I’m a bad, shameless Mommy

Heads up! I’m going to be losing my Internet due to being an idiot and getting on a family plan where half the other people are weak willed idiots and the other half are dishonest, thieving idiots. That means goodbye blog until I can find access to the Internet. Yep, I own my idiocy.

Anyways, I’m a bad mommy and I should be ashamed of myself, according to everybody.

It started when my baby was born… Well no. Actually it started well before that. Being of “low socio-economic status” which is fancy talk for “undesirable” I procreated. And I’ve never used a condom, much less (cancer causing, hormone screwing) birth control. And then I didn’t kill my unborn baby. And before all that? I married an honest to God Mexican, who is as broke as I am. My worst offense are after the baby though…

I signed a “contract” of dubious legality at the hospital saying I’d never ever bedshare, because my alter ego will rise in my sleep to smother my baby. They also offered the helpful suggestion of sleeping upright in a recliner with the baby because baby dropping is healthy. If I didn’t sign that contract I wasn’t “allowed” to leave the hospital and go home with my own daughter.

Yeah, that lasted all of a week and a half. Blame it on me trusting my motherly instincts and my third world husband. We are still bed sharing and I’m only now considering stopping it because baby thinks its awesome to snuggle up to me, sigh, and then try to rip my nipples off with her cute chubby fingers.

And while sacrificing my huge, king size, comfy bed has been hard I still miraculously have sex pretty much everywhere else in my house. And out of my house.

In addition to doing something that isn’t even bad (check out Dr.Sears on bedsharing) I’ve apparently committed a faux pas that those with my level of education find appalling.

You see, my baby is a girl. I know, shameful right? How dare I say that aloud? What if her baby brain is confusing her vagina with a penis and she thinks she’s a boy??!? I think all the presumptuous crap about “cis-gender” is so clever it’s stupid. God created male and female, and my daughter isn’t going to be given only gender neutral toys and clothes that are actually just boy stuff with more yellow thrown in. Why? Because as a woman I’ve had it up to here with the implicit suggestion that anything strongly feminine is verboten and that anything strongly male is obscene. Bring on the pink and blue! And yes, I do know that pink used to be a boy color. 100 years ago. See all the fucks I give?

Other stuff I do that proves I’m evil or at least inadequate?

I’m raising my child Catholic. Latin, lace, incense, and rosaries. Not to mention excellent literature. And a veil.

I let my baby eat solids at 5, not 6 months. The horror! I also introduced a fruit first and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t organic since I didn’t have to take out a loan for it.

I swear in front of my kid. I try not to, but this is probably the proof that all Catholics are hypocrites or something. I just pray that her first word is something other than most of the words I say when driving. I don’t feel comfortable saying “God bless you” when my decidedly unsaintly mind is hoping God goes Sodom on you and that you end up in a ditch. If I’m going to be evil, I should be honestly evil.

I let my 6 month old baby watch a movie with me. Terrible!

I let her sleep on her stomach. Like her daddy, she flips all over the place when sleeping, and loves her stomach.

I don’t have a vendetta against all things Disney. I do plan on letting her see anything Hayao Miyazaki, because his art is better.

I don’t allow baby girl to see her maternal Grandparents. Sure, they’re abusive and dangerous people but they’re faaaaaaaaaamily! How dare I expose my kid to better examples!

We teach about the real Santa, who punched heretics and and survived prison, and was Turkish- not European.

There’s a host of things I do that are apparently borderline child abuse. Her bouncy chair is a torture device. The baby carrier I have doesn’t support her hips well at all, because poor people can’t afford the one for the low price of 155.99. I don’t have a savings account for her and my house is far from baby proof.

But I can accept that. And just when I think the sanctimommys of the Internet can’t possibly judge me for anything more I learn something new. I start reading this thread about annoying gifts from people, and it starts out innocently enough. Baby clothes that are stained and smell like smoke, toys that look designed to murder you as you sleepwalk via 1000 tiny, sharp little parts, and passive aggressive toxic grannies buying too small clothes for “fat kids”. But then came other comments, comments that denounced all other lesser mothers.

Do you let your kids wear clothes from Walmart? Did someone have the gall to buy you baby clothes from there and actually give them to you? BAD MOMMY! And if you bought them yourself, there’s no hope for you. CPS should definitely rescue your child, you trailer trash excuse for a human being!

Do you let your kids play with electronic toys? OMG you’re going to give them ADD! They will find a way to eat the batteries! They will have seizures and Rumplestiltskin will steal them and probably be a pedophile! Your children’s imagination will shrivel up and die just like your sex drive and common sense! Arrrgh! You are a terrible mommy!

Do you let your kids play with anything other than wooden, Hipster toys? Do you let them associate with kids who play with (shudder) plastic toys? YOU ARE OBVIOUSLY A HELLSPAWN OF SATAN! Plastic toys are cheap, and cheap is evil! Anything in your modest price range is evil, and so are YOU!

Seriously, the more I slip into my mother role (complete with lactating boobies, spanx, and improving cooking abilities) the thicker my skin gets. I’m almost gleefully anticipating the next rich white judgmental mommy comment. I’ve already been judged for buying a Graco seat instead of a Chico one, even though both do a good job. I also bought a ton of second hand things, and even yard saled for baby stuff.

At least I’m exclusively breastfeeding, so I guess I win in that department lol.

Any moms out there, especially fist time ones reading my blog- remember this phrase “Look at all the fucks I give!” That is a helpful mantra. Use it often.

What They Tell You

Most amazing corn on the cob recipe ever: Elotes

You will need:
Lots of shucked corn, or unshucked if you want to heat it right on the grill
Queso Oaxaca (smells like a farm tastes like paradise)
Mayonnaise
Or Butter
Cayenne pepper (ground. Look for the bright red color- that means its fresher.)

Boil or cook the elotes.
Grate some Oaxaca cheese in the meantime.
When the elotes are done, sprinkle queso all over the corn and add squirt able butter. Top with cayenne pepper for some oomph.

Or

When the elotes are done, slather in mayo, sprinkle the queso, and add whatever you like on top, or nothing more.

I used to think the Japanese had the best recipe for corn on the cob ever. Then I met my husband. Mexico wins!

On to my post!

777

777. That’s the number of times you are supposed to forgive someone. Well, not literally. Much like 144,000, or 7 days of creation, 40 days in the desert, and 40 days and nights of rain, 777 is a metaphorical number signifying completeness. Sorry, numerous heretical Christian and pseudoChristian sects, but those Biblical numbers are more than just black and white.

I thought I had forgiven my parents. I had. But the number 777 implies a process. You keep forgiving until the job is done. Sometimes things come to light that you didn’t know before, or ignored because it was too psychologically painful to handle.

It must be that my brain started to open up, or God revealed to me something that I hadn’t realized and was not ready to realize until now. I still don’t want to believe its true. It would feel better to not know what I know.

My biological dad runs his own business. Business, while I was in college, was very good in spite of a terrible economy. He got audited by the IRS every year I was in college. He claimed it was because he had his own business and kids going to college at the same time. I always accepted that lie, even when friends with parents who had businesses told me that that sounded odd. While I was in college my parents had money to go out to nice restaurants on a semi regular basis. They bought nice things for my brother and gave him cash. On rare occasions I would get very little cash for something I really needed. It usually wasn’t really enough but I am great at being frugal and thrifty. Plus, I never felt entitled to anything. Their money, their rules, right?

The thing is during college I practically lived in my van. Home was an unsafe place to be so I was back at midnight and out by 6 am. I barely had enough gas money to make the commute, and always drove praying that something else wouldn’t break down on me. My van even had a name “Deathbox on Wheels” because it was infamous for doing crazy things like turning off in the middle of traffic, or deciding that a left turn would really make a great right turn at the last second, or it would suddenly charge forward like a demon possessed transportation nightmare- usually about when I would be stuck behind an old driver or some other vulnerable person.

My van was finally sold to the junk yard after the breaks went out going down a steep hill during my “honeymoon” in my home town.

During college I relied on myself, my husband, and kind friends for food. It was embarrassing and some days I would maybe just eat a yogurt (75 cents). I actually did eat some food someone just left once, feeling ashamed the whole time and hoping nobody saw. I couldn’t eat at home because my mere presence would enrage my mother, and any leftovers were saved for someone else until they rotted and she could throw them out.

One semester I worked 2 jobs, did well over 100 hours of classroom supervising (obviously no pay) and volunteer work, and 18 credits, most of which were not in my native language. I did that to get out of college quicker so that my debt would quit climbing.

Speaking of debt, I had barely enough money for books. In fact I went part of the semester without books in almost all of my classes. Thank God for helpful students who let me photocopy pages. It goes without saying that I didn’t have enough for nice clothes. I still wore what I had from high school- raggedy, stained, full of holes clothes. So I used a credit card to get books and gas and food…and I’m still paying that off due to usurious interest rates.

Don’t misunderstand. There are people in the world that have it FAR worse than I ever did. I at least had clothes, and could eat something, and had a lot f friends to help me. Many people don’t get to go to college- my husband never made it last elementary school due to poverty. So I am thankful for what I did have. No thanks to my biological parents.

The point is, during my entire time at college I had little food, almost no access to healthcare, was stressed and living in my van, and just at my wit’s end tryin to make ends meet and my biological parents meanwhile, lived very well.

They stopped living well after I graduated and began to pay back loans. The thing is, they had taken out loans too, to “help out”. And it was understood that I was going to owe then for being so “gracious”. They took out PLUS loans. I covered all of my tuition. I had scholarships am loans to cover what I couldn’t pay outright, and there was rarely enough left over for anything- not one dollar.

The PLUS loans were supposed to go towards gas and living expenses. They were supposed to be how parents help their kids- that is their original purpose.

I must not have wanted to accept the facts. I remember going in and talking with a Sister about getting a loan so that I could get an apartment. (My college was “Catholic” in a very loose way) I was told I couldn’t, since PLUS loans had already been applied for and granted. The Sister seemed alarmed and confused that they weren’t enough for me to live independently.

After a certain point I didn’t hear what she was saying. I am convinced it was because my brain knew but my heart did not want to accept.

My parents were taking the loans in their name that were supposed to be applied to me and were pocketing if not everything, then close to.

That part isn’t what hurt me so much. After all, I just realized this a couple of days ago. This is after learning that my biological dad tried to use me to lie to the IRS, and he’s always lied about the amount of money he gives to charity (zero).

What hurt me is remembering how I was in his office, crying my heart out because I couldn’t get an apartment and had to stay at “home” with an abusive mother. No matter how I stretched my dollars, I had no money to escape, even with a roommate or two. Even with the money I could save by biking to school, and I was willing to walk through snow too.

That bastard knew what I was going through. He knew I had no food, no clothing, was driving a van that had already almost killed me, and was at my wit’s end. And not only did he stand by and fail me by letting me be abused, he took away what should have been there to support me. And then he watched me sob and pretended to feel bad for me and just sighed and said “I’m so sorry that’s how life is”, all the while living nicely off my misery.

And then he and my biological mother had the gall to try to make me pay for their misuse of money that was intended to help me with college. All so they could use me, all so they could control me, all so they could continue to abuse me. Oh and money, which they blame for abuse they claim they can’t remember. And they want thanks and money for what they did.

That’s sick. That is an onion of sick- layer upon layer of sick and wrong.

I keep wishing I am delusional. I keep praying that I am the “bad daughter”. I don’t want to believe my parents are that sick, and yet here is the ugly truth. They are sick. I have to forgive them.

Before, I still had a sliver of hope that someday, maybe when they were old and dying, I could see them again and they would have somehow had a conversion that made them into better people. Now, I don’t. I don’t. It’s like a pedophile- they’re unsafe and highly unlikely to reform. Can a pedophile reform and not molest children? Yes. Is it remotely likely? No. Have I ever seen a pedophile try or succeed? Never, and I have known a few pedophiles, because my biological parents left me open to abuse (thanks be to God, I was never molested).

Right now I don’t know if I’m capable of forgiving. I haven’t properly grieved yet. I’m still running from it to an extent. All I can think is “why?”

My best friend asked me if I would try to sue. I wouldn’t know where to start, and I don’t want to. I feel like being the demon in the Porky Pig cartoon- “So it’s MONEY you want, eh? WELL HAVE ALL THE MONEY YOU CAN HANDLE!”

Besides. They’re already not well off. All that thieving and scheming has left them pretty much where they started. I don’t want to punish them- God is much better at punishing than I am. Even if I were to sue, they wouldn’t be able to pay me back and have enough to live. They will be elderly soon, and I am not the sick person they are. I hope they will live as comfortably as their spoils will allow.

I just never want to see them again. Ever.

So I broke up with my parents

First, a recipe!

Tacos from the Heart

Needed:
1 dead cow
Skills in butchering animals for food (serial killers need not apply)
1 cow heart from said dead cow.

Boil the heart slowly over a few hours, in water and salt. Beef heart is big, so you might need to cut it to fit in the pan. Let it cool, make sure it’s tender, and cut off the excess fat. Then cut it into long, thin strips.

Heat up some oil in a pan and throw in onion and garlic to taste. Then throw in some cut hot chiles. And salt. Salt is good. Throw in more onions if you love them like I do. Let it all simmer.

Serve with your favorite non store bought salsa, beans, and tortillas. (Corn tortillas, or even flour ones but avoid the nasty wheat tortillas. Them’s nasty.)

Now, on to the break up. I find it highly ironic that my first big break up was with my parents. My only boyfriend is now married to me, and by the grace of God our marriage is doing well so far. So my first big break up is not a boyfriend, or even a fiancé, but my parents.

Oh sure, I’ve told old “friends” to hit the road before. But that is less a break up and more because of our ages and maturity levels. It was mostly mutual, except in the case of a genuine stalker I had that took YEARS to remove from my life.

In any case, this is awkward. Who breaks up with their parents? I might even try writing a book about it, because it feels that weird.

So a few nights ago, after taking a long break from the crazy people I call my parents, we met at a local restaurant. My husband went with me for support. Right away, as soon as I let them know what was up, they tried to attack me by getting through to my husband. Classy.

There was a lot of gas lighting. Gas lighting is when one person flat out denies, minimizes, or ignores the experience of another for the purposes of getting the other under control and questioning their own memories, experiences, or even sanity. In their case, my parents claimed not to remember anything that I said. When I pressed, they said I must have an incorrect memory. Because I am a human blood hound for lies and half truths, I kept pressing relentlessly until my mom blamed her conveniently faulty memory in anti-depressants.

I looked at my father, and asked him “So what is YOUR excuse?”

“Stress”, he replied. He didn’t even acknowledge that I called my mother out on her excuse, and his.

What followed was nothing that interesting, just lots of implying that I was the crazy one, conveniently recovered memories that were very sharp concerning my perceived faults, and finally dwindled down into telling me that I was a terrible person, wrong, that this was all “bullshit”, and that I was being “vindictive”.

In short it went about as crappy as I thought it would. I did come into the break up meeting offering an olive branch. What it boiled down to was either they acknowledge the past, take responsibility, and apologize, or I no longer have contact with them. What was more important- their pride and emotional self preservation or their relationship with their daughter?

As always, the former won over the latter. The closest I got was a “sorry for whatever the hell we did, but we don’t remember”.

Here is the reason apologies are important. Many people would say I should just accept that my parents are who they are and that I should lie flatter so they can happily keep walking over me. I would say those people are ignorant. An apology doesn’t fix hurt feelings, or heal broken pasts. What it does, is show that the person making the apology is aware of how they have failed. If you can see where you have failed, you can avoid doing the same failure again. It also shows that if you don’t avoid that failure, then you are responsible enough to continue taking responsibility. An apology is humility which is a necessary ingredient for friendship.

That is why apologies are important, especially in cases of abuse.

I’ve already forgiven my parents, but reconciliation is not possible. In their minds I’m “vindictive”, crazy, and “punishing” them. They aren’t mature enough to examine the reasons why their daughter is so ready to leave them in the past. Forgiving them I can do, but the power of reconciliation is out of my hands. I can be willing (reluctantly, but I could try) except that it isn’t possible on their end.

If I were to try reconciliation with these people who still see me as their bad little scapegoat, reconciliation would not happen. Instead, I’d be volunteering for abuse, sadness, anger, frustration all on my part. Instead of being a victim I’d be volunteering.

Their pride and egos are far more important to them than making a real, healthy relationship with me. I am not willing to teach my own daughter that that sort of unhealthy dynamic is acceptable.

They want me to come back and be a better doormat. I want them to be the parents they never were.

So I broke up with them.

Task List Woo!

Well, since its clearly useless to try looking for a job (thanks would be employers. I can’t wait to watch your businesses crash and burn so I can hear you whine about being “poor”) I am turning my attention to running the house as well as I can.

Granted, the damn landlord never fixes anything, and there is some stuff we just can’t do (or maybe we can, if the landlord won’t send anyone other than a couple of drunks to fix things) but other things I can do.

This past week I’ve had it. My husband, though he works hard outside of the house, is a total slob inside of it. I have a tendency to get disorganized. Both of us together at our worst equals disaster. To top it off, I grew up with conditions that if they weren’t worthy of an episode on Hoarders, they were close.

I’m talking dishes not cleaned for weeks, potatoes left to rot so long they had maggots (I almost threw up on that one) dead ants in various foods, and always a mysterious stench you didn’t want to know the source of. And that’s to say nothing of the piles of junk. When I left for Useless University, I was determined to never live like that again.

I’ve succeeded for the most part, but my house is ridiculously disorganized. The dishes never seem to get all the way done. Almost all our floors are tile because the landlord is cheap, so dust accumulates. The bathrooms aren’t gross but they aren’t pretty either. My husband’s problem is being lazy. Mine is letting my ADD take control.

House cleaning with ADD is a pain in the ass. About a third of the dishes get done and suddenly it occurs to me that I should really dust the surfaces. Halfway through dusting I remember some clothes need cleaning so I put them in the wash, and forget to turn the knob because I remember that I was supposed to be done with the dishes already! By the end if the day none of my projects are finished, it looks like I was lazy, and I’m cranky and exhausted. Oh and the laundry has dried soap on it. Ewwww.

So yesterday I managed to force myself to sit still long enough to make a list of all the chores that need to be done, dividing the rooms and days they needed to be done. I also assigned my husband tasks because if I didn’t, he would not be compelled at all to do them. It’s domestic abuse, but I really want to slap him when he says “but it’s so easy when you do it!” Haaaa haaa haaaah. Then I went to search for a free app to manage my tasks.

Astrid got bought up by Yahoo, and so they ruined it like they do with anything good on the Internet. Eventually, after going through many wastes of memory, aka “lite apps” I came upon Any.Do.

I’m in love. Cute, simple, quick and so far free of bugs.

Suddenly, shit is getting done. My house is looking more lived in and less like a hurricane, and I think just a couple says more and the routine will be down enough so that we will actually not have to do any serious cleaning if visitors come over.

This might not work for every ADD person out there but it works for me. Just having a list, even if its all over the place, makes me feel competitive. Plus, the Any.Do app sends me coupons. Sure it’s for stuff that I would never buy anyways because its either impractical or way too expensive…but dude…coupons!

Now to get out my off brand lemon pledge and make like Consuela from Family Guy.

“Afuera afuera. No, no, noooo. Shitty kitty go afuera.”

A New Job, Perhaps?

Two days ago, a friend told me of a possible job opportunity.

-60-70k per year.
-Benefits and insurance.
-Full time, not a temporary job scam.
-In another area that has better schools, fewer rednecks with that ubiquitous and disgusting confederate flag, and roads that are actually taken care of.

I could rent an inexpensive place with a landlord that actually uses professionals, rather than local drunks to fix the house. If we live frugally, I could pay off my loans in about 5 years. I could pay off my credit card in – matter of weeks. This job would even be helping people who are disadvantaged economically and physically, so I wouldn’t just be another monkey in a cubicle! And I’d be earning two to 3 times what we make now!

I am visiting the site everyday, waiting for it to be posted and yet…

There is a trade off. I do not like the trade off. I have a little infant and can’t stand the thought of her being raised by daycare or a nanny. We’d also be far from my husband’s supportive family. Mr. Sassafrass and I have thought that perhaps we could have him be a stay at home dad. However, we both know that he would go crazy.

He’s Mexican, and as much as he’s rejected a lot of the machista culture he does like to be the provider. He also does not like to be in the house for extended periods of time- he’s been working since he was a little kid and now can’t stand to do “nothing”! Not to mention his family will rib him about this.

And yet, if I were to get this job, we believe its te only way it would work. Neither of us likes the idea of a daycare or a nanny- we want to experience her first words, first steps. We want her to be with Mami and Papi. A compromise might be that he works part time. It would get him out of the house (and as a current stay at home mom, I know how important that is to sanity) and cover basic expenses like rent- freeing up money to get us out of debt and maybe enjoy some things for a while. That would still involve a nanny or a daycare, but at a much less intrusive rate. Even then, he has said he could probably only do that for a year, but at least we would have the first year.

Because I have so much more education than him, we’ve both known that it is far more likely that I would be the main breadwinner. Honestly, I’d love to stay at home and part time work to supplement our income, but it’s nearly impossible. My job opportunities on this side of the state are laughable. Between the racist attitudes of the idiots I would have to work with and the attitude that any bilingual can be an interpreter (NO NO NO!) it is already a dismal prospect. Add on the pitiful few hours and no benefits, no insurance, and being on call 24-7…

I really hope this works out. My husband and I might have to feel uncomfortable for a while, perhaps a few years, but if I were to get out of debt and save our money I could return to being a stay at home mom.

God willing it could happen.

Something New

I’ve been married a year, have a honeymoon baby, have had major surgery, and have generally just been through a lot in the past year. I’m also taking a time out from the “Americans”, aka my side of the family. If I had money I would totally be in counseling, just because this is all a little overwhelming! It’s overwhelming but worth it.

So because I am doing so many new things, I plan on doing some more! I have a couple of goals for my life- to be debt free and to never use birth control, especially hormonal birth control. So I plan on getting a hold of Dave Ramsey’s materials as much a I can for free for now, and I’ve already started down the path of NFP.

There are many reasons to eschew birth control, and you don’t need to be Catholic to understand them. First of all, birth control can and does prevent the implantation of a new little human being. When sperm and egg meet, that’s a whole new set of DNA in a whole new person. Yes, implantation can fail to occur naturally, but old people can die naturally as well. If I wouldn’t off my grandpa before he does naturally, why would I actively take something that could kill my little one before I know of his/her existence?

Another thing to consider is the sheer amount of hormones we consume everyday. Our milk, eggs, meat- especially chicken are laced with hormones. I’m not a total organic nut who thinks gluten is waiting to kill us all, but I do believe that all of these artificial hormones are changing humans for the worse. So if I try, even with my very limited funds, to buy local and organic, why should I then turn around and pop a pill loaded with hormones?

The birth control pill ups your chance of cancer, particularly breast cancer. It also suppresses a woman’s natural cycle, instead of working with your body. It can cause weight gain, mood issues, and ironically it can lower your libido. Studies have even found that it can influence women to be more inclined to seek out mates who are sub-par. Long term use if the pill can wreak havoc on a woman’s fertility, so when she DOES want children it can be very difficult to conceive.

Natural Family Planning involves no hormones. It does involve knowing your body, being aware, and learning a little science. It is a lot of work, and it involves math, something I hate. It is NOT the “rhythm method”. It’s not even just one method. I’m stating with the sympto-thermal method, which is great for women who may have irregular cycles. Not only can I avoid another child for a little while (which would be wise, considering what my body has been put through, not to mention the finances) I can also plan for another child. The information I gather on myself can even help me to see if I have a thyroid problem. It can certainly make my ob-gyn’s job much easier.

I have had friends tell me to “at least use a condom!”. The truth is, I hate the idea of condoms. I want to feel as connected as I can to my husband, and sex is not just a fun activity. It’s incredibly intimate and even spiritual. Hospitals encourage skin to skin contact for mother and child- why not between husband and wife? And this sounds vulgar, but if I wanted to use something plastic to get pleasure there is a sex shop nearby that has an entire wall of synthetic devices for just that. Using a condom during sex makes as much sense to me as insisting that everybody keep their clothes on during sex (those people do exist, and no, it’s not a fetish for some of them.)

Could I still have an “unintended” pregnancy? Yes, although the chance is low. Unintended or not, my husband and I will welcome every one of our children. But similar things happen with birth control. If they didn’t you wouldn’t be reading my blog. Honestly, i wouldnt mind having another child very soon, but we have quite a few things we need to get in order first.

I am slowly falling in love with NFP. I much prefer a philosophy that respects my femininity and supports an understanding of my body to a philosophy that treats women as if their fertility is a disease. Don’t believe that philosophy exists? Ask a pregnant woman what it’s like to search for a job, or inform her boss she is pregnant. Ask her how her coworkers treat her, especially if she has multiple kids.

This month is a month of new beginnings. I grew up in poverty, and I am quite poor now. I would like to change things so that when we need to fix our car, we can. If an emergency happens we can handle it. I don’t know if it would be wise to own our own home especially now that the American government has made it abundantly clear that we own nothing and our worth lies only in working, but I’d like to rent a larger space with less building violations. I was brainwashed to accept my parents’ views on finances, especially the mantra “follow nobody’s advice” and where are they? Still in debt, still paying for things they do not need, digging more holes. Like NFP I have seen people following Dave Ramsey’s advice…and they are succeeding. I want to see if that can work for my husband and I. Being independent appeals to us. No being dependent on paycheck to paycheck and no being dependent on a dubiously beneficial pill, or IUD, or condom to get us through another year.

I’m excited. I hope anyone reading this can get excited too. Learn about your (or your wife’s) natural gift of fertility, and take charge of your finances. Never say die!

Space, A Peaceful Frontier

As I recover from surgery, I am finding myself with a lot of time to sit and blog.

My husband just has to be the voice of reason and forbids me to pick up the baby carrier and stroller and baby all at once. Harrumph so what if its been less than a week since surgery? I feel fine!

Who cares what the doctors say, right? Haha…blogging it is.

During my hellish stay in the hospital where it was one disappointment after another, including a family wide cold and an utterly miserable hungry baby, I had some realization time. I wouldn’t characterize it as “thinking time” since most of the time I was only actively thinking about throwing my iv out the window and getting out of my hospital cell…room. It was definitely a realization time.

My husband, ever the unicorn, mentioned calling my parents so someone could bring us some supplies. Why not his family I’m not entirely sure why. They live closer to the hospital. However that is not important. What’s important is that at the mere mention of my parents barging in I went into a panic attack.

Erratic breathing, tears, hopelessness, an urge to escape…everything just flipped a lid inside of me at the thought of them coming in, because I already knew what they were going to do. There would be a guilt trip for not mentioning the surgery,my baby would be “taken care of” out of my sight, I would be made responsible to care for my mother and her feelings, it would all be a disaster. I’d be vulnerable with monsters.

Thankfully my husband didn’t make that call. I’ve been on a time out from them for a few weeks, almost 2 months.
I thought it would be enough but clearly they are still in my head. I dwell on the call and two texts sent by my mom. She’s trying to lure me with stuff and claims not to know why I am not accepting her calls.

She knows why, unless my Dad said absolutely nothing which given his history is unlikely. She still doesn’t understand that stuff means nothing to me.

Right now, I just want to be surrounded by love. No judgement, no false sense of responsibility and guilt, no boundary stomping, no passive aggressive remarks.

So the result of my time out is the realization that I need more time out. At this point, I need to confront them my selves, and then just not contact them for a while. However long I need before I can figure out what normal is, and if I feel normal enough.

This is going to be rough on my husband. He grew up with a huge extended family that all seem to get along for the most part. His culture places a high value on family loyalty, especially to one’s parents. It’s one of the reasons I love my husband.

He told me that its going to seem odd not seeing them for Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Easter. “Perhaps,” I replied “but now we can make our own family traditions. I’m excited by that, and now we can have a breather from all the unpleasant parts.”

I’m not looking forward to the chat I will have with both of my parents. I am bringing my husband, not because this truly involves him but because I am afraid of being physically attacked. I am already planning logistics- where to park so that I can’t be blocked from the road, who will babysit, to make sure my battery is charged on my phone, an on and on.

I am looking forward to avoiding gossip, digs at my style of clothing or hair, subtle racism against my husband, passive aggressive put downs about every conceivable subject, or attempts to save me from Catholicism. I’m also looking forward to missing the aunt who sexually harasses my husband, the aunt who offers her supposedly professional therapy services, the uncle who thinks my husband is a thief based solely on the fact that he’s got skin color, another uncle who’s been in jail because the mental hospital has no room, another aunt that is certifiably crazier than my mother, and so many more others.

Most of all, I’m looking forward to making new friends and getting to know my in-laws better, to bringing myself closer to God and my husband.

I want to start some new traditions. What about haunted corn mazes? What about finding a parish where we can do a posada instead of hiding our insecurities with a mountain of expensive junk?Why not elotes on thanksgiving with a smaller turkey and some good wine?

I’m breaking off from my past to draw closer to something newer and better. And when I finally feel secure, then I will see if a relationship with my parents is feasible.

Adios, vesicula!

I promise to post a favorite recipe of mine next week.

After a hellish stay for a week in the hospital I am finally home. I went in thinking my superhero would be done in a day. I rushed there, grabbing enough for two days because I thought that was the longest I would have to be there. After all, that is what I was told.

Hospitals lie.

Nope first I had to have a test that involved shoving a tube down my throat to see if a gallstone was down there. There was one, and it was minuscule, but it couldn’t be left to wander around and cause complications.

So the next day I had an ercp, which got the stone out. Yay! Now I can go home, right? Now I can have the surgery? Sure! It will be right in a couple of hours!

Actually no not today but tomorrow. Day 3. Okay, fine. So I wait and I wait and I wait. I’m allowed to take a shower, finally. (3days of no showering) The surgery keeps getting pushed back. First morning, then 2 o’clock, then whatever time in the afternoon. Eventually I have to hunt down the nurse. The surgery has been pushed back another day.

During this entire time I am hooked up to an iv. I am basically naked. I’m dirty, stinky, and pissed. I also have a tiny baby who is running low on diapers and I am breast feeding- baby will not take a bottle so she screams during the pump and dump sessions (I learned later that those are not needed in most cases.) I also can’t hold her because my iv was put in the crook of my arm so awkwardly that I have to have it at a weird angle or it will pop out. I also didn’t get to eat anything other than chicken broth and jello and that was restricted too. Thank God my husband was there.

On day 3 I was allowed to eat. I even had a menu! But the line was busy, would close within the hour. and i had learned by now that you should never be patient and wait for anything at a hospital. So I went to the cafeteria and prayed id find something to keep my milk up an not cause a gallbladder attack. Stale pita bread and processed chicken with salad didn’t kill me so yay.I was so depressed and angry I lost hope. I cried almost every night. Nobody would give me an answer to my questions. When they did it was a vague non-answer or even a complete ignoring that I had even said anything.

On day 4 I packed my stuff. Surgery or no surgery i couldn’t take it anymore.i was no longer the cheery, talkative woman who went in. I didn’t ask the nurses for anything; I responded to their questions with less than a handful of words. Eventually the IV popped out, thank God, and was finally put where I had said it would work. (Nobody believed me before, because apparently you need to be an RN to remember where IV’s have worked well in the past.) While I was waiting to hear that my surgery had been pushed back, I just laid in bed. I was sick of going out in a robe that afforded no modesty and an IV that screamed “sick!”.

During my stay we couldn’t leave for diapers, so the baby got diaper rash. Eventually a kind nurse procured some for us- a size too big but they worked. We also came down with nasty colds. We couldn’t sleep due to having someone in our room all the time. If it wasn’t a nurse it was an assistant, if not an assistant someone to clean, if not someone to clean then a doctor.

By the way, doctors…go update what you thought you knew about breast feeding. I no longer trust any of you on that subject at all.

Things I learned…

1. Caloric intake DOES affect breast feeding. My milk took a huge dip. The doctors said it wouldn’t. Bullshit. I lost 10 pounds due to not being able to eat. My baby was incredibly fussy due to lower milk.

2. Unless there are some very unusual drugs being used for anesthesia, it IS safe to breast feed. If you want to be safe pump and dump for four hours only.

3. If the hospital says anything about how long things should take, take it with a grain of salt. There could be mishaps, emergencies, etc and you shouldn’t allow yourself to hope for anything. You WILL be disappointed. Plan accordingly.

4. My husband rocks. Words can’t express how grateful I am that he took care of me and baby as best he could.

Things doctors and nurses should know:

1. Sticking an iv in the crook of a mother’s arm essentially cripples her. Making it so that she can’t hold her baby, change diapers, breast feed without help, or even put on that ugly gown on her own is emotionally traumatizing especially when she came in for a problem in her abdomen. Take some time to stick the IV somewhere where she won’t be disabled and kept from doing the one thing she should be able to do-care for her child. You don’t need to care about mothers and babies but if you want an easier patient to work with, try it out.

2. Medicines stay in the breast milk for a very short time. Do some UPDATED research and find out that its RARE to have to pump and dump for 24 hours. Maybe you’re just trying to CYA legally, but screw the lawyers.

3. Realize that asking a mother to essentially starve a baby for 24 hours is traumatizing to mother, child, and her husband. Don’t act as if introducing a bottle is easy. It’s not. Some babies NEVER accept the bottle no matter how much you try. I was trying for weeks before my surgery, even before I knew I had gallbladder issues.

4. Don’t expect a mother to have a good milk supply when she hasn’t eaten any significant calories in four days. If the mother is starving so will the baby. And guess what? Some babies REJECT formula!

5. Warn people that while yes, the surgery itself can have the patient out on the same day, the surgery might not happen the day the patient is admitted. Don’t give false hope so that the patient plans for a day or two when its really going to be a week.

6. When you say you are going to send someone to interpret to the husband, actually do it. Consistently. I thought that was a given…

7. Don’t try to imply that a mother is somehow irresponsible for not bottle feeding her baby on a regular basis. That is one of those areas where you aren’t supposed to be showing your opinions. And they are nothing more than opinions, no matter what degree, if any, you may have.

I’m also changing peds after this. Not only do I hope and pray to never go back to the hospital (except for births and then may I stay as short as possible) but I also learned that when its 1am and my baby is literally starving and screaming the best advice I can hope for is “if it looks like there is a problem go to the emergency room” and “of course she will accept a bottle!”.

No, my baby won’t accept a bottle. Especially while screaming. And the emergency room doctors were the ones who were even more clueless about breast feeding than most.

So about 10 hours after surgery I broke the 24 hour pump and dump rule after doing my own research, since I was getting no answers from anybody.. AND NOTHING HAPPENED!

She ate, she slept, she breathed normally, and was only clingy due to having been separated for so long. In short she is back to normal.

Happy as I am to have that gallbladder out, and grateful as I am that we found help at the last second…I officially hate hospitals now. I appreciate all the hard work the hospital staff do (I’m in awe of a lot of it, actually) but I never want to be in that position again.

Also is it too much to ask hospitals to come up with gowns that don’t sap dignity?

Dear gallbladder, to hell with you

What the hell am I supposed to be doing with my life?

I’ve got a lot of college debt in a degree that gets a lot of “oh so you can talk to dem dirty immagrints” kind of comments. It’s a degree that’s proven great for getting me into various customer service jobs that make me hate humanity.

I am very intelligent. I have a mind like a steal trap when it comes to everything except math (and then I have a disability). I know 2 other languages besides English, read grad history textbooks for fun and actually understand them, am teaching my husband English, and I think Medieval English is easy and medieval Spanish is more than easy.

My daughter is going to be one of the privileged few kids who will be Latina AND know her literary history. She will be reading Don Quixote, La Celestina, the writings of Santa Teresa, as well as whatever Chicano lit the feminists haven’t pissed in. She will learn Mexican history and American history, and will learn both dark sides of both countries.

Somehow, I still have no clue what to do. I would love to stay at home longer, educating my own kids until they’re old enough to go to school. I would love to have a job…but all it seems I am worth is as a faceless lady that people too dumb to know what “web browser”means get to scream at for no reason.

I’m also a hard worker. I have worked on farms, in offices, in schools with autistic kids. I am thrifty. I’m 26, and I’ve already got most of my canning done. My husband hunts for a lot of our food and I am used to using a hand crank to make burger, and I know how to store the meat.

I know people still in college that don’t even know how to do their laundry. Canning is something people did in WWII and what the hell is freezer paper anyway?

And now, I’ve got a gallbladder that needs to be sucked out and no freaking insurance. I’m told to get on whatever trendy, already failing facet of fetal Obama care there is, or find a job that has an insurance shitting unicorn raining glitter everywhere.

One, Obama care is a crapshoot for various reasons. One of which is being informed that as I am so poor I can’t pay for insurance I will be fined for being too poor for insurance which will make me poorer, and too poor for the insurance I will be fined for…

Two, a job you say?

OMG TIDDLYWINKS! I did not think of that! I’ve been searching for a job for months. The problem is, no employer will take you while pregnant. Women’s liberation only helped women who acted like men- being pregnant still apparently means you become a disgusting mentally ill thing to be hidden away. How dare you show off that you are a woman and not in fact a more effeminate male!

The problem with finding a job is that because the insurance being forced upon businesses is too expensive to be sustainable for full time workers, the hours are being cut and so is the pay. So the best I can hope for is 20 hours per week, hopefully at 10.00 USD per hour. Which seems great until you figure in that I have to pay gas to drive 30 minutes one way to work, and that some places like to give you two hours one day and ten hours the next. And still no insurance.

Figure in things like grocery and oh I don’t know HEALTHCARE, and I am actually losing money by getting a job.

And no, I am not on government assistance, in case snarky pampered 30 something’s want to know.

At the moment, I can’t move to another state where the economy is 5%less shitty.

What the hell am I supposed to do to make money? Enter another soul sucking, back destroying customer service job? Yay! Nothing says “kill me now” ever so eloquently as sticking someone in a cubicle for 16 hours straight, making breaks so strict and short you can’t feasibly leave your desk even to pee, and cutting lunch so short you eat very little due to time constraints (urination needs to happen at some point).The kicker? Being a college grad who worked her ass off, speaks 3 languages, and is not or ever will be described as lazy getting passed up for hire by a lazy high school grad who got in because he “knows” Spanish. Can he read it? Barely. Write it? Lol, jajaja, no. Speak it? Comprehend it? Maybe if you add a lot more Spanglish and a lot less, actual, y’know…Spanish.

I should write a book. If Stephanie Meyer can write the longest fanfic ever and get paid…maybe my craptastic skills will serve me well…