'm off work Husband is there too. One of us might disappear for a run, or a quick errand, or a night out, but for the bulk of our time at home there are two adults splitting the load.
A number of my colleagues have four or five children. I have two. This evening, as they watched me try to carry things and scold Boy for God-knows-what, Mothers of Five offered assistance. Of Five. They can manage five, and I'm a big sloppy mess with two. Husband pointed out that Boy is uniquely challenging at times (although he also told me he witnessed a kid punch his mom in the face in Stride Rite, so yea! we aren't alone), but the truth is out of his 12-14 waking hours, I am present for a whopping 4 of them on any given day. For at least two of those hours, I handle one kid and Husband takes the other.
Would I be better at this if I were home?
Mostly I feel for Boy. He's socially challenged anyway, but when you add to it that his mom doesn't know whether to be a helicopter or a Yes Mom given his age and personality, and that all the kids are older, and that he just didn't nap, it seemed like he couldn't do anything right. Either I was giving him The Look (the kid is holy unaffected by The Look, bee tee dubs), or he was surrounded by older kids telling him he's awful, or he was just annoying them by being a preschooler (which is inherently annoying to any seven year old). He just wanted to play and when I finally chased him into the car to go home, he lamented that no one was nice to him. He didn't understand that he really did have to share a bit better and listen when they said they didn't like something he was doing.
Would he be better at this if I were home?
We both bring so much anxiety to his social interactions that I imagine my fear is hamstringing him as much as his immaturity. My mother assures me that my older brother was the worst behaved preschooler out of all of us, and by the time he got into elementary school he was decidedly calm. A friend confided that there was a chunk of time when she just couldn't let anyone come to her house to play with her preschool-aged son because he would be too wretched to them. He grew out of it. Now I'm looking for the story of a mom who spend most of her waking hours in an office and somehow became just as good and instinctive and effective a parent as the one who didn't leave her daughter crying every morning.
Lest you think I am being a total Eeyore, I will share one anecdote from this morning that epitomizes why I so adore the current manifestation of my beastly son:
As I did squats or something similarly ungraceful, Boy asked what I was doing. "Getting in shape," I answered. He gave a somewhat incredulous look, and said, "Are you going to be a rectangle? Here! I can be a circle!" and made a more-like-a-triangle by sticking his tush in the air as his hands and feet propped him up. The kid is alright.
I dread these things. I like my colleagues--and I've come to consider a number of them friends--and their families. A potluck gathering of families, especially on a weekend when Husband is gone, is the perfect stage to illustrate just how in adequate a parent I am. Our potluck offering? The remainder of last night's dinner (I quadrupled the recipe so I wouldn't have to scramble today). My kids? Un-napped. Me? Though I've been hacking away at this mother gig for almost four years, and I did it solo for 15 months, I am thoroughly untested. Handling one kid on my own seems like cake in retrospect. Handling two on my own is a rare challenge. There are a decent number of work nights when one of us puts them to bed alone, but most of the time I'm off work Husband is there too. One of us might disappear for a run, or a quick errand, or a night out, but for the bulk of our time at home there are two adults splitting the load.
A number of my colleagues have four or five children. I have two. This evening, as they watched me try to carry things and scold Boy for God-knows-what, Mothers of Five offered assistance. Of Five. They can manage five, and I'm a big sloppy mess with two. Husband pointed out that Boy is uniquely challenging at times (although he also told me he witnessed a kid punch his mom in the face in Stride Rite, so yea! we aren't alone), but the truth is out of his 12-14 waking hours, I am present for a whopping 4 of them on any given day. For at least two of those hours, I handle one kid and Husband takes the other.
Would I be better at this if I were home?
Mostly I feel for Boy. He's socially challenged anyway, but when you add to it that his mom doesn't know whether to be a helicopter or a Yes Mom given his age and personality, and that all the kids are older, and that he just didn't nap, it seemed like he couldn't do anything right. Either I was giving him The Look (the kid is holy unaffected by The Look, bee tee dubs), or he was surrounded by older kids telling him he's awful, or he was just annoying them by being a preschooler (which is inherently annoying to any seven year old). He just wanted to play and when I finally chased him into the car to go home, he lamented that no one was nice to him. He didn't understand that he really did have to share a bit better and listen when they said they didn't like something he was doing.
Would he be better at this if I were home?
We both bring so much anxiety to his social interactions that I imagine my fear is hamstringing him as much as his immaturity. My mother assures me that my older brother was the worst behaved preschooler out of all of us, and by the time he got into elementary school he was decidedly calm. A friend confided that there was a chunk of time when she just couldn't let anyone come to her house to play with her preschool-aged son because he would be too wretched to them. He grew out of it. Now I'm looking for the story of a mom who spend most of her waking hours in an office and somehow became just as good and instinctive and effective a parent as the one who didn't leave her daughter crying every morning.
Lest you think I am being a total Eeyore, I will share one anecdote from this morning that epitomizes why I so adore the current manifestation of my beastly son:
As I did squats or something similarly ungraceful, Boy asked what I was doing. "Getting in shape," I answered. He gave a somewhat incredulous look, and said, "Are you going to be a rectangle? Here! I can be a circle!" and made a more-like-a-triangle by sticking his tush in the air as his hands and feet propped him up. The kid is alright.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Fate Successfully Tempted
What was I saying just the other day? Something along the lines of another hospitalization would derail this crazy train we are on?
This is Boy, on Night One of his hospitalization:
This is Boy, on Night One of his hospitalization:
His father is with him on Night Two. I have got to stop tempting fate.
I shall back up. As I've mentioned, I was in Stockholm for the last half of the previous week. Stockholm is really amazing and when our conference ended a bit early on Friday afternoon, I had at least seven hours of awake alone time left. Perfect time to acquire one of the many tattoos I am planning.
*Brakes screeching*
Yes, yes, this thirty year old married mother of two with a respectable job is working on tattoos. I am looking forward to nothing as little as I am looking forward to telling my father. But that's for later.
I emailed a few Stockholm shops, but they were booked. Luckily, one took walk-ins on Friday and had a solid reputation. Come back at 8. And so I did.
Behold, my first tattoo, an elephant for my Girl:
Normally my t-shirt covers most of it, just leaving the face poking out, but I pulled it aside for you fine folks. I very deliberately faced it that way, so that I wouldn't end up risking just an elephant ass sticking out of my neckline. Easy to cover for work, quite small, very cute: I love it.
Despite Girl grabbing at it as soon as I arrived back in Tallinn on Saturday, I've managed to keep it very clean as it heals. I was anticipating wearing a suit on a work trip to Haapsalu on Tuesday, but picked out a soft cotton top that wouldn't irritate it. When Boy dumped an entire container of fish food in the tank and Husband and I set out on an emergency tank-cleaning mission, I carefully avoided splashing fish-poopy water on it.
When Boy woke up that night crying and spiking a high fever, I stopped worrying about it.
His symptoms were such that we nursed him through the night and Husband took him into the Children's Hospital on Monday morning, where he was immediately admitted. I visited at lunch, but I had visa appointments in both the morning and afternoon, and thus was a bit tethered to the office. Nothing makes you feel like a horrible mother with misplaced priorities more than that type of situation. To be clear: if the doctors indicated that anything were a dire emergency, then I'd be the first to forget everything else and get to the hospital. But they didn't, so I was doing the best I could. I ditched everything when Girl was in the hospital, but I had backup then and, if I'm honest, a 14 month old needs her mother even more than a preschooler does at times.
I feel like a jerk even typing that sentence. You know what I mean. Husband was locking it down.
I switched with Husband yesterday evening so that I could spend the night with Boy. I stayed there today so Husband could go to work, and we are doing the reverse for tonight and tomorrow. I canceled my trip to Haapsalu, or rather foisted it on someone else. It had been long planned and kind people were going out of their way to welcome the U.S. Embassy. If my son hadn't been in the hospital, I would have been horribly disappointed to miss it. Alas, these crises never happen at a good time.
Today, as Boy regained much of his normal verve, I lolled about on the hospital bed, playing jets and lizards and whatever else he requested. At some point, it occurred to me that the worst place to have a fresh tattoo still in the healing process was a hospital, the land of MRSA. I suddenly became an insufferable Felix to Boy's fairly disgusting Oscar (a role reversal, as in all other circumstances he's the particular one). I'd squeal and wave my hands defensively if he sent a blanket my way. I washed my hands twice every time I ventured in the bathroom for whatever reason. My jacket hanging on the coat rack became suspect, as did the straps of the bags I had brought with me.
My tattoo hasn't erupted with flesh-devouring anything. Yet. It's a good reminder to be cautious, though, and as Girl sleeps upstairs and Husband tries to convince Boy to settle in for another night of fitful sleep, tethered to an IV pole, I am shopping online for a few cheap long sleeve t-shirts, preparing a thin layer of protection for round 2.
Boy will come home tomorrow, with any luck. Never fear, if he weren't faring well this would have been a very different post.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
On the Road Again
I type to you from lovely Stockholm. It is lovely, truly, although frighteningly expensive. I shelled out $23 for pad see ew at a not-fancy Thai joint.
As I prepared for this short trip, I fantasized about uninterrupted nights of sleep and boarding a plane with only a carry-on. I hadn't flown without the kids since March 2010, and I've only spent one night away from them since Girl came along. Boy is so into his father right now that I figured he wouldn't care too much, but Girl still comes into our bed every night, without fail, and snuggles up to me as she falls back asleep. When I pass her to Nanny in the morning, she grips my side with her legs and screams.
Mama!
I feel like a monster leaving for work, and here I am, a time zone away.
To prepare for my trip, I made sure Husband knew all the things he was supposed to do. In case he wasn't too sure on the matter, I instructed him not drown or smother Girl in the bath/bed. Seriously. I instructed Husband not to kill our children. In return, I got a look that said layers upon layers of things, kind of like are you frickin' kidding me I wouldn't hurt our kids I'm such an involved dad how could you even think I wouldn't know not to kill them I can't believe you think so little of me, and other incredulous thoughts as well. Point taken.
Twenty three dollars worth of Thai food later, I wish I were home, covered in small children fighting for my attention and creating chaos around me. Hopefully Husband will enjoy chubby little hands trying to shove him out of the bed at five tomorrow morning, because I think I might actually miss it.
As I prepared for this short trip, I fantasized about uninterrupted nights of sleep and boarding a plane with only a carry-on. I hadn't flown without the kids since March 2010, and I've only spent one night away from them since Girl came along. Boy is so into his father right now that I figured he wouldn't care too much, but Girl still comes into our bed every night, without fail, and snuggles up to me as she falls back asleep. When I pass her to Nanny in the morning, she grips my side with her legs and screams.
Mama!
I feel like a monster leaving for work, and here I am, a time zone away.
To prepare for my trip, I made sure Husband knew all the things he was supposed to do. In case he wasn't too sure on the matter, I instructed him not drown or smother Girl in the bath/bed. Seriously. I instructed Husband not to kill our children. In return, I got a look that said layers upon layers of things, kind of like are you frickin' kidding me I wouldn't hurt our kids I'm such an involved dad how could you even think I wouldn't know not to kill them I can't believe you think so little of me, and other incredulous thoughts as well. Point taken.
Twenty three dollars worth of Thai food later, I wish I were home, covered in small children fighting for my attention and creating chaos around me. Hopefully Husband will enjoy chubby little hands trying to shove him out of the bed at five tomorrow morning, because I think I might actually miss it.
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