Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Job Description

I've acknowledged that I am not the best at being pregnant. It's been very hard for me, with the puking and the heartburn and the killer fatigue. I tore my rectum people, in a hotel room a couple of thousand miles from home. I've struggled more with body issues than I imagined possible given that I look totally fine and normal. I don't like being pregnant and I really don't trust these women that claim that they loved it so damn much. I've yet to meet a currently pregnant woman who gasps in ecstasy about this conditional but I suppose the mythical creatures may exist.

But as much as I wanted to be pregnant, and I did for so long as those of you who have stuck with me through all of this are well aware, it wasn't for the experience. I don't give a shit about the gift of giving life, even though I do feel grateful that I was able to do this. I wanted a baby and there was no way else to get one (first one to mention adoption gets kicked in the balls, people with our middle class incomes and J's family history don't get to adopt, not without knocking over a convenience store and greasing a lot of palms). Actually, not so much a baby, I wanted us to have a child, a family and I am amazed every day that this is coming true.

But I hate being pregnant and I am no good at it. And J cannot wait for it to be over because as much as people want to believe that he is a cocksucker he actually does love me and he hates to see me this way. When people ask him how I am doing he makes snarky comments about the little parasite and I can see them think what an asshole he is. I don't make these comments, not because I don't think they are funny (they are) or because I don't agree (um I do) but because I know people tolerate these things from fathers but from mothers they speed dial CPS and forcibly deliver this kid now because GOD if I could say things like that I probably eat deli meat too. SAVE MY BABY.

I feel stretched to my limit. I work a lot, fifty hours a week, at a stressful job with a two hour daily commute. This is my busy season. And just maintaining my home, my marriage and treading water on everything else is all I can do. I cannot do drama. I cannot do conflict. Anything outside of getting shit done in the next couple of months is going to have to wait. People are making demands that oh fuck them, I know they love us and they love our baby but fuck . . .No one gets to make us do anything right now. If I don't want her bedroom to be pink, that is my choice. We can use whatever name we like. I do not have to take any belly photos (my sister is like GASP at this but actually she was nice about asking and lovely when refused unlike others who are ogres from hell). The other day I cried a little at the end of Iron Chef America and honestly that is a sign that things are Not Going Well. It is just too much.

So my job is this. Go to my actual job and do the best that I can and not freak out about the rest. Be a good partner to my husband and not make him panic. Maintain the bare minimum of livability in my home. And eat ice cream, I am definitely in charge of eating ice cream. Everything else? Fuck it.

1 comment:

Frank said...

I do believe they must administer some sort of brain numing or memory deleating medicine to women post delivery or how else would you all ever be convinced to have another child? Hang in there. You're doing great.