Where you feel like your uterus is going to fall out of your butt? And you're bleeding so much that you're pretty sure you just period-ed a baby? But there's no baby to be found. And then you freak out 'cause you're pretty sure you just had a miscarriage but there's no baby so then you're expecting some little flesh-blob to fall out of your vageen and you're afraid to take out your tampkin because what if something with fingernails comes out...
No? Just me....
Well.
This is awkward.
Sooo....
I went to Costco today, like I do, to get my B.C. and a huge box of diapers (for the kidlet, not me) and when I went to the food court to get my customary pizza and coke I got stuck in between the Most. Obnoxious. Girls. Ever. Three university girls in front of me, pretending to be poor while decked out from head to toe in Urban Outfitters entire inventory. And behind me, two wannabe gangster girls who thought that 'hella' made them hardcore? I don't know...that wasn't my issue with them. They just had no respect for my personal space. They were breathing on me. And kept bumping into me. And if I hadn't been so damned hungry I wouldn't have even waited but I'm period-y which = hungreh. So I waited. And dealt with it. 'Cause I'm a mom now, so I couldn't tell them how irritating they were and pick a fight 'cause that's immature. I'm super mature and stuff.
And then I got cheesy pizza right out of the oven and a cold coke and they were delicious even if my tummy hurts now. And this isn't a very good story, sorry. I feel like I'm not far enough into this blog to be rambling like this. (Also, did you know that I have another blog, where my true identity is revealed? Ooh...secrety. So you may already be reading me and didn't know it. *shock*)
Alright. I very well may end up deleting this, but it's a placeholder until I think of something worth saying.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
I Didn't Know What to Write About Today...
But I do now! Thanks mooooooooooooooooooooooo...oooooooooooog. Here's the link to his incredibly offensive post. http://www.midgetmanofsteel.com/2010/03/birth-of-dominican-cat.html
A little less than a year ago, I found myself somewhere I never thought I'd be. A barely 19 year old girl, the product of a middle-class, white, Christian family, 8 months pregnant sitting in the welfare office. I felt dirty, and ashamed, and really fucking uncomfortable sitting and waiting for 7 (yes, seven) hours on a hard plastic chair in a noisy room waiting for my name to be called. When the woman at the desk finally called me up to the window, she handed me a packet of papers with an appointment date two weeks in the future. I had less than $20 to my name, my unemployment had run out, and I feared my unborn child would have no health insurance. My mom, who was visiting to help out at the end of my pregnancy, took me home (to a bedroom that my daughter and I would share in my grandparents' house). On the way there, I cried.
I contemplated putting Sadie up for adoption that day. But I knew that one way or another I would have to figure out a way to take care of her. I had so carefully saved my money so that she would have everything she could need. I borrowed things I couldn't afford, and I was lucky enough to be given many things. I already loved this little person growing inside of me. A baby that I affectionately called a "little shit" when she stuck an elbow in my ribs. A baby that didn't care that her mommy had a sailor's mouth, tattoos, piercings, and short hair.
I dropped out of school. The pressure was a lot with a pregnancy, and I was sure I'd have to find a job as soon as she was born. The Man On Her Birth Certificate had promised that he'd get another job after he lost his, but he hadn't and I knew we'd be homeless if I depended on him. I'd read all of the books and every mommy blog I could find, I knew that the life we'd have wasn't ideal, but I was willing to do whatever it took for my daughter.
When that appointment came two weeks later, I was even more tremendously huge and completely mentally prepared to be told that I wasn't eligible for any assistance. Thank God I was wrong, and I was able to get Medi-Cal insurance for myself and my daughter. That insurance paid for my induction, delivery, and my daughter's one week stay in the NICU. I still hadn't been broke long enough to qualify for food stamps or welfare, but I was able to borrow money to get through until the next month, when those were approved.
The story of the night I left The Man On Her Birth Certificate is one for another day. But suffice it to say that were it not for that assistance, I would be homeless and starving, and my daughter would be a part of the system in another capacity, as a child in foster care.
The welfare program has a 5 year cap, meaning that in your ENTIRE life, you can only recieve cash assistance for 60 months. Total. Only single parents of children under two are able to stay home without working. And at times that feels like almost a punishment. My daughter and I survive on less than $400 a month cash, $250 in food stamps, and the assistance of WIC. WIC provides all of her baby food purees and cereal, as well as six 12 oz cans of formula. My daughter is on a special formula that costs me $29 for a 24 oz can, we use 7-8 cans a month. You do the math. (okay okay, I will, minus the WIC that's between $116 and $145 a month) And before you jump on me about my daughter being formula-fed, I'm on a prescription and her doctor prefers I not breastfeed while taking it.
Thanks to the welfare program I am able to go to school. Instead of following my dream to be a writer, I'm going to school to be a phlebotomy tech. I'm doing this because it's a short track course that paves the way to my financial independence, or at least the track to being able to take my daughter to Disneyland on her 3rd birthday. After getting that certification, I'll go to school for my degree in Registered Nursing. Not because it's what I want to do, but because it will get my daughter and I completely off of the system.
I guess my point is that, even though my friend Kathy, who also recieves welfare (yeah, we all hang out together, we can't afford to go anywhere), and I jokingly say that "welfare is Sadie's daddy", we aren't the exception. Kathy's in school too. People who are on welfare aren't necessarily "illegal" "slobs" "dirty" "trashy" "ignorant" or "from bad families". We don't spend all of our money on tattoos, booze, drugs, or expanded cable packages. Truth be told, we can't afford any of that. I only have pink hair because I have a relative who owns a hair salon and feels sorry for me. I only have tattoos because I got them before I was on welfare. I'm not old enough to drink, and if I were it'd be two buck chuck all the way. I don't use drugs, not even marijuana. I have the internet and basic cable for my distance education classes. And I shouldn't have to excuse the occasional gourmet coffee or cd that I treat myself to. Because if I didn't do something for me every once in awhile? I'd go insane.
I may be on welfare, but I'm still a person. And so is my child. And we deserve to be treated as such, by Republicans, Democrats, members of the Peace and Freedom party, Hispanics, African-Americans, Caucasians, Asian-Americans, European-Americans, and everyone else regardless of our differences. All I ask is that you treat us like you would anyone else, and judge us not by our EBT cards, but by the stuff in our grocery cart, just like you would anyone else.
A little less than a year ago, I found myself somewhere I never thought I'd be. A barely 19 year old girl, the product of a middle-class, white, Christian family, 8 months pregnant sitting in the welfare office. I felt dirty, and ashamed, and really fucking uncomfortable sitting and waiting for 7 (yes, seven) hours on a hard plastic chair in a noisy room waiting for my name to be called. When the woman at the desk finally called me up to the window, she handed me a packet of papers with an appointment date two weeks in the future. I had less than $20 to my name, my unemployment had run out, and I feared my unborn child would have no health insurance. My mom, who was visiting to help out at the end of my pregnancy, took me home (to a bedroom that my daughter and I would share in my grandparents' house). On the way there, I cried.
I contemplated putting Sadie up for adoption that day. But I knew that one way or another I would have to figure out a way to take care of her. I had so carefully saved my money so that she would have everything she could need. I borrowed things I couldn't afford, and I was lucky enough to be given many things. I already loved this little person growing inside of me. A baby that I affectionately called a "little shit" when she stuck an elbow in my ribs. A baby that didn't care that her mommy had a sailor's mouth, tattoos, piercings, and short hair.
I dropped out of school. The pressure was a lot with a pregnancy, and I was sure I'd have to find a job as soon as she was born. The Man On Her Birth Certificate had promised that he'd get another job after he lost his, but he hadn't and I knew we'd be homeless if I depended on him. I'd read all of the books and every mommy blog I could find, I knew that the life we'd have wasn't ideal, but I was willing to do whatever it took for my daughter.
When that appointment came two weeks later, I was even more tremendously huge and completely mentally prepared to be told that I wasn't eligible for any assistance. Thank God I was wrong, and I was able to get Medi-Cal insurance for myself and my daughter. That insurance paid for my induction, delivery, and my daughter's one week stay in the NICU. I still hadn't been broke long enough to qualify for food stamps or welfare, but I was able to borrow money to get through until the next month, when those were approved.
The story of the night I left The Man On Her Birth Certificate is one for another day. But suffice it to say that were it not for that assistance, I would be homeless and starving, and my daughter would be a part of the system in another capacity, as a child in foster care.
The welfare program has a 5 year cap, meaning that in your ENTIRE life, you can only recieve cash assistance for 60 months. Total. Only single parents of children under two are able to stay home without working. And at times that feels like almost a punishment. My daughter and I survive on less than $400 a month cash, $250 in food stamps, and the assistance of WIC. WIC provides all of her baby food purees and cereal, as well as six 12 oz cans of formula. My daughter is on a special formula that costs me $29 for a 24 oz can, we use 7-8 cans a month. You do the math. (okay okay, I will, minus the WIC that's between $116 and $145 a month) And before you jump on me about my daughter being formula-fed, I'm on a prescription and her doctor prefers I not breastfeed while taking it.
Thanks to the welfare program I am able to go to school. Instead of following my dream to be a writer, I'm going to school to be a phlebotomy tech. I'm doing this because it's a short track course that paves the way to my financial independence, or at least the track to being able to take my daughter to Disneyland on her 3rd birthday. After getting that certification, I'll go to school for my degree in Registered Nursing. Not because it's what I want to do, but because it will get my daughter and I completely off of the system.
I guess my point is that, even though my friend Kathy, who also recieves welfare (yeah, we all hang out together, we can't afford to go anywhere), and I jokingly say that "welfare is Sadie's daddy", we aren't the exception. Kathy's in school too. People who are on welfare aren't necessarily "illegal" "slobs" "dirty" "trashy" "ignorant" or "from bad families". We don't spend all of our money on tattoos, booze, drugs, or expanded cable packages. Truth be told, we can't afford any of that. I only have pink hair because I have a relative who owns a hair salon and feels sorry for me. I only have tattoos because I got them before I was on welfare. I'm not old enough to drink, and if I were it'd be two buck chuck all the way. I don't use drugs, not even marijuana. I have the internet and basic cable for my distance education classes. And I shouldn't have to excuse the occasional gourmet coffee or cd that I treat myself to. Because if I didn't do something for me every once in awhile? I'd go insane.
I may be on welfare, but I'm still a person. And so is my child. And we deserve to be treated as such, by Republicans, Democrats, members of the Peace and Freedom party, Hispanics, African-Americans, Caucasians, Asian-Americans, European-Americans, and everyone else regardless of our differences. All I ask is that you treat us like you would anyone else, and judge us not by our EBT cards, but by the stuff in our grocery cart, just like you would anyone else.
Monday, March 29, 2010
I'm Anonymous
I've tried blogging before. I've even tried blogging anonymously before. It hasn't worked out in the past, I'm hoping that this time I stay committed. You see, I want to write a book. I have no deadline, no limit to when this has to be done. But I need a jumping off point, and I think a blog is the best forum for me to do that. And the circumstances that I'm in have led to this being a super top secrety type blog.
I've lived an interesting verynearlytwenty years. At two weeks old I was handed out of a window to an aunt while my diabetic mother, who was recovering from a c-section, fought off her psychotic mother. I've moved more times than I can remember. I'm known to run away from problems, but I can't do that anymore. I'm a single mom to a daughter who is just learning to crawl. The man whose name is on her birth certificate is an alcoholic and a convicted felon. There are some things I won't discuss on here, mainly to maintain our anonymity.
When I was in highschool my father left my mom for a man. Less than two months later, my stepdad had moved into the home my parents bought to raise my brother and me in. My dad lives a lifestyle I don't understand. And there are things in his life that I don't want to be part of mine. The same applies to my stepfather.
The name of this blog has no special meaning. It needed a name and I looked to my right and saw one of my daughter's toys, a striped pony. For the sake of our privacy, in this space she will be called 'Sadie'.
I know this hasn't been cohesive at all, and I'm sure there will be more rambling posts to come, but run-on sentences are my specialty and I always like a bit of background information on my blogs.
I've lived an interesting verynearlytwenty years. At two weeks old I was handed out of a window to an aunt while my diabetic mother, who was recovering from a c-section, fought off her psychotic mother. I've moved more times than I can remember. I'm known to run away from problems, but I can't do that anymore. I'm a single mom to a daughter who is just learning to crawl. The man whose name is on her birth certificate is an alcoholic and a convicted felon. There are some things I won't discuss on here, mainly to maintain our anonymity.
When I was in highschool my father left my mom for a man. Less than two months later, my stepdad had moved into the home my parents bought to raise my brother and me in. My dad lives a lifestyle I don't understand. And there are things in his life that I don't want to be part of mine. The same applies to my stepfather.
The name of this blog has no special meaning. It needed a name and I looked to my right and saw one of my daughter's toys, a striped pony. For the sake of our privacy, in this space she will be called 'Sadie'.
I know this hasn't been cohesive at all, and I'm sure there will be more rambling posts to come, but run-on sentences are my specialty and I always like a bit of background information on my blogs.
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