“Banana Hammock.”

What’s yours?

Now, I’m not a political person, and I’m not smart enough to formulate some sort of political post that completely encompasses how I feel WHILE sticking to the facts. I vote, early and often whenever possible and I love the power trip it gives me to do so. I’ll have my ducks in a row and my candidate selected when I pop (read: waddle) in to vote on November 4th.

But I’m going to confess something to you all: I’m so sick of this election. So sick of it.

Not because it’s not an interesting selection of candidates because it totally is, but because I am so bloody sick of how it’s making the staunch supporters on either side attack each other.

As in, “If you vote for XXX, it’s because you’re a moron WHO KILLS BABIES IN YOUR SPARE TIME. YOU BABY MUUUURRRRDEEEERRR WHO HATES JESUS” Or, perhaps, “You’re electing a terrorist because you HAAATTEEE AMERICA! Murderer!”

Talk about missing the entire point here. Or maybe it’s me missing the point.

Perhaps my relentless optimism regarding the general goodness of people has blinded me so much that I actually *do* know people who murder babies and support terrorist activity, but somehow I doubt it. Hurling hurtful emotionally charged statements doesn’t help either side do anything but perpetuate animosity between friends and neighbors.

I’m just waiting for November 4th to be over so I can stop hearing about how “so and so is a bad, stupid person because they voted for someone different than me” and how wrong I am for my choices. Last I checked, a democracy was founded on choices, and I’m entitled to mine, however distasteful they may be to someone else.

But I’m urging you: no matter what hurtful statements are being hurled at you for your choice, stand up and vote. Vote proudly. And vote with gusto. It’s not only your right, it’s your duty.

As for me, I’ll be hiding in my house until November 4th, away from hurled campaign buttons and signs. And likely eating donuts.

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?

After Ben was born, I took a long hard look at my educational experience and decided rather than a future where I asked people if they would prefer fries or a salad with that, I’d change my career path entirely. To a field I knew I didn’t like, but would provide me with a real income: nursing.

Nursing school, for those not in the know, requires a schedule that between the hospital hours and the classroom hours, you barely have a chance to wipe your own ass. Both living 45 minutes away from school and any hospital I might be stationed in meant that I was out of the house for an additional hour and a half (at the very least).

Ben’s father also lost his job around this time, and refusing to get another one in his field, he waited for over a year to find a new job. Which meant that insurance for Baby Ben needed to be purchased. So I went back to work as a waitress (where I did ask if people would like fries with that) for the few remaining hours left once nursing school took it’s share.

I’d moved Ben and I back in with my parents once I realized that my future with Nat was going to be measured in the minutes rather than years category, and I relied heavily on my mother to help me out with taking care of Ben.

It was an ideal arrangement in many regards: it was free, easy, and didn’t involve being verbally abused most days. But in terms of drawbacks, there were many. First and foremost, my parents didn’t seem to believe that I had the capacity to take care of a baby myself, and questioned most of the decisions I made by issuing massive ultimatums.

To give you an example for contexts sake, I’ll tell you of how at about 2 months of age, I took Ben to the doctor to get his shots. Typical, right? Well, that evening, I decided to take Ben (who had kept me up most of the night thanks to the reversal of his days and nights) to Nat’s parents house, where I could get some rest alone. My mother, telling me how selfish and horrid I was for taking Ben out when his immune system was “delicate,” (apparently, in her world, shots = immunosuppression) informed me that if I did this, she would not watch him for me for a week.

Not exactly the sort of decisions I would expect to lose me babysitting privileges or anything. It wasn’t like I was deciding which bar to take him to or which bong hit to blow in his face. I may have been young, but I wasn’t stupid.

But I learned pretty quickly that in order to both keep the peace and prevent my mother from having a breakdown of sorts and thus losing my only babysitting option (I was broke as a joke after buying diapers, formula, and insurance for Ben), I kept my mouth shut. It seemed easier that way.

When I was feeling especially bad about the whole situation, I’d imagine a time when I would no longer live with them and I could parent as freely as I chose.

Being gone approximately 23 hours a day had the unfortunate side effect of not being able to spend much time with my bizarre young son. He wasn’t diagnosed as autistic until he was 2, so I spent those two years feeling pretty miserable about myself each and every time I was ignored or screamed at by him when I’d go in for a hug. Even as a baby, he preferred to play alone on the floor rather than be held by me.

Time marched on and his eccentricities grew. And in addition, something I’d never really expected to happen occurred: he formed his only attachment to my mother. It made sense, I mean, I was gone all the time, I couldn’t exactly imagine how dropping out of school to be his full time caregiver would help us in the long run, so I comforted myself by remembering how plenty of kids went to daycare every day. And they still (presumably) loved their parents.

I graduated school a year after Ben’s autistic diagnosis, and a couple months after that, I married Dave. We moved out together officially after school was done, and I was finally able to parent my strange child without someone critiquing my every move.

I hoped that with each passing day, with each thoughtful art project he screamed at, with every plate of food he wept into, with all of the things I did for him, that his attachment to my mother would lessen somewhat. I didn’t want to replace her, and even in my anger and disgust with her, I never would have taken Ben away from her (or vice versa) for good, but I wanted to be okay, too. I wanted him to care for me, too.

It’s been 3 and a half years since then, and I wish I had some glowing report, like “and now he loves me, too!” but I don’t. Or if I did, it would be a lie. It’s like he’s a Siamese cat or something and can only bond to one person, and one person only. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do, how much I try, how terrible and guilty I feel, I can’t even compare to her in his mind.

I try my best to imagine any sort of scenario in which he doesn’t break down into tears when she leaves or when he’s forced to do something with his parents, I try to come up with any solution that would not diminish who she is to him, but highlight the fact that I’m okay too, but I can’t. There’s no good way to rectify the damage that was done to him by my perpetual absence (no matter how necessary it was at the time) in those obviously critical months.

And there’s no way to rectify the damage that’s been done to me, either. I want nothing more than to have a normal relationship with Ben, but it just doesn’t seem to come to us, no matter what I do. I want to not care when he cries for her. I want to smile knowingly when he tells me how much he wishes he were with her. I want it to not feel like my heart is being cut out of my chest cavity and thrown onto the floor whenever I’m reminded of this.

But I can’t seem to make any of this happen, no matter how hard I try. And I don’t know what to do.

(scene: a chubby pregnant woman (CPW) in a large black ankle boot holds a squirming and naked toddler in the chilly October air. She walks as quickly as she can after a small, fox-like dog, who is avoiding being captured by darting back and forth across a busy road. She is followed by a small but wordy 7 year old, an older woman, who is presumably her mother, another 7 year old boy and an 8 year old girl. She looks miserable as she calls out to the dog)

CPW: “Auggie! Come here Auggie!” (she struggles through the neighbors lawn, where the dog is currently exploring just out of arms reach)

Rest of the cast: “Auggie, come here boy!” (in falsetto, what is supposed to be reassuring tones)

CPW (trying to keep any hint of anger from her voice): “Come on home, boy!”

Suddenly, the door to the house of the yard that they’re all occupying swings open. It’s a neighbor, one that CPW knows and tentatively likes. Hoping that perhaps the neighbor has a solution as to how to get an 11 pound dog who runs away back home, as her foot throbs painfully, CPW looks at the door hopefully.

Neighbor (mumbling through the screen) “…leash law.”

CPW (still smiling stupidly): “What’s that?”

Neighbor: “I SAID that there is a leash law.”

CPW (uncertainly): “I’m aware. But he escaped from my house.”

Neighbor (rolling eyes): “Well, there is a leash law.”

CPW (angry now, as she’d already been feeling badly about the dog roaming through the neighborhood): “I know this. We’re TRYING to catch him” (gestures wildly to the group of people behind her all trying to catch this wily dog).

Neighbor: “I’m sick of cleaning up dog shit on my lawn.”

CPW: “My dogs don’t go out front. They don’t do anything on your lawn.”

Neighbor (as though the change in emphasis is going to change the situation): “There is a leash law.”

CPW: “WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO DO? THIS WAS AN ACCIDENT.”

(annoying stupid dog runs into the road, interrupting this discourse. The group follows the dog, still calling out in vain)

CPW glares openly at her neighbor as she hobbles after the dog, still wobbling around holding toddler and limping.

After another 20 minutes of following the dog through the neighborhood and calling out futilely, he is finally captured.

Now the question is what to do with this dog.

(end scene)

Next Saturday–not this one, I don’t think or I better get cracking on my bridesmaid dress alterations–my best friend is getting married. I’m not a closet romantic, shit, I’m not romantic at all, but I’m pretty pumped about the whole union thing. It’s doubtful I’ll cry, unless someone passes too close with a Cosmo and I realize that Diet Coke does NOT taste like Cosmo even if you close your eyes.

(I’m all for a sip or three of wine or beer or something less, well, alcohol-y, while pregnant, but somehow a Cosmo, while in public especially, is not really my deal. It seems somehow tacky.)

But I’ve known Ashley for ages, known her since well before she met Mike (especially since I met her through one of her ex-boyfriends, who is a friend of mine), and I’ve been along for much of the ride with the wedding planning.

Like the dress shopping:

Or, perhaps, the pre-wedding T-bagging:

Because who doesn’t want to have some dude’s balls on you? NO ONE, that’s who.

But let’s back up a couple of years here, shall we? I’m going to tell you a story through pictures (my apologies to those who will now experience a slower page load. And although they look NSFW, they’re actually all harmless).

(Here I’m going to apologize again for my photos, which are pictures OF pictures. Because someone *ahem* THE DAVER *ahem* hasn’t bought a scanner for me to show The Internet how debaucherous I once was)

This is Paul:

He’s the dark-haired guy on the left, and he’s at my bridal shower with Evan–my man-of-honor. Paul is also the reason that I met Ashley. See, he’s an old, old friend of mine, and when I announced my pregnancy to him (before really meeting Ashley, who was sitting with him), he said, “I’m sorry.” To which Ashley took such offense that she began to yell at him for apologizing for my pregnancy. Because she’s right: no matter how inappropriate it is, you should always congratulate someone on their pregnancy. Right?

Any chick who does that sort of thing is my kind of chick.

Ashley and Steph threw my baby shower for Ben, and we had a blast. Unfortunately, I have no pictures of the occasion as Nat (who dat? He just my baby daddy) refused to give them to me. Douche.

In fact, because a whole lot of my pictures are lost somewhere or another (I lost a huge photo book when I moved. And no, I’m still not over it), a lot of our friendship has been undocumented. So let’s pretend that it was documented and move on, okay?

Fast forward to my bachelorette party. Ashley is my maid of honor, and she and KC have bestowed upon me the greatest gift known to me: that penis mug you see me sipping from. I may still have it somewhere, although I probably should pass the torch on to her, huh?

We were merrily sitting outside on my patio, waiting for the rest of my bachelorette party compatriots to arrive, lazily smoking some cigarettes, when the toilet overflowed. No one had dropped a dookie in it, or anything, the toilet just sucked. You could flush a single square of TP, and it would promptly overflow.

So imagine me, in heels and a dress, plunging the shit out of the toilet while 25 ladies with micro-bladders descended upon my house.

Then the doorbell rings.

At it?

Tommy.

My friend Dana (not pictured) had gotten me a stripper. Now, despite slurping on my penis cup, I was stone-cold sober. Dana, who had been caught in traffic, was not even present at the time he showed up. I was mortified. And sober.

And when I’m mortified, I laugh. Loudly, and with my mouth hanging open.

And apparently, my bright pink bra, too.

I couldn’t find a shot where I’d been t-bagged, like I wanted to, for comparison’s sake, but I did find this. I am taking a shot out of his thong, because I am classy. And I’m not sure a choice was given to me at this point.

I’m sorry, Ashley, I couldn’t find any shots of myself with balls resting comfortably on my forehead, but I tried. And I know they’re out there somewhere. Waiting for me to rediscover the only other man in 5 years to put his balls on my face.

But from now on, my dear sweet friend, Tommy will be showing up to all parties that I have a hand in throwing for you. Including baby showers. Oh yes, you’re not escaping the Happy Baby! Stripper experience.

You can thank me later. If you’re still taking my calls.

Now dish: I want some good bachelor/bachelorette party stories.

Today is October 15, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day and rather than post some stupid snarky story about getting a flu shot (because, ahem, I’m apparently a geriatric), I’m going to choose to remember.

Today, we all will remember:

Hannah

Caleb

Baby JP

Kalila

William

Isabel Grace

Maddy

William Henry

Aodin

Callum

Sarah

Connor

Liam

Samuel

Caden

Masyn

Olive Lucy

Seth Milton

Abigail Hlee

JoeJoe Sherman

Baby Nick

Gabriel Anton

Ryan

Jonathan

Devin Alin

Jacob and Joshua

Baby K, Gabriel Connor, Christian Elliot

Emmerson

Baby Kuyper

Mara S.

Now, I’ll be happy to add to this list, as I know I haven’t even begun to properly pay tribute to all of these lives, so if you’d like me to add your child’s name, please don’t hesitate to email me becky (at) dwink (dot) net or leave me a comment and I will email you.

At 7 pm tonight, I will burn a candle in memory of all the lost souls out there. May they each rest in eternal peace.

The love I have for animals often rivals that of the Crazy Cat Lady, so fond am I of the wee ickle beasties. When I was a small child–perhaps a bit older than Alex–I used to dress in my baby clothes, not dolls, but my kitten, Biscuit. Biscuit was as dumb as a box of rocks but had the wherewithal to occasionally protest in the form of some claw marks to my body. Why, I still have those scars today!

It appears as though her legacy lives on.

As a child, I regularly petitioned my parents to add to our happy home any number of small animals, and was nearly always denied.

But the moment that I moved out on my own (with The Daver), his love of animals amplified my own, and before either of us realized it, we’d built ourselves a menagerie of wee beasties.

After adopting two older cats (as the kittens are far more adoptable AND far more annoying than older cats) to add to our one cat home, we adopted an older dog. Then we adopted a geriatric gecko. For my birthday, I was gifted (at my own request) a hedgehog, and several weeks before Alex was born, we adopted an older rabbit. In my post-miscarriage haze, I foolishly agreed to a puppy, and I have wild plans for a future of salt water fish tanks. Multiple ones.

Although the many animals can be overwhelming and occasionally annoying, as at the moment that I’m typing this, I’m surrounded by two cats (who hate each other but love me so thoroughly that it doesn’t matter), my houseplant (read: dog) Cash, and Auggie (el puppy) is lounging nearby, I love it. Our house is full of love, light and complete chaos, but it works for us, unless we foolishly need to go out of town for something. Then we’re screwed.

Why am I waxing poetic about my animals, who have made me the official Mayor of Poo-Town?

Because, no matter how much I feel I love, and more importantly, care for my wee beasties, I’m starting to feel like it’s NOT ENOUGH.

It started innocently enough when we began to take Cash to the groomer at our local pet store. He’s the type of dog with a thick undercoat, so the minute the seasons change around here, the floors in my home begin to swirl with mountains of fluffy dog hair. And because I am completely lazy and don’t wish to clean my tub afterwards, I am happy to pay someone else to remove said fur.

Appointments were made, proof of current vaccinations were faxed and we showed up with Cash in tow.

Having adopted him as a 6 year old mutt from the pound, Dave and I looked at each other quizzically when asked what he was like when he was groomed. No idea whatsoever.

We dropped him off and went about our day.

I generously let Dave (read: insisted) that he go pick up the dog alone, and when he returned, he thrust a stack of papers into my hands (this is a fairly common occurrence in my home; I get handed stacks of papers constantly. Seriously). Among the receipts and the invoices, I noticed something strange.

At first, I was convinced I’d accidentally gotten some of Ben’s paperwork in my pile. But upon closer inspection, I realized that no, no in fact, this was from the groomer. The groomer had painstakingly filled out A REPORT CARD FOR MY DOG. Who was, according to this report that I totally wish I’d saved to show The Internet, a “great boy” who “loved to give kisses.”

I, being his owner, knew these things to be true and immediately felt sorry that the groomer had been required by his employer to fill this out. I mean, I don’t get daily report cards from BEN, who is in real SCHOOL.

But then I felt guilty laughing at the whole notion of an A++ doggie report card. Because I knew full well that if people hadn’t WANTED to know how their dog had behaved while out of their care, it wouldn’t exist.

(as a total aside, I would, of course, WANT to know if my dog had behaved badly. Biting, snarling, being a general asshole are things I WOULD have wanted to know, had this been the case)

Then, upon wandering around the pet store with my freshly cleaned, non-stinky, bandana-ed dog, several days later I realized why I’d been feeling so inadequate. While I was obviously a frequenter of the pet store, I’d been buying a stock supply of the bare necessities for my beasties and nothing more.

While my cats had proper food, it wasn’t the top of the line (read: $100 a bag), nor did they have any amount of themed toys or festive collars. I didn’t even own a jaunty cat carrier! Mine was a boring beige plastic!

My dogs had collars, of course, but not leather, or designer in the slightest. Cash had a Purple one, Auggie had a blue one. Neither had any embellishments or accessories attached. Hell, their leashes didn’t even match the collars! And forget about expensive soaps or treatments for my doggie’s sensitive skin! I had nothing of the sort. Nor did even my mini pooch have any clothes to wear! He was NAKED for all the world to see! AUGGIE’S WEENIS, EXPOSED TO THE WORLD!

My gecko did have a mini-Statue of Liberty in his cage, something I found particularly hilarious, but he seemed to ignore that in favor of the fake hunk of wood that he could hide behind. And forget about any real cage amenities for Robes Pierre (may he rest in peace), no, I used regular lizard sand.

No, I walked out of that store, having my eyes opened for the first time as to how much further I could push my animal obsession. And how much further other people did do so regularly. And with gusto.

It didn’t seem to matter to my guilt-ridden head how much MORE I did for animals that weren’t even my own. No matter how many cats I fostered only to find good homes for, no matter how many animals I adopted rather than purchased, no matter how many piles of puke I cleaned up only to find another three feet away, it would never compare to what I could do.

I sighed deeply and reminded myself that even though I can’t boast a designer animal, at least I don’t have SUCKER written on my forehead.

Besides, I don’t even buy fancy shampoo for myself.

Wanna play a guessing game with me? YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO. WAIT, YOU TOTALLY DON’T? Too bad.

So what makes a portly pregnant woman even sexier than she already is? You’re totally not gonna guess this one. Because if *I* had to guess, I’d say a black eye. Which is always in style.

But if you guessed this, go get yourself a cookie and some bourbon.

It’s my Moon Boot! And it’s hotter than you.

See, back in June, I hurt my foot and wound up in the ER. Sadly, it was not performing some amazingly heroic feats, like rescuing some adorable and fluffy kittens from a burning building or climbing up a tree to rescue Little Timmy’s kite, no, nothing so amazing.

I slipped on the fallen-over baby gate and cracked the shit out of it. It was never broken, the ER doc informed me, so I just let bygones be bygones (and so on and so on) and let it heal on it’s own.

Except that it never did. Probably, at least in part, to the 20 pounds I’ve packed on since then (I’m not fat, I’m just big boned).

Begrudgingly I made an appointment with an orthopaedic doctor in the area, while glaring menacingly at my foot as I spoke on the phone, making damn sure that it too was was aware that IT MIGHT GO TO THE DOCTOR. I tried in vain to scare it into submission and healing, but it did not work well. In fact, my foot had the audacity to ignore me. Obviously.

See, I drag my feet (get it!?! PUN TIME!) whenever I have to go to the doctor, especially a specialist, because I go to about 3,476 specialists. This makes me feel like either the sickliest person on the planet, sufferer of Munchausen’s, OR a complete and total hypochondriac.

I’m actually none of those. I just have a number of irritatingly irritating conditions that require specialists, as my GP would probably lose my phone number accidentally on purpose whenever I needed more blood work. I have, in no particular order a gastroenterologist (Crohn’s disease), an OB/GYN (crotch parasite), an endocrinologist (hypothyroidism), and now an orthopod (bruised bone, damaged joint). I also have a terrible case of gas, but that’s neither here nor there.

But, with crotch parasite in tow, I’m unable to be treated by my orthopod in a way that would normally help (read: massive narcotics) (read: awesome), so I’m relegated to a moon boot and an ice pack.

Awesome.

My best friend is getting married in a couple weeks, and while she asked that we wear “black strappy shoes,” I think she’s going to flip when she sees what I’ve taken that order to mean. Sorry, Ashley.

And as for me, in the meantime, I’m going to relish my pregnant and crippled status as best I can. Maybe people will let me cut in line or something. Because dude, if you can’t have narcotics, what good is being hurt?

While there were many, many, many things that I never knew about becoming a mother (read: cleaning poo off baby testicles. O! the search terms that will come in), one thing I was pretty dead set upon was having some traditions in my new family. After Ben’s first visit to Santa–in a jaunty red Santa suit, I must add–I broke down and purchased a whole mess of Christmas cards, painstakingly wrote a personal message in each, and enclosed an adorable picture of my young son in what is certain to be blackmail fodder for years to come.

Before Christmas, however, came Halloween (I know. I am so SMRT). And with Halloween comes pumpkin patches.

We all loaded up young screamy Ben into the car and trundled off to get the first of many pictures of My Kid In The Pumpkins: Isn’t It Adorable (no question mark).

While I’ll tell The Internet that I live in Chicago, I don’t really. I live in a SUBURB of Chicago which has the same name as a more well known suburb of Missouri (St. Charles, ILLINOIS), and as we’re far enough away from the city proper, plentiful farmlands abound.

And several of these smaller farms run pumpkin patches in the fall to bring in some extra cash. We were delighted to go to a real! small! farm! that year and pick us out some pumpkins to carve for Ben (since at age 3 months, he shamefully had NOT mastered his Knife Skills. Obviously an unfit mother am I). Pictures were snapped and plans were made for a Brand New Tradition.

The next year, we bundled ourselves up, grabbed a toddler Ben and trundled off to the pumpkin patch again. This time, I noticed that the farm had set up a tiny little area housing some dried corn (yay?), some of those pictures that you put your head through and suddenly you’re a sexy chick in a bikini (or maybe you were before), and some dilapidated animals. Ben, sweet non-verbal Ben, indicated that he would like to look at one of the animals.

I then noticed that there was a sign indicating that entrance to this sad little area was $10 a head. And upon realizing that my one year old would not be in anyway entertained by the other “features” (I use that loosely here) for the $20 it cost to bring us both inside, I asked if I could just show him one of the animals (remember, the attention span of a toddler is comparable to that of a flea. Who presumably has a short attention span. Or at least a short LIFE span).

The frightening beast at the ticket window inhaled off a long cigarette, blew the smoke in my face and informed me that there was no way in hell I was going to get in without my hard earned cash no matter HOW old my son was.

Leaving in a slight huff, the following year we returned. And in the barn that had previously housed the scale and cash drawer for weighing and paying for the pumpkins, was now a mini-Halloween themed store. Why, for a mere $11.95 I could buy a sugar cookie mix! Quite a steal since the package boasted that they would be SPOOKY cookies! How could I say no?

Now, next to the barn stood a concession stand, where for the sweet price of $6.00 I could purchase a dixie cup of cider served up by a surly teen. I’d use it, of course, to wash down the $14.00 bag of salted popcorn that I could also buy there.

The following year we dutifully returned, a 4 year old child now in tow. A 4 year old child who was THRILLED to note that the pumpkin farm now boasted a moon bounce! And a gigantic inflatable slide! Which, for the cost of $10.00 a person, we could go on for about 30 seconds. And wait! Hay Rides! For another $20.00 a head, we could sit in some sneeze-inducing hay and be driven around the parking lot for 2! whole! laps!

Thankfully Ben didn’t notice when we quickly ushered him out of there with our pumpkins.

At age 5, we noticed that the formerly dirt road leading to the pumpkins had been surfaced, and was now swarming with all sorts of other yuppie-mobiles. The dirt and gravel parking lot now had been expanded so that a sea of SUV’s were occupying all of the spots, and in order to find a spot to park in at all, we would have to perform a maneuver I like to call “stalking” people.

You know, where you spy someone leaving and then follow them to their cars slowly and creepily inching along behind them? Yeah. And that was when we turned around–not before seeing the pony rides and small carnival rides that were now offered–and left.

While I understood that the farm had to make a bit of extra money–and I know how expensive farming can be–the small, sweet pumpkin stand had turned into a major tourist attraction. I know that to some families, this is a fun day trip, just like the county fair, but it’s just not my bag. I don’t really want to pay $3.00 a head to go through a corn maze that at least two members of my ($3.00 a head) family will hate (Alex + whomever is watching him. Because toddlers aren’t really into mazes, sad to say).

Thankfully, we stumbled upon a small family farm where you could pick your own pumpkins from the vine. THIS was more my speed. There were some family animals–2 inexplicable donkeys–but I didn’t have to pay to show either of the boys how much we really, really need to have a donkey. It was a riot, searching through the garden to look for the perfect pumpkin and we all had a blast.

The following year we returned, only to be informed that this was probably the last year we’d be able to pick our own pumpkins at that location. The family was having too hard of a time competing with the local Jewel to stay in business. I don’t need to tell you how sad we were to hear this.

Today we visited another pumpkin patch, one that I’d remembered being sort of small and homey feeling. And before I could say “KEEP DRIVING” Dave pulled into a Phamily Phun Pharm again, complete with several different inflatable creations, a crappy corn maze, and $10.00 jugs of cider.

I really wanted to have a good time going to this farm, really, I did. But my crusty old balls self couldn’t shake how annoyed I was to be spending $40.00 on some pumpkins, because I couldn’t disappoint my 7 year old son (even I have feelings. Sort of) who was in! love! with His Pumpkin. And I needed pie pumpkins for the holidays. Like next Tuesday, when I bake pumpkin bread from scratch (I cannot cook, but I can bake with the best of ’em). That’s a holiday, right?

So, I don’t really know if it’s me or if it’s them. Because, if all the Yuppie Mobiles in the parking lot are to be believed, other people DO enjoy these sorts of things. And maybe if it was what I’d been expecting, rather than some Real Norman Rockwell farm family, I wouldn’t be so annoyed. Maybe I just need to loosen the hell up, get my credit card out, and have some damn fun.

And maybe I just will. As soon as those gol-darn kids get off my lawn!

(oh wait. Those are MY kids). Shit.