It was a good thing that I was lying down when they told me my first crotch parasite had a hot dog instead of a hamburger or I would have probably fallen over. I was 158% certain that the baby who had HER feet stuck up in MY liver was a GIRL, thankyouverymuch and her name was going to be Elise and excuse me?
SHE has a PENIS?
What the hell kind of GIRL has a PENIS?
Where did you get your ultrasound degree ANYWAY, lady? SEARS?
But she zoomed in and showed me a dangly bit and a comically large sack, and assured me that it wasn’t some circus freak of a girl/boy I was carrying. Nope, I was having a BOY. A bouncing beautiful baby BOY. (I made up the beautiful part because he sort of looked like a pixelated version of the blob)
I was TERRIFIED. We’d gone in for an emergency ultrasound because the doctor had heard “something” on the fetal heart tones that made him “unhappy” and I couldn’t get what specifically that was, and although I was only twenty at the time, I did love my baby, despite what all of the people who came up to tell me my business thought (oh, Pranksters, you have no idea, except those of you who do).
His heart turned out to be just perfect and his twig and berries, well, they were unexpectedly there, but fine as well.
And now, I was a mother. Of a boy. Pretty sure I was soon to be a single mother. Of a boy. I was shitting my pants. Or I would have been, had the prenatal vitamins allowed for it.
Several weeks before he was born, stuck for a name, it came to me suddenly and I named him Benjamin, meaning “son of my right side” and hoped that he could be a kind, strong, good and sweet person.
He is. That and so much more.
When I found out I was having his brother, Alexander, I scoured the shelves at the toy store to find him a non-girly baby doll, and when I did, Seth came home with us. Still Seth is a fixture in my house and he frequently is put down for naps, gets bottles, and gets his diaper changed.
Alex came rocketing into the world, in March of 2007 and I can tell you that no one was more excited than Ben.
I implore you to a) ignore the horrid jacket that my darling firstborn son is wearing because I DID NOT DRESS HIM and 2) please look at Alex’s face. It’s HILARIOUS. It’s also the way Alex looked for an entire year.
It turned out that all of the fears I’d had about having boys were unfounded. Of my children, if I am to fall down and hurt myself, it is my sons who will run over to comfort me and wrap their spindly arms around me until I assure them that I am fine. Amelia may come over and investigate, sure, but it will only be to then hurl something large at my head.
(she is her mother’s daughter and my clone in just about every way)
And Alex, oh sweet Alex, the small love of my life, he has his baby, too:
Sure, maybe he carries the thing around by the top of her head and sometimes throws her at the wall for a laugh, but his heart is so crushingly huge that I sometimes wonder if he really is related to me. And then he farts and laughs hysterically and I know that he clearly is.
It’s when they pile on top of me, the three of them, all elbows and knees and giggles, like a squirmy pack of puppies, that I know I’ve done right by them.
And I am happy. If I do nothing else in my life, I have done right by my children.
Several years ago, I wrote the first in a series of posts to my television husbands, this one to Vincent D’Onofrio, where I divorced him for having the audacity to impregnate someone else. This of course, was shortly after I’d popped out crotch parasite numero dos, Alejandro, and blatantly overlooked that I had recently had a baby that hadn’t been presumably sired by him.
I also frequently called myself the “anonymous Midwestern girl with kicky hair” which should have told anyone that I didn’t take myself SERIOUSLY. The letter was, of course, a total over-the-top joke. I had to Google his fucking name to even write the damn thing.
But after I wrote it, my tens of readers laughed, because writing a fake love letter to a fake TV husband is kinda funny (shut up) and then an odd thing happened: Google Reader picked the damn thing up as in, “if you like, “xxx” you’ll LOVE “yyy”"
THEN the Lovers of Vincent D’Onofrio showed up on my doorstep. I’m not talking about people who have some Law and Order: Your Doesn’t Suck So Hard on DVR, no, I’m talking about the people who have entire BLOGS devoted to him. Who know his wife’s name (he’s married?) and paint murals of him on their walls.
They were *ahem* displeased with Your Aunt Becky.
And I was shocked that so many people could devote so many hours a day to caring about celebrities. It just hadn’t dawned on me that anyone, well, WOULD.
I still get people who swing by and yell at me about it, just like the teens who yell at me on Twitter for misspelling David Archuleta’s name. Not, oddly, that I said “I thought about buying David Archuleta’s book until I realized he’d been a Barbizon Model and then punched myself in the face.”
(I’m bitter that my parents wouldn’t let me take Glamor Shots and for some reason I have my wires crossed and Glamor Shots = Barbizon = Be a Model, OR JUST LOOK LIKE ONE)
But now, I’ve realized that my true love is not Vincent D’Onofrio, Lovers of Vincent D’Onofrio, so you can all back off.
Because after years of searching, I’ve finally found The Love of My Life:
Rod Blagojevich’s Hair: (he’s the former governor of Illinois, where I live. State Motto: We Impeach our Crooked Governors! He’s also…just…wow.)
When we met, I was immediately smitten. Sure, politics aren’t my thing, but the hair, people, THE HAIR.
His magic hair and I went for long walks on the beach, looking at rocks, rotting fish and hypodermic needles.
And just when I thought I couldn’t possibly be any happier, his hair took me for a long romantical visit to Detroit, where, over fried chicken and waffles and cans of Diet Coke, his hair asked me to be it’s bride.
The day I married his hair was the happiest day of my life. My dad walked me down the aisle to strains of “Dude Looks Like a Lady” and when I met his hair at the alter, I promised to “Love, Honor and Repay” his hair for the rest of my days on Earth, til baldness (or Rogaine) do us part.
His hair just floated there, like a mystical being from another planet while I beamed serenely. My heart was finally happy.
His magic hair completed me.
You know what happened next, don’t you?
9 months later, the product of our Magical Union, the sweet Hair Baby baby popped out of my crotch.
The day I had his hairs’ baby, well, that was the second happiest day of my life. Second only to the day I became, Mrs. The Magic Hair Blago.
Of course, a mystical being like Blago’s Magical Hair can’t be contained for long, so I’ve been left to raise our Love Child alone, but that’s okay. I’m lucky to have had his Magic Hair for as long as I did.
If you love something as special as Magic Hair, you have to let it go to be free. If it comes back to you, it was always yours.
Or…uh, something.
Pashmina: “How was your birthday?”
Aunt Becky: “Eh.”
Pashmina: “We’re thirty now.”
Aunt Becky: “I’m changing my birthday.”
Pashmina: “Are you one of those freaks that doesn’t like getting older?”
Aunt Becky: “No, I mean I’m changing the DAY.”
Pashmina: “…”
Aunt Becky: “See, 3 ER visits in 5 years means that the day is cursed. I wasn’t supposed to be born July 15 anyway but I was in distress or some shit.”
Pashmina: “Maybe you’re just unlucky.”
Aunt Becky: “The first person to wish me a happy birthday is always either an ER doc or a pharmacist. So no more. July 15, you are dead to me. July 28, you are my new birthday.”
Pashmina: “Can you do that? Like, just change the day?”
Aunt Becky: “Why not? It’s like Your Number of People You Bone. As you get farther past it, you know, some just DROP off the list for whatever reason.”
Pashmina: “…”
Aunt Becky: “You know, Bob had a micropenis so he didn’t count, and Jim humped your leg instead of your naughty bits and what’s-his-face had a bit of a premature ejaculation problem?”
Pashmina: “…”
Aunt Becky: “So they drop of Your List!”
Pashmina: “…”
Aunt Becky: “What?!?”
Pashmina: “The way you do math is bizarre.”
Aunt Becky: “I can justify just about anything. Like why I need to buy a tapeworm. And move to LA to start a disco band!”
Pashmina: “Disco sucks.”
Aunt Becky: “You won’t be saying that when my band is on the cover of Rolling Stone. You’ll be begging for groupies.”
Pashmina: “I am pretending not to know you anymore.”
Aunt Becky: “You won’t be saying that when my tapeworm farm is famous, either.”
Pashmina: “…”
Aunt Becky: “You’re still mad at me about the butt sex check (Pranksters, go read those links in that order) aren’t you?”
Pashmina: “No. Well, maybe.”
Aunt Becky: “How about I let you into my disco band as an apology?”
Pashmina: “You shine on you crazy diamond, you.”
Aunt Becky: “That’s the spirit! Let’s get some go-go boots and blue eye shadow!”
Now, Pranksters, aren’t you glad I don’t IM you?
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It’s Toy With Me Tuesday! Where I talk about how to hide the sex toys. And by “how to” I mean that I have no fucking idea.
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Mushroom Printing. It’s up. It’s awesomer than ever. You can play, too.
July 29, 2010
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