Tag Archives: baby

The dread and the light

Sunday again. This day must take on a new meaning for me, a new feeling. I can’t keep waking up with the same sense of dread and melancholy as I have for years, for forever, since before I even knew what Sunday was. I think My Son feels it as well or maybe he just feels my discontentment. We are so ridiculously attached, his mouth an almost permanent fixture upon my breast, his eyes search my face in wonderment without a bit of judgement, my arms wrapped around his warm body, my hair tangled around his tiny fingers. He deserves Sundays free of this stigma of mine. He deserves his own story.

I could write so much more, I am dying to write and write but my Son demands my attention and goddamn he is a powerful commander. I am…..

Leave a comment

Filed under Feels like Sunday, I am a Mother

The slow night

Sleepless nights slowly fade into a waking dream called daytime

I carry my child from room to room, his cries rising and falling like a desperate tide

Cradled in my arms he searches for my breast, for sustenance, comfort

We fall asleep side by side, warm soft skin against my chest

Slow cries give in to calm

Breath steadies and falls into place

Sleep comes slow, lingers briefly and without patience

Is it Monday?

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Feels like Sunday, I am a Mother

Not such a Bad Motherfucker after all

Disclaimer: The following is a rather graphic story of the birth of my Son. If you are frightened by words like placenta then this may not be something you should read. Actually there really isn’t much on this whole blog that you should read. pussy.

I had plans. Of course I did, I am OC fucking D after all. What I failed to plan on was….well, every motherfucking thing. I wasn’t prepared at all. My goddamned know-it-all, I can do anything, Hawkins approach to life really fell through for me on this one. I don’t know what I was thinking, what I was expecting or why I thought I had it all figured out. Twelve hours of intense labor showed me how much of an idiot I actually am. I am truly humbled by the power of my own body, an uncontrollable force of nature which taught me one of the most important lessons of my life, I am not a bad motherfucker after all.

My water broke around 4am on July 24. I immediately got in the shower, washed my hair and shaved what I could. After I finished applying my makeup and blow drying and bouffanting my hair I made sure my bags contained all the necessary items and everything was organized and ready to go. Then I proceeded to do what I had planned on doing for as long as possible, wait. I didn’t want to be one of those women who rush to the hospital at the first trickle of water just to get sent back home or worse yet get pressured into an induction.

Contractions had not yet started so I knew the wait might be awhile. I had no idea that I would spend the next 56 hours waiting. About 12 hours after my water broke and contractions had still not started I began to wonder if my water had actually broken. I may have been convinced that it hadn’t if it weren’t for the somewhat continuous flow of water that leaked from my vagina every time I moved.

I bounced on my exercise ball. I walked laps around the house and the backyard and eventually the neighborhood. I did the few yoga poses I could still manage with my overwhelming girth. I paced and stomped the ground tantrum style and all to no avail. I performed hours of nipple stimulation and even briefly considered clitoral stimulation but decided that was too weird even for me. I ate an entire pineapple and swallowed dozens of Evening Primrose oil capsules. No contractions here. Back pain, yes. Swollen feet, yes. Thunderous thighs rubbing together as I limp and waddle my way around the block, yes.

After 48 hours I was exhausted. I hadn’t gotten much sleep in weeks and the anxiety of not quite knowing if I was in labor or not, should I go to the hospital or not, am I putting my baby in danger or not, had taken its toll on me. Not to mention it’s the middle of Summer and hot as fuck. I am done with this shit, this pregnancy, this slow ass labor, this uncomfortable reality that is about to get really fucking weird and I know it, I feel it coming. An anxiety I had not planned on was creeping in and making itself at home, firmly planted where I thought my calm resolve would be, where my bravery and strength should be.

This wasn’t in my birth plan. What was in my birth plan was plenty of “will not’s”, “do not’s” and “only in case of emergency’s”. I had planned on a natural birth without any drugs, epidural or measures of induction. I had planned on self-hypnosis and breathing to help me through the pain. I expected to ease through each phase with grace and quiet acknowledgement of my body performing a natural act. I planned all of this on my own after reading a few books and some brief research on the internet about childbirth. I wanted to channel the inner tribal woman in me, the primal female surviving on instinct alone.

I had theories and dead set conclusions on the matter of childbirth and what was “right” and what was “wrong”. Epidurals were “wrong”. Why? Because it represented weakness? Yeah, that must have been my reasoning. Drugs administered to ease pain and help restore calmness were “wrong” because once again they represented weakness. And of course because I am after all an addict and obviously any possible interaction between opiates and myself will result in yet another torrid affair of pills and lies. Induction was “wrong” because it would ultimately result in a cesarean section. Episiotomy was “wrong” because it was unnecessary especially since I had been performing perineum massage for weeks to prepare the tissues. An IV being put in my hand in case I needed fluids was “wrong” because it was really there to tempt me into accepting drugs. And above all caesarean section was “wrong” because what does a surgical procedure have to do with having a baby? Women have babies they don’t have operations and babies come out of vaginas not incisions. I left no grey areas, unless the statement “only in case of emergency” is grey but really it’s more transparent than grey, more an admission of “I know I’m not really in control if shit goes south and you are going to do whatever you want anyways so go ahead”.

What was there left to be “right” after so much being boldly proclaimed as “wrong”? Being left alone was “right”. Breathing silently through the worst of the contractions was “right”. Trusting my body to do what it naturally knows how to do was “right”. Staying calm and alert was “right”.

I didn’t follow my fucking rules any more than I have ever followed anyone’s rules. My contractions finally came around 8am on July 26 and by noon they were coming every 5 minutes and getting fairly strong (or what I considered to be strong at the time). Time to go. At the hospital they told me I was 5 cm dilated and fully effaced. Ok, halfway there, I can totally do this. Around this point I get in the bed and I do not get out of the bed until the next day. I had planned on staying pretty mobile and active during labor, pacing the halls and experimenting with positions. I did neither of these activities.

As the hours passed and the pain increased I became aware of one thing and one thing only, I was not prepared for this kind of intensity and fuck it all, I was scared. I couldn’t admit defeat quite yet, at least not out loud. Silently I was begging for the epidural, I was waving white flags and falling to my knees in humble defeat. But on the outside I was breathing through the contractions like a good girl and pretending to relax during the intervals. I was sipping my water and feigning interest in a television program.

Then shit got weird. The contractions got fucking strong, like going through a meat grinder at 60mph strong. I sat upright in the bed propped up in a lobster crawl like position through the worst of it. I felt my body tensing, bending and extending like Reagan in the Exorcist. I even projectile vomited just like the lovely demon child. I was just short of jamming a crucifix into my vagina when the Doctor proclaimed, “Okay, you are at 9cm. We are almost there.”

Transition, the worst was yet to come but it was almost over. I could do this. Maybe? Oh, fuck, no I can’t do this at all because I can’t breathe, I can’t focus and I can’t even remain conscious. Everything goes fuzzy, black and weird. I hear voices that seem very far away. I am hot as shit and keep begging for the air conditioning to be turned up. I am shivering uncontrollably, shaking and trembling. Every muscle in my body seizes with the coming of each contraction.

One hour later the Doctor comes back and proclaims, “still at 9cm”. “FUCK!” I gutturally yell as he removes his hand from my vagina and my hope from my soul. And he leaves.

It is midnight and my screams are disrupting the entire floor. I am a spectacle. Nurses assigned to other patients are peeking in to see what the racket is all about. Apparently natural births aren’t all that common around here. My exhaustion is apparent and I am now unable to even pretend to breathe in an effective manner. I get through each contraction by screaming as loudly as possible and then quickly pass out from the pain only to be brought back to reality by yet another contraction even stronger than the last.

One hour later, still 9cm. I give up. And the baby isn’t happy. His heart rate is low. I am unable to help him, I am too tired and I barely know who I am or why I am even at the hospital at this point. I admit defeat and ask for the epidural. Due to my very clearly written birth plan the Nurse actually does her best to talk me out of it. I convince her I will not regret this decision.

It takes forever for the anesthesiologist to arrive, he’s a busy man. In fact everyone at the hospital seems overworked and exhausted. I had been all too aware these past few months that I was only one of many pregnant women waddling around town. In fact I can’t remember ever having seen quite so many rotund bellies before. I am so desperate for a moment of peace that I don’t care how dark the circles are under the anesthesiologist’s eyes just stick that fucking needle in my spine and make me happy. As I scoot my giant naked ass towards the edge of the bed I begin to have one of the strongest contractions yet. I am instructed not to move, that it is incredibly important that I do not move, in other words, “stop fucking moving bitch, there is a giant ass needle going into your spine”. I sit still through the bowel shuddering contraction comforting myself with the knowledge that relief is now only moments away.

A few minutes later and I am calm, I am still and soon I drift off to a short well needed nap. I awaken to the Doctor telling me that I am still at 9cm but we can go ahead and start pushing. Two deep breaths, push, push. Two deep breaths, push, push. Rest. Although my nether region is comfortably numb I can still feel enough to tell when I am having contractions so I am aware of what my body is doing and I know when to push and when to relax. Two hours of pushing and every muscle in my back, neck and head have congregated into one angry charley horse. Then it happens, the Doctor tells me he has to perform an episiotomy. Oh fucking fuck fuck!! There goes my vagina, done, mutilated for life. I feel the pressure of the incisions welcoming my newly formed vag-ass. This should be a lovely wound to deal with for the next month, a gaping slice in my tenderest of fleshy parts to cushion me every time I sit, lie down, walk or god-for-fucking-bid sneeze. Whatever, this kid needs to get the hell out of my body and if that means cutting me open and turning me inside out while at least half a dozen people stare into my bloody gaping cavities then so be it.

Deep breath, deeper breath, push, push harder…..and I feel a release. He’s out. It’s quiet. Really fucking quiet. The only sound I hear is my own voice asking if he is alright. He is not being placed on my chest as I had expected. My breasts exposed and waiting for the warmth of my son grow cold. They tell me that he is having a hard time breathing. I see his limp body in the bassinet surrounded by nurses, a tiny oxygen mask being placed over his little face. His silence breaks my heart, his bluish skin rips my soul to pieces. Half an hour goes by and still I have not looked into my Sons eyes, he has not felt my skin against his face. The nurses assure me that he is fine and I am at least comforted by the fact that he has not been taken to the NICU. If it were serious he wouldn’t be here in the room with me. At least I have that. I surprise myself with my composure. I am not a hysterical mess, I must be strong for my Son.

Finally, he is placed on my chest just as the last of the placenta is being pushed from my uterus. He stares into my eyes (his vision unhindered due to the fact that I insisted that they not administer the standard erythromycin eye drops which make a baby’s vision blurry for about 12 hours). I know his eyes just as he knows mine. We have known each other for a lifetime, for a hundred lifetimes. In our quiet contemplation I know that nothing will ever be the same again. A human being just came out of my vagina, or should I say my vag-ass. Of course I knew he was in there for the past 10 months, his kicks and squirms were impossible to ignore but I don’t think I had fully realized the enormity of the situation (if you consider 8lbs 15oz enormous). This boy in my arms was mine, my responsibility. His health and well-being depended upon my own health and well-being. Selfishness is no longer an option, my own body hardly belonged to me anymore, a sacrifice of flesh and a surrender of vanity. Well, not a complete surrender of vanity I do still have a full face of make up on and I have recently touched up my lip gloss.

During the next few hours as I hold my Son close to my heart I try to calm down from the delivery. I am shivering uncontrollably, a side effect from the epidural. My body temperature is all over the place, freezing and sweating at the same time. My legs and feet begin to tingle with feeling and I am anxious to use the toilet instead of repeatedly having a catheter inserted into my urethra. What I am not looking forward to is the effects of the epidural vanishing completely and facing head on the pain and discomfort of the episiotomy.

I drift off to sleep around 3am. I dream a soundless, colorless, weightless vision of calm nothing, a sort of surrender to the unknown. I am exploring this non-place with quiet enthusiasm. I don’t know where I am going but I am not afraid and I do not hesitate.

I awaken to the weight of my Son in my arms, a weight that feels right as if my arms have always been empty, waiting to be filled.

5 Comments

Filed under I am a Mother, I am Pregnant, I dreamed..., I remember, Something that happened

It’s tits or shits these days

I sit with a moment, a first it seems. The past few weeks a blur, a waking dream, a challenge like I never could have imagined, a challenge I took on and fucking conquered as only a Mother can. I haven’t slept more than an hour in over 3 weeks yet I haven’t gone a day without makeup. I haven’t sat down to eat a meal in weeks but who the fuck am I kidding, like I have ever wanted to sit and enjoy a meal. Eating the occasional protein bar while changing a diaper suits me just fine. Cleaning my house with one arm hasn’t been too difficult an adjustment nor has breastfeeding while doing paperwork or pumping breast milk while typing this very sentence. My baby sleeps next to me, quietly contemplating his next uproarious complaint. It’s tits or shits, that’s about it these days. Kinda boring actually. I am looking forward to the days of chasing him around the yard, cleaning scraped knees and learning everything there is to know about this gorgeous little man.

I unapologetically would like to state that I will not be sharing any pictures of my kid. Some shit is just too precious to send out into this “world”

P.S. (I will be writing more regularly from now on)

4 Comments

Filed under I am a Mother

Shut your mouth and be patient

I have been feeling a bit more private these days. As the day approaches when this kid will be all out in the open, exposed to the world, I am becoming more hesitant, a little more careful with my words. A calmness has come over me, a quiet still air surrounds me. Preparing, physically and mentally for the arrival.

I keep having dreams about a flat stomach, I reach down and feel my pliable skin, loose and empty. Soon enough….soon enough.

I want to be alone, alone with my thoughts and my emotions. I speak and I instantly want to snatch the words from the air, pull them back and shove them down my throat. Any part of me that gets out in the open is like a little piece of the kid inside getting out as well and he’s just not ready yet. Can anyone ever really be ready to face this world, these people?

My dislike for people ebbs and flows, right now, it’s fucking flowing strong and steady, no ebb in sight. Everything feels like a threat, to my safety and my sanity. Everyone makes me uncomfortable, situations take on a life of their own and I am carried along, arms flailing and skirt swept up in the wind, I am exposed and vulnerable.

Pregnancy feels like a weakness, I imagine motherhood feeling very strong and powerful. Be patient, be calm, just a few more weeks.

6 Comments

Filed under Feels like Sunday, I am Pregnant

Growing our garden

My Dad always said his dream was to live off the fat of the land. Well, look pops!
Our garden is coming in nicely; carrots, melons, brussel sprouts, cucumbers, onions, garlic, spinach, beets, peppers and zucchini! I am planning on making baby food and freezing it so when the kid is ready there will be fresh food for him, grown from our own garden. You can fill up ice-cube trays with the pureed veggies, freeze them and then store the cubes in plastic bags. Pop one out whenever you need one and it’s just the right amount. I plan on losing all this damn weight with fresh vegetables as well. A month-long juice cleanse without spending a fortune on organic vegetables at the store. Now I just need to figure out how to grow fat-free greek yogurt and I will never have to buy groceries again.

 

1 Comment

Filed under I am Pregnant, Memories of Dad, My Home

Tantrum

Did I just have a tantrum? On the kitchen floor, splayed out like a dying cow. My attempt at retrieving a pan from the corner cupboard that mysteriously descends into a fucking abyss beneath my kitchen floor resulted in my stooping, bending, crawling, reaching, laying flat on the floor, arms outstretched, curses flying like a hormonal fire storm and all to no fucking avail. I feel helpless, weak, debilitated and condemned to this awkward cumbersome body forever. My frustration spilled out of me, sweat and tears pouring from my face, my screams reaching into the abyss of lost saucepans and soup spoons. My dogs watched on, confused and unwilling to offer any assistance. I surrender. Fuck that pan, I didn’t want to cook dinner any damn ways.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, wiping tear soaked strands of hair from my face I regain my composure or at least something close to it. At seven and a half months pregnant I am getting very close to my breaking point of uncomfortablity. Two more months, my fucking god. Eight more weeks of wobbling around on aching feet, getting stuck on the couch and having to pathetically ask for help like an invalid and rolling around on the kitchen floor, sweating and cursing myself into a tear-stained mess. Fifty six more days of pissing every ten minutes, regurgitating my own bile every time I lean forward, losing my breath after climbing five or more stairs and avoiding mirrors for fear of spontaneous screams of horror.

Maybe having the occasional tantrum will prepare me for dealing with a little one having a tantrum. I have dealt with tantrum prone children before and I always used the “ignore them and they will eventually shut the fuck up” approach. I have a feeling that this approach won’t work quite as well with my own child. It’s easy to ignore a child that isn’t yours, their kicks and screams a mere annoyance. If I were to witness such an outburst from my own child I would most definitely act in a more caring manner, kind of like the way that I should react to my own personal tantrums. A few weeks ago my therapist told me that I need to “be nicer to myself”. I laughed. She didn’t. I told her, “I guess I can give it a try”.

Does shopping count as “being nice to myself”? If so, then I have succeeded. Actually, it does count because I once again confronted my dreaded nemesis, the dressing room. I made my way through a tangled mess of sundresses and pantsuits at The Burlington Coat Factory. That store should be called One Big Ghetto Ass Mess. But I always find good deals there so I brave the disaster of disorganization. I entered the dressing room with trepidation and an armful of brightly colored maxi dresses. I disrobed and stifled the screams, the curses and the tears. In my underwear and heels I held my head high and slipped on a pink paisley dress of the finest polyester that $14.99 can buy. My round stomach was framed nicely by the whimsical design and my ass although huge appeared to take on an almost acceptable shape. My mandatory hour a day of yoga and pilates have done something after all. Wait! Am I being nice? In a dressing room? What the fuck!? Something is going on here, but instead of questioning it, analyzing it and tearing it apart I decide to get the fuck out before I turn on myself. No need for an eyeliner touch up this time, a first for sure.

From the dressing room to the kitchen floor, small strides and hard falls. I’ll get up, eventually and with a fair amount of huffing and grunting. I will reapply my makeup as many times as I need to. I will close my eyes and pretend that two months have passed, that I am holding my child in my arms rather than lugging him around in my gut. I will be calm. I will also probably throw a few more tantrums before this is over and it’s perfectly fucking alright. It’s also perfectly fucking alright to be a little bit nice to myself every once in a while.

Leave a comment

Filed under I am Pregnant, My Home, Something that happened

Thoughts without words

I still question my own reality constantly but I never question the reality of this life inside me. The opportunities that lie ahead for him are open, empty spaces waiting for his feet to trample, his hands to mold and tarnish. He is his own entity, completely separate from me. I am but a vessel. My wasted used up body somehow created a beautiful living being, already surpassing any of my attributes or accomplishments by fucking light years. How did a body that contains this fucked up brain manage to create another little brain, perfect and pure?

I love this separateness that exists within me, this duality. It has given me strength beyond comparison, strength to live and thrive for the sake of something far beyond my own value or worth. I want to crawl inside his head if only for a moment, to see….everything. Everything that matters is encased inside his tiny little brain. What are thoughts like without words? Without comparisons? Without values? Without judgments? Without censors? Without shame? Is this the only time a person feels completely and utterly safe? Loved? Free? The lucky son of a bitch, he gets 2 more months of that shit.

Leave a comment

Filed under I am Pregnant

The unexpected acceptance

I saw a picture of myself and I didn’t scream and look the other way. The picture was taken shortly before I got pregnant and I was wearing tight jeans and a tiny little cardigan. I was out hiking with my dogs and I didn’t have on my usual heels and my makeup was a little worn through, although I did have a nice healthy flush to my cheeks, a natural blush brought on by physical exertion.

I looked closer and thought the strangest goddamn thing, I thought, “I was fucking thin, I really was.” I have gone through my entire life in a constant state of unease with my own physical appearance. Thoughts of, “I am fat”, “I am hideous”, “I am huge”, “I fucking hate myself”, have gone through my head on a continuous loop, over and over, ever louder and more demanding of my complete attention.

I never once felt content with my body, not one single part of it. I hated my thick thighs, my wrinkled knees and less than feminine calves. My strong shoulders and muscled back from too many years of lifting gallons of milk and bags of coffee beans. My skin, covered in freckles and other such bumps and spots, a mottled mixture of pinks, reds, yellows and even some blues. My stomach that even an hour of pilates a day never achieved anything close to toned or flat. My ass, oh god, my fucking ass, my giant dimpled ass. The more I worked out the bigger it got, more sturdy and shelf like, two distinct cheeks moving independently as I walked like they were trying to get away from each other, two separate entities seeking their own personalities. My small, child like breasts could not have been more out-of-place on my solid 5’9″ frame. I even hated my hands, my short bloated fingers and reddened knuckles.

The fucking battles that have gone on between my body and myself. I tried to starve it to death. It won. I tried to purge myself inside out, until my bowels floated in the toilet bowl along with undigested food speckled with blood. It won. I tried to drown it in vodka and cheap red wine. It won.

And now I am pregnant, a massive exaggeration of a woman, my stomach protruding further and further every day. My breasts now those of a woman, nipples swollen and waiting, anticipating. My hips and thighs growing larger, stronger, carrying both myself and child. My ass has successfully taken on the personalities of both Mother and whore. My arms eagerly await the weight of a baby. My body is no longer something to hate, to destroy. My body has created love, a love I never knew existed. A love I never thought I could deserve. A love I feel with every kick, with every wiggle between my ribs.

After I give birth and return to my “normal” size, I wonder if I can manage to be somewhat accepting of my body, to possibly be able to see the girl in the photograph instead of the girl in the mirror. Because those goddamn mirrors are tricky ass liars and they always will be. Will I still have a little bit of love for myself, for my body? The body that created something so beautifully alive and real? Or will I return to my old ways of self-hatred, name calling, restriction, purging and all the other destructive means I have construed to torture myself? I would like to think that all that shit is behind me or at least most of it; splattered on the wall behind a filthy toilet, scrawled into the door of a rest stop bathroom and spit into the sink like a mouthful of twenty-dollar cum.

1 Comment

Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Ana, Mia and other Bitches, I am Pregnant, Something that happened

Selfish

My greatest desires are for solitude and anonymity. Neither of which are possible especially now that I am bringing a new life into this overwhelmingly intrusive world.

I am a selfish ass bitch, always have been, mostly with my self. I am an only child which automatically gives a person the right to be selfish but I have taken selfishness to an entirely new level. I am not talking about the kind of “no, you can’t have a cookie, they are mine” kind of selfishness but the much more destructive kind that causes a person to withdraw from reality without any consideration for those who still reside in a world where people say “hello”.

I am secretive and sneaky as shit when I need to be. I became an amazing liar, mostly to myself. I faked a life and almost succeeded at death before I realized I was so full of shit that I could barely breathe. Terrible way to die, suffocating on your own stinking shit.

Opening myself up, airing out my rotting cavities, hanging my bloody panties out on the fence, staring into my own asshole just to see what’s in there. Offending my senses, arousing my curiosities, I peered further and found that I am not just a selfish alcoholic on the verge of collapse, that I am flesh and blood, that I am real.

Now that I am pregnant and feeling more “real” than I ever could have imagined, I would hope that I would lose some of my selfish ways and see shit from some entirely new plane of Motherhood consciousness that I should somehow have gained access to. No such luck. I am feeling even more selfish, more reserved and less communicative than ever. But I am remaining positive that the destructive nature of these emotions are being put to good use and with all hopes of a positive outcome for the kid. I am positive because now the basis of my selfishness is founded solely on love. Love and a huge amount of “get the fuck away from my kid or I will kill you” sort of emotions.

Fuck, all I do is contradict myself. In one afternoon I address and mail about 100 invitations to a baby shower that I am halfheartedly committed to and then suddenly and belligerently swear off all human contact simply because I couldn’t fit into my fluorescent Hawaiian gown.

As I resign myself to black stretchy yoga pants I realize what I am really feeling (besides the kids knees pounding into my ribs). I am afraid. Afraid of the moment when the kid is no longer just “mine”. He is going to come out and be a part of the world. He will be held by other people, cuddled by family and friends, stared and cooed at by strangers and licked by my dogs. His toes which once tickled my insides will soon be kissed by lips that are not mine. My selfish ass bitch self is fucking angry about this. I want to scream out, “He is mine motherfuckers, back the fuck off!”

2 Comments

Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Fashionably Unreasonable, I am Pregnant, Something that happened

The attentive fetus and Howard Stern

At six months pregnant the little guy has become familiar with noises like our dogs barking and my constant vacuuming, but he is also familiar with voices he hears often; mine of course, his Father’s and the most important voice of all, that of Howard Stern. I listen to the King all day, every day; as I sit at the computer, as I clean the house and as I commute on the bus, making a spectacle of myself, laughing like a lunatic.

I have been listening to the Howard Stern Show every single day for almost twenty years. Howard, Robin, Fred, Gary, Benjy, Sal, Richard, Beetlejuice, Wendy the retard, Jeff the drunk….they are all a part of my family. I mourned the death of Hank the Dwarf as if he were my own drunken misfit Brother. During the Artie years I felt especially entangled emotionally in the show, addiction spiraling out of control in a disaster of lies and chaos. Artie was one of the funniest motherfuckers ever and I hope with all my heart that he somehow finds some solace in his life.

The show and everyone who has ever been a part of it have all been such an important part of my life, the building of my personality and my sense of humor. I honestly don’t know what I will do with myself when the dreaded day comes when Howard retires. I hope he sticks it out for a few more years so the kid can get a good start in life with the King as his mentor.

I know what people think about Howard, people who have never actually listened to the show for any period of time, people who have opinions simply to have them with no actual foundation on which to base them on. Luckily, I don’t give a fuck about other people’s opinions about Howard Stern, the same way I don’t give a fuck about anyone’s opinion about anything, especially those pertaining to my life.

I wonder if when the kid is born he will look around and think, “Ok, so that’s the loud cackling laughing lady and that’s the big guy with all the stupid voices. Where the fuck is the other guy? The deep voiced neurotic guy who yells at Ba-Ba-Booey and gives such great ass wiping advice?”

Leave a comment

Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, I am Pregnant, Uncategorized