Despite having owned many and loved a few, my knowledge of the innerworkings of my cars leaves much to be desired. My answer to “why is the engine making that knocking noise” is a very typical “I don’t know, call the goddamn mechanic.” I’d sooner breastfeed a baby camel in my backyard for fun than learn how to change my own oil. For the 30 minutes it takes to get my oil changed by someone who knows what they’re doing, and is therefore held accountable for their mistakes (the selfsame reason that I will never again ask people to help me paint my house, I cannot yell at my friends, but I CAN yell at people I pay). Color me lazy, but it just seems easier that way.

When I was 6 or 7 months pregnant with Ben, due to an unfortuante error in judgement on my part (which is not the subject of this blog post), I was loaned my recently deceased grandmothers car, which I used to tool back and forth to school.

On my way to my beloved jewelry making class, I rounded a corner, and a most mysterious thing occured. The car was filled with a horrible flappity-flap noise while becoming increasingly difficult to stear. Being the amazingly intelligent person that I am, despite being late to my class, I dilligently pulled the car off of the main road and into a brand new subdivision. Upon closer inspection, I realized that I had blown a tire.

Well, this was slightly before I’d gotten a cell phone, and I was a mile or two away from a pay phone, so I opened the trunk. It took several minutes of staring at the jack and the donut tire incompetently before I realized that I had absolutely no clue how to change a tire. Truth be told, even if I had, my burgeoning belly would have likely impeded me from getting into the required position anyway.

After several minutes, it dawned on me that squatting on the well-manicured easement and shaking my fists at the sky impotently while weeping copiously was going to do absolutely nothing to help my situation (aside from possibly landing me in a straightjacket). So, I looked around at the brand-new pre-fab subdivision, with it’s trees so young that they appeared to be houseplants, and noticed that most people were not yet home from work.

If there ever was a situation in which I need help, this was it, so I set off to find someone to give me a hand. I shuffled along, waddling all the way, looking for some sign that someone was home at ANY of these identical houses. Several houses down from where I had pulled over, I saw some teeny bikes in the lawn, and yay! the front door was open. Figuring that anyone who had small children wasn’t apt to be a serial killer, and would likely take pity on an obviously pregnant woman, I rang the bell.

When the children went to get their father, I feverishly explained my situation, my panic escalating by the moment. Through a strangled voice thisclose to tears, I explained that I needed someone to help me change my tire, could he please help me change my tire, I’m pregnant and I need someone to change my tire, please, please, pleeeasssse help me.

The man rolled his eyes at me.

He ROLLED his EYES at me.

Then he sighed audibly at my shear stupidity, rolled his eyes again, glared at me, and opened the door.

I trailed him like a sad, lost puppy dog, explaining my situation while drawing huge gulping nearly hysterical breaths, apologizing profusely, all of which he ignored. But being who I am, when I get upset, it’s like my internal switch goes from “Talks Paint Off Walls,” to “11” so I continued peppering his minstrations with an irritatingly apologetic monologue.

He said not a word as he changed my tire for me. Not one single word.

After he finished, I began thanking him repeatedly for helping me out, all of which he ignored. After sighing dramatically, giving me one last withering glare, he promptly got up from the curb and began walking angrily back home.

I have no idea how long I stood there, rooted to the spot, watching this man walk home. I was completely dumbfounded, hell I still AM completely dumbfounded. And a touch hurt: I have never, ever asked a complete and total stranger for much of anything, except for maybe the time, and I suppose that my expectations were too high. Anyone else I knew (and know) would drop anything to help someone in such a situation, I’d sure help out if I thought that I would be doing much good by occasionally commenting on the sky while other people did the manual work.

Maybe this is just another one of those things in life that I’ll never understand, up there with the popularity of skinny jeans, and propensity for cats to piss on anything plastic and/or vinyl. Why would someone who very obviously didn’t want to help me, help me? He could have very easily sent me on my (waddling) way, and I would have understood: it’s not his mess to clean up, my flat tire.

While I am completely aware that this was a dumbass move on my part, even now, I wouldn’t change a tire while pregnant, and seriously, what was I supposed to do? Hell, when I’m pregnant, I can barely walk in a straight line, let alone jack a several ton car up on a spindly little jack. It’s likely that I would at the very least attempt to change a tire when I’m not pregnant, but still, I have no freaking idea what I’m doing, so the experience would likely net me a trip to the ER AND SOME VICODIN. Mmmmm, Vicodin.

Am I the only one who gets confused by these interactions? Has this sort of thing happened to other people?

For the first several months of winter, here in the Midwest, where winter lasts until you blink and oops! it’s summer again (and every year I wonder why we don’t move to a more temperate climate as I chisel ice off the windshield of the car while trying not to cry out when the boogies in my nose freeze), I love it. The first snowfall of year is always a day of magic and wonderment for me, it makes me want to bake Christmas cookies and listen to Christmas music and build snowmen and whitewash The Daver. Well, I guess that MOST things make me want to whitewash Daver, not just the first snow of the year.

Today was the first day that we have gotten any snow, and I got that annoyingly gushy feeling in my heart as I suggested that maybe we could do some Christmas shopping or something festive to commemorate the day.

It was as those words slipped out of my gaping pie-hole that it dawned on me, highly unpleasantly: I don’t have a winter coat this year.

Before you start chastising me for not taking proper care of myself, let me assure you that I do, in fact, own at least 25 winter coats. My hallway closet is filled to the brim, bursting at the seems, even, with the products of being a Midwestern native for my whole life. I collect coats in the way that some women collect shoes (I have plenty of those, too, but it my shoes are not the point here, as they happen to fit just fine thankyouverymuch.).

I could remedy this situation post haste, should I choose. The stores are chock full of sassy winter coats this time of year, and no one would fault me for picking up a new one. Problem is, I’m stubborn and don’t want to buy a coat in a bigger size (think circus tents here) to drape my 26 pounds heavier frame (12.5 down, 26 to go!).

It’s depressing enough that I STILL have to wear my maternity clothes (again with the stubborness), and/or shirts with a V-neck to allow my wee one access without having to pull my shirt completely up in public (I swear, I am NEVER even THINKING about wearing anything v-neck EVER AGAIN after I quit nursing. Those shirts will be burned along with my hideous nursing bras when Alex is weaned), thereby rendering those around me to have to throw up in their soup.

But having to pull out the damn maternity coat is just breaking my ickle heart today. It’s a nice enough coat, for sure, although since it’s a trench coat, it gave me a decidely Grimace-like (or Weeble, think Weebles) appearence when I was 9 months pregnant. Now, thankfully, Alex is no longer residing on my person (although he’d probably like that better. There are days when I’m pretty sure if he could find the entryway, he’d happily climb back inside), so the belly is gone which = no Weeble, but the boobs, HOLY SHIT ARE THEY CRAZY HUGE.

Oh well, I suppose it’s not the end of the world. At least the coat’ll fit.

Today is November the 30th, which marks the end of an era. An era about Poop-Buckets, sleep deprivation, and apparently, how bizare I really am. You watched as I overused the comma frequently (and used parenthesis where I should have started a new sentence), Put Things In Capitol Letters That Should Not Have Been, and generally misspelleed eevenn tha siimplest oof wurds (I SOOO need a spell check for my site).

But you read (at least I’m pretty sure that you did. Without SiteMeter, I can’t be sure. Doesn’t matter anyway, does it?) and you commented, and I love each and every one of you from the bottom of my cold, blackened heart. It shrivelled a little less each time someone gave Aunt Becky a Warm Fuzzy, and was amazed each and every time Aunt Becky did not recieve a Cold Prickly. Aunt Becky knows a lot about Cold Prickly’s, laws yes, she does.

Happy (almost) December, Dear Internet, and may the month be filled of MORE posts about such titilating topics as: My Colonoscopy And What It Means To Me, Why Is The Baby Is Trying To Kill Me, (alternating between) I LOVE The Holidays and/or I HATE The Holidays, in addition to stirring subjects like Why Can’t My Family Change The Toliet Paper Roll?

No, but for serious, if you have some topic you’d like me to talk about, I’d be more than happy to oblige. Always feel free to comment, even if it is to tell me that you hate me with a passion, or that I am a complete idiot (trust me, I’m completely aware).

If you’re too shy to comment, you can always drop me a line at becky@psys.org. I love email, nearly as much as I love Christmas cards. And I loves me my Christmas cards. Anyone want to exchange them? I’ll autograph pictures of myself so you can put them on your fridge and when people ask who the hell that chick is making a corny face, you can say proudly “That is my Aunt Becky.” And then everyone will know that you MUST be awesome to have such a great aunt. (I know, I know, I’m delusional. *sigh* I better go refill my meds.)

For reals, if you want to exchange cards, email me and let me know. I stole that idea from Niobe, who I totally have a girl-crush on. Because she’s awesome.

Alex would like me to tell you that he says, and I quote, “What is UP my bitches?” I have NO IDEA where he learned such motherfucking swear words.

Ben (at age 2) would like me to tell you that he is completely ashamed of having me as his mother. He would prefer someone ELSE, like Io, or maybe Jupiter to be his mother.

But he stubbornly agrees that he’s cheeks are edible.

Ben would like me to inform you that he is NOT wearing a toupee, despite how it may appear, and Alex tells me that he’s much, much fatter now.

And as for me, Dear Internet, I will raise a glass with you tonight. Here’s to December! I just KNOW that it’s going to be a great month.

(clinks glass)

“….oh, Hello Doctor, how are you? No, I haven’t been waiting all day next to the phone willing it to ring, because you know what they say about watched phones, right?

…uh, you never heard that one, did you, Doctor? Well, they never ring. Must’ve missed it during all of those years in medical school. Oh well. But now, either way here you are! Oh HOORAY! HOORAY for YOOOOOOUUUUUU, Dear Doctor!

…what kind of problem are you talking about, Doctor? The only problems I like are the ones that I don’t have to fix, you know.

…oh THAT kind of problem, huh Doctor, one of those pesky buggers that I DO have to fix. I hate those.

…well it can’t be nobody’s fault, you see Doctor, because I promise you although my blood is indeed amazing, it’s never been known to walk away from the lab before, and I PROMISE that I’ve had plenty of blood removed from my body before and none of it went missing. So somewhere this “missing” vial of blood has taken up residence. Probably messing with someone else’s not so fabulous blood. My blood can kick their blood’s ass, you see Doctor.

….I sure do hope that you don’t tell some lifelong Type 1 diabetic who was in for routine labs doesn’t get too comfortable with finding out that OOPS, you’re NOT a diabetic AFTERALL, but hey, your TSH sucks! Heh-heh. That’s SO not funny. But when I’m nervous, Doctor, I laugh. And now, I am full of The Nervous.

…but Doctor, you are aware that it’s taken you a week to “find out that my blood is missing,” and therefore not being properly tested. A week that I’ve been (not so) patiently waiting on bated breath. But I’m sure that doesn’t concern you in the least now, does it, Doctor?

…no, I know that you were on vacation. You see, though, that I was not. And last that I checked, The Doctor doesn’t run the tests on the blood. Some lab assistant in some distant lab does, right?

…I AM calm, Doctor, I AM.

…Why no! It would be NO PROBLEM AT ALL TO BRING MY 8 MONTH OLD TO THE PHLEBOTOMIST YET AGAIN. He LOVES it there, let me tell you. It’s on his list of favorite things to do, along with suppostories up the butt and getting circumsized!

….I’m not taking ANY tone with you, Doctor, I’m not. Well, maybe I am. But I’ve been full of The Nervous all day, crapping my sad little brains out and now you’re telling me that I need to wait even longer. Until Monday. In case you didn’t know this about me, I HATE WAITING.

….No, Doctor, I absolutely did not just mumble the phrase “Self-Medicate With A Martini.” I KNOW that the last thing that I should do when I’m upset is to have a drinky-poo.

…What’s that you hear, you’re asking me? That clinking noise in the background is NOT the sound of me calming my frazzled nerves with vodka. Or whiskey. It’s champagne. And we all know champagne doesn’t make a clinky noise. It makes a fizzy one.

….I did NOT just say “I’ll drink to you tonight, Dear Doctor.” I said “Alex smells like poo tonight, Herr Proctor.” No I am NOT slurring my words. I call the ……cat yeah, the CAT, “Herr Proctor” sometimes. He likes it.

….Yes, Doctor, I am aware that this is a terrible nickname for a cat. But are you REALLY in a position to be all judge-y towards me right now?

…okay, Doctor, I’m off to the lab again. AGAIN. We’ll be in touch. Have no fear, WE WILL BE IN TOUCH, WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT. I CAN FIND OUT WHERE YOU LIVE.”

(click)

*headdesk*

(I suppose that I should just be relieved that it wasn’t the Bucket ‘O’ Poo that got lost, huh? I only wish that cheered me up right now.)

I got tagged for a meme from Sten, which makes me feel far more important than I really am.

Here’s how it’s done:

a. Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.

b. Share 7 random and/or weird things about yourself.

Wow, see now I always thought that my blog is sort of a shrine to my eccentricites, but hey, if the shoe fits, as they say.

1. I have an anti-foot fetish. You know those people that get their rocks off by looking at and/or touching feet? I know that I do, because I came across a library book wherein someone had painstakingly cut out all of the pictures of feet. Creepy? YES (and no, it wasn’t me who did this. I have neither the time nor the patience, and if I were to do this, I’d probably throw up all over the pictures)

Anyway, so I completely HATE having anyone touch my feet and ankles. I don’t even like to look at them. I have no real reason for this, no skeletons in my closet, but I have placed two very lovely tattoos on them (one large one per foot) to distract from their general ugliness.

Ben seems to have inherited my hideous feet, Dave’s feet remind me that we all do, indeed, come from monkeys, as his feet appear to be the esteemed Missing Link (I frequently refer to them as “Carney Feet,” and ask him if he is able to swim better with the flippers already attached. I know, I know, I’m a real TREAT to be married to), and Alex’s feet resemble Marshmallow Peeps.

It appears as though the problem is, as per usual, with me.

2. I desperately need to start a compost pile in my backyard, but am completely unsure how to do so. I am, however, getting tired of Ben yelling “Garbage POLLUTES the Earth” at the garbage can in our kitchen. My main fear about the whole thing is that it will attract even more wild animals into our yard (the very real fear is that I will then decide to let them into the house to keep as pets. “But DAVE, LOOKIT HOW CUTE STINKY THE SKUNK IS? WHY WOULD I PUT HER BACK? SHE CAN SLEEP IN BED WITH US!”), as well as a minor fear that our neighbors may bomb my house if the smell is too noxious.

3. I am 100% addicted to Diet Coke, especially what I call “Fatty Ones” (which means the Super Double Biggest Super Size at any given place. Well I am aware that it does bear a striking resemblence in both texture and taste to battery acid, and is likely turning my insides into mush, I am in love with it. Let’s put it this way: if my husband were inside of a burning building, and I had to make a deal with God to save him ONLY if I gave up my daily (hourly) Diet Coke, I’d have to think about it. (Dave is also horrified that Alex also finds it’s delicately charming flavor to be most amazing. Yes, I have given my baby Diet Coke. You can call DCFS now, I’m sure they’ll have my file handy).

4. When we BBQ, which is fairly often during the summer months (Dave’s first thought when he realized that we were going to buy a house was NOT “Hey, I don’t have to park 547 blocks from my car” but was “I can get a grill!”), I insist that my hot dogs be charred. Blackened. Burned. While I find hot dogs to be a true delicacy, I cannot eat them if they do not resemble charcoal briquettes. Hell, if you gave a piece of charcoal to me smothered in ketchup (I am a bad, bad Chicago-ian), I can’t be sure if I could detect the difference. Again, I’m sure that my insides are probably riddled with The Cancer, but hey, you have to live a little.

5. I am likely the least romantic person you’ll ever meet. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that I fought long and hard to elope to Vegas and get married by Elvis, nor was I kidding when I said that I argued to have our first dance be the YMCA. I genuinely wanted to dance myself down the aisle to “Jungle Boogie” or “That’s The Way, Uh-Huh, I Like It.” But Dave (who I referred to during the wedding planning as “My Wife”) would have none of that.

Because of this, Dave proposed to me at Tiffany & Co, rather than take me to some elaborate set-up dinner or something. I think he was afraid that I’d laugh (which I have a nasty habit of doing when I am uncomfortable. I have to bite my cheeks to keep from laughing during funerals WHICH I DO NOT REALLY FIND FUNNY AT ALL.) or start mocking him if he didn’t just do it then and there. The floor could have swallowed me whole, then and there, but we made the day of some college chicks who were oogling the rings.

6. I cannot sleep when it is overly hot in my bedroom OR without some white noise. Well, nowadays I have many more issues relating to my sleep problems, but unless it’s arctic in my room AND it sounds like a wind tunnel, I can’t sleep worth a damn. I’ve been known to turn on the A/C in the winter and/or open up a window to the frigid outdoors JUST TO COOL DOWN.

7. Despite being both a health care provider AND a mother, I refuse to buy into the whole antibacterial craze. I do use Lysol on the occasion that someone has spewed bodily fluid somewhere other than into the toliet bowl, and I wipe down the counters on a semi-regular basis with bleach, BUT THAT IS BECAUSE I LOVE THE WAY BLEACH SMELLS. I AM A DAMN FREAK.

I’ll put my kid in the grimy grocery cart holders, sure, I don’t hand him an open package of bleeding meat to gnaw on, but seriously the kid has to develop an immune system AT SOME POINT. Of course I wash my hands after I use the bathroom, use proper protection when handling raw meat, and shower frequently enough (most weeks), but I don’t need to use Purell every time I walk into a room.

I don’t run a daycare (nor would I. Can you imagine that? Hahaha, I can’t.) in my home, nor do I perform patient care on MRSA or VRE infected patients from my living room. So you know what? I’M NOT NERVOUS ABOUT WHAT THEY GETS INTO.

*8* Bonus!!! (because I am a certified idiot, I posted this on the wrong damn day, so you, Darling Internet, are reaping the benefits of my error. A BONUS weird fact about me.) When I was younger, I worked as a hostess in a nice classy restaurant. One day, I glanced at the table I had been instructed to take back to their section, and upon seeing a couple of smaller people, I assumed that they were children. So I politely asked if they would like kids menus.

BUT THEY WEREN’T KIDS, THEY WERE MIDGETS! I INADVERTANTLY ASKED MIDGETS IF THEY WOULD LIKE TO COLOR ON KIDS MENUS!

Oopsies. My bad.

Just like the time I asked the guy with the bad toupee if he’d like to leave his hat up front. AND I WASN’T TRYING TO BE FUNNY AT ALL.

That was ALSO my bad.

————–

I totally had to cut myself off at 8 weird things there, because I am enough of a freak THAT I COULD KEEP GOING FOREVER (I can’t spell indefinitely).

The rules of this meme inform me that I must tag people to do it, but I’m not sure that there is anyone in the free world who has NOT done it yet. So I am tagging EACH OF YOU to delurk (I promise, I won’t bite.) and tell me ONE weird thing about yourself. Or make fun of me BECAUSE I AM A DAMN FREAK. Whatever. I’m not picky. Just looking for a distraction until my doctor calls me and informs me that there is absolutely nothing wrong with my hormones, just my head.

Come on, help Poor Nervous Aunt Becky out.

It’s amazing how easily you can trick yourself into believing that there is more under the surface than actually exists, especially if you want it badly enough. Turn any conversational snippet around and around in your head like a cube, examine it, pull it apart, piece it back together and eventually it may start to mean exactly what you want it to mean. Ignore the obvious signs and focus on what lies below and you can fool yourself into a relationship. Sometimes the delusion is far better than the cold hard facts.

It’s been ages since I’ve done this, thankfully, as I have never ever enjoyed playing the games that people play. But I am admitting here and now to you, Darling Internet, that I’ve been there.

I thought that we had something, really I did, because I’d thought that underneath it all, he got me. Really GOT me. My friends didn’t understand what I saw in him, mainly because they are incredibly smart (and good looking to boot!) and they saw what I refused to: he just wasn’t that in to me. Or he was, but only when it was convienent for him. Our friendship was like a festering scab that you cannot stop picking at, no matter how many times your mother reminds you that you should just leave the damn thing alone already.

It lasted for far longer than I’d like to admit, and it took a drunken night of bad sex coupled with his sudden interest in a sort-of friend of mine to bring me to my senses.
He was either an idiot or an asshole, and either way, I didn’t need filth like that in my life.

It’s funny when I think back upon it all, I cannot believe that I was ever so naive and even worse, that I didn’t believe that I was worth more than that. Now, after meeting Dave, I would never even THINK to pick apart his words, if he’s running late, it’s because he’s late, not because he’s really doing something far more sinister or interesting. If he tells me that he likes my shirt, I thank him and move on. It’s a simple statement, nothing more and nothing less.

On the infamous first Non-Date that was actually a date that changed the rest of our lives, we got into a conversation about my next rotation, which was located far closer to his apartment than my home. Sweetly (and stupidly, I reminded him later, after he gave me keys to his house that night. What if I’d been A Crazy and started showing up at his house unannounced? What if I broke in and stole everything he owned, like dirty socks and black jeans? WHAT IF I MOVED IN?), he offered to let me stay at his house on the nights before these early morning clinicals.

Upon realization as to what he had just offered, which sounded awfully presumptious (reader, keep in mind we had not so much as held hands at this juncture), he immediately turned 54 shades of red and stammered, “heh, heh, heh, I guess this means I should get a new futon mattress, heh, heh, heh. BECAUSE MY FUTON IS MY COUCH NOT MY BED, heh, heh, heh.”

My heart warmed about 14 degrees when I realized that this was exactly what I’d been looking for: someone who was honest with me AND HIMSELF about what he wanted. It sounds so simple, when I say this now, but I assure you that this meant more to me than if he’d told me right then and there that his greatest ambition in life was to be a father and husband (which I later found out to be the truth. He’s a rare one, My Daver. He also would give me a pedicure if I could handle anyone touching my feet. He DOES have a brother…..ladies….!).

Of course, as the story goes, I never DID sleep on the futon (bow-chicka-wow-wow), and I have never, ever, taken his honesty for granted (although, occasionally I do wish that he could be a little LESS honest. Like when he told me, oh, I don’t know, several weeks before our wedding that I wasn’t the hottest chick he’d dated. Um, ouch. Snap, Daver, Snap.)

Or is this just me?

One upon a time, I made an appointment to meet with a psychic who my friend had told me was “really good.” Whether it was due to nerves or lack of fundage, I cancelled several days before my session. I’ve never been the sort to buy in too much to the whole mystic, new-agey stuff, because I prefer my life to be lived by more concrete rules. Maybe it’s the (now latent) scientist in me, but I can’t seem to wrap my mind around vague mentions of strife, love, or predictions of my future, mainly because I can see both how easy it would be to buy into this sense of greater meaning, and because I suck ass at interpreting these kinds of things. During any given month, I can fit whatever my horoscope is into what has happened, but it doesn’t matter much, because EVERY month is filled with strange happenings here at Casa de la Sausage.

It becomes a self-fufilling prophecy, or complete and utter crap, if you ask me. Even if I COULD see into the future, I’m not sure that I’d want to. If I “knew” that 10 years down the road, my cat would be hit by a car driven by my son, or that I would finally succumb to The Crazy, would I live my day to day life any differently? Would I accept this as an inevitability and not bother to try and change it? Or would I caution my son to watch for animals while driving AND try and prevent him from learning to drive? I can’t be sure, so I don’t want to know.

After Daver and I got married, we made it a weekly tradition to go out to breakfast together on one of the weekend mornings. A favorite haunt, harkening back to my days as a single smoker, was the local Baker’s Square, where we were often waited on by a strange woman who took a decided interest in me.

As a rule, if there is a certified Odd Duck somewhere in my vicinity, chances are they will be drawn to me like a magnet. I, apparently, am a positively charged Weirdo Magnet (but thankfully these are not Completely Crazy Emotional Weirdos, just strange ones. My husband, however, seems to have the Emotional Crazy Magnet implanted in his head). Dave shakes his head and laughs each time that we meet a new one, but I usually find them to be pretty interesting.

I always enjoyed this Odd Duck of a waitress. She was harmless, friendly, and thrilled when we announced our much anticipated pregnancy. She took one look at me, grabbed my palm, and pronounced that this child was a boy, which I immediately denied. Dave and I were certain that it was a girl (what with the vomiting and all. Such a lovely reason to think that I was carrying a girl.), which I tried to explain to her. She maintained that THIS baby was a BOY, just like my first (whom she had never met) and our next (and last) child was a girl and that I would have “you know, the high blood pressure” with her (my blood pressures run insanely low, and always have).

Needless to say, she was correct in guessing the chromosomal makeup of our offspring, and now I am left to wonder: will I have another child someday? Will it REALLY be a girl (meaning, I will no longer live in the Sausage Factory as a lone XX among a sea of XY’s.)?

On my good days with Alex and Ben, I doimagine that someday, I will be foolish enough to get pregnant again (God willing), and on my bad days I wonder what I was thinking in the first place. I adore the chaos that comes along with having two children, but I am sick to death of the sleepless nights, cold meals, and moreover the WORRY that comes along with having an ickle one. At the same time, I don’t want to go through the rest of my life wishing that I’d had another child (Someday, I’m going to want at least ONE of my children to come home for the holidays).

I suppose that I don’t know what to think about her prediction, but I can’t seem to shake it no matter how I attempt to logicate it (yes, I said “logicate,” which I am aware is not a real word. But it’s such a GOOD fake word.)

What do YOU think about that sort of stuff and/or her prediction? Do you buy that someone could really KNOW that kind of thing? Has this kind of thing happened to you before?

(and no, I am not currently pregnant, in case I haven’t made that clear).

The Good: Alex is finally sleeping in his own bedroom, not in his swing, but in his bouncy seat placed in his (awesome) crib.

The Bad: He’s still up one to seven times per night, just for a little love and snacky-poo.

The Ugly: If anyone BUT me tries to help him back to sleep, he shrieks. And shrieks. And then shrieks some more. He’s got a little seperation anxiety goin’ on, methinks, and as flattering as that is (wow, THE BABY LIKES ME, HOLY CRAP!), it adds to my anxiety. And how do you keep a baby asleep when he’s so restless? I HAVE NO IDEA.

—————–

The Good: I had a doctor’s appointment last with with a new endocrinologist whom I liked very, very much. She listened to me, complimented my breastfeeding abilities, and genuinely appeared concerned about me. There is a lab located directly in the offices, so I do not have to go anywhere else for lab draws (this is a bigger feat than you might believe).

The Bad: Not only did I wait over an hour to be seen, but the doctor was/is currently out of town until the end of the week. This means that I will not be starting any treatment regime until then.

The Ugly: My babysitter cancelled literally as I was walking out the door, so I had to scramble to take Alex along. Somehow I don’t think “Baby’s First Trip To The Endocrinologist” will make it to the baby books. Now that I have all this time in between the doctor and the call back, I have effectively convinced myself that my labs will come back as absolutely normal. The only thing that’s saving my hope, is that my period has been MIA for over two months, so SOMETHING must be wrong with me, right?

————–

The Good: I have lost a total of 10.5 pounds while on Weight Watchers.

The Bad: I’m feeling generally discouraged at the speed at which the weight ISN’T coming off and horrified by how awful I really look.

The Ugly: I have nearly no clothes that fit me, aside from maternity clothes, and this includes a winter coat. For my own pride, I refuse to purchase anything in any sizes bigger than I was, so I’m a bit cold much of the time now. I also was so stressed out by it, that I didn’t weigh myself last week, despite having not strayed from The Plan. I need to suck it up and do so this week.

God, I hate Sundays.

On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.

–Johnny Cash

This will be a scarily short post, as I am still recovering from the Thanksgiving Extravaganza. All went well, and despite my inability to cook, everyone proclaimed it a success (which by comparision to the usual nursing home food, is made that much better), although the meat was still mooing after it cooked (Ashley, you’d have been in heaven, me, not so into the raw meat thing).

We had a rousing discussion about colonoscopies, followed by a conversation about hypertension, and by the end of it, I was wondering if my eardrums would commit suicide, OR IF IT WAS JUST ME THAT WANTED TO DIE.

I’m just fucking thankful that it’s now over.

Crunchiness is one of those qualities that I admire but almost never display. I have no problem with “attachment parenting” given that those who practice it don’t find fault with me for not practicing it. I buy baby food rather than make it, I use Pampers with (almost) alarming frequency, and the only reason that I make baby wipes is because 1) it’s easy 2) it’s cheaper.

Nature is all well and good, but it often makes me itch, so I’m happiest if it doesn’t come into the house with me. The prospect of camping reminds me to self medicate with a bottle of booze and my shaker set and scout out nearby McDonalds. My idea of roughing it involves staying in a hotel, and only ordering room service once. You’re shuddering right along with me, aren’t you?

I began breastfeeding Alex mainly because I am stubborn, and with my Ben-related anxiety over my abilities to do so, I needed to prove to myself that I could. Unlike with Ben, who I was DETERMINED to nurse, I viewed the prospect as a maybe rather than a certainty, because I happen to have become a realist about the illusion of control and children (no matter what you believe, you’re not in control. Period). Had things been overly difficult with Alex, who for all intents and purposes is such a champion nurser who at delivery knew more in the instinctual part of his brain about it than I ever will, I’m certain I’d have stopped after a couple of months. Similac execs would have rejoiced, and I would have become several hundred dollars poorer each month.

I’ve continued breastfeeding only because I am too lazy to wean him AND I am not quite sure how to stop my sweater kittens from acting as milk bags. It IS easier, after awhile, than bottle feeding, no doubt, but also more annoying to me. I don’t so much like it when Dave wants to cuddle with me for longer than about three minutes (unless it leads to something less *ahem* PG), I rarely hug my best friends (and I assure you that I love them with all of my heart), and I assure you that I am the antonym of touchy-feely (which would make me cold and prickily. Yes, yes I am). I love snuggling my children, but NOT ALL OF THE DAMN TIME, which is what nursing involves, because I am just not that kind of person.

Nursing Alexander has made it so that he flips if someone else should decide to graciously assume my nightly duties, because well, that’s what The Lady With The Milk Bags does. And as with Ben, everyone has been pigeon-holed into their respective spots in Alex’s overly-large cranium (It’s a satellite, for serious): Ben makes him laugh and tries to share his food with him, Dad changes poopy diapers and plays SuperBaby with him, and Mom (a.k.a. The Milk Factory) comes in when he cries at night.

It’s sweet, really it is, that his face lights up like a Bud Lite sign and he begins to pump his legs as though he’s riding an invisible bicycle when he sees me when I come in at night. Conversely, should Dave try and take over for me, he screams and weeps copiously (and I wonder why Dave doesn’t volunteer more often. No, no I don’t.), his ickle baby starfish-shaped hands pounding his thighs in frustration at the Universe (sounds like me, eh?).

This week, after having to double my dose of Nite Sleep Aid (which is just stronger diphenhydramine, so don’t worry) AND take a shot of the Green Death flavored Nyquil (seriously, they should just call it that. Their marketing team would be speaking the truth) just to fall asleep, I realized that I needed to call in some medical assistance.

The crux of it was that during the night that I had to essentially overdose myself to get over my anxiety about sleeping, THE BABY WAS SLEEPING JUST FINE. Normally, he does not, which leads to the oft mentioned anxiety, but even on the nights when he does sleep for more than an hour at a stretch, I still cannot sleep. It appears as though I am damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t.

So begrudgingly I called my OB, whom I adore, but had no interest in bringing into this mess because I was fearful that he would tell me to “try drinking warm milk” or something equally trite, and then I would feel as though I’d been slapped in the face, once I’d finally admitted that I had a problem to someone in the position to help me.

He didn’t suggest warm milk, thankfully, but he did inform me that so long as I continue to breastfeed, I cannot take anything stronger than Benadryl.

Despite my non-crunchiness, and because of my stubborn masochism, it’s likely that I will continue to breastfeed, personal discomfort be damned, BECAUSE I KNOW THAT IT’S THE RIGHT THING TO DO FOR MY SON.

I just try to comfort myself on all of those long nights, that no matter what he now believes, he will NOT be seeking comfort in my funbags when he’s in Junior High. I have to draw the line somewhere, right?