scrawls.

scrawls

still cheaper than therapy*

29.1.08

seventeen weeks

It would be inaccurate and mean-spirited and nasty to call your ex-babysitter a selfish slut, but it does have such a nice ring to it, doesn't it? She got an opening with a diplomatic family and a visa, full-time, and probably pays better and is easier in some ways, taking care of two kids who can walk and talk (and make trouble of their own) rather than two babies who can't, so one can't at all fault her for taking it. (On top of which, she's devoutly Catholic, so it would be very surprising if ... ) anyway. Lovely girl, great with kids. But the timing for us could be better. So yesterday i was frantically calling all over the 3rd district, with some of the 2nd and the 4th and the 10th for good measure, and there are no spots for people under one year in daycares (krippen-kindergartens), though there are a couple of in-home grandmotherly types (tagesmutters) which may or may not work out, though they all have their bad points, too, i'm sure. So we found a tagesmutter and you'll spend a few hours with her tomorrow, we met yesterday and chatted for a good bit, and even if i did only find her through an agency on teh intarwebs, they have regular inspections and continuing education and she has twenty-eight years of experience and degrees in psychology and education. And she is nearby and has a friendly dog and a long-haired cat and a little posse of babies and toddlers, and you'll be the youngest - there's an 8 month old, but the rest are walking - and on paper, she's great, see? All those things. And when i met her yesterday she was engaged with the kids and cuddly and picked them up when they wanted picked up and had a nice (little, but nice) bookshelf full of kids' books and a bunch of toys for babies and toddlers and she's just almost perfect. Almost. But this is almost a dealbreaker and in the States she would never, ever, ever get a license to have an in-home daycare, even though when she picked you up you grinned at her, even though she knew when you were tired, even though the lady knows how to babywrangle, and i think, at home, i would be a bad parent for even considering it. For even having it drift into my mind for a moment. Let alone letting her touch you with those hands, make faces at you with that face, keep you in that flat for even a minute: she - I almost can't - but - and she - and, to be fair, everyone else in this godforsaken place, and at least she does it with the windows open - see, i'm probably making this out to be worse than it is. But she smokes.

*retch*

See? Bad parent for even considering it. But i'm not sure that there even are viennese folk who don't smoke; all the nurses and midwives at the hospital did, the people at my work, the people at M's work. They just made nonsmoking sections in restaurants a year ago and their idea of a nonsmoking section is a table without an ashtray, even though it is between five other tables with ashtrays and there are no windows or fans or circulating air. And i'm justifying it to myself, and she clearly doesn't smoke as much as lots of people (or her flat would smell a whole lot, a whole lot worse), and she does it with the window open, and it's bitchy cold and windy at the moment so nobody has windows open for any longer than they need to so as soon as the weather gets better the whole place will probably not smell like smoke any more, right? Right? And everyone used to smoke in the states, and people lived through it. Everyone still does smoke here (even in the city daycares, the childminders step outside, i think). And we're going to keep looking. But i hope you forgive me someday because this is a hell of a compromise, even if it is short-term.

In other news, you've decided that sleeping is The Devil, and you won't be doing it any more if there is any damn thing you can do to avoid it, like crying until you turn purple. And i think it was because you got M's stomach flu (apparently, like every single other person in the city, or damn near) but for the last several days you have been spewing all over everying. So every day has had a load of laundry and we still ran out of pajamas. Except you don't seem to at all mind the spewing, and are happier afterwards (isn't that always the case) - but you cry because you are tired and your tummy hurts, and then crying makes you tireder and your tummy hurts more, only you can't sleep 'cuz your tummy hurts, so you cry until you turn purple and become this tiny oozing volcano. You're a long shot from projectile vomiting - at your highest velocity, it still only goes about an inch and a half out of your mouth - but it gets everywhere, all the same, and so the dogs have been (eeeeeew) cleaning the floor for us - they're quicker than we are with the paper towels ...

Yeah, it's been a great week. M was sick and then you were vommitty (that's a word) and then i was a little sick - still am really - i did get some cough drops today, while we're in, you know, the land of Ricola - and with the babysitter calling to cancel yesterday and S, the other mom of the other baby that she was sitting for too, she was livid - and all that with the Four Month You're Not Sleeping phase. Pile on. Oof.

But the tagesmutter knows all about the Four Month You're Not Sleeping phase. Because when i mentioned it she knew exactly what i was talking about, even with my rudimentary-at-best german. People say that that, at least, will end. Which is good, for me, and i hope that it is soon, because this is what late-onset postpartum HAS to come from. Because ... you're turning purple and vomiting, baby, and i can't make you feel better: it's a virus, and you're four months old, and you are infuriated at the unfairness of it all, at being born a human instead of a velociraptor. (Smaller than a T-rex, squeaky, and, well, still wants to run around and bite stuff. And smart as anything if you believe the movies.) And, sweetheart, if you really wanted to be a velociraptor when you grew up, and i could help you with that in any way, i would. I would. But you scream and scream and scream and i feel like a terrible mother because i can't make your tummy stop hurting, but this was the strain of flu that they're scared will combine with the deadly one, because this is the highly contagious one, so whatever we did to keep M away from you with his dastardly illness was probably worthless anyway since, well, you got it, and i'm sorry, and i love you, and you're not ever going to be a velociraptor.

But i think we can make you a cheetah for fasching, with the clothes your nagymama is sending - she sent a photo of something with an animal print. So. Cheetah or maybe leopard. Fasching. That's Austrian for Mardi Gras, plus Halloween, plus the very-cold-plus-funny-clothes of Deb Ball. Carneval goodness. And M and i - we could be lion tamers ... if only it worked that way ...

Labels: baby, milestones

scrawled @ 14:37