I knew it was bound to happen.

I popped out my crotch parasites well before most of my friends had steady boyfriends (birth control failure FTW!) because I like to win at life. See also: failed birth control.

Once I’d popped out the first crotch parasite, I realized that what I really wanted to do was to pop out more. I’m not saying my logic was failproof or anything (see also: birth control) but I knew I wanted my first kid to have siblings. What can I say? I’m a sentimentalist.

(outright lie)

But I wanted the kid to have siblings, and luckily, he did. Five years later, out popped Alex, and two years after that came Amelia. Which means I have a fuck of a lot of kids, but alas, I digress.

That meant, of course, that I spent my twenties in Fug-Ville. While my friends were out being cute and sexy, I ranged in size from “Is she fat or pregnant” to “that girl looks like Grimace… only not purple.” Postpartum thyroid issues piled even MORE pounds onto my already chunky frame, which lasted approximately until their first birthday. Which = two years of Grimace per baby.

What I’m SAYING, Pranksters, is that I’m a sexy, sexy pregnant woman. You can call me Pregnasaurus Bex if you’d like. I don’t mind.

So now that I’ve gotten done with crotch parasites, I’m returning to the “OMG CUTE CLOTHES” and “UNDERWEAR THAT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE A SHIP’S SAIL” walk of life. Just in time to watch my friends obsess about every little pregnancy symptom or complaint.

I swear to you, Pranksters, everyone I know is gestating. Their Facebook profiles all show blurby ultrasound images of fetuses (fetii?) and updates include all the stats from each doctor’s appointment. It makes me GLAD I’m no longer gestating since my stats would look like:

Weight: *breaks scale*

BP: Non-existent

Measuring: 40 weeks pregnant at 10 weeks.

What Baby Is Doing: Some various state of fruit.

Pretty much, you’d be bored even MORE shitless than you are by my mediocre blog. (my autocorrect wants to change “shitless” to “shirtless” which is actually awesomer.)

However, I feel kinda left out. I mean, I’d rather suck on an icepick than get knocked up again, but still, I want the opportunity to complain about my swollen feet and ginormous rack. Unless I have a Love Child, it ain’t happening.

Luckily, I’m crafty. I came up with a BETTER solution.

Pranksters, let me be the first to announce that I’m having a food baby. His name is Frank.

He’s gonna be a soccer player.

Also: who wants to throw me a baby shower? I can TOTALLY feel him kicking!

Back when I had a regular cell phone, I was all, “Blackberry’s look like talking wallets,” and mocked anyone who ever used one. Because HELLO, WHO TALKS INTO A WALLET? (answer: crazy people, that’s who). Then, I realized I, too, could talk into a wallet, and for the very briefest of time, considered buying a Blackberry, until I realized that I, too, would look like a crazy person.

So I held onto my Dumb Phone and occasionally made calls on it. More often, though, I played Bejeweled.

It wasn’t until Daver decided he needed a second generation iPhone that I realized that I, too, needed one. I wasn’t precisely sure WHY I needed one, but figured I could probably play Bejeweled on a bigger screen (I had a hot pink Razr) which meant that I was most certainly WINNING.

(apologies to Charlie Sheen)

And, if I was stretching, I could say that I was using this Smart Phone to tell me when I’d gone into labor with my daughter – with whom I was heavily pregnant. It was kind of EYE OF THE TIGER.

When I got it home, I marveled at it’s shininess. After all, my Razr was approximately 76372 years old and the screen was half-busted in places, so seeing such a purdy, clean screen was like music to my eyeballs. I promptly imported my email so I could never, ever miss a message about “Increasing Y0ur Pen1$ size,” because, well, obviously: I needed a bigger dick. I was only 787 quintillion million hundred months pregnant, after all.

I waited patiently for the day in which my Smart Phone would tell me I was in labor. I wanted that crotch parasite OUT of me once and for all. And not once, did my Smart Phone say, “Hey, Fuckface, you’re in labor.”

(turns out, I had to be induced, so perhaps my rant is misplaced)

After she was born, though, I hoped that my Smart Phone would be able to say, “Hey Fuckface, the baby’s crying because she’s hungry. Or tired. Or poopy. Or all three.” It didn’t. Not once.

My Smart Phone was officially on notice.

Later, I’d hoped that in addition to being an Angry Birds/Twitter Machine, it would also be able to tell me when I’d forgotten to do something. Like print out boarding passes or pick up my kids from school. Turns out? You have to ENTER that data into some stupid calendar thingy, which is DECIDEDLY not the same as it being SMART.

Then, one day, I tested the fucker out. Was it smart? Was it dumb? Was it a redesigned wallet phone?

So I screamed into it (one never knows if phones are as deaf as my children): “CURE CANCER, MOTHERFUCKER.”

And you know what? It didn’t. It just sat there, blankly, my face reflecting back at me through the smudges on the screen. It didn’t say, “does not compute,” or “you’re an asshole,” or even, “cure it your damn self, Aunt Becky.” No. It just looked at me dumbly, like I hadn’t just given it a task or something.

Fucker.

I’m getting even, though. I’m changing it’s name from “Smart Phone,” to “Angry Birds Machine.”

I suggest you do the same, Pranksters.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Any good books out there re. pregnancy over 40?  Most of what I see deals with fertility and/or doesn’t get into the nitty-gritty (breastfeeding vs. copious sag tit, etc…).  Seriously, would appreciate any advice.  We can dial it down to “over 35,” if that helps.

Regards,
Terry

Pranksters? I have no personal experience, Terry, so I’m going to let my Pranksters take this one.

I wish you the best of luck, mah friend. Tit sag is a BITCH.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Sooo… my older brother has been loud and proud for 15 years and I’ve always been more than supportive of him, having a blast at gay bars, going to dinner with the new flavor of the week, honestly, I don’t care (and never have cared) that he’s gay.

The thing is.. my brother is an asshole.  That’s the part I don’t like.  I’ve offered up my place for him to host parties and come home to find everything broken and condoms everywhere.  Oh and a passport under my bed from a boy I’ve never met who had just turned 18 years old.  Not fucking cool.  So, no more parties.  My brother has no respect for other people.  He’s 32 and lives at my parents place.

Blah blah blah.. it just came to my attention that my brother’s new boyfriend of a few months used to do a lot of gay porn.  I was sent the link.. it’s the new boyfriend.. and well, I mean to each their own, but I’m just not really cool with embracing a man whose images I can’t get out of my head.

No one in the family knows except for me and the family is in love with him.  It looks like he’ll be around for a long time.  And honestly, I don’t even know if my brother knows about his boyfriend’s past.

I have a ton of question for you.. but the main one is, how the hell do I handle this???

Thanks Aunt Becky!

Dear Prankster,

If it seems like this dude is going to be around forever, I’d go ahead and try and remember all those pictures we took in Cancun, that one drunken night, then decided to repost on The Facebook. Not that porn is the same as those stupid photos of my boobs from Cancun, but you get the idear.

I know your brother is an asshole, but perhaps you can take aside his partner and make sure he’s clean. You know, free from The Crotch Rot? Because honestly, that’s the only thing I can really take issue with or worry about. I mean, if he’s still making porn, there’s prolly another discussion to be had.

Other than that, try not to picture that dude getting plowed while you pass the potatoes on Thanksgiving and remember that we all have unsavory bits in our past.

Good luck, Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Why the fuck do people wear white shirts and jeans for family portraits? Is there some special meaning or is it just a god-awful trend (using the word trend liberally)? I’m not one for professional portraits (neglectful mom) so the whole idea of any kind matching outfit or let’s-all-look-over-our-shoulders-whilst-at-the-beach is abhorrent to me.

But why THIS particular outfit?  I’ve seen it before, and I’m all MORMON! but now I think it’s a THING.  What is it? (Besides something insignificant that bothers me too much for no reason.  AKA people dipping everything they eat into ranch dressing).

Thank you,
Kristin

Dear Prankster Kristin,

I think that the whole matching white shirt and jeans thing is probably caused by people who are actually being held for ransom by the mafia. Like they’re taking these pictures to send a warning to friends and family, which is why they send YOU a copy (also: me). They’re saying, don’t FUCK with the mob or the MOB will fuck you BACK (by making you wear white shirts and jeans so you “match” your family, just like you’ll wear “matching” cement shoes into the river).

I cannot think of any other good reason for the uncomfortably posed, matching clothes pictures. Really, who goes and sits around a fake fireplace together, giving each other those sappy fucking grins?

PEOPLE BEING HELD AT GUNPOINT, THAT’S WHO.

Pranksters, any better idears?

—————–

As always, Pranksters, please submit your questions to Go Ask Aunt Becky and you, too, may receive a totally pointless response from me.

Today, Pranksters, I bring you a post from a good friend of mine. He’s asked to remain anonymous, but his story, of course, I wanted to share with you, so you can send him some love.

Much Love,

AB

I’ve always known that I had a problem with infertility. One of the advantages of being a boy is that there are particular things that happen when you’re gleefully getting your rocks off, and if they don’t happen, well, then ain’t nobody having a baby. Pretty simple equation, really. There have been a few times in my life where it all came together, the stars were in the right alignment, and everything worked, but those have been few and far between.

You can imagine my surprise when the love of my life came to me last week and told me that she was late. Now, there are a lot of potential explanations for that one. We’d both been under a lot of stress lately, which I know can take its toll. So, I waited patiently until she was definitely running late and decided that it was probably no big deal.

She came to me the next morning and showed me two lines. The first line was obviously there, bold as brass, practically screaming “YEP, YOU PEED ON ME!” The second was fainter, not as clear, but very definitely a line. It ran from the top to the bottom of the window, and got more solid as I watched it. Under ordinary circumstances my first thought would have been, “When on earth did you have time to slip on in on me?” This woman though, she’s never lied to me, never hurt me, never betrayed my trust even on something as simple as how I like my bagels toasted.

I was thrilled beyond words. I actually picked her up off the ground hugging her, and would have swung her around in a circle if we hadn’t been standing in an enclosed space. She made me feel the little bump that was already apparent to the touch, told me about the weird food cravings she’d been starting to have, and finally told me about how her clothes had started fitting a little bit differently the last week. Apparently she’d known a good week before circumstances forced her to pee on something.

In the matter of days, I’d already thought of all the things that were going to have to happen to get us ready to have a baby. The clothes, the room, the extra cash flow, the people we’d have to tell. I knew we were having a girl, somewhere deep in my heart, and I’d already seen the day that I first held her in my arms and stared into her beautiful eyes. Like her mother’s, they’d bore right into me like I was transparent. Like her mother, she’d wrap me around her little finger in four seconds flat. We told a few people who were really excited for us, figured we would tell other people as we saw them.

Five days ago, she had an early-term miscarriage. We talked it through, and we knew that things could have been better timed for us to bring a child into the world. That this was sad, but not devastating. This was better happening now than a few months later, and most definitely it just meant that something was wrong with the pregnancy and the body was taking care of it. I got a text message from a good friend later that day with a picture of a onesie, black with little skull and crossbones all over it. She said she’d picked it up for us because it was awesome. I got the message in public, while running errands, and it was all I could do not to break down and cry in the middle of the store.

Because I know that this was the best way for it to happen, if we were going to have to have a miscarriage. It had barely developed at all, we hadn’t told everyone we knew, we knew we’d have another chance later for another. Because of all that, I knew that it was the best way for this to happen. That doesn’t take away though, that I lost something last week. I lost not just the pregnancy that we were both excited about and happy to have, but also Possibility. Nights spent watching movies curled up on the couch, and days making cupcakes, and even afternoons spent taking care of a child when they’re sick.

All the possibilities of a lifetime, all burned out in an instant, like a matchstick being blown out in the wind. That’s why I finally broke down last night and cried about it. I feel better now than I did yesterday, and I’ll feel even better tomorrow, but the thing I mourn the most is all the things that could have been. I’d had all the love in the world, and I never even got to say so.

So today I’ll tell you. I loved a child that could have been, and I loved it hard. I was born to be a daddy, and I’d have showed this child all the things that are beautiful in this world. Tomorrow, I’ll think about trying again, but today I’m sorry that I never got to tell it so.

You know, Pranksters, I’ve been feeling a little low lately. Sometimes, you know, you get so much bullshit heaped up on you at once, you just can’t manage to shake it off, eat a goddamned cheeseburger, run around the house screaming BITCH GET ME CHICKEN, while worshiping at the alter of Billy Mays.

It fucking happens.

When it does, though, you start to question yourself; “am I really that smart?” “Is my obsession with Billy Mays cool or creepy?” “What would Bob Ross do?”

Then, if you’re REALLY lucky, the heavens open up and smile down upon you.

Today, they did:

When I first read the title, I got hungry. I mean, I hadn’t eaten a cheeseburger in at LEAST thirty minutes and motherfucker, I was hungry.

So I grabbed out a bucket of BBQ sauce and this magnificent book. It was time to eat me some motherfucking smart fucking kids.

First, I had to decide how to lure these incredibly smart kids into my house so I could properly eat them. Luckily for me, Twix had just sent me a large stash of Twix bars AND a Twix costume, so I knew I could easily lure even the smartest of kids. Who doesn’t love a grown woman dressed as a candy bar? Answer: NO ONE.

I learned, after devouring my first MENSA member that kids? Well, they’re kinda gamey. You can CALL them the other OTHER white meat, but they still taste like boogers and dirt. Even the smart ones!

But I waited, checking every hour to see if my IQ had grown. And, by golly, it had! Suddenly, I knew how to solve complex geometric equations even though I’d spent most of that class sitting in the back row, stoned out of my gourd. It was magic!

What else did I want to raise my IQ in? The possibilities, it seemed, were endless. I want to be the VERY BEST at everything, naturally! In the end, I went for a talented athlete. I’m practically on first-name basis with the ER staff, what with my predisposition to walk merrily into walls and fall jauntily up the stairs.

Soon, Pranksters, as I was licking the BBQ sauce off his tiny bones, I realized that I suddenly COULD run more than three feet without my lungs burning. I felt my muscles tense and flex as I prepared for a nice game of rugby with the neighbor kids. I was ready to kick some little kid ass!

The moral of this story is, Pranksters, that kids taste grimy and mealy – even the brilliant ones – but we can learn so much by eating them. So please, Pranksters, won’t you eat an honor student today?

Honor student – The Other OTHER White Meat.

There is nothing not absolutely awe-inspiring about this. Especially since it MAGICALLY appeared in my iPhoto library. I think it’s a sign.

Is the best part that she’s named Cornfed? Or that he’s a white dude named Bill Cosby (WHO IS VERY CLEARLY NOT THE REAL BILL COSBY)?

No.

It’s her response.

P.S. The current front-runner for most inappropriately named porno is “Hairy Pooter.”

P.P.S. Outdo me. I dare you.

In 2000, I stared at what appeared to be two lines on a pregnancy test. Certainly, that couldn’t be two lines. There’s no fucking way that’s a line. There’s just no way.

Turns out that against all odds, I was, indeed carrying a second line.

With that second line, my life changed.

When that second line emerged from my girl bits as a boy child, life as I knew it was over. I was a mother.

Since I could walk, I’d dreamed of becoming a doctor. I’d been aiming for that in my overachieving scholastic career as long as I could recall. And now, a second line changed it all.

Certainly I could’ve pushed through, become a single mother in medical school – assuming, of course, that I’d even make it INTO medical school in the first place – and seen my kid about a weekend a month. I know what it takes to become – and be – a doctor. I also knew that motherhood had to come first.

I ditched the whole thing. Everything I’d worked for, everything I’d ever thought I’d do, that second line changed it all.

Enrolled in nursing school, we all know I was miserable. It’s like going out for a really delicious steak dinner and getting a plate of chicken. Both good in their own right, but you wanted that steak, motherfucker. You can’t substitute chicken for steak and pretend it’s the same thing.

For years after I had Ben, I searched for that one thing. That one elusive thing that would give me a sense of worth, a sense of value, a sense of pride. For years, I wanted something to validate my life.

When I started Mushroom Printing on a whim back in 2003, I discovered a tiny hint of that. I’d never call myself a writer, and certainly the things I wrote there were about as safe as things COULD be, but I began to see the world through a different lens. Stories were everywhere, just waiting to be told. All I had to do was tell them.

I simply had to use my words.

And when I started Mommy Wants Vodka, I did. It was like Mushroom Printing Light. Here is where I learned to open a blank box, see that blinking cursor for a fraction of a second before I let it all out. And I have. Words poured out of me – feelings I didn’t know I had simply materialized on the page without a second thought.

I’d found it. My calling. That elusive thing I’d spent so many years chasing had finally materialized in front of me, justlikethat.

I’d never known something so easy before. Everything else I’d ever tried to work for was that: work. But my words, they were simply there.

I sit here, seven (eight?) years later, and I wonder what I am to do with these words. Certainly, I’ve managed to found both Band Back Together (which is waiting on the non-profit paperwork!) and Mushroom Printing (in a group blog format). I’ve managed to write five to six days a week for Mommy Wants Vodka. I’ve picked up freelancing gigs here and there. I’ve toyed with the idear of writing a book.

And I wonder what else I can do. The only way I know to go is to 11, so I know I must do more. Harder. Faster. Better.

The answer is now elusive.

What more am I to do with my words?

Pranksters, what am I to do?

Dear Aunt Becky,

A little more than a month ago I found out my best friend, who is only 16 like me, was cutting. After my initial shock, with a lot of arguing and tears, I managed to convince her to tell her parents and get help. Since then she has been diagnosed with depression and has begun seeing a therapist.

Just recently she was talking about how she is sort of relieved that it’s out, but that she feels like any therapist can’t really help her, and she is anxious about getting medication.

I know that this process is really rough in the beginning and that over time she might find a combination of therapy and/or medication that works for her, but for now I want to help her in anyway that I can. I’m always try to listen to her, but she says that talking about it doesn’t really make her feel better.

How else can I help and support her?

Prankster, can I just tell you how proud I am to know you? What an amazing friend you are to your friend? Because you are. I hope that one day you, too, will be MY friend. You’re a good soul.

As for what you can do for your friend, just be patient. Listen when she needs you to. Acknowledge that her pain is really real. Suggest alternatives to cutting. Offer gentle, quiet support every day, and remind her that she is loved. Being stuck underwater with depression, well, that means it’s often hard to see the surface; remind yourself that there ARE people above holding out there hands.

So stand by her, encourage her as best you can, and remind her that she is so, so loved.

All of us should be so lucky to have a friend like you.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I need some advice. First let me just say that you are hilarious and when I grow up I want to be just like you 🙂
Now, some background information. I’m 25, married to a wonderful man and mother to a wonderful 3 year old. We both have steady jobs and work full time. Currently we are living paycheck to paycheck, just scraping by. My husband wants another baby. I don’t.

At least I don’t think I do.

I do a majority of the housework, dishes, laundry all that jazz on top of working 40 hours a week. Due to my husband’s hours I also do the majority of the child-rearing. Add three dogs and a cat to the mix and by bedtime I am completely exhausted. Not to mention the fact that we have very little family support. My biological mother is incarcerated and the woman who raised me passed away two years ago. So that leaves me an orphan. My in-laws are fantastic but they are in their late 60’s and 70’s.

I am terrified that if we have another child we are going to drown. I was raised poor, so as long as we have a roof overhead (we do) and food for our bellies (we do), I’m happy. At this point, the only thing that is keeping me on the birth control is money. We just don’t have enough of it.

Is it ridiculous to want to wait until we are more financially stable? Please help Aunt Becky!

Xoxo,

Less Money, Mo’ Problems

Ah, the old quandary: when to have another baby.

I’m afraid I can’t answer that question easily, but I can say this: waiting until the time is easier financially is much less stressful on your life. I’ve had a baby when I was so butt-broke I couldn’t even buy him a single thing myself. I relied on the kindness of strangers, who were unbelievably kind to me. That didn’t make it less hard. Then, I’ve had babies who I can – without thinking too much – buy formula, diapers, and clothes for. While I’ve managed both sets of circumstances, it’s much harder the first way.

However, that does not mean it is impossible.

But you should wait until YOU are ready to have a second child. Spending nine months waddling around is hardest on you, not anyone else.

I wish you the best of luck, Prankster.

Dearest Rockin’ Aunt Becky,

I’m due soon with my very first crotch parasite.  So I’m doing all my first time parental duties and reading the books, checking out the websites and generally preparing.

Why is it that in every book or website the people post how “magical” and “wonderful” this whole pregnancy thing is?  I’m sorry, not one bit of this has been “magical” for me.  I gained 10 lbs of bloat during the first trimester, have zits the size of jupiter, was sick for 15 weeks,  and am generally unhappy.  I have a child growing inside me who has been kicking me so hard since 16 weeks I jump out of my chair at work.  Typical posts online are “oh i loved it when my baby kicked it was such a wonderful feeling”.  

What? Really? How is it wonderful? I feel like my insides are being pummeled into tenderized meat.

I’m wondering when I’m going to feel the “magic”.  Is it a drug women take? I feel really alone in feeling like this and everytime I post something about it on Facebook or The Twitter people think I’M the crazy one.  I’ve learned to just shut up and take it b/c my lonely “miserable while pregnant” island has a pretty small population, of One, me.

So in conclusion, Aunt Becky, Please tell me I’m not the only one who can’t WAIT for this stage to be over and to hold my little girl.  

If I am the only one who feels this way, please mail me some of those “I Love Pregnancy” drugs everyone seems to be taking (along with a Shut Your Whore Mouth t-shirt).

Truthfuly yours,
Knockered up in RI

Bwahahahahahahahahahaha! Are you kidding? ARE YOU KIDDING? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I love my children dearly, but I will be the FIRST to admit that I was the most miserable, unhappy, fat, and unpleasant pregnant woman on the plant. Maybe you’d have sat on MY misery island with me.

Read THIS.

Feel better? You should.

P.S. Better name the baby “Aunt Becky.” Just, you know, because.

I wrote a post on Antenatal Depression for ABC’s Million Moms Challenge. You should read it.

Also: I need a pony.

And a cookie.