quaint
I remember livejournal. That's what I was thinking in Social Network when that guy was blogging about his bad date. It was a long time ago. That kid built an empire. I built a kid. I'm thinking about coming back to Livejournal mostly because I think nobody I know from Real World is here anymore. I remember it feeling good to get stuff off my chest. Crazy stuff. Then I could go around seeming not so crazy in my real life.
Mostly what I think about these days is mom related. So feel free to unfriend me. I'm here because I don't want to bore my real world friends with this stuff. I remember people talking about kids. But you just don't get them until you have them.
So what's on my chest these days other than two deflated milk bags is how lonely and terrifying and thrilling it is to be a single mom. I just deleted the next paragraph of "blahbede blah blah" run on anxiety. Focus, I remind myself. I used to be a fairly on-point focused essayist. Now I feel unable to stay on topic for the length of a sentence. Maybe that has to do with 9 months of 24 hour day nonverbal companionship.
First off, the love I feel for the little guy is inexpressible. I think anyone will tell you they can't tell you. It's like the most immature, unimpeded, baggageless love affair you've never had. It's fierce and crazy making. It's not a peaceful hippies holding hands kind of love, it's a I will tear your heart out with my bare hands if you threaten my baby kind of love. Tempered with the alpha wave flat lined all is right with the world zen-out of watching him smile when he sleeps. Babies wire themselves into your brain chemistry in such a way that you get a little endorphin rush when they have a good poop. It's embarrasing. And a little uncomfortable for a person like me who's generally a little buttoned up in the emotions department suddenly having all this base feeling gurgling up out of my pores.
Second of all it's terrifying, considering all the ways he could end badly. Pedophiles, radiation from Japan causing a slow creeping baby cancer, falling down the stairs, earthquake at daycare and he dies under the beams alone crying wondering why mommy doesn't come. My god, my heart is racing just to think about it. Which is the problem. I think about these things way too much. Which is why I'm back here. Maybe if I write the crazy stuff down I'll be able to put it aside. It's not that it's interfering with my functioning, but it's definitely interfering with my sleep. When we bombed Libya I tossed and turned all night. Train of thought - we will always be in these squirmishes, always. Even when we are no longer the top dog (coming soon, China), we will be enlisted in these quagmires because it feeds the military industrial complex. By the time he is 18, nobody will remember Vietnam and they will institute the draft or mandatory service and he will die alone in a cold field on foreign soil with nothing but terror worse than the worse Freddy Kreuger movie I can't bear to watch. Or we could move to Canada. But what if we're at war with Canada? --You see what I mean? It's crazy. And not at all on topic.
Anyway, baby crying. Time to go.
Mostly what I think about these days is mom related. So feel free to unfriend me. I'm here because I don't want to bore my real world friends with this stuff. I remember people talking about kids. But you just don't get them until you have them.
So what's on my chest these days other than two deflated milk bags is how lonely and terrifying and thrilling it is to be a single mom. I just deleted the next paragraph of "blahbede blah blah" run on anxiety. Focus, I remind myself. I used to be a fairly on-point focused essayist. Now I feel unable to stay on topic for the length of a sentence. Maybe that has to do with 9 months of 24 hour day nonverbal companionship.
First off, the love I feel for the little guy is inexpressible. I think anyone will tell you they can't tell you. It's like the most immature, unimpeded, baggageless love affair you've never had. It's fierce and crazy making. It's not a peaceful hippies holding hands kind of love, it's a I will tear your heart out with my bare hands if you threaten my baby kind of love. Tempered with the alpha wave flat lined all is right with the world zen-out of watching him smile when he sleeps. Babies wire themselves into your brain chemistry in such a way that you get a little endorphin rush when they have a good poop. It's embarrasing. And a little uncomfortable for a person like me who's generally a little buttoned up in the emotions department suddenly having all this base feeling gurgling up out of my pores.
Second of all it's terrifying, considering all the ways he could end badly. Pedophiles, radiation from Japan causing a slow creeping baby cancer, falling down the stairs, earthquake at daycare and he dies under the beams alone crying wondering why mommy doesn't come. My god, my heart is racing just to think about it. Which is the problem. I think about these things way too much. Which is why I'm back here. Maybe if I write the crazy stuff down I'll be able to put it aside. It's not that it's interfering with my functioning, but it's definitely interfering with my sleep. When we bombed Libya I tossed and turned all night. Train of thought - we will always be in these squirmishes, always. Even when we are no longer the top dog (coming soon, China), we will be enlisted in these quagmires because it feeds the military industrial complex. By the time he is 18, nobody will remember Vietnam and they will institute the draft or mandatory service and he will die alone in a cold field on foreign soil with nothing but terror worse than the worse Freddy Kreuger movie I can't bear to watch. Or we could move to Canada. But what if we're at war with Canada? --You see what I mean? It's crazy. And not at all on topic.
Anyway, baby crying. Time to go.