Coconut consult.

Finally the day of the consult arrived. Sitting in the waiting room I judged all the women working there about whatever I thought they had done. Of course they were good looking. It was kind of like being in an episode of Nip/Tuck. Naturally on a big day that I had been waiting for, I am sick. So, mouth breathing and judging was pretty much all I did, with Girth beside me. My hair was super static-y from my dumb too tight coat, and I wore a scumbag bra. You get the picture. Anyway, finally we sat in the consult room. Minimal, comfy, baskets of implants. We played with them, they felt like little water beds. Doctor comes in, we talk about my reduction, he tells me to undress from the waist up and put the white robe on. He walks out, I strip it down and get the robe on- which makes me wonder how many sets of teats have been wrapped in it, and when was it last washed. I stand in front of the big silver framed mirror flashing myself. Chris- he's still playing with baskets of tits. Now I am looking at myself, really looking. Everything seems real and vivid, and I think about how my body will literally change. Having a drastic change potentially on the horizon makes me see my body as actually quite beautiful. It was almost like a, "you don't know what you have until it's gone", moment. Of course I want them gone, but it was still a strange, jarring moment.
The doctor comes in, directs me to open the robe. I comply. Except I kind of stand there, holding the robe open. Completely went all Buffalo Bill in front of him. He had to tell me to relax my arms to my sides. Awesome. Then I face the mirror and he crouches in front of me, doing this & that. He turned my boobs into hamburgers. To show me approximate size and placement, he used my nipples like handles, and tucked and folded them in such ways that they resembled hamburgers. I was pleased.

Hello, stranger.

My lesbian dreams have been increasing as we close in on Christmas. Is this a coincidence? Holidays and boxes? I want a box for Christmas?

I have entered the working world. The land of clothes and regular showers. Who will pet my cats all day? Babysitters and school bus schedules. This world does not seem appealing...

Chopped off my hair. Last consult to lose the teets is this month too. Lose the hair, lose the tits...gain work clothes? The frig?

Girth is on the fast track to 30. He will be 29 this week. Just the thought of that is aging me...what am I going to do with his old balls?! Pin them up for him, I suppose.

Wasn't I just pregnant? Where did this staggering, mouthy toddler come from?!

My big kid called me "mom", the other day. Completely unfucking acceptable.

Just realized my "new world" contains Happy Hour. Maybe I will like it here.

My ass looks like someone smashed it between two bricks. Begging for a squat or 600. Challenge will commence...will not be posting ass photos this time. Sorry.

I am at pre-pregnancy weight. Things have shifted though.

I am lusting after James Spader so hard that it is shameful. Just the mention of his name and my hand flys to my zipper.

Monster Trucks balls have gotten so big that if you pet him from ears to the tip of his tail, you graze them. I think he grew them that big on purpose.

Girth and I finally had a night out. I did a pyramid in a tight dress...backed it up to a fence for a safety precaution (ie, my beating later), checked out photos the next day. Saw a woman standing in the back. Pretty sure she was sneak peeking my hamburger.

I think we are all caught up now.




 

Pretty, pretty girl.

This morning I rolled out of bed, started doing bills, started cleaning, all the usual things. I see Chris staring at me. I'm like, "Whatttt?"
Chris, "Why the fuck do you wear your sweatpants so high?
Me, "Why do you always start with me? I fucking don't..."

Chris, "Yes, you do. What is wrong with you? Get the camera & stand there."

I comply.

This is what follows:

 

 

 

I just lost on so many levels.

Maybe a little insight on why I don't get laid?
1. Sweatpants are indeed high.
2. I am in fact wearing a pregnancy bellyband as a tubetop.
3. He is actually being forgiving when he calls me, "Ugly as dick" in the morning.

 

Mom of A Boy

We have busy kid. He is a wild 5 year old who does not like to sit still. A great kid, an exhausting kid. Eager, full of energy, compassionate, thoughtful, curious, wants to do it all- wants to know it all. My kind of kid, my kid- who may seem overwhelming to some, is perfect by me. People with and without kids, especially not having a boy, or a boy who has not reached a certain age, have no idea. People who compare kids, especially boys to girls- I want to throat punch you all. I think the judgmental people forget that you are judging the parents as well. I think you think your snide undertone is not picked up in your offhanded comments. All of the traits my wild son has will be respected and adored when he is grown...completely worth the trouble of reining them in now. Mothers of boys his age will understand, but all other people should hold enough common sense to at least try and understand. We buy a thousand pairs of jeans a year, he eats an obscene amount of food, he talks incessantly, asks more questions than any one person should be allowed to in a lifetime, shows off like he is his own reality show, and has the attention span of a walnut. He is mine. I have a happy, content child. I have a happy, content baby. I am doing it right. I am not a warden, a Nazi, a drill Sargent, or an old western regulator. My style of parenting is not yours. My offspring is not yours to judge. He is everything I want him to be- should that be too much for anyone, feel free to make your own kid your protege. I am busy allowing mine to become an individual.

Big backpack, Big Love.

A Kindergartner. Being able to remember some of my own Kindergarten memories so clearly make it that much more surreal to be on the mothering end of it all. Here it is though, September, and my first born, my 4 year old love of my life is gone for an entire day. Who will build Lego cities with me all day, who will make me dress as a super hero, or villain depending on if he feels like smacking me around that day or not. Should I feel like an empty nester right now? His entire first day I felt like I was missing a part of myself, a constant ache. His small body toting that big backpack into that big school hallway was the culmination of the last almost 5 years. I wanted to pull my heart out of my chest and scream at it to calm down, that it didn't have to break- that this was a wonderful thing!
And it was.
At 3:30 when his happy face came through the door and hugged me with enough force to knock me down- there it was. He loved it. He was excited for the next day, he said that he had a great time. He ate every bit of the lunch I packed for him. He came home unscathed and in great spirits. I silently scolded myself for being so selfish, for thinking of my own breaking heart, about how I felt.
And then I said, "Fuck you, self. That's YOUR baby".
The first time I laid my eyes on him, I knew I would feel everything he felt, that I would feel everything for him, take away the bad and replace it with the good if I could. Today was OUR first, and I am so happy that I felt the bad and he felt the good. There is no other way I could wish it to be. That beautiful boy with his big eyes, his big smile, and big personality- he's still mine. I just have to accept letting him go a little bit and allow the world to help make those things become bigger & bigger.

Boop.

It is amazing how something so sweet and endearing can take a turn for the worst. Just laying in bed, giggling, cuddling, playing. Here it comes, a play full little face to face, finger to nose..."boop". Except for it wasn't just an innocent "boop". Girth booping me is adorable, I really do love it. It's cutesy, it's reminiscent of those first few months of a relationship. But then...then shit got real. Like I said- we were face to face. His mouth was just centimeters above my nose. That was his downfall. The word "boop" lost it's lovey feel instantaneously. All because along with it came his breath. Hot, unfiltered, "fuck my toothbrush today" breath. I swear I saw rings of hot breath coming down to my vulnerable nose, rings like that omitted from an 80's style death ray comic gun. I was helpless, stunned. How does a "boop" go so wrong? Comfortability, that's how. Had we been "new", he would have scrubbed those chomps before getting all up in my grill. Being together for eons though, it is obviously not an issue. You think about it in the beginning, you work to impress (amazing how brushing your teeth before bed falls under "impress")...just like you should be doing all along anyway, maintaining. So I give points for the "boop", but am left with no choice but to deduct for the trash can he pulled that "boop" out of. Trying to get a fresh "boop" is like pulling, well, or brushing, mother truckin' teeth around here.  I could offer a mouth hug every single day- but if I press my lips to his face and offer it, he'd probably pass if my breath made his dick shrivel, tuck, and hide itself behind his balls. Offer it like you wanna give it. If I really want to get dirty- I'll be prepped. You want me to swoon to your "boop"? Better brush dem' teefs. Damnnnnn, daddy,

 

Catch Up.

Came home from work last night demanding sex. Farted way too loudly while getting naked and almost ruined it for myself. Lucklily he took pity on me and porked me anyway. My husband has a heart of gold. It really is up to him to put out when I say anyway, since this was his way of thinking...crazy girth. Aside from that, has Summer really begun? Is it just an obsolete season once your mid-thirties have been reached? Last year I wanted to arrange a "Sloppy Slumberparty" for us girls that did not pan out because life got in the way. I am thinking this needs to happen now more than ever. A hotel/motel room for the night, cheap liquor, gossip, all of it. We will drink, laugh, cry, bitch, show our boobs and other random body parts- and then pass out. Perfect. The one thing I have noticed about being in your thirties, you know who you are, and what you believe in. You are able to forge stronger, sturdier friendships...you just don't get to spend as much time with them!
****As you may have noticed, I have plugged some older blogs. Boom.

On a good note, I have an appontment to get my jugs looked at. Final say-so on a hopefull reduction...
I. Can't. Wait. I will post pics, open to blog subscribers only though.

On another completely unrelated note, I think another "note to self" is in order. Just so many changes...

Periodpoundspoop.

The last time I made a post was May 19th. The one where I lied and said that I would re-post my bod in 30 days to show my weightloss. Where I said no carbs, and I would be working out. All lies. Well, I did end up refraining from carbs, for some of the time. Definitely didn't exercise, continue the squats, or ab challenge. Fuck it. On May 19th I tipped the scale at 160. Almost 2 months later, 150 pounds is wrapped around my bones. My body was crazy and way bloated- waiting on a red tide that I never thought would come. And then one morning it did. I woke up at 4 a.m. because I thought a small troll and tunneled through my vagina and starting ripping a weedwhacker all up in and around my abdomen. Got up to pee and it looked like the high point of a horror movie. Within 3 days, I lost 6 pounds. My body raged, from my knees to my teets. I also had the first best poop since having Charlee. It was the size of a toddlers arm. Chris had to buy an industrial plunger for my industrial sized poo. My body seriously unloaded 6 lbs worth of fluid and literal shit within 3 days. Here's the total 10 pound loss results:

 

 

160lbs............................150lbs

 

Now maybe I will work for another 10lbs.
See if I can't shake off some of that moose knuckle.

 

 

 

Getting rid of some fluff.

Once again it is time to crack down on this big ass. 6 weeks post baby and there is work to be done. Last years squat challenge was successful because I put my mom ass on blast and shared photos of the progress. This time, it is the squat challenge, plus 10-15lbs needing to go. So. As of today I will refrain from carbs like they are the plague, and begin the treacherous squat challenge, again. I won't be updating this progress weekly, only crying about it weekly. In 30 days I will re-post a photo, failure or otherwise. As of right now I am soft and fluffy, hopefully in 30 days time I will be a smaller version of soft and fluffy. I have no desire to be solid, toned, muscular. I am a fan of the softness in a woman's body, I just want a healthier style of it. I want to wear a bikini and I want to be back into last Summers cut offs without a muffin top or bottom ass spillage. That aim may not be particularly high, but it is happy.  Here is my body now, in all of its 160 pound, 5 foot 2 inch tall glory.
                                   Ken doll dick included.

 

These underwear are, much to my husbands dismay, usually pulled above my belly button. I will sacrifice my comfort for the sake of this photo.
You're welcome.
See you in 30 days.

 

 

 

 

 

Don't we all?

There is an insane amount of authority lost when I drool on myself/down my shirt while reprimanding my child. A little bit of dignity escapes with that saliva too.

These feelings are almost the same as when I am throwing a tantrum, pouting, or arguing with Girth...storming & stomping away only to rip ass along my stormy path. I can just feel my resistance slipping away like the air from my asshole.

Having the sexy look of wearing a thin unpadded bra is almost not worth the effort of constantly making sure my nipples look straight.

Whenever strangers swear or say something filthy in front of me, then apologize- I say about 6 nasty filthy words in my head. Outloud I say, "no problem"...but I feel like a raunchy double agent.

WebMD will have you convinced of your imminent death in about 23 seconds. Yet I go there each time my shit smells slightly off.

I spent 9 months being pregnant and judging everyone. Now I am probably going to do a whole bunch of the things I bitched about. Then if anyone brings it to my attention, I will tell you to lick my nuts. Walking contradiction, impossible to argue with. And I'm still going to judge you when you do those things.

When I get dressed I hike up my tits into my bra, set my jeans just right on my hips, suck in my stomache a smidge, and then praise myself for looking hot.  10 minutes later I walk by a mirror...not sucking it in, jeans have lost position, and tits are bulging....can't understand why it looked good 10 minutes ago. Like my brain/eyes are set in "50 First dates" mode.

Going out last weekend for the first time in a year has me absolutely convinced that should I ever become single, I will be a lesbian. If Girth keeps up his shit- put me on speed dial, ladies.













 

You do not live in The Matrix.

Every single day people complain that they are not liked because they are just too fabulous. That those who do not like them are just "haters", just a bunch of Negative Nancy's who obviously want to watch the world burn.
Are you kidding me?
How egocentric you must be to think that people who do not like you have an entire plethora of issues, because you are so impossibly perfect that the thought of someone disliking you is completely and utterly unfathomable?
Girls hate them because they are so super jealous of their good looks. Dudes hate them because they can't handle a strong woman.
You crazy lassies. Take your shoes off, feel the grass and gravel between your toes. You know what that is? It is the real fucking world.
You do not live in The Matrix. Things are mostly what they seem, on a regular basis. Maybe you aren't liked because you are a raging cock smuggling Twatty Mcmuff who is a major bitch- who thinks that they are better than everyone else.
Newsflash, twunt.
People do not actually drink "haterade".
You are not Taylor Swift, you are not shining...people want to throw rocks at you because you are an asshole.
The REAL kicker though?
Jealousy is never based off YOUR (self-perceived) awesomeness, but off THEIR own personal insecurities.
So remember that. Look at a new perspective...that maybe someone is simply envious of what you have, of your station in life. But they do not dislike you because of it. Maybe the dislike comes from them knowing what an unappreciative, self serving, self centered bitch you are. They simply see what you are oblivious to. Don't confuse that with jealousy, on any level.
 

Hugs.

Shaved my muffin for the first time in almost 3 weeks yesterday. Exhilarating, terrifying, gratifying. I was so nervous as to what lied beneath. I pictured Pee Wee Herman in the truck with Large Marge. The part where she looks normal, turns away, looks back with the scary face! I imagined my muff to be the scary Large Marge once revealed. Two razors later, and a bathtub that looks like I skinned a bear in it...there she was, pristine and seemingly untampered with. This felt like running into your high school best friend 20 years after graduation. There we were, eye to whispering eye. So much freedom in seeing your own junk, in landscaping your own bits. I have slayed my own biscuit, I am a bad bitch, no one to be trifled with. Now I wonder if I will break the no sex for 6 weeks rule. This massive hormonal shift has currently rendered me basically asexual, as opposed to the raging cock monster I was while pregnant. Girth I believe is enjoying the break...but starting to "miss" me. Hopefully that means that I will get some ass slapping and heavy petting out of the this fiasco. When my libido returns, of course. Naturally I am not completely selfish. Taught Girth a new phrase and everything.
Mouth Hug.
When I offered one, he asked what I was talking about. I should have walked right out of the room. I am a nice wife though, so I told him. Which he continues to forget, and now asks for "Meat Hugs". Thoroughly grossing me out. So, alas we have the waiting game for my sex drive to make its appearance again. Which he may regret...I mean, we have been married for like 5 years. Mouth hugs don't come cheap...he's going to pay his dues.

You're so vain...I bet you think this blog is about you.

These frigging tits. Over it. Completely over it. This rack has been a 'C' cup since I was a barely 5 ft tall, 105 lb 8th grader. They enter a room before the rest of me does. In high school they maxed out my upper body at a sturdy 'D' cup...then when I reallyyyyyy filled out...BOOM- 'DD' by the time I was 20. Weighing a bucktwenty left me unproportioned to say the least. Now, in my mid thirties and two kids later...they need to be gone. Years of being smacked, slapped, twisted, pinched, poked, and milked have taken their toll. The girls have had a good run, but I am ready to say toodles. They look alright, per the life they have led. Let's face it though...let's be real. What was once top of the line Saks Fifth Avenue has become more thrift shop. Not like local thrift shop though, more like a thrift shop in Beverly Hills. Second hand none the less...so I would much rather they not make it to their dollar bin days. About time for the squat challenge to come back into play too. Just need to have that checkup and make sure my uterus and ovaries aren't going to tumble out mid-squat. It has only been a couple weeks since springing my gorgeous baby from my muffin, and maybe I'm being a little vain...but let's face it- well, actually, LET'S not. It's my fucking body. It's the only one I get and at 34 it isn't getting any perkier, or becoming any quicker at perking itself back up. If that means reducing the size of these big fat jugs, squatting till' the cows come home and not sliding any carbs down my throat, then so be it. I have no goal weight, no goal size. Only the perfectly attainable feeling of "look how hot my ass is in this flesh that I have got".  
And since I have yet to see cellulite or stretchmarks-  the least I can do is show my genes some gratitude by taking care of my body. Get it right, keep it tight, am I right?

Cuddles & Kegels

It is still surreal that we are doing the baby thing again. 11 days old and she has suckered me into co-sleeping, twice. Which we are super against. She has also been caught sucking her thumb- which we are not a fan of. The kitty has smacked her in the forehead, and Riot is probably going to pet the hair right off her cute little baby head. She has taken a shit in the palm of Girth's hand. Literally. The girl is an absolute charmer. Most girls win hearts by smiles and coos...not our kid. Much like her mother, she found taking a shit to be a bonding experience.
Charlee Maylene is awesome, and content. Her schedule already aligns perfectly with what works for us, and she is just easy. Girth thinks we get easy babies because I am so completely neurotic during pregnancy- so they just come out ready to handle anything. I find myself singing The Doors to her alot, "Hello, I Love You", mostly. We cuddle the shit out of her, I kiss her face fast and relentlessly, saying "kisses, kisses, kisses", over & over...lightly. She half smiles, her eyes flutter and she coos.
I melt.
Through all of this, I have cabin fever. I am ready to walk the bridges in the sunshine, hit a tanning bed, get back behind the bar at work. If only I had realized my life would be complete with mothering, bartending, cuddling and kegeling about $60,000 dollars ago. C'est la Vie...Meanwhile I have to take it easy on my bod, and there is not much I can do by way of exercise 11 days after squeezing out a kid...I kegel. All day long. Doing it right now, actually. My muffin will be able to snap a stick at the end of 6 weeks. So, that is my life right now. Cuddling my two babies, and kegeling.

"I have a daughter"...the most strangest thing I have ever said aloud.

 

Some details.

 182 lbs is obviously my maximum capacity. Weighed that for a month and a half, and it is also what I weighed delivering Riot. I should have known Charlee would not be waiting another two weeks. Being that I could not sleep on Saturday night, I took a Benadryl. Woke up constantly through the night, a little crampy, a little pissy...or so I thought. Bladder control being what it is and all and 9 months pregnant. Girth left the house at 5:30 for work, and the whole house was awake due to me complaining about "pissing" my pants. Finally, 3 pairs of sweatpants later- common sense kicked in. That and as pair number 4 were going on, I sprung a huge leak and trailed through the house getting to the bathroom. As I stood in the bathroom with no pants on, screaming at my mom, her in my bedroom staring at me, a huge gush flew out and hit the floor. We gagged. I called Chris...told him he might want to hurry along.
OH! Also woke up to no water...as the pump got jacked up over night. So, the only water in the house was what was exiting my body. Legs not shaved, muff- NOT in check, greasy hair, gushy mess. In other words, lookin' good.
This of course did not matter, 15 minutes later when my contractions all but crippled me.
4 minutes apart on the way to the hospital.
3 minutes apart on the table, where they examined me and said, "We see hair!".
To which Girth replied, "Hers or the babies" and my mother exclaimed, "SHE'S CROWNING!"
It was not my hair, and the baby was not crowning...but I was 4 centimeters dilated.

This is 9 am.
Epidural time was around 11:30.
The epidural slowed labor, and I could feel absolutely nothing, could not even move my legs, which made me think I was paralyzed...which terrified me. My mother, mother-in law, and Girth hung out with me. At one point I felt pressure on my b-hole...poop. Made Girth look...he yelled...all three of them went to the other side of the room and laughed at me. No one would clean me. "She shits in it, she sits in it". Finally a nurse saved me...and there had been no actual poop. Girth had witnessed a turtle head. Ooops.
At 2:00 they slowed the epidural, so I could feel when to push, at 3:00, I pushed. I pushed three times in 5 minutes, and at 3:06 p.m. I reached down, grabbed her underneath her armpits and pulled her out of my muffin. That was easily the most satisfying, terrifying, self powering, primal act I have ever done. She laid on my chest for the next hour, and we fell in love with her over and over again during every second of it, just like we have and will each moment after.
Thoughts of my 70's muff and no shower went out the window, the pain didn't matter...because after Girth laid his eyes on her, I fell in love with him again. The way he looked at me when I pulled her out of my body, the look on his face when he holds her, and the pride he has when there are four of us on the couch together is intense. It really makes this 6 week no sex business worth it. And while the nurse did tell us, "No intercourse for 6 weeks"...she also added, "at least not in vagina". Of course we had the nurse that says that...
Now all is well, Charlee is a great, content baby, Riot is an amazing big brother, Chris is a doting daddy, and I am feeling good. My only complaint is wearing those huge pads...3 inches thick and wrap from your belly button to your asshole. Tampons are obviously not an option, and having to wear this gigantic thing in just torture.

I swear I can hear it swish like windpants when I walk fast.

 

That about wraps it up.

August 18th, found out we were expecting.

6 weeks...August, 2013

 

 

 

 

Week 12

 

 

 

 

Week 15

 

 

Week 19

 

 

Week 20

 

 

NOVEMBER 2013

 

 

Week 28

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Week 35

 

 

Week 38

 

 

Charlee.
We were surprised to find out about you.
Then we were surprised by your early arrival.

Now we will look forward to every surprise you have in store for us.

 

 

 

You just completed us.

 

 

 

& you made a 4 year old boy shine with pride.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our pillar.

We love making beds on the floor. We pull the memory foam off the bed, grab all the big thick comforters, and all the soft blankets and build that bitch up. Topping it off with couch pillows, body pillows, and a snoogle. We put the kid to bed at 8, per usual, and get our cuddle on. Occasionally we let him in on it. The other night, I could not get comfy, and crawled up onto the couch. Woke up at 4 am when my hideous child came stumbling out of his room and crawled onto the floor, because zombies were eating him and he needed daddy. I layed there looking down at them and was hit with way too many emotions. Both asleep and intertwined, Riot's little body wrapped right around daddy's, head on his chest with his nappy, curly, soft hair all draped all over. Girth on his back with one arm wrapped around him...I couldn't take it. I squirmed clumsily off the couch and mashed my big body right onto Girth's other side. Snuggled up into him as tight as I could with his other arm around me. Content. He reminded me of a pillar. A pillar of strength and safety and love. With him in the middle, holding us both, I felt that it completely summed up our lives. I am neurotic, unorganized, always going in 40 different directions...which is not much different than our 4 year old. Somehow though, Girth holds it together, us and himself. The other night putting Riot to bed, I yelled at him for being sassy and talking back, he yelled back at me that I hurt his heart. I cried. He cried. We sat on his bed crying and yelling at each other...Chris came in completely stunned. His big pregnant wife and his small toddler child crying and freaking out. How he remains sane, I will never know. He does though.
He closes his eyes alot. Shakes his head, looks up at the ceiling and mouths words. I have a feeling these may be coping mechanisms...  
Whatever gets him through each day with us though...because it's no easy feat.

Mine.

(5) Realizations.

1. Happiness after children, a happiness that a person with no children and no significant other could possibly know is: Eating a food right out in the open that those other people in your house want nothing to do with. You will never know freedom until you feel that feeling.

2. "Second offspring who gives a shit", is real. I had a journal for Riot...kept from the day I found we were pregnant until he turned a year old, a box with tokens and nostalgia from us and all the people who love him. I have over 50 photo albums of pictures, that all were printed after having him.
Sonograms of Charlee and tid bits of other things are scattered throughout the house...where did the novelty go? 

3. I just made my self fancy french toast. Eggs, french vanilla creamer, cinnamon, powered sugar and syrup. I am fond of saying, "That's what Charlee wants", when I get a craving...However, after she is actually here and asking me for breakfast...I'm going to chuckle as I toss a poptart at her.
"That mom" is completely me.


4. After freaking out, and trying to break Girth's things, he calms me down. He handles  my instability, and my irrational behavior...and he is calm about it. He then waits three days for me to pull an apology out of my asshole, at a completely irrelevant time, spoken very fast without even looking at him.
He accepts it.
He accepts me.
It is not flowers for no reason, buying me expensive things, or giving me my way that makes us what we are.
It is him telling me to go fuck myself. It is him waiting for that apology that takes me 3 days. Doing the dishes (occasionally). Making it rain on me while I twerk. Being a good father. It is tolerating, and not tolerating, all the while being accepting of all of me.


5. Six years later I can still make him belly laugh and blush. Belly laugh after I pretend to snap his neck after sex, blush when I lift and drop my foot between his legs in the chair at the doctors office to unzip my boot hastily. I blush and get giddy when he fake chows at me out of nowhere.


In three more weeks we will introduce another small person into this mix. But, hey- 3's a crowd, 4's a party....right?

 

Four more weeks.

Four more weeks to go.
Four more weeks till' my vag explodes with the cutest chubbiest baby girl full of hair.
Four more weeks till' I can retire my mom bush.
Four more weeks till' we are a family of four.
Four more weeks until my hands stop going numb.
Four more weeks until I can stop worrying about slicing my asshole of while shaving...due to hands going numb at the most inopportune times.
Four more weeks of pissing my pants regularly.
Four more weeks of feeling like my pelvis and muff bone are being tapped with a hammer.
Four more weeks for a Bloody Mary.
Four more weeks till' missionary sex where I don't even have to move is an option.
Four more weeks until I have all the energy to play with my son that we need me to have.
Four more weeks until I can stop feeling guilty about not having it.
Four more weeks until I will never feel a life forming inside of me again.
Four more weeks until my son transitions from only child to big brother.
Four more weeks of feeling every emotion in the entire spectrum about all of the things that will happen at the end of, or will cease to exist at the end of these next four weeks.

EXHAUSTION.

 

Two of them.

What in the flying cardinal cock am I suppose to do with two kids? Panic mode is starting to set it. We took the stroller and car seat out of their boxes last night. Took us an hour to work the frigging things, in which Girth declared it to basically be a transformer. Then I watched him push it through the house and the panic went away. We can do this.
Then he goes to work in the morning.
And I freak out again.
Two kids. Two kids. Two kids. My luxury of napping when a new baby naps will not be available. Because there will be another one strolling through the house. Two babes will be screaming my name. A small one when it wants to be fed, or for pretty much any other reason- only she knows, and the other one more than likely because the cat jacked his ass up again. We went through an entire box of band aids over his Winter vacation. A spec of blood and he loses his mind...certainly won't be a doctor. Then again, he won't be a serial killer either, so that's a plus.
Two kids. Two sets of demands.
I have also decided that I will not be doing tea parties, or fake eating/drinking with Charlee. If she wants me to sit down at a small table to play lunchtime or whatever small girl children do for fun, she better have made me something to eat. A panini maker is effortless...she better throw something in there that I can attempt to actually eat. I will color and draw all day long with her...but I am not sharing my crayons with her. She'll probably learn that the hard way.
How am I suppose to eat food alone?? I'll obviously never bathe alone again. Probably never going to have sex for more than  4 minutes at a time again. It's hard enough getting Girth to put out now. I was SO CLOSE the other day. Nine o'clock at night, in the kitchen with Girth, haven't even been gross in front of him all day long.
I'm really on the verge of getting some.
Instead, I got the BG's.
I trot out of the kitchen, farting the entire way to the bathroom. Huge farts rip every time each foot hit the floor. Got to the bathroom. My asshole all but exploded. He comes to the bathroom, looks at me in my vile condition, one word out of his mouth,
"Nope".
Just like that. I get nothing.

You win. No one cares.

When you have an issue and your life is sucking balls, and you want to vent? You vent. You complain because it's a release and it makes you feel better. Your friends? They listen. They make you feel better, they tell you what you want to hear, make you laugh and help you out.
Not some people though.
Other people point out their problems. They make you feel small, your feelings and problems insignificant, and like you don't get to complain because someone has it worse. Well, twats, guess what? Someone ALWAYS has it worse, ALWAYS. However, that does not make another persons issues any less relevant to them. It does not mean that they should smile over job loss, money loss, any loss, any stress. What it does make though- is you a fucking twat, with all intents and purposes of making it about you and your own shit storm. You are a locomotive of negativity and self centered behavior. Crashing your ass into other peoples lives with your pity party piss, what about me, attitude. If competing in the Olympics for life's worst hardships were a sport, you would surely win the gold.
We get it.
We just don't care.
Because you are a twat about it.


In other news, I gained a pound. A single pound. Please feel free to cry to me about the 45 pounds you have added to your frame this Winter. Keep in mind though, Winter activities are intense, and should you have done them, rather than bitch about the snow and cold- which burns no calories, you'd feel better. Also keep in mind that the gym remains open during the Winter months.

All other pregnant people are exempt from this. We complain about our weight, because we can. Because we are being taken over, consumed with insane cravings and constructing a whole person inside of our hot bods that are generally used for twerking. We know we are beautiful and pregnant, "not fat". We will complain anyway. We can't "not worry about it" when our tits bulge out of our bra, our jeans betray us, and our thighs are capable of chub rub. One time Girth offered me one of his shirts to wear on a particulary bad day finding clothes that fit. I raged, cried, threw all of our clothes all over the bedroom and basically terrified him. So- there is pretty much nothing to say to us...just sympathize and hug us.
Good luck.    

Us.

I think I've changed my mind today. People often brag about their lives, about loving their perfect lives. This used to drive me insane. Because no one is perfect- we all know that. But maybe, just maybe, they need to tell themselves that. It isn't about telling it to the world, but about reiterating it to themselves. Reassurance, validation, wishful thinking? Who cares, really. So, I changed my mind. I stepped off the soapbox and decided that I did not care. That I did not care what they had to tell themselves, or the rest of the world to get them through the day.
We all struggle.
We all have messes.
We all find ways to cope. Or we don't.
Sometimes people comment that my marriage is a perfect one. That our lives are just perfect.
Stop it, silly people.
Not sharing a fight does not mean it does not occur. Not sharing it does not mean that I am hiding it. It simply means just that one simple thing...
I did not fucking share it.
Do we fight? Oh my balls, we sure do. I scream, I cry, I have packed my clothes, fuck- I have packed his clothes. He has yelled, he has called me names, he has reached his limit. We have been hurtful and insulting and nasty. I have done things that made me almost lose him, and I have almost let him go. We clash. Inside of the 900 square feet of house that we live in, we fight.
But we also love.
And we love so much harder than we fight. We are way better lovers then we are fighters. Better friends than enemies, better companions, better off together. It's all passion. It's all our own.

So whatever someone tells themselves, or tells anyone else, is all that it ever is. Just words.
Not life. What we all have behind our doors and within our walls is the life we have. What everyone else has is an idea, a perspective, a notion.
For us, for all I share, the best and the worst of us are all our own, only for us.

Ramble, complain. Repeat.

Lately my biggest pet peeve has been twats. Twats who by 5 p.m. on Monday are already scheming about Friday night, rushing the entire week on by so they can drink, so they can sit their sloppy asses at a local bar, beg for drinks and shots, and cry to other twats about the single life. They rush Monday through Friday right on by, rushing away life, their kids, their jobs...it's disgusting. Instead, their kids, their jobs, all the rest of life is merely a distraction, or the reason behind their NEED to get out. I get it. I like to go out too, my kid drives me nuts too, and everyone has stressers. What I do not do however, is repeat the same cycle week after week like sidling up to the bar is the love of my life. Every weekend their kids are shuffled off to the sitters or to their dads, and these twats act like drink tabs are the only worry in the word they've got. They should be crying at the end of the night- about how sorry and desperate they are. How about cherishing time, how about bettering yourself at work, how about being a good mom? The things a man will look for when he wants a woman. After he has banged every other twat in tight jeans at the bar (like her)- he will look for a woman (not her). Being hot only gets you so far, being easy doesn't get you much further...being a filthy twat gets you absolutely no where.
It would be such a great change of pace to see these twats stay home with their kids for a change, do something productive, keep their Magda like tits inside their shirts, save some money and not post on a social networking site pictures of them with every swinging dick in the bar. Just once, maybe that would be alright. Give that raggedy muffin a break, see if it can get some of its shape back. When I eat off a meat tray, I like to see it all rolled up nice and fresh, untouched. What I would not want is meat that has been pulverised and handled by 45 people before me. People want their own prime rib, not community, food bank style roastbeef.

In This Skin.

31 Weeks, 182 pounds...a 34 pound weight gain- so far.

Lost.

Uneasy.

Inhabited.

Round.

Sexy.

Surreal.

Comfortable.

Confident.

Beautiful.

Fleeting.

Volatile.

Curvy.

Uninhibited.

Vulnerable.

Primal.

Insatiable.

Found.

















 

Only 9 Months...

Being pregnant means...

You will be surrounded by people who will tell you how best to do your "job". Humor them the same way you would any other know-it-all-asshole in an actual work setting.

If you dare complain about morning sickness, mood swings, anything pregnancy related- distraught bitches will hop up onto their soap boxes and try to make you feel ungrateful. This is common among meddlesome, jealous twats who need to find something else to do. Tell them to kiss your plump pregnant ass and move it along.

It is okay to feel like you are the only woman who has ever gone through pregnancy. That you are the first woman to ever give birth and should be treated as such. You are entitled to those feelings. You are entitled to that treatment. Whether you are the first or the 999 billionth- you are growing a person inside of your body. This makes you fucking rock star.

You gain weight, you become soft and round and beautiful. If the weight gain is an issue for you- be sure not confuse nourishment for two with meals for two.

Reserves of patience, compassion, and strength that you never even knew existed will be tapped. You will understand what it means to go, when you didn't think you could go anymore.

You will lead a different life. DIFFERENT, not better. Do not climb onto that wagon of yenta's who find their lives to be better and more full filling than those without children.

Just be pregnant. Be mean, be happy, piss your pants, sprout hemorrhoids, give advice, take advice, feel your baby move and body change. Revel in it. Have great sex and huge orgasms. It's only 9 months, fleeting in the bigger picture.

 

 

 30 weeks. See you soon, Charlee Girl.

 

Sometimes, we have those days.

Sometimes I feel as though I spend all of my day yelling. That no matter what my offspring does, he is not acting right. That he is not listening, that he will not be quiet for two minutes, he won't pick up his room, he is spilling his drink, he is not moving fast enough, on & on & on. It becomes one thing after the other and my patience has no time to replenish. When I reflect back on those days, as I am having a more calm day, I pick it apart. Did I yell at him because he would not shush it for 10 minutes, or because I needed him to shush it for 10 minutes? Did I yell at him for spilling that drink, or did I yell at him because I was sick of cleaning that day? The awful thing is that all of those answers are more about me, less about him- yet he catches the heat. Those are the days when I am selfish and making it all about me, all about what I need, want, or do not want. When he is simply being a four year old. He goes to bed every night at 8 pm, no hassle. Though on a night when Girth and I are prepped to watch a movie that we are excited for, or when I am carpet crawling because I want to get it on- our kid fights going to bed like it's his job. You know what I do? I take it personally. Irrational...ridiculous...absolutely. I am irate though, because of course he is fighting bedtime because there are things that I want to do. No sense, only selfishness on my part. To separate these feelings though is quite possibly one of the most difficult things for me to do. To base my reaction off what has simply occurred, rather than how I feel about what has occurred. Perspective. When he asks me to fix his car for the hundredth time, and I am losing my shit...how big of a deal is it? To me, it is nothing but the turn of a wheel. To him, it is a crisis. His car won't work right. It's his car, he is four. This is the equivalent of my car not working right, at just about thirty-four. And because we have managed to raise an insanely compassionate loving child, he would fix my car for me in a  second if he could, with no qualms. Yet I show agitation spinning the wheel on his ride, or I just refuse to do it anymore. What I want to do is keep him free from stress and anger, yet sometimes I feed it, or become the source. Learning to deem his problems for as real as he sees them is a task, but crucial to his development in how he will help others deal with theirs now, and as an adult. I really need to get consistently on board. Sometimes I wonder who teaches who in this house.

Sassy deep voice.

When I take a shower, I am actually still just sitting in the bathtub. Always done it, love it. So, I am showering the other day and in pops Girth. This never happens, you know...because we are married. So I am sitting there, and he is standing there washing his hot bod. I being the poster child for pregnancy piggishness, immediately want to partake in sexual activity. Except when I turn around, because he was actually going to receive  a beej...he peed on me. I begin scrambling around in the bottom of the bathtub, while he towers over me unleashing his bladder upon me laughing like a psychopath. If I was into Golden Showers, this would be cool- but I am not. And, he doesn't know it yet, but he done fuckedddddd upppp (insert sassy deep voice for effect). I asked him how he could just pee on me while I was sitting there, relaxing, letting the water hit me looking all naked and beautiful. He replies:

 

"You mean like a fat mermaid?"

Oh. Alright, alright. We can play that game. I inform him of how he just lost out on a filthy shower Blow J.
Terror filled his eyes.
Followed by sadness.
Then by hope.
Now he's coming at me with a boner, and I'm like- NO. And shoved the plastic Cinderella hair rinsing cup over his cock & balls, making a cool suction noise, and it stuck there.
"You got a princess on yo' dickkkkk!!!!" (deep sassy voice again). He didn't get one either. I am the keeper of the beej and what I say goes. Hopefully he chalks this up as a lesson learned & keeps his stream in check.

One other thought...I think for Girth on V-day I shall get my vag waxed into a heart, dye it red, and shoot hershey kisses out of her like a cannon. Sounds cool, right? Don't anyone steal my plans now, ya hear!
 

The home stretch.

       I can no longer see my vagina. I can locate it- due to 33 years of working memory, but I cannot see it. This makes me wish I was some sort of magician, that when handed a paintbrush I could still paint a beautiful landscape while blindfolded. Alas, I am but a mere commoner who made a bad call in the muffin department. I decided to just wax that floor bare, considering there would be no straight lines made anyway. So away it all goes. I'm not a fan of this look in the first place, but I can't see it anyway, so fuck it. Girth was alarmed- to say the least. I think that a bald vagina, my bald chicken anyway, while pregnant is not a sight to behold. Bald on me is less Vin Diesel, more Uncle Fester....if you catch my drift.  

       My ethnic nipples appear to be melting. Ethnic, because they are insanely dark right now. They will go back to normal, at least they did after Riot. We'll see this time. Melting, well, this also happened with Riot, but it is just strange. The bottom of my nips have lines...like a freckle pattern that curve to the underside. Looks like my nipples are melting right off.

       I have carpal tunnel in both hands. The baby is also positioned comfortably on my sciatic nerve. Gives me a really great ass cramp/leg cramp. This baby is not nice to me.

       Girth has gained almost 10 pounds, had bouts of acne, and had morning sickness in the beginning. Weight gain aside- I'm clear of the other symptoms...Girth has really taken some for the team.  

Hello 3rd trimester.

 

 

No photo for you. I am too bitter about not being able to take a selfie because my camera is broken.

 

Nailed It...

I just had Girth home on vacation for over 10 days. It was glorious- the complete opposite of what I had anticipated. We laughed, we had fun, we raged between the sheets. Movies and snacks and staying up late...we were super best friends again. He made me breakfast and lunch almost every day, he let me sleep in, he even cuddled me with all of my farts. Obviously our offspring was a  part of the fun, he always is. He generally monopolizes it. That is where our attention is focused in between work and school and life in general. It goes without saying. This time though, our attention was on each other- and we needed it. I sneakily flashed him running from room to room, made absolutely disgusting jokes and comments- one so repulsive that I am not even going to share it. I laughed at myself for about 10 minutes before I could even get the sentence out to him...laughed so hard I pissed in my pants, couldn't breathe and my lips went numb. Through his pity, he also laughed...when the sentence finally left my lips...he looked both horrified and disgusted. Two thousand thirteen had a lot of shit in it, a lot of change, a lot of stress, a lot of everything. Then we ended it by falling in love again. We didn't do resolutions, because we don't keep them. We do what we want when the time comes, we go with the flow. We only expect to be better than we were the year before. Personally, I have entered 2014 as a college graduate with a double chin, a huge fetus riding shotty on my vag, a frigging beautifully charming four year old son who thinks he is a man, and a loving husband packing a mean kielbasa. As far as I am concerned- we already have this new year by the nuts...