The Tomboy's Guide to Pregnancy and Parenting - When Two Is Enough

Because John and I have decided that there would be no further additions to our family, I am on the birth control. John did volunteer to have himself snipped. But I said no. Do you know that if a man does not die of anything else, he is guaranteed a 100% chance of prostate cancer? That little nugget of fact made the vas deferens (science joke!) to me. And although the two are most likely not related, it screamed to me - let those sperm swim free and not be prisoners in my husband’s testicles causing his inevitable demise. Because if John were to die, I would be alone with those two kids. NO!!!!!

Now because these sperm are present with their little heads of genetic material waiting to ravage my eggs, I went on the pill. The typical use failure rate of the diaphram (my previous chosen birth control method) hovers at twenty percent. These are dice I had no intention of rolling. Pretty much anything that does not guaranty me 99.99% effectiveness is not going to fly. Because I do not want anymore kids, ever, in case I have not made myself perfectly clear.

The side effects of the pill are best summed up as short term monthly psychosis. I don’t say this lightly, because let’s face it people, the pill is telling your body - “Dude, you are so knocked up.” “You got a little baby in there.” “So don’t be shooting eggs off.” “Keep em housed up in that ovary.” “That a girl.” Then every 28 days it goes “Psyche! You stupid bitch, you ain’t pregnant.” “You are so dumb. Let me make you crazy with PMS.” “Look, that person looks like a Dorito, you better eat him.” I am sure there is some hormonal scientific explanation about this but I feel better that the pill is like the older brother I never had who is constantly lying to me and punching me in the gut at appropriate times. Because that is what the cramps feel like, punches to the gut.

But I suffer on a monthly basis because the thought of more children makes me weep and curl into the fetal posiiton. I can't stand Pill PMS, its a super hybrid of regular PMS which in itself sucks ass. Yesterday, every look to the mirror made me cringe. Incredibly uncomfortable in my body and super short-tempered - the best combination ever! But I took deep breathes, and more importantly downed an almost bottle of wine and a few beers. And today is better. I finished a 6.5 mile run and my thoughts are clearer and less psychotic. The tide, she will come. Although I am counting the months until I go back on the diaphram. Because 2 years from now, my eggs will be little old ladies of crippled DNA incapable of children. Hooray for my 40s. I can’t believe I just said that.

Blah, Blah, Blah - PMS Ramblings

I do believe that a sufficient time has passed with regards to the Patriots loss in the Superbowl that I can now blog again. That evening at around 2:00 a.m. I woke up and just shook my head trying to figure out how it happened. And the worse part of it all? John repeatedly saying the following "At least Joe Montana never lost a Superbowl." Yeah, kill me.

And moving on, it has been three weeks and I still hate my hair. I am remedying this tomorrow with a hair cut. Alternatively I thought this morning I would just wear barrettes for the next 3 months, but whatever, to the hair cutter I go. I don't know if they will be able to fix the razor ravage mess that was once my flowing mane, but I surely hope so. At this point, I don't really care - I just don't want to look into a mirror and cringe saying "I fucking hate my fucking hair; I look like a crack addict." Mind you, I don't really, but that is the level of hate I have - similar to my hatred of the New York Yankees and now the New York Giants. I could go on about this, and I am sure John can attest, endlessly, but lessoned learned - if someone comes at me with a razor and states they are going "to give it a go." Well I am going to spit in their face, stomp on their feet, and hightail it out of there.

And moving on (again), this Thursday is the blessed day of St. Valentine. Not that I am celebrating, as I have a child who is just about 14 months with green snot flowing out of his nose, and that is the day I am suppose to be visited with the women's curse. Nothing says Happy Valentines, like cramps, Advil popping and the craving of pasta. I have been torturing John about it though to comedic results. The other evening when telling him that February 14 means he has to woo me, he responded with the following "Wooooooooooo." "Woooooooooooo." (ghost effect, please). And there I had it, my present.

And moving on (for the last time), I have been fighting against the scourge of fat. I attribute this to the motivation of Hawaii in 4 weeks. Which is great, but also, I got a pedometer. Nothing will tell you how sorry and inactive your fat ass is than this miracle of an invention. My goal of 10,000 steps a day has been going well - combined with running (which I started this weekend), Subway, and staying within my weight watchers points, I can say that when trying on my old size today at the Gap I was thisclosetohappiness. However, I really need to get new bras. I am still wearing my use as a parachute in case of airplane emergency ones because I am cheap and don't want to dole out the money for a new bra if my old bras may fit again. Why pay for interim bras? Why people? Oh wait, maybe because my boobs are like oranges in a cantaloupe size containers that shift and move causing great humiliation in the form of off kilter nipples. So to Nordstrom's this weekend I will go to be molested.

So to sum up - (1) the Patriots lost the Superbowl, (2) tomorrow hopefully the hell that is my hair will end, (3) Valentines Day is for suckers, (4) weight loss is going well and (5) my boobs should be contestants on Dance Wars with Carrie and Bruno. That is all.