I know that I am apt to lose some readers when I announce this but I feel in the name of pure disclosure on my end, I should probably ‘fess up. *deep breath* Here goes:

While I mocked the #nikonhatesbabies thing on twitter with my own variation #auntbeckyhatesbabies, I don’t actually hate babies. (if you are blissfully unaware of what I speak, I’ll give you the rundown in a comment. It’s too stupid to put in a real post).

But wait, there’s more!

My given name is NOT Aunt Becky: it’s Rebecca, and I’m not really an aunt. Well, technically I am, but only to The Internet, which is probably good for my charge card, because while I do adore The Internet, I do not have urges to buy It frilly hats.

And I should warn you that if you try to call me “Rebecca,” I will probably freeze and give you saucer eyes, because the only person who has ever called me that was my mother. And only when I maybe stuck the fetal pig I was dissecting in college (FOR CLASS, YOU PERVERTS) into the Meat Keeper of our refrigerator for safe keeping.

Confession #3:

I’m not much of a drinker. Sure, I’m known to imbibe now and again, and I’m sure that I’ll lose my Hardcore Audience when I admit that I’m shamefully responsible about it. Take a breath, Internet, while I wrap my hammy arms around you. I know, I know, I’m sorry I lied to you for all these years.

Someone who calls themselves Aunt Becky and writes a blog called Mommy Wants Vodka has deceived you for years. I’m sorry.

*bursts into song*

“Forgiveneeeessss, forgiveness, EVEN if, EVEN if…”

Well, you know how that song goes. And if you don’t, be grateful. Be very, very grateful.

While my confessions are true, being tongue-in-cheek is more fun, so on I will go being Aunt Decepticon, only confessing to those bored enough to read the about me or things you never needed to know page on my sidebar.

I pigeonholed myself there and I’m not sorry, why should I be?

This brings me to the point of my post in a totally awkward segue that should go on record as being The Worse Segue Ever.

When I first started Mommy Wants Vodka, I was very anxious to separate myself from the Mommy Bloggers out there. I didn’t want to define myself entirely by my children, my husband, my marital status, my hair color, my shoe size, my IQ, ability to blow spit bubbles, my preference to drive manual transmission sports cars, my dislike of mini-vans and high top shoes, the type of crust I prefer for my pizza or my totally awkward segues.

They’re all pieces of who I am, but none of those can possibly describe precisely who I am in and of themselves. So, I was NOT going to be A Mommy Blogger, dammit! I was going to be MYSELF! I am a mother, yes, and I blog yes, but why limit myself?

According to some hippie I once knew, when you define something, you LIMIT it. I’m pretty certain he was trying to justify sticking his penis into someone other than his devoted girlfriend, and I’m pretty sure his logic sucked, but it’s always something I’ve sort of said in jest.

Because why should anyone care if they’ve been pigeonholed into Mommy Blogger Status? Why is that something so dirty now?

That’s the New Thing, I guess, is raging against this stereotype, and while I can see not caring to be associated with the Palmolive Ad Blogs or the Let Me Tell You How My Kids Rule Blogs, or the ever popular This Is Obviously A PR Statement Blog Sponsored By (insert big corporate sponsor here), I don’t see why it fucking matters anymore.

For as long as I write here, on Mommy Wants Vodka, I will get angrily written articles that refer people here to shrilly scold me for getting stinking drunk while watching my children and maybe feeding the baby a bottle of whiskey to shut her up. Even though I don’t and I haven’t (don’t tempt me), I’ll never escape that.

And I’ll never escape being called a Mommy Blogger.

So I’m going to go out on a limb here and say so.fucking.what?

Opinions are like assholes (presumably because everybody’s got one) and if someone wants to define me by the former occupants of my uterus? My blessed crotch parasites? Go ahead.

What I write and who I am stands on it’s own.

If it’s easier for some nameless PR firm or group of Anti-Mommy Bloggers to allow this to define those of us with children so.fucking.what? It’s no dirtier a term than “Breeder” or “Wife” and if it conjures up an image of someone who you think I should be, well, let me show you who I really am. Maybe our perceptions will align, maybe they won’t, maybe 50 million African Pygmy Hedgehogs don’t give a shit.

No stereotype is 100% accurate, no one fits any mold completely and anyone who is incensed by people trying to lump them into a category should really take a look at why it matters to them. People get me wrong ALL THE TIME and I don’t give a flying shit about it. Why does it matter here?

Are all frat boys beer guzzling moron assbags? Does everyone born between the years 1964-1974 feel apathetic and wear flannel while drinking coffee in a grungy coffee house? Do all teenagers suck to be around? For the love of GOD, are all red velvet cakes moist?

The answer, of course, to all the above questions is a resounding “no.”

Just like not all mommy-bloggers are alike. How could we be? We’re all different people, not to get all special-raindrop on your asses or anything, but it’s true.

And why did I, myself, once care if I was called one? I was trying to define myself OUTSIDE of my children: I am a suburban mother who stays at home with her kids who swears, has tattoos, occasionally drinks, and doesn’t poo rainbows or sunshine. I was trying to assert to the world that hey, y’all, I am more than the sum of my parts. And now? 2 years later? I know this without having to cram that down your throat.

What I write and who I am can stand on it’s own. And if you want to judge me for who you think I am? Go for it.

Just don’t try accuse me of being A Blonde. Because I tried it once and well, there’s a reason we dark-skinned girls shouldn’t try to go platinum. That reason? The color orange.

———–

What do you think, Internet? Not about brunettes trying to be blonde, of course, but about being pigeonholed. Is it really something to be all that upset over or should we just try and remember that not everything is Very Serious, Indeed?

Pretty much every time anyone asks me what I want or what turns me on (which is a surprisingly frequent occurrence for someone who is not yet a Penthouse Pet. Notice I said YET.) I have a stock answer: sleep. I want more sleep. If there was a 12 Step for Sleepaholics Anonymous I would probably have to join. Maybe I could actually NAP there.

Sleep, like my precious 6 pack abs, is a dwindling commodity around here as you might have guessed by my menagerie and The Sausages. Any moment of the day, someone or somebody wants something from me. I’m used to it by now, although, like anything else, it has it’s days where I want to pull what’s left of my postpartum hair from my head and run down the street naked and screaming about dingoes and my baby.

With the addition of each child, my sleep issues have gotten worse. And once my glandular issues (I HAVE GLANDULAR ISSUES, PEOPLE!!) were solved and the Synthroid was happily on board, I suddenly found that I had developed that tried and true, suicide-inducing insomnia. This happened to occur right as I got pregnant with Alex, and this was before I knew that pregnant ladies could take Benedryl, so I spent all of his pregnancy sleeping horribly. I’d fall asleep only to flit in and out of the land of nod all night.

WARNING! WARNING! IF YOU HAVE A NEW BABY AND IT IS YOUR FIRST BABY DO NOT READ WHAT FOLLOWS. LET ME DIRECT YOU HERE.

Alex was born and the issues deepened. Not only did he not sleep through the night until he was a over a year, he was still UP every 1-3 hours during this year. I nearly lost what was left of my addled mind. (insert joke here about how someone who calls herself “Your Aunt Becky” can maintain that she was EVER sane) I hallucinated, I hurt myself unintentionally, I was afraid to drive, lest I crash into something while I nodded off at a stop light, I got into a fist-fight with Daver, I fantasized about being institutionalized.

It.Was.Torture.

Every time I was able to fall asleep, Alex would wake up, which is comical for a couple moments until you remember that this is a method of torture the soldiers used on POW. I have no doubts of it’s efficacy.

To make matters worse, I got so agitated that even the nights Alex DID sleep for 6 glorious hours at a stretch, I couldn’t sleep. Pair-a-docks indeed.

Alex has since been squared away and I take a lovely combo of meds to insure that I go to and stay asleep, which is certainly not something of which I am proud, but with 3 kids, I don’t quite have the luxury to evacuate my bowels alone, let alone find an hour to nap.

(pointless aside time! BONUS!!

When I finally went to the doctor about these persistent and kind of frightening headaches I’ve been having for the past 4-5 months, he asked if I could lie down when I got one. I laughed until I cried. Then DAVE laughed until he cried, because, seriously, doc, do you write your own jokes?! I’ll make sure to try the salmon and I *always* tip my waitress)

Amelia has decided that sleep is for (and I quote) “fucking pansies” and doesn’t care to partaketh in such pointless activities now that she’s realized what a cool place the world is. And while I see her point–I do–the world is a much HAPPIER place for everyone when baby naps.

But no.

I don’t remember–or give much of a shit–or two shits–or even three shits–if this is some sort of developmental thing, because knowing it’s a developmental thing that most babies grow out of until said baby is old enough for Benedryl, doesn’t exactly fucking help you a whole lot. I lost faith in the term “most” as it applies to children, oh, I don’t know, about 8 years ago?

Either way, Miss Mimi is not sleeping. Dave is bearing the brunt of the overnight stuff because he is not only awesome but amazing too (and he knows that once I get up with her, I’m up for a good couple of hours afterwards and although this does not directly affect him, me whining, pissing and moaning incessantly about it later does) and I have to deal with the juggling act of two small ones.

One of whom is my Alex, who would, most days, like to crawl back up in the old uterus (it’s not UTER-YOU, Mom, it’s UTER-US!) and stretch out in there and the other is my precious daughter. Who now, just like her mother, wakes up from a dead sleep when a frog in Siberia farts or a raccoon in the Catskills considers walking on some crunchy leaves.

(Alex was the same way)

This really becomes a problem because we have stupidly never installed a soundproof room which, after these two babies, would have been wiser than the velcro wall we installed instead.

My house is loud. It just is.

Alex has a voice that could shear glass into nifty seascapes, my dogs bark whenever someone thinks about walking past my house, the phone is always ringing, kids are always banging through, recklessly slamming doors, my cats yodel from different vantage points about the house, and well, if you can’t sleep for shit anyway, you’re effing screwed.

As frustrating as it is sometimes after I’ve carefully put my daughter to sleep through a combination of bottles, swaddling, bouncing and/or patting and binkies, and I get her upstairs and she bolts upright, looking at me mischievously as if to say “yeah RIGHT, Mom. Nice freaking try!” I feel sorry for her. If she’s anything like me, she’s going to discover the wonders of pharmaceuticals early and learn to punch people who tell her to try warm milk.

Either that, or I am going to have to surgically implant her somewhere on my body. Then at least, I could have my hands back. So that I can, you know, pick my nose and check for dirty diapers.

The important stuff.

Now, you didn’t really think I had cured cancer, did you? If I had, my face would be plastered on pretty much every magazine cover, I’d have multiple bookings on Good Morning America and Larry King Live, and the world might award me a Nobel Prize. No, I haven’t quite cured cancer yet, but I’m pretty sure I will. In the words of my high school Guidance Counselor, Mr. Duffy, I just need to apply myself more.

Sure, I’ve applied myself to certain worthwhile pursuits, convinced of my own inherent genius without so much as a glance at the facts. Why, this one time I almost became an artist! A veritable child prodigy! Another time I nearly became a culinary genius, which, despite how they make it look on television is no easy pursuit. Sure, I’ve failed more times along the way than I can count; becoming a nurse instead of a doctor, having a child rather than a trained monkey butler, getting pregnant against all odds, facing the hurdles of autism and death, marrying a man in lieu of traveling the world while simultaneously curing both AIDS and poverty. And fatness. Don’t forget fatness.

But one of these days, I tell you, I’m going to finish curing cancer.

I just know it.

We’re not really a fourth of July kind of family. Not a one of us cares for jello molds or bean dips–two of the things I highly associate with the holiday–and since Illinois put The Ban On Fun when the outlawed pretty much every single firework, even Sparklers are forbidden. SPARKLERS.

Yeah. I know. We impeach our crooked governors, run a toll road system I cannot understand to save myself, and outlaw fucking Sparklers.

(we were left, I should tell you, with those things you throw at the ground that make a satisfying ‘POP!’ Yeah. Pathetic, I know)

Sure, we’re close enough to Wisconsin that should we care to, we could easily pop up over the border for some contraband fireworks and a visit to the Best Thing In Wisconsin (besides House on the Rock and the jaunty “You Are Now Leaving Wisconsin” sign you see when you’re whizzing back into Illinois)

(Wisconsin and Illinois have a long standing feud, for those who wonder why I’m picking on an entire state. Wisconsinites hate we FIB’s–fucking Illinois Bastards–for driving too quickly and habitually wearing pants. Where we Illinoisans hate Wisconsinites for their love of both the Packers and The Brewers, both of which are seen as inferior to the Bears and the Cubs–or Sox–respectively).

The single Best Thing In Wisconsin besides leaving it is this:

That’s right, The Mars Cheese Castle. If you’re ever in the area, I suggest, nay INSIST that you stop by. It’s truly a place above the rest. For instance, while there, I noted a nice block of cheddar cheese, encased in wax and made to look like a can of Bud Light. It brings a tear to my eye when I think about it.

But this weekend, because we don’t want to be Annexed to Cuba or wherever it is they banish people these days (Wisconsin? I kid, I kid. I couldn’t resist. And besides the gentle ribbing, I do actually like Wisconsin. Half the plaques affixed to Dave’s arteries are thanks in no small part to the sausages and the cheese and the butter farmed right there. So it’s a part of the man I promised to love, honor and repay, that wily state), we’re hosting a party. A SAUSAGE party featuring a multitude of delicious encased meats.

Dave is taking the eldest sausage and heading out to buy as many encased meats as he can fit his grubby hands around. Hot dogs, brats, cheese brats, meat sticks, wee breakfast sausages, bacon, and (likely) cheese. It shall be a feast in which I pass out fistfuls of Lipitor with the buns and ketchup.

Since his (grumble, grumble, grouse) father has not called or picked him up in three weeks–lest you feel sorry for Ben, he’s pleased as punch by this, as are we–Ben will be there and likely covered in ketchup.

Alex will happily fling cupfuls of water at our guest while somehow managing to simultaneously bean them in the head with any number of large balls. All of which he calls “purple” as I think he is as color blind as I am.

Amelia will show off that she is no longer the embryo I’d thought she was by rolling around on the floor. She doubles as a lint brush! I’m sure our guests may choose to borrow her to remove the copious amounts of cat hair from their clothes.

(when did she get so old?)

Amelia may also voice her displeasure of learning precisely what being a member of our family involves. She is, no doubt, at the tender age of 5 months, plotting her escape to find her Real Family, as she, like me, was no doubt switched at birth.

(Also: I scream just as loudly when Dave gets into MY face)

Happy Third of July, Internet! If you’re local and care to join us for an encased meats extravaganza, drop me a line.

Your comments in my last post had me rolling on the floor, seriously, I might have cried a little (in a good way) when I read them.

—————

My trolls often accuse me of one of two things:

1) The Most Boring Person On The Internet

#B) A fucking idiot.

The first I refuse to cop to because I may be dull, but I ASSURE you that I cannot possible be the most boring person on the Internet. Number B is true, as you well know, I have never denied being a blithering idiot. If the Stupid Shoe fits, I’ll gladly parade it around town.

I guess I’m just amazed that it only took my son 7 and a half years to realize it.

See, this summer I was looking forward to. This is the first summer that Ben hasn’t been enrolled in a summer camp, partially because I didn’t care to send him back to the hippie Nut Ban! school, and partially because I was all set to enjoy having my eldest home. Our relationship may not be traditional as I’ve previously stated, thanks to his autism and my own moronism, but we do like each other.

Suddenly, though, I’m questioning the validity of my prior decision. Sure, it’s nice to have someone who understands me when I speak but that means that I have someone who understands me when I speak. Especially if I say something like “God-fucking-damnit, I am SO MAD at (insert relative’s name here).” Suddenly, his wee voice pipes up with, “Cocksucking assholes,” just to be supportive of me.

I kid, I kid. Don’t go all Maude Flanders “Think of the CHILDREN” on me.

I never say “cocksucking.”

Ben’s autism, while it makes for many various and sundry irritations and fixations, makes it very hard for him Not To Follow The Rules. He is a very precise, Germanic kind of child, the sort who scolds me when I say “fuck” or “shit” and the day when I dare to not load my plate after I eat, I will certainly be stoned to death by him. When I dare to tell him to go to his room at bedtime, he often creates elaborate lists of The Rules so that he may….I don’t know what he does with them.

I also recieve notes that say things like “Why Does Mom Make Me Go To Bed When She Doesn’t Have To Go To Bed:” check box:

• Because she said so
• Because she said so

So that’s the way it is in my family.

But I’m wondering if maybe this whole “let’s all stay home together” stuff is a bit overrated. You homeschooling parents out there, you deserve a fucking medal and a parade in your honor. No doubt. I don’t know how you do it.

It doesn’t seem to matter that right before school ended, I bought Ben another 30 (yes, that’s right thirty.) Magic Treehouse books, when I suggest that he might stop following me around so that he can read one of his many books (he’s rereading them in numerical order, naturally) they’re now BORING.

Since he accidentally knocked a glass of water onto my keyboard and didn’t tell me about it, he’s banned from the computer indefinitely, and the television–although he would probably trade his siblings for it–is not something that I allow him to sit in front of, rotting his brain cells.

Maybe I should rethink my parenting strategy to allow a hell of a lot more movies and video games and a lot less hovering around me, trying to prove how wrong I am at life. Because now my son has discovered what a freaking moron I am and isn’t afraid to tell me all about it.

Ben: “What time is it?”

Becky (not looking at a clock): “Um, maybe 9:15?”

Ben (in his best ‘you’re a freaking idiot voice’): “I don’t mean to be mean or anything, but….it’s actually 9:26.”

Becky: “Why did you ask me if you knew the answer?”

Ben: “I wanted to see if you were right.”

Becky (headdesk)

————-

Ben: “Where’s my swim suit?”

Becky: “It’s next to….the…uh…couch?”

Ben: “Hahahaha. You said couch!! Hahahaha! It was on the CHAIR. HAHAHAHA!”

Becky (clenches hands into fists) “Serenity now. SERENITY NOW.”

—————-

So, it’s only July 1, I noted sadly on the calendar (two weeks until my birthday, Internet! Time to get prepared for the party you’re throwing me!) and already I’m seeing a noticeable increase in the size of my stripe of grey hair. My hair is either going to fall out in a frazzled halo around me or I will become a Distinguished Grey 28 year old.

Serenity now. SERENITY NOW.

—————–

How’s YOUR summer going?

• Most blogs have about a one year shelf life.

• There is such a thing as over-posting, but I’m unclear as to what that is.

• Blogging takes a ton of work. Really, it does.

• The trolls will come and they do not read most of what you say before they chew you out in the comments.

• It’s really up to you whether or not you allow the trolls to have their say on your blog.

• No one will read you for a couple months. It’s okay. Soldier on.

• If you want people to read you, read other blogs.

• You may be 1000% certain that you are The New Dooce, but you’re not. Now, you might be as talented as fucking Hemmingway, but you’re not going to get the same press that she did. No press = no instant popularity.

• There’s more politics than you can imagine in blogging.

• If you want more comments then comment until your fingers bleed.

• Get a reader and subscribe to the blogs you like. Comment the shit out of those blogs. People will (eventually) come.

• I’m more likely to comment on your blogs if you’re a loyal commentor on my blog.

• There will be bloggers who will NEVER visit your blog no matter how many amazing and witty comments you leave. Period. Move on if it hurts your feelings.

• Begging for comments is distasteful.

• Support each other as best as you can, in good times and in bad. Every comment helps.

• Every couple of weeks, some new trend will piss off a number of (especially) mom bloggers and they will become annoyingly polarized.

• Resist the urge to chime in about Your Take On This Trend. Seriously.

• Every time the Today show features Dooce, there’s a bazillion start up blogs that believe (hehe) that you can $40,000 a month blogging. Maybe if you’re Dooce that’s true, but for the rest of us? Bwahahahahaha! I don’t mean to sound mean, and if you do manage this, pat yourself on your back for me but don’t get your hopes up.

• Whenever one of those stupid blog contests gets started, everyone freaks out. It will blow over.

• If you’re totally blocked for ideas about a post, describing the boring minutiae of your day is probably not titillating to others. Write it if you must, then delete it. Hopefully that will get your juices flowing and you can write about something more interesting. A turd of a post will always look like a turd no matter how you dress it up.

• Talking shit about anyone–especially behind their backs on your blog that they presumably don’t read–is a bad fucking idea. Password protect those, or better yet, don’t write them at all. Although they may be satisfying, remember, those are the posts that the very same people you talk about may find. It’s a smaller Internet than you think it is and you’re not as anonymous as you think you are.

• If you don’t want people to respond in a negative manner, then don’t let it all hang out there. Not everyone will agree with you and there are people who will happily tell all of the ways you are wrong. You don’t have to like it, but if you put it out there, you do have to deal with it.

• There is something about being able to hide behind “anonymous” that makes people say really dick-ish things that they probably wouldn’t say to your face. It can hurt, I know this, and people will get you all wrong and it will suck, but if you don’t want to deal with it, go private or password protected.

• Your feelings will get hurt. I promise you this.

• Although most of your followers will wish you well, there will always, ALWAYS be a contingent that hopes that you will fail. And fail badly.

• Sarcasm doesn’t always translate well through the written word, so be careful when you use it.

• Music on blogs is universally hated. If you want to put it on there, it’s wise to leave the playlist on mute and allow other people to turn it on should they want.

• Don’t clog up your sidebar with crap. Especially blinky crap. Because it makes the page take like 40 hours to load and then people will click away because who really wants to sit there, waiting for the page to load?

• Don’t put shit on the Internet you wouldn’t wear on a tee-shirt.

• Beware of the donate button. It causes many people to be very, very mad.

• Begging for money pisses people off.

• Constant self-promotion can be a real turn-off.

• Meme’s, although a nice tool to get the writing juices flowing, are usually boring to read. If you like doing ’em, then fuck it and do ’em anyway.

• Edit your posts. Edit them religious.

• Paragraph breaks are a necessity. I cannot read anything not broken up by paragraphs.

• The background of your post needs to be something that is appealing to the eyes. Some colors (especially pink, which is a favorite color of mine) although lovely, leave the reader squinty and headachey. Check out what your finished post looks like YOURSELF and see if you can read it without adjusting your monitor.

• A black background is very, very hard to read.

• If all your tweets on Twitter are links to stuff that people can buy from you or ways to get a zillion followers overnight, you’ve probably pissed off a good portion of your readers.

• There is such a thing as over-sharing.

• Remember that your kids may one day read whatever you’ve written, so choose what you share (especially about them) well.

• Writer’s Block does end.

• Don’t lie. And for God’s sake, don’t fake a dead baby. I don’t even have words to describe people who do that sort of thing.

• Don’t idolize the success of another blogger. Also, don’t hate them for it. In blogging, you often get what you put into it. And the higher you climb, the more pressure there is.

• Be kind to other people. You gain nothing by being cruel.

• Blog for yourself, not for other people.

• Stuff on the Internet–even the stuff you erase–is never, ever, EVER gone. EVER. So make DAMN sure you want to live with whatever you say.

• Remember, it’s all supposed to be fun. Enjoy what you write, take pride in it, and if someone else comes along and tells you that you suck, tell them that Aunt Becky told them to shove it up their pooper.

————-

What am I missing here?

Like many other kids on the autistic spectrum, Ben had various and sundry food issues. For probably 3 or 4 years, he’d eat nothing but his White Food Diet. This included AND was limited to: saltine crackers, graham crackers and oatmeal.

Ben was the only kid I knew who had to be forced to try a Chicken McNugget or a slice of pizza, and while you’d probably say to me, “Aunt Becky, why didn’t you try to make him eat something more healthy?” I’d tell you, Gentle Reader, that I’d already tried in vain. That kid food, Gentle Reader, was my best bet for getting him to realize that stuff outside of his diet was a-okay and wouldn’t cause him to explode (or whatever he thought would happen).

Food Issues just became a normal everyday part of my life and we learned to deal with it. Sure, it was (and still is) frustrating, but what can you do? Ben is loads better now than he once was.

Ben says, “Stop, in the name of FOOD.”

Alex was born when Ben was five and by then, many of his eccentricities had been worked out and turned into mere quirks (thank you Occupational Therapy!). Unlike his brother, I have a distinct feeling that Alex would have happily crawled from the womb and found his way up to the boob to eat, had I not been so easily able to expel him through my magnificent pushing prowess.

Alex + Food = True Love

Like clockwork, right about 4 months of age, Alex began to take a decided interest in table food, and the first time I put a spoon with my low-cal, super-fake-sugary yogurt and dipped it into his mouth, he was enraptured (I know. By YOGURT. Ew). I quickly dashed to the store and bought him some full fat, no fake-sugar yogurt, which he devoured by the 6-pack.

(also, could Alex and Amelia look any more alike?)

I.was.thrilled.

I had grandiose ideas of having dinners that didn’t taste like cardboard! Dinners that had VARIETY! Dinners that I might be excited to eat! Dinner time, thanks to some peer pressure, might actually cease to be a nightly battle!

Did someone say BACON?

Not so, little grasshopper, not bloody so.

What I hadn’t taken into consideration when I happily pulled my cookbooks from their dusty shelves, is that Alex is the most willful person you have ever met. So the minute the Terrible One’s (now followed by the Terrible Two’s) reared it’s ugly head, food was a battle once again.

Without the sensory issues, but with the iron clad will of a thousand tons of platinum, Alex will simply refuse to eat. He can be presented with the most succulent, delicious morsel of filet, and if he is a particularly obstinate mood (which happens to be 99.9% of the time), he will throw it angrily to the dogs. Or at my head. It’s a battle of the wills with Alex.

Simply put: I’ve given (mostly) up. Not because I really want to admit that I’ve been broken by a two year old whom I outweigh by over 100 pounds, but because I’m just too tired to care. You don’t want to eat? Don’t eat then.

Dinners are once again made of cardboard, the cookbooks gather mold and moss, and I just sigh melodramatically whenever I imagine the foods that other kids will eat. With Alex, it’s not a sensory thing, it’s a control thing and I’ve heard somewhere this is common with toddlers.

So, I say, fuck it. I’m tired of trying to sneak broccoli into mac and cheese only to have one of them notice and refuse it. I appreciate that Jessica What’s-Her-Face wrote a cookbook that suggests great ways to get kids to eat their veggies, I say great. Good for her. My kids? Will notice.

Perhaps this is my comeuppance for dressing the kid like a hot dog.

Someday, they will broaden their horizons and until then? They can eat like freaks. I’ll fill in their nutritional gaps as best as I can with Carnation Instant Breakfast and vitamins.

Alex and an edamame regarded each other for a time in silence. ‘Who are you?’ Asked Alex. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation.

We need to be clear on a point, Internet, I am not particularly squeamish. Unless we’re talking vomitous. Because that will make me very, very squeamish indeed. So much so that I will have to go running into the other room)

Being a nurse, and a mother, and someone with Crohn’s disease, I am no stranger to The Dookie. I have very little issue with cleaning it off of puckered poopers, be it my own, my son’s or even a stranger’s. No huge deal to me.

(no, I will not look at the rash on your penis)

Lately my Crohn’s has been particularly awful, rendering me bathroom-bound for many hours a day. It’s part of the disease process, so I have a hard time being too upset about it. It’s just life for me.

Since I moved from living with one male to living with TWO males, I have learned that having a penis = something besides the obvious and lingering smell of urine in the bathroom. It ALSO = Skidmarks. Since I have the misfortune of doing laundry, I am constantly coming across poo-stains on the seat of 2 sets of tighty-whiteys. Once large and one small.

I’m not sure the correlation, between penis and poo-crusties, but I do know this. I shit more regularly than anyone else in the house (aside from Joey The Mean Hamster) and I fail to import that poo onto the seat of my drawers. Guess it’ll be the subject of an upcoming History’s Mysteries.

And as a parent, I have been particularly lucky in one regard. Ben has been (literally, NOT figuratively) constipated since he was born. Once the meconium passed in the hospital, he didn’t have a bowel movement for DAYS. As such, although I had to venture into the realm of suppositories, I was spared the “my baby shit in his pants and wiped it all over the wall and crib.”

Until yesterday.

Ben came out of his room after taking a nap covered in something suspiciously brown and crusty. I had fleetingly thought that maybe it was actually dirt. Now, I wouldn’t be happy that there was enough dirt in my house to make that sort of mess, but it was better than the truth. Upon closer inspection, it was worse than I had feared.

Ben had SHIT IN HIS UNDERWEAR AND PLAYED WITH IT. It was shoved under his fingernails, on his face, and in his hair. It was crushed and smashed in his underwear.

I went through the roof. I was so angry that I made Ben sit in the bathroom, after de-shitting him (I wished like mad that I’d had a radioactive suit) until he could remember where poop goes. About 30 minutes while I stewed in the other room.

Several hours later, my Crohn’s came a-knockin’ and I rushed to the bathroom to evacuate my bowels . Noting that the toilet hadn’t been flushed since Ben’s stint in the bathroom, I casually reached over to flush. My toilet, let’s be clear, Internet, isn’t always so good on the whole “flushing” thing, but this, of course, did not cross my panicked mind.

I flushed, and the water didn’t even THINK about going down. It rose into the bowl, stopping JUST before the rim. I pulled out the trusty old plunger and set myself to work. 30 minutes, and gallons of poo soup later, the water STILL wouldn’t go down. Now it was simply all over the bathroom. My white tile was now a brownish-yellow color.

It was then that I called Dave and screeched into the phone “GET HOME NOW, MOTHERFUCKER.”

I stood in the bathroom clutching my guts in agony trying to figure out why the toilet had been stopped up. Lo and behold, while Ben was being punished and I fumed in the other room, he had graciously emptied the ENTIRE roll of toilet paper into the toilet. Maybe in houses with normal plumbing, this would be no problem, but in MY house, my toilet quivers and shakes at the THOUGHT of anything larger than a pea being flushed.

I heard the weather this morning, and it didn’t say ANYTHING about a motherfucking shitstorm.