I might have made previous mention that I suck at being pregnant. I probably said it in passing, or made some joke about beached whales and trying to roll out of bed, or maybe I even named a blog category after this sad fact.

I suck at being pregnant so much that I cannot believe anyone who “glows” or whatever is doing anything other than trying to feed me a line of BS. Or to make me feel bad about myself for being such a whiny baby.

Pregnancy #1: Benjamin.

Was knocked up by complete accident at age 20, the same age when no one believes that you have enough of a brain stem to care for a child. The jury is still out on that one, but Ben is still alive and kicking.

This pregnancy was particularly sucky because of all the OTHER shit going on around me.

Take 1 asshole boyfriend who runs and hides his penis in other women when the going gets rough, add 1 mentally-ill mother who is convinced that you’re going to give the baby up for adoption that she asks your brother to take him if you freak out and you have a recipe for disaster. An appetite for destruction if I may (and I always may).

Physically, I was fine when I was pregnant aside from swelling up to the size and approximate shape of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (it was August, man). The only symptom that I had was that I was chronically exhausted, so exhausted that I would sleep 16-18 hours a day.

Escapism anyone?

Pregnancy #2: Alexander

After years of assuming uber-fertility, was astonished when I didn’t get easily knocked up. Apparently you’re more fertile when you’re young and stupid.

Upon being knocked up, became violently ill 24-7. Puked my brains out all day, every day and eventually had to quit my job, as I couldn’t drive 45 minutes in the car while puking. Ended up so depressed that my ever-widening ass made many dents in my couch. May have even worn some of the fabric off.

Was also incredibly paranoid of losing the baby. Worried like it was my job, made matters much worse.

Which brings us to…

Pregnancy #3: Link (aka Sausagebryo)

Pretty much remove the emotional issues, and you have my current pregnancy. I’m unbelievably exhausted, nauseous (but without the vomiting), and just sick. I have no energy for unloading the dishwasher, let alone trying to spend Quality Time with the kids (unless you count turning the TV to Noggin as QT, which of course, I do).

Between this and the spotting, my poor husband may not get laid again for many years.

I suppose that the upside of down here is that I’m finally feeling a bit more relaxed about the Link. I spot occasionally, but I’m fairly sure it’s related to the suppositories (oh, the joy of those bitches), so I’ve relaxed a bit. Between the intense sickness and the ever expanding poo-baby taking up residence in my gut (when someone tells you that they show earlier with subsequent babies, BELIEVE THEM. Especially when they haven’t shat in 3 days.), I’m more calm than I’ve been.

Until, of course, my US on Wednesday in which I will be reduced to a blubbering mess.

While I would have expected to find myself in a tin foil hat, hiding in the bathtub under the mattress I’d lugged in there after this second bout of spotting (third?), I’ve been pretty calm. THIS is my new normal, and until it’s been proved otherwise, I’m going to have to assume that all is as well as it can be.

As quickly as the dreaded spotting began, it stopped. And for once, well, EVER, the nurse at my doctor’s office made me feel better as she was as fairly unconcerned about the state of What Is Up Down There. I took this as a good sign.

All is well for now.

—————

I will now bring you another one from the vaults:

Fucking spotting again. May be losing my mind.

Sounds like my cervix was irritated by the dildo-like suppositories. Apparently this is normal.

My mind may very well be gone.

Like any good blogger, I occasionally check my referrals and see where people clicked over from. And usually there are very few surprises.

But over the past couple months I’ve noticed a particular site refers people here. It makes no sense.

Why would this site have a link here?

And why am I so strangely flattered?

You didn’t think I was REALLY going to stay gone, did you? That would be insane. This blog is the only thing (some days) that connects me with the world outside of my pill-popping (what? Prenatal vitamins are pills!) suburban existence. No matter what the stupid platitudes say, I firmly believe that laughter–and vodka–are the very best medicine.

That said, I will probably not be around as much as I’ve been before. With all of the fantastic blogs out there, I’ve been having a terrible time mixing reading blogs and living, well, life in general. But alas, you wanted the best, you sadly were booby prized your Aunt Becky. Life goes on, eh?

Back when I was in my early teens, in retelling it later, I sound like a complete bad ass. I wasn’t, not really, but it sounds that way.

Take, for example, the time I was arrested at age 14. SOUNDS bad ass until I tell you the story. Which, like it or not, I’m about to do.

So, my friend Jenny and I were wandering about the mall (where else did teenagers hang?) in a sea of hormonal, well, hormones, and she came up with this brilliant idea. It went a little like this:

Jen: Hey, Becky, we should steal something.

Becky: I don’t think so. I HAVE money to pay for it.

Jen: But it would be cool! Come on!

Becky: No thanks.

Jen: COME ON!

Becky: (sighs) Okay.

Did you see that? My IRON CLAD will in action? Even then I was aware of how stupid the whole situation was. Being born with a healthy fear of The Man, I was never one to try and disobey authority. Any bad-assery I engaged in happened AROUND blatantly breaking the law.

But, in an effort to give my future self stuff to blog about and make fun of, I acted precisely how those spineless chicks on the After School Special: I caved immediately.

And so we entered a store–The Limited–for the express purpose of shoplifting something. Even then I knew it was a Very Bad Idea.

I went up to the front of the store to steal some accessories (clothing seemed like a lot of work) with Jenny in tow. We were the only people in the store besides the employees. Without having an ounce of smooveness in me, I’m sure I had a blinking sign over my head that said “TEENAGER SHOPLIFTING!”

I guarantee you that I looked guilty before I put a hair pick in my pocket.

Without surprising a single person, the clerk caught me as I tried to walk out of the store. Bus-TED.

And since it was store policy to arrest shoplifters, I was also arrested. I was also a blubbery mess from the moment I was busted. It wasn’t even MY idea, and here I was taking the blame for it! I learned REALLY QUICKLY never to listen to anyone else when it came to my business.

Well, because I was 14 and unable to drive, my mother was in the mall with me, and despite being paged over and over, we hadn’t seen her. On our way to the police station, we ran into my mother who was obviously furious. She knew I had money and she couldn’t believe that I’d tried such an amateur move.

Neither could I.

I was tried and sentenced to 25 hours community service, which I served at a local Red Cross. I painted rooms and I cleaned toilets (it was then that I learned about the inability of men to actually make the pee hit the toilet) for 4 weekends in a row.

I wish I could sit here and like an episode of Full House, have a “tender moment” with which I can share my wisdom and all that I learned from this harrowing experience, but I’m not that kind of person. And this isn’t that kind of blog.

So for now, ladies and germs, I tell you only this: don’t get caught.

For absolutely no real reason, save for some spotting and some low progesterone, I’m full of The Fear. I have a follow up ultrasound (f/u u/s for those of us speaking medical-eze) on July 2nd to check for…I don’t know what.

And because I am pregnant and therefore certifiable, I’m terrified. I’m not accustomed to all this monitoring and the like, and it’s not helping my irrationality (actual thought: If they’re ordering another u/s, it’s because there is something terribly wrong and they need to confirm it. Reality check: u/s are cash cows, AND following up is standard medical practice).

I’m pretty sure that between the extra (crazy) hormones and the sad fact that after the past six months of hell I have no coping mechanisms left in me whatsoever. This is making day-to-day life fairly hard for me.

In that vein, I may be away from you, my sweet and lovely blog and Internet People for a spell. I fear that all I will do if given the opportunity is whine and complain and worry myself into a tizzy if left to my own pathetic devices.

Instead I will relax on the couch and stare at the wall. What? That doesn’t sound healthy to you?

If you need me, shoot me an email.

And who knows, I’ll probably be back sooner than you think.

Catch you on the flip side, bitches.

I’m pretty sure I misread Dr. Spock when he made some comment in his epic tome (the only baby book I read) about children being more alike than different. Because I think I need to swap “pregnancy” for “children” here.

This isn’t to say that either of my pregnancies were in any way alike, save for the fact that they both amounted in a massively 60-70 pound weight gain and that they both were boys.

But for years, despite the fact that my brother and I are only alike in that we both have black hair and dark coloring (lemmie give you an example: he got his BA in underwater pole vaulting–actual degree: poetry and photography–and I got my BSN. Now he’s an engineer and I write a blog. Who got the short end of the stick here!?!), I mistakenly took up the mantra that my children would be more alike than different.

I will take this opportunity to allow you to laugh mightily at my expense. Go ahead. It’s okay.

(jerks)

So, it’s come as a bit of a shock to learn that for children I have two completely different creatures. In my current possession I have:

1) A Cranky Fetus. Who may or may not hate me in a teenage angst way. I’d be willing to bet that it’s ALREADY listening to the Cure and wearing copious amounts of black eyeliner.

2) Ben: The Absent-Minded Professor (a.k.a Techno Distracto)

3) Alex: The Ass-Kicker (a.k.a. Techno DisTRUCTo).

Ben cannot remember something as simple as TURNING OFF THE WATER when he’s done at the sink and Alex beats down everything in his path. His habit of whipping things at my face has actually amounted to a fat lip (mine, not his) and Ben has driven me to the brink of insanity with his inability to remember oh, I don’t know…ANYTHING.

So comfort your Aunt Becky, Internet At Large (whose butt looks FANTASTIC in those pants. Have you lost weight?!). Are siblings more alike than different?

I woke up bright and bleary this morning (we shall not discuss the leaking, mmkay?) just in time to take Alex to the doctor. He has a rash. No, not a gross grody one, simple childhood excema.

This is not the interesting part of the story.

After we left, cortisone prescription in hand, I decided to reward myself for shoving stuff up my cooter with some Dunkin’ Donuts. Dunkin’ Donuts is possibly my favorite thing on the planet and for no apparent reason, we haven’t had it in ages. Probably because coffee makes me nauseous.

This is also not the interesting part of the story.

As I whipped my car around to the main street, where glorious Dunkin’ Donuts is located, I noticed that the KFC was out of business. This isn’t terribly surprising, as St. Charles isn’t known for loving fried chicken. Sadly.

Again, not very interesting.

When I pulled up to the stop sign, a two or three year old girl nearly darted in front of my car. I stopped, put the car in park and looked around for her parents. Not an intersection one would like a wee child roaming around in as it’s pretty fucking dangerous.

This is the interesting part of the story.

I saw another woman in a car trying to talk to this child, so I hopped out of my car to make sure that the child remained at least out of the road. Good, I thought, that lady must have that child. What was she THINKING letting a kiddo roam about here?

“Is this your child?” I bellowed to her.

“Nope.” She said as she joined me and Alex in the abandoned parking lot.

Years of little boys has made me perpetually nervous of little girls, but I looked at this one in her pretty Sunday dress and she melted my blackened heart a bit.

“Hola bebe,” I said to her, saying the first and last of my entire Spanish vocabulary that’s suitable for kids. I can say “You have small balls,” “More cheese, please,” and my favorite “Fuck your fucking mother, asshole” but save from screaming out colors at her (Rojo! VERDE!) my conversational Spanish is pathetic.

The lady and I looked at each other and looked around noticing a decided lack of concerned parents running out toward this child. I cannot stress enough how this is NOT the place a child should walk ALONE.

“We should call the police,” she suggested. I agreed, sadly. I’d wanted to just return this obviously well-loved child to her home and have my bagel and coffee without a side of remorse. I knew the police would probably give her to DCFS to sort out who she is.

We all sat down on the pavement waiting for the police to come. “GATO!” I nearly shrieked, remembering the word for cat. This kid–even at 2–was bound to think I was the Village Idiot. “Gato,” she replied, looking around for a cat.

Sure enough, the police showed up (there’s not much to do out here but bust underage smokers) and took my new wee friend to DCFS where they could locate her family for her. I felt terrible leaving her, maybe it’s the added progesterone, maybe it’s that I’m getting soft in my old age, or maybe I just felt maternal toward a child that was not my own. My heart is sad for her, and I hope that her family does report her missing and isn’t afraid of being deported in the process.

*sighs*

What’s the weirdest thing YOU’VE found on the side of the road?

The last time I was pregnant with a viable baby–Alex (a.k.a.The Deer Hunter)–I’ve mentioned that I worried a fair bit. But I think that “worried a bit” doesn’t quite do justice for how much I fucking worried. For someone who never worries about her kids after they’re born, I like to imagine I get my worrying out before they’re born.

Either that, or pregnancy makes me totally nuts (which is my story and I’m sticking to it. I’m quite frankly terrified of pregnant women. This makes it really hard when I am the pregnant one, as you can imagine. Who wants to be afraid of themselves?).

I’d gone into this last pregnancy with the singular stipulation that I wasn’t going to worry. Let go and let God. Thy will be done. Or whatever. Either way, I wasn’t going to waste valuable ‘eatin’ time’ worrying about my unborn fetus. Whether it lived or died, I wasn’t going to worry until I knew I needed to. How do you prepare yourself for a bad outcome anyway?

(Conversely, I’d gone into Alex’s pregnancy promising myself that I wouldn’t get as fat as I had with Ben. 60 pounds later–on a diet of egg whites and tofu–I’m still puzzling that one out. I’m starting to think that maybe I should go into these things without any sort of expectations. Seems futile).

And I did so well for a couple of weeks without worrying. I did so incredibly well. I all but ignored my pregnancy, choosing to focus on other such pressing issues as What I Am Craving At The Moment and How Nauseous Is Enough. I didn’t go in for early monitoring because, why bother? It’s going to stick or it’s not.

But somehow, when I saw that blob with a pixelated heart a-beating away in it’s chest, I started to really care. And when I really care, I really worry. Especially when the spotting continues like it did last night.

Thankfully, this morning has brought no blood AND a call from my doctor with the news that I have low progesterone. So, for the next 5-6 weeks, I will be shoving sexy little suppositories into my love hole. My hoo-haa. That should be AWESOME. I will be beating men away from me with sticks. STICKS, I tell you.

So, the State Of What’s Up Down There is now at a blissful peace. I can only hope it remains that way for the next 30 odd weeks.

And if (when?) this Sausagebryo is born, I shall ground him or her for scaring me so very much. I’m thinking for the next 16 years or so.

I’m still spotting, more than I was before.

I don’t even know where to begin to explain how I feel now. I feel fucked.