Too Honest for Comfort

When I brought Corbin home I was sore, tired, and bleeding- the same as every other mom. My husband did his best to stay home and considering his two jobs and classes he has- he was around a lot. I had a wonderful sister who stayed and took the night watch over my newborn. The days were long, and almost dreamlike where I rarely knew what day it was, let alone what time it was, and I did nothing more than watch television and play Sudoku while I fed and held my little son.

I got sleep. I got food. I knew how to calm and care for my son. For a time, as crazy and as strange everything felt, I felt like me still.

Then my sister had to go back home to her life and it was me, hubby, and Corbin. I got some sleep. I got some food. I even went to my own classes by then end of that week. Life as a little more hectic, but I was managing… at least that’s what I wanted to believe.

My “moments of motherhood” post describe pretty well the first signs of my own personal demons. I knew that Post-Partum Depression was a possibility. I’ve seen the physical and familial effects it can do to a family and individual- though I still had no real idea what the emotional and mental effects could entail.

I thought that because I loved school so much, that it would provide a little stability to my now flipped inside out life. I mean, school would provide an hour of adult conversation and really using my brain. It would give me time to get some exercise to walk to and from class. It would give me something to do at home that would make me feel productive. And for a while, I kept up. I may have missed class because my son wouldn’t sleep till 5:00 AM and I slept through my alarm, but I stayed up to date on what we were doing in class. I refused to let myself get behind. I’d wait till an opportune quiet, hand free moment to do my school work only to have what felt like the fussiest baby in existence. So I’d wait till the next nap… and then the next one.

Screaming was the soundtrack to my life. My chest hurt from his insistence to eat every hour.  I barely had time to take care of him… let alone myself.

There I was trying to maintain control… while my house got dirtier, television grew boring, and waking up became less and less appealing.

I’ve come to learn that you don’t go to sleep and wake up the next day depressed. It creeps up on you, like ivy on the side of house.

Another day started like it always did, but this time I knew that something was not right.

Corbin screamed just like he always did, I lay in bed hoping that hubby would take his turn, after all, I had let him sleep all night without feeding or changing Corbin, surely he could at least get his son. We lay there for probably only ten minutes, but it felt like an hour of just endless screaming. I lost the battle of wits. I picked up my son and crawled back in bed to feed him with my very sore chest. Hubby attempted to do his usual morning cuddle and I pushed him away as fast as I could. I even remember telling him in a cold dark voice “don’t you dare touch me.” I sat there, huddling on the edge of my bed, feeling like my body was just a tool for someone else.  

Usually my next thought would be “I want to hide” but that day the thought was “I want to end.” I was scared. Not just because I thought it, but because how valid it felt. The floodgate for the demons had been opened. Demons (the negative thoughts as I call them) were telling me that my husband was going to leave now that I was broken. He would be better off without me anyway since I was lazy and was a terrible wife and mother.

We did talk though, and I told him everything. I told him why I was mad that morning and I admitted to him the demons that had been plaguing me that day. But I didn’t think that I was depressed. That was just a bad day. Everyone has bad days. And for the next few days I felt a little better, my son even slept a little more, and I felt a little bit productive.

Another thing I’ve learned about depression. Not every day is soul sucking torment.

However, the bad days are more frequent and the things that I enjoyed now cause me panic attacks or seem meaningless. I know I need help. I do. But I feel stuck. When it feels like I need to quit school, but my demons tell me I’m a failure for not sticking to it. When I feel like I need to see a medical professional, but the demons say it’s pointless because insurance ends soon and finances are tight as it is. When I feel stir crazy for being stuck in my house for a week, the demons tell me there isn’t anything to do outside anyway. When I feel lonely and want a friend, the demons tell me that if I tell them everything that’s going on that they will never be my friend anymore, or worse, I’ll make them depressed. I know these demons weave a web of lies, but even on the good days their lies linger.

On the bad days, I want to run away from everything and everyone and never come back. I wouldn’t even feel guilty for leaving a baby behind- but I’d miss my husband. If I took hubby with me, he’d make me come back. So the demons tell me that if I really want to be free of life and its miseries then I’d have to take hubby and baby with me- I couldn’t do it otherwise. Which in a way is a good thing because I’d be less likely to actually harm myself, but it’s kind of scary because my demons like to help me think of efficient ways to destroy me and my little family. The sad stories you hear about a dad or a mom losing it and killing their family and then themselves – kind of makes sense to me. And that too scares me.

My mind is far scarier than any horror film or book because what I think could one day actually be 

reality.

Another truth about depression, it affects everyone around you.

My husband recognizes that this isn’t just something that goes away. He does everything he can to help me find the help I need to face these demons, these negative and terrifying thoughts I have, so I can get back to being Daria. 

Moments of Motherhood

There are moments when I can hold my son and his screaming and crying doesn’t faze me because I know that he doesn’t have the ability, training, or understanding yet to use words to express his needs.

There are moments when his cries tear at my ears like a caged animal desperate to get out and all I want to do is drown out his wailing with headphones in and music blasting.

There are moments when I love to hold him in my arms while I feed him and watch his tiny alien eyes watch me with curiosity.

There are moments when I desperately wish I wasn’t his source of food and the very thought of having to feel the pain of him sucking on me, pulling on me, scratching me or grabbing me with his sharp fingers is almost too much too bear.

There are moments when snuggling him and holding him close brings peace.

There are moments when I’ve held him non-stop and I crave nothing more than being as far away from him as humanly possible.

There are moments when I can talk to him about anything and everything, because he’s a wonderful listener.

There are moments when I’m so alone with my thoughts and emotions that I can’t find the motivation to leave the bed, the couch, the house.

I knew long before I ever got married, ever was intimate, ever was an adult, that parenting was going to be hard. When friends and acquaintances talked about having children as if it was like going to Disneyland, I laughed. Oh how I played devil’s advocate and brought up the flip side of having children and they in turn laughed at my so called pessimism.

It’s not that I never wanted children. It’s that I knew that when you had children you’d get the whole thing- the good, the bad, and the smelly.

This thought was interrupted by feeding my son- this time a moment of necessity because my chest hurt too much not to feed him. I would have fed him anyway but the motivation is not always the same.

I don’t know if I want to be a mom… I don’t know if I want to pull through another week of a son who won’t nap and I end up holding all day, and whose needs I put far before my own because the guilt of not taking care of him is powerful motivation. 

I find it hard to do anything other than the necessities for him and me. The mom blogs talk about the despair of wearing pajamas- I find it hard to get dressed at all. My pinterest feed has everything from tips to get my son to sleep at night to recipes for increasing my milk supply- yet I can’t find the motivation to eat one real meal a day.

I know I need help, but the idea of someone seeing my dirty dishes, my un-vacuumed floor, and my piles of laundry and thinking that I’m a terrible wife and mom because I should have figured it out by now. I should have figured out how to use my free time during his naps to get those things done. I should have figured out how to make dinner, do homework, and do simple cleaning around my house by now. But I haven’t. I see the mess I live in and want to hide and not care, but the guilt of it not being done and the shame that I haven’t done better haunt me.

I crave company and at the same time am grateful that I no-one visits because then nobody has to see me in my mess.

I’m barely coping as a married parent who has a spouse who is supportive and does his fair share of the parental responsibilities. I don’t know how a single parent does this.

Oh how I wish there was sleep I could hide in, a song I could drown in, a show I could escape in… but I spent 40 weeks and 5 days carrying that boy inside me with the heartburn, morning sickness, and pain followed by the five hours I spent pushing to bring him into this world. I can’t escape that need to at least make sure that he’s alive and breathing even when he lets go during a feeding and we both get sprayed with milk, or he pees through his clothes and mine after I just got him dressed, or he falls asleep only to wake up ten minutes later because I coughed. The darkness I’d love to surrender to is held back by my sheer guilt and anxiety of not being a mom- even if I feel like the worst mom ever.

So why type this? Why share this with the world when my biggest fear is that the world will see me in my darkness and judge?

Because this is how I ask for help and use my words when the darkness tells me that a phone call or a text message isn’t worth the effort. 

To My Friend that is Struggling with Heartbreak

To My Friend that is Struggling with Heartbreak,

I see your pain. I see the broken pieces of your heart that you are so desperately trying to mend. I see you putting up barriers so that broken heart of yours does not hurt again. I may not have gone through the same experiences you have, but I’ve felt a broken heart and I’ve built my own walls too.

 Sometimes the people in our lives that we love the most are the ones that do the most damage to our hearts. We thought we could be vulnerable around them, share with them the things that we’d never tell anyone else. Then one day they break that trust. Our heart breaks. We mend it as best we can, we put up barriers, and then another someone comes along, and the cycle repeats itself. Round and round the merry-go-round of heart break we go till we say no more. Till we are convinced that everyone that ever gets close to us will eventually hurt us, thus there is no point in being close to anyone at all. Everyone must now be kept at a safe distance because our hearts cannot take another blow.

Am I somewhere in the ball park of what you’re feeling right now?

Let me tell you something about heartbreak though, as painful and horrible as it feels, it teaches you. It either teaches you how to weed out the unhealthy people in your life and find the good, or it 

teaches you to become bitter and see everyone as an enemy. 

If the latter is what your heart break has taught you, it is one way to keep you from heart ache. Yet it also keeps you from seeing the good in people and in life.

I’ll let you in on a secret though. There’s always that one random person. That one person who wasn’t the closest friend, but who didn’t completely fall out of touch, and they don’t seem to mind that you haven’t talked in a while. They don’t mind how you’ve treated them in the past. They don’t think you’re a terrible friend. They just want to know what you’ve been up to and how you’re doing. From personal experience, I can say that those kinds of random people, they are the good ones. And you will know they are the good ones, because they don’t share the red flag qualities of the people that have hurt you. Don’t get me wrong, they’re human and may say or do something stupid that may cause you grief, but they are going to be the kind of person who will recognize their mistake as long as you tell them that it hurt you.

You may think that I’m assuming things. That’s fair. But I’ve gone the route of viewing everyone as my enemy. All I ended up with was feeling more alone, and treating people in a way that made me feel worse. It took a lot of soul searching, but I learned that there are ways to preventing yourself from getting hurt without sacrificing the good relationships you have.

My answer was cutting out the negative people in my life. Now some of those people are my own family. And since I cannot avoid family forever, I set boundaries. I gave myself permission that if I sensed that an argument, guilt fest, or any other negative thing was going to start, I was allowed to leave. I didn’t have to sit and take it. Their behavior at that point did not warrant my attention and thus I didn’t have to give it to them.

Here is my advice. Give yourself time to grieve for the relationship you lost. Give yourself permission to set boundaries so you don’t get manipulated into the negative cycle again. Most importantly, give your good friends the opportunity to really be a friend.  In time, you will heal. Until then, know that I’m here for you.

Love,

Your friend. 

I Hate Christmas

Hi I’m Daria and I hate Christmas.

Well, hate isn’t really quite the right word. Disdain… defy… dread… those probably would work better than hate. But to simplify when it comes to the three major holidays all smack dab close together from November to January, It’s easiest to say I hate Christmas.

 I didn’t hate Christmas as a kid. I mean I was always excited to help my mom decorate our tiny tree that was as big as I was and setting up the little winter wonderland landscape that my mom’s teddy bears occupied beneath it. We would listen to the forgotten carols and take tours of the lights at temple square because it was literally a block away.

However, I do remember a few things that never quite made sense. My mom didn’t like the season at all. I mean, we only put up the tree the week of Christmas at the earliest, and on Christmas Eve at the latest. Mom still tried her best, but me being the oldest child I just always knew that there was something off with mom during the holiday season.

Christmas morning was probably the best part of the year- because it was presents and parents smiling and my sisters and I getting along for a good hour. But after everything was unwrapped and my sisters and I acting like kids and playing with our new toys, the strangest thing would occur- my dad would be angry. How could my dad be angry when I gave him something I painted, glued, and put together myself just for him? How could my dad be angry when none of us showed disappointment at our gifts? We were always grateful, we remembered to say thank you. Why was he so mad?

Even as a young kid, I knew that my family and I were poor. My parents both worked two jobs for a while. Then mom stayed home. Then dad lost his job because of health issues. We moved several times. It was my grandparents who took me and my sisters school clothes shopping. It was my aunts who gave us school supplies for my birthday, which is in late August. I knew we didn’t have much and I was always so excited to see the actual brand new things that came on the day all about presents.

As a teenager, I finally got to see more and more of the reality of our situation. So I did my best to not add to the stress of pleasing me with gifts. One year all I wanted was a whiteboard and notebooks in hopes that they could spend more on my siblings. I thought that maybe if I did the decorating, so mom didn’t have to help. If I made or bought presents for everyone then maybe that year’s Christmas would be different. I’d lock myself in my room and blast Christmas music hoping that I could give fill my gifts with the magic they promised was in the year- the power of love and cheer and family time. But the outcome was always the same. Mom was off and dad would get angry after all the presents were unwrapped.

When the next signs of Christmas season were springing up in October I would cringe. I thought people were sick for even mentioning the holiday. When I went into stores in early November and they’d be playing Christmas music it would make me cringe and turn into a Grinch. At that point, Christmas felt like one big lie to me. The season of “giving” and “good will towards men” just seemed so fake and unrealistic. Wanting to celebrate it for any longer than the day itself just sounded cheap. Where was the Christ in Christmas? I didn’t see it. All I saw were bright colored lights, the need for presents, and the echo of “most wonderful time of the year” haunting me everywhere I went.

I learned in my final year of high school why my dad was always angry on Christmas- because he felt lacking. That he wished he could give us more because most of our presents came from secret Santas and family members.

As an adult, I can understand that. But as a teen I thought it was ridiculous. Couldn’t he just be happy with the fact that we even got presents and liked them? Couldn’t he just laugh with the rest of us when someone continued to designate presents for Andrea (which is the middle name of my youngest sister)? Couldn’t he just let go of his macho “I need to provide everything” pride and just see that all we really wanted was for him to relax and enjoy the day with us?

It wasn’t until this year when my mom finally told me why she didn’t like Christmas, or her birthday for that matter. To be honest, if I had been treated like she had been when she was young, I’d hate really hate Christmas and my birthday too. I don’t blame her at all for not enjoying the season. Childhood memories and pain are hard things to overcome.

For me, I still associate Christmas with an emotionally off mother and an angry dad. To this day I still can’t stand Christmas music because to me, the music of the season is what brings on the memories and the “fakeness” more than anything else- be it carols, hymns, or jingles. When my neighbors started blasting their Christmas music this year on November first, I simply blasted my dance party music. Thank you, Oingo Boingo for “Dead Man’s Party”.

I respect others and their need to celebrate a holiday that brings them joy. They have not been through my experiences. Lucky for me, I can hide their facebook posts about trees, Santa, elf on the shelf, and other Christmas paraphernalia. Lucky for me, I’m in a home of my own with a husband who understands why I feel the way I do about Christmas. He totally supports me and my strange ideas about how I want to celebrate it as a family, especially with our little one who is due in January.  

So in the end… do I hate Christmas, celebrating the day of Christ’s birth? No. Because I’m a Christian and his birth is an important part of his role in my life.

I hate the American Christmas culture- that’s where I’m the Grinch, the Scrooge, the full on hater. Let all the lights, gift wrap, and song medleys flee far from me! I am a woman who would like to simply enjoy December for what it is, a month of snow that makes the mountains look pretty, a time to snuggle with my warm hubby and enjoy hot chocolate, and the wonderful peace of mind knowing that the school semester is almost over.

So if I’m the off one during the season, that’s why. It’s my own childhood problem to work through and nothing more. I didn’t write this to receive pity or apologies. I wrote this in order for me to really identify why I feel the way I feel, to come to terms with my view of such an important holiday within my life.  This is my chance to find clarity so I can find joy in the years to come, instead of letting it me grow bitterer every year and eventually becoming the female Scrooge. That would be an interesting story though… now I’ve got a short story idea too. Hey look, something positive already.  

My Thoughts Regarding the LDS Church’s New Policy for Children of Same-Sex Couples

First and foremost- I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I have been since I was baptized when I was eight years old. I believe the Church to be true and that it is led by a loving Heavenly Father and his son Jesus Christ through a living prophet today.

When the leaders of the Church have put out their standings on issues, I haven’t always agreed, but I know that when I ask why, I will receive answers. Yesterday, when I first read the click bait headlines about the Church’s new policy about denying baby blessing and baptism to Children of Same- Sex couples, I was deeply concerned. However, after reading through the articles, I have personally found why such a policy has been made and why Heavenly Father would have church leaders put such a policy in place.

Here is my understanding:

All of the ordinances that members receive within the Church are part of the formal adoption process into Heavenly Father’s family. Yes, we are all children of God, but at the age of eight we are allowed to choose for ourselves if we wish to be baptized and make a covenant with Heavenly Father to be a part of his family.

Those promises we make at baptism can be found in Mosiah 18:9- 10: “Yeah, and are willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places that ye may be in, even until death, that ye may be redeemed of God, and be numbered with those of the first resurrection, that ye may have eternal life-

Now I say unto you, if this be the desire of your hearts, what have you against being baptized in the name of the Lord, as a witness before him that ye have entered into a covenant with him, that ye will serve him and keep his commandments, that he may pour out his Spirit more abundantly upon you?”

Being baptized is not just “Hey look! I’m a member of the church now!” It’s a promise that we will obey commandments and follow the example of Christ. Baptism, on the surface, does not seem like something to deny to a child of same-sex parents. However, we need to understand all of God’s commandments in order to fully understand why having same-sex parents is a concern.

The first commandment ever given to man is stated in Genesis, and also reiterated in The Family: A Proclamation to the World: “We declare that God’s commandment to multiply and replenish the earth remains in force. We further declare that God has commanded that the sacred powers of procreation are to be employed only between man and woman, lawfully wedded as husband and wife… Husband and wife have a solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and their children. ‘Children are and heritage of the Lord’. Parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs, and teach them to love and serve one another, observe the commandments of God, and be law-abiding citizens wherever they live. Husbands and wives- mothers and father- will be held accountable before God for the discharge of these obligations.”

That’s quite a load of responsibility for any parent to be accountable for. How hard would it be for a same-sex couple to teach their children to live all of the commandments, if they themselves are not observing the commandment of marriage between a man and a woman? That child would have a model of a happily married couple at home, but would also know that marriage should only be between a man and a woman. For a child, that would be confusing. How could both their parents and the teachings of the Church be right?

The Church’s policy on denying children baptism into the church is one that is made out of love for these individuals. Love for children who love their parents and the Lord. It is better for a child to grow up not being accountable for decisions that were influenced by teachings of their parents, than to be held responsible for their own choices they make that are a result of those teachings.

The denial of a baby blessing is a sad one. But when a baby is named and given a blessing, their name will appear on church records and then there will be the expectations that they will one day become a full member of the church when they choose to be baptized. So again, it is not the denial that baby can be blessed or not. It’s the denial of setting that child up for the heartache of issues that they may not fully understand later.

I do not hate homosexuals, nor do I think that they are evil or terrible people. They are lovable, kind, and just as human as the rest of us. They are wonderful parents who love their children.

Is it sad that they cannot receive all the blessings that are available through the ordinances of the Gospel? Yes!

But then again anyone who does not live up to the covenants and standards of the Gospel can’t receive those blessings either. God loves everyone but that doesn’t mean that there are exceptions to his laws and commandments.

Again, this is my understanding both of the Gospel, and this new ruling. Feel free to share your thoughts and understandings. All I ask is that you keep them respectful. 

A Study In People Watching

Its days like today where I feel like my heart is on my sleeve and the littlest things bother or intrigue me. My “ooOOOooo look shiny!” senses are heightened and the people around me are movie stars that I get to sit in watch in 3-D.

Today I overheard  a few girls talking today about one of their roommates ( technically it’s hard not to overhear them because they talk loud enough for the whole second floor of the building to hear, but I digress). Now I’ve listened to these girls before, their conversations fascinate me because of how differently they see the world than I do. One is a girl who I would have loathed in Jr. High and high school – she’s the girl who does everything right the first time and has never been in an awkward situations ever, at least that’s how she presents herself to her friends and her mother (who she has wonderful long conversations with at full volume on her end once a week). The other girls were sisters- one of course took the dominate role and the other was the rebellious “I do whatever the flip I want” sibling.

Usually their conversations are about typical college life- boys, classes, and roommates. But as they discussed roommate woes, they started nitpicking at one specifically. It was more than just impolite and annoying occurrences that are typical of living with strangers though. They were tearing her down, piece by piece.

Something in my heart twinged with anger as they discussed the problems of this roommates life- her hard time understanding material for a class, her frustration of studying hard and still bombing a test, her having a hard time making it to class when she feels like a failure, and talking about how all of those feelings were just her being lazy.  I was angry at them for not only dismissing their roommate’s feelings, but treating them as if they were but silly little things that everyone should just suck it up and deal with. I was angry because once upon a time- I was that roommate.  

Not that long ago I was a student who had a hard time motivating herself to get out of bed and face hard classes, long hours of studying, and dreading to see my score on tests because I knew I didn’t do well. I was too scared and shy at that point to reach out for help.  I didn’t believe anyone would want to help someone who on the outside looked lazy to everyone around her. So I failed. And it took me two years to find the motivation to come back. I still have a hard time getting out of bed and going to class, but I’ve found my support system and resources to help me.  My only regret is that I didn’t try to find that support sooner.

I admit, I wanted to stand up and tell those girls to shut up. I wanted to tell them how they were the worst roommates because they couldn’t have a shred of decency to see their roommate was in need of some help- not ridicule for handling her academic life differently than they do. But I kept my mouth shut because sadly, I don’t know this roommate.  I don’t really know if how she was being described by these girls (who I admit, I am rather biased against) is true or not.

What I do know is that I have learned that I really don’t like it when people dismiss another person’s worries, fears, anxieties or other stressors, simply because they know to handle those things. It makes me sad to see people believing that everyone should be able to learn, understand, and act the same way that they do.

Sometimes people watching is a heart wrenching exercise that rubs you wrong. But in the end, it’s good to know that these girls do not see the world the way I see it, because then that means that someday I’ll learn why they feel comfortable talking loud enough for everyone to hear no matter the topic. Perhaps I’ll learn why “little miss perfect” feels the need to show off how good she is to her friends and why I find her so irritating. 

Until then, it's just me and my view of the world.

Life's Just Peachy

When it comes to the things I have to go through as a woman, I admit that there are days (months currently) where I wish I was a man. Being a woman is tough, and I could go on a feminist like rant, but I spent most of my energy writing the rest of this post. I’ll save feminism for another day. Today I’m letting the world know why I personally hate this “beautiful” thing called the miracle of life.  

Why I hate being pregnant:

Eating feels like a chore. What was once something that I loved to do, because I enjoyed cooking, has now turned into something I have to do if I don’t want to pass out, or, you know, mess up my fetus.  

Prego nose. I get the whole, hating the smell of something keeps you from eating things that could hurt your baby. It’s like being a dog, but instead of getting excited and investigating I need to puke and run in the other direction.

Feeling like I’m on the verge of vomiting at any moment. No joke. I’m on the strongest anti-nausea medication they’ve got, and I still have to deal with the whole- “is it a burp or am I going to really lose the lunch I just barely coaxed into this ungrateful thing called a stomach?” To all those who want to offer advice… the best advice I stick to is eat what you don’t throw up. Everything else that people recommend, I immediately shove out the other ear. Congratulations to you wonderful mothers out there who feel fine… I’d like to trade places and I’ll have the happy pregnancy, and you can have this one.

No energy. Don’t matter if I’ve actually eaten a real meal, sipped all the water in the world, and got a good night’s sleep- this baby sucks my energy like Jim Butcher’s White Court Vampires. When I do have energy- I use it up on stupid things… like putting on clothes so I can run to the bathroom to pee (why can't my cabin at scout camp have a built in bathroom?).

Speaking of bathrooms….

Constipation. Is. The. Worst. Think about it people, stepping on a lego as a curse for your worst enemy? Please! Stepping on a lego hurts for minute and then you kick that sucker away from you like it has the plague and you move on with life. Constipation? Constipation is sitting on the toilet for an HOUR trying to squeeze something, anything out of you, and being convinced that you will pass out from the strain, only to wake up and find that NOTHING HAPPENED. Then add the pain of sitting after your little trip to the bathroom. It now ranks number 1 on my list of things to curse people with. It doesn’t help that my prenatal vitamins, the antibiotics I’m on, oh and that wonderful stuff that keeps me from dying (anti-nausea), all cause this wonderful bodily experience. I hate things that are supposed to make me feel functional only mess me up more.

Clothes are evil. Too hot, too cold… and pants! Why do you have these awful zipper and button contraptions? If I button you, you’re too tight and my stomach screams at me. If I use the hair tie trick, I get pantsed by my pants! So I sit here like a slob in the same sweat pants I’ve worn all week, happy that something will sit low on my hips so this fetus can continue to grow. By the way did I mention bras? They’re just mean in general… but once your breasts get bigger, they are super sensitive bricks disguised as balloons that coincidentally have feelings that come across as: “OW! Why did you put me in these boob pockets?” which then turns into “OW! Why did you take me out of the boob pockets?”  

Nobody treats me like a person anymore. I am now “The Prego Lady” which leads to one of three conversations (with word variation of course) 1) “How are you feeling?” 2) “Parenting advice/look at all my grandchildren” or 3) “Let’s talk about MY pregnancy!” I now become the recipient of the pity pats on the head if dealing with conversation one, followed by a “You’ll be happy when it’s over/when baby’s here/it’s the most wonderful experience, embrace it.”  Conversation two is even more fun, because then I get to be told all about how to raise my children so they don’t become spoiled/lazy/overactive/or become a clown that puts on magic shows in Texas. If I’m talking to the older ladies and gents, they automatically assume that I want to hear about all their grandchildren and see how cute they are. Nope. No I don’t. While I think you’re a nice person, this whole time you’ve been talking, I’ve been praying that my gag reflex would kick in(when it’s actually convenient) so I could excuse myself from this lovely little chat. Conversation three is my absolute favorite, because it’s all about you! Yep, because I totally want to hear about how you had no pain/nausea/food aversions, you little perfect angel you. So glad you can, you know, share your infinite pregnancy wisdom upon such a humble person such as myself.  Basically when I became pregnant, it was basically: “you must sit down, shut up, and let everyone else do the talking.” I don’t remember the last time anyone asked me what my favorite book was, or what I’m studying in college, or why I dyed my hair lavender.

Pregnancy Cramps. Okay girls. You know cramping? When your uterus is telling you in the most evil way possible “thanks for not appreciating this egg I worked so hard to make just right for you.”? Yeah… now think about that uterus of yours getting bigger and slowly pulling your abs apart so it can make room for a baby that will only make it worse. Yup. Cramps are just prep for worse cramps. Thank you Mother Nature… you’re just… so… wonderful for preparing me for the worst experience ever.

Personally, I want to call it quits. I really am done being pregnant. I don’t care what people say about “don’t let the baby hear that” or “you’ll forget all about it once you’re holding your baby”. First, everything I say to my baby probably sounds like garble. He/she can probably only hear its own heartbeat right now. Second, yeah… once I’m holding my baby sure, I’ll be happy. But you forgot to mention the six weeks or so it takes to physically recover from birthing that baby, accompanied with taking care of that baby at the same time. Lack of sleep, crying, having my body actually produce a liquid I find repugnant above all others and feeding that liquid to said child, and changing all those diapers and being in a diaper myself? That’s supposed to make me feel better about the Hell I’m going through? Gee thanks people! You sure sugar coat mothering with the foggiest rose colored glasses I’ve ever seen.  

I love kids, I do. I just don’t enjoy growing them. To put it simply MY pregnancy feels like having the flu while on my period while gaining weight because of a vindictive parasite that enjoys making me cry. I basically live in bed or in a bathroom feeling like death. Life’s just peachy.