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.