I’ve been quiet here, partially because I’m feeling hormonal as hell (and yet no sign of my period, which Dave has pointed out, I’ve been saying “was coming any minute now” for the past two months) and partially because I think my brain may actually be melting. Seriously, take an MRI of my brain, and I can almost assure you that I may be missing a cortex or twenty-seven. I’m like a gigantic brain stem, just walking around having to be told what to do. Thankfully the sinus infection seems to be abating somewhat, but now this pervasive heat seems to be actually driving me past the brink of madness.

I seem to have made a grave tactical error several weeks ago when I proclaimed “Well, the A/C dying couldn’t have happened at a better time,” because yeah, it’s now about 10,000 degrees Celcius (and yes, I am aware that that is an impossibility) in my home. With a 60% humidity. It’s so humid here that I actually think I heard the carpet squish under my feet when I got up this morning. I’m not even exaggerating slightly. I actually made poor Dave go buy a window A/C unit for our bedroom on Saturday, as it was cheaper than going to live at a hotel for a couple of days.

But Becky, you say, your parents live across the river and they have 4 extra bedrooms that they are NOT USING plus glorious, oh glorious! central air conditioning! Why not just go there?

Oh, dear reader, I would just as soon take up Interpretive Dancing as a career choice (which creeps me the hell out) than ever, EVER do that again! When we were selling the condo before we got the keys to our new house, we moved in with them for about a month. Possibly the longest and most nerve wracking month of my life. Let’s just say that with the shear amount of empty rooms, whichever one we were currently occupying was suddenly the room that my father JUST HAD TO BE IN RIGHTNOWRIGHTNOWRIGHTNOW (including the bedroom that we were sleeping in), like he was a jealous four-year-old or something. It actually got so bad that we were strongly considering the fiscally irresponsible (but mentally healthful) possiblity renting a hotel room for the remainder of our stay, while the huge possibility of two morgages was looming on the horizon. It was AT THAT MOMENT that we vowed never, ever, to stay with my parents again. Ever.

So here I sit in the oppresively pervasive heat, losing possibly another cortex (one that was not previously damaged by the complete and utter lack of sleep that marks my days and nights. Man, I’m melodramtic today!), trying to look on the bright side of things.

At least Dave was able to fix the screen door that I fell through this weekend.

(I think it may be high time to Becky-proof the whole house before some ER doctor thinks that my husband beats me, which, if you know Dave, is a totally hilarious thought. If anything, I’d be the one who’d do the whuppin’. But how do you explain that to a resident?)

(holy crap, I just posted actual pictures here. If you knew how long it took me to do this, you’d overlook the fact that these pictures are way too big for the page. I am so not computer savvy and Dave isn’t home to help me, i.e. do this for me. Either way, I am very, very proud of myself.)

I have never pretended to be much of a baby person, but I’ve known a whole ton of people who were. When I rotated through the maternity ward, I spent most of my time wishing that I was in Labor/Delivery where the action was, whereas many of my starry-eyed compatriots expressed how cuuuuutttteeee the babies were and how much they couldn’t waaaaiiiitttt to work with them. Sure, I like babies, I probably think that they’re cute (especially once they’re past the whole garden-gnome stage), and when you have yours, I’ll be there at the hospital to oogle them and tell you how awesome you look, and of COURSE you’ve shed all of that pregnancy weight with delivery. Because I’m your friend.

When Alex was born and the people began to swing by to meet him, I was amazed at how many people said that he was cute. It’s not that I don’t love him to pieces, of course I do, but I thought that he looked rather like Chicken Little. The next words out of their mouths were invariably “Holy crap, he looks JUST like Dave!” because he did.

(as an aside here, I happen to make mention of which parent the child looks like ALL THE TIME when I see new babies. Mainly because most of my friends know that I think babies are pretty strange looking at first, and because when I feel uncomfortable or tell a lie, my mouth opens up and stuff pours out whether I want it to or not. Mentioning that the baby looks like Mom or Dad is a way that I don’t keep going on and on about how cute your baby is (or isn’t) because eventually you won’t believe me.)

At first, this didn’t bother me, as even when he was unceremoniously dumped onto my lap immediately post birth, my inital reaction was something like “If there had been any question of parentage, we now know who is father is.” The resemblance was that uncanny.

Alex:

Ben:

Me Without The Daver (who I couldn’t find a proper picture of):

The Only Picture I Have Of Dave on My Computer Currently (but you cannot see the resemblance there):

Eventually, though, I started to get tired of people commenting on this fact. It was bad enough to have to hear it from our family and friends, but then strangers would comment on it, too. What made me more upset about this than anything else is that Ben would be right there while people would go on and on about the baby, and you know what? At five (and six) he not only understands what you are saying, but he can respond to you in full coherant sentences as well.

I suppose the silver lining in this is that once the stranger realizes that Ben is responding to him (Ben looks about three, the ickle peanut), if they are not a complete jerk, they will eventually comment on how much Ben looks like me. He doesn’t, not really, I mean, we share coloring with the dark hair and darker skin, but honestly, he looks like his father. If, however, you do not happen to see him next to his father, you just see Dave and I together, you would absolutely think that Ben takes after me.

(Dave + Alex = pasty newsprint complexion. Turns beet red if in sunlight for >2.4 seconds.

Becky + Ben = dark and mysterious skin color. Possibly even sexxy.)

The other day during dinner, Ben spent a good deal of time searching Dave’s face to see where his resemblence to him was, after I had made mention earlier in the day that Ben, Alex and I shared eyes (which is a VERYGOODTHING, not so much for now, but for a later date, when Ben might care). He eventually decided on, I believe, ears being the same.

I just didn’t have the heart to explain to Ben, who adores and idolizes Dave more than he ever will his father, about biology and genetics. So ears, Ben and Dave share ears.

(now if I have another one, is it too much to ask that he or she look at least a little bit like me?)

Because I’m feeling spunky, here’s a picture of my wedding cake, the coolest part of my wedding:

I have a strange feeling that menstruation is returning to my life after being notably absent since last July (somewhere Kotex is rejoycing), which is making me feel quite hormonal. I’m terribly crabby and feeling extremely put upon, so in that vein I will make a list of my current pet peeves, which is of course due to my now extremely hormonal state, ever changing.

*People who when faced with a long line to check out, get all up in my personal space as though the space in I occupy is somehow holding up the whole line. I admitidly have a fairly wide personal space bubble and not prone to want to snuggle up to complete strangers, but come on. The two feet that I occupy is not what is holding up the line. Just relax and try to enjoy the time that you actually able to zone out. I do.

*Getting my ickle Alexander vaccinated just plain sucks. There is something so hard about inflicting (albeit necessary) pain on someone so small and innocent, especially since you cannot assuage your guilt by promising an ice cream or a trip to McDonalds afterwards. Plus, the day afterwards is ruined by an incredibly bad mood (on his part, I just feel drained).

*I have been so, so tired all last week, so much so that I have not gotten much done around the house at all. Since my own sense of personal satisfaction is strongly linked to the amount of things I can accomplish, this makes me feel worse. I have been so tired that I actually took a pregnancy test, which for some reason I totally hate to do. But it served to remind me that I need to take one at least once a month while I am amennorheic to ensure that I am not actually pregnant. Because, God forbid, I have a miscarriage that I mistake for a period, I run a high risk of developing Hydrops fetalis with subsequent pregnancies.

*I flipping hate Dustin Diamond. Sure, I watched Saved By The Bell back in the day and I thought that he was a bit of an idiot back then in an annoying little brother sort of way but now I find him completely repulsive. And no, I have NOT seen the porno that he was in because I absolutely know that I would never, ever be able to have sexual intercourse again. If he were to fall off the planet, I would be totally happy. Ew.

Can you tell I’m feeling hormonal today? Help me out here, what is pissing YOU off today?

In my household as a child, I grew up feeling as though my needs/feelings/gushy crap were generally unimportant. When it’s a choice between Becky who has the stomach flu at age 6 and my mother who was threatening suicide, you can guess whose needs were made more important. It wasn’t always splendid as you may imagine and it has left me with a fairly large chip on my shoulder about such things. Overarchingly, I tend to be fairly sensitive about people negating my feelings on a particular matter but I also attempt to not play the Pain Olymics with other people. Your bad day MAY be worse than mine, and I’d be the first to admit it.

Ben had colic as a baby, and I admit that it was pretty severe. I can honestly say that it impacted our bonding while he was younger as well as causing me tremendous guilt for many years. What was I doing wrong? Why didn’t my baby love me? It’s irrational, I’m aware, but you can’t help but feel rejected when your cute little infant screams most hours of the day and you cannot do a damn thing to make it better.

I don’t have a lot of mommy friends who have kids around the same age as mine, so I didn’t have a lot of input on the subject of colic save from what my mother and/or Dr. Spock had to say about the matter. (Even now, I’m not sure any of my mommy friends had kids with colic. Maybe karma is paying me back for stealing that package that was delivered at Christmas time to the wrong house, I don’t know.)

Colic sucks and it’s hard and I hated every moment of it. Especially because I had had colic as a child myself, and my mother suffered tremendous guilt about it, even 20 years later. So much so that when I decided to wean Ben (hahaha, like he EVER latched on or breastfed), she began buying formula designed for premature babies (which Ben was not), in an effort I suppose to assuage her guilt about my colic. It’s basically already digested. AND it costs double what normal formula costs. Luckily for me, a lactation specialist intervened and convinced my mother that there was absolutely no need for this formula. Period.

Over and over I had to listen to my mother go on and on and on and on and on about what a horrible colicky baby I was, to the point where it basically negated whatever I was feeling. Sample conversation: Me: “Man, he is SO COLICKY and I WANT TO DIE.” Her: “I don’t know what YOU are complaining about! YOU WERE SO MUCH WORSE!”

Even now, 5 years later, she is still convinced that Ben was a much easier baby. Maybe he is, I have no idea (this affected me so much that I had to clear it with Nat several months ago and his answer was yes, Ben was a really hard colicky baby). I wasn’t around to take inventory over which was harder, myself or my son. All that I can say is that I am sick to death of having my own personal feelings pushed aside in favor of how much harder her life is. Yes, I am aware that it is partially my problem with my mother, a subject for another blog post (or prolly not)…or I was until Alex was born.

Alex, God love him, is not colicky, not one ickle bit. He had his own difficulties, just like newborns often have (like trying on a daily basis to crawl back inside of me), but he was never colicky.

My mother-in-law, I was aware pre-Alex, had had a colicky baby as well: my brother-in-law. When she’d call or stop by, we’d mention the difficulties we were facing with Alex (or show her, as the case may be) she would spend a good portion of her visit/call trying to convince either of us that Alex was just a colicky baby. Dave actually ordered some crappy Colic Be Gone or something snake oilish which didn’t work (BECAUSE HE DOES NOT HAVE COLIC) and stained the bejeesus out of everything it came into contact with.

To this day, whenever I see her, she tells me the same stories over and over about how colicky her first baby was. When I mention that Ben, too, was extremely colicky, it is brushed aside THE EXACT SAME WAY MY MOTHER DOES IT.

I guess I just don’t get it. I’m aware of the Mommy Wars (ala my baby is SO much better and more advanced and awesomer than yours could ever be) and the Pain Olympics (ala my life is harder than yours will ever be) but is it really so hard to admit that someone else both may have experienced a similar problem AND give them a little more empathy and a little less brush off (especially considering that these colicky babies that I constantly have to hear about are 27 and 34, respectively)?

Colic sucks, newborns mostly suck, babies are hard, kids are hard too, and I think it would be just a teeny-weeny bit easier if mothers (and non-mothers) just acknowledged the plight of other people, or in this case got off the damn cross because we newbies might need the wood, too.

The bathroom hates us. It totally, totally hates us. I suppose the same could be said for many home improvement projects, but this time I can’t help but think it’s personal. Maybe it liked the awful decor with the THREE different kinds of wallpaper, maybe the hideous testicle lights were really what made it feel special, perhaps the gigantic medicine cabinet is what it defined itself by; I don’t know.

All that I do know is that we have been thwarted at every turn. The walls are so fragile that when I removed the wallpaper tape, some of the drywall actually got damaged (which actually served to make me feel like somewhat less of a wallpaper-removal failure). Even with the approximately 65 pounds of spackle I carefully put onto each and every crack, the walls still look pretty bad. Which is accentuated nicely by the new light fixture. The medicine cabinet that I recently picked up (on sale!!!) had a crack in it AND was missing the shelves. When going to exchange it, we learned the reason for it’s reduced price: it’s extinct, well aside from the floor model, which we then bought.

The nice pedestal sink? Oh yeah, the damn sink doesn’t sit flush on the base, so it wobbles. When we took it back, it appears that ALL of them wobble. So after all of this we’re going to hire someone to install it.

(and yes, I DO realize that things could be worse. I never operated under the illusion that this job would be simple. Honestly, it’s all the things that I never would imagine would be hard that have proved to cause us the most grief)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to weep into my towel rack.

My relationship with Ben’s father has improved significantly over the years, which makes my life easier in many ways. No longer do I have to (constantly) bite my tongue while he insults me and my life, and aside from the occasional jab (comment today: “Wow, you still don’t dress to match, do you?”) life has become quite peaceful.

There are some things you just don’t think about when you find yourself unmarried and pregnant. Deep down in there, I think that I always knew that Nat and I would never, ever get married, mainly because he does happen to be a douche bag, but even after the whole “we didn’t get much SLEEPING done, Becky” fiasco, I wanted to give things a chance, if not for me then for my unborn babe. It was a battle royale, for sure, but I gave in and Ben’s last name matched his father’s (but his middle name is my maiden name). So on time marched. I got used to (but always hated) the accidental Mrs. Ben’s Last Name that I would get now and then, but things were all right.

Then school began. Suddenly birthday party invites would arrive at my house bearing Ben’s name with the postmasters scrawl next to it: ‘Here?’ they read. And then I got mad. Stark raving mad. Why is it fair that Ben get HIS last name when *we* were the parents scheduling doctors appointments, dentist appointments, and taking him there? (As an aside, each and every time that Ben has attempted to call Daver “Daddy Dave” Nat has become livid. He wants the glory without the responsibility which infuriates me).

The straw that broke the camel’s back arrived when I informed Nat of when Back to School night is, to which he replied “I’m not going. It was boring last time.” This on the heels of him not showing up to ANY of Ben’s school functions like Open House or Kindergarten Graduation, even after he promised to do so.

Boiling point reached. I called the school and informed them that Ben’s new last name would be a hypenation of His Last Name-My Last Name. As far as the Social Security office would be concerned, nothing had changed, but now, the postmaster will have no more doubts.

Ah, the things I wish I could inform those who get pregnant out of wedlock…see, as a baby none of this matters. It’s only as the years pass that it becomes a “God, I wish I’d not given in.”

And as for me, I am completely aware of the Battle Extrodinaire that will ensue from this, providing Nat ever notices, and for once, I feel perfectly justified.

Monday morning at Target while in the discounted school supply aisle, Ben is playing his DS in the cart, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings while Alex and Dave disappear into another aisle.

Me: “grumble, grumble, freaking impossible to find school supplies, I’ll show THEM next year…”

Ben (while not looking up from his video game): “Mommy, did you put on your bitter pants today?”

Me: “…..”

Me: “…..”

Me: “…..”

Me (suitably chastised): “Um….I guess I should take them off, huh.”

When I turned 16 and decided that I needed a job to fund my shoe habit, I chose to be a hostess at the Mill Race Inn, where my brother had once worked as the head chef. The restaurant industry is almost unlike any other, and few will understand the seemingly inconsequential stories that former waitstaff relate (This one time? I had this table that WANTED SEPARATE CHECKS! AND SODA REFILLS!) but I’m pulling one outta the vaults that I *think* people will get.

Sunday Mornings at MRI were always a zoo, full of old women who had been coming to the Mill Race longer than I’d been alive, and plenty of yuppies, forgoing their Morning Starbucks Ritual once a week for brunch. Reservations would be booked weeks in advance, and the 10:30-1 PM time slot was always a premium time for people to grab brunch. We’d turn away our fair share of Walk-Ins citing overbooked reservations about every 5 minutes or so.

THIS Sunday, the one in question, I had been called in early, as the other two hostesses had called in sick, leaving just me. My manager and I ran the front, frantically answering phone calls, seating people, and overseeing the dining room in general. By 11:30 I was in the weeds, and the people kept pouring in.

A couple came in with their two youngish kids without a reservation, and my manager took them in graciously, instructing me to take them to one of our best River View tables. This was unbelievable for my usually-conservative manager. I took them in, my manager ran in back, and I noted both

1) the phone ringing on two different lines

2) several sets of people had walked in and were waiting impatiently at the hostess stand and were looking at the reservation sheet for their names (a personal pet peeve)

as I was walking these people to their table. Knowing that I was the ONLY ONE who was going to make it back up front to take care of those people and get the phone, I brusquely set their menus down, told them to ‘enjoy their brunch’ and was turning to run back up front when the dude pulled me back.

‘Excuse me, can we get a highchair?’ I reluctantly turned around and said politely, ‘I’m a little busy right now, but Jonathan [busboy] here [grabbing his arm] can get you one.’

Jon agreed and was physically in the act of getting the highchair as I walked back up front.

The rest of the day was just as hectic, with everyone wanting SOMETHING extra from us, a better table, a discount, someone to complain to, and we were getting ready to close up brunch when the same couple that I had sat were walking out. I smiled at them and bid my farewells, but the man headed up to my manager and began to berate her.

Curious, I listened in.

What had we done?

I could only catch bits and pieces of it without getting closer to them, but I could hear several comments, “Racist! Rude! Blah, blah, blah! Obviously racist.”

Who the HELL were they talking about? The staff was professional enough to really care less about someone’s skin color. I’d never heard ANYONE make a comment whatsoever about The Race Card because frankly, no one gave a fuck.

I was DYING to hear who they were talking about, and a couple minutes later, my manager comes marching up to me.

‘Rebecca, these people think that you are a RACIST because you didn’t get them a high chair and because you were rude to them.’ She launched into a tirade about what these people had said about me, but my ears were pounding and my head felt tingly, so I heard nothing more.

I sputtered loudly, turning from red to white to red again as the blood couldn’t decide where to go. I was FAR too busy to note anyone’s skin color, and I could care less about a biracial couple.

On the radar of things I’d noted about these people were such things as ‘he has nice shoes’ and ‘those kids are super cute.’ I had never been so genuinely shocked by something someone had accused me of before or since.

In essence, I had treated these people EXACTLY the same as I had treated every other table that day. Except, I cooed over how cute the kids were. Because they were. really. damn. cute.

The only thing I had noted–only AFTER he left–was the Big Ass Chip On His Shoulder. You can skew anyone’s behavior to make it suit the preconceived discrimination, and maybe they had dealt with plenty of people who DID care about their racial status, but I was totally not one of them. And really, if you want to know the kind of tables I hated to wait on, they had NOTHING to do with skin color.

I cared MUCH more about his shoes.