Zen and the Art of Laundry

I've been trying to get all Zen about doing the laundry. It has a repeatable series of steps and actions, and things that are repetitive are calming, right? Here are my steps to doing laundry.

1) Bring the laundry hamper from my sons room down the flight of stairs. Every time I take that first step on my bad ankle, I have an image in my mind that THAT will be the last time my ankle holds up to support weight on a step down, it will fold over like a 2x4 with a crack in it, and the sole of my foot will forever point sideways, facing my other calf where it's collapsed upon itself. I work my way down the stairs gingerly.  Counting each step, making sure my feet are secure before I tug the hamper behind me.

 

2) Once I finish dragging the laundry hamper down the stairs, I plan my approach into the laundry room, stepping over the pile of dirty clothes that my husband built at the doorway to the laundry area. After all, it's not fair of me to expect someone who makes 30% more in his full time job than I do in my full time job to do something trivial like stretch his tired arm out and deposit the clothes he's just removed from his body into one of three hampers a full TEN INCHES away. A mans home is his castle, after all, and there's only so much menial labor any self respecting king can do before the serfs riot and draw him down to the muck. Serfs be damned, my clothes go on the FLOOR.  It gives the little people a way to feel like they're helping their king.

3) I sort the clothes from the bedroom hamper into the three hamper sorter. Colors (which my mother always referred to as "coloreds", as in, "wash the coloreds", and I never associated with anything other than the clothes that are not eligible for bleach, because they are not white, and bleach will stain them. The first time I said "I'm going to run a load of coloreds" to my husband, I thought he was going to fall over in a seizure, his need to correct me was so strong.), whites for our bodies (socks, shirts, etc) and towels/sheets/blankets.


4) Then I tackle the pile of hubby's clothes. I know, gentle reader, I know. I am enabling him by picking his clothes up off he floor. I am enabling him by sorting the clothes and washing them. I am enabling him by folding them and stacking them neatly for him to put away.  I know.  And yet, I tackle the pile of clothes on the floor. I mutter to myself, and I start to fall into my fathers profanity cadence when faced with an unpleasant task, typically house or car repair related. He turns into a stuttering Popeye-like character, interjecting the same phrases with more frequency and vigor as the task gets under his skin. His mouth gets tight, you can't see his lips move, but this stream of profanity comes out of a tiny hole in the corner - like he'd just moved his corn cob pipe to the other side, just long enough to impart this wisdom.   To quote the movie A Christmas Story, "My father worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium, and he was a master."

My version goes something like this: "I will not pick up his pile of god-damn clothes from the god-damn floor. I'm not a god-damn god-damn slave. His god-damn arm's not god-damn broken. Either he puts his god-damn dirty clothes in the god-damn laundry his god-damn self, or he can son-of-a-god-damn let them rot in a son-of-a-pile on the god-damn floor. I'm not doing another god-damn-son-of-a-god-damn load of laundry where I have to pick another stitch of clothing from a son-of-a pile. He can just shit-in-his-god-damn-son-of-a-no-good HAT if he thinks I'm doing it. Hrumph. God-damn. Mumble. Son-of-a. Harrumph. Shit RIGHT IN HIS LAZY HAT AND PUT IT ON HIS LAZY HEAD."

(If my best friend is still capable of reading this through the tears of laughter in her eyes, she will confirm I am NOT exaggerating.  I can't count the times she and I would have to stifle our giggles into pillows, as we would hear these tirades come pouring out of the bathroom, where my dads head was under the bathroom sink and only his feet were visible as he worked on a repair. Back me up, bestie.  I am my fathers daughter, and that the profanity apple did not fall far from the god-damn, god-damn, son-of-a-god-damn tree.)

5) Now that a load is running in the washer, I remind myself, there is STILL an opportunity for some zen-like quiet time while folding. I could watch a TV show streaming on the iPad while I fold fresh smelling, clean laundry. I could broaden my horizons and compassion by listening to a  TED talk. I could bring the iPhone speaker dock and sing, loudly, making a musical selection that brings me joy. I could fill the house with the sound of me, singing baritone tobarbershop arrangements. And then I look at the mountain and I feel defeated, put-upon, resentful and unappreciated. Grandmother Nadya told me it's my responsibility and my honor to be the rock that holds my family together, and I agree.  It is an honor.  But fuck the responsibility part. Two adults live in the  house, two adults dirty laundry.  Two adults can share the responsibility.

In this day and age, my skill at my profession is paid 70% of a man doing the same jobs salary. I don't work 30% less, it's "just how thins are".   I do my job, I do it well, and I sometimes get on a soapbox about the inequality of it all. In my job as mother and wife, I get priceless compensation from my little boy (frequently) and husband (rarely). I'm on my soap box, because its fucking not equal. Every family has its own dynamic, and it's own division of labor and I am tired of this dynamic. 

I am not filled with Zen. I'm filled with a low grade state of pissed-off-ness that I cook, I tidy, I pay the person who does the real cleaning, I lug clothes, pick up lazy piles of clothes, wash clothes, fold clothes, put away clothes, soothe in the night, snuggle in the morning, make breakfast, get the boy ready for school every day, physically drive the car 3 days, keep the supplies stocked, engage with my child while daddy's too busy catching up on twitter and something awful to be bothered, read the bed time stories, organize the music class, organize the soccer class, carry the family's parent participation hours for daycare, make sure neither baby nor daddy nap too long on weekends, manage the Social life, make sure sitters get scheduled and paid, keep the zoo and aquarium memberships active and smile more than I frown.

And for my friends who are saying "why do you keep enabling this behavior?", rest assured it is an active topic in weekly therapy, and I can't change everything at once. I have to choose both the order of my battles, and the battles themselves. Right now, we're locked in a battle of wills around vehicles. If we're going to be a two car family, both cars have to meet some minimum safety requirements and be viable, safe options for our son. (More on this, upcoming post: "Tom Celica Must Die").

Now that I'm done ranting, let's talk. What are some things that work for your family? Not just laundry, although I'm certainly open to suggestions there! How does the division of labor look for you, and where does it go off the rails?

"Me Time"

After waking up early with BabyBoy, making him breakfast, and playing for a couple hours, Hubby crawled out of bed.  We took the boy to the zoo for a run in the crappy weather (That sounds like we're taking the dog to the off-leash park, which is kind of exactly how it is).  After the zoo visit, we got some lunch, and I put him down for his nap.

I emptied the dishwasher, setting out bottles, sippy cups, and child plates to air dry, loaded the dirty dishes in, and asked for some "me time" to go to a craft fair at Seattle Center.  A particular vendor was there, and I wanted to take advantage of the show discount to stock up on soap for the shower.  Hubby agreed, and went downstairs to take a nap while BabyBoy slept.

After the craft show, I was walking back to my car in the rain.  I saw an older lady, skipping hand in hand with a young girl who was wearing and elaborate feathered mardi gras mask and a tutu.  They were skipping right through the cross walk, in the pouring down rain.  I wished that my eyes were a camera so I could save that image to share here.  Unfortunately, I can't translate an image from my head to the computer, so this will have to capture the mood.

My first thought was "sometimes I wish I had a little girl", my next thought was "I hope I can still skip when I have a grandchild."  Lastly, I thought "I want to skip with my son in the rain." 

Frivolous part of "me time" was done, so I made the practical trip to the grocery store.  Milk, Toilet paper, food for dinner, and a few other staples for the house were all on the list.  When I got to the checkout stand, I handed the checker my bags.  I had an Oscar the Grouch bag, and a Thomas and Friends bag that happened to be in my car, so that's what I brought in with me. Apparently, I was also wearing my "please poke fun at me" face.  The checker inclined his head toward my bags of groceries and said "You don't get out much, do you?".  He was right, I don't.  I laughed a little ruefully and said "What was your first clue?"  He said "We don't get a lot of Thomas bags on Lower Queen Anne."

When I got home, the dishwasher had finished it's cycle, and the sink was full of dirty dishes.  There was a bag of garbage blocking the door to get into the house, so I took it out to the garbage cans before I could get in, put away the groceries, unload the dishwasher and put the dirty dishes into the machine for the next load.  Hubby and BabyBoy were in the living room, sitting in the middle of a pile of toys, and watching "How to Train Your Dragon" for the third time in 24 hours.  All nice thoughts from 90 minutes to myself were completely washed out of my head by internal grumbling about delayed chores.

I want to skip in the rain, holding hands with my son.  I'm going to hold onto that for tonight.

Rapidly fraying rope

I am at the end of a rapidly fraying rope - it's the one that connects to my deep inner core of strength, and it's not going to hold up.

Monday was MRI day, Tuesday included rhuematologist, infusion therapy, gyn annual visit and chemo drugs. The infusion or the chemo either one would knock me on my ass for 1-2 days separately. The two together have not been treating me well. Today included work panic, primary care visit, and a new ankle brace, all while fighting the urge to throw up in a corner before finding a quiet place to lay down.

I put z to bed around 7:45, and he went down easily, except his reactive airway cough started acting up. Two coughs, 10-15 seconds, 2 coughs, lather, rinse, repeat. I woke him up to give him an albuterol inhaler, which made him very upset. We lay him back down and gave it an hour, no change. SO we got dressed and went to children's hospital.

It's not asthma, his lungs are totally clear and his pulse oxygen levels are strong. He's just.... Coughing. We're under instructions to give him two puffs of inhaler every 4 hours for the next 24 hours. Gotta stay awake until 2 to give him that dose. And here's pro tip #3, it is impossible to give a child an inhaled medication without waking the child.

I want my boy to be feeling better, number one priority. But I sure would like to have the luxury of taking the kind of care of myself that I need to shake the treatment hangover.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad. Fueled by coffee.

God save me from nights like this.

We are making no forward progress in sleep training our child. In fact, I think we're making backwards progress. On the once a quarter nights where I go out with a girlfirend, I get the text messages that ask things like "Is the bubble bath safe for him to drink?" and "what if he gets some of the lotion in his mouth?" I also get questions about the proper order of sanitary additions. Do you add the Desitin before or AFTER the powder?, with the following second guessing "are you sure this stuff is safe for babies" thrown in randomly for good measure. If my child is asleep at all when I get home, it's never in a position he normally sleeps in, or in a space where he normally sleeps. I found him standing on his feet, bent over double on the ottoman, sound asleep one night. The TV was on full blast, and he was snoring away. There was the evening he pulled the towel off the towel rack and made himself a bed on the bathroom floor.


Worse than finding him asleep in weird positions is finding him NOT asleep at all, and hours pst his bedtime. He's lying on the bed, sobbing, with the occasional primal scream for good measure. He's covered in snot, all hot and sweaty, and completely inconsolable. I have to pull out the big guns for these instances. I warm up the full repertoire of lullabye songs.... I sing him "Easy People", "In the Hush Before the Heartbreak", "The River Shall Rise", "Baby Mine", "Blackbird", "The Tennessee Waltz", "The Rainbow Connection", "The Wurlitzer Prize", "The Long Day is Over", and even the awful song my mom sang me about a dying child "Put My Little Shoes Away". I sing them over and over - my personal best was A 5 time repeat of the full rep before he sacked out.

Tonight is measuring on par with a night where I was not here to put him to bed, except I was. Last night was equally bad, with a slight deviation, Daddy got home before BabyBoy was soundly asleep. He sat straight up, punched me in the cheek bone and said "NO. DAAAAH-DEEEE". It took nearly two ours of squirming, singing and crying last night.

Tonight is shaping up the same - hubby's upstairs, delaying the inevitable where he enters my circle of hell that is playing the sound track of a screaming baby that I don't know how to help. In the meantime, I'm settling down for round 3 of the Tennessee Waltz.

I'm about ready to bundle him in the car for the 17 mile lap I used to take with him when he was a constantly crying baby with gastric reflux. At least he sleeps in the car.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad. Fueled by coffee.

Location:5th circle of hell, aka beside the crib

Boundaries

The last week has been insanely frustrating as a parent.  Today, one of BabyBoy's teachers made a comment to me.  She said "He's really left all vestiges of babyhood behind.  He's a full-on toddler now!"  I said, "That's not exactly a compliment, is it?"  She laughed and said, "No, not exactly."

Perhaps I didn't make myself clear.   I. Said. No.

Naps are a struggle, bedtime is a full-on war - I have the bruises to prove it.  He's biting, throwing punches, kicking, and has started to utter the dreaded word: "NO!"  He also likes to take things and shriek "mine, Mine, MINE!"  He's been tugging at his ears like he'd like to pull them off his head and I've had him into the pediatrician twice to make sure it's not yet another ear infection.  (It's not).  He's working on the canine teeth on the top, one has poked through and the other is a swollen, irritated lump on his gum.  He gnaws on things and drools constantly.

The worst for me, is the clinging, sobbing drop-offs at school.  He cries like he's being abandoned, reaching for me and calling "Mama, MAMA!"  When we walk in the door, the screams if I try and put him down, and if I manage to get him off of me, he goes limp on the floor and sobs.  I've been trying to be patient, and to allow some extra time where I can sit with him, play with toys, and reassure him that it's FUN to be at school, but I'm not sure if I'm actually helping or making things worse.

He acts a little shy and clingy with Hubby, but nowhere near where he is with me.  It's that way at home, too.  He wants to see Daaah-eee, and play with him, but when the rubber meets the road, it's the Mama-way or the highway, accept no substitutes.

Singing to him last night, I changed the words to the "Tennessee Waltz".

I was dancing, with my Mama

to the Tennessee Waltz

When my Dad tried to take me away.

I said "No thank you" to my Daddy

and held on to my Mama

'cause sometimes a guy just needs his mom.

I love that he likes to be near me.  I love that sometimes just the sound of my heartbeat and me singing to him is enough to calm him down.  But he likes to sit on my lap while I go to the bathroom, and I could really use some space these days.  Someone please reassure me that this is a phase and it will pass?

Tardiness

As a professional, I've always taken being on time seriously.  In fact, I'd much prefer to be early than to be late.  However, I work in the games industry, and there's a certain "we're creative, we don't follow rules" attitude to that culture.  Meetings that start within 15 minutes of scheduled time are celebrated as a success, but it drives me absolutely ape shit.  I'm a project manager, my time, much like a lawyer, is tracked in billable increments, which all go against the bottom line of project overhead.  If I stopped to count up how many meetings start late in a project, you start to see why project deadlines often get blown off and missed.  Lateness is lateness, and it all adds up.

Let me add a disclaimer here:

This is a personal weblog. The opinions expressed here represent my own and not those of my employer. I'm not going to tell you who my employer is, but if you happen to figure it out, I'm not representing them.  Got it?

There.  That's out of the way.  I work for a game developer that is sort of notorious for not following traditional schedules or milestones.  Our games ship when they're done, not when we say we'll ship them when we first start a project.  This has been the single hardest adjustment to my style as a producer since I started with this organization.  In my past positions, I live and die by the schedule.  I've primarily worked on branded product that is tied to events: movie releases, ad campaigns, major sporting events, etc.  Those dates do not change.  The product that you deliver might change during the course of the project for a variety of reasons (contract signed late, customer made a change in the scope of work, approval process delays, as a few examples), but the date DOES NOT CHANGE.

It is bad enough at work that each clock on the floor is set to a different time - varying between 5-15 minutes ahead of the actual time.  That doesn't solve anything, it just makes people MORE likely to ignore the clock and make excuses.  I've never been a fan of the "I'll set my clock ahead, so that way if I snooze I can still be on-time" mentality.  You're not actually fooling anyone.

My meetings start on time.  I start talking when the designated time arrives, even if I'm talking to an empty room.  And I do not repeat myself.  If no one shows up by the time 15 minutes has passed, I walk out and I do not rush back in to cram through the topics when the tardy ones come looking for me.  I will send a follow up e-mail that covers off on why no decisions were made, and propose a new time for the meeting.  I've become a bit notorious for this, and it's becoming a less common occurrence that people are late, at least not to my meetings. I've heard muttering about "Oh, that's Rae's meeting.  You better be on time because she will bust your balls if you're not!" and the like, but that's something I can live with.

To me, if you accept a meeting, you accept your role and responsibility in that conversation.  Yes, things happen and if you call or text and say "I'm 5 minutes away, I apologize.", I will say thank you when you walk in the room. But just wandering in because you can't allocate your time and honor the commitments you make says that you do not respect me, you do not respect what I'm doing, and you don't respect yourself as a professional.

Doesn't that sound so admirable?   Let me just say, this is something I've had to work VERY hard at.  Ask my best friend, she can probably account for a year of her life spent waiting for me during our time sharing rides to school in Junior High and High School.  She never left my ass, but she SHOULD have.  I was always in a state of "hair on fire and ass is catching", I always had an excuse and and apology at the ready, and at some point, I finally grew out of it and started taking punctuality seriously.

So, here's the reality of my life today.  Despite my best efforts, the ONLY PLACE I'M ACTUALLY ON TIME IS AT WORK.  BabyBoy is 14 months old, and I haven't been on time to 99% of the things we have done since he was born.  We were late to the birthing center tour.  We were late the morning of his scheduled c-section birth, we were late to freakin' CHRISTMAS BRUNCH and we were bringing the main course!  (Hubby's reasoning: "They can't start without us," which was technically true, because we had at the FOOD for 15 people, and we were nearly 45 minutes late!  How rude can you possibly be?)  I've become fanatical about being on time at work because it's the only place in my life where I feel like I have any control left.

There's got to be a balance here, somewhere.  We're both adults, we're both professionals, we both understand the value of time.  Starting our shared time together in a mad rush for the door, with me in a state of low-grade piss off  because I've done all the work to prepare BabyBoy and straightened up the house and have STILL been kept waiting is no way to enjoy our time together.  I've started padding the time I tell Hubby that we need to be places so at least we hit closer to on-time than we have in the past, but that feels manipulative and childish. Knowing our relationship, knowing myself, and knowing Hubby, the change will most likely have to be with me.  We're not known for our ability to talk rationally and compromise.  And that just makes me feel resentful.  This isn't a topic like "what direction does the basket for zippy cup parts face in the dishwasher?", it's common courtesy.  If you say you'll be somewhere, be there when you say you'll be there.

How do I get the point across without being a shrew?  I hate being late.  I think it's disrespectful and it makes me anxious and edgy to do everything in a manufactured emergency rush.  It's that simple.