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.”

At nearly 9 months old (on the 30th, but I’m pretty sure if you were to measure in 4 week intervals, which is what the baby books I never read go by he’d be a little older than that. I’m far too lazy to attempt math right now), I am shocked and appalled to inform you that not only has Alex NOT learned to drive a car, but he’s not been to Gymboree even once, NOR can he do EVEN SIMPLE long division. Why the other day, I handed him The Communist Manifesto and rather than engaging me in a riveting discussion of the proletariat versus the bourgeois pigs, HE STUCK THE BOOK IN HIS MOUTH AND STARTED CHEWING! On Carl Marx! WHAT HAVE I DONE WRONG, oh Lord, TO HAVE SUCH A STUPID BABY?

While I have no problems with parents who have decided that they must somehow increase their baby’s brain development by playing Strauss or Beethoven, use flashcards to inflict French on them, or run them around town to various “brain nurturing activities,” I personally see no reason to do so.

If you are a brand-new parent who has never watched another child grow up, it would be extremely easy to get suckered into what all of the Baby-zines tell you to do to make your baby smarter. Why open one up for yourself and see! Most of the articles are not devoted to helping parents get a night off (which is really what’s necessary), but blaring in bold titles simple ways to increase your babies IQ. And to pour salt in the wound of a tired, bleary eyed parent who cannot remember where she put her coffee let alone what her babies middle name is by decreeing that if you DO NOT do such things, IT’S YOUR FAULT WHEN YOUR CHILD BECOMES A DROOLING CART COLLECTOR and NOT a member of MENSA.

I smell bullshit.

I’ll admit here and now that I spent a goodly time trying to teach Ben his colors and alphabet before he was a year old. I was gleeful when he eventually learned them, but I’m guessing it was a built-in defense mechanism that actually allowed him to regurgitate “red” when I demanded he tell me what color the damned stoplight was. I shudder to imagine what would’ve happened had he been unable to do so, although I’m guessing it would have been copious amounts of my own brain matter combusting through my eyeballs and spattering the windshield of my car.

It was fortunate for the both of us that due to my own brain being occupied by such matters of having to learn the origin/insertion of each muscle in the body, along with the name of said muscle, it’s action, and auxillary muscles involved with each movement of said muscle (in a week. And that was just PART of the class), otherwise The Bettering of Ben Movement might have gotten a ickle bit hairy for us all.

Let’s say a collective “Whew” for Ben and move on, eh?

It was shortly after Ben’s second birthday that I noticed an interesting phenomenon: no matter WHAT I did, the kid was absorbing stuff like a sponge. (With the aid of therapy) words became intelligable and varied, songs were sung, colors were identified WITHOUT prompting, and he figured out how to reprogram ALL of my father’s electronic devices within toddler range: WITHOUT MY HELP OR GUIDANCE (although Lord knows I’d have gleefully taught him to do this this just to piss my father off.)

We did a weekly Gymboree Day along with a Kindermusic Day and he thrived. Flourished. He started preschool at age 3 simply because he needed to socialization that I could not provide with my decided lack of other children, and it was there that they taught him French (which he now speaks fluently).

And now that Alex is here, I waste almost no time worrying that I don’t stimulate him enough and that we’re not involved in enough things to make him smarter and more accomplished than other kids his age. I considered starting Gymboree with him a couple of months ago but quickly quashed that idea when I realized that although I was apt to meet other parents there, I was still wearing my maternity underwear and no matter what, this meant I wasn’t about to start getting more social (like anyone else was likely to notice my undergarments or something.) I’m holding out until I can find a pair of unstained pants to wear.

So now I say so what if my kid isn’t as advanced as everyone else’s? I don’t spend my days OR nights reading up on what his latest developmental milestones should be because really, I don’t give a shit (besides, I get sick of being bombarded by the “you should do MORE for your baby” guilt-trip that are inherant to these books. Hell, I think this baby should do more for ME. Like make me coffee and fix my car, even if he needs me to get out the wrenches from the higher cupboards. I’ll make THAT concession for him.).

And I comfort myself knowing that in a world where all other children will be far more advanced than my own, we will always need more cart collectors.

—————–

Am I missing something about the intellectualization of our babies? I’m not sure where “good enough” became a bad thing to be, because where I came from, I’m pretty certain that my parents spent more time worrying about how to furnish their next bong rather than making sure that their kids were stimulated within an inch of their lives.

I don’t see anything wrong with just letting kids be kids, and although I bought Alex and Ben some educational toys to play with for Christmas, I have no problem allowing either of them to simply play with a cheap spatula and (likely lead-filled) metal bowl. I’m not upset that Ben would sometimes opt to play with Alex’s toys rather than more age-appropriate stuff for him, and when either of them does a totally dumbass thing, my brain doesn’t explode in frustration, I just write it off to kids being dumbasses.

But I cannot help but feel that maybe the egg is on my face here. Is it?

After approximately eleventy-hundred months of prep-work, Christmas is finally over.

Whew.

I woke up on Christmas morning predictably feeling as though I’d been run down by a large truck driven by Santa himself, and I told myself that it would get better. No, no it didn’t.

Ben was thrilled by his stocking, stuffed to the gills and overflowing onto the mantle but had a meltdown when I re-informed him that although he had gotten the holy grail (Mousetrap), we couldn’t play it right then, as we had to trek across the river to my parents house. For about half an hour he whined, pissed, and moaned over the unfairness of it all, until I threatened to send him to his room to cool down.

Thankfully, he pulled himself together and we had an excellent Christmas together. Alex held HIS cool despite the inherant loudness that comes along with having a family gathering at my parents home (apparently, when they ripped out the electric blue carpeting that bespeckled their home about 15 years ago, they weren’t taking into consideration their future grandchildren’s hearing. If they had known, and I kid you not, they’d have recarpeted their home, in spite of their hatred of carpeting. Such is their adoration of my children) surrounded by virtual strangers who wanted nothing more than to hold him and get up in his grill. My Alex, he has his people, and when they are not around he (since he has no long-term memory) assumes that he has been left with a cadre of loud-mouthed strangers who may very well sell him to the gypsies AND WHAT’S WORSE IS THAT THEY DON’T HAVE FUNCTIONING MILK-BAGS! OH, THE HUMANITY!

I couldn’t leave Alex for more than a quick pee-break without a meltdown of spectacular preportions, which was actually what I’m used to around here, Christmas and strangers or not. His favorite toy was this, and Ben’s favorites, predictably, were all of Alex’s toys, too (at Alex’s age, Ben couldn’t have been forced to play with a toy, despite all of the one’s I bought for him. His favorite toys included the knobs on our antique vanity and watching the pendulum on the grandfather clock.). I assume that Ben is merely making up for lost time in the toddler toy department.

However, Ben is most excited about our big present to the children: a wooden swingset, which has yet to be purchased. The ground here is frozen and will be until the spring, so rather than have it sit unused in our garage, we’re waiting (Ben’s response when I told him about it: “Wow! Now I don’t have to go up to my room and look around saying ‘I’m bored’ when I don’t have anything to do.”). I’ve started my research on these swingsets (not for nothing I am my father’s child) and have reached only one conclusion: if you buy these from a place THAT ONLY SELLS THESE, and not Target or ToysrUs, HOLY BABY JESUS, THEY ARE EXPENSIVE. I saw one that was over $12 grand. 12 GRAND. 12,000 SMACKEROOS. That’s a Geo Metro!

(anyone have any experience whatsoever with these? I am but a novice in the wide world of wooden swing sets)

My own Christmas schwag was also formitable, if not predictable. I am (according to sources close to me, up to and including my husband, my mother, my father and my large son (a.k.a. Thing One) “Impossible to buy for”), so I get very few suprises under the Christmas tree. Apparently, after years of seaching in vain for a perfect gift for me only to be met by “Um…did you get a gift reciept?” I have been tasked with picking out my own gifts. Selecting them, purchasing them and bringing them home to be hidden in my closet is not objectionable, but I admit to hating to have to WRAP them. If it were up to me, I’d just start using them at the moment of purchase, but I have a feeling my family would think otherwise.

This year was my Year Of Plaid. Burberry Plaid. I myself had selected (back in oh, I don’t know, July?) for Christmas this year, and I would’ve purchased it myself to ensure it was under the tree for me this year, but I thought it a bit rude. After gleefully purchasing in the store, my husband and Thing One decided that more plaid = better.

So they added a Burberry wrap (sorry, no linkage) and umbrella to the mix.

I am pretty sure that they selected so much pink Burberry so that they will never lose me in a crowd. You know those people who go to Great America and County Fairs dressed in one really loud color (I mean purposefully, not just because this is their wardrobe)? It’s so gonna be me but sans loud color (it’s all a muted pink). I guess if you see someone wandering about in your town, bags under her eyes that go down to her chin and in dire need of a haircut, but bedecked in Burberry’s finery, you’ll know that Aunt Becky’s in town.

Dave got a similar haul, well, without the pink plaid. He’s pretty open-minded, but I can be pretty sure he wouldn’t want to wear pink plaid earmuffs (whyever not I can’t be sure) any more than he’d wear a dress. He bought himself a laptop on Black Friday, which had been stashed in my closet, taunting him with it’s nearness yet inability to tinker with it. To be able to open it and do whatever it is that smart people do with computers (i.e. not turn it on and shake it and demand that it “do something” like I do) was like heaven. I took it to 11 and got him a watch he had been oogling for (no joke) the 4 years we’ve been together.

But for all of the fancy stuff I lovingly selected, his absolute favorite gift was the giant stuffed microbes I stuffed into everyone’s stocking. Ben got E. coli, I got S. dysentary, Alex got HIV, and Dave got, well, Y. pestis (commonly known as the Black Death or Bubonic Plague). I’m going to pretend that he liked them best because when I go back to school, my advanced degrees will be in Microbiology/Virology but somehow, I don’t think this is a loving tribute to his wife.

Somehow, in the midst of our most exhausting Christmas to date, we made a grave tactical error: we forgot to take out the garbage last night.

Should be an overflowing kind of week.

——————-

So tell me about YOUR Christmas! What did you like best or what did you loathe? Aunt Becky desperately missed The Internet last night, but was too tired to check in and see how everyone was doing.

Merry Christmas to you from Casa de la Sausages and your Aunt Becky.

Hope that Santa was good to all of you.

After the whole Thanksgiving Debacle, I am decidedly not looking forward to hosting Christmas Eve.

Now maybe I didn’t exactly TELL you, fair Internet about what happened to inspire such dread in me, but you’ll have to forgive me. I wasn’t willing to accept it myself until Friday, when Dave came home to an earful about how I was NOT happy any longer about agreeing (not even agreeing, SUGGESTING. I am stupidly stupid.) that we host Christmas Eve again. Poor, poor Dave didn’t realize he was walking into a WASP’s nest of hatorade, when he walked happily off the train that day. I’m sure that had he known what a mood I was in, he’d have happily joined the homeless on Lower Wacker until it blew over.

Thanksgiving, you see, on the surface was hunky-dory, maybe the roast was still moo-ing and therefore I refused to eat it (I’ve never been able to eat meat that looks like it did before it died), and possibly the potatoes were a bit too dijon-ey for my own liking, but the food, it turned out well (no small feat).

The problem was less superficial and more festering below the surface. Let me back dat ass up and explain.

After years of psychotropic medication, chronic alcoholism and several botched ECT sessions, my mother, she ain’t what she used to be. This is a standard problem with people who suffer from what she does, and therefore to be expected. My memory of my mother when I was a wee one is significantly different from my brother’s (as he is 10 years older). Like the old joke about weather here in Chicago, (you know, you don’t like it? Wait 5 minutes) people like my mother are never the same person twice. It changes unpredictably every couple of years, so the woman who I now call “Mom” is not the same person she was before and not the same person she will be later.

(Side story time! One year, when I was about 8, apparently I was such an asshole that she cancelled Christmas for me. Just me. Everyone else got presents while I had to sit there and not open a damn thing. She has no memory of this. And I am just amazed that I am not more twisted than I am.)

Talk about a mind-fcuk, right?

Needless to say, I am still adjusting to who she currently is, and it’s a hard one for me. She’s now far quieter than she ever was and far less responsive. I can be obviously fishing for some reassurance about something or another and she’ll just blankly stare at me. Pleasant, right?

On the other side of the table, we have my mother-in-law, who, when she imagined the person her youngest son would marry, would never in her wildest nightmares have pictured me (hell, would you?). She’s an extremely sweet person who has never been anything but unfailingly nice to me and my children, but she tries to avoid me. Maybe it was the naked picture debacle, or maybe it’s just me being me, but her discomfort is palpable.

And this is who I ended up sitting sandwiched between after Thanksgiving dinner. We engaged in a rousing discussion about our various medical ailments (trust me, it sounds more exciting than it is), and then for good measure, when the baby didn’t wake up from his nap like I kept praying for him to do, we had the EXACT SAME discussion again.

Poor Dave faired no better. He got stuck in the basement with our fathers, where he sat in silence watching Ben play this stupid golf game. I can’t be sure, as I was in the middle of discussing rectocele and polyps (and wishing that I were possibly worse than dead), but I imagine that there was much staring at hands and uncomfortable throat clearning.

Our familes, despite not particularly caring for the other (I think. Not sure. Seems that way. Not interested in finding out) are far too quiet to actually tell each other off, but given the choice, I’m fairly sure we could easily seperate back into our original places (imagine oil and water here). Dave with his family, me with mine. Maybe we could even make signs like “No (my maiden name)’s Allowed! This Means YOU, Becky!” put them on the doors and quarrantine our respective selves to various floors.

Problem for us is that I’d much rather spend the time with Dave and my children than play stupid immature games with our parents. It’s hard to imagine that I’m actually talking about 60-year-old adults and not petulant teenagers, isn’t it?

Maybe I’m being hormonal and highstrung here (it’s not even likely, it’s a certainty) and maybe everyone will gather around a campfire singing rounds of “Gin ‘n Juice” and I will, yet again, be proven wrong. I certainly hope so. They’re going to HAVE to start getting along SOME day, right?

And if I am not, the beckoning arms of booze-laden eggnog will surely envelop us both and suddenly, we will not care one tiny bit WHAT our parents think.

OHMYGOD, DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE LEAD PAINT RECALLS?

Yeah, me too. Like the youngest Spears’ pregnancy, I’m not sure I could have avoided hearing about it if I tried. My own mother has taken to reading the recall section of the Tribune and calling me panicked and breathless because “OHMYGOD, MY KIDS COULD DIIIIIEEEEE!”

This from the woman (formerly a chemist) who let us play with mercury as children. It was fun, really.

I guess I just can’t get into the hype around all of it. I mean, people (including us) have lived in ancient buildings with lead paint literally falling off the walls, and hell, we’re okay. I did, of course, check and make sure that the variety of recalled toys were not in my living room, but aside from that, I don’t feel the need to scour the toy recall websites daily. I currently own a Bumbo, but have never been stupid enough to place it on the counter, mainly because I do, despite rumors to the contrary, have a functioning brain stem. I admit to taking away Ben’s stash of Geo-Mag’s but that’s because even at age 6, the child cannot be trusted to NOT put random stuff in his mouth.

Last night, I went over to the new outdoor mall with my best friend. She had to go to Pottery Barn and I had to head to Coach, both errands I was not looking forward to, mainly because The Crazies are out in full force what with the holiday looming menacingly. I guess the planets aligned to make sure our trip was smooth, because not only did I manage to avoid the people in the tin foil hats running amuck (well, until we went to Barnes and Noble, where, apparently The Crazies were not only out in full force, but employed there), but we got a parking spot immediately in front of the stores we were hitting up.

It was when we were walking into Pottery Barn that I made a grave error: I went inside. Now, Pottery Barn is one of my favorite places to scope out, or I should say, it WAS until I had two children.

The halls were decked in beautiful glass ornaments, modern looking furniture, and all sorts of breakable stuff. I was enchanted. My own tastes run much chic-er than my children allow for, and this was magnified ten-fold as I longingly looked at all of the ornaments. I briefly entertained a fantasy life in which my tree was bedecked in glorious (and expensive) schwag, my couch pristine, white and lacking the distinctive and beautiful Throw Up stains. My clothes would be perfectly matched, funky votives a-light all around me, as I was able to use such words as “fuck” and “shit” without the reprocussion and the inevitable repetition of said words in front of conservative grandparents.

My fantasy screetched to an abrupt halt when I selected a tree-topper and prepared to buy it, until, while looking at the back of the box, suggested that children and pets may be harmed by the crushed glass that it was decorated with. Well. Then. Not only do I have two small children, carpeting for the glass to be trapped merrily in, but I have three cats, a dog, a comically large rabbit, a gecko and a hedgehog.

Reluctantly I put the box back, and recalled that my own tree was bedecked in Child Chic, i.e. gaily colored plastic balls and snowflakes, some kid-made ornaments, with a couple of unbreakable Hallmark novelty figurines. This ultra-fancy tree topper would look completely out of place perched atop this tree.

As we exited the store, I told myself that someday, someday my tree would be filled with breakable ornaments that spewed glass and lead paint all over the carpet, without the fear of small children knocking them off and using them as mini-soccer balls.

The moment the thought crossed my mind, I knew instantly it was a lie, the same lie parents tell themselves over and over again: that someday their lives won’t revolve around being Someone Else’s Parent, and they will be free to live as selfishly as possible once again. Because someday, probably in the not-as-distant-as-it-appears future I will pull those brightly colored plastic ornaments from their Tupperware bin and weep as I recall the days when our children were so little that Christmas was truly magical, and the biggest worry I had about them was that they hurt themselves by breaking glass ornaments.

So today I will embrace (not literally, of course) the ugly plastic balls that adorn the lower branches of my tree, sprinkling my carpet with glitter that will likely not be removed until the carpet is replaced, and try not to fantasize too much about when my children are grown and gone. Because honsestly, I imagine that even with the fancy ornaments (possibly even candles!), it will feel much, much emptier when they are gone.

What the…? Holy wha..?

DID YOU KNOW IT’S ALMOST CHRISTMAS, INTERNET?

Holy pajamas, Internet, it completely snuck up on me. Which is exceptionally odd considering the vast amount of work I’ve personally had to put into preparing for it each and every damned day.

My own personal goal that I set many, many years ago was to have most of my Christmas shopping completed by the beginning of December so that I don’t have to brave all of the tin-foil hatted folks trapsing about town. Then I can shop leisurely and without being bumped from behind and/or getting dirty looks from people who want me to move the fcuk over.

I may be competitive in some aspects of my life (read: most) but shopping is not one of those aspects. Every year in my hometown, one of the hugemongeous Catholic churches puts on a barn sale, where you can get awesome stuff at cheap assed prices (gotta love living in a rich town). I used to go, until I got sick and tired of women with three teeth who think that fanny packs are still a great accessory trying to mow me down to get to the vinyl warm-up jackets (trust me, I have NO interest in these).

This year was the start of attempting to start Christmas shopping prior to Christmas Eve, and I will say that we were moderately successful, in some regards. My uncle (who I promise, you wish were YOUR uncle) has a history of giving extremely bizarre gifts (one year my sister-in-law got a real disco ball. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH AUNT BECKY WAS DRIPPING WITH ENVY, INTERNET? AUNT BECKY WOULD *LOVE* A DISCO BALL OF HER OWN. *ahem*), so over the summer we picked him up a book called “Outhouses: Pictures and Contemplations.” Comedy fcuking gold, that one is.

By the beginning of December, we had most of our shopping done. We rejoyced, sang a song, danced a jig, until it dawned upon us: Alex had almost nothing to open that he could actually play with. Ditto with Ben. We had picked up some toys on clearance to be played with outside, like a slip-n-slide, which, since there is about a foot of snow on the ground, is obviously going to have to wait. So reluctantly, I trudged out last weekend and blew some more cash on the kids (before you tell me that it’s stupid to buy a baby toys, let me remind you that he may very well be my last baby, so I intend to spoil him in the ways I see fit.).

I came home, wrapped them the following day, when Dave mentioned that he felt sorry for his parents, who had very little to open.

(backstory here: Dave’s parents began joining into my families Christmas celebration three years ago. For some odd reason, the gift exchanging never progressed past my immediate family and his parents. My family doesn’t buy them anything, nor do they buy my family anything. Obviously, this needs to change if Dave’s parents are going to continue to come celebrate with us, but I have NO IDEA WHATSOEVER how to broach that subject politely.)

As an unspoken rule, the greatest part of our Christmas budget goes towards our children and each other. My parents have literally everything in the world that they would want or need, and when pressed for gift ideas for them, they typically shrug, gesture modestly at their house, and say “You know. Whatever.” If I am judgemental (I am, no doubts here), my mother is more so. If I got her something she 1) wouldn’t want or 2) wouldn’t need, like a glass figurine or something, she’d likely mock me. This is how my family rolls: we all mock each other mercilessly, anything is fair game. I ended up buying her a travel coffee mug with a picture of the caffiene molecule on it. Try to hold onto your pants, Internet, as I know just how exciting that must be to read. Not nearly as exciting as it was to buy.

Dave’s parents are equally challenging to buy for. Like my parents, they have pretty much anything they’ll ever want or need (and anything they want but do not have is far too rich for my budget), and they’re old enough that there is nothing to buy for them that is any fun whatsoever. I ended up buying my mother-in-law an ugly candle set: three different colored purple and orange candles (hate, hate, HATE orange) with a bag of beads to be placed in a large-ish plate. It’s decoration, no doubt, but nowhere NEAR as awesome as what I had initally picked out for her (Dave eschewed it as “too modern” and “funky” for her. My feelings, they were hurt.). Dave’s father got a video card for his computer.

It was as boring for me to type this (my fingers were so bored that they nearly fell asleep) as it was to buy it.

But now, since we have all this time to look over our significant pile ‘o’ gifts we’ve both realized that we’ve spent way, way, way more time and money in selecting gifts for ourselves and our children. We’re not greedy people, by any stretch of the imagination, but this is the one time of year that we really spoil ourselves. Last year, just for comparison’s sake, we asked for baby stuff. You know, the highchair, the swing, etc, etc, so we didn’t get much that was strictly FOR US.

However, now I feel ashamed.

(note to the reader: some of the gifts that are under the tree were bought with AmEx points, which we here at Casa de la Sauage call “funny money.” It’s good stuff, no doubt, but it’s the sort of things that we would not actually buy for ourselves had it not been “free.” The other portion is bought with Bonus Money (Dave’s Annual Bonus coincides neatly with Christmas) and although we could just give each other these gifts outside of Christmas, I HAVE ALREADY WRAPPED THEM LOVINGLY AND WILL NOT BE DISSUADED TO OPEN THEM AT ANOTHER TIME.)

It’s mainly because we have all of this time to examine our gifts that we’ve noticed this discrepency. So I suppose that the answer IS NOT to start shopping early, because it only tends to make us want to buy more stuff for everyone as the date approaches.

Today, I am debating. Should I go out and pick up a couple more things for my in-laws and my mother (I got my dad a DVD that I know he’ll dig. I can always shop for him, because it’s like shopping for myself. My dad and I are very much alike), or should I just go with the “they’re older and don’t want anything” route?

I mean, it’s not like these people are my children or someone else’s children that I am shortchanging (my kids are the only kids in the family. I am honestly NOT Aunt Becky, and it KILLS me. I WANT TO BEEEE AUNT BECKY!), because I feel like Christmas IS about the kids more than the adults.

What do you think I should do? Am I an asshole for not going balls to the wall and crazy with the cheese-whiz for these people (my mother included)? What would you do if you were me (keep in mind that I have zero desire to go out this weekend and try to do any last minute shopping)?