mad season

baby steps

2012-01-20T13:37:00.000-05:00

It's no secret to anyone who has spent even a little amount of time with Spagett: he is a kid who loves the fiddly things. He loves to figure out how things work, how things go together, how things come apart. He is very curious. When he was a year and a half old, we had to change from simple child-proofing caps on the electric sockets to a full plate because he figured out how the CHILD-PROOF LOCK worked ("Child-proof my fucking ass," say the Mansons). He learned to fly a remote-controlled helicopter! Since he learned to walk when he was nine months old, he is constantly going, constantly doing, constantly figuring things out.

But he will not learn to talk.

He has made-up words for "cat" and "helicopter/plane," ("nu-nu" and "oin," respectively) and he will point to a keyhole and say "key." He calls me "mum" and Sid is "dad'n" or "dada." He calls Spongebob Squarepants "BobBob," and will not hesitate to tell you "no" if he disagrees with you. Recently he started saying "cheese," "bug," "candy" (sounds more like "nanny") and "ball." He does use two word sentences. He knows exactly what we mean when we tell him things. But this still puts him behind other kids his age.

It sounds alarming, but truth be told, I feel like he is just so fixated on figuring out his world that language skills have taken a backseat. I don't know of any other kids his age that can fly an RC helicopter, after all. I don't know of any kids his age who have figured out child-proof locks. As his mother, who worries all the time about everything, I do not worry about his speech. He will get there in his own time. If he goes about talking like he did walking, he will wake up one day and just decide this is the perfect day for talking in sentences.

However, when he went for his 2 year well baby visit at the clinic, I was told we would get a referral to speech therapy. Which I'm fine with. I know he's behind. And if I'm wrong, and there is a problem, addressing it is the only thing we can do. To ignore it would be terrible.

And so my beautiful, brilliant, busybody little Spagett is going to see a speech therapist. As the saying goes, may god have mercy on that poor sap's soul.

making progress and hitting roadblocks

2012-01-06T19:24:00.002-05:00

When I started running, I was horrible at it. I mean, really, really horrible. And I slowly started getting better, but Sid felt like I wasn't getting better fast enough, so I started the Couch To 5k program.

I had no trouble running nearly 3 miles today, okay? I've gotten better. I ran my fastest mile today. I've gotten a lot better. My average pace is definitely a lot faster than when I started. I've really gotten a lot better.

But I'm still slower than Sid. That doesn't bother me, though it seems to really bug him. My ultimate goal is to be able to run a half marathon, 13.1 miles, and today I did just under 3 miles, so the goal is still out of reach, but I'll get there eventually. I want to focus on distance. I don't care how slow I am, as long as I get there in the end. But Sid wants me to focus on speed. Who gives a shit how slow I am, if I can run 13.1?

Maybe I should just focus on speed for a while. It would be great to be able to go running with Sid, and keep up without difficulty. But he walks faster than me all the time, anyway, so why should I have to move faster than I'm comfortable with, just to keep up with the pace he sets? I do that all the time as it is. But I run to slow for him. The pace I set makes his ankles hurt. BITCH, THE PACE YOU SET MAKES ME HORK UP MY LUNGS.Needless to say, it's coming down to the moment where I am going to have to make a decision on what to work on next, because I'm a week away from finishing this Couch To 5k thing. Part of me wants to continue on with my own goal, and part wants to make this effort for Sid. But what if I work my ass off, run faster, and it's still not good enough? I would not be a very happy Landwhale.

get your nose out of my crotch

2011-12-28T20:33:00.002-05:00

Sid and I agreed when we got married, we'd have one biological child. I felt like that was all I could handle, and if someday we wanted more kids, we would adopt. We felt like that was a good plan, one that was right for us. So now that we have our one bio kid, we've been looking at long-term contraception. I thought Sid was going to get a vasectomy, but he's had two years to get it done and is still dragging his feet.

So I decided I should get an IUD. Specifically Mirena. I don't want to deal with periods. Ever since Spagett, my periods are irregular and stupid, and I would just rather not have to deal with it at all. I cannot remember to take my morning Synthroid, so taking a birth control pill at the same time every day is beyond me. An IUD, perfect.

My doctor agreed that it was a good choice, and I am waiting for her to set up my appointment at the naval hospital to have the thing put in, but she's been giving me a lot of crap about my decision to only have one child, and it's totally unnecessary. It's entirely unwanted.

Quite frankly, it's horribly presumptuous. She tells me "oh, you can't stop at one!" Uh, yes, I can: this is primarily why I'm getting Mirena, after all. Like I don't know myself well enough to know when enough is enough. I should just keep on popping out the kiddos until I go totally crazypants, is that it? It makes me so angry.

holy crap, IT'S ALIVE

2011-12-25T19:51:00.002-05:00

So. It's been quite a while. More than a year. And what a year full of bullshit it's been.

Don't get me wrong, it had it's good points. It was also full of crap, too. BUT. Spagett is still full of beans. Sid is still a butthead. And I'm still a bitch. And I never thought I'd see the day where I run more in a week than Sid does (and this is not a brag on my part, this is testament to one man's laziness). But here we are!

Now that I'm through boob feeding and Spagett falls asleep pretty much on his own at night, I have much more free time and should have time to spare blogging now and again. I've just been lazy and preoccupied.

some fucking bookends

2010-11-04T21:35:00.001-04:00

I am lying in bed with a sleeping Spagett next to me, browsing the internet on my phone. More specifically, browsing my blog posts from when I was pregnant. And there is a picture of the very first positive piss test that eventually ended with... Spagett.

That's some fucking bookends, if you ask me.

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on being presentable

2010-08-31T09:57:00.001-04:00

Well, I'm going upstairs to put on a bra, so at least when the mail guy comes, my tits are tethered.

--Starky, still in pajamas

love

2010-08-25T12:46:00.003-04:00

Though it's not readily apparent from my blog posts, I really do love the age Spagett is at now. I love everything about it except the early, and rude, wake ups: usually it's a kick to the face or the bladder, but on one particularly memorable occasion, I was sleeping with my boob out and he bit my nipple.

I love that Spagett can explore the world on his own now, that he can go after the things he wants, and move away from the things he doesn't like. I love seeing his curiosity, his willingness to explore. I love seeing the look on his face when he has cornered one of our cats and is moving in for the pat. I just love everything about it. I even love that he hates to be confined, he hates his playpen and his bouncer.

I love his excitement, his joy. I love the times when he does something that makes me laugh, and then he looks up at me and watches me laughing for a moment before he breaks into giggles himself.

And if I'm being totally honest, I even love the early morning wake ups, because when I open my eyes, there is Spagett to greet me with a giant smile.

sleep olympics

2010-08-22T08:45:00.002-04:00

It's an ongoing contest, the Sleep Olympics. Sid will get home from work at midnight, two AM, and fall asleep on the couch so that Spagett doesn't keep him up. I, however, am stuck in the bedroom with a baby who insists on waking to fuss every hour or so.

By morning, I want to just tear my hair out, scream and cry, and jump out a window. I AM TIRED. I AM SO FUCKING TIRED YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE IT. The other day, I was so exhausted that I was SEEING THINGS. And I am supposed to care for an eight month old teething monster? Sure, I can do it, but not with any modicum of competence.

So in the mornings, Spagett decides he's up for the day at around 7:30, and I try to keep him occupied in the bedroom for as long as possible because I REALLY DON'T WANT TO GO DOWNSTAIRS AND SEE SID ASLEEP ON THE COUCH. It's like a slap in the face. It's jealousy just choking me to death: HE GETS TO SLEEP AND YOU DON'T, HA-FUCKING-HA, BITCH.

Every morning, without fail, Sid wakes when I bring Spagett downstairs, long enough to mumble about how TIRED he is, and then he goes upstairs and sleeps in the bed for another hour or two. Sometimes three. And then in the afternoon, he likes to take another nap before work.

So, it's the Sleep Olympics: he says, "oh, I'm so tired," and I say "oh, really? I was up all night with Spagett." And we apparently feel the need to one-up each other. Now, I'm not really trying to have one over on him, I just want him to ACKNOWLEDGE that I.don't.sleep. I don't nap. I don't get a few baby-free hours to waste in blissful slumber. LIKE CERTAIN PEOPLE...

And I don't even know how it happens, but even on Sid's days off, I'm the only one taking care of Spagett. The other day, he seriously complained about Spagett's diaper, and then left me to change it, wondering why I got angry, because HE WAS DOING SOMETHING ELSE. Well, goddamn it, so was I!

It wears me the hell down. Every day I feel like I come a little closer to my breaking point. Every day my temper gets a little bit shorter, my tongue a little sharper. And I hate it. I hate to see what this is doing to me. Don't get me wrong, I love Spagett, and I know it isn't his fault that he's teething and learning to get around, that he requires so much time and attention. I was ready for that, and I knew it wouldn't be all sunshine and roses. What I wasn't prepared for was Sid's lack of involvement: I was not prepared to raise Spagett like a single mother.

the world, it ENDS

2010-07-22T12:57:00.004-04:00

So, anyone who knows me knows... Starky aint a runner. Starky is kind of a big gallumphing landwhale. Starky is better suited to yoga, to deep breathing and stretching and slow movements.

Guess what? STARKY'S A RUNNER.

I always kind of envied people who ran, because, wow, does that take a lot of work. You have to build up your conditioning, and it's physically very taxing. And it is damn good for your heart! I wanted to do it! And I always chickened out, thinking it would be too hard, and I'd never be able to do it, and everyone would laugh at my big gallumphing, gasping self and think "what a damn landwhale."

And then I had Spagett. And I thought to myself, "if I can do that, I can do anything." Pregnancy and birth were the hardest thing I've ever done, physically and emotionally, and if I can get through that, anything else is small potatoes!

So last month, I started running a few days a week with Spagett in a jogging stroller, and Sid along for motivation. And yeah, I do really fucking suck at it, but I've already made improvement. When I started, I couldn't do a 1/4 mile without stopping, and now I can. I can go a little farther a little faster every time. I am making progress, I AM DOING THIS THING I ALWAYS THOUGHT I COULDN'T.

So, Starky's a runner. Hell has frozen over.

thank goodness for little therapists

2010-07-10T15:14:00.003-04:00

There are times when I don't know whether I should laugh, cry, or just shit my pants. Lately I've been having a lot of those times.

Spagett is still teething, and showing no signs of letting up any time soon. The dark circles under my eyes may well become permanent. Sid and I have been... well, to put it gently, we've hit one of those inevitable spots in a relationship where you are either going to kill each other with the fighting, or work through it and come out stronger. Which outcome we'll have remains to be seen.

We're both stressed out. I'm not sleeping well, he's working all the time, and when he's home, it's just nonstop whining and screaming from Spagett. There is not a moment's peace to be had here at Manson Homestead II. Ever. At any time of the day or night.

Thank fuck for my therapist.

misery is spelled S-H-O-T-S

2010-06-08T15:25:00.003-04:00

Spagett had his six month vaccinations on Friday, in the midst of cutting his second tooth, and having a growth spurt. Getting the shots was easy-peasy. He wailed for the second it took to administer the shot and that was it. It was the aftermath that almost killed me. He whined and fussed and cried from the moment he woke in the morning to the moment he fell asleep at night, and then he'd wake up every two hours and commence the fussing. He would barely nap. His guts were upset from the rotavirus vaccine, so he was spitting up nonstop and having diarrhea. He didn't want to eat his solids, and if he was on the breast, he'd unlatch every minute or so and just scream. It was hellish. Absolutely hellish.

And today he woke up full of smiles, he had a poop that was normal, and he has been napping for two hours now. It's like I've been given a different child. One that actually laughs when you tickle him instead of holding his breath or crying. One that sits on the floor and actually PLAYS WITH HIS TOYS instead of screaming.

Today was the first time in four days that I enjoyed my time with him.

six teeth

2010-05-28T15:05:00.003-04:00

We knew Spagett was teething, but it seemed like every time we checked his mouth, there was a new tooth lurking under the surface of his gums. First it was his canines, then his two upper front teeth, and then his two lower fronts. They're all perfectly content to just sit there, visible under the gums, and give him hell. SIX TEETH, OH MAH LAWD.

Well, one finally broke through today, and it's been cause for much celebration. FIVE MORE TO GO, HOLY SHIT, WE CAN DO THIS. And then someone had to go and piss in Sid's cornflakes and tell him that this is small potatoes, just wait until the baby gets his molars. To which I say: dude, why must you be such a twatwaffle?

So Spagett is still a grump, but we're getting through it as best we can. To add to the kid's misery, he has learned to sit up, and has mastered rolling over, and now he knows he can get mobile and that he's missing out on a bunch of stuff that he could get into if he could crawl. This poor kid has been desperately trying to get onto his hands and knees and go, and he just doesn't quite have the coordination, or the strength. He ends up scooting backward on his stomach every time.

I think it's hilarious, and have been encouraging him to practice at every opportunity. OH HAI, SPAGETT, I AM GOING TO LEAVE YOU HERE ON YOUR STOMACH IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOOR WITH YOUR TOYS JUST OUT OF REACH WHILE I GO DO SOMETHING ELSE FOR A MINUTE. Oh, the humanity! And when I come back, he's a foot away from where I left him, having scooted away from his toys, and now he's lying on his back and watching the ceiling fan. Oh, the HUMANITY!

Did I mention I'm a total sadist?

heading for a... something

2010-05-15T11:28:00.002-04:00

Sid has not been working dependable hours: he works nights sometimes, he works days sometimes, and more and more frequently, he's been having to go in on his days off. So when he is home, it's understandable that he wants some time to relax and do what he likes.

The only problem with that is, that leaves me no time to relax and do what I like. When Sid's at work, I'm at home with Spagett. When Spagett is sleeping, I'm trying to do housework. When Sid's at home, I'm still with Spagett, still trying to snatch time for housework.

I am going to go crazy.

As I type this, Spagett is on his play mat beside me, freaking out. Not crying, just getting really pissy. And it is grating on my last damn nerve, but I so want this time to get this frustration out somewhere, because I feel like I could cry. I could just break down sobbing right now.

When we decided to have a baby, we had assumed, wrongly, that Sid would be home more. That everything would not be falling on me. Spagett comes with me to my goddamn therapy sessions, for fuck's sake, because Sid is never home to watch him for an hour or so. It's fucking ridiculous, and I don't know if I can keep doing this. I am losing my temper with Spagett more and more, and it's horrible of me, and I feel terrible for it. It just keeps snowballing.

I don't know what to do.

playing catch-up

2010-04-05T12:18:00.003-04:00

Life has been hectic here at Manson Homestead the Second. Between Sid's crazy work schedule and taking care of Spagett, the only real down-time I've had in a while is using the toilet. Which, let's face it, is not really my idea of leisure time.

Spagett is four months old, and growing like a weed. He's been showing interest in solid food for almost a month now, and even though I hadn't planned on starting him on solids until about six months, he seemed ready so those plans went right out the window, like all plans any mother makes! Once a day, usually in the afternoon or early evening, he gets a solid: usually banana, applesauce or rice cereal. He's had avocados, and this week we'll be introducing butternut squash. As an aside, I'm making his food myself, not buying the jarred kind, and it's working out great.

While Spagett's been doing well, I've been struggling with anxiety. It has gotten progressively worse since his birth, and I kept thinking it would ease, but it doesn't. I worry about some pretty wackadoo shit, too. It's not like I'm your typical worrywart mother. No, I'm freaking out about things like the floor caving in when we're up on the second floor. Things like the house falling over and Spagett falling out a window or having a dresser fall onto him. Things that I know will never, ever happen. And yet I can't get the fear out of my head. Along with that are legitimate, but exaggerated fears as well. When we're out with Sid and we stop for gas, when Sid goes into the station to pay, I worry that someone is going to jack the car and drive off with me and Spagett. When I leave the house, even though there is no sign of a break-in, I become convinced someone has gotten into the house and is lurking in one of the closets. The other week there was a thunderstorm, and while I normally love a good thunderstorm, I was scared. The wind, the thunder, the sound of the rain... none of it comforted me as it used to. Instead, it dredged up terror. Since it's not going away like I thought it would, I am going to speak to my doctor. We'll see what she says.

In other news, the community pool opened up over the weekend, and I would be down there right now swimming if it weren't for Spagett. I want him to enjoy it, too! When he goes in for his four month checkup, I mean to ask his pediatrician about taking him in the pool. I have a swimsuit and a sunhat all ready for him, and all I need to buy is a swim diaper. But I have questions about the pool water, and sunscreen, and that kind of thing. Before I just dive headlong into things, I want to discuss it with someone who knows more than I do.

Oh, I almost forgot! Spagett has said his first words! He has been parroting us for weeks, very garbled and not-quite-words, but this was an unmistakable "I love you!" Unfortunately, I didn't catch it on video. He said it again, and I managed to capture that, but it isn't as clear as when he said it the first time. Everyone who's heard it agrees that he said "I love you" but you be the judge.

5 am

2010-02-14T09:42:00.005-05:00

Spagett's sleeping habits have drastically improved, and now he wakes up every morning at around 5 am. He sleeps for three or four hour stretches (in his bassinet!), but it's inevitable that he'll wake between 4:30 and 6 am. This has become my favorite time of the morning.

On the days that Sid leaves for work early, I have the bed to myself then. Spagett will wake, and I'll change his diaper, feed him, and put him in the bed with me. I will lie there in the semi-darkness and stare at his sleeping face in wonderment: it is so hard to believe, still, that I am looking at my child. I close my eyes, just listen to him breathe, and in those moments there is no one else in all the world but us.

The days that Sid doesn't leave for work until the afternoon, I follow the routine and then put Spagett in the bed between us, and then I can't fall back asleep no matter how tired I am. I feel obligated to drink in those quiet, sleepy moments when father and son are sleeping side by side unawares, mirror images of partly open mouths and outflung limbs.

I have never in my life been a morning person, but I am glad to say that has changed.

a lesson in awesome

2010-02-07T13:12:00.001-05:00

Spagett's two month checkup was a few days ago, and besides the vaccinations, it went GREAT. We saw his usual pediatrician, who took one look at him and said, "there was a note in his chart about overfeeding, but I don't believe in fat babies. There's underweight and well fed. He's clearly growing well, so keep doing what you're doing."

Yes, as a matter of fact, my son's pediatrician is fabulous!

I'm going to miss this, believe it or not

2010-01-26T09:44:00.003-05:00

Sid took a month off from work after Spagett was born, and looking back, I don't even know why he did it. He spent most of his time playing video games or doing stuff on the computer. He wasn't taking care of the baby. I DID THAT. He wasn't the one sitting up all night with a vomiting infant. I DID THAT. He wasn't the one changing diapers. I DID THAT, unless I specifically told him "YOU change this diaper."

And it's frustrating, because since he didn't spend much time with Spagett during those first weeks, now he wonders why the poor kid will not be comforted by him or take a bottle from him, when I desperately need time away from the baby. He says "oh, Spagett hates me!" and I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that it's HIS fault for not spending more time with Spagett when he was first born. And anyway, babies usually like mom better anyway: they spent nine months inside her, after all, and she is the whole world to them. IT'S UNDERSTANDABLE THEY'D PREFER MOM, is all I'm saying. It doesn't mean they hate dad.

I ran myself ragged that first month, when Spagett was puking all the time, before I figured out he's got a soy sensitivity and cannot tolerate it when I eat large amounts of tomatoes (Yay boobfeeding! You are so convenient, and yet you make my life a misery!). There were a few times when I would get overwhelmed, going whole nights without sleep and having to wipe up vomit AGAIN, that I would break down crying. I admit there were also a few times when I actually yelled at Spagett to JUST STOP CRYING, STOP PUKING, GIVE ME A BREAK FOR FIVE FREAKING MINUTES, and Sid would finally step up and give me a much needed respite when those things happened.

Sid helped, don't get me wrong. He ran errands and did laundry and took care of the house while I spent that first awful month trying to keep our kid fed and clean. He helped with the cooking. He washed dishes. He came to doctor's appointments. He just didn't help all that much with Spagett.

I spend all my time with Spagett. 24-7 with the kid. And I don't mind, but sometimes I just need a freaking break. Sometimes I want to take a long, hot bath. Or take a shit without listening to the baby squalling in the other room. Sometimes I just want to sleep for a few hours without interruption (Spagett is a noisy sleeper, and I wake at every.fucking.sound he makes, but I don't want to move him into his own room because sometimes he pukes in his sleep and I'm afraid that he'll choke to death on it - there have been at least three times where he's choked on his puke and turned colors until I could clear his airway, scary shit). I get so jealous of Sid sometimes, because even though he's going to work and that's a whole other set of bullshit, he's getting a break from the baby.

Nights are the worst. Spagett sleeps for two or three hour stretches until 3 am, and then he wakes every hour after that. Sid sleeps through all of it. There are times where I'm struggling to stay awake for a feeding and Sid is just lying in the bed next to me, snoring away. And I'm always surprised at the ferocious anger that sweeps over me at those moments. Sometimes it is so bad, so unshakable, that after the feeding, I fall asleep and dream that I am yelling at him. Screaming at him until my throat is raw and I'm hoarse.

I know this will pass. And that someday, when Spagett is much older, I will look back on these days when he was so little and cuddly and downright adorable, and actually miss them. So even though all of this is so incredibly frustrating sometimes, I am doing everything I can to try and treasure these days, because they will never come again.

a lesson in douchebaggery

2010-01-13T14:36:00.003-05:00

Spagett's vomiting never improved, even though I'd been told by a few nurses at the pediatrician's office that it was normal. And I reached my wit's end the night before last and took him in to see his pediatrician the next day. Well, he didn't see his regular doctor, who is a really nice, likable guy. We ended up with a woman who had a bad case of the Douchebags.

She starts off by informing me that Spagett is gaining too much weight. That obviously I feed him too much. Now, I am breastfeeding, and I thought the conventional wisdom said that you feed your baby on demand. The doctor never came out and said I should start starving my baby, but it was implied.

Next, she states that his vomiting is from overfeeding. Contrary to what she said, I recall reading and hearing from numerous sources that breastfed babies are the ultimate intuitive eaters: they do not typically stuff themselves to bursting. Again, the implied message that I need to start denying my son meals.

When she asked how often I feed him, I told her that I typically wait for him to get fussy and start showing signs of hunger, such as sucking his fists and rooting. Just then, Spagett started making a bit of noise, just typical baby grunts, and the pediatrician says (and I cannot adequately convey her contempt through type alone), "is this what you call fussing?" It took every bit of self restraint I had to keep from shouting, "NO, BITCH!"

She treated me like some dumb little girl. Like I was asking stupid questions and totally inconveniencing her. Never mind that I'd come to her for help, and was asking totally legitimate questions such as, "could this be a food allergy?" and "is this caused by any medication I'm on?" She blew off everything I said.

Unfortunately, I have to go back to see her tomorrow. If I end up having to make another appointment and come back again, I'm absolutely not seeing her. I'm not going to starve my child simply because someone thinks he's eating too much, and for her to expect me to do that is unacceptable to me. Not to mention, she's got a shitty bedside manner.

perhaps I spoke too soon

2009-12-28T09:26:00.002-05:00

It's like a law of the internet that once you commit something to type on said internets, whatever you just said about whatever is going on in your life will be proven false.

Spagett has hit a growth spurt, or found a mighty appetite, because my breasts have not had a break in almost a week. This kid is just eating and eating and eating. Up every hour during the night, nursing for an hour at a time, and my wagon is draggin'. He pukes like Old Faithful after almost every feeding, too, which has me worried he's got reflux or something. I don't understand how you can eat until you puke, and then lie there and insist you want to eat more. I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

He refuses to sleep in his bassinet, to make matters worse. He could be dead asleep, having not even awakened during his burping, and the moment I lay him down in his co-sleeper bassinet, he's wide awake. He sleeps on the couch, in my bed, in his swing, in his carseat, on my chest, in my arms... everywhere but where I want him to. I don't understand that, either. But for now, I've given up that particular battle: he wants to sleep on my chest, and I just want to SLEEP, so that was a quick resolution to that.

It has to get better soon, or I'm going to lose my mind.

Spagett!

2009-12-14T19:13:00.002-05:00

So it's been quite an eventful month. Partly. The half where I was on bedrest sucked, but it afforded me lots of time to watch tv and sleep, two activities that I no longer seem to have time for.

Talking to my mother a few weeks ago, she swore that I'd have the baby on the 2nd of December, which was also the date I'd pegged simply because I'd gone into preterm labor on the full moon, and so I just picked the date of the next full moon... December 2nd. Just as a joke, mind you.

HAR HAR, my water broke without warning on the night of the 2nd. And I mean totally without warning: I'd felt fine all day, went to bed as usual and after half an hour of lying there attempting to sleep, there was this feeling like a water balloon popping deep inside and OMGFLOOD. It was gross. Sid was more freaked out than I was, I think: I kept having to tell him to just calm down, we had plenty of time to get to the hospital.

So my water broke at 9:30 pm, and that was the official start of my labor. Eight and a half hours later, at 6:11 am, I had Spagett (just a nickname, trust me). A beautiful little boy, 7 pounds 8 ounces and 19 inches long. And would you know it, I didn't have any drugs at all? His delivery was all natural, every last bit of it, and YES RIOT, I screamed. Holy shit, you try pushing a melon out of your asshole, I bet you'll scream, too. I tore and needed stitches, I think I earned the right to holler a little bit.

As far as babies go, Spagett is a joy. He rarely cries, and when he does, it's just because he wants to eat. And this kid is an eater! I feel like he's on my tits all day long. He sleeps well at night, sometimes for as long as three or four hours at a stretch. And he's a perfect meld of me and Sid: my eyes, Sid's skin, my nose, Sid's hair... Sid's family insists he looks like Sid, and my family swears he looks like me. He looks like Spagett.

And of course, I think he is perfect.

DRAMA! or How To Keep Up A Winning Streak, by starky

2009-11-05T10:29:00.004-05:00

Over the weekend, I got a sub from Publix. An italian sub, with DELI MEAT, OMG. DON'T YOU KNOW YOU'LL GIVE YOUR BABY LISTERIA AND HE'LL DIE?! To which I say, I knew the risks, and it was a chance I took, knowing I have better odds of being struck by lightning or winning the lottery than I do of contracting listeria from a fucking deli sub and potentially killing my resident fetus.

Anyway, Monday rolls around and Spagett is not his or her usual kicky, active self. And then I thought, well, you know, maybe I did kill my kid with listeria. And then I started getting menstrual-like cramps low down in my belly, and that plus the other thing had me rolling to the hospital.

IT WASN'T LISTERIA. IT WAS PRE-TERM LABOR!

They put me in an observation room with a monitor for Spagett's heartbeat, and a monitor to check for contractions. Yeah, apparently I was having contractions, and couldn't even feel the bitches except for a tightening in my guts. It wasn't painful. It wasn't what I expected. And when they took my blood pressure, HOLY CRAP. It was through the fucking roof. I mean like 160/100 and then the labor and delivery doctors came in and said "we're going to keep you under observation for a few hours to make sure you're not dilating and that your blood pressure goes back down."

I was promptly whisked away to a more private room where three doctors proceeded to do things to my vagina that my own husband would balk at. I had swabs inside my bagina, hands in my vagoo! Turns out my cervix was beginning to thin out and dilate. LIKE IT SHOULD WHEN YOU'RE IN LABOR, NOT AT 33 WEEKS! Also, no one, no woman ever prepared me for how motherfucking PAINFUL a pelvic exam is. LADIES, YOU FAILED ME. There was so much pain and pressure when they jammed their hands in there that if I had had to go #1 or even #2, it would have all flown out. All over the doctor with his arm buried to the wrist in my flippy flaps, and in my opinion, what he was doing was bad, but not bad enough to warrant that kind of punishment.

Anyway, two hours later, my blood pressure was still high, and another pelvic revealed further cervical thinning and dilation. Also, one of the swab tests they'd done showed the presence of a protein called fetal fibronectin, which is a pretty good indicator that the bun in your oven is not staying there much longer, no matter how underdone it may be. And also those contractions never went away, and were in fact still coming pretty regularly, and also still very NOT PAINFUL.

They started giving me a drug called Procardia, which is primarily used for angina pain, but it also works really really well at lowering blood pressure and stopping contractions (who ever figured that out?). It did what it was supposed to, and I was admitted. Also, I got buttshots, aka STEROIDS.

Because steroids accelerate fetal lung development. And the doctors were/are convinced Spagett is not going to be a Christmas baby after all. More like a Thanksgiving baby, if everything goes well.

The hospital is a noisy place, even at night, and I am a light sleeper, so it was no surprise to me when I could not sleep a wink all night in that place. Between the blood pressure checks every fifteen minutes, to the alarms beeping on my monitors, to the fact that I had to get up and unhook myself from the monitors every time I needed to use the toilet... I didn't sleep.

I had butt shots, hands in my vagoo, ANOTHER TWENTY FOUR HOUR URINE COLLECTION TEST, monitors on stomach and arm and finger continuously for over 24 hours, an IV that kept getting tangled up in EVERYTHING, and no sleep for an eight months pregnant woman in over 36 hours, and the part that finally made me cry was when they discharged me with a big bottle of Procardia and ordered my ass on bedrest. I was fine until then! Laughing and joking with the staff up to that point, but once we left the labor and delivery floor, I cried and couldn't stop all the way home.

And then I wanted to cry again when I got home and went potty and instead of clean toilet paper, came back with a big slug looking chunk of brown and red mucous. And I had to call labor and delivery back and ask what I should do if I'd passed my mucous plug. They said "nothing, just relax. Come back in if you start leaking fluid, or you start having contractions again."

So my tired ass went to bed and passed out.

And the funniest part of all this? I DEFINITELY DO NOT HAVE PREECLAMPSIA. The repeat urine test came back with protein level of 7. You must have a level of over 300 for it to be considered preeclampsia. So there is that.

Anyway, I'm at home now. Bedrest is actually not so bad: its a great excuse to just sit around and be lazy all day and get Sid to do things for me. The Procardia really makes me loopy, so I spend a lot of time napping, which is fine with me.

oh, I saw this one coming...

2009-10-27T12:11:00.002-04:00

I had an OB appointment out at the naval base yesterday, met my new midwife, and everything seemed to be going pretty well. My weight gain was spot on, and there were only a few blood tests I needed, simple things like thyroid function and platelets. Nothing major.

But it turns out that my blood pressure is high. Every other appointment I've had, it's been totally normal, 120/60, absolutely textbook perfect. But this time it was 150/90. Yeah. So now I have to go back to the hospital to have a bunch more tests done today to rule out preeclampsia. Oh joy!

Surprisingly enough, I don't really feel worried. Sure, preeclampsia would be bad. Very bad, actually. But that might not be what this is, after all. And before I raise my blood pressure further and stress myself all out to hell, I want to know that I actually have something to freak out about.

just call me the Bitchy Wizzle Beast

2009-10-14T11:59:00.003-04:00

I can't stop peeing.

Seriously.

I wake up every hour and a half during the night to go take the hugest horse pisses, and I can't understand where all this water is coming from. Because I make sure not to drink anything after 6 pm. And yet I'm still up all night having these huge bladder-busting wees. Wizzles so big that it's physically painful to get out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, and then act of voiding pisses off my uterus and gives me braxton-hicks contractions.

Holy shit, that's a huge fucking piss.

Added to the fact that I'm barely sleeping at night with all this peeing, I'm not used to the heat and I am DYING. DYING I SAY. Tired and overheated, that's my Florida Experience so far.

I fucking hate Florida.

the kind of person I might actually despise

2009-09-19T11:27:00.003-04:00

If I met myself on a message board, or even in real life, I think I'd find myself to be exactly the kind of person I claim to hate: one of those people who just get lucky.

Okay, we certainly struggled to get pregnant, but after that? It's been pretty smooth sailing. I haven't gained a ton of weight. There have been no scares with contractions or anything like that. I'm not terribly uncomfortable like a lot of women at seven months. All my bloodwork has been totally normal: no false positives on the AFP screen, no antibodies, no high blood glucose... it's been absolutely by-the book.

And my thyroid has behaved so well! Lots of women with hypothyroidism find that they must increase their medication while pregnant. I've made it to seven months without needing a single dosage change, and beyond that, my TSH has been progressively lower and lower at each check. I started this pregnancy with my TSH fluctuating between about 2 to 2.5, and when it was checked last week, it came back at 0.8. That's great! That's fucking fantastic! I never expected to be one of those rare lucky ones whose thyroid function actually improves: if this improvement continues, I may be able to stop taking meds altogether, and wouldn't that be nice?

Now, where do I get off, being so goddamn lucky? I just about make myself sick. Trust me that I know I could have it a lot worse than I do, and I am so grateful that this has been, all in all, a very easy and fairly enjoyable pregnancy so far (if we conveniently forget the vomiting and heartburn). I wouldn't be surprised if I made up for all this sunshine-and-roses with a heinous labor and delivery.

a chapter is closing

2009-09-15T11:53:00.003-04:00

We've known for quite a while now that we would be moving, but it still doesn't seem real. Of all people, I should probably understand the fundamental concept as well as anyone - after all, I am the one who packed up my books, sorted out the cabinets, and went through all my clothes. I am the one who started preparing for the move! I should know we're moving! But every time I see a calendar, it hits me like a fist. The movers are coming next week. Holy shit, we are really going to leave this house behind.

Part of me is ready to make the change. This house is old, poorly insulated, and I'm fairly sure that the roof needs replacing. It leaks in the attic during rainstorms, and the toilet clogs on absolutely nothing. The bathroom sink drains at a snail's pace, and stubbornly refuses to change no matter what we do. During the winter, it never gets above 65 degrees in the living room, and that is the warmest room of the house. In the spring, slugs find their way in here from somewhere, and we find dried out slug corpses on the rugs. The cabinet doors don't close all the way, and if they do, they never STAY closed. And did I mention the transient ant colonies that terrorized us for two years straight? Yeah, that was a barrel of laughs. And now the roaming gangs of box elders that have not only taken over our house, but the entire neighborhood? Oh, and I can't forget the big trees that make autumn such a chore: you can't get away with raking once or twice, oh no, you need to be out there every weekend.

In short, this house...can be a huge pain in the ass.

And yet this is the house Sid and I have lived in for almost five years. This is the first place we shared together. This is where we learned to be a couple, after two years of dating long-distance. This is where we laughed and cried and argued and built our life together. I will be sad to leave that part of our history behind.

But at the same time, I remind myself I won't be leaving it behind at all. Because every time I think of all the important moments of our lives in our years here, I will think of this house. When I remember waiting for Sid to come home from work so I could show him the positive pregnancy test in my pocket, I will recall standing on the porch in the late afternoon sunlight of early spring. I can't think of the butterflies in my stomach without remembering how cold the painted boards on that porch were against my bare feet. When I think of the times Sid went out on deployment, or was sent out during emergencies, I can't help but be reminded of how we said our goodbyes in the kitchen, and a room that was normally full of life suddenly felt so bleak and empty after he left.

I think, overall, I am looking forward to the move, because it will signify a new chapter in our lives: in the old house, we needed to learn how to function as a pair, and in the new house, we'll have to learn how to function as a family.

clutter

2009-08-31T12:53:00.002-04:00

We moved into Manson Homestead in January of 2005, though the nickname came much later. We brought just ourselves and two cats, and what little furniture we had (a bed and a sofa) arrived almost a full week after we did. We started out here with nothing, literally nothing. Now we've been here for a pretty decent four and a half years, and along the way we've managed to accumulate another cat and a houseful of possessions. I am continually shocked at how much CLUTTER we managed to make in that time, how DIRTY the undersink cabinets got when I wasn't looking. And where the fuck did all these fucking cat hair tumbleweeds come from?

We'd decided we were going to move ourselves. We were going to pack up everything on our own and move it with help from friends and family. And then after a couple of days where I spent all my time lifting and bending and crouching and cleaning and packing, I ended up having some ugly menstrual-type cramps (and some bleeding, but I think that was from something else), and we threw in the towel. The Navy is going to move us. The Navy is going to hire professional movers to come in and pack all our stuff, move it all and unpack it at our new house.

This means Sid and I are left doing damage control. Because I know they aren't going to scrub the doorframes, or the cabinets, or the baseboards, or anything like that. And our landlady was cool with us not repainting before we left, so long as we cleaned up before we left. And that was kind of a given! What were we going to do, leave our dirty finger marks on the white paint for someone else to scrub?

So I've been trying to pace myself and do a little bit each day. My task for the past week has been cleaning out all the cabinets in the house. And noodly FSM, you'd never freaking BELIEVE the sheer amount of CRAP that got stashed in our cabinets simply because we didn't know where else to put the shit. Grocery bags and caulking guns and a showerhead and old license plates and a soggy box of industrial staples... just to name a few. I'm in awe at how much we packed into those small spaces. I feel like such a goddamn packrat.

home sweet home

2009-08-24T06:55:00.003-04:00

Staying with Sid's dad and grandmother was an exercise in patience and tongue-biting, and it would be an understatement to say I am glad to be home. I am fucking relieved to be home. It was just one thing after another while we were there, and I was on my last nerve due to all the traveling and lack of sleep... so yeah. It was interesting, to say the least.

Elder Manson started in on his "well, I guess I have to take back the baseball bat and the cleats and the glove..." and I cut him down in a cold minute. "That's awfully mean, why can't a girl use those things?" And he hemmed and hawed and tried to feed me a lame line of bullshit about boys and girls sizing being different. Close, but no cigar, Elder Manson! Try again!

And then we found out that Grandmother, Eldest Manson, has failed her drivers test and continues to drive. Blind in one eye and hardly able to get about under her own steam, this woman is still plonking herself down behind the wheel to operate a vehicle. I am staying far, far away from that one.

And then the water was terribly hard and dried out my skin and caused such a pizza-faced breakout that I was afraid to look in the mirror. Nothing like walking around with a bad case of the zits to really boost yer self-esteem!

And then, and then, and then! We ate off plastic silverware the entire time we were there because someone, I don't know who and I don't care who, simply rinsed off the dirty silverware and stuck that shit back in the drawer. Didn't scrub it with hot water and soap, didn't run it through the dishwasher, just stuck that crusty mess back to be used again. I'm not much of a housekeeper myself, but the overall state of that kitchen was appalling. My kitchen may be cluttered and the porcelain sink may be in dire need of a bleaching, but for fuck's sake, at least it's clean!

I keep telling myself that they mean well, but I can only tolerate the elder Mansons in small doses.

the lesser of two evils

2009-08-12T12:25:00.003-04:00

Remember we were so worried about Sid moving to his next command in November? It is no longer an issue.

Because we're moving in October.

This is hardly much better, because now we must rush to find a house. And a doctor or midwife. Sid is taking two weeks off work for us to go down to Flori-duh and attempt to find these things. It's happening very fast: we only found out on Friday, and this coming Friday, we're starting our househunting trip. We've been trying to get the house in some semblance of order NOW, so that we don't have to worry about it later, but it's hard. We had a lot of clothes to go through, a lot of crap to sift through in the back room where we kept a lot of our clutter.

And we haven't even begun packing yet.

The move itself is going to suck, but we're going to have plenty of help, so it won't be unbearable. Sid's dad (Elder Manson) and my dad (Elder Baldwin - don't even ask) are both going to come to assist. And also, our neighbors here will help, because we helped them move in. And then when we get to Flori-duh, my sister said she'd also come and lend a hand.

So I think we'll be okay. Moving in October, though it puts us on a tight schedule to find a house, is the better alternative in my mind. This way gives us some time to settle in and unpack before Spagett arrives. We wouldn't really have that opportunity if we moved a month later.

As you can tell, I am trying very hard to focus on the silver lining.

like planning for a hurricane

2009-08-05T11:47:00.002-04:00

We got our first batch of Bum Genius one-size diapers last night, and I'm somewhat ashamed to admit that it was exciting. Diapers. Exciting. Yeah, let that process a bit.

It was exciting though. Really! It was our first major baby-related purchase, after all. The first of many. We sat on the bed and examined the snaps and elastic and velcro, compared the pastel colors to the bright ones (the bright pink and blue are both DARLING, but the bright yellow is still my favorite), and discussed how weird it seemed to have to make these kinds of purchases.

"It's like planning for a hurricane," Sid said at one point. "It doesn't feel real." I laughed, but it's true. There is just so much planning to do, so many things that we need, so much that we don't know!

As an aside, I hate that it seems like every time I blog, it's about OMG, BAYBEE! I know it must get old. And I do apologize. But this is the biggest thing happening in my life right now, the topic of discussion for everyone close to us. Spagett has been much awaited by everyone in our family, not just me and Sid, and we are all justifiably excited.

bitching and stuff

2009-08-03T14:30:00.003-04:00

Today I was surprised to find that my black maternity pants, which have been slightly too big this whole time I've otherwise been comfortably wearing maternity clothes, finally fit. And it's not because I've bulked up, because I've still not gained much weight (most charts estimate that at 20 weeks, a woman should have gained about ten pounds, give or take a few... I've gained three). My too-big maternity pants aren't fitting now because of weight gain - though I wouldn't mind that! - but because of the gut explosion.

By the way, I'm STILL sick. Not all the time, and definitely not to the point of vomiting, but STILL. And over the weekend, after I'd gone almost a whole month without vomiting, we ate mexican and out of nowhere... OOPS, I HAVE TO PUKE. Oh my FSM, was that ever unpleasant. I am so fucking over this pregnancy bullshit. Just hand me the newborn and lets have done with this!

Sid and I finally agreed on names (we'd had first names picked for a while, but were stumped on middle names), both of which I'm super-excited about (and no, we did not use "Edward"). When Elder Manson heard what we'd settled on a few months ago, he said they "sounded like black names" and I was forced to explain to him that they had their roots in Irish and Old-English. He's going to shit himself when he hears what the middle names are, because they're certainly different.

gender roles

2009-07-28T13:41:00.002-04:00

We chose not find out Spagett's sex for one simple reason: we know that if we find out, the family will glut us with heavily gendered toys and clothes. And we simply don't care for that. We think it is stupid and unnecessary. Babies are fairly genderless little beings, and we as parents, we as guardians and family and even strangers, are the ones who push them into assigned gender roles.

Case in point: Sid's father insinuated last night that we were keeping the sex secret from him for some nefarious purpose, then went on to basically say that he could not buy anything for his grandchild until he knew the sex. Because what if he buys a baseball glove and it turns out we have a girl?

Let me just say that he is incredibly lucky he did not say that to me. As it was, it was said to Sid, who chooses to let that kind of stuff fall by the wayside more often than not.

We have a registry, one that Sid and I put together after much discussion over each individual piece. We deliberately left out "gendered colors" such as blue, purple and pink - even though neither of us harbor any particular qualms about dressing a child of either sex in those colors - because we did not want the family to get ideas and make assumptions. We only put two big-ticket items on the list, and the rest were affordable, inexpensive necessaries, all in gender neutral colors: clothes and towels and socks and burp rags and crib sheets and hats. If you are shopping straight from the registry, Elder Manson, there's no need to say that you can't buy anything simply because you don't know the sex of the child you are shopping for! It smacks of blackmail, quite honestly! We made the registry the way we did so that everyone - yes, even you! - could buy what they chose and could afford. We really did have family in mind, believe it or not!

Before we decided to have a child, Sid and I had many discussions about gender roles. If a son of yours decides he'd like to wear a skirt one day, will you tell him no? I wanted to know. If he wants to play with Barbies, will you tell him he can't? What if we have a child who is intersex? Will you choose their gender, or let them make their own choice? Both of us had lots of questions for the other, and we both had lots to say about what was important to us. And in the end, we were in total agreement. I won't even attempt to lay it all out for you, but it boiled down to this: Whether boy or girl or intersex or whatever, our child would not be forced into society's gender roles. We would never be the ones to say "little boys don't play with dolls" or "little girls don't play sports" and try to dictate who they should be, what role they should play.

We know that once Spagett is born, there will be no avoiding the gendered gifts from family. We know it is unavoidable. We know that we are fighting a battle in which we are clearly outnumbered. But we also know that it is up to us as parents to make sure that Spagett will grow up in a home where it is perfectly safe to be a little bit different. And we can do that!

belated update

2009-07-26T20:18:00.004-04:00

Last week I had the big anatomy ultrasound, where they take all sorts of measurements and make sure that there aren't any gross anatomical defects in the fetus. We got some good pictures, which by now have probably made the rounds to family I didn't know we had, courtesy of Sid's mother. I won't share them all, because that would be obnoxious and boring, but I want to post the one that is my favorite...

I like to compare it to the nine week sonogram, just because there's such a marked difference in the development. You don't have to squint and tilt your head to try and make out the head end from the butt end! It's no longer a little blobby gummy bear creature!

But enough about that, it gets old after a while. I want to put down for posterity the most appalling thing EVER.

Not only is my blood pressure wonky, and oftentimes gets too low and I feel like I'm going to faint dead away, and not only do I have monstrous round ligament pain that is so bad I have been walking around like an old woman... I had to venture outside yesterday for twenty minutes and get bumrushed by mosquitoes. I am not exaggerating when I say I have got at least fifteen or twenty bites on each leg. From the knees down, I'm a throbbing lumpy mess of itchiness. I am in a veritable PANIC: nothing is easing this itch, nothing is helping at all.

As if mad heartburn, wonky blood pressure, and crippling round ligament pain weren't enough... this is the cherry on the shit sundae, let me tell you.

this is freaky and I kind of don't like it

2009-07-13T10:10:00.004-04:00

All my life (and I do mean literally "all my life"), eating meat off the bone has been totally beyond me. I can't do it. It makes me gag, ruins my appetite, and is just an all-around icky experience. IT IS TERRIBLY GROSS. It is one of the reasons I decided to just stop eating meat altogether, rather than try to justify my strange meat-eating preferences (NO, I won't eat that, it's got that funny line of fat through it. NO, I won't eat that, look at the blubber along that edge. NO, I wont eat that... and so on and so forth.).

Our neighbors invited us over for dinner this past Saturday, and ribs were on the menu. And surprisingly enough, I said "you know, I liked steak when I never have before, so I'm willing to give ribs a shot" and said I'd be there. And you know what? I LIKED IT.

D:

Yeah. Miss EW I CAN'T EAT IT OFF THE BONE ITS GROSS AND MAKES ME PUKE... ate ribs. And found them delicious.

This is worse than when I started levothyroxine and felt all weird in my own body. This absolutely trumps that whole experience. IT IS WEIRD. And to be honest, it really freaks me out and I kind of wish I could just go back to eating like normal. That will come in time, of course, but I'm impatient.

In better news, I broke down and started taking Zantac 75 for my wicked heartburn and it is HEAVEN. I can eat again! Unfortunately, I only caved and bought the stuff after a day in which my heartburn was so bad, I became violently ill and could not make it to the bathroom in time to hurl up Tums and stomach acid. But...RELIEF. YES. It's awesome.

one track-mind

2009-07-06T12:53:00.002-04:00

I don't even know how it got started. We were hanging out with our neighbors down at the mexican restaurant, and got to talking about how we found out we were going to be moving in November (OMFG, SERIOUSLY, NAVY?) and we were trying to get a good idea of what houses we could afford compared to what we wanted, and how long it would take us to find a good one. The conversation turned to financing and mortgages and insurance. And eventually, it turned to houseboats.

My ears pricked up. Houseboats have always fascinated me, and when I was little, I sort of really wanted to own one. I love boats, love the water and I adore the idea of combining those two in my very own living space. I didn't mention this to Sid, but apparently he fell in love with the idea, as well. He is constantly online looking at boats (as am I, if I might be honest), and it dominates most of our conversations.

Because now we are weighing the pros and cons of living in a houseboat. We're still in the research phase, where we are emailing the naval base we're moving to, and asking about dockside fees and hurricane evacuations and all that lovely stuff. Because HELLO, we're moving to Florida, we are going to face a hurricane sooner or later!

Right now, though, a houseboat is still looking like a viable alternative for us. We've already found things we aren't going to like so much (such as lack of storage space) and things we are going to LOVE (such as the ease of simply moving our entire house to the next naval base, rather than dealing with the stress of packing and finding a new place).

I won't be terribly upset if this doesn't pan out. But if it does? HOLY SHIT. I think I will have to invite every one of my friends out to my place for a mini-vacation.

"honeymoon phase" my ass

2009-06-29T11:01:00.003-04:00

It's been said, in numerous places around the internet and in books, that the second trimester is the "honeymoon phase" of pregnancy. You are not ill from morning sickness anymore, and you are not yet so huge that everything sucks.

IT IS A LIE.

At least I'm not throwing up anymore. I keep telling myself that. At least I'm not throwing up! But my stomach still often feels like I've swallowed acid. I get to feeling like if I puke, it will just be gallons of lemon juice. Nothing makes it better. Except eating. Sometimes, if I can force myself to choke down something, it helps. But not always. It's a bit of a crapshoot.

There is still so much that I used to enjoy that I still can't imagine eating. Former staples of my diet, which leaves me bereft: cereal, pizza, spaghetti. Cheese. For FSM's sake, CHEESE. But you know what I do like? STEAK. Seriously. Even though I have never enjoyed it in my life, and have spent the last ten years of my life avoiding most animal flesh, I now like steak.

In my own head, if not out loud, I've begun referring to Spagett the Alien Fetus as a "parasitic meatetarian".

in which I eat crow

2009-06-23T13:09:00.002-04:00

For all the complaining I did about maternity clothes, I got mine in the mail today and I find I must eat crow. The jeans - which I bitched only came in one light colored denim, low rise - are actually really cute and fit great. They fit a damn sight better than my regular jeans with the button and zipper undone!

And the shirts, which I bitched came in funny colors - and I nerved myself up to buy one in a funny color - were actually a lot more muted than I expected. Instead of dayglo aqua, it's a deeper teal color, still bright but not glaring. The other shirts in boring black or white also fit beautifully, and I could get away with wearing them now, as the drapey material is quite flattering to my beer gut.

So I was expecting to be disappointed, and instead, I find myself pleasantly surprised.

Also, it appears that the military has freed up some money and we may be moving in August as originally planned. So that is excellent news, but as always, we'll have to wait and see.

ah, military life...

2009-06-22T10:58:00.003-04:00

Sid was supposed to receive his new orders in July, and we would move to his next command in August. I would be five months pregnant. No harm done. Buuut... the military ran out of money for the fiscal year and froze orders. Which means we know where Sid is headed next, but they will not send him there until November.

November. I will be eight months pregnant by then, near- if not already at - full term. My doctors (I rotate between two obstetricians and a midwife) have all agreed this is a shitty time to have to move to a new state. They have written notes to Sid's detailer explaining that I cannot move after 36 weeks gestation (because what if I have the kid on the road?), and require a three month recovery period afterward, in an attempt to get the military to keep us in one spot long enough for Spagett to get here and for him/her to get a few necessary vaccines in before we haul up and leave (and also, FSM forbid, I have to heal up from a cesarean).

The Powers That Be have taken the notes, read them, lost them for a bit, and finally said, "meh." They've said they can't make any promises. They've said that Sid might have to move to his next command and leave me behind to have Spagett (they can't actually get away with this, and they know that we know it is more of an empty threat than anything else).

The damage is done, and Sid is kermitflailing. I'm of the opinion that there's very little we have control over in this situation, and whatever happens, we'll make the best of it because we have no choice. I, like the military, say "meh" while Sid goes "WHARRGARBL."

This could all very well work out great for us, and in the end, we might get Sid's commanding officer to pull a few strings and keep us at this command until March, just like my doctors would prefer. Also, it might work out very badly, with us packing up and moving and stopping on the drive down to our new home to have Spagett at some podunk hospital. Right now, we just have to wait and see.

Don't you just fucking love military life?

apparently "knocked up"="no sense of style"

2009-06-15T07:56:00.003-04:00

(For all the bitching I'm about to do, I want you to keep in mind that I'm just grateful this is even something I get to bitch about at all.)

Maternity clothes suck.

Hell, all clothes suck. Shopping is always such a huge pain in the ass when you don't fit the rail-thin ideal, but instead have a very generously shaped hourglass figure. When your arms and legs are freakishly long compared to normal folk.

Yeah, and it's worse when you're shopping for maternity clothes. Apparently your sense of style goes out the window as you approach whale-like proportions. Apparently when "normal" clothes stop fitting, bitches will take what they can get and color and style be damned.

I have trolled every online maternity store I could find, and either the stuff is ugly and overpriced, or just ugly. Old Navy, for example, has some cute shirts that I'd love to have. IN NORMAL COLORS. Dayglo colors don't look on a pasty cave-creature like me. Dayglo is a bad, bad thing when you are as fair-skinned as I am, because skin that white is downright reflective, okay? DAYGLO IS BAD.

And the jeans. Oh, don't get me started on the jeans. In my size, with a long inseam, there is only one - count 'em, ONE - pair of jeans available at Old Navy. And the other sites I checked were all hideously overpriced: I've never paid $200 for a pair of jeans in my whole life, and I'm not about to start now. (BTW, why is it a "pair" of jeans? I don't get it.)

I suppose I shouldn't be getting this riled up about it, but what the hell am I supposed to do when I absolutely cannot fit my regular clothes anymore? I'm rapidly approaching that point: the gut is noticeably more prominent, and my jeans stopped buttoning - and zipping - two weeks ago (thank FSM for Belly Bands). There are only a few shirts that I wear anymore on account of the gut, as the rest are so clingy and skintight I loathe the thought of peeling the fuckers off at the end of the day. Because right now? I don't look pregnant. I just look like I'm sporting a very fine specimen of beer gut.

gag me...with anything

2009-06-09T10:00:00.002-04:00

I had a couple really bad days in the week leading up to our trip to Florida, days which had me hanging over the toilet and retching so hard that vomity toilet water would splash up into my face. So I was expecting the trip down to be hell. Sid and I were fully prepared for lots and lots of hurling. And there was none. On the drive down, I was fine. During our week-long stay at his father's house, I was fine (okay, so there was one iffy moment where I actually hung over the toilet expecting to spew my guts up, but nothing happened). On the drive back, I felt a little gross, but it was nothing like the way I'd felt previously.

And then we got back home. And the very next day, surprise surprise, I'm back hanging out with my old friend Mr Potty. I don't know if it's something about the air in this house, or the fact that cooking dinner is a surefire way to make me retch, but everything is conspiring to make sure that from the moment I wake up in the morning to the moment I fall asleep at night, it is a battle to keep from sharing the contents of my stomach with the crapper.

Looking on the bright side, lots of women say that their "morning sickness" (HA, I say) becomes much more manageable and/or disappears completely around week fourteen. If I've been putting up with this for six weeks now, another two won't kill me. It'll suck, but it won't kill me.

But in the meantime, I think I'll just stick close to the bathroom.

a shortie

2009-05-30T09:37:00.001-04:00

It's lucky for you I'm a nice drunk.

---Sid, somewhat blearily, after a dinner with friends in which he drank two of the hugest mugs (32 oz.) of beer I've ever seen.

internet, meet Spagett

2009-05-21T06:29:00.003-04:00

Sid came with me to my appointment yesterday, and in hindsight, I'm so glad he did. I wasn't expecting to get an ultrasound, but the doctor wanted to do one "for dating purposes". Turns out Spagett is right on schedule, only one whopping day off from the due date I'd been given based on my last menstrual period.

It was surreal. There on the screen was this little stubby thing wiggling around with it's tiny heart just fluttering away right in the middle of it's blobby little body. It was just an image on the screen until I realized holy shit, this tiny alien-headed gummy bear on the screen is growing inside me. Until that moment, this pregnancy had been just an idea, an abstraction. Yes, my body had changed in all kinds of weird ways and intellectually, I knew there was something going on in there, but seeing it made it real.

Afterward, Sid told me, "I thought it looked like Baron Werner Ünderbheit."

I think he's got a point.

who knew...

2009-05-13T06:55:00.003-04:00

...that belching could feel so great? Because I hadn't been able to burp for the last couple of weeks without everything in my stomach rising up in my throat. And the past few days have been mercifully free of that phenomenon. I CAN BURP AGAIN, OMG! :D

So yeah, I guess I'm beginning the long, slow crawl back to feeling like a human being again. I have nothing but respect for those women who suffer from hyperemesis gravidarum, because if it were me, honestly, no matter how much I wanted the baby at the end, I'm not sure anything could convince me to continue feeling that awful. Also, I have a massive phobia of throwing up. MASSIVE. I fight that gag reflex to the bitter end, and then I cry. Personally, I am not sure I could handle being that sick for that long.

That friend of mine who was rubbing her pregnancy in my face will be jealous that I'm feeling better, because she's got hyperemesis. I feel bad for it, but on the other hand, the part of me that's not-so-nice says that turnabout is fair play. But I won't stoop that low. I really, really won't. Even though I'd like to.

NO my fucking cheese goddess

2009-05-06T11:43:00.003-04:00

I can't eat cheese. Blasphemy, I know. But thinking about it makes my stomach try to crawl up my throat, so blaspheme I must. Tomatoes also set it off, which means that spaghetti and pizza are officially AWFUL. Damn you stomach, you temperamental bitch! DAMN YOOOOU! KHAAAAAAAN!

Whoever called it "morning sickness" was obviously a lackwit man, because I can't imagine any woman who'd been-there-done-that would call it something so misleading. Because you know what? MY MORNINGS ARE GREAT. I wake up feeling like I didn't sleep at all, but I'm not SICK. No, that sets in later, after I start getting whiffs of stinky things, like that funny phantom smell that stalks me all over the house. Smells like a rancid combo of poo, blood, and rot. I assure you, my house does not smell like any of those things. So unless there's a zombie with hemorrhoids and diarrhea hanging out in the bathroom, there's just no explanation for it.

I keep telling myself...

2009-04-29T10:11:00.002-04:00

...I wanted this.

I hoped I would be one of those women who never get morning sickness. Aaannnnd, it turns out... I am not. I am lucky, but not that lucky. A few days before I hit the six week mark, I started feeling nauseated. It has not let up since then.

All I can do is lie on the couch and desperately hope I won't start retching. But the good part? If I eat exactly what I'm craving at the moment, seriously, the nausea goes away. It comes back, sure, but I can snatch a break for a few hours. The drawback is that I have been wanting things that I don't have in the house. Like yesterday: I would have straight up shanked someone if it got me some cream cheese on toast. We had none, and I felt too damn sick to peel myself off the couch and go to the store. Then I wanted salt and vinegar chips. Alas, none to be had.

Thank FSM that today I wanted a fried egg sandwich and I had the makings of one in the fridge. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to sit here and type, I'd just be lying on the floor moaning.

I don't plan on telling the family what's going on until I hit 12 weeks. Unfortunately, I have to make a trip down to see them all for my sister's high school graduation, and if I'm this miserably ill, I won't be able to hide it. Here's hoping I'll luck out and only be sick for a few weeks.

welcome ICLWers!

2009-04-22T12:49:00.003-04:00

I guess an introductory post is in order, huh? Better late than never, right?

I'm Starky (not my real name). I'm 24, turning 25 next month. I grew up in Amish Country, Pennsylvania and I miss it dearly. My husband, Sid, (also not his real name) is 29. We've known each other for almost eight years, and been married for about three and half. Sid is in the Navy, and we both view it as a means to an end, it's not really something that we use to define our lives - he actually hates being called a sailor, just like I hate being referred to as a military wife.

Sid went out on deployment this past year, and when he came back we decided we wanted to start our family. A homecoming baby would be so CUTE, right? Well, it didn't work out the way we'd planned. It turns out that Sid's got low sperm mobility, high viscosity, and low volume. We were told that our best shot at conceiving would be with intrauterine insemination. Sid was not ready to admit defeat, and I spent a lot of time on this blog bitching about it.

We tried to conceive on our own for nine cycles, and I know that's not a lot by some standards, but you ladies know how even one month can feel like an eternity. The time.just.dragged. And then I had this crazy dream that I took a pee test and three lines showed up. One was pink, which meant I was pregnant. One was orange, which meant I was having twins. And the last one was black, which meant that the pregnancy was viable.

Three days later, I took a pee test for shits and giggles, not really expecting to see anything but that one familiar, depressing line. And there were two. It remains to be seen whether the rest of the dream was accurate as well.

scar stories

2009-04-21T08:07:00.002-04:00

Sid and I were watching tv last night when this stupid commercial for some scar lightening cream came on. The woman in the commercial was "so ashamed" of her scars, and this cream was able to make her feel good about herself again. You know, the typical gimmicky line of BS.

Why be ashamed of a scar? Why try to hide it, or lie about it? I don't understand.

My mother got burned pretty badly on her arm about ten years ago, and it got infected, and left a pretty funky scar. It's barely noticeable, but if you know what to look for, it's a patch of slightly lighter, bumpy skin on her forearm. And she was so ashamed of it, it bothered her so much. One day I walked in on her complaining about it, how it was going to "mark her for the rest of her life." And I was gobsmacked. I'd never considered it like that.

When I was four, I fell off a swing and broke my arm. Really badly. We're talking bones sticking out, arm twisted around broke my arm. Where the bones stuck out, where the doctors cut it open to try and repair the damage, I have a pretty spectacular zig-zag scar on my forearm, about five inches long. Stupid people have seen it and asked appropriately stupid questions (DID YOU TRY TO CUT YOUR WRIST?). But I have never been ashamed of it. I don't try to hide it, and therefore, people don't really notice it. It is just part of who I am, and most people will not mention it, indeed, will not even see it until I specifically point it out.

I told my mother that scars were nothing to be ashamed of, that it was merely something that meant we have healed from physical trauma. If anything, we should be proud of our scars, because if you believe they "mark us for life" they mark us as people who have hurt, who have been scared, who bled and cried. They are testaments to pain, and to healing.

She looked at me cockeyed, but she never really complained about her scars again. Maybe she just thought I was crazy.

a rant and some schadenfreude

2009-04-17T10:27:00.003-04:00

FYI: You lose weight. You lose a child. You do not loose these things. Loose is another word entirely.

Is it just me, or is this particular misspelling becoming more and more common? It seems like I see it everywhere, and it makes me crazy. I've even seen it misspelled on some poor child's grave marker, which just about made me sick: did no one proof-read that thing before permanently etching it onto this poor dead kid's memorial stone?

I know that some people simply aren't good at spelling, that I am one of the lucky ones that intuitively knows the difference between "effect" and "affect" and never have to think hard about it. The thing I suck at is math. Numbers are like a foreign language to me. I seriously could not grok the concept of making change until I was halfway through the fourth grade, the coins were so totally intimidating. And I still suck at making change, to this day it isn't something that I can easily do in my head.

I accept that limitation. There are probably people who are thinking evil thoughts about my inability to understand numbers, just like I rage against shitty spelling. I accept that, too.

But HOLY SHIT, at least my fail isn't plastered out there everywhere on the internet. Schadenfreude!

and so it begins

2009-04-13T08:48:00.003-04:00

Sid is fascinated by my boobs. They just keep inflating. It's alarming, really, because I'm bloated all over anyway, and then there's these huge porn-queen boobies topping it all off and they HURT. And he wants to touch them. SQUEEZE them. Okay, one, my boobs are not squeaky toys. Two, IT FUCKING HURTS.

I've got a doctor's appointment this afternoon, the standard thyroid check, and I made the appointment before I knew there was a sprog in the works. So it should be interesting to tell her and get that particular ball rolling. I'm operating under the assumption that I need a referral from my primary care provider to see a specialist, in this case an obstetrician or certified nurse midwife. I know for sure that I'll need to have my routine thyroid checks done more frequently now. I wonder if she'll finally be amenable to upping my levothyroxine like I wanted her to when I first started trying to conceive?

And in other, weirder, news... I think Sid is having a sympathy pregnancy. Seriously, I've been weeing like a fiend, and having crazy dreams and waking up at all hours of the night, and he's doing the same damn thing. He's eating everything in the house (which I'm NOT doing, but sorely want to!) and conking out on the couch for a nap at precisely the same time I crash and want a snooze. He's even having hormonal hot flashes. It's maddening, because he's complaining so much, and I'm just taking it all in stride and reminding myself that what I'm feeling is A GOOD THING, these symptoms are GOOD THINGS. And Mr Couvade over there is bitching and moaning and complaining he's tired. BITCH BE STEALING MY GLORY.

wow

2009-04-10T08:13:00.004-04:00

Every morning this week I've taken a pregnancy test, unable to believe my eyes. I kept thinking that I was dreaming, that I was hallucinating the second pink line that kept growing steadily darker. I thought I've finally cracked.

This brought it home a little.

not taking it for granted

2009-04-07T06:32:00.003-04:00

The line is darker today. Sid could see it without squinting.

I want so much to believe that this is it, and it will all work out, and nine months from now, we'll have our baby. But I know that it doesn't always work like that. God, do I know it.

I probably won't really believe this until I get a positive on a digital test, until Miss P goes missing, until I get the blood test from my doctor.

But for now, this is the best I could have hoped for. I am not taking it for granted.

confession

2009-04-06T10:34:00.004-04:00

Confession: I peed on a stick.

I got good and burned in August, and ever since, I've sworn off early testing. I WOULD NOT TEST UNTIL MISS P WAS A NO-SHOW. At least, that was the plan... Sometimes I'd get impatient, if I'd been having wonky symptoms, something that was not normally a thing I associated with an impending bloodletting. Only that one time, that ONE TIME, did I ever see something that could have passed for a positive test.

Well, now I have another.

I've been feeling...off. Weird lotiony discharge (am I grossing you out, hoor?), major cramping since 5 dpo, you know, the standard, oh, geez, is this finally it? thing. And I wasn't going to use a piss test, no sir, I was not. So when I got up this morning, I DIDN'T USE A PISS TEST. No, that came later on, when I was about to take a shower, and I thought "oh what the hell, I've only got two left anyway, and if this month isn't it, I'm gonna order some OPK strips anyway, might as well just go ahead and get some more pregnancy tests while I'm at it, so why not?" and I PEED ON A STICK.

Five minutes later I came back to check it and there was a faint, faint second pink line. There is no mistaking it. I'm not imagining it, this thing is ghostly faint, BUT IT'S THERE.

I PEED ON A STICK. AND IT WAS GLORIOUS.

Now I'm just hoping that that little-pink-ghosty-line gets darker.

a little happy

2009-04-02T08:40:00.002-04:00

Sid received his orders yesterday: it looks like we're headed for Flori-duh! Even though I really, really am not looking forward to the palmetto bugs, or the love bugs (FISTSHAKE AT YOU, LOVE BUGS, FISTSHAKE OF DOOM!), or the rabid mosquitoes... I'm very much looking forward to being able to see my sisters pretty much any time I want. That makes up for the bugs, in my mind.

Unfortunately, the re-enlistment bonus we were expecting is not coming. This is a bit of a sticky wicket, but not the end of the world. So yeah, taking it in stride. It could be worse. It could be BETTER, but it could be worse.

maybe not such a good friend

2009-03-31T06:21:00.005-04:00

I've been something of a nonentity online lately. I felt like all I'd be doing when I posted was whine, and bitch, and moan, so I just didn't say anything. There's only so much you can say before you start repeating yourself, right? I felt like a broken record.

Still do.

That friend who was there for me throughout MY EPIC FAIL... well, suddenly she's not seeming like such a great friend. I've mentioned her shenanigans before: now that she's pregnant, it's all she's capable of talking about. And it hurts, oh does it hurt. I told her, I can't even pass the infant department in stores anymore without struggling against tears. So she shows me the crib she's going buy. Seriously, who does that? It's just brutal.

So I'm sitting at my computer, trying to keep it all in because Sid is sitting at his computer right behind me, and she starts sending me a metric shitton of her ultrasound pictures. I downloaded them and put them right in my Recycle Bin, didn't even look at them. She said, "does that look like a girl to you?" and I said I didn't know, rather than tell her I hadn't even given them a glance. She wouldn't have taken the hint anyway.

When she started linking to pictures of the babies born at the hospital she's having her sprog at, saying "they're so ugly, I don't want an ugly baby!" I lost my shit. I told her I had to go and logged off of Yahoo Messenger. For the record, those babies weren't ugly, at least to me. Then again, my expectations throughout this entire clusterfuck have gotten progressively lower and lower: at this point I just want a child to call my own, I don't give a good goddamn what gender it might be, what it looks like, anything like that. It's pathetic and desperate, but she of all people should fucking know what that feels like, considering she's been there her goddamn self.

WHY DO I PUT UP WITH THIS? I keep telling myself that eventually it will be easier, that it cannot possibly hurt this much, and be this difficult, FOREVER. But so far, nothing is getting easier. I still cry every time I talk to her, every damn thing she says cuts right to the quick.

I ranted to Sid about it, and he said he understood, then proceeded to call me a bitch. He was joking, but that showed me that he truly didn't get it at all. As I've said before, sometimes I just want to hear someone close to me tell me I'm NOT crazy, I'm NOT a bitch. I can't talk to anyone about this, only Sid, and even he doesn't get it.

I know this is normal, to feel as though you are the only person in the world who is struggling like this. I know that no matter what I tell myself, or what Sid says, I am not crazy, I am not a bitch, I am not the only woman feeling like she is going to come apart at the fucking seams. But, god, it feels like I am.

because I am a masochist

2009-03-16T07:51:00.003-04:00

So, give or take a few weeks, it's been about eight months since Sid and I first started trying for a sprog. EIGHT MONTHS. I realized the other day that a woman I know has gotten pregnant TWICE in the time that Sid and I have been at this. TWICE, I SAY (one blighted ovum that ended in a D&C, and the other she just found out about). And yet for me it's just month after month of failure.

And I know, without doubt, every month when I'm waiting for Miss P, that she's going to show. Because, to use the vernacular, "that's how she do." And yet, every month I get my hopes up and think "maybe this time, THAT'S HOW SHE DON'T!" Yeah, positive thinking changes lives, people. Surely it does. Just not mine. Because I can almost make myself believe it, and then the inevitable happens. And you know what? IT SUCKS.

Sid apologized the other day, and it was funny and heartbreaking all at once. He said, "I'm sorry you have to go through that every month." And I was like "what, the cramps? BITCH, THAT'S NOTHING." Because while I do get the cramps from Hell (I can't even urinate without pain sometimes when it's truly bad), it's nothing compared to the emotional wreckage I'm left with.

And doesn't that sound emo as hell?

Seriously though, emotionally, it's just harder to deal with. I can take a couple Motrin to blunt the physical pain of the cramps. And I can take a long hot bath while I wait for the pills to work. I can't really do that to stop the anger, the sadness, the frustration. There's nothing I have on hand to stop that elastic band that tightens up under my ribs and makes it hard to breathe when I think maybe it's just never going to happen.

I got Miss P this weekend (oh, joy!), and I seriously could not tell you what I did with myself besides piss off Sid. We argued to the point where I just wanted to bust his chops. I wanted to ask him when would enough be enough, when would he finally decide that it's not going to happen to us like it does for other couples? When will he finally throw in the fucking towel and concede defeat? When will it be time to seek outside help? But it's not a discussion I want to have while we're angry. I'm a bitch, but I'm not stupid: Once I'm done fucking around with my menstrual cup, and we've both cooled off (give it a few days on both counts) I'll be ready to initiate that conversation, and I assure you I won't word it like I did here.

I've asked him before, and he said, "yeah, I need to make an appointment for that" and then he never did it. I DON'T WANT TO BE A NAG. I don't want to be the woman who alienates her husband by demanding "GIVE ME A BABY, NOW!" because that shit never turns out well. But for fuck's sake, enough is enough. I want a resolution to this one way or the other.

zombie kitty

2009-03-09T06:02:00.004-04:00

The weather was beautiful this weekend: hot enough to make me sweat, sunny enough to give me sunburn. I helped Sid change the oil in our cars, and when we were finished, up came Zombie Kitty.

He was a big old fat thing, all bushy orange fur and light green eyes. Someone loved him: his fur was clean and no stray gets that huge eating out of trashcans. And he looked just like the cat I had for sixteen years. He looked just like Whiskers. And Zombie Kitty ran right up to me like he knew me, meowing and waving his tail, licking my feet and hands to taste the sweat, rubbing all over me. For just one second, I could make myself believe that it was Whiskers.

Sid left to drop off the old oil at the auto parts place down the street and left me sitting in the driveway with this ginger impostor, and the more time I spent with him, the more I realized that he didn't look anything like my Old Man at all. He was smaller, still every bit as fat maybe, but Whiskers was big all over and not just in his belly. Zombie Kitty didn't have the tufts of hair on the tips of his ears like Whiskers did. His eyes weren't quite the same shade of yellow-green as I remembered. The resemblance was uncanny, yes, but not exact.

I was so glad that Sid wasn't around to see me cry. I wasn't sad, exactly, so I don't know what the tears were about, but it was wonderful to be reminded of Whiskers. Sometimes I feel like I'm forgetting him.

And then Gee will do something stupid, like act all brokenhearted because we wouldn't turn on the faucet so he could play in the water, and I'm reminded of the Old Man again. He's a zombie kitty, too, just not in looks.

monsters

2009-03-05T13:49:00.006-05:00

The internet friend who stuck by me through the whole EPIC FAIL thing got pregnant five months ago. I mentioned it before. And she pretty much disappeared after that: we didn't talk anymore: not on IM, not on chatboxes, not through email. I felt like she was avoiding me. I for damn sure was trying to avoid her (at least some of the time) because I just couldn't handle the inevitable talk about her pregnancy.

Turns out, I still can't handle it. It's been five months, and she's recently reached out to me and wanted to initiate conversation again, so I'm trying my best to reciprocate. I want to talk to her. I want to have conversations like we used to. But she gets to talking about her pregnancy, just like I thought she would, and it always ends with me just breaking down. Full on sobbing as I type, barely able to read the words on the screen bawling.

Maybe I'm being too hard on myself, but I feel like this is something I should have moved past by now. I think it's pretty stupid of me to be carrying on this way, but then again, I can't help the way I feel. I don't know if she's doing it intentionally or what, but it's pretty fucking unbearable: I've been shielding her from long rants about my situation, so maybe she could lay off bitching about her backaches for a little bit? Christ, you don't see me telling her all about how SHE'S MAKING ME CRY, after all. Complaining about how the baby is kicking and it hurts, telling me all about how her fiance is being so sweet to her.

That's the worst part, actually. Because the other week as I was cleaning the catboxes, I realized that Sid hadn't helped with that since his first shitty semen analysis. He used to scoop the litterboxes "just in case", because of the risk of toxoplasmosis. Usually it was my chore, but he started doing it without my asking. And then as soon as he realized that it probably was just a waste of his time, that there was no use in doing it "just in case" because there was basically no fucking hope of me being pregnant, it became my chore again.

And that just galls me. It was like I wasn't special anymore, that because there was little hope of me making a baby out of his dudely seed, I lost all esteem in his eyes. He didn't have to kiss ass anymore. I mentioned it to him and he got so angry... so angry.

I hate what this is doing to us, what it's turning us into.

"Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." - Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

exploring the options

2009-02-24T06:41:00.003-05:00

There has been nothing much of note going on lately, nothing which I have felt the need to gripe about here in my safe place. But today I find I have something I want to hash out.

Sid tells me he's considering not staying in the Navy. That when his final year is up in August, he's going to get out and just run like hell. So right now I'm in the weird spot of having to separate what I want from what I want for him, and it's actually pretty difficult. If he stays in, it would be easier in that we would have a reliable paycheck every week, with no worries about getting fired or being laid off. Then again, if he gets out, it would be easier in that we wouldn't have to worry anymore about deployments, money be damned. I am sure that either way, we'll cope.

But. His staying in means that IUI is still an option for us. His getting out takes the possibility of spawning off the table indefinitely. In this, I am not sure I am ready or able to accept that second scenario.

And though I have taken a step back from this situation enough to tell him that I will be on board with whatever he decides, that I'll support him 100% either way, I cannot make myself believe that I will truly be okay with more waiting. But I will not trap him into a job he hates just so that we can be a family. It isn't right, and I won't make him do it. It never ends well, that kind of entrapment. If he stays in, it will be because he chose to, not because I coerced him. And so I had better be ready and able to accept the second scenario.

Obviously, we have not yet talked about it much. We're both still mulling over what we want to say and how we want to approach it.

I know he's not happy in the military, and I am not exactly thrilled at being tagged "a military wife". I know he would like to leave that bullshit behind. And yet we have these perks of military life that will be hard to leave behind: health-care being the main one. Because, hello, I don't pay for my twice-annual bloodwork. I don't pay but $3 for my monthly bottle of pills. I didn't pay for my eye exam or the frames of my glasses (just the lenses). Sid did not pay for his EKG, or his gold toof, or his shittons of various other dental work. Sid didn't pay for his semen analysis, or his eye exam, or his glasses. It was covered by Tricare. And if he gets out, we have no more insurance. I assure you that while we're by no means poor, I don't think we can afford to pay for his constant dental work out-of-pocket, AND consistently foot the bill for my bloodwork. I think we will be royally screwed!

These are all things I'm sure he's thinking as well. And yet if he's willing to take that risk, then so am I. It might turn out great in the end. And it might not. Like so much of our lives right now, it's a total crapshoot.

I am THAT woman

2009-02-15T12:49:00.003-05:00

The other day, I started researching adoption, foster care programs. And Sid said he didn't want to do it, that he was not ready, not able to take that step. I do not understand: I only want to be a parent, I don't care how that child comes to us. I mentioned it on one of the boards I post at, and another one of the women there also dealing with infertility thought it was a great idea. Her husband agreed, it is a wonderful idea. They are starting the foster-parent training.

I am glad for her, I am so glad that she is finally happy, that her husband shares her feelings. And yet I spent the rest of the day struggling not to cry. I was so frustrated and angry at Sid for foisting this kind of despair on me, for not being willing to consider any of the options available to us, that it was actually very hard for me to be civil. I felt like a bratty child. Still do, actually, but I'm well-behaved today.

To add insult to injury, he went out and bought a $600 lens for his $300 camera. Without telling me. I hit the roof. What the hell were you thinking? My god, when you finally decide that you're ready for a kid, you won't hesitate to drop the cash to make it happen, will you? That money could have bought three rounds of artificial insemination, it could have bought nearly 80 digital pregnancy tests, it could have bought a crib and a changing table! What the fuck were you thinking?! Not.happy. I am tired of waiting, I am tired of having what I want deemed stupid and unnecessary. I am sick of being told to be patient, that I shouldn't be so unhappy, that we're doing it without condoms and it will happen! No, it is not going to happen. I have given up hope of that. I have given up entirely on this whole thing, and right now I would like to see him just fucking castrated.

We started this feeling so hopeful, so sure that everything would work out for us. And looking back, we were so fucking stupid, so naive and full of hubris. We just assumed thateverything would be fine! And when we started to realize that everything was not fine, that everything was, in fact, fucked up and nothing would turn out the way we'd imagined... well, it all fell apart. I'm mad at Sid for being uncooperative and I'm sure he's mad at me for being an obsessive bitch.

I am so unspeakably sick and tired of being jealous of my friends' good fortune. I am tired of being happy for them for only one second before the stab of bitterness and anger takes over. I am fucking tired of being that woman. And yet I don't know how to stop. Trust me, I would dearly like to stop.

"god's will"

2009-02-10T07:33:00.002-05:00

I am sick to death of hearing this. SICK TO DEATH OF IT.

When I had my chemical pregnancy, godbags liked to say "Oh, it's God's will, it happened for a reason," and it never failed to raise my ire. God killed my hopes and dreams, and for what? To teach me a lesson? What a vindictive asshole. I don't believe in any God whose plan basically involves taking a giant shit on my whole life.

Yesterday, Sid found out that Tricare will not cover our infertility treatments. Which I'd expected, but then what the guy who handled our case did next took the fucking CAKE. He leaned in, all confidential-like and said, "Maybe it's just God's will, and you should accept that you're not supposed to be parents."

Uh, what? Maybe you should just accept you need a giant whack with a CLUE-BY-FOUR, you sorry jackass.

I get so goddamned sick of hearing "Just accept it, you're not meant to be parents." Would you say that to someone who has just buried their only child? Would you say that to someone who has just delivered a stillborn baby? NO? Then why the fuck do you think it's okay to say to someone who is still coming to terms with the fact that THEY CANNOT HAVE CHILDREN WITHOUT INTERVENTIONS.

Seriously, lay off the "god's will" bs already. I don't believe for one second that there's a god, or that he's got a plan for any of us. You're just throwing it out there as a way to make your own self feel better, a way for you to convince yourself that bad shit will never happen to me, because I have God on my side.

You don't. You have naivete and ignorance on your side. And that's about it.

he's going to hate me

2009-02-09T08:44:00.003-05:00

but I don't care.

A boy on one of the sites I frequent (and admin for) has admitted he's considering suicide. So far, no one's really been able to talk him out of it.

So I did some digging with another admin over the weekend and found out what town he lives in, and we discussed our best course of action: call the local police department, or the local school? In the end, I opted for the local PD.

So yeah, this kid is going to end up hating me. But I'd be some kind of monster if I didn't at least try to help.

I'm such a meddler.

home makeover: Manson edition

2009-02-04T06:22:00.003-05:00

It is always something in this house. First it was the ceiling in the bathroom. Then it was the roof in the attic, and the water damage to the floor up there. Now the wall in the bathtub is falling to bits, and oh, by the way, the attic is leaking again.

Seriously, what the hell is this? This house is old, sure, but I wasn't aware it was quite to the falling-down stage yet.

The good news is that our landlady is really awesome about stuff like this. We're splitting the cost of a replacement shower wall, and we're putting it in this weekend. And also, the guys who did a really spiffy job fixing the bathroom ceiling (and roof) are coming back to take a look at the leak in the attic.

Fingers crossed that by this time on Monday something will be fixed.

two steps forward, one step back

2009-02-03T06:41:00.002-05:00

If everything goes to plan, the Mansons are moving back to Flori-duh. Sid thought it would be fun to buy a house if he re-enlisted, and now that's pretty much made up his mind. He's going to re-enlist. He's going to try to get orders for the Jacksonville or Mayport area. He's going to buy a house.

So excuse me for just a second while I wail, WHAT ABOUT TEH BAAAAYBEEE?! Because I seemed to be laboring under the misguided and wholly outrageous assumption that it wasn't so much the infertility that stopped us from having a kid, but the fact that Sid was getting out of the Navy. And he's not mentioned sprogs once since he decided to stay in the military. This leaves me feeling a wee bit confused, as you can imagine. And I don't particularly want to bring it up to him for fear I'll be seen as the crazy bitch with the baby obsession.

But back to the America's Penis thing. FUCKING FLORIDA. I don't particularly like the cold, but fuck me, I prefer freezing my ass off to finding Palmetto bugs in my house. I'm getting the short end of the stick on this one, FOR SURE. I don't even get a sprog out of this? FUCK NO. I am not on board with this, not one little bit.

I am a contrary bitch

2009-01-26T07:28:00.003-05:00

Sid called home this morning, foaming-at-the-mouth angry about a woman who was driving like a bat out of hell with a kid in the backseat. He said, "What if she gets into an accident? Doesn't she care that she's putting her kid in danger?!" and I thought to myself, so it isn't just me. I thought I was insane for getting so angry at shit like that. And I thought Sid would think I was batshit crazy if I told him just how mad it made me.

If I'm crazy, then Sid and I are going crazy together.

He admitted that he got crazy jealous the other day when one of the guys he hangs out with said he wasn't going to have time to do whatever it was they were talking about because he was going out to do something with his son. Sid said, "it kind of made me jealous - he doesn't know what we're going through, of course - but I kind of took it personally. Like, he has no idea, he doesn't know how lucky he is that he has a kid to spend time with."

Yes, it isn't just me.

There were so many times I was really kind of mad at him, because I thought that he didn't understand how it felt to have my friends rag on and on about their pregnancies. How seeing people take their children for granted was like salt in an open wound. Now I'm just sad that he gets to feel it, too, because it sucks. It really, really sucks.

yes, this

2009-01-24T12:59:00.004-05:00

Casual Blasphemies has a post today that really resonated with me. One part in particular really hit home, where Jane says:

But I also know that corner of me, that corner of me that I would do absolutely anything to vanquish, to silence, to shut up once and for all ... that corner of me that ... will not/cannot process why I'm not worthy ... that corner that I want so much to STOP CARING because it is CHILDISH TO EXPEND ALL THIS ENERGY ON IT (and write about omg), will be scratching at me...gnawing. Knocking at the door like the fucking Land Shark, determined to remind me at every turn that I am not the girl that gets a happy ending ...

She has fucking nailed it. The more I attempt to process the reality of my situation, that hey, you know, all those heartbroken posts on infertility blogs, they aren't just stories anymore, the more I want to run away from it. And I can't. I may shut those thoughts down for an hour, a day, whatever, but it's always in the back of my head, it's always going to come back. Just going to the grocery store anymore is an exercise in hopelessness: inevitably, I pass a person dragging around three or four kids, and I think, it will never be so easy for me and it fucking hurts. I will pass a person with a child that they are showing nothing but contempt for, and I just feel sick. The simple act of just living my life suddenly yields so much sadness and anger that lately I find I just don't want to bother.

Because, like Jane said above, there is nowhere to go to get away from it, there is nothing that can be done to silence it.

sanctity of life, my fucking ass

2009-01-22T07:21:00.003-05:00

This pisses me right off. I've heard of the Neumanns, heard of what they did to their daughter, and reading that article made me furious. People think it's okay for them to just sit back and let their child die? People are so afraid of hurting religion's precious little feelings that they don't want to outright condemn the actions of those nuts? Because I have no trouble at all calling a spade a spade, here: the Neumanns are fucking murderers.

Some religious people like to talk about the "sanctity of life" when referring to the cute little eensy aborted fetuses. The baaaabeeeees deserve life! God wants them to live! Look, if your religion also condones letting a born child suffer and die for lack of medical attention, you have no fucking call to be talking about "sanctity of life". Kara Neumann was treated like trash, discarded and left to rot. Where is the sanctity in that? She was a ten year old girl with hopes and dreams and her whole life ahead of her. And her parents shat it away in the name of God. They let her suffer, watched her lie motionless, moaning and unable to speak or move, until she died. And they did this in the name of God.

What makes the Neumanns any different than the parents of Sanam Navsarka? Both children suffered until they died, if for different reasons. Both girls were neglected. Both died because of their parents actions. And yet we will condemn the actions of Zahbeena Navsarka and Subhan Anwar, call them murderers - charge them with murder - but Leilani and Dale Neumann did it for God, did it for religion, so they'll only be charged with reckless endangerment? In my eyes, they're equally culpable.

There is no sanctity in neglect, no sanctity in murder. And no sanctity of life, judging by the actions of the Neumanns.

good news and bad news

2009-01-13T06:12:00.005-05:00

Sid's heart is fine. The doctor was quite impressed at how efficiently it worked: he termed it "a very athletic heart". So that's good. But they still don't know what it is that's causing his chest pain, so they're running more tests.

In other - not so great - news, the results of his second semen analysis are in, and things in that department are not looking so hot. Nothing we didn't already know, though, it just sucks to finally have confirmation.

I don't really have a lot to say about either thing, really. It is what it is.

well, fuck

2009-01-12T07:17:00.003-05:00

Sid's been having chest pain. And not just like "chest pain" chest pain, we're talking the "left arm feeling funny with intermittent shortness of breath" bullshit, here.

He's getting an EKG today.

I suppose it goes without saying that I am scared shitless.

I got nothin'

2009-01-07T10:21:00.003-05:00

If the first seven days of 2009 are anything to go by, this new year is going to be straddling the fence. I've got nothing to bitch about, which is good. But I've also got nothing to be happy about, which is...not so good.

I'm really indifferent to everything right now, which is probably the only thing saving me from total fucking foaming-at-the-mouth, tearing-out-my-hair craziness. So at the moment, I'm really kind of glad for that.

the year in review

2008-12-31T10:51:00.002-05:00

2008 can eat a dick. It was seriously a crap year, as far as I'm concerned. A deployment, a miscarriage, exploding eyeballs, and chronic illness. Hot damn! Here's the year in review, hashed out one last time for posterity's sake:

For starters, in January... goddamn, what did happen in January? That was kind of a dead month, really. I started this blog, and that was about it.

In February, I got glasses. I could see the tv again! I could drive without endangering humanity! Life was good! Then Sid was sent on deployment and it kind of killed my buzz.

March was kind of a dead month again. I warred with myself for that whole month over whether or not I should consult a doctor over the wonkiness that had plagued me for years. Sid wasn't around to talk me out of it, and I made the call. Which leads us to...

April! I found out I have hypothyroidism, and this whole month was spent adjusting to Life With A Chronic Illness. My beloved veggie burgers could no longer be a staple of my diet. Vitamins were no longer something to be taken whenever I remembered, but in the morning or not at all. Coffee was suddenly something I couldn't have whenever I wanted. My daily levothyroxine was not something that I could just forget about: it had to be taken regularly. That was a hard thing to get used to. But I hardly did any bitching about any of it: I felt better, and I was so grateful.

In May, I was still waking up from a hypothyroid haze: suddenly I was no longer foggy and tired, and what the fuck, THIS IS HOW NORMAL PEOPLE FEEL?! I spent most of May marveling at that.

June. Boring. Nothing to mention.

In July, Sid returned from deployment and we spent a few weeks getting used to sharing living space (and a bed) again. That adjustment is always rough, I don't care who you are. I thought I handled it like a fucking saint, but maybe I'm just biased. We decided to try to have a baby, and for once in my life, things felt like they'd all be okay.

August. The day Hurricane Hannah hit the coast, I got a positive pregnancy test. A very clear, but faint, positive sign on my piss test.

September. Miss P comes to town and takes no prisoners: it is the worst I have ever had, the most painful and unbearable period I could have imagined. I realize it was a chemical pregnancy, an early miscarriage.

In October, Sid bought a new television. I spent a lot of time being emo. My mother says that my youngest sister might have an eating disorder.

November was the month of the conehead. Our siamese gets an ulcerated cornea and has her eye sewn shut for two weeks to keep it from exploding, which leads to her moping around with a plastic cone collar, looking miserable. I have to wipe her ass for her, which Sid seems to find hysterical.

In December, since we were having no luck making a devilspawn, Sid got paranoid and went to have a semen analysis, which revealed that his sperm are really kind of gimpy. This is the month we give up on devilspawn (for now), and when Knut finally ditches the collar and the pirate eye, it is a cause for celebration.

So here we are. A year of major fail. And minor win. Here's hoping 2009 is better for everyone.

the fail, it is catching

2008-12-30T07:04:00.004-05:00

Apparently people think my bad luck at spawning is contagious. The minute my friends find out they're pregnant, suddenly it's like they don't want to talk to me anymore. I have been feeling uncomfortable with this for a while, but tried to blame it on some failure on my part. Maybe I was a bitter wench? Maybe I was being a stupid asshole? But I wasn't. Or at least, I don't think I was. I think a few times, I tried to steer our conversations away from their gestating sprogs and toward a topic everyone could partake of. Like, you know, something not about pregnancy? They seem to be having none of it.

So yeah, at first I thought it was my malfunction. But I'm beginning to suspect that it's not all me. Because they've been making comments that I think are in extremely bad taste: things like we're just so lucky it happened right away, and we didn't have to try for ages and I don't know what I would have done if we found out we couldn't conceive. Like they don't know the trouble Sid and I have had. They might as well just say Oh, that poor unfortunate bitch in the corner over there. What a sad sack of FAIL, and it would have the same effect.

I keep telling myself that I'm overreacting. And sometimes I can make myself believe it. But then it's a huge wake-up call when I realize that if our situations were reversed, I for damn sure would not be making comments like that around them. I FOR-FUCKING-SURE would not be bitching about my terrible pregnancy to a friend that I knew was having spawnage issues. It's rude, for one thing; and for another, it's just a downright douchebaggy thing to do. I never bitched to them about MY EPIC FAIL. I told them about it, but I didn't rag on and on about it, or make every conversation we had about THE FAILAGE. I have a life outside that bullshit - I know reading this blog, it seems like that's not true, but this is where I go to vent. My friends aren't verbal punching bags...this is.

Maybe I just need to stop having friends.

seven years

2008-12-24T11:02:00.003-05:00

I am not okay today. I just want to start by saying that. This is not a good day for me, not at all, and I am not okay. Whatever I say here, I won't mean it tomorrow. Tomorrow I will regret everything. But not today.

When I was in the bath earlier, I kept imagining what would happen if I just put my head under the water and didn't come back up. Where the fuck did a thought like that come from?! It scared me, and now I'm sitting here crying because I don't know what the fuck my problem is, and I don't want to be around anyone right now, but I don't want to be alone.

I wish I could be somewhere else - I just typed "someone else" and I guess that applies as well. Where can I go to get away from everything? Where on this earth can I go where the demons from this day won't find me?

It's been seven years, and in so many ways, it's like it all happened yesterday. Merry fucking Christmas.

happy anniversary

2008-12-19T13:20:00.002-05:00

For our anniversary, we found out that Sid's not quite up to snuff in the baby-making department. Yes, the results of his semen analysis are in, and some of his numbers are way off, His doctors are going to be doing more tests.

So yeah, happy anniversary to us... right?

I'm actually not really bothered by it, I just wish the timing had been a little better. When asked what we did for our third wedding anniversary, I will ever after be forced to reply, "we found out that we suck at making babies."

HAR.

stop the world, I want to get off

2008-12-18T09:29:00.003-05:00

Another one of my friends is pregnant.

Seriously.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

At this point, it's safe to assume that if you are a female of childbearing age who is even an oblique acquaintance of mine, you're going to find yourself knocked up. I think it would be best for everyone if I stopped having lady-friends, yes? Solve that problem in one fell swoop.

I would feel better if even one of my friends could just manage to avoid fecundity, but that seems unlikely in the extreme. And this whole situation might be kind of amusing to me, if only it could manage to be slightly less pathetic.

nothing

2008-12-16T15:25:00.004-05:00

I must have started this post and abandoned it four times now. Things have been pretty boring around here - then again, things always are - and there hasn't been anything I've particularly needed and/or wanted to document.

One of my friends, someone who has been a fucking rock for me throughout my EPIC FAIL mess just told me she's pregnant. And I'm happy for her. That's kind of bland. I'm ecstatic; she's wanted this for a very long time, and I am so glad she has finally got it. Buuuuuuut... I can't help feeling a little down that I can't go through that with her.

That feeling will pass, it always does. But it always returns, as well.

The Christmas party I was dreading so much was kind of a bust. It was excruciatingly boring, and the drinks were horribly overpriced. I got semi-wasted and decided I should thank Sid's XO for sending him home from the boat in September. Even after the wicked buzz wore off, it sounded like the right thing to do. So I did it. Yes, I actually brought THAT up among company, of my own free will, without being totally wrecked.

At least I'm not a nasty drunk.

Knut's update

2008-12-10T08:50:00.004-05:00

I forgot to mention it, because it was so anti-climactic.

Dr Proctor kept saying her stitches would start to come out over Thanksgiving weekend and that I'd either have to take them out myself or drive out to the clinic in Powellsville to have the vet there do it, because he was going to be out of town. I said I'd do it myself and spare Knut the forty minute drive. The conehead was given the heave-ho, and we agreed that I'd bring Knut back the Monday after Thanksgiving so that he could check her eye.

But the stitches never came out. They remained firmly in place until December 1st. So Dr Proctor took them out himself. And I could see right away that Knut's eye was healed: the big ugly scratch, the ulcerated divot, was gone. The official all-clear had to wait until contrast dye was put in and the site of the ulcer had been inspected under a magnifier. But in the end, the general opinion was that Knut is fine, and the surgery worked.

But Knut is still a pirate. I don't care what anyone else says.

the firing squad

2008-12-08T07:52:00.003-05:00

Sid's Christmas party is fast approaching. I've decided that I'm not being nice: if any of the other wives want to talk to me, they will refrain from asking (yet again) about The Manson's Continued State of Childlessness. And if they are unlucky enough to want to broach the subject, I'm not afraid to tell them OH, MY KID? FLUSHED IT DOWN THE TOILET. HOW'S THINGS WITH YOUR SPROGS? I suspect I'll be the life of the party with a sunny attitude like that.

You know, in the military, having a kid really is kind of a status thing for the wives. It's the one thing they all have in common, the one thing they can safely talk about when they secretly hate each others' guts... so where does that leave me? I don't want to tell them if they ask, but I'm sure they've heard: it's why Sid was sent home early from that hurricane bullshit, after all. They know.

I hope to FSM they have the good sense not to open THAT can of worms at the fucking Christmas party. Because if they do, well, I'm going to make damn sure it's the most socially awkward moment of their adult lives.

the end

2008-12-01T07:33:00.002-05:00

It was our last chance. Our last.fucking.chance for me to get pregnant. And naturally, with what felt like EVERYTHING hanging onto the slim hope that maybe this time will be different, this time was really no different at all. So that's it. Five months, six counting the time before deployment, and nothing at all to show for it.

We've begun to think something is wrong with one or the other of us. Everyone else we know got pregnant right away, and we didn't. It's not rocket science; it shouldn't BE this hard. It's sex, right? It's nature. How can you fuck up something like that? Trust me, the Mansons can. And we did.

Sid's got an appointment for a semen analysis coming up later this week, and if that comes back normal, it's my turn to go to the doctor and start asking questions. And you know what? I'm deathly afraid that something else will be wrong with me, something else besides my thyroid. Something I can't fix with a pill.

I hope that Sid's the one who's messed up - and isn't that fucked up? - because if he's not, that means there's something wrong with ME. I don't want to say the word, I don't want that label...infertile. I don't want either of us to carry that burden, but if someone must, let it be him. Sid said the same thing: "If it has to be either of us, I hope it's me, because if it's you, you'd never forgive yourself." And he's right, I wouldn't.

confession

2008-11-25T07:47:00.002-05:00

I'm getting a bit jealous of Knut.

Sid is constantly checking on her, making sure she's okay, and giving her attention. Normally, I'd think it was cute, but for some reason, it's just really, really, aggravating me. Perhaps my memory is skewed, but I don't recall him treating me like that, ever. Not even after MY EPIC FAIL. Matter of fact, if I recall correctly, in the weeks after the failage, he hardly said anything to me at all.

I don't know if this is my malfunction or his. But either way, it really pisses me off.

And then I start thinking, if I were pregnant, would he be so loving and attentive to me then? and would he hover over our baby like that? and it breaks my fucking heart. Lately, I've been feeling like I was over the worst of it, and that I had finally made some semblance of peace with all that bs. It didn't really hurt to look at babies, I didn't want to cry when I saw pregnant women. And it's shit like this that makes me realize that hey, you know, it's not that fucking simple. Bitch, you thought you were through the worst? Now you're jealous and resentful of your fucking CAT, and doesn't that just make you feel like a piece of shit all over again?

omg wtf knuty-q

2008-11-24T08:27:00.003-05:00

Knut knows we feel bad about her pirate eye (and the conehead), so she's milking it for all it's worth. Usually, if she wants attention, she'll come to you...but that rarely happens. Lately, I can't sit down without having to guard my lap, because she'll come slinking over bonking her conehead on everything, and want to sit on me. Last night, she tried to act all pitiful and mooch Sid's ice cream. I find it hilarious yet maddening. This morning while finishing up my Yoga Burn dvd, lying down and doing the ending relaxation bits, she climbed right up on my stomach and started poking around. On my bladder. Which was very, very full.

Any other time, I wouldn't mind lavishing attention on Knut. But right now, I'm constantly weeing. I'm on the run up to that wonderful time of the month, and the bloat is going away, which means OMG, STAY NEAR THE POTTY ROOM. And my boobs are fucking sore as hell, and she wants to root around at my chest and sit on my bladder? Hell to the no, Knottyhead.

It's just the weirdest thing, having a siamese that constantly wants to cuddle. Dare I say, it's wearing on the nerves, too?

my cat is a pirate

2008-11-18T06:04:00.005-05:00

Knut has always had a wonky right eye: when she was a kitten, she had some sort of infection that left it looking...kind of gross. Her cornea is scarred to high heaven, and her sight is very likely smeary and clouded on that side. But it never seemed to bother her, and it never bothered me. She is my one-eyed Knut: my furry, bad-tempered pirate baby.

Last week, as best I can tell, she scratched that eye somehow. Maybe she was fighting with one of our other cats, maybe she just did the kitty equivalent of poking herself in the eye. I don't know. But she had a scratch on her eye, and it didn't seem to bother her. One of my guinea pigs had had the same thing happen once, and there was nothing we could do about it except make sure it didn't get worse. Well, the guinea pig's eye healed. Knuty's did not.

I took her to the vet yesterday (shout out to the awesome staff at Ahoskie Animal Clinic!), thinking that I would be getting some eyedrops for her or something. Well, it turns out that Knut's scratch ulcerated, and she has lost at least half of the layers of her cornea in that spot. The pressure inside her eye could cause the remaining layers to rupture. Which, even to the layman, sounds every bit as bad as it really is.

The vet said that her best chance of keeping that eye would be to use her third eyelid as a sort of eyepatch: pull it up, stitch it there, and give the cornea some time to try and heal. There's a good chance that this will work, and she'll be fine. But if for some reason it doesn't, she will have to have that eye removed.

Ho-ly shit.

I was dead calm as the vet was telling me all this: composed as I said goodbye to Knut and they took her back to prep for surgery. It was only when I got to the lobby to fill out the consent forms that it really hit me, and then I started to cry. Knut has never spent a night away from Sammy, never spent a night away from people who loved her. And now she's going to be doped up, stitched up, and wake up surrounded by strangers? It broke my heart.

Sid has been kind of a mess. He's never had to deal with something like this: hell, neither have I, but if you've had as many pets as I've had (and buried as many as I have), you learn to just roll with the punches when it comes to the furrybutts. An injury is not.so.bad. It definitely could have been a lot worse.

Right now I'm trying to find the funny in this situation, and the only thing I can come up with is that now my Knut really is a pirate: an awesome hardcore pirate, because her eyepatch is made with her own living flesh. Doesn't get much more hardcore than that, does it?

a new low

2008-11-10T15:45:00.004-05:00

This month is NaBloPoMo, and I was going to participate. That shit lasted about zero seconds. I haven't had the energy, or anything to blog about. I sat around in my pajamas for a week, and bathed only because it warmed me up: what the hell does someone like that have to say, anyway, that warrants a blog post every day for a month? The winter blahs have hit me hard.

I feel like total fucking shit. Right now, my world is pretty colorless. The food I normally like is just...gobs of goo. It doesn't have any taste at all. Yesterday I ate chocolate chip cookies, and it was just like sawdust. Even spaghetti with cheese, the food of the gods, has been reduced to nothing but it's texture. And to be honest, it's texture is pretty gross.

Everything feels so pointless, petty and motherfucking futile. Why should I get out of bed? Why should I eat? Why should I take my vitamin, or my thyroid pills? Why should I get dressed, or do yoga, or ride my bike? Why should I even fucking bother?

Is this what depression feels like? Seasonal Affective Disorder? It's not as crushing as last year. But then again, last year, food was something I still took pleasure in, so I don't know where that leaves me.

The part of me that lives to kick my own ass is insisting I'm being stupid. That I'm little better than a sulking child. That I need to snap the fuck out of it. Because you know, it's supposed to be that easy.

(not so) well played, America

2008-11-06T05:55:00.005-05:00

Tuesday night, I passed out early. I wasn't up to see the election results. Sid was. He woke me up and asked, "Guess who's President?" and I said "John McCain". Looks like I was wrong.

Well played, America. It's nice to be pleasantly surprised for once, so thank you for finally getting your head out of your ass. I was beginning to suspect that you never would.

The anti-choice initiatives that were put on the ballots in many states were shot down. Again, well played, America. Wimminz is people. Fertilized eggies is not. Good call. Pats on the back all round.

But, America, what the fuck were you thinking when you voted for every bit of gay-discriminating bullshit that was put on the ballot? Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking? Can you give me one good reason, one solid, irrefutable reason why gay couples cannot marry or adopt children? One that doesn't come from the bible? Because if you can't, if your whole argument boils down to "the bible says gays are icky", that's unconstitutional, innit? That blows the bit about the separation of church and state right out the fucking window, doesn't it?

I do think we're moving the right direction, though. Things like this are horribly discouraging, and sometimes it's hard to hang onto hope. But change happens slowly. Even 50 years ago, no one would have imagined that a man of African-American descent would win the presidental election. 50 years ago, gays outing themselves to their families would not expect love and acceptance, or even just tolerance. We have come a long way in that respect. But we still have such a long way to go.

bad luck is still luck

2008-11-02T08:27:00.003-05:00

My period, my reliable period, never showed on Halloween like it was supposed to. The last time my periods went funny like this, it was because my thyroid was fucked. Not so this time, so omg, what could it be? Could I really and seriously ~~finally~~ be pregnant? Piss test said no. I waited.

Saturday, the first of November, still no period. I feel just like it's going to start, but where is it? Could I really and seriously ~~finally, even though the piss test said no~~ be pregnant? I dared to hope.

Sunday, today. Third day of the wait. I wake up at the asscrack of dawn with a mess to clean. It seems I am really and seriously not pregnant. It seems no-luck fucks like me don't ever get a break.

I'm angry. At myself, for actually getting my hopes up, and at the world - at good old Mother Nature - for piling one more shitty thing on my shoulders. I'm angry at the women who get oopspregnant, at the women who get pregnant their first try. I'm angry at the crackheads who have babies, when I can't even have one when I stop drinking my morning cup of coffee and the occasional glass of wine.

I guess it goes without saying that I'm hurt, too, for all the same reasons. What makes me so different? Some would say that it's just not god's plan for me. I would say that god can go fuck his fucking self, because his plan for me is SHIT (mmmm, sacrilegious).

What could be the second reason? Anyone? ANYONE? Bueller? Bueller?

There is no reason. I just have terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad luck. And there is nothing I can do about it, except wait. Wait, for three years, five years, whatever, until Sid decides to send me back on this rollercoaster for the THIRD FUCKING TIME. I don't want to do it again. I don't want to give up and wait. But I don't have much of a choice. And I'm so fucking mad at him for it.

I think that's the worst part of it.

random snark redux

2008-10-29T07:37:00.004-04:00

Sid is so impatient to get his new television. Why isn't it here yet? It should have been here by now! for the past two days, and I'm fairly sure he'll get it sometime this week, but STILL. Why is it okay for him to draw up a fucking diagram on how he wants to place the tv he hasn't received yet, but if I, or any woman, really, wants to look at clothes and toys for a baby they haven't conceived yet, we're fucking loons? We're impatient and crazy and why are you so impatient? Why is that? I seriously want to know. The double standard makes me crazy. I can't wrap my mind around it. I'm crazy for coming undone over some shit that I can have sometime in the future, and I'm crazy for wanting to talk about it, ever. And yet he's not crazy for feeling unadulterated technophilic lust over some shit that he can have when his old tv breaks, and he's not crazy for bringing it up every damned day?

Well fuck me blind. Isn't that just the damnedest thing? Does some magical element of the penis - or is it the scrotum - grant one the Right To Be Impatient? Is it just not ladylike to deport one's womanself in such manner? I'd very much like to know.

I feel like shit because Miss P is coming, and besides the normal hormonal batshit crazy that comes with it, I am unable to talk to Sid, or anyone, about how disappointed and sad I am. And that makes it worse. What really drives the salt into that huge open wound is the woman who got pregnant at the same time I did: it's all she talks about. "Oh, thank god for this, thank god it's a healthy pregnancy." Well god can go fuck himself. Bitch, you just.got.lucky. There's another woman who tested 10 dpo just like I did, and she got a positive just like I did, and she was so over the moon about it (just like I was, even though I didn't tell every-fucking-body). Bitch that I am, a very small part of me wanted to see how she would handle the disappointment if she ended up with a toilet full of blood. Of course, she didn't. She.got.lucky. And she has no idea. No idea at all. And it's okay for them to come and piss in my cornflakes, but if I bring up the fact that you know what, I really do feel like shit and I wish you'd shut up I'M Debbie Downer.

Well fuck me blind again. Isn't it just the damndest thing?

denial

2008-10-27T18:15:00.002-04:00

One way I'm just like my mother is that I have a tendency to ignore a problem, outright deny that there is even a problem at all, until it is so bad it can no longer be ignored or denied. It evolves into something that becomes so massive that one can no longer look away. The problem must be confronted, after being allowed to grow into something huge and terrifying.

My sister, her fiance, Sid... even I have been wondering for a very long time if my youngest sister has an eating disorder. She used to be such a little meatball, and all of a sudden she lost all the weight and started looking...well, for lack of a better word...scarily tiny. Yesterday, my mother admitted that she thinks Abbie has bulimia.

When Abbie came to visit over the summer, I watched her like a hawk. I had my suspicions. But she didn't go to the bathroom after meals, she ate her food just like everyone else, so I figured I was being paranoid. Jessica tells me now that yes, Abbie came back from summer vacation having gained weight. But she lost it all immediately. And now Mom says that yes, there might be a problem.

If my mother is admitting that there is even the possibility that something is wrong, it is bad. This is the woman who denied having an ear infection up until her eardrum almost ruptured. If she says she thinks there is a problem, well then, there damn well is a problem.

Jessica asked me, "what do I do?" and I said I didn't know. She said, "how can we make this better?" and I said I didn't think we could, on our own. She asked, "where do I turn to get help for her?" and all I could think to suggest was to call the local hospitals and start asking about ED counseling. I feel helpless. My baby sister is sick, and I can't help her. All I can do is sit on the sidelines and hope that for once, for-fucking-once my mother will be able to get her shit together and do something for her youngest daughter before it's too late.

wanting

2008-10-22T09:17:00.006-04:00

The difference between Sid and I, the one huge difference that I am constantly aware of, is how we handle wanting. You know, how we deal with wishing we had x, y, or z and knowing we have to wait to obtain it. I bide my time quietly until the rage at having to wait boils over, and then I get angry and want to air my grievance. Then I go back to waiting patiently again. Sid, on the other hand, lets everyone know just how much he wants that thing, and how it would be great to have that thing, and man, doesn't that thing look spiffy? It is never far from his mind.

For the past two years, he's been wanting a new television. When we first moved into this house, we bought a 52" rear-projector (at Sid's insistence), and he was happy for about 0.5 seconds, before he started finding all these things about it that he didn't really think were so great. He wanted another tv. And I said no, we would not be buying a new one, as this one was functional.

Since then, every time we go to an electronics store, Sid goes to drool over the televisions. He scours all the electronics websites for good deals. He mentions at least once a week how he'd like a new tv.

Two days ago, I finally caved and told him that if he could find a new tv for a decent price, he could get it. I'm sick of being the Grinch. But goddamn, he was the one who told me that we should be putting money back for when he gets out of the Navy in August. The only thing I've purchased recently was a 5-pack of undies, on sale, because my old ones were full of holes and falling apart. I've done my part: I wore my raggedy underwear until there was nothing left of them rather than buy new ones. What has he done? Bought a $1,400 television.

And I'm the bad guy, here.

He didn't understand my frustration when I remarked that I wished the things I wanted were so easy to get. He offered me the same prosaic bullshit as Riot: "You have YEARS yet!" Knowing you have 10 or 15 years in which to obtain something that you want now doesn't make the waiting any easier.

And that's what Sid doesn't grok. The two years I made him wait to buy a new television didn't stop him from wanting it: he wasn't content to sit back and say "Fuck it, I've got years to buy a new tv!" I didn't tell him, "Let's go buy a tv," and wait until we got to the store and he'd picked out one he liked, and then say, "Ooh, you know what, we can't afford it, and you'll just have to wait. But hey, you have like 10 or 15 years yet to buy a new one!"

It is the closest comparison I can think of. Anyone in that position would be justifiably angry at having to wait. So why do people assume that just because I have ten or fifteen years left to have a family, I should be happy to sit back and wait for it?

this is why I stop at one glass of wine

2008-10-20T06:37:00.003-04:00

My mom is a raging alcoholic. She will get shitfaced and say and do things that no healthy, sane person does when sober. Recently, she propositioned my sister's fiance during one of her drunken episodes, and this has sparked much drama. She is a diabetic, she does not need to be drinking like this: no one should, first of all, but for someone who is supposed to be strictly monitoring their blood glucose, this is definitely not okay.

This, all of this, is the reason I do not ever get shitfaced. I will not be my mother all over again. I'm like her in a lot of ways, but in this? I refuse.

two things

2008-10-12T10:41:00.002-04:00

Thing the first: An asshole in an SUV tried to hit Sid up for some money today. Keep in mind, Sid was just coming back from some bullshit Fleet Week thing, so it was obvious he was military. This dude starts talking incoherently about how he needs gas money and something about "rich men". Sid handed him a five dollar bill, and the guy says "That's it?"

THAT'S IT? Motherfucker, are you for real? Hitting up a military guy for money, first of all, like he makes bookoo dough or something, and then having the gall to complain when he doesn't give you a blank fucking check? You're lucky it was Sid standing there, and not me, because I would have grabbed my money back and gone home.

Thing the second: a woman I know just found she's having a girl. And she's SAD, you see, because she wanted a boy. Right about now, woman, I am having a hard time managing any sympathy. You see, lady, you're lucky. You don't know it, but you're lucky: you have had nothing in your pregnancy or your time trying to conceive that would allow you any bitching. No disappearing babies, no health scares, nothing. You have been lucky. And now, oh noez, you're having a girl? BUT YOU WANTED A BOY! Boo-fuckity-hoo. Cry me a river, why don't you?

left out

2008-10-10T15:16:00.002-04:00

Two more of my friends are pregnant. This makes - what - five? Six? I saw one of them typed an announcement on one of the message boards and it was like a punch to the gut. It hurt, and a tiny little strangled noise came out of my throat when I exhaled, and then suddenly, I couldn't draw another breath without sobbing.

I have two tries left; next week, and next month, and then that's it. If it doesn't happen then, it just isn't going to happen at all. I don't even want to try, because I feel like if I have to go through the disappointment one more time, I will break. Once when I was little, very little, I wrote a story about someone who cried until they until they died. I didn't know I was writing about myself.

a post about starky's epic fail nothing

2008-10-08T14:19:00.004-04:00

This will be the fourth or fifth post that I have started and then deleted. What the fuck? I want to make a post that isn't about STARKY'S EPIC FAIL, or any of that attendant mess. And yet... it's the biggest, most personal, most taboo thing in my life right now, and while it doesn't occupy my every cognizant moment, neither is it ever entirely forgotten. It isn't something that I feel I can or even should talk about, because to an outsider, it will seem kind of silly. To someone who knows me, it will just be excruciatingly awkward. And besides, I asked Sid not to mention it. Ever again. He must have seen death in my eyes when I basically demanded he keep his mouth shut on this particular subject, because he has not once brought it up since his first night back from the boat.

But more than that, it's just pointless. What is there to say about this whole clusterfuck? Seriously, what is there to say?

"Sid, (or Riot, or Spartan, or Floyd...)I'm actually pretty pissed at myself about this whole mess, and I feel sick when I think that I could have finally had our own (my own) family, but instead, it literally and figuratively got flushed down the toilet. Every time I see a pregnant woman, or a baby, it's all I can think about. I look at babies, and all I can think is that I could have had that, but IT GOT FLUSHED DOWN THE MOTHERFUCKING TOILET."

"How depressingly morbid, starky! Do go on!"

Yeah...no. My social skills are a bit rusty, but even I suspect that that's just not acceptable conversation, right there. Who seriously says shit like that out loud? Seriously. Because even typing it seems like too much.

I am not one of those people who think that life starts at conception, and I will be the first to admit that I am only mourning what could have been, because I never actually had anything. I never had anything beyond that positive test. And to be honest, I think that is the worst kind of loss. I started with nothing, and I ended up with nothing. I have no proof that any of it was real, that I ever had anything to lose in the first place: I have nothing tangible that I can present to say "this is what I lost". I have nothing.

And it feels stupid to be dwelling on nothing.

I can't get away from it

2008-10-01T06:24:00.005-04:00

The universe, god, or fate, whatever you call it, has one fucked up sense of humor. How do I know? Oh, it's easy. You see, right now, I am feeling a just a wee bit fragile: the sight of pregnant women or babies just breaks my heart. I can't bear to be around either right now, and so what happens? Every woman in the tri-county area is dragging around eleventy-three crotch droplets, or is expecting a few. Either way, fun times!

Sid took me out to eat on Monday, and our waitress? Was hugely pregnant. I almost cried. I kept my eyes to the table, or stared out the window, rather than look at her. I just couldn't take it. Petty? Sure. Painful? Hell yes.

Afterward, we did some game shopping, and again, with the pregnant women stalking me. I could have screamed. Did I just not notice this before? Is it just now, because I'm so sensitive to it, that I notice? Or am I being kicked while I'm down? Because that's what the fuck it feels like.

Anyway, the very next day we were expecting to have a quiet day at home. Sid didn't have work, and we were just going to sit around the house and have fun. But his temporary cap shattered, and we had to make an emergency trip to the dentist. While he's in the back getting his gold toof, in walks a couple with a baby. Couldn't have been more than three months old, this little girl, and she was the most beautiful little thing. I couldn't stop staring. And I didn't know that anything could be so hard as sitting in that waiting room and trying to pretend that I was not absolutely shattered.

Every little noise that baby made, my heart would start pounding and I'd feel that weird sense of needing to do something, but not knowing what. The only thing I can compare it to is when you're young, and you start having sex dreams: you wake up all in a sweat, with your heart pounding, and there is such a sense of excited, sad yearning. You wake up feeling as though you have missed something terribly important, something that would have absolutely changed you. You know that you are missing something, but you don't know what it is.

Oh, it doesn't make any sense. I'm not sure that even Sid would understand. He seemed to think it was kind of amusing, when on the way home, I offhandedly mentioned the cute little baby in the waiting room. He asked me "You really want a baby, don't you?" And of course, instead of opening that can of worms, I brushed it off: "No, I just thought she was really cute. I wanted to pinch her fat little arms." I think if he knew the truth, it would wound him terribly, and I don't want that. He always says he wants to make me happy, and in this, he can't just go out and buy something, or take me away for a weekend, or do whatever it is that he thinks I want, because I never ever ask for anything.

But what would be the harm in just once acknowledging it? Just once? I came close at the restaurant. I told him pretty much the same thing that I said in the opening paragraph: "The universe has a sick sense of humor, Sid, because right now, I can't stand the sight of pregnant women, and remember the day my 'period' started? The pregnant woman at the mexican restaurant? And now this server, here? It's fucked up." And he agreed that yes, it was fucked up, and that was as far as the conversation went. What would be the harm in just one time telling him, "Yes, I want a child. I want to make a better family than the ones we came from"? If he's read this blog, then he already knows. And in that case, we're both passive-aggressive shits, because I haven't brought it up, and neither has he.

insert swear word of your choice

2008-09-23T12:28:00.004-04:00

Sid told some people on the boat about my Epic Fail at Spawning. And somehow, in their minds, this means that I am an inconsolable mess, sobbing over my stained panties or something. Because they are sending Sid home early.

Shit, I think even Sid thinks I'm an inconsolable mess, sobbing...(and so on and so forth) by the way he's been talking. Hate to burst your bubble, silly menz, but either you don't know women, or you don't know this woman. Because it has been business as usual at Manson Homestead, thank-you-very-much.

I mentioned it to him once, one time, just a simple and matter-of-fact "hey, I thought you should know..." and every single time he's called since then, that's all he wants to talk about. Which is really starting to get to me: I want to put this shit behind me and just move on. Quit bringing it up, already! In the grand scheme of things, what happened was not a huge deal. Quit treating it as if it is.

I'm actually not really looking forward to Sid coming home, because if he's going to keep bringing it up, I don't know if I'll be able to restrain myself when the urge to hit him with my Frying Pan O' Doom strikes. Also, I'm indescribably mad that he is blabbing our personal business all over the boat, because seriously, I haven't said a word about it to anyone that I speak to face-to-face. Because telling people on the internet is not the same as telling people in real life: on the internet, it's not so personal. On the internet, you don't have to put on a brave face.

Anyway. Yeah. I'm really super pissed about all this. It was no one's business. If I'd known that he would so freely discuss my Epic Fail at Spawning with TEH MENZ, I never would have said a word to him. I wouldn't even have mentioned it here, where he could have seen it. It would have stayed private. It would have stayed personal. And it wouldn't be a huge deal.

a real fucking laff riot

2008-09-17T11:48:00.004-04:00

This explains the positive pregnancy test, and the killer cramps. As if I needed to feel any more like shit. It is a real fucking laff riot over here, let me assure you. A veritable carnival of hilarity.

With Sid gone, there's no one to talk to. I wasn't going to tell him at all, because this is shitty news to have to hear while you're deployed, but I couldn't keep it to myself. I had to tell someone: I had to hear myself say the words out loud, just once. And goddamn, do I wish I had just kept it to myself. Having to explain it to him, having answer his questions, having to cut short the conversation... was harder than staying silent. And he just didn't seem like he really cared. I could have been telling him about the weather, and his reaction would have been exactly the same.

The thing that pisses me off the most about this entire situation is all those assclowns who want to try and tell me that everything happens for a reason, this was meant to be and all that other saccharine bullshit. Fuck you. Seriously, fuck you. How fucking dare you say that? Telling me that I am not meant to be a mother, that Sid is not meant to be a father, that I was meant to lose a pregnancy I wanted with all my heart is probably the douchebaggiest thing I have ever heard. And I've heard more than my fair share of dumbfuckery.

One of the women who has told me that shit time and again is pregnant, and is distressed about all the miscarriage stories she's heard. I want to be an asshole right back to her and tell her that "everything happens for a reason, right? If you're meant to have that baby, you will. If you're meant to miscarry, you will." But that snark will look like it's coming from nowhere, so I keep it to myself rather than start drama. But god, how I would love to shove her shit right back into her face.

giving it up: a rant

2008-09-13T07:03:00.007-04:00

So, we're done trying to have a baby. Sid has been sent away for a little while, to do some military bullshit, and this was supposed to be our last crack at trying, and we no longer even have that. We're done.

I had hoped that this month we would get it right; I had held onto the hope that these past two months were just shitty luck, and this time, this last time, we'd finally get it. Apparently, we are not even being allowed that final bit of hope. Fate, Mother Nature, or the military has decided that the Mansons just aren't worthy.

Surprisingly, I'm not really sad...yet. Right now, I'm just really fucking pissed. There is a tension in my muscles and a heavy feeling in my chest that will have release, whether by kicking and screaming, or manic exercise. I'm thinking exercise would be the least destructive, most adult choice, but I surely do feel like choosing the first option.

I tried to explain to Sid last night that I wasn't mad at him, just myself, but I don't think he really understood. Maybe I shouldn't be so disgusted with myself, but I can't help but think I was some kind of idiot to hold onto hope. To really think, deep down, that we could have that kind of happiness. Yes, I'm angry at myself because I feel like I was stupid. Like I should have known that I wouldn't have that one thing I dreamed about for what feels like forever.

The last time this happened, I told Sid I would never get my hopes up like that again, that it hurt too much to be so disappointed. Apparently I lied, because I did let myself hope. And it fucking blows to be back in this spot again. This year, though, I will try harder to keep myself out of that holiday slump; when Thanksgiving and Christmas roll around, I can't let myself get back into that bad place, where I keep thinking that this should have been the year we celebrated new life, I should be pregnant right now, we should be so fucking happy...and we're not...I'm not.

Sid didn't seem all that fussed with our failure last year, and this year is no exception. He just seems so...unruffled. As if it doesn't really matter to him, as if it's not really something that he wants with all his heart, like I do. Not that I want to see him crushed, but I'd at least like him to express a bit of remorse over the fact that all our baby plans have once again blown up in our faces. Because it bothers me, a lot, and I don't understand how he can be so lackadaisical about it. I want him to at least acknowledge that, yes, it's fucked up that we're back here again, and I am once again hurting and bewildered, and I'm not crazy for feeling this way. Because I get damned tired of spilling my guts to him and having him just make fun of me. It's hard to remind myself that he's joking. I'm dead serious, and in a matter like this, I want a serious reply. When he's upset about something and starts berating himself for whatever, I don't echo his sentiments, I tell him what he needs to hear: that he's not crazy, it's okay to feel like shit. That he's not wrong.

I guess that's why I blog: because a fucking blog doesn't call me crazy. If I felt like I could tell Sid any of this stuff, I would. He's my husband, and I don't like keeping secrets. But in this, I just can't talk to him. I get so tired of being called crazy, or fat, or whatever the barb du jour is, when all I want is his support.

my emo is showing

2008-09-10T12:09:00.010-04:00

Yesterday, I told Sid that I couldn't remember the last time I cried. Which was a lie: I remember quite clearly the few times in my life I have truly broken down and sobbed. Yesterday would have been one of those times, had I been alone. But I wasn't. All day I'd been fighting tears, and in the evening, after having fought it all day, after being exhausted by pain, I momentarily lost control. In front of Sid. He asked what was wrong, and I said nothing. But everything is wrong, and I don't know how to tell him.

I thought I was pregnant. I pissed on a stupid home pregnancy test and got a positive. And Miss P showed up just as prompt as you please, with cramps that are truly breathtaking. I might go so far as to say these are some of the most exquisite and body-locking cramps I have ever had. If Sid were in this kind of pain, I have no doubt he'd be writhing on the ground, screaming. Because I surely want to.

So there was that; that disappointment, that feeling of failure. But then two of the women who post on the same online community as me have just found out they are pregnant, on their first tries, no less, and it was like salt in an open wound. Here I am at home, hardly able to breathe around the pain, and these women are exulting in the very thing I thought I finally had.

Now, usually, I'm not a very jealous person. When I was little, that wasn't true. It has taken me a long time to reach this point, where I can say "I'm okay with not having that thing," and mean it. But this is not one of those times. And while I don't doubt that these women very much want to be pregnant, that they are looking to the future with hope and promise...I want it, too. It's base jealousy. I'm not proud of it. In fact, I think it's stupid and petty of me to cry over probably one of the happiest moments in the lives of these women. But this feels like one of the lowest in mine, and there's no getting around that.

I have not forgotten how bad I felt the last time we had to put off having a baby. That kind of low, you don't easily forget, okay? I was fucking devastated: I cried for weeks, and I'm not sure Sid ever really understood how badly it hurt me to have to put that dream aside. I don't know how I'll be able to do it again. And I know it's selfish of me, it's a stupid and selfish thing, and I'll admit to it. I very much want the honor, the absolute privilege, of looking into the eyes of a child and knowing that that little girl or boy is absolutely depending on me to show them right from wrong, and help them as they grow...fuck, I just want to give a child the love and acceptance I never had when I was little. I want to make a better family than the one I grew up in. I want to look into the eyes of my child and know that I have broken the cycle of violence passed to me by my mother, and wherever she got it from, all the way back through the generations. I want to look at my child and know that I have finally banished that demon. It's vain. It's unnecessary. I should just let it go. But I can't. I can't. How do you let go of a desire such as that? How do you do it?

Siddy's gold toof

2008-09-03T12:18:00.004-04:00

Sid's got notoriously bad teeth. Like, nightmarish redneck teeth. If he didn't go to the dentist with such alarming frequency, I'm convinced he'd be sporting one fucked up grill. As it stands, he's got a cracked tooth and requires a crown. Given the choice between ceramic and gold, he chose gold. Thus Siddy the Pimp was born.

He only has a temporary crown for now, no flashy gold to speak of, and yet every time he opens his mouth to speak, I find I have to fight the urge to make a "ding" sound, just like the sparkly sound effect used in cartoons. Just the mere prospect of entertainment is enough to keep me occupied.

In other, not so entertaining news, there has been much drama over our desktop monitor. I'm seriously not going to get into the whole story right now, because even just thinking about it makes my blood pressure go up. For now, I'll just say that it has been made clear to me that in matters of Computers and Other Tech Related Shit, my plebeian opinion matters not one whit. If memory serves, Sid's exact words to me yesterday were "It's my computer, I just let you use it." Which was probably one of the greatest variations on "stfu" that I have ever heard from him. Surprisingly enough, I still get along just fine with him, but as soon as he starts talking about the computer, I find myself at the end of my patience. The other day, Cory was over when Sid started going on about it again, and I had to walk away. Literally. I went outside and wandered around in the yard until I felt like I could keep a lid on my temper.

So pretty much, things are back to normal at Manson Homestead.

an atheist through and through

2008-08-19T11:26:00.005-04:00

When I was younger, maybe about eight or nine, my grandparents took my sister and me to visit my great-aunt. She lived in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere, and it was the first time my parents had not accompanied us. My grandmother told us to go for a walk, follow the fence up onto the mountain and back. And I didn't. I led my sister up the path onto the mountain, and forgot all about following the fence. After about half an hour of talking and playing and wandering around, I realized we were lost.

I knew that I should have been able to get a general idea of where I was by the sun, as it had been on our backs as we walked up the path. I knew that if I walked back toward the sun, I would find our way back home eventually. But there were so many trees I couldn't orient myself. We had stumbled off the path, and could not find our way back.

My sister was the first to panic. I had been holding it together for her sake, but when Jess started to freak, it was nearly impossible. I told her that we would find our way back, that all we had to do was follow the slope of the mountain and we would find a road, and from there we'd have no trouble finding our way back. When we did that, and only ended up in bushes, not a paved road, I lost it.

Like the good little Christian children we'd been raised to be, we cried and prayed for help. None came. Finally, I told Jess that we would go back the way we'd come and try to retrace our steps. By this point, the sun was beginning to set, and I knew that Jess was imagining a long and fearful night on the mountain, because she kept asking about bears. I didn't have an answer for her, and so we stopped talking, lost in our own anxieties and imaginings. In the silence, we could hear a voice shouting, so far away as to be almost inaudible.

Our grandmother. We followed the sound of her voice back over the mountain until we ended up in the road almost a mile away. I think that was the moment my faith in the Almighty began to crumble. And I realize that I must not have been very strong in my faith for it to be so irreversibly damaged by something so minor.

The killing blow to my religious leanings came when I was sixteen years old. I prayed that God would make me a better person. That God would teach me something that would change me profoundly for the better. And then my very first boyfriend raped me. On Christmas Eve, of all nights.

For a while afterward, about two years, I told myself that it had happened for a reason, that it was all part of The Plan To Make Starky A Good Person. It was my crutch, my lifeline. It was my delusion. It was the only thing that kept me sane during that dark time. And I knew that I was starting to finally heal and move on when I realized that if there really was a God, He had one hell of a funny way of answering my heartfelt prayer.

Some people will say that I turned away from God because I was angry at Him for answering my prayer in such a way, that it has made me a better person and I am blind to that fact. I will admit that at first, I was angry. I felt betrayed, by the boy who said he loved me and the God who was supposed to protect me. I won't deny it. But when the anger faded? There was indifference.

I no longer care one way or the other if there is some higher power guiding my life. It won't change the way I live, or the things I hope for, or the way I treat others. It doesn't matter what pretty words I offer up to the heavens.

a bitter pill to swallow

2008-08-12T15:27:00.004-04:00

This article left me in tears. I don't understand how people can be so cruel to the children they are supposed to love and protect and care for. I don't want to know what kind of sick fuck you've got to be to be so cruel to a child. And it's shit like this that makes me wish I believed in hell. There is no justice in the world, none at all.

Maybe it's just because I'm crazy hormonal, and suffering a huge disappointment, but seriously. I can't take the bullshit. Miss P is officially late, and shows no sign of wanting to show up. And Sid doesn't know it, but I took a pregnancy test yesterday. It was negative.

I will say no more about it.

This means that I am probably hypo again. Which I also don't want to say anymore about, but I need to get this out. If I tell Sid what I'm feeling right now, he won't understand. And I can't handle that right now.

I hate being sick. I hate that it makes me different. I don't mind it, usually. Normally, I'm just happy to be feeling okay again, and I'm eternally grateful that I have an illness that is manageable. But I hate that every month, I have to walk to the pharmacy to pick up my levothyroxine, and that everyone can see me walking home with my pill bag. I hate that I have to plan my meals around that pill, that I can't eat when I'm hungry if I'm in that three hour window, that I can't just up and go somewhere without dragging my medicine with me in case I can't get home in time to take it. And when I think these things, I feel so ungrateful. I should be glad that I am so lucky: I have insurance that pays for my bloodwork, I live in a country where I have access to the medicine that will make me feel well again.

So right now I'm feeling a ~~little bit~~ a lot like shit. Compounding that, Sid doesn't know I took a pregnancy test already, and he's trying to be helpful by telling me that starky, you never know, it might not be your thyroid, maybe you're pregnant. I don't have it in me to tell him I do know, I am not pregnant, it has to be my thyroid. As much as it hurt to tell myself that, I don't have the heart to do it to him.

the Mansons talk spawnage

2008-08-04T09:06:00.002-04:00

A few days ago, I came up with a title for an entry, and it was, to my mind, perfect. And now that I actually have the time and the privacy to write, I can't remember what it was I'd thought up. And I don't know what's happened lately that I feel the need to record for posterity.

OH, let's start off with a gem: if my period is late this month, I'm either hypothyroid again, or pregnant. I don't know which at this point, all I do know is that I'm pretty icky feeling and waiting to see what happens. For the past week and a half, I have been nauseated and miserably tired. You see? It could go both ways. Either way, methinks I'm going to end up getting my thyroid checked, so in that respect, the situation is lose-lose. I'm going to end up with needles in me either way.

The second gem: if I am pregnant, it was entirely planned. Oh yes, you read rightly. Part of me is scared to fucking death at the decision. Another part of me is insisting that Sid and I are doing something very stupid, and that I should bail now while I still have time. The third part is just sitting back in disbelief at the fact that Sid has come around to the idea of spawnage. I imagine I will have more thoughts on this matter if/when I get a positive test.

Giving up my four-cups-o-caffeinated-goodness-a-day habit has been excruciating. Literally as well as emotionally. I loves me some coffee, almost as much as cheese or chocolate or ice cubes. Going without makes starky a sad panda! At first, that's why I thought I was tired and sick, but once the unholy headaches eased up, I still felt like shit, so I tossed that notion out the window. I still allow myself one cup a day, but to me, that's like taking just a bite of cheese, just one ice cube, just one little piece of chocolate... It's just a tease.

catching up

2008-07-17T06:20:00.003-04:00

Sid came home on the 11th.

I wish it had actually been as simple as saying it makes it seem. The week leading up to that was filled with bitchwork, and the day before homecoming was insane. Insane. The cats picked up on that and vomited all over hell's half-acre as soon as I finished cleaning.

The morning of, we were expecting rain. When I woke up at 6, it was drizzling, and everything was wet. So instead of my white dress, I wore my black one. With that long black thing on, and my hair curled (THAT was interesting), I thought I bore more than a passing resemblance to Mrs Lovett from Sweeney Todd. Indeed, that night, Sid mentioned unprompted that I'd looked just like her. Minus the whole dark eye-makeup thing; that look has not been my thing for years now.

Cory came with, as it's not every day a friend of yours goes on deployment, and on the way to the base, we got stuck in traffic. A real gridlock. A car had broken down in the downtown tunnel, blocking all lanes of traffic. The cars were backed up for miles. And we sat with the car shut off for nearly half an hour, with me freaking out the whole time. I was convinced the Nassau would come in and the sailors disembark before we could get there.

I was wrong. By the time we got on base and found a place to park, the Nassau was pulling in. We were not as late as I'd imagined. For the next forty minutes, I stood in the baking sun...waiting. Did I mention I didn't wear sunscreen? Pasty-white starky, standing in the direct sunlight for a prolonged period of time? You know where this is going. I got good and fried.

Apparently new parents get to come off the boat first, and normally it wouldn't have bothered me, but for some reason, that day it really stuck in my craw. What a meager way of making amends for forcing these men away from the births of their children. "Oh, hey, we'll let you schmoes of the boat first, so you can finally see your new sons and daughters, and fuck the rest of the childless assholes." Yeah, that day it was really like a punch in the gut. Kick me while I'm down, why don't you.

It didn't matter, though, because Sid was right on the tails of those guys. As the crowd started to cheer, I turned to Cory and said, "we should get closer to them, Sid's expecting us to be over at the tent," and on the way over, I saw a bald guy, who could have been Sid from the back, but I wasn't sure, and I gave him a good look and noticed the blue platinum wedding band. It was Sid! Totally serendipitous, how that happened. We found each other right away in that big crowd.

Anyway, he's home. And while I'm happy to have him back, don't get me wrong, I wish that he'd stop spending so much time with his computer or his video games and do something with me. Anything. I helped him wax his car yesterday, just so I could spend time with him. Last night I broke down and told him how I felt, because it was obvious that he was not going to stop with the ignoring me unless I made him. And I didn't want to make him. But it's been almost a week. And I missed him. And I think that after five months apart, he can deign to put the controller down, shut off the computer, and spend some time with his wife.

Oh, and remember all that shit I wrote that I didn't want Sid to see? Stalking-ass motherfucker found and read this blog. Yes, that's right, Siddy, I called you a stalking-ass motherfucker. I only found this out because he teased me about my Brad Pitt dream.

AWKWARD.