It’s that time again.

Time for me to stop looking in the mirror, STFU, and listen.

I’m going to do things a bit differently this go around.

Last time, my system, of having no system, had me all over the place.

This kind of thing requires a concept that is very foreign to me – organization.

So, I’m going to make myself a fancy little spreadsheet, checking off posts as I read them.

It’s my mission to read every single word you send, even if that means my kids go without dinner sometimes.

What have you written lately?

What have you read lately?

STFU & Listen – Take Two!

Give it to me, baby.

(In the comments.)

The joys of pregnancy.

Google that.

And, get back to me when you’re done sifting through the results…in ten years.

Antepartum Depression.

Now, Google that.

And, get back to me when you’re done sifting through the results…in ten minutes.

(It has gotten much better over the past few years, more women are speaking up.)

Firstly, please don’t misinterpret my point here. This is not about bitterness towards beautiful pregnancies or birth stories. On the contrary, I’m elated for those women.

I love happy.

Thankfully, there are many women that carry around bloated bliss for nine months, and go on to push out rainbows and unicorns with their baby. And, these women deserve all the resources they can get their swollen fingers on.

But, so do we…

The ones who battle the nine-month Beast.

* * *

When I was pregnant with my first, I obviously had no idea what to expect. I only thought that I did.

Me, waddling around with a cute belly, puking sunshine and dreaming up baby names, venturing out nightly for brisk walks right up until my birth-day and…

*record scratch*

Enter reality…

I won’t even get into the physical issues of the pregnant Allison. Just think irritable uterus (can you blame it?) and bed-rest.

And, while that part sucked, it was the mental aspects that left me gutted, and clinging to my sanity.

The Beast crept in slowly.

Lurking around, poking and prodding, quietly setting up shop. Once it was all settled in, a couple of weeks from that positive pregnancy test, it reached in and swiftly stole my mind.

Initially, I chalked the despair up to normal pregnancy blues. And, also, to the lack of wine.

I waited very impatiently for the second-trimester boost, the one everyone talks about, to kick in.

Only, it never did. Instead, the Beast grew meaner, despite the fact that I was already on an antidepressant.

But, I battled through, going on to receive the best prize possible in the end.

My Luca.

* * *

And, then she went and did it again two years later, folks.

The depression that came with my first pregnancy was bad, but it wasn’t completely debilitating or all-consuming. I managed to hang on, smiling when I was expected to smile.

All of that was just a preview.

When I became pregnant with number two, the beast wasn’t as patient this time.

It sat back and laid in wait, ready to pull me under again, down into the hole it spent two years digging deeper.

I shouldn’t have been so shocked. I knew there was a pretty good chance it would return.

But, I’d hidden it away somewhere, somehow, convincing myself it was nothing but a bad dream; a horror flick someone else had starred in. Not me.

* * *

I was drinking a glass of wine, when I peed on the stick again.

Pregnant.

I was elated!

I was excited!

I was super drunk.

I threw out my wine, hugged my husband, and adamantly told him that this time would be different.

Silly me thought I could out-will that Beast. I knew him and I knew what to expect. I was showing up ready for the fight.

A week later, my husband found me curled in a tight bawl on the bathroom floor, sobbing, and cursing us for letting this happen again.

The beast laughed in my face, loudly, smirking at my stupid will and positive mantras.

* * *

When I was pregnant with my first born, there was nothing worse than having to pee. Reaching down to wipe, I would hold my breath, willing the toilet paper to still be white when it came back into view. White, instead of streaked with the tell-tale blood that had shown up on it two months prior, to tell me the babies inside me were dying.

Sadly – so, so sadly - this time around I prayed for that blood-streaked toilet paper; I prayed for the tell-tale sign that sanity would soon be mine again.

Luckily – so, so luckily – my baby boy was stronger than those prayers. Not about to let the beast win, his heartbeat grew stronger each day…his body longer.

* * *

I heard the same thing at every therapy appointment.

You are not abnormal. This happens to more people than you think. People just don’t talk about it as much.

I wasn’t convinced.

How could I be?

Every search for answers, for other women like me, only made me feel like more of an anomaly.

I spent my days frantically typing in the same search terms in different orders.

Is it normal to feel so so sad you’d rather have a miscarriage?

Antepartum Depression.

Prepartum Depression.

Pregnancy Psychosis.

Sad while Pregnant.

The lack of results confirmed what I already knew at the time, “You are not a normal woman, you’re a monster, one who has no business making babies.”

As much as I’ve opened up about my war with antepartum depression, it’s impossible to convey just how deep the hole was. There simply aren’t enough words in the English language.

But, I keep trying. I keep putting it out there for those that have taken my place in the hole.

* * *

The number one search terms that bring people to my blog?

Antepartum depression.

Is antepartum depression normal?

Who gets antepartum depression?

Antepartum depression what’s wrong with me?

With, “Kirk Cameron is an asshole,” being a close second. But, since that one’s a fact, there’s really no need to address it.

I get weekly emails, sometimes daily, from readers who desperately sit where I once sat.

When that subject line pops up in my email – Antepartum Depression -  my heart drops.

These women are looking for help, from me, closing out their emails with exactly that, “Please help me.”

Who the hell am I other than a chick who’s been in the trenches? The only thing I have my doctorate in is bullshit.

But, I’ve felt their level of pain.

And, I know their brand of shame.

The shame of being able to conceive a healthy baby and hating every moment of it.

The shame that so many women would give anything to be where they are.

The shame that they are broken and crazy, and the fear that this will always be, because it’s so damn hard to see the light when you’re buried so deep.

I struggle in my replies to them.

Having written it so many times, I fear it will come off as regurgitated, or disingenuous.

There are emails I’ve let fall through the cracks, making me physically ill with disappointment.

* * *

Why write all this again?

Because, I am not ashamed.

Because, I hope someone will read it when they need it the most.

Because, I hope those women that I’ve failed will forgive me.

Because, putting it out there is the only way I know how to try and make a difference.

And, finally, because I want people to know that it gets better.

No, that it gets AMAZING!

All of it, every single second of this battle, is worth it times a million.

I could not breathe without my boys. They are the best things I’ve ever done.

So, in closing, I have just one more thing to say.

Suck on that, Beast.

This weekend, we spent a lovely morning with new friends at the Houston Zoo.

One of Luca’s favorite activities is feeding the giraffes.

And, although I’m pretty sure it’s the most expensive lettuce in the history of lettuce, if you can swing it, it’s so worth it.

He loves it almost as much as I do.

That particular morning, I snapped several pictures of Luca and his new buddy, feeding their tall friend.

Nothing super spectacular, just your everyday zoo shots.

But, later that night when I went over them, I noticed something that had previously gone overlooked.

My youngest, Leo, in the background, meeting a giraffe for the first time.

Upon even deeper inspection, though, it became more than just your generic boy-meets-giraffe snapshot.

Taking that second-look at the big picture revealed something unintended, but oh-so-wonderful.

Capturing Leo’s interaction with something new told a story, one that depicted human-nature in it’s most basic form.

His fear, hesitation, acceptance, and love unraveled before me, one by one.

And, I related to it strongly.

Because, just like Leo, we’re all scared of trying new things, or of meeting new people.

Venturing into uncharted territory can be terrifying.

And, not just for you and me. That fear, the fear of what’s different, doesn’t discriminate; it’s innate, and in all of us.

But, when we do give different a chance, the things we receive in return, the doors we open, can be amazing.

A brand new world.

New interests.

A different perspective.

New found peace.

A friend.

Freedom.

I wish the biggest of us would take our cues from the smallest of us, more often, and take chances on things even when they scare us.

Most of the time, in doing so, we’ll end up gaining something invaluable, something we didn’t even know was missing.

Because, nine times out of ten, my friends…

That big, scary giraffe, the one that seems different?

Is just like you and me.

I’ve been saying I’d like to take this writing thing to another level, for some time now.

By, “another level,” of course I mean, “mama wants to get paid more for dicking around on the internet.”

And, while the free Shamrock Shake I scored from Klout was green and refreshing, it wasn’t enough to make my husband take me as seriously as I’d like.

Can you change Leo’s diaper, babe? I’m working.

Working for more Shamrock Shakes?

Fuck off.

It’s taken me forever and a day to feel confident enough to refer to myself as an actual writer.

The next step is finding the confidence to persuade others that I’m worth hiring.

So, at the beginning of this week I decided there would be no more slacking off.

It’s time I mean business.

I made a promise to myself that I’d buckle down and work really hard.

I mean, my empire of bullshit isn’t going to build itself, right?

Sadly, though, I’m off to a pretty poor start.

I had like two hours yesterday to pound the cyber-pavement, and this is all I have to show for it.

Shamrock Shake, anyone?

I told you yesterday about Luca’s big transition at school, from half-day to all-day student.

But, I wasn’t completely honest, because I failed to mention the real reason this is such a big deal for me.

You guys, I have to pack a lunchbox every single day, now.

What’s the big fuss, Allison?

Oh, I’ll tell you what the big fuss is, smart ass.

My kids attend a Montessori School, which takes this lunchbox shit to a whole ‘nother level.

Hippies no likey the processed foods!

I’m terrified I’m going to be judged from now on, based solely on my ability to pack a decent lunchbox. I’m even more terrified my kid’s going to be judged by it.

This is all dredging up very dark memories for me. Memories that, until now, have lain dormant, deep in my subconscious.

The agonizing trauma can only be traced back to one thing.

Tuna Fish Sandwiches.

Mom….

I have something I’ve needed to get off my chest for a really long time.

And, while this might be hard for you to hear at first, leaving you to question if you ever even knew me at all, I feel like in the end, it can only bring us closer together.

So, here goes nothing.

You, Mom.

Oh, sweet- beautiful, you!

The one who put so much effort into packing my lunchbox everyday, that I’m shocked you didn’t get Carpal Tunnel from the repetitive motion of spreading all that tuna.

But, sadly, this was all for not.

Because, I never ate them.

I’ll give you a moment to take all that in.

Instead, I ditched them in my locker everyday, opting to buy Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, a Kit-Kat, and a Coke from the cafeteria.

I know!

All those years, you must have been so confused. I mean you were, after all, using non-fat mayonnaise.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say, is that, I…I…I have lunchbox-induced Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Oh, no, please don’t do that.

Don’t blame yourself.

This is all of my own doing.

If only I hadn’t been such a slob.

If only I had thrown that brown bag away.

If only I had done the normal thing, rather than letting that sandwich fester under past-due assignments and torn-up book-covers, left to be forgotten in the dark seedy underbelly of my humid basement locker.

I could go on, but that won’t change the past.

The fact of the matter is, I did none of those things, and it cost me dearly.

Because, when you’re sixteen, a week-old tuna fish sandwich, shoved in a bag, and squished under a Social Studies book is a one-way ticket to Dorkville. 

I can still smell it.

Anyway, this is precisely the reason I’m so distraught over having to pack my kid’s lunch.

But, so far, considering the horrific flashbacks, I think I’ve held it together pretty well.

And, even packed some damn fine lunchboxes.

Pretty amazing, huh?

Now, right about now, some of you are probably thinking, “Oh, please, she’s only writing this post to try and impress us, so we can think she’s some kind of amazing, non-preservative, force to be reckoned with.”

But, you’re wrong, my people.

So, so wrong.

I’m writing this post for one reason, and one reason only…

It is crucial that I have it on record.

Proof, if you will.

Because, in a week or two?

That shit’s gonna be a god damn Lunchable.

Being an afternoon child is a big responsibility, huh?

That’s what Luca told me yesterday morning, as he emptied an entire can of hairspray onto his head…all in one spot.

Don’t worry, Mommy, I closed my eyes when I sprayed it.

* * *

It’s been almost five years since I had him.

I closed my eyes for what seemed like a split second and, when I opened them, I was sending my sweet boy off to school for his first day as a primary student.

That was over a year ago.

* * *

I closed my eyes again and, this time, when I opened them, I was sending him off to school, lunchbox in tow, as a big-shot all day child.

This day was a special one.

In his words, he’s no longer one of the little kids.

Staying at school for three more hours each day may not seem like that big of a deal, in the grand scheme of things, but it symbolizes just how fast he’s growing up.

When did my baby become old enough to be away from me for seven whole hours?

This child, the one I’m probably way too protective of, is the most extraordinary soul I have ever met.

A part of me wants to put him in a bubble, and save him from the real world. A world full of hate, where one can no longer feel safe crossing the finish line.

Thankfully, a bigger part of me understands that this would do him more harm than good. It’s important he have a world all his own – one he doesn’t have to share with me, his father, two dogs, one cat, a fish, and four very horny frogs.

And, although I know that loosening my grip of his tiny hand is the right thing to do, it doesn’t make it any less bittersweet.

I’m especially protective of Luca, because I see so much of myself in him. Often enough to make me wonder if I’m merely projecting my feelings and fears onto him – something that wouldn’t be fair at all.

But, then he’ll say something I understand all too well and any doubts I had, that he’s not cut from the same cloth as me, are extinguished.

His tender nature is exemplified again and again in the most ordinary of moments.

Like, during a recent road-trip.

A Texas-sized truck flew passed us on the highway. Going at least 80 mph, it had a dog in it’s bed that was holding on for dear life. He didn’t look to be enjoying the wild ride at all. I cringed, but I bit my tongue, not saying aloud what I was thinking.

Hey asshole, how would YOU like to be thrown in the back of a truck that’s speeding dangerously down a congested highway on a holiday weekend?

Instead, I went with, “Oh, look at that cute doggie!”

Luca fell silent for the next few miles. Sitting in his car-seat, he wore a cute shark shirt and his trademark thinking face.

“Mommy, is that dog in the truck going to be okay? I think he’s probably scared.”

Of course, he said everything I’d been thinking.

Of course he did.

He always does.

This kid walks around all day long with his feelers sticking straight out, for anyone and everything to grab hold of.

His constant worry about others, especially those that are weak and powerless, makes my heart ache. He’s not even five, and way too little to worry about such big things. He’s got his whole life to make himself sick with the sadness that surrounds us.

Despite my worry, I wouldn’t change a thing. Because, I love this about him, just slightly more than I hate it for him.

But, I know how heavy it can be to walk around with an extra sensitivity chip – it is such a beautiful burden.

My friend Katya would say he has a bad case of The Lastimas. Which, basically means he doesn’t just feel for people and animals, he feels with them.

I know from experience how exhausting this can be.

Most people feel sad when they see a lifeless animal in the middle of the street. But, they’re able to move passed it fairly quickly; Their reactions, offering no more than the situation warrants.

And, then there’s me.

When I see a dog-turned-roadkill it can ruin the better part of my day, if not all of it, popping up again and again and again in my head….

Did it suffer?

Was it scared?

Did it lay there all by itself, confused and dying, until the end finally came?

I am the Queen of Emotional Overreaction.

Not all that long ago, I told you guys a story about a slug. And, while my tone was humorous, my concern for that damn snug wasn’t exaggerated in the least.

As my friends sat around laughing, I couldn’t stop wondering if the headless little blob was in pain?

(Google has differing opinions on slug-pain.)

I’m not saying this to come off as some kind of Mother Teresa. Rather, I’m acknowledging the fact that my reactions to things teeter dangerously between normal, everyday sensitivity and straight-up insanity.

When I was younger, I’d even catch myself ascribing feelings to inanimate objects.

It’s funny, though.

When I see all these things in myself, I call them crazy. Yet, when I see them in Luca, I call them beautiful.

In him, I see a beautiful caring soul who feels way too much for his tiny heart to hold.

On the flip side, would I rather have a son that steps on a slug, rather than a son that worries about a stepped-on slug?

Not a chance.

Nevertheless, it still pains me to know that his kind of empathy comes with a price. One that is beautifully painful and oh-so-heavy.

I lose sleep at night, praying I’ve passed on only my best parts to him.

Please don’t let him hate himself like I did.

Please don’t let him worry so much about what others think.

Please let him be confident.

* * *

All weekend, I worried that he wasn’t ready to be a full-day student.

Is it too soon?

Am I pushing him?

But, when I picked him up yesterday from cloud nine it was evident, by the huge smile on his face, that my worry was for not.

That’s when I realized something big.

Although, Luca undoubtedly has many parts of me, he is not me.

He’s his own person, traveling down his own path, and making his own unique mark in the world.

And, he’s so much braver than I’ve ever been, in all of my 35 years.

(The above photo has been altered to respect the privacy of a non-blogger’s offspring.)

I’m so proud of you, my sweet afternoon child. Keep being the sensitive soul you are. Because, no matter how hard it may be at times, it’s a beautiful way to live.

I will not be closing my eyes anymore.

* * *

My thoughts, love, and deepest condolences are with Boston, and all those affected by yesterday’s tragedy.

Psst.

Come here.

I have a secret.

Closer…

Don’t be shy.

Come on, closer…

Eww, too close. Back it up, creep.

Here’s the thing.

People who blog don’t usually read a whole lot of other blogs.

Well, I don’t, anyway.

This little tidbit shouldn’t really be all that shocking to you, because…

Warning: I’m totally about to offend someone.

People who write about themselves all day long on the internet are likely to possess at least a little bit of arrogance. It’s kind of a requirement.

Now, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and I’m certainly not saying we don’t care about others but, well, it is what it is…we like to talk about ourselves.

Last night, after the kids were in bed, I went about my usual routine of checking my Twitter replies, checking my Facebook and blog comments, and, of course, my traffic numbers.

And, for what?

I mean, the amount of money I’ve made over the past several years from writing would be at least enough to buy a few of you a Slurpee. And, I generate zero income from my personal blog, because I want to be able to say fuck and shit without giving a fucking shit who I offend.

Anyway, last night, after really thinking about all of this, I realized there’s one common theme.

ME! ME! ME! ME!

You guys, I’ve been way too self-absorbed, and doing this all wrong.

Do I try to interact with my small readership?

Most definitely.

Do I go out of my way to read your words? Words that are just as important to you as my words are to me?

Not nearly enough.

When I took a step back and thought about it, it didn’t sit well with me. The one-sidedness of my behavior reeks of narcissism, and makes me feel gross.

I don’t want a superficial relationship with the people who take the time to read my thoughts, reach out to me, comment, and stroke my ego.

I want a real one.

So, after whacking myself upside the head a few times, I asked my friends to share their favorite posts with me.

Then, today, I asked again.

Said this last night, but sorta late. I’d love for you to send me the most favorite thing you’ve written. I talk too much. Time to listen.

— Allison Zapata (@allisonzapata) April 12, 2013

And, now?

I’ve got a shit-ton of beautiful reading material for my weekend, that I’m really looking forward to.

My friend Mandy summed it up beautifully…

And, although, I’m sure it’s been done a million times before, in a million other places, in a million different ways, I thought it would be wonderful to open up this space, as well, to what’s going on in your lives, in your heads, and in your hearts.

I’m so tired of the fake encouragement, the superficial relationships, the bullshit camaraderie, and the faux-gratitude.

It’s time for me to STFU & Listen…

So, I would love for you guys to leave a link in the comments, or even in a direct message, with your words.

Anything, written at anytime, as many as you want, even just a photo you love.

There’s only rule.

No penis pictures.

Because, I don’t want to know you that well.

Parenting is hard.

We have to deal with things like seeing our babies sick, projectile vomit, and a four year old mini-Picasso painting their bright-blue masterpieces on our clean, white garages (ahem, Luca.)

Everyone tells me it gets harder as your kids get older. But, most of the time, I’m knee-deep in kid-shit and way too busy to worry about what’s to come.

Yes. I’m well aware that their questions will become more difficult with each birthday they celebrate, but I’m barely hanging on as it is, you guys. Taking things one day at a time is all I can handle.

For now, I make sure to answer my boys open and honestly, giving them as much as their little brains can process.

But, I always try my best to tell it like it is.

My husband once asked me why I introduced words like penis and vagina into Luca’s vocabulary.

Umm, because that’s what they’re called? What should I tell him to call it…a cock?

Kids deserve our honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable for us.

I mean, do I dread the day when the Mommy, what does pizza look like when you throw it up turns into the Mommy, how are babies made?

A little.

Although, I’m pretty confident, because I totally have a fail-proof plan as to how I’ll approach these kinds of things.

(Plans? Ha. Children laugh in the face of plans.)

But, I’m certainly in no rush to tackle these doozies.

And, luckily, I haven’t had to go there yet, because my boys are still at an age where I can control their environment.

Just yesterday, I thought about how relieved I was that Luca wasn’t around when I was unwillingly exposed to pigeon pornography.

Oh, but not so fast with that big sigh of relief, Allison.

Hours after my little pigeon peep-show, the animal kingdom decided it wasn’t quite done fucking with me.

As I was getting Luca ready for bed I heard him scream.

“MOMMY! Come here now. WHAT are these guys doing? WHY is my boy frog sitting on top of my girl frog like that?”

Of course, our frogs had decided to do it froggy-style right there in plain sight for all the world to see. OF COURSE THEY HAD.

Oh…well…honey…that’s…umm…how they make their babies do you want a giant cookie before bed oh look there’s a bird.

“They hug each other, mommy?”

Oh. Yes…Ha…YES! They totally have to hug each other to make babies.

And, although the explanation was one of pure innocence and the crisis seemed averted,  I could see that somewhere, deep in his four year old head, he knew there was way more to the story than that.

Please, animal kingdom, I beg of you.

Get a room.

Because, it turns out, I am so not ready for this shit.

Dear Party City,

I know this can be a shitty time of year for you. And, that makes my heart hurt.

But, fear not!

I’ve come up with a brilliant idea for all those slutty Halloween costumes you’ve got laying around collecting dust.

His daddy put the kibosh on the latex whip and fishnets.

Sigh.

Such a fun sponge, sometimes.

Five years gone.

Five birthdays missed.

I keep having to do the math.

Then, do the math again.

And, then again.

Since I suck at math, I keep convincing myself that I’m simply adding up the years all wrong.

Because, it’s just not possible that they’ve been gone for this long already.

But, they have.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about them. That’s something that will never change.

But, I often fear, the longer they’re gone from this world, that others will stop remembering them. This makes my stomach hurt in a way I can’t explain.

Not too long ago, I came across my wedding video. I thought about how fun it would be for Luca to watch his parents celebrate the love that brought him into the world.

So, I popped some popcorn and popped in the video.

And, there they were.

Susie, in her bright blue dress.

Vivi, our flower-girl, in her poofed-out princess ensemble.

The boys, in their crisp, white guayaberas.

All of them were so alive.

Before I pressed play, I hadn’t even thought about the fact that they were such a huge part of our day, so when I saw them it took my breath away.

I would give anything to rewind these last five years the way I did that video.

When you left us, Susie, my biggest fear was that, one day, I’d forget the sound of your soft, kind voice.

Thankfully, that hasn’t happened.

I remember the sound of all of you.

I guess some things are etched so deeply in the heart that they’re impossible to forget.

Sadly, with Leo being so sick, I had to miss your birthday lunch for the first time.

But, there was no way in hell I was about to let this day pass without celebrating you.

While the boys were busy feeding their dinner to the dogs, I quietly crept out the back door holding fifteen bright orange balloons.

You loved orange.

I held onto them for quite a while, scared to let go…scared to feel…scared for another year to begin.

But, finally, they slipped from my hands and floated away. I stood watching them until the disappeared.

Keep an eye out, sweet Susie, they’re making their way to you now.

Happy Birthday, dude.

You are loved by so many.