Today is SubHistory's Mysteries

Mystery #1.

I just looked over my blog and realized that I have misspelled the title of my previous entry. It was supposed to be "it" not "I". But even spelled correctly, the title still made little sense. What I really meant was ,"She could've been so much worse", but something tells me that even that is not very right, so I am leaving things as they are. Let the title remain a mystery of some sort.

Mystery #2.

When DD still wore size 2 diapers, our pediatrician recommended Triple Paste diaper ointment. We followed with the recommendation and bought a 1 pound jar, which lasted throughout DS's diaper years and was finally finished last week. A few weeks ago, anticipating the ultimate demise of the jar that lasted 4+ years, I bought another one in Target. The jar was exactly the same, and the price, though still rather steep, didn't change since our last purchase. Upon closer examination though, I found that the jar war marked as a 10 oz, not 1 pound. Here's what I find fascinating: the jars are identical and the 10 oz jar is filled to the top and not half empty as I have expected. I was so intrigued, I went on company's website only to find out that they don't manufacture 10 oz jars, only 8 oz and 1 pound. So is Target selling counterfeit butt cream?

Mystery #3.

I am still on Weight Watchers. (How I haven't stopped is a mystery on in itself.) After starving for a week, I lost 3 pounds, only to regain 2 pounds a day of starvation later. How, I ask you, how???? On the other hand, after allowing myself to "live" on Shavuos, cheesecake and all, I only gained a pound. I guess stuffing myself pays off better than starving. And so much more enjoyable!

On that note I am off to solve yet another mystery: is there any leftover cheesecake?

I could be so much worse

Today was the first time I heard about America's Worst Mom, title given to the woman who allowed her 9 year old son ride NY subway by himself. You can read more about her here or simply Google America's Worst Mom. Basically what she says is that today's streets are safer than 30 years ago yet children are not allowed to do many of the things their parents were allowed at the same age. And she attributes this mainly to the fear mongering media.

I have been thinking about this ever since DD started walking. Lenore (America's Worst Mom) has all the facts straight, and statistically speaking children are lot more likely to be abducted/abused by a relative or a close family friend than by a stranger, in their own home, where parents relax their watchful eye. I see the logic behind what she says and wholeheartedly agree that freedom is very important to children. And I soooo much want to give to them as early and as much of it as I was given. However, emotionally I am incapable of letting go because if, God forbid, something happens, I will never forgive myself. No matter how statistically unlikely the worst case scenario is, I cannot ignore the "what if."

Overall, I find the topic extremely sad and depressing. What do you think?

This is how you remind me of what I really am

SubHub expressed interest in how often I pump*** while at work. "Two times," I replied. Without the slightest shadow of irony or sarcasm, he said, "You know, Israeli cows are milked three times a day. In every other country it's only twice a day, but in Israel it's 3 times!" Long silence ensued. Quite clearly I did not show as much enthusiasm about Israeli agricultural achievements as SubHub had expected. Catching my evil glare, he mumbled, "What? Just thought you would like to know. That's all."

Should've realized (before getting all misty eyed about "Ohh how much he cares") that if a man expresses interest in breastfeeding, let down is imminent. All puns intended.

Oh, and apparently I wouldn't quite fit in with the other Israeli cows. How sad. And here I thought I had something to fall back on if we decided to move. Better stay put, I guess.



*** Express breast milk.

It's the same old song

One of my job responsibilities is approving requisitions. For the most part, it's a quick computerized process that doesn't take too much of my time. If everything is filled out correctly, that is. When it is not, then the fun begins.

I receive a requisition today that has errors in it. I call up the woman who filled the form and get an earful about all the details of the project that I don't need to hear. All I need to know is why the item described as "equipment" is coded to software. That's all. Nothing more, nothing less. But noooo, like the Energizer bunny, she keeps on going and going and going. Finally we reach an understanding, and then the woman completes this exchange with her usual accusatory, "Every time I fill out a requisition, there's something new."

I hang up the phone and only miraculously don't yell out, "No, Julie*, it's same old, same old. Every time you fill out a requisition, you make a mistake. Every. Single. Time. You are just not getting it, are you, that there is a difference between hardware and software???!!! Hardware is NOT software, that not a new idea, is it? And how in the world did you become an IT project manager without realizing this rather important concept?? Share this secret with me, will you?"

Part of me wishes I told her this.


*Obviously not Diana's real name.

On importance of being able to count

This is a public service announcement brought to you be a very hungry SubWife. Not being able to count can lead to starvation.

Ever since I came back to work, I started Weight Watchers. I was miserable any way, so why not? Those unfamiliar with the program - 1) eat a sandwich and gain some weight like the rest of the country, 2) all food on Weight Watchers is translated into points, which take into account calories, fiber and fat content of the given food, and each dieter is allowed a certain amount of points per day.

Last night after coming home from work, I was very, very hungry. So hungry I couldn't wait for dinner to be ready, so I made myself scrambled eggs. Together with a dinner roll, that meal was about 10 points. So I subtracted 10 from 29.5 points I had left, and came up with 9.5 points. It seemed a bit low, but hey, it's a diet, you are supposed to starve. To say that I was starving last night is a huge understatement.Long story short, I lost 10 points worth of food for no good reason, other than another psychotic moment involving math, and only discovered the loss this morning. In my boss's office. And made her aware of the tragic loss of yesterday. Repeatedly. Despite important matters that were discussed.

I can feel my promotion is coming any minute now. And by promotion I mean a coupon to a local pizza shop.

Back to reality

Unread emails in the in-box: 245
Number of people asking "Back already?": 8
Number of frantic phone calls: 6 (2 to the babysitter, 4 to SubHub)
Attempts to cry: 3 (2 mine, 1 DS's)
Successful attempts to cry: 0
Realization that we all survived my first day back to work: priceless.

On futility of trying to reason with a three-yr-old

I wake up today with a clear idea and resolve to not let the every day minutiae get to me. "I will enjoy staying home with kids, even if it kills me" is my mantra. SubHub leaves, and the minute the door closes behind him, DS goes berserk. He started off by climbing up on a chair that is known to move when DS climbs on it and from which he fell on more than one occasion. This doesn't stop him. Then he proceeds to pull a very heavy basket with an iron and all ironing paraphernalia from atop of bookcase. He is looking for a toy, which name he cannot pronounce. I tell him to stop, and he won't. He keeps on repeating the gibberish, and I keep on not understanding and at this point begging him to stop pulling the basket. (I am all for natural consequences and would've let the basket fall on him, if not for the heavy iron inside.) I finally give up, take out the basket myself, and lo and behold, the toy is not there. Miraculously, nothing else attracts DS's attention, and he moves on to more interesting things.

Two minutes later I find kids' moons and stars all over our living room floor, the floor that was meticulously cleaned a night before. I bought these stars for kids' projects, but for the last three or four days the only project they were used for is messing up the apartment. I tried throwing them out, but DD begged me not to do it, and I wasn't cruel enough to throw out her stuff because her younger brother is doing mischief with it. In addition, she volunteered to clean it all up, and she did. So this is the conversation that sent me straight to the computer:

SW: DS, why did you throw this stuff all over the floor?
DS: (silence)
SW: (very calmly) Well, now you will have to pick it up. Take the box and put everything there. Where's the box?
DS: I don't know.
SW: It was standing here five minutes ago. Please bring it to me.
DS: I don't know.
SW: (after spending ten minutes trying to find the darn box, unsuccessfully) Where is it?
DS: I.Don't. Know.
SW: You just used it, no one used it after you. What did you do with it?
DS: (blank stare)
SW: Where is it, it couldn't have disappeared?
DS: (blank stare)

SW leaves the room because she has achieved her boiling point and knows that blow up is near. She runs to the computer and blogs about the futility of trying to reason with a 3-yr-old. She calms down and proceeds with her day, resolved to enjoy her children, even if it kills her.

T minus 7

It's back to work one week from now. As the time approaches, more and more reminders of this inevitable fact pop up: papers I need filled out by my doc, making sure I have something that fits and looks professional, frozen breast milk in my freezer. The thought of leaving my child at the age of two months with someone else brings this overwhelming feeling of sadness, so I put the papers away, shut the freezer and don't check my email. I procrastinate as much as I can, but I can't keep up this act for much longer.

One would think that leaving children in care of others somehow gets easier with each consecutive child. While I will say that #1 was extremely emotionally draining, I cannot say that #3 is easier than #2. Maybe even harder on some level. I keep reminding myself how much I hate housework, the social isolation, the feeling of being couped up in the house, especially when it rains for days, like it has been for the past few days. But everything fades in comparison to the loss of ability to pick up my baby when I please, nurse her, look into her face and beg her to smile. Instead I will have to settle for phone updates, picture on my screen saver and frantically looking for an empty office to pump.

Hey, here's another confession. When I say I would go insane staying at home, I believe what I say at that particular moment. I have to. Because frankly I don't have a choice. But deep down inside I know that given an opportunity, I would embrace that insanity.

I am beautiful no matter what they say

The following conversation occurred this Shabbat afternoon in my kitchen.

DS: Mom, can you zip up my pants?
SW: (leaning toward DS) Sure, dear.
DS: (slaps SW pretty hard with both hands.)
SW: (speechless)
DS: Mommy, you are cute!
SW: Thank you ?
DD (with the unmistakable teenage "are you dumb?" theme in her voice minus the eye roll): She is not cute!
DS: (pinches my upper lip) Mommy, you are cute!
SW: Ouch, you don't need to express it that way, but thank you.
DD: She is NOT cute.
(Both exit kitchen with DS muttering "beautiful" under his breath.)
SW: (Deeply disturbed and uncharacteristically speechless once again.)

(two days later)

SW: (Still disturbed and speechless, but finally able to leave the kitchen so that she could blog about the incident)

Don't worry, eat heartily

I went to pick up DS from his playgroup, first time in a long, long time, and first time ever this early. As I was waiting for him to get ready and say his goodbyes, I met one of the teachers' assistants, a fifty something year old Russian woman. She started out conversation with nodding her head in the direction of DS: "Yours?" This reminded me of an old spy movie, so I decided to be true to the genre, looked around so no on could hear us and half-whispered back, "Mine." She didn't dig the genre though and started talking normally. Basically her point was as follows: DS doesn't listen, at all, oy vavoy, but eats well, so I shouldn't worry. I am still cracking up.