Macrocephalic. Buckethead. Orange-On-A-Toothpick. Satellite.

All words I’ve used to describe my children and their heads. I’d like to point out and be correct that the reason for their enormous melon’s would be related to their father-age, but since the common denominator between them both is me, I’d have to say that the likely culprit who unwittingly passed the genetics to create craniums that should have their own zip code is myself.

While I don’t call myself a “Baseball Head” or “Pinhead” or anything, I like to think that my own head is not overly large. Mainly because it’s not. It’s just that some of my *ahem* family members (my older brother and my mother for example) have heads that planets could orbit. Guess I should be glad that I only inherited the family pot belly, right?

It was, sadly enough, with this Implement of Destruction that my youngest child caused the intense pain that I happen to be in. I’m accustomed to dodging swinging heads as they come toward my person, but I happened to be too close to correctly remove myself from their path of deconstruction.

Alexander, the only child who I can make snuggle me without a tangible bribe, was sitting on my lap the other day, alternating between snuggling me and trying to stick his fingers up my nose, when it happened. He swung his bucket-o-brains backward before thrusting it forward again with as much force as someone who is made of pure muscle can muster.

In other words: a hell of a lot.

I couldn’t duck quickly enough, so !THWACK! his melon made direct contact with the squishy bits of my neck. It hurt like a bitch then, and the following morning–yesterday–I awoke with a massive headache. Relating, I’m certain, directly to his head against my neck.

Down the stairs I trudged, toward the medicine cabinet where I house the one pain reliever I can currently take: Tylenol. Extra Strength fucking TYLENOL. I shook two out into my palm, rolled my eyes and swallowed them. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t do jack to touch the pain.

Eventually the pain became throbby enough for me to call the doctor’s office, which is not something I typically do. I’m a trained nurse, and even though I don’t actually make money from my intended profession, I do know how to treat such things. And I don’t really need another nurse to tell me what to do.

Maybe it’s just my OB’s office nurses that offer the most insanely stupid advice to me when I call. Here’s an approximate conversation I had with one nurse when I was barfing my guts out while pregnant with Alex:

Me: “Um Hi, I’m really sick with this baby, I’m X weeks pregnant and I wanted to know if you had any good tips.”

Her: “Eat an apple.”

Me: “Huh?”

Her: “Apples.”

Me: “Uhhhh….”

Her: “I like potatoes. Like BAKED ones.”

Me: “I gotta…go.”

(click)

Yesterday I had a similar conversation. To make me call the doctor is to admit defeat, but my head was so achy and awful that I didn’t feel I had much of a choice.

Me: “Hi, I’m 14 weeks pregnant and I have a headache. I took Tylenol hours ago and it’s not helping. Can I get a prescription for something stronger?”

Her: “Not without being seen first.”

Me: “But it’s a headache. I can barely see to drive. I don’t need anything too strong. Just something more than Tylenol.”

Her: “You need to see a doctor. Have you tried laying down in a dark room?”

Me: “Hahahahaa! I have kids. Laying down in a dark room doesn’t happen unless I chain them to a wall somewhere.”

Her: “The office is closing anyway. If it’s ‘SO BAD’ you can go to the ER.”

Me: “…..? The ER?”

Her: “Yes. Or we can see you tomorrow.”

Now maybe it’s just me, but doesn’t that seem a little insane to go to the ER for a simple “I need Tylenol 3 headache?” I wasn’t asking for a morphine pump (oh, how I WISH that this had been an option) or a lifetime supply of Vicodin. What shouldn’t have been a big ass deal was suddenly an ER trip away from being labeled an OVER REACTOR!

I never did go to the ER and I still haven’t gotten my headache to go away completely, but it’s marginally tolerable now. Only thing totally solidified is my annoyance with Doctor Office Nurses.

Am I the only one?

*It’s sad to me that the only painkiller I can currently use is Tylenol. Which may help, I suppose, someone who has never tasted sweet, sweet Vicodin or even Ibuprofen, but for me? My blistering headache is laughing, LAUGHING at my pathetic use of Tylenol.

*Despite being a full-grown woman, I’m terrified of the stomach flu. It’s honestly closer to a complete phobia, and when Ben barfed all over, well, the world on Friday night, I might have maybe flipped out. Like a lot.

*And maybe it’s closer to a fear of puke. Like a fear of other people’s puke. Okay, and a fear of puking myself, too. I have no adenoids, which means that anything that is shot through my mouth invariably goes out through my nose. Like barf. Or semen.

*I have taught Alex what I consider the pinnacle of things to teach someone who still wears a diaper: I have taught him to yell “GOAL BALL” whenever he gets near, kicks, or thinks about soccer balls. What IS IT with kids and balls?

*Dave and I had made a bet back when I was pregnant with Alex about the flavor of the baby. I said boy, he said girl. If I won, he was supposed to wear a baby doll Britney Spears shirt out in public for a day and if I won, I was supposed to wear a Chicks Dig Linux shirt. I won, obviously, and he never was forces to ante up. Has the statute of limitations passed? Oh, and No. I don’t know what flavor of baby this is, yet.

*I may or may not be having a love affair with my spot lifter. Holy crap does that little thing suck up stains. Like a Hoover, only wetter.

*I’m not certain I’ll ever be able to look at bacon again for a good long while. Like perhaps years. Or at least months. I can’t believe I cured myself of a Bacon Obsession.

What’s on YOUR (addled) mind today, Internet?

I’m so pleased to hear that no one was as cruel to me as my own personal conscience. Trust me, the very act of admitting that I can no longer care for animals I love dearly hurts me to no end. I used to foster cats for awhile, until Alex was born with a pair of devil horns an no apparent “OFF” button.

But anyway, I was looking at my link list and feeling an ominous drop in my stomach. I’ve done a terrible job at maintaining the links to even the blogs that I read. I briefly considered simply removing it entirely, but I realized that that didn’t sound very fun.

So do me a favor, if you’re interested. Go to the links page and let me know if you’re on there or not. If you’re a commentor here or I comment by you, or whatever, if I know you in some way, holler with your URL so I don’t feel so damn ashamed when I look at that page.

I’ve come to the sad realization, my sweet friends in the computer, that I have bitten off more than I will ever be possibly able to chew. My house, if I hadn’t told you before is often called The Menagerie, and in addition to being the Queen Mother of All Sausages, I’m also responsible for the well being of a number of animals.

We currently have: 3 cats, 2 dogs, a bunny, a hedgehog, and two children that may have been feral at one point in time. Like yesterday. And probably this morning.

And since I’ve been with child, I’ve been unable to do some of the animal-related chores that I normally take care of. Dave works approximately 4,836 hours a week, and if I dare ask him to do something outside of what he THINKS he needs to do, I get an earful. And a half.

Ben’s not of the age where he can really and truly help me yet, although he’s getting close. But close isn’t good enough anymore.

The cats? In rebelling against whatever damn cats get irritated about (the change in seasons? The current oil crisis? Republican in the White House?) have found other places to crap and pee, which is not really an ideal situation.

Auggie, in smelling the pee that the dogs who lived in my house before me left so graciously in the carpet fibers, has been peeing in the living room. Not every day, not all the time, but enough to where the (white!) carpet is now ruined.

And as for me? I’m stuck between a rock and a bigger rock. I hate the idea of being so wildly irresponsible and getting rid of one or many of the animals, but I honestly don’t know what else TO do. This doesn’t mean that I WILL get rid of them, have no fear, just that I’m registering that I’m struggling mightily here.

Without any good solution in mind. What would you do, Internet?

Just sent my book proposal to my agents after spending some time reworking it. Excited, thrilled, nervous as a package of bacon in my fridge, they don’t begin to cover how I feel.

Now, we all know how gross I can be. I don’t generally talk about it here, but I have posted about such titillating topics as, What Happens When You’re Allergic To Yeast Infection Cream, Who SHOULD Sleep in The Wet Spot, and Summer Curtains (vagina in summer). I guess I’ve outgrown being really gross, but I have a question for you.

In my book, I have written an essay based on a blog post. A blog post about being diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, which if you know anything about it, is no real laughing matter. Except when it is. Because if you can’t laugh at the phrase “Bowel Resection” or “Colostomy Bag” you have no soul. Especially when it’s YOUR future phrases here.

Anyway, here’s the initial blog post. I’m not posting the essay b/c, well, I’m lazy and it’s much longer than this. I’ve tweaked it around so Dave isn’t offering to handle my feces but my Bucket ‘o’ Poo.

“I’d imagine that most couples had a far more romantic situation when they realized that the person across the table from them would be the person that they spent the rest of their lives with. I’m picturing an intimate candlelit dinner, or a walk in the park when all of the flowers are fragrant and blooming beautifully, maybe lazing around on bearskin rug in front of a cozy fireplace (complete with crackling logs, of course) with strawberries and champagne.

I was later diagnosed with a mild case of Crohn’s disease, which has thankfully been in remission for several years. As for Daver and I, we’ve been more or less stuck with each other ever since. Every time that I become irritated by his colony of dirty socks that happily live next to our bed, I try my damndest to remind myself that, at one point in time, he selflessly offered to touch my poop.”

Here’s the question for you and I want you to answer honestly. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t want your opinion, but assuming Dave is no longer handling my poo but the BUCKET of Poo (there is a difference there, I swear), IS THIS TOO MUCH? Is it too gross? Too foul?

(it’s a true story)

The Daver took a record three days off in a row, and I was bound and determined to Do Something Together, Damn It: As A Fucking Family while he was off work. Something other than sitting around the house together, occasionally arguing about who feels worse. Daver, God love him, had a cold, and when he has a cold, I consider asking him to spend the night at work. And by “asking” I mean “insisting.”

He’s a great guy, obviously I wouldn’t have married him if he weren’t, but he’s the sort who expects sympathy cards and potentially parades thrown in his honor when he’s sick. And if, God forbid, we have the same illness, his is always far worse than mine. I’ll need a tissue while HE needs a blood transfusion. STAT, if not sooner.

On he soldiered, I must add here, and we ended up Doing Something Damn It each day he was off. Something included checking out encased meats in Chicago, followed by a whirlwind visit to the Lincoln Park Zoo, and yesterday we pilgrimaged to Lake Geneva to Go To A Beach (for Ben).

Honestly, I like being busy, and it’s something I’ve had to adjust to not being now that I’m home with the kids. Sure, I could pack them up in the car and try and do something like this without another adult, but since I’m not (yet) certifiable, I don’t.

I am, according to my informal poll, conducted by myself, in the minority. And I wonder if it’s because my kids are not Easy Kids or if it’s something to do with my lack of bravery. Everywhere I went, women had teeny tiny wee babes (I’m talking newborn sized here) while I struggled with whichever non-newborn child I was tasked with caring for (and I feel compelled to add that as newborns they were both far, far worse than they currently are. Baby Steps).

Without further adieu, I present Fights I Had On My Summer Vacation:

*Kiddie Cocktails Are The Devil’s Drink
*I Wanna Get Dooooooowwwwnnnn!
*I Wanted My Owwwwn Snow Cone
*This Car Seat Is The Work Of Satan
*I’m Hoooootttt!
*I Want, Well, SOOOOMEETHING!
*I SAID Mac ‘n’ Cheese, You Ignorant Bitch!

And I’ll let you decide who fought with me about what.

I’m sure they were there, but I saw no one, and I mean NO ONE having fights with their kids. I saw no one else looking around to see if there were some gypsies available to sell children to. No one else looked like they were deciding if they could potentially hide in the bathroom until their family left. And yet, this is how I spend pretty much every time we go out anywhere. Fighting about stupid crap (and that’s just with Dave!).

Riddle me this: am I alone in my children behaving as beasts when we’re out supposedly having a Good (fucking) Time? Do I need to get over the idea of having fun myself during Family (fucking) Fun Time?

We have gone to Chicago. Where, according to such reliable sources as Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Abe Froman, the Sausage King Of The World lives.

And there’s nothing not awesome about the quest for encased meat. Nothing.

Back later with more reports of food porn. Or indigestion (the bacon is, sadly, still a-brewing in my guts. I might need someone to send me some TNT).

P.S. Alex is on Top Mommy. Go check him out.

Dear World,

Do not, under any circumstances whatsoever, eat over a half a package of bacon. Sure, it may taste good going down, the grease lovingly filling your guts, but I assure you that 12 hours later, when you’re curled up in bed weeping, you’re going to wish you’d never seen a pork product in your life.

Not that I would know anything about it.

Love,

Your Aunt Becky

Maybe it’s because out of the 11 critters in the house, only 3 of them actually possess delicate lady bits, thereby solidifying my title of Reigning Queen Of The Sausages, but I’ve become obsessed with the penis. Well, not really obsessed with them, just wistful. I don’t want to be a dude, but I would genuinely like to borrow a bulging member for awhile. Like 24 hours or so. (Remember that King Missile song, “Detatchable Penis?” It’s full of The Awesome).

You see, I have some things I’d like to do with it.

Like:

1. Smack someone in the face with it. Give someone a Mushroom Print. Not hard enough to hurt, just to make my point. I’m not certain I could actually smack someone in the face with my vagina, right?

2. Write my name in pee in the snow. As a lady? Impossible. As a dude? VERY POSSIBLE. I think I might weep if someone did that for me.

3. Scratch my ball bag. Balls are like hand magnets and I want to determine what the fuss is about. It must feel really, really good.

4. Pee standing up. Now, I’ve seen public bathrooms defiled by a Lady Squatter, and that’s just not the same thing, primarily because there is now piss all over the toliet seat. I know (oh BOY do I know) that dudes don’t always aim or hit their targets, but still. Having the option would be sweet ass.

5. “If I knew it was gonna be this type of party I would have stuck my dick in the mashed potatoes,” from Waiting… But, see I wanna do that.
What else am I missing here?