First off, let me make it really clear that this is not a post about bashing people who believe differently than I do. While it’s true, I have very strong opinions on politics, and everything else, this is absolutely not the space for them.

Plus, I love it that we all have such different views on things.

Diversity is rad, and I embrace it.

(The judgment, I can do without.)

I have friends who are Republican, Democrat, Independent, and friends who don’t care about anything other than the legalization of marijuana and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

Different strokes for different folks and, as long as you don’t try and shove your opinions down the throats of others, it’s all good.

I mean, you and I may have different views on how the economy should be handled, but I welcome it.

I’m all for intelligent discourse.

Besides, I’m more of a social issues girl, anyway. Numbers make me all dizzy and nauseous, and sometimes itchy.

But (oh, stop, you knew it was coming), the moment someone attempts to support their logic with hate (homophobia, racism), religion (the kind that makes them intolerant to other beliefs), or erroneous information, all I hear is blah blah blah.

And, if you attempt to shove your dogmatic views down my throat when I’ve never even asked your opinion?

My head might explode.

It’s rude and much too personal.

Sometimes when this happens, I’m simply no longer interested in engaging. Other times, steam begins to shoot out my ears, my head spins around, and I can do nothing but engage.

Keeping my mouth shut is, admittedly, a big fault of mine. But, there is one thing you can count on. I would NEVER send someone an unsolicited email shouting my beliefs at them, while telling them their own are wrong.

And this, my friends, is how we got to right now.

There are people who insist on sending me political and religious emails, most of which can be disproven with a thirty second Google search. You know the ones, they exist on both ends of the political spectrum, and almost always consist of bogus information and scare tactics.

It began months ago.

The first few times it happened, I politely asked to be removed from the list.

Nothing.

So, then I resorted to the trusty Reply All —> send a Snopes Link move, hoping I’d just annoy myself right off the list.

Again, nothing. They kept coming.

Then I began to get angry.

Angry at my Gmail filter for ignoring me when I shouted that these emails were junk. And pissed off at these people for being so incredibly rude.

I think it was the one that read, “Watch this video of our UGLY First Lady. God Bless,” that sent me over the edge.

Sorry, but I highly doubt God would bless that kind of shit.

Sidenote: I let a lot of dumb emails slide.

Like, those that claim you must forward to twenty people by four o’clock, or you will turn into Teen Wolf at midnight and burn in the fiery embers of hell for all of eternity.

Dumb? For sure.

But, I get that these people are superstitious. And probably really old. And since they’re not mean-spirited,  I click delete and move on.

And I may have let these emails slide, too, but they were mean spirited.

Built with hateful rhetoric.

And when it comes to that kind of talk, the dude does not abide.

So, I did what I do best and ran my mouth. I’m not exactly sure if my goal was to change their minds or piss them off.

Probably a little of both.

Below is the actual transcript, copied and pasted, of this exchange (leaving out the repetitive ones). All names have been replaced (except mine) with Muppet characters, to protect the outraged.

Because Muppets make everything more fun!

Ain’t no party like a Muppet party cause a Muppet party don’t stoooooop!

(Sorry.)

And, also, because I’m not that big of a dick.

Think of this as a sort of Public Service Announcement, if you will, on what happens when you send these types of emails.

Everyone gets all huffy and puffy and bent out of shape. And no one can even see or hear anyone else, from so high up on their horse. In the end, everyone ends up taking their ball and walking away, leaving with the exact same opinions and convictions that they started with.

It’s a lose-lose situation, for sure.

So, unless you’re sure someone feels the same way you do, please refrain from adding them to your ranty, opinionated, personal emails.

Because, mark my words, it will always turn into a shit-show.

Much like the one below.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hilda:

Catholic Election AD to air soon!

WHOA!! You have GOT TO SEE this 3-minute ad……….and pass it along to everyone you know!!   (It’s actually just over 2 minutes and then there are credits…..)

THE MOST IMPORTANT ELECTION IN AMERICAN HISTORY IS COMING UP. THIS IS TRULY A DECISIONAL ELECTION FOR OUR COUNTRY. EITHER WE RETURN TO THE VALUES AND FREEDOMS GIVEN TO US BY GOD AND BRING GOD BACK OR WE HAND OVER OUR RIGHTS AND FREEDOMS TO LEAD US INTO ANOTHER COMMUNIST NATION, WITHOUT GOD, WITHOUT RELIGION, ONE WORLD GOVERNMENT AND ONE WORLD CURRENCY.

My neighbors went on vacation for a week, asking me to care for Yeti again. Even leaving milk in the fridge. So trusting, those two. Before she left, Niki warned me that Yeti liked to play a little rough.

I asked her if he happened to be reading 50 Shades of Grey.

He is not.

Apparently, he’s just inherently a sick fuck.

I laughed it off, explaining to her that my cat likes to play bite, too.

But, now the only one laughing is Yeti. And maniacally, I might add.

He doesn’t simply play bite. He literally dive-bomb attacks me every time I turn my back on him. The past three days, I’ve had to run to the front door backwards, in order to escape unscathed.

That pussy is just not right in the head.

So far, I’ve survived half the time they’re to be gone. But, I’m not going to lie, I doubt I’ll make it to the end with all my digits intact. He’s already managed to sink his teeth in me three times. Yeti seems to have it out for me, big time.

After reading his diary, his intentions are clear.

Yeti is trying to murder me, you guys.

Should this be my last correspondence, please remove all pornography from my safe before my mom finds it.

Also, oddly enough, Yeti sounds exactly like Stewie from Family Guy.

* * *

Dear Diary,

The humans have gone away again. The loud female, with the great rack, from across the street has been instructed to care for me, as if I’m some sort of invalid. She brings with her a short human who defecates in his pants and pulls my tail. I’ve been up all day plotting her slow and painful demise. My claws could prove my greatest secret weapon, being that she had her own cat’s methodically ripped out one by one. Animals! All of them! I must go now, and perch myself atop the stairs to wait on her arrival.

Stoically,
Yeti

* * *

Dear Diary,

The human, who the short one refers to as Mommy, was over late last night to tend to my needs. I let her scratch my ass briefly. I mustn’t let her know my evil ways if I’m to carry out my brutal attack tomorrow. I must earn her trust, before I claw her eyes out. So, I purred loudly, warming them to me. The nickname she anointed me with almost foiled my plans, but I kept my shit together like a boss, and was able to resist attacking her prematurely. I must sleep now, for tomorrow I shall proceed with biting her limbs off one by one.

Love never,
Yeti

* * *

Dear Diary,

I greeted Mommy at the door today, warmly. She naively followed me into the kitchen with a dumb look on her face. I graciously allowed her to clean my litter box, before my initial attack. She then began some sort of strange human ritual, waving a string back and forth before me on the kitchen floor. I became captivated by said string for a few minutes, hypnotized if you will. She was almost successful in breaking me, because fuck that game is fun, but I predictably persevered, resisting her devilish woman ways. Moments later, I went in for my first bite, expecting her to taste like chicken. She did not. After a few more attacks, she quickly ran to the front door, escaping to freedom. As she turned, I gave her a brief warning stare through the window. Tomorrow, I shall finish her off.

Uncordially,

Yeti

* * *

Dear Diary,

Just as I suspected, Mommy returned again today, despite my aggressive warnings to stay away. It must be due to the promise my humans made to bring her back a bottle of tequila from Mexico. Her intense craving for alcohol proved too strong, crushing any fear I instilled in her yesterday. She showed up with a white plastic bag of some sort, containing a juvenile toy filled with catnip. At first I became rather excited, but that quickly turned to rage upon discovering she had purchased it at Walgreens, rather than PetSmart.  In the feline kingdom, we call this cheap version of catnip, schwag. And Yeti don’t play that. She also attempted to give me milk again. Stupid human, what part of vegan doesn’t she understand? Any mercy I may have felt for her has since dissipated, replaced by intense fury. There is no question now. She must pay with her life.

Worst,

Yeti

To be continued…

We added the BabyFirst TV channel to our Direct TV line-up right after we had Luca. He loved it so much and it allowed me to shower at least once a week…sometimes I’d even have a chance to shave one of my legs, minus the knee, obviously.

In 2008, BabyFirst was something like $4.99 extra a month. And since I’m sure certain people in my house have paid more for porn at some point in their life….

Anyway, it was so worth the extra money.

AND, AND, AND! They’ve recently dropped the extra fee and it’s now included in their standard package.

Leo will not pay attention to any other channel, but put this on and he drops everything he’s doing…which is mainly just putting shit in his mouth and pooping…and becomes fixated on it.

He laughs and smiles and claps during all of their programming, but he definitely has his favorite. It features three giant mice and makes you wonder if someone dropped some acid in your morning glass of orange juice.

AND THE TRACTOR SONG IS LIKE HIS MOST FAVORITE THING IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD.

Here, take a look at what happens when I put it on.

I included two videos, because he only did the little up and down dance in one, and I DIE with that move.

Important to note, he is sick here, but those freaky ass mice still can make him groove.

Happy Sunday, friends!

I’ll be parenting solo for the next couple of days.

Hold me.

Before I had Luca, I was adamant about many things.

Like, he wasn’t going to watch too much television.

Now, at almost four years old, he can pretty much belt out every cartoon theme song that’s ever be written.

He wouldn’t be big juice drinker, because of the sugar factor. Selfishly, this was more for my benefit than his, because HAVE YOU SEEN A KID CRACKED OUT ON FRUIT PUNCH?

This bit me in the ass hard, after discovering he was allergic to the milk I’d been poisoning him with for two years.

I would not spoil him with material things.

He has approximately 4,034 dinosaurs.

And the big one, I WILL NOT BE A CO-SLEEPER! Nothing against people who are, it just wasn’t for me. My bed was my bed and his was his.

End of story.

Until it wasn’t.

He now crawls into my bed every. single. night. around one in the morning, sometimes earlier.

It hasn’t always been this way. He used to fall asleep on his own each night, and wake up in his own bed each morning.

I can’t recall exactly when it happened, maybe sometime towards the end of my pregnancy with Leo, or when we switched him to a big boy bed in another room, or possibly when he became aware of things that go bump in the night.

Whatever the catalyst was, it caused me to begin lying next to his bed each night, until he was out cold.

This backfired on me rather quickly. He grew accustomed to having me by his little side when trying to fall back asleep. So, when he’d wake up throughout the night and I was gone, he couldn’t go back to sleep without me.

I became his security blanket…his pacifier.

Fine, as long as he was still sleeping in his own room, I could deal.

Then one day he got sick with something minor, probably a cold, so I brought him into my bed to snuggle.

And again the next night.

And the next.

Everyone had an opinion on it, as everyone usually does.

Ohhhh, bad move. You’re never going to get him out of your bed now. Tough love. Let him cry. It will only take a few nights.

Everyone’s balls are so much bigger from the sidelines, aren’t they?

But, it wasn’t like he was being a spoiled child or taking advantage of my weak nature. My Luca is so very sensitive. To everything. And, for this, I am so very grateful. Because, I want him to be sensitive. But, as little as he is, it can be really tough to process, and feel, all those emotions.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a total pushover. If he’s throwing a fit because I won’t buy him a toy, I have no problem letting him throw himself on the floor, kicking and screaming.

I don’t indulge that sort of behavior with him.

Most days, anyhow.

But, this? This is different.

The kid is terrified of the dark. How can I possibly take a tough love approach?

I’m especially sensitive to this because I was TERRIFIED of the dark as a child. For years, I’d lie awake at night in tears, my tiny body buried under my covers, because everyone knows they make you invisible. I’ll always remember the sweet relief that came with crawling into my mom’s bed.

For the past year, I’ve tried to get him to stay in his bed. There have been many late night shouting and crying matches, leaving us both frustrated and drained.

Then one day a thought occurred to me. I pictured myself a decade from now, looking back on this period in our lives, wondering what I would tell myself.

And I have no doubt what it would be.

Why was I ever so fucking hard on my baby because he wanted to sleep with his mommy?

The regret would be excruciating for me.

And the silly thing is, I was being so hard on him because of all the well-intentioned shouts from the sidelines. Because of what other people were telling me was right and wrong.

But, you know what I’ve decided?

Fuck other people.

I know they mean well, but this is my baby and my life…AND MY BABY!

Someone recently approached it from a different angle, asking me, “Well, how is this affecting your quality of life?”

And you know what?

It’s making my life better.

I love scooping him, his blankie, and ten dinosaur friends into my arms when he’s scared and crying in his dark room. The relief on his face is a relief I know all too well.  When he falls onto my bed and snuggles up next to me, all the worry is gone from him.

And, I love waking up next to him, with his crazy, beautiful bed-head.

Isn’t all this my job as his mother?

Sure, there are nights when I’m frustrated, with a foot in my eye and a dinosaur up my ass, but it is what it is.

He needs me.

And really, I need him just as much.

As a parent, there are so many battles we have to fight. So, I’ve decided that this will no longer be one of them.

Because, if he doesn’t feel safe in his own house, where can he feel safe?

Besides, the day will come when he won’t want to sleep with me. I’ll eventually be replaced by some skanky high-schooler with piercings in odd places.

Bitch.

So, for now, I’ll continue letting him crawl into my bed each and every night, until he decides he doesn’t need me by his side to face the night anymore.

But, there’s one thing I want to be really clear about….

I am not a co-sleeper.

So, I just discovered the coolness that resides across the street from me.

A great couple, with an adorable little boy, one dog, one cat…with some awesome bumper stickers.

On their cars, not the cat.

You know when you meet someone and you just know you’ll always be friends?

Like that.

They moved in a couple of years ago, right before I got knocked up and was locked away on suicide watch for 10 months, eating Ding Dongs and listening to I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues on repeat.

There’s always been the occasional wave and quick conversation between us, but we didn’t start really hanging much until just recently. And, by really hanging, I mean getting shit-faced in my backyard after our dependents go to sleep.

Which, bummer. Because now they’re moving….to Michigan.

*Sad trombone*

So, I’ve always known they were my people, but lately I realized just what good people they are, too.

Take for example last week, when I needed someone to come over and help the dude load the 2,000 pound bag of mulch onto his truck.

When he began trying to flag down random passerbys, I knew I had to act fast. And it was either my 100 year old neighbor that hates me because I don’t put an American flag on my lawn, or the cool kids across the street.

So, I called Niki.

Me: Hey neighbor, is your strong husband home by any chance?

Niki: Ummm, yes.

Me: It’s not like that. I, mean, promise I don’t want to have sex with him, I just need some help out here with the mulch. And he’s so strong. Is this getting weird?

Niki: He’ll be right over.

And right over he was! He helped lift that mulch with smile on his face that said, “This is exactly what I wanted to do on my day off!”

See? Good people.

The only reason I’ve yet to try and sabotage his new job is because I devised a plan to force them to stay in touch with me.

Niki has agreed to be the illustrator for my adventures of Butters book.

She is such a talent, you guys. Truly. Like, I would never want to play her in Draw Something.

But, as usual, I’m getting offtrack.

The thing is, I’m sorta lucky she still wants to be my friend after last week.

What happened last week, Allison?

I’m so glad you asked!

They went out of town to hunt for a new house, with stupid new neighbors. Having just done an awesome job of feeding and ass-scratching my pets when I was out of town, I jumped at the chance to do the same for them.

Their 256 year old dog, Moxie, was with family, so I was only in charge of feeding and ass-scratching their cat, Yeti.

They would be gone three days.

Sounds simple enough.

Unless you’re me.

Day One

I threw some Crocs on Luca and headed across the street to an eager-for-some-lovin, Yeti.

Upon meeting him, Luca promptly said to me, in typical Kim Jong fashion, “Mommy, this cat is perfect. I would like to buy him now. What is he, some kinda tiger?”

Clearly, I’m not only raising a dictator, but a god damn genius, as well.

Jealous? You should be.

We loved on Yeti like mad and promised him we’d return the following day.

After I chased Luca around their house trying to wrestle the vibrator and red bra out of his little hands, we walked back across the street to our house, waving goodbye to Yeti who was already perched on his windowsill.

End scene.

Day Two

I had planned on visiting Yeti twice that day, to space out the ass-scratches. But, my kids kept shitting their pants and whining for food, so I didn’t end up making it over there until later in the day.

Poor Yeti!

Feeling super guilty, I wanted to make it up to him. So, I served him a little bowl of milk. I mean, my cat drinks milk, so no big deal.

First, I had to decide what bowl to use.

I didn’t want to use Niki’s great grandmama’s antique dish or anything.

Or, worse, Yeti’s great grandmama’s.

So, I finally settled on a plastic bowl that didn’t seem to match any fancy plastic sets.

I was super close to calling the whole thing off….

And instead I pour the milk.

Do do do do, do do do do…

(If you don’t get that reference, your tits and ass are probably still right where they belong. Asshole.)

Anyway, cue the always-obsessive and ever-present Allison thoughts.

Fuck, what if the Yeti is lactose intolerant and HE SHITS ALL OVER THEIR HOUSE?

Or, what if they are some weird religion that doesn’t believe cats should drink milk?

OR…WHAT IF YETI IS A VEGAN?

Here’s the thing, Yeti didn’t even like the milk, he turned his nose up at it. But, I thought he was just so excited someone was scratching his ass, because I would be, and maybe he’d get to it after we left.

Focus, Allison. They’ll still be gone one more day. You totally have time to clean out the bowl of milk, the shit all over the house, and hide all the evidence.

Problem solved.

Or so I thought.

Day Three

Just as I was about to head over for one last day of Yeti ass-scratching and milk crime evidence clean-up, I got a text from Yeti’s mom.

We’re home! And we found a house!

“Fuck your fancy house, what about the god damn milk? YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE GONE ONE MORE DAY,“ I thought.

We chatted back and forth for a while, and with each text my anxiety lessened.

Surely, if Yeti was a vegan or had shit on her easel, she wouldn’t be so nice and happy and chatty with me, would she?

I told her to come by the next day to drink a shit-ton of wine discuss our book.

The Next Day

A couple of glasses into our conversation my poker face failed me and I confessed the whole milk thing to her, and all about how I’d struggled with my decision to give it to Yeti.

She let me talk and talk and talk and talk, not showing me her hand at all.

As I exhaled and brought the glass of wine to my lips, she turned to me.

I could tell she was about to say something. Something really important.

I had my money on Yeti being a vegan.

But, no, that wasn’t it.

Yeti is not a vegan.

He’s not even a real tiger.

Allison, the thing is, you left the full gallon of milk out on the counter in our kitchen. I blamed my husband for it, until we both looked down and saw Charlie’s bowl on the floor, filled with untouched milk.

Fucking Yeti!

What kind of tiger doesn’t like milk?

I can’t even imagine how much these guys are going to miss me when they’re gone.

Also, remind me to never, ever murder anyone.

At least not anyone who doesn’t drink milk.

Smooth operator, I am not.

The one and only Yeti.

When married with children, dating becomes so much more complex than it used to be.

First, there’s the whole paying someone an arm and leg to watch your cute to you, but smelly to others, children.

If you’re lucky enough to find a regular babysitter whom you trust (you know, the kind of sitter you’d sooner listen to Nickelback on repeat for 24 hours, before sharing their number with anyone), things don’t really get much easier.

When your husband makes a reservation at your favorite only on special occasions restaurant, you know they aren’t doing it so you can Superwomen change into your four year old, bleached stained, maternity pajamas the moment you walk in the door.

No, ladies, nothing is free in marriage.

Especially not that fancy Surf n Turf special you’ve been dreaming about all week.

Tis true, in a perfect world sexual favors are regularly bartered for a $70 per pound crustacean, but that doesn’t always mean they come easy.

And neither do us women.

When date night begins, there are usually many dirty promises and oh wait till I get you homes. But, throw in a couple of bottles of wine and a steak the size of your face and the libido that was once your horny trusty friend can sometimes take a nosedive…straight into ugly pajamas and recordings of Desperate Housewives.

But, on the other hand, zero drinks and no food can also put a damper on the one time a week if he’s lucky sex.

AND MEN KNOW THIS.

I didn’t know they knew until one special evening out, when my husband started acting like more of a weirdo than I am.

“Would you like a glass of champagne to start the night?

Here, have a glass of this fabulous Pinot, babe. It’ll knock your panties off. Er, I mean socks.

Ohhh, no, you don’t want the steak! I hear it’s like leather. One piece of lobster and some salad would be so much better for me.

You sure you want to finish that? You know how much you hate to be too full. I think just one more bite would be perfect.

Oh, nooooo, you don’t want a shot. Remember that one time when you peed on the stairs because you thought you were in the bathroom?

There you go. One sip of port and…WAIT…not too much. No, a little more. OK OK, that’s perfect. Slowly, put the glass down and let’s get out of here. I heard the dessert sucks, anyway.”

At first, I thought he was trying to get into the whole dominate-submissive thing. So, naturally, I was expecting him to whip out some nipple tassels, a paddle, and my old high school uniform at any moment.

Then, I realized he was just trying to solve the age old, complex chemistry formula that we ladies can be.

And he has.

Even though he still fails on the regular, he pretty much has the whole getting laid after date night down to the science that it is.

Not so much alcohol that he gets the I’m so drunk the room is spinning OMG I’m gonna puke get me a bucket fast reaction.

+

Not so little alcohol that it results in the I’m so stressed out I just want to relax for a little bit and clear my head comeback.

+

Not so much food that he gets the OMG, I’m so disgusting and full don’t even look at me HOW CAN YOU LOVE ME reply.

+

Enough food to ward off the whole I think I have low blood sugar oh, man, I’m so dizzy I should lay down for a just. one. minute…zzzzzzzzz…dilemma.

+

A few nice compliments and loving gazes.

=

Hot married sex…until the baby monitor starts glowing red and the cat pukes.

You know, as mulch fun as Mulch-Gate was, it just didn’t smell quite…dead enough.

I’ve always had it in the back of my head that this could happen.

Since we bought this place, we’ve had critters taking up refuge under our house. The first time I realized we weren’t alone was when my dogs started barking at the tub. I initially chalked it up to them having some sort of bad acid flashback, but then I heard it, too. And, since I knew the mushrooms on the pizza I’d just eaten were not of the funny variety, I stopped brushing off my dogs as druggies, and started paying closer attention.

And I finally said what I’d always really known out loud. Because that’s the only way to make something true.

And coexisting did work well, for about six years.

So, I found a dead animal removal company and they sent someone out.

Carcass dude is coming back today, with heavy duty wall sawing tools, to try again.

This stinks in so many ways.

I almost wish it was an actual dead body under there. I mean, then the police would have to find and remove it, right? But, that would be totally sad because it would be an actual person, who doesn’t sleep in their own feces, have 9,000 fleas, and eat rats for dinner. Also because that would probably mean my husband is a serial killer and that I’d been wrong once again in thinking I’d finally adjusted my I only attract assholes radar.

Anyway, after lots of searching, it appears coffee grounds are like magic against the smell of death (totally not a coincidence that Dexter likes his coffee black). So, I laid out bowls of it in the bathroom and surrounding rooms. And, while it has a helped a little, my house now smells like a murder scene at Starbucks.

And, really, not even. Since it’s really cheap coffee, it’s probably more like a murder scene at, like, a Valero or 7-11.

The only positive, is that we were already planning on renovating that bathroom. So, me buying a sledge hammer and cracking the tub in half wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

Finally, what the fuck karma? All I do is rescue animals. And this is how you repay me?

WITH A ROTTING ANIMAL CARCASS?

Like, my friend on Twitter said this morning….

Seriously….

Either God is punishing me because I support gay marriage, or because of that one time during Spring Break that involved my toes and a gorilla suit.

But, really, I think it’s just that Karma really is a bitch.

* * *

UPDATE: My amazing everything-man, Don, came over and sawed a hole in the cabinet. And sure enough, it was right where I said it would be.

A sweet, and very dead, baby raccoon! It’s mama must have been hurt and not come back. POOR THING. So sad.

So stinky.

The next order of business is closing off my crawl space.

Carcass-Gate Two is not happening on my watch.

Oh, and I took a picture.

Obviously.

I’m going to post it beneath this cute one that reminds me of Carcass-Gate, to give my squeamish readers time to click out.

Awwwww…

Ewwwww…

**If you’ve ended up here through searching for info about antepartum depression, and you need someone to talk to. PLEASE EMAIL ME. (allisonzapata at gmail dot com)

A little over a year ago, just shy of eight weeks pregnant, I shared with you my struggle with antepartum depression and anxiety. Up until then, I wasn’t even aware that what I was battling had a name. All I knew was that I felt completely out of control, like I would lose my mind at any second, if I hadn’t already. In what was supposed to be one of the happiest times in my life, I felt a darkness inside of me that shook me to my pregnant core.

To make matters worse, I was terrified to share what I was going through with anyone. Even those closest to me; especially those closest to me. There is something so terribly shameful about feeling such deep sadness and desperation about something so wonderful, something so planned.

Really though, even more than my health, I was so worried about being judged (story of my life). After all, I was judging myself enough as it was.

And I knew what people would say, anyway.

“You are so selfish. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your shoes? Pregnant with a second child! Get over yourself and stop being so fucking dramatic.”

And I did know. The rational part of me knew exactly how fortunate I was. But, drowned out by the insanity I was feeling, the rational part could do nothing to cork the craziness that was slowly bubbling up inside of me.

So, with no where else to go but down, I took a leap of faith and decided to spill my crazy  everything, with everyone. And, much to my dismay, not one single person judged me. At least not to my face. I received love, acceptance, and so many nods of understanding. It seemed I was not the only one holed up in that dark place.

Still, as proud as I am of myself today for having the balls to open up, looking back at what I shared that day saddens me.  Not only over the place I was in, but also because I was far from honest about just how bad things really were. I peppered my confession with jokes, and promises that no one need worry about me. Because, I wasn’t that bad.

But, I wasn’t only that bad, I was much worse.

I spent most of my days hysterical, and…

(I know I am going to get shit for this, but I promised myself I’d be real here today, so here goes.)

… praying for another miscarriage.

I know.

But, at that moment, even that seemed better than what I was feeling.

Anything did.

Those quiet and horrible pleas of desperation only made me feel like more of a monster, spiraling me deeper into the despair that I was drowning in. How could I pray for the loss of something so precious, something so many people would give up everything to have…something I wanted so badly? I loved being a mom. And, having miscarried twins a few years prior, I knew just how devastating it was. Even still, in my not-me state of mind, I felt that pain would be more tolerable than what I was feeling.

Only a monster would have those feelings.

My house and personal life, mirroring my mind, were in complete chaos. I struggled to function, to parent the beautiful son I already had, and to be a loving wife. Or any kind of wife at all, for that matter.

Each day, I went through the motions, like a zombie. I resorted to spoiling my son with too much ice cream and way too many toys. Because I was failing him in the stuff that really mattered, overcompensation became a way of life.

Most of those nine months, if I wasn’t sobbing hysterically, I was unimaginably quiet. And, if you know me at all, you know I’m normally unimaginably not quiet. Anytime I wasn’t tending to my sweet two year old, I was locked away in my room, panicking.

On top of the depression, there were angry outbursts, usually directed towards my husband, simply because he was there. Today, I cringe, remembering the time I screamed in his face, as loud as I could, “I wish you were dead!” Telling him all the things I felt towards myself.

I stared in the mirror often, not recognizing the puffy-eyed image reflected back at me.

What is wrong with you? Why are you so fucked up?

Over and over and over again.

I mean, I was depressed in my first pregnancy, so I knew things might be rough, but this time around the beast had grown much larger and so much scarier. It was unrelenting and determined to win.

Sometimes, in hindsight, I suspect I bordered on mild psychosis.

Scared for myself, my unborn son, and the one I already had, I finally made the right decision and sought professional help.

With antidepressants, and someone telling me that what I was feeling was way more common than I thought (it even had a science-y name!), the beast became manageable….at least somewhat. I still struggled, to be sure, but at least I knew why. Talking myself down off that insane ledge I was balancing on became just a little bit easier.

Several hours after my son was born, the light came flooding in.

It was like a switch had been flipped.

Click.

Just like that.

Whatever had taken over my mind had gotten bored, and quickly decided to give it back to me.

I looked at my little boy and I knew. Every single bad thought, angry outburst, panic attack, all the times I hated being alive…it was all worth it.

Really that instantaneous, I was me again.

I let out the biggest breath, exhaling for what seemed like hours.

Even my husband noticed the black cloud had moved on, and that I was back.

I snuggled my sweet, sleepy miracle, amazed at how I could feel such a connection with him, having felt none when he was inside me.

Something I’m still trying to forgive myself for.

Over a year has passed, and here I sit next to my beautiful Leo; nine months old this very day.

I feel like he’s always been a part of our family, and cannot imagine a world without him and his brother in it.

The road to now was a long, dark, and lonely one, but I made it to the end.

My boys, oh my sweet boys…they are the best things I have ever done.

When people ask me if I want another child, I shake my head and laugh.

Oh, I don’t think I have it in me to handle more than two!

But, the truth is, the two I have now can’t handle it. They need me, all of me. I can’t risk inviting that beast back into my life. It just wouldn’t be fair to them.

My oldest is now almost four, and as happy as anyone I’ve ever met. But, there’s no doubt, I’ll always wonder if I damaged him in some way, during those nine months that I was so damaged.

Eventually, I know I’ll have to let go of this guilt. Because, really, what other choice do I have? But, I’m not yet to a place where I’m ready to do that.

One day, though.

My name is Allison and I struggled with antepartum depression, and I refuse to be secretive or ashamed about it any longer. Because, even if I get a million dirty comments, if one person reads this and feels less alone, every shake of the head and what the fuck is wrong with you is worth it.

If you or someone you know is going through this, I beg of you to be open and honest about it. Do not feel ashamed, because you are not alone. You are not a bad person. Not even a little bit.

Asking for help, though terrifying, was the best move I made. It scares the shit out of me to think how much worse off I could have been, had I not thrown up my hands and cried uncle.

It saddens me that if you type in “antepartum depression” into a search engine, very few resources come up. Perhaps, if more people would talk about it, this wouldn’t be the case.

Above all else, if you are going through this, know that you are not a monster.

It’s the asshole hormones that are.

After my post for Sue yesterday, I went back and watched the video over and over again.

Somewhere, through my tears, I happened to notice something on my blog.

Something….odd?

When I had my fabulous designer give me a blog-lift, I was just getting my feet wet in this weird world of internet writing and creepers. So, when asked what I wanted, I simply defaulted to things I’d noticed on other, more established, blogs.

Ahem.

Because, really, how fucking narcissistic am I assuming anyone would want to take me with them?

Cheese-dick Zapata, at your service.

Also, I totally need to add a baby stick figure up top.

Leo…REPRESENT!

* * *

Ahem.

*steps up on very high horse*

I just drove passed a few homeless people, on my way to a hipster, Montrose coffee shop. My internet is out for….at least three days.

Hold me.

Anyway, my first thought when I saw them was, “I wonder how people end up there?”

Followed quickly by, “Oh, shit, that could totally happen to anyone. I better give him a couple of bucks.”

Karma is, after all, a total bitch.

People can say some pretty vile things when they see people down on their luck.

Lazy, worthless bum.

Get a job, asshole.

He must be a god damn junkie.

This hurts my soul.

Because, all I can think about is how fortunate I am to be a card-carrying member of the lucky sperm club.

So, as we go through our day, let’s all try to be a little nicer and a lot less judgmental about situations we have no knowledge on. It would be a much happier coexistence if we came from a kinder, less harsh, place in our hearts, when we see things we simply cannot understand.

*clumsily falls off very high horse*

* * *

Thanks so much for all your kind words on Susie yesterday. It made my heart so happy to know so many people were thinking of her.

See, the internet is good for things other then porn and political rants.

Sometimes.

* * *

Finally, a song for you on this Long Monday, from the master himself, John Prine.

He writes some of the best love songs ever. The lyrics make me all wobbly in my knees, and other places, too, like when I used to climb the rope in gym class.

Oh, I’ve gone and said too much, again.

Here, take a listen for yourself.

Happy Monday, my friends.

Thanks for stopping by.

xo

Today our sweet Susie would have turned 42. This is the fourth birthday we’ve had to celebrate without her here.

The thing about grief is that it’s intensity doesn’t really lessen. Sure, there’s more time in between the crying spells, the anger, and the heartbreak, but when the realization hits that they’re gone, it hits just as hard; A punch in the gut every time.

I was on the road today when I remembered it was her day. Thank God for sunglasses, and toddler movies with headphones. I spent an hour of the drive sobbing and silently shaking. That’s the worst.

Still angry.

Still shocked.

Still full of panic that they are gone.

After they died, I’d get in my car and drive around aimlessly, pulling over many times for fear that I’d crash into something, or someone.

The tears…they can blind you sometimes.

Driving around, crying, listening to favorite albums. That’s how I grieved.

A certain song in particular, makes me think of her.

Just her.

Kind, loving, gorgeous, modest, strong, brilliant, compassionate, full of laughter, giving,  sexy, gifted, big-hearted, sweet, natural, sincere…and effortlessly cooler than anyone I’ve ever met.

That’s the way I’ll remember her best.

* * *

Happy Birthday, our sweet Susie-Q. I know you’re surrounded by Tommy, Thomas and Vivi…celebrating in some fabulous Susie-way.

You are missed beyond any words I could ever write here.

I love you, dude.

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