It just happened.

Something I've never written about, and hardly spoken about, was the car wreck that landed me in baby observation for 7 hours before giving birth. I'm not sure why I've never wanted to talk about it, maybe I'm not so amazing at opening up to emotional things or trying to stir up pity and I think that's what that felt like, trying to get pity for something that just happened.

It happened.

I was headed to Centralia, planning on having my membranes swept for a (hopefully) successful induction the following day. It was incredibly nice out, Steven had to work, Lindzy was in school, so I was thankfully going alone. Almost immediately after pulling onto 508 I was behind a car who was going extremely slow. Anywhere from 20-30, he'd randomly speed up and then slow down, annoying but doable. I just waited until there was a safe place to pass, a straight stretch, a dotted line. He had slowed down to a low point again so I double checked for a blinker before passing.

No blinker.

So I turned mine on, pulled out, and started to pass. I was even with his car when he hit me, passenger door to his driver door so there's no way he missed me. But he must have somehow because there was only one set of tire marks on the road (and yes I went back to check) which were mine. I slammed on my breaks, tried to turn away, honked my horn, and then in an instant he was ramming into my car and I was up in the ditch with his car beneath me.

I didn't want to move. I wanted to pass out and let someone come rescue me like they do in movies because everything hurt and I couldn't breath past the fumes from the air bag. The smoke and air bag dust filled my eyes but I managed to find my phone, hoping to call 911. But, it was 508 and I had no cell service. I kept shutting my eyes, or maybe they kept shutting without my permission but I could hear the other man screaming so I knew I couldn't just sit there - obviously he needed help.

I managed to unbuckle but I was so far up the ditch that my door wouldn't stay open. I tried a few times opening it, giving up because it was too much work, then trying again before realizing I wouldn't be able to and just squeezed through as best I could with a 39 week pregnant belly and hardly any strength.

I fell.

As soon as I left the car my ankles and knees buckled underneath me and I landed in the grass. I pulled myself back up shaking and began walking again. It ended up being more of a fall/crawl down the ditch and I scrambled through the grass as quickly as possible because his screaming was renting the air.

Finally at his car I remember asking if he was alright, if he could get out, if he needed help. He just kept screaming, eventually saying he was stuck. I could tell my hands were shaking, then I realized my entire body was shaking and it didn't hurt anymore and figured shock had finally set in.

I used it to my advantage.

About a half mile down the road was a house and that was our only option because a few cars had driven past without stopping and my cell phone still wouldn't work. Yeah, I kept checking even though I knew I wouldn't find service. I started walking, his screams still tearing through me. I felt guilty, so terribly guilty even though I'd done everything right. Reyna wasn't moving. Hadn't moved since the crash and I wasn't even sure how long that had actually been. I was terrified, shaking, noticed some blood on my arm and feet but kept walking.

I reached the house, shouted at an old man outside that we needed an ambulance because I'd been in a car wreck and someone was still hurt and trapped inside. Then, because he was still there and still needed help, I turned around and went back.

By that time I was struggling not to cry. I was realizing she wasn't moving, my hands were shaking so hard that afterwards my arm muscles were sore from the movement. About halfway back I realized the old man was beside me on his motorized scooter asking if I was alright. I told him I was fine so he drove ahead. By the time I reached the cars there were some people there so I stopped at the edge and just stared.

I wanted to sit down and cry. I looked down at the "i love my daddy" painted across my giant stretched t-shirt and nearly dissolved. Tears were cutting into my throat making it hard to breath but I just stood there shaking refusing any help. Breaking down isn't my thing.

Eventually they made me sit in a man's car, my first thought was only that he could be kidnapping me. (Way too many cop shows.) But I sat. They kept asking if I was ok and I just kept asking about the other man and struggling not to cry. They kept saying I was in shock and shoving a blanket on me.

Quite some time later an ambulance showed up. Though the man was in more need, they couldn't remove him from the car so I was the first to go. Strapped to a board, lifted into the ambulance (terrified they wouldn't be able to lift my huge body) and forced to lie still as we went over bumps and around turns with them checking my pulse and rechecking my pulse because it was so high.

Finally at the hospital I could text my mom and husband. "Are you guys awake?" "Everything's fine, I'm totally fine, but I was in a wreck and I'm at the hospital." Never make anyone worry, y'know? Of course my bp was sky high, my pulse still in that shocky range, but I was out of the tear zone finally.

Until they couldn't find Reyna's heartbeat.

It took them 15 minutes of pushing and shoving into my stomach to find her. The whole time I was by myself, nails biting into my palms, teeth shoved into my bottom lip, doing everything I could to keep calm. They didn't monitor her very long, figured I'd be better off in the hospital I was giving birth at.

So I was discharged after they fixed me with orders to go to Centralia.

In the end she was fine, they wouldn't even let me deliver a day early so I had to come back the next day. I had tons of bruises, giant ones across my chest, boob, and stomach from the seat belt. I had cuts and bruises on my arm and wrist from smashing into the windshield, cuts on my foot and leg, but I still have no idea how I got those. I still have some problems in cars, mostly when I'm the passenger or a car is coming beside me. Tiny little panic attacks I try extremely hard to control because I'm never alone. But we made it.

And it could have been so much worse.

My husband. My sociopath.

It's not like it is on tv. It's nothing like Google says it is (Dr. Google convincing you a pimple is cancer.

I often joke he's my very own Dexter, without all the murder and saving blood drops on scientific slides. Despite what he is he has developed a fairly strong moral code that I respect.

He wouldn't feel bad about killing someone, but he would never do it.

He has a ridiculously loving relationship with our dog and his dog prior - Kiki's death still brings him to tears when he talks about it.

He doesn't notice things like the garbage overflowing or his laundry lying in piles throughout the house because it's beneath his scope of caring. It doesn't matter.

He's selfish. Would play video games for ten hours and be completely baffled by my anger at his refusal to enjoy his family.

He loves his children. Many things can be said about him, but never a contradiction to this. They mean more than ruling the world (see what I did there?) even though he has difficulty expressing it.

He will never cheat because he finds it illogical.

He doesn't understand accidental emotional pain. If he didn't mean to hurt me then I shouldn't be hurt. It makes for a difficult relationship at times because I suffer from emotional problems of my own.

We watch television together while holding hands (which is always initiated by him because my emotional problems don't allow me to put myself out there) and car drives are spent with our fingers tangled up in each other and non stop talking. He loves touch to the point of annoyance on my part, which he won't catch.

Because that's something, he doesn't catch many social cues. Even telling him to stop a conversation because it's making myself or someone else uncomfortable doesn't always work. "I'm sorry I made you angry about the religion thing. But I WAS right, in the past this...." Great apology husband.

When he was diagnosed, though he suspected from a very young age, I was completely thrown off. He'd always said he was a sociopath but I assumed he was exaggerating because like most people, I believed the propaganda that being a sociopath meant not loving.

I was wrong.

He does feel. It's something that has evolved through our relationship actually. Some things I say hurt him, bother him, might even anger him to an extent.  A part of his sociopathy is loving praise and hating critique so wording is something else I need to work on.

He loves to play with our children. Everything from video games to archery (our daughter is pretty awesome). He legitimately enjoys doing things with them, even if I sometimes have to force him to think about something other than what he (originally) wants.

Our marriage isn't what I expected or planned but he does love me. We'll never be a commercial family and that's ok. It's taken me awhile to come to terms with it and to be honest I'm not completely there, but I will be.

A friend described it as mourning a child who is born with downs or some other abnormality - you still love them exactly as they are but you have to deal with the fact that it doesn't match the picture in your head.

I didn't expect to be in a relationship like this, let alone a marriage with two (nearly four!) children. We argue a lot because my idea of a father and husband and responsibility don't always mesh with his personality. Originally I thought he was simply childish, that eventually and if we dealt with it enough, he'd grow up and change.

I now know that's not the case.

So yeah, my expectations have to change, the way I deal with him have to change, and so does his automatic obliviousness to my feelings and his surroundings.

It'll come.

He's always going to need reminding that it's been four hours and it's time to pay attention to something other than himself.

He's always going to have to be given specific directions when it comes to helping around the house or with the kids because none of it really registers in his mind.

He's always going to grab me in the middle of a public location and slow dance  to whatever song happens to be playing, as embarrassing as I find it, because I also love it.

Our children are always going to love that.

He's always going to love us no matter what. And really, that's the only thing that matters.

I Need An Efing Break.

who isn't happy at a wedding 

Some days I need a break.

I get uncontrollable waves of anger slamming against my skin from the inside and nothing settles it. I repress it, push it back, and control it with the minifits and whining I have to fix throughout the day. I shove it down with the dinners and help finding my husband's watch and glasses and wallet and everything else he manages to misplace while changing the baby whose somehow stuck her foot in a poopy diaper.

I control the desire to run because I have no choice.

I control the desire to scream because I have no choice.

I do it because I love my family, I love my children, and I love my life even when I want to run away. I don't want a break forever, obviously. Everything in me is meant to be a mom and a wife. I love it. But that doesn't mean I don't sometimes need a break.

she figured out how to open the powder 

Its never happened before. This uncontrollable, unnamed feeling of being overwhelmed to the point of tears. Is 2 children really that much more difficult than 1? Or is more going on that's feeding this restless need to get out of my house?

I am a SAHM and as such I'm greeted with the expectation that everything is always perfect, that smiles and hugs conquer all, and that I am always happy.

I call bull shit.

Its true that I'm woken with smiles and happiness on most occasions and that cuddles and hugs can fix a lot in life. But more often I'm met with tears and screaming, with tiny feet digging into the cuts and fat on my stomach as they try to escape out the living room window daddy let them go through once. Thanks daddy.

On a daily basis my oldest is throwing fits. Its like overnight, or at least since school ended, she has morphed into this teenager [at 8] that is only happy away from home or constantly entertained. I think the sleep adjustment, ie staying up till 1 am but still waking around 7, is causing a lot of problems. Over tiredness is making her whiny and grating on my constant migraines.

My youngest has a bit of a sleep problem. She likes to stay up till 6 am, be forced to sleep, and then wake up a few hours later once again refusing to sleep. We sleep in 3 hour incriments that I get to participate in if I'm lucky. Its like constant naps but no actual sleeping. As a result we're both quite grumpy and irritable.

teenager

So quick recap.

One child tired, whiny, grumpy, throwing fits, and being mostly helpless.

One child tired, whiny, grumpy, throwing minifits, and being completely helpless.

One husband who works nights so he's either sleeping or gone.

All.
The.
Time.

Why do I want to run away again?

Why, when I have every reason to need a break, do I feel so shitty for wanting it? Why do I feel like being a mom means giving 100 percent and then more even if you can't afford it? That if I don't do that all the time then I'm a bad mom.

Because its conditioned into us at a very early age that mothers are selfless creatures who care nothing for themselves and if they do they are being bad. Because even if no one made it clear that as a SAHM everything is on me, I would still feel like it is. That's the type of person I am.

At this point I would be happy with a child-filled vacation if it meant getting out of my house and away from the fits. What bugs me is that the fits are not normal for my oldest. Not that she's perfect, but as a child she is as close to perfect as one can get.

What did I screw up to make her change?

What did society make me FEEL like I screwed up to make her change?

Because that's the thing, isn't it? Its always our fault as mothers and its always wrong to need time to yourself.

whachu gonna do about it

Do the next best thing and institute mandatory quiet time. Its the first 30 minutes in a long time that I haven't wanted to slit my wrists.

Fuck You Cloth Diapers.

My oldest, obviously in terrible shape because we used disposables

Why is this a thing? It's bad enough having to change a shitty diaper (let's all be honest about how "crappy" that situation is) why would we add hand rinsing it out and then washing it in our laundry machine? Since disposables were created, or even the disposable inserts if you wish, a mother's life became about a million times easier. I know that I have a ton of stuff do get done during the day, adding in all that extra washing and cleaning would ensure I didn't have time for much else.

Besides, it's gross.

And, it's not that much less expensive, especially when you factor in the fact that you need to have the 250+ start up right there. I might have the extra 40 a month for diapers, but I won't have that. If you add in the soap and extra electricity for all the extra washings there isn't much of a difference. In my very humble opinion.

Just because they're cute

And breast feeding. I totally agree with it, I even tried it with both of my children before they were diagnosed with reflux and unable to BF. And the fact that I couldn't produce enough to keep my little chunker happy did have something to do with it. But why is it acceptable to push it? To make mothers feel like a failure if they aren't into breast feeding.

It's cheaper.

That is a reasonable point because formula is crazy expensive. But so is all the extra calories you need to consume in order to not waste away if you actually make enough breast milk to BF. Losing weight at a super quick rate isn't healthy, especially if you're not bigger to begin with and not all mothers are. (Because being big is bad too right?)

And maybe some people just don't LIKE it. Breast feeding is not as "convenient" as people say it is. You literally have to drop everything at any given second to put a child on your boob. I had a snacker (Or I just didn't make enough, see above) so I was BFing every 20 minutes for at least 30 minutes each time. How the FUCK is that convenient? I couldn't just pass her over to dad or sister or anyone else to get some help. I Had no choice but to always be the only one who could make her happy.

I wouldn't let her climb out the window so she was angry (but free range is alright, right?)

And really, it's not about cloth diapers or breast feeding. It's about society thinking they have the right to push their beliefs on me. To make me feel like I'm the bad guy, the bad mom who isn't completely selfless and devoting all my time and money to my children. Everyday something is posted or said about one or the other and I have to sit here feeling like shit because I "chose" to do neither.

Fat is wrong.
Super skinny is wrong.
Disposables are wrong,
Formula is wrong.
Ignoring your children is wrong (ok that one is actually wrong, don't do that).
Playing with your children too much is wrong.
Letting them entertain themselves too much is wrong.

Now there are words a parent should and shouldn't use to make their child grow up happier and healthier. No one wants little assholes running around but discipline is wrong and "love is all you need". There is hardly ever a wrong choice (finger in blender is an example of wrong) just as there's hardly ever a right one in these things.

There is 'right for you' and 'right for me' and that's alright.

In the end what matters is you and your family being happy and healthy. Fuck everyone else. 

C-Section: A View From The Other Side.

First day home from the hospital

My husband uses our family as a topic for most of his English papers in college. Recently he wrote one on his experience during my hospital stay and c-section. I'm proud of him, and think the other viewpoint is worth putting out there. 

 I sit alone in the hallway with pictures of little babies dotting the walls and all I can think is that those pictures are a mockery to all those whose lives have fallen apart in this place. The blue clothing is foreign and unnatural on my skin - not a uniform made for me. The mask is stifling and reminded me of the time in my life where sickness and loss was all I could feel. Fear and helplessness wrapped though my body, coating like a second skin.

     I have been helpless for 9 months; my wife has been in constant fear and pain with me unable to anything but hold her and tell her that everything will work out alright, that every second she suffers is one more second our child won’t be spending in the NICU. Today is the climax of the 9 months of helplessness. I can't do anything but wait and hope that the world will keep turning tomorrow - I have no other options.

Spending time at MeMa's

     I look down at my feet and grip my hands together. In days of past the stereotype was to pop a cigarette and pace. Today I wish I smoked because then there would be some idle task I could use to speed the slowly passing time. All the hospital people rush by with motivation, direction, and purpose; passing me without a glance as if my suffering and inner turmoil don’t matter. And really, they don’t. A person doesn't know the pain of lack of drive till they actually feel it. Right now I have no responsibilities, no work to do, nothing to keep my hands moving. All I am is a nerve, sensitive and vulnerable.

    I start to get worried; too much time has passed. They said it would be "just a moment." This is one moment too long to wait, and I‘m sure it‘s been longer than merely a moment. I consider myself one of the most patient people in the world; I have waited for 6 or 7 hours with nothing to do, but this moment - the word brings a bitter taste to my mouth - is far, far too long.

Getting ready to go to lunch

     They finally call me in to the room of blades and knives, warning me of the blue, for it is sterile and I can‘t even breath on it. My wife is strapped down on the table, I move as fast as I can to her side, trying desperately not to show how panicked I feel. They tell me to comfort her, but all I want is her to tell me everything is going to be ok. She’s supposed to be the strong one. I hold her constrained hand, look at her and smile, tell her everything is going to be ok -but inside I'm helpless, I'm scared.

TV makes surgeons look slow and careful, cutting methodically, and while that might be true today they don't cut; they rip. I try to focus on my wife but out of the corner of my eye I can see and feel them ripping though the flesh, Preying and pulling and reaching. I used to be a butcher, I used to cut dead flesh of animals for food. I would show meat more tact and care than they are right now. I can feel each jerk of her body in my hand though she doesn't feel it. Her eyes are closed and I keep talking, trying to comfort and make sure she’s still conscious - it’s been a long 30 hours.

    More jerking and tearing, jarring my arm and body as I try to be still. The blood letting takes a turn when they find what they are looking for inside my wife. A little baby, my little girl isn’t crying, not a sound. My heart stops. They take her to the table on the edge of the room completely away from me. They wipe her down and slap her feet trying to aggravate her into a reaction and finally a soft little cry of pain. One of the most beautiful sounds I will ever hear. In the middle of the whipping she looks across the room, straight at me, and gives me a grumpy face. I have seen this face before, its the face my other daughter Lindzy makes when its my turn to watch the TV and its the face my wife makes when I forget to take out the garbage. She is mine and everything fades away and when I finally get her she just stares at me and I smile down at her face and know that everything is ok.

Sword fights on no sleep :)

Round is a shape...

Why is everyone so concerned with losing weight and toning up? I'm a bit of a Pinterest addict [a lot of] and I used to really enjoy cruising over the DIY section because I'm also a bit of a a craft addict. Really, I wish I had a whole separate room for all the craft crap because right now It's sort of scattered everywhere. Anyway, now I peruse the sections I loved and about 3/4's of the pins are about losing weight and toning.

"Get a better butt."

"Tone those thighs."

"Lose the love handles!"

Why is society so intent on making women (and men) feel inadequate as they are? If the focus was getting healthier that would be one thing and I would probably stop complaining about it (at least out loud) but it isn't. One doesn't have to be stick thin and have ridges of muscle and taut skin to be healthy, nor does one have to be the size of a house to be unhealthy.

A person can also have tons of health problems but have non related to their "morbid obesity". The same goes for an extremely thin person.

Why are we, as women, so into forcing other women to do things they probably don't enjoy just to end up unhappy and no better of a person than we were before we dropped all the weight and tightened our skin? We are all saying that mothers who have an apron and can't seem to tighten it back up (nearly impossible) needs to save up money so she can have surgery and get it removed. We are showing people that the only thing that matters is what we look like on the outside.

We are teaching our children to hate themselves.

Everything else I've said can flow right over you with annoyance, but if you can read past that last part and not feel even a little bit guilty for the children who start starving themselves at 10 because they're "too fat" then you might have something wrong with you.

I don't want my daughters to grow up thinking something is wrong with them if they don't resemble someone else. If one of my children comes to me and says they are fat, that they need to diet, that they hate the way they look, I am going to feel like a failure as a parent. Society is going to tell them and me that it was my fault as well.

Shouldn't society be held to those same standards?

When a person can't even turn on the television or open a magazine or play a game without having what they "should" be smashed into their face there's a problem. Thin doesn't make you pretty. Fat doesn't make you pretty. Toning doesn't make you pretty. Everyone is pretty. Everyone is beautiful. Every body type is attractive.

We need to start accepting ourselves as we are. 

I need to start accepting me rather than railing on my choices every time I eat a meal or neglect to exercise. It's so bad for me that I can't even eat a salad without saying "of course you're hungry, you're fucking fat and disgusting" as I shovel the lettuce into my mouth.

Why is that ok?

Why is this made to be the problem of the person not the image that is forced into us?

Why are we considered weak and sensitive if being told we're unattractive and wrong every day begins to affect us?

I don't have answers. None that will satisfy myself or anyone else at least.

But, I am going to do everything in my power to make my children love every single thing about themselves even if it kills me. I will fake my way to confidence in front of and around them so much that they believe I love the way I look rather than teach them that I'm fat and ugly, therefore fat is ugly.

Because my children are gorgeous and society is never going to change that.

Screw Being a Victim.

I get it.

You had a terrible home life: beatings, terror, starvation, anything and everything that is whispered about in horror happened to you. Abandoned and lost it's your mentality to stay there, to keep finding the same situations because you're used to it, because you're not worth anything more, or maybe just because it's easier being the victim.

I've been there.

I've endured abusive relationships and friendships, both physical and mental anguish so deep I cut my skin until the blood ran in place of my tears. I clawed my way into friendships that were the worst thing to happen to me, and then, barely conscious, broke my way back out.

Rather than asking for help [it's not a quality I posses] I pretended everything was alright. I pretended I was happy so well that I believed it.

I became an addict instead.

I spent years making myself miserable and happy with a meth pipe, with razors and lighters, with hatred and love both warring inside me. I knew I shouldn't be there but it was all I wanted because it was what I knew.

By the end I was so wrapped up in her and him that guilt still chokes my throat when I try to discuss it. Even free I bite my tongue, flinch and startle at every sound, cry to the flashbacks and tremble when I remember them.

But I escaped. 

I had a reason to change my mentality - I was pregnant.

Do I still have the occasional moment of terror when my husband is angry? Most assuredly. But I shake it off with defiance because now my cowering just makes me more angry. No longer will I stand for myself or my family being abused. It isn't a matter of self esteem [mine is still too low to even acknowledge] it's a matter of strength.

Strength can come from a fragile human growing inside you, it can come from being punched in the face and having your mind thrown over the gravel with words one too many times, but it ALWAYS comes from you.

I get to be me now and that's irreplaceable.

This advice comes from someone who has full experience with victim nature.

GROW UP!

Problems from the past affect everyone, even people who claim or seem to be well adjusted but that doesn't mean allowing someone to hurt you. It doesn't mean allowing someone to hurt someone you love either - shouldn't that be the catalyst that pushes you from victim to victor?

Who wants to be the victim all the time anyway - getting walked on, beaten so badly you end up in the hospital, hurting your family and friends by your unreasonable dedication to a person who destroys you. Step into a life filled with color and love and happiness by walking away from the things that will ruin you - you.

There is a right and a wrong you.

The wrong one is the one letting you be hurt. The wrong one lies on the floor cowering while he pulls back his boot to kick again. The wrong one makes excuses because the wrong one thinks it's what is right.

The right knows that's bullshit. This you is waiting safely in the background ready to take over once you allow it. This you is strong enough to fight back for both yourself and anyone else who might be harmed as a result of the wrong you.

Let the right you come out. Let it take over and rush through your broken soul until being a victim is no longer your choice but your past.

Obese Mothers: How DO They Do It.

Our family actually being outside; gasp! 

I recently stumbled upon a question about obese mothers. "How do they do it?" It went on to say that she squatted, ran after, played with, and spent so much time doing things with her baby she didn't even have time to eat. So how does an obese mother manage? But no offense meant.

First of all if she hadn't wanted to be offensive she wouldn't have used the term obese; clinically correct yes, necessary no. I prefer heavy or big. She also wouldn't have implied that an obese woman is only that way because she eats all the time and can't do anything.

Second, sorry this response took so long, I was too busy playing on the floor with my baby.

When did it become socially appropriate to ask a rude question as long as you follow it with "no offense meant"? There was great offense taken. And for the very clear record, being big is not the same as being on bed rest.

Many people responded though I refrained and didn't waste my anger reading the over 500 comments.

Being a very big person I am so completely offended by society assuming we are lazy, eat a lot, don't try, and can't be good parents. Do we tell parents in wheelchairs they must be bad parents? No, because that would be rude and untrue.

These days being fat is worse than supporting Hitler [which I do not] and its the only thing [aside from Christianity] that is allowed to be openly mocked. Someone fat happens to be in your way or does something you don't like? Well then, lets respond with a "fat ass" comeback because obviously them being fat has everything to do with their behavior.

I'm big. Very big, yet I am still, shockingly, able to take care of my children. I had one of the worst pregnancies possible bar none, ending in a car wreck, 36 hours of pitocin contractions,  and a c section. I then had my gallbladder taken out with an emergency surgery before my incision was even healed. I still took care of my children.

Just days after my car wreck and cs I chose to walk in Wal-Mart while grocery shopping because the fat shaming I was afraid of is too prevalent and allowed. A thin woman would have ridden a cart in a second after what I'd been through. I wore a wound vac holding my stomach together with just air, the cut pulled and stretched with every step, my body was full of bruises and cuts and aching joints from the car wreck, and I had been on bed rest for so long because of the pre-eclampsia that my energy was pretty depleted.

But I gritted my teeth, pulled up those amazing knitted panties they give you in the hospital, and walked on.

If anything being overweight makes me work harder to prove I can do it and still be a great parent. I take my girls outside, I wake up almost every hour at night to take care of a sleep regressed 6 month old, I make dinner, run errands, clean the house, and do everything else a "thin" person does.

My oldest obviously in need of better parenting.

This question just cemented my belief that people don't understand overweight women at all. I barely eat 3 meals a day, have a thyroid condition that affects every second of my life, and sleep on average 2 hours a night.

I also "wrestle strollers one handed" and carry a nearly 20 pound baby in her heavy carseat [though the wreck messed up my shoulder so I lob that onto my husband as often as possible, obviously because I'm fat]. I crawl on my knees to play with Reyna, I play tennis with Lindzy, and we love taking family walks. Shouldn't I, instead of being ridiculed, be looked on with a little respect for still doing everything "even though I'm obese"? Maybe I take everything too much to heart and she didn't mean to be offensive.  But I doubt it.

In no world is comparing bed rest to obesity NOT offensive.

Why do women [because we're kind of the bitchy species] feel the need to judge based on anything? What makes a good parent isn't ones ability to do squats while holding their 20 lb baby [though I recently finished the Dark Horse work out twice while holding Reyna], nor does it have anything to do with how quickly and well you chase after your children. Do "obese" people love their child any less than a thin one? No.

No one would ever make that remark to a parent because to imply someone doesn't love their child enough is a huge no-no.

Unfortunately this mindset is seen in doctors as well. If a person is big and pregnant they're told they will have many complications, probably a cs, will develop gestational diabetes, and are told to see a nutritionist to learn how to eat correctly. Those are uncalled for comments! Even professionals treat us differently purely because we happen to be bigger than they are. Its something that needs to change, but probably won't.

So I'm big, obese even, and I'm offended. But that's something I'll need to get used to since apparently obese women deserve to be treated badly.

Bad obese mama.

Motherhood: The only job with zero rights.

People treat complaining mothers like they treat crack addicts - with zero pity or understanding. Every other job in the world gets complained about so why aren't mothers allowed to vent? Is it because we're taught to believe that we're allowed to judge anyone we want? Or because we think mother's have it easy therefore they have no reason to complain? Or, in my experience, it's because "some people don't get to be mothers". 

Well that makes complete sense.

Since some people don't get to be dog owners we should probably not complain about how the dog shit on our bed. Since some people can't drive a car because they're not old enough complaining about how boring it is to drive 2 hours a day to work is totally gauche. Or better yet, every single person who complains to a friend or on any form of social media should probably be ostracized and then verbally abused because whatever they're complaining about someone else would be grateful to have.

Really?

Motherhood is hard fucking work. Ignoring every post I've made in the past about great it is, and it is, let's focus on the fact that it's real work. Add in a working mother, or even a semi working mother, and it's even worse. I'm not working at the moment, and I'm married, but I was a single mother who worked and went to school for 4 years so I can compare both sides and in all honesty working and college was MUCH easier. 

Is it easier having a husband who "helps out?" Sometimes. But he's really like a third child. Wait, does complaining about him when people might not have a husband make me a bad person?

People are allowed to complain about every other aspect of their lives so why when a parent wants to vent or long for time of their own are they considered bad? After dealing with 2 sick grumpy children who pooped/puked on everything in sight while also being sick and on massive cramps (for the 8th time in 3 months fyi) I think I've earned the right to complain.

People think that motherhood is all rainbows and hearts when in fact it's more tears and screaming than anything else.

Do I enjoy every second of having a child? Of course! Am I grateful that I get children and am lucky enough to stay at home with them? Completely. Does that mean I don't have moments of insanity and frustration? Absolutely not.

When a sick baby has been screaming in your face for days, a needy child has been unable to do even the most base of things for herself, when you're sick, when everything is falling apart around your feet you're allowed to have a moment. Because, keep in mind, while all that is going on you're also making dinner cleaning up after everyone (mostly your "third child") helping your eldest with homework and trying to make sure that you raise good, respectful, smart, and honest God-loving children. 

A person who is entrenched in children and "Color Crew" every day, all day is going to want a break sometimes. I deal with spit and puke and poop and screaming and clinging nearly every second of the day. Complaining doesn't make me a bad person, nor does it make me love my children and my "job" any less. It doesn't make me any less grateful. It just makes me human. 

People need to stop downing on everyone for their choices. 

We all need to realize that hurting someone else doesn't do anything but HURT someone else. I still marvel in every second of being a mother. I will never love my child any less just because I complain about the bad days. 

Everyone is allowed to have days, stop treating mothers like they're any different. 

Out Of All The Jobs In All The Worlds...

 Everyday is dress and do what you want day

Society seems to look at motherhood and being a SAHM (stay at home mom) as something a person does because they have no other options. Why now, when it used to be something women were expected to do, is it treated as something so unworthy?

Why are women made to feel guilty for wanting to be a SAHM?

Out of all the jobs in all the worlds this is what I choose to do. Does that mean I have no other talents or desires? Not at all. It means that the desire and motivation to be a mother is greater than my want to do or be anything else. Does it mean I have no options because I'm a talent less lazy fuck? Absolutely not.

Being a SAHM requires a lot of knowledge, it's not for the stupid lazy people. What other job forces you to know some of everything?

I could be a writer; research and spend hours putting words to keyboard that would sound either eloquent or blatantly sexual (because really, I can do only the 2) or I could be an editor. I could go back to school for my Master's, because yes, even though I'm a lowly SAHM I have a bachelors degree. Not only that, but I earned nearly a 3.9 in my degree classes.

I don't want to.

What I woke up to the other morning :) 

Does that mean I'm a failure with no motivation?

No. It means that I CHOOSE to devote all of my time to raising the most important people in my life. I have to know how to cook - even if it's just whipping up a box of mac 'n' cheese. I have to drive, teach, entertain, counsel, discipline, and do a million (I literally mean a million) other things every single day for my children.

I run with them, roll on the floor, we exercise to dance videos and the kinect when it's rainy outside, I chased a baby who learned to walk at 9 months around because she was that independent, we go for walks up and down and up and down and up and down our driveway - so tell me again that I choose to stay at home because I'm lazy.

Sunny days are always celebrated

With my first I didn't have a husband or money so I wasn't allowed the luxury of staying home. I went to college as soon as she turned 10 days old and didn't finished until she was 4 1/2. With my second I've been home the entire time and I can safely say that I regret attending school. I regret not being home with my first and spending every second making her laugh or teaching her new things.

At the time it's what I had to do and I would come home and spend every second that I could with her. I would tell her about my day, ramble on about everything I happened to do and she would babble back and laugh at my exaggeration. Then she would sit beside me while I did homework and we would fall asleep together.

Always together.

When a woman stays at home she isn't just taking care of her children, she's also taking care of every other aspect of the house. In my case that's bills, searching for a better/different avenue of jobs for my husband, reminding him to do his homework, making sure he gets to work/class on time, filling out job applications and school papers for him, taking care of our year old dog, yard work, house work, and everything else that might possibly need done. As well as caring for a very needy baby.

I had to ask my boss about vacation time...

If I ask my husband to help out sometimes, maybe do dishes once a week because it's a chore that fills my bones with so much hatred I could fill hell, that's all right. The other thing people seem to do is make us SAHM's think we have to do every little thing with absolutely no help. Even my own family members tend to make me feel guilty and like I'm a terrible wife for expecting my husband to do a few things.

Since when did wanting him to pick up after himself like I ask of our SEVEN year old become a crime?

Seriously. Life is about so much judgement that a person can't make a single choice without someone hating on them for it. If I waited on my husband hand and foot, did everything for him and let him play games all day (as he does) then I would be bitched at for not making him be a responsible productive member of the household. For letting him walk all over me. 

I guess I've shifted away from the original point of the blog and into something a whole lot bigger. (Though to keep it on track, it's just more reasons being a SAHM means you aren't just lazy and stupid)

The point is that I love staying at home, through all the drama, the bullshit, the judging, the choices, the reprimands, this is best and most rewarding job of my life.

Who cares about looking stupid when you make your child laugh?

People also forget that to stay home means fun. You get to spend every moment with your children doing stupid things and laughing. And to be clear, making a child laugh can actually be a very difficult thing. Sarcasm and over exaggeration is necessary.

What's bad about that? 

Society needs to recognize that staying home isn't a cop out, it's a choice. Just as working is a choice. Both are valid, both are needed, and both make you worth just as much as the other. The hatred needs to stop.

Tantrums

This is how my 6 month old cries these days. Hilarious eh?

Every child throws fits. Even those "perfect children" have moments, whether they're in public or in private. The sad part is that most people treat parents whose children throw fits as bad, like they can't control their children.

That's not how it works!

My first born was an amazing child. I started school when she was 10 days old so I was extremely lucky with how easy she was. She would play by herself, "read" on her own, and sometimes just sit beside me while I did my homework the entire time I attended school.

But she wasn't perfect.

In public it was pretty easy to control her fits. A harsh quietly spoken word would generally shut it down quickly. I was lucky to have that "perfect" child who listened most of the time. Though not always.

At Wal-Mart, 2 years old, she didn't want to continue the shopping trip. "Ok, I'll just leave you here," generally works with kids. If not, when you start to walk off they run after you in terror at being left alone. Not my independent child. "Ok," she said, sitting down on the floor. I walked away, knowing I could see her around a corner yet she'd be unable to see me. I waited nearly ten minutes, she had moved on to lying in the middle of room, before I finally had to go back and physically put her into a cart and make her leave.

Not a huge fit, but one of the biggest and first she had ever "thrown" in public. Did I get stares? You bet. How could I walk away from my child? How was I such a terrible parent that I couldn't control her?

My first letting me know she was finished taking pictures. 

It's normal! For fucks sake, children also have minds of their own and they can't express it like an adult can.

When we moved into my husband's parent's house for a bit she really started acting out. Not sure what tipped her into the terrible two's at 5, but it was full force.

At church, which she's been attended since birth and therefore knows exactly what is an isn't appropriate, she wanted to lay on the floor. I said no. The screaming started. Quietly spoken words, veiled threats, open threats, nothing worked so we took her out front to let her scream it out for a few minutes, thinking she would work her way through it if we ignored her.

Didn't happen.

Fifteen minutes into it I realized it wasn't going to end and everyone inside could hear. This wasn't my church so I was extremely embarrassed and didn't want to inconvenience anyone. We decided to walk home where she would spend the day in her bed until she calmed down.

We walked on. She followed a couple steps, then stopped and screamed. A couple steps, more screaming. It was so loud and intense that people actually came out of their homes to ask if we were kidnapping her, or if she was hurt. "No, nope. We're good thank you." I'm actually really surprised that we didn't end up having the cops called on us for this one.

If the ground had opened up I would have willingly stepped inside to escape the stares.

We walked the 5 miles home, me silently fuming and hating the fact that I chose to wear flip flops, her screaming and crying, and my husband shaking his head. Inside I was a mess, MIL saying we were giving her what she wanted, implying I was a bad parent. Was I a bad parent? It has NEVER left my mind.

That sort of fit never happened again though. Whether it was the walk or the punishment of bed and ignoring her I have no idea.

I called her a rude face after she screeched at me for not picking her up.

In private, she still acted out. During dinner she refused to eat something, didn't want to sit down, didn't want to calm down or stop talking. Eventually I removed her from the situation by taking her down stairs. I had to drag/carry her to get her down there, screaming and yelling at me the whole time.

About 30 minutes later I recieved a text,  "Is Lindzy ok?" Well barely because I came with in an inch of freaking out why? I had accidentally called my friend and she got a ten minute voice mail of Lindzy crying and yelling, thumps as she kicked the wall or stairs on the way down, and me telling her to stop. Begging really because I was at my end by that point. 

That was the worst private fit, so of course it was also public humiliation.

Once she threw her head down in anger and smacked it on the floor.
Once she listened and didn't react in anger.
Once she had to stomp for 5 minutes because she had stomped at me in anger.
Once she calmly told me how she felt and we discussed it.

Even my 6 month old has started throwing fits. They're rather hilarious since all she can do is grunt and wave her arms and legs around. She's also started throwing in the word "mama" when I don't respond to her upset quick enough.

The best thing to do is look at it in humor, even when you want to poke your ears out and pour acid in your eyes. Remember that the fit will go away, it literally can't last forever even if it lasts till they're an adult.

The demon spawn that has become your child will eventually drift away to the sweet baby you fell in love in love with.

Ignore the stares because chances are they don't have children, and if they do, they haven't gotten "lucky" and had to deal with a fit yet.

But it will happen. 

Even to the best child. Every child will throw at least one terrible fit that makes you lose your shit and question your decision to be a parent.

If all else fails, I've heard throwing fits back at them in public works wonders on the older children. 

My Limit

I think I have reached my limit.

My life has always been a struggle, I know most people's lives are a struggle and it's something I should just get used to; so says my mom. "Life is always like that, you should get used to it." But should it be? Should we always have to fight?

I fought through grade school, literally and figuratively. I was fat, ugly, had massive acne (that has still not gone away, thank you hormones) and had some huge emotional issues. I was picked on a lot, and when I wasn't I was feeling like no one liked me and using that to fuel my cutting.

All the same crap happened through high school as well, only I got way more intense. More cutting, drugs, alcohol, hatred, attempted suicide. I did so many things that make me hate myself on a pretty regular basis, but I've mostly moved past them.

Sometimes they haunt me.

I conquered the drugs, the alcohol, the abuse, everything. I've moved on (supposedly). I graduated college with a 4 year degree in just over 4 years. I am raising 2 amazing beautiful girls. I have a husband who is pretty damned irresponsible but so awesome that it overshadows all of it. My oldest is happy, so happy it hurts my heart sometimes.

But I'm at my limit for fighting.

We got a great tax return but it's all going to a new car because the new (used) car we bought a few months ago has crapped out. My husband doesn't think he can go to school and work at the same time. And should he? Rightly, if I was a better wife and mother I would be the one busting my ass a job so he could better himself since I decided to do nothing with my degree.

We are barely holding on and I see no future different from where we are. We're surviving, but I don't want to be where we are for the rest of our lives - struggling, fighting, hating myself, hating where we are, and feeling like the worst wife in the history of terrible wives.

I pretend so well.

Even in these posts where I can write whatever I want I fake it. I pretend to be happy and put together, and most days I am. But tonight I've reached the end. Steven has gone to work for his graveyard job, I'll be sleeping alone again, Reyna is finally not screaming, and my eyes are scratchy their so tired. But I can't sleep, and I can't stop hating everything about me.

From everything I have accomplished and fought to free myself of I should be proud and happy.

But I'm not.