Schoolgirl Crushes

Lately I’ve noticed developing these silly little schoolgirl crushes on boys from my class. And when I say “boys,” I meant one of them is like 33 and the other is probably around 26. So while the latter is probably way too young for me, I guess the former isn’t that much younger than I am.

One of them recently added me on Facebook and last night in class, I got the distinct impression he was glaring at me. I’m assuming, based on the couple of times we’ve hung out at the same place at the same time, and a tiny bit of harmless flirting, that he was maybe, possibly interested in me. And I’m assuming that, after a bit of Facebook lurking, he discovered I’m married. And I’m guessing he didn’t think this was the case. So, in our class last night, we kept making eye contact, and I felt a little bit of you lied to me coming from him, despite the fact that I wear a wedding band and my relationship status never came up in conversation.

The funny thing is, I do sort of feel bad. Although I never intentionally led the guy on, nor felt I’d behaved inappropriately or given him false information, I admit entertaining a bit of a Courtney-as-a-single-gal fantasy.

If I’m being completely honest with myself, I know that as a younger and single woman who didn’t have a child, I would be having a seriously fabulous and nasty time living in Chicago. I am a woman of relatively flexible morals when it comes to dating. Well, that’s not quite right, though. I’m about honesty and being forthright with people when I’ve dated. Maybe you could say I’m just an ethical slut.

I think part of it is that we’re in a bit of a rut at home. It’s been something like 12 years and, after the rather rough patch during the first couple of years of our relationship, Charlie and I have been pretty close since then. When Bea came along, and then my dad moved in with us . . . facing those challenges brought us even closer, but on a different level. He feels like a great friend, but sometimes I wonder if we’re ever going to be alone together again. I have school, he has work. In a few months, Bea will go to preschool twice a week and I’ll be working at the university writing center. I’m not quite sure how that will mean spending more time together.

So I guess the crushes have more to do with a lack of excitement in the relationship, and part of it is that these two guys are a lot of what Charlie is not. And I mean that in neither a good nor a bad way; just that they’re very different. The younger one of them is incredibly tall, really smart, and super funny. Yesterday he was sitting outside talking to some other people in our program, and I admit I stood behind him and stared at his head, dreamily.

The other guy is pretty short, really quiet, and seems a bit moody. He’s the one who was giving me weird looks in class. Both guys are excellent writers and, of course, in an English graduate program, so that would probably be the biggest major difference between them and what’s at home. Charlie enjoys reading, but could care less about spelling, grammar, or learning how to string together a paragraph of prose.

I’m guessing a date night is in order.

With Charlie, of course.

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Second Opinon

Of course, the internet is full of information about all kinds of things, and I’ve done my fair share of searching for guidance on dealing with fibroids, but I haven’t had much luck. I would like an honest, straight forward response from a doctor (whom I can understand when he or she speaks) that explains how many there are, how big they are, what sorts of procedures I will need to treat them.

As of this moment, I’m no further ahead in my understanding than I was a couple of months ago when I suspected that fibroids were what I was dealing with. I’ve been to the same facility three times since the end of March/beginning April, and though my suspicions were confirmed, no one knows anything. 

The first appointment was just an annual checkup and a list of my symptoms. The midwife said it certainly sounded like fibroids, so she ordered an ultrasound. I had to make an appointment and went in a week or two later, only to discover that I had to have an external and an internal version of the u/s. Not too pleased about that experience.

A week passes and no on calls me. I call the office. Eventually, the midwife I saw calls me–from home–to say she doesn’t really know anything new: the u/s tech didn’t put any details in the report, there’s nothing about the size or number of the fibroids, just that we’re dealing with submucosal uterine fibroids. At least, I think that’s what she said. I’ve since forgotten. She then suggested I call the office and make an appointment to follow up and get more information from the head gynecologist who’s “a really, really great guy, awesome,” and only there on Thursdays.

Fast forward over three weeks and I finally go in yesterday morning. I had to find a babysitter, which almost meant my father in law having to take vacation time off from work but, thankfully, my friend and former co-worker from Indy, Katie, was available. I walked over to the facility, checked in 15 minutes early, and waited. And waited. And waited. Twenty minutes after my appointment time, I was finally called back.

Without going into all the annoying details, we spent approximately 40 minutes going back and forth, politely, attempting to understand what was going on. He didn’t know why I was there, what my symptoms were, or even who I was. At one point, we had an exchange where it became clear that information was in my medical report that wasn’t even mine.
“So you’ve had X, Y, and Z done here?” He read from the computer.
“Uh, no. I’ve never had that done.”
“Oh. Must be someone else, then.” 
I wanted to ask why someone else’s information would be in my file. I wanted to ask him a lot of things: why he kept insisting on performing a pelvic when I’d already stated three times that I was menstruating and heavily (one of the symptoms of fibroids). Why he couldn’t locate my ultrasound. Why he didn’t even know my ultrasound had been performed in that same facility less than a month prior.

Now I have to make an appointment to go the hospital and have my uterus filled with saline solution so they can see exactly how big and where the fibroids are. I really don’t want to have this done, and the more I read about it, the more I want to cry. It’s gotten to the point that I’m seriously considering a second opinion because I’m scared and I don’t understand why they have to do all of this when they had the opportunity to measure the size/number of fibroids during the first transvaginal u/s. Maybe I’m just psyching myself out.

The most irritating part about all of this is that I’ve been dealing with this pain for months, finally went to get some help, and not a single doctor, nurse, or midwife has so much as suggested what I can take to relive my pain and get me through those first couple of days while I keep having all of these procedures done. I don’t want to ask for painkillers, but it would be nice if someone offered them. 

Astounded by Development

The amount of information my daughter has absorbed, retained, and been able to communicate or regurgitate completely astounds me. I think one of the reasons every parent thinks their child is a genius is just because you watch them turn from a bag of drooling, pooping, puking flesh into a small person who can string together sentences and make jokes in a matter of a couple of years. 

And, yet, some of the things Bea understands just seem so advanced for her age. Does a kid who’s not even three understand sarcasm? This one does. Of course, it helps that she’s lived with me her entire life, so she may have just developed an understanding of when I’m joking. 

I’m going to take a moment to brag here, but she can count to twenty in English, and ten in Spanish. She knows a couple of words in Chinese (Mandarin), German, French, and Japanese. I don’t think she understands the difference between all of the languages, but she knows what the words mean. She knows quite a few words in Spanish, but probably couldn’t string together a sentence. She knows 20, maybe 30 signs. She’s been speaking in full sentences for about a year. Of course, she isn’t full potty trained, and I admit I had no idea it would take THIS LONG, but we’ve made a tremendous amount of progress in the past week, so I’m pleased about that.

Her memory is also astounding. As we went down the stairs this morning for our Monday visit to the local cafe/play area for toddlers, she was talking about my friend Liz, whose house she hasn’t been to since last November. She furrowed her brow, looked up, and put a finger to her lips in one of those hmmmm-I’m-thinking-here kind of moves, then says, “I went to Liz’s house and played with Play-Doh and we made a snowman.” 

That was seven months ago. I’m not sure Liz would remember making snowmen out of Play-Doh.

But then again, there isn’t anything else in their brains. They come out, the mind is empty, save for a few synapses firing that control the arms and legs (barely), and they spend decades filling it up.

One tear-jerker moment we had was yesterday morning. I was making her bed and she kept trying to climb into it to jump up and down (typical). I asked her to stop and she wanted to know why. I said, “One, I’m trying to make the bed and I can’t do that with you jumping on it. Two, you could fall off and really hurt yourself.”

“Fall off and hit my head and go to the hospital like Kermit?” She asked, referring to Muppets Take Manhattan when Kermit gets hit by a car. 

“Yes.”

“Or maybe I fall off and get hurt really bad and die?”

Of course, her next question was “Why is Mommy crying?”

I know she sort-of/kind-of gets what happened to Trinity last summer. She understands Trinity isn’t here anymore and that she “fell asleep and never woke up,” but I don’t think she full comprehends what that means. Still, hearing her say something like this was just traumatic for me. I explained that it made me cry because I’d prefer to keep her around and talking like that tends to make people feel kind of bad. 

Then I changed to subject and we started counting in Spanish.