Most of my day has involved crying and puking. This baby shit is hard, and not in a funny “Mr. Mom” kind of way, but in a very real crying and puking way. She cries, I cry, she pukes, I get puked on, she’s hungry, I feed her and it starts all over again. Apparently this sort of thing is normal around this time but it still sucks. This is the part that people complain about (“I’m so tired!”) but can’t seem to explain what is so sucky about it. It’s this: The baby is unhappy. The baby is your responsibility. You are a terrible parent for not knowing how to fix it. You are hungry but can’t put the crying baby down to eat. You are tired but can’t put the crying baby down to sleep. You know it won’t always be like this but it seems like forever till then. You learn to pee with a crying baby in your lap. You also learn to type with one hand while breastfeeding and consider that a break.
I love the kid, but damn, this shit is hard.
I don’t know when I’ll be able to write. Soon, I hope. I miss commenting on pop culture and discovering new movies to hate. I have to go now. She’s done eating…
Like nearly every American teenager, I first became familiar with J.D. Salinger when I read “Catcher in the Rye” in 9th grade English class. And like many American teenagers, it absolutely spoke to me. It was even more profound considering that most of the other kids in my class were completely unaffected. Some were bored by the book. Some just thought Holden was a jerk. Some probably didn’t actually read it at all. I was in private school and many of the characters in the book that Holden called “phonies” reminded me of the people I begrudgingly spent every day with. I wrote two papers about the book. One was a typical literary analysis and one was a “diary entry” written in Holden’s voice. The latter came to me very easily. I got an A+ on both papers. I felt that I had never completely understood a book better than I understood that one. And with that, “Catcher in the Rye” became my favorite book.
It probably seems like pregnant ladies think that every situation applies to them and maybe that’s true. But I do think, at least for me, that the werewolf metaphor quite perfectly parallels pregnancy and childbirth. I haven’t gone through childbirth yet, but I’ve talked to people and seen some videos. It really seems like something that should kill you. It doesn’t. It tears you apart temporarily and then you are fine. During pregnancy, the growing fetus pushes all of your other organs out of the way to make room for itself. Last week in birth class, our teacher showed us illustrations at various intervals of gestation. By the final month, you can hardly see the intestines, as they are smashed up against the stomach. It’s a wonder you poop at all in the third trimester. But that’s not where the similarities end. 
Effed by the Wind 