I’m in a total fog today, which I am attibuting to my wonky thyroid. The baby slept well last night, and yet I am still exhausted and full of The Laze. I cannot seem to get my ass off of the couch to do anything, and it’s driving me completely bonkers.

To compound matters further, Alex seems to be completely immersed in some nasty attatchment issues, so I cannot physically be farther away than two feet at any point in time, because I might disappear for good! Forever! Which in his mind is about thirty-five seconds. It’s very sweet and completely heartwarming most of the time, but sometimes, I just have to go to the bathroom, kid. Alone.

What I need to do is to get off my duff and make an appointment with an endocrinologist, but that would be facing my biggest fears: I am not suffering from an underactive thyroid, but actually full of The Crazy. THEN where would I be?

Stupid hormones.

I’m pretty sure that we’ve established that my two children couldn’t be more dissimilar if I’d tried, haven’t we? Alex is an Eater, Ben is a Sleeper, and yet I’m still shocked when I find yet another difference.

Alex is currently holding strong as my cuddliest child (which is my polite way of saying needy), which vacillates from flattering the hell out of me and driving me bonkers. Most of the time, it’s incredibly endearing that when you walk past him, he strains his entire frame while protesting loudly, like “Hey, bitches, I’m down here. Pick my ass up!” When he’s plucked out of whatever gizmo he’d been happily occupying UNTIL YOU REMINDED HIM THAT HE HAS OTHER OPTIONS, he’ll burry his head in your neck and try to give your jaw a hickey. Pretty cute, right?

Until you are actually attempting to do something that does not involve lugging a 17 pound child around, like, for instance, brushing your hair. Or cooking on the hot stove. Then, it’s just a bit tedious.

My neighbors must think I’m a bit touched in the head (especially after they’ve all seen me walking around without my shirt. Sorry for any infertillity that may have caused, but the kid wouldn’t let go of the boobs for very long, and I would just kind of forget that the ladies were just hanging out there, because, well, THEY WERE ALWAYS OUT THERE.), because now, if you were to come by when I was trying to do something, ANYTHING, you’d likely find me crawling around on the floor, past the couches that block his view of me until I was completely out of his line of sight.

(whew, that was a long sentence. Can we say run-on, boys and girls? I know I can!)

It sounds excessive, I’m sure, but the thought had recently entered my head to blow up a full sized picture of myself, glue it onto a Becky-shaped cardboard cutout, and be done with it. Maybe I could even just past a picture of my head on the hulla girl.

Because somedays, somedays, I’d really like to get stuff done.

With a heart as cold and black as mine, it should come as a major shock to anyone who does not know me that I love the holidays. I LOVE the holidays. So much that when they’re all over and it’s summer I’m genuinely sad, because there are no decent summer holidays, well, unless you count my birthday, which, after the fiasco of this year, will never again be counted unless I am promised Vicodin (the one highlight of this years ER trip). Mmm, Vicodin.

(Do you hear that noise, Internet? That is the sound of my husband, somewhere, offering up a prayer that I never, ever have an extremely painful injury that requires loads of Vicodin. Because I would shortly become an addict. My father recently sustained a dumb injury–he walked off the edge of the sidewalk and tore a ligament–I guess strange injuries run in my family. Sorry preemptively Alex and Ben. My initial reaction was to wonder OUT LOUD to my mother if he might notice if he were missing one…or thirty.)

Well, um, anyway, yeah, the holidays.

I was recently at Target, oh joy of joys, and I fell in love with this Halloween decoration. I went home, slept on it, then convinced my husband (in all of his thoughtful generousity) to spend his birthday money on it for me. Er, US.

Back to Target we merrily trekked, where I was immediately informed that they had no more in stock, but that I could “call back in the morning and see if they’d gotten any more in.” Har-dee-har-har, RIGHT. Because on the next breath, the ever helpful employee informed me that even if they had one in stock, and I promised to run immediately over, they would not hold it for me. He seemed unfazed that I had a baby with me, as he was probably blissfully unaware that going ANYWHERE with a baby who is not in one of those awesome portable carseats is tricky, if not impossible, especially on a schedule. AND WITHOUT THE PROMISE OF MY SWEET, SWEET DECORATION.

Since we live in Suburbia, there are at least 3 Target’s in my immediate vicinity (can you say amazing?!?). So after I raked all of the leaves in the yard AND did the catboxes BY MYSELF, Dave was summarily informed that he, in fact, owed me a trip to another one. Inside we ran, through the gales of wind (it’s really, really windy today), I myself nearly knocking over an old lady and the Starbucks chick in the process, where we ended up in the Halloween area. And were promptly informed that they were ALSO out. But we could try a store 30 miles away, but no, they wouldn’t hold it for me. So, I could very well trek out there and not have my sweet, sweet decoration.

Fuck that, I said. Not being an overly competitive person, I have completely given up. I will be at Target again this weekend, and if they should have it in stock, I will be happy to pick it up.

Otherwise, I give up. The consolation stuff I got was cool, but I’m still a bit bitter. And suprised, really. When did my taste in decorations go so mainstream?

Besides, of course, the totally rad Coors Lite sign in my living room. That NEVER goes out of style.

I have decided what I will do when I finally lose the rest of the baby weight: I’m getting a shorter (not too short, I look like Pinhead even when thin) haircut. Because, you know, longer hair hides the 30 extra pounds.

But several days prior, I will be doing something I’ve always wanted to do: I’m going to give myself a mullet. And it will be freaking sexxy.

——————

Several nights ago, during a dinner that Dave didn’t happen to make it to, Ben proclaimed that he was going to draw a picture of his house with Alex and I in it. So I asked if Dave was going to be in the picture as well, to which he replied, after thinking about it for awhile,

“…Yes….BUT he will be crying.”

I nearly choked on my own saliva.

—————–

Wendy’s new slogan “That’s Right” irritates me tremendously, because every time I’ve ever been to Wendy’s (which is very, very infrequently), my order has always been completely wrong. I’m considering complaining to coorporate about it because they are LYING. It’s NEVER Right.

—————–

I left the baby in his Exersaucer near the television yesterday while I ran down to throw a load of laundry into the dryer. When I got back, I realized that he was studiously watching a television program. I heard the phrase “incestuous relationship with his sister” and realized that I had left him to watch a biography of Caligula, The Deviant Emperor.

Somewhere, some therapist is rejoycing at the shear amount of money he/she will be recieving in the future from my children.

————–

Over the weekend, my father, the pharmacist informed me that all of the infant cold remedies had been pulled from the shelves as some 65 deaths had occured over the last 10 years from parental misuse.

Unfortunately for my son’s poor chest, he’s right. I checked today.

————–

Operation Dave’s Little Minion is commencing full force this evening. Dave and Ben will be heading out to the unveiling of the new Star Wars exhibit.

Man, it’s too bad that the baby is sick and I can’t go…really, I’m crying.

Between this and the adoration of video games, it’s no wonder that I keep telling Dave that Ben will live in our basement for most of his adulthood.

The summer after Alex was born, I decided to sort through the Tupperware coffin of loose pictures in my parents basement and take the ones that I wanted. I was tired of not having any pictures of me as a baby around and imagined huge battles between my brother and I over who got to keep the picture of our stupid dog Silas.

So, I dug in one day, and gathered a bag up.

I had lofty goals, Internet, you see. I was going to:

a) sort the pictures chronologically

b) throw out repeats/crappy pictures and

niner) place them all neatly in a book or thirty.

I got to about age 6 in my life before I threw in the towel and shoved the whole lot into a far smaller Rubbermaid bin and shoved it into a corner. My father and grandfather took pictures the way I collect orchids: obsessively. I was, apparently, a favorite target.

Years later, it’s still sitting there, collecting dust and mocking me quietly.

I shudder when I think about having to sort through the amount of things that my in-laws have saved. To call my mother-in-law a pack rat would be a grave disservice to pack rats everywhere. She is a pack rat times approximately 6,879. I don’t pretend to understand, so I just smile and nod, which seems easier to all parties involved and wins me more Daughter-In-Law Of The Year* trophies.

So I go through our house about every 3-4 months and purge the fuck out of everything, while, of course, Dave and Ben are away so that they cannot protest when I get rid of their collection of ancient reciepts and old mouldering socks. It’s great for my soul.

When Alex was born, I badgered my mother-in-law in the patented Becky-Drip-Drip Method, which I liken to being pecked to death by an overly large chicken, for baby pictures of The Daver. I love baby pictures of people that I know, and I was dying to see them.

Each and every time I was met with an excuse. Turns out that in the vast multitude of boxes, she has lost them somewhere. But during a visit, she’d brought up a handful that she’d had lying around and whipped them out to show me. Turns out that Alex looked very little like The Daver. Who knew?

Having recently given up on the task of placing my pictures in an album I pulled out a stack from my own babyhood to show her.

So we flipped on and on through the pictures of Baby Becky, while I commented on my fathers’ Iranian Taxi Driver glasses and his David Crosby mustache. She’d laugh uncomfortably, obviously trying to get away from me, but having nowhere to really go, she was stuck.

Eventually, it dawned on me that I was showing my EXTREMELY CONSERVATIVE mother-in-law naked pictures of daughter-in-law. As a dimpled baby. Occasionally being nursed. But nearly always naked.

Including the bear skin rug set.

“Heh, heh, heh,” I sputtered, trying to recover from the situation and perhaps mend the ever-widening chasm between us.

“What’s up with kids in the eighties? Heh-heh-heh.”

I couldn’t stop myself.

“It’s like they were never wearing clothes. Heh-heh-heh.” Trying to salvage the situation.

“WELL,” she replied, her irritation seeping though her tightly clipped words, “Maybe not in YOUR house.”

Great, I thought to myself, just fucking GREAT, barely suppressing the laughter. Now she thinks you come from a NAKED Family. I snickered into my cupped hand.

Oh well, I thought to myself as she got up in a huff and walked away, leaving me stranded on a couch, in a pool of naked baby pictures. That’s better than thinking you came from The Jello Mold Family.

*I am the only daughter-in-law. Therefore, I have to be the best.

At about 7 months pregnant, I got myself a facial, for the first time in my whole life (I am SO going to love the search terms that get people here now that I placed that choice word in a post. Hot.) because pregnancy Round Two didn’t seem to agree with me. I had developed sort of an ashen, Don’t Come Too Close To Me Because I Look Ill And You Might Catch It complexion, and I assumed that it would help.

It didn’t (but delivery did!), and I walked out of the salon $100 poorer AND blotchy faced.

For months both before and after, I’d lusted after a mirror, a big portable mirror so that I could pluck the ole caterpillers without using a 1.5×1.5 compact mirror. This was before I had realized how prohibitavely expensive these were (I tell you, it’s always the strange things that cost a fortune), so I waited. Eventually, I found one on clearance (from $60!!!! Who on EARTH would spend that kind of money on a mirror, I don’t know) that came with all of the bells and whistles that I hadn’t actually required. I can now see my face with 4x magnification AND backlit!

I finally had the guts to pull it out of the packaging today, and oh holy hell, how scary is my face at that degree of magnification!?! It’s like each individual pore can now be seen waving at me in the happiest possible way while the hairs on my face wave lazily in the breeze. It’s so frightening that I am actually wondering how my friends put up with seeing my face when they come by.

I may have to Brown Bag it until I can tame the beast.

This weekend was supposed to house the night that I was to have completely free of the screamy baby.

Ha, ha, ha, ha.

Both Dave and Alexander came down with the cold that had taken up residence in my sinuses and because my resistance is way, way down due mainly to my complete lack of sleep, is still holding tightly onto me. So, Saturday night I headed to bed nice and geriatrically early (for me: 9:30), Nyquil firmly on board. 10:00, 11:00, 12:00, 1:00 the sweet baby awoke for no apparent reason other than the boogies in his nose were driving him crazy, and that he wanted to make me wish that I were dead.

In order to inflict exquisite torture upon him because I am a Mean Person, I decided to pull out the Booger Sucker and do some work each time. But by 1am, I had HAD it with him and deposited him none to sweetly with his father, whose nose full of loud boogies had earned him banishment to the downstairs couch.

Back to bed I happily treked (actually full of guilt, but hey), only to be awoken by my husband 30 minutes later who waltzed in to get the Booger Sucker. Then, 20 minutes after that, back in they trekked, Alex now visably hysterical. Maternal Guilt took over, and I pulled Alex into bed with me. Where he stayed until several hours later at 7:30am.

Which effectively meant that I started out Sunday morning worse off than I’d previously been.

*Sigh.*

Today I finally broke down and did something I had vowed not to do again for a long while.

We were out shopping for something resembling a winter coat for the Wee One but what we ended up with was one for the Big One. See, I couldn’t remember what on Earth you are supposed to dress a baby in for the winter. Standard coats don’t work well because they ride up and look all uncomfortable, but the snowsuits are too damn hot for everyday use.

We found absolutely nothing, so we’re going to have to make do with some sweaters and blankets for a bit. I suppose I could throw him in his Halloween costume, but I have a feeling people might suspect me of being clinically insane if I show up to do my grocery shopping with a gigantic hotdog in tow. Oh yeah, a hotdog. Because someday he too will want to be Darth Vader for Halloween instead of a chicken (ahem, BEN.).

While we looked, Daver picked himself out a pair of jeans, which emboldened me to go alooking for something other than maternity gauchos or maternity yoga pants to wear. You see, a couple of months ago, I decided to go and purchase myself a pair of pants to wear that didn’t have an elastic waistband. The results were disasterous and completely humiliating, and I can assure you that if you did happen to see me weeping at the Gap that horrible day, no, I’m not insane. Just feeling discouraged.

I was only able to wear those pants a handful of times because each time I did so, I felt extremely discouraged and upset with myself. I didn’t WANT to be a fat pregnant lady and I didn’t WANT to be a fat postpartum lady, my body just likes to make damn certain that the baby is well padded and fed.

But winter is a-coming quickly around here (so glad I just bought that window A/C unit!) and the stretch pants are starting to unravel, so I sucked it up. I pulled out a pair of pants from the stack and shamefully marched my ass into the dressing room, fully expecting them not to fit.

Fit they did, and I could not be more thankful of that. My diet, after months of trying with other methods, is finally working.

To be clear, they are NOT the size that I was before I got pregnant, but hey, they’re only 2-3 sizes bigger. AND THEY DON’T HAVE AN ELASTIC WAISTBAND!

And now I feel like a million bucks.

Especially since that 0.5 lbs gain on the scale this week is neatly attributed to the fact that after 15 months, I once again have my period. Lucky, lucky me.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived life in the present moment. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism for me, but I was shocked when I actually graduated college, stunned when I finally got married, amazed when Alexander was born, and these were all events of which I had a ton of control over but felt as though I did not.

Or maybe it’s because when you have a baby, then a toddler, followed by a preschooler that you become so busy wrapped up in whatever is going on day to day (and occasionally feeling like this stage is never, ever going to end) that you forget that time does eventually, march on, and pretty soon, your oldest child is a Real Person. And suddenly, you must start behaving like a Real Parent, which has far different implications when your child becomes of school age.

I’m not sure, but I do know that I took each stage as it came and I never, ever looked at my tiny screaming baby Benjamin and thought, wow, someday he is going to need me to make snack for school AND NOT EMBARASS HIM IN THE PROCESS, GOD, MOM.

For a shamefully long time, I admit to having felt like an outsider to the Club of Parenthood. I vividly remember taking prenatal aquatics classes while pregnant with Ben, and I was completely shunned by the other women. Not only was I younger, but I was much younger, I had no house, I had no husband, therefore I was not as good as them. Later, the nurses and my own OB at the hospital were shocked by my love for my teeny ickle Ben, as were my own parents. After that, when he started preschool, I was constantly reminded of the gap between myself and the other parents, they were older, more established and most of all THEY REALLY UNDERSTOOD WHAT WAS GOING ON.

When Ben would go to birthday parties thrown by other kids, he’d come home with very thoughtfully exectued gift bags with matching shwag and candy, so incredibly unlike those that we would put together which consisted mainly of bags of stale chips from the pantry and leftover lighters we’d found lying around (y’know, for their crack pipes). While on days that Ben needed a lunch for a field trip, I’d run out and pick up a preservative-filled, nitrate laden, horrifying for you, Lunchables (shudder, shudder), these kids would have a nutritionally sound, perfectly cut, handmade, organic lunch. In matching tupperware.

We’ve signed up to do snack for his soccer team in the coming weeks, but neither of us is quite sure which day it is, which leads me to believe that whichever day it actually is, we’ll show up empty handed. So, like the good mother that I am, I’ll be forced to run out and pick up a couple dozen donuts and a big jug of coffee. For 6-year olds (for the record here, if I myself were bringing something to a party, it would be my standard bag ‘o’ Funyons and a box of chocolate covered donuts. I’m not creative.). But hey, don’t worry, I won’t forget the cream OR sugar. Don’t worry, Internet, I DO KNOW what’s important here!

But anyway, I find myself having to start to make the sort of rules that YOU remember your parents inflicting upon you: bedtime is between 7:00-7:45, only one hour of television/video games each day, don’t forget to brush your teeth and wipe your ass. And Internet, it feels weird.

I feel like a hack, an imposter, like I don’t really know what I’m doing. I haven’t read a parenting book, well, ever, aside from the one’s that promise to help your baby sleep through the night, I don’t have 1,001 creative ways to handle each situation, sometimes I find that a swift just punishment works far better than some kind of touchy feely “talk it out” punishment does.

Maybe we’re all just faking it ’til we make it, I’m not sure. The best that I can hope for is that he won’t have to spend TOO many thousands of dollars on his future therapist trying to undo all the damage that we’ve done. Like make him wear a “My Mom Rules” shirt in public. Frequently. That’s just cruel.

Some days, especially when it’s uncommon for you, it’s good to have a good morose day. Unfortunately for me, my brother seems to have inherited all of the good poetry writing genes, so I cannot seem to conjure up a good sad poem to save my life, which is what I imagine many people do during these days. If I tried, it would be something akin to:

The color blue
washes around me
Like so many cups of Diet Coke
Before lunchtime.
Oh McDonalds, how I want you!

When you read true beauty like that, it’s a damn wonder that I haven’t gotten a book deal to write Becky’s Deep And Poetic Poemes.

Okay, now that we’ve established that I cannot write a good poem to save my own life, what else is a person who hates chick flicks to do when she’s feeling bluer than normal?

If you said “Becky, you should listen to the works Leonard Cohen!” you’d win yourself the distinct honor of being able to see clearly into my sadly predictable mind. To me, there’s nothing better to listen to when you are feeling crappy than the despondant music of Leonard Cohen, because THERE is a man who really knows sadness. How can you not adore a line like, “You held onto me like I was a crucifix,” because everyone KNOWS those (get it?!? God, I’m hilarious. Where’s my standup career?) people.

To YouTube I went, to find what the freaky people have done with some of my favorite songs. I get such a charge out of looking up songs and people on YouTube, because it reminds me of how very normal I actually am, no matter what I happen to be feeling. I mean, go to the site, search for your favorite celebrity and find a photo montage dedicated to them. It’s very frightening what people do. In that vein, please do ignore the cheesy effects and/or pictures, because I swear to you on all that is holy that I a) would never make this sort of thing because b) I am computer illiterate. Plus, I’m not an idiot.

So it is my distinct honor to introduce a special version of “Music in the Morning.” This is my ode to depressive music.

Without a doubt, this is one of my all-time favorite songs in the whole wide world, regardless of how sad I may or may not be feeling. The lines in this song are just_so_awesome.

OhmyGod, this song is so achingly beautiful and yet so very sad (which is the case with many of his songs). It actually brings tears to my eyes, which is quite a rarity unless I have somehow managed to elbow myself in the boobs again. My words here are meaningless: listen to the song and weep.

Ah, finally a bit of a love song, but wait! it’s Leonard Cohen, so it’s also highly depressing. But sweet. I’ve loved this song since I was a wee lass, because, well, it’s a great song.

Remember back to the 80’s, when Christian Slater was all the rage, and he was starring in all of those great dark teen movies? I do. I was a bit young for Heathers and Pump Up The Volume, but my brother watched them religiously (he’s 10 years older than me), and since I thought that he was the coolest thing in the world, I watched them too. A leeeeeetle inappropriate for an 8-year old, but hell, when you find out that in first grade, when I had the chicken pox, I stayed home and watched Pink Floyd: The Wall, for the eleventy-hundreth time.

What’s interesting to me about this next song, is that whenever I happen to listen to it, I find another line that just sticks with me for the rest of the day and week. Today that line is “There’s gonna be a meter on your bed that will disclose, what everybody knows.” Get it? Because you’re a WHORE! Hahaha, whores! Concrete Blonde (remember them?!? Again with the 80’s loving brother!) did a cover of this one and it was actually pretty good, although I am usually strictly a no-cover kind of chickadee.

THEN, I get this email from my friend Chris, and words, they cannot describe this:

Although I do staunchly support The Britney, this song is all kinds of brilliant, and I’ll admit, she kinda deserved this.

Thanks, Chris, for snapping me (mostly) out of my funk. I’m so boring when I’m depressed.