The stages of a break up

domestication, Love, silly goose, soulfood

1- this prob isn’t going to last, tread lightly. bookend every criticism with 2 compliments.

2- yup, getting back together, at least for makeup sex, picking out the wedding dress right now.

3- that mother fucking asshole. probs going to burn his house down. unless he apologizes at some point in the next 72 hours, I don’t want to lose all of those hours of pinteresting our future baby’s nursery.

4- ahhhh good. he really sees his mistakes and has shown satisfactory remorse. yay I won’t die alone.

5- ohhh for fucks sake. dude literally can’t even fake being nice for 3 days.

(repeat steps 1-5, 3 to 7 times until you’re worn down to cinders of your former self. you’ll know it’s time for step 6 when you look at his pictures and expletives accidentally jut out)

6- you’re dead to me. outta lives. unplugged the gaming console and took a long walk to the woods to bury the last remaining drops of hope, empathy, and love that I had for you.

7- sit shiva for 5 days.

8- do you, but for real this time.



domestication, soulfood, therapy

31 years ago I was just a heart beat in my mama’s belly.

30 years ago I was just a sweet baby in my mama’s arms.

12 years ago I was just a girl leaving her mama’s house.

10 years ago I was just a mama with a heart beat in her belly.

5 years ago I was just a woman leaving her the place where she’d grown.

1 year ago I was just a girl watching her mama marry a man who had long been no good.

5 days ago I was just a woman witnessing the heart break of self sacrifice in her mama’s voice.

Today, I’m just a heart beat, holding fast to the tension of in between. Honoring time and decisions that shouldn’t be rushed. Biting my urge to rescue, rally, defend.

Just a heart beat humbled by the ticking hands of what we do, and who we do it to. Ourselves.

Under it all, a girl who surrendered to love. Looked away from the fact that relationship requires two sets of open hands ready to receive and two sets of open hands ready to give.

Now, coiled, heaving, betrayed by no one but herself. One thousand reasons why. And none of them matter when your face is pressed hard against the cold damp ground, bottom, home, beginning, nothing and absolutely everything.

You’ll get up you always do. But I think you should stay there a while. Take inventory of your pieces and just sit with them. Still.

Profile Update

domestication, Love, social awareness, soulfood, therapy, your body

I am not Beyoncé. Hard to believe I know. I am also not June Cleaver, Jessica Alba or Princess Di. I probably have more in common with Julia Louis-Dryfus and Elizabeth Warren. Today I updated my Bumble profile to the perfect mix of setting reasonable expectation while still sounding fun, sexy, uninhibited, and classy . Choosing pictures where I look subtly breath taking, but down to earth. Literal earth, at least two nature pics and one selfie in heals. Shots with the perfect amount of I like to party sex appeal but not party so hard that I’d suck your dick on the first date sex appeal.




So here’s my honest to God’s truth Bumble profile:

Hi I’m Reagon. Pronounced Ray-gun. Yes, like the president. In fact that’s my shtick (follow me on FB, Insta, Twitter, & Snap @reagonforpres). [Hey, if I can’t get a cup of coffee or a cocktail at least I can get a few more followers… add this to future branding campaign advice.]


Any way, I clean up real nice, in fact I was recently told that I look like a living doll. But I also, regularly look like a homeless person. Also, like clock work every year I do no shave November, and December, and sometimes January, February and half of March. By spring break every year I can Rapunzel style French braid my pubes down to my ankles and sculpt my leg hair into a punk rock Mohawk. Hot right?

Honestly, because we just met I’ll painstakingly shave, pluck and pull 80% of the hairs out of my body. They were all blonde to being with so this process annoys me highly but so does the prospect of dying alone. So here we are.

To appease all of your inquisitive minds, the drapes match the rug. And I do have rug. Fuck ladies, let’s stop paying Tammy at the local Wax Palace $100.00 every ten days to rip the hairs out of our vag okay? Like, can we add that to our next national ballot? It’s clear ya’ll aren’t actually down for the revolution, but can we at least let my lady hair sail free?

Sorry about that tangent. It’s nice to meet you.


Today I woke up on a twin sized air mattress next to the beaming eyes of the most exquisite creature that I have ever seen. Between me lovingly gazing into my daughter’s eyes in a sweet sleepy stupor I tried to identify what that old familiar sound was. Oh my God what is that??? It sounds like the dog is barfing in the tent. Oh my God THE DOG IS BARFING IN THE BED, IN THE TENT. I somehow contorted my body even further than should be humanly possible and clung to my blankets for another ten minutes. Partially because I was freezing fucking cold and partially because I wasn’t exactly bouncing out of bed over joyed to clean up dog vomit. But I did, eventually, and as promised it was fucking disgusting. This thought crossed my mind numerous times, I’m so glad that no one has to see me dressed in seven layers of clothes, thick wool socks shoved in flip flops cleaning up barf. And trust the flip flop socks didn’t give off a sexy geisha vibe.


The nice thing about waking up to a steamy pile of vomit is that your day really only goes up from there.


I made a fire. I ate a hotdog for breakfast. I took down the campsite. I wrestled the tent like an alligator into it’s impossibly tiny bag. At one point resorting to laying my entire body on the stabbing rocks, again seeking solace in thank God that no one can see me and laughing at the heavens, “Ohhhh mother fucker, this damn tent is a real metaphor for my life. Well look at this God I DID IT! Un-barfed, neatly folded and then artfully crammed and shoved into it’s pouch. Zipper amazingly closed and all done by me, myself and me. Alone. Fuck. I surrender.”

I’m not trying to do that shit ever again by myself. But I will because of the RBG in me.

After the seventy-second load to the car I stripped out of three layers of clothes. Taking amusement in the breadth of my own undressing capacity. Hot dudes that I bring home from the bar get the Dita Von Teese dimly lit peak-a-boo slow undress session. But, in the wild there I am teeter-tottering on top of my six year old tennis shoes with the grace of a hippo with flamingo legs. A real homage to Eric Carle, without the tear jerking sentiment.


And then I drove our three barely pulsing corpses back home. The two things that I miss most about having a man:

1) being the passenger

2) indulging in the helpless girl act long enough to not be the one who has to catch and release the parade of spiders that are fleeing into my home at the moment


Here’s the thing: I CAN DO ANYTHING. Literally, anything. I look back to my younger years with bewildered awe. I can’t believe that I did all of that. I look into my future with bewildered aweee, girl you still got it. The thing that changes once you know that you’re powerful beyond measure. That you are divinity incarnate. That your talents can’t be contained. Is that you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone anymore.


Yes, I want to be seen. I want to be heard. I want to be held. I don’t really care if you know that I’m a total sex kitten in my embodied sexual prime. I don’t care if you know that I spent thirty minutes today unclogging my bathroom drain. While interjecting like a school girl, ewwweee this is soooo sick. I don’t care if you know that I smoke a bowl in my hammock or that I wrote a highly intimidating business letter all today. Really I just don’t care anymore.


I’m just going to keep showing up as me. Vast, unapologetic, liberated, loving, loud, soft, determined, tired, me. Maybe I’ll charm you. Maybe I’ll scare you (I’m good for that). But if you’re the type that looks at fire and sees beauty then maybe we should get coffee. And maybe you could pick me up. I’m serious about never wanting to drive again.



Splendid, complicated, lovely, exhilarating, real as fuck Reagon

You’re Rubber I’m Glue

domestication, soulfood, therapy

I’m a jacket with Velcro closures, stuffed into an over packed front load washer. A detergent of Do The Right Thing carefully measured, poured atop. Fabric softener skipped, we’re cutting back on household expenses.

This damn washer screams a piercing beeeeeeeeep, at the end of every cycle. Okay, okay, I hear you.

Pulled out, heaved in to the dryer above. Stuck to me- the sock, the scarf, all of the soft things. The tear of fibers enmeshed akin to nails on a chalk board.  Torn apart, heaved and hung. I’ll dry out. I’ll keep you warm then.

And you’ll breath in the soothing scent of the freshly laundered made even sweeter, because you didn’t do the washing.


Today I was reminded that the spoken and written word are always open to interpretation. Try not to be too attached to them. Let them from your fingers and lips freely. Hush your ego when it want’s to jump to their defense. Those words are no longer yours, they live outside of you. Just observe.




the time that I watched 20 episodes of Girls back to back and questioned my entire life


At the intersection of newly acquired streaming HBO and a plague that has fallen over my house I have watched three seasons of Girls back to back. Now, I’m going to be honest the kind of emotional life breakdown that I’m having right meow isn’t nearly as bad the two back to back seasons of OITNB that twisted my reality to the point that I needed to be a lesbian and seriously reevaluated my life on the outside. I mean minimum security prison is really mostly like a big sleepover with fewer bags of cool ranch doritos. But, it is still one.

I’m stuck. Maybe we’re all stuck. Stuck between wishing to fulfill the dream that has resided in my heart of hearts for all of my conscious existence and fulfilling my dream to put dinner on the table, raise my daughter in a respectable way and be in a supported relationship.

I don’t even know if I can put my finger on exactly what I want (ed) to be. I wanted to be the president of the United States, an astronaut, a supreme court justice, the edgy female version of Ken Burns, a writer, an artist, a Smithsonian curator, a surgeon, a public health advocate, an Art History professor at a community college and the owner of a really bohemian tea shop next to some water somewhere that smells really nice oh and I really want to wear pretty dresses every day and I want to go to the opera in a fancy fucking dress at least once, oh and I don’t want to wear a bra hardly ever.

Yup that’s what I want to be. Maybe specificity is my issue.  No where on that list is an occupational therapist, an medical office administrator, a frazzled mother, an OCD house cleaner, dog wrangler, an amateur blogger and political commentator to an audience of 2 (my boyfriend and my daughter……. mommmy what does the electoral college mean? Okay, but I’ll take listeners where I can get them).

But here I am. The rock is my obligations on this earth as the creator of another human being that needs nothing more than to have someone with their shit together navigating her ship of life for the next twelve years. The hard place is that I could literally throw a dart at that laundry list of things that I would actually like to be pursuing but am not and be significantly more fulfilled than I am currently.

I don’t know if you understand the kind of misery that I live. 8 to 6:30 Monday though Friday I put on business casual, leave the house and shape shift into a professional woman who is inquisitive, compassionate, easy to get along with, outgoing yet refined, polite, well mannered. I don’t cuss. I don’t tell people to take a flying leap. I don’t correct people when the make absolutely ludicrous declarations about politics, science or morality. I smile and nod. I fucking smile and nod and give half hearted fake chuckles and tragically unfunny things.
I also tell none of them about this blog, because that would be outing myself.

Here it is. Very few people in the ‘real world’ are actually intellectually stimulating, progressive or remotely interesting. And I really don’t like them.

Maybe the issue is that I’ve done nothing but make soup, do dishes, cuddle my baby and clean up a thousand piles of barf and shit in past 72 hours. So, yeah, life can’t  really go anywhere but up.

A Note On Reproductive Decisions

domestication, Ever Sophia, Love

Two things on babies that the internet made me say today:
1) I’ve said this before and I’ll probably say it again. Do not collect children like chotchkies. No I don’t believe that we should go all China on you and charge 7 years worth of wages because your family planning methods are shit. I do believe that your body is your decision. But that you should act reasonably about it. Are you unable to afford the children that you have? Are you unhealthy or creeping up there in age? Do you have fertility issues because of chronic illnesses? Was your last pregnancy an utter nightmare because of how high risk that it was? Is getting pregnant putting your own health and wellbeing in jeopardy?

These are all deal breakers. Maybe not for your first child, or hell I’ll give you the first two. But if you have two or more existing children and it is very dangerous for you to have another, or if you cannot guarantee the health and wellbeing of your future larger family. THEN DON’T HAVE ANOTHER GOD DAMNED KID. Yes, I think babies are a blessing. Yes, my ovaries explode overtime that I get with in 60 feet of an infant. But you don’t see me popping out babies every year because I think that some how my life would be more fulfilled. And I’m young, healthy and financially responsible for my family.

If that offended you for personal reasons, then it’s you that I’m talking about. Not sorry. 

2) Incase you missed the announcement of the year. My best friend is growing a little baby bear in her beautiful womb as we speak. I’m a little excited. 

About this time years ago for a multitude of reasons and cosmic destinies I peed on a pregnancy test for the third time in 2 weeks and two little blue lines stared back at me. A long exhaled FUCK is about the best description of that feeling. I was 20 years old, full of false optimism about the trajectory of my life and my ability to be a parent. Up until that point everything that I had ever put my mind to, or wanted bad enough always worked out. That was of course all a direct reflection of me, my personality, my intelligence, my sticktuitiveness. Naturally. I was pretty great. And I could totally handle 1 baby. I mean yeah, it’s just 1 baby. Single mothers everywhere have 4 plus babies. Slaves gave birth to babies in the cotton fields, strapped them to their back and continued working. It’s not that hard. I could handle it.

I just needed to have a silent panic attack, walk my dog for an exorbitantly long time and get my shit together. Gulp. Well that went well for about 1 day. Then the skies opened up, the first bolts of baby daddy reality struck and the shit storm that would be the next 3 years of my life blackened my skies.

I strapped my self and the blastocyst that would become bouncing baby Ever in the car and drove to my friends house. I can’t remember which came first Ari or Laura. At Laura’s I ranted about my life to her and the unsuspecting bystanders. She was rational, collected, her friends were always in a life predicament. And then I went to Ari’s. Sat on the front step and broke down in completely sobs. She held me. She made all kinds of unsupported assertions about my superhuman capacity. She told me that she would help me raise it.

Life went on. 8 short and excruciating months later Ever became a shitting, screaming, vortex of happiness, love, loyalty and conviction.

Dysfunctional though it was I had a village in Kansas that allowed me to be a full time student, a fully time employee and a part time mother. It was love and support. It was also piecemeal parenting. No one wanted me to give up on my dreams, no one wanted me to miss rent on any given month and everyone wanted to be the best ______ to their granddaughter, niece, daycare parent’s kid.

Most of them did. But it was no substitute for a real family.

The concept of a real family is always on my mind. I’ve written about it, grappled with it, thought and twists in turns about it.  Maybe that’s what you do when subconsciously your soul is trying to make the sum of the parts a whole and complete family and not just for yourself anymore- though that would be nice- but because that’s the most absolutely fundamental thing that you can provide your progeny.

I couldn’t find the footing at home that felt right. Infact it all completely unraveled which is enough torment and then the skies turned green and purple and hailed down deceit, danger and mostly heartbreak.

I had to leave.

On an unassisted, parachute free, leap of faith I decided to move to New Mexico. Ari was there and it was far enough away. Those two pros out weighed all of the cons.

And she helped me raise it.



Somehow despite the bumps in the road the pieces have fell in place here (for now, I’m getting less naive). I’m learning to trust a path that I can’t explain and never understand in the moment. But on that road every day are the two most beautiful gals in my world, Ev and Ari.

Ariel- I probably won’t have to be the pillar in your parenting adventure that you’ve been for me, but when you need me I’ll be there. When you need a cheerleader that boldly exclaims that if Sarah Smith can do it than so can you, I’ll be that person. When you want to put that baby in the microwave (jeez I never actually did that) because you will, I’ll find you a bottle of wine and turn on Shaggy, I know how that makes everything better. And if for any reason your path gets knotted, unruly and incomprehensible I’ll hold your tinny little hand and walk blindly into the future with you and these beautiful children that we’ve created.

I love you and yours. Forever and Ever.

Surprise: I’m getting married and having a baby!!!!!!!!!!!!

domestication, Love, silly goose

Well, technically, no. I mean not yet. I mean, maybe not ever. I mean I grew a pair and confronted my boyfriend in an email (I’m an adult) saying,

“Hey bro, just so you know getting married and possibly having another child is in my life plan and for the record I’m not getting any younger. You down?”

To which he replied. 

“I’ll move out”.

Ohh. Shit. Well, that didn’t really go to plan now did it.

For the record this is how that conversation is supposed to go: 

-Complicated female creature that loves you and is trying to be honest about her life intentions that have been drug out into the light by this little thing called “a new year” and the chest crushing pressure of society and all of the things right in this world to itemize and prioritize her life says:

“Heyyyyyyyy, I know that we just got in a semi-huge fight, so naturally I’m going to use it as an opportunity to say all of the things that I normally would never say to your face. No I’m not drunk. So do you wanna spend the rest of your life and the eternal afterlife with me and at some point in the near-ish future *even though I look like I’m 13 my eggs are nearing the 30 years old mark* wanna put a baby in me? I mean who doesn’t want a baby… with me, right? So yay or nay?”

-Handsome, charming, temporarily in an asshole trance but suddenly shaken into a deeply moved spiritual and love filled place boyfriend replies:

“Okay, sure. I mean yes. More than yes, absolutely! Let me work up some very thoughtful and romantic way to propose to you. We’ll streamline the whole wedding planning thing. It’ll be simple, elegant and expedited. Right after we’ll start making babies. Well, probably just one but hey you’re a level headed human being completely above the sabotage of your hormones so I’ll let you make that call, you always know what’s best.
P.S. I’m sorry for everything that happened earlier, again you’re right (I really can’t tell you that enough), I love you darling. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’ll be home straight away to reassure you all of the above mentioned things to your face and I’m brining wine, so that the next passionate and love filled email that you send me can actually be because you’re drunk.”

But things never go my way. I have absolutely no idea why. It just doesn’t make sense.

I’m accepting, flowers, cards, heartfelt condolences and these:


Couldn’t hurt.

The silver lining, I like to send J emails of really horrid weddings that I see online and say things like, “Hey babe, I love you so much that I’ll let you wear a mad hatter outfit to the alter”. He never replies. But he doesn’t reply no. And when I whisper about it in his ear right before he falls asleep, he says, “Ohh what you’ve set a date?” I think he might be being sincere, like he really just wants me to take some initiative. Yeah?

Right after our “pillow talk” I started whining about how we needed a kitten, a puppy, 2 sea stars and a baby (those are all real things that I really really really need and they need me, especially the sea stars). He said, “Oh what are we just going to go pick up a baby? Maybe we should get a red headed one?”
It’s like he knows that I can’t stand red hair (don’t get all hurt and offended I’m sure that your red hair is to die for).

So, in conclusion. I really think that he’s starting to come around.

J, I love you. Eh? No? You didn’t like this one? Whoops. Really big smile. Does that work?

God Fearing Wo-man


First let’s all take a moment to honor the existence of pinterest. It teaches me all of the things.

A couple of times now this has happened where one divergent pin leads to a blog and then a website and then endless articles about how good Christian women become and remain just that. I embark on it as an anthropological experiment more so than anything else. “Wow, this exists. People think like this. It really makes them happy or something.”

Yet, in the midst of my bewilderment I am always a little fascinated and slightly enticed. Like, well you have a good point. My life without eternal salvation and the comfort of putting it all in someone else’s hands does really suck. Man, you’ve got to be onto something.
Well minus the whole organized religion bit and you know the big man in the clouds. But to each their own.

Tonight I had to resist marching up my stairs and turning myself over to the sweet Mormon girls. Take me with you. Teach me how to knit and can things (for the record I’m an experienced canner and I didn’t learn it in sunday school). Show me your ways. Give me the book. Highlight all of the passages. I shall read them, memorize them and recite them every time that I want to murder someone. Especially because those someones are always the people that I love the most. Plus you’d probably insist that I ripped out my inter uterine device and start abstaining from sex. Word on the street is that’s how you really lock a man down. And the extra perk is I’d only have normal crazy girl hormones to navigate. (Quick aside: yay birth control!)

In all reality. I read what the nice Christian ladies write. Because they know the (some of the) ways. They’ve got the whole nuclear-family, super-hero, potluck going mom bit down to an art. How they do this you ask?

The snarky response:

-62 ways to show respect to your husband. (Just pretend like nothing bad ever happens and apologize profusely… preferably buy him gifts but what ever you do DO NOT ruin the budget.)

-5 passages from Leviticus that keeps you from putting the baby in the microwave.

-3 conversation starters to convince your husband to beg for forgiveness for premaritally taking your virginity and making you hate yourself for decades because of which.

-Why God and the Bible want you to be a super hott sex kitten for you Bible thumping man.

The sad part is that I’m just paraphrasing REAL life articles that I read this fine eavening. Don’t shoot the messenger people.

The less-snarky response:

-They do this really crazy thing called budgeting their money. It’s like you actually figure out how much money that you make. And then you figure out all of the things that you need to spend money on.  And then you do math and such. In the end of it you have money to save, buy houses with and at least 7% for tithe. HUM. Well I’ll be damned.

-They stay at home. Their good Christian men also read their Bible verses that said get your ass up off the sofa and bring home the bacon. Thus they donned their pearls and kitten heals and started vacuuming and making Jello molds. To be completely honest. I’m fucking jealous. Please make me your house wife. It’ll sparkle I promise.

-They know all of the couponing ways. And they freeze everything. I am only half the man that they will ever be.

-They didn’t “waste” 50,000 dollars on their college education that ultimately gets them a nice cushy job at Kohl’s check out lane 3 or you know anywhere else that only requires a GED.

-They had a lot of babies. And let’s face it they also fucked up the first one. Hell maybe even the first two. But after 3 you’ve got this in the bag. The babies just pop out of your vagina and the Duggard effect sets in. Shoot no, I’m not getting up to make you breakfast. Go find you sibling ‘buddy’ their big enough to see over the counter. Also, there’s some laundry to be folded. REALLY it’s just a little army of servants. Sure you’ve got to have a Jim Bob self-made millionaire to finance the whole bit but really you just need to put your feet up (you are on bed rest after all) and let the minions handle the rest.

Okay, now I’m going to try and say something nice. Try. I can’t make any promises:

-They actually invest time trying to be a good partner and have a fundamentally healthy relationship with their husbands.

-They think positive thoughts.

-They have a social support group.

-They have a higher calling. Something that they truly believe in and that something happens to always be watching. It’s like the perpetual threat of Santa Clause on small children during the month of December. THOU SHALL BE GOOD FOR I KNOW WHEN YOU ARE SLEEPING, I KNOW WHEN YOU’RE AWAKE! We don’t sing that song as creepily as possible in our house or anything. Never.

*formerly seen on love begets lovely

it’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s…. 

domestication, Love

Mediocre man

When the  Walmart gods are smiling on you for 99 cents you can get 4 hours worth of “Super hero” cartoons.

Yesterday Ev and I had a fun filled day o’ vintage Super Man. I don’t know if it’s just been a while or if modern Superman has more plot twists than I can adequately follow. Either way our little boys should watch be watching less bob the builder and more old school chivalry.

I’m the mom who isn’t crazy about Barbie and tells princess stories with a grain of salt. Though generations of accomplished women have weathered the unrealistic superimposed expectations of the conglomerate sexist storyline. I still think it’s my job to shield her a little. And as she gets less little, it’ll be my job to do so a little more.

Back to the point. It really struck me that her watching a life time supply of Superman was defiantly more detrimental than her watching old fairy tails racist tho they may be. Because being locked in a tower and being rescued by a blind prince is hardly plausible. But what is much more reasonable and eventually crushing is that someday you’ll be Louise Lane. A beautiful, smart, accomplished news paper women trudging through a man’s world (it’s essentially like gazing into the looking glass). And naturally there will be a gorgeous man in the next cubicle over. That’s all he needed to do. Look remotely like Clark Kent and you’re (she’s) (I’m) sold.

There will be some subconscious conclusion jumping and we’ll completely overlook the fact that he doesn’t:

Encourage you to go on impossible missions so that you’re the one showing back up to the office with the big head line and all of the street cred.

He will not sense that you’re in trouble, rip off his suit and tie and fly at super human speeds to dodge explosives and all to pull back to safety the derailed train that you happen to be on.

Mostly he will not return from his impossible mission, donning those adorable glasses open the news paper and read his story and be as humble as pie.

Instead Mr. One-Cubicle-Over will :

send you border line inappropriate texts that you’ll glorify as flattering.

He will ask you if you’d like to go out for drinks because a proper date would be too much of a commitment.

Eventually after many ultimatums he might semi-commit to you. And when he does he’ll finally take you out to dinner but you’ll be going dutch so don’t forget your purse.

*formerly seen on love begets lovely,

The worst thing in the whole world happened to me

domestication, science says, your body

*ALERT: this may be highly unsettling. You may feel like we’re way too close after this read. Proceed with caution.*


Well technically has been happening to me for the past three days. I got my period.

Are you aware of what a period is. Your uterus sluffs off its outer lining and shoves it down your vaginal canal and all the way through your cervix and out of your (my) vagina. Sick huh. YEAH TELL ME ABOUT IT. Well me and every other woman in the world.

A year and a half ago I got this bitter sweet little chunk of medical grade plastic and 52 mg of levonorgestrel were *placed* on the dark side of my cervix.


There she is.
Today J asked me if I took that little thingy off. I mean, yeah, it is basically like a pair of socks. I just wear it according to my outfits 🙂

Full disclosure, deciding to get an IUD was a complex decision for me. I read all of the medical literature. Read far too many first hand accounts of horror stories that google had to offer. Watched many a video chronicles of women’s Mirena experience (yeah that’s a thing). I also did that thing that everyone tells you to do, consult your doctor. Granted my OBGYN is the man of my dreams and I would blindly follow him into the dark, he was objective but reassuring. Over 2 million American women have these in their lady bits right this moment. Here’s an informative article that give all of the nitty gritty details on the FDA registered complaints on the Mirena.

I’m not going to pretend for a moment that having this damn thing has been a particularly pleasant experience. It turns out that I have a retroverted uterus and so could you 🙂 . Between 1 and 3-5 women have one. It only means that instead of tilting slightly forward (as is the norm) it tilts backwards. I learned this fun fact when Dr. McDreamy was elbows deep in my vaginal canal trying to install my hardware. It was absolutely excruciating. I say this as someone who’s got a seriously high pain threshold. I’ve never had a medical professional apologize so profusely before in my life, even that one time that they almost let me baby die (that sounded shitty, I’m not actually pointing fingers, medical issues happen but so does medical negligence).


Here’s a cute and cuddly version of how your uterus could be angled, I wish mine looked like balloon animals instead of reality. Brace yo self.


This is the super cleaned up version, it’s a lot more blood and guts in real life. What a cute pink elephant we house.

Normally it just feels like a “pinch” and some cramping so they say. Mine was really bad. They gave me a prescription for painkillers after. That’s not protocol. It was really painful for a few weeks. They had me come back in for a sonogram to make sure that the little trucker was going to stay put. It did. Well mostly. I’m not certain that it has actually ever really been in there right. None of us were certain that I was a ‘good candidate’ for it in the first place. But once I commit to something being shoved through my cervix I’d like to keep it around for a while. The last case of that is six years old and shows no signs of going anywhere for quite some time.

Here’s the rub. [Now this is a personal account. Plenty of women have rather delightful experiences with their IUD’s.]

-It hurt like a mo’ fo’.

-I bleed for a really long time. May, June and half of July. That’s not normal. But, hey I’m a giver.

-It feels like there’s a really big nose sticking out from my cervix, more so than a normal cervix. It has been referred to as a picket fence. Who want’s my number now??? Huh? No takers, weird.

– The first 7 months of having this thing was absolute hell. My hormones were out of control. I was a total emotional roller coaster every day. Think like the week before your period but always. Yeah, that’s not good for anyones mental health.

–  I can feel that little bugger. Sometimes when I sit funny, or you know just randomly something gives me a little poke just to remind me that infertility comes at a cost.


-It was free (my insurance paid for it), shout out to healthcare reform. Turns out that full coverage of contraceptives is one of the best things that have happened to American women in quite some time.

-I’m baby free (well except for the preexisting child). That’s no added perk. That’s the point. For 5 years I can let it rain spermatozoa and look at that no fertilized eggs. Ohhhhh sweet sweet science.

-If I decided today that I want to have a baby and continued to think that was a good idea until the soonest appointment with my gyno to take it out I could do so. In a couple of months I could welcome bouncing baby Heikes part 2 into this world. Probably—- our fertility isn’t guaranteed I know this, but mine could use some curbing so I’m good with the risks.
-This amamammamammmmmazing thing happened almost a year ago. I never got another period. Sure there were plenty of semi-terified moments of ohhhh shiz what if I’m pregnant. Then the ensuing google searches of entropic pregnancies. That’s an ugly set of hypothetical circumstances. It just turns out that I’m one of the 20% of women who stop having their period after the first year. (That’s a conservative estimate, because a high percentage of Mirena users have it removed in the first year…. see the con’s list).

– Major pro all of the skrilla that I’ve saved in the past year on ‘feminine products’. Seriously, it’s no small chunk of change. It’s probably close to $200 on tampons alone. Plus all of the acetometiphine that stayed on the shelf. And the wine and chocolate. Those are real health related expeinces when you want to kill everyone and your uterus feels like it’s being stabbed a million times a day for 5 days straight. That’s a real thing.

I imagine that it looks a little something like this in there:

Well until this week.  The bear and the sword are back. Please don’t stay long, no one likes you.

Google said to me today: “2/3 of women are interested in stopping their period.” No shit. Count me in.