Infected

Arg! Sam is sick. Blech. A friend asked me earlier if he was "sick sick" or "man sick" which made me laugh. Since he's been running a fever I'll give him a pass on this one because he is actually sick and not just complaining about a runny nose like its the plague.

Having a sick husband is almost as difficult as having a sick child. I know he can't help being sick, but it can still be maddening. When little kids are sick, you can forgive them for acting miserable because it is hard for them to understand that they will ever feel normal again. I have a little less sympathy for grown men, who know full well they will be back to normal in short order.

I wasn't trying to be insensitive today, but when Sam started feeling really sick I sent him to bed and basically told him not to come out. That way I wasn't frustrated by the fact that he was sitting on the couch doing absolutely nothing and he didn't have to deal with Mary wanting things from him. He slept most of the day, coming out occasionally for a drink of water or some crackers, which actually worked out fine. It was like any weekday when he' s gone at work.

I hate when Sam is sick, and not because he's a baby about it; it reminds me of when I was little and one of my parents was sick. It is an unsteady feeling. Surely he could do a lot more to help when he's at home, but he works really hard to support our family and when he is sick it makes the smallest part of me ask, "What if?" and I just can't imagine what we'd do if anything serious ever happens to him. Who is being dramatic now?

At the moment I'm also worried that he's sick with something I'll catch that will end up being dangerous for the baby.

Most of the time I am not a big worrier, but it only takes one little incident to set my mind reeling and I can have a hard time recovering.

Of course, when I'm sick, I mean really sick, he'll still leave me at home with a two-year-old for the day to go coach a tournament in Columbus. . . but that's for another post.

Miss J

Mary started preschool this week and, despite a difficult time letting me go (literally) the first day, she's had an awesome week and really seems to like being there.

Unfortunately, I don't like her teacher.

I mean Miss J is probably perfectly good at her job, I appreciate all she has done to make the environment safe for Mary who has severe food allergies, and I'm sure she is good for the kids. On dealing with parents, however, I give her a big thumbs down.

First of all, I know we started in mid-year, but I have been given absolutely nothing in the way of orienting information about school. Yes, we went and discussed food allergies with the teacher, but as far as day-to-day information -- nothing.

Here are some things I would expect as a child started school (at any point in the year):

- Contact information for the school/teacher.

- The names of the teachers working in the classroom, in this instance there are three there all the time a few others that rotate in and out. (The other day Mary said a man took her to the bathroom which I found odd since none of the three main teachers are men. Of course I know the school isn't letting random men in off the street to escort three-year-olds to the bathroom, but who was he?)

- A school calendar, so I'll know when they don't have school. When is spring break? Are they off on President's Day? I have no idea. And yes, some of that info is available online, but that is assuming I have internet access -- a question I have not been asked.

- Information about drop-off and pick-up procedures.

- Items needed for school. I sent Mary with a book bag and a change of clothing -- all labeled with her name. I did these things because I have spent a lot of time working in schools. But I would not assume that parents of three-year-olds, especially when it is the first one going to school, would automatically do those things. The change of clothing was removed from her bag and kept at school, so I'm thinking they did actually want one.

- Some sort of rough schedule/note about things that happen in the classroom each day. I don't need an itemized curriculum but do they read to the children? Do they schedule bathroom breaks? Is there free play time and structured time? Are they swinging on vines from the ceiling for two and a half hours? Mary is a very verbal three-year-old, but she is a three-year-old and I don't count on her to be the only source of information about what goes on all day. She's three!

The first day of school a blank notebook, with Mary's name on the front, appeared in her backpack, no explanation or anything. Because I used something similar when I taught, I imagine this is some kind of communication method??? But, um, how am I to know that?

I am also not thrilled with the way her teacher speaks to me. Yesterday, her second day of school, I walked her into the building like I had the first day (remember, I was given no information about drop-off procedure) and her teacher says to me, "You can just pull up to the curb and we'll come get her."

"Oh," I said, "I thought I'd walk her in this first week and then next week-"

"No, no," she interrupts me,"tomorrow you wait outside with the other parents."

I really can't convey her tone well here, but she spoke to me as though I was the three-year-old, or at least as if I were suffering from significant mental challenges. Plus, again, it is my three-year-old's first week of school!!! I understand if they have a policy about how they like to begin and end a day, but I am not particularly comfortable with a teacher who makes me feel like it isn't even okay to walk into the building from time to time. It isn't as though I am pulling up a chair in the back of her room and staying half the day to watch.

There are other things, but I'm feeling like maybe I should stop my ranting now. Basically I feel like the teacher doesn't respect me, which is really irritating.

I'm not stupid, I know that Mary is probably likely to have many teachers who I don't want to invite over for dinner and be best friends with, but I wish I wasn't feeling so meh about her first teacher.

As long as Mary's happy and enjoying school, which she is, I am going to try to do lots of deep breathing and not get my undies in a twist.

It Made Me Want to Punch Him in the Teeth

So Sam looks at me tonight and sort of gently volunteers, "You seem like you are in a good mood today. . . "

And thanks to raging pregnant hostility hormones I wanted to march right over and smack him. I didn't smack him but rather made some comment about getting enough sleep last night, which I guess was a passive-aggressive way of letting him know he was not the reason for my "good mood."

Until that moment he really hadn't said anything about my being a complete and total witch lately, but don't you think it was sort of hidden in that comment? Don't you?

Oh I am so reasonable these days.

And We Shall Call Him Sam

Sam is the husband.

I feel as though I have to begin this post by saying that I do love him and I think we have a good relationship in many ways. I know that he loves me - which is important. I guess what I'm saying is that I plan to come here to vent, but I am not begging for divorce lawyers' business cards just yet. K?

Sometimes I wonder if the things that are so upsetting are Sam things or man things. You know? There are some things that seem to be generally true of all grown men. Some examples -- a) they are babies when they are sick and b) they don't seem to do very many helpful things without, ahem, reminders.

For Sam the things that drive me crazy tend to fall into two categories:

1) Things he used to do that he doesn't anymore.
2) Things that seem totally obvious and yet are never addressed without my asking.

Some behaviors (or lack thereof) fall into the both categories.

For example, there are very few jobs around the house that are Sam's job, but one of them is putting the garbage out on garbage day. When we were first married, he dutifully walked through the house and emptied all the garbage cans and replaced the bags before putting the garbage outside. Now? He still puts the garbage cans outside (which involves moving them all of two feet from just inside the garage to out on the driveway), but rarely empties any of the cans in the house before doing so. What the heck? This means that, when I hear the garbage truck on the street behind ours, I often find myself noticing all the not empty cans and run around like a maniac trying to swoosh it all outside before the truck gets to our house. This baffles me. Especially when it comes to the kitchen garbage can, which is on the way to the garage, for Pete's sake! And it always has food in it and it is always stinky -- even when it isn't all the way full, it's kind of a no-brainer that it should go out on garbage day, right?

I'm sure you're out there thinking, oh poor Constance, whose husband doesn't take out the trash to her liking. . . wha wha wha. But it is just one example of where even when he "helps" with something, I end up doing at least half of it myself. Bleh.

Move-In Day

First of all, thanks to the Queen of the Constances for inviting all of us to move in to her cool building in the city. I feel a little like I'm in the seventh grade and have been asked to join the totally popular group. And there wasn't even any hazing! (Hey, thanks for not making me steal my parents' alcohol and sneak it into your party.)

My normal blog is about as non-anonymous as you can get; the point of it was to share about our family with family and friends. And there I try to be fairly candid, I sure don't come off as a perfect parent, but I do edit myself somewhat. One thing I never do at the other place? Complain about the adult members of my family. I complain about my three-year-old sometimes (um, okay, a lot), but three-year-olds are built for maximum annoyingness, so I think that just comes with the territory. I don't think I believe people who never feel frustrated with their children.

So you are welcome to visit here, and leave comments, and get to know the petty and less-than-tolerant side of me -- aren't you excited?!