now fortified with impotent fury!risperdal

Sometimes what you need is to be able to have sex in the morning without worrying, in the back of your mind, that your darling child will wake up any moment now and announce in a surefire romance-killin hail of verbiage, “La la la I have poo toby-toby-toby-toby ZABOO! daddy! I have poopie!”

Sometimes what you need is 3.5 hours of culture. Good culture. High culture. Surrounded in a packed theatre, reminding yourself there are literate people in the world who value the arts. It does not hurt if Carmen is played by a Hungarian Hottie

Sometimes what you need is a couple of meals with your closest friends, to remind yourself on so many levels what really matters, and no you’re not demented (well, not in a bad way), and that closing down a restaurant can be fun.

Sometimes you need serious retail therapy.

Sometimes you need to hear the clattering of the El, and hear your child go wild with glee at the thought of a train in the sky!, and see the city you adore through fresh eyes.

Sometimes you need to go home for a few days, so you can appreciate your other home again.

we’re working on getting Sean to pronounce both first and final consonant sounds in words. Bob, bib, pop, top, tap, map, he’ll get the first consonant and the vowel, then slur the last. We’re also working on three word combos and specifity (example: ‘up on top’ instead of ‘top’, or ‘I want cookie’ instead of ‘WANT WANT WANT’

He’s inherited my attitude and inability to deal with mind-numbing repetition. Because today in therapy the speech pathologist had this game, where after he said what was on cards twice he could then have the button and make a little puppydog chases the ball thingy go. But he had to say ‘I want button’.

Finally he just looked at her and barked, “I. WANT. THE. BUTTON.”

She was all excited he threw in a fourth word. I was all thrilled he was beginning to learn the fine nuances of Junta voice. YOU AMUSE ME. YOU MAY LIVE, FOR NOW. NOW EXCUSE ME WHILE I GO BACK TO RUNNING OUR MILITARY DICTATORSHI—I MEAN DULY ELECTED GLORIOUS DEMOCRACY.

Subject says it all. I was beginning to wonder quite why I was getting the parade of emails from concerned folks this morning (and bless you all, but I’m posting to answer everyone all at once because right now I have a toddler imitating a dingo at full volume, thanks, and I don’t want to make you stress and wait 3 hours to find out if dorothy still has a home) until I loaded up CNN. Whooooooly shit. When we went to bed last night, we hadn’t heard about springfield, IL (jess, robbif, I hope you’re ok). we did know about the stuff on the other side of KC in MO, and had some inkling of what had gone down in Lawrence (Juliekins, Toastface, check in wouldya?)

I woke up yesterday to the Lad yanking open the bedroom door and yelling at me to get down to the basement, as he ran down the hall to grab a barely awake and very confused little man out of his room. The sirens went off intermittently all day and evening, and we were pretty jittery for a while. We’re okay, though. lots of leaves and small branches down, the neighbors have lost some portions of patio roofing and such, but the twisters all went north and south of us, or spawned 35 minutes west or 12 miles east.

They kept referring to this storm as being like the may 4, 2003 storm, when three separate cells rampaged through the area. Including spawning a mile-wide F4. That day was the second time I’d gone out alone since Sean’s birth, and I found myself wondering what that godawful noise on the radio was. First time I’d ever heard the emergency alert system. Heh.

note to self;
Sean’s really good about carrying a basket in a store, and is getting much better about following directions and not grabby mcgrabbstering everything off the shelves.

A toddler can in fact carry a laden basket at Penzey’s spices.

The grandmas behind the counter are very wise to the ways of toddler, and will give a kid their own bag and the lighter stuff to carry.

Do not expect the child to let go of said bag. Ever.

It is possible to drive 6 miles hearing ‘Ba-dil bay-dil-bay-dil. MY BASIL. BASIL MINE.’. But it is not possible to refrain from laughing hysterically when the toddler begins to mack on the bag of basil like a frat boy gnawing the face off a prada wearin sorority sister.

Picture munch’s The Scream.

Slap my face on it.

Yeeeeeeeah.

Work. Life. Stress. Arms seized up to the point I can’t knit more than a row at a clip without crying. And, as the frosting on my cake of petty, more woes at the school.

OK, let’s have a scorecard. In the kiddo’s personal arsenal of educational and health care forces we have:

1. the pediatrician, whom I love and adore but whom I will brain if she tells me one fucking more time Sean is the best kid in the history of ever and we should have another.
2. The speech path clinic at the children’s hospital.
3. The home health care company which calls me like clockwork to make sure the rental equipment is working. This is unnerving because they’re so…perky. “We just wanted to make sure all is well with the equipment.” People. It’s a doodah that helps with breathing. Don’t you think I would have called if it didn’t work?
4. The state, aka THE MAN, seeing kiddo for speech path issues because Pathologist #2 at hospital raised the red flag of severity.
5. The school district, because of his age, is preparing for his transition from state I mean THE MAN to them. In stark contrast to the hospital, the school thinks Sean’s doing splendidly
6. The frighteningly expensive modified montessori school we send him to.

Every single one of the entities save the home health people, cause what do they care, agree Sean is advanced and needs to be challenged. The school was prepping to transition him into a higher age group (the three year olds) classroom because he does really well in it. Dropping him in the younger classroom is hell because he’s been to the nirvana of the older classroom, with the sweeter toys, the better books, and the pots of glue to sniff, and so boy howdy he doesn’t want to stay in the younger classroom. We finally had a target date for when the additional teacher for the older room would be hired and he, and 2 other kids, would switch up.

Except both the director and the director of curriculum just up and left the school. This is the 4th director to leave in a year and a half, and the third curriculum director. I can only surmise the boss is not the easiest person to work for, but this is starting to seriously worry me about the school. And, of course, replacing the directors is a higher priority than getting in more teachers and moving the kids around. So now we don’t know when he’ll be going up. We did get them to agree he doesn’t have to go full time 5 days a week to move up (the previous issue). Still. Me so not happy. And this curriculum director? Was awesome. Wtf?

So, I’m left in the position of making sure Sean’s getting enough challenge at home because I don’t know when he’ll get it in school. In addition to all the language development stuff we’re working on, my job, lad’s job, plotting to take over the world. Damnit, this is like epic levels of multitasking. I could break a nail doing this!

-Love my company and job, hating a certain aspect of work. Next several weeks are going to blow.
-Must must must buckle down and knock out two hats. Have one on the needles, but explosions are keeping me from focusing. damnit!
-Had first speech ther appt for kiddo this morning. Went splendidly. Followed a much more appropriate for kid’s style and personality, and this therapist (the third we’ve seen there) had a much more productive session with him. I’m pleased, she’s pleased, and most importantly, Sean saw it as fun and came out in a really good, positive mood (unlike last time)
-Siiiiiiick
-Did I mention, siiiiiiiick? And stressed?

Nnnnngh

I’m also in that time of the year where I want to cook lots and lots of tasty things! but it’s not really spring yet, so none of the fresh stuff is, well, sprung yet. Grrrr!

or how I learned to stop worrying and love my sweet, sweet bottle of Oban.

So, as any mom blogger knows, there be a whole big shitstormapalooza about the mommy wars. Yes, again. Yes, in 2006. Stay at homes on one side, workin women on the other, and DING DING, have at! Much of this is due, in no small part, to Linda Hirshman and the accompanying press blitz over her frothing at the mouth rabidity that professional, educated women who choose to stay at home (or ‘opt out’) are stabbin the revolution in the back and lettin the man get them down (ladies, the glass ceiling begins at home!) Read here if you wish to read her entire article.

So, having read the ensuing firestorm in the blogosphere, and considered her words for a little while, I am left thinking one thing.

Jaysus Gay people!

Erudite, no? Well I’m working a hellacious headcold so coherency is not on the menu for the day. I realize one small candle is not proof of someone being wrong: it’s merely a data point to the contrary. However, let’s sit down and assess:

Am I a stay at home mother or a working mother? No seriously. The kiddo’s with me in the morning. He then goes to school and I haul ass. I’m a dessert topping, I’m a floor polish, I’m BOTH! So, am I caving to the partiarchy and not fulfilling my maximal career potential by staying home with him in the mornings, or am I failing to fulfill my duties as a mother and not giving Sean the type of parental presence he needs for his developing fragile little psyche by warehousing him at a (fucking expensive!) modified montessori in the afternoons?

Do I really need to delve into how I opted off one career track (academia/research scientist) and onto another? Must I rehash the whole ‘it was his career or mine’ mentality I saw propogated, again and again in academia? The unsubtle ‘and what about your husband?’ at conferences and the like? The stark terror at the thought of both of us on the tenure hamster wheel at the same time? Didn’t think so.

How about when, after being told repeatedly we were free to ask whatever questions we wanted at a town hall meeting and thus feeling it was okay to stand up and ask about childcare, being told by a superior that as management I couldn’t ask such a thing. See, it’d stir up dissent in the ranks, and show I wasn’t a team player.

How about watching six colleagues leave said workplace over the lack of childcare assistance, options, accounts, whatever. How about watching over half of those colleagues turn around and make a killing consulting?

I am blessed. I am lucky. I have crafted this. I knew what I wanted and what I didn’t want, and by god, I did it myyyyyy waaaaaay. When I knew I wanted to have a kid, I took the plunge and went consultant. When we knew we wanted the stability of my income, I negotiated a job with a company that’s incredibly respectful of family, on terms that support me. The fact is, I travel a vanishingly small amount, given what I do and how I do it, and that’s directly due to me and my company busting our asses to find a way to make this works that allows me to be both a mother and a fabulous employee. I marvel at the luck, the circumstances that came together to get me to this point. But truly, I turned down things that would have impinged on what I wanted, and we worked hard to get here.

But to my way of thinking, that should not be the exception. The respect, the flexibility, the appreciation for what mothering gives me, as a person, and how it enriches me and enables me to do my particular job better. It should not be the exception. We should not have to move heaven and earth to create a job situation that works for us and our families.

I should not have to worry that for the 4 hours a day I’m not using my fancypants liberal arts college B.A. and my grad degree in science that some hysterical woman thinks I’m letting down the feminist fucking revolution. Jesus Mary and Joseph. How about the trickle down effect of raising a kid who’s smart, inquisitive, engaged, and challenged? Who knows what that 4 hours a day with me for a chunk of his life will translate into? How about all the time we’ll spend with him evenings and weekends, stimulating him, expanding his horizons, when he’s in care or school ‘full time’? If I’m not superoverachieving and working 80 hours a week, is that wasting my incredibly expensive little ivy education? Where do we draw the line?

And more importantly, when will women stop sniping at women, moms stop sniping at moms, long enough so that we can all, you know, actually effect positive change. Like, say. Paid family leave, for starters.

Jaysus people. It ain’t rocket science.

My hotel room looks north, to the loop. My view is minimally obstructed by the old factory that nestles alongside the Metra electric tracks at the McCormick stop. Every time I passed it I thought ‘what an awesome loft that might be,’ and ‘damn I wish I could rescue those details that are falling off the doorframes and windows’ and now I can see someone else thought the same thing about loft space.

Little things tell me of change. Bed Bath and Beyond near brasserie Jo. A new Best Buy along the Kennedy. Nicer restaurants farther south along Michigan than years ago. A giant crane glinting north of here. I know you cannot go home again. I know this place is beyond me, out of my grasp- an expense I don’t want, a lifestyle that’s not toddler friendly.

As we drove to the hotel, past Millenium Park, I had a moment of cognitive dissonance. This is not my city. But the Gehry bandshell is so right, so perfect, so Chicago, magnificent and messy and architectural and ballsy and insane. And that is my city. I have lived nearly coast to coast, north and south, and despite all those moves, I am a Chicagoan. I have a clear view to the Sears Tower, to the old Amoco building, and everything in between. Tonight they’ll watch over me.

Tonight my heart is split. Half here, half 525 miles to the southwest.