It only gets worse.

I started a post back in February, got distracted, saved it with the intent to come back to it, and now I can't be bothered with it. That being said, I do want to get back into blogging, so I figured what better time than when Weston is asleep.

That's how you know I've got something to say - the fact that I'm using the most sacred of times, nap time, to write. Generally, I spend nap time with a coffee and a book, but I've been itching to post for about a week now.

When I initially started this blog, I wrote an entry about unsolicited advice. I didn't realize at the time (how foolish of me) that unsolicited advice only gets worse after you've had a child. It's incessant. It's like that fly that's in your house that you've been trying to kill for a week, but it keeps coming back, landing on your nose while you're drifting off to sleep causing you to unintentionally smack yourself in the face.

Weston is 7.5 mths old. He is happy (or at least I like to think he is), healthy, fed, clothed, and most important of ALL - he is ALIVE. That's right. I've managed to keep another human being alive that relies solely on me to take care of his every need. Two of them actually, if you count my husband. I feel like I must be doing something right. I haven't had CPS knocking on my door. I pick him up when he cries. I give him medicine/take him to the doctor when he is sick. I tell him every day that I love him. I think I've got a handle on the basic idea of motherhood. Sure, there are times when I've nearly pulled out my hair, thinking, "What do you want? What do you need? Why don't I know all the answers?" When I feel that way, that's when I reach out to people and ask for help or advice.

My sister in law is my primary source. Having kids so close together in age, I feel like she and my niece go through everything just ahead of me and Weston. She always reassures me, lets me know her tips and tricks, and is a great sounding board for when I think I'm going to lose my mind.

My cousin is also an amazing source of knowledge. She doesn't have children, but she has 10 years in the medical field with just a few months between her and becoming a nurse practitioner. She knows her shit. She also keeps me level headed when something like Weston having a fever comes up and I'm sure we have the plague but really it's just that he has a cold and I need to cool my jets.

My favourite part of having those two people in my life is that they don't push information on me. They don't assume I want their advice, they don't assume I'm a complete idiot when it comes to being a mother, and they don't assume I need to be advised on how to handle my own child. It's something I appreciate greatly.

Y'know what I don't appreciate? Y'know what makes me rant like a lunatic to my husband (who is so lucky to have me)? Y'know what puts my blood pressure through the roof and makes me (a bit) crazy?

Fucking unsolicited parenting advice.

I do not fucking want it. I don't understand how I can be any more clear on this.

Did I ask you how to take care of my child? No? Oh, okay, you're just going to tell me anyways. That's cool. Have at 'er.

No. It's not cool. It's easily one of the most annoying parts of being a parent. Actually, I could handle the sleepless nights (seriously, my kid is allergic to sleep), the explosive shits, the projectile spit up all a little easier if I didn't have people telling me what I need to do, what I should do, what I am doing wrong.

Not only do I not appreciate unsolicited advice, I don't appreciate when the same advice is pelted at me over and over again. Despite me saying I have already tried what they are advising, or that it's not something I feel comfortable doing with my own child, it's still repeated. I mean, that's the thing - Weston is my child. I will do as I see fit, what I think is best for him.

As a sort of public service announcement, here are a few things that I will/won't be doing with my child, in the event someone feels that they must comment/advise:

1) I don't do, nor am I interested in trying, crying it out. He cries, I console him. He gets up in the middle of the night, I go to him. He reaches for me, I pick him up. It's as simple as that. Oh, you tried crying it out and it was successful for you? Great. That's fucking awesome. Now why don't you and your perfect parenting style go eat a dick. Thanks.

2) I co-sleep. Not all of the time, but when he's been up 3-4 times a night, that's usually what saves both of us from losing our minds. You don't co-sleep? You think that's a bad idea and baby will have attachment issues? Great. If he's still asking me to wipe his ass when he's 20, then I'll start worrying. Until then, he can be as attached to me as he likes.

3) We do baby led weaning. Haven't heard of it? Look it up, and then shut your god damn mouth.

4) I don't have a set date to have him weaned off breastfeeding. It works for us. He is a happy and healthy baby. I am feeding him. Who fucking cares how long we plan on doing it for? Again, if he's trying to breastfeed at 20, then maybe I need to take a closer look at our relationship. Until then, I don't see any sort of Oedipus complex arising in him yet, so I think we are fine.

5) I'm more apt to  listen to Weston's doctor (y'know, the one with a MEDICAL degree), then a "well meaning" person who believes they know best. If Weston's doctor says he is or isn't sick, does or doesn't have an issue with something, I'm going to go with that. Sure, doctors can be wrong, but I think they're wrong a lot less than Dr. Google.

I'm at the point now where I do not care whose feelings I hurt (who are we kidding, I never cared anyways). If you can't keep your opinion to yourself, then I will no longer keep mine to myself. If you tell me how to parent my child, I will tell you to stick your head up your ass (or depending on how little I've slept, it may be something much more profane).

Peace out, bitches.

Priorities

So many things become unimportant once you have a child.

First and foremost, my appearance. I no longer give a damn about what I look like. Hell, who am I kidding? I didn't really before Weston, but now it's getting out of hand. I am (very) happy I am already married, because there isn't a chance in hell I'd be able to attract a man without a few (horse) tranquilizers and a couple of feet of rope. How does it go? It puts the lotion on the skin or else...oh, wait, never mind.

I've had my hair in a ponytail for approximately three months. I wear sweatpants/pajama bottoms/ratty shorts I've had since grade 9 on the regular. I base shirt choices on how easily I can haul out a boob. Funny enough, that's also how I wound up pregnant.

Now, I may look like hell, but I smell good at least. It's mandatory that I shower daily. It's my 20 minutes to scrape poop/spit up/drool off of me. If I don't get to shower, don't talk to me, don't look at me, don't come within a 20 mile radius of my house. I will light you on fire.

Speaking of poop/spit up/drool - I don't care about coming into contact with these at all (assuming they are being expelled from Weston). In fact, I'm surprised if I manage to make it through the day without being covered in one (or all) of these substances. Jordan still has yet to master a lack of concern in this department. I thought he was going to have a heart attack when Weston pooped on him last week. It's just poop. NBD, dude.

Eating is also on the back burner. Weston doesn't really nap anymore, so when I actually get him to nap during the day it's generally on my chest. Therefore, I do not move a muscle or make a peep. I sit on the couch hoping that if my stomach is going to eat away at my fat supply, that it starts with the fat on my ass. So far, no go.

And using the bathroom? If Weston is asleep on me, I would rather piss myself than move him to go to the bathroom. Legit. Luckily, all the kegels are working wonders.

I hope I've painted parenthood as the glamorous lifestyle that it is. And nothing says glamorous like vomit chic.

#momlife

I'm back.

It's been four long months and I bet you missed me. In fact, I'm sure of it.

Today's entry is brought to you by an obscene amount of coffee and a bag of salt & vinegar chips. It's the late night snack of champions...or moms who give literally zero fucks about anything.

In case you missed it, Weston John Richard Gorrill made his world debut on September 2, 2015 at 12:01 PM. Weighing in at a whopping 8 lbs 5 oz, this kid was nine days early. I believe it was because he could already tell how awesome I was going to be as a mother and decided he needed to meet me ASAP. Wise choice, little man. I am quite wonderful if I do say so myself (which I do).

Life has been quite hectic since his arrival, but let me see if I can break it down for you.

First and foremost, labour is as awful as they say it is. I unintentionally had a natural childbirth. I don't recommend it. I advise that you avoid it all costs. You should just sew your vagina shut right now. It would be 100% less painful. I know. I had stitches. In my vagina. Did you read that? I said in my vagina. Stitches.

I had an epidural, but I'm one of those lucky ladies who it didn't work for. That means I felt every contraction and every god awful tear (yes, I said TEAR) as I brought Kreature into the world. I will remind him of this every day of his life.

I didn't poop on the delivery table though. I at least have a tiny shred of my dignity left.

Anyways, I did live through it (though at times I wanted to die), and here I am now. A mother of literally the best looking baby on the planet. Don't even pretend like your kid compares. I mean, have you seen my child's hair? It's luscious. It's gorgeous. He's obviously my child.

Although he is ridiculously good looking, he is a bit of a shit sometimes. I'll give him credit where it's due - he has slept anywhere from 6.5 - 8.5 hours straight at night for the last week, but prior to that it was hell. Up between 2 - 5,000,000 times per night and a minimum of an hour each time. He will only sleep if swaddled, and when we first brought him home the only way I could get any sleep was if I propped myself up on pillows and he slept on my chest. Jordan was convinced I was going to suffocate him, but I am happy to report there were no casualties. We still co-sleep in the early morning and honestly, it keeps my sanity so I'm just gonna keep doing what I'm doing and piss on everyone's opinion about it. Seriously.

Having a child has also made me realize how stupid some (most) people are. The things they say, the things they do...all ridiculously stupid.

"Nap while baby naps."
No. I won't. Because there is still laundry to do, a house to clean, meals to cook, etc. Who are these fucking people who nap while their babies nap. Do you have live in help? Shut up.

"Is he a good baby?"
What does that even mean? He eats, poops, cries, sleeps, and then we repeat it all again. Do you mean good in the sense that he isn't defective? We already talked about this - my child is the best looking baby on the planet. There is nothing "defective" about him. Do you mean good in the sense that he is well behaved? Babies don't know how to behave. They just eat, poop, cry, and sleep. Ask me if he's a good teenager and maybe you'll get a better answer. Shut up in the meantime.

"Do you breastfeed or bottle feed?"
Well, considering the fact that he's currently attached to my boob, I feel like that one answers itself. Why does it matter, though? As long as I'm not feeding him alcohol or dirt, it doesn't. Shut up.

And the things people DO? A stranger tried to stick her finger in Weston's mouth. I wish I was even a tiny bit joking. A FINGER. In his MOUTH. WHAT?! I wish he had teeth. I wish he tried to bite her. I should have bit her. I will bite the next person who attempts this. You have been warned.

To sum it all up, people are ridiculous but I have a beautiful baby. He is perfect, even when he shits in my bed (or vomits, or pees, or all three at the same time). I did good. Minor props to my baby daddy. He did okay.

Only One?

I only want one child.

Yep, you read that right! Only one.

The response this gets me when people ask how many children we plan on having is absurd. Plain fucking absurd.

I've been told the following when people learn I only want one child:

• You're being selfish.
• Oh, I'm being selfish? No, I think it's selfish to push your negative, asinine beliefs on me, and if you're so concerned with my child not having enough playmates, why don't you pop out a few? Not that I'd let me kid hang around with the offspring of such a pretentious asshole.
• You'll change your mind.
• People think Jordan and I changed our mind about having a kid in the first place as I had always said I didn't want any. No, the truth to that is I simply told people we didn't want to have kids so they'd stop fucking asking when we were going to have kids. It's like the second you have a ring on your finger, you serve no greater purpose than to procreate. Okay. 
• However, this is not something I am making up to shut people up. It's a simple concept. A simple statement. A simple idea. Say it with me: "I am only having one child". There, doesn't that feel better?
• Your child needs siblings.
• My child will need a lot of things, but a sibling (or two) is not one of them. He'll need to eat, he'll need to sleep, he'll need love, encouragement and support from his family and friends. He does not, however, need a sibling. 
• He'll be lonely.
• Listen, I have enough personality (however annoying) for about 50 people. If anything, I think my child will have a constant need to be by himself if he has to spend any great amount of time with me. Which he will, as I am awesome. Also, there's this weird thing called friends. I'm sure he'll make some in daycare, and then in school, and then at his first job, etc. I might even let them come to our house. Imagine that. 

In a nutshell, Jordan and I (y'know, the ones who have to raise and support this child) are completely comfortable with the idea of having one child. And as it's our choice, you don't have to agree with it, but you can keep your opinions to yourself. What a novel idea, huh?

Preparation

I've started prenatal classes. Three down so far.

These classes have made me realize the following:

1) I don't want to push a baby out of anywhere, least of all there.
2) I don't like to watch other women push babies out.
3) I hate people. Okay, to be fair, I realized that a long time ago.

I made Jordan come with me for the first class. I'm sure you can all guess how that went down. First and foremost, he was not allowed to speak. He's very good at embarrassing me. I didn't even let him introduce himself. When the public health nurse asked if he had anything to add to our introduction I gave, I promptly answered, "No". End of story.

After we left the class, his first words were, "I don't know why the fuck I had to go to that."

Ah, ever the supportive partner.

Anyways, the second prenatal class just confirmed that I eat like shit which explains why the cellulite I have on my ass and thighs is now known as celluheavy.

The third class was where we learned about things like dilation, effacing, and general horror. It's where I realized watching someone else give birth is probably about as awful as giving birth yourself, and also where my hatred of people in general really shone through.

"We're going to watch a video of a woman giving birth," says the RN. Oh, great. I almost wish  Jordan was with me - it would have been fun to watch him faint. He's prone to that.

"You can turn your head if you want."

Uh, it's like a car accident. You can't turn away once it starts even though the whole time you're watching you wish someone would pull your eyes out of your head. Forever ingrained in my brain. For eternity. Bless all those OB/GYNs out there who do this shit for a living. I feel like a lot of therapy is involved.

There was a woman in the class who was the support person for another preggo. Claims she is a doula. I say she is a know-it-all, annoying-as-hell, interrupting mouth piece.

I go to these prenatal classes to somewhat prepare myself for the impending doom of birth. I want to listen to the public health nurse who has been a nurse for 20 years. I feel like she knows her shit. If she doesn't, she's been faking it like a pro for all these years and that works for me, too. The doula, though, felt it completely necessary to put her two cents in whenever the nurse would say anything. No, bitch. I didn't come here to listen to your hippy dippy do relaxation methods. I came to hear about the drugs the doctor will give me (GIVE ME ALL OF THEM) when I am screaming in agony while threatening to rip off the very appendage Jordan used to put me in this situation.

So shut up.

Long story short, I'm really hoping for some major scientific and medical breakthroughs in the next 10 weeks that allows for this baby to just magically appear outside of my body. Better yet, make it so that Jordan gives birth.

K thx bye.

If you don't have anything nice to say...

As my father told me, and as I failed to listen (perhaps this is my karma?!), "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."

I've decided a public service announcement is due. As I near the third trimester, my ever burgeoning bump is now at the point where it makes an appearance before I do. That's cool. Baby is approx. two pounds and 15 inches. He is getting big, so obviously I will get bigger with him. 

Despite people's beliefs, I am also quite fucking aware that I am getting bigger. Because of this, I do not need the following said to me:

• You're huge/big/large/ginormous/etc. OR You're going to be huge.
• I am not any of these things, you fucking asshole. Have I gained weight? Yes. A whopping 35 pounds so far. Let's also remember that I'm just barely under 5'10" (thank you, Dad, for the amazing genetics). That means that even though I've gained 35 pounds, I don't look like an oompa loompa. You, however, may leave much to be desired.
• Regarding the comment about the fact that I will be huge - yeah, when I'm 40 weeks pregnant, I don't expect to have the body of Kate Moss. I expect that I will look 40 weeks pregnant. Maybe I will be "huge" at that time, but I have something the size of watermelon in me. What's your excuse?
• Are you sure you aren't carrying twins/triplets/etc?
• Funny story - I got pregnant. Then, I went to the doctor a bunch of times and they did a bunch of ultrasounds over the last 28 weeks. Imagine that! He's only ever found one fucking baby. So yes, I am 137% positive that I'm not have multiples, you fucking twat. 
• You know you're going to be miserable this summer, right?
• Yes. I do. I'm going to be 8 months pregnant in August. I am aware that it will be hot and as a result I will be hot. I know how to count. I know what months of the year I will be pregnant in. I know how I will feel being pregnant during that time because I'm the fucking pregnant one here.
• You're not really eating for two. You only need 'X' amount of extra calories per day.
• I will eat whatever I want, whenever I want. And I don't give a single flying fuck. What I do give a fuck about those is how insensitive some people can be about what I am eating. Is it your body? Is it your baby? Is it your place to make any sort of comment? In case you missed the tone of the rest of this blog entry (which I suspect is entirely possible based on the crass comments coming out of your mouth), the answer is no.

The fact of the matter is that you're not likely to tell a woman who actually is obese that she is huge. You wouldn't comment on her weight. You wouldn't make her feel like a bag of shit.

Therefore, it is not okay to make a pregnant woman (OR ANY HUMAN BEING) feel this way either. 

For the most part, I've accepted these types of comments. I've laughed them off, I've nodded and smiled, or I've ignored them entirely. 

I won't be doing so anymore. 

If anyone feels the need to comment on my weight in the future (or the possible weight of my child based on how I currently look), I will unleash all of my fury on the idiot who does. I won't feel a single bit bad about it either, because hey, along with being a huge pregnant lady I am also a hormonal bitch on a good day. What's your excuse?

Hopes

I took a few weeks off from writing, mostly because the last few weeks have been boring and having three jobs keeps me ridiculously busy.

Kreature has laid off on causing me sickness, back pain, and misery in general for the last few weeks. It almost allows me to forgive him for the 22 weeks prior to that. Almost.

Last month, Jordan and I went to see Jim Jefferies at the Moncton Casino. He spotted me in the front row and razzed me a bit about being pregnant. He also asked what sort of hopes I have for my son. I jokingly responded, "I hope that he doesn't turn out like his father."

All jokes aside (Jordan will be a great dad, I'm sure of it), it got me thinking about what I actually do hope for. That topped with some extra judgmental horseshit I've seen littering my Facebook news feed lately has made me realize the following:

1) I want my son to grow up in a world where he can be who he truly is. Whether he is gay, straight, bisexual, or transgender, I want nothing more than for him to feel comfortable in his own skin and to know that his father and I will always love him (unless of course he's a serial killer...I'm sure I'll still love him, but maaaaaaaaybe I'll keep my distance...and hide the butcher knives).

Just recently I read an article about how a woman believed she had been born into the wrong body and should have been born a man. However, instead of transitioning, she lived her life uncomfortably because obviously God doesn't make mistakes and she is exactly as she should be, regardless of if she feels she should have been born a male. That's fine. That's her choice. But I don't ever want my child to feel like he can't be who he wants to be because of a god he's never seen.

2) This leads me into the fact that we aren't going to baptize/christen/dedicate our child. My grandmother probably just fainted and my grandfather is likely rolling over in his grave. Oy.

Sure, I was baptized Catholic. I went to church every Sunday with my grandfather until he passed away. I went through the whole "confirmation" business in grade 2, and perhaps on some level I like to think that this life isn't it, that there may be a possibility of something beyond; however, I'm not about to bet my life savings on it (as little as that might be).

If Kreature decides that he wishes to partake in religion or in some other spiritual belief, I'll talk with him about it. I'll tell him what I know (which is very little), and let him explore what the world offers in the way of beliefs. I draw the line at trying to sacrifice the dog to Belial, though.

3) I hope that my son knows kindness in this world and can return that kindness as well. I want him to treat people fairly, to know that he shouldn't judge others just because they don't see things the way he does, and above all, to realize that perhaps "agreeing to disagree" is easier than trying to bring someone around to his own belief system.

As I've learned (or perhaps, am still learning), we aren't going to agree on everything. As long as the beliefs of others don't attempt to take away my rights and aren't shared in a hateful way, people can go ahead and believe whatever the hell they want. Same goes for Kreature.

4) I want him to grow up in a world where gender equality is not just something people (women) hope for, but that it's actually in existence. At the very least, I want him to realize that their should be gender equality and if he marries a woman someday, to treat her with the respect she deserves. Hell, if he marries a man, he should respect him too. Respect all.

Sure, I do most of the cooking and cleaning around our house. I wash, fold, and put away the laundry. I make sure things run smoothly. How 1950s of me, right? I do these things because I like the way that I do them. I like the clothes put away a certain way. I love to cook and bake. I enjoy the feeling of coming home to a clean house. That being said, I know Jordan will pitch in if I ask, and he even sometimes surprises me by doing things I don't ask him to do. We both contribute equally financially to the house and we take care of each other. I want the same kind of relationship for my son someday. The kind where we can give each other shit but have each other's back.

In a nutshell, I want Kreature to be raised like I was - by parents who weren't perfect, but who did their best, gave their all, and loved me unconditionally. Which says a lot, because I am a total bitch.