I don’t know if I told you guys this, but in about 2 months, I am having a second baby.

Holy pajamas, batman.

I mean, if anyone was planned, it was this baby, let’s be honest here, but for some reason it has only recently begun to sink in that I will shortly be pushing crotch parasite #2 out of my cooter. And I couldn’t be more thrilled about it.

Aside from one niggling detail. At age 26, I will have 2 children. ChildREN. Like the transition from preschooler to kindergartner, for some reason this change feels huger than huge. Massive. Suddenly, in my mind’s eye I go from looking chic and trendy (let me dream, people) to wearing mom jeans with white keds. And have a muffin top. I DON’T WANT TO WEAR SENSIBLE SHOES AND SHOP AT KOHLS!!

So, immediately I decide that I must change something. But what?

The first thing that pops into my addled (but very typical female) mind is to dye my hair, which is my natural color for the first time in I don’t know how long. I envisioned a kind of punk rock hairdo in a funky style. Scratch that, dude. When I am NOT pregnant and/or nursing a boobfruit, I suck at dying my hair. I don’t imagine I’ll be ‘doing’ my hair daily for the next several months. When I do, I will reward myself with a rockin’ dye job, done by someone other than my husband. Oh yes, ladies, he does hair too.

The second thing that pops into my head is to get another tattoo. Now, before I got pregnant with this one, my late birthday present for myself was going to be a new tattoo. As it turned out, turning 26 made for a sweet-assed union between the sperm and egg. If I can’t eat hot dogs, I certainly cannot get ink. Especially since I have a horrible reaction to the red dye and would be unable to medicate myself properly.

So I resolved to get the tattoo. But of what? And where? This is where my inability to be creative is highlighted: I have two tattoos. One on either foot. Both mean something extremely personal, and the last one came from an exact QUOTE from a conversation that I had with a friend. It’s not rocket science, my brain.

And this is where I turn to you, dear Internet. You see, I need your help. What else can I possibly do to stave off the inevitable mom-ness that will come with this baby?

P.S. I was completely unable to find a diaper bag with a skull and crossbones on it. I settled for having to make my own. It’s sassy as fcuk.

1. What did you do in 2006 that you’d never done before?

Juggled two mortgages. Eventually sold House #1.

And no, we are not moving in 2007. Not if I can help it. Unlike my husband, I am not a nomad.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I have never really made a resolution for New Years. Not because I don’t believe in resolutions themselves, but because I can never think of something that I will be sure that I will do in the new year. And I don’t want to feel guilty for not completing them later on. I have enough guilt.

I didn’t resolve to, but I quit smoking this year. Next year, I’m sure I’ll resolve to lose the baby weight. But I won’t resolve to do it on January 1.

3. What would you like to have in 2007 that you lacked in 2006?

A second son. And a million dollars. Because, really, how else can I paper a room with dollar bills or get a Grill?

4. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Maintaining my sanity (stop laughing).

5. What was the best thing you bought?

My bumble-bee house. I freaking love my house.

6. Whose behavior merited celebration?

Daver’s. He has not killed me yet. He is also 99% of the reason that I have maintained my sanity.

and

Benner’s. He has made my life eversomuch better every single second of every single day. Mushy? Maybe. True? Absolutely.

7. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Britney Spears.

8. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

My ultrasound. Finding out that I am having a healthy baby boy.

Moving the fcuk back outta my parents house (we moved there in January for a month while we waited to close on our house). Sweet Jesus. That was awful.

Getting over (mostly) hyperemesis gravidarum.

9. What song will always remind you of 2006?

Slow Down Baby.

10. Compared to this time last year, are you:

i. happier or sadder? Happier

ii. thinner or fatter? Fatter: But I do have a parasite now.

iii. richer or poorer? Richer.

11. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Stopping to smell the flowers.

12. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Worrying about things I cannot control.

13. What was your favorite TV program?

Law and Order: Criminal Intent. My husband, Vincent D’Onofrio is super-sexxy, even if y’all are haters.

14. What was the best book you read?

The Curious Incident of the Dog and the Nighttime.

15. What was your greatest musical discovery?

By far the best album I bought this year was “Back to Basics.”

16. What was your favorite film of this year?

I’m really not much of a movie person. I rarely see movies in the theater. Of the three I saw this year, the best was:

United 93.

17. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I had a nice BBQ with some good girlfriends that I haven’t seen much since. I miss them.

I got wasted on Cosmos and champagne.

Then I got pregnant. So, I got a Hot Beef Injection for my birthday. BOO-YEAH.

18. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Eschewing the horrible habit that I picked up from my husband: worrying about things over which you have no control. I have since stopped. It’s neither fulfilling nor does it help.

19. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2004?

Pregnant and itchy?

20. What kept you sane?

Dave.

and

Ben.

21. What political issue stirred you the most?

To wear underwear or to freeball it?

22. Who was the best new person you met?

I didn’t meet anyone interesting this year. At least, not that I can remember.

23. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2006:

“Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.”

24. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

“Everybody’s talkin’ all this stuff about me, why don’t they just let me live? I don’t need permission, make my own decisions, that’s my prerogative”

When I turned 16 and decided that I needed a job to fund my shoe habit, I chose to be a hostess at the Mill Race Inn, where my brother had once worked as the head chef. The restaurant industry is almost unlike any other, and few will understand the seemingly inconsequential stories that former waitstaff relate (This one time? I had this table that WANTED SEPARATE CHECKS! AND SODA REFILLS!) but I’m pulling one outta the vaults that I *think* people will get.

Sunday Mornings at MRI were always a zoo, full of old women who had been coming to the Mill Race longer than I’d been alive, and plenty of yuppies, forgoing their Morning Starbucks Ritual once a week for brunch. Reservations would be booked weeks in advance, and the 10:30-1 PM time slot was always a premium time for people to grab brunch. We’d turn away our fair share of Walk-Ins citing overbooked reservations about every 5 minutes or so.

THIS Sunday, the one in question, I had been called in early, as the other two hostesses had called in sick, leaving just me. My manager and I ran the front, frantically answering phone calls, seating people, and overseeing the dining room in general. By 11:30 I was in the weeds, and the people kept pouring in.

A couple came in with their two youngish kids without a reservation, and my manager took them in graciously, instructing me to take them to one of our best River View tables. This was unbelievable for my usually-conservative manager. I took them in, my manager ran in back, and I noted both

1) the phone ringing on two different lines

2) several sets of people had walked in and were waiting impatiently at the hostess stand and were looking at the reservation sheet for their names (a personal pet peeve)

as I was walking these people to their table. Knowing that I was the ONLY ONE who was going to make it back up front to take care of those people and get the phone, I brusquely set their menus down, told them to ‘enjoy their brunch’ and was turning to run back up front when the dude pulled me back.

‘Excuse me, can we get a highchair?’ I reluctantly turned around and said politely, ‘I’m a little busy right now, but Jonathan [busboy] here [grabbing his arm] can get you one.’

Jon agreed and was physically in the act of getting the highchair as I walked back up front.

The rest of the day was just as hectic, with everyone wanting SOMETHING extra from us, a better table, a discount, someone to complain to, and we were getting ready to close up brunch when the same couple that I had sat were walking out. I smiled at them and bid my farewells, but the man headed up to my manager and began to berate her.

Curious, I listened in.

What had we done?

I could only catch bits and pieces of it without getting closer to them, but I could hear several comments, “Racist! Rude! Blah, blah, blah! Obviously racist.”

Who the HELL were they talking about? The staff was professional enough to really care less about someone’s skin color. I’d never heard ANYONE make a comment whatsoever about The Race Card because frankly, no one gave a fuck.

I was DYING to hear who they were talking about, and a couple minutes later, my manager comes marching up to me.

‘Rebecca, these people think that you are a RACIST because you didn’t get them a high chair and because you were rude to them.’ She launched into a tirade about what these people had said about me, but my ears were pounding and my head felt tingly, so I heard nothing more.

I sputtered loudly, turning from red to white to red again as the blood couldn’t decide where to go. I was FAR too busy to note anyone’s skin color, and I could care less about a biracial couple.

On the radar of things I’d noted about these people were such things as ‘he has nice shoes’ and ‘those kids are super cute.’ I had never been so genuinely shocked by something someone had accused me of before or since.

In essence, I had treated these people EXACTLY the same as I had treated every other table that day. Except, I cooed over how cute the kids were. Because they were. really. damn. cute.

The only thing I had noted–only AFTER he left–was the Big Ass Chip On His Shoulder. You can skew anyone’s behavior to make it suit the preconceived discrimination, and maybe they had dealt with plenty of people who DID care about their racial status, but I was totally not one of them. And really, if you want to know the kind of tables I hated to wait on, they had NOTHING to do with skin color.

I cared MUCH more about his shoes.

The rumors are indeed true. We are moving back to civilization.

Fed up with the blatant snobbery of Oak Park coupled with living in the ‘hood, Daver and I have decided it will be in our best interests to move right back where I started from, oh do-dah-day. Call us ‘sell-outs’ or ‘suburbanites’ til you turn electric blue in your face, it will be lost on us.

Sure, the city is a whirlwind place, teeming with new people and exhilarating experiences but how can you enjoy it with a small child? And why, pray tell, would one want to pay MORE for goods and services, common variety of course, as we all know that I’d pay through the nose for a wax replica of the vagina of Katherine the Great, but hey, this is Chicago, not France. I guess that I can still find Chicago a neato place from the suburbs, which may be impossible for most of you to understand.

I like wide open spaces, devoid entirely of homeless men showing me their penises and scabs. I appreciate not being panhandled on every street corner, each sob story more impressive than the last, all, apparently involving missing train fare. I like being able to park in places that I would like to shop (or rob, but who’s counting?) and not have to beat off all of the eco-friendly vehicles with my behemoth of a truck.

I love that traveling from one point to another for such goods and services as ‘groceries’ and ‘gasoline’ isn’t such an arduous journey taking upwards of 30 minutes in the car.

Each way. I like that said grocery stores DO NOT HIRE SECURITY GUARDS. ESPECIALLY AT THE GROCERY STORE. THAT IS SO FUCKING CREEPY.

What I adore most of all is that there is only one valuable color for currency in St. Charles. It is not, miraculously, hemp, nor is it a muted earth tone procured ONLY at Whole Foods, it is green and it is great.

So we’re off to the land of gas-guzzling monster Hum-Vee’s; off to the land of wide open spaces, off to wherever the hell is far, far away from Oak Park.

Fuck you Oak Park, I don’t want you back.

Hi Internet, how are you?

It’s been awhile since we’ve last spoken, I know, I know. I’m sorry I didn’t call. See, the thing is, I’ve been a real raging bitch for the past 6 months or so, and have been terrified to let you see my wrath. I seem to piss people off without meaning to, and if I’m meaning to, I guess that I’m afraid that I’ll ruin any chance of Ben and Baby G-Unit having a normal life. You know, because the Internet can tell him how horrid I really am.

Either way, Internet, I have something to tell you: I’m pregnant! And it’s not yours, it’s The Daver’s. It also appears to have a comically large weenis and enjoys tap dancing on my bladder. Just like his daddy.

This pregnancy has not been without peril, Internet. I had a tear in my placenta causing some frightening first trimester bleeding then I was stricken by a mild case of hyperemesis graviorum. It was fun. It still IS fun.

But last night, something NEW happened.

See, Internet, I feel I need to be honest here. One 1.5 pound baby tap dancing on your bladder often = a little bit of pee in your undies. It’s not hot, no, but it is normal.

Now last night, there was a significantly greater amount of pee in my knickers and I began to get worried. The baby had been mercifully (probably due largely to the fact that I promised him a ‘beat down like no other’ if he didn’t give my bladder a bit of rest) kicking my colon and/or trying to escape through my belly button and avoiding my bladder.

Of course, Internet, this had to happen on a Saturday night when my doctors were out of the office.

So, off we trundled to the ER to make sure I did not have a small tear in my amniotic sac. After having my cervix and/or vagina examined for about 2 hours I was released to get my McDonald’s Carmel sundae and Diet Coke.

Diagnosis: Female Urinary Stress Incontinence (thankgod) r/t pregnancy.

That’s right, Internet, I peed my pants and then made the hospital tell me so.

Guess the giant box of ‘Oops I Crapped My Pants’ I bought for The Daver is going to be used by me.

5 Things:

1. I played concert cello for 10+ years. I toured all over Europe and the States. I was actually quite good, but I quit in college when I decided that smoking reefer took much less effort. Actually, that’s a total lie. I quit because I was tired of it. And honestly? While other people have lamented it loudly, I haven’t looked back once.

2. I spent my entire childhood sickly. I had an ear infection at 2 weeks when I was a newborn and was sick ever since. When I was 14, I had my tonsils out. It was only then when I was introduced to my sweet, sweet friend Vicodin. When the surgeon made the initial cut, the black necrotic tissue trapped within poured out into my mouth.

Heh. Wanna make out?

3. When I was an ickle kid, probably about 3 years old, I got lost in the grocery store. Some clerk found me wandering around and brought me back to the service desk. When the bat-faced old lady asked my name, I told her it was ‘Smurfette.’ She didn’t believe me. I insisted.

Finally, she got so pissed off with me that she got on the PA and announced that they had a small girl at the service desk with ‘pink shoes, pink socks, pink pants, pink shirt, and curly hair.’

I totally dressed myself that day. Because OBVIOUSLY.

4. Although I have successfully given up coffee, alcohol and smoking, I have been immersed in the most irritating and painful addiction to nose spray. I cannot function without it. Dr. Google and I had discussed this at great length and have decided to let things be. I’m all ‘rebound congestion’ and he’s all ‘you’re an addict’ and I’m all like ‘yeah, but what else do I have left to be addicted to?’and he was all ‘ADDICT.’

He’s an asshole.

5. Babies ‘R’ Us and I have always had a horrible relationship. I have always hated it, what with it’s hugely tall shelves and inability to hire anyone with more than 4 or 5 functioning brain cells. Having had what only can be described as ‘premature nesting obsession,’ Dave and I trekked out to EVERY OTHER CONCEIVABLE STORE THAT MIGHT HAVE BABY FURNITURE LIKE A DRESSER OR AN ARMOIRE. We even went to Baby Depot (which is s.c.a.r.y.) and Wicks.

In the end, we were defeated, especially after learning that the internet charges $70+ for shipping furniture, so onward to Babies ‘R’ Us we trudged. And we were in and out within 20 minutes with a changing table, chiffenrobe (whatEVER that is) and a glider. It was un_fucking_real.

And as for me, these days I’m neither here nor there.

Now you may have NOTICED it before, but I promise that NOTHING humbles you like maternity shopping once did. Thankfully for us now, being pregnant is so ‘Hollywood’ that it’s almost fun to buy the clothes. Gone are the tent-like mumus and the belly panels. Gone are the denim-free faux-jeans that I wore while last gestating

(whimpers: HOW can jeans be DENIM FREE and still called JEANS? I give up).

Hell, if you wanted to, you could easily shop in the maternity stores without being pregnant. Aside from the ‘Baby on Board’ shirts you’d be good to go. A little roomy (perfect for the bar) but damn comfy.

This afternoon, I dragged my loving husband out to get new pants for me. Sounds cruel, I know, but I promise that he had the checkbook in mind when he took me today. I grabbed the pair of pants in my size, he picked me out a shirt, and away we went.

I got home and gleefully pulled my pants on in the privacy of my own bathroom, of course because I happen to look quite like a hippo these days, and was immediately vexed. WHY was I having a hard time pulling my pants on?

The waist fit.

The hips fit.

The calves fit.

Holy shit, these pants are caught up on my ANKLES?

Yes, faithful readers, I had inadvertently bought Skinny Legged maternity jeans.

What nimrod decided that what pregnant women REALLY NEEDED is to wear pants that make them look fatter and more oddly shaped? Sure, they can look good on SOME people, but really? Most pregnant women would look gawky and uncomfortable (not to mention shaped like a hippo in toe shoes) in these.

So now I have to go back to the trendy maternity store and carefully inspect the leg of each and every pair of jeans I can find. Hopefully, they’ve left some jeans with some flair in them.

Otherwise, it’s off to the tailor I go. Grumbling and grousing the whole way.

I know that I’d mentioned before that I totally didn’t care which flavor crotch parasite I was having. And this was true. But what I neglected to mention is that I am totally terrified of having a baby girl.

My experiences with girls have not always been positive. I don’t really want more girlfriends. I have had bad luck with some of those that I have had. My own mother and I have never been on great terms.

I was equally terrified to find out that Ben was a boy, as I was convinced he was a girl, so my intuition is clearly skewed. I imagined that they would break things, have to own trucks and trains, and pee on the seat. Now that mine is 5, I can honestly tell you, ‘Yes, they do.’ But boys are easy, too. There is no drama.

I was stereotyping my crotch parasite before it was born.

The upside to having a girl is that I would cease to be outnumbered (even all the animals but one are male in my house). Even WHEN the men in my family go to Best Buy, play video games or golf, I stood a chance at having someone to go convince me to buy shoes. And clothes. And we could lunch, like ladies and stuff. Girl clothes are freaking adorable, and I knew how much fun I would have buying them. And I could do hair! And makeup! And have someone to be girly with!

I could impart my knowledge of shaving legs and douching with someone WHO MIGHT CARE, unlike the menfolk with whom I currently live.

But this is just going to have to wait…

…because it’s another boy! I am the Queen of the Sausages, officially.

Now where the fuck is my tiara?

Yes, folks, we saw the twig and crackleberries of our newest son yesterday. He looks happy, healthy and totally willing to show us his willie.

Sounds like he’s taking after his father, already.

Oh, and by the by Dave?

That Britney shirt is waiting.

‘Oh my God, LOOK at this! LOOK at my belly! I have FAT ROLLS up to my arm pit. Have you ever SEEN someone with fat rolls there?’

‘No baby. You look FINE.’

‘If you squeeze my belly button, it looks like a butt.’ (simulates farting noises) ‘That’s fucking disgusting.’

‘You’re weird. Seriously, you look FINE!’

‘LOOK at these rolls! WHO gets rolls like that?’ (pokes belly disgustedly)

(sighs) ‘You look wonderful, sweetie.’

‘NO, I DON’T! I look FAT!’

‘If you don’t stop pissing and moaning about it, I’m going to put a moratorium on you walking around without your shirt.’

‘But YOU distracted me from putting it back on. LOOK, I can’t see my belt! EWWWWW!’

‘You know, if all of your friends could see you right now, NO ONE would have any sympathy for you.’

‘Do YOU have any sympathy for me?’ (sniffs dramatically)

Aunt Becky: ‘Dude, I’m pregnant, what do YOU think?’

The Daver: ‘I’m fatter than you and YOU’RE pregnant! LOOK my belly is BIGGER THAN YOURS’

Aunt Becky: ‘You know full well that I’ve lost weight.’

(interrupts) ‘And now you’re skinnier than me!’

Aunt Becky: ‘But I’m going to put it right back on soon.’

The Daver: ‘And I’m STILL gonna be fatter than you!’

(buries head in hands)

Aunt Becky: ‘I cannot believe I’m having this conversation. I suddenly understand men everywhere in a whole new way.’

The Daver: ‘I’m gonna go take a BUBBLE BATH! I’m too upset to deal with you right now.’

(flounces off upstairs.)

There is nothing in the world like the unsolicited advice one receives the moment that the second line turns pink. While I am aware that I did not singularly invent pregnancy, nor am I carrying the Christ-child, I *have* been pregnant before, and have managed to raise a successful kindergartner (shit, we’re old), people still tend to forget and remind me about having a baby.

Specifically, why it sucks so much, which is the attitude I dislike most. Sure, you’re not apt to scare *me* about it, but what about the REAL newbies? They don’t need to hear about a 354 hour labor or 4th degree tears! Don’t scare ’em until they’ve experienced it firsthand! Alas, I digress.

As kindly as I can, I try to answer their well-meaning questions and gently extract myself from the situation before having to talk about 1) vaginal discharge or 2) breast discharge. Yes, complete strangers do ask about such personal matters. Should they get too personal for me (especially if I am in the presence the XY contingent of my family), I simply begin to ask if their husbands still want to have sex with them, and if so, what is their favorite position? Shuts ’em the hell up right quick.

Most recently, and if I remember the most common question that I get is regarding the baby’s sex. More specifically, when I explain that I do not know what I am having yet, they ask what I *want* to have. My answer is succinct enough, all right, but never seems to appease them entirely.

My answer is this: honestly? I don’t *care* what I have.

Not.one.bit.so.long.as.the.baby.is.healthy. And my reasons for finding out the sex? Simple. Not to BOND with the baby or some shit, but to be able to SHOP for the baby.

(I can hear the Pregnancy/Parenting Police among us collectively gasp in disgust. Don’t worry, your children are OBVIOUSLY better than mine. Feel better now?)

I have decided to put together a little list of the pros and cons of having either sex to prove to you that I am not secretly holding a candle for pink or blue.

Cuter clothes? Girls, hands down. Boy clothes are terrible, and take much work to scour racks looking for something worthwhile. To be fair, I do own a fuckton of boys clothes (and nothing else) which would be very economical, but even THEY don’t compare to the cuteness that is girl clothes.

Cuter toys? Boys. Really, I hated dolls when *I* was a kid, and I don’t want Disney Princess or Bratz shit in my house.

Diapering? Girls. I have gotten whizzed on my face many freaking times it’s not even funny. PLUS, cleaning liquid shit from the twig and giggle berries takes for freaking ever. Balls= crease laden.

Temperament? Boys. Girls are fucking dramatic and whiny, boys tend to solve their problems with fists rather than having to ‘talk about it.’ Sheesh, do I *look* like I can handle that shit? I don’t like to *talk about things,* I like to use my fists o’ fury.

Relationship later in life? TIE. Girls are assholes when they’re teenagers (just ask me. I know. I was one), but become your friends when they’re older. Boys are not assholes (to their mothers) as teens, but are lost to you once they get married.

Genitals? Girls, again. Why? Because I share the same parts. I can teach you to clean your labia. It’s a nice swipe. Cleaning The Penis is hard. As is teaching The Penis to stand up and pee without whizzing all over your freshly laundered towels while you shriek for your penis-laden husband to come and help, which he does not do and does not understand why a Penis is needed to help a Penis pee in the toilet. (sense a pattern here? I do.)

Dating? Boys, but by a hair. While I almost made it a tie, as with a Girl I will have to worry about my poor husband weeping silently while polishing his shotgun, I remembered one key fact. My son will not come home pregnant. Nor *should* he get too weepy and brooding when he is dumped.

Blah, blah, blah, beauty in either sex, squirt squirt.

I can’t wait to find out so I can get my shop-on!