Spastic

My best friend is at the hospital in labor.

My daughter is watching cartoons like a damn drunk, and I’m concerned.

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There could be people walking through our home looking to live here, and I can’t remember if I cleaned up my toenail clippings off the bathroom counter or not.

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And Oh, we’re buying a home.

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My mind is spastic, kinda like those spin art things that were cool in the 2nd grade. And I remember giving my creation to my mom so she could proudly display that beauty on the fridge, and instead she ashed her cigarette on the cat and stuck it in the pantry, under the box of Mrs. Cubbisons croutons. So maybe my mind is spastic like spin art AND my mother.

Does anyone have a cigarette?

Pregnancy Cravings

You all know the drill: Female in waiting wants everything in sight RIGHT NOW.

It’s kind of pathetic. And I actually thought I’d be above cravings, because I am a more developed species.

I know this because I don’t make a weird face when I put on eye make-up, and I never became enamored with The New Kids on the Block in the 5th grade like all my lame friends. And they’d all prance around wearing their New Kids on the Block giant buttons on their shoulder padded shirts, and I’d be all, “I just want you to know that I am more evolved than you because I refuse to put Joey McIntyre on my ‘guys I want to see naked’ list, and one day I’ll never succumb to pregnancy cravings. And please excuse me because I have to go shave my legs now.” And then I paused while everyone gasped and got used to the idea that I was in fact more superior than them.

Only that someday is now, and yes, I’ve succumbed. Kinda sounds like a dirty word, doesn’t it? Not only have I succumbed but I turn into a fire monster who threatens to eat the dog if I don’t get my pregnancy craving met at the very moment that I first notice it.

Early in my pregnancy it was Trader Jo’s whole wheat sourdough toast with butter.

Then all I wanted was deli sandwiches from Big O to Go.

Yup, you read that right, Big O To Go.

I never did received a Big O from them, so I think that might have something to do with why I stopped craving their sandwiches.

Then it became Pinwheels. These marshmallow chocolate cookie things that are like pillows of melt-in-your-mouth heaven.

Now it’s cereal.

I’ve been eating so much of Golden Smacks that my pee smells like Golden Smacks. And I need a bigger bowl. Because these stupid, tiny ‘cereal bowls’ I got at Crate and Barrel can suck it. I need one of those metal mixing bowls that hold 7 quarts of cereal. That way, not only can I smell my Golden Smacks pee, but my neighbors will be able to too.

The thought of it just makes you want to move right next door to me, doesn’t it?

I have been forgetting my wallet lately.

I switch bags often so sometimes I think I have it, but then at the most inconvenient times, I realize I don’t.

Like a few weeks ago when I had this fantastic idea to go to Target and Trader Jo’s, AND Home Goods. I felt good. I was gonna get some shit done that day. First I headed to Home Goods to try to find a table cloth, or a picture frame, or maybe it was a giant tiger sculpture lamp, either way, I didn’t find anything there so I left. But as I was getting ready to back out, some crazy lady, who reminded me of my mother, rear ended me. We exchanged information, and she felt terrible, and I continued on my journey to Target.

I loaded up my cart as I leisurely walked down the isles. I sniffed soap, flipped through magazines, and tried on a purple sports bra, Then I made my way to the check out, stuck everything on the conveyor belt, smiled at the checker, and I even threw in a pack of gum too, because I was feeling kicky.

I started to nonchalantly fish for my wallet.

Then I started to dig for my wallet.

AND THEN I dumped everything on the floor, got on my knees, and frantically stirred things around hoping to find some form of currency.

NOTHING.

Oh the shame.

The embarrassment.

And the feeling of defeat as I admitted that I didn’t have a way to pay for all the stuff she just rang up.

It might have been the first time I’ve ever walked out of Target without buying something.

As I was driving home I realized that I got in a car accident, and I didn’t have my wallet on me. And I was more worried about making sure I bought laundry detergent at Target?

Two weeks later I forgot my wallet again. This time it was a the Farmer’s Market.

A week after that I forgot it again. At Happy Nails.

Yesterday it was at the drive-thru at Del Taco.

You’d think I’d learn.

The Great Northwest Part II

So we packed up our bags, said farewell to the rococo, and set out North, to Seattle.

We flew this tiny plane and if the propreller wasn’t so loud, everyone on the plane could probably hear me screaming, “OH SHIT! WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!”.

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I don’t like flying. I think it’s god damn miracle I don’t dissolve into flames every time the plane takes off. I mean, a giant piece of metal weighing hundreds of thousands of pounds is flying through the air? Like a frickin bird? Nope. It does not make any sense in my mind. But there are a lot of things that don’t make sense in my mind, like how television works, and algebraic equations, so that’s not saying very much.

But it was a miracle, because we made it to Seattle without dissolving into flames.

Yay!

The first thing we did was head down to Pike’s Market because we’re goofy tourists who love looking at frozen fish and how cheese is made.

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Then we met up with our favorite traveling friends, Ty and Rhea.

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We loaded into their rented Hyundai Accent for some car sickness and toured different parts of the city.

I saw a wall filled with chewed gum.

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And then I saw a telephone pole wearing a sweater.

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We drove through idyllic tree lined neighborhoods that had houses that looked like this:

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When we drove past the people that lived inside these houses we would scream out the window at them, “How does it feel to have the perfect life?!”

Then young Billy, playing basketball in the driveway would yell back, “I HATE MY DAD!”

And then we’d realize that these people have problems too, only their problems are prettier than ours.

We loved Seattle, we loved the beauty of the city, and I would be thrilled to live there for the rest of my life. Only I’d probably be depressed the whole time because of the constant rain and my family and friends living so far away. I’d just sit inside my perfect 1914 craftsman bungalow and cry into my coffee while Berlyn played basketball in the driveway.

And then people would yell out their car window that my life is perfect, and I’d add more kahula to my coffee.

And smile.

The Great Northwest Part I

For a while now The Man and I been talking about moving to a place far away called Not Orange County. We’re not too picky as to where we want to live, but some main non negotiable points would be: no snow, no midwest, no big hair, no marrying your cousin, no alligator meat, and no humidity.

In our mission to find the perfect place to raise a family, build community, and lay down our roots (no pressure or anything), we decided to take a little trip up to the great Northwest where it rains a lot, but rain produces an amazing amount of beauty, so it’s totally forgivable. Plus, I never have to do my hair or take off my sweatpants when it’s raining. BINGO.

Our first stop was Portland.

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We rode bikes. Because that’s what you do in Portland. Except no one told me that I would be too dressed up in this city. Even in my jeans and sweater I felt like a movie star. People in Portland are…to put it nicely, very casual.

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We wandered into this amazing shop where they had chickens made of plastic bags. I wanted it. But Pat wouldn’t buy it for me. He said something about us having too many plastic bag chickens.

He was right. Dammit.

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We rode the bus a lot. And I’m down with the bus riding because it means I got to people watch some freaky ass people.

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And our hotel was where Rococo came to die, but in a good way.

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So much good in fact, that I never wanted to leave this couch. But eventually I did, because someone, somewhere was eating bacon. And in that moment I realized that I too needed to be eating bacon.

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Oh, and I also had a beer. It’s good for the baby, no?

All in all, Portland is a good place to score some weed, get a hemp skirt, and dodge street activists with clip boards. We loved the city, but can’t really imagine ourselves living there. Too bad really, because I was looking foward to dreadlocking my hair.

Labor and Delivery

My first labor ended in a cesarean. It was several days of early labor, and about 12 hours of hard labor, and at the end of all of It I was cut open. I was exhausted, confused, and defeated. For a long time I thought something was inherently wrong with me. Like maybe my body just didn’t know how to birth a baby.

Every time I think of the moment they wheeled me out of the delivery room and into the operating room, my eyes well up, and my face turns pale.

However I don’t discount the fact I had the most beautiful, healthy baby in my arms (4 HOURS LATER!!) But it wasn’t about Berlyn, it was about me, and my inadequacy as a woman.

I remember a day later, after they removed the catheter, and I was free to walk and pee at my own will, I asked the doctor what had happened. She told me that I failed to progress, and they had to do a c-section. She was so nonchalant. Like the same tone she’d use to discuss what she had for lunch. And before she left the room she told me that my subsequent pregnancies would have to end in a c-section too.

No wonder why I felt inadequate.

This pregnancy I’m going to have a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). And that doctor that told me I would have to have c-sections, can suck it.

 

Plus, did you know, with enough repeat cesareans, your poop and innards could just randomly fall to the floor at any given moment?

Yes.

Your poop.

On the floor.

Can you imagine?

At a dinner party? You meet someone new and say, “Hi, I’m Beckey.”

“Oh, that? That’s just my poo. Pay no attention. Ooops, I think my uterus just fell out of my vagina too. Please excuse me a minute.”

I don’t what that.

 

As I look back on my first birth, I was so gripped with fear that it paralyzed me. Emotionally and literally. I was unable to deal with the fear, so I acquiesced the medical practices (epidural, pitocin, fetal monitors, catheters, etc.) that I thought made birthing easier, turns out it’s only easier for the physician.

Currently I’m pouring over books about midwifery, medicine, natural births, and VBACs, I’ve hired a doula, and asked my OB more questions than a 4 year old, all to ensure that I do not wander into this new chapter of my life blindly.

I have 4 more months, and that’s good, because it gives me time to equip myself, to understand my body, and to look forward to the powerful and inspiring gift of giving birth.

Wish me luck.