Now you can put on your Judgment Hats BEFORE I tell this story, which I would surmise, look as awesome as this:

Whatever, don’t act like you’re not jealous of my hat.

It’s my THINKING Cap, y’all (no it is. I wear it when I need to think of stuff-n-things).

So, Pranksters, you know and love me and my foul mouth, just like my children do. If I wanted to be all Blame Game about it, I could pin it on my mother, who taught me my first word: “FUCK,” and say that’s where it all began, but really, I’m kind of over the Blame Game.

I know these things to be true: I have a *ahem* colorful mouth, a dirty mind, and I’m the kind of person you don’t want to live with because I’m prone to warble Rod Stewart (love, love LOVE him!) and microwave marshmallows.

I’ve toned down most of my more awesome pairings of words in front of the kids (meat curtains, anyone?) because that’s what I needed to do, but I’ve never managed to stop swearing entirely. I know that I should and I know that it’s bad and I know that I should also grow my own organic food and stop drinking Diet Coke and probably live a life devoted to something more than polluting the Internet with my dim-witted drivel.

A couple of months ago, I was feeling masochistic and started watching 24, until I realized that I was more stressed out AFTER watching it than I was before (which is saying a lot, considering my stress level is always very high) and could no longer suspend my disbelief that Jack Bauer could hold his bladder for 24 hours a day.

That’s fucking BULLSHIT.

But I picked up Jack Bauer’s, “DAMMIT!” which I would say with precisely that inflection every single time I dropped something (read: every 2 minutes), stubbed my toe (read: every 10 minutes), or tripped over something (read: every 15 minutes).

So Alex, my three-year old picked up, “DAMMIT!” just the way Jack Bauer says it. When he dropped something, “DAMMIT!” When he fell down, “DAMMIT!” When something didn’t go his way, “DAMMIT!”

Which, when I found out it was a college drinking game, made it all the more hilarious.

I mean, okay, dammit is like the least offensive swear, and while I could have done better, IT COULD HAVE BEEN SO MUCH WORSE HOLY FUCKING SHIT, this is MY kid we’re talking about.

So, really, my speaking kids, the ones that whose minds I am responsible for shaping (don’t call CPS now) are 9 and 3 and somehow neither of them run around yelling, “WELL FUCKING SHIT, MOMMA, YOU GET YER DAMN WHORE ASS BACK IN THE KITCHEN AND MAKE ME SOME MOTHERFUCKING PIE!”

It means I’m doing okay.

Well, then you have The Daver, who is much more mild mannered than Your Aunt Becky. He’s quieter and more thoughtful and swears much less. No one would ever describe him as outrageous or colorful or obnoxious or brash or annoying or really anything negative.

Sunday, Alex was working on this gigantic marble contraption that he’d conned The Daver into buying:

And he dropped a handful of marbles onto the floor, which upset him very much, because Alex is a very focused and determined ickle guy.

Window open, neighbors right outside my son, clear as a motherfucking bell yells…

“FUCKING XXXX”

Something I can’t even repeat because it’s that offensive.

The pairing, however, of the two words he used together exonerated me, just as the pairing of the swear words that our FIRST son used. When I swear, it’s background noise. When Dave swears, the kids pay attention.

Turns out that The DAVER has taught both of our children to swear. Alex has given him a nice choice phrase–easily something to offend everyone*–just in time for his 32nd birthday, which is today!

Happy Birthday, Daver!

*I cannot wait for Alex to use this one around Dave’s parents. No, really, this will be EPIC.

The monster that lived in my close was named Ernie. I knew this because my brother told me. Ernie liked raw meat and eggs and every night I had to feed him or he’d come down and eat me while I slept.

I’d have to yell, “Here Ernie, here’s an egg. Catch the egg, Ernie!” and then I’d run back into my bed and pull up the covers while I waited for Ernie to devour the egg, hoping that he didn’t decide that ickle girl would be a tastier option.

My father told me of my sister, the one who lived in the basement, chained to the wall, living on apple juice and rats. She’d been born, apparently, between us, and rather than let her live upstairs, she’d been too feral, too wild, and she had become a basement dweller.

My cousin would delight me with stories of the little girl who visited the lollipop factory, only to fall into a vat of the sticky syrup, and in a tragic accident, become a lollipop herself.

Less concerned with her fate, I was reassured that she was turned into my favorite flavor, cherry red. This satisfied me, of course. Because if you have to die in a lollipop factory, you should, at the very least, turn out to be sweetly delicious.

And then there are pictures like this. I’m in the bonnet.

Yes, the bonnet, motherfuckers.

You got a problem with my bonnet?

Because I clearly do. Even at 2.5, I seem to be looking at the camera in a “dude, I look ABSURD,” way, because, well, I do. I’m not sure what my mother was smoking to think that a nearly-three-year old needed to be doing walking around in a bonnet, but there you have it. Further proof that I was destined to write about my life on The Internet.

And here, surrounded by my bunnies, I am clearly afraid for my life. Why? Because I had to go to bed soon, where ERNIE could, at any time, come and eat me.

My army of bunnies couldn’t save me from the monster in my closet.

Perhaps I was practicing to be a pirate. Because, wouldn’t you if you had a monster in your motherfucking closet?

The best part of this picture is my “BECKY” barrette. Because I would STILL TOTALLY WEAR THAT SHIT.

This is my father. And my brother. No, I am not kidding. That’s Santa and his Elf, Ralph.

So, no, I don’t EVER wonder why I’m like this. In fact, I often wonder how I got to be so damn normal*.

*normal is relative.

I was so tragically glib about how evolved I was; how I’d managed to escape my past unscathed. I called myself the Energizer Bunny, joked that I was made of Teflon, and marveled that someone could grow up as I did and become a mostly functional adult child of two alcoholics.

My home life as a child was far from simple. I pretended my family was like those I saw on television because in the television, the mothers loved their daughters every SINGLE day. Those children had meals cooked for them, had parents they could talk to, parents who took them to swimming lessons, parents who cared about them, parents who loved them no matter what.

They had what I wanted: parents who behaved like parents.

I had the illusion of a family, two parents, a much older brother, some cats and dogs, and then there was me. Caregiver. Cleaner-upper. Parent to myself. In reality, I was alone and I knew it.

I learned what so many of us children of alcoholics do, trust no one but yourself. It became a way of life. Carefully, I constructed a facade that even I began to believe. A life that I so desperately wanted, I could attain if I lied enough about it.

Eventually, I grew up. Waiting for the day when I itched to have a drink, and then another, and then another, I was surprised when it never came. I had a child out of wedlock, a happy accident, I changed my life around to accommodate that of a single mother, then I got married. I had another child. Then another.

I knew that I bore some of the scars of my past–who doesn’t?–but it twenty years for me to realize that I’d grown up to do the precise thing that 8-year old Aunt Becky always swore she never would do: I put myself in the same position that I would have done anything to get out of.

I married an addict.

We always joked about it, The Daver and I, his addiction to his work–Workahol, we called it, back when we still joked around about it–but for the past five years I’ve watched as it went from working to live to living to work.

It was all that he ever wanted to do, work, that is, and that’s where he got his joy, his rush, his feelings of accomplishment, his ego, and we were just periphery. Background noise. Particularly loud and unbelievably adorable background noise, but background noise nonetheless.

As he worked more, he needed more and more to feel that rush, that thrill, and his hours grew until he barely saw us. When we’d dare interrupt him for something like, oh, maybe the HOUSE being on fire, we’d get a terse, snappy reply, and stung, we’d walk away hurt.

I consoled myself that he was working so hard to support us, and when I’d bring it up, he’d swear that he was doing it all for us, but it wasn’t quite the truth. What we needed was a husband, a father, a friend, and someone who didn’t place something else above us every second of the day.

I’d never considered it a real addiction, not like gambling or drug addiction, because it was one of those things that we did, you know, NEED to do.

But there it was, from Adult Children of Alcoholics:

We either became alcoholics ourselves, married them, or both. Failing that, we found other compulsive personalities, such as a workaholic, to fulfill our sick need for abandonment.

When I read that, I dry-heaved, and then I bawled my eyes out. It’s a bitter pill to swallow to realize that your past is never as far away as you thought it was.

I finally brought it up to The Daver, and this time, rather than trying to pass it off as something else; my problem, money issues, whatever, he listened. He listened and he realized that it was a problem.

I explained that I had lived my entire life with addicts, always walking around on eggshells, and that things in our house had to change. I simply couldn’t–and wouldn’t–put my children through what I had been through.

We both started individual therapy this weekend. He’s looking for a balance, and I’m, well, I’m looking to put the ghosts of my past to bed. For the first time in many, many months, I feel hopeful about the state of my union.

Perhaps this is where the sidewalk ends and a road begins.

On August 20, 2001, after nearly 24 hours of hard labor, my husband’s first son, Benjamin Maxwell, was born. He was hundreds of miles away, out of state, likely on campus for class, and I have no way of knowing if he knew that his first child had been born.

Did something stir within him at the highly civilized hour of 2:50 in the afternoon? Did he shiver as his son drew his first breath and screamed his bloody head off? Did he stop for a second, not knowing why, as his some-day-will-be-wife cried as she looked at her new son for the first time, marveling at his beauty and how damn HEAVY he was?

I don’t have any way of knowing that, of course, and The Daver, he doesn’t remember. The pictures my mind paints, though, that’s what they all look like. Two realities, separate, then intertwined.

The Daver, he met Benner and I when Ben was two and I was twenty-three, and while he confessed to being nervous about dating a girl with a kid, all traces of nerves were evaporated when Ben raised his stubby arms up to him to be carried across the street for the first time. When Ben wrapped his arms around Dave, a father was made.

That night, on the drive home, Ben spoke one of the only sentences he had, and certainly one of the only ones he’d made up, “Awww…..(sniff)….BYE DAVE.” The kid, he loved his Dave. For an autistic kid, that’s huge.

From then on, they were like cheese and macaroni. When Ben was obsessed with the planets, Dave had a friend paint the walls of Ben’s bedroom in our condo with Jupiter and Mars. When Ben needed to potty train, Dave went to poop class with me. When we needed to find a preschool, Dave helped me look.

When we got married, Dave asked Ben for my hand in marriage. Ben didn’t hesitate before he said said, “Yeah, okay!”

After Ben walked me down the aisle, he stood up as Dave’s best man, and Dave’s vows to Ben had the entire church weeping. I could have skipped the white dress entirely (and trust me, I would happily have done so. I am SO not a wedding person) and left my kid and his dad up there alone.

2 years after we were married, March 20, 2007, Ben became a big brother and Dave became a father once more. I don’t know who was prouder. I still don’t, actually.

2 years after that, Ben and Alex became big brothers and Dave became a father for the last time.

Fathering a child may be easy, but being a dad, that’s the hard shit. I know that.

I have more male readers than most blogs with “Mommy” in the URL  (thanks to saying things like “beef curtains,” “sweater kittens” and “anal leakage”) and I’m honored to know all of you.

Happy Father’s Day, Pranksters.

And Happy Father’s Day, The Daver. We’re damn lucky to have you.

[flashvideo file=wp-content/uploads/2010/03/Having-My-Baby.flv /]

So I totally swallowed the red pill on Mother’s Day and forgot to make more of my cards-you-should-never-send-to-someone-unless-you-hate-them. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’re probably better off, but here’s the link. As you can see, I have a lot of work to do (most of that is going to be finding artwork I can actually USE, which is shockingly difficult) (I’m all ears to suggestions)(if any of these are your images and I’ve taken them in error, please let me know and I’ll remove them immediately).

But Father’s Day is this weekend, and how could I forget with The Daver constantly telling me things like, “Oh, well, the new iPHONE is coming out!” and “I need a new computer!!” Because apparently, Father’s Day is cause for me forking over loads of cash. Who knew?

Since I borked on Mother’s Day, I figured I should make it up to all of the three dads out there who read my blog and might appreciate the sentiment. If Hallmark were smart, this is what they’d make because inappropriate is always better than appropriate.

I’m back — Did you miss me? Let’s raise our coffee mugs and beer steins and whatever else you have to Aunt Becky, who is out of Internet coverage and has recruited me to fill in as only your friendly neighborhood The Daver can. Thanks to all who sent Daver-friendly questions! Now gather ’round, gather ’round, and let’s all use our inside voices today, because The Daver is trying to catch up on his sleep thanks to being on Mr. Mom duty for several days.

Dear The Daver,

-Manda

Hi Manda,

I know that when people thought Ben was mine, I was always kinda flattered. I mean, I didn’t want to take credit, but he and I were Best Buds from the day we met, so I was perfectly happy to be in pictures or have someone guess wrong. I mean, sure, it was a little disconcerting at first — here I was, walking in to this person’s life, and I wasn’t expecting to become a capital-D-Dad so quickly, but in a way it just…happened. I loved him and wanted the best for him, and my biggest fear was measuring up to that.

Changing the way others perceive things is impossible; we had to put my last name on Ben’s school records because otherwise the school calls and asks for “Mrs. Ben’s-last-name” (NOT what she wants to be called, thankyouverymuch), and the mailman marks mail for him with a “here?”. To this day people comment on Ben’s resemblance to me. If I tried to correct all of them, I’d never have a conversation that didn’t involve explaining my ‘special’ relationship with my son. So I just say, “He sure is good looking, isn’t he?” and laugh later on.

So I’d say the only person you need to worry about is your boyfriend — talk to him about those awkward moments, have a laugh about the way people assume stuff, and tell him what YOU expect. Then when it happens again — because it WILL — you can give him a knowing look and he can play the role as much or as little as he’s comfortable doing, because he knows where you and your daughter stand — and those are the people he’s most concerned about anyhow.

-d

Hey, The Daver!

Love,
The NOT girlfriend.

Oh, NOT girlfriend,

Alas, I don’t have psychic powers and I can’t see into his head to tell you for sure, but I have to ask you this: what do YOU want? If using the terms ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend’ to describe your relationship is important to you, then it’s important to understand why he’s so adamant not to be called those terms. Perhaps a previous relationship went too fast into those terms and it spooked him? Maybe he doesn’t want to jinx a good thing? Getting guys to talk about this stuff can be tricky, but if it’s upsetting you then he needs to know, and he needs to know why. Rather than just asking him to go ‘formal’, sit him down and share with him how it makes you feel, how he makes you feel, and what it would mean to you to use those terms, and give him an opportunity to open up about it. If he shares honestly, give him a BJ as a reward*, to encourage further sharing. 🙂

What you don’t want to have is the doubt you feel about this seemingly minor terminology issue turn into doubt about the relationship as a whole. If the terms don’t match the usual terms, that’s one thing (Becky calls me “fart-face” or “asshole” more than “husband”) but if the commitments you expect aren’t there on both sides, that’s another, and you don’t want that to cloud the good stuff, or fester into something more serious.

He’d better not be waiting for a ‘better’ chick, though. Besides the fact that he’ll be waiting a long time, because OBVIOUSLY, that’s just a dick move, and we may need to put his balls in a jar.

-d

*that one’s for you, SciFi Dad. But I’m only half kidding. Less than half.

Dear The Daver,

-MiniPeds-

Hey -MiniPeds-,

From personal experience being this very boyfriend, let me tell you: make him an appointment, and take him to it. This is not something that gets better on its own, and while depressed, it is unlikely that the idea of getting better registers enough to stir real action in him. Obviously, if you make the appointment and he outright refuses or gets upset with you, you can take a step back, but chances are pretty good that he’s not doing it because he’s just…not doing it. We depressed people tend to feel like making appointments not mandated by jobs or life is an awful lot of effort, and we’re already spending most of what we’ve got on the other stuff, so maybe next week I’ll feel better…

Now that my symptoms are managed, I’m so thankful that Becks made me go. And that she called me an idiot for stopping my meds when I felt better, and took care of me when I crashed after stopping my meds (even though she told me I was an idiot), and got me back on them. I learned my lesson, as most people who face this kind of thing do: the hard way. Having her to get me through the consequences of my mistakes changed everything.

So good luck. He’s lucky to have you.

-d

As always, agree, disagree, and help these kind folks out better than me in the comments!

When I dropped her off at the airport the other day, Becky gave me a smooch, hopped out of the car, grabbed her carryon, and started to turn toward the entrance, when she stopped.

She looked back to me and said, “Hey! I asked a few people to guest post but they might not have had time to put anything together. If you don’t get something, just post something for me, okay?”

“But-”

“OK, I’m off! See you soon!” she blew one last kiss to me and scurried in to the terminal to get strip-searched or whatever by TSA. I looked up and as I started to drive back home, I could feel the weight growing: but the Pranksters….they are accustomed to QUALITY! And I’m just a hack who posts a few times a month. How will I measure up? How will I fulfill the RSS-pectations of all these lovely people who crave their daily dose of Aunt Becky??

So I did the same thing I did in college: I procrastinated. I tweeted, I watched Fringe, I played with the kidlets, I poked around on my computer. And now here we are! The time has come! I must…POST!

…

…

OK. The Mailbox Incident, or Ways I Hope I Never Mess Up My Kids.

I was maybe 7 years old. My parents were teachers, in a church-run school, so I spent a lot of time hanging around the church waiting for them to finish up whatever it was they were doing. And then, when they would say that it was time to leave, someone would catch them in the hallway and they would chat for a while longer. So I’d meander away, trying to drag them with sheer force of will away from whomever they were chatting with and out to the car.

One day, a pleasant spring day not unlike today ( see, there WAS a tie-in!), my mom was talking about God-knows-what boring stuff, and I wandered outside to the courtyard, thinking about getting home and riding my bike or something. I was into spy stories, and I’d read about spies leaving notes in special places, so I started imagining where my spy contacts would have left me notes. Near the door of the building was GIGANTIC mailbox, like a foot tall and two feet deep, and I thought to myself, “this flag on the mailbox — I never see it used — this would be perfect to tell someone that something was waiting!” So I flipped up the flag, and started to turn and hide while my imaginary spy friends picked up the imaginary note I left them, when —

My mom came running out of the door! “David!” she almost shouted, and I got that tingly feeling like I knew something bad was about to happen.

“David! You can’t touch that flag! That’s tampering with the mail, that’s a federal offense!” she said, and I felt weak in the knees and wanted to cry. I *knew* what a federal offense meant. It meant TORTURE so they could make me TALK! If they caught me I would never see my family again! I quickly flipped the flag back down and, fighting back fearful tears, walked to the car with my mom.

To this day, whenever I put mail out in my mailbox, I feel compelled to look around Very Carefully before flipping up the flag. They might be watching.

On August 20, 2001 my first son Benjamin rocketed into the world. As he drew his first breath at 2:50 PM and wailed at the indignity of being expelled from my uterus, I wonder if, hundreds of miles away, a college student named Dave felt something stirring within him. I can’t be sure. School was just starting for him. Parenthood was probably the last thing on his mind.

But on that day, Dave became a parent. He just didn’t know it yet.

Two years later, in January of 2003, his first child, Benjamin, a nearly-mute 2-year old reached up his arms and allowed Dave to pick him up. It was a rarity for Ben to allow someone he’d just met minutes beforehand to hold him. Even more rare was that he bonded with him instantly. Two hours later, safely in my car, he spoke his fourth sentence. “Aw…bye, Dave.” Over and over, he repeated that, sighing sadly after every repetition.

Like this:

“Aw, BYE DAVE….*sighs*”

(pause)

“Awwwww….BYE DAVE…..*sighs*”

(pause)

On September 10, 2005, my son Benjamin walked me down the aisle. At the alter, Dave spoke his vows first to our son, then to me. The child who is not related–by blood, at least–to my husband, he is the one who is most like The Daver. Always has been.

March 30, 2007, Benjamin Maxwell became a big brother to Alexander Joseph. Dave slumbered on through my labor thanks to a migraine, but was there by my side to watch as his second son came into the world. Angrier than a wet cat, Alex met his father by peeing on him. I found it apt, considering I would have dragged my numb ass over to kick DAVE’S sleeping ass, had I been able to.

Alex was, as he always is, on my side.

On January 28, 2009, our last child came into the world surrounded by chaos. The girl with curls like a halo (who kicks ass), Amelia Grace, she cast her big brown eyes upon us and nothing has been the same.

Today, April 15, 2010, at 1:45 PM we said goodbye to that part of our lives. No more will we welcome more children into the world, but we will help our children grow and learn about this crazy, mixed-up, wonderful world that we live in.

I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little heartbroken to see Dave’s vas deferens sitting in those jars, sadly separated from his body. Not because I want any more children, or because I’m unhappy with the decision that we made. It was time to put that part of our lives to bed.

So I’m going to take a quote from my then-two-year old because I don’t know how else to end this bittersweet day.

Aw, bye, vas deferens.

Aunt Becky: “I know you’re trying to dress up more for work and all.”

The Daver (warily): “Yes.”

Aunt Becky: “So I did some shopping with Pashmina.”

The Daver: “Oh NO.”

Aunt Becky (continues on obliviously): “And we came up with the perfect solution. I know you were going to go to Brooks Brothers after work to buy some of those SOMBER suits, but I took the liberty of going downtown and buying you a new suit myself!!”

The Daver: “You didn’t.”

Aunt Becky: “Oh, I did.”

The Daver (puts his head in his hands): “Oh no”

Aunt Becky: “See, now here’s the bright red one, with a matching red shirt and a red jacket and red shoes!!”

The Daver: (groans)

Aunt Becky (whips out from behind her): “And look baby! I got you A MATCHING HAT!”

(puts it on his head)

Aunt Becky: “Don’t you look so nice in red!”

The Daver: “I hate you.”

Aunt Becky: “There, there. You won’t hate me when you see that I got a belt with your name on it! JUST LIKE MINE!”

(proudly points to her BECKY* belt)

The Daver: “…”

Aunt Becky: “You’re going to look FANCY.”

The Daver: “It’s bright red, Becky.”

Aunt Becky (eyes sparkling): “You’re going to look like a rainbow. Like me! Plus, the suit from Brooks Brothers is like 4 zillion dollars and this was $30. I saved you approximately, well, okay, math is hard, but it was A LOT of money. Pashmina even said so. And ENGLISH majors are VERY smart. She has like 8 degrees.”

(smiles happily)

The Daver: (looks doubtfully at the suit) “I’ll try it on.”

Aunt Becky: “PLUS. I got you socks. Some guy was selling them out of a garbage bag for $6. HOW COULD I REFUSE THAT? That is PRACTICALLY giving it away. I SAVED you money.”

The Daver: “Becky, these are pink WOMEN’S socks and they have HOLES in the toes. Plus, they smell like cheese.”

Aunt Becky: “Those are AIR holes, Dave. I am sure the MANUFACTURER intended them to be there. And you love cheese!”

The Daver: “Dude, I look kinda sweet.”

Aunt Becky: “See, I don’t steer you wrong, baby. Now let’s go get some shamrock shakes to celebrate. Just don’t, uh, stand too close to me. You’re giving me a headache.”

*Yes, I really do have a belt with my name on it. You should too.

OH! And delicious secret is revealed…

The Daver: “I was reading your friend’s blog, and she was talking about how she’d gotten some nasty look from some parent when she said she was taking her kid to McDonald’s.”

Aunt Becky: “Ha! Figures.”

The Daver: “I said that ‘The Daver would give them a McSmackdown.'”

Aunt Becky: “Totally, yo. What the hell is wrong with McDonald’s once in awhile? Let kids be kids, man.”

The Daver: “Exactly! People like that can take their organic bento boxes and shove them up their asses.”

Aunt Becky: “I tweeted last night that whomever wrote the ‘I could be your hero baby’ song was singing about Chicken McNuggets. And I meant it.”

The Daver: “That’s fucked up.”

Aunt Becky: “The only thing wrong with McDonald’s is the ball pits. They always smell like pee.”

The Daver: “What the hell are you talking about?”

Aunt Becky: “You never noticed that?”

The Daver: “No.”

Aunt Becky: “Dude. Kids are always whizzing in the ball pits. It’s disgusting.”

The Daver: “….”

Aunt Becky: “It’s kind of awesome if you don’t play in there.”

The Daver: “….”

Aunt Becky: “You totally played in the pee balls, didn’t you? That sucks.”

The Daver: “….”

Aunt Becky: “That’s okay. I think there’s some bleach leftover from the time I accidentally saw pictures of Carrot Top naked. You can bathe with that.”

The Daver: “I have a sudden hankering for a Shamrock Shake.”