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Language Log

Saturday, Jul. 18, 2009 - 9:28 p.m.

Not feeling too great. Got some minor things done, not a whole lot of work. No orders still. J brought up the topic of daycare-- apparently there are long waiting lists, so it's worth it to think a year in advance-- and I look at the fees and was plunged into the depression that I'm frankly surprised has waited this long to hit me. Good thing you didn't show me that before I got pregnant, sweetie, I would have insisted on waiting another year. At least. Or until menopause.

Doom.

To be specific, the one that's only 2 blocks from our house, and which I had sort of imagined would be the one we'd use because it's 2 blocks from our house, costs more than I make (so far, but I realy fucking doubt it's going to double anytime soon in this ecomnomy). Work to pay for daycare so I can work to pay for daycare so I can work...? Recursive! Seems to cancel itself out, so a giant why bother. And I look down that lane and see all my dreams, shuffling their way back to where they came from. Coming from the other direction is my worst nightmare. Life as an unskilled caregiver. Don't I have better things to do? Seriously. Like, just about anything.

Is it time to go to bed yet? Wake me when it's over. The freakout, the childbirth, the staring at the kid for 18 years straight to make sure it doesn't die of stupid, while my brain cells and will to live slowly deteriorate. Fuck.

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