Wednesday, January 23, 2013


This past year has been an ordeal and half, to say the least.  It’s strange though; one aspect of it has officially come to a close.  My baby is here, I’ve packed away all my maternity clothes, and I just went for my postpartum checkup yesterday; all was well and I got the, “See you in a year for your yearly checkup.”  It’s just…done.  My pregnancy.  Over.  Sometimes when I’m just sitting, I think about when I was still in the hospital and how oddly magical it was; you go in alone and leave forever changed.

I’m am still distraught by the fact that I didn’t even get so much as a smile from my husband after everything I went through.  The fact that, as far as I can tell, at the time of the birth he already moved on without telling me so.  That our child seemed to hold no weight in regard to “us.”

I feel at moments like this can’t be real.  Tonight for instance.  I can’t get anything done.  I understand this.  But some things I need to do.  And so when I get Brandon to sleep for a bit, I have to do those things first: preparing bottles for him, laundry, cleaning…and things like writing get pushed to the wayside.

(I am typing this with one hand while I hold Brandon.)

He is starting to sleep longer at night, which is amazing.  But I never get deep, restful sleep.  I am always slightly awake, listening for his every movement and sound.  My sister spent the night last Saturday into Sunday, and I went out with a friend for the first time since the baby came home.  She let me sleep alone in my room and she stayed with the baby downstairs.  Afterwards she talked about how difficult it was to be the only one to be up and down caring for him.  And it is.  I am already burnt. 

I’m kind of tired of saying it, but it seems to need repeating.  The whole “I’m better off this way” might be true and I might even believe it myself.  But that doesn’t mean I’m happy, that this is anywhere near what I imagined for my life, and that I’m not still completely distraught over the series of events that happened this past year.

This also doesn’t mean I’m weak, pathetic, or anything of the sort.  It means I have a fucking heart.  I’m sorry that the ideal situation would have been a partnership with my husband, the father of my child.  Shame on me for thinking so I guess.

You learn things about your child everyday.  I’m still trying to calm his fussiness; it seems to be getting better, but he still has his moments.  “New Slang” by The Shins calms him down almost immediately.  I basically put it on repeat if I’m trying to get something done.  Right now, for instance.  I keep replaying it and I was able to calm him enough for him to lie in my lap as I write this.  I have to be quick though.  If I let too much dead air go by after the song ends, he wakes and starts crying again.

The writing thing I knew would kind of fall to the side.  But, well, it’s important to me for a variety of reasons.  I’m starting to finally send out my work, and this is important to me because I was never able to do that while with my husband.  Everything else always came first.  And there would be no greater kick in the face than to actually accomplish what I was never able to try for before.

This is why I’m so obsessed with the fact that I’m already back in my pre-pregnancy clothes.  Not because I’m vain; I just had a baby and I would personally be fine if my body was permanently changed.  But my husband, before we split, made a very sarcastic comment to me about me getting my body back, and I was beyond hurt by it.  Honestly, I don’t even know where it came from, because I’m extremely petite, I am active and eat healthy, and just by my build it was safe to assume I would get my body back.  But 3 ½ weeks after the birth of my son, I was back in my old clothes, and it thrilled me to pieces, because, well, he doesn’t get to enjoy my body anymore (and it is pretty damn enjoyable).

Also, he was so strange with work/career, and when I return from my leave I’m getting a promotion and a raise.  My boss even called me directly to ask in desperation when I was returning.

The point being, he always seemed to paint me as pathetic, and now some people I know continue to do so, because I’m sad at the way things turned out.  But the only thing my feelings should tell you is that I had a heart in the first place that could be broken.  Pathetic I am not.  This was the biggest struggle of my life and I still managed to excel at work, have a beautiful son that gives me the biggest smile and most adoring look every morning, and I look extremely hot while doing it all.

I don’t know exactly what I want right now, beyond immediate things: I want sleep, I want Brandon to stop fussing, I want to get my own place.

Anyway, despite the struggle with Brandon today, I managed to write this blog entry, and also this poem.  Enjoy:


i ate your skin with a side of bone; you know i am beyond hope, beyond repair.  it never went all the way down: i choked on your hair; your hair looks darker in photographs.  remember how the brick looked in the background?   i used to pour my tea from the cup into the saucer and drink it down; i used to sink into pools of your tears and drink them; i would keep bottles of air beside my bed and breathe them like smoke.  you know how i would cough,

my lungs turned black black black;

still, there is something very real about this
kind of sex; i like to take and be taken.

you are supposed to know when to do which.

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