Saturday, November 3, 2007

Going Bald and Other Reasons To Laugh At Myself


I ain't going to lie to ya folks- its been a harrowing coupla weeks. But as I lay here, wide awake, next to my restless four month old son, I am finding myself smirking at some of the ways my daily existence plays out. I've been brooding a lot lately, mostly to Tom, though I've been venturing on to other victims such as Donna, my next-door neighbor, Nancy Sanders, my long-time pragmatist bud from Virginia, and Marie, a woman I barely know but who has a self-proclaimed struggle with ADD, which automatically makes her a target for friendship with me. Anyway, my husband has always been one to say that there's nothing wrong with me, per se, except for the circumstances of my existence as a full-time mother of (first it was one, then two, then three, and now...four). Sometimes, this helps, though when I'm feeling particularly morose (i like that word), I argue with him that he just needs to cart me off to the psych ward (that actually sounds rather restful...hmmmmm). But he does have a point. For example, is it any wonder that the human race continues? To have a baby, many people, like me, spend the first twelve weeks of pregnancy on the gourmet diet of saltines and ginger ale, preferring to die a slow death at the hands of a hardened criminal rather than spend one more minute in a nauseated stupor, then its on to the "honeymoon" phase where you supposedly feel pretty great (i think you are just grateful for the stomach to finally ingest real food), then its onto the duck phase, where you waddle around town pulling up your pants because even the biggest maternity jeans can't possibly cover your rotund belly, then you sweat and grunt and scream and cry through labor, looking much like a drowned cat or homeless person, then you have to nurse a floppy newborn around the clock with nipples that are aflame, all the while your belly is empty but still rotund and now covered in stretch marks, and after a period of months, your body decides to do some major hormone rearranging and you are left weepy as you watch your hair fall out in piles around you. Yep, friends, I'm currently a cross between Sinead O'Connor and Telly Sevalis (now there's a mental image for ya). Surely you have to laugh at that. Then there's how I don't go potty by myself- which to most women may be a right of humanness, but for me is an unrequited luxury. While my darling hubby reads newsweek and enthralling novels while on the can, I get to read, aloud mind you, to Benjamin, things like "How Are You Peeling" a book of moods, illustrated by vegetables and fruits carved into faces of varying contortions (happy, excited, scared, angry- really onions just should never have bucked teeth, people- its not attractive and it would lead any normal person into a state of psychosis in a minute). Now that is funny.

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Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, United States
Forty-three year-old, mother and staunch advocate of four young children, passionate warrior of truth and self, finding the soul in each day, sharing my struggles and triumphs as I live them. Mostly I do this for me, so my thoughts don't race as much at night as they used to. But I also give this to those of you who need to know, in any or every way, that you are not alone.

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