The 1%

Nothing so annoying as listening to people half my age planning a Dream House with the architects in our local coffee hangout…

I suppose we could build “our dream house”… but it seems like if we’ve lived without one for 35 years… we probably don’t need one at this point.

A garage and a sewing room would be handy. Alas.

At least ours is (finally!) paid for.

I doubt their marriage will outlast their mortgage.

Bitter, aren’t I?


Hallmark, You Have Failed Me

Alas, you seem to have no cards that can properly express, “Happy Birthday, You Ungrateful Bitch”.

It’s gonna be a loooong day. Oh, well. All in all, I guess I did the best I could. Perfectionism rears it’s ugly head in parenting, too. 

What if I’d fought just a little harder to express that the medicine they gave me for the pain was making me hallucinate that they had to remove your head to get you out of me? 
What if I didn’t cry for hours because the milk from my body was causing your tiny little body to turn yellow with poisonous bilirubin. And later, crying as I diligently pumped that same milk out every 4 hours and threw it down the sink, and gave you a bottle full of foul smelling soy crap… to give you a break for a few days. 

And later, as depression settled in, what if I found the words to break through to them that I needed Help, not their words, “C-section is such an easy surgery to recover from.” Or “Aren’t you glad you have a healthy baby?” 

What if you’d had a normal Mommy, not the one who was terrified that you, the most precious thing in the universe, could be harmed or taken away in a moment, because the world always seemed to work that way.

Happy Birthday