I’ve been having some weird cravings and thoughts lately. I want to give oral to Dennis, but I don’t know how to tell him this. I want us to cuddle and snuggle, but again, I’m not sure how to go about asking for this. I’m sure if I just came out and said something, we could play around, but I don’t know. Something is holding me back. I kind of like this feeling. *all smiles*
Some times I just want to send the kids to the movies with my father in law or mother in law and just have us to ourselves. Or perhaps just run away to the ocean and collapse into each other’s arms in the warm sand with the waves crashing above us.
But I can’t do that. I can’t abandon Zinnia yet, and I have to get Chloe’s school to give me her information about where her school pictures and yearbook went to, James is sick with an ear infection that goes down his throat and Ashe wants attention, dammit! I just can’t keep up with them these days, and I know that I deserve a vacation, but I just can’t do that right now. I’m lucky to go out tonight and see the stars. I’m lucky to sneak a kiss every so often.
After the rain is gone tonight, we’re supposed to have a starry night, and I want to sit outside and wax poetic under the stars with Dennis, whilst deep in love.
Here I am, working on finishing Book #21, and thinking about all that is going on. The class I helped teach is graduating today. I can tell which of the male students were crushing on me by their invitations to graduation and Grad Night. I’ve had to graciously decline several times today. I just can’t bring myself to go to Grad Night or the celebration.
My mother is off the respirator. She’s still dangling on the plateau of living and dying, but I feel that she is getting better. Thank you for all the prayers. Please keep sending them her way! Much love!
I’ve been home a couple of days, and my readership has doubled. Who’d have thought no one wants to read about patients with DID, children affected by depression far too soon, and daily thoughts that are powered by Risperadal and Seroquel XR. As well as I can write, which some say should be published beyond the web, little known to them that it is, people just want to hear about a normal person’s life with their beloved family and the quirks that come with that.
I could also tell how I guzzled an entire bottle of Merlot because I was so damned depressed after therapy today, but people can’t relate to that, so for the sake and love of having readership here, I won’t go into it too deeply. Other than I got nauseated and not drunk on a 13.5% alcoholic bottle, there’s nothing really to tell.
It saddens me, really. I assumed that my mental illnesses and cancer diagnosises would bring people here by the flocks. I was told at a young age that I had the talent of a professional writer, and frequently my high school teachers would ask me if one of my parents “helped” me write my essays. I’d always laugh and tell them the same thing: My parents can barely read and write, never mind use words with more than one syllable.
Most people come here wanting to know about the baby. Okay, here goes:
My baby was born on April 9, 2013 at 11:07pm. Twenty inches long and 6 lbs, 2 ounces, the smallest baby born that day and who resided in the NICU.
I had to have a cesarian after all, and I’m sure that no matter which version I had had, I would have complained. At least this method will leave me “still fuckably tight” and I won’t have to worry about Dennis taking off and finding some tighter and firmer pussy out there on the road.
If he ever goes back out on the road.
We named our baby on April 10, 2013. A small baby, we named her after the flowers someone from the web left on her older sister’s grave a little less than four years ago: Zinnia. Zinnia Everly.
The Monday after being discharged, Zinnia had gained an entire pound, after me allowing her to pig out on breast milk whenever she wanted it. I didn’t even try another path. Zinnia would cry and I would offer her food. Dennis says if I get her in that type of bad habits, she will become an emotional eater. I guess he knows all about that.
Throughout all of this, Zinnia is such a good baby. She doesn’t cry often, she’s very active, constantly discovering her world and attempting to learn all she can about the people whom just a month ago she only recognised through giggling, laughter, singing and conversation. That confirms, to me anyway, that she is not deaf. Her other sisters were born deaf, like their mother. Not Zinnia. Zinnia even likes music without vocals. We’re introducing her to new sounds and games every day. I just want her to have the best head start she possibly can.
I love Zinnia. She and I have bonded in the best possible way, and she is adapting to her family life so well. On thing I’ve noticed is that she doesn’t sleep as often as her sisters and brothers did. I can’t find any real problem with that, other than it means that her parents have to devote more time to her.
Things just seem so right. All in my world is right.
A week ago at 11:07pm, Little One came into this world. Since I haven’t revealed the gender or name on my site, I’m not going to reveal them here. Little One was 6 lbs 2 ounces (I believe – I don’t have my paperwork in front if me), but Little One was the smallest baby born on April 9, 2013. At 7:16pm on April 9th, just after we sang Happy Birthday to Dennis, and he was in the process if blowing our his birthday candles, my water broke and I started having sharp labour pains. I thought I could survive at least one slice of cake, but the pains became so uncomfortable and harsh that I took Dennis aside and told him to get me to the hospital NOW.
I was in labour and delivery, pushing as hard as I could every ten minutes. Little One would just not come out. The doctor said that it appeared that my cervix and muscles weren’t working properly. Three hours later, Littke One was in distress, I was in distress, and the doctor went ahead and ordered a Cesarean section. I remember laying in the table with blackened snow/spots spreading across my eyes. A nurse commented that my heart beat was super low, and the doctor ordered a crash cart to be in the O. R. just incase. A soft mask was put on my face, three deep breaths later and I blacked out. My world went silent and black.
I woke up a little after midnight, and checked to see the new strip of staples across my belly. Little One was asleep in a bassinet in the room with me. Since waking up, Little One never slept in that bassinet again. They slept in the arms of Dennis or I. Little One is so curious, looking around, trying to take it all in. Little One is an eager feeder, and had gained an entire pound by the time they were six days home, and once my blood tests came back clear of infection, we were both discharged from the hospital.
There is a sad part to Little One’s birthing story. Our little baby came home with a nebuliser. Little One has severe lung injuries because Dennis took the baby outside and would chain smoke while bonding with our baby, the first four days of their life, and Little One’s tiny lungs filled with second hand smoke, killing off the lining in the new tiny lungs. Our little baby has COPD. Whether it is permanent or not is another story. Since he caused it, I have been making Dennis do the breathing treatments with the nebuliser. He’s not happy, but neither am I. Our little baby was so happy to have us for their family, and so bouncy when one if us would talk, sing, giggle or laugh, and now that is a little stunted because it hurts Little One to breathe, especially to exhale.
Warm thoughts or prayers. Our little baby deserves to have a healthy, happy childhood.
I believe I made history yesterday when I was confronted by my SEVEN YEAR OLD’s home room teacher. She accused me of being an abusive, neglectful parent because my daughter is “six weeks from going into the fourth grade,” yet she doesn’t have a cell phone. A smart phone, nevertheless. What would I do if my girl got lost or abducted??? I’d call the police. That’s their job.
It seems as though Chloe is the only student in the third grade and up who does not have a smart phone. She’s also the only student who is making straight A’s, and will probably be the only virgin to graduate in her class, while never doing drugs, even if they have been made legal in the next eleven years.
I’m not sure why the school thinks she needs a phone. She has our cell phone numbers, she never goes off alone without one of her parents, and she knows how to work our phones, incase something happens to one of us cannot use their phone.
Would you give your 7 year old a smartphone just because she is the only kid in her class/level without one? What about ear piercing? Is seven too young for ear piercing? I’m more worried that her piercings would get infected than she would lose an earring or swallow one.
It’s the second day of spring, but outside it could pass for late November to late December. Shades of gray, dirty white gray skies, bare trees, dead grass. There are sprigs of green all over the neighborhood, but I’m a little more into my own personal little trip than what is going on outside.
I have a cold of some kind. Sore throat, endless snot, something stuck between my nose and throat. Generally miserable, but refused antibiotics. The heat is cranked up to the triple digits here, but not by my doing. I have a horrible stomach ache, but I refuse to eat food or drink cough syrup, for fear that I may hurt Little One. We’re so close. So close. No narcotics these last few days. No alcohol. I think I got drunk in August, but that was an accident. Accidents are struck against you in pregnancy.
Two of my male students have come up to me in the past few days and asked me if I could help them out over spring break. I gave them the news that I was not coming back until the fall, so it’s best that they go bother Carl. That’s what I label students these days: Bothers. Work is a chore that I frantically search my mind every morning to find a way out.
Last week I was put on Seroquel XR at 300 mg to help me “feel better.” All it has succeeded in doing was making me not so sensitive to the assholes online who poke me with sticks, in hopes that I will engage in a flame war over something that ten years from now, no one will give two shits about. I certainly don’t give two shits about it today, but I felt that I should be able to voice my own opinion about it and just go on. Unfortunately there are people out there that cannot go on. They poke and prod others until flame wars break out, and I just refuse to tango this time around. I wonder if it’s as fun for them, with their single-sided fight? Probably.
I’m happy to be away from the knee-jerk, “OMG! GOTTA REPLY TO THIS ASSHOLE!” on the web way of thinking. In that manner, Seroquel XR has freed me from my own stubbornness, but not from my own self-loathing that comes with my personality.
Take me for who I am or leave me for who I am not and will not be. It doesn’t really matter to me at the moment. I have a baby due on Monday. I can’t care too much for what the world thinks of me, or how badly the world tries to change me. I know that I am not breaking any rules, even though I refuse to teeter on the line of “Super cautious” because it’s just safer that way. I like where I’m at. I think I’ll stay here a while and see where it leads me to. Hope all is well with all of you out there in internet land. Smile. Leave a comment. I insist!
According to my health chart, my (asshole!) doctor, and other resources, I have exactly one more week of pregnancy left. The idea of a vaginal birth scares me to death, especially since I’ve read up in medical texts that the vagina is least likely to go back to its original, pre-birth size afterwards. I feel as though that particular change won’t settle easy. I know, I know, it’s really shallow for a man to leave his wife because her pussy’s too big, and while I’ll be the first to admit that Dennis is large, I have a bad feeling about the whole post-birth situation. That and I know it’s going to hurt like hell. Stretching to the point of tearing, stitches in the vagina. Not really something I want to go through.
It gets a little crazier than that, though.
We want to do it again. Six kids. That’s our goal. Six. Years ago, you couldn’t budge me to do one, never mind six. But we talked it over, and we want to have one more, and then stop completely. Oh goodie. I get to do this all over again!
Chloe is having a fit because she doesn’t want a little sister. She wants to be the only girl. Maybe she will get her wish?
My doctor did lay down some harsh words to me the other day: “I hope you’re not expecting this child to live much longer after birth.” He has this crazy prediction that Little One is going to die within minutes of birth. He even gave me abortion pilled last Monday, and told me to be sure and have taken them by Thursday, because he was going to check. What kind of idiot makes that big of a medical malpractice mistake? If Little One were born on Thursday, they could have lived. They are capable of living outside the womb, so abortion at this point would be murder. But my doctor actually gave me a hard time over the lack of narcotics, opioids and the abortion pills, at Thursday’s appointment.
This week is Spring Break for the University. I am going to use much of the spring break to catch up on my writing. My goal is to have Book #20 finished before Little One is born. I want Book #21 to be about Little One’s birth, bringing them home, naming, and the first couple of months recorded. I’m sup-titling it “A Baby Story.” Here’s hoping that Little One’s story is a happy and joyous. My doctor insists that Little One isn’t going to live long after birth, but I hope he’s wrong. I have grown attached to Little One since they are showing reactions to the environment. When people yell or scream, Little One jumps away. When people laugh or sing, Little One tends to be joyous. Little One responds to her father’s voice, my voice, our touch, and has actually shown sleep patterns that are like our own. Little One recognises her father singing, her mother humming, and her older sister complaining about homework. Little One may not be born yet, but they are a full part of the family now.
My doctor never told me that one of his concerns would be the radiation, narcotics and opioids that Little One was exposed to, being a concern for the baby. No, his “worries” were because I was pregnant, I couldn’t, legally, be subjected to his surgery. I really don’t care these days, except I would like to have a constant physician in my life.
I was told that we might go somewhere for spring break, but I’m not sure about that, now. I’m not officially going back to work until the end of August. Here’s hoping that I don’t get lazy and want to stay away forever. )
Oh, and I joined this site. Don’t know what the craze is, but add me and all that good shit. D