Sudddenly, I’m very afraid.

What began as a bad birthday weekend is now shaping up to be a bad birthday week. Does anyone know how to rid yourself of a curse? Anyone perform exorcisms?

I still cannot see well. Things are almost completely blurry, which makes everyday living annoying if not entirely unbearable. Sound like I’m overreacting? Take the lens out of one of your glasses, or remove one contact and walk around for awhile: that’s how it feels. I spend several hours a day trying to remove long dark hairs out of Alex’s neck fat, diaper area, arm fat and hands (I heart you postpartum hair loss) not because the hairs are really that prolific (anymore), but because I can’t quite navigate exactly where the damn things are. And because of the complete loss of depth perception, I can’t drive myself to the doctor (or anywhere else, really).

On Tuesday, right before I was planning to go to bed early (foronceinmydamnlife), I heard the dog barking loudly outside. Because I cannot see (read: lazy) I sent Daver out to investigate, while I went to the sink to wash my hands. Then I smelled it. A combo of burning rubber and burning oil. Oh holy fuck. Shit.

The dog was tangling with a skunk.

Needless to say, I won’t bore you with the details about baking soda and H2O2 covering the kitchen, or how when the mixture reaches your skin in drop form your skin looks like you have vittaligo, or how truly awful fresh skunk goo smells.

Let’s just say that I didn’t go to bed early that night.

And the Vicodin, while awesome, leaves me an awesome, drooling, high as hell mess, which means that I cannot parent Alex. Dave = workaholic, who for obvious reasons, like our house is not the same as work is not here much. So I cannot take my precious pills. I wouldn’t mind being blind so much if I were high.

Ain’t that the truth.

Dear Rabbi Shmuley,

I am currently breastfeeding my three month old son. I hate it passionately, but I realized that somewhere along the lines, if I could give him what is best for him (and it is, have no doubt), I would do so. For a finite time. As parents who willingly brought a child into the world, we are not allowed to behave as selfishly as we might want to do, which is simply put, part of being a parent, like it or not. Had we not been prepared to put our children’s needs before our own, at least most of the time, we would have either prevented the pregnancy or terminated it.

There is nothing in the world I love more than my children, except for my husband. I might even go out on a limb here to mention that I do actually love him more. Unlike my children, I was allowed to choose exactly who he is before I committed to him. Maintaining my marriage is an extremely high priority for me, as I am aware that my children may or may not remember some instance in which I messed up in one way or another as their mother, my husband will. In 20-odd years, my children will likely abandon me for their wives regardless of what I do, whereas my husband (let’s hope) will not.

I’ve been lucky enough to have children with two different men (OOOOOOOO!! And one was not my husband!!! OOOOOOOO!) who were both very interested in watching our children born. As I am totally aware, having seen any number of births, it’s a messy process, and it is not for everyone. Which is why I would never have requested/required that either man watch it. Both chose to do so, and neither experienced any diminished sexual interest in me. In fact, I would venture to guess that both of these men were aware that this is what the vagina was designed for and were able to separate the birthing vagina from the sexual vagina.

Normal mothers do not breastfeed for the sexual feelings, nor do they deliberately use their children as a shield to not engage in sexual behavior and if they do either of these things, there are significant other issues that require addressing. I actually like sex. New mothers and fathers are likely to avoid sexual intercourse not because breastfeeding can get in the way of it (unsure how, but this is a point you make), but because they are simply too tired to enjoy it. Personally, as someone who was at one point getting 5-6 hours of sleep a night in 15 minute increments, a 20 minute nap was far more appealing than a roll in the sack. Plus, as someone who ripped hole-to-hole with my first born, my privates were a bit tender for longer than the six week recovery I had expected.

Let’s be clear with one thing here, Rabbi, my body is property of no one else. Perhaps they didn’t teach you that at Rabbi school, but here in WASP country, we women are not property of our men or our children. We occasionally share our body with others, but this is our prerogative when and where we do so. My breasts and vagina are mine to use as I see fit and not how someone else would like. I can choose to breastfeed and I can choose to have sex. I can even do both (altho not at the same time; that’s sick), when I want to.

I have mentioned choices over and over again here, and that is what this boils down to: a choice. I can choose to put my relationship with my children above and beyond my relationship with my husband or I can choose not to. While breastfeeding or in other ways. And I refuse to apologize to anyone about my choices to do what comes most naturally to my body and the choices I make regarding who and what can use it when.

Respectfully yours,
Aunt Becky

P.S. I really liked your show until I realized how antiquated you are.

I used to tell people that I wanted three children. Having had Alex now for almost 10 weeks, I’ve decided that I don’t ever want any more children. Which would be funny, except that it’s not.

You see, Internet, I’ve been lying to you: I’m not doing so well over here.

I gave birth to a child who on his best days could be described as difficult, and on his worst, hell-sent after a pregnancy that pretty much zapped my will to live. And now I am a prisoner in my home, chained to this baby who refuses to quiet for anyone but me. He rarely sleeps. Breastfeeding has turned from a ‘Hey, wow, this is cheap and we’re bonding and stuff’ to a virtual noose around my neck, tightening with each successive thing that I have to pass up because I cannot leave the baby for more than 2 hours.

I sit around day after day, surfing the Internets and watching shitty daytime TV while Alex alternately shrieks or breastfeeds, often simultaneously. For hours. I have no mommy-friends close, and my other friends live real big-girl lives that don’t involve diaper duty and cracked nipples. I’m so tired that I can no longer do simple math (let’s be clear here: I used to be able to do it) and I have no end or relief in sight.

There are even days that I question my choice to have had him at all. Of course, seconds later Mommy Guilt kicks in and I cannot believe that I could think that way. Alex doesn’t MEAN to be such an asshole, and being loved so wholeheartedly is somewhat flattering. But sometimes I wake up (or am still awake at 3am, so anxious that I cannot sleep) and look around and say ‘is this REALLY the life that I chose for myself, each day the same as the rest?’ and I wonder how other people do it.

I love him so overwhelmingly and I hate that I feel this way. It will get better; I know it will. My first was no walk in the park (he may have actually been worse as he was totally inconsolable) and I distinctly remember the day that life with him in it didn’t seem to be quite so long. However, in the here and now, I’m honestly picturing breastfeeding him through college. THAT’S how much he loves the boob and how trapped I feel right now.

Like an addict, I’m going to have to just take this one day at a time and hope for a better tomorrow, because losing my marbles just isn’t an option. And I am going to try like hell not to resume smoking, which is all that I can think about these days.

Mental note: going tanning in the super bed after a year long tanning exile is VERY not wise.

Burned nipples + teething (i.e. biting) baby = pure stabby badness.

Let’s just say it’s suicide for me…

….AGAIN

Alex has an anger problem. He always has, really. From the moment he was unceremoniously slapped on my belly after birth, he opened his gaw up and began to shriek (maybe it was the realization that we were his parents’) only to be comforted by the insertion of my nipples. I only wish I were exaggerating.

Thankfully for all of our eardrums, I had decided to breastfeed. And breastfeed I did. For the first 6 weeks, it was near constantly, and only not completely constantly because I occasionally needed to do such mundane things such as pee and I do have *some* need for privacy.

I’d not had much experience with seeing breastfeeding mothers in public aside from the scarily creepy woman from my teens. I was working as a hostess at an upscale joint on a busy weekend afternoon, when I noticed a woman sitting on the floor in the middle of an aisle.

As I walked past, I saw that she’d placed a blanket on the floor and was breastfeeding her baby WHO WAS LAYING ON THE FLOOR while she continued conversing with her table. Now, my complaint here was not that she was breastfeeding but that the poor baby was laying on the floor among the dirt and moreover blocking my damn way.

I figured with as immodest as I am, as long as I don’t intentionally expose my child to the gross germs of a restaurant floor I was pretty okay with breastfeeding in public. I bought my Hooter Hider (yay!) and was off to Target with the Sausage Brigade. Alex, being who he is, immediately upon seeing the beautiful clean aisle upon aisle of The Happiest Place On Earth, freaked the fuck out and wanted to nurse.

Because we needed groceries regardless of his tirade, I covered up with the Hooter Hider and finagled and wrangled the baby to latch on while trying walk and most importantly NOT DROP HIM ONTO THE FLOOR even if he keeps latching and unlatching and shrieking. Let me tell you, it was TOTALLY AWESOME. And it happened each and every time we went out: I broke my back trying not to flash anyone, while nursing the baby AND trying not to overheat us both while walking about the store.

It took several weeks for me to hit my breaking point. This weekend, while trying to keep my frantic baby latched on while sifting through all 6,000 yards of fabric of the Hooter Hider I had officially HAD ENOUGH. I took the Hooter Hider off and whipped it out for all to see and proceeded to finish my shopping, breast hanging out and all daring anyone to mess with me.

Luckily, considering the evil mood I was in, no one even batted an eyelash at me.

The Sausage Brigade, however, seemed to be slightly embarrassed.

# of lbs put on with second baby: stopped counting

# hours spent confused by simultaneously barfing and putting on weight: 1,000,000,000,003

# of times regretted eating McDonald’s sundaes: 987

# of reassurances to myself that I cannot eat whatever I want no matter what Daver can do: 48,000

# of regrets that I have married the person who loses 20 lbs after cutting out pop but continues to eat double quarter pounders with cheese: too many to count

# hours spent at gym since being cleared to work out again: 28

# hours spent grumpily hating women who look like twigs who swallowed a watermelon while pregnant: 756

# of White Hen clerks who ask when ‘œmy baby is due:’ 1

# of pants that currently fit: 1

# of times I’ve wanted to buy new pair of pants but have chickened out as I didn’t want to see my new! and improved! size: 8,000,000,000

approx, cost of future tummy tuck: $10,000

approx. cost of future boob job to fix boobs that currently look like an orange stuffed in a tube sock: $4,000

# of times thought of future plastic surgery has calmed me down: too numerous to count

# of feet of current excess skin: 4.6

It’s a good goddamn thing this baby loves me a lot.

I weighed myself this week.

This is kind of a masochistic big deal, considering that I had no earthly idea what kind of poundage I put on with this crotch parasite. After I continued gaining weight WHILE BARFING MY BRAINS OUT, I decided that maybe I just didn’t need to know just how efficient my metabolism could be.

Turns out, you don’t have to look when you get weighed in.

I mean, I gained a bunch with my first and all, but I ate garbage nonstop, so yeah, of course I got fat. Well, this time, I did not. And yet I STILL got fat. I feel loftily sure that I would kick some major ass in a famine, but now, my dimpled white ass needs some major work.

Let’s just say that I have my work cut out for me.

Operation Remove My Fat Ass has begun.

So after I got my good cry out, I decided to get productive and go on a walk as I have not been cleared to lift anything heavier than the baby, a walk would be nice and low impact.

I bundled Cletus the Former Fetus (ed note: Alex) up into my fancy stroller, threw my iPod over my ears to drown out his indignant “I can’t believe you’re not holding me to your breast Slave Woman! Where is my nipple? It’s not in my mouth where it belongs, you bitch!” screams, and began to enjoy the motherfucking scenery.

(as an aside, I can only imagine the horrible mother that my neighbors thought that I must be, letting my child cry like that while I grimly, determinedly walk on. I CLEARLY do not deserve to be a parent.)

As I rounded a corner, I saw the strangest thing. For the *second* time in my life.

There was a dog on a roof.

There was a (motherfucking) dog on the roof of a (motherfucking) house.

He just stood there, staring back at me as thought it was the most normal thing in the world for dogs everywhere to lounge about on tops of houses reaching two stories high.

Having had to run on no appreciable sleep for the past six weeks, I many had problems deciding how to react to the situation.

Do I call the dog? Do I keep walking? Do I want a tuna sandwich? Do I EVEN LIKE TUNA? Slowly but surely, my memory banks began to cross reference the situation: where had I seen this before? A whimsical romantically comedy? Possibly a dream I had when I was a kid? Do I even like tuna sandwiches?

And it dawned on me: several years ago, my neighbor called me outside to bear witness a dog sitting on the roof of a house across the street. A couple of us gathered out there, discussing the dog, who looked as befuddled as we were, unsure as to how it got up and as to how it was going to get back down again.

Somebody needed to do…something. If this was a made-for-TV-movie, a hot-as-hell fireman with twinkly green eyes would rescue the dog and maybe he and I would fall in love. And live happily ever after.

I offered to call the fire department, since my neighbors all seemed more interested in gawking and gaping than the poor pooch who was stuck up on the roof.

Figuring this was my shot at my one true love, I did. They directed me to animal control. Who directed me to the police. Who directed me to public works. Who told me to call the fire department.

I’m pretty sure they all looped to the same person, because I had the same fucking conversation. Either that or it was my own version of Groundhog Day:

Me: “Hi, my name is Becky Sherrick and I live here. My neighbor has a dog on his roof.”

Pick One (fire dept, animal control, police): “What?!?”

Aunt Becky: “I *said* that there is a dog on my neighbors roof. A big one.”

Public Service Official (incredulous): “You’re kidding me.”

PSO (to coworkers): “This lady is calling in a dog on a roof! Bwahahaha!”

Aunt Becky: “Why would I joke? I’m seriously afraid it’s going to jump.”

PSO (to coworkers): Now the dog is suicidal! Bwahahaha!

PSO: “Well, there’s nothing *we* can do about it. Try calling (choose one: fire dept, police, animal control, etc).”

(click)

Me:”That’s what (fire dept, police, animal..) said. oh NEVERMIND!”

Finally remembering that the public works in town have absolutely no idea what to do with a (motherfucking) dog on a (motherfucking) roof, I decided that the best course of action was one of complete inaction.

I just kept on walking, the dog and I eyeballing each other warily as Alex wailed for his breast, bitch.

And then, just like that, like a bolt of lighting out of the clear blue sky I remembered that I loathe tuna sandwiches.

—————–

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve come across lately?

Dear All Of My Neighbors,

Sorry that I don’t remember all of your names. See, I have this new baby who has somehow sucked every ounce of memory that I have into oblivion.

Oh, so you knew about the baby, did you? Right, right, right. You’ve seen me through the windows. I am sorry about all of the walking around I now do without my shirt on, my granny nursing bra (sexxy, I know) jutting out in front of me like gigantic two milk-filled missiles. But you see here, Neighbors Of Mine, I don’t have much of a choice now. I have this baby who thinks he needs to be constantly attached to my chesticles and nothing, I repeat NOTHING I can do dissuades him.

See, I’m actually considering what I’m doing as a PSA, well, without the announcement part, because I am aware that all of you with houses that surround mine have teenage boys. And if they see what happens when girls have babies, they’ll never give the love without a glove.

Breast Wishes (hehehe),
Your Neighbor With The Knockers

PS. Be grateful that I wear a bra. Have you SEEN those ‘natural’ childbirth books? Those women are ALWAYS topless. AND they rock the full bush.

‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”

Dear Makers of Breast Pads,

I’m sending my complaining neighbors to you.

You see here, Breast Pad Manufactures, I cannot use you, despite my actual need for Leakage Control, as every time my baby weeps (i.e the 4.5 seconds/day that I unjustly put him down). Nowhere, and I do mean nowhere on your chipper packaging, complete with serene looking woman holding baby (which I must add, is obviously staged, as no new mother has clear bloodshot free eyes without bags around them. Unless they had a wet nurse or something, and if they did, why would they be buying breast pads?) does it mention the what your pads are made of.

Latex. That’s what’s in them.

Want to know how I know? I got a huge rash all over my freshly milk-filled funbags. It looked as though my breasts had come down with a nasty case of herpes, which at 2 days postpartum is _so_not_appreciated.

Because I was ‘desperate’ and ‘a glutton for punishment’ I tried another brand. Same goddamn symptoms: my breasts felt like they were on fire so I itched the skin clear off of them. It was totally awesome.

By awesome, I mean sucky.

So in addition to adding ‘contains latex’ to your packaging, I am imploring you to please write a letter of apology to my neighbors, who can now clearly see the sweet-ass milk stains and perpetua-hard nipples that otherwise would have been obscured by your product.

VD-Free Since 2003 (and Counting!!!),

Red Boobies Are Not Sexxy

‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”

Dear Stomach Flu,

Fuck You.

Sincerely,

Cleaning Barf Out Of The Darnedest of Places

‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”-

Dear Nat,

I am so totally confused.

How did you manage to lose Ben’s shoes?

Seriously, wasn’t he WEARING them?

Love,

Taking Responsibility Where You Won’t

Notes From The 2.5 Week Trenches (and to remind us all why having new babies is soul-sucking):

*In possibly the most fitting display of irony (but not the Alanis Morisette kind), after a brief hospital admission (due to the baby becoming intolerant of my Crohn’s flare up) it was agreed by my team of doctors to induce my labor. The morning of the induction, I was already so ill that I needed my chemo meds to calm me down BEFORE I went into labor. It was the best I’d felt in months.

*Dave spent 99% of my labor alternately sleet ping or barfing due to a massive migraine which meant that…

*I spent 99% of my labor numb (which, despite it being better than pain, is somewhat claustrophobic), unable to reach the phone, and crying (damn hormones).

*Likely due to having made fun of Dave’s inordinate amount of recessive genes, I have spawned yet another child who looks nothing like me. In fact, Benjamin looks more like Dave than me. I ask you all, HOW IS THAT FAIR? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I SUFFERED FOR YOU, CHILD? /stepping off cross now.

*Breastfed babies shit constantly. And it sounds just like a cappuccino machine. There is nothing not awesome about this especially because The Daver is responsible for all Output.

*In spite of the constant sleep dep and the 7 lb child constantly attached to my chesticles, I haven’t felt this good in at least a year.

*I have an excessive amount of flatulence for no longer having a crotch parasite pressing into my guts.. Yes, gentlemen, I *am* taken.

*Having a baby that dislikes almost everyone except you loses it’s novelty after about Hour 6.

*Diapers are fucking expensive as fuck. I guess I got spoiled with Sir I Can’t Crap the first time around. This must be my comeuppance. I am totally aware that I misspelled that. And I don’t care.

*Yesterday he barfed on my nipples. He BARFED on my NIPPLES. HE BARFED ON MY NIPPLES. And then he peed on me.

(I need a nap)

My second son is a Boob Man. If they had a Boob-a-holics Anon. meeting for newborns, I’d be forced to take him. I’ve spent at least 60 of the last 72 hours with my titties hanging out and flapping in the breeze. And no, they are FAR too large now to flap. I had no idea how freaking scarily huge boobs get AFTER birth.

Here’s a sample conversation between The Baby and I (such a lack of sleep should be evident here):

Me: ‘I gotta pee.’

Him: ‘BOOOOOOOOOOOOOBBBBBBBBBB!’

Me: ‘That’s what you said 16 hours ago when I first mentioned that I had to take a pee.’

Him: ‘BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBBBBBBBBB!’

Me: ‘Please? I’ll buy you a Wii! Hell, I’ll buy you TWO Wii’s.’

Him: ‘BOOOOOOOOOOOOOBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBYYYYYYYYYYY!’

Me: ‘Fuck. Dave, hand me the catheter. Again.’

I prayed and prayed for this baby: the one who would eat happily from my breast without whining, complaining, and making me feel like a total failure as a parent (Ahem, BEN.) And I got him: spitting image of his father and all.

I guess the lesson to be learned here is the miracle you pray for may not always be the one you receive. And seriously, although my nipples may be cracked and bleeding and my tits rock hard and painful, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Life is sweet, Baby.