Well, maybe that one time, or the other.

Whatever.  It is an unusual occurrence.

While I am well aware that parents live busy lives and juggle a multitude of tasks on a daily basis, a parent’s greatest responsibility is the well being of their child(ren).  Or it should be, right?

Recently for us, our greatest concern has been the cold/flu season.  Our efforts for staying healthy have reached far beyond vigilant hand washing, Purell, and cautiously avoiding sick individuals.  In fact, aside from going to preschool, or to the grocery store once a week (without Babisodes), we pretty much stay home.  Even on the weekends. Not only to avoid illness, but also to avoid spending a bunch of money by going out.

But as diligent as we are as parents, I know there is only so much we can do.  Other factors are completely out of our hands.

Factors similar to when we decide to sit behind the wheel.  As much as we trust our driving skills, and follow the rules of the road, there will always be some fool out there too busy LOL-ing or ROTFL-ing to calculate the distance between their front fender and your rear-end. WTF, right?

Apparently, a similar risk applies when dropping a child off at preschool.

Last week it was my turn to volunteer in my daughter’s preschool classroom for the day.  It was a great opportunity for me to get a glimpse at Babisodes interacting with her friends and teachers. However, while doing so, it was quite apparent that a few children should not have been sent to school that day.  As a nurse, I know that a cough can last for weeks. And children are able to run and play with a lingering cough just fine without it being a risk to themselves or others.

However, if your child can barely stand up or complete a sentence without a glazed look washing over their face, they should STAY HOME.  It doesn’t matter if they don’t have a fever anymore.  They need to rest and recover.

I cannot blame anyone but these kids’ parents.

The preschool day is only 2.5 hours long. Full days do not exist.  Therefore, these parents thought it was more important for their child to wander aimlessly around class like coughing zombies, than to keep them home for a few hours.

Now Babisodes, who had not been anywhere but preschool, has a fever of 104F degrees and is coughing to the point of gagging all day and night.  Not to mention, our pediatrician is not responding to our calls because their staff is fielding over 100 calls a day for patients presenting H1N1 flu symptoms.

Patients like us.  But we will never find out if she actually has H1N1, because we can’t actually speak to the doctor.

Instead, we’re getting call backs from a pediatric nurse who cannot diagnose or dispense anything other than advice I already know.

So to those parents who decided their trip to the grocery store, hair salon, or wherever it was they had to be for a few hours that was so damn important their child had to come to school…

I hope it was worth it.

I will be sure to send you our insanely expensive co-pay and bills if our daughter ends up in the E.R.

Note:  Our preschool sent out a notice last week to keep all sick children home for a full week if they are sick.  Apparently, not everyone got the memo.

The rain has not let up here in Boston.  For weeks, it seems it has rained every day.  Thick, overcast skies blanket the city leaving me guessing whether or not the sun is coming or going.  I never know anymore.

I don’t mind rain much.  In fact, the heaviness in the air often reminds me of being in love.   Reminds me of times when I’d take cover in a tiny apartment alone, my body wistfully perched along a windowsill, gazing through a haze of water droplets. Trickles of rain would carry my thoughts to wherever my lover was.  Hopeful, that somewhere, his mind was flooded with wants of me too.

Over the years, I’ve discovered I am a firm believer that love is blind.  That while drunk on all of the euphoric hope and endless affections that love brings, one may not see things as clearly as they would have otherwise.

I am no exception to the rule.

I have an unfortunate habit of overlooking many, obvious personality flaws once I find just a few redeeming qualities.  And even if I consciously recognize them, I fool myself into believing that with time, and love, they will change.  Especially if the other person aspires to do so.

But it rarely happens.  The changing part, I mean.  At least, usually not in the way I had hoped.

In my life, I spent a fair amount of time dating.  It took many years and several relationships, to learn that those who abuse usually don’t stop.  Those who cheat will often cheat again. And most recently, those who promise change…may not follow through.

At least, these are the realities I’ve come to learn so far.

Nearly two years ago, Dadisodes and I purchased our current home.  This is not the first home we have owned.  Back in California, we bought a run-down townhouse and remodeled it ourselves.  From the landscaping to interior load-bearing walls, we completely gutted it out on our own.  Dadisodes proclaimed himself to be a fast learner and a handy guy, so with that, we did it.  Through blood (plenty of it), sweat, and tears, we transformed the place.  But it took time.  A long time.  Long enough that by the time we had to sell and move, Dadisodes was driving in the last screw for the under-cabinet lighting I had dreamed about for years, 2 hours before we boarded a plane to move to Boston.

I may be a self-proclaimed girly girl sometimes, but when hundreds of thousands of dollars are at stake, I am willing to swing a hammer.  And I did.  So much so that both the staff at Home Depot and the staff E.R. knew us as regulars.  I was more than willing to help, but I really have little knowledge on most things “handy.”

So when we arrived in Boston, I wanted a house that was mostly livable. Mostly. No more washing dishes in a bathtub.  No more eating and living with a constant layer of drywall dust. I wanted to avoid it, at least for a little while.

When we purchased our home, we knew it could use some upgrades, but maybe after 5-7 years.  We never anticipated that the grass would not grow, the ceiling would mold, or the solid oak kitchen cabinets would fall apart. Thankfully, none of it has been major (yet, knock on wood).

But over time, things here and there have begun to pile up and grow worse.  The backyard is full of weeds, the bathtub glaze is peeling, there is carpet that needs to go,  and the basement is uninhabitable…The list goes on and on.  Dadisodes has also started about ten other separate projects around the house and has yet finished one.  Although he makes frequent promises of following through on all of them.  I mentioned his condition here before, over a year ago: A Half-Assed Disorder.  Or as BusyDad artistically calls it, “Demi-asserie.”

Everyday, I sit in my house like veal.  These walls are often times the only ones my daughter and I see all day long.  Everyday, they remind me that the to-do list grows longer and longer with no end in sight.  And this past weekend, it all came to a head.

The question of whether or not we should continue trying to conceive was brought to the table.  Despite the risks of doing so, Dadisodes clearly wants to continue, perhaps with the help of Clomid again.  But with all of my underlying medical issues, and after over a year on this emotional roller coaster, I do not know if I can.  Besides, it is not as if Dadisodes plays a huge role in our household.  The entire first year of Babisodes’ life, he refused to bathe her.  And after nearly a year, I am still cooking in a kitchen with a gaping hole where a drawer once broke.   A simple drawer needing to be fixed is apparently too large of a task for a man with an entire basement full of expensive tools,  a man who once rebuilt the interior of an entire home.

I am the sole person in this house, and in every home we’ve lived in, who cooks meals, wields a cleaning tool, looks after our child, and plans and manages schedules for everyone.  Everyone.  Not to mention, I also did this as a full-time working mom.  I often wonder if perhaps his lack of participation has sent my ovaries into dormancy.

This home is where I live and work.  And sometimes, I really feel as if I am working alone.  If one of Dadisodes’ employees consistently turned in incomplete work that amounted to nothing but more clutter, he would fire him.

Sometimes I wish I could fire Dadisodes.  Serve him partially cooked pork.  Or just wash half of his underwear and never put them into the dryer.

But I can’t.   Like this house, this relationship is always a work in progress.  And right now there is not nearly enough rain falling from the sky to drown away my frustrations and leave me dreaming about love.

There is only enough rain to help the new grass seed that landscapers put in our yard to grow.  And thank goodness for that, because heaven knows someone would probably just turn on the hose and not use it.

Perhaps holding a small flame below his demi-assierie would be a nice reminder.