It's been a pretty crummy week. Not really in terms of Hogsboro High, although my ability to roll with the daily shitstorm has been greatly diminished by other events. No, HH is clicking along like a clockwork duck, despite the fact that my anxiety and stress levels are rising incrementally with every day.

Some flashes from the front: On Wednesday I leaned over to a student's ear and whispered, "you're being really obnoxious and if you don't stop right now, I'm sending you to the office." For some reason, it worked. Yesterday my most aggressive student asked politely why I wasn't attending Meet the Teacher night - it was like he'd been possessed by a courteous poltergeist. Also yesterday, I held my first successful test review. It is by no means the first review I've ever attempted, but it's the first one that's gone at least half-way decently. So a restrained 'yay' to all of that good stuff.

I had my first prenatal class last night, and I'm unhappy to report that it sucked wet cigarette butts. It's not that the people were lame and the info unhelpful. It's that I entered a room of 15 strangers and I left the room knowing little more about my fellow passengers on the Good Ship Gestation than I had when I'd arrived. (It's a mighty queasy ship, yarr...we've set a course for Baby-lon and there's no turning back now!) Also, it's that the midwife conducting the class really couldn't teach her way out of a wet paper bag - which is an image that I enjoy to an inordinate degree - and most of the two hours could be lovingly categorized as "rambling."

It was the vagueness that put me off the most. I don't mind a good lecture, and I don't mind a properly-run group dialogue, but I do mind when the instructor isn't at all decisive about which method she's using. I make a lot of bad decisions, but at least I'm forceful about sweeping the entire class into my poor choices. This class just left me alienated & bored.

I did, however, learn the importance of induction after 41 weeks. Plus, I had fun drawing the visible pregnant woman (I realized halfway through that I was unconsciously directing a reluctant class à la Grade 10 English: "now, where's the placenta?" etc.) I take heart from the idea that a different midwife will teach every session. I'm sure that I'll get to know the other mommies soon enough.

It was Tuesday night that really ate monkey crap. At 2:30 a.m. Tuesday morning, we were awakened by loud thumping downstairs. By 6:30, the crazed screaming had started. The day before, it'd been about leaving our windows open (the only way we can control the temperature, by the way); now we had no idea what was behind FCN's demented shrieking. So we called Peter the landlord (a.k.a. her father). We were diplomatic as we could be, saying that she seemed to be really agitated and we had no idea why (true as far as it went). He sounded exhausted. Shortly after we hung up, the banging & screaming stopped.

I went to work completely rattled. I'd been so full of panicked adrenaline the whole morning that I'd been literally unable to pick out a shirt that matched my pants. Fortunately, the day improved from there. I dawdled after school, unwilling to face an empty apartment. To keep myself busy, I drove Theresa home & bought some new comic books. But at last I came home by myself.

Big mistake. The screen door was locked, the inner door propped open to catch a breeze. Ordinarily I'd've rung the bell, because obviously someone was home, but I was feeling wary and I know how to force the lock on the screen door. I had just made it inside Mt. Olympus and was heading to the washroom when I heard her door open and slam shut again. There were running feet up the stairs, followed by an unholy pounding at the door. I was terrified. Instead of answering, I cowered behind the closed washroom door and prayed for it to end. After three tries at the door, she started screaming.

I was told that she and her parents were "very sick" and that they were "not to be called at 6:30 in the fucking morning." She went on to complain about the smells - according to her, a delightful melange of mythical cigarettes, garbage & unidentified drug smells. She wrapped up her obscenity-studded rant with the command to, "get the fuck out of our lives, okay [Rocketbride]?! Just get the fuck out of our lives. Fucking bitch." I heard her go back to her apartment & slam the door. I was still in the bathroom when I started to shake uncontrollably.

I started calling around, desperate to hear a sympathetic human voice. My mom was horrified and only kept her cool through years of professional practice. Theresa was just as sympathetic. I made the world's worst Kraft Dinner & stared at it, unable to eat despite the fact that I had entered the apartment with a ravenous hunger. My mom decided to come & get me, and I tried to be comforted by the offer, rather than freaked out at the fact that I would have to go past FCN's door alone to get out the front door to safety. Somewhere in there, I realized that the screen door thing had been a trap, and she'd probably intended to scream in my face as I cowered on the doorstop.

I was barely coherent by the time the Boy finally got home.

The worst - the absolute worst part of all this is that we saw it coming. We watched her make identical accusations of the Albertans who used to live here, and instead of helping them, we listened to her impossible tales and stayed silent as they found a new apartment. Last summer with Brad was just an abusive musical interlude - as soon as he left, we knew we would be the next scapegoats. We knew. We discussed it openly on more than one occasion, and we still did nothing. Now I'm 7 months pregnant, more vulnerable with each passing day, and a psycho wants to make meat of me.

I so wish we had somewhere to go. Optimally somewhere in the GTA so that I could continue with my midwives. God! I just want to have a baby - why is this so fucking hard to do??

Booty Call: Day 203 - Length: 27.5 cm crown to rump (37.5 cm head to toe). Weight: about 1500 gms. Beginning of third trimester!

4 years ago today: me & the boy & my parents' basement, part one