So that sucked.

Come to find out, when people say that having a child will put a strain on your relationship, what they REALLY mean is, "You're going to want to kill him. Like... ALL THE TIME." Because, ha ha! This whole keeping someone alive thing is hard. Fucking haaaard. When you read that second hard, you should kind of grunt and double over because IT'S SO HARD.

Yeah. So since the baby was born, we've been kind of drifting around, the boy and I, drifting around each other in the same house but not really the same because our lives have been pretty separate. We don't parent together, we just switch off. This sort of seems to have evolved as a coping mechanism, but obviously is not. This is the exact opposite of productive living because we're doing it alone, but while kind of near each other, which is maddening. As you might be able to guess. Oh, and also, our baby was really colicky and miserable. Not easy. No baby is easy, obviously, but they're certainly made harder by tortured screaming 20 hours a day. (That? Is not an exaggeration. "Babies sleep all the time," is the biggest bullshitting lie I've ever heard and I would suggest you not repeat it to anyone, ever, lest they wind up with Baby O' Terror like mine was, and come for you in your sleep.) It's gotten better, the screaming, but still. Stress.

And last night, it all kind of compounded and blew itself to stinking, rotting bits, and The Boy and I wound up slinging words like, "You're a crazy pain in the ass to be around," (him) and, "You don't do ANYTHING! Why am I even HERE?!" (me.) Needless to say, it was terrible. We worked it out, but it sucked. Bad. And I need it to not happen again, because I just cannot take it.

So what I WANT (There's always something, isn't there. Me, me, me. I, I, I.) is ADVICE. Yes, I'm asking for it, so let me have it with both barrels. Tell me our fatal mistake was getting knocked up out of wedlock, or that we haven't even been together long enough (a year and some change) to raise a child together, or whatever. Include every admonition you can think of if you have to. Just give me advice on how to keep this from happening again, because as it's going now I'm going to be finding out how hideously Prison Orange clashes with my low lights. (Because I'm going to fucking ax murder him, for those of you just tuning in. Which is going to be the result of me constantly walking away to avoid saying I HATE YOU AND YOUR ASSFACE out of misplaced aggression.)

I'm too snarky to go to prison. I'll get shanked. Save me from myself, will you?

Fear.

Turns out, I really was in early labor. I didn't mean to leave anyone hanging, it's just that I've been kind of occupied with this little ball of baby boy, and that doesn't leave a whole lot of time for writing.

More than the physical and mental occupation with our son, I'll be honest and just put it out there that I'm terrified. I can't say it anywhere else without people looking at me like I might be too overwhelmed and at risk of throwing the baby out on trash day. (Which, let me be clear, is not what's happening here.) I'm just... it's just a lot. It's more than I thought it would be, and it's harder than I imagined, and I'm scared. When I say I'm scared, people look at me like I need medication. Maybe I do, I don't know, but the details are as follows:

My son was born a month early, at 5lbs 3oz... (I did it on my own, by the way. No medication, 12 hours of contractions 1 minute long/2 minutes apart, 2 hours of active pushing. I'm kind of proud of that.) He dropped to 5lbs 4oz, and was hardly maintaining there for a week... He had one bowel movement in the first two weeks, which is highly unusual, and we had to start supplementing with formula because I was starving my son by breastfeeding exclusively. And holy shit, can I just say that hurts so incredibly bad to even TYPE, no wonder people don't want to hear me SAY it...

Now at a month old, he's up to 6lbs 6oz, which is almost the size of a 'normal' newborn. I thank God every twenty seconds that he's growing... But his stomach is a mystery that the doctors can't crack. He screams for hours in obvious pain, and is constipated terribly. We've tried every stupid thing they can throw at us, even giving him diluted juice and Karo syrup in an attempt to give him diarrhea. So yeah, we're trying to make him sick to make him better... Again, I can hardly even type those words... Now the doctors are throwing around words like "barium" and "extensive tests" and "possible intestinal abnormalities" and I want to throw myself into fucking traffic because this can't be happening. It has to be a dream, and everyone knows that if you die in a dream you wake up. Or is it that you die in your sleep? Either way... Anything would be better than this not knowing, this inability to help my son.

He's just so little, yaknow..? He's so small, and he's in so much pain, and they aren't helping him, and I just want to scream ALL THE TIME. Babies aren't supposed to know pain. We're supposed to be able to protect them - I'm supposed to be able to protect him - and I can't. And I'm afraid this is what insanity feels like. A month is hardly any length of time in the big scheme of things, but it's an eternity when there's no sleep for you (literally three hours a night, that's how much sleep I'm getting) and no relief for your child. A month is forever.

So if there's no improvement by tomorrow I have to take him to the hospital, and I can't even think about what that means right now. I just keep staring at him, thinking stupidly that if I stare hard enough I'll be able to figure out what's the matter and fix it. I stare and hope and pray, and I hold my fucking breath until I think I'm going to die because its all I can do. And it's not enough.

That's what I've been up to... What about everyone else? What's been going on outside this tiny universe of mine?

I blew my cork. Except less 'blew' and more 'slipped away like Wilson from the raft.'

So remember when I said I'd shortly be writing about a reoccurring dream I've had my whole life? Yeah, that was a lie. I didn't know it was when I told it, but woops! Pesky ol' LIFE got in the way and what do you know, I'm in the early stages of labor. Or, uh, the stages of Early Labor? Or whatever. I don't know. It depends on which book you read, but apparently the only thing keeping me from firing an infant out of my patunia like a cannon ball is that my water hasn't broken yet.

That seems like a flimsy barrier, yaknow? A bag of fluid is all that's standing between me and having a person coming out of my pelvis. I keep kind of looking down and going, "Really?" because, REALLY? There's a person that's going to come out of there? Whatever. That's got to be a joke or a dirty rumor that someone started when they were high on glue.

Without getting too personal and queasy, let me tell you what's already happening with my vagina. (How contradictory am I? Shut up, it's cute.)

- I'm dilated to 2 cm, and have been for about a week. My doc put me on 'modified bed rest' - which means that I can come to my sitting-on-my-ass-type job and SIT, and I can go home and lie down, but that's it. No walking around, no doing anything. No lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk, wtf.
- The baby has most definitely moved down. I can breathe now, but the trade off is that I can hardly walk, because there's like this SKULL inside my PELVIS and holy shit OW. Well, not really ow. But more... owwww. Not really painful, but decidedly uncomfortable.
- I started losing my mucus plug yesterday. (I have to whisper 'mucus plug,' when I say it out loud, by the way, and follow it up with an ambivalent 'whatever,' as in, "I'm losing my mucus plug or whatever." Because there's something weird about saying 'mucus' when you're talking about your downstairs. So in an effort to make talking about it less awkward, I've taken to calling it my Cooter Cork, and that makes me laugh so hard I almost pee every time I say it. In addition to the peeing, it feels like my abdomen is going to rip open ala some terrible horror movie every time I laugh, because it's SO TIGHT and FULL OF BEBEH OMGZ.)
- I've started cramping low in my back and belly. It's a vague, menstrual period kind of cramping.
- I'm 36 weeks pregnant.


Now, all of these really vague, contradictory and mysterious books and Internet sites I've been scouring tell me that early labor can last like, twenty seconds, or it can go on for fucking WEEKS. Because who knows! The female body is a strange and mystical thing that no one could ever possibly understand!

So... Any advice? I have my hospital bag packed. I've got everything all ready to go. It's just... uh... Hm. I'm kind of worried that I'm going to be doing this crampy, achy, vaguely labory thing for A LONG TIME, and that makes me want to go up to the Walmarts and start doing bicep curls in the diary section to get things kicked off.

Swing away.

Wasn't that what the dying wife in the movie Signs said? "Tell (I forget his name) to swing away"? Or whatever?

I might be making that up. There's been a serious lack of sleep in my life lately, due to strange dreams where everyone has this other alien, strange creature living inside their body in a bubble, and people have to talk to these creatures and clear everything with them, like, "Hey, Mr. Bubble, do you think we should have milk or water?" and it's all really distracting for me because while I'm dreaming these dreams I'm so put out thinking that it's all so fucking inconvenient and pointless, because what difference does it make? And then I realize (while still dreaming) that the dreams are all kind of really obviously about my pregnancy because I call my belly Mr. Bubble and being pregnant is just like having some weird creature living inside of you, so I'm kind of lamenting the entire time I'm asleep that I'm not really very deep or original and that my subconscious mind is SO. FUCKING. BORING. And anyway, it's none too restful.

So yeah. I'm tired.

What I was starting to say was that I intend to do like the dying lady said and swing away from the seriousness that's been going on around here lately, but instead of Light and Jovial, I seem to have wandered into Strange and Confused. Which, yeah. I'm comfortable there. Hell, I've got a summer home there. I spend every freakin' weekend there. I just kind of didn't mean to bring you with me.

Bygones.

Anyway, what I meant to convey was that I don't mean to be so down and dreary, ruminating about my past and my childhood and my family issues. They've just been on my mind a lot lately, as I'm about to shape a childhood of my own and speaking of which! I just remembered my original point when I sat down to post this but then thought it was maybe a titch too heavy. I'm obviously throwing that out the window now, though, so here goes.

I saw a question posed today on a blog I read. Someone said that they were going to give their children the best of everything; the most love, attention, adoration, security, etc, because their childhood had been so bad and they had never had those things themselves. The response from a commenter was that the author had made him wonder whether happy childhoods had to come from an unhappy childhood before them. Meaning, did my childhood have to suck in order for me to want so badly to make my kid's life easier than mine was?

At first, I agreed with that. I thought, hey, that's pretty deep. Now I think it's not deep, but rather ridiculous. I'm sure there are plenty of people that had perfectly balanced, 'normal' developmental periods in their lives and went on to use those years as a foundation on which to build a happy childhood for their own offspring. I don't think you need to have been warped in some way in order to piece something happy together for your kids, not at all.

It was an interesting question, none the less. What do you think? Do happy children have to come from parents who had something missing, so they know what's important? Or can people who've had a less obviously traumatic time of things go on to give the same steady, peaceful childhood to their children because it is all they know?

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

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.