My parents, when they remembered, measured my height on the back of the door to the basement. It was there that I could see how much I’d grown over the past years and a good way to be all, “I’m not THAT short” when my brother called me Stumpy. I was also, I recall, horrified by what my mother called “her handwriting.”

I’d probably do the same thing in my own house – for my KIDS, not ME – but all my doors are stained wood – nothing white here. So I have to do other things in order to see how much they’ve all grown.

Back in April, 2008, I bought myself Big Mac – a 24 inch computer that was hella awesomer than my previous computer – a 10 inch iBook with a broken screen. It was on that computer that I vowed I’d “write a book,” and “watch dancing kittens playing the piano.”

I did.

When I bought it, rather than simply take a picture of the technology, I decided to pose someone in front of it.

MUCH more interesting that way.

Also: SQUEE at chunky Baby Legs!

Alas, all good things must come to an end. Big Mac had been wheezing and choking along, trying to keep up with me as I beat on it day in and day out.

Last weekend, I’d finally had enough when, once again, Big Mac decided that I didn’t really NEED to be working any more (Big Mac LIES! I must! work! more!) for the eleventy billionth time that week. HOW DARE MY COMPUTER JUDGE ME FOR WORKING!

It was then that I realized Big Mac and I were soon to be parted.

Luckily I had just the thing to fix that.

Pranksters, meet Big Mac II.

Also: look at how far that chubby baby has come. He’s the one in the blue nerd shirt. His sister, Amelia, wasn’t even a twinkle in my eyes when Big Mac 1 came home.

(and no, that’s not Mountain Dew* OR pee in that bottle – it’s lemonade. They were playing “baby.”)

Amazing how far we’ve all come, isn’t it?

*my kids are NOT stoners.

I’m not a creative person.

I’m not saying that to elicit sympathy or fish for the occasional, “there, there, Aunt Becky, you’re SO creative,” because I know it’s a hot pile of bullshit. I’m not creative.

Take, for example, the time in high school that I took a drawing class as an elective. I sat there, my beret perched neatly atop my head, all, “Imma be an ARTIST,” until I had to actually draw my first picture. A still life of a bowl of grapes looked more like a pile of testicles hovering over a tire than actual fruit. It took a few weeks, but after I realized I had no artistic aptitude, I simply copied the work of someone much more talented sitting next to me – the first and only time I ever cheated in a class.

My desire to be a creative genius, a veritable child prodigy, went back a lot further than that, though.

We always had Lego sets lying around when I was a kid. My brother, the actual creative one in the family and a full ten years my senior, was able to build these amazing creations from a bin of random Lego bits. I figured I could do the same. It couldn’t be THAT hard, right?

Heh.

One Saturday, as I watched the morning cartoons, I decided to prove to the world – and my family – that my mug belonged squarely on the cover of Time Magazine as the “World’s Most Awesomest Kid” (alternately, “The World’s Best Genius.”) – I wasn’t sure which would be more effective.

I schlepped down to the basement in my footie pajamas, careful to avoid slipping down the stairs, on my quest for the basket of Legos. Tucked away in the corner, right behind the antique butter churn and some ancient copies of the New Yorker, I found it.

I brushed off the dust (my brother had long-since traded Legos for sports cars) and lugged the basket up the stairs. I plopped it in front of the television, marveling at all the ways I could make super awesome stuffs. Like a pirate ship. Or a pony on roller skates.

After, of course, I cleaned the cat pee off the Legos.

I sat there, in front of Jem and the Holographs and started trying to put something together out of the random bits of Lego. Hrms. I couldn’t create a pony – no horse head. Roller skates required wheels, which I didn’t have either. And a pirate ship? Well, not so much.

But I tried.

And after about an hour of blood, sweat, tears and Legos, I looked down at my masterpiece. It was a square box. With one window – no door. Even the house I tried to make looked all janked up. Who the fuck can’t make a house?

Me. I couldn’t.

I sighed deeply. Clearly my “muse” was a lying fucking bitch. Ever since, I’ve eschewed anything Lego-related.

That is, of course, I had children.

My eldest, who has autism, loves Legos. There’s something innately soothing to him about lining up all the wee parts, following directions, and creating something grand. That is, of course, until a piece goes missing. With two smaller siblings and a mess of cats, that’s pretty much all the time. Shit, I STILL can’t find my whore pants, which are, needless to say, much larger than a piece of Lego.

Once a piece is lost, the set is “ruined” and he refuses to play with it.

I’d mostly banished Legos from my house until The Guy On My Couch moved in – there’s too much pressure to make sure the sets are in pristine condition for me to actively buy Legos for my kid.

The Guy On My Couch, he loves Legos. I know, you’re probably all, “so, he’s an overgrown teenager, right?” to which I would reply, “yes, but he also cooks.”

I find his obsession with Legos more endearing than not – one look at my orchid collection and you’d know that he’s not the only one in the house with collecting issues.

He’s been carefully assembling Hogwarts Lego sets and putting the completed pieces in my china cabinet (I will soon have to find a new place to store my china and Cock Soup packets), which has sparked the Lego bug deep within my children. Apparently a love of Legos is created by osmosis. And I get it – the finished kits are pretty fucking cute.

I wouldn’t mind living in Lego Land so much if I hadn’t stepped on approximately 800 Lego pieces in the last week.

Those motherfuckers hurt.

I wrote a post for ABC’s Million Mom Challenge. It’s about parenthood. You should read it.

Remember how awesome Oregon Trail was when you were a kid?

I do.

I’d purposefully name my banker and his mess of kids after people I hated and deliberately kill them by being all, “YEAH, FORGE THAT RIVER NOW, MOTHERFUCKER. SEE IF YOU CAN AFTER I’VE OVERLOADED YOUR BAGS.”

Then they’d drown or die of Typhus or something equally glamorous while I rubbed my small hands together, cackling evilly.

What? Don’t tell me you didn’t do it too.

Now I’m old and I bought the Oregon Trail app for my iPhone (it may be the only app besides Cat Paint I actually used) and was still all, “VENGEANCE SHALL BE MINE! MINE!” until I realized that the game sucked. Like, I don’t know if it sucked so hard when we were kids but now? It blows ass. No one dies. No one gets mysterious diseases. No one can be easily drown in the river. Especially not computer people you’ve named after people you hate (see also: Starbucks Lady).

I don’t even think there are yaks in that game. And without yaks, what the fuck good IS it?

(answer: a hot pile of bullshit)

I was pretty mopey after I realized how much the game sucked now.

Just like I’m mopey at this particular moment because I woke up sick. Again. If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, first let me give you my deepest apologies. Then, I will remind you that every other week I am sick.

You’re probably all, “Yo, AB, stop licking toilets and shit, and you’ll feel better!” and you’d be right. Except that I’ve never licked a toilet NOT EVEN ON A BET (which is saying a lot)(I love a good bet).

It turns out that some of us (read: me) have shitty immune systems. I have since I was a baby. And considering my mother was on Lithium while she got pregnant with me, I think that I got off pretty easy. I mean, that shit is HARDCORE.

Doesn’t make having to explain to people that “yes, in fact, I am sick again. Also: you can call me Typhoid Aunt Becky if you want to. Also also: send presents” any better. Why? Because people are like ‘HOLY FUCKBALLS, ARE YOU EATING POO OR SOMETHING?”

Which. Um. No. Ew.

But it makes me wish I could tell someone I was suffering from malaria or glandular fever or something more glamorous than being like “I Haz A Virus.” Then, at least, I’d have an excuse to feel like I’ve been run over by a truck ON MY FAVORITE FUCKING HOLIDAY. Then, I could mope around the house WITH REASON and moan histrionically because I had a glamorous Oregon Trail Disease.

Instead, I’m just going to ice my eyeballs and see if I can disable the doorbell so I don’t cry each time it rings tonight. Which, since I’m giving out big ass Twix bars (thank YOU, Twix) should be often.

But fuck, I wish I had one of those Oregon Trail Diseases.

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?

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.

A couple of weeks ago was my mother’s birthday. I know this because my eldest called me in DC and was all, “OMG MOM, IT’S GRANDMA’S BIRTHDAY,” to which I replied inelegantly, “oh FUCK.” I’ll blame the migraine and not my inability to keep track of dates.

Luckily, Daver ran point, got my mom a cake and sang Happy Motherfucking Birthday to her while I lounged about in my hotel room, ordering room service, bitching about the 26% surcharge.

Yesterday, we made my mom take us out for tapas to celebrate her date of birth. Also: the Daver’s.

It dawned on me while I was getting ready that morning that I had not thought to buy her anything. Like I said, I’m not particularly smart OR thoughtful, so you know.

On the way there, stunningly late (I abhor lateness, which should go against everything you’ve ever thought about me), I realized that there was only one cure for this horrifying oversight: AN AWESOME GIFT.

My mother, not being particularly sentimental, was going to love it, I knew. I just knew I was going to make up for YEARS of crappy gift certificates from places she’d never visited. All of those crappy shirts that said, “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH,” I’d given her would be erased with one. simple. gift.

I was stoked. I was relieved. I was thrilled. I was hungry.

What? We were going out to BRUNCH, not CHURCH.

So I waited, stuffing my face with bacon-wrapped dates until the moment was perfect.

And? It was:

I gave her the Bacon/Encased Meats Monster.

She seemed less thrilled than I thought, but I bet she’s simply containing her glee. Because, um, obviously.

He was born not in a cross-fire hurricane*, but with a perfectly heart-shaped tongue. Ankyloglossia, I remembered from my nursing days, was the medical term for it, but I preferred to call it a tongue-tie. It just seemed more appropriate for a baby whose mouth never stopped moving. Er, screaming.

I mentioned it to his pediatrician at his one week Well Baby check-up, not because I had concerns about his eating habits, but because I knew that as an infant, it was a quick office snip. His old-school pediatrician seemed unconcerned, providing he was eating.

And Alex, he was a boob man. Eating, screaming and DECIDEDLY NOT SLEEPING were the three things he excelled at.

The tongue-tie stretched a bit over time, but still, that delicious little heart-shaped tongue greeted me as he bleated for more food. Later, it began to affect his words…only very slightly. That heart-shape gave him the most delightful Jersey accent, and one feverish night, I wondered if I could potentially cast him in an upcoming episode of Jersey Shore. Once I realized the amount of spray-tan I’d have to invest in, I decided against it.

It was a matter of time, I knew, before we had to get it fixed.

What had once been a simple quick snip at the doctor’s office had now become a full surgical procedure. Mostly, I knew, because no four-year old will willingly let you near his mouth with a scalpel. Because four-year olds are smart.

I’d taken him last year, one summer day, to the ENT, who pronounced that it’d be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of procedure: give him the gas, snip it up, and POW! Heart-shaped no more.

I stopped listening after he said he’d be putting the kid to sleep. Not because I had any specific, rational fears about it. Hell, my girl had her head carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey and this, this was the surgical equivalent of a paper cut.

But still, I couldn’t handle it. I tried to be all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER about it. I even went as far as to schedule the appointment. When it came time to actually bring him in, I bailed. Cancelled the surgery, ashamed that I couldn’t do something so simple. Every time I went to reschedule this – such an easy procedure – my heart raced, my eyes went all blurry and three-hundred pounds sat upon my chest.

Every time Dave would mention the surgery, I’d suddenly busy myself with a new cactus video or waxing my dog, or really anything besides talking about the surgery.

As this morning at 7:45, Alex became officially tongue-tie-less.

What shocks me is not that he pulled this incredibly easy surgery like a champ. It’s not that he just inhaled 12 donuts post-op. It’s not that he’s complaining that I have not yet bought him Oreos.

No.

What shocks me is that I’d managed to entirely block out the surgery until yesterday. Last night, it hit me like a bag of oranges to the face, and when I began whining to whomever would listen to me on IM, each person was all, “OMG AB, HOW DID YOU NOT TELL ME?”

And that, really, would be the question.

All I could sputter out was that I’d forgotten. Which I had.

As Alex’s tongue became untied, mine knotted up, unable to share with even those closest with me.

*stands up and waves*

My name is Becky, and I am the Face of PTSD.

*that’d be me. Or Jumpin’ Jack Flash. OR BOTH.

I’m sorry, Pranksters, because I have to inform you of something.

I just won the Mother of the Year award. Certainly it’s better than my You’ve Been Blogging Since You Rode A Dinosaur to School award (highly UN-coveted, by the by), but it is no less an honor.

But nothing will replace the Mother of the Year award I just won.

Since Back To School stuff is long put away, it seems that Halloween is right around the corner. I myself can not actually read a calendar, so Halloween could be next year for all I know it could be tomorrow, which WHOOPS! SURPRISE! But I think I have a month to determine what, specifically, my children would like to be for Halloween.

I’m still pushing for the whole Land Shark thing, but if I don’t get any takers, I may be that myself….or the Twitter Fail Whale (which would be so much awesomer if I were pregnant this year. I could totally leash up my kids as wee birdies).

(for the three of you who haven’t seen it, I suggest taking a minute of your life and devoting it to basking in the glow of this)

Anyway, I’ve been trying for about thirty-five-niner years to get ONE OF MY KIDS to dress themselves as the Land Shark for Halloween. My kids are generally all, “PISS OFF MOM,” probably because they remember that I’d dressed them up as (in no particular order) a Grumble Bee, a Hot Dog and a Hedgehog.

Honestly, I think that ONE YEAR of being the Land Shark is WELL within my rights as someone who birthed these children out of my vagina, but NO. Which means that I will, one day, have to do it myself.

And I plan on eating many people. Just say we were together if anyone asks, okay, Pranksters?

Last year, Benjamin was a pirate (boring), Mili was a pirate princess and Alex was a Flutter-By. He won the award that year for having the best costume. I, myself, was pretty jealous of it.

This year, however, not one of my other children has decided what they would like to be for Halloween. Save for Alex.

Alex has his heart set upon being Saturn.

No, not the now-defunct car company, the PLANET.

The car, at least, I could’ve understood. But the planet? Um. Hi. How the FUCK do I make a Saturn costume? No really, I’m asking you. Because otherwise I’m going to stuff a yellow sweatshirt and call it a motherfucking day. And I’m sure that by not having the proper patterns around Saturn, I will be berated and probably cried upon for failing as a mother. Which, actually is not much different than any normal day around Casa de la Sausage + Mimi.

I really, really do not know how I am supposed to live through all of these creative-ass costume idears. I mean, I? I was a pirate as a kid. And potentially a Land Shark. Maybe a Fail Whale. Possibly wanted to be crazy pregnant Britney and K-Fed one year (but Dave wouldn’t have it). NOT CREATIVE, PRANKSTERS.

So until I come up with a better solution, I’m going to dose my coffee with Almond Extract and wait for the inspiration to strike. Probably in the form of “I NEED TO BE BILLY MAYS FOR HALLOWEEN!!”

Send vodka, Pranksters. Send lots of vodka.

P.S. How do I make a Saturn Costume? While drunk.