I hate Kansas, have I mentioned that? The band, not the state. It’s one of those kinda irrelevant details that most people probably wouldn’t know about me. The capitol of Illinois is Springfield, the square root of 4 is 2, and Aunt Becky hates 70’s ass rock bands.

I mean, I loves me MANY ass rock bands–The Scorpions come to mind here and I have to giggle because, well, obviously–just as much as anyone else on the planet, perhaps more, but somehow most of the Bands Named After States or Cities That Came Out In The 70’s tend to grate on my nerves.

Well, that and Rush. I hate Rush even more than I hate Kansas and last I checked, they’re not named after any city or state. Unless it’s the State of Suckiness! ZING!

(Paradoxically, I love Super Tramp. Which makes no sense whatsoever, I’m aware.)

But my eternal hatred of Kansas, which started when I was in 7th or 8th grade and my boyfriend professed that he loved “Dust in the Wind,” a song whose corn-ball factor approaches the top of my Corniness factor (also on the top of that list: “More Than Words,” “Everything I Do (I Do It For You),” and my personal favorite: “Winds of Change.”), my disdain for Kansas abruptly stopped on November 1st.

November 1st is Callum’s birthday. Callum is my friend C’s son, who was born still on November 1st. To commemorate this day, C has partnered with a company called HipMelon who make and design super sassy slings (alliteration much?).

To honor sweet Callum, HipMelon and C designed a sling called “Carry On My Wayward Son.” HipMelon Baby Wear will donate the full purchase price of all Carry on My Wayward Son slings purchased to stillbirth research in the name of Callum, son to HipMelon founder, C, who was born still at 34 weeks gestation on November 1, 2007.

Carry on, sweet boy. Carry on.

So, all week long, “Carry On My Wayward Son,” has been playing on repeat in the back of my brain. Shockingly, I DID NOT TRY AND STAB MY EARDRUM WITH A PENCIL. In fact, thinking of how it might now remind me of Callum, I sort of liked it.

I figured I’d order the sling, wear Amelia while remembering Callum, and feel good about myself for donating to stillbirth research. It was a win-win situation.

Until all of C’s other friends ordered up all of the “Carry On My Wayward Son” slings.

Because HipMelon is such a cool company, they have decided to donate the full purchase price of any sling purchased by C’s friends; ANY OF THESE SWEET ASS SLINGS, for the whole month of November, to stillbirth research. If you want to be a part of this, make sure to let Cheryl know at checkout that you came via My Resurfacing (C’s blog).

It’s a great cause, and it’s a practical gift. I am planning on ordering “Flowers In The Attic” for myself, because it’s flipping cool. I will proudly wear it, and I will remember Callum, and all of the other babies born still.

So, C, it looks like you were able to change my mind on the whole “Kansas Doesn’t Always Suck Now” thing, but you can’t take away my hatred of Rush.

So don’t even try.

A couple of years ago, shortly after I got pregnant with Alex and was subsequently puking my balls off (making my commute dangerous), Dave and I made an executive decision: I would stay home with our kid (s). It was helped along by the fact that although I was working in the least nursing related field in nursing–insurance/hospice management–and was still miserable. It seemed that no matter how I tried to parcel it into nice and cutely wrapped packages, I was bound to hate being a nurse.

Which made me a beast to live with.

Dave, on the other hand had and still has a job that he loves. Mostly. It’s in finance, which means that the hours are insane and the stress is high, but for those who love it, they LOVE it. Like they might marry their jobs would that not be creepy. Or maybe he already has and I wasn’t invited to the wedding.

Either way, it’s the arrangement that makes the most sense to us all.

But it doesn’t always mean that we have to like it this way.

Here’s where I’m going to start pissing people off. Forewarned is forearmed after all.

(Complete side note: why is it that when a blogger dares to express a personal sentiment, they get shit on? It seems like every time I post something wherein I whine like a bitch, people jump down my throat. It happens to all of us, but I still don’t get it. Anyone care to explain why it needs to be rubbed in my face that I appear to not always be grateful for everything?)

I’m a reluctant parent. No, no, I don’t mean that I didn’t want to be a parent, that’s not true in the slightest. Parenthood is just something that sort of fell into my lap, a choice made when I impossibly got pregnant at age 20, and it’s not one I regret. But it is one that came with many personal sacrifices.

I gave up my dreams to pursue a career in medicine, whether it would have happened or not is irrelevant, the point is that I had to make a conscious choice to choose something more practical. Unfortunately, the more practical option: nursing, made me miserable. It’s not a field one can just grin and bear it in, not at potential litigious expense, and not at the expense of my health (I have permanent knee damage from lifting a morbidly obese bed-ridden patient), physical or mental.

I stuck it out because that’s what responsible people do, and I did it so that I could sufficiently support my son on my own. I wasn’t going to (much to my disappointment) become a trophy wife, and I always wanted to know that no matter what, I’d be able to support myself and my family. Alone.

The plan, as Daver and I hatched it, was that I would go back to school after my kids were in school, to pursue my true passion: basket weaving virology. I’d done the Parenting While In School gig and it was really more than I could handle, so I opted not to do that again. Instead, I’d have a couple more crotch parasites, spend some time with them as a mother, not just as a figure rushing in and out of their lives on her way to class.

Which is precisely what I’ve done. And I’ve done it by choice. Complete choice and absolutely by my own design. And I’m perfectly aware that I’m all kinds of fortunate for being able to make this decision as a choice, not out of necessity.

But just because it is a) the most logical choice, b) my OWN choice and c) working out the best for all of us doesn’t mean that I have to always like it.

Or does it?

I’ve been knocked down now and again for daring to be anything less than 100% thrilled by the fact that my sole job, my only real responsibility, is to keep my children healthy, happy, and safe. Well, that and care for all the animals we’ve amassed, make sure the house runs smoothly, cook (stop laughing, you in the peanut gallery), clean, and otherwise sit around on my ass blogging.

Unfortunately, and what the people who have been angry with me for complaining about do not know, is that it doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for personal satisfaction anywhere in there. Sure, I can (and often do) manage to blog during the day most days, and that is something I take some pride in, but I don’t have much else in the way of Other Interests.

Daver and I were talking about this a couple of weeks ago, and he asked me if I really had any other hobbies I’d wanted to pursue. Once I stopped laughing (because, hello, stamp collecting? SO not my thing), I looked at him seriously and reminded him that no, of course I do not, because what would be the point? I’d get interrupted so frequently that I’d be more annoyed than anything else if I even tried doing something I couldn’t just put down when someone else demanded to be picked up.

It sounds more pathetic than it is, I swear.

But the question remains and it bothers me to no end: am I really supposed to love my “job” every single day of my life?

I know that my working friends–be they parents or not–don’t love their jobs every day. They have crappy bosses, crappy benefits, shitty hours, annoying coworkers, and work that they don’t always want to do. And I’d never feel the need to criticize when they complain about that.

But if I have a bad day, even without it being a truly BAD day (read: emergency room visit), I feel as though I had best keep it to myself. So what I’m sick with whatever the kid has? At least you’re home and not in the office. So what if you just want to take a poo by yourself? At least you’re at home and not in the office. So what if you’re biggest accomplishment is getting through the whole day without wanting to murder someone? At least you’re home.

I’m not picking on my working friends, especially those with kids. I’ve been in the situation where I was a working mother, too, and I know that you’re merely trading one set of problems for another. I know just how much it hurts to leave your child day in and day out in the care of someone else. I know how much you cry when you miss out on some important milestone.

I guess that I just don’t know how to rectify the feelings within myself (and truth be told, others too) that I can’t possibly have anything to complain about now that I stay at home with my kids. It’s not like I want a bronzed statue of myself put into the downtown area as World’s Greatest Martyr, but I could stand to feel as though I have a right to not have not-so-rosy feelings.

Or maybe it IS just me.

Some time in 2004 right before nursing school started for me again, I went to the eye doctor, with, among other things (like the ever-popular glaucoma test), the intent of getting a new pair of glasses. While in 3rd grade, getting new glasses was totally Full Of The Awesome, much like my spatter paint scruntchie* (complete with matching oversized shirt!!), it kind of loses it’s luster after 20 odd years.

I went alone because, well, it’s boring and dull and I can totally drive after they dilate your eyes because I’ve been doing it since Jesus was my classmate and I rode a dinosaur to school while wearing my hyper-color t-shirt.

Given the choice to come back at a more suitable time, let’s say, oh I don’t know, maybe when I could have actually read something that wasn’t on the floor or twenty plus feet away from me, I opted for the Wrong Way.

Two paths lay before me and I chose the one WRONG TRAVELED.

Door Number WRONG.

Oh yes. I decided to pick out a pair of glasses while my eyes were dilated. Alone.

They looked pretty cute on, I was completely convinced, my hazy recollection being one of looking extra-specially adorable, with the slightest touch of studiousness. I marched up to the surly cashier lady, ordered them happily, pink tint to the lens, per usual (cue rose colored glasses jokes now) and went back a week later to collect them.

I walked jauntily into the store, sat down at the counter and gave them my last name.

I waited a couple of minutes, marveling all of the ugly glasses that the store carried. We had the Iranian Taxi Driver Glasses, made so popular by white men with handlebar mustaches in the late 70’s/early 80’s (my father himself favored them).

Then there was the rack of the HUGE late 80’s/early 90’s school marm hexagonal pink glasses made famous by Sally Jesse Rafael and worn by women and children for long enough to be immortalized in many a class picture. I mused about how fortunate I’d been to escape that trend somehow.

I laughed to myself, chuckling about how my taste was eversomuch better than other patrons, congratulating myself HEARTILY for my awesome choices in glasses.

The smiling clerk returned after digging through a large bin of new glasses and handed me my prize. I greedily opened the package, hardly glancing at the frames before shoving them onto my face.

I looked eagerly into the strategically placed mirror and my happy, expectant look was quickly replaced by one of horror. The big black plastic frames, the angular edges, the thick frames all winked merrily, reflecting the sodium lights above me.

They carefully, thoughtfully, emotionally reflected one gigantic loser.

I had accidentally bought EMO GLASSES! How, oh HOW did I buy EMO GLASSES? These were popular among the whiny college rock bands who sing deep and meaningful songs about deep and meaningful feelings and EMOtions. These were things that I not only openly mocked, but things I openly mocked OFTEN.

“Oh no,” I whispered to no one in particular. “How did I do this?”

Now I had to WEAR EMO GLASSES! IN PUBLIC!

I shuffled away, tail between my legs back to show my (now) husband/then-boyfriend who was happily scarfing down a couple of bagels at Panera.

His eyes widened like saucers as I approached, whether is was my dirge-like march or the glasses now adorning my face and I slid into the booth across from him. Being the terrible liar that he is when I asked what he thought, he said diplomatically, “They’re…nice.” But his eyes told me the truth.

I looked like Lisa Loeb.

Possibly Waldo.

Well, I told myself as I bit off a chunk of his bagel and chewed bitterly, at least they finally fucking found Waldo.

——————-

*If spattter paint shirts come back into fashion please, PLEASE put me out of my misery. PLEASE, Internet?

I stood hunched over the sink for what had to have been close to twenty minutes, while I celebrated my entry into the homestretch of my pregnancy. In that sink, I created a horror scene that would rival any low budget slasher movie, and I was sort of sad that Halloween had passed.

You see, an oft ignored side effect of pregnancy is that you can still get your period. Only it comes out your nose. And since I’ve been getting chronic bloody noses since I was a wee lass, I get them especially bad.

It’s finally stopped, as even I’m not a die hard enough blogger to type a post out while hemorrhaging out my nostrils, mainly because I might ruin the computer with my spattering blood.

Oh yes, it was that bad.

Well, couple the now-stuffy nose with the “I just lost a fucking ton of blood volume and woozy” and add in the fact that I’m suddenly very short of breath–and thereby panting–as my lungs are being compressed by my fetus due to my lack of torso, and you have the ultimate recipe for Hotness.

I’m sitting here on the couch, reclining slightly, slack jawed and panting, obviously a fucking ton of bricks short of a load, and I can’t help but laugh that at one point, my husband saw fit to knock me up. Hehe. Poor guy didn’t know the depths of Ultimate Hotness he’d see his lovely wife turn into.

And by Ultimate Hotness, I mean Slothy and Mouth Breathing.

*Remembering to post to NaBloWhatever every day. For some reason, this seemed easier last year. Perhaps I was cooler back then.

*Keeping my house clean. I’d like nothing more than to be able to clean the vents that taunt me from my ass-grove-worn couch. Honestly, sitting and staring at the mess makes you bonkers.

*Cooking any meals. I’ve never been a culinary genius–nor would I want to be–but I seem to have a hard time figuring out what to feed four picky people who eat at two separate times. Times separated by a two or more hour window. I admit to feeling some guilt over this.

*Using Target-brand diapers on my wee son. Who seems to break out into a rash the moment I buy a box, while I chant (mostly in my head. Mostly): “It’s 7 whole dollars cheaper!” Apparently, his ass cheeks don’t listen OR CARE about ways to save money.

*Thinking about the holidays without hyperventilating. My family is zero stress (no, seriously) and we gave up travel once Alex was born, and yet I cannot seem to let go of the feeling that I want to stamp my feet (okay, my non-busted foot) and yell, “didn’t we JUST do this?” every time I see a Christmas tree display.

*Getting out and about. I’m starting to feel like I’m in an imposed period of rest BEFORE the baby makes her debut. If I’d informed my old self that I was going to be required to rest most of the time (whenever possible) before this baby came, I’d probably have tongue kissed myself. Which, *shudder, shudder* yeah. It sucks much harder ass than you’d imagine being stuck at the mercy of any other adult who might help you out to the store.

*Carrying Alex up and down the stairs for his (lack of) naps. I’m starting to longingly look at those elevator thingies you can put in your house for wheelchair access. Next thing you know, I’ll be begging Daver for a Hooverround just to make it to the bathroom.

What do you suck at doing these days?

After writing this post in my head the night before (what? You’re not as obsessed with blogging while off the computer as I am?), I realized that there was a wealth of things pregnancy, baby and childhood related I wish that people had told me before I wasted my time/effort/money on doing otherwise.

Then again, if someone HAD told me, I probably wouldn’t have listened. Because I’m stubborn AND crazy.

I now present to you a new list, for all you list-a-holics out there, and I encourage any and everyone to add to it as they see fit. And any new parents-to-be can disregard this as I would have.

Aunt Becky’s Guide To Buying Baby Crap:

1) The minute you go and register at one of the bigger baby stores, you will inexplicably start registering for stuff you will never use.

2) In fact, at least 80% of baby gear that you purchase or oogle in the store will be unused by you once the baby is hear and AFTER you have gotten rid of the receipt.

3) You can never have too many onsies or footed jammies.

4) Trying to put a baby who cannot walk yet into an outfit involving jeans and a t-shirt, is like trying to hold onto one of those slippery water-filled tubes that you give kids. Or perhaps it’s just a phenomenon with fat kids, like mine were.

5) It may also look exquisitely stupid if your child is built like Mr. Potato Head, like mine both were. But you won’t realize it at the time. Only after you look at pictures will you truly see what he or she looked like. And be ashamed of yourself.

6) Most of the gimicky things you see at the baby stores are useless BUT SEEM LIKE A GOOD IDEA. Or they require more brain power than someone who isn’t sleeping more than 2 hours at a stretch can provide.

7) A good rule of thumb is that if it requires many pieces to use OR many REFILLABLE pieces to use, it’s not worth it. Unless you have a miracle child who sleeps through the night, remembering to go online (because you can never get it in the store), recall WHAT the refill piece is called, correctly identify and purchase said item BEFORE you run out, isn’t gonna happen.

8) Having used both the Diaper Dekor and the Diaper Genie, I can tell you that neither is as simple as using a trash can with a lid. Both of mine began to smell WITHOUT a single diaper in it when I finally gave them up.

9) Even is you decide to cloth diaper, it’s probably wise to buy a pack of disposable diapers to have on hand JUST IN CASE. If you don’t use ’em, you can easily donate them to a shelter.

10) (this one kills me to write) Decorating the nursery isn’t as useful as you think it would be, because you rarely spend QUALITY time in there until the child is older. And when the child is older, he (or she) may decide that they’d like a CARS themed room, not a Winnie The Poo room. I’d never tell you NOT to do it, I’d just not spend the baby’s college fund on it.

11) Those flipping adorable crib sets of bumpers, sheets, a crib skirt and a moblie that cost approximately the down payment on a house (I oogled one before I realized it was a thousand dollars. Which is more than I spend on my OWN bedding. I then became scared that I might have broken the stuff and would have to buy it) are a lot of fun to look at and set up. But, sadly, you cannot use bumpers in a crib. Well, I suppose you CAN, but it increases the risks of SIDS. So not worth it.

12) Swings are either the work of a delicate wonderful angel or a minion of the devil depending on which baby you ask.

13) Even if you’re totally planning to breast feed, buy a stack of bottles and pacifiers ahead of time. JUST IN CASE. Before you sick the LLL on me, let me remind you that just because YOU’RE certain you wouldn’t need it, your BABY may have other ideas. I tried desperately to nurse Ben, who, later, was determined to be autistic WITH MASSIVE SENSORY ISSUES. You can imagine how much HE wanted to latch on (read: never).

14) It wouldn’t hurt to buy some formula too. Just a can or so, JUST IN CASE. Worst case scenario? Give it all to a shelter and roll your eyes at how very wrong I was. I will happily be wrong here and admit it.

(trust me, you don’t want to find out a 4 AM that you have to send someone else out to buy formula. It’s an over-the-top job for someone who has no idea what he or she is looking for.)

15) Never, NEVER buy a used car seat from someone that you don’t know. If a car seat is in an accident, it’s structure can be badly damaged and may not protect YOUR baby in the event of a crash. And that is not something I’d ever fuck around with.

16) You can never have enough blankets or washcloths.

17) Stuffed animals are horrible dust-catchers. I don’t mean that they’re HORRIBLE, just that they seem to attract dust. Which sucks if you have a kid who is allergic to stuff and things because you’ll have to dump ’em. Again, you’re not supposed to put them in the crib with the baby. SIDS and the like.

18) Don’t spazz about being 100% totally prepared by the time you go into labor. Picking up crap you forgot can be something EASILY tasked to the family flocking your house post-delivery.

All right, what did I miss, people? I know I didn’t tag it all.

While I’m not quite there yet, I’m getting dangerously close to third trimester territory. Hell, for all I know I could be in it already. Pregnancy math confounds even Calc 2 passin’ me, and depending on where I go for information, I can get any number of answers. So rather than sweat it, I’m just gonna roll with it (baby), and sometime within the next couple weeks say that I’m “in my third trimester” to the rando’s that ask.

Shockingly, no one has asked me if I’m pregnant with twins yet. Or made any other disparaging remarks. I suppose their stares say it all, right?

NEARING my third trimester now, I’ve been nesting like crazy, but without actually being able to do anything about it. Instead, I think about all the things I’d really LIKE to do to nest properly and sigh because for one reason or another, I cannot.

Take for example the nursery. Also known as Alex’s bedroom. Alex of the “horrible sleeper” variety. Here’s where bedroom math gets complicated (and also where I ask you again, What Would The Internet Do?):

Our upstairs has three bedrooms:

A huge master bedroom. Obviously ours. And ridiculously oversized, to the point where I seriously wonder what the shit the architect was thinking. I could easily fit an entire living rooms set in the empty space in that room. Which annoys me because…

The Nursery. It’s approximately the size and shape of a closet. It does fit the crib, a glider rocker and an armoire, but it’s seriously the armpit bedroom of the house. It works well as a nursery because as any seasoned parent knows, babies don’t spend a lot of time in their preciously decorated nursery. It’s also where Alex sleeps currently.

Ben’s room. It’s a decent sized bedroom, probably SHOULD be a little bigger (if I could only redesign the floor plan of my upstairs…).

Our “4th” bedroom is in the basement, and located in what I call the Teenager’s Lair. While I suppose we could move Ben down there now, it seems weird to have him so far away from us.

Which brings us to the Bedroom Math.

I don’t particularly care to put Amelia in our bedroom except for perhaps the first couple of months. Why? Because I hate sneaking around a sleeping baby, and Alex’s (lack of) proper baby sleeping has made me incredibly gun shy of disturbing the molecules in the air around a sleeping child.

We’re planning on moving Alex into Ben’s room as soon as we get another crib, because they sleep for roughly the same amount of time at night. There are several issues with this:

*Ben is unbelievably scatter-brained. I can tell him to “please be quiet” when he goes upstairs, and he IS quiet for about 25 seconds, before he starts singing loudly, banging around, and generally making my blood pressure rise.

*Alex and Ben do not go to bed at exactly the same time every night, which means that unless I can make sure Ben is asleep BEFORE I put Alex (a.k.a. Mr. Crappy Sleeper) to bed, I’m dealing with Ben banging around like the heard of thundering elephants only a 7 year old boy can mimic and waking Alex up.

*Ditto for the morning.

Sadly, Alex being the not-amazing sleeper he is, can’t share the nursery with his sister, which would be the best alternative, because of the sleeping issue. New babies get up a lot and I don’t need my not-so-new baby up and about WITH his sister. Because I will totally nurse a baby, but I draw the line at nursing my (nearly) two year old, who has been weaned since he was a year.

I’m not quite sure if there’s any better arrangement to be had, but I’d love to hear what The Internet has to suggest. Or perhaps you have a suggestion as to how I can virtually nest, so as to alleviate some of this unharnessed energy (while I am supposed to be letting my foot heal and REST, dammit.). Or maybe you’d like to come to my house and help me nest! I’d pay you in Halloween candy and beer and the pleasure of my (chubby) company!

Long before I’d really experienced any sort of real loss, likely before I’d experienced any losses at all (except for perhaps the loss of a My Little Pony or three), I remember reading or hearing that death causes you to lose people in small ways for a long time rather than BOOM! all at once. I don’t have any idea why this stuck in my memory banks for any reason at all, but it has, and the older I get, the more I realize it’s true.

I was driving back from voting today, marveling at how this Indian Summer we’re having makes the warm breeze feel stolen and therefore better, I was noting how the trees were finally the shocking orange and red of fall, and suddenly as I was flipping through the radio stations, it came on.

‘It’ being the crappy 70’s song “Low Rider.”

Between the beautiful fall weather, which always makes me feel nostalgic, the fact that I saw in person my signature from 1998, the year I turned 18 and voted proudly for the first time, and the sudden funky rifts of “Low Rider,” I inhaled sharply and had to remind myself that the year was 2008, not 1998.

And it was remembering how I stole my friend Steph’s copy of the soundtrack of Dazed and Confused and never returned it. How she and I would cruise around in my Honda DelSol, hard top off no matter how cold it happened to be, smoking cigarettes and reeking of Opium perfume, while we jammed out to “Low Rider.” We’d laugh about how my tiny car would be our coffin in the case of a crash.

If any car could have a soundtrack, that one would be War’s “Low Rider” cranked to 11.

Those were good days, back then, back when our biggest worries were if we had enough smokes or cash to grab a cup of coffee. Back before anyone was addicted to anything besides nicotine and caffeine and potentially The Rolling Stones. Back before we had ex-boyfriends, or SURPRISE! children, or welfare stamps.

As I drove home, I wished desperately that Steph could be here, here on Earth, if not with me, to appreciate what an absolutely fucking beautiful day it was today. Because while other people might be rushing around too much, too obsessed with the election to notice how glorious it simply is today, she would have.

It made me so sad to realize that I can never hear “Low Rider”–potentially the world’s corniest and least sentimental song–again without feeling a deep sense of longing for my friend whose bones will never hear it again. I’ll never be able to smell Opium perfume without being harshly jangled back to the Good Old Days which, of course, as teenagers, we never realized WERE good old days, without wanting to cry for my friend. Who will never douse herself in it again. I’ll never be able to appreciate the true beauty of a stolen late fall day without being reminded that she’ll never again feel the breeze rippling across her skin.

Today, I will listen to “Low Rider” in honor of Steph, who should be here listening along side me.

Maybe, just maybe, she is.

It’s day three of NaBloWhatever and already I’ve begun to suspect that I’ve made a major mistake in signing up for it. Sure, I could simply NOT DO IT but then I would probably beat myself up for saying I would do something that I DIDN’T do. I’m not only stubborn, but stupid too. And a healthy dash of neurotic mixed in. Feel sorry for The Daver. I do.

Part of the problem is that I normally post during the daytime hours–which have been dreadfully shortened thanks to DST, that wily jerk–and my blog was down during those hours. It’s encroaching on 4:30 here and it’s getting dark out. Which inhibits my writing mojo. Because I’m the anti-vampire?

But I digress…

Last week, I got a bee in my proverbial bonnet (because seriously, I haven’t had an actual bonnet since I was a baby) about sending Alex to preschool for toddlers several mornings a week. I cheerfully looked up the area churches figuring that Dave’s early life in the church could probably hold enough sway to admit my son. And I came to one of many impasses: it appears that not only is my son too young to be admitted to their programs (he has to be 2), he must be potty trained.

Which, hahaha.

Right.

Moving on to Plan B: a couple mornings a week at a local (chain) daycare.

It wasn’t my first choice (hence the Plan B), but I figured that toddlers were toddlers and he’d be able to work off some of that energy a couple of hours a week. And even (praise Jesus!) maybe even take an ever-loving nap once in awhile. Because I have THAT KID, the one who doesn’t nap, ever.

Let’s just go ahead and say he sucks at the whole sleeping thing. Still.

And as anyone who has had a high-energy toddler knows, sometimes a couple hours a week WITHOUT said toddler truly makes even the coldest of hearts (read: mine) grow fonder. He’s just so BUSY and I’m just so GIMPY and he’s bored and I could just use a damn break from him.

So, Friday morning, before my OB appointment, Daver, Alex and I trooped off to the daycare center where I learned several things:

1) Holy SHNIKES is it expensive. I know you’re not supposed to discuss costs or anything because it’s considered rude and low-brow, but holy SHIT is it expensive.

2) All of the toddlers were dwarfed by my mammoth son, who I didn’t even realize was large.

3) All of the toddlers were sick.

THEREFORE:

Now Alex and I are both sick. We have a nasty cold, nothing that’ll leave a permanent mark or anything, but it bodes ill for the coming months.

I have a pretty crappy immune system anyway, always have, so I usually catch pretty much any and everything that the (Big) kid brings home. So, if I enroll him in daycare several mornings a week, it’s pretty much a given that we’ll be sick the entire time. While not the end of the world, it certainly sucks to be sick without the ability to imbibe the Green Death Flavored NyQuil and sleep for 47 days straight.

And Alex isn’t exactly resting, and getting better, no, not MY son. He’s running around, crabby as hell, boogering on every available surface like the slime from Ghostbusters II but less pink, while still NOT sleeping.

So, my friends in the computer, whom I have pledged at least an hour (read: 10-15 minutes) a day for the next 30 days to, give me your wisdom.

What would The Internet do?

(Park district activities are not an option here. Sadly. Nor is sending him out to work, or to the bar. Damn toddler can’t even DRIVE yet.)

In a stunning fit of brilliance, or possibly sheer stupidity, I once again signed up for NaBloPoMo, or some such acronym. I’m not so smart as to remember which is which. Well, okay, so I’m just not that smart.

So, who is with me? Who has promised to post every mother-humping day for the entire month of November?

Anyone…Anyone?

Since I would feel lame doing my inaugural post about posting every month (is it just me or does that seem a bit…lacking?), I will give you a recent Ben story.

Before we transferred Ben away from the Hippie Nut Ban! school, he attended summer camp there. The phrase “summer camp” implies that it was more than just school during the summer, but it sounds fancier, doesn’t it? Well, either way, the teachers saw fit to discuss the election and the candidates with a group of children.

And while you know, someone believes children are our future, I’m still not quite certain what possessed them to do this. I mean, I do discuss such important issues as “what Dora REALLY puts in that backpack” and “which is better, a survey of milk versus yogurt.” But kids are young and impressionable enough (especially my own) to make whatever you say is right complete dogma. If I say “Dunkin’ Donuts coffee is the best on the planet,” HE’LL BELIEVE ME.

The power is mighty and fierce and must be wielded appropriately.

I had no real idea that they done this until a couple of weeks ago when we were casually driving along in the car and Ben pipes up from his car seat with “I want BarackObama to win.” His name, all one word, just like that.

Unsure as to what I’d heard him say, since we rarely discuss politics especially in front of someone who is, oh, I don’t know 7 years old (and autistic. And lacks a proper idea of most of the political issues. Or a working knowledge of the government), and extra-specially since I knew who I’d be voting for BEFORE all the campaigning began in earnest, I tentatively asked for some clarification. It was then when we learned that he’d been exposed to Election Fever at his Hippie Nut Ban! school.

Pleased that we’d all be campaigning for the same side, we left things as they were and occasionally Ben would see something about his beloved BarackObama and pipe up “HOORAY BARACKOBAMA! YOU’RE GREAT!” And conversely, “Boo! John McCain!” (I assure you that I do not shriek at the television unless Deal or No Deal or Engaged and Underage is on. Oh, come on. Just because you don’t admit it doesn’t mean that you don’t watch it. How can you not?)

Nickelodeon announced that the BarackObama was the Kid’s Pick The President Winner, and Ben mistakenly believed that the election was over. He rushed into the other room where I was hiding from Dora and Diego to tell me shriek at me of the news and for the briefest of brief moments, I incorrectly believed that the election was, in fact over.

Pipe dreams and all. But his victory dance/ass-shaking was hysterical and made the hard return to reality a little easier on the equilibrium.

So Friday, when the kids were out trick-or-treating in earnest, Ben met up with our next door neighbor who happen to have a John McCain proudly displayed on their lawn. I’ve never said boo about the sign to anyone, I’ve never commented on the sign in any way shape or form, in front of Ben or not. Neither, I’m positive, has Daver.

Ben came home a couple hours after he departed and inter-spliced with his rambles about candy, his class party and Storm-troopers, and which of our animals had a stinkier butt he made mention of our next door neighbor’s son. You see, HIS mother had been smart enough to sit outside on the porch stoop and pass out candy while I lounged about with my foot on ice on my nice comfy couch. Wait, perhaps *I* am the clever one after all.

And then he dropped the bombshell, “Can I still be friends with [next door neighbor’s son] if he votes for McCain?” I explained that not only was [next door neighbor’s son] a mere 3 years old and thereby incapable of voting, but that it did not matter one way or another how someone else voted.

Apparently he missed the memo (as did a whole fuck-ton of people) that the way someone votes does NOT dictate whom we can or cannot be friends with.

It was then that I knew in my bones that he must have said something in front of my next door neighbor about the sign, and I began to feel like Those People. The people who cannot be friends or neighbors with someone who votes the “wrong” way and insists that their children behave the same way.

I guess we didn’t get him out of that hippie Nut Ban! school soon enough.