Dear Benjamin Maxwell,

Today you are 11.

The day you were born, August 20, 2001, I remember thinking, as the doctor held you up for inspection, “wow, that baby has a lot of hair – do they have baby toupees?”

(I was, darling boy, in tremendous pain)

That boy, you, I named Benjamin, which means, “son of my right hand.” I’m certain it has a Biblical quality, but I chose that name, Benjamin, because I wanted you, my first born, the great love of my life, to inherit my better qualities; the son of my right side. I wanted so much for your life, which at eight pounds, seemed tiny, but really, it was the beginning of everything.

As I looked at you, that tiny baby in my arms, I wanted you to know love, to feel the love that surrounds you, even as you lay your head on the pillow each night, your eyes full of sleep. I wanted you to grow to hold your head high, to smile at the small things – a faint smile at the way the light catches the dining room window just-so as the sun sets – a distant, fiery, honey-colored orb leaving our side of the world as we get into bed, on its journey to peep through the windows and hark the morning your Australian relatives.

I hoped that you would one day grow to speak to me of your life, to confess your hopes and fears, to let me kick the ass of the first girl that hurt your heart and turn the other cheek when I left a flaming bag of poo on the front porch of the first person that dared give MY SON a black eye. I wanted march to the beat of your own drum – hell, I wanted you to MAKE that beat and make others march to the beat of your drum. I wanted to protect you from the hurts and whirls of life; to give you the very best and more. I wanted all of this and more for you – just as every parent does.

Benjamin: Son of My Right Side; my GOOD side. And so you were. And so you are.

I woke up in the hospital that day, August 20, 2001, as the sun was setting in the sky, the world, for once, quiet, and gingerly, the doctor placed you into my arms. I held you, gazing into your dark eyes for a spell until your doctor, a man who had said five words to me while I was pregnant with you, one of them being, “PUSH!” stood back, looking between you and I and back again. Finally, he remarked, – for the first, but not last time during our stay – a thin smile playing upon his lips as he watched the two of us interact, “Wow, you certainly love that baby.”

I did not, as you might expect of your mother now, pull him close to my face, and say menacingly, “You bet your fucking ass I love that baby. What the hell else would you expect? ‘That baby’ is MY baby and I am going to make him PROUD of me if it kills me.” Instead, I was too enchanted by your tiny feet and long hands, so similar to my own, that I could do nothing more than nod an acknowledgement. I whispered into your year that day, and again, many times over, “I’m going to make you proud.”

I knew I was a youngish mother for this day and age, and I knew that meant I’d be facing an uphill battle to be taken seriously as a mother. But I didn’t care – I had my baby and I was going to do right by him.

In this way, the day you were born, my life changed. You, Son of my Right Side, changed my life by being born.

I don’t mean “you changed my life” the corny way they do in movies, a great montage set to some eye-ball wrenching music, no. I didn’t immediately go and breastfeed baby Alpacas or head up a non-for-profit organization that aimed to reduce the stigmas of mental illness, trauma, rape and other horrors – no, that came later. Well, not the baby Alpacas part.

Life isn’t a Lifetime Original Series or I’d be Tori Spelling in a wig and we’d drive better cars.

No, life doesn’t work that way, Boy of my Right Side – life isn’t about fancy cars or Tori Spelling, or assured happily ever afters. If it were, I wouldn’t be here alone, sitting in my empty house, writing you this letter eleven years after the day you were born. You see things differently than the rest of us.

Life, you see, isn’t black and white, right and wrong, Roe Vs. Wade.

No.

Life is about the beautiful, swirling colors that fall somewhere in between. Life is dragonflies who try to race you in the car, their wings shimmering, glinting in the sun. Life is twirling around in the lush grass, holding hands with your brother, until you get so dizzy you wobble until you fall down, clutching your stomach, laughter spilling out of your mouth. Life is about finding the absurdities in the mundane and finding Your Happy wherever you can.

Life is, as you’re finding out far too early, also about choices.

After you were born, I saw that I had a series of choices ahead of me in order to give my son, you, Son of my Right Side, the life that I wanted for you; for us. I’d been given the tremendous challenge of raising a boy, and I would go on to do my best to give that boy – you, a young man now – the very best. To allow him a childhood in which he could drink from the hose on a hot summer day; to laugh as the water sloshed around inside him, as though his GI tract were a life-sized water balloon. To give him siblings to teach the little things in life. To show them that in the morning, as if to say “hello, world, so wonderful to see you again,” tulips open,  stretching their beautiful petals to the sky, and in the evening, they bid us adieu, closing their petals again until the sun, once again, beckoned them awake. To look at the world as a blank slate of possibilities to be filled with lemonade stands and washing the car with dish soap.

To be able to look at your mother, now three times over, and say (even if it’s never aloud), “I’m proud of what she’s done.”

I don’t think I did that. I’d like to think I’ve tried.

I’ve tried, Son of my Right Side, to do right by you, just as I promised that tiny baby I would, but today, as we are separated on the day that I became a mother; the day I became a mother to you, the day the world knew your name, I feel I’ve done you wrong.

I’m so, so sorry. I’d hoped that you’d have had some more time to see life as a series of Good Guys versus Bad Guys. Cops and Robbers. Batman and The Joker. The separation between your mother and the man you’ve known as Dad for as long as you can recall hit you hard – harder than any of us, I think – and I wish more than anything I could explain to you that while things are hard right now – and they are – now isn’t forever.

There will be more good days, more laughter and forgetting, more sunshine and lemonade stands.

I’ve wanted more than anything to continue making memories, memories encapsulated in beautiful bubbles of multicolored glass, so that when I am an old lady and you are an adult, we can sit on a porch and talk about “that time you got to go into a bouncy house and laughed and laughed and laughed as you were tossed to and fro,” or tease your sister, reminding her that you once changed her diapers. Because by then, she will have done more than any of us could’ve imagined. The idea of her in diapers will, by then, be comical. We’d laugh, sitting there on those rocking chairs, creaking back and forth, recalling the days your little brother, who will not be so little any longer, used to roll around with you on the floor, entangled like a couple of puppies.

I hope, son of mine, the one who forever altered my path, that some day, we’ll look back on this, long after our scars have healed, and return to live our lives together. I wish that it had been happily ever after for us all, but this wild card, well, it’s part of what will define our history and take us on new adventures.

Until then, my sweet son, know that I love you more than the moon and the stars and every one of Jupiter’s moons COMBINED.

I’ll be here, anxiously awaiting the opportunity to make new memories together. Because our story, Ben, it’s not over – life is not over, and we’ll both return from this rough patch better for it. Our lives; our stories, they’ve only just begun.

I couldn’t be more proud of the person you are becoming; the baby I once sang “Mockingbird” to as we both tried to relax for the night, forever choking up at the end, hoping that one day, I’d be able to give you all that you wanted.

Love Always,

Mommy

Shit I Found Saturdays is a weekly feature here at Mommy Wants Vodka, that’s more fun than a basket of kittens,  except that the Internet is mostly closed on Saturdays.

Whatever.

Who likes RULES anyway? 

So, let’s fuck that noise and get into cool shit we’ve found around the Internet and bring Saturday back.

It’s like bringing Sexy Back but awesomer.

Join in! We have donuts

(that’s a lie)

Shit I Did This Week:

I started THIS – a guide to more frugal living. Why? Because I’m moving out on my own at 32 years old and you can TOTALLY laugh at me as I try to make it work. Sometimes, you can also find deals (usually via email address) because PR people email me deals ALL THE TIME.

Shit I Read:

What SHOULD Happen When Parents Split? This post from my girl Al, was probably one of the most important things I’ve read. Al’s younger than me, so she has a different perspective, but she’s a beautiful writer and she makes me feel better about the who “D Word.”

To Have or Not Have Another: My girl Crys talks about the stress of deciding to have another kid while dealing with her son who has leukemia. Bring tissues.

Shit I Wrote:

I’m a Lifecoach!

Swan Song

Shit I Watched:

Shit I Want:

Shit That’s Hysterical:

(nice bridesmaid dress, honey)

Shit That’s Epic:

I aim to be that guy. Someday…(wistfully)

-Via Aubrey

Shit Around My Blog:

Blogroll, yo. You want on it (if’n I’m on yours).

I do ads.

I’m on The Facebook.

And The Twitters.

—————-

Now it’s YOUR turn, Pranksters?

What rad shit have you found this week?

Dear Chris, Lifecoach Esq: (I can call you Chris, right? Or should I go with Chris, ESQ or something?) Never mind, I’m going to call you Caroline.

So, Caroline, o! my life coach: I have a pressing problem that I need your life coach skills to fix.

Uh. Where are my car keys?

Love,

Aunt (motherfucking) Becky

P.S. The (motherfucking) is silent.

————–

Dear Aunt (motherfucking) Becky:

I’m pretty sure I can’t wait until car keys become a thing of the past like roll down windows and frosted Christmas trees.

I’ve got one of those cars where you don’t need to put the key in the ignition, you just need to have the key near the car.

This means I forget my keys more often, and then spend ten minutes convincing the car that the key are in my pocket. “Come on, I’m late! They are right in my pocket you just can’t detect them underneath that wad of cash. Why are you laughing? I could have cash! It’s possible!”

You know what I hate?

Lost car key stories. Why do people tell stories about losing their keys? I always know the ending…THE KEYS ARE FOUND! If not, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, because you’d be stuck in your house and I’d be sitting in this deli alone.

Also, I hate that the stories also end with the expression “they are always in the last place you look.” Of course they are because if you found them you stop looking for them. You don’t find your keys and go “let me keep looking in places in case other keys need to be found.” Whatever you lose is always in the last place you look because you stop looking. If they were in the first place you look, they aren’t lost, they are right where you put them.

I might be drunk.

Love,

Chris!

Dear Pranksters,

It’s hard to follow a post like Swan Song up with anything. Everything I’ve managed to come up with sounds too trite, too stupid, too (as a former troll called me) “navel grazing*”

So I’m going to do just that. Write a post that is entirely naval grazing, entirely stupid and entirely trite. Why? Because obviously.

I thank you for your love on the last post – I’m sorry I gave you guys the Sads. It took me ages upon ages to write and when I did, I feared the outcome. This IS the Internet, after all. But I was overwhelmed by your comments. They’re beautiful – thank you.

A couple of you have asked if I’m okay, and the truth is that I’m not. I’m aiming for okay. I’m hoping that one day, I’ll wake up and not feel the weight sitting heavily on my chest. Until then, I’ll continue with therapy and finding My Happy – which, thanks to you, Pranksters, I feel whenever I see the things you’ve sent me – your old towels and sheets. Paper towels. The things a very small apartment needs.

I’m carefully labeling them with your name, then mine, and when I am done with them, I will send them on to the next person who needs them, under the promise that when they are done with them, they too will send them on, once they’ve put their name on the item.

I’d call it the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, but we all know that my pants have a terrible temper and, upon occasion, run off to Vegas without me.

Got any better names for this project, Pranksters?

Love Always,

Aunt (motherfucking) Becky

(the “motherfucking” is silent)

Most of you know that with The Big D comes the need to work – more than I already do. If you’re not aware, I already write for a number of places, including The Stir (the comments are amazaballs, and by “amazaballs” I mean, “cruel,” so I don’t read ’em – better for my overall sense of self-worth that way). I’ve spent countless hours working on Band Back Together, but, of course, that’s not paid work. Which means I have begun the job search.

The job search finds me with an odd skill set – I’m a nurse, but I haven’t practiced in so long that I’d guess dust would pour out of my fingers when I started an IV or shove a suppository up someone’s bung. And to be honest, it’s not that I didn’t like being a nurse, it’s that I LOATHED it – and frankly, I don’t have recent enough skill set for anyone to hire me (that’s not to say that I won’t do it – just that it’s not as simple an answer as it sounds)

I’m a writer – a versatile one – and that’s what I love to do. I’m not above trying something new – shit, with all the changes going on, new is no longer synonymous with bad. Imma embrace change if it kills me. (and it may)

My odd skill set non-withstanding (non-profit, BSN-RN, writer of Navel Grazing crap), I’ve been job hunting. It seems like every time I turn around, there’s a new job farm to check out. Which means I have to, once again, pull shit out of my ass to sound like a fully functional adult.

This is what I’ve learned on my job search:

0) Spraying your resume with Cool Water before handing it in to HR is a must – it let’s HR know that you’re flirty, yet casual (and probably NOT a date-rapist).

1) Adding things like, “Anus Bandit” under “skill set” is a good thing because you can simply say, “It’s Latin,” which makes you sound WAY smarter.

1) Make sure your email address stands out. Rather than the tame “becky.harks@gmail.com” send them the more flirty: “sex_kitten23@hotmail.com.” Everyone knows that Hotmail spells “classy.”

2) Make it very clear on your resume that you consider “office hours” to be “whenever you roll out of bed and no sooner.” Shows that YOU have the upper hand and know what you want outta life.

3) When setting up an interview, insist that it’s with “The Big Big Boss,” (even if – ESPECIALLY IF – he’s overseas and needs to be flown back in) and not some stupid HR slacker – you’re the best and you know it.

5) If you happen to spill coffee on your resume, remind the HR person that it shows that you’re a “multi-tasker.”

8 ) It’s not like anyone ACTUALLY checks out whether or not you have a degree – I mean, you can print one of those motherfuckers out on your computer! See?

THAT looks motherfucking OFFICIAL.

13) Bring a burly friend with you to interviews. Have him stand menacingly at the door with sunglasses on – if asked, say, “He’s my bodyguard.” If you want to REALLY stand out, launch into an off-key duet of “I Will Always Love You.” Bonus points of you can choreograph a dance scene involving the person interviewing you.

21) While choosing interview attire, choose one of those t-shirts you can make at Walgreens – preferably a picture of yourself giving the thumbs up. Like this:

(that’s frosting on my fingers)

34) Always include a link to your personal blog, especially if it’s something classy like, “Mommy Wants Vodka,” so potential employers can see just how stupid you are.

————–

Apparently, I’m going to have to ratchet it up a notch if I really want a job. Pranksters – do you have any jobbity-job idears for me?

———–

Also: what is my list missing? I feel like I’ve left out a veritable treasure-trove of awesome.

——————–

*riddle me WHAT you’d be grazing out of your navel *shudders* and I’ll give you a pony**

**probably***

***okay, that’s a lie, I’d keep the pony and put it on roller skates in my backyard

My Dave:

The ancient Greeks believed that the Mute Swan, the Cynus olar, who remained silent throughout her lifetime, in the moments before her death, sang at last, a hauntingly beautiful song.

My darling, the father of my children, and my biggest supporter: this is my swan song for you.

I’d never planned to be married. The very notion of marriage made me heave and hide in the nearest closet – I’d seen Heartburn (one of my mother’s favorite movies) too many times to ever believe that marriage could actually work. I equated marriage with loss of self, and I, all 120 pounds of me – soaking wet with a backpack on, well, I had big plans for my life, and really, I’d had always figured I was destined to roam the world on my own, my young son by my side, making mischief and learning as we went. It’s something I both expected and wanted.

Inexplicably, I met you. While I told you blithely on the train, the first time we hung out that, “being set up never works,” I should’ve known better. By the end of our first non-date, I scampered out of the car, before we could do the awkward “are we going to kiss?” moment. I knew then that I liked you. I simply didn’t know how much – but it didn’t take long to find out.

You were the first person that didn’t look at me as a 22-year old unwed mother still in school, trying her hardest to make her son proud: you saw me as I was – someone almost entirely unlike you, but someone who cared deeply for you; about you. In turn, you refused to let what others would call “baggage” as anything less than wonderful.

As I woke up in your bed, the morning after our second date, I looked into the living room, while you snored softly behind me, and it hit me like a punch to the gut. My Eye said, without question or hesitation:

I was going to marry this man.

A year and a half later, I did.

I won’t say that it was the “happiest day of my life,” primarily because it was 190 degrees out and I had pneumonia, but I do remember that the entire church wept as you said your vows first to our son, then to me. While I may not have been a happy bride, I was a tremendously proud wife.

In those early days, back before the chasm, I tried to cook – to much shock, dismay and horror to the rest of our condo building, until your schedule became unpredictable enough that I could never expect you home at a certain hour. Our first Christmas in our new home, lovingly, I put together ornaments with our then-four year old son, Benjamin. Carefully, I wrapped each package, in the way only someone who deeply cares can. And I did care – so very deeply.

I didn’t know that someone like me could be; deserved to be so lucky.

Soon, we were expecting our first son, a boy, who we named Alexander Joseph, after my father. My pregnancy was fraught with prenatal depression – something I didn’t recognize until I found myself, one day, weeping over our broken ice-maker. When it came time to birth our second son, you were so nervous in the delivery room that you vomited while I lay in labor, trying to watch the tiny wall-mounted television that appeared to get reception only if the moon was half a degree to the right on a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of January (it was March).

But once your second son was born, you grabbed that baby on up and twirled him around. I’ve never seen a prouder father. For all of the discomfort and sadness I dealt with during my pregnancy, I was, at long last, happy. I’d spent the years before hoping, planning, wanting another child; a sibling for our firstborn. This was my dream come true – I don’t recall a moment happier than that day, March 30, 2007.

What came next was a series of unfortunate and ill-timed events.

Unprepared for a life that didn’t resemble as a Norman Rockwell painting, you began to turn yourself off emotionally –  you worked more, harder, and better to try and “fix” the “unfixible.” Alex, being the colicky sort, while he has grown into a wonderful child, he was no easy child. While our firstborn would rather fix his gaze upon his mobile than be touched, our second son wanted nothing… but me. For a whole year, I fed that baby, twirled him, loved him, and got up every 1-3 hours with him, before he began to allow you to care for him.

This became the beginning of the chasm.

We lost our ability to be a couple, between our autistic firstborn and our difficult newborn, the chasm, which began as a few cracks in the foundation, began to show. I was exhausted, depressed and trapped with a baby to my breast while you were exhausted, depressed, and trapped with a job that hung as an albatross around your neck.

Still, we soldiered on. It was the thing to do, and still, we loved.

Shortly after Alexander turned one, I found out that I was unexpectedly expecting. It took a couple of hours for us to get over the shock of a positive pregnancy test, but by nightfall, we were elated. I knew that if I didn’t have another baby – and soon – I’d remember the nightmare of a baby Alex was and decide to remove my uterus with a butter knife before reproducing again.

The following morning, I awoke to blood. Lots of blood. Immediately, I called my OB and hurried to his office to get a shot of Rho-GAM and to see what was up with my uterus. Labs showed that I was experiencing a chemical pregnancy. While the doctor apologized profusely for the loss, I was, for the most part, okay. Until the hormones dropped precipitously and I began weeping. I don’t think I stopped for a breath for weeks.

Inexplicably, though, we managed to fight through the tears and the following month, I was, again, pregnant. For a couple of days. I didn’t even get to tell my Pranksters that I was expecting before, once again, I had another chemical pregnancy. This one hit me harder than the first, so it was a huge shock to learn that, for the third month in a row, I was expecting.

Rather than FedEx you a silver baby rattle from Tiffany & Co or hire a singing telegram (as if they’d be able to get through the security in your former place of employment), I simply called you and said flatly – “I’m pregnant. Again.” Rather than jump around with joy, you replied, “I’m training someone right now. I’ll call you back!” Since I hadn’t expected the pregnancy to last, I made a quick announcement on my blog – I wanted to hear “congrats!” before I heard, “I’m so sorry,” again.

I began waiting to bleed. After two consecutive miscarriages, who wouldn’t?

It didn’t begin until approximately six weeks into the pregnancy, when we learned that, a) I was, indeed, pregnant with something that appeared to look like a gummy bear and 2) my progesterone level was at a six, which, according to the doctor, was very, very bad. It was then that I began to use progesterone suppositories, which made the pregnancy hormones even worse.

My prenatal depression was intolerable, I know, and I’m sorry for the mood swings. You, darling, are one of those people who remains fairly stable day after day. Before the pregnancies, I had been too, and I know I bewildered you. I bewildered myself. The cracks widened – your once-stable wife had turned into someone who spent her days consumed by fear. For nine months.

Concurrently, after much discussion, you’d accepted a management role at your workplace, which we’d assumed meant a boost in pay. Instead, it meant longer hours, the same pay, and greater responsibilities. You were home less, and when you were home, you were on call 24/7. And because you’re a “fixer,” you dove headfirst into work, knowing that while working, you could solve the problem. I, on the other hand, was a whole different breed of wife; the sort you had no idea how to handle. Hell, I could barely handle her.

Finally, on January 30, 2009, we drove to the hospital nervously, ready to meet our last-born, a daughter, whom we’d chosen to name Amelia. I’d spent most of the pregnancy terrified that there was something wrong with the baby, but ultrasound after ultrasound showed nothing beyond a daughter who liked to grab her junk in utero. I don’t know how many times you reassured me that she was fine; perfect, but it had to have been somewhere in the thousands.

We drove to that hospital at the ass-crack of dawn, the big fat snowflakes peppering the window of our SUV as we drove grimly through the night. There wasn’t much to say – we were both terrified, bewildered and exhausted. The tears that fell from my eyes plopped down onto my jacket, as I stared out the window, marveling at the beauty of the morning, trying to keep my anxiety at a normal level.

It was daybreak when we reached the hospital; the sunrise on the horizon, dripping as soft as honey, coating the freshly-fallen snow with a thick layer of honey-colored sun. I waited for you in that tiny vestibule while you parked the car, knowing, in my heart of hearts – just as I’d known I was to marry you, no question – that things would never again be the same, the next time my footfalls, once-again, echoed these hallowed halls. I simply did not know why.

Silently, I grabbed your hand like a drowning person as we made our way to the maternity unit, as we had when Alex was born. Same drill: up the elevator and into the bustling maternity ward, where I was checked in, given some Pitocin, and told to stay in bed – the baby was still “too high” in my womb, and (the unspoken truth) they didn’t want a prolapsed cord. Unhappily, I obliged. When the nurse left the room, I began to weep softly, as I bore through the contractions, wiping my face occasionally on my gown, occasionally rubbing my eyes with the hospital-grade sandpaper tissues. Gently, sweetly you stood at the head of the bed, wiping away my tears and reassuring me that “everything was going to be okay.”

It wasn’t. No matter how I wished it had been, it wasn’t.

Several hours later, our daughter was born with a previously undiagnosed neural tube defect; an encephalocele, which protruded mightily out the back of her head. While the NICU whirled and twirled about our daughter, I laid in the bed, delivering the placenta and weeping, the precipitous drop in hormones not helping an already-terrifying situation. You remained with our daughter, as I’d begged you to, as I was still mired in the bed.

The chasm, something that could’ve been mended during this crisis, only widened further, as you approached our daughter’s (soon-to-be-diagnosed) encephalocele with an analytical mind while I was an emotional wreck.

The following weeks are a blur.

Weeping, I sat on the couch, holding my poor daughter; the girl smaller than the Turkey we’d roasted the previous Thanksgiving, who’d have to undergo neurosurgery at a whopping 27 days old. While I come from a medical family, you, darling, do not. Which means that I knew the risks we were taking; I understood that this wasn’t a “blip on the radar” but something far more sinister.

The one and only thing I can recall during those days, is the memory of you, love, holding our new daughter, singing and twirling her around. When I asked what you were doing, you simply said: “she can’t dance – so I’m her legs.”

I cried. This time because it was beautiful.

While our daughter, our warrior girl, the one with curls like a halo, went on to kick neurosurgery in the balls, I sunk. I developed post-traumatic stress disorder and was unable to leave the home without panicking. I relied too heavily upon you to be my support, even as you yourself floundered. I didn’t seek the care I so desperately needed – determined that I, myself, would be able to “fix it” on my own. I deeply regret not seeking help sooner, maybe then our marriage could’ve been saved.

The cracks turned into chasms we could barely walk over without the fear that we’d be sucked into the nothingness below.

The daily migraines made it all the more dire – I could no longer drive if I had a migraine – it wasn’t safe. I spent day after day alone in the home, terrified to go outside my own doors and live my life. I was stuck. We were stuck. You turned to work. I turned to writing.

Here we sit today, the chasm between us so wide neither can yell across to the other. While I’d once hoped that “where the sidewalk ends” a “road would begin,” it became evident that “where the sidewalk ends,” became “where two separate roads began.”

While I know that this is the very best thing for us – for our family – it doesn’t make the hurt go away. I’m so very lucky to have known you for ten wonderful years. I’m fortunate that I was once able to call myself, “your wife.” You’ve taught me so much over the years; about myself, about the world, and about myself.

If I’d never known you, I’d never have the two bundles of joy currently wrestling about in the other room, like two adorable puppies. Our eldest would never have had the structure he so desperately needed to thrive. Without you, we’d never have had a home.

Without you, I’d never have thought of myself as a “writer;” this blog wouldn’t exist, I wouldn’t have found the courage to take my internal pain and turn it into a safe place for others – it simply wouldn’t have occurred to me. Without your encouragement and countless hours of technical dedication, I wouldn’t have founded The Band Back Together Project, a place where we kick stigmas squarely in the taco, a place that has grown so much, inspired so many, and provided comfort to so many. Without you, I wouldn’t have found my missing piece – words.

I know that we’ll both walk away from our marriage with grace and dignity, with the hope that given some time and space, we can once again travel the same road.

This time as friends.

When I am hurting most, I will look forward to those days tremendously.

Dave, you’re a wonderful person and I wish you everything. Thank you for believing in me during a time in which I didn’t believe in myself.

Love Always,

Becky

(hint, it’s not me)

For putting up with my moaning, pissing, and general woefulness, I’m giving you, Pranksters, a gem.

Let’s just not discuss how damn long this took me to put together.

“Will you come in with me?” his eyes wide, full of frantic energy, met mine from the backseat of the car, where he sat buckled in like a fighter-pilot.

“Of course we will, Baby,” I took his hand into mine, marveling at the feeling of his tiny bird-like bones beneath his skin.

He nodded, unsure if this was an elaborate trap, trying to get him to go to kindergarten under false pretenses – his Mama’s boy.

“We’re juuuuuust going to go and finish your registration,” I assured him, his hand still gripping mine for dear life. “And then we’ll go home.”

“Do I get a treat if I’m good…?” he asked slyly, always my wee conman.

I just laughed and nodded – that kind of simple request is about the easiest I’m dealing with these days. Although, to be fair, the kid wants a treat when he’s stayed dry overnight, when he’s eaten all of his dinner, when he’s managed to NOT to stay dry, when he’s properly wiped his own ass, when the moon is full, when the moon is NOT full.

Most treats involve Batman in one form or another. As the girl who’s first bra was a Super Woman training bra, I can fully support this.

We walked hand-in-hand into the school just as we’d done so many times before with our eldest son, Benjamin. I could hardly believe it wasn’t Ben’s hand I held in my own; that my middle son was ready for kindergarten. The same kid who was a clingy infant last week, not 4 years prior.

Standing in line at the registration counter to receive our “school handbook*,” I sat on a bench with Alex, remembering all the times I’d walked those hallowed halls with my firstborn. Suddenly, like a stab to the heart, I missed him terribly. I shook it off as best as I could as we made our way down the hallway that once led to Ben’s forth grade room, winding through a maze of kids and their parents.

“Okay, J,” I said, “It’s time to take a picture.”

He nodded solemnly.

“Now, see if you can make a REALLY silly face, like this,” I squished up my face, stuck my tongue out and gave the metal horns. Sorta like this:

He giggled, the laugh that always makes me burst into gales of laughter – it’s so from the heart, you simply can’t not join in.

“Okay, Mama,” he said, grinning ear to ear. The kid is a ham – he loves to make people laugh and this would be the ideal opportunity for him.

We stood around awhile in the LRC (did they always call the Library the LRC? I can’t remember, which, for some inexplicable reason makes me want to play Oregon Trail, but that is neither here nor there).

We stood in what appeared to be a line, but turned out to be just a bunch of people standing around, which is something I do often. Form lines of people in my head, and then stand around like a doofus, waiting for my turn until someone gently explains that I’ve been waiting on the fringes of a group of women discussing their cats.

I noted the large pile of combs sitting around and giggled – I don’t remember seeing combs when I had my last school pictures:

Could’ve benefited from both a comb AND a tan there. Possibly highlights, but this was back before Jennifer Aniston made everyone think that cutting your hair into face-framing layers and highlighting it would make you as beautiful as her.

Note to world: doesn’t work that way.

Alas, I motherfucking digress.

We stood there in the line-but-not-a-line for a long while, as I tried (in vain) to hack through the school’s firewall so I could tell The Twitter, “LOOK OUT BELOW, MOTHERFUCKERS!” It’s the little things in life, really.

Finally, a PTO lady who was probably in charge of all things picture-related stared at my arm tattoo to my son, back to my arm tattoo again before asking: “What’s his name?”

“Alexander Harks,” I replied, looking around for Daver, who is more official-looking than I, and therefore more apt to be taken seriously.

“Okay,” she replied, looking as though I might knife her or something, “ummmmm, you go stand in THAT line,” she said nervously as she pointed to the line farthest from her.

“Thanks!” I said brightly, giggling inside – I find it funny that a tattoo of a peacock would intimidate ANYone.

It’s not like I got a snake eating a lion with a knife oozing blood (although perhaps I should’ve).

We stood in that line (which was not ACTUALLY a line), waiting for the photographer. “Should we, uh, comb his hair?” Daver asked as we stood patiently in the non-line.

“Nah,” I replied. “Let’s remember him how he was at this age, and not all Toddlers and Tiaras.”

It was at that moment that I began to hear what sounded to be an Eagle, standing in the non-line next to me.

“Wait, WAIT,” she nearly screamed. “LET ME FIX HIS HAIR.”

The Helicopter Parent had arrived.

The little boy in question was starting kindergarten as well, and his hair, well, it appeared to be perfect from where I stood. I don’t know, maybe it was like all over his face like a werewolf or something – I couldn’t see. All that I *could* see was that he was just a little boy.

The Eagle Helicopter Mom swooped in and began to vigorously comb her son’s hair, practically hissing in his face, “YOU’RE GOING TO BE LOOKING AT THESE PICTURES FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. YOU BETTER LOOK GOOD!”

The three of us stood there, stunned into silence, as the Eagle Helicopter Mom prattled on. “Forever. You’ll be looking at these pictures FOREVER and YOU WANT TO LOOK YOUR BEST DON’T YOU?”

The kid just sat there, nodding – probably afraid of The Eagle’s wrath. I know *I* was.

(It was at this point that I began to smirk into my hand – maybe the kid’s future HUSBAND or WIFE might care, but most boys don’t give a flying shit about their school pictures)

By the time she’d fixed his hair so he looked impeccable (for a 5-year old), my own son had already had two snaps taken and was now standing neatly by my side, asking for a treat for “being good.”

I took one look back at “The Eagle” as we left the LRC (without playing Oregon Trail), and saw that she was standing there, trying to direct the school photog to make sure that the lighting was proper and that he had a “good angle” for the photograph – the shitty school photograph, not even one of those studio places.

“Did you make a face?” I asked Alex on the way out.

“I tried,” he looked up at me, hand firmly clutching my own.

“Good,” I smiled as I picked him up and twirled him around. “THAT is perfect.”

I’m sure “The Eagle” Helicopter Mommy will be all about retouching the snaps of her kid, pointing out all the flaws, and insisting that he have his photo redone, while I’ll be content looking my son. Just as he was. No more. No less.

I couldn’t ask for anything more.

*Not entirely sure WHAT that book is – could be The Anarchist’s Cookbook.

Shit I Found Saturdays is a new feature here at Mommy Wants Vodka, which is more fun than a basket of kittens,  except that the Internet is mostly closed on Saturdays. Whatever. Who likes RULES anyway?  So, let’s fuck that noise and get into cool shit we’ve found around the Internet and bring Saturday back.

It’s like bringing Sexy Back but awesomer.

Join in! We have donuts

(that’s a lie)

Shit I Read:

Apparently, the Olympics are all porny this year. If I’d known that, I’d be watching it.

From Paul.

Map Of My (her) Brain – I feel suddenly normal. Okay, not really normal, but you know.

Sevens – Mr. Lady wrote what was in my head.

Time Lapse Lolla – My partner in crime, Dawn, writes about Day 2 of Lollapalloza

Shit I Wrote:

One Moment in Time

Why My Daughter is AWESOME – (it’s best to read the comments on my blogs there – I swear, it’s worth it)

Shit I Watched:

Also:

-From RR

Shit That’s Hysterical:

I need to own this.

And this:

Shit That’s Rad:

via the lovely swalumni

Shit That Makes Me Want To Own Photoshop:

So You’re a Hipster (and other warning labels that should really exist)

Birds…With Motherfucking ARMS

submitted by Rachel.

Shit Around My Blog:

Blogroll, yo. You want on it (if’n I’m on yours).

I do ads.

I’m on The Facebook.

—————-

Now it’s YOUR turn, Pranksters? What rad shit have you found this week?

I’m around today, so I can add it to the post (and go back and fix last week’s)

There is a difference between hurt and injured. I learned this playing Babe Ruth league baseball.

Playing right field one game, a teammate in center dove for a fly ball, missed it completely and landed flat on the plush grass. The miscue turned a one run lead into a one run deficit. My teammate stayed flat on the grass while myself, the team manager and few other fielders gathered around to check on his injury. The left fielder came over just to ask him why the fuck he dove for the ball but that kid was always kind of an asshole.

“Are you hurt or are you injured?” coach asked, not even bending down to actually check on his fallen player.

None of us had any idea what the hell he meant. The asshole in left field walked away because he didn’t care about the question or the pending answer.

“Injured. I think.” he responded, holding his crotch with his glove and his stomach with the other hand. “What’s the difference?”

Coach explained that injured meant an actual physical injury that would require medical attention. Hurt meant he was emotionally injured – embarrassed and eager to hide from the fact he might have just cost his team the game.

Turns out the kid was just hurt. He was eventually injured after the game, when the asshole left fielder punched him in the chest for costing us a win.

I hadn’t thought about the hurt or injured thing until recently, thanks to my 2-year-old kid. One always seems to follow the other – hurt and then injured.

Here’s how to goes down – he wants to do something that the Permanent Roommate (my name for my wife) and I don’t want him to do like climb the steps without one of us helping, scream his little balls off in the middle of Target or stick Matchbox cars up the cat’s ass. We tell him “no” and immediately his feelings are hurt because we’ve yelled at him. In reaction, he finds a nice open spot on the floor, the wall or any other unforgiving surface and smashes his head against it. Hard. Harder with each thrust. He goes from hurt, to injured, in a matter of seconds.

I’m not sure how to really deal with either hurt or injured in these situations. I’ve got to tell him to stop doing bad things so that’s not going to stop but I’ve got to keep him from injuring himself because he might do real damage or turn into a violent adult. At the very least he could become that asshole left fielder and no one wants that to happen.

Here is what I’ve tried so far:

– putting my hand in front of his forehead to keep it from hitting anything hard, which just angers him more

– picking him up off the ground, and away from all hard surfaces, which just leads to a couple head butts to my nose

– yelling even more for him to stop it, which never, ever helps any situation

– clapping in rhythm to head slams (I ran out of ideas)

None of it worked. It wasn’t until last week that I finally found a working solution.

It went down like this — the kid did something where I had to reprimand him. I don’t quite remember but I’ll assume it was the Matchbox thing because he is obsessed with the cat’s anus. Right after I sternly told him to knock it off, he dropped to his knees and bounced his head off the wood floor. I dropped to the floor next him and did the exact same thing. He went for a second shot but I got my head down before him and bounced my dome off the hard planks one more time. He stared at me.

“What daddy doing?”

“Daddy’s mad too. Isn’t this what we do when we’re mad?”

He looked at me like I was half a moron, got up off the floor and went back to playing with his cars.

I stood up and rubbed my head.

“Are you hurt or injured?” the Roommate asked.

“Neither,” I responded. “Just stupid.”

Chris Illuminati runs the parenting blog Message With a Bottle. thinks he is a writer. When he isn’t being a jerk on post-it notes he writes on this website. He’s also on Twitter.

“Moment after moment, everyone comes out from nothingness. This is the true joy of life”

– Shunryu Suzuki

I’m not going to sit here and tell you that everything is okay, Pranksters.

That would be a lie. And despite what my relatives may or may not think of me, I am no liar. I am also not actually named “Aunt Becky,” because while my parents were hippies, they were NOT sadists (to be fair: had I been a boy, I’d have been Leif, so honestly being named “Rebecca” is like dodging a massive bullet.)

In a very short time, my life turned upside down. I had a nervous breakdown precipitated by ineffectual antidepressants. Divorce. Moving out. Learning about the world. Trying to do right by my children.

My life’s been an open book through this period – I have nothing to be ashamed of: while I have PTSD, that does not define me, nor does it make me a better or worse person. It’s just a tiny facet of what comprises who I am. Having PTSD and being an ACOA are as much a part of me as my issues with migraines and A GLANDULAR PROBLEM. They don’t define me, they simply are a part of me.

Such is the situation with my personal life.

I’m getting a very civilized divorce so that Dave and I can each find Our (well-deserved) Happy. We will be doing what’s best by the children and allowing them to stay in the home they’ve grown up in, rather than trying to sell our home and shuffling the babies back and forth. I will be here at the home more often than not – I will simply be sleeping elsewhere. I choose an apartment that is about 3 minutes from my home so I could specifically come over each day. But those individual components of what I am coping with; they do not define me; they do not make me who I am.

I won’t lie: the very thought of leaving my children overnight is heartbreaking (I cry every time I think about it), I know that I need this time to learn that I *can* do this on my own – that I *am* a capable adult and that I’ll (some day) be able to shove my successes down the throats of those who do not believe in me. I’ll be able to be a better mother by increasing my faith in myself – I’ve spent too many years of my life allowing what others think of me control my life.

I will be moving on October 13, which gives me two months to get my ducks in a row, set up my online garage sale (got some GREAT shit, Pranksters), continue working on recovering from my nervous breakdown, finding additional work, and getting ready to be on my own. (It’s important to note that paying rent on an apartment is cheaper than trying to take over the mortgage (unless I am somehow granted a visit from the money fairy, in which case, my dimply ass is staying here). We’d bought our home at the height of the market and now it is worth appreciably less than it once was. We have debt – more than I’d care to discuss.

(Blah-blah-blah)

This doesn’t make me a better or worse person. These are all just bits and pieces of me woven together.

I spoke with my therapist, whom I see twice a week, and we discussed my life as it stands today. Specifically, we discussed those things that are within my control and those that are not.

From this moment on, I’m choosing to put the things I cannot control on the back burner and moving forward with my life, rather than wasting another anxiety-filled second upon worrying about the “what-if’s” of my life. If I do not, I will go insane.

I will no longer be living in the past or the future. I have one moment; that moment is right now. What I choose to do with these moments, strung together to form a life, is up to me. I can choose to be happy, or I can choose to live a life of fearfulness.

I choose happiness.

And while my past has shaped me, I refuse to allow it to define me: I define me.