*sitting in the garage, drinking a diet Coke, taking a break from making the exterior of my home look as though recluses live here. CREEPY ones, I mean, not just boring old me.*

Aunt Becky: “I have no idea what I won in the [Band Back Together] auction.”

The Guy On My Couch: *nods*

Aunt Becky: “I know I got outbid on a bracelet I wanted.”

The Guy On The Couch: *nods*

Aunt Becky: “People are hardcore about auctions. That’s why I’m afraid of eBay. *shudders*”

The Guy On My Couch: “You’d get waaaaay too into it – I can see you with a garage full of your winnings.”

Aunt Becky: “Hehehe. Yeah.”

The Guy On The Couch: “You’d totally get a Storage Locker and end up defaulting and have your shit go up on Storage Wars*.”

Aunt Becky: “No. Fucking. Way.”

The Guy On The Couch: “Where would you put it?”

Aunt Becky: “Anywhere but there. I’m terrified of Storage Lockers. You know the ones over by the McDonald’s? I get the heebie jeebies whenever I go by it.”

The Guy On The Couch: “Hahahaha. Really?”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah. I’m always afraid there’s a dead body in there. I mean, WHAT ELSE WOULD YOU PUT IN A STORAGE LOCKER?”

The Guy On The Couch: “Crap from your dorm room?”

Aunt Becky: ” Ugh *shudders* no. Dead bodies.”

The Guy On The Couch: “I bet it’s safe to say that there’s a dead body in a storage locker somewhere around here.”

Aunt Becky (eyes widen): “Do you think it’s stuffed?”

The Guy On My Couch: (thinks)

Aunt Becky: “You know, all taxidermied and shit? Like people do to animals?”

The Guy On My Couch: “I’m sure there’s one out there SOMEWHERE. Prolly not as close as a regular dead body, though.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m gonna put in my will that I want to be taxidermied, dusted, and moved from children’s houses on a rotation schedule. Four to five months, I sit in each of my kid’s house. In the living room – potentially in the big picture windows, occasionally moving to the table for “dinner.””

The Guy On My Couch: “….”

Aunt Becky: “I’m getting back at them for making me birth them – shit, have you SEEN the size of their heads?”

The Guy On My Couch: *shakes his own large head* “Yeah, yeah I have.”

Aunt Becky: “Payback. And those twerps best not be throwing me into a storage locker. At least, not all year long.”

The Guy On My Couch: “You’re going to have a painfully long last will and testament, aren’t you?”

Aunt Becky: “We’ll be measuring it in miles, not sheets of paper.”

The Guy On My Couch: “Just don’t tell the kids – or they’ll be sure to stuff you in a locker they default on.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m adding it to my list, thanks.”

*surprisingly interesting show, by the by.

When I started high school, before Jesus was born, high school was done in split shifts. The underclassmen (read: me and my trouble-making friends) started at 9AM rather than 7:30AM, which, I have to say as a non-morning person, was pretty damn sweet. Soon enough, my high school decided that was bullshit and built a second high school about a half a mile from the first.

We’d get stuck in classes in both buildings, which meant we had to hustle to get from place to place. And by “hustle,” I mean, “smoke pot out of soda cans” as we ambled our way too and from the North building.

We had one road to cross to get there, a thoroughfare that wound throughout campus, that had a nice crosswalk painted on it. One of our deans, who happened to be both the football coach and a major douchebag, would occasionally patrol the area, giving PM’s (detentions) to those of us who walked out of the lines. We also had Mr. Shields*, a prehistoric relic that seemed to arise from the very dust of the earth.

Mr. Shields, well, he had a golf cart, and he liked to ride it around the parking lots of the school, busting people for parking in the wrong area, always on the lookout for those of us who cut class to go joyriding and eat tacos**. He communicated to the other deans and Parapros (paraprofessionals? I don’t actually know anything other than their name made them sound like dinosaurs.)(*puts on Nature Show Voice and whispers* “Beware of the roaming Parapros – they’re hungry and getting ready to write PM’s”) via a fairly elaborate system of walkee-talkies. Keep in mind, this was when cell phones weighed as much as a small bus.

(not actually Mr. Shields)

(probably)

Being hippies and anti-establishment meant that my parents didn’t give much of a shit if I got in trouble – only if I was STUPID about it. Like on Senior Ditch Day – I didn’t even TRY to get my boyfriend’s cleaning lady to call me in – I just didn’t show up. This pissed off my mother – not that I ditched class, but that I hadn’t bothered TRYING to cover it up.

She’d taught me many years before how to forge her signature so I could avoid these very same situations. I’d often go into the office, note written in purple crayon, begging out of school so I could “see the doctor.” The office staff must’ve thought I was the world’s sickest teen OR the world’s biggest hypochondriac.

Generally, these “doctor’s appointments” involved a lot of tacos and/or Jim Beam drunk straight from the bottle in the parking lot behind the Taco Bell.

Tonight, I must go back. No, not to Taco Bell. After a particularly vicious battle with food poisoning, I sadly swore it off for life.

I’ve been back, upon occasion, to my high school. My son, Ben, (not to be mistaken for The Guy On My Couch, Ben) he plays a ridiculous amount of instruments and my high school has a pretty kick-ass stage – we even get like famous people there sometimes, doing, erms, FAMOUS PEOPLE THINGS.

But the North Building, the scene of so many of my days as a Prankster, has since been turned into a Junior High.

The Junior High that my son will attend next year.

(I don’t know how the fuck my kid got so old)

Tonight, I get to go back and “take a tour” of my old stomping grounds. This is gonna be the kind of tour that I can’t say things like, “Wow, I puked up Jim Beam in that corner!” or “We used to smoke pot there – see? You can’t be seen from any of the windows.”

No, I have to go in and nod and smile and pretend to be a normal parent around other parents.

*whimpers*

Someone pass the vodka.

*his actual name

**raises hands

Part I.

Part II.

“Okay,” Josh said, “Give me your ‘I want you’ face.”

Immediately, I started laughing – I’ve known Josh for close to ten years, and the very idea of giving him a Come to Aunt Becky face was beyond comical. I’m not even sure I have a sexy face – when I want to have sex, my idea of foreplay is this, “Let’s have sex.” Occasionally, “I want to have sex now.”

Let’s face it, my idea of a “romantic evening” involves a 12-pack of condoms and a bottle of bourbon.

So yeah, back to my “Come Hither,” face.

Eventually I stopped laughing, but I’m not gonna lie – it took awhile. It’s not that Josh isn’t attractive – he is* – but it’s just not like that. Plus, I had both Dawn and The Guy on my Couch, Ben, sitting there, watching me as I tried to twist my neck into positions no porn star should consider.

Every time I grimaced, Josh said, “Turn your neck farther – I don’t care if it doesn’t go that way. DO IT.”

So I did. For thirty minutes I did. While listening to death metal. Because shit, there’s nothing like thrash metal to get you in the mood to get down and dirty.

Bow-chica-wow-wow. Awwww-YEAH.

After the music began chanting about killing someone, I asked him to change the selection to something more porn-y. It’s hard to be all sexy while you’re listening to Motorhead.

It seemed to take hours for him to finish shooting my pictures. Hours I spent wondering:

1) Why I’d chosen to get pantyhose without an easy-access crotchal opening (for PEEING, you pervs)

B) What the German death metal song was ACTUALLY saying – it sounded like they were screaming about bratwurst.

3) How many digits of pi that I could rattle off (3.141536…) before I was told to “make the sexy face” again

i) Why the fuck my dress was giving my arm rug burn.

C) If my arm looked like a hunk of ham.

II) How far I’d go to get a diet Coke – murder? theft? drive-by?

D) Why two – but only two – of my toes were cold.

But mostly, I wondered how I’d gotten myself into this damn mess in the first place. It’s not that I don’t like having my picture taken – to me, it’s as natural as breathing. See, Pranksters, I was born at a time when my father (who maaaaaay be a bit Aspie), grandfather (likewise, Aspie) and brother were into photography. I may be the most well-documented child on the planet. Every family shot was arranged, then rearranged, then rearranged again, by which time those of us in the shot were ready to take the camera and insert it neatly into the photogs rectum.

So photos? Not the end of the world.

Finally, after I’d been contorted into positions that would make a stripper blush, I was done. Immediately I slipped out of my bastardized Beyonce dress and back into my happy pants before sitting my ass on the couch while The Guy On The Couch** got his snaps done.

We all considered keeping me in the outfit just to see if I could get any cash working on the side (the demise of the Craig’s List personals have left me with no extra income), but we realized no one had a pimp stick. So back into my PJ’s I went.

What the fuck were we all doing there? I can hear you, Pranksters, wondering, the wheels in your head turning. Certainly I’m as narcissistic as the next blogger, but rarely would I willingly drive into the Ghetto to further my obsession with myself. Why, I can look into the mirror and have the same results.

So let me take you back a year, Pranksters, where this all began.

Amy, from the site formerly known as Blogger Body Calendar, approached me – she was overwhelmed by the whole project and very sweetly asked if my site, Band Back Together, would be willing to take it over. Of course I agreed – I mean, part of what we do is to break down stigmas through stories of mental illness, rape, trauma, child loss, infertility, and anything else you can imagine. We always take submissions (hint, HINT) so that none of us will ever feel alone in our struggles.

So of course I was willing to help her out. In turn, this year, we’d be doing our own calendar.

Which we are.

For our 2013 Band Back Together Calendar, we are doing, “I Am The Face Of…” Rather than head-shots, each of us is going to shoot a picture inspired by an actual album cover. This is either going to be the most brilliant – or most horrendous – idea ever.

At long last, The Guy On My Couch was done with his shoot. I wondered aloud whether or not the car would still be there when we got back – I mean, we HAD parked in front of an abortion clinic and those are known hot-beds of violence. Apparently, we are not only suburban, but stupid, too.

But there she was, my natty suburban SUV, sitting there, probably with a bomb rigged somewhere (I, apparently, have been watching too much 24) so we’d die when we got in. Alas, it was not to be.

Sorry, Pranksters, you’re not that lucky – I’m still alive and ticking.

I begged Ben to stop at the side of the road, where some guy was selling “Tide” from the back of his pick-up truck. He refused. He also refused to stop for the guy selling cotton candy. I love me some cotton candy.

Back on the highway, we breathed a sigh of relief. We’d made it out alive, even if I DIDN’T get any cotton candy out of the deal. I don’t have any pictures of the photo shoot yet – I’m scared to death to see what they look like – but I’ll let you know when I do.

To stop me from pouting, Ben and Dawn took me out for gloriously suburban cheeseburgers.

Now, I just have to figure out how best to dispose of the fug ass dress. I’m pretty sure Goodwill will ban me for life if I try to drop that shit off.

*Shut the fuck up, Josh. I will never admit that I said that.

**The Guy on my Couch is named Ben (my kids call him Big Ben)(hehe). Ben works with me on Band Back Together and has relocated to Chicago because it’s truly the best city on the planet. As far as I’m concerned “Chicago” should be labeled on a map and the rest of the world should be labeled, “Not Chicago.”

Sorry to leave you hanging, Pranksters, but I knew a 2500 word story would make half of you fall asleep and the other half of you throwing shit at your computer in horror. How! Can! A! Blog! Be! So! Long!

Part I

We arrived at our destination, which had both wrought iron bars on the windows and the door – apparently one is not suitable – and had a five minute debate over who had to knock. In the end, we insisted The Guy On The Couch was the unlucky one. We made him knock – hey, we’re small white chicks; if someone opened up the door high on Special K, I’d rather not be the one directly in his or her punching radius.

Lo and behold, it was, in fact, the right address so we were greeted by my photog, Josh Hawkins, who looked tan and fit, which made ME want to take some Special K and beat him ugly. He lives in Vegas, lucky asshole.

Inside the place was like nothing I’d expected. Where I’d expected to see a couple homeless guys camping out and sleeping off their 40’s from the night before, possibly a couple of hookers looking for blow, I found it was a nice, roomy studio. It even had a working bathroom and fresh paint on the walls. (sidebar: you know you’re on the wrong side of the tracks when you’re happy the place has a bathroom) I was thrilled. I hadn’t yet changed from my Happy Pants into my outfit, and while I’d change in front of all three of them, I’d rather, um, pretend to be modest.

(three vaginal births later, I’m just as apt to take off my pants and “assume the position” as I am to shake your hand. I can possibly do both AT THE SAME TIME, but that is neither here nor there)

I’d caught Josh as he finished up a photo shoot with an old friend of mine, Janet, who once had a blog, but like most of the sane world, disbanded it many years ago. This gave Dawn, The Guy on my Couch and I some time to sit on what turned out to be the world’s most uncomfortable sofa where we chattered on about the Band Back Together 2013 calendar, which we were actually risking life and limb for.

I was nervous as hell.

Every time I panicked a little, I talked myself down: “the stylist would be here soon. The stylist would be here soon.” I hadn’t looked as bad as I did since, oh, the last time I went to Chuck-E-Cheese (read: the day before).

A refresher course on what I happened to look like walking into the place.

Yeah. That. See? Eye Slugs (or some weird thingy you put on your eyes if your eyes are puffy and/or have circles underneath them. I got them as swag one year and they totally burned my eyes (talk about swag promotional materials backfiring)

But I sat there on the couch, pretending to “work” (which involved a lot of Tweeting) as I waited for the stylist. An hour past the time she was supposed to show, Josh finally said, “Um, I can’t get a hold of her. I am not happy.” Then he went on about some other stuff as my brain melted out of my nose.

fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

I hadn’t brought any makeup. My hair was still damp from the shower. I wasn’t even wearing real pants.

Josh pointed me at a room he called the, “You Look Fine, Honey” room. Dawn and I made a beeline for it – it had a mirror, some awful props and, BINGO! A button of makeup. I said a quick prayer to the gods of theatre that Dawn had worked on stage in college as she went to work on my face.

Ten minutes later, I slithered into what is easily the ugliest item of clothing I own, threw on some fishnets, and said, “Oh FUCK. What am I gonna do with my HAIR?”

Oh yes, Pranksters, it even comes with the beret. Talk about winning! P.S. That is not me. P.P.S. Anyone want the outfit?

My hair hates to be forced to curl. My hair is a “I don’t need no stinkin’ curling iron telling ME what to do” independent kinda hair. My hair hates the color pink, any given Sunday, life, liberty and the pursuit of happyness. THIS was why I needed the ever-loving stylist to show up and save the day.

She didn’t.

So while Dawn got to work fixing the hair on The Guy on the Couch, I was left to my own devices. I found a studded masquerade mask, a bottle of red liquid that claimed to take makeup off, and some bizarre three pronged hair curler.

After I decided that it was not, in fact, a dildo, I plugged it in and began to work on my hair.

Rather than actually making me appear both chic, stylist and ready for the camera, I looked like a bastardized version of Beyonce. Or Diana Ross.

Frankly, I preferred the Eye Slug look.

Especially since it meant that there was no way I could leave without being mistaken for a particularly bad hooker. And shit, I didn’t want other hookers assuming I was there to take their bizness away.

The only comfort in all of this is knowing that I have a graphic designer on hand to fix whatever I did wrong (read: all of it)

Thank the Good Lord of Butter.

Sounds like the beginning of a joke, right?

But this is me, and we all know I never joke about anything (hey, Juice Boxes ARE for Pussies).

Bright and blurry Saturday morning, well before any civilized person should get up (8:30AM is, like juice boxes, for pussies), my friend Dawn showed up bearing coffee and donuts, looking as The Guy on my Couch and I both did – like we’d been run over several times by a gigantic truck. Or beaten with the ugly stick. [insert some other euphemism that hilariously explains why, in fact, we all looked like we needed a good scrub in the back yard with one of those steel brushes and some bleach]

It was unfortunate, really, the way we looked, since we were going to go get our pictures done. Unfortunate but unsurprising – everyone looks weird on Picture Day. My freshman year in high school, I got appendicitis on the day of picture retakes, and agonizingly, I sat through that photo shoot. In those photos, I look as though a gigantic rubber fist had been inserted into my rectum right before the guy said, “CHEESE.”

But this was for charity, so we tried not to complain too much. I thanked my lucky stars that we have a graphic designer who can (hopefully) make me not look like death in print.

Once happily ensconced in the car, directions in hand, bag full of ridiculous clothes and some (jazz hands) mysterious Christmas lights at my feet, coffee in my gut, I began to relax.

Until, that is, we got off the highway. At that point, I locked the doors and tried desperately not to make eye contact with anyone. It’s better that way.

I *knew* we were going into a rough neighborhood, but it was daytime on a Saturday morning, so I didn’t bother packing my semi-automatic or a shiv. I figured we’d fit right in – three white kids in a nice suburban-looking SUV. Just your average day in the ghetto, right? We could’ve had legitimate bizness there. LIKE GETTING OUR PICTURES DID.

Oh, wait. We DID have legitimate bizness there.

We parked next to an abortion clinic, flanked on both sides by buildings that had clearly been burned out. Windows missing, char-patterns making neat patterns on the brick outside, the occasional boarded up door. Everywhere we turned, there was broken glass. Dawn, who has apparently never been anywhere but the Loop and the suburbs, bothered to ask what was up with all the glass.

“DRINKIN’ 40’S” I hollered, in my obnoxious, ‘I’m-a-drunk-frat-boy’ voice, hoping the people who lived there found it to be as hilarious as I did.

On our way to the studio, we passed by BUT DID NOT PICK UP a random (EMPTY, DAMMIT!) box of burn cream. I’m not sure the two are related…but I’m not sure they aren’t.

We got to the studio, where my friend Josh Hawkins, who happens to be an awesome photographer AND my friend, greeted us. Immediately we realized our mistake: we’d forgotten to bring anything to drink. I turned to Dawn and whispered, “I need a diet Coke.”

She replied, “I think there’s a guy on the corner selling shit inside his trench coat.”

Me: “Think I can get a faux-Lex*?”

Her: “I’m sure.”

I hadn’t actually seen the guy, so I’m pretty sure Dawn was full of the lies. The only place that looked like it might have, at one time, sold items other than crack was a boarded-up (we’re assuming) restaurant (although it could’ve been a massage parlor) with a handmade sign that read, “Munchers.” Had it looked any more inviting, I’d have risked it for a diet Coke. As it was, I wasn’t about to try it. Besides, I had a stylist I was waiting on to make me look, well, better than I had walking in.

Which was going to take some work.

To. Be. Continued.

*Fake Rolex. Get it? FAUXLex?

When I found out that Hello Kitty was launching a line of wines, I was thrilled. Partially because I love everything Hello Kitty, but mostly because it means that I no longer have to shell out for juice. Because juice boxes are for pussies. And my babies aren’t pussies.

They’re not so much into hard liquor or meth, but my babies do like their wine. And wine with whimsical cartoon kitties is a win for us all. Why, it’s practically begging for my children to chug it!

I know, you’re not supposed to give babies booze until they’re at least 12, but they like it! I swear! Plus, it makes them sleepy, and when they’re sleepy, Aunt Becky is very, very happy. Because then I can drink more of that silly kitty wine without my crotch parasites crawling around at my feet, asking me to do shit for them like give them them more of Momma’s wine or help them with their dumb homework.

Like I tell them, what the fuck good has homework ever REALLY done for anyone anyway?

And I read some article in some medical magazine or heard it on Maury or some shit that wine is good for the heart. I want my babies to have strong hearts, so I make sure that I give them wine with every meal. It’s HEALTHY and shit. Especially because then they shut the fuck up for once and I don’t have to listen to them babble on and on and on.

I swear, no one told me kids were so fucking loud or I would have gotten some fucking muzzles from the hospital. Duct tape just doesn’t work as well.

So I’m serving Hello Kitty wine at every birthday party and if all those fucking crotch monkeys that my kids invite don’t like it, well, they can have some of the bourbon.

But not the good shit, like Old Crow because that’s reserved for me.

It’s also AUCTION TIME. Go and check out the Band Back Together auction – I even donated some of my old kids clothes. There’s a lot of cool shit there and it’s all going to a good cause (not my shoe collection.).

So go! Bid! ENJOY!

(also, as always we welcome your submissions – some guidelines are here – about anything you want!)

Dear Alexander Joseph,

When I got pregnant with your brother, I don’t know that one person (besides your Aunt Ashley) said, “Congratulations.” Certainly it was a tumultuous time: I was twenty (not quite ready to be a parent but not so young that it was scandalous) , Ben’s father was less than kind to me, I was in college, and my life was, well, adrift. When I was 8 months pregnant, I waddled home, proverbial tail between my legs, to my parents who accepted my delicate condition. I find it hard to believe that anything that packs sixty pounds directly onto my ass  is “delicate,” but alas, I digress.

While it was incredibly kind of your grandparents to take me in, it came with some fairly long, painful strings attached.

When your brother was born, I spent the better part of four years trying to make it right. The end goal was to have another baby the easy/ier way. A way that didn’t involve being undermined my parents. A way that didn’t involve being treated like I was, very possibly, the stupidest person on the planet. A way that allowed me to feel like I was, in fact, a parent.

Your brother, well, he’s different. He’s on the autistic spectrum somewhere, and as a baby, he wanted nothing to do with me. I was turning my life into something that could make him proud, and he’d barely allow me to hold him. It didn’t change much as he grew – he was aloof, distant, heartbreaking. They have therapies available for autistic children, but none for the parents; parents who crave such things as a display of love in a way that’s easily understood. It’s never been that your brother didn’t love me, it’s simply that he shows it in a much more different way.

Finally, after graduating nursing school, getting married and moving your brother, father and I into a real house with our name on it, it was time for me to finally try for my next goal: another baby. All of that time I spent in school, working full-time, running my ass around to get graduated, all I wanted was to have another baby.

Month after month we tried and tried. Month after month, my heart broke into a zillion tiny pieces as I stared at that pee-stick, willing it to show me something – an evaporation line, anything. And month after month, I wept as the lily white stick stared back at me, mocking me. Pregnant bellies began to make me furious as I looked into fertility treatments. I was beyond confused – I’d gotten pregnant with Ben while on the pill and barely having The Sex – certainly this was bound to be easier.

Eventually, one Friday night, I took a pregnancy test while drinking a tall vodka/Diet and chain-smoking cigarettes (not at the same time, I’m not that coordinated). I was hoping to get the disappointment out of the way so I could enjoy the rest of my weekend (read: cry like a weenie).

When the digital test I’d just bathed in my urine popped up a “PREGNANT,” I actually said to aloud, “No fucking way.” I brought it down to show your father, who had been waiting for me to return in hysterics, and we both stared at it, bewildered. We’d finally done it.

The very next day, your father drove to the hardware store and painted your bedroom a nice soft yellow – niftily covering the barfy pink walls. He was so very proud to be having a baby.

It was the next week when the panic began. I’d somehow managed to get everything in my life right: I had a five-year old who was happy and healthy, I had a husband who treated me with respect, I had my very own house, a degree – with honors – and a life. It seemed too good to be true.

So when I began to spot fairly heavily around week 7, I just knew that my luck had run out. I couldn’t be so lucky; I just couldn’t – hadn’t I learned that by now?

It was a subchorionic haematoma, the US tech said, my head turned away from the US screen as I awaited her words. Look, she said, as I saw the flickering of that strong heart on the screen, that’s your baby.

And it was.

On March 30, 2007, after months spent miserably on the couch (prepartum depression is an ASSHOLE), I was admitted to the hospital to have you. All I wanted, I confessed tearfully to your father, was a baby who loved me. And after a whopping three pushes, there you were. You opened your mouth and began to scream. I don’t think you stopped without a boob in your mouth for a solid year after that.

I couldn’t have been happier.

You showed me what unconditional love felt like. It was the first time I’d experienced that type of love, and it made me whole in ways I didn’t know were broken.

So to you, my second son, the one who has made me whole, I wish you the very happiest of happy birthdays.

Love,

Mommy

I got an IM from my friend Kat yesterday. That, in and of itself isn’t particularly noteworthy – I get IM’s from such good, clean chaps and lasses as “bigdick764” and “babiecherie73” who are kind enough to direct me to their websites where I can “see more pictures.”

Kat, however, isn’t a spammer. Or, at least I don’t think she is. I mean, I went to Seattle or one of those other states that aren’t Chicago to visit her and her daughter and she didn’t LOOK like a spammer. But I guess she could’ve Sharpied my back while with a website name or something – I didn’t look.

Anyway.

Yesterday, her IM said something to the effect of, “OMG I MISSES OF YOU.” Which sounds like improper English, but compared to the shit I normally IM, it’s practically the Queen’s English. I responded in turn, I too, missed of her.

“Can you believe it?” She screeched through my computer.

“What?” I asked, clearly distracted by dancing kitty videos and the proper spelling of “Sharpie.”

“I’m thirty and I’m working as a photographer!” She announced.

Holy.

Shit.

“Can you believe it? We MADE it!” She continued.

I sat there, stunned.

I hadn’t thought about how far we’d come – I was too busy keeping up with the day-to-day life and dramaz of Your Aunt Becky.

I met Kat when our babies – who look shockingly like sisters – were very small. Out of the blue, she IM’d me to tell me that she’d caught a grammatical error on my recentest blog post. While I’m normally annoyed by that – I mean, you’ve only caught ONE error? – Kat was fairly charming.

We became fast friends during a time in my life that I’d never quite felt so alone; so worthless, so miserable. I’d created this life for myself – 3 kids, 2 dogs, a house, a husband, and I’d never been more alone. I’d always known I would “do something” after I popped out the kids, but the unexpected crush of PTSD following Mimi’s birth made seeing the world as it was almost impossible.

Birthing a sick baby is one of the most isolating experiences I’ve been through – and Kat understood it. Her Avi is mere days apart from my Mimi, and while Avi was not born ill, Kat understood why it was hard for me to even walk outside some days. Days like that, she prayed for me. I’ve never understood people who were offended by that sort of thing – when someone prays for me, I find it an unexpected kindness.

She and I were both miserably trying to eke out a life for ourselves – she as a photog and me as a writer. I was consumed with writing a book – it was the only way I could see lending some legitimacy to my life; something I desperately craved – while she worked tirelessly overnights and on weekends to beef up her portfolio.

The months blew by us, both working desperately to “make it” and prove our worth to the outside world. Life happened around us. The publishing market crashed. Kat got laid off from her day job. We both scuttled around to reform our plans.

While my daughter grew and thrived, kicking her diagnosis in the ass, as she met and surpassed her every milestone, Kat’s husband, the father of her child, who was 27 years old, had a stroke while they slept. As doctors searched high and low to try and understand what had happened and why, Kat spent her days and nights alongside her husband, guiding him through rehab and therapy. She slept at the hospital on one of those uncomfortable chairs with their daughter, Amelia’s clone, Avi.

The diagnosis was a long time coming – Alpha-One Antitrypsin Deficiency – and when it did, it wasn’t good. It’s a rare genetic condition that has no cure – only management of the symptoms.

As she reeled with this news, her husband had an incurable genetic condition, the bad news kept coming – her daughter, my Mimi’s clone, she had Alpha-One Antitrypsin Deficiency as well.

It was my turn to pray. And I haven’t stopped. Kat saw me through some of the worst times of my life, and now, I’ve done the same for her.

And somehow, through all the bullshit, all of the drama, all of the other shit, Kat and I have emerged on the other side. We’re not the same people we once were, but who is?

Kat’s a full-time photog now. And I’m, well, I’m a writer. It seemed only appropriate that I learned yesterday that the book I contributed an essay to is now available on pre-order. It’s not my book, but it’s a book. And my words are in it. More importantly than any vain book ideas, I founded an (almost) non-profit organization for other people to tell their stories. I’ve used my nursing degree to create resources to help people learn about the things they’ve been through.

We’ve both come so far.

I can barely wait to see where we’ll go next.

Last night, I dragged The Daver and The Guy on my Couch outside to play with the two smaller kids – the big one, Ben, was off doing his chores. While Daver hid out in the tree-house with Amelia, Alex and The Guy on my Couch began to play a rousing game Alex called “Goomba,” which was, to the best of my knowledge, Dodge Ball with a Mario theme.

I sat nearby, weeding my rose garden, cursing myself for spraying anti-fungal shit on it too soon in the season, listening to them play.

After a half an hour, my eldest, Ben, burst out of the back door of the house like he was being chased by a particularly vicious washcloth.

“Oh. Em. Gee.” he sputtered, punctuation clearly evident in his speech, “THERE you are.”

I laughed at his vehemence, “Where’d you think we were?”

“I. DON’T. KNOW.” He staccato-ed out.

“Did you think we’d been abducted by alien ghosts or something?” I asked playfully.

“Mom,” he looked at me, hand on his hip, dead serious. “I’m SO over ghosts.”

I giggled.

He went over and got on the swing-set as Daver took Amelia up to bed. (Big) Ben and Alex continued to play their bizarre game, giving each other 1-Up’s whenever they’d get hit with the ball. Dave soon joined me on the patio, my roses long weeded.

“I can’t believe you’re going to spoil my kids,” Ben semi-hollered from the swings.

Without missing a beat, I replied, “It’s called payback, my son.”

(He’s referring to a conversation I had with him threeish years ago wherein I told him how excited I was to spoil his kids when he got older. I listed out, in no particular order, all of the various ways I’d planned on spoiling his kids rotten. He finds it hilarious.)

(I’ve learned, for those of you playing along at home, that certain kids on the autistic spectrum will vividly remember conversations and events that occurred many years ago and bring them up in conversations as though they happened yesterday. I only wish he were so dedicated to remembering to wash his hands after cleaning up the cat boxes)

He hollered happily, “Oh MOM! You can’t give my kids candy all the time!”

“We won’t,” Daver teased. “We’ll do pizza too. Lots of pizza.”

“Oh DAD,” Ben giggled before he yelled, “YOU CAN’T DO THAT.”

“Uncle Ben will buy them tons of video games, too,” The Guy on my Couch chimed in. “Especially the kinds you don’t want them to play.”

“BIG BEN,” my son hollered, laughing so hard he nearly toppled off the swing, “NO! YOU CAN’T DO THAT.”

“Before you drop your kids off, I’ll buy them each a five pound bag of sugar and dump a can of Mountain Dew in it,” I contained. “I’ll give ’em that to drink before you pick them up!”

“What if my wife doesn’t like that?” Ben giggled, still swinging.

“I will be the one choosing your wife for you, Ben,” I said, as sternly as I could. Dave and Big Ben burst out laughing, “THAT’S gonna go over well,” Daver said.

“Sorry I can’t date you,” Big Ben chimed in, “My Mom says your name is stupid – and I can’t date girls with stupid names.”

The laughter woke up the birds trying to sleep in the big pine tree in my backyard.

“Okay,” my son said, still laughing, “What if my wife doesn’t want kids?”

“That’s okay,” I reassured him. “You can BUY kids off eBay. Or the gypsies.”

He laughed and laughed and laughed.

“When I grow up, I’m going to work at Band Back Together dot Com with you guys. And then I’ll tell the REAL story,” my son countered.

“We got editors for that sorta thing, Boy,” The Guy On My Couch (Big Ben) bantered.

Back and forth we lobbed it until it grew dark and the wind began howling, indicating that it was, at long last, bedtime for kids.

“Alex,” my son said conspiratorially to his brother as they walked into the house together, “be careful. Mom might make you buy kids.”

“I want a Yoshi – not babies,” Alex replied.

Touche, my (second) son.

Touche.