When I was pregnant with my first, on a random doctor’s appointment, my OB (who had said, um, *maybe* 15 words to me during the whole pregnancy, but I didn’t care because Dr. Google kept me company, and who cares if your doctor holds your hand and tells you everything is okay? Not me.) heard something he didn’t like on my fetal doppler.

Apparently the fetal heart tones were not acceptable. Having not been able to pinpoint exactly WHAT was wrong with the heartbeat myself due to my non-trained ears, I just accepted it as well as my referral for an ultrasound the following day.

Which is how I planned to learn what flavor baby I was carrying. While it wasn’t something I had to wait for, it was something I had been waiting for.

A couple of weeks ago, at my last OB appointment, we planned our Anatomy Scan, which sounds scary as fuck which will tell me if my baby is indeed fucked up and shit. Since I tend not to worry until I have to (yes, I can get colon cancer, get hit by a car, or win the lottery. Why worry about it until I need to?), I am masking my concern with the very real excitement of learning exactly what flavor I’m cooking.

Sadly, just the same as the last time I was pregnant, I have not been able to make this pregnancy real and I’m hoping that hot dog or lackthereof will.

November 16 at 10 am.

To make this interesting, as all good parents (should) do, we have made a bet.

Winner gets the satisfaction of knowing that they are far superior and the ability to rub it in the others face.

Loser gets the punishment ascribed by the winner. Punishments have been picked.

Dave: *Girl*. If he should lose, he will wear a Britney Spears t-shirt for one whole week during such time when it cannot be masked by a winter coat.

Becky: *Boy* (only to make this interesting. I still have no fucking clue). I will have to wear a ‘Chicks Dig Unix’ t-shirt for one week without being masked by a winter coat. (as a total aside, this shirt will have to be in a comically large size, as I’m certain Mimi or Pea In A Pod won’t carry it)

Representin’ colors must be worn to the anatomy scan.

Aww yeah, Daver’s bustin’ out the pink.

If I’d have known that getting pregnant could be so hard, I’d have skipped the birth control entirely. I should amend that: getting pregnant when you actually WANT to be pregnant can be hard. I don’t actually think that the last time I was pregnant really had resulted from having sex, but alas, I digress.

Now, like miscarriages and abortions, people don’t often bring up the ‘œgetting pregnant’ stuff with any regularity, unless of course they were successful with their first attempt a la ‘œMy boys can swim!’ etc. What they don’t tell you in health class is that sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. When we first started trying, I admit that I was nervous. Like most things a la Becky, I tend to stick with my original plan regardless of circumstance and/or desire as I am one stubborn son of a bitch. I assumed (rightly so, considering my last experience) that the first time we’d have sex after going off birth control would result in a (small) bouncing new baby.

When I got my period, I was almost relieved. *Whew!* I thought, ‘œTHAT was a close one!’

The second month I was less so, but still relieved.

By the time I actually got pregnant, I was so blase about the whole thing that I took the test while smoking a cigarette and drinking a vodka/diet coke. I had inadvertantly bought the fancy assed digital pregnancy tests (they didn’t have THOSE 5 years ago!) that doesn’t leave you guessing (is that *really* a line? Shit. I can’t tell. It kinda looks like one in this light.). They are expensive as hell, so I was peeved to be using one to assuage my husband, as I *knew* that I was not pregnant. Hence the cigarette and vodka.

Well, I pissed on the stick, set it down and took a fat swig of my drink. After a few seconds, I double checked that I had properly executed the test (I’m telling you, it’s COMPLICATED), and while I was pondering the flashing bar (I am not so bright) the word ‘œPREGNANT’ popped up. I promptly spit-taked the drink all over the mirror and yelled ‘œYou’ve GOT to be fucking kidding me!’

One for the baby books, I know.

The proper way to tell Dave would have been by sending a singing candy gram or an engraved Tiffany’s rattle to his office (I have ideas, even I cannot execute them), I know, but I couldn’t have been more suprised if the dishwasher had sung Christmas Carols to me in perfect German. I was in no shape to suprise anyone else.

I unceramoniously shoved the stick under Dave’s nose and flopped down on the couch, clearly in shock. Where I sat for the next three hours, staring blankly at the test. When I finally came around 3 weeks later, I did a little research.

Some husbands give their wives jewelery for their birthdays. Mine gave me a healthy hot beef injection.

Due Date: April 9, 2007
Date of Conception: July 15, 2006 (God, I cannot wait to torture the child with this one!)

I make it no secret that almost no one appreciates my musical tastes, aside from possibly 13 year old girls and aging homosexuals. The last CD I bought was strategically placed into the cart, which was then taken to the checkout aisle, wherein I disappeared into the bathroom leaving my tender husband and 5-year old to pay for it.

Justin Timberlake done BROUGHT Sexyback.

Aunt Becky: ‘I totally need to get into more disco.’

The Daver: ‘Oh NO.’

Aunt Becky: ‘What the hell is wrong with disco? It’s cheerful and doesn’t evoke thoughts of suicide like *someone’s* music.’

(pauses)

Aunt Becky: ‘I mean, come ON! I love that ‘Electric Avenue’ song. You were serenading me with it earlier!’

The Daver: ‘That’s not disco!’

Aunt Becky: ‘Of COURSE it is! What else could it be?’

The Daver: ‘I think it’s reggae.’

Aunt Becky: ‘That can’t be reggae. It’s too ludicrous. (singing) ‘We’re gonna rock down to Electric Avenue”

The Daver: ‘That song is NOT ludicrous. It’s a GREAT song.’

Aunt Becky: ‘No doubt. But it’s INSANE. What the fuck is Electric Avenue?’

The Daver: ‘Don’t you DARE mock that song. It’s amazing!’

Aunt Becky ‘How can I NOT mock it, Dave?’

The Daver: ‘It’s an amazing song.’

…

…

…

Aunt Becky: ‘Are you fucking with me? That song is almost as bad as ‘Disco Duck’ which was in my head all of last week.’

The Daver: ‘I’m no longer speaking to you.’

Aunt Becky: “You no longer have any room to mock my Britney collection.”

The Daver: “I hate you.”

Aunt Becky: “You see this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.”

Praise Jesus, the rabbit died, Jupiter aligned with Mars, peace will steer the planet and love will steer the stars! Yep, folks, you heard me right, I am once again Pregnant. To those of you who read this and I haven’t had a chance to personally inform, I suck, but I am a recluse and the likelihood of me seeing you BEFORE I got the chance to pop this kid out is slim. To none.

Although I already have one five year old, and have therefore been pregnant before, I never gave credence to the statement ‘œevery pregnancy is different.’ I (in my normal fashion) scoffed, laughed and made snide remarks. See here, Internet, I will claim to you all that although I might not ever be considered ‘œnice’ I am usually considered ‘œbitchy, but in a good way.’

With my first, this is what I felt:
1. HUNGRY (you don’t gain 90 lbs without trying. Period. And PS, it was glorious putting it on)

*and*

2. Tired. I was so bone crushingly tired that I would frequently wake up with rug burn on my face from passing out after trying to tie my shoes.

(To be fair, everything else was a total mess in my life at the time, so don’t be jealous or make snide remarks. Although the pregnancy was not difficult, I often remark that it’s a miracle that I didn’t kill myself during it. This is saying a lot, as I am not often suicidal and I am not kidding for once. Thankfully, this is not *that* kind of blog, so I will spare you the details.)

Life has done what it does best, and has pulled the rug out from under me with an old ‘œone-two’ punch. THIS time around, my symptom list would be more like:

1. Tired. So tired that I cry about it often. I.E. ‘œI’m SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeedddddd!!!!’

2. Nauseous. In this weird way, I am both famished and nauseous at the same time. BUT ONLY FOR CERTAIN FOODS. I can only eat very specific things and if I *try* to eat something else, whatever it is will be returned to me in a slightly wet manner. I have eaten (besides wings, natch) about 4 bites of food (THAT I HAVE KEPT DOWN) since August 2.

3. Fat. No one told me that the second time around you begin showing the minute the test says ‘œPREGNANT!’ It took quite awhile to show with Benner, so I assumed that somewhere around Thanksgiving, I’d have a pooch, but no! EVEN WITH MY WEIGHT LOSS I HAVE A POOCH. AND MY BOOBIES ARE HUGE. AND PENDULOUS.

4. A huge bitch. On top of all of this, I have turned into an even NASTIER person. I happened to be dragged into a Wal-Mart with The Daver a couple of days ago and began to use the phrase ‘œwhite trash’ WITHIN EARSHOT OF THE PEOPLE I WAS TALKING ABOUT. Dave was horrified and tried to put me back in the car, but haha! even pregnant, I am STILL stronger!

Poor Dave is absolutely at his wits end (and who could blame him?). It’s one thing to slip down into madness while being totally unaware, but it’s a total other thing to WATCH yourself slowly going insane. *I* even know that I suck right now.

I think he’s getting ready to take a ‘œbusiness trip’ to ‘œSouth America’ for ‘œ7 months,’ to which I replied, ‘œSend Wings’ and money and ‘œgo ahead’. I mean, the only way he’s gonna knock me up again is if I ‘œgo off the pill’ and ‘œhave an accident’ or if he doesn’t see me going off the rails on the crazy train.

Shit, if I were him, I’d have moved out weeks ago.

The list (by no means exhaustive) of things I was NOT allowed to do for the wedding (primarily because Dave is ‘œboring’ and for some reason thinks that I’m ‘œbeing disrespectful to the institution of marriage’ or some shit. I wasn’t listening):

1). Wear half of a fat suit

2). Have the nuptials performed by Elvis

3). Sport black eyes

4). Dance our first song to ‘œYMCA’

5). Dance myself down the aisle to ‘œThat’s The Way (Uh-Huh) I Like It’

From this list, you are likely able to determine that I am not typically considered a ‘œwedding’ or a ‘œmarriage’ person. Growing up, in fact, you’d be more likely to find me playing ‘œCommando Doctor Becky, Zombie Hunter’ or teaching my cats to box than you would catch me planning for my future wedding. Never honestly thought–or cared much, really–that I’d be married. Like ever.

I found myself in the unique situation of planning a wedding I wasn’t too thrilled by (not the marriage, mind you, The Wedding).

Shortly after booking the venue, I was dragged into David’s Bridal with my best friend, maid of honor, to make fun of the dresses. Let’s get this straight. I *love, love, love* clothes. I do not like white dresses. I have a child, which means I obviously was NOT A VIRGIN when I got married.

We made a beeline to the most hideous dresses we could find. My first choice was a long sleeved, high necked, 567 foot train monstrosity, straight out of a scary 70’s movie. My second and only other choice was a simple A-line, champagne trimmed dress. Fucking boring, really.

I sweated out about 32 gallons of water simply by looking at the first dress. It was lace covered, pearl encrusted, beaded, and weighed–not exaggerating–at least 25 lbs. The sleeves alone were each larger than my head. While I struggled with the huge line of buttons in the back, Ashley went to find me the perfect shoes to go with them (clear plastic stripper heels, natch!), which she shoved under the door.

Ensemble complete, I threw open the door and danced the Maniac for Ashley, who is rolling on the floor, and the distressed sales clerk, who is all but choking on her tongue as she sputtered ‘œDo you like dresses with sleeves?’ When I realized that the lace was of such poor quality that I immediately began to chafe and blister, I squeaked out ‘œI feel like a cupcake’ and ran back to the dressing room.

Here’s the boring part. I bought the second dress, thereby having to eat all of the snarky comments I had made while walking in. I won’t repeat them, for fear of the wrath. Suffice to say, I am an asshole. An asshole with a big mouth.

Several weeks before my wedding, I realized that I had nothing to wear under the dress, and was forced back to the eerily white and un-delightfully tacky world of David’s Bridal. I grabbed the bra thing-y and the big poofy thing (yes, those are VERY clinical terms) that you wear under such dresses and headed to the back, husband to be in tow (don’t feel too sorry for him. The night before, we’d had a long talk about the proletariat vs. the bourgeoisie. I won’t go into the details here, but suffice to say I told him in no uncertain terms that I would never be the proletariat to his bourgeoisie. It was my convoluted way of complaining about the ever-fucking wedding that I was planning for him).

Realizing that the best way to exact my revenge upon Dave was public humiliation, I decided to show him what I’m *really* like when I’m getting even: embarrassing. I put on my combo of weird undergarments (no, neither nipples nor beaver were showing) and pranced out of the dressing room singing ‘œBuild Me Up Buttercup.’ I really looked choice, have no doubt.

To Dave, who was sitting against the wall looking uncomfortably at the gaggle of fat pimply bridesmaids to his right. I proceeded to sing the whole song (extra made up verses, too) before I darted back into the dressing room. Then I handed Dave the garments to pay for, his face a lovely shade of cranberry.

To this day, that dress remains in a garbage bag in my parents basement, slowly yellowing and molding.

I am not, never have been, and likely never will be an Underwear person. I dislike wearing, owning, washing, and buying them. I hate how much they cost, I abhor their function, and I think the stupid little patterns on them are, well, stupid. Given my own choice I would–and frequently do–practice the gentle art of Free-balling.

Bra and panty sets are equally offensive to me. Maybe I’m insane here, but if any man is less likely to hump me because my bra and panties don’t match, they don’t deserve to see my sweet, sweet box. To me (who is actually colorblind, remember) it’s just another thing to coordinate.

My best friend Ashley worked in lingerie for many years, and spent the majority of those years attempting to convert me to the matching underwear/bra side of life. Much as I can kinda see the point, I usually went along for the ride and to make her feel accomplished (plus, I felt guilty that my son had peed on her). I’d pop by to see her, pick out some perfectly functional drawers (not panties. NEVER panties. What a sick word!) and leave feeling relieved that I didn’t have to buy more undies for a couple of months.

When she quit working there, I was left in a bind. Gone was my bra/undies hookup. Gone were the kick ass boxer-like drawers, having gone back to the great Maker from which they came.

Left to my own devices, I discovered that Victoria’s Secret runs a kick ass sale a couple times a year. The Underwear Gods were smiling down upon me once again! Many more years passed in this manner, stocking up quarterly on undies, never thrilled, always satisfied.

In January, my time for fresh and stain free drawers lured me back to Victoria’s Secret. Hopelessly, I trudged forth into the store and in the same manner in which I always have, grabbed about 50 pairs and ran back out having dropped a small fortune.

In March, once the boxes were unpacked, I rediscovered my newest cache of drawers. Thrilled by the fact the I had thought ahead, I greedily pulled a fresh pair on. And on. And on again, By the time the pair was completely unrolled, my boobs were resting just slightly above the edge of the underwear.

Confused, I double-checked the tag for both the size (Same) and the Maternity Moniker (none). I checked myself out in my full-length mirror. Yep. I looked like a bandanna printed Erkl.

Hot.

I tore through the remainder of the bag. Yes, indeedy. I had certainly bought 500 pairs of grandma panties, in all whimsical colors and patterns. AND THEN REMOVED TAGS AND WASHED THEM. No, siree, Vicky’s won’t take THOSE back.

Thankfully by a stroke of luck for my sex-life, Dave happened to be out for the day and I was alone, otherwise I’d have pranced around the house with Hawaiian print undies up to my nipples for him to see (ala buying the poofy shit for under my wedding dress. You bet your ass Dave had to watch me prance around David’s Bridal looking like an extra for Little WhoreHouse on the Prairie. Then he gave me my Thorazine and wept quietly into his hands).

As luck would have it, I was stuck at home alone, breasts being cut into by underwear band laughing softly and wondering how the shit I didn’t realize that each pair that I bought had about 187 extra yards of fabric. Victoria’s Secret apparently makes a version of The Granny Panty. Who the fuck knew?

Also, I really need to get the fuck over the cost and buy some damn underwear that’s not on sale.

As a post script, I would like to add that my shear stubbornness has not allowed me to get rid of these, so I am wearing them as I write this. Nipples chafing and all.

I make no bones about the fact that I am married to someone addicted to workahol. Maybe I don’t always love this about my spouse, but overall, I tend to be self sufficient enough to be a-okay with it. I do my own thing most of the time, and should I see Dave, I consider it a bonus.

In this light I have been able to watch the entire season of The Simple Life, which I adore. I’ve managed to respond to emails and phone calls. I have a perfectly functional garden. I have also gone through about 564 double A batteries (read: Big Pink Meets Becky: An E! True Hollywood Story).

Life, as it has this weird tendency to do, has crept up on me, knocking the rug out beneath my feet, and *whoops* there goes gravity; Dave became a manager-type thing. Which is great for him because that’s what he wanted to do.

After the 6th straight night of being deserted shortly after dinner, I informed him that if Work was his first wife, and I was his second, then I needed a Boyfriend. Which was where he came in. I carefully laid out my game plan, highlighting such Good Points as:

1.) Think of how much LESS I’ll whine to you!

and

2.) I’ll stop bugging you to come hang out with me because I’m bored! Just get me a new boyfriend!

My short attention span took charge, and I quickly forgot all about my proposition.

The next morning, I roll into work, preparing for another day of death and people threatening to sue me (I am SO not a nurse!) and about mid-morning, I check my personal email (let’s be honest here. I never get emails. Ever. Like seriously, Ever) to read such interesting subject matters as ‘Sexy Baby Bad Erection’ and ‘Cheeep V1AgrA!’ with ‘Thank you for registering at Match.com.’

Certain that it was a hilarious joke, and frankly quite impressed with Dave. I investigated further, assuming that the email was actually spam. The email was from match.com not jahoirwgbruoqwrqh3io2i838yh@match.net, so another dead end.

So I called Dave at work to tell him that he’d really gotten me good this time. I raved and raved about it. What a great joke! My jubilant greeting was met with dead silence. He told me that he had no idea what I was talking about (as per usual). I explained that I had been registered with Match.com by him. He denied it.

In typical Becky-fashion, I didn’t believe him, and began to press harder which was ALSO met by silence and denials. Maybe he *hadn’t* done it!?!

Then who did?

I had no memory of doing so. Dave denied it. Plus, I don’t live in Evanston or even close to Evanston. My brother does, did he do it? Unlikely. He doesn’t have my email address.

Several days passed and while IMing with Pashmina, she mentioned Match.com and certain people that we might know that use the site. I suddenly remember the online profile we’d set up years before and a lightbulb popped up over my dim head.

Thank you Pashmina, for unintentionally bringing badfish8789 back to the world of online dating.

You ready world? Because I’m BACK IN fake dating ACTION.

Daver and I happened to be sitting out on our back porch one night, mildly discussing our past relationships. Mainly, it was a back and forth game of virtual tennis, but instead of balls (hehe. BALLS!!) we hurled insults. Basically, it was like playing ‘War’ but without the cards:

Actual example:

‘Dude, you dated Sabrina. Why won’t she update her blog? Email her and have her update her blog.’

‘No. Besides you dated Nat.’

‘Right, but Nat didn’t have an entire section of his website devoted to sappy poemes about me. Didja hear the fancy way I said poemes?’

‘But it’s Nat.’

‘Dude, I so win’

‘No, you don’t. Nat trumps Sabrina.’

‘…ad nauseum

During this discussion, Dave made mention of sappy love poetry he’d written, and I was forced to reveal that although I had ‘œwhored around’ I had never had a crappy emo poeme written for me.

Ever.

The Daver saw his opportunity to shine, and went a-running with it. So now, at the tender age if 25 I am in possession of my first ever crappy, sappy and lame emo poeme, reprinted here just as the author had intended it.

Becky’s Crappy Sappy Emo Poeme (I named this bad boy; Dave would probably have named it something emo-like and crappy like ‘Velvet Turbulence’).

‘Burning like tear-trails,
desire unrequited-
with a glance, your flame
flares searingly through
my veins.
Blood boiling,
then cooling,
then freezing my icy heart.’

So I retorted with this beauty:

It Tastes Like Battery Acid, You Bastard!

‘you sweet and sensuous velvet sparkly
caresses my mouth,
i yearn,
i burn,
for more.
i need you,
like i need air,
shamelessly,
without remorse.
i listen not to others,
who complain about your taste.
as they have no more taste-buds.
you taste like angels,
and faeries,
and all that is good with the world.
like the guy at the 7-11 who provides you to me.
daily’

As I handed my prized poeme off to The Daver for inspection, expectantly waiting for the ‘Wow! You’re an amazing poet!’ compliments to start flying my way, I was sorely disappointed. For all of my .56 seconds of effort (most of those .01 seconds were spent trying to figure out how to spell angel and caress) I got a measly:

‘Becky, this poem isn’t about me. It’s about Diet Coke.’

Touche, The Daver, touche.

I found this sort of guide to wifery from the 50’s online a couple of years ago, and supposedly it’s called The Good Wife’s Guide. Is this legit Aunt Becky, you ask me, a disapproving tone in your otherwise flawless voice? And I will tell you with absolute certainty that it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s Comedy Gold.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Planning it out in advance is saying ‘Pick up some Chinese food tonight on your way home from work’ at 3pm. Trust me when I tell you that I am FAR more concerned about my needs.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Now I’m not trying to imply that I look like a million bucks when The Daver walks in the door, but honestly the last thing on my mind at 7pm is ‘shit! Do I look okay?’ It’s much more like ‘did I accidentally microwave the cat, AGAIN? Shit!’

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Dude. I’m always a little gay.

*waggles eyebrows suggestively*

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

What the fcuk is a dust cloth? And I’ll happily make an effort to pick up the clutter the day that The Daver does not have a roving sock colony following him around like a wee family.

During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

Are you SERIOUS? I don’t know how to work the fireplace, and I don’t intend to learn. If he wants to relax by the fire, he can light it himself. I don’t know when catering to anyone’s comfort has provided me with any type of satisfaction.

Unless it involved Prada purses.

Then I could cater a lot.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him.

If there is noise in the home, it means I am home.

I am noisy.

I am loud.

I speak at extremely deafening decibels.

And really, if I am actually doing these household chores, he should be pleased that I’m not pawning them off on him.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

My desire to please him?

Bwhahahahahahahaha!

*wipes tears from eyes*

Hahahahahahahaha!

Yeah. Right.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

If I waited until The Daver stopped talking to tell him such things as ‘the sump pump backed up and the basement is flooded’ or ‘I want to have a threesome with a midget,’ I’d never be heard.

The Daver and I talk over each other with such comfortable regularity that we have actually made a sign that says “Floor” to use when we have Important Discussions.

And wait, how the hell is ‘the cpm processor of horhelfsag to the ajfoijhriwndas is jdsa;hfrioenrhiubnf more important than “Our bedroom smells like cheese” or “cherry flavored pez is a wonderfood.” Because it’s totally not.

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

Who else can I greet this way?

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

If he stays out all night, trust me, my complaining will be the last thing he’s concerned about. More pressing needs might be “How do I get my testicles back from the sewer system?” or “Where else can I let my roving sock colony live? OH LOOK, SOCKS, MADE A BABY! It’s TWINS!”

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Um, yeah, Michael, how’s it going? Now about that TPS Report?

Unless his arm is falling off, he had better pitch in with the kids, the dogs, buying me dinner, whatever. With a big smile on his face.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

My voice is like a sack of cats fighting over a mouse on a chalkboard. And I yell. Most of the time.

And where would I take his shoes? On a date?

Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

MASTER OF THE GODDAMN HOUSE?

Bwahahahahaha!

That’s right, Internet, The Daver is Master of the Bwahahahaha! I can’t even type it without laughing.

I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to say when he says, “I think we should buy a truckload of Twinkies and the biggest Fry Daddy we can find! Fuck our retirement*!!” Color me boring but I don’t think ‘Whatever you say, dear’ would work well.

A good wife always knows her place.

Dude, exactly “my place” is anywhere I fucking want it to be.

*hahahaha

Picture this scene: you’re out to breakfast with your significant other, having an otherwise unremarkable meal, when a table full of unruly children arrives. You try your best to ignore the increase in noise and finish your meal in peace, when, lo and behold, a child from said table walks over to your table and without prompting, sticks his hand into your open purse. The mother, gently chides the child for touching other people’s purses and you are left sitting, dumbstruck and awed by what just happened.

Having been a waitress as well as a hapless consumer, I am constantly surrounded by children and their parents. Hell, I have my own, whom I pick up and take to a school filled with MORE children. My point, roundabout as it may be is this: I see tons and tons and tons of kids. I genuinely like kids, truth be told, maybe I’m not the most gooshy of parents, but I dig the shorties. They crack me up.

I’ve been waiting awhile, trying to place my finger just on what I’ve been thinking, and on Monday it dawned on me. With the whole PC-bullshit generation of Baby Boomers kids having their own kids, it became highly fashionable to eschew the harsher punishments that were often handed down to us. I mouthed off as a kid? I got smacked. I didn’t listen to my parents? I got smacked. I lied? I got smacked AND grounded, and so on and so on.

Parents today want to subscribe to the whole new-agey parental role of being a guide to your child, a resource for them to use to navigate through the more tricky paths that life can offer. They are expected to reward positive behavior with praise and adoration (NEVER bribes) and overlook the negative behavior so as not to reinforce the attention. Yelling is passe, talking quietly (but don’t be TOO NEGATIVE!!!!) is in.

I think it’s bullshit. Your kids should respect you. They should respect you and they should respect authority.

I shudder to think of the generation of Special Snowflakes that will grow up and be SHOCKED to learn that really? We can’t all be fucking astronauts. Or ballerinas. Hell, we’re not all winners. I love my children and I’m not about to try and stomp on their dreams like tiny bugs, but at the same time, disappointment and failure are both real things. I’ll be there for my child when it happens, because it WILL happen.

And when my kid is wrong, I’ll say so. When he needs a spanking, he’ll get it. And he’ll respect me because I am his mother. Not his friend or his playmate, his mother. Which, at the end of the day, is a kazillion times more important.

I am his mother.