I Almost Started a War

I think I have gift PTSD.  As I’ve documented here over and over again, my mother-in-law’s gift-giving leaves a little something to be desired.  I’ve realized over the past few weeks, as my son’s third birthday approaches, that I am starting to dread present-receiving opportunities.  How sad is that?

Lately, the in-laws have developed a habit of sending Amazon gifts for birthdays, without any gift receipt included to identify who the package is from.  No shame in the Amazon game, obviously, but the gifts they choose to send are just weird and inappropriate.  Case in point, my poor sister-in-law (whose Amazon wish list is abundant with cute ideas, by the way) received a stuffed Teddy Bear from her parents via Amazon for her 35th birthday.  Oy.

So for weeks, I’ve been steeling myself for the inevitable Amazon package containing some random present for K-Man’s third birthday.  And yesterday, when I opened the mailbox, there it was.  A big fluffy Amazon envelope addressed to my son.  I groaned as I carried it inside, groping it all over in an attempt to decipher its contents.

After a few deep breaths and a shot of tequila (just kidding), I ripped open the package.  And pulled out … a pair of pruning shears.  And a thirteenth-century theological treatise written in the form of “a dialogue among allegorical figures who represent the nature of the relation between the soul and God.”  No receipt of any kind.

My blood ran cold.  And then very, very hot.  I couldn’t be sure who the package was from, but come on.  Obviously it was some kind of sick joke from the in-laws, because my father-in-law loves to garden, and my mother-in-law is a classicist.  Some kind of sick joke, or they were going senile.

I honestly felt sick to my stomach.  This was a new low for them.  My sweet little son is turning three and actually understands what it means and is excited about presents, and they send something that I literally can’t even give to him? What the fuck? Do they secretly hate him?

I shot off some angry texts to Hubby and my sister-in-law, looking to commiserate.  Hubby groaned along with me, though he was excited about keeping the pruning shears for himself.  We briefly discussed instituting a “no more presents” rule that only applied to his parents.  And we agreed that we would go out and buy K-Man one more present to replace this mess.

My sister-in-law expressed genuine confusion, and couldn’t believe that her parents would actually send this garbage to a child.  She suggested we check with them and confirm that they sent the present, since there was no receipt.  Fair enough, I guess, but who else would possibly stoop so low?

So when Hubby got home from work, we called the in-laws.  My heart was racing as he dialed the number, but of course as soon as we got on the line, my mother-in-law dominated the conversation for 10 minutes straight.  When Hubby finally was able to ask whether they sent K-Man a pair of pruning shears and a philosophical text for his birthday, my MIL burst out laughing.

“I knew it,” I thought to myself.  “She thinks this shit is funny.  It’s not fucking funny.”

More laughter.  “That went to your house?” She asked.  And then more laughter.  And then it slowly dawned on me, just as she was eking out her own explanation.  Yes, the in-laws had purchased these items.  No, they had not intended to send them to my son.  Their Amazon default address was apparently set to K-Man from a long-ago purchase, and they forgot to change the default before ordering themselves some gardening tools and what sounds like the worst book I will never read.

Holy heck.  Was this some crazy conspiracy to give me a heart attack?

So this time, I must admit, I was wrong.  My in-laws did not give the worst imaginable gift.  Not yet, anyway.  And as much as I’m still reeling from that emotional roller coaster, I am relieved to know that their gift-giving awfulness knows some bounds.  Thank the Lord.

Until next time,

Vee

Slow Down, Girlfriend

My daughter Ell-Bell started walking a few weeks before her first birthday.  And she was pretty timid about it at the beginning, as I’m guessing most babies are.  But once she got the hang of it, man did she ever.  A little after she turned one, she became a speed demon.  Awkwardly stumble-sprinting from here to there like some sort of crazed maniac.  Girlfriend needs to slow down.

I used to be able to get things done.  Granted, it was only in 5-minute increments, but it was still something! I’d sit Ell-Bell down in the family room, throw some toys at her, and then sprint around the house, changing the laundry, loading the dishwasher, having a quick pee.  Now, I can’t sit her down for 5 seconds before she’s pushed herself to her feet and is toddling away at an alarming speed.

So these days, if Hubby’s not home, I’m cooking dinner 30-seconds at a time, pausing constantly to retrieve the baby from the bathroom, the stairs, or the kitchen step-ladder.  Because those three places — which are the only non-baby-proofed parts of our house — happen to be Ell-Bell’s three favorite places to be.  Is there anything more relaxing than cooking dinner at the end of a long day, frantically racing back and forth between your burning, oil-spitting stir fry and your babbling, toilet-obsessed toddler who unfortunately knows how to lift the toilet lid?  Little turd.

And much to my tv-loving dismay, Ell-Bell won’t even sit still for the boob tube.  Which I guess is a good thing from a brain-melting perspective, but man, I would love to be able to sweep the floor for a few minutes without my one-year-old trying to help.  She’s actually not very helpful.

The worst part is, as fast as Ell-Bell can go, she’s still pretty terrible at walking.  And she thinks she can run, but she really can’t.  Which means her sweet little forehead and our wooden floors are way too well acquainted.  Girlfriend falls down. A lot.  Her skin is littered with bruises. Poor thing.

On the bright side, Ell-Bell is the cutest thing ever when she walks.  Like, strangers stop and stare, giggling as she moves her little bowling-ball-shaped frame across a room.  She’s definitely got this toddling, wide-eyed, confused, chubby-cheeked vibe going on.  Work it, girlfriend.

Until next time,

Vee

Nap Time, I Hardly Knew Ya

Mr. K-Man, my son.  He’s never been a sleeper.  He’s been hard to put down, always.  Late to bed.  Early to rise.  Waking up in the middle of the night.  Short naps.  And now, I fear, we are at the end of our nap time journey altogether.  You guys, he’s not even 3 yet.  *Insert bawling emoji*

To be fair, I’ve thought K-Man was giving up his nap every few months since he was probably one-and-a-half.  I like to cry wolf.  But sadly, I really think this time it’s for real.  In the past, after a week or two of nap resistance hell, everything would go back to normal. This time it’s been going on for months.  Months.

Things went downhill for us when we started potty training.  When K-Man learned that he could use the potty as an excuse to get out of bed, his ability to fall asleep at nap time or bed time took a nose dive.  We’re talking hours between the official start of sleep time and when he would actually fall asleep.  Every time I would reach the door to leave him alone in his room, he would call out goofily from the bed, “I. Need. to. Peeeeeee.”  Ugghhhhh.

Since it’s been months, though, I don’t think I can chalk this one up to a potty training-induced sleep regression.  I don’t think it’s going to get better, and we’re stuck in a miserable vicious cycle.  I spend an hour getting him down for nap, all so he can take a (late) 1.5 hour nap.  Hardly worth it.  And then I spend 1-2 hours getting him down for bedtime.  He’s not tired because he took that piddly little nap earlier, you see.

So lately we’ve been skipping naps here and there.  And by “skipping naps” I mean he’s been refusing to nap.  Last week, he napped on Monday.  And on Monday night he was a total butthead to put down to sleep at bedtime.  On Tuesday-Friday, no nap, and bedtime was a dream.  On Saturday, daddy insisted on a nap.  And then later, you guys, K-Man refused to go to sleep until 11:30 at night. 11-freaking-30!  That’s 3 hours later than normal.  That’s after I go to sleep!

So I think I’m done trying.  Because it’s exhausting.  But there’s still a little nagging voice in the back of my head wondering if K-Man is really ready.  He’s not exactly a peach in the evening on the days he doesn’t nap.  I mean, some days he’s great.  But other days he’s rage crying because I won’t let him have a donut before dinner.  Or smashing his baby sister’s face into the floor.  No bueno.

Mostly, I just feel sorry for myself.  And unlucky.  According to this highly scientific Baby Center article, more than 50% of kids are still day napping at age 4.  And 3 in 10 kids continue to nap past the age of 5.  What the fuck?  What the hell kind of sleep gods did I piss off that I’m getting cheated out of YEARS of nap time bliss? I’d like to meet the parents of these kids who are still snoozing happily in freaking kindergarten.  I’d like to shake their hands.  Or you know, punch them in the face a little bit.  Whatevs.

Until next time,

Vee

Resolved

New Year, New me!  Or that’s what I would be saying if I was a basic bitch, anyway.  Which I’m totally not.

But seriously, I always go over the top with New Year’s resolutions.  This year, as always, I have a ton.  Lose 15 pounds.  Eat less chocolate.  Eat less cheese.  Drink less alcohol.  Spend less time on my phone around the kids.  Plan more activities for the kids.  Get K-Man to eat at least one bite of one vegetable.  Clean the kitty litter every day.  Call my grandpa more.  Shower more.  Figure out what I’m doing with my life.

But if I achieve nothing else this year, what I really, truly want, is to be nicer to my kids.  You see, before I had kids, I never in a million years thought I would be a “mean mommy.”  Because though I can be a huge, passive-aggressive “B” behind someone’s back, I’ve never been confrontational.  If anything, I thought I would be too meek with my children, let them walk all over me, let them get away with things left and right.

But here I am, almost three years in, mean as fuck.  Let me be clear up front: I love my children hard.  And they know how I feel.  They get snuggled, loved on, praised, adored.  I’ve never been one to hold back affection.  But, boy, do I lose my patience.  I am not a patient person, and my poor kids are the unsuspecting victims of my inability to keep it together in moments of stress.  I yell, growl, glare, and flail my arms around like a stupid idiot.  It’s a disgusting, embarrassing display.

Even worse, sometimes I lose my temper.  Because when K-Man gets violent with his little sister, I run hot instantly.  I’m ashamed to admit I’m not above picking him up, or holding him sternly by the shoulders, and yelling in his face.  Ugh, I don’t even like to anonymously admit that to the blogosphere.  I just get so frustrated, and I really need him to understand that his behavior is not ok, and in that moment, I can’t think of a better way to accomplish that.

When the moment passes, I feel sick, and I hate myself.  I don’t think I’m crossing any hard lines about how to treat children, but I know I’m crossing my own lines about what I am comfortable with in the abstract.  And I know that violence breeds violence.  I know that I am the way I am, in part, because when I was a kid my dad picked me up and held me against the wall to yell in my face about what I’d done wrong. And I know that if I’m not careful, my kids will be doing the same things to their kids.

So this year, I want to be better.  To practice patience.  To practice calm.  To remember to breathe when I recognize the anger rising.  Wish me luck (and give me pointers!).

Until next time,

Vee

 

 

Happy Thoughts

While writing Monday’s vent sesh about the in-law visit was totally therapeutic, it also left me feeling like a negative nelly.  (Or the in-law’s visit made me feel that way, and I was just re-living it when I wrote about it, but whatever).  So this post is dedicated to the happy thoughts that have kept me going this week.

Thoughts like . . . how much I freaking love the Christmas season.  Beautiful twinkling lights.  Gentle (and sometimes violent) snowfall.  Family.  Cheer.  Presents.  Giving.  Shopping.  As I’ve blogged about before, I lurv shopping, so I absolutely welcome any excuse to spend money semi-guiltlessly.  And shopping for the kids brings this to a whole other level. I wish I could spend endlessly on them, but I’m trying to keep myself in check! My favorite gift for the kiddos, you ask? Well, it could be the illustrated Harry Potter book that my son is definitely still way too young for but we just couldn’t wait any longer to buy.  Or it could be this trampoline that I’m hoping my son can use to jump his crazies out during these winter days inside.  Or it could be these adorable rain boots we ordered for Ell-Bell.  Are you dying like I’m dying? They are so omg adorable.

Thoughts like . . . how stinking cute K-Man is with some of the things he says.  Like how he starts sentences with the phrase “Shall we…”

  • Shall we go play in the fam-wy woom?
  • Shall we eat eggs and panpakes?
  • Shall we go to the wi-bwar-ee?
  • Shall we watch Baby Bums?

Or how he calls all meals of the day “wunch.”  Or how he kept shouting “fourteen days until Chriiiist-masss!” in the grocery store yesterday (even though I kept correcting him and telling him it was actually only four days).  Or how he spends all morning asking me to “wun” and “chaaaaase” him.

Thoughts like … halle-freaking-lujah and a-freaking-men for the fact that the green slime goo crap that we never should have bought turned out to be water soluble. Because otherwise my 1-year-old daughter would be waking up with a buzz cut this morning.  (For the record, I only turned away for a few seconds.  And for the other record, my son put the goo in her hair.  I didn’t knowingly let my 1-year-old play with goo. Of course, I knowingly let my almost-three-year-old play with goo, so I’m still plenty dumb).

Wishing everyone a wonderful weekend.  Until next time,

Vee

The Visit is Over

Early yesterday afternoon, the in-laws concluded their visit.  As they closed the front door to our house and headed out to their car, Hubby and I both literally keeled over in moaning, ugly exhaustion.  They. are. exhausting.

You see, both my mother-in-law (“MIL”) and my father-in-law (“FIL”) are recently-retired teachers. They love to talk.  They love to have a captive audience.  And I don’t mean captive, like, captivated.  I mean captive like, unable to escape.

Though they love to talk, neither of them can stand to listen to the other.  They save all this pent-up frustration at not being listened to for months at a time, and then they verbally explode all over the place whenever they visit other people.  So I spent four days being verbally exploded upon.  As an introvert who can barely stand to hear her own husband talk for more than 2 minutes at a time (love you Hubby), this was excruciating.

Now, it may be true that I am a horrible hag who thinks people shouldn’t be allowed to talk for more than two minutes at a time.  But to be fair to me, the in-laws’ talking is a particular brand of awful.

First, they insist on having a conversation at the worst times.  Like, at the same time that someone else is talking.  Or, when I am trying to soothe a baby that is fucking losing it.  Or, when I am literally in the middle of running out of the room to go tend to something burning on the stove.  Zero self awareness.

Second, they talk about the most inane things.  The. most. inane. things.  FIL walked me through his weekly schedule, one hour at a time.  (He’s retired.  He plays a lot of pickle ball.  He does half of his grocery shopping at Harris Teeter.  The other half at Whole Foods.  Sometimes he goes to Walmart for the sales.  A few weeks ago they over-charged him for potatoes and he had to talk to the manager to get his 50 cents back).  MIL turned a 30-second anecdote about how she has to buy different shoe sizes for each foot into a 10-minute story.   She gave us a lecture on the Roman calendar.  She told the life stories of multiple people who I have never met, have no relation or connection to, and couldn’t give any shits about.

It was more than just the talking that irritated me, though.  MIL spent probably about 60% of the what-should-be-waking-hours of their visit in our guest room, sleeping.  And like, it’s kind of nice to have a break from her, but good god woman, you sleep more than my 1-year-old does.  Like, a lot more.  Get your life together.

As for meals, well, per usual, they took zero responsibility for their own sustenance.  In every instance, they just waited to be fed.  Now, I get that when someone visits you, you should generally expect to do most of the food provision.  But it is a little exhausting to be 100% responsible, especially when you have two young needy kids.  The in-laws treated us like short-order cooks.  They didn’t lift a finger to help with the preparation of a single meal or snack.  They didn’t offer to pick up groceries when we needed something.  They never said Thank You.  And, when my split pea soup turned out to be an unfortunate dud and Hubby rushed out for some emergency Panera Bread one night, the in-laws did not offer to pay for their share of the meal.  Can I take one moment to vent about the fact that any time Hubby or I have ever had to order-in when these people are visiting us, they have not ONCE — not one single time — asked how much they owe for their share? Not once, in the entire eleven years I’ve known them.  They must think that because they are our guests, if we’re not preparing a meal for them, we are on the hook for paying for delivery.  What the fuck is that?

And then, of course, the Christmas gifts.  Let me just say, at the outset, that we sent all four of the kids’ grandparents an Amazon wish list with ideas for presents that the kids might like or need.  I think it was a well thought-out list, with a variety of possible presents (clothes, toys, academic stuff) at a variety of price points ($5-$100).  We prefaced the list with a nice note saying that the best gift for our kids was love, but that we hoped this list would be helpful if any of the grandparents felt compelled to give something.  I didn’t think it was horribly offensive, and both of my parents shopped from the list and sent nice useful gifts to my kids.  But, when the in-laws got here for their visit, they smugly told me they never even looked at the list.  And mocked me for sending it.  Like, I truly don’t understand the animosity that they displayed.  What could possibly be so repulsive about the concept of giving gifts that the recipient actually wants?

As for the actual gifts that the in-laws gave, well, it started out kind of okay.  When they first got here, FIL handed Hubby a check for a respectable amount of money, and insinuated that this was Hubby’s and my Christmas present.  We really couldn’t complain.  I’m not one to turn my nose up at monetary holiday gifts if the dynamic is appropriate, so I thought maybe Hubby and I had survived the gauntlet.

Then MIL insisted on giving the kids “Advent gifts” that they could open during the visit.  She reiterated over and over again that these were just Advent gifts, and not their Christmas presents.  Of course the Advent gifts were not good–because they never are–but they were not absolutely terrible either.  K-Man got some puzzles that MIL made by hand.  Terrible, glued-together, toxic, cardboard messes that we will be throwing away in a month or so, but K-Man had fun with them for a few minutes.  Ell-Bell got this doll that is not-so-slightly creepy looking.

MIL explained that she received the doll years ago from a friend who had hand-made it, well before MIL knew she would have a granddaughter.  (In other words, Ell-Bell got an old toy that MIL found lying around her house).

After the Advent gifts, Hubby and I were generally confused about whether that was all the kids were going to get.  But on the last day of the visit, MIL announced that she had left a box of Christmas presents for all of us in my room by the bed.  (WTF, don’t go in my room, weirdo).  I felt a little relieved, because even though the monetary gift for Hubby and I was quite welcome, I was kind of underwhelmed with the in-laws’ efforts at gifts for my kids.

So after they left, and after Hubby and I spent a few hours recovering in front of the TV, curiosity got the best of me.  I grabbed the box of presents from upstairs and started to pick through it on the couch.  A present for me, which, upon gentle manual inspection, was clearly another homemade puzzle.  Another present for me, which, as MIL wrote on the gift tag, I “may end up selling on eBay.”  Huh?  Something for Hubby, a floppy-book-feeling thing. Probably an old work book of his from grade school days, as his mother loves to wrap those up and pass them off as gifts.  I sorted through a few more presents, and a sickening realization began to wash over me.  There were no presents in there for the kids.  Was there a gift for the cats? You bet!  But nope, not a single other gift for our beautiful, sweet, innocent children.

And so, in 2017, the MIL Christmas Troll struck again.  I can’t even really articulate why I am so disappointed.  I guess I’m irritated that she went to so much effort to clarify that the Advent gifts were not Christmas presents, as if she was hyping some actual Christmas presents? As if she was trying to say, “don’t worry, this isn’t all we’re giving them!” Except it was all they were giving them? I guess I’m embarrassed that my son saw this juicy box of Christmas presents from grandma and grandpa, and not a single one is for him? I guess I’m feeling kind of protective over my children and their future disappointment when they realize that grandma and grandpa suck all the fun and joy out of Christmas because they can’t be bothered to swallow their pride and buy a fucking $5 sticker pad from an Amazon wish list?

Will this be the year that I finally learn to expect only the absolute most disappointing outcome from these people when it comes to gifts? I bet you one homemade puzzle that I’m writing this same shit all over again next Christmas.

Until next time,

Vee

Thursday Thoughts (on a Wednesday)

It’s Wednesday, and I’m having some thoughts.

Like, why does Hubby refuse to rinse out whatever bowl or cup he uses to scramble eggs in? Is it because he enjoys my gagging sounds when I’m loading the dishwasher?  Is there anything grosser than raw egg yolk dripping all over everything? *Vomit*

Also, why are the people waiting to use the family restroom I’m already using so impatient?  Do they not know what kinds of things go on in the family restroom?  Do their kids not need to take all manner of shoes and clothes off to go potty? Have they never changed a 20-wipe blowout? Do they think that trying the handle every 30 seconds is going to make my potty-training son poop any faster?

I’ve noticed that my kids have turned me into a human garbage disposal. They never finish any of their food and I ultimately end up playing clean up with my mouth.  Hey, it’s closer than the trash can.  (Floor noodles, anyone? No? Too far?)

Yesterday we had an epic snow here in Upstate New York and I felt like freaking Wonder Woman as I shoveled the driveway with two kids in tow.  I also felt like my neighbors were staring at me out their windows, thinking to themselves that I have no fucking clue what I am doing.  Maybe YouTube can teach me how to shovel snow?

Tomorrow, my in-laws are descending upon us for a few days.  You guys know how I feel about that.  I can’t wait to see what my Mother-in-Law got us all for Christmas this year.  We sent an Amazon Wish List for the kids that went completely unacknowledged, so I’m sure we totally won’t be disappointed or offended at all.  Blurgh.

The Star Wars release date is upon us, and the in-laws have volunteered to watch the munchkins so Hubby and I can have a day date and go see it.  I’m kind of a Star Wars poser, but I get excited because it is fun to see Hubby excited.  I will totally fall asleep halfway through the movie, for about 10 minutes, like I always do.  I will wake up to Hubby glaring at me over his popcorn, like I always do. Hopefully somewhere deep down, he thinks it is a little bit adorable?

Until next time,

Vee