 It's a metaphor I use often... Wait, is it metaphor??  I'm no longer sure it is metaphor. Is it even a figure of speech?  I don't mean it rhetorically. The high road is a path that I choose daily when it comes to my perspective on coparenting and dealing with FOB. It's a tangible visualization, I can smell the soil and hear the scrape of the rock under my feet. It started in a field. I felt like I had been dropped there after some sort of out of body experience or alien abduction. Dawn breaking over hills and solitude, it is just me and my body ready to work and keep working--from child labor to emotional labor to manual labor. Yeah. It's not a figure of speech.  Aw, man. It has to do with morality? Catholic school just absolutely formed and ruined me on that at the same time. Fine. Let's do that one, too.  OK. I think I've got the gist of that one. I mean, granted, in my existence (as with most humans I think), I have created a gray ground of moral ambiguity so I could sway between, learn from, and exist in right and wrong without hating myself or over loving myself. Like, that line between the black and white part of a yin yang? It's gray.
I guess the point of this post is this. I joke? confess? profess? declare? state? exist? in a place with coparenting where I feel like I build the high road on a daily basis. One little goddess shoulder Mallory says, "fuck that cocksucker he dumped you make him pay {insert maniacal, hurt laughter here} and other Little goddess shoulder Mallory says, ''think of the kid, think of forever, think and build... even if it's hard." And that's who I've tried to listen to for the past year. It's fucking hard. It's me after a year of building. I have a sunburn and my hands are no longer pretty. Water is running low but it looks like it's going to rain soon. I have one giant rock in each hand. Fingers clenched around each piece of earth, withered, broken, bloody, and nails bent. Feet underneath each fist exhausted, confused, vulnerable, holding the world upright. Moving forward continuously with the occasional stumble, building the road as you go means it's always behind you. More earth to move, more to labor. This birds eye view of these hands backed by a mind of thought.... wondering what it will do today. Will it take each rock and smash whatever (or whomever) is in the way to smithereens? Will it continue to build? Will there be an alarm that goes off before the bloodshed at least? Oh, the bloodshed.... it's a metaphor.  I've been ''fortunate'' enough to be able to stay home with my baby since she was born--all ten months.
I use quotey fingers because fortune is one of those concepts that is relative, that's divided, defined by shades of grass, and is certainly fickle. Lemme spell out this ''fortune'' for you--you few who apparently exist and think it's my white privilege? my spoiled luck? my daddy's retirement? mommy's handout? I've lived the last ten months on lock down--zero income with minimal output. All money paid in the form of child support has, in fact, gone to child support--clothing, diapers, breastfeeding expenses, formula, shelter, and medical. All whopping $250 of it. I've taken to nannying (taking to school, picking up from school, and babysitting) my nephew a few days a week so I can pay my phone bill and maybe put gas in my car. I've moved back in with my mother who a) has a house that needs constant work b) has rheumatoid arthritis as a result of her breast cancer so she literally needs a hand constantly c) she's my bestie and was on disability for the last year unable to work d) I'm basically a very loving, very grateful indentured servant e) I'm a really great cook and she needs me. I've had to utterly re-write my existence. I've gone from pre-baby thriving career in art, self-sustained creator to.... a new mom artist, paving her way as she goes, scraping by and saving pennies. Alone. I've set aside personal coping skills, creative skills, social skills, and physical comforts to be with this baby for the last ten months. I'm a shell of a Mallory, a skeleton of a past self, along with the upgrade of mother. Take your ''fortunate'' and turn to your partner and thank them for:
Or... take your fortunate and shove it up your snatch. *shrug* I would not change one damn thing. /rant  The first thing I do when I find myself obligated-ly (I made that word up) baby free... is take 4 ibuprofen. It's good for the swelling and back aches that come along with lugging around a 19.5lb, 30 inch long Nugget of Love around. The Doc prescribed 800mg motrin for postpartum recovery and in my adrenaline haze of ''holy shit baby here'' sleep deprivation rush, I never filled it.
It'd be nice to have, is all. One pill to rule them all. I recommend a light self-medication of the same--whether it be weed or anti-inflammatory meds, it helps in the release of bodily tension everywhere. Marijuana is especially helpful in the shifting of mental gears for some. For me? It just makes me anxietal as FUCK. The next thing I like to do is start laundry. In the name of multitask, wash them sheets, girl. Those baby-weaning night sweats are upon us and they ain't pretty. They're chilly and hot at the same time with cold, clammy toes and bad hair. Don't forget to collect baby socks from every corner of the house and be sure to look under couch and chair. Oh, and bib collection. The really gnarly ones that have blueberry and yogurt all mashed into the fabric. And things that may or may not have touched poop are also very important to wash. Poop likes to hide. Poop has poop spores that float and attach... be thorough. After the laundry is sorted and domination of the machines is expressed, order is claimed.... run the bath. Run it hot. Think of all those showers you've taken in the last week with your Nugget. She gets the warm water droplets dribbled on her, not you. She gets the toys and the giggles. You... you just kind of crouch into a ball in the cold, half wet back of the shower awkwardly hovering like a security guard making sure things are safe and stay safe and safe. Add bubbles to that bath. The ones you bought for you nephew but you secretly love. Yeah, those ones. Not those intense bath bomb things that have glitter and odor and feel like overkill. The only chemical reaction I want to have happen in the tub is cognitive calm brain trance release. And bubbles. Mr. Bubble baby bubbles, actually. Grab that book you've been ''reading'' for over a year. The one that has nothing to do with parenting, self help, communication, child psychology, language and linguistics, things you can't afford, or cartoons. You know the one. Grab this book and open the blinds to let that winter sunshine in. Once you're in, don't forget to look down and see beauty. Remember how amazing the female body is and how our vaginas and lady organs are like re-built engines. Remember to thank your colon for finding it's parking spot again. Remember to thank your body for creating life. Massage your scars in every direction. Still. Always. Put your ears under the water and remember when we had two heartbeats, two separate pulses and one set of lungs. After the bath, pluck those fucking chin hairs. No one is going to tell you about them, so do your face homework. Put on your big girl panties. Don't forget your lashes/lipstick/whateverthefuckmakesyoufeelputtogetherandsexy Change over the laundry. Make a list of all the adulting you have to do:
And attack the day.  It's 9:30 in the morning and I just pounded a beer.
For the first time in what feels like ages I'm home alone. Mom is out running an errand, I took Wyatt to school, Dotty to FOB's, Brother is at work as always... and it's just me. Having to see FOB at 9am on Tuesday mornings makes me want to drink. Makes me want to feel less. Makes me angry. Makes me remember. We're also creeping up on a year dump-iverssary of preggo Mallory and lots of feelings are being trudged up. Feelings that make me want to pound a beer at 9:30am at home because it's better than stopping by Shea's for whiskey and shenanigans I can't afford. I want to dance. It's 10:15 in the morning and I just cracked another beer. I feel like acting out. I feel like being irresponsible. I feel like singing. I feel like screaming. I want a brief reprieve from accountability. I want some recklessness. I want loud music and cleavage and lipstick and posture. I want a red dress and dim lights and musk. I want toothy grins and glitter and glamor and sound. It's 11:30 in the morning and I miss my daughter and her little hands gripping the handle of her car seat. It's 11:30 in the morning and I'm grateful for my life as is, untrapped trying to make happy the unhappy. It's 11:30 in the morning and I need a nap.  I’ve been having a hard time on the inside lately. All the different split up parts of me can’t agree. Or maybe it has nothing to do with agreement, but if feels like everybody’s trying to talk it once and I don’t know which voice to listen to. My life feels like one big sequence of conflicts. Here's a conflict: I’m sick and tired of seeing FOB. I see him four or five times a week, text him every day, first thing in the morning and last thing at night. He feels like the only person I can really share all of Nugget with. You know, cuz he's the other half of her. He is also the last person I want to share anything with. It’s been about a year since he and I were dating and in love. Facebook likes to remind me of memories I’d rather forget, but can’t avoid. It’s a really weird feeling being so utterly heartbroken over the memory of an expectation. He never was what I imagined him to be and we never were exactly what I thought we were but yet sometime how feels like the whole world is wrong. I need space and time, but have to be around him. Here's a conflict: His family is in town. All of them. His sisters, niece, nephew, Mother. I’ve been a really really good sport about exposing Nugget to this family. Encouraging it actually. They're very nice people, don't get me wrong. It's just that... I had to sit in his apartment yesterday for the first time since he dumped me. And yes, remember, he dumped me. And I haven’t sat in the apartment since the last time I was there when all I could do was sob and wail and question. When I was shattered and forced out. Not that long ago... when I was so pregnant and alone. I can't be in those rooms anymore. I don't know how not to be for Nugget's sake. So to be sitting there with my four-month-old baby with the enemy and all of his support system... it hurt. I felt like I was being tested not just emotionally, but literally being tested. Every diaper I changed his sister and Mother watched like a hawk. Or at least I felt like they did... My fingers fumbled. I felt like I was cracking under weight of judgement and eyes. These are just the feelings I have with others. They don’t even begin to touch the feelings I have myself about myself....about who I am now or who I am as a Mother... or who I was but I am now. There are so many voices shooting off inside me from different parts of me that I’d love to get control of. Maiden to Mother to Crone. Alone. Here's a conflict: maybe I need to pump up the Prozac dosage? Maybe I need more pill to feel more me? Maybe that would just be bottling everything up further? Can breastfeeding take more pill? Can Dotty? Will I ever create again on these drugs? Here's a conflict: My Mother hates him. Can't stand him. Can't take what he's done to her daughter and granddaughter so we live in moments of utter secrecy and silence in regard to him. The air fills with tension. I censor what I say or what has happened. I am careful to emote. I think of her feelings before my own. I tip toe where I sleep. Here's a conflict: still haven't spoken to my sister. Still abiding by her desire and proclamation to leave her and her family the fuck alone. Still don't feel guilty about it. Still totally happy with the decision--and when I talk about it with other people, they try to convince me otherwise. Maybe that's the problem? Thinking of Nugget's feelings before my own.... Nugget's and my Mom's and FOB's and who ever else I'm in the room with. All go before mine. As a courtesy, as a recovering Catholic, as a human. I've always jumbled up my feelings, my future, my worth, my goals, my heart, my brain... with whomever I'm entangled with--lover or friend. And here I've gone and made another human I'm so connected with for eternity... without backing up the structure of myself completely that I feel lost as her leader and protector. Here's a conflict: Feeling lost while not going anywhere. 
 Wow.
Making time for me is hard. Making time for you is hard. Making time for anything other than boob and baby is hard. I mean, as I sit here and type this... my magnificent nails are clickety clicking off the keys because they've had all this time to grow and not be nubbed down by blogging and keyboard. You have to rearrange your survival program every week. It's like you have to bake an entirely new pie and divvy up all the slices completely differently every time you need to do something. Last week's pie was consumed by Nugget's vaccines and a make-up shower party sip and see thing--both of which took incredible mental and physical preparation. Every morning of the week I was up by five preparing one thing or another--one pie for organizing, one pie for cleaning, one pie for moving furniture, one pie for time with her Dad, one pie for shopping for supplies, one pie for research... A lot of pies. It's really easy to neglect the pie for me. The one that brushes her teeth... once a day if she's blessed, every other day if she's lucky... and when the teeth sweaters start to rub together if she can. That sweet self-care pie that showers, shaves, makeups, eats, socializes, creates, and sleeps. It's a mythical pie. Doesn't exist. Yet. Still working on the recipe. I think it involves asking for help and sharing--both of which I'm terrible at when it comes to most things, especially Nugget. She has recently allowed me to sleep in longer increments because we've begun co-sleeping. I haven't given up on the crib by any means. I don't want her sleeping in my bed when she's older than a couple months (fingers crossed), but it sure beats sleeping sitting up... or in a chair. Sidenote: I'm done shaming myself for co-sleeping. People act like parents who co-sleep want to murder their babies in the bed, like we don't understand the risks, like we're doing everything all wrong. To that, I kindly say--fuck off. Thanks but no thanks. Not sorry, not sorry. Worry about something else for the sake of humankind and leave us to rest, thankyouverymuch. We sleep from about 10pm to 6am, waking up twice to feed and handle her night shits. I've begun dreaming again... which is nice and also awful. I guess it's good because it means I'm getting deeper sleep, but it also means my subconscious has presented it's own pie. I dream that he and I are still together, but usually down the dreamland narrative twist he abandons me, betrays me, ignores me--basically breaks my heart again. It repeats literally like a broken record and feels eerily similar to real life except for the sensation of knowing/expecting the outcome of sadness. If that makes sense? My dream self knew this pie was coming... and seems to want to say 'I told you so.' Almost every night and nap he makes an appearance, casually showing up and curving the content of whatever might be happening to dramatic feelings not to be ignored. This pie tastes like shit and leaves my eyes wet and mouth dry when I wake up. I don't know how to stop it. I guess it will stop itself in time. I live and breathe for this baby. I sacrifice my comfort for her happiness. I do it all day, all night, all the time. Dream time and sleeping is the very last thing of my own and I.... I just.... wish it could really be all mine. I wish it would protect me. I wish my subconscious would cast him the fuck out and be somewhere I can dream about flying and sex again. Sans him. For good.  It is beginning of the night shift and I’m, again, full of naive hope. It’s been five weeks of scavenging for sleep and the puzzle to achieve it changes every day. Nuggles is... particular:
She likes to sleep on her back then her belly then her side and always on me. She does her best farting with a death grip bundle of my hair in her tiny renegade fist. Her tiny egg-sized belly is the decider of all punctuality and timing. She enjoys JeepJeep but dislikes wearing beanies. She dislikes swaddling, but also dislikes scratching her face. Baths and showers are soothing tools of comfort...until THEY ARE FUCKING NOT AND HOW DARE I!?!? She prefers guitar over piano and female vocalists over male (unless it’s Hendrix or Gregory Alan Isakov). Pacifiers suck. Nipples por vida. Just to name a few things. I'm at her disposal really and it's a steep curve of learning in order to function. (as I sit here, attempt #15 to be productive, with my Boba wrap on and empty, breastfeeding on my boppy pillow, propped up at my desk awkwardly typing one handed over a little boob princess) The good news is....last night... I GOT SOME SLEEP. I'm not quite sure how much... or when... but prolly around five hours total. And. AND! I got it in my bed. In my beautiful, big, comfy bed. Nugget slept in the basket beside me and... it was heaven. As a new first time Mom, you read and research and compare and re-read articles and books. You listen politely and often blindly to the advice of others and come to decisions through imaginative deductive future reasoning. I've read about car seat safety, safe sleep safety, breastfeeding safety, germ safety, bath safety, babywearing safety, food safety... all....safety. And I can't help but wonder how many times these individuals and organizations have been sued to compel them to preemptively declare all this safety and for the world to get behind and push it down throats. Meanwhile it's the older generations of Mothers who tell us new Moms about how she used to do it. "When you were a baby I would..." "You used to be able to..." "I dunno about all that, but I would...." "If I were you I would..." "Maybe you should..." There's a lot of listening and reading woulds and shoulds as a new Mom. *****and no, Mom, I'm not just picking on you***** In the end, you have to do what works for you, not just the Kiddo. How do I keep my sanity being a single parent responsible for my five week old 24 hours a day... every day? We cat nap--we attempt.... to cat nap. We attempt in chairs, on couches, in bed, in bassinets, in cribs, in swings. We try everywhere and everything. We try it in the morning, we try it at night--we try it at noon time, what a delight! It usually boils down to me stuffing pillows and baby blankets along my sides in the recliner so as to lock me into position. I feed her on the boppy, slowly and delicately remove the gummy nipple at the end, and carefully place her on my chest... eventually we recline slightly... and maybe we get an hour or two nap. As a matter of fact, it's time for another attempt. Wish us luck!  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. 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. |
Author
Mallory Kate is a blogger, artist, single mom and funny girl outta Nevada. What She Said
December 2020
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