Bent Words

Bent Words

June 04, 2012

It's true.

I've been utilizing this site as a bitch board more than anything. Pregnancy is aggravating. The hormones surrounding are, anyway, but that doesn't mean I don't have my Mush Moments.

On any given day, you can catch me sniffing new baby diapers in the nursery with a stupid grin on my face, refolding tiny onesies to make sure they're properly cared for and washing and re-washing items that need sanitizing with glee. Every new toy, I play with. Every new item, I register. I've spent more money on this child then I have rebuilding my own life post fire. Because I want to. Because I'm stoked to meet Ziggy -- despite everyone spewing crap like, "You'll never get any sleep ever again," "Say good-bye to your social life!" and "Be prepared for more pain than you've ever experienced before." Despite all that, I am excited, elated and as ready as I'll ever be.

All of that is mine and I'm wrapping it in my arms as if he or she were already here.

But damn if I don't get downright pissed off like no one's business these days (and this is going to be harsh because I need to get this crap off my chest more than I need to be polite, understanding and/or compassionate).

For example... K-Dog got rear ended in my car this weekend. He left his cell phone here, did not call the police and rode off to work so I took care of things. I called my insurance company only to find this morning that I should have called the stupid bitch's insurance company to file a claim. My bad. So I give him all the information this morning and ask him to call the insurance company since it happened to him and, basically, MOSTLY, I wasn't there. Not even kinda.

Unfortunately, he doesn't have time, as usual.

So what do I get to do? I get to panic about this all day. At work. Trying to get my work done. And panicking. I cannot stop thinking about getting this done prior to baby's any-day-now arrival since it would basically suck balls to have TWO compromised vehicles for baby transport. His truck still needs a new rear window as it leaks when it rains and still needs new tires as it sucks to drive in a truck in the rain that hydroplanes easily while leaking smelly, mildewy rain water through the rear window. Plus, the longer it takes for us to file a claim, the less credible we become. There's no accident report, no claim on her insurance.

Finally, after five hours of processing all of this and watching my hands shake at my desk, I skip lunch in order to call her insurance company to just get the ball rolling on this claim.

I relate this information to my boss who says, "That's what you're supposed to do -- you're supposed to take care of these things. That's why men marry women. So you can do their laundry, clean the house, raise their babies......"

(And you know me -- there may be some chicks out there who are all good with that kind of life but that is opposite world of me. I'd rather hang with the boyz then be left to burp a freakin' baby).

I about went ballistic.

It's not because I expect shazz to be 50/50 -- that's unrealistic. It's not because I don't love my husband with my whole heart, because I do or I wouldn't be here. It's because I'm not here to raise TWO children. I'm not here to hold an ADULT'S hand through life's little inconveniences. I'm not here to be someone's maid, someone's accountant, someone's personal chef, someone's babysitter. I'm not here to take care of everything and everyone. This isn't just my life, this is our life. I sacrificed my time to make this shazz happen -- I MADE time despite having a horribly busy day.

But I did not agree to get married to be someone's personal pocket organizer.

And this whole kid thing isn't exactly up my alley.

So if I have to hear crap like, "Can I go to a bachelor party in July?" or "I have to be at a wedding, it's my best friend," or "I can't take care of US, I have a trap shooting event this weekend," one more fucking time when I don't fucking have a calendar predicting this kid's arrival, or a secondary hand to take care of the necessities, I am going to lose it. You wanna play? Than take back the baby and all the responsibility. I would LOVE to go back to only worrying about how much beer we have in the fridge on Friday night. I would LOVE to go back to lazy Sundays spent in bed, wandering the streets of downtown Shaw, or chillin' with some brews on the boat. I would LOVE to fight a hangover rather then swollen feet and ankles, every half hour pee breaks, zero sleep, ridiculous heartburn, crazy back pain, insane emotions and a fat face. I would love to be doing all the stupid shit I was doing before all of this.

So go ahead and do what you want, buddy. Just be prepared for the day when I do exactly whatever it is that I want.

I'm not telling you to end your life here and now and never have a moment of fun ever again but, damn, do you even have a fucking clue?

I need you more than ever right now. I need you to focus with me on the last few precious days we have to ourselves.

You tell me to tell you what needs to be done instead of actively participating in what actually needs to be done. OPEN YOUR EYES and you will know what needs to be done. Sit down, make a fucking list and do it. I don't have all the answers, yo -- I just figure it out because I'm a big girl. So sit down at work and make a new schedule happen if that's what you want. Take a day off and plow through the list of crap that needs to be taken care of. Don't expect me to ride your ass and steer the damned cart all the time -- I'm concentrating on enough and trying to do more than I have ever done and if I have to always be holding us both up, you better believe this whole thing is going to eventually sink.

Don't make plans because neither of us knows what to expect. Don't bring up babysitters when we haven't even spent a second with our own child together. Don't worry about bachelor parties or weddings or shooting guns until you know that *I* am okay and sufficiently supported and the truck is fixed and the car is okay and dishes are done. I get it that you have friends you're neglecting but that and the baby's sex is your big surprise. That's how it goes. You wanted THIS, than you got THIS. Just be happy you get to walk around after all of this without being completely torn up and needing ice packs applied to what WERE your genitals. You get to pee without thinking your insides are about to fall out. You get to sleep without bleeding all over the place. You don't have to sacrifice your nipples every two hours to a baby's hunger, you don't have to wait two weeks before having a bowel movement or stare at your mangled body in the mirror every time you take a shower wondering how the hell you're going to ever get back to being YOURSELF; that ONE person you knew better than anyone. You don't have to worry about modifying your entire work schedule to drop off, feed and pick up a baby. You're already strolling down the easy side of the street, honey.

I am NOT here to change you. But priorities have to change if you really want to have a baby and be a father.

I am totally looking forward to the day when we can ditch the huge pile of dishes and the baby and take off for a couple of hours and just be you and I together but we have a lot to do, experience, appreciate, worry over and figure out before then and I need you to be here now. Not at 11pm at night while I'm sleeping. Not worrying over work when you just got rear ended in my car. Not shooting pieces of clay when we don't have a car seat installed in either vehicle. Not getting shitty kitty at a wedding while I'm wondering what the point was of all this "family" crap.

This is our big thing and if you're going to only be ping ponging off every wall, trying to take care of everything and everyone else, I'm never going to feel secure.

So can you please just stand next to me, perhaps taking the reigns every now and then, so I don't have to bear the entire burden?

And sorry for being so harsh but damn can you drive a girl insane.

Written at 6:13 p.m.