Skip to main content

Welp, I'm Knocked Up Again

Yup, it's true. In fact, I'm super knocked up. 25 weeks along. It's happening people.

I'm due on April 12th and am having a boy this round, so I've been practicing for the event by having my husband surprise me by randomly peeing in my face when I didn't expect it. I need to work on my reflexes!

I'm kidding of course. My reflexes are already really good.

I found out about this one just like I found out about the last one: while I was drinking and having a great time, blissfully unaware that a human person was developing in my uterus. However this time I just knew. I knew something was different, was off a little. And I don't know why it occurs to me to take a pee test while gripping a vodka soda, but it seems to be my pattern.

When I started telling people I was pregnant again I got less "oh man, your life if over!" comments and more "well, at least you know what to do this time around!" That is not true in any form. I DO NOT know what to do any more than I did the first time around. One of natures jokes when you're a parent and with child is making you so tired you can't hold onto memories of essential things like swaddling and swaying and breast feeding. Oh no, breast feeding. My poor nipples! RIP guys, you made it through by the skin of your teeth last time, but chances are when this fellow gets done with you you'll resemble some discarded chewing gum on a subway track.

Uh oh, what about those other things? The weird mass exodus of my hair about 10 weeks postpartum. The weeping that occurs over the smallest of things. The unforgiving images of things that could potentially hurt your sweet newborn that you need to protect him from. Donald Fucking Trump being the president. Hemorrhoids. You bastards.

So consider this post my birth announcement. I considered getting some pregnancy pictures done. You know the ones. The mom barefoot in a field with a white off the shoulder flowy dress blowing gently in the breeze. She lovingly cradles her belly and gazes down at her soon to be born child as her husband embraces her from behind with a tear of gratitude in his eyes. But that shit is not me. I will, however, take a selfie in my bathroom in a black dress, but it's mainly just to show off my new pink hair.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

My Dad

Yesterday, July 5th, my dad, Richard Albert, died. He was diagnosed with Parkinson's about 12 years ago and from that developed an insidious type of dementia called Lewy Bodies, which causes a lot of physical issues and accelerates the Parkinson's decline. Basically he was served a shit sandwich with a side of fuck my life. My dad was a quirky guy with a weird sense of humor. He used to play with me by chasing me around the house with a hammer and pretend he was going to smash my little toes. He would pack our lunches with a dog treat that he carefully tin foiled so when we would open it up at lunch all the other kids would laugh and scream. He made us waffles with ice cream in the middle for breakfast and ONLY creamed corn for dinner. He drank buttermilk from the carton. And prune juice. He was private. He would take hour long poops just to be alone and think. He was a scientist and mathematician. He was always trying to work out these insanely impossible to solve equati...

Five Things I'm Forgiving Myself For In Motherhood/FTS

I am so fucking tired right now you guys. As I type this I'm sitting on my filthy couch that's covered in various kid juices and secretions, several stuffed animals, ancient cracker crumbs and a variety of hair. The baby is sitting in his vibrating chair to my left. He's cooing and smiling in between fits of whimpering because he wants to breastfeed. He's cluster feeding, which is a sweet euphemism for "sucking the life out of my once perky breasts". As I try to give him a binky, he smiles at me, which melts my heart, then projectile barfs through his baby grin onto my last clean tank top. My three year old is digging into a box of cereal that I didn't know we owned. Where did she get those chocolate peanut butter Cheerios? She is sticking her hands in and out of the box, coating them in sugary goodness, then letting the dog lick her hands. If that wasn't gross enough, after he's done sopping up all the probably-really-bad-for-dogs flavors off ...

Into Emotional Cutting? Cool, Read The Giving Tree!

If there is one thing I know about myself it is that I simply can't eat an ice cream sandwich with any sort of dignity. If there is a second thing I'm sure of, its that I am not emotionally healthy enough to handle the children's book The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. That book sends me into a sobbing fit so powerful I need my inhaler to pull me out safely. Every time I open the book I am cutting myself emotionally, and this post is a cry for help. If you're not familiar with this classic let me give you the cliff notes. It's about a boy and a tree. When the boy is young he loves the tree and hangs with it all the time, and the tree is so happy. They play and he climbs and he eats her apples and sleeps in her shade. The tree even allows the boy to carve their initials into her side that's surrounded by a heart. She loved this boy so much she allowed him to brand her permanently. Things were pretty awesome for a long time, until the boy got a...