How is he gonna play out?

I really wonder how G is gonna turn out.  I (sorta) jokingly say that he will end up in law somehow, either as attorney or criminal.  I like to think I know how to parent my children, but G completely throws me for a loop.

He has the speech issue which has improved immensely since the beginning of the year, although we have back-slid a little this summer due to mom's inability to stay on a mouth-exercise schedule.  But I am wondering about his fine-motor skills now.  When N was his age, she could write her name (it wasn't pretty, but she could do it).  G can barely hold a pencil and make circles.

I know a lot of this is because I had blessed time to work with N on her writing, and that is something I do not have with G.  When N was almost 4, G was a non-mobile baby who was happy to sit in the bouncy for extended periods of time sucking on his fingers.  G has an almost 2-year-old brother.  He and M often nap at the same time, so in the mornings I cannot devote time to sitting with G at the table and working on writing because M will be hollering, pawing at us and providing distraction for G (and, lord knows, it doesn't take much to distract G).  If G doesn't nap, he is borderline catatonic and hasn't the stamina or interest in working on writing.

G knows his letters, knows all their sounds, can count to 20, knows his colors, knows his shapes (except maybe rectangle).  He loves to read and has begun to tell his own made-up stories (last night's was about a volcano with fire and dragons in it which eventually segued into something about dinosaurs eating people up).  When I think about it in terms like these, I think he is pretty on-the-ball.

But he just feels so far behind N at the same age, although perhaps I just do not remember how immature N was at that age.  I do not remember how primitive her writing was, her language skills.

Or maybe it is because of his vexing pester-you-til-you-want-to-die personality.  When I hear stories about my Uncle Jerry, who allegedly bounced off the walls at birth and was the world's biggest tease and general pain in the arse, I think G inherited those same traits.  Or maybe his persistence is simply childhood OCD taking its form (and we know whom he inherited this from.....).

I guess I must plug away, mothering him as best I can, and let time take its course.

Sorta done with some (relief) and sorta not done with others (sniff)

I am getting rid of more and more baby stuff in this next consignment sale.  One of the crib mattresses is being sold, as is the high chair.  (Unfortunately the drop-side crib can't be resold, so I am going to make stuff out of it.....but that's another post for another day).  I haven't done the figuring, but I am hopeful that there is at least $125 worth of stuff to be sold.

Today I took down the baby gates.  M is capable of getting down the steps on his own, and I have had it with G slamming the top gate and then whining for me to open it up (he can unlatch the one at the bottom of the steps but not the top).  The gates' only function at this point is irritating me, not keeping anyone safe. Those will probably end up in the sale as well.

My neighbor asked if I was sad about getting rid of baby stuff, and I said, "Heck no."  I am sick of having infant paraphernalia all over the place.  I am this close to getting rid of the pack-n-play, but there are still some times when I need to put M in it, like when he is clinging to my leg as I desperately try to finish dinner.  Once M is put in, N and G immediately get in with him.  It's kinda funny (as well as somewhat pathetic) how much fun the 7.5 year old and the almost 4-year-old have playing in the pack-n-play.

So that will stay a little while longer.

While I have no qualms about getting rid of baby stuff, including the kids' baby clothes, I am borderline heartbroken that N doesn't want to buy picture books anymore.  Yesterday she and G turned in their summer reading charts at Half-Price Books and received $5 gift cards, and N spent hers on chapter books.  I think it is great that she wants to read chapter books because I know her reading level is "up there," but I still want to enjoy picture books with her.

Well.....I guess since she and G share a bedroom and we read books to them together at rest time and nighttime, we DO read (and enjoy) picture books together.  G would not be able to sit still if all we read were her chapter books, so I always pick out picture books or short readers at the library that I think she will like.  But to her, picture books are a little babyish.  They are what her kid brothers read.

I guess what I really want is for her to be little again and be excited by the wonder that is picture books.  She is almost to my neck.....53 inches tall....and when I see pics of her as a chubby little 3-year-old it sorta makes me ache inside.

I am sometimes out of sorts with this stage she is in, which will likely last a few years (her being in it and me being perplexed by it).  She is eager to be "grown-up," and buy blingy t-shirts with sequins and window shop at Justice, but at the same time asking if I can pick her up and swing her around by the arms, as I do her brothers.  I feel that I am frequently telling her, "N, you are too big," and I hate to say that, but she is physically too big for many of the things she asks me and D to do.

And I feel that because she is tall and halfway through her 7th year there are some things I shouldn't have to remind her of 8 trillion times.  But I do.  Which reminds me that she is still a child, and children (and husbands) need constant reminders of everything.

Being a kid is hard.
Being the parent of a kid is hard too.

What my frugal freak self thinks of the debt-ceiling thang

The only debt D and I have is our home.  We pay off our credit card statements every month.  If we don't have cash in the bank to get something, we don't get it.  So I completely agree that our government must cut spending.

It is fiscally irresponsible to do otherwise.

However, D and I just by sheer luck were born into families who valued education, who helped us with our homework, who provided stable lives for us, and who helped us and supported us as we got our master's degrees.  There are many, many people in the US who weren't that lucky (or who made some unwise choices that forever changed the course of their lives).  So there has to be a safety net for people.

It is socially irresponsible to do otherwise.
 
(And, yes, I am including the stupid people--the ones who do the dumbest things like allow their homes to fall apart from the inside out, who bastardize the English language, who have 10 babies by 10 different guys, who wear their pants sagging to the ground and who generally fuck up the gene pool.)

If an individual's finances were screwed, he would be told by a financial adviser to 1. cut his/her spending to the necessities and 2. do whatever it took to increase his/her income, be it by getting a moonlighting position, selling stuff on Ebay, going back to work full-time rather than staying home with the kids or only working part-time.

And as far as I'm concerned, since our government is apparently in dire financial straits, we need to take the same course of action.

My biggest problem when I was an economics major in undergrad is that it is tremendously hard to reconcile a firm belief in fiscal responsibility with a firm belief in taking care of those less fortunate.  It can be done but it takes moderate folks to do so.

And those people EVIDENTLY DON'T WORK IN THE US CONGRESS!

What buying kid clothes a season ahead and moving away for a new job mean to me

Periodically D goes through what I call employment mid-life crises.  He is only 42 and has had a handful of these since we got together in 1995, so my terminology is far from accurate, but suffice it to say, he begins to think that perhaps the grass might be greener at some other company.

He is very skilled but where we live is definitely no mecca for software engineers.  Neither of us has ever had any desire to move since we have lived here our entire lives (including college) and our entire family is here.  I think I told him at some point that if he ever wanted to move us from here he better get paid TONS of money....because without my parents who help me out considerably I would pay a small fortune in childcare expenses.

The other night, though, he and I talked briefly about the possibility of moving away from here in order for him to find a better job, and by that I mean one that doesn't drive him bonkers and make him irritable and feel trapped.  

As much as I would truly hate to move, I also have lived with him when he has been miserable at his employment and that is no picnic.  

I was truly stunned that I would even broach the subject of moving and it made me think that maybe, just maybe, my medication and self-talk learned through therapy have really had an impact on my brain.  Rather than thinking "No, no, no, it would be catastrophically awful to move away from everything I have ever known,"  I could actually think of some benefits to moving.  (But I am sure a lot of this is because it would be our choice to move, as opposed to a company telling us we HAD to move.)

This evening I wandered around Target, picked up some cheap 5T summer clothes for G to wear next year, and thought about mine and D's discussion from the other night.  As I held next season's clothes in my hands I realized another way in which my anxiety has lessened.  

I no longer pick up clothes for the kids for the seasons into the future and think, "Maybe I shouldn't get this because they might die."  I have concluded that if I spend $11 for two 5T t-shirts and a pair of shorts at Target and G does die, the least of my worries is going to be having spent money on clothes he will never wear.  Life certainly isn't very much fun if you are constantly worrying that your kids might die unexpectedly at a young age and can't even enjoy the joy that is 1.) buying cute clothes for your kids and 2.) savoring cheap deals.  

One of the strangest things about recovery (which I will always be in a constant state of) is how I can be hit suddenly by anxiety out of seemingly nowhere and feel I might be sinking back to the depths through which I once sludged.  And just as suddenly I can be made aware of how far I have come, a process that slips by completely unnoticed because it is organic to who I am.  

I think this qualifies me as heartless (at least in some circles)

I spoke with the vet this morning (not the vet with whom I normally interact).

Despite having been told yesterday by the office staff that Gonzo's blood work was fine, he apparently had an elevated glucose level.  The vet said this may be due to stress (and what animal isn't stressed going to the vet, particularly when the vet was called away during the blood draw and the cat had to sit back there far longer than he otherwise would have).  Or he could have diabetes.

She said to bring him back in two weeks to do another glucose test.  When I asked her what would happen if he does have diabetes, she said I would have to give him insulin shots twice daily.

It was at this point I called D at work and told him that I was not going to give Gonzo diabetes shots.  If the kids had diabetes, I would certainly do whatever I had to do to keep them healthy.  Because they are my flesh & blood.  Because they may live to be, perhaps 75 or 80 years old, and maybe make a wonderful contribution to life on this planet.

Gonzo is almost 80 years old in cat years, and no matter how long he lives he will stay in the basement, sleeping and watching birds at the feeder.  My cat will not find a cure for cancer or heal sick children or keep polar bears from becoming extinct.

That does not mean his life is worthless; it just means that I have to put most of my care and concern (physical, financial and otherwise) into the human lives that have been entrusted to me.

Keep him and Shanks fed, safe, and out of pain.  That is what I'm willing to do.  I try to remind myself that there are many, many humans in this world who would be thrilled with half as much.  

Back in the day, I used to love my cats

Before I had my kids, I loved my cats.  They were my babies.

And now, they are relegated to the basement.  A very cushy basement it is, but the basement nonetheless.

I spend more time than I'd like cleaning up cat puke from the floor and cat poop from the couch.  Why the hell the cats can't stand in one spot and throw everything up in same spot, I don't know.  They insist on puking, walking 8 steps, puking again, walking 6 steps, puking again, and so on.  Meaning that at any given time I have like 18 damp rags covering the floor trying to soak up the stains associated with cat vomit.

We replaced the carpet on the main floor of the house because there were so many nasty cat vomit stains.  Fortunately, the basement carpet is berber so it hides stains better than the solid beige carpet that was on our main floor.

After M was born, the cats started pooping in my closet and occasionally on our bed.  My medication helps tremendously, but my OCD and poop are not a good combination.  I can barely tolerate cleaning up my kids' poop, especially when it escapes the confines of the diaper/pull-up, so I wasn't having any part of the cat poop, especially with a 5-year-old, a 2-year-old and a newborn in my care.

The truth is the cats are a right royal pain in my ass.  Right now, as I type this, one of them is banging the shit out of the basement door and hollering.  As soon as my human needy, loud children go to bed, my feline needy, loud children start knocking.  I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought that maybe they would only live to about the 15-year mark rather than the 20-year mark (they are 13 years old).

I took them for their annual physical and shots and ended up paying $300 for the doctor visit, shots and geriatric blood work.  Gonzo has a level 2-3 heart murmur, and I was told they could do a cardiac ultrasound for close to $400.

There was a time when I would have spent that sum for my cats, but that time was before I had 3 young kids.  Lord knows, I don't want my cats to be in pain or suffer (which is part of the reason behind the basement living; cats can only tolerate so many toddlers/preschoolers chasing them....and my boys are relentless in their pursuit of the cats).  But $400 will buy a LOT of diapers or pay for part of N's tonsillectomy bills.

Suffice it to say, Gonzo will not be undergoing a cardiac ultrasound.

The vet had told me to call the Monday after their appointment to see what the blood work indicated.  It has been almost 3 weeks since their vet visit and today I remembered to call.  Everything looks fine but the vet is supposed to call me tomorrow to go over the results.

I expect I will be expected to act like I care.

Part of the reason I attempt to eat somewhat healthy

When I was pregnant with N, I had gestational diabetes, which I think played a HUGE role in my OCD kicking into overdrive and never quite leveling off again post-delivery.

I'm not quite sure if every ob/gyn practice is/was as Nazi-like as the one I went to during that pregnancy, but I got the impression that a pregnant woman with gestational diabetes is given a far more strict diet than a regular person of the non-pregnant variety.  I mean, I was told not to chew sugarless gum.  WTF??

Being the obedient patient who had already been told my baby might have Down Syndrome and who wanted a natural childbirth (but was warned gestational diabetes could make the baby the size of a small cow thereby making a c-section the only option), I followed the diabetes diet to.the.letter.  I never cheated.  I didn't eat cake at my baby showers.  I didn't chew sugarless gum.  If I was told to eat 2 Tbsp of butter a day, I measured out 2 Tbsp of butter and ate it (not by itself, of course, but on some bread).  My "treat" to myself was drinking a diet coke every Friday night.

OCD is a series of never-ending checks-ins.  Checking the car to make sure it is locked.  Checking to make sure you didn't hit a deer (even though you sorta think you would actually remember the impact of hitting a deer).  And gestational diabetes was a never-ending series of glucose and dietary check-ins.  Checking my blood sugar 6 times a day.  Checking my list of acceptable foods and appropriate measurements and ounces per day.  Checking in with the ob/gyn to give them my blood sugar levels for the week.

Even after N was born, I continued measuring my food and exercising for 45 minutes or more a day.  It is a wonder I was able to produce enough breastmilk for her.  In a way, the gestational diabetes kicking on my OCD actually led to a temporary eating disorder.  At 5'7" tall, 117 lbs is really not a good weight. And when I had my nervous breakdown it dropped to 112 lbs.  There is nothing attractive about nervous breakdown thin.

It has been 8 years since that pregnancy, and my A1C number puts me in the "higher risk" category which does worry me and is part of the reason I have tried over the past few months to reduce my sugar (both real and artificial) intake.

I grew up on sweet tea, but now I fix only unsweetened.  And if I get tea at a restaurant, I get half sweet/half unsweetened.  I no longer buy vanilla or fruit-flavored yogurt.  I buy plain Greek yogurt with the lowest amount of sugar grams and then add some chocolate chips and walnuts to it to jazz it up a bit.  I haven't drank anything other than diet soda in years (and I only get that if I go out to a restaurant).  I stopped buying it for home.  I do not buy cookies, except the once-a-year Oreos and Girl Scout cookies, which I put in the freezer and forget about until the following year when we get them out to eat before we purchase more to go into the freezer for a year.  I do buy ice cream, but not low-fat because less fat means more sugar.  But I usually only have a bowl of ice cream once a week.  I cut out orange juice (and all other juices) years ago because of the high sugar content.  I stopped buying dark chocolate (or any chocolate) mostly because I have had like 4 cavities in the past year but also because of the A1C levels.

I hope that these steps can bring down my number by this fall's health assessment at D's workplace.  They dropped by one point between last fall and this spring.  If I can get them into the "normal risk" category, I will feel relieved.

Diabetes is a scary disease, and for me the fear factor is because of what it might mean for my mental health.  It is bad enough to have a physical disease but when it worsens your psychological disease that really, really sucks.