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?

I’m having one of those The Universe Peed In My Lucky Charms days today, and it’s not for any good reason. I’m thrilled as all hell that the fetus (is it a fetus now? I don’t even know) is still there, still making me sick as shit, I’m pleased about my agents and the way my proposal is shaping up (a huge thank you to those of you who have been kind enough to edit for me), and it’s a beautiful day outside today.

And yet. And YET. I’m stabby and cranky.

In no apparent order, these are the dumb things making me angry today:

*After I got home from the doctor yesterday, buoyed by good news, I saw that I had a message from the place that we’re holding my best friend’s bridal shower. Fuck, I thought to myself, this can’t be good.

And it wasn’t.

The place is closing a week before the shower and despite having already sent out invitations and the like with this place listed, we have to scramble and come up with a NEW place to hold it. Now, I’m thrilled that this is the only thing I have to worry about (what kind of luxury is that?) but HELLO, that’s annoying.

Mainly because the shower is in 3 weeks.

Fuck!

*The Battle Over Who Does The Cat Boxes Rages Wildly in my house, and reached a fever pitch this morning when I found a neat pile of cat shit outside of my door. It appears as though NO ONE has done them (this is an ages old fight. I do them when I’m not pregnant, and I’m not supposed to do them when I am).

Which meant that I donned a Lead Paint mask thingy–called a respirator. The same one you use for TB exposure– and did them myself today. (Don’t worry, I’d 99% guess I’m immune to toxoplasmosis. I’ve been cleaning cat shit boxes since I was a teeny girl).

*My mouth tastes soapy literally all day long, and I cannot seem to rid myself of it. It’s as disgusting as it sounds.

*My mother-in-law is coming to stay for the weekend and I’m forced to get off my duff, stop working on my writing and clean this Pit Of Despair that I currently live in. Morning sickness, shall we say, was not kind to my house.

*Alex seems to be afflicted by the same General Crankatude that I am, and it’s not helping matters very much. He’s currently up in his crib honking about not wanting to go to sleep. I only wish someone confined me to bed for a couple of hours!

So what peed in YOUR Cornflakes, Internet? Anything?

At least I think we do. I could have swallowed a mechanical…something…that makes a loud heartbeat type noise. Baby Sausage (Link or Patty? THIS IS THE QUESTION) was chirping away merrily in there, all 150+ beats per minute of it.

After I gave approximately 540 pints of blood–between the OB and the endocrinologist I totally am having a damn port put in–including some designated for an HIV test (always a laugh a minute test, FOR SURE), I was let go. Only to return in 16 weeks.

Or when my stash of freebie prenatal vitamins runs out. What, me cheap? NEVER. And you know Aunt Becky’s Motto: Free Is Always Better Than Paying.

Thank you for all who indulged my ridiculous fears without reminding me of what an idiot I can be. I have something corny to tell you. It’s so corny I almost can’t say it because I might humiliate myself (whereas talking about throwing a hotdog down MY hallway is nothing. Priorities, I tell you).

*deep breath*

Here goes: Okay, when my nurse initially put the doppler on, all we heard was my whooshing heartbeat. And I sat there while I tried not to hyperventilate and was comforted by my Internet friends. I seriously thought of you guys while I quietly panicked.

GOD. I’m so corny.

Anyway, I love you all bunches and heaps and not in a creepy stalkery way. I’ll be back tomorrow with a penis post. My poor husband is going to run off to Cabo now.

Love you all!

Today at approximately 2:45 (do you like how I said “approximately” and then gave an exact time? Me either) I return to see one of my favorite doctors: my OB. He’s the one I saw when I was pregnant with Alex, the one who always “forgets” who The Daver is and asks me if it’s the same guy (he’s joking. I think), the one who always remembers that my grandfather was a doctor. He’s no-nonsense and I adore him.

He’s starkly different from my first OB, the only OB that my crappy HMO would let me see. He wasn’t a bad guy, he probably said all of 12 words to me the whole time I was pregnant with Ben, and that’s okay. I’ve never needed someone to really hold my hand or reassure me (until I spotted. Then that was ALL I needed), and it wasn’t his lack of vocal chords (I can only surmise) but the fact that he was an uber-Christian.

And me? I was unmarried. And unhappy.

I’ll say for him that he never, ever made any real remarks to me about it, save for my first appointment when he acknowledged that things must be really hard right now. And they were terribly hard.

No, what I’m still bitter about with my first OB was the dreaded forceps delivery I had. Which gave me 4th degree tearing–the highest level possible. At age 21. I’ve occasionally pestered Dave to tell me if having The Sex with me is like throwing a hotdog down a hallway, and he laughs, but secretly I worry.

*sighs*

I guess I’ll never know.

What I do know is this: I’m literally kicking myself for not asking The Daver (hotdog down hallway aside) to stay home and go with me to this appointment. Not because I’m all insecure and can’t do anything without him, but because it’s one of those Scary For Aunt Becky Appointments, a Landmark Appointment, if I may (and I always may).

Today is the Doppler/Heartbeat day.

And although I’m still sick as shit, still have the world’s worst soapy taste in my mouth constantly, still haven’t taken a proper poo in who knows how long, I’m full of nervous. In fact, I’m so ridiculously nervous that I ASKED MY MOTHER (the least sympathetic/reassuring person on the planet. You have to trust me on this) TO COME WITH ME. Oh yes, yes I did.

If I’m gonna get bad news, I’d rather have SOMEONE besides Alex there to help me out.

*sighs*

I’m a neurotic freak, I know.

Every now and again, Daver and I will set up shop outside (typically nursing a couple of cold frosty ones. Like Miller High Life: The Champagne of Beers) and discuss our children. His work tends to be the sort that my brain is not large enough to process and my “work” is so mind-numbingly dull (“…and THEN, and THEN I emptied the DUST BUSTER! Bwahahahaha!”) that neither of us care to discuss it.

So we instead discuss the future lives of our children. Hypothetically speaking.

And since I was a bit of a rebel in my own way (dude, have you MET NAT? Obviously a rebellion thing), I often ponder what my children will do to horrify me later in life. It’s inevitable, so we try to brace ourselves for whatever would bug us the most.

Which, maybe it’s because I’m so graceful that I nearly broke my foot walking down the stairs, or because last summer I literally fell through the front door while stone-cold sober, would be interpretive dancing.

Yes, I would die if my son became an interpretive dancer.

I have no real problems with dancer in general; if I were going to do something cultured, I’d likely chose the symphony or the opera–didn’t know your Aunt Becky liked opera, didya?–and not the ballet, but the ballet is different. I can understand ballet.

Interpretive dancing, however, baffles me. I simply don’t, and probably never will, follow or appreciate what some people think of as Dancing With The Music (Creepily). I just don’t get it. And I’m kinda freaked out by it.

I made the mistake of telling my older brother and his wife about this in a completely stupid turn of events, so now every time they see Ben, they encourage him to “do a dance that reminds him of a salad” or “doesn’t the thought of a cat make you want to dance like one?” I sit quietly there, while poor Ben tries to act this out, clenching my teeth and hissing that they had better get damn good and comfortable going to every.single.fucking.show.he.does.

They always laugh, seemingly unaware that I am deadly serious. I will drag them from their comfortable yuppie home and drive them to the abandoned warehouse my son–my interpretive dancer son–and his troupe of equally misguided youths (I hope) will perform for us all. In 100 degree heat. While we sit on the cement floor next to scuttling cockroaches.

And I will rue the day I had these as my siblings.

What would be the worst profession you could imagine your future child doing? Let’s assume that they are happy with it, so you can’t use any bullshit “whatever he’s HAPPY with” line. Let’s also leave “soldier” out of this one, because here on my blog you mean “politician” or “Republican.”

See, SEE? I went to BlogHer after all, with a little help from my good friend Backpacking Dad.

Next year I hope to not have a body-double.

Well, thank ye kindly, Internet for your well-wishes on my new-found agents. I’m not sure I’ve yet processed what a big fucking deal this is (and I know it is), and maybe that’s a good thing. Because then I might get nervous.

Eventually, what I so desperately need you for, darling Internets is to help me rework parts of my slower essays so that they all pop out at you and get in your face and shit. After I finish tweaking my proposal a bit, I’ll be focusing on finishing and reworking parts of my essays. This is where you’ll come in.

When I identify what I need help with, I’ll paste it on over here and ask for your honest opinion. Pretty much, I want to know how to make it better. Because once this bitch is in print, there isn’t any going back and fixing it again.

I’m busily working on my proposal today, so I probably won’t get back here for a real post, but wanted to tell you ONCE AGAIN, how much I fucking love you. And because I say “fucking” you know I mean it.

Got any good gossip for me, Internet?