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)?

Unless you live under a rock, you know that Britney’s 16-year old sister is pregnant. People are outraged, inflamed, irate and disgusted by this. What kind of mother would allow this to happen, they scream, look at what a mess Britney is and now her sweet younger sister is going down the same path! Heathens!

I can’t say I agree with them.

It’s unfortunate, yes, that a 16-year old girl is pregnant because no one (at any age, really) who has a child understands precisely what that means until they are born. Babysit for a couple of hours and you may THINK you know what it’s like, but it’s a mere glimmer of what having a child involves. I’m no martyr and I don’t mean to imply that it cannot be handled, I just mean that in the same way that you can not know how it feels to go hungry, REALLY starve unless it has happened to you before.

What makes me feel sorriest for the poor girl is not her name (although, COME ON, it’s TERRIBLE), but that she’s in the process of being ripped to shreds by everyone on the planet, and will continue to be. I have a personal axe to grind with those who are complaining bitterly about her pregnancy as these are the same people who would have been more aghast at the thought of her aborting it.

As we all know, most people do not wait until marriage to have sexual relations. I’m sure that there are people out there who do, but I do not happen to personally know any. Maybe she shouldn’t have been having premarital sex, but in that case, no one should. Abstinence is obviously the way to circumvent any of these scandalous situations, but we’re all aware that that policy doesn’t work. You tell a teenager who is chock full of hormones NOT to have sex over and over and the minute they have the opportunity, they’ll be all over that like white on rice. Weren’t you?

(as an aside, have no fear: I have The Sex Talk planned out. I have my materials ready and will arm my son’s with the most information possible so that they are able to make the best desicions that they can when the time comes. Forewarned IS, afterall, forearmed. I have a number of pictures of STD’s, anatomical pictures of the sex organs, and am planning to scar them for the rest of their lives with liberal usage of the words “clittoris,” “orgasm,” and “horny.” Be very, very, VERY glad that I am not your mother)

As I wasn’t in the room when the deed was done (thankyouGod), I have no idea whether or not they were using protection. And hell, even if they were, accidents happen, one turbo sperm gets lucky and babies are concieved. In my opinion, it’s lucky that there aren’t MORE accidents. Because in all seriousness (especially at that age of peak fertillity), it could have happened to any of us who were having sex at or around that age.

I was a couple of years older than she when I had my first son, but I still got a lot of flack for it. People were THRILLED to learn that I hadn’t aborted him, but scandalized that I was pregnant outside of marriage. Maybe it hit too close to home for comfort for them, but they were naive to believe that I was the only one who was having The Sex. I was just the only one that they knew who got a bun in the oven (and yes, I was on OCP) while doing so, which was something that could easily have happened to any of them and/or their children.

While I feel somewhat sorry for Jamie-Lynn, I am also proud of her for taking responsibility for her actions in the way she felt most appropriate (this is NOT to imply that I am being all pro-life. Far from it. But we wouldn’t have heard had she aborted the fetus, so I wouldn’t be able to say that I am proud of her for taking responsibilty for THAT.). At first glance, I was a bit disgusted with her cover story as it seems a bit cash-whoring, but the more I thought about it the more it made sense. She was going to have to address her burgeoning belly at some point in time, so why not do so on her own terms?

My only hope for this situation is that she is able to raise her child outside of the public eye, so that he or she has the chance to grow up as normally as possible. Despite the flack that her mother is getting for this, I am sure that she will do all that she can to help her daughter and grandchild make it through. Lord knows, they have the money to hire a bunch of nannies and nurses to help with all of it.

We shall see, we shall see.

Obviously, this is my opinion. What is yours?

6 is an incredibly annoying age. Never before (okay, I’m lying: 3 was just as hard. Okay, it was harder. Ew.) have my feelings towards Ben vaccilate so wildly between absolute irritation and utter pride. He’s a wonderful child, (finally) developing right on schedule, but sometimes his insistance upon interjecting into every single thing we are talking about drives me up a wall. Ditto with the know-it-all-ness, cute about half the time, makes me want to drive my fingernails into my eyesockets, squish them around, the other half of the time.

That said, he’s MY kid, and don’t NOBODY fuck with him. Not unless they want his thoroughly unwashed and reeking mother (who desperately needs a haircut) to pound their ass.

It appears that along with the transition to the first grade comes the requisite bully.

My son is being bullied and I am about ready to go and kick some second grade ass.

(both my husband and my brother were the brunt of many bullies throughout their childhood, so I am a bit sensitive to it. I myself never had to deal with it, as the people who didn’t like me generally left me alone so as to avoid my wrath. Truth be told, I find it a bit hilarious when someone doesn’t like me.)

Ben’s an odd duck, that’s for sure, but he’s one of the sweetest and most gentle people I have ever met (that’s got to be Dave’s influence. It’s not from me, that’s for sure). A bigger heart is hard to find, I mean, this is the kid, who as I am putting him to bed each night, tells me that I can “get him up to help with the baby if I need him.” He’s a truly delightful person and it’s killing me that some punk ass kid is making him feel badly.

I’m aware that being picked on is a normal part of childhood, because kids are assholes, but I’m not ready to have someone be terrible to my child just yet (yeah, will I ever be?). I want nothing more than to shield him from this part of the world as long as possible, and it’s becoming apparent that this is not an option. As much as I’d like to go to school, sit behind him, and punch this kid in the balls, I’m pretty sure the teachers would probably 1) notice and 2) call the police complaining about assault.

What do I do here, The Internet? What would YOU do? Has this happened to you as a child? What did you want your parents to do that they did or didn’t do on your behalf?

For an obscene number of years, I worked as a waitress at places ranging from a greasy spoon, to a pizza place, to an upscale dining establishment. It was hard work, genuinely it is, but I loved it. It’s been a great fall back for me, as well, (blessing AND a curse, really) in case we needed a couple of extra Benjamins (not my child), because my experience is lengthy and varied.

But like Carney’s to street festivals, the holidays often bring out the worst people in the world flocking to every restaurant.

I take that back: HALF of the people who come out to eat for the holidays are the dredges of society. The other half are jolly, happy, and full of good manners. These people tend to overtip, use polite phrases such as “please’s” and “thank you’s”, do not let their children dump out condiments onto the table (just to entertain them). They genuinely recognize that although their server maybe SERVING them, it doesn’t mean that they are any less on the hook to buy Christmas gifts or any less of a person for choosing this job.

Aunt Becky doesn’t want to talk about THESE people, though, although she would like to give a shout out to them thanking them for being awesome.

No, Aunt Becky would like to tell you a little story.

Years ago, when Ben was a wee ickle baby, I began to work at an upscale pizza place as a server. I began this job when the joint had only been open for a couple of months, so all of the kinks hadn’t yet been worked out AND the holiday season was beginning. The hostess stupidly put together a couple of tables in such a position that getting near the table was damn near impossible, but since she didn’t know better, a party of eight soon decended upon it.

I was standing in the server station in complete view of these people, waiting until they sat down to get their drink order, while the (extremely inexperienced) busboy began to set down their water glasses. The space was so tight between this table and the surrounding tables that Kate Moss would have had a tough time making her skinny way through, and the busboy made a grave error: he accidentally spilled PART of a glass of water on a kid of about 10.

Now, I saw the glass beforehand, so I can absolutely attest that it was indeed filled with water (two hydrogens plus an oxygen) and not battery acid (lead metal electrodes, lead oxide, and sulferic acid), but you would NEVER know this based on the little brat’s reaction. Much screaming ensued, many crocodile tears were shed, and eyes were rolled heavily (mine, of course). Let me put it this way: if this were to happen to my own son and he were to react this way, I would smack him for being a damn baby.

The Sea Hag (likely his grandmother), sitting to his right, IMMEDIATELY began to scream (no small feat, as the dining room was extremely loud that night) “I EXPECT MY MEAL TO BE FREE!” I had made my way over to the table by that point, bearing a pile of napkins to wipe up the spilled water. When I reached her (a teeny part of her sweater had also gotten splashed), she held up her arm for me to blot it off.

Tips be damned, I was NOT about to wipe water off some Old Bag’s sweater. I shoved the napkins into her hand and apologized to the rest of the table (who were actually suprisingly nice). Drinks were ordered and delivered without incident.

When it came time to order their entrees, the Sea Hag asked about doing a combination ravioli, as we had several types. I explained to her that since there were five ravioli’s per order, she would get two of one variety and one of another (you can see my error here. Even Dumb Old Aunt Becky knows that 3 +1 does NOT = 5). She scoffed at me, rolled her eyes and haughtily informed me (how someone wearing a sequined Christmas tree sweater can take herself seriously enough to be haughty eludes me to this day) “That’s TWO of one and THREE of another, har-har-har,” as she turned to her neighbor and began laughing snottily at me.

(I should note one thing here. Although she was snotty to me, she was NOT a rich bitch, which our town is known for. She happened to be white trash who believed that somewhere in her pea-sized brain that she was better than the staff. It was odd. I’ve rarely seen that from homes where the average income is less than $400,000 a year).

Equally snottily, I informed her that I was completely aware of what the products of two and three are, but she wasn’t listening to me.

The rest of the meal was completely without incident. I had someone else bring out the food for her, as I had no desire to interact with her any further. They tipped decently, I had the manager comp exactly NOTHING for them, and they left.

Ah, serving.

I admit that I’m STILL confused by how to tip other professions, how much do I need to tip a hairdresser WHEN I KNOW that she gets about half of the cost of the cut? Cabbies get a buck or two, more if it’s a long ride, sometimes I’ll throw my change at the barista (well, not LITERALLY), but servers get at least 20%, but far, far less if they’re assholes.

(Word to the wise: you want to REALLY piss off a server? Tip them a quarter. A deliberate quarter. I promise it’ll make them madder than if you tipped them nothing at all.)

But this is for unforgivable offenses. Kristin, remember the server we tipped 30 cents AND left a note so there would be no doubt as to WHY we’d done that? If you write that up and leave it in the comments, I’ll repost it here. It was hilarious.

I guess the moral of the story is that no matter how it appears to you, your server does have to buy Christmas presents for her family, too. Just because you have spent too much on buying your family gifts doesn’t mean that you get to take your anger out on the staff. It’s not their fault, I promise. You don’t have to OVERTIP if you don’t want to (although I swear it will be appreciated), but don’t take out your Grinchness on your poor server.

Now it’s your turn. I want to hear ALL of your WORST customer service stories, serving or not. I’ll add them up here if you leave them in the comments.