The F Word

Tomorrow, my baby Jack will be seven months old.  Today, I gave him his very first bottle of formula.

I have spent this entire week feeling horrible, crying, torturing myself, and just generally being in a poor, stressed out mood.  I have tried so hard, for so long, to provide him milk for the twelve months pediatricians say to do.  I have tortured my breasts and myself trying to produce enough every week for while I am at work.  Trying to coerce him into latching when all he wants to do is scream.  Listening to the jokes about how he MUST be well-fed because my boobs are huge.  Skipping my xanax and ritalin since the positive pregnancy test and dealing with my OCD and panic attacks because not breastfeeding didn't feel like an option.  Seeing him lose weight when he got sick and feeling like I was slowly starving him to death.  Finally, researching every formula brand and its ingredients, trying to find the healthiest option to supplement with, because my pediatrician told me my only options if I wanted him to be healthy again were Enfamil or Similac.


See, there's a problem among women with infants, just like there is a problem among pregnant women.

Just as a pregnant woman can be told she's a bad person no matter what she does - having a glass of wine, smoking, eating processed foods, having a cat, lifting something she normally lifts, going to work, staying home from work, blah blah blah...

A woman with an infant is under equal pressures.  Except now, the focus is no longer on her lady bits, belly, or clothing.

Now, the focus is on her boobs.

Well...in a different way.

I just need to say this one thing for anyone who has ever been in my position, or in any position involving the Great Baby-Feeding Debate:

YOU ARE NOT A BAD MOM.  YOU ARE NOT A BAD MOM.  HONEY, YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY IN NO WAY SHAPE OR FORM, A BAD MOM.

I mean it.

You think you're exempt?  You think, but I didn't try as hard as those other women?  I didn't suffer as much?  I had a cigarette, or three?  I didn't wait a full hour after that glass of wine?

You're not exempt.

YOU ARE NOT A BAD MOM.

Ok, now that we have that out of the way, let's take a closer look at this situation.



You have the breastfeeding advocates.

• Some of them want to help you succeed - they will find you milk donors, walk you through latching and healthy diets, help you pump, and generally be as supportive as possible.
• Some of them want to scare you away from formula, or shame you into never supplementing with anything except breast milk.  Some of them will actually tell you that it is your fault if you cannot keep up with your growing baby.
• Some of them want you to tough it out and continue to offer breast milk in addition to anything else baby may eat or drink until that magical one year mark or longer, regardless of your personal health.
• Some of them simply want you to remember that you have the RIGHT to breastfeed whenever and wherever you feel like it, and don't want you to be scared out of doing so.
• Breastfeeding advocates are like shoes.  The right shoes can make your entire day easier.  The wrong ones, even if they are beautiful, can make you tired, sore, and too frustrated to keep on.

You have the formula advocates.

• A few decades ago, a huge push by formula lobbies and advertising convinced us that breastfeeding was icky, and that the sophisticated thing to do (and the healthiest for baby) was to feed formula.
• Some formula advocates just want the mom to have the option, some want that choice to be formula as often as possible, some truly feel breastfeeding is shameful.
• Not all formula advocates are brainwashed by companies, some genuinely feel this is the smartest for growing babies.  There are several things I hear here:
• In situations where mom cannot make enough milk, whether trying or not, needs to be on medications prohibitive to breastfeeding, or must return to work and cannot keep up, formula can help close the nutritional gap.
• To help baby bond with other people, formula lets people besides the mother feed baby.
• "If it is allowed on the shelf, it has to be safe." - in reality, formula companies are like teenagers. You can tell them what to do, but you can't force them to comply.
• "All formulas at this point in time are basically the same." - This could not be further from the truth.  Do your research.
• "Organic is about marketing." - Organic is about minimizing hazardous products that end up in food, but also about minimizing harmful production practices.  Even if it says organic, you still need to do your research, and you still need to watch your baby's body's response to what he or she is being fed.
• "Babies have been fed formula for decades and turned out just fine." - Actually, compaints are turned in ALL THE TIME about bad reactions to formulas with this or that ingredient, dangerous effects, allergies, intestinal distress, blah blah blah.  It's not the company's job to advertise that, however.  It IS your job to make wise choices and watch your own baby's reaction to any foods you provide.

You have the pediatricians.

• Pediatricians are also like shoes.  Choose wisely, and never be bullied.
• Formula reps are like pharmaceutical reps.  They go to different pediatricians peddling formula - they leave behind a stinky trail of misleading advertising, cards and coupons, samples, and a promise from the pediatrician to recommend their brands at every turn.  I can't tell you if there are payoffs involved, but it sure feels like there are sometimes.  Have you ever been to your vet and seen a big binder of Science Diet propaganda on their counter?  This is the same thing.  But it's your baby's nutrition, not your pet's.
• Some pediatricians look at caloric content alone, or select the "top" brands (look into formula lobbying for information on how they get there) to recommend.  A pediatrician rarely has the time or inclination to go look at an entire list of ingredients, their safety, and their benefits.  After all, that is what the FDA and the USDA are for...if only formula companies were actually required to obey FDA/NOSB rules!
• Every now and then I am sure there is that odd pediatrician who legitimately cares about the wellbeing of their tiny patients.  To them I say thank you for working with your patients' parents in achieving the best diets and health.

Now, all three of these groups are pushing in on each and every new mom.  They are telling her that one way or another, she is screwing over her baby's health and wellbeing by providing whatever it is she is providing, or trying to.  Breastmilk is great!  Sometimes you cannot provide it.  No, even if you try REALLY REALLY HARD, you still might not be able to keep pace.  You should NOT feel like you have no option but to let the baby starve while you pump and feed a frustrated, hungry baby every two hours, stuffing your face with oatmeal and fenugreek in between feeds, just to build back up your milk supply.  You know what?  Sometimes that doesn't work!

You should not have to feel like for twelve months you must decide between your mental health and your baby's physical health.  No no no no NO!  Every single mother worth her salt is going to pick baby, if given this black and white decision.  You need to think about your family, and you ARE a part of that family.  If you feel you need to be back on your medications, go talk with YOUR doctor.  There should be zero guilt right now.  Zero.  Nada.  None.  If someone is telling you that you should just be trying harder, you put your hands over your ears and say it with me:

"NANANANANANANANA I CAN'T HEAAAAARRR YOUUUUU NANANANANANANA."

Whether you feed breastmilk from you, breastmilk from someone you know and trust, big name formula, organic formula, half milk and half formula, soy formula, if you started solids at four months or if you started them at 12...

If your baby is pooping normally, has a happy kitten-belly, burps when he or she is done, has a normal number of wet and dirty diapers, and is gaining weight more or less at a regular, predictable pace...

YOU ARE A GREAT MOM.

Anyone saying otherwise is tripping and can shove their smelly opinions up their smellier butts.  You are doing a great job.

Too Hard to Know

When I was 18, I was an open book.

Literally anything you could think to ask me I would answer truthfully.  I was flattered that anyone might take an interest in little ol' me.  I was naïve, careless to a fault, physical, and flirtatious.  I was...well I was happy.  Completely fucked in the head, but I spent my days and my interactions with a grin on my face.

Then a number of people told me they couldn't care less what I had to say.  I had too many problems, or too much to say, or maybe the subject matter was just unimportant.  I was given a piece of their minds.  I was told to give it a rest, to stop being an idiot, to let the big kids talk.  I was told, "What now?" whenever I said hello.  I was given, over and over, the intentional impression that it was time to shut up and let someone else speak.

So, because my attention to what the people around me want is obsessive, I stopped talking about me.  Not all at once.  Not overnight.  Not just from a couple of regrettable interactions.  But eventually I got the picture.

Words still come out of my mouth, but I am most comfortable when I am getting you to talk about YOU.  There's no way I can mess that up, come off as offensive, say too much, or regret anything.  Plus, it helps people - everyone loves to talk about themselves.  I do best when I am listening.  I hope I make people feel comfortable in sharing.

For that, I've been called manipulative, closed off, mistrusting.  I've been called a bad friend because I don't share enough.

I can't win for losing.

I don't know where the line is.  I have never seen this line.  I just know that I am so focused on making other people feel comfortable that I will spend an entire conversation fretting over when I should throw in a relatable anecdote, if I should let it continue to be just about them, if I am nodding my head too much, and fearing, with an overwhelming, all-consuming terror, that they will ask about me.  I will spend a whole discussion steering away from me.  I will spend EVERY discussion steering away from me.

It's a skill, I'm telling you.  I have had four hour long conversations in which I did not say a damn thing that was on my mind.

Because this is the double standard I live by:

Anything you want to share with me, you can.  Nothing is too weird.  If you want to talk, I'm here.

My business is my business and no one else's - nobody needs to know it.

Maybe it's the people I have selected to confide in over the years.  The people who wanted to use me to get off and would hear anything I had to say as a prerequisite.  I don't do that to people.  I don't listen with the end goal being to use and leave them.  I couldn't.  But the people I've told everything to took those secrets and ran, just as soon as they had what they came for.

Maybe it's just the way I operate.  Maybe after so many years of hurt and struggle to get where I am now, I grew too thick a shell, I overcompensated.

I'm not sure what it is.



The only person I do tell everything to, the only one I am comfortable with telling the ins and outs of my skull, is my husband.  Imagine my heartbreak when he doesn't want to hear it.  When he calls me crazy, stupid, or a cunt.  Can you feel it?



This is the lesson to be learned.

I cannot have friends.  Nobody wants me.  I am broken in a big way, and it is too much for anyone to handle, whether I keep it to myself or share.

In the words of my husband - it's me.  Eventually, I piss everyone off.



I would give anything for a normal, boring life with normal, boring friends and normal, boring conversations.  I would move planets to get that.  I want it with my entire heart.

For now, I'll just be quiet, in this quiet room, with no one but me in it.  For one more night.

Things in My Life a Breast Reduction Would Change/Improve

• Bra shopping/wearing
• Back pain
• Heat rash underneath them
• Appearance - no more boob-sized nipples, no more head-sized boobs
• The ability to find/wear a swimsuit again
• Running without holding my chest
• Wearing appropriately-sized shirts instead of oversized ones
• Wearing low-cut tops without looking easy
• No more deep-cutting lines on my shoulders and rib cage
• Posture
• The ability to wear corsets again, pretty much at all, but especially without looking obscene
• No more fucking anime or Dairy Queen jokes
• No more pain while driving
• No giant uniboob from limited bra options
• Proportion - turns out, huge boobs make you look fat, thanks to pulling clothing out around your middle
• Stretch marks, more and more stretch marks
• The pain of accidentally and suddenly dropping a boob (in shower, putting on bra, etc.)
• The look of horror on a person's face when they see my boobs sans-shirt

I wish I was exaggerating the last one.

My mom.  The doctor.  The chick at the fitting rooms.  The woman who helped size me.  The other woman who couldn't size me.

I'm a freak show.

I want it to stop.

Too Often.

He asks me if I want sex like he asks me if I want a pizza. If I say yes, I will have to immediately spread my legs and be hurt again. Maybe I would get myself off in the end, maybe I wouldn’t. Wouldn’t matter.

I am not ready. So I don’t say anything. I change the subject. Truth is, I feel flabby, melted, rotted.  I don’t feel ready to be exposed and used.

He gives me a halfhearted massage full of gropes and uncomfortable pinches and grabs.  My back aches.  I feel more tired than I began.  He asks again, “sex?”  I wonder if we should sync our schedules.

I change the subject again.

He asks me to move over so he can masturbate.  I ask, “really?”  He inquires if I am upset about moving over or that as a human being he needs to jerk off now and then.

I am hurt.  The timer ran out.  I burned my own chances for intimacy, if that was what it was.  It won’t be happening today.  Was that what I wanted?

I slide over, silent, while the bed trembles.  I am staring at the blanket.

I am a useless cunt.

A broken lay.

A waste of energy.

Bad Wife

It's no secret that I'm bad at sex.  Anyone who has screwed me can tell you that.  My head isn't in the game.

I'm great at giving it, usually, but don't ask me to get off.  Don't ask me to take it.

And never, ever, ever think that I owe it to you.

Even if you're married to me.

But I guess that's a fair expectation.

The baby's out, I've lost a little of the weight, the doc cleared me as healthy enough for sexual activity, and I'm on birth control pills again.  So what's the problem, right?

Everything works down there, so I must just be waiting for you to say go?

I'm not.

I don't want to have sex.

I am not chomping at the bit.

I don't want to do it.

This is how I see myself right now:

• Chunky.  I can't even fit into size 10s.  I can't even squeeze comfortably into my MATERNITY pants.  My tits don't fit in any damn bra, the band doesn't reach around my fatass rib cage, my shirts all look absolutely obscene, and my feet constantly hurt from the weight they carry around.
• Smelly.  You try finding time to shower.  Oh wait, you shower regularly.  Because I'm taking care of the baby.
• Hairy.  I may not be the biggest fan of shaving my legs but I do try to shave my girlbits regularly.  Except that's tough to do when you can't find the time for a shower.
• Torn up.  Except for a cell phone photo, I haven't seen my down theres since a few months into the pregnancy.  I don't remember what it looks like.  I don't know what it looks like now.  I don't know where the stitches were or how badly I tore or how damaged the tissue is or even where.  I'm terrified of it.  I am legitimately scared of my vagina.  BUT YOU WANT ME TO BE UP FOR SEX.

The more anxious you get to screw me, the more aggressive you become about it.  The faster you go.  The less you care about how I feel.  I already hate foreplay, I already hate the idea that I should be expected to enjoy it, to be present, to experience it.  I already feel so very strongly that sex with you should only EVER be for YOU.  But you want to shove fingers in there.  You want to go fast.  You want to stick your head up in my smelly, hairy, unshowered snatch and you don't want me to be self conscious at all.  You want me to pretend it's for me, and not for you.

And then you want to take off your pants, roll me over, and stick it in me.

You expect that.

That is my job, after all.

You simultaneously want me to enjoy it all while reminding me that this is all about you, me pleasing you, me behaving like a normal wife would.

Well I'm not normal.

So get bent.

Cockroaches.

I am a collection of tendencies, wants, obsessions, compulsions, and needs.

I am a never-ending bundle of threads going all different directions.  I am tangled.  I am inefficient.

I get stuck.

I get so overwhelmed in my thoughts, my tasks, my lists, my compulsions, my wants, my whims, that I just...stop.  I can't remember any of them, so I scribble them across my hand, the envelope, a piece of cardboard trash, I write them all out in a big, repeating list of "to-do" and "reminders" just to empty them out of my brain.  Then I look at my mile-long list and I...I just get stuck, and I stop.

I don't know what to do first.

I don't want to do anything.

I NEED to pick at my nails, chew them, file them down all the way, and pull at the cuticles until I am bleeding down to my fingertips.

I NEED to chew on my lip, check that the balls on my piercing are tight, feel for any raised pieces of skin, and pick them away until I am bleeding there, too.

I NEED to click my teeth together an even number of times, tapping each side together in such a way as to evenly account for the mismatched bite.  Then I need to fill in the space between my top and bottom jaw with my tongue and clamp down so that the gaps fill in and every tooth gets the same amount of pressure.

I NEED to find every rough part of my foot and sand it down...I want to walk on sand paper...I want these to be nothing but bone.

I want to be nothing but bone.

I am a product of my compulsions.

I am bleeding and the worst part is, I am only upset because I have run out of parts of me to pick at.  I keep running my hands over my face to look for pimples I might scratch away, or dry skin I can abrade.

I am confined by this.

I am stuck in this brain and it wants to tear me apart and it will not let me think about anything else.



It's sitting in its swing.

It finally shut up.

The things I want to do to just be able to finish a thought...and I know it's my brain, I know.  I just wish I could go outside and get drunk enough to finally sleep and take a long, long drag on a smoke so that my head clouds up and...let's...let's try this.



I open the bottle, and spill out a beautiful, dusty, bitter pill.  I pop it into my mouth and chase it with a bit of water.  The flavor lingers, and I smack my tongue with distaste.  I wait, and a little while later, the dreamy calm hits.  My mind clouds up and I relax, physically and mentally.  It's okay, and I can see exactly what I need to do.

I walk into the kitchen and I grab my smokes, my lighter, a glass, and the bottle of Jameson.  I go outside, dust off the folding chair, and sit beneath the pecan.  It's pitch black out here, and I can hear the crickets around me like predatory little hyenas, laughing at me and waiting to swarm.

I hold onto my glass from the top, shielding it from debris, and open up the whiskey with my other hand.  I pour out what I assume is a couple of shots and close her up.  I light a clove.  I lean back.

My eyelids thud shut while the smoke swirls into my world.  The whiskey is smooth and perfect and easy, like life should be.  I relax as the cockroaches plop onto my head, shoulders, thighs.  As the crickets wander up my ankles and underneath the fraying hem of my jeans.  I drift away as they carry me off.

I never, ever come back again.

Never.

Nursing Is Like Popcorn.

You gotta watch the jaw and wait for it to stop moving for a certain number of seconds before really being sure the baby's done eating.

Upside is, you can't overcook the baby.

Well...

Not from nursing, anyways.



You really should not be cooking babies.

I Am Obsessed

I am trying so hard to figure you out.

I stare at your face while you are sleeping.  I pull out the fold of your ear so it doesn't flatten down after you've laid on it.  I think about your ear for a good ten, twenty minutes.  I really do.  I obsess and I cry over it.  I brush out your hair so it will be straight.  I stare at it like it has the answer to life - has it gotten any lighter?  Longer?  Is it curling?  Or does it just need rinsed?  When you open your eyes I look back into them, but I'm not looking at you, I am trying to figure out if your eyes have changed colors yet, or if they will at all.

Who do you look like?

What are you thinking?

To whom do you belong?

I can see the top of your head.  The folds in your neck.  The tiny fingers holding onto my shirt and then relaxing, like you trust me, like you know I won't let you slide off my stomach.

The only time I am at peace around you is when you smile in your sleep and I refuse to blink.  I refuse to.  I open my eyes as wide as I can and memorize every ounce of your open mouthed grin.  It's the only time I relate to you.  When you smile.

Who ARE you?

You're not my baby.


...Are you?

Things I Have Learned About Hippiepoopcatchers

(My new affectionate term for cloth diapers.)

Anyways, here's what I've learned:

• For the first few days, when little one is too tiny for normal diaper covers (at least the ones I bought!) and needs the umbilical stump not to be bothered, disposable diapers free from the hospital work GREAT as prefold covers.
• They work less well when the poop-splosions start to happen.
• The prefold that fits before washing and is also made of cotton shall not fit after washing.  Don't let your brain fart like mine did.  That 25% shrinkage thing is no joke, y'all.
• If it catcheth the poo and does not require washing the onesie, too, it's the most perfect diaper ever created gobuymorerightnow.
• Yes, he JUST pooped, check the diaper anyways.
• Saying that you can just fold a larger prefold more and make your cash last longer is a dirty, filthy lie.  Tiny baby butts need tiny baby diapers.  No way around it, at least, not that I've found.
• Super awesome thick absorbent amazing prefolds are very hard to fold in smaller sizes.  If the thickness of the cloth allows for a tunnel out from the tush, that tunnel will soon flood.
• No matter how many cats you diaper while pregnant, you aren't going to know what you're doing until the baby comes.  You are going to have to be flexible.  No matter how much it hurts the OCD-bone.

I'm Starting to Like My Baby

I know that seems like something that should be automatic, but it really kind of isn't.  At least, not after losing your first baby.  It took me months to even associate that the baby in my belly was mine.  And it took until now for me to smile when the baby kicked instead of grimace.

But I did.

I think part of it is heavily involving myself in building the baby registry.  I passed a couple of things off on my husband, who is just better equipped to make some of these choices.  Sorry, but I just don't get the differences between bottle warmers, diaper bags, sterilizers...you handle that part, hon.

But I am shopping for the rest of the stuff we will need, and even though shopping in general is kind of stressful, it's nice to really use my brain and think: "what do I want to see Jack in?  How do I want to diaper him?  What pattern do I want on his sheets?  His clothes?  Will he like mice?  Puppies?  Monkeys?  Trucks?"

Speaking of diapering...

There is some kind of mindset out there that a woman who has a child simply CANNOT handle any extra tasks.  This is one of the reasons my mother has been pushing me so very hard to use disposable diapers instead of cloth, even though I have already made up my mind that cloth will work the best for us, our home, our trash pickup, our baby, and our community.  But you know, a woman just gets so BUSY during those first few months, that you don't want any extra stuff like LAUNDRY to worry about.

Okay...look.

I challenge that.

I can do as much as I need to.  I can make time.  I am boss at making time.  I can go without sleep because Jack needs to eat, needs a bath, needs a lullaby, needs anything, and that includes a change.

I don't think we need to convince women before they even have their children that once they get here, their lives will be ruined and packed to the point that clicking a couple of buttons on a washer is just TOO MUCH WORK.  You know what I honestly don't want to do?  Drag several bags of nasty, gel-filled, shit-filled poop sacks outside, down the driveway, and to the curb one time per week after letting them stack up in my house because if you put them outside the coons will litter the yard with them.

I promise.

The walk to the washer with reusable, rinsed out, bad-out-sprayed diapers and covers in a washable, leak-proof diaper sack is about a million times easier.

And even if it wasn't, I could still do it.

Because having a baby doesn't make me incapable.  I've been busier.  Try doing all the baby tasks, but with four 4-day-old kittens who don't want to eat because you aren't their momma, whose tummies hurt from a sudden switch to formula.  Hmm...I believe I recall finding time to do laundry back then, too.

Go figure!

Sing Anyways

Is it exhibitionism?

Who cares if you can't sing.  Sing louder.
 

"I figured, if you don't want my essay, I'll write a book."

I'm such a sucker for saxophone, trumpets, and strings.

Girls in ties.

Free love.  Easy love.  Breathe in, breathe out, exhale music, breathe it out through your hands, and put that shit on a CD for me.


You are stuck in my head.

When You Move On.

No time is enough.

Sometimes there is the sensation that it has been one very long pregnancy, and that the current one is a simple fallacy because obviously the baby has already died.  It died almost a year ago.  So there IS no child in me kicking.  So there IS no need to prepare.  So there is no way to get excited about baby clothes or this and that because...it isn't real.

Don't you realize my baby died?

Why are you still talking about it?  Asking me about it?  Wanting to know about it?

Why are you asking about my dead baby?


Sometimes I get the feeling instead that there is a baby there, but it isn't mine.  Because, again, mine died.  I don't feel invested.  This is my husband's baby.  But it isn't my baby.


Sometimes I get terrified because I think it is the same baby, and it died, it died, it died, it died, it DIED.


I always feel guilty because I am not the shining, happy mother everyone expects me to be.  Because sometimes there are holes in my enthusiasm, or I do not smile wildly enough.  Sometimes you see through my little barrier and you get the impression you can even sense the depth of my grief, my terror, my guilt.  You don't.

Let's just get that straight.

You don't.

Please, just don't tell me about how hard it must be when sometimes your body rebels against you.  Doesn't cooperate.  Like I was just a broken machine that malfunctioned, threw a part, killed a baby.

Don't give me ANY inkling that you think you know what is going through my head, because chances are, what I am thinking is that I want you to stop talking now so I can change the subject.

We don't need to discuss this.

We need to just wait this out for another three months.  Just try not to panic and scream "GET IT OUT" for another three months.  Don't claw at your stomach or scrunch up your face or cry hysterically in the shower because you can't get it out for another three months.  Just breathe and wait.

Just breathe.

And wait.

This Isn't TV, and I'm Not a Celebrity

I wasn't underweight at the start of this pregnancy.  I didn't keep up a healthy cardio routine and eat lots of health food.  I do not have stick arms and stick legs, a perky little ass, modestly sized tits, and a taut, shiny baby belly that sparkles and sprouts unicorns every time the baby kicks.

Oh, no.

Let me tell you about my bump.

My bump rolls and thunks like I have an alien eating me from the inside out.  Over it is a decent, oddly shaped layer of squishy fat and wiggly skin.  That same layer pads my growing ass, and I have armpit-fat that could evacuate a beach.  Part of that is a result of my massively growing boobs - guys, these are not Pamela boobs.  These are big, swollen, wobbling things with a bonus boob on the end of each one - oh, excuse me, I mean GIANT nipples.

My only stretch marks to date are on my thighs, and I have no idea when they got there.

I am kind of beginning to understand why it used to be that women were expected to be modest and quiet about their pregnancies.  It kind of makes your body gross.

Oh, I know, I'm supposed to just fucking adore my body right now, right?

Goo coming out my bewbs?  MIRACLE OF LIFE!  Swelling stomach that can high five you back?  Kind of... cool...  Gassy, squishy, and hairy?  Oh, what, this isn't sounding fun anymore?

There are times I feel pretty.  When I have a particularly flattering maternity shirt on (I never buy myself clothes, so that's a big deal).  When I am well-rested and don't have big bags under my eyes from just getting off work at 7 AM in the morning.  When I brush my hair.

All I know is, the people pestering me for pregnancy photos all the time, who want me to text them pictures so they can show all their friends and family how bloated with spawn I am, and the one particular individual who thinks nude/topless photos would be a terrific idea (I don't care if you photographed an underweight model covering her boobies - you'd need four hands to make mine tasteful)...

All you folks need to understand what you are in for.

Understand what you're asking me to do.

And don't bitch if your picture involves a hearty use of middle finger.  I don't photograph YOUR bodily functions, you know.

I didn't know I wanted that.

And now I don't think I can live without it...

I'm shopping for stuff to put on the baby registry, because um...the shower is apparently in like 2 weeks and I have neglected to do ANY kind of baby product research or registry-ing or...anything.  Because...I am scared of baby products.

Like, I found a diaper bag with skulls on it.

That was neat.

But my husband found a better bag.

I am just not very good at this.  Yet?  Yet.

So I started looking at "wipe warmers."  These apparently make babies scream less when you change them.  I imagine it would, because who wants a cold-ass wet thing on your cold-wet-ass?

I don't know a thing about these, so I pulled up a ton of options and started looking at their product details to compare.  Under "Protective Qualities" a lot of them had things like:

• Mildew resistant

Or...

• Bacteria resistant
• Resists browning

 Blahblahblah.  These are all good things, but I'm sitting here wondering, "do the others NOT do those things?  Or are they just adding in stuff that sounds flashy and useful?  Because it does, but is that a unique thing?"

And then...then I saw this:

• Protective Qualities: Flame Resistant

OH THAT IS PROBABLY USEFUL YES LET'S PLEASE NOT CATCH FIRE.

From Your Lips She Drew the Hallelujah

It's all a trade-off.

I believe in trade-offs like Christians believe in Heaven.

When you hit that point where your hands are stuck in your hair and your breaths are fast and painful.  And you think to yourself, that at the end of the road, there will be something waiting for you and those you love.  That the struggle HAS to be worth something.  That your hard work, your perseverance, your sweat, your heartache, will all culminate in a beautiful overflowing of peace.

That is somebody else's heaven, and it makes it worth something to keep going.

Me, personally, I think when you die, you die.  Your systems shut down.  Your pieces fall apart.  You stop and goo begins, and that goo goes on to do different, if not better, things with itself.  I don't have a heaven.  I don't want a heaven.  And to quote the lovely Beth, it don't fool me, either.

Nope.

My trade-off is here.  It's now.  It's summed up at the end of each calendar year.

I play a progress game.  I push that bar forward until I level and then I push it forward again.  Each time it gets harder to push, but I keep pushing.

And when my hands are stuck in my hair and my breaths are fast and painful, I feel it, I feel it in every fiber, and I have no numbness, no relief.  My trade-off, my trade-off for letting the panic cover me, is that maybe somewhere out of this chaos I will have created something.

Maybe when the ADD mess of half-finished projects, goals, and ambitions all settle into the ground and dissolve into something else, I will have affected somebody, something else.  There will have been a cause in the world to what I did.  I panicked and I screamed and I stumbled and I cut myself, but when I was finished, a dog was taken off of a highway full of traffic and put in a dog bed with a yard and a patient, loving owner.  When I lift my head up, I eased somebody else's breathing.  When I open my eyes, I can look over my shoulder, and see that you are the person you are because I was there for you, even when it hurt me to do it.

I am scared.

I am alone.

I don't have anyone to blame for that except the person I have made myself.  But it's a trade-off.  Because if I keep working, and I keep going, and I keep pushing right through the hurdles and giving more and more of myself, then at the end of the day, when my last breath slips out from my lips, I'll know

That you know

I loved you

And I would do it all again.

Avert Your Eyes While I Tear Out My Hair for a Second...

Sometimes people just make me go

I just got an email that got my heart pounding so fast and so angrily that I could hear it in my ears.  Tonight has sucked, truly, independent of this email, so perhaps I should not have responded.

And yet...

I did.

Look.  This afternoon I was ambushed by belly rubs, questions about the baby, how I was feeling, what I was naming him, did I have clothes picked out, do I have a registry, hey remember how far behind you are on everything, and also entertain us while we play grandma and great aunt.  I am NOT very good at talking baby.  Maybe I would have been, if I hadn't lost my first.  I AM REALLY NOT good at people touching my belly.

You think you are rubbing the baby.

I feel you touching the scars from where they cut out my first.

Don't fucking touch my stomach unless you have an inkling of what I went through and I trust you a great, great deal.

Then I got a great foster orientation out of the way and handled, so as soon as she pays her pet deposit we can stick a critter with her, which is great, except she blocked me on facebook so I can't actually invite her now to our only means of group communication and announcements.  Awesome.

Then I got preached at for about an hour about how badly our finances suck, how a bank will never give us a car loan, how we NEED two cars so what are we going to do, how we HAVE to let his mother do this or that with his finances with/without his permission, and just generally how fucked we are.  FUN TIMES.

I get an hour and a half nap before I have to get up for work.  At work I learn that the hissyfit the breakfast lady had over somebody taking home the storage room keys yesterday apparently got blamed on me.

Even though I needed to get in the storage room, too, had tried every key present twice, and checked all the other drawers in case they were misplaced.  I'm not exactly certain what I am being accused of.  Hiding them?  Lying about them?  What do they think I did?



So hey, when you email me saying that you think one of our ex-fosters screwed us on purpose, and gave us a check she knew was bad, even though you took TWO WEEKS to deposit it and I WARNED you her finances were rocky, so it needed to go in quickly...

I see red.

I hear my heart pounding.

My hackles raise.

We are NOT the kind of organization who trash talks our members, ex-members, or affiliates behind their backs.  We are not the kind of bitter, nasty people who will throw someone under the bus who DID give one of our pets a very good home, even if they haven't paid by a year later.  I am not participating in an email ring of dirt throwing because you don't want it to be your fault.

It WAS your fault, and you will NOT speak about our fosters, current or past, in that manner in front of me.  My job is their voice, their liaison, and their communication.  You will give her the benefit of the doubt because that is the only way you will see a dime without threatening to take the dog back, which is just fucking stupid.

To be fair, I didn't say all that.  No, I said he was out of line, that she stands no benefit to a bounced check and it looked funny on her account, too, and to leave it to me.

Basically, take your pissy attitude and shove it up your ass because this is my job and I am doing it.  If you did yours, it is entirely possible there would not have been a problem in the first place.

Ugh.  I need to be put to bed.

But tomorrow at 4:00 I am picking up a foster dog that I really shouldn't be, but AJ wants us to.  And at 7:00 I am going in to piercing because the boss wants a night off and thinks he is doing me a favor by giving me the slow portion of a Friday night shift.  And I can't say no, because, it is a favor and I need the money.  I don't even really know where I am sleeping tomorrow night...with the baying hound dog and the ants?  With the crazy bitch who wants to remind me that I can't afford to be a parent?  On a couch at the hotel?

I guess we'll see.

That Isn't Nerds Rope at All!

This morning, when I got off of a particularly bad shift at work, I asked my husband to take me some place to get Nerds Ropes so I could feel better.  Miles and miles of Nerds rope.

MILES.  I wanted to lasso happiness with a rope made of delicious, tiny candies.

He drove the other direction from the house...

Past Kroger.  Past the gas station.  Then he got on the highway...

When I asked him where on earth we were going, he exclaimed:

Then he started farting.


This is my life.

Slow down, wait.

I've started spinning my life like a top again.

My knees and palms are glued to its surface, my hair whipping my face while I go around and around and around.

Wait, stop.

STOP.

Give me a second to catch my breath.

But I'm already stupidly careening around for another turn.


I am slipping.

I'm laughing, simply because I don't know how else to breathe in this wind.  Because if I don't laugh I will scream.  I'm laughing so hard that my eyes are squeezing shut and I can't see your blur anymore.  I am waving one hand out and hoping I can feel your skin and be jerked off because, I'm going to fall and

I don't want to see what the world looks like when it's not all made of streaming streaks of color and light.