In a shocking fit of oddness, earlier in the week, Dave and I were both home to parent our children together. Normally, he leaves for work before the kids are up and comes home after they’re in bed, so I’ve gotten pretty accustomed to doing Daily Maintenance of All Things Kidly alone.

On this particular evening, however, Thing One (Ben) was off being Ben somewhere else in the house while Thing Two (Alex) sat in our sink splashing about merrily in a bath. We can’t bathe him every day as he’d like as he has such incredibly sensitive skin that he might molt and lose his skin entirely if I tried, so bath time for him is extra delightful.

Dave and I were both standing within arms reach (read: splashing distance) and talking about something else like the relative deliciousness of encased meats (consensus: Totally Full Of Delicious) when I realized that I was suddenly not being splashed with lukewarm water. I looked over at Alex, who has recently discovered the words both: Yes and No, and saw a familiar sight.

Alex was dingling his dangle, pinching the one-eyed diaper snake, and generally enjoying the hell out of his man-meat. Alex’s penis is his ultimate plaything, and he knows full well what it’s called. “Penis” was, in fact, one of his first words.

So in the name of talking to my child constantly (have a child who spends years in speech therapy and you will totally learn the value of narrating obnoxiously about each and every single fucking thing you do), I conversationally said to him, “Hey Alex, are you playing with your penis?”

To which, I am shockingly UNSHOCKED to say, he replied at full volume, with the biggest ear-to-ear smile I’ve seen on him yet, “YEEEAAAAH!!!!!” It was as happy as I would have sounded if asked if I happened to be looking forward to the new Britney Spears CD and probably 45 times as loud.

My boy, all right. Although Dave is trying to take credit for it, just like he always does.

Ass.

BlogHer 2009
July 24-25
Chicago, IL

Who is in, my bitches? Who wants to come to Chicago, home of our famous deep dish pizza, the best hot dogs on the planet, AND everybody’s favorite Aunt Becky?

Because I cannot fucking wait. To all of you previous attendees, is it worth it?

First off, I want to say thank you to anyone who had something nice to say to me in the past couple weeks. It’s been a really hard time for me, and while I don’t really like to sit and whine about it, it’s nice to know that my friends in the computer love me. They really, really love me.

So, I’m going to lighten the mood here, and bring you an irregular feature I like to call Fan Mail, or Mail Bag, or something with the words “bag” in it. Especially if it’s a euphemism for testicles (nut bag). Then I’m happy (T-bag).

Either (ball-bag) way, I’m bringing to you, my lovely readers, a Q and A forum wherein *I* answer the questions that bring people to my doorstep. Any punctuation (fun bag) is usually mine, and any spelling issues are often theirs, since I’ve learned to use a little feature I like to call Spell Check (man bag).

Dear Aunt Becky,

what happens when you are having sex and a big wet spot occurs?

Signed,

Sticky and NOT Sweet.

Dear Drowning In The Spooge,

There are several things that one can do to prevent the big wet spot. Condom usage comes to mind, as does the pull-out-n-pray method. Or you could even designate a particular towel to mop up Lake Spoogekins before it seeps out onto your designer sheets.

My own personal favorite method, however, my sticky friend, happens to be something I like to call Making Damn Sure We Hump On His Side Of The Bed. Eliminates all problems for me.

Eternally Yours,

Aunt Becky.

————–

My Dearest Aunt Becky,

Why do I have extra skin on balls?

Yours,

Dangly Bits

My Dear Old Balls,

I hate to be the one that breaks the news to you that you might want to consider investing in a sort of man bra for your nuts. While a dangly scrote is typically considered a good thing for men wanting to impregnate their partner, due to the cooler temperatures away from the body, if you’re not trying to procreate, it’s just got to be kind of annoying.

But, sadly for your ball bag, as men grow older and their skin begins to lose some elasticity, the nuts themselves begin to droop lower and lower, until one day you realize that they are submerged while you’re taking a dump.

I only wish I were kidding.

Perhaps a bra might help?

HUGS,

Aunt Becky

————

Aunt Becky,

Where can i find maternity skinny jeans?

Signed,

Fashion Concious

Dear Slave to Fashion,

Even if I knew (I do), why would you want to know? Do you have any idea how stupid you’re going to look once you really start to get heavy up top? Imagine pulling those puppies over your swollen third trimester ankles, why don’t you?

Disgustedly,

Aunt Becky

———–

Dearest Auntie Becky,

Congratulations on your divorce.

Also:

Becky is a bitch.

Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

Will you marry me?

Love,

Becky

—————-

Now, these posts (of which I believe I’ve done one before) are pretty hard to do. You’d think they’d be easy, but as of today I have 305 search terms that have brought people here for the month of November, most of which are so fucking disgusting that I can barely stomach them before noon. I’d repeat them, but it’d bring more hits to me for these perverts.

The other sort of search term I often get are people searching for their own name. Which is, hello, HILARIOUS. Especially since the only person whose full name I’ve divulged is my own.

So who is gonna confess here? Who found me by searching for “Cheeseburger Crotch?”

Last spring, while in the crampy throes of miscarriage #2, Ben’s teacher from his hippie Nut Ban! school called me with some troubling news: Ben was having a terrible time staying on track and on task during the school day. It wasn’t a terrible shock to me to learn this; at home he frequently forgets to do simple multi-step things–like wiping his ass–and Dave and I were both having a hard time keeping him on track.

Nat, Ben’s biological father, suffers from Adult ADD (grown from childhood ADD) so badly that if I need something–let’s say a sweatshirt–from him, I have to catch him 10 or so minutes before he walks out the door, and STILL I’ll have only about a 25-30% chance of getting said sweatshirt back. Ever.

So while I wasn’t watching and waiting for Ben’s spectrum diagnosis, I have been vigilantly watching for any signs of ADD in Ben so that I could get it properly treated. Because to me, someone who is annoyingly focused, I can only imagine how frustrating it would be to live life so scatteredly (I don’t even pretend that this is a word). Especially to a child who is in school.

Over the past 6 months or so, with a school change under his belt, I’ve been carefully watching and waiting to see if I could see any sorts of improvement with Ben’s ability to focus. I’ve seen no change either way, but I was waiting for parent-teacher conferences to speak with the teacher (who had no knowledge of his former teacher mentioning it) to confirm what I’d suspected and ask for what the next steps should be for us.

Obviously, this isn’t something I’m going to buck wildly at and insist that MY child is PERFECT, it’s the SYSTEM that’s flawed, because I’m more of a realist than that, and I DON’T think that having to follow Ben around and ride him to complete any task is the way to parent him. Nor, quite frankly, do I have the time to do this, even if I wanted to.

Parent-teacher conferences are in a week and a half, but yesterday I got a report card with a note attached confirming my suspicions: Ben is still having an awful time focusing at school and staying on task.

And even though I’d been expecting it, reading those words transported me back to receiving the news that Ben was likely on the autistic spectrum. While certainly not “leukemia” it’s still never great to hear that your child, your poor sweet child has something wrong with him (or her).

Not because I belong to the My Child Is The Perfectest Child EVER club, because I can assure you on all that is holy that his shit really does stink, but because I know just how much harder life will be for him. That, THAT is what I am sad about.

We’re going to wait until parent-teacher conferences to hear face-to-face what the teacher has to say and listen to any suggestions that he has to give us. And we’ll get Ben the help that he needs, of course we will, and we’ll do it without complaint.

But I sit here, and I look at my youngest son, whose biggest hurdle in life right this moment is the fact that he cannot always stack the blocks just so that it does not topple over after he hits 10 or so blocks in his tower. And I am sad to remember that his problems will only get harder and harder as he grows.

And I only wish that I could face all of the problems FOR him.

I hate Kansas, have I mentioned that? The band, not the state. It’s one of those kinda irrelevant details that most people probably wouldn’t know about me. The capitol of Illinois is Springfield, the square root of 4 is 2, and Aunt Becky hates 70’s ass rock bands.

I mean, I loves me MANY ass rock bands–The Scorpions come to mind here and I have to giggle because, well, obviously–just as much as anyone else on the planet, perhaps more, but somehow most of the Bands Named After States or Cities That Came Out In The 70’s tend to grate on my nerves.

Well, that and Rush. I hate Rush even more than I hate Kansas and last I checked, they’re not named after any city or state. Unless it’s the State of Suckiness! ZING!

(Paradoxically, I love Super Tramp. Which makes no sense whatsoever, I’m aware.)

But my eternal hatred of Kansas, which started when I was in 7th or 8th grade and my boyfriend professed that he loved “Dust in the Wind,” a song whose corn-ball factor approaches the top of my Corniness factor (also on the top of that list: “More Than Words,” “Everything I Do (I Do It For You),” and my personal favorite: “Winds of Change.”), my disdain for Kansas abruptly stopped on November 1st.

November 1st is Callum’s birthday. Callum is my friend C’s son, who was born still on November 1st. To commemorate this day, C has partnered with a company called HipMelon who make and design super sassy slings (alliteration much?).

To honor sweet Callum, HipMelon and C designed a sling called “Carry On My Wayward Son.” HipMelon Baby Wear will donate the full purchase price of all Carry on My Wayward Son slings purchased to stillbirth research in the name of Callum, son to HipMelon founder, C, who was born still at 34 weeks gestation on November 1, 2007.

Carry on, sweet boy. Carry on.

So, all week long, “Carry On My Wayward Son,” has been playing on repeat in the back of my brain. Shockingly, I DID NOT TRY AND STAB MY EARDRUM WITH A PENCIL. In fact, thinking of how it might now remind me of Callum, I sort of liked it.

I figured I’d order the sling, wear Amelia while remembering Callum, and feel good about myself for donating to stillbirth research. It was a win-win situation.

Until all of C’s other friends ordered up all of the “Carry On My Wayward Son” slings.

Because HipMelon is such a cool company, they have decided to donate the full purchase price of any sling purchased by C’s friends; ANY OF THESE SWEET ASS SLINGS, for the whole month of November, to stillbirth research. If you want to be a part of this, make sure to let Cheryl know at checkout that you came via My Resurfacing (C’s blog).

It’s a great cause, and it’s a practical gift. I am planning on ordering “Flowers In The Attic” for myself, because it’s flipping cool. I will proudly wear it, and I will remember Callum, and all of the other babies born still.

So, C, it looks like you were able to change my mind on the whole “Kansas Doesn’t Always Suck Now” thing, but you can’t take away my hatred of Rush.

So don’t even try.

A couple of years ago, shortly after I got pregnant with Alex and was subsequently puking my balls off (making my commute dangerous), Dave and I made an executive decision: I would stay home with our kid (s). It was helped along by the fact that although I was working in the least nursing related field in nursing–insurance/hospice management–and was still miserable. It seemed that no matter how I tried to parcel it into nice and cutely wrapped packages, I was bound to hate being a nurse.

Which made me a beast to live with.

Dave, on the other hand had and still has a job that he loves. Mostly. It’s in finance, which means that the hours are insane and the stress is high, but for those who love it, they LOVE it. Like they might marry their jobs would that not be creepy. Or maybe he already has and I wasn’t invited to the wedding.

Either way, it’s the arrangement that makes the most sense to us all.

But it doesn’t always mean that we have to like it this way.

Here’s where I’m going to start pissing people off. Forewarned is forearmed after all.

(Complete side note: why is it that when a blogger dares to express a personal sentiment, they get shit on? It seems like every time I post something wherein I whine like a bitch, people jump down my throat. It happens to all of us, but I still don’t get it. Anyone care to explain why it needs to be rubbed in my face that I appear to not always be grateful for everything?)

I’m a reluctant parent. No, no, I don’t mean that I didn’t want to be a parent, that’s not true in the slightest. Parenthood is just something that sort of fell into my lap, a choice made when I impossibly got pregnant at age 20, and it’s not one I regret. But it is one that came with many personal sacrifices.

I gave up my dreams to pursue a career in medicine, whether it would have happened or not is irrelevant, the point is that I had to make a conscious choice to choose something more practical. Unfortunately, the more practical option: nursing, made me miserable. It’s not a field one can just grin and bear it in, not at potential litigious expense, and not at the expense of my health (I have permanent knee damage from lifting a morbidly obese bed-ridden patient), physical or mental.

I stuck it out because that’s what responsible people do, and I did it so that I could sufficiently support my son on my own. I wasn’t going to (much to my disappointment) become a trophy wife, and I always wanted to know that no matter what, I’d be able to support myself and my family. Alone.

The plan, as Daver and I hatched it, was that I would go back to school after my kids were in school, to pursue my true passion: basket weaving virology. I’d done the Parenting While In School gig and it was really more than I could handle, so I opted not to do that again. Instead, I’d have a couple more crotch parasites, spend some time with them as a mother, not just as a figure rushing in and out of their lives on her way to class.

Which is precisely what I’ve done. And I’ve done it by choice. Complete choice and absolutely by my own design. And I’m perfectly aware that I’m all kinds of fortunate for being able to make this decision as a choice, not out of necessity.

But just because it is a) the most logical choice, b) my OWN choice and c) working out the best for all of us doesn’t mean that I have to always like it.

Or does it?

I’ve been knocked down now and again for daring to be anything less than 100% thrilled by the fact that my sole job, my only real responsibility, is to keep my children healthy, happy, and safe. Well, that and care for all the animals we’ve amassed, make sure the house runs smoothly, cook (stop laughing, you in the peanut gallery), clean, and otherwise sit around on my ass blogging.

Unfortunately, and what the people who have been angry with me for complaining about do not know, is that it doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for personal satisfaction anywhere in there. Sure, I can (and often do) manage to blog during the day most days, and that is something I take some pride in, but I don’t have much else in the way of Other Interests.

Daver and I were talking about this a couple of weeks ago, and he asked me if I really had any other hobbies I’d wanted to pursue. Once I stopped laughing (because, hello, stamp collecting? SO not my thing), I looked at him seriously and reminded him that no, of course I do not, because what would be the point? I’d get interrupted so frequently that I’d be more annoyed than anything else if I even tried doing something I couldn’t just put down when someone else demanded to be picked up.

It sounds more pathetic than it is, I swear.

But the question remains and it bothers me to no end: am I really supposed to love my “job” every single day of my life?

I know that my working friends–be they parents or not–don’t love their jobs every day. They have crappy bosses, crappy benefits, shitty hours, annoying coworkers, and work that they don’t always want to do. And I’d never feel the need to criticize when they complain about that.

But if I have a bad day, even without it being a truly BAD day (read: emergency room visit), I feel as though I had best keep it to myself. So what I’m sick with whatever the kid has? At least you’re home and not in the office. So what if you just want to take a poo by yourself? At least you’re at home and not in the office. So what if you’re biggest accomplishment is getting through the whole day without wanting to murder someone? At least you’re home.

I’m not picking on my working friends, especially those with kids. I’ve been in the situation where I was a working mother, too, and I know that you’re merely trading one set of problems for another. I know just how much it hurts to leave your child day in and day out in the care of someone else. I know how much you cry when you miss out on some important milestone.

I guess that I just don’t know how to rectify the feelings within myself (and truth be told, others too) that I can’t possibly have anything to complain about now that I stay at home with my kids. It’s not like I want a bronzed statue of myself put into the downtown area as World’s Greatest Martyr, but I could stand to feel as though I have a right to not have not-so-rosy feelings.

Or maybe it IS just me.

Some time in 2004 right before nursing school started for me again, I went to the eye doctor, with, among other things (like the ever-popular glaucoma test), the intent of getting a new pair of glasses. While in 3rd grade, getting new glasses was totally Full Of The Awesome, much like my spatter paint scruntchie* (complete with matching oversized shirt!!), it kind of loses it’s luster after 20 odd years.

I went alone because, well, it’s boring and dull and I can totally drive after they dilate your eyes because I’ve been doing it since Jesus was my classmate and I rode a dinosaur to school while wearing my hyper-color t-shirt.

Given the choice to come back at a more suitable time, let’s say, oh I don’t know, maybe when I could have actually read something that wasn’t on the floor or twenty plus feet away from me, I opted for the Wrong Way.

Two paths lay before me and I chose the one WRONG TRAVELED.

Door Number WRONG.

Oh yes. I decided to pick out a pair of glasses while my eyes were dilated. Alone.

They looked pretty cute on, I was completely convinced, my hazy recollection being one of looking extra-specially adorable, with the slightest touch of studiousness. I marched up to the surly cashier lady, ordered them happily, pink tint to the lens, per usual (cue rose colored glasses jokes now) and went back a week later to collect them.

I walked jauntily into the store, sat down at the counter and gave them my last name.

I waited a couple of minutes, marveling all of the ugly glasses that the store carried. We had the Iranian Taxi Driver Glasses, made so popular by white men with handlebar mustaches in the late 70’s/early 80’s (my father himself favored them).

Then there was the rack of the HUGE late 80’s/early 90’s school marm hexagonal pink glasses made famous by Sally Jesse Rafael and worn by women and children for long enough to be immortalized in many a class picture. I mused about how fortunate I’d been to escape that trend somehow.

I laughed to myself, chuckling about how my taste was eversomuch better than other patrons, congratulating myself HEARTILY for my awesome choices in glasses.

The smiling clerk returned after digging through a large bin of new glasses and handed me my prize. I greedily opened the package, hardly glancing at the frames before shoving them onto my face.

I looked eagerly into the strategically placed mirror and my happy, expectant look was quickly replaced by one of horror. The big black plastic frames, the angular edges, the thick frames all winked merrily, reflecting the sodium lights above me.

They carefully, thoughtfully, emotionally reflected one gigantic loser.

I had accidentally bought EMO GLASSES! How, oh HOW did I buy EMO GLASSES? These were popular among the whiny college rock bands who sing deep and meaningful songs about deep and meaningful feelings and EMOtions. These were things that I not only openly mocked, but things I openly mocked OFTEN.

“Oh no,” I whispered to no one in particular. “How did I do this?”

Now I had to WEAR EMO GLASSES! IN PUBLIC!

I shuffled away, tail between my legs back to show my (now) husband/then-boyfriend who was happily scarfing down a couple of bagels at Panera.

His eyes widened like saucers as I approached, whether is was my dirge-like march or the glasses now adorning my face and I slid into the booth across from him. Being the terrible liar that he is when I asked what he thought, he said diplomatically, “They’re…nice.” But his eyes told me the truth.

I looked like Lisa Loeb.

Possibly Waldo.

Well, I told myself as I bit off a chunk of his bagel and chewed bitterly, at least they finally fucking found Waldo.

——————-

*If spattter paint shirts come back into fashion please, PLEASE put me out of my misery. PLEASE, Internet?

I stood hunched over the sink for what had to have been close to twenty minutes, while I celebrated my entry into the homestretch of my pregnancy. In that sink, I created a horror scene that would rival any low budget slasher movie, and I was sort of sad that Halloween had passed.

You see, an oft ignored side effect of pregnancy is that you can still get your period. Only it comes out your nose. And since I’ve been getting chronic bloody noses since I was a wee lass, I get them especially bad.

It’s finally stopped, as even I’m not a die hard enough blogger to type a post out while hemorrhaging out my nostrils, mainly because I might ruin the computer with my spattering blood.

Oh yes, it was that bad.

Well, couple the now-stuffy nose with the “I just lost a fucking ton of blood volume and woozy” and add in the fact that I’m suddenly very short of breath–and thereby panting–as my lungs are being compressed by my fetus due to my lack of torso, and you have the ultimate recipe for Hotness.

I’m sitting here on the couch, reclining slightly, slack jawed and panting, obviously a fucking ton of bricks short of a load, and I can’t help but laugh that at one point, my husband saw fit to knock me up. Hehe. Poor guy didn’t know the depths of Ultimate Hotness he’d see his lovely wife turn into.

And by Ultimate Hotness, I mean Slothy and Mouth Breathing.

*Remembering to post to NaBloWhatever every day. For some reason, this seemed easier last year. Perhaps I was cooler back then.

*Keeping my house clean. I’d like nothing more than to be able to clean the vents that taunt me from my ass-grove-worn couch. Honestly, sitting and staring at the mess makes you bonkers.

*Cooking any meals. I’ve never been a culinary genius–nor would I want to be–but I seem to have a hard time figuring out what to feed four picky people who eat at two separate times. Times separated by a two or more hour window. I admit to feeling some guilt over this.

*Using Target-brand diapers on my wee son. Who seems to break out into a rash the moment I buy a box, while I chant (mostly in my head. Mostly): “It’s 7 whole dollars cheaper!” Apparently, his ass cheeks don’t listen OR CARE about ways to save money.

*Thinking about the holidays without hyperventilating. My family is zero stress (no, seriously) and we gave up travel once Alex was born, and yet I cannot seem to let go of the feeling that I want to stamp my feet (okay, my non-busted foot) and yell, “didn’t we JUST do this?” every time I see a Christmas tree display.

*Getting out and about. I’m starting to feel like I’m in an imposed period of rest BEFORE the baby makes her debut. If I’d informed my old self that I was going to be required to rest most of the time (whenever possible) before this baby came, I’d probably have tongue kissed myself. Which, *shudder, shudder* yeah. It sucks much harder ass than you’d imagine being stuck at the mercy of any other adult who might help you out to the store.

*Carrying Alex up and down the stairs for his (lack of) naps. I’m starting to longingly look at those elevator thingies you can put in your house for wheelchair access. Next thing you know, I’ll be begging Daver for a Hooverround just to make it to the bathroom.

What do you suck at doing these days?

After writing this post in my head the night before (what? You’re not as obsessed with blogging while off the computer as I am?), I realized that there was a wealth of things pregnancy, baby and childhood related I wish that people had told me before I wasted my time/effort/money on doing otherwise.

Then again, if someone HAD told me, I probably wouldn’t have listened. Because I’m stubborn AND crazy.

I now present to you a new list, for all you list-a-holics out there, and I encourage any and everyone to add to it as they see fit. And any new parents-to-be can disregard this as I would have.

Aunt Becky’s Guide To Buying Baby Crap:

1) The minute you go and register at one of the bigger baby stores, you will inexplicably start registering for stuff you will never use.

2) In fact, at least 80% of baby gear that you purchase or oogle in the store will be unused by you once the baby is hear and AFTER you have gotten rid of the receipt.

3) You can never have too many onsies or footed jammies.

4) Trying to put a baby who cannot walk yet into an outfit involving jeans and a t-shirt, is like trying to hold onto one of those slippery water-filled tubes that you give kids. Or perhaps it’s just a phenomenon with fat kids, like mine were.

5) It may also look exquisitely stupid if your child is built like Mr. Potato Head, like mine both were. But you won’t realize it at the time. Only after you look at pictures will you truly see what he or she looked like. And be ashamed of yourself.

6) Most of the gimicky things you see at the baby stores are useless BUT SEEM LIKE A GOOD IDEA. Or they require more brain power than someone who isn’t sleeping more than 2 hours at a stretch can provide.

7) A good rule of thumb is that if it requires many pieces to use OR many REFILLABLE pieces to use, it’s not worth it. Unless you have a miracle child who sleeps through the night, remembering to go online (because you can never get it in the store), recall WHAT the refill piece is called, correctly identify and purchase said item BEFORE you run out, isn’t gonna happen.

8) Having used both the Diaper Dekor and the Diaper Genie, I can tell you that neither is as simple as using a trash can with a lid. Both of mine began to smell WITHOUT a single diaper in it when I finally gave them up.

9) Even is you decide to cloth diaper, it’s probably wise to buy a pack of disposable diapers to have on hand JUST IN CASE. If you don’t use ’em, you can easily donate them to a shelter.

10) (this one kills me to write) Decorating the nursery isn’t as useful as you think it would be, because you rarely spend QUALITY time in there until the child is older. And when the child is older, he (or she) may decide that they’d like a CARS themed room, not a Winnie The Poo room. I’d never tell you NOT to do it, I’d just not spend the baby’s college fund on it.

11) Those flipping adorable crib sets of bumpers, sheets, a crib skirt and a moblie that cost approximately the down payment on a house (I oogled one before I realized it was a thousand dollars. Which is more than I spend on my OWN bedding. I then became scared that I might have broken the stuff and would have to buy it) are a lot of fun to look at and set up. But, sadly, you cannot use bumpers in a crib. Well, I suppose you CAN, but it increases the risks of SIDS. So not worth it.

12) Swings are either the work of a delicate wonderful angel or a minion of the devil depending on which baby you ask.

13) Even if you’re totally planning to breast feed, buy a stack of bottles and pacifiers ahead of time. JUST IN CASE. Before you sick the LLL on me, let me remind you that just because YOU’RE certain you wouldn’t need it, your BABY may have other ideas. I tried desperately to nurse Ben, who, later, was determined to be autistic WITH MASSIVE SENSORY ISSUES. You can imagine how much HE wanted to latch on (read: never).

14) It wouldn’t hurt to buy some formula too. Just a can or so, JUST IN CASE. Worst case scenario? Give it all to a shelter and roll your eyes at how very wrong I was. I will happily be wrong here and admit it.

(trust me, you don’t want to find out a 4 AM that you have to send someone else out to buy formula. It’s an over-the-top job for someone who has no idea what he or she is looking for.)

15) Never, NEVER buy a used car seat from someone that you don’t know. If a car seat is in an accident, it’s structure can be badly damaged and may not protect YOUR baby in the event of a crash. And that is not something I’d ever fuck around with.

16) You can never have enough blankets or washcloths.

17) Stuffed animals are horrible dust-catchers. I don’t mean that they’re HORRIBLE, just that they seem to attract dust. Which sucks if you have a kid who is allergic to stuff and things because you’ll have to dump ’em. Again, you’re not supposed to put them in the crib with the baby. SIDS and the like.

18) Don’t spazz about being 100% totally prepared by the time you go into labor. Picking up crap you forgot can be something EASILY tasked to the family flocking your house post-delivery.

All right, what did I miss, people? I know I didn’t tag it all.