Election Results

I hadn't posted in a while because I had run out of things to say. Now I've got plenty. 

This election has been a disaster, with two candidates so vastly different that we have been split in two separate camps; families and friendships have suffered over these two clowns.  No perfect candidate, and the two we were left with had plenty of flaws for the other side to scavenge from the depths of the internet and bring to light with a sneer.  I didn't hear one positive thing from either of their constantly yapping mouths, or the mimicking mouths of their supporters (myself included), regarding the opponent.  If you supported either of them, you were a killer, a rapist, a bigot, a liar. 

Hate has run rampant through our amber waves of grain. 

And now, the election is over. We have our new president. For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health...for at least the next 4 years. 

And we are again in two vastly different camps: Despair and Exultation. We have responded with gloating, fear, hate, and threats of immigration. We have completely lost our shit, America. 

Instead of running amok with hate and despair in our hearts, dear ones, I challenge us to radiate love and if not acceptance, than respect and tolerance. Love thy neighbor. Make the best of the hand we've been dealt. 

Be the change you want to see. 

To my Daisy

I miss you. So much. 

I miss every holiday at your house. Everyone together, you fussing over the food and tightly wound. 

I miss spending the night on Christmas Eve with all my cousins. There were snores emitting from every room, and I couldn't sleep. You let me sleep on the floor in your room, but Grandpa's snores were far worse than those outside the door. Yet, I stayed in the room with you.  

I miss your lemon cookies and your laugh. 

I miss our time together. We had barn kittens and books and reading trees, and we were happy. I miss throwing rocks at "those nasty blackbirds" who stole the others' nests. Not that we ever scared them off. 

I miss you tucking your permed hair into a blue bandana while you worked outside. 

I miss high school, running back the lane to your house with Roy. I miss you giving him water out of your best glass pie dish. 

I miss raspberry tea with you and Grandpa. 

I miss you telling me: "A face without freckles is like a night without stars."

I miss you because now you stare at me with polite interest. You don't recognize your Sammy Jo. 

I love you, Daisy. 

Love

I'm still struggling with the mom thing.  

I read a lot. I read how these fictional moms make their kids organic dinosaur pancakes. How they adore spending their lives at home, raising their children with their prams and playdates and yoga classes and shit. How they gather all their strength from and identify with Being a Mom. 

I see my friends. I see how they stay home with their kids, how they work a different shift so their kids aren't in daycare, how they work part-time in order to spend more time with their children. I see how great they are as mothers, how they radiate love for their children, and how they and their children are thriving because of their propensity for motherhood.

And I do not see any of those things in myself, no matter how hard I try.

I often wonder what is wrong with me. Why don't I relish being a mother, why don't I radiate love and patience? I keep B up at night, going over and over why, exactly, he doesn't think I'm the World's Okayest Mom. I wonder why don't I make pancakes and do crafts and buy organic and work part time and do play dates and nurture the shit out of my child. And I finally put my finger on it last night. 

I am my father.

I show my love by working. By being gone 12 hours, 4 days a week, and feeling enormously guilty for it. By putting part of my pay into G's college fund. By budgeting and saving and buying groceries and the things we need and want. By getting up early even when I am oh so tired. By commuting to a better job in all kinds of weather, because I love my son.

I show my love by researching sunscreen, daycare, hospitals, shoes, food, baby gates, car seats, strollers, baby carriers, breastfeeding, baby food, preschools, high school graduation rates, 529s, and life insurance. Because I love my son.

I show my love by being the disciplinarian, because I don't want my kid to be a dick. 

I show my love by not constricting B and I to traditional domestic roles. I could easily clean or do laundry while he mows or splits wood, but instead I am sweating right by his side. We both clean, we both work outside the home, and we both do "manual labor". I want my son to see the value of a partnership, and respect his future partner as an equal. I want him to understand how hard I work for him. This, my friend, is perhaps the most important of ways I show my love.

So, while I am not nurturing, and soft, and loving, and maternal, and patient, and kind....while I am not MY mother...I show my love by making sure my son is happy, and healthy, and fed, and smart. 

I show my love by the behind the scenes things I do for my son. 

And that, friends, is okay.

Hungover

After a short hiatus, it's back to the real world tomorrow for the Haygoods. I sank into a depression this weekend due to my vacation hangover, ready to be safely nestled in our corner of the Midwest yet unwilling to return as a productive member of society.

I don't want to adult anymore. I want to sit in my kid's tent and eat popcorn and hide from The Real World of Work and Responsibilities. I've tearfully pitched several plans of escape that include shiny new identities and mansions purchased from our illegal gambling spree and/ or the profits from our drug cartel, but he denies them all with a sigh and shake of his head. 

I have been told that I am being dramatic. 

As I lay on the floor pondering the meaning of life and wallowing in self pity and the dregs of my vacation hangover, I firmly disagree. 

The Captor

Today marks the 689th day of imprisonment. 

My captor is not one of tall stature, but he is solidly built. His dark blue eyes bore into my mind and soul, leaving me defenseless. He anticipates my every move, thwarting each escape attempt before it has even begun. His powers of persuasion border on mind control, and I find myself unwittingly bowing to his every need and command.  

Perhaps the most alarming development has been my affection for him. Stockholm syndrome, I believe is the term. I find myself thinking about him lovingly when he has left me, dwelling on his charming ways and handsome face. He is alluringly charming, and leads me to believe he genuinely cares for me....but he turns into a terrifying monster at the flip of a switch. Nothing can calm him. I've tried appeasing his every demand, but when I do exactly as he asks, it is never correct. He is hungry, but his oatmeal is too hot. He has to potty, but refuses to sit on the toilet...out of spite, he will soil himself while looking directly at me. He demands to watch Thomas, but this episode is unacceptable. He insists on my help, then screams when it is offered. I think I am slowly going insane. 

I've heard it referred to as "The Terrible Two's", yet my captor has not yet reached this milestone. 

I am bracing myself for what is to come. 

Molly

I met a dog today. (Go figure, right?) For the purpose of this blog, I shall call her Molly.

Molly was a Saint Bernard that we had not seen previously. She was an outdoor dog, and had mud on her paws and burrs in her fur from exploring, but was not neglected. I was leery of her at first, due to her size, illness, and her unknown temperament. (THE VET is a scary, unknown entity for dogs and cats, people. Fluffy may be nice at home, but a psychopath when being restrained for his annual vaccinations...therefore, I approach MOST animals with caution. Especially ones that could fit my head in their mouths.) We slowly walked to the scale, and she needed help from two of us to get her big self up there. We laboriously meandered to the treatment room and waited for the doctor to examine her. When climbing up on the lift table proved to be entirely too much work for this geriatric, large breed dog, we sat down on the floor together. Molly smelled. Molly was dirty. Molly drooled. I'm pretty sure Molly gave me a flea or two.

Molly greeted each new person and demanded proper pets. Molly gave kisses. Molly crossed her front paws and put her head on my knee and closed her eyes. Molly and I discussed different petting techniques and the meaning of life. Molly waited patiently for her owner to make a decision. Molly didn't even flinch when a large IV catheter was placed in her front leg. Molly rode the gurney back to her room to see her dad.

Molly was very sick, and Molly's dad was very sad.

Our job sucks sometimes, but I'm glad to have met Molly.

This old house

When we pulled into this driveway for the first time, I knew we were home. It was perfect. An acre of land, a creek in the back, an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere with stairs painted purple...purple fucking stairs! I distinctly remember grabbing my husband on the landing and fervently whispering "This is it. This is our fucking house."

It's not just a house, it was a home to the same family for 100 years. You can feel the weight of thousands of memories pressing into you from every side, and it's overwhelming at first. So much so that when B and I got drunk with his brother a few months after we moved in, his comments on the "energy" of the place had me convinced there were Paranormal Activity-type beings present who were going to eat our baby at 3:33 am or whenever the fuck the devil eats babies. I was legitimately afraid to be upstairs alone at night for weeks. In reality, I think he's right...but it's most definitely a good energy. 

Last winter, a pipe burst in the upstairs bathroom, ruining the ceiling and walls in two rooms downstairs.  Getting the house remodeled was a two month walking disaster that still makes my left eye twitch when I think about it. We learned our lesson, and the sink in said bathroom is stained yellow from the steady drip drip drip of running well water, because heating this leaky behemoth in the winter is a cluster fuck. Wood, fans, heaters, thermostats. (See blog "Eff you, Jack Frost" for details.)

The basement is disgusting and a bit moldy, and we caught no fewer than 7 mice down there in 3 days. The windows need replaced in nearly every room. The carpet needs replaced upstairs.  I'd like to murder the wallpaper in the living room. It's a bitch keeping up with the wood stove. I have a vendetta against the squirrel population. 

We love the apple trees. We loved letting our toddler run around stark naked last summer, far from the prying eyes of nosy neighbors. We embrace its awkward floor plan and the seven different doors that lead outside. When given the choice to repaint the stairs, I decided to keep them the exact same shade of eggplant purple.

We should have found a newer, more practical house that was closer to our jobs and our families...but it wouldn't have been our home. 

                           

Emotions and shit

There are words and phrases that induce visceral responses in veterinary staff. Corneal rupture. Cuterebra (Google it). Dog fight. Rat bait ingestion. Chihuahua. Parvo puppy. 

The latter, of course, is the topic of this particular blog. 

For those who don't know, parvovirus is a highly contagious virus that generally attacks the gastrointestinal tract. It is characterized by lethargy, weakness, and bloody diarrhea and vomiting (yes, blood from both ends) and puppies are at the highest risk. There's no "cure", but round the clock IV fluids and supportive care. Some live. More than a few die. 

For 6 days, a 7 week old Doberman puppy lived in our isolation ward. She was catheterized, placed on fluids, and medicated. She tucked herself away in the back of the cage, under her towel, barely lifting her head when we'd come check on her. Her eyes were glassy, her nose ran. She refused all food and water. She was petted, and loved, and treated.  I cleaned her entire cage, top to bottom, and then held her while she had explosive diarrhea again. 

I don't get emotionally involved that often.  If I did I'd go insane...but I was obsessed with this puppy.  I dreamt of her. I made myself sick with worry that I'd come in one morning and find her gone. She consumed my week. 

And then, on Day 6....she greeted me at the cage when I came in. She whined. She barked.  She DRANK. I did a fist pump and a few hip thrusts for good measure. I may or may not have screamed "OH YEAH, BABY!!" into the empty clinic. 

People are dicks, and make me question myself and my choice of profession on a daily basis. But this sweet little puppy and her kind, grateful, loving family reminded me that my job is worth doing.  

We did well, bitches. 

Only one

I'm going to level with you: I struggle with the "should we have another kid" thing daily. 

To be honest, I'm jealous of the people who know what they want. Jealous of those to whom motherhood comes naturally. Jealous of those whose budgets can accommodate more than one child. Jealous of those who can quit their jobs to raise their children. 

But am I really jealous, or just second guessing myself because having one child isn't the norm?

Yeah, I don't know, either. 

The reality of the situation is that we are comfortable financially. The reality is that we can probably send one kid to college, but two would be pushing it. The reality is that we don't want to live paycheck to paycheck. 

The reality is that motherhood does not come as naturally to me as it does to some. Woah, easy there, Dr. Phil, let me explain: I love my son with a fierceness and depth that was previously unknown to me. If you touch him, I will kill you and bury you where your corpse would never be found. That being said, when you picture a mother, you picture someone gentle and beautiful and perfect and kind and loving...like my mother. Mothers are heroes. Mothers have balls of steel. Mothers are never wrong. 

I, my friend, am zero of those things. I am made of a lesser metal. I see my friends breeze through motherhood, my high school best friends handle two kids with obvious ease. (They're made of the same stuff as the Ladybug toddler whisperers.) And here I sit, with so much love in my heart for this tiny little terrorist, and yet no fucking clue what to do with him. Thank god for his daddy, the Forrest to his Bubba. 

The reality is that we like the simplicity of our family, of the three of us.  We are a trio of hillbillies, bound together by love and good old biology. We're tight, yo. 

So, maybe I'm not jealous. Maybe having "only" one child isn't a bad thing.

Herding cats

I would imagine that herding cats wouldn't be easy. Yowling, biting, hissing, screaming, belligerence, indifference, blood, and other miscellaneous bodily fluids. 

Which is EXACLTLY how I imagined the Ladybug fire drill today. 

Miss A told me at pickup that, along with the plethora of other activities, crafts, and jolly good times had by all, there was a facility-wide fire drill today. I couldn't help myself, and I laughed. Surely, the Ladybugs hadn't participated. I mean, really, it would be impossible to wrangle 5 less-than-two-year-olds and maneuver them outside in an orderly fashion. She had to be joking. I snorted in derision.

And then I was cheerily informed that, really, it went perfectly. She grabbed two, the other teacher grabbed two, and the most trustworthy toddler grabbed hold of Miss A's pant leg. Out they marched, without tears, biting, scratching, or the expulsion of boldly fluids. 

I stared at this mythical creature, this toddler whisperer. 

Ladybug Teachers 2, Mom 0.

Eff you, Jack Frost

Ah, winter.  A magical time for building snowmen, drinking not chocolate, and rosy cheeks after coming in from the cold. I am in close contact with people who love the season and genuinely look forward to it.

Not for this bitch.  Winter is an entirely different creature to old Sambo.

In the winter, my husband works 12 hour shifts, 5+ days a week.  Right now he's on thirds, and hats off to the families who do this shit all the time.  We've seen each other for exactly one hour each day for the last 3 days. We're both getting less sleep. He's exhausted.  I'm exhausted. G's exhausted. 

In the winter, it snows. Sure, it can be pretty.  Until you have to walk in it. Or drive in it. At 6 in the morning, snow is not pretty.  Snow is bullshit at 6 am. Snow turns 50 minutes of easy driving into 90 minutes of white knuckles and butthole clenching with zero visibility. 

In the winter, it's cold.  Because we're geniuses, we bought a 100 year old home with leaky windows and a complicated heating system.  To keep the winter wind from getting its pervy hands inside the house, we taped that plastic shit to every window, which is fun with a toddler, two dogs, and a cat.  There's no reasoning with these lunatics. In order to heat this old fucker of a home, we use a fuel oil furnace, a wood stove, a wood-burning boiler, and an archaic system of heaters and clockwise- running ceiling fans. We have become obsessed with both indoor and outdoor temperature, as well as cutting and splitting wood. And SOMEBODY has to empty the wood stove's ash tray and bring wood in the house...so back outside you go. 

In the winter, if you park outside, you have to start your car early and/ or scrape ice and snow off your windows. Also bullshit at 6 am.

On top of all this, you have to bundle up your toddler who has discovered the phrase "no way", walk his grumpy ass out to the car, shove him in his car seat, and then promptly remove every layer you just put on BECAUSE HE CAN'T WEAR A COAT IN THE CARSEAT FOR FUCK'S SAKE. 

67 days until spring. 

Shit my toddler taught me

1. You can take too large a bite of yogurt.  You would think, since it's not exactly a true solid, that a spoon would limit the size of a bite...but nope.  You can effectively shove so much yogurt down your throat hole that you induce vomiting.

2. Bubble baths are fucking terrifying. Previously, baths had been touch and go.  To spice up the toddler bath experience, we excitedly purchased a bottle of Mr. Bubble bubble bath.  The first time my son feasted his eyes on a bathtub full of bubbles, he latched his naked self onto my leg and began screaming in terror. We finally got him in the tub, but not without drama. Poor little guy kept making sure his feet were still there, underneath the flesh-eating mass of Mr. Bubble. 

3. Donuts are an acceptable form of bribery, but only in the morning.  To be bribed with a donut any other time of day is just lunacy, and not to be tolerated. 

4. Any size tractor can be ridden, if you put your mind to it. 

5. It is socially acceptable to tickle the feet of any adult, at any time. Through their shoes. While screaming.

6. Toe lint will NOT be tolerated. Each and every microscopic piece of lint MUST be diligently removed from between this kid's toes in order to prevent a blind panic. Even if you think you got it all, you better fucking do it again. 

7. String cheese is infinitely superior to cheese cubes. Since this tiny terrorist demands cheese constantly (not to eat, but only to carry around) we bought cheese cubes to minimize waste. Smart, eh? Wrong. All wrong.  Wrong shape, wrong size, wrong fucking color.

8. Anything that is hot, could be hot, has ever been hot, or is NOT COLD is considered to be boiling, and therefore incompatible with human life.  Blowing on the offending item repeatedly will resolve the issue. 

9. Curious George is a huge fuckup. 

10. A living room is easily transformed into a wrestling ring. Screaming "STEAMROLLER!" at Gage "The Rage" Haygood evokes an instinctual response: drop to the floor and roll over any offending being with total disregard for consequence.