Firstly, I need to address what happened in Newtown, CT on Friday morning. I won't dwell on it long. I think we're all probably ODing on the news about it. But it can't be ignored.
"The second deadliest school shooting in U.S. history" should not be a phrase in our lexicon. Truthfully there's nothing I can say about it other than that it's events like this that are precisely why I didn't want to have children. I don't know how you explain something like that to a child. I don't know if it's right to bring a child into a world where this kind of thing is becoming more and more commonplace. I don't know how you send your child off into the world knowing that something that horrific can happen. Short of not letting my kid out of the house until it's 18, I don't know what I can do. I feel helpless and awful.
There's some debate in the romper room of stupidity that is the media and social networking sites as to whether it's a question of better access to mental health care or stricter gun control laws. I don't pretend to know anything about anything, but I am going to say that in a country where one can buy a gun without a thorough background check, and where someone with a history of mental illness can purchase a gun as easily as someone without, I'm going to venture a guess that attention to both mental health coverage and gun control laws needs to be paid. I'm speaking as someone with a history of mental illness. Mine is clinical depression and not the kind that would likely lead to me shooting up a public place, but if I went to buy a gun, I would hope that my diagnosis would at least make it more difficult. A diagnosis of depression can hurt a person's chance of gaining custody of their own child, why shouldn't it also hurt a person's chance of owning a gun? Considering that most of these mass shooters have histories of mental health issues, it seems there should be some hurdles in place on the road to purchasing a semi-automatic rifle. And, of course, as a whole, we need better access to health care in this country, including mental health coverage. It's been a struggle my whole adult life to get my mental health care covered. Even with insurance, one of my antidepressants costs more than $150 for a three month supply. That might not seem like a lot to some, but when you're having trouble making rent, or feeding your family, it's suddenly not a sum to sneeze at. If I don't take my meds, I run a high risk of relapse and when I relapse it's not pretty. I'm not talking about having trouble getting out of bed in the morning or feeling "blue". I'm talking about being consumed by thoughts of death and dying. Not remembering a time when I didn't feel like life was worthless. Feeling like dying is my only way out. Almost every insurance carrier I've ever had has had shitty mental health coverage. Anyone suffering from depression will tell you that 20 therapy sessions per year is a joke. I don't know if it's that this country is terrified of depression or just doesn't care, but for some reason, we treat people with mental health issues like pariahs. And then we're shocked when someone mentally unstable behaves unstably. Why don't we give them the care they need before hand?
Okay, that's it. I'm done now. Thank you.
But here we are, halfway through baking time. Here's me on the night of the halfway mark:
Tomorrow we have our 20 week ultrasound. This is the one that makes sure there's nothing terribly wrong with Mrs. Buterman. Hopefully it will confirm that he/she has escaped Downs and whatever that other scary one is (I try not to pay too much attention) and that his/her limbs are all developing normally. I'm doing my best to not worry, even if I spent the first 10 and a half weeks of this whole adventure blissfully unaware of the human being inside me, feeding it liquor and an acne medication that apparently deforms baby rats and bunnies... So keep all digits (normal or deformed) crossed for us.
Otherwise, I have a gross rash on my inner thigh, commonly associated with pregnancy. It's called PUPS or PAPS or something. It's painful and itchy. It's located in such a spot that medicine and Bandaids won't stay on because my thunder thighs rub together when I walk.
I have a vertebrae in my lumbar spine that's been giving me trouble for 15 years. It's gotten so bad at times it's made me immobile for days. I always thought if I decided for some dumb reason to have kids, it would undoubtedly flare up during pregnancy. Lo and behold, I was right. It makes jogging completely off limits, which is totally fine because I've never jogged in my life. Jogging is for assholes. But it also makes walking difficult at times. I need to start doing prenatal yoga, but 1) it's expensive and 2) yoga is for assholes...
I've been battling a bit of depression. My psychiatrist who I've been seeing for nearly ten years now happens to be a fertility expert. He took me off Cymbalta once we found out I was pregnant. I'm still taking Wellbutrin, which is considered the safest antidepressant for pregnant ladies, but I'm starting to feel the absence of the Cymbalta. On top of a general feeling of sadness, my patience has plummeted. Anyone who knows me knows I'm not the world's most patient person to begin with. These days, if someone breathes funny it makes me want to throw myself into traffic. I know this is another argument for yoga, but my reasons for not going still stand.
I'm having heartburn. Which apparently means this thing is going to have hair. Studies have shown that that particular wives tale is true. It has to do with certain hormones or something. I don't know. I'm just hoping it's cute fuzz and not something creepy like a four inch thick, black mane. I don't want my baby looking like Shemp. I don't want people to shriek with terror when they see my kid.
|No offense if this is your kid. But this just don't seem right.|
Kurt has been amazing. If I mention a craving, that food appears in front of me within an hour. He makes sure I'm stocked with Preparation H, anti-itch cream, stretch mark cream and foot rubs. He has always tolerated my overzealous gas expulsion, but nowadays I'm farting with the gusto of 20 high school boys after their public school lunch period. He just laughs, waves a magazine in front of his face and tells me he loves me. He's a good guy.
A friend invited me to a kids Christmas cabaret. I thought about coming up with some kind of excuse, but in the end I opted for the truth. I told him that Christmas music and child performers were two of my least favorite things on the planet. I can tolerate one without the other, but both together is absolutely undoable. So, at least we know I haven't changed that much.
I think my stomach hurts, but honestly, I have no idea where the fucking thing is in my body anymore.
P.S. It was a brilliant idea to name each blog entry a song title from a musical. Especially considering I know close to zero musicals...