I may have mentioned that I have a slight obsession with cake in the past, which is especially strange since I don’t really want to eat it, but just LOOK at it for many years to come (I have issues. Clearly). I specifically hunted down a local bakery that deals only with making cakes so that I knew I was getting the top of the (cool) line.

And I was not disappointed. In fact, I saw the cake and immediately wondered how I could preserve it so it could live with me forever and ever and ever. (Again with the issues). But I put on my big girl boots and eventually cut into it (maybe I shed a tear or three hundred when I did so. I’ll never tell).

See?

(note the Diet Coke can. Classy AND addicted)

(That CAN’T be a hookah! How could she incorporate DRUGS into her son’s birthday party?!?)

(Fuck YEAH, that’s a hookah!)

————–

Maybe you can see why my angel babies were attracted to my house for the party. They smelled the sugar.

Dear Alexander Joseph,

Exactly one year ago today at 5:18 PM (quite a civilized hour, which I thank you for), you rocketed out of my body and into the world, screaming and peeing, all 7 pounds 10 ounces of you. Like a small dog, you never realized HOW small you were. I’m sure in your mind, you thought that you were much, much bigger and more mighty than you were (that temper is directly related to my genetics. I’m sorry to see that you inherited that trait).

The first time I looked at you (after a record 2 pushes–let’s not say what THAT says about the size of my girl parts), I thought that you resembled either Alien or Predator (I’ll watch those movies with you when you’re a bit older). My own mother looked at me when I was born and said OUT LOUD “That’s a face only a mother could love,” so I guess corny sentiments don’t really run in the family. And as for your brother’s birth, well, I was just pleased that I hadn’t birthed a litter of puppies (he was my first baby, and I had had MANY weird dreams), and then shocked by his toupee.

(Yes, sweetheart, those ARE your fists of fury)

Despite your ugliness (which I seem to be the only one who remembers–your father thought you were gorgeous. He’s a good man, your father, and you’re lucky to have him), I loved you immediately. I didn’t much care if you were “perfect” in the 10 fingers/10 toes manner (I didn’t honestly care if you had only 3 fingers. Who needs 10, anyway? It’s overkill), because seriously, all that mattered to me is that you were alive and breathing. You did end up a bit jaundiced, and I likened you to a Nuprin–Little, Yellow, Different.

(Oh, the screams! Your poor, poor brother.)

When we brought you home, your father (who had couvade syndrome, better known as a sympathetic pregnancy) nested like mad, so proud was he that his second son was finally outside of his (cranky) wife’s body. And your brother was so pleased to have a brother of his own (he had no idea what “having a brother” meant) that he STILL happily wears his multitude of Big Brother shirts with such intense pride.

(Ben has an amazing sense of humor)

I call the first couple of months of your life, dear sweet Baby J, your Asshole Months. You nursed and screamed and nursed and screamed so very much that we all had permanent ringing in our ears (tinnitus). In those rare moments that you were out of our sight, we all interacted with each other like patients at a nursing home. “Huh? WHAT’D YOU SAY?!?” was a staple of our conversations.

Whether your love was for the boobies or for my sparkling wit and fantastic personality, I don’t know. All that I do know is that you could not bear for us to be apart for even a moment. An hour was inconceivable, and you were so damn loud that I learned to pee with you sitting on my lap. Often nursing, which goes against my whole “don’t shit while you eat” motto, but hey, it beats the alternative, which was the loss of several more decibels of my hearing.

(You fucking wit me, you’re fucking wit a P-I-M-P)

Something snapped into place around month 6 or so, and you then became the most cheerful and sweet baby I’ve met. You’d smile at anything and everything, laugh loudly and often, and in those small actions (should *I* act like you did, people would think I was quite Simple.) you made the sleepless nights worth every second. Now, you play ball with such incredible dedication that it touches everyone who you throw your ball to (you’re obsessed, my sweet) and your new game of Peekaboo gives you such a charge whenever you play it. It appears that every time you indelicately whip the blanket off your head, your not quite developed vocabulary wants to remind the world that you are here, damnit, so listen up.

(Glorious, glorious smiles for glorious, glorious food)

On a more corny level (don’t fear, I won’t say this to your face because I’m uncomfortable with emotions), I think of you as my Redemption Child, and as the saying goes, if the shoe fits, over-analyze wear it. My relationship with your brother is more complicated, of course, as your brother tends to be a more complicated person than you are. Dr. Spock told me (well, not me PERSONALLY, of course. He was dead by this time.) that you love your children differently, and I think he’s right. I won’t bother with the gory details as to what makes you different than your brother, but as parents are wont to do, I spent a good deal of my life thinking that your brother’s eccentricities were my fault.

You proved to me that without a doubt, although you both are going to need scads of therapy to undo the damage I will no doubt inflict upon you, that I am a good mother. You love me purely and simply and without complication. You love me for being me, and I can’t help but think that you were the child I’d never dreamed I’d be lucky enough to have (this is not to diminish the love I have for your brother, which is mighty and fierce, but this is YOUR birthday, not his). I feel the same way about your father (although, of course, you will never picture us as anything other than Your Parents, until you are much, much older and you realize where babies REALLY come from. Answer: Hot Beef Injection), but again, it’s YOUR day, my JJ.

But it’s also a day that we’re honoring other children too. Children who are not going to be coming over and sharing cake with you in the most literal sense, because they do not live on Earth with us any longer, but I am quite certain that they will be here with us in our hearts. If I try even slightly, I can hear them at the party: laughing, smiling and eating loads of cake. I wish, just like you do (and of course, their wonderful families do), that they were here today and every day, but the world can be a damn unfair place sometimes, which you will learn all too soon. This is why we must be the voice for those who have none, we must do this.

So today, one year ago since you entered the world madder than a wet cat Alexander J, we raise our glasses to you, our sweet angel babies, who should be here today celebrating. Since you are not, we celebrate YOUR lives as well. Smootches and cake and love to Heaven, for you today. We know all too well that the world is missing something incredible.

We’re thinking of you today Caleb, Baby JP, Kalila, William, Isabel Grace, Miss Maddy, William Henry, Aodin, Callum, Connor and Sarah, as we’re thinking of all the other angel babies I haven’t listed. We love you very, very much.

My only hope is that I prove to you time and again that I am up to the task of raising you to the best of my abilities. I may not be the wisest (I do many, many dumb things which you will notice and point out to me sooner than I’d like) person on the planet, but I have learned certain things that I wish nothing more than to pass down to you.

First, be genuinely kind to everyone you meet. Someone said that God is found in our interactions with other people, and despite not being Christian per se, I agree with that. I’m not saying that you need to be a doormat to be a good person, no, not at all. Stand up for yourself and for people who may need you to do it for them (not everyone is as forceful as you happen to be–I like to think of this as my contribution to your genetic soup), because sometimes taking a stand against a Wrong is the first step to making it Right.

I guess what I’m saying is don’t be an asshole unless you need to be (and I assure you without the slightest doubt in my mind that you will need to at some point), and treat other people well. You may never know where someone else is coming from, but that doesn’t mean you can’t try to understand. Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes before you judge them. Alas, since you don’t walk yet, we might have to save that lesson for another year.

Secondly, and equally as important, be true to who you really are. It sounds so simple when I write it, but it’s far more complicated, because first you have to figure out who the hell you are. That takes much longer than you can imagine. I know some people are still not sure who they are (even at my advanced 27 years), but I have little doubt that you’ll be a follower. Listen to your heart (or your head, if you’re like me) and follow what IT tells you, and not what someone else tells you to follow (nobody likes a follower) no matter who it is, unless it happens to be your mother (me), and then you listen like it’s the Gospel Truth.

(don’t listen to me, ickle dude. Just don’t.)

And possibly the most important lesson of all is this: do not, under any circumstances, allow your mother to pick your Halloween costume. It’s a bad, bad idea. See?

(Payback’s a bitch, eh? MAYHAP YOU SHOULD’VE STARTED SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT SOONER.)

I won’t bore you with any other pointless crap that you will, no doubt, just like I did, have to learn on your own, so let me end this letter with this:

I am insanely proud that you were chosen to be my son. You light up my days (and thankfully, no longer my nights) with your sweet face and intense dedication, and I thank you for everything you’ve given me. Redemption is a little heavy to put on your wee shoulders right now, so let’s make no more mention of it, lest you get a big head or something.

I’m looking forward to watch you grow and change throughout to coming year, and can’t wait to see who you’ll become.

Love you madly,

Mommy

P.S. Make sure the next time you have to drop major pipe in your pants that you do it when Daddy is home to change you. I’ll give you a cookie if you make sure that your dump squishes up your back. He likes changing those diapers, let me tell you.

See how happy it makes Daddy when he has to change your diaper?

(Daddy says, “I love poopy diapers, dude!”)

P.P.S. I’ll give you TWO cookies if you do that. Maybe even THREE.

So, I have this intense guilt complex, right? Always have and probably always will (for someone who has not been raised Catholic, I certainly seemed to have mastered the guilt). All it takes is a cop to walk into a store that I’m shopping in for me to worry that he’s (or she) is going to arrest me. For what? I don’t know. Reckless use of the color pink?

Today, I took the kidlets to Portillo’s for lunch, and on the way out, I either bumped the curb or tapped the car next to me, and it’s killing me because I don’t know if I did damage. I didn’t realize that I may have given the car next to me a Love Tap until I got home and realized that I have a scuff on the bumper of my car THAT COULD HAVE BEEN THERE BEFORE.

I don’t give much of a shit about my car and I have always assumed that one of the parts of having a car means that you get the inevitable scratch in a parking lot, ding on the door, or Love Bump scuff. Not a big deal.

But now I’m freaking out. Freaking the fuck out. Because what if I left the scene of an accident and someone took my plates down and then the cops will show up and arrest me in front of my weeping children and then I will go to federal pound you in the ass prison.

Help! This is Aunt Becky tapping out an SOS.

What do I do?

Before I get into the meat of this post, I need to stop and thank everyone who has started doing kind things for one and other. The Daver has been strong-armed into doing it himself and leaving a comment (but I think he’s disqualified from winning anything but a swift kick in the ass from yours truly) OR posting on his own blog about it. You can do the same thing, comment OR write a blog post (and please link to this in your comment).

It’s easy, see!

So I’m encouraging each and every one of you to DO SOMETHING KIND in honor of all my nieces and nephews waiting to kick me in the shins in Heaven. Shit, if you ALL do something nice maybe I will send EACH of you a little something (somewhere, Dave is now wrestling my Amex from my wallet, but he doesn’t know that I HID IT! HAHAHA!). You have until March 31st to do it, and I *know* that some of you reading right now are coming to Alex’s party where I will annoy you to death about it.

———–

By nature, I am a lazy person. Not quite as lazy as some (i.e. Cash, who is fine and dandy, so don’t worry) but absolutely lazier than others. Nowhere else does this ring more true than in the kitchen.

I hate cooking almost as much as I hate colonoscopies (which you can imagine, is very, very much), and I avoid it at all costs. Every couple of months, The Daver and I discuss how we really need to start cooking more at home, and then we order a pizza. So it goes.

But, with the knowledge that Something has to be done to lower Dave’s insanely high cholesterol levels, I have begun (begrudgingly) to cook at home. In my very own kitchen.

As a child, my favorite thing that my mother would cook was ordering Chinese food, and it still rings true today. I’d much rather pay someone else to cook for me than cook for myself (even if it could save a few bucks here and there), partially because I gain no enjoyment whatsoever about cooking and partially because I can’t seem to bring myself to actually EAT anything I cook. Especially if it involves meat. Sicks me right the fuck out.

This may be a Very Good Thing, since my thyroid is still not 100% wonderful (I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE!) and I’m still struggling to lose 17 pounds of Alex weight. It won’t hurt me to skip a meal or 300.

Honestly, my biggest hurdle when it comes to cooking, is the members of my family. The Daver, who claims that he is “not picky” is awfully picky, but not nearly as picky as my Ben (who still suffers from many Spectrum-y phobias about food), and this is just plain old discouraging when I have one of them on my right gagging down his dinner, and one on my left sadly pushing green beans around his plate (EVEN THOUGH I PUT A BIT OF BUTTER ON THEM. BUTTER!). I’ll let you decide who does what.

Alex is the least picky and most apt to enjoy meals, but despite claiming that he was teething for the past, oh I don’t know, 9! months!, has yet to cut a single tooth. I suppose what I thought was “teething” was just him being an asshole. So it goes.

I’ll probably never derive my ego from cooking, and I’ll probably always do it begrudgingly, but the point is, that I will do it.

So what do YOU consider staples in your kitchen? What are some easy meals that I can cook? Oh, let me give you a list of things that cannot be used (maybe then you will have some sympathy. Or not):

*Pork

*Beans

*Red Meat (not often, at least)

*Anything “spicy” (this is a Ben thing, not my own. I fucking love spicy shit)

*Anything too mushy (eggs, etc)

*Anything too crunchy (Alex has no teeth)

*Anything that vegetables cannot be removed easily from (like, no onions in tacos, etc)

I could go on and on here, but it’s too depressing even for me.

Any suggestions?

I’m struggling with a classic case of Writer’s Block, here at Casa de la Sausage, so I’m going to play a game with you, Sweet -n- Sassy Internet. The game is called, “What’s The Weirdest Thing A Stranger Has Said To You?” and I’ll go first.

Before I got married (which seems like ages ago, but has only really been about 3 years) and The Daver was my boyfriend, I was in college in a town about 40 minutes drive from where I grew up (and where we currently live), but happened to fall right along the Metra line, which was my reason for choosing to attend this school.

Day after day, I commuted from here to there, riding gaily along the train (Train Time was the highlight of my day. It was the ONLY time that no one was demanding stuff from me. Faithful readers will know that my now 6 year old was then a 1 and 2 year old. A difficult one, at that). Some days, I would pop into the coffee shop at the station and grab a steaming cup of coffee to enjoy while I sat on the train.

One day, as I was exiting said coffee shop with my headphones on and music blaring, a typical commuter (many people who work in the city live out here, like The Daver) came up to me.

I knew it was a commuter and not a Crazy Person for two reasons: 1) The Crazies out here are more of the pill-popping housewife variety and were probably at home sleeping off last nights binge and not the Homeless Chic that one finds in Chicago 2) He was dressed head to toe in a obviously expensive tailored suit and was carrying a briefcase, AND looked like he was pretty damn certain that the world revolved around him (anyone who has commuted on the train and has seen Commuters knows the look I’m speaking of).

I myself was wearing my pink puffy coat, red snap up the side pants (awesome for random depantsing!), my blue Diesel shoes, and toting my purple backpack. I’m sure I was quite the gorgeous sight to behold, but remember, it was butt-assed early in the morning, I was a college kid who didn’t happen to live on a college campus and therefore couldn’t stumble out of bed and walk to class, I don’t have any subdued colored coats, and shit, I was fucking comfortable. I still own all of those pieces of clothing and will probably still wear them all together unapologetically.

So, rainbow that I am, I realize that this commuter is talking to me (a rarity, unless they are screaming at me to get out of their goddamned way), and I reluctantly pull the headphones from my head and say, “Excuse me?” to him.

“Did you know that your shoes don’t match your bag?” is what he has made me remove my headphones to answer, and what made me actually stop on the train platform to look at him incredulously.

I stared at him for a couple of seconds that felt much longer than that before answering, “Yeah, I know.”

Years later, I’m still fucking perplexed by him. I’m not angry, and he wasn’t being hostile about it at all (another huge shock for a commuter), he was just asking an honest question about my shoes and backpack.

Truth be told, I’m certain that my shoes will NEVER match my purse. And that, my dear friends, is okay.

Your turn! What’s the weirdest thing a stranger has said to you (and not just a homeless Crazy person)?

Several years ago, shortly after we moved into our house, in our effort to live the American Dream (whatever THAT is), we made the executive decision to procure ourselves a pooch to call our own.

Despite not being much of a Dog Person myself, I have always HAD a dog, so this made perfect sense to me.

We trundled off to the many animal shelters in the area to scour the potential adoptees (I’m very not okay with designer dogs FOR MYSELF. Not only are they pricey, but since they’re often overbred, they have numerous health problems. Case in point: my parents German Shepard who has hip problems, a short urethra–i.e. prone to many bladder infections, and a neurosis to rival my own. Plus, the shelters are BRIMMING with unwanted dogs who need homes.), where we saw some of the most depressing animals on the planet. Sometimes, I even cried when I saw them.

But one day while checking out the mutants erm DOGS, we saw one that looked like he would fit in well with our family: he was ASLEEP while the other dogs were jumping around their cages like banshees. We took him to a room to meet him and found that he fit right in: he was lazy, friendly, and slightly pudgy. He was also the world’s ugliest dog (No California for HIM, either, obviously), which endeared him to me immediately.

What sealed the deal is his sob story (I’m a complete sucker for Sad Animal stories. Someday I’ll tell you about the CATS we adopted): he lived in an apartment with an old woman, who died. And when she did, her family lovingly took this dog, this well trained dog to the vet to be put down because they didn’t want to deal with it. The vet met him and just couldn’t euthanize him, he was too much of a good dog. So he called the shelter, and off he went until we came to pick him up.

He’s been a member of my family ever since. I even named him myself, Cash (to prevent me from petitioning to name my then-unconceived child that name, which FOR SOME REASON Dave didn’t care for), is his name (which replaced his shelter name of Pebbles) and he’s a Corgi mix. He’s easily found in my home, asleep on the couch, being fed scraps by the baby from his highchair, and occasionally peeing on the carpet. He’s like my doggie clone.

What unfortunately happened yesterday I should have seen coming. I know better.

Ever since Alex has been crawling, Cash has been immediately wary of him (although he adores kids who WALK), because I’m fairly certain he feels as though Alex is invading his space (No, I’m not a pet psychologist, but I DO play one on a cable access channel!).

My cheerio-sized bladder was aching and I left Alex alone in the living room to TCB (take care of business, for those sadly not in the know) for just a moment, and in that moment, he crawled up to the couch that Cash was sleeping on and pulled himself up on it. I can’t be too sure of what happened next, although I could hear Cash’s warning bark coupled with Alex’s immediate hysterical scream. Whether he was screaming because he was scared or because the dog nipped him (which I doubt, as I couldn’t find any evidence of this), I can’t be sure of.

But what a piece of shit mother *I* am for leaving the dog alone with the baby (I’ve done it before with no problems whatsoever) even for a minute and a half (told you it was a weensy bladder).

For now, because I don’t know what else to do (he’s not a kennel dog), I have been locking him either in the living room or the basement while Alex is awake (although, miraculously Alex is not afraid of Cash now), but I’m unsure how to proceed: I don’t feel right giving Cash up–I DID sign stuff saying that I’d take care of him for the rest of the days, and I take that VERY seriously– but I have to protect Alex.

My fingies are crossed nearly to the breaking point that once Alex walks, Cash will no longer feel as threatened by him, and I’m thanking my lucky fucking stars that nothing worse happened when I stepped away.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck.

This morning, left to his own choices, Ben decided to put red and green highlights into his hair, a process that was only slightly less painful than getting a colonoscopy (why YES, I have had the pleasure, thankyouverymuch!). To his credit, however, he is a mere 6 years old with the correlating attention span of a housefly, and the whole process did take about 2 hours. I myself got antsy and bored after about 20 minutes, so I can’t say that I blame him in any way.

I’ll post pictures just as soon as I have a tutorial from The Daver (who is sadly back at work after a couple of blissful days off), but I am now perplexed. Am I officially the worst mother on the planet, destined to take my 10 year old to get his tongue pierced and sign for a tattoo (not of a pot leaf, however. Or flames. Even I have my boundries) at age 16?

I mean, since I’ve gotten my own hairs did, I’ve been barraged by strangers asking if Ben was my own child, which leads me to believe that a) I look far younger than my 27 years or b) I don’t appear fit enough (mentally) to have a child of my own. Sweet, I suppose, but also somewhat baffling.

Either way, babysitter or mother, what’s done is done (although it can be easily rectified by a pair of clippers) for now and he seems to dig it. But I’m not sure I could handle doing it again with him without trying to commit suicide by highlighting comb or some such implement OR some medicinal drugging (me, not him).

As I was shlepping around my upstairs bathroom this afternoon contorting my body into what can only be described as Indecent Poses, my hatred of the former occupants of my home crystallized into a white hot ball of hatred. Mainly because I am at the same time shocked AND disgusted that anyone would voluntarily put a wallpaper border on a wall, JUST FOR ME TO REMOVE (they only lived here for several years).

Now, the first time we bought a place, I had so much fun at the closing that it was almost like being in a bar, aside from the distinct lack of alcohol (remember Whitney?). When we bought our new house, mere months later, our closing could not have been any less similar if I tried. The couple that we were buying our current home from were some of the coldest people I’ve met, and the closing itself left me anxious and sweaty.

(as a complete aside, I will tell you about the strangest thing that has happened to me in this neighborhood. A bit before Christmas, while my father was still in the ICU, I popped out to my garage to sneak a smoke when I heard a car pull up into my driveway. I immediately put out said cigarette and went indoors to catch whomever was walking up to my house before they could ring the doorbell and wake Alex up. Literally, the LAST person on the planet I’d have expected to see on my doorstep stood there (I’d have been no more surprised had it been Britney Spears) and when I opened the main door, WALKED INTO MY HOUSE WITHOUT BEING INVITED IN.

Sure enough, the lady with bad taste who had owned my house before me, waltzed into MY house like she still owned it.

Then she opened her mouth and demanded that I give her the “money” that “a friend had sent to her old address”–MY address of the past 2 years, mind you– like I was holding onto it or something. I rarely, if ever, get anything for this family, and surely anything looking unlike junk mail has been marked “return to sender” for “no longer lives here.” I know that these people DO live in town, but have left no forwarding address, and besides, they were so cold that I’m not about to waste my time trying to send them mail that should have gone to their new address in the first place.

She seemed quite suspicious of both The Daver and I, like we were holding out on her or something when we both told her in no uncertain terms that we did NOT have any of her mail (if I had, it would have been long since recycled). I can’t be certain, but I don’t think that she believed either of us.

For serious.

I suggested that she check with the post office, something which had not occurred to her and she went on her merry nasty way.

I guess I’m shocked that a) someone wouldn’t believe me regarding something I was completely truthful about b) her friend was stupid enough to send money via USPS and c) someone who DOES NOT LIVE HERE walked into my home like she still owned it.

This last encounter with them solidified that although I heart my house, I dislike them entirely)

*ahem*

Moving on.

To celebrate that my birthday bathroom circa July 15, 2007 is nearing completion (only the medicine cabinet to go!), I have decided to undertake the renovation of Bathroom #2, The Old 70’s One.

Now, since we don’t really want to shell out cash to have someone else do the work (which includes a new bathtub/shower AND new tile flooring), we’re doing it on a slightly smaller scale, but enough to make my eyes not bleed when I wake up to the olive green walls WITH flowery border (sexxy, I know. Don’t you wish your bathroom was HOT like mine?).

If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to punch myself in the face over and over again for coming up with another REALLY BRIGHT idea RIGHT BEFORE I’M HAVING A PARTY.

What the hell was I thinking?

My nuclear family and I, unorthodox as we are, are really unorthodox when it comes to religion. We are not a religious family.

I was raised by hippie scientists, and The Daver, well, was not. His family was Very Religious, something that has always echoed in the chasm between our childhoods’ and relationships with the in-laws (his or mine, really).

Don’t get me wrong, I am by no means Anti-Religion in any way shape or form, well, unless it takes on the form of discrimination against my way of life. Then, you can kiss my pasty white ass. Don’t hate on me, and I won’t hate on you.

Sometimes it does bother me that I have to strike the ‘None’ box whenever I am questioned about my religious upbringing. As a (almost) fully functional adult (stop laughing. Fuckers), I feel like maybe I should have a clue what I am to do as far as saving my soul is concerned. Luckily, I am typically able to squash that confusion down and focus on life, liberty and the pursuit of cheese-flavored crackers.

Having kids has only amplified the feeling in me that I should do something or another, or do nothing and be at peace with it. And the fact that last weekend, my in-laws gifted my children with a Read And Learn Bible has sent me into a moral tizzy.

I mean, what do I do with it? I can’t suitably answer all of the questions that would likely spring up, and even if he has no questions whatsoever about it, Ben’s propensity toward Know-It-All-Ism would likely make most of the things that I do “wrong” according to his Bible thrown into my face at every.bloody.opportunity.

I think that I have reached a solution today, after mulling it over with my own family, who had many great suggestions (Ben emulated a preacher reading us his Bible this morning over brunch).

I am going to go shopping (thank you Internet, for Amazon.com) for a Kids Torah, a Koran for Children, and the Tibetan Book of the Dead (children’s version, preferably English. The only language that I know well is Latin, which will likely not help me much.). Then, at least, if the only child in my home who can read wants to read the Bible (which I have no problems with), he can read what other religions think about the world, too.

So I sit here and ask myself, What Would The Internet Do (I should get a W.W.I.D? bracelet to consult every time I’m faced with a burning question, right?) if they were in my shoes? Even if you don’t have kids (yet) or want kids (ever), how would you handle this? Or, if you have kids, how DO you handle it?

Inquiring minds want to know!

Having been on a diet more or less since Ben was about two (and I had to lose those pesky baby pounds, erm, TWO YEARS after he was born) has it’s perks. You get very accustomed to having to deny yourself those tasty and delicious morsels of goodness known as non-diet food. And if you’re me, you eventually just don’t care anymore about eating junk food and it becomes your way of life to eat more chicken and tofu than God.

The Daver, however, has never had to indulge in any sort of diet. He’s pin-thin and can tuck away a couple of Quarter Pounders (with Cheese!) with nary an ill effect (whereas I get fatter just typing these words).

Until now.

My poor sweet, junk food loving husband has got to go on a diet. A new, special low-cholesterol diet.

I’d been waiting for this day, you see, because as I dieted those pounds off, marveling at every (pathetic) loss like it was a shiny new $100 bill, he merrily ate his way through a bag of chips or thirteen. My chicken suddenly looked less appealing than his fatty cheeseburger and fries, and I’ll admit freely that I was a mite bit jealous. Who wouldn’t be?

I plotted and waited until the metabolism that he was given ran out and suddenly HE would pack on the pounds and look for new (and tasteless!) tofu recipes right along side his doting wife. I planned on rubbing it in at every possible turn (silently or likely not), relishing each and every low fat meal he ate as payback for his formerly glorious metabolism.

Until earlier this week, when he got that dreaded phone call from his doctors office, wherein he was instructed that his LDL (lousy density lipoprotiens) levels were insanely high. Suddenly, I wasn’t laughing anymore, and I was struck with an emotion that I almost never feel: pity.

I feel genuinely badly that he has to now embark on a sad new diet, and extremely sorry for myself that I will inevitably have to follow it as well (collective EW! from the Internets, please).

Anyone have any good advice for us? The Internet is smarter than I’ll ever be (sexier too!) and I could use a hand here.