Thursday, April 19, 2012

Simmer down, Uterus.

I've got a fever.  Not even "more cowbell" will cure it.

Our little family fits inside a nice, neat package.  The daddy goes off to work every morning.  The brother and sister go off to school together on the bus.  The mommy stays home and cleans the house, and waits for everyone to arrive home at the end of the day.  If you listen carefully, you can practically hear the "Leave it to Beaver" theme song playing in the background.

Ok, so realistically, the brother and sister are kind of grumpy in the morning, the daddy sleeps until 10:00 in the morning, because he works two jobs and is exhausted by the time he gets off work in the middle of the night, and the mommy doesn't cook and clean nearly as often as she ought to, and hardly ever gets out of her pajamas...

But we are still a little family who fits inside a nice, neat package.  "Balanced" is what Husband calls it.  Two boys, two girls, both parties equally represented.  We are whole.

So tell me why my uterus is all ablaze again, practically sobbing for another baby.
Whenever I see pictures of newborn babies, whenever I read pro-breastfeeding articles, I turn into Fat Bastard ... "GET IN MAH BELLY!"

It's irrational.  We're  broke.  We can't afford the two babies we have.  We can barely afford each other, honestly.  And not only is it irrational, it's next to impossible.  I'm turning 34 next week, and along with me, my uterus is turning 34 next week.  My eggs are turning 34 next week.  I would have to make a baby out of a 34 year old egg.

Oh.  And the fact that I've had a tubal ligation sort of puts a halt to all things reproductive...
I would say in that case it's a pretty fat chance that I'll end up pregnant again in the conventional way.  That whole "virgin Mary" thing was probably a once-in-a-lifetime deal.

I don't miss the indescribable exhaustion that comes both from pregnancy itself, the extreme toll giving birth takes on a woman's body, or the weeks and weeks of sleepless nights that a newborn brings along with it.  I don't miss the crippling postpartum depression that came along with both of my babies.  I don't miss the strange swelling sadness that crept over me every time one of them latched onto my breast, leaving me feeling like a freak of nature and a "bad" mommy.
I don't miss intrusive strangers touching my belly, or asking about my pregnancy progress.
I don't miss rock-hard breasts, the size of cantaloupes.
I don't miss leaky rock-hard breasts the size of cantaloupes.
I don't miss poop-Picassos smeared on the nursery wall, or calling Poison Control because one of my kids drank poison ivy medication...

But I do miss that round, globe-belly.  Laying in bed with my husband, quietly contemplating the person inside, as we both make lazy circles around my protruding belly button.  I miss reciting every name in the "baby name" book, trying to agree on the least awful-sounding name.
I miss feeling intensely satisfied with the indescribably amazing work happening within my body.
The feeling of being warmed from the inside, by the little person growing in my abdomen.

The smell of their little heads.  Nibbling their little toes.  Squeezing their little cheeks...

Motherhood and insanity are nearly interchangeable when you really think about it.

There is something out of this world about holding your baby to your breast, and feeling a connection so deep that it drills itself into your core.  My babies made the sweetest sounds when they nursed.  Sounds that they never made on any other occasion.  I shared that with them.  It is ours.

I am relatively rational when you get right down to it.  That's not to say that I always make rational choices in the end, but in my brain, I'm rational. 
A baby is not rational.

We are usually broke.  My uterus is damaged.  Between the financial and the medical, things are weird for us right now.  A baby is not rational.


When I was 18, a baby was irrational.  We struggled financially, emotionally, and every way in between.  We were stupid and scared and unprepared.

When I was 26, a baby was irrational.  We struggled financially, I struggled emotionally, and every way in between.  We were surprised and scared.

Another eight years has come around again.  We still struggle financially.  I still struggle emotionally.  We still scrape and claw and fight to stay afloat, and keep our little family going...
But I don't feel scared, or unprepared...

It won't happen.  In the end, I know it won't happen.  I will deal with this "baby fever" as rationally as I know how, and I will move on.  In the end, I will feel warm and content with my "balanced" family, as we all grow up together.   I will satiate my uterus with memories, photographs, and baby books, and appreciate what I already have.  Which is a lot.  Which is incredible.  Which is more than many people are afforded.  
I am grateful.

Nature is just nudging me in a big way at the moment.    

Monday, April 16, 2012

Fat, Pagan, Homosexual.

I am sad.

The climate of fellowship in the world becomes icier and icier every day, it seems.  There are hundreds of groups who seek to vilify the members of hundreds of other groups, and there seems no point to any of it.

The rich hate the poor for being, well, poor.  For daring to buy steaks with their food stamps.  For daring to buy cheap food with their food stamps.  For being fat, lazy, dirty, disrespectful...

The poor hate the rich.  For their big, pollution-rich SUVs.  For their apparent hatred of anyone beneath their station.  For their exclusive clubs, their privileged education, for being fat, lazy, disrespectful, condescending...

The thin hate the fat.  For being unhealthy.  For eating a doughnut instead of a salad.  For daring to be fat in public.  For being round and soft, and unapologetic as they eat in public.  For taking up more than their fair share of space.  For being, well, F A T. 

Fat people hate thin people.  For wearing skin-tight pants, or a revealing bathing suit.  For eating a doughnut without guilt.  For being a "skinny bitch" who "needs to eat a sandwich."  For being unhealthy...

The religious people hate the "heathens."  For their non-belief, and refusal to accept what they know is right.  For their sin.  For their unapologetic sex, and reckless lifestyle.  For their homosexuality.  They hate other religions for being "wrong."

The heathens hate the religious.  For their lack of logic.  For their blind belief.  For their weird rituals and beliefs.  Their elitist, exclusive heavens.  For their intolerance and bigotry...

Men hate women.  For their creepy uterine witchcraft.  For their irrational mood swings and uncontrolled bleeding.  For their emotional responses and their absurd demands.

Women hate men.  For their weird smells and controlling nature.  For their lack of compassion and their allergy to monogamy.  For their apparent aversion to hygiene. 

It all seems so irrational, and sad. 
Some of these stereotypes are spot on.  Some are ridiculous, and over-simplified.  Some are a mix of both.
But why does it matter?  Why do we focus so much on how different we are, and forget the very simple fact that we are essentially the same?  We are all the same type of animal, struggling in one way or another to make it another day, creeping ever more near to our ultimate demise.  Every single one of us.  The fat person.  The rich person.  The Pagan person.  Each one of us, struggling toward the same end.

What do we gain by being hateful?  What do we gain by exclusion?  Will I live longer, or have a happier life if I prove to a Christian that the bible isn't real, or is skewed?  Will I live longer if I prove to a man that I can wield a hammer just as well as he can...even while menstruating?
Well I gain riches or social standing if I prove to a thin person that my fat body is every bit as valid as their thin one?

I can't get my brain around the hatred.
I don't want to be hated for being fat any more than a Christian wants to be hated for his bible.
I don't want to be hated for being poor any more than a man wants to be hated for his penis.

I don't want to force someone to marry on my terms.
I don't want to force someone to practice Buddhist rituals.
I don't want to force someone to gain 50 pounds.

Why isn't it ok, that some ideas are different from others?  Why is there such a constant battle for supremacy and rightness?

Why isn't there more patience, and effort to understand one another?

Why is there such a lack of empathy?

You will die.  It is fact.  No matter how much money you gain, or how many people you convert to your religion.  No matter how much weight you lose or gain, or how many houses you own or lose.  You will die.

And I don't want to reach my end, feeling like I have fought and scraped for rightness the entire time.  I don't want to feel as if I've wasted my years, trying to make everyone see things my way.

I want to be loved.  And I want to feel as if I've loved.
It's really just as simple as that.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Mountain climbing

I wanted an excuse to go back to bed this morning.  A sparkling, google-mountain migraine was not the excuse I was looking for.  Eff words.
Don't tell anyone.  But I am secretly relieved that my kid wanted to play hooky from school today, and that I will have someone with me who understands how fucking terrifying this can be.
I'm a big baby.
And probably wont' remember writing any of this tomorrow.

Friday, April 6, 2012

For the love of god...

By no means am I a scholar, or an expert.  But I have studied a bible or two in my day.  Actual study.  Checking several versions of the bible against one another, to determine what I believe to be the meaning behind a particular word or phrase.
I've read it, as one reads a regular book.  I have referred to it for specific "answers."  I have looked up specific passages that have been recommended to me for one reason or another.

I have read along, as murder has been both justified, and admonished.  I have chuckled over strict rules regarding my menses, my sexual behavior, and how to properly kill an animal for both consumption and worship.

I have discovered rules and regulations that vary from absolutely asinine, to good, old-fashioned consideration and courtesy.  I have discovered both abounding contradictions, and gentle requests to love one another.

What I have not found, not in all my 30ish years, is an answer to this;

How does a rational person of religious conviction, get around the most basic requests to love, respect, and keep one another?  How does a rational person "of faith" get around being asked to "love thy neighbor"?

If I engage in homosexual behavior.
If I swear, and smoke, and take the name of your Lord in vain.
If I know and support people who have had abortions, and value their right to do so.
If I admit openly that I don't believe in hell.
If I refuse to force my children to believe, or not to believe in God.
If I prefer to burn candles and "send good thoughts" versus turning to prayer.
If I love, support, and encourage the gay, lesbian and transgender men and women in my life to freely love who they love, without shame.

Do these things allow a person a free pass to hate me, to judge me, to shut me out of their "unconditional" love?  Are they free to deny me basic rights and compassions, because my way of living is in contrast with theirs?

By no means, am I an expert at, well, anything, as it turns out.  And certainly, I don't even come close to qualifying as an expert on religious belief and practice.  But what I know is this...

If there is a god, or some divine being responsible for putting all of us here, that deity doesn't offer applause or the promise of heavenly reward, because a person berates, abuses, or judges others.

If nothing else, one needs only to take a look at the company kept by Jesus himself.  One needs only to look at those for whom he took a stand.  If he wanted you to persecute and judge one another, why didn't he let the angry mob stone the adulteress to death?

I know there are four trillion more things I would like to add to this, but I'll save it for another time.  Or perhaps, save it for the "bitch" blog.

Your input is greatly appreciated.