Wow, now holy crap! I even got The Daver to comment on my last post, which almost certainly means that the sign of Armageddon is nigh. A big thank you to everyone who took the time to comment on the post, because if I hadn’t wanted YOUR opinion, I wouldn’t have asked.

See, Aunt Becky cares what YOU think!

And hearing all of your different viewpoints made me feel the slightest bit better because I’ve been a bit mixed up since I learned of it.

Of course I am not all We Should Kill Kids With Allergies or anything, because even if they’re annoying kids (aren’t they all?) I still like ’em around, but this situation is both more than a minor irritation and absolutely indicative of something far greater wrong with Ben’s private school.

I have the greatest of empathy for children with severe allergies, trust me, I do, because I know just how severe nut allergies CAN be and I know how hard it is to shop healthfully for a child with Food Issues.

The issue has far less to do with this child and far more to do with the manner it has been handled by the school. There is no lunch prepared by the school for my son’s classroom, which means that we as parents are expected to pack it each and every day. No big deal. But if I am expected to pack him a lunch for school WITHOUT any sorts of nuts at all, no nut oils, no nut ingredients, (Nut Ban!) I would really appreciate an itemized list of things that are not allowed.

Because now, it is effectively up to the parents to research, pour over, and create foods that do not have any nuts in them whatsoever.

THAT is what I’m annoyed by.

Dave finally spoke with the school this morning and found out the incident that caused this Nut Ban! was when an infant sibling (not a student) was kissed by his older brother (a student) and went into anaphylaxis. The baby is fine, after a brief stint in the hospital, but this is what triggered the ban.

(apparently, there are also other kids with less severe reactions to peanuts but still allergic also at Ben’s school)

And of COURSE I don’t want dead siblings, but when Daver astutely mentioned that there should be some hand washing protocol (honestly as a nurse, there should be one anyway), the administrator had nothing to say about that. No real ideas about that being important. Also, no list of banned items for us. Again, the onus is on the parents to research and prepare.

So in my opinion, it’s time for Vodka (for me) and Public Schools (for him), where I can be ignored for free.

Now look! A blue car!

Say that you just got word that your son’s school is going Nut Free (snicker, snicker) for the year because a new enrollee has nut allergies.

And your own son, with many of his sensory issues still looming large, will only eat peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, perhaps the most nutritious part of lunch for him.

And you’ve tried all sorts of other alternatives to peanut butter sandwiches last year just to try and get the kid to open up his freaking mind a little–all to no avail. He won’t eat ’em.

And this school has strict limitations for what OTHER kinds of food can be brought in (no chocolate, no chips, no colored juices, etc), but you don’t know what they are until your child comes home and tells you. AFTER you’ve packed this *forbidden* item in his lunch.

(and no, I never packed him a Mountain Dew or bag of Cheetos or anything. It was a granola bar with teeny chocolate chips in it. Like squint and you’ll miss ’em sized)

And you’ve put in 2 calls to the school to make damn certain you get a list of SPECIFICALLY which foods are *forbidden* but no one has called you back.

*OH* And the kid with the allergy is likely not even on the side of campus where your child is, let alone in the same classroom.

How would you feel about this? I want your honest opinions. Go anonymous if you have to.

A couple of weeks ago, Daver and I ran into my neighbor across the street, one who had recently had her first baby. Being the lovable sap that I am, I immediately made a beeline for her in a desperate attempt to hold the squishy! baby! (I had to fight Dave off of him, first. Daver loves babies) When I asked her how she was, she began to weep.

She told me precisely how I felt after Ben was born: she was actually quite terrible. Her baby wouldn’t stop crying, well, ever, and she just didn’t know what she was doing wrong. Where were these maternal feelings she’d heard about? Why did she feel like she was doing it all wrong?

I told her that I was not in the habit of telling people horror stories before they had children/bought a house/ate at Jack in the Box, because I always thought it sounded kind of mean. She then told me that she’d WISHED that someone had told her how hard babies are.

In this vein, I am going to start making my own lists of things I wish someone had told me. Before I’d had kids or been knocked up.

Things Aunt Becky Wishes She’d Known Before Getting Pregnant:

1) After your first pregnancy, you will look about 6 months pregnant as the positive pee stick is drying.

2) Your nipples will now reach epic proportions of pancakes. And not the whimsical silver dollar ones.

3) Oh, and they’ll turn from a delicate pinkish hue to a much darker brownish/black.

4) Okay, and then they’ll turn into what Ashley calls “Ground Beef Nipples” if/when you start nursing.

5) You’re certifiable, but you have no idea of this. Instead you think you’re the only sane one left on the planet. If this isn’t your first pregnancy, you will be forced to watch yourself go off the wheels on the crazy train and be powerless to stop it.

6) If this is your first pregnancy, you will assume that this pregnancy is the most important pregnancy since Mary birthed Jesus.

7) You will eat a whole lot of food to try and make yourself less queasy. While it doesn’t work, not really, it will cause a couple of extra pounds to be added inexplicably to your frame. Which will annoy you because YOU DIDN’T EVEN ENJOY PUTTING THEM ON.

8) Worrying will become part of your daily routine. And will annoy the hell out of the rest of the world.

9) What To Expect While You’re Expecting was written by The Devil. Ignore this book as it will just make you feel badly about yourself.

10) Taking a decent dump may feel like cause for a press release. Don’t do it, for God’s sake, spare people the thought of you hunched over the crapper trying to push the world’s saddest poo out.

Oops. Sorry*.

(*I’m not sorry at all)

11) Suddenly anyone and everyone will waltz through your dreams and have wild passionate sex with you. Even people you find disgusting and/or hate. (Randy Jackson, anyone?)

12) While I’ve heard of some people having wild sex FOR REAL while pregnant, I can’t say I’ve been part of it. Especially once I’ve reached whale-like proportions and it feels like what it is: A Mercy Fuck.

13) Someone, somewhere will buy you the ugliest clothes you’ve ever seen for your unborn child. And you will have to sit there while grinning like an asshole and tell them that you looooovvvveee the little outfit with the stupid looking bows on it.
For your 7 year old son.

14) Honest to God strangers will not only feel the need to rub your belly without so much as a handshake hello, but will then ask you if you plan on breast feeding or not. This be dangerous waters, matey.

15) IF AT ALL POSSIBLE, tell no one what you plan on feeding your child. Or make a really tasteless for joke like, “We were thinking Jack Daniels, but do you think that Crown Royal is better?” Otherwise, you’re going to get a lecture. If you’re tasteless, people will just run away from you.

16) Most of the baby crap out there that they try to sell you is just that: crap. And newborns look stupid dressed in anything other than onsies. Trust me when I say that I speak from experience here.

17) You will hardly ever spend time in your perfectly coordinated nursery. Kids don’t play in their bedroom until they’re about 4 or 5, so while I would never suggest NOT doing up a nursery, I wouldn’t go ass-wild on it either.

18) YOU WILL KNOW WHEN YOU ARE IN LABOR. NOTHING ELSE FEELS LIKE LABOR, NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU WANT IT TO.

19) Your ass will inexplicably become hugemongeous and now you will finally have Junk-in-da-trunk. Which is either awesome or horrifying.

20) No one but you* can figure out what is actually on the ultrasound pictures. Cute, perhaps. Frightening, also perhaps.

(*this is debatable. I cannot for the life of me figure out where the head is on Baby Link’s most current US from 8 weeks ago. And I’ve been trained to read these things.)

21) Feeling the baby kick for the first time is perhaps the finest part of pregnancy. It only becomes painful when their ickle feeties get to be the size of golf balls. Mean, busy golf balls. And then they sometimes bruise your liver. For serious.

22) Maternity clothes will fit you differently during different parts of your pregnancy. What might look cute with your wee beer-belly during the first trimester will look downright dumb and ill fitting hours before you give birth.

23) Steer clear of anyone who claims any of the following:

* I was back in my size 4’s when I left the hospital!
* I’ve never felt better than when I was pregnant!
* Breastfeeding really helped me take those 5 pesky pounds off!
* Having a baby is soooooo easy!

I mean, even if they’re not lying through their grubby teeth to you, they’re going to make you feel bad. And TRUST ME when I tell you that you will have plenty of things to feel bad/inadequate about.

24) Pregnancy is an excellent cure for modesty. I cannot recall a time when I didn’t just whip down my pants in front of the doctor whether it was my OB or not. Perhaps I am also a nudist.

25) Enjoy it as best you can. Sure, you feel ugly as shit, you’re gangly and have reached hippo proportions, you can hardly make it an hour without going to the bathroom and peeing out a tablespoon of liquid, you have heartburn so badly you could sear paint from the walls, and you’re starving but queasy. It’s all true. BUT, unless you’re a Dugger or someone equally creepy, it only happens a handful of times.

Besides, it’s one of the few times you can actually evoke, the “But I’m pregggnnnnant! excuse on your partner.”

And that, my friends, NEVER gets old.

Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky.

‘Fran Lebowitz

Happy Birthday to the child who made me a mother for the first time, the child who reminds me simultaneously who was in charge and what REALLY matters, the child who constantly leaves me trying to be a better person for him.

My first son, Benjamin Maxwell.

He may not always like me, hell, I may not always like him, but in the end, he knows which side his bread is buttered on.

Happy Birthday, Small Fry.

Now, I’m constantly doing boneheaded stuff. If you need further proof, go back into the archives and just read. I’m a complete idiot.

But, I could always count on being a complete idiot that REMEMBERED things. Lately, it appears, even that ability is being slowly taken away from me.

You see, sweet Internet, tomorrow my eldest son, my darling firstborn turns 7.

7 years old. For those of you who have known him since he was a bun in my chubby oven, I’ll give you a moment to digest that ickle bit of information.

…

…

…

Done?

Yeah, so 7. Anyway, the date didn’t elude me in the slightest. It’s marked on my calendar in large ink, complete with exclamation mark and “Dave off work” underneath it. August 20th is a date that my brain and my poor beaten up lady bits will never forget.

Except for when it comes to ACTION.

We’d planned to take him out to lunch at a restaurant of his choosing (always a hugemongeous bonus for a kid saddled with a mother who on her non-pregnant days, still has cravings) and do something else with him. Kids Museum, bowling, something. Doesn’t matter.

Yet this morning, when I waddled to the bathroom for the eleventhy-fifth time, it dawned on me that I had no cake mix with which to make him a cake. And in Ben’s eyes, it’s no party until there’s a cake involved.

I promptly forgot about this when I woke up for real and made plans to go to the pet store located conveniently next to Target (read: Heaven on Earth) and was left with only a nagging “I am forgetting something I needed to go to Target for” feeling in my guts.

Butter, I decided. I needed butter.

(as an aside, I’ve gone through more butter during the past 15 weeks than I have in potentially the last 10 years).

I pulled into the parking lot and looked at the huge toy store also conveniently located right there and something kept tapping me on the shoulder. Did I need to buy a gift for a birthday party? Was Alex in dire need of….more balls? Did I finally have to break down and buy something for the new baby?

SHIT! I thought to myself. No, what I needed more than anything else was a gift for my eldest son. For him to open on his birthday. Which is tomorrow. And I also need a card and cake. For tomorrow. On his birthday.

(Before you think too ill of me here, let me tell you something. When it’s all said and done here, we will have celebrated the birth of my son something like 6 times. You think I’m kidding? Here:

1) Last Week When Out Of Town Family Happened To Be IN Town
2) Tomorrow, August 20, His Real Birthday
3) Sometime After My (asshole) Brother Who Didn’t Take Me To Hawaii Where He Is Right Now, The Jerk, Gets Home
4) His Friends Party Sometime In September

and probably

5) With His Father
6) With My In-Laws

So, while this is an obvious OOPS! on my own part, it’s certainly not the end of the world.)

I trundled off to the toy shop where I agonized about what to purchase him. I shit you not when I tell you that his closet is stocked full of toys and games that he never plays with. (I need to donate these toys to charity)

I finally settled on something that requires being built and then uses a remote control to do…something. This is typically Daver’s realm, so I hope I chose well.

*sighs*

Where the hell have both the time and my brain cells gone?

————

In order to make my ego feel slightly less stupid, oblige me please, Internet. What’s the dumbest thing you’ve done lately?

Last summer, after many a sleepless night had left me more brain dead than I’d been before (presumably perhaps), it came to my attention that my eldest son would be entering into first grade. After my initial reaction of “Holy SHIT I’m OLD,” I was thrilled to remember that actual number grades = actual school supplies and rightness was once again restored to my galaxy.

There’s something in me, my inner nerd perhaps, that adores that feeling in the fall, the feeling of Starting Over again in school. A whole new year of teachers, mischief, and brand new pens to look forward to. Yes, I did, in fact earn my title of Super Becky Overachiever, thank you for asking.

Armed with a crabby screaming baby and a school supply list, I first hit up Mecca (read: Target). And it was only there, in the fluorescently lit aisles, that I began to actually read what was on The List.

The words read properly, but the combinations didn’t make sense to me. And upon scouring the notebooks for “Plastic covered, yellow, three subject, wide ruled, without perforations, that ALSO makes coffee for poor, poor teacher” I was befuddled.

I could get MOST of the combination, but not all.

The erasers, Pink Pearl, no less, I found immediately, but the oil pastels? I had no idea what oil pastels even were. Pencils I found, art smock I did not.

After assuming I’d try one of the bigger office supply stores, I paid for about a quarter of the needed supplies and shuffled off to Office Depot. Up and down those aisles, I paced frantically, the baby nursing awkwardly as I searched in vain for “plastic colored folder, red, yellow and blue, no three punch holes, three pockets inside.”

The words, they made sense, but the combination was all shades of wrong. Kind of like trying to read A Clockwork Orange.

I was able to procure another portion of The List before I had to make my exit and hit up yet another store.

In the end, I searched The Internet, another Target store, The Rolls Royce of Office Supply Stores, and sent both The Daver and my mother to see if I had missed something. I hadn’t. I even asked my mother-in-law who is ALSO a first grade teacher, and she was at a loss.

I was able to get most of The List in about a month’s time, but an interesting shift occurred: no longer was I enchanted by the stacks of blank notebooks and packs of pens lined up perfectly in a row like sardines. Mention “School Supplies” and I’d become irate and angry, convinced I’d failed at my first task at parenting a school aged child.

Last week sometime, I got in the mail the very same list of school supplies, and this time I just laughed. Then I promptly lost it.

Thanks to a semi-photographic memory and the fact that Ben was able to recall what he’d used and needed last year, we shabbily reconstructed The List. I’m sure it’s only half right and you know what? That’s half more right than I was planning to send.

I was planning to send a package of dry soba noodles and a box of Hello Kitty flan.

Back when I was in high school, I lived far enough away from the campus that I had two lone options to get to school. I could:

a) Take the bus, which was amusing mainly because people were always smoking hitters of Mary-J. This was a shining example of the coveted Wake -n- Bake.

b) Con my way into getting rides from other people as my parents refused to buy me a car of my own. Something about polluting the environment or something. I don’t know, I wasn’t listening. Damn hippies.

Since St. Charles is sprawling enough that although I didn’t live by school, I had many friends who REALLY didn’t live by school, and since, I convinced them, I was pretty much on the way, why didn’t they just stop by and pick me up?

A whole band of kids would pile into someone or another’s small ass two-door car, and off we would go to school. We’d purposefully leave even earlier than we needed to so that we could drive in concentric circles around the school, getting closer and closer until we finally arrived. This may have been the only time in my life that I’ve willingly gotten up earlier than necessary.

Why the hell did we do this? In retelling this, I don’t really know.

We’d listen to Sublime’s Sublime, or Led Zeppelin’s Houses Of The Holy, or even a sweet ass mix tape, we’d smoke as many cigarettes as we possibly could, clam-baking the car. Sometimes we’d play Student Driver and overreact like hell to random things like a Fire Hydrant, and drive slowly in the middle of the road, hands at 10 and 2, feigning intense concentration.

I guess we did it because we could. And why not?

In my senior year, due to some intense over-crowding, the school system had built a second campus, called, for lack of anything smarter The North Building. I’m certain you can guess why.

My first class happened to be in the North Building, so the Band of Merry Pranksters would gallantly drop me off there first before eking out a parking spot. Before I’d emerge from the car in a cloud of smoke and classic rock, we’d often spot one of our classmates trudging dutifully to the North Building, his monogrammed backpack slung jauntily across his back.

And without fail, we’d slip in Steve Miller Band’s Greatest Hits Album and crank it as loud as the speakers would allow, roll down the windows and scream, “STEEVVVEEE MILLLLLERR!” Half of us would hang our bodies out the window as we screamed this at him, waving frantically and exaggeratedly to him.

He’d look up at us, obviously stunned, as he was a really quiet kind of guy, and wave back at us tentatively. Almost shy.

I can only assume that the kid was named by parents who had lived under a rock for years, because seriously? Neither name is bad, by itself or together, but you hear the name “Steve Miller” and you can’t help but start to whistle “The Joker.”

Again, the obvious question here is why the hell did we do this? And the only answer I can give you is that I don’t know.

We certainly weren’t being mean or malicious or anything resembling that. None of us were like that then nor are we like that now.

I guess we did it because we could.

And as for good old Steve, who was always such a good sport? He got the last laugh: I think he went to Harvard or something.

Steve Miller, indeed.

After waking up from a particularly delicious dream in which I was a female member of a biker gang but being wooed by the Leader of the Pack (apparently, in my dreams, I live in the 1950’s), I was all set to have a Good Day.

After being persuaded to join the Darkside (a.k.a. Facebook), I was all pumped to see who would have come crawling out of the woodwork last night while I slept (apparently this does happen). Then I would have a breakfast of food, glorious, glorious food (can I tell you how much I heart food right now?) and potentially cure fatness or baldness.

Yeah, not so much.

I present to you, my Shit List for today, Wednesday August Something or Another.

*My fence, which was probably excellent at containing small critters to my backyard many years ago before it decided to fall the shit apart. We have a new hole, a new AUGGIE sized hole in it, to match the other 4,000 I’ve already makeshiftedly patched. With classy things like kitty litter buckets and potted plants.

*Auggie. Who, after my nasty blog post, decided to miraculously stop peeing on the carpet and become a Good Dog. Until, that is, he finds an open hole in the fence and boogies on outside. Where I chased him around in my bare feet BEFORE I’d even had my caffeine. Now my feet are bruised and bloody and Auggie? Where he goes next, NOBODY knows. Seriously, I gave up on the little shit to come inside and left him out there. AFTER A HALF AN HOUR OF CHASING HIM AROUND IN MY PJ’S.

(He did come in eventually).

*People who call themselves “friends” only to come around when they need a shoulder to cry on. I have no use for this sort of behavior and will no longer tolerate it.

*My carpet. Because seriously, what idiot puts WHITE carpet in a house?

*The cat pee smell from my basement. I can’t find the location, so I can’t properly clean it, AND since it’s below ground, I can’t exactly “air it out.” Any suggestions?

All right, you’ve listened to me long enough. My turn to cluck sympathetically. What’s upsetting YOU today?

Through the daily life of what I like to call Alex’s obsession with his mother, I am unable to walk outside of his sight for more than about 0.5 a second. I posted about it before, close to a year ago and things haven’t changed much in that time.

While it’s highly flattering since my first born can barely be swayed to acknowledge me, it has some unexpected side effects. Namely, Alex has discovered The Internet.

It all started innocently enough with watching a video of Maddie, my friend Heather’s daughter. She happened to be laughing like a loon–Maddie, not Heather–and this only solidified Alex’s love for her. Now, he frequently comes up to me while I’m sitting on the computer and demands “Baby.”

We’ve watched that video so much (sorry, Heather) that she’s going to be convinced that we’re hiding out somewhere in her front yard, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Elusive Maddie. You know, like those nature documentary people do?

Thankfully, Alex has also begun requesting that we go see “Kitties” at I Can Haz Cheeseburger, as well, so the video does get an occasional break.

In a fit of quiet desperation (I could probably act out this particular video BY HEART now), I searched You Tube for videos of both “cows mooing” and “kitties meowing.”

(as an aside, how sad is it that THIS is now what I watch on You Tube. No more “Penis Cake” or “Pee Wee’s Playhouse” (same difference, right?) for me. No, NO, it’s now all about REALLY G-rated things now. O! How the mighty have fallen!)

Well, watching animals behave like animals is as close to Heaven as Alex can get. He takes after his mother in his love of all animals, his first word being “Kitty” and his favorite place on the planet being the zoo (altho I don’t like the zoo, truth be told)

He sits there in my lap, slack jawed and smiling at the computer monitor. And for one moment, his face bathed in the computer-y and pixilated glow, just one moment, I can see Dave’s geekiness in him. Especially the slack jawed part.

With the prospect of having some of my stories being not only for public consumption but also for purchase, I’ve been thinking quite a bit about names. Specifically, my own name.

I’ve been blogging for years now, although not always here on Mommy Wants Vodka, and I’ve made no real effort to hide who I am. I mention my hometown (St. Charles, Illinois), my name (Aunt Becky), my husband (The Daver) and my children (Alex and Ben), and I’m not sorry about it. Plenty of my friends in real life and in the computer read my blog, and even if they don’t comment, I know that they are here.

My parents do not read my blog, not because they don’t know about it, but because they never ask. Besides, I write here just like I speak in real life (without the parenthesis and flagrant usage of commas, of course) so none of this is new to them. They did raise me after all, and are pretty accustomed to my colorful ways of describing things. Like my vagina.

Plenty of people feel really strongly about blogging anonymously, for some valid reasons and some not so valid reasons, and I totally get behind that. Especially if you’re talking trash about people or subjects you don’t care to tell the whole world about it makes sense.

I was reading in the new issue of Wired, one of my favorite magazines (also in this issue: How To Become An Internet Superstar. Interestingly, the highlighted person I had never heard of) about this new project called the Personal Genome Project. What was the most interesting thing I found that I would care to discuss here (I’m a bit of a genetics geek, so the whole article kinda gave me a boner) was that if you go to this website, you can read about Philip Church. Ad nauseum.

Why the hell would someone disclose so freaking much about himself? Simple. Like me, he thinks that this sort of trivia is meaningless, something completely uninteresting to the average person.

This is precisely WHY I would and frequently do disclose as much as I do. What are you going to do, stalk me? Steal my dog with bladder control issues or my cat with a crusty ass? Be my guest. My life is pretty dull. Sometimes I tell good stories, sometimes I attract drama, sometimes I don’t.

So, hi, Internet. My name is Becky Sherrick Harks and this is my blog. Nice to meet you all.

And no, not one of those men is my husband.

Your turn. Why do you blog anonymously or not?