Tonight Ben graduated from first grade and for some unknown reason the school had a ceremony to commemorate it. Now, I’m not crusty enough to bitch about having another graduation party, honestly I didn’t care, and in fact I was pretty thrilled about it. I’d gotten him a gift (Puma socks, which inexplicably he wanted) and had it all wrapped and ready.

Problem came when he decided to be an asshole today.

He has a nasty habit of turning into a know-it-all about stupid shit. Like today, for instance, he argued with Dave about taking him out to dinner beforehand. He was, for some reason, convinced it was lunch we were taking him to, and snottily informed Dave of this.

Now, I’m fully aware that I happen to be wrong now and again (but not TOO much, of course) and I’m ready to admit it when I am. But the meal that happens roughly between the hours of 5 and 7 PM is generally known as “dinner.” He then argued with us about other stupid piddly stuff, because at 6, he knows FAR more about, well, everything.

This bothers me tremendously because it reminds me of my favorite blog punching bag: Nat. It makes me wish I v-logged so that I could say this phrase to you in the same sneering tone: “Well, ACTUALLY Becky…blah, blah, blah.”

Nat is the world’s biggest know-it-all and it drives me fucking nuts. I’ve fully accepted that he’s my cross to bear (lucky, lucky Aunt Becky) and I don’t generally pay it much mind. My bed has long been made and I tend to sleep pretty damn well in it.

I can accept that he’ll run late every time he says he’s going to be somewhere, not caring a bit about how it affects my day.

I can accept that he’ll complain about the “crappy clothes” I send Ben to his house wearing. (The funniest part of this is that I send Ben in the clothes that Nat buys for him. Why? Because I spend “money” on “clothes” for Ben to “wear” because I’m a fucking “label whore.” Oh yes, yes he did. And I never, ever get the nice clothes back.)

I can accept that he’ll probably never really show up to a school function for Ben, preferring to do whatever it is that Douche Bags do in their spare time (buy vinegar and scents?).

What I cannot accept is listening to Nat not politely disagree with me with that fucking phrase: “Now ACTUALLY Becky.” It sets my teeth on edge, because 99% of the time he uses it to point out an obvious flaw, no matter HOW much I know about a subject and how sure I am of whatever it is, he’s completely wrong with his retort.

I hear people say incorrect shit all the time like it’s a fact and you know what? I never really disagree with them, pointing out that they are wrong. To me, it’s just not worth making someone else feel badly. Nat doesn’t care at all. He probably gets joy from making me feel bad.

Hearing it come out of Ben’s mouth like that just inflames me and I have no idea how to deal with it properly. It pisses the usually mild-mannered Dave off too, so I know I’m not alone in this.

But how the hell do I deal with this without wanting to punch myself in the face? I don’t care if you have kids this age or not, how would YOU handle this?

I’ve alluded to the fact before that I don’t particularly care to listen to NPR, but that’s actually not quite true: I do actually like NPR, especially This American Life (when I remember to listen to it).

What I hate about it mostly is that it reminds me of Nat.

Now, I’ve listened to NPR before I met Nat, my parents alternate between this station and the classical music station, and anyone who has been to my parents house knows that the radio is always on. Truth be told, I never minded it. I like the commentaries, I like the programs, I like to make fun of the way that the people speak (a la SNL’s Shweaty Balls sketch), and it’s usually pretty interesting.

I’m no longer in the car for 4 hours a day, so when I am, I prefer to rock out to some real music rather than listen to talk radio. Besides, music drowns out my kids, talking will not.

But back in the day when I dated Nat, he listened to NPR like it was his job. And for awhile, it pretty much WAS his job. He’d gotten laid off and refused to find another interim job while he searched for another Help (less) Desk job. My sympathy was non-existent considering I was in nursing school full time and worked as a waitress to buy insurance, formula and diapers for Ben.

Anyhow, back to the story.

One of his favorite insults to throw in my face was that I lacked a “social conscience,” which never made much sense to me, considering even though I sucked at it, I was going to nursing school to care for the sick. Whereas he worked as a Help(less) desk pion at a company that manufactured garage door openers.

You be the judge of who lacked a social conscience.

Since I didn’t listen to NPR religiously, preferring to listen to stuff in the car that, oh, I don’t know, KEPT ME AWAKE SO I DIDN’T FALL ASLEEP AND KILL PEOPLE WHILE I DROVE, I obviously didn’t give a shit about the world.

He’d like to impart on me all of the terrible awful things that were wrong with the world, and then become inflamed when I told them that I didn’t need to hear them. Sure, he liked to TALK about these horrible things, but that’s all he really did: talk.

And as for me, I’d prefer not to rally against things and despise the world for being such a shitty place unless I was planning to do something to make it better. Of course I could sit around talking about how fucking sad it is that a famine is killing people in (insert country here) but unless I’m going to start organizing food and sending it over to (insert country here) I don’t need to be depressed about it. The world is a very depressing place if you look at things in one light, and if you look at it in another you’ll see that it’s also a very wonderful place.

Nat didn’t get that. He assumed that I would bury my head in the sand because I obviously didn’t care at all, and took any opportunity to tell me what a terrible person I was for this.

Now remember this: Nat didn’t really have a leg to stand on when it came to intellectual discussions. Although he’s a smart enough guy (his parents are both physicists) he barely graduated high school. His main aspiration in life is to talk loudly about stuff and do nothing good about it at all. He’s a veritable bag of hot air.

His ideas aren’t bad ones, recently he told me how he and his friend were talking about building some solar panels for a house (Nat lives in an apartment with his brother), but I guarantee you, I SWEAR ON ALL THAT IS CHANEL, it will never go past the talking stage. Ever.

Nat is a judgmental bag of wind.

Take for example a simple conversation that I am reenacting from memory for your pleasure:

Becky: “I love those Nissan Pathfinders.”

Nat: “How dare you?!?”

Becky: “Especially in yellow. I usually hate yellow cars.”

Nat: “You’re such a fucking bitch!”

Becky: “What the FUCK are you talking about?”

Nat: “DO YOU KNOW WHAT SUV’S ARE DOING FOR THE ENVIRONMENT?”

Becky: “Dude, you drive a V-8 Crown Victoria. Is that somehow different?”

Nat: “YOU HAVE NO SOCIAL CONSCIENCE!”

Becky: “You do remember this car that you’re driving isn’t exactly fuel efficient, right? It gets what, 16, 18 MPG? HIGHWAY?”

Becky: “Besides, I said I LIKED them, not that I was going to BUY one.”

Nat: “YOU BETTER NEVER BUY AN SUV, BECKY. Did you hear about the earthquake?”

(end scene)

Trust me, if you want more mini-plays, HOLLER. You’ll especially like the one about…OH I CAN’T RESIST. ONE MORE, ONE MORE FOR MY INTERNET LOVERS!

(scene, Becky and Nat take baby Ben to the doctor for his 6 month check-up. The doctor has just berated Becky for starting Ben on solids before 6 months, something Nat has yelled at her about before. This is the car ride back to drop Ben and I off at my parents house)

Nat: “I can’t believe you started him on solids so young. I TOLD you it was a bad idea.”

Becky: “I thought he was such an asshole because he was hungry.”

Nat: “I TOLD YOU IT WAS A BAD IDEA, DID YOU HEAR WHAT THE DOCTOR SAID?”

Becky: “Eh. Whatever. Not a big deal.”

Nat: “IT’S A VERY BIG DEAL, WHAT IF HE GETS ALLERGIES AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!!!!”

Becky: “Bwahahahahahahah” (wipes tears) “bwahahahahahhaha”

Nat starts driving erratically because he’s now furious that I’m laughing at him. Keep in mind the baby is in the backseat here, and driving erratically is far more dangerous than solid foods.

Nat (through clenched teeth): “Oh GREAT, Becky. You’re possibly killing the baby with cereal and you think it’s funny? DO YOU?”

Becky: “Bwahahahahaha!”

Nat then squeals his tires into my driveway, I hop out, pull Ben out, and Nat storms off furiously, leaving a trail of burned rubber on the street directly in front of my house. It joins the rest of the patches of burned rubber.

Now, this makes Nat sound more dangerous than he really is. He’s a douche-bag for sure, and he’s pretty abusive towards me, but the situations are always funnier than they appear.

And you know what the moral of the story is?

BEN IS THE MOST HEALTHY KID I KNOW. And Nat is still the same douche-bag.

The Internet has been a-flutter this week with talk of how Heather Armstrong of Dooce fame was treated on The Today Show, and I didn’t catch the segment, mainly because I don’t really give a shit about The Today Show. My mother watches it and the format is exactly the same every day, just with new people talking about the same damn subjects ad nauseum. But enough people were ranting about it that I finally broke down and watched it on YouTube last night.

And I have a bone to pick, although not with Kathy Lee Whatsherface (seriously, what is UP with her face? It looks like a melting candle). Sure, she was a bit dismissive of Heather, and that was pretty rude, but I’m sure Heather had her big girl pants on and is laughing her way to the bank. Good for Heather, I say. Good for her.

My beef is with another thing entirely. See now, I’ve been blogging since 2004 and it’s something I enjoy very much. I genuinely like to write, I love to meet new people, and I enjoy feeling like I’m not alone in this crazy mixed up world. I’m also incredibly bored as my only conversation during the day tends to go like this:

“Ball!”

“Yes, a ball!”

“BALLLLLL!”

“Yes, baby. A ball.”

“PEEENIS!”

“Yes, you have a penis”

(gurgles happily while playing with his junk).

I don’t tend to read most of the Big Time Bloggers out there for two reasons:

1) Since their readership is so incredibly large, I never, ever get a response. And let’s face it, if I wanted to write only for myself, I’d keep this private and not on the public domain. But these bloggers are so busy with whatever it is that they’re doing that you never feel like you can connect with them. So I don’t bother trying. This makes me sound much more like a petulant teenager than I really am.

2) I’m so sick of going to their sites only to have them try and pimp products out to me. I’m all for making a bit of cash (Like I’ve ever gotten a dime for being a blogger. I’m pretty sure I’m in the negative here, and that is a-okay with me) and I have no beef with that, but when every other post is hawking some new product or directing you to their paid gigs, I get annoyed. Maybe it’s my own immaturity talking, or maybe it’s just because I despise adults trying to pimp out products I’ll never buy.

See, I’m down with pimping out YOUR OWN products, ala Etsy, but I don’t really want to hear so-and-so’s opinion on some new-fangled product. I totally dislike that blogs are quickly becoming marketing tools for big name corporations. If I wanted to be courted and advertised to, I’d flip on the television. I read blogs to get away from that noise, and I guess it annoys me when they’re trying to do the same thing.

It sounds like I’m bitter here because no corporation asks me to review their products but I’m not. Not really. The last thing I want my readers to have to do is to actually look for the stuff I write amidst the product placements.

I love reading new blogs, and I love meeting new people, provided that what they do on their site is actually writing or photographs. This I can get behind.

I don’t even mind the ads on the sidebars (which some people freak the fuck out about), unless they cause the page to take a day and a half to load, in which case I click away never to return again. I doubt I’ll put ads on my site, primarily because I’m a vain bitch and absolutely hate clutter on my blogs sidebar. Besides, I’m fairly certain no one would take me anyway, since I talk about such disgusting stuff and refuse to stop using the word “fuck.”

Am I being too critical here? I’m all for people making cash from doing something that they love, but I don’t really appreciate people starting to blog simply to make money, which is what I’m pretty sure will happen after that Today Show segment, where they talk about ‘word of Mom’ as the hottest new advertising strategy. And this is not to say that ALL of the Big Time Bloggers do this, don’t get me wrong.

God, I sound like such a crotchety old bitch here, like I sit around on a park bench all day trying to trip people with my cane (which is precisely what I plan on doing when I’m old) and talking about how in MY day, I walked to school in the sleet up hill both ways with rags for shoes.

What do you think about blogs becoming a marketing tool? Aunt Becky is dying to know what you think.

I was suitably hung over the morning after I’d moved in, and since I had tried to block out the worst of the decor in my new room, I’d almost forgotten where I was. That is, of course, until I opened my eyes and all of the colors swirled together into one gigantic mess. Reality came crashing back in, so I got up, smoked a cigarette alone and decided to see if the rest of my floor was so creepy.

I walked in the square shaped hallway all the way around until I got about two doors down from my own, where the door was open. I popped my head in and said hello to the two girls sitting on the floor. They promptly invited me in, where I noticed an ashtray and became overwhelmed with glee.

“Can I SMOKE in here?” I asked them happily.

“Sure,” said the taller of the two. “We don’t smoke, but you can.”

So I scrambled back to my own room to grab my smokes, and when I returned the taller one bummed a smoke from me. We both smoked cheerfully as we talked, unaware of how often we would repeat this ritual for the next ten or so years.

The tall one who had spoken to me first is my friend Pashmina, aka Stimpy, and the person responsible for the Dave-Becky Union, and I shouldn’t need to tell you that we became instant friends. I also shouldn’t need to tell you that I desperately wished that I’d lived with both of them, in surveying their less cloying decor and wishing it were my own.

We chummed around together for the rest of the weekend, Stimpy, Her Roommate and I, and on Sunday night, when we were sitting on Stimpy’s floor smoking yet another cigarette, my roommate, it means butterfly walked back in lugging a huge thing of water bottles.

I rolled my eyes, as we’d already spent quite a bit of time in my room mocking her stupid decorations and my misfortune, got up and went to see her. It appears that even then I was stupid and masochistic.

When I finally rolled back to the room, I greeted her as warmly as I could and she told me that she was making a book for her boyfriend, Dave, who went to SIU. I sat there, rooted to my desk chair while I watched her gather supplies, wondering what kind of book someone would make for a 19-year old dude.

Construction paper, markers, and stickers. A butt-load of stickers.

Stimpy and her roommate came down while this was going on, as I’d begged them to come and rescue me if I didn’t come immediately back. It means butterfly greated them somewhat cooly, but fascinated, we all took a seat to see what the hell she was doing. It was like watching a rhinoceros at the zoo, waiting to see what it would do next.

It means butterfly began to decorate page after page of colorful construction paper with different things that she and her boyfriend had done. No, not like “We had butt sex in the back of your Pinto” but “Remember when you got lost coming to my house?”

I began to wonder just how old her boyfriend REALLY was, because although I was newly single–having just walked in on my boyfriend of two years with an ugly UGLY! friend of mine–I didn’t ever see myself doing something so stupid for a dude. And if I did, I’d imagine that he would run away screaming, rightly so.

She spent a good couple of hours on this book, so we left to go grab coffee and smoke, and when I returned, she was on her computer chatting with her boyfriend. This was before I had an IM program, before I knew what one was, and before I thought that it was a handy way to talk to someone.

At this point, it sounded so stupid. Pick up the fucking phone and call him, I thought.
But there she sat, clacking away on her keyboard and occasionally hooting at stuff that Dave said.

When she saw me there, she took a moment to talk to me about the room and her stuff. Because I was a dude–not really– myself, I didn’t come equipped with a bunch of decorations and other frilly shit. I’d packed some clothes and some booze, hastily mixed in together.

She informed me that I was welcome to use any of her stuff, including her body wax (for waxing, not for sculpting), her lotion, her computer, her clothes, anything I wanted I could use.

But not really.

One day I did happen to borrow her lotion, and didn’t return it to the right spot in her drawer (it was in the teeny drawer, but not precisely where she’d left it–a millimeter or so to the right) and she had a fucking fit. OH! The HUMANITY!

Then she refused to talk to me for a couple of days.

A couple of days later, a friend of mine was over and turned on her television, which caught all of 4 channels (she was too cheap to pay for cable), and apparently my friend didn’t leave it on the right channel when she turned it off. As you can imagine, this was a big.fucking.deal. for no reason whatsoever, it’s not like the channel was secret or something.

But to it means butterfly, this was the end of the fucking world.

Over the next month or so, I realized that she never left the room except for to go to class. And because her classes were earlier than mine, she’d come back as I was waking up to go to class AND NEVER LEAVE. She’d go to the cafeteria to get lunch, and BRING IT BACK. AND THEN TALK WITH HER MOUTH FULL.

I never, ever had the room to myself. Ever.

It may surprise you as I’m pretty open and frank about myself, but I do happen to like a small bit of alone time each day to be, well, alone. It’s not like she sat and talked to me while I was there or anything, but she did talk to her computer. Oh yes, yes she did. Her boyfriend would IM her and she would sit and coo at THE COMPUTER.

I wanted to die.

I had brought some posters with me from home; a Pink Floyd one, a Janis Joplin one, and I had thus far been too lazy to put them up. It just seemed like too much work. So one day, it means butterfly asked me if she could put the posters up for me, and because laziness always wins out when it comes to me, I agreed.

When I returned, I nearly swallowed my tongue. Now my side of the room was also covered in colorful plastic tablecloths, and my posters were all hung at deliberately tilted angles. And one of her stupid posterboards was now dangling from my corner of the room.

Shit, I said to myself as I thanked her. Now I’m NEVER going to get laid! It looks like Crayola came and barfed in my room.

Shit.

So, I have a quick-ass question for all of you, my sweet internet friends. I ask you because most of you have blogs of your own and I genuinely want to know what you’d do.

Let’s say you came across a blog that is fairly new, but is almost the same name as your own. It’s got a couple of letter variations to it, but it’s pretty much almost your blog’s name.

What would you do? Would it annoy you? Or would you just try to remember that imitation is the highest form of flattery?

(I’m not finding it flattering, btw).

Edited to add, I would be shocked beyond get out if this were something that the other writer came up with on her own. For serious. Mommywantswhiskey would not be something I would be annoyed by, nor would Mommywantsabeer, or even, Mommywantsvicodin. But this is far too similar to be a coincidence.

As a line firmly drawn in the sand, I don’t buy parenting books. Sure, I own about a bazillion books on how to get your baby to fucking go to sleep already, but you know what? I bought them all and didn’t even read them. You know why? Books (especially like those) are written by people who don’t necessarily have much save for some anecdotal experience to back them up (you don’t need to correct me if I’m wrong: I still won’t read ’em).

I don’t deny that they don’t work, shit I really don’t know if they do or not, but those books aren’t written by someone who knows my own child, and I don’t really need to hear what they think I’m doing wrong. Seriously, that’s the issue I have with most parental books, they’re always telling me what I am doing that’s going to fuck up my kid. And you know what? I already know what I’m doing wrong: trust me.

The only parenting books I’ll ever actually read (buying them sometimes makes me feel better, weirdly enough, even if I don’t so much as crack them open) are the funny ones. The Girlfriends Guide To Pregnancy helped me through not one but two very long pregnancies, and if I ever have another, I’d read that again.

I guess I was lucky when I realized that my hilarious friend Stefanie Wilder-Taylor wrote another book to help me laugh through the toddler years: Naptime Is The New Happy Hour.

Toddlers are weird creatures, not as annoying as babies or as know-it-all as certain six-and-a-half year olds that may live under my roof, but they’re strange and unpredictable. They know what they want (in theory anyway) but can’t quite tell you what that is and when you don’t know that ‘throwing my juice cup on the floor really means that I wanna go to the park, you freaking idiot,’ they tantrum.

While not the easiest age for parents to handle, so long as you keep your sense of humor about it, it can be pretty entertaining.

This is what Stef reminds you over and over. Honestly, it’s the best advice you can hear when you’re sitting and watching the clock tick and wishing it would hurry up and be naptime again so you can relax.

My favorite chapter is called “Oh The Places You’ll Go (Or Won’t)” because she finally put into words something I’ve always sort of thought: don’t bother with the fancy-schmacy museums and other educational activities unless it means something to you. It’s just not worth it to shell out the cash for something they’ll never remember. Target is doesn’t charge an entry fee and just as enjoyable.

I’ve gotten suckered into that whole “I need to do something EDUCASHIONAL with my kids or I’m a BAD MOTHER” trap before, and it was nice to have the validation from an outside source (my friend Stef) that I’m not the only one that thinks that a trip to the Planetarium for a one year old is just a bit overkill, unless it’s really for you.

(My six year old doesn’t even remember his birthday party that we shelled out major bucks to have at the local kids museum last August. If a six year old won’t remember this stuff, how can a one or two year old? Simple answer: they won’t).

In her book, Stef also addresses the issues of competitive parenting, which we all know is both very real and very irritating.

Talking to ‘one of those’ mothers/fathers is like talking to a real! live! parenting! book! with phrases such as “well MY daughter” snotty inhale “was not only SPEAKING by age one, she was DRIVING the car for us while doing ADVANCED CALCULUS.”

While this mother spoke, my own one year old was alternating between grabbing his crotch and laughing whenever he’d get a fistful of his twig and dingleberries and then examining a booger he’d pulled from his nose.

Maybe I’m exaggerating a wee bit, maybe I’m spot on, but Stef says it all way better than I do. And I think that SHE’S spot on. She might even be my hero.

One of the best parts of this book, Naptime Is The New Happy Hour is this: you can read it over and over again and laugh just as hard as Stef navigates the sometimes turbulent seas of toddlerdom; it’s well written, witty, and sometimes makes you go, “ME TOO!”. Maybe raising a toddler isn’t always fun, but Stef reminds you that no matter how few other mothers you know that are like her (and me), you’re not really alone in any of this.

I guess my point is this: if you like Aunt Becky and when she talks ever-so-lovingly about her children, you’ll REALLY like Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. I’m the Coke Light (Stef Light?) to her Real Thing.

Check out her blog, check out her book: Naptime Is The New Happy Hour, and check out her kids. They’re adorable.

(This post will remain at the top until Sunday. I want to pay tribute to all of the goodness and kindness that we started, and I want to honor these babies to the best of my ability. Oh, and I’m sorry that the formatting keeps going wonky. I don’t get it.)

——————

I am shocked, seriously shocked by the overwhelming love and support that my post spawned.

I suppose I never expected the reaches of it would be so wide spread, and I am honored that Alex’s first birthday was able to generate such kind deeds and love for other people.

To be honest, I’ve always believed in the overall goodness of human nature (and no, last I checked neither sunshine nor rainbows have been falling out of ANY of my orifices now or ever, nor do I sit around singing “Come on people now, smile on your brother…” unless I am mocking someone or something. And YES, my parents ARE hippies. So what?).

I think that people often want to do the right thing, even if they’re unable to do it in the right way, and sometimes a gentle nudging swift kick in the ass is all that people need to make things right-er (I KNOW it’s not a word. Never said I was a cunning linguist. Hehehe).

But what has happened with my plea for good deeds in the name of all of my angel babies who were at Alex’s party only in spirit (and they were. I swear to you. Now I sound like a kook. Shit.), has overwhelmed even me.

Seriously, I want to thank each and every person who has stepped up and performed acts of kindness from the bottom of my ickle heart.

I’d hug you all personally if I was able and buy you each a big fat drink and tell you how much this has meant not only to me, but to the parents of all of the children we paid tribute to.

And I am informing each of you that this is going to be a tradition over here at Casa de la Sausage, that for each and every holiday I celebrate (which does not include Arbor day, Flag day OR Bastille Day–the day before my own birthday) my blog will again be paying tribute to all of my angel nieces and nephews with more pleas for acts of kindness and love.

It’s the least that we can each do (I never said you had to give cold hard cash) for all of the families out there who are missing one each and every day that they live. I know that the holidays are filled with sadness and longing, and the absence of their physical children is amplified by the what-could-have-been’s. If we can lighten this load even in the slightest way, we can and we will. So get your thinking caps on, May is up next.

This is who we did our deeds for:

Caleb

Baby JP

Kalila

William

Isabel Grace

Maddy

William Henry

Aodin

Callum

Sarah

Connor

Liam

Samuel

Caden

Masyn

Olive Lucy

I am completely aware that this is by no means an exhaustive list (far, far, from it), and I will be adding to this as I learn the names of more children. Please, please, leave me a comment if you would like your child added here. I will only do it with express permission from Mommy or Daddy.

But we pay tribute to the lives of my angel nieces and nephews today and every day, never to forget a single name off this list, because this is the good and right thing to do. Go visit these parents and learn all about their children and the lives that they touched.

There are some truly amazing people out there. We send light, love, peace and happiness to each and every one of you, my sweet babies, and to your brave and amazing families. Smootches from your Aunt Becky, her Alex, her Benny and her The Daver.

We love you very much, my sweet baby angels.

We also send cake:

Alex left PLENTY to share.

And now comes the time that I wanted to share with you all of the amazing things that people have done:

Kyddryn made a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

Ames made a donation to March of Dimes (she’s the one who is walking for her daughter Gracie. She’s accepting donations for her team until April 19) AND Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

Amy (William Henry’s Mommy) made a donation to M.O.M project and Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, AND did the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard of. I’m getting tearful just THINKING about it. Go see what she did, and tell her how amazing she is.

Judy is making a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

Jenn (Sarah’s Mommy) made donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, AND started a Love Train of her own. Go see her and tell her how awesome she is.).

Baseball Mom made a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

The Rambling Housewife made a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

Heather (also, Aodin’s Mommy) made a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

Tash (Maddy’s Mommy) is going to make sure local hospitals and NICU’s know about Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

Kristen (Kalila’s Mommy) made a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

B made a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep AND March of Dimes.

Kbreints made a donation to March of Dimes.

Ms. Prufrock is making a donation to March of Dimes.

Andria made a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

The Daver (a.k.a. “Mr. Aunt Becky”) has been donating computing power to AIDS research and protein folding.

Sarah Ross (Isabel Grace’s Mommy) made a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep as well as March of Dimes.

Go see what Hope has done. It’s too sweet for words.

Carylnn is making a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

And see here! Someone I DON’T EVEN KNOW is perpetuating this kindness.

B1G1 has made a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

Anjali has made a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

(If I have made an error in any of these, or have neglected to mention you specifically, drop me a comment OR email me at becky (at) dwink (dot) net.I am often glaringly stupid, but in this case, since it involves people outside of my head, I don’t want to fuck it up.)

And wow, that’s a huge list, people. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You guys are all amazing to me, and I’m proud as hell to have met you through the Internet.I will hold a drawing and pick out a couple people to send rockin’ prizes to (i.e. autographed pictures of Aunt Becky. Like this one.)

(obviously, I hadn’t had time to cake on the eyeliner, but hey in my defense, it was early. And no, surprisingly no one had stuck a finger up my butt right before this picture was taken. I’m just that cheerful looking ALL of the time. My husband is one lucky man.).

“May the good Lord, shine a light on you,Make every song you sing, your favorite tune.”

———-

I miss you, Steph, and I wish you were here with me. I know that you’d be proud of us. Take care of my darling baby angels, okay? Tell them that I will bring candy and presents when I come up with you guys. I’ll be missing you.

Now, before Aunt Becky was Aunt Becky or Nurse Becky or Mommy or even a Kept Woman, she was a waitress for nearly 10 years.

Like all somewhat bad things in my life, I had blocked out much of those years (and phobias) until I was talking to my friend Stef yesterday (go see her, she’s my hero, and possibly my new wife if I can con her into leaving her husband), and we went back and forth talking about all of the “good” times.

What’s most interesting about serving is that most of the complaints are universal. I’m quite certain that she and I did NOT in fact serve in the same establishment, but by our intelligent conversation bitching, it just didn’t matter much.

Before I launch into a Server’s Shit List, I will tell you that it was one of the most fun jobs I’ve ever had, mainly because unlike other fields I’ve pursued/been degreed in/fingerprinted for/licensed by the state of Illinois to do, it’s a complete “us vs. them” mentality (a far cry from hospital nursing which is more like “every person for his or her self”). The hours were awesome for a swinging bachelor, the parties were plentiful and the booze was free-flowing. Ah, the glory days.

*ahem*

Without further interruption or introspection I present to you A Server’s Shit List:

*Groups of women. Now, as I’ve gotten older, I have found many women that I do, in fact, really like to hang with (real-life or virtual), but as a rule, tables full of women will treat a female server (no matter how good she is) like complete shit (likely because they’re jealous or something) AND THEN sit in your best table for your whole shift, making damn certain that you don’t get anything more than the 13% tip (if you’re lucky) that they are going to give you (and never allowing you to turn your table and make some real money. Because they hate you and wish you were dead.

*Business-Type Lunchers. I hereby exclude anyone who comes in and has COCKTAILS with lunch, because they are awesome, tip well, and are generally not in a hurry. But the OTHER iced tea drinking sect (ALWAYS with the iced tea) sucks ass to wait on.

Firstly, they’re in a hurry and expect that you can somehow make THEIR order faster than all of the OTHER people who are also in a hurry (you can always tell who is used to getting their way at work, because they treat YOU like a minion). If you cannot, because the kitchen doesn’t operate like that, they will harass you approximately every 2-3 minutes by calling “MISS” at increasingly more grating intervals whenever you so much as think about walking near the table.

They are also known to snap their fingers at you to get your attention (not sure if there’s anything ruder than that for a waitress, or really, anyone. Last I checked, I am not a dog), which I always would snidely inform them that my name was, in fact, “Becky” and that I would respond in a much more timely manner if they would use that. And no, sir, your food isn’t up yet, I just checked. No sir, there is no problem with your order.

So yeah, my advice to people on a timetable for lunch (I dig it, I’ve been there) GET FAST FOOD (see that FAST in there? Work it) or pack a lunch. Don’t go to a sit down place and expect that anyone there will give a fuck if you’re in a hurry.

*Sunday Morning Church Crowd. Before you nail ME to any cross, let me assure you that I don’t mean that people who believe in God are assholes by nature. But typically, those who are coming out to eat in their Sunday Best after church treat the staff like shit (that’s EXACTLY what Jesus would do, right? I don’t think so.).

Nothing is ever right for them, ever, no matter what you do (you can’t pull each onion out of the French Onion Soup? WHY NOT, WAITRESS? Um, do you really want me to stick my hands in your soup anyway?). I’m not certain why going to church makes people so damn unpleasant (I’ve always thought of church as uplifting), but the shoe fits here. It just does.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that people that go out to eat at ANY TIME on a Sunday are pretty much the bottom of the barrel. They tip crappily, they run you ragged with their stupid requests, they leave you a religious pamphlet instead of a real tip (this inflames me because it’s essentially telling me that whatever I am doing is Wrong and that they are Right. Now, I’m a nurse, right? And I served when I was in school, but you NEVER saw ME telling a fat person NOT to order Country Fried Steak or a Bacon Cheeseburger, because they really shouldn’t be doing that. It’s a Bad Idea.).

*The My Soup Isn’t Hot Enough, Waitress People. Sometimes I like soup, and maybe I’m a weirdo because I don’t give a shit if it’s not piping hot (hate that phrase), but these people seemed to think that I was both aware that their soup was Not Hot and served it anyway! The nerve of that WAITRESS!

Firstly, I didn’t stick my fingers in your damn soup. Would you really want my grubby hands near something you were about to put into your mouth? I didn’t think so.

Secondly, the soup is not your meal. It comes WITH your meal, and although I appreciate that you like it anyway (whether you paid exclusively for it or not), get the fuck over it (and yourself).

Ask me to heat it up POLITELY and I will. Demand that I heat up something that came frozen from a BAG (not homemade, sorry), and I will trundle back to the kitchen with it, microwave it for AT LEAST 5 minutes and return it to you with a biting smile on my face, while I say a prayer that it burns your mouth.

Dick.

* The You Made An Error Waitress And Ruined My Life Forever People. I’m sure that you don’t often think of the wait-staff as people with a life outside of meeting and exceeding all of your stupid demands, but I assure you with the utmost certainty that we do. We’re just usually good at covering it up when we’re having a bad day, after all, you’re not paying me to tell you about MY day, are you (I hate it when servers want to talk about their days. It annoys me, so I never did it)?

Servers (no matter how bad they are) are people too, remember, and as such, sometimes they MAKE MISTAKES. Trust me, once they realize it, their heart drops into their stomach as they scramble to make it right, because no matter who is at fault, it’s your server that has to ultimately come back to you and tell you that something is wrong. And then be screamed at about it like THEY DID IT ON PURPOSE (trust me, this is how I make money. My paycheck nets me about $0.46 every two weeks. Therefore I would never jeopardize my only livelihood on purpose).

Specifically, I can remember when I worked in a pizza place, and I’m not sure which side had messed up (I always wrote down my orders, not because I needed to, but because I always wanted to be able to reference them should I need to later on. Comes in very handy, I swear.), but what I had written was apparently not what the table of old farts had ordered. When I dropped off the pizza (not realizing my error) and came back to check on them, they treated me as though I had personally killed their dog and then laughed about it to their face while they informed me that no matter WHAT my notepad said, they DID NOT order this.

The following day, I ran into this spawn of Satan couple at the pharmacy where they recognized me as the person who had ruined EVERYTHING IN THEIR WHOLE LIFE and GLARED AT ME SILENTLY until I made a rude gesture to their face and walked away. I’ll take shit at work, but I refuse to take shit from people outside of work.

My other horror story is about the table of 10 that came in, immediately demanded soda and bread and cheese sticks (Hi, nice to meet you, too!). I got all of their appetizers ready, and made an error in balancing the tray when setting it down and it promptly fell over. Not a huge deal, right? I didn’t hurt anyone, didn’t drop anything anywhere but the floor, and promptly fixed it.

The head guy from the table tried to insist that I wipe marinara sauce from his shoe (you don’t know who you’re dealing with, fucker, but I don’t do that for ANYONE, let alone a 5% tip, which I am sure you’re going to give me IF I’M LUCKY), and even though I apologized and got them fresh bread (which was free) and cheesesticks, they left me a dollar. On an $80 tab.

* The Hot Tea People. To be fair, I like a cuppa hot tea now and again, so much so that I have a huge drawer full of it here at home, and once in awhile I will order it when I go out (when I was pregnant). But every time I ordered it, I always followed that up with an “I’m sorry” and a “I won’t complain about what you give me.”

In theory, hot tea shouldn’t be such a big deal to prepare. It’s hot water, a tea bag, lemon, cream and (if you have it) honey. The first problem is (much like real estate) location, location, location. Nothing you need for this is ANYWHERE close to each other. Fine, so you go and make a pot of hot water, grab a tea bag, run to the back for lemon and cream, search high and low for honey, only to realize that you’re out of it, go back, water’s still brewing (yes, you have to MAKE hot water and it always takes FOREVER) so you go grab the other drinks for the table. Then, when the water is done, you pour it into a METAL CONTAINER (metal, I should not have to tell you CONDUCTS HEAT) burn your hand in 10 places, decide you don’t have time for a band-aid as your table is looking around the place wondering where the hell their drinks and server are, and when you drop it off (after carefully putting the hot water down so it only burns YOU again) you realize you needed a spoon.

When you return with the spoon, this is what you hear:

“I wanted decaf hot tea. Is this decaf?”

“Where’s the honey?”

“Don’t you have any other flavors of hot tea?”

“You should have more flavors of decaf hot tea.”

“Is this decaf?”

“I want more lemon.”

“I need more cream. You didn’t give me enough.”

“Waitress, THIS WATER IS COLD. HOW COULD YOU SERVE ME COLD WATER FOR TEA. I SAID I WANTED DECAF HOT TEA. DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME PROPERLY? IF I’D WANTED ICED TEA I WOULD HAVE ORDERED IT.”

“This cream is warm. I want cold cream.”

“Where’s the honey?”

“IS THIS DECAF, WAITRESS?”

“I SAID I WANTED DECAF HOT TEA.”

As you can see, the second problem with hot tea is that the people who order it are complete dickheads.

If you don’t believe me and think I’m overreacting here, just say to any server that you know the phrase, “Hot Tea,” and if they don’t shudder and look around for something to kill, I will personally apologize for making this generalization.

*The My Kid’s Shit Smells Like Roses People. As we all know, I do happen to have 2 children of my own, and have been known to take them out to eat occasionally many times each week, and I would like to take this opportunity to warmly thank each and every shitty parent whose brats sat in my section and reminded me how NOT to raise my kids.

Let me make a general disclaimer that my big son has been known to be somewhat special needs at times, so parents whose children suffer from real disorders and not just “My Kid Is A Complete Fucking Asshole, Because I Am A Really, REALLY Shitty Parent Complex” get a pass here.

But, for each and every fucking piece of shit kid that sat in my section, said “Bring me a Coke” rather than “Can I please have a Coke,” dumped red pepper and cheese all over the table, tripped me while I was carrying a large tray, SHOOK their drink cup at me to indicate that I should refill their soda rather than use their voice, screamed uncontrollably, ran around like a damn banshee on crack, and generally behaved like a Fuck Head, you all should really be ashamed of yourselves.

Don’t you DARE look at me with that Aw-Shucks look when your kids act like fucks, because I will never say “Oh, they’re just being kids,” because due to a little thing I like to call Laying The Smack Down, my kids don’t act like that. Or if they do, we leave. Immediately. No matter how hungry we are.

Crawl back into your cave, people, and stay there until your kids are adults who corn hole picnic tables. Then you’ll know that you done raised ’em right.
————-

Shit, that was better than sex, it was so relieving to complain about. I figure that most of my readers who haven’t served before will think I’m being harsh, but I assure you, this is what happens (not that YOU’D behave this way UNLESS YOU NEEDED TO, which I understand too).

So dish to Aunt Becky about YOUR work horror stories. I’m down for a good laugh right about now.

Dear Alexander Joseph,

Exactly one year ago today at 5:18 PM (quite a civilized hour, which I thank you for), you rocketed out of my body and into the world, screaming and peeing, all 7 pounds 10 ounces of you. Like a small dog, you never realized HOW small you were. I’m sure in your mind, you thought that you were much, much bigger and more mighty than you were (that temper is directly related to my genetics. I’m sorry to see that you inherited that trait).

The first time I looked at you (after a record 2 pushes–let’s not say what THAT says about the size of my girl parts), I thought that you resembled either Alien or Predator (I’ll watch those movies with you when you’re a bit older). My own mother looked at me when I was born and said OUT LOUD “That’s a face only a mother could love,” so I guess corny sentiments don’t really run in the family. And as for your brother’s birth, well, I was just pleased that I hadn’t birthed a litter of puppies (he was my first baby, and I had had MANY weird dreams), and then shocked by his toupee.

(Yes, sweetheart, those ARE your fists of fury)

Despite your ugliness (which I seem to be the only one who remembers–your father thought you were gorgeous. He’s a good man, your father, and you’re lucky to have him), I loved you immediately. I didn’t much care if you were “perfect” in the 10 fingers/10 toes manner (I didn’t honestly care if you had only 3 fingers. Who needs 10, anyway? It’s overkill), because seriously, all that mattered to me is that you were alive and breathing. You did end up a bit jaundiced, and I likened you to a Nuprin–Little, Yellow, Different.

(Oh, the screams! Your poor, poor brother.)

When we brought you home, your father (who had couvade syndrome, better known as a sympathetic pregnancy) nested like mad, so proud was he that his second son was finally outside of his (cranky) wife’s body. And your brother was so pleased to have a brother of his own (he had no idea what “having a brother” meant) that he STILL happily wears his multitude of Big Brother shirts with such intense pride.

(Ben has an amazing sense of humor)

I call the first couple of months of your life, dear sweet Baby J, your Asshole Months. You nursed and screamed and nursed and screamed so very much that we all had permanent ringing in our ears (tinnitus). In those rare moments that you were out of our sight, we all interacted with each other like patients at a nursing home. “Huh? WHAT’D YOU SAY?!?” was a staple of our conversations.

Whether your love was for the boobies or for my sparkling wit and fantastic personality, I don’t know. All that I do know is that you could not bear for us to be apart for even a moment. An hour was inconceivable, and you were so damn loud that I learned to pee with you sitting on my lap. Often nursing, which goes against my whole “don’t shit while you eat” motto, but hey, it beats the alternative, which was the loss of several more decibels of my hearing.

(You fucking wit me, you’re fucking wit a P-I-M-P)

Something snapped into place around month 6 or so, and you then became the most cheerful and sweet baby I’ve met. You’d smile at anything and everything, laugh loudly and often, and in those small actions (should *I* act like you did, people would think I was quite Simple.) you made the sleepless nights worth every second. Now, you play ball with such incredible dedication that it touches everyone who you throw your ball to (you’re obsessed, my sweet) and your new game of Peekaboo gives you such a charge whenever you play it. It appears that every time you indelicately whip the blanket off your head, your not quite developed vocabulary wants to remind the world that you are here, damnit, so listen up.

(Glorious, glorious smiles for glorious, glorious food)

On a more corny level (don’t fear, I won’t say this to your face because I’m uncomfortable with emotions), I think of you as my Redemption Child, and as the saying goes, if the shoe fits, over-analyze wear it. My relationship with your brother is more complicated, of course, as your brother tends to be a more complicated person than you are. Dr. Spock told me (well, not me PERSONALLY, of course. He was dead by this time.) that you love your children differently, and I think he’s right. I won’t bother with the gory details as to what makes you different than your brother, but as parents are wont to do, I spent a good deal of my life thinking that your brother’s eccentricities were my fault.

You proved to me that without a doubt, although you both are going to need scads of therapy to undo the damage I will no doubt inflict upon you, that I am a good mother. You love me purely and simply and without complication. You love me for being me, and I can’t help but think that you were the child I’d never dreamed I’d be lucky enough to have (this is not to diminish the love I have for your brother, which is mighty and fierce, but this is YOUR birthday, not his). I feel the same way about your father (although, of course, you will never picture us as anything other than Your Parents, until you are much, much older and you realize where babies REALLY come from. Answer: Hot Beef Injection), but again, it’s YOUR day, my JJ.

But it’s also a day that we’re honoring other children too. Children who are not going to be coming over and sharing cake with you in the most literal sense, because they do not live on Earth with us any longer, but I am quite certain that they will be here with us in our hearts. If I try even slightly, I can hear them at the party: laughing, smiling and eating loads of cake. I wish, just like you do (and of course, their wonderful families do), that they were here today and every day, but the world can be a damn unfair place sometimes, which you will learn all too soon. This is why we must be the voice for those who have none, we must do this.

So today, one year ago since you entered the world madder than a wet cat Alexander J, we raise our glasses to you, our sweet angel babies, who should be here today celebrating. Since you are not, we celebrate YOUR lives as well. Smootches and cake and love to Heaven, for you today. We know all too well that the world is missing something incredible.

We’re thinking of you today Caleb, Baby JP, Kalila, William, Isabel Grace, Miss Maddy, William Henry, Aodin, Callum, Connor and Sarah, as we’re thinking of all the other angel babies I haven’t listed. We love you very, very much.

My only hope is that I prove to you time and again that I am up to the task of raising you to the best of my abilities. I may not be the wisest (I do many, many dumb things which you will notice and point out to me sooner than I’d like) person on the planet, but I have learned certain things that I wish nothing more than to pass down to you.

First, be genuinely kind to everyone you meet. Someone said that God is found in our interactions with other people, and despite not being Christian per se, I agree with that. I’m not saying that you need to be a doormat to be a good person, no, not at all. Stand up for yourself and for people who may need you to do it for them (not everyone is as forceful as you happen to be–I like to think of this as my contribution to your genetic soup), because sometimes taking a stand against a Wrong is the first step to making it Right.

I guess what I’m saying is don’t be an asshole unless you need to be (and I assure you without the slightest doubt in my mind that you will need to at some point), and treat other people well. You may never know where someone else is coming from, but that doesn’t mean you can’t try to understand. Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes before you judge them. Alas, since you don’t walk yet, we might have to save that lesson for another year.

Secondly, and equally as important, be true to who you really are. It sounds so simple when I write it, but it’s far more complicated, because first you have to figure out who the hell you are. That takes much longer than you can imagine. I know some people are still not sure who they are (even at my advanced 27 years), but I have little doubt that you’ll be a follower. Listen to your heart (or your head, if you’re like me) and follow what IT tells you, and not what someone else tells you to follow (nobody likes a follower) no matter who it is, unless it happens to be your mother (me), and then you listen like it’s the Gospel Truth.

(don’t listen to me, ickle dude. Just don’t.)

And possibly the most important lesson of all is this: do not, under any circumstances, allow your mother to pick your Halloween costume. It’s a bad, bad idea. See?

(Payback’s a bitch, eh? MAYHAP YOU SHOULD’VE STARTED SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT SOONER.)

I won’t bore you with any other pointless crap that you will, no doubt, just like I did, have to learn on your own, so let me end this letter with this:

I am insanely proud that you were chosen to be my son. You light up my days (and thankfully, no longer my nights) with your sweet face and intense dedication, and I thank you for everything you’ve given me. Redemption is a little heavy to put on your wee shoulders right now, so let’s make no more mention of it, lest you get a big head or something.

I’m looking forward to watch you grow and change throughout to coming year, and can’t wait to see who you’ll become.

Love you madly,

Mommy

P.S. Make sure the next time you have to drop major pipe in your pants that you do it when Daddy is home to change you. I’ll give you a cookie if you make sure that your dump squishes up your back. He likes changing those diapers, let me tell you.

See how happy it makes Daddy when he has to change your diaper?

(Daddy says, “I love poopy diapers, dude!”)

P.P.S. I’ll give you TWO cookies if you do that. Maybe even THREE.

So, I have this intense guilt complex, right? Always have and probably always will (for someone who has not been raised Catholic, I certainly seemed to have mastered the guilt). All it takes is a cop to walk into a store that I’m shopping in for me to worry that he’s (or she) is going to arrest me. For what? I don’t know. Reckless use of the color pink?

Today, I took the kidlets to Portillo’s for lunch, and on the way out, I either bumped the curb or tapped the car next to me, and it’s killing me because I don’t know if I did damage. I didn’t realize that I may have given the car next to me a Love Tap until I got home and realized that I have a scuff on the bumper of my car THAT COULD HAVE BEEN THERE BEFORE.

I don’t give much of a shit about my car and I have always assumed that one of the parts of having a car means that you get the inevitable scratch in a parking lot, ding on the door, or Love Bump scuff. Not a big deal.

But now I’m freaking out. Freaking the fuck out. Because what if I left the scene of an accident and someone took my plates down and then the cops will show up and arrest me in front of my weeping children and then I will go to federal pound you in the ass prison.

Help! This is Aunt Becky tapping out an SOS.

What do I do?