DailyDebs

Robbed

The past few weeks, I have been feeling really uneasy at home. I guess the reality of being at home alone, especially at night, has really become more apparent to me. It probably doesn’t help that I watch a lot of Dateline and 48 Hours Murder Mystery and constantly think about how I can leave behind forensic evidence if I were to be murdered (check under my fingernails. I’ll always try to scratch my attacker). A few nights ago I had a terrifying nightmare that was so real to me. I dreamt that I woke up to check Little Man’s monitor. Right as I turned on the video, I could see a small human-like creature climb into his bed as he slept. The creature looked like the aliens from Signs and as it climbed over, it looked right at the camera, and the video went out. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I slowly crept through the kitchen and saw the door leading to the garage was open. Dammit! I left it open! That’s how the alien got in! I use the flashlight on my cell phone to illuminate the living room, slowly panning over the couch and chair. Nothing there. I make my way to the hall leading to his bedroom and realize that I’m not sure what to do. I slowly open the door and just grabbed for anything. And so clearly, I could feel flesh and a shirt in my hands and I lunged forward

The fear was enough to jolt me awake. I was out of breath and my heart was racing. Please be morning so this night can be over, I thought. Nope. it was 12:45am. I had the whole rest of the night to continue to sleep alone and try not to be terrified of aliens breaking into my home.

You can imagine my relief when a few days later, my parents arrived. They came to help out for a few weeks, take care of Little Man and get my house back into shape. The first night they arrived, I went to bed feeling so at ease. “Ahh,” I thought. “I’m not alone tonight”. I slept so soundly. How foolish.

I almost didn’t even notice it the next morning. I was in a rush to get to work after transferring the carseat to my parents car and just as I was going to put the car in reverse, something didn’t seem right. I look over to the passenger seat and notice that my glove compartment door was open, the console was open and my stuff was everywhere. It was ransacked. I had been robbed. My car had been broken into by some stranger and they had stolen my stuff! I immediately survey the damage and I was almost convinced that they didn’t take anything when I realized that my shoes were missing. My brand new running shoes that I had put off buying for so long because I am as frugal as most grandmothers had been taken from me. I felt so violated! Someone was in my car! They touched my gym clothes and went through my things! They took my new shoes!

I drove to work so angry but trying to remain calm and rationalize the situation. I should have taken my gym bag out of the car. I had so many chances to do it when I took the groceries out the night before. I should have worked out the night before like I promised myself. My failure to do cardio has hurt me again! Finally…I should have locked my car.

There it is. THERE IT IS! I can hear you thinking it. “Ooooh. You didn’t lock your door??” And you don’t even have to say out loud what you are thinking after that sentence. You are thinking that it’s my fault I got my car broken into. You even want to correct me when I say “broken into” and say “well, your car didn’t get BROKEN into, they just opened the door”. And since you’re on a roll with great advice, you might even say “You know, you should never leave anything in your car”. Great. Thanks. I’ll remember that the next time I am weighing the pros and cons on if I want to be robbed or not.

The point is, I may have accidentally left my car unlocked, but someone intentionally broke into my car (YES BROKE INTO) and took something that they knew was not theirs. For a moment on my commute to work, I tried to be a good person and change my perspective. “You know, if it was a homeless person or a really poor person and they didn’t have any shoes and mine fit, maybe they deserve them more than I do.” That thought faded quickly as I realized that a homeless person or a really poor person didn’t break into my car. My iPhone charger was sitting right there untouched, next to my nice work out clothes, and even a large container with quarters I keep in my console which easily has $10-15 in it was also untouched. This was not the work of a desperate person. This was the work of a board teenager. And that doesn’t make it better. It almost makes it worse.

I thought about putting together a strongly worded memo about the incident and putting it in the mailboxes of my neighborhood. I wanted to inform them that we have a petty thief in the area and to take precautions. I wanted to share my theory that it was likely a teenager. Finally, I MAY have wanted to imply that its probably one of their kids and if they were suddenly rocking grey New Balance running shoes with hot pink laces, then they are definitely housing a criminal. I wish I could tell you that I changed my mind because I realize how wrong it would be to do that, but it’s really because I couldn’t get my computer to connect with the printer.

Being the head of the household is hard, ya’ll. Can’t seem to catch a break.

Dear Mr. Manager

It happened, you guys. I’m a woman in my thirties. I can’t even say that I am just thirty. I am actually IN my thirties. It seems like only yesterday that I was the one bragging to my coworkers that “I wasn’t even BORN when that happened!” In my early twenties, I dated a guy in his early thirties and as creepy as it was to point it out, I was CONSTANTLY reminding him that when he was at his prom, I was still playing tag on the playground. What can I say, I like making people uncomfortable. But now, the shoe is on the other foot. In my last job, I was surrounded by coworkers who were born in 1993. When they talked about 9/11, it usually started with “well, our fifth grade teacher turned on the TV…” And these people can legally drink now. And vote.

There are many ways that I express my new status as a Woman in My Thirties, such as buying a responsible car for the growing fam (an SUV, not a Van, because I’m a cool mom), or generally giving up on trying to look presentable during weekend days. But the tell-tale sign of my new position in life is that I have actually started expressing my discontent with service directly to a manager. Yeah. I know. I’m that person now. Now, it’s not full-blown “I need to speak with your supervisor” behavior, but check back with me on that in a few months. Right now, I am in the more passive-aggressive phase of complaining.

It started with a trip to Sprouts when I was pregnant with Little Man. Austin passed a law a few years ago that banned plastic bags at groceries and retailers throughout the city. Now, you have to bring reusable bags wherever you go. It’s great! Unfortunately, I did start noticing one side effect to this law: there is this unspoken rule that if you bring your own bag, you should bag your own groceries. Sometimes, a teenager will show up at the last minute to help, but a lot of times, its just you, your bags, and a busy cashier that looks at you like “these groceries aren’t going to just pack themselves.” This was my experience at Sprouts one Sunday morning as I was eight months pregnant and with probably more groceries than my OB/GYN would be comfortable with me carrying. I felt the urge to help out, because I am a lady and we must always accommodate, but I put my hand on my belly to stress the fact that I needed help and nervously watched as groceries piled up. The total came up on the screen, I swiped my card, and the groceries remained. She gave me my receipt and I moved out of the line, but wouldn’t touch my groceries or the unused bags. THEN, she actually started RINGING UP THE NEXT PERSON IN LINE! I finally give in, sigh loudly, and clumsily put my groceries in the bag. Where do the eggs go? On the bottom? Oh no! I have to repack this because I don’t know what I’m doing because THIS IS NOT MY JOB! Finally, she says “One moment” to the grocer behind me and finally pitches in. She moves the bags to the end of the counter harder than she needed to and got on with the next customer. I was so appalled. What happened to my neighborhood farmers market!?! How could she expect me to do her job? I slowly pushed the cart out of the store, just trying to make eye contact with someone who witnessed this exchange. I guess I needed some sort of approval that I had the right to complain. But it was Sunday, and these people just want to go on with their lives.

This bothered me for a long time. Why didn’t I just say “excuse me, but I need you to help me with these bags”? I have the right to say that as a paying customer. Why didn’t I go to a manager and say “are customers supposed to bag their own groceries because THAT woman just made me do it”? Now, the second statement is much more aggressive, but I guarantee someone would have done that to me. I decided that I needed to stop being so polite just for the sake of other people. Step 1: stop staying sorry for things that are not my fault. Oh, you’re holding the door open for me even though I am clearly 10 to 15 seconds away from the door? Old me would have started fake running and said “agh! Sorry!” New me? Keep at my pace, smile and say “thank you.” Step 2: No more exclamation points in emails, especially to male counterparts or managers. Old me? “Could you review this document when you have a chance? Thanks!” New Me? “Attached is the necessary paperwork” or “Thank you for your time today.” The period is so masculine and powerful (IRONICALLY).

And now, Step 3: You asked me how my service was? I am going to tell you how my service was. Luckily for most food related incidents, I will pretty much eat anything without complaint, so the “how was the food” question will likely be favorable. But if the SERVICE is lacking, I will let you know. “Ma’am, when you come back, we need our checks.” “No, we haven’t been seen yet and we have actually been here for over five minutes.” “Actually, since I have a kid in a stroller, I need the family dressing room, not him. Can we switch spots, please?” That last one happened at an Old Navy and logistically, it just makes sense. Its like cutting off someone in a wheelchair to use the handicap stall.

So, when Favor, the new App that boasts food delivery from anywhere to anywhere, emailed me to ask them why I signed up for their service but haven’t used it yet, I had no problem sending this email:

(For the record, I did take out the Mexican part before I sent it, but you look at their delivery map and tell me that I’m wrong.)

I did get a response relatively quickly but not so quick that it was an auto-response. It was likely from a twenty-something working in IT support as their first job out of school. “Check out this email from some old lady” they probably said.

Whatever, kid. At least I was in college when 9/11 happened.

Bump Wars

When I was pregnant with my Little Man, I soon met two kinds of women: those who did not have kids and had a million questions and those who did have kids and had a million suggestions. The first group of women were fun at first. They would look at me with such awe and wonder about the miracle of life growing inside me and say really flattering lies like “you are just GLOWING!” Then, I realized I was having the same conversations over and over again. Yes, I feel tired. No, I don’t have any weird cravings. Yes, it’s weird to feel the baby move. No, I’m no SO SCARED about pushing a baby out of me, but thanks for bringing it up… again.

I soon found comfort in the second group of women: the “experienced” mothers. Now THEY really got it. One look at my belly and they would know exactly how far along I was, had suggestions on how to not be so tired, and generally be able to commiserate with whatever I was experiencing that day. Then… they started getting on my nerves. They would start to ask me questions that forced me to examine my baby’s entire future. “Who’s your doctor?” “What’s your birth plan?” “Are you going to get an epidural?” “Are you going to eat the placenta? (yes, so many times people asked me about eating the placenta.) “What’s the sex of the baby?” “You’re not going to find out the sex of the baby?!?” “Are you going to get him circumcised?” “How long will you breastfeed?” “Are you going to do public or private schools?” “Why are you crying?” I soon found out that these really weren’t questions as much as they were introductions to their point of view on the best way to parent. Soon, what started out as a caring conversation about my journey into motherhood turned into a series of terrifying anecdotes about their lives. And once I expressed something that didn’t line up with how they did things, the Mommy Wars were born. “Oh, you’re going to use cloth diapers? That’s… great! I mean, I could never do it or want to because it’s disgusting, but that’s fun for you”. “Oh, you’re going to try for a natural birth? Wow… cool. I mean, there’s no way I would ever do that because I basically died when I gave birth and it was the worst experience ever, but that’s great that you’re doing it. But, don’t worry if you give up and get the epidural. I mean, it’d be INSANE to not get the epidural.” Mommy Wars live in the pause between what you say you are going to do and what they say they are going to do. The judgement is both internal and external. I can’t believe she’s doing that. Should I be doing that? It’s rarely explicit and most of the time, it is all in your head. I try not to engage in it or let myself be judged or judge myself.

Then I found out I was pregnant again.

It is most certainly true that the second pregnancy has about half of the luster as the first. I’m twice as busy as I was with Little Man and quite frankly, I don’t even have time to think about the fact that we are doing this again. It’s terrible, I know. I recently changed jobs shortly after we found out we were expecting and the two environments couldn’t be more different. I went from working at a large company with a small regional office to a small start-up with triple the employees. Old Job: Full of the 1st group. New job: Full of the 2nd group. The biggest difference is that now that I am working with an older crowd (and by that, I mean people my age or older, not fresh out of college), being pregnant is just not that big of a deal. People have babies. It’s what we do. Also, I’m not even the only pregnant person there. There are 2 on maternity leave right now and another manager that recently announced her pregnancy. And then… there is the Basketball Smuggler.

She recently joined the company to help with a project and as soon as she introduced myself, I couldn’t help but look at her belly. It was a double take because I really couldn’t tell if she was pregnant or just ate a basketball shaped burger in one bite. She has the kind of belly that looks like she is on a low budget TV show when the hot girl gets pregnant but the network doesn’t want her to look like an ACTUAL pregnant person because that would be disgusting. It’s Rachel from Friends and it is making me hate myself everyday.

I just found out that she is actually 7 months pregnant and it is ALL just in her belly. I’m sure if I asked her, she would tell me that she’s gained so much weight and that her ankles are huge, but I know better. She hasn’t gained a pound on her own. It’s all just baby. Me, on the other hand… I have gained all of the pounds. It is also certainly true that you start showing way sooner with the second child than with the first. I’m just a little over 4 months and I look 6, which puts me one month behind Basketball Smuggler except for 45lbs heavier. Even worse, I am not showing in the cute way. In fact, those who don’t know me at this company probably don’t know that I am even pregnant. They probably just think that I am a big fan of all the free food they provide (which I am). It doesn’t help my case that I am usually the first one in line for lunch and the mornings they do deliver tacos, I am conveniently just waiting around the break room, just seeing if they need anything in there… and… oh? Are those tacos? I guess it’d be rude to not take one immediately…

I know that the un-pregnant version of myself would say “stop, you look beautiful because you are growing a life and that is always beautiful” and I would say “don’t be so hard on yourself because every pregnancy is different and you will bounce back”. And I know these things are true, but the bump wars exist like the mommy wars exist: in the pauses between my reality and someone else’s and undoubtably, entirely in my mind.

**And yes, I have now become the “experienced mom” that probably passes judgement, overshares, and scares people without kids about having kids, but I’ve earned that right!

In the Doghouse

Right off the bat, I’m going to acknowledge that this is most likely NOT going to be a popular post. I’m even considering calling some of my closest friends before posting it because I fear the backlash. Here it is:

I don’t really like dogs.

I know. I KNOW. And I live in Austin, where you basically have to rescue a dog to claim residency (RESCUE a dog. Not adopt. See, you’re a good person now). And, yes, I have adop…rescued a dog myself. The best dog in the whole wide world, actually. His name is Chancellor Stevenson and he has a body of a Louisiana Catahoula Leopard Dog and the head of a Pit Bull. I don’t mean to imply that he is aggressive. I mean to say that he has a giant block head on a regularly sized body. But he is my special companion and the new master of the house. I got him when I sold my car to a friend. Her live-in boyfriend rescued a dog (and I mean actually rescued. Like, found her on the street and took her in) and little did he know, she was pregnant. Most of her litter got taken away and a little pup named Chewy was taken along with his brother, but promptly given back. 5 months had gone and no one had claimed him when I came over to sign over the title. I went outside to see him and I saw this little face:

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“Prease. PREASE! Take me! Rove me!” he said with his eyes. And just like that, I became a dog owner. I went to drop off a car and left with a dog. I came up with the name like I had been waiting to name him my whole life. We took him in and did all the dog things like plan puppy play dates, showing off all his tricks in public, taking him absolutely everywhere, kissing him on the mouth, and encouraging him to get on the couch so we could cuddle. Without kids, we would say things like “he’s our baby! He’s like our little training dog”. Yes, we were those people.

People often ask me why he doesn’t have the same last name as my husband and I and that’s because… that would be absurd. He’s a dog, for crying out loud, not a person. He is not our son. He is just our dog. And that thought process right there is usually what starts to separate me from other people. Chancellor is our dog and a member of our family, but he is still just a dog. I tolerate his bad behavior and pick up his poop and forgive him when he eats things that belong to me because he is MY dog and I have unconditional love for him. But like a single twenty-something eating brunch on a Sunday next to a mom and her mis-behaved child, I don’t care for other people’s dogs, especially when it comes to their bad behavior.

Once again, Friends of Mine with Dogs- I’ve been meaning to tell you! Don’t get upset. I LIKE your dogs. I just don’t LOVE your dogs. I will never feel the same about your dogs just because they are the same species as Chancellor. I tolerate them. I’ll watch them if you’re out of town and care for them and give them attention. I just don’t LIKE like them that way. I don’t feel the need to have all the dogs over and around me at all times. In fact, if I’m being honest, I don’t like dog parties. They always scrap way too hard and its always at the foot of the couch where I am sitting. Their long fingernails always scratch me during this and their hot breath is palpable and the growing makes me nervous. I am ALWAYS the first one to say “ok, OUTSIDE! NOW!” And this is usually met with glares from the owners of said dogs. “You don’t need to yell,” they say. And yeah, yeah I do need to yell. Your dog is getting all growly and breathy and scratchy and I don’t like it. Plus, THEY ARE JUST DOGS. They are not the alpha. I AM THE ALPHA. Dogs go outside, NOW.

There are a lot of people, most of my friends included, that have a “the more dogs, the merrier” attitude and I am just not one of those people. We are fortunate enough to have a house with a yard and somehow, this has become the unspoken invitation for all dogs can come over at all times, preferably all at once. And I’m happy Chancellor has friends and he loves being with other dogs, but is it so hard to keep them outside? I feel it’s the equivalent of someone having a party and all the couples assuming they can just hang out in the master bedroom. “Oh, you’re in a relationship? Penny and Dan are too! Why don’t we all just hang out in their room!” No. that’s not how it works. People hang out in living rooms and kitchens and dogs hang out outside. Scrap away, get all breathy, smell crotches, and keep to yourself. Us adults will be inside.

Chancellor will likely be the last dog we ever have. He opened our hearts and taught us how to love unconditionally, even through infuriating moments of destruction and flatulence, and when we had our son, we were well prepared for the same. Chancellor sat by me on my bed as I labored with my little man at home and whimpered at our door when he heard Little Man cry at night. He is now my protector, sleeping next to me in my husbands absence, barking louder at unfamiliar sounds in the neighborhood, and keeping a watchful eye over Little Man… while waiting for food to fall off his plate.

But he can still go outside when he has company. They can all just go outside.

Deep Eddy Doesn’t Take Cash

You want to know how I know that? Well, let me tell you a story*

Turns out, weekends when as a single mom are actually really long. You would think by the number of updates your mom friends post on Facebook and Instagram that it’s non-stop go-go-go, filled with trips to the zoo, science museums, story time, splash zones, play dates, and other things that make you feel insufficient as a human. This has never been my reality as Little Man is not a great car traveler and I am not a great planner. But even when we do have things planned all weekend, it still. seems. so. long. Probably because my day starts at the crack of dawn and I’ve accomplished more than most before 12pm and he never naps as long as I need him to. (“Psshhh. 2 Hours? C’mon, you can afford to nap a bit longer, buddy”). Most of this time is either spent cleaning up messes or allowing the messes to happen so I can sit down for longer than 10 minutes. Or looks like this:

So, I decide to be a little ambitious one morning. Little Man loves water, as is evident by the number of times he dumps our dogs water bowl on his head, so I thought an early morning trip to Deep Eddy Pool would be fun an excuse to get out of the house while managing the 100 degree heat. “We’ll leave early!” I foolishly thought. “Beat the crowds, eat concession stand food together, take adorable mommy-son pics…it’ll be great!”. The PLAN was to leave by 9:30 and arrive by 10 when the pool open. Little Man had other ideas, involving running naked around the house, refusing to eat breakfast, and a 45 minute tantrum that made mommy stare out the window and dream of another life.

We finally get out the door and make our way down to the pool. Fun fact! Did you know that 110 people move to Austin every day? Did you also know that half of them decided to go to the pool that day? I circle the lot several times, somehow missing not one but TWO people who are just leaving, and have no luck finding a space. I try the neighboring lots but they all have WE WILL TOW YOU IMMEDIATELY signs everywhere. I have no choice but to park on the street near Town Lake where the other half of the fresh batch of Austinites went. I take a deep breath, go to the backseat to get Little Man, and sure enough, he is fast a sleep. Deep sleep. Snoring, even. For crying out loud, kid. I evaluate the circumstance. He would never even know we were SUPPOSED to go to the pool. I could get him home, extract him carefully from the carseat and see if he will take a real nap in his crib and he would never know I deprived him of the pool. Hell, I’d even keep the car running and nap in the driveway alongside him. I’m close to doing this… but I don’t. “This is not about you, Deborah. It’s about him”.

I wake him up and to my surprise, he doesn’t cry. I grab both bags, place him on my hip, and walk the few blocks to the pool. Now there is a line to get in, but it’s going quickly. “See, this is nice,” I think. “This is going to be great”. As the crowd in front of my clears and all the well behaved children go off with their parents into the park, I see it. The sign says “CASH ONLY. NO BILLS UNDER $10”. Cash only. No bills under $10, you guys. Which means when I do take money out, I have to also find a way to break a $20. Because how tempting would a cash register full of $20 bills be to the person who obviously keeps robbing them, otherwise why would you have to deal with his problem?!?

I slowly approach the counter, hoping to catch a break. “You don’t take cards at all?” I am trying to sound as pathetic as I can. “No ma’am”. I look behind me and hope to catch the eye of a well-meaning white family that will say “Oh, we got it for you. Just enjoy your day!” NO ONE is behind me. I am somehow the last parent to bring her child to the pool. “So…where is your ATM”. There’s always an ATM when you only take cash that will gladly charge you $3.00 for your $10 withdrawal. “Yeah, it’s actually pretty close. So once you leave the parking lot, just make a right and after the first light, there is a gas station on your right and they have one there.” And I die.

A morning full of mis-timed events and poor planning decisions had lead to this moment. I slowly put my sunglasses on and turn around and the tears just start coming. I’m walking but I don’t know where. To the car? Do I drive there? Do I walk up hill, across the street, past the intersection to the gas station? Shouldn’t we just go home already! “This. Is. About. Him”

So I make the trek. I take out the money. I buy Little Man junk food because of course they don’t have healthy snacks that a toddler can eat at the gas station. I break the $20 because they are afraid of large bills and we make our way back. I pay the attendant so sternly and I’m unapologetically sweating and gross when I do it. All because Deep Eddy Doesn’t Take Cash.

#Neverforget

*I easily could have told you about how much fun we actually had when we were there, about how my son didn’t want to let go of me and we cuddled in the water, about how he got the courage to walk around the shallow end and how we shared a hot dog and how I loved that time so much, but who wants to hear all that??

But What Does it All Mean?

Let’s just clear this up right off the bat: Here is what this blog is NOT:

“Breaking News: Working Mom Starts a Blog to Document Totally Unique Point of View!”

Yes, I am a working mom but I don’t really label myself as such. My point of view? It’s probably not THAT unique. I most definitely have not experienced anything in a way that someone, somewhere has not also experienced. BUT I’M FUNNY! So there’s that. And I’m an Army wife, so that cuts the population of people who are in my shoes down to 2%. Also, I’m taking care of my 18-month old while carrying our second child all while my husband is serving overseas. SO… ok, ok, it’s a little unique. But not totally unchartered territory for Army wives (another label I don’t strongly identify with. I’m a really bad Army wife. I have baked zero things for our unit and I’ve never even decorated one poster with a flag on it. I know, right?)

So, why start a blog? What does it all mean? I guess it really comes down to the fact that I am a story teller, formally by trade, currently by hobby. I also watched more TV than you think would be possible for someone with such little free time; sometimes just because I’m too lazy to grab the remote and turn it off. I feel this will be a good motivator to ween away from this unhealthy habit, though admittedly Dateline NBC is on as I type this. (Don’t worry you guys, I’ve already seen it. The janitor totally did it.)

Finally, this has been the craziest year of my life. Deployed husband, growing child, growing child inside of me, new job, new CAR! I feel I would regret not documenting this chaos and I figure i can make sense of it later.

Just remember- I have no idea what I’m doing, in this blog and in life. So, let’s get on with it, shall we?