Don't cross mommy.
Shoowee. I let things slide. I don't lecture people who tell Special Olympics jokes. I only fuss at people for saying 'retarded' (i.e. the key won't fit in the lock- it's being retarded) when I know them well, and then, it's usually only a 'Hey'- and they get it. Otherwise, it's not my job to make everyone PC all the time. It's not.
Having said that, let me tell you about how I tore this guy a new asshole last night, huh?
So husband and I are sitting in a pub. Initially, it was so I could try to get some of a photography project done (which had to do with an open shutter, a glow stick, and a dark place. I figured it would be easier to get strangers to volunteer for such a project in a bar after a few drinks. Unfortunately, while it seemed like a great premise, in practice it sucked, so now that idea is scrapped and a new project is underway. New project involves a giant penguin). Turns out that the photo project was over relatively quickly, and we were mostly just sitting in a pub drinking beer, talking to some random strangers about nothing in particular. Not too long before we had to leave- our sitter was waiting- a group of four or five walks up and sits at the end of the bar. Kind of loud, not obnoxious or anything really. Until I overhear part of their conversation. I hear one guy say, quite loudly, 'It's always the retarded babies that die'.
My husband didn't know what I heard, and he knew enough to stay out of the way when I got up and got in this guys face. Which I did, quickly. At first the guy denied saying anything inappropriate. Then he told me that he's new in rotations in the NICU, and a baby died in his arms while he was at work. This was just gallows humor, and he was out with some friends, trying to get back to normal. Took him a while, but he apologized to me. He was genuine about it. In turn, I apologized for being so combative. We made nice, and husband and I left.
By the time we were home, though, I was feeling pretty stupid for reacting as strongly as I did. I'm not big, but I stand my ground very well. I walked up to their group, interrupted the conversation, and confronted him with his own words. Then I explained mysself- that I had a son with Down syndrome and he was out of line. In the end, it blew over relativly quickly. He said, at one point (before he apologized) that when he woke up he had to go back, and whatever get him through the night was his deal. I responded with, well, when I wake up my son will still have DS. While I'm stll right, I kinda feel like I was 'woe-is-me' about it, and that's not what I intended.
It's always something around here.
things to eat
So, I'm a big giant food snob. I just am. Can't help it, even though my mom- as a single parent, on a teacher's salary- couldn't figure it out, I have always preferred the big money items. Uh, yeah, when I was six I had a thing for escargot ( I still like 'em, but 6?). Didn't like peanut butter, but I'd eat snails. Hobbies? Photography and scuba diving, for crying out loud. My poor mom. She's gotta be a saint. Oh, and that year that I insisted on going to sleep-away horse camp. That was a small fortune, too, and they made us sleep in these screen walled cabins. My mom blanched when she dropped me off- all that money, and I slept in a screen room. Heh.
Eating is something I enjoy. To an extreme. Even as a starving college student, I wasn't all that bad off. I was a hostess in a restaurant, and while it was a chain, they made everything on the menu from scratch, on premises. That's also why they went out of business- too much expansion plus high food costs equals bottoms up. They fed me for free while I was
at work, and half price while I wasn't. I really didn't do the ramen noodles thing (although I would sometimes buy ramen because I actually liked it).
After college, I was a server at a bistro, a sister restaurant to a well-known local institution. They had the largest privately owned wine cellar in the WORLD for a while. Seriously, they had a big building for the restaurant, and another big building down the street for the wine. The bistro was where we roasted our own coffee blend. Both restaurants were served by 'The Farm', which was, not surprisingly, a farm. An organic farm (before that was the thing to do) where the servers had to do a year of time before they were allowed to wait tables in the restaurant. Not the bistro, mind you- I'm not that dedicated- the real restaurant.
I stopped working there so I could bartend in an Irish pub. Drinks for staff were free, as long as we were drinking Guinness. I'm a beer snob, too. Once, we were out of town, and I ordered a pint. The bartender poured it all wrong. I asked him about it (I didn't ask him to re-do it, I just was curious as to why he did it the way he did), and he said their Guinness rep said to do it that way.
Because I am rotten, I called MY rep, who coincedentally, was fresh off the potato boat from Dublin, who told him the right way to do it, over the phone. These days, though, it's just easier to drink Miller Light. Apparently, I'm a lazy beer snob. Given the opportunity, though, I can revert to good beer.
I'm a peach to travel with, too. No, thank you, I would rather NOT eat at some typical highway standard place. I will drive twenty miles out of the way to go to someplace called 'Uncle Joe's Greasy Spoon Diner'. Once this got us to the coolest little ice cream shop/cafe in Indiana. It looked exactly like what you picture an ice cream shop to be. It was cool. More often than not, though, it gets us to the Cracker Barrel down the road, back where we started, because I am a wretched bitch when I get hungry and T vetoes my plan to drive aimlessly until we find someplace good.
Noel likes to eat, too. (don't get excited though- not actual food. We're still riding the boob train over here. Almost, though, and you'll know about the real food when it happens. Promise)
Meet the Georges- George the cow and George the star.
We started off with the cow. Noel named him George- how is a mystery, but my husband told me about it after the fact. George the cow is loved, and is little more than a washcloth with a face, so he soaks up a lot of spit. Then he smells. We got the star for when the cow is too stinky, and rather than come up with a new name, he's also George. Like George Forman's sons. Sort of.
Wha?
OK, forgive me for this apparently stupid question.
Why would one
need to tell a 6 month old baby 'no'? I mean, no, we shouldn't roll from couch to hallway, belly to back, coating ourselves in dog hair, but I'm not going to give the boy a stern "No" over it. (and yes, we're working on getting up on knees, and I know rolling is easier than learning to crawl, so we're not letting him just roll around. promise. well, mostly.)
Noel has just mastered the raspberry, which his dad and I find utterly delightful. Even the spit part. Well, kind of. Uh, at least that wipes up. Anyhow, I was double-checking the speech development stuff for the timeframe of raspberrry-blowing (4-6 months. We're close enough) and one of the other milestones at 6 months should be 'understands the word no'.
To be honest, I couldn't possibly begin to tell you if Noel understands it. If he wraps his little sticky fingers around my hair and pulls, I usually say "ouch" and unwind his grip. Am I supposed to tell him no when he tries to roll away during a diaper change? I don't, nor would I.
I'm positive that at some point, I will utilize the mom glare and a solid NO. I just can't figure out why I should be doing it now.
oh, the world is a shitty place sometimes
Over at CharmingBitch, a mama is in the worst place.
I tried to leave a response for her today, but could come up with nothing better than "I'm sorry", and that doesn't feel good enough. If any of you knows the right words, go tell her, for me.
Because all I can do is cry for a mom I don't know and her son, who is oh, so loved.
