28 February 2013

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.

24 February 2013

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
  • 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


22 February 2013

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.


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.

21 February 2013

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.


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.