At 20-odd weeks pregnant, pretty sure that I wasn’t going to miscarry anymore, I finally bit the bullet and signed up at all of the formula companies websites. Having had a breastfed one and a bottle-fed one, I figured it was safest to err on the side of caution. Plus! Bonus coupons!

A couple of weeks after Amelia was born, Similac began to descend upon our house. I got a couple of freebee cans in the mail (hooray!) and was signed up for their new program crap they mail me. Obviously, I read it VERY closely. But, along with some $5 off coupons (bonus!) were some printed sheets of colorful circles. The sort of shit that babies are supposed to see and love. I’d not bought into that craze, so I didn’t know one way or another.

Figuring, what the hell, I threw them up on the wall by her changing table. As long as my cheap ass didn’t have to shell out for them, why the hell not?

Well, those circles are Amelia’s best friend on the planet. She coos to them, beams her million-dollar smile at them, carries on regular conversations with them, and would probably lay there, kicking and squacking happily if I didn’t have to do such things as 1) care for her brothers or 2) occasionally pee.

Well played, Similac, well played indeed.

But I can’t help but wonder, what the hell is it that she sees when she looks at them? Nancy Regan? The remains of Elvis? A treasure map to a pot of gold coins at the end of a rainbow? Children in general mystify me completely, but babies even more so. What I wouldn’t give for a moment inside their head.

Then I might know what they’re thinking when they do things smear their walls with toothpaste so that they can wake up in the middle of the night and lick them. Or what makes Amelia giggle when she sleeps. Or even why Auggie has adopted some of the wee Beanie Babies Amelia was given in the PICU as his very own babies.

Wait, Auggie is my dog and he often eats poo for sport. I don’t care why he does what he does. Just so long as he doesn’t bathe any of us with his Tongue of Doom.

I read somewhere on one of the blogs I frequent (okay, sorry I can’t give credit. I am both high and sleep deprived) that when babies smile in their sleep when they’re playing with the angels. Considering how many I know who have lost so much, I like that idea best.

Girlfriend is thinking about her circles.

I know, I know, the angle of this is all wrong because you cannot see the rapture in her eyes. Here’s where I confess to you, Internet, that I am short. Not abnormally so, but I’m not a gangly one (hehe. Say that out loud. It sounds like “ganglion.” hehe) (What? I’m easily amused!). Sadly. If I were taller, I’d have been able to take a better shot.

Perhaps I’ll buy some lifts for my shoes. How hot would THAT be?

Last year, ’bout this time, in between Miscarriage #1 and #2, The Daver sat me down and said something to the effect of, “blah, blah, blah..You need to get a hobby…blah, blah, blah.” At least I think he said that. I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy lobbing a lamp at his head.

He wasn’t trying to be unkind in anyway; he’s a lot of things (patient, kind, infinitely tolerant of His Old Ball And Chain) but never unkind. He was merely trying to get me to “expand my horizons” and “do something for myself.” Come to think of it, he sounded a hell of a lot like my High School Guidance Counsellor. All he needed to add in there was an “apply yourself” to make the comparison fail safe.

But telling someone that hasn’t slept for more than 1-3 hours at a stretch in close to two years (a very hearty thank you to my youngest son and my predisposition to that old bitch Insomnia) or taken a shit without the watchful eyes of half of the family in as long isn’t really a wise idea. Of COURSE I needed to do something for myself, who doesn’t?

Problem is, and always has been, my decided lack of free time. Well, that and the fact that I’ve been pregnant and/or nursing for the past 3 years, both of which obscure my normally sunny disposition (shut UP.).

I mean, yeah, I’m home with my kids and all that stuff and I do have the time to occasionally sit down and plop out a blog post, but I normally have a kid on my lap while I do it. See I can’t very well open a bag of Cheetos and turn on Lifetime and leave the kids alone. For one, Cheetos stain like a mother-fucker and for Part B, no one, not even the baby likes Lifetime. Not that I would know or anything.

My God-Almighty Plan has always been that I would go back to school once my youngest was in school herself. It’s been indelicately suggested that I try and go back sooner but honestly, I juggled the school/work/child thing when I had Ben and it was gruesome. I won’t do it again unless I have to.

See, I got my degree in nursing not because I am a Caring People Person(tm) (stop snorting. I can hear you laughing at me!) but because I was a slave to the almighty dollar. Single parenthood and undergraduate degrees in Biology don’t exactly scream I’ll Be Able To Support Us, Honey, And We Can Move Out Of Grandma’s, now do they?

And while I strongly considered becoming a Trophy Wife, I didn’t think that my child would really sweeten the deal for someone who likes silicone and bleach blonde hair.

The compromise always was (to myself and later to The Daver) that I would eventually go back to school and pursue my PhD in microbiology. No, seriously. I’ve been lucky enough to know what I really, really love and what I’ll really, really be good at. I know this doesn’t happen for everyone.

But I’ve got some time before this Plan Of Action will Come To Fruition. Time that I desperately need to fill with something. Anything.

I write here and sometimes elsewhere and I do it because I don’t know how not to anymore. It’s weird to me because I never was A Writer. I tried in the 3rd grade to keep a diary and it ended up sounding so incredibly stupid when I read it back to myself that even back then I knew it sucked.

I can’t write a fictional story to save my life unless the main characters name is E-Becky and she has three kids: E-Ben, E-Alex, and E-Amelia. I’m not creative like that. But now I write because I have to. I just have to.

So from now until I’m able to rejoin the ranks of smelly stoned college students once again, I’m afraid that my only outlet and project is to write. Here, there, everywhere (okay, so mostly here. Where else?).

Any other suggestions for things to do for myself? What do you do just for you?

…or perhaps not. I am honored to be posting here today, over at DD’s place.

It’s My Party And I’ll Cry If I Want To

Yesterday marked the eleventy-hundreth time (approximately) I’ve thrown a party for one of my kids. It started with a kegger when Ben turned one (what?!? That is SO not trashy!) and persisted until he was ready to have a Kids Only party for himself. This is where I bow gracefully out of hosting and pay someone insane wads-o-cash to host the 10 kids somewhere OTHER than my house. Kids scare me.

Thankfully, by that time, Alex was ramping up to have a birthday party of his own for me to publicly express both my fetish for cakes and my fetish for encased meats.

And yesterday, in all it’s magnificent non-barbeque friendly weather was one of the best I’ve hosted yet. Especially since I didn’t have to stand shivering over the grill while it rained on my head. But whatever.

I don’t know if it’s the isolation factor of having a small baby–especially one that screams her head off in the car–or the fact that I’ve felt so unwell in the past year or so, or maybe because I’ve been dying to have something to celebrate without a …but… after it, but yesterday seemed especially full of The Awesome. The perfect mix of people, food and, of course, prescriptions.

Here is Amelia, in her fresh party outfit with her Uncle Paul:

Here is what Amelia thought of her dress:

You can practically hear her yell “MOOOOMMM, I look STOOOOPPID!” And then I took the dress OFF her.

Easter Dress: 1

Becky: 0

And the moment I waited all week for:

The cake. The glorious cake. It was as tasty as it was classy. It also wasn’t as cool as last years cake, but they wouldn’t do the tiered cake order over the phone. And since said baby sucks to take in the car, I was not huffing my fat butt out there.

Oh well. Even if it didn’t have drug paraphernalia, at least it was classy.

Now for Part II of my II Part Post (doesn’t that look like it should be an alliteration?)

My Humps

After Ben’s sensory issues wouldn’t allow me to nurse him, I developed a major complex about breastfeeding. Specifically, that it was something that I’d failed mightily at. I didn’t, of course, take into consideration that my CHILD might be the problem, which, of course, he was.

So Alex was born with hair on his back but I was the one with a chip on my shoulder. I was Going To Breastfeed Him, Dammit, At Any Cost. And I did. I got up every 1-3 hours every single night with him to nurse him. For a year. I nursed him at least once an hour every hour until he was one.

Despite my initial delight at HIS delight at my boobs, I had really mixed feelings about breastfeeding. On the one hand, I was very proud of myself that I was able to do something I’d been previously unable to do. On the other, though, I didn’t find the joy that others seemed to associate with it.

I’m not a touchy-feely person and although I like cuddling my kids, I did occasionally want my own personal space. And I longed for the day when I could wear scoop-necked shirts and not v-necked ones. I also longed for the day when I didn’t have to let my nipples hang out in the breeze constantly. I’m not modest, but damn, it got old.

So when I got pregnant with Amelia and finally figured out it might stick, I figured I’d breastfeed again, but not exclusively, and that I wouldn’t give myself a hard time if

1) She couldn’t do it

or

2) She occasionally got formula.

And, well, I guess the inevitable happened: she decided that nursing was too much work, just like Dr. Sears warned me about! I’d call this a Nursing Strike, but I think she’s just done with the boob. And I don’t have the luxury of time to pump. Or should I say properly, I don’t want to make the time to pump exclusively.

I sit here and try to remind myself of the positives: I can lose weight more easily, I can finally wear shirts that don’t expose my chesticles, I can wear bras that don’t snap open and shut, and I won’t smell like a milk factory constantly. My body will be my own for the first time in 3 years. These are all true.

But she is my last baby. This is the last time I’ll nurse anyone. And I am conflicted. I wasn’t ready to have her grow up so soon. I’m not ready to put away her tiny newborn clothes, pack them up for the NICU I’m donating them to, knowing that this is the last time one of my flesh and blood will inhabit them.

I hate endings, no matter how happy they are. Even if it means new beginnings.

For today, my heart, it is wearing a frowny-sad-face.

There was a movie that came out when I was in high school. It had Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jamie Lee Curtis (?), I think. I don’t know really. It obviously wasn’t Oscar-worthy. But it was about this daughter-mother duo who would go from place to place being, well, grifters.

They’d con free dinners, free hotel stays, free cars by pretending to find a bunch of glass in their dinner, or slipping on a “wet” floor in the lobby. The movie wasn’t all that exciting, truth be told and I’ll not be sad if I never see it again.

I worked in the restaurant industry for many years, first as a hostess, then as a waitress and occasionally bartender, and I saw this happen infrequently. But it did happen.

I used to work Sunday afternoons at a pizza joint while I was in college. The money was never stellar but since most of my friends were sleeping off hangovers, and baby Ben was with his father, I didn’t have anything to do but sit at home. And working would at least give me an extra $50-70 dollars (yeah, it was shit money for serving) to tide me through the week.

Sundays are a notoriously bad day to work in the restaurant industry, any server knows this. In a diner, you might turn a number of tables more than normal, but the people you’d serve were often religious folks or older people, or both. In lieu of a tip you’d occasionally get a pamphlet about God, telling you to renounce your sins (as an aside, how did they know that I hadn’t?) and that you would go to hell if you didn’t. Sometimes you’d get a verbal “you’re the best waitress EVER” tip, and sometimes you’d get nothing.

And at the pizza place where I worked, we were usually slow as hell. While this was boring, it meant that I could get paid (something) do my homework, and, like I said, it beat the shit out of sitting at home under my parent’s disapproving eye.

About 2 PM on one Sunday, I got seated a two-top of old people. I popped over to get their drink order and they ordered immediately: a large pizza, two salads and a couple of Cokes. They were typical Sunday diners: rude, entitled, and unpleasant.

I called these sort of people The Crusties.

I imagined my $3.00 tip as I rang in their food and got their sodas. Lacking anything else to do, I strolled back to the kitchen to get their 2 salads. I dropped them off and they grunted a monosyllabic “uh” rather than say thank you. It was all I’d expected from them, so I loudly said in my saccharine sweetest voice “You’re welcome.” It was my passive aggressive way of reminding them that I wasn’t a servant, and I’d perfected it so it sounded completely sincere.

(and yes, I’m aware that this didn’t do anything to affect anyone’s attitude. It just made me feel better.)

A couple minutes later, as I was checking on my other tables, the Female Crusty beckoned me over with a couple of finger snaps and a wave. Just like I was a dog. I put up my first finger, signaling that I’d be there in a moment yet she continued snapping. This only made me move more slowly.

I finally made my way back to their table and inexplicably the old bag ordered a bottle of light beer. I walked back behind the bar to grab the beer and as I’m standing there, talking to my manager Old Man Crusty storms up to us. When my manager asked if he could help him, the old man opened up his palm and showed us a large crescent of a fingernail.

“This,” he said accusatorially, “THIS was in my salad.”

My manager fell all over himself apologizing, promising free meals and free desserts and shoving his face so far up the old guy’s ass that I rolled my eyes.

The salads were pre-made every morning by the line cooks, and although I frequently told them that they had “poquito huevos” (small balls) after they’d catcall me, they weren’t unsanitary. I couldn’t imagine that these dudes, who routinely worked 80+ hour weeks to support their families in Mexico would cut their fingernails into the salads. I’d worked with these guys for years and although I could see a staple accidently falling into the salad mix, the fingernail made no sense.

Anything that made it’s way into the food at any of the places I’d served was usually put there by servers or by accident. While I never spit into food, I will tell you that I may have accidentally on purpose added some hot pepper to the sauce. Maybe.

What made me increasingly suspect of the motives of these Old Bags was when their attitude shifted 180 degrees. Knowing they’d get anything comped they could think of, they began ordering multiple drinks, extra appetizers, and eventually desert. And now, rather than treat me like the piece of scum on the bottom of their shoe, they were unfailingly kind, gracious, and overall pleasant as hell. They now asked after my son (his picture was on my server book), made jokes with me, and smiled when I spoke.

Not normal unless you’re mentally ill.

Of course, after they left without having to pay a cent for their meal, to-go bags brimming with unfinished food, I knew my fate before I walked over to the table. They’d left me exactly nothing. Zero dollars and zero cents. I’d run my ass around for nothing. Less than nothing, if you want the truth. I lost money waiting on them.

The government, you see, looks at the gross amount of money a server sells and takes a certain percentage of that as assumed tips. They then tax the shit out of it. So, for the whopping $3.19 I got an hour, I saw maybe 10 cents of that. Less if I’d had high sales. So the government was taxing me on money I hadn’t made. My paychecks ranged from $0.00 (they totally wasted money printing me this check. I always meant to frame one of these) to maybe $3 or $4 a week.

I just sighed as I bussed the table. Nothing more to do. They’d eventually get what they deserved.

Karma, after all, is a total bitch.

I do almost all of the manual labor around my house. (Some might argue it’s because I’m really a man, but that’s neither here nor there. But rest assured that if I had a penis, The Internet would be the first I’d tell. And then I’d write my name in pee in the snow. Because, hello, AWESOME!)

It’s not a judgement statement and I’m not all “OhMyGOD, I do EVERYTHING around the house” *flings hand to forehead dramatically* because I don’t care much. Or I should say, I’m used to it.

(TOTAL aside time, here’s what a man I am: a couple of years ago, some creature got into our garage at night. And when I realized it, I ran out there brandishing a broom while Dave and Ben watched from the door, eyes wide as saucers. I think I grew some chest hair that night.)

Problem with this division of labor is the fact that I am a total klutz. I am so ungraceful that I make (insert another word for klutz here) look downright normal. I’ve broken a toe making a sandwich, broke the front door by falling through it (completely sober, I should add) and successfully done the splits for the first time while 36 weeks pregnant after washing the kitchen floor.

So it comes as no real surprise that I hurt myself a couple of weeks ago while taking out the garbage. I’m not even going to lie to you and tell you that it was a heavy bag, bursting at the seams, nor did I do so to save Little Timmy from a burning building. Hell, I didn’t even rescue some adorable kittens from a tree while I did so.

No, during a perfectly ordinary garbage-bag-throwing-into-the-big-container- sexy-fun-time (I am totally kidding about the sexy fun time), I managed to throw out my back. The lower part, you know, by the coccyx? After several days where I crankily moped about the house having to ask my willing reluctant husband to do such things as “bring me the baby” or “take out the garbage” while he rolled his eyes at me, it miraculously got better.

It was a friggin’ Easter Miracle.

So, it was NOT The Awesome to wake up a couple of days ago with the flaming pain making me whimper when I moved my foot or rotated my body in any way. Of course, this is while Dave is lying about the house, sick as a dog with The Rota. Made me feel almost bad to require his germy, pathetic help.

But finally, after hobbling about my house like an old woman, I called the damn doctor (his real title! The Damn Doctor). And now, let’s just say, Internet, I won’t be complaining about going back to visit him.

Not after he gave me a script for some muscle relaxers and, wait for it, wait for it…

Delicious, sweet, nectar of the Gods, VICODIN.

And let’s just say, Internet, that I am now stoned out of my gourd (Dave is home with me so don’t worry, sweet Internet, I am not in charge of my kidlets alone and high as a kite). I don’t really know where this post started or where it went. It probably made very little sense, but hey, I know I’m not raging against the machine. Which probably would be more entertaining. Because who DOESN’T like Internet Rubbernecking?

Oh, and to those of you who will be coming over this weekend for The Big Party? I am TOTALLY not sharing my pills. And Aoxomoxoa is TOTALLY wicked when you’re high. Also: very hard to spell.

So, what’s on YOUR mind today, Internet? I promise to be highly entertained by anything you say. Or what do YOU want me to tell you about knowing that my internal filter is completely off?

The Daver and I frequently play a game with our kids that I like to call “Whose Genetics Are THOSE?” Anything from cowlicks (me) to inability to turn away from the television while it’s on and drooling slack-jawed like the village idiot at it (Daver, obviously) to preference or distaste for foods (usually, shamefully, me) is fair game.

The genes we’re most proud of are quickest to be claimed: my luscious mane of hair, his ability to get more pee on the floor than in the toilet bowl or to put his dirty socks down the laundry chute, my ability to always be right no matter what. Those are the first to be asserted.

What’s left are the dregs. Or what I THOUGHT were the dregs until a couple of days ago.

You see, the stomach flu is making it’s way around our house in various forms. Ben barfed, I vacated my bowels while feverish on the can at 3 AM, Dave rode the porcelain God all afternoon and Alex (currently) has the screaming shits.

And with the screaming shits, comes, of course, the dreaded flatulence. The kid can now fart loudly enough for me to mistake it for his father. It’ll echo around a room and lay a fine greasy layer of sulfur all over everything, like the rotted egg of a gigantic chicken. I honestly had to check and make sure that Alex had not gotten his hands on my iFart application for my iPhone. He hadn’t.

This, of course, because I am most mature, I find hilarious. Side-splitingly so.

Laughter is a powerful motivator in the eyes of a two year old, so he has now learned to fart on command just to make me laugh. The sense of humor and desire to make someone laugh at all costs is all mine (doubt me? Read this. ‘Nuff said).

But the gas? That’s ALL his father. And I am SO jealous.

My own pocket-sized iFarter.

Today, at 2:30 PDT, my friends will bury their daughter Maddie.

In lieu of a real post today, I will link you to the post I wrote while talking to Maddie’s mother while she was in the PICU with her daughter.

And I will raise my voice to the heavens today and beg, “give us peace, give us peace. Dona nobis pacem.”

Rest in peace, little one. The world will miss your smile.

It’s been brought to my attention by the letters O, C, and D that I have posted a decided lack of pictures since my new wordpress upgrade fails to allow me to scale my pictures appropriately. But, in the name of Rotavirus, I will say “eff THAT shit” and post it anyway.

Easter has long been one of my favorite holidays, in spite of the fact that April always seems to be An Asshole of a month (February is always the worst, though). I love it anyway, and I’m ever-optimistic that This Year Will Be Better. It never is, but my glaring stupidity and utter inability to learn from past experiences allows me to become excited about it every year, like clockwork.

This year was no different. I was hopeful and happy to be hosting my annual Easter Brunch. Then, the stomach flu hit us and suddenly, I was not so happy.

You might even say that I was UN-happy.

See, now, this was what Daver and I did on Easter Eve: we filled a fucking ton of small eggs with the sorts of candy that my grubby hands will leave alone. Like jelly beans *shudder, shudder.*

Also: we drink heavily.

And we mock the fact that I routinely forget that I’ve already bought stuff for (insert holiday here) and I buy more. Until it looks like I might, perhaps, have a soccer team of children. Which I assure you will never grace my uterus.

The following morning however, the joke was on us. Because my eldest had gotten sick during the night yet again, we had to postpone the Easter Egg hunt. So now I have a fucking ridiculous ton of small eggs in a bag in my closet simply waiting for the Right Time For A Hunt.

Or maybe I’ll just throw them back in my Easter Bin in the basement for next year. It’s not like anyone actually EATS the candy.

Then, the oven I needed to cook the delicious (pre-packaged) morsels of goodness (read: cinnamon rolls) simply refused to turn on. Fucking asshole oven. I will punch that bitch in the face.

So, then Ben was off with his father rather than force him to sit around and watch other people eat the deliciousness that is my Easter Brunch. That somehow seemed crueler to me than merely sending him off. He was happy, I should rightly add, to go.

We were down a kid, sadly, the one that was most excited about Easter.

This is a stock photo, taken on Tuesday of last week, because I had no desire to document for posterity the barfiness that was poor Benny.

My middle son, he was just thrilled by a ball. The eggs, the baskets, the candy, they were stupid and boring. Especially compared to a big red ball.

And my wee daughter, she would simply like to tell The Internet that her mother is both cruel AND unusual. Why else would she be forced to wear this?

Or one of those Head Garters everyone hates?

Ah, the therapy they will all need.

Did you ever see those commercials, you know, the ones with the perfectly coiffed mother beaming a beatific smile at the camera as a couple of small kids play in the spotless white background? She’ll then reach for a bottle of some supposed anti-bacterial cleaner and lovingly spray the toys or the counter or Something Germarific and then the voiceover will make some comment about how this gently removes 99% of germs without subjecting the kids to horrible toxic chemicals.

I’m paraphrasing of course.

I’m also not That Person. You’d be more likely to catch me popping a rogue binkie in my mouth to clean it before inserting it back into the baby’s mouth. Or casually wiping up a spilled something with my sock rather than busting out The Big Guns. I regularly throw my kids outside to play in the mud and dirt. I don’t buy soap that’s guaranteed to kill 99.9% of germs and I only have hand sanitizer for those diaper blow outs that occur one after the other (God bless 2 in diapers).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid of a little bleach and I’m not a consummate slob. I wash my hands after I pee, but I don’t use my foot to flush the toilet, nor do I insist on using a paper towel to open bathroom doors. Hell, nowadays, if you were to come over to my house, you probably wouldn’t even think it was remotely dirty. My kids take regular baths, my floors are washed twice a week, and I even occasionally pay someone to clean my dogs for me.

But even as a nurse and someone whose immune system is one toke away from being technically “compromised”, I’m not a-scared of germs.

Unless (there’s always an “unless,” right?), of course, rotavirus comes to play.

Then, you’re more likely to catch me running for the Lysol as I run away from the sick kid, my hand over my mouth and gloves up to my elbow. I bust out the bleach, spray down every surface available with the strongest germicide I can get without a prescription, all while wearing a rebreathing mask and vinyl gloves (latex allergy). I wash everything the sick kid could possibly have infected on the scorching hottest setting my washer can go on and wash my hands until they’re raw and red.

Oh yes, I admit it, I’m an emetophobic.

But there are some things that do confound my utter fear of vomitus that can sort of make my behavior mildly more acceptable. Sort of.

See, my eldest, the one with a stomach as weak as my own, he barfs in his sleep AND THEN GOES BACK TO SLEEP IN IT. He also, thanks in no part to his autism stuff, puts his hands in his mouth constantly. And, being 7, just goes about his life touching things, his vomity fingers touching all of the toys and stuff of his siblings.

(I’ve tried to teach him not to. It’s not going well and hasn’t been for, oh, I don’t know, 6 or so years?)

Also in my Court of Craziness is the fact that when I get felled by the stomach flu, I get FELLED. I mean, I’m sick as an ever-loving dog for days on end, hugging the porcelain god like it’s my job. This does not a good parent make.

So today, oh family Reoviridae, I drink to you. To the horror that you have inflicted upon my house and my sanity just in time to host an Easter Brunch and Egg Hunt that my eldest could not participate.

The one solace I find comfort in today is this: at least you made it over to Ben’s father’s house. The one who always begs off on the weekends when the kid is sick because he’s able to actually decide when sickness is convenient for him to deal with.

Must. Be. Nice.

Cheers to you, you wily double stranded RNA bastard. You’ve earned it. Happy Easter to you, sir. Happy Easter, indeed.

—————

All right, Internet, let’s hear some of your weird phobias. I have several others that will make you go “dude, that bitch Aunt Becky is crazier than I thought!”

So Bring It ON, Internet.