Shit My Dad Says... About Welfare

We've established that I was really poor as a kid. Welfare poor. The major reason for this was my dad. My useless, transient hobo with a gambling problem dad. It took my mom quite a few years to come to the realization that being on her own with 4 kids would actually be significantly easier than staying with him and trying to take care of us.

That said, we were still really poor. Except that single mothers of 4 kids can get help from the government instead of just living in a van and eating dinner out of vending machines like we did when we lived with my dad. And so we were on welfare, and food stamps, and eventually we were able to get into subsidized housing. You know, the projects. My mom still worked- mostly for our landlord to pay off our rent in the many years while we waited to get into housing we could afford. And then cleaning bars and homes and stuffing envelopes for our (by then) ex-landlord and a handful of her colleagues for 2 cents per envelope. Guys? Doing anything for 2 cents a piece is basically slave labor. I remember my mom staying up 24, 48 hours straight- sometimes longer- and making a whopping $25 for 2 straight days of work.

My point is that my mom busted her ass. Because she had to and because she would do anything for us. Because my dad didn't pay a single dime in child support, basically ever (the occasions he managed to collect unemployment where child support was taken out- much to his dismay- automatically, were like bonus time in our family). Because she couldn't afford child care and so she had to work odd jobs for next to nothing just so we could survive. I've always respected how hard she worked for us. As a parent myself now, it's really jarring to look back on it and see it from her perspective. As a kid, I knew we didn't have much money. I knew a lot of times I couldn't have something I wanted because we couldn't afford it. Hand-me-down clothes were the usual. Nothing about it seemed particularly hard for me as a child because it was all I ever knew. But now, as a parent? I look at how much I stress about making sure I can afford things that are luxuries- DVR and Christmas photo shoots- how I don't want Caitlyn to miss out on those things that aren't really going to hurt her in the long run- and I can't help but imagine what it must have been like for my mom to not be able to afford food and milk and diapers. Because, as the poet Eminem once said "these goddamn food stamps don't buy diapers". Preach, brother.

None of this is really the point though. We've already established that I hold my mother in the same regard as saints. Probably higher, actually. My point is that, through all of this- through quite literally nearly killing herself because she was taking care of 4 kids alone- my father always judged our lifestyle. On the occasions he came around (it was much less so when we were kids- I'm assuming because none of us had couches he could crash on yet), he always had rude comments about what my mom wasn't giving to us. Nevermind the fact that he hadn't contributed anything of value for the entirety of our childhood. He couldn't believe my mom had us living in the projects (apparently sleazy motels were much better)! He looked down at his nose at her for feeding us with food stamps (Oh, how she enjoyed those 1st of the month, 3 mile walks to and from the grocery store!). He particularly hated the fact that she was on welfare. He always thought himself far too good for welfare. Or maybe it just especially annoyed him because he was more likely to end up with an arrest warrant for not paying his child support when the money was owed to welfare. My point is that he would show up, and he would judge us. He would promise to get us out of such horrible conditions (and back into the shitty motels/homeless shelters we deserved!). He treated my mom as though all she was doing wasn't enough for his standards. Ironic.

Anyway. My dad stopped by for a visit a couple of weekends ago. I could tell he had some money in his pockets, because he wasn't using what I like to refer to as his "kill yourself" tone of voice for everything he said. I didn't even have to ask before he started telling me why. You guys? He's on welfare. And food stamps. And he is inexplicably getting rental assistance which has been approved through AUGUST. He is a 60 year old man who has never held a steady job, has pissed away every dime he's ever earned through his gambling addiction, has abused the kindness and asked favors of every single person he has ever known (his own children included), and passionately HATES "the system" for ever pursuing him for his obligations to his 4 children. And yet, he is happily abusing it now (and trust me, abusing is the right word. He openly admitted to winning $2000 on the lottery- he spent his WELFARE money on fucking lottery tickets!).

The worst part isn't even that he's abusing a service that he frequently judged my mom for needing while he contributed nothing during my childhood. The worst part is that he bitched about how inconvenient receiving welfare has been for him. You guys? Welfare asks questions. Like whether or not you are looking for a job. So RUDE! Also, he didn't even WANT welfare. He just wanted food stamps and rental assistance but they totally insisted on giving him welfare too. Ugh. And then, omg he totally had to sit in the welfare office for TWO STRAIGHT DAYS- he was even the LAST person they took on his second day of waiting- before they gave him a fucking free ride for the forseeable future. Tacky, welfare. So tacky. The customer is always right, you know. And the customer shouldn't have to wait 2 whole days that they definitely weren't going to spend at work, waiting around for your free money. And food. And housing.

Anyway. I digress. It's just that sometimes you are going through your own personal struggles. Real struggles, scary struggles, and you find you have to pull yourself up and realize that, well, you got yourself into this mess and you're just going to have to deal with it now. You'll be okay eventually. And then some jackass who is just begging to be dead to you comes to your house and bitches about how inconvenient he found his trip to the welfare office, and you have to hold yourself back from punching him in the face. On the upside, he did give me a red plastic Solo cup full of change though. Totally makes up for that whole "absentee father" thing.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Divorce Court...

Actually, that title is a lie. Of course it didn't really happen on the way to divorce court. That would be just plain tacky. And I like to be enormously tacky.

So here is the thing. Remember how I started dating that guy? Yeah. That guy got me pregnant. And so, while it technically did not happen on the way to divorce court, I was absolutely a proper hoodrat about it and showed up to divorce court pregnant with another man's baby. Not that anyone knew. But I knew, and I felt the ghettoness of my roots in that moment. You can take the girl out of the projects, I suppose...

Anyway. Obviously you have some questions. Questions such as "are you really that stupid?" and "so, I guess you aren't having an abortion then?". Let's get in to that, as I'm going to find a way to blame this all on my ex husband.

As for the question of my intelligence, well, let me assure you, you aren't the first to ask. And rightfully so. I won't get into the messy details, but let's just say I had a lapse in judgment. Let's just say that I was so cocky about my knowledge of my cycles and fertility signs after multiple rounds of IVF and years of tracking and trying to get pregnant, that I simply got cavalier about the whole thing. I simply thought I knew too much to have an accidental pregnancy. So yeah, ok, I guess I'm kind of fucking stupid.

As for the abortion question. I looked to my past, to my struggles to conceive and my loss of a much loved and terribly wanted baby and I could not bring myself to do it. Even if it was the most logical choice. And I assure you, I do realize it was the most logical choice. Even now I sometimes find myself thinking "wow... I wish I could have been a bit more logical when I made this decision". It's not that I regret it, exactly. I just didn't really take as much time as I should have to think it through. Truthfully, I knew I'd never go through with it anyway, no matter how much I may have been able to convince myself that it was the best option.

And so, for the official record, today I am nearly 16 weeks pregnant. The future is murky and scary, but in the end I know I will love this baby no matter what else happens. I know I will find equal parts joy and challenge in being a single mother (and no, that doesn't mean the guy just dropped off the face of the Earth, but my reality is what it is and I have to be prepared for that). I know that when Caitlyn hugs my belly and tells me she wants a baby brother, who shall be named Pocoyo and who she shall paint blue, she will get an immense amount of joy from having a sibling to love. I know that we will be a family, in whatever version works best for us. I know we will carry on and love each other and support each other and be happy. As for everything else? Well, fuck if I know.

Middle-Aged Retail Employees LOVE It When You Talk To Them About Your Vagina

Sometimes, when you haven't been laid in a while (or when you are only having sex because omg fine, just shut the fuck up about it already), you let some of your grooming habits slide. Eventually though, you get to a point where you realize that your pubes are like 6 inches long and maybe you should do something about that. I had that realization a few weeks ago.

Usually I just shave the lady parts, but I decided I wanted to buy a trimmer. I work in NYC and there are at least 6 drugstores in a 4 block radius, so I expected to find exactly what I wanted rather easily. That was not the case. Apparently, the ladies of this great city prefer their pubic hair trimmers to be fancy, expensive, and much larger than is absolutely necessary (insert dick joke here).

This was clearly not something I needed immediately, so I didn't think much of it. I figured I'd find what I wanted in Jersey one day. Then yesterday I was taking a walk on my lunch break and went outside of my usual 5 block perimeter and came across a CVS I hadn't checked out before. I figured I would see if they had what I wanted.

To my surprise, they did have it. And at just $12, I knew I had finally filled my bush-removing needs. I went to grab it off the hook and realized that I couldn't get it off. The hook had a lock on the end of it.  Have you seen this? I mean, at Walmart in the electronics department, sure. I can understand why they might lock up expensive electronics items. But in CVS? For a $12 pube trimmer? Really?

At that moment, I had to make a choice. I could be embarrassed and refuse to ask for help and walk out. Or I could put on my big girl panties and ask someone to unlock it for me. Because it WAS a CVS, I told myself I would make one loop around the store. In the unlikely event that I found someone who actually worked there, I would ask for help. Right as I completed my loop, as I made my way back to the aisle I started in, an employee appeared before me. In fact, he was in the aisle unlocking a mustache trimmer for some other customer.

I marched up to this middle-aged man and told him I needed him to get something for me. He cheerfully asked "ok, what did you need?". I gestured toward the end of the aisle with the lady products and he followed me there. "This one", I told him. "And thanks for locking up the pube trimmers so I had to ask for help".

He laughed, so I probably only made him a little uncomfortable. On the upside, my pubes aren't 6 inches long anymore.

What the Fuck is Wrong With People?

As I'm sure you have heard, there was a shooting at an elementary school in Connecticut today. Since it just happened a few hours ago, I don't have a lot of the details. Even if I did, I certainly wouldn't want to rehash them here. The truth of the matter is, I want nothing more than to stick my fingers in my ears and repeat "LA-LA-LA-LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" any time someone at work (or on my Facebook feed) brings it up.

I'm not trying to minimize the tragedy. I'm not saying I don't care. It's just that this is the sort of thing I can't even being to think about without completely breaking down. My stomach ties itself in knots just reading the headlines for these kinds of stories, let alone the gory details.

The thing is, I lost a child. Obviously I did not lose a Kindergartener who had been the biggest part of my life for years. My loss was much earlier than that, so I won't claim to know how the parents of those children must feel. The thought of their babies, terrified and crying for them in a place they are supposed to be safe... it makes me shake in horror. It makes me want to puke. I can't even imagine how it must make their parents feel, knowing their children lost their lives in such a gruesome, violent manner.

My point is just that things like this hit me differently than they do a lot of other mothers, I think. My Facebook feed is filled with friends, family, and aquaintances talking about how they can't wait to get home and hug their kids. How terrifying it is to think that, even in elementary school, you can't ever be sure that they are safe. The difference for me is that is how I feel all the time.

I feel like it would be absolutely disrespectful to compare my stillborn baby to the children who were tragically gunned down this morning, so I want to be careful to say that I'm really not trying to do that. My point is more the reaction from other parents.

When I lost Nicholas, every drop of "that could never happen to me" left my body. I don't ever doubt how quickly and unexpectedly a tragedy could cross my path. Or Caitlyn's. For the most part, absent of a current, relatable tragedy such as the one that happened today, I think most people fall on the other side of the fence. Most people want to believe statistics. They want to believe that if there is a 98% chance something will never happen, that of course they wouldn't be part of the 2% with the terrible luck.

During my pregnancy with Caitlyn, I had an overlap with both of my sister's pregnancies as well. April was near the end of her pregnancy when I got pregnant, and Samantha had just found out she was a few weeks before I did. My loss was certainly on everyone's mind, because it was just 6 months prior. In fact, April was already a few months pregnant when I lost Nicholas. They never talked to me about their fears for their own children, but my mom told me not too long ago that they were both terrified. "That will never happen to me" just hit a little too close to home.

I wonder though, if now, years after the fact, they still have the same fears I do. I mean, every parent worries for the safety of their child, but i think I do to an excessive degree. I never feel 100% sure that I'll see Caitlyn again. Every time I strap her into her carseat, I kiss her goodbye. Just in case we are in a terrible car accident and she doesn't make it, I want her to know she is loved. Even when she is being difficult and crying and fighting me while I try to strap her in, I give her a kiss and tell her I love her. About half the time in the mornings, I wake up and think to myself "she's sleeping too soundly. Did she suffocate in her sleep?". On the rare occasions when I make plans without her, I always find myself fearing that something will happen to her before I return, and I'll have squandered my last precious hours that could have been spent with her doing selfish, unimportant shit.

Sometimes I have to tell myself that I'm being obsessive, or that she will almost definitely be fine. I have to remind myself that my sanity and my ability to be a good mother to her depends on occasionally giving myself a break. But I never, ever tell myself that something could never happen. Unfortunately, the older she gets, the more there are outside influences in play. I'm surprisingly not a crazy overprotective mom, but I mostly attribute that to the fact that my own mom never stopped me from doing things I wanted to do and always trusted and encouraged me. I know when it comes to decision-making, she will be trusted and trustworthy. It's all the stuff outside of both of our control that utterly terrifies me.

Ironically, Caitlyn had her first taste of preschool today. Our babysitter's son celebrated his 4th birthday today and his preschool allowed Caitlyn to stick around and join in the festivities. It was very nice of them, and I got a bunch of very cute, very big girl schmoozing with the other big kids pictures sent to my phone. It made me a little excited to see her so very ready for the next step that will eventually come, but also a little sad to see her embracing such a big step without me. And then all hell broke loose and I had to breathe and type and try not to cry at my computer.

Gymmy Buffet

I've been trying to lose weight. I believe I've mentioned it before. I've gone back and forth with it, losing and regaining the same 10lbs or so for years, but when I realized that I was just weeks away from my 30th birthday, it occurred to me that I couldn't keep fucking around like that.

I gave myself an extremely short-term goal- I wanted to lose 8 pounds in the 3 weeks I had until I turned 30, so I've been going to the gym a lot. Mostly it's been fine, but I almost stabbed some bitches the other day. Let me set the scene for you:

I showed up on my lunch break, like usual. This means I only had 20 or so minutes to work out. Twenty minutes, when you are working with what I've got, really isn't much time to make an impact. It's certainly not enough time to deal with the level of bullshit I dealt with that day.

I was feeling pretty tired, because I had my shot the night before and it's been wiping me out. Still, I felt the need to do at least a little cardio, so I jumped on a treadmill and figured I could spend 10 minutes there and 10 minutes using a few of the weight machines.

While I walked on the treadmill, I noticed a couple of things. First, there was a small group of girls wandering around with one of the trainers. They giggled and chatted and had him take pictures of them while the stood on the windowsill near the treadmills in yoga poses. It was strange, but they were young and bimbo-y enough that I didn't think much of it. I also noticed that all the girls were wearing nametags, but I didn't care enough to actually look and see where they were from. I assumed it was some sort of women's college or something doing a pathetic excuse for a field trip.

The next thing I noticed was much weirder. The layout of my gym... it isn't exactly cramped, but it's certainly not a large space either. Half the space is the mirrored, lady-gym exercise class area and the other half is evenly split between cardio equipment and weight machines.

There was a class going on and I glanced toward the back of the class while I walked. Sometimes I do this. Sometimes I want to see how the other people like me, the ones who hide in the back of the class, are doing. Back when I was young, I was somehow more insecure but simultaneously more game to try out a class. Now? Not so much. I've tried two classes. One was a toning class that I really enjoyed but never went back to because I don't usually have anyone to watch Caitlyn during that time. The other one was a cardio class. I made it less than 10 minutes into that one and gave up (though this was about a week before I went into the hospital in January, so maybe it wasn't just that I couldn't handle it).

And everyone keeps saying to try Zumba. How Zumba is SO. MUCH. FUN. Lady Gym likes to play infomercials for Zumba during the Zumba classes. When I first signed up, I really wanted to check it out. My white girl, rhythm-deficient insecurities, however, would not allow me do it alone. So I recruited Nadine to go to Zumba class with me. Well, true to form, I was running late and showed up 10 minutes into the class. Nadine spotted me from across the room and immediately stopped Zumba-ing and walked over to me. "I'm done, Jaclyn. I look like the Pillsbury Doughboy doing Zumba". And that was all I needed to hear. No one wanted to see TWO Pillsbury Doughboys embarrassing themselves like that. Zumba was now dead to me.

I'm off track here. Way off track. My point certainly isn't about the Pillsbury Doughboy, though, now that I think of it, this segue is kind of genius (thank you, Nadine). Because at the back of the class area, where there was a class going on at that very moment, were two tables full of catering trays.

Yes. You read that right. At my gym. Where I go to lose weight. Was a fucking BUFFET LINE.

I'm insecure. I have very little willpower. Did there really need to be a buffet at the gym? It was worse, probably, for the girls like me at the back of the class, struggling to keep up while the smell of food wafted up their noses. I don't know. Maybe I was just overreacting because I've been sticking to a fairly strict diet and feeling a little sensitive? Actually, no. No fucking buffet at the gym. That should be a fucking rule. If they want to put up signs about the fact that they will ABSOLUTELY NOT make an exception for you if you forget your card, then I think they should have a no fucking buffet rule.

Anyway. My ten treadmill minutes were up. The treadmills face the window, so I didn't notice the chaos that had filtered in behind me. I stepped off and turned to face 40 nametag clad women just milling around, using the weight machines, the elliptical, the spot on the floor directly in front of the locker room, as their hang out space.

I found a machine that wasn't being used as a chair and sat down. As I worked out, I started feeling really fucking annoyed. Who were these bitches? Didn't anyone teach them any manners? Also, did they know what a bunch of assholes they all looked like, clad in yoga pants and tank tops, lazing around like they were at their high school gym, sitting in the bleachers hoping not to get a 0 for the day because, hey, at least they changed? I was not there because I had to be, and they were fucking up my shit.

Hostility breeds curiosity sometimes for me. The question of "who are these bitches" was getting to me. I imagined then that this MUST be some sort of bullshit college trip, because grown women don't act like they are still in high school.

That's when I noticed it. The nametags. They all had the name of my gym on them. And the name of the person. And their titles. "Manager", "Trainer", etc. These were EMPLOYEES of the gym, sent from other locations, apparently to have some sort of meeting and a fucking buffet lunch.

Dear Lady Gym,
    You are one gentle misstep away from dead-to-me status. Do not pull some shit like that again.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, I DID reach my goal. I'm down 10 pounds in 4 weeks. I mostly attribute it to there not being buffets most days at the gym.

Peace Out, Girl Scouts. Did I Say Peace Out? I Meant Fuck You

Alright. So it shouldn't be news to any of you that I'm a bit of a fatty. You've seen my pictures. There is no need for lies.

I've been working on it though. I joined a gym and Weight Watchers and it's been slow progress, but I've lost about 25 lbs in the last year and a half or so. I could have done better. I could have lost more. But I've managed to drop a couple of pants sizes, a bra size (around, don't worry, the ladies aren't going anywhere) and a whole lot of fat shame.

I've kept it off, despite many lapses in judgment. It seems as if my body had a set point and I've managed to create a new one that is 20 lbs lower. What that has meant for me is that I don't have to be perfect in my choices. I haven't seen any real loss in a couple of months, but I'd been pretty consistent with going to the gym and my time at Weight Watchers really reprogrammed my brain into making better choices, even when I'm making shitty ones.

And then I went into the hospital. Did you know that you can get dessert with every meal if you are on an unrestricted diet in the hospital? And really, I was sick and feeling bad enough for myself that I absolutely ordered dessert. Every. Single. Time (Ok. With the exception of breakfast. Which was bacon, eggs and home fries every day for me, so it's kind of a moot point, isn't it? Bacon is breakfast's dessert).

Besides the cheesecake I regularly ordered, Nadine brought me daily snacks. The first day it was a bag of chocolate candies. Then hot chocolate from Dunkin Donuts. Then assorted pastries and soy hot chocolate from Starbucks so I wouldn't get diarrhea, then a dozen cupcakes from the fancy cupcake place near the hospital. It was all delicious and appreciated, but man, I fell into some bad habits with all those snacks.

When I got out of the hospital and switched over to oral Prednisone, it came to my attention that everything tasted awful. Everything was bitter and disgusting and tasted like it was covered in dirt. Except cookies. Add to that the fact that I was taking the pills every 4 hours and they gave me ridiculous heartburn if I didn't eat with them, and you can understand why I ate approxiametly 4 bags of Chips Ahoy in less than a week. I may be underestimating with 4 actually, but I have too much fat shame to admit to any more than that. Let's just say I ate a lot of fucking cookies.

The cookies spiraled into anything sweet. I started drinking hot chocolate every day, multiple times a day. I had to! Everything else tasted like shit! But it was getting ridiculous, so I finally sucked it up last week and went back to Weight Watchers to face the damage. To my utter shock, I had only gained 3 lbs. I was fully expecting 10. My body had not forsaken me.

Which brings me to those fucking whorebag Girl Scouts. I'm trying to get back on track. Trying to make better decisions and stop eating anything that crosses my path. And I keep getting reminders that soon I will have to not buy their cookies.

Every year in February and March, I get mauled almost daily in the train station by pushy Girl Scouts trying to whore out their product. And it's a good product. Hard to say no to. It's certainly better than that time the Cub Scouts were camped out trying to sell $18 bags of fucking popcorn (
Really Cub Scouts? Who does your fucking marketing?). But Girl Scouts? I don't need it this year. And what I especially don't need is to be reminded a month in advance that I'd better have cash at the ready or I'll miss out on your annual deliciousness.

You see, I work with people who have Girl Scout aged daughters. And those fuckers keep sending out "BUY MY KID'S GIRL SCOUT COOKIES" emails to everyone in the office. And I find myself resisting the urge to sign myself up for some Thin Mints. Those little bastards are like crack. MINT-FLAVORED CRACK. And, I mean, if I'm going to buy Thin Mints, I might as well get a box of Samoas too. Those are some unique cookies right there. You can't just find something similar in the grocery store. And actually, the Tag-Alongs are pretty good too. What's that? There is a new lemon cookie? I LOVE lemon!

And then I spiral into despair because I'll always be fat because of the Girl Scouts.

Things That Are Irritating Me

I'm feeling really annoyed today, for no good reason. And, to answer your next question, NO, I do not have PMS. And if you ask me again, I WILL cut you. Here is a list, in no particular order, of things that are pissing me off today:

• The dog. Why does he have to track his shit across the yard? No seriously. He spends 10 minutes finding the perfect spot to shit in, only to scootch along in his dump squat for an additional 5 minutes leaving me a trail of steaming nuggets to follow. WHY DOG?
• The husband. Specifically, the candy he has eaten from my... I mean, CAITLYN's trick-or-treat stash. I should probably mention that he neither tricked nor treated. The one who drags the toddler from house to house begging for free candy has FIRST FUCKING DIBS. I'm just saying.
• The people at the lollipop company. Because you know how Capri Sun is the best juice ever and its clear (what, I'm the only adult who still drinks Capri Sun? Fuck you guys)? In fact, I think the lack of artificial colors is part of what makes it superior. So why, lollipop guys, do you think every lollipop you make needs red or blue dye? Oh, because you love ruining my kid's clothes? FUCK YOU. You are all dead to me. Also, oompa-loompas.
• The people you send a Facebook invite to for an event you are planning and even though you have been ASSURED that they are coming, they just fucking let it sit in their notifications and NEVER respond (yeah, I'm looking at you MIKE). WHY CAN'T YOU JUST CLICK THE LITTLE BUTTON THAT SAYS "I'm attending"? WHY DO YOU HATE ME?
• And speaking of that last one, I might as well throw the year 2012 onto this list. The event I'm planning is a vacation thing for myself and my friend because we are both turning 30 next year and instead of killing ourselves, we are simply going to get drunk for a week straight and try not to drown in the pool.
  
• Chocolate. We have a love-hate relationship. I'd love to be someone's cat for a year and only have access to the food they give me, in the portions they give, so I do not have to answer to my dark master on the daily. Halloween, you are certainly NOT helping with this endeavor.
• People who can't answer a fucking text message. Because I just fucking hate you, okay. Stop being a dick and get back to me.
  

I Have a Wrinkle and a Midlife Crisis

I'm getting old.

There are the obvious things, like the fucking wrinkle I have on my forehead and the occassional gray hair that make me want to get botox and shit. And then there are the more subtle clues. The things that creep up. The kinds of things you have to think back to your youth about and realize that you have to THINK BACK TO YOUR YOUTH. Because you are old and probably gonna die soon. Here is a list of things that made me feel old last week.

1. Sandblasted jeans. I went shopping for new jeans a few days ago. I picked up a folded pair and went into the dressing room to try them on. And then they were on and I realized they were sandblasted. And I thought "fuck... do people my age still wear sandblasted jeans?". I concluded that, no, in fact they do not. And I got some fucking grown up jeans instead.

2. Cute. I've always been cute. It is common knowledge. Not hot or pretty or sexy. Just downright adorable. And I wasn't ever the kind of girl who took it to mean that I was less attractive than the hot girls. It was just a different kind of attractiveness. And then someone called me cute over the weekend. And I realized that cute isn't going to last forever and my fat ass needs to work on some sexy before there is no cute left.

3. Strollers. Remember being a teenager? Or in your early 20s? Remember going to the mall and seeing all those moms pushing their kids around in a stroller looking decidedly middle-aged compared to your young, carefree ass? I'm the fucking stroller mom now. Fuck. FUCK.

4. Hangovers. I got my drank on Saturday night. And I spent all day Sunday in bed hunched over with stomach cramps or in the bathroom with diarrhea because old people can't have 3 drinks without spending the entire next day in shit limbo.

That is all.

This is the kind of shit I come up with when I don't have anything funny to say

Do yourself a favor and skip the entire middle section of this post. It is insane.

I've clearly been slacking on the blog posts. So I've promised myself all week that I would post something. So basically I'm warning you that I have nothing of substance to say and this is all going to be fluff and bullshit. Consider yourself warned and your time wasted.

Caitlyn... what has she been doing? Smacking me in the damn face, that's what. This started on Monday after I got home from work. She was in a mood. She had baby PMS. Every time she looked at me, it was to scowl and when I'd scowl back, she'd give me her best "whatchu talkin' bout Willis" look and smack me. Little jerk. According to the babysitter, she had been doing this all day. On Tuesday she seemed better, and she was her sweet, pleasant self for the babysitter. Then she got home and gave me dirty looks. It seems it's become something of a game for her. She isn't necessarily in a bad mood when she does it, she thinks it's funny. Obviously, I do not, and when I react unfavorably to her hilarious new game, then she does get pissed off and I get the scowl/smack combo platter.

As I had no real direction for this post to begin with, I'm going to veer off topic right here. The scowl/smack combo. It reminded me of something that I'm going to share with you. You will be better for it. Your life will never be the same again.

You know how sometimes, someone has offended you to your very core? Maybe it's your husband (usually it's your husband) and he's inadvertantly implied that you don't need a second Entenmann's chocolate donut. Maybe you are trying to discuss something important with him (or at least you will pretend it was important after it becomes clear that he has no idea what you just said) and he won't stop playing Call of Duty long enough to listen to your concerns. Maybe you've simply realized you hate his face.

My point is, you need to take action. You need to make it clear to him that these kinds of behaviors (and faces) are unacceptable. But how can you accomplish that? He's already ignoring you, and it only gets worse when you start to nag him. What can you possibly do to make sure you have his full, undivided attention? What will send the message that you mean business and that there will be consequences to his actions?

2 words, my friends:

FACEPUNCH/MOUTHFART.

And yes, I do consider it to be only 2 words. They are compound words, obviously.

The beauty of the FACEPUNCH/MOUTHFART combo platter is the many levels on which it is satisfying. First, you get the facepunch. A physical manifestion of your feelings. A call to action. The action of punching someone in the face. Don't feel bad, he totally deserved it (that donut thing? Yeah, he totally DID call you fat.). And it makes the second part of the platter so much easier to administer. Even if you've not been successful in knocking him to the ground, you've stunned him momentarily. He can't believe you just did that, you crazy bitch! And he surely isn't expecting part 2.

The mouthfart. This one isn't easy, and it rarely works more than once, because you only have the element of surprise on your side that first time. Pick your mouthfart moment carefully. You don't want to waste it. Also, nobody is going to stand by and willing let you fart in their mouth, so you have to be quick. Don't try to pull your pants down or some shit. That will put you in a vulnerable position and end your moment of triumph before it even happens. The mouthfart must be stealth for it to work. The elusive and unexpected mouthfart is the thing of legends. Make yourself a legend. FACEPUNCH/MOUTHFART will live on forever, haunting the dreams of your victim (husband).

Now back to our regularly scheduled program:

So Caitlyn is scowling and smacking. And besides that one day, it seems to only be directed at me. Last night, since time-outs haven't done a damn thing to head this off, I thought that maybe if I smacked her on her hand, just hard enough for her to realize it was unpleasant, maybe she would knock it off. I didn't do this unprompted, of course. I waited for her to smack me first. And when she did, I gave her a little slap on her hand to show her that hitting hurts.

And she smiled at me. And not just a regular smile either. She cocked her head to the side and gave me her best, side-eye "is that the best you got, bitch?" smile. She was unimpressed. Apparently hitting only hurts if your baby isn't a thug.

So I'm working on this. My mother thinks that maybe her time-outs need to be more than 90 seconds long. I wish I were exaggerating for entertainment value. 90 seconds is the absolute longest time-out she has ever gotten. So it's probably my fault for being terrible at disciplining my kid. It would probably be a little more impressive if I could wait a full 2 minutes or something.

So, any suggestions? Is my kid an asshole? Am I? Obviously she has decided to hate me from an early age since I'm the only one she's smacking, right? I thought I had till she was at least 13 before she hated me.

Lessons I'm Going to Learn for You

So you thought that last post was pretty bad, did you? Well you are in for a treat. I've done something monumentally stupid. I taught my kid the word "asshole".

I'm kind of notorious for being a bit of a klutz. So was the case last week, when I bumped Caitlyn's head on a doorway. For the third time. Rodolfo made some jerky comment to the end of "Caitlyn is in danger every time she is with you", which probably doesn't sound THAT mean, but you see, I was PMSing. And Rodolfo is notorious for being an asshole.

Naturally, I reacted by telling him he was being an asshole. And then I turned to my 13 month old daughter; "Caitlyn, tell Daddy he is being an asshole". Caitlyn responded without missing a beat: "Asshole" (Yes, in fact, she DID say it with a capital "A". She's gangsta like that.). And so began the watching of my mouth.

Now usually when Caitlyn starts saying a new word, she needs to be prompted in some way to get her to say it. She sees the cat and says "kitty'. I'll sing a song to her and she sings back (doo doo doo, doo doo doo to the Rocky theme song when my dad started singing it to her this weekend, and the same while I made the "dun-dun dun-dun dun-dun" you-are-about-to-be-eaten-by-a-shark Jaws theme while we were in the pool). And Da-DEE. Oh how she loves to call her Da-DEE every time she sees him. So what, you might wonder, would prompt her to start saying "asshole" 25 times a day?

The dog. I'm starting to see a theme in my mommy failures. I have no choice but to take the credit for prompting her to say asshole, but my husband refuses to recognize his involvement in all of this. If I haven't mentioned it before, here it is: Rodolfo hates the dog. HATES. Really. Before Caitlyn's birth, he merely tolerated the dog, but now he constantly reminds me that I "don't have time for a dog and a baby" and presses me almost daily to find a new home for him. Whatevs dude. My point is that he has a little nickname for the dog. Can you guess what it is? Yup, that's right. He calls the dog "asshole". All. The. Time.

All of these elements led to one inevitable conclusion. With such an exciting new word in her vocabulary and the nearly constant prompting to say it (I mean, that's what Daddy says every time he sees Joey), Caitlyn has come to call Joey "Asshole". She seems 100% convinced that this is his name, which explains the capital "A", I guess.

I'm doing my best to correct her when she does say it, reminding her that, in fact, the dog's name is JOEY. But to no avail. And when she does say it, she says it like 10 times in a row. It's really hard not to laugh. Rodolfo is significantly less amused.

Lesson? Learned, my friends. Let me take this one off your hands for you. Don't tell your kid to say asshole, okay? Ever.

IVF is Fun Like a Roller Coaster is Fun Until Someone Falls Out

This weekend was kind of a busy one. I helped Nadine move on Saturday, then came home all jealous of her fancy new place and decided that I couldn't wait another second before getting my house in order.

The thing is, I've lived in my current apartment for 2 and a half years. And I'm just getting around to this shit now. It isn't my fault, exactly. You see, the thing is that I moved in February of 2009. I was 5 months pregnant with my son and vomitting and exhausted pretty much constantly. Then there were the 6 months after that pregnancy ended. Obviously there were emotional issues which made me not give a fuck about my house. Then there was IVF #2. Lemme break down my IVF cycle for you, to give you an idea of what I was dealing with:

Step 1: 2 weeks- birth control pills. They do this to stop your eggs from starting to mature because they want them all to be at the same level so you get more than one egg when you start stimulation. My body was not happy about this. I pretty much had what was essentially PMS for these 2 weeks. Murderous fury raged through my body. I hated everything.

Step 2: Stimulation. I actually had this easier than most IVFers. I did a minimal stimulation protocol which means I used Clomid instead of all the scary injections. But here's the thing about Clomid: You know those barren ovaries from 2 weeks ago? Yeah, they are in crazy estrogen mode now. Your body is flooded with crazy. All you can think about is ice cream and procreating. You pass by a high school and see a 17 year old on a skateboard and think how he's probably got healthy sperm. And you muse about how easy it would be to get a 17 year old to impregnate you. Way easier than IVF, that's for sure. Oh sure, he might be a little turned off by the sweating and irrational mood swings and maniacal cackling, but he would get over it. And you were going to Babies R Us anyway... I bet you could just buy him a video game and offer some poon and he would totally go for it.

Step 3: Monitoring. Technically this is part of the stimulation process, but it's just so fucking laborious that it needs to be it's own step. It went a little something like this: Go to the doctor, have blood drawn, drop trou and get violated by the dildogram. Go to work and wait several hours to get results and find out when your next appointment is. Phone obviously rings while a customer or your boss is standing in front of you and you have to excuse yourself to check on your eggs. Receive call, obsess. Repeat at next appointment, 4 days later. Repeat at following appointment 2 days after that. Repeat at appoinment after that, another 2 days later. Repeat another day after that. And the next day too. Oh wait...is it finally time for your retrieval? Perfect! I'm sure my job will be fine with 2 days notice. Oh and that Lupron nasal spray that tastes like a dead cat? SERIOUSLY, I've been looking forward to it!

Step 4: Egg Retrieval. Oh, how to put this delicately? Stirrups. Giant needle through your vaginal wall and into your ovary. Suck out contents of ovary. Repeat on the other side (did I mention that you aren't sedated? Yeah, a low dose Valium sounds totally appropriate here). But hey, you get the immediate satisfaction of knowing that they were able to retrieve eggs from all 3 of your mature follicles... but hey now, what's that about a "broken" egg? What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean? God, embryologists are SO fucking vague.

Step 5: Did you think monitoring was something fun to obsess about? Oh, yeah that was nothing. Did the eggs fertilize? Oh yeah. OK good. Except for that one broken one. I guess I should have expected that. Are they growing? Are they growing FAST enough? When are we scheduling the embryo transfer? Oh what's that? Only one of them made it past day 2? Fuck. One shot...

Step 6: Wait a fucking month. This isn't the usual, but Clomid can mess with implantation and I didn't get pregnant on my first fresh cycle, so my RE recommended freezing the embryo at day 5 and waiting a month (I should also mention that we went through all the motions of a cycle right up to scheduling a retrieval the month before this but cancelled at the last minute because we just had a bad feeling and something seemed...off).

Step 7: Bleed. Call doctor, start monitoring. Again.

Step 8: Finally, FINALLY schedule embryo transfer. Hope embryo survives thaw. Like half of them don't, in case you were wondering. Wouldn't that just be a bitch.

Step 9: More stirrups. Giant squirty straw. One live embryo, described by the nurse as "beautiful".

Step 10: More fucking waiting. Oh, and don't test at home because we gave you a shot of hormones that will turn the test positive even if you aren't pregnant. Oh and did we mention how we don't think you have had enough hormones in your body for the last couple of months? Take this estrogen and shove these progesterone suppositories into your vagina twice a day. They will give you symptoms to make you think you are pregnant even if you aren't. Oh, and they are gonna leak and stain your undies. Do you feel sexy and fertile yet?

Step 11: Test at home anyway. Feel excited but not too excited because it's-probably-just-the-shot when the test turns positive.

Step 12: Blood pregnancy test. Wait half a day to get results. Cry like a little baby bitch when they tell you that, yes, in fact you ARE pregnant. Mom doesn't appreciate it when you call her sobbing with GOOD news.

Step 13: Don't get your hopes up just yet bitch. Remember the last time you were pregnant?

Step 14: Schedule appointment with new OB. Start on blood thinners and baby aspirin because maybe you have a clotting problem seeing as how you had a late term loss last time.

Step 15: 7 week ultrasound with fertility doctor (RE). All is well. Baby has a heartbeat.

Step 16: 8 week ultrasound. Is that bleeding? Yeah. Sometimes that indicates an impending miscarriage. Fingers crossed, bitches.

Step 17: Be pregnant. Don't have a miscarriage. Don't eat deli meat. Call doctor crying because you didn't know the fondue cheese dip had liquor in it and you are pretty sure you are going to have a miscarriage. Finally stop vomitting at 16 weeks. Call doctor crying because you are pretty sure you are having a miscarriage. Baby starts sleeping in cycles. Call doctor crying during all sleep cycles because you are pretty sure you are having a miscarriage.

Step 18: Have a baby. Who would have thought? Baby is lovely and perfect. Spend first 3 months of her life imagining every horrible thing that could happen to her. Wake up in the night frequently to make sure she is still breathing (I still do this sometimes).

Step 19: Exclusively pump for 9 months, because this baby will not goddamn latch.

Step 20: Finally relax and enjoy motherhood. Maybe now you have time to address this shithole you live in? Fucking lazy whore...

So seriously people, don't judge me. I DID get around to it eventually. How do we feel about yellow?

Birthday

Caitlyn's birthday is fast approaching. In fact, it's just 4 days away. It seems absolutely absurd in more ways than one. The most obvious is how fast the time has gone. Those first fews months are such a blur now. I barely remember the days of constant pumping, poop with every diaper change and a baby that actually stayed in one place for more than 5 seconds. That part is easy enough to reconcile, I suppose. It's still a bit sad though. I wish I had taken more video, more pictures of Caitlyn as a teeny tiny newborn. I look at her now, and despite still being small, the changes are epic. She's not just a snuggly little meatloaf anymore. She's a person. No longer just an extension of myself, but a tiny, opinionated little diva.

The part that is harder to deal with is that part about her being her own person. She's a lovely person: funny, smart and ever-endearing. But with each passing day, she becomes more independent and I can't help but feel a burden of sadness as she needs me less and less. She walks now, talks, makes very clear decisions about what she does and doesn't want. It's not like when she was a newborn and I'd give her what she needed and she would take it. Not like that at all. This kid has opinions. And a penchant for the dramatic (her favorite dramatic reaction? If I put her to stand in her crib or on the floor and she still wants to be held, she reacts by throwing herself in a heap onto the floor and puts her head on the ground, sobbing in desperation as if to say "how could you do this to me?").

Obviously I love all these things about her. I love seeing her reactions. In the last couple of weeks, she's taken to scowling at people. It's just about the funniest thing I've ever seen. If you don't give her her way, she furrows her brow, narrows her eyes, dips her head and gives you the evil eye, staring up at you from under her eyelashes. It's hilarious actually. She's also been seen rolling her eyes at people. Yes, my one year old has an attitude problem. But I love it. That probably sounds terrible, like I'm going to be one of those moms with a kicking, screaming 4 year old in the supermarket one day, but I don't really put up with too much bullshit and I don't see it going that far because Caitlyn is generally so good-natured. But the scowling. Oh my god. It's just too much. I can't help but laugh.

But when I think about these things, they remind me that my baby is growing up. That one day, she will go off to Kindergarten and I'll embarass her by sobbing uncontrollably as she walks into school for the first time. Then she will get her first period, and I'll embarass her by telling her about pads and tampons. Then she will go to college and I'll humiliate her by talking to her about chlamydia and unplanned pregnancy and how college boys are dirty pervs who will say absolutely anything to get in her pants. Then I'll make it 1000% worse by saying something like "if you are going to put out, at least make sure they go down first". Because that's what my mom would have said to me.

Of course, all these realizations make me cry. I think of my baby being a grown-up and it forces me to picture my life once she's made a life for herself that I'm not the biggest part of.

Obviously I want all this for her. I want her to have all the experiences of school and love and work and children. But then I just want my baby to be my baby forever. And in a way, I know she always will be. I think of what my own mother said to me after I had Caitlyn. She felt a sense of loss with all three of her daughters having babies so close together. Like we had families of our own now and we wouldn't need her anymore. I guess I have to take comfort in the fact that I know I'll always need my mother, so I can hope that Caitlyn will always need me.

I think, in part, this is why I've been obsessing about having another baby (oh, did I not mention that?). It's not about being unfulfilled. Caitlyn brings unparalleled joy to my life and I could never have another thing besides her and I know I could still be happy. It's the sense of loss that gets me every time. I've lost a baby once, and even though I know I won't lose Caitlyn in that sense, I can't help but go to that scary "my baby is going to leave me" place every once in a while.

I'm not seriously considering it or anything. I'm certainly not trying to get pregnant (the whole shitty, sperm-that-couldn't-find-an-egg-in-a-damn-chicken-coup issue helps me keep in perspective the reality that anyway), but because we can say with a good amount of certainty that I won't get pregnant without serious medical intervention, we don't use birth control ever. And having gone through years of trying then fertility treatments makes me annoyingly hyper-aware of all my body's fertility signals. So, despite having no real reason to examine my cervical mucus, I find that I do. And despite knowing that I won't get pregnant, I can't help but think "we had sex right when I ovulated, maybe I'm pregnant". It's frustrating and compouding an already annoying reflex reaction to my Caitlyn growing up and having birthdays and all.

Luckily, I've been super busy planning Caitlyn's birthday party and cleaning up diarrhea so I haven't had much time to think about it. That's right, another stomach bug for Caitlyn. She is feeling a bit better now though, and her party is on Saturday, so I'm really hoping she is 100% by then. My baby can NOT not eat cake on her birthday!

PMS Horoscopes

Actual Horoscope
**PMS adjusted horoscope**

Aries (March 21-April 19): You are closely connected to a loved one in ways you cannot explain. You feel the intensity of this bond throughout the day.

**Don’t go to Starbucks today. You will remember how you sometimes drank coffee when you were pregnant and that’s probably why your kid is all hyper now and obviously you are a bad mom.**

Taurus (April 20-May 20): You are careful not to come across in a way that hurts anyone's feelings or offends the more delicate sensibilities of certain people.

**You’ll manage to bite your tongue today when you go to call your husband a “useless douche bag” for the third time.**

Gemini (May 21-June 21): You find meaning as you labor to make someone else's life better. Somehow this is even more satisfying than acting to fulfill your own needs and desires.

**Spite clean the house to a sparkle to remind your husband that he’s the one who never does anything!**

Cancer (June 22-July 22): You could single-handedly organize and coordinate an event that will later be considered one of the most memorable of the year.

**Three words: PIE. EATING. CONTEST.**

Leo (July 23-Aug. 22): Double back on your efforts, and check your work, as well as the work of your colleagues. Then take a walk and come back to assess things with new eyes.

**Everyone except for you is an incompetent idiot.**

Virgo (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): You will be indifferent to the praise or criticism of others because you realize that no one is as qualified to judge your choices as you are.

**You will hate everyone who talks to you today, whether they deserve it or not.**

Libra (Sept. 23-Oct. 23): Your imagination could get the best of you this afternoon.

**I know you think you’ve watched enough CSI to get away with murder, but you haven’t. And besides, he IS the father of your child.**

Scorpio (Oct. 24-Nov. 21): You might make an executive decision to put off some mundane and minor responsibilities in favor of catching some bit of much-needed leisure.

**You did remember to DVR the old episodes of “Grey’s Anatomy” that they play every day on Lifetime, right? Because cooking and cleaning can DEFINITELY wait another 6 or 7 hours.**

Sagittarius (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): Your primary aim is to please your loved ones, but they give you little indication as to how this might be accomplished.

**When your husband has no idea what he wants for dinner and shoots down every suggestion you make, have the following conversation:

You: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU AUTISTIC OR SOMETHING?

Husband: Calm down, you are being irrational and scaring the children.

You: YOUR FACE IS SCARING THE CHILDREN!!!**

Capricorn (Dec. 22-Jan. 19): Your memory is strong. Make notes about your past. Even if you capture only a sentence or two, you'll be glad you did.

**Make a list of every stupid thing your husband has ever done, every mean thing he has ever said and every failure he has ever had. Create Power Point presentation for future fights.**

Aquarius (Jan. 20-Feb. 18): If you hang on too tight to your responsibilities, you will strangle the fun out of your day. There is a time to let go and get a little bit wild.

**Tact is overrated. Deliberately bump into strangers on the street because GOD can’t they watch where they are going? If you hadn’t bumped into them they would have DEFINITELY bumped into you anyway.**

Pisces (Feb. 19-March 20): When you see someone who could use a hand, your first reaction is to volunteer whatever help you can give. Be judicious, though.

**Volunteer your hormone-fueled rants at will. Not to your boss though. You don’t want to get fucking fired.**

Ride or Die

Caitlyn's kind of a badass. At only a week old, she had her first trip to the pediatrician's office, and by extension, her first vaccination. She cried for about 10 minutes after that first shot and, at that point, it was the worst thing that had ever happened to her (well, besides that whole squeezing blood out of her foot thing at the hospital right after she was born. She was pretty pissed about that), so it was expected. I think it was more the shock that someone was stabbing her for no good reason that bothered her more then anything else, because since that time, she's never cried for more then a minute for any of her shots.

During her next visit, when she was a month old, she had to get 2 shots- one in each leg. She cried during the actual shots and maybe for a minute or two after, but that was about it. By the third set of shots at 3 months old, Caitlyn had decided that it really wasn't that big a deal.

I was prepared for the red-faced screaming, so I stood right next to her, so I could comfort her as soon as possible. She cried a little for each of the two shots she got, but then she did the funniest thing. She looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears and a puzzled expression on her face. It was as if it had just then occurred to her that "hey, this doesn't even hurt anymore, why I am still crying?". She stopped crying right then. And not even in that crying that dissolves into hyperventilating sniffles kind of way. She just dead stopped. I picked her up and she smiled at me.

Even her doctor is impressed with Caitlyn's indifference to pain. She's just a ride-or-die bitch like that. For her last two shots she didn't even whimper, let alone cry. I would venture to say she didn't even notice she got a shot at all. And it's not just shots. Her pediatrician commented once when she had to have her nose swabbed to check for the flu that most kids cried for at least 10 minutes after having that done. Not Caitlyn. She was obviously annoyed by it, and she definitely tried to get away from the swab, but she's just not prone to overreacting about anything. My point is that Caitlyn is hardcore. She laughs in the face of danger and wags a disapproving finger at all the cry babies at the doctor's office.

Keeping all that in mind made it especially traumatic when I accidentally maimed my kid's finger with a nail clipper and she screamed for 15 minutes straight. I knew better, really I did. I couldn't find the baby nail clippers for a week. And by couldn't find, I mean I looked for approximately 10 seconds every time Caitlyn accidentally scratched me with her crazy bird talons. So on that fateful day, I spotted the regular, grown-up nail clippers and convinced myself that it wasn't the worse idea I've ever had.

I have moments like that. Moments where I'm fully aware that I'm making a bad decision. Moments where I'll actively consider NOT doing something stupid. I've gotten better. Nadine once pointed out to me that all the stupid, klutzy things I do are probably proceeded by a moment of clarity when I realize I shouldn't do it (hello, microwaving an egg- I still have the burn scars!). I realized she was right and started listening to my inner voice- the one with common sense that reminds me when something is a terrible idea- and I've injured myself out of sheer stupidity significantly less since then. I slipped though, and this one was pretty bad.

I never wanted Caitlyn to be the victim of my stupidity. I made it all the way to her pinky finger before she started gushing blood and screaming inconsolably. It occurs to me now that she probably would have stopped crying a lot sooner if I hadn't been sobbing hysterically, begging Rodolfo to take us to the hospital. I, clearly, am NOT a ride-or-die bitch.

I was absolutely convinced she was bleeding to death. From her finger. Yeah. When 10 minutes had passed and I still couldn't stop the bleeding, I called my mother, thinking she would talk some sense into Rodolfo. "Babies are SMALL- they don't have that much blood!", she would caution. "Jaclyn's fear is completely warranted". That's not exactly how it went:

Mom: Well, Jaclyn, based on what you have told me, I've got to assume she's not actually gushing a life-threatening amount of blood from a nail clipper injury on her finger.

Me: (through hysterical sobs) YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND MOM- I'M COVERED IN BLOOD (maybe one of my fingers was?)!!!

Mom: Maybe you need to calm down, then the baby will calm down too.

Me: HOW CAN I CALM DOWN WHEN NOBODY IS TAKING THIS INJURY SERIOUSLY?!?!

Mom: Well, if you are that worried, why don't you take her to the hospital yourself?

Me: HOW CAN I DO THAT? SHE'S GOING TO BLEED TO DEATH ALL OVER HER CAR SEAT BEFORE WE MAKE IT TO THE HOSPITAL (which, for the record, is roughly 3 miles away)!!!

Mom: Sometimes it just takes a while for bleeding to stop. I think you need to calm down and listen to Rodolfo.

Me: :::CRIES:::

At this point, Rodolfo took Caitlyn away from me. He had made several attempts to take her before this, but I gave him the death-stare every time. I had practically amputated her finger and I needed to make sure she didn't bleed to death. Obviously I couldn't trust a sane person who was in control of the situation to handle that. But I was wiped out and defeated at that point, so I gave in and handed the baby over to her dad.

The moment Caitlyn made it into her dad's arms, she stopped crying and smiled at me. For some reason, that made me irrationally more upset. Like, in that moment I was convinced that she had only been crying to make me feel like a bad mother. I think I got that first period in a year and a half like a week later.

In the end, Caitlyn is obviously fine. Traumatized for life at the hands of her mother, of course. But physically she is going to make it.