Lookit my soul sister today! Miss Cricket and I posted about the same thing WITHOUT SPEAKING BEFOREHAND. The Internet is a strange, awesome place.

In my quest to be somewhat of a hardcore mother, I have gotten two tattoos (look, I may have to have the mini-van with the soccer stickers on it, but I refuse to wear mom jeans OR get a perm). One per foot. This serves the twofold purpose of having something to distract the viewer from my lovely (read: ugly) feet, AND allows me to feel hardcore without having to show them off. I can easily cover them up when the situation dictates it, and sometimes (especially during the winter) even I forget that I have them at all.

Each has a special significance to me, so when I look at them, I am reminded of painful life lessons that I had to learn by myself (because, I suppose, someone just TELLING me wouldn’t have left such an impression. And I am painfully stubborn, so even IF someone had told me, I probably would not have listened).

Being a now-tattooed person, I of course want more. Unfortunately for me, however, I have been unable to decide where exactly to put them. I want to finish each of my feet with a sock (my own term here instead of a “sleeve” because obviously, you don’t have sleeves on your feet), a sort of mosaic covering to blend each of them into a scene (I have a gecko on one foot and a pink seahorse on the other. I’m thinking some background for each).

What has prevented me is the fact that it is winter, therefore requiring covering each foot against the elements (summer is obviously better for this) and the intense pain that comes along with having a foot tattoo (I need to forget the pain first). Rest assured, I will do this, probably for my 28th birthday (all of the other ones have come on my birthday, which is in the middle of the summer), but maybe sooner.

But this isn’t enough for me, not even close.

Now I really want to get a tattoo for each of my children. Ben will be represented by Max of Where The Wild Things Are and Alex by The Little Prince. And my (possible) last child will have to wait and see what he or she is represented by. So I have to wait until I am done with child bearing to have this one put on as well (I am nothing if not fair), as I am planning to do a large box down between my shoulder blades with all of them blended together.

(note: I’ve always had stringent guidelines for where I wanted a tattoo placed. It had to be coverable AND not in a place that will be easily stretched out by sagging skin. I don’t want to gain 10 lbs and have my cute tummy tattoo stretched from a pair of dice to a domino. Not cool. I admire the hell out of arm tattoos, but I am sure there will come a day when I am annoyed (and ashamed) by my placement of a picture of Kurt Cobain there. A back tattoo, although being mainly hidden to me, seems to be the path of least resistance here, as it fills all of my qualifications for a tattoo.)

I haven’t divulged WHAT life lessons my tattoos remind me of, because that is an entry for a different category, but I’m curious about YOU.

Do you have tattoos? Do they mean anything to you (you don’t have to tell me WHAT they mean if you don’t want to. Aunt Becky doesn’t like to pry), or did they just look cool? Do you want another one? Have you regretted getting them (i.e. your old boyfriend’s name on your boob. Each time I got a tattoo, there was always someone in their changing a name on a tattoo. Mental note: do not tattoo anyone’s name on your body unless it is your own.)

If you have no tattoos, do you hate them? Think they’re tacky (my mom hates them with a passion rivaled only by her intense hatred of cigarettes.) and lame?

I do a ridiculous amount of complaining about Ben’s father, some (most) of it justified, and some of it not. I had a particularly good bitch-session with Dave this past weekend, when Nat had finally realized that we’d added my last name to the end of Ben’s last name. The reasons ran from making sure that Ben got his mail in a timely manner to my dislike of being called Mrs. (Nat’s last name). I mean, if I’d wanted this to be my last name, I’d have married Nat, rather than opt to be a single mother.

He was peeved at me, for sure, but I didn’t care much one way or another. I mean, just the other week, when I got a bill from the dentist that Nat was supposed to pay, and I approached him, talons on the ready, he informed me that it WAS my job to make sure these sorts of things get done.

It appears that he wants the glory of being called “Dad” without the work involved. School functions, homework, vaccinations, birthday parties: those are all “my realm,” not his. He’s nothing more than a glorified babysitter with a meaningless title.

(an aside: when I got pregnant with Alex, I sat down with Ben and explained that although Ben calls my husband “The Daver,” the new baby would call him “Daddy.” Ben then decided to call Dave, “Daddy Dave” as a compromise. That lasted until Nat found out and informed Ben that Dave was NOT his father, HE was, and that he should not call Dave anything other than Dave. Ben, being unable to think to rebel against this, hasn’t thought to call Dave anything other than his name since. I have a feeling that if Nat could have pissed on Ben to mark his territory, he would have.)

While I am a decidedly Holiday Person, Nat is not. I spent many pregnant months making Ben a stocking, I’ve always carefully selected stocking stuffers and gifts for him, I’ve insisted that we get a tree and have Ben help decorate it, I am painstakingly planning (and hosting) Christmas Eve for our families, this is what I do around the holidays.

Nat and his family (who I honestly adore. I think half of the reason I stayed with Nat as long as I did was because I love his parents. They’re physicists, who are my favorite sorts of people in the world, and they’re hilarious) are not from this country, and although they do celebrate Christmas, he and his siblings never were allowed to believe in Santa Claus. His mother (Ben’s grandmother) was too distraught when she learned that Santa wasn’t real, so she decided not to tell her children about it.

While I have absolutely no problem with this: I mean, it DOES feel a little odd to have to make up elaborate answers to these questions about where Santa lives, what his reindeer eat, what he does in his off time, I can’t get behind not doing it for my own children.

I guess I feel like childhood is a fleeting time of innocence and wonder, and I would hate to have to introduce my children to what the world can be like any earlier than I have to (no, I don’t home school them. Nor would I. You can start breathing again.). Believing in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy is something you can never go back and decide to do again once you know the truth.

So when I told Nat that I was taking Ben tomorrow to Breakfast with Santa, he expressed that he didn’t think Ben should “believe in that crap.” I had been hearing this from him on and off for several years now, so it didn’t take me by surprise. But it’s just another reminder to me of the vast divide between Us and Him. Dave may not be pissing his pants with excitement over this (or anything. He’s not that kind of guy. Lucky for him, Ben and I are exuberant enough to make up for it), but he’s certainly looking forward to it, just as we all are.

I know full well that someday Ben will come home from a night with his father and tell me that Santa Claus isn’t real, and I suppose that my only real hope is that he won’t tell his brother about it.

How did you feel when you found out Santa wasn’t real? Were you crushed? Or did you already kind of know and therefore remain unsurprised (as a child, this was where I fell)? Do you think it’s a bad thing to allow kids to believe in these fictitious beings?

My obsession started innocently enough, with Christmas Cards. Being 21 during the first Christmas my son was alive, I had never even CONSIDERED writing Christmas Cards each year. I mean, what the hell did I have to say to anyone before then? I lived at home, was going to school, and partied like it was 1999, but somehow I don’t imagine those sentiments would translate well into holiday cheer:

(Dear Aunt Mary,

Love + Rockets, Man,
Becky)

But once Ben was born, and I got the first in many ridiculous holiday portraits taken (we did those yet again last weekend! Man, oh MAN is that exhausting. I need to do them in like March, when the photo place is not filled to the brim with other tantruming, but nattily dressed children and their bedgraggled parents), and I realized that many people would, in fact, enjoy seeing my infant son in a Santa costume. I knew that I would (plus, the Humilation Factor is high here, which brings me no end of joy. If I still pee my pants when I sneeze, I can humilate my children when they are small, right?).

So I set out to find Christmas Cards, which is no easy feat for me. Despite the prohibative cost, I refuse to do the econo Box ‘o’ 200 from Walgreens, because they are printed on what I believe to be wax paper, their corny sentiment misspelled (I shit you not. On the first year I was married, I sent cards to all of Dave’s extended family, for which I purchased the ultra-religious (and cheap!) tacky cards. The message inside was misspelled, which made me giggle).

I am exceptionally picky when it comes to (most, really) these sort of things. Although I may like something that can be described as sparkly and colorful with some doodads thrown in here and there, I MEAN THIS SPECIFICALLY. You could never go out and TRY to do this for me (which is what makes me a total pain in the ass to buy for), because you’d be guarenteed to fail (even after spending an insane amount of time trying to find the perfect card). Honestly, the only person I know off the top of my head would could ACTUALLY be called upon to pick something out for me would be my best friend, Ashley (which is not to imply that we have the same type of taste. I am delightfully tacky yet unrefined, but she is not). She gets me.

Being the forward thinker that I am (really, I am just a complete sucker for a bargin You say “half off,” I say “lemmie at ’em,” even if it is as exciting as socks), last year I picked up a couple of boxes of cards for half price from World Market. But apparently, I am not forward thinking ENOUGH, as it became extremely clear that I hadn’t purchased enough. So, in order to distract myself yesterday, I dragged my sister-in-law to Target to pick up some additional Christmas Card-y Goodness.

What’s interesting to note, which also makes me sound like a freak is that I have gradients of awesomeness when it comes to Christmas Card appraisal:

I have the people that get what I call Goes To 11! (the people who might care that their card has been excruciatingly chosen and say “That was a great card”), the people who get the Just Awesome ones (the card is cool, but not the Coolest, sent to the people who MIGHT care if they have a nice card) and the people who get the Meh Cards (I don’t hate these cards or anything, they don’t have any pictures of the baby Jesus on it or anything, but they are not the best cards I have. These are mainly reserved for family who don’t send me cards at all, or if they do, it’s completely clear no thought went into choosing the cards. These people shop the dollar bins and buy their cards in massive bulk, caring more about the cost of cards than the actual Awesomeness factor.).

My friends all get the Super Awesome cards, whether or not they send me a damn thing, mostly because I assume that they will care the most (this is a false belief, I’m sure). My family gets the Awesome-Meh gradient depending on where I believe their level of Cares About Quailty lies (I just can’t spend $2.00 on a card for someone who won’t care a bit about it, and possibly question why the hell I send cards at all).

(If I had it my way, I’d buy everyone THESE cards, which I consider to be the Pinacle of Awesome. I’m not feeling quite plucky enough this year to do this, but I may do it next year. There is very little in the world I love as much as swearing, but it seems a bit un-Christmas-y)

I was trying to (badly) explain myself to my sister-in-law, who ALSO loves cards (actually more than I do), and she looked at me as though my neck had sprouted a second head that had begun to sing to her in Pig-Latin. So great was the divide here that I actually STOPPED TALKING about it (which never, ever, ever happens) and left the conversation hanging mid-sentence (oh LOOKIT, a BLUE CAR!).

This left a bad taste in my mouth, as I figured that she of all people would understand (Dave couldn’t care less. I’m not even sure that if hard pressed, he’d have any idea if I actually sent Christmas Cards at all.) my neurosis. Since she does not, I’m turning to you, Dear Internet, to tell Aunt Becky how nuts she is about her Christmas Card Gradient (or anything really), AND to tell me about the things that YOU do that no one else would understand. Aunt Becky, she probably understands, you know.