Having just been through a slump in my (not-so) fashionable life, one that I like to call Wow, I’m 27 And I Have Two Kids, Therefore I Am Frumptastic, I decided that today was the day to mix things up a bit.

I walked into the Beauty School (yes, I got my hair done at the beauty school. No, sadly no one sang “Beauty School Drop-Out” when I was there.) with long dark hair that went down (probably) past my overly large nursing nipples (have I mentioned how glamorous motherhood is? Because that would be a lie), and walked out a mere two hours later with platinum and cherry red (remarkably the same colors from my wedding, and suprisingly not a tribute to my wedding and/or marriage) hair that brushes my shoulders and only $81 dollars poorer for it.

(I will insert a picture as soon as I am smart enough to upload pictures from the camera to my computer. I am not smart enough to do this without help. Period. Picture me trying to insert the card into the DVD drive for several hours until it is smashed to bits. Then multiply it by about 50. That’s me + technology.).

It’s not quite the full sleeve tattoo or eyebrow ring that would secure my position as Truly Hardcore, but hey, it’s a start. Besides, I’m unsure about sleeves on women. I fluxuate wildly between thinking that they’re awesome and tacky, depending entirely on which sort I’ve seen most recently.

It’s amazing what a ickle bit of pampering will do to bolster your mood. I got caught in the age-old rut of “if I don’t feel good about myself I might as well not do anything whatsoever to enhance my appearance,” and I am taking a personal vow to stop acting like such a damn sissy. Maybe I’m not 100% thrilled about being 20 pounds heavier than I was before I had Alex, but it’s not 200 pounds, and I have GOT to lay the fuck off of it for awhile. I’m doing what I can (which is Weight Watchers online) to make sure I lose this weight by oh, I don’t know, OCTOBER 25 of this year, and I’ll bet that I can do it. Or at least get close enough for government work.

Who is with me here? Who wants to do something nice for themselves AT LEAST once each month, even if we don’t feel like we’re worth it? I’m talking about going tanning, or getting a massage (well, not Aunt Becky who shudders at the thought of someone massaging her. I did it once, when I was about eleventy-hundred months pregnant with Alex to try and convince him to come out. Didn’t work, but hey, I felt like I was DOING something. It seemed safer than the Castor Oil induction I had been considering), getting a haircut, or having some unmentionables waxed.

And let me give a shout-out to Kim, who has been smoke-free for (over?) 4 days now. As Aunt Becky knows well, smoking is both fun and entertaining, but terrible for you and smells bad. Quitting sucks hard, and takes amazing resolve to make it work. But it’s possible to do it, and you will (just look at Kristin!).

When I got pregnant with Alex, I discovered that along with lunchmeat and soft cheeses (seriously, WHO KNEW? Absolutely no one told me a thing about this when I had Ben), I could no longer drink coffee. Not because I was being hyper-good pregnant Aunt Becky, but because it made me vomit. Copiously.

Other women planned to stop and grab a margarita and sushi on the way home from the hospital, but not me, I planned our route home to ensure I could hit up a Dunkin’ Donuts and grab a coffee. A gigantic one. Of course, as fate would have it, (due to some complications) I delivered at a completely seperate hospital from my initial route, so I ended up having Dave run out and grab me one after Alex and I were deposited at home.

It was in short, amazingly amazing.

Since then, Starbucks Corp has been rejoicing at their good fortune to have me as a repeat customer. It’s like I’m making up for lost time, with the way I imbibe coffee with a delicious and alarming frequency. I know, I know, I could make it at home just as easily and save a couple of bucks a week, but somedays it’s (sadly enough) what keeps me going on those really bad days.

There is one nasty side effect of drinking as much coffee as I do, and it’s not the perpetual state of the jitters that gives me the look of a seizuring patient, but as nearly every daytime TV commercial reminds me, it’s my teeth. After not thinking much at all about the color of my teeth, one day I decided to check them out in the mirror.

Holy pajamas, Batman! They were almost grey they were so stained.

Yesterday found me scouring the toothpaste aisle in Target until I found a 2 hour whitening kit that I plan to use to accentuate my brand new kicky haircut.

I’ve always made fun of people who get nervous about haircuts, because aside from taking an insanely long and boring time to accomplish, it’s not a big deal. It’s hair, it grows back eventually, and if you hate it passionately, I try to buy a box of dye and change the color to something alarming to detract from it’s ugliness. This spoken from the woman who hasn’t had a haircut in over a year and is now nervous as hell about tomorrow: Hair Cut + Color Day.

I’d planned to celebrate the return to my pre-Alexander weight by getting a haircut and funky color, but seeing as my metabolism isn’t quite yet done fucking with me, I have no earthly clue when that will be. And with the rate my hair is growing, I’ll be that freaky person with hair down to my ass before I can lose this 20-odd pounds. As it is, it’s long enough to require being tied back at all points in time, because the baby enjoys nothing quite as much as using my hair as handlebars.

Plus, I’m hoping that with the removal of (I’m guessing) 3 pounds of hair, I’ll finally see the scale move again (I’ve been considering removing vestigial organs to accomplish this until it dawned on me that I have no vestigial organs LEFT. No appendix, no tonsils, and no wisdom teeth. I guess I could remove my gall bladder and a couple of feet of intestines too, but I’m not sure it would net much of a weight loss.).

Currently, my hair resembles Katie Holmes’s pre-baby hair, that color, length and curliness, and I’m planning on doing her post-baby haircut (without the funkadelic layering) and some color to remove the grey hair that has sprouted from my head since I was 20 (this is the first time I’ve had my natural hair color in 10 years. It’s so dark brown, it’s nearly black. Who knew?).

Any suggestions on color from The Internet? I’d like to do something a bit funky, and I don’t mind the upkeep on the color as I am bound and determined not to let myself “go” just because I have two kids. I don’t have any idea how to upload pictures here to show you my coloring (I’m a techno-meh) but I’m fairly dark-skinned, am often mistaken for either Mexican or Jewish during the summer months (I tan well), so much as I would like (and I’ve always wanted to do this), I sadly cannot go platinum blonde.

Besides, don’t gentlemen marry brunettes?

When ill, like I am right now, I rarely run a fever. A fever for me is a piss poor indicator as to how ill I really am, unless I have one. Then it means that I am extremely sick. So sick, in fact, that I woke up in the middle of the night last night drenched in sweat and blearily made my way downstairs to wake Dave and inform him that I “felt just like a bagel.”

Then, without another word, I trundled back upstairs and went back to sleep.

At least, I think I did.

Ah, the fever she is raging mightily within me, which means that I broke into my Christmas stash of crappy CD’s that I love with all of my heart and listened to sappy stuff like Rod Stewart and Elton John, while I wept copious tears about nothing, really. Then I decided that I needed to clean the house.

Dripping sweat, red faced, yet determined, both the dog and baby watched me warily as I frantically scrubbed the kitchen floor. Then the toliet. Then the highchair. Dave is back at work from his Christmas vacation which effectively means that there is no one to tell me to put down the mop and step away from the bleach (whoo-boy does Aunt Becky love bleach!) when they should.

—————

I cannot begin to properly articulate how I feel after hearing about Britney’s meltdown (but I assure you it doesn’t make me feel like a bagel), but it just makes me so sad. Becoming a parent means opening yourself up to criticism from all possible sides, and that’s without living in the limelight. Hell, I just have this crappy blog and yet I find myself tempering some of the things I say here so as not to evoke the fury of a thousand angry mothers who cannot believe how I solve problems or parent my children (I mean, what’s wrong with chaining my children to a wall in the basement while I throw loud parties ANYWAY?).

As with anything in life, my choices are my own, but I have the blanket of total anonymity to hide behind and no one is the wiser (well, this isn’t completely true. I have bribed some of my friends to read my blog and comment so as to feel like less of a loser. And I’m sure it’d be pretty easy to figure out who I am, but I assume that most people have better things to do with their days than to stalk random Internet People. Shit, I know that I do.), I MEAN, WHAT IF MY NAME REALLY ISN’T “BECKY?” WHAT IF IT’S “SHANNA?” AND WHAT IF I AM ACTUALLY A TEENAGED BOY?

(Have no fear, I’m not even remotely creative enough to come up with a fake life to support a blog. When hard pressed, it took me about 20 minutes to come up with the example of “Shanna” as an alternate to my given name).

But Britney, she doesn’t have anything to hide behind. Every step of the way, someone is finding fault with everything she does. Don’t bother telling me that she “chose” this lifestyle, because what would you have done at 16 (at 16 I probably would’ve gotten “Courtney Love Rocks” tattooed on my ass. It’s a good thing you have to be 21 to get a tattoo here in Illinois, eh?)? I’m pretty positive that it isn’t what you’d choose at 25.

Mental illness is not funny. Not even a little. Emotional breakdowns are also not funny.

Sure, I use the terms “crazy” and “nut house” occasionally, but as someone who has frequently had to pick up her own mother at the ole’ Mental Hospital, I think I’ve earned that right (man, “pick up my mother at the Mental Hospital” is right up there with phrases I hate to use, alongside “my last upper endoscopy” and “fecal-oral route of transmission.” Oh, and “piping hot,” but only because it’s annoying.).

So Britney, as a person you’ll never meet, I wish you the best of everything and I hope that you’re able to pull yourself out of this hole. The world won’t be the same without you in it.

Contrary to my absolute best efforts to make Alex’s first word “fuck head” or “shitballs,” he has defied me yet again and has proven himself both to be his father’s son AND his Aunt Ashley’s Future Husband (well, once she marries and then divorces Uncle Chicken) by his choice of first word.

Kitty-Cat.

Between the constant sleep deprivation and extreme hormonal swings, I have absolutely no idea when he became such a sentient being, and I’m admitting to you that it’s freaking me out a hair. People always annoy new parents (and pregnant women, but EVERYTHING annoys a pregnant woman, so I’m not including them in this statement. Seriously, still air annoyed me while I was pregnant, because it JUST SAT THERE WHILE I WAS GESTATING UNCOMFORTABLY! Is there any wonder why, when I mention having another baby in passing to Dave, he weeps and puts on a chastity belt? I didn’t think so) by saying “They grow up so quickly” while dabbing the tears from their eyes.

They say it because it’s fucking true and against all odds, it makes you sort of sad to see the babyhood go away, even to admitted non-baby people such as myself. We ran into a family with a much smaller baby the other day, and even cold (nearly) heartless Aunt Becky got a wee bit misty looking at his tiny perfection (for some reason this one didn’t look like a garden gnome) and reminiscing about when my children were that small and helpless.

The Bumbo and the Boppy need to be packed away with the breast pump (I cannot even begin to achieve letdown with it anymore) and my Breast Friend pillow thing-y, and soon the Saucer and Jumparoo will join them in storage for the one day that we either decide to spawn another terrible sleeper or give it away to friends. Although we’re not getting rid of all of this stuff, I am all too aware that we’re approaching the end of the Alex Is A Baby Era. While I know in my heart this is a Good Thing, I’m just a touch saddened by this.

Soon, he will be walking and I will be planning a first birthday party for him, and in the wink of the blink, he’s going to be in school, have smelly feet, and think that his mother is annoying as all hell. It will be then that I spring into action and try to be the most irritating mother in the world to him: I’m going to show up to school with my hair in curlers and wearing bunny slippers and a ratty robe, drive a mini-van with the vanity plate “Metal Rules” with a light-up skull license plate holder, and try to pepper my vocabulary with as much popular slang as possible.

Er…no, I haven’t been planning this since my first son was born or anything…okay, yes, yes I have.

I mean, they deserve SOME kind of payback for the stretch marks that have been plastered to my body, breasts that will hang down to my knees like oranges in tube socks (once I stop lactating), and the grey hairs that have begun sprouting from my head with alarming frequency, right?

Right.

Anything else I can do to annoy them? What am I missing here? What annoyed you most about your parents (and don’t tell me “nothing” because I cannot believe that. My parents allowed me to smoke the ganja, drink booze, forge their signatures to write myself out of class if I needed to and have no set curfew, and STILL I was annoyed by them)?

*Updated to reflect the word I was actually going for here, which was “Medal” NOT “Metal”. Thanks, Manny!*

All of the signs were there, I guess, but as I am a complete idiot I failed to notice. Well, until 2 golfballs took up residance under my chin and I woke several nights in a row with my sheets soaked with sweat. The Daver then began complaining of similar symptoms when I realized, that along with a fancy watch, more bath product than I can even store (do I smell bad? Do I look like I need a shower? Wait, don’t answer that.), and a large assortment of toys, someone was kind enough to gift us Haemophilus influenzae. More commonly known as the flu.

I squinched my watery eyes up and began to examine the usual suspects (because I am so very mature, I always look to find someone else to blame. Makes me feel better), and could recall absolutely no one coughing and hacking into their ham. So I turned to the one person I ALWAYS like to blame: Nat. Nat brought us a little Christmas Flu this year.

Asshole.

I’m usually pretty on top of getting my flu vaccine, what with being a nurse and all, and I even go so far as to make my own appointments! I know, I deserve a medal or something for my incredible level of responsibility. Problem is, this year, between the complete lack of sleep and well, the subsequent sleep deprivation, it fell off my list of things to do, just like getting a haircut and shaving the cats.

Now the battle in The Sausage Factory is waging on, in full force. The Battle Of Who Is Sicker.

Dave hates colds, and if I should ever forget this for even a moment, he is quick to remind me of this, oh about every 2 and a half minutes. I’ll take a cold over the stomach flu any day, but this is the real flu, so all bets are off.

I’m imagining that the rest of the week will see battle lines drawn and sides taken, lightbulbs used to warm thermometers (See, MY fever is HIGHER! Dave, you’re not 109 degrees, or you’d be dead.), symptoms grossly exaggerated to illict sympathy from their troops (I’m so sick, I’M SHAKING, so I can’t be trusted to make dinner! I might UNDERCOOK THE CHICKEN and then we’d all get salmonella and DIE!), many hours of throwing ourselves dramatically onto neighboring couches, and likely culminating in one of us grabbing a kitchen knife and making superficial cuts on our body parts (SEE, I’M SO SICK THAT I’M BLEEDING! THE FLU IS MAKING ME BLEED!) nevermind the fact that this isn’t even a symptom of the flu, just histrionic personality disorder.

Once I made the connection between my symptoms and diagnosis (Dur!), I decided that a trip to Target was necessary to stock up on supplies. This found me all alone in the pharmacy department pouring and repouring over the shelves to look for anything marked “Will Kick The Flu’s Ass.” No such product was available to me, so I grabbed everything I could think of PLUS some gimmicky crap that I would never normally think of spending money on (snakeoil is, afterall, snakeoil). When I’m sick, I have no decision-making capabilities whatsoever. It’s a good damn thing no one tried to sell me crappy Tupperware or Pampered Chef products, because my bank account would be all hurty, BECAUSE I CANNOT SAY NO TO ANYTHING WHEN I’M SICK. Another odd side affect of being very sick is that I am unfailingly nice and sweet. When my immune system is being attacked, my personality becomes remarkably like a doormat, a snivelling and sappy doormat who cries at commercials and the Fear Segment of the news. It’s pathetic, even by my own standards.

So this is where you’ll find me today, sitting on the couch, weeping intermittantly about everything and nothing at all, and blowing my nose into these nifty antiviral tissues I found (see, I TOLD you I can’t resist a gimmick when I’m sick), while trying to suck down some Theraflu that Ashley recommended (it tastes just like ass. Rotten ass.). Any other good suggestions for me (keep in mind I cannot lounge about in bed as much as I’d like to. This is the hardest part about having kids for me: being unable to be remotely selfish even when very ill)?

OOOOHHH! I know what you can do to make me feel better WITHOUT exposing yourself to the Death Flu! You can tell me about new blogs to read! See, if I read you, you’re probably on my Virtual Pimps linkage. If I don’t, you’re probably not there. But, you see, I want you to be there! And I want to read you!

So dish, who is good to read?

As I’m sure you can imagine, I made a terrible bride. I can’t say that I was a Bridezilla obsessing about centerpieces and hair length, but I sure as hell never imagined myself in the fluffy white dress, saying my vows in front of God and my whole family. I’d always thought of weddings as a sort of silly waste of time, effort and money, and you know what? I still do.

However, my saving grace while making our wedding invitations, fancy programs and seating arrangements was my best friend, Ashley. She knew what I was supposed to be doing and helped me choose things that weren’t unbearably tacky (and also put the kibosh on my requests to have the makeup artist give me black eyes on My Special Day) all the while maintaining my sanity. The process was not fun for me, as I’d never thought of myself as the Bridal Type. As a child, I played Army Ranger rather than Wedding with my gaggle of guy friends, preferring camoflouge makeup to a tiara.

I met Ashley when she was dating one of my best friends from high school, Paul, and when she yelled at him for telling me that he was sorry that I was pregnant with Ben when I informed them of my delicate condition. It was then that I knew that I had a friend for life.

It was she and I who had our first Lesbian Valentine’s Day when we weren’t dating worthless scum, and I still heart Big Pink (the vibrator) that she bought me. We’ve been there for each other through two of my children (and dude, I know you’re reading this, so if/when I have Baby #3, you’re in the room with me, whether or not I crap on the table), a string of worthless boyfriends, being single and unhappy, being with someone and unhappy, and now this, marriage.

Because I am so not like that, I don’t have anything poignant to say about marriage that hasn’t been said better by someone else (besides, being deep and meaningful makes me itch in the darnedest of places). Like anything else in life, it has it’s good times and it’s bad ones, but in the end it’s worth every ounce of energy you put into it.

I couldn’t be any happier for her if I tried, and when she told me yesterday, I got a bit misty (which is a complete rarity for Aunt Becky) and verklempt. And it made me wish I had some worthwhile piece of advice to give her about weddings and marriage other than “they bring out the worst in people” and “you’re gonna have to massage broken egos and mend hurt feelings during this whole process” (this sucks donkey ass, but it’s true).

So what would YOU tell someone about marriage? What’s the one piece of advice you’d give to someone who was newly engaged (but after a marriage without the license) about weddings or marriage (something you wish someone had told you)?

And Ashley, Congratulations! Tonight I raise my glass to you.

Like you, I have found a number of uber bloggers and I often lurk around while biding my time (having a young child is often more boring than you’d imagine), and I have noticed something. Most of them have struck these deals to either write for a paid publication, develop a book and write review columns, and every time I notice this, I’m shocked and amazed. How does that happen?

Please don’t take it as another patented Becky Bitch Session, because this couldn’t be farther from the truth. I applaud this in other bloggers. I mean, the blog is essentially a journal or forum in which one can take what happens to them in daily life and OTHER PEOPLE CAN READ IT. What shocks me the most is that OTHER PEOPLE READ IT and sometimes they get paid for it.

When you think about it, that’s pretty damn amazing.

(what’s also amazing is how irate people become when a simple “donate” button is added to a site. It’s not like just because it’s there, you have to pledge your life savings to the author or anything. Just about everyone I know could use a little extra cash, and if people are willing to pay for you write, then mad props to you. I would draw the line, however, on paying to READ a site. That’s stupid. I mean, how would you know if the site was good until you read it?)

I’m not all “everyone should have a blog” or anything, unless it’s what makes you happy (which is why I blog) or fulfills you in some way, because in my boredom, I’ve come across some very dull sites that I would not go back to, mostly written by people who feel the need to constantly apologize for blogging once a month. If a having a blog and not updating it makes you feel badly, then why bother? There’s plenty enough in life to feel guilt about, and the way I see it, it’s not worth it to add to that guilt (don’t we all feel guilty when we don’t go for the walk that we swore we would today? Isn’t it enough to feel guilty for eating that double cheeseburger rather than a salad?).

But my interest is genuinely piqued by these people who are now becoming sponsored by corporations, not because I want a cut for myself (I don’t), but because I have no idea how it happens.

Are you approached by an entity to write for another site, or do you have to sell yourself there? I’m pretty certain that PR firms seek people out to review products and then write about them, but again I’m not positive. ARE THERE PEOPLE OUT THERE WHO READ BLOGS, TAKE IT TO THEIR BOSS AND SAY “THIS BLOGGER SHOULD DO XYZ FOR US?” because I totally want that job.

But I don’t know how I’d feel about having to censor my usage of the words “fuck” “Dick For” (The Daver’s nickname) and “anal leakage” for anyone, and I’m pretty sure Better Homes and Garden dot com or Martha Stewart Living Online would object to hiring anyone with such a colorful vocabulary. The usage of profanity is likely to keep me from EVER developing a readership outside of what I already have (not sure why it offends people so thoroughly, but I know that it does. Any suggestions as to why that would bother someone so much?), and that is A-Okay with me.

I once gave up the Eff Word for Lent one year, and it didn’t work out so well for me back then. And if I can’t give up peppering a conversation with “fuck” for God, then I’m pretty sure I can’t do it for anyone else, either.

Do you guys understand this phenomenon at all? Did I miss some memo that got passed around? I suck at reading memos nearly as much as I suck at life.

“I wish I were with my dad!” Ben spat at me yesterday while we poked around the extravagently priced chic baby boutique (I about died to learn that the slipcover I’d picked up for Alex’s carseat was $140. For something he will likely destroy. AND BASED ON EVERYTHING ELSE IN THERE, IT WAS A DAMN BARGIN!). I guess I’d made the error of telling Ben that he did not need a Pacifier Pod of his own for Alex, the cold hearted snake that I am.

Never have such words cut so close to my heart before. “I wish I were with my dad!”

I once read a quote (at least I think I did) about how you have to start letting your children go when they start school, but I think you have to start much earlier. Like birth.

Although we made it work, Ben’s early childhood was not one of the easiest times in my life. Initially I had to go back to work at about 2 months postpartum (someone had to buy diapers and formula, and since Nat had been laid off and therefore lounged about his parents house all day, that task fell to me), and school began a month later. I wasn’t around much, as you can imagine, and even when I was, it was a constant barrage of how ineffectual I was as a parent (spoken by my mother), so I tried to be around even less. I was living under their roof while they paid for school, and although I resented hearing about how much I sucked on a daily basis, I knew from experience that fighting it was futile.

I soon gave up my dreams to become a doctor or virologist in order to earn a quicker more high paying degree, so that I would be able to support myself and my baby son when I graduated, instead of slogging along making $10/hour working at some shitty lab while I went to grad school. As well documented my hatred for my nursing is, I’m not trying to put myself up on the cross here, I chose it, I chose wisely with the best information I had available to me at the time, and I did it and I am not sorry about it. Just whiny.

As a baby, Ben was an odd duck (mayhap this is why I like the odd people that I meet), preferring to bond with his mobile, the grandfather clock and some ugly old knobs on my parents antique hutch. He had very little use for people in general, choosing instead to personify inanimate objects up to and including all 9 (well, now 8 but this was before Pluto was ruled a non-planet) planets and box number 3 from his advent calendar, which he slept with regularly.

Between his preference of inanimate objects to people and his schedule, which sends him to Nat’s on most weekends (well, when Nat doesn’t have anything better planned), I can honestly say that although he shared my body for 9 long months, we’re not all that close. You see, I’ve been forced to let him go for so long that I realized recently that I’ve never had him as my own. All of the mother-y things I do, I do for both of my children and I do it without feeling sorry for myself (something my own mother could take a lesson from), but I know in my heart of hearts, as Ben will always be on the Autistic Spectrum, only one of my children will understand all that I do and why I do it: Alexander.

Dr. Spock (in the only baby book I read with any regularity) reminds you that you love each of your children differently, and I see this as the truth. Ben and I coexist peacefully, and I love him dearly no matter how indifferent I appear on your computer screen, and there is nothing in the world that can change this, but Alexander is mine.

When I was pregnant with Alex, I had exactly one desire: that the baby be born to love me and genuinely like it when I am around. If that sounds a little sad to you, and it probably does, remember that although Ben loves me in the best way he knows how to, if Dave were to come home and announce that I had moved to Tibet for the next 6 months, Ben would accept this and move on with his day. Alex doesn’t like it if I so much as pee with the door closed.

Kids aren’t born to us to make us feel better about ourselves and right all former wrongs, nor would I expect them to, but sometimes they heal old wounds without even trying to. This is part of what I love best about Alex, he has redeemed me in my own eyes, but it’s only a byproduct of him being less Aspy than Ben. Alex has highlighted all that is abnormal about Ben.

Ben’s quirks make him who he is, and I love him dearly for who he is: one of the kindest, sweetest, most polite and thoughtful people I have ever met. Most of the decisions I have made about my life after he was born straight down to who I married have been to benefit him in some way or another, and I don’t begrudge this in the slightest. I am proud and honored to be his mother each and every day of the week, and I want nothing but the best for his life.

Without trying to, he successfully opened up some nasty festering old wounds, the type who lay dormat for years at a time, and I was so hurt by them that I could hardly speak. I gave him the silent treatment for the first time in his life and after he left to go with Nat I just couldn’t shake his comment (which to him, was completely innocuous, as Ben has no idea how I feel about Nat and his lack of true parental responsibility. “That’s more my realm” is a direct quote from Nat when asking why he hadn’t paid the dentist yet.) for the rest of the day.

I guess kids really do break your heart over and over again, don’t they?

Somehow, I suppose, I had mistakenly hoped that it would be his choice of wife that would have done it to me.

It starts preconception, I’m pretty sure. I mean, all you have to do is to have a hard time concieving Baby and all of a sudden you’re inundated by people telling you that they got pregnant while humping around in a hot tub, because “my/his boys can SWIM!” I like to imagine this sort of comment is well-meaning, because I hate to think of someone voluntarily trying to make someone else feel small, but I don’t honestly believe that.

In my heart of hearts I feel as though this is just another way someone else’s kids/sperm/egg/wives are better than yours. Why, didn’t you hear that Susie only gained 12.4 pounds with Junior who weighed in at birth at exactly 12.4 pounds AND DOING GEOMETRY? My own son was only born with the ability to pee on the doctor AND NOT EVEN IN HER MOUTH.

Once while I was working in the Special Care nursery, I inadvertantly got called into a conversation with a father who was examining the size of his son’s penis. He was convinced that it was larger then all of the other baby boys, and because his child was in Special Care, I didn’t bother to correct him. I agreed with his assessment and moved on while thinking to myself that baby penises look remarkably like canned Japanese mushrooms. Then I said a prayer to the Gods to let the guy let go of the size of his son’s wang. I mean, hey, I have two boys and the size of their respective genitalia is not something I care to think about, because that would involve me imagining them having The Sex and ew! those are my KIDS you’re talking about here.

While I waited for the doctor at Alex’s newborn checkup, it seemed that everyone wanted to comment on his size. I was genuinely shocked to be bombarded with comments about this as he was a completely average sized newborn, just as his brother was. But it seems as though the bigger the baby, the better, which confuddles me: I mean, if you’re already pushing out (or having pulled out of you) something roughly the size, shape and texture of a uncooked turkey, why would you want it to be grossly larger? Hell, I’m sure the Depends manufacturer would rejoice at the forthcoming lack of bladder control, but as for me, I prefer not to flappity-flap-flap in the breeze. But, like most things in this world, maybe it’s just me.

I mean, I’m GLAD that your child was born large and healthy and that he or she is consistantly in the 90% percentile for height and weight, but it honestly doesn’t concern me too much. I don’t tend to rely on charts or graphs to plot my child’s progress because I have better things to do with my time (also, neither of my kids were preemies, which DOES involve measuring these things pedantically), like organize my massive collection of toenail clippings or clean the bathtub drains with my tongue.

Ben is slightly undersized, but if you remove the extra baby-fat from me, I’m not exactly an Amazon myself, nor is his father. I figure that it helps him stay in his clothes for far longer, and move the hell on with my day. Alex, on the other side of the spectrum, against all odds (The Daver is about the size of a garden gnome, and as previously stated, I am not what ANYONE would call “tall”) has gone from being a teeny peanut to earning the nickname of “Slim.” Let’s just say that his rolls have rolls and I may have to begin powdering them to stave off the yeasties.

Babies, like people, tend to develop as they were programmed to do at their own pace, which you’d never believe in listening to people tell you about how your child is not on the mark for crawling, walking, sitting up and playing Parcheesi, but their child is WAAAAYYY ahead on ALL of their milestones. Be that as it may be, I hate to inform them that parental involvement isn’t really a huge factor in this, nature is as nature does (does that even MAKE SENSE?).

Honestly, what irritates me the greatest about this particular brand of competitive parenting is not that Little Bobby crawled at 5 weeks whereas Alex hasn’t crawled yet (oh, THE HUMANITY!), and Ben didn’t crawl until after he learned to walk, but it’s the gleeful and self-satisfied manner in which they inform you of this. It inspires me to Pimp Slap them, but usually I refrain and ask a pointed question about who their mother loved more. Then I walk away.

Mayhap THIS is why I have so few Mommy friends.

1. What did you do in 2007 that you’d never done before?

Successfully breastfed a baby. And visited an endocrinologist. Neither of which are particularly riveting conversation starter, but hey, you can’t be witty all of the time.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

You know, I never make resolutions for the New Year, but this year I imagine that I will. This year I plan to:

Finish losing the baby weight.

Stop lactating.

Engage in a more heart healthy diet. Genetics, they don’t lie.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

I did. March 30. Another bouncing baby boychild.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Nope.

5. What would you like to have in 2008 that you lacked in 2007?

Honestly, a full 8 hours of sleep. It’s sad, but true. But if we’re going for something more unattainable, I’m going to go with a tummy tuck. Ain’t gonna happen til those tubes ‘o’ mine are tied.

6. What countries did you visit?

Shit, none. Unless you count my head. Lack of sleep can certainly make you feel like you’re jet-lagged.

7. What date from 2007 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:

March 30, 2007. My second child was born making me The Supreme Dictator of The Sausage Factory.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Punching holes in several walls. Oh, and destroying several box fans.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Not mastering this whole “sleeping through the night” bullshit.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

I’m a walking personal injury. Let’s see: I scratched my cornea, suffered a first degree tear to my perineum, nearly broke a toe making a peanut butter sandwich, fell through the front door, did the splits while 34 weeks pregnant while slipping on a freshly washed floor, and it appears as though my Crohn’s disease is making a fresh debut.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

Sleeping pills. No, honestly.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

I’ve been doing this meme for shit, 4 years or so, and I always say something cornball about Dave or Ben. This year I am not.

My OWN behavior merits celebration. I have, with only minimal help, been up 3-12 times each night, netting only about 7-8 hours of non-consecutive sleep each night since March. I have punched exactly no one in the face due to this glaring lack of sleep, and only spend minimal time on the cross.

My father also merits some mad props. He is now sober and has been since his heart attack, and I am very, very proud of him.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

I actually don’t have a real answer for this. Any suggestions?

14. Where did most of your money go?

Baby shwag. This doubles as my answer for “what takes up an insane amount of space in my home?”

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

Not being pregnant any more. I am a TERRIBLE pregnant woman.

16. What song will always remind you of 2007?

“Eye of the Tiger,” although not because I heard it, but because in my non-existent birth plan, I wanted to push the baby out while listening to it. Too bad I didn’t actually enact it, but in hindsight, maybe that was a good thing, considering I was weeping copiously and boogery all over everything. Damn hormones.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

i. happier or sadder?

Is “sleepier” a choice?

ii. thinner or fatter?

I can honestly tell you that I don’t know. I was pregnant last year, but I didn’t keep track of my weight. Too depressing.

iii. richer or poorer?

Wait, wait, wait. I thought that it was a faux paus to discuss finances. Isn’t it?

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Sleep. And have a freaking moment to myself.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Breastfeeding. I know it’s not PC to say that I hate it, but I do and Aunt Becky would never lie to you.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

That’s not relevant any longer, is it? I’ll answer “what will I be doing on NYE?”

Nothing. Fucking nothing. I am a firm believer in the way you spend New Year’s Eve being a precursor to how your year is. This year I plan to drink a bunch of champagne and watch movies WITHOUT talking to anyone so as to avoid a fight.

The year that Dave and I had a massive fight led to a nasty hard year. 2006. So no fighting whatsoever this year.

21. There was no #21. I don’t know why there was no 21.

I’ll make up my own question here, then. Hmmm….

What would cheer you up today?

Hearing from all of my lurkers out there. I have a feeling you are there but you’re afraid of Aunt Becky, which will not do. Aunt Becky would like to say “hello, my sexxy bitches” to all of you. What would you like to say to Aunt Becky?

22. Did you fall in love in 2007?

I guess I could say I fell in love with Thing Two, my ickle Alex, but I admit that I loved him before I met him. Such is the way it goes with children. But hell, I was happy to finally meet him.

23. How many one-night stands?

Hahahahahahahah. Bwahahahahahahahaha.

(wipes tears from eyes)

Tons. More than you can even count.

24. What was your favorite TV program?

House, MD. My husband has a Man-Crush on Hugh Laurie and I suppose that I can see why.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

Nope. Although I do routinely imbibe in “Hatorade,” it’s usually pretty non-specific.

26. What was the best book you read?

Duder, I have the attention span of a gnat, thanks to constant sleep deprivation. I sometimes slog through People Magazine.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

28. What did you want and get?

To be not pregnant any more. And hey, my uterus is now vacant (although Alex may try to get back in again).

30. What was your favorite film of this year?

Pan’s Labyrinth.

Betcha thought I was gonna say “P.S. I Love You.”

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you (optional)?

I turned 27 this year and due to unforseeable circumstances it was the worst birthday I’ve ever had.

Don’t believe me? Go here.

See? I’m not just being melodramatic because I had to take over finishing our bathroom which was supposed to be my birthday present. Nope, no bitter pants here.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Sleep. And an occasional haircut. Oh, and losing the baby weight by now. I’m pretty hung up about the whole weight thing.

Do you think a haircut to my shoulders would make me look like Pinhead? Seriously, I need to know.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2007?

Maternity chic. And “Damn, this doesn’t fit EITHER. But hey, it doesn’t smell.”

34. What kept you sane?

Um…Hi, my name is Becky and I have a blog in which I call myself “Aunt Becky.” Do I sound sane to you?

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

Britney. Although she has become a trainwreck, she reminds me that my life could always be worse.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?

I’m not very political, although I did get a bit sick of people protesting the new Planned Parenthood that went in. It was insane.

37. Whom did you miss?

My waistline.

38. Who was the best new person you met?

My cadre of Virtual Internet Pimps.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2007:

“This is not an exit.”

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

“Gonna raise me an army of some tough sons-a-bitches
Gonna recruit my army at the orphanages”

OR

“Sometimes you’re up and sometimes you’re down.”