Downhill Slide
I’ve been on a semi-hiatus because I’m having trouble with sleep. I have to sleep after being awake for just an hour at a time. During this hour, I usually take a bath, brush my teeth, or write in my Paper Project book, feed the dogs and then pass out again. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I wish I did. I’m going to the doctor on Tuesday, so I can ask while I’m there. Not that I have a lot of faith in my doctor, or anything.
Yesterday I picked up my dad’s Father’s Day gift — a portable chair in blue. I also picked up another bottle from the DKNY Pure collection and two bottles from the Field of Flowers collection. I have yet to use any of those Field of Flowers soap. Maybe I should start?
I know I can’t wash my hair. I can’t reach my head and then I can’t lather my hair once I can get my hands up there. Dennis has been washing my hair a couple of times a week. For the first time in a long time I have been able to appreciate all that he has done around the house, and I feel sad that I tore his band apart. How many other women force their husbands to quit their jobs, give up their liveliness? Maybe it’s time he and I talked this over.
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.
It’s A Girl!
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.
New Baby Love
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.
The Warmth of the Sun
It was hot enough to run the air conditioner today. And we dyed Easter Eggs, in the part of the house that had no air conditioning. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Do something like cook hard boiled eggs in an already hot kitchen and then dye them. After all, tomorrow’s Easter, and we weren’t planning on celebrating, with my knocked up and due any day now (C’mon baby! I’m ready to meet ya!), we were going to do a small celebration, but now I don’t think we’re going to just have some toys and coloured hard boiled eggs around the table. I’m not that up for any hard boiled eggs. I can’t stand them when I’m not pregnant.
So I’m five days overdue today. I feel as though I am five years overdue. I feel like I have been pregnant forever. Worse, I feel like I am wasting everyone’s time with being pregnant, because nothing is happening.
I picked a bad time to try and blog. Dennis is due for his medication, and we’re going over double the dose, triple to be exact, and he’s just as scared as I am as to what this new dose is going to do. So here goes nothing. Happy Easter, in case I don’t get back to posting until Monday or so.
Occupational Happenings
Again, still knocked up.
I’m starting to sound like a broken record, aren’t I?
I’m beginning to feel guilty of asking for so much time off from work, when the kid seems to be a permanent attachment to my insides. I read Carl’s FB post and he’s having a hard time grading papers, doing lectures and making PowerPoints for upcoming lectures, all while writing the third exam. I love his lines “I’d fucking fail this goddamned exam, if I had to take it! That’s how little I know this psychobabble I’m preaching to sleeping pharm students every morning and afternoon!” I think there was a GIF of my work ID photo burning as the icon. But, Carl, you wanted to be a full time professor! That’s what you told my boss! You even suggested that you be promoted just because you couldn’t get pregnant, in your own words, you were unpregnantable, a word that doesn’t exist, by the way, and therefore you were more reliable, responsible and respectable than I. Little did you know that I was over sixty percent of the meat in the exams, PowerPoints, Lecture notes, grades, and even the handouts and the agenda. I was that valuable.
Still, his brother is my dream man, so I’m going to forgive him this once, pretend that I was deaf at that staff meeting, and offer to come in and grade some papers or just go through the online grade book and assign everyone an F because that’s what they deserve if Carl is telling the truth and people are sleeping through his lectures. I say “if” because I know Carl lied about being more responsible than I (he’s behind in everything and it’s almost two weeks out of Spring Break!), he’s certainly not more respectable, naming names on his Facebook, friending students (my personal NO) and then linking to their profiles when he goes on a profanity-ridden fit when he’s frustrated, and forget reliable. Maybe Carl is pregnant? That’s got to be what’s wrong with him. He’s demanding help from other Assistant Professors tonight, and when they decline because they don’t want to get behind in their own work, he calls them irresponsible and lazy! Oh Carl, you are so not getting promoted in August.
So, since I’m legally going to be pregnant until August, and Mark told me to get rid of the brain tumor while I was off for four months, I feel that I should be doing something productive. Something. Anything. I even made Josh a PlayList for March because I just want something to keep my fingers busy, I’m sick of this …disease… that I caught from unsanitary Carl at the staff meeting a few weeks ago, and I need to occupy my mind. I need something to do. Something that makes me feel accomplished. Something that I can look back on and say, “I did so much while I was waiting for that kid to be born!” that I’m willing to sit down at my computer and write.
So I’m going to work on this site.
By “working on this site,” I’m going to start by changing my handle to “Acid Queen” but that’s not an LSD reference. Not for me anyway, and I’m not secretly Tina Turner nor have I fucked Roger Daltrey or any other member of the Who. I like the name, and I once drank a flask of hydrochloric acid in high school chemistry, I lived, cancer-ridden but alive, and still here to talk about it today.
Being the Acid Queen is one of what I consider one of my stories.
By stories I mean interesting things that have only happened to me.
Back in the day, before the perils of being forced to upgrade to WordPress because Josh is a cunt and makes me do uncomfortable things, I had pages on here of my stories. They were 100% true fascinating things that had happened to me in my twenty-eight years on Earth. I’m going to be thirty-three, the Jesus age, this year, so I think I should have an accomplished and full website like I had once before. Oh yes, this site, due to my own negligence, has become just a shell of what it was just a mere five years ago. When I first had my own .com and was in college and thus had a lot of time on the computer to write, I frequently wrote about things that made me interesting. I edited my own HTML (remember that? do you even know what that is???), made layouts on the college’s Dreamweaver, uploaded with Blogger.com and an FTP client. I had to link to all my own pages with my own editing. Nothing was automatic like it is with WordPress. You kiddies don’t know! Blogging and site maintenance was once something that required time, skill and patience. Now anyone with a fucking keyboard can be a site master and appear to be good at it.
What will my stories contain? That’s the wonderment of you’ve got to keep coming back here and checking things! I can give you a taste, though, for example, did you know that I had a lover who died in the 9/11 terrorist attacks on New York? That I’ve fucked someone super-famous (it’s not Roger Daltrey, I promise!)? Actually two someones, but sex no longer counts once you marry the one you’re fucking. That there is a famous love song out there that is about me? That for the first fifteen years of our relationship I couldn’t tell my husband from his brother and his brother regularly got sex from me because of it? Okay, that last one is just me being a horny bimbo, but, hey, it’s interesting, right? I could make something of it some day! The best of all of this is I am considering naming names. Famous names. That are on Wikipedia and you’ve probably not only heard of, but that you’ve got songs by on your computer or your CD shelf.
Now that you know all that, aren’t you just itching for me to dish, dish, dish?
Of course you are! But I’m doing this as a side pregnancy project and only through August, though I can probably whip up to thirty pages per month, if I’m really dedicated to it.
Oh, and I promise not to write about drug experiences, with the exception of the prescription drug I was given that caused amnesia. That was a pretty fun experience. I could do shit and not have to feel guilty about it the morning after. I pissed off a pretty good amount of people while I was on that drug. Oh well. The true ones stayed.
Have a good night everyone. Don’t stay up too late!
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
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