When I first started blogging, I found myself fitting in, not with the other mom bloggers, but with the fringe groups. The infertility bloggers, the baby loss bloggers, the special needs bloggers, those were people I could identify with much more so than the people I was supposed to fit in with. Maybe I hadn’t lost a child, maybe I hadn’t struggled in that very same way, but I had struggled in my own way.

We were the outsiders. The misfits. We had stories that no one wanted to hear about. Elephants sat at our tables, in corners and we were forever on the outside of normal, looking in. It’s the natural progression, I suppose, that I would create a space for us to gather. I’m proud of that. There are many of us outsiders. So many more than I’d thought.

When my daughter was born sick, it was no surprise that it was these people that came to my side with swords to help me slay my dragon, fluffy tissues to wipe the tears, and a barf bucket for when it all came to be too much.

I have an email folder that I’ve carefully saved every email I’ve gotten from that time that someday, I will print out to show my daughter. Most of the emails are from the people like me. Like most of you. The outsiders. The people who have been through hell but know how to make the ride a little…easier.

Today is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss day. Every year, I do a Wall of Remembrance for the people who have picked me up, dusted me off and wiped the barf off my face when I needed it most.

For that, I owe them everything.

According to the Center’s For The Disease Control’s Website, about 1 in every 100-200 births in the United States results in a stillbirth. The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates that 4 million stillbirths occur yearly worldwide. The numbers for neonatal and postnatal deaths run into the tens of thousands.

Those numbers seem large to me, but even after having to take a statistics class to get through nursing school I can’t say that I’m much of a numbers person. My son, he likes numbers, which is why he’ll be off saving the world, one string of code at a time, while Your Aunt Becky sits here, mouth breathing and occasionally wondering aloud, “Is the INTERNET working?”

Numbers aren’t my thing. People are my thing. 1 in 100-200 sounds like a hell of a lot bigger number when you attach faces to those numbers. Faces, stories and names. People. My friends. My nieces, my nephews, their parents. Tables forever missing one. Lives cut short. Unlived.

Still born. Born still.

My friends. Their children.

Shale

Matthew

Charlie

Cora

Thalon

Maddie

Peyton Elizabeth

Hannah

Sarah Kay

Paige

Ashley

Hannah

Baby Morgan

Baby Twin lost at 8 wks

Kiara Jolie

Jellybean

Baby C miscarried at 12 weeks on 1/7/07

Robin

Brian

<3 speck, Peanut, and Bean <3

Mindy’s three angels

Baby Jersey Girl Gets Real

Caleb

Gabriel

Anne & Jed’s babies

Sydney

Athena Rose Moore – 24 weeks Gestation (2nd loss, only one named)

Baby 1 – 9 weeks

Baby B – Twin to my 13yo, 12 weeks

Baby 2 – 9 weeks

Baby JP

Kathlyn

Baby Cherry

Nicholas

Ellis

Tevin, Taylor & Tristen

Elijah Michael

Brenna

Kherrington Faith

Baby H and Baby Boy H

Kalila

Baby J A and Baby J B

Anna

William

Robert Alan

Isabel Grace

Maddy

William Henry

Lilee

James and Jake

Aodin

Selena- lost pregnancy at 9 weeks

Callum

Sarah

Connor

Liam

Samuel

Jacob Lane

Caden

Masyn

Olive Lucy

Seth Milton

Abigail Hlee

JoeJoe Sherman

Baby Nick

Gabriel Anton

Ryan

Jonathan

Devin Alin

Jacob and Joshua

Baby K, Gabriel Connor, Christian Elliot and Andrew

Emmerson

Baby Kuyper

Mara S.

Nathan Michael

Eva and seven additional losses

Timothy, Taea, and Thomas

Kyle S.

John Addison

Raime, Elora & Connor

Ava and Nathaniel

Rose

Micaela, Angelica, and Frankie

Donald Angus

ETW’s seven losses

Becca’s twin siblings

Piper Isabelle

Libby’s Baby

Baby Cline

Addison Hope

Ryne Moyer

Marcus Reeves

Julian Ulysses

Becky

Caleb

Sean Isaac

Clayton and Skylar

Jessica Anne

Paul James

Ashlynn Brooks

David Lee

Babies Boone

David

Olcott-Lueke angels

Baby A and Baby B twin girls

Baby Girl B and Baby Boy A

Becca’s Twin Siblings

Jackson

Kaitlyn Grace

Brennan

Ellery

Robert Daniel

Quinn

Josie Ree Smith

Isabel

Issac

Samuel and Amelia

Draven Fredrick

I’ll add any names to this list so if you’d like me to add a name, please don’t hesitate to email me aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com or leave me a comment.

I will be cross-posting this to Band Back Together as well. We also have a baby loss, child loss, and miscarriage category over on that site, so any stories you’d like to share over there would be more than welcome. The site has two loss mommas as founders.

At 7 pm tonight, October 15th, A Day To Remember, I will burn a candle in memorium.

Dona nobis pacem.

(give us peace) Lord, give us peace.

2010 was the Year of Bringing Aunt Becky Back, after realizing that I’d lost myself amid the piles of shitty diapers, colic and teething babies. It’s a hard balance, being Becky and being Mommy. Kids are notoriously selfish creatures I realized that if I couldn’t be Becky, as herself, in addition to being Mommy, I was never going to be happy.

I started the year off by starting my Phoenix tattoo and resolving to find my missing pieces.

The tattoo was initially an outline of a phoenix:

I began searching for My Missing Pieces.

I knew I wanted to be a writer, since the whole nursing thing wasn’t going to work (what with not liking to take orders from other people and stuff), but breaking into Old Media wasn’t happening. As a member of the New Media, Old Media took a look at me and got all huffy. Fine, I thought, BE that way, Old Man.

Back to the drawing board I trundled.

While I tried to figure out what to do with the rest of my life, I realized that it was also time to start being kinder to myself. I gots my hair did, bought some purdy clothes, and lost a bunch of weight. My body treats pregnancy like a famine, so every calorie I put in goes straight onto my ass. I could probably eliminate the middle-man and stick the food directly onto my ass.

Either way, I knew it was time to start putting myself in nice clothes again. Cosmo may have mostly taught me that a magazine about “me” was actually about pleasing “him” but they also did tell me that if I looked good, I felt good. Cosmo, as much as I hate to admit it, you won that round.

Still, I tried to figure out what I was supposed to do with myself while I waited for my trophy husband. I’ve been looking for a career since I scrapped medical school for nursing school and I’m not blond enough to be a trophy wife. I’ve needed something, anything, to make me, Your Aunt Becky, feel all warm and gushy inside.

I’ve carefully filled in my Phoenix tattoo as I’ve waited:

Eventually, I knew I’d figure it out. I always do.

July hit, and my life fell apart. I hate to be all maudlin and all “WOE IS ME,” but it was a fucking mess. The realization that I’d made all of the mistakes that I’d always told myself I never would broke my heart. I’m not sure I’ll ever quite be over that.

It’s like I betrayed my younger self and I’ve been slowly picking up the pieces ever since. If there is a good side to this, it’s that I’m finally dealing with all of the shit that I didn’t realize I hadn’t dealt with. Therapy, it’s good. Especially if you’re as narcissistic as I am.

It was around that time that I was able to reconcile what I hadn’t before. If I couldn’t make it in the Old Media world, it was time to do what I knew best: The Motherfucking Internet. Maybe it was time to get off my dimply ass and use my blog to launch something new; something more useful to the world.

So with the help of more people than I can ever thank, we did that. Band Back Together was formed. A place where anyone can go to put down their stories. Their stories of heartache and triumph. Of demons and light. Of laughter and love. It doesn’t matter who you are or how many hits your blog gets, over there, we’re all the same. We’re all in it together.

It’s not even close to reaching it’s potential, as one Prankster put it today. I believe the site will do so much good. It already has.

For me.

Running Band Back Together will never make me rich and famous. It will never send me on speaking engagements around the country or net me fame and fortune. I’ll never attract advertisers that drive dump trucks full of cash to my door just the way my dirty mouth scares them away from me here.

That, Pranksters, is just fine with me.

What Band Back Together is doing is more important than that. What I do here is all me. And being me, well, that’s worth more than anything.

It’s redemption.

Last week was pretty much the best week ever. It was one of those weeks where everything, for once, just fell into place. Even my therapist and I joked, “you’d better watch out for falling anvils this week.”

So far this week hasn’t been the absolute antitheses of last but I do have a case of the Bluey-Blues. It’s mostly related, I think, to a migraine that I’ve had since Saturday. I’m tired of migraines and after awhile I do end up feeling kind of sad. Pain has a way of doing that to you, I guess.

Last night, I was determined to make myself feel better in the only way I know how: bedazzling things.

Now, you all know that Your Aunt Becky is not crafty, right Pranksters? If I tried to bedazzle anything, I’d end up gluing my face to the wall or accidentally bedazzling my cat. I’m not crafty. I’ll never be crafty. I’m okay with this.

So when I popped onto The Twitter and said that I was going bedazzle something, and quickly, I meant that I was going to BUY something sparkly. Because, OBVIOUSLY.

My go-to thing to buy when I’ve come down with a case of the bluey-blues are necklaces. I’m a fan of proFANity, but I’m also a huge fan of things that make me sparkle like a diamond. Pretty sure I’m part crow. Or magpie. Or, at the very least, octopus.

I’d been meaning to buy a Becky Necklace to match my Becky Belt for years. Last night, I thought happily to myself, was the night! The necklace, though, had to be sparkly (not real diamonds, of course), unlike my belt, which is a drab silver. That was my one stipulation, and I figured that would be no big deal.

I set my happy fingers to google and went to work.

I found many websites where I could easily make a “BECKY” necklace. That wasn’t going to do. I required bling.

I found a website where I could make a BECKY necklace out of diamonds. That also would not do. (if I am going to make a horrifyingly tacky necklace out of diamonds, I will go to the diamond district, thank you)

I found a website where I could add a single crystal to my BECKY necklace. Also, not enough.

It seemed that absolutely nowhere could create the masterpiece that I wanted. I simply couldn’t believe it. Certainly, I was not the only tack-a-rific person out there.

The best I came across was this:

I mean, not the Corinne, but “BECKY” because, obviously. But those aren’t crystals, they’re bits of silver. Which photographed well, but I’m not sure it will be as full of the awesome under the the lights of day. Which make me wonder, is it living up to it’s full bling potential? I can’t be sure.

Google, you’ve failed me. My bluey-blues have returned where they could have been easily fixed by a tacky necklace with my name in blinged out letters.

That makes me full of the bluey-blues, Google.

P.S. Pretty sure I’ve lost all “Becky” privileges. I will forever be known as Aunt Becky. EITHER WAY, I WANT A BLINGY NECKLACE WITH MY NAME ON IT, GOOGLE.

One of the things I looked forward to most about having a daughter was knowing that for at least a couple of months, I’d be able to dress her up in frilly little dresses. After two boys, I’d been eying all things pink hungrily for so long that I was in ecstasy when I was finally able to cross into the pink.

Fortunately, my daughter seems to love dresses. She also has her own tastes, something that I can completely approve of. I was the same way as a child. My mother tried to shove me in her Polyanna dresses and denim overalls and I rebelled. Occasionally, she won, but more often than not, she didn’t.

(she won with the stupid fucking bangs. Those bangs haunt me)

My daughter a Mini-Hulk. If she doesn’t get her way, she will lay down on the ground and kick and scream for hours until we can distract her. It’s unbelievable. If I wasn’t suffering from permanent hearing loss from her shrieking, I’d probably find it hilarious.

Normally when it comes to clothes, we don’t do battle. Not yet, at least. I’m aware that these battles are coming, but for now, we have an easy peace.

When the Pottery Barn Kids catalog came in the mail, my son Alex immediately zoomed in on his Halloween costume: “Spike, the *ahem* MANLY beautiful butterfly.”

The pictures are going to go up under a SPOTLIGHT in my hallway. NO ONE is going to miss this. Including all of his future dates. Payback for being the most unpleasant baby ever.

Ben, the 9-year old, is going to be a pirate. *snooze*

That leaves my darling HULK SMASH daughter to costume. Initially, I was thrilled to buy her a costume. I’ve always delighted in dressing my children absurdly for Halloween.

I give you this as evidence:

My son, the Halloweenier.

I’ve been excitedly pouring over Halloween costumes for Amelia. Would she be a peacock? A mermaid? A ballerina?

I didn’t want to purchase something without some inkling of her approval, knowing her propensity to destroy entire villages with her HULK SMASH anger, so one by one I’d hold up the costumes only to be rejected time and time again.

Clearly, my toddler didn’t understand the concept of Halloween. And I couldn’t explain it to her.

Why, you say, Aunt Becky, why don’t you just leave her be and let her wear normal clothes trick-or-treating? Well Prankster, I’d respond gravely, I’m terrified that the moment she sees her brothers in costume, she’s going to go apeshit. And when Amelia goes apeshit, the world cowers in terror.

So, when I was picking up some disposable Old Navy clothes, I threw a princess costume into my shopping cart. It was cheap and worst case scenario, I figured that she could use it to play dress-up with if she chose another Halloween costume.

Excited to show her the costume, I carefully unwrapped it and made a big deal out of presenting it to her, figuring a little pomp and circumstance could only help my cause.

I handed it to her and I swear to you Pranksters, I have never seen my daughter, the one who loves dresses and tutus, more disgusted by something in her life. She ripped the costume from my hands, threw it on the ground in horror and if she hadn’t been wearing a diaper, I swear she would have taken a piss on it. I picked it up before she could tear it apart with her teeth.

I was shocked. Also: horrified. I would probably have cut someone for that costume as a child.

I guess she won’t be wrestling me for the title “Princess Sparkle, Sparkle” any time soon. Somewhere, my mother is chortling, thrilled that I have a clone.

Also: I am so screwed.

*You know what’s bullshit? When people are all, “oh, well, that’s a pain in the….(pause) neck” instead of saying, “ass” or “taco” or “motherfucking asshole” or something. I’m a big fan of profanity. You might even say that I’m profanity’s number one fan. I could wear a Number 1 Finger for Profanity every day. Even if it’s not actually a swear word. Like “pube” or “crotch” which can be totally used in swear form, even if it’s not a swear word.

Aunt Becky + Profanity = BFFFFFFFF!

So, it grieves me to title a post “Pain in the Neck” because it looks like I’m trying to say something else.

I’m not.

For months, I’ve had a pain in my neck. It’s not like a TUMOR or like a little person living there or something, my neck just fucking hurt, and because I’m a responsible person, I ignored the shit out of it. I ignored it until I couldn’t, and finally, I went to the doctor. I hate going to the doctor almost as much as I hate cream-based condiments, and so I’m all *slink-slink* “my neck huuuuuurts” and when he said, “what did you do to injure it?” it was all I could do to not say something juvenile.

I refrained. I snickered, but refrained.

So he prodded my neck and was impressed by the spasms he felt. I felt impressed that he was impressed. I give good “spasms,” I guess. Then he gave me muscle relaxants, I nearly tongued him because by this point, I was in so much pain that I would have licked the toilet clean if it meant that it would stop hurting. I practically chewed the tabs after I got them and when I had no relief, I actually did cry (you shut your whore mouth. I can cry in pain, Pranksters) because it had hurt so much for so long and HOLY FUCK MAKE IT STOP.

I was back at the doctor within a week. This time, he prescribed Physical Therapy (in capitol letters).

I was Not Happy (in capitol letters).

Now, I know there are people that swear by Physical Therapy, and I’m sure they have had great experiences. That’s fabulous. PT is awesome for people who are going through rehab for actual injuries, trauma, you know, people who have a need to have P motherfucking T. Unlike me. I still don’t fucking know what I did to myself. It’s not like I was rescuing a basketful of cute kittens from a burning building or something.

My beef with Physical Therapy is this: I like stuff that doesn’t take me six motherfucking months to see results. I was in pain NOW, therefore I want relief, well, NOW. But the doc was convinced that therapy was where it’s at, so I left with my orders, and I promptly abandoned them at home. For a week. Until the pain was bad enough that I was all, ‘FINE, YOU WIN, PHYSICAL THERAPY.’

Turns out, this Physical Therapy shit isn’t so bad. Looks like I might have some “muscle spams” from being “unable to relax” or something.

The worst part is actually the massages. I know, I’m like the only person on the planet that hates massages, but I tell you, I hate to relax. Genuinely, I have issues with it. Laying face down on a table with my head in what appears to be a vagina isn’t my idea of a great way to spend the morning. I’d rather work. Or work out. Or uh, feed the homeless. OR ANYTHING ELSE.

This is not my massage table. But I had to show you the Vagina/Head Hole and why I find it incredibly dangerous (also: why I should never, ever be allowed to alter photos):

But after the massages, I do some weird electrical thing where they stimulate my neck. I’m hoping it’ll turn my neck into a Hulk Neck. Why be dainty when you can HULK SMASH?

Either way, it turns out, it might be helping a little. I hate to admit that Physical Therapy might actually be worth something.

Even if they don’t advocate drugs. Which, hi, that’s kinda bullshit.

—————–

Dude, check out who has an ANIMATED interview up over here at Mompetition. That? Is full of the awesome.

And CHARITY is full of the awesome too. Pulling a David Cook for free Cold Stone for a year, yo.

You know what? It’s DAMN hard to write about nice charity things. It was way easier to write about my ongoing war with John C. Mayer. You’ll be glad to note, Pranksters, that I have resumed my war with John C. Mayer.

I just thought I should mention that Pulling a John C. Mayer and being a snarky asshole is a hell of a lot easier than Pulling a The David Cook for Charity. And it’s a shame, too. I really do like The David Cook and John C. Mayer makes my vagina hurt with his douchiness.

That said, I’ll allow a couple more days to win a years worth of motherfucking ice cream for motherfucking charity. Who gives a fucking shit if you’re fucking polite about it and fucking shit? We can be charitable without being all vanilla. And shit.

Dear Aunt Becky,

What would you do if every (almost) morning you get to work there is a human pubic hair on your desk? Most often, one.singular.hair. – Aside from puke in your mouth.

Fact – It’s not mine, for sure! Aside from my overgardening in the pubic region, I don’t generally gear down at work and rub my box on my desk.

There is nothing – and I mean not even listening to the collective works of John C. Mayer – that is worse than finding a rogue pubic hair floating around your space that doesn’t belong to you. Whenever I find one that is very distinctly not my own, I’m horrified and then I have to tell someone that I found it (God knows I need a muzzle).

Here is my question, Prankster: is it the same type of pube? Because that changes my answer entirely. If someone is plucking a singular pube from their crotch every night and arranging it neatly on your desk, well, perhaps they are trying to say, “Hey, I like you, let me show you my genital hair!” Maybe this suitor leaves a single pube instead of a rose!

That’s a very special way of saying how much he loves you! “Let’s get a drink! I’m showing you my pubes first!”

If it is not the same type of pube, if you are getting many different -single – daily pube deposits, well, it appears that you have many special suitors. They all want you to see their crotchal regions before you agree to have a drink with them. Aren’t you so lucky!

Or, perhaps you have a Pube Fairy at work. In which case I suggest you buy a shotgun and a trap. Those fuckers are assholes.

(P.S. I am declaring “Pube” as the new insult. Also: “Crotch”)(because, obviously)

Dear Aunt Becky,

I cannot remember how I got to your Website, I think it was Bloggess, but I could be wrong.  But that is not my question or even really important, sometimes I forget to start with the pertinent items.  Your site, which is way amusing and appreciated by me leaves me with one question.  I hate to ask, ’cause your entire post makes me think I really should know the answer.

Who is this John C. Mayer?  Is it the same guy who talked about J.Simpson as sexual Napalm and who seems to have J. Aniston on booty call speed dial?  If not, is this some other surname for John C. Maxwell that I haven’t heard of?  I need to know, ’cause I’m waiting to read your archives until I find out in advance if you like these asshats.

Thanx!

Oh Prankster, no day is complete without a rousing discussion of John C. Mayer. (I do not, however, know who this John C. Maxwell is, so perhaps you could enlighten me).

John C. Mayer is an extremely talented guitar player who wrote one of the worst songs in the world: “Your Body is a Wonderland.” It may have passed under my radar as only “acutely annoying” if I hadn’t had to listen to it 52,897 while every XX chromosome I knew cried about how beautiful it was.

It was not beautiful. It was stupid. It made me want to heave.

I waged war on John C. Mayer for being a douchy pop star for years. Turns out, he’s actually kind of witty and pretty funny.

Recently, he’s been in the news for making completely inappropriate comments about his penis, and while I appreciate penis comments, even I balked at them. He is the one who called Jessica Simpson “sexual napalm” which is something I cannot actually understand. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I’ve spent nights awake in bed wondering.

WHAT DOES SEXUAL NAPALM MEAN?!?

John C. Mayer is sort of my playful archenemy. It’s always important to have a fake archenemy who has no idea you exist, right?

hey Aunt Becky,

What are your views on porn? How much is too much?

Also, why is casting for Celebrity Rehab so unpredictable? I can’t tell if it’s still a show or when the new season starts. Can’t there be a minor league for instant call up? Always seemed like such a deep, rich vein of TV reality gold .

I find that porn is like bacon: there’s always room for more.

Porn + Porn = full of the awesome.

Unless you have a porn addiction in which case it’s probably not so much full of the awesome.

Also: really don’t need to see close-ups of the ballbags, porn makers. Just, you know, thought I’d throw that in there. Testicle skin looks a lot like chicken skin and while I find it absolutely hilarious, it’s not so much arousing as it is amusing.

Also Also: I just made sure that every male reader will never, ever want to have sex with me.

Also Also Also: Balls are awesome.

And I don’t understand Celebrity Rehab. I’ve never watched it. I’m certain my Pranksters will happily discuss it with you, though.

————————

As always, Pranksters, please pick up where I left off in the comments. Your questions can be always be submitted to Go Ask Aunt Becky.

The Pulling a David Cook for Charity post is here.

And Band Back Together, for any of you who wanted to put your charity posts up on that site, is here.

(phone rings)

Aunt Becky: (breathless) “Oh. My. GOOOOOOOD!”

The Daver: “What?”

Aunt Becky: “You’re not going to BELIEEEEVVVEEEEEE IT!!!”

The Daver: “Uh, what?”

Aunt Becky: “The most AMAZING THING JUST HAPPENED.”

The Daver: “Did an Uncrustables Truck break down in our driveway?”

Aunt Becky: “No! BETTER.”

The Daver: “Did you get contacted to write for Dexter next season?”

Aunt Becky: “Even cooler!”

The Daver: “Did you get a check for a million dollars that you DIDN’T have to pay back at 99.9% interest?”

Aunt Becky: “Nope! Guess again!”

The Daver: “Did you get your own Lifetime Original Movie where Tori Spelling would play you?”

Aunt Becky: “NO!”

The Daver: “Did you finally design a working robot monkey butler named Mr. Pinchey you’ve been carefully planning out for 3 years?”

Aunt Becky: “Not yet! Soon Mr. Pinchey will be MINE!”

The Daver: “Did you find out McDonald’s was actually good for you?”

Aunt Becky: “My ass wishes!”

The Daver: “Did you finish the Panic Room you’ve started in the treehouse?”

Aunt Becky: “Still trying to lug the lead doors up the trunk!”

The Daver: “Did you finally teach the cats to dance?”

Aunt Becky: “They’re getting a little funky fresh, but not yet!”

The Daver: “Did you find a way for our whites to get even whiter?”

Aunt Becky: “I miss Billy Motherfucking Mays.”

The Daver: “Did you find a source of non-addictive Vicodin?”

Aunt Becky: “That’s on my agenda for the weekend.”

The Daver: “Then I give up.”

Aunt Becky: “OH MY GOD. SO I GOT THIS EMAIL…I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY SENT IT TO ME!”

The Daver: “Wow. Must be quite an email.”

Aunt Becky: “It was from someone I’d been meaning to email for AGES. And SHE emailed ME first.”

The Daver: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “IT WAS FROM THE SPINA BIFIDA ASSOCIATION. THEY WANT TO WORK WITH ME, DAVE. ME! MEEE!

The Daver: “Yeah?”

Aunt Becky (sings): “OH HAPPY DAY!”

Aunt Becky: “This is huge! Do you even know why!?! I’LL TELL YOU WHY. You know how Mimi has an encephalocele, right? That’s a neural tube defect. The Spina Bifida Association is a BIG DEAL for people with Spina Bifida! Spina BIFIDA is another NEURAL TUBE DEFECT!”

The Daver: “Yep!”

Aunt Becky: “They want to work with me to raise some awareness for Spina Bifida, which DUH, of course I’ll do. If Mimi’s encephalocele had been farther down her spine, it would have BEEN Spina Bifida, right? OF COURSE I’LL HELP ANY NEURAL TUBE DEFECT SOCIETY.”

The Daver: “Of course!”

Aunt Becky: “But this is exactly what we’re going to do with the encephalocele website we’re putting together. It’ll be for parents of kids with encephaloceles. There are so few of us out there, but still, we deserve a big website, too. IT MAKES ME SO UPSET THAT WE HAVE NOTHING, DAVE. But anyway.”

(breathes deeply)

Aunt Becky: “MAYBE THE SPINA BIFIDA ASSOCIATION WILL WORK WITH ME SOMEDAY! The March of Dimes is already thrilled about our website! And I have some of the top neurologists in the country waiting for us to get it all put together.”

The Daver: “Yay!”

Aunt Becky: “NEURAL TUBE DEFECTS UNITE!”

The Daver: “If anyone can make that happen, it’ll be you.”

Aunt Becky: “We’re going to do this. Katie, Nikki and I. We’re going to do this.”

The Daver: “You will. And it will help so many people.”

Aunt Becky: “This is better than the time I mixed Count Chocula and Frankenberry Cereal. Now I’m off to call the Spina Bifida Association.”

The Daver: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ll try not to sound like a creepy fangirl.”

The Daver: “Good luck. Because you kinda are a creepy fangirl.”

——————

Charity posts. ICE CREAM. DO IT, yo!

I’ve had a rough couple of weeks. And I don’t even mean because I’ve spent the better part of two nights “on the lam” (that’s prison speak for HIDING FROM THE POLICE) in my fake mustache and floppy hat.

Because I am not a “planner” and in fact my five-year plan still really is “don’t die” and if pressed is more like “don’t get scurvy and die,” I’ve been in the middle of several gigantic projects. Normal people might have let some of them slip so that they could focus more effectively on one, but since no one has ever accused me of being normal, smart, pretty, cool, awesome, or anything else that might be considered a compliment, I, instead, decided to plow through them. I’m happier when I’m in the middle of a zillion things anyway.

But in the middle of all of this, I realized that I’ve been sort of, well, frustrated.

My normal emotional range looks like this:

I want a nap <-> I want a cheeseburger <-> I really want a nap <-> OOOOH! SHINY

So when I feel anything beyond that, I’m never quite sure what to do. I’m going to therapy now, so I suppose I should start working on this “feelings” bullshit everyone is telling me about. Apparently not having feelings makes you a serial killer. WHATEVER.

But I’ve been feeling pulled in a zillion directions. More than that, I’ve been feeling kind of…used. And not in the dirty sex kind of way.

It’s hard to explain.

It’s like there are three kinds of Internet People: My Pranksters, Not My Pranksters and The Internet Mole People.

Pranksters = You = Awesome.

Not Pranksters = Not You = I don’t know you = could be awesome.

Internet Mole People = Creepy Forum People = trolls who occasionally pop up to say horrible things that are usually misspelled and cruel like, “PEOPL LIK U SHUD NOT HAV KIDZ” or “YOU AER FAT N UGLY N SHUD DIE.” Clearly you cannot take them seriously.

And my Pranksters, you know that I love you all hard. Internet Mole People, you know that I love you (most of you, except the ones I hate) because you remind me that no matter what, I could always be a mouth-breathing knuckled-dragging person who has nothing better to do than anonymously bully people on the internet.

It’s the Non-Pranksters that have been giving me feelings (barf). It’s not one thing, like they all came to my Target store and bought up all the Uncrustables and Diet Coke or something. It’s the pressure of trying to get to all of the projects + the issues that I have going on behind the scenes (what, me have issues?) that = actual feelings.

I got my feelers hurt because some Non-Pranksters were being assholes. That’s what it boils down to. I got my feelers hurt when I was in the middle of doing something I thought was awesome and worthwhile while going through some personal shit of my own and Non-Pranksters were all grabby and shit.

No, of COURSE it wasn’t any of you.

But I’ve been kinda upset about it for awhile. I’ve been working around the clock on Band Back Together and I couldn’t shake my anger, no matter how many videos of laughing babies I watched.

Last night, I was sent a message by a Twitter Prankster telling me another Prankster was being trolled by an Internet Mole Person. I assumed this was probably another case of being called a “fatty-fat-fat stupit hed” or something stupid, which Pranksters, IGNORE THOSE MOLE PEOPLE, or pretend they are calling you beautiful.

I was wrong.

This person was absolutely right. An Internet Mole Person (who could spell) was trolling the mourning mother who had recently lost a child so that this Mole Person could use his death as a means to show the world the evils of circumcision.

I don’t care what you think about cutting the penis, bullying a mourning family and saying, “YOU CAUSED THIS” to prove your own hysterical point is the lowest of the low. I’m beyond horrified to know that while wonderful healing is going on at Band Back Together, this horrible hatred and vitriol is being spewed at a family in mourning. I’m disgusted and appalled.

I woke up even more pissed off at people than I had been. I took to the Twitter and fired off a few tweets at the Mole Person. Then I stormed around the house, furious.

When I came back to the computer to find some dancing cat videos, I saw something. My Pranksters, you’d joined in. All of you were chewing this nasty bitch out and supporting this family who had just suffered an unimaginable tragedy.

And right then, suddenly, the anger I’d been feeling towards all of the people who’d been shitting on me was gone.

I’ve always believed in the inherent good of (most) people and I realized that’s it’s precisely that goodness that’s been missing from most of my interactions with people lately. To see it again, it made my heart smile. People are good. My Pranksters are good. I’m sure the Non-Pranksters are good people, too. They’re just not my people. Maybe they will be some day. Maybe they won’t.

And Internet Mole People can suck it.

Finally, I wrote about autism.

For a couple of weeks now, Amelia has been receiving weekly speech therapy. I’ve also taken My Pranksters’ advice and bought some Baby Signing Time DVD’s* which, which, while they have not necessarily helped my daughter (yet), they have succeeded in both annoying me (win), with their incredibly cheerful songs and entertaining my older two sons (double win).

Alex has taken to sign language like he takes to anything else: compulsively. So we watch the DVD’s (and their cheerful fucking songs) endlessly. He has them memorized and can tell you the signs for anything that he has learned. I’d be impressed, but I’m too busy trying to remove the Pizza Song from my long-term memory banks, where I’d much rather put my phone number or social security number or whatever.

The boys have been a huge help with trying to help their sister learn to speak and use sign language to communicate rather than point and shriek like a banshee.

The other night, however, the three kids were in the other room with the television watching their beloved Signing Time DVD when my daughter filled her pants. The boys, enraptured with the “I’m A Boy” song, didn’t notice.

Nor did they notice when their sister took off her loaded diaper and ran around the room.

It took a good couple of minutes before anyone noticed that my daughter was streaking around the room, covered in poo.

When we did, the entire room burst out into a single word. For all the words that we’ve tried to teach her that she’s stubbornly ignored, “Thank you,” “please,” “more,” “cereal,” “food,” my daughter learned this:

“EWWWWWW,”

Followed by, “Uh-Oh.”

Those totally count as words.

….right?

—————

*not a plug**

**I hate that I have to specify that.

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Over at Toy With Me, I spent more time swearing about cancer than I’ve ever sworn about anything ever.

I’m designing some Cancer is Bullshit shirts for Band Back Together with some of the proceeds going to charity. Doing good makes your ass look good.

P.S. If you don’t feel your story is “good enough” for Band Back Together, trust me, it is. We also are happy to take any reposts.

I’m also considering making some Prankster shirts. Is that lame or awesome? Shut Your Whore Mouth. If that’s lame, what’s better?

My awesome friend Katelyn’s Krafts is now featured on my sidebar, which is full of the win. She sells sassafrassy totes in her Etsy store. Win!

My day started out full of the win.

I normally find Sundays to be the most worthless days on the planet, a day that I feel should be blown off the map entirely to be replaced by The Day To Worship Baby Jesus AND Aunt Becky (or something other than Sunday), but this particular Sunday, I finally finished something that had been sitting in the back of my brain, beating to get out, and I knew that what I had finished was good.

It was the end of a series of essays and I’d managed to fit them all together perfectly. Months of waiting and finally, the right thing came out. The relief was enormous.

Monday dawned and it was like that part of my brain (admittedly very small) was open again so that I could once again fill it up with thinking about all of the reasons I hate Averil Lavigne, since I did call off my war against John C. Mayer.

Immediately after I got up, my daughter managed to, while getting her fingernails trimmed, slice the tippy-top of her thumb off. (this is why I beg other people to do it) Blood every-fucking-where. Fingers are way vascular, so it took ages to clot. Seeing my daughter’s blood triggered some pretty bad flashbacks from her first weeks of life for me.

But I’m all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER, BECKY, SHAKE THAT SHIT OFF.

When I’m upset, I’m not all, mope-around-the-house, I’m all, let’s-get-r-done, so I started cleaning the shit out of the house and paying all the bizarre bills I owed. Like the ones for $2.10 that were all, “IF YOU DON’T PAY THIS, WE’RE GOING TO TAKE YOU TO COLLECTIONS” and I’m all, uh, you’re wasting your ink, because I just forgot because it’s two fucking dollars and they’re all, “I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS” and yesterday I’m all, “FINE, HERE IT IS.”

Because really, I wasn’t trying to keep the hospital away from their fucking two dollars, I just wasn’t rushing it because it was two fucking dollars. MY BAD.

So yesterday, I sat down to seven dollars worth of bills that I’d neglected for months because I am a lazy fuck who never has stamps because mailing things makes me break out in hives because I am lazy.

Then, I opened my day planner, which I have to use, because I take a really high dosage of a medication for my My Grains called “Topamax.” Topamax, for those of you unaware, is an old-ass epilepsy drug that has many side effects, including as my neurologist so kindly puts it: “cognitive impairment.”

The Max, as I call it, makes you dumb as fuck (or in my case, dumbER). You forget words, names, dates, times, things you’re supposed to do. It’s a well-documented problem and it sucks. My memory used to be full of the awesome now it’s full of holes. But, it helps with my My Grains, so that’s that.

(I have a particular problem with numbers and names)

Yesterday, I’m all, OH SHINY DATE BOOK! and I popped it open to see what I had inside for the week, knowing I had Jury Duty on Tuesday, 8AM.

And my heart thudded to a stop in my chest. There, right on the Jury Duty summons I’d neatly clipped into my date book was the actual name of the day: “MONDAY.”

FUCK.

It was 1:30 in the afternoon on Monday, hours after I was supposed to be in court.

I just SKIPPED Jury Duty by accident. I wasn’t doing anything better. I had no grand plans. I was going to show up in the courts on Tuesday, like I’d planned. I nearly died.

I checked to see if my jury number had been called and it had. Of course it had.

Immediately, I called the number on the back of the summons and got, you guessed it, voicemail. Nothing could have been resolved right then and there. No, not yesterday. I left a panicky message and waited for the cops to show up to arrest me. The back of the summons said that if I didn’t show up they COULD fine me! Or send me to JAIL!

I tried to figure out how Young Hollywood or COPS would handle it if they were waiting for the 5-0 to come and arrest them. I put on a full face of make-up and hid in the bathtub for awhile until I got cold and hungry and wandered back into the kitchen for an Uncrustables.

When nothing had happened by 7PM, I figured I’d the system might have lost me. Or maybe they’d wait until I least expected it. I put on a fake mustache and a hat because I knew THEN that the cops would totally not recognize me when they came for me. That way, I could watch House, MD and not have to sit curled up in the bathtub with a mattress on top of me any longer.

My name is now Senor Aunt Becky. I am officially a fugitive from the law.