Baby Oh Baby!

I’d never been present at the birth of a baby before.

That probably sounds odd considering I’ve given birth three times. But… it’s just not the same. When you’re out of your mind, delirious with pain, you’re not really present. You just don’t know it until you see it from the other side.

When I had my third baby, I had my mom in the room with me. I remember, when it was all over, she thanked me, her face lit with joy and wonderment. I was puzzled then, thinking she’d had six of her own and had a dozen grandkids. How had this been anything special?

She’d delivered six in a haze of delirium and welcomed a dozen– from the waiting room.

It is most definitely special. I cried my own tears of joy and wonderment.

~~*~~

When Jes and I headed up to the hospital that Friday night, neither of us even suspected that she was in labor. She wasn’t having any contractions and that’s not even the reason we were told to go. She was just supposed to have something checked. So, those bags that we’d so carefully packed and left waiting in the corner some few weeks ago? Remained in those corners.

A week overdue and heading to the OB floor? Who needs supplies? Because– we are dumb.

When we got there, of course the first thing they do is hook her up to a monitor. Almost immediately, she spiked into a big contraction. The nurse glanced at her. “How long have you been having these?”

She shrugged. “All day I guess.”

*blink blink blink*

All day? I knew then that we were in for a long night.

After checking out the reason we’d come in the first place and declaring that problem solved, the doc decided he’d just monitor her for a little while- just in case. So while Jes sat happily texting away on her cell phone, oblivious to the monitor, I sat and watched the contractions take on a pattern. Finally, Jes glanced up and frowned. “That one hurt.”

That’s about when I called Master and told him that this was it.

Things progressed fairly quickly after that. At about 2am Saturday morning, the nurses urged Jes to walk the halls to help things along. We did. Up and down and up and down. I was practically sleeping on my feet by then. I’d been awake since 5am Friday morning and I was T I R E D.

We walked until a contraction came that was strong enough to double Jes over and have her grabbing the handrail. The nurse put her to bed, and we started the labor coaching.

I had no idea how to be a labor coach. I took a Lamaze class some 17 and a half years ago. I didn’t remember a thing.

I wasn’t supposed to be Jes’s labor partner anyway. Baby’s Daddy was. I did not prepare for it. He… wasn’t able to make it.

I’d encouraged Jes to take a childbirth class several times, but she waved it off. Not only was she too self-conscious thinking she’d be the only teen in the class, she kept telling me she wouldn’t need it because she was going to have an epidural.

I also kept telling her not to bank on getting that epidural.

She didn’t listen.

She never listens.

Guess what she didn’t get?

An epidural.

Guess what she DID get?

Nothing. Pain. And eventually, lots of stitches.

Around 4am, she was just beginning to get really uncomfortable. There’d not been much ‘coaching’ to do up til then. I rubbed her back a little bit. I fetched ice chips. She was still texting.

The nurses talked her into trying a whirlpool bath the first time she asked for that epidural. After she was in, and had covered her nakedness with a towel (still modest), she asked me to sit in there with her. She was getting scared.

I sat on the edge of the tub. “It’s been some number of years since I’ve given you a bath.” I told her.

“I’m glad you’re here.” she said, and then gripped my hand through another contraction.

By 5am she was back in bed and in significant pain. She began begging in earnest for the epidural. The nurse kept stalling.

Labor coaching ramped up. That part of me that knew I’d struggle with having to watch MY baby in pain kicked in. She gripped my hands, she rolled, she cried out.

She called me Mommy.

She hasn’t called me Mommy since she was 4 years old.

The nurse was intently watching the monitor and completely ignoring Jes asking for pain relief. Pretty soon another nurse joined the first at the monitor. There were whispers as they pointed at something. Then the doctor came in. Then another. There was a long murmured conference between them.

It was about 6am then, when the conference around the monitor broke up and the doctor and nurse approached the bedside. Jes immediately asked.. begged.. for the epidural. Forcing positivity and cheerfulness into her voice, the nurse explained to Jes that she just wasn’t going to be able to have any pain meds right now. That the baby’s heart rate was too low and not bouncing back inbetween contractions like she’d like to see and they just couldn’t risk it.

Jes was absolutely NOT comprehending. For the next hour or so, both the nurse and I coached her through contractions, through breathing, explaining again and again why she couldn’t have anything. She felt betrayed, said that she’d told them hours ago that she wanted that epidural and that nobody was listening to her.

Finally, when I realized that she just getting hysterical, and she- again- asked why she couldn’t have her epidural, I took her face in my hands and said “Because you don’t want to have a dead baby, Jes. Now BREATHE.”

That penetrated the pain because she looked at me, nodded, said okay, and then informed everyone in the room that she going to push now. She never mentioned pain meds again.

That was a little after 7am.

I wasn’t tired anymore.

She pushed for all she was worth. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She just.. worked. Hard.

I was so proud of her.

I didn’t have a bird’s eye view of the delivery, and I didn’t want one. My focus wasn’t on the grandbaby. My focus was on MY baby. With each contraction and each push, she gripped my hand and pulled me in, my head close to her’s, my voice in her ear.

I don’t know that I said the right things. I know I didn’t say anything profound or amazing. I told her to push. I told her to breathe. I told her it was almost over. I told her she was doing great.

Lots of times, I said nothing at all. I wiped her face. I gave her water. I watched the flurry of activity in the room. At times, 4 different doctors clustered around the bed, while at least 4 nurses bustled around the room. I watched the isolette being set up, the scale was brought in. The nurses worked together like a well oiled machine, weaving in and out of the doctors’ paths. When everything was set up, they all turned their attention to Jes.

Baby’s head was crowning.

She was born at 7:45am.

She is absolutely perfect.

The most amazing moment came when, just after she came out, they laid her atop Jes’s belly.

Jes reached for her with both hands, such an expression of awe and wonder on her face. Disbelief almost. Surprise.

She started to cry– I cannot even explain the happiness that was in those sobs. She pulled the baby up to her face, “my baby” she repeated over and over, giving shaky little kisses to the wet, wrinkled forehead of her daughter.

That’s when I lost it. I bawled. I’m tearing up right now just remembering that moment. I’ll never forget it. I have never seen such an immediate explosion of love. Jes fell in love with that baby the very second she laid eyes on her.

Jes is completely smitten. We all are.

Am has declared that Babygirl is “the best thing Jes has ever done.”

But B-man’s reaction has been the sweetest. Throughout Jes’s pregnancy, he’d maintained a disinterest-bordering-on-disgusted reaction. His first visit at the hospital, he took a peek, said she was “all wrinkled and red” and then took the hands-off approach.

But when we got home?

He started to hover.

He flits around her, no matter where she’s at. If someone is holding her, he sits next to them. He can’t keep his eyes off of her.

Last night, I was on the couch holding Babygirl, and he was, of course, right next to me, pointing out each time her head wobbled or her arm waved or her brow crinkled. I finally asked him if he wanted to hold her. (It’s hard, you know? To share? Yeah.)

He started to say no, but I handed her to him anyway. Propped up on her Boppy pillow, I laid her in his lap.

And he just grinned.

He held her hand and touched her feet. For a long, long time. Babygirl just stared at him, until she drifted off to sleep. B-man sat still as a statue.

A bit later, when I reminded him that he needed to take the trash to the curb, he admonished me. “Mom. As you can see, I happen to have a sleeping baby in my lap. The garbage will just have to wait.” And he went back to watching her.

Too cute.

~~*~~

It’s been easier than I anticipated it would be to keep the boundaries clear. It doesn’t bother me a bit to go to bed, knowing Jes is going to be up all night with her. She knows she can call me for anything- and it may get worse, but so far so good. She’s stepped up without a complaint.

Yeah yeah yeah. It’s only been 5 days but who’s counting?

We have all had to help out more than we should because of Jes’s limitations. The good news is that Jes is frustrated by being limited, and wants to be doing it herself. Instead of just doing it for her, I’ll hand the baby and whatever supplies are needed to her.

Not every time though.

I like to feed her. She’s a tiny little piglet trapped in human form. She has no feeding issues and drains the bottle almost before you’ve gotten comfortable in the chair. She hasn’t spit up once. She eats, she burps, she poops.

I let Jes change her. *beams*

I LOVE to rock her to sleep. The whole eye-rolling, contented sighing, complete trust… Yeah. I am in love, too.

So is Master. Yesterday he bought her a cute little pink dress.

Too adorable.

Master that is. Not the dress. There was something too precious about watching his big manly frame walking through the miniature pink baby clothes, holding them up and going “This one is cute, don’t you think, Tess?”

I am so in love with him, too.

~~*~~

Our living room has been transformed into Baby Central. A swing, a bassinet, the car seat, and two other baby seat/bouncer things. Gone is the treadmill. Gone is the Nordic trak.

And I don’t care. Yet.

~~*~~

I have asked, and been given Jes’s permission to share pictures. However. I won’t do it here.

I will only share her foot. Because.. it’s cute. And because she has monkey toes.

I’m kicking around other ideas. A vanilla journal somewhere? A flickr account? Email? I don’t know yet. But if anyone doesn’t want to wait for me to decide and would like some photos emailed to you, drop me a line at kaya (at) underhishand (dot) com. It may take me a while to respond, but I will respond eventually. Make sure and put something in the subject line too, so that I don’t send you to the spam folder.

~~*~~

I skipped a whole section of the birthing story. I have one helluva rant to make concerning Jes’s follow up care, the difficulties and her doctor(s). But I want to keep this entry nice.

Tomorrow I will rant.

Not yet. Soon. Verrah, verrah soon.

There’s been several comments/emails expressing concern over Jes’s possible inducement. So I figured I’d just keep everyone in the loop.

First, I sincerely appreciate both the concern and the support. So thank you.

Is she being induced?

No, she’s not necessarily going to be induced (right now anyway).

On Monday**, if she hasn’t gone into labor on her own, then she’s to go in and have an ultrasound and a non-stress test (among other tests) so they can determine whether or not the baby, or Jes, is under any duress.

If everything is looking good, they’re sending her home for a couple more days.

If something is off (and it might be. I know they’ve been concerned with Jes’s blood pressure the last couple of visits), then they’ll have to induce.

I know inducement comes with possible complications, but so does carrying the baby too long. At some point, it’s a matter of weighing which option carries the least amount of risk.

I was induced twice myself. It’s not risk free, but we all came out terrific in the end.

But, the doctor has said that by Wednesday of next week, she’ll have had the baby, even if it means they have to take it. That any time beyond that is too far overdue to be safe.

There are a lot of things that indicate that an inducement is necessary, and less risky than waiting for nature to take its course.

One- though her due date was just a week ago, that date was based solely on her last period, which, unfortunately, she’s not entirely sure of. The ultrasounds have all indicated that the baby is larger than she should be according to that timeline. They said that the due date, based on the baby’s size, could be as much as 2 or 3 weeks off- meaning 2 or 3 weeks BEFORE the 4th. So she could possibly already be 2 or 3 weeks overdue.

Or? It’s just a big baby. Some of this is impossible to tell.

Two- she has low fluid. Not alarmingly low, but low.

Three- the baby’s going to be too big to deliver if we continue to wait and we’d *really* like to avoid a c-section if possible.

Four- fetal movement is slowing. While that’s normal for late term, it can also be a sign of distress.

Five- Jes just doesn’t feel good. She’s not going to be able to withstand labor if she’s not healthy. It’s not just that she’s uncomfortable (which she is. Very very much), she really doesn’t feel well.

We’re trusting the doctor’s decisions. She’s under strict orders to take it easy through the weekend, to pay attention to the baby’s movements and if anything feels off or if she feels bad, then go in.

Right now, my concern is almost entirely centered on Jes. I may be a grandma soon, but first, I’m her mother. Her health and well-being, and her future, is what I’m focused on. I’m willing to believe that the doctor knows what he’s doing but if it starts to compromise her health in any way, baby is coming OUT. ASAP.

I hate to sound cold, but if there’s a choice between Jes’s health and the baby’s health, I’d choose Jes.

I promise if it’s at all possible I’ll throw a note up here before we take off for the hospital. I’m sure that if she starts on her own, it’ll be a slow-moving process. It usually is for the first time.

Otherwise… *SQUEE!!* I’m gonna be a grandma in a matter of days!!

**They’ve changed the date from Sunday to Monday already. I’m not surprised, though. Doctors don’t usually volunteer to work weekends.

The Short List

* No baby. But she’s dilated to two. She really wanted to deliver yesterday because of the “cool” birthdate it would have been (07/08/09). And she really wanted to have her on the 4th because of the easy birthday parties she’d have had. “Look at those fireworks! I did them all for you, honey! Happy Birthday!” But now all the neat-o dates are over and she doesn’t care. If she hasn’t started by Sunday, they want her to check into the OB floor. I’ll keep you all posted! (I feel like we’re all in this together now, so, yanno, when I hit you up for diaper funds, don’t bail on me! )

* This morning’s walk/run was grueling. I was so. bloody. tired. I hardly jogged any of it and it took me almost ten minutes longer than it should have. Bah.

* But I spent most of the entire walk thinking about the details of last night’s fucking. There was foreplay. FOREPLAY! It were delish.

* Those of you who have those turian style slave collars, what tips and hints would you have for measuring and comfort and all of that? Like, is it better for it to lay low and loose or what?

* If I ever get diagnosed with a terminal illness and I spend what time I have left hating on people and being a bitch, slap me upside the head, mmmk? Promise? Life is too fucking short for that shit.

* Remember that child vs. slave post I did a bit ago where I’d gotten pissy over bedtime? Well, it happened again, this morning actually, when he started telling me how and where to walk. I got all “I know how to walk, goddammit!” on him. (Even though I am “doing it wrong!” and walking with traffic, I have my reasons for it so lemme ‘lone about it already!)

So, subtle had made a post about this very thing and I’d suspected that she’d hit on why I get pissy when I first read it. Now? I’m sure of it. It is exactly that. I mean, I don’t agree with *everything* she said (for instance, being told what to do about my career- or lack thereof- doesn’t push the same button as it does for her), but the distinction she made between being told what to do and being treated as if I’m too stupid to know what to do, is pretty spot on.

Not that I think Master is in any way trying to treat me like I’m stupid. At all. And I know he doesn’t think I’m stupid. He’s just.. really really bossy. Mostly, I adore that. But, yanno, if he ever tells me to brush my teeth, I might bite him.

Just sayin’.

*Hitler jokes are funny. So are dead baby jokes, fat jokes, Polish jokes, Priest jokes, gay jokes, girl-bashing, blonde-bashing, etc. etc. etc. Yes, it’s tasteless and I’m a horrible person. I feel bad. Really.

Okay, not really. I’m sorry you left your sense of humor in your other pants, though.

* Last week, I went into the doctor’s exam room with Jes because she was too afraid to argue with him about something, and the nurse says to me “Are you her friend, sister, what?” Hee. I told her she was my new BFF.

* Some kitty love to share:

This is Cranky Cat. Being cranky. This is how she reacts when you touch her before she’s decided you are allowed to touch her.

And this is Dracula. I caught him in a moment when he was looking very, um, Un-Dracula-like. And very stoopid-like. Someone needs to make a gif icon out of this (cuz I don’t know how).

Happy Thursday!

~cunt

Is that a baby… or a watermelon?

She has an appointment this afternoon. She’s going to ask if they’ll help get her started. She’s SO uncomfortable.

I’ll let you know!

Ready or not…

Jes and I were sitting on the couch watching America’s Got Talent (which should be changed to America’s Got Sympathy, cuz, talent or not, if you have a good sob story, are under the age of 10 or are petite and can lift up your 240lb hubby, we’re putting ya through, dammit.) when all of a sudden, she turns to stare at me, eyes wide.

“Next Saturday is July 4th!” she exclaimed, panic playing in her voice.

I had to think a minute. Where the fuck did June go?? But, indeed, next Saturday is July 4th. Her due date.

“You aren’t necessarily going to have her on that day.” I explained for the 15th (or so) time. “You could go a week or two past that. Or, you could have her tomorrow!”

“I know.” she said, looking down. She was quiet a minute and then she spoke softly to her hands. “I’m not ready.”

I bit back such supportive comments as ‘Gee, you should have thought of that about nine months ago!’ and ‘Too bad, chicka!’ I looked at her and realized that in spite of her gruff exterior and the huge chip that seems to be in permanent residence on her shoulder, she is just a terrified child.

So instead of my usual sarcasm, I patted her belly and smiled at her. “I don’t think any first-time mother is ever ready. It’s scary and it’s hard, but you’re not alone.”

She nodded and took a deep breath, blowing it out. “Physically I’m ready.” she laughed. “Kid is squishing my lungs.”

She really is getting quite uncomfortable; back pain, swollen ankles, can’t sleep, peeing every 30 minutes, Braxton-Hicks contraction– the list is endless– and oh-so-familiar to anyone who has ever been pregnant. She’s also very self-conscious about how big she is. For someone who once worked at being skinny and attractive, she feels like a, well, like a land-whale.

Just the other day, she was telling me how different it is when boys look at her now. How, when they can just see her face, they look interested- until the rest of her comes into view, and then they grimace or turn away or elbow their buddy.

That’s hard on a girl’s self-esteem. No amount of reassurance that your figure will come back is believable when you can’t see your toes and you’re seeing stretch marks appear by the day. 17 is an awfully young age to watch your looks change forever.

I told her boys are dumb.

Speaking of dumb boys, over the last couple of months, though she’s remained on friendly terms with the baby-daddy, and is still just as determined to have him be a part of the baby’s life, she’s seen what an absolute useless source of support he’s going to be. Time and distance leads to perspective, and because his other baby was born about 6 months ago and she’s seen how he is as a father (and I use that term loosely), she’s pretty well written him off as being useful. When I ask her what she sees in her future regarding him and a possible relationship, she very matter of factly shakes her head. “No. I don’t even like him anymore. He’s not very nice and he treats his girlfriends like crap. I don’t want that.”

So, yay for progress?

(Though let’s not get too excited about that progress. She’s still sleeping with him when she can. Apparently, he is just THAT good. Oy. Is she my daughter or what??)

Anyway, her nerves are on edge. She’s scared. We’ve gone over and over and over my birthing stories. She hangs on every single detail, she’s watched youtube videos of births, she’s googled, she’s read books- and none of that is going to matter a whit when she starts having contractions.

And she, especially, is so much not into pain. Of any sort. She’s never handled it well and as her mother, like any mother when they see their kid hurting, I just ache for what I know she’s in for. They don’t call it labor for nothing.

“I’ve never even held a newborn before.” she told me that night as we sat on the couch. “I don’t know how to change a diaper, I don’t know how to make a bottle. I don’t know what to do when she cries. I don’t know anything.”

This wasn’t the time to detail for her my own fears. Because as she laid out how much she’s going to be relying on me to show her and teach her, I’m slightly panicked that I won’t remember any of it myself.

But beyond being afraid that I won’t remember the details of baby care, is being afraid to care too much. Of being afraid that the lines are going to blur. I’m going to be too involved. By necessity I’ll be closer in role to Mom than Grandma.

I remember when I first divorced my kids’ father and had to swallow my pride and move back to my parent’s house with my kids.

I remember how my mother was unable to maintain the boundary between grandparent and parent. She, from the second I came in the door, assumed the motherly role. She took over, pushing me off to work, pushing me away.

I remember trying to bring it up. To tell her that she’s overstepping her boundaries, that the kids were mine and not hers, that I was Mom.

And, I remember how incensed that made her. How she’d scream “So! What is it we’re supposed to do here, Tess? Are we just supposed to do all this stuff for you and help you out and NOT have any say in things? Is that what you expect?”

While inside I’d be screaming back, “Yes. Jesus Christ, yes. That is *exactly* what I expect!” She would end her little rant with “Because if that’s what you expect, then you can just move on out. Right now.”

If I had other living options, I wouldn’t have been living *there*. So I said nothing and I watched as my kids became more her’s than mine.

Now, I find myself beginning the same journey my mother had; grandparenting in the parenting role. And I can see, I can understand much better, what she was thinking when she said those words to me. How DO you help without trying to control?

But I also remember how *I* felt, too. Helpless and powerless and frustrated and angry and resentful and and and… all because I needed help.

Needing help is not synonymous with helpless. I needed assistance, I didn’t need someone to take over. Jes will need help, a lot more than even I did back then, but I will not, I cannot, take over.

I’m getting a glimpse of how hard that is going to be. I am so in love with this baby I’ve never seen. I don’t know if I can maintain the distance I’m going to need.

Sometimes I’m envious of those grandparents who are able to experience this the “right” way. Where baby will not be in their house 24 hours a day, they can babysit for a night or a day, visit, and then go home. By sheer physical location, the appropriate boundaries are in place already.

I’m envious of those who can shop for a cute outfit for their new grandbaby without having to think also of the coming costs of formula and diapers. Without having to choose between that completely unnecessary-but-darling pink lace bonnet and the necessary new bottle nipples. I should be buying the cute stuff and Mommy should be buying the necessities.

Instead, I’m thrust into the parenting responsibilites- without the parenting rights.

Boundaries, boundaries, boundaries. They’re already blurring.

Oh hai!

So kaya! Whatcha been up to lately?

Oh I am so glad you asked! *grins* I’ve been busy busy busy! Let me tell you all about it.

We’ve been creating an oasis on our back deck. The mosquitoes are terrible. Like.. terrible. There was no way to enjoy sitting outside without a screened in area. (And that 10′x12′ piece of carpet is in there!)

As it is, I look like a spotted cow from going fishing the other day but at least now we can sit out there, have a beer, watch the birds (the hummingbirds come right up. They don’t even care. It’s SO cool). Now I just need a laptop so I can keep up with all of you while I’m drinking coffee and watching the birds. Ah. The tragic life of a slave!

From the back- Look at the purty flower boxes Master bought me!

We’ve decided that we’re not going to get a garden in this year. (Boo! Hiss!) We just weren’t ready for the weird, inhuman weather up here. By the time it warmed up enough that we could get started on the beds, the growing season was in full swing already. We’d only gotten as far as nailing a few boards together when most people had planted, and we still have to finish building the beds, haul in dirt, get it fertilized- and then plant.

I didn’t want to rush it, half-assed putting up the raised beds and not have good dirt just so I could get seeds in the ground. So! We’ve decided to take the summer and take our time. We can build beds to our heart’s content, make them look really nice, probably haul in good dirt at half the price at the end of the season and then have the fall/winter to let the fertilizer get in good and by next spring, I will be ready.

In the meantime, I now have a use for those dozens of empty cat litter buckets that Master, for whatever reason, won’t let me throw in the garbage. (Hoarder tendencies. He haz them.)

I’m going to drill some holes in the bottoms, fill them up with potting soil, and have a ‘bucket garden’. A couple of tomato plants, maybe a cucumber if it’ll grow in a bucket.. and I don’t know what else. Whatever else I can make grow in an old cat litter container. Peppers probably. I’d love zuchinni but I tried that in a big pot last year and it didn’t grow for crap, so we’ll see.

So, I’m pretty disappointed to not have my garden this year, but I’m kinda stoked to see if I can make a go of it with plastic buckets. It’s all kinds of recycle and reuse and money saving and just tickles my domestic little soul. AND I expect to have some uber-neato raised beds by next summer!

I’ve scratched my gardening itch a tiny bit anyway by working outside with flowers and stuff. I’m not real knowledgable of flowers/flower beds, nor do I care enough to learn, but the front of the house desperately needed something done to it.

I went with white marble chips with potted flowers over trying to make it a full flower bed because of that aforementioned ignorance, and it turned out pretty decent. I didn’t think to take before pictures, but there was nothing but grass all the way up to the house.

I need Master to cut the edging so I can finish it. He seems to think I’m too uncoordinated to use the saw. He’s probably right. Anyway, so there are two of those beds in the front of the house and maybe, when/if that marble goes on sale toward the end of the season, I’ll swing it all the way around the side of the house too.

(Just an added note: Those bags of marble chips are fookin’ heavy. I had to two-hand drag them across the grass so I could dump them out. But when we bought them, Master was just tossing them in the back of the truck like they were nothing.

It solved the mystery of “why does it hurt so much when he smacks me on the ass?” Fucking powerhouse.)

I’m going to check into making my own compost bin. Every time I throw food scraps in the garbage I think about what a waste it is. I could so use it in the garden!

I don’t know what Master’s decided on regarding the chickens. I think he’s just not had the time or energy to build a coop. We’ve got all the wood, well, most of it anyway, now it’s getting it done. I really want them but I’m not gonna nag him about it. He’s a busy boy.

Course if he’d let me use the saw, I’d try building it myself. (hint hint)

I had kind of a moment of enjoyable, uber-service that pushed my boundaries a little bit the other day.

We’d gone fishing, and this time we took the boat. He doesn’t have a big boat by any means, just a small fishing boat, but it’s still a boat which means it has to actually get IN the water and leave the dry ground to be of any use.

I have this silly little water phobia where taking a shower is plenty enough water for me, tyvm.

I’d been doing good just getting close to the water’s edge when we went fishing before. It’s been nothing but his desire to get out into the middle of the lake that’s forced me to work through this phobia.

So, we went. And I got in the boat and he started away from shore and I was white-knuckle-gripping the seat and the farther away from shore we got the more panicky I felt. And angry. Angry panic. Angry at myself for being such a tool and for potentially ruining his enjoyment. Angry at him for just not letting me be with my stupid irrational fear of sharks and piranhas and alligators and drowning. And panic because.. fuck if I know why. Because I was going to DIE! Because there was a tiny bit of leftover rain water in the bottom of the boat and I was convinced there was a hole and we were sinking and I wouldn’t be able to swim and I would die.

Then he stopped, really not too far away from shore- maybe 20 feet if that. May as well have been 20 miles, though. He asked me if I was okay and I said yes. He asked me if I was crying and I lied and said no and then angrily fisted the tears off my face.

He asked me if I wanted to go back.

Every single fiber of my being screamed YES. Fucking christ YES.

And I said no.

Because… fishing was what he wanted to do. Being out there in the boat was what he wanted to do. Being a slave, to me, is about more than beatings and blow jobs. It’s more than fetching water when I’m tired. It IS doing what I don’t want to do just because he wants to do it. No matter what that thing is.

It’s not that I was then cured of my water fears. Just, at that moment, pleasing him took precedence over panic.

Once I’d calmed myself down enough to peer over the side, I realize that not only could I see the bottom (the lake is crystal clear. It’s *gorgeous*), we were in probably about 5 feet of water- at most. I may not be able to swim back should we sink- but I could certainly walk back, ffs.

Silly girl.

That “uber-service moment” I mentioned? Master hadn’t put the motor on the boat. So I rowed him around the edge of the lake while he lounged back in his chair and fished. He’d look over at me and grin, relaxed, comfortable, make some comment about his “rowing cunt” or whatever and direct me where to go. “Left paddle, cunt. Now, right. No, no, left. More left. Both together, cunt. Good. Stop here a minute.”

Way cool.

Also? Rowing a fishing boat is hard work.

Also? I caught a fish. And he didn’t. He was pwned.

Hee!

What else.

Jes is doing good. Pregnancy wise anyway. She’s dropped so… anytime now I guess. I told her she’d better get her room clean and start getting things ready, bag packed, bottles washed, clothes and diapers set up and ready. She’s only just over two weeks from her due date.

I can’t wait. We’ve had an explosion of pink in the house. Every baby item we have is pink. The clothes are pink. The blankets are pink. We live pink.

Master is understandably disturbed.

She rearended somebody over the weekend. Grrs. Not a major accident, slight damage to the front of her car, and who knows how much to their car. She says none but I wasn’t there and I don’t know if I can believe her.

And who knows if they’ll start crying whiplash or whatever.

I just can’t wait to see what the fall out from that is going to be. I’m sure it’ll raise our rates and then with adding Am on? I may have to get a job just to pay the new insurance premiums.

When she called to tell us what had happened, Master got on the phone and told her to calm down, everything was fine, what mattered was that nobody was hurt and that we love her. Which, yanno, how sweet is that? He’s a doll.

A big pink doll.

I bet he falls hopelessly in love with this baby.

*squee!*

Okay. I gotta go run errands. Y’all try not to have nightmares about forks. *snicker*

“There is no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one”

The girls had decided they were going to cook me breakfast for Mother’s Day. B-man wasn’t home so he was off the hook on having to help (I told you he was the smart one). They “warned” me of it the night before, telling me that I couldn’t get up until they called me.

I warned them that we don’t sleep until noon.

I was a little reluctant to be handing my kitchen over to the inexperienced hands of my daughters, but I didn’t want to rain on their parade. Besides, they were actually going to do something together. How could I justify interfering when I’d just been bitching about how they hate each other?

Before going to bed on Saturday night, I nervously gave a brief tutorial on how to use the waffle iron. My new waffle iron. My clean and shiny and I-luffs-you waffle iron. Then we checked the batteries in the smoke detector (what? we have faith. We’re just cautious with it. Shush.) and went to bed.

Sunday morning, bright and fucking early (6:30am. Maybe I should have qualified the “we dont sleep til noon” with a “we also don’t get up before the sun on weekends”?), we were awakened by the clatter of pans and banging of cupboard doors.

For quite awhile, Master and I just lay there and listened. I couldn’t hear what the girls were saying to each other, only the low murmur of their voices. Then the shrill rise when they’d start to snap at each other, followed by footsteps stomping away and then stomping back, and then the low murmur again.

We giggled. Me and Master. We are teh evils.

They were cooking for a long LONG time. We were beginning to get the shakes from lack of coffee. One of us was going to have to make a coffee run or we were gonna die. The idea that one of would have to go was cemented when I heard the exhaust fan kick in over the stove and one of the girls give a hacking cough.

“That doesn’t sound good.” I said.

“I should go out there.” He replied.

I nodded and pushed him out of bed. (Well. It was Mother’s Day– not Master’s Day!)

He left and I settled into the pillows in his warm spot with my book. (I miss Harry. *sniffle*) After several more minutes of pan-clanging and the drifting smell of waffles, I cautiously crept to the bedroom door and eased it open a crack.

A crack gives me a tiny slice of the view into the kitchen.

That was enough.

The exhaust fan was blowing on high. The sliding door was flung open and cold air was blowing in (It snowed here on Saturday. S N O W E D. It’s MAY, ffs!). Smoke was billowing through the air. I could see the garbage can overflowing (literally things were falling onto the floor) with the remnants of several burnt and/or undercooked waffle-y shaped things. The girls were hollering back and forth at each other and running around and Master was standing at the end of the hallway, hands on his hips, watching them with a big ol’ shit-eating grin on his face.

Maybe he heard my “Oh my fucking God” whisper or maybe he sensed the dismay in the air because he whipped around, caught sight of my face in the door crack, pointed his finger and sternly said “You. Out.”

So I shut the door and crawled back in bed to see if I could find my happy place.

(No, not THAT happy place. Pervs. It was Mother’s Day, not Masturbation Day!)

I was a’scairt. My kitchen! My waffle iron! And I was hungry! And I needed coffee. Lots of coffee. And somehow, I was going to have to walk through the mess and smile and not look at it and not do anything but be light and happy and eat my breakfast.

It was a little while after that that I was allowed to come out. The table was set, piled high with waffles and pancakes, toast and fried eggs. Bananas, milk, OJ. And coffee.

We ate- with the sliding door open and our eyes burning and watering from the smoke that hung heavily in the air. The food was cold and greasy but the coffee was hot and the girls were so fucking pleased with themselves that nothing else mattered.

They’d even turned on my light rock station that plays love songs all day long, something they can’t stand to listen to.

“Look Mom. We didn’t even kill each other.” Am said, proudly.

“We came close.” Jes added.

“I made the pancakes!” Am said hotly.

“Yeah, when you remembered they were cooking!” Jes retorted.

“So what made the smoke?” I asked, interrupting them before blood was spilled.

“We don’t know. It was just… there… all of a sudden.”

I wish now that I’d have thought to take pictures so I could show you the extreme mess that littered the kitchen counters. It was almost cute how destroyed it was. And my waffle iron! I don’t know if they just dipped the whole thing in batter or what but it was *covered*. There were blobs of batter everywhere, counters, floor, stove, sink, down the cabinet doors. One entire box of pancake mix, one dozen eggs- and some of it even made it to the table!

And their pleased, smiling faces. They were so proud of themselves, it tickled me pink.

I grinned at them and sat back, belly stuffed. The mess, the smoke, the rather chilly breakfast weather– I could not have asked for a better morning. Srsly. It was the bestest Mother’s Day in the history of ever. Lots of hugs and thank yous went on after we ate.

Later, after the girls helped me clean up, Master took me to the store where he made me pick out two outfits. (I hate clothes shopping. For real.) He bought me a skirt and a cute top and a pair of capris and another cute top. Now if it’ll just get warm enough to wear them!

Then he bought me an outdoor patio set, table and six chairs, so we can all sit outside and eat and stuffs.

You know, should it ever get warm enough to actually go outside.

Because it’s the fucking arctic circle up in here! What the hell! Snow. In MAY.

Argh.

AND! Master got two blow jobs. Count ‘em. T W O. On Mother’s Day! I got nuttin’! I guess every day is Master’s Day.

~cunt

I hope all of you mothers out there had a glorious Mother’s Day!

Gratitude. I has it.

Thanks guys. Your words have been a great comfort to me over the last day or two. I know I shouldn’t need to hear that I’m doing the right thing but… I do.

I have my mother and my daughter trying desperately hard to convince me that I’m NOT “doing it right” and then I start feeling guilty and start doubting myself – and that’s the cycle we’ve been in throughout Jes’s formative years.

I was surprised really, to hear that not many do the allowance thing though! I thought it was more common than that (even though I never had one and neither did Master).

The allowance was something we wanted to try, more as an experiment between us, in an attempt to come to some sort of compromise over money/kid issues. When I became a non-money earning partner, while I was okay with giving up the “right” to buy myself mascara when I wanted some or whatever, I was not (am not) willing to make that same sacrifice on behalf of the kids.

But then I’m rather sensitive to making sure that my decisions to be submissive do not become their decisions, as well as making sure that Master’s dominance and control over me does not extend to them – beyond the normal parenting stuff of course (and even at that, sometimes the lines blur in my head – but that’s a different entry).

So we thought we would try it and obviously it didn’t work. *shrug*

I haven’t talked much with Jes since she left, but I have argued with my mother. That’s a nice little bonus. Jes has always been the “chosen child” when it comes to my mother so I didn’t expect anything less, it’s just too bad because my parents and I had finally come to a fairly peaceful place and now that’s on shaky ground again.

Well. Anyway-

I just wanted to say thanks. Again. You’re all back on the Christmas card list.

~cunt

Kaya and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

PMS. I have some. At least I think I do. I never keep a schedule of it, I just kind of figure that when I start getting irritated that the people around me are still breathing – I’m close to bleeding.

Yesterday was blechy. Jes has left. Again.

I just can’t keep doing this with her. Everytime something happens that doesn’t please her 100%, she bolts. All I can see in the future is her using that baby as a pawn, a manipulation tool to force me into giving her her way all the time or she’ll take it away.

My gut response is to try and keep myself from bonding any more than I already have with the baby-to-be. Self-protection I guess.

I’m truly thinking about telling her not to come back. And yet… the words stick in my throat because…. the baby bump.

What was the catalyst this time, the horrifically awful event that caused her to run away from the evils of this house?

The end of allowance, and my refusal to do it again at any time in the very near future.

Not just for her. For all three of them. And not because I am determined to “ruin her life”, as she thinks. (As if allowance is the life-ruining factor she needs to be worrying about anyway. Jeezus pleezus.)

Here was the deal with the kids and earning an allowance.

Allowance had stopped working in the way that it was supposed to. It had become a source of fighting, between me and them, between Master and I, and within myself.

Here’re the ways in which it went wrong:

First, there were hassles over what it was supposed to be used for. This was a lot of where Master and I would start to bicker. He felt that it should be used for anything they *wanted*, and while I don’t disagree with that theory, I would tend to disagree with what was a want and what was a need. (Imagine that huh? A slave who wants to haggle over wants and needs. tee hee)

An extension of the ‘wants and needs’ disagreement was that it seemed like I couldn’t buy them something for “just because” without him thinking it should have come out of their allowance. Again, he had legitimate points, but so did I. And unfortunately, the kids had picked up on some of the discord between us about it and were playing that in their favor, the manipulative little monsters.

But these things between him and I were being worked out as we went along. That wasn’t even the reason it all blew up, but it was a mitigating factor in the final decision.

They had a very small, very reasonable, list of chores to earn their allowance. They had to do simple things like make their bed in the morning, put their clothes away, help clean up after supper, take out the trash, yadda yadda yadda.

But all of a sudden, they seemed to think they didn’t have to do anything that wasn’t THEIR chore. There was no spirit of cooperation anymore, no willingness to help someone (me, mostly) do anything. Not that I expect cheers and cartwheels when I ask someone to set the table or dust the living room, they are teenagers after all, but about the 100th time I heard “No. That’s not MY chore.” I’d had enough of it.

If there wasn’t a monetary attachment to doing something, again, they thought they could refuse to do it. Everything I’d ask was answered with “how much will you pay me?”

Uhh. Nothing. That’s how much.

I was in a constant cycle of having to remind them to do their chores, of tracking them down, asking them if they’d done it yet, being told that yeah, they were coming to do it in “five minutes, Mom!” and then, an hour later, the table still isn’t cleared, I’m getting tired, I don’t want to clean the kitchen at 9pm when THEY are ready, finding that they’d “forgotten” to scoop the litter box for 3 days straight, they’d “forgotten” to take the trash out…. blah blah blah and excuse after excuse and wah-wah-wah-wah.

Plus, they’d lost any and all motivation to find other ways to actually earn money. When I was a kid I did all sorts of unpleasant things to earn spending money. I detassled corn in the summer (if you’ve done that, you’ll agree it’s a suck-ass job for a kid), I babysat on the weekends and in the summers instead of hanging out with my friends.I waitressed. For one short and disasterous time over a summer, I delivered pizzas. (Me and directions? Are not friends. I cost that poor restaurant more free pizzas than were paid for I think. I was the worst delivery driver than any delivery driver in the history of ever.)

But I’d mention to them about looking for work like that and they’d sigh and “Nah” and “don’t need to” and “why?”.

And, this is where Jes factored into it the most, what it was being spent on just was burning my ass more and more.

She would save hers until she has enough to make a trip to Wisconsin. Which, on the occasion that the three of them would cooperate so they could go together, I was much more okay with it. The other two kids liked to go down there and spend the weekend with their old friends, too, so they’d all chip in one week’s allowance and that was enough to cover the gas there and back; they’d leave after school on Friday, come home on Sunday, and it was all hunky-fuckin-dory.

I knew where they were and I knew when they were coming home.

Jes doesn’t like doing it that way. She doesn’t want to only have Friday through Sunday. She wants to stay there for a week or two. In order for her to have the gas money without needing her brother’s and sister’s contribution, she has to save all of her allowance for a month. So she was in this cycle of saving for 4 weeks and then taking off for 2 weeks.

Her car, the car we gave her? Needs some work done. We did not give her that car so she could drive it into the ground by zipping off to Wisconsin and Illinois all the damn time. And the fact that we’re struggling to figure out how we’re going to pay for her baby while she’s pissing away money so she can go get laid once a month? Umm. no. There are a lot more important things she needs to be saving her allowance for.

So the whole thing accumulated into one big fight between the kids while we were gone the other night. I heard all about it when we got home and it all started over Jes saying that she wasn’t going to take Am and B-man with her anymore because she doesn’t like having to come home at the end of the weekend. She wants to stay there for that week or two.

And I’d just had enough. Her selfishness and her irresponsibility, on top of all of the other problems with the whole allowance business, on top of the fact that we’re not exactly rolling in the dough anyway and if that sacrifice from us isn’t properly appreciated?? Enough is enough, you know? Seriously.

And I’ve been threatening to do this if things didn’t shape up for quite a few weeks anyway.

So I told them all that I was done. I was done with allowance, done with chore lists, done done done. They can just do without until some of this other stuff improves. Or forever. Whichever comes first.

Am and B-man? They’re not stupid. They knew it was coming and they know why. They heard the warnings, they chose to ignore them, and they get that this is the consequence.

Jes? Not so much. Back to that entitlement syndrome of hers. She thinks that she is earning that money and should be able to do what she wants with it.

She thinks I’m only trying to keep her from seeing the baby daddy (who is still unemployed and has made zero contribution to anything).

She thinks I’m being unfair.

She thinks I don’t want her to have any fun.

She thinks I only want her to sit around the house and be miserable.

She thinks since we gave her that car, she can drive it without oil, drive 3,000 miles on bald tires, and that we shouldn’t say anything. Because it’s hers.

She makes me so tired. One day with her is like two weeks with the other two, I swear.

She doesn’t think she should be still be treated like a child, yet she’s doing *nothing* adult-like in any way whatsoever- nor can I get her to admit that even getting allowance is pretty childish.

She’s still just 17 and lives here and *should* be treated like a child, especially considering that she acts like she’s 12.

Everything is “not fair” or “not my fault!” when it comes to her, and even though it’s not my fault she got pregnant and not fair that we have to pay for it, she’s too stuck on how “not fair” it is that I took allowance away and how it’s “not her fault” that the other two kids have to go to school and can’t take off for weeks at a time.

So she gets pissed, she says she’s going to leave, I tell her to do what she has to do, she calls grandma crying and whining, my mom wires her money- and she leaves.

She writes me this long ass note about how it’s “not fair” (scream) and how she doesn’t want to leave but she doesn’t think I’m being “fair” (scream) and it’s not “her fault” (scream)

Round and round we go. Didn’t we do this same thing last month over something else?? And the month before that?

Fucking tired of it, of her, of the drama. Maybe I’ll take a big ol’ pass on being a grandma after all.

Q&A-Number Idontknow

What’s YOUR thoughts about becoming a grandma? Is that what you will be called, or do you have another pet-name in mind? How many weeks is she?

My thoughts are a mixed bag of positive and negative.

On the negative: Of course I wish she wasn’t doing this NOW. I’m worried about her, her future, her baby’s future. I’m not sure what kind of mother she will be because she is so incredibly immature. She also has other problems unrelated to immaturity that haven’t been addressed yet and I worry a great deal that that’s going to affect her child if she doesn’t address them.

I’m concerned about finances. Right now, we’re footing the bill for her prenatal care, we’ll have to pay for her hospital birthing bill, and we’ll be footing the bill for everything the baby needs – for who knows how long. The baby’s daddy is as worthless (so far) as my ex is. I see history repeating itself and it makes me feel like a big. fat. parenting. failure.

The money leads to resentment. To be fair, Master, who is the only source of income for the entire house, is being extremely generous concerning this whole ordeal. However, he’s feeling the strain. Of course we’re worried about the economy. I don’t think anyone should be too comfortable in thinking their employment is completely safe, you know?

In the privacy of our own room, away from little ears, he expresses to me some amount of resentment, and he’s perfectly justified in feeling that. He’s not only not Jes’s father, he’s not her baby’s father, either. It’s not fair to him– but he loves me, he loves her, too. And he’s stepping up, again, where other men won’t.

I’ve asked more than once about going back to work myself and he keeps telling me no. That’s not to say it won’t become a necessity at some point, but for now, it only seems to make him upset. He says that it’s not right that I should go back to work, that we should have to interrupt or change our life, when she’s the one who got herself knocked up. He says we’ll tough it out as long as we can and that she’ll be getting a job as soon as she is able to.

But, knowing that he’s under that kind of strain does create a little bit of resentment from me toward her. Especially because she doesn’t act appreciative *enough* of the sacrifices he’s making. I don’t know exactly what I expect her to do or say, nor am I expecting groveling or anything like that – but Jes possesses an irrational “entitlement” syndrome.

I’m also very fearful for my heart. I’m afraid to get attached to that baby because there isn’t a single piece of me that thinks Jes will stay here for any longer than she has to. And it’s going to rip me to shreds when she goes.

Because, try as I might to not do this – I am already hopelessly, head over heels in love with that baby bump. Enough so that I’m sitting here in tears as I type, just thinking about holding it, rocking it, watching its little rosebud mouth, touching its downy little head, stroking its smooth flawless baby skin. Tiny fingers, tiny toes, tiny smiles.

What’s not to love??

But loving it and then losing it? God. Pain. And not the good kind.

Covering all of that negative stuff, though? Drowning it all out (for me anyway, probably not so much for Master) is excitement. Joy. Impatience. Happiness.

I’m going to be a grandma! There’s going to be a baby – a tiny extension of my own baby. I never knew emotions like this existed and she hasn’t even had the baby yet! I am already so sucked in, so smitten with what is coming that I have to keep reminding myself to be calm. I’m already giving myself pep talks on how NOT to be a grandma.

I’m shopping for it, of course. She doesn’t know the sex yet, but she’s already got a whole pile of unisex sleepers and blankets and onesies and socks. Come summer time when rummage sales start? I’m going to be a baby shopping FOOL.

I can’t wait to see what kind of grandpa Master will be. Personally, I think he’s going to fall just as much in love as I am as soon as he sees it. Right now, he’s very much removed from the process. But that first toothless slobbery smile aimed at him? Yeah, it’ll be game over.

She is 24 and a half weeks along and I am perfectly fine with being called Grandma. The kids are already calling me that.

Everything will work out because it has to. Because I said so. Because there is no other option.

Baby’s coming whether we’re ready or not.

I think it’s a girl, btw.