Go Ask Aunt Becky

Aunt Becky, this may sound like a frivolous question, given my many-year-happy-relationship with a NOT GAY dude. However, of the…ahem, more than 10 somewhat serious relationships I have had, over HALF have been with gay or bisexual men. Not OPENLY gay or bisexual men. The other kind – I am a many-year beard!

Not now, which is why my husband thinks I’m insane to dwell on this. And yet…I do. I check myself for residual gay-dude traits and wonder what it is.

You’re damn skippy I’d be dwelling on this, especially if my genitals resembled a vagina and not a penis and my chromosomes were, in fact, an XX and not an XY. I don’t know how you WOULDN’T develop a complex after being a beard for so many years.

But since so many of the gay men that I’ve known over the years have been some of the awesomest people I’ve ever met, I’d take that as a compliment. Rather than see it as “I turn men gay” I’d think of it as, these guys thought you were great enough to have a relationship with, and once the pressure of a relationship was there, it pushed the issue forward.

You were amazing enough to be their last relationship with someone of the opposite sex, obviously because you were just that cool.

I’ll turn this one over to my readers, because I’m interested to hear their perspective on this.

Dear Aunt Becky,

My BFF totally used to have my back. If my feelings got hurt, she would listen. If I was upset she was there to help. I could vent freely and without judgment. I was blindsided recently when all of a sudden I had someone do something rude to me, and when I went to talk to her about it, she told me that she did not want to comment on the situation since she was turning over a new leaf and trying not to “gossip”. Gossip? I was not asking her to yell the tale from the rooftops – I just wanted to be heard and sympathized with. I was not passing on info, this was something that was factual that happened to me…

What would you do, Aunt Becky, if your closest friend suddenly decided that if a problem you had involved another person, it was “gossip” and should not be discussed?

Signed,

Falling On Deaf Ears

Oh Gentle Reader, this HAS happened to me, and I remember that it made me feel like I was suddenly being a petty bitch. Really, I wasn’t, but it felt as though I was.

It sounds as though your friend has been abducted by aliens and has been replaced by a clone who walks and talks like her, but acts nothing like her, and I’m sorry for that, because, well, that’s depressing. Maybe the new alien friend will learn the customs of female friendship and realize that this is something that we do for one another. We listen and we get each others back when we need to.

Barring that, I’d suggest that you start a blog where you can freely complain about anything from Farmville on Facebook to how annoying wrapping gifts can be. Just…don’t use names or identifying characteristics. Trust me on that one. You DON’T want that coming down on you like a load of bricks.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I’ve been a mom for the last 13 years, most of it as a stay at home mom. I have 4 kids, a shitload of pets, and a hubby who can be a pain in the ass but is awesome nonetheless.

My question is about my brain. I have the attention span and brain power of a gnat now. (The “g” is silent.) Following complex thoughts, remember something other than appointments, and being able to read something longer than Chicka Chicka Boom Boom is… well… hard.

How can I wake my head back up with minimal effort? Cuz I’m lazy like that.

*scratches butt*

Wait…did you say something? I TOTALLY MISSED IT.

Hi Aunt Becky!

I am nineteen and I just miscarried my first baby. :\ The father had no idea that I was pregnant. My question is, do I tell him, even though the baby is gone? I feel like he would just be spiteful and make me even more upset than I already am… but does he have a right to know?

Thanks!

Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry that you had a miscarriage. I’ve had two and I know the hormonal ups-and-downs are terrible and that on top of everything else, I’m just so sorry. My heart hurts for you.

I don’t think that you need to tell the father that you had a miscarriage if you think that he’s just going to make you feel worse. You should find someone to give you some support, maybe a good friend, or someone close to you that you can really talk to. I know that a lot of local clinics and schools will have some sort of counselors that can arrange sessions to help you worth through some of what you’re going through because believe me, you’re not alone.

But no, I don’t think you need to tell him if you don’t want to. You should talk to someone, though.

Again, I’m really sorry. Picture Your Aunt Becky wrapping you up in a big fat hug.

—————–

As always, my Faithful Readers, please fill in where I left off, and rally around our friend who has miscarried her baby. She could use some love.

Preamble. (Part I)

What follows is not a birth story. What follows is what came after that.

And my warning to you, o! Internet, my Internet is this: what follows will probably be kind of boring. It may be self-indulgent and whiny. At times it may make no sense to you why I felt a certain way or why I still feel this way. What follows is probably never going to win me any blog awards or any new friends and I am okay with this.

Like anything else I’ve ever written–even the most banal of blog posts–I am writing it because I can’t not.

It must be told.

————–

My pregnancy with Amelia was not exactly a planned one. It wasn’t unplanned though, it just was. I hadn’t been back on birth control since Alex was born in March of 2007 and by May of 2008 I was pregnant for the third month in a row. The previous months had been marked by the hormonal roller coaster of back-to-back miscarriages, so when that pink line popped up for the third month in a row, it was almost by rote that I called Dave at work, told him the news and warned him not to get too excited.

Instead of immediately miscarrying, the pregnancy seemed to stick. Until about Week 6, when I began to spot. Having never seen a drop of blood with either of the boys, I immediately assumed the worst and prepared for the next miscarriage by calling the OB for another shot of Rho-gam.

(let me whine pointlessly for a moment and say this: I am pretty certain that they inject Rho-gam with a straw from McDonald’s. I have had 3 babies–one sans working epidural–and I swear, that stupid shot is always the worst part)

My heart was pretty heavy as we made our way to the OB’s the following morning and to add insult to injury, I was still nauseous as hell and bawling like an annoying small child. I’m sure the entire waiting room appreciated my sniffling and hiccuping. Alas, it was my turn to go back, and after giving about 4 gallons of blood (rough estimate) and determining that the bleeding had stopped and my cervix was tightly shut, I was sent for an ultrasound at another office.

The minute the tech inserted the camera up my pooter–after insisting The Daver stay in the waiting room, which, hello awkward–I saw it. She cast her pixilated, gummy bear heart on me and I was in love. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, went home and gorged on some Flavor-Ice. The following morning, the OB grimly called to inform me that my progesterone was somewhere in the single digits. This is, apparently, very bad.

So for the next twelve weeks, I was instructed to unceremoniously shove bullet shaped suppositories up the old lady bits twice a day, which trust me, as they melt, is like sitting in a pile of waxy spooge all day long. What I’m trying to say is that it was very, very pleasant.

But whatever, a little leaky vagina I could handle. The spotting continued on and off until I realized that perhaps I didn’t need to scratch the surface of my poor cervix with the suppository, and then it stopped for good. Everything was calm. Well, as calm as living with a monkey wearing a toddler suit can be, while your spouse is off fighting financial battles all day (and night) long during a huge crash in the markets.

(Lengthy boring aside #1: did I mention that The Daver is in finance? And that he had just accepted a position to become a manager when I fell knocked-up? Because yeah. The timing was awesome.)

(Lengthy boring aside #2: I feel I also must add here to give some additional information to those who haven’t been anxiously reading and rereading my (boring) archives and committing every one of my trite posts to memory. I don’t do pregnancy well. I get awful, crippling anxiety and mind-numbing depression while I cook my babies. It’s called prepartum depression. It’s very serious and it’s very real.)

But life trucked on for us all, the markets slowly sinking and Nat (my eldest’s biological father) coming by to predict the end of days every week or two. He’d take some time off in between to chastise my choice of, well, anything: car, house, lawnmower, you name it, he’d judge it loudly. Is it any wonder my trolls don’t bug me much?)

Anyhow. Moving along.

My 18 week ultrasound revealed not much at all. Baby looked like it might maybe kind of have a vagina of her own, but I was chastised by pretty much the entire office staff for “coming in too early.” I had a repeat US at 22 weeks which revealed that my daughter indeed had a vagina, a perfect heart and a perfect brain.

Obviously. She is my daughter after all.

Internet, I am telling you that when the tech told me that I was having a daughter of my own, I shed real tears. Despite my rocky relationship with my mother, I’d wanted a daughter so badly that I could taste it, but I just knew I was destined to be a mother of boys. Forever The Queen of the Sausages. I never thought I could possibly be lucky enough to have a daughter.

And yet, there she was, a blobby mess that I could ascertain very little from, although I was quickly pointed out the 3 lines (a.k.a. “the cheeseburger”) which signified that she was without penis. I couldn’t have been happier.

My very own daughter.

I was lucky enough to have a daughter.

Amelia.

My daughter.

Words cannot possibly describe the joy I still feel when I say that.

I have a daughter.

mimi-us