It was suggested that I write about my babydaddydrama. (And yes, that is one word. And yes, you DO say it in a fast & ghetto-like manner.) So, in my allotted time, I will try to explain why I'd rather have a child with a homeless dead-beat.
Matt is the formal name of my sperm donor. Though, I rarely take the liberty to call him that. You see, Matt and I don't talk. We don't get along. In fact, 87% of the time I feel like I had a baby with his mother. (Since she is always annoyingly texting me asking if they can take Ollie and is the one who usually meets to pick him up.) I know it isn't healthy for us to not communicate, and I realize that we have at least 17 more years of dealing with each other. But the truth is, he makes me so damn angry.
I guess it's a combination of things that make me hate him, a lot of them dating back to pregnancy and newborn stages. I remember how he reacted when I informed him Oliver (though then, he was "Noah Alexander") was going to have MY last name, like that was the only thing that mattered to him. His words, not mine.
Or how I was nine months pregnant and he decided to move two hours away. This is something that always dumbfounds me. Because I. DON'T. GET. IT. The distance makes it so hard to make things work. If he was truly dedicated to his son like he says he is, wouldn't he move closer? There is no reason why he lives in the town. I mean, he works at Dominoes as a delivery man. Oliver has never even been to his apartment because
Or how when we got back together when Oliver was a month old, he still never helped out. The only thing he would do is hold Oliver 24/7 (which was against my parenting method). He wouldn't change diapers, or give baths, or clean up around the house, or play with him, or make bottles, or feed him, or get up with him in the middle of the night. Nothing. He spent 96.3% of his time around Oliver and I trying to convince me to take Ollie to my mom's so we could do something. (And by "something", I mean "have sex".)
Or how I haven't receive child support in three months. And anytime I ask him about it, he ignores me. So then I bug and bug and bug and bug until he tells me something that makes NO sense. It annoys me.
Or how he seems to think it would be a good idea for Oliver, a fourteen month old, to spend FIVE DAYS in a row with him. Though, I'm fairly certain he never thinks about the well being of Oliver when he asks things like that. He just wants things to be convenient for him. It really doesn't seem to matter that this could possibly be traumatic at such a young age, to go to a place for almost a week that he normally only spends a day at. I imagine he'd feel abandoned. And plus, I'd miss my baby too damn much.
I know that I don't have it as bad as other moms. I'm extremely blessed. But I'm not worried about everybody else's situation. I can only worry about me and my life. And I'm done bitching, er, I mean, blogging, for the day.