Perhaps some perspective, perhaps not

The holidays, growing up, simply meant more drunks and druggies lying around to be stepped over or cleaned up after. It meant Steven and I would give each other that all-too-familiar look when we figured out the nefarious procurement of our holiday gifts. The holidays were never without drama drowned in cheap liquor and rarely happened without fighting, blaming, name calling, and- eventually- that quiet that comes when no one is talking to one another. And even though I could feel Steven's disappointment, my mothers bitterness and all the pains and trials of those passed out all over the house - I cherished that quiet after the storm. I'd shut myself in my room with one of the family pets and hold them hostage for warmth and the feel of a tiny, innocent heartbeat as I played classical music on my stereo and wrote really bad poetry. Spending pen after pen trying to put that burr in my throat and that syrupy sick feeling in my gutt into words. I managed to do it quite a few times, and my need to purge lessened as the years went by and it was the houses of good friends, casual acquaintances and -sometimes when desperate- the 'friends of friends' holiday celebrations that I took part in. I witnessed normalcy, I witnessed good old fashioned family tolerance, I saw how normal people still had their bumps and bruises during this time of year. I always felt they were so lucky that the extent of their worry for the season was that one weird uncle that would show up each year and drink just a little too much and who would tell the same banal story of his frisky youth ad nauseum. How lucky these people were, that they didn't have to worry for a second that their presents under the tree meant they'd have no electricity next week. How lucky were they that each one of them went to bed knowing they were loved. Because going to bed without feeling that a single person loves you is an awful guttural feeling. It causes you to dread its re-commencement at dawn and to love the ignorant state of temporary bliss that sleep brings.
But no one was loved unless my mother felt loved. No point was valid and no words or deeds listened to or appreciated unless hers were considered first. So I grew up thinking that if I want to be happy, I'd better have a damned good reason and I'd better make sure that everyone else was validated before I was. And for a time, I kept up with it. For a time it worked and was really the only way to 'work the system' as it were.
But now, I don't care.
I don't want to jump through Barnum's hoops just to be able to make a point. I can do without assuaging someones ego just so that I get a damned word in edgewise.
Sometimes, feelings are feelings and their mere effect on you is validation enough to be listened to and acknowledged.
But it's not that easy. I wish it was.
I have to be content for the time being knowing that my children feel loved and that I wont have to clean up vomit during the holidays anymore.
Anything more than that and I'm going to have to learn how to act. I don't know how to just 'feel' something and not loathe myself for both having feelings in the first place and for not having any idea how to express them.
I could start writing bad poetry again.... perhaps not.

Round Three

So I'm pregnant again. I could be all PC and crap and say that 'we're' pregnant again - but that would be a false representation of just who is going through the muddy trenches with a very large and angry gun on her back that sometimes jams and hits innocent civilians.

This is very much a planned pregnancy. We want our kids to have plenty of people to count on when Mom and Dad bail when the last one hits 18 and they have to send a wire to some distant village in the Cayman Islands that is delivered by a man chewing straw. We want our kids to have plenty of options for bone marrow, kidney and blood transfusions. And most importantly, I have gone of my Ack medication and am not thinking clearly at all. I was wooed by The Hubbins' persistent powers of persuasion and by his ability to play Ava Maria from his rectum. After 11 years a devilishly laid eyebrow raise and a boob grab is all I get for foreplay. Lest I not get any nookie at all, I best know the signs.

So I was a mean, ravenous sex crazed monster once the IUD was pulled. And like I foretold to my midwife, we got pregnant the first month after the foreign birth control object was yanked.

And then, The Nothing moved in.

The -"I feel gross and achy and nauseated and ugly and swollen and we've done our duty so leave me alone now" - nothing. I went from giving my husband marks he was embarrassed to show at work to not being amused at all by his advances - such as they are.

I complain constantly - about everything. I'm sick of the sound of my own snivelling voice.

Then yesterday The Ow moved in.

When I was pregnant with Sawyer I had terrible arthritis pain in my hips and hands once the Relaxin moved in : that oh-so lovely chemical your body produces to make your joints more loose to facilitate pushing out a baby pig from what's supposed to be a place of joy and excitement. With Riley the relaxin affected the joining of my cartilage and rib bones in my chest causing something called costal chondritus. Translation? OW.

Either way its not fun.

So we're closing on our new home next week, Sawyer started Kindergarten this week, we're having another baby, I have 13 credits I'm taking this semester and we have a new family member:

Her name is Myra and she's a Meyer's Parrot. She's not at all as loud as the other birds we've had, which means there is less of a likelihood that I will stuff her with garlic and roast her.

She's more of a Daddy's girl and prefers men in general - which is the antithesis of the birds we've had before. In general parrots like higher voices - and as I sound the same as I did when I was 12, I've always had good bird juju.

But this one's a little slut for The Hubbins. Whatever. Maybe he'll Dutch Oven the bird instead of me.

More Trade Offs

Why does my sanity have to come at the expense of my sex drive? Why is it that no medications exist that can help control Anxiety Disorder (heretofore referred as The Ack) and yet still leave me as the sex crazed minx that I am? Why, Huh?!! Huh? I am growing tired of trading one for the other.
With the meds, I laugh more. With the meds, I am better prepared to weather two whining toddlers, I am able to get up in the morning and DO THINGS. Stuff gets done, and if it doesn't I don't consider myself a worthless piece of shit and stay awake at night and worry about all the shit that The Ack firmly believes that should have been done. With the meds, I don't obsessively peel at my skin, or pick at my skin, or squeeze at my skin, or look at my skin, or think about my skin. I'm able to laugh off The Husband's incessant chauvinistic remarks and see them for the "I love you because I'm chasing you in the schoolyard" that they are.

Without the meds, I'm jumpy, irritable, and a raging horndog.
Not fun when you have a stressed out and tired husband all the time.
And with nearly 11 years under our belt, I'm discovering that no two people can be in The Mood at the same level at the same time. One may just want to receive special kisses while the other wants some good 'ol monkey sex. One may want a backrub and some sweet lovin, while the other is really interested in watching Dateline. In fact, the only time that Allen and I were ever in the same mood at the same time was when we were in the midst of divorce proceedings.
Funny, that.