The Daver, 2004: “You should start a blog.”

Aunt Becky: “What the shit is a ‘blob?‘”

The Daver: “You know, an online weblog?”

Aunt Becky: “Is that for Dungeons and Dragons people? Because I do not play Dungeons and Dragons. I am offended that you would think I play Dungeons and Dragons, The Daver. Also: gravy.”

The Daver: “You’re offended by gravy?”

Aunt Becky: “Only the powdered kind.”

The Daver: “Ha, no. Blogs aren’t for Dungeons and Dragons. A blog is kinda an online journal.”

Aunt Becky: “So. Wait. You write a diary online?”

The Daver: “Kinda.”

Aunt Becky: “And then…other people read it?”

The Daver: “Yes. Some. Probably.”

Aunt Becky: “OMG. Bwahahahahahahahahaha! THAT’S SO RIDICULOUS.”

The Daver: “Gee. Thanks.”

Aunt Becky: “Who gives a flying shit what I think about ‘eating grilled cheese‘ or ‘driving through snow?‘ Why would anyone care?”

The Daver: *shrugs* “I’d read what you wrote.”

Aunt Becky: “Aw.”

(a couple days later)

Aunt Becky: “So I’ve decided to start a “blob” called “Mushroom Printing.” I shall write my first post about my idea for a tapeworm farm or my vagina. Can me and Pashmina write it together?”

The Daver: “Sure.”

(years go by)

The Daver, 2011: “How’s that Humble Pie taste, Tex? How’s that blog treating you?”

Aunt Becky: “Shutthefuckup.”

—————

How did you get started blogging, Pranksters?

—————

And, PRANKSTERS, holy FUCK, I got nominated for a Bloggie for Best Writing of a Weblog and Most Humorous Weblog.

Band Back Together got nominated for Best Kept Secret Weblog. This is HUGE.

Um. UMMMM. I got woken up to frantic fucking PHONE calls because it’s so awesome to have been nominated.

So, Pranksters *rubs toe into ground bashfully* would, um, you mind, um, voting for me? Please? PLEASE?

When the topic of internet anonymity came up yesterday, I knew that there was no one better to ask than The Daver. If I live in the computer, he’s the one who built it for me.

Now, I’ve never been anonymous. In fact, the first blog I wrote was read (at first) only by people who knew me by first, middle, and last name, which has helped dispel any feelings of anonymity.

I’m happy that I’m not anonymous. Truly. It’s kept me from putting stuff out in public that shouldn’t have been there anyway.

So, here’s what A Nerd has to say about being anonymous online:

If you have a bone to pick, or an itch to scratch, or have bottled it all up too long and you feel that writing it all out on your own (a third-party blog like Band Back Together or Mushroom Printing is the best way to go for this type of thing) weblog is the best way to just let it all out, I have a little piece of advice for you: don’t.

Aside from the myriad personal histories of folks who have been fired for writing on blogs (see: Dooce, Queen of Sky, or Troutgirl), the more important issue in my mind is that whomever you didn’t think would read your tirade…will.

And as Aunt Becky’s resident nerd, I’m beholden to share some of the most significant reasons why.

Let’s start with some geeky ones. So, you registered that fancy-schmancy domain name, right? Mommywantsvodka.com! Type that puppy in over at whois.net and guess what? You can see that it’s MY FAULT that Aunt Becky is online. Even if she didn’t blog under her own name, it wouldn’t be too much of a jump to take the “Registered By” name listed there, pop open Facebook, and find out that we were married.

Sure, some registrars will let you pay them to register under their name – registering a domain by proxy – but upon inquiry they are just as likely to share that name to someone who would take the time to ask.

Okay, so let’s say you don’t have a fancy-schmancy domain name, just a blog that you think no one reads. Except…if it’s on any of the major blogging sites (Blogger/Blogspot/Google, WordPress.com, Facebook, so on), then it’s very search-engine optimized (SEO) already.

So if your rant happens to mention anything obscure about the situation (things that have fairly few high-ranked pages on Google)(see also: the John C. Mayer Prank for more information on Google SEO), such as the horrible burned Marston Family Chicken, then when your mother-in-law -who the rant focused on – searches for ways to make it better, whoops! What’s this? It’s irrelevant that you don’t have your name on the site: how many people were over at M-I-L’s house yesterday? How many have the same interests and family size and location as you? Same first name?

Oh, and don’t think that if you post it just for a day and then take it down that it’s gone for good. See, Google keeps a copy of all the pages that it indexes — so if the page just disappears, Google hangs on to it for a good while, in case it went away accidentally. This is incredibly handy if you’re searching for something that happens to be on a site that crashed. Not so handy if you want the Internet’s elephant ears to forget.

There are others, too, involving looking at the Page Source to see breadcrumbs like the IP Address of the poster, or tracking who posted a comment via their IP address…but I’ll save those for a more geeky post. The important thing to remember, folks, is that it is a safe assumption that sooner or later, anything you write on the Internet will be read by whomever you’re writing about, or their friends, or their family, or someone that knows them at work, or their priest or their favorite hooker or the guy who makes them their sandwich at Subway.

Someone will read it.

And even though the feelings behind those rants fade over time, the magic of the digital world ensures that those words won’t. Are you ready for those words to be brought back to live when you least expect it? Ready to face the truth that yes, you did say those things, and in public, no less?

If so, and if you still thing it’s a good idea, then more power to you: this is free speech, after all.

But remember that just because the speech is free, doesn’t mean it is without consequence.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I WANT TO BE A FAMOUS BLOBBER LIKE AUNT BECKY!!* Well, actually no. I don’t.

I have a blog that exactly 9 people read (if they read it!) and it’s really for my creative outlet. My problem is my husband.  He doesn’t like when I put ANYTHING that’s not generic fluff on it.  I have a nasty habit of bottling things up, and when I can write about it, I can let it go. This happened recently and he was furious that I put our “business” “out there”.  An old friend’s wife read it, mangled it up and “told on me”. (He didn’t care about the issue that I wrote about though!! Dumb men).

So, how do I effectively blog without pissing off the people I need to write about?

Oh Prankster, it’s the age-old blobber issue: how much is too much? And I’m afraid that there’s no “right” answer, it’s all situational.

Here’s what I say about how much to share on your blog (and OH I am a bad person to ask this question):

1) Don’t put anything on the Internet you wouldn’t wear on a shirt.

B) Don’t lie.

3) It’s a small Internet after all.

4) People thrive on The Dramaz.

87) Own your words.

c) Whatever you write will probably be read by the person you’re writing about, especially if it’s a rant.

9) Facebook has made anonymity a hell of a lot harder.

28) And most stories, if you remove all of the identifying details and characteristics, well, they’re pretty dull. Plus, by that point, your story has lost most of it’s conviction because you’re all, “I’m mad because someone I can’t tell you about did something bad that I can’t mention because obviously.”

Bor-ING.

So.

The ethical quandary remains. How do you decide how much to share? What the hell is oversharing? WHY DOESN’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!?!?! *wrings hands*

This is the bottom line. What you share depends entirely upon how much shit you want to take. You have to imagine that every person you’re talking about is sitting there, reading your words, or looking for themselves in there, and interpreting words on a screen without the benefit of facial cues, THEN write from that perspective.

Writing on a blog gets especially complicated if your husband doesn’t appreciate the things you talk about. As far as that goes, you’re either going to have your way and write whatever you want, whenever you want, however you want it, and you’re going to make him upset or he’s going to make you upset because you’re censored. Or, perhaps, you can meet somewhere in the middle. That fuzzy, nebulous, undefinable grey area.

WHY WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!?!

I don’t tend to write about conflicts that I have in my personal life. Most people I know (read: three) have the ability to read my blog and I need dramaz like I need a jello mold salad (blech). If I do write about anyone, I try and stick to facts and my own feelings about them.

If you want to write about people, you have to assume they’re going to read it and get pissed the hell off. It’s a calculated cost/benefit analysis for you.

Will the personal cost of drama be greater than the benefit of letting it out?

That, my good Prankster, is entirely up to you.

P.S. You can always go password protected for the ranty posts. Also: my bitch-slap group blog Mushroom Printing will gladly welcome you.

Dear Aunt Becky,

A woman I work with has, in the past several weeks and in the course of discussing project-related details, referred to me directly as “my love” and then later said “I love you” while in the presence of a superior.

Now, I’m willing to brush these events aside because 1- she’s way married, and 2- seriously?

But here’s the thing: this is the one woman who, if given the chance, I would R-U-N-N O-F-T with without any reservations and never look back.

Please confirm I’m crazy to suspect her words are nothing more than, well, friendly words.

Your pal,

stupid.

Sorry Prankster, I love you and all, but I’d venture a guess that her words are just that: words. Some people are more comfortable using pet names than others and apparently, my love, this woman is one of those.

I apologize, darling, but I’m guessing she’s just very friendly. Unless she’s grabbing your balls while she does it. Then, hm, well, maybe. Or maybe she just likes testicles.

Love you!

AB

—————-

So, Pranksters, what say you? How would you answer these questions?

*BEHOLD MY FAMOUS BLOBBERNESS. I AM BLOBBER, HEAR ME ROAR! IT’S THE EYE OF THE BLOBBE…okay, yeah. But that made me snort. “Famous” my ass.

Dear Amelia,

One of the only things my mother – your grandmother – said to me that ever made any sense was this: “wow, you sure do have to learn everything the hard way, Rebecca.” I don’t think she was being unkind, considering I’d just dumped my cheating boyfriend, scrapped my lifelong dream of becoming a doctor, and pushed a squalling infant – your biggest brother – out of my vagina. I was twenty years old. That was before I then dropped my nursing career for an illustrious “career” as a blobber and popped out two more crotch parasites, so yeah, it’s safe to say that your grandmother was right on the money there.

And, I fear, it’s probably genetic.

Because the moment that doctor informed me that there was something wrong with your head, it reminded me of this: life is unexpected.

Had the pill not failed me, I never would have gotten knocked up with your biggest brother, which means I would be Dr. Aunt Becky (that’s Mommy to you) by now. In that one tiny moment, my life was forever altered.

That’s the way life works. It’s in those unexpected moments that we discover who we really are; who we are really supposed to be. Maybe it’s not what we planned or what we thought we’d be doing, but it’s beautiful and it’s ours. I don’t expect you to take my word for it. Go ahead, find out for yourself. You already have.

At a couple of days gestation, thanks to some wonky issues that no one understands entirely (folic acid deficiency plays a part), your neural tube didn’t properly fuse and that big skull of yours didn’t quite get put together the way a skull should. Then, your beautiful brain started to grow outside your skull cavity, necessitating some pretty heavy neurosurgery when you were a wee babe. That moment, at a couple of days gestation, forever altered everything.

Thanks to that one unexpected moment, a whole host of things happened. A cascade effect. The best of which is this: you now have a cadre of Auntie and Uncle Pranksters who will kick the ass of anyone who needs it for you (never, ever underestimate the power and love of The Pranksters). You’ve also helped put a face to your disorder, encephalocele, and you gave me the idea for Band Back Together.

Pretty good work for a two-year old.

I’m so proud of you, Amelia (or, as you like to call yourself “Nie-Nie”). Having a daughter was one of those lofty goals, like “having a discernible waistline” that I thought I could never achieve, and here you are. Even as I delivered you, I expected the doctor to tell me that you had a penis. I just couldn’t imagine I’d be so lucky as to have a daughter.

And yet here you are. My Miracle Mimi, the girl with the curls like a halo, she is here. Kicking ass, taking names, and probably going to murder me in my sleep over a pair of high heels.

I can hardly wait to see what you’ll do next. Unless it’s murder me. Which I really wish you wouldn’t do.

Happy Birthday, Sweet, Slightly Scary, Always Wonderfully Awesomely Ass-Kicking Baby Nie-Nie.

It’s you + me against the world, kiddo. So watch the fuck out, world.

Love Always,

Mommy

In an effort to distract from what it really is (torture), the school distract has obliquely named the concert in which we parents have to sit through 300 kids playing medleys of Lightly Row and Mississippi Hot Dog, “The Winter Strings.” Sounds a lot more whimsical that way.

My own son has been playing since he could toddle and listening to him is downright pleasant. I played cello for many years – toured even – and while I was never as good as he is, I was good. I could have been great. The concerts, though, let’s just say I invariably get stuck behind the kid who spends the entire concert taking a shit in his pants.

The concert itself was unremarkable, save for my son, who spent most of it scowling in my general direction (no small feat on a big stage). What had I done to evoke such ire? How had I offended thee? Had I punched a puppy? Kicked a kitten? Told him that I hated Facebook?

No.

Aunt Becky: “What are you wearing to the concert tonight?”

Ben: “These [pleated][greenish][ugly] pants and this [yellow] shirt and this [green] sweater-vest.”

Aunt Becky: “Okay, so let’s go with these black cargo pants instead. The green pants don’t really go and they’re a liiiitle too small.”

Ben: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “Um.”

Ben: “THESE PANTS ARE BETTER.”

Aunt Becky: “You look like a mini-Alex P. Keaton.”

Ben: “Who?”

Aunt Becky: “Never mind.”

Ben: “I want to wear these pants.”

Aunt Becky: “Dude, the cargo pants are cooler. And black goes with yellow and green better than these do. Trust me, you look handsome!”

Ben: “NO.”

Aunt Becky: “Okay, in that outfit, you need a briefcase and a Wall Street Journal subscription.”

Ben (thinks): “That would be good.”

Aunt Becky: “NO CHILD OF MINE WILL GO OUT DRESSED LIKE THAT.”

Ben (flounces off): “Fine.”

So now my son is mad at me because I wouldn’t let him go out dressed like a tiny member of the Republican National Committee. I’m pretty sure his rebellion will be to wear Dockers and button-down shirts.

Kids these days. Back in MY day, we pierced our eyebrows and shaved our heads and we LIKED it.

Maybe the kid will forgive me when he sees that I’ve gotten him a new sweater-vest/ascot combo. Or maybe he’ll just use this as fodder to put me in a bad nursing home. That seems more likely.

This morning, once again, I woke up with my pillow soaked with tears, the sobs still fresh in my throat. I wiped my face off with my sleeve, as I sat up, trying to remember what dream I’d had, what had made me so bitterly sad that I’d wept in my sleep loudly enough to wake myself. Nothing. My memory banks came up with nothing.

I sighed as I changed my pillow case. Normally I dream about new and exciting ways to mock John C. Mayer, and although John C. Mayer could have been the reasons for my sobs (Hey, “Your Body is a Wonderland” is a terrible song), I don’t think it was.

This is the fifth time in as many days I’ve woken up with a wet pillow case. On the rare times I can fall asleep (a hearty fuck you goes out to insomnia), this is what I’m repaid with: night terrors.

Amelia’s appointment yesterday with the EI evaluators went as expected. She’s ahead in some areas, behind in others. It’s the medical equivalent of a push and it’s certainly not something that keeps me up at night, her inability to perform quadratic equations and properly discuss string theory aside.

I’ve managed to buy her a birthday present and pink cupcake mix for her birthday on Friday (still haven’t done anything for a big blowout bash), both of which should delight her. I’m thrilled that she’s going to be thrilled by this. Everyone should be so lucky as to have pink sparkles on their birthday cuppity-cakes.

And yet I’ve spent the last couple weeks talking through clenched teeth, the most minor of infractions setting me off, sending me into a blind panic. A dead weight has settled onto my chest there’s an omnipotent feeling of cosmic not-rightness. Everything feels wrong. Nothing is wrong, yet everything feels wrong.

My feelings make no sense to me.

I know what this is. It’s PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. I hate to even write those words out because I see them and I know some assjacket is going to be all, “YER NOT A VET, YEW WHOR,” and then I’m going to feel worse because I’m already feeling guilty about feeling the way I do. I have the Girl That Lived and still I have PTSD? Certainly, I do not have a right to those feelings.

And yet I do. I’m as entitled to my feelings as the next assjacket.

Really, I liked it better when I pretended I had no feelings. I think sociopaths have that part down. Feelings are kinda bullshit. Unless we’re talking about my love of Bob Ross and Richard Simmons. Or any white guy with an Afro. White guys with Afros are most certainly NOT bullshit.

(you know, Dr. Sears?)

When I was in school, I took test-taking Very Seriously. This was extra-hilarious considering I spent most of my actual class time slouched in the back row playing Bejeweled and texting my friends things like, “OH MY FUCKING GOD, my classmates are MOUTH-breathers. Imma go all RAMBO on their asses.” Had The Twitter existed*, I’m confident that I’d have been on there all the time, filling it with my inelegant (rapier) wit.

But the moment A Test was on the horizon (which, in nursing school, was every other day), I was in my element. Synapses firing, notecards flashing, every A beaten by a higher A. I didn’t earn the semi-sarcastic nickname Super Becky Overachiever and draw comparisons to Hermione Granger by getting C’s. Also, if I’d gotten C’s, I’d have been kicked out of the program. Such is nursing school.

Now, just look at where all of those A+++++ have gotten me! I am a BLOBBER, er BLOGGER ON THE INTERNET. I CAN HAZ FREE PUBLISHING?!?

Anyway.

Early Intervention is coming today to reevaluate my daughter’s development. Turns out that tests? Not always so fun.

Here is my representation of how Amelia’s Evaluation will go:

Early Intervention: “So, does Amelia stack six blocks?”

Aunt Becky: “Oh yes. She stacks twenty**.”

Early Intervention: “Does Amelia feed herself with a spoon?”

Aunt Becky: “Amelia wins at spoon feeding! She’s a spoon-feeding CHAMPION!”

Early Intervention: “Does Amelia walk unassisted?”

Aunt Becky: “Amelia RUNS! Like the wiiinnnnnnddddd.”

Early Intervention: “Does Amelia pick up a Cheerio with her thumb and forefinger?”

Aunt Becky: “She can pick up a single grain of sand!”

Early Intervention: “Can Amelia do complex quadratic equations?”

Aunt Becky: “….”

Early Intervention (scribbles on papers triumphantly): “AH-HA! I KNEW IT!”

Aunt Becky: “….”

Early Intervention: “All other babies are doing complex quadratic equations at age two. You should really have been working with her by now. This is probably a result of bad parenting.”

Aunt Becky: “But. BUT! I don’t even KNOW what that IS!”

Early Intervention (writes down): “unfit mother.”

/end scene

Hm. I wonder if I can play the part of Amelia today. Certainly Early Intervention won’t notice if it’s a grown woman pretending to be an almost-two year old.

P.S. I’ll let you know how it goes.

*It may have existed. I don’t know if it existed. I mocked Twitter a lot before I joined it. Which, uh, HUMBLE PIE ANYONE?

**Like I actually know this.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I used to be a semi-balanced person who would get upset at stupid things but liked people pretty well. You know, normal. But since having a kid I have become a very cranky person, Aunt Becky. I get irritated when people don’t agree with me, even though I know people are allowed to have their own ideas. I’m insecure and taking everything way too personally, especially about how I raise my child. I find myself not even wanting to talk or write to people because I know I’m going to get annoyed by whatever responses I get, and that sucks since I really like talking and writing. How can I find my mojo again and stop being so damn sensitive?

Sincerely,
Tired of Defending My Opinions

So, there are two things I do when I get all IMMA CUT YOU MOTHERFUCKER over some stupid-ass Facebook status update or something. Okay, wait, I can’t count because there are three.

1) I log off Facebook because it’s about the stupidest thing on the planet (coming from someone who writes about herself on The Internet, that’s saying a lot). It’s also the one thing that’s bound to piss me the hell off. I mean, wait, you raise fake sheep in a fake farm and you’re judging me for my parenting choices? Hilarious. That’s Facebook for you. ANYWAY.

Since I’m probably fuming about Facebook and Jimmy Fucking Wales and fucking Mark Zuckerberg (Facebook founder)(now that John C. Mayer and I have finally resolved our fake fight)(John C. Mayer is now crying tears of relief again)(P.S. that was an awesome Prank, Pranksters): I do a couple of laps around the house.

Why? Because I’m all EYE OF THE FUCKING TIGER.

2) I yell “BITCH GIT ME CHICKEN.” Why? There’s no chicken. I hate chicken. Mostly, I yell it because it’s fucking hilarious and how can you take anything seriously if you yell that?

Then, I start laughing, because, really, I was mad at someone who FARMS FAKE CROPS. Um. There are so many layers of wrong there. And WOAH, that’s a whole lot of taking myself too seriously.

(you can, of course, remove any adjectives and replace them with yours. I don’t know that you’re mad at The Facebook. I just assume so because I usually am. Or Jimmy Fucking Wales. I hate that rat bastard)

3) This may be the most important and best part, because once you’ve let out some of that tension (running) and realized you’re taking someone who takes a quiz to determine which Disney Princess Describes Her Best while telling you that shopping at Target makes you a Satan worshiper too seriously; you need something to relax you.

There’s only ONE MAN for that job.

No, not vodka.

Oh yeah, that’s right. Happy little clouds. And BOB ROSS. Bob Motherfucking ROSS. You shut your whore mouth when Bob Ross is painting a happy motherfucking tree.

Now, if there’s anything better than listening to THAT GUY talk, I don’t know what it is. I don’t WANT to know what it is. I love Bob Ross. I love Bob Ross until it hurts. Bob Ross and his awesome happy little birds and and dude, the guy is so cheerful you just don’t know what to do. Bob Ross is calm. Bob Ross is awesome.

Bob Ross and his happy mountains will make you feel better. Even if you are like me and you have the artistic abilities of a thumb-less chimp living underwater.

Bob Ross will love me anyway.

Bob Ross loves you, too. And Bob Ross would never judge your parenting skills.

Jimmy Wales, however…

No, seriously, though, Jimmy Wales probably doesn’t hate you.

Probably.

Also, if you’re really feeling super-irritable and grumpy all the time, it could be a sign of something more like postpartum depression, which even Bob Ross doesn’t think is funny. So you should mention that to your doctor. Being irritable all the time isn’t totally normal unless you’re listening to John C. Mayer Justin Beaver.

Also also: you may never want to take my advice except for the part about talking to your doctor.

Because I am not someone who should give advice on something like this considering my archenemies are Jimmy Wales and Mark Zuckerberg (who, Pranksters, we NEED TO TAKE THE INTERNET AWAY FROM…SOMEHOW. JUST. I don’t know how).

————-

So, other Pranksters who are smarter than me and presumably have a smarter, better way to handle this stuff, HOW do you handle it?

I can, oddly, see exactly when it began. Age six is when I became an adult.

A couple of years ago, when Alex was a wee babe, I decided that it was high time to take pictures of Baby Aunt Becky and put them into an album. Dutifully, I gathered them up from my parents and threw them into a large Rubbermaid tote where I began the arduous task of sorting them into some semblance of order. When I was born, you see, my father, brother and grandfather were into photography.

For most people, that might mean a couple of snapshots on an old Instamatic, but we had a darkroom worthy of any college photography class in my basement. The photography hobby bordered on compulsion (see also: my orchids) and I was a perfect rolly-polly subject. My younger years are painstakingly documented.

There I am in the greenhouse with my grandfather, looking at his orchids and roses with wonder in my eyes, age one, there I am at Ravina at ages newborn through sixteen, there I am running around in my big fat cloth diaper, curls bouncing, looking every bit the nudist my own children are.

But age six is when it all changes.

Instead of the well-groomed child I had been for those first six years, I take on a new look. My hair isn’t brushed. My normally darkish skin is unusually pale and shiny. My clothes, once the nicer brands, now bear the signs of being cheaply made and too-small for my growing frame. Colorblind since birth, it’s clear that I have had no help picking out what I am wearing. Nothing matches.

I look neglected.

I look neglected because I am.

I don’t know what precipitated the change. I’d had a loving mother; one who brushed my hair, took me shopping and made me food. At age six, she stopped loving me. I stopped existing.

I’ve never recovered from that abandonment. That feeling of not mattering. Of not being enough. As a child, I was certain it was my fault, the reason my mother stopped loving me was my fault and occurred because I did something wrong. Magic Thinking at it’s finest. Certainly there are horrifying things I’ve seen and taken care of while I was the child of an alcoholic, but the feelings of being unworthy of love; of not mattering, those are what I grapple with most. I don’t know, and I’m not sure if a clinical psychologist agree, that feelings carved so deeply into your psyche can ever be completely erased.

I’ve thought a lot about my feelings this week. Normally, I’d rather carve out my eardrums with a steak knife while teaching the refrigerator to dance the foxtrot than discuss my feelings (probably in part why I have so many issues with emotions).

You probably didn’t know this, but there is no class for feelings. There’s no “IF this happens THEN you should do this” master book of emotions for those of us who didn’t learn it as kids. Someone should write one.

For years now, I’ve been shrugging things off. Telling myself this or that, well, it didn’t matter. Minor infractions. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Why bother really saying how I feel when it’s probably wrong? It was easier to rationalize the wrongs that people were doing to me than to stand up for myself.

In doing that, I took something fundamental away from myself. My feelings.

Slap a gag over my mouth and throw me in the corner. How dare I actually be offended when someone is being a crotch to me? How dare I call someone out on their bullshit? What if someone says something mean to me? HOW WILL I HANDLE IT? OH NOES!

Well.

Now.

C’mon.

I’ve already dealt with the worst kind of abandonment. How could I possibly give a shit when some Internet Mole Person or even a former friend of mine who stalks me for the express purpose of feeling smugly superior doesn’t like me? I don’t. Or I might. It might hurt. Words do hurt. Even if they’re flung by anonymous internet trolls or people I like. But this is not the end of the world. And I need to stop behaving like it might be. Why are their feelings any less valid than mine?

This is my blog. These are my words. I do own them. And my feelings do matter. My feelings are as valid as yours.

I am enough.

I owe it to six-year old Aunt Becky to stand up for myself. I need to show her that she is enough. That I am enough.

I am enough.

There are a few occasions when I take time from my very busy schedule of creating pictures of my fake dead cat, Mr. Sprinkles, doing wacky things to respond to emails. Because, really, is there anything better than this?

That Mr. Sprinkles! He’s a WILY guy!

But on very, VERY rare occasion, I get an email that makes me stop and go, “You know what? Maybe I should stop working on pictures of myself with my fake dead cat Mr. Sprinkles and do something better with my time,” (the feeling never does last)

A year ago today, I got one of those emails.

My now-friend Nikki sent me an email about her 20-week old fetus, who had just been diagnosed prenatally with an encephalocele. Somehow, she’d managed to look past the grisly stories out there about other children with encephaloceles (the fatality rate for encephaloceles is exceptionally high) and had found her way to my mediocre blog.

More specifically, she’d found Amelia’s Grace, the stories about my daughter who, too, had been born with an encephalocele.

Amelia was born with the kind of encephalocele associated with the least favorable outcomes. A posterior encephalocele filled with brain matter. I’d had a standard vaginal delivery. There was no NICU team waiting for her. In fact, no one was waiting for her but a nurse, the doctor and a tech.

In short, everything about the situation surrounding Amelia’s story was bad.

When I wrote Amelia’s Grace, the story of my daughter, I’d never really thought that someone else might find my drivel while searching for something to cling to. Some hope in an otherwise grim situation. Because the statistics, those cold hard numbers about encephaloceles; those are grim:

An encephalocele reduces the likelihood of a live birth to 21%.

Only half of those 21% survive.

75% of those survivors have varying degrees of mental retardation, the severity of defects higher for those who have the brain herniation on the back of the skull.

She, however, she is not grim. She laughs in the face of statistics. She will tell that encephalocele to shut it’s whore mouth.

Amelia will also give her voice to those who have none.

Nikki has been a good friend of mine for a year now and she’s helped me as much as I’ve helped her. Proof that sometimes people come into your life at exactly the right time. I owe her a debt that I don’t think she understands.

Now, I will simply direct you to Lily’s Story, which I have strong-armed Nikki into writing for Band Back Together.

Today is the day that it turned upside down for Nikki and my sweet girl, Lily Grace.

What a difference one year makes.