The Slow Regard of Silent Things

I just finished this book. I just started it, actually. I flew through it. It's short, and so, so sweet. It's not a regular story for regular people, but it's a perfect story for me. I just finished it and I have so many feelings splashing out of my brain I have to write them down somewhere. Here.

I am not like a regular people. I've never been like a regular people. I mean, in some ways I am. In the major, big ways. But in the little, tricky ways, I am oh so very different.

I'm not broken, like Auri; I wasn't put together properly from the start. But I understand Auri. I could live like her, safe in her routines and seclusion. Her thoughts make a lot of sense to me. I can empathize. Her story is sweet and perfect, and I enjoyed every minute of it.

Thank you Patrick Rothfuss for writing Auri a story and sharing it with us, even though you thought no one would like it. I'm grateful to not be alone in sometimes feeling like I am alone in how I feel.

Tesla Bear

Since the day we brought her home, Tesla has always taken to puppying around the house at least once a day. Puppying refers to the act of racing from room to room at breakneck speed, jumping onto and off of the bed, and occasionally incorporating a toy into the action.

Monday morning this week, Tesla was busy puppying. Teddy and I were playing in his bassinet. We were enjoying Tesla running around because we thought it was pretty funny. Then, on a jump up to the bed, Tesla suddenly yelped in pain and the fun instantly stopped.

She couldn't put weight on her back left leg, that much I could see. She's an extremely stoic dog, so if she is showing signs of pain, it has to be pretty severe.

I, being the responsible adult at home at the time, immediately commenced freaking right the fuck out.

We ended up taking her to the vet that afternoon, and found out she had torn her cranial cruciate ligament, the equivalent of the ACL in humans. The treatment is typically surgery and restricted movement. Currently she is resting at home, so we can see if we can tell how severe the tear was.

She is not a dog that likes rest. Despite our best efforts, she has twice jumped onto the bed, and twice tried to pounce on a toy to play. This is despite being unable to use one of her legs. She's a fucking rockstar, but she's going to hurt herself even more. Andrew slept on the couch last night to keep her downstairs (and off the bed), but we may end up needing to crate her overnight.

I feel terrible for her. No matter the treatment we choose, she can't run or jump or play at all, for months. And she may never regain full function of her leg. I'm so sad for her. Her favourite things to do are run and jump and play.

My poor, poor Tesla Bear.

Y'all ready for some TMI?

I could write hundreds of posts on things that can happen during pregnancy and childbirth that no one ever tells you about, and I had uncomplicated ones. We'll call this one item# 273: granulation tissue.

I had an episiotomy and extensive tearing during birth, because that's what the baby gods decreed. This resulted in about half an hour of stitching by the OB, which was not pleasant. Especially because that area is at best tender, and this was not at its best, seeing as a human had just torn his way out of there. Plus I hadn't had an epidural, like I had wanted, because there wasn't time to administer one. That is a different post completely, and one that will not likely get written because reliving that experience is not on my to do list.

Anyway, due to the cutting and the tearing, I understandably built up a good amount of scar tissue in the old hoo-haw. Apparently, sometimes, your body is a fucking idiot and doesn't know when to say when, and just keeps building scar tissue on top of scar tissue. This leads to big attractive flaps of extra vagina inside your vagina. I KNOW RIGHT.

I've been to see the OB three times since Teddy was born. Wanna know the treatment for extra cooch tissue? Motherfucking burning it off. I just got back from my latest appointment, and, to quote myself during birth, MY VAGINA IS ON FIRE. Seriously, it feels like there is a hot poker in there.

The kicker is, she couldn't get it all because it's too thick, so I have to go back at least once more. She joked that Teddy would be walking by the time I was all put back together. HAHA JOKES.

The moral of this story is, don't fucking have children.

I think one of the most surprising things about this experience, for me, has been the time it takes to heal. I was under the impression that 6 weeks postpartum, I'd be in almost perfect form, since that is when one is given the yea or nay on starting up with pre-birth activities like exercise and sex. I don't know why I thought that, I just did. Let me tell you, I was far from perfect then, just as I am far from perfect now, at 12 weeks postpartum. It's only been the past couple weeks that I could run without abdominal pain. It's been slightly longer that I could stand for longer than five minutes without taint swelling (it says TMI in the title, you got yourself into this).

I've been lucky with the weight. I gained 29 pounds during pregnancy, and I have lost just about 20 already. So I feel fat and none of my pants fit, but everyone says I look fantastic. Which is acceptable for now. Plus I went bra shopping a couple of weeks ago, and I am now officially a C cup. Since I was an A/B cup before getting knocked up, this is a huge moment for me. I've always been fond of milk, it's my favorite beverage, and now it's given me giant titties too. It's great stuff.

Breastfeedingcrochet

It's a skill I've mastered. I'm still working on burpingcrochet, it's up a few difficulty levels.

I'm feeling quite anxious today. Tomorrow I'm going into work for a visit, taking Teddy to meet everyone. I'm also going to be giving them my letter of resignation, as I am moving far, far away from there. I've never quit a job before, at least, not formally. I don't even know if my boss is in the country, she travels quite a bit, and she hasn't replied to my request for a meeting yet. I wouldn't want to just leave a letter on her desk, so I hope she's in. I also, at the same time, hope that she is not, because I am not a confrontational creature.

We shall see. I do hope it goes smoothly. I've been there for five years, honestly longer than I thought I would be. It's time for a change.

Marsha's Special Things

We are in the process of moving back home, closer to family. This is something I have wanted for years, and never really thought would happen, but I am excited to say it's happening now. But that is for another post.

Because we are moving, we've been sorting through old stuff, to see if there is anything to throw out instead of packing and hauling with us. Andrew found a big box in the deepest corner of the basement labeled "Marsha's special things" which I dove into a few nights ago with great delight. It was bursting with junk, most of which was from high school and university.

There were many trinkets that I'm sure held some sort of sentimental value of which I have long forgotten. There were two beautiful letters from my best friend from high school that she wrote to me for Christmas and my birthday, in our grade 12 year. I kept those. There were pictures, and cards, and calendars, one of which was made by my high school boss with pictures of all her employees in it (I actually had an amazing job in high school). There were day planners, and student cards, and notes from friends in class, and little virgin Mary statues (I'm fairly certain those were from my great aunt Sister Mary, a nun).

There were printed emails from Andrew, all together in a folder (I'm nothing if not organized). They were sappy and contained a lot of Zeppelin lyrics, for which I made sure to appropriately mock him. He made the point that I had printed and kept them, and that was the end of that.

Then there was a notebook. This notebook, I soon found, was a succinct little piece of my soul. It was my everything notebook that I had clearly used for general purposes in high school, when I had something in my brain that needed writing down. It contained pages of notes I had made successfully translating Tolkien's written language, and subsequent pages were sometimes written in that language. The were lists, and reminders, and a few poems. There were notes on driving rules, probably from studying for my G1. A few pages were dedicated to me practicing signing book covers, since I was obviously going to become a famous author and that task would take up much of my time and it seemed prudent to perfect it.

And there was a novel I had started writing (by hand, children). I don't remember this novel, even after reading my surprisingly thorough outline, and the first few pages that I actually had written. The storyline wasn't very good. It was your basic fantasy novel, set in a world like this one but with magic, though most people weren't aware it existed. There was a big evil entity kidnapping young girls. It would have been a boring story. The writing though, and I don't mean to toot my own horn, but the writing was spot on. I've always been a decent writer (see above re: aspirations to be famous writer), which I have always believed to be directly related to how very much I read. If I ever could get an idea for a book, I could probably write a damn good one. The problem, of course, would be finishing it once I started. The notebook, overall, reminded me just how much of a nerd I was (am); how much time I spent (spend) inside my own head.

Back to my box of special things. In the end, I threw away most of the contents. Although they were all special things, I don't need them to remind me of the special times I've had. If they're worth remembering, I remember them. If not, I pay taxes so someone will take them and bury them for me.

On the subject of sleep deprivation

Back, because I need a place to vent my touchy feelies, and I don't need anyone to read it. I wouldn't think anyone looks here anymore, so it should be a safe space for me. I don't care if someone does read it, I just don't need to broadcast, as posting elsewhere may accomplish. I'm not trying to garner attention, I'm trying to get rid of my frustration.

So. My touchy - feely issue of the moment is my completely pathetic inability to nap. Teddy*, my unbelievably sweet and simultaneously fucking awful child, wouldn't sleep for his dear old mommy last night. At all.

Sidebar: I knew coming into this whole baby situation that sleep was going to be challenging. Everyone says you don't get to sleep. What I didn't realize was, they were not exaggerating. When they said you never get to sleep, they actually meant you never get to sleep. It's not that you get poor sleep, or short sleep, or disturbed sleep, it's that you don't get to sleep. PERIOD.

Last night was worse than average, in that he woke up and fussed about 8 times in 8 hours. I'm not sure of the actual number, because I have a tendancy to avoid thinking during the wee hours of the morning. Also, sometimes when I am very, very tired, my brain invents these fantasies and I wholly believe they are true. Last night, as I was breastfeeding at ohmyfuckinggod o'clock, my mind told me it was so particularly bad because Teddy was feeding in the Italian way now, whereas previously he had exclusively been French. Do you know what that means? I sure as shit do not, but it was the only explanation I had.

Teddy is napping now in his swing. It has been almost two hours, which is really good for him, despite him being eight weeks old and my doctor assuring me that he should be sleeping in longer stretches now (the longest he has ever slept, ever in his life, was about four hours, and that has happened exactly once). My difficulty lies in the old advice of sleeping when the baby sleeps. I am physically laying down right now. I had my eyes closed for half an hour or so. But I cannot sleep.

I. Cannot. Sleep.

My brain needs to list all the things I could (should) be doing instead: the laundry, sweeping, cleaning the bathrooms, calling the doctor, figuring out super, sterilizing the breast pump, etc. I have never been able to nap during the day, and it certainly hasn't changed just because I have a baby now. One of life's little cruelties, but it effects so much damage once night sleeping is no longer an option.

That's all for now. Here's hoping for sweet, sweet slumber tonight.

*codename, for no fucking reason at all