One of the first things that Dave told me when we first met, was that I should think about getting a “blog.” I promptly asked him what the hell a blog was (I genuinely thought that he was making fun of me), and when he explained, I shuddered. “Dude,” I said, “DUDE, no one would care about the stupid crap that I would write about. I mean, REALLY, what I ate for breakfast is not national news.”

Fast forward a couple of months, when my buddy Chris and I decided to start a blog of our own, sort of an anti-blog, kind of blog. We had fun with that for quite a long time, discussing the sort of things that no one in their right mind would tell the world (think: teenage boy humor), until I got pregnant with my second son, Alex.

Not wishing to turn our raunchy blog into a rant about my nipples, lactation, vaginal births, or newborns who look like garden gnomes (c’mon, they DO), I decided to branch out on my own. For me, this was no small feat, as I tend to be overly critical and shy about any creative endeavors. I’m not much of an artistic person to begin with, so the thought of not being able to hide behind my blog cohost was daunting. Plus, who would check for my many spelling and grammatical errors?

(Answer: no one. Well, Dave finally installed a something or other that’s supposed to check my piss poor spelling. Wonder if I’ll figure out how to use it. Answer: likely not.)

Here, in it’s most bare form, is the briefest of brief rundown of my life so far:

My first son, Benjamin was born in 2001, while I was a (mainly) single parent. I broke up with his father when I realized that I had no desire to allow my son to watch someone treat me like garbage. Then I chucked my dreams of becoming a doctor–along with half a degree towards that–and decided to become a bachelor’s prepared nurse. Despite my best intentions, I realized on the first day of school that nursing wasn’t the field for me, but my stubbornness won out, and I completed the degree anyway.

In early 2004, I met my future husband, mostly lovingly referred to as The Daver (Ben even calls him that), who may possibly be the greatest person on the face of the planet. He’s 50 million times the person that I could ever hope to be, and I hope that he never realizes that, lest he decide to move on to less bitchy pastures (for which no one could blame him).

We married in a lavish wedding, amid my protestations that we be married in Vegas by Elvis, in September 2005. Thankfully, the church did NOT burn down when I walked through it’s doors, which is no small feat considering my decidedly non-church-filled upbringing.

We moved twice that year (which is two times too many if you ask me. Daver is a nomad, I am not), eventually settling into an electric yellow house in my hometown, a suburb of Chicago. Life was chaotic, but not in a Britney/Kevin sort of way, but good.

Once I got pregnant with my second son, Alexander, I thought honestly that I was going to die. Between the hyperemesis gravidarum, the insomnia, the rib-spreading (DID YOU KNOW RIBS SPREAD? I’m pretty sure that wasn’t covered in “What To Expect” unless it was to tout their stupid pregnancy diet.), and the general discomfort, I spent most days making an ass-groove on the couch and wondering if I had actually died and THIS WAS MY OWN PERSONAL HELL.

Alex joyfully entered the world in March of 2007, after I complained to my doctor that I would be “willing to give birth in the back of a Pinto at this point.” I’m pretty sure that he realized that I WASN’T KIDDING and was generous enough to induce my labor.

In the spring of 2008, I suffered from two back-to-back chemical pregnancies, which was more of a hormonal up and down roller-coaster than even I’d expected. After that month, proving that my husband and I hump like bunnies, I fell immediately pregnant once again. I began spotting around Week 6, and immediately prepared for the worst.

On January 28, 2009 I was officially dethroned of my title of Reigning Queen of The Sausages. You could say we were pretty thrilled, especially since I’d been stimulating the economy one pink thing at a time. Which would have made for a cross-dressing boy, had he been a she.

Amelia Grace is living up to her middle name after having to have surgery on February 26, 2009 to fix a growth on the back of her head and handling it all with the utmost grace. While her first month in Casa de la Sausage has caused me more wrinkles and grey hairs than both her brothers combined, not a single one of us would trade her for the world.

Currently I stay home with my now three children, which, when I envisioned my life as an adult, never included anything quite so un-glamorous. I love my life fiercely, but some days I wonder what the hell I was thinking.

Doesn’t everyone?

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Stealing gives you herpes.