Odd Mitzi Out
I've never belonged to the "in" crowd.
Try to contain your shock and amazement. Really. Try.
But the older I get, the more obvious it becomes to me just what an outsider I truly am when it comes to the rest of the world.
Ben and I went out Friday night to celebrate the 30th birthday of one of his friends. Oooooh, 30. (Seems like only yesterday, says the Old Hag.) Most of the other attendees are also under 30. Only one of them have "kids," and by "kids," I mean "18 month old firstborn." They are also, mostly, teachers at the elementary, public school level. And for all their degrees and coursework in early childhood education, they don't know shit about raisin' no kids.
One talked about what a difficult year she's having. Because, as if the fact she has a class of 28 kids wasn't bad enough, at least 3 or 4 of said kids "need to be on medication."
I considered asking her what led her to make that deduction--her Ph.D., her extensive research on children with learning and/or mental health issues and the effects of medication on such, or her years of experience as either a teacher or parent or both? But I didn't. I kept my mouth shut and thought what a crying shame it was that she's already decided something about these particular children that, just maybe, she isn't qualified to decide. I didn't say anything because I knew that, if I did, I would just be regarded as another problem parent of a problem child, angry because of my own insecurities and experiences. And I wouldn't change her opinion one bit. So I kept quiet and instead laughed hysterically in my head at the other teacher sitting across from me, who very likely has an eating disorder and kept staring at my plate in disgust as she nibbled through half of her lonely little single beef taco. (She has now, unbeknownst to her, been christened "OBT (One Beef Taco)" by my equally evil husband and myself.)
And yesterday, I joined the ranks of People Who Hire Domestics. Yes, that's right--I hired someone to clean our damn house every other Friday. She walked in and said "you don't need a housekeeper, your place is clean!" Ha. Ha. Ha. She ate her words once she got to business and started finding all the animal hair tumbleweeds (and I had just swept/vaccuumed/Swiffered last Sunday). And after she emerged from the third and final bathroom two hours later, panting ever so slightly, she agreed with my assessment: "it's a lot more house than it looks like!"
I will still be doing weekend cleaning on the weeks she doesn't come, as well as enlisting the boys' help with the "daily maintenance" tasks. But I gotta say, there was something very nice yesterday after she left about sitting back on the couch, taking a deep whiff of the Carolina pine forest aroma of Pine-Sol wafting from my clean floors, and not having to spend any more time doing it myself--or trying to get my husband to do it to my satisfaction. That I got to spend those two hours not chasing hair tumbleweeds or scrubbing Bob's toilet of choice (ick, ew, ugh) but instead sorting through our file cabinet and sorting through the massive mountains of paper accumulated on our desk and finishing up the laundry was well worth the $50 check I wrote her. Well worth it. I just hope I can continue to fit it into my budget. I will certainly try my damnedest.
It won't be easy, though, especially since I'm leaning toward a day care center conveniently located next door to my husband's former office. I talked to them last week, and for $200 a week, they sure look good on paper--from their lack of waiting list (they keep teachers on reserve, not kids) to the multiple years of experience of their staff to their continuing education requirements to their refusal to allow babies on the floor. And--the part I found most strange--they provide formula, unless the parents prefer to provide their own means of sustenance. So while everyone else is arguing the merits of breastfeeding over bottle feeding, I'll be here in my own little corner of the universe, trying to determine whether Enfamil (their choice) is better, worse, or equal to Good Start (mine)...
Try to contain your shock and amazement. Really. Try.
But the older I get, the more obvious it becomes to me just what an outsider I truly am when it comes to the rest of the world.
Ben and I went out Friday night to celebrate the 30th birthday of one of his friends. Oooooh, 30. (Seems like only yesterday, says the Old Hag.) Most of the other attendees are also under 30. Only one of them have "kids," and by "kids," I mean "18 month old firstborn." They are also, mostly, teachers at the elementary, public school level. And for all their degrees and coursework in early childhood education, they don't know shit about raisin' no kids.
One talked about what a difficult year she's having. Because, as if the fact she has a class of 28 kids wasn't bad enough, at least 3 or 4 of said kids "need to be on medication."
I considered asking her what led her to make that deduction--her Ph.D., her extensive research on children with learning and/or mental health issues and the effects of medication on such, or her years of experience as either a teacher or parent or both? But I didn't. I kept my mouth shut and thought what a crying shame it was that she's already decided something about these particular children that, just maybe, she isn't qualified to decide. I didn't say anything because I knew that, if I did, I would just be regarded as another problem parent of a problem child, angry because of my own insecurities and experiences. And I wouldn't change her opinion one bit. So I kept quiet and instead laughed hysterically in my head at the other teacher sitting across from me, who very likely has an eating disorder and kept staring at my plate in disgust as she nibbled through half of her lonely little single beef taco. (She has now, unbeknownst to her, been christened "OBT (One Beef Taco)" by my equally evil husband and myself.)
And yesterday, I joined the ranks of People Who Hire Domestics. Yes, that's right--I hired someone to clean our damn house every other Friday. She walked in and said "you don't need a housekeeper, your place is clean!" Ha. Ha. Ha. She ate her words once she got to business and started finding all the animal hair tumbleweeds (and I had just swept/vaccuumed/Swiffered last Sunday). And after she emerged from the third and final bathroom two hours later, panting ever so slightly, she agreed with my assessment: "it's a lot more house than it looks like!"
I will still be doing weekend cleaning on the weeks she doesn't come, as well as enlisting the boys' help with the "daily maintenance" tasks. But I gotta say, there was something very nice yesterday after she left about sitting back on the couch, taking a deep whiff of the Carolina pine forest aroma of Pine-Sol wafting from my clean floors, and not having to spend any more time doing it myself--or trying to get my husband to do it to my satisfaction. That I got to spend those two hours not chasing hair tumbleweeds or scrubbing Bob's toilet of choice (ick, ew, ugh) but instead sorting through our file cabinet and sorting through the massive mountains of paper accumulated on our desk and finishing up the laundry was well worth the $50 check I wrote her. Well worth it. I just hope I can continue to fit it into my budget. I will certainly try my damnedest.
It won't be easy, though, especially since I'm leaning toward a day care center conveniently located next door to my husband's former office. I talked to them last week, and for $200 a week, they sure look good on paper--from their lack of waiting list (they keep teachers on reserve, not kids) to the multiple years of experience of their staff to their continuing education requirements to their refusal to allow babies on the floor. And--the part I found most strange--they provide formula, unless the parents prefer to provide their own means of sustenance. So while everyone else is arguing the merits of breastfeeding over bottle feeding, I'll be here in my own little corner of the universe, trying to determine whether Enfamil (their choice) is better, worse, or equal to Good Start (mine)...
posted by Mitzi Green at 9:21 AM
3 Comments:
A domestic? I'm terribly jealous!
Two weeks and counting until we gorge ourselves on the Indian Buffet. No OBT for me, thanks.
gretchen--i can't. freakin'. wait.
Enjoy the house cleaner, as you said, it gave you time to go through other things you normally had back burnered. As for breast feeding over formula, I breast fed at first, until my obgyn said, sure, you can go back on the pill, no side effects for nursing baby ... guess what he forgot to tell me, there's a slight chance (5% maybe 17 yrs ago now, can't remember) that you'll DRY UP. So, no more lactation meant formula - I didn't mind and I strongly dislike folks who INSIST on one way over the other. I found I preferred Good Start, but I can't remember why now.
And OMG laugh did I at your description of the fur-tumbleweeds. We have those, the LARGE kind!
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