I suppose I owe all of my readers an apology.  I guess I also owe this blog an apology, as if it were a person.  There’s a reason why my updates have been few and far between.  There’s a reason why my Facebook posts have been dry and empty.  I won’t talk about it on here, though.

As a blogger, I made the decision long ago that I would not be as transparent as I would like on here.  You see, the feelings of other people actually matter to me.  Getting on here and just letting loose would make me feel a fuck of a lot better, but I know that it serves no other purpose and would only result in more drama than I usually let into my life.  But oh, how I admire those bloggers who just put it all out there.  When I read their posts, I always go away feeling so empowered and so envious.  I wish I could have enough back bone to do that.  I just know that I, personally, would have a hard time telling those inconvenient truths that so many people don’t like to acknowledge.  You can chalk it up to me being a chicken shit.  That’s not exactly correct, but that’s one incorrect assumption about me that I suppose I could live with.  The truth as to why I do it is a bit more complicated.  Let me just say that the only people who can really hurt me are people that I’ve let into my heart.  People I care about.  And maybe it’s obvious that I’ve been the one doing all the caring.  And it just keeps happening!  My dad, my grandmother, aunts, uncles, and others have all had the privilege of being knife wielders at my heart…..and back.  And no matter how many times it happens to me, it never stops flabbergasting me and upsetting me.  Hurt, despair, “Why me” and rage are the typical range of feelings I keep going through whenever this keeps happening.  Common sense has told me more than once to evaluate what it is about me that keep setting people off like that.  What am I doing wrong?  But then those people who have actually taken the time to get to know me, who REALLY care about me and know me tell me that it’s just an unfortunate theme my life is supposed to follow.  These unfair circumstances are what make me really treasure the truly loving people in my life.  They are like kicks in the ass to remind me that I need to always keep close those who get it about me.

I don’t get the problem though.  I’m not a particularly deep or complicated person.  I’m not hard “to get.”

Fridays are usually my house cleaning day.  I’m sitting in my family room playing with Lukas and his toy cars.  A load of laundry is spinning in the dryer behind me.  The family room looks like a toy bomb exploded.  So does the sun room.  So does Lukas’ room.  Today is still going to be house cleaning day.  I’m just waiting for my MP3 player (of COURSE it’s not an Apple product!  You know me better by now!) to charge so that I can stuff my brain with loud music while I clean.  Last Friday, I cleaned without that kind of distraction and I thought and stewed on my recent unfortunate-ness.  That’s actually all I’ve been doing since it happened.  My only comforts in all of this is that there are people in the know who are just as confused about it as I am.  I know who really cares about me and who REALLY knows me and I am so so thankful for those people.  Sure, there are more people who prefer the easier route of assumptions and meanness, but the tiny majority of people who are there to pat me on the back and say, “Oh well.  I still love you,” have made me feel so blessed.  I love you all.  The whole handful of you.  You guys all mean more to me than I can express in my current state of mind.

So the next time you log on to Facebook and see that I haven’t been updating much, remember that in truth, I have sat on that site and thought and fought with myself about what to say and what not to say.  I’ve typed and erased updates before posting them.  More than once I have slammed the top of my laptop down in disgust and screamed at my ceiling that I wish I could drink.  That’s why I’m waiting on this MP3 player.  I need to drown out the thoughts, confusion, hurt feelings and general dismay over once again being unfairly made out to be a villain.  All I can say now is, thank God I keep metal music on this thing.  If anything can shut my brain up, a little Danzig sure as hell can.

I’m about halfway through this pregnancy.  Aside from the whole sickness thing, the fact that I don’t really like my doctor thing, the overly sensitive nipples thing, the leaking boobs thing, and the fact that my back is already starting to kill me, I feel pretty good!

How weird is it that I have WAY more self esteem while pregnant than I do when not?  I find it weird.  Yet, not really.  I always get VERY annoyed when I hear or read of some pregnant woman talking about wanting to get her figure back.  I remember reading about one woman on a message board who hated her pregnant body so much that she actually said she would never get pregnant again because she couldn’t stand looking like a whale.  Maybe I am being insensitive, but in my head, of all the many reasons to not have any more children the reason that says “I hate looking fat” seems to ugly and vain that it really upsets me.  Again, I might not know the whole story and blah blah blah, but that is complete horseshit to value your looks so much.

I feel good about my body when I’m pregnant.  Because of my glamorous sickness, I always lose a little bit of weight in the beginning so that my arms and legs look nice and slender as compared to the big boobs and giant belly.  Yeah, my face gets huge and I get a fat neck and about 4 chins, but that’s a problem in my non-pregnant life too.  Yeah, I get horrific acne that looks more like halloween makeup than real pimples.  Yeah my already thick hair takes on the texture of a brillo pad instead of that glorious hair all the books try to tell me I may get.  My feet sweat, I have veins sticking out on me everywhere, and I cry a good deal more than I’d like to admit…and yet I still feel better about my body in this state than when I’m not pregnant.

Pregnant women are supposed to look soft and curvy.  REAL pregnant women (not starving celebrity moms) get puffy  faces and feet.  The big boobs aren’t a product of plastic surgery.  To me, by being pregnant, I can finally embrace without discomfort or second guessing all that is beautiful about being a woman.  In a society where the media and entertainment outlets glorify an emaciated female form, in being pregnant I can scoff at all of that and know that this soft curvy body is just as it should be.  That this is healthy and perfectly normal.

I wish so much that this self esteem would carry over after the pregnancy…but I know from past experience that it won’t.  Soon after this baby is born, I will start feeling the pressure to lose the baby weight.  I’ll start feeling some sort of need to get my body to a place where it doesn’t look like I recently gave life to a whole person.  I’ll start torturing myself by once a week trying to squeeze into pre-pregnancy pants and chastising myself for not being able to get them on yet.  I’ll berate myself for having to smoosh my deflated and flappy stomach into a girdle or control top panty hose.  It’s not fun, it’s not pretty, and I hate that I do it to myself.  I wish I could feel about myself like I do now and just say, “It’s ok, Somer.  You’re perfectly healthy and there’s nothing wrong with your body.  Calm the fuck down and relax.”  But that won’t be how it will work out.  I hid a lot of this self-torture after I had Lukas.  By not talking about it, perhaps I felt that I didn’t need to be held accountable to buying into society’s standards all the while calling them unfair.  But I’m writing about it now, before I start doing it.  My state of mind is relaxed about that subject right now.  I like my body and I hope to look back on this and say, “Look at that.  And you were WAY puffier then than you are now.  What the hell are you whining about?  Really?”

Oh well.  I’m going to enjoy the next 20 or so weeks of not having to worry about pants sizes and my multiple chins.  I am going to sit in my rocking chair every night and stroke my enormous belly and giggle about how my big boobs keep getting in the way of everything.    I’m going to take a vacation from trying to be what I’m told is perfect.

Yay me!

Most of you know by now so I won’t beat around the bush with my little L.O.’s gender.  It’s a boy!  It was really nice to have that long ultrasound appointment and see my baby moving.  His little hands and feet, his little face.  It was all so precious.

I was so sure it was a girl.  So as it turns out, I am full of shit.  I’ll admit that I had a little moment when I first saw that little extra appendage.  This is it for me.  The end.  Before I got pregnant this time, there was always at least the hope that someday I would have a little girl of my own, but now that is all gone.  So yes, I had a moment.  And that’s all it was.  A tiny little pang in my heart that faded as I started planning a blue teddy bear nursery and teeny tiny baseball hats and precious little sneakers for tiny little boy feet.  Now that I know the sex of my L.O., I am very excited to meet him and hold him in my arms.

The loss of the prospect of someday having a daughter of my own is still a little sore for me right now.  Last night we were at Walmart doing some shopping and (of course) I made a detour through the baby section.  I was looking at a stuffed dinosaur that played music when I bumped into a rack.  On it were tiny dresses with pink and green flowers accessorized by dainty white cardigans.  I blinked back a few tears and stepped away from the rack, like it was going to bite me.  I may pout about it forever.  It’s in no way blaming my two sons for being sons.  I guess I just wanted to have that extra experience (and pain in the ass) of raising a daughter.  But that possibility is gone from my life.  There is no more daydreaming for me, no more fantasizing about what kind of woman I would release into the world.  That daydream is disintegrating like a wisp of smoke, never to be seen again.

In place of that daydream, I have futures to plan.  I have men to put out into the world this time.  Good men.  Men who will be kind.  Men who will put their responsibilities before their own wants.  Men who will in no way EVER remind me of some of the men that I grew up around.  Good husbands (or partners).  Good fathers.  Good friends.  And most of all, good brothers.

I guess my destiny was to be surrounded by toy cars and dinosaurs.  To have discussions about why it is not appropriate to shake your winky at your grandmother.  To raise men who will grow up and never be able to relate to me as anything more than their mother.  Oh well.  I shrug it off and move on.  I love my Lukas and I’ll love my L.O.  If L.O. giggles and hugs even half as much as his big brother, I’ll have it pretty damned good.

Cute Note* I’m crying a little bit as I’m writing this post and as if to say “Don’t worry Momma,” L.O. gave me a right good kick to my bladder.  I can’t wait to meet him.