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.

When we moved into our condo (before we bought our house), the previous owner left us a vacuum (AND a fridge full of half-eaten food. Yum!). I loved it, used it, and eventually broke it. I’m not techno-savvy (why is the Internet not working, Daver?), so I am not certain what I did to it, but it was a decent thing.

It moved with us to our new home, where it took up residence in our basement for a year and a half. It has now moved to the garage where it sits until I figure out what the hell to do with it. We have a Kirby, which is awesome, even though it weighs approximately 900 lbs AND doubles as a toliet plunger AND hair massager (same attachment!), so I have no use for this broken vacuum.

But I feel wasteful, just throwing it away, when it’s entirely likely that it just needs a little tweak here or there. I’d put it out by the curb, but it’s winter here, and the snow would absolutely break it.

What do I do with it?

Ditto with the baby swing that Alex wore out. It no longer goes (ESPECIALLY not to 11) in any direction, and in the event that I had another baby, I’d just buy a new swing (yes, I am somewhat wasteful. I know.).

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I am in dire need of a new pair of simple black boots. I got my old pair shopping in Ashley’s closet, but they’re about half a size too small and incredibly uncomfortable. I cannot order a new pair online, as I need to a) inspect the heel (I hate the really teeny tiny ones with a passion. Ditto with the really chunky ones) and b) try them on.

Are boots universally uncomfortable? Or is it just these boots (because they are too small)?

Where do you go to buy a decent pair of boots (my footwear is universally expensive, so Payless is not an option for me)?

Ankle boots or calf high (I’ve never worn calf high ones)?

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Alex appears to be starting the weaning process, which is making the angels sing on high. The problem is, is that he now refuses to take a bottle (breastmilk filled or otherwise) in any form. I think he is convinced that the bottle = battery acid.

So he eats a number of pureed foods along with mountains of baby yogurt and nurses about 4-6 times a day (if you can believe it, this is far, far down from previous months).

I was beginning to feel all good about myself until I read up on weaning before 12 months (he is almost 9 months now), and all the literature screams: “YOU’RE A DAMN BAD MOTHER IF YOU WEAN YOUR CHILD BEFORE 12 MONTHS. YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF, BECKY, AS YOUR BABY WILL ONLY SELF-WEAN AT 2-3 YEARS. UNFIT MOTHER!!!”

But the baby seems to be certain that eating solids is the easiest way to get from Point Hunger to Point No-Hunger, and there doesn’t seem to be much I can do to dissuade him. (plus, I am getting somewhat relieved that I am seeing an end to nursing in sight. And what would a statement like that be without the accompanying Maternal Guilt?).

Any advice for me? (especially that which doesn’t involve fenugreek. My nasty nursing bras STILL smell like maple syrup 7 months later).

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What the hell is up with the term “Teh”? I seriously don’t understand how “teh” means “the” unless it is misspelled due to error while typing.

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I’m feeling rather diet-ly discouraged, so I need some new tips for weight loss. I know I’m not the only person on the planet who has struggled with weight loss, so lemmie hear your tips.

Please?

Lookit my soul sister today! Miss Cricket and I posted about the same thing WITHOUT SPEAKING BEFOREHAND. The Internet is a strange, awesome place.

In my quest to be somewhat of a hardcore mother, I have gotten two tattoos (look, I may have to have the mini-van with the soccer stickers on it, but I refuse to wear mom jeans OR get a perm). One per foot. This serves the twofold purpose of having something to distract the viewer from my lovely (read: ugly) feet, AND allows me to feel hardcore without having to show them off. I can easily cover them up when the situation dictates it, and sometimes (especially during the winter) even I forget that I have them at all.

Each has a special significance to me, so when I look at them, I am reminded of painful life lessons that I had to learn by myself (because, I suppose, someone just TELLING me wouldn’t have left such an impression. And I am painfully stubborn, so even IF someone had told me, I probably would not have listened).

Being a now-tattooed person, I of course want more. Unfortunately for me, however, I have been unable to decide where exactly to put them. I want to finish each of my feet with a sock (my own term here instead of a “sleeve” because obviously, you don’t have sleeves on your feet), a sort of mosaic covering to blend each of them into a scene (I have a gecko on one foot and a pink seahorse on the other. I’m thinking some background for each).

What has prevented me is the fact that it is winter, therefore requiring covering each foot against the elements (summer is obviously better for this) and the intense pain that comes along with having a foot tattoo (I need to forget the pain first). Rest assured, I will do this, probably for my 28th birthday (all of the other ones have come on my birthday, which is in the middle of the summer), but maybe sooner.

But this isn’t enough for me, not even close.

Now I really want to get a tattoo for each of my children. Ben will be represented by Max of Where The Wild Things Are and Alex by The Little Prince. And my (possible) last child will have to wait and see what he or she is represented by. So I have to wait until I am done with child bearing to have this one put on as well (I am nothing if not fair), as I am planning to do a large box down between my shoulder blades with all of them blended together.

(note: I’ve always had stringent guidelines for where I wanted a tattoo placed. It had to be coverable AND not in a place that will be easily stretched out by sagging skin. I don’t want to gain 10 lbs and have my cute tummy tattoo stretched from a pair of dice to a domino. Not cool. I admire the hell out of arm tattoos, but I am sure there will come a day when I am annoyed (and ashamed) by my placement of a picture of Kurt Cobain there. A back tattoo, although being mainly hidden to me, seems to be the path of least resistance here, as it fills all of my qualifications for a tattoo.)

I haven’t divulged WHAT life lessons my tattoos remind me of, because that is an entry for a different category, but I’m curious about YOU.

Do you have tattoos? Do they mean anything to you (you don’t have to tell me WHAT they mean if you don’t want to. Aunt Becky doesn’t like to pry), or did they just look cool? Do you want another one? Have you regretted getting them (i.e. your old boyfriend’s name on your boob. Each time I got a tattoo, there was always someone in their changing a name on a tattoo. Mental note: do not tattoo anyone’s name on your body unless it is your own.)

If you have no tattoos, do you hate them? Think they’re tacky (my mom hates them with a passion rivaled only by her intense hatred of cigarettes.) and lame?

Today was our annual Breakfast with Santa, which also happened to fall on THE SAME DAY AS Daver’s company Christmas party (because having a day off in between would be too easy, I guess). We went to the Company Party last year, and I had a minor fit beforehand because, well, the dress I’d bought early on in my pregnancy was not fitting in the boob area.

I had a minor hormonal meltdown, and Daver, being the wonderful soul he is, whisked me off to buy something new about an hour before we had to leave. And then stopped at Krispy Kreme to buy donuts on the way home (this was more for him than me. Couvade, anyone?) and didn’t even mention it when I ate one (despite my whining about being fat).

I vowed to be sexxier and thinner this year, because, well, I am not currently harboring a metabolism-altering parasite. The Universe predictably laughed when I comforted myself by swearing to breastfeed off all those extra pounds from my ass (why my ass felt the need to be pregnant, too, is beyond me. Maybe it was jealous of all the attention fostered upon my belly.), and I have been silently hyperventilating about going to this Christmas party since about October, when it became readily apparent that I wasn’t going to be at my fighting weight this year.

A couple of weeks ago, while at Target, I picked up a pair of pants to wear to this (yes, the invite expressly said “cocktail attire” and I do know what that means, but hey, I was taking an hour and a half train ride to get there. I am not getting on the Metra in a dress), and promptly burst into tears in the fitting room. All of the shirts I grabbed didn’t fit. The pants fit fine, but their size depressed me.

I shakily located Dave and Alex (predictably in the video game aisle), and told them I wouldn’t be attending the party this year. My breathing was ragged and harsh, because I was so upset, that it probably sounded as though I’d taken a couple of pulls off the helium balloons.

It was later that day when I became completely ashamed of myself for feeling so incredibly insecure about how I looked, that I was telling Dave that I wouldn’t do one of the FEW things that he really wants me to do with him. HE doesn’t care that I am a few (read 23.5) pounds heavier. HE doesn’t care that I refused to wear a dress or make any real effort in my appearance tonight. All that he cared about was having me by his side.

And for all of my whining and worrying, it turned out just fine. No one turned me away for wearing pants. No one pointed, laughed, or made any comments whatsoever about how I looked tonight (no, although I was wearing pants, I was NOT wearing a Grateful Dead t-shirt, like I’d wanted to. Even Aunt Becky has her limits for tackiness.). We were only able to stay a short time (babysitters are awesome, but cannot be forced to watch my ickle ones all night long), but instead of being relieved about being able to escape, I was sad that we couldn’t stay longer.

So, Dave, thank you for making me go with you tonight, when you were completely aware of how much I’d have rather stayed home in my pajamas WHERE IT WAS WARM AND DRY AND NOT SNOWING MOUNTAINS.

I do a ridiculous amount of complaining about Ben’s father, some (most) of it justified, and some of it not. I had a particularly good bitch-session with Dave this past weekend, when Nat had finally realized that we’d added my last name to the end of Ben’s last name. The reasons ran from making sure that Ben got his mail in a timely manner to my dislike of being called Mrs. (Nat’s last name). I mean, if I’d wanted this to be my last name, I’d have married Nat, rather than opt to be a single mother.

He was peeved at me, for sure, but I didn’t care much one way or another. I mean, just the other week, when I got a bill from the dentist that Nat was supposed to pay, and I approached him, talons on the ready, he informed me that it WAS my job to make sure these sorts of things get done.

It appears that he wants the glory of being called “Dad” without the work involved. School functions, homework, vaccinations, birthday parties: those are all “my realm,” not his. He’s nothing more than a glorified babysitter with a meaningless title.

(an aside: when I got pregnant with Alex, I sat down with Ben and explained that although Ben calls my husband “The Daver,” the new baby would call him “Daddy.” Ben then decided to call Dave, “Daddy Dave” as a compromise. That lasted until Nat found out and informed Ben that Dave was NOT his father, HE was, and that he should not call Dave anything other than Dave. Ben, being unable to think to rebel against this, hasn’t thought to call Dave anything other than his name since. I have a feeling that if Nat could have pissed on Ben to mark his territory, he would have.)

While I am a decidedly Holiday Person, Nat is not. I spent many pregnant months making Ben a stocking, I’ve always carefully selected stocking stuffers and gifts for him, I’ve insisted that we get a tree and have Ben help decorate it, I am painstakingly planning (and hosting) Christmas Eve for our families, this is what I do around the holidays.

Nat and his family (who I honestly adore. I think half of the reason I stayed with Nat as long as I did was because I love his parents. They’re physicists, who are my favorite sorts of people in the world, and they’re hilarious) are not from this country, and although they do celebrate Christmas, he and his siblings never were allowed to believe in Santa Claus. His mother (Ben’s grandmother) was too distraught when she learned that Santa wasn’t real, so she decided not to tell her children about it.

While I have absolutely no problem with this: I mean, it DOES feel a little odd to have to make up elaborate answers to these questions about where Santa lives, what his reindeer eat, what he does in his off time, I can’t get behind not doing it for my own children.

I guess I feel like childhood is a fleeting time of innocence and wonder, and I would hate to have to introduce my children to what the world can be like any earlier than I have to (no, I don’t home school them. Nor would I. You can start breathing again.). Believing in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy is something you can never go back and decide to do again once you know the truth.

So when I told Nat that I was taking Ben tomorrow to Breakfast with Santa, he expressed that he didn’t think Ben should “believe in that crap.” I had been hearing this from him on and off for several years now, so it didn’t take me by surprise. But it’s just another reminder to me of the vast divide between Us and Him. Dave may not be pissing his pants with excitement over this (or anything. He’s not that kind of guy. Lucky for him, Ben and I are exuberant enough to make up for it), but he’s certainly looking forward to it, just as we all are.

I know full well that someday Ben will come home from a night with his father and tell me that Santa Claus isn’t real, and I suppose that my only real hope is that he won’t tell his brother about it.

How did you feel when you found out Santa wasn’t real? Were you crushed? Or did you already kind of know and therefore remain unsurprised (as a child, this was where I fell)? Do you think it’s a bad thing to allow kids to believe in these fictitious beings?

In a popularity contest in my house, before Alex was born, Dave was numero uno. As far as Ben was concerned, I was a mere blip on the radar, whereas Dave was the Real Deal. Instead of being hurt by this (which would have been quite easy, really), I took it as a reaffirmation of my good choice in marrying The Daver.

I got very, very accustomed to playing second fiddle, to Dave’s one man-band (well, two men, really), so it came as quite a shock to my system when Alex was born and as far as HE is concerned, there is no better person in the world than his mother, me. It was, and still is strangely flattering to me that this little person is convinced that the sun rises and sets by me (trust me, this is nothing I take lightly).

But the world keeps on spinning as per usual, and a strange development is taking place in my house: Ben has decided that I am awesomely awesome. As far as I know, I am the same person that I always have been to both of them, but something deep inside of Ben is shifting. Dave is amazing, of course, but MOM has been cast in a new light.

Here is an actual conversation that was had over lunch this week:

Me: “blah, blah, blah, blah, Britney rules! Blah, blah, blah.”

Ben: “Mom?”

Me: “blah, blah, blah, blah. Yes, Darlin’?”

Ben: “I’m gonna marry you when I grow up.”

Ben: “I can go to the store for you and stuff.”

Me (stunned): “Don’t you think I’m a little old for you?”

Me: “I mean, you’re going to be a great husband, should you decide to get married. You’re a real sweetheart, duder.”

Ben: “No, Mom, I think you’re just perfect.”

I am not even exaggerating when I tell you that my heart, like the Grinch in Whooville, grew 10 sizes that day.

I guess we’re doing something right.

I have never been an alarmist, most especially when it comes to my children. I firmly contend that no matter what I do or try to do, it doesn’t much matter as they’ll turn out just fine whether or not they rolled over at four months or walked by ten (months).

If you didn’t actually know me, you might even take my very relaxed attitude as a sign that I do not care for my children, which would be so very false. I don’t worry much about them, but I am fiercely protective. So frightneningly so that Daver often will gloss over things (and sometimes completely omit) that he knows will evoke my wrath, which I imagine that as a coping mechanism my children will someday learn to do as well.

Really, I don’t worry about much in my day to day life. I live under the assumption that most things will work themselves out eventually (which is a good damn attitude to have as my husband likes to worry about absolutely everything–I talk him down from his worried cloud while he talks me down from heading over to Little Billy’s house to kick his damn ass for possibly giving my son the hairy eyeball).

All bets are off however, when I am pregnant. There is something hardwired into my body chemistry that flips a switch whenever filled with HcG and I turn into a bundle of nerves. Worried nerves. Painfully freaking out nerves. There is something so huge about being tasked with becoming a healthy vessel in which a small fetus is to develop for nine loooong months that scares me. Partially, I think it is the intangability of it all: if I can’t keep my eyes on it at all points in time, something bad might happen to it, and partially it must be the uncertainty of it all, that one can do everything “right” and have it all go so horribly wrong. Me while pregnant is not a Very Good Thing for anyone until that baby actually is born all wrinkley and screamy and garden gnomeish.

Months ago, while still pregnant with Alex, I decided not to go back on OCP, take my chances (as fellow parents likely know, having sex while having a baby around is not very sexxy. It’s all “Allright, one, two, three go, Go, GO! The baby is asleep!” Not very romantic, eh?), have my very last baby and then get done with the whole pregnancy/newborn period for good. Although I don’t necessarily want to have our last children back to back, I wanted to take the pressure off myself from the whole “trying to get pregnant” thing, which was supremely stressful, and figured that our last born would come whenever he or she would.

I just don’t know if I have it in me to have another baby. It’s not actually the baby itself that scares me (hell, I have two. I haven’t had a hot meal or taken a crap by myself in YEARS. This, I am used to), it’s the fet-bryo part I can’t take. I am neither naive or stupid enough to believe that everything will be all right, I know better than that. Bad shit happens to good people who don’t deserve it all of the time. Just because I’ve been lucky before doesn’t mean my luck will hold out (what’s that phrase about the house always winning in the end?).

I fear that the only way that I can make it through another pregnancy with my sanity (somewhat) intact is to have Dave commit me to a mental institution and strap me down in a straightjacket for nine whole months. My anxiety and peripartum depression is that severe.

(I’ll put it to you this way: immediately after delivery, when we brought Alex home, in spite of the fact that he would only sleep while being held AND I literally nursed him 20-22 hours a day (no joke here), I kept remarking over and over to Dave “Man, THIS IS SOOO MUCH BETTER THAN BEING PREGNANT.” Anyone who has dealt with a newborn for an extended period of time knows that between the raging postpartum hormones and the sudden sleep dep, this is not the normal reaction).

I don’t want to regret having another one, yet I don’t want to regret NOT having another one. I don’t want to be 50, sitting around with The Daver and say “Man, I wish we’d had just one more, like we always said we would.”

It’s a tough thing to tackle, this conundrum, because there is no good answer. What’s good for the goose may NOT be good for the gander (or something. Whatever. It sounded cooler in my head). I don’t know how to decide, I mean, this is a bit bigger than what color underwear to use or what cell phone plan to choose. It’s not ‘flip a coin’ territory, is it?

So, tell Aunt Becky about you. How do you know if/when/how many children you want to have? How do you KNOW for certain anything like that? Is three kids like Three’s Company? (if you don’t yet have kids, what was it like growing up with or without siblings?)