I really hate those Johnson & Johnson commercials, you know, the ones with the baby in the bathtub with the sunlight streaming in the window at justtherightangle. The perfectly coiffed mother sitting there, smiling at her marvelous child. Then the voice over guy says, “Having a baby changes EVERYTHING!” and I roll my eyes, because, well, no SHIT, Sherlock.
Okay, so maybe I’m bitter because I’m not only unshowered, but I am in dire need of a haircut AND a pedicure, and I can never make the bubbles in the tub look quite so…bubbly. Plus, bathing the baby only occurs at night, when the other small one has gone to bed, so no sunlight here, unless it’s just being expelled from my inner sunshine-y nature.
(shut UP)
But bitterness and rancor aside, it’s true: having a baby does change everything.
Because, without Ben, I wouldn’t be here.
I’m not being all dramatical and oh-em-ge, guys, I would have KILLED myself, because that’s really not my style.
(shut UP)
It’s just that there is no life without Ben to think about: I had him at 21, which isn’t *gasp* scandalously young, but it’s young enough to say for certain that we grew up together. Without Ben, there would be no Dave, no blog, no Alex, no Mimi, none of this. *gestures to the room and the world around her*
It’s been a wild ride, for sure, the one that Ben and I have been on together.
Ben has moved 3 times in his young life, he walked me down the aisle at my wedding and stood proudly next to Dave, as his best man. He watched me graduate from school, he’s watched me find my way.
He’s been through a kidnapping and bitter battles between Nat and I. He’s become a big brother twice, taught his siblings the proper names of the planets and learned to (happily!!) change diapers.
He’s overcome speech issues and learned to manage his other compulsions.
We’ve grown up together, Ben and I, and we’ve found our way, where they thought that we were lost. Adrift. But they, they were all wrong. So long as we have each other, we’ll never, ever be lost.
I only hope, child of mine, that one day I can do you as proud as you do me.
Happy, Happy Birthday, Benner. We love you. Without you, we ALL are nothing.
I know that I am apt to lose some readers when I announce this but I feel in the name of pure disclosure on my end, I should probably ‘fess up. *deep breath* Here goes:
While I mocked the #nikonhatesbabies thing on twitter with my own variation #auntbeckyhatesbabies, I don’t actually hate babies. (if you are blissfully unaware of what I speak, I’ll give you the rundown in a comment. It’s too stupid to put in a real post).
But wait, there’s more!
My given name is NOT Aunt Becky: it’s Rebecca, and I’m not really an aunt. Well, technically I am, but only to The Internet, which is probably good for my charge card, because while I do adore The Internet, I do not have urges to buy It frilly hats.
And I should warn you that if you try to call me “Rebecca,” I will probably freeze and give you saucer eyes, because the only person who has ever called me that was my mother. And only when I maybe stuck the fetal pig I was dissecting in college (FOR CLASS, YOU PERVERTS) into the Meat Keeper of our refrigerator for safe keeping.
Confession #3:
I’m not much of a drinker. Sure, I’m known to imbibe now and again, and I’m sure that I’ll lose my Hardcore Audience when I admit that I’m shamefully responsible about it. Take a breath, Internet, while I wrap my hammy arms around you. I know, I know, I’m sorry I lied to you for all these years.
Someone who calls themselves Aunt Becky and writes a blog called Mommy Wants Vodka has deceived you for years. I’m sorry.
*bursts into song*
“Forgiveneeeessss, forgiveness, EVEN if, EVEN if…”
Well, you know how that song goes. And if you don’t, be grateful. Be very, very grateful.
While my confessions are true, being tongue-in-cheek is more fun, so on I will go being Aunt Decepticon, only confessing to those bored enough to read the about me or things you never needed to know page on my sidebar.
I pigeonholed myself there and I’m not sorry, why should I be?
This brings me to the point of my post in a totally awkward segue that should go on record as being The Worse Segue Ever.
When I first started Mommy Wants Vodka, I was very anxious to separate myself from the Mommy Bloggers out there. I didn’t want to define myself entirely by my children, my husband, my marital status, my hair color, my shoe size, my IQ, ability to blow spit bubbles, my preference to drive manual transmission sports cars, my dislike of mini-vans and high top shoes, the type of crust I prefer for my pizza or my totally awkward segues.
They’re all pieces of who I am, but none of those can possibly describe precisely who I am in and of themselves. So, I was NOT going to be A Mommy Blogger, dammit! I was going to be MYSELF! I am a mother, yes, and I blog yes, but why limit myself?
According to some hippie I once knew, when you define something, you LIMIT it. I’m pretty certain he was trying to justify sticking his penis into someone other than his devoted girlfriend, and I’m pretty sure his logic sucked, but it’s always something I’ve sort of said in jest.
Because why should anyone care if they’ve been pigeonholed into Mommy Blogger Status? Why is that something so dirty now?
That’s the New Thing, I guess, is raging against this stereotype, and while I can see not caring to be associated with the Palmolive Ad Blogs or the Let Me Tell You How My Kids Rule Blogs, or the ever popular This Is Obviously A PR Statement Blog Sponsored By (insert big corporate sponsor here), I don’t see why it fucking matters anymore.
For as long as I write here, on Mommy Wants Vodka, I will get angrily written articles that refer people here to shrilly scold me for getting stinking drunk while watching my children and maybe feeding the baby a bottle of whiskey to shut her up. Even though I don’t and I haven’t (don’t tempt me), I’ll never escape that.
And I’ll never escape being called a Mommy Blogger.
So I’m going to go out on a limb here and say so.fucking.what?
Opinions are like assholes (presumably because everybody’s got one) and if someone wants to define me by the former occupants of my uterus? My blessed crotch parasites? Go ahead.
What I write and who I am stands on it’s own.
If it’s easier for some nameless PR firm or group of Anti-Mommy Bloggers to allow this to define those of us with children so.fucking.what? It’s no dirtier a term than “Breeder” or “Wife” and if it conjures up an image of someone who you think I should be, well, let me show you who I really am. Maybe our perceptions will align, maybe they won’t, maybe 50 million African Pygmy Hedgehogs don’t give a shit.
No stereotype is 100% accurate, no one fits any mold completely and anyone who is incensed by people trying to lump them into a category should really take a look at why it matters to them. People get me wrong ALL THE TIME and I don’t give a flying shit about it. Why does it matter here?
Are all frat boys beer guzzling moron assbags? Does everyone born between the years 1964-1974 feel apathetic and wear flannel while drinking coffee in a grungy coffee house? Do all teenagers suck to be around? For the love of GOD, are all red velvet cakes moist?
The answer, of course, to all the above questions is a resounding “no.”
Just like not all mommy-bloggers are alike. How could we be? We’re all different people, not to get all special-raindrop on your asses or anything, but it’s true.
And why did I, myself, once care if I was called one? I was trying to define myself OUTSIDE of my children: I am a suburban mother who stays at home with her kids who swears, has tattoos, occasionally drinks, and doesn’t poo rainbows or sunshine. I was trying to assert to the world that hey, y’all, I am more than the sum of my parts. And now? 2 years later? I know this without having to cram that down your throat.
What I write and who I am can stand on it’s own. And if you want to judge me for who you think I am? Go for it.
Just don’t try accuse me of being A Blonde. Because I tried it once and well, there’s a reason we dark-skinned girls shouldn’t try to go platinum. That reason? The color orange.
———–
What do you think, Internet? Not about brunettes trying to be blonde, of course, but about being pigeonholed. Is it really something to be all that upset over or should we just try and remember that not everything is Very Serious, Indeed?
Pretty much every time anyone asks me what I want or what turns me on (which is a surprisingly frequent occurrence for someone who is not yet a Penthouse Pet. Notice I said YET.) I have a stock answer: sleep. I want more sleep. If there was a 12 Step for Sleepaholics Anonymous I would probably have to join. Maybe I could actually NAP there.
Sleep, like my precious 6 pack abs, is a dwindling commodity around here as you might have guessed by my menagerie and The Sausages. Any moment of the day, someone or somebody wants something from me. I’m used to it by now, although, like anything else, it has it’s days where I want to pull what’s left of my postpartum hair from my head and run down the street naked and screaming about dingoes and my baby.
With the addition of each child, my sleep issues have gotten worse. And once my glandular issues (I HAVE GLANDULAR ISSUES, PEOPLE!!) were solved and the Synthroid was happily on board, I suddenly found that I had developed that tried and true, suicide-inducing insomnia. This happened to occur right as I got pregnant with Alex, and this was before I knew that pregnant ladies could take Benedryl, so I spent all of his pregnancy sleeping horribly. I’d fall asleep only to flit in and out of the land of nod all night.
WARNING! WARNING! IF YOU HAVE A NEW BABY AND IT IS YOUR FIRST BABY DO NOT READ WHAT FOLLOWS. LET ME DIRECT YOU HERE.
Alex was born and the issues deepened. Not only did he not sleep through the night until he was a over a year, he was still UP every 1-3 hours during this year. I nearly lost what was left of my addled mind. (insert joke here about how someone who calls herself “Your Aunt Becky” can maintain that she was EVER sane) I hallucinated, I hurt myself unintentionally, I was afraid to drive, lest I crash into something while I nodded off at a stop light, I got into a fist-fight with Daver, I fantasized about being institutionalized.
It.Was.Torture.
Every time I was able to fall asleep, Alex would wake up, which is comical for a couple moments until you remember that this is a method of torture the soldiers used on POW. I have no doubts of it’s efficacy.
To make matters worse, I got so agitated that even the nights Alex DID sleep for 6 glorious hours at a stretch, I couldn’t sleep. Pair-a-docks indeed.
Alex has since been squared away and I take a lovely combo of meds to insure that I go to and stay asleep, which is certainly not something of which I am proud, but with 3 kids, I don’t quite have the luxury to evacuate my bowels alone, let alone find an hour to nap.
(pointless aside time! BONUS!!
When I finally went to the doctor about these persistent and kind of frightening headaches I’ve been having for the past 4-5 months, he asked if I could lie down when I got one. I laughed until I cried. Then DAVE laughed until he cried, because, seriously, doc, do you write your own jokes?! I’ll make sure to try the salmon and I *always* tip my waitress)
Amelia has decided that sleep is for (and I quote) “fucking pansies” and doesn’t care to partaketh in such pointless activities now that she’s realized what a cool place the world is. And while I see her point–I do–the world is a much HAPPIER place for everyone when baby naps.
But no.
I don’t remember–or give much of a shit–or two shits–or even three shits–if this is some sort of developmental thing, because knowing it’s a developmental thing that most babies grow out of until said baby is old enough for Benedryl, doesn’t exactly fucking help you a whole lot. I lost faith in the term “most” as it applies to children, oh, I don’t know, about 8 years ago?
Either way, Miss Mimi is not sleeping. Dave is bearing the brunt of the overnight stuff because he is not only awesome but amazing too (and he knows that once I get up with her, I’m up for a good couple of hours afterwards and although this does not directly affect him, me whining, pissing and moaning incessantly about it later does) and I have to deal with the juggling act of two small ones.
One of whom is my Alex, who would, most days, like to crawl back up in the old uterus (it’s not UTER-YOU, Mom, it’s UTER-US!) and stretch out in there and the other is my precious daughter. Who now, just like her mother, wakes up from a dead sleep when a frog in Siberia farts or a raccoon in the Catskills considers walking on some crunchy leaves.
(Alex was the same way)
This really becomes a problem because we have stupidly never installed a soundproof room which, after these two babies, would have been wiser than the velcro wall we installed instead.
My house is loud. It just is.
Alex has a voice that could shear glass into nifty seascapes, my dogs bark whenever someone thinks about walking past my house, the phone is always ringing, kids are always banging through, recklessly slamming doors, my cats yodel from different vantage points about the house, and well, if you can’t sleep for shit anyway, you’re effing screwed.
As frustrating as it is sometimes after I’ve carefully put my daughter to sleep through a combination of bottles, swaddling, bouncing and/or patting and binkies, and I get her upstairs and she bolts upright, looking at me mischievously as if to say “yeah RIGHT, Mom. Nice freaking try!” I feel sorry for her. If she’s anything like me, she’s going to discover the wonders of pharmaceuticals early and learn to punch people who tell her to try warm milk.
Either that, or I am going to have to surgically implant her somewhere on my body. Then at least, I could have my hands back. So that I can, you know, pick my nose and check for dirty diapers.
The important stuff.
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