Not only is it tough to find street parking in the city sometimes, often, okay frequently, but you rarely get the same spot. If you do, and it’s a good spot, then you’re having a super fantastic set of days and will be grinning from ear to ear for hours. For those of you who are a little more advanced in years, you know how hard it is to remember what you ate yesterday let alone where you parked the car. And parking the car in the city isn’t like going to the Wal-mart and parking the car and forgetting which aisle you finally decided on and how far down. No. Parking a car in the city involves knowing what street you parked it on, what side of the street, what block it’s on, and if you need to have a special pass to park it there or move it by a certain time in the morning so you don’t get a ticket. (And by ticket I mean $50. We’re not talking the twenty-five cent fine you get for parking at the penny meters in my hometown of Sycamore. Fifty bucks a pop.)
And, I must add, living in the city also affords us the “luxury” of having only one car (meaning it is so expensive to live here and so tough to find a parking space that we only can afford one car and the pain it takes to park it.) So we share. That means that whenever we take the car somewhere, not only must we remember what street we parked it on, what block, what side and about how many cars in from the intersection it is, we also have to remember to tell our spouse where we parked it. Which leads me to the main topic of this rant: street parking.
I have, quite possibly, the best husband in the world. (Many wives say it but I mean it, he really is awesome.) One night I was headed out to my knitting club with baby Ada in her car seat. I had fed her, bundled her up, packed her snugly in her car seat, and headed out to find the car. I called my wonderful husband and asked him where he parked the car since he had it last. He said he thought it was on Wellington, on our side of the street, half way or three quarters of the way down our block.
“You think that’s where it is or you know? It’s 2 degrees out and I have the baby with me.” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure.” He replies with a sense of uncertainty and hesitation.
“It better be.”
“Yeah, it is. I think.”
Still not convinced, I grab Ada in her car seat and my knitting basket (I’m working on a baby blanket for her that I hope to have done before she’s 20.) I also have my hat, gloves, winter coat, winter boots, house keys, car keys, purse and cell phone. We’re ready. We head out our front door, shimmy through the inner vestibule door, then the outer vestibule door, and into the freezing cold night air that steals my breath and threatens never to give it back.
Down the sidewalk we go making footprints in the newly fallen snow. Man this kid is heavy. She’s about ten pounds and the car seat is probably another five and my super mom upper arm muscles haven’t come in yet. We’re walking. Actually I’m walking and leaning my upper body to the right to counteract the weight of the car seat as it scrapes my thigh while she sleeps in her cozy Bundle Me. I’ve put my right glove in my pocket so I can hold the car keys and push the clicker so that if I get close to the car, the lights will flash. Most of you suburbanites just think those lights are for “security purposes” or to let you know the car is locked. Let me tell you. They are really handy when you are trying to figure out which Honda Civic is yours when it’s one of the most popular cars in the city and all of the cars are covered in snow. Oh, and for fun add in the fact that you don’t know where you, or your spouse in this case, parked the car.
So, yes, I’m walking down the street, pushing the button as I go. My hand is frozen. I get to the other end of our street and I didn’t see our car. I start back toward the house continuing to click the button. Nothing. I dig out my cell phone and call my fabulous husband at work.
Sternly I say, “Rick. Where is the car?”
“I told you it’s on Wellington.”
“Where exactly on Wellington?”
“Well, I can’t remember.”
“I’m freezing, carrying the baby in the car seat and this is not the time for you to not be sure about where you parked the car.”
“It could be across the street.”
“It could be? Or it is?”
“I think it is.”
Click. I hang up. I walk across the street as I try to take a deep breath. A kind elderly woman pushing a cart on wheels-- the kind you take to the grocery store when you live in the city and want to save your wrists from breaking if you were to lug it all back home—asks me if she can help me as I’m obviously frustrated. I thank her kindly and explain that my husband lost our car. She asks me if I’d like to put the car seat on her cart if we are going the same way. I explain that I am actually going the other way but thank her profusely as I dial my husband’s number again.
“Rick.” The anger in my voice is increasing. “Where is the @#%^% car?”
“I told you, it’s across the street.”
“No, it isn’t. I’ve been up and down our block two and a half times now. Where is the #$^^%@ car already?” I ask curtly, my frozen fingers throbbing as I grasp the cell phone and refrain from whipping it at the snowy sidewalk and throwing the tantrum of the century.
“It’s not on our block. Across the street meaning Clark.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“That’s what I said the first time. Across the street.”
“I thought you meant the North side of Wellington. Forget it.” Disheartened, and really, really, really mad at this point, I hang up on him again, re-cross our street and head toward Clark Street.
By now, my biceps are screaming, my fingers are entering the early stages of frost bite, and I have to wait for the light to change green to give me a walk signal. After what seems like hours, I get the little white man walk signal and awkwardly waddle across the street alternating the car seat from my left side to my right side and back again.
As if this wasn’t enough of a challenge, it is rush hour and a load of passengers have just gotten off the El and are coming toward me. While dodging the onslaught of commuters and their duffel bags, mongo purses, briefcases and puffy coats, I retrieve the keys from my pocket and continue pushing the unlock button. My hand feels like it might fall off at this point. I’m four cars in when finally the lights flicker from under the snow. Thank goodness! I’ve found it. Fumbling with my glove and my keys in my right hand, I make my final approach to the passenger side of the car. I swing the car seat around next to the back door and… where are my keys? I just had them. That’s how I knew this was my car. I check my pocket. Nope. The folds of Ada’s bundle me? No. The snow next to the car? No. My eyes are starting to well up and I feel an emotional breakdown coming on. I look up and glance to my right when an Asian woman approaches me and says “Are these your keys?” “Yes!” I reply and thank her profusely. I must have dropped them when my hand went numb from the cold.
Quickly, for fear of losing my entire limb instead of just my hand, I unlock the car, load Ada inside, start the engine, turn on the defrost and grab the snow scraper. Just then, my phone rings. It’s the two knitting ladies calling to check on me since I was supposed to be downtown to pick them up five minutes ago. “I caught a bit of a snag. I’ll pick up my husband, throw him in the river and be right there to get you guys.”
With a few quick sweeps of the snow brush, the car is clean and we’re on our way to get my husband from work. We pick him up and I’ve chosen the silent route. He looks me in the eyes and says “sorry”. We then proceed to get my knitting buddies from their office, arrive at knitting and fittingly send my husband away with the car since there is nowhere to park nearby my friend’s south loop apartment.
Moral of the story: Even the best husband in the world has his bad days, Winter in Chicago can be really, really, really cold, and foregoing a reserved parking spot may save you money but not your marriage, strike that, I mean sanity.
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Monday, April 7, 2008
09 Rant Street Parking - Part 1
If you live in the city and don't pay a bundle of money for a reserved parking space, I think you'll really relate to this entry. If you live in the burbs with a fancy driveway that fits 4 cars nicely, this will make you realize and be thankful for what you've got. And if you live on a farm where your entire front lawn can become a parking lot for an annual pig roast, well, just understand we’re in two totally different places here.
Being a city dweller has its ups and downs. One up swing is that we can park for free on the city streets - assuming we pay about a hundred dollars a year for a parking sticker and don't park in an illegal space or on the wrong side of the street during street cleaning days or within 15 feet of a fire hydrant or within 10 feet of a stop sign or ... you get the point. One down side is actually being able to find a spot that your car will fit into, and having the parallel parking skills to squeeze into it without damaging the surrounding cars.
With that said, you can imagine my excitement when I find an open space right in front of my condo, or even within 10 car lengths. It's like winning the lotto. And if you move the car everyday and are lucky to do so when there is a lot of turnover on the street, you feel the lottery winner high most days. However, when you can't find a spot, life starts looking bad. Very bad, very quickly.
Having a child has complicated this immensely. Before baby, if I was parked a block over, so what. Now if I’m a block over it’s a question of “Can I carry her and the car seat that far without the stroller or do I have to make this a huge production?” “Can someone go get the car for me?” “Do we really need to run that errand today?”
And getting to the car isn’t always the issue. If the car is right out front, my fear is giving up such a great spot and not being able to find one that is a similar distance from our home. When I get home I wonder “Will I be able to carry her, the car seat, and whatever we may have collected or purchased on our adventures back into the house with me?” And then I think, “Should I take the stroller with me just in case we don’t find a good spot when we get back?” It’s a lot to consider.
Last Friday I took Ada to see the doctor for her second cold of her life. She’s three months old mind you. I started the trip asking the usual questions. The car was parked right across the street and I decided to chance getting a similar spot on the return so I didn’t bother dragging the stroller out with me. We went to the Dr.’s office and returned an hour later to a complete lack of parking options. I drove around the block hoping something would open up as it usually does. No luck. I drove around again, and again, and again. Finally on the fifth time around our block, I pulled over to the side, put my hazard lights on and sat and waited for someone to pull out of a space in front of our house. When a car finally pulled out of a fifteen minute loading zone, a car passing me had the nerve to consider pulling next to the space and trying to take it. Then he correctly realized I would kill him if he took the spot and that it was only a loading zone so he moved on. I didn’t want the fifteen minute spot either since I live on this block and fifteen minutes just won’t cut it. So I give up and circle the block again. This time I notice the woman in the car that is parked half in the fifteen minute zone and half in the regular street parking area is about to move. I quickly line up behind her and turn on my signal. She pulls out and I pull in. I move the car as far up as possible and rest against the bumper in front of me hoping that if the ticket guy sees that more than half of my car is in the regular street parking zone he won’t give me a ticket for the back half of my car being in the loading zone.
I unload the baby, the car seat and the diaper bag and return home through the outer and inner vestibule doors. I get the baby settled down for our afternoon routine and periodically peak out the front window to see if I’ve been ticketed or if a fully legal space has opened up. After checking on the car ten times, I decide to risk it and just have my husband move it when he gets home since I can’t really move it without taking Ada in the car seat with me. It’s almost worth the $50 ticket not to have to deal with all of that.
It’s nearing the end of the day and I’m waiting for my husband to get home. I put Ada in her crib and turn on her mobile so I could go wash my hands from changing her. Just out of curiosity I peak out the front window. Oh my goodness! There is a spot! Right in front of the spot I’m sort of in that is halfway legal! Think fast. What do I do? Quick. Get your sandals on. Grab the house keys. Grab the car keys. Baby’s fine in her crib. Go. Fast.
I whip open the front door, the inner vestibule door, the outer vestibule door, down the three steps to the sidewalk, full out sprinting the twenty feet to the driver side door while clicking the unlock button. I hop in, turn on the ignition and pull the car forward a whole eight feet! Yes! I got it. I put it in park, turn off the car, get out, push the lock button as I sprint back to the building, up the three stairs, unlock the outer vestibule door, then the inner vestibule door, then the front door and do my little happy dance. Ada is still cooing in her crib while watching her mobile spin round and round. Woohoo!
Meanwhile, outside the people in traffic on my street are wondering why some crazy lady just sprinted out of her house and moved her car eight feet while in house slippers. After all, it’s just a parking spot.
Moral of the story: Watch the Cubs game schedule when trying to park in front of my house on the first Friday in April, whenever in doubt opt for the stroller, and don’t ever try to take a spot from a woman trying to park with a screaming baby in the back seat as it may very well just cost you your life.
Being a city dweller has its ups and downs. One up swing is that we can park for free on the city streets - assuming we pay about a hundred dollars a year for a parking sticker and don't park in an illegal space or on the wrong side of the street during street cleaning days or within 15 feet of a fire hydrant or within 10 feet of a stop sign or ... you get the point. One down side is actually being able to find a spot that your car will fit into, and having the parallel parking skills to squeeze into it without damaging the surrounding cars.
With that said, you can imagine my excitement when I find an open space right in front of my condo, or even within 10 car lengths. It's like winning the lotto. And if you move the car everyday and are lucky to do so when there is a lot of turnover on the street, you feel the lottery winner high most days. However, when you can't find a spot, life starts looking bad. Very bad, very quickly.
Having a child has complicated this immensely. Before baby, if I was parked a block over, so what. Now if I’m a block over it’s a question of “Can I carry her and the car seat that far without the stroller or do I have to make this a huge production?” “Can someone go get the car for me?” “Do we really need to run that errand today?”
And getting to the car isn’t always the issue. If the car is right out front, my fear is giving up such a great spot and not being able to find one that is a similar distance from our home. When I get home I wonder “Will I be able to carry her, the car seat, and whatever we may have collected or purchased on our adventures back into the house with me?” And then I think, “Should I take the stroller with me just in case we don’t find a good spot when we get back?” It’s a lot to consider.
Last Friday I took Ada to see the doctor for her second cold of her life. She’s three months old mind you. I started the trip asking the usual questions. The car was parked right across the street and I decided to chance getting a similar spot on the return so I didn’t bother dragging the stroller out with me. We went to the Dr.’s office and returned an hour later to a complete lack of parking options. I drove around the block hoping something would open up as it usually does. No luck. I drove around again, and again, and again. Finally on the fifth time around our block, I pulled over to the side, put my hazard lights on and sat and waited for someone to pull out of a space in front of our house. When a car finally pulled out of a fifteen minute loading zone, a car passing me had the nerve to consider pulling next to the space and trying to take it. Then he correctly realized I would kill him if he took the spot and that it was only a loading zone so he moved on. I didn’t want the fifteen minute spot either since I live on this block and fifteen minutes just won’t cut it. So I give up and circle the block again. This time I notice the woman in the car that is parked half in the fifteen minute zone and half in the regular street parking area is about to move. I quickly line up behind her and turn on my signal. She pulls out and I pull in. I move the car as far up as possible and rest against the bumper in front of me hoping that if the ticket guy sees that more than half of my car is in the regular street parking zone he won’t give me a ticket for the back half of my car being in the loading zone.
I unload the baby, the car seat and the diaper bag and return home through the outer and inner vestibule doors. I get the baby settled down for our afternoon routine and periodically peak out the front window to see if I’ve been ticketed or if a fully legal space has opened up. After checking on the car ten times, I decide to risk it and just have my husband move it when he gets home since I can’t really move it without taking Ada in the car seat with me. It’s almost worth the $50 ticket not to have to deal with all of that.
It’s nearing the end of the day and I’m waiting for my husband to get home. I put Ada in her crib and turn on her mobile so I could go wash my hands from changing her. Just out of curiosity I peak out the front window. Oh my goodness! There is a spot! Right in front of the spot I’m sort of in that is halfway legal! Think fast. What do I do? Quick. Get your sandals on. Grab the house keys. Grab the car keys. Baby’s fine in her crib. Go. Fast.
I whip open the front door, the inner vestibule door, the outer vestibule door, down the three steps to the sidewalk, full out sprinting the twenty feet to the driver side door while clicking the unlock button. I hop in, turn on the ignition and pull the car forward a whole eight feet! Yes! I got it. I put it in park, turn off the car, get out, push the lock button as I sprint back to the building, up the three stairs, unlock the outer vestibule door, then the inner vestibule door, then the front door and do my little happy dance. Ada is still cooing in her crib while watching her mobile spin round and round. Woohoo!
Meanwhile, outside the people in traffic on my street are wondering why some crazy lady just sprinted out of her house and moved her car eight feet while in house slippers. After all, it’s just a parking spot.
Moral of the story: Watch the Cubs game schedule when trying to park in front of my house on the first Friday in April, whenever in doubt opt for the stroller, and don’t ever try to take a spot from a woman trying to park with a screaming baby in the back seat as it may very well just cost you your life.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
08 Rant Renovation
It is widely known that renovation is never easy. So why my husband and I thought it would be a quick and easy project to install a washer/dryer combo unit in our bedroom closet is beyond me. Way beyond me.
This all started when we had Ada and realized, (insert light bulb here), that babies soil everything they touch and thereby increase your amount of laundry dramatically. And to compound the issue, we’re trying to save money and the environment by using cloth diapers(see 07 Advice). So having one baby equals three or four additional loads of laundry each week for us.
My whole reasoning for even putting a washer dryer in our condo unit is that it is better for resale, we’ll get the investment back when we sell our place, and it will be more convenient not having to walk out the back door, down a flight of stairs, unlock the basement door and lug the laundry to the coin machines. My real breaking point was when one washer and one dryer out of the four machines downstairs decided to not work properly but to continue eating my hard earned quarters. Five quarters per load to be exact, then five more for the dryer.
I hit my breaking point quickly. Ada was born mid-December and I made it to Valentine’s Day-- almost two whole months mind you. I researched different machines online and went with an LG WM3431HW that we purchased from Compact Appliance. It’s an expensive piece of equipment, $1,300 after free shipping and the romantic holiday sale. It arrived just three days later, and has since been a conversation piece in our living room and then a night stand draped in plastic in our bedroom.
Our first mistake was to assume we could install hookups in our closet by sprinkling fairy dust in our bedroom. Turns out that in reality it took our friend Martin and my husband a day to bump out the closet wall six inches, several nights of re-mudding the drywall, half a day for the electrician, and a day and a half for the plumber, not to mention all the time it will take my wonderful husband to re-drywall, mud, sand, paint and re-install the closet organization system.
An inch of drywall dust later, (unfortunately they were out of fairy dust), we might have a running washer/dryer Tuesday evening, April 8th. Yes, that is just shy of two months later. Why? Because we thought our friend could do the plumbing, but it turned out to be way too complicated with a cast iron stack in the basement and no access to a vent pipe. Then we made the mistake of believing our plumber when he said he’d get us a quote. After three weeks of nagging him, the quote was $2,500! Ticked off from all that drama we called plumber #2 and he stopped by that day, quoted it on the spot, and is starting one week later for $700 less. Still way more than we expected but what can we do?
So that is the background to the story. Let’s zoom in on the day Plumber #2 came to visit.
April Fool’s Day started out well. Rick called to say that the plumber would be calling sometime today and maybe stop by to give us a quote. Awesome! Finally a responsive plumber. I was still in my pajamas feeding Ada when the plumber, Chuck, called. Mind you this was already my second pair of pajamas since Ada woke up this morning and threw up on me, down my cleavage and all over my pants at her first feeding.
Chuck said he’d come over at 11 to take a look. Fabulous! It’s 10 am and Ada is a bit fussy. I get the wise idea of taking a quick shower before Chuck arrives so I feel human and don’t smell like barf. I put Ada in her bouncy seat --which has no bounce as the batteries are dead and Rick hasn’t had a chance to change them and I don’t have four hands or a clone to do it either. I set it in front of the bathroom door as gather clothes to wear and undress for my shower. She starts screaming the instant I’m naked. Thank goodness I’ve got the blinds closed throughout the house as I now have to pick her up, walk to her room and nurse while naked. A few minutes later we try again. She’s still fussing in her bouncy seat and I jump in the shower. I have fifteen minutes until he gets here and can get ready in three so this is good.
I’m showering when, of course, the phone rings. I quickly shut off the water, grab my towel, run on tip toes past the screaming baby to the kitchen to get the phone, but it’s in the living room. We have 1,000 square feet of condo, two cordless phones and a wall phone and they are all in the living room. What are the chances of that? So I run on tip toes to the living room, soaking the floor along the way. “Amanda, it’s Chuck. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.” “Great. See you then.” I go back to the bathroom, towel off and jump into my clothes while singing to Ada to calm her down. I’m mopping up all of the water I’ve strewn through our condo when the buzzer sounds. It’s been five minutes and he’s here. Ada is fussing as I let him in. I grab her and introduce her as our family mascot. While she screams, I show him the closet.
“Oh, this isn’t good. That’s a problem. Is there a unit below you?” he asks.
“Nope. It’s the basement.” I reply.
“Okay. That’s good. Can I see it?”
“Yep.”
With Ada under my arm, I grab the key and head downstairs.
“Oh, this is better than I thought. If you were on a higher floor this wouldn’t work.”
He proceeds to tell me how he can do it and quotes it out. I thank him and we head out of the basement. Again with Ada in my arms I fumble with the MasterLock for a minute and finally get it to click, no thanks to him.
Back inside he checks out the closet again.
“I’ll have to make a new hole in the wall since the electrical is in the way.”
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“When the original plumber came to give us a quote, the electrician was here and I asked that question specifically and he told me it wouldn’t be a problem. I work with engineers and married an architect so I understand the whole coordinating projects and tried to prevent this. Oh well. It’s just drywall. Rick can fix that.”
“Okay, so we’ll cut the back wall open and put in a vent pipe at 48 inches.”
“Sounds great.” I reply.
He leaves and I call Rick to relay the message. We agree to go ahead with the project.
After calling the plumber to give him the go ahead, I hear a strange thumping noise. I thought maybe it was cell phone interference with the computer speakers but they were turned off. After a few minutes I decide to investigate. Then it dawns on me. As I enter our bedroom I realized that I had tried to put Ada in her swing before I sat her in her bouncy seat. She didn’t care for the swing so I folded it up and put it in our bedroom. I assumed the batteries were dead since it never seemed to swing on its own. To my surprise, there it was, folded up against the bedroom wall and rhythmically knocking it. How about that. The batteries do work!
Now it’s time for lunch. Ada nurses for a bit then goes down for a mini nap. I heat up a baked potato. As soon as the microwave goes off saying it’s done, she wakes up screaming. Hold on potato, I’ll be back. I get her back to sleep long enough to reheat the potato, add cheese, bacon and just as I’m adding the sour cream, she starts screaming again. Will I ever get to eat? I put her back on the boob and eat with my magical mom skills (aka the mysterious third hand).
In all of the chaos of the day, I decided to use a digital microphone to record this crazy line of events so I could blog it. To do so, I needed to get the batteries from the closet under the stair and to top things off, I hit my head on the low ceiling.
Moral of the story: Don’t remodel and think twice before procreating.
This all started when we had Ada and realized, (insert light bulb here), that babies soil everything they touch and thereby increase your amount of laundry dramatically. And to compound the issue, we’re trying to save money and the environment by using cloth diapers(see 07 Advice). So having one baby equals three or four additional loads of laundry each week for us.
My whole reasoning for even putting a washer dryer in our condo unit is that it is better for resale, we’ll get the investment back when we sell our place, and it will be more convenient not having to walk out the back door, down a flight of stairs, unlock the basement door and lug the laundry to the coin machines. My real breaking point was when one washer and one dryer out of the four machines downstairs decided to not work properly but to continue eating my hard earned quarters. Five quarters per load to be exact, then five more for the dryer.
I hit my breaking point quickly. Ada was born mid-December and I made it to Valentine’s Day-- almost two whole months mind you. I researched different machines online and went with an LG WM3431HW that we purchased from Compact Appliance. It’s an expensive piece of equipment, $1,300 after free shipping and the romantic holiday sale. It arrived just three days later, and has since been a conversation piece in our living room and then a night stand draped in plastic in our bedroom.
Our first mistake was to assume we could install hookups in our closet by sprinkling fairy dust in our bedroom. Turns out that in reality it took our friend Martin and my husband a day to bump out the closet wall six inches, several nights of re-mudding the drywall, half a day for the electrician, and a day and a half for the plumber, not to mention all the time it will take my wonderful husband to re-drywall, mud, sand, paint and re-install the closet organization system.
An inch of drywall dust later, (unfortunately they were out of fairy dust), we might have a running washer/dryer Tuesday evening, April 8th. Yes, that is just shy of two months later. Why? Because we thought our friend could do the plumbing, but it turned out to be way too complicated with a cast iron stack in the basement and no access to a vent pipe. Then we made the mistake of believing our plumber when he said he’d get us a quote. After three weeks of nagging him, the quote was $2,500! Ticked off from all that drama we called plumber #2 and he stopped by that day, quoted it on the spot, and is starting one week later for $700 less. Still way more than we expected but what can we do?
So that is the background to the story. Let’s zoom in on the day Plumber #2 came to visit.
April Fool’s Day started out well. Rick called to say that the plumber would be calling sometime today and maybe stop by to give us a quote. Awesome! Finally a responsive plumber. I was still in my pajamas feeding Ada when the plumber, Chuck, called. Mind you this was already my second pair of pajamas since Ada woke up this morning and threw up on me, down my cleavage and all over my pants at her first feeding.
Chuck said he’d come over at 11 to take a look. Fabulous! It’s 10 am and Ada is a bit fussy. I get the wise idea of taking a quick shower before Chuck arrives so I feel human and don’t smell like barf. I put Ada in her bouncy seat --which has no bounce as the batteries are dead and Rick hasn’t had a chance to change them and I don’t have four hands or a clone to do it either. I set it in front of the bathroom door as gather clothes to wear and undress for my shower. She starts screaming the instant I’m naked. Thank goodness I’ve got the blinds closed throughout the house as I now have to pick her up, walk to her room and nurse while naked. A few minutes later we try again. She’s still fussing in her bouncy seat and I jump in the shower. I have fifteen minutes until he gets here and can get ready in three so this is good.
I’m showering when, of course, the phone rings. I quickly shut off the water, grab my towel, run on tip toes past the screaming baby to the kitchen to get the phone, but it’s in the living room. We have 1,000 square feet of condo, two cordless phones and a wall phone and they are all in the living room. What are the chances of that? So I run on tip toes to the living room, soaking the floor along the way. “Amanda, it’s Chuck. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.” “Great. See you then.” I go back to the bathroom, towel off and jump into my clothes while singing to Ada to calm her down. I’m mopping up all of the water I’ve strewn through our condo when the buzzer sounds. It’s been five minutes and he’s here. Ada is fussing as I let him in. I grab her and introduce her as our family mascot. While she screams, I show him the closet.
“Oh, this isn’t good. That’s a problem. Is there a unit below you?” he asks.
“Nope. It’s the basement.” I reply.
“Okay. That’s good. Can I see it?”
“Yep.”
With Ada under my arm, I grab the key and head downstairs.
“Oh, this is better than I thought. If you were on a higher floor this wouldn’t work.”
He proceeds to tell me how he can do it and quotes it out. I thank him and we head out of the basement. Again with Ada in my arms I fumble with the MasterLock for a minute and finally get it to click, no thanks to him.
Back inside he checks out the closet again.
“I’ll have to make a new hole in the wall since the electrical is in the way.”
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“When the original plumber came to give us a quote, the electrician was here and I asked that question specifically and he told me it wouldn’t be a problem. I work with engineers and married an architect so I understand the whole coordinating projects and tried to prevent this. Oh well. It’s just drywall. Rick can fix that.”
“Okay, so we’ll cut the back wall open and put in a vent pipe at 48 inches.”
“Sounds great.” I reply.
He leaves and I call Rick to relay the message. We agree to go ahead with the project.
After calling the plumber to give him the go ahead, I hear a strange thumping noise. I thought maybe it was cell phone interference with the computer speakers but they were turned off. After a few minutes I decide to investigate. Then it dawns on me. As I enter our bedroom I realized that I had tried to put Ada in her swing before I sat her in her bouncy seat. She didn’t care for the swing so I folded it up and put it in our bedroom. I assumed the batteries were dead since it never seemed to swing on its own. To my surprise, there it was, folded up against the bedroom wall and rhythmically knocking it. How about that. The batteries do work!
Now it’s time for lunch. Ada nurses for a bit then goes down for a mini nap. I heat up a baked potato. As soon as the microwave goes off saying it’s done, she wakes up screaming. Hold on potato, I’ll be back. I get her back to sleep long enough to reheat the potato, add cheese, bacon and just as I’m adding the sour cream, she starts screaming again. Will I ever get to eat? I put her back on the boob and eat with my magical mom skills (aka the mysterious third hand).
In all of the chaos of the day, I decided to use a digital microphone to record this crazy line of events so I could blog it. To do so, I needed to get the batteries from the closet under the stair and to top things off, I hit my head on the low ceiling.
Moral of the story: Don’t remodel and think twice before procreating.
Monday, March 31, 2008
06 Rant Easter Travels
Talk about exhausting. I thought traveling from my hometown of Sycamore to Macomb each holiday was tough, and I typically wasn’t driving. But doing it with a three month old was excruciating. What is normally a three-and-a-half to four hour drive turned into five hours of “Take the next exit”, “Wahhhhhh”, “No, don’t take the exit, she’s sleeping”, “Damn, take the next exit. She must be wet.” “What? Now we need gas? Seriously? But she’s asleep. Can’t we just coast on fumes for awhile and wave our arms out the windows?”
Our trusty blue Honda Civic did a beautiful job of transporting my family (Me, my husband and my three-month-old daughter Ada) to see my Mom’s side of the family for Easter. It was baby Ada’s debut to the relatives on that side and boy were they ready to meet her. After five grueling hours in the car, for which we had to stop numerous times to change her in the front seat, fill up the gas tank, nurse her so I didn’t explode, take food and bathroom breaks, and just plain stretch, we finally arrived at my aunt’s house. She was waiting patiently on the porch in the cold to get a glimpse of the baby.
It was a calm but eager excitement. I unpacked Ada from the car seat and passed her off for the oohs and ahhs. Then came the necessities-- change her diaper, feed her, and put on her Easter dress. We went with disposable diapers for this trip since we have a bag of size ones to use up before she outgrows them. But I’m a firm believer in the cloth diaper. (More on that later.) So we changed her, and changed her again.
Finally we head over to my other uncle and aunt’s house for Easter spaghetti dinner prepared by my grandfather. Again, oohs and ahhs and ogoling. She was great and dinner went well. She posed for the paparazzi that is my family and my aunts took turns holding her during dinner. What a nice relief to be able to eat dinner at the same time as my husband while the food was still hot. Overall, the evening was pretty uneventful.
We stayed at my cousin’s house. Ada started out in her pack and play but magically spent most of the night in our bed since she was gasey from what I can only guess was the mushrooms, garlic or tomatoes. I can never tell what foods I eat that will make her unhappy later but my grandfather’s spaghetti is definitely up there at the top of the list. But it was so good. Probably not worth losing that much sleep for but oh well. I’ll know better next time.
Morning rolls around and it is trying to snow. Some silly family member thought 9 am was an appropriate time for Easter brunch. We arrived fashionably late at 9:30 after asking my cousin to load all of our stuff in the car, brush off the snow and give Ada her bottle while we frantically got ready. He’s such a great guy (he’s single ladies…).
At brunch we ordered and things were going well until Ada got fussy and had to be changed. My husband took the first shift. He returned to say, “At least the bathrooms are big so I had enough space to change her on the floor.” Great. One of those. For those of you who have never had to change a baby on the bathroom floor of a restaurant, it’s never good. You never know what is on the floor. You try not to let the baby touch the floor at all but the changing pads that come in diaper bags are not very big and with the way babies squirm it is difficult to avoid. Overall, it is a nasty experience and one that should be avoided. Just trust me on this one.
After five hours in the car ride home with more of the same wet, hungry, uncomfortable, sleepy, cranky baby, we made it back to the city just in time to park the car, unload all of our stuff, and pickup the house before heading to bed. It’s unfortunate that my mom’s family is so far away. I’m thankful we get to see them a few times a year and even more thankful we don’t have to do the drive very often.
Moral of the story: Avoid traveling with small children, avoid changing babies on the floor of public restrooms, and avoid marrying someone with a big family that is spread out all over the world if you plan to procreate.
Our trusty blue Honda Civic did a beautiful job of transporting my family (Me, my husband and my three-month-old daughter Ada) to see my Mom’s side of the family for Easter. It was baby Ada’s debut to the relatives on that side and boy were they ready to meet her. After five grueling hours in the car, for which we had to stop numerous times to change her in the front seat, fill up the gas tank, nurse her so I didn’t explode, take food and bathroom breaks, and just plain stretch, we finally arrived at my aunt’s house. She was waiting patiently on the porch in the cold to get a glimpse of the baby.
It was a calm but eager excitement. I unpacked Ada from the car seat and passed her off for the oohs and ahhs. Then came the necessities-- change her diaper, feed her, and put on her Easter dress. We went with disposable diapers for this trip since we have a bag of size ones to use up before she outgrows them. But I’m a firm believer in the cloth diaper. (More on that later.) So we changed her, and changed her again.
Finally we head over to my other uncle and aunt’s house for Easter spaghetti dinner prepared by my grandfather. Again, oohs and ahhs and ogoling. She was great and dinner went well. She posed for the paparazzi that is my family and my aunts took turns holding her during dinner. What a nice relief to be able to eat dinner at the same time as my husband while the food was still hot. Overall, the evening was pretty uneventful.
We stayed at my cousin’s house. Ada started out in her pack and play but magically spent most of the night in our bed since she was gasey from what I can only guess was the mushrooms, garlic or tomatoes. I can never tell what foods I eat that will make her unhappy later but my grandfather’s spaghetti is definitely up there at the top of the list. But it was so good. Probably not worth losing that much sleep for but oh well. I’ll know better next time.
Morning rolls around and it is trying to snow. Some silly family member thought 9 am was an appropriate time for Easter brunch. We arrived fashionably late at 9:30 after asking my cousin to load all of our stuff in the car, brush off the snow and give Ada her bottle while we frantically got ready. He’s such a great guy (he’s single ladies…).
At brunch we ordered and things were going well until Ada got fussy and had to be changed. My husband took the first shift. He returned to say, “At least the bathrooms are big so I had enough space to change her on the floor.” Great. One of those. For those of you who have never had to change a baby on the bathroom floor of a restaurant, it’s never good. You never know what is on the floor. You try not to let the baby touch the floor at all but the changing pads that come in diaper bags are not very big and with the way babies squirm it is difficult to avoid. Overall, it is a nasty experience and one that should be avoided. Just trust me on this one.
After five hours in the car ride home with more of the same wet, hungry, uncomfortable, sleepy, cranky baby, we made it back to the city just in time to park the car, unload all of our stuff, and pickup the house before heading to bed. It’s unfortunate that my mom’s family is so far away. I’m thankful we get to see them a few times a year and even more thankful we don’t have to do the drive very often.
Moral of the story: Avoid traveling with small children, avoid changing babies on the floor of public restrooms, and avoid marrying someone with a big family that is spread out all over the world if you plan to procreate.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
05 Rant Stupid Keys
In each of my previous rants, I have made mention of the inner and outer vestibule doors in my building that are a giant pain in my backside since they make getting in and out of my building extremely difficult with a child. I wish that was the case this time.
Today started out well. Ada had her first transition day at day care. She was there until 2 pm and decided she wasn’t interested in having an afternoon nap. Once we arrived home, she was still fighting the idea of a nap so I fed her a bit. Normally that is a simple task but I was pumping and feeding her a bottle at the same time since she wasn’t hungry when I started – crazy I know.
So, here I am sitting at my computer desk, Ada in the bouncy seat next to me. The pump is at my feet. I have a tube top on that makes the pump hands free. I’m pumping and have prepared a bottle for Ada in case she decides she is hungry mid-pumping. As she bounces away, the hunger cry begins. I grab the bottle and start feeding her. I make the mistake of picking a burp cloth up off the floor to catch her dribbles and to my surprise, both pump containers start to leak all over the floor. I lost about an ounce of milk because these stupid pump containers were not designed to resist gravitational forces when you lean over. (see rant 01 for more design issues involving breastmilk) An ounce is a BIG deal in the world of breastfeeding. This stuff is gold remember. Oh, and since I like to multitask, I’m also on the phone with my husband saying “Shit, Shit, Shit, I’ll call you back. I’m spilling milk all over.” Click.
We survive the milk episode and I’m a bit spacey. “Pregnancy Brain” (overall forgetfulness and an inability to complete a thought while pregnant) doesn’t disappear with the birth of a baby. It just morphs into “Mommy Brain” and becomes a constant state of distraction. Ada is still not interested in taking a nap so I decide we’ll venture out to run errands. We’re expecting a hefty snow storm tomorrow so it is a good time to seize the day and shop. Before motherhood, shopping was enjoyable. Now… not so much.
Facts of life: If You Give A Mouse A Cookie...
he’s going to want a glass of milk.(See the children’s book by that title.) If you want to go shopping, you’re going to need to take a stroller. So as per usual, I bundled baby Ada into her car seat and take her out my front door and into the hallway. She starts crying. I go back inside for the stroller thinking I’ll do this in phases, the shopping list, my coat and the diaper bag are next. Once in the hallway, I have this great idea to take the stroller to stage two: between the vestibule doors, and come back for the rest of the stuff. I open the inner vestibule door and finagle the stroller through. As the stroller clears the doorway it starts rolling down the stairs and I quickly grab it and place it at the bottom of the stair clear of the outer vestibule door in case my neighbors need to get in while I proceed to phases three, four, five and six.
Then it hits me.
I’ve just locked my baby in the hallway of my building, while she’s crying, and I don’t have keys to the vestibule door. I resist the urge to panic and instead prop open the outer vestibule door and push every buzzer in the building as I pray one of my neighbors is home. My chances are limited as I know I’m not going to buzz myself in and I’m fish sitting for one of my neighbors who is in San Francisco so that leaves four options and it is 3:30 in the afternoon. I buzz. No one answers. “Shit, Shit, Shit.” I buzz again. Nothing. So I take a deep breath, step outside (thank goodness it is the first day of Spring and 45 degrees out since I’m not wearing my coat) and flag down the first person to walk by my building. “Hi. Can I borrow your cell phone? I just locked my child in my building and I don’t have my keys.” “Sure,” he says as I quickly call my husband and explain the situation. “How can I get into our house?” I ask. “Ummmm…” He replies. Well, if I wasn’t so anal about locking all of the windows, I could maybe push one open but I’m on an elevated first floor so I’d need this random guy to help me out. Not gonna happen. Back door? Nope, it’s locked too, and I don’t have a key to get into the fenced in area behind the house anyway. The Security Shop around the block has a copy of the key to the doors, but I can’t leave the baby, and they surely won’t give it to this random guy helping me out. Not to mention it would cost me $100 just for them to walk around the block and open the door. Instead, my husband says he’ll grab a cab and be home in 15 minutes. Okay. That will work. I’m saying thanks and goodbye to my random stranger/ hero when one of my neighbors miraculously appears. And she has keys! Thank you God! I thank her profusely for her well timed arrival and go inside to find that Ada is no longer crying after her 2 minute adventure alone in the hallway and is calmly looking around for Mommy. Of course when I go to see if she is okay, she starts crying. Go figure.
Moral of the story: Babies need their naps, don’t try to accomplish anything while a baby is crying, and (obviously) never walk out your front door without keys to get back inside.
Today started out well. Ada had her first transition day at day care. She was there until 2 pm and decided she wasn’t interested in having an afternoon nap. Once we arrived home, she was still fighting the idea of a nap so I fed her a bit. Normally that is a simple task but I was pumping and feeding her a bottle at the same time since she wasn’t hungry when I started – crazy I know.
So, here I am sitting at my computer desk, Ada in the bouncy seat next to me. The pump is at my feet. I have a tube top on that makes the pump hands free. I’m pumping and have prepared a bottle for Ada in case she decides she is hungry mid-pumping. As she bounces away, the hunger cry begins. I grab the bottle and start feeding her. I make the mistake of picking a burp cloth up off the floor to catch her dribbles and to my surprise, both pump containers start to leak all over the floor. I lost about an ounce of milk because these stupid pump containers were not designed to resist gravitational forces when you lean over. (see rant 01 for more design issues involving breastmilk) An ounce is a BIG deal in the world of breastfeeding. This stuff is gold remember. Oh, and since I like to multitask, I’m also on the phone with my husband saying “Shit, Shit, Shit, I’ll call you back. I’m spilling milk all over.” Click.
We survive the milk episode and I’m a bit spacey. “Pregnancy Brain” (overall forgetfulness and an inability to complete a thought while pregnant) doesn’t disappear with the birth of a baby. It just morphs into “Mommy Brain” and becomes a constant state of distraction. Ada is still not interested in taking a nap so I decide we’ll venture out to run errands. We’re expecting a hefty snow storm tomorrow so it is a good time to seize the day and shop. Before motherhood, shopping was enjoyable. Now… not so much.
Facts of life: If You Give A Mouse A Cookie...
he’s going to want a glass of milk.(See the children’s book by that title.) If you want to go shopping, you’re going to need to take a stroller. So as per usual, I bundled baby Ada into her car seat and take her out my front door and into the hallway. She starts crying. I go back inside for the stroller thinking I’ll do this in phases, the shopping list, my coat and the diaper bag are next. Once in the hallway, I have this great idea to take the stroller to stage two: between the vestibule doors, and come back for the rest of the stuff. I open the inner vestibule door and finagle the stroller through. As the stroller clears the doorway it starts rolling down the stairs and I quickly grab it and place it at the bottom of the stair clear of the outer vestibule door in case my neighbors need to get in while I proceed to phases three, four, five and six.Then it hits me.
I’ve just locked my baby in the hallway of my building, while she’s crying, and I don’t have keys to the vestibule door. I resist the urge to panic and instead prop open the outer vestibule door and push every buzzer in the building as I pray one of my neighbors is home. My chances are limited as I know I’m not going to buzz myself in and I’m fish sitting for one of my neighbors who is in San Francisco so that leaves four options and it is 3:30 in the afternoon. I buzz. No one answers. “Shit, Shit, Shit.” I buzz again. Nothing. So I take a deep breath, step outside (thank goodness it is the first day of Spring and 45 degrees out since I’m not wearing my coat) and flag down the first person to walk by my building. “Hi. Can I borrow your cell phone? I just locked my child in my building and I don’t have my keys.” “Sure,” he says as I quickly call my husband and explain the situation. “How can I get into our house?” I ask. “Ummmm…” He replies. Well, if I wasn’t so anal about locking all of the windows, I could maybe push one open but I’m on an elevated first floor so I’d need this random guy to help me out. Not gonna happen. Back door? Nope, it’s locked too, and I don’t have a key to get into the fenced in area behind the house anyway. The Security Shop around the block has a copy of the key to the doors, but I can’t leave the baby, and they surely won’t give it to this random guy helping me out. Not to mention it would cost me $100 just for them to walk around the block and open the door. Instead, my husband says he’ll grab a cab and be home in 15 minutes. Okay. That will work. I’m saying thanks and goodbye to my random stranger/ hero when one of my neighbors miraculously appears. And she has keys! Thank you God! I thank her profusely for her well timed arrival and go inside to find that Ada is no longer crying after her 2 minute adventure alone in the hallway and is calmly looking around for Mommy. Of course when I go to see if she is okay, she starts crying. Go figure.
Moral of the story: Babies need their naps, don’t try to accomplish anything while a baby is crying, and (obviously) never walk out your front door without keys to get back inside.
04 Rant ADA Compliance
With my mother in town for some quality time with her granddaughter, today is the day we venture to the Cheesecake Factory on Michigan Avenue via the good old CTA bus. We’re scheduled to meet my brother and a friend at 1:30 for lunch so we head out at 1 pm. Getting downtown was fairly easy. The bus came. I finagled the stroller halfway into the bus while my mom lifted the other end as we climbed the stairs and got situated in the front area of the bus reserved for elderly, disabled, and parents traveling with small children. Somehow in the midst of getting onto the bus, I also managed to find my bus pass and swipe my card for two fares.
We arrive at our stop and have some difficulty getting the stroller off the bus as I catch a wheel on one of the railings on the stairs. Somehow we manage to get out without major incident and are on our way to lunch. After a nice leisurely stroll to Michigan Avenue, we arrive at the base of the Hancock building to meet my brother. It’s 1:31 and we’re trying to figure out how to get the stroller into the Cheesecake Factory. I’m quickly scanning the scene for any sign of a handicap entrance or regular, i.e. non-revolving, door. My brother calls from the inside of the restaurant and asks where we are. “We’re stuck outside. Can you ask someone how we get inside?”
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Cheesecake Factory, it is located on the lower level of the Hancock building. There are two massive staircases leading down to the main entrance which is comprised of a few revolving doors and several regular doors, however the “regular” doors are all affixed with an emergency alarm system if you use them. There is also a small revolving door on the street level for their upper dining area. My brother meets us on the street level and we decide to collapse the stroller and shimmy in through the revolving door as one person takes the stroller and one takes the car seat. I am the smallest so I get the stroller. Thank goodness I’m tiny and I’m only a little claustrophobic because there would have been a major panic attack had I gotten stuck in this tiny door. After a brief moment of concern that I won’t make it, the revolving door opens into the restaurant and I breath a huge sigh of relief.
But not so fast. We aren’t seated on the main floor. We’re eating on the lower level since the main floor isn’t open today. So we have to drag the stroller down a grand staircase with a seemingly endless number of steps. At the bottom, I’m ready to pass out since I’ve just lugged a 22 lb stroller all over the place and it’s lunch time. Hello! I’m eating for two since I’m nursing and I’m starving! Finally we ditch the stroller at the hostess stand and are escorted to our booth for four. Seriously? You want four grown adults and a baby in a car seat to squeeze into that booth when there is no room for a high chair in the aisle? Not going to happen. We request to be moved and are re-seated in what I call a “mobster” booth – the type the mob would sit in since it is huge and gives you a view of the whole restaurant. Once we’re settled, things are going well.
We eat. We play pass the baby to stop her from fussing. I take her to the bathroom to change her. Thankfully this restroom does have the Koala Bear changing station on the wall of the handicap stall. However, the restroom isn’t very clean, the music is really loud, and it’s dark to set a romantic mood while you pee I guess. And while I’m ranting I’ll point out that the lock for the “handicapped” bathroom is at my shoulder height. Now I ask you how someone in a wheelchair a) got into this damn building in the first place and b) can reach this deadbolt to lock the bathroom door. After changing Ada, I go to wash my hands and am surprised by the water temperature. It isn’t just hot. It’s scalding. There is steam rising from the basin of the sink. Talk about a lawsuit just waiting to happen. Uninjured, we make our way back to the table to finish my now cool lunch.
After dessert, this is the Cheesecake Factory after all, we ask how to get out of the building and the hostess tells us we can go into the observatory entry to get out. I don’t think she ever really understood that we were trying to get out with the stroller in some kind of elevator. So again, we had to squeeze into the revolving door. At least this one was a bit larger, for which I was very thankful. Then we climbed the grand staircase outside the Hancock building and say our goodbyes as my mom and I venture home.
I decided we should again ride the bus home because I don’t really know how to take a baby in a cab. We’d have to strap down her car seat and load the stroller in the trunk and I think that would be a pain not to mention that I’m nervous about installing the car seat correctly as that is one of the main things they drill into your head in all of the baby classes and the media. In some delusion I have, I just assumed the bus would be easier and cheaper ($4 versus $15 for a cab).
We get to the bus stop and wait. And wait. About ten minutes pass as my mom takes note of every available cab that passes us and finally the bus arrives. It is 3:30ish. We’re well before rush hour so this shouldn’t be bad. But oh how very bad it is. I’ve got the stroller. My mom has Ada in the car seat. We climb onto the bus and I swipe my card for two fares again. Then I look up to see that all of the seats in the front of the bus are taken, by young, able-bodied persons no less, and NO ONE IS GETTING UP FOR US. Hello! Seriously? Discouraged with the human race occupying the front of this bus, I suck up my hurt feelings and raise the stroller above my head and squeeze through the crowd to the back of the bus. The VERY back of the bus. This means we have to go past the back door, up two steps, and find our seats. My mom follows with little Ada who’s semi-asleep. As we are arriving at a set of available seats at the VERY back of the bus, the bus starts moving. Minor panic ensues. Since we haven’t sat down yet, we all jolt forward, nearly falling over had it not been for a very strong and courteous angel on the back seat. This man quickly grabbed my wrist and braced me as I started falling forward over the stroller. Doing so allowed me to prevent my mom from falling as she leaned into me with the car seat instead of completely face planting. I thanked him profusely as did my mother while we tried to get “settled” into our seats. Too bad you can’t really “settle” into the seats at the back of the bus because they are arranged in a U shape where all of the seats back up to the walls so everyone’s legs are in the middle. Unfortunately, that’s where I’ve attempted to store the stroller. And I have the car seat on my lap, squishing my thighs quite uncomfortably I might add, while the stroller is digging into my leg every time we hit a bump or stop abruptly.
After about 15 minutes on the bus, we arrive at our stop. Thankfully, the people that ride on the back of the bus are much more courteous than those that ride on the front (at least on this bus that is the case). I pull the cord to request the next stop and at least three of my fellow riders realize what’s about to happen. During the 15 minutes we’ve been on the bus, it has filled up nicely. There are riders packed body to body in the aisle and in the space in front of the back door. Just before we reach our stop I say “this is us”. As I speak up, my three fellow passengers also speak up to say “Mother and child coming out with a stroller. Make way.” It doesn’t make much of a difference right away but people eventually start to make room for us. My mom goes first to clear the way. I follow her and proceed to get something caught on one of the chairs and have the people behind me telling me I’ve dropped a baby bottle. Thankfully the gentleman we have just struck up a conversation with about how hard it is to live in the city with a baby grabs the bottle, sticks it into the side pocket of my diaper bag and wishes me luck. After much effort, I make it to the doors to find two more gentlemen holding them open for me. My mom is walking toward the front of the bus to thank the bus driver, since that’s what nice people from small towns do, as I’m telling her she’s going the wrong way to get to my house.
Finally we make it to my front door and what could be there waiting for us? None other than the outer and inner vestibule doors.
Moral: When traveling with small children, always stand up for yourself even if it means potentially offending someone. When going about your daily business, be even more considerate of the elderly, disabled, and parents with small children as life makes everything a million times harder for them. And most importantly, teach you children to give up their seat on the bus or the El for Pete’s sake!
We arrive at our stop and have some difficulty getting the stroller off the bus as I catch a wheel on one of the railings on the stairs. Somehow we manage to get out without major incident and are on our way to lunch. After a nice leisurely stroll to Michigan Avenue, we arrive at the base of the Hancock building to meet my brother. It’s 1:31 and we’re trying to figure out how to get the stroller into the Cheesecake Factory. I’m quickly scanning the scene for any sign of a handicap entrance or regular, i.e. non-revolving, door. My brother calls from the inside of the restaurant and asks where we are. “We’re stuck outside. Can you ask someone how we get inside?”
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Cheesecake Factory, it is located on the lower level of the Hancock building. There are two massive staircases leading down to the main entrance which is comprised of a few revolving doors and several regular doors, however the “regular” doors are all affixed with an emergency alarm system if you use them. There is also a small revolving door on the street level for their upper dining area. My brother meets us on the street level and we decide to collapse the stroller and shimmy in through the revolving door as one person takes the stroller and one takes the car seat. I am the smallest so I get the stroller. Thank goodness I’m tiny and I’m only a little claustrophobic because there would have been a major panic attack had I gotten stuck in this tiny door. After a brief moment of concern that I won’t make it, the revolving door opens into the restaurant and I breath a huge sigh of relief.
But not so fast. We aren’t seated on the main floor. We’re eating on the lower level since the main floor isn’t open today. So we have to drag the stroller down a grand staircase with a seemingly endless number of steps. At the bottom, I’m ready to pass out since I’ve just lugged a 22 lb stroller all over the place and it’s lunch time. Hello! I’m eating for two since I’m nursing and I’m starving! Finally we ditch the stroller at the hostess stand and are escorted to our booth for four. Seriously? You want four grown adults and a baby in a car seat to squeeze into that booth when there is no room for a high chair in the aisle? Not going to happen. We request to be moved and are re-seated in what I call a “mobster” booth – the type the mob would sit in since it is huge and gives you a view of the whole restaurant. Once we’re settled, things are going well.
We eat. We play pass the baby to stop her from fussing. I take her to the bathroom to change her. Thankfully this restroom does have the Koala Bear changing station on the wall of the handicap stall. However, the restroom isn’t very clean, the music is really loud, and it’s dark to set a romantic mood while you pee I guess. And while I’m ranting I’ll point out that the lock for the “handicapped” bathroom is at my shoulder height. Now I ask you how someone in a wheelchair a) got into this damn building in the first place and b) can reach this deadbolt to lock the bathroom door. After changing Ada, I go to wash my hands and am surprised by the water temperature. It isn’t just hot. It’s scalding. There is steam rising from the basin of the sink. Talk about a lawsuit just waiting to happen. Uninjured, we make our way back to the table to finish my now cool lunch.
After dessert, this is the Cheesecake Factory after all, we ask how to get out of the building and the hostess tells us we can go into the observatory entry to get out. I don’t think she ever really understood that we were trying to get out with the stroller in some kind of elevator. So again, we had to squeeze into the revolving door. At least this one was a bit larger, for which I was very thankful. Then we climbed the grand staircase outside the Hancock building and say our goodbyes as my mom and I venture home.
I decided we should again ride the bus home because I don’t really know how to take a baby in a cab. We’d have to strap down her car seat and load the stroller in the trunk and I think that would be a pain not to mention that I’m nervous about installing the car seat correctly as that is one of the main things they drill into your head in all of the baby classes and the media. In some delusion I have, I just assumed the bus would be easier and cheaper ($4 versus $15 for a cab).
We get to the bus stop and wait. And wait. About ten minutes pass as my mom takes note of every available cab that passes us and finally the bus arrives. It is 3:30ish. We’re well before rush hour so this shouldn’t be bad. But oh how very bad it is. I’ve got the stroller. My mom has Ada in the car seat. We climb onto the bus and I swipe my card for two fares again. Then I look up to see that all of the seats in the front of the bus are taken, by young, able-bodied persons no less, and NO ONE IS GETTING UP FOR US. Hello! Seriously? Discouraged with the human race occupying the front of this bus, I suck up my hurt feelings and raise the stroller above my head and squeeze through the crowd to the back of the bus. The VERY back of the bus. This means we have to go past the back door, up two steps, and find our seats. My mom follows with little Ada who’s semi-asleep. As we are arriving at a set of available seats at the VERY back of the bus, the bus starts moving. Minor panic ensues. Since we haven’t sat down yet, we all jolt forward, nearly falling over had it not been for a very strong and courteous angel on the back seat. This man quickly grabbed my wrist and braced me as I started falling forward over the stroller. Doing so allowed me to prevent my mom from falling as she leaned into me with the car seat instead of completely face planting. I thanked him profusely as did my mother while we tried to get “settled” into our seats. Too bad you can’t really “settle” into the seats at the back of the bus because they are arranged in a U shape where all of the seats back up to the walls so everyone’s legs are in the middle. Unfortunately, that’s where I’ve attempted to store the stroller. And I have the car seat on my lap, squishing my thighs quite uncomfortably I might add, while the stroller is digging into my leg every time we hit a bump or stop abruptly.
After about 15 minutes on the bus, we arrive at our stop. Thankfully, the people that ride on the back of the bus are much more courteous than those that ride on the front (at least on this bus that is the case). I pull the cord to request the next stop and at least three of my fellow riders realize what’s about to happen. During the 15 minutes we’ve been on the bus, it has filled up nicely. There are riders packed body to body in the aisle and in the space in front of the back door. Just before we reach our stop I say “this is us”. As I speak up, my three fellow passengers also speak up to say “Mother and child coming out with a stroller. Make way.” It doesn’t make much of a difference right away but people eventually start to make room for us. My mom goes first to clear the way. I follow her and proceed to get something caught on one of the chairs and have the people behind me telling me I’ve dropped a baby bottle. Thankfully the gentleman we have just struck up a conversation with about how hard it is to live in the city with a baby grabs the bottle, sticks it into the side pocket of my diaper bag and wishes me luck. After much effort, I make it to the doors to find two more gentlemen holding them open for me. My mom is walking toward the front of the bus to thank the bus driver, since that’s what nice people from small towns do, as I’m telling her she’s going the wrong way to get to my house.
Finally we make it to my front door and what could be there waiting for us? None other than the outer and inner vestibule doors.
Moral: When traveling with small children, always stand up for yourself even if it means potentially offending someone. When going about your daily business, be even more considerate of the elderly, disabled, and parents with small children as life makes everything a million times harder for them. And most importantly, teach you children to give up their seat on the bus or the El for Pete’s sake!
03 Pharmacy Meltdown
It’s a Monday. We’ve had a fairly good day and it is time to visit the doctor since Ada is still suffering from a cold and it’s been over a week so the doctor wants to see her. Our appointment is at three, we have friends coming over at 6:15, and we want to pick daddy up from work after running errands at Target to get supplies for day care. To the doctor’s office we go, but not before prepping the diaper bag, packing the baby in the car seat, and dragging everything to the car via the front door, inner vestibule door, down four stairs, out the outer vestibule door and into the car. We skipped the stroller this time knowing we would have the cart and wouldn’t be going far from the car.
Travel to the doctor’s office is uneventful. Once we arrive, Ada is a bit fussy. She drinks from her bottle a bit as I struggle to show the receptionist my ID and insurance card which is the same as it was last week when I was here but they have to check every time “Just to be sure.” After waiting for ten minutes they finally call her name over her screams of discomfort. We’re lead back to the examination room and I’m asked to undress her. The nurse weighs her says the doctor will be right in. We hang out and I feed her the rest of her bottle. She pees, I change her. The doctor comes in and examines her. That’s a tough job when Ada screams while the doctor tries to get a good listen to her chest. Finally the doctor decides to give her a prescription for Albuterol to help open her lungs a bit since she has some phlegm making it tough to breathe while she’s eating. We’re good to go.
Suddenly I remember the paperwork I dropped off on Friday and ask the doctor if it is completed and in her file or what the status is so I can submit it to her day care. “what form would that be?” asks the doctor. “The one recording all of her immunizations that I dropped off on Friday and called you about.” “Oh, let me check.”, she replies. Ten minutes later she returns to say they found it and she starts filling it out. She needs to get more information and says she’ll be right back. Ada is doing well and we’re playing. Ten minutes later the doctor returns and says she’ll make a copy of the immunization information and we’ll be ready to go. She’ll be right back. Ten more minutes pass, Ada starts screaming because she’s dirty, and I change her. Ten more minutes pass and finally a nurse comes in to say, “You’re just waiting on this form right?” “Yes.” “The copy machine back here isn’t working for some reason so I’ll take this up to the front desk to copy it and meet you there.” “Great.” The bundling begins. I settle Ada down, pack her into her car seat, repack the diaper bag, put on my coat, gather everything up and head to the cashier to pay my co-pay. The nurse meets me and hands me the paperwork that she finally photocopied as I glance at my phone. It is 4:30. Holy crap. I only have half an hour before I’m supposed to pick Rick up from work and we still have to go to Target and get Ada’s prescription filled before company arrives at our house at 6:15. I call Rick. He encourages me to head to Target and if he doesn’t hear from me by 5:25 he’ll take the bus home and let our friends into our house.
Ada and I head to Target. And she cries most of the way there. I park and load her car seat into a nearby stroller. With my list and coupons in hand, we hustle toward the pharmacy. We grab a few things on the way and Ada’s level of fussiness starts to increase. As we reach the pharmacy counter, Ada has hit full blown meltdown. Nothing is working. She’s screaming bloody murder as I’m trying to give the prescription to the pharmacist and explain that she has never had a prescription filled there before. The pharmacist fills out the necessary paperwork for me since my hands are full with a screaming child that is inconsolable at this point, and asks me to come back in twenty minutes. With Ada bouncing in my arms, I head for the Kleenex aisle and then to the elevator as we’re off to the baby section. We grab a few things for daycare and are lucky to get the last box of Target brand un-scented bulk baby wipes. Back to the elevator, we return to the pharmacy. The meltdown returns. As I struggle to unload my cart with my free hand, the pharmacist is ringing up my purchases and trying to explain how I’m supposed to give Ada her new inhaler with the fancy contraption it attaches to as my phone is ringing. I fumble for the phone as I dig out my coupons and pass the crumpled wad to the cashier while subsequently putting my credit card into the reader and trying to unsuccessfully wedge Ada back into her car seat. I ignore the call as it happens to be my friend, neighbor and regular pharmacist Kelly, whom I’m sure knows that I am cheating on her with this Target pharmacist and will therefore think I’m a bad friend/neighbor/customer. Ada’s meltdown continues as I am momentarily shocked by the $180 price tag of my quick target run, but I’m too busy to care as she is still screaming, the guilt for cheating on my pharmacist is mounting, and I’m trying to figure out if I’ll make it home in time to great our dinner guests. The wonderful pharmacist, her name was Beth, kindly steps around the counter to help load all of my purchases into my cart and send Ada and I on our way.
We exit the Target and arrive at the car. I load everything into the car and Ada is still crying. It’s 5:15 and I need to catch Rick before he gets on the bus so I can pick him up from work. As I start the car, I check my voicemail and learn that my friend/neighbor/pharmacist Kelly needs to borrow black pants for her trip to New York tomorrow. I try to return her call but get voicemail and leave a message saying she can have whatever she wants and can stop by anytime. I try to call Rick and get his voicemail. As I try again, he is calling me and I go to click swap call/answer and hit Ignore instead and lose his call and my connection to his voicemail. At this point, Ada is screaming, I’m trying to drive in downtown Chicago, and I can’t get Rick’s stupid phone to connect. I’m screaming at Ada who’s screaming at the world, when finally I connect with Rick and put him on speakerphone as I finish my tirade of insults I’m spewing at traffic at the light in front of me. Rick, unbeknownst to me, has been fighting a cold and has just ridden down the elevator from the 35th floor while his sinuses are draining to innocently answer the phone as I’m screaming into his ear that has yet to pop from the pressure in the elevator, resulting in a shape pain that makes him wince. Poor guy. He quips back that I need to calm down and I explain that I’ll meet him in five minutes at his building. Whew.
In route to Rick’s office, Ada is screaming, I get stuck at every red light and behind every loading and unloading cab to be had, and the five minute drive seems like 25 minutes. I arrive and pull up to the curb for Rick to get into the backseat of our blue Honda Civic and what do I hear but… oh yes… silence. Daddy’s here and all is well in the world as Ada passes out and doesn’t utter a peep the rest of the way home.
Morals of the story: Pharmacists are some of the best people on earth, patience is a virtue when visiting the doctor, and don’t take a partially sick child with you anywhere.
Travel to the doctor’s office is uneventful. Once we arrive, Ada is a bit fussy. She drinks from her bottle a bit as I struggle to show the receptionist my ID and insurance card which is the same as it was last week when I was here but they have to check every time “Just to be sure.” After waiting for ten minutes they finally call her name over her screams of discomfort. We’re lead back to the examination room and I’m asked to undress her. The nurse weighs her says the doctor will be right in. We hang out and I feed her the rest of her bottle. She pees, I change her. The doctor comes in and examines her. That’s a tough job when Ada screams while the doctor tries to get a good listen to her chest. Finally the doctor decides to give her a prescription for Albuterol to help open her lungs a bit since she has some phlegm making it tough to breathe while she’s eating. We’re good to go.
Suddenly I remember the paperwork I dropped off on Friday and ask the doctor if it is completed and in her file or what the status is so I can submit it to her day care. “what form would that be?” asks the doctor. “The one recording all of her immunizations that I dropped off on Friday and called you about.” “Oh, let me check.”, she replies. Ten minutes later she returns to say they found it and she starts filling it out. She needs to get more information and says she’ll be right back. Ada is doing well and we’re playing. Ten minutes later the doctor returns and says she’ll make a copy of the immunization information and we’ll be ready to go. She’ll be right back. Ten more minutes pass, Ada starts screaming because she’s dirty, and I change her. Ten more minutes pass and finally a nurse comes in to say, “You’re just waiting on this form right?” “Yes.” “The copy machine back here isn’t working for some reason so I’ll take this up to the front desk to copy it and meet you there.” “Great.” The bundling begins. I settle Ada down, pack her into her car seat, repack the diaper bag, put on my coat, gather everything up and head to the cashier to pay my co-pay. The nurse meets me and hands me the paperwork that she finally photocopied as I glance at my phone. It is 4:30. Holy crap. I only have half an hour before I’m supposed to pick Rick up from work and we still have to go to Target and get Ada’s prescription filled before company arrives at our house at 6:15. I call Rick. He encourages me to head to Target and if he doesn’t hear from me by 5:25 he’ll take the bus home and let our friends into our house.
Ada and I head to Target. And she cries most of the way there. I park and load her car seat into a nearby stroller. With my list and coupons in hand, we hustle toward the pharmacy. We grab a few things on the way and Ada’s level of fussiness starts to increase. As we reach the pharmacy counter, Ada has hit full blown meltdown. Nothing is working. She’s screaming bloody murder as I’m trying to give the prescription to the pharmacist and explain that she has never had a prescription filled there before. The pharmacist fills out the necessary paperwork for me since my hands are full with a screaming child that is inconsolable at this point, and asks me to come back in twenty minutes. With Ada bouncing in my arms, I head for the Kleenex aisle and then to the elevator as we’re off to the baby section. We grab a few things for daycare and are lucky to get the last box of Target brand un-scented bulk baby wipes. Back to the elevator, we return to the pharmacy. The meltdown returns. As I struggle to unload my cart with my free hand, the pharmacist is ringing up my purchases and trying to explain how I’m supposed to give Ada her new inhaler with the fancy contraption it attaches to as my phone is ringing. I fumble for the phone as I dig out my coupons and pass the crumpled wad to the cashier while subsequently putting my credit card into the reader and trying to unsuccessfully wedge Ada back into her car seat. I ignore the call as it happens to be my friend, neighbor and regular pharmacist Kelly, whom I’m sure knows that I am cheating on her with this Target pharmacist and will therefore think I’m a bad friend/neighbor/customer. Ada’s meltdown continues as I am momentarily shocked by the $180 price tag of my quick target run, but I’m too busy to care as she is still screaming, the guilt for cheating on my pharmacist is mounting, and I’m trying to figure out if I’ll make it home in time to great our dinner guests. The wonderful pharmacist, her name was Beth, kindly steps around the counter to help load all of my purchases into my cart and send Ada and I on our way.
We exit the Target and arrive at the car. I load everything into the car and Ada is still crying. It’s 5:15 and I need to catch Rick before he gets on the bus so I can pick him up from work. As I start the car, I check my voicemail and learn that my friend/neighbor/pharmacist Kelly needs to borrow black pants for her trip to New York tomorrow. I try to return her call but get voicemail and leave a message saying she can have whatever she wants and can stop by anytime. I try to call Rick and get his voicemail. As I try again, he is calling me and I go to click swap call/answer and hit Ignore instead and lose his call and my connection to his voicemail. At this point, Ada is screaming, I’m trying to drive in downtown Chicago, and I can’t get Rick’s stupid phone to connect. I’m screaming at Ada who’s screaming at the world, when finally I connect with Rick and put him on speakerphone as I finish my tirade of insults I’m spewing at traffic at the light in front of me. Rick, unbeknownst to me, has been fighting a cold and has just ridden down the elevator from the 35th floor while his sinuses are draining to innocently answer the phone as I’m screaming into his ear that has yet to pop from the pressure in the elevator, resulting in a shape pain that makes him wince. Poor guy. He quips back that I need to calm down and I explain that I’ll meet him in five minutes at his building. Whew.
In route to Rick’s office, Ada is screaming, I get stuck at every red light and behind every loading and unloading cab to be had, and the five minute drive seems like 25 minutes. I arrive and pull up to the curb for Rick to get into the backseat of our blue Honda Civic and what do I hear but… oh yes… silence. Daddy’s here and all is well in the world as Ada passes out and doesn’t utter a peep the rest of the way home.
Morals of the story: Pharmacists are some of the best people on earth, patience is a virtue when visiting the doctor, and don’t take a partially sick child with you anywhere.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
02 Rant Social Security
In another attempt to acquire a social security number for Ada, I decide to venture to the social security office to re-submit the paperwork for overnight processing. After learning about a week ago that there was no record of the paperwork submitted from the hospital when Ada was born, and not being able to go to the social security office early due to the car being frozen to the street (see rant 1), today is the day we venture out.
Strategically, I wait until Ada has had her morning nap and is in a better mood for travel and adventure. She is fed, changed, and seems pretty happy. As with every excursion, I snuggle her into her car seat, pack the diaper bag, bundle up for the cold weather, and drag everything out to the car, through the front door, the inner vestibule door, down the four stairs, through the outer vestibule door, and out to the car which is conveniently located in front of our condo. This time, I got a little lazy and tried to assemble the car seat and stroller in our condo first and then take it out to the car by myself. After almost spilling the baby, stroller, car seat, and diaper bag down the first four stairs, I realized this really is a two person job and was happy to see two nice strangers exiting my building and willing to hold the outer door open for me as I struggled with all of my crap.
Okay. We get into the car. Not that easy of course. I first put the car seat in the back seat and lock it in place, then I stick the diaper bag and the bag with all of the paperwork next to the car seat. Then I shut the door, collapse the stroller and shove it into the trunk, all the while stabbing myself in the thigh with a random stroller wheel part which will form a nice bruise later on. But I digress.
I open the driver’s side door, and yep, she’s screaming. But I think if I get the car moving she’ll calm down. We’re on the road now and she’s doing okay. We make it about half way to the social security office on the north side of the city and she gets really upset. I can soldier on, or pull off to see what’s going on. I pull off and realize she’s hungry. So what if I just fed her before we left. I squeeze into the back seat of my blue Honda Civic and pull out the ever so handy boob. We sit for fifteen minutes as Ada enjoys a mid afternoon snack while people walking by wonder what I could possibly be doing sitting in the back seat of my car in front of Trader Joe’s. After arousing a good deal of suspicion, it’s time to continue toward our goal.
Back on the road, we’re doing well. We get to the social security office and park at a meter since the lot is full. I think an hour will do. How long could this take, really? I got to the trunk, undo the stroller, get the car seat out, grab the diaper bag, struggle with my jacket since I’ve worn too many layers and it is hotter than I expected, and dig deep to find quarters for the meter. It’s one in the afternoon. I have the meter until two. Great.
We get into the social security office, take a number and start waiting. And waiting. We wait for an hour and fifteen minutes to be exact. Ada fusses a bit but overall is doing great. She sleeps while I hold her and do some leisure reading. Final they call out A162. (The woman with A160 was complaining that they wouldn’t call her number and once they finally did, she had fallen asleep in the front row of the waiting area and never woke up when they did call it, so she got skipped.)
Our number was up. I repack Ada into her car seat in the stroller and approach the window with all of my paperwork completed and in order. I hand it to the woman behind the counter who takes her time reviewing it. I explain that the information has already been submitted but that was around December 20, 2007 and I still haven’t received my number even though they said I should expect it in six to eight weeks. This is week eleven and my tax accountant said it’s worth $1,000 for me to get the number and file it with my taxes so I’m a bit anxious to receive her number. The woman behind the counter smirks at me and says, “Her number was issued three days ago. Here it is. Her Social Security Card should be in the mail and you should see it in about a week.”
My jaw drops. The steam whistles from my ears straight out of a cartoon. “Are you serious? I just sat her for an hour and fifteen minutes so you could tell me the number is already issued and I’m wasting my time?” I quickly gathered my things, took a deep cleansing breath, packed up the kid and headed for the door, all the while hoping that I didn’t have a ticket on my car.
I get to the car, ticket free thank goodness. Repack all my crap and the baby into the car and we’re on our way to errand number two. We get about five blocks away and Ada starts screaming. I pull over, go to the back seat and realize this time she is dirty. So I change her on my lap in the very cramped back seat of my blue Honda Civic. Mind you, the car seat is in the middle of the back seat so I am only working with a third of the seat and my feet are sharing space with the diaper bag. And as I am changing her, she pees. Happens every time. Once she’s all cleaned up and re-diapered, I place her back into the car seat and she starts screaming again. Let’s try the boob. I feed her again as the sun beats down on us in the already hot car as sweat starts collecting on the center of my back. After a fifteen minute feeding session, we’re on our way to errand number two, again.
Traffic on Lincoln Avenue is a nightmare. Stop and go, slow, slow, slow. I’m cursing every driver in front of me since, even though I just changed and fed the baby, she’s still not happy. Twenty minutes later, we’re in front of Ada’s new daycare ready to drop off her admission paperwork. There is no street parking so I double park and throw on my hazards. I remove Ada from the car seat thinking it will be easier not to lug that thing around and half-heartedly wrap her in my coat as I approach the daycare. Fortunately for the safety of the kids, this place is like Fort Knox. Unfortunately for me, I can’t contact anyone inside or find anywhere to leave the paperwork that is secure. After three attempts at the buzzer and the back door, I give up and we take a failing grade for errand number two.
Back into the car for errand number three. We’re heading to the doctor’s office to drop off a form they need to fill out for day care regarding Ada’s immunizations. Halfway to the doctor’s office, Ada starts hollering again. So I start hollering back and cursing more drivers to get out of my way and overall just start having my own personal little nervous breakdown. The phone rings. It’s my husband. He makes the mistake of asking me how I’m doing. I explain that I’m having a nervous breakdown, now isn’t a good time to talk and I’ll see him at home later. He wishes me luck and I hang up. We arrive at the doctor’s office. Again, I move to the back seat of the blue Honda Civic to calm Ada again. This time I again try to feed her. She’s had a cold this week and the boob seems to be the best way to calm and comfort her. Poor little thing. After ten minutes, she’s back to a more peaceful state. I relatch the buckles of her car seat and drag her and the paperwork into the doctor’s office. I drop it off at the reception desk and head back out to the car. We get settled in and set off for home. As we pull out of the parking lot, Ada starts in with the screaming again. I take a few more cleansing breaths and drive home as quickly as possible without doing anything too illegal. We finally get home, unload most of our crap as I’ve decided to leave the stroller in the trunk for the night, drag it all through the outer and inner vestibule doors and through the front door into the peaceful place we call home.
Morals of the story: Government systems are to be avoided at all costs, traffic in the city sucks, and don’t try to run errands with a small child recovering from a cold as she is guaranteed to scream the whole time.
ay
Strategically, I wait until Ada has had her morning nap and is in a better mood for travel and adventure. She is fed, changed, and seems pretty happy. As with every excursion, I snuggle her into her car seat, pack the diaper bag, bundle up for the cold weather, and drag everything out to the car, through the front door, the inner vestibule door, down the four stairs, through the outer vestibule door, and out to the car which is conveniently located in front of our condo. This time, I got a little lazy and tried to assemble the car seat and stroller in our condo first and then take it out to the car by myself. After almost spilling the baby, stroller, car seat, and diaper bag down the first four stairs, I realized this really is a two person job and was happy to see two nice strangers exiting my building and willing to hold the outer door open for me as I struggled with all of my crap.
Okay. We get into the car. Not that easy of course. I first put the car seat in the back seat and lock it in place, then I stick the diaper bag and the bag with all of the paperwork next to the car seat. Then I shut the door, collapse the stroller and shove it into the trunk, all the while stabbing myself in the thigh with a random stroller wheel part which will form a nice bruise later on. But I digress.
I open the driver’s side door, and yep, she’s screaming. But I think if I get the car moving she’ll calm down. We’re on the road now and she’s doing okay. We make it about half way to the social security office on the north side of the city and she gets really upset. I can soldier on, or pull off to see what’s going on. I pull off and realize she’s hungry. So what if I just fed her before we left. I squeeze into the back seat of my blue Honda Civic and pull out the ever so handy boob. We sit for fifteen minutes as Ada enjoys a mid afternoon snack while people walking by wonder what I could possibly be doing sitting in the back seat of my car in front of Trader Joe’s. After arousing a good deal of suspicion, it’s time to continue toward our goal.
Back on the road, we’re doing well. We get to the social security office and park at a meter since the lot is full. I think an hour will do. How long could this take, really? I got to the trunk, undo the stroller, get the car seat out, grab the diaper bag, struggle with my jacket since I’ve worn too many layers and it is hotter than I expected, and dig deep to find quarters for the meter. It’s one in the afternoon. I have the meter until two. Great.
We get into the social security office, take a number and start waiting. And waiting. We wait for an hour and fifteen minutes to be exact. Ada fusses a bit but overall is doing great. She sleeps while I hold her and do some leisure reading. Final they call out A162. (The woman with A160 was complaining that they wouldn’t call her number and once they finally did, she had fallen asleep in the front row of the waiting area and never woke up when they did call it, so she got skipped.)
Our number was up. I repack Ada into her car seat in the stroller and approach the window with all of my paperwork completed and in order. I hand it to the woman behind the counter who takes her time reviewing it. I explain that the information has already been submitted but that was around December 20, 2007 and I still haven’t received my number even though they said I should expect it in six to eight weeks. This is week eleven and my tax accountant said it’s worth $1,000 for me to get the number and file it with my taxes so I’m a bit anxious to receive her number. The woman behind the counter smirks at me and says, “Her number was issued three days ago. Here it is. Her Social Security Card should be in the mail and you should see it in about a week.”
My jaw drops. The steam whistles from my ears straight out of a cartoon. “Are you serious? I just sat her for an hour and fifteen minutes so you could tell me the number is already issued and I’m wasting my time?” I quickly gathered my things, took a deep cleansing breath, packed up the kid and headed for the door, all the while hoping that I didn’t have a ticket on my car.
I get to the car, ticket free thank goodness. Repack all my crap and the baby into the car and we’re on our way to errand number two. We get about five blocks away and Ada starts screaming. I pull over, go to the back seat and realize this time she is dirty. So I change her on my lap in the very cramped back seat of my blue Honda Civic. Mind you, the car seat is in the middle of the back seat so I am only working with a third of the seat and my feet are sharing space with the diaper bag. And as I am changing her, she pees. Happens every time. Once she’s all cleaned up and re-diapered, I place her back into the car seat and she starts screaming again. Let’s try the boob. I feed her again as the sun beats down on us in the already hot car as sweat starts collecting on the center of my back. After a fifteen minute feeding session, we’re on our way to errand number two, again.
Traffic on Lincoln Avenue is a nightmare. Stop and go, slow, slow, slow. I’m cursing every driver in front of me since, even though I just changed and fed the baby, she’s still not happy. Twenty minutes later, we’re in front of Ada’s new daycare ready to drop off her admission paperwork. There is no street parking so I double park and throw on my hazards. I remove Ada from the car seat thinking it will be easier not to lug that thing around and half-heartedly wrap her in my coat as I approach the daycare. Fortunately for the safety of the kids, this place is like Fort Knox. Unfortunately for me, I can’t contact anyone inside or find anywhere to leave the paperwork that is secure. After three attempts at the buzzer and the back door, I give up and we take a failing grade for errand number two.
Back into the car for errand number three. We’re heading to the doctor’s office to drop off a form they need to fill out for day care regarding Ada’s immunizations. Halfway to the doctor’s office, Ada starts hollering again. So I start hollering back and cursing more drivers to get out of my way and overall just start having my own personal little nervous breakdown. The phone rings. It’s my husband. He makes the mistake of asking me how I’m doing. I explain that I’m having a nervous breakdown, now isn’t a good time to talk and I’ll see him at home later. He wishes me luck and I hang up. We arrive at the doctor’s office. Again, I move to the back seat of the blue Honda Civic to calm Ada again. This time I again try to feed her. She’s had a cold this week and the boob seems to be the best way to calm and comfort her. Poor little thing. After ten minutes, she’s back to a more peaceful state. I relatch the buckles of her car seat and drag her and the paperwork into the doctor’s office. I drop it off at the reception desk and head back out to the car. We get settled in and set off for home. As we pull out of the parking lot, Ada starts in with the screaming again. I take a few more cleansing breaths and drive home as quickly as possible without doing anything too illegal. We finally get home, unload most of our crap as I’ve decided to leave the stroller in the trunk for the night, drag it all through the outer and inner vestibule doors and through the front door into the peaceful place we call home.
Morals of the story: Government systems are to be avoided at all costs, traffic in the city sucks, and don’t try to run errands with a small child recovering from a cold as she is guaranteed to scream the whole time.
ay
01 Rant Frozen Car
For the first time in motherhood, I have actually thought to myself "now I know why people move to the suburbs."
Why?
A simple errand to the social security office to get Ada's SS card and number became much more than simple today.
After feeding, changing, and dressing her, then securing her into her car seat while she is screaming at me no less, I zip up the bundle me to keep her warm, put a hat on her head, and proceed to gather the paperwork I need to take with me. All of that is relatively normal.
Then I get my hat, gloves, and coat on. I move her out our front door and into the hallway. I realize I have my house sandals on so I quick change into my shoes. She's not screaming at this point so life is alright. In lieu of the cumbersome stroller, I decide to just take the car seat and the Baby Bjorn with a fat suit for the little munchkin to wear since I can't carry her very far in the car seat. That was my first mistake.
With the diaper bag over my shoulder, the Bjorn and fat suit in my left hand, the car seat with baby inside in my right hand, I use my 3rd imaginary hand to open the first vestibule door, then the second. We've made it outside. Big accomplishment.
Then we walk a block and a half to the car since it is parked a bit far. We got home late on Sunday and couldn't park on our street. I arrive at the car, arms throbbing from the pain of carrying a 12 lb baby in a what? 6 lb car seat? I open the back door of the snow covered car (2 inches with a layer of ice underneath), some snow falls into the car. I toss the fat suit, Bjorn, and diaper bag into the car. Then I grab the car seat and baby, walk to the other side of the car, open it, again have snow fall inside, and finagle the kid into the clicky thing. By now she is screaming her little head off. I try to calm her to no avail. Maybe she'll shake it off...
I shut the back door, open the front door, start the car, turn on the defrost, grab the brush and scrapper and get started. I dust off the car and scrape the ice, periodically checking to see if she is still screaming. She is. I take a break and try to calm her. She takes to sucking on my finger for a bit. Then starts screaming again. I think I'll try to get the car moving and maybe that will help. So I finish cleaning off the front windshield and hop in the front seat. She's still screaming.
I put the car in reverse and push the gas. Nothing. I put the car in drive and push the gas. Nothing. Reverse again. Still nothing.
It's 3:06 in the afternoon. I'm 20 minutes from the SS office which closes at 4pm. The car is frozen to it's spot and needs to be dug out. The baby is screaming. I have the start of a scratchy throat and my water that I've carried with me doesn't taste very good.
This is when I give up. I turn off the car, go to the back passenger side, get the diaper bag, the fat suit, the Bjorn, reach for the car seat and of course, the tube of breast milk from the diaper bag falls out and rolls into the gutter. I grab it, put it back in the diaper bag and reach for the car seat again. Then the tube of breast milk falls out, again. This time I grab it, forcefully shove it and the other tube and the baby bottle down deep into the diaper bag, grab the car seat with the baby screaming at me still, set her down in the snow, shut the door, lock the car, and try to ignore the people on the street staring at me with my screaming baby. Then I trek all my crap back to the house, stopping once to catch my breath and shake out my now throbbing arm muscles. I get to the front door, unlock it, push it open with my head this time -- somehow my magical third hand isn't available anymore --and as I march up the 4 stairs the thought of a nice house in the suburbs with a driveway and only one front door comes to me. I shake it off, unlock the second vestibule door, maneuver all of the stuff and the baby inside, open the house door, again shimmy through and of course... Ada is now fast asleep resembling the cutest little angel you've ever seen.
But that's not all. I retrieve the tubes of breastmilk from the bottom of the diaper bag and notice that, yes, of course, they have leaked! This is when I pull out every nasty word in my vocabulary and curse the designers of the bottles at Medela who had the foresight to put "Breastmilk is best" on the side of each little storage tube, but no enough sense to make sure that the bottle doesn't leak the very breastmilk that mothers treat like gold. I mean... what mother on earth would put a breastmilk tube in a diaper bag and want to take it with her without it spilling all over everything?
Moral of the story: Motherhood isn't easy, babies cry, design matters, and the suburbs still suck. No offense.
ay
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