Hi. Here I am, being depressing again.

Almost seven weeks
since it started; we’re still stuck.
Would now be twelve weeks.

We are still not sure
when we’ll want to try again.
Sooner or later?

Some days, I think, “NO.”
Other days, I think, “maybe?”
It is confusing.

Afraid to chance it.
What if it happens again?
So soon, I might break.

Then again, it seems
no matter the length between,
the pain won’t differ.

Also afraid to
wait too long… time rushes by,
thyroid gets worse. *sigh*

Mostly we still want
to wake up from the nightmare,
our baby still here.

So probably not
ready to try again yet.
But still, there’s longing.

Braden’s latest word
is “baaay-beeeee,” complete with sign.
God, please help me cope.

 

 

You ask, I deliver.

Today’s PhotoHunt Theme:
Self (yourself, or part of you)

I have issues. It’s official.  This post proves it.



Lilacspecs “Triple Dawg Dared” me to show my unshaven pits when I joked about it on this post.

Then Madness said she wanted to see them too, and requested my hairy legs to go along with them.  (Incidentally, Sunshine also wants a leg hair picture.)

Allie actually challenged me to “grow a pair” and show my pit.  Whoa.

And Kat almost broke her desk, beating on it and yelling, “ArmPIT! ArmPIT! ArmPIT!”

 Christie, Shannymar, Mommy Cracked, Jennifer, Cate, MP, Scylla, Angela, Jenny from Mommin’ It Up!, Jenny-Bloggess,BusyDad, Dirty Laundry Diva, and Veronica all chimed in to support the idea of armpit posting, in one way or another.

Queen of Shake Shake accused me of making everyone wait because I had to grow it out!  I’ll have you know I took the picture the very next day!  (And no, one could not exactly braid the hair, but it’s past the point of stubble.)

Several people were clearly against posting the armpit hair.

Wright is scared and wants a warning (consider this it, honey).

Lou’s not particularly fond of pit hair, he says, and my even mentioning it brings back bad memories of nipple hair for him.  He  now claims I owe him a Rack shot to make up for that.  As if I haven’t given plenty of those already!

Rachel says she is not looking forward to the pic (but still loves me). *whew*

Bee Repartee “says no to armpit hair” even though she has a French name.  Do you also dislike cheese and wine!?  We should really just start calling you “Becky Smith” or something, you realize.

Karen MEG actually said I was scaring her and called the whole thing a threat! 

Some comments were a bit ambiguous…

Amanda said posting the pic was a tease, and she’d rather sniff my armpit.  That’s why I love her so much. 

Melissaz said she wouldn’t be able to sleep if I post a pic.  I can’t tell if that’s because she’d be too busy vomiting in disgust, or laughing in merriment, to sleep.

Taz just said, “armpit???  Girlfriend, does this mean you’re not familiar with the body part or are you just questioning my sanity with very brief typing?

Sandy(Momisodes) calls it a threat… but says that she supports me.  Hmmm.  I can’t read you, Sandy!

Karen said she thinksshe can do without the armpit hair… but that I have to if I’ve been TDD’ed and says she’ll cover her eyes… but peek!  MIXED MESSAGES, KAREN, SHEESH!

In the end, I have to go with the majority here.  I’m all democratic and junk, see?  And those who desire to see my pits (and legs), no matter how immensely disturbed they clearly are, win out on this round.

And really, since I’ve already show all of creation My Backfat:

My Muffin-Top:

And My Just Woken-Up Face:




What’s a few more gross pictures?

Remember, we all look like this. Admitting it can only make us more comfortable with who we really are.



So, with what will possibly be a little regret once I see how GROSS they look published in all their largeness…

Right Pit:

Left Pit, With BONUS DISGUSTING MOLE!:

Legs:

I hope you’re happy.

And that you didn’t throw up a little (or a lot) in your mouth.

Now, I seriously deserve your vote for Hottest Mommy Blogger. Because what’s hotter than Every.Single.One of the photos in this post?

All the fun of postpartum without the hassle of a cute newborn.

Like seeing crap like this in the drain after a shower.

Yup.  The whole postpartum hair falling out thing.  Either that, or the Hashimoto’s is acting up again.  (Or it could be the fact that I only shower about once a month.  Naaaah.)



And ohhhhh, the mood swings!

And no, I’m not even getting a decent amount of sleep, because, apparently, I’m a moron.

(Also, Conan is funny. I <3 Conan.)

And I recently realized something: DAMN, my website has been depressing lately!

Have you noticed? I have.

So I wasn’t really all that surprised to see my feed reader subscription count massively dropping here and there last week.  I mean, who wants to keep being brought down?  Depressed?  Reminded of their own mortality? *click*

Certainly not people who enjoy looking at pictures of poop.  “We need sarcastic rants and disgusting potty humor, Lotus, come ON!”

And I know I haven’t been showering much lately, either, but that should really only be affecting John and Braden.  You, my lovely readers, should have no reason to claim I brought on any sudden wretching impulses. Until I show you pictures of my unshaven legs. Or maybe even my armpits. Anyone want to see my unshaven armpits? No? Fine, suit yourselves.

Hahaha.

But, honestly…

Sixty of you jumping ship in one day alone?  Really?  Was there a “Dude, Lotus Sucks” Convention somewhere that day?  There was punch and pie, wasn’t there?  You bastards.*

A few nights ago, I was lying in bed with John, lamenting to him about the loss of feed readers shortly before sleep mercifully overcame our toddler-beaten bodies.

The next morning, I woke up to find The Number of The Beast on my feed reader count.

And I just thought, “Really?  Great.  Awesome.”



At least Satan’s still reading.






*Because calling my audience bastards will REALLY help improve the chances of my being able to maintain a following. I’m SMART like that.

Me and my two selves… please forgive me for them.

Several nights ago I was sitting in the dark of Braden’s room; he was cradled in my arms, breathing quietly. As we slowly swayed back and forth in the rocking chair together, lullabyes playing peacefully on the CD player, my mind jumped back and forth. It climbed mountains torturously, then lept off of the summits and plummited into the valleys below. My face was slack, but my thoughts rumbled and tumbled below the surface while I felt the warm, soft life in my embrace cuddle deeper into sleep.

Suddenly, I burst out crying.  Crying for the tiny life that I wasn’t able to hold onto in this way.  I sobbed – quietly, so as not to disturb Braden – for a few long moments. Then I placed him in his crib and left the room. As suddenly as it had come upon me, the weeping was gone.

It’s been like that for weeks now. Since the miscarriage.

The extreme dichotomy of my feelings and thoughts lately has been a confusion at times, to me. At others, it has made no less than perfect sense. See what I mean?

I was pregnant one day. Then, suddenly, I wasn’t.

Riding the rollercoasters at this Carnival From Hell that no woman wants to go to, but that is packed full of people, nonetheless, has been strange.

Some days, hearing about how many others have gone through this, multiple times, even, is a great comfort. I am actually incredibly buoyed by the scores of other women who feel somewhat betrayed by their bodies, or maybe even by God. By women who have experienced this same thing and are floating alongside me in this sea of uncertainty.

It means that I am not really standing out in the middle of a barren wasteland, alone, while a relentless wind tears and rips at my exposure ravaged limbs, muffling my cries and carrying them silently away into the vast nothingness surrounding me, where they will mean nothing and no one will ever respond to them.

Instead, at every bend, there are arms ready to pull me close, hugging me and imparting comfort and understanding; a place to cry and grieve and heal.

But on those other days, the “bad” ones, if this has happened to you? I want to pretend like you don’t exist. I don’t want to hear about what you’ve gone through. I especially don’t want to know that it has happened to you 2, 4, or 7 times. I don’t want to think about how sad it is that this happens all the time, multiple times to some women. And I really don’t want to think about how this could so easily happen to me again.

Then, the very next day, I probably want to run to you and make you hold me again.

(Please, if you shared these things with me, don’t be offended, and please don’t stop sharing.  Please.  This is the nature of the beast - while I sometimes want to pretend you don’t exist – I still find I need you!  Just read the first part I wrote about it up there^!  I just have a need to be really honest with myself and others about the dichotomy of my feelings right now, and this is part of it.  If you have been through this, you will likely understand.)



The split, this back and forth, doesn’t end there, though.  Ohhh, no.  There is so much more.



Some days, I look forward to trying to have another child at some point.  I think about a sibling for my son, a tiny baby to love and coo over, another dimension to our family.  I think about the joy of being pregnant, meeting a new life, and discovering how another personality will fit into our home.

Other days, I am terrified at ever being pregnant again.  I shrink away from thoughts of what it will be like to have another positive pregnancy test.  Instead of bursting at the seams with Joy and Bliss like I did the past two times, I imagine that I will feel incredibly Anxious and Fearful. 

I mourn the death of the joy that should accompany that positive test, and I imagine the fear and sorrow that will replace it - as well as the paranoia.  I imagine it, and I feel a great sense of avoidance. 

I picture a future pregnant me waiting to see blood every.time.I.urinate.  And I can’t imagine being able to shoulder the endless stress that will inevitably invoke.



Some days, I feel strong and whole.  Some days I actually feel more alive than before.  I feel more passionate about living and doing and being.  I feel more grateful and in awe of the life that courses through my veins, and that resonates through the bodies of my son and my husband.

Other days, I feel more vulnerable and fragile than ever.  I feel more fearful and worried about the delicate nature of life – not just early life, either - any life.  I feel guarded and over-protective about my son on those days.  I feel anxious and worried about my husband.  I feel scared.  Terrified, even.



Some days, I take comfort in knowing that my baby is in Heaven.  God wanted one of ours next to Him.  I feel the complete peace that is, as a lovely friend of mine so eloquently said, knowing my baby will live for eternity never having to experience sadness.

But most days, I just want my baby back.  And I feel selfish.  (But it doesn’t stop me from wanting that.)

In fact, some days I want my baby back so bad that it really doesn’t matter to me one way or the other that I can probably have another child eventually.  Hearing that does not really comfort, on those days.  Because I don’t want another one.  As John can tell you, because I’ve said it to him multiple times already, I just want back the baby I already had.  I was feeling this so strongly one night that I just cried into my pillow, feeling guilty and selfish and immature. And whenever someone has said that to me… that I can have more… I have secretly been angry. Because you would never say that to me if Braden died. And this baby was no less my child than is he!

Then I read that I’m not the only one who feels this very way.

And it must have been a good day, because I felt a bit vindicated, and took comfort in that.



Proof that I need to hear all these things that you all have to say.



I’ve never wanted to get off a Carnival Ride so badly.  I’m just ready to fall asleep in the car on the way home, you know?






And more than anything, I hate knowing that while I’m riding, the damn contraption is going to keep stopping over and over again to let, no, force new passengers on.

All I can hope for is that I’ll have something to say that will comfort them.



On the not so bad days, of course.

…and then I whined some more. Yay!

Today, Braden is
Nineteen Months Old. This past month
has been quite crazy.

I am ashamed, but
Gastroenteritis kept
me from last update.

Then the joyous news
of a pregnancy and I
was so excited!

Not long after, there
was heartbreak and agony.
Update? No heart left.

And now I really
must write two. They will be up
Within this next week.

Last night I wanted
to break things into many
pieces, but instead

We ordered pizza.
And yes, being a fat pig
made me feel better.

The P-S-B-N
post will go up tomorrow.
Link in or I’ll cry!

Holding On To Hurt

The other day I watched some ridiculously random, stupid movie: 13 Going On 30.

And I cried.

Wait.  I cried more than once.

And what’s really pissing me off about that is that I was crying because I thought of my Swan.

I’ve been carrying a hurt in my heart for some time now.  The “hurt” is a residual effect of an event that transpired some time ago now – over a year ago.  It’s not something I care to share with the world at large, so you will have to forgive me and allow me some room to ponder and develop my thoughts without divulging them in intricate detail this one time.  I know it seems uncharacteristic of me – but there actually are things I choose not to talk about here, out of love and respect for others.  That is the case with this current topic.  And while I have no need to lay all the pieces before you, I feel hugely moved, if only momentarily, to talk about the hurt.   I think I’ve been denying the full effects that hurt has had on me, emotionally and spiritually.  I’ve been cramming that hurt into a box that I taped shut, painted black, mashed flat, folded into an Origami Swan and then shoved down inside my heart.

Whenever I bump into it by accident, I just quickly say to myself, “Ohhh, hahahaha (that’s quick, nervous, fake laughter) – there’s a pretty swan! Tee-hee!” and then I shove it back down and RUN AWAY.

Sometimes, when I’m all alone, I take the Swan out and I unfold it carefully.  In true masochistic form, I peel back the corners of the box and I look inside.  I pull the hurt out and I hold it up close to my face and look at it really, really hard.  I inspect it.  I see how ugly the hurt is.  Sometimes I just nod, because I know it is ugly; I remember clearly.  

But a lot of times I tremble, because I forget a little bit that it is as hideous as it is, and when I look at it so closely again, I am forcefully reminded.  I have a little, frayed string of hope running around in my heart attached to the Swan.  It’s the faint hope that the longer I wait the less ugly the hurt will look when I inspect it.

One year has not been long enough yet.  So I keep waiting and absently wrapping that string around my finger over and over and over again.

But the movie?  Why did it make me think of my Swan?  There’s a line, “We need to remember the things that were good.”

That’s what I want to do.  I want to stop inspecting my hurt.  I really want to just let it go.

I need to learn how to release all of the Swans I’ve ever folded… learn how to let them float away on an eternal river of goodbyes that never returns to its source, ever flowing outward and away.

Why do we cling to hurt and often find it easier to focus on than joy?

Why is it so hard to let go of our Swans?

Or am I the only one?

You may now peer into my uterus.

For some reason, the really cute widget that lets you see the alien baby in my uterus right now is being CRAPPY and it’s not working properly in the post. “No Widget Found,” it stupidly proclaims, when I try to include it in my post.

So click over to the website and look at my sidebar so you can Peeping Tom my uterus.

And you know you want to. Come on. Admit it.

It’s official – this lil’sprout is very, very new!  The pregnancy is considered to be 5 weeks along, although the baby has only been growing for 3 weeks.  (It has always annoyed me that the extra time b/w first day of last period and date of actual conception are added.  That is NOT how old my baby is, you crazy fools!)

*ahem*

So, like I was saying, Baby Number Two is 3 Weeks old.

Due dates are pretty notorious for actually meaning “this is the time of year AROUND WHICH your baby will be born.”  So, with that in mind, our official due date for Baby #2 is December 24, 2008. 

Yes.  Christmas Eve.

Please, save your groans.  If your birthday is in December and it has ruined your life b/c of the whole Christmas gifts instead of Birthday gifts/No one really cares about my birthday,Waaah! Thing, please save all your reprimands for someone else.  Someone who won’t think long and hard about mailing you a box o’ dog poop.

Honestly, I’ve been talking about mailing someone a box of dog poop for irritating me in some way or another for years now, people.  For YEARS.  And I have yet to do it!

Don’t pick Pregnancy Time to test me. 

(By the way, have I ever mentioned that I become a totally defensive, boorish, fight-picking hag when I’m pregnant?  No?   Well,  I do.)

*pause*

(Ok, so I just have something to blame my usual personality on when I’m actually pregnant.  SHUT.UP.)

So, yes.  I’ve worried a little bit that my kid will be very annoyed with me for letting Daddy “bang me and knock me up” at this time of year.

But in the end, I’m sure I will do SO MANY MORE things that he/she will hate me for.

So, I’m going with not caring about this one right now. 

Cool?  Cool.

Now give me something to eat. I’M STARVING.

I guess what I’m saying is, can’t we all just get along, bitches?

Sometimes, when I’m surfing around Ye Olde Blog World, I notice, here and there, some rather harsh words relating to the whole “Mommy Blogger” Trend. The harshness seems to be multiplied when referring specifically to the Stay-At-Home breed of MB’s.

I try not to get offended. It ain’t easy, because:

1) I’m stupidly sensitive and ridiculously, pathetically easy to hurt.

2) Ack. I’m a “Mommy Blogger” (the SAHM breed), and those rude comments? Could be directed at me, easily.

(I realize that they are not, but I’m into taking things personally. It’s part of my Mental Issues thing.)

It’s funny. (You know, not funny-ha-ha, and not funny-queer, but funny-f’ed up.) I see people say things out there like how if you stay home all the time with your kid(s), you aren’t a “real person” with your own identity. Or maybe they mention that if you talk about your kids every day, or even quite often (especially if you talk about their fecal habits or post “inappropriate” photos of them), you are clearly vacuous.

[Oops. I happen to talk about my kid's fecal habits. And I'll mention now, some people have told me that my photos of Braden are inappropriate, and should not be posted all over the Internet for "pedophiles to drool over." Rather, they should be kept private. (Thanks for your opinion!)]

Further? It seems that there’s a group of people out there, for whom, just saying, “Oh, that’s just not for me,” is not enough to get their feelings across on the whole matter. For some reason, there is a need to actually flame “Mommy Bloggers,” and to put them down in an extremely derogatory fashion. I’ve seen comments out there like, “Mommys make me sick and wouldn’t go near one of their blogs with a ten foot pole.” Wow, alrighty.

I want to point out that I quite understand that no one will like every type of website. I mean, I’m not hittin’ up the Automotive Blogs every day, because I just don’t care for them. Besides, who has time for Automotive Blogs when you surf as much Asian Porn as I do?

But I digress.

My point here is, you don’t like something, cooool, but there’s this condescending, derogatory undertone I’m noticing; this sense that talking about your kid(s) often is just completely intolerable. As in, you know, it would make you sick to have to read that. As if it were all about bashing in the heads of bunnies with a mallot, or extolling the virtues of Martha Stewart’s Towel Line at JCPenny. I mean, THAT I could see throwing up over.

Sometimes, the indication is even that if the SAHM would just get a job and do more outside of the home then they could be considered to be an actual, intelligent woman with a life. Someone with a brain. WTH, people? Have we taken such a huge step backward as women – hell, as people - that we can’t just SUPPORT ONE ANOTHER no matter what our decisions in life are?

So, here I sit, feeling stupidly offended and ridiculously, pathetically hurt.

**Not asking anyone to come to my rescue. There is no “troll” to hunt down, no bashing to be done. Let us not form a mob today. (We’ll save the pitchforks and fire for another day, eh?)

I just want to “talk” about this for a minute. And maybe “listen” to you guys have some intelligent discourse on the matter when I’m done.

Pretty please?

See, on a personal note, the thing is this:

This is a season in my life. I have, in my short 31 years, already been through a variety of phases and stations in life. I have occupied many different roles, and continue to do so today.

My opinions, feelings, beliefs, and values have changed over time, and also continue to do so (maybe I’m just a flake!)

I’ve been the Curious Kid, the Ambitious Pre-Teen, the Angst-Filled Teenager, the Party-Hardy Young Adult.

I’ve been a Slacker, Driven College Student, Hopeful Graduate Researcher, Disillusioned Degree Seeker.

I’ve been an Ice Cream Scooper, Weight-Loss Trainer, Milk-Shake Maker, University TA (Teacher), Retail Temp Worker, the Manager of an Upscale Store.

I’m a High School Graduate, College Graduate (BA), and Grad School Graduate (MA).

I’ve been Drama Club Dork, Band Geek, Phi-Kapp-Phi, Psi Chi.

I was Magna Cum Laude. And I will still laugh at the middle part of that.

I’ve been a Daughter, Sister, Best Friend, Jerk, Worst Enemy, Girlfriend, Cheater, Ex-Girlfriend, Mistress, Betrayed Wreck, Lost Soul, Fiancee, and Wife.

Now I’m a Momma, Mommy, Mother, Mom.

I’m a Woman. A Person.

I’ve been an Atheist, Agnostic, Christian, Other.

I have FREAKED OUT on people. I have held my tongue and moved on.

I’ve been a Thief.

I’ll even admit to having been, to some degree, no matter how small, Racist, Sexist, Homophobic, Righteous. (Feel free to throw stones. Just make sure to step out of your glass house first.)

I’ve also been Moral, Just, Tolerant, Humble, Meek.

I’ve Wronged, Grudged, Apologized, Forgiven and Been Forgiven.

I’ve learned and grown and changed and loved. I laughed, cried, rejoiced, wanted to die, and just been mellow.

I’ve regretted, hoped, wished, and planned.

I’ve done wrong and I’ve worked to make things right.

I’ve been compassionate after being judgemental, and understanding after being intolerant.

I’m a Woman. A Person.

I used my heart, body, and mind (BRAIN) all the way from there to here.

Now is when I have a website where I talk about my current station in life, and the experiences related to that. Now I happen to be a mother who is not gainfully employed outside of the home (label me whatever you want – “Mommy Blogger,” SAHM, Ignorant Loser, PunkAssBitch – whatevs).

I will talk about my child. Often. Shit is an experience I’ve had with him. I’ll talk about it. I’ll also say lovey-dovey, sickly sweet and annoying things about my feelings for him. I will post photos of him that I think celebrate his beauty, without worrying who lives down the street from me or what “weirdos” are viewing this website online, because that’s not how I live my LIFE.

Others will judge. So be it.

When I started this website, I didn’t even know about the whole “Mommy Blogger” thing. While I had recently discovered her blog and loved it to pieces, I didn’t know that Dooce had planted a seed that blew up like gang-f’in-busters and that fifty-gagillion other moms decided to write about theirs lives and kids, too, as I was embarking on just that enterprise.

I just want to talk about what floats my boat right now, ya dig? I want a creative outlet where I can celebrate exactly who I am right now (and maybe talk about who I used to be, and who I might become, too!). I want to create a history of this time in our lives for my family. I’m a mother, and I’m not ashamed that I stay at home and devote my time here. For now, it is what I choose to do, and I am lucky to have that choice. Later, it may all change. Let’s see where life continues to go, right?

Incidentally, I use this website to broaden my horizons and practice other interests I have, such as writing and photography. And, of course, I have other hobbies and interests that I’ve never even mentioned here. But, alas, when they pick apart the “Mommy,” they judge with slanted eyes while viewing just a slice of life. Just the portion you’ve had time to tell.

Like I said, it may be a little ridiculous that I am even offended. I don’t feel that I fit the derogatory “definition” I see out there of the so-called “loser Mommy” who “has no life outside her children.” And yet, somehow, I feel that perhaps many women are being crammed into that category just because The Crammers are in short supply of actual facts, and in a hurry to judge those who have chosen a different path than their own.

Do not assume that I do not have a brain or that I am not a real person with a real identity just because of this station in my life, or just because I rejoice in and focus on things that are different than those which you rejoice in and focus on.

And I will not assume just as rude, ignorant, and short-sighted things about you.

Deal?