I Know What It Feels Like To Hold the Sun Now

I know what it feels like

to hold the Sun now.

As I cup his beloved face,

my hands are warmed by

that smile,

the most brilliant of smiles;

my arms tingle with the heat of it.

The fire spreads through my body

and I feel like Icarus,

burning up from such close proximity.

The flames of this

Love

dance in my muscles,

causing me to hold him

a little tighter than I should.

His tiny doll’s hand reaches out

to hold my cheek,

and I wonder if he feels

the warmth

of the Moon,

reflecting the glory of his Light.

The Girl That Was

I suppose I am still Her, at least a little bit. That girl who blurbed on and on about mostly herself in all those previous posts that were so entertaining in a car-crash-sort-of-way. My biggest problem now is navigating WordPress’s new look. It has been many moons and a daylight savings time since I’ve thought much about my blog. Aye, me.

To say that I have the perfect baby would be a crude understatement. Yes, at least most mothers would say as much about their own spawn, but how many can actually say they are being honest when they say it? Of all the lies I will never admit I may have told in my life, this is not one of them. My Boy is the essence of everything good that is in me, and all the good that is not in me, too. He bears no hint of the darkness that resides in me, and is forever ready with a smile for anyone who pays him any mind. If there is any evil in him, it may only be heard in the demon shriek he has perfected, which he really only uses to entertain himself.

My life in other aspects is somewhat more bleak. In my previous post, I hinted of dissention in my relationship. ‘Tis not the stuff of beloved Rom-Coms these days, unless we are referring to the part in such movies where the lovers spat. Yes, it is safe to say that there is much spatting going on. Let’s just blame it all on the Rockstar’s Daughter.

Ok, it’s not entirely her fault, but I do believe her existence begets a black hole of exhaustion that sucks in everyone she comes in contact with. Even the dog is bone-weary. Ha. I made a joke there.

That being said, I felt the need to brief you all on the goings-on of your Bookwhore. I cannot say with any certainty that I will be back in any capacity closely resembling the former Me, but I have been feeling the need to once again take up my quill and write. (Something other than just my book, that is.)

Until We Meet Again,

XOXO

Sparklebumps

My Boy

My boy,

I think you are most beautiful

while you sleep-

arms stretched “this big”

and legs splayed, frog-like.

But then you awaken,

and I see

how completely wrong I can be.

You smile,

and even though your mouth

is as empty as an old man’s,

that smile holds

the whole world within it;

and I cannot help but

hold your tiny grinning face

in my hands.

I can scarce believe

that without a single intelligible word,

you make me fall in love

over and over again.

There are times

when I’ve felt a failure;

but looking into your beloved face,

I realize that whatever may come,

I’ve already succeeded.

Elegy for a Crayon

I saw you lying there

Used up and broken.

Your flaming shade

the color of blood-

I half-expected to see

a pool of scarlet oozing

from your stubby ends.

Your wrapper

had been peeled away

completely from one of your pieces;

the other lay in shame

very like a rape victim,

in tattered vestment.

Your identification had been

ripped away.

Only the bold letters OLA

remained.

As I cleared the table,

I placed my hand over you

quickly

To conceal your

wretched state.

I recall a time

when I had adored ones

such as you,

and would never have thought

to leave them in

such a pitiful condition.

I wonder how many more

rainbows you would have

created,

had fate not sent you such a

vicious end.

I toss your remains

into the trash,

apologetically,

and I think to myself.

Children can be so cruel.

Giving Birth and All That

So, yes, it’s very sad that I had to go back to work after giving birth to be able to find time to write again. What the fuck.

I’m not complaining, I promise! After all, for almost four whole weeks I got to hold the cutest baby of all time whenever I wanted. (I know all parents say their kids are the cutest, but besides for mixed-race babies, my kid really is the cutest. And yes, I’m aware of how politically incorrect that sounds, but it’s true, and you all know it.)

Anyhoo, I know it’s a bit overdue, but I am now ready to inform you all of the grisly story that is called childbirth. I am quite certain there are a few (or more) of you that just winced and clicked on your mouse madly to exit my blog at that last sentence- well, fuck you. I had a person come out of my vag, and proper attention must be paid. Those of you still here- I appreciate your iron stomachs. I promise, it won’t be as bad as all that. To be honest, there’ve been episodes of Sons of Anarchy more cringe-worthy.

So a week and a few days before my Babe was due, I hobbled to my weekly doctor appointment. I say hobble, because my feet were so swollen that I had to buy a pair of flip-flops two sizes larger than my normal fabulous footwear, and said flip-flops STILL managed to cause deep impressions on the tops of my feet. Trust me, the pain it caused me to walk into a public venue sans heels nearly rivaled that of childbirth. Anyway, I digress.

While I am not known to be a person of chill and apathetic demeanor, my blood pressure on a normal day is like that of a dead person’s. However, on that day, the sight of my feet and the readings of my blood pressure were enough to get my doctor to schedule me to be induced the following Monday. If my feet would have allowed it, I would have immediately jumped up and futterwackened at her announcement. (If you don’t know how to futterwacken, you don’t know much, do you?)

I spent the weekend occupied at work, and during the night when I was unable to sleep, engrossed in the final chapters of every pregnancy book I had sitting around. When my coworkers asked if I was nervous about having my baby come out of my most private and tight of areas, I replied calmly and coolly that I wasn’t, which was the truth. For some reason, that was never an issue for me. My biggest fear was that I would cave, and ask for an epidural, the thought of which is probably what sent my blood pressure soaring in the first place.

My Rockstar and I arrived hellishly early at the birthing center that Monday, where we met up with my dearest Auntie, who I had asked to distract me from my labor pains when I knew my Rockstar would sit by silently. I was admitted and led to a room, where we met an Angel known as Nurse Nancy, my guide for this tour. She went over all the details I needed to know, none of which I recalled (then or now). I only remember being very adamant that an epidural was not going to be an option, so there. She laughed and said, “Ok, but you can change your mind.”

I was then hooked up to an IV (another thing that makes me recoil in fear) and donned a lovely hospital gown, which caused me almost immediately to “Patch Adams” everyone in the room. At first I was embarrassed, and then I thought, Fuck it. It’s gonna get so much worse before this is all over. It was several hours before I actually felt any contractions, during which time my Rockstar, Auntie, and I conversed amiably about I don’t even know what. It was quite boring really.

When my contractions began to worsen, I asked for the pain meds that were not the epidural. All I know is that Nurse Nancy had described it as feeling like you’ve had one too many drinks. Since it had been a good nine months since my last drink, I said, “Fuck yeah, get me drunk!” What I didn’t realize is that while a person is actually drinking, and may fall down or bonk their head with no immediate anguish, this drug administered did nothing to lessen any internal pain that comes with active labor. All it did was knock me on my ass immediately, so that I was very like a dead person, at least until a contraction hit, at which time I was too “drunk” to stand up and properly deal with that shit. So the last hour or two of excruciating contractions were spent alternately sleeping and writhing in the birthing bed. Good times.

When it was time to push, (this time did not come soon enough to my liking, as many minutes before that I felt as though my ass were going to explode) the only thing I actually remember thinking was that I didn’t want my baby to have a pointy head, so I pushed him out with no thoughts of how painful it might be. (Which actually made me not notice whatever pain there was.) The only mishap of acting so rashly was that my IV got torn out, which sucked balls. During the birth, I had instructed my Rockstar to stay at my shoulder, so as not to damage whatever idolization he may have had of my previously practically perfect pussy. Between pushes, I was pretty much out of it, but aware of his hand being reassuredly placed on my forehead. (Awwww.)

Once my Boy slid out, they plopped him on my chest, and proceeded to torture me mercilessly. It seems that my placenta was stuck, ( something my doctor who had been birthing babies for 25 years had never seen) and the previous Angel known as Nurse Nancy became my tormentor. Previously, I had thought very little of her considerable weight. Just then, I thought very much of it, since she seemed to be placing every extra pound of it on my stomach, the stomach that just went through countless hours of contractions. Up until that point, I had shed no tears, but as stoic as I can be when it comes to pain, there was no way I could stop the tears that leaked out of my eyes. Between having my belly pushed on, and having a hand shoved up me fishing around, and having my new baby on me without me being able to enjoy him, I broke down. They ended up replacing my IV, (which didn’t go in the first three times) just to give me another dose of meds known as the Shit That Puts You to Sleep. In other words, when my friends and family came to greet my Babe, I ended up sleeping, and awaking in a sort of drunken haze that was accompanied by slurred words.

Overall, having a whole person come out of me isn’t nearly as horrific as it sounds, but having a stuck placenta is a thousand times worse than it sounds. But, losing 24 pounds in less than a day and having an adorable Mini-Rockstar made it worth it. That doesn’t mean I’d do it again. I much prefer the making of children over the growing and birthing of them. After all, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.

Fury

I hate to be absent for so long, and then post a post like the following will be, but it must be done. The fury can no longer be contained.

So, does anyone else that is helping to raise a child that is not their own ever want to karate-chop said child in the fucking throat at times? To quote Sam Smith, “I know I’m not the only one.”

It may be said that, these days, I lack the infinite patience I once boasted because my inner ribcage is being used as a practice boxing ring for my future UFC son. But I do not think the following is EVER acceptable coming from any twelve-year-old:

“You don’t do ANYTHING except work. You don’t help with the dog; you don’t do the dishes; and you only pay dad $300 in “rent” every month. He basically has to do everything else.”

Perhaps the correct response would have been to not respond at all to this blatantly incorrect statement, and to address the attitude behind it, but you know what? I’M NOT FUCKING DEALING WITH THIS SHIT TODAY.

Instead of voicing the thoughts roiling through my head that went something like this- Listen, you spoiled little preteen cuntbitch, I did the dishes more times than you did this week, I pay $400 for half the house payment, as well as half the utilities and food to feed your shitty big mouth,  and how do you figure working all the time isn’t doing anything, you stupid little cocksucker?!- I did the unmentionable. I  took the laundry I washed yesterday that I supposedly “never do”, and threw everything that was hers at her and said, “Here. Since I don’t ever do anything around here, you can fold your own fucking clothes.”

Trust- it irks me to no end that my Rockstar finds the whole situation amusing. I do not expect him to argue with her incorrect informations, because she is twelve, and too immature to be arguing with in the first place, but I DO expect him to address her shitty hooplehead attitude. Maybe he is the one I need to cunt-punch.

I am perfectly aware this post is nothing but a ridiculous rant of almost-stepmomdom, but since I can’t poke her eyes out with excessive force and scream to the heavens my frustration, I have to just type it out and inwardly whine, “Please just let me diiiiiiiiieeeeeee.” Even thought I have no intentions of expiring anytime soon.

For Grampa

I noticed the sky this morning,

the morning you left us.

It was beautiful;

rose-colored and coral.

I thought of the old saying-

you know the one-

Red sky at morning,

sailors take warning.

And I started to cry.

It wasn’t warning sailors,

and I knew it.

It was warning us,

all of us that are left

that the world would be a little bit darker soon,

because you were going Home.

I knew;

that was why I held your hand maybe a little bit too tight

right before I had to go.

I figured it might have hurt,

but I knew you wouldn’t mind.

You would have done the same

if you’d been able to.

Now I have to figure out

how exactly my little boy is going to

grow up knowing just what a great man you were.

He’ll only see pictures of you,

the ones that prove me right-

that you were the best-dressed man that ever lived,

and so handsome.

(More handsome than all your brothers. Shhh.)

When he grows up,

he won’t get to remember what it was like

to wander through your garden with you,

admiring the stunning array of flowers

you and Gramma worked so hard on.

My son will never watch

Gramma, with the most tender of touch,

comb back the glorious strands of white and grey

from your forehead.

You know, I didn’t mind it a bit

when you missed a haircut or two.

There are far too many balding older men in the world.

It always seemed a shame to clip

the admirable abundance of hair you retained.

I’ll tell you a secret now.

Don’t be mad.

I always hated your favorite hymn.

In the Garden was never quite grandiose enough for me.

But you know I’ll play it for you anyway,

when it’s time to say goodbye.

The words, I really don’t mind, though.

And when I am digging in my own dirt,

I’ll sing them to myself

and think of you.

“I come to the garden alone,

when the dew is still on the roses…”

I maintain my opinion that

Crystal Gayle was always prettier than Loretta Lynn.

I keep saying it,

hoping you’ll come back and argue with me.

Loretta never knew what she was missing,

but all the rest of us will,

until we see you later.

 

To Raise a Little Man

So I suppose it’s about time for the big gender reveal….. I am actually a man.

Ha, just kidding. I am all woman. Except for the little 15 ounces growing in my belly.

Yes, my baby is a boy. YAY! A boy is what I’ve always wanted. But you know what they say: be careful what you wish for.

While the ultrasound technician was roaming around for the evidence of a teeny tiny penis on my baby, I was mainly ecstatic about the fact that he had two arms and legs. I know that seems like kind of a minor concern when there is the question of gender, but, ya know. It’s a little bit easier to do things with all your appendages. Anyhoo, the Babe was in a pose that could either mean he is ready to be a Prima Ballerina, or he’s just waiting to hold up his future NASCAR trophy. I’m not quite sure which thought is more disturbing to me.

When the technician pointed out his little testes, I had mixed feelings of elation and slight disappointment. ‘Tis true I wanted a boy, and I still do, but the idea of such absence of sparkles and ruffles in my future child’s life gave me pause. The only hope is that he may one day be a famous drag queen, because we know then there will be sequins and makeup aplenty.

After my appointment, I got to thinking about the problems I may have in raising a little man. (Other than the fact that my Rockstar wants to name him Vince, after Vince Neil of Motley Crue- a problem which need be addressed another day.)

What do I know about being a man? My coworker insists I am quite manly, indeed, so I shouldn’t have a problem, but I believe he only thinks so because of my appreciation for much sex, a subject we have talked about at great length. Honestly, I’m not quite sure why else he would find me masculine, unless my cursing sailor’s mouth convinced him. Who knows….

What I DO know is that I want my boy to read, and read a lot. I realized that other than blogland, there has been quite an absence of men that read in my actual real life. Sure, here and there, a male that loves books as much as I do has reared his head, but it’s been a disturbingly rare phenomena, like Loch Ness monster sightings. I’ve gone away wondering if I actually saw what I saw, kinda thing. I myself do not find reading to be a solely feminine act, but, you must admit, it doesn’t exactly go with beer and hot wings.

Aside from that, I want my son to be sensitive. Not meaning I want every drop of rain and flower petal to bring him to tears, but that if he sees someone in pain, or having a bad day, he will take notice, and perhaps try to better that person’s situation. Along with that, I want him to treat women like princesses, even though by the time he is old enough to think about girls, most of them will probably be sluts and/ or lesbians (in which case, he might get his ass kicked if he tries to treat them like princesses.. All girls should be made to feel special, even if they are only subpar.

I want him to have self-confidence, but not the yucky jock kind. I mean the kind that will allow him to not be bothered when his mother grows out his hair and people tease him for looking like a girl. The kind that allows him to be proud of himself, and teach others to also be proud of themselves.

If he marries, I want him to have at least a slight interest in planning his own wedding someday, whether it be to a girl or a boy. We all know the best boys are the ones that take an active role in such things, and are generally worshipped among women.

If he doesn’t marry, I want him to be happy in whatever life he chooses, and to have many adventures.

I want him to say what he means, and mean what he says, and not be afraid to say what it is that needs to be said, but know when to stay silent.

I want him to know it’s perfectly ok for him to like Barbie dolls, and to admire their exaggerated feminine features, but to realize that real women that look nothing like Barbie dolls are also desirable. I also want him to like dinosaurs, and realize they are the coolest creatures ever to live. (Besides for mermaids and unicorns.)

I want him to be just a little bonkers, because all the best people are.

I honestly don’t know how I will help my son to become this man I want him to be; luckily, I may be able to help him out in the bonkers department.

On Nausea and Still Remaining Myself

Pregnancy is not an excuse.

Yes, ok, I haven’t written on my blog (or anywhere else, for that matter) for a shameful 18 days; my longest hiatus from blogging yet, I believe. I haven’t drunk coffee or whisky or any mind-altering substance for many weeks, (and I do not intend to for many many more weeks). When I go out to eat in a nice restaurant with edible food, I can no longer finish my Rockstar’s meal after snarfing down my own. In fact, I cannot even finish my own meal, and have taken to sharing. I still think of sex more often than the average person, but I also think of sleep more than a two-toed sloth. I remind myself of one thing:

This, too, shall pass.

Whereas in past times not so long ago, any text message I received was almost immediately responded to, I have become a textical hermit. My repeated responses of “Not good. Puking all day. Sleeping when not puking.” I’m sure got old quickly when people asked how I was faring, and quite honestly, that exact response sums up the last eighteen days frighteningly well. It didn’t help that last week when my Rockstar had an entire week off between changing jobs, and instead of indulging in an all-week fuckfest with him, I was forced to hack and cough and blow my nose in between naps when I contracted the Mother of All Colds. The only upside was that the nausea that had continued to haunt me for over a month has finally begun to subside; I am no longer hurling unless I’ve not eaten within two hours. Yay me.

For the entirety of my adult life, I have begun planning my Halloween costume for each year in mid-summer. Not so this year. In fact, yesterday was the first day that I realized Halloween is less than two months away, and I said to myself, “Self! Enough of this bull-shit! You’re fucking dressing up, even if it is as a horse wearing a feed bag in order to catch the vomit!” There will be no alcoholic libations, but at least I have a house this year, so I plan on celebrating by scaring the beJesus out of the neighborhood childlings. The buzz from such doings will certainly suffice.

I realize that when you become a mother, (which I’m not, quite yet, anyway) you change. But I’ll be damned if everyone I know will only engage in conversations with me that pertain to my child, now or later. People without kids have lives, and do things, whether the People With Kids believe it or not. I will never enjoy talking about diaper genies and the latest invention created to make parenthood easier. I will, however, speak of sexually deviant practices with whomever is interested, even when my waistline is 57″.  I am not complaining about where my future is headed in the least, only stating how perturbed I am that having my head in a toilet has kept me from doing the things I wanted in the last weeks.

P.S. The ultrasound specialist assures me that my baby’s lack of legs and arms is a natural thing at this point. I pray he’s not just placating me.

A Letter To My Baby

Dear Baby,

I would have addressed my letter “Dear Little Bastard”, but there are those who might have taken offense. Luckily, I am your momma, and shall teach you to have a great sense of humor, and to never be ashamed of who and what you are.

So, hello, baby. I’ve been waiting a really long time to be able to write a letter to you. You would think I’d have given a bit more thought to what I would write, but considering that I never actually thought I’d have an opportunity to write such a letter, you will understand my faltering. It seems very cliche’, but I love you, baby. I’ve loved you for a very long time.

I promise you will be the most loved baby there ever was, (I know that seems pretentious, but you will learn soon enough that I am very exactly that). And don’t worry, I promise to teach you what pretentious means, and how to spell it, because I don’t want you to be one of those silly people who only use simple words and nod stupidly when educated people talk to you. You will know many many things, and the things I cannot teach you, you will learn from other people who love you dearly, like Auntie Delightful, who will be your Fairy Godmother, and who did a happy dance in public when your existence was confirmed; she will teach you all about poetry and to love books like I will, and she will never run out of crafts for you two to o together. And my godmother Auntie, who has been waiting for you for a long time too. She will teach you to accept everybody, and to be kind to people you don’t necessarily understand, and, if you ask her to, she will teach you to quilt beautiful quilts that will keep people you love warm.

Your daddy will love you too, even though he might not say it. (You and I will get him to eventually, though, I know it.) He will teach you all about music, and how important it is, and how rockers wearing women’s makeup is not only funny, but very cool. He will also take you to car races, and watch football with you, and will play with you even though he is kind of old, and really just wants to take a nap. Don’t get mad when he doesn’t respond to all your questions- he doesn’t have as many words to use as I do; but that just means you have to listen closely when he does talk.

I have always hoped you would be a boy, because dinosaurs are so much cooler than Barbies, and teenage boys are less of a pain in the ass than teen girls. But if you are a girl, I will teach you to love dinosaurs anyway, and to not be a pain in the ass.

The most important thing you need to know is that life is beautiful, and all people are beautiful in their own way, so you need to treat them like they are special, because they are someone’s baby, too. Also, God is a cool Guy, but He sometimes will do things you don’t understand just because He can; don’t get discouraged, because you are tougher than anything He will throw at you.

I’m sure there will be many more letters for you, baby, but for now, I should really work on my book, so I will have more time and money to spend on you when you get here.

Love You Forever,

Mommy