that’s more than most people ever had.



31 July 2008

For about three days the baby was not stirring very much. I know not to panic because babies have sleepy and active days, but I started to worry last night. The child must have known momma was worried because it started pummeling me mercilessly. It was really distracting as I tried to sleep. And today it’s doing sumersaults again. I hope it’s loving all the iron and protein I’ve been getting. It definitely gives me more energy.

Yo it’s so good to see friends and just hang. I think it’s really awesome that Noemi and Vicky are going to live together and help each other out so much. I’m just gonna miss Vikcy and it’s especially sad that she’s moving now that I’m going to Edinburg. When I’mf inished eating I’m gonna go measure the windows at the new apt to start making curtains. I bought the fabric today and I’m also gonna finish up the baby blanket that has been hidden away in patch form for a while.

Miz Mary Mac

20 July 2008

So while the psyllid kills our citrus trees, I am just chillin with the dogs. Marc went to work, my ma is outta town for a week and my sisters are with my dad on their way to the Grand Canyon.

My yeast infection seems to be clearing up nicely… Still a little gooey in the morning, but I’m not so miserable. I am getting really sick of garlic, though. I’m not gonna get sick for 10 years the way this is going. Two heads of garlic per day!

Dance party at my ma’s house pretty soon. No noobs.. ;]

Vicky showed me this SM feminist blog, and I’m really outraged right now, naturally, after having read all this shit about legal cases against parents who are into bondage, rape fantasy, spanking and other harmless if consentual shit. What the fuck is happening? I feel rather scared after reading that because, well I LOVE TO BE SPANKED VERY VERY HARD. And I learned what ‘vanilla sex’ is, and how discrimination against nonvanillers or people with nonconventional sexual desires is rampant, by the legal examples. Well, I’d say I’m pretty boring compared to BDSMers… but I think ANYTHING that makes someone feel that sexy rush and unmatchable ecstacy of doing exactly what you want to or with your partner is so rad… I fail to see where the problem lies, if there is mutual consent. I’ve just never really thought about BDSM discrimination before. I understand that lots of people think it’s weird, but it gets really serious and dangerous. People who are otherwise unashamed of their kinkyness are forced to be quiet about it because oh shit they could get their effin kids taken away, lose their jobs and shame their families!

This kind of fearsome Hate for the Unusual is best friends with Homophobia. They go out to eat at steakhouses together and do it in the missionary position every night.

I’m gonna go rinse miz coochie now. Peach ya’ll.

Guilt grips my heart, some days, as soon as I wake up. I usually wake up because Marc’s alarm goes off. He is stirring in bed, trying not to dread work. Marc goes to work, and I… don’t. Marc loves me and my swollen tummy enough to go to work at fkn SUBWAY. We discussed this arrangement with tenderness. There was a time, anyway, that I worked and he stayed home and played with the cat.

I can never open my mouth to complain about the fact that Marc and I disagree about what a committed relationship can be, but not what OURS is. This is because I feel so damn SAFE with this feminist darling who rubs oil all over my back and hugs me when I’m cranky.

My heart skipped many beats as I stared at him last night. He was lying on his stomach with the lap top in front of him, house music audible to me through his headphones. I tried to read The Roots of Natural Mothering, but I just wanted to stare at him. So guilt trips me when I feel this love. When my mother says it’s okay to stay here for five months. When my sisters hug me and kiss me.

I get the partner, the mother, the sisterhood.

And sometimes, it really, really. Trips me out.

It all goes back to being seven or eight. My mom is hastily dressing me and I am complaining that I hate my shoes. She says, ‘do you know how lucky you are? I didn’t have shoes until I started first grade.’ And of course my stepfather, that single time. ‘Ungrateful bitch’ is a hard phrase to swallow when you’re nine. By the time I was in sixth grade, the school counselor wanted me to seek a professional for ‘being too hard on myself.’ My mama stops coming home, ignores my sisters’ pleas for guidance, has too many girlfriends in a month to count. But I’m harder on myself for wanting more from her than I am on her for neglecting my fourteen-year-old sister. I want to be my sisters’ sister, not their mama. But hey it’s good practice.

But then these are slow, uninteresting discoveries because I am already so far past them, right? Stress, guilt cannot be good for the baby. So now I’ll rest.