Always have your own money; it’s important to have that independence. That’s what both my step-mother and my mother taught me, ingrained in me. It stuck with me, as it should, that I should be able to care for myself should something happen to my marriage leaving me to fend for myself: to raise my children with little (or no) support, financially.

Because of those lessons, I keep my own personal bank account, I have my own RRSPs (retirement fund) and I make my own money.

Before I continue, I, in no way am trying to belittle those who have made alternative arrangements, those who have decided to live entirely from one bank account and whom have given up their personal aspirations of a career to raise their children, because I have no doubt that sacrifices have been made and they (you?) are definitely contributing to the family. There is no question.

(Huge run-on sentence, sorry; but did I manage to use ‘whom’ in the correct context? I have NEVER been able to use that word correctly!)

And though I have my own money, I have made sacrifices for my family (ie: Maternity Leave) which has decreased my personal income, in turn has left me more dependent on my husband’s income to buy clothing and things for myself. I do not feel guilt for buying them, for treating myself once and a while. Like yesterday: yesterday I went for a badly needed haircut, a new style and dye. I don’t keep a regular regime for my hair care, I go when I can and because it’s rather pricey, I try hard to stretch the time between visits - like four to six months!

I came home really excited about my new do, most notably, gained a little self-confidence with the drastic change. (Of bangs! OMG!) And waited patiently for him to come home so I could show it off a little.

(Ah, delusional. Men don’t care about new hair. I know.)

He came in the living room and just looked at me. It’s different. You’re definitely a blonde hun. Dark doesn’t really work for you. Wha? Definitely a blonde? That’s what you think of my hair? Fine. I can handle that. Whatever, you’re a man, which means you don’t know shit about hair and fashion.

(Ya, I was a little disappointed with his reaction. But whatever.)

The kicker?

How much did you waste on that? Well thank you Prince Charming! Aren’t you fabulous!?

He then tied into me about wasting money and how I didn’t need to spend that much on my hair. It’s just hair.

(Okay. I can handle that. But then…)

I don’t work my ass of for 15 hours a day for you to spend it all on your hair.

Um. Wha? What just happened there?

Granted he has been working a lot. I will give him that, but in no way will I tolerate him telling me that he works all those hours and I am just frivolously spending his hard earned money!

I have held a job since I was 15 years old. I have worked to pay my way for all these years and I have sacrificed forwarding my career in order to start a family and have children. For him to sit there and belittle me as though he were my keeper struck a cord to say the least. It struck a cord indeed.

Woman sacrifice so much in for their families - some men, yes - but more often than not, it is the woman who says goodbye to the career and work life to stay home and rear their children. It is us who give up the education, the paycheque, OUR BODIES!!!, the adult interaction to care for our children, our homes, the groceries, the laundry, the bills, the cleaning, the gardening and whatever else may need tending to.

We leave behind the satisfaction of a job well done, the promotions, the lively (haha!) board meetings, the lunches with co-workers, the stimulation; we leave all this for the vomit, the spilled milk, the dirty diapers, tantrums and piles of laundry. And for what? The satisfaction of knowing that we are caring for our offspring and our husbands? Puhlease.

I would maybe enjoy it a little more should he even acknowledge the fact that I’ve sacrificed so much for this family. For us. For him.

But instead I’m told that I am wasting our money on myself!? What a kick in the proverbial nuts!

Need I remind him (and you) that while I sit here with my two boys, I am being paid. Sure, it’s not my full salary but I am being somewhat financially compensated by the government to spend this year home (as well as designing to try and compensate for the salary cut I’ve taken). Yet, I feel as though I am viewed as a slacker, a leech, a nothing.

I can’t pinpoint the reason he feels the need to belittle me this way. I don’t know how I can break through to him that I am still being paid to sit her on my ass and eat bonbons while I watch soap operas - because that’s what he thinks I do all day. When it came time to start my Maternity Leave I offered him the possibility to take Paternity Leave (where he can stay home for a couple months while I return to work). He outright refused stating that he makes much more than me and we can’t afford for him to stay home. Resorting to belittling me AGAIN! as an excuse not to stay home? I don’t know.

I am just beyond irritated that he views my being home as though he is given full right to dictate my spending habits as well as treat me as though I am inferior to him because I am not working. Call it jealousy, or envy, whatever. I just know it’s not right, or fair.

I am so beyond pissed and I just can’t get past how fuckin‘ mad I am at him for treating me this way!

Me: I feel fat and frumpy. I’m so fat! *pouty tone* I hate being fat!

Mike: Well, first off. Stop wearing shorts from grade nine.

Me: How did you know they’re from grade nine? (cuz really. THEY. ARE.)

FAIL.

Embarking on just about the hottest weekend of the summer, our air conditioner took a shit dive last night.

No air.

It was working fine all day yesterday and then some time between the time I left to get Carter at daycare and when I came back it stopped. Though, we’ve been having trouble with it all season since there’s this part that has to click over to make an electrical connection which starts the unit, but that thing has corroded a little and fuses itself and doesn’t click over.

Amazed that I know that? Yeah, me too. They only had to explain it about four times.

Over the past couple weeks Mike’s been fiddling with the part, as instructed, to get it to flip when it needs a little encouragement. Then last week he had a bright idea to help it a little further with some industrial brake part cleaner; a spray used on brakes to remove gunk, dust and stuff. With a little spark things were back in working order and we thought nothing of it.

So last night was no different - when we started.

Mr. I-think-I’m-handy-at-everything decided to give it another little HUGE spray to get things in motion.

Once he sprayed the connection it sparked alright.

Then caught all the fluid ON. FIRE.

He comes running in the house asking me to get him a bowl of water all while trying so valiantly to hide his panic.

Water on an electrical fire? Geez, even I know better then that!

So I handed him baking soda - even though I had no idea if that was any better. It’s used for some kind of fire, I know that.

Mike’s running back and forth trying to figure out what to do.

We start shuttling bowls of water out the door to get it under wraps, while praying that the water worked.

Finally! Everything is put out.

It turns out that it was just the debris inside (and around) the unit that caught on fire, but the switch thingy that’s supposed to flip? I think it’s really fused now.

“Good news.” Mike states as he comes back inside.

“What could possibly be good about this?” I asked a little pissed off know that there will be no air conditioning all day tomorrow until the service man can arrive. You know. Somewhere between dawn and dusk.

“The nest of earwigs inside is fried.” And knowing how I feel about those skeevy fuckers, he probably thought he did some good.

Stupid fuckdog.

“Totally worth it.” I said.

I was totally lying.

Now as I sit in sweltering heat - sweating just sitting still - waiting for my Prince Charming repair man I can’t help but wonder if I’d rather be carried away by those earwigs then endure another moment of this boob sweat.

Boob sweat sucks.

Earwigs suck more.

And so I suffer.

UPDATE:

Genius fried the AC and the furnace. When he sprayed that shit on the contact it caused it to arc. The wires fused together and sent HIGH Voltage back to the LOW voltage switch in the furnace which then fried the board in there.

Result? Only about a THOUSAND dollars in repairs.

I could have went to BlogHer with that. Well, I could have gotten to San Fran, but probably not back.

Right now that would have been all right with me.

UPDATE 2:

Air is fixed! Hooray!! The man was so quick and friendly even though I think he thought we were COMPLETE morons. Broke morons.

I asked him to leave the part with me to show Mike what his bonehead move had cost us.

Conductor for the air conditioner. Note how completely fried the wires are? Nice, eh?

Do NOT use brake cleaner to clean your A/C. Seriouly BAD!

Seriously cute baby though, right?

I’ve been a colossal failure in the potty training department.

Well, not me personally; I’ve been able to manage that feat for quite some time.

Unless I’m pregnant with a cough, then continence and I are no longer friendly.

But enough about me.

Carter has been wearing actual underwear at school for some time now. Some days are hit and miss and others he’s been doing fabulous. The problem? Inconsistency at home (read: Me and Mike). It’s hard enough to get our shit together at home without throwing a pissing and shitting toddler into the mix. Not to mention the fact that he fights toilet time like nothing I’ve ever seen before. He’s great sometimes, then other times it’s like we’re dragging him to the electric chair. He’s awesome if it’s on his terms, but when we decide it’s time to go? Not. Having. It.

The problem is his terms are few and far between and usually after his pull-up is full and uncomfortable.

So now? We’ve been instructed to quit pull-ups and diapers.

Cold turkey.

The only time he’s allowed to be in a diaper is bedtime - not even nap time. Just overnight.

As if I don’t have enough shit (pun intended) to deal with.

So far this morning I’ve turned on the microwave timer to beep every half hour. In the past hour and a half we’ve had one accident. Already.

Awesome.

My question though? What about the furniture? Granted our couch needed to be professional cleaned burned ages ago but I don’t need the smell of pee and poop to be embedded along with everything else.

I could go the granny plastic couch route only I have no idea where to get the plastic covers, and I need them NOW.

Any suggestions?

Now the other child? He’s relatively easy. He doesn’t cry all that much, fusses more then anything. I think I’ve unintentionally conditioned him to sleep only in his swing. Laying flat on his back sends him into fits of spastic rage. The kind where his arms are flailing uncontrollably which in turn wakes him up.

Yes we swaddle.

[And very well I might add thanks to Parent Bloggers Network and Rookie Moms for the Miracle Blanket I won during a draw.]

If he’s in a mood he just looses his shit when his arms are pinned.

He has that thingy to keep him from rolling (which he can’t really yet), which help make him feel a little more confined.

AND he has his nights and days all mixed up which has resulted in me crashing on the couch while he chills in his swing most nights. Yes, I am just enabling the confusion, but he’s a month old - I can’t really ask that much from him.

The laundry could be done, and I could use a nice glass of sauvignon blanc, but that will come another day.

Soon my child, soon.