Now, as my trolls are quick to point out (squee! I have TROLLS!) and as I myself will happily acknowledge, I’m not a very smart person. Given the opportunity to save a couple of bucks using coupons, I’m quick to forget them at home. When the baby needs to nurse, I can never remember which boob was the last to be subjected to her tiny mouth. Hell, one time I even set my sheets on fire.

But since my husband is addicted to work-a-hol and isn’t home to supervise me ruining Jello (true story!), my stupidity doesn’t factor too much into the fact that I have not only earned the title of Queen of the Sausages, but also Keeper of the House. If it’s a choice between myself and Ben, well, I’m tall enough to work the gas pedals and have valid credit cards. I’ll suppose there’s no contest there.

So when it comes to doing Grown-Up Things, like scheduling carpet cleanings (why does that sound dirtier than it should?), cleaning up after the savages that I share a home with, and occasionally threatening to throw the dog into traffic, it’s all my realm. What is also my realm and my responsibility is making sure that I know what needs to be bought at the store.

Like toilet paper.

Between the scads of people that use my house to take dumps and the frequency with which I pee–damn you squirrel sized bladder!–this is something we often need. After being the one responsible for buying said ass-paper for upwards of 6 years now, you’d think that I’d have it down pat by now.

And you’d be wrong.

Dead wrong.

Because, you see, I cannot seem to properly purchase it. It’s like I have a brain blockage when it comes to buying TP. I suppose it’s because there are just too many choices and I don’t quite understand how each of the packages differs from the other. 1-ply? 2-ply? Quilted? WITH OR WITHOUT CREEPY BEARS?

I just don’t know!

When we first bought a condo out in Oak (no) Park, we went on a Campaign To Save Money. Against my better (read: snobbish) nature, we decided to start buying generic stuff. Imagine my surprise upon purchasing said generic toilet paper that using it was akin to wiping your ass with wax paper!

But since a Campaign To Save Cash also meant that we bought in bulk (despite the fact that aforementioned condo had absolutely nil closet space), we suffered through a seemingly endless supply of TP guaranteed to chap your ass and make it bleed.

Tres awesome.

This was years ago and I thought I had learned to allow my husband to pick out the ass-paper. When in need, The Daver was The Man With A Plan (or, at least, a better idea of how to avoid hemorrhoids).

Until the day before my induction with Amelia when The Daver and I decided to do our last bit of shopping for awhile. And while he perused such exciting aisles as The Kitty Litter Aisle, I noted that there was a most excellent sale on TP! It was my lucky day!

Without so much as consulting my husband before making this purchase, I quickly threw the ginormous pack into my cart and headed off to buy sheets.

I didn’t think about it again until I came home from the hospital with a gigantic episiotomy and a raging case of hemorrhoids and went to gingerly wipe myself. I nearly screamed as I realized that instead of TP, I’d bought SANDPAPER.

Once again, the TP Boner was all mine. And, of course, in bulk.

After enduring the excruciating bathroom! fun! time! for nearly two months (because I am not only stupid, but stubborn too.) I think that we may have finally gotten to the end of the rolls of wax paper cleverly disguised as toilet paper. And if not, the rest of the rolls will be placed squarely in the garbage can where they belong.

I’ve since been banned from even looking down the TP aisle. My ass and my husband both seem to think this is probably for the best.

So, Internet, dish. What is it that you can’t seem to get the hang of no matter how simple other people find it? Before you’re all like “damn, Aunt Becky, I have NOTHING I can’t seem to do!” because you’re too embarrassed to admit that you can’t pump gas or something, remember I just told you about my hemorrhoids. How more shameful can you get?

Aunt Becky: “Dude, I’m STARVING. I can’t wait to finish buying this car* so we can eeeaaaattt.” (rubs stomach dramatically for effect)

Daver: “Me too.”

Aunt Becky (jokingly): “Are you saying I’m fat?”

Daver (rolls eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm) “Yes. You’re a damn beached whale.”

Aunt Becky (laughs): “Ass.”

Car salesman eyeball go back and forth and eventually become as wide as dinner plates.

Car Salesman: “So, heh-heh, how long have you been married?”

Aunt Becky begins to count on fingers as The Daver looks on, amused.

Aunt Becky: “Uhhhh….”

The Daver: “I can’t believe you don’t remember our anniversary.” (sniffs loudly for effect) “Three and a half years. We’ve been married three and a half years.”

Aunt Becky: “No shit?”

Daver: “No shit.”

Aunt Becky: “It seems like a freaking eternity.”

Daver: “You’d better mean that in a good way…”

Aunt Becky: “Uh, heh-heh, of course, dear.”

Car Salesman looks acutely uncomfortable and makes up an excuse to get up and walk away.

Daver: “We scare people.”

Aunt Becky: “Hehe.”

*Didya like how I tried to NOT tell you that I bought a mini-van after we’d spent the weekend packing the kids into the car like sardines? As my best friend said, the old Becky would be mocking how suburban I’ve become. Just need that pesky pill addiction, right?

We gathered there, improbably, given the circumstances, at a nearby bar, all of us together once again. Gone were the Metallica and Megadeth tee-shirts, the sparkly headbands left at home, retired for the night.

This night.

They’d been replaced by somber suits and dress clothes, I tottered on impossibly high heels as we sat there together again, all of us together again, coming from various parts of the state to be together this time, drinking whiskey and vodka to drown the voices in our heads.

I remembered drunkenly as we ordered our first round, that the last time we’d all been together and dressed up was for my wedding three years before. As the happy memory of that played in my mind I was haltingly reminded that one of us was not sitting a block away, cold, hard and dead back then. She was alive and vibrant, laughing and joking with us all.

Suddenly, I didn’t want to remember anything.

To onlookers, we must have looked like quite the jovial bunch of people, obviously close friends who knew each other so well, the comfortable familiarity was palpable. I alternated between snuggling the man on my right and the man on the left, neither of them my husband.

We laughed loudly and comfortably at each other with each other our mouths wide open, the picture of pure bliss. But was it? Was this bliss? To nearby patrons, I’m sure that’s what they saw as they formed mental pictures of this motley band of brothers'”a sister or two thrown in for good measure'”these people out for a night on the town, drinking to life, to liberty, to the pursuit of happyness.

Not one of us was happy, I’ll tell you that for sure. Not a single one of us was happy to be there, to be together for this night. Happy people don’t have these conversations.

“When I die,” I slurred drunkenly. “I don’t want any shitty fucking flowers at my funeral. I’m appointing you there Kristin, to make damn sure that no one sends me fucking filler flowers. No carnations, no baby’s breath, and no goddamned fucking lilies. I fucking hate lilies.” I spat this out as though the words tasted bitter and mean.

I sat back, everyone laughing without a trace of happiness, as I slurped the last bit of whiskey from the bottom of my glass.

“And NO OPEN CASKETS. You all don’t need to see what I look like when I’m dead and made up in clown makeup. So, you’ve got to make me up like Gene Simmons from KISS. You’ll have to somehow pin my tongue out like he does. Then any sick fuck that wants to see my corpse will get quite the shock.’ This seemed to be uproariously hilarious, as we all pounded the table, laughing but not really laughing.

Scott started next. “When I die,” he said joyfully without joy. “When I die, I want you all to stuff me like the guy from Weekend At Bernie’s.” We laughed from within, all of us mentally picturing Scottie in a lawn chair, being rolled in and out of rooms. “And I want a big bonfire and a kegger.” We tittered, remembering all of the bonfires Scott had thrown in his parent’s backyard. “Then, at the end of the night, I want you to throw me on the bonfire.”

We laughed so hard at the thought that we were all left clutching our sides, a painful cramp had formed there.

We drank long and we drank hard, each of us processing the magnitude of what had just happened together but in our own way. I was left clutching a man, walking drunkenly back to his car with him propping me up and helping me past the slick patches of ice. He would have carried me if I needed him to, I knew this and found this an unlikely comfort.

It was cold, freezing cold, I knew logically, but I felt nothing. For the first time in a week I was comfortably numb. It was only then that I realized how much I’d been hurting, the relief I felt at blissfully unfeeling anything at all.

Tomorrow I would wake up and feel it all over again, the pain, the anguish, the incredible hangover, but tonight I was finally free.

I always told The Daver that I wanted a couple of things in life: a monkey butler (proboscis preferred, because obviously but I’d consider a bonobo), unlimited fantasies about Britney Spears’s boobs, and three kids. While I’ve gotten the latter two, after that whole “monkey that ate that woman’s face thing,” I’m thinking the monkey butler is probably out. Unless I can dress him in a Richard Nixon mask and convince Dave that the former president is my butler.

Which could happen. Theoretically. He’s not home much (Dave, not Richard Nixon).

Dave, on the other hand, wanted unlimited access to Gummi Savers, a coffee cup with World’s Best Boss on the side in large letters, and a ridiculously expensive pillow. Notice that there’s no mention of crotch parasites anywhere here. We already had one kid and he wasn’t really all that wowed with the idea of having more.

Don’t get me wrong: I didn’t poke holes in condoms or “forget on purpose” my pills or anything quite so backhanded and sinister (probably because I am not smart enough to do this), but I was the one who pushed to have another.

And later another.

The idea was not to just “get busy” so that I could spend the rest of my days with my “hands full,” but to get ‘er over with so that we could be done having babies early, since we’d gotten a somewhat early start (21 and 23, not 14 or 15). That way, we told ourselves, we could spend our 40’s and 50’s enjoying the relative freedoms we missed out on in lieu of dirty diapers and spit-up stains and all nighters of a completely different ilk.

And here we are.

Done.

Free at last.

Now, I make a shitty-ass pregnant person, I’ve never lied about that. I feel like shit, I look like shit, and overall, I just can’t wait to be done gestating. Between that and worrying about additional neural tube defects in subsequent pregnancies (I have been on Folic Acid since Jesus walked on Earth), I’m pretty relieved to be done. But mixed with my sense of relief is a sort-of sense of sadness.

It’s not that I actually WANT more children–I don’t–it’s just that I’m now saying goodbye to a certain chapter in my life, never to go back again. The next time I rub my stomach in public will only be to convince the burrito to go DOWN NOW. And the next time I feel a phantom kick it will only be a burbling fart bubble.

But it’s clear I have issues with saying goodbye to pretty much any and everything. If a restaurant I’ve been to closes its’ doors, I get sort of nostalgic for it WHETHER OR NOT I’ve frequented it. I still occasionally miss nursing school (okay, that is a complete lie). Well, okay, I miss going to school.

I’m sure that from now on when my friends begin to have kids, I’ll always feel the slight tinge of jealousy and nostalgia for those early and exciting times.

And after I’ll inevitably mention this to The Daver, because I am both stupid and lack an internal filter I am certain that he will react by punching himself in the nuts until he’s sure that they’re no longer functional.

Oh well.

I’ll always have my love of Britney’s boobs to keep me warm at night.

Because we are all about consolidating here at Casa de la Sausage (plus girl) my GP is the same as our pediatrician. He’s an Old Skool former military doc which means he’s incredibly no-nonsense kind of guy and for that I love him. But since I delivered Amelia at a hospital that he doesn’t have privileges at (likely by his own design), we were seen by another ped. Rather than transfer everything over to my GP after we were discharged because we are also lazy, we’ve been having Amelia see the doc she saw in the hospital.

Man, that was a long and boring paragraph. But it has a point!

This week I had to follow up with my GP after my dosage of my anti-depressant was tweaked just to make sure, I guess, that I wasn’t going to kill myself OR others (and if I had, thanks to my incredibly helpful OB nurse, I’d have gone IMMEDIATELY to the ER. Because that’s what suicidal/homicidal people do. They behave rationally! Because suicide and homicide are both REALLY rational things to do! Obviously!). And because I am an incredibly wonderful daughter, rather than saddle my mother with all three of my children, I took my youngest along with me.

(complete aside! You know you’ve been to the doctor WAAY TOO MUCH when you actually notice that all of magazines are ones you’ve seen already! Like Audubon Monthly! Although I don’t read them, preferring to stare vapidly into space, I like to see different things at different offices)

The point of that insanely boring first paragraph is that my GP had not yet met my daughter who will become his patient (arbitrarily) after she is (hopefully) discharged from the neuro. So, because I am that kind of patient–you know, the kind that wastes the precious time of busy doctors–I immediately showed him the back of her head and told him all about Amelia’s encephalocele.

He examined her and told me about one of the saddest stories I’d heard in awhile. Sometime in the 70’s or 80’s, he’d gotten a call from an OB asking him to come to be at this C-Section. The OB suspected a problem with the baby, but without the fancy diagnostic tools we have now, he had no idea what the problem WAS.

Well, it turned out to be a mighty encephaolcele stretching from the top of the head to the nape of the neck.

As you can imagine, the baby didn’t make it.

This was the beginning and end of the experience he’d had with my daughter’s diagnosis.

And this reminded me of how amazing it is that any of us turn out as well as we do. How often things actually go RIGHT.

And what a fucking miracle Amelia is. Needless to say, I’ve been holding all of my kids a little tighter.

The title should probably read “Just The 4 Of Us” since The Davers has been working, well, like the work-a-holic that he is (rough estimate is 80 hours a day, but who’s counting?), but I’d rather not sound like this post is all about bitching about being alone with my kids every.minute.of.every.day. because it’s totally not. Also: how awesome was THAT run-on sentence? (Answer: Awesomeness to the max!).

I remember when people would routinely stop me in the store, my biggest son beside us, my belly swollen with one child while her middle big brother played wack-a-mole with her as I held him in my arms, sweating, panting and generally full of The Unsexiness. They’d almost always say the same thing “Man, you’re going to have your hands FULL!” and I never knew how to respond. On the one hand was the obvious “Duh!” and on the other was my personal favorite “You’re being awfully sanctimonious, you fat sack of shit.” I mean, what do you say to the most obvious thing someone could point out. And they always said it so…gleefully. Like they were about to laugh at my misery.

ASIDE TIME! The other annoying thing that people liked to say? ‘”You’ve obviously been busy!” The implication is, of course, that The Daver and I hump like bunnies. Which would be more appropriate if our children weren’t nearly 2 and 5 years apart. But whatever. How do you respond to THAT? “Oh YEAAAHHHH! The sex is GREAT! And that new butt-plug? SWEEEEET!” *waggles eyebrows suggestively*

But even as those sanctimonious assholes would tell me that as I rolled my eyes (internally) at them, I knew full well that they were right. I was going to have my hands full. From experience, though, I knew better than to really spend a whole lot of time worrying about it. To me, worrying about that was like worrying about how it would feel to do a bowel prep for a colonoscopy. Sure, it sucks, but no amount of worrying would really prepare you for how much it would suck.

I hate to be the ones to inform them, though, that they were dead wrong. It doesn’t suck. Not even remotely.

Alex is having a hard time, that’s not debatable, but I’m beginning to wonder if it isn’t the standard 2 year old growing pains. He’s quick to decide never, ever to touch a food NO!NO!NO! that yesterday was his favorite (thanks to Ben’s autism, I’m intimately familiar with food issues and I don’t sweat them). He tantrums at the drop of a well, ball, these nasty long and drawn-out affairs that involve him throwing himself around the room while weeping histrionically and inconsolably (come to think of it, he sounds an awful lot like his mother).

He loves his sister as fiercely as someone his age possibly can, and when all else fails, I can throw him outside to play. But not in traffic. That would be uncool.

And Ben, oh my Ben, well, he just adores having a little sister. He’s the big brother I wish I’d had (my own frequently wiped the dog’s ass with a rag and then wiped my face with it. Oh, and pretended to be the boogeyman in my closet) and I’m shocked that someone as sweet as he could have come from my own loins.

That said, he’s developing the 7-year old attitude and lip and is actively trying to give me more grey hairs. Did I tell you he’s going to have 3 wives when he grows up? Because this is his plan: a harem of women.

*sighs*

Well, with all those ladies, one of them is bound to like me as a mother-in-law, right? Or is the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship always weird? Inquiring minds want to know.

And my wee cinnamon girl, my sweetest baby Amelia. She is wonderous and amazing and if she would only fall asleep without active work, she would be the ideal baby. She is also my last baby and I’m still not sure how I feel about that. But that, my fair Internet, is a story for another day.

She makes my family, the family I never knew I would be lucky enough to have, complete.

Diaper blow-outs and all.

Now I WAS going to put pictures here (although sadly for my #1 Fan, I will not be posting pictures of myself breast-feeding while walking through a store. Because I don’t have enough hands to take a picture), but my wordpress upgrade won’t let me. Well, it will, but the pictures are fracking huge and it looks weird. So, Internet, I am sorry, but I have no pictures for you right now.

Alternately: Things I Wish I’d Known (Nursing Addition!)…

* That my nipples would become the size and consistency of ground beef.

* That I would be able to look someone squarely in the eye while inserting my nipple into someone else’s mouth.

* That my nipples would become as tough as shoe leather and could probably chip ice if necessary (necessary for what? I DON’T KNOW).

* That pumping milk into the Electric Baby would be even more boring than watching paint dry and grass grow.

* That I would exclaim to my father and brother simultaneously after they complained about seeing my boob that “Hey, at least I’m not masturbating.”

* That I would say “masturbating” in front of my father, brother or mother-in-law without having the common decency to turn red.

* That my daily menu would suddenly read like the Very Hungry Caterpillar.

* That the person who once broke her toe making a sandwich (that would be me) would be able to walk around Target while nursing.

* That other people who breast-feed would be so damn sanctimonious about it.

* That I would suddenly need to qualify why I didn’t nurse my first with an “oh, well, he’s autistic” when it’s really not that big of a deal.

* That let-down feels really, really weird.

* That breast-feeding does not make you a better mother.

* That nursing cover-ups are a complete waste of money because they draw more attention to the fact that you’re nursing AND because it makes trying to discretely get the nipple into said mouth almost impossible.

* That you will learn not to make eye contact with people while nursing in public so you feel less squigged out by the fact that your nipple is hanging in the breeze in front of people who haven’t even bought you a drink.

* That while it’s nice to bond with the baby, it also can chain you to the child, even if you supplement.

* That nursing is much like still being pregnant as your body is still not your own.

* That for every person who swears that they lost tons of weight nursing, you’ll find many that couldn’t no matter what they tried no matter what La Leche League says.

* That each breast will be twice the size of your new ickle one’s head when your milk comes in and it will make you wonder how they don’t object in sheer terror to latching right on.

* That the stupid adage “If you feel like you have the flu and you’re nursing, it’s mastitis” is so wrong. It should read “If you feel like you have the flu and you’re nursing, it’s because you have a new baby.”

* That after doing both bottle feeding exclusively and nursing exclusively, bottle feeding is much, much easier.

* That even with exclusive breast-feeding around the clock, you can still get your period 6 weeks post-partum (hello you old bitch!).

——————

What am I missing?

*While my daughter is proving herself to be an excellent sleeper–by which I mean she’s only up 2-3 times a night versus her brother at that age who was up 5-274 times–my darling middle son is making up for all that sleep I’d be getting by refusing to sleep in.

*The plus side to sleep deprivation is that it makes me almost calm. No longer am I annoyed by the constant watching of Wow, Wow Wubzy DVD’s or my 7 year olds smart mouth (please tell me this is an age/stage thing? PLEASE?). No. Now I am downright placid. Serene, even.

*Just spent my kid’s college fund on buying a swing set for the backyard. One of those that will probably take up most of my backyard. My neighbors will thank me, I’m sure. It’ll make the party on APRIL 19th even cooler, right? (the keg will help, I’m sure)

*For the past week and a half, Alex has woken up from his nap hysterical (Back story: kid takes one 45 minute nap a day. Period) where even the promise of his beloved chocolate doesn’t help him get through it (because bribery = awesome parenting!). He screams and he cries and nothing helps and I feel just horrible for the hour or so that it goes on. I don’t know what to do.

*Rather than find someone to come to my house and watch Alex in the mornings for me so that I can listen to him whine for me from the other room, we started him in some in-home daycare for three hours a day. While he wasn’t thrilled initially, he now loves it.

*Thanks in no small part to the in-home daycare, we are all now sick with the first of many, many colds.

*Although I see a multitude of doctors (no, I do not have Munchausen’s. Just crap-matic genes**) my favorite waiting room is at my endocrinologist. There is no better place to people watch than this waiting room, I’m convinced. It’s like watching animals in the zoo. I’m also pretty sure that this means that people are probably looking at me while I sit there and thinking the same thing. Sweet ass.

*I’ve stopped swearing as much as I did before. This is kind of making me feel not only old, but lame. On the upside, though, Ben has stopped yelling “DAMNIT!” when he drops things.

*I spent some time yesterday in my garden for the first time since I was very slightly pregnant with Amelia and I have a special piece of advice for you: after tying up your climbing roses to a trellis and receiving more than a few pokes in the process, it is not wise to then go inside and douse your hands with alcohol-based hand sanitizer.

*If possible, tie up your climbing roses the winter BEFORE. I was too big to do so last year and I’m seriously paying for it now. Also: my roses can kick your roses ass. They’re unreal.

*Why yes, I do garden.

*Why no, I am not an old woman. I will be 29 in July. SHUT UP, THAT IS NOT OLD.

*Chalked up to the I’m So Suburban It Hurts category, The Daver and I are seriously considering buying a mini-van. Because yeah. Trying to cram 3 kids in my CR-V is laughable at best and futile at worst. Anything I should know (besides the fact that I am suddenly even lamer than lame when I buy one.)?

*How flipping cool would it be to put flames on my mini-van? Don’t answer that one.

*Another word to the wise: STEP AWAY FROM THE SCALE. IT WILL ONLY DEPRESS YOU. Also: I SO need to go on a diet.

*My daughter, oh she of the cradle cap and acne, will only fall asleep while someone holds her. Normal people might be annoyed by this as it takes a good long while and often makes your arms fall asleep. But after dealing with Alex’s sleep issues, this seems like a cinch. Perspective, it is invaluable.

——————-

So, Internet, what’s on YOUR mind today? Spill your beans.

**I initially spelled this jeans.

Without further preamble, I present the back of my daughter’s head:

Fracking huuuge, isn’t it? But shit, it looks good and hopefully she won’t get female pattern baldness. Or if she does, she can wear some kicky wigs.

What’s that? You DIDN’T ask for an obligatory cute baby pic? Well, too bad.

This is the reason we can’t have nice things. I was being all good and stuff and ordering diapers online like an intelligent person would, right? Except I shouldn’t be allowed credit cards in my sleepless state because look at the size I bought FOR AMELIA. Who weighs MAYBE 9.5 pounds.

That’s right, I bought the size BETWEEN 1 and 2 rather than the size between Newborn and 1. They’re dwarfing her delicate butt.

All you can do is laugh, right? Because diapers, they don’t spoil.

NO MORE CANKLES, BITCHES!

That’s right! Since about a week postpartum, my feet have returned to their pre-pregnancy size and my cankles have been banish-ed! Hooray for no cankles!

Anything else you want me to answer?

(ring, ring)

RN: “Hello, Your OB’s Office, this is Chris, how can I help you?”

Becky: “Hi, I’m Becky Harks and I’m a patient of The Doctor. I’m calling because I’m 5 weeks postpartum and I think I need to adjust my dosage of my meds.”

RN (not unkindly): “What’s going on?”

Becky (begins to cry): “I’m on the lowest dosage of my Wellbutrin, well the generic one and I think I need some more. My baby just had to have brain surgery and I’m not handling it well.”

RN: “I see. Are you thinking of hurting yourself or anyone else?”

Becky (with conviction): “NO.”

(they go back and forth for awhile, as pleasantly as possible when one of the members of the conversation is weeping)

RN: “I’ll talk to the doctor about increasing your dosage. Can I call you back?”

Becky (relieved): “Sure.”

(both parties hang up)

————-

(ring, ring)

RN: “Hi Becky, I spoke with your doctor.”

Becky: “Uh-huh?”

RN: “He’s not comfortable with increasing your dosage because he’s not a psychiatrist. But here are the names of some people you can call.”

Becky (stunned): “Uh…”

RN: “They might not be able to get you in right away.”

Becky: “…”

RN: “If you feel like killing someone or yourself, go to the ER.”

Becky: “…”

Becky: “…”

Becky: “…”

Becky: “…”

Becky: “…”

Becky (small voice): “okay.”

(both parties hang up.)

*headdesk*

——————-

Have no fear, Internet. I called my GP who was able to bump up my dosage for me until such time as I can get in to see him.

But I’m left wondering, why the hell does getting proper help have to be so hard?