get your nose out of my crotch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.