Bras, Bras, BRAS!

It has come to that point in my pregnancy–the point where all the things I love are slowly whittled away and all that I’m left with is over-sized clothing that is both ill-fitting and unflattering. Woo. It all began when my underwear split on me towards the end of last week. I lost a bunch of weight and went down to ‘S’ size in Victoria Secret. Unfortunately, my ass has abruptly decided that it can no longer be contained in the stifling confines of size ‘S’. Fantastic.

Luckily enough, I still have underwear from before my weight gain that had been regulated down to ‘that time of the month’ underwear. As shameful as it is for me to admit my ass (and hips) are rapidly expanding, I’m okay with having a safe alternative that is not the much loathed ‘granny panty.’ The same can not be said for my bras, however.

Since I’ve had boobs, I’ve leaned towards pretty bras. I wore the wrong size forever and after a lot of back pain, finally sized myself properly with a lot of research and assistance. I went from wearing a 36B to a 36D (Victoria’s Secret sized me) and then to a 32DDD. That last size has been my saving grace. My shoulders are now squared and without pain, my back no longer aches from hefting the substantial weight of my boobs (I am not a ‘big girl’, but I am also not a ‘petite’ girl either; I have a long, narrow torso and a lot of hips and boobs), and all was right with the world. Until the pregnancy happened. And my boobs decided to grow.

It all hit about three weeks or so ago. I’d avoided the boob growth and thought, foolishly, that I’d be fine and they wouldn’t expand to the size of anime levels of ridiculousness. I was wrong. Small animals could be lost (and subsequently smothered) in my bosom. My cleavage rivals that of the grand canyon. I am every Japanese businessman’s dream, and it is awful. Because my beautiful, lovely bras can no longer contain the sheer massiveness that are my  mammaries.

The realization that I would eventually need to hand in my laced and decorated bras with sizable price tags for nursing gear was always there. I just had the expectation that the trade-in wouldn’t result in me wanting to murder everyone who ever manufactured a bra for mums-to-be or nursing women. It seems, that in the world of post-natal, the size ’32’ does not exist. Especially not in sizes beyond ‘B.’ Are you freaking serious right now?!

Unless, of course, I want to pay the sizable price tag of $65+. I’m already doing that for my per-existing, pretty bras! Why would I toss that kind of cash at something that’s going to be smothered with milk and unraveled by tiny, prying baby hands?! Clearly, the only women giving birth out there that are also a 32 band size are freaking millionaires. Hell, any woman that is a 32 is pretty much screwed if she wants to pay anything less than $30-40, as most stores like Target and Walmart don’t even carry 32 band sizes. If they do, you’ll find only a meager selection of A’s and B’s. Seriously, seriously?!

We’re going on a hunt soon, but it’s not going to be a fun one. I’m going to attempt to try a 34. I already know how it’s going to end. I’m already resigning myself to the possibility that I’ll spend the latter days of my pregnancy and the beginnings of my days as a mother in ill-fitted, pain-inducing bras. I’m saddened by this. I’m using my boobs for their intended purpose and I’m being punished for it.

I can’t go through boobie muffin top for much longer without things getting just plain awkward at work, so I’m going to be forced to find a solution. Sigh. Trying on bras is the worst.

Well, That’s Nice…

We have a pediatrician and that’s just awesome. Unfortunately, this all comes on the edge of some disheartening news on the family front. My mum was life-flighted (AGAIN) to the hospital last week with the same issues as before; she was hemorrhaging blood from her throat and had an ulcer the size of an apple in her stomach. This time, however, the prognosis is understandably more dire–they’ve given her 3-5 years to live, if that. Her liver is on its last legs (I tried to explain to her before that she has cirrhosis of the liver but she denied, denied, denied) and barely functioning. They had to run a shunt of some kind through her liver to relieve the pressure on the blood vessels in her body, but that introduces toxins in the blood and can cause blood poisoning. They have medications if she reacts badly.

Honestly, my reaction was more anger than anything. Anger at everyone and everything. My grandparents are suddenly rallying, saying all the things we need to do and this and that. I’m just here going, “had you all done what I’d asked and helped me years before, this would have never happened” or “where were you before?” They were too busy putting their head in the sand and now that I’m spent and beyond the point of being able to assist, they’re angry at me for not clustering to their banner. Excuse me?

I’ve tried for years. I’ve done everything humanly possible, including taking time I didn’t have off work, having her call me–night and day, dealing with stress beyond my years, and I lived through the physical and emotional torment of watching my mother not only abuse me but dissolve before my very eyes. Telling me what I should and should not be doing or giving me looks of disapproval are certainly not welcome.

If she decides this is enough to “get better” and stop sticking her head up her ass, then great. Fantastic. Throw a parade. I’m kind of over it, honestly. I’ve given up on my parents being any semblance of that. I’m beyond it, I’m over it. Being pregnant brought me the clarity I needed to cut absolutely everything toxic out of my life. My husband commented that he’s never seen me happier. It’s sad and depressing, in a way, that to achieve that I had to basically just stop talking to me family…

I just cannot get what she said to me the last time we spoke, truly spoke, out of my head: “I’m an adult and I’ll do what I want, when I want.” This came on the cusp of her sending me bizarre texts while I was at my second job and then me phoning her. I knew immediately she was drinking, felt it to my core, but still I hoped. Then I heard her voice and it was all over. I said what I always did and she fired back with the most immature, disgusting display of absolute narcissism and selfishness I’ve ever bore witness to. A diatribe about how it was her life and she could do as she liked–she could drink if she wanted to! In fact, she was done doing what everyone else told her to. She was going to LIVE! Because, yes, living is defined by drowning oneself in a bottle. Sigh.

After that conversation, I was done. I had told her before, warned her of the implications of her repeated actions, of the consequences that awaited her if she chose to continue down this destructive path. In a way, I wanted her to choose, finally… me or alcohol. She chose alcohol and I was done. I haven’t talked to her since my grandfather forced the phone’s receiver into my hands back in May when we last visited. I had warned him not to, that I didn’t want to talk to her. Even my grandmother told him no but he didn’t listen. The last words I said to my mum were psycho bitch. Strangely enough, I’m okay with that.

She was drunk, of course. She couldn’t even sober up to see her pregnant daughter. My husband declared that if she tried to come over, come near me, or began to phone… we were leaving. She did not. The conversation started off with her asking me stupid questions she already knew the answers to, her words slurred and sluggish. I answered tightly and then she went off on another ridiculous diatribe explaining away her actions and I lost it. I told her, finally, the real reason I left… her. And then I called her a psycho bitch, hung up the phone, and tossed it towards my grandfather. The look on his face was priceless. I immediately calmed down and went about talking to my grandma and my husband as if nothing had ever happened. We did not discuss it again during that visit.

I have no interest in communicating with my mother. If she wishes to contact me, she can try. I fought for years to save her, I tried to redeem her, I strove desperately to make people understand, to make them give her a chance, and now I am done. If my husband hates my mother, he is justified in doing so. I’m not going to bother trying to change his mind anymore because honestly, I think I’m right there with him. My mother is gone–she’s been gone for a very long time now. All that’s left is a miserable, half-dead husk.

I’ve never been on to grasp at wraiths.

So, it’s Official

Pregnancy sucks. I feel like I have a tapeworm sapping every ounce of energy I have. All I’ve done for the past two weeks is sleep. I go to work, I come home, I sleep, I wake up to barely eat something, and then I sleep some more. The fatigue is slowly wearing off, but my inability to eat is getting progressively worse. Everything smells awful and tastes worse. It’s horrible. I’ve had two giant ‘breakdowns’ of crying and self-pity because I’m so frustrated that I can’t just eat. I’ve only thrown up once and that was because I accidentally caught a grape stem (which smells hideous and tastes worse to me right now.)

When I went to the doctor a week ago, I was put at 8 weeks. I’m 9 weeks now and I’ve got my 10 week appointment on Thursday after work. I was completely gobsmacked. The nurse kept telling me all of this information and I’m just sitting there, staring at her, five shades whiter than I already am (which is a fucking feat, let me tell you.) I felt so completely overwhelmed and unprepared. I’m feeling a little better now, but it doesn’t seem any more real. I think the heartbeat will be the moment the shit truly hits the fan. I’m hoping it’ll be this Thursday.

Everyone knows now. The husband was telling everyone he could. I understand his excitement, but all I can think of is that we’re not yet out of the clear and anything could happen. I don’t really want to explain a miscarriage to everyone who works in the building with us. Of course, as a man, he has this completely hopeful outlook that “everything will work out and be fine.” Tell that to the alien in my gut trying to kill me from the inside.

My cousin is a week ahead of me and even though she’s experiencing some sickness with this pregnancy (her third), she’s still able to eat all of the things. I am ridiculously jealous. There are no words for just how jealous I am. I’ve lost weight instead of gained it, which is fine… but I can’t work out because I’m too damned tired and I’m always hungry because I can hardly eat anything at all. I’ve got constant nausea and I can’t eat any of the things that assuage it because crackers, pretzels, and all things associated taste like an ashtray.  I’m so ready for this part to be over.

My father-in-law has gone full ‘Tim the Tool-man Taylor’ mode. He is intent to fix ALL OF THE THINGS immediately. He was out in the rain working on our deck the weekend before last. I couldn’t get him to come inside for anything. Next project is staining the deck (they replaced ALL of the rotted railing) and then stripping the painted over wallpaper in the room that will be the baby’s.

Husband has been pulling all the slack. He’s done everything but laundry. He cooks, he cleans, and he takes care of my cranky ass. He deserves a medal. I’d probably just choke him with it. Better not give him a medal just yet.

We’re going to see my family in May and then it’s off to Arizona at the end of May. We rescheduled Key West for July (tentatively) because the baby is due November 6th and we don’t want any traveling at the end of the pregnancy. Sigh.

We’re still having the random realizations that come with this life-changing event. Yesterday, I nearly sobbed because I realized these were our last few months to go to a restaurant baby-free and I can’t even go in restaurants right now because of the smells!

Ugh. This hormone roller coaster sucks, I want off.

Thanksgiving 2013

Thanksgiving was an experience this year. It was the first time I’ve done two complete Thanksgiving dinners in one day! My mother didn’t want to go to my aunt’s house, so she opted to have a small dinner with just us (me, her boyfriend, her, and my husband.) It was pretty nice. My mother cooked and that’s a miracle in and of itself. Of course, we spent the evening with dad and ate with him, his wife, and my grandmother. It was a pretty good day.

The saddest part is that I didn’t get to eat with my grandparents for the first Thanksgiving (spent with my family at least) ever. The part that’s really bad? I had more fun Black Friday shopping with my husband and my mother than any other part of the day! It was my first true experience and it was a blast. The town I’m from is quite small and so it wasn’t as frenetic as where I live now (between two of the biggest cities in this state.) Still, the first store we went to (which opened at 8pm Thanksgiving day) was packed. It was as if every single person from town was there and they probably were. We got some really good deals.

We got home before midnight and then went back out the next day to a mall I haven’t been to in years. It wasn’t as crazy as our mall gets here, but it was still pretty packed. Still, it was a fun experience. I’d definitely do it again if given the opportunity! This was my first year not working Black Friday since I’ve worked in the mall.

Other than that, the visit went well. We all played cards and stayed up entirely too late. I got to see my cousin and her kids (which are growing like weeds!) There was very little drama, which was amazing in and of itself. I didn’t really get a chance to take many pictures, which makes me sad. Especially with what’s happened lately.

My mother relapsed (AGAIN) last week. She was wrongfully accused last week and it’s just been this big drama storm since then. I’ve been avoiding it. I got really angry at first, at her, at her place of work, and mostly just at the world… but now? I just can’t deal with it. I’m seven hours away. I’ve tried giving advice, etc… and it goes ignored. I can’t even believe her boyfriend is supplying her with alcohol. My grandparents don’t know. I want to tell them, but I can’t. They’re old and I really don’t want them even more stressed than they already are.

It’s just a big mess… just in time for Christmas. Fantastic. I don’t even really want to write about it, because why? What’s the point? I told my husband, I just need to accept that I don’t have parents. My mum is an weak alcoholic who would rather run to it at the sign of any adversity and my dad has all but thrown me to the wayside for his new “family.” I can’t even bother thinking about it, really.

At least my in-laws are pretty amazing. They’ve been nothing but helpful during the move.


My mother fell off the wagon again. At first, I wasn’t going to write about it… but then I wanted to chronicle this. I wanted a worded memory to go with this moment.

I spoke to her in the morning and all was fine. When she messed up earlier in the year, she’d been drinking awhile; not the hard stuff she usually had a flavor for, but beer that her boyfriend brought into the house. I won’t even get into how I feel about that whole mess. We spoke in the morning and then my phone died and I went to work at my second job.

It was at my second job that I began to receive bizarre text messages from her. This is exactly what happened before. I felt sick. I wanted to run out of work. I wanted to curl up into a ball. I stared at my phone in disbelief. I texted my husband and let him know. I wanted to pretend it never happened. I wanted to hope that my intuition was wrong, that the sinking pit in my gut was just a trained reaction. I called her as soon as I got off work and I knew.

She was hiccuping. She sounded horrible. For the first minute or so, she tried to pass it off as an illness. I just did what I always do when she lies blatantly, I repeated, firmly, “mum.”

Eventually she broke down and confessed–she’d fallen off the wagon again. And then if that wasn’t enough to make me angry, it was for a stupid reason. The catalyst was because she’d appeared at a camp site my grandparents were supposed to be at, but had decided not to go and she arrived before they could call her. This all happened because she didn’t take her situation seriously. She didn’t go and talk to someone like I had urged her. She didn’t go back on her pills that she so desperately needs. Instead, she listened to her useless ‘doctor’ who prescribed her more Ativan (which she was addicted to coming off her detox two years ago), and simply did nothing else. I was so angry I couldn’t speak to her. I hung up and called my grandparents. I wanted to yell and scream at them for being so oblivious and stupid, but instead, I delivered the bad news and then I left them with it.

Because I’m done. I’m done. I warned her the last time, in person. I had scheduled to visit her on her birthday, in hopes of cheering her up. I suspected she had been drinking, but I didn’t want to believe it. And then the week before, she confirmed it. So I went up, I stared at the broken, weakened remnants of my mother, and I picked her back up… again. She made more promises that she never kept. She shrugged them off–she’s fine, she doesn’t need anything extra.

I’m tired of her not taking her own life seriously. I’m tired of being the one who cleans up all the messes. She spoke to me on the phone like I had to forgive her because she was my mother. She laughed. She acted like it was a joke. She tricked me into talking to her the next day and I could have screamed in rage as she pretended as if nothing had happened. My grandparents did the same thing. I wanted to fucking choke someone.

I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. I told my grandparents, point blank, that whatever she does now, she’s on her own, I won’t be there. I have endured stress beyond my years because of this situation and I’ve suffered my own mental relapses. It took me forever to accept that she was back when she had her year and a half of sobriety. I felt like finally I was going to have a mother… a real parent… but no. I should never have let myself open for that kind of disappointment.

I haven’t spoken to her since. I don’t know if I ever will. She’ll probably be dead in two months, if not sooner, should she keep drinking. She doesn’t seem to get that she physically cannot drink. Her body has lost its ability to process it. Her liver barely functions at all anymore.

Even typing this makes me angry. I didn’t let it ruin my weekend. I continued on with my life. My old life is over, the old me is gone; I won’t go back to that and I won’t let them drag me down with them. I love my parents… but it’s time they take care of themselves. It’s time that someone holds them accountable for their missteps.

I no longer feel sympathy, just disgust with a side of apathy.

There’s so many things I want to say to her, but why bother? She doesn’t care. She doesn’t even care enough to keep herself alive.

I’m done.