I think the worst of Christmas is over for me. Yesterday my shoulder and right arm started cramping up from handwriting notes and addresses onto holiday cards for my friends and family. During lunch, I wrapped all of the FOB's family's gifts and addressed the packages to them. Right after work I sped to the downtown Houston postoffice where I spent 45 minutes in line, dreaming about how I would completely restructure the United States Postal Service if given even a small opportunity.
The first thing I would do would be to follow the trends of EVERY OTHER RETAILER in America around late December and increase the number of staff on the floor during peak times. There were only two cashiers weighing packages and distributing postage. The line was out the door by the time I made it over there. I think I literally started imagining killing someone when one of the cashiers decided to take a break promptly at 5:30pm. I'm sure it really was her breaktime and I'm sure that her union fought long and hard to get her that breaktime and I want her to have it. I just want someone else to come up front while she's gone. That's all I ask. Just more physical bodies looking bored and put-out when I tell them that I also need to buy a book of stamps with my boxes. And maybe some chairs to sit in while we wait. Like the DMV. They have plastic chairs and numbers. Maybe the number system would help the post office and eradicate my strong desire to beat someone over the head with a bubblewrapped envelope everytime I step foot in the building.
This is what Christmas does to me.
Once a year, I try and thank the FOB's family for their gifts to Zac. They send cards and small gifts or money at his birthday and major holidays. The FOB never sends anything and wouldn't even return my phone call when I called to verify HIS address. Nevertheless, I try to support his family's kindness and generosity to my son.
For the past two Christmases, though, it's been difficult for me to muster up enough holiday spirit to send them small gifts and photos of Zac. It almost feels like I'm sending them photos of Zac so they will keep sending us money. Zac isn't for sale and he's not part of the "Sponsor a Child" network (sorry Ms. Struthers). You don't get a picture and update of him for sending me an annualized total of $.80 a day!
See? Bah humbug and all that. As my therapist used to say: "You are being attacked by the 'should syndrome'". I know that I should send photos of Zac to the FOB's family because I want them to stay involved in Zac's life. They don't send money and gifts because they have to: they choose to. I should graciously thank them for that and encourage their generosity by sending a small token of my appreciation. I should keep them informed of Zac's development and not grit my teeth everytime I get a card that says, "I can't wait for you to bring my grandson up to see me again!"
It's unfortunate that moral and social expectations wrapped up in the word "should" don't always reflect how people truly feel. If I was being honest about the holiday season, I would acknowledge that any person, place, or thing that forces me to go to the post office during the month of December should understand why my left eye won't stop twitching until early February.
Showing posts with label FOB Sucks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label FOB Sucks. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
11/28-2
I started today with the feeling that it would be a two-post kind of day (Hi April!) . I just got a call from the FOB. I've managed to not talk to him for two months, although the last time we spoke it involved me swallowing my pride to ask for $200 to help cover insurance co-pays and prescription medication costs. Much to the FOB's credit, he sent the money Western Union and I was able to use what was left to purchase a step stool for Zac to get up onto the couch and some extra sippy cups.
So, he called me today to say that it had been a long time since we had talked (duh!) and he was wondering how "the baby" was. Hmmm...well, the baby is no longer a baby. The baby is a full-fledged toddler with ideas, opinions, and desires of his own. He's starting to walk and - Oh, Happy Thanksgiving, asshole. Guess you could have called on the major holiday instead of waiting until I was at work to call.
I know, I know, I could have called him. I thought about it on Thanksgiving. I even debated it with Mr. Tugboat (who said that I under no circumstances should call him. If a father wants to talk to his son, he should call. Since that agreed with what I was feeling, I listened to him whole-heartedly). Zac isn't really saying enough words to make a phone conversation with him anything other than painful for all adult parties. It's fun to listen to him playing and "talking" to his toys in the background. That's about it.
Ugh, the worst part of the conversation was when I asked the FOB why he continues to call at all. I just don't see a point to it. If I told him that something was the matter, he couldn't do anything to fix it. If I said that Zac was a genius with a remarkable ability to fingerpaint masterpieces with his toes, what good what that information do him? I understand the curiousity factor. This child has half of his genetics and looks more like him than he does me (although his smile that lights up his face - that's all me, sucker). I can understand why someone would want to check in on their off-spring, it just shouldn't be half-assed. Either you are in a child's life or you aren't. To me, that's clear. Calling once a quarter should be reserved for stockbrokers and phone solicitors. Parents need to actually show that they care.
He said that he doesn't call more because I "always do this to him". The "this" being making him feel bad for NOT being involved in Zac's life. Honestly, at this point, I want him to leave us alone. When I was pregnant, I couldn't understand how a man could completely emotionally and financially abandon a child. It's done now. It's over. I had Zac and the State of Texas garnishes his wages. Other than $400/month in child support (which I am thankful for) and the very rare monetary gift to cover medical expenses, I don't want or need to talk to him.
Why would I?
Better question: What will Zac ever have to say to him? Dad, thanks for the money this month. Mom bought me a pair of shoes and cooked dinner six days this week. I really like food.
It will be Zac's choice to make whether or not he communicates with his biological father and I won't stop him from talking to the FOB. I just think that will be difficult for him to have a relationship with a non-entity.
So, he called me today to say that it had been a long time since we had talked (duh!) and he was wondering how "the baby" was. Hmmm...well, the baby is no longer a baby. The baby is a full-fledged toddler with ideas, opinions, and desires of his own. He's starting to walk and - Oh, Happy Thanksgiving, asshole. Guess you could have called on the major holiday instead of waiting until I was at work to call.
I know, I know, I could have called him. I thought about it on Thanksgiving. I even debated it with Mr. Tugboat (who said that I under no circumstances should call him. If a father wants to talk to his son, he should call. Since that agreed with what I was feeling, I listened to him whole-heartedly). Zac isn't really saying enough words to make a phone conversation with him anything other than painful for all adult parties. It's fun to listen to him playing and "talking" to his toys in the background. That's about it.
Ugh, the worst part of the conversation was when I asked the FOB why he continues to call at all. I just don't see a point to it. If I told him that something was the matter, he couldn't do anything to fix it. If I said that Zac was a genius with a remarkable ability to fingerpaint masterpieces with his toes, what good what that information do him? I understand the curiousity factor. This child has half of his genetics and looks more like him than he does me (although his smile that lights up his face - that's all me, sucker). I can understand why someone would want to check in on their off-spring, it just shouldn't be half-assed. Either you are in a child's life or you aren't. To me, that's clear. Calling once a quarter should be reserved for stockbrokers and phone solicitors. Parents need to actually show that they care.
He said that he doesn't call more because I "always do this to him". The "this" being making him feel bad for NOT being involved in Zac's life. Honestly, at this point, I want him to leave us alone. When I was pregnant, I couldn't understand how a man could completely emotionally and financially abandon a child. It's done now. It's over. I had Zac and the State of Texas garnishes his wages. Other than $400/month in child support (which I am thankful for) and the very rare monetary gift to cover medical expenses, I don't want or need to talk to him.
Why would I?
Better question: What will Zac ever have to say to him? Dad, thanks for the money this month. Mom bought me a pair of shoes and cooked dinner six days this week. I really like food.
It will be Zac's choice to make whether or not he communicates with his biological father and I won't stop him from talking to the FOB. I just think that will be difficult for him to have a relationship with a non-entity.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
11/09-2
My day actually did end up getting better. Forced productivity at work probably had something to do with it, although I also credit Aunt Jen for writing about running into the FOB...
Monday, November 14, 2005
11/14
Yeeee-haw! Guess who decided to party Texas style this weekend?
Well, I haven't heard from the FOB since I told him that he needed to earn back my trust before I help him try to move down to my suburbia and be part of Zac's life. He hung up the phone saying that he would call me tomorrow to tell me if he got the janitor job that he was applying for. His idea was that he would work for a couple of weeks, quit the job, and move to Texas. I haven't heard from him since that last phone call. Clearly I'm no longer any immediate use to him.
So, in my last conversation with the FOB I told him that I was starting to date, which is not technically true. In actuality, I'm starting to "think" about dating. Dating and thinking about dating are very different. One of the reasons I write so much about Zac in this blog is: 1) I promised myself that I wouldn't only talk about my child to the exclusion of everything else to my friends and coworkers, but I didn't promise anything regarding writing.....2) It's my blog and I love him and 3) I really have nothing else going on in my life. I can't write about work. My family all reads this blog so I can't write about them and I don't think that they would appreciate reading about how horny I am after a year of celibacy (literally, a year! I haven't had anything more than a chaste hug and a drooling baby on my shoulder since 2004). I could write about my television watching and my views on pop culture and international events, but that would require more thought and possibly mulitple drafts of work. I can only do so much typing with a couple of fingers while pumping my breasts.
But, this weekend I went out the local bar, listened to a good band, drank some beer, and got quite nicely 'chatted up' by an older gentleman. Whether or not I ever here from him again isn't the point. The point is, is for that brief period of time, in a loud, smoky bar, I felt more like a woman than a mother. I can imagine myself being loved and loving someone. I can imagine raising Zac and not feeling the crushing loneliness anymore, with or without a partner.
Well, I haven't heard from the FOB since I told him that he needed to earn back my trust before I help him try to move down to my suburbia and be part of Zac's life. He hung up the phone saying that he would call me tomorrow to tell me if he got the janitor job that he was applying for. His idea was that he would work for a couple of weeks, quit the job, and move to Texas. I haven't heard from him since that last phone call. Clearly I'm no longer any immediate use to him.
So, in my last conversation with the FOB I told him that I was starting to date, which is not technically true. In actuality, I'm starting to "think" about dating. Dating and thinking about dating are very different. One of the reasons I write so much about Zac in this blog is: 1) I promised myself that I wouldn't only talk about my child to the exclusion of everything else to my friends and coworkers, but I didn't promise anything regarding writing.....2) It's my blog and I love him and 3) I really have nothing else going on in my life. I can't write about work. My family all reads this blog so I can't write about them and I don't think that they would appreciate reading about how horny I am after a year of celibacy (literally, a year! I haven't had anything more than a chaste hug and a drooling baby on my shoulder since 2004). I could write about my television watching and my views on pop culture and international events, but that would require more thought and possibly mulitple drafts of work. I can only do so much typing with a couple of fingers while pumping my breasts.
But, this weekend I went out the local bar, listened to a good band, drank some beer, and got quite nicely 'chatted up' by an older gentleman. Whether or not I ever here from him again isn't the point. The point is, is for that brief period of time, in a loud, smoky bar, I felt more like a woman than a mother. I can imagine myself being loved and loving someone. I can imagine raising Zac and not feeling the crushing loneliness anymore, with or without a partner.
Friday, November 11, 2005
11/12
The FOB:
You would think that moving 2,000 miles away from the FOB would be enough to permanently exile him from my life. Unfortunately, this little thing called Zac bridges the gap between my life and the FOB's life. We have this tie between us that is stronger than just two people that used to be intimate. He is not my "ex-boyfriend". He is not just "the asshole that got me pregnant then refused to stop drinking, having loud parties, and smoking pot so I had to leave him, move to Texas, and live with my parents". He is all those things and the "Father of MY Baby" (although the acronym FOMB isn't as nice as FOB)
I realized that it had been over month since I had talked to him at the telephone conference for child support. I made the mistake of calling him, which is something akin to inviting the devil in. He told me how ashamed he is about how he treated me when I was pregnant (read: ignored me and refused to return my phone calls) and how ashamed he is that he isn't a part of Zac's life. He wants to move to Texas. To my little suburb of Houston, to be more specific.
This isn't really a new desire on his part. Every couple of months it will surface and then fade into the background as he finds a new job or a new set of friends to party with. The FOB has lost ANOTHER job in New Hampshire, so he thinks now is a good time to move. You see, I know this because he only talks to me when he needs something: information, money, or access to Zac. He asks the obligatory questions about my life, but I can tell that he doesn't care about me, even as a friend or as the mother of his child.
I've been struggling with this realization for the past three days and how much it hurts. He said, "Don't get the wrong idea, here. I wouldn't be moving for you. I would be moving because seeing Zac everyday, even for an hour, would make me happy." Is that what a father does? Sees their child for an hour to make themselves happy? Did I miss something in birthing class that said it was ok to use a child to make an adult feel worthwhile or amused or less of a deadbeat. He's not interested in helping me parent Zac, or even helping me with all of the jobs and responsibilities of raising a child.
Last night I remembered what it was like the first couple of months down here. How I cried almost everyday because I felt so sorry for myself. I couldn't see beyond my pregnancy, fear, and his abadonment of any idea of "family" or responsbility. I'm finally enjoying my life with my son and my new job - and now he wants to be a part of it? Because HE'S ready?
Do I have to forgive him for that?
You would think that moving 2,000 miles away from the FOB would be enough to permanently exile him from my life. Unfortunately, this little thing called Zac bridges the gap between my life and the FOB's life. We have this tie between us that is stronger than just two people that used to be intimate. He is not my "ex-boyfriend". He is not just "the asshole that got me pregnant then refused to stop drinking, having loud parties, and smoking pot so I had to leave him, move to Texas, and live with my parents". He is all those things and the "Father of MY Baby" (although the acronym FOMB isn't as nice as FOB)
I realized that it had been over month since I had talked to him at the telephone conference for child support. I made the mistake of calling him, which is something akin to inviting the devil in. He told me how ashamed he is about how he treated me when I was pregnant (read: ignored me and refused to return my phone calls) and how ashamed he is that he isn't a part of Zac's life. He wants to move to Texas. To my little suburb of Houston, to be more specific.
This isn't really a new desire on his part. Every couple of months it will surface and then fade into the background as he finds a new job or a new set of friends to party with. The FOB has lost ANOTHER job in New Hampshire, so he thinks now is a good time to move. You see, I know this because he only talks to me when he needs something: information, money, or access to Zac. He asks the obligatory questions about my life, but I can tell that he doesn't care about me, even as a friend or as the mother of his child.
I've been struggling with this realization for the past three days and how much it hurts. He said, "Don't get the wrong idea, here. I wouldn't be moving for you. I would be moving because seeing Zac everyday, even for an hour, would make me happy." Is that what a father does? Sees their child for an hour to make themselves happy? Did I miss something in birthing class that said it was ok to use a child to make an adult feel worthwhile or amused or less of a deadbeat. He's not interested in helping me parent Zac, or even helping me with all of the jobs and responsibilities of raising a child.
Last night I remembered what it was like the first couple of months down here. How I cried almost everyday because I felt so sorry for myself. I couldn't see beyond my pregnancy, fear, and his abadonment of any idea of "family" or responsbility. I'm finally enjoying my life with my son and my new job - and now he wants to be a part of it? Because HE'S ready?
Do I have to forgive him for that?
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
10-18
Well, the conference is over and I had a day to think about it. The FOB called me at 7am, my time, just to talk about what we were going to talk about. Does that make any sense? It didn't really make a lot of sense to me, but then I was disappointed that I didn't get to sleep in like I was intending to. He shocked me by asking about Zac and I. Usually when I talk to him he just launches into a "whoas me" pityfest about how he doesn't have any money because the restaurant business is slow this year and because he owes his roommate $1500. I'm not going to make any stupid comments about how I think he has changed because I don't really think that he has. He was just surprised when he got the latest picture of Zac. He said that the baby looks a lot like him (although my son is much, much cuter). Aunt Jen and I have known that for about four months now, but it has taken him longer to figure it out.
As for the conference itself, it was really just more of me sitting in a room listening to the child support officer talk to the FOB on the phone. He couldn't hear me and I couldn't hear him. It was probably better that way because when I was told what he had reported for his annual income, I just about lost it. Restaurant servers, of course, are only taxed on their declared income and the very small hourly wage. You may make $150 a night in tips, but only claim $80 - so you are taxed on $80 + $2.30 an hour. New Hampshire doesn't even have a state income tax. Now in the state of Texas, child support is 20% of your net income, which means after tax. Leigh stated a very low gross income, and then the child support officer deducted for federal taxes, which made it even lower. Using this formula, his total child support payments came out to $230 a month (Did I mention that daycare for an infant costs between $540-$760 a month?) Since he is already four months late, I was awarded $960 of back child support, which the FOB can pay off at $50 at a time with each monthly payment at a 6% interest rate.
The only thing that kept me from defecating and throwing my feces at the phone in an act of aggression and frustration was that : 1) That wouldn't have done any good and 2) He has to pay for health care for Zac out of my health care premium, which is $160 a month. Total payment to the state of Texas each month = $440.
That doesn't seem like a lot of money to me and I'm sharing this with the internet community because I think that there are a lot of misconceptions about child support. I've heard a lot of men complain about their child support payments and how they are being "bled dry" by their ex-wives/ex-girlfriends/ex-something-or-other they had sex with and how the "system" is set up against them. But, if you imagine that you had almost $1000 in credit card debt, your minimum payment would be closer to $75 a month at a 19-22% interest rate, so really, deadbeat Dads are getting a good deal here at the expense of their children.
Honestly, I could complain more, but $440 a month would be a huge weight off my shoulders. Zac and I could start saving for a house and Icould move beyond dealing with this asshole and onto building a life for my family.
___________________________________________________________________
P.S. - Sio! Please e-mail me. I realized on my way home from work that I hadn't e-mailed you back and I don't have your phone number. Sorry! I'm looking forward to seeing you if we can make it work.
___________________________________________________________________
As for the conference itself, it was really just more of me sitting in a room listening to the child support officer talk to the FOB on the phone. He couldn't hear me and I couldn't hear him. It was probably better that way because when I was told what he had reported for his annual income, I just about lost it. Restaurant servers, of course, are only taxed on their declared income and the very small hourly wage. You may make $150 a night in tips, but only claim $80 - so you are taxed on $80 + $2.30 an hour. New Hampshire doesn't even have a state income tax. Now in the state of Texas, child support is 20% of your net income, which means after tax. Leigh stated a very low gross income, and then the child support officer deducted for federal taxes, which made it even lower. Using this formula, his total child support payments came out to $230 a month (Did I mention that daycare for an infant costs between $540-$760 a month?) Since he is already four months late, I was awarded $960 of back child support, which the FOB can pay off at $50 at a time with each monthly payment at a 6% interest rate.
The only thing that kept me from defecating and throwing my feces at the phone in an act of aggression and frustration was that : 1) That wouldn't have done any good and 2) He has to pay for health care for Zac out of my health care premium, which is $160 a month. Total payment to the state of Texas each month = $440.
That doesn't seem like a lot of money to me and I'm sharing this with the internet community because I think that there are a lot of misconceptions about child support. I've heard a lot of men complain about their child support payments and how they are being "bled dry" by their ex-wives/ex-girlfriends/ex-something-or-other they had sex with and how the "system" is set up against them. But, if you imagine that you had almost $1000 in credit card debt, your minimum payment would be closer to $75 a month at a 19-22% interest rate, so really, deadbeat Dads are getting a good deal here at the expense of their children.
Honestly, I could complain more, but $440 a month would be a huge weight off my shoulders. Zac and I could start saving for a house and Icould move beyond dealing with this asshole and onto building a life for my family.
___________________________________________________________________
P.S. - Sio! Please e-mail me. I realized on my way home from work that I hadn't e-mailed you back and I don't have your phone number. Sorry! I'm looking forward to seeing you if we can make it work.
___________________________________________________________________
Sunday, October 16, 2005
10-16
So, Zac is asleep and I'm waiting for my sheets to get out of the dryer, perfect time to blog if I didn't have such conflicted emotions right now. I very purposefully haven't written much about the FOB since Zac's birth because there hasn't been anything to tell. He doesn't care. End of story.
I've talked to the FOB maybe a half a dozen times since the birth of his son because most of the time his roommates screen his calls so I automatically go to voicemail. Cute, huh? The father of my baby won't take my calls...even when I'm calling to tell him things like, "I have a temperature of a 103 and I'm going to the emergency room," or "Zac and I are fleeing a Category 4 hurricane".
Tomorrow I have a child support negotiation conference. I'm nervous, angry, and sad - all at once. The FOB has the right to particpate via telephone, but I have to go to the building and show them Zac's social security card and what not. Now the funny thing about this conference is that the FOB might not even pick up the phone. I may have to make the trip for nothing other than to say I was there. Even if he does answer the phone when the Review Officer from the Texas Attorney General's Office calls, what do I really think I'm going to get tomorrow, except legally codified broken promises? Will we really reach an agreement regarding retroactive child support? The parentage of the child? Current child support payments?
What child support payments?
The man that got me pregnant almost exactly a year ago has never given me anything since I found out I was pregnant with his child. Nothing. He wouldn't even stop drinking long enough to watch the U-Haul trailer roll down the driveway as I moved out. He was at a party in Concord that day and he needed to be with his friends because he was "so upset" about me "taking the baby". Fuck that. Getting wasted has always been more important to him than taking care of me or his child.
Even if I get awarded $5,000, $1,000, $500, or even just $100 worth of retroactive child support, I might as well get a swift kick in the ass because you can't take words to the bank. Would I sound too negative if I say that he will never pay? Well, I guess I am negative then. But I know that you can't diaper a baby with a promise. You can't feed a baby guilt and regret and you can't encourage a baby to burp up responsibility.
The worst, absolute worst thing about this all.....is that I find myself missing him sometimes. I missed the way he looked and I miss the fact that I can't compare him to my son and see if they have the same nose or same hairline. My anger, pity, and pride can't keep me from caring. Even if it's just a little. Even if it is just for the man that has screwed me over every chance he has gotten.
I should get a swift kick in the ass.
I've talked to the FOB maybe a half a dozen times since the birth of his son because most of the time his roommates screen his calls so I automatically go to voicemail. Cute, huh? The father of my baby won't take my calls...even when I'm calling to tell him things like, "I have a temperature of a 103 and I'm going to the emergency room," or "Zac and I are fleeing a Category 4 hurricane".
Tomorrow I have a child support negotiation conference. I'm nervous, angry, and sad - all at once. The FOB has the right to particpate via telephone, but I have to go to the building and show them Zac's social security card and what not. Now the funny thing about this conference is that the FOB might not even pick up the phone. I may have to make the trip for nothing other than to say I was there. Even if he does answer the phone when the Review Officer from the Texas Attorney General's Office calls, what do I really think I'm going to get tomorrow, except legally codified broken promises? Will we really reach an agreement regarding retroactive child support? The parentage of the child? Current child support payments?
What child support payments?
The man that got me pregnant almost exactly a year ago has never given me anything since I found out I was pregnant with his child. Nothing. He wouldn't even stop drinking long enough to watch the U-Haul trailer roll down the driveway as I moved out. He was at a party in Concord that day and he needed to be with his friends because he was "so upset" about me "taking the baby". Fuck that. Getting wasted has always been more important to him than taking care of me or his child.
Even if I get awarded $5,000, $1,000, $500, or even just $100 worth of retroactive child support, I might as well get a swift kick in the ass because you can't take words to the bank. Would I sound too negative if I say that he will never pay? Well, I guess I am negative then. But I know that you can't diaper a baby with a promise. You can't feed a baby guilt and regret and you can't encourage a baby to burp up responsibility.
The worst, absolute worst thing about this all.....is that I find myself missing him sometimes. I missed the way he looked and I miss the fact that I can't compare him to my son and see if they have the same nose or same hairline. My anger, pity, and pride can't keep me from caring. Even if it's just a little. Even if it is just for the man that has screwed me over every chance he has gotten.
I should get a swift kick in the ass.
Monday, June 20, 2005
6/20
8 pounds 3 ounces.
Let's all say that together, just so we can get the full impact of that number: 8 pounds 3 ounces, at 37 weeks. If the baby gains 1/2 pound per week, he's looking at a solid 10 pounds at delivery. I'm supposed to push out a squirming, 10-pound object out of my vagina while "breathing through" the pain.
That was the thought that was bouncing around my head as the technician kept squirting goo on my torso while muttering, "this baby is everywhere." Yep, he is. His head was right now by my bladder, although I didn't need an ultrasound to tell me that, and his legs were curled up right under my ribs. Cozy. My favorite part of the ultrasound was when the technician focused on his face, all squished up against the uterine wall. His mouth was opening and closing and I could almost hear him say, "Help me, Mom! I don't want to be in here anymore." If I could reach into my vagina, through my cervix, and single-handedly pull him out, I would do it. In fact, I think one of the reason the female body is made the way that it is is to discourage this exact behavior.
Looking back over my recent blog entries, I noticed that I've written very little about the FOB lately. I called him today with the results of the ultrasound and he told me his new and revised "plan". This plan involves me calling him during the early stages of labor so he can jump on a plane and fly from NH to TX to see his son being born. After I got through laughing at his "plan" I told him not to bother since he wasn't going to be in the birthing room anyways. The best part of the plan was when I realized that the baby isn't going to know if he sees Daddy (a.k.a. Mr. Sperm Donor) for the first time at 1 hour or 1 week old. There is beauty in that kind of ignorance.
On the upside, Mr. Sperm Donor finally found a job after two months of unemployment and is in the training stage of employment. Maybe there is hope of child support on the horizon. Maybe my Doc will choose to induce me at 8 1/2 pounds of baby instead of the full 10 and maybe my heart burn will ease up enough for me to stop contemplating a late-night tracheotomy. Maybe.
Let's all say that together, just so we can get the full impact of that number: 8 pounds 3 ounces, at 37 weeks. If the baby gains 1/2 pound per week, he's looking at a solid 10 pounds at delivery. I'm supposed to push out a squirming, 10-pound object out of my vagina while "breathing through" the pain.
That was the thought that was bouncing around my head as the technician kept squirting goo on my torso while muttering, "this baby is everywhere." Yep, he is. His head was right now by my bladder, although I didn't need an ultrasound to tell me that, and his legs were curled up right under my ribs. Cozy. My favorite part of the ultrasound was when the technician focused on his face, all squished up against the uterine wall. His mouth was opening and closing and I could almost hear him say, "Help me, Mom! I don't want to be in here anymore." If I could reach into my vagina, through my cervix, and single-handedly pull him out, I would do it. In fact, I think one of the reason the female body is made the way that it is is to discourage this exact behavior.
Looking back over my recent blog entries, I noticed that I've written very little about the FOB lately. I called him today with the results of the ultrasound and he told me his new and revised "plan". This plan involves me calling him during the early stages of labor so he can jump on a plane and fly from NH to TX to see his son being born. After I got through laughing at his "plan" I told him not to bother since he wasn't going to be in the birthing room anyways. The best part of the plan was when I realized that the baby isn't going to know if he sees Daddy (a.k.a. Mr. Sperm Donor) for the first time at 1 hour or 1 week old. There is beauty in that kind of ignorance.
On the upside, Mr. Sperm Donor finally found a job after two months of unemployment and is in the training stage of employment. Maybe there is hope of child support on the horizon. Maybe my Doc will choose to induce me at 8 1/2 pounds of baby instead of the full 10 and maybe my heart burn will ease up enough for me to stop contemplating a late-night tracheotomy. Maybe.
Friday, May 20, 2005
5/20
Wow, it has been almost a month since my baby shower, and I haven't posted any pictures or blogged about it. My sincere apologies for those of you that were holding your breath waiting for me to post about the event. On the positive side, you can't die by refusing to breathe...you pass out and start breathing again. Interesting fact, no?
So, the group picture that I've posted on the bottom of this post is all of the Smith women at the shower. I'll keep their names annonymous (sorry if I spelled that wrong Pam!), but I must say that they are some of the most amazing women that I've ever been privileged enough to know. These women have been my friends, confidants, and supports for over four years. That may not seem like an extremely long time, but for me, it is everything. My friend V., one of the hosts of the party and looking lovely in this picture, was my only visitor when Peace Corps hospitalized me in D.C. It was easily one of the most challenging times in my life and she just came. She didn't question or judge. She brought me interesting books and a journal to record my thoughts. I just e-mailed M., the other hostess of the party and beautiful New Yorker extraordinaire, and said that clearly I should run all of my relationship choices by her from now on because she has always given me brutally honest advice about love and sex. Even when I still believed that the FOB could be a man that I could respect and love, she knew that while the fantasy was important to my heart, it would never be a reality.
Ahh...and that leads us to the FOB. I invited him to his son's baby shower, but he didn't attend. Actually, he got the dates confused and then didn't attend. Either way, he missed out on having twelve intelligent women and one pissed off Mother-of the-Grandbaby jump on him. One week after the baby shower, he was fired from his restaurant job for insubordination and I don't think that I've ever been angrier at him. How could he yell at his boss about something as stupid as serving five people instead of ten people at a table (it was a ten-person reservation) when he has a son on the way? Doesn't he realize that he has a family? The most surprising thing about him losing his job is how little it has affected me. He never gave me money before and he doesn't now. Thankfully, because I no longer live with him, I don't have to pay his share of the rent or buy his groceries because he's jobless. I'm free. It reminds me of the Destiny's Child's song: "I'm a survivor. I never give up. I'm a survivor. Keep on surviving."
All of you in the blog-o-sphere will also be proud to hear that when the FOB asked me for $20 for cigarettes and soda, I thought about it. I'm not going to lie. It's a small amount and I thought about giving it to him. I even wrote out the check and wrote a mean letter accompanying the money, stamped the envelope and then let the letter sit in my car for five days. I never sent it. I couldn't. And, you know what? It feels good.
So, the group picture that I've posted on the bottom of this post is all of the Smith women at the shower. I'll keep their names annonymous (sorry if I spelled that wrong Pam!), but I must say that they are some of the most amazing women that I've ever been privileged enough to know. These women have been my friends, confidants, and supports for over four years. That may not seem like an extremely long time, but for me, it is everything. My friend V., one of the hosts of the party and looking lovely in this picture, was my only visitor when Peace Corps hospitalized me in D.C. It was easily one of the most challenging times in my life and she just came. She didn't question or judge. She brought me interesting books and a journal to record my thoughts. I just e-mailed M., the other hostess of the party and beautiful New Yorker extraordinaire, and said that clearly I should run all of my relationship choices by her from now on because she has always given me brutally honest advice about love and sex. Even when I still believed that the FOB could be a man that I could respect and love, she knew that while the fantasy was important to my heart, it would never be a reality.
Ahh...and that leads us to the FOB. I invited him to his son's baby shower, but he didn't attend. Actually, he got the dates confused and then didn't attend. Either way, he missed out on having twelve intelligent women and one pissed off Mother-of the-Grandbaby jump on him. One week after the baby shower, he was fired from his restaurant job for insubordination and I don't think that I've ever been angrier at him. How could he yell at his boss about something as stupid as serving five people instead of ten people at a table (it was a ten-person reservation) when he has a son on the way? Doesn't he realize that he has a family? The most surprising thing about him losing his job is how little it has affected me. He never gave me money before and he doesn't now. Thankfully, because I no longer live with him, I don't have to pay his share of the rent or buy his groceries because he's jobless. I'm free. It reminds me of the Destiny's Child's song: "I'm a survivor. I never give up. I'm a survivor. Keep on surviving."
All of you in the blog-o-sphere will also be proud to hear that when the FOB asked me for $20 for cigarettes and soda, I thought about it. I'm not going to lie. It's a small amount and I thought about giving it to him. I even wrote out the check and wrote a mean letter accompanying the money, stamped the envelope and then let the letter sit in my car for five days. I never sent it. I couldn't. And, you know what? It feels good.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
3/23
It is 10:30am, Houston time, and I have not started crying yet, folks. It WILL be a good day. Yesterday just got rougher and rougher after I posted. The FOB and I have hit a new all-time low. He refuses to call me so I call him about once a week, just to see if he's still breathing, going to work, and if his blood alcohol content places him in the "fairly sober" category. He said that I just call him to make sure that he feels like shit- to constantly rub it in his face that he's a bad person. Hmmmm.....anyone have any comments for that? I'm not blameless, however. I turn into this crazy, hormonal, pregnant person when I talk to him that has no relation to the sweet, rational individual that I think I actually (well, occasionally) am. I made the mistake of telling him that I still cared about him and he told me: "there is no way in hell that we are ever getting back together." I started crying. He started yelling at me for crying because, clearly in his mind, I'm just trying to make him feel guilty.
My friends keep telling me to not call him. To tell him to go take a giant leap off of a tall building and raise this child by myself. My brother-in-law recommended that I not claim him as the FOB and get a restraining order against him for harassing me. My father is considering castration and I don't even want to think about what my mother would do if they were in the same room. My sister just went to the restaurant that the FOB works at for dinner, with the before-mentioned B-I-L, and they refused to acknowledge each other. The father of my son and my only sister, refused to even say hello to each other. That's how bad it is. But, I can't cut him out. I just can't. I never thought that I would need him emotionally or that he would be so important to me during this process. I've always been an independent woman, but I didn't create Peanut all by myself and it's hard to claim that I did; that he's "my baby". He's not, folks.
To all of the supportive people in my life, please try and understand that I'm doing the best that I can. I know that you get tired of hearing about Leigh and tired of listening to me cry. One day, I hope to not cry. I hope that I can look at my son and feel proud at how big, strong, loving, and intelligent he is. I hope that the second love of my life (after my cat, Honey) will walk into my life and love Peanut and I as much as all of you do. Please, I know that you mean the best, but I need to go through this incredibly painful part if I can ever accept Leigh as the "father" rather than the "lover" or the "friend".
In baby news, I went to see my favorite OBGYN yesterday for my monthly fifteen minute visit. I peed in a cup, was weighed, had my blood pressure checked, was measured from pubic bone to belly button and pronounced the best heifer at this year's county fair. I'm fattening up nicely, according to the Doc. She told me that at my last ultrasound the baby weighed 12 ounces and was in the 84% for his size and weight. Yup, I've got a monster baby inside me. He's big, he's bad and he knows it. I knew my uterus was hurting for a reason! Ligaments, my ass, this kid is stretching out places that have never been stretched before. I'm going to get another ultrasound tomorrow to check his spine and see what position he's in. If his head is pointing downwards, we're all good. If he's still looking up into my rib cage, well, Houston, we've got a problem.
My friends keep telling me to not call him. To tell him to go take a giant leap off of a tall building and raise this child by myself. My brother-in-law recommended that I not claim him as the FOB and get a restraining order against him for harassing me. My father is considering castration and I don't even want to think about what my mother would do if they were in the same room. My sister just went to the restaurant that the FOB works at for dinner, with the before-mentioned B-I-L, and they refused to acknowledge each other. The father of my son and my only sister, refused to even say hello to each other. That's how bad it is. But, I can't cut him out. I just can't. I never thought that I would need him emotionally or that he would be so important to me during this process. I've always been an independent woman, but I didn't create Peanut all by myself and it's hard to claim that I did; that he's "my baby". He's not, folks.
To all of the supportive people in my life, please try and understand that I'm doing the best that I can. I know that you get tired of hearing about Leigh and tired of listening to me cry. One day, I hope to not cry. I hope that I can look at my son and feel proud at how big, strong, loving, and intelligent he is. I hope that the second love of my life (after my cat, Honey) will walk into my life and love Peanut and I as much as all of you do. Please, I know that you mean the best, but I need to go through this incredibly painful part if I can ever accept Leigh as the "father" rather than the "lover" or the "friend".
In baby news, I went to see my favorite OBGYN yesterday for my monthly fifteen minute visit. I peed in a cup, was weighed, had my blood pressure checked, was measured from pubic bone to belly button and pronounced the best heifer at this year's county fair. I'm fattening up nicely, according to the Doc. She told me that at my last ultrasound the baby weighed 12 ounces and was in the 84% for his size and weight. Yup, I've got a monster baby inside me. He's big, he's bad and he knows it. I knew my uterus was hurting for a reason! Ligaments, my ass, this kid is stretching out places that have never been stretched before. I'm going to get another ultrasound tomorrow to check his spine and see what position he's in. If his head is pointing downwards, we're all good. If he's still looking up into my rib cage, well, Houston, we've got a problem.
Friday, March 18, 2005
3/18-2
I've decided to take the position at the second non-profit (I know anonymity is getting hard to understand here, but bear with me). I signed the paperwork and faxed everything back. I even went on line and "officially" accepted the assignment after they had "officially" accepted me. It's so nice to be wanted. I feel...accepted. Crazy, I know. But you have to think about what my life would be like if I didn't have a job. Being a stay at home mom (SAHM) is one thing, but being a stay at home pregnant woman (SAHPM) = a woman with too much time on her hands. Even women on bed rest have said that they eventually go completely insane and want to kill their husbands/partners. Can you imagine the kind of harassing phone calls that the FOB would get if I didn't work? Or, even worse, can you imagine how much of my day I would spend trying to not call the FOB? It boggles my mind.
I broke down today after reading this woman's baby journal. If you've never known a pregnant woman, or if you aren't pregnant yourself, you might not understand. You might think that I'm crazy and you might be right. I feel guilty because I can't imagine wrapping my imiginary arms around my unborn baby. I feel like the women I read about love their babies more. My baby is still unknown to me. I don't know what he likes me to eat (except that I know pesto makes me want to vomit. This may or may not be baby related), what position he likes me to sleep in, or what music calms him. I sometimes put my hands on my belly, spreading my fingers wide, and shake; just to see what happens. Nothing ever happens. I tried to move my belly to the beat of rap songs, to see if he likes them, but I don't get anything. At 23 weeks, my child is essentially an idea: a physical reality only manifested by my huge belly and swollen breasts.
While sitting in front of my computer screen crying, I called the FOB, but he fortunately had gone to work. It was probably for the best that we didn't talk. He wouldn't have understood.
I broke down today after reading this woman's baby journal. If you've never known a pregnant woman, or if you aren't pregnant yourself, you might not understand. You might think that I'm crazy and you might be right. I feel guilty because I can't imagine wrapping my imiginary arms around my unborn baby. I feel like the women I read about love their babies more. My baby is still unknown to me. I don't know what he likes me to eat (except that I know pesto makes me want to vomit. This may or may not be baby related), what position he likes me to sleep in, or what music calms him. I sometimes put my hands on my belly, spreading my fingers wide, and shake; just to see what happens. Nothing ever happens. I tried to move my belly to the beat of rap songs, to see if he likes them, but I don't get anything. At 23 weeks, my child is essentially an idea: a physical reality only manifested by my huge belly and swollen breasts.
While sitting in front of my computer screen crying, I called the FOB, but he fortunately had gone to work. It was probably for the best that we didn't talk. He wouldn't have understood.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
3/16-2
Man, I thought that I was the first one of the M-13, Peace Corps crew to have a baby. Apparently, I'm behind the times. This is Deb's baby, Marjorie Siemhong Junkoon, and her husband, Pao. She was born on February 19, 2005 at 11:14am, Thailand Time. The baby was born via C-section 9 weeks early and weighed only 3 pounds. Deb, if you are out there. I'm wishing you and little Margee the best right now. Take care of yourself. God bless and enjoy having some sex for me.
Many thanks to Elana, who sent me that e-mail.
So, speaking of sex.....I've got a half-hour to kill before my interview and some folks, namely a certain Fullbright scholar in Kazakstan, would like me to explain "how I got pregnant". OK- here it goes P....I got pregnant, well, as near as we can tell, in Brooklyn, NY at M.'s wedding. I blame a large quantity of champagne, the wonderful sight of my good friends and some really kick ass wedding cake. The FOB and I were staying in Anne's apartment, and for those of you that know Anne, you will know why that is such a twist to the story. The FOB and I couldn't afford a hotel room......yada, yada, yada, the rest is history.
Now the important parts of the story are these: I have been on birth control, off and on, since I was fourteen for menstrual problems. I was on birth control in college, in Mongolia and certainly in New Hampshire. Two things occured simultaneously that fateful night in October. 1) There was a national shortage of my regular birth control brand (as in not even WalMart could get it in) and I had switched to another dosage and brand of the Pill. 2) I had an abscess tooth that was killing me. I went to my dentist and he gave me intense antibiotics for the infection. By the time that I was diagnosed, the infection was starting to go down my throat, into my ears and causing me discomfort in my chest. Neither the doctor nor the pharmacist told me that taking this particular kind of antibiotic could negate the effects of birth control. I don't really blame these folks for not telling me, although it certainly would have been nice. Most likely the information was in that little white, folded piece of paper that you get stapled to your prescription. The warnings about birth control were probably hidden among my increased risk of high blood pressure and stroke.
By the time that I had the root canal, a month later, the doctor looked at what medications I was taking and told me that I should be using another form of birth control to stop unwanted pregnancies. Hmmm....good information. Can anyone guess what had ALREADY happened by that point? Yup. I was pregnant.
About a week after my root canal, I went to my friendly Planned Parenthood location for a yearly checkup. I peed in a cup and thought they were testing for a urinary tract infection. Turns out, while they had the urine, they tested it for everything. I had a UTI and a fetus. I sat there in stunned silence and asked the question that everyone asks upon hearing this news: "Are you sure?". Yes, she was sure. The downside about finding out that you're pregnant in a Planned Parenthood is that my nurse started whipping out brochure after brochure. I could have a medical abortion, a surgical abortion, a third-party adoption, advanced pre-natal care, and, my personal favorite, "Signs that you might be pregnant". Could have used that brochure before. She just kept handing me things and my mind kept numbly repeating, "I'm pregnant. How could I get pregnant? I was on the pill. Is she sure that I'm pregnant?" It was like falling down a deep well....every question led to another question. I left the office with a wad of used Kleenex and no less than eight brochures.
I drove to the FOB's restaurant and found him. He was wondering why I would be crying after going to the doctor (which is never a good sign) and I told him the news. He said that after he heard the words, "I'm pregnant," everything just went blank. He's pretty sure that I kept talking, but all he heard was the rushing roar of blood surging into his head as he tried to comprehend what I had said. That was November 15th. I quit smoking, drinking and taking birth control pills that day. For a while, I had stopped taking the anti-depressants, but my therapist said something like, "For the love of God, woman, go back on them." Well, those weren't her exact words. OK, maybe it was more like, "I think that you have a lot to handle right now and abruptly stopping your medication may not be the best way to cope with everything." So I went back on. Woo-hoo! Meds + Early pregnancy hormones = One chipper mom-to-be.
That's the story. Gotta go and dance for the organ grinder. Dance - monkey - DANCE!
Many thanks to Elana, who sent me that e-mail.So, speaking of sex.....I've got a half-hour to kill before my interview and some folks, namely a certain Fullbright scholar in Kazakstan, would like me to explain "how I got pregnant". OK- here it goes P....I got pregnant, well, as near as we can tell, in Brooklyn, NY at M.'s wedding. I blame a large quantity of champagne, the wonderful sight of my good friends and some really kick ass wedding cake. The FOB and I were staying in Anne's apartment, and for those of you that know Anne, you will know why that is such a twist to the story. The FOB and I couldn't afford a hotel room......yada, yada, yada, the rest is history.
Now the important parts of the story are these: I have been on birth control, off and on, since I was fourteen for menstrual problems. I was on birth control in college, in Mongolia and certainly in New Hampshire. Two things occured simultaneously that fateful night in October. 1) There was a national shortage of my regular birth control brand (as in not even WalMart could get it in) and I had switched to another dosage and brand of the Pill. 2) I had an abscess tooth that was killing me. I went to my dentist and he gave me intense antibiotics for the infection. By the time that I was diagnosed, the infection was starting to go down my throat, into my ears and causing me discomfort in my chest. Neither the doctor nor the pharmacist told me that taking this particular kind of antibiotic could negate the effects of birth control. I don't really blame these folks for not telling me, although it certainly would have been nice. Most likely the information was in that little white, folded piece of paper that you get stapled to your prescription. The warnings about birth control were probably hidden among my increased risk of high blood pressure and stroke.
By the time that I had the root canal, a month later, the doctor looked at what medications I was taking and told me that I should be using another form of birth control to stop unwanted pregnancies. Hmmm....good information. Can anyone guess what had ALREADY happened by that point? Yup. I was pregnant.
About a week after my root canal, I went to my friendly Planned Parenthood location for a yearly checkup. I peed in a cup and thought they were testing for a urinary tract infection. Turns out, while they had the urine, they tested it for everything. I had a UTI and a fetus. I sat there in stunned silence and asked the question that everyone asks upon hearing this news: "Are you sure?". Yes, she was sure. The downside about finding out that you're pregnant in a Planned Parenthood is that my nurse started whipping out brochure after brochure. I could have a medical abortion, a surgical abortion, a third-party adoption, advanced pre-natal care, and, my personal favorite, "Signs that you might be pregnant". Could have used that brochure before. She just kept handing me things and my mind kept numbly repeating, "I'm pregnant. How could I get pregnant? I was on the pill. Is she sure that I'm pregnant?" It was like falling down a deep well....every question led to another question. I left the office with a wad of used Kleenex and no less than eight brochures.
I drove to the FOB's restaurant and found him. He was wondering why I would be crying after going to the doctor (which is never a good sign) and I told him the news. He said that after he heard the words, "I'm pregnant," everything just went blank. He's pretty sure that I kept talking, but all he heard was the rushing roar of blood surging into his head as he tried to comprehend what I had said. That was November 15th. I quit smoking, drinking and taking birth control pills that day. For a while, I had stopped taking the anti-depressants, but my therapist said something like, "For the love of God, woman, go back on them." Well, those weren't her exact words. OK, maybe it was more like, "I think that you have a lot to handle right now and abruptly stopping your medication may not be the best way to cope with everything." So I went back on. Woo-hoo! Meds + Early pregnancy hormones = One chipper mom-to-be.
That's the story. Gotta go and dance for the organ grinder. Dance - monkey - DANCE!
Friday, March 11, 2005
3/11
What time is it? Oh, yeah. You all know the time.....it's CUTE BABY FRIDAY!!!!
Here is Keegan James, born July 1, 2004. Quite a handsome little man with a shirt on his head, if I do say so myself.
This is Molly Rose, born September 24, 2004. She definately wins the award for "best hair of a newborn" in the cutie category.
Abby Brynn's parents did a good job making her look cute in this bath shot, but just to show you how cute she can look all on her own, I've included this shot. She was born on July 28, 2004.
Just so you all don't think that I'm deglecting the March 2005 newborns, check out these cute arrivals to the world:
Samantha Reese, Jacinta Gabrielle, and Isabella Elizabeth
In the land of Daddy's that care, this Dad wrote a heart-breakingly beautiful piece to his unborn son, Ayden Brody, who came on March 2nd:
"I am Brad, I am the daddy of this new life. My excitement level for the birth of my first child is overwhelming. I feel great anticipation for my baby boys life to enter mine. I am proud to be having my baby with a woman that loves children as much as I do. It has been very hard for me to process everything that is going on, but overall, I can only think about this miracle and what I come up with is, no matter what happens, that child has my blood and I am a father. The only thing better than that thought would be if I could go through the whole experience myself (but I dont have a womb). I'm jealous of Jen, she has the connection I can never have. That connection being the pregnancy, and she deserves it. It brings light to her very trying life and my equally trying life. Thats why I feel this is perfect for us. With all that said, I love Jen and that baby sooo much that I would die protecting both of them. Cant wait!See you soon Ayden! I love you."
Does anyone want to guess how much that made me cry? Anyone? Yes, you....in the back row. Yup, I cried my hormonal eyes out when I read this. I want to print out every post that this guy has written and mail it to the FOB. I want to call this man and encourage him to start a support group for "Men With Babies" and somehow force the FOB to go to it. I wish that there were "Daddy surrogates"; men and women that would come and protect single pregnant women on a rotating basis, rub their backs and read the baby stories through Mom's swollen belly.
P.S.- No news on the non-profit front. I have a telephone interview today at 11am with another agency in the non-profit sector and two phone calls to follow up with in the private sector.
Here is Keegan James, born July 1, 2004. Quite a handsome little man with a shirt on his head, if I do say so myself.
This is Molly Rose, born September 24, 2004. She definately wins the award for "best hair of a newborn" in the cutie category.
Abby Brynn's parents did a good job making her look cute in this bath shot, but just to show you how cute she can look all on her own, I've included this shot. She was born on July 28, 2004.
Just so you all don't think that I'm deglecting the March 2005 newborns, check out these cute arrivals to the world:
Samantha Reese, Jacinta Gabrielle, and Isabella Elizabeth
In the land of Daddy's that care, this Dad wrote a heart-breakingly beautiful piece to his unborn son, Ayden Brody, who came on March 2nd:
"I am Brad, I am the daddy of this new life. My excitement level for the birth of my first child is overwhelming. I feel great anticipation for my baby boys life to enter mine. I am proud to be having my baby with a woman that loves children as much as I do. It has been very hard for me to process everything that is going on, but overall, I can only think about this miracle and what I come up with is, no matter what happens, that child has my blood and I am a father. The only thing better than that thought would be if I could go through the whole experience myself (but I dont have a womb). I'm jealous of Jen, she has the connection I can never have. That connection being the pregnancy, and she deserves it. It brings light to her very trying life and my equally trying life. Thats why I feel this is perfect for us. With all that said, I love Jen and that baby sooo much that I would die protecting both of them. Cant wait!See you soon Ayden! I love you."
Does anyone want to guess how much that made me cry? Anyone? Yes, you....in the back row. Yup, I cried my hormonal eyes out when I read this. I want to print out every post that this guy has written and mail it to the FOB. I want to call this man and encourage him to start a support group for "Men With Babies" and somehow force the FOB to go to it. I wish that there were "Daddy surrogates"; men and women that would come and protect single pregnant women on a rotating basis, rub their backs and read the baby stories through Mom's swollen belly.
P.S.- No news on the non-profit front. I have a telephone interview today at 11am with another agency in the non-profit sector and two phone calls to follow up with in the private sector.
Friday, March 04, 2005
3/04-2
I can remember when once upon a time I defended the FOB against people that called him a "drunken-deadbeat-asshole-without-two-cents-to-rub-together-to-know-what-he-will-miss-if-you-and-the-baby-leave". Yeah, once upon a time I used to protest: "Well, he's actually a really nice guy and he makes me laugh." He hasn't made me laugh in a very, very long time. Almost everytime I think about him I burst into tears of anger or sorrow. I just got off the phone with him where he told me that he had five minutes to talk because he needed to get into the shower. Hmmmm....he couldn't postpone that, huh? I tried to wrap up what the lawyer and doctor told me yesterday in under five minutes. This is what the FOB gives me: five minutes.
In those five minutes he once again repeated his lame-ass reasons why he can't be a part of his son's life. In no particular order, those reasons are: his friends, his job, his house (which he is currently renting from me), his family and his dog. His dog ranks higher than his son. When things in NH reached the un-safe barrier, I packed up and hightailed it to TX where I could raise my child in peace without the constant smell of marijuana and Jack Daniels. I didn't want to move to TX. I can easily think of five other cities that I would rather be in than Houston, but I moved because having my Mom and Dad's support was the best thing for me and the baby. Yes, I put the needs of the baby OVER my pathetic desire to have a social life and friends that I can drink Earl Grey tea with. I moved because in my heart I knew that he'd never move for our child. He will never be the father I hoped that he would be because he is not the man that I thought he was. His selfish desires and the ability for him to get "drunk and laid" easily are more important than the child he created.
Well, I am now declaring it open season on deadbeat fathers. If anyone would like to call the FOB and tell him what you think about him, e-mail me or leave a comment in this post and I'll send you his home and work phone number (I'd give you his e-mail address, but he doesn't use the Internet). I'm tired of defending him. He is now dealing with one pissed off pregnant woman.
In those five minutes he once again repeated his lame-ass reasons why he can't be a part of his son's life. In no particular order, those reasons are: his friends, his job, his house (which he is currently renting from me), his family and his dog. His dog ranks higher than his son. When things in NH reached the un-safe barrier, I packed up and hightailed it to TX where I could raise my child in peace without the constant smell of marijuana and Jack Daniels. I didn't want to move to TX. I can easily think of five other cities that I would rather be in than Houston, but I moved because having my Mom and Dad's support was the best thing for me and the baby. Yes, I put the needs of the baby OVER my pathetic desire to have a social life and friends that I can drink Earl Grey tea with. I moved because in my heart I knew that he'd never move for our child. He will never be the father I hoped that he would be because he is not the man that I thought he was. His selfish desires and the ability for him to get "drunk and laid" easily are more important than the child he created.
Well, I am now declaring it open season on deadbeat fathers. If anyone would like to call the FOB and tell him what you think about him, e-mail me or leave a comment in this post and I'll send you his home and work phone number (I'd give you his e-mail address, but he doesn't use the Internet). I'm tired of defending him. He is now dealing with one pissed off pregnant woman.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
2/23
Whoa....you send out a couple of mass e-mails and suddenly you are hearing from everyone!!!! Jeez, I should have tried that approach sooner. Thank you to everyone that wrote me to express your support for the baby and for my blogging. It was very sweet. I was nervous about how people would respond to my foray into on-line writing.
OK, a couple people had questions as to the father-of-the-baby (Here on out labeled as FOB, which convienently rhymes with SOB. Ahhhh, I knew those pregnancy hormones would kick in eventually. Combined with a little bit of bitterness and I'm brutal). For the people that haven't met him, I'll describe him to you. He's name is Leigh, he is 33 years old, works as a server in a restaurant in NH, which is where I met him. When he first approached me he said something ridiculous like, "Do you want to go see a flick sometime?" I wasn't sure if he meant, in general, like, do I ever like to see movies, or if I wanted to see a movie with him. I also wasn't sure if I should date a person that used the word "flick" as part of their colloquial language. But, he had a honest face that won me over and we started dating. To the FOB's credit, he was always supportive of my queer identity and my ex-girlfriends. After all, he did attend M's wedding with me, which was not in short supply of exes.
To the detriment of the baby, the FOB has chosen to not legally acknowledge the baby as his own. Since we weren't married when I got pregnant, paternity can only be proven through legal acknowledgment or a genetic test. By forcing me to wait until the baby is actually born to do a DNA test, he gets out of paying neonatal child support. That is fun loophole, huh? Fortunately, my crash course in family law has forced me to think about the legal protections I enjoy because I had this child with a man. The gay community has none of these protections because in many states, queer families cannot adopt children or a same-sex person cannot adopt the biological child of their partner, let alone getting a court order for child support. As I rant about child support and custody in the coming months, know that I do so with this consciousness of my privilege.
OK, a couple people had questions as to the father-of-the-baby (Here on out labeled as FOB, which convienently rhymes with SOB. Ahhhh, I knew those pregnancy hormones would kick in eventually. Combined with a little bit of bitterness and I'm brutal). For the people that haven't met him, I'll describe him to you. He's name is Leigh, he is 33 years old, works as a server in a restaurant in NH, which is where I met him. When he first approached me he said something ridiculous like, "Do you want to go see a flick sometime?" I wasn't sure if he meant, in general, like, do I ever like to see movies, or if I wanted to see a movie with him. I also wasn't sure if I should date a person that used the word "flick" as part of their colloquial language. But, he had a honest face that won me over and we started dating. To the FOB's credit, he was always supportive of my queer identity and my ex-girlfriends. After all, he did attend M's wedding with me, which was not in short supply of exes.
To the detriment of the baby, the FOB has chosen to not legally acknowledge the baby as his own. Since we weren't married when I got pregnant, paternity can only be proven through legal acknowledgment or a genetic test. By forcing me to wait until the baby is actually born to do a DNA test, he gets out of paying neonatal child support. That is fun loophole, huh? Fortunately, my crash course in family law has forced me to think about the legal protections I enjoy because I had this child with a man. The gay community has none of these protections because in many states, queer families cannot adopt children or a same-sex person cannot adopt the biological child of their partner, let alone getting a court order for child support. As I rant about child support and custody in the coming months, know that I do so with this consciousness of my privilege.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
2/22
When my friend Mandzie first recommended that I blog, she threw out the suggestion, like: "B., you should get a blog and tell all of us what it is like to be pregnant." I laughed it off. I'm the first one of my friends from college to get pregnant and considering that most of friends will need some extra hardware to conceive (I'm told that it is called "Alternative Insemination" NOT "Artificial"), it looks like I might be the only one for a while. After I moved, it started to seem like a good idea to keep people updated as to the baby's progress and my own mental state.
Today has been rough. I've been tormenting myself by looking at baby pictures on babiesonline.com. The pictures of the babies born from Feb1-15th are especially cute. Why I like looking at newborns that have no relation to me at all, is beyond me. Looking at pictures or listening to other pregnant women is the only way I get excited about my own baby. That is the hardest part about being single and pregnant. I have no one to turn to in the middle of the night and say: "I wonder if the baby is going to look like Craig or my cousin Steve?" or, "Honey, I haven't felt it move yet, but I have a strong pain on my right side. Do you think that's normal?"
Tomorrow is my first OB-GYN appointment in Houston and Thursday, 2/24 is the "Big" ultrasound.
Today has been rough. I've been tormenting myself by looking at baby pictures on babiesonline.com. The pictures of the babies born from Feb1-15th are especially cute. Why I like looking at newborns that have no relation to me at all, is beyond me. Looking at pictures or listening to other pregnant women is the only way I get excited about my own baby. That is the hardest part about being single and pregnant. I have no one to turn to in the middle of the night and say: "I wonder if the baby is going to look like Craig or my cousin Steve?" or, "Honey, I haven't felt it move yet, but I have a strong pain on my right side. Do you think that's normal?"
Tomorrow is my first OB-GYN appointment in Houston and Thursday, 2/24 is the "Big" ultrasound.
Monday, February 21, 2005
2/21
Oh thank God that Valentine's Day is over! I'm not being particularly anti-love, but I am against a holiday that makes you feel bad if you don't have anyone to spend it with. I worked on refinishing the baby's dresser/changing table and painting the walls of the nursery. Not the ideal Valentine's Day by far, but at least I felt good about the progress I'm making in the baby's room. Even though I don't have anyone to love right now, the baby will know that I love it. The baby didn't even make me get sick to my stomach when the father called me at 11pm to tell me that he's depressed because he's not dating anyone. Yeah, that went over well with me. I cried myself to sleep, woke up the next morning and decided to stop communicating with him on any sort of personal level. It is just too painful.
So, I'm 19 weeks and some change. I still haven't felt the baby move yet, which is more dissapointing than I can really explain. It feels like I'm getting bigger and bigger for no reason. Intellectually, I know that there is a baby in there, but I would like to start feeling it on an emotional, spiritual level. After taking the advice of some women who have done this sort of thing before, I tried to do beginning yoga with my Mom at the YMCA over the weekend to see if I could get anything going in there. Unfortunately, I ended up laying on the mat in the fetal, resting position most of the time. Prenatal yoga seems the way to go. My Mom liked it, though, which is good. My Dad might even join us soon.
The big ultrasound is this Thursday, February 24th at 4pm. I should know the gender soon!
So, I'm 19 weeks and some change. I still haven't felt the baby move yet, which is more dissapointing than I can really explain. It feels like I'm getting bigger and bigger for no reason. Intellectually, I know that there is a baby in there, but I would like to start feeling it on an emotional, spiritual level. After taking the advice of some women who have done this sort of thing before, I tried to do beginning yoga with my Mom at the YMCA over the weekend to see if I could get anything going in there. Unfortunately, I ended up laying on the mat in the fetal, resting position most of the time. Prenatal yoga seems the way to go. My Mom liked it, though, which is good. My Dad might even join us soon.
The big ultrasound is this Thursday, February 24th at 4pm. I should know the gender soon!
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