Thank the sweet Lord and Butter that I finally found someone to fill in for me so that I can listen to John C. Mayer all day long return to my magic closet of diamonds and free whore pants. Or really just catch up on everything that I’ve allowed to slip since I’ve been living at the doctor’s office all week.

Also: Band Back Together is making me pee myself with it’s awesomeness.

If I owe you something, I’m sorry. I’ll get to it as soon as I can.

If you behave like I owe you something: I’m not your bitch.

So thanks, Stark. Raving. Mad. Mommy. Now I can spend my day doodling Aunt Becky hearts John C. Mayer in big puffy pink hearts. Er…blinging out my toilet.

—————–

It should be clear, up front, that I don’t speak for the autism community as a whole.  I only know our experience, and I only speak for myself.  My son is verbal, so he speaks for himself.  However, most of what he has to say revolves around Lego Star Wars, so if you want to know more about that, we’re all set.

I recently had a conversation with my four children about what they want to be when they grow up.  The Peanut Butter Kid, who is six, announced that when she grows up, she wants to be a female boxer, or a doctor, or possibly both.  That’s an excellent career choice because if you keep beating people up, you never run out of patients to treat.  It’s genius, really.  Cookie, one of my nine-year-old twins, wants to be a mom, and a teacher, and volunteer at an animal shelter if she has time.  Little Dude wants to be a firefighter.  I love that he is just like every other four-year-old boy sometimes.  But then he started explaining, in great detail, what he loves about fire trucks, and how the ladders work, and then I remembered all the ways he is not like other four-year-old boys.

When the Pork Lo Maniac (my other nine-year-old) grows up, she plans to be a famous scientist who wears a squeaky motorcycle jacket and owns many pets.  She doesn’t want to ride a motorcycle, she just likes the jackets.  And she thinks that jackets that make squeaky sounds are the coolest fashion items ever.  She thinks she may invent a motorcycle with some safety improvements, like seatbelts and walls.  I asked if that was actually a car, but she said it will be much cooler than a car. Obviously. I think what she really wants is to be driven around in a Popemobile with throngs of adoring fans thanking her for her scientific achievements with offerings of pork lo mein.

I’ve been hanging out a lot with the Peanut Butter Kid, who’s on homebound schooling with some tummy troubles.  The other day, she commented that if the Pork Lo Maniac grows up to be a scientist, she can invent a cure for Asperger Syndrome.  It was a beautiful thought.  She cares about her brother, and sees that he struggles with many things.  Also, she whole-heartedly believes that her older sister can do anything.

I find it a little disturbing that there’s all this pressure to welcome autism with open arms.  Of course you love your child.  Of course you wouldn’t trade him in for anything.  But I think it needs to be okay to admit that you wish your child didn’t have to struggle.  I think it needs to be okay for people with autism spectrum disorders to say, “I’m totally cool with who I am, but sometimes it sucks monkey balls to have to work this hard all. the. time. to deal with neurotypical world.”

Example: Little Dude has a motor planning deficit.  He needs to be taught things explicitly that seem to be intuitive to other kids.  When his preschool teacher says to line up to go to the library, he lines up.  And then stands there because he doesn’t know that the next thing to do is walk forward.  When the kid behind him yells “Go!” and gives him a shove, it hurts him deeply.  And it stabs me in the heart.  And makes me want to punch the other kid in the throat, which is totally inappropriate, I know.

If I were June Cleaver, I would be more chipper about our whole situation, I’m sure.  I’d be all, “Gee, Ward, don’t you think you were a little hard on the Beav tonight?  You know, he’s been in ABA Therapy all day.  And we’re still working on getting his medication right.”

And then I would smile and fetch Ward a martini.  And then I would go in the kitchen and knock back a Valium with a gin chaser.  Or maybe that’s Mad Men I’m thinking of.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter whether I would cure it if I could.  I can’t.

For now, I know that Little Dude is at his happiest when I am at my most accepting.  I do accept him, with open arms and all my heart.  There are things about his Asperger that are both awesome and hilarious.  Like when he observes that an old guy at Target looks just like Emperor Palpatine.

But I wish some things weren’t so hard.

Things that keep me up all night long (allllllllllll niggghhttt looonnnggg!)

1) Salt and Vinegar Flavored Chips. It’s like a party in my mouth. Yet. Gross. Yet. Delicious. Yet. Gross.

2) This is the shoe I need:

I can buy it in a midget size six or a boat-like size twelve. My feet are a healthy size nine. Why must I know that this shoe exists only to be UNABLE to own it?

3) The Turn The motherfucking Tub Around Commercial.

…….enough fucking said.

4) What were these designers thinking?

No, seriously. Who was all, “WOW, let’s put a SHELL on the vagina of this dress! It’ll look whimsical and fresh and not at all like a fucking VAGINA! Right on top of the vagina! Sweet!”

Because they should be fired.

5) Why isn’t RuPaul my best friend?

6) How am I STILL number one on Google when you search for John C. Mayer? Is John C. Mayer responsible for my neck issues? Does John C. Mayer REALLY hate me?

7) What does “He shall be “Le-VON” mean?” Does it mean, “be Le-VON” or “believe on?”

8 ) Why did Elton John sing about it anyway? Because either way, that sentence makes no damn sense. I’m going to sue Elton John for lack of sleep and emotional distress. You all are witnesses. Sorry.

9) Are perms going to come back into vogue, too? The bang thing is bad enough. Because if perms are coming back too, I’m moving to…uh….Mars. Or wherever bangs perms aren’t.

10) These don’t seem much like deals to me:

Except that like everyone I know on The Twitter lives in Kansas City, so I could probably go there and not have to stay in a hotel. I could be all, IT’S BECKY, BITCH, and The Twitter would be all, COME OVER, and if they weren’t, I’d be all, I’M HERE, and come over anyway and then get drunk and vomit all over everything which is totally making me sound like the kind of guest you DO NOT want. WHOOPS.

Mostly, I want to be all, “IS KANSAS CITY, KANSAS,” and then, “IS KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI,” and take gratuitous pictures of myself posing in the different states.

Because I thought Kansas City was a state for like a week.

(shut UP)

These pictures will join my coffee table book, “Aunt Becky Visits Various Traffic Islands.” It’s my new goal to make a book of pictures of myself in all KINDS of Traffic Islands all over the country.

This means I need to start traveling. Immediately. Pranksters, this has to happen. I need to physically visit Traffic Islands. Starting…now.

So pretty much, I need to go to Kansas City. But the rest of the “deals” are hilarious.

PS. THIS:

(how do you clean it?)

—————-

What keeps you up at night, Pranksters? Also: AUNT BECKY MEETS TRAFFIC ISLANDS.

If I were a smart person, I would not have used my real name on the internet.

If I were a smart person, I would not solve problems by shrugging my shoulders and saying, “eh, I’ll figure something out,” then eating an Uncrustables.

If I were a smart person, I would have a greater five year plan than, “don’t die.”

If I were a smart person, I would actually sell the things I find in my closet, rather than donating them to charity.

Smart has the plans. Stupid has the stories.

Since I’ve been undergoing the great Purge Fest of 2010, I’ve been shocked by the amount of shit that I’ve managed to collect. I don’t like excess crap because it makes me unhappy, sort of how I feel when I’m chased by a flock of geese or if I have someone gleefully point out that I have misused a word somewhere in my blog (a-ha! She has made an ERROR! Let us POINT IT OUT TO HER!).

I’m in the process of moving my computer area upstairs so that I may watch my singing warthog videos in peace and possibly find a way to start a “career” or something (ed note: WHATEVER). Moreover, I want a space that is my own since my crotch parasites have taken over everything else.

Even though I cleaned out my closet a couple of months ago, I decided that it was high time to do it again. Especially since I finally went and bought new beside tables, lamps AND A DESK. I’ve never actually owned a desk before. Now I can properly watch my dancing dog videos on this:

You’re overwhelmed by awesomeness, I know.

Anyway, my tastes are delightful, I can tell that’s what you’re thinking. You’re not thinking, “who gave that girl a credit card because she has tastes like an overgrown monkey?” because THAT would be a cold prickly, NOT a warm fuzzy, Pranksters.

My closet, well, it needed some removal of crap. Mostly clothes that no longer fit. I’m now within 4 pounds of what I was when I got pregnant with Amelia, which means that I’m within 15 of what I was when I got pregnant with Alex, and that? FULL OF THE WIN.

That means, though, that I had a lot of clothes that needed removal. I’d thought about keeping them for when I have my Love Child, but I realize that by that time, I’ll want new clothes anyway.

I was hoping that I’d find my missing whore pants, now MIA since July, when I went through my closet, but no such luck. Those whore pants are gone baby, gone.

Whenever I do a gigantic purge, there’s a tiny part of me that wishes that I wasn’t afraid of eBay. I might make a couple of bucks selling my old crap if I wasn’t such a pussbag. Charity, I remind myself, is good.

My closet seems to reward this.

The last time that I did a purge I found, I shit you not, a small bag of diamonds. They were, of course, my own diamonds, but still, diamonds. I also found a pair of patent leather Mary Janes that I’d forgotten that I’d bought.

INSTANT WIN.

(I don’t know what one does with a bag of diamonds besides say, “I have a bag of diamonds,” but you know)

This time, however, as I approached my closet ready to do battle, I was expecting a bag of poo. Certainly, lightening doesn’t strike twice and frankly, with the week I’ve been having, poo would probably be more than I deserved.

Instead, I found more diamonds. A pair of earrings. Certainly more useful than a bag of loose diamonds.

Then, I found this:

A coupon for a free pair of new Whore Pants.

Huh.

Guess I have a Closet Fairy.

Wonder if I can ask it for a smaller ass.

When the Urgent Care doctor offered me a shot of Dilaudid, I practically jumped on top of him and humped his leg. Had my neck not been spasming so badly, I probably would have.

For someone who claims to “want vodka,” I’m not much of a drinker, so the occasional narcotics use is about the closest I can get to altering my reality, and I was in such excruciating pain that had he told me that “licking the toilet might help a little” you would have found me bathing it with my tongue, no questions asked.

It was my second trip to Urgent Care in as many days and while normal people would have taken care of the migraine that I’d had since the previous weekend, not one of you can call me “normal,” so I’d waited until the pain was bad enough to make me weep. Then I’d gone in to Urgent Care. Twice.

After I’d sat in the grimy waiting room, being exposed to various forms of small pox and the bubonic plague, I was about ready to lop off my head and be done with the whole affair when I was called back and eventually offered the Dilaudid. That’s when the angels began to sing on high and the heavens opened up upon me. The idea of relief was almost more than I could stand.

I’d never had Dilaudid before, but I knew it was The Good Shit, and like I said, the pain was so intense I was about ready to find a voodoo doctor to remove the hex on my neck.

The nurse came in to administer the shot. She warned me that “it might sting a little,” but after three babies and two miscarriages, I’ve had RhoGAM a jillion times. RhoGAM is an immunoglobulin given to Rh-negative pregnant women. Immunoglobulins are thick, viscous serums that are administered via a McDonald’s straw right into the butt muscle. They hurt like hell.

So I was all, ‘WHAT THE FUCK EVER, LADY, YOU KNOW WHAT KINDA PAIN I’M IN?’ but I didn’t say that because if I was rude, she might have withheld the delicious drugs.

But holy fuckballs, that shit HURT. I walked around the Urgent Care clinic, trying to pick up Ebola and Dysentery (Oregon Trail makes it look so glamorous!) to try and get the medication to disperse, but damn, it hurt.

After about ten minutes, it stopped hurting, and then I felt pretty high. Like I might want to start making snowflakes with the picture of the sinuses on the walls so that I could glue them to my body.

I tried to look at something on my iPhone but the words melted together into a deliciously funny singing purple cat. I laughed at the purple cat. Silly kitty, didn’t he know that cats weren’t allowed at the doctors?

Just as I was batting at the bubbles that filled the room, a weird thing happened: my face began to itch. Then my chest. Then my arms. I scratched and scratched and scratched. It didn’t help. It did, however make me look like I’d been stuck in the roto-rooter.

Somehow, the nurse who came to cluck over my insanely low blood pressure didn’t notice my scratches.

But I was forced to sit there, scratching myself like a monkey as the doctors made sure that I streak naked around the clinic screaming about aliens and dingoes. I couldn’t, you see, I was too itchy. Also, where the bubbles that had appeared were once my friends, now they were horrible vile creatures that made me want to puke.

I laid on the cot peeling off layers of my epidermis trying not to vomit as the bubble-people attacked me.

Eventually, the Urgent Care doc deemed me fit to leave and was in the process of being wheeled out when I mumbled, “sorry I look so bad. I’m all itchy.”

With that, I was promptly wheeled right back in and was given a big ass dose of epinephrine and prednisone.

Stimulants.

(CNS) Depressants plus stimulants = a fucking nightmare. My heart raced, I openly wept and I tried not to vomit on myself.

Eventually, I was discharged and crawled into my bed.

The following morning, I made an appointment with a chiropractor.

If this doesn’t work, anyone know a good voodoo doctor?

(also: looking into a breast reduction. No, seriously, the doc thinks it could be my rack.)

————-

If you’ve entered the Pulling a The David Cook for Charity (and a year’s worth of Cold Stone), please go here and double check that your entry is up on the list. If it’s not, due to some error on my end, let me know so that I can add it before I do the drawing.

—————-

Over at Toy With Me, I wrote a letter to the bullied gay teens.

I don’t like stuff.

Okay, wait, no, I like diamonds and other precious stones, and things that sparkle, but besides that, I’m not someone who holds on to mementos and feels good about it. I don’t look into my cabinets and feel fulfilled that I’ve held onto that “just in case” crap. It makes me feel tied down and unhappy.

Since I’ve moved into my house, I’ve always just sort of made do with what I’ve had rather than try to make any part of it my own. There have always been excuses as to why I’ve never bothered to save up for that new chandelier or the curtains or the Elvis-on-velvet-painting that would make me smile when I saw them. I am the sort of person who is affected by my environment, and somehow I didn’t think that having not one single room that reflected my personality would affect me.

It has.

It’s time to stop.

I’ve started the Great Purge. It’s time to get rid of all of the stuff that I have lying around that I simply do not need or want. There is a ton of it and I hold onto it because I simply have felt that I should. I know that I shouldn’t. The Salvation Army will be immensely happy to see me coming. If I were wise, I’d eBay it, but I’m not, so I won’t.

If I find anything good, I’ll offer it to you guys. (Like the laptop I’ve used twice. Talk about a stupid purchase. I need to sell that. *sighs*)

I’ve been looking into hiring painters and finding someone to rip out the carpeting. I’m allergic to the dogs and I need to get it out of here. Even if it’s expensive. I’ve picked out some paintings and some end tables and will continue to try and find some things that match my gloriously tacky tastes. Think bedazzled toilet seats as wall art. If you guys have any decorating tips or places you like to buy stuff, please, I’m all ears.

I’m just tired of looking at stuff I don’t like and thinking, “someday, SOMEDAY.” Life is way too short for that shit.

I’m famous for all-or-nothing thinking and it’s only recently that I’ve realized that making the house my own doesn’t have to be something I do all in one fell swoop. I need to start somewhere.

Because I’m worth it, too. My happiness does matter. Somewhere along the lines, I’ve forgotten that.

Simply put: I’m starting over. One bejeweled bust of Elvis at a time.

It feels fucking great.

———————–

Tonight at midnight CST, I’m ending the Pulling the David Cook for Charities Prank. If you want to win free ice cream for a year from Cold Stone, you have until then to get your posts in.

I want you all to know that I have grown my hair out and shaved my chest hair just like this guy. So if I accidentally turn my head and hair-whip you with my locks of love, just know that it’s because I put the eeeee in Sweetest Day. Anyhow, Becky asked me to fill in for her today, so here I am.

Dear Aunt Becky, The Daver,

So, my NOT husband has no friends. And is absolutely okay with this. He works in construction and all the other guys he works with are either fresh out of jail or drug addicts, so it makes sense to not to be friends with those types. But should I feel better or worse that I never have to complain that he’s out at the bar all night with his buddies? Should I do like the movies and set him up on “man dates”?

He really thinks that it’s okay to not have friends, he says that he has enough with me and our son. Which is flattering but at the same time, what the hell is the matter with him?? I know he’s a little antisocial but you would think that he would want some sort of guy talk once in a while right? Am I over thinking this? Should I just be happy that he’s not out at the bars or strip clubs every weekend leaving me alone with the kid?

I totally know how this goes: Maybe he does want some sort of guy talk, but if he’s like me, there’s a limit to how much time he wants to spend seeking out friends vs. doing things he already knows are satisfying. I know I find the thought of actually *trying* to make friends pretty tiring, so I generally wait until I run into someone who I do enjoy and then find some times to hang out with them. Even so, I certainly don’t make it out to the bars or strip clubs (which are not really my thing either, so I go pretty rarely anyhow) outside of the occasional lunchtime pub stop or quick-beer-after-work, so maybe I have the same problem!

I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s totally cool to not be super-social, and it’s fine to choose family over other people, as long as he knows he’s free to establish friendships when and how he sees fit, and that you support him either way.

–d

Dear Aunt Becky, The Daver,

My boyfriend is the sweetest, most wonderful guy on the planet and I feel incredibly lucky to have found such a gem after my last few horrible relationships.  Everything in our relationship is working wonderfully but there is one problem.  His mother.

Aunt Becky, I have NO IDEA what I may have done to this woman but she doesn’t like me at all.  At first my boyfriend tried talking to her about it but she would just change topics and try to ignore that he brought it up.  He never got any straight answers.  We’ve now been together for about a year and I thought things would be getting better, but they aren’t.

My boyfriend keeps telling me to just hang in there and that he will keep trying to talk to her about it and find out what the problem is.

I’m trying not to let her feelings bother me too much, but I can see it becoming a major problem soon since our relationship (the one with the boyfriend, not the mother) is getting more serious.  I feel like I have exhausted every effort to get to know her better and to let her get to know me so we can move past this issue, but I feel like nothing is working.  I’m not perfect, but I’m not a horrible person for someone to be dating either.  I am polite, dress appropriately, and always ensure that I’m putting my best foot forward when I’m around his family (not that I don’t normally do all of those things anyway).

What should I do here?  I’m so frustrated with trying but know I cannot just give up since it will probably affect my relationship with the boyfriend.  HELP!

Sincerely,

Out of Ideas

Dear Out of Ideas,

You can pick your nose, and you can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your friends’ nose. Or family.

I say, you’re dating HIM, not his mother. Sucks to be so harsh, but if he is just as mystified about it as you are, and it hasn’t affected your relationship over the year you’ve been together — then all you can do is simply let it go.  Not give up, mind you — when you are presented with an opportunity to understand and figure out whatever the issue is, then go for it — but let go; it’s clear that the issue is hers, not yours, and there’s nothing you can do except be yourself and enjoy your relationship with this super-sweet guy. Don’t let your concern that it might affect things later turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy!

-d

Dear My Most Super Rad Aunt, The Daver,

I have been having an internal dilemma lately. I have this fantabulous boyfriend who is crazy cute and super trustworthy. WE live together and he is pretty much the shiznit. However waaaay back in the day I accidentally read a very old email from his ex gf (said ex tried to get him back in the first month of our relationship, he chose me duh). In this email she expressed her uhm….excitement at the prospect of him once again sticking his magic meat stick in her pooper.

Now he has asked to do this with me before and I’m not really down with it. I’ve tried it before and just wasn’t a fan (although it wasn’t with him). It’s just something I’m not too jazzed about doing again. Well anyway down to the question. I’m way paranoid that he liked it a ton with her and is like, missing something with me. Oooor that he may think about it or think she is cooler or more rad because she was down with the dirty ya know?

So should I just suck it up (not literally) and let him try it out? He insists that he doesn’t care and/or think about her or what he used to stick where. But I still can’t decide. Bestow your wisdom on me…or just give me a really good cut/blow someone up joke to make me feel better. Thanks!

Amanda

Dear Amanda,

Sex should be fun.

Sex is most fun when both people are enjoying it.

So no — if it really is a turnoff for you, then don’t point him at your pooper, especially not over fear of some ex who he already decided wasn’t good enough. Guide him to something else, something that really gets you going, a position or touch or whatever, and make that the experience he craves in bed. Trust me, it’ll be hotter for him if it’s really hot for you, too — and trying to do something you just aren’t into? Not hot.

And finally, a good relationship isn’t just about what you do in bed. From what I can see, you are both cooler AND more rad for being willing to put his needs ahead of your own in an effort to make him happy. So he’d better appreciate it, or I’ll send Aunt Becky over to cut him AND blow him up. (I know, weak, but I’m just not as funny as Aunt Becky, if you can believe that.)

–d

When I first started blogging, I found myself fitting in, not with the other mom bloggers, but with the fringe groups. The infertility bloggers, the baby loss bloggers, the special needs bloggers, those were people I could identify with much more so than the people I was supposed to fit in with. Maybe I hadn’t lost a child, maybe I hadn’t struggled in that very same way, but I had struggled in my own way.

We were the outsiders. The misfits. We had stories that no one wanted to hear about. Elephants sat at our tables, in corners and we were forever on the outside of normal, looking in. It’s the natural progression, I suppose, that I would create a space for us to gather. I’m proud of that. There are many of us outsiders. So many more than I’d thought.

When my daughter was born sick, it was no surprise that it was these people that came to my side with swords to help me slay my dragon, fluffy tissues to wipe the tears, and a barf bucket for when it all came to be too much.

I have an email folder that I’ve carefully saved every email I’ve gotten from that time that someday, I will print out to show my daughter. Most of the emails are from the people like me. Like most of you. The outsiders. The people who have been through hell but know how to make the ride a little…easier.

Today is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss day. Every year, I do a Wall of Remembrance for the people who have picked me up, dusted me off and wiped the barf off my face when I needed it most.

For that, I owe them everything.

According to the Center’s For The Disease Control’s Website, about 1 in every 100-200 births in the United States results in a stillbirth. The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates that 4 million stillbirths occur yearly worldwide. The numbers for neonatal and postnatal deaths run into the tens of thousands.

Those numbers seem large to me, but even after having to take a statistics class to get through nursing school I can’t say that I’m much of a numbers person. My son, he likes numbers, which is why he’ll be off saving the world, one string of code at a time, while Your Aunt Becky sits here, mouth breathing and occasionally wondering aloud, “Is the INTERNET working?”

Numbers aren’t my thing. People are my thing. 1 in 100-200 sounds like a hell of a lot bigger number when you attach faces to those numbers. Faces, stories and names. People. My friends. My nieces, my nephews, their parents. Tables forever missing one. Lives cut short. Unlived.

Still born. Born still.

My friends. Their children.

Shale

Matthew

Charlie

Cora

Thalon

Maddie

Peyton Elizabeth

Hannah

Sarah Kay

Paige

Ashley

Hannah

Baby Morgan

Baby Twin lost at 8 wks

Kiara Jolie

Jellybean

Baby C miscarried at 12 weeks on 1/7/07

Robin

Brian

<3 speck, Peanut, and Bean <3

Mindy’s three angels

Baby Jersey Girl Gets Real

Caleb

Gabriel

Anne & Jed’s babies

Sydney

Athena Rose Moore – 24 weeks Gestation (2nd loss, only one named)

Baby 1 – 9 weeks

Baby B – Twin to my 13yo, 12 weeks

Baby 2 – 9 weeks

Baby JP

Kathlyn

Baby Cherry

Nicholas

Ellis

Tevin, Taylor & Tristen

Elijah Michael

Brenna

Kherrington Faith

Baby H and Baby Boy H

Kalila

Baby J A and Baby J B

Anna

William

Robert Alan

Isabel Grace

Maddy

William Henry

Lilee

James and Jake

Aodin

Selena- lost pregnancy at 9 weeks

Callum

Sarah

Connor

Liam

Samuel

Jacob Lane

Caden

Masyn

Olive Lucy

Seth Milton

Abigail Hlee

JoeJoe Sherman

Baby Nick

Gabriel Anton

Ryan

Jonathan

Devin Alin

Jacob and Joshua

Baby K, Gabriel Connor, Christian Elliot and Andrew

Emmerson

Baby Kuyper

Mara S.

Nathan Michael

Eva and seven additional losses

Timothy, Taea, and Thomas

Kyle S.

John Addison

Raime, Elora & Connor

Ava and Nathaniel

Rose

Micaela, Angelica, and Frankie

Donald Angus

ETW’s seven losses

Becca’s twin siblings

Piper Isabelle

Libby’s Baby

Baby Cline

Addison Hope

Ryne Moyer

Marcus Reeves

Julian Ulysses

Becky

Caleb

Sean Isaac

Clayton and Skylar

Jessica Anne

Paul James

Ashlynn Brooks

David Lee

Babies Boone

David

Olcott-Lueke angels

Baby A and Baby B twin girls

Baby Girl B and Baby Boy A

Becca’s Twin Siblings

Jackson

Kaitlyn Grace

Brennan

Ellery

Robert Daniel

Quinn

Josie Ree Smith

Isabel

Issac

Samuel and Amelia

Draven Fredrick

I’ll add any names to this list so if you’d like me to add a name, please don’t hesitate to email me aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com or leave me a comment.

I will be cross-posting this to Band Back Together as well. We also have a baby loss, child loss, and miscarriage category over on that site, so any stories you’d like to share over there would be more than welcome. The site has two loss mommas as founders.

At 7 pm tonight, October 15th, A Day To Remember, I will burn a candle in memorium.

Dona nobis pacem.

(give us peace) Lord, give us peace.

2010 was the Year of Bringing Aunt Becky Back, after realizing that I’d lost myself amid the piles of shitty diapers, colic and teething babies. It’s a hard balance, being Becky and being Mommy. Kids are notoriously selfish creatures I realized that if I couldn’t be Becky, as herself, in addition to being Mommy, I was never going to be happy.

I started the year off by starting my Phoenix tattoo and resolving to find my missing pieces.

The tattoo was initially an outline of a phoenix:

I began searching for My Missing Pieces.

I knew I wanted to be a writer, since the whole nursing thing wasn’t going to work (what with not liking to take orders from other people and stuff), but breaking into Old Media wasn’t happening. As a member of the New Media, Old Media took a look at me and got all huffy. Fine, I thought, BE that way, Old Man.

Back to the drawing board I trundled.

While I tried to figure out what to do with the rest of my life, I realized that it was also time to start being kinder to myself. I gots my hair did, bought some purdy clothes, and lost a bunch of weight. My body treats pregnancy like a famine, so every calorie I put in goes straight onto my ass. I could probably eliminate the middle-man and stick the food directly onto my ass.

Either way, I knew it was time to start putting myself in nice clothes again. Cosmo may have mostly taught me that a magazine about “me” was actually about pleasing “him” but they also did tell me that if I looked good, I felt good. Cosmo, as much as I hate to admit it, you won that round.

Still, I tried to figure out what I was supposed to do with myself while I waited for my trophy husband. I’ve been looking for a career since I scrapped medical school for nursing school and I’m not blond enough to be a trophy wife. I’ve needed something, anything, to make me, Your Aunt Becky, feel all warm and gushy inside.

I’ve carefully filled in my Phoenix tattoo as I’ve waited:

Eventually, I knew I’d figure it out. I always do.

July hit, and my life fell apart. I hate to be all maudlin and all “WOE IS ME,” but it was a fucking mess. The realization that I’d made all of the mistakes that I’d always told myself I never would broke my heart. I’m not sure I’ll ever quite be over that.

It’s like I betrayed my younger self and I’ve been slowly picking up the pieces ever since. If there is a good side to this, it’s that I’m finally dealing with all of the shit that I didn’t realize I hadn’t dealt with. Therapy, it’s good. Especially if you’re as narcissistic as I am.

It was around that time that I was able to reconcile what I hadn’t before. If I couldn’t make it in the Old Media world, it was time to do what I knew best: The Motherfucking Internet. Maybe it was time to get off my dimply ass and use my blog to launch something new; something more useful to the world.

So with the help of more people than I can ever thank, we did that. Band Back Together was formed. A place where anyone can go to put down their stories. Their stories of heartache and triumph. Of demons and light. Of laughter and love. It doesn’t matter who you are or how many hits your blog gets, over there, we’re all the same. We’re all in it together.

It’s not even close to reaching it’s potential, as one Prankster put it today. I believe the site will do so much good. It already has.

For me.

Running Band Back Together will never make me rich and famous. It will never send me on speaking engagements around the country or net me fame and fortune. I’ll never attract advertisers that drive dump trucks full of cash to my door just the way my dirty mouth scares them away from me here.

That, Pranksters, is just fine with me.

What Band Back Together is doing is more important than that. What I do here is all me. And being me, well, that’s worth more than anything.

It’s redemption.

Last week was pretty much the best week ever. It was one of those weeks where everything, for once, just fell into place. Even my therapist and I joked, “you’d better watch out for falling anvils this week.”

So far this week hasn’t been the absolute antitheses of last but I do have a case of the Bluey-Blues. It’s mostly related, I think, to a migraine that I’ve had since Saturday. I’m tired of migraines and after awhile I do end up feeling kind of sad. Pain has a way of doing that to you, I guess.

Last night, I was determined to make myself feel better in the only way I know how: bedazzling things.

Now, you all know that Your Aunt Becky is not crafty, right Pranksters? If I tried to bedazzle anything, I’d end up gluing my face to the wall or accidentally bedazzling my cat. I’m not crafty. I’ll never be crafty. I’m okay with this.

So when I popped onto The Twitter and said that I was going bedazzle something, and quickly, I meant that I was going to BUY something sparkly. Because, OBVIOUSLY.

My go-to thing to buy when I’ve come down with a case of the bluey-blues are necklaces. I’m a fan of proFANity, but I’m also a huge fan of things that make me sparkle like a diamond. Pretty sure I’m part crow. Or magpie. Or, at the very least, octopus.

I’d been meaning to buy a Becky Necklace to match my Becky Belt for years. Last night, I thought happily to myself, was the night! The necklace, though, had to be sparkly (not real diamonds, of course), unlike my belt, which is a drab silver. That was my one stipulation, and I figured that would be no big deal.

I set my happy fingers to google and went to work.

I found many websites where I could easily make a “BECKY” necklace. That wasn’t going to do. I required bling.

I found a website where I could make a BECKY necklace out of diamonds. That also would not do. (if I am going to make a horrifyingly tacky necklace out of diamonds, I will go to the diamond district, thank you)

I found a website where I could add a single crystal to my BECKY necklace. Also, not enough.

It seemed that absolutely nowhere could create the masterpiece that I wanted. I simply couldn’t believe it. Certainly, I was not the only tack-a-rific person out there.

The best I came across was this:

I mean, not the Corinne, but “BECKY” because, obviously. But those aren’t crystals, they’re bits of silver. Which photographed well, but I’m not sure it will be as full of the awesome under the the lights of day. Which make me wonder, is it living up to it’s full bling potential? I can’t be sure.

Google, you’ve failed me. My bluey-blues have returned where they could have been easily fixed by a tacky necklace with my name in blinged out letters.

That makes me full of the bluey-blues, Google.

P.S. Pretty sure I’ve lost all “Becky” privileges. I will forever be known as Aunt Becky. EITHER WAY, I WANT A BLINGY NECKLACE WITH MY NAME ON IT, GOOGLE.

One of the things I looked forward to most about having a daughter was knowing that for at least a couple of months, I’d be able to dress her up in frilly little dresses. After two boys, I’d been eying all things pink hungrily for so long that I was in ecstasy when I was finally able to cross into the pink.

Fortunately, my daughter seems to love dresses. She also has her own tastes, something that I can completely approve of. I was the same way as a child. My mother tried to shove me in her Polyanna dresses and denim overalls and I rebelled. Occasionally, she won, but more often than not, she didn’t.

(she won with the stupid fucking bangs. Those bangs haunt me)

My daughter a Mini-Hulk. If she doesn’t get her way, she will lay down on the ground and kick and scream for hours until we can distract her. It’s unbelievable. If I wasn’t suffering from permanent hearing loss from her shrieking, I’d probably find it hilarious.

Normally when it comes to clothes, we don’t do battle. Not yet, at least. I’m aware that these battles are coming, but for now, we have an easy peace.

When the Pottery Barn Kids catalog came in the mail, my son Alex immediately zoomed in on his Halloween costume: “Spike, the *ahem* MANLY beautiful butterfly.”

The pictures are going to go up under a SPOTLIGHT in my hallway. NO ONE is going to miss this. Including all of his future dates. Payback for being the most unpleasant baby ever.

Ben, the 9-year old, is going to be a pirate. *snooze*

That leaves my darling HULK SMASH daughter to costume. Initially, I was thrilled to buy her a costume. I’ve always delighted in dressing my children absurdly for Halloween.

I give you this as evidence:

My son, the Halloweenier.

I’ve been excitedly pouring over Halloween costumes for Amelia. Would she be a peacock? A mermaid? A ballerina?

I didn’t want to purchase something without some inkling of her approval, knowing her propensity to destroy entire villages with her HULK SMASH anger, so one by one I’d hold up the costumes only to be rejected time and time again.

Clearly, my toddler didn’t understand the concept of Halloween. And I couldn’t explain it to her.

Why, you say, Aunt Becky, why don’t you just leave her be and let her wear normal clothes trick-or-treating? Well Prankster, I’d respond gravely, I’m terrified that the moment she sees her brothers in costume, she’s going to go apeshit. And when Amelia goes apeshit, the world cowers in terror.

So, when I was picking up some disposable Old Navy clothes, I threw a princess costume into my shopping cart. It was cheap and worst case scenario, I figured that she could use it to play dress-up with if she chose another Halloween costume.

Excited to show her the costume, I carefully unwrapped it and made a big deal out of presenting it to her, figuring a little pomp and circumstance could only help my cause.

I handed it to her and I swear to you Pranksters, I have never seen my daughter, the one who loves dresses and tutus, more disgusted by something in her life. She ripped the costume from my hands, threw it on the ground in horror and if she hadn’t been wearing a diaper, I swear she would have taken a piss on it. I picked it up before she could tear it apart with her teeth.

I was shocked. Also: horrified. I would probably have cut someone for that costume as a child.

I guess she won’t be wrestling me for the title “Princess Sparkle, Sparkle” any time soon. Somewhere, my mother is chortling, thrilled that I have a clone.

Also: I am so screwed.