(you know, Dr. Sears?)

When I was in school, I took test-taking Very Seriously. This was extra-hilarious considering I spent most of my actual class time slouched in the back row playing Bejeweled and texting my friends things like, “OH MY FUCKING GOD, my classmates are MOUTH-breathers. Imma go all RAMBO on their asses.” Had The Twitter existed*, I’m confident that I’d have been on there all the time, filling it with my inelegant (rapier) wit.

But the moment A Test was on the horizon (which, in nursing school, was every other day), I was in my element. Synapses firing, notecards flashing, every A beaten by a higher A. I didn’t earn the semi-sarcastic nickname Super Becky Overachiever and draw comparisons to Hermione Granger by getting C’s. Also, if I’d gotten C’s, I’d have been kicked out of the program. Such is nursing school.

Now, just look at where all of those A+++++ have gotten me! I am a BLOBBER, er BLOGGER ON THE INTERNET. I CAN HAZ FREE PUBLISHING?!?

Anyway.

Early Intervention is coming today to reevaluate my daughter’s development. Turns out that tests? Not always so fun.

Here is my representation of how Amelia’s Evaluation will go:

Early Intervention: “So, does Amelia stack six blocks?”

Aunt Becky: “Oh yes. She stacks twenty**.”

Early Intervention: “Does Amelia feed herself with a spoon?”

Aunt Becky: “Amelia wins at spoon feeding! She’s a spoon-feeding CHAMPION!”

Early Intervention: “Does Amelia walk unassisted?”

Aunt Becky: “Amelia RUNS! Like the wiiinnnnnnddddd.”

Early Intervention: “Does Amelia pick up a Cheerio with her thumb and forefinger?”

Aunt Becky: “She can pick up a single grain of sand!”

Early Intervention: “Can Amelia do complex quadratic equations?”

Aunt Becky: “….”

Early Intervention (scribbles on papers triumphantly): “AH-HA! I KNEW IT!”

Aunt Becky: “….”

Early Intervention: “All other babies are doing complex quadratic equations at age two. You should really have been working with her by now. This is probably a result of bad parenting.”

Aunt Becky: “But. BUT! I don’t even KNOW what that IS!”

Early Intervention (writes down): “unfit mother.”

/end scene

Hm. I wonder if I can play the part of Amelia today. Certainly Early Intervention won’t notice if it’s a grown woman pretending to be an almost-two year old.

P.S. I’ll let you know how it goes.

*It may have existed. I don’t know if it existed. I mocked Twitter a lot before I joined it. Which, uh, HUMBLE PIE ANYONE?

**Like I actually know this.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I used to be a semi-balanced person who would get upset at stupid things but liked people pretty well. You know, normal. But since having a kid I have become a very cranky person, Aunt Becky. I get irritated when people don’t agree with me, even though I know people are allowed to have their own ideas. I’m insecure and taking everything way too personally, especially about how I raise my child. I find myself not even wanting to talk or write to people because I know I’m going to get annoyed by whatever responses I get, and that sucks since I really like talking and writing. How can I find my mojo again and stop being so damn sensitive?

Sincerely,
Tired of Defending My Opinions

So, there are two things I do when I get all IMMA CUT YOU MOTHERFUCKER over some stupid-ass Facebook status update or something. Okay, wait, I can’t count because there are three.

1) I log off Facebook because it’s about the stupidest thing on the planet (coming from someone who writes about herself on The Internet, that’s saying a lot). It’s also the one thing that’s bound to piss me the hell off. I mean, wait, you raise fake sheep in a fake farm and you’re judging me for my parenting choices? Hilarious. That’s Facebook for you. ANYWAY.

Since I’m probably fuming about Facebook and Jimmy Fucking Wales and fucking Mark Zuckerberg (Facebook founder)(now that John C. Mayer and I have finally resolved our fake fight)(John C. Mayer is now crying tears of relief again)(P.S. that was an awesome Prank, Pranksters): I do a couple of laps around the house.

Why? Because I’m all EYE OF THE FUCKING TIGER.

2) I yell “BITCH GIT ME CHICKEN.” Why? There’s no chicken. I hate chicken. Mostly, I yell it because it’s fucking hilarious and how can you take anything seriously if you yell that?

Then, I start laughing, because, really, I was mad at someone who FARMS FAKE CROPS. Um. There are so many layers of wrong there. And WOAH, that’s a whole lot of taking myself too seriously.

(you can, of course, remove any adjectives and replace them with yours. I don’t know that you’re mad at The Facebook. I just assume so because I usually am. Or Jimmy Fucking Wales. I hate that rat bastard)

3) This may be the most important and best part, because once you’ve let out some of that tension (running) and realized you’re taking someone who takes a quiz to determine which Disney Princess Describes Her Best while telling you that shopping at Target makes you a Satan worshiper too seriously; you need something to relax you.

There’s only ONE MAN for that job.

No, not vodka.

Oh yeah, that’s right. Happy little clouds. And BOB ROSS. Bob Motherfucking ROSS. You shut your whore mouth when Bob Ross is painting a happy motherfucking tree.

Now, if there’s anything better than listening to THAT GUY talk, I don’t know what it is. I don’t WANT to know what it is. I love Bob Ross. I love Bob Ross until it hurts. Bob Ross and his awesome happy little birds and and dude, the guy is so cheerful you just don’t know what to do. Bob Ross is calm. Bob Ross is awesome.

Bob Ross and his happy mountains will make you feel better. Even if you are like me and you have the artistic abilities of a thumb-less chimp living underwater.

Bob Ross will love me anyway.

Bob Ross loves you, too. And Bob Ross would never judge your parenting skills.

Jimmy Wales, however…

No, seriously, though, Jimmy Wales probably doesn’t hate you.

Probably.

Also, if you’re really feeling super-irritable and grumpy all the time, it could be a sign of something more like postpartum depression, which even Bob Ross doesn’t think is funny. So you should mention that to your doctor. Being irritable all the time isn’t totally normal unless you’re listening to John C. Mayer Justin Beaver.

Also also: you may never want to take my advice except for the part about talking to your doctor.

Because I am not someone who should give advice on something like this considering my archenemies are Jimmy Wales and Mark Zuckerberg (who, Pranksters, we NEED TO TAKE THE INTERNET AWAY FROM…SOMEHOW. JUST. I don’t know how).

————-

So, other Pranksters who are smarter than me and presumably have a smarter, better way to handle this stuff, HOW do you handle it?

I can, oddly, see exactly when it began. Age six is when I became an adult.

A couple of years ago, when Alex was a wee babe, I decided that it was high time to take pictures of Baby Aunt Becky and put them into an album. Dutifully, I gathered them up from my parents and threw them into a large Rubbermaid tote where I began the arduous task of sorting them into some semblance of order. When I was born, you see, my father, brother and grandfather were into photography.

For most people, that might mean a couple of snapshots on an old Instamatic, but we had a darkroom worthy of any college photography class in my basement. The photography hobby bordered on compulsion (see also: my orchids) and I was a perfect rolly-polly subject. My younger years are painstakingly documented.

There I am in the greenhouse with my grandfather, looking at his orchids and roses with wonder in my eyes, age one, there I am at Ravina at ages newborn through sixteen, there I am running around in my big fat cloth diaper, curls bouncing, looking every bit the nudist my own children are.

But age six is when it all changes.

Instead of the well-groomed child I had been for those first six years, I take on a new look. My hair isn’t brushed. My normally darkish skin is unusually pale and shiny. My clothes, once the nicer brands, now bear the signs of being cheaply made and too-small for my growing frame. Colorblind since birth, it’s clear that I have had no help picking out what I am wearing. Nothing matches.

I look neglected.

I look neglected because I am.

I don’t know what precipitated the change. I’d had a loving mother; one who brushed my hair, took me shopping and made me food. At age six, she stopped loving me. I stopped existing.

I’ve never recovered from that abandonment. That feeling of not mattering. Of not being enough. As a child, I was certain it was my fault, the reason my mother stopped loving me was my fault and occurred because I did something wrong. Magic Thinking at it’s finest. Certainly there are horrifying things I’ve seen and taken care of while I was the child of an alcoholic, but the feelings of being unworthy of love; of not mattering, those are what I grapple with most. I don’t know, and I’m not sure if a clinical psychologist agree, that feelings carved so deeply into your psyche can ever be completely erased.

I’ve thought a lot about my feelings this week. Normally, I’d rather carve out my eardrums with a steak knife while teaching the refrigerator to dance the foxtrot than discuss my feelings (probably in part why I have so many issues with emotions).

You probably didn’t know this, but there is no class for feelings. There’s no “IF this happens THEN you should do this” master book of emotions for those of us who didn’t learn it as kids. Someone should write one.

For years now, I’ve been shrugging things off. Telling myself this or that, well, it didn’t matter. Minor infractions. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Why bother really saying how I feel when it’s probably wrong? It was easier to rationalize the wrongs that people were doing to me than to stand up for myself.

In doing that, I took something fundamental away from myself. My feelings.

Slap a gag over my mouth and throw me in the corner. How dare I actually be offended when someone is being a crotch to me? How dare I call someone out on their bullshit? What if someone says something mean to me? HOW WILL I HANDLE IT? OH NOES!

Well.

Now.

C’mon.

I’ve already dealt with the worst kind of abandonment. How could I possibly give a shit when some Internet Mole Person or even a former friend of mine who stalks me for the express purpose of feeling smugly superior doesn’t like me? I don’t. Or I might. It might hurt. Words do hurt. Even if they’re flung by anonymous internet trolls or people I like. But this is not the end of the world. And I need to stop behaving like it might be. Why are their feelings any less valid than mine?

This is my blog. These are my words. I do own them. And my feelings do matter. My feelings are as valid as yours.

I am enough.

I owe it to six-year old Aunt Becky to stand up for myself. I need to show her that she is enough. That I am enough.

I am enough.

There are a few occasions when I take time from my very busy schedule of creating pictures of my fake dead cat, Mr. Sprinkles, doing wacky things to respond to emails. Because, really, is there anything better than this?

That Mr. Sprinkles! He’s a WILY guy!

But on very, VERY rare occasion, I get an email that makes me stop and go, “You know what? Maybe I should stop working on pictures of myself with my fake dead cat Mr. Sprinkles and do something better with my time,” (the feeling never does last)

A year ago today, I got one of those emails.

My now-friend Nikki sent me an email about her 20-week old fetus, who had just been diagnosed prenatally with an encephalocele. Somehow, she’d managed to look past the grisly stories out there about other children with encephaloceles (the fatality rate for encephaloceles is exceptionally high) and had found her way to my mediocre blog.

More specifically, she’d found Amelia’s Grace, the stories about my daughter who, too, had been born with an encephalocele.

Amelia was born with the kind of encephalocele associated with the least favorable outcomes. A posterior encephalocele filled with brain matter. I’d had a standard vaginal delivery. There was no NICU team waiting for her. In fact, no one was waiting for her but a nurse, the doctor and a tech.

In short, everything about the situation surrounding Amelia’s story was bad.

When I wrote Amelia’s Grace, the story of my daughter, I’d never really thought that someone else might find my drivel while searching for something to cling to. Some hope in an otherwise grim situation. Because the statistics, those cold hard numbers about encephaloceles; those are grim:

An encephalocele reduces the likelihood of a live birth to 21%.

Only half of those 21% survive.

75% of those survivors have varying degrees of mental retardation, the severity of defects higher for those who have the brain herniation on the back of the skull.

She, however, she is not grim. She laughs in the face of statistics. She will tell that encephalocele to shut it’s whore mouth.

Amelia will also give her voice to those who have none.

Nikki has been a good friend of mine for a year now and she’s helped me as much as I’ve helped her. Proof that sometimes people come into your life at exactly the right time. I owe her a debt that I don’t think she understands.

Now, I will simply direct you to Lily’s Story, which I have strong-armed Nikki into writing for Band Back Together.

Today is the day that it turned upside down for Nikki and my sweet girl, Lily Grace.

What a difference one year makes.

Normally The Daver says stuff like, “Why is the cat in the microwave?” and “You can’t make dinner by staring at the cans of food, you know that, right?” so when, in a rousing discussion about turning Band Back Together into a non-profit, he said, “I can’t believe that all of the stuff that’s happened in the past couple years has been a coincidence. You’ve really channeled all of that into something good.” I was stunned.

It was singularly the kindest thing he’s said to me. It was the kindest thing that anyone has ever said to me.

I’ve done a lot of thinking, which, for someone like me who normally thinks things like, “I wonder if I can print out a life size cutout of Billy Mays for my wall on my home printer.” (it is the size of a shoebox, I should add) I’ve been thinking about the past. It’s not surprising, considering that Amelia’s birthday is coming up in a few days, that I would be more contemplative than normal.

That stupid baby shampoo commercial says that “having a baby changes everything,” and I always answer the television (because it can totally hear me) “yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” because it does. Of course it does. Of course, the baby shampoo commercial is also trying to make you feel like having a baby makes the world a more brightly-colored, soft-focused place where mothers stand at the sink, lovingly smiling at their cooing – but never colicky! – baby, bathing in that lovely lavender shampoo.

Go ahead, I’ll wait while you snicker.

Okay, maybe that’s just me snickering snidely.

The person I was before I popped Amelia out was not the person I am today. I am not the person I was before I delivered Ben or Alex either, of course, but the person I was before I delivered Amelia was the one most radically altered. Even more so, I think now, than the single twenty-year old who popped that bobble-headed black-haired baby out.

Part of who we are is who we think we are. Part of who we are is reflected in the way other people see us. Part of us is who we actually are. And part of who we are is who we want to be.

It has taken me thirty years on this planet to finally be able to say that I am. I am. I finally am. I am – more or less – exactly as I should be.

I had to lose it all to finally become who I am. I had to lose my marbles to find myself.

I am now found in no small part thanks to you, Pranksters. For that, I owe you a debt of gratitude I’ll never be able to repay.

I guess that baby shampoo was right. Having a baby changes everything. But it’s probably not the way they meant it.

(the blobber, Aunt Becky, as she was, February 3, 2009)

(the blobber, Aunt Becky, as herself, today, January 19, 2011)

Once upon a blue moon, I came across this strange new craze. Perhaps you’ve heard of it, Pranksters. It’s called “scrap” “booking.” Scrapbooking, for those of you who haven’t heard of this strange and mystical art, is the process of putting photos and/or mementos into a specially designed with stickers and decorations to make it look, in clinical terms, “more full of the awesome.”

Back when I first graduated nursing school and was newly home with my kid, I decided to try this “scrapbooking” for myself.

I neglected to remember that I’m as crafty as a chimp with three thumbs and have about as much artistic vision as someone in a pitch-black room. If you think I’m trying to be funny or deliberately mislead you, I send you here, to my unintentional cakewreck.

I’ll wait.

…

…

(hums Jeopardy theme song)

Okay, that’s better. Got that image burned into your retinas? And that was me TRYING to make something cute.

So I invested a small fortune in scrapbook supplies. It appears that whomever is selling old bits of paper, crappy stickers and the kinds of paper hole punches we used as kids is laughing themselves into billions upon trillions of dollars.

I assembled my scrapbooking supplies on the dining room table in my condo and…

…left them there.

I simply couldn’t do it. As much as I tried to picture my crappy 3 x 5’s as anything other than crappy 3 x 5’s that’s all they were to me. I was too much of a perfectionist to do anything with the cute scrapbook stickers so I packed them into a box and have left them there for six years. They’re still in that box, actually.

But this weekend, I was at the local crafty store buying Valentine’s Day stuff for the VD Tree I was making with my kids (they can be as messy as they want with their projects, I should add) and I decided that I should probably check out my idol’s craft supply line.

Yeah, it’s probably a shock to you to know that I kinda idolize Martha Stewart, but there you have it. My dirty secret has been revealed. Martha Stewart + Aunt Becky = well, nothing. I just love her.

Normally, I roll my eyes at the thought of spending thirty bucks on some glitter (even Martha Stewart’s fancy-pants glitter!) but this time, something uniquely awesome caught my attention:

Oh Pranksters, my cold, shriveled heart opened up as the heavens shone down upon this glorious, glorious gold book. I twirled, I whirled, this book in my arms, as I imagined our life together. Why, it was almost as Martha, Herself knew I needed a photo album. And this, this was so much greater than a regular, boring photo album! It was a DISCO photo album! And I love disco! And Martha Stewart! And! And!

And I looked closer.

This was no ORDINARY disco photo album, all right. It was a SCRAPbook disco album. Not a photo album at all.

My heart sunk.

How could something so beautiful be something I just couldn’t use? I nearly wept.

Then I got an idea.

I could be Martha Fucking Stewart, too. Why did SHE need all the glory? So what if she had a million-billion dollar empire and I had some stained socks? I was gonna DO IT.

So I bought it. And now is the time when I turn a scrapbook into a disco photo album.

Take THAT, Martha Stewart. You and your smugly superior voice are THROUGH.

Once, um, I finish figuring out how. Pretty sure the Three Wolf Shirt will help.

Edit: NOT SO FAST, Martha Stewart! You can’t throw me off your tracks THAT easily! Throwing up some pictures of orchids won’t change my plans to dethrone you!

Oh yeah, you know what?

You know what? I AM offended.

DEEPLY OFFENDED.

———-

OH! And I wrote something about House, MD, for BlogHer, yo.

———

And it’s my second-to-last Toy With Me column. SOBS.

——–

Also Also Also: comments are being weird. If you have an issue with comments, specifically, not being able to SEE what glorious things the other Pranksters say, please let me know. Especially what browser you’re using.

The January Theme for Band Back Together’s Bringing Happy Back Project/Make 2011 My Bitch is “Looking For Small Things To Make Ourselves Happy.”

I’d petitioned for “Kicking Things In The Crotch,” but was vetoed. AGAIN. SIGHS.

There are many small things that make me happy. Rocks, for example are small and make me happy. So do snails. Because they’re fucking cute.

But what made me extra-Happy-Dance-Booty-Shuffle-Around-The-House-After-I-Stopped-Laughing kind of happy was this:

See, after I’d gleefully showed you that my soul does, in fact, look like an Epic Fucking Wolf (also: Adam has a pretty lady hand), I’d gotten a comment from Dustbag saying that if I read all of the reviews on Amazon for something called a “Three Wolf Shirt,” he would buy me this Epic Fucking 3 Wolf Shirt.

Now.

How could I resist a shirt that would cure cancer? And baldness? And WORLD FUCKING HUNGER?

This shirt simply had to be mine, Pranksters. It had to be!

My migraines could vanish! My laziness would be a thing of the past! Why if I could simply own this shirt, I would be a SUPERMODEL with MY OWN REALITY SHOW! (side note: I do not want a reality show) No longer would I have to suffer in mediocrity any longer!

I WOULD BE A FAMOUS BLOBBER AT LONG LAST!*

MOVE OVER, DOOCE! AUNT MOTHERFUCKING BECKY AND HER EPIC 3 WOLF SHIRT WERE GOING TO TAKE OVER THE BLOB WORLD!

So I read the reviews, and Dustbag, Dustbag knew what the fuck he was talking about. HILARIOUS. I told him so, as I scrounged up loose change from under the dryer and behind the couch so that I too could become one of the pack. I didn’t actually assume Dustbag would follow through on his Offer Of Awesome.

But he did. On Saturday, bright and blurry, this wee nugget of awesome fell into my inbox.

And now, now I know my destiny involves this Epic 3 Wolf Shirt.

I wonder not if, but WHERE I should get the matching tattoo. And who can possibly put together a new Wolf-Themed Blog Design. And if it’s too late to rename my kids “Canis” and “Lupis.” I wonder if I should change my name to Mommy Wants Epic Wolves. Or what I will do once I conquer the Internet with my Wolf Pack.

What I do know, is that in addition to my “Thinking Hat,”

I’ll be wearing this when I blog (You may want to put on sunglasses, lest you be BLINDED by the AWESOME):

My only complaint is that it’s not bedazzled.

When I was nearly burned by the awesomeness of the “Order Now” button, I saw this. And I think I may have to buy it. For special occasions, like when my Epic Wolf shirt is being washed (twice a year):

*the next time I get a blobber asking me how to be a Famous Blobber, I am simply pointing them to the Epic 3 Wolf Shirt.

You know it’s going to be a good week, Pranksters, when I have to put a disclaimer up. That said, it’s AUTISM DAY AGAIN!! The only thing I have to say is TRUST ME when I say that I’m not talking about a single one of you. You know that I value every one of your comments and frame them on my walls because they are always well thought-out and respectful. Also: hilarious.

So, before you’re all, ZOMG DOES SHE MEAN ME? Of course I don’t. I have never once been unhappy with a single comment you guys have left on the site ever. Honestly. I always WELCOME your stories and advice because that’s how I roll (this will make more sense once you read the post). If I’m talking about it, I want to hear what you know. Always. Including today.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Am I the only one who is sick of having the same pap thrown at me when the topic of my autistic child is being discussed? Well-intentioned friends and internet moles especially love the ‘Trip to France’ or whatever destination vacation a “normal” child is supposed to take us. I love my child, and I don’t feel like I missed out on a trip to Paris or Sweden or wherever. It’s been a real trip, but all children take us on a trip that sure as shit isn’t where we thought we’d go.

When I was a kid I’d ask my parents where they were going (without their 7 kids) and they’d respond, “Crazy.” I totally get it now that I’m a parent.

I don’t think a special diet will cure my child. In fact, I’m not looking for a cure. I don’t consider my son to be diseased. He has autism. He’s unique. I adore him. He’s funny, serious, frustrating, loving, rewarding, and much more. I don’t think anything I did while pregnant or when he was a baby caused this. Asperger’s runs in both my family and my husband’s family. Heck, if they’d been diagnosing it when we were kids, both my husband and I would qualify, as would my sister, my mother, etc.

Is it ok if I just bear the dirty looks when my son acts a little differently and don’t explain, “oh, he’s autistic?” I’m not excusing his behavior; just explaining, but I get tired of the rest of the conversation about dyes, carbs, hfcs, vaccinations, mercury, etc.

Thanks Aunt Becky!
Mama Lizard

So there was this one time I was out to dinner with my friends – friends I saw maybe once or twice a year – and I happened to make mention that I thought I might be lactose intolerant (spoiler alert! I’M NOT).

Well, there was a girl who was at the table behind us who overheard this conversation and decided to join in. She was lactose intolerant, you see, and milk gave her the squirts, and also she had a cat and a book and liked the color red and she spent the entire hour that we’d planned for dinner telling us about her lactose allergy.

I waited for her to shut up so that maybe I could sneak in that appropriate, “gee, thanks for the info, please shut your whore mouth and let me visit with my friends who I never see, and not you and PS you smell like mothballs,” but I couldn’t. Maybe I should have interrupted her rousing discussion of her fucking colon to tell her to take her squirty pooper somewhere else, but I was afraid she’d shiv me with her butter knife. She had shifty eyes.

I got this a lot before I learned a valuable lesson: shut your OWN whore mouth.

(Also: thar be crazies afoot!)

Alas, I digress.

When you have a common complaint like autism or migraines or a squirty pooper, the general knuckle-dragging, Mole Rat population tends to know a bit about it. Or at least, the sensationalized news bites that we’re bombarded with every freaking second.

So when you say something like, “My kid has autism,” sometimes people misinterpret that as, “Please, tell me all about the latest bullshit you heard from some non-medical Internet email forward!” Or, perhaps, “Please repeat what you saw when Jenny Fucking McCarthy went on Oprah and spewed her crap pseudoscience all over the place! I’d love to hear that soundbite!”

I like to imagine that people mean well, I really do, but that’s because it’s been a long time since my kid got diagnosed with autism and I’ve learned to tune out the bullshit. My son is not his diagnosis. People, in the heart of hearts, are good. Sometimes, they just don’t understand that you don’t want to hear it because you’re in the checkout at Target and your son is bathing the floor with his tongue and REALLY? A new diet? You don’t say?! That’s fucking great. Do I look like I give a shit at this moment in time?

I love blogs, but I don’t trust that what I’m reading is always backed by a science I believe in. Illnesses (autism, migraines pooper issues), those tend to be emotional issues for a lot of people. And when emotions get involved, things can get ugly, fast. Hence, the Internet Mole People. I can cite a thousand examples of When Emotions Go Bad on The Internet, but I’ll save that topic for another time, or, I suppose, allow you to fill in in the comments.

If you’ve noticed, I also don’t tend to discuss medical issues on Mah Blog for the very reason you discussed unless I’m ready to, well, discuss it. I don’t do it in real life, either; well, not any more. The image of her creepy colon spewing everywhere was enough to make me shut the hell up.

I figure that people can point and laugh and judge me as a lousy, unfit parent or otherwise loser at life all that they want. So long as I don’t have to hear about mercury in shellfish or how a gluten-free diet will cure all of my woes. It’s not because I don’t believe them, it’s just because I don’t always care.

You and I can stand in the We Are Shitty Parents People Lose At Life Corner together. I’ll bring you a Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt to wear. Hell, I’ll bring enough for ALL of us. WHO’S WITH ME?

————-

So, Pranksters, what say you on the topic?

I have a guest post up for you today because I’m still reeling from how in love with all of you I am. You were all so sweet to me yesterday with my post about Amelia’s birthday. Thank you. I needed that. I really did mean it when I said if you were local, I’d be honored to have you (I’m in St. Charles, which is a suburb of Chicago).

Oh, yeah. I rewrote the ending last night if you’re not seeing where I invited you. I’m still inviting you. I’m also asking you this: how long does one have to plan a party if she still would like guests to show up? Like, when should I aim for, knowing her birthday is the 28th of January? Also: do people send paper invites any longer?

Wanted to tell you that have all of the emails you’ve ever sent me about Amelia in a folder that I’m saving to show her some day. I’ll have to print out all of the lovely comments, too, because Pranksters, she deserves to know how amazing her Internet Aunts and Uncles are.

ONWARD.

Taco Bell is totally copying me:

Whatever, Taco Bell. We got the Band Back Together .

I may or may not be in love with Claire. Okay, I so am. She’s hilarious and she’s awesome and she’s witty and if you cut her, I think she bleeds platinum. Total win.

I’m thrilled to have her guest post on my blog today because she’s freaking hilarious. Also, I’m guessing that my blog will probably turn to platinum now that I’ve published her Holiday Rules.

You can follow Claire on her Twitter here and her blog, Claire DeLuncay, here.

THE RULES (Holiday 2010 Edition)

OK, so here’s the thing:

Every year, I try to be a little less curmudgeonly. This vow is usually sworn at Christmastime, when, despite all the relentless marketing propaganda and crass consumerist bullshit, the idea of a being so desperate to save a bunch of idiots from themselves that he sent his only kid to be their punching bag somehow continues to resonate inside my tiny charcoal heart. That said, events of the past year (as well as my the fact that I was graciously invited by Aunt Becky to be a guest poster) have driven me to create one of my occasional “Rules” posts. For those of you who are unfamiliar, I have, as befits an underemployed and struggling author with little to no influence outside a smallish circle of very tolerant and compassionate weirdos, decreed at various times rules designed to minimize my irritation while, y’know, fixing the world ‘n’ stuff. This is one of those times. In keeping with the spirit of the season, I present “The Twelve Rules of Christmas.”

HENCEFORTH:

01) When on line in front of me at a fast food establishment (drive through or inside), acting as though you have never, ever, EVER been to any sort of restaurant or engaged in any type of human interaction is now illegal. Pulling up to the drive through in the howling snow and starting a conversation with “Now, let’s see, what do y’all have here?” as though you are in the exotic climes of some distant Caribbean isle, perusing a menu in the charming local dialect, instead of looking at pictures of tacos so dated that one features a young Celia Cruz, is EXTREMELY illegal.

02) The ban on all Snuggies™, Slankets™, and their sloth-breeding kin continues. Anyone attempting to gift me with such an item shall be summarily sentenced to wear ONLY a Snuggie throughout the course of an Ohio winter, said Snuggie having been hand-crafted out of skunk fur and the tub leavings of Robin Williams.

03) All wrapping paper, even the extra-fancy kind, shall now be sold in standardized rolls, and available in quantities of subtler delineation, eliminating the need for one (ok, me) to choose between “enough to wrap the entire city of Toronto” or “enough to wrap several molecules of Buckminsterfullerite.” In addition, attempts to engage other shoppers in a little wrapping paper swordplay shall be met with enthusiastic glee, rather than nervous calls to security. Bunch of damned party poopers.

04) Given the current economic climate, I have reversed my earlier decree and hereby declare fruitcake to be not only legal, but welcome. However, said fruitcake is not to be consumed (unless one has a death wish or the sort of appetite that permits the consumption of, say, an old boot), but rather stockpiled and used as building materials for low-income housing. Much like their less-durable cousins of mud and adobe, these noble fruitcake bricks will provide solid, enduring shelter from the elements while warding away pests (except for, again, the sort of person who thinks it’s okay to eat fruitcake, and they probably have pica. NOT THAT I DON’T APPRECIATE THE FRUITCAKE EVERY YEAR, AUNT CATHY!).

05) And speaking of aunts, it is hereby declared that all children shall be made to understand that the same “weird” aunt who gives you crazy things like “The Lord of the Rings” or “The Iliad” or My First Particle Accelerator™ as gifts when you are a child, rather than Captain Crappy’s Junketron Blaster of Commercial Flackery™ or Barbie’s Magical Dream House of Rigidly Unforgiving Gender Stereotypes™, will become YOUR FAVORITE AUNT when you are older, because as it turns out, genetic drift means you’re probably more like her than your parents, and therefore will be able to find solace and camaraderie in your shared cranky intellectualism. I think we’ve all seen “Daria,” people.

06) In this season of peace and love, freaking out over, or trying to make political hay out of, the following words is now extremely illegal: “Merry Christmas;” “Happy Holidays;” “Christmakwaanzukkah;” “Io Saturnalia.” (That last one may be solely for our time-traveling friends of the Seventeenth Legion of the Roman Imperium. Sorry about the wormhole, boys, I’m trying to fix it as fast as I can! In the meantime, please feel free to invade Gaul. They’re used to it.)

07) All persons applying to shovel walks and driveways shall henceforth be cherry-cheeked, wool-ensconced cherubs with earflap hats and a gleam in their eye, rather than grown dudes with a three-day stubble and the personal hygiene of a particularly indiscriminate hyena. Persons matching the latter description shall be summarily bathed, shaved, and set to work building fruitcake houses for the poor. Persons matching the former description shall be rewarded with hot cocoa and a shiny silver dollar (“silver dollar,” in this context, should be read as “Twenty bucks? To shovel my walkway? You extortionist bastard!”).

08) All drivers will practice their winter driving all year long by coating their tires in butter every three weeks and turning up the A/C full blast. This will prevent both the seasonal amnesia of winter (“What? It’s cold and snowy in November? AGAIN?”) and the driving behavior it engenders (“Bob, look out! There’s mysterious frozen water falling from the Heavens! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”). This rule also applies to shopping patterns, so that otherwise normal people will not, upon hearing that snow flurries are in the forecast, rush to their local market and buy up all the milk, soup and shovels as though they only just now remembered they’d been asked to go on a ski trip with the Donners.

09) Those fake fireplaces that do so well on the iPad and the YouTube and whatnot will now produce actual, extremely merry, crackling heat. I don’t want to hear excuses, Science – you can grow an ear on the back of a fucking mouse, you can make BlazingLogs.com fill my living room with cheery warmth.

10) Persons participating in “Secret Santa” who fill out their info card with terms like “cool stuff,” “whatever,” or “Anything Disney! (followed by seventeen exclamation points and a crudely-rendered Mickey Mouse head)” will receive coal. And by “coal,” I of course mean “NOTHING.” Any person drawing such a card from the communal pool with be given the option of either drawing another name or slashing the owner’s tires.

11) All children’s Christmas programs will now have A) a maximum length of one hour; B) attractive cigarette/snack girls dressed as “Sexy Mrs. Claus;” and C) an open bar. I’m looking at you, Saint Michael’s Academy for Wayward Youth.

12) For a variety of reasons, this time of year is decidedly unmerry for a lot of people; the mentally ill, the homeless, the forgotten, the embittered (which, now that I think about it, describes a fair number of family Christmases. But I digress.). Therefore, all persons on this dinky blue rock are hereby required to pause at some point, seek out someone less fortunate (trust me, even if your name is Bob and you’re working as a buoy, there’s someone out there less fortunate than you, bub) and just take that moment to acknowledge their existence and value as a human being. I don’t care if it’s a hot bowl of soup, a hug and a smile, or some sort of weird, borderline-illegal act in the back of Fast Louie’s Massage Parlor. The point is that you do it. Because Christmas comes only once a year (insert your own “Fast Louie’s Massage Parlor” joke here), but being a decent human being is a full time gig.

OK, that’s it for now, I suppose. I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Festive Kwaanza, Joyous Solstice, Gleeful Non-Denominational Mandatory Holiday Gathering, et hoc genus omne. Now let’s get out there and build some motherfucking fruitcake houses. FOR THE CHILDREN.

It began with a tiny pink lollipop, really no bigger than the tip of my finger.

I saw it sitting quietly on the counter as I stood there in the kitchen, seething; a drinking glass clutched in my hand, poised to throw at the wall, the blood pounding in my ears, drowning out all other noise.

The rage had come from nowhere it seemed, and in an instant, as I looked at that tiny pink lollipop, part of the My Little Pony advent calendar I’d bought my daughter (apparently boys are the only ones who should be taught to rob banks at Christmas), it evaporated. What came next was a sorrow so deep that it shook me to my bones, and I nearly fell to my knees as the sobs wracked my body. I wept, consumed with the kind of feral cry that reminds us that we’re not really that far removed from our animal ancestors.

In that instant, I was transported back to that room. The room where no pink balloons floated. No baskets of flowers were delivered. No visitors came to offer their congratulations. There were no happy phone calls made or cheerful cards read. The room was a barren hospital room overlooking an ice-covered roof and had two – not three – occupants. Both sat on the bed, weeping. Later, it was only one.

I think about that room a lot. I spend a lot of time with my ghosts, roaming those halls and reliving those uncertain days after my daughter was born.

But it is that room that haunts me most.

I want so badly to go back to that room and take that weeping, fractured, shattered woman into my arms and say to her, “Your daughter will live. She will live. She will go on to do amazing things with her life and so will you. Amelia will do much good for so many people. You will take all of these broken pieces and you will rebuild into someone else. Someone better. You will take all of this pain and you will use it to fortify you; to guide you; to help you find yourself. Please know that you are so loved.”

Because I will never forget how alone I felt. Maybe that is where that chasm of rage came from. That secret place, that land of tears and sorrow, that is ours to face alone. It was in that room, where no balloons bobbed and swayed, where no one celebrated Amelia’s life, that I sat alone in my own land of sorrow.

Seeing that lollipop on the kitchen counter brought it all back. It took me back to that room, the most uncertain, horrifying time in my life, and it reminded me of the days when no one celebrated her birth. The memories left me gasping.

I’d wanted so badly to celebrate her first birthday. To throw an ebullient celebration of Amelia’s life, a Fuck You to the Universe. I even had a CandyLand theme picked out. But I was so stuck in that land of tears that I simply couldn’t. It broke my heart.

Amelia will be two on January 28 and I have not planned a party for her. I want to. But it’s hard. This particular party is hard for me. It dredges up memories of some of the worst days of my life.

But I think that is what I need to do; throw her a birthday party, a REAL birthday party, the kind of party she deserved when she entered the world and defied all odds. I’m struggling, battling my demons, my dragons all rearing their heads as I work to slay them.

I will do it. I must do it.

I may never be able to go back in time to reach those two people in the room where no one celebrated her birth, but I can show Amelia how many people celebrate her life.

I will fill the rooms with balloons and shout to the world from the rooftops that this, this was the day that my daughter, Amelia Grace, the Warrior Princess of the Bells, she arrived.

And nothing, not one damn thing, has been the same.

Then I will sit back and watch my daughter giggle and snort and dash about, her curls bouncing merrily as she chases her balloons; her life finally, at long last, celebrated.