Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

Pranksters, Meet My Food Baby. I Call Him Frank.


I knew it was bound to happen.

I popped out my crotch parasites well before most of my friends had steady boyfriends (birth control failure FTW!) because I like to win at life. See also: failed birth control.

Once I’d popped out the first crotch parasite, I realized that what I really wanted to do was to pop out more. I’m not saying my logic was failproof or anything (see also: birth control) but I knew I wanted my first kid to have siblings. What can I say? I’m a sentimentalist.

(outright lie)

But I wanted the kid to have siblings, and luckily, he did. Five years later, out popped Alex, and two years after that came Amelia. Which means I have a fuck of a lot of kids, but alas, I digress.

That meant, of course, that I spent my twenties in Fug-Ville. While my friends were out being cute and sexy, I ranged in size from “Is she fat or pregnant” to “that girl looks like Grimace… only not purple.” Postpartum thyroid issues piled even MORE pounds onto my already chunky frame, which lasted approximately until their first birthday. Which = two years of Grimace per baby.

What I’m SAYING, Pranksters, is that I’m a sexy, sexy pregnant woman. You can call me Pregnasaurus Bex if you’d like. I don’t mind.

So now that I’ve gotten done with crotch parasites, I’m returning to the “OMG CUTE CLOTHES” and “UNDERWEAR THAT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE A SHIP’S SAIL” walk of life. Just in time to watch my friends obsess about every little pregnancy symptom or complaint.

I swear to you, Pranksters, everyone I know is gestating. Their Facebook profiles all show blurby ultrasound images of fetuses (fetii?) and updates include all the stats from each doctor’s appointment. It makes me GLAD I’m no longer gestating since my stats would look like:

Weight: *breaks scale*

BP: Non-existent

Measuring: 40 weeks pregnant at 10 weeks.

What Baby Is Doing: Some various state of fruit.

Pretty much, you’d be bored even MORE shitless than you are by my mediocre blog. (my autocorrect wants to change “shitless” to “shirtless” which is actually awesomer.)

However, I feel kinda left out. I mean, I’d rather suck on an icepick than get knocked up again, but still, I want the opportunity to complain about my swollen feet and ginormous rack. Unless I have a Love Child, it ain’t happening.

Luckily, I’m crafty. I came up with a BETTER solution.

Pranksters, let me be the first to announce that I’m having a food baby. His name is Frank.


He’s gonna be a soccer player.

Also: who wants to throw me a baby shower? I can TOTALLY feel him kicking!

Your Pregnancy In Tasty Week Form


(no, I am not pregnant. This was something I created for Band Back Together’s Resource Pages. See, Mom! Those nursing textbooks you bought me ARE useful for things other than doorstops!)

Week One HA! Fooled you. It’s your period. The last one you (should) have for forty weeks. Enjoy it.

Week Two: Thank GOD that period bloat is gone.

Week Three: Sperm, meet egg! Hopefully it was preceded by a very nice, extremely expensive candle-lit dinner. If it wasn’t, WELCOME TO THE CLUB.

Week Four: Your baby is now a BLASTOCYST. It sounds like something you’d say when you sneeze, but I assure you this is where the magic happens (also: when you eat Twizzlers. They’re magical). That ball of rapidly dividing cells will implant itself into your warm cozy womb.

Week Five: CONGRATS, MAMA! Yer knocked up! But…your baby looks like a brine shrimp. It’s a very CUTE one, but it’s a brine shrimp. It does have wee arm and leg buds (I don’t think shrimpies have those, but I’m allergic, so you know). Even more exciting, all of it’s organ systems – including the heart and lungs – are beginning to form. You know, so it can scream it’s head off to you when you don’t buy it Justin Beaver tickets.

Week Six: You’re probably feeling like dogshit. It’s okay, have a saltine and some nice Gatorade. Y’know, stuff you can puke up more easily. If you’re like me, you probably look six months pregnant already, even though your blastocyst is the a little bigger than a poppyseed.

Week Seven: Your baby is getting it’s kidneys ready to properly whiz all over your face, your carpet, your couch, it’s bed, and anywhere else it can possibly pee. Babies are good that way. It’s approximately the size of a blueberry, which should make you a) starving or b) vomit to read. Sorry about the fruit thing.

Week Eight: Well, okay, good, your baby looks like a baby and less like a shrimp. PHEW. It’s got fingers and toes (they are webbed, but you know, think of it like a duck and NOT like a Carny.) Even better? IT’S TAIL IS ALMOST GONE. Yep. I said tail. I meant it, too. Plus, it’s brain is forming. So it can outwit you. Trust me, it will.

Week Nine: Your less shrimpy baby’s weight can now be measured in ounces. Like vodka. Even better? NO TAIL. Although, I might like a prehensile tail sometime.

Week Ten: Those creepy arm buds are limbs that can move now, which means that your baby could very well be flicking you off RIGHT NOW. You should put the naughty baby in Time Out and give Aunt Becky his toys.

Week Eleven: Did you know I had to look up how to spell “eleven?” Because I did. Your baby and his developing brain is much smarter than me, even if his muscles are gearing up to kick your ass from the inside.

Week Twelve: Okay, so your baby has a big head. Like HUGE. A melon of a head. Well, in proportion to the rest of it. Your bobble-headed baby is getting nails, too, which is fancy. If you’re lucky, you should be able to hear the galloping heartbeat via Fetal Doppler, too. Always exciting.

Week Thirteen: Did you know that fingerprints are thought to be created by fetal movement in the womb? I thought that was kinda neat. Anyway. Your baby’s three inch long body is catching up to it’s gigantor head.

Week Fourteen: Welcome to the second trimester. If you call it “the golden trimester” in my presence, I will cut you. So, your baby can now do all of these fancy things with it’s face, like grimace, suck it’s thumb, squint and frown. That’s all gearing up for the terrible two’s and the teenage years. Enjoy the expressions when you can’t see them in front of you telling you how LAME you are.

Week Fifteen: Your baby weighs as much as a shot of vodka. Or the ones Aunt Becky pours, which are two and a half ounces. Plus, it’s starting to look like a REAL BABY and not a freaky shrimp creature.

Week Sixteen: Your baby’s head is still ginormous. Luckily, it’s getting hair on that beast, so if it should decide to comb it’s hair in the womb, it so could. Your baby is also getting big enough to dance the night away, probably on the bladder, thereby interrupting your sleep in a series of nights that, trust me, you’ll be up with the baby. (you should put your baby in Time Out for that)

Week Seventeen: I’d tell you your baby was the size of a turnip but I have no clue what a turnip looks like so it’s useless. Your baby is getting sweat glands this week which means LOTS of stinky socks in your future.

Week Eighteen: Hopefully by now you’ve gotten to feel your baby tap-tappity-tap-tap you. Because he’s dancing up a freaking storm in there. And those small movements (called quickening) are what makes pregnancy worth it. No, seriously. SHUT UP, I’M ALLOWED TO HAVE FEELINGS.

Week Nineteen: Your baby can hear you sing. So knock off the crappy Britney impersonations (that was my note to self).

Week Twenty: So your baby is learning to breathe. Talk about awesome. No seriously, those lungs are important and it should practice breathing so it can scare the shit out of you with shrieks someday soon. I told you the good stuff first. Now? I need to warn you. Your baby is also covered with cheesy vernix caeseosa. And hair. Everywhere. See? I told you it was scary.

Week Twenty-One: You’ve probably figured out if your gestating a boy or girl. So get ready to pick out paint colors for the nursery and then make someone else paint it. Milk that pregnancy for all it’s worth, girl.

Week Twenty-Two: Your baby weighs almost a pound and is getting fatter by the minute. Don’t think you need to put him on Baby Atkins yet. Baby fat = good.

Week Twenty-Three: From the outside, your baby looks like the alien in Alien, what with the squirming and twisting and trying to exit through your belly button. Stupid baby; we all know that the belly button is NOT the place a baby comes from. It’s your vagina.

Week Twenty-Four: Now your baby can hear. So you can TOTALLY put it in time-out for making you retain so much freaking WATER.

Week Twenty-Five: If you have an ultrasound now, you can probably see some of baby’s hair swirling around. Unless you have a cue-ball baby. Then, not so much.

Week Twenty-Six: If you’re having a boy crotch parasite, his testicles are descending to the scrotum. Just what you wanted to think about.

Week Twenty-Seven: You’ll know if baby gets the hiccups now because your belly will jump around all freaky-style. Luckily, baby isn’t big enough to HURT YOU yet when it does that.

Week Twenty-Eight: Your baby weighs over two pounds, but still, it’s pretty skinny. On the upside, it’s less wrinkled and red than it’s been before. Even cooler, it can open it’s lash-rimmed eyes. Bummer it can’t tell you what it sees because I bet it’s rad. Also: 96% of babies born at 28 weeks gestation survive. Win!

Week Twenty-Nine: You should probably sign up for those Lamaze classes so you can answer me a question that has haunted me for years: why do the ladies in the birthing videos deliver naked?

Week Thirty: Now, baby is getting ready to be expelled from your body. It’s assumed the “head down” position, if it’s a good baby, and it’s getting fatter! See, unlike adult fat, baby fat is full of the awesome, for their health AND adorability. Also: your baby is aware of the sounds outside of the womb. Maybe it’s time to turn down the porn.

Week Thirty-One: Your mean baby is probably keeping you up all night kicking your spleen. I’ll lie and say “it gets better once they’re born,” but it’s not true. I mean, it IS true. You’ll have the miracle baby that sleeps through the night from birth. (P.S. ground that baby now and give me his presents)

Week Thirty-Two: Your baby is less wrinkled now, which is good. Who wants to give birth to a baby that looks like a old man wearing a onsie?

Week Thirty-Three: Baby is now pretty tightly fit in your uterus, which means you’ll feel it a hell of a lot more when baby kicks the shit out of your bladder. It’s okay if you pee a little when you sneeze. We all do. Well, except for me. Because I am a miracle.

Week Thirty-Four: You’re probably wearing underwear that could double as the mast from a sailboat. But damn, that shit is COMFORTABLE.

Week Thirty-Five: Even if your hospital bag is packed, color coded, and organized alphabetically, I promise you that you’ll forget the one thing you really need and make someone else go buy it for you. Or, you’ll never use the suitcase of stuff you brought because you’re bleeding everywhere and just want more of those damn ice packs for your crotch. Perhaps it’s just me.

Week Thirty-Six: All that hair that I talked about before that made your baby look like Sasquatch? Well, thankfully, it’s disappearing now. Because a baby with a hairy back is creepy. Your baby’s body is getting nice and fat, which is good, because it helps it regulate body temperature once it’s outside of the womb. Speaking of that, hope you have your nursery ready, because D-Day is almost here.

Week Thirty-Seven: Welcome to full-term. Your baby is cooked. NOW you can start obsessing over the signs of labor and assume you’re in labor every time you have heartburn (right, like you haven’t been doing that since Week Eight.) Trust me when I say this: labor feels like labor, not heartburn.

Week Thirty-Eight: Baby’s getting fatter, but every minute seems like an hour and every hour seems like an eternity as you wait to pop out your baby. Disconnect yourself from social media lest you go on a mad Twitter rampage about how unhappy you are. There ARE people without legs, after all.

Week Thirty-Nine: Sorry you’re still pregnant. I’m sure you’re miserable, especially since people stare at you with mouths agape when you go out in public. Apparently, the general public has never seen a pregnant woman before. You should kick them if they stare. I’ll get your bail money.

Week Forty: That cheesy vernix caeseosa is almost gone now, which is good, because it makes your baby look like a statue. Your baby is also fat, pink and happy. Well, okay, I lied. Most babies are decidedly UN-happy. But hey, you didn’t hear it from me. It’s time to push a baby out of your vagina (or have it removed from above) and wear those awesomely gigantic mesh panties they give you at the hospital. Screw Victoria’s Secret; THOSE is where the party is.

Week Forty-One: Are you STILL fucking pregnant? That’s bullshit. Get some really obnoxious music (think C and C Music Factory) and play it to your belly, all Branch Davidians-Style. You should probably take your phone off the hook so you don’t get a zillion “are you STILL pregnant?” questions. Because trust me. If you’re still pregnant, you don’t need to make nifty smalltalk.

Week Forty-Two: Okay, I feel sorry enough for you by now to actually help this along myself. Threaten baby with A Visit From Crazy Aunt Becky.

And Now You Are Four.


Dear Alex,

I took a pregnancy test – the only positive one I’d seen since getting knocked up with your biggest brother – while drinking vodka and smoking a cigarette. I was so certain I was doomed to another month of negative tests, and the test was simply a way of dashing any lingering hopes for that cycle.

When the digital test read the elusive, “PREGNANT,” I’d been chasing, I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “No fucking way.” I simply couldn’t believe that I’d actually managed it. I was finally knocked up.

After getting knocked up while on the pill, I figured another pregnancy was a Sure Thing, and frankly, from the moment I met your brother, I decided that he needed siblings (although not by his father).

When your father proposed to me I said, “Can’t we have some more babies instead?”

(I’m not much of a romantic)

Your dad insisted that no, in fact, we could not just pop out more kids, so he dragged me down that aisle in a while dress, slung a ring on my finger and made me an “honest woman.” I kept my eyes on the prize (more babies!) while month-after-month of negative pregnancy tests taunted me.

By the time I took that one positive test, I’d given up hope of conceiving without outside help. But there you were.

I quickly snuffed out my cigarette and dumped out the vodka I’d been drinking. I was a PREGNANT LADY now.

The nine months that followed were some of the most excruciating I’d had. I barfed until I had nothing left to barf and still I got fat. My ribs spread. I looked like Grimace (but less purple).

By the time March 30, 2007 rolled around, I was four centimeters dialed, and beyond ready to remove you from my body cavity. By force, if necessary. I’d told my doctor that I was going to induce labor in the back of a car – (and I would have) so that I could get you the hell out.

I waddled in to the hospital and a couple of hours later – and a mere three pushes – there you were.

You promptly whizzed all over your father, something I considered appropriate since he’d “had a headache” and slept through your entire labor. The nurse said that you looked like an angel. I thought you looked like a cross between a garden gnome and Elmer Fudd.


I didn’t care.

(I think I yelled “NORD-BERG” after you were born, as a joke.)

What I’d wanted, prayed for my entire pregnancy was to have a child that liked me. Years of being rejected by your older brother had left me feeling pretty shitty about myself, and this time; this time I wanted a baby who loved me.

You know the saying, “be careful what you wish for?” Because that’s exactly what I got. A child that liked me best. A child that liked me so much, in fact, that I couldn’t put him down. Ever.


For a full year, you only had eyes for me. I nursed you while walking through Target, I nursed you to sleep, I got up with you every two hours to nurse you more. You nursed 18 hours a day. Sleep-deprivation took on a whole new meaning.


God forbid anyone attempt to give me respite. It was Alex’s way or the highway. And all roads lead to Mama.

Mama got you back.


At four now, you’re still a Mama’s Boy, under duress you’ve learned to like others as well.

I’ve never met anyone quite like you before, Alex. You bring a whole new meaning to the word, “intense,” because you are so very intense. But that intensity has a streak of sweetness a mile wide, which is how we find your severely passionate quirks charming rather than difficult.

Child of mine, you march to the beat of your own drummer, the kind of drummer who doesn’t give a flying fuck what other people think of them. You wear your cupcake shirt with joyful pride, fluttering around in your Flutter-Bye costume (which is always worn, of course, for all holidays), and I’m certain if anyone questioned it, you’d just give them the hairy eyeball.


You like it, therefore everyone else should, too. If they don’t? Fuck ’em.

That’s an admirable quality, Alex. Don’t lose that.


Sometimes, I wish I’d been blessed with an imagination as vivid as yours. Your Playmobil Guys go on many adventures, sliding down slides, robbing banks, and other assorted escapades while the rest of us simply watch, stunned. I’ve never been creative like that.


Like your brother before you, The Planets are everything. You mapped out your next Halloween Costume (Saturn) immediately upon returning home from Trick-or-Treating. I’m forever tripping over mini-solar systems you’ve set up around the house, only to be scolded, “Mom, you RUINED NEPTUNE.”

Sorry, kidlet.


Your sweet streak, well, it knows no bounds. Your preschool teacher is forever praising your behavior with your sister. You treat her with kindness, dignity and respect. You look out for her, gently leading her around and taking care of her. As well you should. Your teacher has never seen anything like it.


I know it won’t always be this way between you three, but I do know this: you three have each other, and someday that will matter. Never stop caring about your siblings. They’re your best allies and someday, I know they’ll repay the favor. Your sister, especially, will kick anyone’s ass for you if need be. I know this because she is like me.


We’ve had a rocky couple of years, you and me, but in the end, we’re better for it.

Remember when things go to shit – even when they’re at their worst – you’ll find inner strength that otherwise, you’d never know you had. In the end (and there is always an end), it’ll all be worth it. Somehow. You may not know precisely why you had to walk through bullshit until much later. When you do, it’ll all make sense.

I’m honored to know you and I’m honored to call you my son. You’ve given me redemption and love at a time when I needed it most. I cannot repay that debt to you. But I will try. You deserve that and so, so much more.


Love Always,


P.S. A Saturn Costume? You sure you don’t want to be a pirate or something?




For a third of my life now, I’ve been a mother.

I used to find Mother’s Day endlessly conflicting, especially as a new mother. Here was a day where I was supposed to celebrate being a mother, and there I was, working my ass off, trying to please the other mothers in my life; neither of whom particularly cared for me.

When I stopped trying to please them, I found that I was much happier.

I don’t feel conflicted anymore. Because while this is a holiday where I am supposed to be loved and cherished and honored by my children above all other mothers, I know that a shitty brunch of undercooked Eggs Benedict won’t ever say what your grimy outstretched arms do every day: you love me.

I know this.

So today is really about you, my children, the inexplicable three chunks of my heart forever walking around outside of my body. I’m not sure how they physically removed my heart and divided it up like that, but there you have it. In your veins, my blood flows; my heart pumps in your tiny, fragile chests.

I hope that you all grow to know how proud I am of you; how proud I am to know each of you. How I’ve marveled over each of your fingers and kissed them one by one while you slept on my chest as infants, and how my heart has swelled¬†until I thought it would burst in my chest when you mastered something new.

How I’ve wept, wishing that I could save you the bumps and bruises that are coming down the road by taking them for you. How I want you to grow to be tall and proud, standing up for what you believe in and helping those who have no voice. How I want you to be sure that there is so, so much good in this crazy, mixed up world, and how I want you to add to this good by being who you are.

Because you are all such wonderful people.

I hope that you can forgive me for the mistakes I’ve made. I’m bound to fuck you up in all sorts of ways I can imagine and many that I can’t. I hope that you can forgive me for calling you crotch parasites (even though you all are) and teaching you to swear prolifically.

Preemptively, I’m sorry.

But there’s not a day that goes by that I’m not proud to call you all my children. So Happy Mother’s Day, my babies. Without you, I simply wouldn’t be me.

And a Happy Mother’s Day to you, my Pranksters. To all of you who have children to celebrate with here on Earth, to those of you who are struggling to be mothers, and to those of you whose treasures are in Heaven.

A Happy Mother’s Day to all of you.

It Puts The Uterus in the Closet or it Gets the Hose Again


Spring in the Midwest is the time of year when we all come tumbling out of our houses and into the parkways like puppies, larva-like and milky-white from months of not seeing the sun. We’re always overly chatty in a serial killer way with our neighbors because it’s literally been months of not seeing them, and there’s always a sort of camaraderie of “yeah, we survived another one.”

We all seem to underestimate how hard the deep freeze of the winters are on our psyche, if not our pasty white skin. Because no sooner does the thermometer needle hover near 40 degrees than we’re all pulling out the barbecue grills and inviting everyone over for a Sausage (bacon?) Party.

We’re all also in the process of cleaning out our houses. St. Charles (ILLINOIS, people) runs a yearly junk day where the city comes around and picks up all your junk for free. The week before, though, everyone sets out their stuff and it’s sort of a recycling frenzy. Pretty much nothing makes it to the actual dump, which, HELLO, I’M BEING GREEN HERE.

In the process of getting the stuff ready for junk day, I finally tackled the project I’ve been putting off: Baby Stuff.

Since Amelia was born, I’ve just sort of stuffed all of her outgrown clothes into bins and thrown them in her closet (with all of Alex’s outgrown clothes) and called it a day. I’ve not been ready psychologically to deal with it, so, I shoved it back into the closet.

She’s our last baby, as made by the snipping of The Daver’s vas deferens this Thursday (Happy Tax Day, Daver!) and honestly, I’m good with that. My body can physically not handle another baby. I don’t want another baby. Shit, I have an 8-year old, a 3-year old and a 1-year old. Three is a motherfucking LOT of kids, Pranksters.

But it’s all those teeny-tiny clothes that break me up. I remember my babies in them when they were all tiny and new and squirmy and sweet (and not-so-sweet) smelling. They’re just so small and darling and my children are now getting so big and that’s wonderful but wow, those clothes, they flay me. They gut me.

It was time.

And really, it wasn’t as hard as I’d thought. I’ve still got my tenterhooks in the girl clothes and I gave the boy clothes to my nephew Cameron. How cool is it that I can SEE my clothes worn by my only nephew? (answer: full of fucking awesome!)

That goes to show that even Aunt Becky accepts that it’s time for a new era in Casa de la Sausage.

The era of watching OTHER people get fat, saggy asses and leaky breasticles while they cook their crotch parasites. The era of listening to OTHER people bemoan lack of sleep and all-nighters with chubby people who poo their pants. The era of listening to OTHER people discover why Dr. Sears is the fucking DEVIL.

Because as sad as I was to see those baby clothes go, I know I don’t want to push something from my delicate girl bits to put in those clothes. I’m done with that. My crotch is my own now. AUNT BECKY IS TAKING BACK THE CROTCH (and the rest of her body).

And the best part about it is, The Daver can no longer use the “it’s uter-US, Becky, not Uter-YOU” line on me anymore.


I am at Toy With Me, where I wrote a letter to my younger self. READ IT.


If you want to meet Mimi (and The Daver and Your Aunt Becky) come walk with us for the March for Babies! You know you want to.

The Sex Talk


Last night, as I was blearily trying to tuck in some dinner, talking to The Daver and waiting for the Vicodin to kick in to stop my eyeballs from trying to pop out of my head with a loud SLOP! sound and slither down my face onto my chicken sandwich, our eldest son came in to read aloud.

He’d been reading, I knew, from a book that The Daver and I had bought him when we’d found out that we were pregnant with his brother (Benny was 5), called It’s Not The Stork. Why he had the renewed interest in baby-making, I didn’t know, but he loved the book, and that was good enough for me, so for reading time, which he has every night, he was opting for that.

Last night, though, he came in with that book and a horrified look on his face.

“LISTEN TO THIS,” he said to us.

I couldn’t see what page he was turned to, but already I knew I wasn’t prepared. We’d been over most of the book together, and the only stuff we’d sort of skipped was how the sperm made it INTO the vagina in the first place.

(Oh yeah, in my house? We have sperm and vaginas and penises and ovaries and fallopian tubes and uterus’s (it’s not uter-YOU! Becky, it’s uter-US!) because those are the names of the organs. And I don’t believe I could call his penis a “tinky-wink” without then thinking that the next time I got into the sack with The Daver. *shudders*)

Autistic kids have memories like traps, so anything we’d talked about before was stuck firmly in there, so I knew whatever was coming had to be about those pages we’d sort of ignored.

And I was right.


He said it so loudly that I’m pretty sure the entire neighborhood heard.

The tone though, that sent me over the edge and I snickered into my hand. I didn’t WANT to. I mean, I’d been preparing for this chat for YEARS. And yet, here I was, laughing. It was just the way he said it.

And the look on his face afterward. Sort of a mixture of awe and disgust. Kind of the way I felt when I first found out about The Sex.

All I remember is thinking to myself when I got The Sex talk, “when I grow up, I never want to stop having it.” He certainly looked more horrified than that, which means he’s probably going to be a more upstanding citizen than I.

So, dutifully, Daver and I dragged our sorry assess out to the living room, after I scooped up the last of our “results of making special sleeping” named Amelia and asked if he had any questions.

We informed him that this wouldn’t happen until he was much older AND PREFERABLY MARRIED (o! the questions this will no doubt create) and we talked a little about puberty as we both quietly died a little bit inside as we both remembered that this gangly 8 year old was not the tiny 2 year old any more.

He seemed to accept it all remarkably well, considering, and seemed most concerned about his voice changing more than anything else. Promising to order him the book about puberty and continue the conversation tonight as he read more, he went off to bed, as at least 204 more grey hairs sprouted forth atop my head.

And now, I’m just waiting for the frantically irate phone calls from the parents of kids that Ben teaches ALL about this. Luckily, I guess, he’ll have the anatomy down PAT.


What was your sex talk like? Did you get one? Did I just ruin my son for life?

Pacify Me


You’d be shocked–and probably dismayed–to learn that there are a number of companies who want nothing more than to have me put my seal of approval on their product and then TELL YOU ABOUT IT. I’m personally shocked that any company would want anything to do with me, but you know.

Marketing to Mommy Bloggers is the new black, donchaknow? While I appreciate that many people do enjoy writing about the newest hot luscious cleaning apparatus, there’s a very real part of me that would feel kinda oogly about the whole thing.

It’s just not my bag, baby. It’s not to say that if a cool product was given to me, I wouldn’t endorse it, but I don’t think I need to do the work of a marketing company for them. Not without more compensation than a $10 product.

But I digress.

Occasionally, an opportunity to review something DOES come my way and while I am to fat (currently) to jump on it, I certainly THINK lazily about meandering towards it.

Like my friend Chris’s book: Pacify Me: A Handbook For The Freaked Out New Dad. First, he’s a friend and how fucking cool is it that I have a friend who has written a book (okay, I have a couple friends who have written–and published–books because they are cooler than I am)? And Part B, I sort of owe him*.

While we ladies have such humorous books as Naptime is the New Happy Hour and Sippy Cups Are Not For Chardonnay (also written by a friend because I tend to keep friends that are cooler than me), not to mention the Girlfriend’s Guides (to everything kid-related), dads are kind of given the short end of the stick.

Okay, let me rephrase that: Dads are TOTALLY shafted.

I guess the transition to fatherhood is supposed to be seamless or something, which is such fucking bullshit. Sure, the dudes don’t (presumably) get stretch marks or heavy boobies, but still, going from 0 -> 1 kid is a Big Ass Deal. Don’t let anyone tell you differently, because they are lying and if you believe them, I have this Nigerian Prince I know.

Fatherhood, is a Big Ass Deal.

Sometimes, you need a friend along the way to humorously guide you along while making obscure references to movies that I’ll probably never see because I am not a dude. Luckily, The Daver (who has approximately 3 minutes of free time each week) plucked Pacify Me out of my hands the moment I unwrapped it. He swears that “it rules” and “he wished that he’d read it before our babies were born.”

Dave was planning to do this review for me, but he’s also planning on building me flower boxes I’ll build myself and considering buying a new hose I’ll need to go buy. Like I said: he has no free time.

It’s a great book, a light, fun read, and I’m pretty sure every dad I know would get a kick out of it. So, you want a copy, you clamor? OF COURSE YOU DO.

Leave a comment and I’ll randomly select someone for whom I will BRAVE THE POST OFFICE FOR (I have a phobia, okay?). I’ll even fake his autograph! Consider, o yee who will win this, as a freebie Father’s Day gift! No need to go buy another ugly tie! Win, WIN! Contest ends June 14 at 11:59 PM.

If you don’t win (boo!), his book is available on Amazon. He also blogs over here at Daddy Needs Some Alone Time.

*I’m building up to something here. My 7th grade English teacher would call this “dramatic foreshadowing.” She would also be horrified that I referenced her in my blog here because she was a HUGE bitch, but what can you do? Free country and all.

And hey, you’re still here? Why don’t you go vote for me? You can vote EVERY DAY until July 6 at which point I will stop shamelessly begging for votes.

2009 BlogLuxe Awards

It Puts The Guest Post On The Internet Or It Gets The Hose Again


Man, I feel like I *just* guest-posted. Like last week or something. This is, I need to tell you, maybe the 3rd time I’ve done a guest post for anyone. I think people are afraid (rightly so) of what sort of shit I’d spew onto their blog.

But my friend JJ at Reproductive Jeans, didn’t fear. I’m at her place today. Come and visit. I’m super-nervous. What if her Internet hates me?

Oh, and leave me a topic here to post about. I’m digging the suggestions.

Only Mildly Abnormal


Thanks be to the Powers of the Pathology Lab, I got a call bright and bleary this morning from my OB. I’m only Mildly Abnormal. Which, you know, isn’t QUITE true, but fair enough. The bleeding problem is still, apparently, A Big Ass Problem, so I will be following up with her again in 6 weeks.

(note to self: do NOT google “severe bleeding disorders.”*)

Maybe it’s actually lupus? (that may have been funny only to me.)

*too late. ACK!


Aunt Becky: “Here.” (shoves a piece of paper toward The Daver)

The Daver: “What’s this?” (looks down at the paper)

AB: “The number I was promising you.” Looks around as though the air might provide her with the words she’s forgotten. It’s clear from the vapid expression on her face and the drool on the side of her mouth that she’s tired, high or both. “The…um….DOCTOR.”

TD: “Huh?”

AB: “The…UROLOGIST. About your old snip-snip.” (makes cutting gesture with fingers)

TD: “I can’t quite…make out…the…what does this say?” (he squints theatrically)

AB (leans over TD’s shoulder and notes that the numbers are both well formed and completely legible) “The number is….” (rattles off phone number)

TD: “But what is the doctors NAME?” (squints theatrically again)

AB: (exasperated) “I don’t know, Chantell, Chanelle? Does it matter?”

TD: (cryptically) “It matters VERY much…” (walks away)

AB: (sighs) “…guess I should look into that IUD…”


What’s mildly abnormal about YOU today, Internet?

Lowered Expectations


My two stipulations for birth are this:

1) More narcotics than you can shake a stick at

2) Plenty of “Eye of the Tiger” during pushing said middle-nameless crotch parasite out.

It’s entirely likely that I will be denied #1 due to the hungry gleam in my eyes that makes doctors uncomfortable because it screams “ADDICT,” and I’ll probably forget to put on the “Eye of the Tiger” at the appropriate time, but who cares?

Birth is the first in a long line of things about parenthood that you have no control over, so why not embrace it?

That said, I’m dying for something to take my mind off of the impending birth, so let’s run a contest and see who can guess correctly what Amelia will measure. I’m sure I’ll be late in awarding prizes, but you know, better late than never, right Coco?

The stats for my two other kids:

Ben: 7 pounds 13 oz, 19 inches long

Alex: 7 pounds 10 oz, 20 inches long

Amelia: ?????

Oh, and for my commentor J, who wanted proof that my feet don’t always look like the monstrosity that they currently are, here is a picture from when I busted my foot back in June. Please don’t mind my lack of pedicure, because I sure as shit don’t.

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