I’m afraid we’re all stuck in a holding pattern, we of Casa de la Sausage, and I’m similarly afraid that it may lead us to kill one another. It’s like the whole house–including animals–senses that Something Really Big (and likely annoying) is about to happen and everyone has decided to exhibit their absolute worst behavior.

Ben, at age 7, is so full of The Dramatic that I may one day soon strangle him with his sassy lip. You think your toddler asking you “Why?” is annoying? Wait until it becomes a challenging “WHY” whenever you ask the fruit of your loins to do something like “turn off the television.” The “WHY” I now get isn’t a question, it’s a challenge, a la “WHY should I?” Charming.

Also charming is a note I received this morning from him. It states “I’m leving [sic]. I’m not kidding. Seriously.” This was upon realizing that we had locked the computer–after daring to limit his video game/boob tube time–this morning. Assholes.

And Alex, my Momma’s Boy Extraordinaire is almost two. How do I know this without knowing his birthday happens to be popping up at the end of March? Testing. Every single thing he does is to test how far he CAN do it. Like throwing all of his toys down the laundry chute after being told to cease and desist. While Ben went through this at about 3, Alex seems to be entering the Two’s Of Doom.

The cats, who despite being mostly adopted as adults, have gone from being Super Crazy Friendly to 11. Meaning, if you’re even thinking about sitting, standing still or are otherwise in the vicinity of perhaps being able to provide love, you’re pretty much wearing said cat(s). Since they don’t all get along, you can imagine how fun a cat fight is when you’re wearing them all. I love my cats and I’m thrilled that they’re all so earnest to be loved, but damn, sometimes a 20 pound cat smooshing against your body gets a little…cramped.

The dogs–no, we didn’t get rid of Auggie even though I’ve threatened it more times than I can count–are similarly aware that Something Is About To Happen. Which, in dog speak means that they insist upon following me around pretty much 24 by 7. Like last night, for example, when I tried to submerge my hippo-like body into the bath tub (a word to the wise: bathing gets complicated at 36+ weeks), they both sat at the bathroom door, which happened to be open a crack, in order to neurotically watch me.

The cats had split up at this point and one was in the bathroom with me, watching me try and shave my girly bits (didn’t work so well) and assumably laughing at my pathetic plight, while the other two sat behind the dogs, occasionally growling and hissing at each other or the dogs.

And forget having the slightest modicum of privacy while Taking Care of Business In The Bathroom. I have an entourage, including, but not limited to my children, my husband and all of the animals that do not live in cages. It’s no wonder my modesty evaporated years ago. Nothing says “I Love You” like dropping some dookes while talking about dinner-time plans.

Dave is fairing no better himself. Because he’s going to be taking time off when Amelia comes (please baby girl, come soon. I’ll buy you WHATEVER you want if you do), he cannot start any real projects at work, and since we’re all Just Waiting here, he’s having a terrible time really getting motivated to do much besides eat Kettle Corn and rub his belly. JUST LIKE ME!

Couvade, you’re a wily bastard.

And I’m, well, a mess, of course. I’m not sure who isn’t by this point in a pregnancy. I’m shaped remarkably like a daddy long legs right now, so my crotch is giving me the distinct impression that it’s actually trying to split itself in two pieces while my ribs are moaning and groaning by the fact that there’s a creature inside there trying to separate the two halves of their cage.

The act of putting on shoes or pants requires a forklift and an intricate set of blueprints, while I am suddenly beginning to swell up just like a puffer fish, and I’m pretty sure that if this goes on much longer, I might actually be mistaken for the Michelin Man. Or the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

And worst of all is that I’m bored and anxious and pretty damn feeble so I’m kind of stuck moaning and groaning and lying around hoping that each contraction will signal the start of labor. Which isn’t going to happen, of course, as my kids need to be dragged out kicking and screaming.

*sighs*

Help, Internet! This is Aunt Becky typing out a frantic SOS. Oh, and I’m learning from other blogs that it’s National De-lurking Day (or something) so go forth and de-lurk! How am I supposed to fill the days between now and the end of January?

In a shocking fit of oddness, earlier in the week, Dave and I were both home to parent our children together. Normally, he leaves for work before the kids are up and comes home after they’re in bed, so I’ve gotten pretty accustomed to doing Daily Maintenance of All Things Kidly alone.

On this particular evening, however, Thing One (Ben) was off being Ben somewhere else in the house while Thing Two (Alex) sat in our sink splashing about merrily in a bath. We can’t bathe him every day as he’d like as he has such incredibly sensitive skin that he might molt and lose his skin entirely if I tried, so bath time for him is extra delightful.

Dave and I were both standing within arms reach (read: splashing distance) and talking about something else like the relative deliciousness of encased meats (consensus: Totally Full Of Delicious) when I realized that I was suddenly not being splashed with lukewarm water. I looked over at Alex, who has recently discovered the words both: Yes and No, and saw a familiar sight.

Alex was dingling his dangle, pinching the one-eyed diaper snake, and generally enjoying the hell out of his man-meat. Alex’s penis is his ultimate plaything, and he knows full well what it’s called. “Penis” was, in fact, one of his first words.

So in the name of talking to my child constantly (have a child who spends years in speech therapy and you will totally learn the value of narrating obnoxiously about each and every single fucking thing you do), I conversationally said to him, “Hey Alex, are you playing with your penis?”

To which, I am shockingly UNSHOCKED to say, he replied at full volume, with the biggest ear-to-ear smile I’ve seen on him yet, “YEEEAAAAH!!!!!” It was as happy as I would have sounded if asked if I happened to be looking forward to the new Britney Spears CD and probably 45 times as loud.

My boy, all right. Although Dave is trying to take credit for it, just like he always does.

Ass.

Last spring, while in the crampy throes of miscarriage #2, Ben’s teacher from his hippie Nut Ban! school called me with some troubling news: Ben was having a terrible time staying on track and on task during the school day. It wasn’t a terrible shock to me to learn this; at home he frequently forgets to do simple multi-step things–like wiping his ass–and Dave and I were both having a hard time keeping him on track.

Nat, Ben’s biological father, suffers from Adult ADD (grown from childhood ADD) so badly that if I need something–let’s say a sweatshirt–from him, I have to catch him 10 or so minutes before he walks out the door, and STILL I’ll have only about a 25-30% chance of getting said sweatshirt back. Ever.

So while I wasn’t watching and waiting for Ben’s spectrum diagnosis, I have been vigilantly watching for any signs of ADD in Ben so that I could get it properly treated. Because to me, someone who is annoyingly focused, I can only imagine how frustrating it would be to live life so scatteredly (I don’t even pretend that this is a word). Especially to a child who is in school.

Over the past 6 months or so, with a school change under his belt, I’ve been carefully watching and waiting to see if I could see any sorts of improvement with Ben’s ability to focus. I’ve seen no change either way, but I was waiting for parent-teacher conferences to speak with the teacher (who had no knowledge of his former teacher mentioning it) to confirm what I’d suspected and ask for what the next steps should be for us.

Obviously, this isn’t something I’m going to buck wildly at and insist that MY child is PERFECT, it’s the SYSTEM that’s flawed, because I’m more of a realist than that, and I DON’T think that having to follow Ben around and ride him to complete any task is the way to parent him. Nor, quite frankly, do I have the time to do this, even if I wanted to.

Parent-teacher conferences are in a week and a half, but yesterday I got a report card with a note attached confirming my suspicions: Ben is still having an awful time focusing at school and staying on task.

And even though I’d been expecting it, reading those words transported me back to receiving the news that Ben was likely on the autistic spectrum. While certainly not “leukemia” it’s still never great to hear that your child, your poor sweet child has something wrong with him (or her).

Not because I belong to the My Child Is The Perfectest Child EVER club, because I can assure you on all that is holy that his shit really does stink, but because I know just how much harder life will be for him. That, THAT is what I am sad about.

We’re going to wait until parent-teacher conferences to hear face-to-face what the teacher has to say and listen to any suggestions that he has to give us. And we’ll get Ben the help that he needs, of course we will, and we’ll do it without complaint.

But I sit here, and I look at my youngest son, whose biggest hurdle in life right this moment is the fact that he cannot always stack the blocks just so that it does not topple over after he hits 10 or so blocks in his tower. And I am sad to remember that his problems will only get harder and harder as he grows.

And I only wish that I could face all of the problems FOR him.

In a stunning fit of brilliance, or possibly sheer stupidity, I once again signed up for NaBloPoMo, or some such acronym. I’m not so smart as to remember which is which. Well, okay, so I’m just not that smart.

So, who is with me? Who has promised to post every mother-humping day for the entire month of November?

Anyone…Anyone?

Since I would feel lame doing my inaugural post about posting every month (is it just me or does that seem a bit…lacking?), I will give you a recent Ben story.

Before we transferred Ben away from the Hippie Nut Ban! school, he attended summer camp there. The phrase “summer camp” implies that it was more than just school during the summer, but it sounds fancier, doesn’t it? Well, either way, the teachers saw fit to discuss the election and the candidates with a group of children.

And while you know, someone believes children are our future, I’m still not quite certain what possessed them to do this. I mean, I do discuss such important issues as “what Dora REALLY puts in that backpack” and “which is better, a survey of milk versus yogurt.” But kids are young and impressionable enough (especially my own) to make whatever you say is right complete dogma. If I say “Dunkin’ Donuts coffee is the best on the planet,” HE’LL BELIEVE ME.

The power is mighty and fierce and must be wielded appropriately.

I had no real idea that they done this until a couple of weeks ago when we were casually driving along in the car and Ben pipes up from his car seat with “I want BarackObama to win.” His name, all one word, just like that.

Unsure as to what I’d heard him say, since we rarely discuss politics especially in front of someone who is, oh, I don’t know 7 years old (and autistic. And lacks a proper idea of most of the political issues. Or a working knowledge of the government), and extra-specially since I knew who I’d be voting for BEFORE all the campaigning began in earnest, I tentatively asked for some clarification. It was then when we learned that he’d been exposed to Election Fever at his Hippie Nut Ban! school.

Pleased that we’d all be campaigning for the same side, we left things as they were and occasionally Ben would see something about his beloved BarackObama and pipe up “HOORAY BARACKOBAMA! YOU’RE GREAT!” And conversely, “Boo! John McCain!” (I assure you that I do not shriek at the television unless Deal or No Deal or Engaged and Underage is on. Oh, come on. Just because you don’t admit it doesn’t mean that you don’t watch it. How can you not?)

Nickelodeon announced that the BarackObama was the Kid’s Pick The President Winner, and Ben mistakenly believed that the election was over. He rushed into the other room where I was hiding from Dora and Diego to tell me shriek at me of the news and for the briefest of brief moments, I incorrectly believed that the election was, in fact over.

Pipe dreams and all. But his victory dance/ass-shaking was hysterical and made the hard return to reality a little easier on the equilibrium.

So Friday, when the kids were out trick-or-treating in earnest, Ben met up with our next door neighbor who happen to have a John McCain proudly displayed on their lawn. I’ve never said boo about the sign to anyone, I’ve never commented on the sign in any way shape or form, in front of Ben or not. Neither, I’m positive, has Daver.

Ben came home a couple hours after he departed and inter-spliced with his rambles about candy, his class party and Storm-troopers, and which of our animals had a stinkier butt he made mention of our next door neighbor’s son. You see, HIS mother had been smart enough to sit outside on the porch stoop and pass out candy while I lounged about with my foot on ice on my nice comfy couch. Wait, perhaps *I* am the clever one after all.

And then he dropped the bombshell, “Can I still be friends with [next door neighbor’s son] if he votes for McCain?” I explained that not only was [next door neighbor’s son] a mere 3 years old and thereby incapable of voting, but that it did not matter one way or another how someone else voted.

Apparently he missed the memo (as did a whole fuck-ton of people) that the way someone votes does NOT dictate whom we can or cannot be friends with.

It was then that I knew in my bones that he must have said something in front of my next door neighbor about the sign, and I began to feel like Those People. The people who cannot be friends or neighbors with someone who votes the “wrong” way and insists that their children behave the same way.

I guess we didn’t get him out of that hippie Nut Ban! school soon enough.

My in-laws came down yesterday with the express purpose of wrangling our children so that The Daver and I could have a moment by ourselves and potentially go out without dragging along a 30 pound diaper bag. Dave and I usually do manage a couple hours a week to go out alone anyway, thanks to my mother, but this somehow seemed different.

Primarily because we had no Almighty Schedule with which to adhere. Poor Daver, whenever we go out, must listen to the breathy, “and then…, and then….” as I suck all of the potential fun out of our afternoon by insisting we do errands! And more errands!

Yesterday was blessedly different, though. We had plans to catch lunch at Rosebud and then…nothing else. It was amazing.

We showed up to the restaurant a few minutes before our reservation only to learn that pretty much everyone in that area had decided to avoid eating there for lunch. Something I took as an Omen of Awesomeness. As we sat down without having to carefully push every breakable thing away from our toddler’s Roman Hands and Russian Fingers, it was quiet. Blissfully quiet.

No one demanded bread, no one tried to upend a water glass or some crackers onto the table, and no one demanded that I play Tic Tac Toe. I didn’t have to shush Alex’s happy shrieks of joy that could easily peel paint from walls (aside: side job for Alex, perhaps?) so that other patrons didn’t stare at us openly.

Dave and I simply ate a lunch without rushing, without cutting up food for someone else, without having to stop and play a YouTube video for the small (but mighty) one, and we even savored a couple of soft drinks each. It sounds so stupid to most, but seriously, it’s the little things in life like that.

After lunch, we popped into Baby Gap to oogle cute pinkness for a certain baby who may or may not be tap dancing on my bladder as I type this as well as look for some stuff for our other kids. What I could never have known ahead of time is that Gap was running one of the most amazing sales on the planet. It’s why I used to shop there when I was (broke) pregnant with Ben, and I was thrilled to see it going on now, when I actually require (some) clothes of the non-boy variety.

Armed with my well, armful (pun time!) of bargains, I made my way to the cashier. And spent less than $40 on a bunch of adorably pink stuff. There’s very little that makes me as thrilled as securing a massive bargain. It’s like being high on life! Except less corny!

Practically floating down the street, or at least as reasonable a facsimile of it when wearing a moon-boot and limping openly, we happened upon a chocolate hut. Ethel’s chocolate hut. The name doesn’t do justice for how awesome it really is, even though I’m pretty sure most men I know wouldn’t be caught dead lounging in a pink and chocolate brown room, eating wee designer chocolates. They were running a Sweetest Day Special involving chocolate fondue and, well, some other stuff. I pretty much tuned it all out after I heard “fondue.”

(Random Aside: What the SHIT is up with Sweetest Day? As much as I do enjoy celebrating the love of my life and all things pink, red, and sparkly, I can’t do it more than twice a year. And with our anniversary and Valentine’s Day securing those spots, I’m tapped right out of wanting to celebrate further)

Between Dave, skinny Daver, and I, pregnant me, we somehow managed to polish of the entire fucking fondue pot, sitting there, in the pinkest of rooms I have ever seen.

Eventually, we returned home to our kids, fed them dinner and then put them to bed.

It was easily one of the best days I’ve had in awhile.

….

….

….

….

Until…

At about 10 PM, as we were winding down (and right after I’d given Dave a dutch oven in bed), I noticed something peculiar in the hallway. An unmistakable smell.

Oh yes, of course. It was the smell of vomit.

Fuck.

Now, to most parents, this is not a huge deal. Kids, especially school aged ones, get the stomach flu pretty damn often and it’s just another thing to clean up after. Not fun, for sure, but also not the terror-inducing monstrosity that occurs when I’m exposed. After I’m exposed to the good old flu, I freak the shit out. It’s seriously shameful how afraid I am of catching it.

It’s a phobia, for sure. A serious phobia.

And sure enough, after I gathered Dave and went to investigate, my nose knew. Our eldest has a nasty habit of tossing his cookies in his bed and then falling back asleep in his own vomit. It’s certainly not something for the baby books and it always sends me in a tailspin of panic. I mean, who the shit wants to clean up after that? Besides, this particular episode has completely ruined his mattress, which leaves me in a quandary: what to do now? Is it rubber sheet time?

It seemed only fitting that one of the best days I’ve had was ended with one of the most panic-inducing things I can imagine. And today, I seemed to have caught the adult version of the stomach flu. I won’t elaborate, save to say that the term “Super Colon Blow” seems to fit the theme of the day today.

So what weird phobias do you, my sweet Internet people, have?

Or a baby boy who will be super mad later. Becky asked me to post for her post US today as she is waaaaayyyyy too cool (or has a Dr’s appt and lunch with the B-day boy. Whichever you prefer). The baby’s brand is still undetermined. It is a bit too early to tell for sure, but apparently the tech made an eduacted guess that Becky is incubating a GIRL. The important thing is that there is a brain and a heart that both look healthy and normal. So, let’s all help Becky obsess over the superficial things like pink or blue for the next 3 weeks until she has a definitive sex, because we now know for sure the bigger worries can be put to rest (at least this set can).

Happy Birthday Daver!!!! Your balls are officially old.

Ashley

Last summer, after many a sleepless night had left me more brain dead than I’d been before (presumably perhaps), it came to my attention that my eldest son would be entering into first grade. After my initial reaction of “Holy SHIT I’m OLD,” I was thrilled to remember that actual number grades = actual school supplies and rightness was once again restored to my galaxy.

There’s something in me, my inner nerd perhaps, that adores that feeling in the fall, the feeling of Starting Over again in school. A whole new year of teachers, mischief, and brand new pens to look forward to. Yes, I did, in fact earn my title of Super Becky Overachiever, thank you for asking.

Armed with a crabby screaming baby and a school supply list, I first hit up Mecca (read: Target). And it was only there, in the fluorescently lit aisles, that I began to actually read what was on The List.

The words read properly, but the combinations didn’t make sense to me. And upon scouring the notebooks for “Plastic covered, yellow, three subject, wide ruled, without perforations, that ALSO makes coffee for poor, poor teacher” I was befuddled.

I could get MOST of the combination, but not all.

The erasers, Pink Pearl, no less, I found immediately, but the oil pastels? I had no idea what oil pastels even were. Pencils I found, art smock I did not.

After assuming I’d try one of the bigger office supply stores, I paid for about a quarter of the needed supplies and shuffled off to Office Depot. Up and down those aisles, I paced frantically, the baby nursing awkwardly as I searched in vain for “plastic colored folder, red, yellow and blue, no three punch holes, three pockets inside.”

The words, they made sense, but the combination was all shades of wrong. Kind of like trying to read A Clockwork Orange.

I was able to procure another portion of The List before I had to make my exit and hit up yet another store.

In the end, I searched The Internet, another Target store, The Rolls Royce of Office Supply Stores, and sent both The Daver and my mother to see if I had missed something. I hadn’t. I even asked my mother-in-law who is ALSO a first grade teacher, and she was at a loss.

I was able to get most of The List in about a month’s time, but an interesting shift occurred: no longer was I enchanted by the stacks of blank notebooks and packs of pens lined up perfectly in a row like sardines. Mention “School Supplies” and I’d become irate and angry, convinced I’d failed at my first task at parenting a school aged child.

Last week sometime, I got in the mail the very same list of school supplies, and this time I just laughed. Then I promptly lost it.

Thanks to a semi-photographic memory and the fact that Ben was able to recall what he’d used and needed last year, we shabbily reconstructed The List. I’m sure it’s only half right and you know what? That’s half more right than I was planning to send.

I was planning to send a package of dry soba noodles and a box of Hello Kitty flan.

We have gone to Chicago. Where, according to such reliable sources as Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Abe Froman, the Sausage King Of The World lives.

And there’s nothing not awesome about the quest for encased meat. Nothing.

Back later with more reports of food porn. Or indigestion (the bacon is, sadly, still a-brewing in my guts. I might need someone to send me some TNT).

P.S. Alex is on Top Mommy. Go check him out.

Maybe it’s because out of the 11 critters in the house, only 3 of them actually possess delicate lady bits, thereby solidifying my title of Reigning Queen Of The Sausages, but I’ve become obsessed with the penis. Well, not really obsessed with them, just wistful. I don’t want to be a dude, but I would genuinely like to borrow a bulging member for awhile. Like 24 hours or so. (Remember that King Missile song, “Detatchable Penis?” It’s full of The Awesome).

You see, I have some things I’d like to do with it.

Like:

1. Smack someone in the face with it. Give someone a Mushroom Print. Not hard enough to hurt, just to make my point. I’m not certain I could actually smack someone in the face with my vagina, right?

2. Write my name in pee in the snow. As a lady? Impossible. As a dude? VERY POSSIBLE. I think I might weep if someone did that for me.

3. Scratch my ball bag. Balls are like hand magnets and I want to determine what the fuss is about. It must feel really, really good.

4. Pee standing up. Now, I’ve seen public bathrooms defiled by a Lady Squatter, and that’s just not the same thing, primarily because there is now piss all over the toliet seat. I know (oh BOY do I know) that dudes don’t always aim or hit their targets, but still. Having the option would be sweet ass.

5. “If I knew it was gonna be this type of party I would have stuck my dick in the mashed potatoes,” from Waiting… But, see I wanna do that.
What else am I missing here?

For some reason, I suppose as my special comeuppance for becoming an older and somehow unwiser–now 28 year old!– birthday girl, Alex has turned this week into The Week Where I See What Teenage Years Have In Store For Me. In short, he’s turned into quite a whiny, demanding and possibly possessed baby.

A possibly possessed baby who tantrums when the world does not do precisely what he expects it to. He’s turned from a laid-back (okay, that’s a lie. Complete lie) dude into a high maintenance diva, kinda like Paris Hilton. Actually, she’s probably kinder.

What makes it all the more interesting and hair-greying is that he does it all without actually using real English words. Maybe he’s tapping into his past life and speaking The Old Language (perhaps Swahili?) or maybe he’s just channeling The Devil himself, but I can’t understand a fucking thing he’s saying.

Yet without the benefit of a Devil->English dictionary I’m expected to not only understand what he’s demanding, but get my ass in gear and GET IT FOR HIM, Mom, you ignorant slut! And it better be damn right the first time!

It pretty much means that my days are now spent listening to a wee tot scream at me for hours on end. My nerves, if they weren’t frayed enough to begin with, are beginning to look like they’re leaking out of my ears. Charming. Quite a charming look.

Think I’m exaggerating? It’s now 11:13 here, he’s been up since 9:45 and this is what I’ve been tantrumed about so far:

*Not turning to the right page in a book (incidentally, not the NEXT page in the book)

*Not going outside right now, where the wasps roam freely, looking perhaps, to eat me alive (no, I’m allergic. So much so that I need to call 911 if I get stung. Which is really not what I want to do, because how embarrassing is that?)

*Not giving him the proper piece of my waffle, even though I was kindly sharing AFTER he’d had his own breakfast.

*A beach ball not doing what he wanted it to do (which is? I don’t know)

*My audacity to use the bathroom at such an inappropriate time as ever.

*My refusal to open a bottle of pricey vanilla extract for him to play with.
It’s a good damned thing that he’s singularly one of the most hilarious people I’ve ever met, or I might start threatening to sell him to the gypsies. Or get him an exorcism. Whatever works, right?