Now you may have NOTICED it before, but I promise that NOTHING humbles you like maternity shopping once did. Thankfully for us now, being pregnant is so ‘Hollywood’ that it’s almost fun to buy the clothes. Gone are the tent-like mumus and the belly panels. Gone are the denim-free faux-jeans that I wore while last gestating

(whimpers: HOW can jeans be DENIM FREE and still called JEANS? I give up).

Hell, if you wanted to, you could easily shop in the maternity stores without being pregnant. Aside from the ‘Baby on Board’ shirts you’d be good to go. A little roomy (perfect for the bar) but damn comfy.

This afternoon, I dragged my loving husband out to get new pants for me. Sounds cruel, I know, but I promise that he had the checkbook in mind when he took me today. I grabbed the pair of pants in my size, he picked me out a shirt, and away we went.

I got home and gleefully pulled my pants on in the privacy of my own bathroom, of course because I happen to look quite like a hippo these days, and was immediately vexed. WHY was I having a hard time pulling my pants on?

The waist fit.

The hips fit.

The calves fit.

Holy shit, these pants are caught up on my ANKLES?

Yes, faithful readers, I had inadvertently bought Skinny Legged maternity jeans.

What nimrod decided that what pregnant women REALLY NEEDED is to wear pants that make them look fatter and more oddly shaped? Sure, they can look good on SOME people, but really? Most pregnant women would look gawky and uncomfortable (not to mention shaped like a hippo in toe shoes) in these.

So now I have to go back to the trendy maternity store and carefully inspect the leg of each and every pair of jeans I can find. Hopefully, they’ve left some jeans with some flair in them.

Otherwise, it’s off to the tailor I go. Grumbling and grousing the whole way.

I know that I’d mentioned before that I totally didn’t care which flavor crotch parasite I was having. And this was true. But what I neglected to mention is that I am totally terrified of having a baby girl.

My experiences with girls have not always been positive. I don’t really want more girlfriends. I have had bad luck with some of those that I have had. My own mother and I have never been on great terms.

I was equally terrified to find out that Ben was a boy, as I was convinced he was a girl, so my intuition is clearly skewed. I imagined that they would break things, have to own trucks and trains, and pee on the seat. Now that mine is 5, I can honestly tell you, ‘Yes, they do.’ But boys are easy, too. There is no drama.

I was stereotyping my crotch parasite before it was born.

The upside to having a girl is that I would cease to be outnumbered (even all the animals but one are male in my house). Even WHEN the men in my family go to Best Buy, play video games or golf, I stood a chance at having someone to go convince me to buy shoes. And clothes. And we could lunch, like ladies and stuff. Girl clothes are freaking adorable, and I knew how much fun I would have buying them. And I could do hair! And makeup! And have someone to be girly with!

I could impart my knowledge of shaving legs and douching with someone WHO MIGHT CARE, unlike the menfolk with whom I currently live.

But this is just going to have to wait…

…because it’s another boy! I am the Queen of the Sausages, officially.

Now where the fuck is my tiara?

Yes, folks, we saw the twig and crackleberries of our newest son yesterday. He looks happy, healthy and totally willing to show us his willie.

Sounds like he’s taking after his father, already.

Oh, and by the by Dave?

That Britney shirt is waiting.

‘Oh my God, LOOK at this! LOOK at my belly! I have FAT ROLLS up to my arm pit. Have you ever SEEN someone with fat rolls there?’

‘No baby. You look FINE.’

‘If you squeeze my belly button, it looks like a butt.’ (simulates farting noises) ‘That’s fucking disgusting.’

‘You’re weird. Seriously, you look FINE!’

‘LOOK at these rolls! WHO gets rolls like that?’ (pokes belly disgustedly)

(sighs) ‘You look wonderful, sweetie.’

‘NO, I DON’T! I look FAT!’

‘If you don’t stop pissing and moaning about it, I’m going to put a moratorium on you walking around without your shirt.’

‘But YOU distracted me from putting it back on. LOOK, I can’t see my belt! EWWWWW!’

‘You know, if all of your friends could see you right now, NO ONE would have any sympathy for you.’

‘Do YOU have any sympathy for me?’ (sniffs dramatically)

Aunt Becky: ‘Dude, I’m pregnant, what do YOU think?’

The Daver: ‘I’m fatter than you and YOU’RE pregnant! LOOK my belly is BIGGER THAN YOURS’

Aunt Becky: ‘You know full well that I’ve lost weight.’

(interrupts) ‘And now you’re skinnier than me!’

Aunt Becky: ‘But I’m going to put it right back on soon.’

The Daver: ‘And I’m STILL gonna be fatter than you!’

(buries head in hands)

Aunt Becky: ‘I cannot believe I’m having this conversation. I suddenly understand men everywhere in a whole new way.’

The Daver: ‘I’m gonna go take a BUBBLE BATH! I’m too upset to deal with you right now.’

(flounces off upstairs.)

There is nothing in the world like the unsolicited advice one receives the moment that the second line turns pink. While I am aware that I did not singularly invent pregnancy, nor am I carrying the Christ-child, I *have* been pregnant before, and have managed to raise a successful kindergartner (shit, we’re old), people still tend to forget and remind me about having a baby.

Specifically, why it sucks so much, which is the attitude I dislike most. Sure, you’re not apt to scare *me* about it, but what about the REAL newbies? They don’t need to hear about a 354 hour labor or 4th degree tears! Don’t scare ’em until they’ve experienced it firsthand! Alas, I digress.

As kindly as I can, I try to answer their well-meaning questions and gently extract myself from the situation before having to talk about 1) vaginal discharge or 2) breast discharge. Yes, complete strangers do ask about such personal matters. Should they get too personal for me (especially if I am in the presence the XY contingent of my family), I simply begin to ask if their husbands still want to have sex with them, and if so, what is their favorite position? Shuts ’em the hell up right quick.

Most recently, and if I remember the most common question that I get is regarding the baby’s sex. More specifically, when I explain that I do not know what I am having yet, they ask what I *want* to have. My answer is succinct enough, all right, but never seems to appease them entirely.

My answer is this: honestly? I don’t *care* what I have.

Not.one.bit.so.long.as.the.baby.is.healthy. And my reasons for finding out the sex? Simple. Not to BOND with the baby or some shit, but to be able to SHOP for the baby.

(I can hear the Pregnancy/Parenting Police among us collectively gasp in disgust. Don’t worry, your children are OBVIOUSLY better than mine. Feel better now?)

I have decided to put together a little list of the pros and cons of having either sex to prove to you that I am not secretly holding a candle for pink or blue.

Cuter clothes? Girls, hands down. Boy clothes are terrible, and take much work to scour racks looking for something worthwhile. To be fair, I do own a fuckton of boys clothes (and nothing else) which would be very economical, but even THEY don’t compare to the cuteness that is girl clothes.

Cuter toys? Boys. Really, I hated dolls when *I* was a kid, and I don’t want Disney Princess or Bratz shit in my house.

Diapering? Girls. I have gotten whizzed on my face many freaking times it’s not even funny. PLUS, cleaning liquid shit from the twig and giggle berries takes for freaking ever. Balls= crease laden.

Temperament? Boys. Girls are fucking dramatic and whiny, boys tend to solve their problems with fists rather than having to ‘talk about it.’ Sheesh, do I *look* like I can handle that shit? I don’t like to *talk about things,* I like to use my fists o’ fury.

Relationship later in life? TIE. Girls are assholes when they’re teenagers (just ask me. I know. I was one), but become your friends when they’re older. Boys are not assholes (to their mothers) as teens, but are lost to you once they get married.

Genitals? Girls, again. Why? Because I share the same parts. I can teach you to clean your labia. It’s a nice swipe. Cleaning The Penis is hard. As is teaching The Penis to stand up and pee without whizzing all over your freshly laundered towels while you shriek for your penis-laden husband to come and help, which he does not do and does not understand why a Penis is needed to help a Penis pee in the toilet. (sense a pattern here? I do.)

Dating? Boys, but by a hair. While I almost made it a tie, as with a Girl I will have to worry about my poor husband weeping silently while polishing his shotgun, I remembered one key fact. My son will not come home pregnant. Nor *should* he get too weepy and brooding when he is dumped.

Blah, blah, blah, beauty in either sex, squirt squirt.

I can’t wait to find out so I can get my shop-on!

When I was pregnant with my first, on a random doctor’s appointment, my OB (who had said, um, *maybe* 15 words to me during the whole pregnancy, but I didn’t care because Dr. Google kept me company, and who cares if your doctor holds your hand and tells you everything is okay? Not me.) heard something he didn’t like on my fetal doppler.

Apparently the fetal heart tones were not acceptable. Having not been able to pinpoint exactly WHAT was wrong with the heartbeat myself due to my non-trained ears, I just accepted it as well as my referral for an ultrasound the following day.

Which is how I planned to learn what flavor baby I was carrying. While it wasn’t something I had to wait for, it was something I had been waiting for.

A couple of weeks ago, at my last OB appointment, we planned our Anatomy Scan, which sounds scary as fuck which will tell me if my baby is indeed fucked up and shit. Since I tend not to worry until I have to (yes, I can get colon cancer, get hit by a car, or win the lottery. Why worry about it until I need to?), I am masking my concern with the very real excitement of learning exactly what flavor I’m cooking.

Sadly, just the same as the last time I was pregnant, I have not been able to make this pregnancy real and I’m hoping that hot dog or lackthereof will.

November 16 at 10 am.

To make this interesting, as all good parents (should) do, we have made a bet.

Winner gets the satisfaction of knowing that they are far superior and the ability to rub it in the others face.

Loser gets the punishment ascribed by the winner. Punishments have been picked.

Dave: *Girl*. If he should lose, he will wear a Britney Spears t-shirt for one whole week during such time when it cannot be masked by a winter coat.

Becky: *Boy* (only to make this interesting. I still have no fucking clue). I will have to wear a ‘Chicks Dig Unix’ t-shirt for one week without being masked by a winter coat. (as a total aside, this shirt will have to be in a comically large size, as I’m certain Mimi or Pea In A Pod won’t carry it)

Representin’ colors must be worn to the anatomy scan.

Aww yeah, Daver’s bustin’ out the pink.

If I’d have known that getting pregnant could be so hard, I’d have skipped the birth control entirely. I should amend that: getting pregnant when you actually WANT to be pregnant can be hard. I don’t actually think that the last time I was pregnant really had resulted from having sex, but alas, I digress.

Now, like miscarriages and abortions, people don’t often bring up the ‘œgetting pregnant’ stuff with any regularity, unless of course they were successful with their first attempt a la ‘œMy boys can swim!’ etc. What they don’t tell you in health class is that sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. When we first started trying, I admit that I was nervous. Like most things a la Becky, I tend to stick with my original plan regardless of circumstance and/or desire as I am one stubborn son of a bitch. I assumed (rightly so, considering my last experience) that the first time we’d have sex after going off birth control would result in a (small) bouncing new baby.

When I got my period, I was almost relieved. *Whew!* I thought, ‘œTHAT was a close one!’

The second month I was less so, but still relieved.

By the time I actually got pregnant, I was so blase about the whole thing that I took the test while smoking a cigarette and drinking a vodka/diet coke. I had inadvertantly bought the fancy assed digital pregnancy tests (they didn’t have THOSE 5 years ago!) that doesn’t leave you guessing (is that *really* a line? Shit. I can’t tell. It kinda looks like one in this light.). They are expensive as hell, so I was peeved to be using one to assuage my husband, as I *knew* that I was not pregnant. Hence the cigarette and vodka.

Well, I pissed on the stick, set it down and took a fat swig of my drink. After a few seconds, I double checked that I had properly executed the test (I’m telling you, it’s COMPLICATED), and while I was pondering the flashing bar (I am not so bright) the word ‘œPREGNANT’ popped up. I promptly spit-taked the drink all over the mirror and yelled ‘œYou’ve GOT to be fucking kidding me!’

One for the baby books, I know.

The proper way to tell Dave would have been by sending a singing candy gram or an engraved Tiffany’s rattle to his office (I have ideas, even I cannot execute them), I know, but I couldn’t have been more suprised if the dishwasher had sung Christmas Carols to me in perfect German. I was in no shape to suprise anyone else.

I unceramoniously shoved the stick under Dave’s nose and flopped down on the couch, clearly in shock. Where I sat for the next three hours, staring blankly at the test. When I finally came around 3 weeks later, I did a little research.

Some husbands give their wives jewelery for their birthdays. Mine gave me a healthy hot beef injection.

Due Date: April 9, 2007
Date of Conception: July 15, 2006 (God, I cannot wait to torture the child with this one!)

I make it no secret that almost no one appreciates my musical tastes, aside from possibly 13 year old girls and aging homosexuals. The last CD I bought was strategically placed into the cart, which was then taken to the checkout aisle, wherein I disappeared into the bathroom leaving my tender husband and 5-year old to pay for it.

Justin Timberlake done BROUGHT Sexyback.

Aunt Becky: ‘I totally need to get into more disco.’

The Daver: ‘Oh NO.’

Aunt Becky: ‘What the hell is wrong with disco? It’s cheerful and doesn’t evoke thoughts of suicide like *someone’s* music.’

(pauses)

Aunt Becky: ‘I mean, come ON! I love that ‘Electric Avenue’ song. You were serenading me with it earlier!’

The Daver: ‘That’s not disco!’

Aunt Becky: ‘Of COURSE it is! What else could it be?’

The Daver: ‘I think it’s reggae.’

Aunt Becky: ‘That can’t be reggae. It’s too ludicrous. (singing) ‘We’re gonna rock down to Electric Avenue”

The Daver: ‘That song is NOT ludicrous. It’s a GREAT song.’

Aunt Becky: ‘No doubt. But it’s INSANE. What the fuck is Electric Avenue?’

The Daver: ‘Don’t you DARE mock that song. It’s amazing!’

Aunt Becky ‘How can I NOT mock it, Dave?’

The Daver: ‘It’s an amazing song.’

…

…

…

Aunt Becky: ‘Are you fucking with me? That song is almost as bad as ‘Disco Duck’ which was in my head all of last week.’

The Daver: ‘I’m no longer speaking to you.’

Aunt Becky: “You no longer have any room to mock my Britney collection.”

The Daver: “I hate you.”

Aunt Becky: “You see this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.”

Praise Jesus, the rabbit died, Jupiter aligned with Mars, peace will steer the planet and love will steer the stars! Yep, folks, you heard me right, I am once again Pregnant. To those of you who read this and I haven’t had a chance to personally inform, I suck, but I am a recluse and the likelihood of me seeing you BEFORE I got the chance to pop this kid out is slim. To none.

Although I already have one five year old, and have therefore been pregnant before, I never gave credence to the statement ‘œevery pregnancy is different.’ I (in my normal fashion) scoffed, laughed and made snide remarks. See here, Internet, I will claim to you all that although I might not ever be considered ‘œnice’ I am usually considered ‘œbitchy, but in a good way.’

With my first, this is what I felt:
1. HUNGRY (you don’t gain 90 lbs without trying. Period. And PS, it was glorious putting it on)

*and*

2. Tired. I was so bone crushingly tired that I would frequently wake up with rug burn on my face from passing out after trying to tie my shoes.

(To be fair, everything else was a total mess in my life at the time, so don’t be jealous or make snide remarks. Although the pregnancy was not difficult, I often remark that it’s a miracle that I didn’t kill myself during it. This is saying a lot, as I am not often suicidal and I am not kidding for once. Thankfully, this is not *that* kind of blog, so I will spare you the details.)

Life has done what it does best, and has pulled the rug out from under me with an old ‘œone-two’ punch. THIS time around, my symptom list would be more like:

1. Tired. So tired that I cry about it often. I.E. ‘œI’m SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeedddddd!!!!’

2. Nauseous. In this weird way, I am both famished and nauseous at the same time. BUT ONLY FOR CERTAIN FOODS. I can only eat very specific things and if I *try* to eat something else, whatever it is will be returned to me in a slightly wet manner. I have eaten (besides wings, natch) about 4 bites of food (THAT I HAVE KEPT DOWN) since August 2.

3. Fat. No one told me that the second time around you begin showing the minute the test says ‘œPREGNANT!’ It took quite awhile to show with Benner, so I assumed that somewhere around Thanksgiving, I’d have a pooch, but no! EVEN WITH MY WEIGHT LOSS I HAVE A POOCH. AND MY BOOBIES ARE HUGE. AND PENDULOUS.

4. A huge bitch. On top of all of this, I have turned into an even NASTIER person. I happened to be dragged into a Wal-Mart with The Daver a couple of days ago and began to use the phrase ‘œwhite trash’ WITHIN EARSHOT OF THE PEOPLE I WAS TALKING ABOUT. Dave was horrified and tried to put me back in the car, but haha! even pregnant, I am STILL stronger!

Poor Dave is absolutely at his wits end (and who could blame him?). It’s one thing to slip down into madness while being totally unaware, but it’s a total other thing to WATCH yourself slowly going insane. *I* even know that I suck right now.

I think he’s getting ready to take a ‘œbusiness trip’ to ‘œSouth America’ for ‘œ7 months,’ to which I replied, ‘œSend Wings’ and money and ‘œgo ahead’. I mean, the only way he’s gonna knock me up again is if I ‘œgo off the pill’ and ‘œhave an accident’ or if he doesn’t see me going off the rails on the crazy train.

Shit, if I were him, I’d have moved out weeks ago.

The list (by no means exhaustive) of things I was NOT allowed to do for the wedding (primarily because Dave is ‘œboring’ and for some reason thinks that I’m ‘œbeing disrespectful to the institution of marriage’ or some shit. I wasn’t listening):

1). Wear half of a fat suit

2). Have the nuptials performed by Elvis

3). Sport black eyes

4). Dance our first song to ‘œYMCA’

5). Dance myself down the aisle to ‘œThat’s The Way (Uh-Huh) I Like It’

From this list, you are likely able to determine that I am not typically considered a ‘œwedding’ or a ‘œmarriage’ person. Growing up, in fact, you’d be more likely to find me playing ‘œCommando Doctor Becky, Zombie Hunter’ or teaching my cats to box than you would catch me planning for my future wedding. Never honestly thought–or cared much, really–that I’d be married. Like ever.

I found myself in the unique situation of planning a wedding I wasn’t too thrilled by (not the marriage, mind you, The Wedding).

Shortly after booking the venue, I was dragged into David’s Bridal with my best friend, maid of honor, to make fun of the dresses. Let’s get this straight. I *love, love, love* clothes. I do not like white dresses. I have a child, which means I obviously was NOT A VIRGIN when I got married.

We made a beeline to the most hideous dresses we could find. My first choice was a long sleeved, high necked, 567 foot train monstrosity, straight out of a scary 70’s movie. My second and only other choice was a simple A-line, champagne trimmed dress. Fucking boring, really.

I sweated out about 32 gallons of water simply by looking at the first dress. It was lace covered, pearl encrusted, beaded, and weighed–not exaggerating–at least 25 lbs. The sleeves alone were each larger than my head. While I struggled with the huge line of buttons in the back, Ashley went to find me the perfect shoes to go with them (clear plastic stripper heels, natch!), which she shoved under the door.

Ensemble complete, I threw open the door and danced the Maniac for Ashley, who is rolling on the floor, and the distressed sales clerk, who is all but choking on her tongue as she sputtered ‘œDo you like dresses with sleeves?’ When I realized that the lace was of such poor quality that I immediately began to chafe and blister, I squeaked out ‘œI feel like a cupcake’ and ran back to the dressing room.

Here’s the boring part. I bought the second dress, thereby having to eat all of the snarky comments I had made while walking in. I won’t repeat them, for fear of the wrath. Suffice to say, I am an asshole. An asshole with a big mouth.

Several weeks before my wedding, I realized that I had nothing to wear under the dress, and was forced back to the eerily white and un-delightfully tacky world of David’s Bridal. I grabbed the bra thing-y and the big poofy thing (yes, those are VERY clinical terms) that you wear under such dresses and headed to the back, husband to be in tow (don’t feel too sorry for him. The night before, we’d had a long talk about the proletariat vs. the bourgeoisie. I won’t go into the details here, but suffice to say I told him in no uncertain terms that I would never be the proletariat to his bourgeoisie. It was my convoluted way of complaining about the ever-fucking wedding that I was planning for him).

Realizing that the best way to exact my revenge upon Dave was public humiliation, I decided to show him what I’m *really* like when I’m getting even: embarrassing. I put on my combo of weird undergarments (no, neither nipples nor beaver were showing) and pranced out of the dressing room singing ‘œBuild Me Up Buttercup.’ I really looked choice, have no doubt.

To Dave, who was sitting against the wall looking uncomfortably at the gaggle of fat pimply bridesmaids to his right. I proceeded to sing the whole song (extra made up verses, too) before I darted back into the dressing room. Then I handed Dave the garments to pay for, his face a lovely shade of cranberry.

To this day, that dress remains in a garbage bag in my parents basement, slowly yellowing and molding.

I am not, never have been, and likely never will be an Underwear person. I dislike wearing, owning, washing, and buying them. I hate how much they cost, I abhor their function, and I think the stupid little patterns on them are, well, stupid. Given my own choice I would–and frequently do–practice the gentle art of Free-balling.

Bra and panty sets are equally offensive to me. Maybe I’m insane here, but if any man is less likely to hump me because my bra and panties don’t match, they don’t deserve to see my sweet, sweet box. To me (who is actually colorblind, remember) it’s just another thing to coordinate.

My best friend Ashley worked in lingerie for many years, and spent the majority of those years attempting to convert me to the matching underwear/bra side of life. Much as I can kinda see the point, I usually went along for the ride and to make her feel accomplished (plus, I felt guilty that my son had peed on her). I’d pop by to see her, pick out some perfectly functional drawers (not panties. NEVER panties. What a sick word!) and leave feeling relieved that I didn’t have to buy more undies for a couple of months.

When she quit working there, I was left in a bind. Gone was my bra/undies hookup. Gone were the kick ass boxer-like drawers, having gone back to the great Maker from which they came.

Left to my own devices, I discovered that Victoria’s Secret runs a kick ass sale a couple times a year. The Underwear Gods were smiling down upon me once again! Many more years passed in this manner, stocking up quarterly on undies, never thrilled, always satisfied.

In January, my time for fresh and stain free drawers lured me back to Victoria’s Secret. Hopelessly, I trudged forth into the store and in the same manner in which I always have, grabbed about 50 pairs and ran back out having dropped a small fortune.

In March, once the boxes were unpacked, I rediscovered my newest cache of drawers. Thrilled by the fact the I had thought ahead, I greedily pulled a fresh pair on. And on. And on again, By the time the pair was completely unrolled, my boobs were resting just slightly above the edge of the underwear.

Confused, I double-checked the tag for both the size (Same) and the Maternity Moniker (none). I checked myself out in my full-length mirror. Yep. I looked like a bandanna printed Erkl.

Hot.

I tore through the remainder of the bag. Yes, indeedy. I had certainly bought 500 pairs of grandma panties, in all whimsical colors and patterns. AND THEN REMOVED TAGS AND WASHED THEM. No, siree, Vicky’s won’t take THOSE back.

Thankfully by a stroke of luck for my sex-life, Dave happened to be out for the day and I was alone, otherwise I’d have pranced around the house with Hawaiian print undies up to my nipples for him to see (ala buying the poofy shit for under my wedding dress. You bet your ass Dave had to watch me prance around David’s Bridal looking like an extra for Little WhoreHouse on the Prairie. Then he gave me my Thorazine and wept quietly into his hands).

As luck would have it, I was stuck at home alone, breasts being cut into by underwear band laughing softly and wondering how the shit I didn’t realize that each pair that I bought had about 187 extra yards of fabric. Victoria’s Secret apparently makes a version of The Granny Panty. Who the fuck knew?

Also, I really need to get the fuck over the cost and buy some damn underwear that’s not on sale.

As a post script, I would like to add that my shear stubbornness has not allowed me to get rid of these, so I am wearing them as I write this. Nipples chafing and all.