Don't be that asshole who thinks their parenting situation is unique. Mmkay, babycakes?
Look, we're all guilty of judging one another when it comes to parenting styles. However, we don't like it when people judge us or belittle our opinion on a matter because "we haven't been there." How's about a fucking truce, you douchebags? You try stepping in my shoes for one day and then we'll talk about whether or not I have the capacity to understand what's the deal in Grown Up Land.
Someone recently made the very grave mistake of telling me that since I never experienced the feeling of impending doom, I could not understand a particular situation. This is coming from a person who knows pretty much NOTHING about my pregnancies and birth stories, except for that I had two kids in under a year.
If this person had bothered to ask me a question instead of assuming that because I act all Mary Fucking Pollyanna McSunshineButt that my life is a motherfucking looping hybrid episode of The Donna Reed Show and Leave it to Beaver, then this WHOLE thing could have been avoided. This person would not have dared to say that to me. (Personally I think it's rude to use "You don't know what it's like so you have no right to an opinion" concerning ANYTHING, but it's especially idiotic if one chooses to say this when they have no basis for saying it. Hey, you out there, yeah you know who you are - YOU WERE WRONG. How does it feel to accuse someone of oblivion due to inexperience only to be informed that this person has an opinion of said matter based on - COULD IT BE - experience?!)
The reason I don't talk about my painful high risk pregnancies, my sleepless tearful nights, my post partum depression, my anxiety disorder and my major depressive disorder is because I HAVE A THERAPIST AND I HAVE LEARNED TO PUT ON MY FUCKING BIG GIRL PANTIES AND DEAL WITH IT. Okay, so maybe wine and Xanax (mutually exclusive of course) help me put those big girl panties on, but the point is, I keep the hard shit under wraps because it's nobody else's fucking business and dwelling on it is just going to piss me off.
But for the sake of this rant, I am going to give you ALL a little lesson on manners. And a little insight to my second pregnancy with B2.
B2 is my son. He will be two on October 5. He was classified as a moderately high risk pregnancy right off the bat because his sister, B1, was a cesarean and B2 was due to arrive by B1's first birthday. In case you didn't know, the reason this was considered high risk is because my cesarean scar was still relatively fresh from B1's surgical procedure, putting me in a precarious position of possible uterine rupture or splitting of my cesarean scar due to contractions.
Despite this diagnosis, my pregnancy with B2 was relatively smooth. He was far easier to deal with than it had been to deal with B1 in utero. He punched and kicked a lot, but he didn't start up with Braxton-Hicks bullshittery until my third trimester. Then I got slapped with bedrest and a special diet and terbutaline. I fucking HATE terbutaline. I imagine that, if I ever tried speed while having a coronary, terbutaline's side effects is exactly how it would feel.
Then October 5, 2009 came and I was in hardcore nesting mode. I had been off bedrest for about ten days and I was scrubbing the bathtub WHILE SHOWERING and I felt a contraction tear through me. This was in the morning. Well, B2 was not scheduled for his cesarean until the following week, October 12, 2009. So I convinced myself that it was Braxton-Hicks and went about my day - cleaning, running errands, playing with B1 and caring for her. I waited until the end of the workday before I finally called my doctor because at that point I was in so much fucking pain I couldn't even move. They told me to come in to the hospital just to be on the safe side.
My dumb ass had the car for the day and Husby was at work, so I made the brilliant decision of loading up B1 and driving there to get him. He got in the car and I said "We're going to the hospital." He asked why I didn't call earlier and my reasoning? He'd just started this job the week before and we needed the money. (What's that you say? OH. You mean aside from kids who play with poop you have BIG PROBLEMS? Like OMG, Sass is POOR?! Wow. Money problems? But Sass, usually you are so happy! Shut the fuck up, asshat, I TOLD YOU SO. You aren't the only person with problems!)
So we get to the hospital and they begin to monitor B2 and me and it is determined after FIVE HOURS of deliberation that the best solution would be to perform an emergency cesarean THAT NIGHT. And so my son, my crazy, loud, adorable, cuddly little B2 was born nineteen minutes to midnight, Monday, October 5, 2009. He had fluid on his lungs because they weren't fully developed. He was technically two weeks early, after all - his official due date was October 16, 2009.
Now after all those scares, let's rack up B2's health issues. Colic. RSV. Eczema. Milk protein allergy. Possibility of autism spectrum (turned out to be false). Possibility of epilepsy spectrum (turned out to be false). Possibility of leukemia (turned out to be false). Possibility of lactose intolerance (waiting on test results). Oh, and did I mention...
HE LIKES TO FUCKING PLAY WITH SHIT.
My point? Yes, I DO UNDERSTAND ABOUT THE FUCKING POSSIBILITY OF DOOM. And when I CALL YOU OUT ON ACCUSING ME OF NOT KNOWING WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT, don't get all whiny lovey with me and say "Oh I am not diminishing your situation, but you didn't have to live with the possibility that you might die."
1. Saying what you said just diminished what I just told you
2. MY DOCTOR FUCKING TOLD ME I COULD DIE! ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN IN SURGERY! I WROTE MY KIDS, MY HUSBAND, AND MY BEST FRIEND LETTERS IN CASE I DID NOT LIVE THROUGH MY SECOND CESAREAN PROCEDURE IN LESS THAN 365 DAYS! SHUT THE FUCK UP PLEEEEEEEEEEASE.
Look honey. I get that you are hugely pregnant and scared and overemotional. Doesn't give you license to make everyone else feel like shit. This is not a game about who has the most drama. It's about respecting people WHO HAVE BEEN EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE. Oh and not to mention - when you contradict yourself so many damn times, you start to look REALLY stupid.
Anyway. That's my stabby rant. Please believe I will come back with funny shit later this evening. I think I will write about our dog.
No comments:
Post a Comment