Happy Anniversary

Today is my third anniversary of being married. The requisite roses arrived at work, in my favorite color, and the appropriately romantic cards were exchanged, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm spending the night alone with my son, and I'm not particularly happy about it.

I try very hard to be the sort of equal partner in this relationship that doesn't play tit for tat on having time to yourself. I can think of 2 times where I've said "I'd really rather you don't go out on this night." in a total of 8 years together. I don't crash the boys nights out. When I ask to do things on my own, hubby rarely says no, but he makes the experience of me being away and him being in charge so nerve-wracking that it's often easier to just not try.

For the most part, my "me-time" is accomplished by taking time away from work to do things, like get my hair done or have a manicure. It also includes a day every 5 weeks sedated while I get IV medication to try and control the arthritis. I've booked myself for 3 cooking classes, one each month for the coming three months, 2 hours away from the house during prime-time play time. The other option is that I wait until I've "done my chores" at the house, and got the boy to bed before I go out to meet another mom or two for a drink.

When I make plans for myself, I think it all through, I look at the calendar, I look at how long it's been since the last time I had a night out, and then I ask. "Sweetie, how would you feel about me going to a barbershop chorus guest night next Monday for a few hours?" Or "the community building meeting for our daycare is meeting next Wednesday, can you feed Z and get him down to bed?" I don't assume the answer will be yes.

When my hubby wants to make plans for himself, he send a calendar invite on iCloud. No could you? No would you mind? It's just a statement of what he's doing and I can figure out the details.

Last week on Monday, I got an appointment demand for Tuesday night out drinking with the guys, Wednesday night gaming and another one for the 19th gaming. Now, i checked. Our wedding anniversary is on the shared calendar, right there on the 19th, right where it's supposed to be.

Over dinner he starts talking about how they finally got that second game scheduled, and about how he's looking forward to playing this game with the guys. I told him, "listen, I need to talk to you about that. I'm pretty hurt that you would schedule something like this, something you do alone, on our wedding anniversary."

"Oh shit, yeah, I forgot about that. I know it's some time in September. So are you saying I shouldn't game? It took forever to get this on everyone's calendar..."

A giant part of me wanted to say "that is exactly what I'm saying, thank you very much.", but instead I said "it's ok, we can do something for our anniversary on Friday instead." And pretended like it was no big deal.

Last week, I decided to treat myself, and I put an emergency call into our sitter. "It doesn't matter if it's Tuesday or Wednesday, I just need you to take Z for a few hours. I need a break," I told her. She proposed Tuesday, and I reached out to a friend to see if she could get together last minute. We had a fine dinner, and I drank off some of my resentment, while we talked about how relationships are the hardest work you will ever have to do. It just pisses me off that I accommodate me-time mandate after me-time mandate, while I dance around, asking permission and eventually paying someone to take care of my son.

For my anniversary, I celebrated with my son at Red Robin. We sang "Ram-Sam-Sam" and "Goin to Boston" and a silly song that includes the words "ding dong ding dong", which he pronounces "Ning Nong, Ning, nong". We looked at the sky and talked about how the stars are always there, it's just sometimes the light makes it too bright to see them. Then we went inside, read "Guess How Much I Love You?", turned on the star projection turtle and looked at the green moon on the ceiling. I sang him the song I made up for him about how much the stars and moon love him, and he nodded off to sleep with only one "mama, mo meewk, pweeeease" (mama more milk, please) request.

Also, for my anniversary, I did not empty the dishwasher, I did not fold, wash or dry any laundry, I did not unpack the box of amazon mom delivery items (diapers, wipes, diaper genie refills). Instead I upgraded the OS on my phone and iPad, and played with new features and went to bed early. I hope to be asleep and sprawled in the middle of the bed before my hubby gets home.

I'm looking forward to a night out with him on Friday, but I sure wish there was an "I'm sorry, I'll cancel my thing" as part of the conversation that lead up to this new plan.

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

A week of upheaval

We'd had a rather eventful week with BabyBoy - the previous Sunday (3/11) I had to take him to urgent care for a really persistent cough, and while we were there being treated for croup (again), the nurse practitioner said "Oh!  His ear is infected!"  They started him on Amoxicillin, and Monday morning I woke up to a baby covered in hives.  Off Mama went for the drop in hours at the pediatrician (for the record, avoid monday morning pediatrician appointments like the plague if at all possible.  All the SICK kids are there!).  The pediatrician said his ears were "absolutely pristine" and that there was no need to continue with a different antibiotic.  I stopped at the drugstore for some baby benadryl, gave him a dose and he passed out on the drive to daycare.

When I was headed to the pediatrician, Hubby said "if the doctor says he can't go to school, call me and I'll come home."  I took that at face value, and called him from a parked car at daycare.

"He's totally stoned on benadryl and has passed out.  I can't take him in like this.  I think I'm going to take him home, but I've got a couple things that HAVE to be done at work.  Can you come home?"

"Well, I have  A LOT to do.  Why don't you just wake him up and take him in?  It's their problem now." He replied.

I got mad, like seeing red, mad.  BabyBoy has not had a TON of sick days where he's had to miss school, but I've covered all but one of them.  I've also covered their closures for holidays and in-service time.  The inequality of the work load at home around our son was weighing heavy on my shoulders, and I replied, "He's not 'someone else's problem'. He's OUR SON.  You SAID you would help me today.  YOU need to do your part."

"He's got a note to be allowed to go to school.  Take him to school.   If YOU want to take him home, YOU take care of him." he snapped.

"Fine.  I'LL handle it.", tears in my voice, I hung up on him.  I bundled BabyBoy out of the car, and stuck my head inside his classroom door to let them know BabyBoy would not be coming to school today after all.

"He's ok, just really out of it with Benadryl and an allergic reaction.  I'm going to take him home."

By the time I got him back in the car, I had two new voice mails from Hubby.  Nether of them were very nice.  I called him back and told him I was taking BabyBoy home, and to do what he thought was best about participating in his care.That's my fall back, whenever I get completely fed up with him, I tell him to "do what he thinks is best".  I've never been pleasantly surprised by the decisions he makes when presented with that option, but at least I can feel like a martyr instead of communicating what I actually need.

In this case, he surprised me by coming home about 2:30, and I went into work for 2 hours to do what I needed to get done.  BabyBoy's hives continued to improve, and we thought we were out of the woods.

Thursday night, I was getting the baby ready for his bath, when I said "I think there's something weird with his penis.  It's all SWOLLEN looking!  Can babies get a stiffy?"  I brought the baby into the bathroom, "Does his penis look weird to you?"We both turned a critical eye to our kids crotch.  "Yeah, I think it's different.", Hubby said.  He poked, and squeezed, and gently moved the foreskin a bit.  BabyBoy seemed completely nonplussed by our attentions, and Hubby put him in the bath.

I texted two of his daycare teachers to ask if they'd noticed anything, as well as texting a friend with a boy a year older than Z to ask advice.  Then I made my critical error of the day.  I googled "Uncircumsized penis infection".  For the record, I cannot recommend this action to any parent, new or otherwise.  You can thank me for this later.

After scaring myself silly, completely losing my appetite and reading some parenting forum posts, we decided we would take a look at it in the morning and see how it looked.

Friday morning, BabyBoy woke me up with an enthusiastic "HI!" and I got him up and out of his crib.  I changed his diaper in the darkish room, then took him into the bathroom to say hi to Daddy.  Hubby pulled back the shower curtain and immediately said "What's wrong with his EYE?".  I took a look and said "OH NO!  PINK EYE!"

Very calmly, I said to Hubby "He can't go to school.  You're going to need to take him to walk-in hours, which start at 8.  Are you ok with staying home with him today?"

"I thought you have the day off?", he asked.

"I do, but it's spa day.  I've had this on the books for a while."  I was fighting hard to give him the opportunity step up and to NOT do what I typically do and give in.  I let 'spa day' hang in the air for a heartbeat or two.  It was crickets in response.

"I guess I can cancel," I mumbled.

"No, go.  I can REARRANGE EVERYTHING," he replied.  It did not sound enthusiastic or supportive.  It sounded resentful.  Perhaps that's just how I heard it, but it's how it sounded to me.

Throughout the rest of the getting ready, the topic continued to come up.  I offered twice more to cancel and each time he said he'd take care of it.  So I decided that was enough for me.  Worst Mommy in the World was going to leave her sick child and go to the spa for some pampering.

Before pampering, I ran around like a mad woman and did a bunch of housework supporting my mother-in-law's arrival later on Friday night.  Hubby and BabyBoy made good time at walk-in hour (better on a Friday than a Monday, apparently),  and they made it back to the house to pick up a diaper bag before going to the pharmacy and out to breakfast.  BabyBoy DID have an ear infection after all, which had somehow caused viral conjunctivitis (pink-eye, simply by the nature of making his eye pink) and an infection of the foreskin, all treatable by a 14 day course of a different antibiotic.  As a mom, the frustrating thing was that the pink-eye and PENIS INFECTION (I have found it is absolutely impossible to type those two words NOT in all caps, it just sounds icky and painful) probably would not have made it to the surface if the pediatrician on Monday had not missed the ear infection in the first place.

Upside, he's feeling much better after 4 days of antibiotics.  As a couple, we need to find a better, more equitable way to deal with the fact that we're reliant on a daycare provide that has strict rules about health issues, and sometimes that means missed time at work.  Perhaps it's just taking turns?  Perhaps it's luck of the draw - even day of the month is mommy, odd day of the week is daddy?  Any both-parents working families out there have advice?

Hell Week(s)

As I've mentioned before, I am a producer for a video game company in Seattle.  I've been in the games industry since 1998, and been a producer since 2002.  I've shipped A LOT of games in that time.  Some of them, I'm very proud of.  Others, I can find things to be proud of in the process and in the way the work was done.  When people ask me what it means to be a game producer, I often reply one of two ways: "I make other people make video games" and "I make miracles happen.", depending on my mood.

I've worked a lifetime in the past 14 years.  60 hour weeks were light, 80 hour weeks were normal, 100+ hour weeks were hard, but not uncommon.  I've always prided myself on never asking my team to do anything that I'm not willing to do.  I turn the lights on in the studio in the morning, and I turn the lights off at night.  I make coffee runs, I order the pizza, I scour the bug database, I run interference for my dev team when PR or marketing come calling, I find the perfect song to fit a mood and blast it out far too loudly late at night.  I've been known to bribe people with baked goods, to wear a stupid hat when things get stressful, to fire off the applause box when the team needs a boost, and to be the bad guy, when a bad guy is needed.

I've had a critical realization in the past month.  I still take great pleasure in shipping games, I still love the energy that flows during the weeks where we final, I still get a thrill when I see that finished product and I KNOW that I played an essential role in bringing the team to the place where we could say "It is finished, warts, feathers and all, it is done, and we can be proud of this.".  But that's not how I define myself any more.  I'm not as young as I used to be, a 16 hour day at work takes it's toll on me, but it's not just that.  I will continue to give it my all in a fair days work, but I do not like missing bed time with my boy.

Hubby was very supportive, he's known me long enough to know how I get when I'm in shipping mode. My eyes get a little crazy, my brain gets laser focused, and everything else takes a back seat.  The difference this time around is this is my first time shipping a game at the end of an arthritis treatment cycle, and with a pretty significant jump in the severity of arthritis.  I actually delayed treatment to be in the office for my team, a decision that I really struggled with at the time.  There were people at work pushing me to do what I needed to do to take care of myself, and people asking me if I could delay longer so I didn't have to miss any time.  That was another eye opener for me.  I compromised and pushed treatment out by two weeks, and came into work in the late afternoon after resting a bit at home to work a full day's work with the team that was trying to make a final build.

There were several nights where Hubby picked up BabyBoy and brought him to work for the three of us to have dinner together, before taking him home and putting him to bed while Mommy stayed and worked.  Other nights, I sang lullabies to BabyBoy while I was still at work and he couldn't hear me.  There were Saturdays where I brought BabyBoy to work with me, in hopes he would take his normal afternoon nap in a pack and play at my desk (he didn't).  We tried to make it work, and I certainly do not think BabyBoy OR Hubby are worse off for the experience.  But that doesn't mean I liked it.

Crunch time is crunch time, whether it lasts 3 weeks like ours did or 3 months like it used to in the early days.  We only had 2 nights that went past midnight; most nights wrapped up by 8.  We worked three 10-6 Saturdays.  In the grand scheme of things, it was a mild crunch.  I tried hard not to laugh like a cynical old man, telling stories of my "up-hill in the snow walk to school back when I was a boy" when the others complained of how hard we were crunching.  People still gave up time with their families, and with their lives and I wanted to be respectful of that reality, while thinking "you suckers wouldn't have survived the path I've lived to get here today", really loudly in my head to drown out their complaints.

The good news, my new game has cleared Apple certification and will be released in early March.  I've taken a week off for R&R (and for gathering up baby stuff to donate, finishing BabyBoy's quilt that I haven't touched since he was born, catching up on writing this blog, and perhaps cooking a meal or two for my family). I also had a pretty good response with arthritis treatment, there are spots where I have pain, but I am able to simply notice that pain and then move onto the next thought, instead of having the primary brain power dedicated to not whimpering out loud in pain while I attempt to process coherent, professional thought with what's left behind of my focus.  I also got lab results that show that my Ferritin level is at 260, 4 months after treatment (and I have to tell you, that is a MIRACLE number for me.  It will be fascinating to see how long the new type of infusion holds anemia at bay).  B12 and Vitamin B are both in single digits, so there's still work to be done, but I'll take my successes where I find them.

Last week, I went and spoke at a career day at a local college that is focused on video game disciplines for their degree programs.  I actually don't much enjoy public speaking, I talk too fast, turn bright red, and tend to throw up in garbage cans from stage fright before I speak.  This talk went incredibly well, I was on a panel with 5 other discipline leaders from my company, and I was surprised that there were several questions directed at me during Q&A.  Afterwards, the coordinator came over to ask me if I would consider facilitating a women's group for the semester, mentoring their 1% female student population.  I thought about that for a moment, and I told her "yes".  I've been doing this long enough I feel I have valuable information to share, and as a woman who was 1 of 4 women in the active production group in 1998, I've done a little path-paving for the next generation.  Perhaps I can refocus some of that old satisfaction from working harder and longer than anyone else to ship games into the satisfaction of knowing I might bring insight to a woman just starting out in the industry and help make her first steps on the path a little easier.

Arthritic Old Lady ISO a good time....

DISCLAIMER: I'm going to try VERY hard to keep this post about arthritis and it's impact on my day to day life, and not to bring the dynamic between my Hubby and me into this.  I've sat on the post for a few days now, because I wasn't done being hurt and angry about the events of the evening in question.  I'm not sure I can do this, but the goal is not for an outcry of "jeez, what a jerk" responses.  OK?  Here goes.

Hubby's company has a tradition of doing their holiday party after the new year.  They like to spin it that it's easier to schedule that way, and I'm sure that plays into it, but the reality is, costs are significantly cheaper if you wait until after the peak holiday party season.  Last Friday night was the holiday party, and the theme was the Roaring 20's.

I like an opportunity to dress up.  On a good day, my morning routing includes brushing both my hair AND my teeth and looking in the mirror before I leave the house.  There have been days where I've arrived at the coffee shop across the street from work before some kind stranger points out "you have your shirt on inside out", or "did you know you have two different shoes on?" (The danger of too many pairs of crocs).  I don't spend time fussing with my hair or doing my makeup any more, mornings are crammed with dealing with BabyBoy's needs for the day and I take a backseat.  I was excited about the 20's theme, I had a new dress, a "fur" stole to wear with it, and I'd been reviewing makeup videos on youtube to figure out how to recreate that "20's look".

I even had a new pair of shoes, with a heel.  When I bought them, I had some doubts, but I've had decent luck with this particular brand in the past, and they felt pretty good on.  Hubby has a penchant for high heels, and I thought it would be a nice surprise for him.

Day of the party, I took a look at my legs while shaving them and realized I was in the middle of a huge plaque psoriasis outbreak.  The tops of my feet, outsides of the ankle and about 3 inches up the calf were covered with bright red, painful, scaly patches.  I decided I'd add fishnet tights, which would disguise the skin ugliness and still be in period character.  One problem, I tried the shoes on with bare feet, and adding tights changed the way the fit.  There's not a lot of structure to this shoe, a thin strap around the ankle, and a band across the very front.  Knowing my ankles, which have been sprained more times than I can count, and broken once each, and knowing how changing pressure points in my feet makes my arthritis flare up, I started to get nervous.  It's not just me anymore, if I wear stupid shoes and land myself on the couch for a day or two, icing my ankles and feet to keep the swelling down, I don't just impact myself.  I impact a little guy who needs me more than I need to wear shoes that make my legs look good.

I decided to bring a backup pair of shoes, a sensible 1/2" wedge with a cute open toe and flower on top, just in case.  I finished getting ready, and felt pretty darned good about the whole package.  We dropped BabyBoy at the sitter and headed to the party location.

While driving down, I kept wiggling my feet around.  The way that things had shifted in the shoe, I had no feeling in the first three toes of each foot.  I poked at my ankles, and felt that they'd already started swelling from the short walk from the car and up the stairs to the sitters door.  And I told Hubby, "I think I need to switch shoes."

"Oh, God Dammit."  he replied.  "You NEVER dress sexy for me any more.  You used to dress up all the time and wear high heels and sexy underwear.  Why can't you just wear the heels?"

"I just don't think it's a good idea.  My ankles are already swelling, this isn't a sit down event, and I really don't want to be completely laid up for two days recovering from a bad shoe choice.  I'm switching shoes.", I explained.

"Fine."  he said, flatly.

Not much else was said the rest of the drive, and I can't imagine anyone noticed my shoes.  The food was more substantial than the invite led to believe, and was quite good.  The drinks were ridiculously over-priced, but the company head honcho announced "open bar" not 30 minutes into the event, and they had karaoke.  Now we're talking about a good time.  I hit the stage more than once, and had a fantastic time.  We danced, we laughed, we talked with people - I even texted our sitter and asked if we could stay out an extra hour, like a kid begging permission to extend curfew from her parents.  I thought it had been a near perfect evening.

On the ride home, he laid into me about how I've changed, and how our relationship has changed.  I tried to reason that change HAS to happen when you add another person to the equation, and evolution is not a bad thing.  We ended up revisiting the conversation of what I "never do" (anything right, apparently) and what I "always do" (complain) and ended up having an awful argument that went into the wee small hours of the morning.  Whispered anger in the room with a sleeping baby, hot tears scalding the makeup off my face, and a lot of stuff was said that can't be unsaid.

The next morning, I got out of bed and nearly fell.  My ankles had swollen so much there was no longer a differentiation between foot and ankle.  My toes were swollen to the point of being shiny, and my left knee was hot and red and swollen as well. I tried to put my wedding ring on, and discovered this was a full-on, all joints impacted arthritic flare up.  I couldn't get the ring past my knuckle.  I sighed and put it back on my bedside ring holder, and couldn't help but wonder if it's not some sort of omen of our future.

I iced what I can ice, applied anti-inflammatory gel to the worst spots, and we headed off to "Music Together" class with BabyBoy.  I've never felt so alone at an event that includes "Together" in the title.

In closing, I didn't do a very good job at keeping it about arthritis, did I?  It's been a rough few days, and I've made a promise to myself to be honest here.  As with any relationship, you can say there are three sides to every story, his side, her side and the truth.  This is (obviously) only my side, and there's probably a truth somewhere in the middle that isn't painted as bleakly as I've painted this.  Thanks for reading.  

Winter

The holiday season was busy for us, with lots of time with friends.  On New Years day, we went to a friends house for a traditional southern lucky new years day potluck.  There was a piano in the living room, and after a couple glasses of wine, I decided to flip through the music stash.  I haven't sat at a keyboard in over a year, and haven't played in front of others in about 8 times that.  The call of a Tori Amos anthology was too much to resist, I opened to the song "Winter", and sat down at the bench.

I only played through the first verse, and did not have the nerve to burst into song in a room full of people, so just the piano part. I've always loved playing the piano accompaniment to that song, 6 flats not-withstanding, but I can't sing it for others, it makes me cry.

I've been thinking a lot about my Dad lately, and after some soul searching this weekend, I think I've discovered some things. I have very clear memories of being a little kid and wanting to be like my dad. There was never any secret in our house, he wanted a boy, and he got me instead. I would study how he walked and try to swagger just like him, I'd watch how he was never really still - tapping fingers, jingling keys - and I'd imitate it. I remember the day that the post man commented on me in the yard - he looked at me, looked at my dad and said "well, you can't deny that one" and it made me proud. I remember having a snowball fight with him the Christmas that I turned 16, I remember a warm hand on my shoulder and a comment that I "did good" when I started self-teaching myself programming, but I don't remember really TALKING to him, and I don't remember him really LISTENING to me.





 

The first verse of "Winter" tells the story of a young girl, spending time with her dad, and knowing he is there, looking out for her:

Snow can wait
I forgot my mittens
Wipe my nose
Get my new boots on
I get a little warm in my heart
When I think of winter
I put my hand in my father's glove

I run off
Where the drifts get deeper
Sleeping beauty trips me with a frown
I hear a voice
"You must learn to stand up for yourself
Cause I can't always be around"

He says
When you gonna make up your mind
When you gonna love you as much as I do
When you gonna make up your mind
Cause things are gonna change so fast
All the white horses are still in bed
I tell you that I'll always want you near
You say that things change my dear

I wish I could say that was the relationship we had. I know that if I can think rationally about our way of interacting, he is expressing care in the only way he can. But it's hurtful and dismissive and it always has been.

Hair is grey
And the fires are burning
So many dreams
On the shelf
You say I wanted you to be proud of me
I always wanted that myself

It truly is all I've wanted - for him to be proud of me and love me for who I am, instead of reminding me of who I'm not. But the hard realization is I don't accept him for who he is, either. He was who he is before I even existed. Who am I to demand that he change and to be disappointed in him that he can't? Perhaps if I can accept him, I can find some peace in his understanding of me.

Last night, I called to talk to see how he's been. He spent the first 15 minutes asking me to troubleshoot his computer issues, while I tried to walk him through accessing gmail via web browser. He finally got around to asking about how the baby is, and I gave him an update, and added that we'd gone for a walk in the "snow" to the local mexican restaurant, where the baby ate half a kids quesadilla and some guacamole.

He said "You better watch what he's eating and not feed him junk so he gets fat. You don't want him to be like you."

There are many, many things I can think of that would be a worse fate than for my son to grow up and be like me. Several sarcastic responses flew through my mind in the heartbeats it took me to answer. I simply said "He's not eating junk." My husband heard the dead tone of my voice and turned to stage-whisper "what's going on?"

I listened to my dad talk for about 10 more minutes with tears rolling down my cheeks, he never bothered to ask how I am or how my husband is, he spent the time talking about my sister, her kids, and their grandkids and how neat they all are. Finally I interupted and said it was getting near bed time and I needed to go take care of the baby.

I closed with, "I love you, Dad, I'll talk to you soon."

"Ok, you too, bye."

When I hung up, I just put my head in my hands for a moment and hubby came over to ask what that was all about. I told him about the comment my Dad made, and hubby asked "Why didn't you tell him to go fuck himself?"

"Because, it's not that simple. He's my Dad and I can't do that." I tried to explain, knowing it makes no sense to anyone, myself included.

"Well, if my dad talked to me like that, I'd tell him to go fuck himself." he responded.

"Then you owe your parents a big thank you for teaching you to have more self esteem than I do, and for being secure in their love." I started crying harder. "He doesn't give a shit about me, he just wants me to fix his stupid computer."

Hubby put his arms around me and BabyBoy put his arms around my neck, too. We all leaned together while I cried, and hubby kissed my forehead. "I'm sorry, baby."

Later, after BabyBoy was asleep, I started crying again. How can I possibly raise him to be confident and secure when I am so fundamentally broken? I don't want to hurt him like this, and I'm so afraid that my shit is just going to fuck him up. I want him to always know how much I love him, support him, and believe in him. Hubby held me and let me talk through it and reminded me that I am a good mother, that I take amazing care of BabyBoy, and that we'll help each other when things get hard. That we'll make mistakes, but we'll have our own family, and our own way of communicating that doesn't have to repeat the past.

I have to believe in that, I have to believe in us. And I have to believe in me. It's time for me to love myself as much as I love my son. For someone posting on a blog titled "still an adult", I've spent an awful lot of time feeling like a scared, confused child over the past 24 hours.