I have been frequently heard to utter such statements as, "Blah, I hate kids."
For the most part, this is true.
But generally, I think it has much, much less to do with the actual children in question, than it has to do with their parents.
Why the fuck are parents so fucking evil?
MY parents weren't evil. I mean, they had some evil moments, but they weren't fucking EVIL. I mean, sure, I got yelled at and spanked and occasionally one or the other of them would concoct some really vicious punishment for refusing to eat my tomatoes, but that's not evil. Forgetting to pick your kid up after school and leaving her there alone until after dark? It's fucked-up, sure, but it's human. Lately, I have been witnessing parental acts which go beyond human error and are just fucking demonic. And not in a nice, wholesome way.
So there's this girl I met recently who is 28 weeks pregnant.
There are forty weeks in a typical pregnancy. Two of those weeks, you aren't actually pregnant; the doctor just tacks them on to make it an even forty. Between 20 and 25 weeks, a fetus is viable if something awful happens and the mother gives birth. However, the organs aren't fully developed and the baby is going to be fucked up, probably permanently. At 32 weeks (I think), it's considered "safe" to induce labor -- if there's really, really a damned good reason to do so. The general rule is: you keep your kid inside you for as long as you possibly can.
The 28-week girl went into premature labor just before I met her. She went to the hospital and they gave her some medication to stop her contractions. They said she was dilated to a four. Without getting into detail, when they tell you you're dilated to a ten, you're basically in the process of giving birth. So this was really serious.
Apparently, the doctors advised her to stay in the hospital. If she couldn't or wouldn't do that, she would have to go home and stay on bedrest.
So what does this woman do? She decides to go to her old place of residence, and continue packing stuff and MOVING it.
She's not even supposed to be out of BED, much less on her feet, walking around, cleaning, and lifting heavy boxes. But that's exactly what she was doing all day the other day. When I saw her, she was carrying a large white garbage bag full of what appeared to be bedding or clothing or something. Granted, clothes aren't as heavy as books or whatever, but it's still too fucking heavy for this woman to be carrying around.
Later, she started giggling about it. "They tried to tell me to stay in the hospital, but I'm not gonna spend TWO MONTHS in a hospital!" Chuckle, giggle.
"It's really not that big of a deal, anyways! I mean, I'm bleeding and stuff, and it's scary, but I had to get some of my stuff and I don't know why everybody's making a big deal out of it!" Giggle. Hee hee.
Then she asked somebody else to go on a walk with her the next day. "Just maybe downtown or something? I've gotta get out of this place for a little while." Yeah, except downtown is a 40 minute walk for normally-abled people. Give or take, that's about two and a half miles. She's NOT supposed to be OUT OF BED, and she's pleading with people to take a fucking two and a half mile walk with her? Plus, she's one of those anti-bus people, and I guarantee, she'd want to walk BACK. That's five miles. And half of it would be mostly uphill.
I was standing there, rolling out a pie crust with a two-liter bottle of ice water. (Ah, the inventiveness of the poor and rolling-pin-less!) And this girl is standing next to me -- STANDING! -- chuckling about walking around, moving her stuff, etc.
I snapped at her: "You know, it's really not funny." When I get really mad, my "f's" and "v's" get emphasized a little bit more. It's kind of embarrassing, but I can't help it.
The girl started: "I know, but it's not like..."
"You wanna know what it's like to go into a hospital lobby, you and maybe a couple of other pregnant women, and be the one who goes home without a baby?" I asked her. I was trying really hard not to cry. I was trying even harder not to tear her fucking eyes out with my fingernails.
"Well, I think I'm farther along than the doctors told me, anyway," she said.
"Who CARES?" I said. I was trying so hard not to yell. I just hated this girl so much. "If you want, sometime I'll tell you about what's it's like to have to leave your beautiful little baby at the hospital for an autopsy. If you want to risk that, that's your own business, but let me tell you, I think it's sick."
Stupid fucking bitch just smiled and sort of giggled again. I don't think she's retarded, but I think there's something completely fucking wrong with her. What kind of a mother is she going to be, when and if her child is born, if she can't be bothered to try to help him stay alive now? It might have been more merciful, to everyone, if she'd just had an abortion six months ago. I can't even look at her without hating her. I determined not to look at her, with her big round belly, for as long as I possibly can. I will not speak to her again, not even in polite conversation.
When I thought that my first baby, Jane, was going to die, I went to the pay phone down the street and I called my midwife in the middle of the night. I was sobbing. I was freaking out. I was about eight weeks pregnant at the time. The midwife told me to calm down and go home; there was nothing that could be done to help anyway. So I tried to calm down. I tried everything I could to calm down. I even tried to eat something, even though I felt violently sick to my stomach. Jane lived another nine or ten weeks. And then I was the one and only woman in labor to walk into the emergency room that night, and walk back out with no baby. That was well over a year ago. But even as I type this, the tears are running down my face and I can't stop them. If she'd been born on her due date, she'd be just old enough now to have a couple of mushy bites of blackberry pie. Nothing -- not anything in this world -- will ever, ever heal that part of my heart completely.
I hate this stupid bitch who doesn't care if her kid lives or dies. I hate her because she's got a fighting chance at having a healthy baby, and she's not even trying. I hate her because I had no chance the first time, no matter what I did. I hate her because I'm terrified this time, of any number of small, seemingly unimportant things, like little back aches. I hate her because Jane is dead and she thinks it's FUNNY to talk about bleeding and cramps. I hate her with all the energy I expended, crying on the floor of a phone booth in the middle of the night. I hate whatever divine power decides that people like this aren't rendered sterile before they hit puberty.
I wish I could call Child Protective Services and have this woman's kid given to somebody halfway decent. Maybe, at least, CPS could strap her down to a bed and not let her move for a couple more months. I wish they could do that. Then I wish they could spay her. And cut off her stupid, giggling tongue while they're at it.
This morning, my friend told me that there was a suspected child-molestation that had happened in our present place of residence.
What the FUCK?
Turns out that this ten-year-old kid probably molested an eleven-year-old kid. I know both kids. Both of them are little shits, although the younger one is the pushy one, the one who talks back to me and gets in people's faces. I have no doubt that he's capable of molesting another kid.
But what the fuck? I leave a house where I'd been strangled, only to find myself in a place where one woman giggles about having a premature baby, and children are sexually abusing each other?
The mother of the alleged abuser said, "It doesn't bother me none. Boys will be boys." She went out to have a cigarette. I sat near her, reading the paper. I don't like the smell of cigarettes (except Camels; I still can't figure that one out), and the urge to smoke is almost gone, but I still like to watch other people smoke. She began muttering curse-words to herself. She'd sigh and say, "fuck." Then she'd tap her cigarette and sigh again, and say, "shit." Finally, she said, apparently to me, but I don't think she was speaking to anyone in particular: "I only know one way to handle this. I've got to make a phone call to a friend to see if I can borrow twenty bucks."
It should be noted that this particular woman can't even afford to put gas in her own car, and regularly walks everywhere. I suspect she and her son have stolen some of my food, although I don't really begrudge them anything. They're really, really destitute. Like, worse off than I am. And believe me, that's not too good. So now she's talking about getting a twenty-dollar loan from a friend... For something that's evidently more important than gas or food...
Admittedly, I'm pretty naive sometimes, but I know what that means... It means she's going to be loaded on something tonight. I'm too ignorant of the local market to know what, exactly, one could purchase for twenty bucks, but I know it'll be something. And then her kid -- the fucking sexual abuser -- will be left to his own devices... Maybe he'll decide to rape my friend's kid next. I wonder where he learned this shit. Probably from some friend of his mom's who was taking care of him while she was fucked up on whatever her chemical of choice happens to be...
Fan-fucking-tastic... Helena witnesses the genesis of a sexual predator... Ten years old, and bullying other kids into getting him off.
At ten, I played my first game of Dungeons & Dragons. I read a lot of books and had a crush on the smartest kid in my class. I wore a lot of dorky plaid outfits, and collected stuffed Scottish terriers.
At ten, kids shouldn't be forcing other kids to have sex.
I was going to write a nice happy entry today. But all of the above infuriated me, and my happy thoughts were temporarily scattered.
Give me a minute... I'd like to have a happy ending to this entry. Insert inane, mind-numbing crap here, so that Helena can think about something else for a couple of minutes...
Inane, mind-numbing crap........
Last Cigarette: May 2, 2004.
Last Alcoholic Drink: I couldn't give you a date, but it was the time I had a shot-glass' worth of blackberry mead (12% alcohol?), and ending up giggling and rolling on the floor and taking my shirt off and repeatedly denying I was drunk.
Last Car Ride: To the fireworks at Lakefair in downtown Oly. It was pretty uneventful.
Last Kiss: Neil. Far, far too long ago... Ten minutes ago would be too long ago...
Last Good Cry: (See most of the above entry)
Last Library Book: *blush* The Vampire Lestat by Anne Rice. She doesn't know jack shit about vampires.
Last book bought: Uh... I think... it may have been The Witches by Roald Dahl. That's a fucked up book.
Last Book Read: Thoughts Out Of School by Bill Arney.
Last Movie Seen in Theatres: Probably something shitty. I haven't seen a good movie in a theater since Mulholland Drive in October of 2001. The last one may have been Pirates of the Caribbean. Johnny Depp is cute. But the movie was kind of dumb and the popcorn made me nauseous.
Last Movie Rented: Almost certainly something that wasn't returned on time... Maybe "Angel Heart." But I'm not sure anymore.
Last Cuss Word Uttered: Me? Cuss?
Last Beverage Drank: A really, really flat Diet Sprite.
Last Food Consumed: Um... Two mint chocolate chip ice cream bars, and a can of spaghetti-o's with meatballs. Don't judge me.
Last Crush: Neil. I have such a crush on Neil. When Neil's not around to have a crush on, I have a crush on the email account where Neil sends me sweet little emails.
Last Words Spoken: Hell if I know...
Last Sleep: Last night. Eight hours. Yeah!
Last Ice Cream Eaten: See also: breakfast.
Last Chair Sat In: A sort of purplish-red. Kinda dark mauve. If there is such a thing as dark mauve.
Last Webpage Visited: www.angelfire.com
Last time I went to the doctor, he asked: "So, can you feel any movement yet?"
I said: "I'm not sure."
He didn't look concerned, but he did say, "Well, you should be feeling your baby move soon..."
And so, of course, I became totally convinced that something was wrong.
I said: "Well, maybe I have felt something and I just didn't know that's what it was..."
He nodded and wrote something on my chart.
For the next two or three days, I was totally paranoid that the baby had paralyzed feet or something. Or maybe I hadn't been eating enough potatoes and orange juice, and s/he had weak leg muscles. Or maybe she was comatose or something... I know s/he's at least sort of okay; I saw the heartbeat on the ultrasound monitor... But ultrasounds don't necessarily detect paralyzed feet, do they?
Oh my gahd, I almost worried myself into anemia.
...Except, the other night, when I was about to go to sleep, I reached over to grab something to read, and felt this... thing... You know those little hammers that doctors have, to hit your knees and check your reflexes? It felt kinda like somebody hit me with one of those hammers -- from the inside.
Lemme tell you, that's a hell of a weird feeling.
And ever since, whenever I'm sitting still, it feels like whole flocks of little rubber hammers are hammering on my insides.
It's actually a little bit annoying sometimes. But I like it. Makes me grin. My kid is hyper. S/he's going to be a hellion. One of these days, I'm going to wake up, notice that it's far too quiet, and immediately locate him/her climbing a house. Or hanging upside down from the very top of a tree. Or learning some new trouble-making tactic from Neil, the like of which I don't dare to fathom quite yet... Dude, as I'm typing, I'm getting the shit kicked out of me. This is a child for whom Spirographs and chemistry sets may not be appropriate. This is a kid who is going to be wiggling forever...
I am exhausted already...
~Helena*