AKA, Somebody stop me before I unleash my pent-up fury on not just the MIL but my own parents as well.
All three of them are in the house. In the livingroom. Right outside my door, the door behind which I’m supposed to finish at least another quarter of this fucking chapter before I send it off (days late) to my diss group.
I’d fare better if there were three elephants out there. Or one ovulating monkey. Or a clutch of finger-painting four-year-olds. I could go on. I’m not proud. Or tired.
Today’s barely suppressed scream is brought to you by: “Your mother came here to help with the baby, not clean your house.”
Um, yeah. But see, I didn’t say clean the HOUSE. I said it would be good if she could CLEAN THE BOTTLES. Because I need to sit and work, and if I start in on household chores I’ll just keep going. So yeah, it would be helpful if she washed the bottles while MIL plays with baby and Wizard goes to work and I go to write and my father, I don’t know, sits around watching Turner Classic Movies. It would be abundantly helpful.
But apparently it’s only okay–with my father–if my mother does something on her own; I’m not supposed to ask. My mother, meanwhile, doesn’t care. I could ask her to paint the ceiling and she’d do it. She’s like that. So I’m careful to not ask too much, because she’s naturally inclined to do too much. I figure cleaning the bottles isn’t anywhere near too much. I see where my father’s (over)protective impulse comes from, but, really? Dude? How big of an asshole do you think I am?
A pretty big one, I guess, since what was once a diss blog is now a “Listen to me complain about my family, everyone!”
But it’s that or scream and throw shit, and that kind of stuff you can’t do around infants. Dammit.
Dude… there are no words. I can’t imagine having to write under the pressure you are experiencing. You are obviously surrounded by asshats (your mom, husband, and baby not included).
I always carried a notebook around with me, so if a thought or idea floated through my head, I could write it down before it floated away.
I’m not really a burster either. (That didn’t sound right.) I needed some time to get in a groove, get my brain working, before I could get any decent amount of writing done.
Sorry, I’m commenting on a bunch of posts all at once – I got behind. Anyway, I don’t really know what to say other than “hang in there.” It will definitely be worth it when you’re done.
Yeah, that’s an unnatural amount of pressure right there. Why are they all in the house at once? The one and only time that happened to me was after my twins were born. My mom drank heavily and my in-laws took the only spare bed in the house. It was fun.
Your father is male, ergo, genetically handicapped for the understanding of childrearing. Did he have anything at all to do with your upbringing before you were of age to scold? No wonder he considers baby bottles household appliances.
I had an operation exactly two weeks ago, to remove an ovarian cyst. I ended up losing the ovary into the bargain. I was discharged roughly 30 hours later and the first thing I did on my return home was NOT to get into bed, rest and heal, but get on my knees and change the toddler’s nappy, because his father couldn’t cope. Well, eff that.
Bummer. Um. Wish I had some constructive advice… but I don’t… so. Yeah. Bummer.
Sorry about that!
Ugh, M, I’m sorry about both the surgery and the post-surgery nappy. I hope you’re feeling better.
My parents came for the 6-month birthday, and my mom has been sticking around so that I have more time to write during the day. It helps, actually, except that she doesn’t exactly get along with MIL, so I have to spend more time than I’d like mopping up that mess….
Oh I hear you, I hear you. I took an 11 day “vacation” with Hank to AZ in August to visit my mother. Though I made sure to mention before coming, as soon as I got there, and many times while I was there, that I have to work on my dissertation and that 11 days of not working was going to be BAD BAD BAD, and that I APPRECIATED how visiting would mean grandma+baby time AND I-get-to-work-a-bit time, I got …FOUR total hours of “work” time the entire 11 days I was there. My mother didn’t offer, and even refused a few times when I asked, always citing some reason or plan or other. I can count on one hand how many diapers she changed.
I shouldn’t complain–it’s not her job, but I did think I was going there to get “help” as well as visit, and instead I was less one parent and plus no help whatsoever.
Part of me is convinced that she wanted me to “suffer”–she claims she had no help with us, so instead of being sympathetic and helping me, she wanted me to go through what she did. Shrug.
Oh, and instead of seeming like I was “competing” with your complaining, I wanted to really say:
You’re not complaining, and you’re right to be totally devastated by such a comment from your father. Yikes! How awful that would make me feel, to reach out for help and then it come back at me like I was being inconsiderate. How does anyone expect us to COPE??
Re: your mom? Wow. Maybe I *am* taking advantage of mine. She totally falls into the daycare role when she’s here, but she was impeded by my MIL (long story). Is wanting you to suffer your mom’s M.O.? Like, if you were dead-near-on-the-street-broke, would she help you out? Anyway, I don’t blame you for complaining. I’d rant about that whenever and wherever I got the chance. :(
As for my father: he’s not usually such a huge ass, but the problem is that he knows it takes just a minor comment to throw my guilt complex into full gear. The truth is I do feel guilty about how much my mom does for The Baby when she’s here, and he knows that I do.
But the thing is: grandparent visits are SUPPOSED to involve the grandparents helping out–a lot. When grandparents sign up for a visit they do it because of the damn baby, so why shouldn’t they help out–that seems the nature of the visit. While you shouldn’t have set expectations, I guess, you shouldn’t have to feel guilt about someone helping you out. Everyone agrees this gig is hard. Our culture just has no way of assimilating tribal modes of care. It is totally effed.
At this point I am willing to hazard moving closer to our family in order to have more help (or just the possibility of it). Because right now working/dissertating/parenting is kicking my muthaloving ass. Tribal modes. YES.