Productive, hot, and busy
May. 8th, 2008 07:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ailbheToday started at 4:30 am, when I realised that there were two girls in our bed; Emer woke up, saw Linnea, and decided it was a good time to party. "Yay-ya! Yay-ya!" she cried, and all hope of sleep was lost.
I'd spent two days so tired I was crying by the end of them, so Rob took the girls downstairs and put a DVD on, and they were all three asleep before the end of the second showing. The girls stayed asleep until after 9:30, which gave me time to strip Linnea's wet bed and get the laundry on, and very slowly do things like washing and having breakfast. It was too hot for a real breakfast. My only comfy bra was dry, though; I handwashed it the night before and left it out overnight, and the morning sun had dried it and warmed it by, er, sometime before 9:30.
So I hung the rest of yesterday's laundry and then the children woke up in stages and I fed and watered them and gave them a good rub-down - they both got a proper wash and while still naked a proper coating of SPF50 sunscreen. Then I dressed them and gave them another go of sunscreen on their obviously exposed skins and took all our bits and pieces and we went to the BfN party at the library.
Hot hot hot.
People who'd grown up in the Congo and Australia and, you know, hot places were commenting on how hot it was. Emer passionately hates putting and keeping her hat on; Linnea will put it on but it keeps blowing off; I must find her some elastic for it. Or string, or something. The new solarveil mei tai is great, though, because the part that could go over Emer's head goes beautifully over her upper back and the back of her neck.
We got to the party and took off ours hats and sandals and the children roamed in the throng and I unwrapped clingfilmed trays of fruit and sandwiches and newspaper-wrapped glasses and poured juices and laid out a tablecloth and other setting-up type stuff. Then people ate, and then the Mayor gave a speech and handed out certificates to the most recent graduates of the Helper course, and we milled around. I loaned my solarveil ring sling to a neighbour whose baby is small enough to be entirely enclosed by it, and she's taken that away to try, and I agreed to write a piece on feeding an older child for the BfN newsletter (deadline this evening!) and spoke to various friends and women whose babies I helped, many of whom later trained up themselves.
And then we all cleaned up the hideous mess and left, out into the blistering heat.
Linnea, Emer and I went to the co-op supermarket for ice lollies. We found three Ribena-flavoured Calippo lollies and bought them, then put them in the UNICEF doctor's bag to take home.
It was hot.
Linnea decided to be a vile little brat.
She ran ahead, taunting me. No effect. Eventually, she ran up to a shop which displays some of its wares outside in baskets, took a scrubbing brush out of a basket, threw it on the pavement, and ran off. She stopped just out of reach of a civilised raised voice, and grinned. I was livid. I gestured to her to come back; she laughed at me. I took her lolly out of the bag and waved it at her. She laughed at me. I walked over to where she was and chucked her lolly in the bin beside her. She was aghast.
So the world ended, for a little while. I told her she threw someone's property away, so I threw her property away - treats are not for when you are naughty, anyway. I was not, I admit, totally reasonable or rational, but I had very little in my parenting arsenal at that time, and I was effective.
After walking part of the way home, we agreed to turn back, go and apologise to the man whose shop it was, and buy a replacement ice-lolly (the replacement was a disgusting 5p Mister Freeze, not a nice fruity one, but such is life).
We passed Louis' house on the way home and knocked hopefully, because "Louis has to be in," said Linnea, "because I love him so much." Which is nice, but not logical. Luckily, he was in, and he opened the door to us, and we went out to the back garden where his mother and sister were, and we all had ice-lollies (after a complicated swap of the liquid ones in our bag for the frozen ones in their freezer) and the children played together. I think that's when Emer got the sun on her face - she was playing in their garden and I was too lazy (exhausted, vague, whatever) to keep putting her hat back on.
I was able to reapply sunscreen, though, because after the co-op and before the basket-shop, we went to the pharmacy (at junkie time, which I have never yet had to explain to Linnea but no doubt will one day) and bought two bottles of EvilCorp's finest for the price of one, with a free UV wristband thrown in.
Then we all left, that family to go to the dentist and my family to go home, and we came home, and collapsed in the cool, dark front room, where the heavy navy-blue curtains had been closed in the south-facing bay window all day.
Just after Emer had settled down for a much-needed nap, my friend who had post-natal depression called, obviously in tears. I told her to come over immediately, which she seemed pleased by. Well, not pleased, because she was still in tears, but she said she'd come. And when she came she looked miserable and very very smart; nice black top, swishy black smart trousers, lovely shoes. Her baby, by the way, looks blissful and alert and out and about and going places; she's clearly much more stimulated than when my friend's depression was at its worst.
Anyway, my friend, Ms A (for Accountant, which is her career), had been at work today. Some time ago she'd scheduled a meeting with her line manager to discuss returning to work, and yesterday her line manager cancelled, but because she'd already arranged things like her parking permit for the day and seeing other colleagues, she went anyway. And her line manager found the time to meet her, but Ms A hadn't brought her prep work with her, so had no notes and was working off the cuff, with a baby on her lap.
Ms A wanted to discuss flexible working. She was shot down immediately. "We all" applied for flexible working, apparently, and no-one got it. What about overtime? What about needing to work long hours? There was a strong hint that if she wasn't willing to go back to 60-hour weeks she shouldn't go back at all; they even mentioned the commute as being too long and not reasonable for "a woman with commitments."
Ms A left this meeting feeling like an idiot for having not had her notes, like an uncommitted worker for wanting to work 30-40 hours instead of 40-60, and like a bad mother for being willing to be parted from her child for 10 hours a day, four days a week.
Ms A is too tired to fight this. She's going to try, but she has a feeling that she'll end up looking for another job. It wouldn't be hard; she has qualifications coming out the wazoo and her references glow. But why should she? It's not like she's the child's only parent. It's not like she's like me, dreaming of and planning for stay-at-home motherhood from her early teens or earlier. She wanted a job and a family, like almost everyone else I know. She assumed that she'd be able to do that. She had no idea it was going to be so demeaning.
Rob arrived home halfway through my friend's tearful visit and cooked dinner; bacon and tomato and garlic and onion and herbs, on pasta. She left, we ate. It was lovely. I noticed over dinner that Emer's eyes are a bit puffy; I'm not sure whether it's sun, or rubbing sunscreen and pasta sauce into them, or what.
Anyway, after dinner, the children had a bath and I wrote this.
We had apple and lychee sorbet for dessert, which was lovely. And I ought to be writing up that article on feeding an older baby, and doing my BfN homework for my course; I have another class tomorrow, after Linnea's swimming lesson.
I'd spent two days so tired I was crying by the end of them, so Rob took the girls downstairs and put a DVD on, and they were all three asleep before the end of the second showing. The girls stayed asleep until after 9:30, which gave me time to strip Linnea's wet bed and get the laundry on, and very slowly do things like washing and having breakfast. It was too hot for a real breakfast. My only comfy bra was dry, though; I handwashed it the night before and left it out overnight, and the morning sun had dried it and warmed it by, er, sometime before 9:30.
So I hung the rest of yesterday's laundry and then the children woke up in stages and I fed and watered them and gave them a good rub-down - they both got a proper wash and while still naked a proper coating of SPF50 sunscreen. Then I dressed them and gave them another go of sunscreen on their obviously exposed skins and took all our bits and pieces and we went to the BfN party at the library.
Hot hot hot.
People who'd grown up in the Congo and Australia and, you know, hot places were commenting on how hot it was. Emer passionately hates putting and keeping her hat on; Linnea will put it on but it keeps blowing off; I must find her some elastic for it. Or string, or something. The new solarveil mei tai is great, though, because the part that could go over Emer's head goes beautifully over her upper back and the back of her neck.
We got to the party and took off ours hats and sandals and the children roamed in the throng and I unwrapped clingfilmed trays of fruit and sandwiches and newspaper-wrapped glasses and poured juices and laid out a tablecloth and other setting-up type stuff. Then people ate, and then the Mayor gave a speech and handed out certificates to the most recent graduates of the Helper course, and we milled around. I loaned my solarveil ring sling to a neighbour whose baby is small enough to be entirely enclosed by it, and she's taken that away to try, and I agreed to write a piece on feeding an older child for the BfN newsletter (deadline this evening!) and spoke to various friends and women whose babies I helped, many of whom later trained up themselves.
And then we all cleaned up the hideous mess and left, out into the blistering heat.
Linnea, Emer and I went to the co-op supermarket for ice lollies. We found three Ribena-flavoured Calippo lollies and bought them, then put them in the UNICEF doctor's bag to take home.
It was hot.
Linnea decided to be a vile little brat.
She ran ahead, taunting me. No effect. Eventually, she ran up to a shop which displays some of its wares outside in baskets, took a scrubbing brush out of a basket, threw it on the pavement, and ran off. She stopped just out of reach of a civilised raised voice, and grinned. I was livid. I gestured to her to come back; she laughed at me. I took her lolly out of the bag and waved it at her. She laughed at me. I walked over to where she was and chucked her lolly in the bin beside her. She was aghast.
So the world ended, for a little while. I told her she threw someone's property away, so I threw her property away - treats are not for when you are naughty, anyway. I was not, I admit, totally reasonable or rational, but I had very little in my parenting arsenal at that time, and I was effective.
After walking part of the way home, we agreed to turn back, go and apologise to the man whose shop it was, and buy a replacement ice-lolly (the replacement was a disgusting 5p Mister Freeze, not a nice fruity one, but such is life).
We passed Louis' house on the way home and knocked hopefully, because "Louis has to be in," said Linnea, "because I love him so much." Which is nice, but not logical. Luckily, he was in, and he opened the door to us, and we went out to the back garden where his mother and sister were, and we all had ice-lollies (after a complicated swap of the liquid ones in our bag for the frozen ones in their freezer) and the children played together. I think that's when Emer got the sun on her face - she was playing in their garden and I was too lazy (exhausted, vague, whatever) to keep putting her hat back on.
I was able to reapply sunscreen, though, because after the co-op and before the basket-shop, we went to the pharmacy (at junkie time, which I have never yet had to explain to Linnea but no doubt will one day) and bought two bottles of EvilCorp's finest for the price of one, with a free UV wristband thrown in.
Then we all left, that family to go to the dentist and my family to go home, and we came home, and collapsed in the cool, dark front room, where the heavy navy-blue curtains had been closed in the south-facing bay window all day.
Just after Emer had settled down for a much-needed nap, my friend who had post-natal depression called, obviously in tears. I told her to come over immediately, which she seemed pleased by. Well, not pleased, because she was still in tears, but she said she'd come. And when she came she looked miserable and very very smart; nice black top, swishy black smart trousers, lovely shoes. Her baby, by the way, looks blissful and alert and out and about and going places; she's clearly much more stimulated than when my friend's depression was at its worst.
Anyway, my friend, Ms A (for Accountant, which is her career), had been at work today. Some time ago she'd scheduled a meeting with her line manager to discuss returning to work, and yesterday her line manager cancelled, but because she'd already arranged things like her parking permit for the day and seeing other colleagues, she went anyway. And her line manager found the time to meet her, but Ms A hadn't brought her prep work with her, so had no notes and was working off the cuff, with a baby on her lap.
Ms A wanted to discuss flexible working. She was shot down immediately. "We all" applied for flexible working, apparently, and no-one got it. What about overtime? What about needing to work long hours? There was a strong hint that if she wasn't willing to go back to 60-hour weeks she shouldn't go back at all; they even mentioned the commute as being too long and not reasonable for "a woman with commitments."
Ms A left this meeting feeling like an idiot for having not had her notes, like an uncommitted worker for wanting to work 30-40 hours instead of 40-60, and like a bad mother for being willing to be parted from her child for 10 hours a day, four days a week.
Ms A is too tired to fight this. She's going to try, but she has a feeling that she'll end up looking for another job. It wouldn't be hard; she has qualifications coming out the wazoo and her references glow. But why should she? It's not like she's the child's only parent. It's not like she's like me, dreaming of and planning for stay-at-home motherhood from her early teens or earlier. She wanted a job and a family, like almost everyone else I know. She assumed that she'd be able to do that. She had no idea it was going to be so demeaning.
Rob arrived home halfway through my friend's tearful visit and cooked dinner; bacon and tomato and garlic and onion and herbs, on pasta. She left, we ate. It was lovely. I noticed over dinner that Emer's eyes are a bit puffy; I'm not sure whether it's sun, or rubbing sunscreen and pasta sauce into them, or what.
Anyway, after dinner, the children had a bath and I wrote this.
We had apple and lychee sorbet for dessert, which was lovely. And I ought to be writing up that article on feeding an older baby, and doing my BfN homework for my course; I have another class tomorrow, after Linnea's swimming lesson.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-09 05:39 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-09 09:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-09 08:56 am (UTC)As for your friend: words cannot describe.