Epic Parenting Fail

Last week I got a few puzzling texts from Chicken. He wanted to know what kind of guns we had, which guns he had shot, what caliber of rifle he got for getting straight A's all year, etc. I asked him what was going on, and he replied via text that he was going shooting with his father. He texted me a list of the guns they were taking and I was very worried.

You see, we have found out through careful trial and error that Chicken enjoys shooting a .22 rifle and that is about it. He doesn't like indoor ranges at all because of the noise, and anything louder or more powerful than the .22 is upsetting to him. Even my .22 handgun he didn't like one bit. This isn't a problem at all. We can take him to an outdoor range and let him shoot targets with his rifle all day and he is a happy camper.

He communicated this to his father, who assured him that he would have fun and they would not be going to an indoor range. Until they pulled into the parking lot of the indoor range. H1 convinced Chicken to give it a try and they went into the range. The combination of the type of handguns (think .38, .44, .45 caliber) and the nearby firing of a shotgun flipped Chicken out and he ended up crying in the middle of the range. They had to leave, and Chicken felt badly because his father spent $70 which they could ill afford to waste.

His father didn't listen to him, lied to him, and Chicken ended up feeling guilty about crying and ruining the day. I was really angry, but now I'm just sad. Sad that Chicken has an asshole for a biological father. Sad that I let him down by picking a loser. Sad that he can't trust his father to keep him safe physically and mentally. But slightly happy that later Chicken stepped all over his father's dick.

Chicken's dad and step-mother smoke in the house. Every time Chicken comes home, all his clothes are freshly washed and still reek of smoke. I told Chicken that if he can think of a way to tell his step-mom or dad nicely not to bother washing his clothes to do so. I figured it would save them the trouble and the clothes extra wear and tear. Well, Chicken told his dad. *giggles* I guess twelve year-olds are lacking in tact maybe? Chicken said that his dad looked like someone had kicked him in the balls. "Hey H1, that was me. Kicking ya in the sack. That's for making my kid cry. KTHXBAI!!"

And The Band Played On...

I am still totally knocked up and contracting like a fucking something or other that contracts. Words are not my strong suit today. Tomorrow I get a hand up my hoo-ha to check and see if there is any more progress on the cervix front. I am currently thinking that I'll be ready in a week, (as if I have any choice in the matter). I have a few more things around the house to finish, and Chicken doesn't go back to school until January 12th. I am 37 weeks today, and my due date is January 25 if you haven't been keeping close track of my uterus at home. Don't worry, The New Girl. I will be damned if I pop out this baby without notification to the blog world. I should have a wireless Sprint card at the hospital with me, and if not I will have someone guest post my every movement. Even bowel movements, because this wouldn't be Sam's Stories without poop, right?

Chicken came home on Saturday. His luggage came home on Sunday, and I am sure glad that he was up until 1am on Friday night with his dad and step-mom washing all his clothes so that he could arrive home with clean, fresh-smelling laundry. HA HA HA. Just kidding. They were up until 1am. Chicken did log in 3 hours of sleep Friday night and showed up on Saturday totally fucking wrecked and exhausted. But his clean laundry bore the unmistakable scent of cigarette smoke. Nothing like washing your clothes only to have them smell like you just spent 8 hours hanging out in a bar. A bar NOT in California of course, because you can't smoke in a bar here anymore.

It is hard for me to imagine thinking that smoking in your home is okay when you have children. Especially when at least one of those kids (Chicken) has a family history of asthma. It makes me sad that Chicken had to spend three weeks inhaling smoke, and that his siblings live like that every day. I was a smoker for about 15 years. I get it. But I never smoked inside my house, even when I was a single adult. Inflicting your addiction on your children is just plain wrong. *sigh* At least Chicken is home, happy, and safe. Soon all his clothes will be clean and fit for use, too.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

Continued from previous post...

Or, the part in the story where I lose my fucking shit and act like an asshole. I am not sure how this story fit into three days, but my Swiss cheese brain insists that H1 was only out to sea for that long. After I had confirmation from the hospital that my baby was dead my 21-year old brain decided that the best way to deal with everything was to head to the bar. There have been times in my life where I have drank way too much (hello to my 15-year old self!) but this was not one of them. Since moving to Virginia in April, I had found a job and started working full-time. That was about the extent of my exciting life. My job? Oh thanks for asking, I would have forgot/blocked it out. I was a manager of a portrait photography studio. Where I took pictures of babies all fucking day. Less than a year after giving up my first-born son. Dumb ass!

Hmm...okay I was at the bar, drunk and being ridiculous when I found a nice young man that took me home with him. Except we were both wasted and for the first and last time in my life I drove drunk. He left his car at the bar. Obviously we weren't screwing like weasels because uh? miscarriage? but I remember being a drunken fool, sleeping in his bed, and crying my fucking eyes out. The next day I drove home and found a freaked out husband.

He came home in the morning, and I expected him in the afternoon. When he couldn't find me he talked to the neighbor who informed him that I had lost the baby. He thought I had flipped out and left town so he called EVERYONE we knew to try and find me. Those conversations went something like this: "Hi this is H1. Do you know where Sam is? She miscarried while I was out to sea and now I can't find her." ... "Oh, yes, she was pregnant. We hadn't told anyone yet." My uncle in New York? Called him. My mother in California? Called her. Everyone in between? Yep! Thanks H1! You're the best!!!

There was one final outside insult to be borne through all of this misery: my mother-in-law. You see, she is a fucking lunatic. Back in the day, she used to call H1 and myself at midnight, one or two in the morning to chat. We didn't answer the phone because we had these tricky little things called jobs and we slept during the night. In my MIL's mind, we didn't pick up the phone because we were out partying all night. THEREFORE I didn't have a miscarriage in her fucked up waste of a mind. I waited until H1 went out to sea and had an abortion because being pregnant was detrimental to my kickass social life.

The cunt instructed H1 to check out my discharge papers that stated I had a "spontaneous abortion" and there you fucking have it. It said abortion, right? FUCK. I think I convinced H1 that a spontaneous abortion is big people talk for a miscarriage but that fucking bitch never believed it. If someone came up to me and said, "I am going to kill these innocent people unless you pick one person for me to kill instead," I would pick that woman in a heartbeat. And at this point I bet her two sons would applaud the decision.

That was the last of people being fucked up about my miscarriage, but my super cool psyche decided that the ride wasn't over. I was convinced that my baby had died because I gave my son up for adoption, that I didn't deserve a child, that I was being punished, and I would never carry a child to term. This is why I have the label, "some fucked up shit."

Wherein Everyone Hates Me But I'm Still Amused

I had a great, fabulous, fan-fucking-tastic post written here. Then my laptop battery died a quick and painful death and the post went to la-la land. Here's a recap:

Disclaimer:
H1 (Chicken's father) is active duty Navy. Two long, super-extended deployments to Iraq since the war began. I worry about him when he's there, and I worry about EVERYONE that is there.

H1 is currently in Oceanside, California for 3-5 weeks. Chicken is spending the weekend with him. As Teddy Bear and I were dropping Chicken off, H1's roommate (they're staying in a hotel while doing something for the Marines) reads an article online about Pat Tillman and the friendly fire cover-up. Conversation ensues. H1 says:

Well, he might have been great at football but he sure couldn't dodge friendly fire for shit.

I know I'm going to hell for laughing. I'm sorry. It was funny, in a "he's been there and done that so he can crack jokes because he put his life on the line for our country" way. Or that's how I justify it to myself. Because really, you shouldn't laugh at death even if it's funny.

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In other, less controversial news... I am meeting the most famous blogger of them all tomorrow. No, not Dooce you shitheads. ANNA!!! Woo hoo!!! Let the drunken debauchery begin! Nekkid pictures for EVERYONE!