It’s weird when profound shit happens to me on facebook.

“Our culture teaches us about shame—it dictates what is acceptable and what is not. We weren’t born craving perfect bodies. We weren’t born afraid to tell our stories. We weren’t born with a fear of getting too old to feel valuable. We weren’t born with a Pottery Barn catalog in one hand and heartbreaking debt in the other. Shame comes from outside of us—from the messages and expectations of our culture. What comes from the inside of us is a very human need to belong, to relate.”

Brene Brown from “I Thought It Was Just Me: Women Reclaiming Power and Courage in a Culture of Shame”

So, one of my amazing friends posted this little tidbit on facebook this evening. I read it and cried. Not just because I’m pregnant and hormonal, but because it sang to me in a way that I needed.

I’ve gained 6 lbs so far this pregnancy and I’m only 12 weeks on Friday. I feel like I’m failing my body by putting on weight. Today I had a really really bad food day.

I had cereal and a pb&j sammich. That’s it, until 7pm when my husband finished dinner for the family, because I was having an awesome panic attack from lack of food and guilt.

Guilt from feeling like I was intentionally not eating enough today after seeing the number on the scale this morning. I *was* quite busy today, but I’m pregnant for fucks sake. AND still nursing 3-5 times a day. I effing NEED the calories and I KNOW that. Didn’t change my choices today.

The problem is I’m terrified of becoming “Biggest Loser” material. I’m not that far off at 223 lbs. (Everyone says I “carry it well” although I’m not sure what that means.)

I’m not unhealthy. Really. I admit to eating some horrible shit through the first trimester because it was the only thing that was appealing and would stay down. Feel guilty about every bite. I’m SUPPOSED to be nourishing #4 with only organic whole foods that will feed it’s mind and tiny soul.

Yeah. Healthy food is a lot grosser to barf up, just FYI.

I’m also supposed to be thin to start and have this perfectly round melon belly to display to the world in artistically shot maternity photos in black and white.

Society says.

I’m so good about preaching self love. So good.

I suck at practicing it, often.

I’m also “supposed” to be a giddy bouncing mess about being the privileged bearer of new and beautiful life.

I’m not.

I’m blase.

I’m worried.

I’m full of guilt.

We were so done.

We had an “oop’s”.

We miscarried an “oop’s”.

I was very sad, but a teeny tiny piece of me was relieved.

We immediately had another “oop’s” and this time I held my breath and hoped #4 would hang on.

And it has.

So guilty for the relief I felt. So guilty for the fact that I never once, even in my head or heart, told that lost baby I loved it.

And now I’m living with the fear of providing for 4 children in a meaningful, authentic way. I’m not sure I’m capable.

I’m so worried that I’m going to end up providing for them with “stuff”. Become one of those mini van driving, toddler with an ipad, over scheduled kid having, living in the burbs, friggity fracking sheeple. With big hair and a not so secret hatred of my husband and a barely controlled drinking (or xanax) problem.

Give me strength to be the mom I know I am and can be. Please. Let me be authentic. Let me be honest. Let me love my awkward self more.

And sweet baby Cheesus, let me love this baby while I grow it, as much as I know I will when it’s born.



being a parent sucks sometimes

Cassidy is 9.

He’s in 4th grade.

He has struggled his entire scholastic career to “fit in” with the current mode of public education.

We finally felt like we had a handle on things when he was diagnosed with hypoglycemia. We changed his diet and it was like having a fancy new functional and happy-all-the-time Cassidy!

Apparently these changes aren’t translating over to school.

He has busted his butt this semester to get better grades. I mean really worked hard.

I just saw his grades.

They’ve gotten worse.

His reading/writing teacher had some awesome things to say. Like: “Cassidy seems disinterested in his work.” and “He’s capable of better and more work.”

I think she has no clue how hard he struggles to stay focused in the chaos of the classroom.

I think he’s exhausted and frustrated by trying so hard and still feeling like he’s failing.

I think I want to home school him.

The options are:

A. Get him diagnosed with something so we can start an EIP and have him labeled for the duration of his scholastic career.


B. Home school for a while and see if we can help him make some changes to mainstream again in a year or two.

Fuck. Parenting is hard.

With a new baby on the way. (Yeah, it looks like that’s really happening, I’ll be 6 weeks in a couple days)

With a demanding Toddler.

With needing to move or remodel.

What the fuck is the best option for him?!

I have no idea right now, honestly.

then shit got real.

So- I was sad. So sad. To have lost a little baby.

Apparently the universe decided that was a mistake.

I’m already pregnant again.

4 weeks along today.

I’m nervous. And excited. And ridiculously happy.

And nauseated all the time.

The Travis was shocked. Then upset. Then worried. Now, I think he’s happy. We’ve been discussing names and cars to buy.

It’s still early, so there is a very real chance I could miscarry again.

I know I won’t though, deep down in my guts.

We haven’t told anyone because we know the judgement that will come with the announcement. At least, that’s my reasoning for not wanting to tell anyone yet.

I’ll try and keep writing here, since it’s for me and all. I always get really bad writer’s block when I’m pregnant and for about a year after. I’ll try to fight it this time.

Wish me luck.

being sad…


It makes it hard to write (or think) about anything other then the source of your sadness.

The source of my sadness is a dead baby.

Really, it was only a gathering of cells, not an actual baby yet, but it would have been.

And it makes me sad that I never got to meet it.

Ironically, I got a negative pregnancy test a week before the ER told me I was knocked up. (That’s not actually ironic, ironically.)

So, obviously, I had a sneaking suspicion that we had accidentally made a baby.

Before the negative home test I kept thinking, “I think I’ll get concurrent care with an OB for this pregnancy.” Meaning, I wasn’t feeling comfortable with just using my home birth midwife like I had for Emie’s birth. Also meaning, I knew something wasn’t going to be quite “right” with this pregnancy or baby.

Now I’m almost feeling guilty for those early thoughts about a less then perfect baby.

Honestly, when I thought about it, my mind went immediately to Down’s Syndrome and the possible heart conditions that go hand-in-hand with it.

I would also think fondly of the face of a little boy with the distinctive features of a child with DS.

I did not think I would miscarry.

I didn’t expect it.

I expected to love and cuddle a baby with a difference. I expected the beauty, struggle, and life change that would come with a special needs child.

I was already embracing how this would change me and my little family before I took that negative test.

So when they told me I was indeed pregnant, I already felt like I  knew who I was miscarrying.

I think it broke my heart.

It’s still breaking my heart.

And it fucking sucks.

Also- I may be a little crazy. Just FYI.

and then this happened.

On Monday I had a horrible death stomach flu/food poisoning/ bowel disruptor episode. It was gross and unfortunate.

I passed out that night, in my bathroom. Which is the classiest place to pass out.

Travis called an ambulance to rescue me because every time I sat up I got tweety birds floating around my head.

Back boards SUCK and HURT.

I had to listen to my baby cry for me as I was hauled out of my house.

The ambulance and ER staff were all very nice. They seemed to share in obsessing over the question every woman hears when dealing with health care professionals: Could you be pregnant?

I assured them that, no, I can’t be. Still bleeding from my last period. Thanks for asking about my girl junk, but  my SPINE is the issue right now.

After some Zofran, some Phenergan, some Morphine, and some x-rays we find out I’m not broken just strained. (Story of my life.)

The sweet nurse comes to check on me and “Hey, your labs are back! Has the doc talked to you about them yet? No? Well, I shouldn’t say anything BUT CONGRATULATIONS you’re PREGNANT!”

And I didn’t feel happy. Not for one second. I was already bleeding. I had been cramping for days. I knew that I wasn’t going to have a baby.

An ultrasound showed no gestational sac or signs of ectopic pregnancy. My hormone levels were ridiculously low.

With a prescription for zofran and another for lortab and a recommendation to see my regular doctor for follow up, I was discharged in the wee hours of  Tuesday morning.

Tuesday is a haze of pain pills, barfing, and exhaustion.

Wednesday I wake up to horrible cramping and a lot of blood. More pain pills. A doctors appointment with an asshole of an OB/GYN to confirm the miscarriage.

He does not offer condolences. He does not ask if I’m okay. He does not ask about my pain or bleeding. He does not ask if the pregnancy was planned or a surprise. I am nothing to him.

Thursday morning I get a phone call from the OB letting me know my hormone levels are even lower, confirming the miscarriage. All my other labs were normal, so no signs of infection.

He didn’t ask if my bleeding was better or worse. Didn’t ask about my pain. Didn’t care. Not his problem. Call him for another appointment after I take a home pregnancy test in a week, but only if it’s still positive.

Oh, and HEY! I can start “trying for another” whenever “I’m feeling up to it”.

Hey, doctor, fuck you.


I think maybe I started this blog to heal something in me.

I need to give up on writing for someone else and just write for me.

I don’t have to be funny, right?

I don’t owe it to anyone for this to even make sense.

My baby is asleep in the car outside my window right now and taking peeks at her every few seconds is making my thinking disjointed.

My god, she’s beautiful.

I want to remember so much about my life.  The fucking amazing people I’ve been blessed to meet or, even more wonderfully, been allowed to call my friends.

I want to write down stories from years ago about broken ouija boards or the time it rained without a cloud in the sky or the attack of the butterflies.

And I guess I want people to read them, too.  I don’t think anyone will want to read them until I figure out how to write them just for me.

So maybe this blog is really a memoir of sorts.

I can tell you all about when my friend ran diagonally through a busy intersection screaming “STREET CHICKENS!” to scatter the pigeons who were hanging out there. How he proceeded to climb a flag pole and turn himself horizontal to the ground and wave like a little Filipino flag at the cars going by. How I had to explain to the police officer that he was “a little different” and promise that I would take him straight home.

Because that shit was hilarious and everyone should have a friend like him at some point.

So, the point, is- I guess- I’m doing this for me now.

If another human being should stumble upon this train wreck and read it, so be it.

If not, werd.

sometimes i have panic attacks and sometimes my baby pees on the floor

The Toddler decided to pee on the floor instead of in the potty today. I’m kind of okay with it. Urination occurred outside the diaper and that, as far as I’m concerned, is a step in the right direction.

She also seemed extremely disconcerted about the liquid pouring out of her body and proceeded to use her pee soaked pants to clean all the pee off the tile bathroom floor. She may suck at putting her urine in the proper place, but at least she cleans up after herself, which is more then I can say for her older brothers.

I had this massive and amazing panic attack while at Target with my SisterWife (of My Mom is Effing Nuts fame). Thank god she doesn’t judge me when I tell her, “Hey, I took a xanax on the way here but I can’t guarantee I’ll make it long.” She didn’t even bat an eye when I said I had to leave NOW.

I spent the drive home telling myself I didn’t need another xanax and that I wasn’t going to have a stroke and drive recklessly in to the cars around me, killing us all.

I was successful and nobody died because I tried to go to Target.