My house which until recently felt like it was falling down – well perhaps not so much falling down as being ripped to pieces – is starting to take on a more ‘houselike’ appearance again with the weekend’s addition of some wall frames and trusses etc. Erick the Half a Bee is fantastic. I can’t believe that he’s doing all this for us. I don’t know anyone else in my entire life who would do something quite so generous as to help us build an entire room onto our house…. it’s a little bewildering really as he seems to be missing that whole "What’s in it for me?" that most people seem to have come preprogrammed with.
It’s been great spending so much time with him too. He’s pretty easy going and a lot of fun… and cos he was my favourite cousin growing up we have quite a few ‘Remember whens…’ to mull over. But… (there had to be one coming didn’t there) there’s been a recent development which has added a whole new level of stress to the already stressful building endeavour.
Erick the Half a Bee and his wife are Foster Carers and a couple of months ago they were entrusted with the care of a newborn baby girl whose mother is some sort of crack whore. Okay slight exaggeration… she’s some sort of methamphetamine junkie but you get the idea (bit of background – this woman has had her three previous children removed from her care at birth in similar circumstances I understand and has several times abandoned rehab programs).
Anyway, they were charged with the little baby directly after the necessary detox period until the Mother (and I use the term loosely) decided to go into rehab (yet again) and I’m not sure why, but the little one was given back to her to be her ‘motivation and incentive to get herself cleaned up’. To make a long story short the Mother (strangely enough) ended up failing in spectacular fashion when it came to meeting the demands of care taking for a newborn whilst trying to beat drug addiction and the baby has ended up back at home with Erick the Half a Bee and his wife for an indefinte period at this point…. luckily for the little one I think.
Now to the crux of the issue. I don’t want a mewling (there’s a word you just don’t get to use a lot) infant in my house. In the last decade I think there’s been maybe one or two of my friends for whom I have been genuinely happy when they’ve gone and done the breeding thing… but as for the rest, those have required the positively exhausting socially acceptable exercise of using the expected ‘I’m so happy for you’ smiley face to be in situ at all times. Mr K had asked Erick the Half a Bee if the baby would be coming down with him on the weekend as he knows the little blighters still push my buttons (though fuck knows why after all this time the angst lingers on) and he got a reply that went something like this ‘If Borys wants her room finished she’ll just have to deal with it!" which sounds nothing like Erick the Half a Bee and everything like his opinionated wife. Opinionated is normally a good thing – hell I’m about as opinionated as they come but I was taken aback by the complete lack of sensitivity in the statement given the situation.
So they turned up on Friday evening. Thankfully the innocent little offender was asleep…. but when I stumbled out of bed on the Saturday and was confronted with a dirty nappy on the kitchen bench, an empty baby bottle near the kettle, another one on the coffee table in the living room, a can of formula (some of which was spilt on the bench), dummy, bunny rugs and other baby like acoutrements around the place I stood there shivering, looking around and shaking my head and thought to myself – "Self… it’s time to get the fuck out of Dodge!"
So I took the Small Child to soccer which is not a fun endeavour when you’ve had hardly any sleep and there’s no decent seating for love or money at the soccer fields. After that I went to K-Mart to buy a laundry basket, some sneakers for the Small Child and other bits and bobs. Then I went to get my car handwashed which cos it was Saturday took well over an hour or more (what a pity). Then home for a quick sandwich before taking the Small Child and his little JackAss of a friend to the cinema to see Night at the Museum 2 only to come home quickly shower and change before heading out to the Fur and Feather party at Monkey Manor… whereupon I got mightly smashed.
All up I think I may have spent a total of two hours at home and all because I didn’t want to be dealing with a baby in the house. Pain, depression, anxiety, panic and all other good things that have been happening in my life of late haven’t left a great deal in reserve for dealing with infants at the moment.
Though in truth… it’s been almost four years since my last IVF cycle so puny humans really shouldn’t bother me anymore right? When is this shit going to go away?!?!