Bean really is a bean

Yep, he’s kinda little. 5th percentile little. Despite the fact that he was only an ounce shy of 9 lbs. at birth, he is on the bitty side. Of course, I think he looks perfect, with nice round cheeks and a few rolls and the best big belly I have ever seen, but every time we go to the doctor I feel like I am going to be interrogated about his eating habits and my milk supply. All of those questions…are you doing this? How about this? What about this, and this, and this? YES. The kid eats like a bear. He nurses 4-6 times a day and has three meals, sometimes a snack, and usually juice, too. I was still pumping up until last month, thereby supplementing 2-4 oz. daily. There are only so many hours in the day and only so much room in his stomach. In addition to fruits, vegetables and cereals, I have added high fat yogurt to his diet. And mozzarella. And bagels. And whole wheat bread. And pancakes. My in-laws couldn’t believe how much he ate during their last visit. Still, he is small for his age, and I am dreading the weigh-in at his 9 month check-up and the brow raising that will inevitably follow.

I already beat myself up about the fact that my cervix wouldn’t dilate enough to let him out, even after an 18 hour induction. We almost lost him. My amniotic fluid suddenly depleted at 10 days overdue, requiring the induction to happen immediately. It failed. After the stress of the long, unsuccessful labor, his blood sugar crashed to a level so low that I am amazed that he made it through, that he is even a functioning person at all.

So yeah. I hate these routine check-ups. It brings all of that tension back, all of that stomach-dropping horror of the hospital stay that followed, the spinal tap when his white blood cell count stayed elevated, having to leave him at the hospital in the hands of strangers when I was sent home, only being allowed to hold him at certain times, being asked to leave the room while they ran tests and administered antivirals and antibiotics via an endless series of new blood sticks and IVs ”just in case”…it took Bean, Huz and me months to recover from the aftershocks.

So even when the doctors say he is kinda small but developmentally fine, even when they tell us we are doing a great job but we just need to get more weight on him, my chest tightens. I did all I could possibly do to bring him safely into the world and I am doing all I can to keep him that way. I have fenugreeked, I have Le Leched, I have pumped, I have lactation consulted, I have rebirthed. I feed him a meticulously balanced diet of homemade and organic baby food in abundance. He eats, and eats, and eats. He clearly loves to nurse and eat. He is beautiful and healthy and vibrant. We realize we are blessed beyond belief. So why did/do I always end up feeling inferior around all of these doctors?

Spank you, spank you very much

Fah real doh, thanks, momomax.

Okay, my turn.

If I had a record label, I would sign momomax and all these broads as songwriters:

blue milk

Chaos is Normal

Self Made Mom

subarctic mama

The Road Less Traveled

walking through doors

We’d kick out the jams.

(You are now invited to copy and paste Rosie the Rockin’ Blogger into your blog, just because I like you and I said so. Cool, huh?)

The great name debate

There is some great dialogue going on here at blue milk (I do lurve her) about women choosing surnames for themselves and their children. Actually, I believe she started out talking about children only but then it led into married names, as well. Maybe I brought it there? Of course I have a big mouth about it, I have a big mouth about everything, and you will see my response (okay, responses). This is something I have actually given a whole lot of thought to; whether I have articulated that thought well enough is quite another issue, heh. I will try some more here.

For those of you who are so well-known in your respected fields that changing your name would represent a professional hardship, or you are so firm in the feeling that your name truly belongs to you, I say, “yay you!”. I mean that sincerely. I added my husband’s last name to mine because it was important to him and it wasn’t a big deal to me. I had bigger fish to fry. He has, however, recently agreed to add my name to his. Actually, I think he agreed to it before we married, but was more than happy to have it fall to the wayside when I didn’t press the issue. His willingness satisfied me and I was reluctant to make sure his name change happened because I was having my own issues with whether I even wanted my last name.

More recently, I neglected to add ”my” last name to my son’s name right after he was born. It had been the plan to include it, but for many reasons I will not get into, it didn’t occur to me when they asked for his full name at the hospital. It was months later when I thought seriously about the omission and decided to begin the annoying process of fixing it. Often, I didn’t want to at all, because again, I wasn’t sure I even really wanted it. My relationship with Huz is grand. My father? Not so much.

So, where does that leave me, when I do want my name to be shared by my husband and son, but I am not sure what I want that name to be? Oooo, I know! I know! Pick me!

Heres’ where:

I had a favorite professor who got divorced. When she did, she wanted neither her ex-husband’s surname nor her prior one. Her daughter was grown so she did not feel like sharing the same surname was as important as it might have been otherwise. What did she do? She chose a new name altogether, one that reflected how she was feeling at the time. She chose a new surname of Augustine. Thinking of her now has resolved my issue.

I am very close to my grandmother. She was my “dad” growing up. Of course, her last name is actually her dad’s, on ad infinitum, but naming myself after my grandmother is the closest thing I can get in our society to a matriarchal naming tradition. It is also a way for me to show her how much I honor her role in my life. I had her wedding band melded to mine, and now I will have her name melded to my little family’s.

Ta-dah! That means a name change for all! The nightmare of dealing with the city office of vital records for the three of us is certainly not one I am looking forward to, but I am glad I took my time in thinking about this, and was not so quick to add my father’s name to my son’s and husband’s simply because that could have been construed as the “feminist” thing to do (still, I maintain that a woman who takes her husband’s surname entirely for herself and her kids is no less capable of upholding feminist ideals than anyone else).

So! Good thing I procrastinated on a naming ceremony. This was not the only reason for my procrastination, it was actually more of a “hey, are we religious in any way and if so, how should we do this ceremony?” thing, but I am glad we don’t have to call all of the hypothetical attendees and yell, “Do over!” into their ears.

Have I exhausted you with this? I have me. But dammit, I feel better.

Holding firm

Recruiter contacted me…fat salary…close to home…could do the work with my eyes closed (well, at least one eye. Like a pirate!)

BUT

it would require that I put Bean in daycare or pay through the nose for private care, and I just can’t. Or won’t. I won’t. I have my reasons. They’re good ones. But dammit, the financial disparity between Huz and me is killing me. I just cannot seem to get used to it, to trust even him enough to be comfortable with not working. He is insulted by this. It’s our money, he says. Then why am I no longer directing what we invest in, how much we save, or when and how we pay off debts? I am the one who is good with money, I am the one who got him out of dire financial straits after his accident and living la dolce vita in Manhattan. I was the primary earner, actually the only earner for a time. So why can’t I relax when he is? Arrrrrrrrgh.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But it is. So.

This is the work mojo I am putting out to the universe. They are simply key words and phrases. I want this and I will get it. I likely have to create it for myself. Fine. I will. Laugh if you wish, tell me it’s too vague, tell me that there are a million other people who want the same thing and that the average work culture won’t support it. Then you know the drill. Bite me.

Educational technology
Independence
Good money
Writing
Virtual teams
Social service
Strong organizational communication and shared vision

I have actually had this kind of work before. I left it to get more money elsewhere. 

I want it back.

What I miss about Arthur Andersen

Yes, I had to get drunk to accept the job offer. Yes, it was on a dare that a tree-hugger like me could never survive in an environment like that (I thrived). Yes, we were all shitcanned a year after I joined the company.  No, I would not trade my time with Bean to work in that kind of place right now. But still…

I miss going into meetings knowing that everyone there, whether I could stand them personally or not, was going to work their hardest to make cool things happen in response to interesting business problems. You had everyone’s “A” game all the time. I have never worked anyplace since where I could even remotely rely on that.

I miss meetings being called judiciously or not at all; how time was not wasted so people could feel like they were doing “something”. It was considered poor form to call a meeting without concise goals and working templates. We only met to solve specific problems, get work done as a team, and get out quickly so we could continue with our other projects.

I miss one-page executive summaries that were useful and well-thought out.

I miss creating project timelines and plans in ways that verged on artistry.

I miss being trusted to telework, use flex-time, go to appointments, or whatever, as long as the job got done and it was done well.

I miss having the budget to use the latest educational technology tools and the best subject matter experts, and having students/workers who were willing to use the new tools and experts, bugs and all, and perservere in their goal to learn something new.

I miss pizza at 11pm while working toward a project deadline with people who were funny and smart and weird. Some were pretty obnoxious, too, but all the same. 

I miss “hey, what if we…” brainstorming sessions, where nothing was considered off-the-wall or impossible until we talked it through or tried it out, and even underlings were given time to offer ideas. We also abused each other relentlessly, but all in good fun.

I do not miss:

“War rooms”

Seemingly bipolar partners

Project managers who quaked in front of the seemingly bipolar partners and threw people under the bus to avoid confrontation

Being indicted

Getting laid off in the same month I broke up with my boyfriend (after an entire relationship conducted through beer goggles) and moved into an apartment with a huge monthly rent while most of my belongings were in storage in Florida. I had no idea how I was even going to feed myself after my meager savings went toward first and last month’s rent and a security deposit. I realized then that being 1100 miles from my nearest relative was only a great idea when things are going well in my life. 

Actually,  I take that last one back. I never laughed harder in my life than I did sitting on the floor of that empty apartment, with nothing but my clothes around me in suitcases and bags. The place was so big and empty, my voice echoed. 

Some of my closest friends to this day are those I worked with at Andersen. Even though we all flooded the market looking for the same jobs at the same time, everyone stayed supportive of one another (of course, we were the non-line consultants, a rather different breed). We shared potluck dinners and boxed wine and commiserated about how wherever we were recruited next simply did not have the same spark of energy and interest.

It was so long ago, though. Would I even want that life again?

Conscious clicking

I am trying lately to keep in mind that every time I click on a sensationalistic or otherwise completely f’ed up headline on msn and similar ”news” sites on the interweb that I am effectually stating to the people who oversee the content, “I am easily distracted from anything usefully informative that I may find online. Give me more fluffy/scary/appalling/ludicrous stuff, please. I love it.”

It was a struggle at first, as my ”news” habit is a hard one to break, but now that I am more consciously clicking, it is mostly not.

Karmic implications of killing the spider in my kitchen

I usually don’t go around killing things, spiders or otherwise, but I never had a baby co-habitating with me before.

I have trapped it under a glass while I decide what to do. Having lived in Florida and been bitten by a spider that swelled my arm up to the size of your average fireplace log, I am nervous about letting it go.  It is just a baby itself, but I am sure it will grow quite happily large in my home. I had a large spider tangled in my hair once. I do not recommend it. Florida was great for providing that kind of traumatic event on a weekly basis.

Unfortunately for this one, it is brown, and recluses are a danger here in the Land of Lincoln. It is too small for me to properly identify and there are no reasonable rescue options from an upper-floor condo with no balcony. I have to kill it. For this, I am sorry.

Wtf is up with “Instant Beauty Pageant”?

I was channel surfing today, because sometimes I do that, and I paused on one of the most f’ed up shows I’ve seen in a while, minus Flavor of Love Charm School and the Mrs. America Pageant.

The premise, if I am not mistaken, is that chicks are doing their thing at various malls around the country, and they are stopped by the show’s staff and asked to be trussed up and put on display in competition with other random chicks who happened to be shopping that day. WTF? If someone approached me at a mall (which is impossible, we don’t have one but let’s just say we did) and they asked me to get dolled up to compete against other women and be judged by the mall crowd and who the farg knows who else on my appearance, I would knee them so hard in the nether-regions they would barf up a lung on the spot. No means no, motherfucky!

So I just had to look this shit up. I knew I would be appalled but I could not help myself. Here is the description:

Style Network is breaking the boring beauty-contest mold with Instant Beauty Pageant, an exciting series that challenges ordinary women to shop till they drop, strut their stuff and compete for their very own title and tiara!

What starts as an ordinary day at the mall turns into high-tension TV when five very special shoppers are ambushed by IBP and invited to participate in a real live beauty pageant. But there’s a catch: The contestants must be ready for the catwalk in less three hours! With limited time to create an entire pageant ensemble, the contenders race around the mall on a frenzied shopping spree to prepare for the spotlight. Ready or not, when three hours is up, the beauty pageant begins!

The contest commences on the spot and covers the standard categories: talent, swimsuit and evening wear. A live audience judges each contestant’s presentation, fashion and overall style, and then Ms. Instant Beauty is revealed! In addition to bragging rights, each winner earns a vacation, the right to keep her pageant purchases and–most important, of course–a dazzling Zivot crown to call her own.

WTF????? Wtf is a Zivot? Why…just why?!

Okay so I’ve successfully given up TMZ/Happy Pride

Honestly, they have made it pretty easy for me lately, with headlines like “Naughty Bitches!”

Trent, I wish I could quit you.

Speaking of Trent, Happy Pride Weekend! I was chastised this very morning by one of my best pals for not going down to Boystown to celebrate as usual this year. He told me that he “doesn’t even know me anymore”. I told him to help me with Bean and we would be down there straightaway. That led to him musing about how inconvenient children are. I will not repeat my response to that.

Honestly, I think I am more of a Dyke March kind of person these days anyway:

“…the march is an anti-racist, non-violent, volunteer-led grassroots event. Its goal is to bring together womyn-loving-womyn and allies across race, class, age, size, gender, ethnicity, cultures, faiths, and differing ability. We seek to honor those who came before us by continuing to build multi-cultural and inter-generational communities. We are a response to male-dominated, corporate-sponsored Pride events. The Chicago Dyke March is not a parade; it is a direct action demonstration and a celebration of dyke visibility.”

Preach!

It is such a simple solution…

so it must have been the 8.5 months of sleep deprivation that kept me from this.

I’ve been pissed off, you know? Totally pissed off that I was not given the teleworking arrangement I requested with my former employer despite stellar reviews AND prior successful teleworking with other employers, even though my job before Bean’s arrival was completely virtual. I kid you not, nobody even knew I was there except the receptionist and whomever I passed on my way out to lunch. My team consisted of volunteers and subject matter experts across the nation whom I conferenced with via phone, e-mail and web-based document sharing. I only reported to an office every day because of a phenomenally short-sighted CEO who didn’t “believe” in teleworking arrangements, despite the fact that she leads a parent advocacy organization. Of course, even while teleworking I would need to hire childcare help, but that help would take place in my home for a much lower cost than daycare, ala a paid Mother’s Helper of my judicious choosing rather than inconsistent someones being given minimum wage and even more minimal supervision in an unfamiliar environment for Bean.

So here I have been, not only jobless since I told them to bite me and rejected their lame-ass “come in three days a week for a paltry salary with no benefits or childcare subsidies and hey we are doing you a favor here” offer, but also fretting about the perceived loss of skills that may occur while I am not working (good instructional design is good design, no matter what tech tools you use, but future employers will want to know what have you done lately?). So it has finally occurred to me: why don’t I offer my skills to non-profits as a volunteer consultant? Hullo! Yes, it blows that I would not be getting paid, because I should be getting paid, it is completely fucked that I will not be getting paid, BUT since we can’t fix the f’ed up system we live in by tomorrow, I can at least keep my skills sharp, my resume polished, and fulfill my ever-annoying-yet-absolute requirement to be contributing something positive to the greater good while being at home with Bean.

See what a week’s worth of 4-5 hours stretches of sleep a night can do for a person?

P.S. I know I use the sahm label on some of my posts despite not being a fan of that designation. I just want to be sure to attract people who may be searching for others in similar situations. Dialogue is good, babycakes.