What are you looking at?

Yeah, that’s right. You. Right there. I see you, with that perplexed look on your face. That furled brow. That “who-the-Methuselah is this baby, and why am I getting an email from this person I had practically forgotten even existed?” look.

Your judgment is oozing through the screen. And trust me, as a baby, I happen to know a LOT about oozing.

But didn’t anyone ever tell you not to judge? I mean, come on. I’m just a sweet little delicate innocent baby.

A sweet little delicate innocent gurgling bundle of oozing joy with one thing to say: WTF?!?!?!?!

And by that, I mean, “What the holy-dinglemuff-squishmitten-nuggetmonkey FUDGE?” I know that may sound harsh, but desperate times call for desperate, really long and drawn-out profanities.

Mom tells me “fudge” is the worst word I can ever, ever, ever, ever use, and to only reserve it for serious times. And this seems serious.

Fudge it. That’s right. Fudge it. I’m here, and I’m going to fudging swear when I fudging want to. Mom does, after all. Why can’t I?

(Editor’s note: Mom here. I’m not entirely sure I told her “fudge” was the worst word ever, but fuck it — who am I to corrupt such sweet innocence? Oh yeah, and sweetheart: stop swearing. K? K.)

Anyhow, I’ve been through a lot. And I mean A LOT. Only a few months ago, there I was: floating around, content, surrounded by warm liquid squishiness. Sure, “Mom” (as she alleges she should be called) had been an emo hot mess for months, but I learned to cope. I liked my dark and bubbly home. Even though I was surprised to find myself there.

“Mom” says she was even more surprised. Brett too.

A quick aside: Yeah, I call him Brett. That’s what my big brother and big sister call him, after all. He keeps trying to call himself “Dad,” but my brother and sister disappear occasionally to go live with Dad and some woman named Marilyn. Can’t wait to meet Dad someday…

But I digress.

Anyhow, here’s the story of the past year. Or at least what they claim happened.

Supposedly, one day, Brett “proposed.”

Whatever that means.

Hey, I’m just telling the story. Don’t be a judger.

And everyone was all gooey and sappy and lovey-dovey and whatnot. But “Mom”? She was terrified. Horrified. Petrified. And every other word ending in “-fied.” Except countryfied. Or semideified. Or fructified.

(Editor’s note: Mom here…yet again. First, sweet baby, stop putting my name in quotes. Seriously. That’s my name. And “Dad” really is Dad. Secondly, “fructified” means “bore fruit.” So technically, I may have been fructified. But more on that later.)

So for her own reasons — which she claims she’ll expand on in a future post, along with some juicy details about certain people she says you all know and love — well, Mom and Brett decided to get married. Quickly. Like, one month after Brett popped the question.

Personally, I think it’s because Mom was scared and decided to just rip the Band-Aid off. I mean, is it just me, or does she seem, like, really punchy and skittish — particularly around men who claim their undying love and bricks and death metal rockers? Odd.

But anyhow.

In a remarkable bit of coincidental timing, nine months to the DAY after they got married, I was expected to make an entrance into the world.

Seriously. To the day. Mom says all y’all going all sing-songy with your “oooh…shotgun wedding…” You can all fudge off. Her words, not mine.

I’m a “wedding night” baby.

Whatever that means.

So, yeah…it seems I was a surprise. A complete, total, amazing, shocking, crazy, scandalous, silly surprise. At first, Mom called me the “alleged baby” — even though six home pregnancy tests, two ultrasounds and a blood test confirmed my existence.

There was much hand-wringing. And sobbing. And head-scratching. And more sobbing. And anxiety. And wailing. And soul-searching. And more wailing.

But you know what there wasn’t during this whole time? Writing. At least not on her “blog.”

Whatever that is.

(Editor’s note: “Mom” checking in. Dammit baby — now I’m putting my own name in quotes. Thanks a lot. Anyhow, is it a coincidence that there also was NOT any wine or Diet Coke during this whole time that there was no writing? Hmmmm…)

She claims she didn’t know how to process it all. That writing anything about me on her blog would mean I was real. Apparently she needed more proof than that offered by her growing baby bump, insatiable cravings for avocados, Häagen-Dazs dark chocolate chip gelato, melted cheese and Costco fro-yos (individually…not all mixed up…ewwww…) and the ever-pressing need to organize. Everything. Four times over.

There will be more details in the coming months about this whole mess of a year, but just as she heartlessly thrust me into the world a few months ago without a lick of warning, now she has heartlessly thrust me in front of all of you to explain her absence.

One year ago yesterday, she posted about her engagement. And today, on the anniversary-plus-one-day of that post, she asked me to introduce myself.

My name is Bryerlee Annabelle. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

the finger_web

(Editor’s note: What is that saying about the apple and the tree? Yeah, I’m screwed.)

So now she says I have to ask you all some questions. Here we go:

  1. What advice do you have for my mom regarding me, her “surprise” baby?
  2. Sure, Mom’s been busy this past year, and I didn’t even have a brain a year ago, so we all know what I’ve been up to. But what’s new with you?
  3. What exactly is a “condom” — and why does Mom tell Brett that I’m proof he clearly doesn’t know how to use one?

(Editor’s note: Ignore that last one, please. No need to answer. Seriously. And also, no need to worry about me turning all “Mommy Blogger” on your asses. I’m still me, I’m still jaded and I still have a LOT to say about the bat-shit craziness that is my life. I mean, “bat-shiz craziness.” There’s a B-A-B-Y in the room, after all. Oh well. F-U-C-K it.)

* Find this post on the awesome Carol Tice’s Friday link up party.