Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

Queen Of Inappropriateness

March3

Now, Internet, I’m going to let you in on a little secret here because I know I can trust you, baby. It may come as a shock to those of you who have read me since the beginning, so brace yourselves: I am not always very appropriate.

I know. I know. Pick your chins up off the floor and dust that dog hair out of your mouth. It’s true.

Whether it’s calling a vagina “floppy beef curtains,” calling my unborn daughter a “crotch parasite,” or referring to the home in which I live as “The Sausage Factory,” I can be downright, well, CRUDE. I happen to consider this a plus. It wins me some friends, it weeds out people I’d probably consider boring and well, it makes me who I am. Rude and crude.

But even someone as uncouth as I am has boundaries. Specifically, I don’t go around telling complete random strangers about things that they may consider to be a little disturbing, even if I’m really desperate to share how Dave and I did some kinky role playing last night and he was the Easter Bunny and I was a Pineapple and it was effing hot.

Aunt Becky, you might argue, you BLOG about this sort of thing where all the world and Baby Jesus and your parents can even see it, and you’d be right. The difference between blogging here on my own blog to my audience and telling some poor guileless cashier about how the Monistat was REALLY for my SON is that you all can click away quickly if I start talking about something you don’t want to hear about. Then you can quickly delete me from your reader.

While the cashier can technically do so, it would probably be frowned upon by his management, so he’s just stuck there, ringing up the Monistat and tampons and blushing furiously and trying desperately not to think of the gross crotchal region of the woman handing him money.

Moving on with a totally awkward segue into my REAL post…

When I was early on in my college career, after spending many years working as a waitress, I wanted a break from the serving industry. But since I’ve yet to become an heiress, I still needed a jobby-job so I applied and began working for a vet. Being an animal lover since I was probably an embryo, I figured working the front desk for a vet’s office would be pretty flipping sweet, especially since it didn’t involve burning the hell out of my hands with hot plates.

The job itself was fine, but I was made miserable by one of the sea hags that worked there, Melissa. She’d been the target of the office hatred, so when I showed up, she rather quickly began to take out all of her frustrations and hatorade on me. This job, it was not turning out to be grand. So much so that I did quit it to go back to serving within a couple of months, burnt hands be damned!

But while I was there, I got to see how the other half really lives. I mean, of course, the RABID animal people.

While I’d always considered myself an “animal person” even going so far as to think of becoming a vet until I learned that they make surprisingly crappy money for a shit ton of work, I had no. freaking. idea.

Sure, I’d seen those bumper stickers and sweatshirts with kooky cats and stupid sayings on them. I’d seen the specialty shops devoted to dogs and cats and the people who loved them. Hell, we have a doggie bakery here in town, so I know that these people do exist.

But I never, ever could conceive of true the level of craziness.

At our vet’s office, we had attracted a True Crazy (wonder if HER pharmacist knows!). I don’t remember her name, but I’ll call her Janine for this story’s sake. Janine bred dogs, Weimaraners to be specific, easily one of the most gorgeous dogs on the planet. In addition to breeding them, she also showed them in dog shows.

She was a nice enough lady, although I’d been warned that she was nutso by the other staff, I gave her a chance. A chance, of course, to prove the other staff right.

One night at 8:01 PM, coincidentally a minute after we’d closed for the night Janine called up in an absolute panic. One of her dogs, she bellowed into the phone, one of her dogs was running a fever! And she must come in RIGHT NOW and NOT WAIT UNTIL MORNING FOR A REAL APPOINTMENT. She’d be there in 8 minutes!!

Fuck, man, I thought. I just wanted to go home and I had to stay there until she left. Oh well. Whatever. I’ll make an extra 2 bucks sitting around doing jack shit.

Sure enough, about 8 minutes later Janine blows into the place, tears pouring down her face while she carried her 90 pound dog up to the desk.

“My baby!” She screeched in my face. “He’s got a temperature!”

Thankfully for me, as I was about to bust up cackling at her (The dog looked FINE, and perhaps even a little ashamed and most certainly not knocking on death’s door), the vet walked out and lead Janine back to the exam area.

The vet tech promptly came up front to tell me this nugget: the temperature? 0.01 degree higher than absolutely perfect for the breed. It would be like calling your doctor if your “fever” was 98.8 rather than 98.7 degrees. Big fucking whoop, right? Besides, we all wondered why was she taking the dog’s temp ANYWAY if it wasn’t sick? The last place I’d want to be is putting stuff up a dog’s pooper, but not Janine. She must’ve dug it.

Janine comes out of the exam room in a whoosh and heads straight for the front desk without her dog.

“He’s staying overnight,” she said triumphantly. “The doctor tried to tell me that he was fine, but I want to make sure he’s in the best possible hands all night long.”

Um, okay. We’re ALL leaving when you leave, lady, so no one at all will be here. But um, okay.

I just nodded my head silently. She took this as an offer to jibber-jaw my head off. And what I learned next I can never, ever unlearn. No matter how hard I try.

“My dog (referring to the one now unhappily in a kennel in the back) is a show dog and we have a show coming up. I can’t have him be sick for the show….” She prattles on about shows she’s won and lost and just as my brain is starting to liquify and fall out of my eyeballs she changes subjects.

Specifically, she’s now talking about her secret for preparing the dogs for the show a subject that I could not be less interested in if I tried.

But, making the mistake of being polite, I asked her what her secret was. After determining that I wasn’t going to steal her thunder, she leaned forward conspiratorially and told me…

“Well, I take the males right beforehand and I ejaculate them.”

My mouth dropped open.

“I find that it relaxes them and then they perform better!”

My mouth flapped in the breeze.

Thankfully, the vet poked his head back out and beckoned for Janine to come back for some paperwork or something and told me, after seeing the look of horror on my face that I could go home.

A part of me died then and there, and another part of me wondered what the hell the other dog show people would think of someone whacking off their dog in the prep area. Perhaps they all do it. Maybe it’s one gigantic bestiality orgy before a dog show.

I’ll just never know. And THAT, my friends, is JUST FINE with me.

So what’s the most inappropriate thing that someone has randomly said to you? I’m positive I’m not the only one who has this happen to them.

  posted under This Boner Is For You. | 71 Comments »

Crazy Like A Fox? Or Just Plain Crazy?

March2

When Alex was about 10 months old, I realized that I was suffering from Postpartum Depression and was promptly seen by my doctor and treated with some excellent mood enhancers (sadly not MDMA).

Every now and again, even knowing better like I do, I’ll get this bright idea that I need to go off of them for some reason so I do. The results are always predictably bad, save for when I was badgered into going off them at 8 weeks pregnant with Amelia. Then, for a good 20 odd weeks, I did remarkably well all things considering.

But, what goes up must come down and at 20 odd weeks pregnant, I realized that I Was Not Handling Life Well. Crying whenever a commercial came onto the television–even aquadoodles! which may be annoying but certainly not sob-worthy–wasn’t my standard MO and I made the executive decision to resume taking my Vitamin W.

So, one weekend while shopping at the hallowed halls of the beginning and end of my current social life (read: Target), I had The Daver pop over to the pharmacy to request the refill on my Vitamin W while I peed or something equally pregnant-like. No sooner had he walked away (as I walked up behind them), but I hear my name booming over the loudspeaker to “return to the pharmacy.”

Since I was already there, I popped my head up and addressed the no-nonsense looking pharmacist who appeared to be glaring at me.

“Hey, I’m Rebecca Harks, what’s up?” I started in.

“Didn’t you go OFF this medication?” She accused me, her voice dripping with…anger? Could that REALLY be anger? “Because it says in the system that you stopped taking it.”

I was momentarily shocked as this woman had immediately put me on the defense, not a common reaction I have to people talking to me. (IT IS NOT A COMMON REACTION, INTERNET!) (see, that’s a JOKE. Because I was being defensive about being defensive. God, I crack myself up. I should be a comedian.)

“Well,” I sort of sputtered, taken completely aback and somehow now on the verge of tears. “I did. But I need to go back onto it now.” I wondered why my fucking pharmacist was making me justify something that she personally had no reason to do so. She, as I knew, couldn’t write me a prescription, so what does it matter WHY I take ANYTHING?

Answer: it doesn’t.

“Well,” she angrily spat at me, “you ONLY have a script for 10 more pills. THEN you’ll need to call your DOCTOR.”

The tears were welling up as she accused me again and my throat became lumpy as I tried to swallow.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll call them on Monday. But in the meantime, I want my 10 pills.”

Internet, hand to heart here, the woman then rolled her eyes at me. No, really, she did. Daver even saw it, so you know I’m not being hysterical here.

While I’m aware that being on an anti-depressant while obviously pregnant isn’t perhaps the best thing on the planet, trust me, I struggled with being on it for that reason, it’s not the end of the world. My own mother was on Lithium while she was pregnant with moi and look at how well *I* turned out!

Okay, bad example.

I guess what I’m saying is this: if you have to be on something to help you make it through your life, that’s something that’s between you and your doctor, and God not you and the Target pharmacist. I wasn’t asking for Viagra, I wasn’t asking for meth, I just wanted my fucking anti-depressant. More than anything, I wanted NOT TO NEED IT.

But if I do need it, I’d prefer it without the side of Judgmental Bitch.

It should have come as no surprise to me that last week, when I called in a refill for my Ativan (with one clearly left according to the jaunty label) I attempted to do so through the computerized system. Immediately as I hung up, the phone rang. Guess who?

The natty haired Target pharmacist!

Immediately she launches into, “Did your doctor change your dosage?”

“Erm, no,” I sputtered, upset to begin with.

“Well, I can’t give you this. You can’t have it for another 2 weeks.” She stated flatly, but with an accusing tone to her voice. I must add that the first and only time I’ve needed this medication was after Amelia came home with a cyst on her fucking skull. And even then, I was so upset that I had Daver call my doctor and request this FOR me.

“Can I pay full price?” I asked, thinking it was an insurance thing. Money was not an object here. Sanity was.

“NO. You can’t have this for 2 more weeks.” There was no budging her. And now, of course, I’m in tears. While everything set me off into a crying jag last week, this was especially brutal.

She finally agreed to call my doctor to request a dosage change for me once I started hiccuping hysterically into the phone as I explained the situation with Amelia to her.

And while I don’t fault her for doing her job–shit, my dad is a pharmacist, I respect that stuff–it’s become clear that she has a bias against psychiatric medication. That’s what makes me so sad.

If she couldn’t practice empathy, at least she could have been less I’m all gonna judge you for needing medication YOU WEAK, SPINELESS BITCH, YOU.

*sighs*

Perhaps I should act REALLY crazy and go and take a poo on her car or something.

So tell me, wise Internets, has someone done something similar to you? Accused you in their voice and actions something that you didn’t deserve to be accused of?

  posted under Abby Normal, Goin' Off The Rails On A Crazy Train | 61 Comments »

Scars And Stripes

March1

I’ve been pretty obsessive about documenting Amelia’s first days in this crazy mixed up world, although you’d probably not know it by looking at my blog. See, I always feel badly that the pictures are going to make my page load slowly although I don’t know if this is the case.

Either way, I’m going to start a Flicker account just like you crazy kids all have. My user name is MommyWantsVodka and here is the link. Then you can see just how badly I suck at taking pictures.

But I was just looking back to see if I’d taken any pictures of her third eyeball and it looks as though, nope, I didn’t. Probably a good thing since looking at it would make me weep openly. Hormonal, yes. Scary, also yes. My father, for those of you blessed to be my Facebook friend and be subjected to my status updates there (the only thing I’ve really done there. Which is stupid because it’s just like Twitter. Which I also have. Which, yeah.) posted one of the least flattering pictures of me that, well, I think might exist. You could see Amelia’s third eyeball there, but you’d probably not notice it because you’d be transfixed by the gigantic unkempt whale in the background.

I strong-armed him into removing it, thankfully, lest The Internet not find me sexy.

I may not have a picture of her third eyeball, but I do have this:

Oh, and this:

And this, which I warn you in all seriousness is pretty disturbing (it’s taken from far away, lest you all vomit onto your keyboard and send me the bill:

Yeah. I expected something a third that size and when the Asshole Nurse Practitioner (no really, that’s her name.) thoughtfully ripped the hat-shaped bandage from my poor daughter’s head, I nearly horked all over us all. Which, after she ripped out Amelia’s hair painfully, I probably should have. Bitch.

Anyway.

So, I suppose it’s a good thing that I’ve always thought scars were pretty neat. Because that one? HUGEMONGEOUS. You can’t probably tell from the angle which was deliberate, but it takes up most of the back of her head. It’s so foul looking that I spent our first night home crying over it.

Why yes, I am hormonal. My zit-covered face is pulsing proof!

Let’s just hope like hell that she never goes bald. Or if she does, she’s going to have to come up with one hell of a “this one time I was in a bar fight when I was like a month old. I cut a bitch!” story to regale people with. Or, I guess she could tell the truth. It’s a little scarier.

  posted under Cinnamon Girl, The Sausage Factory | 53 Comments »

With Apologies To Joe Cocker

February27

My baby, she wrote me a letter. Or a blog post. Or she would if she could. She still needs to master that whole “speaking thing.” Whatever.

But even without mastering speech (yet. Perhaps at 2 months of age? I forget how these things develop), my daughter is an obvious prodigy. How do I know besides knowing her impeccable genetics (well, half of them at least)?

WE’RE HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL.

Life can begin now.

Never underestimate the power of prayer. Thank you all so much.

  posted under Cinnamon Girl | 62 Comments »

Cyster Christian

February26

I woke up this morning more calm than I’ve been all month. It was like all my worrying had already peaked and I was left to deal with my more standard and rational self (shut up. It’s my blog and I’ll call myself rational if I want to). It was a damn good thing because last night as I gave my daughter a pep talk reminding her that she had to be a strong baby girl and kick this surgery’s ass I broke down. And I mean I BROKE THE FUCK DOWN.

But today, with some Valium on board, I was nearly calm on the way to the hospital (I am as surprised as you undoubtedly are). Stupid, yes, as neither The Daver or I could remember which was the psychologist with the bells and the dog (answer: Pavlov), but pretty calm. I was calm as we walked my shrieking, starving daughter up to the surgery wing and checked in.

Hell, I was even calm as we were marched back to the surgical prep area. I signed the consents using my real name, I allowed my nervous husband to cuddle and pace with his daughter rather than keep her firmly ensconced in my arms, and I only broke down marginally when she was taken from us back to surgery.

Breakfast and the company of both my father–who contemplated throwing on some scrubs and heading back to the surgical suite to direct the surgery (he has a degree, he claims, from the Internet that he got two weeks ago. He’s an Internet Doctor now! We’re so proud)–and Nathan–who promised a jaunt with me to the gift shop killed the half an hour before surgery began. We’d been strongly instructed to NOT leave the waiting area, The Daver and I together, as the doctor didn’t approve of it so any stuff gathering or pacing had to be done without one another.

In our frazzled state, however annoying that sounded on paper, perhaps being separated was a plus.

After eggs were firmly tucked into my belly and an additional Valium swallowed, Nathan and I took off for a cup of coffee. While down at the coffee shop, I decided to make this More Of An Adventure and explore the gift shop as well. Do I know how to live on the edge or what?

A half an hour passed before we headed back up to wait in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs for the next four to six hours. I knew I had some Super EZ crossword puzzles to muddle through and figured I should probably get started on it.

The elevator banks opened to my husband whizzing by in the company of another dude.

“OHMYGODTHEREYOUARE.” He panted in my direction.

Without having a moment to react, he nearly shouted “SHE’S DONE! SURGERY IS DONE!”

Turns out that by four to six hours, the doctor meant 45 minutes. My daughter, it seems, was an easy case. This was an even better outcome than I could have imagined. Turns out that The Thing on the back of her head, jutting out of her posterior fontanel was not a cephalocele (SPOILER ALERT. IT WAS EVEN WORSE THAN THAT. IT WAS AN ENCEPHALOCELE). It’s sitting down in Pathology now waiting to be determined what The Thing is.

Could be fat, could be not fat, could be that third eyeball my brother and father seem convinced it is (my father is, after all, an Internet Doctor now).

(Here’s hoping it’s benign)

But now we’re happily ensconced here in the PICU where I’ve blown an insane amount of money buying out the gift shop of pink balloons and fluffy things. It’s like I’m finally able to celebrate it. I’m finally able to breathe again for the first time since my OB informed me while I hung in the air like a contortionist that my daughter had “something” on her head.

My daughter, my cherished, dreamed of daughter, the daughter I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have. She’s here. Welcome to the world, Baby Amelia, my only cinnamon girl. I couldn’t be more proud to be your mother if I tried.

  posted under Abby Normal, Cinnamon Girl | 96 Comments »

Sir Cyst A Lot

February26

She’s done! She made it! Fuck yeah!

  posted under Abby Normal, Cinnamon Girl | 91 Comments »

The Night Before

February25

…is followed by one of the longest days I’ve had. Please, if you can spare some prayers for my sweet girl tomorrow, I would be so incredibly grateful.

I’ll update as I can, which means from my iPhone and generally of shittier quality (typing on that thing is a bitch) and from twitter.

Love you all.

  posted under Cinnamon Girl, Goin' Off The Rails On A Crazy Train | 66 Comments »

What Kind Of Fuckery Is This?

February23

I’m not having A Good Day today. My days alternate between being bearable and excruciating and I apologize profusely for anything I ever complained about having to wait for before. Living and waiting until Thursday to breathe again is nothing compared to how irritating it is to be pregnant for 9! whole! months! or wait an hour! for a pizza! THE NERVE! Waiting for a surgery that will result in a 3 day PICU stay is even more annoying than waiting for the next episode of American Idol!

I spent the first 3 weeks home cleaning like a crazy person, which is probably what I’ve become (crazy, I mean, not clean) as I’d been unable to move without creaking audibly before Amelia was born. Plus, the way I handle stress is to try and use my muscles. I find it quiets my brain and allows me to relax. It’s also breastfeeding safe, unlike the pharmaceutical alternatives I’d prefer.

Not really much point in the entry, I confess, but I wanted to thank each and every soul who has prayed for us. Honestly, it’s kept me afloat during these weeks and through all of the turmoil, I know I’ve got a friend in you, Internet. And that’s saying a lot. Thank you doesn’t begin to describe how much I appreciate and am humbled by your support.

(BONUS! No one has called me an idiot in a couple of weeks! HOORAY! A shout out to my trolls who are taking a break for now. It’s appreciated. When it’s all over, I’ll rejoice that I have trolls and you can go back to mocking me. It’s cool. I like the trolls.)

Today I will continue to float by, hoping simultaneously that it will pass quickly and not end because it’s one day sooner to the day I don’t want to have to live through. I honestly do not know how I am going to get through those hours of surgery where I’m stuck in a waiting room wishing I could claw my skin off. I’ve even enlisted my father to come sit with us so that Dave and I don’t have to talk to each other. Distraction is key here.

(anyone who wants to join us, please email me becky at dwink dot net)

And what the hell am I going to do in the PICU for 3 straight days? Any ideas of what I should bring/do to avoid rounding with the residents and taking over some of the patients for the nurses? Because no one would appreciate that.

  posted under Cinnamon Girl, Goin' Off The Rails On A Crazy Train | 57 Comments »

My Cinnamon Girl

February21

“I could be happy,
The rest of my life with,
My cinnamon girl.”

–Neil Young

I was always disgusted with new parents that had (quote, unquote) an Easy Baby. There was something, especially in those who had Easy FIRST Babies just so smugly superior about the way they would announce it to me. Like they had personally contributed to their newborn’s temperament by just being that awesome. Which implies, of course, that those of us with more challenging (read: jerky) infants was nothing more than a combination of crappy genetics and lousy parenting.

Hell, if Ben had been less of an ass, I’d have probably bought into that happy-crappy-horseshit myself. New parents are prone to imagining that all of their kids better qualities are nothing more than fantastic parenting.

Har-dee-har-freaking-har.

Maybe it’s just the bitterness talking here, but there’s a part of me that almost feels sorry for the people who have Easy Babies the first time around. If #2 is more like one of MY children, well, then, they’re in for one hell of a shock when they’re pacing the halls for the 45th hour that night and popping Valium to ward off The Crazies.

I had suitably low expectations for my daughter’s temperament. Well, I had no real expectations whatsoever, save for not expecting a damn cephalocele on her wee head (Fun Fact! She’s only one of my kids with a normal sized noggin! And yet she’s the one going for surgery!). But no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, after all, so we make do.

My lack of expectations revolved around two separate and distinct individuals: Thing One and Thing Two (aka: Ben and Alex). Ben, you see, was the worst sort of first baby a mother could have. Thanks to the autism and subsequent sensory issues, he couldn’t be touched. Or he could, but he would scream bloody murder. His first year of life, in fact, he screamed. We didn’t learn why until much later, so I’d convinced myself it was because I was a bad mother. One year of solid screaming will do that to a person.

When I got pregnant with his brother 5 years later, I wanted and wished and confessed to Daver that I wanted only one thing out of this child. I didn’t care if he was smart, attractive or sweet. All I wanted was a child who liked me best. If that isn’t a sad, sad thing to say, I don’t know what is.

And well, like that old story about Monkey Paw that warns people to be careful what they wish for, I got my wish. In spades.

Alex loved me so very much for that first year that I literally couldn’t be apart from him for more than a couple of minutes. He didn’t sleep, well, ever. All he wanted to do is to be nursed by yours truly. For 20 or more hours a day. If only I were exaggerating. He wouldn’t tolerate his heartbroken father cuddling him, he wouldn’t handle even his doting brother holding him. He wanted his momma and he wanted her NOW.

Got my wish, all right. And learned never to wish something like that WITHOUT a disclaimer.

So it shocks and delights me to inform you that Amelia is one of the sweetest children I know, and certainly the nicest baby I’ve had spring from my nether regions. I know, I know, I know. I shouldn’t even tell The Internet this, lest I have to turn around and retract this statement tomorrow (likelihood is at an all time high), but I just don’t care.

They (who “they” are eludes me) say that if you don’t like the weather here in Chicago, well, wait five minutes. They are wrong. Chicago has two kinds of weather: fucking hot and fucking cold. For maybe 2 weeks out of the year it’s somewhere in the middle, but that’s really about it. I like to say that if you don’t like your baby/toddler/child right now, wait five minutes. Sadly, the opposite is true as well.

But for now, for RIGHT NOW, even with the gassiness and the baby acne, my daughter is the perfect baby. And unlike someone who might take it for granted by not knowing that children do come in an Asshole Variety too, I couldn’t be happier or more grateful.

(And as a bonus, she looks JUST like me as a baby. After two boys who look as though I may or may not have had anything to do with their creation–more not than anything–this brings me no end of joy. Which means she’ll grow to look like a female version of her father. Hopefully with less facial hair)

I do feel compelled to add that Asshole Baby does not = Asshole Child. Both Ben and Alex, despite their rocky beginnings as my children (perhaps they were voicing their displeasure at the Universe for saddling them with me as their mother) are two of the most delightful creatures I’ve met. I couldn’t love them any more if I tried.

Who else would I let eat all of my precious chocolate?

And who couldn’t be a better big brother if I paid him (I don’t actually pay him. He’s just THAT good)?

  posted under Cinnamon Girl | 47 Comments »

Feelings And Facts

February18

I remember back to my mental health rotation in which we had to attend–in our scant off hours–a support group. While I have no idea what group we sat in on (nor would I tell you if I did), I remember that they had a motto: “Feelings aren’t facts.” It’s something that’s stuck with me and until my daughter was born, I’m not certain I could tell you if that were true or not.

I’m a fairly rational person, despite how it may appear on my one-dimensional blog here, and I used to think that after I finally came to terms with how I was feeling (having a mentally ill parent has given me a unique gift in which I am able to distance myself from my feelings and examine them to check for rationality), I was probably feeling something real. Only time this wasn’t true was when I was pregnant. Then I was certifiable, although less so with each pregnancy.

I had several nagging suspicions that proved to be wrong while I was pregnant, but if you’d asked me and I’d answered you honestly, I would have sworn up and down that I was Onto Something. In no particular order, I was convinced that I was going to go into labor early, not have to be induced, and have a c-section. All obviously not true. Once in labor, I was convinced that Amelia would not come out breathing on her own. She came out bellowing like her mother does.

These feelings obviously weren’t facts.

And yet I sit here, my 3 week old daughter sleeping blissfully on my knees (she refuses to sleep without being held which makes for some interesting sleeping arrangements) and I’m convinced that she is going to die. I’m convinced that she is only here on loan to me and will return to her maker on Thursday next. I know it’s not rational, the surgery carries only a 2-3% chance of problems–all bad, of course–and she’s the model of health. It’s not likely that there will be any long-term complications.

And yet. And yet.

I cannot break this feeling of doom and foreboding. I cannot imagine a life past next Thursday one way or another. I cannot believe that I am lucky enough to have this baby AND KEEP HER.

It’s an awful feeling. I have no idea how to combat it or change my mind or approach this with anything resembling a positive attitude. I can’t seem to stop crying or panicking and I’m pretty sure I’m going to drive my family members bonkers (if not myself) by the time Thursday rolls around. Any suggestions are appreciated (save for those telling me I’m an idiot. Because A) tell me something I don’t know and B) now is not the time to beat on me) for how the hell to get on with this. I have 8 more days of this agony before The Big One.

Today she is three weeks old and I wish I were celebrating instead of weeping.

  posted under Goin' Off The Rails On A Crazy Train | 73 Comments »
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