Wednesday, March 5, 2014
To The Mattresses
It's been almost a month, and finally we moved our bed into the bedroom last night. We drag the mattress upstairs. It's a tight squeeze.
Me: "Guess what isn't going to fit up the stairs?"
Husband: ::::Blank Stare::::
Me: "The box spring."
Husband: "Oh sure it will, watch me."
Meanwhile, it had taken squishing down the mattress a bit to get it to fit up the stairs. Box springs don't squish. But I kept my mouth shut.
So we get to the part where we intend to take the box spring upstairs.....we had to take it out the front door to get it pointed straight at the stairs....hubby starts up the stairs backward, I'm standing outside holding the other end. THUD!!
The box spring hit the top of the door frame.
We tilt it to the left. Thud.
We tilt it to the right. Thud.
He actually tried to squish it like the mattress.
No go.
So he starts taking apart the door frame. One piece at a time.
An hour and a half later, there is no door frame and the box spring is upstairs.
So I guess when he said "Watch me" he meant "watch me break the house so we can get the box spring up the stairs".
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Deflated
You know when someone gives you a lecture, and it's meant to be a pep talk....to pump you up to do better....but all it does it make you feel defeated?
No?
Well that's me today. Someone that probably meant well decided I needed this talk. She is totally right by the way. Not that I needed the talk. I didn't. In fact, it was probably the last thing I needed. I'm overwhelmed enough as it is. I'm tired, and sore and buried so deep in life that I'm struggling fruitlessly to just scrape away enough to see the light ahead.
Then came this "talk".
She was right about several things that she said....not all, but several....but it didn't have the desired effect.
Now....I'm just done. Fuck it.
She meant it to fire me up to try harder and do better. I don't want to try anymore. I don't want to do any of it, let alone do it better.
We bought a house. It's a huge fixer upper. Every day I get up, get my 11 year old on the bus, then go get myself ready for work. Then I wake the baby up, feed him, change him and get him ready to go to my mother's house. Then I get my ass to work. I work as many hours as I can manage to. Then I go out to my new house and work there as much as I can without pissing off my sitter. On the weekends I have to try to find a babysitter so I can go over there and work some more.
I have barely begun to pack. We have pushed back our moving date twice now.
I have so much to do, and no time to do it, and in there somewhere I have to find time to buy groceries, cook dinner, take care of my dogs and horses and kids.
I'm completely burned out and exhausted.
Last week, my boss went on vacation. I busted my ass trying to hold together the loose ties that he left in his wake, just trying to keep things going while he was gone.
Now I get this lecture about being focused on work while I'm at work, and I just want to slap her.
I just want to say, fuck it. The house can sit there empty for as long as it takes to get it done. We can move one fucking box at a time, because that's all the time and energy I have for packing.
I'm already to the point where I can't do this anymore, and then I get a lecture.
Sigh.....I need a nap.
No?
Well that's me today. Someone that probably meant well decided I needed this talk. She is totally right by the way. Not that I needed the talk. I didn't. In fact, it was probably the last thing I needed. I'm overwhelmed enough as it is. I'm tired, and sore and buried so deep in life that I'm struggling fruitlessly to just scrape away enough to see the light ahead.
Then came this "talk".
She was right about several things that she said....not all, but several....but it didn't have the desired effect.
Now....I'm just done. Fuck it.
She meant it to fire me up to try harder and do better. I don't want to try anymore. I don't want to do any of it, let alone do it better.
We bought a house. It's a huge fixer upper. Every day I get up, get my 11 year old on the bus, then go get myself ready for work. Then I wake the baby up, feed him, change him and get him ready to go to my mother's house. Then I get my ass to work. I work as many hours as I can manage to. Then I go out to my new house and work there as much as I can without pissing off my sitter. On the weekends I have to try to find a babysitter so I can go over there and work some more.
I have barely begun to pack. We have pushed back our moving date twice now.
I have so much to do, and no time to do it, and in there somewhere I have to find time to buy groceries, cook dinner, take care of my dogs and horses and kids.
I'm completely burned out and exhausted.
Last week, my boss went on vacation. I busted my ass trying to hold together the loose ties that he left in his wake, just trying to keep things going while he was gone.
Now I get this lecture about being focused on work while I'm at work, and I just want to slap her.
I just want to say, fuck it. The house can sit there empty for as long as it takes to get it done. We can move one fucking box at a time, because that's all the time and energy I have for packing.
I'm already to the point where I can't do this anymore, and then I get a lecture.
Sigh.....I need a nap.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Misadventures in Painting
Thursday morning I threw my back out. That's a very vague concept...throwing out one's back. The specifics involve a disc that hates me and every now and then decides to get angry and cause me a lot of pain in my lower back.
It's never a good story either. The first time I injured my back I was taking off my pants. I bent down to slide my pants down my legs and couldn't stand up. The second time....I coughed. I was sick and the cough threw my upper body forward a fraction of an inch, and my back screamed at me.
This time I bent down just a little to lower my son into his exersaucer.
The pain involved in this tiny movement is amazing. What it means for me is probably a week of being unable to do much of anything. Sitting hurts. Walking hurts. I can't actually stand up totally straight. I can't bend over. I can't lift much. Getting out of bed in the morning takes several minutes....and hurts.
None of which is conducive to remodeling a house that we were planning to move into next weekend. I was sanding the floors, and meant to continue to do so this week....but that's out of the question now.
About the only thing I can actually do right now is paint. There is a lot of painting to do, so that's fine. The main priority is painting the kids' rooms so we don't have to move all of their crap around to paint after we move in.
So on Sunday I was painting my son's room. I had put two coats on the walls and it had dried. I was moving around the room taking tape off of the trim and putting new tape on the walls so I could paint the trim.
When I had started sanding the floor in his room, I removed the floor register so I could sand around it. I hadn't put it back yet because I wasn't done sanding in there.
I had put down a clear plastic drop cloth to keep the paint off the floor (I'm a horrible, messy, slob of a painter). You know where this is going now I'm sure.....
So I had walked past the 6" x 10" or so hole in the floor at least 5 times by now, and had said to myself "Don't fall in the hole...."
I'm a terrible listener.
I go to pull the tape off the trim near the closet and stepped directly in the hole in the floor. My leg instantly plummeted into the basement and stopped when my thigh got wedged in the hole about halfway to my Hoo-hah. There was this big, metallic crash as the ducting that lets heat flow into his room fell to the basement floor.
So I'm sitting there....thigh deep in a hole in the floor.....with terrible back pain. I hauled myself out of the hole and plopped my ass down on the floor. It hurt. A lot. There was sheet metal stapled inside the hole in the floor.....it's no longer there.
So I'm sitting on the floor.....crying. Crying because it hurt. Crying because my back hurts more now. Crying because I can't believe I put my foot through the register. Crying because I can't do anything else but paint this stupid room.
As if on queue.....my husband walks in.
"How's the painting going?.....Why are you on the floor? ....Are you crying?....Why are you crying?"
So I tell him the story.....his response?
"Fuck!! You mean if I'd walked down here two minutes earlier I would have witnessed that?! Damn it!!"
I will be posting the details of his funeral later.
It's never a good story either. The first time I injured my back I was taking off my pants. I bent down to slide my pants down my legs and couldn't stand up. The second time....I coughed. I was sick and the cough threw my upper body forward a fraction of an inch, and my back screamed at me.
This time I bent down just a little to lower my son into his exersaucer.
The pain involved in this tiny movement is amazing. What it means for me is probably a week of being unable to do much of anything. Sitting hurts. Walking hurts. I can't actually stand up totally straight. I can't bend over. I can't lift much. Getting out of bed in the morning takes several minutes....and hurts.
None of which is conducive to remodeling a house that we were planning to move into next weekend. I was sanding the floors, and meant to continue to do so this week....but that's out of the question now.
About the only thing I can actually do right now is paint. There is a lot of painting to do, so that's fine. The main priority is painting the kids' rooms so we don't have to move all of their crap around to paint after we move in.
So on Sunday I was painting my son's room. I had put two coats on the walls and it had dried. I was moving around the room taking tape off of the trim and putting new tape on the walls so I could paint the trim.
When I had started sanding the floor in his room, I removed the floor register so I could sand around it. I hadn't put it back yet because I wasn't done sanding in there.
I had put down a clear plastic drop cloth to keep the paint off the floor (I'm a horrible, messy, slob of a painter). You know where this is going now I'm sure.....
So I had walked past the 6" x 10" or so hole in the floor at least 5 times by now, and had said to myself "Don't fall in the hole...."
I'm a terrible listener.
I go to pull the tape off the trim near the closet and stepped directly in the hole in the floor. My leg instantly plummeted into the basement and stopped when my thigh got wedged in the hole about halfway to my Hoo-hah. There was this big, metallic crash as the ducting that lets heat flow into his room fell to the basement floor.
So I'm sitting there....thigh deep in a hole in the floor.....with terrible back pain. I hauled myself out of the hole and plopped my ass down on the floor. It hurt. A lot. There was sheet metal stapled inside the hole in the floor.....it's no longer there.
So I'm sitting on the floor.....crying. Crying because it hurt. Crying because my back hurts more now. Crying because I can't believe I put my foot through the register. Crying because I can't do anything else but paint this stupid room.
As if on queue.....my husband walks in.
"How's the painting going?.....Why are you on the floor? ....Are you crying?....Why are you crying?"
So I tell him the story.....his response?
"Fuck!! You mean if I'd walked down here two minutes earlier I would have witnessed that?! Damn it!!"
I will be posting the details of his funeral later.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
The Husband on Menstruation
Warning....Graphic Language and Gross Descriptions....
There.....warned you.
I didn't have my period for 9 months. That tends to happen when you're pregnant. It was great. Then I popped out a kid, and bled like a sacrificial bull for six fucking weeks. I'm breast feeding...which is considered a viable form of birth control. You aren't supposed to get your period...or ovulate....while you're breastfeeding. If that is how it went for you.....fuck off.
A month after I stopped bleeding all over the place from child birth, I got my fucking period. My best friend, who had a baby 9 days before I did, still hasn't had a visit from Aunt Flo and our children are 8 months old. I hate her.
I had a bilateral tubal ligation (tubes tied) the day after my son was born. If that right there doesn't tell you how fantastic my pregnancy was.....
I had been on birth control my whole life. Or at least I'd been forgetting to take my birth control my whole life anyway. Regardless of the frequency of the stuff, I was doped up on artificial hormones more often than not for the last 15 years or so.
Armed with my fancy new tubal ligation, I no longer need to take pills to keep from having any more darling little pooping, crying, snotting love muffins. So.....my first few periods after the boy was born were.....interesting. Apparently those hormones were all that was keeping my uterus from hemorrhaging all over the place. Like dying Niagara Falls red. And I wasn't expecting it. My cycle had always been pretty consistent. So when I was changing feminine hygiene products every two hours, I was a little taken aback. I didn't throw out the paper pillows they call pads at the hospital...thank god.
My husband has a dickhead's view of a woman's menstruation. It is definitely brought on by Satan, and should be avoided at all costs. Which is ironic, as he definitely gets his period more often than I do.
Earlier this week, I got my period overnight. These are the events that followed:
My husband brought the baby in our bed around 7:00am, waking me up.
I had to pee.
I announced that I had to pee so that Husband was aware it was his job to keep the baby alive.
I went into the bathroom and discovered that I had made a bit of a mess.
I finished my business and stripped off my now stained pajamas and jumped in the shower.
My dear husband walked into the bathroom, holding the baby, just as I had stepped out of the shower and was drying off.
Husband: "I thought you were just going to the bathroom?"
Me: "I bled all over myself."
Husband: "I know....you got it on the bed."
Me: "Oh, well if you knew.....ugh...never mind...I will take care of that in a minute."
Husband: "Well hurry up, I have stuff to do."
Me: "....................."
Me: "Honey, what would you do if I got blood on you?"
Husband: "Probably die."
Me: "And then immediately shower to wash it off of you."
Husband: "No, I think I would burn my skin off instead."
Me: "Ok well....fuck off...I'll be out in a minute."
He means it. He thinks it's battery acid and would kill him on contact. If I didn't have better things to do I would chase him around the house with a used tampon. I imagine it would sound a lot like Goofy falling off a cliff.
Picture Courtesy of Red Wombat Studio
There.....warned you.
I didn't have my period for 9 months. That tends to happen when you're pregnant. It was great. Then I popped out a kid, and bled like a sacrificial bull for six fucking weeks. I'm breast feeding...which is considered a viable form of birth control. You aren't supposed to get your period...or ovulate....while you're breastfeeding. If that is how it went for you.....fuck off.
A month after I stopped bleeding all over the place from child birth, I got my fucking period. My best friend, who had a baby 9 days before I did, still hasn't had a visit from Aunt Flo and our children are 8 months old. I hate her.
I had a bilateral tubal ligation (tubes tied) the day after my son was born. If that right there doesn't tell you how fantastic my pregnancy was.....
I had been on birth control my whole life. Or at least I'd been forgetting to take my birth control my whole life anyway. Regardless of the frequency of the stuff, I was doped up on artificial hormones more often than not for the last 15 years or so.
Armed with my fancy new tubal ligation, I no longer need to take pills to keep from having any more darling little pooping, crying, snotting love muffins. So.....my first few periods after the boy was born were.....interesting. Apparently those hormones were all that was keeping my uterus from hemorrhaging all over the place. Like dying Niagara Falls red. And I wasn't expecting it. My cycle had always been pretty consistent. So when I was changing feminine hygiene products every two hours, I was a little taken aback. I didn't throw out the paper pillows they call pads at the hospital...thank god.
My husband has a dickhead's view of a woman's menstruation. It is definitely brought on by Satan, and should be avoided at all costs. Which is ironic, as he definitely gets his period more often than I do.
Earlier this week, I got my period overnight. These are the events that followed:
My husband brought the baby in our bed around 7:00am, waking me up.
I had to pee.
I announced that I had to pee so that Husband was aware it was his job to keep the baby alive.
I went into the bathroom and discovered that I had made a bit of a mess.
I finished my business and stripped off my now stained pajamas and jumped in the shower.
My dear husband walked into the bathroom, holding the baby, just as I had stepped out of the shower and was drying off.
Husband: "I thought you were just going to the bathroom?"
Me: "I bled all over myself."
Husband: "I know....you got it on the bed."
Me: "Oh, well if you knew.....ugh...never mind...I will take care of that in a minute."
Husband: "Well hurry up, I have stuff to do."
Me: "....................."
Me: "Honey, what would you do if I got blood on you?"
Husband: "Probably die."
Me: "And then immediately shower to wash it off of you."
Husband: "No, I think I would burn my skin off instead."
Me: "Ok well....fuck off...I'll be out in a minute."
He means it. He thinks it's battery acid and would kill him on contact. If I didn't have better things to do I would chase him around the house with a used tampon. I imagine it would sound a lot like Goofy falling off a cliff.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Shit My Kid Says....Part Deux
"Mom....My boobs hurt."
Yeah....I bet they do....you little.....
My daughter is 11, and officially hitting puberty. It started about a year ago. Well, to be fair, it probably started 2 years ago when I noticed that the 10 year old should probably start wearing training bras. You see....she's a little husky. I was too. At 10 I totally had little fat girl boobs, and to this day I curse my mother for not slapping a bra on me. I absolutely blame her for my less than perky state.
So she has been wearing a bra for a couple of years now. She has been getting progressively bitchier for about a year. To the point where, I swear, if she opens her mouth again I'm going to duct tape it closed...and throw her in her room until she comes to terms with her hormones in about 5 years.
I was a wretched teenager. I can't believe that my mother let me live. I used to blat that my mother was abusive when I was a teenager. Now, I see that she was the absolute image of self control. I deserved every one of those swats she gave me for being a wretched bitch. (Except maybe one.....oh ok, all of them.)
My daughter is going to be every bit as bad as I was....perhaps worse. She and I already have an antagonistic relationship. We are so alike that we butt heads constantly. I can't let it go and neither can she. Now that there are hormones involved, and my patience is already thin because I have a fucking teenager and an almost toddler at the same time, I might have to pack her off to boarding school for her health.
About 6 months ago, she and I were at the doctor's office. It was a hot day, and she was wearing a sleeveless shirt. She lifted up her arm to fix her pony tail....and the bush of hair that peeked out from her armpit was right in my face.
I said "Honey....when we get home I'm going to teach you how to shave your armpits."
This lesson was interesting...and came with a threat to her life if I caught her shaving her legs, and a warning that if she shaved that little blond peach fuzz on her upper lip she would end up looking like her Aunt Sybil.
Tangent: My mother never taught me these things. I didn't even know arm pits should be shaved until I was about 13 and a teenage boy (go ahead a cringe...it's ok) commented on my hairy state. He wasn't discreet about it. (Ewww! Shave your pits!!) The first time I shaved my legs....on my own, with no instruction....I did it with my dad's razor and sliced my legs to ribbons, followed by the worst razor burn known to woman kind.
When she started crying for no reason 2 months ago, I showed her where to find the panty liners and sent her teacher a warning email.
Last week, she says to me......you know what, never mind. It involved her unmentionables, and funny as it was, I still don't feel right talking about her lady parts on the Internet.
The point being that the arm pits weren't alone.
So when she told me last night that her boobs hurt......I showed her where the panty liners were again.
We live with my husband (who is not her father) and a male roommate. God forbid the poor girl have to ask my husband what to do if she gets her aunt flo while I'm not home. Poor girl. Poor, poor Husband. He can't even tolerate the fact that I bleed regularly (an entire post devoted to this will be published tomorrow)....I don't think he would handle that conversation well.
So I'm just sitting back, waiting to teach her how to remove blood stains from sheets and underwear. It's going to be any second now. In a text book somewhere on pre-menstrual teenagers is a picture of my daughter.....any time now. I wonder if it was that obvious with me.
Yeah....I bet they do....you little.....
My daughter is 11, and officially hitting puberty. It started about a year ago. Well, to be fair, it probably started 2 years ago when I noticed that the 10 year old should probably start wearing training bras. You see....she's a little husky. I was too. At 10 I totally had little fat girl boobs, and to this day I curse my mother for not slapping a bra on me. I absolutely blame her for my less than perky state.
So she has been wearing a bra for a couple of years now. She has been getting progressively bitchier for about a year. To the point where, I swear, if she opens her mouth again I'm going to duct tape it closed...and throw her in her room until she comes to terms with her hormones in about 5 years.
I was a wretched teenager. I can't believe that my mother let me live. I used to blat that my mother was abusive when I was a teenager. Now, I see that she was the absolute image of self control. I deserved every one of those swats she gave me for being a wretched bitch. (Except maybe one.....oh ok, all of them.)
My daughter is going to be every bit as bad as I was....perhaps worse. She and I already have an antagonistic relationship. We are so alike that we butt heads constantly. I can't let it go and neither can she. Now that there are hormones involved, and my patience is already thin because I have a fucking teenager and an almost toddler at the same time, I might have to pack her off to boarding school for her health.
About 6 months ago, she and I were at the doctor's office. It was a hot day, and she was wearing a sleeveless shirt. She lifted up her arm to fix her pony tail....and the bush of hair that peeked out from her armpit was right in my face.
I said "Honey....when we get home I'm going to teach you how to shave your armpits."
This lesson was interesting...and came with a threat to her life if I caught her shaving her legs, and a warning that if she shaved that little blond peach fuzz on her upper lip she would end up looking like her Aunt Sybil.
Tangent: My mother never taught me these things. I didn't even know arm pits should be shaved until I was about 13 and a teenage boy (go ahead a cringe...it's ok) commented on my hairy state. He wasn't discreet about it. (Ewww! Shave your pits!!) The first time I shaved my legs....on my own, with no instruction....I did it with my dad's razor and sliced my legs to ribbons, followed by the worst razor burn known to woman kind.
When she started crying for no reason 2 months ago, I showed her where to find the panty liners and sent her teacher a warning email.
Last week, she says to me......you know what, never mind. It involved her unmentionables, and funny as it was, I still don't feel right talking about her lady parts on the Internet.
The point being that the arm pits weren't alone.
So when she told me last night that her boobs hurt......I showed her where the panty liners were again.
We live with my husband (who is not her father) and a male roommate. God forbid the poor girl have to ask my husband what to do if she gets her aunt flo while I'm not home. Poor girl. Poor, poor Husband. He can't even tolerate the fact that I bleed regularly (an entire post devoted to this will be published tomorrow)....I don't think he would handle that conversation well.
So I'm just sitting back, waiting to teach her how to remove blood stains from sheets and underwear. It's going to be any second now. In a text book somewhere on pre-menstrual teenagers is a picture of my daughter.....any time now. I wonder if it was that obvious with me.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Oh Ick!!
Warning.....this is going to get a little gross. Feel free to skip this post if you're a little squeamish. I won't be offended.
My due date was May 14th. Two weeks to go and I was feeling huge. Everyone that saw me said that I looked like I had dropped. I was generally miserable, and absolutely ready to not be pregnant anymore. At around 8:30 pm on Tuesday, April 20th I wanted ice cream. I asked my husband if he wanted ice cream as well, and got in my car and went to the store.
It's only about a 5 minute drive from my house to Stewart's (for those of you not from upstate NY or Vermont...Stewart's is a local staple. It's a convenience store mostly. But the company has it's own brand of everything....milk, soda, chips, coffee, and most importantly ice cream. I'm pretty sure they started as an ice cream company.) and about half way there my phone beeped that I had a text message. As I had been really trying to be good about not looking at my phone while driving, I left it alone until I pulled into the parking lot.
The message had been from my friend that had just had her baby a week before. She had sent me some pictures of herself standing in front of a mirror, showing off how flat her stupid, skinny stomach was only a week after having a baby (you can call her a bitch. I do.)
So I was flipping through the pictures she sent, and responding to her, when I felt more than heard this weird pop. It has come from my lower half. I thought "What the hell was that?" But I think that I knew what it was.
I put the phone down and opened my car door. I cautiously stepped out of the car.....and felt the liquid roll down the inside of my leg.
I live in a small......town I guess. There isn't really a town center or a town government or anything. But everyone knows everyone else. My daughter (not myself) is related to half of the people that live there. (Which is a good thing because that means she can't date anyone there without a reasonable possibility that it would be considered incest.) Stewart's is also the only thing in this little town, so there is an excellent chance that at least 10 people that I knew pretty well and another 10 that knew who I was would have been there. Considering my typical luck....maybe more like 20.
I hopped back in the car...heart beating out of my throat and drove home. I called my friend who had sent me the pictures on the way.
Me: "I have never been so thankful to have to scroll through a bunch of pictures in my life. You just saved my ass."
Her: "Why? What Happened?"
Me: "Dude, my water just broke."
Her: "YAY!!!"
Me: "Yeah, and if you hadn't sent me that text when you did, and if there hadn't been a bunch of pictures attached, and if I hadn't waited until I parked to look at them.....well it would have happened in the store instead of in my car. In MY Stewart's. In a small town. I would've been that girl whose water broke in Stewart's for the rest of my life."
Her: "Holy shit. You're welcome."
So I get home and waddle my soaking wet ass upstairs. I tell my husband that he can't have any ice cream, as I strip off my gooey jeans, because my water broke. I jump in the shower to try to reduce the amount of amniotic fluid that hits the floor.
That was a useless effort. How do women manage this? I had my mom go to the store to get maxi pads. Big ones. I must have changed that thing 8 times before we left for the hospital.
Every time I had a contraction, more goo gushed out. It was fucking everywhere. I was standing on the porch talking to my roommate, waiting for the contractions to get close enough together to merit a trip to the hospital. I coughed......oh my god. A spurt of fluid splatted on the stone of the front porch....through the maxi pad. My roommate was totally grossed out. "Awww, dude, really? Like really? On the porch?" My husband was equally skeeved out by all the mess I was making.
I cleaned up the tiny mess I had made on the seat of my car. It was really only a spot about 2 inches across. He refused to take my car to the hospital. He didn't want to sit in my "filth". At which point I told him to shut his mouth or I would lose the maxi pad and leak all over the seat of his car. It amazing how well a man can listen when you threaten him and his possession with bodily fluids.
The rest of this story will have to wait for another time.
My due date was May 14th. Two weeks to go and I was feeling huge. Everyone that saw me said that I looked like I had dropped. I was generally miserable, and absolutely ready to not be pregnant anymore. At around 8:30 pm on Tuesday, April 20th I wanted ice cream. I asked my husband if he wanted ice cream as well, and got in my car and went to the store.
It's only about a 5 minute drive from my house to Stewart's (for those of you not from upstate NY or Vermont...Stewart's is a local staple. It's a convenience store mostly. But the company has it's own brand of everything....milk, soda, chips, coffee, and most importantly ice cream. I'm pretty sure they started as an ice cream company.) and about half way there my phone beeped that I had a text message. As I had been really trying to be good about not looking at my phone while driving, I left it alone until I pulled into the parking lot.
The message had been from my friend that had just had her baby a week before. She had sent me some pictures of herself standing in front of a mirror, showing off how flat her stupid, skinny stomach was only a week after having a baby (you can call her a bitch. I do.)
So I was flipping through the pictures she sent, and responding to her, when I felt more than heard this weird pop. It has come from my lower half. I thought "What the hell was that?" But I think that I knew what it was.
I put the phone down and opened my car door. I cautiously stepped out of the car.....and felt the liquid roll down the inside of my leg.
I live in a small......town I guess. There isn't really a town center or a town government or anything. But everyone knows everyone else. My daughter (not myself) is related to half of the people that live there. (Which is a good thing because that means she can't date anyone there without a reasonable possibility that it would be considered incest.) Stewart's is also the only thing in this little town, so there is an excellent chance that at least 10 people that I knew pretty well and another 10 that knew who I was would have been there. Considering my typical luck....maybe more like 20.
I hopped back in the car...heart beating out of my throat and drove home. I called my friend who had sent me the pictures on the way.
Me: "I have never been so thankful to have to scroll through a bunch of pictures in my life. You just saved my ass."
Her: "Why? What Happened?"
Me: "Dude, my water just broke."
Her: "YAY!!!"
Me: "Yeah, and if you hadn't sent me that text when you did, and if there hadn't been a bunch of pictures attached, and if I hadn't waited until I parked to look at them.....well it would have happened in the store instead of in my car. In MY Stewart's. In a small town. I would've been that girl whose water broke in Stewart's for the rest of my life."
Her: "Holy shit. You're welcome."
So I get home and waddle my soaking wet ass upstairs. I tell my husband that he can't have any ice cream, as I strip off my gooey jeans, because my water broke. I jump in the shower to try to reduce the amount of amniotic fluid that hits the floor.
That was a useless effort. How do women manage this? I had my mom go to the store to get maxi pads. Big ones. I must have changed that thing 8 times before we left for the hospital.
Every time I had a contraction, more goo gushed out. It was fucking everywhere. I was standing on the porch talking to my roommate, waiting for the contractions to get close enough together to merit a trip to the hospital. I coughed......oh my god. A spurt of fluid splatted on the stone of the front porch....through the maxi pad. My roommate was totally grossed out. "Awww, dude, really? Like really? On the porch?" My husband was equally skeeved out by all the mess I was making.
I cleaned up the tiny mess I had made on the seat of my car. It was really only a spot about 2 inches across. He refused to take my car to the hospital. He didn't want to sit in my "filth". At which point I told him to shut his mouth or I would lose the maxi pad and leak all over the seat of his car. It amazing how well a man can listen when you threaten him and his possession with bodily fluids.
The rest of this story will have to wait for another time.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Oh, You Mean THIS Unmarked Grave, Officer?
So my planned post for today was going to be about my water breaking....which is a hilarious story. But I find that I'm too pre-occupied with my husband's bullshit to write that post.
So you all get to hear about the special individual that I'm stuck with until death do we part......:::clears throat:::
My husband didn't want any children. He said so on our first date. It was almost a deal breaker. I have the girl child, but I always wanted more children. A chance to have a real family.
It took a while, but at some point I became ok with only having my daughter. She was on her way to her wretched teen years, and if I had another child the two of them wouldn't be friends until they were adults. I would have to have two more in order to avoid raising another only child (which sucks....don't do it!!!). My daughter was so independent, I barely had to do anything for her anymore. If she could drive, she would take care of herself completely.
So we decided to get married, and decided not to have any more children. He would be a great step father and leave it at that.
While on our honeymoon, we went deep sea fishing (his thing....I don't really fish). Someone asked me if I was going to get sea sick. I said (and I quote) "Nah, the last time I was sea sick I was pregnant, so I'm not worried"....foreshadowing anyone???
I did get sea sick. Not like yaking over the side or anything...just really queasy. But the waves were high, and most of the people on the boat were feeling yucky. The whole next day I was out of commission. Feeling gross all day. The next day, still not so good. We went out to dinner, because even though I felt awful, I was still hungry. The last day of our honeymoon, I noticed that my boobs were a little sore......oh shit.
The will power involved in not running right to a CVS and grabbing a pregnancy test was of the kind required to kick heroin. I didn't want to ruin my honeymoon though, so I waited. (Prior to this, I was a frequent pregnancy test user. If my period was 5 minutes late I was peeing on a stick. I kept EPT in business.)
Our honeymoon wasn't great anyhow.....but this is already in danger of being a serious post, so I'll leave that alone.
The very next day after we got home I went out and bought a 3 pack of tests....you know...in case there was a dud.
Well, for the first time in my life, the first test was a dud. No control line. I sighed in relief. It was a bad test, and that stupid pink positive line was probably a lie. Waiting until I had to pee again was hard. But I persevered....
The second test was not a dud. Two freaking pink lines. Shit, Shit, Shit.....
After dinner, my husband was playing some video game in our room. I gave him a hug....and said...."I'm pregnant".
His response? "What? What?!?"
I said "I'm pregnant."
Him? "Fantastic."
The next several months were horrible. He went through all of the stages of grief I think.
He asked how I knew I was pregnant....um, two separate pregnancy tests dear. Had I been to a doctor? Well, no....but those testy things are fairly reliable.
He accused me of getting pregnant on purpose. I put an end to that really quickly.
He told me I was ruining his life. That I made this decision without him, and he would be pissed at me forever. Great.
So, not only did I have all sort of pregnancy shit going on, and was already crying at the drop of a hat thanks to my hormones...but I got to listen to this sort of thing at least once a week.
Side Note: How does a person on birth control find themselves accidentally pregnant you ask? Well, when a person is trying not to have her period on her wedding night, and begins her birth control cycle a week late, and then forgets that she has done so......that's how. Well I wouldn't have to worry about that pesky period for quite a while.
He went to one doctor's appointment. The 20 week ultrasound. The one where they can tell you what you're having. I had to guilt him into it.
He didn't care to feel the baby kick. He didn't care about what the midwife had to say. He wouldn't get involved in naming, or nursery planning, or anything else until right before I delivered.
It was seriously the worst pregnancy ever. Of course I tied my tubes the day after I gave birth to my son. I was absolutely not doing any of this again.
I handled all of this with one hope. I was counting on my husband instantly falling in love with the little person I was going to hand him. I was relying on him loving his son instantly, and that it would all be ok.
I was right. That is what happened. He loves his son.
But he is still an asshole. Almost every day I wonder why I married this man.
In his past is a long line of women that have just taken care of him. Women that have spoiled him rotten and given him everything he wanted. He seems to have always gotten his way in everything, and if he didn't, he left.
If time travel were a real thing, I would go back in time and donkey punch my mother-in-law every time she gave in to his tantrums. Every time she spoiled him. Every time she just made his problems go away without him having to deal with them. Donkey punch.
All of these women are the cause of my misery. He married me. I'm not exactly the "yes dear" type. Though I am the "I'll just fucking do it myself because it's easier than arguing with you" type. Much to my downfall. I realized this waaaaaaayyyyy to late to do any good. Now everything is a fight.
This post is already long, and not funny, and if I were to gripe about every single aspect of our relationship, and his lack of parenting, and his non-provider attitude.....well it would be a book. Or a diary. Dear Diary.....
No....I'll stop now. I don't want to leave the man. I do love him. It just gets harder every day to remember why I love him. When I come home from picking the baby up from the sitter, after working 7 hours, and make dinner, clean up from dinner, feed the baby, put the baby to bed, take care of the dogs, fold laundry and then hope I still have time to take a shower so I don't smell quite so bad before I go to bed so I can get up at 5am and do it all over again......and meanwhile he has been playing guitar or Playstation for the last 2 hours.....yeah I'm a little homicidal.
Some of my friends said the first year of marriage is the hardest. When I was pregnant, a friend said to me "I hope you like him again after you have the baby". Some said that the first year with a new baby is the hardest. We are down 5 months, with 7 to go. I hope he lives through it. I don't look good in orange, and jump suits don't exactly flatter my waistline.
So you all get to hear about the special individual that I'm stuck with until death do we part......:::clears throat:::
My husband didn't want any children. He said so on our first date. It was almost a deal breaker. I have the girl child, but I always wanted more children. A chance to have a real family.
It took a while, but at some point I became ok with only having my daughter. She was on her way to her wretched teen years, and if I had another child the two of them wouldn't be friends until they were adults. I would have to have two more in order to avoid raising another only child (which sucks....don't do it!!!). My daughter was so independent, I barely had to do anything for her anymore. If she could drive, she would take care of herself completely.
So we decided to get married, and decided not to have any more children. He would be a great step father and leave it at that.
While on our honeymoon, we went deep sea fishing (his thing....I don't really fish). Someone asked me if I was going to get sea sick. I said (and I quote) "Nah, the last time I was sea sick I was pregnant, so I'm not worried"....foreshadowing anyone???
I did get sea sick. Not like yaking over the side or anything...just really queasy. But the waves were high, and most of the people on the boat were feeling yucky. The whole next day I was out of commission. Feeling gross all day. The next day, still not so good. We went out to dinner, because even though I felt awful, I was still hungry. The last day of our honeymoon, I noticed that my boobs were a little sore......oh shit.
The will power involved in not running right to a CVS and grabbing a pregnancy test was of the kind required to kick heroin. I didn't want to ruin my honeymoon though, so I waited. (Prior to this, I was a frequent pregnancy test user. If my period was 5 minutes late I was peeing on a stick. I kept EPT in business.)
Our honeymoon wasn't great anyhow.....but this is already in danger of being a serious post, so I'll leave that alone.
The very next day after we got home I went out and bought a 3 pack of tests....you know...in case there was a dud.
Well, for the first time in my life, the first test was a dud. No control line. I sighed in relief. It was a bad test, and that stupid pink positive line was probably a lie. Waiting until I had to pee again was hard. But I persevered....
The second test was not a dud. Two freaking pink lines. Shit, Shit, Shit.....
After dinner, my husband was playing some video game in our room. I gave him a hug....and said...."I'm pregnant".
His response? "What? What?!?"
I said "I'm pregnant."
Him? "Fantastic."
The next several months were horrible. He went through all of the stages of grief I think.
He asked how I knew I was pregnant....um, two separate pregnancy tests dear. Had I been to a doctor? Well, no....but those testy things are fairly reliable.
He accused me of getting pregnant on purpose. I put an end to that really quickly.
He told me I was ruining his life. That I made this decision without him, and he would be pissed at me forever. Great.
So, not only did I have all sort of pregnancy shit going on, and was already crying at the drop of a hat thanks to my hormones...but I got to listen to this sort of thing at least once a week.
Side Note: How does a person on birth control find themselves accidentally pregnant you ask? Well, when a person is trying not to have her period on her wedding night, and begins her birth control cycle a week late, and then forgets that she has done so......that's how. Well I wouldn't have to worry about that pesky period for quite a while.
He went to one doctor's appointment. The 20 week ultrasound. The one where they can tell you what you're having. I had to guilt him into it.
He didn't care to feel the baby kick. He didn't care about what the midwife had to say. He wouldn't get involved in naming, or nursery planning, or anything else until right before I delivered.
It was seriously the worst pregnancy ever. Of course I tied my tubes the day after I gave birth to my son. I was absolutely not doing any of this again.
I handled all of this with one hope. I was counting on my husband instantly falling in love with the little person I was going to hand him. I was relying on him loving his son instantly, and that it would all be ok.
I was right. That is what happened. He loves his son.
But he is still an asshole. Almost every day I wonder why I married this man.
In his past is a long line of women that have just taken care of him. Women that have spoiled him rotten and given him everything he wanted. He seems to have always gotten his way in everything, and if he didn't, he left.
If time travel were a real thing, I would go back in time and donkey punch my mother-in-law every time she gave in to his tantrums. Every time she spoiled him. Every time she just made his problems go away without him having to deal with them. Donkey punch.
All of these women are the cause of my misery. He married me. I'm not exactly the "yes dear" type. Though I am the "I'll just fucking do it myself because it's easier than arguing with you" type. Much to my downfall. I realized this waaaaaaayyyyy to late to do any good. Now everything is a fight.
This post is already long, and not funny, and if I were to gripe about every single aspect of our relationship, and his lack of parenting, and his non-provider attitude.....well it would be a book. Or a diary. Dear Diary.....
No....I'll stop now. I don't want to leave the man. I do love him. It just gets harder every day to remember why I love him. When I come home from picking the baby up from the sitter, after working 7 hours, and make dinner, clean up from dinner, feed the baby, put the baby to bed, take care of the dogs, fold laundry and then hope I still have time to take a shower so I don't smell quite so bad before I go to bed so I can get up at 5am and do it all over again......and meanwhile he has been playing guitar or Playstation for the last 2 hours.....yeah I'm a little homicidal.
Some of my friends said the first year of marriage is the hardest. When I was pregnant, a friend said to me "I hope you like him again after you have the baby". Some said that the first year with a new baby is the hardest. We are down 5 months, with 7 to go. I hope he lives through it. I don't look good in orange, and jump suits don't exactly flatter my waistline.
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