I recently entered a mini-essay contest for Tribe Magazine. I’ve published with them before and had a good experience. My essay wasn’t chosen — I like to think because it was a bit of a stretch for the topic. Anyhow, I was just reading a blog post about the NICU and its lack of windows, and it reminded me of my essay. I figured I’d share it now. Might as well dig out of the election-centric posts slowly but surely (Though there will be more. Oh will there ever be more).
If you are anything like me, you have likely read about a kazillion birth stories since the moment you found out you were pregnant for the first time. I have read everything from accidental unassisted homebirths to hospital horror stories. From beautiful water births to straightforward c-sections. I don’t know that I have ready many details about preterm c-sections.
Halloween is over, which evidently means it’s past time to start talking about Christmas. It’s also still November, which is Prematurity Awareness Month. I decided to combine the two.
When something shitty happens, it is inevitable that someone is going to tell you to be grateful for whatever is less than shitty. I get it, I do. My imaginary memoir is titled, “Well, It Could Have Been Worse….” But sometimes I just want to wallow a little bit in the unfairness of things that are, well, unfuckingfair.
Embarrassing our children — Not just for human kids anymore.
We get Squirt shaved once a year or so, but normally if we are going to get Maya groomed it’s just a bath and brush out. But because I am not capable of caring for the number of living beings in my house, she had gotten matted without me realizing how bad it was in a couple of areas. So this happened. She is so fucking embarrassed.
There are times when the fact that my backyard is a giant downward slope is annoying. When I am offered a free motorized toddler car, but know it would never make it back up the hill. When I want to set up a kiddie pool on flat ground. When trying to build garden boxes. When the garage at the bottom of the yard floods.
When I started writing more publicly late last year, I could not have foreseen just how often I would write about obsessive-compulsive disorder. But at some point in my slight breakdown after Rowan’s premature birth I completely ran out of fucks to give.