During my first clinical rotation, I got stuck on a Med/Surg floor of an area hospital staffed by some of the nastiest and unpleasant nurses on the planet. I’ll never forget the day I came on shift to hear a nurse give report about a patient who had come on the floor with obvious drug-seeking behaviors.

The disdain in her voice was both palpable and obvious.

Anyone who knows an addict can sort of see where the distrust comes from, it’s hard to trust anyone who will beg, borrow, or steal to get what they want. You want to believe the promises, no matter how many times they’ve reneged on them, you want to hope for the best, no matter what the facts say.

But underneath all of the lies and half-truths, beyond the addict and the drug, lies a person. A person who loves and is loved, someone who has goals and dreams, talents and shortcomings, a person who has likes and dislikes.

It’s easy to forget this, especially when the drug has obscured the ability to touch these parts, as the drug screams infinitely louder and more gratingly. You can hate the disease, but not the person underneath.

Underneath the use and abuse is the person you once laughed with. The person who shared cup after cup of coffee with you. The person who made you smile when you were at the lowest point of your life and reminded you of what was important when you needed to hear it. The person who brought you a card when you had your wisdom teeth out, but delivered it to a house on the block over from your house, but amazingly had another girl named Becky who lived here. The person who, when your boyfriend cheated on you with another girl, and you were pregnant, wrote this girl a scathing email on your behalf.

The person that you wish you’d sent flowers to before she died, and not to her funeral.

I love who she was underneath all of it. And I miss that person very much.

I’m sure I always will.

I’ve regularly whined about how much I hate going to the doctor, to the point where even I get so sick of myself that I’m all “get over it, you big puss-bag,” and today is no exception. Normally, I get all fluttery because I want them to do a specific something for me (up my thyroid meds, give me a script for sleeping pills that doesn’t involve the phrase “benedryl,” slip me a jumbo pack ‘o’ Vicodin on the house just because I looked cute), just something.

I get nervous because I’m afraid they won’t do what I want them to do, and then where will I be? (Control issues much? Short answer: yes).

But today is a new game for me: I have no earthly clue what I want them to do for me. I mean, one of my biggest fears (aside from unwittingly being cast in Rock of Love 3) is that a doctor is going to tell me that I am, in fact, nuts, and since I am going in to the doctor today admitting that I might be, well, nuts, I don’t know WHAT to be anxious about.

I’m not overly thrilled that I will be taking with me today to the doctor, a short, balding chubby dude who routinely craps his pants for fun, but since I have very little choice (the dog has resisted my incessant begging for him to babysit), I’m going to pretend that I’m thrilled about having something to do while I wait. Something like try to contain a kid whose favorite game involves slapping me across the face while he blows spit particulates into my hair.

And is it any wonder I’ve gotten depressed?

Maybe it’s a good thing that I’m going into this with no agenda of my own. Afterall, if I have no good expectations of this, it can’t go that awry, right?

(don’t answer that).

Besides, the worst that can happen is that they commit me to the psych ward, and seriously, right about now, that sounds suspiciously like a vacation. A glorious vacation.

Gah.

Wish me luck.

My son, Alex turns 10 months next week. In these past 10 months, despite my praying, hoping, magical thinking, and even bribery (c’mon baby, don’t you want a Mercedes?), we have made almost zero progress in the whole sleeping realm.

I’ve bought any number of sleep books (but have drawn the line at actually finding anything remotely useful in them, although they do make nice coasters), cried, thrown myself around hysterically in an effort to “get attention,” punched several holes in various walls (frustration, not crappy botched remodeling job), and traded nights with The Daver.

I’ve rocked until my feet felt like lead, I’ve nursed until my nipples blanched, I’ve driven around aimlessly with baby in tow until the road looks blurry, I’ve bounced him in his bouncy seat until my hands cramped. I’ve bought such crib gadgets such as a rain forest soother, a fancy mobile, we tried this vibrating thingy that you put under the mattress, all to no avail.

I’ve googled “sleep regression” and “sleep problems” until my fingers turned blue, and have learned that in order to have a “sleep regression” one has to have been sleeping well to begin with.

Ha.Ha.Ha.

I caught myself recently actually thinking about buying this, at $250 it seemed like a bargain, and it was a combination of this ridiculous potential purchase and the fact that Alex decided that 1:30 A.M. last night was a jolly good time to GET UP FOR THE FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT MOTHER HUMPING DAY.

I spent over an hour trying to get him back to sleep (it didn’t work), and when I realized that I was physically seething with anger at my teeny (but fat) dictator, I marched downstairs and informed The Daver that I was so incredibly angry that I didn’t want to SEE the baby again, no matter what, for a long time. That I wanted to FORGET that I had a second son for a night, and should he try to rouse me to help him with the baby, that he would be very, very sorry. To the tune of a set of lost testicles (but whose would go? THAT WAS THE QUESTION!).

When Alex was younger, I tried to let him Cry It Out, as I had with poor Ben, who was born not knowing that his days were not, in fact, nights. That one got old fast enough, and Ben caught on fast enough that he became a great sleeper rather quickly.

Alex was not so impressed. He seemed to get more and more upset by being left alone, and eventually we stopped doing this. I’d like to tell you that things have at least gotten marginally better over time, but that would be a complete lie (but it would sound better than having me tell you that things have gotten worse).

But now it’s time. After almost 10 months of completely disjointed sleep, resulting in anxiety, depression, threatening my spouse with bodily harm AND divorce, fantasizing about suicide, and considering running away, I am hereby (and henceforth) done.

The problem used to lie squarely within Alex (I completely assure you that although this is angling to be my last baby, I promise on all that is holy I am not trying to keep him a baby who needs his momma at all. I LIKE older children better than this whole “needy” crap that babies do.), and I fear the problem has turned out to be within us.

We naively hoped for a change in this sleep shit, and when it didn’t come, we logicated that any sleep was better than no sleep, and that it really wasn’t so bad, this whole getting up every 1-3 hours! It was fun!

(by we, I mostly mean “me.” Dave has a job that requires an attention span greater than a gnat.)

Fuck this noise, I am so completely over getting up all night long.

I’m not pretending that this is going to be easy by any stretch of the imagination, but it sounds a fuck of a lot better than contemplating the least messy (but most effective) way to commit suicide.

Any suggestions? Or well wishes? Aunt Becky is not very happy today.

The Daver is addicted to workahol. Massively, unabashedly addicted to the stuff. Most of the time, it’s a-okay with me. I’ve never been the type of partner that is needful all of the time, and hell, I should tattoo my forehead with a fat “Does Not Work Well In Groups.”

Besides, he loves what he does, and even if falsely I tried to claim that I had had a change of heart and now “loved nursing” (the career, not the lactation), my whole family would fall all over themselves trying to forbid me to go back to it. Apparently, working a profession I hate is bad for everyone in my family (mainly because I turn into a massive bitch when I’m unhappy).

I’m not sure if it’s the deadly microbes (dramatic much?) merrily playing in my body, or massive hormonal imbalances caused my impending menstrual cycle, but lately I just can’t hack it doing everything by myself.

Too many people (and animals) require me for their daily (hourly) happiness and depend upon me to make certain all of the “i’s” are dotted and “t’s” are crossed, and I am finding it all so very overwhelming.

I suppose, if I am trying to take a shot at rationality, that my illness has brought to the forefront of my brain the reminder that no matter what, my needs aren’t as pressing as anyone else’s.

There’s still Snack Day at school that I have to remember and prepare, violin that must be practiced (and if I am to be painfully honest, taught by yours truly), dirty diapers to be changed, baths to be orchestrated, dinner to be thought of, noses to be wiped, cat boxes to be scooped, laundry to be dried and sorted, cats to be fed, dog to be fed, egos to be stroked, and mail to be sorted.

And this is just a minor fraction of it all.

Such is life when you have kids, oh this I am aware, and most of the time it doesn’t get me down. You roll with whatever life throws at you, try to dodge most of the shit storms, and go to bed knowing that even if you are exhausted, you are happy.

Except when you’re not.

Except when the very thought of what the new day holds makes you want to pull the blankets over your head and try your best to hide from the day, hoping that no one finds you for a long time. Maybe they’ll forget about you!

Alas, like it or not, no one can forget you, because they rely on you, and you alone to do what needs to get done. Some days, this makes you feel powerful: just LOOK at how many plates I can juggle at once! And some days, you just wish that you had backup. From anyone.

Today I feel alone and impossibly sad, and my only saving grace is that I am hoping to wake up tomorrow ready to take on the day and wipe this shit right off my shoes.

A number of the blogs that I visit, would, at first glance seem to be an odd fit. As I am married and have two children, one might assume that I’d hang with the mommy bloggers. And while some of them are awesome (see links on side bar), I don’t feel like I fit in over there with all of them. While I love my life fiercely, gushing about my children (no matter how fantastic I believe them to be) is not the way I roll.

Mostly, it’s because I am a realist.

I’m no longer naive enough to believe that a positive pregnancy test equates a bouncing bundle of baby, so I spent up until about 37 weeks into my pregnancy looking for signs of a miscarriage when I had Alex (Ben, too, truth be told). I went into my ultrasound quaking in the knees not because I was nervous that I’d be stuck with another boy, but because I was worried that the baby whose kicks I had grown so fond of, would not have a brain. Or an equally fatal flaw. When my labor was induced, I needed the Zofran prior to the first contraction not because I was nauseous about my choices in nursery decor, but because I was afraid he would die in labor.

You see, despite my circumstances in life, I know what can go wrong. All too well.

I’ve helped mothers birth their still babies, worked with them in dressing them in teeny clothes, and memorize their every curve before they had to say goodbye. For good. I’ve carried this incredible love, and this unimaginable tragedy with me everywhere I go, just as they carry it with them.

I’ve held the hands of mothers and fathers who have come to have “the remaining products of conception” removed from their bodies (what a shitty fucking clinical term that is. I hate it. Passionately), and wept with them, too.

A long time ago, I accepted that the Universe was not always a fair place to be, and that things such as “just,” “deserve,” and “fair” don’t apply to everyone. Most of the time, I can deal with it. I try not to think too much about it, lest I get swallowed up into a pit of despair, never to emerge again. Other days, I rage against it, shaking my fists at the sky while I weep for someone else (or myself).

Today is one of those days.

Please, go visit Alexa, who is in dire need of some love. I don’t know her in real life (just as I don’t know many of you), but she is mourning the loss of one of her children, and she needs all of the love that The Internet can muster. Sometimes the kindness and love from relative strangers can relieve a small fraction of pain during this horrible situation.

During the 70’s, in a fit of what I can only call bad judgment, my parents inexplicably bought a set of encyclopedias. I’m sure that when they bought them, they were imagining their children serenely sitting around together in a sunlit room, reading silently, occasionally sharing little tidbits of interesting facts. It was the 70’s, and there were (obviously) a lot of drugs.

They weren’t bad to have around, as these were the days before Google could bring me such searches as “mommy wants to run away*,” “what to make me loss total bladder control*” or ” best nursing nipples.*” They were helpful when doing research papers as I got older, and as I got even older, I was able to titillate my friends by looking up such terms as “boob” and “weenier” (some things never do change, do they?). They made excellent catapults and projectiles, and I can tell you from personal experience, those motherfuckers HURT when you got whacked with one, but they left a satisfying enough bruise, that the pain was a moot point.

*Yes, these are actual search terms that, along with a plethora of vodka related terms, have brought people here.

But when I was younger, I fell in love with the only section of the encyclopedia that was any color other than poo brown or grey: the anatomy section. In it, you’d be able to overlay the different organ systems onto a skeleton, and I loved it. You might imagine that I’d have had a stunning career in medicine by the way that I coveted this particular section at such a young age (you’d be wrong), but I have my suspicions that my adoration was a direct correlation to it’s shininess.

When I was in kindergarten, as a class project, we had to draw a picture of what we wanted to be when we grew up. Amidst a sea of astronauts and firefighters, I alone drew a picture of an obstetrician. Although it seems mighty advanced, once you learned that I come from a family of physicians, it made far more sense. I was less a child protege and more just apt to spit out whatever I had heard someone talk about at home.

During my next years of school, I noticed that adults, with an alarming frequency questioned children relentlessly about their future choice in occupation, and I began to think that it was stupid. I mean, I was more interested to see if my turtle would turn into an attack turtle if I played it The Sex Pistols on repeat than I was spending my days painstakingly charting out my wonderful life as a grown-up.

Seriously, as far as I was concerned, being a grown-up was much less awesome than being a kid. As a kid, I could fart loudly at the table and get away with it, whereas if my father did the same thing, he had to put a quarter in the “flatulence jar.” Maybe it was because my quarters were painstakingly saved to buy play dough and plastic earrings, and therefore off limits but it didn’t seem to be something to aspire to.

In 5th grade, on our end of year picnic, my teacher once again posed the question to the lot of us. “What are you going to be when you grow up?” she asked us each to answer, and when the question came to me, I had no idea how to answer it. Every time I mentioned whatever it was that I was “going” to be, most of the adults smiled condescendingly and told me that I needed to do a lot of school to go into that field.

Sure, if I’m saying “doctor” that’s the case, but seriously, did I look stupid enough to not be able to be the next person who pumps your gas? And last time I checked “school” wasn’t a prerequisite for being a trophy wife.

So by the wizened age of 11, I had already learned that truth was relative to who you were talking to. I promptly panicked. My greatest aspiration at that point in time was to see how long it takes for a Twizzler to completely dissolve in a can of Cherry Coke, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what she was asking for.

“Um...” I stammered, “I think I’m going to be an actress...” (this was truly a lie, but my brother’s girlfriend was one, but no one had to know that I was copying her) “…or a secretary….” (I had no idea what a secretary did, but I knew two things about that occupation a) they got manicures which was as close to godliness as I could imagine and b) it would drive my parents bonkers) “or a marine biologist!” I promptly finished with (which was as close to the truth as I was going to get in front of 25 of my classmates and my teacher).

“Oh,” she perkily replied, “you’re going to need A LOT of school for that!”

Wow, I thought to myself as I gritted my teeth, even when you’re lying through your ass, the adults STILL distrust your plans for the future.

Kids, or at least myself as a child, simply couldn’t win. I think what bothered me most about this realization was not that the adults couldn’t be supportive of whatever I spit out, but that they cared so much about something I wasted almost no time concerning myself with.

Poor Ben seems overtaken with worry about what he’s going to be when he grows up, I suppose the German in him cannot imagine a life not expressly dictated out ahead of time. He thought for a moment about being a nurse (something, I’m not proud to say I quashed), until he mused that he’s not a girl, so he can’t be one. Rather than point out that men can be nurses, I changed the subject. He’s currently considering a career on American Idol, which is probably not much better, but hey, I’m not going to say a word about it.

And as for me, I occasionally field a question about what I’m going to do with the rest of my life when my kids get older, and sometimes I’m so caught off guard that I let the real answer slip off my tongue, rather than claim that I’m going to be a naked homemaker or an atomic bomb diffuser (hey, I’m sure that SOMEONE has that job) or a prostitute wet nurse.

When I tell them the truth, I’m always met with blank stares and the eventual reply, which never, ever varies.

“Wow! Well you’re going to need A LOT of school for that!”

I suppose that in this case, it’s just me.

It may come as a shock to you that I have very few real-life mommy friends. The friends that I do have don’t have children, and the very few mommies I know live so far away, that between nap times and travel distances, play dates are more trouble than they’re worth.

The town that we live in is fairly affluent, which effectively means that the women who have children of comparable ages are much older. It’s not a problem for me as age don’t mean shit to me, motherfucker, but it puts a yawning chasm between our experiences. This, coupled with my penchant for being incredibly obnoxious (true story: this weekend I have decided that my favorite insult is “crotch”) has made the acquisition of new mommy friends exceedingly difficult.

A couple of weeks ago, having been suitably underwhelmed by the choices on daytime TV (paternity tests AGAIN on Maury?) and tired of staring at the walls in my house, I packed Alex up and trundled off to the nearby mall. We poked around aimlessly, stopping for lunch at McDonalds (Alex loves his cheeseburgers, which makes him 100% my child). While we sat in the food court, I was approached by a slightly older toddler girl and her father (who was obviously gay). The girl toddled over to me, and I greeted her with a “What’s up, dude?” when it dawned on me that I had the perfect solution smacking me upside the face.

I’ve always gotten along far better with men, in general, until I reached the age where all of my (male) friends got girlfriends who decided that I was very much a threat (I can assure you that I was not. Ever. A. Threat.), which, like it or not, eventually made hanging out a little more awkward. Befriending gay men got to be a better option, as I was clearly not a threat to their lovers (what with the Fish Taco), and being snarky and judgemental is a favorite past-time for me.

So, I thought to myself, who better to befriend than a guy with a kid? I imagined a future of bitchiness, snark, and hilarious discussions of our lovers privates and sexcapades (this would be more of a fanciful recollection for me). We’d have lunch! Dinner! Nap time imposed Happy Hours with fancy (and froofy) martinis! I went so far as to imagine that his name was “Nick” or possibly “Charlie.”

Tactically, however, I made several grave errors in judgment beforehand. First, and less importantly, I called his daughter “dude” or “man,” which was only because I am more accustomed to calling children this (seems more prudent than “princess” or “darling” considering I have two boys, eh?). Strike One. Becky: 0 for 1.

My second error, the one that nailed my coffin tightly shut was the fact that I had not bother to put on real pants when I left the house (I was wearing stained yoga pants. It was sexxy), as I had mistakenly assumed I would only run into mall-walkers on my journey. The final score was Becky: 0 for 2.

I talked to his daughter for awhile, she oogled the baby, and then we parted ways amicably enough (he did, I will tell you here and now, look me up and down disgustedly. I must have been very frumpy that day). As they walked away, like my frumpyness was catchy, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for myself for blowing the one shot I had at making a parental friend that I stood a chance of getting along with.

So explain to your Aunt Becky how (mostly) normal people do this. How does someone make new friends with kids? (or without. The kids are not part of the Requirements to Hang. Only being gainfully unemployed during the day is a prerequisite) Apparently, I’ve missed the memo that explained this in graphic detail, and I’m telling you, for my sanity, I NEED to have someone to talk to during the day besides Alex (at 9 months, he’s not much of a conversationalist.) and the UPS guy, who, I fear is learning to dread coming to my house to deliver packages.

When ill, like I am right now, I rarely run a fever. A fever for me is a piss poor indicator as to how ill I really am, unless I have one. Then it means that I am extremely sick. So sick, in fact, that I woke up in the middle of the night last night drenched in sweat and blearily made my way downstairs to wake Dave and inform him that I “felt just like a bagel.”

Then, without another word, I trundled back upstairs and went back to sleep.

At least, I think I did.

Ah, the fever she is raging mightily within me, which means that I broke into my Christmas stash of crappy CD’s that I love with all of my heart and listened to sappy stuff like Rod Stewart and Elton John, while I wept copious tears about nothing, really. Then I decided that I needed to clean the house.

Dripping sweat, red faced, yet determined, both the dog and baby watched me warily as I frantically scrubbed the kitchen floor. Then the toliet. Then the highchair. Dave is back at work from his Christmas vacation which effectively means that there is no one to tell me to put down the mop and step away from the bleach (whoo-boy does Aunt Becky love bleach!) when they should.

—————

I cannot begin to properly articulate how I feel after hearing about Britney’s meltdown (but I assure you it doesn’t make me feel like a bagel), but it just makes me so sad. Becoming a parent means opening yourself up to criticism from all possible sides, and that’s without living in the limelight. Hell, I just have this crappy blog and yet I find myself tempering some of the things I say here so as not to evoke the fury of a thousand angry mothers who cannot believe how I solve problems or parent my children (I mean, what’s wrong with chaining my children to a wall in the basement while I throw loud parties ANYWAY?).

As with anything in life, my choices are my own, but I have the blanket of total anonymity to hide behind and no one is the wiser (well, this isn’t completely true. I have bribed some of my friends to read my blog and comment so as to feel like less of a loser. And I’m sure it’d be pretty easy to figure out who I am, but I assume that most people have better things to do with their days than to stalk random Internet People. Shit, I know that I do.), I MEAN, WHAT IF MY NAME REALLY ISN’T “BECKY?” WHAT IF IT’S “SHANNA?” AND WHAT IF I AM ACTUALLY A TEENAGED BOY?

(Have no fear, I’m not even remotely creative enough to come up with a fake life to support a blog. When hard pressed, it took me about 20 minutes to come up with the example of “Shanna” as an alternate to my given name).

But Britney, she doesn’t have anything to hide behind. Every step of the way, someone is finding fault with everything she does. Don’t bother telling me that she “chose” this lifestyle, because what would you have done at 16 (at 16 I probably would’ve gotten “Courtney Love Rocks” tattooed on my ass. It’s a good thing you have to be 21 to get a tattoo here in Illinois, eh?)? I’m pretty positive that it isn’t what you’d choose at 25.

Mental illness is not funny. Not even a little. Emotional breakdowns are also not funny.

Sure, I use the terms “crazy” and “nut house” occasionally, but as someone who has frequently had to pick up her own mother at the ole’ Mental Hospital, I think I’ve earned that right (man, “pick up my mother at the Mental Hospital” is right up there with phrases I hate to use, alongside “my last upper endoscopy” and “fecal-oral route of transmission.” Oh, and “piping hot,” but only because it’s annoying.).

So Britney, as a person you’ll never meet, I wish you the best of everything and I hope that you’re able to pull yourself out of this hole. The world won’t be the same without you in it.

1. What did you do in 2007 that you’d never done before?

Successfully breastfed a baby. And visited an endocrinologist. Neither of which are particularly riveting conversation starter, but hey, you can’t be witty all of the time.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

You know, I never make resolutions for the New Year, but this year I imagine that I will. This year I plan to:

Finish losing the baby weight.

Stop lactating.

Engage in a more heart healthy diet. Genetics, they don’t lie.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

I did. March 30. Another bouncing baby boychild.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Nope.

5. What would you like to have in 2008 that you lacked in 2007?

Honestly, a full 8 hours of sleep. It’s sad, but true. But if we’re going for something more unattainable, I’m going to go with a tummy tuck. Ain’t gonna happen til those tubes ‘o’ mine are tied.

6. What countries did you visit?

Shit, none. Unless you count my head. Lack of sleep can certainly make you feel like you’re jet-lagged.

7. What date from 2007 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:

March 30, 2007. My second child was born making me The Supreme Dictator of The Sausage Factory.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Punching holes in several walls. Oh, and destroying several box fans.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Not mastering this whole “sleeping through the night” bullshit.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

I’m a walking personal injury. Let’s see: I scratched my cornea, suffered a first degree tear to my perineum, nearly broke a toe making a peanut butter sandwich, fell through the front door, did the splits while 34 weeks pregnant while slipping on a freshly washed floor, and it appears as though my Crohn’s disease is making a fresh debut.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

Sleeping pills. No, honestly.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

I’ve been doing this meme for shit, 4 years or so, and I always say something cornball about Dave or Ben. This year I am not.

My OWN behavior merits celebration. I have, with only minimal help, been up 3-12 times each night, netting only about 7-8 hours of non-consecutive sleep each night since March. I have punched exactly no one in the face due to this glaring lack of sleep, and only spend minimal time on the cross.

My father also merits some mad props. He is now sober and has been since his heart attack, and I am very, very proud of him.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

I actually don’t have a real answer for this. Any suggestions?

14. Where did most of your money go?

Baby shwag. This doubles as my answer for “what takes up an insane amount of space in my home?”

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

Not being pregnant any more. I am a TERRIBLE pregnant woman.

16. What song will always remind you of 2007?

“Eye of the Tiger,” although not because I heard it, but because in my non-existent birth plan, I wanted to push the baby out while listening to it. Too bad I didn’t actually enact it, but in hindsight, maybe that was a good thing, considering I was weeping copiously and boogery all over everything. Damn hormones.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

i. happier or sadder?

Is “sleepier” a choice?

ii. thinner or fatter?

I can honestly tell you that I don’t know. I was pregnant last year, but I didn’t keep track of my weight. Too depressing.

iii. richer or poorer?

Wait, wait, wait. I thought that it was a faux paus to discuss finances. Isn’t it?

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Sleep. And have a freaking moment to myself.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Breastfeeding. I know it’s not PC to say that I hate it, but I do and Aunt Becky would never lie to you.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

That’s not relevant any longer, is it? I’ll answer “what will I be doing on NYE?”

Nothing. Fucking nothing. I am a firm believer in the way you spend New Year’s Eve being a precursor to how your year is. This year I plan to drink a bunch of champagne and watch movies WITHOUT talking to anyone so as to avoid a fight.

The year that Dave and I had a massive fight led to a nasty hard year. 2006. So no fighting whatsoever this year.

21. There was no #21. I don’t know why there was no 21.

I’ll make up my own question here, then. Hmmm….

What would cheer you up today?

Hearing from all of my lurkers out there. I have a feeling you are there but you’re afraid of Aunt Becky, which will not do. Aunt Becky would like to say “hello, my sexxy bitches” to all of you. What would you like to say to Aunt Becky?

22. Did you fall in love in 2007?

I guess I could say I fell in love with Thing Two, my ickle Alex, but I admit that I loved him before I met him. Such is the way it goes with children. But hell, I was happy to finally meet him.

23. How many one-night stands?

Hahahahahahahah. Bwahahahahahahahaha.

(wipes tears from eyes)

Tons. More than you can even count.

24. What was your favorite TV program?

House, MD. My husband has a Man-Crush on Hugh Laurie and I suppose that I can see why.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

Nope. Although I do routinely imbibe in “Hatorade,” it’s usually pretty non-specific.

26. What was the best book you read?

Duder, I have the attention span of a gnat, thanks to constant sleep deprivation. I sometimes slog through People Magazine.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

28. What did you want and get?

To be not pregnant any more. And hey, my uterus is now vacant (although Alex may try to get back in again).

30. What was your favorite film of this year?

Pan’s Labyrinth.

Betcha thought I was gonna say “P.S. I Love You.”

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you (optional)?

I turned 27 this year and due to unforseeable circumstances it was the worst birthday I’ve ever had.

Don’t believe me? Go here.

See? I’m not just being melodramatic because I had to take over finishing our bathroom which was supposed to be my birthday present. Nope, no bitter pants here.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Sleep. And an occasional haircut. Oh, and losing the baby weight by now. I’m pretty hung up about the whole weight thing.

Do you think a haircut to my shoulders would make me look like Pinhead? Seriously, I need to know.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2007?

Maternity chic. And “Damn, this doesn’t fit EITHER. But hey, it doesn’t smell.”

34. What kept you sane?

Um…Hi, my name is Becky and I have a blog in which I call myself “Aunt Becky.” Do I sound sane to you?

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

Britney. Although she has become a trainwreck, she reminds me that my life could always be worse.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?

I’m not very political, although I did get a bit sick of people protesting the new Planned Parenthood that went in. It was insane.

37. Whom did you miss?

My waistline.

38. Who was the best new person you met?

My cadre of Virtual Internet Pimps.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2007:

“This is not an exit.”

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

“Gonna raise me an army of some tough sons-a-bitches
Gonna recruit my army at the orphanages”

OR

“Sometimes you’re up and sometimes you’re down.”

After approximately eleventy-hundred months of prep-work, Christmas is finally over.

Whew.

I woke up on Christmas morning predictably feeling as though I’d been run down by a large truck driven by Santa himself, and I told myself that it would get better. No, no it didn’t.

Ben was thrilled by his stocking, stuffed to the gills and overflowing onto the mantle but had a meltdown when I re-informed him that although he had gotten the holy grail (Mousetrap), we couldn’t play it right then, as we had to trek across the river to my parents house. For about half an hour he whined, pissed, and moaned over the unfairness of it all, until I threatened to send him to his room to cool down.

Thankfully, he pulled himself together and we had an excellent Christmas together. Alex held HIS cool despite the inherant loudness that comes along with having a family gathering at my parents home (apparently, when they ripped out the electric blue carpeting that bespeckled their home about 15 years ago, they weren’t taking into consideration their future grandchildren’s hearing. If they had known, and I kid you not, they’d have recarpeted their home, in spite of their hatred of carpeting. Such is their adoration of my children) surrounded by virtual strangers who wanted nothing more than to hold him and get up in his grill. My Alex, he has his people, and when they are not around he (since he has no long-term memory) assumes that he has been left with a cadre of loud-mouthed strangers who may very well sell him to the gypsies AND WHAT’S WORSE IS THAT THEY DON’T HAVE FUNCTIONING MILK-BAGS! OH, THE HUMANITY!

I couldn’t leave Alex for more than a quick pee-break without a meltdown of spectacular preportions, which was actually what I’m used to around here, Christmas and strangers or not. His favorite toy was this, and Ben’s favorites, predictably, were all of Alex’s toys, too (at Alex’s age, Ben couldn’t have been forced to play with a toy, despite all of the one’s I bought for him. His favorite toys included the knobs on our antique vanity and watching the pendulum on the grandfather clock.). I assume that Ben is merely making up for lost time in the toddler toy department.

However, Ben is most excited about our big present to the children: a wooden swingset, which has yet to be purchased. The ground here is frozen and will be until the spring, so rather than have it sit unused in our garage, we’re waiting (Ben’s response when I told him about it: “Wow! Now I don’t have to go up to my room and look around saying ‘I’m bored’ when I don’t have anything to do.”). I’ve started my research on these swingsets (not for nothing I am my father’s child) and have reached only one conclusion: if you buy these from a place THAT ONLY SELLS THESE, and not Target or ToysrUs, HOLY BABY JESUS, THEY ARE EXPENSIVE. I saw one that was over $12 grand. 12 GRAND. 12,000 SMACKEROOS. That’s a Geo Metro!

(anyone have any experience whatsoever with these? I am but a novice in the wide world of wooden swing sets)

My own Christmas schwag was also formitable, if not predictable. I am (according to sources close to me, up to and including my husband, my mother, my father and my large son (a.k.a. Thing One) “Impossible to buy for”), so I get very few suprises under the Christmas tree. Apparently, after years of seaching in vain for a perfect gift for me only to be met by “Um…did you get a gift reciept?” I have been tasked with picking out my own gifts. Selecting them, purchasing them and bringing them home to be hidden in my closet is not objectionable, but I admit to hating to have to WRAP them. If it were up to me, I’d just start using them at the moment of purchase, but I have a feeling my family would think otherwise.

This year was my Year Of Plaid. Burberry Plaid. I myself had selected (back in oh, I don’t know, July?) for Christmas this year, and I would’ve purchased it myself to ensure it was under the tree for me this year, but I thought it a bit rude. After gleefully purchasing in the store, my husband and Thing One decided that more plaid = better.

So they added a Burberry wrap (sorry, no linkage) and umbrella to the mix.

I am pretty sure that they selected so much pink Burberry so that they will never lose me in a crowd. You know those people who go to Great America and County Fairs dressed in one really loud color (I mean purposefully, not just because this is their wardrobe)? It’s so gonna be me but sans loud color (it’s all a muted pink). I guess if you see someone wandering about in your town, bags under her eyes that go down to her chin and in dire need of a haircut, but bedecked in Burberry’s finery, you’ll know that Aunt Becky’s in town.

Dave got a similar haul, well, without the pink plaid. He’s pretty open-minded, but I can be pretty sure he wouldn’t want to wear pink plaid earmuffs (whyever not I can’t be sure) any more than he’d wear a dress. He bought himself a laptop on Black Friday, which had been stashed in my closet, taunting him with it’s nearness yet inability to tinker with it. To be able to open it and do whatever it is that smart people do with computers (i.e. not turn it on and shake it and demand that it “do something” like I do) was like heaven. I took it to 11 and got him a watch he had been oogling for (no joke) the 4 years we’ve been together.

But for all of the fancy stuff I lovingly selected, his absolute favorite gift was the giant stuffed microbes I stuffed into everyone’s stocking. Ben got E. coli, I got S. dysentary, Alex got HIV, and Dave got, well, Y. pestis (commonly known as the Black Death or Bubonic Plague). I’m going to pretend that he liked them best because when I go back to school, my advanced degrees will be in Microbiology/Virology but somehow, I don’t think this is a loving tribute to his wife.

Somehow, in the midst of our most exhausting Christmas to date, we made a grave tactical error: we forgot to take out the garbage last night.

Should be an overflowing kind of week.

——————-

So tell me about YOUR Christmas! What did you like best or what did you loathe? Aunt Becky desperately missed The Internet last night, but was too tired to check in and see how everyone was doing.