Papa (February 26, 1917-August 24, 2009)

In death, Papa's hands were exactly the same as in life. They were rough and wrinkled and strong. They were soft and frail. They embodied all that his life and experience had taught him, and no amount of formaldehyde could take that away. I tried not to look at his face. It looked oddly familiar. He was wearing his glasses, which I found to be quite strange. He looked like a wax statue. He looked like a model on a movie set. But, his hands...they were the same ones I had held a few months prior. They were the hands I watched fix tractors, shift the gears in the combine, shoot pool in the basement, turn the pages of a newspaper, cradle his great-grandchildren, sift through harvested wheat...lift a coffee-filled, brown stoneware mug from its saucer every, single morning...

He always sat in the same chair at the dinner table. Always. That was Papa's chair. He always had Certs nearby. He never sped. He always watched Johnny Carson (when he was on) before he went to bed. We always had to get permission from him to open Christmas presents. He always made us wait. He always had a $20 bill to give to Matt, Shelley and me. He always used to run behind our car and pretend to push it as we left his farm in Enid. I distinctly remember thinking that he was the only force pushing our car along. I thought he was the strongest man I had ever known.

As I grew, he became human. Ten years ago, when my grandma passed, we wept in each other's arms. It was a defining moment in my life. I had never seen this mostly stoic, German man cry. Ever. But, he did then. And, he did it in front of me. And I loved him for it. It was my turn to comfort him. The "I love yous" came a lot easier and faster from him after Grandma died.

When he was put in the hospital on multiple occasions (mostly for just getting older), I would drive to Enid and see him. He would always, without a doubt say, "You drove all this way to see an old man?" And I would respond, "But you're my Papa, Papa," and he would smile in disbelief that I (and the rest of his grandchildren, for that matter...which was a grand total of four) loved him so much. I think that's the thing...I don't think he ever realized how wonderful he was. I really don't. He had a constant look of confusion as to why we would want to "stick around" for as long as we did on visits...why we would want to just sit and listen to him talk for hours if we could. He may have struggled and made huge mistakes with his own children, but he certainly learned how to do it right with us. He was our Papa. And he was really good at it.

Not long after I moved out of my not-yet-ex-husband's house, Thanksgiving came. I was depressed. I was sad. I was incredibly scared to tell Papa that I was getting a divorce. He came from the thought (as did I until my own divorce occurred) that when you get married, you stayed married. I knew that if I didn't tell him, someone else would. He was in the hospital again, and I decided to forgo turkey and stuffing and spend the day with him. I told him as quickly as I could through tears rolling down my face. He looked heartbroken. But, it was a different kind of heartbreak that I wasn't really expecting. He wasn't heartbroken that I had shamed the family or that I had failed tremendously in some way. It was sincere heartbreak for the pain of his granddaughter. I saw it in his eyes. "I am so sorry. I am so glad you came and told me."

He held my hands with his strong, yet aging, hands and we cried together...again. I told him that I didn't feel up to going to any of the family dinners that day. I told him I wanted to clean his house. He couldn't understand why. I just needed to be around something/someplace that had only loving and familiar feelings associated with it.

He finally said...in all seriousness, "Well, when you go to the farm, don't go down to the barn and play in it. It's falling apart, and I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you while you were playing in the barn."

I was twenty-seven years old.

My "playing in the barn" days were long over. But, not to Papa. I was always six to him. I would forever be picking burrs off of my jeans or running out to the tractor to ride with him. I would be eating single packages of cereal in the morning. I would be swimming in cattle tanks or riding on the back of the 3-wheeler through the creek. I'm glad his mind worked like that. I sometimes wish I could still be doing all of those things...especially this week.

Later on, when it came time for him to move into an assisted living/nursing home, I was worried and struggling with the decision, even though it wasn't mine to make. I called him and told him that I would be completely willing to move out to the farm and take care of him so that he didn't have to live there. He said, "Let me think about it."

About a week later, he called. He said:

"Cari, I think it's wonderful that you would want to help me like that, but you have a life to live. You can't spend years of your life as a young woman taking care of an old man. You have your own family to make and raise."

"But, I want to take care of you. I want to live on the farm."

I was slightly heartbroken because I had nothing else to do. I didn't have a family. I was still depressed at this point, living above a garage with my dog. I wanted to retreat in the safety of that farmhouse. I wanted to have someone else depend on me. I needed to be needed.

But I think, in some strange way...he knew I was trying to hide. He knew I was trying to escape from actually dealing with life. Although I would've been happy to have taken care of him so that he could stay at the farm...he knew it wasn't the right thing to do. The last thing he said to me about this, and I'll remember it until the day I die, was:

"I know you want to do this, but I won't let you. You can't live your life for someone else."

It makes me cry thinking of it at this very moment. He saved me, in a way. In the kindest way possible, he said, "Get your shit together, stop wallowing in that tiny apartment, go out and find your life, and stop trying to hide by taking care of other people."

I got it, Papa. I really did.

Along with the occasional visit, I wrote him letters while he was at Greenbriar Nursing home. Once, he tried to make me think that he was forgetting who everyone was (one thing he always had was a wicked sense of humor).

"Cari wrote me a letter the other day," Papa said to me.

"Oh, yeah?" I said with terror in my voice. This can't be happening. How can he not know who I am? His mind is like steel.

"Yep. Do you know who Cari is?" he asked.

"Um...yeah...uh..." was all I could say.

"It's YOU, silly! You're Cari!"

I could have killed him, but instead I laughed my ass off.

There was once a "Walker Race" at the nursing home. It's pretty self-explanatory. Anyone who used a walker or a cane (he had a cane...sometimes) was eligible to enter. The contestants (Papa included) were to start at the lobby, proceed down the hall, around corner, back down another hall and round a corner back to the lobby.

Upon seeing his "Walker Race" medal one day, he proudly informed me that he had won the race. I wasn't surprised. He honestly could walk without any effort at all at this point. But, what he said next was...well...I was going to say "the surprising part," but I have to admit...I'm really not at all surprised by what came out of his mouth next.

"I won the race. Want to know what I did?"

"Sure," I responded.

"Well, you see...I pretended to use my walker and go really slowly with all of the other residents while the nurses could still see us. Then, as I rounded the corner and was out of eyesight, I carried my walker and ran as fast I could. Then, I slowed down at the last turn where they could see me again and pretended to go slow." A smile and that familiar, mischievous glint in his eye appeared.

Endless laughter. Papa had cheated...against people who literally couldn't speak or think or see straight anymore. He ran.

"Um, wow...I'm really proud of you?" was all I could think to say. But, I was...because he was still going strong in a situation that would make others cry with self-pity.

There were about four "scares" before the final call came. They were usually months apart, and everyone rushed to go see him, and he always bounced back. Always. Every, single time we would get a call that said, "You should really go see Papa. He's not doing well. They think this may be the end." My brother, sister and I (or some combination of those of us who could make it) would show up and he'd be up in bed, smiling and talking.

I think I honestly thought he was invincible at one point.

But, then, two Fridays ago, he said, "I don't think I want to do this anymore." He was in quite a bit of pain. He had never said anything like that before. It was always, "Oh, I'll be fine. Let's try such-and-such medication," and he would always end up just fine. But, not this time. He had finally allowed himself to give up. He was in a lot of pain. His bones were extremely brittle, and he was...tired. I don't blame him one bit.

Three days later, on August 24th, 2009 (what would have been his 68th wedding anniversary), Papa passed away. Fortunately, I got to tell him everything I wanted to tell him...just not this time. I told him all of the "goodbye" stuff about 6 months ago when one of the "scares" was happening. Thinking back, he was probably lying there, half-asleep, thinking, "I'll show her." This time I didn't get to do that, but it's okay. He knew how much I loved him.

I got a call on Monday morning at 7:00am. The screen on my cell phone said, "Dad." I knew. I picked up the phone and said, "Papa died, didn't he?" I didn't even say hello. Then I cried. A lot.

So, Papa...

Thank you one last time. Thank you for wheat fields and sunsets that never seemed to end. Thank you for two-week harvests and cold jugs of water on the hottest summer day. Thanks for having black (and then gray) caterpillar eyebrows. Thanks for being strong and taking care of our family. Thanks for being weak and taking care of yourself. Thanks for telling me no when I needed to hear it. Thank you for showing me the strongest work ethic I have ever seen. Thank you for feeding millions of families. Thank you for being "just a farmer." Thank you for openly talking about the struggles and hardships of your childhood. Thank you for making my childhood so special...when you didn't even get to have one.

I asked my dad if I could have a set or two of those brown stoneware mug and saucer sets you used to drink out of every, single morning. He swiped them from the house. Matt wanted one, too, which I thought was pretty interesting. I think that goes to show that you did a fine job of raising your own son to raise us well, too. Thinking of all of the things we could've asked for...jewelry, furniture, money...I could honestly give a shit.

I just wanted one of those mugs. I'm drinking my morning coffee out of one of them right this very second.

So, Papa, traditions continue. You're right: family is the most important thing we have.

And now that I have this mug, the memory of the hands that built this family are never far from my heart.

p.s. Matt and Shelley and I really wanted to run behind the hearse and push it as it drove away. We should've done it. You would've loved that.

p.p.s. If this little one on the way has anything close to your (or my dad's) sense of humor, I'm in big, big trouble...but in the best possible way.

p.p.p.s. Love. You. Forever.

Are You There, Katie? It's Me, Idiot.

(Everyone who is not Katie Hull Rathkey...please disregard)

Katie,

I'm an idiot. I've been reading your blog forever, and now I can't find the stupid link to it. I have no idea how this happened. You'd think that I'd just send you an email or contact you on Facebook or Myspace to find out this information, wouldn't you?

But, since I'm a dork, I deleted all social networking accounts. I have NO idea why I don't have your email address. This is literally my only way of contacting you. I have to write a blog to try to get your attention. DO YOU HEAR ME, KATIE!?!?

CAN...YOOOUUU...HEEEAAARRR...MEEEE?!?!?!

Tonight, as I went to happily read the tales of your life...I realized that I can no longer read the tales of your life. If you would be so kind as to post your blog link in a comment on MY blog (God, this is so dumb), I would really appreciate it.

I feel lost and alone without access to Katie's World. I swear I tried every single combination of your maiden/married names along with "blog" and "Katie's World," etc. Nothing worked!

I MUST READ YOUR BLOG! And so must others!

Yours bloggily,

Cari

All I Wanna Do is POW-POW-POW-POW...

This morning I was instant messaging with a friend about Obama's Health Care Plan, listening to M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes" (a rap with gun shots and a cash register sound), looking at newborn baby clothes, eating jumbo cashews, writing this blog entry, pretending like my hand was the gun that makes the gun "sound" in the song I'm listening to and cursing up a storm while reading about Obama's blantant neglect of the Gay Rights Movement. I get it, Obama. You're focusing on Health Care...you should. Next, please make all people equal. Thanks.

This shall be a well-rounded child.

Today, I'm getting a washer and dryer. They're fancy and white and shiny and stackable and digital and they play a little song when the cycle is over and I haven't had a washer and dryer in years and I'm about to die.

I get excited about rap, Obama and washer and dryer sets.

The other day, my father-in-law was coming back from football practice in Stillwater. He has a daily radio show on the Sports Animal, so he went to the practice at OSU to check out the team. When he walked in the door, I really wanted to say, "Coach, this is the year, right??!?! I can FEEL it!" but I didn't...because I didn't want to know the real answer.

But, seriously....THIS IS THE YEAR!

Spoken like a true Pokes fan,

Cari

Dreams As Therapy

I continue to have dreams that contain one key player from my past. I tell myself that this is a "purging" of my brain and soul, preparing myself for a clean slate and the arrival of the most important person I will ever meet.

Slowly but surely, the dreams have evolved from brutally graphic and horrifying to...well...simple and healing, maybe?

Last night I listened to him. He calmly told me what happened. I understood. I explained my side. He "got it."

Sometimes when there are no answers in "real" life, you have to make up your own while dreaming.

I also don't recommend quitting therapy after 7 sessions because you don't want to deal with what's happening.

I also don't recommend jumping into a horribly toxic relationship at your first chance.

I do recommend taking 2 years to be by yourself so you can meet a Beau-like someone.

I'm ready for the dreams to go away now. I will never get an answer. I will never get that phone call. I will never hear why. I will never get an apology.

But, in my dream last night I did...and, I suppose that will have to be enough.

The Letting Go...maybe this act of the play can be close to over now, and I can quit holding that pain so close in the back of my mind.

Besides...someone is coming. Someone who puts all of my past to shame. Someone that makes all of that look like a horribly written and directed community theater production.

Horribly written and directed community theater productions are funny.

I will learn to laugh at the audacity of this key player. The audacity that he thought he could be the one to put on "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" while simultaneously playing every role.

No, no, no. He could never pull off George. George is too funny.

And, by the way...this new little person on it's way...

they don't need to put on "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"

...they are Virginia Woolf...

hopefully without the whole rocks-in-pockets-in-river aspect.

I Cry About Dumb Things Now.

A quick list of slightly ridiculous things, events or happenings that have made me cry in the past week. Thanks, hormones!

1. My brother, sister and I recently purchased tickets for the Durango/Silverton steam train for my dad and step-mom. His 65th birthday is coming up, and we wanted to do something special. He has always, always wanted to go on this steam train trip, and now he gets to! Did I cry when we gave him the tickets? No. Here is when I cried:

I decided to watch a video on YouTube of the steam train, winding its way through the mountains. I started to cry. Was I crying because I was excited that my dad finally gets to go on this amazing trip? No. I was crying for the loss of the "Old West."

Seriously. I seriously started crying because the Old West is gone. That's how dumb my brain is now.

2. Last week, while driving through Stillwater, I noticed the new Stillwater High School football stadium. It is amazing. It's huge. It's colossal. With "pregnant brain," I am at a loss for words. I don't know why I like it so much. As I drove down Boomer, past the high school parking lot, I took a gander at the many "jocks" probably heading to practice on a July morning. I started to cry. Was I crying because I was so happy for the "jocks" that they have a new stadium? No. Here is why I cried:

I cried for my lost youth. I just kept thinking, "I will never be that free ever again. I will never have that sense of irresponsibility EVER AGAIN. I can never borrow money from my parents EVER AGAIN. I can never drive around Stillwater, smoking cigarettes with Sarah and Morgan in my '82 Honda Prelude, talking about the Smashing Pumpkins and boys we like EVER AGAIN. I can never have that back. It's gone. Forever. I cried and cried. The nostalgia was too much to handle. I decided to turn my nostalgia into anger, a feeling I'm much more familiar with. "Stupid ass stadium! Think WE could've had a nice stadium? Why do THEY get a kick-ass stadium!?" I drove away, huffing about how WE went to the State Semi-Finals...WE could've used a nice stadium....WE would've completely appreciated a stadium. Don't even get me started on the Performing Arts Center...

3. I know that pigeons are "flying rats" that harbor disease, but I like them. They make me happy. They make me think of Italy and New York City and my grandpa. You see, my grandpa raised racing pigeons. Some of the only memories I have of him before his stroke include going out to the coop, listening to pigeons "coo," and watching/listening to my grandpa pet and talk to them. Pigeons sounds have always been extremely comforting to me...until I moved into my new 90 year-old house. This house was for sale for well over a year. It has large eaves and nooks in which pigeons love to "roost."I don't know why I just put roost in quotations. I'm having a problem with the overuse of quotations right now. When we bought the house, I looked up at the roof and said, "Oh, my god! Look at all those pigeons! How cool!" Beau was not so keen on the idea of having our own "coop" on the roof. Apparently, pigeon droppings ruin your roof. Their poop is like acid, or something like that. Everyone in our neighborhood hates pigeons. They even shoot them. Once a neighbor came over with some sort of bb/pellet gun to loan to us for our "pigeon problem." The gun was sitting in the corner when I came home. I shot Beau a look.

"What the hell is that gun doing in our house?" (You see, I am a "as far to the left" pacifist as you can get.)

"Oh, Giles brought that over to help with the pigeons."

"We're SHOOTING the pigeons now?"

"Well, he was just wanting to help."

"Did you kill any? We do not kill things that soar in this family. Get rid of the gun."

Anyhoo...the other day I saw a dead pigeon on our roof, right outside of my window. I have no idea who killed it, but I do not appreciate them, and I intend to slap them very hard some day. Then, when they say, "OW! Why did you do that?!?" I'll be like, "That's how a pigeon feels when you shoot it with a BB gun, except for THEY DIE." Back to my story: I then witnessed one of the weirdest, saddest things I've ever seen. After an incessant "cooing" by a certain pigeon, (which I promised myself I wouldn't name because it will probably be murdered tomorrow), I looked outside to see the aforementioned dead pigeon. The cooing pigeon then proceeded to poke at the dead pigeon with its beak. It then stepped and hopped all over it, as to say, "Wake up! Are you okay?!?" I then started bawling. I raced to the computer and knew what I had to discover...there was no getting around it....I hurriedly typed in "pigeons mate for life" into Google. Yep. They do. That one cooing pigeon was mourning the loss of its one true love. On my roof. The only "safe" roof in the neighborhood. It was probably even my grandpa, come back to Earth as a pigeon...only to be shot and killed, mercilessly, by the hands of gentrified yuppies, reclaiming their right to live near downtown because it's getting "cool" again. They killed my grandpigeon. So, I cried about that.

4. I don't know how Beau puts up with me. The other day, I cried and cried, uncontrollably because my first husband left me. That's right, people...let's type that out again, with more emphasis on the dumb parts this time:

I cried and cried to my new husband, whom I love with all of my heart and more than anyone else in the entire world...about how my ex-husband left me and never called me once to check on me.

The fact that Beau didn't leave at that very moment still amazes me. In my head it was a perfectly rational experience to be having. It was like I was crying to a girlfriend. I think I even said things like, "But WHY did he leave me? WHY? What did I do to HIM?!" as tears streamed down my face and I got snot all over his nice, buttond0wn work shirt.

He just hugged and held me and said, "I don't know, Cari. He's an idiot. He's a total idiot, and you have every right to be upset. He didn't want to 'work' anymore."

I would respond with, "But, he never called me ONE TIME after our divorce! He never said he was sorry without me asking him to say it!!! WAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!"

"I know, I know. He's ridiculous. I'm so sorry that happened to you."

This. This is what the father of my unborn child said to me while I selfishly cried about my ex-husband.

This, my friends...this is what real love is.

I Promise I Have Other Things to Talk About, But...

When a human is growing inside of you, you pretty much focus on that. Which brings me to what's been annoying me this week. Actually, what I'm about to write about has been annoying me for 12 weeks. Here we go:

Did you know that you're not supposed to eat deli meat when you're pregnant? DELI MEAT. Like, cold cuts. Ham. Turkey. WTF, people? And, if you so choose to eat deli meat, you're supposed to heat it up in the microwave until it's steaming hot. That's sick.

I think this is all complete bullshit. I think a lot of things that I read about pregnancy "dos and don'ts" are complete bullshit. I think they are scare tactics used by doctors and the FDA that make us freak out and not trust our own bodies. I refuse to follow these rules.

No sushi. Too much Mercury. No caffeine. Possible miscarriage. No alcohol. Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. No deli meat. Listeriosis. No hot dogs, undercooked steak (uh, who eats steak WELL DONE???), some recommend no peanuts, no brie, feta or camembert, no shellfish, no raw oysters, very little fish...the list goes on and on.

What am I supposed to eat, people? Bread? Can I only have bread? These rules are completely ridiculous, and I find myself grabbing handfuls of sliced turkey and shoving them into my mouth, just to prove my point. If it comes to having peanut-filled sushi, smeared with brie and a cup of coffee to wash it down...I'll do it, just to prove my point.

If I didn't have my midwives, I would be going insane right now. Do you know what they said? Here it is:

"You can have 1-2 cups of coffee in the morning. It's not going to hurt anything. If the baby is going to miscarry, it's going to miscarry, and there's nothing you can do about it. It's not the coffee's fault, unless you're drinking a pot or two every single day. The coffee will actually help your sloth-like movements and will aid in the help of constipation." (Too much information? Wait until I get to the "mucus plug" stage...and, they didn't really say "sloth-like" movements, even though I wouldn't put it past them, the psychic "Witches of Brookside" that they are!)

They also told me that I could enjoy a glass of wine or a beer on special occasions. They also have special "ladies' nights" for their pregnant clients, and there is wine waiting for them. I haven't been able to enjoy this little luxury because of nausea, but HELLO?!? WINE!!!! YES!!!!

I honestly don't know if I'll be able to bring myself to enjoy a glass of wine while pregnant, though. I know that women do this all over the world all the time, but my mind has been so programmed to associate a sip of wine with fetal alcohol syndrome that I can't fathom doing it...even though I know it's a LIE WE'VE BEEN TOLD. One glass of wine, even once a week, after the 1st trimester is over is not going to do any damage. I know this. And, yet...can't bring myself to do it.

I have also come across some idiots that like to tell me that my choice of having the baby at home, without drugs, in my bedroom with Brian Eno playing is a bad idea and that "what if something goes wrong" and "how will you clean up the mess?" (that was my favorite question...how will I clean up the mess? Are you actually asking this question?) and "You'll really want that epidural." That last statement came from a man. He also called me a hippie and said that I'd been "reading too much" after I explained to him that the American Health/Hospital system has one of the highest infant mortality rates in the world. It's true. Then, I proceeded to get into an argument about where my baby would sleep and that all of the points he was making were outdated and found to be false. So, when he said, "You've been reading too much," I was at my breaking point and responded with, "And, you've obviously read nothing."

Seriously, dude. Don't fuck with my baby plans. I'll rip your balls off with my expert knowledge.

And seriously, though...really, MALE? You really know I'll want that epidural? Did you recently have a large pumpkin come out of your penis? Do you know the kind of pain I can handle when it comes to this shit? (Man, my mouth is getting dirtier and dirtier. I'm going to be a great mom.)

I supposed what I'm trying to covey is that people (especially people who have penises) probably shouldn't tell a pregnant woman what to expect during labor. And, they probably shouldn't tell a woman how much pain she can handle.

My cousin and best friend, Lindsey, had her little baby Luca on Monday. She was going the all-natural way at home with a midwife. She stayed at 9 centimeters for FIVE HOURS, until she couldn't take it anymore. She's 5'2" and tiny. Luca was 21 inches long and 8lbs. 6 oz.

So, MAN WITHOUT VAGINA, you probably shouldn't tell any more women what that feels like, okay? Great. Nice discussing this with you, passive aggressively, through blog writing.

p.s. I hope to not have every blog sound so sarcastic. So far, sarcasm and annoyance are the main two "mood groups" I have right now. People will have to deal.

Okay, So I'm Not the Mother of God, But...

Wow. It's been an extremely long time since I've written anything. I actually have a reason this time! In the past couple of months I have:

1. Quit my job.
2. Moved.
3. Begun renovating a 90 year-old house.
4. Got knocked up.

That's right, folks. Ol' fun, drinking, smoking Cari is out the window. I am 10 weeks and 5 days along in this little "miracle" called "creating life."

And, now for the honesty that we have all come to know and love about me:

This sucks. It's really hard. I feel sick. I feel insane.

I have already read four books about pregnancy. The only one that even came CLOSE to describing what I've been feeling is a book called "Belly Laughs" by Jenny McCarthy. Yes, I can relate to a former Playboy Playmate better than a doctor.

Here are a list of things "they," meaning EVERYONE IN THE WHOLE WORLD, don't tell you before you get pregnant:

1. Not every woman is ecstatic by the sight of her positive pregnancy test. In fact, I think that I screamed, "This CANNOT be right! Are you fucking kidding me?" A wave of slight excitement came later. It was slight. We weren't trying. We weren't NOT trying (nice double negative). But, I had been painting a 90 year-old house with the windows closed, stripping a fireplace, smoking and losing weight for the past two weeks...not to mention I had more than a couple drinks at Mayfest. Not really the "ideal" time to get pregnant. (Fortunately, I was later told that latex paint is okay, and I immediately quit smoking the instant I found out.)

2. You will be filled with a rage unlike any you've ever felt from about Week 6 to about....oh, I don't even know when that will stop. It is not a constant rage. But, it is a dangerous one. Annoyed is not the word. Infuriated is. Hormones are evil, evil little things. I wouldn't wish a bad hormonal imbalance on my worst enemy. My poor, poor husband. We have made a pact that there will be no "unprovoked conversation" any time soon on his part. The other night, his breathing annoyed me so badly that I had to leave the room.

3. You will have feelings about your husband that are irrational, senseless, cruel, mean and absolutely ridiculous, and you will have no control over it. You will literally think, "I can't stand you. Get the hell away from me. Wait, that's not how I feel. But, it is. I hate him. But, I don't! I love him the MOST! But, I DO! GET AWAY and NEVER TOUCH ME AGAIN! But, wait...don't leave me. Don't leave me here alone...but, seriously...FUCKING get OUT of my FACE!"

You will. You will have those thoughts, and you will cry long and hard about them until you can finally look back on these early weeks and laugh. NOT fun, my friends. NOT FUN.

4. The whole "don't touch me" thing lasts longer than anyone should ever have to deal with. It sucks.

5. Apathetic is the only word I can find to describe how I feel about this pregnancy. I'm trying to be extremely honest here, because no one was with me. I felt complete and total apathy until about 2 days ago...a slight sense of attachment came, but it was only slight. At one point of rage/Crazy Bitch/Cari-the-Crier/freak out-mode, I actually said these words, and I repeat them now so that any woman who ever goes through this knows she's not alone:

"I don't care about this anymore. I want it to go back to the way it was. I want a fucking beer and a cigarette and to not feel sick and to want to have sex and for all of this to go away."

This statement was then followed by waves of guilt. But, you know what? It's how I felt, and I am soooo tired of reading things written by pregnant women that say, "Oh, it's a glorious time! I can't believe how anyone would complain about any of it! It's such a gift! The nausea can be a pain, but it gets better!" Uh, people? It's a bit different than that, mmmkay?

I never felt like this was a glorious time even once. I'm sure I will someday. But, as of now, I'd like to stab some people, throw some things, feel absolutely wonderful again for just ONE day, not gain weight without my consent, be able to make it through one day without crying and not want to throw up if I even see the word barbecue. (I craved barbecue for two weeks straight. I would have fantasies about drinking an entire bottle of barbecue sauce. I hated barbecue before this. I hate it again. See? How can you be rational about pregnancy when THIS shit happens?)

6. You will have such intense cravings for certain foods that you honestly might revert back to childhood fits if you don't get what you want. This weekend I required TWO trips to a baked potato bar. Two. I literally had to leave my home in 100+ degree weather to get baked potatoes on TWO separate occasions. It was ridiculous and so, SO good. I slathered them with butter, sour cream and melty cheese. God, I could eat another one right now.

7. No one will talk to you about anything besides being pregnant, the baby, things they're going to buy for the baby, how often they want to see the baby, where they're going to take the baby, and "how you're feeling" if they know of the pregnancy. If I had known this fact, I would've waited until 38 weeks to tell some people. I could just explain away the stomach with a malnutrition lie or something like that. But, honestly...your brain is not interesting anymore. Only the tiny, kumquat-sized being inside of you (that you haven't even emotionally connected with, mind you) is important now. Only that. Please don't try to talk to anyone about world events or the recent article you read in the New Yorker. They don't care. They only care about the baby. Now, here's the weird part:

Even though you haven't emotionally connected with the baby, you are still extremely protective, not unlike a mother bear, when people try to tell you how they're going to spend time with the baby or what the baby will wear, or what the baby will sleep in, or how the baby will be birthed, etc. That is when all maternal instinct kicks in, and you smile politely, but INSIDE, you're thinking,

"I will fucking kill you if you think for ONE SECOND you have ANY SAY in how this baby will be RAISED, what it will DO, how it will SLEEP, what it will be NAMED, how long you can watch it, etc. You have to run it by me to even BREATHE by this baby. This is MY baby. This is my HUSBAND'S baby. Touch my baby OR my belly without asking and it will be your last move on this Earth."

These thoughts made/make me smile because I was starting to feel guilty about the apathy. Nice to know that I would kill someone if they got too "handsy."

8. I'm really making this out to sound really wonderful, huh? Did I mention the tiredness? No?

9. Your energy will be that of a sloth. A sloth that is trying its hardest to make the simple movement of reaching for a leaf. And, yet...it cannot.

10. Some days you will say, "I don't want to talk about the baby." And, that's okay.

11. Don't tell anyone what you're naming the baby (unless you really, really trust them) until it's born. Ever. It's none of their damn business, and in your fragile emotional state, you don't need their disapproving glances. It will just make you sad and turn into the Mama Bear woman that I described above.

12. You will love a certain name for about 3 days and then think, "I can't believe I was ever going to name my child that. That's the dumbest name EVER."

13. You will freak out and wonder if you will lose your entire sense of being due to this little kumquat thing inside of you. You will wonder if you'll ever be "cool" again. You will actually say to your friends, "But, tell me if I'm not being cool, okay? Tell me if I'm turning into one of those moms." They will agree to watch out for tapered jeans with elastic waists that suddenly appear in your closet, or any sign of sentences such as, "Little Johnny just has so much going on that I never get a moment to myself! Soccer, karate, tap dancing...it just takes up my whole day!" This sentence will never happen in my household. Little Johnny will have to sit and read or draw, patiently, while mommy finishes her painting or drinks a glass of wine. Little Johnny's life does not become all that is my life. Biggest fear. Written out. For all to see.

14. Everything will start to get better in about 2 weeks. Everyone says it will. You have to believe them. You have to.

15. Your back will hurt and cause you to have to stop writing blogs in mid-sentence because you're too