Sorry for not posting the last few weeks, my sugar dumplings. I haven’t even been able to brush my teeth...which reminds me, I hafta cancel my dentist appointment. And hair appointment. And breastfeeding class...and baby shower.

I am only posting this for posterity. I haven’t told friends or some family members cuz...there’s no point and I don’t wanna be one of those “woe is me” martyr types. Doesn’t suit me. My smile is too nice for that.

Saturday morning, two weeks ago, my adorable Mom requested we do another driving dry run to my birth hospital so she could reabsorb the lay of the route and land. Considering she’s my getaway baby driver, this is not a request to ignore. If you know my Mom or have a Mom, you’ve witnessed the dangers, frustrations, and worry of Mom Driving. It can be a real challenge for all parties involved. Moms often utilize backwards routes, attempts to turn only to be somehow thwarted, routinely drive around the block so as to confirm and reconfirm destination certainty, and most Moms express the need for the passenger to not sigh, squirm, make a face, or comment on drivers' skill... which makes the entire event high risk.
​So when Mom expresses a need to re-digest a vehicular situation of importance, we encourage a patient slow chew.
Furthermore, for the last three ish weeks I’ve had consistently awful rib pain. Front, middle back, throbbing. It’s kept me up at night, annoyed me in the day, and confused me... I’ve iced it, I’ve heated it, I’ve massaged it, and inquired the Googs and my Doc and other preggo ladies for wisdom. No avail.
I was told and figured it was just pregnancy irritation and par for the third trimester course.
Bummer, but manageable.
When Mom mentioned she wanted the dry run, I thought it’d be a good chance to get that checked out...ease my mind a little.

So off we went.
And there I stayed.
Four days later in the antepartum wing, hooked up, drugged, exhausted, stinky and trying to halt preterm labor.
😬

After arriving safely via Mom driving, we waddled up to L&D and we’re met by fresh faced, lovely nurses who basically said they can’t tell me squat without getting officially checked in.
Ok.
Can do.
I was hooked up to baby heartbeat monitor and contraction monitor and, well, monitored.
For a long time.
A really long time.
I was seen by Nurse 1 who, after 6-7 hours of monitoring, noticed I was having contractions. Big ish ones, every 2-5 minutes...that I could NOT FEEL.
Nurse 1 checked my junk and said, “yep, 1-2 dilated, 70% effaced...”
In comes Doctor 1 and shots and panic and meds and surprise and off I was wheeled to admitting and a labor room.
Nurse 2 checked my junk and said, “yep, 2-3 dilated, 80% effaced...”
Thank goodness my Mom was there...we just couldn’t believe it.
Doctor 1 checked my junk and said, “yep, 3 dialated, 80% effaced...”
So more shots and pills and waiting and wondering. Still no contraction pain...
Admitted officially to labor, paperwork signed, fears felt, NICU explained, potentials discussed, and Doctor 1 checked my junk again and said, “yep, 4 dialated, 80% effaced...”

I had more hands in my junk in 20 hours than I have had in months. Like, literally and literally.

After rib pain inquiry and a jolly jaunt in the car—preterm labor was the haps and I hadn’t even brought a water bottle.
Round the clock meds considering they wouldn’t let me take the ones I’d brought from home... antacids, Prozac, benedryl, antibiotics, steroids, procardia, to name a few. There is no real rest to be had in a hospital... and nurses come in all shapes, sizes, and personalities.

Eventually and on day four my dear OB came in, gently cervical checked me, reduced me to 3.2 dilation and 80%, and released me unto my own recognizance with the direction of modified bed rest.

It's been a whirlwind—hospital and home.
I couldn’t believe I couldn’t feel any contractions. Am I just so tough? Supermom? Naive?

Now, my mind feels everything first:
Every spasm and twinge, a panic.
Every gaseous thud, a worry.
Every pee, a search for blood or mucus or clot.
Every night, a dream of water breaking.
Endless worry about preemie care, Nugget’s health, my comfort, “the plan,” and the realization that even the tiny things you thought you could control...you can’t.
Birth plan, schmirth plan.
Let’s just have a healthy baby, healthy mama.

The gist of the goal seemed to be to keep Kiddo in the oven until at least the 36 week mark, which is this upcoming Tuesday. After that, birth away! I will be able to walk, attend, socialize, move, drive, shop, and visit. All my energy has gone into research and worry and power baking this Kiddo... I haven’t doodled or written a thing until now.
I decided to illustrate my birth plan.
Ha.
Seems fitting, having Kiddo on Pride Rock after half a ward was up my cooter and giving me drugs.
​

Someday I'm going to date again and, right now, that thought is fucking repulsive.

I never thought I would have kids. As a matter of fact, I thought I was impregnable, unable, defunct. I thought the plumbing was off and I was in the clear. It's not that I don't like kids, I LOVE kids. All kids. Your kids, their kids, all the kids. Even the nasty little shit kids that throw rocks--love them too. I just figured it wasn't in the cards for me, my awesome artist life, my selfish existence, and something I would be rather unwilling to adapt to....

Until I found out I was pregnant.
With him.
FOB.
He and I.
And I loved him so fully, so wholeheartedly, so sweet and blindly...
and my fate had gone behind my back and chosen this male human to be my partner for the rest of my life...
Who was I to argue with that?

*sigh*

I chose to keep Nugget, chose life, chose love, and chose to parent along side FOB. I settled into the vision of our future and it fit like a glove. Dual language home, two full extended families of love, life goals still persuadable together, and nobody pretending he or she knew the answers because all of the questions were not yet written. Building our foundation one solid pebble at a time.
I thought I'd never be want of love and companionship again... that I had someone all in, 200%, flaws and all...

*sigh*

I went to my 34 week appointment yesterday with my Mom. We were sitting in the OB's office and all these cute, terrified couples were wandering in and out of care, pregnant, holding hands and paperwork... and my Mom caught me giving a pair of knocked-up lovers the evil fucking glare. I wasn't even doing it on purpose. My eyes and brows just sort of came together and ambushed the rest of my face into judgement and hate.
"Ha. You just gave those people the meanest look, Mal."
"I hate their happiness..." I said quickly and without thought so I know I meant it.
"Ha ha ha oh, honey, they're not happy . Don't worry. No one in a relationship is."


And we laughed at the probable truth of that statement. It was comforting for a while and in those moments of relationship envy and hollowness, I can think about that statement and be mildly comforted. I think about that a lot lately, as spring approaches and I begin to actually leave my house.

Valentine's Day is coming.... and the 14th of the month was sort of our anniversary, mine and FOB's. This one we had made plans to go to a show and for some reason, in my romantic and blissed out imagination, I thought we'd get engaged. I don't know why. FOB never said he'd wanted to marry me... he was ''uncomfortable'' with that thought, too. I remember once we were talking about insurance right after finding out that I was pregnant with his child that he didn't want to marry me to give me insurance and that he "wanted to get married for the right reasons." Dick, right?
​Valentine's Day has always been a joke for me. Something to point and laugh at, shelter myself from, and wryly mock as it passes. In the past I've made cupcakes of hate to dole out at the bar, little baked black cupcakes with angry words like ''herpes'' and ''I hate you'' delicately designed on banners of fondant with roses on top.  It wasn't until this past year of love, pregnancy, and hormones that I actually wanted something to happen on it, that I actually envisioned a romantic event... that I actually set myself up for incredible sadness upon it's empty arrival and passing.

Christ, this post is ''WOE IS ME.''

*sigh*

Anyway, someday... I'm going to have to date again. Just like the rise and fall of the sun and moon, dick has a tendency to call and I've always been it's number one fan. This truth seems like a joke right now, but I know myself.

Someday... there will be date.
It's going to have to be someone I don't meet in a bar. A sober fellow cuz I can only handle dating one person inside one person at a time.
I cannot meet him online--that's the most bullshit of all bullshit you could probably feed someone before actually setting foot in a room together.
I cannot meet on some other new age social media app--your instagram love of me is not real.
We'll have to meet during daylight hours because as of right now it's an Olympic event preparing for any kind of anything past 5pm.
Unless he's my postman, we'll probably have to meet outside my house and beyond my doorstep... which I've left a handful of times in the last few months.

Fucking. Repulsive.


*sigh*

I just want to complain for a minute.
Most of the rumors are true.
Third trimester is filled with all the same yuck of the first, but with added shittiness for flavor.

You lose your lungs, you lose your vagina.
You can't tend to your feet so those turn into hideous, dead skin bird claws.
Your Nugget grows and pushes your ribs out and heat and ice soothe none.
It's exhausting just to masturbate so... yeah, no.
You pee on your hands every time you're asked for a urine sample, which is now weekly.
Your face swells and the glow you had turns into sweat. And more sweat.
Your gums NEVER STOP BLEEDING.
Sleep. Ha. That's a fucking joke.
You can't even bring yourself to leave the house to pickup more antidepressants.
Your joints weaken and every little thing is amplified into a world of discomfort and awkward.
Nothing stays clean after you clean it so you just keep cleaning things again and again.
You fret over every movement the Nugget makes.
You fret over every movement the Nugget doesn't make.
You're tired of belly touches and unsolicited advice.
Heartburn. All of the heartburn. Torches. wildfires, burning everywhere all the time.
You have no income and haven't had any for a long time which is ridiculous.
You've had no contact with FOB and haven't seen the man IN TWO MONTHS who so convincingly dumped you to be friends to be there every step of the way by your side through this pregnancy (BAHAHAH! hilarious, right?)
Your back hurts from building the high road, being uncomfortable, and sleeping akimbo.
Your arms hurt from holding you back from every run away thought you want to have, but shouldn't.
Your heart hurts cuz it still hasn't forgotten anything.
Your mind races after every weird dream you have, admiring all the things still undone.

And seven weeks left.

Allegedly.

Until you become a Mom.
A Mom.
Whatever that is.
Aside from a big, dark unknown blank spot.

There is no comfort, only Zuul.