Diary
Page Twenty Three
I’m just past the 8th month of my pregnancy; 32 weeks. In just a short month, Way Offspring numero dous will make her appearance.
And, just what luck would have it, your mommy called today. Again, the questions filled my open ear cavities; How are you, how’s Roxy, and how’s Way Offspring #2.
Answers: Fine, Keen, Kicking.
It seems as the phone calls prolong, I’m more bitter and sarcastic to your mom. I don’t hate her, I just…strongly dislike her? Yeah, let’s go with that.
She wondered what I was naming the baby. Oh, and you know me, I answered like I always do: SARCASTICALLY.
“I’m naming her Bitter. Y’know, it plays on how I am. It’s a new thing, Donna.”
Gosh, your mom yelled at me, of course.
“Be serious with me for once, Valleri!”
I giggled, “I dunno what I want to call this one. Spike sounds cool. And Roxy really likes Patches.”
“Oh, my Lord in Heaven! Valleri, be serious for a moments sake!”
“Okay, okay, fine. Geez, can’t you take a joke?”
“No, I cannot. Now, please tell me you have a name picked out for that child.”
“Yeah…uh I’m naming her after my dad. Louisa, I’m gonna call her LuLu for short.”
“Are you sure about that Valleri?”
I hung up.
Naming her after someone I love is logical. We named Roxy after your grandmother, why couldn’t I name my next after my father. I’m doing it, whether your mom cares or not. My child, my fucking rules. No one is gonna give me shit because of a goddamn name, especially if they aren’t raising my children or helping financially.
Is that too cruel to say? Everything I write must be on some level of bitter sweet, right? The taste of bittersweet is so good, I must say. Taste like someone stole my wallet. Don’t you love that feeling? The harsh reality filling your throat, coating your taste buds, and rolling around your gut, making friends with your stomach acid. God, what a feeling, eh?
That feeling is still rolling around in there. It’s flung to the child, feeling its way down the umbilical cord, like nutrients filling your child. What a fucked up feeling. I just hope Way Offspring #2 doesn’t get the taste stuck in her gut. I hope she throws it up or shits it out when she makes her grand entrance.
I want to ask Roxy if she can taste it, is that too much? I wonder if she knows exactly what bitter is. I wonder if she can feel the bitterness I carry with me. I really, really hope she doesn’t; and be sure, Way, that I am not speaking sarcastically. As I have stated before, I don’t want our kid to feel this. She’s too young, too pure, and too amazing to have her innocence stripped from her.
I wish she lived in her own world, her own mind, where she is unaware that any of this is happening. A Peter Pan syndrome; she lives in her own fairytale land where every-fucking-thing is sugar pops and rainbows. Granted, she has an imagination, because she believes your coming back, and I know she can see the anger and madness in me.
I really wish my dad was here; he could take her away. He spoke of this magical land of life that only he and little children could. Now that he’s gone, she can see through the painted land my dad made up. She can see the hate, the animosity I have for you.
Why couldn’t you have just stayed?
And, just what luck would have it, your mommy called today. Again, the questions filled my open ear cavities; How are you, how’s Roxy, and how’s Way Offspring #2.
Answers: Fine, Keen, Kicking.
It seems as the phone calls prolong, I’m more bitter and sarcastic to your mom. I don’t hate her, I just…strongly dislike her? Yeah, let’s go with that.
She wondered what I was naming the baby. Oh, and you know me, I answered like I always do: SARCASTICALLY.
“I’m naming her Bitter. Y’know, it plays on how I am. It’s a new thing, Donna.”
Gosh, your mom yelled at me, of course.
“Be serious with me for once, Valleri!”
I giggled, “I dunno what I want to call this one. Spike sounds cool. And Roxy really likes Patches.”
“Oh, my Lord in Heaven! Valleri, be serious for a moments sake!”
“Okay, okay, fine. Geez, can’t you take a joke?”
“No, I cannot. Now, please tell me you have a name picked out for that child.”
“Yeah…uh I’m naming her after my dad. Louisa, I’m gonna call her LuLu for short.”
“Are you sure about that Valleri?”
I hung up.
Naming her after someone I love is logical. We named Roxy after your grandmother, why couldn’t I name my next after my father. I’m doing it, whether your mom cares or not. My child, my fucking rules. No one is gonna give me shit because of a goddamn name, especially if they aren’t raising my children or helping financially.
Is that too cruel to say? Everything I write must be on some level of bitter sweet, right? The taste of bittersweet is so good, I must say. Taste like someone stole my wallet. Don’t you love that feeling? The harsh reality filling your throat, coating your taste buds, and rolling around your gut, making friends with your stomach acid. God, what a feeling, eh?
That feeling is still rolling around in there. It’s flung to the child, feeling its way down the umbilical cord, like nutrients filling your child. What a fucked up feeling. I just hope Way Offspring #2 doesn’t get the taste stuck in her gut. I hope she throws it up or shits it out when she makes her grand entrance.
I want to ask Roxy if she can taste it, is that too much? I wonder if she knows exactly what bitter is. I wonder if she can feel the bitterness I carry with me. I really, really hope she doesn’t; and be sure, Way, that I am not speaking sarcastically. As I have stated before, I don’t want our kid to feel this. She’s too young, too pure, and too amazing to have her innocence stripped from her.
I wish she lived in her own world, her own mind, where she is unaware that any of this is happening. A Peter Pan syndrome; she lives in her own fairytale land where every-fucking-thing is sugar pops and rainbows. Granted, she has an imagination, because she believes your coming back, and I know she can see the anger and madness in me.
I really wish my dad was here; he could take her away. He spoke of this magical land of life that only he and little children could. Now that he’s gone, she can see through the painted land my dad made up. She can see the hate, the animosity I have for you.
Why couldn’t you have just stayed?