It WAS Gonna Be a Comment, But Now It's A Post.

Well...Regarding "charity" vs "enabling", I'm going to have to say one thing first: It's become apparent here that I'm dealing with two entirely separate but grievously interlinked situations. While Tim is absolutely irreedeemable in terms of work ethic, Squeaky is a whoooole different critter. She has unfortunately chosen to hitch her wagon to ENTIRELY the wrong horse, but that's her problem and no concern of mine....

Here's the thing. She has put in many, many, many apps for jobs, and for the most part, the "no" answers have been fairly reluctant and given with a side-glance at the extremely prominent Belly. Who's gonna hire a pregnant woman, knowing she'll take off days for dr appointments, pukiness, labor, delivery, and all the rest?? Of course they never SAY as much, but still. My points: a) at least SOMEONE is trying, and has the chance to potentially have a decent job once she's not so obviously preggo; and b)at least SOMEONE is TRYING. She has actually lined up people willing to rent to her--even knowing her situation, finances, and all--if only she could get a cosigner with good credit--which fortunately leaves me RIGHT out. She's working her ass off to find a workable situation for her, the kid, and MAYBE Tim. I am beginning to believe that, aside from being young and possibly a wee bit silly and/or naive, Squeaky may have the tools to survive in this world. Right now she's just in a real, REAL bad place.

So, re: charity/enabling: I am absolutely ENABLING Tim. I told him as much, in fact. "I think we're now past the point where allowing you to stay here is doing you ANY good whatsoever," I said one night. "I don't think I'm helping you anymore by doing this." He nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I know what you mean." Doesn't CHANGE anything, but at least I know, and he knows that I know, and I know that he knows that I know. If it were just him, I think I'd have been able to put him out at that point.

BUT: I do NOT believe I am enabling Squeaky. If I told her "Sure, bring the baby here when you get out of the hospital--what's one more squalling, eating, crapping mouth to feed?"--now THAT would be enabling. But I have made the line very bright indeed: No way is a newborn coming here. Nuh-uh, no way, no how, no ma'am. Have you ever SEEN an apartment burst at the seams??? Me neither, and I really have no desire to. Plus there's the extra added issue: None of them--not Tim, not Squeaky, not the Timlet, not the kitters--are on the lease for this place. You know who is? Me. Me, and Snick, and BadCat. THREE organisms--not EIGHT. So there's that, as well. The really cool building manager who would overlook anything as long as it was quiet and non-pyrogenic? He's gone now. So this is a dangerous game, and I've made the whole crew (well, other than the cats) aware of that. The first peep from the management, and --> out the door you must go.

So what I have here is a situation where (as I see it, anyway) I am helping the one party who's trying to make something of her life, and part of that (at the moment) unfortunately includes accepting the fact that I am enabling her albatross to continue his dangling. I am also clear on the fact that allowing them to stay here after the baby is born would put me very much over the line into "enabling EVERYBODY". So in essence, it's a self-limiting situation; they've got less than two months to work something out. She knows this; he knows this. It has spurred her to greater effort, and him to greater indolence. That's their little dynamic and--again--not my concern. I don't care WHO solves the problem; I care only that the problem is solved.

And yes, I have said all this, in not-so-many words; but to hear Squeaky talk, she's very much aware of the situation. She is pissed, should you wonder, at Tim's inaction, even as she extols his perceived "excitement" over the approaching Timlet. In this, Squeaky and I are very much alike: we've both fallen for sub-prime men. (Yes, that's EXACTLY the connotation I intended.)I've had my congenitally-unemployables, my "I don't WANNA go to work" types, my own versions of Tim. My situations were mitigated for the most part by my ability to support myself; she's trying, I think, to make sure hers are the same. The only difference is, I didn't get pregnant--which made my road a much simpler one than hers will be. But then again, she'll probably learn much more from her life than I have from mine, so there's that.

But--lest anyone think I'm keeping them here intentionally!--the only thing that keeps me from just chucking them out the door, bag and baggage (and stealing their littlest cat into the bargain--god, I LOVE this CAT!) is the ever-increasing presence of the Timlet. Were Squeaky not pregnant, this whole situation would be well and truly behind me by now; in fact, had it not been for that #**#@*^@ girl downstate's boyfriend's sister's whatever-it-was, I would be writing from an empty apartment for the first time in months--and in fact, if they weren't here, I wouldn't be writing this at all; I'd probably be doing something ridiculous like filling the bathtub with fudge-ripple ice cream and wallowing in it til I was wearing a shake.*

*not an actual plan--in fact, not an image anyone should even attempt to register. Brain bleach is available at the exits.

Believe me: I want them to go. The problem of making them go is the same problem that led me to take them in: I don't have the heart to leave a pregnant barely-21-year-old, with limited life skills, out on the street. But I can definitely set and enforce a deadline: they have til labor strikes. After that, they're on they're own--and unless I'm wrong, the irrevocable presence of a small hostage to fortune will light a fire under SOMEBODY's ass. And no, I'm not going to be soft-hearted about it either; I didn't have the fun of getting pregnant, so I shouldn't have to contend with the squalling, pooping outcome. (See, what you all don't know about me, which is the thing that makes the birth of the Timlet the Ultimate Line In The Sand: There are several lines in my world which shall not be crossed, circumstances be damned. Bumpy protrusions under the skin are one of them--all those people who are like "Here! Feel this dislodged bone in my broken leg as it wiggles around inside my shin--doesn't that feel coooooool???" are invariably met with HELL no, I ain't touchin' that shit!--oh, yeah, and "Hey--the baby's kicking! Here--feel that!" gets the same reaction. Stuff shouldn't be MOVING in there, is how I see it....Anyway, one of my other BIIIIG hell-no-I-ain'ts is poop. I had to wipe my grandmother's behind when she lived with my mom, and despite the fact that I loved my grandma dearly, if I could have performed that action from a separate building, in another zip code, and with a remote-controlled robot arm, I would have done so without a second thought. I don't do poop. I can barely deal with my OWN, let alone anyone else's. Page Dr. Freud if you'd like, but I don't care--NO. POOP. EVER. Even when I walk into the ladies' room and somebody hasn't flushed, my gag reflex instantly goes into overdrive. This is yet another of the many and varied reasons I've decided I'm not suited for motherhood--and it makes it reeeeeal easy indeed to say "Nope. No baby allowed. Sorry, guys--don't care how cute he is--he poops, therefore he's gone." And it's an indelible line, as well: no matter how soft may be my heart, my stomach of jello rules the day.)

See? Problem will solve itself.