i don’t want to grow up

When I woke up at 3:00 am, and some of the anger had drained from my right temple. I could breathe a little better.

But still, I am furious at my husband. Simply furious. These are the times that I just don’t want to be a grown up. I don’t want to resolve things calmly, rationally, or lovingly. I want to shatter crystal against brick. I want to jet off to somewhere else. And I definitely don’t want to be responsible for a child. This is not something I asked for. This is not something I can handle. These are the times I’m most distressed about Baby. I just can’t do it. Time must stop, rewind. It is the only solution.

Let me tell you, I’m so looking forward to having my body further taken over for the next however-long as I move into my new careers in milk production and solid waste management. So I’m supposed to be calm while nursing (for those unaware, that will happen every two hours for starters, by the way) so as not to transfer any "negative energy" to the baby. Do you mean to tell me that all day, every day sad, angry and hysterical are out? Cause that’s gonna reaaaally limit me.

The whining continues in this paragraph too, so bail now if you need to. I am so tired of walking through my days biting my tongue, smiling at people I’d like to trip and then kick in the ass. I can blog about it, but, no offense, it’s not the same. I endure stupid, rude people who feel they can say anything they want about my pregnancy, my body, and then run me over with tales of their own miserable lives. I listen to my exercise instructor dismiss my contributions to the conversation because "that’s midwife stuff". I watch as the preggo communities I frequent treat me with kid gloves like I might be contagious – Ssh! She’s the one who didn’t plan her baby. She’s the one who talks about post-partum depression. Go on and get your fetal monitors, eye drops for your baby that interfere with initial sight and bonding, your little caps with the hospital emblem on them. Have your family come to help for a month. Round up your gift receipts from Target and cash them in for more pink and blue shit. See if I care.

So, I think I’ve gathered to me a few pieces of the world that I can relate to, rest in, that speak to what I know and don’t require any armor or warrior stance to manipulate around. And then I’m reading this article in the Utne (it also appeared in Orion) written by this guy about the birth of his daughter. It made a couple good points, which were hidden at the end and underdeveloped. For the rest of the time he blathered on in trite metaphors about the awe of it all, beginning with how he knew the night they conceived. Shut the fuck up. And as for the blather itself, I’ve never encountered just absurdly inflated language. Here’s one of my favorite lines: "We have all learned how gestating embryos recapitulate their phylogeny in the womb…" Ah, yes, haven’t we though. I was just cutting my toenails the other day thinking about how gestating embryos recapitulate their phylogeny. What?!?!! He’s like the John Kerry of fatherhood or something. Spare me. Spare me, spare me, spare me. I need hope in the world and I get phylogeny??! And while I’m pissing on the Utne – nice going with the article on "simplicity" and how lots of people are putting up one-room "retreats" in their backyards to sit in and get away. How sweet. How upper middle class charming of you. What a great idea. I’ll escape the insane busyness of my life by forking out $$$ for a room in my "back yard" – which I don’t fucking have, you blindly insensitive hypocritical bastards. Perhaps I can invite you over for some tea cakes and organic decaf in my one-bedroom apartment and we can spend an afternoon writing checks to charities. Bite me.

I’m not an adequate container for my own emotions. I am not ready.