Time to dust one off from the vaults. Too busy sitting on my ass and pretending to be important. What? I’M VERY IMPORTANT, YOU SEE.

Now you may have heard people whine about it before, but I promise that NOTHING humbles you like maternity shopping once did. Thankfully for us now, being pregnant is so ‘œHollywood’ that it’s almost fun to buy the clothes. Gone are the tent-like mumus and the belly panels that go up to your chin. Gone are the denim-free faux-jeans that I wore while last gestating (whimpers: HOW can jeans be DENIM FREE and still called JEANS? I give up).

Hell, if you wanted to, you could easily shop in the maternity stores without being pregnant. Aside from the ‘œBaby on Board’ shirts you’d be good to go. A little roomy (perfect for the bar) but damn comfy.

This afternoon, I dragged my loving husband out to get new pants for me. Sounds cruel, I know, but I promise that he had the checkbook in mind when he took me today. I grabbed the pair of pants in my size, he picked me out a shirt, and away we went.

I got home and gleefully pulled my pants on (in the privacy of my own bathroom, of course. I happen to look quite like a hippo these days) and was immediately vexed. WHY was I having a hard time pulling my pants on?

The waist fit.

The hips fit.

The calves fit.

Holy shit, these pants are caught up on my ANKLES?

Yes, faithful readers, I had inadvertently bought Skinny Legged maternity jeans.

What nimrod decided that what pregnant women REALLY NEEDED is to wear pants that make them look fatter and more oddly shaped? Sure, they can look good on SOME people, but really? Most pregnant women would look gawky and uncomfortable (not to mention shaped like a hippo in toe shoes) in these.

So now I have to go back to the trendy maternity store and carefully inspect the leg of each and every pair of jeans I can find. Hopefully, they’ve left some jeans with some flair in them. Otherwise, it’s off to the tailor I go.

So tell me, fair reader, what’s the biggest fashionable thing that you abhor? What makes you want to gouge out your eyeballs when you see it on someone else or yourself?

Amidst a sea of hormonal nerves, I managed to get my ass into the US room without being carried (it would have been no small feat to carry me), where the US tech promptly squirted the freakishly warm goo onto my belly, when she saw…

A baby. Possibly a Bobble Head, but it had a beating heart so I don’t care how disproportionate it is. Both of my Sausages have satellites where their heads should be (think orange on a toothpick) and I’m pretty used to it by now. It appears that the Sausagebryo is no exception. Huge heads, apparently, are genetic.

It also has a heart that was beating a respectable 160 beats per minute (BPM), apparently geniusness is also genetic. See look at me, making up words. Pure unadulterated geniusness.

The Sausagebryo Link ALSO showed it’s superiority by waving it’s toes at me. It’s tiny shrimpy toes. Obviously it’s as advanced as me! *I* myself wiggled my toes today, too! The Link obviously takes after me.

I am now in possession of a due date to call my own: February 8, which seems a perfect day to be born, if you ask me. I have a July birthday, which means that as a kid, I *never* got to celebrate my birthday at school like the other kids. Apparently, lack of classroom cupcakes has scarred me for life.

All is currently quiet on the Crotchal Front, just the way it should be. I’m weaning myself off my Vitamin W and my beloved Diet Coke, so the next few weeks might be a tad more melodramatic than usual (oh! The HUMANITY OF HAVING TO WEAR SOCKS!). So please bear with your Aunt Becky as she goes not-so-quietly insane.

*I’m thinking that it was a Very Bad Idea to have taught my children to call Anthony Bourdain “dad” when he comes onto the television. The therapy bills are making a nice “ching-ching” noise as they add up in my head.

*I don’t know why I cannot believe that something would go well for me. Although I’m not cutting my arms or ringing my eyes with black eyeliner, I feel much more pessimistic than usual. Is it a defense mechanism or am I a Debbie Downer?

*I find it nearly impossible to blog about going through bad times, yet I have no problem talking about the state of my unshaved bush. You know, the REALLY important stuff.

*In a stunning change, for the first time in well, forever, my hair is at it’s natural color. I got tired of the highlights, because on we black-haired ladies, it looks kinda funny. At least on me. My skin is dark and the blondness makes me look, well, green.

And you know what? I HATE it this dark black. I feel Goth.

*I think that the world would be a better place if everyone at some variation of the cheeseburger. This makes it doubly upsetting to learn that I cannot eat one right now, as they taste bad.

*The worst part about getting an US at my doctor’s office is that they don’t allow anyone to go back with you until they’ve done all they need to do. I find this incredibly stressful. Plus the US techs there tend to be pinheads.

Your turn, sweet reader. Your turn at randomness.

I might have made previous mention that I suck at being pregnant. I probably said it in passing, or made some joke about beached whales and trying to roll out of bed, or maybe I even named a blog category after this sad fact.

I suck at being pregnant so much that I cannot believe anyone who “glows” or whatever is doing anything other than trying to feed me a line of BS. Or to make me feel bad about myself for being such a whiny baby.

Pregnancy #1: Benjamin.

Was knocked up by complete accident at age 20, the same age when no one believes that you have enough of a brain stem to care for a child. The jury is still out on that one, but Ben is still alive and kicking.

This pregnancy was particularly sucky because of all the OTHER shit going on around me.

Take 1 asshole boyfriend who runs and hides his penis in other women when the going gets rough, add 1 mentally-ill mother who is convinced that you’re going to give the baby up for adoption that she asks your brother to take him if you freak out and you have a recipe for disaster. An appetite for destruction if I may (and I always may).

Physically, I was fine when I was pregnant aside from swelling up to the size and approximate shape of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (it was August, man). The only symptom that I had was that I was chronically exhausted, so exhausted that I would sleep 16-18 hours a day.

Escapism anyone?

Pregnancy #2: Alexander

After years of assuming uber-fertility, was astonished when I didn’t get easily knocked up. Apparently you’re more fertile when you’re young and stupid.

Upon being knocked up, became violently ill 24-7. Puked my brains out all day, every day and eventually had to quit my job, as I couldn’t drive 45 minutes in the car while puking. Ended up so depressed that my ever-widening ass made many dents in my couch. May have even worn some of the fabric off.

Was also incredibly paranoid of losing the baby. Worried like it was my job, made matters much worse.

Which brings us to…

Pregnancy #3: Link (aka Sausagebryo)

Pretty much remove the emotional issues, and you have my current pregnancy. I’m unbelievably exhausted, nauseous (but without the vomiting), and just sick. I have no energy for unloading the dishwasher, let alone trying to spend Quality Time with the kids (unless you count turning the TV to Noggin as QT, which of course, I do).

Between this and the spotting, my poor husband may not get laid again for many years.

I suppose that the upside of down here is that I’m finally feeling a bit more relaxed about the Link. I spot occasionally, but I’m fairly sure it’s related to the suppositories (oh, the joy of those bitches), so I’ve relaxed a bit. Between the intense sickness and the ever expanding poo-baby taking up residence in my gut (when someone tells you that they show earlier with subsequent babies, BELIEVE THEM. Especially when they haven’t shat in 3 days.), I’m more calm than I’ve been.

Until, of course, my US on Wednesday in which I will be reduced to a blubbering mess.

While I would have expected to find myself in a tin foil hat, hiding in the bathtub under the mattress I’d lugged in there after this second bout of spotting (third?), I’ve been pretty calm. THIS is my new normal, and until it’s been proved otherwise, I’m going to have to assume that all is as well as it can be.

As quickly as the dreaded spotting began, it stopped. And for once, well, EVER, the nurse at my doctor’s office made me feel better as she was as fairly unconcerned about the state of What Is Up Down There. I took this as a good sign.

All is well for now.

—————

I will now bring you another one from the vaults:

Fucking spotting again. May be losing my mind.

Sounds like my cervix was irritated by the dildo-like suppositories. Apparently this is normal.

My mind may very well be gone.

Like any good blogger, I occasionally check my referrals and see where people clicked over from. And usually there are very few surprises.

But over the past couple months I’ve noticed a particular site refers people here. It makes no sense.

Why would this site have a link here?

And why am I so strangely flattered?

You didn’t think I was REALLY going to stay gone, did you? That would be insane. This blog is the only thing (some days) that connects me with the world outside of my pill-popping (what? Prenatal vitamins are pills!) suburban existence. No matter what the stupid platitudes say, I firmly believe that laughter–and vodka–are the very best medicine.

That said, I will probably not be around as much as I’ve been before. With all of the fantastic blogs out there, I’ve been having a terrible time mixing reading blogs and living, well, life in general. But alas, you wanted the best, you sadly were booby prized your Aunt Becky. Life goes on, eh?

Back when I was in my early teens, in retelling it later, I sound like a complete bad ass. I wasn’t, not really, but it sounds that way.

Take, for example, the time I was arrested at age 14. SOUNDS bad ass until I tell you the story. Which, like it or not, I’m about to do.

So, my friend Jenny and I were wandering about the mall (where else did teenagers hang?) in a sea of hormonal, well, hormones, and she came up with this brilliant idea. It went a little like this:

Jen: Hey, Becky, we should steal something.

Becky: I don’t think so. I HAVE money to pay for it.

Jen: But it would be cool! Come on!

Becky: No thanks.

Jen: COME ON!

Becky: (sighs) Okay.

Did you see that? My IRON CLAD will in action? Even then I was aware of how stupid the whole situation was. Being born with a healthy fear of The Man, I was never one to try and disobey authority. Any bad-assery I engaged in happened AROUND blatantly breaking the law.

But, in an effort to give my future self stuff to blog about and make fun of, I acted precisely how those spineless chicks on the After School Special: I caved immediately.

And so we entered a store–The Limited–for the express purpose of shoplifting something. Even then I knew it was a Very Bad Idea.

I went up to the front of the store to steal some accessories (clothing seemed like a lot of work) with Jenny in tow. We were the only people in the store besides the employees. Without having an ounce of smooveness in me, I’m sure I had a blinking sign over my head that said “TEENAGER SHOPLIFTING!”

I guarantee you that I looked guilty before I put a hair pick in my pocket.

Without surprising a single person, the clerk caught me as I tried to walk out of the store. Bus-TED.

And since it was store policy to arrest shoplifters, I was also arrested. I was also a blubbery mess from the moment I was busted. It wasn’t even MY idea, and here I was taking the blame for it! I learned REALLY QUICKLY never to listen to anyone else when it came to my business.

Well, because I was 14 and unable to drive, my mother was in the mall with me, and despite being paged over and over, we hadn’t seen her. On our way to the police station, we ran into my mother who was obviously furious. She knew I had money and she couldn’t believe that I’d tried such an amateur move.

Neither could I.

I was tried and sentenced to 25 hours community service, which I served at a local Red Cross. I painted rooms and I cleaned toilets (it was then that I learned about the inability of men to actually make the pee hit the toilet) for 4 weekends in a row.

I wish I could sit here and like an episode of Full House, have a “tender moment” with which I can share my wisdom and all that I learned from this harrowing experience, but I’m not that kind of person. And this isn’t that kind of blog.

So for now, ladies and germs, I tell you only this: don’t get caught.

For absolutely no real reason, save for some spotting and some low progesterone, I’m full of The Fear. I have a follow up ultrasound (f/u u/s for those of us speaking medical-eze) on July 2nd to check for…I don’t know what.

And because I am pregnant and therefore certifiable, I’m terrified. I’m not accustomed to all this monitoring and the like, and it’s not helping my irrationality (actual thought: If they’re ordering another u/s, it’s because there is something terribly wrong and they need to confirm it. Reality check: u/s are cash cows, AND following up is standard medical practice).

I’m pretty sure that between the extra (crazy) hormones and the sad fact that after the past six months of hell I have no coping mechanisms left in me whatsoever. This is making day-to-day life fairly hard for me.

In that vein, I may be away from you, my sweet and lovely blog and Internet People for a spell. I fear that all I will do if given the opportunity is whine and complain and worry myself into a tizzy if left to my own pathetic devices.

Instead I will relax on the couch and stare at the wall. What? That doesn’t sound healthy to you?

If you need me, shoot me an email.

And who knows, I’ll probably be back sooner than you think.

Catch you on the flip side, bitches.

I’m pretty sure I misread Dr. Spock when he made some comment in his epic tome (the only baby book I read) about children being more alike than different. Because I think I need to swap “pregnancy” for “children” here.

This isn’t to say that either of my pregnancies were in any way alike, save for the fact that they both amounted in a massively 60-70 pound weight gain and that they both were boys.

But for years, despite the fact that my brother and I are only alike in that we both have black hair and dark coloring (lemmie give you an example: he got his BA in underwater pole vaulting–actual degree: poetry and photography–and I got my BSN. Now he’s an engineer and I write a blog. Who got the short end of the stick here!?!), I mistakenly took up the mantra that my children would be more alike than different.

I will take this opportunity to allow you to laugh mightily at my expense. Go ahead. It’s okay.

(jerks)

So, it’s come as a bit of a shock to learn that for children I have two completely different creatures. In my current possession I have:

1) A Cranky Fetus. Who may or may not hate me in a teenage angst way. I’d be willing to bet that it’s ALREADY listening to the Cure and wearing copious amounts of black eyeliner.

2) Ben: The Absent-Minded Professor (a.k.a Techno Distracto)

3) Alex: The Ass-Kicker (a.k.a. Techno DisTRUCTo).

Ben cannot remember something as simple as TURNING OFF THE WATER when he’s done at the sink and Alex beats down everything in his path. His habit of whipping things at my face has actually amounted to a fat lip (mine, not his) and Ben has driven me to the brink of insanity with his inability to remember oh, I don’t know…ANYTHING.

So comfort your Aunt Becky, Internet At Large (whose butt looks FANTASTIC in those pants. Have you lost weight?!). Are siblings more alike than different?