just a little post baby self loathing.

i wrote this about about 6 weeks ago...forgot to post...whoopsie!




My first born turned 8 last friday. EIGHT. I know what you are thinking, I don't look/ act old enough to have an 8 year old. I know, I know. Go on.

We went to a tea with 3 of her friends. 8 is this weird contrast of still being little enough to have a tea party and want to sit next to the stuffed teddy bear....with singing every lyric of that obnoxious song "alllll around the worllllld....can you hear me? Alllll around the world, city to city". On the drive home one of her cute little friends had a little handheld nintendo D-somethingerather thingiemabob that you can play AWESOME games on and it takes pictures.....and she was on this little game thing the whole tea party. And when I asked about it she said "it is only $250".

So I kind of wanted to break it into a thousand pieces and tell her that she should tell her parents that $250 would be better spent on some MANNERS....but I didn't.


Which brings me too: the rage.


What is up with this weird post-partum hormonal rage fest?


Wait.


Am I just an asshole?


No, no. I assure you....I may be an asshole at times, yes. And I do have these visions of doing and saying asshole like things all the time...but, who doesn't? Right? Anyone?


But....I mentioned the funk before. This is common. Ask any new-ish mom. There is a time, after you emerge from the post infant blur/ fog/ cloud....where the lines are all so blurry and you must redefine where you start and the baby stops and where oh where did the "me" go? The me that is not a mom of a baby, the me that wears real clothes not just pink pajama pants and old navy tank tops, the me that remembers to shower and wear mascara.

So I went through the funk. I felt fat and pathetic and FRUMP. Oh god, so frumpy. Pathetically frump....and pissed about it. I am not frump. I am hot. I am fun. I am sexy. I am fucking hilarious and I can flirt the pants off men and women. But I had to remember this because when I looked in the mirror and FRUMP looked back at me....I believed it. I was like, oh. Hi. This is you now, I guess. Well, ok.

So yeah. Funk. Then....anger. Hormonal anger. Anger directed at myself for agreeing, even for a minute, that I was frump.

And then I got the worst haircut of my life. I am not overreacting here. It was like the floppy butt cut of boys in 1993. The long bowl-ish butt flop top over short sides. And I wanted to claw my face off. I was a miserable human for....oh about a week. Which is too long to hate yourself when you have a family to love and a life to get back too.

Funny how it all builds....and one day you get a haircut and the tree branch snaps and the avalanche levels the side of a mountain. The tree branch was my hair. The snow on top of that tree branch? A sick baby the week before....the lack of sleep, the spoiled, rude 8 year old, the fat loaf belly in the mirror, not getting carded for booze, some comment from my mom that was of course innocent like all insulting comments from my mom....it all builds and builds...and then *snap*

After a week of rage, I hired a babysitter, went running, bought a tanning package, went tanning, took a shower, shaved my furry legs and pits, and got a new HOT haircut.

watch out, world, i'm back.