RenovationGirl

Bedtime Battles

It's no secret that Builder Boy and bedtime do not get along.  With the exception of a handful of months last year, bedtime has always been challenging in the Renovator household.  At four months old, we decided it was time to institute a nightly routine.  We were still in that phase of ignorance with our new baby that we would be able to create and stick to a schedule on our time frame.  Baby would have to deal.  It's quite funny to think about now.  So, after months of falling asleep on Dada's chest or Mama's breast, Builder Boy embarked on his first official bedtime.

After much kissing and hugging, I took him upstairs, changed the diaper, read him Goodnight, Moon and sang him a song.  I swaddled him to the best of my ability (which wasn't much...I suck at swaddling!) and placed him in his cradle.  I stayed with him while he fell asleep, folding clothes.  This was fine.  He did cry, but I was right there, so it didn't last too long.  I was feeling rather good about myself after a couple of nights of this.  Then, on the fourth night, as I brought out the book, Builder Boy wailed at the top of his lungs.  He associated the book with me putting him alone into his cradle.  (If you think I'm nuts that a child this young can associate like this...I tried reading the same book to him during the day...he had the same response.)  This began an entire lifetime of bedtime battles for Builder Boy. 

Builder Boy is the master at dilly-dallying.  He can drag out getting a drink of water by turning the faucet on just enough to have the water drip into his cup.  Drip....drip....drip....Or he washes his hand inch by inch, scrubbing like a surgeon.  Or, he goes to pick a book and agonizes over which one is the perfect book for this particular night.  "I just don't know..."  he'll say. 

Fed up with how long bedtime can be drawn out, I did things a little differently tonight.  I took a timer into his room for his bedtime ritual.  He had exactly ten minutes to get into his PJ's, brush his teeth, go potty, have a book read to him and get into bed.  The deal was, if the timer went off, wherever we were, he would have to go to bed.  (He knew he was still required to do the nighttime necessities.)   It worked.  He flew through his routine, determined to beat the clock.  He was successful!

Occasionally, I have a good idea or two.  This one worked for tonight.  We'll see how long it is before we enter into a new bedtime battle.  

Do you have difficulty with bedtime with your kids?  What types of things do you do? 

Busting the Babysitter

Since my father's stroke, we have been very limited in child care.  My parents were the main source of child care for us.  Both are retired, and while they live 45 minutes away, the peace of mind knowing that Builder Boy was with family was worth every second of that drive.  So, the shock of the stroke affected many elements of our life.  It forced us to do something we should have done years ago, but were too scared to do-hire a babysitter.  Not a friend or a relative, but a real live stranger in whom we would place the most valuable thing in our life...Builder Boy. 

We are lucky to live four houses up from a small college, so we contacted them for suggestions.  After a couple of weeks, we found a young woman who seemed to mostly fit what we wanted.  While her schedule isn't perfect, it works for now.  She is the oldest of seven children, so she has been a "mommy" for quite some time and this shows in how she relates to Builder Boy.  He took to her quickly and enjoys when she is here.  While I still worry about all that could happen while they are alone together, I trust her as much as a mother can trust anyone but herself with her child. 

A few days ago, though, I was a bit irked at her.  She watches Builder Boy for  2 1/2 hours when she is here.  When I got home from work that day and picked him up from school, I asked what they had done together.  The response?  "Watched t.v."  I questioned further, "Really?  What show?"  He told me, so I then asked, "How many shows?"  Two.  Now that could mean two fifteen minutes shows OR two half hour shows...regardless, I was not pleased.  I asked who had suggested this and Builder Boy thought about it and told me, "She did."  Now, he's four and clever.  I assumed he lied.  Yet, not matter how many times we asked him in different ways, he stuck to his story. 

I know it is difficult to entertain children for a few hours...I get that, but really, for two and half hours of paid work, I think you can come up with something besides television.  He has more toys than any child needs to have.  We have crafts and books and paper and cars and costumes and every weapon made in plastic and foam.  So, while I still thought it was Builder Boy who had beaten the resistance out of the babysitter and got her to put the television on, I was still miffed it went on at all.

I talked with Builder Boy about not watching t.v. while the babysitter was here, that she was here to play with him, etc.  And I left her a note with some info on it and with a short note saying that we were cutting back on his tv watching and he knew he was not to watch it while she was here.  Before she could read that, though, Builder Boy took matters into his own hands. 

"Babysitter?"  says Builder Boy as she is taking off her coat.  "My mom said I'm not to watch t.v. while you're here." (Insert Remodel Man's internal groaning...)  "I told her it was your idea, right?"

She did not deny it and then was "unable to watch him" when we asked her about this weekend.  Looks like Builder Boy was being truthful...and he totally busted the babysitter!

Crowded

Do you ever find your mind so crowded with thoughts that you can't quite sort them out?  I find that most mornings on my hour's commute to work, my mind races in a million different directions.  Thinking of what to make from dinner spurs me to think about a book I read recently which makes me consider ways to organize my life better which makes me question my profession which makes me ponder a new business opportunity...it goes on and on.  What I like about this drive (and trust me, there is little to like...) is that while my mind races, it races peacefully.  It's as if my mind is trying to organize itself before the day begins. 

Often, I find myself thinking, "Oh, that would make a great post" only to find that by the time I get to a computer, the thoughts have left.  This doesn't frustrate me...I'm trusting that whatever I was considering has either been taken care of or will present itself again. It's been freeing.

One crowded issue in my mind today is the start of Lent.  Pray, fast, and give alms.  This is the mission during Lent.  I'm not very traditional in how I do this.  I believe that we shouldn't just "give alms" during Lent, just like I think that charitable giving shouldn't just be done at the holidays.  Imagine if we all gave alms all the time?  What an incredible community we would be!  And while I will fast in the traditional sense, so, too, will I fast daily in a different way...what a better time to eat more healthfully, to fast from things that are toxic to the body or eaten over-abundantly.  For years I have not given something up; instead, I have added something to my life...pray more thoughtfully, spend more quality time with my family, become more involved in my church, provide even more support for my friends.  Doing without can be good, but not if it's meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

Another aspect that I need to work on during Lent is letting go.  I need to let go of this burden I put on myself each day in dealing with infertility.  I need to trust that this path I am on is the right path.  I need to allow myself to feel joy in others' pregnancies and births.  I need to find joy merely in the beauty of these occurrences instead just feeling my own pain.  I guess I need to practice selflessness instead of selfishness. 

Yes, my mind is crowded, but hopefully, the peace I feel during my morning's drive will work itself into the rest of my day as well.  It seems like a great to time to instill more peace into my life.

Just Because You Have a Voice, Doesn't Mean You Have to Use It

I used to be an awards show junkie...I loved them.  My theater friends and I would celebrate the Tony Awards as if we were actually there.  I loved hearing the speeches of gratitude and honor of such an accomplishment.  Recently, though, I don't watch...if I do, I turn in just to see the last few awards.  

I am so weary of the speeches now.  Everyone has to make a statement.  What happened to thanking mom and dad and the good Lord above?  Why does it all have to be political?  It's not even that they mostly pontificate about issues on which I differ.  It's that I don't watch an awards show to be reminded of "real life."  I want to escape.  I want to believe that these "stars" always dress like this.  That they have had a rags to riches story.  Or that they were discovered in some obscure way.  I want little kids to watch and be able to dream of the day that they, too, will win one of these awards.  I had my speech all planned out-didn't you?

Now, it's so laden with politics and activism.  Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the passion.  It's nice when people who have no voice can be given one because of these actors.  But that's just it...they're just actors, being awarded for the acting job they do.  They are not being given awards for their activism or politics. This is not the time to burden the rest of us with YOUR ideas and YOUR beliefs.  You can do that through the movies you choose to act in or the rallies you join or the politicians you befriend.  

For one night, PLEASE, give me the glamour of Hollywood without a dose of any reality...I want to believe in diamonds and silk and champagne and dreams.  Is that too much to ask?

A Little Pixie Dust

It came in the preschool backpack...that invitation that mothers of boys dread...the girl birthday party.  Fairies and princesses and pink things-Oh My!  So far, the only girl's birthday parties we have attended haven't been very "girly."  So, I knew as soon as I opened it that Builder Boy was going to flip.  "A GIRL party?!  Gross!!!  I don't want to go!!!" 

I should interject here that we are not that family who pushes one gender toy over another with Builder Boy.  His toys are diverse, but for all the diversity, he chooses stereotypical boy toys almost all the time.  About a year ago he started doing this thing where anytime he saw girl "stuff," he'd cry out, "Booooorrrrriing!!!" in this sing-songy voice.  Nice...

So, we talked about this party...everyone was invited.  Boys would be there.  No, he didn't have to dress up like a fairy.  Finally, it came down to one thing...would his best friend be going?  Yes.  "Okay, I guess I'll go."  And he stomped away...most likely to play with guns or monster trucks-just to prove he didn't really like fairies. 

I am happy to report that the party was a huge success!  Yes, there were princess dresses and fairy wings, lots of pinks and purples and girls, but for all that, kids are just kids.  They all ran in circles for what seemed like an hour (and it just might have been), some in dresses, others in jeans, some carrying golf clubs (yikes!), and they all managed to choke down some Tinkerbell cake.  When it came time to go, Builder Boy did not want to leave.

Seems like Tinkerbell might have sprinkled a little of that pixie dust our way...

Preschool Ponderings

When we bought our house 5 1/2 years ago, we checked out the local school district.  Quickly, based on test scores, the district "report card," and interviews with teachers (people I knew...I didn't just call the school and ask to interview the teachers...I'm waaaay to lazy for that!), we realized that while we wanted this house, we did not want this district.  Our house, though, was a unique find and a personal dream of ours.  So we bought the house and committed ourselves to private school for Builder Boy.  We are lucky to have two private schools by us-one within walking distance, the other a mere 3 minute drive.  Because one of these schools is our church school, we felt comfortable with the decision to buy this house, especially knowing what a great school our church school had.

When it came time to pick a preschool, we looked at a couple different options...we settled on one of two preschools that are on our street.  Builder Boy and I can walk to school, which is something I always wanted to do as a child, but was a "Busser."  (Did you have those terms in elementary school-walkers or bussers?)  We love this preschool and it has allowed him to grow up in so many ways.  Technically, he can go to kindergarten next year, but we have chosen to keep him in a preschool setting for one more year.  Why?  Well, for one thing, he would be one of the youngest in his class, and being a boy, this would potentially set him up for disaster very early.  Second, he is still in speech therapy.  Third, he is having difficulty with writing.  At this point, we are not sure if this is because he could care less about it and refuses to practice, or if there are some developmental issues.  Either way, another year will help fine tune these skills.  So another year it is!

Why blog about this?  Well, I'm torn.  We're not sure where to send him next year for his third year of preschool.  We like his current preschool for the most part, it is close, it is reasonably priced, and they have a Transition class, or PreK-5 class.  However, most of his friends will be moving onto kindergarten and I'm not sure he is academically getting the right education.  (Socially, they rock!)  Plus, the schedule would be exactly the same as this year, three half days.  Our other choice is to send him to our church school.  Since his friends are moving onto their new schools, too, it is the perfect time to switch schools.  He will have one year at this school before kindergarten.  He will be getting a religious education that is our religion and the curriculum seems incredible (they have creative cooking-that sounds so awesome!!).  The downside is that they are more expensive and they don't offer a Transition class.  They have four options for the PreK-4 class...he would do a 5 day, half-day program.   My concern is that he'll be doing basically the same things as he is this year.  Plus, we've been telling him he'll be in a five year old class, and if he hears that it's a four year old class, he'll be soooo ticked.  So, I'm torn.

Logically, I know that our church school is the better choice...it will transition him into a five day program, he can fine tune those skills he finds challenging, and he will grow accustomed to going to the school he will attend for the next nine years.  My gut, though, isn't so sure.  I'd love your thoughts on this...

A quick hello to those taking the latest Blog Writing Course.  I had a blast in the course and I hope you are enjoying it, too.  (If you do not know what I am talking about, but are interested in finding out, click here.)  Topsy-Techie is a great writer and will lead you well.  She hasn't been around here lately, but her comments have always been as hysterical and intelligent as her posts.  Enjoy your class!

Unhappy Thoughts

A couple of days ago, dealing with PMS, it occurred to me that I am not happy.  And while this may seem apparent to some and even myself, I wasn't aware of the severity of my unhappiness.  I am not pleased with one single aspect of my life.  Remodel Man and I have had some tough times recently.  I always feel incompetent as a mom.  I am completely disillusioned with teaching.  The house is a largely unfinished space of constant chaos.  I'm dealing with my parents being, for the first time in my mind, elderly.  (Yes, Dad actually referred to himself like that and I laughed at him...I don't care that he's almost 70, he's soooo not elderly!)

I'm not sure what to do about it.  Remodel Man and I have been working hard to get life organized and begin whittling down our massive amount of infertility debt.  While this feels good, every step forward we take is so incredibly minuscule compared to the chaos of our house and the mountain of debt.  It all feels insurmountable.  I know it's not. I know it takes time.  But it is discouraging.  I'm working to manage my patience with Builder Boy and doing fairly well at it.  While he still watches far too much tv (like right now as I write this), we are playing together more and working on some motor skills he needs practice on.  Yet, I think I will always think (like most moms?) that there is more that I could do, that I could always be a better mom. The teaching issue is a post in and of itself.  There's too much about that around which I have yet to get my mind.  And I cannot control my parents' aging process, so we are learning to work though that.

And I'm internally very angry when I see pregnant women.  Not AT them, just at myself, at life, at God.  I'm horribly jealous.  I feel a heat inside of me that fills me with rage-again, not towards these women, but at myself.  It's bad.  I want that.  I am a decent person.  I have a little boy who would make a great big brother.  I should have that!  And I can't.  And I'm tired of thinking about it, trying for it.  Yet, it doesn't make me walk away from it.  Had I not had the miscarriage, I think I would be well on my way to "recovery," but life threw that giant wrench into the works. 

I know the obvious thought is therapy.  I'm all for therapy, but I've found that trying to find the time and money to do it stresses me out even more that when I do get there, the sessions are not fulfilling.  I've prayed A LOT.  Probably not the right way or for the right things, but I'm on my knees (figuratively...our floors are very hard!) asking for help. 

What do you do to pull yourself out of ruts like these?  My life is good.  We are all healthy.  God showered great blessings on us last week when Porsche PeaNut's (my goddaugther) MRI did not show brain tumors or lesions.  (Thank you for your good thoughts on that one...keep them coming-she's been diagnosed with Chiari Malformation Type I of the brain...)  We all still have our jobs.  We are able to pay our bills.  There is food on our table and heat in our radiators.  Life is good.  But it just doesn't feel like it. 

Not Just Another Valentine

When my sister was little, she was a complete Daddy's girl.  Every night, right before my dad would come home from work, she would make my mother dress her up in her best dress, tights and shoes so that she would look pretty for Daddy. I could have cared less.  I was definitely Mommy's little girl. 

However, there is one time of year that I am most definitely "Daddy's Little Girl."  Valentine's Day.  For as long as I can remember, we always got a little gift on Valentine's Day.  The gift was from my parents, but the card....that was special.  That was from Daddy.  As we got older and moved out of the house, he would mail the cards to us.  Without fail, both my sister and I would read our cards and just sob.  Our Daddy would tell us in that one little card just what we meant to him without all the craziness of our attitudes or his frustration.  It became a joke to see if he could pick out the most sentimental card to get us to really cry.  We'd call him to thank him for the card and he'd lightly ask, "Did ya cry?"  Sniffle, sniffle.  "yes."  Mission Accomplished!  And while this was our little joke, we did look forward to this special time when it was all about a Daddy and his two little girls.

A little over a month ago, when my father was readmitted into the hospital upon his second stroke in seven days, as I sat by his bed, watching him suffer and wondering if he'd make it, the strangest thought occurred to me...What about Valentine's Day?  Who would give me my special card?  Of all the things I could have thought about, this one gripped me. 

Yesterday, in the mail, was my Valentine's Day card from my father.  While the sentiment was beautiful, it was the physical card in my hand that made me weep.  The fact that my father was able to go to the store, pick out the card, sign his name, address the envelope and place it in the mail.  He was able to call and ask me if I liked it.  He didn't ask if I cried this year, but I offered that up.  Because truly, just being able to get the card from him this year made me cry-joyfully. 

Happy Valentine's Day.

Three Is Such a Lonely Number

The really amazing part about infertility is that sometimes, you think you get over the whole thing.  You start playing the hand that has been dealt.  You are handling it, man.  You rock at being infertile and you're letting go of the bitterness.  And then, BAM!!!, something happens that slaps you right in the face and wakes you up again.  You realize that  you never really get over infertility.  I've talked before, I think, of my aunt who dealt with infertility back in the early 80's.  Options weren't that abundant then, so with little testing and little treatment, if any, they moved onto adoption.  Yet, still, when she hears of our woes, she gets very upset.  Upset for what she went through and missed out on, and for the pain she can so totally empathize with.  Many infertiles who go on to become parents acknowledge this...that while they are overjoyed with achieving their dream, still, always a shadow exists, the experiences that came before.  They are what makes us who we are.

Recently, I have had that slap in the face.  Or, more like the punch in the gut.  I have become a pro at masking the tightness in my voice, the strained smile on my face, and the shortness of breath.  I had thought I was dealing.  Primary infertility?  Check!  Secondary Infertility? Check! IUIs and IVFs?  Check! Acupuncture? Check!  Miscarriage? Check!  Moving on?  Uh, check, I think...But I think that until I have another child (take a moment to laugh hysterically...) or I go through menopause (see last post for this potential upcoming saga), I cannot move on.  It's not possible.  So, slaps in the face it will continue to be for me.

The most recent came in rapid succession...one directly before Christmas (which is always a lovely time to receive such news) and one a month later.  The part of this slap that really stung is that both sets of news dealt not with a first pregnancy, not with a second pregnancy, but with a third pregnancy.  Three.  Both have had no problems with fertility.  One of them has gotten pregnant the first month that they have tried all three times.  She will never know how it is to have sex and not get pregnant.  Can you imagine?  She actually needs birth control! 

The first news we received via friends.  The couple who are pregnant are family and even while at a party with them just three weeks before, they did not tell us.  They told everyone else, but not us.  So we had to find out, in disbelief, three weeks later from a mutual friend.  Note to you fertiles out there-THIS is NOT how we want to be told.  I took a few weeks to get over my pissiness and then I sent a card of congratulations.  (Karma and all that good stuff...)  Now I just have to get through the birth announcement and we''ll be just great!

The most recent news, the extra-fertile couple, came from a phone call.  A phone call which was made specifically to share this news.  The fertile lady was nervous and sad to tell us.  For being so darn fertile, she is amazingly understanding and sympathetic.  She simply believes that she could not handle infertility and feels immense sorrow for those who have to.  I tried to reassure her of the whole, "I'm not upset with you...I'm happy for you, just sad for us."  She even told me that if she would have had twins, she would give us one.  Unrealistic, but very sweet. 

I write this on the eve of my period's due date, filled with cramps, sore breasts, a pimply face, and irritability.  Wanting so desperately to be wrong, to think these symptoms are happy symptoms, that I will be able to share good news for once, but knowing that I know my body and its signs far too well to delude myself.

I want not to feel this despair.  I want to be over this.  I want to move on and just be.  I want to be pregnant.  To feel movement in my belly.  To watch how my body changes and grows with each passing day.  I want to give my husband the baby girl he yearns for and give Builder Boy a sibling.  I want to hear my baby's first wails.  Feel my baby's soft skin.  See my baby smile at me with unfocused delight.  I want, I want, I want. 

And I can't have...

All Washed Up and Nowhere to Go

*If you are a real-life friend of mine, you might want to skip this post, because it's going to get personal and perhaps more information than you needed to know about my cycles...*

Since my miscarriage, things have been different physically.  My periods have changed dramatically.  Since my sister has been dealing with fibroids over the past year and a half, I wondered if I might also have them, based on these changes.  There's no way to put this politely, so I'll just spill it-my periods are clottier than hell.  I mean gushing, nasty, pouring out of me clots.  (Feel like a glass of red wine, don't ya? ) I would even venture to say that what has been happening during my periods has been the same if not worse than the miscarriage itself (I was barely six weeks).  This month I have added something new...sore breasts.  Now, before all you optimists get excited out there, let's remember I was one of 15% to experience infertility, and one of 15% of that number to have "unexplained" fertility.  Soooooo, the chances are slim to none it's what you are thinking.  But, always flirting with that nasty dude, Hope, I googled sore breasts and ovulation.

See, that's the problem...the sore breasts started just a couple of days after I ovulated.  Not long enough for the little sperm and the little egg to find one another, fall in love, and play house in my uterus.  So Google it, I did.  No matter how many times I do this, I never learn...don't Google if you can't handle the plethora of fatal or devastating diagnoses you might get.  Know what one of the first websites said?  Peri-menopause.  Take a minute to digest that....

WHAT?!?!  Really?  I'm 36.  I kind of thought I had some time.  My grandmother was a very late menopausee (menopauser?).  My mom was a bit earlier, but still in her early 50's.  While I know this is inevitable, I wasn't quite expecting to read that.  I certainly didn't want to read something like that...taking me a bit closer to losing out on the dream of another child. 

There are, of course, other answers...hormone issues not related to menopause, breast cancer, and, well, that's quite enough, thank you.  So here I am trying to figure out if I should call the gynecologist or wait it out a bit.  I've also been battling yeast infections every month, which I know is not good, so I guess I really should call.

So there you have it...first the RE telling me to go for Donors eggs because my eggs are all washed up and now this.  Lovely.  Nothing like feeling much older than you actually are. 

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On a very personal note, one of my goddaughters, Porsche Nut's little girl, is undergoing an MRI tomorrow for possible lesions or tumors.  I haven't gotten the full details yet, but your prayers and positive thoughts are much appreciated.  She's only four.