Well, the Christmas Eve dinner of Subway & Chips at my MIL’s 10×12 efficiency apartment went better than I expected, actually.  I got a gift certificate to an import store (amazingly, it was something I WOULD use, thanks to my niece being the one who drew my name and her being the coolest of relatives.)  and Dave got a grinder from our BIL, so he was psyched.

The Good:  I held a baby.  This is kind of a big deal for me, because I haven’t held a grand-nephew yet, because of a lot of reasons, jealousy, resentment, fear of being ‘found out’ as TTC, etc.  So, it was a goal for me to actually hold a baby.  The 6 monther was there, and the 9 dayer, too.  I held the little one.  He’s not even 6 pounds, on account of his mom being a smoker (but, even still, my mom smoked for both of us and we were over 9 pounds each) and his head is only as big as a mango or pomegranate, and he’s teeny, tiny and pink and barely fuzzy, like a baby mouse squirming about.  I want one. Sigh.

The Bad:  I know, know, know that my ILs will be critical of every parenting decision we make.  I was biting my tongue as long as I could, when my MIL was accusing my niece of "spoiling the baby" by "holding him so much," I piped up and said "can’t spoil a baby!" and my niece looked a little relieved.  It was weird, this would go in the good column, but I think my niece and I sort of made a connection over that.  Also, when they were telling her she needed to cut his hair (and she so doesn’t he’s adorable) she was defending herself and they kept at it, and I looked at her and gave her a big smile and said loudly "But! It’s YOUR baby and you can do what YOU want!"  Again, a shared look of relief. It also creeped me out to see the 9 dayer get a bottle, and I know that there are reasons why people don’t nurse, etc etc, but I’m just so not USED to that.  My friends all nursed, and to see this tiny guy getting a bottle was just, weird.  Since I’ve seen that neither of my grandnephews were nursed, I’m already steeling myself up to defend that practice (assuming everything goes as planned, but I’m already pretty dedicated to the idea and I’m not even pregnant yet.) as well as slinging/babywearing/spoiling-by-holding my infant.  (interestingly, 48 Hours last night was on when we got home and had a thing about sextuplets, and how co-bedding preemie multiples has been found to steady their breathing, heartrates, and deep sleep that encourages brain development; the human touch is that amazing.)

I told Dave when we left that it creeped me out, that it’s just so different from the parenting I’ve seen, and that we would probably need to defend the way we raise our kids to his family.  He totally agreed, even he was creeped out by the 9 dayer being splayed out, unswaddled, on my nephew’s grease and oil stained jeans.  (Way to dress for the holidays, like he had no CLEAN jeans? I wonder what his girlfriend’s family thinks of him.) Also creepy was the "bug juice" (AKA colored sugar water) that the 3 year old drinks  all the time’ according to the family, and when she finished that, they refilled it with Coke. Straight up, coca cola, full caffeine, full sugar. Ewww.

Also, when we were leaving, my SIL asked if Dave had the ten dollars for the Subway platter (mmm, festive) and he didn’t have cash on him, so he said he’d pay her later.  "Oh, are you going to skip out on the bill?" is what she said, and dave just rolled his eyes.  What he wanted to say was "Oh, and are you going to pay Gretchen back for the dessert that she made by herself?"  It even bugged him that I was the only one who put any effort into the meal.

The Ugly:  The sweatshirt and gloves that Dave got from his mom. 

But, I held a baby! And Dave held the 6 monther! And neither of us ruined them!  It’s a start, right?

It feels so good to have my class done.  I have one lesson plan to modify, and a self evaluation, but whoop! I’m done.  I am now 25% done with my master’s degree. Yeeehaaaww. (And, of course, part of my coursework ended up involving blogs. Heh.)

So, it’s month 6 of the babyquest.  This is the month we step up to every-other-day GOF.  I explained it at Digs, but I thought I’d mention it here, too. I know that there are only a few days in the month where one can get pregnant, but we’re doing the EOD method for a while.  And I thought it would be stressful, being so scheduled, but in fact it feels much more freeing. Before, with the OPKs and such, maybe there was MORE stress put in on those Very Important GOF Days, and now, well, EOD will give it a sense of baseline importance, not so much "THIS is the day."

It’s hard to explain, Hrmph.

I’ve got most of my holiday shopping done, all that’s left is to do is get stocking stuffers for Dave, basically.  My sister has shipped her package of gifts for all of us to my house, and I shipped hers today. I can’t remember when she was home for Christmas last — maybe ’01? — but I do miss her at this time of year.  I’ve never been away for Christmas (when I lived in PHX, I flew back and surprised my mom on the 23rd) so I notice her absence.  Of course, now we’re into new traditions, and I am so excited to be having Christmas in my very own house this year.

The last time we had Christmas NOT at my house was in 1985, because my mother’s mother was dying.  We left on the 23rd and drove straight through to Western NY, and my Nana was in the hospital in Erie by that time.  She had a little white plastic table top tree, maybe 12", with blue metal balls for ornaments, and my sister still believed in Santa, so my parents had to pull off Santa finding Nana’s house that had no fireplace and a plastic tree. We also spent Christmas in Texas with my other grandparents when I was 6, but other than that, every Christmas morning has been held at the lake, with the big brunch following.

This year, my parents will stay with us.  They’ve said they’ll probably alternate Christmasses between here and Beaver Canyon (hee) from now on, because the brunch is too much work, and the people that used to come, don’t, and those that do aren’t close to us.  I’m trying to think of some way to keep that tradition, but I don’t know of anyone that doesn’t have family to spend the day with. (The original brunch was because my parents were a young couple with no family around, and there were lots of other people in their situation, so it became a regular event for people far from ‘home.’)

Dave and I will go to Christmas Eve at his mother’s studio apartment (I cannot even IMAGINE how it will be with 2 babies and toddler there this year, eek) and my folks will stay here.  The next morning we’ll open gifts, and then what? Just hang out, I guess. Make breakfast, I guess.

I feel like this is a weird stage of life for me.  (Total segue, I know)  I feel like I’m too old for my friends that are single and still going out on weekends, but I’m not grown up enough for people with families because I don’t have one yet.  Because we don’t have a baby, we’re not in that club, but because we’re TRYING for one, we’re out of the young crowd. It’s such a weird gray area.  At least I get to hang out in the middle with Dave.

I guess, because I was so sure when we started this process that I would be pregnant right now, I guess it makes me more aware that I’m NOT.  I remember thinking last year, in Levant, that "a year from now, I’ll be pregnant" because it surely wouldn’t take THAT long. But it has.  So, when I try to picture next year, I just CAN’T.  Who knows what will happen in the next month, the next 6, the next 12?

It’s been a great 2004, don’t get me wrong.  I just wonder about 2005. I’ll turn 30, and, and . . . then what?

My 82 year old grandmother, on hearing that my sister and her boyfriend bought furniture, including a hot tub and king size bed: "Ohh, I see, they’re getting their sex toys first, huh?"

My sister, upon hearing that that was said about her: "Shut UP! EWW!"

Me, on hearing that my sister’s new street names is Beaver Canyon Drive: "BWAHAHAHAHAH!  Why not just call it Vulva Pussy Avenue?"

Thanksgiving away was fine.  We couldn’t remember if Dave had met the family whose house we were eating at, but when the door opened and their daughter opened her mouth, we both instantly remembered: dinner, three years ago, at the Bag. We had the bacon & caramelized onion pizza.  She hasn’t changed much. Dinner was fine, though, and we went back to my parents place and watched Uncle Buck, a VHS that one of their renters had left behind. Damn, that’s a good movie.

This morning we had breakfast and wandered around the Village with my folks as they got their season passes and caught up with other Mountain-ers that they hadn’t seen since last season.  It’s so cute, my dad in his green wool hunting pants and LLBean parka, and my mom putting on makeup for her season pass. Hee. Also cute was the story on "thanksgiving babies" that was on the news, and my dad saying "awwww, they’re so cute!"  I couldn’t even bear to look at the screen for fear that my WANTING would cause me to explode.  (No bleeding yet, but I did get both a note with babydust AND a leftover HPT in the mail today, from two different people in two different states. Heh.)

We headed back after noon, and I napped in the car, and when we got home I checked my email to find out who we had been ‘assigned’ to for the InLaw Christmas.

Now, every other year has been a big ol’ gift card exchange, basically, and everyone has been expected to buy for everyone else. That’s a lotta people. ANd I think it’s bullshit.  Last year, we gave every family a framed family portrait from our wedding and a loaf of homemade bread.  The year before I made those heatable rice packs and soap for everyone. Or maybe that was ’01. I forget.  Anyway, it’s always bugged me because gift exchanging in my family was only done within the immediate family. Even my grandparents only ever sent a check, which bought savings bonds, which bought things like college tuition and our washer/dryer when they were cashed in.  The theory behind the deal was that each family took care of themselves, and it didn’t mean we loved each other less — we just used our resources more locally.  Granted, my family members were all over the country, and not just within city limits, but still. (And we still see MY long-distance relatives more than my in-town inlaws, but I digress.)  My ILs don’t even put much THOUGHT into their gifts, everyone prefers gift cards, so it ends up being a big ol’ gift card exchange, which is just pointless.  Especially when there’s NO THOUGHT.  Dave and I joked to each other about starting a "twenty dollar bill swap" to just cut it back to it’s essence; we’d end in the same place we started off, but something was exchanged as a token ‘gift.’ 

When i was at the party last weekend, I mentioned to SIL that we couldn’t afford to buy for everyone, so please don’t buy for us, etc etc.  I even mentioned how my family did it, and she agreed that somehting should change, especially since the other SILs family has exploded over the last year.  She talked about drawing names, and I said "well, whatever" and left it at that.  A few days later, I got an email saying they would draw names at Thanksgiving, and I wrote back and suggested they draw along gender lines, as it would make the buying easier.  She agreed to that too.  When we got home today, I checked my email and found our names.

Dave got our BIL, the one person in the family he wouldn’t mind buying for. (Our BIL is a fantastic guy. He’s a by-marriage IL, but he helped us move, he helped me with my car one day purely by chance, he would do anything for you and is a hard-working honest to god good guy. We love him most.)  Me? Who got the whole "stop the christmas insanity!" ball rolling? I got ANGIE. My nephew’s Like-A-Wife, named so because that’s what my SIL called her when I had to tell her that she was not invited to our wedding, so why did you RSVP for a steak dinner for her?  Of everyone in our family, she is the one I least care for, simply because I do not KNOW HER.  I don’t even know — I swear to god — her last name.  What I do know drives me nuts, she’s the one who is 37 weeks pregnant with number 2, she’s the one who lives in city housing and makes fun of others for not having DIGITAL CABLE. GREAT.

I called my SIL and asked what the limit was for spending.  "Oh, well, it depends on who you’re buying for, I guess. Like, if I had my sister I’d probably spend more, but if I had Angie, not much, because I don’t really know her." 

"Yeah, and that’s who I have."

"Oh yeah. I forgot about that.  But GoodNiece has your name!"

So, my IL puppeteering has me in quite a funny position.  Dave has an easy one to buy for, and it’s not an obligatory purchase.  We totally dig BIL.  I am receiving from the one person in my ILs that would know what I’d like.  I’m pretty safe from guardian angel pins and teacher-themed cardigans.  But me? The center of the Gendered Name Drawing Gift Reform Act of ’04? Get the single most dreaded person to buy FOR.  Maybe if someone who KNEW her got her name, they wouldn’t be freaking out, but still.

So, I called Amy.  Angie will be 1+ weeks postpartum (assuming she goes full term) and I wanted to get a gift.  I am also vehemently anti-giftcard with the ILs, just because they ALWAYS give and get giftcards, and I like to THINK about gifts.  Amy gave me some ideas, and I ended up putting together a bag of  spa-like goodies.  Not bath salts, because who has time for a bath when you have a 3 year old and a newborn, but good body lotion, a set of massager things for the shower, a facial mask, a body puff, etc.  The only pre-packaged thing I got was the lotion set, an Almay (hypoallergenic! I wanted some for myself since I am so allergenic I can never have this shit) set of BOTH "relax" and "rejuvenate."  I couldn’t decide what would be better for postpartum, so the mix was a good idea.

I also got some other stuff, and if you’re a sneaky-family-member reader (um, Dave, my parents, etc) then don’t click the link.

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First, on the MIL.

At the family party I attended as the S-G Househould Representative (Dave had to work), I got to hear all about the MIL’s cancer thingie.  It’s a 2" square, and she was scheduled for biopsy on Monday and a brain and body scan yesterday.  (Fret not, the whole conversation was peppered with who was taking her/staying with her/and it’s not you guys for a typical dose if IL guilt tripping).  Apparently, both went well, according to Dave who talked to her yesterday. (On the phone, which I’m sure does not rank as much as In Person, so we are still awful people.)

Of course, the conversation then turned to Thanksgiving, whcih went kind of like this: "So, you guys are going to the mountain? Yeah? That will be nice.. . .  I just hope that this Thanksgiving isn’t Mom’s last, you know.  It’s just scary to think of what could happen by next year… but you guys will have fun with your parents, I’m sure.  And if she’s still here next year maybe we can plan something . . ."

I asked Dave when we got home, because it is his MOM, you know? And I told him we could do whatever he wanted, it was up to him. Did he want to stay here? ("Helllll NO.")

Here’s the thing.  Yes, MIL could die over the course of a year. But so could MY parents, or even one of US for that matter.  If you look at risk factors, all MIL has is a smoking-ravaged body (No radiation on account of the built in defibrillator, the solution would be removing the upper lobe of her left lung) and a generally unhealthy lifestyle.  My parents, on the other hand, are healthy.  They travel, and ski, and drive tens of thousands of miles each year, far more than the average 15k.  They ski and kayak and go rafting and hiking and duck hunting on the open sea.  Who says that they will be here?  And, for that matter, we did it this way because we aren’t going home for Christmas with them, as we’ve done every year before, but having them come here.

It’s just frustrating.  One of my coworkers was talking about her own passive-aggressive, manipulative mother, and how she preferred spending time with her inlaws.  It made me feel a little better about Dave, because it IS his family.  But, I think he has a better time with mine.  We talk, they know each other, we don’t stare slack-jawed at whatever "game" is on the tv.  My mom is a loon, which drives us both nuts, but she’s not laying on ghe guilt every time we see her. Because, gasp! SHe actually initiates CONTACT with us! Despite the fact that she lives 100 miles away! The ILs, who all live in city limits, never call us unless MIL is in the hospital, or we’re trying to make plans for the three holidays they want us for: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. (We are so DONE with numbers 1 & 3, but Christmas Eve will remain our one concession.)  It’s just fucked up.

Also, if my MIL does die before next Thanksgiving, my SILs are so much older that Dave said it was like "having 3 mothers."  Which, in turn, means I have three MILs.  Gah.

(I don’t mean to sound like a total bitch, it’s a complex situation that readers at the old journal are more familiar with, and I’m really a very nice person.  But my ILs are fucking annoying as all hell.)

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Several years ago, now, Amy and I and some other people had gone out drinking back home, over the river in Canada.  It was one of those nights out where you see lots of people from the past, and when we got home, her brother told us the story of Ash’s brother’s girlfriend, whom we had met as we drank pints in the basement irish pub, in front of the fireplace.

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It’s been a year and a week that we’ve been married, and I still can’t believe it.  I mean, I’m married. I have a husband.  And I love it.

We have a pretty regular life, we wake up with the same routines, adjusted for weekday/weekend mornings.  He takes care of the alarm, I am the first one up.  In between the two alarms (weekday, 5:50 and 6 respectively) I roll onto my side and scoot backwards into him.  He wraps his arms around me, and the cat hops off the bed, because the sequence means that I am soon to get up, and when I get up, food is nigh for the cat.  We groan about having to get up, we never, ever want to, but I finally pull away, swing both legs over the side of the bed, and pad off to the bathroom for a shower. 

He’s usually in the shower when I leave, so I pull back the fabric curtain and make smoochy faces through the clear vinyl curtain. "Bye babe, I love you, see you tonight!" I go to school, he goes to work. We might email each other during the day, but usually only out of necessity. "Remind me! Kitty Litter!" or "Paul has hockey tix, do we want them?"  I get home first, usually, and when he gets home I greet him at the door with a kiss, and the usual how was your day/ what’s for dinner/ we need to do laundry conversation is had while he feeds the cat her second scoop of the day.

Dinner, television, a cup of hot green tea or cocoa, and we’re in bed by 11. I go up first, brush, pee, and rearrange the feather blankets.  We spoon before he falls asleep, and I slide over, onto my belly, left knee hitched up and both arms under my pillow.  The cat will wedge herself between us, if she can.

And that’s a usual day.  Weekends, there are usually no alarms, we make coffee in the morning instead of tea, we often shower together.  We run errands, we do stuff around the house.  Regular stuff.

But then, there are days like yesterday, when he comes in at 8 from working the football game.  His nose and cheeks are still red from being suspended 30 feet in the air on a scissor lift for several hours, and it makes his eyes look bluer than normal.  The way his smile pokes through his winter beard, and the way he looks all bundled up in a heavy Carhartt jacket and knit hat.  It just hits me.

This is my husband. And I am so in love with him.

I love him on all the regular days, I do, but then there are those days when you realize how in love you are, and how perfectly happy your life is.  When you come around the corner and see your house lit up, and walk in to the warmth of honey-oak floors and oil heat, and a husband with an arm outstretched, smiling, "hey, baby!" and life is just. right.

Yes, I am married. I have a husband. I have a mortgage and an oil company and a front loading washer.  And all the things I once thought would hold me back, would keep me from being ME, I now realize are the things that made me more me than anything else.

Marriage works for me.  Everyday isn’t filled with those huge epiphanies, but lots of small ones.  The days when it feels like the first time I knew I loved him, are great days.  The days in between are pretty damn good, too.  I love the routines for the security, and I love the wow moments for the spontaneity. I love it all, and I wish everyone could know happiness like this.

Most people who know me in any sense, know that I am driven absolutely batshit by my inlaws.  There are so many reasons, their passive-aggressiveness, their simpleness, their ability to make the simplest shit annoying.  Anyway. New story.

Thanksgivings past, we have spent with the inlaws in some fashion.  Either uncomfortably staring at each other at my SILs house, or last year, uncomfortable eating at a restaurant.  Here’s the thing about holidays in restaurants for me. You don’t get to bitch about eh food or the service, it is a freakin’ HOLIDAY, and these people are making 2 bucks an hour to feed our ridiculously unmannered party of 16, depending on how many illegitimate babies and commonlaw spouses are there.  Or if the runaway sister of the commonlaw spouse shows up, that’s a wild card guest too.  It drives me absolutely nuts that people would dare complain about ANYTHING, when, for me, a holiday is about being with the family, not whether or not the bread basket is constantly being refilled, or if there is enough creamer at the table. DEAL.  The servers are NOT with their families, so shut the hell up and tip well.  My inlaws don’t do that.

We haven’t heard anything this year regarding Thanksgiving.  My folks have invited us to the mountain, and since we aren’t going to the lake for Christmas, we have been thinking we’ll take them up on their offer.  Dinner for four, with manners and a good tip, and great scenery to boot. Sounds lovely.

Dave just talked to his mom (who has been in the hospital twice since we last visited her — to take her the goddamn chair , which, I don’t think I ever told that story in its entirety, but it IS the goddamn chair — for unspecfified problems that are only related to "her haht.") who was all passive aggressive again, talking in her sick old lady voice, and said "Oh, well I thought you would have us all over for Thanksgiving this year."

What? What the what what?  APPARENTLY, even though Thanksgiving is in TWO WEEKS, they think we are hosting it.  We have never made any claims, we — you remember — NEVER TALK TO DAVE’S FAMILY, and they are silently waiting for an invite? To OUR HOUSE? Um, fuck no. 

So, Dave told her about our mountain plans, and she got all sad and said "I don’t know what’s going on, no one has called anyone" and dave said "Well, of course not, because our family is WEIRD."

"Oh, Dave," she whined," every family is dysfunctional, ours aint any different than any other family."

Which, Dave being the educated and refined man that he is, said nothing.  Because he:
A) Knows that she is fishing for him to say that "Yeah, Gretchen’s family is weird too!"
or B) Say, "No, actually, our family is seriously weird.  Gretchen’s family manages to function pretty normally."

Because, it is.  The poor bastard (which he has been called by most of his family, actually, on account of the "illegitimate"thing) has always known that his family was fucked up, and compared to my family, now sees JUST how fucked up it is.  I mean, my parents are in our lives. My sister is in our lives, and she lives in FUCKING COLORADO.  Her BOYFRIEND is more involved in our lives than Dave’s own siblings.  That is FUCKED. UP.  And this conversation, after my parents coming down so that Dad and I could go to a UM hockey game (UM-3, UNH -0), and my mom went shopping, and we all hun gout and I gave them cookies for the road, and her’s ol’ whiny MIL again, saying that her family is just like every other one. Well. It aint.

I could go on, and on, but here’s the thing.  My parents were there for me. they sacrificed so that I could have things I needed and wanted, I never once saw them smoking or drunk, and they didn’t put me on the street the day I turned 18 because they weren’t getting money for me anymore. Okay?  But, no, I’m "the rich bitch" to my ILs, and I’ve pushed my husband away from his family.

Sorry. It isn’t the case.  My husband has been welcomed into my family with open arms.  He knows he is loved by my parents, my sister, my grandparents, our friends.  It’s not about money. 

So, there’s that.  At this point, we’ll do thanksgiving at the mountain, unless my frickin’ inlaws don’t ever call my MIL, at which point we’ll take her out.  And you’d better believe we’ll tip well.

My sister called today; they made it back to Colorado last night, after what, three (?) or so weeks of vacation. Because lawnmowing for 8 weeks or so is sooooo taxing.

I’m kidding, halfway. I must say, I do envy her ability to have odd jobs that allow her to travel like that, but my mother reminds me that they envy my ability to have health insurance and my own house. (Especially when her back goes out and instead of going to the doctor, she lays prone in a tent until she’s better.)

They had flown here from Madison, as her boyfriend’s family lives there. (Quote: “I think Madison would be a good girls name… it’s P’s hometown, and it’s a real . . . different name. Unusual.” Guess who DOESN’T work with children, ever?! I talked her out of it, for what it’s worth.) When they got back from Maine, they spent a week or so in Northern WI at P’s family’s cabin on some lake, somewhere. They trailered back an old snowmobile that P’s folks didn’t want, and a bench.

Now, it’s no ordinary bench. P’s dad is deceased (Interesting, how we’ve both chosen men who’ve lost their fathers at a young age, JUST LIKE OUR DAD) but his mom remarried, and had two more children with P’s stepdad. His stepdad builds furniture.

This stuff.

Now, this is cool stuff. But for you and me (well, I don’t know ALL of you, but for those I know pretty well) this is not in our price range. I just put together a tall shelf from Target that is intended for a bathroom, was on sale, and is now being used as a nightstand, as a reference. I’m even considering buying a dresser or two from El Bullseye because ours are just not functional for adults…. and would work better as baby furniture… don’t think I haven’t noticed that Dave’s dresser is perfect change-table height, and just needs paint!

The specific “piece” that they brought home — this is the kind of stuff that you use the word “piece” for — is this bench.

Yam, I’m looking at you. You were the one who coined the term “golden horseshoe” to describe my sister, I believe. It was Hermia who told me about her roommate, the actress/florist that was commissioned to make centerpieces for a livery driver’s daughter that included, yes, gold painted horseshoes. And it has stuck, my sister is “She of the Golden Horseshoe.”

And now, my sister ACTUALLY HAS a Golden Horseshoe under her ass.

(And, yeah, the HK stuff is amazing. There’s a website, but I didn’t want to link directly to it. That bench? Would buy me a trip to someplace tropical … in the HIGH SEASON. MMkay? Also, NYC’ers, apparently the new TW building — with the Borders — has this stuff in it. As does the Yale Museum of Art or something.)