A couple miles from my house which is a couple miles from my parents house (which goes to show you once you go St. Charles, you never go back), there is a road. Well, if you want to be technical about it, there are lots of roads, especially since I a) do not live in a cow town and 2) roads = easier ways to get to my Uncrustables.

But back in high school, we didn’t have a lot to do, so we drove around. Sometimes we’d play “Summer Car” in the dead of winter, dressing up in our tank tops and short-shorts, cranking the heat to 11. Other times we’d play Pants Off, Drive Off and drive around with no pants. Even then, it appears, pants were bullshit. Sometimes we’d drive around exploring the less developed areas surrounding STC.

An old favorite, though, was to explore Munger Road. An urban legend – completely unverified – passed down through generations of squeally teens said that the three mile stretch of road was haunted. As the urban legend goes, a busload of kids were killed crossing the train tracks. If you sit on the train tracks, baby powder on the bumper, leaving your car in neutral, the ghost train would come through and a buttload of kids would push your car out of the way. Inspection of the bumper would reveal dozens of tiny hand prints.

I cannot tell you, Pranksters, how many times we tried this trick. Which, let me tell you, is a brillz one. I mean, sitting on the train tracks, car in neutral, is probably the smartest thing you can do, when you stop a POS clunker called the Fatty-Bo-Batty-Caddy (Cadillac from the early 1800’s, I think, judging by the shape of the upholstery) ON TOTALLY FUNCTIONAL RAILROAD TRACKS.

Anyway.

I didn’t die, obviously, because I went on to pop out some crotch parasites and become Your Aunt Becky. Nor did we see any tiny ghosticles. Once, I think, we saw a cat. (no, not a Laser Kitty, because OMG, how awesome?)

I’d mostly forgotten about our Munger Road antics until The Twitter informed me of a new movie. Shot in St. Charles, and NOT on Your Mom’s Camera. Like a real movie. In St. Charles.

What’s it about?

Munger Fucking Road*.

You should probably go see it. I bet there’s a scene with me accidentally in it all stumbling out of the bar like, “I fucking love you, street light. Will you marry me?”

*petitioning for a name change for that road, by the by.

 —————

Did your town have any urban legends, Pranksters?

If you’ve read my blog for any significant portion of time, you’ve probably heard me complain bitterly discuss happily my My Grains.

I had to switch medications recently, after the one I was taking started to make me bald, and decided, after being warned of liver toxicity or death or something (I stopped paying attention when he said THIS WILL NOT MAKE YOU BALD, BECKY), to check RxList to see what, in fact, I was now taking.

You’d think after being a nurse, I might have some recollection of each and every individual medication in the Universe, but you’d be wrong. I have a brain the size of a pea, and there are kajillions of medications out there. In fact, those wily drug people are always coming out with NEW ONES.

Anyway, for the three of you who care, I’m now taking Carbatrol, and using it as a migraine prophylaxis is an off-label use for this seizure medication.

For those of you who stayed awake for that sentence, here’s a cookie.

HA! Just kidding I don’t have cookies.

So there I am, patiently wading through the piles of ‘THIS DRUG WILL KILL YOU’ material, singing the Sky Mall Kitties song, when I finally looked at the top of the page:

Do you see what I see?

Here, let me show you what I saw:

I could absolutely watch any number of videos that involved small creatures singing, but the very VERY last thing in the world I’d ever willingly watch was a slideshow about migraines. Or, for that matter, much of anything.

In fact, there’s not a single slideshow/powerpoint that ever seems to scream, “HERE AUNT BECKY, YOU SHOULD WASTE TEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE WATCHING THIS.”

So I didn’t. And perhaps I should have. Because now I’m stuck wondering what the fuck was ON that damn slideshow.

Instead (lucky Pranksters) I made you what SHOULD have been on this slideshow.

Now THAT slideshow? I would watch.

Probably.

(the title has nothing whatsoever to do with what follows)

I haven’t managed to keep friends easily.

While I’d like to say something like, “it’s totally their loss,” or “it’s their fault,” there have been a number of mitigating circumstances, some of which were entirely my own fault (if one has to blame someone). I had three kids and was unable to leave the house for years. I moved from a central location to Bumfuck, Egypt. PTSD crippled my ability to let others really in.

And certainly, my former friends have done their fair share of shitballs things to me, too. I won’t fling poo, because that’s unladylike (snorts) but it has happened.

I won’t lie and say it’s been easy or particularly enjoyable, because who likes losing their friends?

Through all of the bullshit of the past couple of years, I’ve been lucky enough to maintain a few close friends; mostly people who’d once lived inside my computer but became real friends. We’ve managed to bridge the gaps in geography and, throughout it all, grow together, rather than apart.

(I include you, Pranksters, in this category)

Meet Kat.

I met Kat shortly after Amelia was born – her daughter Avi is roughly the same age – when she IM’d me to correct my grammar on a post*. And while this is an unlikely way to become friends with someone, it’s what happened.

I won’t lie or sugarcoat things here: Kat was instrumental in saving my life after Amelia was born. I was in a bad place; such a bad place that I’m not sure anyone else – including me – realized it. I would have easily told you that I was “fine,” but I was so far from fine that I couldn’t even recall what “fine” looked like any more.

Kat saved me.

Nine months ago, her husband had a stroke, spent a good amount of time in the ICU and was eventually diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder – alpha 1-angiotripsan deficiency – for which there is no cure. Her 2-year old daughter, Mimi’s clone, was also diagnosed with this.

On Friday, at the butt-ass crack of dawn, I got up and slogged my sorry ass onto an airplane to Seattle or Portland or one of those cities that is NOT Chicago on the West Coast. It was time to hug the person who had saved me.

And I did.

I also got to meet Mimi Avi who is, just as I’d suspected, Mimi’s doppelganger in both looks and actions. When I met her, she covered her eyes shyly, only to look at me through the cracks in her fingers. I may have passed out from the cuteness.

But Kat isn’t leading an easy life now, which breaks my small, dark heart. The daily what-if stresses are, as you can imagine, crippling. I wish like hell I could say or do something more than visit; something that would matter.

When I figure out what that is, Pranksters, I’ll do it.

Instead, I’ll be thrilled that I finally got to hug my friend in person, meet her charmingly hilarious daughter, and hear my very mild-mannered friend say the one word I flew a jillion miles to hear come from her mouth: “fuck.”

*Prolly NOT the best way to become BFF with me considering both my grammar and spelling are atrocious AND I LIKE IT THAT WAY.

I remember vividly trying to find places to make out when I was a teenager. It wasn’t that I was some gigantic slut—no, really—it’s just that there are only so many places that one can successfully get their legs properly humped far away from the prying eyes of parents and/or siblings. Bedrooms were preferred, because they contained, well, BEDS, but they were often strictly guarded by parents who knew exactly what two horny kids would do when allowed to be alone for more than five seconds. And it wasn’t Parcheesi.

Cars were okay, but the police in my hometown (where I still live) seldom have anything better to do than bust underage smokers or underage humpers, so screwing around in a car, while optimal in some regards because it’s mobile, isn’t exactly always a great idea. The Great Outdoors comes with bugs, lurking Uncle Pervies, hikers and picnickers and my personal favorite: Poison Ivy. No one wants Poison Ivy on their privates. Not, thankfully, that I would actually know from experience. So while I do appreciate the plight of the horny teen, I do know that there are plenty of places that can be made hump-worthy. I know I’ve gotten my leg humped in many, many places over the years.

While I do still live in my hometown, thank the Sweet Baby Jesus that I no longer live with my parents because that would be awkward mostly because I would have murdered them by now. The area that I do live is across the river and we happened to move into Teenager Row. Most people hate teenagers, but I happen to find them hilarious. Plus, they mow my lawn and do assorted chores around the house for me since I have about four thousand children and a husband who is around approximately three minutes every other week. To me, it’s a total win, and for that I can even put up with their annoying whiny emo music for the privilege of being able to work them to the bone. Cheap slave labor makes me very, very happy.

One of them in particular tends to mow my lawn on a semi-regular basis when he can be bothered to remember. He’s a teenager so I don’t hold him to any sort of high standards. One afternoon, I blearily noticed that he’d left his baseball cap on top of the treehouse in my children’s play-set. It’s a pretty sweet set-up they have and I’ll be the first to admit that I am totally making up for the fact that my own parents didn’t buy me cool shit buy buying my own kids what I deem to be the coolest shit ever. Their play-set is pimp. It’s beyond pimp, actually, and I’m halfway considering moving out there myself. Well, I would, except that my own house is cooler. Air conditioning trumps no air conditioning any day.

Anyway, the hat sits there and it annoys me because I’m a little OCD and it doesn’t fucking belong there, but my neighborhood kid doesn’t seem to notice that he’s missing his hat. I am simply stunned that he doesn’t notice that he’s missing his hat! Why, when I was that age, I would have noticed that I was missing my baseball cap! Okay, that’s a lie, because I’ve owned one baseball cap ever and it says “Mrs. Timberlake” on it and I bought it when I was twenty-four because OBVIOUSLY wouldn’t you? But weeks pass and the hat sits in the treehouse and every time I see it it’s like it’s TAUNTING me by simply being there because it doesn’t motherfucking belong there! The kid comes back a couple of times and mows my lawn and still, leaves the hat, and I am beyond mystified by this.

Finally, I catch him outside one day when all of the adults are standing around splitting some beers and noshing on encased meats.

“Kid,” I say to him, my excitement reaching a fever pitch. “I have your hat!” I probably got a little in his face because that’s how I get when I’m excited by something and trust me, Internet, I was beyond excited. Before he could say “restraining order,” I ran inside and retrieved the hat. Triumphantly, I brought it back outside where I handed it to him with a huge smile on my face. I was just THAT HAPPY to give the hat back to it’s rightful owner. I was sure that the hat was equally happy to be back home once again because I might have been a wee bit drunk at the time.

“Um,” he looked at the hat and back at me. “That’s actually not my hat.”

My mouth hit the ground. What the fuck? I have a fenced in back yard, three small children and two loud dogs. Really, my yard isn’t a free-for-all of movement and no one really gets in or gets out without me noticing. Sort of like the Hotel California. What the hell did he mean, “that’s not my hat?”

My OCD kicked into hyperdrive at this revelation because if it wasn’t his hat and it wasn’t my hat and it wasn’t Dave’s, Ben’s, Alex’s or Amelia’s, then who the fuck owned the hat? Squirrels? The fucking Invisible Man? Gnomes? I couldn’t figure it out and it ate at my brain for weeks. Trust me, I don’t have enough brain for it to be taken over with such a thing for so long. I’m pretty sure nothing else got done for those weeks.

Facebook finally cracked it for me. The neighbors behind me frequently held bonfires attended by scads of teenagers. Those teenagers were using my fucking treehouse as, well a fucking treehouse. Which, I mean, if you think about it, is kinda awesome for them, kinda gross for me, because my kids go in there all the damn time. Without knowing it, I’d been hosting an orgy of teenagers in my backyard, probably humping legs with wild abandon. My very own den of intrigue! The hat must have replaced the tie as a symbol for “do NOT come in here.” If I took a black light in there, I’d be willing to bet it would look like Fight Club, only replace the blood and hair with spooge. Thankfully, I’d thrown out the black light along with the beaded curtains years before, so I won’t torture myself, but let’s just say I hit it up with some Lysol after that, and immediately threw out the hat.

More than anything, I was happy to have solved the mystery and a little jealous that I’d never been so creative when I was a teenager. Kids these days, man. They’re so fucking smart. Too bad that Imma booby trap the damn thing at night now. They may be smart, but I have a AMEX black card.

Score one for Aunt Becky.

We went through a phase a couple of months ago, in which my middle son, Alex, decided that showing off his penis was hilarious. I mean it kinda is hilarious, but you know, having him walk around with it hanging out to receive the express reaction he was looking for: “Alex, PUT AWAY YOUR PENIS,” led to other problems.

And not just the development of MORE grey hair.

No, now my daughter believes that she, too, has a penis.

Nothing can be done to dissuade her. I’ve tried everything, “Girls have vaginas, Amelia. And you have a vagina because you are a girl,” only enrages Her Majesty.

“NO, MAMA, MIMI’S PENIS,” she shouts indignantly whenever I dare question Princess Amelia’s Way of Thinking.

Thinking on my feet (no easy task when you have a brain the approximate size and shape of a pea), I pointed out her girl bits as proof that she, like me, is sans penis.

“NO MAMA, THAT MIMI’S BUTT.”

Head in hands, I realized that I wasn’t going to win this argument and besides, I had to give her points there: it does kinda look like a butt.

The Daver was reading a book recently (he’s the literate one around these here parts) that had in it something I found more interesting than the cat video I was watching.

He said to me, that there had been a scientific study in the 1980’s in which groups of people talked about a negative experience with an untrained individual. These participants believed that sharing these experiences out loud may have helped them cope with their feelings, but it was not so, ickle Pranksters.

In fact, talking about these experiences did nothing to change the manner in which they coped with their problems.

Instead, The Daver told me, the individuals who engaged in a daily writing exercise, jotting down their most personal feelings and thoughts about their personal trauma in a journal, found a huge boost in their psychological – and physical – well being. The people who wrote down their innermost problems became happier.

Turns out that thinking and writing are actually very different. When we think about something – and chat about it – our conversations are chaotic and disorganized. However, when we write them out, we’re more invested in creating a story-line; a structure to our thoughts. While we write out our pain, we begin to make sense of what has happened and systematically approach a solution.

Those who write it out are happier.

And, Dear Pranksters, this would be why I blog, even after all these years.

That’s why I’m honored to receive all of the stories – your stories – on Band Back Together or Mushroom Printing.

And mostly, that is why I’m grateful to have found a family. My Pranksters.

SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH.

I DO SO HAVE FEELERS SOMETIMES.

The first woman – ever – to chair a department at University of Illinois, she knew exactly what she wanted. She didn’t let her gender get in the way of doing things her way, during a time when gender dictated everything. That chair happened to be Chemistry, a synchronicity I found charming once I’d met her.

She was a career woman before her time, never settling down, having children or getting married. Until she met my Uncle in the 1980’s.

She adopted me as her own when I first met her. Peas in a pod, my mother called us, and rightly so. Every time I saw Ruth, she brought me a new present or bauble; the sort of things a kid likes. Even without bearing her own, she understood children.

Being a lonely kid, I loved her immediately. Whenever she was around for a visit, I’d clamor to see her, probably annoying my parents and everyone around me half-to-death.

When I couldn’t see her, instead I wrote her letters. Who knows what I’d blathered on about in those letters, but I wrote them diligently. She’d lovingly send me back another letter, each time I took crayon to paper.

As I got older and more independent, I’d fly out to visit her where she’d ended up: Sun City, Arizona. It’s a retirement community nicer than my own neighborhood, where old people zip around in golf carts and Live Life.

Remembering I loved Chinese food, immediately after picking me up in her car – one of those gigantic things that make you feel like you’re riding in the cockpit of a very comfortable living room – she took me to the local Chinese place, fussing over me and making sure that I had at least three different entrees in front of me at all times.

She’d gone to the baker and bought me a bourbon pecan pie, too, and even though I’d never had one before (they look, well, SCARY), it was delicious. Now that I have my own oven and a decently good recipe, I make the same pie each year for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

The china and silver she gave me when I was 16 still sits in my china cabinet, waiting for a day when my children aren’t so small; a day when I can cook a meal that isn’t made of one of three food groups: pasta, chicken bits, and something else I can’t remember. Some day, we will eat off my finery.

And when we do, I will share with my babies the stories of their Great Great Aunt Ruth, who loved their Mommy very much. Who took life by the balls and made it her bitch during a time when women were supposed to be in the home, cooking and cleaning. A woman who never stopped; never took no for an answer, and followed her dreams and her heart where it took her.

A woman with a heart a million miles wide; who loved deeply and without regrets.

A woman who we all can learn from.

This is what I will tell my children as we eat Chinese food and bourbon pecan pie off the very finest china given to me by a woman who loved beyond words.

———-

Two days after my son turned ten, on August 22nd, 2011, my great Aunt Ruth passed away. She had a full life; more than I can ever hope for, but that doesn’t stop the aching in my heart when I think about what the world is now missing.

I’ll miss you Aunt Ruth.

Always.

I remember the first time it happened to me: I was recovering from surgery, stuck on the couch, hopped up on pain pills and crying because, well, that’s what pain pills do to me.

See also: abdominal muscles are ACTUALLY pretty important.

See also also: humiliation when you suddenly cannot pee by yourself because standing up hurts like a motherfucker.

I’d stupidly written a post about my struggles with weight and although I hadn’t titled the piece “Being Fat Made Me Invisible,” (which was what the site owner went with) the post was fairly heartfelt.

Now Pranksters, if you learn NOTHING from Your Aunt Becky (besides, “it’s always better not to be Aunt Becky.”) learn this: The Internet has lots of opinions about weight. And people can be cruel.

Anyway, someone got chocolate salty balls about my post – in which I was talking about my OWN struggles with weight, not telling the world to drop a couple LBS – and left a fairly hurtful comment. The pain pills exacerbated my hurt feelers and suddenly I was weeping about the comment. It was just so…mean.

And what’s worse? I couldn’t do shit about it.

On my own blog, I have no shame in deleting a particularly cruel comment. I don’t get them often, but you know what? I don’t need you to take a shit on my nicely swept porch. I know this is a hotly debated piece of the Internet (should you delete nasty comments?) but I, for one, have no shame in using the delete button. Go ahead and talk about how much I suck somewhere else, y’all. My front porch doesn’t need your shit slung on it.

It may surprise you, Pranksters, that I freelance around The Internet.

I also Site Master.

See: Band Back Together.

See also: Mushroom Printing.

The comments on either site are moderated, although, Band Back Together has a more strict set of moderation requirements, because people are pouring out their hearts; the least I can do is protect them from well-meaning-yet-unkind shit.

And recently, on my freelancing posts, the comments I’ve received have become particularly unkind. The sort that make you gasp and feel like you got punched in the gut. Because while you can laugh that shit off some of the time, sometimes, it really, really stings.

When you’re writing about your life – it’s still your life.

Being blasted for it sucks. Period. I don’t know how you’d handle it beyond doing what I do: ignore them. I do not read a single comment from those posts. I don’t need to know how badly I suck at life from Internet Mole People, especially considering my personal blog is an homage to my suckitude.

However, I got to thinking about it.

(shut UP)

(I can think sometimes)

And I genuinely believe that site owners – the sites that aren’t courting controversy – have a responsibility to their writers. Some sort of, “I got your back,” where negative comments are policed and removed. Because frankly, one less Internet Mole Person makes the world a better place.

How fair is it to let your staff get shit on so you can increase your comment count? Doesn’t the person who has the ability to write in non-text speak and know the difference between “there” and “they’re” matter a little bit more than someone flinging shit for the sole purpose of cruelty?

I say, yes.

Now, what do you say, Pranksters?

Should site owners protect their writers?

Pranksters, the time has come. Oh yes, it is time. Time to come to InterventionCon in DC and hang out with Your Favorite Aunt Becky. September 16-18, I will be hanging at the Con, selling my shirts and talking about how to be cool on the Internets. Or why Mommy Needs Vodka.

Which means, of course, I need to figure out HOW to be cool in the first place.

Any tips?

P.S. I’m driving from IL to DC, so maybe we can meet up along the way?

Dear Aunt Becky,

Saw these, thought of you, started rolling on the floor laughing, may have peed a bit, took a picture and attracted the attention of security. Not necessarily in that order. I mean, I cannot believe someone would have given up their entire collection with only ‘Mystic Throat Ripper’ and ‘Mystic Mark My Territory’ left to find.

Prankster, I’m only bitter that I wasn’t there.

You have no idea.

Dearest Aunt Becky,
A few months ago my sweet baby niece was diagnosed with a particularly bullshit form of cancer.

Long story short, I want to auction off some of her bad ass drawings online. Where should I get started? Suggestions please? Thank you.

Much love,
Megan

Dear Megan,

I’m so sorry about your niece and her bullshit cancer. Cancer is a fucking hot steaming pile of bullshit and I hate it hard. I think auctioning off her drawings is a lovely idear.

However, I am not entirely certain how online auctions go. If I did, I might, you know, SELL my nice DSL-R rather than simply let it gather dust.

So instead of telling you where to do it, I’m going to tell you where NOT to. My Pranksters will certainly know more about this stuff. (my only shitballs suggestion is to do it from your blog).

• ebay. Why? ebay is creepy. I am afraid of it. Like, deeply afraid of it.
• Craigslist. Why? Because Craigslist = Uncle Pervy. You don’t want her adorable drawings up next to someone’s penis picture. Because ew.

I don’t know about Etsy or anything, but I’d wait and see what the Pranksters come up with. They’re clever AND sexy.

Hey Aunt Becky,

You’re a pretty awesome woman-of-the -world or even just woman-in-general so I was wondering if you could give me some boy advice.

See, I started University this year coming from a school where I’d known all the boys from their grubby kindergarten days and now I see boys who I don’t know EVERYWHERE! And I have no idea how to talk to them.

Then 6 weeks ago (if you need the days and minutes as well I’d be happy to provide them)I saw this boy…sigh. I finally managed to speak to him one day on the bus (despite my nearly overwhelming urge to throw up) and at the time I thought it went well, but now what? How do I speak to him again without being weird? and what do I say? And how do I stop my voice from going really deep? (not cute husky deep, like weird deep).

Even if you could somehow teach me husky-deep that would be fine. Help me Aunt Becky!

your loving neice 🙂

Oh my sweet niece, how could I let you down? I cannot.

So here is Aunt Becky’s Advice for How To Deal With Boys:

1) Smack them across the head with something.

2) Bat your eyelashes at them.

3) Say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to whack you with a 2×4”

4) Then they fall in love with you.

Or, you can always just do what my daughter does when she’s feeling shy. Cover your eyes and say, “Hi.”

Either way, the end result is TOTALLY the same.

Pranksters? Any thoughts?

————

As always, please submit your questions to Go Ask Aunt Becky and I will lackadaisically answer them with advice you should never take.

———–

I am at The Stir with two columns: Bowling for Babies and Stickers are the Minions of Satan. If nothing else, you should read the comments and report back because I can’t. Read them, I mean.

Also, if you want another side of me, you should read this: Meet Becky Harks. It’s a decent interview with probably non-hateful comments. P.S. Now you know my name.

Also, also: I hate to ask you about the whole “liking” me thing, but it would mean SO MUCH to me if you did. I hate myself for even asking.

I remember well, the day I sat in my friend John’s living room, having just bathed an ancient pregnancy test (found – oddly – in a wall in his house) with my pee. I don’t remember what day it was or what I was wearing or what I’d been planning to do that night. I do remember sitting there, smoking a cigarette, watching a line form. Not the first – YAY YOU PEED ON A STICK PROPERLY, DUMBASS – line; a second one.

Certainly it wasn’t a second line. There’s no way it could be a second line. I was on BIRTH CONTROL Y’ALL and really, no, just that wasn’t a second line.

I held it up to the light as it darkened; moving from a light second line to a dark WHOOPS! second line.

Then I made my friend John, in from shoveling the snow, look at it.

“That’s a line, right? It’s a second line? That can’t be a line. How could that be a line?”

John stared down at it, then looked at me with dawning horror. He didn’t speak. He just nodded his head.

That was the first time my life fell on it’s ear.

On August 20 (tomorrow), 2001, at a respectable 3:10PM, I pushed a baby boy from my nether regions, and while he looked at me with a similar look that John had given me – dawning horror – I wrapped him in my arms and kissed his damp head.

I was a mother.

Tasked with raising this extremely squally baby was a big job, I knew that much, but ten years later, I cannot think of a decision I’ve made since that hasn’t involved his well-being.

I dropped out of the medical school track and enrolled in nursing school. I found him a proper father. I gave him two siblings. We fought through autism and custody battles. I gave him the house and the yard and the kid sister and brother I’d dreamed of giving him, back when the days seemed darkest.

Because as blithe as I can be about things, there were days of only tears – no joy – because the decisions I made to better my life for son came with consequences. I was gone more often than not. I was taking a test when my son took his first steps. Speech and Occupational therapy met when I was in class.

While I was trying to give him the world, I missed out on so much. There were days I sat in my car and wept, trying to remember that this was all for the best, that in the end, I would be giving my son the world.

When I met Daver, Benjamin was two, and he took to him like nobody’s business. He took to Dave in a way he’d never taken to me, and while I was thrilled, it broke my heart a little more. I wanted nothing than to know that my struggles, killing my own dreams, everything I’d done, it was all for him.

In a decade, I gave my son everything I’d wanted and more.

He walked me down the aisle as I got married. He watched me march across the stage to graduate with high honors. He’s seen me become a nurse and later, a writer. He’s held his siblings when they were born, joy evident on his tiny face as they looked at him, their big brother, with awe.

There is not a single decision I have made in ten years that has not been for him or because of him.

When I say, “I don’t know where I’d be without Ben,” I mean it. I do not genuinely know.

And frankly, I don’t want to.

As I watch him scamper around outside, pushing his siblings on the swings while the screams of glee echo through my neighborhood, I can hardly believe that I’d once sat in my car, alone, weeping, worried about the future.

I’ve seen the future, and it is beautiful.

So is my son; my precious firstborn.

Happy Birthday, Benjamin. Without you, I wouldn’t be me.

Thank you for turning my life on it’s ear; making me a better person. For making me something I’d never, ever considered becoming: a mother.