How did you guys not tell me this existed until YESTERDAY?

Furthermore, HOW DID NONE OF YOU BUY ME THIS?

On second thought, don’t buy me this. I’d NEVER sleep again. Ever. In fact, I may never sleep again knowing that it exists: I have more questions than can possibly be answered.

THIS is why mommy wants needs vodka.

One might think that after telling The Internet that my son Alex had fallen in love with a cupcake shirt and wore a butterfly costume for Halloween this year, that he might be a little, well, girly.

Not so, Pranksters.

Alex’s second word was “penis.” Alex is also a frat boy.

I’ve mentioned that my son is being potty-trained, which means he’s been sitting around in his Cars-Themed Tighty Whities most of the day, here in the Sausage Factory, while I frantically insist he go to the bathroom every 4.8 seconds so as to not further ruin the horrifying once-white (WHITE!!) carpeting in my house. Potty-training! Ain’t it grand!

While I was upstairs, putting my daughter to bed last week, Ben (who is, for those not keeping score at home, nine) and Alex, aged three, decided that it would be best if they BOTH stripped down to their underwear to hang out.

My sons popped out from behind the couch to show me that they were both in their undies and because I am so used to seeing the house torn from it’s hinges after my brief “I’m putting the baby to bed” absence, I was a bit relieved. No one had knocked the ceiling fan off…yet.

“Okay,” I said to them, laughing. “But DON’T PEE ON ANYTHING.”

Still chuckling, I returned to my computer to scour the internet for some singing cat songs or dancing cacti videos. Those wily cactus videos get me going EVERY time!

Not two minutes later, my eldest tore through the living room, chasing my youngest son, both laughing so hard they was crying. I tore myself away from the cactus and looked up.

I saw a pair of naked butt cheeks as they disappeared around the bend.

What the hell?

And then again, the laughter and my youngest son, holding something up over his head as my eldest chased him, both giggling so hard they could barely stand it.

This time, as they came into my line of sight, I looked more closely. What the hell was going on?

I saw it: Alex was holding a pair of underwear over his head as Ben chased him.

They were…they were BEN’S underwear.

Oh sweet Lord.

The next time they rounded the bend, still chortling, I stopped Ben and asked him what was going on.

“Alex took my underwear off and now he,” *giggle, giggle* “now he” *giggle giggle* “now he won’t give it back!”

Alex was rolling on the floor, clutching his gut, laughing so hard that he was crying.

And then I said the words I’d never expected to say: “Alex, give your brother back his underwear. And you two, KEEP YOUR UNDERWEAR ON. PENISES BELONG IN THE BEDROOM OR THE BATHROOM. THEY ARE PRIVATE.”

And then, I died.

At one PM today, my daughter, Amelia, was feeling sad.

(note: Parts of My Daughter, Amelia, will be played by Your Aunt Becky)

Why could that be?

Could it be because she saw this scary poster hanging in a local eatery?

No!

Could it be because she couldn’t find Mommy’s Boba Fett helmet?

NO!!!

Could it be because no one bought her “Couch Jesus?” on eBay?

No way man!

Could it be because Mommy hadn’t installed the Ultimate Disco Ball in her bedroom yet?

NO!

Amelia,

Why so sad, peanut?

Here’s a song for you.

It’s what Mommy sings when she’s in the shower. Let’s sing i..ouch, Amelia, that hurts. Don’t pry Mommy’s lips off.

Oh. You’re sad because you just started school today. I see.

I’m sorry you were sad…What’s that? You’ll only be less sad if I buy you these in your size?

Pretty sure your father would have my head.

I’ll go get my credit card.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I’d say to her, given the chance. It’s a pointless endeavor, for sure, considering she’s been dead for almost three years. Or is it more than three years? She died when Alex was a baby, a couple months before I got pregnant with my daughter.

One last conversation. What would I say to her?

I could tell her that I admired her from the moment I met her, when we were eleven and thirteen, respectively; just kids, really. There was an instant chemical reaction between us, the kind that occurs once or twice in a lifetime, if you’re really lucky. It’s like our cells pulled us toward other. We would be friends. Our cells were determined. So were The Fates.

We’d always be thrown in front of each other, at this party or that. She dated one of my best friends for a very long time. She was friends with the little sister of one of my older friends. We were both talented cellists – although her talent was far beyond mine – which meant we were in orchestra together for a couple of years.

In Beethoven’s String Quartet Number, he scribbled Grave, (Muss es sein?/Must it be?), Allegro (Es muss sein!/It must be!), and that’s how I thought of our friendship, of any good friendship:

Must it be? It must be.

I’ve stopped believing in the randomness of the universe and when I think back to all of the times we happened upon each other, once again, I realize: It Must Be.

Would I tell her how I admired her when she walked tall and proud so sure of herself, while the rest of us shuffled along; all elbows and knees, not sure what we stood for? Because I admired the hell out of her. Bracelets jangling, jeans hugging her hips, a vintage Stones t-shirt effortless put together, she was larger than life at age sixteen.

I’d never known anyone like that before.

I’d never known anyone who would take my side, either. Every other friend I’d had shoved me under the bus at wink of an eye or waggle of the hips; the betrayals vaguely reminiscent of my childhood, where no one had ever been on my side. When she showed up to tell my cheating boyfriend to fuck off or my former friend that she was being a total asshole, I was stunned. It had always just been me. Defending, well, me. Maybe I’d tell her that it was sad that I was twenty before I knew that kind of friendship.

Maybe I’d tell her that I’d lived my life the daughter of a bipolar alcoholic and I was sorry that she’d found herself there, too. Because I was. So sorry. We’d tried to reach her, my God we tried, but she was lost in the bottle and not a single one of us who had loved her back when she sparkled and shone, not one of us could get through. But we tried because we still loved her and we still believed that she was in there.

I could tell her that her funeral was so full of people who loved her that it was standing room only.

That when the string trio started playing “As Tears Go By,” the entire room wept. We all wept at the tragedy of losing someone who had so much of that sparkle, so much of that shine.

How the image of her two sons screaming and wailing to, “See MOMMY!” as they shut the casket will be forever seared into the brains of so many as the most heartbreaking thing we’ve ever seen.

She is so, so loved.

I could tell her that two years later, I still cannot talk about her without crying. How I cannot hear “Tears Go By” without weeping. How I still have her phone number in my address book. How I dedicated Band Back Together to her because I think the stigma of mental illness and alcoholism and all those demons we hide, I think that’s bullshit. How I think she’d like the site.

I guess I could tell her any of those things if I saw Stef again. But I think she’d already know.

Maybe I’d just hug her one last time, have one last laugh and say the right words: Must it be? It must be.

(note: all artwork is original and should be revered as such. Perhaps you can say a prayer or do a dance or something when you see how epic it is)

I came down, yesterday, from putting my daughter down from her nap. I took a cursory glance at my sons, and was all, “Hey Guys,” and started to walk away in search of more dancing cat videos to soothe me. Also: a mop to try and remove the goo that my sick daughter had left all over me.

I noticed something.

While this is what I expected to see:

Without, of course, the washout from the front door or the grainy pixelated quality of iPhone pictures. My son is not pixelated. NONE of my crotch parasites are pixelated.

This is what I saw.

I stood there, jaw flapped open before I began to holler furiously.

Because then I saw this:

After I stuffed my brains back into their cavity, I realized that there was only one guy to call.

Billy Motherfucking Mays.

Now, if you know anything about me (note: you shouldn’t), you should know that I fucking love Billy Motherfucking Mays.

When I use Oxyclean, the voice in my head SOUNDS LIKE BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS. That’s comforting because I miss BILLY MAYS. A lot.

See, Pranksters, BILLY MAYS and I were BFF (best fucking friends) until he had to up and die on me. I’m still not over his death, but when I use his product, HIS VOICE SCREAMS IN MY HEAD, and it’s a little better.

The couches, I saw, they were a job for BILLY MAYS and OXYCLEAN. A job powered by ANGER and CAFFEINE.

I turned on my iPod and started in on them.

“All I Ask Of You,” from Phantom of the Opera came on.

Me: *grumble, grumble* “GOD, this is a crappy wedding song. Why do people choose the worst songs to dance to as their First Dance?”

BILLY MAYS: “THAT’S A BULLSHIT SONG, ALL RIGHT. MY WIFE AND I DANCED TO THE THEME SONG FROM THE SMURFS. NOW HOW’S THAT OXYCLEAN TREATING YOU? REMOVING YOUR STAINS? MAKING YOUR WHITES BRIGHTER? MAKING YOUR LIFE BETTER?”

Aunt Becky: “That’s kind of weird, BILLY MAYS. Even for you.”

*time passes*

Aunt Becky: “HOLY SHIT. I CAN’T FEEL MY FINGERS.”

BILLY MAYS: “BUT THE STAINS! FORGET ABOUT YOUR FUCKING FINGERS, YOU SNIVELING WHORE. HOW ARE THE STAINS? DO YOU HAVE BRIGHTER WHITES?

Aunt Becky: “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH ABOUT THE FUCKING STAINS, BILLY MAYS. I HAVE NO FUCKING FINGERPRINTS!”

BILLY MAYS: “BUT THE STAINS!! HOW ARE THE STAINS? DO YOU HAVE BRIGHTER WHITES?”

Aunt Becky: “The worst part is that you’re in my head. And the BILLY MAYS in my head doesn’t care about my fingerprints being seared off by an Oxyclean bath.”

BILLY MAYS: “YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH AND SCRUB, WOMAN. THOSE STAINS AREN’T GOING TO UNDO THEMSELVES. BRIGHTER WHITES!”

*time passes*

BILLY MAYS: “JUST WORK ON YOUR COUCH, YOU FUCKING NIMROD!”

2 hours of work, 2 rolls of paper towels and 2 bowls of Oxyclean later, this is what I got:

Don’t recognize it?

(BILLY FUCKING MAYS DIDN’T EITHER)

That’s my daughter’s handiwork. It’s done in Pink Sharpie. On my couch.

BILLY FUCKING MAYS couldn’t touch that shit, ALTHOUGH HE GOT THE OTHER MARKER STAINS OUT.

Some day, I hope to auction this particular self-portrait off for many millions of dollars. Momma needs a yacht. And some new fingerprints.

Although having none could really launch my Life of Crime. Then I could by my OWN yacht. Wait a second…this idea is BRILLIANT.

Thanks, BILLY MAYS. You’re a fucking hero.

Dear Aunt Becky,

After reading your blog for a while, I know you’re familiar with The Crazy.  Since I don’t know a lot of people personally who really get it, I’d love your advice on recovery.  Long story short, I have a great life – wonderful husband, three amazing daughters, the opportunity to stay home full time, etc.

BUT.

The past two years have been bullshit.  I developed anxiety/panic disorder while pg with baby #3, which I’m still dealing with.  I’m better than I was a few months back, thanks to therapy and meds, but life events have not helped at all (the biggest one being the death of my 6 yr old niece, who was born with a terminal illness.)  I have to fight with phobias and hypochondria on a daily basis.  Of course, I feel guilty to complain since I know there are others who have been dealt worse cards – but this is MY Hell, so it sucks shit through a straw to ME.  I still don’t feel like “the real me”, and I’m not sure I ever will.

I’m sick of it.  I want my life back.  So I ask you, as someone who has been through a similar process: What advice would you give someone who is hoping to get themselves back is the New Year?

Thanks for listening,
Mermama3

Oh Prankster, I so get it and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I wish like hell shit wasn’t so fucking hard sometimes. I’ll spare you the platitudes because they’re bullshit and if you wanted one, you could get it crocheted on a pillow or something. Sometimes, life is just fucking tough. And then, when you think it can’t get worse? It totally does.

It’s an asshole like that.

Luckily, eventually it stops and you learn to roll with the ups and downs because, well, we’re adaptable.

But you, you sound like you’re on your way to where you need to be. You’ve realized that there’s a problem which, as we all know, is the first step. It SOUNDS trite, but it’s not. Pinning down what it is that’s wrong is hard – harder than people give proper credit. So props to you for that.

Acknowledging that I was sick to fucking death of pretending I was someone that I wasn’t was huge for me. Mentally ditching all of the excess baggage, all of the old ties I didn’t need to people who didn’t deserve my love or loyalty, examining my relationships to see them as they really are, those were all things I had to do to figure out who the fuck Aunt Becky really is and what she stood for.

It sucked.

A lot.

But it was also kinda empowering. Because knowing I was able to fix this, that I could actually control my own happiness and fix my own emotions; that’s a big revelation. I was in charge of my happiness. I was. Me. Your Aunt Becky. In charge of her happiness.

I started with small things.

An orchid plant or three. Some time in my garden alone with my headphones. My phoenix tattoo (that was like 64 kajillion sessions). Creating Mushroom Printing. Then Band Back Together. Getting my hair cut. Walking around Target alone for half an hour. Taking a long drive.

Small things. Small things that made me happy.

I’ve done a lot of crying, too. I can’t believe my eyeballs haven’t exploded, actually. Somehow, I’m still here. More or less intact. You’ll make it, too. I promise. I’m so sure that I made you something. Something to help you along the way. No one should have to walk through The Shit alone when there’s so much good in the world. I know that because I see it all the time here with my Pranksters and over at Band Back Together.

I made you a present. It’s over on Band Back Together.

Go on, go see it. All of you. It’s for everyone – bloggers or not – to join.

You will find yourself again. It may take a lot longer than you’d like and it may suck a lot harder than you think is fair, but you’re in there. I know it.

Sending you a big ass hug without a platitude. Because platitudes are bullshit.

——————-

So, Pranksters, do you have any advice to offer? I know that she and I are not the only two people in the universe who have been in this situation before. How have you found yourself after you’ve been lost for some time?

Also: JOIN THE WORLD TOUR, YO.

My life is complete.

This is what brought people to my blog today, in the wee hours of this morning.

Jimmy Wales, founder of Wikipedia (that’s probably how he probably signs his checks)(I sign mine, Becky Sherrick Harks, Mummy Hunter Extraordinaire, ESQ)(don’t judge, Pranksters), it appears that I am not the only one who has a problem with your “I’m Judging You As You Search Wikipedia For ‘Vagina Itch'” eyes.

(here’s my aside: why don’t you get a puppy to stare cutely at me instead? I’d be more inclined to give money to a puppy than to you.)

2011, I’m already humping your leg.

Once a year, every year since dinosaurs typed out blog posts with their wee dinosaur hands on their gigantic Stone Age laptops, I do a Meme. Generally speaking, I do not like Memes. I do not think that my Pranksters give a fucking shit how I best like my coffee or what is in my purse right now. HOWEVER. I am compulsive. And since I do this every year, I do this EVERY YEAR.

(As proof that I do not actually have a life, I offer this:  2009 here, 2008 here, 2007 here, 2006 here.)

1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?

Lost my marbles and managed to find them all again. I also got a phoenix tattoo on my back that I’m incredibly proud of (although it’s not yet finished).

I started two new user-submitted blogs, both of whom call me Site Master Aunt Becky Mushroom Printing and Band Back Together.

They call me Miss Site Master Ma’am, I call them schnookems.

I also went to Las Vegas for the first time. You can see how excited I was by this particular picture. You might want to get up and dance around the room because you will be unable to contain your own excitement upon seeing this photo.

Ready?

…

…

…

…

…

…

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

I wrote this last year: “2010 is going to be the year Aunt Becky Gets Her Groove Back. And hopefully, her fucking figure too.”

Done and done.

And as far as the New Year, we have a project in the works on Band Back Together that we’re putting together.

In the end, I hope that 2011 will bring me less bullshit and more happiness. More orchids and less backstabbing. More writing and less email. More cowbell and less synthesizers. Clearly.

There’s always room for cowbell.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

My food baby just kicked!

More interesting, I birthed MY FIRST VIDEO!

4. Did anyone close to you die?

I’m trying to think of the happy, Meme.

5. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?

A disco band and a rock star husband.

6. What countries did you visit?

Las Vegas is considered a country, right?

7. What date from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:

Meme, I’m on The Max (Topamax). Dates were the first thing to go.

I guess I’ll choose July 28. My new birthday.

Okay, let me explain. I had to change my date of birth. Turns out that my first DOB, July 15, it’s kinda cursed. After I ended up in Urgent Care for like the 34th birthday in a row, I decided that I was done with that birthday. So I chose a new one!

HAPPY NEW BIRTHDAY, AUNT BECKY!

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Creating Band Back Together is probably what I am most proud of. Having a safe place for people to share their stories about really, anything, even the good things in life, ALONG WITH the resource pages (some of which, of course, still need to be created), so that the reader may find the help that they need, I think that was something that was needed.

Also: we pulled a John C. Mayer on the Internet. That was fucking rad.

OOOH! And how could I forget this! MY DIRECTORIAL DEBUT!

9. What was your biggest failure?

I did NOT get molested by the TSA, even though I tried really, really hard.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

I always hate to answer this one positively because I feel like I’m tempting fate to drop a piano on my head or something. I had abdominal surgery in November. Does that count?

11. What was the best thing you bought?

That seems braggy and slightly obnoxious. I bought new abdominal muscles. They’re nice, if you’re into that kind of thing.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

Everyone who has been brave enough to contribute to Band Back Together.

Also: every person who nominated me for a Bloggie last year. I don’t need to tell you that being a finalist for Best Humor Blog was the biggest honor of my (blogging)(possibly adult)(okay, not possibly, FOR SURE) life. Thank you.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

OH LOOKIT, A BLUE CAR.

I’m kidding. I don’t actually remember having a real beef with anyone this year. I did, however, realize that I was holding onto some old friendships that I probably should have let die awhile ago. I let those go.

14. Where did most of your money go?

Um, Meme, we clearly need to have a talk. Isn’t money a particularly tacky topic of conversation, especially on blogs?

Unless, of course, you want to give me some, in which case, OBVIOUSLY NOT.

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

Uncrustables.

And that time I was Aunt Becky, Fugitive On The Lam for like 14 hours.

16. What song will always remind you of 2010?

G-Love and Jack Johnson, “Rainbow.”

also

Gin Wigmore, “Hey, Ho.”

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

i. happier or sadder? Very, very much happier. I don’t think it even compares.

ii. thinner or fatter? By a magnitude that even I cannot comprehend, thinner.

iii. richer or poorer? Shut your fucking whore mouth about the fucking money, Meme.

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

Blocking celebrities on The Twitter. Also: Pranking The Internet.

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

Accidentally flashing my neighbors.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

Dude, Meme, Christmas is over.

21. There was no #21. I don’t know why there was no 21.

I’ll make up my own question because I like to hear myself talk.

Why are you so damn sexy?

I guess I was just born that way, Meme.

22. Did you fall in love in 2009?

Over and over again. With myself.

23. How many one-night stands?

How many days are in the year?

THAT many. Plus 20.

24. What was your favorite TV program?

Dexter. Because he and I are in a “relationship.” It’s exclusive because we’re actually married. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

*whistles*

*Looks around*

OH LOOK A BLUE…Eh, no. Actually, I don’t. Like

26. What was the best book you read?

Complications: A Surgeon’s Notes on an Imprecise Science.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?

I’m not a record producer. I don’t “discover” anything. However, I do love music. The new Santana album is pretty full of the win.

28. What did you want and get?

A discernible waistline. Unrelated, many cups of coffee.

30. What was your favorite film of this year?

*scratches head*

Um.

Shit.

I don’t remember.

I’m going to make up a new question:

Where are your pants?

I have no idea. Pants are bullshit.

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

I went to Urgent Care. No. Fucking seriously, that’s what I did after I went off on a rant on The Twitter about how much clothing sucks these days. Because SRSLY, metal embellishments can kiss my fucking ass.

Then, I decided to change my birthday to another day of the month. My mother, the one person who might have a say in it (she did, after all, pop me out of her vagina on that date) completely agreed with me that the day is cursed.

I celebrated my birthday instead in Las Vegas in December. I was 30. I am beyond happy to be 30.

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

This:

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?

First half of 2010: “Holy shit, why did the 80’s come back? Holy shit, does complaining about fashion make me old balls? Holy shit, don’t answer that.”

Post-abdominal surgery 2010: “My abdominal binder brings all the boys to the yard.”

34. What kept you sane?

Um, I write a blog on The Internet where I call myself “Aunt Becky.” I haven’t been “sane” in years.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?

Butter-side-up or butter-side-down?

37. Who did you miss?

I’ll always miss my friend Stef. She passed away in 2007 at the age of 26 due to complications of chronic alcoholism, leaving behind her two sons.

38. Who was the best new person you met?

My Band of Merry Pranksters.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010:

It’s time to be all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER, AUNT BECKY.

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

(God, that seems so MySpace/Emo).

First, I’d like to quote this very, powerful and meaningful song. I think you’ll agree with me that this may be the most important song of our lifetime:

“C is for cookie.

That’s good enough for me.

C is for cookie.

That’s good enough for me.

C is for cookie.

That’s good enough for me.

(cue guitar solo)

Oooooh! Cookie cookie cookie starts with C.”

And one more…for the road:

“Ring your bells that can still ring,

Forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack in everything.

That’s how the light gets in.”

—————-

The rest of the meme says I should tag some people but, eh, I don’t like lists. They make me twitchy. Mostly because I’ll forget someone and then, then I’ll feel sad in the pants.

INSTEAD.

I’m tagging each of you. If I can do one Meme a year, SO CAN YOU, Pranksters. DO IT. It’s full of the awesome. JUST like 2011 is going to be. Even if I have to beat it into submission and make it my fucking bitch.

Happy New Year, Pranksters. If I you need me, I’ll be hiding under my bed until it’s officially the New Year. There are still a couple of hours yet for an anvil to drop on my head.

You’re annoyed.

You shift uncomfortably in the ottoman as you check the time on your iPhone and note that the doctor is now forty minutes late. You try not to think about all of the barf germs that you’re now merrily collecting on your favorite ugly pajama pants as your daughter, the one with curls like a halo begins to pull on her shirt, the one she insisted upon wearing, indicating that she, too, is highly annoyed and would like to take off this shirt and GO HOME, thankyouverymuch.

Your toddler son is engrossed in a game of Angry Birds on another iPhone but stops his game for a couple seconds to cough that worrisome I-smoke-three-packs-a-day cough that’s sent you all on a field trip to the doctor in the first place. You frown but quickly turn it into a smile. Even with this annoying bout of what you think is bronchitis, everything is just as it should be.

You are happy. Finally.

You think about the first time you were ever in this pediatrics office; nearly two years ago now. Your new infant daughter tightly clutched in your arms, the frightening MRI images of her precious head on the computer, the referrals to the new neurologist – one who will take your insurance – and you remember how you wept. In public. Again.

You remember those horrible, heartbreaking days well, although the colors are fading into the background, the sights and sounds and triggers all fading into a dusky shade of their former vividness.

You won’t forget. Ever. You know that on your deathbed, you will remember, as those are days you can’t forget, but now, they’re losing their power.

Life is moving forward.

You think of the year that seemed like it was never going to end. The year ends tomorrow.

All of those things you thought you’d never leave behind, all of those things have been put squarely to bed.

Those dragons have been slayed.

Certainly, there will be new dragons to battle, but for now, you stand with your daughter, the one with curls like a halo, proud and triumphant over the bodies of the fallen dragons.

A smile plays on your lips as you think of what’s to come. Of the people you’ll meet and the people you’ll learn to love. Of all of the things that you’ll do with the next 365 days. This year, you know there is hope because there is always hope.

The doctor finally comes in and greets you by saying, “I can hardly believe you’re the same people!”

And you smile and laugh, because you know just what she means.

I wanted to thank you for your incredible display of warmth and kindness on my post about autism. When I say things like, “I’m honored to know you,” I’m not being a hokey ball of cheese, I mean it. I’m incredibly lucky to have such an amazing group of Pranksters in my life. Thank you. To everyone who commented, tweeted, emailed, or read the post, I thank you.

Historically, it’s been hard for me to talk about autism and how it affects us because I simply don’t know what to say about it. As so many of you said (and like so many other disorders, diagnoses and conditions) it’s not the same sort of disorder for everyone, but because it’s so prevalent in the media, everyone is an expert. That makes it difficult when “experts” like Jenny McCarthy and the guy down the street want to lecture you on the danger of dioxin because they “know” better than you do.

Simply put: they don’t.

But when it’s something that’s so close to your heart, no, when it’s PART of your heart, it’s not something you just want to lay out there for Rando Joe Schmo to trample on.

I was wrong.

Because it dawned on me as I read all of your incredible stories what power we have. Each of us. What a unique platform we have at our disposal.

Before, if we wanted to be heard, we had to write a book, hope it was interesting enough to get picked up by a publisher (whose bottom line was, of course, big fat dollar signs) hope that the book was read by enough people to be considered a success and then maybe, just maybe, we’d be heard by the Right People. Newspaper and magazine articles went through a similar process, only to be read by a smaller audience. The common denominator was that people had to pay money to access the words you wrote, IF you were enough of a success to be published at all.

But in the era of self-publishing, it simply doesn’t matter what your pedigree is. People who’ve never written a single word can start a blog with a few keystrokes (see example: Mommy Wants Vodka) for free. It costs nothing to read the words I write. Not a cent. Sure, you may pay for your internet connection, but that’s different.

You know, Pranksters, I’m not a fan of self-centered blog “ZOMG BLOGGING IS THE BESTEST!!!!!!!!!!” circle jerks, but I’m constantly amazed by how unique our platform is.

We can give a voice to those who have none. We can give a face and a name to things you’ve never heard of. We have power to do so much good.

People read us to connect with other people, not the cold, clipped, polished words in a magazine. Our blogs have the human element that would be neatly left on the editing room floor of any newspaper. We’re too raw, too unfiltered, and too real. But it’s our flaws that make us interesting and our pain that binds us together.

If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know what a neural tube defect is. You also know my daughter, Amelia, was born with a very rare one called an encephalocele. It’s likely you hadn’t heard of it before you met Your Aunt Becky and her daughter Amelia. I’d learned of neural tube defects in school and I knew of encephaloceles…but typically in conjunction with Chiari Malformation.

Now you’ve all heard of it. You know that THIS girl had one:

Over the past two years, I’ve given encephaloceles a voice. And a face. This is what an encephalocele looks like.

Through my blog, I’ve met people who have been prenatally diagnosed with encephaloceles. I’ve met adults with encephaloceles and other neural tube defects. I’ve become a March of Dimes Mom. I’m planning a resource website for those with encephaloceles because none exist. I’ve become an advocate and a voice for encephaloceles.

I became a voice because it was the right thing to do.

You just reminded me that it’s still the right thing to do. Now it’s my turn.

So this is me, Your Aunt Becky, encouraging you to speak your truth. Stand up tall and proud for what you believe in. Give a voice to those who have none and a hand to those who may not think to ask.

Pull those skeletons out of your closets and make them dance the motherfucking tango.