I hadn’t realized the heaviness I’d been carrying around with me until it was lifted. I’d like to be all dramatic and say (hand to head), “I don’t remember how long it’s been,” but that’s a lie. I think I may remember precisely the last time I felt like I wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

February 10, 2008, 10 AM

The first time Alex slept through the night.

He’d been such a hard little baby – a Benevolent Dictator of a person – insisting that no, in fact, his mother would NOT be sleeping for a year because, in fact, absolutely no one else may touch His Majesty. My parents called him “Devil Baby” because, well, he kinda deserved it.

However, sleeping through the night meant that he’d finally turned a corner. I wouldn’t perhaps, be up every 1 to 3 hours for the rest of my life, so sleep-deprived that I’d manage to dump and entire pot of hot coffee on my hand without realizing or, quite frankly, caring. Functioning on that little sleep was hardly functioning; it was surviving. And I had.

Miserably.

Not two hours after waking up from my first full night’s sleep in nearly a year and writing that blog post, I got a phone call. My friend Stef had died in her sleep. Age 26. Cirrhosis.

I didn’t sleep, eat, breathe or function properly for a very long time. My grief was heavy. Dark. I couldn’t make even the smallest decision.

Then came Amelia’s pregnancy, which, all three of you who read my blog back then, was fraught with peril for the first twelve weeks as my progesterone bottomed out, followed by a nice heaping dose of prepartum depression.

My daughter was born gravely ill, but alive. And so began a nice fresh hell.

I’d told myself I was past it – that I’d accepted she was okay because she was…mostly. If you ignored the gigantic scar and the creepy diagnosis. I would accept whatever hand fate dealt me. If she was special needs, well, she was special needs. If she wasn’t, well, then she wasn’t. Either way, she was my kid, and I’d fucking love the shit out of her.

Which I do.

It was simply a matter of figuring out which kid I loved.

Turns out, being pulled out of limbo has lifted that feeling of dread, that heaviness, and replaced it with an emotion I can hardly recall: lightness. Joy.

While I can recall the last time – by date – that I felt so light, I’d forgotten what it felt like. The world, once again tinged with sky-blue-pink, my heart carefree and soaring, and, for the first time in so long: truly happy.

It seems a lifetime ago that my daughter was born, pissed-the-fuck-off at the world with an ominous lump on the back of her head. That day changed us both.

Once shattered and broken on that hospital floor, I’ve slowly pieced myself back together, removing the bad bits and replacing them with good. Stitched up and mostly whole now, I’m not the person who waddled into that room and popped out a very sick daughter. That’s okay.

I begged her doctors, all of them, for something, anything, to hold onto while I schlepped my ill daughter from neurosurgeon to neurosurgeon and I heard the one thing patients abhor most: “we don’t know what this means for her,” followed by the kick-in-the-teeth, “time will tell.”

So we’ve been watchfully waiting from the sidelines, celebrating the victories while fretting the small things: Does that foot-drag mean she’s brain-damaged? How brain-damaged? Is that a seizure or is she just fucking with me?

I don’t know when you exhale. I don’t know how to accept, “it really IS okay.” Because those words nag at the back of my brain, my own untouched brain, just below the surface: “time will tell.”

Sometimes, I get angry, because it’s such a bullshit thing to do, wait for time to do anything. It’s always been there, “time telling” underneath all the milestones and victories, as I wonder what next.

Today, we finally got our answer.

Time, that fucking bastard, got off his ass and came to our Early Intervention meeting and opened his whore mouth and said, “Amelia is at or above level for everything. We see no reason to continue services.”

And for the first time in a long time, I exhaled as my daughter, the Princess of the Bells, led me into the future.

Dear Aunt Becky,

First let me say I fucking LOVE this place. I see myself in you, but not in the creepy way. As in we have the same personality and I tend to respond to things how you do :). I love ya!

Anyway. I have 3 living children – all girls. I’ve lost two pregnancies in the third trimester. One was eight years ago and one was two months ago. I do not want any more children. But my dreams are filled with being pregnant, hearing babies crying, etc. Even during the day, I hear a baby cry. What do I do? Is this normal? My worldview eight years ago was different and I kind of never dealt with the loss. So I didn’t have to feel the pain, I suppose. And I guess I’m doing that now….

Why am I doing this?

Thanks Aunt Becky,

LW in Misery (Missouri)

First, Prankster, let me tell you how sorry I am for your losses. I have a number of friends who have lost babies and there is nothing more devastating.

I’m no shrink, but two third trimester losses sounds like a hell of a stressful thing to live through, so props to you for surviving. Seriously.

Your last loss was two months ago which means you’re still in the postpartum period, so I’d venture an unprofessional guess that you’re experiencing a bit of postpartum depression AND PTSD WHILE grieving your losses. The nightmares and flashbacks are classic post-traumatic stress disorder and your losses, well, they’re significant.

(I’m linking you there to the resource pages on Band Back Together. I hope they help a bit)

Prankster, I’m going to say this and I don’t want to be preachy or peachy or anything fruit-flavored (purple is a flavor. NOT grape), but I think you should see someone. Just talk to someone. You need to get this grief out because it’s eating you up.

And, because we see a lot of baby loss on the site, maybe you should write your story for Band Back Together. Getting it all out, well, it could help you, or someone else reading.

But please, talk to someone.

Much love to you, Prankster. I wish you nothing but healing and light.

Dear Aunt Becky,

First off, LOVE the blog, and the fact that my mother told me I should read you because you sound like me makes me come to your site every day.

Aaaannnyway, so my ex-dipshit and I have joint custody of our 9 year-old son. Said son is usually with his dad (multitude of reasons, mostly because I’m in school), but with me this summer.

Now, I’m not a hardass, but remember when we were kids and our parents told us to, “Go play in the street,” or some other shit like that?

Well, apparently now it’s “the thing” to sit on your ass all day and hop from gaming system to gaming system, and that’s their exercise.  I call BULLSHIT!  So when I suggest my son go on a bike ride with me this morning, he threw a hissy fit.  I basically had to MAKE him come with me, where the whole time he had a major melt-down and finally when we got home, I sent him to his room to calm the hell down.  Well, actually, it was so I could calm down before I had my OWN temper tantrum.

So, after all that rambling there, here is my question: Short of beating your kids our the door with a wooden spoon and locking the door, what the hell do we do with kids these days?

Thanks!
Short-tempered in Minnesota

See, I have a nine (almost ten) year old son too. Did you know what a complete and total motherfucking idiot I am? He does. Did you know how much I suck at life? He does. Did you know how much I fail at breathing properly? He does.

And he’ll motherfucking TELL your ass about it. He tells me constantly, with the eye-rolling and the “you shut your whore mouth, Mom,” attitude.

I think ages nine through twenty-two are a lost cause for our kids. I’d expected to have him not loathe the very oxygen I’m forced to inhale a little longer, but apparently *feet stomp* not.

So just grin and motherfucking bear it. When in doubt, there’s always vodka.

P.S. Lock his whiny ass outside.

Hi Aunt Becky:

I’m wondering if you’ve ever waxed the hair in your nose.

It’s actually pretty painless.  And as I approach 39 years, I hate the hair in my nose more and more.
However, my friend recently told me I am risking sending those pesky staph germs that my nose hairs supposedly catch straight up the 3 inches to my brain.  Which leads to all kinds of bad shit.
Your thoughts?

Piper

OHHOLYFUCKNO.

I’ve never waxed my nose hairs. I’m actually sitting here with one hand over my nose (a total lie) because that sounds epically painful. Like worse than having to sit through a Celene Dion concert.

Your nose hairs do serve a purpose (some of ours a bushier purpose than others), and that’s to catch germs. Kinda like pubic hair.

But I doubt you’re waxing high enough up there to worry about that. I mean, you’d have to go pretty fucking high.

And I’d have to BE pretty fucking high to do that. If I were that high, I’d probably think listening to Leonard Skynard and eating six soft shell tacos from Taco Bell was a good idea, not pain.

But that’s me.

———–

As always, Pranksters, fill in where I left off in the comments. Because, as my son would gladly tell you, I suck at life and probably should never answer another question again.

Um. I don’t think the people at McDonald’s want to be considered “wildlife.”

My kids are home this week. After I realized what a job Band Back Together was going to be (and how freaking BORED they are with me), I enrolled the two smallest ones in preschool. Plus, that gives me ample time to sit on my ass and watch cactus videos. Those cacti are a laugh a minute!

Anyhow, for some strange reason, my preschool teacher decides once every six months or so to go on vacation. (I call bullshit) Then, the crotch parasites are home with everyone’s favorite Aunt Becky. Everyone, of course, but my small crotch parasites who are bored after two minutes of looking at my face. It sorta goes like this:

9:17 (AB): “Hey guys, let’s COLOR a PICTURE!”

9:18 (Alex and Amelia): “WE’RE DONE MAMA.”

9:20 (AB): “Let’s play a game called, “Make Mama a Martini!”

9:20 (Alex and Amelia): “NO.”

9:21 (AB): “How about, “let’s take a nap!” that’s a GREAT game!”

9:22 (Alex and Amelia): “That’s bullshit!”

9:22 (AB): *headdesk*

See, I’m just not cut out for playing games with toddlers for more than twelve seconds. And it’s approximately eleventy-billion degrees out now, which means I can’t boot them out the door to “play” and lock it behind them. Which is, I’m pretty sure, how my parents handled ages 2-18.

(come to think of it, perhaps I shouldn’t follow my parents lead)

So now I have two days left of “entertaining the children” and am about ready to sell them to the Hare Krishna’s because, well, I think they take kids and shave them and put them into wee orange robes. If not, they should.

When my preschool teacher gets back on Monday, I’m planning on tongue-kissing her. Or perhaps not. Anything to make her want to watch my children again. Because I think they’re sharpening their Play-Doh knives into shivs to attack me for ruining summer. I only hope that it takes them until Tuesday.

Until then, I’ll be counting down the minutes. And praying each one isn’t the one that brings me to my dramatic death-by-Play-Doh-knife.

———–

I wrote this on The Stir. It’s about Tattooed Moms. Because obviously.

Today, Pranksters, rather than sit around on my ass, watching cats do wacky things, I had an appointment downtown to get my tattoo “worked on.” Some may say “finished,” but those motherfuckers would be wrong. My tattoo may never be finished.

In several blood-stained hours, my tattoo went from this:

To this:

*groans*

Someone pass me the Vicodin. Then entertain me with your tattoo stories while massaging my feet.

It’s bad enough that it happens at blogging conferences: you’re standing there, minding your own business, talking to a friend, when out of nowhere, someone in comfortable sneakers and a blazer with shoulder pads comes up to you and before you know it, they’ve dumped their business cards into your drinks and scampered off, in search of their next victim.

The drive-by social networker strikes again.

Now, I have approximately a bazillion business cards. I intend to pass them out or use as coasters, whichever the case may be. But while I may hand you my card, it will be after we’ve had a conversation, perhaps a drink together. The drinks are optional. The business cards are EXTRA optional.

Because when you’re at a blogging conference? Everyone has business cards. And no one wants them in their drinks.

Perhaps I will create a bubble around myself to avoid drinking my vodka/diet with a side of your business card. That’s not to say I don’t want your card; I just don’t want it thrust into my hand while I try to check into the hotel with my bags freaking everywhere.

Maybe I’m just bitter.

In the past week alone, I’ve gotten at least twenty DM’s from The Twitter, and while I eagerly open them, humming and perhaps dancing the White Girl Booty Shuffle because, “I HAVE AN EMAIL MOTHERFUCKERS,” I’m shocked and saddened by it’s contents.

Instead of saying, “Hi Becky, let’s be friends,” or “Hi Becky, I’m sending you a cat that shoots REAL LASERS FROM IT’S EYES,” it’s this.

“Thanks for the follow. Check us out on Facebook (insert link to crappy company)”

A variation:

“Thanks for the follow, hope you read my blog (url).”

Well.

Now.

That’s not very friendly. In fact, that’s beyond impersonal.

MOST people I know unfollow after receiving automated DM’s because they hate The Drive By Social Networker as much (more) than I do. I, on the other hand, am lazy and have decided to plot my revenge upon them.

I’m simply going to start DMing them every time I have to take a poo, eat a sandwich, go to Target, and every other mundane thing people say on The Twitter. I’ll be as personal as I wanna be. Then, I’ll direct them BACK to my blog so they can “read more.”

Perhaps then, they’ll rethink their drive-by networking strategy. AND learn about my toileting habits in the process.

This will be a total win!

Hey Aunt Beckster. I have a 3 year old, a one year old and just found out I’m pregnant again. So I’ll have a newborn, a 2yo and a 4yo this December. Now this pregnancy is something we tried for. I was all eye of the mother fucking tiger Imma gonna get pregnant now! Now that I am though, I’m a little freaked out.

Am I fucking nuts? How the hell am I going to do this? Having two kids drives me nucking futs some days. How crazy is having 3 kids really?

Do you have a minivan?

*looks around shiftily*

*crosses fingers behind back*

Having three kids is EASY as PIE. Heh. Heh. Heh. Disregard every other time I’ve said, “three is a fucking LOT of kids” because, um, it’s not.

Think about it like this: you’ll have a couple of ridiculously hard years, then? The kids will play together and leave you ALONE.

And yes, I do own a minivan (SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH) that may win an award for the UGLIEST thing ever. I hate minivans. But they’re really fucking useful. So there’s that.

So three? *flips hair back* Three kids are GREAT. They’re the magic number.

Hi Aunt Becky,

Without going into tooooo many details, my ex-husband decided going into the divorce that I was going to be psycho. He has told everyone we know (including teachers, OT, PT, daycare, etc.) that I am psycho.

When we split up, he had the upper hand and I was essentially left with the one u-haul (one day early, along with with my baby).

How do I deal with this?  I FEEL psycho, because he makes me feel psycho because he treats me like it, in order to make the divorce work out in his favor.

In other words, he decides I am crazy, so anything I do fits into that mold, no matter what.  What should I do? Sometimes I want to just leave the m’f’ng country but that would mean leaving my baby behind.

Seriously, AB, I am at my wits end here. I am a mom, and the dad is obviously smarter than me. What do I do? I just want to curl up and die. Really.  Or go back in time, except that then I wouldn’t have my baby, except…maybe that would be for the best?

Hurting and lost here.

Aw, Prankster, that’s what ex’s are good for: making you feel nuts. What you need is a good therapist or someone who can remind you that you’re not fucking psycho. In a couple years, with some distance, you’ll manage to see that it was never, ever you, and hopefully, feel less alone.

My heart breaks for you because I remember the insidious way that my ex made me feel all those years ago. You DO end up feeling like it’s you. I know that.

But I also know that it’s not me. Nor is it you.

So I suggest you find yourself a good therapist and a good defense attorney, scream EYE OF THE TIGER whenever you’re feeling low, and fight this motherfucker. Or you can give him MY phone number and I’ll tell him precisely what I think of him.

Ain’t NOBODY messing with MAH Pranksters.

Much love to you. Let us know what happens.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I have two not-so-related body image questions, and if you don’t mind I’m going to ask both now before they fly out of my memory.

First, I have a few acquaintances (FB friends, moms from school, etc.) who think nothing of publicly slamming other people’s bodies all the time.  You know, things like, “God, does she own a mirror?” or “To the lady in front of me at Target – you can’t pull off skinny jeans.”

This REALLY annoys me – and not just because I am a plus sized woman, which I only mention in the interest of full disclosure.  I have three daughters, and I don’t like the idea that their bodies could be seen as public property open to commentary from total strangers.  Life is tough enough for girls and women, and I hate the catty, competitive vibe that accompanies these comments.  Basically, I think a person’s body, style, etc. is no one’s business but their own.

Do I say something to these people?  Do I ignore it, or is that compromising my integrity?  I kind of wish I could cut some of them off, but I don’t want to create awkwardness that might trickle down to my kids.

My second question is about MY body.  Before having kids, I used to sleep naked all the time, especially in summer.  It was comfortable and cool, and it certainly made less laundry.  I find myself missing that, but I feel like good mommies should wear nightgowns and giant bloomers.  I have all girls, and I’d keep a nightshirt next to the bed to pop on in case of a middle of the night call (which, thank goodness, is not a regular event in my house anymore).  Obviously, I’d put something on before leaving my room in the morning.

Would I be a skanky, nasty mommy if I went back to the buff?

Love,
ChickaBoom

Dear ChickaBoom,

A) I find no reason why, if these people are commenting on the size, weight, or look, of others, that you can’t say something like, “I’m not sure that bitching about how other people look is the appropriate message to send our daughters.”

That, I’d think, would shut them right the fuck up.

2) Sleep naked. Period. If you like to sleep in the buff, go right the fuck ahead.

————–

Pranksters? What other advice can you give these people?

————-

Oh, and I’ll be picking a winner for the shirt contest on Monday.

————-

And my column from Cafe Mom is UP, yo!

I spent the last couple years of my twenties praying for the moment that I’d turn thirty. It’s like I genuinely thought being thirty somehow meant that “things would be easier” and yet they have. I was just happy to put my twenties behind me.

In Year One of my thirties, I’ve managed to begin eking out my way. Whereas my twenties felt like I was always fighting fire with gasoline, my thirties have found me thoughtfully, carefully making decisions, choosing the right way, and learning to become, well, me again.

Year One certain had it’s ups and downs and still, the down’s didn’t feel like they were the bottomless pit variety. The ups were even higher.

I have, in no small part, you, Pranksters, to thank for this. You’ve watched me fail, fall, and start again, cheering me on when I needed it and wiping my tears when things seemed insurmountable. You’ve been the one constant in my life and more than that, you became my family.

I cannot tell you how much that means nor can I thank you enough.

This year, I’ve watched my daughter lose her words, then find them again, and now, she spits them at me with a side of sass thrown in. Because she’s my girl.

My middle son has grown from a toddler to a child, all arms and legs and sweetness and light. Someone who hugs away my tears and makes me laugh from the bottom of my leg bones.

After so many years of believing that I was probably a child prodigy, I realize that the one who earns that title is my (almost) ten year old, the one who has found his way in his music.

This year, I founded not one but two group blogs (happy birthday to YOU, Mushroom Printing! who happened to be founded on my birthday last year).

Once I saw the need for a safe, moderated space on the Internet where we could share our secrets, reduce the stigmas of mental illness, abuse, rape and all the other skeletons in our closets, I created Band Back Together. I thanked my parents for the nursing texts as I began to create resource pages for the site. Now the site is a combination of knowledge and power, just like School House motherfucking Rock.

I created shirts (you should buy one. It’s my birthday, after all and you have to do what I say) and shattered my own expectations.

Today, Year One ends and I’m onto Year Two (I’ll be thirty-one). I’ll close this year out while gorging on tapas and drinking champagne.

I can hardly wait to see what happens next. Assuming it’s something good like a pony and not something shitty like a meat tornado.

Because nobody expects a meat tornado.

Every other week when I was a kid, some kid brought their store-bought cuppity-cakes into school, beaming benevolently as we wished them a perfunctory “happy birthday” before diving face-first into the sugar. The poor teachers had the task of dealing with us after we’d gotten our sugar high on.

I tried to rise above it as a kid. To say, “it’s okay; the teachers like ME better because I don’t bring on the sugar high.” But it was a steaming pile of bullshit. Had I been given the chance, I’d have jumped to bring my very own sugared treats into the class, my classmates bowing before me, a queen doling out cake to her loyal subjects.

Thanks to my parents humping schedule, I was never given the opportunity.

Nope.

My birthday falls into the absolute middle of the summer abyss. July 15th. Pay day.

Every year, I’d throw parties, and about half the class would show up. The rest were too busy vacationing up in Detroit or whatever and unable to attend. This meant less loot for me. Plus, I felt like a loser. My parents should buy me a pony to make up for this.

And now that I’m an adult, I swore off the 15th as my “birthday,” opting to celebrate on the more refined sounding 28th. That pushes my birthday just far away enough from July 4th that I might actually stand a chance at throwing a party with real! live! guests! Plus, I made it official on The Facebook, which means that it’s really real, right?

Plus, July 15th is cursed. Some gigantor percentage of the last ten years has found me, on my birthday, in the ER or Urgent Care. Happy Birthday! You have a scratched cornea!

But try as I have to deny it, I can’t help but feel like tomorrow IS my birthday. Which means that I’m both terrified by what the day will bring and hopeful that it involves presents.

Which, now that I think about it, is how I feel every day.