PostPartum Reality

Realistically, I expected to be a little overwhelmed by two kids…I’m trying…It all just feels like too much.


Bittersweet Moments

I’m so excited for R to be here, to see him, to see what he looks like, and I am so damn ready to not be pregnant: to bend at the waist, to see my toes, to be able to take an ibuprofen, to have a beer and/or glass of wine. But.



I’m just telling you, as a mom of almost two, who loves my babies more than life itself; no one, and I mean no one gets to tell me what I can or can’t do with my reproductive system. Sorry.

Whoops, got a little heated and a little controversial.



This is my last pregnancy. I’ve known that for most of the pregnancy. My father-in-law is aghast at this, because “You’re so young!” but, for us, it makes sense. 


It’s All Over

It’s all over.

Well, grad school anyhow.

I’m waiting on one grade, then I can really breathe a sigh of relief.

At this, point, I’m somehow both relieved and exhausted. I’ve gone to bed around 8 the past two nights. I can’t make myself do grading.

And as much as I want to say that I’m going to have a relaxing next sixish weeks (until my due date!) We have so much to do: baby clothes washing, cleaning carpets, deep-cleaning the house, packing hospital bags, packing the diaper bag, SO MUCH STUFF!

And…I’m pretty sure I started having contractions yesterday. Which is pretty on-par with my first pregnancy. I started having contractions, dilating, and effacing at 34.5 weeks…soooo. We just started half a week early this time?

Hospital bags are now a priority.

I wish that I could turn the energy that I expended on grad school toward all the other stuff that needs done, but fuck. I just can’t.

I want to sleep for the next….year? And, yes, the irony of saying that with a baby on the way isn’t lost on me. I’m just fucking drained, man.

But…either way. I’m done with grad school. Done. I will never be a college student of any kind again.

It is a relief.

And. Baby Boy 2 will be here before we know it.

My life looks pretty good right now.

Guilt: Particularly Mom Guilt

I want to be the blog that has great suggestions and advice for these overwhelming situations, but today, this morning as I’m writing this at 5:30, I don’t have any wise words, advice, or even inspiring words. 


Self-Love, Or Something Less Trite.

So, first of all. This is kind of about sex, if that kinda thing freaks you out, feel free to exit the browser. No judgement, some people just aren’t cool sharing that aspect of their life. And that’s fine. I had a…rough, but not like, super super rough…start to sex–let’s say emotionally rough. So, I’m pretty casual about it over all.

Anyway. My husband tried to “seduce” me this weekend. Mind you, his idea of seduction was to kiss my neck while grinding his boner against my butt. (Eye roll). I turned him down because, hello? Eight months pregnant, huge, and ick.

When I tried to explain how I felt: huge, that my boobs are leaking, my vag is leaking, like honestly, everything is already leaking, and I feel massive and uncomfortable and so not sexy; he replied that I hadn’t felt sexy or attractive in four years.

Four years.

He’s right.

I wish I could blame pregnancy and babies for the past four years, but truly I can’t. Our oldest will be three in June, so I mean I was pregnant with him four years ago in September, but it started before that.

I’ve never been like super confident about my looks. I had a friend group of four in high school: all three were pretty, athletic, and two were very thin. I always just accepted that I was the big friend, the not as cute friend.

Plus, realistically, no one is overly confident in high school. And everything that I was and am was out in the 2000s when I was in school: curves, curls, glasses. I wore contacts and low cut jeans that didn’t flatter my hips, and if I wore my hair down (super, super rare!) I straightened it to within an inch of its life: shower and straighten at night, get up and straighten it all over again in the morning.

I once dated a boy who told me I should only wear my hair straight or up. He also told me I should tan if I was going to wear the miniskirt I bought. (Sidenote: Not sure why I chose that asshole to lose my virginity to, but…)

I didn’t really date. I messed around. I did friends with benefits. The boys I was involved with never told me I was pretty, beautiful.

Somewhere between my sophomore and junior year of college, for whatever reason, I found some confidence. I was confident when I met my husband. And let me tell you, this guy has never made me feel less than beautiful.

And our sex life was…mind blowing. I mean. We started out in this weird limbo: I had just gotten out of a relationship, just wanted to be friends with benefits, he wanted a relationship. He obviously got his way. But the beginning was…hot and heavy, to say the least.

So I understand where he’s coming from. And the girl he fell for seven years ago was confident and comfortable, and the woman he’s married to now just….isn’t.

But…His mom made some seemingly innocent comments about my weight during my first pregnancy. And my mom will ask how my exercise plan is going.

I joined Weight Watchers and lost 30 pounds, and it wasn’t enough. When I was lost ten pounds my mother-in-law looked at me and said, “You must have lost a ton of weight!” I heard this voice saying I’m gross, which…I have hella stretch marks, some squishy areas, and never hit a “heathly” BMI.

And my current pregnancy? I’m already over 200 pounds, and my clinic notes say, and I quote, “excessive weight gain.”

I don’t want to feel like this forever. I don’t want to hate looking in a mirror, seeing my body, or the idea of letting the man who loves me more than anyone ever has touch me make me recoil. But I don’t know how to fix it either.

Hostage Situation

Today is my third snow day in a row, spent at home with my toddler. Or, as I’ve taken to calling it: Day Three of the Hostage Situation.

In case you were wondering, I’m the hostage.

I also came down with a cold on Tuesday night/Wednesday sooooo, really the ideal way to spend the past three days.

We’ve played, we’ve colored, we’ve watched Coco, The Incredibles 2 (four times?), Hotel Transylvania (also like three times), Boss Baby. We’ve snacked, Lord, how we’ve snacked.

My house looks like a hurricane went through it. Or more accurately, a hurricane containing a bomb went off, because Jesus I can’t find the motivation to clean, and I feel like shit, and I’m miserable, and trying to stay on top of grad school homework too.

I’m frustrated. But I’m also like resigned to it. Yes, my house is a shitshow, this is my life now.

My toddler just scaled the cupboards to find my stash of Cosmic Brownies, so he’s eating one of those now, while I type this trying to talk myself into writing a paper for my Sociology class about my personal mission statement.

Do you think I’ll get full points if my personal mission statement is stay alive?

Midwesterners, parents in similar situations, bless you. I hope you have wine and chocolate to get you through this terrible time.

Or if you’re pregnant like me, carbs and chocolate.



It’s discouraging, and frustrating, and exhausting. I wish I had the answers, I wish there was a quick fix. I wish I knew how to feel better. But. Life isn’t that simple, is it?