I have now officially popped by guest posting cherry over at Bad Ass Geek. Here’s what I said:

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When both of your parents are hippies, there isn’t a whole hell of a lot of things that you can do to rebel. I mean, any parents who protested the Vietnam War and marched at the Democratic National Convention (the rioting one), and admitted to smoking the ganja often and with gusto aren’t exactly the sort that might ground you for being 3 minutes past curfew.

Hell, I didn’t even HAVE a curfew.

Nor did I have any real ground rules to follow other than to be kind to living things. And not vote Republican.

Between the admitted lack of boundaries and my incredible sense of Not Wanting To Get Busted, it was with many hooting and hollering friends that I called my mother to get permission to smoke The Weed for the first time.

I was 14, I’d just gotten my tonsils taken out (no small surgery for someone past the age of 6) and I wanted to make sure that nothing weird was going to happen. Like I specifically didn’t want to suddenly think that jumping off the roof was a great way to finally fllllyyyyyy, like always happened in the DARE movies.

She was taken aback, my poor mother, when I called her and asked her if I could toke up with my friends. To her credit, she didn’t laugh hysterically or anything, but she did sound pretty surprised even as she agreed to it. Providing, of course, that I drink a lot of water.

Drinking lots of water and going out in the sunshine are two of my mother’s favorite pieces of advice. I could probably be bleeding to death in the woods from a gunshot wound, and if I were to see her she would likely tell me to drink some water and lay out in the sunshine.

My first choice of Smoking Implement was a 3 foot purple glass bong I’d named Stinky, and as my friend Josh lit the herb at the bottom of the tube, I sucked in as hard as I could, my finger covering the rush hole. The smoke in the chamber reached a thick consistency we called “mayonnaise,” and after I held in my first toke and blew it out, I put my mouth back at the rim, unplugged the rush hole and sucked in.

In that moment, I suddenly earned the respect of each and every seasoned pot smoker I knew as I cleared the chamber. Apparently this was no small feat.

After I was done with my hit, I popped off the bed and bopped into the other room, squeaking out a “Thanks, guys!” as the room burst into rounds of applause for Wonder Girl, Pot Smoker Extraordinaire.

I didn’t get high that first time, despite the massive influx of Mary Jay into my system, I felt nothing. Perhaps I was a smidgen gigglier (no huge feat for an admittedly giggly 14 year old girl), perhaps it was just the atmosphere in that house that night.

Perhaps it was all just one toke over the line (Sweet Jesus).

Tell me about one of YOUR first times. I could use some entertainment, dammit!

I just changed my Big Scary Ultrasound appointment from the 17th of September to the 8th of September (also: Daver’s birthday. Where he turns 30! Officially OLD BALLS TERRITORY). Which has made my body Full of The Nervous, as I stare down the barrel of that gun. My reasons for changing my appointment are less “ohmygod, I can’t WAIT to go shopping” and more “ohmygod, I can’t WAIT to find out if it’s healthy,” which make me a killjoy, but a practical one.

People tend to assume that since I have two boys at home, that I would somehow really be upset if I didn’t have at least one baby girl. And while I might be upset for different reasons (i.e. I don’t get to buy frilly dresses and tell the Internet about it), I’m sadly boring when I inform you that really, REALLY, all I want is for my baby to be healthy. I don’t even care if it’s HAPPY (my babies are NEVER happy), just healthy.

I’ve tried to get in touch with my inner voice, you know, the one that’s supposed to guide my womanly intuition toward the gender of my Sausage, I’ve really tried. And all my womanly intuition wants to tell me is that I’m in dire need of buffalo wings.

When I was pregnant with Ben, delusional and pregnant, I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles, Cosmos, whatever that I was having a girl. I had a girl’s name picked out. I hadn’t bought any CLOTHES yet, since I was both poor and practical, but I had my eagle eye set on some frilly dresses.

It was a good thing they have you lay down for your ultrasound, or I may have toppled over onto the floor, never to get up again, when the lady informed me that I was carrying a boy. I insisted that she show me the evidence, and she did, a heavily pixilated penis/balls combo floating lazily in a bath of amniotic fluid.

I’ll admit to being somewhat disappointed at first, not that this was a very PC reaction, but with fairly good reason. When you have a boy, pregnant by a dude who is on his better days Captain Douchebag and on his worse days Captain Asswad, the last thing you want is for YOUR son to turn out just like his father.

I’m positive I’m not alone in this feeling, which at the end of it all, does come from the right place. I wanted better for my Ben.

And I got it.

When I got pregnant with Alex, Dave and I formed a kind of bet for what flavor of baby we were carrying. He INSISTED with more conviction than I’ve seen him muster save for the time that he tried to convince me that “Kung Fu” was a great show, that we were having a Girl. I was so much sicker, he reasoned, my pregnancy was so very different, it HAD to be a girl.

I took the option of Boy, just to make the US day more interesting (and to quell my aching nerves), and we had our bet.

The Stakes For Alex’s Pregnancy:

If I was right, and the baby was a Boy, Dave would wear a baby doll Britney Spears shirt IN PUBLIC on a day when it couldn’t be covered by a jacket.

If HE was right, and the baby was a Girl, I would, when I wasn’t overly pregnant, wear a Chicks Dig Unix shirt in public.

Due to our cheap-ass nature, and the fact that I sort of forgot (remember, this was also November in Chicago, where it’s certainly not warm enough to wear a t-shirt outdoors), Dave never wore the Britney Shirt.

So this time, in order once again to distract myself from the rolling ball of nerves that I now am, I tried to get him to make a bet with me. I was going for Team Girl, I figured he would go for Team Boy and we could come up with something new. Other than, “Hey, I’ll give you $20 from our JOINT CHECKING ACCOUNT” as stakes.

Now I need your help, Internet.

First, will you come with me to my US appointment on Monday at 12:30? Please? Even if it’s just in your head, please send me healthy baby vibes. I’ll be your BFF!

Second, go ahead and vote up there. I’m dying to see what YOU think I’m carrying.

Third, and perhaps most entertaining, help me come up with some stakes with which Dave and I can lay our bets. Here is the pertinent info on Daver (you know me already):

He is a geek, but not a nerd. I’m assured that there is a difference here.

As you may have guessed, he has an excellent sense of humor, so pretty much anything is fair game.

He’s Mr. Wilson to my Dennis The Menace.

He doesn’t appreciate the beauty of pop culture as I do as he’s far more deep and meaningful than I am.

He will stop at nothing to embarrass me.

Anything else you need to know?

Every now and again, when I duck into Mimi Maternity or Pea in a Pod I run into another pregnant lady (I know, who’d have thought it?). The sort of pregnant lady that makes me gnash my teeth and drool in her direction (she’s probably all, who let Crazy McFat Pants out of her cage?).

Because while I’ve looked about 6 months pregnant since day 4 or 5, my rolls getting rolls on top of even more love handles, my cellulite now covering me in some sort of bizarre pregnancy suit, my bra stretching and groaning uncomfortably against my saggy boobs, she serenely pats her tiny belly as she confides in the salesclerk that she’s due any day now.

I pray feverishly as I peer between the racks of clothing to find something that’s decidedly more flattering to the figure (what figure? I look like an olive on toothpicks) than what I’m wearing, that she’s about to divulge that this is her first baby or something, anything to make me feel better about myself and my ham-hock arms at 4 and a half months along, before she then mentions that this is her fifth baby.

She looks so put together, so firm and taut in her ass and thighs, obviously she hadn’t gained a pound over the recommended whatever it is you’re supposed to gain, while I? I look like I rolled out of bed, snapped on a bra, pulled my hair back and then went out in public. Which is precisely what I did.

And I am jealous. I’d love to be a svelte and sexy pregnant lady, gaining the tiniest amount of weight in my belly only rather than turning my ass into a shelf and my face into a moon pie. Ain’t gonna happen in THIS lifetime, sister.

When I had my first baby, I got hungry. I put my eatin’ pants on and I ate pretty much anything and everything I could get my grubby mitts on. I ate at least 2-3 times what I was supposed to eat, washing down every meal with a milkshake or three while I munched candy bars I hadn’t eaten in years.

Sure, I knew I was gaining weight, so I eventually just asked the nurse not to tell me what the scale said when I stepped onto it. There was no law saying I had to KNOW how fat I’d gotten, right? Besides, I’d just breastfeed it off later, I told myself.

Hardy-har-fucking-har.

Ben, who unbeknown to me at the time was autistic, refused to get anywhere near my massive mammeries once I popped him out, and after a spell of pumping he became a formula baby.

Fast forward 5 years. I’ve taken off the weight, however painfully, and am now pregnant with Alex. I have made precisely one promise to myself: I wasn’t going to become a fat ass when I got pregnant again.

Morning sickness, then hyperemesis struck, and even as I purged whatever molecules of food from my system, I watched horrified as the scale went up. Between 5-9 weeks, I gained 11 pounds. I ate nothing, threw up so hard that my nose was permanently bleeding and I gained weight.

Once I was able to hold down food again (around 18 weeks and 25 pounds heavier), I ate well. I ate so well that people couldn’t believe how fat I was getting. Egg whites, tofu, veggies, fruits. Small portions eaten often. And yet I found myself on the delivery table having gained 56 pounds. A mere 10 pounds lighter than when I’d had Ben.

(as an aside, it hurt me to no end that only The Daver believed me that I wasn’t secretly gorging upon hostess products and lard at night and while he was at work. Everyone else seemed to believe that I was lying for some reason, and was just ashamed of my weight gain. While I was TOTALLY ashamed, I’d never lie about something like that)

Oh well, I told myself, at least I’d breastfeed it off with this one. Alex was a champion nurser, nursed often and with gusto, and I knew I’d be back into my size 6’s in no time.

Go ahead, laugh away. I won’t blame you.

Turns out that no matter what LLL tells you, not EVERYONE loses weight while breastfeeding. Just wanted to be clear here, because I seriously wish like hell that anyone had told me this before I nearly killed myself trying to get this weight off.

So when I got pregnant with The Sausage, I made a vow to myself to eat what I want and enjoy it without feeling guilty about any weight gains I’ve had. My body does apparently like to pack on the pounds while pregnant, so why fight it? It’s not worth it to beat myself up over every single pound.

And so far? I’ve not gained an insane amount of weight for someone almost 18 weeks pregnant. Which shocks the shitballs out of me. Who knew that I just needed to let go and eat pretty much any and everything that I can find? My week’s menu reads just like the Very Hungry Caterpillar, and I’m loving every second of it.

Who the hell knew?

So dish. Tell me about YOUR pregnancy weight gain. Please tell me I’m not alone in reaching epic blimp-like proportions while pregnant. Or if I am, will you pass the ketchup and chocolate. Aunt Becky is ready for her 1st dinner.

Earlier today, at pretty much any hour that ended with o’clock, Alex treated me to a symphony of screams and tears from the floor, where he lay, prostrate with grief over some unseen slight. He rolled angrily, this way and that, his back arched and head occasionally making contact with a toy carelessly tossed about.

I’d try and pick him up every couple of minutes as he thrashed about in the throes of a massive tantrum, but he’d arch his back away from me, and I’d nearly drop him from the sudden shift in weight.

In his defense, which I must remind myself of every 20 or so minutes, he’s getting approximately 4,000 teeth (give or take a few), which is standard M.O. for my poor kids who go from being toofless yokels to Jaws from Moonraker seemingly overnight.

Pleasant, it’s not. But it’s remarkably similar to how I’ve been feeling these days. The stuff I histrionically mentioned last week and then refused to elaborate on has gotten better, but not enough to ease things enough. Since it’s not something serious enough for me to blog about; it’s not cancer or a death in the family, no one is even physically sick right now, it’s hard to admit how much I’m struggling.

Maybe it’s just me, but I tend to try and rationalize away most of my upsetedness (totally not a word. Or if it is, it’s misspelled) by reminding myself that things could always be worse. And it’s the truth. No matter how hard things may be for me, someone somewhere may be dying a slow painful death by chocolate or pinto beans.

But rather than remind myself of this fact over and over and over until I feel like a shameless pile of goo for being upset about something so minor in the first place, I’m just going to go ahead and be upset. I’m not moping about the house, flopping aimlessly onto couches and sighing deeply anytime anyone talks to me or anything. I’m not crying in the shower–or anywhere else–or contemplating wording for my suicide note (although that would be a fantastic writing exercise).

No. None of those things.

Instead, of throwing things at walls or destroying box fans without mercy I am cleaning. I’m cleaning it all. Laundry that hasn’t been touched in weeks? Done. Car that hasn’t been cleaned in so long I’m too embarrassed to even write it down? Check.

It’s all clean.

When I was a kid, I could always tell when my mom wasn’t doing particularly well by the state of the carpets. The house would fall into disrepair, disgusting filth would pile up, and as a 8 year old, I would be stuck cleaning it with a bucket of hot soapy water so that my friends could come over without being disgusted.

As an adult, I associate dirtiness in my home as a sign that I am Not Doing Well. So, as a combatant to that, I clean the living fuck out of everything I can think of, when the going gets rough. I might feel sorry for myself a tad while I do it, but that’s how I handle things. Cleaning.

I wonder if my children notice. I wonder if when they grow up, they’ll become militant slobs when the going gets hard just to counteract the engrained idea that Clean House = Things Aren’t Well.

Or maybe they’ll just take after their father and be slobs no matter WHAT the state of the union is.

My carpet hasn’t looked this good since Alex was a (terrible) baby.

Let me ask you this, o! wise Internet:

Why are all of the really big blogs so very big? Stupid Inquiring minds want to know.

A little over 2 years ago, our favorite buffalo wing place closed up shop, a far more traumatic situation than it should have been, I tell you that much. And although The Daver and I searched high and low for Replacement Buffalo Wings, nothing stood up and shouted, “Hey, fatso! Pick ME!”

Until last weekend, when we rediscovered our love for buffalo wings. Happily for my ass padding, the place is an hour away from our house, so I can’t just drop by (and by drop by, I mean move in) and have lunch there every other day. And night.

Today, much like last Saturday, we ditched the kids with their beloved grandparents and hit the road. Without the kids in the backseat, which saved my eardrums from being blasted by Alex’s indignant squawks, but ended up feeling a bit…empty, I suppose.

The wings were everything I’d imagined and perhaps more, and as we headed home on the highway, we discussed the upcoming baby more than we had in the last 17 or so weeks. While we’re both thrilled to pieces by the thought of another ickle one, we’re also both pretty shell-shocked and battle-weary from Alex’s infant-hood, and honestly I’ve been trying to just get the hell over myself, let go and let God. I’m not a pretty person when I worry, and without being able to control all of the variables in pregnancy, I worry even more fruitlessly than I should.

My pregnancy is just something I barely mention or consider myself unless I’m having an intense craving for hot ketchup (please, don’t ask) or going to the doctor. It seems easier to pretend nothing is happening, save for some bloating and kick-ass comfy pants.

Yet. And yet...

Tap, tap, tap, Baby Sausage reminded me for the first time today that although we were without my older children, we were not completely sans child. Tap, tap, tap.

The tiny fluttering reminded me to actually stop and enjoy this pregnancy, to revel in my weight gain and rib spreading, laugh off the insomnia and horrifying gas, and to pay attention to this new baby too, dammit!

So, Hello World, indeed, Baby Sausage. We just can’t wait to meet you, either.

So I need some help, o! fellow Internet Guru’s, and the only solution is more cowbell.

Wait, that isn’t right. What I NEED is not cowbell, although Lord knows it wouldn’t hurt. What I need to know is how many readers I have.

My question for you is this: is there anyway to know how many readers I really have out there? It seems a simple request, but in the age of feed reader programs (like my beloved Google Reader, whom I might actually want to make babies with), it’s nearly impossible to quantify (kind of like my Level of Awesome. It’s Super Great, right now).

If you’re reading this in a reader, could you click over so my stat counter can see you? I won’t beg you to comment or anything, but I’m just trying to see if my stats are right.

I have a stat program, of course I do, who doesn’t? Otherwise I’d never hear of such search terms as “cameltoe competition” (Hi, I’m reigning champion to all of you who found me that way) or “my mom just wants to hold the baby but not do any cleaning or anything” (mine too! Mainly because she’s not my maid). I mean, how is that not FUNNY AS HELL and worth the time I take to check this out?

But I have a free stat counter, and I’m told by The Daver that there are such programs that you pay for out there. Since I am the Resident Cheap Ass, I don’t like to pay for things that I don’t have to. Anyone out there who does pay for one and can recommend it?

If you don’t have an answer to either of my pathetic and mewling questions, tell me this: do you have any big Labor Day plans with which you can make me feel like a lame-wad for sitting at home on my butt?

And hey, will you send some good vibes to my Southerly friends who I have just learned are now evacuating for Gustav? Of course, it’s the 3rd anniversary of That Bitch Katrina.

So, I got tagged by two of my good buddies to do a meme I’ve done a billion times before. What’s scariest is that I can STILL come up with weird things about me to go on and on and on about. Color me happily self-indulgent.

CLC and Holli, this one’s for you.

The Rules: Mention six quirky, yet boring, unspectacular details about yourself (wait, aren’t they all?).

1). I am deathly terrified of eyeballs. When I was in nursing school, we did a whole unit on Eye Disorders and The Fucked Up Things That Can Happen To Them, complete with pictures to illustrate the disorder. While I could handle sticking my hand into a gaping, festering surgical hole on a patient’s abdomen, I couldn’t handle looking at the Gross Eye Problems (yes, that’s a technical term).

2) I have a female relative, a great-great-great…ad nauseum grandmother on my mother’s side. Unfascinating to say the least.

Until she was stoned to death during the Salem Witch Trials of 1692.

Her name, according to familial sources was also Rebecca.

3) I wanted a baby sister when I was about 3, and since my mother had already been “fixed” (apparently after seeing my ugly newborn face), I resorted to the next best thing.

My retarded cat named Biscuit.

I used to dress the cat and her 4 brain cells in my old baby clothes and stuff her into a doll’s carriage. She is the reason for the cross-hatching of scars on my torso. I was, apparently, also in possession of a mere 4 brain cells.

4) I am currently obsessed with food and despite being asked every 2.5 minutes if I’d had any during my last two pregnancies, this is the first time I’ve had major cravings. I have a major addiction to Flavor Ice, along with anything tomato based (although NEVER raw tomatoes. *shudder, shudder*).

It’s actually more obnoxious than you’d think.

5) I may have to raffle off chances to Name Aunt Becky’s Sausage when the time comes. I broke down and bought a baby names book because we’re so desperate, which boasts having something like 5,000 names. Sadly, they don’t distinguish between names that SUCK and names that don’t.

Any good names you can think of? The stipulations are as follows:

Names cannot be Benjamin, Alexander, Joseph or Maxwell. Also, not David or Rebecca.

Names cannot begin with an H and preferably not an A, B, R or D.

The big anatomy scan is scheduled for September 17, so I’ll have more stipulations (God, I am one demanding BITCH) then. Mainly, “must be boy or girl name.”

6) When I was a kid, I’d buy or be gifted boxes of crayons. For some reason, I loved looking at them best in their neat little rows, lined up perfectly and unsullied by my inexpert coloring. I’d always save them for the Perfect Coloring Sheet, especially my favorite colors (namely: pink.).

Once they were used, I’d be less enchanted by their imperfect nubs and want to get a fresh new box. Never did I use the nubs to color. Needless to say, I was not an artistic sort of child.

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I’m supposed to tag some of you to do this meme, but I never do. Instead, I ask that you tell me one interesting factoid about YOU. Or it can be something UNinteresting. Doesn’t matter to me. And you, YES YOU, you lurker out there, hiding in the shadow of google reader. C’mon out and play!

First off, let me say a big thank you to anyone who thought enough of me to email me or send me some good vibrations. The Internet is a strange and wonderful place, and I am honestly tickled pink that you guys would care enough to think of me. I’d elaborate further and beg for support since I was born lacking a filter (it’s genetic, I’m assured), but it’s not my issue and it’s not for me to discuss.

*air smootches to you all*

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It may come as a shock to absolutely no one that my parents were hippies. Well, considering how I turned out, it may come as a shock to everyone, but I digress. I was born into a family who grew their own veggies, churned their own butter (yes, seriously), made their own maple syrup and shopped at real health food stores before shopping at Whole Foods became trendy.

We were organic before it was hip and trendy.

I cut my teeth on Free to Be You And Me and Pink Floyd’s The Wall, and could probably sing any number of anti-war songs to you, songs you’ve probably never heard of, even after years of Britney Spears and bubble gum pop have melted my brain.

Of course, I am nothing like this. My favorite food is McDonald’s (I am also apparently trashy), I genuinely like music that has no deeper meaning than the same repetitive beats, and am over-archingly as shallow as pond scum (or is pond scum deep?). The more processed, pasteurized food-like substitutes, the better.

Now, 5 years ago, Ben was embroiled in many times weekly therapy for his autistic issues (hate of the term “problem”) and I was meeting fairly often with the Early Intervention coordinators. During one of those meetings it was brought up that Ben should be immediately enrolled in preschool. For Special Needs kids. It was through the state, and I considered it for awhile.

Daver and I came to the conclusion that we were going to look into preschools, but probably something more private than that. We ended up at a Montessori school in a nearby town built on several acres, and after we were accepted he enrolled at age three.

Turned out to be one of the smartest decisions we’ve ever made (save for the deep fryer we never bought. That was smarter. Can you imagine the mess?) and Ben thrived. Some of the issues we had with him were subdued to the point that it was barely perceptible to those not in the know about his diagnosis, and others were eliminated altogether.

(For anyone who didn’t know, I am now telling you the issues with food and more explicitly his peanut butter sandwich are directly related to his autism. NOT just being an asshole picky kid (that would have been me). So, sucking it up and dealing with it is not the same as taking a binkie away from a 4 year old.)

Ben stayed at that school for years, and until he reached the elementary years, we were thrilled by it. Suddenly, last year however, when we had to begin to pack his own lunch, it became glaringly apparent just how unlike the rest of the school our family was. We were now bubble gum pop versus the folk singers. Turns out my years of being raised as a hippie didn’t do much except for show me how little of my upbringing I’d retained.

Without so much as a note home to parents, it was expected that we were to psychically know what was Forbidden To Pack and what was not. I’d never have packed a Twinkie or a Ding Dong, a Kool Aid or a bag of Fritos, but THAT WASN’T ENOUGH. I mistakenly bought him some Milano cookies for his first day as a big old first grader, and he came home to inform me that he was told that he couldn’t eat them. By his teacher. In front of the class.

Which was MY fault, not Ben’s, yet he was literally cowering from the cookies (he has a high regard for authority, something his mother could stand to learn from). But the other parents were as crunchy granola people as my parent’s had been, so the issues were squarely my own to deal with. We just didn’t fit in there, not anymore.

Over and over, these situations happened, I’d pack something dumb, he’d pay for it. I’d try to contact the school only to be ignored. There is, of course, more to the story than I’m telling you, but for brevity’s sake, I’ll choose to be, well, briefer than normal.

The Nut Ban! was just the icing on the cake for us. It was just over. Time to move on.

Ben started his first day of public school today, complete with hot lunch program and peanut free TABLES at school, and while I’m thrilled that this will be such a good opportunity for him, I’m equally nervous. I hope we made the right decision.

(They totally had Capri-Sun on the hot lunch menu. I’m pumped.)

Some days the only appropriate response to the events of the day can be summed up by only one word. That word?

FUCK.

I’ll be sporadically around, but I just don’t have much good to say right now. Everyone is alive (as far as I know) and things will work out.

How do you get through something that seems insurmountable? Can you send me some good vibes, please?