I'm just going to keep having babies forever.

I'm currently impregnable, yet the thought consuming my mind most is birth control.  What's up with that?  Oh, it's because I'm tired of being pregnant all the time god damnit.

Pills are a no go.  I did a happy dance tonight because I remembered to take my prenatal three whole nights in a row!  Of course, the time varied by hours each time though.  I'm just no good with pills, and seeing as I am apparently very fertile and get pregnant every time Joe sneezes, I'd likely end up a birth control pill statistic.

NuvaRing is an option.  I have a sensitive girly part environment though, and I've heard the Ring can cause things to go nuts and start congealing down there.  I'm also not great on hormones, and the timing thing may be an issue, though I'm sure the weekly ring is more tolerant of my forgetfulness.  I find this option the least scary right now, so it may be worth a try for a few cycles.

The Patch.  Its #1 function is pretty much to cause blood clots and strokes or something right?  I'll pass.

The Depo Shot.  Convenient and effective, but I've heard it makes people fat, and well, that's already an issue for me.  And actually when I think about it, it's not really that convenient to have to go to the doctor with three children every three months.  Shot: officially off the table.

Hormonal IUD (Mirena) seems appealing.  I like the idea of being covered for 5 years and not having to feel bad about forgetting to insert something into some orifice.  I'm creeped out by the hormones though.  How the hell do they get hormones into a little stick of plastic?  Also, I'm probably a freak for this, but I do not like the idea of not getting my period at all.  I like things to keep their natural ebb and flow throughout my body.

And then there's the copper IUD (Paragard) that has no hormones, so that's extremely appealing.  And the fact that it's effective for up to 10 years makes me want to just stick a roll of pennies up myself right this second.  But then there's the possible side effect of a heavier period.  And when I'm thinking about it, it's really weird to use my uterus as a storage unit for metal.  And the concept of insertion.  And will I have a constant paranoid urge to violate myself to make sure my strings are in place?  Probably.  IUDs are just really weird to me, but the long-lasting convenience just may be worth it.

Barrier methods (sponge, diaphragm, condoms) are probably the perfect option for me because of their lack of hormones and lack of coziness all up in my uterus, but I'm just so lazy.  I'm tired from all this baby-making and don't feel like performing my wifely duties half the time as it is, and the thought of one more chore kills the mood in advance.  Plus, tell me I'm not the only one who hates how their crotch smells after a condom's been for a visit.

Lastly, POP.  Pull Out and Pray.  Honestly, this is my favorite method and it really has worked every time we've used it.  But the one time Joe didn't listen to my instructions, we ended up with little Harvey.  I just don't know that I want to risk leaving things up to Joe's feral manhood again.  I'm really ready to be through this phase of youngins and on with my life of cool family vacations they'll all remember.  And not having to carry anydamnone, in or outside of my body.  POP: out.

Basically what it comes down to is am I more concerned with being lazy and not having to remember to use something daily or weekly or as needed, or do I want to keep my body as free from foreign substance as possible?  It's a toughy because both of those things are really important to me.

In conclusion, typing my thoughts out has done absolutely nothing to help me make a decision.  I'm probably going to be writing this same damn entry 2 years from now when I'm knocked up with #4 like clockwork.







I had to add this bonus from my Facebook discussion on birth control, because I make myself laugh.

Irrational fears of mine

I want to get myself back in the habit of multi-weekly typings but I have nothing of value to say, so here's a list that doesn't require any brainwaves to type up:

Someone breaking into my house while I'm pooping

Someone pulling up to me at a stop light and shooting me in the head

Driving next to a big rig and being smooshed under a

Dangling half of my arm over the bed when I'm laying down and someone or something randomly falling and breaking my arm back the wrong direction at the elbow

Being pantsed in public while wearing period underwear

A bus driver swerving to avoid a squirrel and subsequently rolling his bus through my living room

The steel collapsing at Costco while I'm bent over underneath it and beheading or bebodying me

Randomly tripping anywhere and breaking my lower leg bone so the sole of my foot is facing up

Bugs crawling into my crotch.  Forever my greatest fear.

Year-round Elf on the Shelf-type fun for twisted parents

Alternatively titled: How to Fuck With Your Husband 101


Step 1:  Purchase life-size Barbie.

Step 2:  Give it to a 3 year old to adore.

Step 3:  Almost shit your pants when, multiple times a day, you find the doll laying face down like a dead little person in random places throughout your house.

Step 4:  Realize you could make your husband also almost shit his pants!

Step 5:  After Husband goes to bed, strategically position life-size Barbie where he will least suspect her.  Also, put a big ass knife in her hand.  Barbie's out for blood.  Or at least a little pee in his pants.

Step 6:  Rinse and repeat.

(Sorry Joe, but this is going to be a running gag.)

Grab your guns Whitey, we got some hoodlums

This hoodlum was found prepping her "Skittles" for a break-in near the community rec center.  The bulge in her crotch region was later identified as a loaded diaper gun.

This photo was taken showing the hoodlum attempting to conceal her "Skittles".  It is suspected her other hand was reaching for her "can of Ice-T".

A hoodie pulled down from the head is typically a signal for Temporary Hoodlum Inactivity, but do not be fooled.  Note the menacing look on the hoodlum's face.

Sometimes hoodlums will swallow their "Skittles" quickly to get rid of evidence.  Note: Duck hoods are to be taken as seriously and suspiciously as sweater hoods.

Hoodlum subject is clearly on drugs.  Also note: Bunny hoods are no joke.

Here we have a gang of hoodlums.  The sunglasses and nose piercings indicate they are especially lethal.

Pregnancy 1 vs. 3

I obsessed over my pregnancy with Violet so much that I felt her fingernails growing.  At any given second I could tell you exactly how far along I was, what symptoms were normal for my current gestational week, what organs were forming inside fetus Violet, and what super exciting milestone she was hitting (Hiccups, you say?  Wow, what a prodigy!).

Fetus-making is old news now.  It's still the most interesting thing going on with me though, so I made some boring comics to illustrate exactly how I feel about Pregnancy #1 vs. Pregnancy #3.

On gestational age:

This actually happened last week.  My mother-in-law asked how far along I was and I had no clue.  It doesn't help that my midwife never gave me a straight answer for an EDD, but I've been too lazy to sign up for those daily/weekly pregnancy update emails, so I have to make a conscious effort to find out how far along I am.  And effort is not my thing.

On baby books:

I read the shit out of some books with Violet.  This time I couldn't even tell you where or if I have one located.  I do check out The Bump occasionally to see what produce I'm gestating (currently a sweet potato or a mango?) but otherwise I haven't been concerned with whether it has arms or knows how to burp yet.

On preparing for baby:

I was apparently going through chemotherapy and lost all my hair for this comic.  I'm too lazy to change it though.  Bite me.

On birth:

I could not come to terms with the fact that Violet was to exit my body the same way she entered.  I spent the whole 10 months cringing and clenching my legs closed at the thought.  This time, if anything I'm looking forward to it.  Let's get this shit done with!

Am I even pregnant?

Hi, like how I have these month long hiatuses and then come back and swear I'll never go that long without blogging again?  Well this time I'm not even going to bother pretending.  I wish I could say this is going to be an exciting post to cherish for the next month that I'll probably be off sitting on the couch and picking my butt, but it's just some rambling about my parasite.

One of the disadvantages of being a big broad is I take forevs to show when I'm pregnant.  I think I was like 7 months pregnant before Violet was detectable by anyone but me and maybe 6 with Leela.  Woo!  If the pattern continues I'll only have to wait half my pregnancy for a bump this time!

Anyway, I'm at that awkward phase now where I'm not morning sick, I'm not feeling distinct kicks, I'm not showing, I'm not in pain, I'm not swollen, I'm not even really that hormonal.  I'm not even sure I'm pregnant to be honest.

I've only had one midwife appointment at about 13 weeks and I heard its heart beat back then, but that was back then!  It could have kicked the bucket the next day and is just hanging out for all I know.  I go 6 weeks between appointments so for those 6 weeks I kinda just pretend I'm not pregnant.

I think this baby's placenta might be in the front of my belly this time because I was undeniably feeling Violet by now, and I actually owned a set of abs back then.  Not toned or pretty abs, but abs nonetheless.  This one, I've been feeling, uh, maybe something, for a week-week-and-a-half.  Maybe.  I'm just really not sure.

It's not helping my pregnancy psychosis and paranoia one bit.  I always spend the first 20 weeks convinced I'm growing a squitten or a mutant rabbit human hybrid a la Frank.  Or a colony of cyclopes morphed into a single baby thing.  Or a human baby with no head or skin.  Or sometimes I let my mind settle with just a plain human baby with some tragic heart defect or lung malformation.  I've been especially paranoid this pregnancy for some reason because of the lack of movement and showing and possibly because I'm still very much in denial that I ever saw a positive test.

Could I be gestating this?

I have no idea where I was going with any of that but now I'm thinking about how much I would love to birth a squitten.  Or a unicorn!  Random fact:  A unicorn's horn does not begin forming until around 6 months of age.  Lucky for momma unicorn's innards, right?!

Oh yeah, so my only real symptom, that isn't even really that apparent now because I've been sick for 3 damn weeks, is this damn runny nose.  I always get so snotty during pregnancy.  It blows (nyuk nyuk)!  I have a midwife appointment next week and the ultrasound two weeks after that, so hopefully I'll hear a heartbeat and see a healthy baby, rather than finding a rapidly growing tumor and finding out I'm suddenly immunodeficient like I suspect.

A squitten, for your enjoyment. 

Are the Pooping Babies hereditary?

The other day I was in the shower and Violet came in to do her business.  I was not thrilled with the idea - just because butt-smell particles are small doesn't mean they're not still particles floating all around me while I'm trying to get clean from said particles.  But anyway.  So I just stood there for a while enjoying the water beating down on me waiting for her to pull me out of my hot watery paradise by asking me to wipe her butt.

But I was standing there a really long time before I realized she was talking, but not to me.  So I started listening and I shit you not, she was giving her doll a lesson in bathroom etiquette.  Maybe this isn't quite as bad as my Pooping Babies since at least she was talking to a physical object, but she was teaching it not to stand up until it's done going potty, and to always wipe front to back, and to make sure to hold your dress up in the back so you don't get any poopy on it.  Standing there in the shower, peeking out from behind the curtain, it felt like I was Future Me looking back at Little Girl Me.  I wondered if I should warn her of a future incident where her and a few friends are standing in a circle in a long hall somewhere and she's considering farting but she should not let loose because it's going to make a noticeable sound even though it feels like a silent one.

Now the whole thing has me wondering if maybe The Pooping Babies were real.  And The Floating Fish and The Acid Monster.  And maybe all my stuffed animals really did get sad and miss me when I finally gave them away.  And maybe John John was real.  Maybe Violet and I have this weird sensitivity to some other dimension where really fucked-up-yet-benignant things live.  Or maybe all these things were planted in my head and travelled across the placenta into Violet!  AH!!

I'm going to keep that thought in the back of my head, but the sane, non-conspiracy theorist (deep) inside me is going to assume it's the weirdo imagination she inherited.  But if I start seeing her strip her plush stuffed things and sticking the fur in her nose (the sensation is divine I tell you), I'm getting worried.

What's weird is I found this on google but I swear it might actually be the tiger I stripped.  I'm not even going to search for "naked Big Bird".

Homebirth is frowned upon in MD so I'm planning nice ways to cuss out my midwife now

When I labor, I turn into a giant cat and find myself a nice dark quiet closet to hump air in.  Literally.  Maybe not literally, but when my uterus is contracting and systematically moving my bones aside to push a baby out of a small hole, the absolute last thing I want is another living thing witnessing my vulnerability.  This is why I caved and got an epidural with Violet instead of writhing in pain for hours in the hospital waiting room, and why Leela was almost born in a van.  I wanted to be in my own world where no one could see me or hear me growling.

My ideal childbirth experience is in some magical warm fresh water stream in a two-way mirrored bubble enterable by no one but me, where my hair doesn't get wet and my skin doesn't get cold, and there's no blood or womb juice, and it's sound proof both ways so I don't have to hear anyone say "Wow, you're still pregnant?!", and when the baby and I get out we're somehow dry and clothed automatically.

My second favorite birth would be at home in my bed, completely alone.  With no one even in the house.  Or they can be in the living room if they have to be, but silent.  Or I'd kill them.  Oh and again, I'd have that magical no blood and no fluid thing going on.

The birth I will have though will be in a hospital with lots of lights and shit beeping and probably some wires and most likely some people.  Unfortunately, my insurance is too good, and I don't pay a single penny to spit out a baby.  No hospital deductible, no physician fees, not even a co-pay at my midwife appointments.  (Sidenote:  Baby-making is free, but I have to pay $80 a year for birth control, if I ever decide to start using it.  Hm.)

I also have horrible anxiety over people being in my house for some reason.  I always imagine I'm going to have a crowd of people gathered in one room and one of the neighbor's dogs is going to climb in through my bedroom window and gather up the biggest, holiest underwear he can find in my underwear drawer, a voice recorded diary on top volume where I talk about all things gossipy and bitchy and raunchy (that I don't actually have, but such a thing exists in my imagination), and a 3 foot double dong hanging from a sex swing (... that I also don't have, *eh hem*).  So I wouldn't be able to relax my whole labor and delivery knowing my midwife might find something embarrassing or incriminating.

Anyway, even if insurance and anxiety weren't an issue, I still wouldn't be able to have a home birth because Maryland hates women.  Certified Nurse Midwives are the only care providers legally allowed to attend a home birth in this state, and do you know how many of those there are willing to do that here?  A whopping two from what I have been able to find.  There's also a handful of Certified Professional Midwives who practice in the state incognito, but from what I've gathered they's 'spensive, and there's only so many of them to go around.

So that puts me back in the hospital!  I decided I don't want to labor in the back seat of my van again this time, and I'd really like the chance to get inside that birthing tub and labor like an astronaut, so I'll be meeting my midwife at this hospital much sooner than absolute-freakin-last-minute this time.  This presents a new set of challenges.  How do I nicely tell my midwife what I want when I'm in the middle of a full body implosion? Here's my list so far:

ALONE PLEASE = I can't have any distractions in the room for this contraction


HANDS ARE COLD = Please don't touch me because I'm creeped out by human touch


SMELL MAKING ME SICK = Who the hell do you think you are eating in front of me when I'm pushing a person out of my nethers?



NEED SNACK = I need you out of my life for the 10 minutes it takes you to retrieve a snack


NEED QUIET = If you don't fucking stop talking to me I'm going to birth this baby directly down your throat

MUST KEEP MOVING = This shit hurts and I can't sit still, and you do not need to check my progress bitch because I assure you I feel progress being made

EVERY SINGLE PERSON NEEDS TO LEAVE THE ROOM FOR HALF AN HOUR = I'm in transition and if you stay here I will literally scream so hard your soul will melt

I'll take the ugliest bra you have

As I was putting on my bra today and tucking in the pieces of stray elastic and uncurling the pitifully overworked straps, I realized two things.  1) Why the hell am I wearing a nursing bra still considering I never nurse in public anymore and Leela only nurses once at night now when my bra has been laying on the floor for the last three hours anyway.  Oh, the reason I'm wearing that bra is because 2) I don't have any other bras.  My boobs' primary use these days is to just hang there and flap in the wind, and their secondary use is to feed a baby who couldn't give two shits what they look like as long as they have a functioning nipple.  And I guess their thirdary use is for Joe to see once every other month, and he also doesn't care what they look like as long as they have nipples, functioning or non.

Anyway so I was thinking about bra shopping and I thought about how I have a $25 Victoria's Secret gift card I could use to buy one cup if I can get up the nerve to waltz my frumpy fat ass in that store.

Then I realized, I'm old.  I don't care what my bras look like anymore.  I literally will take the ugliest bra they have as long as it holds in the girls and lifts them at least a little above my belly button and doesn't leave me looking coney.  And I don't want one of those cute thin straps, I want a wide piece of material holding my shit up comfortably and keeping it there.  Even better, instead of straps, give me some damn sleeves.  Think bra, Moby style.

I've been going through a quarter-life crisis since I turned 22, and things like today make me scared to think about what I'll be like at 50.  Am I going to be that shameless old lady at the grocery store who bends over at the produce and farts and then looks you in the eye and says "Oh, scuse me" instead of denying it or walking away like it never happened?  Will I be the braless woman who walks up to you at a restaurant and bends over to your table exposing her floppy old woman cleavage in order to ask what it is your having for dinner because boy does it look good, and now that I'm standing here bent over it and in your face, boy does it smell good too, can I have a taste?

I'd promise myself now that I'll never be that, but I've already failed Teenage Me.  I always had plans to be a world traveler and bachelorette and have an interesting job and good stories to tell.  Now I spend my days looking up what cool playground to go to next and coming to terms with my "success" as a Mom and battling complacency.  And writing blogs about ratty old bras.  Not that I'm not successful in an unorthodox way, but it's just not the glorious life I expected.  It's really boring actually.  And not helping with my quarter-life crisis.

I should probably just start letting loose of the shameless public farts now and call it a life.

Hi, I'm alive

January was a bust blog-wise.  I got me a Kindle Fire and I read a buncha books and then I just forgot how to form my own words.  There have been some things I've wanted to blog about but my brain melts just thinking about typing an entire paragraph.

PHEW!  Ok, now that I've gotten a paragraph out of the way, I think I can do this.

My January was spent being pregnant and hormonal, convinced I was going to miscarry, yet morbidly fascinated by the thought as well.
     Chances of a blog entry about that in the next few days/weeks: Highly Likely

The month was also spent dreading my birthday.  It's all been downhill for me since I turned 22.  I think I suffer from Chronic Quarter-Life Crisis.  Until I turn 38 and switch to Chronic Mid-Life Crisis.  And fuck, then I guess I'll switch back to Quarter-Life Crisis.
     Chances of a blog entry discussing the evils of goals and success: Very Highly Likely, because I've already written it, I just need to edit it to be 100% less emo.

I ignored my children every day for 5 days while reading The Hunger Games at the beginning of this month.  Goddam I love a good dystopia!  The series was a really easy read and I dug the commentary on government and power and the human animal, and the relationships were fun.  And Team Gale vs. Team Peeta better not become a thing because there was no Team Gale people, there just wasn't.  GAWD.
     Chances of a blog entry explaining my take on a lot of complaints I read online after I became obsessed and googled and read every HG forum:  Eh, probably not, unless I revisit the books in preparation for the movies which are going to be fantastic a month and a half from now!

I also have been reading the Bible to get some context on the batshit things I've been reading on Facebook, and to better understand the point of view of my Christian BFF.
     Chances of me telling you why this book infuriates me:  Likely, if I'm feeling ballsy or if I'm able to write it without being offensive to my friends.

My children will be in the Girl Scouts.  I previously had no interest in them until I found a video of a little girl trying to tell me why I should hate them, and instead she gave me every reason to love them.
     Chances of a picture blog of me in a tub of Thin Mints and Samoas:  Likely, though it's old news, it's still important news.  Picture pending on me finding money for overpriced but delicious round bites of ecstasy.

I saw a picture of Violet as a half-year old today and was enamored with her cute little fatty feet naked in the grass.  Eeee, I love them!  It reminded me of an incident earlier this year though, involving a summer road, bare feet and some dumbass overprotective helicopter mom retard asshole.  Bitch.
     Chances of a discussion on parenting and fear:  Very Likely.  Bitch.  (Now I'm just in the mood to say bitch a lot)

Lastly, adoption!  An online friend of mine adopted two little boys very recently and the pictures are killing me.  THEN, my BFF4evs told me like 2 days later that she has begun (began? started.) the adoption process.  COLOR ME EXCITED!!!
     Chances of a personal confession of why I was and probably still am a selfish butthole:  Well that's like every time I talk, but regarding this specific subject Fo Shizzle.


So yay, I blogged!  That's your February preview, if I can keep the head and the fingers good and lubed.  Yup.
    (Chances of me not touching on a single subject listed above and instead making no entries while I'm uh, off, hunting for proof that unicorns exist:  Possible.) (Bitch.)