My sister just emailed me out of nowhere and said there's a constant threat of monster solar flares burning away our ozone and leaving everything on Earth to fry.
Apparently, she didn't think I was paranoid enough.
Oh, good.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Some kind of monster.
I went to get a new phone today because, although I don't believe I've mentioned it here, I FUCKING HATED MY PHONE. Hated with a passion that burned with the fire of a thousand suns. Hated A LOT. Which is all beside the point, it's not at all the point. I'm only mentioning it to procrastinate writing what I need to talk about, which is this:
I am a fucking monster. Now, before anyone gets any big ideas about how this is going to be one of those compliment fishing posts or I'm looking for someone to talk me out of feeling this way, you should wait. Wait and see why I say this. The only reason I'm sharing it is because seriously? People should be kept the hell away from me. Consider it a PSA and get the hell away. Just get away.
See, I was down at the phone place today getting myself a new phone because my old one was FROM FUCKING HELL, and I'm sitting there and I notice there's a flier on the representative's desk. I'm reading it upside down because I'm nosey like that, and I see two names I recognize. We'll say they're Dan and Judy. I think Hey, cool, I know a Dan and Judy, wouldn't it be funny if they're the same ones.
Then I see the picture. And it isn't cool, and I don't want to know this Dan and Judy anymore.
There's an under-lit photo of a blurry, unbelievably small person... Skin raspberry-red and ruddy and plastic-looking; delicate eyes hidden behind a black felt Zorro mask without the holes. A clear plastic tube disappearing between gaping, pencil-thin lips and down a tiny throat. Hands so small, the fingers look webbed.
There's another picture below it. Ink-stamped footprints. Between the foot prints is a penny to give perspective, and the feet are hardly bigger than the coin. Hardly bigger at all. The mind boggles, reels, spins away and gags, because feet that small are never attached to a body that lives.
I reached for the flier without asking, flipped it around to read what in the hell was going on...
Dan and Judy, friends I haven't seen in almost a year, were 6 months pregnant when Judy delivered their baby boy by emergency C-section less than 26 hours ago. The flier was asking for monetary donations to help differ the astronomical cost of hospital bills for mother and son, and hotel stays for the two parents to be able to stay near their tiny boy after discharge. They're 3 hours from home at a bigger hospital, and not that ANYONE has the money for this kind of thing, but Dan and Judy really don't. They've been hit with unemployment, are on assistance, and they struggle but they are so happy. Were so happy. Now that sunny disposition they face the world with has been clouded with fear and sorrow -- justified the first and premature the second because maybe, just maybe, their boy will make it. He could. They do, sometimes. They do. Don't they? He could.
I graduated with Dan, used to live downstairs from Judy. They've drifted out of my circle of consciousness and I from theirs, farther away than possible to be considered actual friends if any one's being honest. But I knew them once, and delight in seeing them still...
I didn't know they were pregnant. I didn't know Judy was having problems, bleeding problems, didn't know she'd lived the last 6 months of her life under the constant and very real threat of losing her son. I didn't know any of this, and it was a shock to the system, seeing this terribly small person who suddenly and surprisingly belongs to someone I care about. It seemed so unreal. Knowing that he may not live (babies aren't supposed to die.) Knowing how that must suffocate these two sweet people, staring at their son and willing him to hang on, baby, please hang on.
All of this registered in an instant, their terrible pain and fear and the delicate state of this tiny new person. It all flash-banged into my skull and became a part of my reality.
And then I made it about me. Because I'm a fucking asshole.
I started thinking, well, I'm 5 and a half months along -- only two weeks behind them. Jesus, would MY baby make it, would he live? Would they be able to save him? Would I be strong enough to go through what they're going through without scratching my own skin off and shrieking PLEASE HELP ME to anyone with ears? Would my baby die like theirs might? How could I recover from that again, I couldn't, I just know I couldn't.
I started looking for differences that would push me farther away from my friends and their situation, started feverishly scouring my mind for things that would put me apart from them and their tragedy. This lady says Judy started having problems at two months, I haven't had problems... She'd been on and off bed rest for the duration, I'm fine. We're fine. It's not going to happen to us. God, don't let it happen to us. She smoked -- I quit months before I got pregnant. She doesn't take much care of herself, I've been so, so careful.
You see. Monster.
I KNOW BETTER THAN THIS. Sometimes you can do everything right and the worst still happens -- has happened to me and people I know and love, IS happening NOW -- and yet there I was, like some superior, self important fuck, trying to convince myself that I was better or different so that terror wouldn't come knocking at our door. And you know what? Regardless of what Judy does, has done or hasn't done, no one deserves what she and her husband are going through right now and what in the hell kind of person has that reaction anyway!? These people, I know them, they are (were) friends, they're good people. How dare I...?
The representative was Judy's sister-in-law. She's going to take Judy and Dan's older girl (She's two. She's beautiful and perfect and sweet,) to see her parents tonight, making the drive after work. I pulled a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet, asked if I could give it to her for Judy and Dan and their boy.
It's not that I have hundreds lying around all the time. I was going to use that money to buy furniture for our baby...
But furniture is sticks and cloth and nails. It's material, it's nothing and it doesn't matter.
That money, when I handed it to that woman, became an extra night Dan and Judy can be close to their son without worrying how to pay for it. It became a bill that was just a little bit smaller.
It became a tangible apology for the guilt that woman didn't know I was feeling. I'm sorry for being so selfish, I'm sorry your son is sick and mine -thank God- is still where he belongs in my tummy, I'm sorry this happened to your family.
I'm sorry for being so scared. I'm sorry that hearing about your ordeal made me fear that the same could happen to us -- I'm sorry that, even if only in my mind, I treated you like your pain was contagious. I'm so sorry.
I am a fucking monster. Now, before anyone gets any big ideas about how this is going to be one of those compliment fishing posts or I'm looking for someone to talk me out of feeling this way, you should wait. Wait and see why I say this. The only reason I'm sharing it is because seriously? People should be kept the hell away from me. Consider it a PSA and get the hell away. Just get away.
See, I was down at the phone place today getting myself a new phone because my old one was FROM FUCKING HELL, and I'm sitting there and I notice there's a flier on the representative's desk. I'm reading it upside down because I'm nosey like that, and I see two names I recognize. We'll say they're Dan and Judy. I think Hey, cool, I know a Dan and Judy, wouldn't it be funny if they're the same ones.
Then I see the picture. And it isn't cool, and I don't want to know this Dan and Judy anymore.
There's an under-lit photo of a blurry, unbelievably small person... Skin raspberry-red and ruddy and plastic-looking; delicate eyes hidden behind a black felt Zorro mask without the holes. A clear plastic tube disappearing between gaping, pencil-thin lips and down a tiny throat. Hands so small, the fingers look webbed.
There's another picture below it. Ink-stamped footprints. Between the foot prints is a penny to give perspective, and the feet are hardly bigger than the coin. Hardly bigger at all. The mind boggles, reels, spins away and gags, because feet that small are never attached to a body that lives.
I reached for the flier without asking, flipped it around to read what in the hell was going on...
Dan and Judy, friends I haven't seen in almost a year, were 6 months pregnant when Judy delivered their baby boy by emergency C-section less than 26 hours ago. The flier was asking for monetary donations to help differ the astronomical cost of hospital bills for mother and son, and hotel stays for the two parents to be able to stay near their tiny boy after discharge. They're 3 hours from home at a bigger hospital, and not that ANYONE has the money for this kind of thing, but Dan and Judy really don't. They've been hit with unemployment, are on assistance, and they struggle but they are so happy. Were so happy. Now that sunny disposition they face the world with has been clouded with fear and sorrow -- justified the first and premature the second because maybe, just maybe, their boy will make it. He could. They do, sometimes. They do. Don't they? He could.
I graduated with Dan, used to live downstairs from Judy. They've drifted out of my circle of consciousness and I from theirs, farther away than possible to be considered actual friends if any one's being honest. But I knew them once, and delight in seeing them still...
I didn't know they were pregnant. I didn't know Judy was having problems, bleeding problems, didn't know she'd lived the last 6 months of her life under the constant and very real threat of losing her son. I didn't know any of this, and it was a shock to the system, seeing this terribly small person who suddenly and surprisingly belongs to someone I care about. It seemed so unreal. Knowing that he may not live (babies aren't supposed to die.) Knowing how that must suffocate these two sweet people, staring at their son and willing him to hang on, baby, please hang on.
All of this registered in an instant, their terrible pain and fear and the delicate state of this tiny new person. It all flash-banged into my skull and became a part of my reality.
And then I made it about me. Because I'm a fucking asshole.
I started thinking, well, I'm 5 and a half months along -- only two weeks behind them. Jesus, would MY baby make it, would he live? Would they be able to save him? Would I be strong enough to go through what they're going through without scratching my own skin off and shrieking PLEASE HELP ME to anyone with ears? Would my baby die like theirs might? How could I recover from that again, I couldn't, I just know I couldn't.
I started looking for differences that would push me farther away from my friends and their situation, started feverishly scouring my mind for things that would put me apart from them and their tragedy. This lady says Judy started having problems at two months, I haven't had problems... She'd been on and off bed rest for the duration, I'm fine. We're fine. It's not going to happen to us. God, don't let it happen to us. She smoked -- I quit months before I got pregnant. She doesn't take much care of herself, I've been so, so careful.
You see. Monster.
I KNOW BETTER THAN THIS. Sometimes you can do everything right and the worst still happens -- has happened to me and people I know and love, IS happening NOW -- and yet there I was, like some superior, self important fuck, trying to convince myself that I was better or different so that terror wouldn't come knocking at our door. And you know what? Regardless of what Judy does, has done or hasn't done, no one deserves what she and her husband are going through right now and what in the hell kind of person has that reaction anyway!? These people, I know them, they are (were) friends, they're good people. How dare I...?
The representative was Judy's sister-in-law. She's going to take Judy and Dan's older girl (She's two. She's beautiful and perfect and sweet,) to see her parents tonight, making the drive after work. I pulled a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet, asked if I could give it to her for Judy and Dan and their boy.
It's not that I have hundreds lying around all the time. I was going to use that money to buy furniture for our baby...
But furniture is sticks and cloth and nails. It's material, it's nothing and it doesn't matter.
That money, when I handed it to that woman, became an extra night Dan and Judy can be close to their son without worrying how to pay for it. It became a bill that was just a little bit smaller.
It became a tangible apology for the guilt that woman didn't know I was feeling. I'm sorry for being so selfish, I'm sorry your son is sick and mine -thank God- is still where he belongs in my tummy, I'm sorry this happened to your family.
I'm sorry for being so scared. I'm sorry that hearing about your ordeal made me fear that the same could happen to us -- I'm sorry that, even if only in my mind, I treated you like your pain was contagious. I'm so sorry.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Dear TBM...
Dear The Boy's Mom,
Hi. I know we've known each other for about a year now, but I feel like we don't really know one another very well. Let me start out by saying, my, what a lovely son you have. I mean, really. Good job there. I think he's pretty awesome, as you may have gathered by the fact that I let him impregnate me, but one can never stress the positive too much so, again, nice work. Thumbs up.
Also? I like your hair. The color of it, I mean. The cut wouldn't flatter me, being kind of short and severe like it is, but it works on you. It looks nice. I'm not just saying that because I'm afraid of you. But I am afraid of you.
I don't know what else to say, other than how 'bout them Bears and WOW, what unseasonably cool weather we've been having! Have the grasshoppers been bad out in your neck of the woods? Because in town, my goodness, they're just everywhere. You can't throw a piss without hitting a hundred of those big boys, and they're really causing a problem with crops, or so I hear. Not that I have crops, as you know, but I do hear things about people that have them, and man... What a sucky year. To have crops. I... Am I right? Heh. Uh...
Oh, well, I guess I should mention, before I forget... Not that it's any big deal or anything, or that it matters at all, and I know I've already told you a couple (dozen) times, but again, I feel I need to stress it so kind of bear with me: I'm not getting rid of my 20+ pound, elderly, long-haired cat because you're concerned he's going to literally suck the life out of my baby. I'm not going to let him 'try to eat the dried milk off the baby's face' so I don't know how he'd manage to get his massive ass on top of the kid in the first place, but I do thank you for your obvious and repetitive concern on this matter. I know it's out of love, and not your conviction that I'm too stupid to keep your grandchild alive. What? No, of course I do!
But ...Did I tell you that he's kind of crippled, my cat, and not so good at jumping? So, although I know I'll have to be aware of possible assassination attempts when I put my new-born on the floor and leave him unattended in a room by himself with the animal, I don't really think Mr. Big Stuff is going to be able to heave his gigantic ass into the crib and kill the baby that way. Just so you know. And I'll try to be as vigilant as I can when I pull both my infant and my kitty onto my lap, letting one nibble on the lips of the other, so that when the cat looks like he's starting to suck the air out of my son I can put a stop to that shit right there. We won't be having any baby lung sucking on my watch, ha ha ha.
I know your concern isn't limited to the fact that my cat is obviously from Hell and has evil in his murderous heart, but also that his long hair will give the baby DEADLY ALLERGIES, because your doctor 27 years ago told you that it was possible. You did mention that you selflessly got rid of your cat when The Boy was born and that he and his sisters have never had any allergies. You may have mentioned (repeatedly) that you loved that cat, but you loved your children MORE, and look how much good it's done for THEM, and I have to agree: You are obviously a saint.
Although, and not that I'm criticizing, I don't know how it's managed to escape your attention that your son actually DOES have allergies, or that his dog also has long hair. I only mention this because I notice that you aren't worried about her (the dog) shedding causing our child to become weak and frail and DIE, probably also from suffocation.
This brings me to another point. I'm worried about you, The Boy's Mom. Why does suffocation frighten you so? Were you asphyxiated as a child? Is there a hidden trauma you need to talk about? I'm here if you need an ear, and I'd be happy to listen to your woes.
Sort of along the same vein but not really at all, I just kind of wanted to mention that, well... you know the house your son and I are currently moving into? The one both of us are buying together, with our money, for our family and our (hopefully unsuffocated- cross your fingers!) child? Yeah. I really hate the upstairs bathroom. I hate that there is CARPET in it. I hate that the walls are SPONGE PAINTED and that there is a wallpaper border along the ceiling with random seashells in varying shades of PINK. That bathroom is not really 'me' at all. I know you love it and you think it's classy, and you can't imagine why I'd want to change it apart from the fact that I'm obviously blind or stupid and regardless, must not be good enough for your son. But I do want to change it, and that doesn't mean I've got bad taste or I'm dense, and even if I want to paint the walls in goat blood and drill a chute to China in the middle of the floor, I can do that because the bathroom is mine and not yours so it's really not up to you... Unless you're confused and think you're the one moving in with your son, in which case that brings up an entirely new set of concerns. A set of concerns which could lead to extended hospitalization. In theory. Not that I'm making a threat. No, of course I'm not!
Well, The Boy's Mom, I guess that's kind of it for now. I sure appreciate you taking the time to absorb what I have to say. I know the letter is long, but I figured perhaps written words could get my point across better than the words I speak, which you apparently cannot hear. We really need to find some way around this language barrier, TBM! I know we both speak English, but I fear my dialect must be very different from yours. (Maybe I was exposed to cats as an infant? No. Couldn't be. I don't seem to be dying of suffocation. Must be something else.)
Well, alrighty! I guess we'll talk (or write?) to you soon!
-The Girl
Hi. I know we've known each other for about a year now, but I feel like we don't really know one another very well. Let me start out by saying, my, what a lovely son you have. I mean, really. Good job there. I think he's pretty awesome, as you may have gathered by the fact that I let him impregnate me, but one can never stress the positive too much so, again, nice work. Thumbs up.
Also? I like your hair. The color of it, I mean. The cut wouldn't flatter me, being kind of short and severe like it is, but it works on you. It looks nice. I'm not just saying that because I'm afraid of you. But I am afraid of you.
I don't know what else to say, other than how 'bout them Bears and WOW, what unseasonably cool weather we've been having! Have the grasshoppers been bad out in your neck of the woods? Because in town, my goodness, they're just everywhere. You can't throw a piss without hitting a hundred of those big boys, and they're really causing a problem with crops, or so I hear. Not that I have crops, as you know, but I do hear things about people that have them, and man... What a sucky year. To have crops. I... Am I right? Heh. Uh...
Oh, well, I guess I should mention, before I forget... Not that it's any big deal or anything, or that it matters at all, and I know I've already told you a couple (dozen) times, but again, I feel I need to stress it so kind of bear with me: I'm not getting rid of my 20+ pound, elderly, long-haired cat because you're concerned he's going to literally suck the life out of my baby. I'm not going to let him 'try to eat the dried milk off the baby's face' so I don't know how he'd manage to get his massive ass on top of the kid in the first place, but I do thank you for your obvious and repetitive concern on this matter. I know it's out of love, and not your conviction that I'm too stupid to keep your grandchild alive. What? No, of course I do!
But ...Did I tell you that he's kind of crippled, my cat, and not so good at jumping? So, although I know I'll have to be aware of possible assassination attempts when I put my new-born on the floor and leave him unattended in a room by himself with the animal, I don't really think Mr. Big Stuff is going to be able to heave his gigantic ass into the crib and kill the baby that way. Just so you know. And I'll try to be as vigilant as I can when I pull both my infant and my kitty onto my lap, letting one nibble on the lips of the other, so that when the cat looks like he's starting to suck the air out of my son I can put a stop to that shit right there. We won't be having any baby lung sucking on my watch, ha ha ha.
I know your concern isn't limited to the fact that my cat is obviously from Hell and has evil in his murderous heart, but also that his long hair will give the baby DEADLY ALLERGIES, because your doctor 27 years ago told you that it was possible. You did mention that you selflessly got rid of your cat when The Boy was born and that he and his sisters have never had any allergies. You may have mentioned (repeatedly) that you loved that cat, but you loved your children MORE, and look how much good it's done for THEM, and I have to agree: You are obviously a saint.
Although, and not that I'm criticizing, I don't know how it's managed to escape your attention that your son actually DOES have allergies, or that his dog also has long hair. I only mention this because I notice that you aren't worried about her (the dog) shedding causing our child to become weak and frail and DIE, probably also from suffocation.
This brings me to another point. I'm worried about you, The Boy's Mom. Why does suffocation frighten you so? Were you asphyxiated as a child? Is there a hidden trauma you need to talk about? I'm here if you need an ear, and I'd be happy to listen to your woes.
Sort of along the same vein but not really at all, I just kind of wanted to mention that, well... you know the house your son and I are currently moving into? The one both of us are buying together, with our money, for our family and our (hopefully unsuffocated- cross your fingers!) child? Yeah. I really hate the upstairs bathroom. I hate that there is CARPET in it. I hate that the walls are SPONGE PAINTED and that there is a wallpaper border along the ceiling with random seashells in varying shades of PINK. That bathroom is not really 'me' at all. I know you love it and you think it's classy, and you can't imagine why I'd want to change it apart from the fact that I'm obviously blind or stupid and regardless, must not be good enough for your son. But I do want to change it, and that doesn't mean I've got bad taste or I'm dense, and even if I want to paint the walls in goat blood and drill a chute to China in the middle of the floor, I can do that because the bathroom is mine and not yours so it's really not up to you... Unless you're confused and think you're the one moving in with your son, in which case that brings up an entirely new set of concerns. A set of concerns which could lead to extended hospitalization. In theory. Not that I'm making a threat. No, of course I'm not!
Well, The Boy's Mom, I guess that's kind of it for now. I sure appreciate you taking the time to absorb what I have to say. I know the letter is long, but I figured perhaps written words could get my point across better than the words I speak, which you apparently cannot hear. We really need to find some way around this language barrier, TBM! I know we both speak English, but I fear my dialect must be very different from yours. (Maybe I was exposed to cats as an infant? No. Couldn't be. I don't seem to be dying of suffocation. Must be something else.)
Well, alrighty! I guess we'll talk (or write?) to you soon!
-The Girl
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
They're coming to take me away, ha-ha!
(Hey, I'm not dead! I know, I'm surprised, too.)
Pregnancy makes you do weird things, and think that doing these weird things is alright. For instance, let me set a scene for you:
The other day, my oldest sister and I were at Toys R Us looking at baby things. You'd think we'd have gone to Babies R Us for this, but we live in one of the sparsely populated square states and so that was not possible. Whatever, it doesn't matter, don't judge us because we're primitive.
There we are, walking around all lah-dee-dah looking at this cheapo-cheap kiddo crap (Seriously, have you looked at all the plastic in that store? Mother of Mercy!) and suddenly I get an odd, crampy, strange feeling in my downstairs and come to a jerky halt. My sister looks over at my expression, which must clearly say, "What the fuck?" so she asks what's up and I don't think to lie, so I say, "I think there's a foot in my vagina," and she chokes and stares, aghast at her baby sister's droppage of crotch-speak in a place meant for buying of child-type things for children who may have their midget-sized ears within hearing range of words she doesn't deem fit for the kiddos. (Vagina? The other day I said "You've got to be fist fucking me!" while holding a four month-old. She would have been so scandalized. What? Don't look at me like that, it's not like the baby understood. I clean it up around kids. Or so I thought.)
I said this very out-loud, in a toy store, for what may be the first time in history those words have ever been uttered in that place. And she was in shock. I think she almost threw up.
Well, she shouldn't have asked.
I realize I'm only twenty-one (and a half!) weeks along, but man... I could have sworn that my little acrobat baby was standing on one foot right down inside my pelvis, and it wasn't very comfortable, so God forgive me for saying the V-word in the Toys R Us. I was overcome by the urge to share this strange happening, although I'm sure "outburst due to being overcome by feeling of foot in fanooter" won't stand up when the men in white coats are filling out their commitment papers and need something to put in the WHY section.
Look, okay, so I'm still not really showing very much. All of the pregnancy books and calenders and websites and articles say that I should be over run by strangers giving unsolicited belly pats every time I step out my front door, and that has yet to happen, probably for two reasons. One: I hate strangers and I think they can tell by my getthehellawayfrommeyoufuck glare I give them when they get too close to me, because strangers are notoriously perceptive, and two: The belly, she is not there very much. So. I mean, I can tell a difference, but it's not like KA BAM! here's an obviously pregnant girl! More like pfffffffft (that's my farty noise) here's a chick who looks kind of bloated and should probably lay off the salt.
This lack of belly scares me when I let it, and I think that in an effort to counteract the fear I have become really, "Oh my goodness, so there's a foot using my cervix as a trampoline right this instant, glory be!" about things. Because hell if I'm not going to marvel in this while it lasts -- be that 9 months or 9 minutes. I'm all in. You may want to buy a pair of shades to shield your eyes from the shining glory that is my child-like sense of wonder.
In other news: We close on the house in three days, and can start moving in that day. Which means I should probably finish packing but eh, packing is for losers and I'm nothing if not a WINNER who wins at winning, and who the hell am I kidding? I just don't want to stuff crap into boxes anymore. This is not a good time to decide I don't want to pack anymore, as my entire bedroom and kitchen still need to be rounded up, but... Feh. I'm kind of done with it and have decided that as opposed to doing any more actual packing, I think I'll just take arm loads of my junk to my car, drive to the new house, and unload said junk. We're only moving across town.
It'd be very green of me to save the boxes, don't you think?
Pregnancy makes you do weird things, and think that doing these weird things is alright. For instance, let me set a scene for you:
The other day, my oldest sister and I were at Toys R Us looking at baby things. You'd think we'd have gone to Babies R Us for this, but we live in one of the sparsely populated square states and so that was not possible. Whatever, it doesn't matter, don't judge us because we're primitive.
There we are, walking around all lah-dee-dah looking at this cheapo-cheap kiddo crap (Seriously, have you looked at all the plastic in that store? Mother of Mercy!) and suddenly I get an odd, crampy, strange feeling in my downstairs and come to a jerky halt. My sister looks over at my expression, which must clearly say, "What the fuck?" so she asks what's up and I don't think to lie, so I say, "I think there's a foot in my vagina," and she chokes and stares, aghast at her baby sister's droppage of crotch-speak in a place meant for buying of child-type things for children who may have their midget-sized ears within hearing range of words she doesn't deem fit for the kiddos. (Vagina? The other day I said "You've got to be fist fucking me!" while holding a four month-old. She would have been so scandalized. What? Don't look at me like that, it's not like the baby understood. I clean it up around kids. Or so I thought.)
I said this very out-loud, in a toy store, for what may be the first time in history those words have ever been uttered in that place. And she was in shock. I think she almost threw up.
Well, she shouldn't have asked.
I realize I'm only twenty-one (and a half!) weeks along, but man... I could have sworn that my little acrobat baby was standing on one foot right down inside my pelvis, and it wasn't very comfortable, so God forgive me for saying the V-word in the Toys R Us. I was overcome by the urge to share this strange happening, although I'm sure "outburst due to being overcome by feeling of foot in fanooter" won't stand up when the men in white coats are filling out their commitment papers and need something to put in the WHY section.
Look, okay, so I'm still not really showing very much. All of the pregnancy books and calenders and websites and articles say that I should be over run by strangers giving unsolicited belly pats every time I step out my front door, and that has yet to happen, probably for two reasons. One: I hate strangers and I think they can tell by my getthehellawayfrommeyoufuck glare I give them when they get too close to me, because strangers are notoriously perceptive, and two: The belly, she is not there very much. So. I mean, I can tell a difference, but it's not like KA BAM! here's an obviously pregnant girl! More like pfffffffft (that's my farty noise) here's a chick who looks kind of bloated and should probably lay off the salt.
This lack of belly scares me when I let it, and I think that in an effort to counteract the fear I have become really, "Oh my goodness, so there's a foot using my cervix as a trampoline right this instant, glory be!" about things. Because hell if I'm not going to marvel in this while it lasts -- be that 9 months or 9 minutes. I'm all in. You may want to buy a pair of shades to shield your eyes from the shining glory that is my child-like sense of wonder.
In other news: We close on the house in three days, and can start moving in that day. Which means I should probably finish packing but eh, packing is for losers and I'm nothing if not a WINNER who wins at winning, and who the hell am I kidding? I just don't want to stuff crap into boxes anymore. This is not a good time to decide I don't want to pack anymore, as my entire bedroom and kitchen still need to be rounded up, but... Feh. I'm kind of done with it and have decided that as opposed to doing any more actual packing, I think I'll just take arm loads of my junk to my car, drive to the new house, and unload said junk. We're only moving across town.
It'd be very green of me to save the boxes, don't you think?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Boys in tutus.
(I'm blogging my ass off today. Been made to think about this topic by the wonderful mind tickler over at Pacing the Panic Room - http://pacingthepanicroom.blogspot.com/ -- which I recommend everyone read because he and his beautiful family are incredible.)
My nephew, when he was about three, loved to spin. He'd walk out into the middle of the room, throw his arms out and his head back, and just go. It was a fun thing to watch, this little person doing something pointless and silly because he liked the way it felt when the air rushed by his skin and his brain scrambled into a dizzy mess.
One day his dad was walking by and happened to glance into the living room where his son was whirling around. He laughed and said, "Boy, quit it. You look like a ballerina."
The boy stopped hard, planting both feet, and swayed for a moment while his eyes crossed and uncrossed wildly. He drew himself up, pointed his finger at the ceiling and hollered, "Maybe I WANNA BE A BALLERINA!"
My brother-in-law stopped short and stared at his boy, the light of his life, this tiny person that was such a strong little individual. He looked at me, then back at the boy. Finally, he said, "Well, okay. It's not like there's anything wrong with that. You go ahead and spin, buddy." and continued on his way. I loved him infinitely more in that moment than I ever had before, and that's saying a lot because my BIL is one of my favorite people alive. He hadn't meant what he's said about the ballerina as a bad thing, and it hurt him that it might have come off that way. He just wanted his boy to be happy, have fun, do what he liked to do.
Also, just FYI: The boy's favorite color was then and is still pink, and while he's 10 now and a little bit more shy about that he still will answer honestly when you ask, because we've always told him that colors don't belong to boys or girls, they're for everyone.
That's what I want. I want my kid to be a ballerina if he wants to. I want him to be into sports (*cringe*) if he wants to. I want him to stick his nose into a book and wander through a field with his head in the clouds if that's the person that he is. Whoever he is, I want him to know it's okay. The idea of anyone ever making him feel bad for being himself is a scary, infuriating thing. The boy, my nephew, is made to feel bad for liking pink. He's made to feel like he should hide it, like it's different and that different is bad, and that makes me want to hurt people in a way they are not able to recover from.
I just want my child to be healthy and happy. I just want him to be what and whomever he is. Why isn't that enough for people? Why do we as a society push things on our children and the children of others? Why do we feel the need to enforce these preassigned ideas about the way others should live and act? They're only children. Why should they ever be made to feel that being who they are is wrong?
See, I worry about this because we live in a rural state. A really rural state, full of football and rodeo and farming. (My sister and her brood live on the far end, where there is not so much of any of this at all. I do not.) I'm not from here and have never taken part in any of these things, nor could I ever imagine it. I'm not going to play an organized sport any more than I'm going to strap myself to the back of a livestock animal that doesn't want me there. That shit's crazy and while I'm crazy, I'm not THAT KIND of crazy.
However... I somehow managed to get my boots knocked off and then up by a man that comes from a ranching family. He was involved heavily in sports and rodeo and ranching for most of his formative years, and in fact did not stop any of those things until he was out of college. Not only did this man knock my boots (Quite thoroughly, might I mention. Yes indeed.) but managed to be a perfectly sweet, wonderful, incredible person whom I fell terribly in love with and have no intention of being away from any time soon.
The part of all of this that concerns me is that I'm pretty sure this kid's going to be showered in footballs and crap like that when he's born, and I don't like that. It skeeves me out, makes my shoulders bunch up, makes me uncomfortable to the point of complete aggravation because, shit, he's just a BABY. You don't know what he's going to like -- HE doesn't know what he's going to like. You know what new borns like? Tits and blankets and naps and crying. That's what they like. None of that has anything to do with anything except comfort and survival, and already they're being suffocated by "gender appropriate" toys and clothing and... Fuck, I'd just thought I'd buy some neutral onesies and call it good.
Come to find out that around these parts, it's got to have TRUCKS or BALLS or BEARS on it if it's for a boy. It's got to be BLUE and RED and as your child moves around in the clothing, it has to play a song who's lyrics consist of I'M A BOY, I AM A BOY BOY BOY, I HAVE A TINY PENIS IN MY PANTS to the tune of a marching band so that everyone's attention is drawn to the fact that holy crap, that child must be male. Thank Christ Jesus that he's got that big blue bear on his t-shirt, or we'd all have been at a terrible loss and society as we know it might have collapsed.
And that's just when they're tiny! When they're bigger, it's unheard of that a boy isn't involved in sports or Scouts, learning and doing Traditional Boy Things, what the fuck.
The only thing this makes me grateful for is that we're not (probably) having a girl. I couldn't stand the pink and the sparkles and the princess baby shit that people would flood our home with. I wouldn't be able to stomach it. Then as girls around here grow up, they learn that acting stupid gets you more attention from the boys (Does anyone else need a bag to throw up in?) and cheer leading will make you popular, and that being mean to other girls is okay because they obviously must deserve it for not looking like you and doing what you do. All of it is enough to make me climb a clock tower with a rifle, and I don't know if I could stand the constant battle against it.
At least with the boy I can just tell people to get their dirty damn balls out of my house and away from my baby. I think I'll be talking to people a lot about their balls.
(By the way: I'm startled to realize that this seems to be turning into a parenting blog. I did not expect that, but this pregnancy is really making me think of things in a different light, and think about things I didn't spend much time on before. Evolution, I guess?)
My nephew, when he was about three, loved to spin. He'd walk out into the middle of the room, throw his arms out and his head back, and just go. It was a fun thing to watch, this little person doing something pointless and silly because he liked the way it felt when the air rushed by his skin and his brain scrambled into a dizzy mess.
One day his dad was walking by and happened to glance into the living room where his son was whirling around. He laughed and said, "Boy, quit it. You look like a ballerina."
The boy stopped hard, planting both feet, and swayed for a moment while his eyes crossed and uncrossed wildly. He drew himself up, pointed his finger at the ceiling and hollered, "Maybe I WANNA BE A BALLERINA!"
My brother-in-law stopped short and stared at his boy, the light of his life, this tiny person that was such a strong little individual. He looked at me, then back at the boy. Finally, he said, "Well, okay. It's not like there's anything wrong with that. You go ahead and spin, buddy." and continued on his way. I loved him infinitely more in that moment than I ever had before, and that's saying a lot because my BIL is one of my favorite people alive. He hadn't meant what he's said about the ballerina as a bad thing, and it hurt him that it might have come off that way. He just wanted his boy to be happy, have fun, do what he liked to do.
Also, just FYI: The boy's favorite color was then and is still pink, and while he's 10 now and a little bit more shy about that he still will answer honestly when you ask, because we've always told him that colors don't belong to boys or girls, they're for everyone.
That's what I want. I want my kid to be a ballerina if he wants to. I want him to be into sports (*cringe*) if he wants to. I want him to stick his nose into a book and wander through a field with his head in the clouds if that's the person that he is. Whoever he is, I want him to know it's okay. The idea of anyone ever making him feel bad for being himself is a scary, infuriating thing. The boy, my nephew, is made to feel bad for liking pink. He's made to feel like he should hide it, like it's different and that different is bad, and that makes me want to hurt people in a way they are not able to recover from.
I just want my child to be healthy and happy. I just want him to be what and whomever he is. Why isn't that enough for people? Why do we as a society push things on our children and the children of others? Why do we feel the need to enforce these preassigned ideas about the way others should live and act? They're only children. Why should they ever be made to feel that being who they are is wrong?
See, I worry about this because we live in a rural state. A really rural state, full of football and rodeo and farming. (My sister and her brood live on the far end, where there is not so much of any of this at all. I do not.) I'm not from here and have never taken part in any of these things, nor could I ever imagine it. I'm not going to play an organized sport any more than I'm going to strap myself to the back of a livestock animal that doesn't want me there. That shit's crazy and while I'm crazy, I'm not THAT KIND of crazy.
However... I somehow managed to get my boots knocked off and then up by a man that comes from a ranching family. He was involved heavily in sports and rodeo and ranching for most of his formative years, and in fact did not stop any of those things until he was out of college. Not only did this man knock my boots (Quite thoroughly, might I mention. Yes indeed.) but managed to be a perfectly sweet, wonderful, incredible person whom I fell terribly in love with and have no intention of being away from any time soon.
The part of all of this that concerns me is that I'm pretty sure this kid's going to be showered in footballs and crap like that when he's born, and I don't like that. It skeeves me out, makes my shoulders bunch up, makes me uncomfortable to the point of complete aggravation because, shit, he's just a BABY. You don't know what he's going to like -- HE doesn't know what he's going to like. You know what new borns like? Tits and blankets and naps and crying. That's what they like. None of that has anything to do with anything except comfort and survival, and already they're being suffocated by "gender appropriate" toys and clothing and... Fuck, I'd just thought I'd buy some neutral onesies and call it good.
Come to find out that around these parts, it's got to have TRUCKS or BALLS or BEARS on it if it's for a boy. It's got to be BLUE and RED and as your child moves around in the clothing, it has to play a song who's lyrics consist of I'M A BOY, I AM A BOY BOY BOY, I HAVE A TINY PENIS IN MY PANTS to the tune of a marching band so that everyone's attention is drawn to the fact that holy crap, that child must be male. Thank Christ Jesus that he's got that big blue bear on his t-shirt, or we'd all have been at a terrible loss and society as we know it might have collapsed.
And that's just when they're tiny! When they're bigger, it's unheard of that a boy isn't involved in sports or Scouts, learning and doing Traditional Boy Things, what the fuck.
The only thing this makes me grateful for is that we're not (probably) having a girl. I couldn't stand the pink and the sparkles and the princess baby shit that people would flood our home with. I wouldn't be able to stomach it. Then as girls around here grow up, they learn that acting stupid gets you more attention from the boys (Does anyone else need a bag to throw up in?) and cheer leading will make you popular, and that being mean to other girls is okay because they obviously must deserve it for not looking like you and doing what you do. All of it is enough to make me climb a clock tower with a rifle, and I don't know if I could stand the constant battle against it.
At least with the boy I can just tell people to get their dirty damn balls out of my house and away from my baby. I think I'll be talking to people a lot about their balls.
(By the way: I'm startled to realize that this seems to be turning into a parenting blog. I did not expect that, but this pregnancy is really making me think of things in a different light, and think about things I didn't spend much time on before. Evolution, I guess?)
This is so weird.
Being pregnant is kind of like you've been possessed by a tiny, mysterious little thing. Maybe not so much possessed like by an alien or a spirit or something, as you've been taken possession of.
But man, it's cool. It's so damn cool. There's a person inside my body right now, a real person, with organs and bones and a brain that's figuring things out.
Within the next little while here, that person's brain is going to develop to the point that he'll realize what's around him. He'll start becoming aware of sensations and knowledge of things. (This is smooth, that is soft... something is touching me, it is brighter now...) He'll try to understand what he's feeling, reaching out with tiny fingertips and limbs to explore this soft, warm place he's in. The fluid in his inner ear will develop, and so he'll gain a sense of when he's in one position over another, and what he likes or doesn't like.
Isn't that wild? One day, you're just floating around, blissed out and oblivious, and then practically the next you're AWARE. Suddenly, you realize you're not so fond of lying like this, but prefer that. You notice the difference between light and dark, and understand that there IS a difference, and that with one comes motion and the other, stillness. You start having ideas -- bright, colorful, beautiful ideas that no one in the world will ever have any understanding or knowledge of. You become separate, aware; an entirely new being that never was before it suddenly is.
It's made me start to think harder on something -- when does someone become a person, an individual? We are human and unique from conception, by a predestined organization of genes and molecules and so on. But when do we become ourselves?
This is a long running question, brought up mostly by the pro-choice and pro-life camps. That is not what I'm doing here, but instead I pose the question, if it's possible to do so, separately from that argument. When it comes down to your basic understanding and belief, when do we become PEOPLE? Is it when we are conceived, or when brain function develops to the point of awareness, or when we are physically independent of our mothers? There are so many different points of view on this subject.
What's yours? Please do share. I'm just musing, just curious.
But man, it's cool. It's so damn cool. There's a person inside my body right now, a real person, with organs and bones and a brain that's figuring things out.
Within the next little while here, that person's brain is going to develop to the point that he'll realize what's around him. He'll start becoming aware of sensations and knowledge of things. (This is smooth, that is soft... something is touching me, it is brighter now...) He'll try to understand what he's feeling, reaching out with tiny fingertips and limbs to explore this soft, warm place he's in. The fluid in his inner ear will develop, and so he'll gain a sense of when he's in one position over another, and what he likes or doesn't like.
Isn't that wild? One day, you're just floating around, blissed out and oblivious, and then practically the next you're AWARE. Suddenly, you realize you're not so fond of lying like this, but prefer that. You notice the difference between light and dark, and understand that there IS a difference, and that with one comes motion and the other, stillness. You start having ideas -- bright, colorful, beautiful ideas that no one in the world will ever have any understanding or knowledge of. You become separate, aware; an entirely new being that never was before it suddenly is.
It's made me start to think harder on something -- when does someone become a person, an individual? We are human and unique from conception, by a predestined organization of genes and molecules and so on. But when do we become ourselves?
This is a long running question, brought up mostly by the pro-choice and pro-life camps. That is not what I'm doing here, but instead I pose the question, if it's possible to do so, separately from that argument. When it comes down to your basic understanding and belief, when do we become PEOPLE? Is it when we are conceived, or when brain function develops to the point of awareness, or when we are physically independent of our mothers? There are so many different points of view on this subject.
What's yours? Please do share. I'm just musing, just curious.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
He can't be serious.
(Edited to add: It should probably be mentioned - and I didn't mention, because I'm a jackass - that my father and I don't really speak. We never really have. We don't do much in the way of family at all, he and I. I love him because I was raised with him as my father, but as a person he is very, very hard to tollerate and always has been. This is his personality, and has nothing to do with anything other than him being who he is. He's never had much to do with my life, not since I was very young. There are a lot of underlying issues here, but that's the biggest one: We're practical strangers. Which might be where the anger here comes from.)
I called my dad the day of our appointment to tell him he's going to have a grandson, that we're doing great, and that we seem to (somehow) be staying out of the woods so far when it comes to health. This was my first mistake, and I have since come to wish a house had fallen out of the sky and crushed me before I could dial his number, because to this news he said, "Oh, that's good. I'll be there on Saturday."
He didn't ask, he didn't warn, and there was no room in the tone of his voice for doubt. This is how he controls situations: He storms into them with his mind made up, and damn the consequences for anyone else.
Hooray for me and fuck everyone else.
This is how he goes through life. He didn't even start announcing himself until I went on a screaming jag two years ago about the very good chances that someday, he's going to drive 7 hours from his door to mine only to find I'm out of town, and THEN won't he feel like a dick.
He doesn't care what his arrival will do to the lives he's crash landing into. He expects room to be made with no notice, and he always has. If for some reason room cannot be made, he throws an epic fit. I'm talking EPIC--complete with stomping, yelling, outlandish accusations concerning alienation of affection and a lifetime of disrespect, guilt, etc. Also, and I feel like I really do have to stress this next fact:
My father is dying. He's had congestive heart failure for YEARS, has had two bypass surgeries, has a defibrillator AND a pacemaker implanted in his chest (two different things - one keeps the rhythm, the other shocks the wrath of Satan into your heart meat when the rhythm cannot be kept) is on a list of medications as long as I am tall, calls the Cardiac Clinic to report his weight and BP/other stats every morning, needs mechanical assistance to breathe at night, and goes in to the clinic for a check up 2-3 times a week. He has 30 percent of ONE SIDE of his heart left functioning at a normal level, the rest is either dead or in afibrillation -- beating so fast that it does absolutely no good to his body or his blood.
He. Is. Dying. He is also the one drinking Pepsi out of a keg in the corner. Yes, that is a gravy stain on his shirt and no, he doesn't know what stain you're talking about or how it got there because he would never do anything stupid like eat biscuits and gravy at the Cracker Barrel and house more food than is necessary to feed all of Asia every chance he gets. You must be hallucinating. It must have been fairies. Gravy fairies. And the doctors said that the Pepsi is good for his blood sugar, which is totally normal even though he hasn't used a test strip since God created sky. He obviously feels the pathological need to lie about the state of his health and how RECKLESSLY he is regarding it. He is constantly, every second of every day, seconds away from death. This, of course, as you can imagine, is incredibly hard to be around and bear witness to. It ALSO means that he cannot be more than 20 minutes away from a major cardiac ward, lest his body give out on him. (Which it does. A lot. And will again. Frequently. Until it can't recover anymore.) Which means he should not ever, ever drive 7 hours to anywhere, especially not to me, when I live in one of the most desolate states in the Union and there is literally no way he would survive if something happened to him on his way here.
On top of his terrible health and habit of lying about it, my father is incredibly demanding. He demands constant attention, constant submission. THIS is not due to his illness, THIS is due to him being a FUCKING SPOILED TYRANT. Get me this, bring me that, go here for me, do this for me, LISTEN TO ME, don't speak, don't make noise, why is your dog looking at me, get your cat away from me, it's too hot in here, get me that, I need this, you're doing it wrong, you're doing it wrong, YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG, I know more, I know best, do this for me, I need that, give me that right now, let me tell you a story about how wonderful I am, I'm thirsty, my medication is making my balls swell. Oh, hello, The Boy's family members! FRESH MEAT! Come listen to me, right now, do this, do that, NOW! NOW! NOW!
Because of ALL OF this, it is not possible to make room in one's life for him without notice, as he is a walking fucking time bomb and his heart is literally always on the verge of EXPLODING. Not to mention his kidneys are failing, as is his liver, and don't even get me started on the rest of his organs. Certain allowances have to be made, certain tasks and activities become absolutely impossible.
Whatever. I didn't much feel in the mood to argue with him or point any of this out just then, since I'd just gotten out of my appointment and was flying so high, I could not see the ground. I told him I'd check my work schedule and try to get someone to cover for me so I could spend more time with him when he got here, and that I'd call him back later.
Big mistake. Huge.
I don't know if that recess gave him time to cook up his little plan or what, but man... I could strangle someone. I feel like a tool about it, but I really could just kill right now.
When I called my father back, he told me that my sister had told him that The Boy and I are moving into a new house, and she suggested that he stay with us instead of saving his money and staying in a hotel. (BECAUSE SHE OBVIOUSLY FUCKING HATES ME, THAT'S WHY!) So his plan now is that instead of my sister driving down to get him after the baby is born, he's going to drive here alone WEEKS BEFORE the birth and, this is the best part so I'll quote him directly, "I can stay as long as I want. Not forever, but for a long, long time."
Now, you might be thinking, "He can't seriously be suggesting that a near-seventy year-old man who's hardly managing to stay out of the ground should drive an ancient, rust bucket hoopty 7.5 hours IN NOVEMBER BLIZZARDS, alone, and then squat his geriatric, critically ill and incredibly needy, belligerent ass in the home of his youngest daughter and her love, who will have a newborn to adapt to and care for and try to keep alive."
No. He can't be serious, but he is.
So now on Saturday when he shows up out of nowhere (If he shows up, actually. He could very possibly arrest on the way up and be detained in some po-dunk ER somewhere in the middle of God's country,) I have to look at him and tell him that he cannot do this, he can't because I CANNOT HANDLE IT, and he is going to freak his shit. He will absolutely, completely lose his ever-loving mind. And I won't be able to relent because DAMNIT, this is MY life and MY baby and I know how much I can handle, and having him hovering over our newborn while wheezing, coughing, unable to move, demanding every second of every person's attention, is going to be too fucking much.
My unwillingness to cave to him will infuriate him. Everyone has alwas given in to him. I always have, because I love him and want him to be happy. Growing up, there was no defiance. There was never a time we told him "no." It was not allowed because he does not accept that answer from anyone, especially not his children, who will never know better than he does. His anger will spark mine, and I will very likely end up telling him to get his old, sick ass back from whence he came and DON'T COME BACK HERE AGAIN until he can act his age... I love him so much, but motherFUCK this. I will choose my child over him. And I will not be made to feel bad about it.
Am I wrong? What would you do?
I called my dad the day of our appointment to tell him he's going to have a grandson, that we're doing great, and that we seem to (somehow) be staying out of the woods so far when it comes to health. This was my first mistake, and I have since come to wish a house had fallen out of the sky and crushed me before I could dial his number, because to this news he said, "Oh, that's good. I'll be there on Saturday."
He didn't ask, he didn't warn, and there was no room in the tone of his voice for doubt. This is how he controls situations: He storms into them with his mind made up, and damn the consequences for anyone else.
Hooray for me and fuck everyone else.
This is how he goes through life. He didn't even start announcing himself until I went on a screaming jag two years ago about the very good chances that someday, he's going to drive 7 hours from his door to mine only to find I'm out of town, and THEN won't he feel like a dick.
He doesn't care what his arrival will do to the lives he's crash landing into. He expects room to be made with no notice, and he always has. If for some reason room cannot be made, he throws an epic fit. I'm talking EPIC--complete with stomping, yelling, outlandish accusations concerning alienation of affection and a lifetime of disrespect, guilt, etc. Also, and I feel like I really do have to stress this next fact:
My father is dying. He's had congestive heart failure for YEARS, has had two bypass surgeries, has a defibrillator AND a pacemaker implanted in his chest (two different things - one keeps the rhythm, the other shocks the wrath of Satan into your heart meat when the rhythm cannot be kept) is on a list of medications as long as I am tall, calls the Cardiac Clinic to report his weight and BP/other stats every morning, needs mechanical assistance to breathe at night, and goes in to the clinic for a check up 2-3 times a week. He has 30 percent of ONE SIDE of his heart left functioning at a normal level, the rest is either dead or in afibrillation -- beating so fast that it does absolutely no good to his body or his blood.
He. Is. Dying. He is also the one drinking Pepsi out of a keg in the corner. Yes, that is a gravy stain on his shirt and no, he doesn't know what stain you're talking about or how it got there because he would never do anything stupid like eat biscuits and gravy at the Cracker Barrel and house more food than is necessary to feed all of Asia every chance he gets. You must be hallucinating. It must have been fairies. Gravy fairies. And the doctors said that the Pepsi is good for his blood sugar, which is totally normal even though he hasn't used a test strip since God created sky. He obviously feels the pathological need to lie about the state of his health and how RECKLESSLY he is regarding it. He is constantly, every second of every day, seconds away from death. This, of course, as you can imagine, is incredibly hard to be around and bear witness to. It ALSO means that he cannot be more than 20 minutes away from a major cardiac ward, lest his body give out on him. (Which it does. A lot. And will again. Frequently. Until it can't recover anymore.) Which means he should not ever, ever drive 7 hours to anywhere, especially not to me, when I live in one of the most desolate states in the Union and there is literally no way he would survive if something happened to him on his way here.
On top of his terrible health and habit of lying about it, my father is incredibly demanding. He demands constant attention, constant submission. THIS is not due to his illness, THIS is due to him being a FUCKING SPOILED TYRANT. Get me this, bring me that, go here for me, do this for me, LISTEN TO ME, don't speak, don't make noise, why is your dog looking at me, get your cat away from me, it's too hot in here, get me that, I need this, you're doing it wrong, you're doing it wrong, YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG, I know more, I know best, do this for me, I need that, give me that right now, let me tell you a story about how wonderful I am, I'm thirsty, my medication is making my balls swell. Oh, hello, The Boy's family members! FRESH MEAT! Come listen to me, right now, do this, do that, NOW! NOW! NOW!
Because of ALL OF this, it is not possible to make room in one's life for him without notice, as he is a walking fucking time bomb and his heart is literally always on the verge of EXPLODING. Not to mention his kidneys are failing, as is his liver, and don't even get me started on the rest of his organs. Certain allowances have to be made, certain tasks and activities become absolutely impossible.
Whatever. I didn't much feel in the mood to argue with him or point any of this out just then, since I'd just gotten out of my appointment and was flying so high, I could not see the ground. I told him I'd check my work schedule and try to get someone to cover for me so I could spend more time with him when he got here, and that I'd call him back later.
Big mistake. Huge.
I don't know if that recess gave him time to cook up his little plan or what, but man... I could strangle someone. I feel like a tool about it, but I really could just kill right now.
When I called my father back, he told me that my sister had told him that The Boy and I are moving into a new house, and she suggested that he stay with us instead of saving his money and staying in a hotel. (BECAUSE SHE OBVIOUSLY FUCKING HATES ME, THAT'S WHY!) So his plan now is that instead of my sister driving down to get him after the baby is born, he's going to drive here alone WEEKS BEFORE the birth and, this is the best part so I'll quote him directly, "I can stay as long as I want. Not forever, but for a long, long time."
Now, you might be thinking, "He can't seriously be suggesting that a near-seventy year-old man who's hardly managing to stay out of the ground should drive an ancient, rust bucket hoopty 7.5 hours IN NOVEMBER BLIZZARDS, alone, and then squat his geriatric, critically ill and incredibly needy, belligerent ass in the home of his youngest daughter and her love, who will have a newborn to adapt to and care for and try to keep alive."
No. He can't be serious, but he is.
So now on Saturday when he shows up out of nowhere (If he shows up, actually. He could very possibly arrest on the way up and be detained in some po-dunk ER somewhere in the middle of God's country,) I have to look at him and tell him that he cannot do this, he can't because I CANNOT HANDLE IT, and he is going to freak his shit. He will absolutely, completely lose his ever-loving mind. And I won't be able to relent because DAMNIT, this is MY life and MY baby and I know how much I can handle, and having him hovering over our newborn while wheezing, coughing, unable to move, demanding every second of every person's attention, is going to be too fucking much.
My unwillingness to cave to him will infuriate him. Everyone has alwas given in to him. I always have, because I love him and want him to be happy. Growing up, there was no defiance. There was never a time we told him "no." It was not allowed because he does not accept that answer from anyone, especially not his children, who will never know better than he does. His anger will spark mine, and I will very likely end up telling him to get his old, sick ass back from whence he came and DON'T COME BACK HERE AGAIN until he can act his age... I love him so much, but motherFUCK this. I will choose my child over him. And I will not be made to feel bad about it.
Am I wrong? What would you do?
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
La Vida.
I'm kind of zonked, but I have news so I wanted to put that here, for anyone that might care. I just hope it all makes sense -- I'll try again tomorrow to clarify my thoughts, but here's the gist of what's going on:
-We had an appointment yesterday for the baby, just routine scheduled stuff. I think I'd worked myself into such a state that I honestly half expected to see a blank screen on the ultrasound, and hear the doctor say, "Oh, sorry. It's just gas." and send us away, confused and pissed off and all, well if you'd just let me fart in bed we wouldn't have that changing table we don't need, now WOULD we? (Note: We totally don't have a changing table. We're making the big move in two weeks and neither of us have started packing our separate houses. Obviously, planners we are not.)
I digress. Point is: We saw a beautiful, perfect, bright white skeleton inside of our baby. We saw fluid in the abdomen and skull to cushion organs and brain. We saw a beating heart, wiggling limbs, and perhaps even a wee bit of thumb sucking. We also saw a penis, or so we think, and so The Bean is no longer The Bean but has a name all his own. (His. Dear God. Him. Our son. A boy. Holy cow.)
I was shocked because I was sure we were having a girl -- so much for women's intuition, huh? And okay, WAS isn't correct - AM is correct. I AM shocked the doctor said it's a boy, and while I love him and would totally make out with his sweet old face because he talks to me about his lunch when he's elbow deep in my vagina like there's nothing awkward at all about the situation, I wonder if he hasn't developed something of a secret drinking problem as of late because this? Does not feel like a boy. I don't know that I'd have any idea what a boy would feel like, but I thought you're supposed to get some sort of Divine signal beamed into your brain. Maybe my receptors are down, but I'm pretty sure he's just a closet drunk and that penis is going to turn out to be a foot.
Anyway... Everything is good. I can't explain the weight off of my mind upon seeing our baby move around in there, rabbit kicking and making problems for the doctor when he tried to get pictures of his face and downstairs mixup. I can't even put to words what a terrible shit I've been lately, how many times I've fired off a YOU'RE PISSING ME OFF! or STOP BEING SUCH A SHITHEAD! and caught a pained, frustrated expression flit across The Boy's face because we don't talk to each other like that... We aren't those people, and while it's so natural for him to not be that person, it's work for me, and I'm ashamed that I've been so lax lately because I've been so scared and anxious and distracted. There is no excuse, and I feel terrible that I never even noticed it was happening.
I've laughed more in the last 30 hours than I have in weeks. The baby's alive and well and fine, despite all of my constant worrying and panic attacking. The Boy is over the moon-- I think he was shocked to see our child wiggling around, being a real (tiny) person inside. I know he's been worried, although he's never said, and I imagine it's an enormous weight off of his mind, as well. I've noticed he's laughing more easily and smiling a lot more than he has been recently, and it breaks my heart a thousand times with love for him. The palpable relief and joy and excitement is something I'm so glad to be able to finally share with him. And now I've shared it with you, and I'm rambling, so I'll end it here.
Thank you for caring, for your kind words and thoughts. Thank you so much for being right.
-We had an appointment yesterday for the baby, just routine scheduled stuff. I think I'd worked myself into such a state that I honestly half expected to see a blank screen on the ultrasound, and hear the doctor say, "Oh, sorry. It's just gas." and send us away, confused and pissed off and all, well if you'd just let me fart in bed we wouldn't have that changing table we don't need, now WOULD we? (Note: We totally don't have a changing table. We're making the big move in two weeks and neither of us have started packing our separate houses. Obviously, planners we are not.)
I digress. Point is: We saw a beautiful, perfect, bright white skeleton inside of our baby. We saw fluid in the abdomen and skull to cushion organs and brain. We saw a beating heart, wiggling limbs, and perhaps even a wee bit of thumb sucking. We also saw a penis, or so we think, and so The Bean is no longer The Bean but has a name all his own. (His. Dear God. Him. Our son. A boy. Holy cow.)
I was shocked because I was sure we were having a girl -- so much for women's intuition, huh? And okay, WAS isn't correct - AM is correct. I AM shocked the doctor said it's a boy, and while I love him and would totally make out with his sweet old face because he talks to me about his lunch when he's elbow deep in my vagina like there's nothing awkward at all about the situation, I wonder if he hasn't developed something of a secret drinking problem as of late because this? Does not feel like a boy. I don't know that I'd have any idea what a boy would feel like, but I thought you're supposed to get some sort of Divine signal beamed into your brain. Maybe my receptors are down, but I'm pretty sure he's just a closet drunk and that penis is going to turn out to be a foot.
Anyway... Everything is good. I can't explain the weight off of my mind upon seeing our baby move around in there, rabbit kicking and making problems for the doctor when he tried to get pictures of his face and downstairs mixup. I can't even put to words what a terrible shit I've been lately, how many times I've fired off a YOU'RE PISSING ME OFF! or STOP BEING SUCH A SHITHEAD! and caught a pained, frustrated expression flit across The Boy's face because we don't talk to each other like that... We aren't those people, and while it's so natural for him to not be that person, it's work for me, and I'm ashamed that I've been so lax lately because I've been so scared and anxious and distracted. There is no excuse, and I feel terrible that I never even noticed it was happening.
I've laughed more in the last 30 hours than I have in weeks. The baby's alive and well and fine, despite all of my constant worrying and panic attacking. The Boy is over the moon-- I think he was shocked to see our child wiggling around, being a real (tiny) person inside. I know he's been worried, although he's never said, and I imagine it's an enormous weight off of his mind, as well. I've noticed he's laughing more easily and smiling a lot more than he has been recently, and it breaks my heart a thousand times with love for him. The palpable relief and joy and excitement is something I'm so glad to be able to finally share with him. And now I've shared it with you, and I'm rambling, so I'll end it here.
Thank you for caring, for your kind words and thoughts. Thank you so much for being right.
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