Even if you don’t pray

I’m asking for your prayers.

So obviously, it’s been awhile. On my last post, a few weeks ago, I revealed that Snarky Girl (formerly Newbie… still a work in progress) and Crazy Girl are pregnant. Ok… WERE pregnant. Snarky Girl still remains with child, but Crazy Girl? She had her baby at 2:38am on Friday April 10th. At an estimated 24 weeks. She was less than 2lb at birth. And so far, she’s making it. Crazy Girl had messaged me Thursday night…

Ugh have you ever felt so bloated that you couldn’t even feel the baby move but a few times?

Or should I totally freak and head to the hospital?


I literally feel like I’m going to pop


I told her to call the doctor’s office. I frequently made use of the on-call service when pregnant with The Peach as I was high risk and totally neurotic.

She decided to wait it out since she was at work. She went home and took a shower and the cramps started. It got worse and she thinks she might have passed her mucous plug, at which point she woke up her man and had him take her to the local hospital. The little one. With no NICU or anything.

She thought it was already over.

Yes. A boulder. The size of a truck. In the interstate.

Yes. A boulder. The size of a truck. In the interstate.

They found a heartbeat strong and healthy and she was shocked. Then even more shocked when the doctor checked her and told her the baby was coming. Now. And she pushed. And the doc caught Itty-Bitty with one hand on the bed. And the baby cried. Not loud but she cried. Which is amazing. And then they were able to intubate her and get her lungs fully inflated. And they kept her stable for the 3 hours it took for the NICU transport team from UVM Medical Center to assemble to take Itty Bitty to a real NICU. 3 hours, you say? Yes. Because on Aril 10th, here in VT, it was sleeting and the roads were terrifyingly slippery and slick. And on the way to UVM, there was a boulder on the interstate. A boulder. A fucking boulder blocking one lane of the highway and slowing traffic to a crawl.

And yet she made it. Kicking and punching and pink with a strong heartbeat. And now she’s even breathing on her own as much as one so little can.

Itty-Bitty's diaper

Itty-Bitty’s diaper

But she’s tiny. I haven’t been able to see her and I won’t be able to for months since only parents are allowed in NICU and she’ll be there until her due date. Which should have been August. But all Crazy Girl kept saying was, “She’s just so tiny.”

And Crazy Girl and her man… Doing okay. In shock still I think, but hopeful. I told Crazy Girl that only she could have a pregnancy so short. She only was aware of the pregnancy for about 6 weeks. In labor (at least the painful part) for 2 hours.

Now though… Now is where the long journey starts. Because even after the first two critical weeks, there’s a long road ahead for Itty-Bitty. There’s so many things that can happen and she’s so fragile and teeny and God I am so scared for her.

So pray for her. Pray for Itty-Bitty and Crazy Girl and Her Man. Even if you don’t believe in prayer.

Just Pray.


A Brief Rant

So here’s the news… Both Crazy Girl and my newbie BFF from work… Who still needs a Blog name… Let’s call her… Um… Newbie for now… I’m just not clever enough to come up with a good pseudonym for her right now. ANYWAY, Both Crazy Girl and Newbie are preggers. Due within a month of each other. Both unexpected. Crazy Girl is 37 and had basically just thought she couldn’t have kids. Not that she ever tried specifically, she just had a string of long relationships and wasn’t particularly careful about contraception. Newbie never wanted kids and had a one time spur of the moment “oops,” with her husband mind you, and got pregnant. So I get to live vicariously through their new motherhood and hold brand new babies again without risking death (literally) and getting pregnant again myself.

Crazy Girl is doing okay. Her man is a sweetheart and he has several jobs. He can easily quit one of them and take care of their new babe while Crazy Girl continues to work. Things will be tighter for them, but they’ll make it since Crazy Girl also has a huge family who are willing to come chip in and help.

Newbie? Not so lucky. She’s been spending the past few weeks trying to find daycare spots for December. She’s called about 20 or so. No spots. And the one or two that do have spots are charging $1000 or more per month.

So here’s the rant…

Newbie is college educated, as is her husband. She works with me, secure, decent pay… Job. Her husband is a teacher. Between the two of them, they make a very good wage. But due to the expense of daycare and the fact that our job has no maternity leave, just unpaid FMLA (all that means is you can be out of work for an extended period for medical reasons without losing your job), and she’s due in August, right when her hubby goes back to school, she may actually have to quit her decent-paying, middle class job and get a part-time job at night, just so they can avoid trying to get blood from a stone to pay for daycare and still be able to afford to live. Because they’d actually come out ahead that way.

How fucked up is that?

How is it possible that in this “wonderful, free country,” a country in which friends of mine have fought overseas for, a country that purports to be the greatest nation on earth, how is it possible that an intelligent, college-educated, working couple cannot afford to have a child? How is it possible that the only way Crazy Girl and her man aren’t in need of assistance is because her man is quitting one of his jobs to care for their child? In that respect, how is it possible that a hard-working family of four can’t survive with both parents working at minimum wage without food stamps, medical and rent assistance from the government. How is it then possible that Congress can take away these benefits from these already struggling families, middle class or poverty-stricken and complain about the “Welfare culture” in this country?

It’s unfair. And there’s nothing we can do about it. Because Our government is not For the People, it’s For the Rich. So if you don’t make enough money to buy a couple of votes, you are pretty much screwed.

I told you it was brief.

The Importance of Diction

Heh… Diction.


I was sitting in bed with The Peach the other day and (as I am apt to do) I farted.

“Excuse me! Mommy farted!”

To which, The Peach leans over to the right, grins hugely and lets one rip.

“Heehee I sharted too!”



“Noooo… Fuh-fuh-FARted.”

~scowls~ “Fuh-fuh-SHARTED!”

Ummm… Not. It.

Teenagers and Toddlers

See this? That chunky little arm is attached to my chunky little Peach. That hand? Attached to Princess Punk. That spider on my youngest’s arm? A temporary tattoo, applied by my eldest.


The Peach spent several hours last night, poking and rubbing the spot on her arm, piteously proffering it to myself, The Zen Master, Princess Punk and My Mom.


“No baby, that’s not a boo-boo.”


“No, it’s not a bee. It’s a spider. A bug.”


“Yes baby. Buh-buh-bug.”

“Boo-boo… Boo-boo!”

“No Peach it’s a… Crap. Nevermind. C’mere, let Mommy kiss the boo-boo.”

“MmmmmmmmmAH!” (ear-piercing squeals)

2 minutes later…


Just when I really start to feel like crap…



Oh Peach, my Peach…

Text message exchange with The Zen Master today…

The Peach was messy today

Um… Ok…

Tried to eat a cracker with a fork in the living room

Set her on the bed left for a minute and she spilled duck sauce on the bed

She. Tried. To. Eat. A. Cracker. With. A. Fork.

Your daughter

Why I hate this bipolar bullshit

So I’m sitting here in my bed, pondering why exactly I feel so shitty right now.

As I’ve said before, many, many, many, many times, this blog is, first and foremost, for me. I use it as a tool to try and make sense of my life, the good and the bad. The breathtakingly beautiful and the sickeningly ugly. And now especially, since my therapist is gone and likely not coming back, I need to get this shit out of my head. So this post? This post is me trying to work out what it is exactly that makes this part of my disease so downright oppressive.

In my ponderings, I’ve come to this conclusion…

I don’t like me when I’m like this.

If I could just push away all of the miserable things that I hate about myself, the things that some part of me knows is just Bipolar making me its bitch, I might be able to ride it out a little better.

The following things happen to me when I’m in a down-swing like I’m experiencing now…

  • I am horrible to my children. This is, first and foremost, the thing that bothers me the most. Because that shit? It lasts. It lasts beyond the depressive phase and my Peach is scared of me and my Princess is angry with me. I am irritable. I am emotional. I am cranky. I yell. I scream. I cry, all triggered by inconsequential things like Princess Punk leaving her clothes on the floor in her bathroom, or The Peach playing in Fairy Dog’s water bowl. I will Fucking. Lose. My. Shit. And I don’t want them to touch me. For some reason, When I’m in this state, I am… Claustrophobic? My children seeking affection becomes a heavy responsibility, more than I have to give. I feel as if they are sucking the life out of me and I literally recoil when they reach for me. Which makes me feel awful. And like I’m the worst mom in the world. Because what mom doesn’t want a hug or a kiss from their children? Fuck me, now I’m crying. Did I mention how much I hate this shit?
  • I am not quite as horrible to my husband. He is, by his very nature, giving. So I very rarely feel like he is taking something away from me, something that I am desperately trying to hold on to, like say, my humanity. But, because he is so caring and understanding, I am completely and utterly neurotic. Because I imagine that I am considerably unpleasant to live with when I’m like this, and the thought of him going away makes me physically sick. I am less claustrophobic about affection from him than the girls. That makes me feel bad too. I have not been able to understand why I can hug my husband like this but if Princess Punk runs a hug blitz or The Peach tugs on my shirt hem, pleading to be picked up, I start to hyperventilate. See? This is why I write this. Because reading back over this I just solved this particular quandary. Children need attention, affection, demonstrations of love. They need to feel secure and protected and loved. I can’t deal with that. That kind of emotion, and the ability to demonstrate it easily, escapes me. The unfathomable burden of that basic need is too much for me to bear. The Zen Master? He gives. That’s what he does. He quietly gives himself to me and he doesn’t care that I don’t have access to anything within myself to reciprocate. Despite that, I am still mean. I am snippy and critical and then immediately weepy and apologetic. And if he should deign to do any more than give me a hug or chaste kiss, if I feel like he is getting “romantic,” I have the same reaction that I do with the girls. Over the years, he has learned where my limits are and if he pushes against my ridiculous limitations, he accepts my rejection without complaint.
  • My already limited capacity for social interaction is reduced to nearly nothing. If necessary, I am able to engage with others. I can greet people with a smile and even hold a brief conversation. I hide the mantle of apathy laying precariously over the river of volatile emotions threatening to break through and erupt, destroying any semblance of a relationship I’ve had with whoever is in the blast zone. And I can feel the cracks separating and will awkwardly excuse myself before running into my office, or the bathroom, or anywhere there is no one else and cry until the cracks shift together again and I can at least appear normal. I can occasionally manage to shift the conversation to my girls, because despite my reaction to their physical closeness, they are my life and joy and they will thicken the mantle and allow me to be me for a brief period of time.
  • I hide. I am angry and bitter and I just don’t want to speak to anyone.
  • I am weak… I am, by nature, a fighter. I have pushed through and overcome many, many difficulties in my life. But when this hits me, I become a weak, whiny, sniveling victim and I can’t stand myself or the self-pity that plagues me. I feel worthless and stupid and mean. And because this is what it is, I feel like I’m always this way.
  • My brain ceases to function logically. I have trouble completing sentences, I forget what I’m doing and I frequently catch myself staring off into space at nothing at all, thinking about what I should be doing and wondering why I’m not doing it.
  • I don’t care. I’m lazy and unmotivated and can push myself just enough to go to work and get enough done that my coworkers and supervisors can’t complain. I don’t clean, I cook rarely. I eat when my hands start to shake. I brush my hair when enough of it comes out of the braid that it gets annoying. I shower if I have to, which is not often as long as I keep the important areas clean. That was an overshare. I don’t care. If it wasn’t for The Zen Master, I’d be sitting on the couch, in a dirty nightgown, surrounded by dirty dishes, looking around at a room strewn with toys and dog hair and various objects The Peach has obtained and then discarded in the middle of the floor. And I really just wouldn’t give a shit.

That’s pretty much it I think. Whatever. I’m just riding it out. Grabbing the brief moments when the real me pokes through, when The Peach does something exceptionally cute or Princess Punk does something exceptionally funny. Letting The Zen Master anchor me in reality and away from the abyss looming not too far in the distance.

So although it is hard to believe, it’s not always like this. And it’ll be okay. Just waiting for me to come back.

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