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!