I Can't Complain

Lucky Me!

Whoo hooo!  I thought I'd screwed up ordering the two Britax car seats I bought earlier this month by not using the Lucky Rewards link to BRU, but I checked today and the transaction *finally* posted.  That's 6% of two Britaxes, (in addition to my otherwise paltry accumulation of rewards for this quarter) to spend entirely on me! Me me me! :)   

Argh!

A woman I work with had a baby six months after I had H, and I feel like she's been trying to catch up with me ever since.  She responds to every comment I make about my kid (which are few - at work I generally only talk about him when asked directly) with an assertion that her baby (six months younger, remember) is either already doing that, or will do it sooner than mine did. Most recently, she asked me about starting solids, and I told her that we had (PURPOSELY) waited until a week shy of 6 months, since he'd been exclusively breastfed up until that point.  She responded that she felt certain HER baby would be ready at 4 months (hello, this is not a competition) and that I was "lucky" I had a such an easy time breastfeeding and such an easy baby. 

Normally her comments just make me roll my eyes (like the one where she told me he was rolling over at four days old), but for some reason this one really pissed me off.  She breastfed for a about week.  The baby apparently did not take right to it, and then she had some medical problems that landed her in the hospital for two days, and she gave it up.  I think it's unfortunate she didn't try harder, but my policy is not to criticize or comment on this issue, though I will (and did) offer support, encouragement and advice when asked.

What pissed me off was the assumption that I was successful at breastfeeding because I was lucky and had an easy baby.   I've worked very hard to get where we are (still breastfeeding after almost 9 months, despite my return to work 6 1/2 months ago), and I've had plenty of challenges to deal with along the way.  I resent the implication that the only reason I got here and she didn't is because I'm lucky. 

Don't assume you know me or anything about my life just because I don't make every little thing into an epic crisis, and then talk about it to anyone who will listen.

Excuse me while I find my eyeballs..

I got a research question from one of our attorneys today that I found simply astounding. I am still boggling and trying to find my where my eyeballs went after they popped out of my eyes.  The question was:

The client is a nursing mother who has returned to work, and her employer, unfortunately, is not sympathetic to needing to pump.  The attorney wants us to research what accommodations the employer is required to make for this client under the ADA. 

That's the Americans With DISABILITIES Act, in case you didn't know.  This (dumbass) (male) attorney apparently thinks that being a nursing mother is a DISABILITY.  I do think it's terrible that this woman's employer isn't more supportive (and unfortunately there are no federal or SC laws preventing this), but geez, with attorneys like this, who needs enemies.  A DISABILITY?  That's what we need, some court saying women who nurse are disabled.  Then not only would people expect us to nurse in the ladies' room, we'd have to use the handicapped stall, only.

Our Poor Kitty :(

Larry and I were bad kitty parents. :(  Even though our poor little Boo has a history of inflammatory cystitis caused by territorial anxiety, it didn't occur to us to do anything to avoid that while the painters were here. And she was soooo good for almost two weeks, but having them on the roof that "her" windows look out on must have just been too much for her.  Last night she started going in and out of her litter box, crying, and then she peed in the corner behind the claw-foot tub, which is a sure sign that she's stressed.  She also sprayed the couch, and her urine was very bloody, which freaked us out enough that Larry took her to the emergency vet.  *That* was a complete disaster, and probably did her more harm than good, since her problem was anxiety and that only made her more anxious. 

We got her in first thing this morning to see her regular vet, who wonderful with her.  I brought the little man to work with me (since daycare is closed for Good Friday) so Larry could take the cat to the vet.  She's now had a dose of an anti-inflammatory, a dose of an anti-anxiety, and some lovins from both Larry and the Cat Whisperer (aka the vet), so she seems happier and less uncomfortable. We have all the rooms with stuff we don't want peed upon closed off, but she hasn't gone outside the box since last night, so hopefully we'll be able to open them up by tonight, and she can go back to having the run of the house.

I feel awful that we didn't see this coming and do something to prevent it. If we'd just thought to have some of her anti-anxiety meds on hand to give her as a prophylactic, we probably could have avoided this whole thing. 

*sigh*  It's hard being someone's parent, even when the someone is a cat.

But Admitting You Have a Problem is the First Step

I think I have a small addiction...

to Cadbury Mini Eggs. Not the disgusting creme ones with the sugary gunk oozing out from the inside. These are the little ones that come in the purple bag, only show up a month or so prior to Easter, and then disappear like Brigadoon on the second day of the 100th year.  They have this perfectly crispy, sweet, but not too sugary, hard shell, in pleasing pastel colors, and the chocolate inside has just the perfect amount of cocoa flavor to balance the candy coating. 

In general, I'm not a huge chocolate eater, and when I do eat it, I prefer it to be high-end (like the handmade truffles Larry brings me whenever he goes to Paris), but there's just something about those little bits of candy-coated goodness... Once I eat one, I can't stop until the bag is empty.

The really sad part is that the day after Easter, I *rush* to supermarket and CVS to buy up all the remaining stock of Mini Eggs before anyone else can get their undeserving and undoubtedly grubby mits on them. They're mine! All mine! Mine, mine, mine!

*Ahem* 

You'd think the long period of unavailability would somehow break the cycle of addiction, but sadly, each spring finds me stuffing my face with little pastel eggs, and hiding my stash from my husband. And good God!  I've just realized that in a year or two I'm going to have to start hiding them from the kid, too!  I think I'm going to need a better hiding spot....

Good Thing I Didn't Want Those Back

A few months ago, one of the secretaries women in my office gave birth to a baby girl who weighed about 5 lbs. 8 oz. at birth.  Since H was also pretty puny when he was born, I had a ton of preemie and newborn sized clothing, and this woman doesn't have a lot of money, so I boxed up all the neutral colored stuff and sent it along to her via another coworker who was going to visit her.  The other day this woman came by my office with her baby, and she mentioned that the baby is now up to 9 lbs and no longer wearing the preemie and newborn sizes.  She told me that since her daughter no longer needed the clothes I'd sent her, she'd packed them all up and given them to a women's charity.

Now, I don't need these clothes - we're pretty set on not having another one, and even if we did, we (hopefully) wouldn't need preemie and newborn sizes, and even if we did, we can well afford to buy more.  And I sent them along to her with no strings attached.  But I was kind of put off by the fact that she didn't even *offer* to return them to me.  Just packed them all up and gave them away without even checking with me.  I know it's silly to be annoyed by this, since if she'd just kept them, or given them away and not told me, I'd never have thought twice about it, and I certainly wouldn't have asked for them back.  I think what's annoying me most is that the charity she chose is not something I would have supported, given the choice.