A couple of weeks ago, Daver and I ran into my neighbor across the street, one who had recently had her first baby. Being the lovable sap that I am, I immediately made a beeline for her in a desperate attempt to hold the squishy! baby! (I had to fight Dave off of him, first. Daver loves babies) When I asked her how she was, she began to weep.

She told me precisely how I felt after Ben was born: she was actually quite terrible. Her baby wouldn’t stop crying, well, ever, and she just didn’t know what she was doing wrong. Where were these maternal feelings she’d heard about? Why did she feel like she was doing it all wrong?

I told her that I was not in the habit of telling people horror stories before they had children/bought a house/ate at Jack in the Box, because I always thought it sounded kind of mean. She then told me that she’d WISHED that someone had told her how hard babies are.

In this vein, I am going to start making my own lists of things I wish someone had told me. Before I’d had kids or been knocked up.

Things Aunt Becky Wishes She’d Known Before Getting Pregnant:

1) After your first pregnancy, you will look about 6 months pregnant as the positive pee stick is drying.

2) Your nipples will now reach epic proportions of pancakes. And not the whimsical silver dollar ones.

3) Oh, and they’ll turn from a delicate pinkish hue to a much darker brownish/black.

4) Okay, and then they’ll turn into what Ashley calls “Ground Beef Nipples” if/when you start nursing.

5) You’re certifiable, but you have no idea of this. Instead you think you’re the only sane one left on the planet. If this isn’t your first pregnancy, you will be forced to watch yourself go off the wheels on the crazy train and be powerless to stop it.

6) If this is your first pregnancy, you will assume that this pregnancy is the most important pregnancy since Mary birthed Jesus.

7) You will eat a whole lot of food to try and make yourself less queasy. While it doesn’t work, not really, it will cause a couple of extra pounds to be added inexplicably to your frame. Which will annoy you because YOU DIDN’T EVEN ENJOY PUTTING THEM ON.

8) Worrying will become part of your daily routine. And will annoy the hell out of the rest of the world.

9) What To Expect While You’re Expecting was written by The Devil. Ignore this book as it will just make you feel badly about yourself.

10) Taking a decent dump may feel like cause for a press release. Don’t do it, for God’s sake, spare people the thought of you hunched over the crapper trying to push the world’s saddest poo out.

Oops. Sorry*.

(*I’m not sorry at all)

11) Suddenly anyone and everyone will waltz through your dreams and have wild passionate sex with you. Even people you find disgusting and/or hate. (Randy Jackson, anyone?)

12) While I’ve heard of some people having wild sex FOR REAL while pregnant, I can’t say I’ve been part of it. Especially once I’ve reached whale-like proportions and it feels like what it is: A Mercy Fuck.

13) Someone, somewhere will buy you the ugliest clothes you’ve ever seen for your unborn child. And you will have to sit there while grinning like an asshole and tell them that you looooovvvveee the little outfit with the stupid looking bows on it.
For your 7 year old son.

14) Honest to God strangers will not only feel the need to rub your belly without so much as a handshake hello, but will then ask you if you plan on breast feeding or not. This be dangerous waters, matey.

15) IF AT ALL POSSIBLE, tell no one what you plan on feeding your child. Or make a really tasteless for joke like, “We were thinking Jack Daniels, but do you think that Crown Royal is better?” Otherwise, you’re going to get a lecture. If you’re tasteless, people will just run away from you.

16) Most of the baby crap out there that they try to sell you is just that: crap. And newborns look stupid dressed in anything other than onsies. Trust me when I say that I speak from experience here.

17) You will hardly ever spend time in your perfectly coordinated nursery. Kids don’t play in their bedroom until they’re about 4 or 5, so while I would never suggest NOT doing up a nursery, I wouldn’t go ass-wild on it either.

18) YOU WILL KNOW WHEN YOU ARE IN LABOR. NOTHING ELSE FEELS LIKE LABOR, NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU WANT IT TO.

19) Your ass will inexplicably become hugemongeous and now you will finally have Junk-in-da-trunk. Which is either awesome or horrifying.

20) No one but you* can figure out what is actually on the ultrasound pictures. Cute, perhaps. Frightening, also perhaps.

(*this is debatable. I cannot for the life of me figure out where the head is on Baby Link’s most current US from 8 weeks ago. And I’ve been trained to read these things.)

21) Feeling the baby kick for the first time is perhaps the finest part of pregnancy. It only becomes painful when their ickle feeties get to be the size of golf balls. Mean, busy golf balls. And then they sometimes bruise your liver. For serious.

22) Maternity clothes will fit you differently during different parts of your pregnancy. What might look cute with your wee beer-belly during the first trimester will look downright dumb and ill fitting hours before you give birth.

23) Steer clear of anyone who claims any of the following:

* I was back in my size 4’s when I left the hospital!
* I’ve never felt better than when I was pregnant!
* Breastfeeding really helped me take those 5 pesky pounds off!
* Having a baby is soooooo easy!

I mean, even if they’re not lying through their grubby teeth to you, they’re going to make you feel bad. And TRUST ME when I tell you that you will have plenty of things to feel bad/inadequate about.

24) Pregnancy is an excellent cure for modesty. I cannot recall a time when I didn’t just whip down my pants in front of the doctor whether it was my OB or not. Perhaps I am also a nudist.

25) Enjoy it as best you can. Sure, you feel ugly as shit, you’re gangly and have reached hippo proportions, you can hardly make it an hour without going to the bathroom and peeing out a tablespoon of liquid, you have heartburn so badly you could sear paint from the walls, and you’re starving but queasy. It’s all true. BUT, unless you’re a Dugger or someone equally creepy, it only happens a handful of times.

Besides, it’s one of the few times you can actually evoke, the “But I’m pregggnnnnant! excuse on your partner.”

And that, my friends, NEVER gets old.

Through the daily life of what I like to call Alex’s obsession with his mother, I am unable to walk outside of his sight for more than about 0.5 a second. I posted about it before, close to a year ago and things haven’t changed much in that time.

While it’s highly flattering since my first born can barely be swayed to acknowledge me, it has some unexpected side effects. Namely, Alex has discovered The Internet.

It all started innocently enough with watching a video of Maddie, my friend Heather’s daughter. She happened to be laughing like a loon–Maddie, not Heather–and this only solidified Alex’s love for her. Now, he frequently comes up to me while I’m sitting on the computer and demands “Baby.”

We’ve watched that video so much (sorry, Heather) that she’s going to be convinced that we’re hiding out somewhere in her front yard, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Elusive Maddie. You know, like those nature documentary people do?

Thankfully, Alex has also begun requesting that we go see “Kitties” at I Can Haz Cheeseburger, as well, so the video does get an occasional break.

In a fit of quiet desperation (I could probably act out this particular video BY HEART now), I searched You Tube for videos of both “cows mooing” and “kitties meowing.”

(as an aside, how sad is it that THIS is now what I watch on You Tube. No more “Penis Cake” or “Pee Wee’s Playhouse” (same difference, right?) for me. No, NO, it’s now all about REALLY G-rated things now. O! How the mighty have fallen!)

Well, watching animals behave like animals is as close to Heaven as Alex can get. He takes after his mother in his love of all animals, his first word being “Kitty” and his favorite place on the planet being the zoo (altho I don’t like the zoo, truth be told)

He sits there in my lap, slack jawed and smiling at the computer monitor. And for one moment, his face bathed in the computer-y and pixilated glow, just one moment, I can see Dave’s geekiness in him. Especially the slack jawed part.

Just sent my book proposal to my agents after spending some time reworking it. Excited, thrilled, nervous as a package of bacon in my fridge, they don’t begin to cover how I feel.

At least I think we do. I could have swallowed a mechanical…something…that makes a loud heartbeat type noise. Baby Sausage (Link or Patty? THIS IS THE QUESTION) was chirping away merrily in there, all 150+ beats per minute of it.

After I gave approximately 540 pints of blood–between the OB and the endocrinologist I totally am having a damn port put in–including some designated for an HIV test (always a laugh a minute test, FOR SURE), I was let go. Only to return in 16 weeks.

Or when my stash of freebie prenatal vitamins runs out. What, me cheap? NEVER. And you know Aunt Becky’s Motto: Free Is Always Better Than Paying.

Thank you for all who indulged my ridiculous fears without reminding me of what an idiot I can be. I have something corny to tell you. It’s so corny I almost can’t say it because I might humiliate myself (whereas talking about throwing a hotdog down MY hallway is nothing. Priorities, I tell you).

*deep breath*

Here goes: Okay, when my nurse initially put the doppler on, all we heard was my whooshing heartbeat. And I sat there while I tried not to hyperventilate and was comforted by my Internet friends. I seriously thought of you guys while I quietly panicked.

GOD. I’m so corny.

Anyway, I love you all bunches and heaps and not in a creepy stalkery way. I’ll be back tomorrow with a penis post. My poor husband is going to run off to Cabo now.

Love you all!

Well, thank ye kindly, Internet for your well-wishes on my new-found agents. I’m not sure I’ve yet processed what a big fucking deal this is (and I know it is), and maybe that’s a good thing. Because then I might get nervous.

Eventually, what I so desperately need you for, darling Internets is to help me rework parts of my slower essays so that they all pop out at you and get in your face and shit. After I finish tweaking my proposal a bit, I’ll be focusing on finishing and reworking parts of my essays. This is where you’ll come in.

When I identify what I need help with, I’ll paste it on over here and ask for your honest opinion. Pretty much, I want to know how to make it better. Because once this bitch is in print, there isn’t any going back and fixing it again.

I’m busily working on my proposal today, so I probably won’t get back here for a real post, but wanted to tell you ONCE AGAIN, how much I fucking love you. And because I say “fucking” you know I mean it.

Got any good gossip for me, Internet?

A couple of months ago I let on that I’d been writing a bunch of essays in my not-so-spare time, and it was something I was shy to admit to even you, Sweet Internet. For someone who has told the internet so much about the state of her vagina, I tend to be a fairly private person. Especially when I’m branching out of my comfort zone of bon-bons, martini’s, and cheese queso, which this would absolutely qualify as.

I was so quiet about the whole situation that I only shamefully told my best friends about it when I was nearing the end of it all. I suppose I was just being shy. Well, that and it seems that everyone and their brother has an aspiration to Write a Book or Be An Actor That Sleeps With Vincent D’Onofrio, and the last thing that I want to be is like someone else.

Plus my 5 Year Plan involves only one phrase: Don’t Die.

I’m not that much of a planner, I suppose, although up until very recently, my Diet Coke stash was never depleted. Now it just tastes like battery acid, you bastard, and I don’t obviously want to drink it.

But I have a new non-Diet Coke related quest, Internet, one that I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about sooner. Shh, baby, it’s okay, Aunt Becky still loves you best.

I’ve written a book, and I need help. My literary agents have thoughtfully suggested that I come to you for some suggestions on some of my more sluggish essays, and I think that’s a brilliant idea. Would you be willing to help me, Sweet Internet, in my quest?

Yes, you read that right: I have literary agents. And a book. It’s a good book, I think, and I think you’ll like it.

For absolutely no real reason, save for some spotting and some low progesterone, I’m full of The Fear. I have a follow up ultrasound (f/u u/s for those of us speaking medical-eze) on July 2nd to check for…I don’t know what.

And because I am pregnant and therefore certifiable, I’m terrified. I’m not accustomed to all this monitoring and the like, and it’s not helping my irrationality (actual thought: If they’re ordering another u/s, it’s because there is something terribly wrong and they need to confirm it. Reality check: u/s are cash cows, AND following up is standard medical practice).

I’m pretty sure that between the extra (crazy) hormones and the sad fact that after the past six months of hell I have no coping mechanisms left in me whatsoever. This is making day-to-day life fairly hard for me.

In that vein, I may be away from you, my sweet and lovely blog and Internet People for a spell. I fear that all I will do if given the opportunity is whine and complain and worry myself into a tizzy if left to my own pathetic devices.

Instead I will relax on the couch and stare at the wall. What? That doesn’t sound healthy to you?

If you need me, shoot me an email.

And who knows, I’ll probably be back sooner than you think.

Catch you on the flip side, bitches.

My old friend Morning Sickness, more medically termed “Nausea/Vomiting of Pregnancy,” (which I like it better, actually, because since when does Morning Sickness occur only in the morning? NOT OFTEN) has reared it’s ugly head once again.

While this makes me happy, because it means I’m still with Sausagebryo, I’m having a touch of a hard time trying to make it better.

Any suggestions for good remedies?

I have two tattoos. You know this. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t even care. And here I am, taking away from you REAL posts to show you some pictures. I should be ashamed of myself.

Let’s ignore my obvious need for a pedicure, which was actually on The Almighty Schedule for the weekend. With extenuating circumstances being what they were, the prospect of paying someone to touch my foot was ridiculous at best, recockulous at worst (oh yes, yes I did).

So, for my 22nd birthday, I done got myself a tattoo. On my right foot.

It’s a reminder, actually, to be true to who I am. The lizard DOES have a meaning, and not just “I like Southwestern Stuff!!!”

Here is My Left Foot (a.k.a. Big Pimpin’)

So this is the swollen bad foot, adorned with an adorable pink seahorse. You can kinda see the bruising and swelling. It’s kinda wicked cool. It’s also kinda hard to see from this angle.

I got this tattoo on my 25th birthday, about a month before I fooled The Daver into marrying me. At the same time, he got a tattoo, too. Actual conversation between me and the dude doing my tattoo:

Me: How’s he doing?

Tattoo Dude: He looks fine. Almost done.

Me: Is he okay?

TD: Well, shit. He looks pale.

Me: Oh no!

(I peer over at Daver who is now standing up)

Me: Hahahaha! That’s just how he looks. Pale.

Anyway.

The seahorse commemorates my single years, my Seahorse Period, if I may (and I always may) and reminds me that I was good at being single. In case, you know, I find myself single again someday.

Okay, so let me preemptively answer a couple questions before I ask for YOUR tattoo stories:

1) Did it hurt?

What do you think? I don’t have fat feet, nor are they particularly muscular, which means the tattoo needle was going over and over on my bones and tendons.

It hurt like fuck. Like worse than childbirth.

2) Why the HELL do you have tattoos on your fucking feet? That’s a dumb place to put them.

Well, sort of dumb. But kind of brilliant. See, I CAN HIDE THEM EASILY. If I want to be professional (stop laughing) all I have to do is to put on real shoes. It also is in an area that won’t stretch too much, so I won’t distort them before I’m too old to give a shit.

Okay, your turn. I want stories.

I’m pretty sure I did something bad to somebody along the way, and this is me apologizing to you, The Universe for all of my past transgressions. And you, The Internet for my Fun-Filled Odyssey that has been the past oh I don’t know COUPLE OF MONTHS.

It must grow tiresome, or at least annoying to constantly hear about What Is Currently Wrong With Aunt Becky, because shit, it seems like it’s ALWAYS something. Because it kinda is. Which I assure you is not because I’ve developed a penchant for the dramatic.

In fact, I hate drama, and the only time in which I was a Dramatic (annoying) Person was in high school when “Oh my GOD. Did you HEAR what SHELLEY did? I am never speaking to her AGAIN. AS LONG AS I SHALL LIVE!” *puts hand to face dramatically* was the way we lived our lives.

Don’t pretend to be above it, y’all. Next thing you’re going to tell me is that you were NEVER dramatic EVER because I won’t believe you at all.

Anyway, my foot is now turning a lovely shade of baby poo yellow tinged with a cobalt blue, and I’m going to be honest: it’s pretty cool looking. It’s weirdness is probably the one thing that has made this whole situation in which I lounge around on the couch noticing how filthy my house has become asking people to fetch me my Diet Coke STAT. I’m not, much as I’d always thought I’d been, the type of person who enjoys lazing about the house making my Sausages do my bidding. I do my own bidding thankyouverymuch.

I’d post a picture of my foot, but you’d only be shocked by my tattoo which covers it up pretty well.

And as for my cervix (is that the weirdest segue you’ve ever heard? I’m thinking yes), my cells are abnormal enough to warrant a full scale biopsy and a coloscopy (the name I’m making up, although that might be it. I keep thinking “colonscopy” which is when someone shoves a camera up your pooper. In case you’re wondering, it’s as much fun as it sounds!).

The Sausagebryo that’s currently occupying my uterus compounds things, so I must wait until August to have this lovely procedure. So that should be fun: knowing that something might be wrong but not knowing for sure for another 7 weeks.

I think I’ve made as much peace with it as I can for now, and I probably won’t be moaning around the house, moping and prostrate with grief. Shit, I can’t hang out in Crisis Mode for weeks on end here, without making my head explode, right? Time, I suppose, to hurry up and chill the fuck out.

*sighs*

Moving on away from boring news onto My Kid May Be A Complete Weirdo News, may I present to you a Ben story:

Me: Did you have fun at the pool?

Ben: Yes. I went down the big slide.

Me: Sweet!

Ben: And I didn’t even care that the lifeguard came! I didn’t feel ANYTHING.

Me: Huh? The lifeguard?

Ben: Yeah, he pulled me out of the water.

Me: ………..

Ben: I didn’t feel ANYTHING when I went under.

Me: …………

Ben: Can I go back to the pool with Matthew again?

Me (strangled out): SWIMMING LESSONS. you need SWIMMING LESSONS.

Is it any wonder my hair has been going gray since I was 20?