Sitting Still

and you thought we were done talking about lipstick

After the 2008 election and its discussions of lipstick on various non-human mammals, I would have been happy not to hear anything about this colorful cosmetic again.  As it turns out, however, lipstick had just been laying low, saving up for a starring role in my life. 

Tuesday mornings I have a babysitter for Gage and Claire is at school, buying me (at $10 an hour, mind you) four glorious hours to myself.  Yesterday, I was sitting at the coffee shop, dorking out on Facebook for a few minutes while I warmed up to knock out some Savvy Source posts.  I decided that my profile picture needed updating, so I turned on the Mac's Photobooth and took a shot.

Staring at myself in the image, I realized that my natural lip color approximates one shade darker than my skin.  Since I'd put my skin color somewhere on the spectrum near baby powder white, that makes my lips barely pink.   Barely.

I posted the picture and commented that I needed some lip color.  A back-and-forth with Mr. D ensued, with a recommendation that I try red.  Since he is a man and does not understand that there are approximately 2,109 shades of red, I modified to "whorish red."  (Because if you're going to go with red, you might as well make yourself a harlot, yes?)

Later that evening, Ron was telling me about a conversation he had with a coworker.  She happens to be a lesbian.  He must have done something prissy -- which is, incidentally, commonplace for Ron, as he is very particular and clean -- when they concluded that he was not, as you might assume, a mere metrosexual.  Instead, he was deemed a "lesbian in a man's body." 

"So are you a lipstick lesbian?" I asked, curious about this new gender/sexuality assignment, considering this is my HUSBAND, you know.

"I think so," he replied.

"Wait a second.  So does that make ME the butch one?"

He shrugged. "I suppose it does."

I don't want to be the butch one.  No way.  In fact, I'm heading out right now to buy some whorish red lipstick, and I'm planning to wear it ALL. THE. TIME.

recalibration

I haven't been around a lot lately, with the whole newborn thing going on.  But the truth is that part of the reason I haven't been writing is that it was hard to do so without talking about something I wasn't sure I wanted to talk about.  (Clear as mud, right?) And then I read this from my friend Mrs. Welby, who also has the pleasure of being married to a surgeon:

"Those patients will always come first, and anything related to the job of caring for them...And you have to believe in the gig. I mean, people are sick, someone's got to help them. And you wouldn't want someone operating on YOU without reading a thing or two about the operation right?

But after a while, the role of superwife becomes a learned behavior, and, worse, an expectation of the marriage. It's hard to find the threshold of what you can and can't handle. What is truly worthy of assistance? What trumps those doctor-related activities?"

Her post reminded me how I had promised to be honest here, for myself, and as a record for my children, and so I'm taking a deep breath and writing this.

My husband, right now, is in Guatemala.  As in, the country in Central America.  He's been gone for eight days and returns tomorrow night, traveling for work as part of a medical mission.

Pause, and let me do it with you: OMG?! WTF?! Didn't you just have a baby?! 

Now, let me explain: We knew this trip was coming as soon as he matched to the program here.  In fact, the opportunity to do international work was part of the draw to come here and is part of the reason he signed on to stay.  It took months to find out dates, and for a long time we heard "the middle of January,"  which I thought would be more like the 15th.  We were still mid-discussion about whether he would be able to go with the baby coming when he received an e-mail from his boss with his plane ticket confirmation.

Um, ok.  Guess you're going.   Departure date: January 4.  Scheduled C-section: Dec 31.  Hrm.

Keep in mind, of course, that him actually stepping foot on that plane was contingent upon Gage and I being home from the hospital, healthy, and with help here (my mom).  Since those conditions were met, he went.

And we are managing.  More than managing, actually.  In a hand-on practical sense, we're doing just fine.

However, I miss him.  Claire misses him.  Gage is changing already and Ron's missing it.  I know it is difficult for him, too.  It becomes hard to know where to draw the line -- how to pit NEED you here versus WANT you here versus the good of restoring sight to 30 or more Guatemalan children who otherwise don't get the care they need. 

I know that some of you are reading this and simply can't understand.  But I know that several of my friends (hi Nan! hi Grace!) and all of the people who find this blog Googling "doctor's wife" know  precisely what I mean.

I don't resent him for taking this trip, but there are times -- more everyday kind of times -- that I definitely do hold some resentment.  He always finds time to do what he considers important, and there are times that I wished that our family ranked higher on that list.  There are times that I wish I ranked higher on that list. 

Can I take care of things independently?  The vast majority of the time, that answer is a resounding "Hell yeah."

Do I want to?  Should I HAVE to?  Those are harder questions to answer.  Right now, we're focused on communicating better about these issues.  It's not easy for either of us, and it's something we have to constantly return to and work out. 

While it is easy to put the blame on him, the reality is that I'm just as responsible.  There is a certain pride in superwife status.  I've always been fiercely independent (just ask my mother) and this role takes advantage of my nature.  I have friends who don't ever fill their own gas tanks, or get their oil changed, or handle household emergencies.  When I hear such divisions of labor ("Oh, my husband handles all that."), part of me is insanely jealous, and part of me wants to roll my eyes and go. "Pussy."

We're in the middle of a recalibration.  Some recent events in our lives have made it clear that we need a tune-up.  So, we're working on it.  It requires both of us to compromise, and it requires good communication to do so. 

Sometimes my end of that communication means saying "Get home right now!"

And sometimes it means me saying "Have a good time in Guatemala."

the other big news

With the anticipation of the baby, I kind of sort of totally forgot to share the other big news of late.

We are staying in Charleston.

That's right.  Ron is taking a job here that will likely be his position for the foreseeable future.  We looked elsewhere, but nothing seemed like as good a fit as staying right here, where we've built a community of friends and learned to call cockroaches by more polite names.

This means, of course, that both of my children will be raised in the South.  For the boy, it's BORN and raised.  Claire will never be a native, but given that she can already talk for hours about absolutely nothing, she is well on her way to fitting in as a belle.

I'm thrilled.  Having this decision made opens up hopes and dreams that simply haven't been practical in the course of our marriage: buying a home our children will grow up in, figuring out what comes next in my career, and planning further than two years ahead to the next step of training.

And it means more photos like these:

running on the beach
Originally uploaded by Sitting Still.

surfing dad
Originally uploaded by Sitting Still.

And I'm not making any apologies! ;)

office christmas party

We just got back from Ron's department Christmas party.  The crowd was nice enough, people were polite enough to tell me I looked fabulous (while I felt mostly enormous), but the whole atmosphere had the vibe of a wedding for someone I didn't know very well. 

I think I came up with that summation when the DJ claimed to be "kicking the party off" with everyone's go-to crowd pleaser: Celebration.

Celebrate good times, come on!

We were home by 10 pm.

he said yes!

This week has been busy, partly because it just is, and partly because I have started nesting and have an unreasonable desire to have the kid's stuff ready NOW.  My brain tells me that he doesn't need anything, really, but the crazy interior decorator that has possessed my body tells me that I must spend two hours in the evening hitting Home Depot and the fabric store.  It's as though she thinks there is going to be a big rush on gingham and closet supplies.

As a result of all this running around in addition to our usual schedule, Ron and I have resorted to only those conversations needed to keep the family machine running.  This afternoon, he called me late, from work, trying to convince me that he had time to get home, go surfing and be back before my yoga class.
He so did not have that kind of time, but who am I to be right?

(And yes, surfing, yoga.  We're so cool I almost can't stand it.)

By the end of the conversation, I didn't even have words to express my frustration and just started growling at him. Grrrrrrr.

He chose a jog over surfing, I made it to yoga, and we both ended up in a better place for it.  As he was heading to bed and I was heading to McDreamy world, I realized that we hadn't really talked in days.

"I need a date.  Would you like to go out with me?"

Sometimes you just have to get back to basics. 

(Note to self: Better listen to NPR tomorrow so you have something not child-related to talk about.)

What are your plans for the weekend?

Californication

Fresno review, in brief.

Things to like: easy city, little traffic, great public schools, a couple of older neighborhoods with character, two sets of friends already there, close to lots of things (Bay Area, LA, Yosemite), lots of local produce (raisins, nectarines, all sort of nuts, strawberries), Jamba Juice, no snow.

Things not to like: lacks an urban flair, lots of tract homes, hot as hell in the summer, poor air quality, would be a slave to the automobile, not as nice as other parts of California, but nearly as expensive.

In sum, I didn't hate it, but I didn't love it either.  (And all of this is without consideration of the actual job part of the deal.  Ron has to work out those details and let me know if the opportunity is what he's looking for.  I'm just here to judge the rest.)

Mid-day Saturday I started sending texts to the Debunot because I was struck by an interesting trend in the shops of the center we were lunching at. First, there was the palmetto-themed Lilly Pulitzer store, and then a god awful sequined place called "Starlette O'Hara."  The cafe dessert menu promised some fancy schmancy pumpkin cake concoction that was a "Southern favorite."  (Note to cafe: we call it pie.  Round pastry, with a crust.  Might want to check it out.)  With their big blonde hair, fake and/or real tans, and elaborate make-up, I have a sneaking suspicion that, in spite of the trendiness California prides itself on, the women just want to be Southern belles. 

Well bless their hearts.  They may be just one geography question shy of beauty queen status.

we're going on a trip in our favorite rocket ship

You would think that a man that can open up tiny little eyeballs and make them work better with cuts and stitches could remember that one must wear a suit to a job interview.  And that suits, by necessity, need cleaning and pressing.  And that dry cleaners, in general, require a one day turnaround.  Thus, it is not helpful to remember the day before you leave for an important job-seeking engagement that your one suit used for these purposes is, for Lord knows what reason, crumpled in a plastic bag in the hall closet.

One trip to Target for Dryel + one separate trip to Mens Wearhouse for pressing + one pissy but resourceful housewife later = a suit that is respectably "freshened."  (We'll all pretend it's clean, okay?  It'll be our little secret.)

On the other hand, maybe they'll notice that we're so poor we can't even get his suit professionally cleaned and up the offer.   

We're all excited but nervous about the trip.  Ron is obviously the main show, but I'm hoping that my brain-to-mouth filter works successfully as to not be considered a liability.  (Claire, on the other hand, is just hoping that her hermit crab doesn't die at the hands of our neighbors, who have promised profusely that they will take good care of her.)

It's hard to think that this is what we've been waiting for.  After five years of undergrad, four years of medical school, four years of residency, and now this year of fellowship, my husband will be 32 years old and starting his first "real" job.  While I know it isn't the end of the road, it is certainly a major milepost, and a big decision, not only for him as a professional, but for us as a family.  Our gypsy lifestyle will soon be ending, but where exactly we're going to look around and say, This is it, remains to be seen.

Of course, for just today, the perfect place would have been somewhere right down the street from a one-hour dry cleaner.

public service announcement

My husband was on call recently and ended up in the operating room to fix up an eyeball that had been sliced open.

Apparently a young child tried to open a can of Vienna sausages* with a steak knife.  Said knife failed to open the can and but instead ended up in the eyeball.  (Every indication is that the eye will be ok.)

There is a lesson to be learned here, and I think it is this:

DON'T EAT VIENNA SAUSAGES.

*How do you pronounce this word?  I have always said "VEE-in-ah", like the city in Austria.  However, a sweet Southern woman corrected me yesterday in the telling of the story to explain that, down here, it's "VI-EEEEEEN-ah".   

the beginning of the end of the "transition"

Thank you to everyone who sent wishes of congratulations by comment or e-mail or just good karma (I see you, damn lurkers!).  There's nothing like getting knocked up to bring out the good in the internet.  I should have unprotected sex more often.

Speaking of which, I shaved my legs yesterday morning, and for one very good reason: my husband arrived in town.  It had been three weeks since Claire and I left Nashville to set up our house here, and his presence has been missed terribly by both of us.  We've been waiting and waiting and waiting.

In the days B.C., Ron and I could tolerate fairly long periods of separation with a little sadness but no desperation.  We traveled on and off independent of one another, and did so without too many tears or frantic phone calls to come home soon.  Now, however, with the requirement of single-parenting and the general sense that we are all in a much better head space when the threesome is intact, these periods can't be over soon enough.  I know that there are many people who have partners who travel for long intervals on a regular basis, people whose spouses go serve in the military for months on end, and parents who go it alone all the time.  Let's just say I am not cut out for that kind of gig, but you have my utmost respect.

The other exciting thing that happened Friday is that I got a phone message from our real estate agent that said this: "It's 4 pm on Friday and you no longer own a condo in Nashville."  Ron had closed our side of the paperwork on Thursday, but there had been much confusion about when exactly the buyer would get his shit together to close.  In light of this chaos, multiple powers of attorney had been required -- one to Ron for me, and one for both to our agent, just in case -- and, well, wasn't that fun.  But the deal is done and the money should be in our account Monday morning.  Thank goodness.

I am loving Charleston so far and commanded Ron today that he should find a job here because I don't want to move and don't want to leave.  Of course, we were at the beach, and the sun and the waves and the cute if underage surfer boys may have been influencing my opinion at that very moment.  But, frankly, I'm charmed.  We'll see if the honeymoon lasts.

vroom vroom

Ron called the mechanic this afternoon to see if they'd diagnosed the car.  Now, I should start by saying that my husband knows very little about auto mechanics.  As in, almost nothing.  I made him call, however, because of this sense I have that a man is less likely to be swindled.  It may be a misperception, but hell, I rode the bus -- he can make the phone call.

I see him nodding and answering in the affirmative to do the work.  When he gets off, I ask him what the problem was.

His answer resembled something like this: "Phlange somethin' somethin'...connection from exhaust to carburator...mumble mumble...should be done tomorrow."

I realized that he had no clue what had just transpired, and he affirmed this as truth.

"Yeah," he said, "They always try to explain this stuff, but I know so little I want to stop and ask them, 'Wait!  Does that make the car go forward or back?'"