Somewhere along the lines, someone far smarter than I once told me that children will make liars out of you. No sooner have you said breezily “Oh, Alex now says ‘Light'” when he will suddenly decide that being mute is far better than actually expending energy TALKING.

One of the biggest battles I’ve had in my parenting experiences thus far (to be replaced, I’m certain, with arguments over who did not fill up the gas tank AGAIN–likely answer: me. I hate getting gas) has been that of Food. Fought, primarily, with my eldest.

Ben was born with a number of intense sensory issues, most of which I will not bother regaling you with, lest your head explode, but food was numero uno on his own personal Shit List. As such, as a toddler he ate such a lack of variety that I frequently wondered if I’d birthed an android or robot.

During that point in our lives, we lived with my parents, who assumed much of the childcare responsibilities while I completed my nursing degree. My mother’s solution to Ben’s refusal to eat was to pump him full of Juice.

So, we had a vicious cycle: he wouldn’t eat because he disliked food, but he was so full of carby goodness that he wasn’t hungry so he wouldn’t eat.

It displeased me.

And displeased my mother even more intensely when I informed her that Ben did not require 14 gallons of Juice each day to live.

To her, this was akin to child abuse! How could I deny my son Juice? Juice is healthy AND delicious (I personally, hate juice) and it was calories! And he liked it! I was a Bad Mother for trying to deny him the sweet nectar of the Gods!

I nixed Juice for the next couple of years completely, and have only recently begun to allow the succulent flavor to cross his delicate palate again because he will eat! real! food! now!

Likewise, pop (or soda, whatever you prefer to call it) is staunchly guarded in our home, only to make an appearance on special occasions or when we go out to eat. Unless my kids are sick, in which I assume that any fluids (save from blood or pee) are better than none, and I allow them to drink the carbonated goodness whenever they want.

During this last bout of misery (of which Alex is still suffering), I introduced my youngest to a little drink we call Sprite here in Chicago, and I’ve never seen someone more willing to drink massive amounts of liquid in my life. And who can blame him? I’ve frequently hoped and prayed that someone come along and serve ME a bottle filled with The Uncola, but alas, my dreams have not come to fruitation just yet.

Except that this Plague has gone on for longer than even I expected (having been sick myself for nearly a week) and Alex has become hopelessly infatuated with his new favorite drink. So great is his love for it, that if I dare try to substitute it for mere water, he throws a massive fit (to his credit, he is still both sick AND insufferable), I mean it LOOKS like Sprite, but it doesn’t TASTE like Sprite! THE INJUSTICE!

So here I sit, knowing in my heart of hearts that it is only I who created this particular monster, eating my own words.

And they don’t even taste good.

My beloved friend Carlynn tagged me ages ago for a meme. She’s been noticeably MIA from her blog lately, which leads me to believe that she is fulfilling her dream of becoming the Yak Lady without me.

She’s one of my favorite bloggers, and I envision a life being The Friend Of The Yak Lady, and we will sit on a large front porch somewhere together, knitting and writing her memoirs as The Yak Lady. I heart her. AND I WOULD LIKE IT VERY, VERY MUCH IF SHE WOULD UPDATE SO THAT HER FRIEND AUNT BECKY DOESN’T WORRY.

*ahem*

The rules:
1) Link to the person who tagged you.
2) Post the rules.
3) Share six non-important things / habits / quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people.
5) Be sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting what you did.

Shit, it’s a good thing I have an amazing collection of interesting quirks (shut up, they’re interesting TO ME AND IT’S MY BLOG. *sticks tongue out and blows large raspberry*)

1. In our marriage, I am absolutely the picky one. Really, about most everything and anything that I can think of (purses, keychains, fucking scarves, food, oh food), save for one teeny thing: coffee.

I love coffee so much that I would probably marry it and make bean-ish babies if I could, so great is my adoration of it. As previously stated somewhere in the archives, My Great Plan After Birth was to stop at Dunkin’ Donuts and grab an extra large coffee. And another. And possibly a third. Then I would wash it all down with another.

(I wasn’t concerned about caffeine intake during gestation, but more about regurgitating the contents of my stomach in completely inappropriate places.)

As much as I love, love, love coffee, I’m pretty satisfied with any and all forms of it. I’m not even slightly picky about brands. I’d probably happily drink instant stuff without batting an eyelash or three at it.

But not The Daver, who, in the time that I have known him, has gotten a total of 3 coffee makers, each more ridiculous than the last, AND some fancy bean grinder.

Problem with all of this stuff is, I cannot figure out HOW to use ANY of it. Which leaves me brewing it with toilet paper and a tea kettle on the days when he doesn’t make it.

2. I’m freakishly OCD about my blog. I must update every day (although rarely about what I ate for lunch unless it’s Cap’n Crunch, in which case I will talk about it because I am Captain AWESOME) or I feel like I’ve been walking around without pants on (which I do frequently indulge in).

I had a blog before, and when I didn’t update it, it didn’t bother me in the slightest. Now, however, it drives me a wee bit bonkers if I don’t at least say SOMETHING.

I’m similarly OCD about checking on the blogs I read religiously. I must check them all once a day and leave some sort of comment, even if it’s something cheesy and stupid. It’s my way of saying “Aunt Becky’s Been Here.”

Any and all blog recommendations are appreciated.

3. In a stunning array of bad luck for The Daver, I have recently realized that I am allergic to all low quality metals, and can only tolerate platinum/high grade gold on my skin. Thankfully, all of the jewelry that he has bought me (because he is a much better person than I) has been of either of those.

I grew out of wearing costume jewelry ages ago, so this wasn’t such a big blow to me, save for the fact that I cannot purchase or wear any funky jewelry.

So, sadly, no plastic hoops for me, no matter HOW funktified I might look in them.

4. In a stunning fit of excellent judgment on my part, I wrangled The Daver to take me to buy myself a new video game on Saturday, once I realized that he was not going to be available to me like I’d hoped (wink, wink).

Now, I’m not at ALL someone who plays video games (although I don’t mind watching someone else play them) save for Lego Starwars (lest you imagine me to be someone who wears heavy makeup and goes to GenCon and dresses up like Princess Leia on a regular basis–I am going to have to start putting pictures up for you all. Specifically YOU, Mrs. Prufrock, who thought of me as someone in heavy eyeliner and likely listened to EMO music. For shame on my part!), but I was just_so_bored.

And no one was updating their blogs.

So, I gave The Daver a raging boner when I asked him to take me to The Video Game Store that I normally avoid like a hippie avoids a shower, and promptly began to discuss the merits of possible games with the guy that worked behind the counter.

(as a complete aside, for anyone looking for a good old ego boost who doesn’t want to pay the $100–and a kidney– to go to Great America, walk into a Video Game Store and talk to the dude behind the counter. He will be so enthralled that a Real! Live! Girl! is talking to him that he will make you feel as gorgeous as Britney Spears before her meltdown. Those dudes are like putty in your hands.)

I picked out the one game that he specifically told me sucked, figured that was as glowing a recommendation as I could want, and bought it. I imagine AARP will be sending ME a mailing next, Magpie, as I’m sure my purchase triggered some sort of mailing.

It was Agatha Christie’s “And Then There Were None” for my Wii.

Soon, I’ll be telling those damn kids to get off my fucking lawn, until I realize that those are MY kids.

5. I have a massive obsession with spicy food.

Indian, Thai, Chinese, Mexican. Bring on the damn spice.

(I was getting rather long winded. Sorry).

6. I adore bourbon yet hate scotch. And I am the only one of my friends who can still drink tequila (but NEVER Tequila Rose. Ew.).

—————–

You deserve a cookie if you made it through that. Seriously, I applaud you.

Who to tag, who to tag? I’ve made my poor readers tell me a fact about them in times past, but I think people like to be tagged. So here I go. Tagging away.

I tag YOU:

KC @ Sarcasmatic

Heather @ Bubbles ‘n’ Ducks

Niobe @ dead baby jokes

B and K @ Baby Mommas Drama (dude, I had to. I have a category of the same name. Because we are BOTH Captain Awesome)

The Milk Maid @ Milk Induced Coma

Ames @ In Her Shoes, whose video made me cry AND give money. This may be a first.

Mrs. Prufrock @ Barren Albion

Cali @ Creating Motherhood

Shit, I’m cutting MYSELF off now. And if you don’t want to do this because you’ve done it already, trust me, you can do it again. I think I’ve done this like 4 times.

——————-

My dear friend Magpie (whose name gives me a thrill for some inexplicable reason) gave me an award that I get such a charge out of. I haven’t posted about it, because I cannot figure out how to make the graphic work. I’m not that SMRT, apparently, or my blog needs some configuration or something.

The award is called I-Less-Than-Three Your Blog. Get it? I <3? It’s a HEART, people! High-freaking-larious.

So, thank you Miss Magpie, for thinking of me.

And I’m thinking of YOU:

Carylnn @ Still Passing Open Windows

Charmed Girl @ Living A Charmed Life?

kalakly @ This Is Not What I Had Planned

The Divine Miss M @ Wheels On The Bus

Ames @ In Her Shoes

Angela @ Reality Testing

Mrs. Prufrock @ Barren Albion

I have to stop myself before I list my entire blogroll. See, Aunt Becky hearts you, bitches.

Yesterday, when I went in to the Beauty School to get my hairs did, I learned something that made my incredibly grubby heart smile: I could get Ben a haircut for $6. $6! A bargain!

Now, having birthed Ben, who was born wearing what I can only describe as a bad toupee, I am no stranger to having to get his hair cut. His first haircut SHOULD have occurred when about half of his newborn hair fell out (on the sides) while the stuff on top was left to be darker and longer than the rest of his head. He looked like a member of Flock of Seagulls.

But, because I was being incredibly sentimental, I refused to cut it (IT’S HIS BABY HAIR, AND I CAN’T CUT IT! IT’S SOOOO CUTE!), and now look back at the pictures and hang my head in shame. What was I thinking?

He began going to the salon with me to get his own hair cut a little after his first birthday because it was just that long and unruly. Had I left it to grow on it’s own, I would surely have picked him up from a weekend at his father’s house sporting a buzz cut, which would have only accentuated the largeness of his head. And TRUST ME when I tell you that he needs NOTHING to accentuate THAT feature.

After awhile, I noticed that he’d return from the salon looking just like I had cut it, only I was $20 poorer, so I took matters into my own (cheap) hands and cut it myself for a couple of years.

Since I have approximately NO eye for style and absolutely no experience in cutting hair, I eventually gave up and started paying someone again. But it STILL looks like I inexpertly cut it, and I hate paying through the teeth for something I can do myself, so I am determined to try out my far cheaper alternative.

————–

I have taken a lot of shit over the years from the male portion of my family (the adults, not the kids) over my practice of painting Ben’s toenails. As a toddler, he’d trundle over to me while I was doing my own nails and indicate that he wanted his done, too. Since he was non-verbal AND I don’t wish to inflict such rigid gender stereotypes on a baby (only GIRLS have their nails painted), I always gave in and painted his nails, too.

No harm, no foul, in my mind.

Well, the males in my family had PLENTY to say to me about that. And often did. Eventually, I made the switch from brightly colored polish to clear, but hey, if the kid wants his damn toenails done (and I’ll never have the daughter to do it with), so fucking be it.

And I can only imagine what they’re going to do when I show them what I have allowed my big son to do now.

I have generously offered to allow Ben to put a chunk of blue (or whatever color he’d like) dye into his hair, JUST LIKE MINE (well, mine is electric red, I’m not so much a blue person) when he gets his haircut. It’s his choice, and I don’t really care one way or another, but since he’d asked to do it when I’d first dyed my hair, I am going to allow it.

And I will most certainly take a hugemongeous amount of shit for it. There will be NO END of what I hear about it.

But hey, I told him that he couldn’t put PINK into it.

So, opinion time, Internet: did I do the right thing? Would you have done this, or am I the worst, most hideous mother on the planet setting my son up for ridicule and tomfoolery?

After spending 90% of last week sicker than I’ve been since I was pregnant with Alex, arguing with Ben over who deserved the coveted couch space more and who hogged the blanket with alarming frequency (answer: Ben), poor Alex has finally come down with his first real illness.

With a 1st grader in the house, this is no small feat that he’s remained healthy for so long. I, myself, have had a low-grade cold since this winter began approximately 4 years ago (give or take), and somehow have managed to avoid passing it onto him. Until now.

Thankfully for my guilt complex, however, Alex has finally reached an age where I don’t worry/feel as badly as I would if he were a wee bit younger. That doesn’t mean that I don’t feel sorry for him when he looks at me with those sad, red-rimmed and glassy eyes, but he’s been such an asshole that I’m less sympathetic.

While it’s sweet that he follows me around like a monkey, clinging to my legs and whining for me to do, well, SOMETHING, but he, like me, has no idea WHAT I should be doing to help him, so we both wind up whining loudly at each other for extended periods of time.

It’s no wonder that Ben was begging to go to school and The Daver is happily ensconced in a “project” at “work” which is likely code for “going to the bar to avoid us.”

I can’t really blame either of them. Collectively we’re annoying and we know it. AND YET WE’RE POWERLESS TO STOP OURSELVES.

So, I suppose I can only hope and pray that this virus runs it’s course, leaving my less demanding toddler in it’s wake. Because if he remains glued to my legs and shrieking wildly, I may have to start self-medicating or check myself into rehab just to get away from him.

Have you ever noticed that the things that you DON’T say are the things that are usually the most important? The hardest stuff to swallow?

For someone like me, who, according to my own father “talks paint off walls” NOT saying something means a lot. A whole lot.

On Friday I spoke with Steph’s mom, who had recently gotten the results of the autopsy, and I could barely bring myself to tell The Daver, let alone admit it to myself or The Internet.

Natural Causes.

She died of natural causes.

At age 26.

She died of NATURAL CAUSES.

Relating, of course, to chronic alcoholism.

————-

Grief isn’t a linear process, nor would I expect it to be. No, all of a sudden, it’s like a rain cloud comes quickly across the previously merrily shining sun, and then you’re sobbing as you pick your son up from school and have to explain that you’re crying because you miss your friend.

It sneaks up on you like a well-oiled fart and leaves you suffocating and panting for breath and wondering why the hell you’re not over this already.

The short answer is, of course, that you’ll never be “over” this. Not ever.

You’ll walk away from it a different person than you were before the phone rang on that Sunday morning, never to be the same.

Lunches will still have to be made, asses wiped, dog fed, Easter Eggs dyed festive colors, but nothing is the same anymore. It’s all a bit different, kind of like a carnival, where every now and again something (typically a mullet, sorry Meg) pops up and scares the hell out of you.

Eventually, you tell yourself, the hurt will fade with time and effort, but it will never go away, content to throb in the back of your psyche like a sinister toothache or minor burn.

But for now, it hurts like a bitch. It hurts like a fucking bitch.

————

I’m not egocentric to believe in my heart of hearts (burned and blackened as it may be) that I could have done anything in my power to save Steph.

But I keep going over and over the last time I saw her and wonder if I noticed anything to tell me that this would be THE last time I ever saw her.

I was out and about in my neighborhood, about 20 weeks pregnant with Alex, trying to focus on the song on my iPod and NOT kill my neighbors grass with vomit again, while telling my pelvis that it didn’t need to expand quite yet, when she pulled up in a car with her mom and her two kids.

At the moment, I was so focused on not puking on THIS block (it was my own mantra “if you can make it to the next block and not puke again, you can rest for a minute” and I liked it), I barely noticed the van pull up and someone pop out. When I realized that that Someone was talking to me, I immediately assumed that one of my neighbors had tracked down That Puking Girl to yell at for killing her flowers, but no, it was Steph.

We chatted for a moment, making plans to catch coffee, I complimented her children on being particularly gorgeous, and we parted ways.

I never saw her again.

Maybe I’m not egocentric enough to ever believe I myself could have changed the outcome for her, but I wish I’d said something better. More meaningful. I wish I’d told her that I loved her tremendously, that she was more than “just some friend from back in the day,” and that I thought of her quite often, really, I did. I attribute a lot of who I am from how she shaped me as a person.

Yes, she was well more than a friend.

And now I sit here, 10:30 on a Sunday night wracking my brains for any clue as to what I might have said, but, based on the fact that I don’t talk about my feelings unless I’m suffering a head wound or madly hopped up on pain killers, I’m sure it wasn’t much in the way of anything.

But oh, how I wish I’d said more. Anything. Just more than I’m certain I did.

I suppose that I’ll get my chance when I join her in the afterlife, and maybe then I can apologize to her for not telling her how much I missed and loved her like I should have. Because both are the truth.

I miss her more and more every day.

I’m sure I always will.

Well, my glorious Friday night full of swinging parties and red wine has come to an end. And you know what? It was FUCKING BORING AS FUCK.

Normally, if The Daver isn’t going to be home until after the kidlets go to bed, I’ll take them out and do something somewhat fun. Like go out to dinner or something. We’re VERY educational here, at Casa de la Sausage, let me tell you.

But since Alex was trying to audition to be a stove top or Ez Bake Oven, and Ben was still coughing like a 60 year old smoker, I decided that taking them out anywhere was probably a Very Bad Idea.

So we stayed in. And Ben VOLUNTARILY went to bed at 6:15, much to my “DUDE, YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE LEFT WHO CAN HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH ME THAT DOESN’T INVOLVE POINTING OUT EITHER LIGHTS OR BALLS” chagrin. And I was left trying to talk either to the cat or the dog, both of whom looked at me with what I can only describe as pure pity.

After Alex went to bed, I was stuck twiddling my thumbs looking for something, anything to do. FreeCell was boring, TV sucked, I had nothing new to read, no one in their right minds would be posting to their blogs on a Friday night (I imagined most of my fantabulous blog readers out at a hip club, drinking fantastic cocktails and dancing to dance remixes), and it dawned on me how fucking boring I really have become.

I felt sorry for myself until I watched an SVU I had actually not seen, which distracted me from how lame I am, and eventually trundled off to bed, alone, with only a heating pad for warmth (yes, I am that dumb to repeat the same mistake. And I managed to not burn the sheets this time, which is a step in the right direction).

And all I can say is, Daver, won’t you please come home now?

Now, my relationship with The Daver is not what one might even begin to call “romantic” in any terms. It never has been, and probably never will. We’re both ridiculously practical people, not prone to flights of fantasy OR ooey-gooey behavior. I’m fairly certain that if he were to bring home flowers (which I do love) I would become immediately suspicious that work had provided him with a free lobotomy.

I DID get Dave a flower for Valentines Day this year, well, it was technically AFTER Valentines Day and therefore cost $0.29 AND had the distinct advantage over all other flowers that it was both fake (it can last FOREVER, LIKE OUR LOVE!) AND played a tinny melody. Really, it was just a joke and took it as such.

Despite our lack of romantical abilities, we’re really are insanely fond of each other. I have no idea if this is a hallmark of a good marriage or not, but it is the way it is. Underneath (and often even during) the day to day crap, we really like each other.

The Daver has been working like mad on this work project-thingy that’s due to deploy this Saturday at 5am. And because it’s entirely likely that he’s lying to get away from the House Of Sickness And Doom that we currently live in, he “has” to “be in the office” on Saturday at 5am to TCB. (Say it with me now, Internet, “YEAH, RIGHT!)
This meant one of two things: either he gets up at the ass-crack of dawn and drives his sorry ass to the city OR he camps out in the city overnight. In a fever-induced haze, I suggested that having a City Sleep Over was probably the best option.

It’s just incredibly bad timing that this had to “coincide” with the worst bout of illness that I have had since I was a kid myself (seriously, I’m now positive that my intestines are really attempting to make a break for it now) that has now been passed onto my two darling children. I haven’t tried to test my theory, but I’m fairly certain that Alex could likely fry an egg on his stomach, so high is his fever. And Ben has actually missed school this week and laid about the house both quiet as a mouse and nearly catatonic (neither of which, I should have to inform you, are normal behavior for this child).

But despite our lack of co-dependence (likelihood is high that my blog would learn about Big News well before I bothered contacting my husband), it’s just an incredibly bizarre feeling to know that he will not be coming home tonight.

On the one hand, I am nearly giddy with glee that I can have the bed to myself (I can totally see why people have separate beds) ALL NIGHT LONG (all night looong!), but on the other, it’s a truly odd feeling to know that he won’t be home to hog the remote OR the couch.

I’m just jealous, I suppose that he gets to stay here WITHOUT ME. I kept telling him that they should put him up in a Super8 or Red Roof Inn, but NOOOO, it had to be here.

Jerk.

(To be fair, he did offer to have us come down and stay with him, but the last thing I want to do is to willingly travel with two large Hot Potatoes.)

So what should I do with my night sans husband? Want to come over and hang? I’ll make cookies (no, no I won’t. That’s a lie. But it sounded good, right?)!

Last night it was deemed to be Let’s Let Ben Make A Scummy Ring Around The Tub Night, and so The Daver threw the Big One into the bathtub (the Little One had just been bathed, Bon Jovi mullet and all). I sat downstairs on my (shrinking!) ass playing Free Cell obsessively while Alex thought of new and ingenious ways to make my life difficult. Well, that, or just obsessively go from room to room pointing out Balls! and Wind Chimes! and Kitty-Cats!

Eventually Alex made his way to the bottom of the stairs where he could see his father and brother shamelessly hanging out WITHOUT HIM, and his patented Rage ™ began. HE wanted to be with THEM upstairs! HOW DARE THEY HANG OUT WITHOUT HIM?

Sensing his mewling plight, I plucked him up from the bottom of the stairs and carried him up to see what was going on with the Elder Sausages.

I plopped him onto the 70’s tile floor and he looked as happy as a pig in shit. Ben was close, Dad was close and Mom was RIGHTTHERE next to him. Life was good.

Ben suggested that I give Alex some of his old bath toys to play with (although Ben is NOT too cool to play with Alex’s new walker-thingy he IS too cool for bath toys. Whatever.), so I craned my body over (our upstairs bathroom is not quite a model of elegance or size) to select one that was not too dingy looking for Alex to bang incessantly on the ground.

In this process, I edged myself over to the door, where Alex noticed his new favorite toy, a DOOR! and promptly began to shut it on me.

At 11 months old, Alex has now begun requesting politely insisting upon Dude Time. No Vagina’s Allowed.

Shit, I need a daughter.

Dear Ben,

I’m not sure when your wee body with gigantic melon (it’s like an orange on a toothpick) was taken over by aliens, but I am freely admitting that you’re scaring me these days. Deep down in there, you’re the same wonderful child I’ve always adored, but lately, I’m sad to admit that I’ve revisited my visions of selling you to the gypsies (EVEN AT A LOSS).

I suppose that I’m sick of being told to bow to the Alter of My Wrongness for most anything that comes out of my mouth, and I think this might just be a prequel for your teenage days when you realize just what an idiot I am, and feel the need to tell me all about it frequently. As in every 2-3 minutes. Approximately.

But by the time you’re a teenager, I assume you’ll huffily declare how WRONG I am AND THEN GO TO YOUR ROOM AND SHUT THE DOOR, and I’m somewhat looking forward to this. Because now, you just follow me around telling me just how much more you know than I do WITHOUT INTERRUPTION OR LEAVING THE ROOM.

You’re a neat kid, really, you are, and you constantly shock and amaze me. Were it not for the 4th degree tears your bowling ball shaped head caused me (you’re too young for me to ever tell you WHAT exactly that means) and the fact that when you met me for the first time you screamed bloody murder, I would continually question your maternity and wonder if maybe MY sweet and docile mild-mannered child had been left in the care of someone who’d birthed the daemon spawn that was you as a baby (and young child, if I must elaborate).

But oddly shaped heads seem to run in my family (although my own head is quite lovely shaped THANKYOUVERYMUCH), and every now and again (especially as you pull all of the green peppers out of a taco JUST LIKE I DO), it dawns on me that you really are my child.

But for all of the annoying shit you do (the list is far too long for me to assemble without having a nervous breakdown), occasionally the sun will peak through the storm clouds and who you are underneath your layers of know-it-all-ness shines through.

Your relationship with your brother is a prime example. I am the youngest in my family, and despite my repeated pleas for a BETTER brother or sister for me to boss around, my mother dryly informed me that when I was born “smoking a cigar and barking out orders” (her exact words), she went ahead and got spayed. I’m frankly amazed she didn’t remove her entire uterus JUST IN CASE.

My own brother hated me passionately until my husband was fooled into marrying me, and as this is the only basis for comparison of older-younger sibling relations go, I was suitably underwhelmed when I imagined your reaction to your live, in the flesh brother. Your Daver and I did everything we could think of to prepare you for your brother’s arrival: we dutifully took you to a sibling class at the hospital, we bought you your very own doll to practice on, we bought you a book about where babies actually come from, we baked you a “Ben’s Having A Brother Cake” when we found out Alex too had a penis.

Your grandfather swears, however, that the reason that you like your brother so incredibly much is because “Alex” “bought” you a lightsaber and “brought” it to the hospital to give you when you met him for the first time.

I’m so incredibly fortunate that you and he have been inseparable ever since. You wear your multitude of Big Brother T-Shirts with much pride, and you’re always tickled whenever Alex comes to visit you at school.

It’s honestly the relationship I’ve always wished I had with my own brother, and I am proud that you have chosen to love your brother rather than resent him (I cannot possible take an ounce of credit for this. It was and always will be your own choice). I have never heard you say a mean, sullen, or resentful thing about him in his whole life, which is pretty miraculous considering what an asshole he used to be.

Each and every part of how my adulthood has shaped up has been due primarily to you. While this sounds like I’m placing the burden squarely upon your wee shoulders, I assure you that it couldn’t be farther from the truth. When you were born, I could only focus upon what was in front of me in the moment, and I promise you that although you had to go about the business of learning about the world, I was doing it right along side you (to be fair, I did know how to both feed myself AND walk, which were things that you had to master, so mayhap I was ahead of the game, if only slightly).

Wherever we’ve gone, and whatever we’ve learned, we’ve done it together, kid. Well before there was The Daver or Alex along side us, there was you and me against the world. And despite all of your bullshit these days (you are by far, the most intense person I’ve had the pleasure to meet) that flows so freely from your somewhat toothless mouth, I’ll never forget it. And maybe someday, when you’re older, I’ll explain it all to you, because you don’t know a damn thing about the life we had (which may be a better thing than not).

I can only hope and pray WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING that the rest of Six is marked by more sun shining through the storm clouds, because it’s honestly driving me a bit batty (okay, BATTIER than normal. Fine).

Let’s just try to get through this with all of our limbs intact, mmkay?

Love,

Mommy

The Universe has a nasty sense of humor, doesn’t it?

I woke up to Aunt Becky’s version of the stomach flu (I’ll spare you the details), and have been writhing in agony every since. Because not only is my body evacuated of most of it’s contents, but my fucking skin hurts. My aches have aches.

I’d feel sorry for myself, but I’m too sick. When you’re too sick to feel sorry for yourself, you know you’re deep in the shit (literally, now).

———–

You guys are too sweet to The Daver and I. Pretty soon, he’s going to read the comments and get a big (er) head about himself.

I’m going to wrap you each up in a virtual hug (virus free, I hope) and tell you how much I heart each and every one of you (another good sign that I am really sick is how emotional I am right now. See, I can be nice sometimes!) and how much you made my day with your kind words.
(just try not to breathe in when I hug you. I smell like sick).

I hope to be Backstreet’s Back, All Right soon.

*smootches*