Sunday, April 30, 2006

Monkey Butt

She's asleep on the couch. I am again teary eyed, the front of my shirt soaked through with breastmilk, my armpits smelling like something has nested in the hair there and died.

And this is my motherhood.

An hour and a half blaming gas for her not being able to focus to latch on, when it was probably the stench of my armpits catapulting her face away from my breast with every feeding attempt.

I am still covered in the rash. I have been to the dermatologist 3 times, the las visit they biopsied my leg, got two stitches and sent home with a sneaking suspision all they will have to offer me is steroids. Oral steroids. And while at this point all things oral sound appealing, that is all things oral but steroids. I used a steroid cream during my pregnancy to help with the rash and my daughter was born with back hair. Dan says not to joke people will believe I did this to her.

What I have done is given her my canoe feet, bitten her toe nails, cried the first time she reached for something, and subjected her to Alby's many investagatory sniffs and licks. This is just the beginning. I had to write something.

I am taking too long trying to get it all down from the beginning. Now if you'll excuse me, I have about a 15 minute window to poop before she wakes up and has to be in there with me, which never goes well. And if you've ever had your guts removed and set to the side so they can pull out your 11 lb. baby you know you can't rush a poop in the first two weeks of healing.

I love you guys so much, thanks for letting me know you missed my stories, here's a little reward for you!

Monkey Butt.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Out of Office Reply

I am outlining, detailing, trying to remember it all and putting it together for you. My heart explodes on a daily basis. I am distracted... to say the absolute least. I will get to this. It is coming. I promise. For now, consider me temporarily out of the office.

Saturday, April 08, 2006

You'll Say... You're Putting Me On But It's No Joke...

It took me getting a good 12 hours of sleep to realize that I am not, in fact, depressed, just exhausted. I woke up Thursday feeling human again. It had been so long since I had slept for more than 3 hours in a row that I had forgotten what I was like as a human. I forgot that such little sleep could be the reason I am writing blogs reminiscent of lyrics by The Cure.



Sleeping better for some reason now. I wake up to the itching. My tattoo on my belly is raised like
Braille and my belly itches in the night, as do my thighs, arms and legs. The baby scores at least 4-5 slam dunks against my cervix a night now, so I can see that she may consider coming out, though I cannot say when. I am still not dilated at all, she's not dropped, and I am only 40% effaced. This means very little to me except that it all may happen quickly. Don't care, as long as it happens.



Dan's being so great. During the week he woke up with me for an hour at 3 a.m. to listen to me cry, stroke my hair from my face, and remind me that I am not a monster, just a sleepy mommy to be that looks like she could use a hot cup of milk. Last night he got up at 4 a.m. to get me hot milk
because I was crying and itching swearing I would never sleep again, and I was asleep by the time he brought it back. Go figure. His patience with me makes me know he will be better with Cohen than I.



Today Brandee and my mother and I went to the used baby store (Urban Baby Exchange in Phoenix) to see if there is anything else I need. Knowing full well there is nothing else that I need, it was a dangerous excuse to spend money I no longer make at my job I no longer attend. I bought a car seat (we now have three) and some books. The best news was the place is under new ownership. The woman who owned it before had fake boobs and
drove a a land cruiser and when she did talk, she talked about children that could not possibly have manifested in her body. The new owners are a mother and daughter team that really improved the design on the shop, and while both owners sold baby supplies and goods, the new team actually provides a child safe environment complete with a baby gate at the front door and a play area for browsing mothers. I know I know, another place I can't wait to put my baby down somewhere. That's what I consider giving birth to be now, putting her down. Can someone else please carry this.



This blog is mostly to say I am ok. I am sleepy, but not crazy tired. I haven managed not to
cut anyone up into tiny pieces, and soon may actually be able to share a humorous story again, though too sleepy now.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

A Gradual Exile

For the past month and a half I have experienced my own gradual exile into what seems to become a deeper, less transparent night. In all of my stories, my candor, my relationships with those of you I know I have never denied my depression its free roam. The same honesty that affords my ability to relay some horrifying fart story (soon to follow) forces me to consider sharing every night I have considered cutting this child out myself for comforts sake.




Pregnancy, like love and success, do not block the transmitters in the brain that tell you maybe you should consider driving your truck off a cliff. One of these wonderful things may, in the long run, become the reason you dont take that plunge, but thats not because the thought
doesn't cross your mind.



My depression has been along for this whole 9 month ride. Sometimes for weeks at a time it was as if I was still on Prozac, functioning like a normal person with pregnancy symptoms no stronger than a hint of the flu. At other times I locked myself in bathroom stalls, sat in my car, and hid in my bedroom before Dan got home crying and slitting my imaginary wrists in some imaginary world where that was still an option. But I have seen death during this pregnancy, and it will not allow me to glorify its purpose. Depression without suicidal tendencies is just a very deep sad place of immobility.



Tonight I am in a new house, a new life. My husband and my dog are asleep in the living room because in my new house, in my new life, there is an unbearable cat piss odor in our master bedroom. Cable will not be turned on until Tuesday. The internet will be here Thursday, despite my setting it up to have been transferred over three weeks ago. My
Netflix, all but Pumpkin, have been lost in the move. I would sooner gnaw off one of my swollen feet at the ankle than give Pumpkin the privilege of getting anywhere near my DVD player again.



Pumpkin was Dan's pick. He wanted out 30 minutes into it, but I held my ground, thinking if I punished him by the hand of his own choice this would further enforce for him, subconsciously, that I am right when I say that his taste is terrible and that we should always rent movies of my choosing. This plan was set into motion before I learned that this piece of crap movie was over TWO HOURS long. Well, we finished it, with Dan bitching and begging for mercy every 15 minutes after the first half hour, and in the end I had fought so hard to see this movie through I ended up taking credit for the pick all together and no lesson was
learned.



Now, it is 12:30 a.m. I am sweating, drinking hot milk, and trying to catch my breath. While it has been some time that the baby has preferred I not sleep, as of this past week and a half she has entered a slew of new demands.



COHEN'S DEMANDS



NO breathing in your sleep.



NO laying down.



NO leaning.



NO sitting on anything lower than 2 feet off the ground without expecting a horrifically loud fart to accompany you when you attempt to stand.



GET assistance by the way, you wont be able to get up alone and you're not going to mortify yourself with these farts!



NO walking for longer than 2 minutes.



NO scratching the itchy belly.



NO ice packs on the belly.



NO touching of the breast to anything unless you want to leave a milk stain in your wake.



ABSOLUTELY NONE of the activities that you have heard will help induce labor.



NO sex.



NO masturbation.



NO orgasm of any kind.



NO memory of sex or hope of ever seeing it again.



NO feeling appealing.



NO glowing, only turning red and bursting into hot flashes and cold sweats.



NO stretching.



NO spicy food.



NO more ankle bones for you, you only took them for granted anyway.



NO more long sexy fingers, just sausages plugged into the ends of your spam hands.



NO use keeping that bikini because I have covered your belly in stretch marks.



NO sense of humor, no one is laughing with you, they are all laughing at you because you are so fat and crazy and sad and annoying and self-loathing.



NO going for more than 20 minutes without pissing, even if you just pissed 10 minutes ago.



NO more conversation about anything that is not related to baby.



NO visitors.



NO trips.



NO work.



NO curl in your hair.



NO more myspace tonight your punishment - go to bed and don't breathe.