"Apology accepted. But only because you stammered."

I’m freezing my ass off. All day, into the night, until about 4 am when I wake up covered in sweat. I get creeped out, (I rarely sweat) cool off, go back to sleep and wake up only to get out of bed to freeze again. My house is 75 degrees you guys. I’m wearing long sleeves and (the rattiest least attractive go buy some new effin clothes) sweatpants and I shiver my way through the day. I was at the really cute portion of the pregnancy. My ass hadn’t ballooned out of control, rivaling my stomach in it's girth, and you could tell I was pregnant as opposed to wow, lay off the cookies and do some sit ups. I put on my jeans today, and they buttoned right up. A little tight, but no big deal at all. You can’t even tell anymore. I’m not at my pre baby weight, but you can’t tell that last week I was 23 weeks pregnant. It went that fast. Of course I cried. It’s what I do right now, damn it. G keeps waking up hella early from her naps this week to poop it turns out. I’m scared about what this means. I’ve been ignoring her until the normal wake up time because each day I think; no way, it can’t be that again. I had to go grocery shopping again. I was going to leave G home with her dad because hello, shopping is super boring for a 2 year old so they do their best to liven things up, which doesn’t always work out in the shopper’s favor. But then I remembered I lost my shit last time, and I realized being alone is not the best plan for me right now. So poor G had to come with me to keep mommy sane. Acting anyway. On the way there we discussed how she could not ride in the truck cart because she acts like a crazy person, grabbing things off the shelf and dive bombing her way out of the sides. She seemed agreeable until we arrived and she saw the truck cart. Now don’t get me wrong, we have 2 year old fits pretty regularly, but when I told her she couldn’t ride in it she Lost. Her. Mind. Screaming at the top of her lungs, hitting, kicking, it was quite a display. Luckily I worked at a group home for 10 years so a child screaming without actually being able to do any physical damage to the place or me didn’t really stress me out. I took her out of eyesight of the offending truck, and whispered to her until she calmed down. It took a bit, but it finally worked. I was pretty proud of us both, she went on to behave very well, I didn’t give in or bribe her with my phone, which I’m not against in emergencies. Go us. My face is full of zits so big they’re like the hunchback of Notre Dame. It is out of control. They aren’t even the ones you can mess with, they’re under like 10 layers of skin just sitting there, growing a heart beat they hurt so much. Wow. I have received the phone number and name of the person I should call to see a therapist. I’m grateful for the help in getting it, now it’s up to me. Hopefully I can pick up the phone soon. We go to pick up our son today. Well, not him. His ashes. It’s cold, wet and dreary outside, fitting background for this. We have this memory box on our dresser from the hospital that I look over at to reassure myself this is not some nightmare. Sometimes it just seems like it’s too much, there’s no way this could be my reality. But it’s there, and I can touch it, so it’s real. I don’t know how I’m going to feel about bringing home his ashes. I guess we’ll find out. I’m going to have to figure out conversations to have with G. I don’t want this to be a forbidden subject, it’s very much affecting me, and my life, so hers as well. I try not to cry too much in front of her, it does happen though. I tell her mommy is sad. I just don’t know what to say. What’s too much information, what’s not enough? As I’ve said before, real life discussions about feelings are very hard for me. Hmm, maybe I should just give her my blog address. As soon as she learns to read of course.