Poor Babies

Due to the economic crisis and the fact that despite it, I am still having a hard time cutting down the spending this year, I decided to try to get a part time job. I found out a daycare around the corner was hiring, so I went in and applied. It just so happened that they were hiring for the perfect after school hours for me and wanted me to start immediately.

Remember that whole "if it seems to good to be true, it probably is" bit. Yeah. That applies here.

I have fond memories of working in the childcare field. I enjoyed playing with kids and making lesson plans and didn't mind all the other not so fun stuff that came with it like changing diapers and cleaning up after messy lunches.

Here I am working with little kids. Kids from 1-2 years old. They break my heart. Today it got up to a whopping 34 degrees. That's 2 whole degrees above freezing. I had a 14 month old baby come in this morning with nothing but a onesie on. A onesie. A piece of t-shirt material with short sleeves and no legs. She also had no shoes on. When I asked the teacher in the room with me, she replied, "Well, Dad brought her in this morning and I guess he doesn't have winter clothes at his house. She comes like that all the time." *Shrug*. I can't even speak I am so taken aback- not only by this crazy parent, but by the fact that a childcare worker is so unconcerned about this.

Are we not paid to look after the best interests of the child? Would that not mean that we should be concerned if a child is deprived of the basic necesseties like food, shelter and clothing?!? Sadly, my disgust doesn't stop there. The same teacher also told me on my first day that she tried to be "nice" to the kids, but they just didn't respect her, so as soon as she started being "mean" to them, they understood.

They are 18 months old. How can you be "mean" to a baby. But the "mean" only comes out to certain children, I've never seen such a blatant show of favoritism in a daycare.

There is an infant who comes to my room at the end of the day who has reflux. As soon as they walk in the room, the baby gets laid on the floor (which does have carpet in it) and ignored because they don't want to get puked on. Get a fucking burp cloth and get over it. This is a 6 month old baby who needs love and attention. I picked her up today just to spite them. I got puked on of course, but I wash and so do my clothes.

There is a handful of books in this classroom which are kept out of reach of the children because "they will just tear them up and I don't feel like messing with them.". Which by the way, this woman says ALL the time. "Messing with them." Today Little was pointing at the letters on the wall and saying their names and what color they were when she asked me if I "messed with him alot." What? I don't even know what that means. Do I talk to him and treat him like a human being who is worthy of my attention?- yes, but I don't consider that the same as "messing" with him. I "mess" with my car or with household appliances, not my kids. Anyway, back to the books. The children are not allowed to touch them simply because the teachers are too lazy to show them how to handle books properly or keep a close eye on them while they are looking at them. But I guess then they would have to look at the kids instead of texting all day. But I digress.

It's like everything you fear your child going through in a daycare- being ignored because they are too needy, being treated with anger and frustration instead of compassion because they are not the teacher's "favorite", not being allowed to play with certain toys because they will tear them up instead of being taught respect for other people's things. Part of me wants to get the hell out of Dodge, but another part wants to stay with these kids and give them at least three hours of love and support. I'm going to try to stick it out until I am allowed to stay in the room with the kids by myself (should be next week when the background check comes in) so that I can just do things my own way. I'm a bitch like that.

"Hello! My Name is Go The F*$% Away

We recently purchased a Wii Fit which I have been playing around with (I like my Wii Fit scale, it's much nicer than other scales. =) ) so I haven't been to the gym very often. Last night I recharged my iPod and finagled with my playlists, so I was inspired to hit the gym for a change of pace.

As I finished the weights portion of my workout, I headed to the rowing machines. About 3 minutes into my exercise, I see the woman who "works" the front desk appear next to me. Her face is right in my personal space. Which I hate anyway. I take out my earphone and smile waiting for her to tell me what she wants.

Exercise Lady: "Are you locking out your knees?!" (her tone is incredulous as if she's saying "Are you trying to smuggle dumbells out in your bra!! *GASP*)

At first I don't understand her. Sometimes the attendants have to come and find the fitness crazed parents of children who have been left in the daycare too long. I'm thinking she's mistaken me for someone else and am trying to figure out who would name their kid "Lock Outyernees".

It dawns on me what she's actually saying and I tell her "No" in a sort of "WTF are you talking about crazy ass?" tone.

"Hmmmmm, well, because it looks like you're locking your knees." replies Exercise Lady in an extremely condescending "You are such a flipping idiot" type tone.

WTHell!

I'll pause here to say that it takes alot for me to get to the gym. I don't like working out in front of people because I have long legs and use them to be extraordinarily uncoordinated in almost everything I do. I don't know how to use many of the machines until I have read all of the stick figure instructions on the sides and sometimes, I have to read them a few times before it clicks.

What I DO know how to do is row. I was a competitive rower for 3 years. And a good one I might add. Got the medals to prove it and everything =P. Rowing is like riding a bike to me. Once I learned it (by learned, I mean had every second of my stroke analyzed to death thousands of times at daily practices for 3 years), I always remembered it.

Now I have this woman very much in my personal space, yelling over the machines as to whether I'm apparently commiting the cardinal sin of exercise equipment, in a VERY crowded gym.

"Well, I'm not" I tell her.

I can see the two housewives on the warm up mats less than 10 feet hanging on every word of this exchange and for some reason I'm mortified.

She goes away and I try to get back to the task at hand. But I can't. I'm so angry and embarrassed for being called out when I'm actually using a piece of equipment properly that I can't even see straight. That's probably because I started to cry like an absolute ninny.

So I throw the bar back into the start position, get my feet out and go over to the desk to get my keys- where she is standing. I have MILLION things that I would have liked to say to her swirling in my head, but I can barely open my mouth because I *that* pissed. As I grab my keys and storm out, she has the audacity to call after me "Have a nice day."

"Yeah, not now that you've ruined it." I toss back at her like I'm five. I'm already almost all the way out the door, so she probably didn't even hear me and even if she did, she probably wouldn't have cared. I go to get a shower and have a meltdown.

Here's the thing:

First-The people who work the desk are not necessarily "fitness instructors". Most of the time, they are simply members who got a job there so their monthly fee would be less. I'm not sure if she was one of those or someone actually qualified to work there, but either way. I don't think they cover much on rowers in PE 101. As a matter of fact, I know they don't because I have seen them do their "tour" and show people "how to use the rower" and it's quite possibly the most ignorant thing I've ever seen. Ok, well, not *ever* seen, but it's pretty fricking stupid. In an actual boat, they'd be going nowhere fast.

Second- Did I forget to take off my sign that said please bother the shit out of me while I'm trying to work out? Personally, I'd be more concerned about the mid-life crisisers over in the freeweights trying to keep up with the 20-something muscle monkeys. But they are men, I'm *sure* they know what they are doing.

Right.

So I think I'm just going to buy a pack of those "Hello, my name is:______________" stickers and put one on my back every time I go to the gym that says

"Hello, my name is Leave Me the Hell Alone" or "Don't Bother Me" or "Beware of Dog" or "Caution: Overly Emotional and Cranky". Maybe I'll change it up. Surely they will take the hint.

Confession

Last Sunday evening, Dh's grandmother passed away. At the funeral home in the lounge/playroom, I had the following conversation with one of Dh's cousins *Melanie who has a high-functioning form of ASD.

Big and another cousin were playing obnoxiously like boys of that age do and being up in Melanie's personal space. She lashed out at them screaming and I called Aidan over to me and told him that he needed to cool it and just play on the floor and to not be too upset by her outburst.

She comes over to me and lays her hand on my shoulder sighing and says "You don't know how lucky you are to not have cousins to annoy you."

I just laughed and said, "Well, I have my kids to annoy me and that's enough."

"No, it's not as bad as cousins."

"You do know that is my son right?" I ask her.

"No, that is your son." She says pointing to Little.

"Well, yes and so is he." I said pointing to Big.

"No, Angela and Jason had him." Melanie says.

Finally I get it that she has no idea who I am since I got my hair cut. I tell her that I am Angela and she's beside herself. Soon, she plops herslef down in the chair across from me and decides to have a conversation with me.

"So how old were you when you had Big?"

WTF is it with all these questions all the sudden about this stuff!

"I was 17."

"WHAT HAPPENED!!!"

I kind of smiled and said "Well, it's just one of those thigs that happens."

"No really, I mean, what happened?!"

What, you want intimate details kid?! Ugh, this is what happens when Dh leaves me alone around his whole family.

I simply repeated myself and looked to the table of food to find something to stuff my face with.

She shakes her head and finally says; "Are we talking. . . are we talking. . . *sex before marriage!?!?!?!*!"

I just smile and shrug trying not to fuel this conversation any further.

She shakes her head again and grabs my hands, her eyes the size of poker chips and says.

"God will forgive you!"

Ummm. . . ok. Thanks. I'm glad I got that cleared up.

She crosses her legs and leans into me still shaking her head like I just told her I'm actually a convicted felon out on parole, and says "Didn't your parents teach you about that. I mean really, didn't they teach you!"

At this point, I almost blurt out that we don't believe in the same values that she does, so no, my mother did not set out to teach me that I was going to hell for having sex before marriage. But I decided not to.

Instead I decided that MIL was in dire need of her wallet that she had left down there and that we needed to find her immediately and give it to her. I excused myself and my spawn of Satan children. I ran upstairs and found my FIL first and told him the story which gave him a nice chuckle so at least some good came of it.

Later on, I was standing with some relatives and Dh and FIL comes up behind me and says "Sinner!!!" in my ear. I told him I needed a red letter or something. I'll never be seen the same I guess.

Drop it Like it's Hot.

I did and it is. . .

I donated 10 inches to Locks of Love yesterday and I'm loving it. It's a drastic change, but I needed to spice it up a bit ;).

For more information on how to donate to Locks of love visit: Locks of Love

Where Were You?

It's the question of the day today.

I was in my anatomy and physiology class. In between classes we had all heard some rumblings from other students "Did you hear? Hear what? Oh that, Mrs. So and so was talking to Mr. So and so in the hallway about something. What's going on?"

We attempted to start class when my teacher, Mr. Gerrard, took out his Blackberry and abruptly left the room. He came back in looking much more pale than when he left and said "Another plane just hit another tower in NYC. Something is going on. I'm going to get a TV." and he left again. My lab partner and I looked at each other and asked if the other knew what was going on. Neither of us did.

He wheeled an old horrid TV in and turned on the first clear channel he could get. There had been plenty of murmuring and small "yes"'s from some when he said he was getting the TV instead of the planned quiz on whatever body system we were supposed to have studied up on.

However, you could have heard a pin drop once the TV was turned on. No one took notes, no one talked- we hardly even looked at each other. Our teacher started to cry. For 40 minutes we all just sat together in a state of shock; unable to make sense of what we were seeing or really to even grasp the depth of the impact this would have on all our lives. The bell rang right as the first tower came down. A chorus of "Oh my God"s rang out as we all looked at each other and I thought "We just watched all those people die.".

When I was pregnant with Big, I would have panic attacks frequently in school. I felt the beginnings of one as I walked to my next class. This time, it was different though. I felt a fear like I'd never felt before. I wanted to leave school and run the 4 miles to Big's home daycare. I wanted to get him and just go home and climb under the blankets and snuggle and pretend nothing outside those blankets existed. I thought of my then boyfriend (now dh). He worked at the 5/3 bank in downtown Cincy. I was scared for him. Terrified actually, but even that didn't come close to the panic that that seized my whole body when I thought about getting to Big.

I made it to my chorus class on time and took a seat off to the side to collect myself. We had a substitute. He informed us that while the news we may or may not have been hearing was disturbing, it was no reason to not rehearse that day and he expected us all to be ready to sing shortly.

I wanted to punch him in the face. I looked around at my classmates. Most were confused and trying to get the story from others and then lamenting the fact that they didn't get to watch TV last period. I started crying. I was so angry. I was angry at my teacher, my classmates and myself. I felt sick and I kept thinking; "What have I done? What kind of world have I brought a child into? I don't know how to deal with this. How do you teach a child about hate and war. They are too innocent for this shit. How am I going to make him feel safe when it's painfully obvious that none of us are ever completely safe." I kept hearing the panic in the newscasters voices and the screams of the people in the streets as the tower came down.

For nearly every problem I'd come across while being a teen mother, I'd managed to find the answer in a book or a friend. I wanted to keep Big safe more than I wanted to breathe, but I didn't know how. Neither would anyone else I knew. I suspected my blanket idea wasn't going to get us very far in real life, despite it's obvious appeal. I tried to think of how I would teach him about love and kindness; helping your fellow man and having respect for all people regardless of where they came from or how they looked. Sitting in that chair that day, it seemed an insurmountable feat.

I don't remember the rest of the day; only that it couldn't have ended soon enough. Most of the rest of the day was spent watching a TV if it was available or having a Q&A session with our teachers. I don't even remember what I did when I got home, but I know that there was plenty of snuggling going on. I remember watching the news for weeks afterward as the stories got less and less about the facts and more about the personal stories of people who had been lost. I remember crying nearly everyday over it. I hated it, but at the same time, I felt like I owed it to them.

This morning I listened to a tribute on the radio which had many of the same clips I heard seven years ago. I sat in the car listening to all of it even though it moved me this morning the same way it did in 2001. And I still felt like I owed it to them. I've done my best to make sure that both of my children feel safe and that they know that love, like hatred, can sometimes come when you least expect it. If I've learned nothing over the last seven years, it's that the philosophy of "an eye for an eye" soothes that burning anger that follows tragedy. However, my heart is more satisfied by Anne Frank's own philosophy that despite everything, people are really good at heart.

I'm struggling with how to end this. I've been at it for over an hour now. I want my children to learn that words are more powerful than any guns and that turning the other cheek doesn't mean having no self respect. I hope that my behavior toward the people in my life will show them how to give and get respect and how to find the good in people.

I Should Get Twitter

As this is much more "Twitterriffic" than "Blogworthy". I just gave myself my 600th view. Woot. I also gave myself about 450 views before that, but who's counting. Besides me.

Sleep Deprivation

Is a nasty thing. We'll start there. Sleep deprivation (in my mind) is a MORE than adequate justification for a range of crimes from simple bullying to outright manslaughter of an annoying spouse. Not that I have one of those. I digress.

Little has an amazing bladder for a two year old. Seriously, the kid could pee at least a half a gallon several times a day without batting an eye. For this supersized bladder, I have had to purchase the special (expensive) "nighttime" diapers. For a while this seemed to work. However, the problem is out of control now. He soaks his sheets and blankets on every nap time and every night. EVERY time. Talk about being the smelly kid. I'm changing the sheets twice a day have resorted to putting the fitted sheets from our bed onto his and using bath towels as blankets out of desperation.

Last night was no exception other than this time it was so bad that it woke him up. This is bad news for anyone who wants to get some sleep in our house. Or our neighborhood. He woke us and every living being in a 30 mile radius up at 2:30. We don't go to bed until midnight. It was 5 am before he finally decided that we could all sleep. We get up at 7:30 for school.

So I'm tired. And crabby. And tired.

After I drop big off at school, I'm followed home by some random person. I pull into my driveway thinking this is some nutter who is going to go ballistic over some imaginary driving offense I have committed against him (little does he know that he is playing with a sleep deprived crab-ass). It turns out that it's actually a nice little old man telling me that my tire is almost flat. Bah. I think I would have preferred the nutter.

I scrap my original plans of taking Little's 2 year photos this morning (whatever, it's only a month late) and take the car to get the tire fixed. Little's behavior is not that of someone who was up all hours of the night tormenting an entire neighborhood. In fact, he has even MORE energy than normal. Of course. Here is where it gets good.

I hear the guy call out "Angela" from behind the counter. That's me. Little goes streaking out into the showroom pinging himself off the tires hanging precariously on the wall.

Tire Guy: "Angela?"

Me (saving a wobbling tire from rolling across the showroom floor): "Yep"

TG: "With the Maxima"

Me (chasing little down as he runs across the path of an elderly man trying to get to the bathroom): "Yep"

I catch him and plop him on the counter.

TG: "That will be $77"

Me (holy freaking hell!!! The damn tire doesn't even cost that much brand new!! WTF!): "Ok" and I hand him my card >insert "you're a dumbass eye rolling smiley here"<.

He hands me the receipt to sign and I see "Oil change, alignment, rotation. . . " Hang on a minute! I didn't ask for any of this to be done!! They are taking advantage of me because I'm a woman. They are taking me to the cleaners because they don't think I'll know what is going on! What the hell!!! I hate mechanics. What greedy bastards!

I start from the top of the receipt to try to memorize this blatant gender discrimination for use in my tired crabby tirade that this guy is about to be subject to.

"Customer Name: Angela Cowell"

My name is Angela. But not Angela Cowell. As a matter of fact, I don't even drive a fucking Maxima. I drive a Lancer. Which we don't even call "the car" we call it "The Lancer". >insert the same smiley as above. . . again<

Let the self ass-kicking begin.

Me: "Oh my god. I am such an idiot. I'm really sorry, but this isn't my reciept. I'm just in here for a tire patch. I'm Angela *****, not Angela Cowell."

TG: "You don't drive a Maxima?"

Me: "Well, no."

TG: "Did I ask if it was the Maxima?"

Me: "Yes, yes you did and I said yes. I don't know what in the hell is wrong with me. I plead insanity from sleep deprivation."

TG (looking at me like I am the dumbest bitch to ever walk through that door): "Well, ummm. . . ok then. I'm going to have to get someone in here to refund this and try to print out a new receipt. I have no idea how to do this. We've never had someone pay someone else's bill before."

Me (desperately searching for a hole to crawl in and die): "No problem, I'm really really sorry, take your time. You can feel free to laugh your ass off at me when I leave. What an idiot."

Tire Guy cracks a smile and tries to take some of the blame because he can sense my humiliation but we both know that I had a true-blue, no Lady Clairol, au naturale- blond moment right here in the middle of a tire dealership. Except that I am not, in fact, a blond. Sigh.

In the end, Tire Guy is very helpful and nice about the whole thing. He gets my tire patched and hands me the keys with a smirk and says "Here's your Lancer key. It's that one. . . parked right out front." I deserved that.

Oh the shame.