weird cheese and cheap chocolate

Okay, eighth try. Maybe this will be the post I don’t delete. You know what, just skip this one, it’s more for me. I don’t have an extra twenty dollars for a tx co-pay this week, so I’m blogging and self-medicating.

Life is meh. I’m all disordered and affected by the season. Thoughts and post ideas come and go. I’m boycotting winter coats until Sunday because I can’t be bothered and encumbered for another minute. I’ve seen a few robins and the crocuses are up, so I guess it will be nice sometime in the next seven months. I’m getting some quality purging done around the house. Goodbye leftover Hickory Farms product (dare I call it meat? cheese? food, even?). See ya, stuff that was in my house when I bought it. Christmas mugs and candy vending machines.

So yeah, I hate to admit it but this biological clock thing is real, huh? I can’t seem to peel myself away from Jake and the space from my belly button to my knees is. Well. Um. Let’s just say I’m aware of it, shall we? So it can stop already. Am I allowed to use the word “throbbing” here? Is that permissable?

I can’t wait for Payton to be born. A baby with 50% of my DNA that I don’t have to clean, smell, or take care of? Ultimate.

Babies still make my chassis cringe. I still won’t hold yours. I still don’t want to see it unless it can hold its head up unassisted because floppy babies remind me of dead babies and who wants that? I don’t like to put shirts on new babies because I picture their rubbery arms bending awkwardly and breaking in my hands. It makes me throw up a little just to think about it. I’m doubling up on birth control pills (kidding. I’m actually abstaining. Kidding! But I do have an alarm on my phone set to remind me to take my pill at the same time every day.) but keeping my fingers crossed that you will get a baby of your own.

I do not want another baby, and when asked when number two- and it’s always “number two”, right?- is coming and I have to be polite I list all my financial tipping points and Whitegirl career goals and family/individual travel plans.
If I want to make someone feel mildly uncomfortable I tell them that number two usually comes after a good cup of coffee and a healthy dose of Metamucil and it is most often pretty good- like a King Cobra, all long and coiled and ready to strike.
To forcefully break eye contact and change the subject I can say that for me, motherhood is as good as a mental health diagnosis and I don’t want to be forced to abort a cellcluster or drown my newborn. No one knows what to say in a follow up to that unless they want to talk about religion, and I don’t talk about religion.
If I really want to make someone feel bad I tell them that I had cancer and had to have a good portion of my vaaagiiiinaaaa and other lady parts removed and now I can’t be guaranteed that I am able to carry a baby to term. And I offer to show them my scars (there aren’t any visible ones, but I’ve yet been asked to prove it).
That reminds me of my favorite joke from a couple years ago where I tell people that if they’re lucky I’ll show them the hole where my baby came out of only to pull the waistband of my pants down to show my C-section scar. It’s hilarious when you do it to boys and they are a little drunk. I’m really funny like that.

I felt better about me when Andi put up a link to this and I realized that all this insanity is pretty normal, just not discussed on the face-to-face mommy circuit. That’s been the point of this entire blog, btw. To make other people feel a little bit normal. Is it working? Is there at least one of you out there that feels better because of something posted here at some time over the past couple years? Anyone? Has at least one thing that I typed given you some glimmer of hope that you aren’t a horrible person?

I feel older for the first time in my life. I’m split between being a bit resentful and a little angry that I have the responsibility of a child holding me back from being unabashedly me and completely being addicted to the pure joy I take in Jake and the feeling of mad crazy love I have for him.

I’m realizing that I may never be famous. Or rich. Or wildly sucessful in much of anything because I’m almost 32 and lazy. But I’m almost kinda okay with that. Almost kinda.

I’m healthy now! Hooray. My face and giner has stabilized.

I have a great idea for a book! One that just might work! If I can get some sponsorship fundage to make it all happen. Has anyone seen my grant writing materials? They’ve got to be around somewhere.

I’m not on The Moment of Truth! That’s got to bring me some demented sort of happiness. I swore I wouldn’t watch this, but I have. It’s just as bad as you think it might be. Who in thier right effing mind would ever agree to be on a gameshow airred on the Fox Network? I’m sure you had to sign some sort of agreement BEFORE the questions were asked, but come on! What were these coniving housewives thinking? That Mark Walberg WOULDN’T ask them if they were banging the poolboy and their ex-boyfriend (at the same time- hot!) and racking up mad creditcard debt while the kiddies were at playgroup and the husband was at work? You know what is tons of fun? Play along at home with your spouse. It’s really good for your marriage. No pressure. Just tell the truth. Do it.

Do it.


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