Welcome to the Ends of the Earth

My postman, George.

I admit that I am a bit old-fashioned.  I actually use mail (you know--the form of communication that involves pieces of paper, a stamp, and postmans...er, postpeoples).  I do so, understanding that this particular form of communication takes quite a bit longer than normal.  Or, at least, that was my "understanding" when I lived in Chicago.

Here?  Said form of communication takes anywhere from a bit longer than normal, to FOR-FREAKING-EVER.  And I'm not just talking about the government's operation.  They're actually one of the best.  I'm also talking about private courier services.  I have ordered a handful of things online, particularly diapers and a slider grill pan that was 80% off.  Anyway, previously when I placed a diaper order, I could expect to get my shipment within 2 days.  I understood that we're a bit more...well...nowhere, here, so it would likely take longer.  Try 5 times longer.  I wish I were kidding.  It's like even the couriers just wait until they get a certain number of packages going out this way before delivering, so that they can save the horses.  It's driving me nuts.

The worst part is that generally one only orders things online here when there isn't a particular store within, oh, 5,000,000 miles.  Ok, diapers are a bad example.  But, still.  Diapers at http://www.diapers.com/ are considerably less expensive than at the stores here.  Even in Iowa, they get the diapers within days.  Here, it's weeks.  So I end up paying more for a necessity, just because nobody wants to come out to the ends of the earth.  What a racket.

If anyone is looking for a sure-bet money maker, I say find a way to get stuff to people in the boondocks who need them.  Because, this is insane.  And dammit, I may have gone half a football season without a square hamburger, and THEN where would I have been??

I Like My Kid

I believe that, unless you are a total psychopath, you love your kids no matter what.  (On a side-note, I believe one should love his/her significant other's kids, too, but this is a conversation for another day).  Whether or not you like them, however, can be another story.  Did Hitler's parents like him?  I suppose that depends on a number of factors.  But you get the point.  Love your kids.  Hope to like them.

Yeah, well, after getting to know him the past few months, I genuinely like my kid.  And I find this awesome, primarily because I also fully understand how little I get to do with his personality.  Let me state for the record that I am a believer in nature and nurture--one's genetics, along with one's circumstances can dictate a whole heckuvalot.  But what cracks me up on a daily basis are all of the little traits of my son's that I know for certain I didn't teach him.  It's awesome.  He's his own little person.

I happen to find this kid funny, sweet, determined, smart and absolutely kind.  Today I had a lunch date and was gone for a few hours.  And I MISSED HIM.  How awesome is that?  I truly enjoy being with him.  And not just because he's my kid.  I like his little personality and think he's the bees' knees.  What an unexpected bonus!  I know that makes me sound totally insane, but I just never really contemplated thinking like that.  How cool.

We are all really lucky to have certain people in our lives without whom life would be a little bit...less.  Some of these people are shorter than others.  I hope all of your days are filled with the tall and the short variety--blood relatives or not.  What's the point in spending time with people who suck?

Plane Error

I desperately want to travel again.  I dream and dream about future days, when I can hop on a plane and go...well, anywhere, really.  I can't wait to hit the road and see things and places and people.  I can't wait to taste foods--new and old--and feel sensations that have only been in my mind.  There are several obstacles to my doing so right now.  Money, of course, is a biggie.  Family considerations is another.  But one of the biggest has to do with my irrational issues, and nothing more.  I want my son to come with me, and the thought of my child on a plane makes my head explode.

I recently had a conversation with a good friend who lives in California.  We would love to see one another, and would love to have our kids meet.  Sounds simple enough, right?  Um, no.  There are the above considerations.  But the biggest hurdle for both of us is the idea of a plane ride with toddlers.  We have agreed that, should we meet up, it will be a maximum of one plane ride each, to be under 2 hours.  Even then we will have to bring entire bottles of booze and gift cards in apology for everyone else on the plane.  And this is my problem with the issue.  Why do I care so much what everyone else on the plane thinks?  Unless the flight is ungodly early or late, why should I apologize for my one year old being a one year old?  Well, because I used to be one of them (the glare-rs).  And because I know they hate me.  And I hate it when people hate me. 

Crazy, right?  Yet I still can't even explain how my head starts to throb when I think of him in a tiny area for hours.  He won't even sit at a kitchen table for more than 10 minutes.  Movies can distract him for about 5.  Toys?  Not going to happen.  Sleep?  Forget it.  Basically, there is nothing for him to do but get up and down and run up the aisle and kick the little old woman next to me who smells like feet.  Even describing it, I get sweaty palms.  I truly think it is a phobia.  Maybe we should name it:  Ilovemytotbutcanonlytakehimintopublicforfiveminutesobia.  Too long?  I'll work on it.

Like most people I fantasize about winning the lottery.  However, unlike most people, I desire this most so that I can charter planes.  The idea of my kid flying around the flying machine makes me smile.  He can kick and roll and squeal and scream, and nobody cares because I am paying them not to.  Ahhhhh.  Peace. 

Sigh.  I know I have asked the question before, but when it comes to travel, it takes on a new spin.  How much should we care what other people think?  And if we do care too much, how do we stop?  Ok, fine, how do I stop?

The Social Situation

I think my kid is a good combination of cautious around strangers and sociable.  This is my perpsective based upon absolutely no evidence whatsoever.  But on the one hand, he's usually pretty quick to stay close to mom when there are new people around.  On the other, once he is comfortable he will be as chatty as Regis, particularly if the audience includes a pretty girl.  Not bad.

BUT.  I freak out about my choices as a parent and how they will affect this kid's social development.  I worry that I spend too much time with him.  I worry that I don't spend enough time with him.  I worry that he doesn't see a lot of other kids.  I FREAK at the idea of him spending massive amounts of time with other kids.  I worry he will be a bully.  I worry he won't.  It's a never-ending stream of worry, all centered around something that I most likely have absolutely no control over.

The biggest question is what happens when (please, God) I find a job.  Do I put him in daycare?  Do I find a sitter?  We moved here so that such choices are easier, and they are.  But unless my dad wants to quit his job and work full-time for free as the baby's b*&ch, the social question still must be posed.  The kid is 15 months.  Does he need interaction with other kids?  Will he be ok without me around every day and still know that I haven't left him?  Does he even give a crap?  Probably not.  Nonetheless, it is something about which I will worry until he is safely in kindergarten, where I am legally obligated to let him do his own thing.

Biggest. Sucker. Ever.

I was always a bit sad, living in high rises and walk-ups, that I never got kids coming around selling things.  On Halloween, it killed me that I never (NOT ONCE) had trick-or-treaters.  I always bought the candy, mind you, but that was dealt with in proper form.  My friends had it right--they would hide on their living room floor when little kids rang the bell (you know who you are, and you were totally justified).  But I missed the peddlers.

So.  I have already pushed this longing to the back of my mind.  Why, you may ask?  Well, because it is perfectly clear to me that every single person in this town who is selling something has targeted my house and has chosen approximately 3 minutes after my kid has gone down for a nap, to ring the bell.  Repeatedly.  They have learned that this house is THE house, by word of mouth.  Got cookies?  Oh, check out that chick on the corner.  Selling magazines?  The corner house will buy, no matter how insanely expensive the magazines are.  Pushing religious materials?  Yeah, that broad is so in need of conversation, she will actually act interested.  Stop by.  And be sure to wake the kid, just to really drive home the remorse she will feel later.

I have always been a sucker.  I over tip.  I talk to people I shouldn't.  I say "yes" without considering whether I should.  But when one has minimum spending cash on hand, being a sucker hurts a bit more.  Yet I CAN'T STOP.  Anyone who rings the bell is treated to the sale of the century.  And I just can't make myself turn them down.

I like to pretend that this is a good trait of mine.  I am perfectly aware that it is not.  Maybe some day I will learn to push away those asking me to pay them to compensate for their crappy childhood as evidenced by the fact that their parents are sending a 5 year old door to door without checking on them.  Hopefully not.  Regardless, if you need me, I will be lying on my living room floor, hiding.  Actually, that's my motto from now on:  when all else fails, hide.  Then they can't find the suckers.