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Entries-Event! Post Partum Crazy Race

16 Jan

Sorry for the late posting-it’s been a busy few days for me.

Put on your Big Girl PantiesMe & PPD

Miss PuddingCrazy Mom

One Weird MotherPostpartum Oppression

Few Good MemesAfter Birth

Veggie VixenPostpartum Recollection

Liprap No Title

KatsplaceHi I’m Kat and I fed my children with a bottle

Taming EstellaPigpen

AmerimamaPostpartum Abandonment

By hook or pointed stickPost Partum Crazy Race

Magdalena’s RevengeAfterbirth

Mom’s Lost her Mind!- No Title

Sarah’s Story

Since most of our stories are ‘sad’, this time I might just pick names, or something along those lines.

Tired. Waiting to leave for the airport. AGAIN.

Le sigh.

Hello-I’m crazy. What does your Mommy do?

2 Jan

I don’t know that many crazy parents. Ok, while I do know crazy “keeps 15 kinds of cookies but no fruit” kind of Mom’s, I’ve yet to meet that many mother’s who are actually nuts. And I don’t mean, “little depressed”, I mean bat shit, hey, I’m seeing things again, oops, better be more careful to watch the peeler and not the hallucination while peeling potatoes” kinda mom.

I want to know more parents like that. I keep a lot of the issues regarding my disorder to myself. Who wants to hear about how paranoid I got on my trip to Maine, to the point of bringing a useless coat and leaving some granola bars in my bad “just” in case we got lost? Who wants to really know about the total and towering rage that filled my black heart last night as Vivian yet again dumped water on her sister’s head in the bath? Or the tears that pour from my eyes somedays, despite my best efforts to contain them in front of my girls, tears shed over simple things like cookies, the smell of perfume that takes me back?

Many of you have normal, everyday issues, and I envy you. You have normal questions about your lives, you question more children, new cars, quitting smoking, buying furniture.  You take courses and lose weight. You buy hawt dresses and go to parties. You dream about the future your children will have.

I spend some days wondering if I should write down more of the little things for my daughters just in case I cannot walk past that bottle of pills one last time. I spend time wondering if my insurance really will pay off for my daughters if I wait just a few more months to do it. I wonder if I love them, and I wonder why I hate them. I wonder why and how they can crush my heart in their little hands so easily.

Where is Me-maw, Where is Me-Maw” Ros sang this morning while awaiting my arrival. She won’t talk, but she’ll sing. And my heart should soar with this, and it did, sorta, kinda. Then it fell to the earth again, flopped around like a dying fish gasping, and moved back into my chest, where it remained, unmoved again.

I need crazy mums to validate that I’m not this horrible wretched person that I think I am. I need someone near me who can remind me that somewhere buried under all this bullshit and blankets there is a real live person who has a heart and a brain and who really isn’t going mad. Who will keep walking past those pills.

But I’m growing compulsive with it, and I wonder if I can hold off? Crazy mums, have you? Can you? Can I hold back the tide that swells closer and closer everytime? Can you shake the repulsion you hold for your own mind? Do you miss the days when you were only sad, not fearing insanity?

But hey, I can’t go up to some lady pushing a stroller and say “Hey, are you batshit?”. Besides, I’m done with the “babies”-the sight of small children fills me with a pain I almost can’t describe. I may have dropped the guilt I held over my PPD, but I will always suffer this nameless pain while I dream of a infancy my children will never have.  But where to find toddler crazy mums who aren’t frazzled and busy and much too themselves for anything more. Much like I am. Besides, I creep other mother’s out by smiling at their kids. They can smell crazy on me like cheap Polo.

I search for my pigeonhole in the mom world so that maybe I can feel safe enough to have honest conversations about this stuff, without the room dropping into silence, or people walking away. I search and I search, because oftimes, that feels like the best I can do.

Birth the new birth

16 Dec

I’ve been reading some of your birth stories (not all, not yet. I prefer to absorb your stories.)

I’m so sad for all of us. We all have the same stories, in certain ways. Many of us were alone, pressured into decisions we didn’t want by nurses and doctors who didn’t believe we could do it. We felt like failures, like we weren’t real women. Fuck up’s.

We aren’t. We are not the wimps, the babies, the cowards many of us feel that we are. We are not failures.

But we need to find a way to change this for our daughters. We need to find a way to fix this. It’s not fair to us, it’s not fair to them. We are not, and have never been weak creatures who don’t know what’s best.

So do we become the next generation of doulas and midwives? Do we find a way to tell other women that it’s ok to say no, that it’s ok to tell that terrible nurse to go fuck herself, or tell that doctor to stop staring at the clock while he wonders why we won’t dilate. Is it our responsibility at all?

I’m surprised on one level at the visceral, sad reaction I’m having to many of these. We wanted birth that happened as they should, with a minimum of intervention, confusion or annoyance. Many of us didn’t get that.

Do we expect too much, or too little?

What do we do to change childbirth for our daughters?

2 cool for skool

27 Nov

Is it just me, or do the “cool” girls only seem to have one kid?

When I had one kid, I clung to my “indie” self, my musically aware, movie nut persona. I could-I had time to read magazines and listen, really listen to music, to watch and think about movies. One kid is portable cuteness, the comma to the sentence. One kid is cool.

More than one kid, and suddenly, you’re Mrs. Brady or something.


Take a look around you. Think about the women you find interesting or cool, or at least the women other people find interesting and cool. Odds are, they have ONE child, and plenty of time on their hands. (ok, not EVERY single mother of a singleton had tons of time) Parents with more than one are content to just eat something at some point of the day. They aren’t necessarily worried about looking indie rock, or awesome. Being clean is likely on of the top concerns, followed by “is my fly up?” and “is that lint, or snot?”

Parents with more than one kid don’t have much time to do many cool things outside of the house. They might not have much to say other than “so, how’d you sleep last night?” They likely won’t come up with witty Halloween costumes, or cutesy Christmas card ideas. At least the working parents of multiple kids won’t. Those parents are happy if the cards make it out before January.

Parents with one child seem to make it to cool places a lot, like markets and music stores. They buy cute and interesting pieces of folk music, t-shirts with smart ass comments, and super cool hats. They drink lattes. Their strollers look new.

I keep looking around for people like ME, and I keep having trouble finding them. I’m either underwhelmed by them as people, or icked out by their “hipness”. Because it’s transparent, and sometimes, nauseating. I search endlessly for parents who just ARE,  and while I find some, I find oodles and oodles trying to be something, or someone  they aren’t. People trying to become something they were before they had kids.

I am beginning to believe that “cool” moms just don’t exist.

What once was cool when you were 22 and free is really not all that cool when 30 with child. Being the huge movie geek-will that help me parent, or help my child navigate the world? Likely not. It will make them a little movie geek, and while that might make me proud, it doesn’t make me better parent. In some ways, I wonder if it’s limiting. Parents spending all their time trying to hold on to some semblance of the people they once were seem to be a little desperate, and a lot misguided. I won’t be 25 again. I likely won’t see The Pink Dots live again. But you know what? I don’t care.

I’ve officially crossed the divide into adulthood then perhaps? My focus is on exposing my kids to quality, instead of just the 450th indie rock band I read about on Pitchfork. I want to expand them as people, to turn them into selective consumers, not rampant inhalers of “OOH! COOL!” just because. I look around and sometimes see 35 year old children raising children. People raised to believe it’s all about them, and dragging their children off to some ear splitting concert in the name of “kids won’t change me!” Who are they defying? Who are they rebelling against? Is there some secret arbiter of cool watching to see what movie you take your kid to, or what label is on their shirt? Is there a reason why people with one kid seem to still be children in some ways, while parents with multiple kids seem to be the “adults” at the party?

I’m constantly searching for other women who “look” as I do, or as I want to. I want, in some ways, a mentor since I no longer have mine. I want to see how other people do it. But the more I look, the more I’m disappointed, and sometimes slightly irritated by the ways in which organic food is a contest and how parenting is yet another popularity contest, one which I will most certainly lose because I have more than one, and I focus on them. They dance to The Pipettes. And we’re damn uncool when we join them.

I’m glad we have two now, in hindsight. At first, I could feel the “cool mom” mantle slipping. I knew that 2 kids made many things impossible, that 2 would magnify the possibility for disaster in public. While thrifting with one kid in tow is so very now, doing so with 2 seems rather trailer trash. I watched helplessly as my potential for cool mom went down the drain with all that blood.

But I don’t care. I don’t want to live the lie that tries to tell me that I’m only a cool parent with all those witty shirts from babywit. I don’t want to, and refuse to, lust after that Quinny stroller any longer. I won’t wish I had fire engire redhair any longer. (Ok , that one’s a lie)  But I will make 2 kid moms cool.

Are you with me?

Off with her…ovaries?

13 Nov

Lisa Ann Diaz drowned her 2 daugthers in 2003

She was released last week as “mentally stable”

On one hand, I get it. She was nuts, and now she isn’t. Been there, bought the ashtray. She had a psychotic break, tried to kill herself, and is now “ok”. So she walks out the door, having only to see a mental health worker daily and prove she’s taking her medication.

She could have more kids.

The part of me who remembers what my own “break” was like reads this story with a heavy heart, fighting to not have a kneejerk-book her sarge! reaction. She wouldn’t have been herself. She was out of her mind, schizophrenic, unmedicated and dangerous. Keeping her in a hospital or jail while medicated wouldn’t have helped, wouldn’t stop or help anyone. You aren’t criminally responsible if you didn’t mean to commit the crime. She didn’t mean to do it.

I had myself fixed, so I would never ever again chance getting pregnant, and going even more nuts with the PPD. I KNOW that I’m a risk to myself and my children. One more would assuredly kill me, and at least one child. It’s not worth it.

But I wonder if this woman had the presence of mind to do this, or if this is some secret part of the “deal”. Should someone convicted of killing their children for any mental reason be allowed to possibly reproduce again? That many be an ethical slippery slope, but is it not even more ethically repugnant to allow someone like this to get pregnant, and possibly repeat what happened? If she stops taking her meds, and has more children, what could happen? Who would be responsible? It’s not like we’d had a sign around her neck, or Andrea Yates, or Susan Smith. But do we, as a society, have a responsibility to innocents to disallow the privilege of reproducing to these women?

I’d like to say that we don’t, but I believe otherwise. As I’d like to see certain classes of crimes in which men are generaly the perpetrators punished my castration, part of the punishment for killing your kids should be no kids. You can’t force someone to take medication forever. You can’t ensure they use a rubber. You can’t always protect a child from it’s own mother.

I don’t believe this women are culpable, but I do believe that measures should be taken to prevent history from repeating itself. We at least owe children that much, don’t we?

How did Thordora spend part of her evening you ask?

9 Nov


Is there anything sweeter than holding someone’s day old son?


5 Nov

My kids won’t stop touching me.

When I try to eat my lunch, it’s like I’m surrounded by hyenas trying to grab my food. I have to guard it as I’m nudged from left and right, protecting it from shooting little hands and grabby mouths.

Later, I’ll hear “UP UP UP” as I try to play the Sims. One on my lap keeps trying to turn the computer off, the other gets mad because she’s not on my lap where she’ll just slide off anyway. They keep touching me with their sticky hands, grabbing my hair, pulling down on the neck of my shirts.

I cannot fucking STAND it.

By the end of most days, I don’t want my husband to touch me, to come anywhere near me. My usual aversion to people touching me amplifies-I don’t want anyone near me, and become irritated at the thought. My skin jumps off itself, and tries to run as far away as it can.

This children were once part of me-their skin IS my skin. Yet I cannot handle one more second of them near me, on me, beside me.

Office Baby

2 Nov

What is it about a new baby in an office that makes most women run? 

I’m just as guilty of it myself. As soon as I hear the mewing of the tiny thing, or the sighs of the other women, I MUST go see. I must tell the mother she looks good, that the baby is lovely, and ask about how the baby is sleeping. 

In that order. 

It’s the strangest thing. I remember being that new mother, standing so unsure and shy, watching people who I still considered strangers holding and cuddling and sniffing my new daughter, and being slightly creeped out. (And am I the ONLY PERSON in the world who does NOT think babies smell good?) I remember being freakishly tired, and looking like crap, and just wanting to leave the baby, but then not wanting to leave the baby, because these women were freaks who all smelled vaguely of desperation and longing and sadness. 

Is it a want to return to that moment of newness, to that place where you have your firstborn in your arms, and you suddenly feel like you have a purpose in life for the first time? Is it the longing for youth, for that wicked sense of newness? Is it even jealousy? 

Or are we just that bored?

25 Oct

I hate being a girl.

Most of the time. There are times when I love being a girl. (Multiple orgasms coming to mind on this one)

But when I have those achy cramps, and a headache, and that slightly squicky feeling between, I don’t dig it.

But I’ve noticed something else. When I get my period, I become ravenous. I could eat horses. It’s insane.

Since starting to take the Trileptal, I’ve seen my appetite turn from something strange and out of control to something barely there. I eat like a normal person. I never even imagined that was possible. I used to eat everything, for no reason. Now I eat when I’m  hungry, with the occasional snack.

But right now, I’m freaking STARVING. And i’ve already eaten a few things. Like a ham bagette and rice pilaf and an apple and yogurt and stuff.

Still VERY VERY hungry.

I think today’s hunger was caused, in combination, by my monthly friend, and this article talking about Caloric Restriction diets, and their effects.

Now, some women would read that, admire the restraint some people have, think about the weight loss, and decide, what the hell, time to reduce my calories.

I on the other hand, read the article, thought “you poor poor crazy man” and proceeded to run out to buy the earlier referenced ham sandwich. While I do admire anyone who can deal with eating only 1300 calories a day in the hopes of living a few years longer, I am most certainly not one of them. I like food (sorta). Sadly, food is not as enamoured of me as I am of it. Especially in my ass region.

All I know is that I had to eat greens all the time, especially when I’m already moody and prone to outbursts causing weeping, I’d kill myself.

So much for those added years. If I wanted to deprive myself, I’d move to Cuba or something.


16 Oct

So I was bloghopping (ever do that? Follow links on someone’s blog to other’s? It’s fun, until you end up at the same one after 25)

I digress. I came upon this post, in which Gerah talks about her postpartum period, and becoming a bit of a wreck in it, from guilt and all that good stuff.

And it made me ponder a few things-It really made me question why there is no room in this society for a woman to mourn not being home with their child. It’s what you naturally want to do-be home to nuture and feed and bond with your child. Biologically, that’s kinda how it works, what with the boobs and all. But we live in this messed up world that believes a woman should bounce right back to work, and feel nary a twinge of anything, instead swinging right back to conference calls and bad coffee.

I feel for her, because it’s so totally fucking avoidable, simply because our society, all of us as women, need to say “fucking pick one.” Don’t have the media sell me this blissful image of SAHM when most of us couldn’t stay home if we wanted to. Don’t tell me that breast is best when I have to work and commute 12 hours and somehow pump enough milk for my baby. Create an infant and family friendly country which truly values both the impact and contribuition of the working AND at home mother. Let women like Gerah know that guilt will always be there, no matter what choice we make. But that it’s normal, however evil it is.

The other thing it brought to mind was-I never felt any real guilt at going to work. Nuthin. The occasional twinge now as I’m leaving in the morning as someone wants “one more hug!” but that dissapates as soon as I’m up the street, listening to Versus the Mirror without someone yelling “TOO LOUD!”

Am I the wrong woman for children? I don’t really think so-my girls are insanely happy and incredible little girls. Am I wired wrong? Highly likely-I wonder how much my bipolar has to do with how bond with my children-only now do I grab Ros and want to squish her I love her so much. Never felt that when she was an infant. Could the bipolar also make it easier for me to be a working mother? Or was the guilt I felt, at not loving my kids immediately, something that overrode the “normal” guilt that most mother’s have?

I love them now, to pieces, but reading Gerah’s post made me remember a time when I questioned my love for them, and I hate hate hate that she’s gone through so much guilt and ICK at a time when she is likely just happy to sleep. I really want my girls to grow up with a rational, real idea of what pregnancy, birth and post partum is.

The Dorf worries that telling them the actual details of my situation when pregnant/post partum will affect them negatively. And while I have to agree that Rosalyn will likely not be told about my desire to abort her until she well past 16, they will know what their “genetic inheritance” regarding mental illness and childbearing really is. I do not want either one of them going in expecting sunshine and lollipops and coming out with dead roses and blood. I want them to know that something like this really is dirty really is more than can be explained.

I want them to know that it is the farthest thing from perfect they’ll ever see. I don’t want to ever have to talk them back from a suicidal state.

Step Right up! Pick yr Baby!

21 Sep

We all know I’m not a big fan of reproductive technology at this point, right? So seeing an article on CNN about how people are “selecting” for gender more often made my coffee want to come back up.

42% of the fertility clinics surveyed stated that they had selected for sex. Not to avoid disease. SEX.

Monkey wants a boy, monkey gets a boy.

According to one doctor “It performs a much desired service. We’re making people happy”

We bitch and whine and moan that our current generation of KIDS are ungrateful little snots, who think everything is about them, and only want to be happy.

Where do you think that comes from?

Let’s flash forward a few years-let’s assume we have a country that’s turned into even MORE of a theocracy, where boys are highly valued, and girls, meh, not so much. Keep a few around for breeding.

While this type of thing may support my lesbian island utopia, I don’t like it. As women we are told that we cannot choose when to abort a potential being in OUR wombs, but if we want to manipulate said potential, then go to town? If we want to force a 50 year old body to have babies it wouldn’t otherwise have, go to town! We can alter the baby before it’s a baby!

How wonderful! We don’t have to actually make a decision anymore, or accept life as it is, spontaneous and shocking. We can ask a doctor to make us “happy”!

While I’d much prefer that people carrying deadly diseases NOT reproduce (thinking about the gene pool here) I support using in this manner, because it makes sense. The ultimate goal is to reduce the suffering a child may experience. It’s a benefit of a modern society.

But picking your child like a pair of shoes, chancing multiple births that you may not be able to physically handle, or financially afford-it’s icky, and it’s actually rather scary.

Individuals from China come to the US for this procedure. And we all know why. Because their own country bans the practice, and people want boys. So they get boys. Lots of boys. They’ve already passed laws to try and prevent sex selection abortions. Now, they can avoid that messy little part.

I don’t get it. Of course, I don’t get the drive to have “your own” child when so many children need homes and parents. I find it selfish to consider your own needs in this way. Sure, you get something with a penis-but what if he happens to be gay and doesn’t fulfill your ideas of a man? What then, you try again?

I’ve thought for a long time that we’ve jumped into these technologies blindly, but also in a discriminatory way. And it frightens me. People will argue passionately for or against vaccines, and yet have no qualms with manipulating the beginnings of a potential life?

Regardless, I think I lost my appetite this morning.

Agony, Ectasy

14 Sep

Today was just another random day in my life-another day where I cam home to two grinning, bouncing tigger like children who were totally blissed out to see me.

I was especially attuned to them tonight, after overhearing a teenager on the bus talk nonchalantly to her older friend about leaving a baby alone when crying, and how she was likely going to lose her kid soon.

How does anyone say those words so simply, so easily? They fell off her tongue like poison into the air. And I wondered inside myself what I should say, what I could do.

I saw them walk into the low income housing up the street from me, and I felt bad about assuming, about letting my brain run away and play “all around the mulberry bush” with itself, thinking that this is exactly what I should expect from people who live “there”.

I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help but think it. I could see the life of her child, I could fast forward 20 years and see that repeating, my feet could feel the slow rumble of desperation and apathy that groaned out from her. She had no hope, she had no happiness, nothing surrounded her besides her own personal predestination. And I hated her for it.

Staring out the bus window as red and gold leaves fell past me, I thought of the agony I go through all the time, questioning my parenting decisions, my lifestyle, my words, my actions. And I thought about this girl having to be reminded that you cannot leave a baby alone, even if they are sleeping. I thought about her life, her childhood, and what causes a person to get where she is.

I thought about her child ending up dead because she forgot not to leave the crib near the window, and the blind cord became wrapped around it’s neck, and she wasn’t there to save it.

I stopped thinking about that quickly.

My heart bleeds and beats for my daughters, for my children, for the beings I created and brought forth from my womb. I cannot imagine even thinking, for a second, of seriously leaving them as she spoke of, or having them taken away.

Just the thought leaves me rather breathless, like I’ve drank too much water too quickly.

To hear this apathy are carelessness in someone who looked not a day over 18…it was agony. She should be lusting for life, she should crave newness and wonder. She should be happy.

As I am.

My only revenge is to raise my children right, and proper, and well, and suck in their sweetness while it’s still able to make my teeth ache.

Baby Lust or The Tubal Road Taken

8 Aug

I can no longer bear children.

I’m ok with this, but lately, with the help of my medication, I’m beginning to understand the craving for a baby that some women have.

I have never, EVER felt this before. I never wanted kids at all. My experiences with PPD after the births of my children helped ensure I’d never have anymore. It’s not safe for me to breed. It’s why I can relate to Andrea Yates. Because I know that the next child, or the one after that, would be the death of me, and some of them too. Because I’m wired wrong, and it does bad things.

I’ve noticed in myself what I’d almost term a mourning for a part of my life I’ll never, ever live again, and a sadness for not embracing it to begin with.

What defines a woman more than her ability to bear and sustain life? It is what makes us female-and I don’t mean that having kids defines us, but our potential makes us woman. My breasts which can produce milk, my uterus which can bring forth what will become a child-these things are so much a part of being a woman, and I shook them off, ignored them for so long.

What power! How fantastic is it to create life! I remember sitting when pregnant, and meditating on the duality I held at that moment. I was the host for something that would hopefully spring forth alive and healthy and ready, full of potential. Feeling the quickening for the first time is something I will never, ever forget.

It’s comforting in a way to feel the way endless numbers of women have felt, wanting a child in my belly, but it’s disappointing to only feel it now, after the option is gone. And maybe that’s why I’m able to feel it-because there is no chance of it actually coming to fruition.

For now, I’ll stare wistfully at the newborn sleepers, and remember when, and remember if. I could drive myself crazy wishing I did it differently.

Or I can smile at the newborns, and quietly walk away, holding my daughters hands.

In Line

6 Jul

I’m standing in line waiting for my lunch as a woman plays with her daughter, about 3. Her infant son sits cooing in his car seat in a buggy, cute as a button, chubby cheeks, all that good stuff babies tend to be known for. I smile that wistful smile that all mothers must. You know the one. It represents something I hate.


I see the Avent bottles and I think “I should have tried harder.” I should have breastfed my kids, despite everything else. Of course, these thoughts are easier when I’m NOT psychotically suicidal. I see the tiny hands, the brand new smiles, and I think, “I should have loved her then.” But the truth is I didn’t love Rosalyn then, and I didn’t love Vivian at that age either. Love took a long time coming, like I was breaking in new jeans. I had to wait for the scratches to go away with time, and for it to become something comfortable, something barely noticable.

Nothing will haunt me more than the knowledge that I did not love me children for a long time, that I could not enjoy them, revel in them, as friends do, as our relatives did. I lost time I will never get back. They will never, ever be babies again. I will never, ever have babies again.

Am I defective? Being unable to love a baby, is that wrong? It feels wrong? I feel like some Roman mother who would have left her child out for the wolves to devour overnight. I feel less of a mother because I could not muster up that feeling, that slippery alien feeling, until lately. For almost the first year of both of their lives, I sincerely believe they could have been taken from me, and I wouldn’t have cared.

Tell me it’s only the PPD, and perhaps I’ll believe you. Remind me that I love them to pieces now, that somehow, that love crawled up the stairs and slithered into my chest like it had always been there. Convince me that what I felt was normal, and real, and it doesn’t make me less of a mother.

But it won’t make me regret any less that I could never coo back at my own babies the way I can strangers.

I shall not covet thy baby shoes

10 Jun

I’m torn.

I go into the baby store next to work, and stare at all the baby stuff. It’s cute, it’s adorable, it’s….it’s out of my price range right now, for the most part. But it all sits there, like sirens, waving me in, begging me just to look, just come see how soft these pants are…

I realized something about me though. As much as I don’t care how I’m dressed (because frankly, my body and clothes do not work. I have no waist to speak of, and a fat ass and low-rise pants do NOT work) I DO care what my kids look like. I want them to have all the neat little 40.00 Robeez boots. I want them to be dressed in nice (read: NOT made in china) clothes. I want them to look cool and interesting, not boring like all the other kids.

I visit sites like Babywit-and I LOVE their stuff. But add in shipping, and the stuff is totally out of my price range. And even then, I have to convince the Dorf to buy it since I don’t have a credit card. So I sit staring at these items, wanting them.

It doesn’t help that the one company we tried to buy something cool off ended up taking our money and never sending anything, and never ever getting back to us (Yes DOOKIEWEAR, I’m talking about you). So the Dorf is VERY hesitant on doing it again.

I hate the fact that I feel like I need to dress my kids a certain way in order for them to be “cool”-whatever that is for toddlers. But I feel like my kids are an extension of me, and so if I don’t dress them in a certain way, people are going to think of me in a certain way.

Am I making sense? Am I the only one that feels almost pressured? I don’t want my kids to grow up thinking that “stuff” defines them, so I constantly fight the feeling back.

But damn, those shoes were cool….

You want what?

27 May

I want another kid.

Yeah, back THAT truck the fuck up, right? Little miss PPD wants another child? okey hokey…

I don’t want to push another child out of my koosh, although I will admit to some slight wistfulness when I imagine I won’t be having anymore children from my body. There’s this weird feeling I can’t name, or shake. Most of it seems to relate to wanting a “do-over” for the first time. Hindsight is 20-20, and I want to go back and appreciate the first time. But I can’t-and I accept that.

We’ve talked before about wanting to possibly/maybe adopt a child in a few years, NOT a baby, but a kid. I think we’ve done pretty good with our kids so far, and I’d like to someday, expand on this.

If you know me at all, you’d know what a headfuck this is for me.

I’ve never liked kids. They smell, they’re annoying, they do things that….you know, stick things up their noses, eat dirt, bring bugs in the house. They’re kids. I didn’t get along with kids when I was one. But I love my girls to death, and I love how much fun I have with them. And for some reason, I want to share that with another child. I want a boy in our family some day. I want more.

I never imagined I’d feel like this because frankly, I don’t think I’m all that maternal. But I’ve wondered if it might have more to do with my dislike for other people. With kids, I don’t have to worry about offending them, or scaring them off by joking around, or any of the multitude of things that people are so bloody sensitive to now. I can just BE with my kids, I can sing at the top of my lungs in public, I can wear pull ups on my head, and they love me. They don’t give me that look, you know, the one you gave your Mom at 15 when she wore that pair of shorts?

I know it won’t last. Someday, I’ll get that look. But I love the fact that my kids are MINE. They have MY last name, they look like me. That’s pretty cool when you’re adopted. But I think I also want to adopt so I can give back in the same way my parents took me in. And sometimes, I just feel like I have so much to give that I can’t spread it around enough.

Mogo got that uncomfortable feeling talking about this, like when you bring up vasectomy. He didn’t say no, but he worries about money. And I know that we can’t do this if we can’t afford it, and if in 5 years, we still can’t do it, I’ll likely have to put the kibosh on my wants. But I think we’re good parents, and that we can give a home to someone who doesn’t quite have one. Money doesn’t heal hearts after all.

Two headed Monsters

2 May

One of the most difficult parts of going from one to two kids for me was the lack of Mommy.

Mommy it seems, cannot be everywhere.

For instance, if Mommy decides that she wishes to cuddle Child B, Child A will ALWAYS decide that she absolutely, positively MUST be on Mommy’s lap or the world will end. And the Child B gets very very upset, and as seen on a previous post, turns into Black Canary. Child B tends to have a very very piercing voice to say the least.

What I find to be difficult is the guilt-when Rosalyn cries and whines and generally makes a pest of herself, I know that it’s because I wasn’t able to go to her when she needed me all the time as I had with Vivian. I know that some of her pestering if due to the fact that she doesn’t feel secure. And there will always be a part of me that will think she knows I wanted to abort her. That same part of me always feels like she’ll get cancer or something, and die, just to spite me.

It’s horrible though isn’t it, the second child issue, the feeling that you cannot possibly devote enough time to either, that you can’t give the second born the moments that the first born had. Everything for the second born seems so anticlimatic.

Remember when you’re pregnant with the first? People are falling over themselves to help, give you things, they call every day near the due date to ask if you popped yet, then send gifts to the hospital. The in laws can barely stay away.

Announcing the second pregnancy barely got a “whoop!”. No one called to see when she was coming. Gifts seemed send out of obligation. Barely any visitors to the hospital. We had to beg our inlaws to come help, before I slit my wrists.

Firsts like solid food and walking are just givens. No one gets excited about them really. You expect the second born to sleep through the night. You’ve figured out that it’s the burping that’s causing that messy projectile vomiting issue.

Sometimes I get a brief moment alone with my baby, and she seems so happy to have those few minutes to herself. And I get so sad thinking, this is all she knows. I barely ever have a chance to interact with her one on one. What am I losing? Is she more independant and into her own thing because that’s her nature, or did I cause this?


It never bloody well ends. I’m sure I’ll have all this thrown back in my face at 15 too.

Mama, what’s your name again?

14 Apr

In the on going quest to teach Vivian the pertinant particulars of her life, I’ve been teaching her ours names, and our address, as well as her name, and age. (this is the ONLY thing a Bush has talked about that I agreed with-shortly after Katrina, Laura Bush did some interview talking about all the younger children who couldnt even say their names, and it freaked me out. I know all the kids were eventually reunited, but still. I want my kids to be able to identify themselves)

Vivian has known her own name for about 6 months now, in terms of being able to say it when asked. She’s picked up everything else as well, so I’ll likely move on to the phone number soon.

But here’s the rub. This morning, my lovely, brilliant daughter called me by my first name when asking for something. The Dorf looked at me and asked, ‘Doesn’t that bother you?”

I thought about it. And no, it doesn’t. Because I’m not “just” Mom, but I am the person linked into my name, my strange, unique (though less so lately) name that made me stick out like a sore thumb all through school. The name that no one could pronounce for ages. I LIKE my name. It’s so much a part of me that hearing “Mommy” is sometimes very strange, whereas being addressed by my name is very odd.

And she’s rightfully confused, since it’s hard to explain the concept of a “name” and a “type/profession label” to a toddler. She knows that I’m both in one, and maybe that’s what I need to learn. I need to intergrate both ME and MOMMY into one. It’s weird though, because the Mommy in my head isn’t the same as the me in my head. I feel like a new type of Mommy, trying to find my way through all the bad parenting advice, the “when you were a kids”, and the guilt of having to work. Trying to intergrate tomorrow’s tattoo appointment with my fear that my children aren’t socialized enough, and wondering if Vivian is old enough to take to a movie. Feeling like I’m 15 going on 50 all the time.

I don’t believe that there is a threshold into adulthood anymore, and I miss that. When I cried because my father got me running shoes (which I did need) for my sweet sixteen, it wasn’t out of selfishness. It was because he didn’t get it, and I figured my Mother would have. Sixteen is when you become a “woman” I thought. Sixteen should be special. Not practical. Sixteen should be observed. And it wasn’t, and to this day I miss it. I believe there should be an age when it’s made clear to you that you are growing up, that responsibilites are coming, and to appreciate the time you have.

And a time when you can start calling adults by their first names. That should be well older than 2.5. Of course, I can’t bring myself to have Vivian call my friends by their proper names, although I feel that she should be addressing them correctly. By how do I handle my rather old school values in today’s ever changing, coddle the young, be casual environment? I know that if we called Nat “Mrs. Thinger” that she’s kill me. But it still feels wrong to have my children call her by her first name. Disrespectful.

And yeah, I know that it’s an effort to stay young, and not be like our parents, but I don’t believe that being respectful ever goes out of style. I just think my concept of respect is almost alien these days. And it’s funny-we worry about our children growing up too fast, but we never seem to worry about adults NOT growing up. There’s a disconnect, and I’d like to help my children bridge that gap.

So I’ll continue to tell Vivian to call me Mommy. Cause she just isn’t ready. Nor am I.


8 Apr

I’ve learned to stuff your memories down between
cold coffee and flowers, adrift with
ambrosia and cakes. I figured
2 rolls of packing tape ought to do the trick.

But ah, there was the trick. Your voice
appeared behind me so sweetly, so
quickly I barely had time to
reconsider my gambit.

So outside you’ve broken and
there’s grey hair falling everywhere it’s on
my lap, in my mouth in my hands I could
paint the walls in darkness I swear.

Trying I’m trying to
keep you contsrained to one
tiny smart part of where my head is
alas I don’t think I quite
manage to keep you there.

My heart you see it
burned out for you long ago, left
in a window so long it scarred the panes
blew out the glass and finally
fluttered out completely.

Only to come to rest between
the fingers of the very moments I
sought to forget.


I don’t know either. I won’t write for weeks and then something shitty will poor out of me that I won’t revisit to edit for months. There is this aching void I need to fill with words again. I hate saying I write poetry. It sounds dorky, pompous and lame, mostly because I associate people who say they write poetry with bad ABAB poems about being sad, being alone and wishing they could be in love.

And golly gee whiz, didn’t I just manage to do one JUST like that.

Do we lose profundity as we age? Remember when you were 14 or 15 and everything, all the worlds problems felt so real and close to you? When ideas were paramount, and you could change the world? I can so remember feeling vicerally excited reading Bertrand Russell once, feeling with it and involved. Now?

Now the most I can manage is either some rambling insipid post on here, or some rambling insipid comment on Blogging Baby or NicoleMart. Where did my brain go?

Was there some rock paper scissors contest I didn’t know about that decided how much of my brain went to each kid? Did it leak out when my water broke? Or did I just lose the will to give a shit?

I’m voting door number 3 Bob.

Or did I cast that part of my brain aside for now, to lie in wait for when my children can do basic things like, oh I don’t know, wipe their own ass or not “help” by dumping the mop water all over the kitchen floor before I’ve swept. (Didn’t think I saw that did you Vivian..) Is it merely dormant?

I can say one thing, there is no relief quite like getting to the first birthday. Rosalyn is 13 months tomorrow, and thank your gods for that. You may have noticed that I don’t really dig babies. And this year has been incredibly hard. But I’ve been reading books again, they’ve been sleeping in til 7-7:30, and I almost feel human again.

Only 3 weeks to get thru. Good thing this kid is cute.

Shut up and stop being a moron

31 Mar

I frequent Blogging Baby, a “blog” with parenting relating items, which can include celebrity items, baby gear, pictures, etc, etc. usually, it’s all good fun.

Then items like this one come up. Blame Eden of course.

Now I’m all for people having their own opinions on stuff, having a good argument, etc, etc.

The item is about a 10 year old boy having his mouth taped shut by his teacher. The first time i read that, I was slightly confused, then really really bothered. Then the opinions started coming. Stuff like “I was paddled as a child, I’m fine” or “That’s what kids today REALLY need”

Our generation, the last to really be physically disciplined in any broad manner, are the ones raising these kids who “need a whoopin”-so what does that say about us? What does that say about the usefulness of physical punishment? See articles such as this. Did it work on any of us?

For the most part, my parents relied on being good and loving parents, with firm boundries and guidelines to keep me in line. I remember once being spanked for pulling the cat’s tail. I did not gain any new respect or love for the cat, but I did then fear my mother greatly. It put a distance between us that, in light of circumstance, I wish wasn’t there. Besides, getting scratched by the cat was QUITE enough to teach me the logical consequence of my actions. But I suppose my mother thought I was too young to learn that way.

She was also quite fond of a piece of wood that she had. Right across the knuckles. After she died, I had a few anger issues. And guess how the manifested themselves-HITTING. I was extremely aggressive, even when the situation was not. My idea of releasing tension was to take a round out of a wall or a fence. Not until a friend asked me, very NOT nicely, to stop hitting him, did I realize what I had been doing. I had been set up to feel that hitting people, hitting things was an appropriate way to convey or teach. Because while my mother could have thought about and used creative techniques, she resorted to what she was likely taught-spare the rod, spoil the child.

It didn’t work. And the day that I lost it after getting no sleep, and I slapped my child, I realized that I was falling into that same trap. Watching her be scared of me, was almost more than I can bear, and I will always remember that.

So when I hear about a teacher, someone I would entrust my children to, taping a mouth shut, I become a little angry. It’s wrong. It does not teach anyone anything. And just because it used to be like that, doesn’t mean it’s ok. I mean really, we could use the same argument for racism, sexism, bigotry, etc.

Why is it that increasingly, acting like adults is so NOT the proper thing?