Based on my clear lack of good blogging material, or to be more honest, the right outlook with which to write about anything at all, I’m yoinking one from the vaults to share with you. This was written about 2 months before I got married in 2005 and has been updated somewhat by moi. Because I’m good like that.

With my impending nuptials lurking stealthily right around the corner, I am consistently reminded of how over half of marriages these days end in divorce. According to the *ahem* interesting folks at livejournals Virgins Over 25 site, that number is markedly decreased for those involved in church. And the number is even less than that for people who raise their children in church.

What this means is that I’m totally fucked.

I don’t WANT to get divorced, too much nasty social stigma attached to that, plus, I’m too lazy to go to court over and over to divide up our animals and dishes, so I have carefully devised a plan to help me stay married. Because if anybody in the family requires the label ‘œTemperful’ it is I. (okay, so it’s not a word. Yet. But it should be)

Ergo, I alone am the danger for divorce.

As most old people will creepily point out to you, the sex and passion tends to die out after a number of years leaving in it’s place a bleak type of emptiness, fulfilled either by really dull pursuits like, ‘œstamp collecting’ and even worse, ‘œbird watching.’

Or an affair.

That’s right, folks, screw the birds and the stamps, the way that I am going to beat a divorce before marriage is through an illict affair, carefully mapped out over the next couple of years. I mean, why WAIT to scratch the itch? Nip it in the bud! That’s what I say.

So I am carefully screening, through an intensive application process (think the Meyers-Brigg crossed with Cosmo quiz) potential candidates for my pending affair and possible illegitimate love-child.

Some candidates in my pool:

Mick Jagger– he may be as old as Jesus, but the man can still MOVE. Plus, he’s got bank vaults full of money and is freakishly fertile, so the child support checks would pay for a big house for Dave and I to live in.

The Garbage Man– perhaps his fragrance is a little on the shitty side (get it?) but he’s got some sexy muscles, and I don’t exactly have a milk-man to fall back on. (Ed note: we have since moved, and I’m no longer inundated with smoldering hot garbage men. I can’t be sure I’ve ever even seen my new garbage men. Sadly)

Anthony Bourdain– While I don’t exactly envision steamy sex fantasies with the guy, I imagine we’d do a lot of drinking, smoking and making each other laugh. Any man who uses the phrase “pube in my drink” on television is a man I’d like to hump. Or at least hang out with.

Anna KorniwhatsherfacedatingEnriquewhatshisface– she’s super, super, super hot. I mean, smoldering hot. I totally want to make out with her, and I’m not remotely gay.

Okay, okay, okay. So I don’t have a crazy long list. Sue me. I mean, it’s not every day that you get to carefully choose AND screen a potential lover, right?

Oh like YOU’VE never thought of doing this! Haven’t you?

Haven’t you???

There was a commercial awhile back, I don’t remember what it was for really-perhaps a bank?–in which a man offers to paint his (presumably) wife’s toenails. The tag line was “Because you’re not THAT GUY” (THAT GUY being the one who paints toenails), and it made me laugh.

Because I totally married THAT GUY.

I’ve never actually asked him to paint my toenails, but he swears up, down and sideways that he would if I did. In the past he’s also volunteered to help me shave my delicate lady bits when a burgeoning stomach is preventing me from taking care of the ole undercarriage properly, and would probably shave my legs if I begged. Or bribed. Whatever.

This omission makes him sound like a complete and utter pushover, who without a complaint, says “yes dear” to anything, EVERYTHING I say, but it’s simply not true. (SADLY. I WAAANT A PONY.) People who haven’t shared a lot of time with us together have remarked that Dave is “pussy-whipped” or perhaps “Becky wears the pants in THAT marriage,” but it’s just wrong. They miss the indelicate back and forth that Dave and I tend to do in private.

He does call me fuckface or asshead when the moment strikes and the kids aren’t awake, and he does so unapologetically. And I’ve never seen him shy away from me unless I was especially hormonal and chasing him around with a butcher knife. Which is funny, because we HAVE NO BUTCHER KNIFE.

And being THAT GUY doesn’t mean that he does any of the following:

*Hanging up his laundry
*Throwing his socks down the laundry chute
*Remembering any present buying holiday ahead of time
*Ever buying an anniversary card
*Ever calling to tell me he’ll be late UNTIL he’s already late as hell

But he’s THAT GUY all right.

How do I know this for sure? Well, The Daver is suffering once again from Couvade Syndrome. Otherwise known as a sympathetic pregnancy. It happened when I was pregnant with Alex, and his donut consumption may or may not have been responsible for his elevated cholesterol, and it’s been happening since I got pregnant with Amelia.

While his behavior when stricken with a Man Cold (which pretty much involves moaning a lot, reminding everyone within a 20 yard radius that he HATES to have a cold, and sniffling deeply whenever I ask him to take out the trash, and generally being a pain my in ever-loving ass) leaves much to be desired and may be the only time I delicately suggest that he go to work by kicking him out of the house and locking the doors, I’m lucky that this is not indicative of his behavior while “pregnant.”

This isn’t to say that he religiously reads “What To Expect While You’re Expecting” book-marking the relevant chapters (we don’t even own it) or dreams up color combinations for the nursery, hell, he’s barely interested in baby clothes or deciding on a middle name for our daughter. No, he’s just as emotionally labile as I am these days. And is nearly as interested in donuts and hot dogs and squishy chocolate deserts.

Honestly, I find the whole situation rather adorable. After being pregnant by a dude who was downright abusive during the whole gestation, it’s such a refreshing change of pace for me. If you’d told the pregnant-with-Ben me that I would one day find a man who was going to be pregnant with me, I’d have rolled my eyes bitterly and probably laughed without any humor behind it.

At that point in time, I’d have settled for a guy who was even remotely interested in his child and not interested in sticking his penis in other women. His TINY penis.

(sorry, I had to)

It reminds me that I hit the jackpot when I met Dave, something I’ve always been acutely aware of. Sure, we might not ever be the romantic couple of the romantic comedy genre, we may never refer to what happens between the sheets as “making love” unless we were trying to be sarcastic and make the other laugh, and we may never compose love letters OR poemes, but it doesn’t matter to me. It never mattered to me.

Anyone who shares a fleeting 9 month obsession with encased meats and sweets is more than enough for me.

I’m full of The Cranky today, and I’m not really sure why specifically. It’s partially because I’ve reached the point in pregnancy (for me) when I turn from a reasonably cute pregnant lady to growing out of all of my clothes. It’s also because I can’t get around too easily with my gigantic boot, and it gets pretty frustrating.

Or maybe it’s just because I’m tired. It was a long weekend for Gimpy McCripple here.

So, help a sister out. What’s making YOU cranky today?

Becky: “Do you like my manicure?” (playfully wraggles black fingernails in Daver’s face)

Dave (grabs hand for closer inspection): “Ooooh. Freaky! Won’t Ashley be mad that you had black nail polish put on for her wedding?”

Becky: “Nah. It’s perfectly vogue now. It’s no longer JUST for goth chicks.”

Dave: “Ah.”

Dave (grabs her hand again. This time her right hand, although not unkindly): “Wait a minute…is your wedding ring STUCK ON?”

Becky (sheepishly, in a small voice): “Yes.” (pauses) “I kept in on to long after I got pregnant with Amelia. And now I can’t get it off.”

Dave (eyes take on a mischievous gleam): “You know what this means, right?”

Becky: “Please don’t take me down to the fire station to get it cut off. I’m so ashamed. I HAVE FINGER FAT NOW.”

Dave: “No, no. I wouldn’t do that. And your finger looks great. But…”

(pauses dramatically for effect)

Dave: “You SEE this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.”

Becky: “That’s MY line, assface.”

Dave: “And look at how badly it blew up in your face.”

Becky: “Touche.”

As I close down Week 2 of being pregnant and crippled–wait, is that a Lifetime movie? Because it totally should be–I find myself to be more and more empathetic toward the handicapped community. Which, considering I tend to have pretty non-existent sympathy/empathy/whichever one is better toward the majority of the population, is saying quite a bit.

I mean, I always got angry and perhaps occasionally called the police on cars illegally parked in the handicapped spaces. Or if I didn’t call the police, I’d shake my fist angrily AND menacingly at the offending car. Because how scary is that for that car?

But now Going Out has gone from “ooh! Maybe I’ll see something adorable I HAVE TO EAT at Target and buy it! Then EAT it!” to “Fuck, do I really have to leave?” And it’s not because it’s incredibly painful for me to walk, it’s a combination of other factors.

First, I look stupid. This I’m aware of. I go out, wearing this gigantic moon boot of doom, obviously pregnant, and lugging a 30 pound toddler–who is likely screaming in my face–through the store. I knew I looked stupid before I made 70% of the store patrons and staff stop and stare at me, but after making several small children cry (although that might have been because I told them that there was no Santa Claus after they called me a “retarded gimp”), I’m suddenly aware of how people who have real handicaps must feel on a daily basis.

Second, just because I am pregnant and crippled for the moment–and perhaps ugly for the rest of my life–doesn’t mean I am stupid. I mean, okay, okay, I’m kind of stupid, and perhaps even emotionally crippled but really, my IQ is not in the low 30’s. I don’t think. But people see a huge boot on a person and assume that I must be one of those Special People bussed in from an institution on my Big Day Out. Where the toddler and 7 year old with me come from is anyone’s guess.

They occasionally cluck sympathetically, raise their voices to speak to me slowly and loudly in small sentences, “Aaaarrreeee yooooouuuu reeeeaaadddyyy tooooo cccchhheeecckkk ooouutt?” I may look stupid, people, but I assure you that my mental facilities are as intact as they were before I injured my foot. Take that to mean whatever you’d like it to.

And my least favorite of the people that I come across on my brief ventures out into the Real World are the ones that walk behind me impatiently as I gimp along, muttering about how slow I am, practically touching my ass with their crotch, grumbling the whole way along. While I can relate that being frustrated by being behind someone slow is annoying, what I cannot understand is why on Earth they don’t go around me in the miles of space to my left. Slower traffic keep right, and all.

But then, just as I’m accepting that the person behind me really would like to be my hemorrhoid (mental picture is awesome), the minute I head toward a checkout, they speedily zip around me, practically knocking me over to get in front of me. Being slow at walking does not mean I’m slow at getting checked out.

Now, normally I let most anyone with less items go ahead of me, but now that my foot makes me gimpified, I honestly want to do nothing more than get the hell outta there so I can ice that puppy down. I’ll still let people with a couple of items in front of me, but the people who speedily zip past me ruthlessly cut in front of me always seem to be doing one of a couple things:

a) trying to write a check without proper identification (i.e. driver’s license)

b) trying to get the cashier to okay 4,595 expired coupons

c) arguing over a 2 cent price difference between “marked on shelf” cost and rung up cost

d) trying to use a declined credit card by arguing with the bored looking cashier

e) baffling the hell out of the cashier by whipping out food stamps

And I stand there, behind them, chanting “serenity now, serenity now” in my head as Alex attempts to scramble out the cart, shrieks when I dare detain him, as my foot throbs merrily.

I tell you, this whole “being injured” thing is getting more and more annoying. Especially since I have neither good drugs nor a handicapped sticker for my car. Perhaps I’ll get a cane and whack people with it just to make me feel better.

Misery loves company and all that, right?

“Banana Hammock.”

What’s yours?

Now, I’m not a political person, and I’m not smart enough to formulate some sort of political post that completely encompasses how I feel WHILE sticking to the facts. I vote, early and often whenever possible and I love the power trip it gives me to do so. I’ll have my ducks in a row and my candidate selected when I pop (read: waddle) in to vote on November 4th.

But I’m going to confess something to you all: I’m so sick of this election. So sick of it.

Not because it’s not an interesting selection of candidates because it totally is, but because I am so bloody sick of how it’s making the staunch supporters on either side attack each other.

As in, “If you vote for XXX, it’s because you’re a moron WHO KILLS BABIES IN YOUR SPARE TIME. YOU BABY MUUUURRRRDEEEERRR WHO HATES JESUS” Or, perhaps, “You’re electing a terrorist because you HAAATTEEE AMERICA! Murderer!”

Talk about missing the entire point here. Or maybe it’s me missing the point.

Perhaps my relentless optimism regarding the general goodness of people has blinded me so much that I actually *do* know people who murder babies and support terrorist activity, but somehow I doubt it. Hurling hurtful emotionally charged statements doesn’t help either side do anything but perpetuate animosity between friends and neighbors.

I’m just waiting for November 4th to be over so I can stop hearing about how “so and so is a bad, stupid person because they voted for someone different than me” and how wrong I am for my choices. Last I checked, a democracy was founded on choices, and I’m entitled to mine, however distasteful they may be to someone else.

But I’m urging you: no matter what hurtful statements are being hurled at you for your choice, stand up and vote. Vote proudly. And vote with gusto. It’s not only your right, it’s your duty.

As for me, I’ll be hiding in my house until November 4th, away from hurled campaign buttons and signs. And likely eating donuts.

My in-laws came down yesterday with the express purpose of wrangling our children so that The Daver and I could have a moment by ourselves and potentially go out without dragging along a 30 pound diaper bag. Dave and I usually do manage a couple hours a week to go out alone anyway, thanks to my mother, but this somehow seemed different.

Primarily because we had no Almighty Schedule with which to adhere. Poor Daver, whenever we go out, must listen to the breathy, “and then…, and then….” as I suck all of the potential fun out of our afternoon by insisting we do errands! And more errands!

Yesterday was blessedly different, though. We had plans to catch lunch at Rosebud and then…nothing else. It was amazing.

We showed up to the restaurant a few minutes before our reservation only to learn that pretty much everyone in that area had decided to avoid eating there for lunch. Something I took as an Omen of Awesomeness. As we sat down without having to carefully push every breakable thing away from our toddler’s Roman Hands and Russian Fingers, it was quiet. Blissfully quiet.

No one demanded bread, no one tried to upend a water glass or some crackers onto the table, and no one demanded that I play Tic Tac Toe. I didn’t have to shush Alex’s happy shrieks of joy that could easily peel paint from walls (aside: side job for Alex, perhaps?) so that other patrons didn’t stare at us openly.

Dave and I simply ate a lunch without rushing, without cutting up food for someone else, without having to stop and play a YouTube video for the small (but mighty) one, and we even savored a couple of soft drinks each. It sounds so stupid to most, but seriously, it’s the little things in life like that.

After lunch, we popped into Baby Gap to oogle cute pinkness for a certain baby who may or may not be tap dancing on my bladder as I type this as well as look for some stuff for our other kids. What I could never have known ahead of time is that Gap was running one of the most amazing sales on the planet. It’s why I used to shop there when I was (broke) pregnant with Ben, and I was thrilled to see it going on now, when I actually require (some) clothes of the non-boy variety.

Armed with my well, armful (pun time!) of bargains, I made my way to the cashier. And spent less than $40 on a bunch of adorably pink stuff. There’s very little that makes me as thrilled as securing a massive bargain. It’s like being high on life! Except less corny!

Practically floating down the street, or at least as reasonable a facsimile of it when wearing a moon-boot and limping openly, we happened upon a chocolate hut. Ethel’s chocolate hut. The name doesn’t do justice for how awesome it really is, even though I’m pretty sure most men I know wouldn’t be caught dead lounging in a pink and chocolate brown room, eating wee designer chocolates. They were running a Sweetest Day Special involving chocolate fondue and, well, some other stuff. I pretty much tuned it all out after I heard “fondue.”

(Random Aside: What the SHIT is up with Sweetest Day? As much as I do enjoy celebrating the love of my life and all things pink, red, and sparkly, I can’t do it more than twice a year. And with our anniversary and Valentine’s Day securing those spots, I’m tapped right out of wanting to celebrate further)

Between Dave, skinny Daver, and I, pregnant me, we somehow managed to polish of the entire fucking fondue pot, sitting there, in the pinkest of rooms I have ever seen.

Eventually, we returned home to our kids, fed them dinner and then put them to bed.

It was easily one of the best days I’ve had in awhile.

….

….

….

….

Until…

At about 10 PM, as we were winding down (and right after I’d given Dave a dutch oven in bed), I noticed something peculiar in the hallway. An unmistakable smell.

Oh yes, of course. It was the smell of vomit.

Fuck.

Now, to most parents, this is not a huge deal. Kids, especially school aged ones, get the stomach flu pretty damn often and it’s just another thing to clean up after. Not fun, for sure, but also not the terror-inducing monstrosity that occurs when I’m exposed. After I’m exposed to the good old flu, I freak the shit out. It’s seriously shameful how afraid I am of catching it.

It’s a phobia, for sure. A serious phobia.

And sure enough, after I gathered Dave and went to investigate, my nose knew. Our eldest has a nasty habit of tossing his cookies in his bed and then falling back asleep in his own vomit. It’s certainly not something for the baby books and it always sends me in a tailspin of panic. I mean, who the shit wants to clean up after that? Besides, this particular episode has completely ruined his mattress, which leaves me in a quandary: what to do now? Is it rubber sheet time?

It seemed only fitting that one of the best days I’ve had was ended with one of the most panic-inducing things I can imagine. And today, I seemed to have caught the adult version of the stomach flu. I won’t elaborate, save to say that the term “Super Colon Blow” seems to fit the theme of the day today.

So what weird phobias do you, my sweet Internet people, have?

After Ben was born, I took a long hard look at my educational experience and decided rather than a future where I asked people if they would prefer fries or a salad with that, I’d change my career path entirely. To a field I knew I didn’t like, but would provide me with a real income: nursing.

Nursing school, for those not in the know, requires a schedule that between the hospital hours and the classroom hours, you barely have a chance to wipe your own ass. Both living 45 minutes away from school and any hospital I might be stationed in meant that I was out of the house for an additional hour and a half (at the very least).

Ben’s father also lost his job around this time, and refusing to get another one in his field, he waited for over a year to find a new job. Which meant that insurance for Baby Ben needed to be purchased. So I went back to work as a waitress (where I did ask if people would like fries with that) for the few remaining hours left once nursing school took it’s share.

I’d moved Ben and I back in with my parents once I realized that my future with Nat was going to be measured in the minutes rather than years category, and I relied heavily on my mother to help me out with taking care of Ben.

It was an ideal arrangement in many regards: it was free, easy, and didn’t involve being verbally abused most days. But in terms of drawbacks, there were many. First and foremost, my parents didn’t seem to believe that I had the capacity to take care of a baby myself, and questioned most of the decisions I made by issuing massive ultimatums.

To give you an example for contexts sake, I’ll tell you of how at about 2 months of age, I took Ben to the doctor to get his shots. Typical, right? Well, that evening, I decided to take Ben (who had kept me up most of the night thanks to the reversal of his days and nights) to Nat’s parents house, where I could get some rest alone. My mother, telling me how selfish and horrid I was for taking Ben out when his immune system was “delicate,” (apparently, in her world, shots = immunosuppression) informed me that if I did this, she would not watch him for me for a week.

Not exactly the sort of decisions I would expect to lose me babysitting privileges or anything. It wasn’t like I was deciding which bar to take him to or which bong hit to blow in his face. I may have been young, but I wasn’t stupid.

But I learned pretty quickly that in order to both keep the peace and prevent my mother from having a breakdown of sorts and thus losing my only babysitting option (I was broke as a joke after buying diapers, formula, and insurance for Ben), I kept my mouth shut. It seemed easier that way.

When I was feeling especially bad about the whole situation, I’d imagine a time when I would no longer live with them and I could parent as freely as I chose.

Being gone approximately 23 hours a day had the unfortunate side effect of not being able to spend much time with my bizarre young son. He wasn’t diagnosed as autistic until he was 2, so I spent those two years feeling pretty miserable about myself each and every time I was ignored or screamed at by him when I’d go in for a hug. Even as a baby, he preferred to play alone on the floor rather than be held by me.

Time marched on and his eccentricities grew. And in addition, something I’d never really expected to happen occurred: he formed his only attachment to my mother. It made sense, I mean, I was gone all the time, I couldn’t exactly imagine how dropping out of school to be his full time caregiver would help us in the long run, so I comforted myself by remembering how plenty of kids went to daycare every day. And they still (presumably) loved their parents.

I graduated school a year after Ben’s autistic diagnosis, and a couple months after that, I married Dave. We moved out together officially after school was done, and I was finally able to parent my strange child without someone critiquing my every move.

I hoped that with each passing day, with each thoughtful art project he screamed at, with every plate of food he wept into, with all of the things I did for him, that his attachment to my mother would lessen somewhat. I didn’t want to replace her, and even in my anger and disgust with her, I never would have taken Ben away from her (or vice versa) for good, but I wanted to be okay, too. I wanted him to care for me, too.

It’s been 3 and a half years since then, and I wish I had some glowing report, like “and now he loves me, too!” but I don’t. Or if I did, it would be a lie. It’s like he’s a Siamese cat or something and can only bond to one person, and one person only. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do, how much I try, how terrible and guilty I feel, I can’t even compare to her in his mind.

I try my best to imagine any sort of scenario in which he doesn’t break down into tears when she leaves or when he’s forced to do something with his parents, I try to come up with any solution that would not diminish who she is to him, but highlight the fact that I’m okay too, but I can’t. There’s no good way to rectify the damage that was done to him by my perpetual absence (no matter how necessary it was at the time) in those obviously critical months.

And there’s no way to rectify the damage that’s been done to me, either. I want nothing more than to have a normal relationship with Ben, but it just doesn’t seem to come to us, no matter what I do. I want to not care when he cries for her. I want to smile knowingly when he tells me how much he wishes he were with her. I want it to not feel like my heart is being cut out of my chest cavity and thrown onto the floor whenever I’m reminded of this.

But I can’t seem to make any of this happen, no matter how hard I try. And I don’t know what to do.

(scene: a chubby pregnant woman (CPW) in a large black ankle boot holds a squirming and naked toddler in the chilly October air. She walks as quickly as she can after a small, fox-like dog, who is avoiding being captured by darting back and forth across a busy road. She is followed by a small but wordy 7 year old, an older woman, who is presumably her mother, another 7 year old boy and an 8 year old girl. She looks miserable as she calls out to the dog)

CPW: “Auggie! Come here Auggie!” (she struggles through the neighbors lawn, where the dog is currently exploring just out of arms reach)

Rest of the cast: “Auggie, come here boy!” (in falsetto, what is supposed to be reassuring tones)

CPW (trying to keep any hint of anger from her voice): “Come on home, boy!”

Suddenly, the door to the house of the yard that they’re all occupying swings open. It’s a neighbor, one that CPW knows and tentatively likes. Hoping that perhaps the neighbor has a solution as to how to get an 11 pound dog who runs away back home, as her foot throbs painfully, CPW looks at the door hopefully.

Neighbor (mumbling through the screen) “…leash law.”

CPW (still smiling stupidly): “What’s that?”

Neighbor: “I SAID that there is a leash law.”

CPW (uncertainly): “I’m aware. But he escaped from my house.”

Neighbor (rolling eyes): “Well, there is a leash law.”

CPW (angry now, as she’d already been feeling badly about the dog roaming through the neighborhood): “I know this. We’re TRYING to catch him” (gestures wildly to the group of people behind her all trying to catch this wily dog).

Neighbor: “I’m sick of cleaning up dog shit on my lawn.”

CPW: “My dogs don’t go out front. They don’t do anything on your lawn.”

Neighbor (as though the change in emphasis is going to change the situation): “There is a leash law.”

CPW: “WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO DO? THIS WAS AN ACCIDENT.”

(annoying stupid dog runs into the road, interrupting this discourse. The group follows the dog, still calling out in vain)

CPW glares openly at her neighbor as she hobbles after the dog, still wobbling around holding toddler and limping.

After another 20 minutes of following the dog through the neighborhood and calling out futilely, he is finally captured.

Now the question is what to do with this dog.

(end scene)