Next Saturday–not this one, I don’t think or I better get cracking on my bridesmaid dress alterations–my best friend is getting married. I’m not a closet romantic, shit, I’m not romantic at all, but I’m pretty pumped about the whole union thing. It’s doubtful I’ll cry, unless someone passes too close with a Cosmo and I realize that Diet Coke does NOT taste like Cosmo even if you close your eyes.

(I’m all for a sip or three of wine or beer or something less, well, alcohol-y, while pregnant, but somehow a Cosmo, while in public especially, is not really my deal. It seems somehow tacky.)

But I’ve known Ashley for ages, known her since well before she met Mike (especially since I met her through one of her ex-boyfriends, who is a friend of mine), and I’ve been along for much of the ride with the wedding planning.

Like the dress shopping:

Or, perhaps, the pre-wedding T-bagging:

Because who doesn’t want to have some dude’s balls on you? NO ONE, that’s who.

But let’s back up a couple of years here, shall we? I’m going to tell you a story through pictures (my apologies to those who will now experience a slower page load. And although they look NSFW, they’re actually all harmless).

(Here I’m going to apologize again for my photos, which are pictures OF pictures. Because someone *ahem* THE DAVER *ahem* hasn’t bought a scanner for me to show The Internet how debaucherous I once was)

This is Paul:

He’s the dark-haired guy on the left, and he’s at my bridal shower with Evan–my man-of-honor. Paul is also the reason that I met Ashley. See, he’s an old, old friend of mine, and when I announced my pregnancy to him (before really meeting Ashley, who was sitting with him), he said, “I’m sorry.” To which Ashley took such offense that she began to yell at him for apologizing for my pregnancy. Because she’s right: no matter how inappropriate it is, you should always congratulate someone on their pregnancy. Right?

Any chick who does that sort of thing is my kind of chick.

Ashley and Steph threw my baby shower for Ben, and we had a blast. Unfortunately, I have no pictures of the occasion as Nat (who dat? He just my baby daddy) refused to give them to me. Douche.

In fact, because a whole lot of my pictures are lost somewhere or another (I lost a huge photo book when I moved. And no, I’m still not over it), a lot of our friendship has been undocumented. So let’s pretend that it was documented and move on, okay?

Fast forward to my bachelorette party. Ashley is my maid of honor, and she and KC have bestowed upon me the greatest gift known to me: that penis mug you see me sipping from. I may still have it somewhere, although I probably should pass the torch on to her, huh?

We were merrily sitting outside on my patio, waiting for the rest of my bachelorette party compatriots to arrive, lazily smoking some cigarettes, when the toilet overflowed. No one had dropped a dookie in it, or anything, the toilet just sucked. You could flush a single square of TP, and it would promptly overflow.

So imagine me, in heels and a dress, plunging the shit out of the toilet while 25 ladies with micro-bladders descended upon my house.

Then the doorbell rings.

At it?

Tommy.

My friend Dana (not pictured) had gotten me a stripper. Now, despite slurping on my penis cup, I was stone-cold sober. Dana, who had been caught in traffic, was not even present at the time he showed up. I was mortified. And sober.

And when I’m mortified, I laugh. Loudly, and with my mouth hanging open.

And apparently, my bright pink bra, too.

I couldn’t find a shot where I’d been t-bagged, like I wanted to, for comparison’s sake, but I did find this. I am taking a shot out of his thong, because I am classy. And I’m not sure a choice was given to me at this point.

I’m sorry, Ashley, I couldn’t find any shots of myself with balls resting comfortably on my forehead, but I tried. And I know they’re out there somewhere. Waiting for me to rediscover the only other man in 5 years to put his balls on my face.

But from now on, my dear sweet friend, Tommy will be showing up to all parties that I have a hand in throwing for you. Including baby showers. Oh yes, you’re not escaping the Happy Baby! Stripper experience.

You can thank me later. If you’re still taking my calls.

Now dish: I want some good bachelor/bachelorette party stories.

Today is October 15, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day and rather than post some stupid snarky story about getting a flu shot (because, ahem, I’m apparently a geriatric), I’m going to choose to remember.

Today, we all will remember:

Hannah

Caleb

Baby JP

Kalila

William

Isabel Grace

Maddy

William Henry

Aodin

Callum

Sarah

Connor

Liam

Samuel

Caden

Masyn

Olive Lucy

Seth Milton

Abigail Hlee

JoeJoe Sherman

Baby Nick

Gabriel Anton

Ryan

Jonathan

Devin Alin

Jacob and Joshua

Baby K, Gabriel Connor, Christian Elliot

Emmerson

Baby Kuyper

Mara S.

Now, I’ll be happy to add to this list, as I know I haven’t even begun to properly pay tribute to all of these lives, so if you’d like me to add your child’s name, please don’t hesitate to email me becky (at) dwink (dot) net or leave me a comment and I will email you.

At 7 pm tonight, I will burn a candle in memory of all the lost souls out there. May they each rest in eternal peace.

The love I have for animals often rivals that of the Crazy Cat Lady, so fond am I of the wee ickle beasties. When I was a small child–perhaps a bit older than Alex–I used to dress in my baby clothes, not dolls, but my kitten, Biscuit. Biscuit was as dumb as a box of rocks but had the wherewithal to occasionally protest in the form of some claw marks to my body. Why, I still have those scars today!

It appears as though her legacy lives on.

As a child, I regularly petitioned my parents to add to our happy home any number of small animals, and was nearly always denied.

But the moment that I moved out on my own (with The Daver), his love of animals amplified my own, and before either of us realized it, we’d built ourselves a menagerie of wee beasties.

After adopting two older cats (as the kittens are far more adoptable AND far more annoying than older cats) to add to our one cat home, we adopted an older dog. Then we adopted a geriatric gecko. For my birthday, I was gifted (at my own request) a hedgehog, and several weeks before Alex was born, we adopted an older rabbit. In my post-miscarriage haze, I foolishly agreed to a puppy, and I have wild plans for a future of salt water fish tanks. Multiple ones.

Although the many animals can be overwhelming and occasionally annoying, as at the moment that I’m typing this, I’m surrounded by two cats (who hate each other but love me so thoroughly that it doesn’t matter), my houseplant (read: dog) Cash, and Auggie (el puppy) is lounging nearby, I love it. Our house is full of love, light and complete chaos, but it works for us, unless we foolishly need to go out of town for something. Then we’re screwed.

Why am I waxing poetic about my animals, who have made me the official Mayor of Poo-Town?

Because, no matter how much I feel I love, and more importantly, care for my wee beasties, I’m starting to feel like it’s NOT ENOUGH.

It started innocently enough when we began to take Cash to the groomer at our local pet store. He’s the type of dog with a thick undercoat, so the minute the seasons change around here, the floors in my home begin to swirl with mountains of fluffy dog hair. And because I am completely lazy and don’t wish to clean my tub afterwards, I am happy to pay someone else to remove said fur.

Appointments were made, proof of current vaccinations were faxed and we showed up with Cash in tow.

Having adopted him as a 6 year old mutt from the pound, Dave and I looked at each other quizzically when asked what he was like when he was groomed. No idea whatsoever.

We dropped him off and went about our day.

I generously let Dave (read: insisted) that he go pick up the dog alone, and when he returned, he thrust a stack of papers into my hands (this is a fairly common occurrence in my home; I get handed stacks of papers constantly. Seriously). Among the receipts and the invoices, I noticed something strange.

At first, I was convinced I’d accidentally gotten some of Ben’s paperwork in my pile. But upon closer inspection, I realized that no, no in fact, this was from the groomer. The groomer had painstakingly filled out A REPORT CARD FOR MY DOG. Who was, according to this report that I totally wish I’d saved to show The Internet, a “great boy” who “loved to give kisses.”

I, being his owner, knew these things to be true and immediately felt sorry that the groomer had been required by his employer to fill this out. I mean, I don’t get daily report cards from BEN, who is in real SCHOOL.

But then I felt guilty laughing at the whole notion of an A++ doggie report card. Because I knew full well that if people hadn’t WANTED to know how their dog had behaved while out of their care, it wouldn’t exist.

(as a total aside, I would, of course, WANT to know if my dog had behaved badly. Biting, snarling, being a general asshole are things I WOULD have wanted to know, had this been the case)

Then, upon wandering around the pet store with my freshly cleaned, non-stinky, bandana-ed dog, several days later I realized why I’d been feeling so inadequate. While I was obviously a frequenter of the pet store, I’d been buying a stock supply of the bare necessities for my beasties and nothing more.

While my cats had proper food, it wasn’t the top of the line (read: $100 a bag), nor did they have any amount of themed toys or festive collars. I didn’t even own a jaunty cat carrier! Mine was a boring beige plastic!

My dogs had collars, of course, but not leather, or designer in the slightest. Cash had a Purple one, Auggie had a blue one. Neither had any embellishments or accessories attached. Hell, their leashes didn’t even match the collars! And forget about expensive soaps or treatments for my doggie’s sensitive skin! I had nothing of the sort. Nor did even my mini pooch have any clothes to wear! He was NAKED for all the world to see! AUGGIE’S WEENIS, EXPOSED TO THE WORLD!

My gecko did have a mini-Statue of Liberty in his cage, something I found particularly hilarious, but he seemed to ignore that in favor of the fake hunk of wood that he could hide behind. And forget about any real cage amenities for Robes Pierre (may he rest in peace), no, I used regular lizard sand.

No, I walked out of that store, having my eyes opened for the first time as to how much further I could push my animal obsession. And how much further other people did do so regularly. And with gusto.

It didn’t seem to matter to my guilt-ridden head how much MORE I did for animals that weren’t even my own. No matter how many cats I fostered only to find good homes for, no matter how many animals I adopted rather than purchased, no matter how many piles of puke I cleaned up only to find another three feet away, it would never compare to what I could do.

I sighed deeply and reminded myself that even though I can’t boast a designer animal, at least I don’t have SUCKER written on my forehead.

Besides, I don’t even buy fancy shampoo for myself.

Wanna play a guessing game with me? YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO. WAIT, YOU TOTALLY DON’T? Too bad.

So what makes a portly pregnant woman even sexier than she already is? You’re totally not gonna guess this one. Because if *I* had to guess, I’d say a black eye. Which is always in style.

But if you guessed this, go get yourself a cookie and some bourbon.

It’s my Moon Boot! And it’s hotter than you.

See, back in June, I hurt my foot and wound up in the ER. Sadly, it was not performing some amazingly heroic feats, like rescuing some adorable and fluffy kittens from a burning building or climbing up a tree to rescue Little Timmy’s kite, no, nothing so amazing.

I slipped on the fallen-over baby gate and cracked the shit out of it. It was never broken, the ER doc informed me, so I just let bygones be bygones (and so on and so on) and let it heal on it’s own.

Except that it never did. Probably, at least in part, to the 20 pounds I’ve packed on since then (I’m not fat, I’m just big boned).

Begrudgingly I made an appointment with an orthopaedic doctor in the area, while glaring menacingly at my foot as I spoke on the phone, making damn sure that it too was was aware that IT MIGHT GO TO THE DOCTOR. I tried in vain to scare it into submission and healing, but it did not work well. In fact, my foot had the audacity to ignore me. Obviously.

See, I drag my feet (get it!?! PUN TIME!) whenever I have to go to the doctor, especially a specialist, because I go to about 3,476 specialists. This makes me feel like either the sickliest person on the planet, sufferer of Munchausen’s, OR a complete and total hypochondriac.

I’m actually none of those. I just have a number of irritatingly irritating conditions that require specialists, as my GP would probably lose my phone number accidentally on purpose whenever I needed more blood work. I have, in no particular order a gastroenterologist (Crohn’s disease), an OB/GYN (crotch parasite), an endocrinologist (hypothyroidism), and now an orthopod (bruised bone, damaged joint). I also have a terrible case of gas, but that’s neither here nor there.

But, with crotch parasite in tow, I’m unable to be treated by my orthopod in a way that would normally help (read: massive narcotics) (read: awesome), so I’m relegated to a moon boot and an ice pack.

Awesome.

My best friend is getting married in a couple weeks, and while she asked that we wear “black strappy shoes,” I think she’s going to flip when she sees what I’ve taken that order to mean. Sorry, Ashley.

And as for me, in the meantime, I’m going to relish my pregnant and crippled status as best I can. Maybe people will let me cut in line or something. Because dude, if you can’t have narcotics, what good is being hurt?

While there were many, many, many things that I never knew about becoming a mother (read: cleaning poo off baby testicles. O! the search terms that will come in), one thing I was pretty dead set upon was having some traditions in my new family. After Ben’s first visit to Santa–in a jaunty red Santa suit, I must add–I broke down and purchased a whole mess of Christmas cards, painstakingly wrote a personal message in each, and enclosed an adorable picture of my young son in what is certain to be blackmail fodder for years to come.

Before Christmas, however, came Halloween (I know. I am so SMRT). And with Halloween comes pumpkin patches.

We all loaded up young screamy Ben into the car and trundled off to get the first of many pictures of My Kid In The Pumpkins: Isn’t It Adorable (no question mark).

While I’ll tell The Internet that I live in Chicago, I don’t really. I live in a SUBURB of Chicago which has the same name as a more well known suburb of Missouri (St. Charles, ILLINOIS), and as we’re far enough away from the city proper, plentiful farmlands abound.

And several of these smaller farms run pumpkin patches in the fall to bring in some extra cash. We were delighted to go to a real! small! farm! that year and pick us out some pumpkins to carve for Ben (since at age 3 months, he shamefully had NOT mastered his Knife Skills. Obviously an unfit mother am I). Pictures were snapped and plans were made for a Brand New Tradition.

The next year, we bundled ourselves up, grabbed a toddler Ben and trundled off to the pumpkin patch again. This time, I noticed that the farm had set up a tiny little area housing some dried corn (yay?), some of those pictures that you put your head through and suddenly you’re a sexy chick in a bikini (or maybe you were before), and some dilapidated animals. Ben, sweet non-verbal Ben, indicated that he would like to look at one of the animals.

I then noticed that there was a sign indicating that entrance to this sad little area was $10 a head. And upon realizing that my one year old would not be in anyway entertained by the other “features” (I use that loosely here) for the $20 it cost to bring us both inside, I asked if I could just show him one of the animals (remember, the attention span of a toddler is comparable to that of a flea. Who presumably has a short attention span. Or at least a short LIFE span).

The frightening beast at the ticket window inhaled off a long cigarette, blew the smoke in my face and informed me that there was no way in hell I was going to get in without my hard earned cash no matter HOW old my son was.

Leaving in a slight huff, the following year we returned. And in the barn that had previously housed the scale and cash drawer for weighing and paying for the pumpkins, was now a mini-Halloween themed store. Why, for a mere $11.95 I could buy a sugar cookie mix! Quite a steal since the package boasted that they would be SPOOKY cookies! How could I say no?

Now, next to the barn stood a concession stand, where for the sweet price of $6.00 I could purchase a dixie cup of cider served up by a surly teen. I’d use it, of course, to wash down the $14.00 bag of salted popcorn that I could also buy there.

The following year we dutifully returned, a 4 year old child now in tow. A 4 year old child who was THRILLED to note that the pumpkin farm now boasted a moon bounce! And a gigantic inflatable slide! Which, for the cost of $10.00 a person, we could go on for about 30 seconds. And wait! Hay Rides! For another $20.00 a head, we could sit in some sneeze-inducing hay and be driven around the parking lot for 2! whole! laps!

Thankfully Ben didn’t notice when we quickly ushered him out of there with our pumpkins.

At age 5, we noticed that the formerly dirt road leading to the pumpkins had been surfaced, and was now swarming with all sorts of other yuppie-mobiles. The dirt and gravel parking lot now had been expanded so that a sea of SUV’s were occupying all of the spots, and in order to find a spot to park in at all, we would have to perform a maneuver I like to call “stalking” people.

You know, where you spy someone leaving and then follow them to their cars slowly and creepily inching along behind them? Yeah. And that was when we turned around–not before seeing the pony rides and small carnival rides that were now offered–and left.

While I understood that the farm had to make a bit of extra money–and I know how expensive farming can be–the small, sweet pumpkin stand had turned into a major tourist attraction. I know that to some families, this is a fun day trip, just like the county fair, but it’s just not my bag. I don’t really want to pay $3.00 a head to go through a corn maze that at least two members of my ($3.00 a head) family will hate (Alex + whomever is watching him. Because toddlers aren’t really into mazes, sad to say).

Thankfully, we stumbled upon a small family farm where you could pick your own pumpkins from the vine. THIS was more my speed. There were some family animals–2 inexplicable donkeys–but I didn’t have to pay to show either of the boys how much we really, really need to have a donkey. It was a riot, searching through the garden to look for the perfect pumpkin and we all had a blast.

The following year we returned, only to be informed that this was probably the last year we’d be able to pick our own pumpkins at that location. The family was having too hard of a time competing with the local Jewel to stay in business. I don’t need to tell you how sad we were to hear this.

Today we visited another pumpkin patch, one that I’d remembered being sort of small and homey feeling. And before I could say “KEEP DRIVING” Dave pulled into a Phamily Phun Pharm again, complete with several different inflatable creations, a crappy corn maze, and $10.00 jugs of cider.

I really wanted to have a good time going to this farm, really, I did. But my crusty old balls self couldn’t shake how annoyed I was to be spending $40.00 on some pumpkins, because I couldn’t disappoint my 7 year old son (even I have feelings. Sort of) who was in! love! with His Pumpkin. And I needed pie pumpkins for the holidays. Like next Tuesday, when I bake pumpkin bread from scratch (I cannot cook, but I can bake with the best of ’em). That’s a holiday, right?

So, I don’t really know if it’s me or if it’s them. Because, if all the Yuppie Mobiles in the parking lot are to be believed, other people DO enjoy these sorts of things. And maybe if it was what I’d been expecting, rather than some Real Norman Rockwell farm family, I wouldn’t be so annoyed. Maybe I just need to loosen the hell up, get my credit card out, and have some damn fun.

And maybe I just will. As soon as those gol-darn kids get off my lawn!

(oh wait. Those are MY kids). Shit.

While I’m totally aware that there are some nasty people who lurk around on the internet looking to leave mean comments for people going though some shit or another, with the express purpose of making the author feel bad. I’ve seen ’em in the darnedest of places, popping out now and again to spew nastiness and bad karma around, but they’re not here.

I expected some woodwork crawlers to come out to chastise me for a) feeling badly during such a (to quote my friend Five Husbands) blessed time AND to rail on me for b) considering taking druuuuggggsss while *gasp* pregnant. And while I haven’t closed comments, so the woodwork trolls might pop out at some other time, I was shocked and overwhelmed by the support that The Internet provided me when I really, really needed it.

Thank you sounds more hollow here than I’d like it to, but it’s all I’ve got, unless you want me to stick my coffee-coated tongue down your throat. Which I totally will (if you’re not sick).

With the placebo effect of my Vitamin W on board AND the triumphant return of coffee! to my diet, I admit to feeling loads better. I’m sure the actual omission of struggling and the embarrassing revelation that I might have feelings also contributed to my new feelings of almost-well-being. Honestly, I don’t quite care WHAT it is, so long as I feel more hopeful than I had been feeling.

So, without further long-winded adieu, I welcome you to a new feature on my blog. One that won’t slow down page loads or alert the Work Authorities that you are Not Working. AND, it’s my favorite kind of post since it involves audience participation.

3 Of The Most Cornball Songs I Cannot Live Without (But Can Barely Admit To Liking):

1) Aerosmith’s Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing.

Now, I saw Armageddon, which appeared to me to be one gigantic Pepsi ad (don’t believe me? Go look at the end of the movie, when everyone is all old tyme-y and pretty much everything is covered in American Flags), but had kind of a cute premise. Plus, it had Ben Affleck in it before he got covered in fug, which at the age I was when it came out, was a huge bonus.

But that song. Oh, that song. Oh, how I longed to have someone care about me enough to wonder if I was dreaming about me. Now that I look back on that song, after looking up the lyrics, I’m suddenly shocked that I never saw how creepy it was.

“I don’t wanna close my eyes
I don’t wanna fall asleep
‘Cause I’d miss you, babe
And I don’t wanna miss a thing”

*shudder, shudder*

Who doesn’t like SLEEP? CRAZY PEOPLE, THAT’S WHO.

I suddenly feel relieved that no one seemed to associate that song with me. Because they might be very well polishing my skull into a nice ashtray as we speak.

2) Rod Stewart You’re In My Heart

It’s always been with great trepidation that I inform people that not only do I *like* Rod Stewart, but really, I *love* him. You see, I cut my teeth on good classic rock and metal and Rod Stewart is pretty much Easy Listening, a genre of music I tend to despise.

Regardless, You’re In My Heart is one of the most honest love songs I’ve ever heard, even if the singer has that foppy, weird hair on his head. It’s not all I loved you since the moment I saw you, which makes me believe it, because seriously, the first thing I thought when I met Daver was “Holy shit, he’s wearing black jeans. Who wears black jeans anymore?” Answer: The Daver.

When Rod “The Bod” sings,

“You’re a rhapsody, a comedy
You’re a symphony and a play
You’re every love song ever written
But honey what do you see in me?”

I might even get shivers. Seriously. Maybe even goose-bumps.

3) Bryan Adams Have You Ever Loved A Woman?

Now let’s be clear here: I’ve never really, really ever loved a woman. Sure, I’ve made OUT with them (remember that Ashley? Don’t even pretend it didn’t happen), but I’ve never loved them in the way Mr. Adams implies. In fact, I’ve often been glad that I *didn’t* love them. But alas, I digress.

Really, I don’t even know WHY I love this song so much. Much like Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing, the lyrics certainly leave much to be desired. I mean, when he says stuff like, “she needs somebody to tell her that it’s gonna last forever,” I struck by the way that Daver will remind me of this by cackling wildly and saying, “You’re stuck with me FOREVER.”

But something about his stupid soft voice makes me kind of want to make love on a beach with a hot male model like that Chris Issac video. Or with the guy from House, MD. Or both. Then again, when DON’T I want to do that? Answer? NEVER.

————–

Your turn. C’mon lurkers. I admitted that I liked BRYAN ADAMS. BRYAN “I SUCK” ADAMS.

A big and hearty thank you from the bottom of my shriveled and blackened heart should go out to each and every single person who thoughtfully left me a comment on my last post. Sometimes, it’s all I need to hear that I’m not alone, not really, in any of this.

————————–

“You told me goodbye, how was I to know
you didn’t mean goodbye, you meant please don’t let me go?”

-Grateful Dead, High Time

I’d been feeling pretty overwhelmed, this much I was aware of. The collective works of Auggie Doggie and Alex meant that my home was destroyed about 20 seconds after I’d painstakingly reached down–not so easy with a burgeoning belly– to clean up the shreds of (insert destroyable substance here). I’d petitioned loudly to find Auggie a new home, but my cries were loudly drown out by promises of puppy school and a better behaved dog (neither of which has happened, I feel I must disclose).

And I couldn’t really see how giving up Alex was going to help anything. But with him napping at most for 2 hours a day on a really, really good day, I’m still unable to catch much of a break from the perils of toddlerhood during the day. Sure, I might joke about it now and again, but Alex is easily one of the busiest and most intense children I know. Which is exhausting. Simply exhausting.

Dave works a job that make other women with small children cringe. His hours are intense, he commutes about an hour each way and is beholden to the Almighty Train Schedule, and what I mean by intense is that his hours are insane. He’s easily gone before the kids are up and back after they’re in bed. I joke that I’m a single parent during the week, because, well, I am.

After some major thing was passed by some governing body somewhere, he had to scramble madly to suddenly take care of something brand-spankin’ new and important…

(aside here: it’s ALL important, top priority where he works. At least, in their heads. As someone who is at least TRAINED to handle life threatening emergencies, I find it absurd.)

…which happened to eat up most of the weekends for the past month or so. And the nights AFTER he comes home. And pretty much any time I might have needed his help with something as simple as “watching the kids so I can shower” or “carrying large baskets of laundry up the stairs.” It’s uncanny and Big Brother-like his job is with picking THOSE moments to require his immediate attention.

But, his job is what allows me NOT to use my training in life threatening emergencies (since I hate it) to earn a living, and for the most part, he really, really likes it.

After fusing my eyelids shut by crying so intensely this weekend (and after Dave was called to work for yet another day off, in which I had such un-fun, yet necessary things that required his help like Going To The Grocery Store, and Buying Gigantic Underwear planned), I realized that something had, indeed, given, just like I’d wanted.

Problem was, it was my sanity.

All of those things, all of these things plus everything I haven’t mentioned here has been nothing but additive to my situation. While I’d occasionally try and subtract something, it never helped, primarily because I never have been able to determine what it was that I could safely subtract.

Sure, I could not feed the (dogs, cats, rabbits, kids) but it wasn’t really THEIR fault that I had no one to help me out. Plus, with the exception of the rabbit, the rest of them would merely follow me around, getting underfoot until I tripped over them and fell SPLAT! on my large ass.

I think we’re going to hire a nanny or a babysitter for a couple hours a day for me so that I can actually do such chores that require me to go from the main floor to the other floors of the house without Alex having an abject temper tantrum (Ben had the Terrible Threes, Alex seems to have started with the Terrible Ones. This bodes ill.).

But, as anyone who has been overwhelmed (underwhelmed?) and feeling remarkably unstable knows, things like this, which are a process, not an event, can feel remarkably daunting when faced with all the steps to get from here to there. Stupid platitudes like “one day at a time” (something I’d normally appreciate) don’t really work right now, since I’m not sure how I’m going to make it through the next hour, let alone an entire day.

I started back on my Vitamin W yesterday, and while I can’t say I’m feeling loads better already, I’m glad I’ve taken a positive step towards getting better. After all, January is a long way off, and I’m pretty sure that new babies aren’t known for easing responsibilities, right?

Oh well. At least I’m lactating for her already. How sexy is that?

As anyone who really knows me knows, I’m not really one to talk about “My Feelings.” Hell, typing that simple word there, the one any 3-year-old sings about, makes me squeamish. I’d prefer that I don’t have them at all, truth be told, let alone mentioning to people–some complete strangers no less–that I might have feelings other than “happy,” “sad,” “sleepy,” or “I want a fucking cheeseburger.” Potentially a side of “I need a damn nap” as well somewhere in there.

So when I struggle with something, I tend to downplay it. I don’t often get into the nitty-gritty of what’s goin’ on to even my best friends, I don’t have long and detailed discussions with Daver about whatever issues there may be floating around in my head, and I certainly don’t want to admit it to myself. It’s like I somehow imagine that if I don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist. Besides, who wants to listen to someone whine about their life?

This was how I got through months and months of living in a weepy, postpartum depression world after Alex was born (and never went to sleep again) before seeking treatment. And after I started my Vitamin W (Wellbutrin), I was seriously pissed at myself for not admitting my problem sooner. I gained nothing by staying silent, and the person who paid the highest price was me.

Before Alex was born, however, I struggled mightily with something even less talked about than postpartum depression: PRE-partum depression.

I spent most of the months I was pregnant with Alex after struggling to get pregnant with him in the first place, completely and utterly miserable. I worried and I fretted about each and every twinge, each and everyTHING I could think of. Most of those 9 long months were spent with me sitting on the couch feeling downright despondent, disturbed, depressed; certain that I wouldn’t get my happy ending after all. That my feelings of panic and dread were something MORE than a symptom of depression in my addled brain.

So when I got pregnant this time, I stayed on my Vitamin W until I was rudely informed by one of the OB’s in my practice that I’d be seeing the HIGH RISK OB if I continued on it. Not-so-shockingly, I decided to rough it out on my own until I couldn’t any longer.

Most of this time, I’ve been okay. Truthfully okay.

It wasn’t until Daver had a bit of a nervous breakdown at the end of August that I realized how thinly the string holding me together had become. It’s been a really, really hard year for me. No, that’s not quite true, let me rephrase that: it’s been a year that’s tested me. It’s been non-stop: my dad’s heart attack, my post-partum depression, Steph’s death, the two miscarriages, then this pregnancy that I never accepted would make it, then Dave’s breakdown.

I guess I only have so much to give anyone, and it’s all been taken. And I’m left sitting here and struggling, much like I did with Alex. I absolutely have my hackles raised, I’m going to see how long I can tough it out with this wee one still inside before I consider going back on my meds.

I’m thrilled by this baby, so very thrilled. I love my life, I love my husband (most of the time), and I’m tickled constantly (literally AND figuratively) by my two children. And I was so afraid to mention how I’ve been struggling BECAUSE I know that someone will misinterpret what I’m saying and twist it around to remind me of how lucky I really am.

Which is something that I already know: I have most everything in the world I’ve ever wanted. How many people do you know that honestly feel that way?

And I went back and forth with talking about this here. It’s a public forum, and while I don’t often worry about what I would say–people who I haven’t exactly peed roses about here may not understand WHY I feel like I do about them, but I tell The Truth According to Aunt Becky and I stick by it–I know this isn’t the same type of posts you normally get from me. Which will piss some people off.

But I’m telling The Truth because someone has to. Since those women went nuts and killed their kids, there’s been a huge push to get the word out about PPD (postpartum depression), which is good. People SHOULD know about it.

Pre-partum depression is rarely discussed, tho. Women don’t talk about it openly, lest they be branded as “ungrateful” or my personal favorite “unfit to be a mother.” Instead, those who suffer from pre-partum depression suffer alone and in silence about it. Because if you don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist, right?

Don’t believe me? Do a google search for the term “prepartum depression.” Most of what comes up are other blog posts about it. It’s out there, it’s just swept under the rug.

So this is me, your Aunt Becky, telling you, that this exists. And it hurts. And it’s hard. And I’m struggling right now. I’ll make it through, of course I will, it’s what I do, but for now, for right now, I’m hurting.

And now I’m encouraging you, my faithful readers, to share YOUR Truth without hiding from it. The Truth can be ugly; it can be not-fun to admit; but sharing it is a Very Good Thing. Besides the uncle pervy’s out there who find my site looking for “cheeseburger crotch” and “excess skin balls,” I’m damn certain that someone will find this post, someone also struggling during what is supposed to be the happiest time of your life.

And to you, I tell you definitively that you are not alone.

When I was pregnant with Ben, all I wanted (and thought) about was how much I really wanted to have a baby girl. I was beyond floored that my child was a boy, when I saw his twig and dangle-berries floating merrily in his sea of amniotic fluid. And I’d be lying if I told you that it was an easier mindset to frame.

See, when you have a baby with a man you hate, the last thing you want is a son that may turn out just like him. I wanted the son, sure, but did I really want one JUST LIKE HIS FATHER? I guess it’s kinda hard to explain unless you’ve been through it.

When the ultrasound tech asked me if I wanted to know what I was having when I was pregnant with Alex, I can honestly tell you that I was Zen with either result. Over the 5 years between them, I’d gotten over cleaning the privates (very, very different and weird), gotten over the ugly clothes, and started to embrace all things boy. But I was indifferent with the result of our humpin’. Providing the baby was healthy, I was okay with either gender.

And when we got pregnant this time, after my two-in-a-row miscarriages, I spent the first many weeks pretending that I was not, in fact, pregnant. Mainly so that I could safely function for the rest of my family, rather than be consumed with worry.

While I was thrilled when the US tech pronounced this baby healthy three weeks before Thursday, since we had to go BACK for the heart and brain views, I still worried. I mean, it’s not like a child can live without those, right? And when she said that I MIGHT (but don’t do any shopping–she warned) be having a girl, I suddenly realized that this, THIS was what I had wanted.

I’m sure that I’d wanted it all along, the daughter to my other two sons, but I don’t know that I ever admitted it to myself. What good was hoping for something so out of my control that it’s laughable? I know that there are ways to do this, but I was pretty happy taking my chances.

It wasn’t until she told me that I might be having a girl (or at least a penile-y challenged boy) that I realized just how MUCH I’d wanted it. I wanted it so much that I’d see little girls during that three week wait and hope furiously that I wouldn’t be the creepy older woman secretly mourning not having produced a daughter.

So when immediately after putting the goop and the transducer on my belly, she said, “Looks like you ARE having a daughter” I might have cried a little. Perhaps more than a little. Being someone that rarely cries in the absence of physical pain, this shocked me.

Several long minutes later, having pronounced my daughter the picture of help, the Sausages were allowed back to see their sister.

Ben had been secretly pining for a sister, too, so this was incredibly welcome news. He was so tickled that the formerly cold US tech offered him not only his own picture, but a frame to put it in (Thank you, Similac!).

Even Alex stopped his normal wiggly antics to sit in silence in Dave’s arms while he was shown His Baby. Then, once Dave lovingly put the picture of Ben’s new baby into the frame, Alex promptly stole it and wandered around the waiting room to show the roomful of patients “his baby.”

Looks like The Sausages are all pretty excited about the new addition. Which I’ll savor for as long as THAT lasts.

And I haven’t stopped shopping long enough to eat, which is really saying something. Any ideas where I can get some decent girl clothes that don’t have “princess” written on them? Or look like they’re designed for miniature strippers?

The forecast today?

Sunny with a chance of PINK.

Looks like we’re having a girl. My wallet is aching already.