I haven’t been writing about this much, but I’m currently in the third trimester with baby #6. I’ve given birth naturally to all of them, with the exception of the first — through an unfortunate turn of events, I got to learn firsthand that epidurals don’t always work with blocking pain, but they’ll still leave you paralyzed from the waist down. Lucky me!
I don’t really fancy myself as having a higher pain tolerance than others. I’m not remotely the sort that peacefully breathes the baby out either. Heck, I firmly believe that anyone who tries to tell you not to scream while giving birth needs to be promptly cut out of your social circle for good. Go ahead and scream, cry, punch the man responsible, and whatever else you have to do to get through it. Just remember: you are strong enough.
In the homebirth community, it’s common to spend time preparing yourself for labor. Women who are more socially-oriented than I am like to hold blessingways. Instead of bringing gifts for the new baby, invited guests bring positive birth stories and affirmations to bolster the expectant mother through labor, and it’s a wonderful way to come together and support each other in sisterhood.
But I don’t do that, ha ha.
I’m pretty high on the introverted scale, so I prefer quiet introspection over parties with henna tattoos. This isn’t the sort of thing that I want to go into while feeling drained from socializing.
For me, making a “costume” for labor is important. I even plan out which color I’m going to paint my toenails, and how I’m going to style my hair, in addition to what I’ll be wearing. That way, instead of feeling like a tired mom who’s first contraction hit while heating up hotdogs for lunch (true story), I can quickly transition myself into a beautiful Goddess in the process of Creation.
Mindset matters.
Rituals are important tools in influencing mindset. They can be as simple as lighting a candle, or as elaborate as you can imagine. The important part is to establish what you are setting out to do.
And when you’re on the verge of popping out a watermelon, having a firm idea of why you’re doing it helps enormously.
It wasn’t destructively strong, but it was the sort of wind that howls and blows ice straight into your bones.
I can’t sleep when it’s windy. I always end up wide awake, listening to every gust, and wondering how long it will take for morning to come. For some reason, I get the mental image of giants outside …
We ended up with the one-year-old in our bed, and the four older children camped out together in one of their bedrooms. The wind bothered them, too.
I couldn’t help but think about how lucky we are, that no one has to be alone when they’re scared.
I’ve cut out the more explicit content, which also happens to include pivotal parts of the story. Deal with it.
The first chapter is mostly the same as what I posted before, with few changes.
Aurora’s eyes closed, and for a moment she drifted off before she snapped herself back into consciousness. The horizon was growing lighter, and he still hadn’t appeared. While she was doing her best to maintain the vigil, it was difficult to feel a sense of urgency when their fate rested on someone who was now hours late.
“He’s not coming,” Talon murmured, closing his hand around Aurora’s. His skin felt burning hot over hers, so she snuggled up against his side to soak in his warmth.
“He has to,” she replied quietly.
“As soon as the first sun rays appear, we’re out of time.” Talon motioned to the frozen 12-foot mecha that stood some yards away, still poised in mid-attack. “The artifacts won’t hold it after daybreak.”
“He’ll be here,” Aurora weakly insisted. “He’s the only one who can stop it.”
“We need to leave before we get killed.” Talon stood then pulled on her. “Come on.”
“But what about the artifacts?”
“They’ll probably be destroyed. We’ll have to worry about that later.”
Aurora reluctantly followed Talon, but she couldn’t stop herself from looking back. Recovering the three artifacts had been a long and difficult process, and so had been activating them to imprison the mecha in a force field. The thought of being abandoned by CR1515 at the last minute was too much to bear.
“Let’s go find him,” she suggested hopefully.
“If Robot Boy was coming, he would have been here hours ago,” Talon snapped.
“The Gate isn’t far from here. Let’s go see if we can contact him, at the very least.” Aurora hated the thought of giving up, and even though she knew her idea sounded silly and irrational, it was far better than doing nothing.
“You go then, if it will make you happy. I need to tell the others what’s happened.” Talon stopped and turned to Aurora, put his arms around her waist, then lightly pecked her lips. “Don’t risk waiting around, though,” he whispered. “If he doesn’t answer in two minutes, get underground.”
“I promise I will.” Aurora closed her eyes as they kissed farewell again, then continued on to the Gate alone. She approached the metal door, standing in the middle of an empty lot free from any buildings or walls, and pushed the small button next to it. Silently, she began to count the seconds, feeling the weight of fatigue build with every number.
At 64, the door swung open.
She hesitated, then stepped through.
Aurora was no longer in the empty lot with solid earth beneath her feet. She was inside a large room with monitors and windows on every side, looking out at a dark sky that was speckled with innumerable stars. Her breath caught in her throat at the realization that she was no longer on the planet, but far above it in space.
Metallic footsteps came towards her, and she turned to face CR1515. It hurt to find him home, staring at her with his expressionless face, and she couldn’t stop herself from crying out, “How could you?”
He stopped, and his voice sounded deep with a slight electronic buzz, “Have you never questioned whether or not you are worthy of my help?”
“Aren’t … we?” Aurora was lost for words. The truth was, through all the hard work and sacrifices that they had made to reach their goal, it never once occurred to her to wonder what CR1515 thought of them – she had assumed that he would assist the moment he was needed; he always had in the past.
“I have grown tired of humanity. Save yourselves.” He turned to walk away, but Aurora jumped forward and caught hold of his back, pressing herself against him as she begged,
“Please. Please. We’ve done everything we can, but that mecha is … a lot of people will die if you don’t do something right now!”
“No.” His reply was so flat and blunt, it was like being punched in the chest. Aurora let out a cry of pain, but clung harder to him with increased desperation.
“I swear that I’ll do anything you ask, if only you’ll kill that thing!” she begged.
“You swear?” CR1515’s metal hands pressed down over her wrists, holding her in place with her arms around him.
“I swear!”
“I want what your species takes for granted.” He thrust Aurora’s arms away from him and once again turned to face her. “I want to touch, and to love.”
She stood, numbed by the words, unable to stop the thought, He’s a robot, from repeating itself over and over in her mind. CR1515 possessed the likeness of a human, but he was undoubtedly made of hard metal. How could he touch?
“Will you be mine?” he asked.
“But …” Aurora’s voice faded.
“Those are my terms. If you won’t accept, then begone.”
“…Yes.” Her lower lip trembled, and she wondered if she should try to take back the word despite having said it.
A seam appeared down the center of CR1515’s chest, and Aurora watched disbelievingly as the metal parted and a man of flesh and blood stepped out, with golden skin that gleamed softly. She blushed and turned away, not daring to look at his completely nude form.
“You are shocked,” he intoned, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Your species is the greatest work of engineering to ever grace the universe, with your only major flaw being the softness of your bodies. I was created to utilize your strengths while correcting your weaknesses.”
“Are you actually human?” Aurora asked, then immediately felt stupid for the words. Of course he wasn’t, she chastised herself, but it was difficult to think clearly with a naked man standing next to her.
“I was born one, but ceased to be long ago.” His lips touched her ear. “Give yourself to me.”
“I’m betrothed.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “If you want someone to love, then it should be easy to find …”
“I want you.” CR1515’s fingers lightly brushed her cheek as he turned her around. The undeniably masculine part of him was pressed against her, and she found herself flushing as her heart quickened. “No one else.” He took the end of her long braid and pulled out the tie, then worked his fingers through her hair to loosen it, so that strands flowed freely around her.
“But …”
“You’re running out of time.” His hands found the zipper in the back of her skirt, and once it was undone the fabric readily slipped down to the floor. “You have only 32 minutes until sunrise.”
“But, Talon …” she protested weakly as CR1515 removed her blouse over her head and tossed it aside.
“Then I will stand back, and watch as your kind dies.” Her bra came off next, and he paused to place a hand over one of her exposed breasts. Aurora shivered as goosebumps prickled her skin.
“This isn’t fair.” Tears slipped from her eyes.
“No. It isn’t.” Finally, her panties were stripped from her, leaving her as completely naked as CR1515 was. He held her firmly against him, skin touching skin, as he trailed his fingers along her back and around the curves of her body, tasting her mouth with his own. He picked her up and carried her to another room, where he placed her down on a soft bed and levied himself over her.
“Unlike your species,” he whispered, “I will never take this bliss for granted.”
…
…
Finished, he kissed her then whispered, “I wish I could linger, but I have precisely 15 minutes to destroy your menace. I will return to you shortly afterwards.”
The finality of his words hit hard. Before he disappeared through the door, Aurora sat up and called out, “I’m never going home again, am I.”
He paused. “No. Never again.”
She sank down into the pillows and pulled the blankets around herself, no longer possessing the energy to react. With a heavy breath, she closed her eyes and let the events of the last 24 hours press her down into a deep sleep.
When I was a teenager, my mom took me to her hairstylist for a complete makeover. She braided up my hair, chopped off a full foot, then proceeded to push me into one of the most awkward stages of my teenagehood.
I’ve always been a “wash ‘n go” sort of girl. Never really could get into the habit of using blow dryers, let alone curling irons. Yet I gave that new hairstyle an honest shot, because all of the adult women around me kept going on about how “mature” it made me look, and I was scared of standing up against people back then.
I hated that hair cut. Loathed it. There isn’t a single picture of me smiling with that stupid style. I eventually drifted back to “wash ‘n go,” because that’s my fundamental personality type.
We’re talking about two decades ago here, so I can’t remember the specifics, but I do recall feeling bombarded with criticism from the hairstylist. She went on and on about split ends and breakage, then proceeded to donate my hair to Locks of Love … *eyeroll* The stylist was bad enough I remember asking my mom about it afterwards, and she told me that it was best to ignore the criticism.
But it still bothered me. It bothered me badly enough that I switched over to going to the local college for haircuts, then eventually started doing it myself. When I turned 30, I vowed to never cut my hair again, and I’ve been much happier with my appearance ever since.
I’ve been married for over a decade now. My husband likes to help brush and braid my hair when we get ready for bed, and he always praises how silky and shiny my hair is. Sometimes he even recites poetry. He doesn’t see the split ends or the wispy bits that stick out awkwardly, even though he’s perfectly aware of the horrible things that happen to my hair in the cause of motherhood. He sees the beauty, not the flaws.
That matters far more than the nitpicking opinions of near strangers.
We caught another virus, and this one has left me feeling So. Very. Drained.
It’s been pretty bad this winter. We finally got around to checking in with some of the other parents, and apparently, our family has had it comparatively easy. Others have been hit considerably worse with a variety of illnesses, ranging from COVID to pinkeye.
Yikes.
The only thing to do is to surrender to the chaos and take things as they come. And get plenty of sunshine and vitamins.
One of these days I’ll get around to doing something.
Aye, it’s good,” he said, handing the goblet back. “It’s also double strength. Colum takes it at night because his legs pain him. How much of it have you had?” he asked, eyeing me narrowly.
“Two, no, three glasses,” I said, with some dignity. “Are you implying that I’m intoxicated?”
“No,” he said, brows still raised, “I’m impressed that you’re not. Most folks that drink wi’ Colum are under the table after the second glass.”
-Outlander
I don’t typically read books written specifically for a female audience.
Because they make me feel bad.
Emotionally.
For example, the above quoted scene from Outlander, where the main character holds her liquor better than most men. High five, girl power, etc, etc, etc.
But me, being a real woman in real life, can’t handle booze for the life of me. It’s a bit of a joke between my husband and me, but the one time I attempted to get drunk, I ended up hunched over the toilet pretty quick. I based this scene in The Scion Suit off of my irl experience.
And, of course, the fact that I’m usually pregnant or nursing means that I’m borderline teetotaler anyway.
Back to my point: the female characters in per se “women’s fiction” are completely and thoroughly unrelatable to me.
I don’t have any fantasies about being able to out-drink a man … I don’t understand why one would want to. I don’t want to show anyone up or cut anyone down, because, well, that’s mean. I don’t like hurting people.
I’m not ambitious, and I don’t want to slave away for the sake of some job. I like having the freedom of dressing like a hippie and going to the park on the spur of the moment. I’m terrible at handling external pressure, and numbers never meant much of anything to me.
I like the color pink.
Yet if one were to go off of books, movies, TV, video games, etc, women like me don’t exist. Wow. Fantastic. I feel so accepted.
“Target audience: women” doesn’t include me. In fact, it seems to go out of its way to deliberately exclude me.
Why am I not allowed to read about relatable female characters? Why must I always feel like society is out to punish me for not living up to its expectations? Why am I not allowed to just be myself?
Sometimes I wonder if it’s gotten to the point where most women feel alienated in one way or another.
I decided to read Outlander for research purposes, but since I’m not remotely the target audience, I’m not going to review it. Instead, I will tell you that I’m really struggling to get through the book.
Outlander is classic Mary-Sue fiction. As in, the main character is an orphan, but instead of carrying any deep emotional scarring over the loss of her parents, she grew up traveling the world and going on all sorts of adventures with her uncle. Wheee!
It goes downhill from there.
Naturally it leaves me, someone with a traumatic backstory, absolutely nothing to relate to. Actually, I find it quite triggering. Do other women really have someone constantly swooping in to protect them from everything unpleasant? Why was I never so fortunate?
Cue the accusations of being self-centered and making everything about me.
Given that Mary-Sue is one of the most popular sub genres of romance, I can’t help but wonder if I really am that much of an anomaly. Where are the fictional characters that are like me?
The villains in horror novels, I’m sure.
This massive disconnect is the reason why I write the sorts of things that I write. My productivity is so slow in the winter because January is my “traumaversary” month — the event that permanently robbed me of my ability to write PG stories, so to speak. I have a darkness inside, and while it prevents me from relating to most people, it is also why I appreciate the things that everyone else takes for granted. You learn to live in peace with your demons.
Anyway
I’m not sure if I’ll actually make it to the end of Outlander, even for the research purposes. It just feels too juvenile and naive for me to stomach.
One of the fun things about 2022 is that it marks a solid TEN YEARS of changing diapers multiple times every day. The habit has become so ingrained, I barely notice doing it anymore. And despite the stereotype, I love hogging all the diaper changes for my little babies, because they only stay tiny for such a short while. 🙂
I very much like children.
You see, before marriage and family, I had the full time job, my own apartment, and a collection of shoes that I never had time to wear, and I would never go back to that life for anything in the world. I prefer having drawings and crayons scattered all around the floor, spending my days comforting small sorrows, and loving the big smiles on little faces.
I do feel bad that I haven’t been posting more of my fiction writing for the past several months.
At this point, I’ve got half of The Scion Suit written, which I’ve decided to expand from a novelette into a branching, multiple-possible-endings novel. Unfortunately, with the fact that the reader gets to periodically choose which path to go down, I haven’t the slightest idea how I’d go about posting it on a blog.
Not to mention, I’ve reached the part where I planned to switch over to MSG Hartmann’s perspective, only I’m not in a state where I can readily get into a masculine frame of mind. I’ve decided to put it off until after the arrival of baby #6, so I don’t have pregnancy hormones affecting what I write (though I still plan on publishing The Scion Suit in 2022).
In the meantime, I’ve started working on a different idea, which is a lot more feminine with plenty of emotional drama. The catch is that this one is so securely rated M, I don’t know if I should post it as I work on it, or wait to officially publish it.
I’m not entirely sure if I’m using the sex scenes to distract from the philosophical rants, or vice versa. They both get pretty heavy, lol.
I’m going to be honest: progress is slow. Winter is not remotely my most productive season when it comes to writing, so even if I decided to post this new story with all the juicy bits cut out (and by that I mean the philosophical rants), it will still take some time to get to that point. By which I mean … February.
