Tag Archives: Anxiety

Dilemma

So, I have this dilemma.

I desperately need some sleep. And not just a couple of hours. Like, I need sleeeeeeeep, you guys. I need to not wake up to an alarm a baby demanding something. I need to have one morning where I can wake up and have a cup of coffee and watch Today without having to also sing the ABC song on repeat while changing a diaper and trying to simultaneously find out what’s trending on Twitter. Okay, the Twitter thing is not important and a lot of the shit I see on Today is fluff and I don’t mind not being able to hear it over myself singing the ABC song. And I know, you guys, ALL parents want these moments. I KNOW, okay? I am not trying to play martyr and swear that I need it more because two kids under the age of two and OH MY GOD, the torture, or anything. I love being a stay-at-home-mom. Really. I do.

But I am not my best self. I am tired and cranky and potentially about to have a breakdown if I have to make my 16-month-old three different lunches again in order to find something she will put INTO HER MOUTH instead of ONTO THE FLOOR. Because holding a cranky 3-month-old while doing so is NO JOKE. So…I need a break.

And, miraculously, my mom and sister have generously offered me one. My mom and step-dad are taking a trip to visit my sister this upcoming weekend and they have offered to take BOTH of the kids with them. Leaving me alone. (I mean, basically, since MB works ALL THE TIME.) Blissfully ALONE. My dilemma is that I am TERRIFIED to let them go. I have never been away from Baby O for more than a few hours and L is such a monster sometimes that I would feel guilty about knowingly letting someone else take her for several days. Because I know what kind of a sleeper she is. I also know what that does to her mood. And I know that sometimes it makes ME crazy and I MADE her. So I can only imagine how other people will react to it.

On the one hand, I feel like it would be good for me. I mean, the kids would come back and I would have missed them terribly but have had time to get all rejuvenated and stuff. I would be like a new mommy. And I would appreciate that. And I am sure that they would too! Robot Mommy can’t be too much fun.

But, on the other hand, three days is a long time! I don’t know what I would do with myself without them. (I mean, besides cleaning, reading, sleeping, having adult conversations, going out to dinner, peeing alone, showering…probably several times per day just to get my fill, eating hot food while sitting, not sweeping the floor 37 times before noon, I could go on.)  I feel a little lost thinking about how empty the house will be without them here. How my clothes won’t smell like spit-up and how the lack of thin layer of Cheerios on the floor will make me feel. My tiny BFFs will be GONE. That’s just sad.

Also, and MOSTLY, what if something happens and I am not there?! OH. EM. GEE. You guys. Seriously. WHAT IF SOMETHING HAPPENS?

What do I DO, you guys? Do I let them take my spawn for several days and get this much needed break? Or do I keep the reigns in place and just try and maintain!?

 

Fixed

So, some of you might remember the post where I talked about deciding on the Essure procedure as my form of permanent sterilization. And how it sort of seemed like I was having to mourn the use of my lady parts.

Well, internet, last Friday? I did it. I don’t have a lot to say about the actual procedure because, just as I was told and had read, there really wasn’t much to it. The worst part was the two nurses and doctor attempting to get the pain medication into my body. Because if I didn’t know better, I would think I was completely vein-less. But, once the medications were in and I was sufficiently HIGH, the procedure lasted all of five minutes. And then a team of professionals (read: family members who didn’t want me to fall asleep while bathing children) stepped in for the rest of the day and watched the kids so I could sleep it all off. But seriously, you guys, five minutes. The end.

I mentioned in the previous post that being sterilized was a little bittersweet. And not because I want any more kids. Because oh HELLS NO. But because it sort of seemed, when I thought about it, that part of my femininity was being stripped away with this procedure. Now, I know, I know, that’s not the case. But it sort of feels like it.

When MB got home from work that night, I beamed at him, “I’m FIXED!” and he said, “How do you feel about that?” And I told him that it is sort of sad. Sort of like a goodbye to fertility. Which is such a strange feeling. To know that I won’t ever be able to conceive again, while it is a total RELIEF, is pretty serious business. Because it is FOREVER. And that’s…you know…pretty damn permanent. So I spent a little while thinking about it. And coming to terms with it. And I know I made the right decision here. Because I have these two beautiful kids. One of each. And they are my everything. And I really couldn’t ask for anything more. And if I accidently GOT anything more, I might really go batshit crazy if I haven’t already.  I don’t need any more crazy, you guys. We’re all full up on crazy over here.

So…there ya have it. I went and did it. I’m fixed!

Life Suckage

Since before I had Baby O, MB has been looking for a new job. One where he wasn’t working so hard that he was too sore/tired/dirty to hold the kids when he got home. One that paid a little more and would afford us the luxury of THE ZOO or THE MUSEUM on weekends. Not that we couldn’t do these things before, but recently, after his job didn’t pay him what they were supposed to for being home after the birth of our son, we were playing catch up. Like CRAZY. And it was too much. MB found another job, put in his notice, and then his previous employer of 5 years let him go. So, we had another two weeks of ZERO income. Which, by the way, was AWESOME. So, my stress level was off the charts. And for me, that could really just mean that its Tuesday, but…you know. Two weeks of CODE RED stress makes mommy a little…well…crazy-pants.

So, anyway, MB started his new job last Wednesday. They told him in the interview that he would be working about 60-70 hours per week. Obviously, this was a little disheartening, but also totally do-able. And the money was a pretty good motivation because he would be making about double what he was previously making for a lot less BS/injury. And we were excited. In fact, I was ELATED. I thought about these zoo trips and museum trips and weekends in Savannah, strolling around and eating delicious southern food on River Street. And then he went to work. And he was there, on his first day, for 15 hours. And day two wasn’t much better. And so on. And so on. And when they told him that, not only would he have to work 6 days per week, but he would have to work one Sunday a month, my heart sank a little (read: I envisioned myself stabbing his boss in the eye with my kitchen scissors) and all my zoo fantasies faded. So, today marks 7 straight days of MB working 15 hour days and leaving me home with the kids all day. Alone.

The kids take turns sleeping so that there is zero time for me to actually accomplish any sort of household duty for more than 30 seconds without being interrupted to change a diaper or administer a bottle or retrieve Baby L’s hand out of the trash can or stop her from trying to scale the kitchen counter. There are dishes in the sink ALL. THE. TIME. Because we are stupid and moved into a house that doesn’t have a dishwasher and there seems to be an endless consumption of food in this house for some reason. I’ve had to resort to letting Baby L watch two, back-to-back episodes of “Yo Gabba Gabba” at times, (despite feeling that if she is going to watch TV at all, it should be VERY infrequently) just so that I can pee without a toddler trying to climb into my lap. I have to shower at 5am or 10pm since the kids refuse to overlap their naps so that I can do so during the day. And showering may sound like no big deal, but it is the one thing that, I think would make me feel human. Besides coffee. And wine. But, sadly, I can’t drink wine all day or I would probably try to put mascara on the babies or something equally ridiculous.

I have been exhausted. Surprisingly calm, however. I braced myself for long days and even though I didn’t expect them to be quite THIS long, I have managed to pull of bathtimes and bedtimes and night wakings with an amount of grace that is really shocking to me. Because I, my friends, am a crazy person. And calmness doesn’t come so easily. I am just not sure how long we can go on like this. MB hasn’t spent any time at all with the kids in a week and it is obvious to me that Baby L is really missing him. Her mood is different and she seems to be waiting for him. And it breaks my heart. And it breaks HIS heart. And that breaks my heart more. MORE! So, we are sucking it up, as they say, for the time being. You know, until I find a high paying, work from home job that wants to enlist me to write snarky things about being a parent. Or about celebrities who piss me off. Or…you know…whatever.

I just know that this 90+ hours per week business is not going to fly for long or MB will miss every new wonderfully amazing thing that Baby O does for the first time. And before we know it, Baby L will be reading “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” and going off to college and MB will have missed it all. So, the hunt begins again. Either for me, or for MB, to find a job that doesn’t suck the life out of us. Because the “life” part is the GOOD part.

Good to Know

I just wanted to stop in and say a GIANT THANK YOU to all of you who posted comments on my last post. I haven’t had a chance to respond to most of them but it means a lot to know that I am not the only one who goes through this (or similar stuff). I appreciate you guys! If I could, I would bake you all some brownies. Bacon brownies. Because THAT, my friends, is LOVE.

 

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On Being Me…(A Post About Anxiety)

I’ve told you guys before that I am a total basketcase. I am not ashamed of it. I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder that has been untreated for years since I decided that the medication that I was prescribed brought on…well…more crazy. I didn’t want to live my life dependent on some pill to keep me sane. I was pretty sure I could do it myself.

It all started on Christmas Eve (which was also the eve of my 23rd birthday) when my grandfather was rushed to the hospital by ambulance because my grandma and uncle thought he was having a stroke. He was 87 or something at the time, and had already had a couple of TIAs. By the time that I was told about any of that, however, my grandmother had been admitted also. To make a long story short, Grandpa was in perfect health but Grandma, while searching for their insurance information in her purse, lost the use of her left arm and ultimately was the one having a stroke. Bizarre. I know. And it was my birthday. And Christmas.

My grandparents lived with or near us for a good portion of my childhood. And, even in my early adulthood, they were the people I went to for EVERYTHING. My parents are great. My grandparents were saints. On my birthday, we turned off the machines. I held hands with my sister and my grandfather in the hospital I would later be employed at and, in my head, I sang, “Three little monkeys, jumping on the bed, one fell off and bumped his head…” because my grandma used to tell me how much I used to chant those words when I was small and how, after that, she wouldn’t even teach the other grandkids that song. She hated it. But telling the story always made her laugh that sweet laugh that made everyone else smile too. I thought that being annoying, even in my head, would stop me from throwing myself out the window of her room in the ICU. Because, losing her? Well, there’s never been anything worse than that.

That’s when the panic attacks started. They happened in the middle of the night. Out of a dead sleep, I would wake, struggling to breathe, sweating. They would happen when I couldn’t remember where I had parked my car at work. They would happen when my best friend didn’t return my phone call. I was falling apart.

I was put on Zoloft and Xanax by a doctor at the hospital where I worked. She didn’t ask any questions about what was happening in my life. In fact, she asked ZERO questions. I was in the office for less than five minutes. Prescriptions were written and I was excused. Zoloft made me feel like a lunatic and Xanax made me sleepy. So, I didn’t take them. I popped a Xanax only when I was mid-panic and I managed everything with…well…I didn’t. I drank a lot of beer because it mellowed me out. And my friends drank a lot of beer. So it just made sense. And a doctor I worked for did acupuncture on me on a weekly basis to calm me down. And it helped. A lot. But I never really dealt with the root of it all. But I managed.

Two weeks before my 30th birthday, my grandfather died. And so, there I was, back in the same place I had been 7 years before. I fell into a depression. It wasn’t long before the panic attacks returned. With a vengeance. I tried to see a therapist for grief counseling because, even though I have always been a little high strung, I knew that this had to have started there. With death. With loss. But my insurance was crap and I couldn’t afford to pay $50 per week to get my head straight. So I drank more wine. And I managed.

When I started dating my husband, he was so calm. And so ZEN. And so refreshing. And my anxiety was almost non-existent. Until I got pregnant with Baby L. And then I had a hard time finding the balls to leave the house. Why? I don’t know. I just didn’t want to see anyone. Or have conversations with people. I didn’t want to be noticed. I was so scared and felt so alone in my head. That’s when I started this blog. And, oh my god, internet. I can’t tell you the difference that this community of bloggers and readers has helped me just…maintain. But I feel myself slipping.

And not because I have two kids now. And not because my husband is no longer calm and comforting. But because now there are two people in the world who depend on me for everything. And I am terrified of failing. Or losing them. I find myself sanitizing like a madwoman. And avoiding public outings because we could get into a car accident. Or someone could take them. Or they could contract leprosy. I envy those women who can dive into motherhood with an almost carefree abandon about leaving the comfort of their homes and letting their kids experience things. It isn’t that I don’t do that stuff. I do, but it makes me physically ill to think about all of the things that could happen. It is paralyzing. Because anything COULD happen. And I can’t live in fear of EVERYTHING. Can I?

I am trying. Really trying, to learn how to just relax. And I feel It is imperative, at this point, to learn to deal with my fear of loss. To stop thinking so much about what could happen and focus on what IS happening. Because what IS happening is that my kids are growing. They are learning and laughing and becoming little people. And I am afraid to drive down the street for fear that I will miss all of it. When I could miss it just the same if I don’t just DRIVE.

It is a constant struggle. And this is a very personal issue for me. But I needed to talk about it. Because I know that I am not the only one. At least. I hope I’m not the only one.

 

Lumpy

Baby O is 7 weeks old today. I seriously can’t believe how quickly time is going by! I mean, I can. Because it seems like just yesterday that Baby L was this small. But it also seems like AGES ago. A year makes a hell of a difference, that’s for sure. But daaaaamn. SEVEN WEEKS. In a couple of days, I will have my check-up and then I will be given the okay for “activities”. I imagine that this means that they will tell me it is okay to lift heavy objects. Or chase heavy objects around the house to prevent them from destroying all of my things and then swoop down and pick them up. You know, I will be given the okay to be Baby L’s mom.

I am sort of excited to be given the okay for exercise. Not that I will have time to do any of that. (Although, I am fairly certain that I do more of it now, with a 14 month old, than I ever have in my life…but they don’t call it exercise. They call that parenthood.) And, you know, I can’t think of any kind of exercise that I actually enjoy. (You know, the kind that I like is what got me these two kids in the first place. And we are trying to AVOID any more of those, people. AVOID.) I just am not sure I can learn to live with this new body.

I think I have said before that I, in no way, plan to give up big fat cheeseburgers or giant beers. Because if I did that, I just wouldn’t be me. But I would like to feel normal again.

After Baby L was born, I lost all but 5 pounds of the weight I gained in the first 2-3 weeks. And I fit back into my pre-preggo clothes almost immediately. (Please believe that I am not a thin girl to begin with. I was pleasantly plump when I got pregnant and I wasn’t terribly upset about it. I was pretty content with my curves because, for the most part, they were in pretty good places.) With Baby O, I lost the weight just as quickly. I gained less with this pregnancy than with my first one (27 pounds with Baby L and 21 with Baby O) and the poundage seemed to fall right off.

But the body, you guys. The body.

Okay, so lets be for real, ladies and gents. (Mostly ladies because I doubt that you boys can relate here. And if you can…well, damn. Awesome!) Your body goes batshit crazy for ten months when you are pregnant. And then you push a whole person out of your nether region. And then you are able to FEED them with your BOOBS. And your hips are bigger. And your hair falls out. And you cry at commercials. And your belly is like a bowl of Jell-O. A BOWL OF JELL-O.

I don’t want a Jell-O belly. I want the regular beer belly I used to have. And my clothes hate this new belly. My jeans want to push it out the top. My cute tops want to cling to it and make me feel all…lumpy. Feeling lumpy is not so much fun. And if you are feeling lumpy and are crying at commercials, well, you probably drink a lot of wine. (Which could contribute to lumpiness and crying.)

I went out for the first time in a long time on Saturday with some girlfriends. I was absolutely so nervous to even try on any of my clothes because I didn’t want to see how different/horrible all my cute clothes looked on me now. And, seriously, I considered canceling before I even tried anything on. Because, at least in yoga pants, I feel hidden. And comfortable. And reasonably frumpy. But I did it. I told all of my anxiety, “Shut the fuck up. I JUST had a BABY.” (Because that’s what my friends keep telling me when I talk about my Jell-O belly.) And I tried on EVERYTHING. And I hated EVERYTHING. And then I considered canceling again. Because the thought of hanging out with my lovely girlfriends who had their own bodies but no Jell-O bellies was just terrifying. I just knew that they would judge me. Because OBVIOUSLY my friends are assholes.

But they AREN’T assholes. And they are more forgiving than I am about the fact that I JUST had a BABY! Imagine that. A woman beating herself up about the way that she looks. And comparing herself to other women. With different kinds of bodies. And who didn’t just push a human of their vaginas. Weird.

And now I am angry with myself for being so self-conscious. Because HOLY SHIT, you guys. It has only been SEVEN WEEKS! And I was no Kate Moss before these kids, why do I expect to be now? WHY? And why would I WANT to be?

I read an article recently about how a woman’s dialogue to herself and about herself affects her daughter. And how girls pick up on the negativity that their mother’s put out there about the way they look. And I thought about Baby L and how I really want her to be confident. I don’t want her to look in the mirror and pick herself apart and never recognize how beautiful she is. And I’ve always been pretty confident, but I am definitely guilty about talking shit about the way that I look. And I don’t want that to shape my daughter into some self-conscious little shell of a person. And I don’t want her to seek approval from people for her physical appearance. I want her to be a proud, confident little lady. And I am staring in the mirror at my Jell-O belly and setting a bad example. And that stops now.

Dammit. I JUST had a BABY. And even if I hadn’t, I am a curvy broad. And curvy is hot.

I had to do it. This song makes me shake my curvy ass.

Hateful

Family is weird. And when you have one of your own, and your primary focus is your kids, some of the family dynamics with “outside the home” members of the family change. This is important to note because, this week, my Father-in-Law has been visiting.  He called, a couple of weeks ago, to wish MB a happy birthday and then informed him that he would be coming to our house for a week. No dates set-in-stone. Just a generic, “after the 19th” kind of notice.

I was not thrilled.

When you first have a baby, as many of you know, things change a lot. Your sleep changes. WHERE you sleep might change. Your meal times change. Even WHAT you eat changes because, if you are in a similar situation to mine, you don’t really have so much time to think about feeding your own face when you are spending so much of your time concerned about feeding tiny faces. Things are chaotic. They are unscheduled and they are completely unpredictable. And if you are anything like me, being in a situation like this would be enough to leave you bald and hiding under your bed in the fetal position by the end of a regular day. Because the anxiety. Oh, the anxiety. Its a heinous bitch. And it can turn ME into a heinous bitch too.

It takes any mother (parents, really) a minute to adjust to a newborn. And their neediness. And the lack of normacly. Because. Well. Welcome to your new normal, new parents. Gone are the days of free time. For us, gone are the days of dinners before 8pm or watching a television show uninterrupted. Or sleeping together in the same bed. Gone. At least for now. Because we’re still figuring this “parents of two” thing out. And we are doing damn well if you ask me.

But then, when you get an uninvited houseguest who sleeps on the couch in the middle of the day and cuts watermelon (and you HATE the smell/taste/idea of watermelon)  in your kitchen and leaves it sitting there for hours while you nearly vomit because of the smell (which you can do nothing about, because you are busy wrangling a 14 month old and feeding a newborn and cooking dinner and washing dishes and sweeping up today’s lunch from under the high chair…you get the point), you might tend to spin a little (more) out of control. You know, if you have control issues/a hefty anxiety problem. And that, my internet friends, has been this week for me. I’m tired and stressed and ready for a serious break. But I’m a parent. And breaks don’t exist.

My FIL isn’t a bad person, if you ask me, although, I know some people who would disagree. He has done some things that he regrets to the people that he loves and spends most of his time with them trying to make them understand that he loves them. But also making them feel guilty that HE lives several states away from them. Yes, you read that right. Because he moved away after being a not-so-great person to them and now wants all of them to feel guilty that they aren’t where he is. Sometimes, there is even crying. And I used to feel bad. But then I started getting to know him. And hearing stories about the kinds of things that happened when he was “not-so-good” and I don’t feel bad anymore. In fact, I am annoyed. But I bite my tongue because I love my husband. I have bitten my tongue so much this week that it is currently hanging by a little muscly tongue thread.

Last night, I was talking to my sister-in-law about being a parent. And I told her that, before I had Baby O, I was genuinely worried that I wouldn’t be able to love him as much as I love Baby L. This, I have heard from other moms with more than one child, is a very real fear. And very common. I mean, you give birth to someone, right? And they are your everything. They give you the motivation to be BETTER. And they expand your capacity for love and they fill up your WHOLE heart. Because that’s what happens when you have a child. And then you are faced with having another one. One that you haven’t met yet. And you wonder, “how will my heart expand enough for this new little one to fit in there with the first one?” Because it seems impossible to love ANOTHER person the way you love your first. But then you do. You just DO.

Anyway, I was talking to my SIL about this and FIL says with a snide roll of his eyes, “Well, that’s hateful.”

And, in my head, I said: “Well, I didn’t try and smother either of my kids with a pillow, did I? So, I guess you would know better than me about hateful.”

In real life, I said, “Well, I guess YOU wouldn’t understand, seeing as you’ve never carried a person in your BODY for months and months…”

“Well, I never had a problem loving my kids”, he says to me.

And in my head, I said, “Sure, if by loving your kids, you mean locking them outside and making them pick weeds in the hundred degree heat for hours on end.”

In real life, I said, “You couldn’t possibly understand any of it anyway.” And I walked out of the room.

MB and my SIL did back me up, because they GET it. It is a process. But I could have gone to prison last night, internet. PRISON.

I can show him hateful. I really can. I am REALLY good at hateful. I did it for years as a teenager. I got this. But I’m biting my tongue. Because he is leaving today. And after he is gone, my life can go back to a degree of chaos that doesn’t make it necessary for my husband to hide all the knives.

(Just FYI, I don’t know that the above things actually happened. I mean, I can only imagine that they did, because they were told to me BY his kids. But…I wasn’t there. I just thought I should say that.)

A Couple of Things (While My House is Peaceful…)

I know I have been really slacking on Baby O’s birth story. And, to be honest, I have written that post in my head about 70 times but I can’t seem to find the time to sit down and blog. I know! Imagine THAT, right?!  But it is forthcoming. I swear.

First, though, I would like to give you a little peek into how things have been going over here in Oopsieville.

1. Having two babies is interesting. Because the minute you deal with one and make them all calm and serene, the other one sprays pee across the room and completely blows your mind. And then, once you have dealt with Pee Fountain, you will then find your toddler digging through the trash.  Coffee grounds, you guys. For reals.

2. I sweep the floor no less that 36 times per day.

3. Baby L has had mercy on me since we brought Baby O home and she has been VERY cooperative when she is being put down for her naps and for bed. It is amazing. But I can’t help but think that she is plotting against me and that this is all just a ploy to catch me off guard. She’s an evil genius.

4. MB returned to work yesterday after almost two whole glorious weeks of being home and helping chase Baby L around while simultaneously feeding a newborn. I miss him terribly because I sometimes wonder if I will be able to handle so much at the same time. And because Baby L likes to tug on my pants when my hands are occupied, I am also wondering if I can manage to do all of this sans pants. Because she is now pulling them all the way down when she knows I can’t do anything about it. Good times.

5. Baby L has officially learned to walk. It happened yesterday and it was so amazing. And I cried. Like a little bitch. (You know, like I do when she does ANYTHING AT ALL…)

All in all, things are moving right along. I don’t feel quite as scared as I originally did. Partially because Baby O has been a completely different baby than Baby L right from conception and has proven that not all babies will require that you sleep on the couch for 5.5 weeks because you have to hold them 24 hours per day. I remember feeling, with Baby L, more inept than I had ever felt at anything in my entire life. And now, well, I am more experienced. And I only feel painfully inept about 50% of the time. Not too shabby, I guess.

We’re a work in progress!

Uninvited

Before you ask: No, I haven’t had this baby yet. And yes, I am due in 6 days. And yes, I am uncomfortable, annoyed and generally ready to do the damn thang. (But yes, I am still having nearly nightly panic attacks about having another baby to take care of. I don’t think that’s going to change until I prove to myself that I am Superwoman. And this will hopefully occur sooner, rather than later.) But this isn’t really what I want to talk about today. Because if I talk about, I could get pretty profane. And, well, no one wants that. Right?

 

Who am I kidding? I am most likely going to get really profane anyway. Because this shit is pissing me OFF, you guys.

 

Okay, so MB, Baby L and I moved out of my Mother-In-Law’s house for several reasons. One was because, when we found out we were pregnant with Baby O, I envisioned myself actually locking MB’s nephew in a closet for several months so my kids would be able to sleep peacefully. And when you see yourself doing things like this, you know you are in an unfavorable situation. (And maybe it isn’t the kid’s fault that he is disobedient, loud and generally obnoxious. But it doesn’t matter. He IS those things. And I knew that if we didn’t move, I might start to get really mean.) I was so relieved to get out of there. Not because I didn’t like the family (obviously, I love them) but because I couldn’t stand living with people who were on different schedules, doing different things, at different noise levels, all when I was trying to get my kid into a sleep pattern that didn’t require me to be up all night and then cleaning up after everyone all day. This was not ideal. And I hated the side of town that we were living on.

When we found our rental house, I didn’t love it either. And it is on the same side of town. But the price is right. And the size is right. And guess what, you guys! My in-laws don’t live there! Score! So, I sucked it up. I gave in and agreed that, since I am not currently employed outside of the home, and MB is the breadwinner and this place is not falling apart and doesn’t come with built-in annoying children, I could do it. And I would grin and bear it until I go back to work, and can contribute more financially. SO…here we are. On a side of town that I hate, but no longer bitch about because I am grateful to be here. Alone with MY little family. And with my giant back yard.

But, here comes the bitching.

Several times a week, after I have spent an hour trying to get Baby L ready for a nap and then waiting for her to fight sleep and finally give in so I can go and EAT A DAMN SANDWICH, I walk back into the living room, take a bite of said sandwich and notice, out my front window, people walking up to my front door. (It is important that you know, internet, that we don’t use our front door. It is locked at all times, and can only be opened (even from the inside) with a key. Because we use the carport door. Because that makes sense. You know, because we park there. All of our friends use the carport. Everyone uses the fucking carport.) It happens before noon. And, because I have to, then, frantically search for my keys in order to unlock the door, these people typically have time to ring the doorbell and within ONE SECOND of doing so, add in a good banging on the front door. You know, for good measure. And then Baby L is screaming. And there is a rotund black woman wearing a giant hat, and a tall gentleman wearing a suit standing there, anxiously waiting to tell me where to find Jesus.

I KNOW WHERE JESUS IS.

I went to church for the entirety of my childhood. Never once was I required to knock on a stranger’s door to tell them about where to find Jesus. Because it seems to be the opinion of the people in the congregation I was a part of, that if you WANT TO FIND JESUS, you will do that. You do not need some strangers to help you. It is creepy that people will come to your house to tell you about this stuff. It is creepy because they don’t know me. I could be ANY KIND of person. I could be the kind of person who would totally shoots the kind of people who are not the same as me. I could be the kind of person who would be offended by their religious views. I could be the kind of person who has a one-year-old child who doesn’t sleep and who gets very hostile at 39 weeks pregnant when her baby is awoken by strangers who want to tell her about Jesus. I AM THAT KIND OF PERSON.

(And I am, honestly, a little offended when people try and push their views on me in the first place. That takes some NERVE to come to MY HOUSE and disrupt MY DAY like that without any consideration about how your views might sit with me. But I won’t get all on a religious or moral kick here. Because that is not the kind of blogger I am, and frankly, it doesn’t matter what I believe. Except that I believe that you should not come to my house unless you are invited. And, preferably, have brought me wine.)

After this happens, and I try my damndest not to seriously injure these people (who are likely thinking they are doing some sort of Godly work or something), I am seriously angry. I mean, ANGRY. It is the most annoying thing I can think of. Like, ever. MB had to stop me today, from putting a sign on our front door that said, “I know where Jesus is. Do not knock on this door. Thank you.” He said that it would be in bad taste. I think knocking on my door uninvited and waking my kid up is in bad taste. But maybe that’s just me?

What IS it with this side of town?!

Since I posted this, I’ve gotten some awesome illustrations:

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Notes on Week 38

Okay, internet, if you have been following along, you know that I am not a giant fan of pregnancy. And you might also remember that my first one was full of fun and craziness. You know, with losing my job, fighting with Medicaid to even get prenatal care and then just feeling generally miserable for THE WHOLE EFFING THING. I have been lucky this time. Baby O hasn’t given me nearly the amount of physical agony that Baby L presented me with during my pregnancy. You know, until NOW.

NOW?

Now I am not sleeping because, between trying to maneuver this giant belly and keeping Baby L from actually sleeping ON MY FACE, I have barely enough time for that sort of shenanigans. Sleep is for the weak, they say. They do say that, right? Anyway, if this is true, then I hereby declare myself, The Incredible Hulk of Insomnia. I do not turn green, though.

Except, wait. Yes, I do. Yesterday, I was taking out the trash and something smelled really awful and I turned green, and hurried and puked in the bathtub. Yep. 38 weeks and still puking. I guess there just wasn’t enough of that in the beginning of this whole thing for it to be over.

Then I took 45 minutes to effortlessly (read: with great effort and discomfort) ease on my maternity pants and haul my giant ass to my 38 week check up. Where I was told that nothing had changed. I am still pregnant and will remain that way until the time should come wherein…I am no longer pregnant. The good news is that my doctor praised me about my weight gain (only 17 pounds, which feels more like 850), which, you know, made me hungry.  And when I realize that I am hungry, I usually do so because MY CHEST IS ON FIRE.

The heartburn has returned. And with a vengeance. I am not a fan. I am not a fan at all. I can’t even drink WATER without wanting to kill myself. Water = sandpaper. Bread = fire. Hot sauce? Well, hot sauce is expectedly hot. But since I love it and it has the same effect as ANYTHING ELSE EVER, I eat it. Have I mentioned to you, internet, how before I was pregnant, I got heartburn like ONCE PER YEAR and now I have it 36 times per day? No? Oh. Well, yeah. That’s what is happening in my esophagus. You’re welcome for the enlightenment.

Baby O is officially kicking me in the ribs. This is the kind of discomfort that one can never describe to someone who has not experienced it. I never had this experience with Baby L and, up until two days ago, had not had any trouble with Baby O. But now, he loves my rib cage. LOVES. That’s all I am going to say about this. Because it is so annoying that I feel like if I talk about it too much, it will happen again and I will either cry or punch something. Or both.

I am WAY too emotional. I have cried three times today and two of the three times were about nothing. I mean, probably not nothing exactly. But definitely stupid things. Like, that I didn’t have any more bottled water in the refrigerator and all that was cold was Dr. Pepper which, (if you can IMAGINE) gives me super bad heartburn. Then I decided, since my mom had my kid for the day, and my husband was out doing man things (or getting a massage. Yes. Seriously.) I would finish watching “Sophie’s Choice” (because I have this fascination about WW2 and the Holocaust and things of that nature, because I am a total dork and that stuff is interesting) and then I watched Meryl Streep have to CHOOSE between her CHILDREN. And then I had a breakdown and felt the need to punch a German soldier. Luckily for them, there aren’t many German soldiers around my neighborhood. And MB wasn’t home. (Sidenote: I did have a flash of the diploma that hangs on the wall in the house of the old man that I take care of sometimes that states that his middle name is Adolf. But I didn’t punch him either. Come on, that would be mean.) I am tired of crying for no reason. And I am tired of wanting to punch imaginary Nazis. (I mean, I would probably want to do that anyway, but I am WAY too serious about it today.)

(Another sidenote: Is there some reason that “Beaches” is ALWAYS on? I mean, I loved this movie when I was a kid (which may also be weird, but my best friend loved it too…) and I have a really hard time NOT watching it when it is on but how many times can a pregnant lady watch “Beaches” without sticking her head in the oven? Honestly.)

Also? The PEEING. I cannot stop peeing! That is all.

My point, internet? I am SO READY to feel like a normal person again. But I am SO NOT READY to have a baby. I just need a pause button. And that pause button should not only pause the progress of this pregnancy when pushed, but sort of make the pregnancy nonexistent so I can have beer. You know, until I push play again. I swear, I would push play again, you guys, I just need a break. Then I would need a bring me beer button. Because that would come in handy forever.