The pictures, they speak for themselves:

AW! Lookit! Alex is FEEDING THE BABY! What an awesome big brother!

Oh, and there he goes, trying to pick out her eyeball.

Kids. I tell you.

—————–

To answer your burning questions, I present to you an abbreviated post! Hooray for small bits!

So, why the hell didn’t the doctor tell you about the encephalocele?

Honestly, I don’t know. I’m not sure if the whole litigation-happy climate made him wary of telling us anything before he knew for sure or not. I’m feeling much better about it today after being nearly bowled over by the news yesterday. Dave, predictably, handled it much better.

We went into surgery thinking that this was fluid-filled, which in retrospect, makes no sense so the news that there were actual glial cells inside that pocket was completely shocking to me. And it made me feel oogly inside.

Kinda creepy when you think about it.

Well, what does this mean for her development?

No clue. She appears to have all of her mental facilities intact, but she’s only 5 weeks old. The age when they sleep, poo and eat exclusively. So measuring milestones is an impossibility at this moment. She does eat, poo, sleep and wiggle which is a good sign. And when she looks at you, the lights appear to be on and someone appears to be home.

We have been flagged by the county (her diagnosis, not my shabby parenting) and will be followed by a public health nurse. That in addition to my own nursing experience ought to be able to ascertain any issues as they arise (or don’t. Let’s hope) and get her into proper treatment as needed. We’ve had much experience with Early Intervention, so I’m not scared of that.

We’ll handle it either way.

How are Alex and Ben adjusting to their sister?

Shockingly well, truth be told. Alex is a consummate Momma’s Boy and I was most afraid of how he’d take to having to share my attentions, but so far so good. Providence smiled upon us and we were able to enroll him in some in-home care 3 hours a day after my neighbor recommended her sitter. Who is awesome.

This seems to help.

A couple of months before Amelia was born, we’d bought another doll for Ben, who is nurturing it and loving it just the way he did with his first doll (bought when I was pregnant with Alex). Yes, my son plays with dolls and no, I don’t think that’s stupid. He may be a father some day and I want him to know that men can nurture as well. He’s loving having another sibling.

—————–

Anything else I failed to answer? My brain is mushy and stupid right now (okay. My brain is always mushy and stupid. I admit it.) so ask away.

Pathology report is in and stitches are out.

Turns out that I was wrong all along.

It was an encephalocele. My daughter had part of her brain hanging out of her head. Thank God it’s over for now. We’ll know more as she does or does not reach her milestones.

Jesus.

I’ve never been so tired in my life.

I’m not a good joke teller. I have a steady repertoire of about 5 jokes–all of which are not kid-friendly in the least–and it’s like any time I try and add another one, I’m stuck with only remembering the punch line. It goes through my head in a circular loop, planted there like a song until something distracts it out of me.

Today, all I keep repeating is this “Drained wops keep falling on my head.” There was something about vampires and Italy, but I can’t recall it to save my life although I remember it being funny. Whether it was or not remains to be determined.

Last night was my first night since Amelia was born that I was genuinely on my own. The Daver has a job that while it leaves me to be a single parent most weeknights, was kind and flexible enough to allow him to work from home to support all of us. I can wax poetic about how irritating it is that he’s always on call or that work always seems to have A Big Problem whenever we’re doing something cool, but I’ll never forget how kind they’ve been to us.

I figured I could handle this, right? Sure Alex is sick and Amelia is catching it and so what if I was up the night before with my mind racing unpleasantly? I WAS A ROCKSTAR AND I COULD DO IT.

But last night my kids, who have inherited my sick sense of humor, had other plans that graciously allowing their precious mother 10-12 hours of uninterrupted sleep before awaking to serve me breakfast in bed and then clean my house for me. I know, right? The NERVE of them. And of course they seemed to sense that I had no backup for the following day.

Because my daughter was up until midnight, restless and cranky and just as I got her off to the Land Of Nod and firmly ensconced in her bouncy sleep my middle son began to shriek like he was being attacked. So off I trundled to get him another bottle of water and some cold medicine (did I mention we are all sick? Because we totally are.) and by the time I got in there I saw the cause for his screams.

Somehow, my darling most wonderful middle son took off his damn diaper and pissed all over the crib and his beloved ragged blankie. Awesome. But whatever, not the end of the world. Fixed that, popped him back into bed and once again shlepped my ass back to bed.

Second verse, same as the first, right? I fall asleep to be awaken after a brief moment to the melodious screams of my Alex. Finally at 2 in the morning I cried uncle after still not catching more than a couple minutes of sleep and begged Daver to help.

4:30 rolled around awfully early and found Amelia looking for a snacky-poo and by this time I couldn’t fall back asleep once we were done. And holy SHIT are babies loud sleepers or WHAT? I’d completely forgotten that.

So my day today has been…interesting. I’m so tired that I’m all jangly and I feel like somewhere, someone is laughing at me because I totally thought I could handle this.

Epic FAIL.

When I was growing up and people other than me bought my clothes, my paternal grandmother would mark every special occasion with a new fancy party dress. Luckily for me, despite my mother’s best efforts, I remained a girly-girl and not the tomboy she wanted me to be, so the dresses were a smash hit. I remember the yards of ribbons, lace and itchy, yet beautiful netting underneath. I remember fondly the stockings and the patent leather shoes and feeling just beautiful when I wore it all.

I couldn’t wait to carry that tradition on with my own daughter.

Because I am a freak of nature, I decided to wait until my daughter was born (and therefore it was a bigger pain in the asshole to get away) to settle on her first dress, an Easter dress. Easter is one of my favorite times of year, one of the only times that Chicago-land weather stands a chance at being remotely temperate and not Ass Cold or Ass Hot.

(Why YES, those are technical terms! Didn’t you know I have a degree in meteorology? Because I totally don’t.)

But Amelia was born and she had a spot on the back of her head that reminded me every time that I saw it of a bad spot on an apple. You know, the rotted bit? Not exactly the mental picture you want when you have a new baby, trust me, I know.

And because at any given time, none of us knew what the hell was REALLY going on with her–was she going to live? Die? Turn into a Jonas Brother? NO ONE WOULD TELL US–until after her surgery, we were in a constant state of limbo. I hate to harp on this, really I do, because I know so many people who have had real problems with their offspring and while I know now that her surgery really was fake brain surgery (sort of. Kind of. It was still brain surgery) and not nearly as frightening as we’d been led to possibly perhaps maybe sort of believe, I didn’t back then.

(still waiting on that pathology report. Want that pathology report)

So the things that comforted me while she still had her rotten spot were few and far between and I spent those four weeks alternating between Freaking The Fuck Out A Lot <---> Freaking The Fuck Out A Weensy Bit Less Than A Lot. Had this brain surgery been STAT, while it would have sucked for a couple of days, it was nothing compared to sitting around and wondering and waiting and not getting any answers. Because that, my internet lovers, sucks more.

I had, in no particular order, these things to comfort me: my friends in the computer, white cupcakes, Valium, and my word search books (shut up. I am not an old woman). The most important thing, though, was imagining a life post surgery, something I didn’t really want to do often lest I jinx it and kill her by thinking positively. Yes, it was magical thinking, and no, I couldn’t stop it no matter how berserk it sounds.

But I’d imagine two things: shopping for an Easter dress and bonnet for my daughter and planning her debut party.

And yesterday, the Gods smiled upon me.

Because there is this:

And something like this:

(Not, obviously, the same cake. This was Alex’s first birthday cake which neatly shows my cake fetish. And we are rapidly approaching Alex’s second birthday. Which is going to happily coincide with Amelia’s Debut Party. April 19, party people. Save the mother-humping date!)

It’s going to be one hell of a celebration.

———————

Oh, and I must add, while I thank you for all of your kind comments about the picture of me in that post, that is another old picture. Because I am still about 25-30 pounds up from that and am horrified by pictures of myself, I refuse to show you what I look like today. BECAUSE WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF THE INTERNET DIDN’T FIND ME SEXXY?

Dear Aunt Becky,

Love,
Waiting Tables and Making Stereotypes

Little Miss Prejudice,

You’ll learn quickly, oh sweetest of the peas, that there are all types of stereotypes for people when you’re serving. Some of them are very, very PC–as in “try and NOT wait on a table of middle aged women if you a) want to turn the table, well, ever, b) are female and c) want a tip”–and many of them are not. Since your beloved Auntie Becky writes on a pretty PC blog, she’s not about to start waving fingers.

Just believe me when I say that stereotypes often exist for a reason.

But, fair Googler, you searched here with a question. A question I can actually answer, unlike many of the horrifying search terms that bring people here to my doorstep.

And my answer to you across the board is that yes, smokers are much better tippers. They’re also kinder, more laid back, and overall the most pleasant sort of patron to wait on. I don’t know if it’s the nicotine or the fact that they have something to do with their hands to distract them from being a fucking dick, but servers will tend to vie to serve a table of smokers.

You, fair reader, will learn in time the other stereotypes.

All my best,
Auntie Becky

——————–

Deer Ant Becky,

Signed,
da DMV sux

Dear Kind Soul Who Blames The DMV For A Misspelled Name (when he, in fact, cannot spell misspell),

Perhaps, dear sir or madam, the problem is not with the DMV, it is with you.

Perhaps you, like so many of my friends in high school, were determined to get a fake ID at any cost. So perhaps you, in a fit of alcohol deprivation and against all good judgement, went down to the city to meet with a man who could get you an ID for a couple hundred dollars.

Maybe you, like them, didn’t bother to actually LOOK at the ID before forking over loads of cash to a dude standing in an abandoned warehouse in a really shitty neighborhood. So then, if you were as brilliant as my friends, you possibly want to go out and celebrate your newfound 21-ness with a dinner and a beer or perhaps a cocktail, if it suits you better.

But then, it’s conceivable that the waitress, upon closer inspection of your California Driver’s License (even though you are from Illinois), notices something. Something that, in your haste, it’s likely you overlooked.

Because your new license, the one you payed oodles of dollars for to some skeezy guy says this on it:

California Driver’s Liscence.

Did you catch that? The misspelling of the word license? Because she sure did. And that landed you a nice visit from the police, in the middle of the restaurant.

Smoove move, Ex-Lax.

Or maybe you just don’t know how to spell your own name. Could be.

With love and a dictionary,

Bequie

—————–

Aunt Becky,

Cleanliness Is Godliness

Dear Never Took Chemistry Class. Ever,

I’m sitting here thinking that it’s likely that you skipped school a lot, probably to smoke up with your stoner friends and then walk around Target laughing at stuff and things. Then, in my mind’s eye, I see you eating your weight in both Funyons and Twizzlers before nodding off into a nice, deep nap.

I’m also thinking that you should probably have gone to school instead.

Because then, you dumbass, you wouldn’t have searched for cleaning with vinegar and bleach.

Okay, so that probably went over your head.

See, here, there are these things called acids. Examples include: citric acid (lemon juice), tannic acid (wine), carbonic acid (gives your delicious Mountain Dew carbonation), uric acid (in pee). And here is the kicker: VINGER is also an acid (acetic acid).

Got it?

Then, brilliant internet searcher, there are these things called bases. Examples include: antacids (Tums), human blood, and baking soda. Also, and most relevant here: BLEACH.

Mixing acids and bases should only be done if you know what the byproduct is (also Add Acids to bases). And the byproduct here: TOXIC CHLORINE GAS.

Sure, it might make a better cleaner (the vinegar is said to lower the pH of the bleach), but it also might kill you dead. Which won’t make anything cleaner.

Smugly Yours,
Aunt Becky, Amateur Chemist

So, last night in a fit of mad organizational skillz, I had The Daver help me to import some of our old pictures onto my Mac, something I’ve been meaning to do well, forever now. And what kind of blogger would I be without sharing?

(Oh, LOOKIT THAT, I finally joined the 21st century and got a Flickr account that I somehow need to add to my sidebar because I am totally adding additional pictures almost daily! Bonus! They’re all almost the same!)

Here’s Ben at his 3rd birthday party and holy shit does he look young. Damn, do I feel old now.

Daver rarely makes a photographic appearance here because he’s extremely un-photogenic. Just ask him. Oh wait, I just did. And he said “I’m really un-photogenic.”

I also rarely put my pictures up here. Why? Because I’ve been pregnant and/or nursing and thereby whale-like (La Leche League lied when they said breastfeeding would remove the pounds effortlessly). So you normally see older pictures of me if any. But don’t worry. I’m going to bring sexy back and get this weight off. Promise.

Also: am I high here? I THINK SO.

Here’s a trick: Which one of my kids is this?

Wait, the yellow might give it away. Oh well.

But who is THIS?

Okay, you win. Those were both Alex. So you’ll know THIS face from the acne and pink and bruising.

Now, Internet, I’m going to let you in on a little secret here because I know I can trust you, baby. It may come as a shock to those of you who have read me since the beginning, so brace yourselves: I am not always very appropriate.

I know. I know. Pick your chins up off the floor and dust that dog hair out of your mouth. It’s true.

Whether it’s calling a vagina “floppy beef curtains,” calling my unborn daughter a “crotch parasite,” or referring to the home in which I live as “The Sausage Factory,” I can be downright, well, CRUDE. I happen to consider this a plus. It wins me some friends, it weeds out people I’d probably consider boring and well, it makes me who I am. Rude and crude.

But even someone as uncouth as I am has boundaries. Specifically, I don’t go around telling complete random strangers about things that they may consider to be a little disturbing, even if I’m really desperate to share how Dave and I did some kinky role playing last night and he was the Easter Bunny and I was a Pineapple and it was effing hot.

Aunt Becky, you might argue, you BLOG about this sort of thing where all the world and Baby Jesus and your parents can even see it, and you’d be right. The difference between blogging here on my own blog to my audience and telling some poor guileless cashier about how the Monistat was REALLY for my SON is that you all can click away quickly if I start talking about something you don’t want to hear about. Then you can quickly delete me from your reader.

While the cashier can technically do so, it would probably be frowned upon by his management, so he’s just stuck there, ringing up the Monistat and tampons and blushing furiously and trying desperately not to think of the gross crotchal region of the woman handing him money.

Moving on with a totally awkward segue into my REAL post…

When I was early on in my college career, after spending many years working as a waitress, I wanted a break from the serving industry. But since I’ve yet to become an heiress, I still needed a jobby-job so I applied and began working for a vet. Being an animal lover since I was probably an embryo, I figured working the front desk for a vet’s office would be pretty flipping sweet, especially since it didn’t involve burning the hell out of my hands with hot plates.

The job itself was fine, but I was made miserable by one of the sea hags that worked there, Melissa. She’d been the target of the office hatred, so when I showed up, she rather quickly began to take out all of her frustrations and hatorade on me. This job, it was not turning out to be grand. So much so that I did quit it to go back to serving within a couple of months, burnt hands be damned!

But while I was there, I got to see how the other half really lives. I mean, of course, the RABID animal people.

While I’d always considered myself an “animal person” even going so far as to think of becoming a vet until I learned that they make surprisingly crappy money for a shit ton of work, I had no. freaking. idea.

Sure, I’d seen those bumper stickers and sweatshirts with kooky cats and stupid sayings on them. I’d seen the specialty shops devoted to dogs and cats and the people who loved them. Hell, we have a doggie bakery here in town, so I know that these people do exist.

But I never, ever could conceive of true the level of craziness.

At our vet’s office, we had attracted a True Crazy (wonder if HER pharmacist knows!). I don’t remember her name, but I’ll call her Janine for this story’s sake. Janine bred dogs, Weimaraners to be specific, easily one of the most gorgeous dogs on the planet. In addition to breeding them, she also showed them in dog shows.

She was a nice enough lady, although I’d been warned that she was nutso by the other staff, I gave her a chance. A chance, of course, to prove the other staff right.

One night at 8:01 PM, coincidentally a minute after we’d closed for the night Janine called up in an absolute panic. One of her dogs, she bellowed into the phone, one of her dogs was running a fever! And she must come in RIGHT NOW and NOT WAIT UNTIL MORNING FOR A REAL APPOINTMENT. She’d be there in 8 minutes!!

Fuck, man, I thought. I just wanted to go home and I had to stay there until she left. Oh well. Whatever. I’ll make an extra 2 bucks sitting around doing jack shit.

Sure enough, about 8 minutes later Janine blows into the place, tears pouring down her face while she carried her 90 pound dog up to the desk.

“My baby!” She screeched in my face. “He’s got a temperature!”

Thankfully for me, as I was about to bust up cackling at her (The dog looked FINE, and perhaps even a little ashamed and most certainly not knocking on death’s door), the vet walked out and lead Janine back to the exam area.

The vet tech promptly came up front to tell me this nugget: the temperature? 0.01 degree higher than absolutely perfect for the breed. It would be like calling your doctor if your “fever” was 98.8 rather than 98.7 degrees. Big fucking whoop, right? Besides, we all wondered why was she taking the dog’s temp ANYWAY if it wasn’t sick? The last place I’d want to be is putting stuff up a dog’s pooper, but not Janine. She must’ve dug it.

Janine comes out of the exam room in a whoosh and heads straight for the front desk without her dog.

“He’s staying overnight,” she said triumphantly. “The doctor tried to tell me that he was fine, but I want to make sure he’s in the best possible hands all night long.”

Um, okay. We’re ALL leaving when you leave, lady, so no one at all will be here. But um, okay.

I just nodded my head silently. She took this as an offer to jibber-jaw my head off. And what I learned next I can never, ever unlearn. No matter how hard I try.

“My dog (referring to the one now unhappily in a kennel in the back) is a show dog and we have a show coming up. I can’t have him be sick for the show….” She prattles on about shows she’s won and lost and just as my brain is starting to liquify and fall out of my eyeballs she changes subjects.

Specifically, she’s now talking about her secret for preparing the dogs for the show a subject that I could not be less interested in if I tried.

But, making the mistake of being polite, I asked her what her secret was. After determining that I wasn’t going to steal her thunder, she leaned forward conspiratorially and told me…

“Well, I take the males right beforehand and I ejaculate them.”

My mouth dropped open.

“I find that it relaxes them and then they perform better!”

My mouth flapped in the breeze.

Thankfully, the vet poked his head back out and beckoned for Janine to come back for some paperwork or something and told me, after seeing the look of horror on my face that I could go home.

A part of me died then and there, and another part of me wondered what the hell the other dog show people would think of someone whacking off their dog in the prep area. Perhaps they all do it. Maybe it’s one gigantic bestiality orgy before a dog show.

I’ll just never know. And THAT, my friends, is JUST FINE with me.

So what’s the most inappropriate thing that someone has randomly said to you? I’m positive I’m not the only one who has this happen to them.

When Alex was about 10 months old, I realized that I was suffering from Postpartum Depression and was promptly seen by my doctor and treated with some excellent mood enhancers (sadly not MDMA).

Every now and again, even knowing better like I do, I’ll get this bright idea that I need to go off of them for some reason so I do. The results are always predictably bad, save for when I was badgered into going off them at 8 weeks pregnant with Amelia. Then, for a good 20 odd weeks, I did remarkably well all things considering.

But, what goes up must come down and at 20 odd weeks pregnant, I realized that I Was Not Handling Life Well. Crying whenever a commercial came onto the television–even aquadoodles! which may be annoying but certainly not sob-worthy–wasn’t my standard MO and I made the executive decision to resume taking my Vitamin W.

So, one weekend while shopping at the hallowed halls of the beginning and end of my current social life (read: Target), I had The Daver pop over to the pharmacy to request the refill on my Vitamin W while I peed or something equally pregnant-like. No sooner had he walked away (as I walked up behind them), but I hear my name booming over the loudspeaker to “return to the pharmacy.”

Since I was already there, I popped my head up and addressed the no-nonsense looking pharmacist who appeared to be glaring at me.

“Hey, I’m Rebecca Harks, what’s up?” I started in.

“Didn’t you go OFF this medication?” She accused me, her voice dripping with…anger? Could that REALLY be anger? “Because it says in the system that you stopped taking it.”

I was momentarily shocked as this woman had immediately put me on the defense, not a common reaction I have to people talking to me. (IT IS NOT A COMMON REACTION, INTERNET!) (see, that’s a JOKE. Because I was being defensive about being defensive. God, I crack myself up. I should be a comedian.)

“Well,” I sort of sputtered, taken completely aback and somehow now on the verge of tears. “I did. But I need to go back onto it now.” I wondered why my fucking pharmacist was making me justify something that she personally had no reason to do so. She, as I knew, couldn’t write me a prescription, so what does it matter WHY I take ANYTHING?

Answer: it doesn’t.

“Well,” she angrily spat at me, “you ONLY have a script for 10 more pills. THEN you’ll need to call your DOCTOR.”

The tears were welling up as she accused me again and my throat became lumpy as I tried to swallow.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll call them on Monday. But in the meantime, I want my 10 pills.”

Internet, hand to heart here, the woman then rolled her eyes at me. No, really, she did. Daver even saw it, so you know I’m not being hysterical here.

While I’m aware that being on an anti-depressant while obviously pregnant isn’t perhaps the best thing on the planet, trust me, I struggled with being on it for that reason, it’s not the end of the world. My own mother was on Lithium while she was pregnant with moi and look at how well *I* turned out!

Okay, bad example.

I guess what I’m saying is this: if you have to be on something to help you make it through your life, that’s something that’s between you and your doctor, and God not you and the Target pharmacist. I wasn’t asking for Viagra, I wasn’t asking for meth, I just wanted my fucking anti-depressant. More than anything, I wanted NOT TO NEED IT.

But if I do need it, I’d prefer it without the side of Judgmental Bitch.

It should have come as no surprise to me that last week, when I called in a refill for my Ativan (with one clearly left according to the jaunty label) I attempted to do so through the computerized system. Immediately as I hung up, the phone rang. Guess who?

The natty haired Target pharmacist!

Immediately she launches into, “Did your doctor change your dosage?”

“Erm, no,” I sputtered, upset to begin with.

“Well, I can’t give you this. You can’t have it for another 2 weeks.” She stated flatly, but with an accusing tone to her voice. I must add that the first and only time I’ve needed this medication was after Amelia came home with a cyst on her fucking skull. And even then, I was so upset that I had Daver call my doctor and request this FOR me.

“Can I pay full price?” I asked, thinking it was an insurance thing. Money was not an object here. Sanity was.

“NO. You can’t have this for 2 more weeks.” There was no budging her. And now, of course, I’m in tears. While everything set me off into a crying jag last week, this was especially brutal.

She finally agreed to call my doctor to request a dosage change for me once I started hiccuping hysterically into the phone as I explained the situation with Amelia to her.

And while I don’t fault her for doing her job–shit, my dad is a pharmacist, I respect that stuff–it’s become clear that she has a bias against psychiatric medication. That’s what makes me so sad.

If she couldn’t practice empathy, at least she could have been less I’m all gonna judge you for needing medication YOU WEAK, SPINELESS BITCH, YOU.

*sighs*

Perhaps I should act REALLY crazy and go and take a poo on her car or something.

So tell me, wise Internets, has someone done something similar to you? Accused you in their voice and actions something that you didn’t deserve to be accused of?

I’ve been pretty obsessive about documenting Amelia’s first days in this crazy mixed up world, although you’d probably not know it by looking at my blog. See, I always feel badly that the pictures are going to make my page load slowly although I don’t know if this is the case.

Either way, I’m going to start a Flicker account just like you crazy kids all have. My user name is MommyWantsVodka and here is the link. Then you can see just how badly I suck at taking pictures.

But I was just looking back to see if I’d taken any pictures of her third eyeball and it looks as though, nope, I didn’t. Probably a good thing since looking at it would make me weep openly. Hormonal, yes. Scary, also yes. My father, for those of you blessed to be my Facebook friend and be subjected to my status updates there (the only thing I’ve really done there. Which is stupid because it’s just like Twitter. Which I also have. Which, yeah.) posted one of the least flattering pictures of me that, well, I think might exist. You could see Amelia’s third eyeball there, but you’d probably not notice it because you’d be transfixed by the gigantic unkempt whale in the background.

I strong-armed him into removing it, thankfully, lest The Internet not find me sexy.

I may not have a picture of her third eyeball, but I do have this:

Oh, and this:

And this, which I warn you in all seriousness is pretty disturbing (it’s taken from far away, lest you all vomit onto your keyboard and send me the bill:

Yeah. I expected something a third that size and when the Asshole Nurse Practitioner (no really, that’s her name.) thoughtfully ripped the hat-shaped bandage from my poor daughter’s head, I nearly horked all over us all. Which, after she ripped out Amelia’s hair painfully, I probably should have. Bitch.

Anyway.

So, I suppose it’s a good thing that I’ve always thought scars were pretty neat. Because that one? HUGEMONGEOUS. You can’t probably tell from the angle which was deliberate, but it takes up most of the back of her head. It’s so foul looking that I spent our first night home crying over it.

Why yes, I am hormonal. My zit-covered face is pulsing proof!

Let’s just hope like hell that she never goes bald. Or if she does, she’s going to have to come up with one hell of a “this one time I was in a bar fight when I was like a month old. I cut a bitch!” story to regale people with. Or, I guess she could tell the truth. It’s a little scarier.

My baby, she wrote me a letter. Or a blog post. Or she would if she could. She still needs to master that whole “speaking thing.” Whatever.

But even without mastering speech (yet. Perhaps at 2 months of age? I forget how these things develop), my daughter is an obvious prodigy. How do I know besides knowing her impeccable genetics (well, half of them at least)?

WE’RE HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL.

Life can begin now.

Never underestimate the power of prayer. Thank you all so much.