You’d never know from the ridiculous amount that I blog that I never in my whole life kept even as much as a journal.

Wait, that’s not true. My hip and cool cousin gave me a blank diary when I was about 10 or 11 and I tried my best to keep a diary. It lasted about a day and a half before even at that tender age, I looked at it and realized it was complete crap and ripped out the pages I had written in. Since I don’t have it any longer, I’ll try to give you an example:

“Dearest Diary,

I went to school today and I swear that Mike looked at me. WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? Maybe he’s IN LOVE with me! OOOOOH!

Love ALWAYS,

Becky

P.S. What is the deal with clear mascara?”

It was, even at that age, in a word: lame.

I guess I fell into blogging pretty much the same way I’ve fallen into anything else in my life.

I never really had thought about kids and then BAM! I was a mother. I’d never expected or really wanted to get married and then POW! I met The Daver. I’d really never had any desire to be a nurse and then WHAM! I just renewed my license.

It’s just strange how these things fall into my lap.

All of the things I had real dreams of doing are things that I’m not doing. I’d wanted to go to medical school and carry on the family tradition of being a doctor, and that promptly fell by the wayside when Ben was born. Sure, I could go back, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.

I’d wanted to take my nursing degree and go work for Doctors Without Borders when I graduated, but when I looked into it I realized that I couldn’t make their 6 month commitment without missing out on a lot of Ben’s life.

I have no idea if this is the way that most people eke out their paths in life, because The Daver seems to be doing precisely what he always thought he would do, albeit with the wife and kids he wasn’t sure he would have (which is especially hilarious if you know him. When I met him he had Marriage Material and Great Father written on his forehead). Maybe other people make plans and are actually able to follow through with them, I’m just not sure.

I’m not actually sad that I haven’t gone where I always thought I’d be, I’m quite pleased with my new life (at least, most days). I guess I learned awhile ago that “to make God laugh, tell him your plans,” so I don’t really bother making unrealistic goals right now. I’m fairly certain that I’ll go back to school once we’re done with babies and ickle kids (I’ve done the full time school with a wee one and I won’t do it again), and I have a decent idea of what I’ll be studying when I do go back, but shit, I can’t be certain that any of it will gel into a reality.

Honestly, I’m fine with that. I’ve learned to finally stop fighting whatever forces that be and embracing whatever may come.

I’m just anxious to see where I end up.

What about you? Are you somewhere within what you thought you’d be doing or did your path veer sharply? Does it upset you either way?

This is a blog I snatched from my old blog, dated May 9, 2006.

Whether or not this is really from an article called the ‘œGood Wives Guide’ from the 50’s, I have no real idea. But I have edited it to better fit my own kicky 2000’s lifestyle. Which is better? YOU be the judge.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

*Wait, wait, wait. When the hell do you think I have the inclination to plan something out in advance? Don’t kid yourself, honey, this’ll never happen. Planning it out in advance is saying ‘œI want Chinese food tonight’ at 3pm.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

*Now I’m not trying to imply that I look like a million bucks when Dave walks in the door, but honestly the last thing on my mind at 7pm is ‘œdo I look okay?’ It’s much more like ‘œdid I accidently microwave the cat, AGAIN? Shit!”

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

*If I’ve had a bad day too, the last thing on my mind will be cheering The Daver up, because misery does indeed love company.

I’ll be much more concerned that I don’t go punching out walls or running over small children with my large truck with a horrifically cheerful look upon my face. Or beating up rednecks. I loves me some rednecks.

And I am always a little gay.

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

*No, no, no, no. NO WAY. 95% of the clutter in this house is a direct result of Hurricaine Dave coming through throwing his crap around. And what the fcuk is a dust cloth?

During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

*Are you SERIOUS? I don’t know how to work the fireplace, and I don’t intend to learn. If he wants to ‘œrelax’ by the fire, he can light it himself. I don’t know when catering to anyone’s comfort has provided me with any type of satisfaction. Unless it involved Prada purses. Then I could cater a lot.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him.

*If there is noise in the home, it means I am home. I am noisy. I am loud. I speak at extremely high volumes 99.9% of the time. And really, if I am actually doing these household chores, he should be damn pleased that I’m doing them at all.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

*Although I recognize that showing a happy face is important to a marriage, my desire to please him?

Bwhahahahahahahaha!

*wipes tears from eyes*

Hahahahahahahaha!

I think you had better please ME, sweet cheeks!

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

*If I waited until Dave stopped talking to tell him such things as ‘œthe sump pump backed up and the basement is flooded’ or ‘œI want to have a threesome with a midget’ I’d never be heard.

Dave and I talk over each other with such comfortable regularity that we have actually made a sign that says ‘œFloor’ to use when we have Important Discussions.

And wait, how the hell is ‘œthe cpm processor of horhelfsag to the ajfoijhriwndas is jdsa;hfrioenrhiubnf’ more important than ‘œOur bedroom smells like cheese’ or ‘œcherry flavored pez is a wonderfood?’ Because it’s totally not.

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

*Then who else can I greet this way?

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

*Yeah. RIGHT.

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

*Um, yeah, Michael, how’s it going? Now about that TPS Report…?

Unless his arm is falling off, he had better pitch in with the kid, the dog, dinner, whatever. With a big smile on his face.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

*Have you HEARD my voice? It’s like a sack of cats fighting over a mouse on a chalkboard. And I yell. Most of the time. And where would I take his shoes? On a date?

Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

*MASTER OF THE GODDAMN HOUSE?

Bwahahahahaha!

That’s right, The Daver is Master of the…Bwahahahaha! I can’t even type it.

I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to say when he says, ‘œI think we should buy a truckload of Twinkies and the biggest Fry Daddy we can find! Fuck our retirement!!’ Color me boring but I don’t think ‘œWhatever you say, dear’ would work well.

A good wife always knows her place.

*Yeah, bitch, “my place” is anywhere I fucking want it to be.

As a line firmly drawn in the sand, I don’t buy parenting books. Sure, I own about a bazillion books on how to get your baby to fucking go to sleep already, but you know what? I bought them all and didn’t even read them. You know why? Books (especially like those) are written by people who don’t necessarily have much save for some anecdotal experience to back them up (you don’t need to correct me if I’m wrong: I still won’t read ’em).

I don’t deny that they don’t work, shit I really don’t know if they do or not, but those books aren’t written by someone who knows my own child, and I don’t really need to hear what they think I’m doing wrong. Seriously, that’s the issue I have with most parental books, they’re always telling me what I am doing that’s going to fuck up my kid. And you know what? I already know what I’m doing wrong: trust me.

The only parenting books I’ll ever actually read (buying them sometimes makes me feel better, weirdly enough, even if I don’t so much as crack them open) are the funny ones. The Girlfriends Guide To Pregnancy helped me through not one but two very long pregnancies, and if I ever have another, I’d read that again.

I guess I was lucky when I realized that my hilarious friend Stefanie Wilder-Taylor wrote another book to help me laugh through the toddler years: Naptime Is The New Happy Hour.

Toddlers are weird creatures, not as annoying as babies or as know-it-all as certain six-and-a-half year olds that may live under my roof, but they’re strange and unpredictable. They know what they want (in theory anyway) but can’t quite tell you what that is and when you don’t know that ‘throwing my juice cup on the floor really means that I wanna go to the park, you freaking idiot,’ they tantrum.

While not the easiest age for parents to handle, so long as you keep your sense of humor about it, it can be pretty entertaining.

This is what Stef reminds you over and over. Honestly, it’s the best advice you can hear when you’re sitting and watching the clock tick and wishing it would hurry up and be naptime again so you can relax.

My favorite chapter is called “Oh The Places You’ll Go (Or Won’t)” because she finally put into words something I’ve always sort of thought: don’t bother with the fancy-schmacy museums and other educational activities unless it means something to you. It’s just not worth it to shell out the cash for something they’ll never remember. Target is doesn’t charge an entry fee and just as enjoyable.

I’ve gotten suckered into that whole “I need to do something EDUCASHIONAL with my kids or I’m a BAD MOTHER” trap before, and it was nice to have the validation from an outside source (my friend Stef) that I’m not the only one that thinks that a trip to the Planetarium for a one year old is just a bit overkill, unless it’s really for you.

(My six year old doesn’t even remember his birthday party that we shelled out major bucks to have at the local kids museum last August. If a six year old won’t remember this stuff, how can a one or two year old? Simple answer: they won’t).

In her book, Stef also addresses the issues of competitive parenting, which we all know is both very real and very irritating.

Talking to ‘one of those’ mothers/fathers is like talking to a real! live! parenting! book! with phrases such as “well MY daughter” snotty inhale “was not only SPEAKING by age one, she was DRIVING the car for us while doing ADVANCED CALCULUS.”

While this mother spoke, my own one year old was alternating between grabbing his crotch and laughing whenever he’d get a fistful of his twig and dingleberries and then examining a booger he’d pulled from his nose.

Maybe I’m exaggerating a wee bit, maybe I’m spot on, but Stef says it all way better than I do. And I think that SHE’S spot on. She might even be my hero.

One of the best parts of this book, Naptime Is The New Happy Hour is this: you can read it over and over again and laugh just as hard as Stef navigates the sometimes turbulent seas of toddlerdom; it’s well written, witty, and sometimes makes you go, “ME TOO!”. Maybe raising a toddler isn’t always fun, but Stef reminds you that no matter how few other mothers you know that are like her (and me), you’re not really alone in any of this.

I guess my point is this: if you like Aunt Becky and when she talks ever-so-lovingly about her children, you’ll REALLY like Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. I’m the Coke Light (Stef Light?) to her Real Thing.

Check out her blog, check out her book: Naptime Is The New Happy Hour, and check out her kids. They’re adorable.

In theory, I like the idea of Mother’s Day.

It’s the one day out of the year that I get to openly celebrate having my two kids with both of them, I get to be as bitchy as I want and do whatever the fuck I please whenever the hell I please it. Go tanning without a gummy toddler pulling up on the tanning bed? Check. Pedicure without trying to corral a six year old? Fan-fucking-tastic. I can sleep in, I can make my family wait on me hand and foot, and it’s theoretically flipping awesome.

In practice, however, I fucking hate it. I hate it with the fire of a thousand suns, I hate it passionately, and I hate Hallmark for making it such a big damn deal.

I’ve been a mother now for seven years, and each year I grow more sullen and resentful of having to celebrate it. The closer it gets, the more I openly dread it.

No matter that I’m the only one in the family with young children, the only one who still gets up overnight, and the only one who makes sure everything runs as smoothly as possible for my kids.

It’s never about me. It just isn’t.

Mother’s Day is never a celebration of any of the things that I do (or in some cases don’t do), it’s about pleasing the two other mothers in my life: neither of which a) cares for me much or b) acknowledges me in any way shape or form (even if I have recently popped a child from my cooter).

To keep the peace, I have to make damn certain that my husband I go and pick a card for his mother and some small token to say thank you to her (never mind that our tastes are completely dissimilar). Then I have to swallow my incredibly complicated feelings for my own mother and make sure to pick her out something special.

I know this makes me sound incredibly selfish and spoiled, like I don’t want to share the day with either of them or something, but I assure you that’s not it. I adore thinking of other people, buying them something thoughtful, and watching them enjoy it. Seriously, that’s my favorite part of Christmas.

It’s just that whatever I do is not acknowledged unless I don’t do it. The year that I forgot to remind Dave pick up a card for his mother myself and send it myself (which I always do), he got an angry phone call.

The year that I didn’t realize that Mother’s Day was a big ass deal for my own mother (it had never, ever been before), I got the world’s meanest letter written to me and placed on my pillow. The words “fuck” and “you” were prominent features there (yes, this was written by my mother, and I was 19), as were just about any insult you could imagine.

And if I do make sure to do the thoughtful things for these women (neither of whom are maternal to me in any way), I don’t even get a ‘thank you,’ or a “Happy Mother’s Day to you, too, Becky.” It’s expected that I spend the day with one or both of them (if not THAT day, at least 2 separate weekends) and not celebrate it for myself.

The fact that no one in my family (either side) ever even says ‘thank you’ for anything that I do hurts me, but for some reason, maybe I’m being a silly bitch, the fact that I go out of my way for two people who don’t even really like me (I’m actually being less melodramatic than it seems. Seriously) on a day that is technically “my day” too really hurts me even more.

It hurts me much more than I’d let on, so much so that Dave has officially called Mother’s Day off for the year. He’s so tired of watching me cry over it (it’s been 5 years of weeping. Not continuously, of course. That would be creepy) that he’s doing the only thing he can do (my family is not the sort to address these things). We’re going to do something to celebrate with just the four of us and that’s all.

He’s just done watching me get hurt by our families, and because we just don’t address stuff like that out in the open like normal people (I did tell you it was a note that my mother left me, right?), and we probably never will, and he’s just putting an end to it. I don’t need to “remember” these two women who refuse to “remember” me any more.

Maybe this makes me a selfish bitch, maybe it just marks the dawn of a new era of not taking bullshit from my family, maybe it’s just a false threat; I don’t know. All I do know is this: I am finally more at peace with the whole holiday than I’ve been the whole time I’ve been a mother.

Am I asking too much?

So, I am now munching on my foot (tastes great with ketchup!) as I realize just how bad PMS must be for some people, and I am staunchly apologizing for not being more sympathetic (don’t expect monthly roses, though).

Normally when I get my period I barely notice it until it’s soiled some pants, but shit, now that I had a chemical pregnancy that has left me more clinically insane than Courtney Love on a drug binge, I have a ton more respect for hormones.

(as an aside, every time I hear the word “hormones” I think of that scene in My Big Fat Greek Wedding where what’s-her-faces aunt is talking to her future in-laws and says “bibosy”–biopsy–and “hor-mone- eees” for hormones. Cracks me up)

I’m up and down and sad and anxious and generally probably pretty annoying to put up with (I can hear Dave counting down the minutes until he has to go back to work as I type this), so I’ll be back when I feel more righted and less manic-depressive.

*Shit*

*In something completely unrelated, I’m going to update all of my sweet readers who were so kind and supportive during my whiny post about pregnancy tests. I went to the doctor yesterday and got some labs drawn, and it was confirmed: I had an early miscarriage. I’m really okay with it, just, as I was before, a touch blue. Thank you for everyone who commented and expressed your sympathy, although it was completely unnecessary, it was nice to hear. I love you guys (man, I’m gushy today. EW.)*

For the first time in almost two years, I am finally at peace with my decision to stay home and not go out and work. When I first stayed home, it was not so much by choice as by necessity. I was so sick with Alex, barfing my brains out all night long that I couldn’t drive to work without the very real possibility that I would hork in the car (out the window works best, I’ll tell you now) at 45 mph.

After a ridiculously long LOA punctuated by calls from my nasty HR department, I threw in the towel and quit. While it SOUNDS happy on paper here, I’ll tell you that it was very, very stressful for me. We hadn’t budgeted for me leaving work until closer to Alex’s birth, so money was quite an issue.

But now, now things are looking up. I no longer regard the term “housewife” as a dirty word, I’m generally happy and fulfilled most of the time with what I do, and I’ve come to grips with the fact that although *I* may never have a career in my degreed field, that is A-Okay, and doesn’t brand me a Loser (more than I am by nature, of course).

I have a couple of projects in the works for around the house and a super-secret one up my sleeve for myself (and no, it does not involve the phrase Baby #3), and I feel good.

Good enough to start looking for something else to do. Some volunteer work, I’m thinking. We fostered homeless cats for a local organization until Alex was a couple months old, and I suppose that we could go back to doing that, but I’m thinking of something more outside the house as well.

I’ve been searching through volunteer websites for the area, and nothing is really jumping out at me yet, which is where YOU come in, My Sweet Internet. What’s a good very part-time volunteer job that I can do (here’s the annoying stipulation) WITH Alex in tow. I’d like to leave him at home, but you know, he’s still not able to get himself something to eat, and that’s probably considered “child abuse” if I do it.

Any ideas?

(and no, I’m not inspired JUST BECAUSE I WEPT THROUGH ALL OF “IDOL GIVES BACK.” SHUT UP. I AM NOT THAT PATHETIC.)

“Your previous posts were real rubbish, but this is good. This one is brilliant. Your blog is getting really better.”

Gee, THANKS!

I promise I will be back in a couple of hours with a better post (see, lookit the time stamp, IT’S TOO EARLY FOR ME TO POST.), or at least less garbage-like.

Spammers are freaking hilarious.

Me: You know, someday when I die, if I get reincarnated or whatever…

Daver: Yeah?

Me: I want to come back as The Village Idiot.

Daver: It’s good to have such high goals, Becky.

On Sunday, as The Daver and I were strolling happily through Mecca (read: Target) I realized that I couldn’t remember when I had my period last, and decided that I should probably know one way or another what was up (down?) with my uterus. I picked up a pack of generic pregnancy tests and went on my merry way.

Because of my exhaustively documented squirrel-sized bladder, I had to whiz when we got home and figured now was the time to break out the ole pee sticks.

I feel I must clarify several things here before I continue.

First, I have to be pretty religious about making certain that I am or am not with fetus, honestly for medical reasons (I’d explain but you’d probably try to impale yourself with your monitor or keyboard because it’s so mind-numbingly dull. Just know that I need to know the status of my uterus). If I didn’t have to, I’d just as soon not find out right away, because then The Worry will begin and I will become unhappy, obsessive, and probably start to smell bad.

Secondly, just for the people who would click away furiously at the audacity of my fertility, I am not pregnant. It’s a spoiler, for sure, but I think it’s necessary to tell you this ahead of time. Maybe it’s not as dramatic this way, but hey, we do what we can.

Anyway, moving back to the story, now that I’ve filled you in on those delicious details, so here I am, whizzing on a peestick shamefully (I am totally ashamed of taking pregnancy tests. Isn’t that the most juvenile thing you’ve ever heard? YES, I AM 27 YEARS OLD, I HAVE TWO KIDS AND I AM SHAMED BY PREGNANCY TESTS. Pathetic.) and expecting one lone line to show up. And sure enough, that line does show up, and is followed by a second line several minutes later.

I am so shocked that I say nothing to anyone, finishing my planting and puttering uselessly about while I wonder what the hell that means. Eventually, my curiosity gets the better of me, as I happen to have the patience of a toddler and I trundle shamefully back to the bathroom where I comense to piss on yet another stick (grumbling about both the cost and the quality, I must add, because I am one crotchety bitch), where I expect, well, I don’t know.

Eventually those two lines show up again, and I realize that I probably should tell my husband that punching himself in the balls does not an at-home vasectomy equal. Not being the most sentimental bitch on the block, I don’t know what else to do but to place my piss-covered stick, complete with two lines in front of him on the table. He looks at it and then back at me, clearly confused as to what I have put in front of him.

Not knowing what else to say, I tell him “congrats” and tell him that it looks like we might be having another child. We both spend the rest of Sunday night in a daze, a happy daze but a daze nonetheless.

Figuring that I might as well deplete my three pack the following morning before I call all of my doctor’s offices, I pull out my last stick Monday morning and stick it in my pee. And sure enough, that control line pops up. And absolutely nothing else. Ever.

So I think to myself, well, a digital test, you know, the kind you were too damn cheap to shell out for would probably give you a better answer, figuring one out of three tests could be wrong.

Statistically, it was still more likely that I was pregnant, especially considering after years of peeing on sticks shamefully I have never seen a second line (i.e. positive test) unless I was, in fact, with child. And again, it’s fairly important that I know one way or another.

I packed Alex up and headed to Walgreens, where I picked up a digital test and immediately head home to whiz on it. I pretty much hate those digital tests because it always seems so damn smug when “Not Pregnant” pops up (just so you know, every time I put my weight in the box at weight watchers online and it chides me for not losing or having lost too much, I always get the sense that it’s talking smack to me. I am quite certifiable, eh?), and sure enough the blinky “Not Pregnant” pops up and then I do know for sure that I am not, in fact, pregnant.

The period this morning solidified it for me.

I mean it’s not like we’ve been humping for a purpose, honestly I can’t take the stress of that (not the orgasms, the “am I pregnant or is that just gas” obsessing that I do when trying to get pregnant), and we both agreed that we’ll take our chances for a third, should that ever happen (before you rue my fertility, let me tell you that it’s been over a year now and still nothing. Strangely I am okay with that). So we’re not trying and we’re not NOT trying either.

But The Daver and are both feeling well, just a touch blue about it. I mean, if I was pregnant for a nanosecond and miscarried it super early, it’s not like I’m going to grieve over it. If it was anything it was a bunch of cells multiplying badly, and shit, seriously, it’s better that it happened now rather than later. Later I’d be upset, now I’m just a might bit blue.

Who knows, it could have been a bad batch of tests. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell happened, and I probably never will. I’d venture a guess that it was probably a really early miscarriage, but I don’t know. I mean, whatever, right? I’ll call one of my many doctors tomorrow, get a shot in the old butt and move the hell on with my life. All that I can do at this point.

All that I know for sure right is that the grey, rainy day today was the perfect fit for my cranky-assed mood.

After a painful week of weaning Alex off of the juice (no, silly, not THAT kind of juice), it appears that I am finally victorious, because now, his appetite has returned with ridiculous force. The kid has always eaten like a champ without really being one of those hugely fat children often featured on Maury, having received the genetic gift of an awesome metabolism from his father, and food in my house is becoming more of an issue.

Primarily because the kid appears to be giving us a glimpse of life with a teenager. I literally cannot keep up with his eating schedule, and what’s worse is that many of the fuller foods I’d normally try and feed him are completely inedible for someone without teeth.

I’ve been wracking my brain trying to come up with some foods that he is able to eat that will keep him full for more than an hour at a time. You read that right: he’s eating the equivalent of what I eat for a meal every single hour that he’s awake (and I am thankful that it’s not overnight as well, because one of the last things I want to do at 3 AM is to feed my child a bowl of cheerios and milk.). I mean, I guess I could start covering everything he eats with a generous layer of butter and/or Crisco, but somehow with his genetic propensity toward heart disease in general, that seems like a poor decision.

Whole milk would be the obvious choice, but he won’t drink a drop of the stuff without chocolate syrup, and forget the breastmilk, he’s TOTALLY over it. Short of giving him his very own G-tube, I’m pretty much tapped out of high fat/high calorie foods that he’ll eat. Mainly because he’s EATEN IT ALL ALREADY.

While I am pleased that this is a food issue of a completely different color, and he’s eating more than a couple of dust bunnies and toenail clippings each day, I’m just trying to figure out how on Earth to leave the house without causing a fit when his blood sugar drops. Every hour. On the hour.

I guess it’s just time to pray to the God of Teeth that he suddenly pops a few out. I mean, shit, he’s old enough for ’em.