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…is the song that we’re singing. Gotta love the happy horseshit of the Partridge Family.

So, yeah, I already have this blog, right? And I love it. Slowly, however, I realized that my readership was getting weary of my posts about my boob-loving new baby, my slightly (I’m being generous here) obsessive six year old, my workaholic (also being generous) spouse, my three neurotic cats and my sausagey-looking pooch. This fact, rather than allowing me to kick into super-interesting world of grown-up wordly observations stifled my urge to write.

But since I stay at home, thereby limiting the amount of conversations not about SpongeBob or blocked ducts, I realized that I had to keep on truckin’ into the blog world. Because, if you can’t say it on the Internet, where can you say it?

So here I go, back into the sorted world of blogging, where my posts will always be riddled with extra commas, and Spell Check will continually go unused, but the posts will always be real.

Sudddenly, I’m very afraid.

What began as a bad birthday weekend is now shaping up to be a bad birthday week. Does anyone know how to rid yourself of a curse? Anyone perform exorcisms?

I still cannot see well. Things are almost completely blurry, which makes everyday living annoying if not entirely unbearable. Sound like I’m overreacting? Take the lens out of one of your glasses, or remove one contact and walk around for awhile: that’s how it feels. I spend several hours a day trying to remove long dark hairs out of Alex’s neck fat, diaper area, arm fat and hands (I heart you postpartum hair loss) not because the hairs are really that prolific (anymore), but because I can’t quite navigate exactly where the damn things are. And because of the complete loss of depth perception, I can’t drive myself to the doctor (or anywhere else, really).

On Tuesday, right before I was planning to go to bed early (foronceinmydamnlife), I heard the dog barking loudly outside. Because I cannot see (read: lazy) I sent Daver out to investigate, while I went to the sink to wash my hands. Then I smelled it. A combo of burning rubber and burning oil. Oh holy fuck. Shit.

The dog was tangling with a skunk.

Needless to say, I won’t bore you with the details about baking soda and H2O2 covering the kitchen, or how when the mixture reaches your skin in drop form your skin looks like you have vittaligo, or how truly awful fresh skunk goo smells.

Let’s just say that I didn’t go to bed early that night.

And the Vicodin, while awesome, leaves me an awesome, drooling, high as hell mess, which means that I cannot parent Alex. Dave = workaholic, who for obvious reasons, like our house is not the same as work is not here much. So I cannot take my precious pills. I wouldn’t mind being blind so much if I were high.

Ain’t that the truth.

Dear Rabbi Shmuley,

I am currently breastfeeding my three month old son. I hate it passionately, but I realized that somewhere along the lines, if I could give him what is best for him (and it is, have no doubt), I would do so. For a finite time. As parents who willingly brought a child into the world, we are not allowed to behave as selfishly as we might want to do, which is simply put, part of being a parent, like it or not. Had we not been prepared to put our children’s needs before our own, at least most of the time, we would have either prevented the pregnancy or terminated it.

There is nothing in the world I love more than my children, except for my husband. I might even go out on a limb here to mention that I do actually love him more. Unlike my children, I was allowed to choose exactly who he is before I committed to him. Maintaining my marriage is an extremely high priority for me, as I am aware that my children may or may not remember some instance in which I messed up in one way or another as their mother, my husband will. In 20-odd years, my children will likely abandon me for their wives regardless of what I do, whereas my husband (let’s hope) will not.

I’ve been lucky enough to have children with two different men (OOOOOOOO!! And one was not my husband!!! OOOOOOOO!) who were both very interested in watching our children born. As I am totally aware, having seen any number of births, it’s a messy process, and it is not for everyone. Which is why I would never have requested/required that either man watch it. Both chose to do so, and neither experienced any diminished sexual interest in me. In fact, I would venture to guess that both of these men were aware that this is what the vagina was designed for and were able to separate the birthing vagina from the sexual vagina.

Normal mothers do not breastfeed for the sexual feelings, nor do they deliberately use their children as a shield to not engage in sexual behavior and if they do either of these things, there are significant other issues that require addressing. I actually like sex. New mothers and fathers are likely to avoid sexual intercourse not because breastfeeding can get in the way of it (unsure how, but this is a point you make), but because they are simply too tired to enjoy it. Personally, as someone who was at one point getting 5-6 hours of sleep a night in 15 minute increments, a 20 minute nap was far more appealing than a roll in the sack. Plus, as someone who ripped hole-to-hole with my first born, my privates were a bit tender for longer than the six week recovery I had expected.

Let’s be clear with one thing here, Rabbi, my body is property of no one else. Perhaps they didn’t teach you that at Rabbi school, but here in WASP country, we women are not property of our men or our children. We occasionally share our body with others, but this is our prerogative when and where we do so. My breasts and vagina are mine to use as I see fit and not how someone else would like. I can choose to breastfeed and I can choose to have sex. I can even do both (altho not at the same time; that’s sick), when I want to.

I have mentioned choices over and over again here, and that is what this boils down to: a choice. I can choose to put my relationship with my children above and beyond my relationship with my husband or I can choose not to. While breastfeeding or in other ways. And I refuse to apologize to anyone about my choices to do what comes most naturally to my body and the choices I make regarding who and what can use it when.

Respectfully yours,
Aunt Becky

P.S. I really liked your show until I realized how antiquated you are.

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