Ben’s post is live up on the anti-bullying rally over at Band Back Together.

Please, Pranksters, send him some love.

Bobbing and weaving in time to the music in her head, she bounded over to me.

“Mama,” she smiled largely, the winning smile that I just know she’ll be using on her future dates. “I wanna watch more Tuff Puppy.”

“No Baby-Pants,” I laughed. “Not tonight. It’s bedtime.”

“Okay,” she stretched her smile as widely as she could. “Can we watch more Tuff Puppy on SUNDAY?”

“Sure,” I giggled at her inflection and emphasis. No one is gonna say no to this kid. “We can watch it on Sunday.”

“OKAY,” she broadcast to the whole house. “THANKS MAMA.”

She bobbed and wobbled off to get her diaper changed before bed.

I sat there, looking after her, bemused and amazed and more than a little bit teary.

It’s coming up on her third birthday. To think this tiny tot with an attitude the size of Texas was once the very same baby whose life I prayed for. Who’s head I wept into. Who’s tiny feet I once held onto like they were lifelines to a world in which no NICU’s, no PICU’s existed. It’s hard to reconcile that these are the same people.

Yet they are.

For her birthday this year, I will celebrate. I will buy a monster of a cake and we shall eat it, sharing it happily with anyone who can be bothered to brave the frigid January air. This year, we will celebrate.

And maybe, just maybe, I can let the ghosts of my past, who still haunt my present, be silent.

If only for a day.

I’m kinda feeling low today. I’m hoping to snap the fuck out of it and come back and actually string words together, instead of posting one of the creepiest videos ever.

Also: Other, Better Shit I’ve Written (a.k.a. I Get Around):

10 Ways To (Not) Entertain Your Kid On An Airplane. I have a feeling the comments will be troll-worthy.

7 of the Most Baffling Products Aimed At Parents

Holly Daze

And a repost of an old favorite: When “He’s My Dad” Makes Everyone Feel Awkward

We Mommy Bloggers get a lot of shit.

Not just because we have a dumb name (I mean, MOMMY BLOGGERS? It sounds like some sort of weird disease or exotic insult), or because we’re all angling to get free shit, but because we’re talking about our KIDS! Online! Without their consent!

(all together now)

*wrings hands*

WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN!?

/end hand wringing.

I get what they’re saying. I do.

If you spend all day, every day, discussing the most intimate details of your kids life, well, that’s maybe not okay. So we each do our best to write things that WILL be okay when our children stumble across them someday. I mean, as we’ve learned, the Internet is a small, small place and whatever you’ve written WILL be read eventually by the one person who you don’t want to read it.

That’s a no-brainer.

I’ve never kept what I “do” under wraps in my family. I don’t necessarily broadcast it to the small crotch parasites because they’d be just as likely to try and fart on me as they would be interested in it. But the Big One, Ben, well, he knows what I do. Sorta.

We’re doing a bullying carnival (much less cotton candy than you’d expect) on Saturday over on Band Back Together. Basically, this means we’re collecting as many bullying posts as we can find (join us, y’all!) to offer as many different perspectives on bullying as possible. This comes on the heels of the tragic suicides of a couple of kids after repeated, intense bullying.

I asked my son to write for us.

He’s been the victim of numerous bullies in his short ten years. If anyone knows how a bully makes them feel, it’s Ben.

Last night, I sat him down and asked him to write 5 paragraphs for us over at the Band about bullies.

He. Was. Thrilled.

And he did it.

What I got was one of the sweetest, awesomest things I’ve ever read. What I also got were questions about what it was, precisely, that Mom does. He knows I’m a “writer” and I have a “blog,” but I haven’t really discussed my other projects with him. I explained what Band Back Together was and how we ran things and the stigmas we were trying to combat.

He thought it was the coolest thing ever.

I, of course, was bowled over. I figured he’d think it was “lame” or “stupid” or something, but no. He thinks it’s great. I know. I KNOW. What. The. Fuck? I thought kids were supposed to hate whatever their parents did. Maybe I’m doing this parenting thing wrong – perhaps I need to become an assassin or something to fill the kid with angst.

When he was done with his bullying post, he told me, very sweetly, that any time I needed him to write a post, he’d be happy to help out.

I actually had to fight back tears. We all three (me, Ben, The Daver) did. What an awesome kid.

Hrms.

Guess that means all that hand-wringing was in vain.

Sighs.

Fill in the blank?

“WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE ______?”

We live in interesting times.

“There’s a study,” Ben said, “that shows that people who watch Fox News are less informed than those who watch no news at all.”

I laughed. Mostly because I can’t imagine why a DANGER FEAR SEGMENT story about escalators “STAIRWAY TO DANGER!” or a story about applesauce “AN APPLE A DAY MAKES THE CORONERS DAY!” would be considered news by anyone anywhere. But the world needs ditch-diggers too, so I try not to think about it.

I get my news primarily by The Twitter. Crowd-sourcing seems to be the best way to manage news that’s important to me. If that means it’s news about the hats at the Royal Wedding, so be it.

Last year, during The NotoriousSNOMG, I sat at my computer as the wind was a-howling and the snow was outrageous. Roads were blocked, the power threatened us, lights flickering, the occasionally brown-out making me wonder when we’d have to huddle in the basement for warmth. They shut down Lake Shore Drive (arguably my favorite road), The Twitter told me, and I realized how fucking serious the situation was.

My friends all over the Chicagoland area tweeted back and forth about what they were experiencing, which helped me see what I was in for. Also: made me shit myself, but that’s neither here nor there.

Months later, on September 11, we ran a blog carnival on Band Back Together to share stories about that day. I sat on Skype with various members of the board from the moment I dragged my sorry ass out of bed and onto the computer. I was on until well after midnight that day, editing, scheduling, and posting stories – our stories – about where we were that day.

We ended up with fifty different perspectives.

It was FASCINATING.

Not so much that people would want to share their “Where Were You” stories, but because we, as a community blog, we able to see perspectives from people who were actually there, people who lived overseas, people who lived nowhere near the Twin Towers, and those who were children (now adults) at the time.

Every other story I’d read, every magazine I’d poured through, they only posted a few random stories – and while they were interesting, they didn’t offer the variety of perspectives that The Band did. They weren’t glossed over, our stories, they weren’t edited to be more or less exciting, they simply WERE. Because we WERE.

When the Twin Towers were attacked in 2001, I was not a blogger. I had a single email address: sex_kitten23@hotmail.com and no chat service. I’d never figured out why I should go into a chat room, besides pretending to have fake cyber sex with someone, and barely used the computer for anything beyond writing research papers.

Now, I’ve been blogging for longer than I care to admit. If there’s a social media outlet, I’m probably on it. I’ve learned what works and what doesn’t.

Being able to use social media for things other than telling the world that, “Anxiety can eat a hot bag of dicks,” well, that’s incredible. And that’s what we saw when we ran our September 11 carnival. It’s the premise of Band Back Together – a group site where you can read a variety of stories about any one topic to feel less alone.

It’s why I trust the unfiltered tweets of my friends over Fox News. It’s why I believe you when you write on your blogs. It’s why what we do here, in this virtual space, is so much more than any one of us could have predicted. It is why we must continue to do what we do – whether we have five readers or fifty. What we do, it all matters.

It’s a brave new world out there, Pranksters.

And I, for one, am fucking proud to be a part of it.

I’d been off and on The Twitter all day on Friday, rather than out and about pepper-spraying people to get a wicked deal on a TV set or some diamond earrings thanks to a particularly bad gravy hangover (Xanax Gravy, you should try it!). Whenever I’m on The Twitter, I pay a little bit of attention to the Trending Topics on the sidebar. Mostly because I want to know if the Zombie Apocalypse is starting but also because The Twitter feeds me my news.

Well, I saw that Nickelback was trending.

Fine, I said, as I trundled off to get buffalo wings with The Daver. Whatever. Prolly a new album or something.

Over dinner, we began talking about (oddly) Nickelback, who happened to be playing at the Lions versus Packers football game. I figured that was reason enough for their appearance upon the Twitter, but no.

“It turns out,” Daver said, “That Nickelback is getting a fuckton of backlash for their appearance at the game.”

“Really?” I raised my eyebrows as I slowly devoured buffalo wings, which are proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

“Yeah,” he replied. “So their record company released a statement saying that they’d sold 5 million copies of their latest album and we should all shut our whore mouths.”

This got me thinking (a semi-dangerous pursuit, as we all know).

5 million albums.

Presumably bought by 5 million people.

So I promptly threw out a tweet asking about it:

I wasn’t being glib – I was genuinely curious.

Because even as I said it, I realized I didn’t know a SINGLE Nickelback song. Not one. I got on my i(can’t)Phone and popped onto YouTube (we SO live in the future, y’all). I simply threw “Nickelback” into the search box, figuring their biggest hits would pop up first and I could be all OH so it’s THOSE guys. Got it. The ire, I get! Or, people should shut their fucking whore mouths, this song rules!

Didn’t find a single song I recognized.

So I decided iTunes would never let me down and clicked over there through my i(suck at making calls from my)Phone.

Nada.

Zilch.

Zip.

Not a fucking thing I recognized. All I was able to ascertain was this:

1) Nickelback songs sound the same.

B) They’re Canadians.

So I waited for The Twitter to enlighten me.

Hrms. She’s Canadian. Okay, fair enough.

Now THAT is a fucking good point!

(Altho, my mom would NEVER buy 5 million copies of anything I sang. Which is fair)

AH-HA! My arch-nemesis! John C. Mayer would do ANYTHING to fuck mah shit up.

The Twitter’s consensus was that Canadians and Nickelback’s Moms bought all of the CD’s. But not ALL Canadians (I think I got unfollowed by 30 or so Canadians for using that blanket statement), I quickly learned.

That leaves wondering: who DOES buy Nickelback CD’s?

This is where you get to help me, Pranksters. Survey below should clear it up. Also: results are anonymous, so I won’t laugh and point if you say you have bought the CD’s.

Mostly.

[poll id=”7″]

Dear Aunt Becky,

I drop in on your site from time to time, but usually from an aggregate site that has become toywithme.com. Anyway, my question is, what happened to the blogger whose picture showed her in old-fashioned curlers? I can’t remember her name and for some reason this is driving me crazy.

Thanks for your help and for your exquisite sense of humor.

Well, Prankster, thank YOU for the kind words! They’re much appreciated!

The blogger I think you’re thinking of is my good friend Jenny, The Bloggess. She’s full of the awesome.

Evening Aunt Becky!

While checking out the questions and comments on BnB to comfort and convince myself that I’m not the only one who doesn’t always really get motherhood it popped up with a link to your blog in the side bar! I was pleased to see it as I’ve been enjoying your blog for ages and hope others have been clicking through.

Laura

Dear Prankster Laura,

While I thank you kindly for your kind words and the referrer, I’m afraid that I have no idea what BnB is. In fact, I’ve spent a good deal of time trying to figure it out. And yes, yes, I AM compulsive.

Does it mean?

Bed and Breakfast?

Bread and Butter?

Banana Nut Bread?

Black and Blue?

or

Bad News Bears?

I simply do not know. So, Prankster Laura (or others), what, pray tell, does BnB mean?

P.S. I like to imagine it to mean “Black and Blue.”

Dear Aunt Becky,

I have no question but go have a look at what I found. Bob Ross finger Puppets  😀

..tonya cinnamon

Dear Prankster Tonya,

O.M.G. How have I not SEEN these before? I feel like my whole life has been a lie!

P.S. I require these for Christmas to be happy.

Hello, Aunt Becky!

Here’s a faithful viewer of your awesomesauce blog, asking for advice. I’m an 18-year-old girl, and I have a mother who’s been through a helluva though life. Born to a poor family, many of her best friends dying when they were just teens, two stillborn children and a divorce, just to name a few. She’s ultimately the strongest woman I’ve ever known. However, she never talks about those happenings in her past – only offhand mentions and some things I remember her telling me when I was just a tiny crotch parasite, asking everything about my mommy that could ever enter my tiny mind.

I would like to be as open with her as possible – after the divorce, the two of us lived together for 8 years, and despite living in different cities these days, we’re really really close – and would also like her to be able to talk about her past with me. Even though we’re so close, I sometimes get the feeling that I don’t know my mother at all – all we talk about is my life, my tiny problems. I’m not sure what I’m actually even asking for, just maybe some advice, on how to deal with her? How to bring up difficult subjects? Or should I never mention them at all?

Ever so thankful,
Elisa

Dearest Elisa,

I hope that my daughter will grow to be as wonderful a woman as you. Your mother is beyond lucky to have such a lovely daughter as you. I just had to say that to start off with, or I might burst from your awesomeness.

Honestly, I’m getting teary.

Anyway, enough about my hormones. I’d simply go ahead and ASK your mother about those subjects. Tell her what you just told me: that you’d like to know more about her and feel like you’re as awesome a daughter as you (obviously) are. I’m sure that even if she doesn’t wish to talk about it, she’ll appreciate knowing that her daughter remembered her stories. That way the door is open for her to talk about herself, too.

See, Moms, well, we’re used to NOT talking about ourselves very candidly to our children. We can’t be effective parents if we’re always whining about our own shit. It’s not that I don’t want my kids to know me – even the ugly bits – but I think it’s easy to be caught in the rut of “my child is more important than I am.” Because that’s what parenthood is – putting someone else ahead of your needs most of the time.

But I think if you tell her what you told me, she’ll not only be touched, but know what an amazing job she’s done as a parent. Because she has.

Love to you,

Aunt Becky

————

Pranksters, please fill in wherever I left off. Especially the part about “BnB.” Seriously, I’ve been up all night long (alll niiiiiggghhhht longggggg) trying to figure it out.

It’s been a weird year. Probably weirder than I’ve been able to properly impart upon you, my Pranksters, because, well, some things are not for Internet Consumption (until they are, of course).

It’s been a year of loss.

I’ve lost two beloved family members to the great big gig in the sky. I’ve lost a relationship with another. Countless friendships have been disbanded.

Some of these things are my fault. Not, of course, the dead people. I leave the killing to my Television Husband Dexter. And I SWEAR I have an alibi – just ask The Twitter.

(sidebar: you know you have good friends when they’ll tell the world that OF COURSE they were with you that one night).

But in the midst of the chaos and sadness surrounding the losses, The Universe has reminded me time and time again that from struggles come redemption. And from redemption comes new beginnings – a new life.

Perhaps I will not walk out of this year the same person who walked in, but, let’s be honest, why would I want to?

So today, on American Thanksgiving, instead of bemoaning what no longer is, I am thanksful for what has become. If we can only exist in this moment, well, this moment is pretty fucking beautiful.

Instead of stuffing myself with turkey and green bean casserole with the kids, I will instead put up the Christmas lights, warble Christmas carols, and, most of all, count my blessings.

One by motherfucking one.

0) I am thankful I do not own a Team Edward or Team Jacob shirt.

1) Likewise, I’m thankful (and slightly superior) that I’ve never seen, read, or been in the same room with one of the Twilight series.

1) I’m thankful for Strawberry Slim Fast and Uncrustables, without which I would’ve gone hungry. Or gotten scurvy. Or both.

2) I’m thankful that Britney’s new album is (quite possibly) her best. Also: she follows me on The Twitter. Along with 80,000 other people. I just KNOW she’s reading my tweets!

3) My kids, who remind me that one should never, ever take life too seriously, and that I’m never too old for a good poo joke.

5) My friends, my Pranksters, who remind me that it’s okay to be weak sometimes. Who remind me that – no matter what – they will catch me when I fall. Even if I fall hard.

8) I’m thankful that I’ve been able to write – and freelance – every single day of the year. Maybe it’s not a book (turns out, I’m kinda chickenshit about the whole book thing) , but maybe that doesn’t matter.

13) I’m thankful that I had the opportunity to know and love those who I have lost. They have each taught me something, and for that I am grateful.

21) I’m thankful to have imported someone to make me coffee. Because it’s kinda pathetic to admit to the world that you cannot make a cup of coffee. It’s much easier to take credit for someone else’s work.

34) Most of all, I’m thankful for this picture:

Happy, Happy Thanksgiving, Pranksters.

P.S. What are you thankful for?

I wrote this on Band Back Together.

Please read it.

I love you all, my Pranksters.

I get a handful of those address labels throughout the year. Not ones that I order or anything, but the ones that various charities send to me to elicit me to send them cash. (if I ordered them, they’d probably have anatomical parts or the three wolf moon on them or something)

They’re usually corny things, ladybugs and smiling faces and shit. So normally, I toss them into the recycling bin, knowing I don’t exactly want to say that my name is “Mrs. David Harks” or anything. Because believe it or not, when I got married, I KEPT A NAME OF MY OWN.

Anyway. Not a huge fan of those charitable stickers.

Don’t get me wrong – I donate to a couple of charities religiously: Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep and March of Dimes (soon enough Band Back Together!), but I don’t have the fundage to donate to every stinking thing that wants my cash.

Yeah, I’m looking at you, Jimmy Motherfucking Wales.

That’s why, when the Sarah McLaughlin “Angel” song pipes up on one of those ASPCA commercials, I have to turn the channel before I start throwing wads of cash at the television screen. I mean, could they GET any more tear-jerking? I think not.

(dramatic foreshadowing) Rather, I THOUGHT not.

So quickly, I change the channel and pretend that I’m not weeping into my Diet Coke. Because Lord knows, I cannot afford to pay off yet ANOTHER person to prevent them from telling the world that I do, in fact, have feelings.

But last night, I saw that I got yet ANOTHER set of address labels. Addressed to me: Ms. Becky S. Harks. Finally, my ACTUAL name. I could USE those for the Christmas Cards I’ll forget to send!

“No,” Ben and Daver both chimed as I opened it. “YOU DON’T NEED TO SEND THEM MONIES.”

My resolve strong, I was all, “I’m too GOOD for charitable tactics. I can TOTALLY use these stickers WITHOUT forking over wads of cash. I CAN FUCKING DO IT. EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER!”

And then I saw it. The letter.

Yeah.

You got my formerly sick kid’s NAME on top of your letterhead. Nice job. Now I HAVE to give you money.

Jesus, could you stick the knife in any deeper?

“Guys,” I said, tears pouring, “I have to send them mah monies.”

“NO,” they said, almost in unison. “Becky, c’mon!”

“LOOK.” I thrust the paper into Ben’s hand. Immediately, his face crumpled, his eyes just a little moist (he clearly never paid me off to tell the world he doesn’t have feelers).

Then I handed it to Daver, whose face did a similar crumple.

“Okay,” they agreed. “You do.”

It looks like you’ve won this round, St. Judes.

Jimmy Motherfucking Wales? You can blow me. Hard. In fact, I sorta wanna to pull a John C. Mayer on you now. WATCH OUT JIMMY FUCKING WALES. I’M ON TO YOU.