Football, You Middle-Class Folks to Whom No Specific Class, Sex or Race Can Be Assigned
A tab devoted to (insanely inferior) American football, obviously
The Self-Loathing Southerner
A section in which every Southern comfort is given its slow and painful comeuppance because we hate everything about being Southern, except the righteous indignation that comes from being forever an underdog
Grass to Mouth
A section devoted to locally sourced foodstuffs
Pith in the Whinge
A blog in which every perceived imperfection in the local alt-weekly is pointed out in painstaking detail by a writer from the daily
*not actually endorsed by anyone
I’ve not been well since July 2. I don’t know what specifically is ailing me but it’s a little like the mystery bug that got me in 2009 that no one ever could diagnose. (Sans hives. So far.) I’m on a second round of antibiotics and I’m still prone to coughing fits. And headaches. It took Holden down too, and his teacher and some classmates. Whatever it is is no joke and has been hanging around for a long time. I heard that we had unseasonably lovely weather, though, while I was quarantined. Neat.
I nearly missed the crape myrtles at their prettiest. Nearly.
I was settling in for a long-overdue nap when I got a text from a second team member calling out. I was unable to coax anyone into coming in for an OT shift so I got in the shower and went into the office myself. Then I got some news about the house in Memphis needing a major repair, for which I do not have the funds, so I contacted my mom to ask to borrow money.
So, in conclusion:
Next Mother’s Day, my goal is to not abandon my child to go to the office and to not call my mom and ask for money.
There is this little mercurial creature hanging around my house and we don’t speak each other’s language but we’re learning. My emotions twist and turn with every involuntary grimace on his face. I am his huckleberry. The hardwiring is intense. I get caught up in the brutal cycle of wondering if I’m doing an OK job and asking myself, “Is my baby happy?” The latter is a crazy question. What does that even mean — a happy two-week-old? This kid is pure id and I am trying to define him with psychobabble and read thoughts into his searching blue-brown eyes. It’s exhausting.
We have moments where everything clicks into place and feels natural, and other moments when I am overtaken by sheer terror. Terror that I won’t be able to comfort him this time, terror that I am not giving him everything he needs and deserves, terror that I am never going to feel normal again, terror that my nipples are going to spit rivers of blood if I have to put his mouth on them one more time. I posit that breastfeeding a newborn every two hours is, cumulatively, more difficult than giving birth naturally. But maybe I’m being dramatic.
The hormone roller coaster is brutal and sometimes lays me so low that I just sit there and rock him, sobbing, wiping tears off my face so they don’t drip onto his. Two minutes later it will be as if nothing happened at all, the storm clouds far on the horizon. Chump storm clouds. It’s bizarre and irrational and I try to take my lumps in stride because I know it’s normal.
Everything is so different now, wonderfully and terribly, and no amount of preparation would haves sufficed for the degree of difference. I am waddling around in a body that I don’t even recognize as mine anymore, one whose extra folds of skin are tattooed with these angry swatch marks that are supposedly going to fade, but I have my doubts. I can’t fit into my old clothes so I just lounge around in sweat pants and nightgowns. That’s a recipe for depression right there, hormones be damned. I got so sick of sitting around yesterday that I did some mild exercises, only to realize later that I shouldn’t have because I’m still rife with relaxin and I apparently hurt myself. So today I am hobbling around because my pelvis aches like a sumbitch. I want to go for walks but the weather is shit and we’re still not quite ready to get out and about, especially around people. If it sounds like I’m a complaint factory, it’s because I am.
Ups and downs are the name of the game. You get kicked off the horse and get right back on is all. I anticipated this phase would be tough to handle and sure enough, it is. But you just get through it, every parent tells me. You just survive until the kid begins to resemble a little human more than a demanding little floppy lump of flesh. Of course, I love my demanding little floppy lump of flesh beyond words. I hope that goes without saying. I’m just venting. I need to be able to do that sometimes.
Google Reader is basically worthless now. They’ve removed all the share functions and the “add to reader” bookmarlet doesn’t work anymore, so my prime method of bookmarking and sharing interesting stuff on the web has evaporated. I can still read through the feeds I’m subscribed to, yes, but now all those neat, weird little tidbits that would cross my radar thanks to the smart, funny people I pal around with on Reader will no longer find their way to me. And I can’t share the neat, weird little bits of the internet I find, unless I want to flood my Facebook feed with shit most people I am “friends” with would not appreciate. I feel cut off from the portion of the internet that I haven’t already discovered. And the portion of the internet that I haven’t already discovered is EFFING VAST.
Oh, and making me scroll alllll the way up to click the “home” button every time I need it is infuriating. You should never ever ever have to scroll to click a “home” button.
Anyway, I need an RSS reader to use other than Reader, I guess. Something with some of the social functions (sharing, specifically) but something not as painfully stupid as Facebook or Google+. I used Bloglines a loooong time ago but Reader blew it out of the water at the time. Fellow broken-hearted Reader enthusiasts, where have you gone and what have you found to use? I would like to be reunited with you.
This is what they do at 6:30 or 7 a.m. every morning … for hours and hours:
neighbor dogs who won’t let us sleep from Lindsey Turner on Vimeo.
And then again a few hours later. Or whenever they’re bored. Which is a lot since they are just hanging out in the courtyard, which is mere feet from our bedroom window, all day and night, seemingly every day and night for the past week or so.
The other night they were at it at midnight and then again at 2:30 or 3 in the morning. Then again at 7. I marched my sleepy-eyed preggo self over there and rang the doorbell twice, then walked around to the back to see if the neighbor’s car was there. It wasn’t. I haven’t seen it there for days. Is she out of town? Did she leave her dogs out in the yard while she’s out of town? Is something wrong? Lesley suggested she might be dead in there, which honestly never crossed my mind (and usually I love to imagine the gruesomest scenario) but could be true. We haven’t called the cops yet because I’m trying to be diplomatic and talk to her about this before trying to get others to intervene, but I can never catch her home. So what’s my recourse? A note on the door? Don’t worry, it won’t be anonymous. I just found her phone number online. Am I going to have to call her? God, I need a shot of whiskey first.
I work nights so 7 a.m. is like my 3 a.m. It’s an unreasonable time to fuck with me. But, you know, it would be an unreasonable time to fuck with someone with a day job too.
It’s already tough to sleep through the night but around 7 a.m. is when I am actually getting a couple or three hours of consecutive, pee-free sleep. Having bored dogs howling at rustling leaves and passing joggers jolts me out of the one REM cycle I get every night and makes it incredibly difficult to function for the rest of the day. I can deal with it occasionally — dogs are dogs and they bark, I get it — but it has been every day, all day, for many days and I am feeling myself start to crack from the exhaustion.
Okay, yes. I am going to have to call her. And I will make sure to scream at the top of my lungs outside her windows when I am giving birth.
I just drove all the way downtown to a stretch I have been wanting to photograph for two weeks, only to drive right past it, scowl at how the setting sun was backlighting it, and then come back home, grumbling about how I sure hope my child is talented because I am a hack who will never make art again, blah blah blaaaah.
And now I’m in my underwear eating cereal and confessing this to the internet. (Because.)
I will probably round out my evening by attempting to clean up the living/dining room, scowling at how the AC smells terrible when it kicks on, and watching HGTV until I am sick of hearing the phrase “open concept.”
This is pregnancy. What a country.