97: times I’ve wondered if that Google Friend Connect button for my reader actually works.

0: times it’s worked.

1,273,009: posts that I’ve undoubtedly missed.

84: times each day that I offer a prayer of thanks to the universe for bringing me Diet Coke.

2: days until I am officially a mother of an 8 year old.

984: times that thought has made my heart stop.

1,679: Twitter followers that are no doubt in awe of my awfulness

3: potentially offensive things I say on Twitter each day on average.

3: average number of Tweets per day

6: number of flies I have fed my Venus Flytrap in the past four months.

6: number of times I have clapped like a stupid monkey after it ate that fly.

0: hours a day Amelia fells like sleeping

60: times an hour I lovingly caress the Children’s Benedryl bottle and say, “soon, my sweet, soon.”

24: hours a day I feel like sleeping.

4,373: times a minute Alex can say the word, “Mommy” without breaking a sweat.

0: trolls I have gotten here from the NY Times article.

53: comments the article garnered before they wisely closed comments.

50: comments that made my jaw drop wide, wide open.

9,473,030: times I have wondered how one is supposed to handle criticism like that.

1: horrible haircut that I bestowed upon Alex after it became tragically clear that I could no longer easily get him to wash his hairs.

36: times I have vowed to never let another pair of scissors wielded by me to get near his enormous cranium.

9,110,746 and counting: hairs I have lost since Amelia was birthed.

394: times I have considered weaving sweaters made of my own hair to sell on Etsy.

13: mcg my Synthroid was adjusted yesterday.

9: minimum number of months for my thyroid to get back out of “dangerously low” range.

Infinity: number of times it will be funny to say “I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM” in a high, nasally voice. Because I do.

Infinity: number of times I wish that I did NOT have a glandular problem to mock.

1,331,789,756,009: times I have wanted to choke the stupid duck on the Wonder Pets for saying, “This is SEWEOUS.”

Because THAT, motherfucker, IS serious. DEADLY serious.

It’s time for me to share my story.

It made the Sunday cover of the Life & Style section of time times. Which, WILD.

So imagine my surprise when I get a shout out in an article about my friend Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, from The New York Times. Certainly you should all take to the editor with your spears and torches to tell nay, to SCREAM to them that I am highly unworthy of such an honor.

Because, obviously.

———-

I stay at home now, with my kids, retired from my chosen profession at 26 and I write while my husband goes out and earns the bucks for us. It’s like a 50’s throwback here, without the pearl necklaces (something I’m ITCHING to bring back) and candied hams.

The Daver works in finance, which is a somewhat nebulous term that people typically respond to with a harsh intake of air and a drawn out, “Oooooh.” Since the Crash of Ought Eight, people tend to have a different perception of “working in finance.”

I don’t understand a single thing that The Daver does, and when he tries to explain, my eyes glaze over the same way that his do when I talk about my latest email from my agents. But, for all intents and purposes, what “working in finance” means to me is that he’s almost never home. A 70 hour work week is a relatively easy week for him.

Add to that an hour plus commute each way and you can easily call me a single mother during the week. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not up on the cross about it or anything; I’m sure some new mother needs the wood. To me, it’s just the way it is.

And while I did choose to have my three children, I didn’t expect that I would have to lose myself in the process to be successful.

Certainly, I am Ben’s mother, Amelia’s mother, Alex’s mother, Dave’s wife, daughter of Ann and Joe. Sister of Aaron. But I’m more than the sum of who I am to other people. This includes my children.

Sure, I suppose, I could go back to work to reclaim the Becky I was, now lost among piles of diapers and educational toys, but that wouldn’t solve anything. I’m fortunate that I’m able to stay home with my children, I’m not going to deny that, but, like any other choice, there are consequences.

It seems to me that with small children–even making the choice to have them–comes a loss of self.

Because for every healthful morsel I can shove down my kids gullet comes a meal I’ll eat cold and gluey. For every doctors appointment that I schlep someone to and from, I never can quite make the time to get my own blood work done. I peck out words onto my keyboard in between poopy butts and loads of laundry, and I’m expected to apologize for taking this time for myself.

I could, after all, be spending it growing my own organic food and mowing the lawn with my teeth. As Dave and I frequently joke, it never ends, does it? And it doesn’t.

That’s okay with me, honestly, because childhood doesn’t last forever.

My kids will grow up, go to college and move out (presumably). They’ll lay on faceless therapists’ couches and spill out all of my secrets: I didn’t prepare a three course gluten-free trans-fat free organic meal for dinner. I selfishly wrote about them and their lives. I reminded them every day that they should never lose track of who they are and what they want and that made them feel…angry?

They’ll grow up and be gone and I’ll have plenty of time to myself then. I’m sure I’ll spend a bit of that time wishing I’d done something different: spent less time worrying about washing their hair and more time inhaling that new baby smell. Knowing it will end helps me savor it.

And I do.

But I’m not selfless enough to live my life for my children. Nor, do I think, would they, as adults, want me to.

So no, I’m not going to apologize if I have a drink with my husband after they go to bed. I’m not sorry that I carve out some time each day to write and to connect with other people. I can’t tell you that I’m going to stop looking for things to fulfill my need to be Becky, As Herself and not Just Mom. They’re not mutually exclusive, people.

Lest you picture me passed out on the couch with a bottle of vodka next to my head, as the name of my blog implies, while my poor–WON’T ANYONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?– children fend for themselves, let me assure you that I couldn’t tell you the last time that I actually had a drink. It wasn’t today, or yesterday, or last week. And when I *did* have a drink, I had just one.

The last time that I got soused was well over 3 years ago. I’m compulsive, maybe, but not when it comes to The Drink. I don’t have the luxury of a hangover any longer and I don’t care to wake up the Day After to pay for what I’d done the Night Before. It’s not my thing.

But responsibly letting your hair down with your friends, getting loud and obnoxious, or having kinky wild butt-sex with your husband? I can’t see the fault in that. Life–with or without children–can be tedious. It can be tedious, it can be boring, and it can feel long.

Certainly, that doesn’t mean that one should drink a fifth of Absolut, smoke a doob and get behind the wheel of a car. There’s nothing funny whatsoever about drunk driving or parenting while intoxicated, don’t mistake my meaning here. There’s no excuse for that sort of behavior, no matter how isolated, neglected, abused or miserable one may be.

There’s a happy medium to be found, I know that there is, between here and there. Between living for yourself and for someone else. And I like to pretend that it involves a cabana boy named Carlos and his well chiseled, oiled chest.

But maybe I’m wrong.

His name could very well be Paulo.

————–

So, Gentle Internet, what do YOU think?

I’ve been in the paper before: one time I got busted shoplifting (shut UP! I was 14 and it was HAIR PICKS)(SHUT UP), I was typically on the honor roll because I am a complete over achiever, but for fear of a vicious ex-boyfriend, I didn’t even put my wedding announcement in there.

I didn’t really want a rehash of the last scene of The Graduate–this time with police and guns and restraining orders! Oh My!–on My Big Day.

So imagine my surprise when I get a shout out in an article about my friend Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, from The New York Times. Certainly you should all take to the editor with your spears and torches to tell nay, to SCREAM to them that I am highly unworthy of such an honor.

Because, obviously.

Okay, so the title is a complete lie. Sure, I do have a Facebook account and yes, I’m probably friends with you on there, because if I already pour my heart and soul out (stop laughing)(no, I mean it) on my blog, why the hell can’t you see the meaningless bullshit I post on Facebook?

(answer, as always, is: because, obviously)

(and I will absolutely friend you)

(unless you hate me)

(or maybe even if you do)

Because I rode a dinosaur to school back when I was a wee lass, I had a Myspace account well before I had a Facebook account and before that, because I think I even had a Friendster account. But then Myspace got all blinky and annoying and so I stopped going on there because it took my computer 4 hours to load your stupid ass profile.

Eventually, I succumbed to The Facebook empire and got myself an account. People were ALWAYS (read: maybe once or twice) telling me how CRAZY COOL Facebook was and how many AWESOME people they’d reconnected with there. I logged on, signed up, and promptly refriended all my friends who’d similarly abandoned Myspace for less blinky pastures.

And then….

…..

….

….

Nothing whatsoever happened.

A year or so after the fact, I can appreciate that it does connect me with some of my blog friends, there hasn’t been a single soul from Back In The Day that I’ve found through there that has blown me away.

I’ve often bemoaned that I can’t stalk my exes through Facebook so that I can feel smugly superior towards them because everyone freaking ELSE has some “this was my first grade boyfriend,” “this was the first person I got drunk with when I was nine,” story to rub in my pathetic face. It appears the only ex with whom I am to have contact is my least favorite: Nat.

Dave is one of the frequent gloaters I put up with on a semi-regular basis. He’s always reconnecting with someone or another: exes, family maybe, old friends, old not-so-friends (because we all know that we’re judged on the amount of friends we have on Facebook and Twitter), and whatever. Maybe a prostitute or two.

I don’t really keep track. He’ll occasionally pull up a profile to show me someone’s kids or whatever, and I look, tell him the kid is cute, and then go about my day. It’s never dawned on me that Facebook could be seen as a den of intrigue and tomfoolery.

(why yes, yes I WAS looking to use tomfoolery in a sentence! Next up, I’m looking at YOU caterwauling or cacophony)

But apparently, there was even an ARTICLE on The Internet, which has to be true, because it’s online, that made mention of Facebook being kind of bad for marriages. According to the article, people are rekindling old romances through Facebook, while fitting in endless games of Bejeweled and/or Which Vampire Are You? Quizzes.

(my result: An Asshole)

For someone whose relationships prior to meeting The Daver ended after my boyfriend decided to use another vagina as a tea cozy, I’m shockingly trusting.

I’ve never read his email, I’ve never gone through the recently dialed calls on his phone, I’ve never considered logging onto his facebook account, and I have no plans to. To me? It just seems really boring. And he’s honest enough that if he is having cyber sex with someone (or whatever crimes against marriage these people commit), he’d probably tell me whether or not I cared to know.

And likewise. I’m not positive, but I do leave my email open 99% of my time and my phone around the house, and I’ve never caught Daver going through it. Probably because, like his, it’s very, VERY boring to anyone else. Plus, I firmly believe that he deserves privacy just as I do. Everyone should have small secrets, right?

(I will mention here that I absolutely CANNOT stand when someone stands behind me while I’m on the computer no matter if I’m surfing old lady porn or writing a blog post or checking Twitter. I’d be fine if you looked at it WITHOUT me there, but for some reason the hovering just drives me nuts)

But reading the article and hearing other people talk about how they guess passwords and check up on their significant others makes me wonder: am I in the minority here? SHOULD I be checking up on The Daver? Am I being naive?

Should I really be stalking him on Facebook?

I remember the first time I realized that I hated most fiction was whenever we were forced to read A Tale of Two Cities* in high school. I suffered through it along with the rest of my class, trying to muddle through the names and nicknames of people–all of whom I mixed up regularly–before giving up entirely and buying my first and only copy of Cliffs Notes. And even in discernible English, I was bored shitless.

As I’ve gotten older, it dawned on me that overall? Not very interested in fiction. I’m glad that the genre exists, the same way I feel about soft-core porn romance novels, but given a choice between reading one and having to suffer through another visit to my endocrinologist (I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE), I’m not positive which I’d choose. Diabetes Monthly might interest me more, and I am (shockingly!) not diabetic.

Maybe that’s what appeals to me so much about blogging. With a few notable exceptions, most of the blogs I read are at least mostly non-fiction. I guess I can just connect with a real person more than I can connect with Mrs. Pip or whatever her fucking whore name was.

There was this whole panel at BlogHer about “finding your blogging tribe” and, no, of course I didn’t go. I’m certain that had I tried, I would have found that there was standing room only in the back, so in the long run I’m glad that my slackerdom won out there.

But the point of the session was good. It’s important to find Your People. Back when Jesus was my classmate and I first started blogging, one of my first real friends, and I mean REAL friends, was Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, who blogs at Baby on Bored.

Stef probably knows more about me than anyone else on the planet, which, considering I live in the Armpit of the Midwest and she lives in hip AND sunny California, is saying quite a lot for someone who doesn’t regularly get to to slam back some Diet Cokes with me. Stef is the shit and if you don’t know her, you’re an idiot, and go over to her blog immediately. Well, no, finish this entry first because I DO have a point.

(shut UP)

Because she is cooler than the rest of us, Stef has written not one, not two, but three books, AND THEY HAVE ACTUALLY BEEN PUBLISHED. Her first was Sippy Cups Are Not For Chardonnay (which, obviously, they’re for VODKA), her second was Naptime Is The New Happy Hour, and her latest is It’s Not Me, It’s You.

The first two of her books focus on parenting, taking an honest look at what parenting means and then reminding you that things are pretty fucking funny after all (also funny are the hateful reviews on Amazon, because, seriously, these people need to get the fcuk over themselves). I wish I’d had them when Ben was a baby, because reading them was like talking with a good friend. You know, the sort that knows you and likes you anyway?

It’s Not Me, It’s You is a bitingly funny and honest memoir that had me wincing and nodding at the same time (I never wince)(I also never cry)(I also hate Thousand Island dressing, because what’s the point?). And seriously, you need to read it to believe it. The woman has lived approximately 405 lives and counting and makes you or I seem like the most boring person on the planet.

She sent me a copy right after Amelia was born, and I actually forfeited sleep one night WHILE I HAD A NEWBORN to stay up and read it. If you know how much sleep means to me and how I’d probably auction off one of my arms to get more of it, it would be evidence of just how fucking good this book is.

I don’t do product reviews here because I’m not really an authority on much besides firmly advocating AGAINST generic toilet paper, and I really hate it when blogs are all “go spend your money on THIS” because it’s fucking annoying. But you need to read this book. Because if you like ME, you’ll love Stef.

(do you remember those designer impostors perfumes? If you like Obsession, you’ll love STALKER? It’s kind of like that. Or maybe I’m the Diet Coke of Stef)

So, now that I’ve told you what you need to be reading, what should I be reading? Blogs? Books? Toothpaste tubes? People Magazine?

*To be fair, I’m sure Mr. Dickens would probably want to pop out his eyeballs if forced to read anything that I wrote.

I have a confession to make, Internet. No, it’s not that The Daver is secretly a 12 year old, because hi, he’s a whole whopping 2 years OLDER than me (old balls)(loose skin) and it’s not that my 5 year plan consists only of one phrase: don’t die. It’s not even that I actually appreciate how much shit I can shove into my mini-van.

It’s this: Back to School Night makes me feel like a fraud.

Every time I have to deal with something related to Ben’s schooling, I feel like at any moment, an unmarked Child-Napping van will pull up and a bunch of guys in polyester suits will spring out and drag me into the van. Then, the soccer moms will all emerge from their coordinated hiding places around the playground, wielding pitchforks and torches; their pony tails mussed and their jeans hiked up to their nipples.

“FRAUD,” they’ll scream at me, gnashing their perfectly whitened teeth. “You’re no MOTHER! GET AWAY FROM OUR KIDS.”

Well, Internet, I guess I might have a bit of an imagination. And maybe a complex or thirty-seven.

(shut UP)

It’s funny, I guess, in one of those not funny kinds of ways, because I have no such issues with the smaller kids, but when Ben reached school age, I just feel like I don’t belong. Most of the parents are older than me by 10-15 years and I’ve frequently been snubbed by them (and no, to answer your question, my nipples were NOT hanging out at the time. And both of my ass cheeks were firmly INSIDE my pants, thank you very much).

It’s obvious that I need to get the hell over myself immediately if not sooner, because, this shit is just ridiculous. I need to make some friends that have kids, get involved and move the hell on to be neurotic about my socks or something.

Believe it or not, the one thing I am NOT neurotic about is my socks.

There’s just something so very…ADULT-like about going in and registering your child for real school. When Ben went to the hippie Nut Ban! school, it was different, because no matter what grade he was in, it always felt like preschool. But shit, man, *I* remember being in 3rd grade pretty vividly.

THAT was the year my mother scarred me for life. And shockingly not by walking around the house naked as a jay-bird, although that would have been pretty terrifying too. No, see, she gave me BANGS that year. Bangs that would certainly have kicked YOUR bangs’ ass. They started approximately at the crown of my head, or maybe it was the back of my neck, I don’t know, but they went all the way to my eyebrows in one straight line.

I’m pretty sure she hated me at that point in her life. Because, obviously.

Long. Straight. Bangs.

When I saw that bangs were making a comeback, a part of me died a little inside. That same part died when I saw stirrup pants AND oversized shirts make their reappearance for the second time in my life, because shit, you know that splatter paint technicolor shirts are coming back too.

I always thought that the eighties was kind of the time when designers threw their hands in the air and then migrated to Siberia for a decade and a half. But, according to H & M, I am sorely mistaken. It was like my childhood vomited itself all over the store, down to the gaudy plastic earrings and plastic pearls and I half expected NKOTB to be blaring from the speakers.

But no, it was some other God-awful screetchy music and I kind of wished for half a second that I was deaf so I couldn’t hear it any longer. Then, when I realized that wishing I was DEAF was stupid, I sort of prayed for a meteor to fall on me.

THEN I realized that I was an old fart and that I’d effectively turned into my mother.

I went home immediately so that I could lay down on the couch dramatically and after I rested my hip (my arthritis was acting up) and changed my Depends, I went outside where there was all kinds of ruckus and commotion disturbing my afternoon Matlock session. I shook my fist at the damn fool kids on my lawn and wished feverishly that I had a cane with which I could beat them silly.

It was only after one of them addressed me as “Mom” that I realized that those kids on the lawn were my kids.

Shit, man. Shit.

Monday was just one of those days, you know what I mean? It had all the promise of being a good day until Ben burst into tears whenever I redirected him away from fixating–he’s normally not so tearful (the fixating is turning into the new normal, though).

Then, just as I was renewing my commitment to both Weight Watchers AND exercise, I realized that whatever had crawled up Alex’s ass and died last week had somehow made it’s viral way into my own digestive tract.

By the time that Alex came home from school (a term we loosely use around these here parts) and kicked a ball into one of those stupid reed diffuser things I really should have gotten rid of when Tate, the world’s grumpiest hedgehog bit the big one, and knocked clove oil all over the whole fucking house, I was just DONE.

Add in one precious sweet baby who won’t fucking go to sleep and the looming fear of Back To School Night (it always makes me feel like a fraud), couple that with the fact that The Daver has some ridiculous deadline at work AND garnish it with a side of nasty headaches on my end, and you have a day that I wanted to be over by 1 PM.

(also included at no charge to you, bonus World’s Longest Sentence Barf Bag! HOORAY!)

Pretty sure my Momma never said there’d be days like THIS.

It recently occurred to me that the mood swings I was having directly AFTER taking something for aforementioned headaches probably had a little somethin’-somethin’ to do with the drugs. And not just my shitty ass attitude about life in general. Because, Internet, I WIN at life. And so do YOU.

But, mood swings can be managed because I don’t have much of a choice with drugs to take, as The Good Stuff is kind of off limits when you’re parenting 3 children. Plus, I’m compulsive enough to either die of an accidental overdose or use up a month’s supply in 2.5 days if I were to get anything deliciously narcotic.

Besides, I don’t take it out on my kids or anything; no! Not when I can grind my teeth and be mad at the air for being so fucking AIR LIKE. ASSHOLE AIR PARTICLES. IT’S NOT EVEN 100% OXYGEN, WHY DON’T PEOPLE ACKNOWLEDGE THAT, HUH? I FUCKING HATE THE WORLD, AND AIR. AND SPACE. AND PEOPLE. BUT MOSTLY AIR! GAH!

By the time The Daver got home from work, I would have been in tears if that hadn’t seemed like such a futile waste of time and energy, we discovered that we had the same exact day. Well, his had (presumably) less poopy diapers, but one can never be too sure of that in finance. So, while I watched him eat a frozen pizza (I ruin dinner. And expectations), we commiserated and chatted with Amelia.

Amelia, like the other creatures in my house, has about a zillion nicknames. Alex is “Jay,” Ben is “Benner” and Amelia is…”Goo.”

Yeah, that’s right. My kid is called “Goo” at home.

But, in my defense, The Daver made THAT one up and once I realized what a fucked up nickname that was for a baby, I started to call her “Gooey-Gooey-Gumdrop.” Which, thanks to the combination of drugs, made me think of Candyland. Which reminded me that she’s six months old and that means I ONLY HAVE 6 months to plan her first birthday party! ACK!

(Why yes, my eldest turns 8 in a couple of weeks, but he’s beyond the age of wanting this sort of party. He’d much prefer bowling or a kegger or something. Or maybe the kid’s museum. And he gets like 200 birthday parties, most of which I have to plan and none of them Candyland themed. Lucky kid, huh?)

What, ME neurotic?

Once I realized that I could have a Candyland themed birthday party for Amelia, it was like the heavens opened up and shone an angelic light on the rest of my day. Which was, unfortunately for me, nearly over.

Immediately, I ran to the computer to scour Wikipedia for the name of the Princess in the game. Ben had been obsessed with the game for a year or so, and I’d remembered loving it as a child, and always longing to be the princess. But what was her name? I simply couldn’t remember.

Considering that you can get tapeworms online (no, seriously), it was no stretch to find the name for the characters from the game.

• The Gingerbread People
• Mr. Mint
• Gramma Nut
• King Kandy
• Jolly
• Plumpy
• Princess Lolly
• Queen Frostine
• Lord Licorice
• Gloppy the Molasses Monster

Dave and Amelia had gone downstairs to watch television (presumably Daver, but you never know with kids these days. Damn kids on my lawn!!) and told them of my findings.

Aunt Becky: “Dude. Mimi is going to be Princess Lolly. And ONE OF THEM WAS NAMED PLUMPER. BWAHAHAHAHA!”

Daver: “You’re so full of shit.”

Aunt Becky: “Maybe it was Plumpee or something. But STILL! HAHAHAHAHA!”

Daver: “Whatever. That’s SUCH BS.”

Aunt Becky: “I found it on Wikipedia! And I remember that they all had names! I always wanted to be the princess when I was a kid.”

Daver: “You do know that not everything they say on The Internet is true, don’t you?

Aunt Becky: “SAY IT AIN’T SO!”

Well, I pulled up the entry on Wikipedia and he STILL wouldn’t buy into it.

Daver: “Someone obviously forgot to edit this entry.”

Aunt Becky (clicks on Hasboro link and points triumphantly to the names of the characters): “HA. SEE! How’s that FOOT taste, Mister?”

What strikes me as oddest about this isn’t that he wouldn’t remember that they had names–I only did because I’d wanted desperately to be a princess–but that it was always the three of us who played Candyland until our eyes bled.

If I am IN the picture, I am not taking it. Therefore, SOMEONE else was taking the picture. But (dot, dot, dot) mayhap he was just an innocent bystander. Hmmm…

Oh noes, who is that man in dire need of a haircut? Why, that would be a very, very old picture of The Daver, now wouldn’t it? And what’s that that he’s playing? Why it almost appears to be CANDYLAND!

Fancy that.

Sorry baby, looks like you’ll be assuming the role of GLOPPY come January.

Alternately: The Most Boring Post On The Internet.

I didn’t have jack shit of my own when I was pregnant with Ben. Everything I had and everything that he had was graciously given to me by other people as I had no influx of income, only a douchy ex who wanted me to itemize everything I ever bought for Ben. I know. I KNOW. I sure knew how to pick ’em.

Ladies, don’t all clamor for his number at once, please. And stop throwing your underwear at the computer, I promise it won’t help you win his heart.

But anyway, because I was not exactly rolling in the dollar bills, I had to kind of make do with whatever people gave me for Ben. Baby Stuff is something most people are really eager to hand down to others, usually by the carful, because, well, it costs a fucking fortune and usually can be used and reused. So, I was showered with hand-me-downs, which, awesome. Unless it involved swishy-looking pastels, which, not QUITE as awesome.

By the time that Alex was born–5 years later–the hand-me-downs were long gone, handed down to someone else. I had some of the clothes from Ben, but even those had been scavenged before I got to them again. No fear, though, because this time around, I was fortunate enough to be in a decent enough financial situation to not require castoffs.

Meticulously The Daver and I began to pick up painstakingly researched gear: the car seat, the pack-n-play, the swing and the bouncy seat. And the high chair. While Dave had been content with just having Ben, I’d wanted a gaggle of kids. We settled on two–Ben and Alex–with the option to have #3. With that in mind, we tended to try and pick out the more resilient options so that we didn’t have to buy it all again.

What we hadn’t really taken into account is who the fetus flipping about in my body cavity was: Mr. Destructo. I should have known, as he never stopped wriggling and flipping, nestling his tiny toes into my liver using and my internal organs to box. Being pregnant with Alex was a violent, violent act.

As a child, Alex just beats on things. He’s not destructive for the sake of destroying things, thankfully, but I worry one day that a well placed kick to a particular support beam will send my house into rubble. It wouldn’t have been on purpose, likely it would have been something that just sort of happened. Alex is Chris Farley in miniature form, frequently flinging his body onto the ground (or into a wall or something) just to make you laugh.

Ben is distractible, Alex is destructible.

The first of our carefully executed choices to be broken was the swing, which was Alex’s bed for the first 6 months of his life. It just…stopped working one day. Next to go was the bouncy seat, which somehow lost an entire screw somewhere along the lines from his constant movement. His crib is missing a couple of screws too, although they’ve been replaced, because he’s somehow managed to wriggle them loose as he flings himself at the mattress from a standing position.

And his high chair? ALSO missing some screws.

So. Yeah. Plan. B.

It was obvious Amelia wasn’t going to inherit anything from Alex save for the saucer toy.

Also obvious was my desire not to acknowledge that she’s growing up. Because while I simply couldn’t WAIT to stick spoonfuls of cereal and fruits into the screaming and indignant mouths of my boys, I’ve only half-heartedly tried Amelia on the cereals and fruit. She’s suitably underwhelmed with them all and I haven’t pushed it. I mean, she’s only a BABY after all, right Internet?

Except no, she’s 6 months old and ready, but getting her a high chair was not even a wee blip on my radar. She’s my last baby and I’m just not ready for her to grow up. It always annoyed me when people would tell me to savor it; it goes so fast, because dude, OBVIOUSLY.

But it does. It goes so, so fast.

(I did not have a digital camera back then and I do not have a scanner now, so I cannot add Ben at this age. Instead, I will show you a picture that will carefully show you what Ben thought about rice cereal)

I was cruelly serving Ben PIZZA.

Captain Destructo, himself.

Dude. Who knew Heaven was shaped like a Wagon Wheel?

The Daver, sits alone on the couch fiddling around with his work Blackberry ring tones, stops on Für Elise.

The Daver, “This is your ring tone, baby. When you call, this is what plays.”

Aunt Becky, mulling it over while listening to the pretty tune, several seconds pass.

“Really? Seriously?”

The Daver, “Yeah.”

Aunt Becky, “Hm. I would have thought the Darth Vader Death March song thingie would have been more appropriate.”

The Daver, “Heh. That one doesn’t come standard.”