New Years Eve 2006/7 found Dave and I sitting next to each other on the couch, barely touching and not quite speaking. We sat and watched The DaVinci Code, which even stone cold sober made almost no sense to either of us. If a camera had caught us sitting there in silence watching a lame movie, you’d have assumed that we were angry with each other, but that could not be farther from the truth.
You see, we engage in a bit of magical thinking around here: the way that we ring in the New Year is directly correlated to how our year will be. The previous year, we’d gotten into a major fight and I’d huffily gone to bed angry and you know what? The year blew major ass. 2006 was one of the hardest and most stressful years in my life.
By contrast, 2007 was amazing.
January 2007 found Dave neatly ensconsed in Couvade Syndrome, eating about 2 dozen donuts a week and nesting like a momma-bird. It also hallmarked the only month during my whole pregnancy when I felt like a real human being, and I celebrated by buying Ben the only male-looking doll I could find, AND got a new toaster oven. Being a grown-up is so bloody dull.
February found me whining about many things. In fact, most of my pregnancy could be summed up by various whined complaints delivered at top volume to anyone within earshot. The farther along I got, the worse I felt, and less I posted to my old blog (I am Ren, should you be bored enough to go back and read that blog, and Stimpy is my friend, well, Stimpy. She introduced The Daver and I a fact which I am quite sure she regrets).
In March, shortly after my fabulous baby shower thrown by the aforementioned Stimpy, Joey The Mean Hamster passed on to the great hamster wheel in the sky. Here was a hamster that had been given to me by a classmate when I was in nursing school (it was a year that I couldn’t afford to buy Ben real Christmas presents and foolishly assumed that he would like a hamster. I was gravely wrong) and had survived an attack by two large kittens who actually preceeded him in death (they were mutants and their untimely deaths still make me weep), and was all the meaner for it. If you were to walk by his cage, he would do his best to punch at you and bite you from afar. Then I got even crankier, bitchier, and fatter as my pregnancy nearer it’s eventual end. I contemplated self-induction via coathanger and by the end of March begged my doctor to induce me himself (this was right before I contemplated the castor oil method. No, seriously. Not in my right mind) and I believe my direct quote to him was “I’d give birth in the back of a rusty Pinto right now if I could. Please, PLEASE help me!”
On March 30, 2007, my second child was born into this world.
April found me talking about my breasts an inordinate amount (I mean, come ON! How weird is breastfeeding? Answer: VERY) and found me in the throes of being a mother of two. Sorry about that.
In April, I started the month off talking about my big son’s semi-diagnosis (I never got him medically diagnosed by a doctor) and got a bit emotional, which I am blaming squarely on the postpartum hormones. Later, I discussed the strangest thing that I’ve ever seen once, but have now seen twice. I tried to give the baby away, but had no takers. I weighed myself for the first time postpartum and began the obsession about my weight that I STILL whine about. I’m so pathetic, it hurts. And what would a month be without a rousing discussion of my breasts, yet again (it beats me talking about my colon, but only by a little bit)?
PPD hit in June, and while looking back at this, I cannot honestly believe I made it through those times with my sanity intact. Alex is a wonderful person now, but back then he was pretty much an asshole (as babies are wont to do) and this was coupled by my miserable pregnancy. It was then when I decided that I needed to branch out and blog by myself, as my readership over at Mushroom Printing did not include people who were equipped to deal with someone going through a hard time. Problem was, I needed a name for my blog and between the blinding PPD and complete lack of sleep, I couldn’t think of a damn thing that encompassed how I felt. I’ve never pissed sunshine or roses about parenthood (nor do I care for blinkies or whatever you call them), but that doesn’t diminish my love for my children. I waited for the name to come to me, as these things always do.
27 was the age I turned in July and this birthday was as kind to me as a Mack Truck running over a small litter of fuzzy kittens. I wasn’t happy about getting older (27 sounds MUCH older than 26 BECAUSE IT’S CLOSER TO 30) and I was still being blinded by all of those nasty hormones.
On the upside of down, a name was hashed out. Although I fluxuated wildly between “Mommy Wants Whiskey” and “Mommy Wants Vodka” (as I’m much more of a whiskey chick myself) I eventually decided (after consulting my sources, aka The Daver, who voted for “Momma Wants Vodka”) on Mommy Wants Vodka. Obviously.
August found me in the thick of a bathroom remodel which had been intended as my birthday present. Turned out, because stripping all of the wallpaper was a complete bitch and a half, The Daver gave up on it until I took over. Later in the month, Ben turned 6 years old, thereby making me old as dirt.
September 8, my husband turned 29, and two days later, we celebrated our 2 year anniversary. You can see from the progression of Things That Need To Be Properly Celebrated, this is a busy-ass time of year. I also got nominated for some kind of blog award, which was super-odd to me as I had assumed that my readership consisted of some spam-bots and my husband.
I got beaten out, of course, by someone else’s ultrasound pictures (which was slightly offensive, only because hey, I wrote actual words down and didn’t just throw up some pictures) which I have no doubt were cute or something, but hey, the whole thing alerted me that someone aside from spammers was reading me. It was oddly flattering, so I decided to add some of my choicer posts from my other blog to my archives, which made it look as though this blog had been around a bit longer than it had.
October found me delighting myself with the thought of mentioning Shweaty Balls around my family at Christmas, and since that was done gleefully several times, my goal for Christmas 2008 is to work the word “boner” into polite conversation. Dave’s threatening to call in sick a year in advance.
November convinced me to stupidly post something every day, and I accomplished it WITHOUT RESORTING TO MEME’S! In a moment of sheer brilliance, I added an “About Me” page, which was ridiculously hard to write, but since all the cool kids were doing it, I had to as well. I also was randomly selected to win a prize for my participation in NaBloPoWhatever, but as my blog was down and the site master was unable to verify that I had indeed posted each day (I had), I was once again bypassed to win. I’m thinking that my new blog motto should read “Shafted TWICE!” or “I Like Being #2!” or maybe “I May Be #2, But I Can Still Kick Your Ass.” I’ve gotten used to almost, but never, winning anything at all (it’s more of a recurring theme in my life than I care to admit). I think if I actually did win something, my cranium might explode DOES NOT COMPUTE DOES NOT COMPUTE.
My father had a minor heart attack and spent over a week in the ICU in December, but now that he’s home safe and sound, it reminds me that although maybe I never will win at a dumb contest, I’m still very, very lucky. And I don’t care one teeny-tiny bit that I’ll likely never win a thing in my life. Because I win AT life (God I’m lame. Maybe I should quit my day job to become a motivational speaker).
It’s been a pretty good year around here at Casa de la Sausage, and I remain cautiously optimistic about 2008 (I don’t tempt fate by saying chipperly “It’s gonna be a GREAT year” because I know better than that). If nothing else, it should be another wild ride.
I hope that each and every one of Aunt Becky’s readers has a safe and happy New Year’s Eve tonight (I assume that I am one of the few lame-o’s who will be happily staying in this evening during Amateur Hour) and that you’ll join me in the New Year, hang over and all. Don’t worry, I’ll write quietly tomorrow.
Remember, if nothing else, your Aunt Becky loves you and would never touch you inappropriately.
(what are you guys doing tonight?)
“I wish I were with my dad!” Ben spat at me yesterday while we poked around the extravagently priced chic baby boutique (I about died to learn that the slipcover I’d picked up for Alex’s carseat was $140. For something he will likely destroy. AND BASED ON EVERYTHING ELSE IN THERE, IT WAS A DAMN BARGIN!). I guess I’d made the error of telling Ben that he did not need a Pacifier Pod of his own for Alex, the cold hearted snake that I am.
Never have such words cut so close to my heart before. “I wish I were with my dad!”
I once read a quote (at least I think I did) about how you have to start letting your children go when they start school, but I think you have to start much earlier. Like birth.
Although we made it work, Ben’s early childhood was not one of the easiest times in my life. Initially I had to go back to work at about 2 months postpartum (someone had to buy diapers and formula, and since Nat had been laid off and therefore lounged about his parents house all day, that task fell to me), and school began a month later. I wasn’t around much, as you can imagine, and even when I was, it was a constant barrage of how ineffectual I was as a parent (spoken by my mother), so I tried to be around even less. I was living under their roof while they paid for school, and although I resented hearing about how much I sucked on a daily basis, I knew from experience that fighting it was futile.
I soon gave up my dreams to become a doctor or virologist in order to earn a quicker more high paying degree, so that I would be able to support myself and my baby son when I graduated, instead of slogging along making $10/hour working at some shitty lab while I went to grad school. As well documented my hatred for my nursing is, I’m not trying to put myself up on the cross here, I chose it, I chose wisely with the best information I had available to me at the time, and I did it and I am not sorry about it. Just whiny.
As a baby, Ben was an odd duck (mayhap this is why I like the odd people that I meet), preferring to bond with his mobile, the grandfather clock and some ugly old knobs on my parents antique hutch. He had very little use for people in general, choosing instead to personify inanimate objects up to and including all 9 (well, now 8 but this was before Pluto was ruled a non-planet) planets and box number 3 from his advent calendar, which he slept with regularly.
Between his preference of inanimate objects to people and his schedule, which sends him to Nat’s on most weekends (well, when Nat doesn’t have anything better planned), I can honestly say that although he shared my body for 9 long months, we’re not all that close. You see, I’ve been forced to let him go for so long that I realized recently that I’ve never had him as my own. All of the mother-y things I do, I do for both of my children and I do it without feeling sorry for myself (something my own mother could take a lesson from), but I know in my heart of hearts, as Ben will always be on the Autistic Spectrum, only one of my children will understand all that I do and why I do it: Alexander.
Dr. Spock (in the only baby book I read with any regularity) reminds you that you love each of your children differently, and I see this as the truth. Ben and I coexist peacefully, and I love him dearly no matter how indifferent I appear on your computer screen, and there is nothing in the world that can change this, but Alexander is mine.
When I was pregnant with Alex, I had exactly one desire: that the baby be born to love me and genuinely like it when I am around. If that sounds a little sad to you, and it probably does, remember that although Ben loves me in the best way he knows how to, if Dave were to come home and announce that I had moved to Tibet for the next 6 months, Ben would accept this and move on with his day. Alex doesn’t like it if I so much as pee with the door closed.
Kids aren’t born to us to make us feel better about ourselves and right all former wrongs, nor would I expect them to, but sometimes they heal old wounds without even trying to. This is part of what I love best about Alex, he has redeemed me in my own eyes, but it’s only a byproduct of him being less Aspy than Ben. Alex has highlighted all that is abnormal about Ben.
Ben’s quirks make him who he is, and I love him dearly for who he is: one of the kindest, sweetest, most polite and thoughtful people I have ever met. Most of the decisions I have made about my life after he was born straight down to who I married have been to benefit him in some way or another, and I don’t begrudge this in the slightest. I am proud and honored to be his mother each and every day of the week, and I want nothing but the best for his life.
Without trying to, he successfully opened up some nasty festering old wounds, the type who lay dormat for years at a time, and I was so hurt by them that I could hardly speak. I gave him the silent treatment for the first time in his life and after he left to go with Nat I just couldn’t shake his comment (which to him, was completely innocuous, as Ben has no idea how I feel about Nat and his lack of true parental responsibility. “That’s more my realm” is a direct quote from Nat when asking why he hadn’t paid the dentist yet.) for the rest of the day.
I guess kids really do break your heart over and over again, don’t they?
Somehow, I suppose, I had mistakenly hoped that it would be his choice of wife that would have done it to me.
It starts preconception, I’m pretty sure. I mean, all you have to do is to have a hard time concieving Baby and all of a sudden you’re inundated by people telling you that they got pregnant while humping around in a hot tub, because “my/his boys can SWIM!” I like to imagine this sort of comment is well-meaning, because I hate to think of someone voluntarily trying to make someone else feel small, but I don’t honestly believe that.
In my heart of hearts I feel as though this is just another way someone else’s kids/sperm/egg/wives are better than yours. Why, didn’t you hear that Susie only gained 12.4 pounds with Junior who weighed in at birth at exactly 12.4 pounds AND DOING GEOMETRY? My own son was only born with the ability to pee on the doctor AND NOT EVEN IN HER MOUTH.
Once while I was working in the Special Care nursery, I inadvertantly got called into a conversation with a father who was examining the size of his son’s penis. He was convinced that it was larger then all of the other baby boys, and because his child was in Special Care, I didn’t bother to correct him. I agreed with his assessment and moved on while thinking to myself that baby penises look remarkably like canned Japanese mushrooms. Then I said a prayer to the Gods to let the guy let go of the size of his son’s wang. I mean, hey, I have two boys and the size of their respective genitalia is not something I care to think about, because that would involve me imagining them having The Sex and ew! those are my KIDS you’re talking about here.
While I waited for the doctor at Alex’s newborn checkup, it seemed that everyone wanted to comment on his size. I was genuinely shocked to be bombarded with comments about this as he was a completely average sized newborn, just as his brother was. But it seems as though the bigger the baby, the better, which confuddles me: I mean, if you’re already pushing out (or having pulled out of you) something roughly the size, shape and texture of a uncooked turkey, why would you want it to be grossly larger? Hell, I’m sure the Depends manufacturer would rejoice at the forthcoming lack of bladder control, but as for me, I prefer not to flappity-flap-flap in the breeze. But, like most things in this world, maybe it’s just me.
I mean, I’m GLAD that your child was born large and healthy and that he or she is consistantly in the 90% percentile for height and weight, but it honestly doesn’t concern me too much. I don’t tend to rely on charts or graphs to plot my child’s progress because I have better things to do with my time (also, neither of my kids were preemies, which DOES involve measuring these things pedantically), like organize my massive collection of toenail clippings or clean the bathtub drains with my tongue.
Ben is slightly undersized, but if you remove the extra baby-fat from me, I’m not exactly an Amazon myself, nor is his father. I figure that it helps him stay in his clothes for far longer, and move the hell on with my day. Alex, on the other side of the spectrum, against all odds (The Daver is about the size of a garden gnome, and as previously stated, I am not what ANYONE would call “tall”) has gone from being a teeny peanut to earning the nickname of “Slim.” Let’s just say that his rolls have rolls and I may have to begin powdering them to stave off the yeasties.
Babies, like people, tend to develop as they were programmed to do at their own pace, which you’d never believe in listening to people tell you about how your child is not on the mark for crawling, walking, sitting up and playing Parcheesi, but their child is WAAAAYYY ahead on ALL of their milestones. Be that as it may be, I hate to inform them that parental involvement isn’t really a huge factor in this, nature is as nature does (does that even MAKE SENSE?).
Honestly, what irritates me the greatest about this particular brand of competitive parenting is not that Little Bobby crawled at 5 weeks whereas Alex hasn’t crawled yet (oh, THE HUMANITY!), and Ben didn’t crawl until after he learned to walk, but it’s the gleeful and self-satisfied manner in which they inform you of this. It inspires me to Pimp Slap them, but usually I refrain and ask a pointed question about who their mother loved more. Then I walk away.
Mayhap THIS is why I have so few Mommy friends.
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