Random Muse

I think I just officially became a mom.

I am now a member of the sneeze-and-pee club.

Sigh.

You Are My Baby Daddy

In week seven, I ran into Baby Daddy at his work. I knew I would see him at some point; it’s hard to avoid a movie theater when you like the movies.

I felt awkward. He didn’t notice.

And I thought, and obsessed, and finally decided that he had a right to know. It seemed like the mature thing to do: Hey, you’re going to be a dad. Think about whether you want to get involved, and get back to me.

Mature, right?

So I try to call his number. Disconnected. How am I going to get in touch with him? I don’t want to tell him when he’s at work, that would be kind of harsh. I needed to try to figure out an alternative, to spare him some drama.

Here’s where that whole ‘maturity’ thing seems to take a turn for the weird. Or wait, maybe I’m just really hip. With it. Down. Maybe the kid will be impressed that I HAD TO MYSPACE THE BABY DADDY TO GET IN TOUCH WITH HIM.

Actually, I felt absolutely ridiculous. But I tried to be cool about it: instead of being all, “We have to talk,” four of the scariest words in the English language, I just said, “I have some info for you, you should get in touch with me, soon!” Much more subtle, much less scary, right?

It takes a couple days for him to call, and he calls from work, because his phone had been cut off. And as I try to break it gently, I get, “So what are you trying to say?”

“We’re having a baby.”

My voice is shaky, my hands are shaky, I feel like … actually I feel like I did when I had to give book reports in front of the class in grade school. Embarrassed, slightly ill and really shaky. I felt like I had done something wrong.

“Are you sure it’s mine?”

“Yes. YES. Totally.”

“What do you want from me? Because you know, I don’t have any money or anything, my phone’s been cut off …”

I’m almost glad he said that. Now I can get mad, self-righteous even, and stop being shaky.

“Well, I thought maybe you’d like to know, actually. And I don’t want any money from you. I have a good job, good maternity leave and health care … I don’t actually want anything from you. This is my baby. I just thought it would be nice for you to know, in case you wanted to, I don’t know, maybe be a little involved. Better than having some kid show up on your doorstep in 18 years with your name and the name of your publishing company in hand. Right?”

That actually got a laugh, and broke some of the tension.

“Yeah. Yeah, OK. Well, umm, OK. I see that.”

“Look, I‘ve had a couple weeks to digest this. And I’m sorry I had to tell you while you are at work. Take some time, digest, think about whether you want to be involved. And how much. And breathe.”

He agreed that breathing would be good. He said he’d be in touch.

I didn’t hear from him for a month.

*****
I had decided that he was a coward. I had decided I was NOT going to go to his myspace page to see if he had moved to another city. I decided he was an immature jerk. I mean, seriously, it’s not like I got pregnant all by myself, right? Asshole. Immature cowardly asshole.

He showed up at the door at 11am on a Thursday morning, on his way to work. Of course he picked a day when I was unbathed. Well, I am usually unbathed at 11am, but that is not really the point. I was pissed and had already decided he was an immature coward and I wished I looked stunningly ravishing just because.

He came in and apologized. And then told me he’d gone through a rough patch. Almost homeless, cat recently killed by a neighbor’s dog. Oh, and he got dumped.

And I’m having a baby. And which relationship is more important, exactly? Sorry Baby Daddy, but I couldn’t care less if some chick who lives in a city you are desperate to escape dumped your ass and sent you off to AA. I’M HAVING A BABY. IT’S HALF YOURS. Way more important. Way.

It seemed to end on a good note. Even though most of the conversation was about his rough life, his broken heart, his problems. We talked about keeping updated, and staying in touch, and whether he wanted to come to the sonogram, and such.

I guess we’ll see.

************
After three weeks, I got a knock on the door on a Tuesday morning. Baby Daddy stumbled in.

He smelled like the men who spend the first part of the month sitting in the bar at 6a.m., sour and desperate, old cigarettes, unidentifiable alcohol. He told me he’d spent the night shooting coke and was really strung out. He asked me for alcohol.

I was angry, I was hurt, I was in a mild state of shock. He asked for money for cigarettes and more alcohol. This is the guy I hadn’t seen or heard from in three weeks, had only spoken to three times since my seventh week when I found out for sure I was pregnant and keeping the baby. And now here he is, with his drug-fueled self-pity, grasping at something [someone] that seemed normative. He talked of us being together; he talked of having no real regard for me as a person. He begged me to spend the day with him, the evening, to blow off my life and orbit around him for a day, while he was needy and wanted me there. It made me furious. In all this time, not a phone call, not even a question about the baby. Not even after I told him I had just called that morning for an emergency doctor appointment because of pain [we’re fine].

He asked to stay and I told him no. I gave him money for cigarettes, fed him Jack Daniels and beer, and finally sent him away when I had to leave for the doctor.

***
Late that afternoon, after I’d been home for an hour or so, he bursts in the door, dressed like a fool, shitfaced drunk and spewing the same ‘help me’ bullshit as he had that morning, but 10 times worse since he was so drunk. He had just been thrown out of the bar up the street where he spent [and I used to spend] most nights. He smelled worse, his ratty red fake-fur coat reeking of old wet cigarettes. He looked like an anti-rave ad, ridiculous and strung out. I was pissed.

Even worse, I was getting ready to go out. I told him again he couldn’t stay. I made him a sandwich as I was making my own dinner, but once it was done I realized he had completely passed out on the couch. I got really, really mad.

Nearly 20 minutes of nudging, patting, talking couldn’t rouse him. I finally started pulling on him, yelling at him, just trying to get him up and out my door before my friends saw him. Finally he sat up and said, “You’re being such an asshole.”

I completely lost it. I ended up screaming at him, “This is not a crash pad, this is not a drug house, and I am not the asshole here. I am NOT bending my life around you.” I hadn’t been so angry in months, maybe even years. And I was still conflicted, even as I was yelling: was this going to hurt the baby in the long run, by ruining any chance of getting along he and I might have had? And was this really my fault? WAS I being an asshole?

I end up wrapping up his sandwich and driving him home, trying not to let him hug me too long so his stench doesn’t get on my clothing, and telling him to call me the next day so I knew he was all right.

I almost hope I never see him again. It would make things easier.

****
Four days later, Saturday night, I am with a friend having a glass of wine at the bar across from his work. He comes in, gives me a surprised head nod, and goes to the other end of the bar to talk to a girl. A half hour later they leave together, and he says nothing as he walks out past me. Why does that make me so angry? Immature asshole. I’m back to that again.

But still some little part of, me the part full of self-doubt, the part with low self-esteem wonders, Did I do something wrong?

Man I have weird dreams now. I had one the other night that was the most vivid, detailed story about an extremely intricate tattoo. And I’ve had several that featured a lot of snow. What is up with that? I am a firm believer that dreams are our subconscious trying to work out a problem and tell us something. And OK, I can figure out the tattoo, I think: big permanent change is coming, and I need to plan and be careful and yadda yadda. But what the hell is the snow about? It better not snow again here; I am DONE with winter and ready for spring weather, spring cleaning, spring in my step and definitely spring shoes. I should try to start a dream diary again — they are always fun to look back on later — but when I’ve woken up and thought, “gee, you should write that down,” it’s seemed like so much effort lately.

Damn I’m lazy. Another personal obstacle to overcome. Yay.

Never Suck a Dead Man’s Hand

by Dana Kollmann

So you wouldn’t think I had forgotten about you, I thought I would throw in a book review until I have something interesting to say. So here it is.

Eh. Not what I was hoping for. And my god, do publishing houses simply not employ proofreaders at all anymore??!! When the author pointed out a misspelling as part of the story I almost choked, having recently read incorrect uses of their, they’re and there, it’s and its, and numerous other crimes against grammar. The story also wasn’t well told, the author lingered on uninteresting details, and talk about telegraphing — you could guess her several ’surprise’ story endings from a mile away. I was also disappointed that she changed so many location names since I was hoping to recognize some parts of Baltimore, but I guess that can’t be helped for legal reasons.This was kind of a waste of cash, I wish I’d gotten it from the library. Or maybe just skipped it. Too bad, the title and premise were really promising.

Actually, let me start again. Getting a dog from the animal shelter is like going to a meat markety bar, looking for lovin’.

You see a cutie, play a little, and then take him home. And hope for the best, because you never know what you’re getting based on looks and a few minutes of getting-to-know-you, best-behaviour pussyfooting. Oh oops, no pun intended.

But seriously, you never know if you’ll end up with some funky disease, or if anyone else in the house will, because there are no guarantees, no signed doctor’s note, nobody carrying around a clean bill of health. That seems wrong. And in the case of a shelter animal, irresponsible. Am I asking too much?

Not that it ultimately stops us. We still do the dance at bars, and I am still going to visit shelters on the weekends looking for a new canine buddy to bring home.

I wonder if I can teach the dog to discipline the cat? Maybe I should write Cesar …

************

Man I have weird dreams now. I had one the other night that was the most vivid, detailed story about an extremely intricate tattoo. And I’ve had several that featured a lot of snow. What is up with that? I am a firm believer that dreams are our subconscious trying to work out a problem and tell us something. And OK, I can figure out the tattoo, I think: big permanent change is coming, and I need to plan and be careful and yadda yadda. But what the hell is the snow about? It better not snow again here; I am DONE with winter and ready for spring weather, spring cleaning, spring in my step and definitely spring shoes. I should try to start a dream diary again — they are always fun to look back on later — but when I’ve woken up and thought, “gee, you should write that down,” it’s seemed like so much effort lately.

Damn I’m lazy. Another personal obstacle to overcome. Yay.

I’m a little behind on my posting …  but since hardly anyone is reading I guess it’s no big deal. Well hi to John and John, my only readers!!

********************

I kind of forgot about Valentine’s Day. M’s husband was out of town that week and we had been talking about going to dinner and then out dancing, but we had never solidified real plans. Late in the day we decided to still grab some food and then come back to my house for Lost or some movie.

I had to lie about why I wasn’t drinking, which was hard since M and her hubby are undergoing fertility treatments and because I spent most of last summer drunk on wine at their house, eating hubby’s amazing cooking and being silly. I am trying not to tell people about my ‘condition’ until the end of the first trimester, as spontaneous miscarriages are common in the first three months. Although I am pretty sure this little guy isn’t going anywhere. I’ve nicknamed him The Sticker.

On our way out to the restaurant we met my next-door neighbor on her porch, and I invited her to drop by. M and I ended up at this amazing Thai place over in the ghetto, stuffing ourselves on yellow curry chicken and pad thai. Fabulous. When we got home I called the neighbor, Nurse M, and we all snuggled in to watch Mansfield Park. Supremely girly and the perfect way to spend a day that could have been really sad and depressing for each of us. I ended up with a lovely girls’ night and a tummy full of Thai. Thank god for our friends.

BTW, who knew Jane Austen was funny??!! Pretty cool.

WHY is it that the batteries in your smoke alarm never die at 10 a.m. or 6 p.m. so that your smoke alarm starts that annoying, incredibly loud beep at a reasonable time? Why is it always at 5 a.m.???!

On Feb. 13, I walked into the parents’ house after the ultrasound, to find mum on the phone and dad in his recliner with the paper. Mum was talking to my oldest sister. I took the phone and sang Happy Birthday to her.

“Why were you so long at the doctor? Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No, just got the ultrasound and then had to go for a talk with one of the doctors. But I think I have made up my mind.

Looks like we’re having a baby.”

My dad glanced up. “Who’s having a baby?”

Shit. I thought he was too deaf to hear me. I raise my hand. He looks surprised.

I finish on the phone with the biggest sister. Mum immediately jumps in to tell all about what she and the sister talked about – badly. Which is very unusual since we tell stories well in our family. And she just kept talking. And talking. Hoping, I guess, my dad would suddenly get really senile and forget what I’d said.

Of course he didn’t. And I have to say, for an old fart, he was a hell of a lot more encouraging than mum had been. “Congratulations, momma,” he said. “Well, anything that gets me a grandbaby is OK with me.” He paused for a minute, then looked over at me again. “Have you told the father?”

No, I said.

Pause. “Are you going to?”

I could have kissed him just then, he was so … casual, and cool about it. Instead I said, not sure. We’ll see.

“Mmm,” he said. And just like that we were chatting about morning sickness [I don’t have it], shopping for baby clothes and due dates.

Maybe everything will be OK.

I was expecting a sonogram like you see on tv. You know, jelly belly. Instead, because I was so barely pregnant, I got jelly booty – a camera up the hoo-haw. Not nearly as fun.

It was only 11 centimeters long but it already had a heartbeat. Weird. And still unreal. I just feel … chubby.

I go to bed envisioning breastfeeding and long walks with the stroller. It’s in the morning, waking just before dawn in the grey light, that I am full of doubt and fear, wondering if I’m about to fuck up some small person’s life forever.

The itch was horrible and I decided I needed to visit the doctor. I considered an OTC yeast infection remedy but I don’t really trust them, and it didn’t seem like a normal infection. [I know, TMI]. Plus I had some other symptoms too, tired in the evening but not sleeping at night, an odd pain in my lower right abdomen [I would have worried about appendicitis if I still had an appendix], my boobs were sore and, strangely, I had missed my period by about a week.

On Tuesday, I went to WebMD. I had realized I had way too many random symptoms to just be a yeast infection. I was convinced I had one of four problems: diverticulitis, cancer of the pituitary, pregnancy or depression. On Tuesday night, I dreamed I was pregnant. Matthew Broderick was my dad. We kept checking for blood, thinking I should be getting my period.

On Wednesday, I went to the gyno for what I thought might be some weird yeast infection.

And they told me I’m pregnant.

I half laughed and half cried. I didn’t know what to think or feel. I had been harboring a suspicion that may be the case since the day before, but dismissed it as wildly unlikely. In all these years I had never once had even a pregnancy scare, not really – why would it be real now? I wasn’t even convinced I was able to conceive, my oldest sister couldn’t. Of course my other sister and brother are Fertile Myrtle and Mark, or whatever the boy name is.

I called the oldest sister first, half-sobbing, unsure what I wanted. I had asked, second thing at the doctor’s [after Are you sure? Really?], about my options if I choose to terminate. I still need to call the insurance company and see if they cover that.

I called the middle sister next while sitting outside my parents’ house, waiting for my mum to come home. Each sister said almost the opposite thing: one side finances shouldn’t be a factor, one said they should; one said consider that this may be your last chance, the other said that shouldn’t even be a blip on the radar. Both said being a single mom – especially one like me, without a big support network – is one of the hardest things to do in life, pretty much ever. Mum said it’s my decision, but to remember she can’t be there on a daily basis to help me. And that I need to plan for the first five years.

But hell, she doesn’t even want me to get a dog.

Today is Friday. Thursday morning, lying in bed, I was pretty sure I had decided I was not ready. Thursday afternoon I was convinced I’d be able to handle it, and well.

Thursday late afternoon I had to tell the dentist I was pregnant b/c of the numbing drugs. In case I keep him [yes, I am calling it him, and I have names picked out]. Everyone said Congratulations. The technician who was kind of mean last time was very nice to me. I felt like I had joined a special club.

But I still have to weigh the pros and cons. I had been considering quitting my full-time job to freelance. I need to look into refinancing the house. I need to talk to a financial advisor, start saving more money, figure out whether can afford a cleaning lady and prenatal yoga, worry about whether I can keep working from home. Wonder whether I should ever tell the dad. Worry about whether having a baby on my own means I’ll never find a man to share the rest of my life with, that if I do having a baby with him would be a little less special. Worry about whether I will be a good mum, whether I can cope.

Wondering about the decisions I had been moving toward lately: to travel more, to visit Austin to see if I might want to move there, to get a little plastic surgery, to sell the house, to change jobs, to get a dog, to get in shape.

Wondering if this is my last chance to have a baby. I am 37 years old. Time is not on my side. What if this is it? Now or never? And if it’s never, what will it be like knowing in 18 years that I should be helping my child pack up to move into the dorms, in 25 years meeting the future spouse, in 30 years holding a grandbaby? And if I do get a second chance – do I want to be like my parents, too old to really participate in my life once it really gets started?

What am I going to do?

Looks like I have a little more time to decide. The sonogram to get the foetus’s age is Wednesday, Feb. 13. My oldest sister’s birthday, as a matter of fact. And I have up until 12 weeks, pretty much, to “procure a hasty abortion,” as Juno put it. Well, I guess it wouldn’t be so hasty if I wait, would it.

What am I going to do?

First, I want you to know I purposely waited this long so the whole holidays thing would be blown over. No really. No really. 

And now there’s this grey. Not really silver. I mean, if there were a stripe or something then I would think silver, but no. It’s grey. And it’s everywhere. 

Like my own death springing from my head, fully formed. My own Greek tragedy.  

I went to a spa for my bday. I thought it would suck the toxins out of me, make me feel clean and new and reborn. 

It made me realize how much work I need to do BESIDES the kind I need to pay for. And I plan on paying for that this year. 

Dear god, I think I might be middle aged. 

Somebody help me. 

If you haven’t figured it out by now, this is not the blog of a late 20s or [very] early 30s fun and freewheeling chick. This is the blog of a girl who sees 40 looming in the headlights, bright, blinding even, solo and unsure of where to go. 

I think there are many of us never-marrieds, the girls who kept the party going until we one day realized the party is over and we’re on the downside: Now I am the sad girl on the wrong side of 30 and shit — where do I go from here? We’ve gotten to the point where we’re mostly just looking pathetic and sad at the regular bars, but we’re not well-off enough to hit the charity balls in fabulous dresses and good pearls … 

I used to joke that I would be the lady in the Lark with the basket full of cats, weighing 300 pounds and insisting on racing stripes … but maybe it’s not such a joke. Bring me my banana seat and the stick-on red racers … 

At least I will make a great Great Aunt for little Homerette …

Sigh.