Sometime around Christmas (hell, maybe it WAS Christmas, my swiss cheese like brain cannot remember such details), I casually let it slip that I write almost every day to my father. It had come up in some sort of conversation, and as the words flew from my mouth, I immediately began to hope that no one was listening to me (for once. Normally I expect people to hang off of my every word).

Of course, he heard me and asked if he could read some of what I write.

I use the phrase “write” in a completely different manner than he would have expected from me. To me, a writer would sit at an antique typewriter next to a ream of paper and a pack of cigarettes, and sip cold coffee while he/she penned their memoirs. Although I have noticed that some bloggers receive book deals based on their blogs, I am certain that this would never be me. It’s just not where I see myself (plus, I’m pretty sure that this means that you have to sell yourself to someone who might publish you. Interviews make me feel squishy inside, and I’m all too certain that my lackluster ability to spell properly coupled with the fact that my grammar is often wrong would prevent any sort of deal).

And, more importantly, I hate the word “memoir.”

But my conversation with my father would have been the ideal segue to tell my family about my blog. And I choked.

I’ve read other blogs that are read by the blogger’s family, and I’ve always found it strange.

It’s not my *ahem* colorful language that made me shy to tell him, hell, I learned the best of these phrases from my father himself, and it’s not even the subject matter. Although I occasionally refer to my slightly turbulent childhood and my mother’s illness, I don’t say anything THAT BAD about it. Certainly nothing I am ashamed of seeing later.

And honestly, since most of my real life friends read this blog (okay, okay, it’s because I pay them), I know better than to say something on here that I wouldn’t say to someone’s face. The Internet is a small, small, place sometimes, so I try to keep ANYTHING remotely inflammatory off these pages. It seems safer that way. Plus, I hate the idea of inadvertently hurting someone’s feelings. Anyone’s. Unless that was my goal.

That said, being “out” to my father, who I know would faithfully read this (but probably never comment) leaves me with an odd kind of gooshy feeling. Dave suggested that I print out some of my choicer posts and give them to him in hard copy form, but I doubt that they would read like anything OTHER than a blog post, and as an avid blog reader himself, he would know. Or could easily google it.

Am I over-analyzing something simpler than that? Should I just let him know ALL ABOUT his daughter, Aunt Becky and be done with it? I have a feeling that someday he’ll discover me here, whether or not I tell him about it, because The Internet is just that small sometimes.

Many years ago, I had very few female friends, and with what I would call good reason. Teenage girls are mainly assholes in designer clothing, who would think nothing of stabbing you in the back and blowing your boyfriend in the bathroom between first and second period while smiling sweetly at your face. Once I realized this, life became much easier.

I fell into a group of guys who I still lovingly refer to as The Metal Heads ™, and spent most of my free time with them (Man, I miss free time). My social life then consisted of sneaking off campus to smoke and eat a dozen soft shell tacos, watching terrible slasher movies, and listening to Tool’s ‘Opiate’ on repeat.

The hormones eventually kicked in, and these guys decided to find themselves girlfriends, to alleviate the horniness known only to teenagers. This presented no problem to me in theory (like Communism) until I realized that the addition of women would lead to complications in our friendships. And not on my end.

These girls were either insecure because their parents didn’t love them enough, or because they sensed that I was somehow their competition. Which was not even remotely the case. Because I cannot go back in time to correct their perceptions of me, I am publicly declaring to The Internet At Large that I had no desire to sleep with these guys. I still don’t. And truth be told, had I wanted to do this, I would have. Teenage boys are not known for their discriminatory tastes, instead preferring to stick it in anything (preferably not a couch cushion or sock), so believe me when I tell you that if I had wanted them to stick it in me, they would have. Happily.

Thankfully for my STD count (or really, my Other Count. You know, the People You Have Slept With Count?), however, I did have discriminatory tastes. I also (in a fit of complete clarity that even I cannot believe I exhibited as a teen) realized that sex would, in fact, complicate matters of personal friendships, and in knowing this, made a vow to myself never to allow my horniness to cloud my judgment. I would never, ever sleep with a friend. Even if I were horny enough to think that dry humping a pillow was a good idea. Period.

In not knowing this about me, though, these girlfriends were overtaken by incredible jealousy, that can only be sprung out of insecurity. It didn’t matter even a little bit if I had a boyfriend of my own, all these girls could focus on is my relationship with their boyfriends. The icy stares, the delibrete snubs, the protective ways they would touch their boyfriends while I was around, it was all the new normal dynamic when they would bring their women around. After awhile I got used to it.

It didn’t seem to matter that although The Metal Heads ™ and I would routinely send each other those school sponsored singing telegrams or carnations, the attached note would read something like “You suck” or “Your vag smells like tuna” with the occasional “To the only guy I know who can fuck a cheerio without breaking it” thrown in for good measure. All they could feel was their own seething jealousy that I might have something with their boyfriend that they did not. And it was true, while they had a physical relationship with them, I had a dynamic that one can only achieve in really great relationships or a friendship.

Thankfully, I am still friends with these guys 10-12 years later (three of them were in my wedding party), and they have moved on to date women who possibly can understand that mockery and insults don’t mean that they are having The Sexin’ with me. Maybe it’s that I’m happily married now, and am obviously posing less of a threat to their relationship. Or maybe it’s because we’ve all grown up a bit, and (most of us) are more secure in ourselves than we had been before.

But man, I really miss free time.

Am I the only one this has happened to? I swear to you on all that is holy that I although I routinely mocked the size of these guys packages, I did it without ever knowing what they really looked like underneath their clothes. For all I knew (and know), they could have Ken Doll underwear for privates or been hermaphrodites. It never came up in conversation, honestly.

C’mon, make your Aunt Becky feel better about herself.

Um…Wow, so I guess I got told by the Lovers Of Vincent D’Onofrio, didn’t I? Think of it this way, ladies, I am now less competition. I spent about 20 minutes scratching my head and trying to figure out how these people found me, until the realization that I a) must have spelled his name right b) google is a powerful search engine, smacked me right up the side of my face. I feel like I deserve a cookie or something for spelling something right, eh Manny?

Normally google searches (which is the only reason I have a stat counter installed, because the search terms crack my ass up) just lead people looking for “why does pregnancy suck” and “being pregnant asshole” with the occasional “vodka pregnancy” (and I have to say that confidential to those searchers who found me by typing in “mommy wants some sausage” and “dumbest bitch in bathroom remodel,” you are my new personal heros) to me, and I always wonder if they found what they were looking for.

I certainly hope that I don’t disappoint my random visitors.

(I am completely looking forward to the day that I have a blog troll, you know, the kind of person who hates me so viciously that he/she leaves me nasty comments telling me how much I suck donkey ass. I can’t say that I court controversy here on my blog as an unspoken rule, because I generally don’t talk about religion or politics, because any pathetic amount of keyword tapping on my part wouldn’t do justice to those people who write about these things for real, with evidence and research and smart people stuff. But when I have a troll, I will know that I am doing proper justice to a blog. Does that make me weird?)

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You know the scene, you pull up to a stoplight and the car next to you has their windows down and some insanely ridiculous song is bumping loudly. If you’re a voyeur such as myself, you contort your body into neck-craning positions to determine who is listening to that awful music. And if you’re me, AND you’re lucky, you’ll find that it’s a hilarious study in contradictions: the 70 year old woman listening to NWA, the 18 year old wanna-be thug-a-lug listening to Yanni, the uptight-looking businessman listening to Britney. Then you spend the rest of your day gloating over someone looking dumber than you in a public setting (Yes, I am very, very mature).

This always makes me a bit shy to bump MY music too loudly for fear that someone next to ME at a stoplight will find my my musical selections uproariously funny. Some of the stuff in my disc changer is fairly standard for me: Justin Timberlake, The Ubiquitious Britney CD, Amy Winehouse, along with a rotating variety of far more shameful selections. I will boldly proclaim to you, Internet, two of the songs that I will play at top volume, BUT ONLY IF THE WINDOWS ARE ROLLED UP AND I HAPPEN TO BE (hahahaha!) ALONE IN THE CAR.

1) Elton John’s “The Way You Look Tonight”. It’s one of the all time sweetest love songs that I shamefully adore. The lyrics are adorably sweet and meaningful (so unlike myself), but the corn-ball factor is far too high for me to listen to without some shame. It’s one of those songs that I may have considered for our requisite First Dance but hadn’t made it’s acquaintance at the time in my life when I had to think about such stuff. Instead we danced to “What A Wonderful World,” which was decidedly not “The YMCA” that I had shamelessly petitioned for. Damn The Daver and his emo sensibilities!

(You cannot tell me that wouldn’t have been funny. And yes, thankyouverymuch, I HAVE seen that video of the newlyweds dancing to “Baby Got Back” which was an idea that was stolen from me, and vetoed by my husband. Why YES, I am wearing my Bitter Pants this morning! Do they make my butt look fat?)

2) Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young.” Now, the one arena in my whole life that I am marginally sappy about is my children, I admit it here and I am not ashamed of this. This song makes me feel all gooey inside (but in a good way) when I listen to it, but I am completely and utterly aware of how dumb it is, especially when you know how HIS kids turned out (*ahem, KIM STEWART, ahem*). I rock out to it, for sure, but I do it responsibly and while no one is watching me.

So tell your Aunt Becky what makes you turn up the volume WHILE rolling up the windows and checking to make sure no one who knows you can see you quietly rockin’ out to this lame song (s).

*Updated to reflect the word I was actually going for here, which was “Medal” NOT “Metal”. Thanks, Manny!*

All of the signs were there, I guess, but as I am a complete idiot I failed to notice. Well, until 2 golfballs took up residance under my chin and I woke several nights in a row with my sheets soaked with sweat. The Daver then began complaining of similar symptoms when I realized, that along with a fancy watch, more bath product than I can even store (do I smell bad? Do I look like I need a shower? Wait, don’t answer that.), and a large assortment of toys, someone was kind enough to gift us Haemophilus influenzae. More commonly known as the flu.

I squinched my watery eyes up and began to examine the usual suspects (because I am so very mature, I always look to find someone else to blame. Makes me feel better), and could recall absolutely no one coughing and hacking into their ham. So I turned to the one person I ALWAYS like to blame: Nat. Nat brought us a little Christmas Flu this year.

Asshole.

I’m usually pretty on top of getting my flu vaccine, what with being a nurse and all, and I even go so far as to make my own appointments! I know, I deserve a medal or something for my incredible level of responsibility. Problem is, this year, between the complete lack of sleep and well, the subsequent sleep deprivation, it fell off my list of things to do, just like getting a haircut and shaving the cats.

Now the battle in The Sausage Factory is waging on, in full force. The Battle Of Who Is Sicker.

Dave hates colds, and if I should ever forget this for even a moment, he is quick to remind me of this, oh about every 2 and a half minutes. I’ll take a cold over the stomach flu any day, but this is the real flu, so all bets are off.

I’m imagining that the rest of the week will see battle lines drawn and sides taken, lightbulbs used to warm thermometers (See, MY fever is HIGHER! Dave, you’re not 109 degrees, or you’d be dead.), symptoms grossly exaggerated to illict sympathy from their troops (I’m so sick, I’M SHAKING, so I can’t be trusted to make dinner! I might UNDERCOOK THE CHICKEN and then we’d all get salmonella and DIE!), many hours of throwing ourselves dramatically onto neighboring couches, and likely culminating in one of us grabbing a kitchen knife and making superficial cuts on our body parts (SEE, I’M SO SICK THAT I’M BLEEDING! THE FLU IS MAKING ME BLEED!) nevermind the fact that this isn’t even a symptom of the flu, just histrionic personality disorder.

Once I made the connection between my symptoms and diagnosis (Dur!), I decided that a trip to Target was necessary to stock up on supplies. This found me all alone in the pharmacy department pouring and repouring over the shelves to look for anything marked “Will Kick The Flu’s Ass.” No such product was available to me, so I grabbed everything I could think of PLUS some gimmicky crap that I would never normally think of spending money on (snakeoil is, afterall, snakeoil). When I’m sick, I have no decision-making capabilities whatsoever. It’s a good damn thing no one tried to sell me crappy Tupperware or Pampered Chef products, because my bank account would be all hurty, BECAUSE I CANNOT SAY NO TO ANYTHING WHEN I’M SICK. Another odd side affect of being very sick is that I am unfailingly nice and sweet. When my immune system is being attacked, my personality becomes remarkably like a doormat, a snivelling and sappy doormat who cries at commercials and the Fear Segment of the news. It’s pathetic, even by my own standards.

So this is where you’ll find me today, sitting on the couch, weeping intermittantly about everything and nothing at all, and blowing my nose into these nifty antiviral tissues I found (see, I TOLD you I can’t resist a gimmick when I’m sick), while trying to suck down some Theraflu that Ashley recommended (it tastes just like ass. Rotten ass.). Any other good suggestions for me (keep in mind I cannot lounge about in bed as much as I’d like to. This is the hardest part about having kids for me: being unable to be remotely selfish even when very ill)?

OOOOHHH! I know what you can do to make me feel better WITHOUT exposing yourself to the Death Flu! You can tell me about new blogs to read! See, if I read you, you’re probably on my Virtual Pimps linkage. If I don’t, you’re probably not there. But, you see, I want you to be there! And I want to read you!

So dish, who is good to read?

Like you, I have found a number of uber bloggers and I often lurk around while biding my time (having a young child is often more boring than you’d imagine), and I have noticed something. Most of them have struck these deals to either write for a paid publication, develop a book and write review columns, and every time I notice this, I’m shocked and amazed. How does that happen?

Please don’t take it as another patented Becky Bitch Session, because this couldn’t be farther from the truth. I applaud this in other bloggers. I mean, the blog is essentially a journal or forum in which one can take what happens to them in daily life and OTHER PEOPLE CAN READ IT. What shocks me the most is that OTHER PEOPLE READ IT and sometimes they get paid for it.

When you think about it, that’s pretty damn amazing.

(what’s also amazing is how irate people become when a simple “donate” button is added to a site. It’s not like just because it’s there, you have to pledge your life savings to the author or anything. Just about everyone I know could use a little extra cash, and if people are willing to pay for you write, then mad props to you. I would draw the line, however, on paying to READ a site. That’s stupid. I mean, how would you know if the site was good until you read it?)

I’m not all “everyone should have a blog” or anything, unless it’s what makes you happy (which is why I blog) or fulfills you in some way, because in my boredom, I’ve come across some very dull sites that I would not go back to, mostly written by people who feel the need to constantly apologize for blogging once a month. If a having a blog and not updating it makes you feel badly, then why bother? There’s plenty enough in life to feel guilt about, and the way I see it, it’s not worth it to add to that guilt (don’t we all feel guilty when we don’t go for the walk that we swore we would today? Isn’t it enough to feel guilty for eating that double cheeseburger rather than a salad?).

But my interest is genuinely piqued by these people who are now becoming sponsored by corporations, not because I want a cut for myself (I don’t), but because I have no idea how it happens.

Are you approached by an entity to write for another site, or do you have to sell yourself there? I’m pretty certain that PR firms seek people out to review products and then write about them, but again I’m not positive. ARE THERE PEOPLE OUT THERE WHO READ BLOGS, TAKE IT TO THEIR BOSS AND SAY “THIS BLOGGER SHOULD DO XYZ FOR US?” because I totally want that job.

But I don’t know how I’d feel about having to censor my usage of the words “fuck” “Dick For” (The Daver’s nickname) and “anal leakage” for anyone, and I’m pretty sure Better Homes and Garden dot com or Martha Stewart Living Online would object to hiring anyone with such a colorful vocabulary. The usage of profanity is likely to keep me from EVER developing a readership outside of what I already have (not sure why it offends people so thoroughly, but I know that it does. Any suggestions as to why that would bother someone so much?), and that is A-Okay with me.

I once gave up the Eff Word for Lent one year, and it didn’t work out so well for me back then. And if I can’t give up peppering a conversation with “fuck” for God, then I’m pretty sure I can’t do it for anyone else, either.

Do you guys understand this phenomenon at all? Did I miss some memo that got passed around? I suck at reading memos nearly as much as I suck at life.

OHMYGOD, DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE LEAD PAINT RECALLS?

Yeah, me too. Like the youngest Spears’ pregnancy, I’m not sure I could have avoided hearing about it if I tried. My own mother has taken to reading the recall section of the Tribune and calling me panicked and breathless because “OHMYGOD, MY KIDS COULD DIIIIIEEEEE!”

This from the woman (formerly a chemist) who let us play with mercury as children. It was fun, really.

I guess I just can’t get into the hype around all of it. I mean, people (including us) have lived in ancient buildings with lead paint literally falling off the walls, and hell, we’re okay. I did, of course, check and make sure that the variety of recalled toys were not in my living room, but aside from that, I don’t feel the need to scour the toy recall websites daily. I currently own a Bumbo, but have never been stupid enough to place it on the counter, mainly because I do, despite rumors to the contrary, have a functioning brain stem. I admit to taking away Ben’s stash of Geo-Mag’s but that’s because even at age 6, the child cannot be trusted to NOT put random stuff in his mouth.

Last night, I went over to the new outdoor mall with my best friend. She had to go to Pottery Barn and I had to head to Coach, both errands I was not looking forward to, mainly because The Crazies are out in full force what with the holiday looming menacingly. I guess the planets aligned to make sure our trip was smooth, because not only did I manage to avoid the people in the tin foil hats running amuck (well, until we went to Barnes and Noble, where, apparently The Crazies were not only out in full force, but employed there), but we got a parking spot immediately in front of the stores we were hitting up.

It was when we were walking into Pottery Barn that I made a grave error: I went inside. Now, Pottery Barn is one of my favorite places to scope out, or I should say, it WAS until I had two children.

The halls were decked in beautiful glass ornaments, modern looking furniture, and all sorts of breakable stuff. I was enchanted. My own tastes run much chic-er than my children allow for, and this was magnified ten-fold as I longingly looked at all of the ornaments. I briefly entertained a fantasy life in which my tree was bedecked in glorious (and expensive) schwag, my couch pristine, white and lacking the distinctive and beautiful Throw Up stains. My clothes would be perfectly matched, funky votives a-light all around me, as I was able to use such words as “fuck” and “shit” without the reprocussion and the inevitable repetition of said words in front of conservative grandparents.

My fantasy screetched to an abrupt halt when I selected a tree-topper and prepared to buy it, until, while looking at the back of the box, suggested that children and pets may be harmed by the crushed glass that it was decorated with. Well. Then. Not only do I have two small children, carpeting for the glass to be trapped merrily in, but I have three cats, a dog, a comically large rabbit, a gecko and a hedgehog.

Reluctantly I put the box back, and recalled that my own tree was bedecked in Child Chic, i.e. gaily colored plastic balls and snowflakes, some kid-made ornaments, with a couple of unbreakable Hallmark novelty figurines. This ultra-fancy tree topper would look completely out of place perched atop this tree.

As we exited the store, I told myself that someday, someday my tree would be filled with breakable ornaments that spewed glass and lead paint all over the carpet, without the fear of small children knocking them off and using them as mini-soccer balls.

The moment the thought crossed my mind, I knew instantly it was a lie, the same lie parents tell themselves over and over again: that someday their lives won’t revolve around being Someone Else’s Parent, and they will be free to live as selfishly as possible once again. Because someday, probably in the not-as-distant-as-it-appears future I will pull those brightly colored plastic ornaments from their Tupperware bin and weep as I recall the days when our children were so little that Christmas was truly magical, and the biggest worry I had about them was that they hurt themselves by breaking glass ornaments.

So today I will embrace (not literally, of course) the ugly plastic balls that adorn the lower branches of my tree, sprinkling my carpet with glitter that will likely not be removed until the carpet is replaced, and try not to fantasize too much about when my children are grown and gone. Because honsestly, I imagine that even with the fancy ornaments (possibly even candles!), it will feel much, much emptier when they are gone.

When we moved into our condo (before we bought our house), the previous owner left us a vacuum (AND a fridge full of half-eaten food. Yum!). I loved it, used it, and eventually broke it. I’m not techno-savvy (why is the Internet not working, Daver?), so I am not certain what I did to it, but it was a decent thing.

It moved with us to our new home, where it took up residence in our basement for a year and a half. It has now moved to the garage where it sits until I figure out what the hell to do with it. We have a Kirby, which is awesome, even though it weighs approximately 900 lbs AND doubles as a toliet plunger AND hair massager (same attachment!), so I have no use for this broken vacuum.

But I feel wasteful, just throwing it away, when it’s entirely likely that it just needs a little tweak here or there. I’d put it out by the curb, but it’s winter here, and the snow would absolutely break it.

What do I do with it?

Ditto with the baby swing that Alex wore out. It no longer goes (ESPECIALLY not to 11) in any direction, and in the event that I had another baby, I’d just buy a new swing (yes, I am somewhat wasteful. I know.).

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I am in dire need of a new pair of simple black boots. I got my old pair shopping in Ashley’s closet, but they’re about half a size too small and incredibly uncomfortable. I cannot order a new pair online, as I need to a) inspect the heel (I hate the really teeny tiny ones with a passion. Ditto with the really chunky ones) and b) try them on.

Are boots universally uncomfortable? Or is it just these boots (because they are too small)?

Where do you go to buy a decent pair of boots (my footwear is universally expensive, so Payless is not an option for me)?

Ankle boots or calf high (I’ve never worn calf high ones)?

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Alex appears to be starting the weaning process, which is making the angels sing on high. The problem is, is that he now refuses to take a bottle (breastmilk filled or otherwise) in any form. I think he is convinced that the bottle = battery acid.

So he eats a number of pureed foods along with mountains of baby yogurt and nurses about 4-6 times a day (if you can believe it, this is far, far down from previous months).

I was beginning to feel all good about myself until I read up on weaning before 12 months (he is almost 9 months now), and all the literature screams: “YOU’RE A DAMN BAD MOTHER IF YOU WEAN YOUR CHILD BEFORE 12 MONTHS. YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF, BECKY, AS YOUR BABY WILL ONLY SELF-WEAN AT 2-3 YEARS. UNFIT MOTHER!!!”

But the baby seems to be certain that eating solids is the easiest way to get from Point Hunger to Point No-Hunger, and there doesn’t seem to be much I can do to dissuade him. (plus, I am getting somewhat relieved that I am seeing an end to nursing in sight. And what would a statement like that be without the accompanying Maternal Guilt?).

Any advice for me? (especially that which doesn’t involve fenugreek. My nasty nursing bras STILL smell like maple syrup 7 months later).

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What the hell is up with the term “Teh”? I seriously don’t understand how “teh” means “the” unless it is misspelled due to error while typing.

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I’m feeling rather diet-ly discouraged, so I need some new tips for weight loss. I know I’m not the only person on the planet who has struggled with weight loss, so lemmie hear your tips.

Please?

I have never been an alarmist, most especially when it comes to my children. I firmly contend that no matter what I do or try to do, it doesn’t much matter as they’ll turn out just fine whether or not they rolled over at four months or walked by ten (months).

If you didn’t actually know me, you might even take my very relaxed attitude as a sign that I do not care for my children, which would be so very false. I don’t worry much about them, but I am fiercely protective. So frightneningly so that Daver often will gloss over things (and sometimes completely omit) that he knows will evoke my wrath, which I imagine that as a coping mechanism my children will someday learn to do as well.

Really, I don’t worry about much in my day to day life. I live under the assumption that most things will work themselves out eventually (which is a good damn attitude to have as my husband likes to worry about absolutely everything–I talk him down from his worried cloud while he talks me down from heading over to Little Billy’s house to kick his damn ass for possibly giving my son the hairy eyeball).

All bets are off however, when I am pregnant. There is something hardwired into my body chemistry that flips a switch whenever filled with HcG and I turn into a bundle of nerves. Worried nerves. Painfully freaking out nerves. There is something so huge about being tasked with becoming a healthy vessel in which a small fetus is to develop for nine loooong months that scares me. Partially, I think it is the intangability of it all: if I can’t keep my eyes on it at all points in time, something bad might happen to it, and partially it must be the uncertainty of it all, that one can do everything “right” and have it all go so horribly wrong. Me while pregnant is not a Very Good Thing for anyone until that baby actually is born all wrinkley and screamy and garden gnomeish.

Months ago, while still pregnant with Alex, I decided not to go back on OCP, take my chances (as fellow parents likely know, having sex while having a baby around is not very sexxy. It’s all “Allright, one, two, three go, Go, GO! The baby is asleep!” Not very romantic, eh?), have my very last baby and then get done with the whole pregnancy/newborn period for good. Although I don’t necessarily want to have our last children back to back, I wanted to take the pressure off myself from the whole “trying to get pregnant” thing, which was supremely stressful, and figured that our last born would come whenever he or she would.

I just don’t know if I have it in me to have another baby. It’s not actually the baby itself that scares me (hell, I have two. I haven’t had a hot meal or taken a crap by myself in YEARS. This, I am used to), it’s the fet-bryo part I can’t take. I am neither naive or stupid enough to believe that everything will be all right, I know better than that. Bad shit happens to good people who don’t deserve it all of the time. Just because I’ve been lucky before doesn’t mean my luck will hold out (what’s that phrase about the house always winning in the end?).

I fear that the only way that I can make it through another pregnancy with my sanity (somewhat) intact is to have Dave commit me to a mental institution and strap me down in a straightjacket for nine whole months. My anxiety and peripartum depression is that severe.

(I’ll put it to you this way: immediately after delivery, when we brought Alex home, in spite of the fact that he would only sleep while being held AND I literally nursed him 20-22 hours a day (no joke here), I kept remarking over and over to Dave “Man, THIS IS SOOO MUCH BETTER THAN BEING PREGNANT.” Anyone who has dealt with a newborn for an extended period of time knows that between the raging postpartum hormones and the sudden sleep dep, this is not the normal reaction).

I don’t want to regret having another one, yet I don’t want to regret NOT having another one. I don’t want to be 50, sitting around with The Daver and say “Man, I wish we’d had just one more, like we always said we would.”

It’s a tough thing to tackle, this conundrum, because there is no good answer. What’s good for the goose may NOT be good for the gander (or something. Whatever. It sounded cooler in my head). I don’t know how to decide, I mean, this is a bit bigger than what color underwear to use or what cell phone plan to choose. It’s not ‘flip a coin’ territory, is it?

So, tell Aunt Becky about you. How do you know if/when/how many children you want to have? How do you KNOW for certain anything like that? Is three kids like Three’s Company? (if you don’t yet have kids, what was it like growing up with or without siblings?)

It’s fortunate, in some ways, to be the sort of person who, when faced with a crisis, can deal with things completely head on, without bothering to see the forest for the damn trees. In spite of how I may appear on paper (blog), I rarely am overtaken with emotions, so I am not reduced to the puddle of excess emotional goo ruining your nice shag carpet (nice shag carpet sounds oxymoronic, doesn’t it?) until much, much later.

I’ve spent each and every day since Thursday taking care of the most bizarre things: my Christmas shopping is completed, I’ve written and addressed about half of my Christmas cards, the house DOES NOT look like a tornado ran through it. But each thing I do is a semblence of what I would normally do. I’m like a bundle of nervous energy flitting from thing to thing to thing, attention to details thrown by the wayside in favor of trying to do about 1,797 things at the very same moment.

It seems easier to focus on the superficial motions of TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS than on what has just happened to my father.

But, as all good things are wont to do, it has come to an end, and I can feel every single horrible emotion welling up from within. I am now paying back with 99.9% interest everything that I have repressed. My throat is lumpy, and against all odds, it feels as though my right eyeball has just come back from a wicked battle, so much so that it now hurts to blink (I am not even pretending to understand this).

I’m fine, I will BE fine, because I am as predictable as a tax bill: I am always fine, even when I’m not.

My father himself would like to express his gratitude for all of the well-wishes and prayers that the Internet has offered (he called all of you his “second daughters” which is a high form of praise for him). Although he doesn’t specifically know about my blog (It seems easier that way. It’s not as though he wouldn’t appreciate parts of it, but I think I would feel weird knowing that my father has heard me tell the world about my vagina.), he knows that there are people out there who care about his well being, and that is what matters.

I’d try and be funny right now, but it would seem more forced than I care to be, so I’m just going to leave this as it is and not pretend to suddenly feel jolly and witty and annoying. I’m fairly sure, as I’ve been down this road before, that by tomorrow morning, I should feel far better, and will return with more hilariously stupid crap that I do.

My father is fine, my family is fine, and suddenly, I am no longer fine. I guess this is why God invented Jack Daniels, eh?

Despite having owned many and loved a few, my knowledge of the innerworkings of my cars leaves much to be desired. My answer to “why is the engine making that knocking noise” is a very typical “I don’t know, call the goddamn mechanic.” I’d sooner breastfeed a baby camel in my backyard for fun than learn how to change my own oil. For the 30 minutes it takes to get my oil changed by someone who knows what they’re doing, and is therefore held accountable for their mistakes (the selfsame reason that I will never again ask people to help me paint my house, I cannot yell at my friends, but I CAN yell at people I pay). Color me lazy, but it just seems easier that way.

When I was 6 or 7 months pregnant with Ben, due to an unfortuante error in judgement on my part (which is not the subject of this blog post), I was loaned my recently deceased grandmothers car, which I used to tool back and forth to school.

On my way to my beloved jewelry making class, I rounded a corner, and a most mysterious thing occured. The car was filled with a horrible flappity-flap noise while becoming increasingly difficult to stear. Being the amazingly intelligent person that I am, despite being late to my class, I dilligently pulled the car off of the main road and into a brand new subdivision. Upon closer inspection, I realized that I had blown a tire.

Well, this was slightly before I’d gotten a cell phone, and I was a mile or two away from a pay phone, so I opened the trunk. It took several minutes of staring at the jack and the donut tire incompetently before I realized that I had absolutely no clue how to change a tire. Truth be told, even if I had, my burgeoning belly would have likely impeded me from getting into the required position anyway.

After several minutes, it dawned on me that squatting on the well-manicured easement and shaking my fists at the sky impotently while weeping copiously was going to do absolutely nothing to help my situation (aside from possibly landing me in a straightjacket). So, I looked around at the brand-new pre-fab subdivision, with it’s trees so young that they appeared to be houseplants, and noticed that most people were not yet home from work.

If there ever was a situation in which I need help, this was it, so I set off to find someone to give me a hand. I shuffled along, waddling all the way, looking for some sign that someone was home at ANY of these identical houses. Several houses down from where I had pulled over, I saw some teeny bikes in the lawn, and yay! the front door was open. Figuring that anyone who had small children wasn’t apt to be a serial killer, and would likely take pity on an obviously pregnant woman, I rang the bell.

When the children went to get their father, I feverishly explained my situation, my panic escalating by the moment. Through a strangled voice thisclose to tears, I explained that I needed someone to help me change my tire, could he please help me change my tire, I’m pregnant and I need someone to change my tire, please, please, pleeeasssse help me.

The man rolled his eyes at me.

He ROLLED his EYES at me.

Then he sighed audibly at my shear stupidity, rolled his eyes again, glared at me, and opened the door.

I trailed him like a sad, lost puppy dog, explaining my situation while drawing huge gulping nearly hysterical breaths, apologizing profusely, all of which he ignored. But being who I am, when I get upset, it’s like my internal switch goes from “Talks Paint Off Walls,” to “11” so I continued peppering his minstrations with an irritatingly apologetic monologue.

He said not a word as he changed my tire for me. Not one single word.

After he finished, I began thanking him repeatedly for helping me out, all of which he ignored. After sighing dramatically, giving me one last withering glare, he promptly got up from the curb and began walking angrily back home.

I have no idea how long I stood there, rooted to the spot, watching this man walk home. I was completely dumbfounded, hell I still AM completely dumbfounded. And a touch hurt: I have never, ever asked a complete and total stranger for much of anything, except for maybe the time, and I suppose that my expectations were too high. Anyone else I knew (and know) would drop anything to help someone in such a situation, I’d sure help out if I thought that I would be doing much good by occasionally commenting on the sky while other people did the manual work.

Maybe this is just another one of those things in life that I’ll never understand, up there with the popularity of skinny jeans, and propensity for cats to piss on anything plastic and/or vinyl. Why would someone who very obviously didn’t want to help me, help me? He could have very easily sent me on my (waddling) way, and I would have understood: it’s not his mess to clean up, my flat tire.

While I am completely aware that this was a dumbass move on my part, even now, I wouldn’t change a tire while pregnant, and seriously, what was I supposed to do? Hell, when I’m pregnant, I can barely walk in a straight line, let alone jack a several ton car up on a spindly little jack. It’s likely that I would at the very least attempt to change a tire when I’m not pregnant, but still, I have no freaking idea what I’m doing, so the experience would likely net me a trip to the ER AND SOME VICODIN. Mmmmm, Vicodin.

Am I the only one who gets confused by these interactions? Has this sort of thing happened to other people?