I’m afraid we’re all stuck in a holding pattern, we of Casa de la Sausage, and I’m similarly afraid that it may lead us to kill one another. It’s like the whole house–including animals–senses that Something Really Big (and likely annoying) is about to happen and everyone has decided to exhibit their absolute worst behavior.

Ben, at age 7, is so full of The Dramatic that I may one day soon strangle him with his sassy lip. You think your toddler asking you “Why?” is annoying? Wait until it becomes a challenging “WHY” whenever you ask the fruit of your loins to do something like “turn off the television.” The “WHY” I now get isn’t a question, it’s a challenge, a la “WHY should I?” Charming.

Also charming is a note I received this morning from him. It states “I’m leving [sic]. I’m not kidding. Seriously.” This was upon realizing that we had locked the computer–after daring to limit his video game/boob tube time–this morning. Assholes.

And Alex, my Momma’s Boy Extraordinaire is almost two. How do I know this without knowing his birthday happens to be popping up at the end of March? Testing. Every single thing he does is to test how far he CAN do it. Like throwing all of his toys down the laundry chute after being told to cease and desist. While Ben went through this at about 3, Alex seems to be entering the Two’s Of Doom.

The cats, who despite being mostly adopted as adults, have gone from being Super Crazy Friendly to 11. Meaning, if you’re even thinking about sitting, standing still or are otherwise in the vicinity of perhaps being able to provide love, you’re pretty much wearing said cat(s). Since they don’t all get along, you can imagine how fun a cat fight is when you’re wearing them all. I love my cats and I’m thrilled that they’re all so earnest to be loved, but damn, sometimes a 20 pound cat smooshing against your body gets a little…cramped.

The dogs–no, we didn’t get rid of Auggie even though I’ve threatened it more times than I can count–are similarly aware that Something Is About To Happen. Which, in dog speak means that they insist upon following me around pretty much 24 by 7. Like last night, for example, when I tried to submerge my hippo-like body into the bath tub (a word to the wise: bathing gets complicated at 36+ weeks), they both sat at the bathroom door, which happened to be open a crack, in order to neurotically watch me.

The cats had split up at this point and one was in the bathroom with me, watching me try and shave my girly bits (didn’t work so well) and assumably laughing at my pathetic plight, while the other two sat behind the dogs, occasionally growling and hissing at each other or the dogs.

And forget having the slightest modicum of privacy while Taking Care of Business In The Bathroom. I have an entourage, including, but not limited to my children, my husband and all of the animals that do not live in cages. It’s no wonder my modesty evaporated years ago. Nothing says “I Love You” like dropping some dookes while talking about dinner-time plans.

Dave is fairing no better himself. Because he’s going to be taking time off when Amelia comes (please baby girl, come soon. I’ll buy you WHATEVER you want if you do), he cannot start any real projects at work, and since we’re all Just Waiting here, he’s having a terrible time really getting motivated to do much besides eat Kettle Corn and rub his belly. JUST LIKE ME!

Couvade, you’re a wily bastard.

And I’m, well, a mess, of course. I’m not sure who isn’t by this point in a pregnancy. I’m shaped remarkably like a daddy long legs right now, so my crotch is giving me the distinct impression that it’s actually trying to split itself in two pieces while my ribs are moaning and groaning by the fact that there’s a creature inside there trying to separate the two halves of their cage.

The act of putting on shoes or pants requires a forklift and an intricate set of blueprints, while I am suddenly beginning to swell up just like a puffer fish, and I’m pretty sure that if this goes on much longer, I might actually be mistaken for the Michelin Man. Or the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

And worst of all is that I’m bored and anxious and pretty damn feeble so I’m kind of stuck moaning and groaning and lying around hoping that each contraction will signal the start of labor. Which isn’t going to happen, of course, as my kids need to be dragged out kicking and screaming.

*sighs*

Help, Internet! This is Aunt Becky typing out a frantic SOS. Oh, and I’m learning from other blogs that it’s National De-lurking Day (or something) so go forth and de-lurk! How am I supposed to fill the days between now and the end of January?

Now it’s been quite a long while since I’ve dated, I feel I must admit this up front, rather than try to be all lookit me, I’m An Authority On Dating, see my credentials? Sure, I’ve dated men from television, hell, I’ve even married them, but I can tell you for certain that neither Mr. Bourdain or Mr. D’Onofrio has the slightest idea that an anonymous Midwestern girl is married to them. Probably for the better.

But I was talking with a good friend of mine last night about dates and dating and all of the assorted bullshit that goes along with it. Because at least 99.9% of it IS bullshit, only you don’t realize it at the time. This friend of mine has been a friend for the last 14 or so years, so it’s safe to say that we’ve been through a lot of that maturing process together.

We’ve also spent a inordinate amount of time talking about the motivations behind why Mr. Dickfore didn’t call. Maybe he got lost in Siberia and his cell phone had no reception at his grandmother’s funeral where his dad ran over his cat. But I’m sure he’s still into you. He’ll call, I swear.

When we were younger this was sport for us. We’d grab a pack of smokes, hit up the local diner and spend literally hours deciphering Why He Acted This Way. There was a modicum of fun involved, of course, but the desperation was mighty. And we weren’t exactly Losers with a capitol ‘L.’

Yet we couldn’t believe that anything about dating was as straightforward as it actually is. If a dude likes you, he’ll find the time to call no matter WHO died. If he wants to see you, HE WILL. If dating is enough work that you find yourself rehashing ad nauseum with your friends and logicating (why YES, I made up that word, thank you for noticing!) why he didn’t call/see you/showed up with another girl, it’s probably not worth it.

What bugs me the most is not the realization a la Sex In The City that he’s just really not that into you, but that I wasted so many fucking hours of my life obsessing over men who didn’t give a flying poo about me. I can only imagine how much more I could have done if I hadn’t wasted so much time wondering if he’d like my hair straight or curled, my pink or my red shirt, or why he said that he liked that Averil Lavine song (shudder, shudder).

I wish that damn book had come out when I was younger and before I realized that relationships weren’t that hard to figure out. At least the good ones aren’t.

What do you wish you could tell your younger self?

More passive-aggressive behavior!

Between a certain *ahem* subset of my family not taking NO for an answer around the holidays and showing up uninvited to crying into my toast this morning because my mother–who is mad at me–let my milk rot (long, long story).

I’m in dire need of some hilarious (and not so hilarious) passive-aggressive stories. Seriously, y’all. Maybe I’ll even send something to the most hilarious and passive-aggressive story of them all. Will a contest entice you to entertain me?

*Defying all laws of time and space, the last month of pregnancy is significantly longer than the previous 8.

*All of the issues (nausea, sleepiness, vomiting, utter bat-shit craziness) that plagued you during trimester 1 will rear their ugly head yet again. Only it’s less charming this time.

*(especially if it’s your first baby) You’ll imagine each and every twinge to be the Start Of Labor and probably end up in L/D more times than you’d think only to be told that you’re not even contracting.

*After you have this baby, you’ll agree that nothing feels like labor except for…well, labor.

*Ending up in L/D and being sent home will make you feel more embarrassed than you’d imagine would be a logical reaction.

*Speaking of “logical,” you’re not. And you haven’t been for a long time. You won’t know how nuts you are until after the wee one comes and you realize that you no longer have any urge to clean the toliet with a toothbrush.

*Leaking pee will become a new and disgusting way of life. And you’ll occasionally think it’s your bag of waters breaking. It’s probably not. But, take it from me, get that fucker checked out.

*If you’re like me, the hospital bag you pack will go largely untouched, so don’t freak out. They’ll usually give you free ickle bottles of shampoo and the lot. Use these and then THROW THEM AWAY. Sure, you’re in L/D or Mother/Baby, but it’s still a hospital. And hospitals = germies.

*You will finally tire of talking about this baby because all that you can think about is how ready you are for this to be over.

*The fears of labor will quickly be replaced by the fears of never having this damn baby.

*Having wee feet kicking your internal organs and trying desperately to seperate your ribs from your spinal cord is just as charming (and painful) as you imagine it will be.

*Did I mention how off the rocker you are? Because you TOTALLY are.

*Once you hit 37 weeks, people will check in on you daily with one annoying question: have you had that baby yet? You may very well want to smack them.

*People will start snickering when you walk into a room. Presumably because you now look like Grimace. Or a Weeble.

*You will start to moan and groan every time you have to change positions. And you will be acutely aware of how dumb you sound and how feeble you now are.

*Try as best as you can to rest and revel in the attention people are paying to you right now. Because once that baby gets here, swollen and stitched up vagina and all, no one will give a flying crap about you. Just the baby.

*Your breasts are going to develop a mind (and body!) of their own. They will be equally as painful now as they were back in old trimester 1.

What am I missing, party people?

If you’re not a parent, or you are a parent who happens to live under a rock, you don’t know who Dr. William Sears is. But have no fear, sweet Internet, because I am about to enlighten you. He’s a crunchy-granola sort of doctor dude, the sort who has 43 kids and writes many, many different books on parenting. Not being the sort of person who tends to buy books on parenting–save for my coveted Dr. Spock book–because I figure that I do know more than I think I do, I only ran across him when I was highly pregnant with Alex and scouring the bookstore for a book on breastfeeding.

After my complete and abject failure at breastfeeding my first son, I decided that I must find the most militant book, written by the most militant author and read it cover to cover in order to be a proper breastfeeder. And Dr. Sears, with all of his 32 kids, was just the sort of militant breastfeeding advocate I needed.

It’s pretty safe to say that I was still pretty scarred from my inability to nurse Ben and had harbored a fairly large feeling of failure for the five years between the two of them. It was obviously MY fault (what shocks me as a parent is how quickly you begin to look for faults in yourself rather than accept certain truths about your child. My Ben was a lousy eater. My Alex IS a lousy sleeper. Neither of these has a damn thing to do with me) as an inept parent and everywhere I turned, this was only reinforced by everyone around me.

My brother was born in 1971 to a couple of hippies (also: my own parents) in a country hospital where breastfeeding was looked down upon as something that only savages did. The preferred choice was the far more sanitary and less savage-like baby formula, and despite my mother’s insistence that she nurse her son, she gave in to the nurses badgering after awhile.

The backlash to this formula craze was so severe, that even years later, when my first was born, I felt it. It seemed like no matter what I tried, no matter what excuse I had for why it hadn’t worked out, someone else was there to tell me that feeding formula to my son was Wrong. With a capitol ‘W.’

Even the cans of formula I carefully saved up for chastised my choice with a sweet message: “Breastfeeding is ideal.” It killed me to pay through the teeth to get the lip service from a can of formula.

(and yes, I know precisely WHY it says that on the can.)

Any parent I came across assumed that my choice to not breastfeed Ben stemmed from my age, my inexperience, and furthermore, from my abject laziness. (none of these are true, by the way. I tried desperately, but you know what? It turns out that autistic kids hate to be touched!) I’ve even heard the argument that formula ought to be available by prescription only.

Dr. Sears, whose book I did end up reading, succeeds in properly guilting anyone who dares put a pacifier near their baby’s mouth (nipple confusion!) or breaks down and feeds the child a desperate bottle so that Mommy can properly take a damn nap for more than 20 minutes. Apparently, you should only use YOUR nipples as comfort objects and consider formula that of The Devil! I mean, HIS wife breastfed their adopted children! What the HELL is wrong with you for not being able to do something SO SIMPLE?

Come on, people. Lighten up.

Sure, breastfeeding is best for the baby, I’m not claiming that it isn’t, nor would I ever. But having had one primarily formula fed (I pumped for the first month to very little output) and one primarily breastfed, I will tell you one thing: I preferred the formula experience.

I breastfed Alex initially to prove that I could, in fact do so properly (I could) and continued because I knew it was the best choice for him. Not because I loved it.

But what bugs me about the whole breast versus bottle debate is this: some of the breastfeeders tend to attack the formula feeders to the point where I’m not sure I’d tell someone if I chose to use formula.

Why should someone who chose to not breastfeed–for whatever reason–be treated like a leper? It’s not as though they’re giving their child apple juice and vodka. Breastfeeding is a deeply, intensely personal choice and–like the epidural–it’s not something that really makes or breaks you as a parent.

I’m not denying that breastmilk is best, because it is, but so is buying everything organic, free-range, and from a farmer’s market rather than shopping at Target or Aldi. Hell, why aren’t you growing your own veggies and raising your own livestock while we’re at it? And shit, you should totally make your own non-sweatshop produced clothes! Because those choices are all “better” too.

And besides, no matter how carefully you control what your baby/toddler eats, that ickle one will grow up into a child, then a teenager who will eat Cool Ranch Doritos at school for lunch, rather than the carefully hand grown carrots you sent to school. How do I know this? EXPERIENCE. My mother was that crunchy person who sent me to school with that sort of thing, and did I eat it? NEVER.

I guess all that I’m saying is why can’t we all get along? Why does one choice have to disqualify the other as a viable alternative? Because seriously, if we could stand united without having to pick apart the choices of others (*ahem* MOTRIN MOMS), can you imagine all that we could accomplish?

Or hell, maybe it’s just me and my propensity toward incontinence talking here.

As I’d assumed would be the case, because everything requires that it be turned to Maximum Humiliation Factor, it turns out that after a visual and fluid check of my privates, I have merely peed myself. And then taken myself to the hospital in order to pay someone to tell me so.

I couldn’t be happier to be incontinent. There’s a phrase, along with My Bowel Prep, or visiting my father in the ICU I never thought I’d use. And yet, here I am. Happy to be pissing my pants.

I’m off to L/D to have professional people tell me that I’m peeing on myself. Can my life get any more glamorous?

First a bit of housekeeping: If you’ve left me a comment and it hasn’t gone through, please don’t worry, don’t fret! I have installed a handy new (and highly aggressive) new filter, to sift through the 600+ spam messages I get daily. I can search by name, so if it’s blocked you, send me an email and I’ll fix it.

For the first time since those nasty, worrisome first trimester appointments, where I waited to confirm whether or not I was having yet another miscarriage, I dragged The Daver to an OB appointment. Honestly, it was more for the camaraderie than the Support Of My Husband. Because these appointments? Fucking boring.

Yes, Internet, o Internet, it’s true: I’ve finally reached the point in my pregnancy wherein I have to go to the OB each and every week. And while I’m blissfully thrilled that I am a) almost done gestating my last crotch-parasite and b) almost done gestating my last crotch-parasite who appears to be HEALTHY, going weekly to the OB has gotten a bit dull. But that doesn’t stop me from finding and embracing the asinine.

Like this nugget ‘o’ weirdness.

I noticed today, after two entire pregnancies with this particular OB practice, that the disposable wax-covered Dixie Cup where I am to place my urine (side note: how are hugely pregnant women supposed to put their pee in said cup WITHOUT pissing on their hand? If you can do this, please don’t tell me. I might die FOR SHAME that I am THE ONLY pregnant woman on the planet who regularly pees on herself), has a label on it.

On that label is not only my full name, patient ID number, two things I’d expect to see there, but my address and phone number. I mean, in case it’s lost or something and they want to return the pee to it’s creator? Because I assure you that although I might bear a striking resemblance to Howard Hughes I do not want it back.

I related this story to The Daver, who was bored to near tears waiting for my appointment, and in that time I was able to kill about 10 minutes of waiting time, while my doctor presumably more interesting things with his other patients.

Because despite my accident-proneness these days (did I tell you that I fell the other day? Yeah, totally did. On my knee. Which I did NOT tell you, likely because I am ashamed at each and every new injury that I get. There’s only so many times you can talk about various ailments before you turn seemingly into a crotchety old woman complaining about her hemorrhoids and indigestion), I apparently qualify as a Boring Pregnant Woman. Beautiful words to hear, right?

Until you wait half an hour for a 30 second appointment wherein you ask the doctor if “it’s time to have the baby, yet?” And he laughed merrily at me, reminding me that I had several more weeks of this to go.

Which is probably a good thing, because I have fuck-nothing done for this wee one’s arrival. No clothes are washed in my fancy new washer, no car seat is installed in my car, no nothing. Eh, we can wing it, right?

Right.

And here, o Internet, is my question for you: what is your policy on blog trolls? Do you get them? Do you delete the comments rather than publish them? Does a troll have the right to have his or her voice heard if it’s nothing but inflammatory remarks that they make? Inquiring minds want to know!