To you whom I have hurt:

I am sorry. Believe me when I say that hurting others was not my intention, and for that I am sorry.

I had been using writing as a therapy to work through my past, not dwell in it, but to speak to what I remember. I learned somewhere in some class that I probably had to take as a prereq learning about communication (shows how well I paid attention, huh?). In every situation, each person involved has their own perceptions; their own memories. These memories may or may not be the same as others, even those who witnessed the same events. Those memories may be a small fragment of what actually happened.

The words I write here are my own and are the truth as I remember them. When writing about my past, my childhood especially, it’s clear that some things stuck with me more than others. I imagine the same is true for each of you.

I do not dwell on things from my past, I do not wish to play the victim and I do not wish to hurt others by sharing my memories. I’m not a malicious person and I never will be. I write things out as they come to me and I’ve used this blog to work through many of my emotions over the years. Is that dull? Yes. Is it primarily trite? Probably. I’m not denying that.

My relationship with my parents has been something I’ve worked through, accepted, and moved on from. I cannot change the way I’ve felt about certain situations, nor can I pretend that those feelings have never existed. I have, however, been able to move past the way Young Aunt Becky viewed things and moved into my own feelings and thoughts. Are they always pretty? No. Are they always nice to hear? Again, no. But they are mine.

I accept my parents as they are now: a big part of my life. I live a mere seven minutes from them – BY DESIGN – and haven’t been happier. I see my mother each day and our relationship has grown immeasurably. Likewise with my father. Does this mean I don’t occasionally remember things as Young Aunt Becky saw them? Of course not.

Perspective and time means that I can see them for who they were: people who were simply trying to do the best that they could. I don’t begrudge my past as I once did, but I don’t shy away from talking about how I felt. My feelings about any given situation may not be the same as others in the same situation, but that does not invalidate them.

However, in seeing that I’ve hurt so many, I feel it bears mentioning that I did not wish to cause pain for anyone. I spoke my truth as I saw it when I saw it and, through writing it out, I was able to move on.

But I am taking responsibility for those who I have hurt and apologizing that I was the cause of such pain.

I hadn’t meant to.

——————-

At Band Back Together, we’re doing a Wall of Remembrance on October 15 for those who have lost a baby, child or suffered a miscarriage. If you’d like to us to remember your baby with you, please send an email to jana@bandbacktogether.com with the subject OCTOBER 15.

The line will look like this: Charlie: Jana’s son born May 21, 2003 and died June 14, 2003 from late-onset Group B Strep.

Here’s the information Jana is collecting for the wall:

• Baby’s name (or names for twins, triplets or multiple losses)
• Dates and the cause of death (miscarriage, stillbirth, prematurity, heart defect, group b strep, etc.)
• URL to your blog or a post about your baby(ies)
• Your first name (if you want it included)

I will also be posting my own wall here just as I do every October 15. The Pranksters and I will always remember those whose tables are forever missing one.

It started back in January. While I’m not one to dwell on trolls, mean comments, or other such internet tomfoolery, because really, why waste the energy I could spend photoshopping my fake dead cat Mr. Sprinkles into inappropriate pictures?

But this comment came from an IP address in the area local enough that a family member could had written it. It said, in a comment dripping with patronizing condescension (forgive me for paraphrasing), “You’re an addict hiding in plain sight.”

I’ve been accused of many things on my blog (my favorite being “you’re not funny,” because I’ve only ever claimed to be funny LOOKING), but to be called an addict, after being accused of being a drug-seeker by the clinic doctor, that was, well, disheartening. Why?

There’s not a day that goes by that I do not worry I will become an addict. We adult children of alcoholics; we are four times as likely to become addicts, and well, both of my parents are recovering alcoholics, which I’d imagine would increase my own likelihood infinitesimally. I’ve written about it ad nauseum because it’s part of who I am. I’m not shy about hiding my past because I know we’re only as sick as our secrets and I do not wish to live my life shrouded in secrecy, pretending my past was a Norman Rockwell painting.

I cannot be the Secret Keeper. It is not in my nature and it is not something I intend to start doing now. Which is, in part, why I am putting back up the only post I’ve ever removed.

I do not know who made such a patronizing, disdainful comment way back in January (although I have my suspicions) but it was that comment that caused me to pull back inward, sharing with you, My Pranksters; my family, only things that could no longer hurt me. Certainly you could call me an assjacket when I put up a picture of my fake dead cat or ramble on about Mark Zuckerberg and his stupid hair, but none, not a single one would hurt. Not really.

But I played it safe for months, living a [redacted] life, only sharing the things that I thought would keep me safe. And I was right, they did. They also made me miserable.

There’s nothing I love more than coming here, spilling my guts to you, my family, and having a single person pipe in and say, “you know what? I feel that way too.” That’s why I do what I do. There’s little more powerful than knowing someone out there feels just like you do. That I am no longer alone in the universe.

And I’m sorry that a single thoughtless comment led to a mostly [redacted] life. Whomever left the comment doesn’t “know me, the real me;” YOU do. My Pranksters. My family.

You deserve better and so do I. It’s time to speak our truth. In the end, that’s all we have.

Aunt Becky: “Oooooh, I should make KEY LIME BARS tonight. It’s only 8:30 and House, MD is delayed and OOOOOO TASTY.”

Aunt Becky (wanders to the pantry): “OH I HAVE RICE TOO.”

Aunt Becky: “Who the fuck eats rice around here?”

Aunt Becky (pours Key Lime crust into pan and throws it into the preheated oven for 8 minutes): “I should take some Vitamin V to properly enjoy The House Experience.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m not sure how I like the new storyline. I think there should be more singing cats.”

Aunt Becky: “OOOO The TWITTER. I SHOULD TWEET SOMETHING PITHY ABOUT CELERY.”

Aunt Becky: “I am the celery pundit!”

Aunt Becky: “That’s PROBABLY the crowning achievement of my life. How pathetic.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m going to doodle ‘Aunt Becky Rules’ on the fridge. Certainly they ALL need a reminder. Perhaps THEN I can get my fake monkey butler Mr. Pinchey!”

Aunt Becky: “Celery is fucking bullshit.”

Aunt Becky (wanders outside to check on roses): “Full moon. Explains a lot. I should give the full moon a FULL MOON.”

(gives full moon a full moon)

Aunt Becky: “I hope my neighbors saw that.”

Aunt Becky (wanders back inside): “Wonder if House, MD is on. We’re not getting back together until he gets a haircut. Prison mullet looks like, well, Prison Mullet. Why can’t he be all Michael Scoffield hot?”

Aunt Becky (spies pan sitting back atop stove, timer blaring): “OOOO. SHIT. DID I ACCIDENTALLY NOT THROW THE PAN IN THE OVEN? I’M SUCH A FUCKING DUMBASS, SWEET BABY JESUS.”

Aunt Becky (reaches to grab pan): “I can totally pretend I MEANT to leave that out….OH BLOODY FUCKING HELL HOT FUCK GODDAMMIT.”

—————

Moral of the story: when in doubt, use a test subject to handle all potentially hot items. Alternately, an oven mitt. But mostly a test subject.

There’s no end to the way to the way people who write blogs, use The Facebook, Tumblr, and use The Twitter can judge themselves. Number of comments, number of blog hits, amount of “friends” on The Facebook, number of Tumblr followers, number of The Twitter followers. It never fucking ends.

Because, at the end of the day, Pranksters, we ALL know someone artificially better than ourselves.

The question, though, is DO WE GIVE A FUCK?

(let’s hear it for a resounding NO)

(see also: why let The Man keep us down?)

I was recently introduced to a new concept in Feel Bad About Yourself on the Internet:

Klout.

Klout is supposed to be a measure of your Twitter influence and blah-blah-blah, squirt, squirt. I stopped listening when I saw the shiny numbers.

Here, Pranksters, let me give you a tutorial about what Klout says about me.

OOOOH! Snazzy!

There a big fat number next to my Twitter avatar and some other buttons, who-dillys and whatchamacallits right there! I’m just SURE this is going to be a GREAT representation of how I, Your Aunt Becky, behaves on The Internet. I am SURE I’m about to learn something!

So, what’s this about “topics?” Let’s see what topics I choose to impart my most important innermost thoughts and feelers about. After all, this is what I’m influential about!

You had me, Klout, until you told me I was influential about “tacos.” Because while I do routinely say, “I’d like to kick Martha Stewart in the taco,” I don’t think we have an understanding as to precisely what type of taco I’m referring to. Perhaps you’ll do better next time, Klout.

P.S. Why can’t I be influential about encased meats? #justsayin

If there’s a single more useless vegetable in the planet than celery, I do know know what it is. Tacos, I can sorta understand, Klout, but CELERY? I hate celery with the fiery passions of a thousand burning suns, more vigorously than I hate John C. Mayer, and I’d be willing to bet that I’ve never, ever said anything about celery in my life.

BECAUSE CELERY DOESN’T MERIT CONVERSATIONS.

In fact, Pranksters, this may be the longest I’ve spoken about celery in my life.

Celery = bullshit. Let’s move on.

Lastly, let’s see my Klout style. Certainly this will give some insight into the crap I spew out in 140 characters or less…right? The celery thing has to be some sort of fucked-up glitch on Klout’s end. It simply must be.

…..

…..

…..

…..

……

So you’re saying I’m a pundit about celery, Klout? A CELERY PUNDIT? I MAKE THE MOTHERFUCKING NEWS ABOUT CELERY?

Ouch.

Just.

OUCH.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Judge Judy has a saying: “How can you tell when a teenager is lying? His or her mouth is moving.”

Judge Judy is a pillar of our society. Do we teenagers owe it to her to lie when we otherwise wouldn’t, just to avoid the rude act of contradicting ones elders?

Alexis

Dear Alexis,

Would you really take advice from someone who looks as though she’s been mummified?

Thought not.

Love,

AB

Hello my dear!

I was reading your post today, and you mentioned you have PTSD, and it just made me think, “if this bitch can do it, and deal with kids, and be amazing, WTF is my problem?”

So I just want to know, how the hell do you do it!? The anxiety/panic attacks are fucking killing me! I’ve been dealing with this for years, and it still has a nasty grip on my everyday life.

And another question… I have just moved to a place to get a fresh start, and I have an awesome support group here, but no one knows about the PTSD, or the crippling panic attacks I get, so how do I explain it to them with out coming off crazy? Because I feel crazy when I talk about it!

Thank you so much for your awesomeness! You amaze me, and I am so happy that I have found you and your blogs! Love to you!

Millie

Dear Millie,

I’ve managed my PTSD with a combination of therapy, better living through chemistry and more therapy. Oh, and writing. OH, and my roses. There are days when it still gets it’s wily grips on me and I fear I’ll never again be normal.

Those days, I remember that “normal” is bullshit and I’m perfect just the way I am. I gently suggest you try some therapy and medication to stave off the worst of the panic and anxiety. And when all else fails, try something soothing. Like gardening. It helps your mind be free to work through all of the panic while doing something with your hands. Very therapeutic.

Or, if you’d like, you (that means ALL of you, Pranksters) are invited personally to share your experience on Band Back Together. Writing has saved my life more than once.

As for telling people about your PTSD, there’s no need to do so. I mean, right away. Of course you need a support system, but not everyone will be able to understand how you feel. Perhaps your therapist can give you some support groups in the area so you can find some people who fully understand you.

I wish you the very best.

Hi Aunt Becky!

Disciplining other people’s children: lots of different opinions, OK. What about “mannering” other people’s children? Is it horrible to prompt little Billy-not-my-kid to say “thank you”/blow his nose/ask politely, or will Billy’s Mom have a conniption, like I’m judging her parenting?

A totally different, but related (I swear!) question; My sister-in-law (about my age) has Down Syndrome, and thus is at about the intellectual level of a child (give or take, in various categories). She has horrible manners, due in *part* to her disability (stubbornness, unwillingness to compromise), but mainly thanks to inadequate parenting (I love my MIL dearly, but I can see it even in my husband).

So is it weird to correct my SIL’s manners (not in public or anything)? Prompt her to say “thank you” when I hand her $20 for lunch, or someone goes out of their way to help her? Pranksters, if you were my MIL, would you be hurt, thinking I was critiquing her parenting skillz?

Raising youngsters of my own, and being used to constantly prompting manners, it’s getting harder and harder to not prompt my SIL (and other children we’re around). Hell, my toddler is more polite than she is!

What do you and your Merry Band think, My Dear Aunt Becky? Offensive? Or might I actually do some good? As of yet I’ve kept my mouth shut, but it’s getting harder and harder.

Ta!
Mrs. Manners

Dear Mrs. Manners,

As someone who routinely swears in front of her children (WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN?) it may surprise you to learn that I’m surprisingly anal about manners. As in, I’d be shocked and horrified that someone corrected my children before I, in fact, could. However, on the off-chance I was too distractible by the SkyMall kitties and didn’t prompt a “THANK YOU” out of my crotch parasites, I’d be amenable to someone reminding them.

However, if it was simply someone correcting them without first giving me the opportunity to do so, I’d be a little annoyed. Not terribly annoyed, mind you, but annoyed nonetheless.

So what say you, Pranksters? What are your thoughts on that? And, frankly, anything else.

“Mom, do I have autism?” my eldest peered at me through the eyes so dark and deep I could easily be swallowed by them.

My heart stopped a moment, my dancing cactus videos forgotten entirely, unsure of how to proceed. It was a good question. Something we had never spoken of because, well, it never mattered.

The answer was yes, yes he did have Asperger Syndrome. He’d had it since I’d pushed him out of my delicate girl parts, trying desperately to bring him to my breast on the birthing table, only to have him shriek in horror and disgust, something he did with alarming frequency for the next several years.

Clothes made him crazy, their textures too binding, the tags an endless source of frustration. Being held, something most babies (I’d heard) loved, well, he’d prefer to lay on his back, watching his mobile spin for hours upon end, the deep greens and blues soothing him in a way I never could. It broke my heart until it didn’t anymore because eventually, I stopped trying to scoop him on up, cuddle him close. I loved him from afar, my tears dotting his crib sheet as I stood above him, wishing I knew what went on in that glorious brain of his.

By age one, his love of the planets was obsessive. While he couldn’t tell me the name of the animals that lived in the house (dog, cat, for those interested), he could tell me all of the names of the moons of Jupiter – his favorite planet – and identify them from even the grainiest pictures.

Speech severely delayed, by age two, he was enrolled in both speech and occupational therapy, dutifully trucking back and forth to the Early Intervention center, day after ever-loving day. Eventually, he’d been able to touch varying textures of dry rice and beans, eat few things beyond his standard diet of oatmeal, graham crackers and cheese, and adapt his fine motor skills so that he could pinch small things, hold a crayon.

Speech therapy continued until his fourth year. He’d gone from mostly non-verbal – excepting, of course, anything related to the cosmos – to using a handful of words; more each day.

Our relationship had developed, too. While I’d still feel that scar tissue tightening up whenever he chose anyone but me to love on, I accepted that his love was different; unique. Just like his beautiful brain. It was simply different. Not wrong, not right, not better or worse, just different.

I accepted different.

Through all of this, we didn’t bother with labels. Not in my house. Ben’s Asperger Syndrome was no different than saying he’d inherited both my brown hair and long eyelashes. It was just a part of who he was. And that didn’t deserve a label or hushed meetings around the table.

I knew the slippery-slope of labeling and I wanted him to grow up as himself, not as what a syndrome may or may not dictate about him.

So when, at age ten, he asked me if he had autism, I didn’t know quite what to say.

So, with widened eyes, I spoke the truth:

“You have something called Asperger Syndrome. You have since you were a baby. You went through speech therapy to help you talk and other therapies to help you eat. Remember how your sister had speech therapy? You did too.”

His eyes opened so largely I feared they would fall from their sockets.

“But I’m okay?” he asked.

“You, like your grandfather, your uncle (my brother) and your own brother, well, you’re just quirky. You have things about you that are different than everyone else. But really, EVERYONE is different. Different is awesome. So don’t think about yourself as a “syndrome,” think of yourself as Ben. Because THAT is who you are.”

He smiled, the crooked teeth he’d gotten from his paternal grandmother peeking through, making him look like a bobble-headed jack-o-lantern.

“Yeah. You’re right. I’m just Ben.”

“I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

He then scampered off to celebrate his Ben-ness with his siblings.

Daily flash mobs would be mandatory. Preferably in front of my house. Why? Because who can be gloomy when THIS is happening?

Instead of being powered by gasoline or electricity or flux capacitors, cars will be run entirely on music by Prince.

When the recyclables gather in a large enough pile, they will simply band together like a Transformer and walk their way to the recycling plant.

Childbearing will make the female body MORE youthful and beautiful, rather than causing breasts to look like two oranges in tube socks.

Coffee will be the national beverage and mandatory for anyone over the age of seven.

Life on the Internet will no longer be measured in numbers (see also: Klout) but upon hilarity of cat videos.

Split pea soup will be banned because, well, obviously no one should eat something that appears to have been shot out of my baby’s pooper.

Babies will be born sleeping through the night, doing complex geometric equations, and ready to go to work to buy their parents diamonds.

Pants will remain entirely optional, even in polite company.

There will be no “polite company.”

People who use the words “organic,” “sustainable,” and/or “nosh” in the same paragraph will be banned to the ALOT Island along with anyone who substitutes ellipses for periods.

Moon Pies will ACTUALLY be made of bits of the moon.

Detergents that don’t include OxyClean will be banned. The legacy of Billy Motherfucking Mays must live!

Steve Irwin coined the “stupid people antagonizing wild animals” television shows. Which got him dead. Which means that no one should repeat the formula.

For the love of all that is holy, no more reality singing competitions. American Idol was the clear winner and it’s gone the way of the condor. Or whatever we’re calling Paula Abdul these days.

——————-

Dish, Pranksters. What else should we add? Because when I rule the Universe, you’re all co-rulers.

On days like today, when I’ve woken to a flood of emails, texts, and The Twitter DM’s, all about someone who is desperate and suicidal, only to have to go find the post she’s written for Band Back Together, edit it (or have someone else do it), rearrange the schedule, then beg The Brains Behind The Band to help promote it.

(P.S. if you want to join the Brains Behind The Band, PLEASE email me at becky.harks@gmail.com)

This isn’t, Pranksters, anything new. In fact, this is pretty par for the course these days. Most of my days start and end like this.

In between dealing with the fall-out from the suicidal post, checking to see if we had any other posts that required OMG NAO publishing, it’s already 1:30 and I’m spent. Exhausted. Ready to crawl back into bed, hoping that I’ll be able to bring the funny back tomorrow. Because today, it ain’t happening.

It was with great glee that I watched the Social Network a couple of months ago. I had The Twitter on the ready, prepared to rip Zuckerberg a new pooper, when, right at the beginning of the movie, he said the words that forever won him a spot in my cold, dark heart. When asked what The Facebook would be, he replied, “I don’t know yet.”

That’s precisely what happened on Band Back Together. When I launched it last September, I honestly DIDN’T know what it would be. People asked me constantly what the site was about and I couldn’t give them anything but a canned answer. What it has become is so much more than I’d dreamed. I’m beyond proud. Beyond grateful. Beyond amazed. Beyond honored for all of the brave souls who have – and continue – shared their stories with us.

Everyone has a story.

I hope you share yours with us.

Because even on days like today, when my funny has been banished to the ALOT Island, when I’m frazzled and running around like a zombie chicken, I know that we’re making a difference.

That, Pranksters, is worth all the funny in the world.

Mostly.

P.S. Wasn’t kidding about the offer to join The Brains. Holler at me, please.

P.P.S. For my baby loss mamas, we’re doing a Wall of Remembrance on the site in addition to the one I do each year here. Here’s more information about that wall.

Eleventy-billion (read: 6) years ago, I was in school. Nursing school, if you want to be pedantic about it, which, as Pranksters, I’m sure you do, because obviously.

As the three of you who have read my blog since I started spewing my words and polluting the Internet may remember, Nursing School was not = to Aunt Becky’s BFF. In fact, Nursing School was PROBABLY my archenemy, if it had feelings, which, I’m presuming, it did not. Otherwise it’d have spit on me whenever I got too close…kinda like that patient on the psych ward.

Alas, I digress.

I was the Bad Kid, the Black Sheep, the Outcast. I’d gone from sitting in the back row, eagerly spitting out answers to questions to sitting in the back row, playing Bejeweled on my phone as I pretended to be anywhere but, well, there.

Every break I got, I popped out to the front steps to smoke my cigarettes and glower at the happy college students bounding past me – probably carefree music majors – until one day, a boy showed up and introduced himself. Ryan was his name, and he was one of two boys in the program, which meant that he was as big an outcast as I.

We’d pass the time that way, he and I, sitting on the stoop of the Nursing School building, me smoking while he talked about his time as a Patient Care Tech. Having never worked in a hospital before, I was fascinated by stories like, “So this one time, I helped this old man onto the toilet and his balls actually dipped into the water.” I hadn’t realized that testicles got REALLY dangly as men age. On those steps, we devised an invention to keep ball bags out of the water: a small intertube that the testicles could comfortably rest in.

As our college (Elmhurst College, for those of you curious about which institution would give a diploma to someone like me) was set on a forest preserve, it wasn’t too long before his bizarre-ness came to light.

One day, as I carefully threw away my omnipresent Diet Coke bottle, a squirrel popped out of the garbage can, just like it owned the fucking place. Like the teenage girl I was (not), I shrieked and jumped back.

“I hate those motherfucking things,” Ryan said, as he chased it away from me.

“Huh?” I wasn’t sure if he was talking about my Diet Coke or the garbage can. With Ryan, you never did know.

“Squirrels. They’re fucking rats with tails. And have you seen their creepy, beady eyes? They’re going to murder us while we sleep,” he said.

I goggled at him, mouth hanging open wide enough for several squirrels to make their wee nests in.

While I’ve felt particularly vitriolic about some things (see also: the color orange and earwigs), I couldn’t imagine anyone actively HATING squirrels. They’re just so…cute! And fuzzy! And fluffy! And FULL of the awesome.

Before any roving squirrels could nest in my mouth, a mental picture popped into my head: squirrels banding together into one gigantic murderous squirrel, breaking into his dorm room, to murder him in a nut-filled haze while he slept. And then, well, I busted out laughing.

“What are you laughing about?” he demanded. “I’m putting together some fliers to post around the school, trying to ban the squirrels from living here.”

I laughed so hard that my sides ached and I couldn’t breathe. He was just so…serious.

“Will you help me?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied, gasping for air. “Can we ban the color orange, too?”

“NO!” he nearly shouted. “That’s my favorite color.”

“I heard that squirrels love the color orange,” I lied. “You should probably get on that immediately.”

“Oh,” he replied. “I guess I can support your cause if you support mine.”

“You got it,” I agreed, even though I find squirrels to be the apex of awesome.

And that was how I ended up putting up hand-drawn posters all over campus that said, “BAN THE SQUIRRELS. THEY’RE PLANNING TO EAT YOUR BRAIN AND DRINK YOUR BEER.”

Because that, Pranksters, is how political Your Aunt Becky gets.

—————

So dish, Pranksters: what’s the dumbest thing you’ve gotten behind?

Every Saturday night, we’d go out to a nice dinner. There were four of us – the Fantastic Foursome – a group of giggly girls dealing with everything from single parenting to dating abusive assfucks, and there sat, week after week, a different restaurant each week. Sometimes, before we’d go out to eat, we’d watch episodes of Sex in the City, because, well, we were girls of a certain age.

I was the first to dissent. My new boyfriend, The Daver, lived in Chicago, and we, well, we were suburban girls. As much as I planned to bridge the gaps in geography, Daver and I were in the middle of that ever-so-sweet honeymoon stage of our relationship (well before the “I want to claw your eyes out with a hammer as you sleep” stage showed it’s pretty little head), so the very thought of NOT being with him was patently absurd.

I tried to make it back home for those dinners – the highlight of my stressful week – but eventually, the dinners sort of petered out. We’d bring Daver with us sometimes, but it wasn’t the same.

A little after that, Ashley – one of my best friends – met someone too, and for a spell, we’d double date. The only time, I should say, in my life that I’ve done so.

Shortly thereafter, a weekly dinner became a monthly dinner, and those became as unpredictable as my love/hate affair with Christina Aguilera.

Bored one night last January, I decided to, for old time’s sake (back when I had time), pop in my Sex in the City DVD’s. It was there, watching the impossibly irritating lives of those four women, when I realized how far I’d veered. I knew, of course, that having three children, migraines, and a wicked case of PTSD wasn’t exactly as glamorous a life as I’d once (semi) led. I sat there on the couch, mouth in the “catching flies” position, realizing how abjectly miserable I was. And how I needed to regain that part of myself buried under the mounds of bottles, nursing bras and impossibly tiny, yet adorable Playmobil pieces.

It was then when I launched the Bringing (Aunt) Becky Back Project. It was time to pull a Madonna and re-fucking-invent myself.

And I have. Started small. Even though I was still lugging around scads of baby pounds, I bought some clothes that made me feel good about myself. I bought pretty (read: sparkly) earrings and perfume that smelled like roses. I began to get regular pedicures, even though I’ve been certain that those women are talking about my gross feet. I took baths alone and tried to banish the guilt when I decided to dick around on the Internet rather than scrub my floor. Eventually, those pounds fell off and I burned my nursing bra.

I’ve managed to pull that girl back out of the shell she’d been living through a combination of being kinder to myself, scads of therapy, launching Band Back Together and Mushroom Printing, and picking up some freelancing gigs.

The girl who used to have carefree Saturday night dinners with her girlfriends may be long gone, but the person I’ve become knows that hanging out on the couch, wearing happy pants and a stained Purple Should Be A Flavor, Dammit t-shirt while watching reruns of Prison Break (read: documentaries about hot dogs), surrounded by love, well, everyone should be so lucky.

Because I am.