Words, words, words, art.

The Blatherings Of A Blitherer

Things are going to change!


For those of you unaware, ScaryGoRound is ending on the 11th, and will relaunch as something new with less of an imposing archive. John Allison does NOT get the credit or attention he deserves, and Bobbins and ScaryGoRound have both been really excellent strips. I’m excited about what’s coming up next.

Nesko has Monday off (Labor Day!) and we are going to celebrate by working our butts off trying to get the new place ready. The ceiling and possibly some of the walls in the bathroom still need to be pulled down, cleaned out, let to air out, and then replaced. I think the sun room is entirely painted. Once we’ve gotten the living room finished (it’s about 1/3 painted) and the dining room finished (not even started) we’re going to start moving stuff over– mostly all of the boxes we’ve packed so far (books, book, books, extra kitchen stuff, board games, books, out of season clothing) and furniture we don’t use as much. Once that’s out, we’ll have a lot more room here and I’ll post some of the extra furniture we have for sale on craigslist (an old but awesome cabinet sewing machine, some small shelves, a bread maker, maybe a rice maker if I can find all the parts, some chairs).

I am so looking forward to the new apartment. It’s going to be really lovely when we’re done with it, and next year we’re going to start work on the common areas (front and back entryway/stairs), clear out the parking area, do some landscaping, etc. It will be a lot of work, but the building is fantastic.

I got my hairs cut on Wednesday. That’s right, I got all of them cut! I don’t know if I mentioned this, but part of my post partum life has included massive hair loss. Just… chunks of hair coming out. This is normal, but not often talked about. I developed two bald patches that are now thickly furred with new hair. The fallen stuff IS being replaced. However, hair is still falling out and clogging up the drains, getting all over the house, etc. So I got my hair cut pretty short and I love it a lot. Every time I get my hair cut I think “Oh! I love having short hair! This is so great!” and then I go through that awkward growing out phase and HAAAAAAAAAAAATE, and then it’s long again and I think “Oh! I love having long hair! This is so versatile! Also if I cut it I’ll have to go through that awkward growing out phase that I hate!” and I keep it long for a while and then cut it again. It’s the circle of hair life, you see.

I borrowed Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: The Classic Regency Romance – Now with Ultraviolent Zombie Mayhem!, and it was pretty ok. Some of the zombie stuff was tightly integrated to the plot and just really, really worked. Other stuff stuck out obtrusively and was kind of gross-out slapstick. The fact that so much of it was so well integrated made the crap stuff even crappier. I don’t regret reading it and if someone I know has Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters I will try to borrow and read it as well. However, I wouldn’t pay for either of these books. I do want to re-read Pride and Prejudice (Penguin Classics), and luckily for me I’ve found it on Project Gutenberg.

In babby news, he is sticking out his tongue, sitting up, eating peaches (millions of peaches, peaches for free), and generally being adorable.

posted under baby, Chicago, crass materialism, fiction, hair, health, life, moving, packing, review | Comments Off on Things are going to change!

My Left Foot


I am… not the most agile, graceful person around. I do not leap nimbly about like some prima ballerina assoluta gazelle. I don’t lumber, but I am myopic and I also have astigmatism which means that straight lines don’t quite look straight, and I can’t always tell where things are. Like doors. Door frames. Walls. Stairs. I… sometimes? I fall down.

Lately I’ve been mangling my left foot. I managed to kick the bathroom door a few months ago, and scraped up a freaking BLOOD BLISTER along the entire length of my pinky toe. It took a month for that to resolve, and I was very afraid I was going to lose the toe nail. What was I doing when this kicking debacle took place? Was I lashing out in door-kicking rage? Stomping about in a fury? No. I was… walking to the bathroom.

On Saturday I did not step high enough over a plastic bin that Nesko was sorting the contents of. I have stumpy legs as well, you see. I managed to stub/scrape the three littlest toes on my left foot, splitting the nail of the second-to-smallest toe in half, about halfway down.

Why yes, this did hurt!

I shudder to think what disgraceful hell I will put my poor foot through next. Perhaps I will drop an axe on it, or accidentally step in front of a steam roller. Or maybe I’ll drop a bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade beer on my big toenail. Yeah. That sounds like something I’d do.

In other news, my 5 month old infant totally loves it when I toss him up in the air and catch him. Nesko thinks perhaps I shouldn’t do this as I am “not the most… coordinated… person around.” But how can I deny that hopeful look, that gummy drooling smile, that impending laugh? I used to lie awake at night terrified that I would drop this precious, fragile, meat sack creature. Now I toss him in the air. Good times. Good times.

posted under baby, health, life | Comments Off on My Left Foot

Shoes, betch


Dear Internets:
I got fat feet.

It is hard to be a lay-dee with fat feet because shoe designers apparently think that all women have narrow feet and lack toes and have shortened Achilles tendons and therefore are very comfortable on stupidly tall heels.

Fuck that noise.

I had a pair of all-purpose slip-on shoes that I would wear to check the mail or take the trash out or do laundry. They were by the back door, and were very convenient and looked pretty decent, too. And then one day Nesko dropped my set of glass stacking bowls on the floor and they exploded into a million glittering shards, many of which landed in those shoes. In the interest of not getting glass bits embedded in my feet, I threw those shoes out. This began the quest for replacement shoes.

By “quest” I mean “wandering down to Payless and scowling at their limited selection.” They only had 3 pair of shoes total in wide widths in my size, and those were 2 pair of sneakers and 1 pair of insanely tall heels. I headed into the dude’s shoe section, which greatly disturbed the only man there, as well as everyone working there. They kept asking me if I needed help. OH NO I AM TOO STUPID TO KNOW THAT I AM LOOKING AT DUDELY SHOES.

I am apparently a 6.5 or 7 in dudely shoes, and am now the owner of a pair of slide on sandals. They don’t have a toe-thong, so I can wear them with socks if I want to (why would I want to? eh. It’s good to have options) and have 2 straps over the top of the foot with buckles so I can adjust them to my fat feet. I think they will work out pretty ok.

I also looked at baby shoes. They are so cute I almost died. Right there. In the store. While listening to Electric Six. Then I looked at the prices and came back to life. Shoes for infants: biggest scam in the world, or simply misguided?

posted under baby, clothes, CONSUME, life | Comments Off on Shoes, betch

A Day Out In Chicago


I had to run downtown to pick up Nesko’s check yesterday, so I took the 151 Sheridan bus because it picks up a block away from the apartment and drops off almost directly in front of where I needed to be. I stuck Nick in the sling and off we went! Since it was like 1pm there was hardly anyone on the bus except for old people and students. The handicap priority seating section at the front was pretty full of frail looking elderly folks with canes. At one stop, a woman in a wheelchair was waiting, and just about everyone in that section cleared out as quickly as they could (which was pretty slowly). One old guy who looked to be in his late 70s or so and had a cane and shaky hands put up some seats so she’d have a place to park herself, and sat in the first row of fixed seats. She had some troubles getting on the bus and in place because her chair was manual and the bus aisle is kind of a tight space to work in. But she made it and we were off, and I was all “oh, Chicago, I love you. Chicagoans take care of other people.” I’ve seen this happen before, frequently, with folks helping other folks with strollers or wheely carts or what have you on and off the bus, or helping people dig out their cars after snow storms, or pulling over to help push or jumpstart cars. Chicago’s a big city, but it’s also a pretty friendly city. Which makes the random assholes really stick out.

As we trundled along a lot of people got off the bus. Old dude moved back up to his previous seat, which was the first front-facing handicap priority seat. Because he has a cane, it was easier for him to get up and down, as there were no seats in front of him. See? Anyway, he was on the right side of the bus and nobody at all was sitting on the left side of the handicap accessible seating. A woman in a motorized wheelchair boarded and started yelling at him to get out of her way. He politely put the inward facing seats up for her so she’d have a place to park her chair. He didn’t have to do that. There was much more space on the other side of the bus, and he didn’t owe her anything. He could have let HER put the seats up herself. She continued yelling at him, telling him that she needed to be where he was. He didn’t move, so she BACKED INTO HIM, PINNING HIM TO THE SEAT.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a highly offended voice.

“I TOLE YOU I NEEDED TO BE WHERE YER AT!” she bellowed at him and moved slightly forward so he could get up.

It was hard for him to get up, but he managed it, and even put the seat up for her, his old man hands shaking. She zipped into place and locked her wheels. The bus driver did absolutely NOTHING about the assault that just took place, and we set off. She got off about ten minutes later and old dude moved BACK to his seat of choice. After about fifteen minutes ANOTHER person in a wheelchair got on. Old dude tensed up. The third person in a wheelchair maneuvered his with his mouth. Had one of those special controllers. He was also the most graceful of the three. He ALSO took his place on the left side of the bus, where nobody was sitting. Somebody put the seats up for him because, again, Chicago is pretty awesome.

Nick and I got off the bus and picked up Nesko’s check and some tax forms and then walked to the Ogilvie Train Station, which is in the Citigroup Building, which looks like a waterfall made of glass. I was going to stop by Garret’s Popcorn, but then decided not to because that would just complicate matters, so we walked to the train station. Because I get lost at the drop of a hat I did go slightly out of my way, but I didn’t get LOST lost. It was about a mile walk, much of it under elevated trains that roared by overhead. The noise barely bothered Nick; the sun in his eyes did and he screwed his face up against it. Walking a mile with a baby strapped to my chest with 3 layers of jersey knit fabric made me sweat a fair amount, I’ll admit it. When we got to the train station my feet hurt because I need new shoes, and we trudged inside into the coolth. I took him out of the sling and put my jacket on a table and put him on top of that so he could look at the ceiling and de-sweatify a bit. I bought and ate some shitty bourbon chicken at the food court. In retrospect, I should have gotten a gyros. I bought and drank a bottle of water and a bottle of lemonade. I found a Garret’s Popcorn stand at the train station. BOOYAH! We had an uneventful train trip to Nesko’s office.

On the drive home we encountered a one-two punch of the sun being in Nick’s eyes and him being hungry, so we pulled into a McDonalds to feed him and refresh ourselves. I was still thirsty as all hell, so Nesko got a jumbo McLarge huge soda. There were some old ladies Holding Court and I learned the following:

  • People from the Islands of Greece are totally different from people from the mainlands! They didn’t specify why, so if you know, please tell me!
  • Nesko is totally diabetic because he got THREE REFILLS OF SODA omg! (note: he only got 1 refill and we (I) only drank half of the second refill). Excessive thirst is a sign of diabetes! And too much sugar causes diabetes! It is a one-two punch of irony! He is OBVIOUSLY in his THIRTIES and it is SO SAD that he HAS DIABETES and DOESN’T KNOW IT and is GOING TO DIE. MAYBE HE SHOULD GET THAT LOOKED AT.
  • We are UTTERLY TERRIBLE PARENTS for hauling our baby around in upper 70s degree sunny weather with NO COVER AT ALL on him. NONE. There was NO COVER on that baby we were carrying. HOW SAD. What a POOR BABY.

They were pretty loud with their personal, judgmental observations, unlike the douchebag who sat next to us and Held Forth to his sister about what filthy whores women are!

Did you know that the most people a woman should ever date is two? That’s it! Any more and she’s a HOOOOOOER. And they should never ever ever cheat on a dude because it’s much harder for a dude to be cheated on than a chick. And if a dude cheats on a chick, that chick should just suck it up and deal, because it’s dudely nature to do so, and far too many chicks turn into hard unfeeling bitchez when dudes cheat on them. WHATEVER, BITCHEZ.

He then ran down Shitty Girlfriends He’s Dated.

  • The chick who kissed someone else before they started going out. Sure, she denied it, but he totally knows the dude she kissed and he totally said she did it, so it totally served her right that he told all her friends she was a giant whorebag slut and ruined her reputation and made all her friends hate her. Because she was a giant whorebag slut. Seriously. What kind of girl KISSES a DUDE? She should have held herself forever pure in anticipation of dating HIM! Bitch.
  • The chick who didn’t understand the complicated directions he gave her over the phone. What a moron! Good thing he told all her friends what a complete and utter retard she is and made them all hate her! I mean, if she wanted friends she shouldn’t have dared question him, amirite?
  • The chick who came over to his parents’ house for Christmas and got all upset when he ignored her for half an hour to text other chicks. What a bitch! Good thing he cussed her out and made her cry! Bitchez, gotta put them in their place, amirite? How dare she expect basic human consideration and for her host to act like a host and not ignore her to focus on other people who aren’t even there! She should have made stiff, polite conversation with his parents who she doesn’t know instead!
  • That cunt he dated who farted all the time. Don’t worry. He made sure to tell EVERYONE that she farted constantly and that they were RAUNCHY AS ALL HELL. Bitch should put a cork in it and stop assailing his delicate nose with her bodily functions. Don’t worry. People stopped talking to her for a LONG time after he spoke with them! THAT will show her!

There was also a dude pacing outside the restaurant talking on his cellphone.
“I don’t know what to do. I’m essentially useless without that wand, but I could sell it and buy a lot more wands!”

Oh, fast food restaurants. You expose such a delightful cross section of humanity!

posted under baby, Chicago, cta | Comments Off on A Day Out In Chicago

State Aid (contains fuckwords)


Once upon a time, in my parents’ time to be exact, a single income household spent 50% of its income on basics like rent/mortgage, utilities, and food. Now a dual income household spends 75% of its income on the same. I’m not even talking luxuries like “a car” or “cable tv” or “vacations” or any of that shit. Basic needs. The cost of living has skyrocketed, but for most people pay hasn’t risen to match.

We are currently two adults and a baby living on one incredibly shitty income. So I figured, hey, I might as well fall back on one of those safety nets my taxes have been paying for since I was 16 and started paying taxes. I put things in motion to apply for WIC, which is essentially food stamps/aid for Women, Infants, and Children. If you’re a guy and you’re hungry, fuck you. Women and kids only. Also, they’re only open during “normal business hours” or less, so if you work or rely on someone who has a car but works, you’re fucked. Unless you take time off of work, of course. Which for most people making shit money means you lose income on that day because you’re not exactly rolling in vacation/sick time. So just fucking APPLYING to WIC costs money, assuming you have a job.

I had tried several times to contact a WIC office, but they consistently had no working phone lines. Or else had nobody answering the phones. Or just didn’t care to answer the phones. All I kept getting was a recorded message with the hours of operation and a request to not leave a message. I finally got ahold of someone and found out that:
1) I had to come in person
2) I had to bring my nine week old infant with me (because if there’s one thing you want to do with an infant, it’s expose him to as many crowded, germy places as possible!)
3) I had to bring a bunch of paperwork with me.

I figured out how to get there via public transit, and that just left hauling a heavy stroller, carseat, and baby up and down flights of stairs and onto and off of the bus. Which, you know, considering I just had major fucking abdominal surgery was less than fun.

But I did it!

I got off the bus 3 or so blocks from the place I was supposed to be at, and looked in the diaper bag for the address and paperwork I’d brought with me. Only to discover, of course, that I’d left it at home. Along with my inhaler and pads. But I had diapers!

I almost turned my sweat self around to go back home. I mean, I didn’t have my paperwork. Why continue? But I am already “in the system” because I use state insurance and have 2 caseworkers (one who knows stuff and one who is either brain dead or the laziest fucker on the face of the planet), I have the fucking baby, I have my fucking photo ID, maybe we could at least put the ball in motion, right?

I walk to the building, which has steep stairs in front of it.

I have to walk around the entire fucking building before I get to an entry that has a ramp. That entry does not have automatic doors, so I had to wrestle the stroller through narrow doors while holding them open. I am, once again, really damn glad I’m not in a wheelchair because this little expedition, like so many others, would have been impossible if I were. Good job, city of Chicago/State of Illinois. Once inside the building, everything was labeled incredibly poorly and solely in English, which is a bit surprising considering the VAST majority of people there were not native English speakers. I got in line at the information desk to ask where I was supposed to go when a guy wandered in front of me and started talking to the employee. They had a GRIPPING fifteen minute conversation about ferns before I finally gave up and just started asking random people where WIC was. It’s downstairs. I headed down. Once down, I had to wander around because there were no actual signs indicating where to go.

I finally stumbled upon a large room with a bunch of folding chairs, women and their kids, and two cubicles. The cubicles are labeled “milk program” and “food coupons.” There’s two cafeteria type tables covered in hand outs, but no place to sign in and nothing saying that this is, actually, WIC. Apparently I made an appointment so I could just stand around in a room full of other people. Efficient!

I finally got hold of an employee and asked if there was a sign in sheet or someplace else I was supposed to go if I had an appointment. “an appointment for what?”

I was thrown by that mother fucking question because everyone EVERYONE everyone I’ve talked to concerning WIC has stressed that you motherfucking need a motherfucking appointment and can’t just walk in. But apparently WIC employees don’t know this!

Remember I said I didn’t bring my paperwork with me? It turns out that didn’t even matter because there’s a bunch of fucking paperwork I never got that was supposed to have been filled out by Nick’s doctor concerning his weight and height and stuff. Which led to a really fun “who’s on first” type conversation where I kept asking when I was supposed to have received this and from whom and who was supposed to fill it out and did I need to make a special fucking trip to the doctor just to get this fucking paperwork filled out. The answer is, no, I don’t need to make a “special” trip, I need to make a “necessary” trip. Oh! Well ok then!

Then I was advised to stop seeing the pediatrician I’d BEEN seeing, who has all of Nick’s records, and switch to the over crowded clinic upstairs. Oh, hey, that’s a great idea! Let me switch from the office that’s five minutes away and has extended hours to the one that’s fifteen minutes away and has incredibly limited hours! Fabulous! That makes total fucking sense! I was then told to go upstairs to said clinic and hope they could see me that day! Because a clinic that’s so crowded it has people waiting outside of it should be able to squeeze us in! And they could totes fill out that paperwork even though they didn’t have any of his medical records! And pigs could totally fly out my ass while flocks of angels descend from heaven singing the glories of the efficiency of State institutions!

I got my first paying job when I was sixteen, and I’ve been paying taxes ever since then. Which means I’ve been paying into WIC and other social safety nets the entire time, as has my husband and my parents and my brothers and my in-laws. I would really really like to use this service that I have been paying for for the past fourteen years but they seem to operate under the idea that if you make it hard/frustrating enough for people they’ll stop trying to use said service. Which is essentially why I stopped going to Stroger hospital for followup care after I had my miscarriage, despite the threat of OMG ECTOPIC PREGNANCY SEPSIS DEATH INFECTION. I mean, I’m sorry, but I like my bathroom stalls to have doors, you know? Also, when I make an appointment and have to travel an hour and a half to keep it? It’d be nice if it weren’t randomly canceled.

I hate relying on the government for this kind of shit not because OMG WELFARE QUEEN SHAME SHAME BOOTSTRAPS SHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAME but because I know that I’m going to get treated as less than human when I try to avail myself of the services. For WIC, you have to make an appointment, but once in the office, you just sit in a chair wondering if you’re in the right place until a cubicle has an empty seat. You aren’t told what paperwork to bring, which renders the visit a waste of time, and it’s assumed that you haven’t had any doctor’s visits for the kid. Automatically assumed. The building, like just about every safety net related building I’ve been too, is barely handicap accessible and the vast majority of signs (when there ARE signs) are in English only, leaving those who aren’t fluent in English fucked. Hours are incredibly limited, making it hard for people to use the services at all.

I’m out an hour and a half of my time, spent $4.50 on transit, and my back hurts from carrying baby equipment up and down stairs and wrestling with doors, and I have nothing to show for it. And I can’t move forward on this until I straighten out the doctor paperwork, at which point I’m sure there’ll be surprise! other paperwork I need to fill out/obtain/sign with the blood of a unicorn.

posted under baby, social responsibility | Comments Off on State Aid (contains fuckwords)

Oh, so that’s why. Ok.


For those of you who haven’t been following along closely, I had a C-Section on March 16th. It was pretty normal and boring and run of the mill, and recovery has been tedious and infuriating but really, it’s been normal and boring and run of the mill. For the most part. I started hormonal birth control 2 weeks ago instead of waiting for my menstrual cycle to resume because really, who could say when I was going to start again? Hormones! So mysterious! So I just jumped right into the pack of pills.

Two weeks into them and I have my period.

GOOD JOB UTERUS. Nice to know we’re all on the same page.

Also, thanks so much for starting on Mother’s Day. I’d punch you if that wouldn’t be a spectacularly bad idea.

Anyway! I have cramps. This is pretty normal for me except for one thing.

I can feel where they sliced into and then stitched up my uterus.

Everywhere else is kind of “ho hum cramp cramp cramp ow cramp whatevs” but in the front? It’s like I’m being stabbed. Sort of. Or being touched with a length of hot wire.

How bad is it? So bad that advil and ibuprofin don’t touch the pain, and I took some vicodin.

I’m also feeling tired and out of it which, again, is pretty normal for when I have my period. Except! I talked to my mom and told her I had an owie and she was all “OH NO MAYBE YOU ARE BLEEDING INTERNALLY GO LOOK AT THE INSIDE OF YOUR EYELIDS.”

Outwardly, I was all “Maaaan, I’m not bleeding internally, I just have my period and some excruciating pain. Major abdominal surgery! Remember?” Inwardly, however, I was all “OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD HOLY FUCK I AM BLEEDING INTERNALLY I AM GOING TO DIE WHAT THE FUCK NOOOOOOOOOOO.” and taking constant stock of just how tired and shaky and out of it I felt.

Then I ate some dinner and felt better.

In short, there is a reason I’m a nerve-wracked hypochondriac who always assumes the worst, and that reason is named Gretchen and gave birth to me.

posted under baby, body issues | Comments Off on Oh, so that’s why. Ok.

Blood, stones, etc.


I had to get blood taken yesterday for labwork. I also had to run downtown on a quick errand (time spent traveling to and from downtown: an hour and a half. time spent on errand: ten minutes max. WOO PUBLIC TRANSIT.)

Anyway, as usual I dreaded the labwork, and since my initial errand took so long I couldn’t go to the lab I was supposed to go to because they were closing and had to nip by the hospital (which was only half a block away, so no huge deal).

I had to do an insulin test which involved more, UGH, Glucola and sitting around for an hour. If you ever need to do an insulin test or glucose resistance test (while pregnant) avoid the red glucola. It is foul. The yellow is ok, the orange is ok. Well, they are terrible, but they are less unrelentingly foul than the red stuff. The colder the better, and don’t let them pour it into a cup. Just straight up take the cap off the little plastic jug and chug the fucker down. I almost didn’t get through the glucola drink this time around because they gave me a cup and I had to keep stopping and refilling the cup and once you stop drinking glucola it is very hard to go back to drinking it.

The last time I had blood taken (which was at this same hospital) it took 45 minutes and three phlebotomists to do it. I forget how many times they stuck me. This time it only took 20 minutes (ho ho ho, “only”), two phlebotomists, and seven sticks. I eventually just had them stick the inside of my wrist.

“Oh, but that hurts!”

“You have stuck me six times and bruises are already forming. You think that doesn’t hurt? Just… just get it over with.”

They did, and got three vials of blood from me. WOW.

I felt really shakey after that and trudged across the street to the handy diner that’s there. Of course, I had no cash and they don’t take credit or debit cards. Defeated, I trudged back to the bus stop to head home. I talked to Nesko on the phone and he kept remarking how tired and out of it I sounded. The upside of this is that his mom (God bless her. One million times. ) Kept Nick overnight. Nesko stayed the night there too, with the plan that he would bring Nick home in the morning before work, but I woke up at 9:30am and no baby! So I guess Nesko was too tired to get up early and bring the baby home. Anyway, Nesko dropped by the apartment last night to pick up clean clothes for himself and some other stuff and was upset at how tired and out of it and crappy I looked. I tried to protest that I wasn’t THAT tired, but kept stuttering every time I talked to him, so… yeah.

I fell thousands times better today, although I have a huge bruise flowering on the inside of my wrist and inside both elbows.

I eagerly await the day saliva can be used instead of blood for diagnostic issues.

posted under baby, health, Nesko | Comments Off on Blood, stones, etc.

Hungry like the vole, not the wolf.


I’m back on antidepressants and that’s basically the only reason I’m alive right now.

Wait, wait. It’s not as dire as it sounds.

Basically, one of the ways my depression manifests itself is through brutal insomnia. It’s hard for me to get asleep. It’s hard for me to stay asleep. My quality of sleep sucks ass, and after what most people would consider a good night’s sleep I wake up groggy and exhausted. I have dreams about being tired and trying to get to sleep, ok? So I’m on Wellbutrin again (more precisely, the generic form) and… my sleep problems aren’t entirely solved, but it’s way easier for me to get and stay asleep and my quality of sleep is much improved. I can get by on seven hours of sleep a night instead of, you know, thirteen. Which is nice, as OMGTHEBABY recently decided that sleep is for CHUMPS and he’s only going to sleep for two hour stretches at a time, interrupted by feeding sessions that last for half an hour. Half an hour is about how long it takes to wake up completely, even in a dark room snuggling a baby.

So everything’s good, right? Well… no. One of Wellbutrin’s side effects, which is sometimes used as a main attraction, is that it’s an anorectic. In laymen’s terms? I keep forgetting to eat. Yesterday? I hate a half cup of jello, a glass of grape juice, and a half cup of cottage cheese. That’s all I had until dinner, when I ate like a normal person with Nesko (spinach lasagna, hot bread, and a lemon square). That’s not really enough to survive on, you know? Especially as I’m grappling with the beast known as BREASTFEEDING which requires approximately 500 extra calories a day on top of a normal diet.

So I don’t feel hungry most of the time and when I do sit down to eat, Nikola wakes up and decides he is hungry also and I tend to him and sometimes forget that I was about to eat something OR feel hungry and head-achey.

I’ll get used to this. I’ll manage it. But it’s frustrating right now. And more frustrating is the fact that my state-sponsored insurance (that, you know, my taxes pay for) runs out 60 days after Nikola’s birth, so I don’t know what I’m going to do for brain drugs after that point. Maybe my doctor will be willing to write a prescription for 12 refills or something to get me through a year. I’m not suicidal without medication, but when I’m on it I’m much more productive. I mean yesterday I folded laundry, cleaned the kitchen, made lasagna from scratch, made lemon squares from a mix, and did some other stuff. And took care of a two week old infant. Without medication? I’d mostly sit on the couch blankly. Not in some dark well of distress or anything, just… blank. Lethargic.

In other health news, I haven’t taken omeprazole in two weeks and my stomach is fine. No indigestion, no heart burn, no searing pain and projectile vomiting. HURRAH! Cutting out an incredibly stressful job and then being not pregnant have apparently done the trick.