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.
Showing posts with label douchebaggery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label douchebaggery. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Sunday, August 22, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
a lesson in douchebaggery
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
gender roles
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!
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!
Monday, June 22, 2009
ah, military life...
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?
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?
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
"god's will"
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
the fail, it is catching
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.
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.
Monday, December 8, 2008
the firing squad
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
wanting
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?
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?
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
a real fucking laff riot
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
my emo is showing
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?
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?
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Siddy's gold toof
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.
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.
Monday, April 14, 2008
the hypocrisy, it burns
Sid sent me an email today, and it contained a paragraph most interesting:
Like I'd not noticed that the pictures he was sending me of the last four ports he's hit had the same smiling women in them. Like I'd asked about them. I had not. I knew exactly what was going on, but I didn't say anything. But he felt the need to bring this up now, after a month and some odd change, for what reasons under god, I cannot fathom.
But this is what I sent as a reply:
I have not forgotten the last time he was gone for months on end, how he flipped out when Cory asked me to come to Zakk's Coffeehouse to see his favorite band. Nor have I forgotten the screaming fights, as Sid went to the movies with his (girl) friends, and yet wanted me to stay home alone. It was epic, one of those things that we were either going to hash out and work through, or it would destroy our marriage completely. We'd been screaming at each other for so long it seemed like that was the only way we could speak to one another, and finally, in sheer desperation, I asked him "how would you feel if our situations were reversed?" and that was turning point. He had not stopped for one moment to see the situation from my point of view, until I asked him to. And when he did, he realized he'd been something of a douchebag.
Not that I'm accusing him of being a douchebag this time, but the idea is the same. Until I make him walk a mile in my shoes, he will not stop to think of my perspective. As he was the youngest child in his family, it was always about him, and as I was the oldest child in my own, it was always about everyone else, and unlearning those behaviors and ways of thinking is hard.
I've also met some good friends here on the boat.. most of them females as they seem to be more mature than the guys. So yes, when i go to ports, i'm usually around a girl. Just wanted to tell you that so you know. I'm obviously not doing anything but when you see pictures and its me and a girl.. don't freak out ok?
Like I'd not noticed that the pictures he was sending me of the last four ports he's hit had the same smiling women in them. Like I'd asked about them. I had not. I knew exactly what was going on, but I didn't say anything. But he felt the need to bring this up now, after a month and some odd change, for what reasons under god, I cannot fathom.
But this is what I sent as a reply:
Let's reverse the situation for a minute. Would you be okay with me hanging out with a bunch of guys? Going places overseas with guys you didn't know and had never met, while you sat at home with the phone and waited for me to call? Can you honestly say you would be fine with that? Because somehow, I'm not seeing it. I don't care what you do out there - well, I do care, but there's nothing I can do about it - but if you admit to yourself that you would not be all right with me doing the things you're doing, maybe you need to change your behavior.
I have not forgotten the last time he was gone for months on end, how he flipped out when Cory asked me to come to Zakk's Coffeehouse to see his favorite band. Nor have I forgotten the screaming fights, as Sid went to the movies with his (girl) friends, and yet wanted me to stay home alone. It was epic, one of those things that we were either going to hash out and work through, or it would destroy our marriage completely. We'd been screaming at each other for so long it seemed like that was the only way we could speak to one another, and finally, in sheer desperation, I asked him "how would you feel if our situations were reversed?" and that was turning point. He had not stopped for one moment to see the situation from my point of view, until I asked him to. And when he did, he realized he'd been something of a douchebag.
Not that I'm accusing him of being a douchebag this time, but the idea is the same. Until I make him walk a mile in my shoes, he will not stop to think of my perspective. As he was the youngest child in his family, it was always about him, and as I was the oldest child in my own, it was always about everyone else, and unlearning those behaviors and ways of thinking is hard.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
a vagina isn't like a tire and other revelations
My friend Cory came over last night, and somehow we got to talking about "girls". He made the remark that "I thought the girls in Roanoke Rapids would be nice, you know, but all my friends tell me they've been around."
From me, a stunned silence. I literally stood there, speechless, for at least two minutes while he waxed poetic about "girls who've done it, and girls with VD" and the first words out of my mouth? "Cory, a vagina isn't like a tire...it doesn't lose it's tread." The second thing? "Where do you think these women are getting these diseases? From each other?"
He admitted that I had a point, which was gratifying, considering my brain feels like half-set Jello.
Somehow we got to talking about being groped, and he said that someone touched his balls during a pat-down once. All I could say was, "Maybe this gives you an idea of what it's like for women every day." Don't think I haven't had my ass grabbed in line for Space Mountain, okay? Groping is ubiquitous for women.
I'm consistently shocked and appalled by the things Cory says concerning women, but at the same time, I'm grateful that he's saying them to me, because it's pretty much impossible for me to just sit down and shut up when something's got me riled. And rile me he does. I don't think he realizes that his narrow view of females is what's keeping him from forming relationships with them, and it's not something I can just out and say.
From me, a stunned silence. I literally stood there, speechless, for at least two minutes while he waxed poetic about "girls who've done it, and girls with VD" and the first words out of my mouth? "Cory, a vagina isn't like a tire...it doesn't lose it's tread." The second thing? "Where do you think these women are getting these diseases? From each other?"
He admitted that I had a point, which was gratifying, considering my brain feels like half-set Jello.
Somehow we got to talking about being groped, and he said that someone touched his balls during a pat-down once. All I could say was, "Maybe this gives you an idea of what it's like for women every day." Don't think I haven't had my ass grabbed in line for Space Mountain, okay? Groping is ubiquitous for women.
I'm consistently shocked and appalled by the things Cory says concerning women, but at the same time, I'm grateful that he's saying them to me, because it's pretty much impossible for me to just sit down and shut up when something's got me riled. And rile me he does. I don't think he realizes that his narrow view of females is what's keeping him from forming relationships with them, and it's not something I can just out and say.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
random snark
Over the summer, when Sid and I were talking about having a baby, I joined an online community called BabyCenter. It seemed like a friendly place, and it had lots of helpful information, and lots of helpful, supportive people. I had thought that when/if I got pregnant, it would be something like my support group; seeing as I don't have many friends with children, and my parents (my mother especially) are not the kinds of people you can just ask advice from, I thought it would be a good place to ask questions and talk to women going through some of the same things.
Seemingly overnight, this friendly, supportive community has been literally split. The powers that be have decided to beta-test a new forum, and not everyone was invited. A few people were invited, and those people were allowed to invite others. Well, the ones who never received invites (like me) are understandably pissed. The forums are dead! Everyone's posting on the "new site" and suddenly the place seems like some elitist junior high clique.
Anyway, I don't like the direction the site is taking. I think the beta-testing was very poorly handled (deliberately excluding half of a tight knit community usually is!) and from what I understand, it's got a very "MySpace" feel. I hate MySpace.
Another site I loved did the same thing. Bolt. Bolt decided to make all these great changes, and start a new site with forums and it was just like MySpace. The old, original Bolt was left to fester and was finally shut down. The new Bolt wasn't very popular, and it, too, was shut down. I see BabyCenter headed in the same direction.
I don't think I'll be going back.
Seemingly overnight, this friendly, supportive community has been literally split. The powers that be have decided to beta-test a new forum, and not everyone was invited. A few people were invited, and those people were allowed to invite others. Well, the ones who never received invites (like me) are understandably pissed. The forums are dead! Everyone's posting on the "new site" and suddenly the place seems like some elitist junior high clique.
Anyway, I don't like the direction the site is taking. I think the beta-testing was very poorly handled (deliberately excluding half of a tight knit community usually is!) and from what I understand, it's got a very "MySpace" feel. I hate MySpace.
Another site I loved did the same thing. Bolt. Bolt decided to make all these great changes, and start a new site with forums and it was just like MySpace. The old, original Bolt was left to fester and was finally shut down. The new Bolt wasn't very popular, and it, too, was shut down. I see BabyCenter headed in the same direction.
I don't think I'll be going back.
Friday, March 7, 2008
struggling
I am in a really bad place right now, emotionally, and I keep searching for reasons why. But does there have to be a reason? I keep telling myself it doesn't matter why I feel the way I do, there doesn't need to be justification. This is how it is, and I must work through it.
Lately, I have felt very helpless. It was such a small thing that started it, too, and it's just snowballed. We took out a loan for Sid's mother, whose credit is in the shitter (her husband had a heart attack a few years ago, and all their resources are drained in the effort to pay the astronomical bills from it). Navy Federal Credit Union then made everyone involved jump through flaming hoops to get everything done. Sid deployed before all the paperwork could be completed, so I had to finish it as his Attorney-In-Fact. I had to mail in copies of the Power of Attorney documents, and this is where shit hit the fan.
The printer wouldn't work. Normally, this wouldn't be a huge deal; Sid would fix it, or I would putter around until I figured out the problem. Well, he's not here to bail me out, and I tried everything...the printer simply wouldn't print. After three days of insisting I could get it working, I gave up. The paperwork had to be mailed, and I had to admit defeat, walk to the library and make copies there.
I pride myself on my independence, so this was a bitter pill to swallow. Suddenly, I felt like I was not capable. All because of a printer!
Then, last week, Cory asked for my help in completing a project for school. He wanted me to record him doing a step by step presentation; a how-to video. I agreed, as it was something to occupy my time. Only problem is, my digital camera doesn't record sound, and I couldn't find Sid's cameras. He's got three, and there's no way he took all three with him on deployment, so they've got to be around here somewhere, right?
I tore the house apart, and unearthed his Olympus. Not my first choice; I would have preferred the Canon, as I'm more accustomed to using that one, but anything in a pinch, right? The Canon seems to have dropped off the face of the earth; Sid insists he left it here, but I can't find it anywhere, and I even searched both cars and the attic. So Cory comes over, and I record him, and now I find I don't know where the USB cable is so that I can transfer the video to my PC and burn it on DVD. I can't find the thing anywhere. The USB that I use for my little PowerShot, and the Canon, doesn't fit the Olympus. And I can't ask Sid for help, because, you know, he's not here.
Another frantic search ensues. After a day and a half, I realize I can use the memory card reader in my desk. Well, great.
It's broken. It freezes up and crashes my computer. Every. Motherfucking. Time.
And Sid is not here to help me. I feel stupid and useless. Normally, when he's around, I do these things all the time with no problems. Now that he's gone, it's like nothing in this house wants to cooperate with me.
Now, I have a huge problem with asking for help. My mother drilled it into my head that I needed to own my shit: that is, deal with my own problems without dragging anyone else into it. Any time I asked her for help with things, I got a rant about how I was stupid, and I had a brain like a sieve, and...well, you get the idea. So it's hard for me admit I need help and actively seek it.
Well, I admit, right now, I need help. And there is no one here to help me.
And I feel stupid. Like I have a brain like a sieve. I feel like a fucking child. And I hate it.
Lately, I have felt very helpless. It was such a small thing that started it, too, and it's just snowballed. We took out a loan for Sid's mother, whose credit is in the shitter (her husband had a heart attack a few years ago, and all their resources are drained in the effort to pay the astronomical bills from it). Navy Federal Credit Union then made everyone involved jump through flaming hoops to get everything done. Sid deployed before all the paperwork could be completed, so I had to finish it as his Attorney-In-Fact. I had to mail in copies of the Power of Attorney documents, and this is where shit hit the fan.
The printer wouldn't work. Normally, this wouldn't be a huge deal; Sid would fix it, or I would putter around until I figured out the problem. Well, he's not here to bail me out, and I tried everything...the printer simply wouldn't print. After three days of insisting I could get it working, I gave up. The paperwork had to be mailed, and I had to admit defeat, walk to the library and make copies there.
I pride myself on my independence, so this was a bitter pill to swallow. Suddenly, I felt like I was not capable. All because of a printer!
Then, last week, Cory asked for my help in completing a project for school. He wanted me to record him doing a step by step presentation; a how-to video. I agreed, as it was something to occupy my time. Only problem is, my digital camera doesn't record sound, and I couldn't find Sid's cameras. He's got three, and there's no way he took all three with him on deployment, so they've got to be around here somewhere, right?
I tore the house apart, and unearthed his Olympus. Not my first choice; I would have preferred the Canon, as I'm more accustomed to using that one, but anything in a pinch, right? The Canon seems to have dropped off the face of the earth; Sid insists he left it here, but I can't find it anywhere, and I even searched both cars and the attic. So Cory comes over, and I record him, and now I find I don't know where the USB cable is so that I can transfer the video to my PC and burn it on DVD. I can't find the thing anywhere. The USB that I use for my little PowerShot, and the Canon, doesn't fit the Olympus. And I can't ask Sid for help, because, you know, he's not here.
Another frantic search ensues. After a day and a half, I realize I can use the memory card reader in my desk. Well, great.
It's broken. It freezes up and crashes my computer. Every. Motherfucking. Time.
And Sid is not here to help me. I feel stupid and useless. Normally, when he's around, I do these things all the time with no problems. Now that he's gone, it's like nothing in this house wants to cooperate with me.
Now, I have a huge problem with asking for help. My mother drilled it into my head that I needed to own my shit: that is, deal with my own problems without dragging anyone else into it. Any time I asked her for help with things, I got a rant about how I was stupid, and I had a brain like a sieve, and...well, you get the idea. So it's hard for me admit I need help and actively seek it.
Well, I admit, right now, I need help. And there is no one here to help me.
And I feel stupid. Like I have a brain like a sieve. I feel like a fucking child. And I hate it.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
the evolution of a dream
Ever since the age of 14, I had dreams that I was pregnant. These were fairly frequent dreams, at least once a week, and more often and more vivid around the times I was expecting my period. They were never bad dreams; that is, I don't recall being frightened or upset in them, except for a rare few. But there was never really any real story to them; they were just like random moments in time. They always left me puzzled, because before I met my husband, I had never even considered having biological children; I have always, always wanted to adopt.
In any case, I'm sure you noticed the past tenses. About a year or so ago, these dreams stopped. Quite suddenly. I'd just assumed they'd "taken a break", that they'd be back eventually. But no.
And now, for the past two months, I've been dreaming about children. It's never the same child each time, just like each of my pregnancy dreams were never exactly the same. For example, in last night's dream, I found myself holding a little girl. No explanation as to how we reached that point, I just found myself holding a baby girl. She was dark skinned and definitely not my own child, wrapped in a fuzzy blue blanket. She had a hat on, pink or purple, maybe striped with both. I wanted to take pictures of her, but the flash on the camera scared her and she cried. And I loved her. I remember that so clearly, this outpouring of affection and a need to protect her.
That was it. They're all like that, to be honest. Just like a photograph; there's no story, no background to tell me how we reached the moment being depicted. It's just me and this child.
If I wanted to be honest (which I don't), I'd say these dreams make me bitterly sad. If I felt like lying (which I do), I'd say they're really stupid. And either way, this isn't something I feel like I can share with Sid.
In any case, I'm sure you noticed the past tenses. About a year or so ago, these dreams stopped. Quite suddenly. I'd just assumed they'd "taken a break", that they'd be back eventually. But no.
And now, for the past two months, I've been dreaming about children. It's never the same child each time, just like each of my pregnancy dreams were never exactly the same. For example, in last night's dream, I found myself holding a little girl. No explanation as to how we reached that point, I just found myself holding a baby girl. She was dark skinned and definitely not my own child, wrapped in a fuzzy blue blanket. She had a hat on, pink or purple, maybe striped with both. I wanted to take pictures of her, but the flash on the camera scared her and she cried. And I loved her. I remember that so clearly, this outpouring of affection and a need to protect her.
That was it. They're all like that, to be honest. Just like a photograph; there's no story, no background to tell me how we reached the moment being depicted. It's just me and this child.
If I wanted to be honest (which I don't), I'd say these dreams make me bitterly sad. If I felt like lying (which I do), I'd say they're really stupid. And either way, this isn't something I feel like I can share with Sid.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
this ruined my day
And now it can ruin yours, too.
It boggles the mind. Now, I know that this kind of thing happens far more often than we hear about in the news, but the fact that this gained attention doesn't detract from the sheer horror of it.
And the part where they said his little hands were clenched... I seriously thought I would vomit. You know how babies clench their fists when they cry? My fucking god. That poor little boy. There are just no words.
Prosecutors are calling it a horrific case of child abuse.
Today they charged the parents of a 5-month-old Peoria boy with first-degree murder. 21-year-old Tracey Hermann and 23-year-old James Sargent are accused of gross neglect and starvation of their baby. Last week Sargent called 9-1-1 from the family's Proctor Street home in Peoria. When rescue personnel arrived they found the baby unresponsive seated in a car seat placed inside a crib. Investigators now believe the child had been strapped in the car seat without food or water for eight days.
States Attorney Kevin Lyons said the room was about 80 degrees when the baby was fgound. The boy was wearing a snowsuit and held in the car seat by a rope. He said there are times "when crying yourself to sleep no longer works, and you cry yourself to death." Tracey Hermann has another child, a three year old girl. The state is moving to have that child permanently removed from Hermann. Because of the age of the Benjamin Sargent, both James Sargent and Tracey Hermann, are eligible for the death penalty if convicted. Lyons has 120 days from the time Sargent and Hermann are indicted to make that decision.
Here is a copy of Peoria County States Attorney Kevin Lyon's statement to the court: On February 12, 2008, Peoria Police responded to a call at 3012 W. Proctor Street in Peoria. Found dead and strapped in a car seat that had been placed in a crib was 5-month-old Benjamin Sargent. The defendants are his parents. Benjamin was wearing a blue snow suit. It was zipped up. The temperature in the room was near 80 degrees.Benjamin's eyes were open, his hands were clenched in a fistlike position and, although dead, his eyes were staring straight ahead. Police investigation and medical and pahtological examination would reveal that Benjamin had been strapped into this car seat and had not left it in eight days. All waste and urine had collected beneath him and his buttocks, legs and back were eaten into by the resulting poison. Some aste left in benjamin's colon revealed resulted in constipation because it could not be pushed out of his body due to starvation.
James Sargent was present at the house and, when interviewed on that day, and again on February 18, his answers to questions confirmed for police that Benjamin had been returned to the residence on february 4, 2008, by a grandmother and he was in the same car seat, wearing the same snow suit, and confined in the same manner as when he was found dead eight days later. A person who 'stayed' with others in the garage of the defendants told police that he was the one who observed Benjamin in the car seat, and on the living room floor, and that it was he who found this odd and so, he placed the child (while in the car seat) in a baby crib in a bedroom. The house was kept in an outrageous condition with nothing in its place, food left out and spoiled, and belongings scattered everywhere. Clothing, articles, spoilage, and debris were stacked everywhere around the house.
James Sargent told police he "thought" he had maybe moved Benjamin once or twice during the eight-day period but, upon further questioning, he conceded that he may not have been moved at all. The person from the garage tells police that Benjamin was found just as he had left him eight days earlier. The 'mother' was in Iowa, where she had gone to see a male boyfriend she found over the internet. She told police that caring for her baby Benjamin was not her duty and that it was James' responsibility. Before heading to Iowa on the day before Benjamin was found dead, Tracy Hermann said she looked at the baby in the crib and presumed he was sleeping so she said she stuck a bottle between the baby and the side of the carseat so that he woke up he could grab it and feed himself if he was hungry. In case the court missed it earlier, Benjamin Sargent was five months old. Tracy Hermann also has a daughter, almost 3, who Tracy Hermann seems to have 'given away' to a family member.
A shelter care hearing on that matter now pends in the circuit court because I am also seeking to remove her permanently and forever from any contact with Tracy Hermann. Preliminary examination of Benjamin Sargent's body showed that he weighed 10 pounds, suffered from sepsis in the blood and tissue, was without proper liquid and food and that he died from starvation due to neglect by the two defendants who stand before you, Tracey D. Hermann and James E. Sargent.
It boggles the mind. Now, I know that this kind of thing happens far more often than we hear about in the news, but the fact that this gained attention doesn't detract from the sheer horror of it.
And the part where they said his little hands were clenched... I seriously thought I would vomit. You know how babies clench their fists when they cry? My fucking god. That poor little boy. There are just no words.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
two weeks
Sid was home for two weeks, on leave, and my hard drive fried during the same time, so yeah. Much fun. I feel like I can't blog or do any of the things I want to when he's around sometimes, because he gets to peeking over my shoulder and asking me what I'm doing...and I don't like that. Really don't like that, but no amount of asking him to stop gets it done. So I deal.
Anyway, hard drive fried. So when we ordered a new one, we just went ahead and got more RAM and a new power supply to go with it (the video card was kind of wonky with the power supply we had) and my "new computer" is quite spiffy.
Come to find out that there's a possibility the deployment isn't going to be six months. It might be three months at sea, three months back home, and then another three months back at sea. Or they might not be going out at all. The ship is slated to leave port in about a week, and nobody knows what in the motherfuck is going on. Lovely. This ranks up there with the time they called Sid the night before the boat left and told him he wasn't supposed to be aboard. Typical military bullshit.
Anyway, hard drive fried. So when we ordered a new one, we just went ahead and got more RAM and a new power supply to go with it (the video card was kind of wonky with the power supply we had) and my "new computer" is quite spiffy.
Come to find out that there's a possibility the deployment isn't going to be six months. It might be three months at sea, three months back home, and then another three months back at sea. Or they might not be going out at all. The ship is slated to leave port in about a week, and nobody knows what in the motherfuck is going on. Lovely. This ranks up there with the time they called Sid the night before the boat left and told him he wasn't supposed to be aboard. Typical military bullshit.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
a post not about deployment
Cory and I had a strange conversation the other weekend, and I've been mulling over it intermittently since then, trying to figure out if there was a different, better way I could have handled it.
I don't even know how the topic got started, maybe we were discussing the election, but he said, "I'm not a racist, but..." and you just know that when someone adds that "but", you're not going to like what you're about to hear. Sure enough, he proceeds to tell me that he's squicked by black guys dating white girls, and also, as an aside, he's not tingly in his junk about gay guys kissing, but (and I quote) "lesbians are hot."
And I was just fucking floored. I've encountered people with these views on the internet, and simply written them off as douchebags, and all was once again well in my section of the world. So to have someone I know and like - someone I'm friends with - come out with something like this... Well, it makes me thankful that I've cultivated a good poker face.
My first thought was literally, oh my fucking cheese goddess, which should give you some indication of my mental capacity at the moment. Second thought?
"Why?" It slipped out before I could frame it any better, and he seemed kind of taken aback by it, like he'd expected me to just nod my head or something. He said that his dad is kind of a bigot, and it's just way he was raised, it was the attitude he grew up with, and this is where I cut him off to ask him why that meant it had to be his own attitude, too.
"Well, I don't know."
"That's not an answer. Why does some stranger just living their life bother you?"
"It doesn't, I just don't like seeing it, you know?"
"No, I don't. They're just people. Besides, I'd rather see two gay guys holding hands than some straight couple dry humping on a park bench."
"Yeah, but I just don't like it."
"But they're not doing it for your benefit."
This sparked a whole other discussion about discrimination, misogyny, mitochondrial DNA, genetics, fundamentalism, and racism (not necessarily in that order). As I'm sure you guessed, I did most of the talking, and he did most of the listening.
I'll give Cory some credit. As often as I challenge his beliefs about shit, he takes it well. We have a decent discussion and move on, and there's no hostility or harsh words. It makes me wonder if maybe he expects that from me, that I'm going to challenge his limited world view and make him think.
Maybe that's just narcissistic of me, though.
I don't even know how the topic got started, maybe we were discussing the election, but he said, "I'm not a racist, but..." and you just know that when someone adds that "but", you're not going to like what you're about to hear. Sure enough, he proceeds to tell me that he's squicked by black guys dating white girls, and also, as an aside, he's not tingly in his junk about gay guys kissing, but (and I quote) "lesbians are hot."
And I was just fucking floored. I've encountered people with these views on the internet, and simply written them off as douchebags, and all was once again well in my section of the world. So to have someone I know and like - someone I'm friends with - come out with something like this... Well, it makes me thankful that I've cultivated a good poker face.
My first thought was literally, oh my fucking cheese goddess, which should give you some indication of my mental capacity at the moment. Second thought?
"Why?" It slipped out before I could frame it any better, and he seemed kind of taken aback by it, like he'd expected me to just nod my head or something. He said that his dad is kind of a bigot, and it's just way he was raised, it was the attitude he grew up with, and this is where I cut him off to ask him why that meant it had to be his own attitude, too.
"Well, I don't know."
"That's not an answer. Why does some stranger just living their life bother you?"
"It doesn't, I just don't like seeing it, you know?"
"No, I don't. They're just people. Besides, I'd rather see two gay guys holding hands than some straight couple dry humping on a park bench."
"Yeah, but I just don't like it."
"But they're not doing it for your benefit."
This sparked a whole other discussion about discrimination, misogyny, mitochondrial DNA, genetics, fundamentalism, and racism (not necessarily in that order). As I'm sure you guessed, I did most of the talking, and he did most of the listening.
I'll give Cory some credit. As often as I challenge his beliefs about shit, he takes it well. We have a decent discussion and move on, and there's no hostility or harsh words. It makes me wonder if maybe he expects that from me, that I'm going to challenge his limited world view and make him think.
Maybe that's just narcissistic of me, though.
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