So, I took this test when I woke up this morning….

And, if it’s not total bullshit, I will soon have three penises in my life.

This makes me a little relieved.

I totally feel like I can fuck up a little boy way less than a little girl.

You know?

I guess we will see how accurate these things are in a few weeks.

Hope your holidays were happy.

xoxo

I am pregnant.

And, I am sad.

Don’t get me wrong, I know how fortunate I am to be able to get pregnant.  Not a single day goes by that I don’t think about this and I am so thankful.

I want this baby. I do. But all of this, all of these feelings, are so hard for me to understand.  And, even harder for me to feel.

I hate talking about how sad or down I get during pregnancy because OH MY GOD WOE IS ME! I know how many women, friends included, would kill to be pregnant.  I should just shut up, suck it up, and enjoy every single moment.

I felt this way with my first pregnancy.  But, it wasn’t until I delivered my sweet, sweet boy, that I realized how dark things had become.  He came out and a light turned on somewhere in my head. Like this huge cloud, I didn’t even realize was hanging over me, was lifted.

And all of this, while I was taking an anti-depressant. Sigh.

I experienced pre-term contractions with my son and was basically stuck in bed for two months.  Looking back, I attributed all of the negative emotions to being nervous about the baby and feeling so isolated.

Until now. Until this pregnancy.

I barely found out that I was pregnant and, already, the waves of yuck, sadness, and anxiety have taken over.

Thankfully, with my doctor’s support, I am still taking my little blue happy pill.  I can’t imagine how I would deal without it.

But, this time around it’s harder.  I have someone other than myself to think about. I need to be in a good place for my son.  I don’t want to just go though the motions with him. But, for the past couple of weeks, it seems that’s all I’ve been doing.

I have a history of anxiety and the blues, and the pregnancy hormones make it so much worse.  I feel like I am on the verge of a full on panic attack at any moment. Something I am feeling now, as I type these words. Ugh.

Before I was pregnant, I could reach for a cigarette or a drink to calm my nerves. Now that none of these things are an option, it makes me all the more anxious.

I debated sharing my pregnancy news so early.

I am still at the stage where every time I wipe after using the restroom, I hold my breath, slowly bring the toilet paper into view, and pray it’s not streaked with blood.

But, I need to be honest.  Not only for myself, but for my son, my unborn baby, and my husband.

Not talking about it is only going to make it worse and make me feel more isolated.

I need to talk about it to keep me somewhat sane.  And you know what?  There is something very cathartic about screaming I FEEL CRAZY from the rooftops.

Don’t worry, you guys can put away the straight jackets, because I’ve also decided to see a professional.

As much as my husband wants to help me, he has no idea what to say. And, really, I have no idea what I need him to say.

I’ve also decided to get off my lazy butt and try some prenatal yoga. I mean, it can’t hurt. Not worse than this, anyways.

Finally, and this is where all you people who live in my computer come in, I am going to need lots of chocolate and lots of hugs. And foot rubs. Oh, yes, you will rub my feet.

I am looking forward to sharing this journey with you guys.

All of it.

Even when it’s not dressed up all nice and pretty.

(P.S. I haven’t pooped in a week and I am thinking this may be contributing to the sadness. Curse you, prenatal vitamins, curse you!)

In jail with hookers.

That’s where I spent my 25th birthday.

The girls that were in with me, were the best.  They looked out for me and gave me their bologna sandwiches and listened to me cry for hours on end.  They sang me happy birthday and I learned that they had families and stories, too. I guess what I am trying to say is, never judge a hooker by her Lucites.

Anyway, I am so lucky to have been there.

Because, I could have been dead. Or worse, someone else could have been dead.

But, everyone was alive and I was sitting in a jail cell with a pounding headache.

And, I was still pretty drunk.

In the cutest little birthday dress ever.

My face was black with mascara from crying so hard and begging like a belligerent, little, spoiled brat not to be arrested.

“Hmph! I’m not a criminal!”

Freezing cold.

Hungry.

Terrified to the bone.

I woke up in jail not remembering what had happened.

I’ve been told that I’d fought with my boyfriend, taken my car keys, gotten into my car and tried to drive home, tried being the operative word because I didn’t make it very far. I had an accident with an apartment gate and another car.  A car with a person in it.  An innocent, hard working woman, driving home from her second job at two in the morning.

I was drunk and I hit her with my car.

The thought of that, eight years later, still makes me shiver with the what could have beens.

What if she had gotten hurt?

Or worse.

I was so incredibly ashamed. With good reason.

Sitting in jail for 15 hours was the single worst experience ever.

And I won’t even talk about how much the entire experience cost financially.

But, I am so grateful.

For all of it.

Because, what if I hadn’t gotten arrested that night? What if I’d picked up those keys again, the next weekend, after drinking too much?

The thought of makes my food want to come back up.

So, let’s get one thing straight.

I’m not here to tell you to stop enjoying your nights out, or your good wines, or your holiday parties, or your blowing off steams…

Because, I certainly didn’t.

I’m just telling you not to behave like an irresponsible jerk, with no regard for human life.

The message is so simple.

Do not drive if you’ve had anything to drink.

It’s not worth it.

A taxi-cab costs so much less.

I’ve never been crafty.

I’m still not.

But, that doesn’t keep me from trying.

Keep in mind that my kid watched me do all of this. Content to watch and eat all the candy.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this little masterpiece is all mine.

I’m a quitter….

Looks like Mr. Bread had a rough night…

My kid thinks I’m special…

E for effort?

I’ve had boob issues most of my life.

Big ones.

It was all good up until I hit puberty and my boobs grew to the size of my head.

Then one day my boobs and I moved to a new high school, in a new town. More specifically, it was the summer leading up to my freshman year of high school.

I didn’t really understand just how big my boobs were until then.

Until I was anointed “Cheech,” short for Chichona which, in Spanish, pretty much means “Big tits.”

Awesome.

This is kind of off topic, but why the heck do people assume you’re easy if you have big boobs? Stop it. My easiness had nothing to do with the size of my boobs.

I went through high school perpetually self-conscious of my boobs.

It wasn’t so much the size of them, as the location.  Let’s just say gravity struck at a young age. And they are so perky, did not apply to me.

When I graduated from high school, my mom asked me if I wanted a breast reduction or a car.

“Get these things off of me, Mom. Now.”

I bid farewell to some of my boobs when I was nineteen years old.

I went out a few weeks later and bought cute bathing suits.

No regrets.

Back to now.

I love my boobs. I do. But, damn it, my left one is slightly bigger than my right one.

And I wouldn’t care, because it’s not like the imbalance is noticeable, but I can never find a bra that fits just right.

I have to tighten one strap more than the other, and this causes a shift. Then I am stuck with the double boob because one spills out a little over the cup.

I am stuck fixing my double boob all day long, desperately trying to get it back to single boob status.

TRUE STORY: I was checking out at the store the other day and I fixed my boob through my sleeve really fast.  I didn’t think the cashier was looking. Well, apparently, he was. He was all, “Oh! Ha! Ha! I thought you kept your credit card in your bra and you were reaching for it. Ha ha ha.”

No! No Ha ha!

Crap. I really need help before I feel myself up in public again.

This is where you come in.

I’m hoping someone has a fabulous bra recommendation.

Do they make custom bras?

Is there something like a no double boob bra on the market?

I don’t want to spend anymore money on a bra that doesn’t fit right.

My boobs and I would very much appreciate the help.

This fetus is trying to kill me.

I have zero energy and a million things to do.

So, until I can sit down and write a proper post, I present to you, another nonsense blog filler.

The Train Incident

This is what happens when you lay on the floor around your child’s battery powered trains.

I am not even going to tell you guys how long this took to get out of my hair.

Two hours.