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.