If I am to categorize everyone in my house (as I have done with my two children), 7 years ago I would have qualified myself as A Sleeper. The running joke in my family was that a bomb could blow up half of my bedroom, and when rescue workers would come to sift through the rubble, they’d find me completely asleep in my bed, furious that they had woken me up. I’d have easily given up food for sleep, had that been necessary (why that would be necessary eludes me, but hey, it sounds good, eh?).

When I had Ben, despite a pregnancy in which all that I could do was sleep, once he was born I completely lost my ability to sleep heavily. He had his days and nights mixed up, so I was up for most of the night with him (Lord, THAT was fun!). Once that was fixed, and he began to sleep (but not behave) like a normal human being, I still unable to fall into that “dead to the world” kind of slumber. Which broke my heart.

When I found out that I was pregnant with Alex, my sleep began to suck. It was a mixture of problems: I spent many nights sprawled on my 70’s bathroom tile floor (a lovely shade of institutional green + sickly yellow, a perfect compliment to HG), I was worried sick that something was going to happen to my ickle fetus, and my extended LOA left our finances a mess. Needless to say, it made sleeping damn near impossible. By the end of my pregnancy, I could wave a bottle of Benedryl around my face and it predictably would laugh out loud, at it’s utter ineffectuallity and my plight. Nothing worked. At all.

When Alex finally arrived, my sleep became disjointed, save from the days that I would take prescription sleeping pills, in which sleep, oh GLORIOUS sleep would take me away from it all (like Calgon, but with a much worse aftertaste). Then my MD told me, OOPS! You’re breastfeeding so you cannot have your precious Mother’s Little Helpers (like that actually helped Sir Alex sleep more. Har-dee-har-har-har), and I was left back at square one. I was no longer pregnant, but STILL could not sleep.

Months have gone hazily by, and I’ve tried various remedies, but nothing (save for the Valium I stole from my mother’s stash) has helped. I simply cannot relax enough to fall asleep. Most of this can neatly rolled up into a sweet ickle ball and blamed squarely on The Baby.

For months and months and months and months, nearly every time I would fall asleep, the baby would wake up and need, well, SOMETHING. Anything. And since Dave works, that something would fall to yours truly to figure out. And solve. He didn’t listen my promises of a Porsche when he turned 16 IF HE WOULD JUST FUCKING GO TO FUCKING SLEEP ALREADY, CHILD. It became a vicious cycle: I wouldn’t sleep because the baby would wake up and then the baby would wake up and I couldn’t sleep.

Oops, did I say months and months and months and months WITHOUT mentioning that this was still occuring? Every night? My bad.

7.5 months on this great planet, and my kid still has yet to become even a moderately successful sleeper. Which effectively means that his mother is a trainwreck. With puffy eyes and bad hair.

Save from taking prescription sleeping pills (which I cannot do. Damn you, breastfeeding!), I am at a loss. I can’t do chamomile tea or warm milk, because without a set bedtime on the part of the baby, it’s not worth it to try and relax. So how do I let this all go and start entering the Land of Nod without being kept up by persistant “I can’t sleep because the baby will get up” worries?

Is it too early for Baby Benedryl?

(scene, kitchen, about 5:47 pm on a Tuesday night, Becky is standing at the cupboard trying to determine what snack to pack for Ben’s lunch the following day. Deciding on a makeshift trail mix, composed of pretzels, Teddy Grahams and bittersweet chocolate chips, she begins filling a baggie)

Becky (to self): “Hahaha, well, they have trail mix at Trader Joe’s, so his school cannot find fault with mine. Why, these bittersweet chocolate chips are practically HEALTH FOOD. I mean, LOOK at the amount of fiber in them!”

(fade to black)

(Scene, the following afternoon, about 4:30 pm, Ben has come home with his lunch box and is now playing obliviously while Becky prepares to make another lunch for the following day. Opens lunch bag)

Becky: “Benny, what’s this?”

Ben: “It’s the chocolate chips. I wasn’t allowed to eat them.”

Becky: “Whaaaa?”

Ben: “Yeah, my teacher told me to eat around them.”

Becky: “….”

Becky: “….”

Becky: “….”

Becky (after picking up jaw from floor): “They told you that you couldn’t eat these…”

Ben: “Yeah, we’re not allowed to have chocolate. My teacher told me to eat it after school.”

Becky: “Dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t think they’d notice or care.”

Ben: “It’s okay. No one was mad at me. We’re not allowed to have chocolate.”

Becky: “…..I’m sorry, dude.”

(Scene ends with Becky staring astonishedly at the bag with chocolate chips in it.)

She murmers softly enough so that Ben does not hear her, “Fucking school.”

(fade to black)

I seem to possess the most uncanny knack for saying something, and then having to retract my statement at a later date. I’m not talking about my chronic Foot-in-Mouthitis here, although I am pretty amazing at doing that, too, no it’s something else entirely, and there’s probably a 50 cent word for it that I don’t know (but my husband will gleefully point out later while trying not to act gleeful about it. Ass.).

Since I am unaware of what it is officially called, I’ll give you an actual sample of a real-life event and it’s consequences:

Me: “Wow, I guess since it’s so late, I’ll take the expressway home. There shouldn’t be any traffic at THIS time of night.”

(note for reader: I steadfastly refuse to take the highway unless someone else is driving, because I can totally sit in bumper to bumper traffic on a surface road AND THEN PULL OFF TO GRAB A DRINK. The highway makes me feel trapped AND IF I’M TRAPPED, I CAN’T HAVE A DRINKY-POO. And what would life be without drinky-drinks?)

(45 minutes later, while sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the highway, me cradling my head in my hands as I realize that the highway is undergoing construction (um…when is it not? No, really.) AT 1:30 IN THE MORNING ON A TUESDAY.)

Me (to myself, as I am alone)“Guess I shouldn’t have opened my big fat mouth.”

Without knowing another word, I will now call this Big Fat Mouth-opathy. I suffer from it daily, as my family well knows, and will attempt to stop my trap from yapping about these sorts of things.

Me: “I’m going to go to the gy….”

Dave (furiously gesturing at me, covering his mouth comically)“STOP, BECKY, BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!”

Me (completely oblivious to Dave, who merely looks as he does most mornings) “….m tonight/morrow”

Me (an hour later both children are vomiting and Dave has a migraine and has left me to fend for myself, covered in vomit and feeling nauseous as well): “Stupid fucking fat mouth. IDIOT.”

The Universe, it seems, never tires of doing this to me.

About a month ago, we were out to lunch with lunch with my parents, and while walking back to our respective cars, we were approached by two neatly dressed women about my age. Of course, they were Mormons, but we were leaving so we didn’t stop to chat, but not before my dad could throw a “I don’t want to be like ‘Big Love'” comment their way. Oh SNAP, Dad.

Dave spent the remainder of our ride home laughing his balls off (I am, afterall, my father’s daughter, so my sense of humor is remarkably like his. And Dave, who appears to have no discernable sense of humor (oh, SNAP!) finds me hilarious and my father even more so. Mainly because he cannot believe that people would ever SAY such things. Especially PARENTS.), while I mused OUT LOUD at how odd it was that when I lived across the river with my parents, there were always people trekking door to door to tell you about Jesus, or whomever, but on THIS side of the river, we’ve not had a SOUL come by.

Expecting that it was my jonesing-for-Wii-fix neighbor this afternoon (and trying to figure out how to delicately tell him that no, he couldn’t borrow the Wii today either, sorry.) when the doorbell rang, I was shocked to find two young women on my front stoop. Who wanted to do a Bible Study with me. When my jaw returned from falling down on my doorstep, I had to politely excuse myself.

Although I have read the Bible from cover to cover (can you believe it? No one ever can. But to be honest, it was for a class. In school. And I certainly don’t know it well enough to debate it. Nor would I.), I am not interested in discussing my religious feelings with anyone really, especially not two Jehovah’s witnesses. I couldn’t handle the thought of hurting their poor, sweet, wholesome feelings (dude, they were WHOLESOME LOOKING!) when I expressed that not only have I received blood products from a blood bank on a semi-regular basis, I HAVE DONATED BLOOD TOO. AND, I’m missing some organs (nothing too grand, though, don’t worry).

It appears as though the Universe is mocking me. Not maliciously, no, but absolutely reminding me that no matter what, you are not in charge. I’d mock back at the Universe, but I’m afraid of what will happen to (insert anything I care about here). Does this happen to anyone else out there?

So yeah, Universe, you win again. Now can you PLEASE call off the Jehovah’s Witnesses?

After nearly two years of constant badgering (like being pecked to death by an adorable chicken!!), I have finally given in and agreed to allow Ben to take music lessons.

It’s not as though I don’t see the inherent value of music lessons, of course I do, but I’ve never wanted to be one of those parents who overscheduled the heck out of their little kids, shuttling them back and forth to various lessons and sports, and not giving them a chance to be children. Soccer takes up a modest two days each week, and you know what? I admit that sometimes Dave and I get a little bitter about the imposition each and every Saturday morning, because who DOESN’T want to lounge around in their jammies on the weekend (okay, so that’s every day for me)?

Ben is thrilled, as I am not sure that any child in the history of children has ever loved music as much as he does. When we met for our parent-teacher conference this week, his teacher mentioned that he was “auditorially gifted,” which I’ve translated into “loving music” (mainly because people who mention in polite conversation that their children are gifted make me want to hurl. Remember when only the truly amazing kids were called “gifted” and not every player on a team got a trophy? I do. Hell, I still shudder when I see red ink!).

From the time that he was a wee babe, music has always soothed some savage beast within him. Having a tantrum? Put on music. Crying about having to eat *gasp* real food? Play some tuneage. All of his worries and cares vanished. I’m fortunate that things still work that way. This week, he’s gotten addicted to YouTube videos, which is nothing short of hilarious (mainly because I’ve gotten him hooked on “Electric Avenue” and Milli Vanilli.), and nearly as cute as his own renditions of “Ring of Fire” and “Jackson.”

My boy, he does love his Johnny Cash.

And The Beatles.

And The Rolling Stones

And Bob Dylan.

(My masterful plan of raising a child in my likeness is working! Cackle, cackle, cackle. Soon we will take over the WORLD!).

Interestingly (probably just to me), the only drama that we’ve had in this situation is between Dave and I. I cast my ballot for Ben learning to play the cello, not only because I played for a decade and a half, but because I OWN a cello (if I can get it back from my friend) AND it would be easier for me to teach him by myself.

(and I hate, hate, hate, hate, there are not enough hates in the world to describe the loathing I feel for the violin. Not only do I dislike it’s timbre and pitch, unless it is played extremely well, it sounds like teeth on a chalkboard. And I might argue, especially if I’m feeling superbitchy, that it NEVER sounds good. Maybe I’m a bit bitter from years of having to play the bass line, and therefore never playing the melody, but it’s the one instrument that I am not thrilled about. Oh, and the drums. Ew.)

Dave, on the other hand, PLAYED the violin for a couple of years, so is convinced of his own expertise with all things violin-related. Therefore, HE is not concerned about having to listen to squeaky-awful renditions of “Mary Had A Little Lamb” and “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” scratched out over and over again in our house. Nor is he the slightest bit upset about having to attend orchestra concerts FULL OF CHILDREN WHO CANNOT PLAY INSTRUMENTS AND THEREFORE MAKE MY EARS BLEED. Or maybe it’s simply because he works approximately 1,795 hours a week and thereby will not be home to listen to and direct said practicing of this instrument.

And as for me, I’m just going to invest in some industrial strength Valium (I should’ve named this blog Mommy Wants Valium or Mommy Wants Percocet.) and those huge Bose noise-cancelling headphones for both myself and Alexander. Then we’ll be set.

(is it just me who has to listen to other parents drone on and on about their “gifted” kids? I mean, I love my son with all of my heart, don’t get me wrong here, but I’m shy to use the word “gifted” on ANY of the kids I’ve met.)

“What do you do?” is a question that I get asked most frequently, and now that I am staying home, I don’t have a succinct answer. Somedays, it makes me feel somewhat useless, like being unpaid somehow makes me a lazy, incompetent person, but other days, I am just thankful that I don’t have to mention where I USED to work.

I won’t get into the reasons that I hated being a floor nurse, not right here, not right now (luckily for everyone, November is a long 30 days, so I just may do so at a later date). Suffice to say, that when I found an office job (sort of) using my degree, I was thrilled.

(cue ominous music now.)

It was working for an insurance company. A big one. You probably hate this one.

This made polite conversation with strangers nearly impossible, as every time I’d make mention of where I worked, the horror stories came a-rollin’ in. Strangers would practically spit at me, so enraged they would become when thinking of how horrid the company had been to them. I heard more horror stories than I ever would’ve expected walking into the gig. And I didn’t doubt that a single one was completely true.

Before you start sticking pins in a voodoo doll made in my likeness or burning me at the stake, like everyone else did, I was a good guy.

My job was to extend benefits for terminal patients who had decided against any further treatments and were only seeking to make their end of life experience as dignified and pain-free as possible. It’s called Hospice, and it’s a wonderful institution, one that I get behind 100%. They come into your home as often as needed, give pain medications, care for the patient and support the family during this hard time.

Some of the employer groups would give only a minimal amount of days for a patient to be covered by hospice (and since most people only would accept the hospice philosophy when the threat of death is looming, therefore only needing a day or two of hospice care, this is less heinous than you’d imagine), part of my job was to extend these benefits so that these people did not have to worry about cost of care during this time.

I also spent my time doing something similar for non-terminal but complex patients who needed a nurse to come into the home for many hours each day. I got report on these patients periodically, verified that these were skilled needs (vent care, etc.), identified then filled gaps in care, and would write proposals to keep these people in their homes (not admitted to the hospital where they could pick up something far worse) and well cared for.

I can all but swear that I never denied a single thing to these people, despite what the haters that I met thought of me. It had a way of getting me down, after awhile, I’ll be honest with you. Imagine that every time that you mentioned your employer, someone would complain at you for being part of the problem, regardless of which department that you worked in. It was discouraging.

When the dreaded hyperemesis began and I had to go on LOA, there was a shark circling my job. It was being moved to Texas, and I was to be transferred into a department that I had no desire to go to.

But sometimes I miss what I used to do. People were GRATEFUL for what I did and it made me feel like a better person (many days, at least), and I was doing something that I believed in. As much as I love staying home with the Sausage Factory, it’s not always as rewarding as a paid gig can be. I don’t get a bonus/raise/mad props for removing stains in record time, nor does anyone thank me for the great job that I did vacuuming today, and usually no one notices if I’ve put the clothes away perfectly or not. In fact, no one notices what I do AT ALL unless I haven’t done it.

I do admit, though, I don’t miss people making the sign of the devil at me.

(For those of you who read both of my blogs, this is merely a copy-and-paste deal. I was inspired by RockMomma to add this here. Because, really, who doesn’t sometimes need a bit of poo humor?)

I’m no stranger to a bit of doo-doo, in fact, I’ve always maintained that I could wipe an ass with one hand while eating a sandwich with the other (well, that would be IF I ate sandwiches, which I do not. But ‘œsandwich’ sounds better than ‘œchicken vino bianco.’). Overall, it doesn’t bother me to change Alex’s diaper (I initally typed Daver, which is all kinds of weird), nor did it really bother me to change Ben’s. Even when the turds would roll out of Ben’s diaper and be snapped up immediately by the dog (mmmm’¦doggie chocolates’¦.) OR when (like the monkey he is), Ben would shit into the bathtub then throw the floaters out onto the floor, I merely laughed.

But now something in our house is amiss. Afoot, even.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve noticed some toliet paper stained with a brown substance sitting merrily on the sink. And winking at me from the back of the toliet. I assume that it was poo but will have to live my life wondering, because I JUST BARELY stopped myself from trying to smell it (before you judge, remember that my instant reaction to EVERYTHING is to put it to my nose and inhale'”insert cocaine joke here. I have to stop myself from sniffing my food before I eat it as it appears to be offputting to my fellow diners). Becky spells C-L-A-S-S-Y.

I clean my bathroom, on average once or twice per week. Said process involves a heavy-duty bleaching of all surfaces (and typically shocking myself on the bare socket in the process. Mental note, buy and install light socket cover thingy’s) and wiping up the stray pee drops on the floor (ah, the Sausage Factory). Since I am the only one who cleans the bathroom, I am, apparently the only one who notices when things go awry. Terribly arwy. Skidmarks on the seat sort of awry.

Someone who frequents my home is using my brand-new toliet seat to wipe their disgusting ass.

I’ve interrogated the usual suspects (myself, Dave, Ben) and no one is owning up to it (but to be fair, I will disqualify myself as I could easily just pretend that it is not there and make no mention of it). Unless one of the cats or the dog have not only taught themselves to dump in the toliet (which would be so, so, so sweet that I would completely overlook the skidmarks and make YouTube videos because that would be so amazing), I’m at a loss.

I could set up motion-sensitive cameras in each of the bathrooms, but I don’t think that I’d ever be able to watch the videos at a later date (Hello, YouTube!) because the image of my husband’s face whilst shitting would float through my head at all of the wrong times (and yes, I am referring to humping). Ben can’t remember what he did yesterday, so eliciting a confession out of him would be damn near impossible to substansiate (YES, Mom, I DID poop on the seat. When I was 3! HAHAHAHAHA! 6 also, apparently, has a terrible sense of humor.). And we’ve previously established that it is not my ass that is shitting on the toliet seat because it would make no sense (although it COULD be a fancy curveball’¦.). And Alex craps unabashadly into a Pamper (and sometimes with bonus leakage!!), so my gut tells me that it is not him.

So what do I do here?

Does anyone else remember that old phrase that goes something like, you’ll remember every insult you recieve but almost none of the compliments? (Did I make that saying up?) Even as someone who suffers often from a chronic case of Foot in Mouth-itis, I am here to tell you that it’s 100% true.

And the worst offenders are the unintentional slights, because for some reason, those remain with me to this day, where I play them over and over in my head (only on bad days). The blatent “I hate you’s” and “You’re ugly’s” and “Did you even make sure that your clothes matched today, Becky’s” are usually dismissed outright.

But who can forget such stellar comments as those delivered by frenemies? I vividly remember a couple of months after I had delivered Ben, I was out with one of my few Mommy friends. She casually mentioned her weight, which matched mine, so I said so (as a rule, I very seldom mention my actual numbers to anyone but Weight Watchers), to which she replied “Yeah, well, it looks better on me.” Ouch. Haven’t seen much of her since then.

Or how about the one I heard when I was picking Ben out a toy? This one’s a doozy, because I’m STILL unsure of whether or not this was intended to be rude. The comment was something like “It would be so easy to spoil my child,” which may or may not have implied that I was spoiling my own. I STILL DON’T KNOW AND IT DRIVES ME INSANE.

I’m equally guilty of doing this myself: I’ll never forget my mortification when I casually remarked to a Movado employee while I was picking out my engagement ring, “Yeah, well, heart shaped diamond engagement rings are SUPER tacky.” Oops. She was in line to inherit her mothers. That was a dick-move on my part.

Sunday, Dave mentioned that he would watch the baby overnight for me so that I could get some (much deserved) rest. Since we’re working on getting him into his crib (yeah, yeah, yeah, smirk away, assholes. He’s been in his (now with added broken motor!) swing since birth. I am a horrible excuse for a mother AND a terrible cook. It’s a friggin’ miracle anyone married me.), this came as a welcome and much appreciated break for me.

Alex rewarded Dave for his generousity by graciously sleeping 5+ hours in a row, which at this point we’re calling ‘sleeping through the night.’ I wake up more rested and refreshed than I’ve been in years. So I rewarded myself with a nap. It was like a sleep-binge and I adored every moment of it.

Later that day, Dave mentions how “easy it was to listen for him,” which translated in my greedy head into “I’ll take the baby another night, Darling Wife” (what it REALLY sounded like was “what the hell are you complaining about, woman! This kid is SO EASY and getting up all of the time is NO PROBLEM AT ALL!). I giggled wickedly, as I knew that lightening doesn’t often strike in the same place twice.

So he agreed to do it for one more night (although it took some convincing and reminding him of HOW DAMN EASY HE’D SAID THAT IT WAS. Motherfucker.). Last night, Alex displayed to his father just how “easy” it is to listen for him overnight, by promptly waking up every 1-3 hours. Hilarious but unfortunate (mainly because this means that the baby is not likely to start miraculously sleeping through the night).

Dish, now people, dish for poor, sleepy Aunt Becky. Come sit on my couch here (pats seat conspiratorially) and tell me a story about something you unintentionally said to someone that was inadvertantly nasty OR something someone has said to YOU that made you feel like dog poo, but without meaning to.

(This one’s for YOU, Ashley)

After Ben was born, I went back to school coincidentally where my best friend was going. As we both needed a similar elective to help us further our degrees, we were thrilled to sign up for one together: Music Appreciation. The class met ungodly early, but since I had a vast knowledge of music thanks to my years as a concert cellist, we figured it would be a blow off class. We were not let down.

The first couple of weeks passed without incident: we showed up with Ashley dragging my tired ass into the room (SO not a morning person. I owe you, dude.), sat in the back, and proceeded to write notes back and forth in our notebooks. The teacher was, for some odd reason, terrified of us and would nervously rearrange her stack of papers whenever we tried to speak to her.

It took probably a whole month before we noticed the person sitting in front of us, only because one day, in a fit of exhaustion, we blearily tried to sit IN HIS ROW. We didn’t have assigned seats, of course, but this pimply rat-faced boy was territorial over HIS SPACE. Having been summarily corrected by him as to where HE sat, we slunk back to our row and took our seats. It was then that it all began.

First we noted his high-waisted stonewashed black jeans (occasionally white) and his cheap vinyl windbreaker. The hair on his head hung past his shoulders in what would have likely been beautiful curls, had he ever bothered to wash it and/or use product in it. Instead, it curled greasily around his squinty rat-like eyes and only accentuated his parchement complexion. This whole situation may have actually been circumvented had the following not occured.

After having a musical score passed out to show the class (most of whom had never seen one.), the lecture continued while the score circulated. Ashley and I began a conversation in earnest about the newest Coach purse collection (the teacher was too scared to tell us to shut the fuck up).

While debating the merits of leather versus vinyl, Rat-Boy angrily swivels around in his chair, located directly in front of Ashley and furiously whispers, “WHERE’S the SCORE?” to her.

Completely baffled by what he’s asking her (remember, now, we are discussing PURSES not music and have yet to see the score), she stammers out a “Whaaat?”

Since he’d probably been up too late whacking off into his music appreciation text book while playing Everquest in his parents basement, he was a little testy with her when he demanded yet again, “WHERE’S the SCORE!!?!”

Finally the lightbulb of comprehension flickered dimly over my own head as I understood what he was asking: he wanted the MUSICAL score, not ask us about sex (get it? Scoring? Having the sex?)! I gestured to the other side of the room, where people were listlessly looking at the score, and pointed it out to him. He seemed mollified and swiveled his scrawny body back around.

It was so ON.

Every class, we studied him, every aspect of him: the way he shuffled, his white stained hightops circa 1986 (yes, really), his varying shades of black jeans, the amount of dander on his back, the way he tried to set himself apart to the teacher as a true lover of music (and then the way she brushed his unrequited love off). Our notebooks, which had previously only been filled with gossip and drivel, were now filled with elaborate color coded charts and graphs that documented his every move. Days that he was absent, we were crushed. When he arrived, we celebrated.

One day, an eagle-eyed Ashley noticed that he had a new backpack. A new MONGRAMMED backpack. J=Jaassoon A. D=Dinkinnnnnnssss. What did the “A” stand for??? We spent weeks coming up with the answer. My vote was for “Americus” and Ashley’s was for “Aloysius” (pronounced Allooooiiiissshhhuuuss). To this day, I suppose that we’ll never know.

What I do know is this: on the last day of class, Ashley and I headed into the cafeteria to grab some greasy breakfast and Jason was there. In a fit of boldness, I asked him if he’d like to eat with us (keep in mind, I’d been too shy to speak with him before as he made my heart go all aflutter. No, not for serious.), and he did. We had breakfast with my imaginary boyfriend that morning, AND I NEVER SAW HIM AGAIN (sniffs wildly).

Oh wait, yeah I did, the following semester. He’d gotten a stupid looking bowlers hat and was wearing an Einstein t-shirt.

What? I’m NOT obsessed!

Tuesday’s are my weigh-in days for my online Weight Watchers thingy, and despite having now lost 10 pounds, every Monday night I sit in fear of the morning’s number. Like it will have magically gone back up 10 lbs IN SPITE of having diligently stuck to the diet. I also offer up some silent prayers as the scale blinks and thinks about how to ruin my life for the week.

Methinks I need a new hobby. Or at least, some Valium.

———————

If I am going to continue in this whole “trying to post everyday” thing without actually talking about my lunch or my bathroom habits, I am going to need some help. This is where YOU come in: what do I write about? Don’t be shy, ask away (or at least give me some subject matter to write about. I can only talk about myself for so long before I start to get nauseous.). I assure you that I am the least modest person on the planet, so very little that you could either say or ask would be off limits.

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Something I’ve wanted to throw out there for a long while is this: do you OR should you comment on every blog that you read? I try to do so, just so the author knows that those site hits on their Site Meter aren’t just from spambots or whatever. Plus, most people who have public blogs tend to enjoy having an audience, so I’m happy to oblige.

“Mamamamamama”

“No, Alex! Say Dada, Dadadadadada!”

“Dadadadadada”

“NO Alex! Say Ben, Benbenbenbenben!”

“Babababababababa”

“NO Alex, say Mamamamama!”

“Mamamamamama”

No thanks to my mother, who at the time when I was a (oops!) baby worked on the dangerous/criminal floor of the nearby mental instituition, my first word was “Fuck,” which is still one of my favorite words ever (followed closely by “googley” which just cracks me up. Say it out loud, all drawn out….hilarity!). I said it in front of my highly conservative grandmother, which left my mother stammering, red-faced and embarrassed to explain that what I had ACTUALLY said was “Duck.”

Ben’s first word was “Tock-tock” after the grandfather clock that he spent many hours as a baby, walker abutting it, staring at in wonderment (is that a word?), oogling the pendulum and it’s constant back and forth movement.

Dave, my guess, first said something wholesome or another like “Christian” or “Crusader.” It’s purely speculation on my own part, but as the phrase goes, if the shoe fits…

Poor Alex, with all of us desperately vying for our names to be his first word, is going to grow up thinking that all of our names are “NOMommy,” “NOBen” and “NODaddy.” I think that we all need a new hobby.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to press the Play button on the tape player in his bedroom to try and tap into his subconsciousness. What is on the tape, you ask? Oh, nothing, really… okay, it’s just an audiotape of myself saying “Mommy” over and over again.

I turn the tables on YOU, dear reader, what was YOUR first word? (and if it’s a good enough story/word, I’ll send you an awesome prize (because who DOESN’T like mail?)…and no, it’s not an autographed picture of myself).