My family is big on traditions. Probably not the same ones that your family practices because, well, unless they make Shwetty Balls* for Christmas, it’s likely that ours may be unique to our twisted family. One of the more innocuous ones happens to be the Chicago Auto show, which comes to town every February like clockwork, and like a well oiled machine, some members of my family always go.

It’s mandatory for some, optional for others.

Members of my family have braved blizzards, ice storms and power outages to make it out for the auto show. It’s just that important. I’m surprised that Mr. (Dr.?) Darwin doesn’t have something to say about that, but let’s just leave it at stupidity clearly being genetic a genetic trait and move on.

As for me, like my parents’ anniversary, which has always ended in disaster one way or another, I tend to keep it OFF my calendar because Something always comes up. That Something changes year to year, but it’s safe to say that I’ll probably never get to go again. And not, like you may imagine, because I want to avoid it.

I do happen to have a vagina and I do happen to like both power tools and cars (lest you think me a closeted lesbian, I also like Chanel bags), and the auto show is always a blast. But many years ago now when I was 16 or 17, I went with my father and my uncle out to McCormick place and oogled cars.

Nothing like looking at cars can make a person work up an appetite, so afterwards, we traditionally go to China Town for lunch/dinner (linner?). It’s been awhile since I’ve gone with (for the aforementioned sinister-sounding Something has kept me apart) but I’d bet you that there’s a traditional restaurant they eat at every year as well.

The year I’m talking about, though, it was just my uncle, my father and I that went. My brother was off being Continental and/or Worldly and I was just pumped to be able to take a day off from high school where I didn’t have to have one of my friends call me in. And going to china town had a specific mission for me: I wanted a Kimono top.

(don’t judge)

(stop judging)

(seriously, knock that judgey shit OFF, I was COOL)

(shut UP)

My uncle had begged off, perhaps to go meet up with one of his motor head buddies–he’s an AVID Corvette Guy, which should mean something if you know any other Corvette People–so it was just my dad and I together in the store.

My father, I must explain, is one of the most modest people about the human body that I’ve ever met. I was an OOPS baby, I have an MUCH older brother, and I’d be willing to bet that my father had never imagined having a daughter, much less have to deal with her when she grew boobs. As a teenager, whenever I’d pop back downstairs on the way back to bed in an oversized shirt (nothing, I should add was hanging out), he’d scream, “ACK, PUT SOME CLOTHES ON, REBECCA!” Then he would cover his eyes dramatically and refuse to open them again until I went upstairs.

And they say drama doesn’t run in families. (don’t they?)

He’d carry on whenever I was nursing one of the babies like I was flagrantly prancing about the room in pasties and a g-string trying to give my relatives a lap dance, and it’s grown to be sort of a joke. Aren’t you glad that YOUR family is so normal now?

But the fact that I had boobies now made him uncomfortable, and while I certainly didn’t really worry about my dad seeing me in my bra since he had, at one point (although, I should mention, not for many years) changed my poopy drawers, I respected that.

So he stood very uncomfortably at the front of the woman’s clothing boutique in China Town while the owner, a very nice lady, was trying to fit my decidedly Western shaped frame (which, doesn’t Western-shaped give you the mental picture of a cowboy boot or the state of Texas? Because it does me) into a Kimono top. I probably tried on 10 or 15 until I found one that didn’t make me look stupid.

(shut UP)

I told her I’d take it, the beautiful dark blue silk shirt with those crazy-cool clasps at the neck, and she took it up front to the register to ring it up. I finished piling my layers of winter clothes back on and carefully made my way back to the front of the store. I had to contort myself into all kinds of odd angles to get past the wall-to-wall racks of clothes, but finally there I was, at the front of the store. My dad looked relieved and somewhat red-eyed from the incense that was filling the room with sweet smelling acrid smoke and he whipped out his wallet and handed me some bills.

I went up to the register, where the lady had packed my new shirt into a plastic bag adorned with the store’s logo on it and looked at my total. As I was combining bills to pay her, she leaned forward, conspiratorially about to tell me something. Wondering if she was going to mention that she had an excellent supply of either opium or switchblades, I leaned it too.

“So,” she began, quietly but excited. “Is that your boyfriend?” Hand to God, she gave me a wink as she said boyfriend. She said it with unabashed glee, like a gossipy girlfriend who is about to tell you HOW FUCKING LUCKY YOU ARE to be dating the quarterback, because, like, he’s SO hot.

My mouth flopped open like a carp and I gaped openly at her. My BOYFRIEND?

“No,” I caught my tongue. “He’s NOT my boyfriend. He’s my father.”

She stared at me, I stared back and quickly paid. I guess there’s nothing like finding out that someone thinks that you’re

a) 20 years older than you are

b) that your father is 20 years younger than he was

3) People my age could actually manage to date guys my dad’s age.

I’m pretty sure when I told him this in a furtive whisper as we left the store, that the remaining half of his hair just went made a FUUUMP sound and all popped out of their follicles in one big bang. Had I been in the process of balding myself, I have a feeling my follicles would have let ’em go too.

I was thinking of reminding him of this story until I remembered that he’d probably forgotten this one on purpose and am leaving it at telling The Internet. Because obviously.

Now YOUR turn, Internet, come sit next to Aunt Becky here on the couch *pats seat.* I want to hear some crazy awkward stories as I address these envelopes for all of you. If you haven’t heard from me at all or sent me your address, shoot me an email to aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com. I am on the edge of my seat here, itching to know what you are going to come up with.

Well, I’m not technically ITCHING but, you know.

*beats “no cowbell” for best SNL skit by a mile

When I am interviewed by all of the groupies that live inside my head, one of the questions they invariably ask, besides, of course, do small people have to have their houses custom made so that they can actually cook at the stove, and the infamous, why do dogs eat each other’s poo, is this: why do you blog?

In fact, while I was at BlogHer, I was interviewed by a woman, who, no doubt, felt sort of sorry for me, standing there all bewildered and obviously confused (me, not her) while people darted around me for free pens and samples of detergent, who asked me that very same question: why do you blog?

Unlike when I am asked why I like McDonald’s so much that I might trade one of my kids for a cheeseburger, or why I find Diet Coke to be Nature’s Miracle, I had an answer other than “just because.” It’s one of the few things I can actually answer without having to send them to The Daver.

Hey, I never said I was smart.

Because blogging? Kind of a funny thing when you stop and think about it. I can tell you that it’s not for the fame or notoriety or fame or legions of screaming teenage girls on my lawn. If there does happen to be a gaggle of giggling girls (alliteration much?) near my house, it’s probably because they are hopped up on hormones and trying to get the teenage boys that live on either side of us. Not because Their Beloved Aunt Becky lives there.

(I’m pretty sure teenagers shouldn’t read my blog.)

And shit, anytime I meet a new person and they ask what I do, rather than say “I am a slave” or “I retired several years ago” I feel like I should acknowledge that I do manage to throw something up on a website most days of the week. 500-1200 words a day, pithily typed into a nifty wordpress box, published with nary a thought to The Edit Button.

Technically that’s writing. So is the book proposal I conned some gullible agents into schlepping around to publishers. Which means I could theoretically call myself a writer, which is what The Daver does (calls me that, I mean along with “Fuckface” and “Baby.” He is not a writer), but being A Writer conjures up an image of someone who can properly construct a painstakingly perfect sentence. I imagine A Writer in a chunky cream fisherman’s sweater, sitting in a room with “nice lines” (whatever the fuck that means).

I don’t own a fisherman’s sweater anymore and my room is decorated in kid chic, pretty much the antithesis of “clean lines” and well, I can hardly type out 200 ill-thought out words without having to get up and remove a marble from someone’s orifice. I peck out words between dirty diapers and dream of working quietly although I know fully well that if I tried to go into some silent office to write, I’d have to bring the kids just for some background noise.

So, being A Writer isn’t really what I do.

But what would you think if I introduced myself as A Blogger? Because to me, A Blogger probably looks like he (or she) crawled out of Middle Earth, cupcake frosting glued to her leg, teeth furry with green growth, a fancy camera attached to his (or her) wrist. I have a terrible time telling people proudly that I Blog, not because I’m ashamed of what I do–it IS work and I DO have integrity in what I do–but because it’s a lot of work to explain it so that someone else would understand.

As I was bombarded with this throughout the whole conference, I am well aware that soon enough, most people will have an idea of What Being A Blogger Is, because The Power Of The Blog is obvious in all the attempts for marketers to court We of The Blog.

Probably a good 75% of the blogs I read devote a couple of posts a month to doing reviews, and sadly a lot of ones that I do not read are turning into what appears to be a long press release. This seems to be what marketers want personal blogs to turn into.

But I write here because that is simply what I do. Every day–because if I skip a day, I find it nearly impossible to pick it back up–I come here, pluck out a post, and I write. I’ve done it for years and I will continue to do this until I am done. And when reach the end, I will stop.

I suppose that what I do is somewhere in the middle between A Writer and A Blogger, and while I am conflicted by quantifying what I do, I have no issues explaining why I do it.

First, I cannot stop. I write because I have to. On days that I’ve written something ahead of time and have set it to auto-post, I spend all day feeling out of sorts. Like I’m missing a toe or a finger or a kid or something and I can’t place why until I realize that hey, y’all, I didn’t write.

I write because I must.

Secondly, and probably most important, is that I write and I blog and I read and I comment and I tweet and I Facebook (who knew THAT could be a verb?) because I like people.

When the decision to stay home was made for me, I found myself miserable and alone. I’d gone from a place where I excelled at what I did, I took pride in myself and I did the best job I could, gal-darn-it, I was good enough, smart enough, and well, people liked (or hated) me, to being at home with Ben, my strange son, where no one noticed if I did an exceptional job at scrubbing out a pan, or was particularly efficient about cooking dinner.

I went from having a life to living for other people. And the adjustment was brutal. I was lonely, I was isolated, I felt like my life was turning into a should-have-been.

Years later, I am generally pretty happy to do what I do most days, and somedays, of course, I would happily sell my children UNDER COST WITHOUT A COUPON to a band of roving gypsies and run away with the circus, but mostly, I’m happy. Part of the reason for my happiness is because I’ve met a ton of people whom I now call friends. I have a life, albeit one that exists in the computer, but it’s mine and it’s what I’ve got.

So amidst the circus that was BlogHer, I stood there, while a confused woman in a snazzy suit held a voice recorder thingy in my face (probably regretting approaching me) and I told the tiny box that I blogged because to me, it was all about the community. And it is.

Why do YOU blog?

—————-

Because who can resist those rolls? She’s like a mini version of me!

And despite being INCREDIBLY crabby today, you can see that Alex is getting better. You can also see that Alex likes to eat markers AND draw on my arms. Goofy ass kid. Thank you for thinking of him–he was very, very sick.

Saturday morning found me fast asleep in my very own bed, dreaming contentedly about mountains of marshmallow frosting and inexplicably John Mayer (who, I should add, I find to be a complete douche. With amazing talent. But a douche. But damn, can that white boy play or what?), when through the door burst The Daver carrying Alex. Not entirely unlike the time the Incident When Alex Ate A Dime, but now Alex was 2 and no longer a baby.

Before I knew it, he’d thrust Alex into bed with me, unceremoniously, and while I was delighted to see my son, after a full two painful days away from him, I was suitably UNDERwhelmed to hear what came pouring from The Daver’s mouth.

“I’m sorry to wake you up, I know you got in late, but look at Alex’s eye.”

Alex was laying on his hands on top of me and all I could see was his gigantic hair covered head, and his eye was out of sight. Finally, he popped his face up to look at me (and thankfully did NOT thrust his tiny fingers into my eye socket as punishment for leaving him) and I saw it.

Since the last time I’d seen my son, his eye had…well, grown. It was now approximately the size and shape of a small nation and swollen nearly shut. I could see the purplish streaks that signified bruising from the sudden influx of fluid into his eyelid. Knowing that if something had happened, say, he’d been knocked out in a prizefight or maybe defended my honor against some other toddler who was knockin’ HIS mom, I’d have been told, my heart sunk.

By the grace of God, I forced myself as awake as I could be and sat up. As I wrapped my hammy arms around my son and pulled him close, I sighed deeply.

Alex had cellulitis. Again.

It’s been years since I actively practiced nursing, but I remember several things vividly from nursing school:

1) A code brown best avoided

2) I was a terrible nurse

3) Cellulitis was a big fucking deal.

This cinched it for me: I wasn’t going to be going back to Chicago for BlogHer. Nope. No more $36 dollar bottles of diet coke for me. No more swag and no more marketers. Hell, I wouldn’t even get to meet half the people I’d wanted to meet which is the only thing about the prospect of staying home that made my heart wear a frowny face.

But such is life.

I sent Dave downstairs to put a call in to Alex’s pediatrician while I put on pants as Alex stared at me, making me sort of uncomfortable. He eyed me warily; his one eye studying me very seriously. I’d left him once, he knew, and he wasn’t about to let me out of his (one-eyed) sight again until he was sure I wasn’t going to recklessly abandon him again.

The poor kid had had a bout of cellulitis mere months ago, also orbital (read: around the eye) but this time in the other eye, and I knew that we were about due for another ER visit. I’m telling you, my ER Frequent Flyer Punch Card is nearly full! I’m almost due for a free emesis basin OR I can wait and upgrade to some IV tubing!

The last time, we’d avoided being admitted for IV antibiotics by the skin of our teeth, and I wasn’t taking any chances this time around. We dragged our sad sacks to Alex’s normal doctor, who seemed shockingly unconcerned, discomfortingly telling us to “wait and see.”

Which, hi, I’m cool with waiting and seeing about, oh I don’t know, an ear infection, or a skinned knee, or what crazy outfit Britney will wear next but with orbital edema so severe that my son could now not see at all out of one of his eyes?

The doctor was, apparently as he told us, still pissed that someone had called him at 3AM complaining of a swollen hand from an earlier bee sting. Which sucks, no doubt, but this is my son’s eyesocket, not a boo-boo on his knee.

My professional opinion? Fuck you and fuck that.

It was back to the ER with us. And hey, all’s well that ends well, and we got the script for some antibiotics…

(I feel I should disclose here, in order to assure you that we are not exactly hypochondriacs, that this is the second time Alex has been on antibiotics in his 2.5 years on this planet. And the second time that he’s been to the MD for anything OTHER than a well-baby visit. The first time? Follow-up from the LAST bout of cellulitis)

…and he’s feeling much better. The swelling has gone down while the bruising has gone up, so he really looks like he’s got a pretty rad shiner. I’ve always been fond of a black eye, I told him today, and he just looked at me like I was the world’s biggest idiot.

Because, well, at 2 my son has discovered what the world already knows: I am the world’s biggest idiot.

But anyway. You read my blog. You know I’m a moron. This is not national news.

Here’s what is.

(no it’s not)

(no, really, it’s not)

So, BlogHer gives away a bunch of swag, no? I’m sure you heard of it, what with the hoards of stampeding bloggers rushing the bags and elbowing kids out of their damn way (damn fool kids!). These are not lies, no.

I have a fool ton of stuff. Some of it I’ll use, but most of it? I took because I did not know what else to do with it. It could be useful to other people, but for as much shit as I have in my house, I don’t need any additional, and I was struggling what to do with all of it. There’s some pretty good stuff among the ads and coupons (those I tossed).

I was also stuck trying to figure out what to do with the huge ass stack of business cards I’d been told I needed to bring to BlogHer but didn’t get to pass out because I am a loser who went home early and then had to take her very ill son to the hospital. The loser part is incidental and irrelevant, because, remember, I win at LIFE, Internet.

So let’s do something with this stuff, since it would be green to reUSE it. Anything you don’t like, you can give away to your least favorite relative for Christmas. Here’s what my friend Lola suggested.

Leave me a comment, I’ll email you for your address, or email me outright (aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com) and then I’ll send you some business cards.

(Pithy Aside/Reassurance: do not worry about me stalking you, should you disclose your address to me. I have 0% attention span AND I am lazy. Plus, Dave is the only other adult in the house and I just asked him my middle name, so that I could prove to you that he is forgetful. His answer? Elizabeth. My middle name? Sherrick)

Do something high-larious with the cards–you know, take ’em out for drinks, give ’em to your friends, whatever–send me the pictures documenting what you did.

No, not like rubbing one off on them, because ew, but you know. Something creative, or funny, or just plain weird. I’ll throw up the pictures with a link to your site and we can vote. Whomever wins, gets some of the BlogHer stuff and some other obviously hilarious crap that I pick out for you. No, not like old banana peels and breast pump parts. It’ll be like a grab bag of The Awesomeness. But in gigantic box form.

And if THAT doesn’t sound appealing, leave me a comment telling me something else I can do with these cards. I mean, I feel like a tool keeping them, because what the shit do I do with them? No seriously, WHAT do I do with them?

We’ll run this contest until, oh, I don’t know, how about September 8? Because that’s Daver’s birthday and this should help me remember it. See, Internet, I love YOU more than I love The Daver.

Then you cannot say that Your Aunt Becky never gave you anything besides the urge to punch her in the head. Because that, my friends, is the universal gift Your Aunt Becky gives to everyone who meets her.

*Blogher didn’t REALLY break my kid. Just my soul. Whatever was left of it, I mean.

I’ve said it before, and I’ve meant it every time: I don’t tend to win stuff. I mean, I win at LIFE and all that, but that’s one of those things people say to The Losers when really they’re snickering behind your back because shit, no, you really don’t win anything. Sucks to be YOU.

Here is a brief rundown of the things I have not–and will not–won:

• The Lottery. While I don’t ever PLAY it, I’m as shocked as you to report, they don’t just give you the winnings for saying off-handedly to the overweight and stoned cashier that you’d like to win it one day as you bought your large Diet Coke.

• My 3rd Grade classes 3-legged race. Because I fell down and ruined it all. Hey, what else is new?

• Prom Queen. Because I was too busy being drunk and hot-tubbing at a party to remember to get all gussied up and shake my booty to a PG version of “Brown Eyed Girl” with the whole “makin’ love in the green grass” part taken out. Because THINK OF THE CHILDREN! *cue handwringing*

• The genetics that would make me 5’11 with long blonde hair (that is always romantically windblown, even inside), a teeny waist, and a nice rack.

• Class President. Now, I wasn’t campaigning for it, nor would I have wanted to actually BE Class President, but I need to tell you that there was no grass-roots movement to get me elected. I KNOW, right? The UNFAIRNESS of it all.

• An Heiress. I’m not really particular about which family, so long as I can sleep in a vault of money and pay someone to wipe my butt after I poo. While I know this isn’t something that’s really “won,” it’s another example of how wanting something badly enough doesn’t do any good.

After all, not everyone can be an astronaut.

When I was nominated for Funniest Blogger, a contest I didn’t even know was going on until a sweet Twitter Gnomie put me up for it, I was shocked. I told The Daver that I was now up for the award and then proceeded to laugh as I listed my competition. Because the competition should have kicked my lily-white ass to the curb and then made me buy it breakfast at IHOP.

And yet.

And somehow.

I won.

I tied for winner with Cake Wrecks, which is pretty much saying that Dooce and I won the same award. It’s like winning something alongside THE POPE. Which, hi, not going to happen. Except when it does. Because it did.

I’m as shocked as you are.

I’ll give you a minute to let this sink in because I’m still all, “I thought Punk’d went off the air when the dude from it married that old lady from Ghost.”

….

….

….

….

….

Done? Angrily writing nasty-grams to the organizers of the Social Luxe awards informing them of how very wrong their decisions were? I kind of want to send one myself, although, not for Cake Wrecks. They were a shoo-in. Starting hate blogs devoted to me yet? Telling Barrack Obama that he should fire me from life?

But no. They’re never going to pry the awesome award out of my nubbly little fingers as long as I live and breathe. I’m considering naming the trophy something like, “Bob” or “Earl” or “Princess Grace of Monaco” and sleeping with it at night. Maybe I’ll take it for carriage rides and long walks on the beach; maybe I’ll dress it in the teeny-tiny new baby clothes that my children will never wear again. Maybe I will take it out to dinner in lieu of going with my family members.

Because that’s what Winners do, right?

Wait, I thought you were up for Funniest LOOKING Blogger, Mom!

Nom, nom, nom, so THAT’S what victory tastes like. Hm. Minty.

Keep your hands off my deranged looking husband, and I will cut a bitch if you go near my award. I have a feeling absolutely no one will try and touch the award now. He’s like my own personal vault. Only human.

Thank you so much to everyone who voted for me, even if you’d interpreted it as the Funniest LOOKING Blogger. I really, honestly couldn’t have done this without you. Shut up! I am NOT crying! I have ALLERGIES. And a GLANDULAR problem, people!

—————————–

Here are the other winners as I don’t think they’ve been put up online yet. You should absolutely go and check them all out:

Blogs We’ve Learned the Most From: I Heart Faces & The Pioneer Woman Cooks

Most Inspiring Blog: Nie Nie Dialogues & The Spohrs are Multiplying

Most Provocative Blog: The Bloggess & Her Bad Mother

Tastiest Blog : This Week For Dinner & The Pioneer Woman Cooks

Funniest Blog: Cake Wrecks & Mommy Wants Vodka

Best Eye Candy Blog: I Should Be Folding Laundry & whatever

Guiltiest Pleasure Blog: MamaPop & Craftastrophe

Alex well, has The Cellulitis again. I’d make a joke like, “You should SEE the other guy!!” But I’m just not laughing right now.

My Jr. Lightweight Champion.

One of the pathetic stipulations I had for a college besides:

1) not advertised on television

2) offers stuff-n-things OTHER THAN A degree promised to allow me a career in an exciting technical field

was that I could access it by train.

See, for all the awesomeness that is St. Charles, it’s fucking impossible to get to or from. It’s not by any convenient highways or byways, but it’s not quiiittee far enough away from anything that whining loudly that ‘it’s too faaaarrr‘ will get you anywhere. Besides a hefty roll of the old eyeballs. The benefits from a cost/benefit analysis show that without a doubt, this is The Best Thing For Us All, so we deal with these minor annoyances.

Obviously using the haunting good grace that I am known to handle everything else with (read: no grace whatsoever).

But back then I also lived it St. Charles, only un-hipply (not un-hippIE because that would be weird) with my parents and my one-year-old son, The Benner. And I was in dire need of figuring out What To Do With My Life. After some teeth-gnashing and a good hard look at my future, I chose to get my undergrad in nursing at a college about 40 minutes away.

Also (and most importantly) it was on the train line. I’m not positive that if I’d been promised truckloads of cash driven to my front door by pursuing my undergraduate degree in underwater basket weaving, I’d have done so if I’d had to commute by car.

So, train it was! Hooray!! Bonus! Win-Win!!! Hooray!! Everyone wins!!! Yay!!!!

(note the flagrant use of exclamation points to really drive the point home. THAT’S how you know I’m serious.)

Except, hahaha, not so much. Turns out that wasn’t what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Because I’m still waiting to find out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I’m not sure if this–like my ability to single-handedly lose my wallet 47 times an hour–is something to be proud of of.

I did ride the train every day, to and from school, and while I was initially irritated by that mandatory time stuck doing jack squat, I learned to love that part of my day. There’s something kind of romantic about being on a train. I guess it’s partially a throw back to The Olden Days–and let me assure you that most of the train cars in service today really are from those days–and partially just, I don’t know. I sort of feeling like I’m Really Traveling if I’m on a train.

And as time passed, I made a number of friends who rode the train with me. We’d study, or shoot the shit, or just be blessedly still for half an hour. These included some of the people in my classes and even a couple of my science professors. I’d gone from feeling like a total Failure At Life to having an identity of my own.

I was an over-achieving student, top of my ever-loving class. I became. TA for the upper level sciences. I had friends. I had something I could now identify myself as and be proud of.

I look back on that time and smile. A genuine smile, not an ironic or bitter one.

I took the train into the city on Wednesday at the ass crack of 6PM after I hadn’t been on one in at least three years. I can assure you that nothing, NOTHING has changed. Same strawberry-urine scented urinal cake smell, same entitled passengers*, same sweat-stained windows.

(*Back when I took the train 5 days a week, I was always sure to pick up a copy of their monthly newsletter. While I flagrantly ignored the boring stuff about safety and other stuff that I wouldn’t know what it was because I never read it, I always giddily ran for a copy when the new ones came out.

Because on the back of this, was a page of pure gems. The company would reprint some of the Letters To Someone Who Pretends To Give A Shit and they were comedy gold. Honestly. They really should come up with a book of these sorts of letters because seriously, they were that good.

Amidst the people complaining about delays and ice and those horrible rude people with suitcases who take! up! 2! seats! (this person, in her letter, referred to those people as “Piggy People.” Because how DARE someone need to use a SUITCASE!), was nestled my personal favorite. I will try to paraphrase it for you.

Dear So-And-So,

Here’s what makes me REALLY mad!!!! Those people who leave behind the newspapers after they’ve read them, so that other people can read them!!! That’s nice and all, but you know what? I am SO MAD when I see that they’ve completed the crossword puzzle!!!!!!

Signed,

I Am The Most Entitledest Person Ever!!!!!!

I mean, the NERVE of someone who spent THEIR money on a paper to actually put INK to the paper! They obviously should have graciously left it blank for you, oh person who is too cheap to buy their own paper.

Bwahahahahaha! *wipes tears from eyes* Bwahahahahaha!

You just can’t make this shit up.)

Well, The Internet, it turns out you CAN go home again.

After I wrenched myself away from a screaming Alex, and hauled my bag up those stairs again, it was like stepping into my old life. I half expected to see my grody red suitcase (note to self: buy cooler suitcase) turn into an Organic Chem book, my iPod to gain 3 pounds, and the spare tire in my gut to melt away.

But there I was. Seeing myself back 6 years ago. When my son was my only baby. When I wasn’t married. When I had a job, a waistline, and a completely different life. I’d never heard of a blog. Never considered that I might actually house a wanna-be writer in my wanna-be scientist body.

And look at where I ended up. Never thought I’d be where I am, never in a zillion years. I’m not sure I’d have believed it if you told me. No, I take that back. I am absolutely CERTAIN I would have laughed in your face had you told me where I’d end up.

I stay home. I write. I have three fucking kids. I write. I fantasize about sleeping and about wearing pants without elastic bands. Although, I should add, I do not fantasize about sleeping WITH pants without elastic bands. I drive a mini-van. An UGLY GOLD mini-van.

Everything is different and somehow nothing has changed.

Et tu, Internet?

So, yeah, now, I’m at BlogHer, likely streaking or soiling myself or some combination thereof, and I asked my friend Badass Geek to take over for me. It’s rare I con someone into beg someone have someone agree because I have annoyed them to death to do a guest post for me.

In the same magical vein, I asked The Daver to do another post and he’s all “what about” and I’ll all “I don’t know.” I put the likelihood of him doing it around 27%. Because that is how The Daver rolls.

—

‘What’s this?’ my younger sister asked.

My family and I were settling into our hotel room while on vacation somewhere in Pennsylvania. My older sister was listening to her portable CD player and didn’t hear the question. My dad was out getting ice or something from the vending machine, and my mother was in the bathroom washing up. Being the only one left to pay any attention to her, I looked up see what she was referring to.

She was sitting on the side of the bed, the drawer to the nightstand open. In her hands was a teal-colored foil wrapper. Even from where I sat on the other side of the room, I could see the words ‘Latex’, ‘Spermicidal’, and ‘Ribbed For Pleasure’ printed on it.

Dear Lord, I thought to myself. This is going to be interesting.

‘I think you better ask Mom about that,’ I said evasively.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Hey, Mom?’

‘Yeah?’ she called back from inside the bathroom.

‘I found something in the nightstand, and I’m not sure what it is.’

There was a heavy pause then. As a parent, I imagine that if there is one question you hope never to hear when staying at a cheap hotel, it is this one. The mind races with all the possibilities as to what it could be, and odds are, as you turn to see the object in question, you pray that you remembered to pack that commercial-sized bottle of Purell.

My mother emerged from the bathroom. She locked her eyes on the object in my sisters hand, and her eyes widened. Trying to keep her voice steady, she asked, ‘Where did you get that?’

‘I found it in the nightstand next to the Bible,’ my sister said. ‘What is it?’

Those Gideon’s are kinkier than I imagined them to be. I looked over to my mother to see her mouth opening and closing, at a complete and utter loss for words.

My sister could not have sounded more innocent. ‘It says it’s a latex condom. What’s a condom?’

My mother cleared her throat. ‘Well, it’s something that married couples use when’ they don’t want to have a baby.’ She walked briskly over to my sister and snatched it out of her hands.

‘How does it work?’

Oh, God. Please don’t give her the Birds And The Bees talk right here in front of me.

‘Well,’ my mother grasped for words. ‘Why don’t you ask me that when we get home.’ She glanced sideways at me. ‘I’ll tell you all about it then.’

My mother promptly wrapped the unused rubber in a tissue and threw it in the trash. ‘Now, go wash your hands in the bathroom.’

‘Why?’ my sister wanted to know.

‘Just go do it!’ my mother snapped. She looked at me with an expression that seemed to promise injury or death if I said anything about what had just made it’s way into the trashcan. She didn’t have anything to worry about, though. The last thing I want to talk about with my mother in earshot is condoms.

—

I hope you have a good time at BlogHer, Aunt Becky. May there be no condoms in your nightstand.

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.

So, Internet, did you hear? There’s this big ass conference this weekend about blogging (dude. How lame does THAT sound? SHUT UP) and it’s in Chicago and at least 103% of the Internet is going. I won’t dare say it’s name, lest I annoy everyone more than they already are, but let’s just say it rhymes with “FlogHer.”

But I’m going, in fact, because I am Super Becky Overachiever, I am going down to the city on Wednesday night so that I can peel myself out of bed the following morning to go to this Ford-Motor-Car thingy. I’m not really sure what it is, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s very James-Bondy and I might be doing death-defying stunts and saving the planet from peril. I’ll be like Jack Bauer, WITH A (floppy) VAGINA.

You’ll be happy to say that “you knew me when.” Hell, maybe you can even raffle off the comments I leave on your blog for big ca$h money! Rock. Music!

Or maybe, just maybe, we’re forming focus groups to discuss What Women Want In A Car, which is not nearly as Double O Aunt Becky as I thought. Like at all. THIS is why I need someone to read the fine print FOR me, since I am obviously not capable of it whatsoever. But whatever, it should be fun as hell. Even if I’m doing the opposite of fighting The Terrorists.

What I cannot believe is that for the first time in 4 years, I am going to go away for 3 nights. 3! whole! nights! without my children. I plan to spend the time either blitzed out and drooling in bed–alone–or running around like a previously caged beast.

[excruciatingly pointless details redacted for boringness]

Let’s just leave this at this: I haven’t been out of the house without my kids for an extended period of time in 3 years. This will change soon either way, because I plan to either get a double stroller and force my wee beasties in it, or become independently wealthy, whichever comes first.

(I figure the wealth will, no doubt, buy me some Wild Baby Handlers)

This means that since I quit my last job as a nurse case manager 3 years ago, I haven’t been required to be in public for any length of time. Sure, I do go out and about, but only for short periods of time, and always with a purpose.

While other people may be afraid of not having anyone to talk to or eating alone or maybe they’re afraid of a gigantic gaggle of women (shit, right?) all in one place, I’m afraid I might soil myself. Or streak. Or soil myself while streaking.

It’s been so long since I’ve been in public, what if I can’t remember not to pick people up and gnaw on their necks while blowing raspberries? Or what if I check to make sure YOU haven’t pooped your pants by popping a finger down your crack and looking for the telltale smudgey pooness? Or worse: what if I just bend down and smell your ass?

WHAT THEN, INTERNET?

What if I have gotten so used to being with small kids that I try to cut up your steak or try and airplane your mashed potatoes into your mouth? What if I nag you to put your cup away and finish your drink?

Maybe I should take some sage advice given to me on Facebook and just roofie the hell out of myself and take to bed for 3 days. Then I couldn’t shame myself in a room full of bloggers who could happily report on my misdeeds for days. Which, wouldn’t you?

I would.

(also: completely unrelated segue leading to pictures of my babies, if listening to an a cappella version of “Don’t Stop Believin'” is wrong, Internet, I don’t want to be right)

Turn off the fucking Journey, Mom. This is child abuse!

Oh, and maybe you want to see who *I* am so that you can properly identify me and run like hell, lest I come over and nom your ears?

(whispered voice-over from guy with indiscriminate European accent: “so, we’ve cornered the Aunt Becky in her natural habitat. Here, let’s ply her with vodka and cupcakes. QUICK, NOW INJECT THE SEDATIVE! WHEW, that was a close one! Wild Aunt Becky’s should be approached with care.”)

Except I’m fatter now. Also: will not be wearing my wedding dress. I am saving it to wear to my BFF Pashmina’s wedding. Because wedding dress = something you wear to a wedding, right?

RIGHT?

I was thinking about it sort of sadly as I perused the stacks of new and hip clothes at H & M on Saturday (also I thought about this: when the fuck did the 80’s come back in style?) that I haven’t worn my Real Clothes–the ones I’d had for years–since 2006. After I’d gotten pregnant with Alex on my birthday (so THAT’s the way it is in my family)(also: guess what *I* got for my birthday that year?)(answer: a fetus) in 2006, as I turned 26, I almost immediately began to gain weight.

I’d fallen into the I’ll eat everything I can think of because it’s good for the preschus bay-bee trap when I’d had Ben, and it took me years to beat those 60 pounds off. So when I got pregnant with Alex, I was bound and determined to gain the recommended whatever it is. I was exactly what I weighed when I got pregnant with Ben as when I got pregnant with Alex, and it was on the high end of normal for my BMI (lest you take from this that I have been skinny since I was 15) (because I haven’t), so I was shocked at my week 9 visit when I’d gained 9 pounds.

It was shocking because I’d been barfy the whole time and not really eating and Jesus H, !9! pounds! THAT’S A TON OF LBS for someone who isn’t eating.

So yeah, the elastic band trick through the pants laughed in my sad, fat face and I immediately had to buy some maternity pants. I know plenty of people who can easily squeeze themselves into their old clothes for months, but since I carry my extra weight in my belly when I’m thin, it’s just freaking more uncomfortable when I’m pregnant. And since so many things about pregnancy are uncomfortable, why not eliminate what you can when you can?

(especially when you cannot eat either hot dogs OR soft cheeses) (assholes)

Anyway, I digress.

I’d lost all but 15 pounds of Alex weight when I got pregnant with Amelia, and piled 60ish pounds on top of that. The result is not pretty. I’ve tried the Alli, which, even with the oily ass-butter, didn’t help. I tried cutting out fast food, cupcakes and butter as food groups, and still nothing. I knew I was going to be fat for BlogHer and while I wasn’t happy about it, I thought at least a couple of pounds might budge.

Not yet, ickle grasshopper. It doesn’t appear that my body has gotten the message to drop these pesky pounds, and so fat I will be. Diet and exercise, just as an FYI, don’t ALWAYS work.

I considered calling in fat to the conference, but since I already paid for my tickets and got self-absorbed enough to have business cards made, I figured I probably was stuck going. Besides, skipping an event because you’re fat? Kinda pathetic, yo.

So there I was, in H & M trying to find anything that might fit. I got discouraged enough looking at the legwarmers and oversized shirts that I left for greener (read: fatter) pastures. I did end up finding pants, and I will tell you that I actually cried when I saw the size.

It’s going to take awhile to get these pounds to consider budging, and I guess that’s okay, even though maybe I should take up a Little Debbie Habit since I already look like I have one. I’ve found a way to work exercise into my schedule next month, once Ben is done with swimming lessons, and I’m probably going to try Weight Watchers again, after the conference just so I feel like I’m doing SOMETHING to combat this.

And decided that I’m (mostly) done apologizing for being heavier. Done. I’ll get the weight off, but in the meantime, I’m not going to shove myself into ill-fitting clothes. No, I’m going to do things that will make myself feel pretty: I’ll go tanning, get my hairs did, buy some freaking clothes. Why not celebrate what I’ve got right now?

But I celebrated last night. Not the loss of pounds, but the removal of clothes from my closet. Anything I hated, anything that wasn’t going to fit anytime soon, all that stuff, most of my maternity clothes, into bags. I filled up three garbage bags and I celebrated. The same way I celebrated when it rained in the wee hours of my birthday: I feel like I’m wiping the slate clean and starting again.

Last year on my birthday, when I was all pregnant and spotty and hormonal I remember hoping and praying that this year would be better and hahaha! 28 has been the hardest of my life so far. There’s obviously no guarantee that 29 will be any better because most of what happens is stuff I have no control over anyway, like that song about Jesus and the Wheel goes.

But I’m taking this all as a Good Omen. I’ll probably eat my words along with my humble pie slathered in ketchup because this is what I usually do, but for now, I feel lighter.

Come on up here and sit on your Aunt Becky’s lap and tell her, what do you find to be Good Omens?

————

I think I am going to make a separate page for the Amelia stories, which, by the way, thank you for reading and being kind about. I read up on the therapy for PTSD and apparently, talking about it rather than keeping it inside, you’re supposed to talk about it. And after I received the first bill from the therapist, I’m all “dude, I’m just going to tell the Internet. That’s free-er and stuff.”