So, I was trying to think of the best way to tell The Internet that I seemed to have succeeded in getting pregnant again. I took about 4,000 tests this week and all of them were slightly positive (this was after making sure that the last miscarriage/chemical pregnancy had successfully cleared the pipes), and I wanted to wait to make sure that I was able to tell my real life readers before I informed The Internet.

I know a lot of people stay mum about pregnancy in it’s earliest form, so as not to have to retract the statement later on, should something go wrong. I don’t generally subscribe to this philosophy as the people that I would typically inform would be the very same people I would lean on should something go wrong.

And by the fact that this is the first that many of my real friends are reading this should tell you that I no longer have good news to tell you any longer.

It looks like the critter formerly occupying my uterus is flying the coop. The spotting began shortly after returning home with the elder sausages from a matinee (it was Iron Man, and it was phenomenal) and although it was the very palest of pink, it was there when I wiped.

I suppose that the dream was fun while it lasted.

You’ll have to excuse my absence from your blogs; I don’t seem to have a whole lot good to say right now.

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

-Leonard Cohen, “Hallelujah”

April is Autism Awareness month, and I have a vested interest in researching this disorder. Meet my first son Benjamin.

No parent ever wants to hear that something is wrong with their child; that their offspring is not completely perfect.

Realizing the magnitude of being entrusted to care for, nurture, raise and eventually let go of a new life is both mind-boggling and awe-inspiring as well as terrifying. Before my first was born, I could barely be considered responsible to care for an aquarium, and rightly so: I am an idiot.

Having had no experience with babies, I had no idea that mine was abnormal. He hated human touch, he preferred to watch his mobile spin around to looking at faces. His first word was not ‘œMama’ or ‘œDada’ or even ‘œBaba:’ it was ‘œtock-tock.’ His phrase for ‘œtick-tock’ referring to the grandfather clock in the hallway which he adored. I’d be lying if I claimed that I wasn’t devastated by his total lack of interest in me and his distain for my touch, but I assumed that this was just the way he was.

Different strokes for different folks and all that happy horseshit.

Shortly after his first birthday, he was introduced to the planets through a Baby Einstein video. Before he could recognize emotions, he knew 4 of the moons of Jupiter and could identify them from different angles. *I* couldn’t even do that.

Rather than wanting to read Goodnight Moon, I took him to Borders and he picked out an encyclopedia of the solar system intended for adults, which he memorized cover to cover. He could spend hours at the Planetarium but screamed bloody murder at the zoo. I’d come home from class to several different ‘œsolar systems’ he’d created out of balls, each true to form. His depth of knowledge was amazing and freakish and I have no real way to illustrate that to you here.

This was all before his second birthday.

I had realized, of course, that he wasn’t speaking as much as What To Expect During The First Year said that he should, but considering the authors militant stand about their stupid pregnancy diet in their stupid pregnancy book, I wasn’t too worried. I just assumed that he was developing at a different rate than others his age. I mean, what 17-month old can tell you what Pluto’s moon is? (mine could). I had also figured that no one had really encouraged his speaking abilities, being the only child/grandchild, we all spoke for him.

At his 2 year check-up, his regular pediatrician was out and his partner told me in no uncertain terms that not only could he not understand him, but that he would be writing a referral out for an evaluation from Early Interventions. I left that appointment not only upset with the manner in which the doctor had spoken to me (‘How dare he talk to me like that?’) but by the fact that I hadn’t even thought anything was wrong.

Several times, different evaluators came out to our house to observe him and speak with me about his behaviors. Many of the questions provoked light bulbs in my head, a ‘œso THAT’S why he does _____! (only eats 3 things, becomes so overwhelmed by touch that he screams inconsolably, lines up his toys by color on the stairs, has an insane fascination with spinning things, knows WAAAAAYYY too much about the solar system, flaps his arms whenever he’s excited”) which really only made me feel worse about the things I had never noticed, or had noticed but considered quirks.

I drew the line at receiving a formal medical diagnosis however, because as a nurse and the daughter of a mentally ill mother, I am completely aware how these things follow you for the rest of your life until you can only define yourself by them. Does that make sense to you?

Let me give you an example: I (myself here) am dyslexic, have Crohn’s disease, and have a latex/iodine/shellfish allergy. But does that make me who I am? Not one bit, but not only do I catch myself excusing away things based on this, it has become a teeny tiny but integral part of my self image. And I do not have any behavioral problems to excuse away (i.e. ‘œI’ll never be able to sit still because I have ADD, therefore I won’t even try.’)

Without a totally formal diagnosis, he was explained to be on the autistic spectrum and speech and occupational therapies began immediately. For almost two years, he recieved both therapies and began to make strides toward more normal behavior. He began to speak more frequently and clearly in addition to being able to deal with more and more textures, consistencies, and tastes. His more interesting quirks remain to this day, thankfully, as they are part of what makes him who he is.

My soon-to-be husband and I enrolled him into private school when he turned three to enrich his social skills, as he had no children his own age to play with at home. I’m not sure that these social skills will ever be what is considered totally normal, but they have improved by leaps and bounds, possibly to the point that an innocent bystander would not realize how much he had once struggled to do something as simple as recognize basic emotions.

I have still struggled through numerous thoughtless comments from both parents and non-parents alike (‘why won’t he eat anything but junk food?’) who have somehow gotten it in their head that his problems are little more than an issue of bad parenting. I have suffered through years of guilt and regret (had *I* done something to cause this?) I have spent cold meal after cold meal coaxing him to eat something that looks different or *is* different.

I continue to worry about what his life will be like as he grows older and begins to interact more with the general population: will they be gentle and understanding of his uniqueness or will they tease and mock him mercilessly?

Have we done enough to prepare him for the world?

I have spent hours upon hours reassuring him that completing a ritual out of order was just fine, and comforting him from afar while wanting nothing more than to sweep him in my arms and kiss his tears away.

I have had to accept that my child is not perfect in any text book sense.

Is this the worst thing that could happen to a mother? Certainly not; he’s happy, he’s healthy, and above all else he is loved unconditionally. Having seen babies born without brains and hearing them cry (possibly the worst sound in the world), I am aware that I got off pretty easy here. But competing in the Pain Olympics isn’t why I wrote this post.

As you all know, I am not one to use this blog as a political forum, nor am I likely to spend time talking about my feelings here, or elsewhere. But this is an issue incredibly close to my heart: he’s part of my heart, he’s my son.

We all have hopes for our children.

As for me, I just hope that he knows how much I have loved him.

Now, you didn’t really expect your Aunt Becky to sit idly by while her crazy roommate oozed craziness all over the place, now did you? If you did, well, shame on you. Because if you don’t know me by nowwwww……

Hah.

Aunt Becky puts the AGGRESSIVE in Passive-Aggressive, you know.

———-

When it means butterfly and I first met, she told me that since she was bringing dishes to our room, I didn’t need to bring my own. And without knowing just how fucking nuts she was about her stuff, I listened.

Mistake #1

Aunt Becky: 0

It means butterfly: 1.

A couple of months into our precious Maxi-Pad experience (this is what Stimps and I called our floor), after I’d been using her dishes to eat my delicious vittles on, and immediately washing afterwards, she blew into the room one day in a complete tizzy.

She immediately began yelling at me about not washing HER dishes quickly enough, which stunned me into momentary silence. Back then and to this day, I unfailingly make sure that dirty dishes are taken care of. It’s just something that I do. The only one who had not washed the dishes for days on end was her, not me.

I sat there and listened with a look of horror on my face for sure, and as she continued ranting at me about it, I began scheming.

Mistake #2

Aunt Becky: 1

It means butterfly: 1

What she didn’t know is just what a shitty person I can be if provoked. And I ASSURE you that getting up in my grill about something I didn’t even DO WRONG is the last thing you’re going to want to do to me. If I’d done it, I’d have owned it, but since I didn’t, I got seethingly angry.

Rather than lashing back at her which would have just made her erupt in ugly fat tears, I decided to get even that night, when she had night class.

I waited until she left for class, grabbed Stimpy and got to work. I took every single plate of hers and licked it. I licked it, I goobered on it, and I put it back dripping with my saliva knowing that it would quickly dry in the warm Chicago fall weather.

Then I found her toothbrush and took it into the bathroom and bathed it in the toilet water for about 5 minutes.

Oh yes, yes I did.

Ain’t NOBODY done fuck with Aunt Becky and get away with it.

Aunt Becky: 3

It means Butterfly: 1

Another week passed, and it means butterfly went back to the farm for a weekend sure to be full of cow-tipping and outhouse peeing, and my mind began to churn. What else could I do to this fucking bitch?

The answer came in the form of my friend Mikey, who’d come up from Geneva to hang with me for the weekend. It means butterfly liked Mikey, so she agreed to let him sleep in her bed when she was gone. Mikey decided that the proper course of action was to wipe boogies on her pillow case. I didn’t know that he’d done this until she came home and accused me of doing this within 5 seconds of her arrival. She was nuts like that.

Hehehe.

What she hadn’t realized is that had also, throughout the weekend, farted on her pillow countless times.

Aunt Becky: 4 5

It means butterfly: 1

I’d like to sit back and tell you how much I regret being such a bitch to it means butterfly, and how I would never, ever do anything like this ever again but it would be a lie. Once provoked, I’m a complete bitch.

Dave is so going to come home tonight and smell his toothbrush for evidence that I peed on it. Little does he know that what I really did was to pee on his pillow.

——-

Dish time for you, my loves. Tell me what the most vindictive thing you’ve ever done. And if you’re GOOD, I will tell you what I did that is missing from this list.

Hehehe.

I’m having a day here in sunny Saint Charles. It’s one of those days where you rethink everything you’re doing and have done and wondering what the fuck you were thinking.

This turns quickly into feeling like you’re a failure but that everyone’s being too nice to tell you about it.

Shit.

How do you snap yourself out of this black hole of self doubt and loathing?

Me: You know, someday when I die, if I get reincarnated or whatever…

Daver: Yeah?

Me: I want to come back as The Village Idiot.

Daver: It’s good to have such high goals, Becky.

Before I get into the meat of this post, I need to stop and thank everyone who has started doing kind things for one and other. The Daver has been strong-armed into doing it himself and leaving a comment (but I think he’s disqualified from winning anything but a swift kick in the ass from yours truly) OR posting on his own blog about it. You can do the same thing, comment OR write a blog post (and please link to this in your comment).

It’s easy, see!

So I’m encouraging each and every one of you to DO SOMETHING KIND in honor of all my nieces and nephews waiting to kick me in the shins in Heaven. Shit, if you ALL do something nice maybe I will send EACH of you a little something (somewhere, Dave is now wrestling my Amex from my wallet, but he doesn’t know that I HID IT! HAHAHA!). You have until March 31st to do it, and I *know* that some of you reading right now are coming to Alex’s party where I will annoy you to death about it.

———–

By nature, I am a lazy person. Not quite as lazy as some (i.e. Cash, who is fine and dandy, so don’t worry) but absolutely lazier than others. Nowhere else does this ring more true than in the kitchen.

I hate cooking almost as much as I hate colonoscopies (which you can imagine, is very, very much), and I avoid it at all costs. Every couple of months, The Daver and I discuss how we really need to start cooking more at home, and then we order a pizza. So it goes.

But, with the knowledge that Something has to be done to lower Dave’s insanely high cholesterol levels, I have begun (begrudgingly) to cook at home. In my very own kitchen.

As a child, my favorite thing that my mother would cook was ordering Chinese food, and it still rings true today. I’d much rather pay someone else to cook for me than cook for myself (even if it could save a few bucks here and there), partially because I gain no enjoyment whatsoever about cooking and partially because I can’t seem to bring myself to actually EAT anything I cook. Especially if it involves meat. Sicks me right the fuck out.

This may be a Very Good Thing, since my thyroid is still not 100% wonderful (I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE!) and I’m still struggling to lose 17 pounds of Alex weight. It won’t hurt me to skip a meal or 300.

Honestly, my biggest hurdle when it comes to cooking, is the members of my family. The Daver, who claims that he is “not picky” is awfully picky, but not nearly as picky as my Ben (who still suffers from many Spectrum-y phobias about food), and this is just plain old discouraging when I have one of them on my right gagging down his dinner, and one on my left sadly pushing green beans around his plate (EVEN THOUGH I PUT A BIT OF BUTTER ON THEM. BUTTER!). I’ll let you decide who does what.

Alex is the least picky and most apt to enjoy meals, but despite claiming that he was teething for the past, oh I don’t know, 9! months!, has yet to cut a single tooth. I suppose what I thought was “teething” was just him being an asshole. So it goes.

I’ll probably never derive my ego from cooking, and I’ll probably always do it begrudgingly, but the point is, that I will do it.

So what do YOU consider staples in your kitchen? What are some easy meals that I can cook? Oh, let me give you a list of things that cannot be used (maybe then you will have some sympathy. Or not):

*Pork

*Beans

*Red Meat (not often, at least)

*Anything “spicy” (this is a Ben thing, not my own. I fucking love spicy shit)

*Anything too mushy (eggs, etc)

*Anything too crunchy (Alex has no teeth)

*Anything that vegetables cannot be removed easily from (like, no onions in tacos, etc)

I could go on and on here, but it’s too depressing even for me.

Any suggestions?

As I was shlepping around my upstairs bathroom this afternoon contorting my body into what can only be described as Indecent Poses, my hatred of the former occupants of my home crystallized into a white hot ball of hatred. Mainly because I am at the same time shocked AND disgusted that anyone would voluntarily put a wallpaper border on a wall, JUST FOR ME TO REMOVE (they only lived here for several years).

Now, the first time we bought a place, I had so much fun at the closing that it was almost like being in a bar, aside from the distinct lack of alcohol (remember Whitney?). When we bought our new house, mere months later, our closing could not have been any less similar if I tried. The couple that we were buying our current home from were some of the coldest people I’ve met, and the closing itself left me anxious and sweaty.

(as a complete aside, I will tell you about the strangest thing that has happened to me in this neighborhood. A bit before Christmas, while my father was still in the ICU, I popped out to my garage to sneak a smoke when I heard a car pull up into my driveway. I immediately put out said cigarette and went indoors to catch whomever was walking up to my house before they could ring the doorbell and wake Alex up. Literally, the LAST person on the planet I’d have expected to see on my doorstep stood there (I’d have been no more surprised had it been Britney Spears) and when I opened the main door, WALKED INTO MY HOUSE WITHOUT BEING INVITED IN.

Sure enough, the lady with bad taste who had owned my house before me, waltzed into MY house like she still owned it.

Then she opened her mouth and demanded that I give her the “money” that “a friend had sent to her old address”–MY address of the past 2 years, mind you– like I was holding onto it or something. I rarely, if ever, get anything for this family, and surely anything looking unlike junk mail has been marked “return to sender” for “no longer lives here.” I know that these people DO live in town, but have left no forwarding address, and besides, they were so cold that I’m not about to waste my time trying to send them mail that should have gone to their new address in the first place.

She seemed quite suspicious of both The Daver and I, like we were holding out on her or something when we both told her in no uncertain terms that we did NOT have any of her mail (if I had, it would have been long since recycled). I can’t be certain, but I don’t think that she believed either of us.

For serious.

I suggested that she check with the post office, something which had not occurred to her and she went on her merry nasty way.

I guess I’m shocked that a) someone wouldn’t believe me regarding something I was completely truthful about b) her friend was stupid enough to send money via USPS and c) someone who DOES NOT LIVE HERE walked into my home like she still owned it.

This last encounter with them solidified that although I heart my house, I dislike them entirely)

*ahem*

Moving on.

To celebrate that my birthday bathroom circa July 15, 2007 is nearing completion (only the medicine cabinet to go!), I have decided to undertake the renovation of Bathroom #2, The Old 70’s One.

Now, since we don’t really want to shell out cash to have someone else do the work (which includes a new bathtub/shower AND new tile flooring), we’re doing it on a slightly smaller scale, but enough to make my eyes not bleed when I wake up to the olive green walls WITH flowery border (sexxy, I know. Don’t you wish your bathroom was HOT like mine?).

If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to punch myself in the face over and over again for coming up with another REALLY BRIGHT idea RIGHT BEFORE I’M HAVING A PARTY.

What the hell was I thinking?

Primarily because I am a freak-a-leak, I like to sleep in arctic temperatures, which is great, because I live in Illinois, where winters stretch on for what I am sure is actually several years at a stretch. It’s probably a good thing we don’t move to more temperate climates, as I am fairly certain I would never get a night’s sleep again (with or without Alex’s ministrations of doom), and I would probably become one of those people who wakes drenched in sweat and looking like they had just stepped out of the shower.

Let’s all chime in with a collective “Ew.”

But thankfully for my husband AND my sheets, my bedroom at night tends to get pretty frigid, so much so that occasionally I will snuggle a heating pad (As he is my boyfriend, I have christened him “Stu”) until my body adjusts to the extreme cold.

Several weeks ago, I was doing my standard lay on the heating pad (Stu) routine as I read my book before bed, when I noticed two things almost simultaneously: my back was becoming uncomfortably warm AND there was a noxious smell coming from..well, SOMEWHERE (I have 3 cats, a dog, a baby, a rabbit, a hedgehog, and some leftovers in my fridge that have probably grown teeth by now. There’s no shortage of odd smells emanating from anywhere in my home).

Rather than investigate (read: I’m lazy and tired), I shut Stu off and promptly fell asleep.

Several days later, as I shuffled into my bedroom I noticed that there appeared to be foodstuffs on my sheets. Because I was then overtaken my desire to have a little snack, I went over and investigated further.

Nope, not food, and not even blood.

Burns.

I had actually succeeded in burning my sheets.

Rather than spend the next several days playing the What If game, and envisioning myself engulfed by flames (not of the burning love variety, either) while I slumbered in my Green Death Nyquil Haze, I chose to have a good laugh at my own expense.

I mean, they put those warnings on heating pads (and electric blankets) for a reason (no, not the “do not submerge in water” ones. Even I know better than that. Mostly.) and yet I chose to ignore them and do precisely what they warn against.

And I suppose this means yet another trip to Target (read: Mecca) for a fresh set of sheets and possibly a vow to my husband that I never, ever, under any circumstances, should operate anything remotely electric.

What makes me saddest is that I am going to have to say a heartfelt good bye to my warm boyfriend Stu, as I toss him unceremoniously into the garbage can. Turns out he was one of those toxic relationships after all.

It takes an act of God to get me to go to the doctor. An act of God, or a throat so incredibly sore that it felt like a million tiny knives were sticking my naso-oral cavity each and every time I drew a breath.

Well, that and I wanted to prove to Daver that I was sicker, damnit.

The worst part of being sick for me is the fact that my emotions go completely haywire. On any normal day, I’m fairly cheerful (shut up), and that’s tempered with only a few select other emotions. Namely, in no particular order, Hunger, Anger, and/or Sleepiness.

I’m pretty simple, really.

But the moment that rogue bacteria enters my system, it’s like an emotional switch flips to 11, and every other emotion on the spectrum of emotions begins to flood my body.

I cry at dog food commercials (and not even the sad ones), get angry at the weather for daring to dump snow onto my car, suppress every urge to kick the cats out from under my feet (my damn cats are the sweetest BUT neediest animals on the face of the planet), while trying not to weep when the baby went down for an extra long nap (what.the.fuck.was.that.about?).

It’s awful.

When I finally put pants on and got ready to leave to go to the doctor, I realized that the snow that covered my car NEEDED TO BE REMOVED AND WAAAHHHH! I DIDN’T WANT TO DO IT! DIDN’T THE WEATHER GODS KNOW I WAS SICK, DAMNIT?

Once I’d finally gotten the car cleared off, I took off, but now the stupid windshield wipers kept going off. None too gently I flicked it back to the off position. Between my own brute strength and the arctic temperature which must have made the plastic more brittle, I snapped it off. I SNAPPED THE FUCKING WINDSHIELD WIPER GEAR THINGY OFF.

The jagged plastic tore the hell out of my wrist and forearm, giving my arm the look that I’d hysterically attempted to slit my wrists, but lacked the follow through to finish the job. I LOOKED LIKE I WAS TOO STUPID TO PROPERLY KILL MYSELF.

Apparently, I’d sunk to a whole new low.

I’m certain my doctor knew that I wasn’t quite right yesterday when he walked in the room and saw my puffy tear-streaked face. Normally, I’m shamelessly rooting through the drawers looking for medical supplies to, ahem, liberate, when he walks in. Typically, then he informs me that he doesn’t keep the samples for the good drugs OR extra prescription pads in examination rooms, and laughs heartily at my crestfallen face.

Not so much yesterday (although I would have appreciated some good drugs), though, which I am sure gave him a bit of a start. He took one look at my throat, informed me that it looked “like the stuff growing in the back of your fridge,” which is a disgustingly awesome mental picture. I got a script for some –icillin’s, and went on my merry (weeping) way.

I was up and down overnight more than the baby (which is saying a whole lot) in some terrible pain, but I’m tentatively feeling slightly better today. I watched Oprah without crying, have seen several commercials for both cell phones and dog food that haven’t fazed me in the slightest, and now that the baby is down for his morning siesta, I feel nothing but relief.

I can only hope that I will continue upon my road to recovery, lest I alienate both my husband and my eldest son (the baby doesn’t care at all either way so long as I am present and within eyeballing range) with my insufferable mood swings.

Am I the only person who reacts to sickness by becoming an emotional wreck? Am I a freak? IS THIS HOW NON-EMOTIONALLY STUNTED PEOPLE LIVE THEIR LIVES?

…I may be dead.

Second Death Flu in two weeks is in full swing and I fear that my immune system is shutting down and will soon wink out completely. Then I will actually die from something in the cat boxes (toxoplasmosis), and it will be a horrible, shameful, and undignified death.

I’d sleep if I could, but since the baby was up oh, about every twenty minutes last night (sometimes I exaggerate for comedic purposes. This is not one of those blessed times), I fear that it is not worth the trouble of lugging my sick self up the stairs.

If you can read this, send Theraflu. Or a gun. You know, so I can put myself out of my misery like a broken racehorse.