Christmas comes early to our house, as it does every other year that Nat takes Ben for the one holiday we share (the rest we divvy up based on when it’s celebrated, which is not always the day that it’s TECHNICALLY celebrated upon), and we spent the morning gorging on chocolate-y sweets and cinnamon rolls. Well, I had a diet Coke. Because The Nausea, she is something fierce these days.

(It’s completely unfair that NOW the nausea would return just in time to NOT EAT my favorite holiday treats. Like chocolate chip cookies. Because nothing says “Christmas” like chocolate chip cookies, right?)

It’s been a wonderful day, so far, despite the fact that Ben is now gone and my heart is heavier than it was before. Watching the boys laugh and play with all of the goodies (while Alex body-slammed his brother) that Santa brought warmed the cockles of even my cold heart, and reminded me that this, THIS was what Christmas was about. Not enforced cookie-making, not faux ebullient merriment, not about in-laws or out-laws. It’s about family and it’s about magic.

I hope that each and every one of you is spending some time with people you love with all your heart (and probably some that you pretend you’re not related to), and I hope that some of the magic that has been lost over this year is regained. Somehow.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and all that goes in between from Casa de la Sausage to each and every one of you.

And remember: Aunt Becky loves you even if the rest of the planet thinks you’re an asshole.

By nature, I’m not A Worrier. It’s just not in my blood to aimlessly sit around and think deeply about any and all of the consequences of my actions. If that implies that I sit around on a fluffy cloud of pink cotton candy, nary a care in the world, never dealing with the consequences of my choices, it’s sadly incorrect. Mayhap someday I’ll be fortunate enough (read: medicated enough) to live like that, but not today.

I just don’t waste a whole lot of time worrying about what might happen if Jupiter aligns with Mars at a 33 degree angle which is a remarkably good way to live especially if your spouse has been conditioned at birth to be A Worrier.

No, the only problems that come from this is that often, when things are about to go all apeshit on your ass, you don’t spend enough time talking through the what-ifs of the situation.

Let me back up a minute.

I currently have two children: Alexander and Benjamin, both of whom are flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, and easily two of my favorite people on the planet (see! I can be sentimental sometimes!). Now.

Problem is Baby A and Baby B were both Baby Dickheads. I’m sure this will offend someone out there, me calling my child(ren) a dick or an asshole, but they were simply horrible babies. What made matters even worse is that they were both badly behaved in such DIFFERENT horrible ways, so I was left shrugging my shoulders and fantasizing about suicide.

Ben, as we now know, is on the autistic spectrum and as a baby, had massive sensory issues that were then undiagnosed. Which meant that I knew this about my child:

1) He hated being touched
2) He hated life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness
3) Absolutely everything evoked the exact same response: SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF HIS WEE LUNGS.

It’s fairly safe to say that he had both colic and a bad attitude and there was NOTHING I could do about either of these issues besides wait it out. Or kill myself, which just seemed like a bad idea.

Alex was born and literally could not get enough of me, which was, I suppose, my fault. When I was pregnant with him, I furiously wished that I would now have a child who liked me best. If it sounds sad to you, it’s because it is. I had been so incredibly hurt by Ben’s ultimate rejection of me that all I wanted out of my child was to have one who liked me.

It’s safe to say that I got that in spades. Remember the Monkey Paw story?

Alexander couldn’t handle the mere thought of being apart from me. He’d scream mercilessly if he was taken away from me so that I could do such things as take a pee alone, or perhaps shower. Rather than sleep like a normal baby, he decided that sleep was for pussies and refused that too. Only thing he ever wanted was a boob in his face. Constantly.

Seriously, the kid nursed every hour for nearly a year. I shit you not.

Even now, sleep issues mainly resolved (save for the naps he often doesn’t take AT ALL), I am the preferred parent, and if I am around, the world is right. It’s fucking cute as hell and it warms my heart and it terrifies the hell out of me that when Amelia comes and he realizes that he has competition (Ben is old enough that he doesn’t seem to be fazed by his relationship with Yours Truly).

I mean, I’m pretty scared of some fierce sibling rivalry and there’s very little at his age that I can do to prepare him for a baby. Hell, there’s so little you can do in general to explain to a child (or anyone else, really) how a baby can turn your life on its’ axis just by being here. I have no idea how to divide myself up like I’m going to have to especially when there’s no other acceptable adult substitution available to either of us.

And I’m terrified of having another awful baby. I’m so, so afraid of what this will do me. I’m no pus-bag and I’d even venture to occasionally call myself Hard Core, but after nearly a year of not sleeping (thank you, Baby A) my grasp on reality was getting so shaky that I was actually considering suicide. Or at least a hospitalization. It was just that bad. I talked about it here and there on my blog, but not wanting to turn my blog into a list of complaints about the life I’d WANTED made me restrain myself mightily.

I’m afraid and yet I know that I’ll get through it all unscathed. We all will. It’s just what we do.

So, Internet, what’s on your mind today? Complain away. Let your fears out here. Write another blog post in my comments. Relieve yourself before you have to go and eat Aunt Shirley’s gross fruitcake and laugh at the jokes of relatives that just aren’t funny. Or have to listen to how Grandpa Bill hasn’t taken a proper dump in two days!

Let it out, man. Let it out.

It appears as though finally the events of the past year have caught up with me as I knew they would eventually. You can run all you want, but eventually it comes time to pay the piper. Whomever the piper happens to be. What a dumb saying that is considering I have no idea who or what a piper is. (Because if *I* don’t know it, no one else would either, right?)

I’m fine, really, I am, just sitting on my couch chock full of The Anxiety For No Good Reason and wishing like hell I had another adult home with me to talk to. I’ll live, I just need some head-space, I think. Which will be in no easy task considering that Christmas (o! how I wish I could not celebrate thee this year) is around the corner and my eldest is home from school and currently trying to drive me to drink.

So, Internet, here is where YOU come in and why I’m bothering posting about this at all: I need some distractions and I need your help in getting them. What do you do when you’re anxious and you can’t self-medicate with delicious, o! delicious vodka (assuming exercise is also not going to happen, either)? If you’re not an anxious person, then tell me something funny. An anecdote or something.

My current house was built sometime in the late 1970’s. I know this in part because I remember looking at the date of construction when we were filling out the approximately 64,836 mortgage documents and remarking to myself that “Hey, Self, this is a good thing! My house was built AFTER lead-based paint was made illegal.”

Might not be something that occurred to normal people when they were buying a house, but our condo was built at the turn of the century and as such, when the lead levels were checked before we bought it, they were off the charts. Stupidly, we still bought it.

(let us not make fun of the damage that the lead paint MAY HAVE DONE to Aunt Becky’s brain. It’s likely she was dumb well before this happened)

It’s a good age, I think, my new house is. It’s old enough that while the stuff inside isn’t brand new, there aren’t any surprises left over from faulty construction. At least, nothing that we know of YET. It’s not an interesting looking house, aside from it’s Electric Yellow siding. It’s a standard Colonial, one of three or four models in my neighborhood, but it’s home and I couldn’t be happier (unless, of course, the siding fairy came over night one night soon *hint, hint* and replaced my siding with something less, um, EYE catching).

We’ve been fortunate, however, in that the appliances that were likely here when the house was built–or shortly after–have remained functional despite their decidedly non-fashionable exterior. You’re going to be jealous when I tell you that not only do my washer and dryer have faux wood panelling, but so does our refrigerator.

Doncha wish your appliances were as hot as mine? ADMIT IT, INTERNET, YOU WANT MY SEXY APPLIANCES.

Except that with the possible exception of my refrigerator, which I hate primarily because of it’s utterly ineffectual side-by-side design (which allows for practically nothing to be stored there), I have known that they were on their proverbial last legs since we moved in nearly 4 years ago. The dryer, which takes approximately 4.5 hours to dry a simple load of laundry, has been nearing death for a couple of months, back when I resurrected it.

(My fancy-ass trick? I HIT THE TOP OF IT WITH A BOTTLE OF DETERGENT. It’s a freaking wonder MENSA hasn’t come knockin’ for me. Oh wait, no it’s not)

This morning, however, my dryer rests gently wherever it is that the souls of old appliances go when they die. Not with a bang, but a whimper.

Rest in peace, sweet wood-panelled dryer. *sniff, sniff*

With the death of my dryer comes, of course, the rebirth of a whole new set of appliances (sadly none of them the sexy cherry-red that I petitioned loudly for), which will successfully remove all traces of faux wood panelled artifacts in our house. The 70’s will no longer reside in our home, instead, they will be transported back to their rightful place in hell along with all Lief Garrett LP’s and polyester pant-suits.

*sighs*

On second thought, leave the pant-suits. Maybe there’s some seeds hidden in them.

It’s been quite a long time since I’ve broken up with someone. I’ve been with The Daver for many years (five? six? I can’t remember anymore because it seems like forever. Um, yeah. I mean that IN A GOOD WAY, of course) and before that I was with Nat, whom I dumped (and therefore didn’t feel badly about). But I’ll never forget just how full of The Awesome it is to crank up a good break-up song, cry–or scream wickedly–along with the lyrics, and generally sit and wallow in self pity.

Okay, so it wasn’t full of The Awesome back then, but looking back on how mournfully I treated some of my break-ups that were really more of a blessing than a curse. I guess that it’s a maturity/hind-sight thing.

But here, here I have compiled a list of songs so awesome to listen to while breaking up–and mourning–that they make me a bit nostalgic for long gone (thankfully) days.

1) James Blunt- Goodbye My Lover. He’s best known for that other song You’re Beautiful, a song which I also adore, but I happen to love this song. It came out after I was married, so I obviously don’t associate it with any particular break-up, but it doesn’t matter. When he sings, “Goodbye my lover, goodbye my friend, you have been The One, you have been The One for me,” I get some massive chills.

2) G’n’R’s November Rain. Now, I went back and forth here between this song and Use Your Illusion I and II’s Don’t Cry (also I and II) and I think I made the right call here. I mean, think of the video! Stephanie Seymour and a wedding and a death AT a wedding! What more can you ask for? Besides, it IS hard to hold a candle in the cold November Rain.

This song encompasses everything that a quintessential break-up song needs:

*Sung by a sensitive man who really cares about the chick he’s dumping
*He also really regrets the shit out of having to dump her in the first place
*But he’s “letting her go” to “be free” and when she’s ready, he’ll be waiting
*A sexy guitar rift
*An even hotter video

Internet, I know that you can love me, when there’s no one left to blame. Right? RIGHT??

Sorry, I’ll stop now.

3) Bob Dylan- Most Likely You’ll Go Your Way (And I’ll Go Mine). Did you appreciate the segue from G’n’R to Bob Dylan? Because I totally did.

This song is from a different sort of genre of break-up songs: the ones in which someone is fucking pissed. Bob Dylan has a whole catalogue of these sorts of snarky and mean break-up songs, and it’s something I adore him for. But this has to be one of my favorites. I mean, you can’t mess with lyrics like this:

“You say you’re shakin’
And you’re always achin’,
But you know how hard you try.”

Because you totally know that person, whether or not you dated him or her, you know someone who behaves like this and you’re all “wow, that’s annoying. But shit, wouldn’t it be more annoying to DATE him/her?” And Bob Dylan DID date him/her and wrote a song about it so you could nod your head and say “Abso-fucking-lutely, I know who you’re talking about.”

Or maybe it’s just me.

4) Christina Aguilera- Walk Away/Fighter. These are actually two back to back songs on her Stripped album, but I’d be sure to guarantee that these are designed to listen to one after the other. Walk Away is the typical sad break-up song with lyrics like “Your love was like candy, artificially sweet, I was deceived by the wrapping” that remind me completely of all of the dudes I dated that weren’t exactly who they said they were. What can I say, I had bad taste in dudes.

Fighter is the song that happens after you stop marinading yourself in self-pity and loathing and are done crying over the dude that pulled the rug over your eyes. If you’re like me, anger is preferable to sitting around and moping especially about a dude, so Fighter is honestly up there in my list of Best Songs Ever. This song is an angry person’s anthem, but it’s not specifically something you have to listen to when you’ve broken up with someone, just when you’re fucking pissed because you have totally been wronged.

5) Rolling Stones- Angie. The Stones have always held a really special place in my heart, especially after my friend Stef died last January as The Stones were her favorite band. I cannot think of one without the other, so there’s no separation between the two.

But either way, this is one of the saddest, most mournful break-up songs that I can think of off the top of my head. You can tell that Mick Jagger REALLY MEANS what he says when he croons things like:

“But Angie, I still love you baby, ev’rywhere I look I see your eyes,
There ain’t a woman that comes close to you, come on baby, dry your eyes.”

And there’s a secret part of you that wishes that any one of your miserable ex’s ever thought something so sweet, poetic and romantic about you instead of something more realistic like, “Man, that chick gave some GOOD head.”

YOUR turn, Internet. Gimmie some good break-up songs that I’ve forgotten to include here. Lord knows my mind ain’t what she used to be and I’m damn certain I’ve forgotten some pretty key songs here.

Before I met The Daver, I loved the holidays. When I say loved, I mean LOVED, the kind of love that implies that I would be happiest in my life if I could stay home, make babies with Christmas, hump the leg of Easter every night, and make sweet (yet spooky!) love to Halloween. It was a time of year that I revered: from the sparkling lights to the tacky blow-up house decorations, I loved it all. In my mind, they could have played Christmas music 24 by 7 by 365 and I would have said nothing aside from “CRANK THAT PUPPY TO 11!”

And while I use my chance meeting of The Daver as a marker for When Good Holidays Go Bad, it’s not really his fault (somewhere, perhaps on a train, he is sitting in shock, mouth agape that I would NOT blame him for something). But with the addition of The Daver meant a whole extra set of people with a whole extra set of restrictions as to when and where holidays could be celebrated.

That coupled with the aging of Ben in addition to the extra set of restrictions that celebrating with Nat’s family implied, meant that the holidays had gone from being something that I just showed up with gifts and cookies for into a carefully orchestrated several weeks in which every spare nanosecond was accounted for.

Our holiday schedule went something like this: drive three hours into Wisconsin for breakfast at precisely 9 AM at specific diner where we all had to eat pancakes and sausage (it IS Wisconsin, arguably the sausage capitol of the world. Or something.), sit for exactly and hour and fifteen minutes with 2 bathroom breaks. Then loop through the upper peninsula of Michigan to climb the warthog infested mountain of snow in order to secure the holy grail of rare beer for XX family member. Stop for gas and bathroom break on way to Arizona to drop of package for other family member who’d forgotten to mail it. At 11 PM, on the way home, finally have lunch at an oasis McDonald’s.

We came back from that first holiday, The Holiday Of The Ghost Of Our Future, and I wept openly for several hours while Dave chewed his nails and paced the floors. We were both just tapped out and exhausted, and as for Ben, he was so overwrought and inconsolable that this ickle expenditure undid about 3 months worth of previous therapy.

And after a lengthy, exhausted discussion we came to two realizations:

1) We did it to ourselves when we stopped saying The ‘N’ Word when asked to participate in holiday this or that.

2) We would not do this again to ourselves or our family. Rather than saying “Yes” to the question of if we COULD do something, we’d decide it based upon the idea that we SHOULD.

So, in an effort to cut ourselves neatly out of any possible inheritance, we stopped agreeing to do everything we were asked to do for the holidays. COULD we do something? Probably. But SHOULD we? Not at all.

The Daver and I have put on our thinking caps and tried just about every combination of Possible Holiday Merriment that would allow us even the slightest hint of joy during a time of year that is supposedly all about joy, and each and every year, we break down and weep openly (okay, this is a SLIGHT exaggeration). It’s just not possible to Do It All and still enjoy the holidays that I once treasured.

And the kicker of the whole thing is this: we run ragged to appease everyone for a good reason. They all just want to see us and spend time with us. ALL AT ONCE. While this is completely admirable (I mean who wouldn’t want to spend time with us? WE’RE FULL OF AWESOME.), it’s also completely unfair this particular year.

So I put my foot down and used the dreaded ‘N’ word yet again. Rather than celebrate Christmas 5 different times (for poor Ben this would now be 7 times, and not a soul is divorced here), I said no.

The kicker for the whole situation is this: while I know that this is The Right Thing To Do For My Family, I still feel guilty about not being able to do it all. I gave myself a pass on all of the normal holiday shit that I love to do (read: cookies and cards and fancy wrapping paper) and am not doing because I’m barely functioning anymore. And yet, using the ‘N’ word this time, is making me feel just terrible.

Like I’ve used the “I have my period” card twice in a month to get out of swimming class.

I guess I don’t get it. Why does doing the right thing for my family make me feel so bad?

How do you guys manage the holidays with all of the assorted obligations–and guilt, let’s not forget guilt–that come as naturally with it as Bing Crosby? Is it something that you just suck up and deal with (thereby making you unhappy) for the sake of pleasing other people? Or have you used the ‘N’ word and decided that the holidays being about family means YOU too?

Okay, so the title is a bit of a lie: I totally can sleep. Not, of course, as well as I could if I were to say, pop a couple of Ambien, but I consider any sleeping at night in my 33rd week to be a huge coup. (As a not so aside, aside, let me give a brief but forceful shout out to Benedryl. Thanks for being there for me, man.).

But it does appear, sleeping or not, that all of my thwarted and aborted previous attempts at nesting have come back and bitten me in the butt. So now, rather than just hurry up and order the damn swing that for some reason I haven’t ordered (and is subsequently driving me wild), I’m doing a complete and utter purge of my house.

This is also brought on by the upcoming Christmas holiday in which my children, the youngest on all sides of the family next to The Daver and I, our children tend to be indulged to the nth degree each and every holiday. Any attempts at dissuading people to spend their money elsewhere tend to go unheard, so many of these toys go directly to people in need, without being opened by my children’s grubby paws.

Now, since I’m no packrat and I tend to purge my house every couple of months or so, this is less an easy task than you’d think. But surprisingly, I’ve found a huge amount of things that the Salvation Army will be inheriting just as soon as I shove it all into my car and drive it over to the center.

Before you go (rightly) all environmental on me, trust me when I tell you that I’ve significantly reduced the amount of impulse crap that I buy. Another sign that I know I’m getting all geriatric on you is that I can actually say (and mean) that Less IS More. Unless it comes to either diamonds or sparkly stuff. Then More is Golden.

I’m not really sure how the impending arrival of Baby Sausage translates in my hormonally addled brain to the necessity of removing all old socks and underwear from my house (I mean, is she going to come home and immediately turn up her nose at my slovenly house-keeping abilities? Because if she is, SHE CAN TOTALLY CLEAN IT UP HERSELF), but I guess I’m not one to question nature. I’ve not nested like this before, but I can totally assure you that is more rewarding than a deep dish pizza OR a killer orgasm (or both, in whatever order you like).

And I’m pretty convinced that I am powerless to stop. Completely powerless over my urge to purge. How am I so sure? If I could, I would happily come over to YOUR house and do the same thing for you. FOR FREE. Insane? Yes. Hormonal? Totally. Completely happy stewing in my hormone stew? 100%.

————–

Are you a purger or a hoarder? I’m dying to know what The Internet thinks.

Earlier today, with my eldest in tow, my husband and I trooped off through the freezing rain (have I mentioned that I’m still not certain that we haven’t moved to a nicer climate? Because I TOTALLY DON’T KNOW WHY NOT) to get our 3D ultrasound. And I’ll admit it to you, dear Internet, I was nervous. I’m not really certain WHY I was nervous, but I was. I guess it’s probably in part because my OB’s office wouldn’t authorize this frivolous un-medically necessary and because I’ve been sick as a dog this week, waking every couple of hours only to go right back to sleep.

(insert joke about regression into newborn state being an obvious indicator of how my not-so-brilliant mind works)

Either way, I was full of The Nervous.

What if she was now a he, like that Lou Reed song? Would I put my son in a dress in order to make use of all the pretty ickle dresses I’ve been hoarding? Would he hate me if I did that? Would I even care?

Turns out, it was all for naught. My daughter, in all of her spread-eagled glory, showed us that definitively yes, we were having a girl. And not only a girl who is completely immodest, but a girl who looks just like her father and her middle brother.

Dave certainly cannot deny parentage of his children, that is for sure.

It…smiles!

Yes, sir, that’s my baby. Chubby edible delicious cheekies and all.

And, as a completely off topic veer, I’d like to thank my good friend Emily from Wheels on The Bus for nominating me for a blog award.

Two of them, in fact. Neither of which I will actually win, because, I’m just not a winner and because the competition is brutal, but if you’re so inclined to vote for your Aunt Becky, click on the bubblely thing on my side-bar.

And if you do, I will totally kiss you. With tongue, even.

Thanks, Em. I’m so flattered, I could pee myself. Oh, wait, I just did.

For as long as I can remember, my father has bought my mother the same pair of running shoes for every Christmas. Well, no, technically SHE is the one who buys the shoes and probably wraps them too, and maybe she even signs the card, I don’t know. In turn, my father buys himself something or another for his computer from her, wraps it himself and stashes it under the tree.

Opening gifts with them was always kind of horrifying, not because they weren’t totally happy with what they were getting but because they were. It was like looking into the Ghosts Of Christmases To Come.

Someday, some year, Christmas would become all about the Practical, Sensible and Boring. Someday I too would reach thrilling new heights of glee when I unwrapped a brand new toilet brush set with matching toilet seat cover. I might even get tearful if my name were monogrammed right there, because how thoughtful and yet practical at the same time!

Or maybe it was just my boring parents. Maybe other people’s parents weren’t so dull and drab. Maybe they’d open new baubles from Tiffany & Co while sipping mimosas on their yachts. Sure, my parents SWORE that they were young and hip at one point in time, but I distinctly remember stories of “calculus class” and “beanies” neither of which screams “I am cool.”

Now I’m scared.

This year, after I couldn’t come up with anything frivolous that I absolutely NEEDEDfor Christmas, I was left with a startlingly small list of things that I wanted for Christmas. And then, for the first time in, well, ever, I PUT THAT LIST ON PAPER. In order to get anything that I might actually use for Christmas, I made a Christmas list. I realize that most adult people people do this on a yearly basis, because they are smart, but I am not those people. Because writing a list means that I have to organize myself well enough to do this. Also, I am lazy.

I’ve learned, however, that if I do not direct people to items that I might want and use I will wind up with a whole host of things that I do not want and then I am stuck wondering what on earth to do with my brand-new case of expired powdered milk. While I always appreciate the gesture that accompanies the gifts I get, anything we don’t need is donated to charity right away.

I’m scared because this year, tired of finding homes for more things that we do not need, I have made a list of practical things that we’d like for Christmas. It’s disgusting how practical my list is. Pillow cases! I asked for PILLOWCASES! And a SPOTLIFTER! I mean, how much more boring–yet sensible–can one person get? If my former self could see me now, she’d be throwing up all over my mom jeans.

Gone are the days when I ask for a Coach purse! Farewell to diamond earrings and Movado watches! Adieu my collection of Jimmy Choos! Gone forever are the days of my impractical youth!

What’s even worse is that I’m sort of excited about getting them because it’s one less annoying thing to spend my money on and one less framed whimsical light-up Santa Claus paintingthat I have to lug over to the Salvation Army.

I’m becoming my parents.

HOLDME.

Normally, I’d apologize profusely for posting twice in a day, because, well, it’s annoying to me. But screw apologies this time. Hear that, Internet? I’M NOT SORRY.

I was alerted by a blog post by my friend Kelly at Don Mills Diva that tonight her friend Sheona McDonald has a documentary airing called “Capturing A Short Life.” It deals with the often-ignored subject of infant loss and follows several families through this journey from birth to death.

It’s airing tonight on CBC Newsworld at 10 PM but appears to be only available in Canada. I’ve been digging to see if those of us in the States can see it and I haven’t been able to determine this yet. I never claimed to be smart, did I?

I’m not certain that I’ll be able to watch it, not living in Canada and whatnot, but I wish like hell that I could. I have made so many friends here on my blog who have lost their own babies, and constantly struggle with being unable to tell their own stories outside of their blogs, and whether or not they know it, their children and their stories have shaped not only me, but many of my readers.

These little lives were not snuffed out too soon in vain. They simply can’t be. Because THESE are some of my friends’ children and they were here.

Hannah

Caleb

Baby JP

Kalila

William

Isabel Grace

Maddy

William Henry

Aodin

Callum

Sarah

Connor

Liam

Samuel

Caden

Masyn

Olive Lucy

Seth Milton

Abigail Hlee

JoeJoe Sherman

Baby Nick

Gabriel Anton

Ryan

Jonathan

Devin Alin

Jacob and Joshua

Baby K, Gabriel Connor, Christian Elliot

Emmerson

Baby Kuyper

Mara S.

If anyone knows how we State-side people can watch this as well, please let me know in the comments.