Category Archives: adult-only

Published in the adult-only category

Beeee yourself

Eldest Child wanted to sleep with my nipple in her mouth at all times. Middle Child wanted to nurse enough to not be starving and then get that dang boob out of their face. Youngest Child wants to nurse probably slightly past satiation so that she has a good vomit towards the end but then she wants to sleep with the nipple against her lips in case she wants it later. If the nipple moves away she is terribly upset.

EC could not be put down. MC liked being left alone to look around a room a little. YC mostly wants to be held but if you put her down for a few minutes she’s ok with it and she doesn’t start indicating that she’s lonely until I’ve been gone 5-10 minutes.

EC and MC both screamed in the car as if we were lying them on a bed of nails. YC… is mostly chill unless she got into the car hungry.

EC was the most violently anti-diaper changes; she screamed hysterically through every diaper change for months. MC didn’t like them but didn’t cry 100% of the time. YC sometimes gets annoyed with being cold and complains about that but mostly she’s thrilled to get poop taken off her and she is quiet and cooperative.

Noah points out that this baby is the least… fussed post birth and she’s the only birth where I didn’t feel traumatized.

It is wonderful to me that I can’t see my family or Noah’s family in YC’s face the way I can in EC or MC. She is so completely and totally her own person. YC has a few facial expressions in common with EC (oh they have a mighty pirate YARRRRRRR face) and her face shape is suggestive of EC’s face… but very different. My Youngest Child looks like herself and that’s it.

This child seems so relaxed and mellow. She seems happy and like she’s getting exactly what she needs. I don’t feel as anxious and on the verge of ruining her life/killing her as I did with the older kids. She feels so fragile, but she also seems happy and sturdy. I think she feels fragile because I have acclimated to big kids and the difference is striking.

My milk is fully in. I’m at my pre-pregnancy weight (I’M EATING EVERYTHING THAT ISN’T NAILED DOWN). My house is shockingly tidy. My kids have not fallen behind on school work. I’m doing 1-3ish hours of chores a day and mostly resting.

I’m doing “the right things”. I’m a little bored because sitting this still is not my favorite. I think that today I will be up for trying another walk. I tried making breakfast on day three and squatting to get stuff out of the bottom of the fridge fucking hurt so bad I wanted to scream so I didn’t try a walk yesterday or day three. I’m on day five now.

It’s amazing that she’s only been here five days. I like her so much.

I think YC will be fully out of newborn size by the time she is ten days old. I can barely sorta get it on her now.

I am back to the point where I’m looking at all of my clothes and thinking, “How much boob access does this have?” I have multiple years in front of me where all of my clothes need to be picked based on access to my nipples. This is kind of hilarious to me. Given our plans in this time period I’m a little confused as to how much of this I should box up for “some day” and how much I should just pass along.

I already took all of my maternity stuff out and put it in bags to donate. I could barely wear it pregnant because I never got that big and I’m already shrunk down to about the middle of my size range. I’m mushy and I have extra skin, but my girth is not anywhere near as big as I am sometimes without being pregnant so my clothes are fitting fairly normally already.

My boobs are ridiculous. Rock hard and almost the size of EC’s skull. Which is disturbing because she’s almost 10 and has an adult sized head. YC’s skull looks tiny and insignificant next to my mighty tits. This makes me giggle so much. Bodies are weird. I miss tandem nursing right now. Having a big kid to relieve all the pain of engorgement was a gift.

Yesterday I hit the wall of “Oh my god every single piece of me is in pain. Ow Ow Fucking Ow.”

Blacksheep followed up on me asking her how she psyches herself up to be bad ass. She said that part of it is she never says to herself that she can’t do something.

I really do aspire to be as bad ass as this woman someday.

But the thing is… I have limits. I have physical, emotional, and mental limits. There are things I can’t do.

That’s hard. I think that my limits are often pretty extreme… there are many ways in which my limits greatly exceed “average” so folks are confused by the vehemence of my expression of limits. Mostly… I am not what people think of when they think “disabled” which is completely legit.

My limits move around based on a lot of factors. When I did the elimination diet from hell my body was so sick. I could not do a fraction of what I normally can. It was rough. I go through periods where I have no energy or ability to think and I essentially shut down. I plan around these things and try to avoid hitting the wall so that I fail people.

I think that I am so certain and defensive of my limits because I’m well aware of how often I could fail people if I were more casual about how I observe my boundaries. If I didn’t watch my limits like a hawk I would let people down and I really don’t want to. I have so much to give and then I’m done and I don’t want someone standing around needing me to continue or they will fail too. That’s not fair.

So I am adamant and fierce about my boundaries because if I don’t then I will hurt people. I know where I will fail and I identify that point and I do my best to avoid it. I know how to work me until I am absolutely spent… but I got through the necessary bits.

So when it comes to talking myself into doing something hard… I have to look at the whole picture before I decide if I can or can’t do something. There are millions of things I could do if I was supported properly and they were all I was doing. Can I do those things within the structure and framework of my life given my other obligations? That’s a harder question. The calculus is intense.

So as much as I admire and look up to the idea of seeing yourself as just so fucking competent it isn’t in question… I’m pretty sure that will always be aspirational for me. There are too many ways I fail for me to have such hubris. (I’m not saying it is hubris for someone else… I’m talking about my failings here.)

I am really enjoying how much mothering feels like something I can do even though it is hard and draining and demanding. Mothering really kind of sucks as a job. It’s painful and often not that rewarding moment by moment.

But I get to look at my glorious children and know that I did that. I made them from scratch and then I fed their bodies and nurtured their minds and their spirits. I don’t think that mothering is the best task for everyone. I don’t think it should be a mandatory part of anyone’s life. But I want it to be part of my life and I want to be good at it.

And I am.

Normal

On one hand, I worry about how much sleep I’m getting. On the other hand… I’m actually getting a fairly normal amount of sleep for me when I am unmedicated at night. This is what my body… does.

There is this belief that you must get a “reasonable” amount of sleep or you can’t be healthy. I believe it is true… to a point. Do you know how grateful I have been to have doctors start telling me that my sleep stuff is probably related to a combination of ADHD (I burn more energy with less need for rest than average) and PTSD hypervigilance. I probably don’t NEED as much sleep as other people. Seven hours is pretty average for me with heavy sleep meds.

So getting 3-5 hours is low but… not scary low for me?

One of my favorite parts of giving birth is my horrifying anxiety just… lifts. I have a little anxiety about my babies but not a lot. Mostly I feel competent in a way I rarely feel in life. I can’t sit around like a queen giving orders when I’m pregnant but I don’t hesitate postpartum. Bring me that. Fetch the other thing. Go do this chore. No problem!

I will sit here and hold my baby and somehow manage to still be wildly productive because my mind feels so thrilled to be doing what it is doing.

I love my baby. She is perfect. If she weren’t canonically perfect she would be perfect to me. I’m not scared of my children having problems. I have problems. We cope.

Like, we get to take her to Stanford for an ultrasound for her kidney because stuff wasn’t perfect at birth. I don’t care. Whatever I have to do for her will get done. She is my baby.

If I have to blow things up to take care of her I will. If I have to mow someone down because they are blocking something I need for her… I won’t flinch.

My children motivate me in a way nothing else on this earth ever has or ever will. I will find a way to change for my children. I will become whatever they need from me. It doesn’t matter if it is hard or if it hurts. I brought you into this world. I owe you. I owe you everything.

I don’t mean “everything” like every class or toy or treat you want. Boundaries make healthy people. But I owe you my life. I owe you my sanity. I owe you my need to get up in the morning and try again.

Apparently in our house we now have a Sissy and a Sibby. (Sister/Sibling) This is… making me cry in a nice way. My big kids are so happy about the baby they are about to burst.

After the next diaper change I’m starting a load of diaper laundry. This makes me weirdly very happy. Let the next cycle begin. I am so ready. I am ready to take care of you and do what you need. You are worth all the work I could possibly put into you and more. I will give you what I have. It will fall short of your needs because life is like that. Luckily you have a daddy who loves you to distraction. And you have a Sissy and a Sibby who want to take care of you when I can’t do everything.

You, my lovely daughter, are going to be ok. We will make sure of it.

My milk hasn’t fully come in yet, but my boobs are sweeeeeelling. It’s hilarious and painful because my boobs are already getting to that point where my nipples are hard for a newborn to manage. Overwhelmed by boob is a hilarious facial expression. By later today my boobs will dwarf her head. Ha.

Last night I swaddled the baby super well and gave her to Noah. I went to bed a few minutes before 8. I got up for the day at 2:30 for the second feeding (the first feeding was around 11, I think?). Amusingly… that’s barely short of sleep for me. I hope Noah will sleep in. If I get up and get breakfast for the kids, this may be a fairly good pattern for a couple of weeks. I get a solid chunk of sleep for the first shift then Noah gets to sleep.

We’ll see what normal we find.

post-partum healing

If you’ve been reading me since the poop chronicles this will seem like a normal/gross piece from me. If you think body information is tmi, maybe skip this post.

I have figured out the best regime for caring for my mutilated crotch post childbirth. The afterpains suck monkeys but my external bits are gloriously cared for.

Before the birth I set up a station in the bathroom. A big pile of cloth pads interspersed with Thinx underwear. I loaded up the different panties with pads and stacked them up on a shelf. I have witch hazel pads, “Bottom cream” which is a bunch of herbs and essential oils, a hand mirror, the peri bottle the hospital gives you, and a bunch of the softest cloth wipes I’ve ever found.

I start out by emptying the pipes as much as possible. (I’m living in a weird alternative universe where my body shits like a champ. I don’t know what the heck happened but it’s all coming out formed and perfect. I have mastered pooping! It only took till age 36 for it to just… work!) Then I use the mirror and the peri bottle to clean as much gunk/blood/poop as possible. The mirror helps. Because of the mirror I can tell you that my cunt is not nearly as fucked up as it was after ECs birth. That was… hamburger. Ugh. Three god damn hours of pushing in that birth. Ugh.

After the water I carefully and gently use a cloth wipe to blot the area. I don’t really wipe with this cloth. I just make sure there is no poop or blood clots hanging out. Then I get a with hazel wipe (like Tuck’s but a different brand). These are tiny and little. I wipe with these to get the edge of my vagina and my hemorrhoids clean. It’s important to geeeeeeeeently wipe the hemorrhoids. Leaving any bits of poop in there can lead to infection.

Then I use my finger and scoop out a big wad of the bottom cream. Ahhhhhhhhhh soothing. Of course I start in the front and slather my entire inner labia/around the vagina opening and then I make it back to my anus. Those hemorrhoids get covered entirely. Then I put on the nice Thinx panties with a cloth pad.

Ahhhhh. Soothing. Nothing abrasive. Nothing that irritates.

My crotch is so happy with my care. I want to pat myself on the back for being so nice to my cunt. Forward thinking on this plan is giving me so much ease and comfort.

The pad is taken off after 2-4 hours (the time span is getting longer) and the panties last an extra 1-3 hours past the pad coming off. The pad/panties are all nice flannel/cotton feeling. Disposable products give me rashes.

I truly wish I had figured out this system for the first kid.

Third time’s the charm.

I have said for ten years that any amount of labor time under 24 hours would be easy. I was right! 21 hours were fine.

First: this could not possibly have gone so well without our wonderfully kind friend who moved in for a week so that when I had a full day of contractions and they petered out I had no extra stress about feeling guilty about prodromal labor. I got to ride the waves and take whatever experience. It was a gift. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

My official labor got going around 8:30am on Monday. My contractions built in intensity and regularity all day. I went in around 7pm because my contractions were about 5 minutes apart and a minute long and consistently more than 10/hour. Mostly I was fretful because she had slowed her moving down and I was worried. It’s so hard not being able to see if the baby inside of you is ok.

I got to the hospital 3cm dilated (which isn’t that much and they could have sent me home) and 90% effaced with a bulging water sack. They wanted me to stay. Around 10:30ish they started Pitocin. The epidural was started around 11. Then I went to sleep. I was checked at some point. I was woken up/checked again around 4. During the 4am check the doctor accidentally broke my water bag because whoops it was in the way. At first she said 8cm. Then a minute later she declared me complete and instantly there were six extra people, lots of lights, and a whole bunch of beeping machines.

When my water was broken my blood pressure and her heart rate dropped dramatically. I was put on oxygen instantly. They started IV meds to support the baby.

Between 4:30ish and 5 I was in position and they started encouraging me towards pushing. Another moment of intense gratitude: my friend’s mom came to the hospital with us around 10pm. She was there talking and being supportive whenever I needed her. Her voice did sound above the crowd to give encouragement and feedback.

I might actually send out thank you cards. I’m really in awe of how people showed up for me.

The nurses also did a good job of giving feedback and support. But Ma’s voice was louder and more insistent.

Noah did a wonderful job of supporting me this time. He kept his face soft and loving the whole time. No grimacing at my pain. Well done, fantastic husband.

Ze baby emerged at 5:28am. I didn’t tear or get a skid mark or nothing. I am shocked by how relatively comfortable my external genitalia feel. I’m sore but it’s not bad. Internally the continued contractions to get my uterus back to size suuuuuuuuuuck. And why don’t I take 400mg of Ibuprofen three times a day and I wont have pain, right?! Oh man.

Several folks, including the lactation consultant, asked me about my THC usage. We clarified that I don’t smoke it basically at all (inhaling it is one of the most dangerous steps–we know there are problems from breathing smoke) and I went into details about why I use it and what I have replaced with it and why my medical team thinks this is the best choice for me. I was rather stunned by the extent of support I received. Most folks were like, “You are clearly very educated on this topic and you are making the best choice for your body. Alright. Excellent.” My pain management doctor telling me that my next line is Oxycontin and Ativan really helps. No one wants me on those meds. Definitely not when I’m breeding/feeding a kid.

I didn’t find out till we got home that one pediatrician had a judgy conversation with Noah about my THC when I was out of the room. I’m tempted to follow up on that because it might be a HIPAA violation for her to discuss my medication without me present and that kind of bugs me. What if I had been using birth control behind my husband’s back and she just wanted to mention that it might impact my baby and I am going to go home and get in trouble? You don’t report on other peoples medical care when they are not present. That shit’s not cool.

What if my husband didn’t approve but it was still the best mediation option and now he is going to make my life a living hell? That’s very realistic.

Anyway.

The baby feels slightly more fragile to me than my previous kids. Specifically: she’s having trouble with reflux. Her first whole night of life I barely slept because she would spit up, fill her mouth with fluid, and be unable to do anything about it. She couldn’t move her head to let it fall out and she couldn’t swallow it. So I spent a lot of time flipping her over and clearing her mouth. The lactation consultant agreed that putting her in the bassinet would be stupid. She needed to be up against my body with me paranoid and watching her. It was a festive/non-restful/wonderful night. Oh, I sent Noah home so he could sleep because otherwise we would both be exhausted and useless.

8:30am-5:30am. 21 hours. It was great. The first day of hospital recovery was lovely.

She was 20.5″ long (so .5″ shorter than the two older kids) and 8lbs 9oz. So heavier than both siblings, who were 8lbs and 8lbs 4 oz. I am steadily gaining 4ish oz per kid and that’s a great time to stop. Ha.

It took us till 1pm to secure check out because the hospital kind of wanted me to stay an extra night. But I got shifted from the maternity section to the pediatrics section and I kind of fell out of the “we will pay a lot of attention to you” rotation and that was difficult for me. I didn’t feel good about calling my nurse all the time to get the same care I had previously gotten for existing. So I didn’t drink or eat almost at all the second day in the hospital because she wasn’t offering anymore.

That was suboptimal. I came home and scarfed a big bag of salami because I needed protein before I killed someone.

Our friend went home last night. Her dog was experiencing a lot of stress from the new rules with a baby. My house had already been hard because there were more rules than usual and it was just not fair to keep cracking down on her. I am so so so so so so grateful my friend stayed as long as she did. The dog’s behavior was great. She never did anything inappropriate. She was just done with the restrictions. I would have flipped out long before she did. Such a good girl.

I tried to tell Noah to watch the baby and let me sleep in between nursing last night. Ha. That uhhh… didn’t work very well. He did a 7.5 hour shift and I probably got 1.5-2 hours of sleep. Sigh. It’ll be ok. I will sleep today.

It is fascinating to me how excited and complete I feel. I am so happy I get to learn about this wonderful daughter. She gets cold! Like me! She shivers a lot. She needs a fair bit of bundling in our frigid California weather. Ha. I really can’t tell who she looks like yet. She looks like a whole new person and it is so neato. She’s beautiful and I feel completely overwhelmed with gratitude that I get to keep her and take care of her. She is my responsibility. I am allowed to love her with my whole heart.

I can’t express what that means to me.

I don’t feel sad about wanting more children. I feel like I am at my limit emotionally and physically. This is my family. This is what I want/wanted. In the future I will have the spoons to foster, but I don’t think I will ever take on a baby again. This is my journey.

I feel so lucky.

Big kids are ecstatic. They are snuggling her and talking to her and trying to learn how to be helpful. It will be a process and I’m glad to be on it with them.

I get to have two daughters and a non-binary kid. I get to have a husband who thinks I am the best thing since sliced bread. I get to have friends who show up to help me and support me through complications and challenges. I get to have a home I am allowed to alter and be safe in however I want. I get to have healthy meat and vegetables every day so that my body achieves a level of functioning I didn’t believe possible for me.

I can’t believe this is my life. I am one of the luckiest people ever born. I have so much. I am so grateful.

I am glad I am still alive for this feeling.

Ze baby has already had 8, maybe 9 poopy diapers and 2 or 3 wet diapers. I’m getting confused already. This is a great sign though. Her digestion is working. Her kidneys are starting to function as we hoped. We have a pediatrician check up in about 6 hours.

This is going as well as something can go. I am eternally grateful.

Random note: to the best of my knowledge my child is the only person in the entire world with her legal first/last name combo. I will do my best to never put it on the internet for her. That will happen when she chooses.

Being a mother

I don’t know what it means to be a father. I’m not sure I care. What I know is what it means to be a mother.

I don’t know what it means to have an accidental child. My children were built out of purpose and intention. My children exist because I wanted to learn from them. My children exist because I wanted to see them. My children exist because I need teachers that cannot be stolen from me.

My children are about my own selfishness. And yet they aren’t.

My children are about me having something to give.

My children are about me and yet they aren’t… not even a little.

My children are about continuation that has nothing to do with me. I am not important. The continuation is important. In medias res. This story will continue without me.

Blood of my blood. Bond of my bone. Child, I love you. What is love. Love is the feeling that I would crawl across broken glass if you needed a ride upon my back. Love is the feeling that I would swim directly towards a shark if that would give you a few moments of freedom to swim towards safety. Love is that feeling that I would destroy myself to guarantee you one second of delight.

Love is knowing that any resource, any anything I have is better spent in your hands. Because you are more important.

You are the gift that I give myself. All of my children are gifts from my past self. See, if you survive you get to meet these people. These glorious, bright, wonderful people. My first two children were the gifts of beauty that I get to look at. This third child is the gift of my spirit. The gift of charm of suavity I get to experience.

Child, I want to meet you.

“What is an angel”

An angel is the spirit of that which was, and that which is, and that which can be again. An angel is you.

Transformation. Becoming. Change.

When I think of the stream of children coming, I think of you. When I think of the future, I think of you.

This is progress!!!!

THERE IS BLOOD COMING OUT OF MY TWAT. This is an excellent sign. It’s called the bloody show. It’s the mucus plug starting to come out. It’s often a precursor of labor.

One day before my 40 week visit. Because my kids apparently really like to bake for 40 fucking weeks exactly.

woo references

My massage therapist is a lovely California woo. By which I mean she calls herself a Christian but she does a lot of energy work and can reference multiple schools of thought on how the body stores energy. Yesterday her thing was how the various fingers are tied to current and past emotions.

The finger I knocked out of joint is supposed to be connected with current worry. The finger I jammed so badly it was hard to get any movement back in the joints is tied to past anger.

When she said these two things I burst into tears. I don’t cry with her much. It freaks her out.

But I started instantaneously sobbing and talking about how angry I am that those motherfuckers are still god damn making my life hard because they just had to fuck up a child’s pussy.

I don’t think I had been terribly aware of just how much anger I am holding on to about the fact that my labors are so hard partially because of what was done to me. My ability to have a normal body process was taken away when I was a child. And I am fucking bitter. I am so tired of suffering because of assholes.

This is where the whole victim/survivor thing becomes a problem. I’m still carrying around the impact of the incest and the rapes. Does that mean that even my labors are part of my victim experience? Is being a survivor what makes everything so awful? Cohort. Cohort members frequently experience difficulty because of being part of the cohort.

That doesn’t feel as violating to me.

It’s almost 3am. That means I have approximately 74 hours until eviction gets started. There is a 0% chance I will still be pregnant in 100 hours. I will have a baby in my arms. One way or another.

It’s funny how her movements keep changing. She used to move all the damn time. Little sharp movements that rarely stopped. Now she has stretches where she seems to be storing up energy for the next big flip flopping session. She is still until my entire abdomen moves like there is a sea creature doing otter rolls inside of me. It hurts. Her movements are becoming quite painful. She’s too dang big to be hanging out in there any more.

I keep telling her she doesn’t actually want a Valentine’s birthday but so far she doesn’t believe me. So far she thinks it’ll be fiiiiiiiiine.

My sister got married on Valentine’s Day when she was 17. She has spent the rest of her life talking about how the day is ruined. Somehow… this just might be redemption for me. Cause I’m going to ride the gravy train forever that this child will be my sweetness and love. Even if they are a total shithead. That would be so apropos.

I feel like a wounded water buffalo when I try to move around because of all the flip flopping and awkwardness.

I would like more sleep but my shoulders hurt so badly.

This relaxin bullshit can go ahead and stop. My body is crumbling.

I’m trying as hard as I can to keep my mood as level as I can manage. I feel so bad that I am being bitchy. I have a lot of feelings going on in my body and being regulated with my emotions is basically impossible at this point. I’m trying. I’m trying to shut my fucking mouth instead of expressing pissiness when it won’t god damn help a thing. The situation will be fixed. It’s not a big deal.

Breathe. Everyone around me is trying so hard to be helpful. I’m sorry I am so impatient and bitchy right now. I see y’alls wonderful efforts and I’m trying to give you the response you deserve for your lovely behavior. It’s really hard to keep my mood level as my pain levels are spiking like this.

But it doesn’t actually matter how I feel. It matters how I act. If I want to preserve these relationships I need to get my shit together. No pissiness over minor mistakes. Shit happens. Shake it off. It can be fixed. That is absolutely my favorite part of becoming a rich old person. Do you know how many mistakes I can’t fix? The number is small. Most mistakes really don’t fucking matter now. It’s ok.

It really is.

But hopefully when I heard news of the small mistake I didn’t cause a mistake that can’t be fixed. That’s the important dynamic.

The stupid little shit that needs to be handled? That’s not a big deal. How people feel about the mistake? That can have longer lasting consequences.

fuuuuuuuuuuuck

Breathe.

My hands need me to stop typing. But I still have feelings. Bury them, motherfucker.

Oh good grief.

Yesterday felt brutal and painful and like why am I not getting this baby out of my twat today. Today… I’ve barely had any contractions. Things are pretty chill. I feel physically pretty ok. I’m not in a lot of pain. I’m not feeling like forward progress is being made.

Fucking body.

Drugs sound so nice.

I’m definitely in early labor. But this is me. What the fuck does that even mean. Does that mean an eon of suffering? Naw. I have an induction scheduled for the 14th. And no interest in laboring long and hard so I’ll be done delivering on the 14th either with a vaginal birth or a c-section so there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

But today has been shit. Twice early today I got this horrible shooting/stabbing pain in my lower right abdomen. It hurt so fucking bad I started screaming and kicking out uncontrollably. That’s not usual for me with contractions. But it hasn’t happened again. I messaged a friend who is a mom of many who worked in an OB office for years and asked her for advice. She said, “Hrm. I wouldn’t necessarily call this second but if it happens a third time you have to call the advice nurse and you should probably go in.” It didn’t happen a third time. So I sit at home.

I have felt like a fucking psycho hose beast all day. I can’t tell if this is just a feeling inside of me or if I have genuinely been nasty to everyone all day. I’m randomly crying. I hurt everywhere.

Ok, I’m seriously fucking pissed about this. I have this major remission of fibromyalgia pain during the pregnancy. That ended yesterday. My entire body is an explosion of pain and I would like to rip someones fucking head off so that I can piss down their throat because that is the only thing that sounds fun when I hurt this badly.

“Is it all happening again” – Godfather 3

love. sex. family. community. health. history. awareness. california woo. having your place. pain. commitment. relaxation. controlled vs uncontrolled bloodlines. queer vs heteronormative dynamics. 36 years old–at the middle of life?

You are not going to die. Neither am I, motherfucker.

But there will have to be a passage. And those sometimes hurt like a mother fucker. Don’t fear. That shit just makes you clench up and everything hurts more

Do you rise through your own merits or through the recommendation of those with merit?

Know your history.

In medias res.

I do not aspire to be that which is looked at.

I shun beauty.

What am I then if I am not a vain motherfucker?

I want to be known and understood. Which is so much more than to be looked at. To be looked at to be is to be projected upon. I want to change you.

That is what art aims to do. It aims to change that which looks upon it.

Like a pond. Like a bodyguard.

Joints. Connection. Pain.

love

1st cousin.

1st

mary

movement

cognitive dissonance. the misspelling reveals the flaw.

thank you autocorrect. even if I fucking hate you.

home. any. minute.

fingers hurt

No one dies.

Today I went to the hospital for an interview. They wanted to know what I wanted from labor. It was an hour long interview so there were more questions. But I was asked what my goal was for labor. I said “No one dying.” The lady conducting the interview almost fell out of her chair. She enjoyed my irreverence over all.

She asked me if I’d ever had thoughts of hurting myself. I said, “Ok let me start my spiel. I have long-term chronic suicidal ideation but I am not in imminent danger and I have no specific plans to hurt myself.”

She commented that I know the right words to say.

This ain’t my first rodeo.

I’ve been rewatching the Jaws series and The Godfather. I guess this is my week for violent grown up movies. Who are you. Where do you belong? What does it mean to be you?

How much does what your parents want for you matter?

Do your children belong to you or your spouse?

What is belonging?

Does it matter what your name is? What art you want to hang on the wall? Who you hang out with?

What defines who you are?

Who. Are. You.?

How much of who you are rests on your ability to control yourself through stimuli or pain or whatever?

If you can stand still as someone hits you, does that make you tough?

If you define yourself…. what does that mean?

Who. Are. You.

Do you rest upon the shattered dreams of everyone who looks like you or shares your religion or who had grandparents born within 100 miles of your grandparents?

What is safety? What is security?

39 weeks

I am still only 1.5 dilated, but I am up to 70% effaced. The effacement bit is cool because Noah has never felt me this effaced before and I had him do a lot of twat checks through the last two labors. So I am sitting at the physical spot now that I was at most of the way through my last labor. I got this effaced in the last three hours or so of labor previously.

This is good news.

My OB stripped my membranes today. And she’s talking about an induction next week. I’m on board.

It was kind of funny that she was worried about hurting me with the stripping of the membranes. I did not mention that I’ve had much more painful things happen to my twat.

Perception and reality

I feel like a lot of my adult life has focused in some intense ways on trying to determine how to accurately perceive reality. This is complicated because people genuinely do inhabit different realities.

The reality of being a homeless person is different than the reality of a rich, housed person. It’s not that the people are just perceiving things differently… they are different realities. 

I have jumped so many layers of human existence that sometimes it is very hard to determine what is a holdover perception, what is a true perception, and what is entirely in my fucking head.

Like… I have struggled through a lot of my pregnancy with the feeling of being abandoned. As my wonderful friends have checked up on me consistently and made sure that I was never alone for long.

Some days I sort of wish the flow of love would slow down because I’m overwhelmed trying to get back to people and some days I fail at reciprocating how I mean to. Because I feel so empty. THAT’S NOT ABOUT PEOPLE ABANDONING ME! That’s about an old belief and being out of date. I have not been abandoned this pregnancy. Not even for a day.

That’s…

oh.

That’s true. I haven’t talked to the same people every day. I don’t have a mother who is constantly checking up on me because she is concerned. Instead I have this extended web of people who are tagging in and out as they have spoons for dealing with me.

Oh. That’s really special.

I am so tremendously, overwhelmingly lucky. This doesn’t happen to everyone.

Randomly: given that I almost certainly know you, oh bond-hardware visitor… someday I will find out who you are. And I am going to be a turkey butt about teasing you about your lack of desire to fess up to your identity for years. I’m just saying.

Also randomly: I am feeling so proud of myself for how I handled the kids lying about screen stuff. I didn’t fly of the handle. I didn’t escalate in a nasty or inappropriate way. I didn’t scream. I am not imposing ridiculous consequences or causing my children to be afraid of me. I kept my shit together and told them I wasn’t ready to state a consequence immediately because I needed to think about it. I stated very reasonable, age appropriate consequences. My kids feel like the punishment fits the crime and they are totally on board with what they earned.

We are all going to fuck up sometimes. What did we learn from this experience? That they are capable of lying to me for an extended period of time (this is an important life skill) and that lying to me makes their stomach hurt a lot so they don’t want to do it again for something petty. That’s such a win-win.

I don’t love being lied to. It pisses me off. But I fully recognize that it is better for my children in the long run for them to be capable of lying.

Not everything is about me. They need to have skills I won’t love them having. That is life.

And I’m super happy that MC did not rat on EC. That feels like a big deal too. Often MC will throw EC under a bus just to see her squirm and I really have a problem with that. MC likes watching EC get in trouble and that pisses me off so much. I’m really happy that MC picked their sister’s side this time. That was good.

Even if I don’t like what they did I can recognize the layers of complexity and complication and I can see how some pieces of it are awesome even if I’m pissed about other layers. Life is so tricky.

Our wonderful friend is here for child care. She moved in last night and she’s here until the baby is here. I feel a tremendous load of stress relief.

This whole experience is going so freaking well. I feel supported. I feel loved. I feel like an awful lot of people have more confidence in me than I have in myself. Excellent. I can work with that. I am good at borrowing other peoples confidence in me.

After having the almost manic preparation days I am so thrilled to feel this calm. I feel like it’s going to be ok. I am looking forward to my OB check this morning. I’m pretty sure she is going to tell me that there has been progress.

The way my crotch hurts feels useful. Which is so funny. And this contraction… feels useful too. Phew. Ouch. Ok. Time to go pay attention to humans.

Weirdness

Today I have been so fucking bitchy. I’m tired of my kids whining for sugar. It happened about half the hours they were awake today. That gets old. This is not constant for them. They did a bunch of cleaning, but we got to the end organization bits and everyone ran out of steam. They did work hard.

I just woke up in a god awful mood.

I’m tired but I feel wired for sound. I don’t feel sleepy, which is weird because I took my normal night med almost three hours ago. Usually I’m pretty damn sleepy. I feel cranky and restless and fussy and I don’t know why.

Because I’m a day shy of being 39 fucking weeks pregnant and this shit fucking sucks.

I want to meet my kid.

I want to stop waiting. I want to get the show on the road. You’ve baked. Move out.

I said that out loud and I got the fiercest kick. I’m going to have another feisty little snot. I am so excited. I’m not being sarcastic.

Maybe this kid will be less obedient. hahahaha…*sob*

It is utterly bizarre to me the way this person… yeah. They are the last. I have no desire in my heart to bear more children. I want this person. I don’t know them yet but I will and it will be awesome. And then I can spend a few years getting this person inculcated into the family culture. Then I might be ready to foster.

I love our family culture. I love the family I get to introduce this child to. I love the boundaries and limits and respect and consideration that is shown in our house.

Even when I’m a cranky bitch and I want to fuss at everyone for BREATHING SO FUCKING LOUD IN THE SAME ROOM AS ME it isn’t that I don’t like them. It’s that my body is pissed off today.

Weirdly… I haven’t pooped at all today and I’ve eaten a lot of vegetables in the past 36-ish hours and I have this absolutely bizarre feeling that I’m partially angry because my intestine is full. But I don’t seem to be able to poop. I don’t know. It’s… really weird. This does not usually happen to me.

Less than 24 hours till labor can go ahead and start without us having a problem. I mean… I don’t have my “pre-admission intake appointment” till Wednesday but whatever. I can fill out paperwork between contractions. I’m talented.

I found the advance directive! Doesn’t that count for anything?!

This here dude Noah is allowed to make decisions for my body. Even if I’m not in a coma. It’s kind of wacky.

I feel like I am absolutely going to explode with energy. But I’m tired. This is weird. I’m contracting but it’s not anything regular or majorly intense. It’s just “Yup. Still contracting occasionally.”

I think I may have officially past the point where I can do a sit up. I tried to get up earlier and I almost pulled a damn muscle. That fucking hurt. Ok, so I’ll claim it as I made it to 38 weeks and count myself thrilled. That’s way the fuck more strength in my abdomen than I ever expected to have. And that is probably a lot of why I haven’t had big back problems this pregnancy.

Hey, past self: well done! You maintained fitness! That’s really fucking cool! You can still walk three miles without a problem! You are doing so great at staying strong this time!

I’m told it will help.

I asked blacksheep how she psychs herself up to be a bad ass. Her response was… I almost fell over backwards laughing. She is such a tremendous bad ass that she doesn’t need to psych herself up to be a bad ass. She just decides she’s going to do something and then it gets done.

I aspire to that kind of self regard. I have worked so hard in the past 12-13 years to make a lot of her words my inside voice.

I can’t live like someone else. My needs are too weird. I can’t be like someone else. My brain and my body are odd. But god damn I can have people become part of my inside voice and that part’s great.

When I feel like shit and I want to give up I think of how loving and gentle blacksheep was as she coaxed me through just one minute of running at a time.

She didn’t need me to hurry or meet a schedule. She wanted me to challenge myself and do my best. She didn’t complain even once about how fucking slow I was. She accepted me. She could encourage me from where I started through where I needed to get without causing me to feel even a little bit bad about not being better.

It’s basically a fucking miracle. That kind of feat hasn’t been accomplished very many times in my whole life.

I want a birth that ends like that. Where I feel like I did exactly what I needed to do to get through my process and it was totally ok it happened like it did.

I tell people I didn’t run a marathon I energetically walked a marathon. I completed a marathon. I did it because I signed up to run it with my brother and I said I would go so I went. Even though he didn’t race. I did it because I wanted to be physically fit enough to handle my kids and frankly… I’m still coasting on the fitness I gained and I’m so glad I did it. I did it because I need to change how living in my body goes and I need to change how I perceive myself.

I completed a god damn marathon. Not quickly… but I did it. When the vast majority of all people don’t have the stamina. Even though my body is shitty. Even though I’m usually in a lot of pain. I can put that to the side and say, “It doesn’t matter how I feel; it matters what I do.” Even though I could barely fucking breathe.

“After you get this surgery you will feel so good you will want to go run a marathon!” “Uhhhh. I’ve already done that.” “You ran a marathon with a septum this deviated?” “Yup.” “Wow.”

That’s part of my inside voice too.

What is true and what is not true. Many things can be true at the same time even if they directly contradict one another.

I can be a bitch and still be a nice mother. We all have our bad days. My poor family. They are being so patient. And they’ve worked so hard lately.

There is no fair.

I couldn’t eat much dinner. My belly just said no. This feels related to the not really pooping thing. I hear (because I talk to pregnant folk a lot) that right before labor there is usually a massive cleansing of the system to make room and shift things about. Somehow this weirdly feels related to, “Babysitting hasn’t gotten here yet. Sit tight. Almost. Soooooooon. Then just go.”

I understand that all of my lovely friends are telling me how much easier their later births were because they are trying to be comforting. I totally get it. That does not align with my personal experience to date so I really apologize if I’m tetchy. Right at this point I’m barely holding my tone of voice together at all. If I sound massively cunty, please forgive me. Or avoid me for a while. That would make sense.

I didn’t post much on the forum today. I’m not sure I posted at all. My arms are so pissed. I have to slow down.

But that’s part of why I have this pent up need to whine here.

Also: I will never be this pregnant again. It’ll be interesting to remember how I felt. If I ever go back and read. I really wonder if my kids will ever read. I hope not. But this shit is public because I don’t keep many secrets. It’s too hard to keep secrets straight. I know my stories drift over time as my perspective and perception and memory change. That’s… not something I know how to avoid. It’s part of why I try to record stuff as soon as possible after it happens.

I am very sad to report that my massage therapist’s mother died. She has been frail and barely hanging on for some time. She was 99 1/2 years old. I feel bad that my massage therapist, in her grief, reached out to me to offer me a massage because now she doesn’t have to worry about every sniffle and illness as much. But given that I know I am her highest paying client and I know she just had a bunch of bills fall in her lap… I went in to see her. Clearly my body has missed her as my family has been persistently sick and I haven’t been to her. I brought chicken and dumpling soup that Noah made.

She told me that I am consistently the only person who gives anything to her that is thoughtful. That makes me sad. Her brother is self absorbed and doesn’t do much for her beyond helping to manage their mother. Her mother… stopped being there like almost a decade ago. No one else looks at her and thinks about her.

Dude. She just lost her mother. Show up with fucking food. She is going to have trouble getting up and making food to nourish herself. She is going to get super fucking depressed. I gave her an electric blanket for Christmas because she can’t afford to heat her house and she was in so much pain from the cold she couldn’t sleep. When she was talking about trying to figure out what she could afford to make for Christmas dinner last year for her and her brother… I brought over meat from my freezer. Because dude… I won’t miss a damn roast.

People have given so much to me in this life. I have some friends who blow my mind with their generosity and their love. Why do I deserve it? Why do I get it? Why in the hell doesn’t my massage therapist have friends who love her too?

I don’t deserve to take up more space than her. I don’t deserve more than my share.

If I’m even a little bit honest with myself… my life is preternaturally good compared to hers. She has not lived for herself.

I won’t see her for a while. I was planning to take the 4th trimester off. She said she was invited to go stay with some folks out of state and she’s going to take them up on it. She’s going to go find herself.

I am so glad. I hope that what she lacks here she can find there. I am not going to be here forever any more than her mother could be.

And she matters. Her needs matter. Her health matters.

It’s already been a year full of death. And here comes new life. Because it is all part of this big never ending process. Things start and end and change and change again and there will always be pain. Pain at the beginning and pain at the ending. Change hurts. That doesn’t mean you are doing it wrong. It means you are part of the human experience.

This person, who is kicking the shit out of my ribs, has something to teach me that I need to learn very badly. They will have behaviors and needs that will trigger the shit out of me. And I need to look past myself, I need to set myself aside and reach for a love that is bigger than me and see what does my child need?

This is my church.

I am going to be un-PC and potentially offensive to my non-breeders for a moment here. This isn’t about you and it might sound fucking rude.

I go on. I have an obligation to get up and go on because there are these people that I created who entirely depend on me at this stage. When they no longer need me to help them survive, they will still have something they need from me. It might be closeness and it might be distance. We’ll see.

I check to see that my mother is alive. I may need distance… but I don’t wish death upon her. As long as she is alive there is a chance she might cyberstalk me and feel pride in what she finds. Hey maybe it’ll make her hate me more. Whatever. I can’t control that. But I think very hard about the fact that her story continues. It continues in my children. In the hair my kid is growing out to their waist. They have my mother’s hair. I spent a lot of time brushing my mother’s hair. The texture is in my fingertips. My mama used to love having me brush her hair. She always said I was good at it. She was rough and she even hurt herself. She could do some things with such delicacy… but she could not be gentle with bodies.

When I teach my children to be gentle I think of my mother and how her story is changing and growing. What she could not give… I can. My children will not grow up knowing constant pain just for inhabiting a body as their due.

Stories can change.

People can change. But they have to work like a motherfucker. It’s hard. But if you can’t look back on yourself 18 months ago and think “Wow I really sucked” you aren’t trying hard enough. Noah is part of my inside voice now too. Sometimes in good ways. Sometimes in mixed ways and we are trying to figure that out.

I feel incredible envy towards my friends who feel confident that their body just knows what to do for labor and it’ll all be fine. My body is a little shit head who did not study for the fucking exam.

BUT I DID STUDY. I READ BOOKS. I WENT TO CLASSES. I LEARNED BREATHING TECHNIQUES. I DID FUCKING HYPNOSIS AND NLP. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Want to know how I completely fucked my relationship with Anna up beyond all possibility of repair? I told her she needed to be realistic about the needs and limitations of her body and she needed to get a new dream that was actually attainable given her issues.

I deserved that divorce. I was a cunt.

I have to get a new dream with regard to god damn birth. I don’t need to prove that my body is a wonderful magical strong natural creature who will just do the right thing. hahahahahaha

*cough*

My body likes to get dragged kicking and screaming over the finish line minutes before folks are saying, “Well never mind then.”

I procrastinate on shit like a motherfucker. Then I race the clock because I live for pressure.

Then I try to mask my exhaustion and terror that I may have failed anyway.

I went to CSUH for 5 quarters after I finished bouncing through a bunch of junior colleges. Those were the only terms of my entire scholastic career where I consistently did all of my work in advance and turned everything in with time to spare. I think it was because I was trying to please my Owner. He had opinions about my “laziness”. Yeah I’ve never kept that kind of thing up before or since.

EC’s birth I was able to labor down just fine once I was given the epidural so I could sleep. But I had to argue against “Just go ahead and c-section” the whole time. They would have opened me up the hour I came in if I had let them. I was not interested. I had a chip on my shoulder.

MC’s birth I was dealing with the fact that my labor support was pissy about having to spend so much time with me. That sucked.

This time… I’ll just deal with shift changes. Ta da! No pressure to hurry already. But I get to decide when it has hurt enough.

I’m not looking for another merit badge. I’m not proving that my body knows how to do something cool. I’m trying to get through a bloody shit show of an experience where my body will… have to fucking cooperate one way or another. Mother fucker.

As I get kicked viciously. Yeah. I mean you.

It’s gonna hurt and I’m going to bleed. Because that is just life.

And at the end I will meet a person. A person who will be part of the story of my blood line. And they will not grow up being denigrated. And they will not be abused. They will be cherished and loved and told that they were very much wanted. They will not be treated like an unwanted burden.

I get to make that true. Because I have the power to write that part of the story.

My mother did not understand the power she had to create my inside voice. I work very hard on making sure that I am careful what I am programming.

Baby I have so much I want to teach you about. I love seeing your siblings already believe it. You will be a complex person. You are going to suck sometimes. You are going to be awesome sometimes. You are going to hurt people. You are going to be hurt. You are not defined by one part of yourself… you are instead defined by the patterns you create.

Once is a mistake. Make new mistakes. Doing the same thing over and over ceases being a mistake and becomes a choice.

I wonder how much my depression this pregnancy has been related to knowing that this is one of the most selfish decisions I’ve made. The world doesn’t need another person like me. Not really.

But here I am. Making another one. Because I’m a selfish piece of shit and I want to see a reflection of myself that is better than me.

Luckily! I made sure that isn’t that hard.

If you start out a piece of shit… not that hard to be better than that.

I can make a whole twig of my family tree free from incest. It’ll be awesome.

I think meds have hit enough that I should eat something else before sleeping.

Moving along

Today we will finish getting the garage cleaned up. It’s going to be used to host our wonderful friend until I’m done having the baby so I would like it to be as tidy and hospitable as possible. On the plus side: this means we will be doing the last bits of clean up for the post-remodel mess and our house is 100% reset and done from the chaos.

Huzzah!

It also means that I can stop panicking about the fact that Noah would like to do the next set of pictures in the house. It’s not a complete disgusting mess anymore.

Today while I boss my children through cleaning tasks I am going to prepare the last bits of hard-paper documents for the friend who is going to be with the kids during labor.

I don’t know if I’m right but I feel very much like this baby is going to come a week early. I don’t think this is a 40 week baking job. But I could be wrong! Who knows! But Noah says I feel almost completely effaced. The contractions and pain I’m having in my groin are inconsistent but feel really productive.

Even my damn belly button is popping and that’s not a pregnancy symptom I’ve ever had before. The baby dropped dropped. The baby is well engaged. I feel really ready.

Ma is going to be good labor support. Noah and I have been talking a lot about what I want to have go different this time. Last night, at blacksheeps suggestion, we did hypnosis around letting go of fear.

This is going to be different. Do you know how cool it is that pretty much everyone I talk to is hard core #TeamMedication. Everyone keeps telling me that I should not try to set time goals for suffering. If I’m uncomfortable, fuck it. Medicate. Don’t suffer this time. Get through the process and take advantage of every conceivable help available in a hospital.

That feels so lovely.

What I want from this birth is feeling less like I’m doing everything wrong and taking too long. I’m so fucking over having people be irritated with me going through the process I need. A friend offered time limited labor support and I wisely, with great respect for my self-care, said no.

I don’t need to feel time pressure during labor ever again. I don’t need to feel like I need to hurry or I don’t deserve support.

Ma says she’ll come for as long as it takes, no big deal. That’s what I need right now.

I’m feeling very grateful for how things are coming together.

I feel like the baby is going to come this week. I feel like everything is coming together and it is going to be ok. Labor babysitting support will be in my house in about 33 hours and anytime after that I’m golden. If labor started before then I have a 48 hour backup person and a ton of neighbors who are ready to step up if needed.

This will be different.

I want to remember this.

Before I get into the kid situation, I want to mention how much I appreciate computer problems that can be fixed with rebooting. Thanks, Noah.

I want to record that my children have been fantastically disobedient for the past few weeks. They told me they were doing academics and instead they have been watching stupid videos on youtube.

This is worthy of recording for a few reasons. 1) They liiiiiiiiiiiiiied more than they have ever lied to me before. This is a pretty epic trust violation between us. 2) They have been lying about the work they are doing and asking for points for doing work they aren’t doing. While also spending lots of time on the screen they aren’t paying for. Double whammy of theft of points. 3) I feel like this is an important milestone in them testing the boundaries between their autonomy and me. 4) I didn’t completely flip out. The kids said I didn’t even scream and I’m hella proud of myself. EC said I yelled but in a way she felt was completely fair and appropriate.

Because I am not going to try and equalize the point issue I told them that this will be handled on a couple of levels. First: they lost a lot of trust on the screen front. They now have to take turns being on the computer so that one kid at a time can sit at the kitchen table with no headphones so that I can verify that they are doing what they say. I am not sure how long this will go on. Noah proposes that we install blocking/tracking software and gosh that sounds like work to me right now.

MC did not do this as flagrantly nor for as many weeks/months (I can tell this issue goes back as far as the browser history goes… I don’t know for sure how much longer EC has been pulling this). MC has participated for at least the last week or two watching over ECs shoulder… but I don’t think they pushed their luck as far as EC pushed hers.

So EC is going to be weeding my garden for me. I told her that because she effectively “stole” bonus screen time (many many many hours of it) AND she has been claiming to do academics while not actually doing it… she gets to do work for me. It just seems fair. She is so freaking happy that I’m not freaking out at her or screaming or flying off the handle that she is excited and eager to take on this task. She didn’t argue for .1 second. That will be an hour a day of work until she finishes the yard. Based on previous years of effort I think that means she’s going to be weeding the garden for an hour a day for almost a month. I don’t feel bad at all. When she complains (which will come at some point) I will cheerfully say, “So how good does lying to me feel?”

She also has to do extra academic time every day to make up for the lost time. Because seriously dude… you do need to spend time learning. Not cool.

I told her that in a twisted, awful way I’m sorta glad she did this. She has always been such a dedicated little rule follower that I worry that she is never able to over ride people bossing her. I told her that at some point in the future… she is going to literally need to over rule me and lie to me. I am going to be wrong about something and she is going to need to suck up her courage and defy me. I’m glad to see she can even though I think this was not a worthwhile time to engage in this action.

She agreed that this probably wasn’t worth it because her stomach has been hurting. But in the future… yeah she agrees that it is good that she knows she can do what she wants to do even when I don’t like it.

So another fucking opportunity for growth. For both of us.

I feel really amused by the fact that I am really glad she finally found the strength to stand up to me. That’s awesome. But I’m not going to harp on that part very long in front of her…

Reader feedback requested

Hey. Folks read here. I see the IP logs. (WHO IN THE HECK IS CONSTANTLY COMING FROM BOND HARDWARE?!?!?!?!!?)

If you think of me as someone who has done anything badass, what do you think of?

I’m trying to stop feeling like I’m a failure. I do shit. Right now I’m having trouble thinking of anything bad ass I’ve done though. I feel like I barely limp through things and that doesn’t count.

Do you have any pertinent memories so you can jog mine?

Abandoned and unloved

Sometimes I reflect that my perception problem is bigger than my actual problems at this phase of my life. Am I abandoned? No. Am I unloved? No. But I still feel like I am. Is this a reflected emotion from a previous time in my life or just some random insanity? It’s complicated.

I can’t perceive my mom as abandoning me. I told her to get the fuck out of my life and not come back. I did not give her a real choice between me and my sister because I believe if you give someone an ultimatum you deserve to lose. Just leave. So I left the family. The family didn’t really leave me. They are still squatting like a pack of evil toads in the exact same spot.

I’m the one who left. They didn’t go anywhere.

Do they love me? Who cares.

When I feel whiny that no one has ever tried to pick me up as a codependent project the way I have with other people… err… that’s probably actually a good sign. I’m a bad project person. Why? Because I have my own ideas about where I’m going and what I’m trying to change about myself. If someone wanted to come over and clean my house there are very few, very carefully delineated tasks I would permit them to do. And my big trouble at this point is organizing and the chance I would seriously let someone else come over and organize my house is about zero. I’d flip out.

So what in the hell am I whining about anyway?

Am I whining about my own frustration with my current lack of competence? Am I whining about my lack of ability to create a poly household? Am I whining about my inability to become an entrenched member of a community? I’m a fringe member of a lot of communities but I’m not entrenched anywhere and that’s real and valid and not my hysteria.

But I’m welcome in any of those spaces… folks just recognize that I’m a drop in, rare member.

So what am I really freaking out about.

Am I angry because I don’t know how to change the feelings in my body? Am I angry (partly) because I’m nine months pregnant and that’s just a normal part of the process. (My due date club assures me that pretty much everyone there is a raging lunatic right now except for the people who are depressed and crying so that they are non-functional. I love online due date clubs where everyone is crazy hormonal at the same rate. That shit’s validating.)

Most of the folks are sharing stories about how they are screaming at random people in public. So it’s truly not just me right now.

Incompetence is killing me. I feel so sick and so bad. I feel almost incapable of moving. I’m trying to go for walks because they are causing a lot of contractions and IT’S EVICTION TIME, BUDDY.

Noah told someone yesterday that I had two weeks to go and I wanted to hit him. Why? Because that makes it sound like more days than I want to admit in my head. IT’S LESS THAN 14 DAYS TILL MY DUE DATE IT WILL NEVER BE TWO WEEKS AGAIN OH MY GOD DO NOT IMPLY IT COULD POSSIBLY BE 14 MORE DAYS OF THIS HELL AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Clearly I did not hit him. I am cognizant enough of how irrational I am being. But it was a struggle. And oh my god I was so mad. I sat on it and didn’t bitch at him. But I’m completely irrational about this at this point.

Then I feel really bad about myself for emotionally over reacting. I didn’t hit him. I didn’t yell at him. I mildly argued with him that it was more like a week and a half but I didn’t flip out or get rude. But I still feel guilty and like I’m an asshole because my internal reaction was more like having a spurt of fire come out the top of my head.

I can’t do this again. No more babies. My lovely friend sent me a link to an article on microchimera. That’s about the cells babies leave behind in your body after you are done birthing them. It’s fascinating how they influence you forever. They are found colonizing the entire body. They go to different spots and are either antagonists or helpers at fixing problems depending on what kind of stuff is going on in your body. Sometimes I wonder if the intensity of my depression while pregnant is at all related to the fact that the cells of my former children are trying to convince me to think that the children who already exist are more important and I should not keep making more of these terrible parasites.

I offered my children a deal. How about if I move a chair around the house today and supervise them cleaning so I can do the mental work of helping them organize their stuff (they got a bunch of new school supplies) but I won’t do any of the physical work so that I don’t wear out so fast and get bitchy. They think that is an awesome suggestion.

Do you know how grateful I am that my children are workers and not shirkers? The amount of times in their lives that I have been angry with them for shirking work… I can pretty much count on my fingers. They are bleepin motivated. And it’s not even that they fear my explosions of anger (I…. hope… I think… I’m not usually as explosive as I am right now… the kids keep telling me that my behavior in the past three months is super extreme for me and I’m not really being that bad) it’s that they have completely internalized that delaying work makes it harder.

When you put off a small task it becomes a medium or large task and that shit’s exhausting. You can only do that to yourself so many times before you just lose track and completely fail at keeping the small tasks done entirely. Then you create other problems for yourself. Keep your task list small and manageable. Be careful what you agree to do. Then bloody well follow through.

In my head I compare this to my extensive list of cousins and I weep for joy. My cousins had to be threatened with beatings before they would do fucking anything. I hate my family. Everyone just sat around and watched Auntie wait on people hand and foot.

Not in my god damn house.

Sometimes I have this odd moment where I realize that even if I feel like I don’t like myself… I like my behavior.

I like that me yelling at my kids once or twice a week is a huge explosion of mean and my kids feel perfectly entitled to tell me my behavior is sucking. That’s… a very positive situation to my mind. My kids feel safe going to therapy and bitching about how mean I am and I confirm, yeah I am grumpy as fuck and the therapist says, “Pregnancy sucks.”

Yup. All true.

And this is not forever. I’m not mean like this most of the time.

I’m not mean most of the time. My kids are getting more and more emphatic as they talk about this. “This is not like you.” Oh baby. If only you knew me before you were born.

Oh wow. That was a lovely moment. Middle Child came out to the living room and asked Eldest Child, “May I shoulder surf?”

I LOVE THIS SO MUCH. THEY ARE SO FUCKING POLITE.

(EC is reading a comic book. MC wants to share so that they can snuggle up and be dog piled on top of EC. They have been getting along almost preternaturally well in the past few days. The intense fighting we had for a while is at an ebb. Thank god. I’m the only grumpy bitch in the house right now.)

Oh. Slight notice to folks. Middle Child has asked if we can try to use the first three letters of their name only because that is a more boyish name that will hopefully have people assigning them female pronouns less often. Okie dokie. That’s a perfectly fair thing to ask. They have been spending a lot of time talking about how “I love being femme, but I need to figure out mixed gender signals because I’m tired of people thinking I’m a girl. Boys can have long hair. Boys can like dresses. Boys can like makeup. But… it is hard for people so I need to figure out how to get them to understand I’m more of a boy.”

The complexity of thought about presentation… it blows my mind.

I correct people about MC’s gender all the time. I’m pretty militant about enforcing their pronouns (they ask me to! I don’t come down hard with the hammer unless kiddo says it is an appropriate space for me to do so!) so I get a lot of questions about “What does non-binary mean?” I give a rough clinical definition and then I say, “But honestly I don’t know what it means to be non-binary deep in my bones and I don’t have to. It’s not my journey. It is my child’s journey and whether or not I understand I have to support them in any way I can. They have asked me to be respectful by using these pronouns and giving them a certain kind of treatment and I need to just comply. Understanding really isn’t necessary.” That shuts people down in a way I find useful. They stop trying to come up with loopholes for why they shouldn’t comply with “weird pronoun requests”. Ha.

I don’t have to understand. I just have to not be an asshole.

I mean… I’m being an asshole lately. Sigh. But I’m completely and totally out of cope and it’s coming down on everyone and I’m sorry.

Sweet cheese I hope I’m not quite this whiny all the god damn time. I have big feelings. But this… sitting in a chair whining shit is getting fucking old. If I’m whining and working… whatever. That is what it is.

I don’t like this sitting still and doing nothing but whining business. This is not my thing.