Part of parenting involves giving of one’s time, energy and knowledge. I don’t generally have a problem with this except for when it comes to math homework. Then I scurry off into a dark corner (usually my pantry, where I keep my booze) and wait until they figure it out for themselves. I don’t want my children to discover how incredibly useless I am when it comes to basic math skills. They’ll figure it out for themselves soon enough. Why rush it?

Today’s lesson in parenting will not involve any math. It will, however, involve chocolate chips, sugar and cracking some eggs. My kids want to learn to bake cookies and who am I to stand in the way of their dreams? I plan on sitting at the counter, supervising in a very serious manner and licking out the bowl. Because cookie dough is very serious business.

Somebody could get hurt if they tried to get between me and that raw sugary goodness.

Of course, while my children toil away to serve me with warm, fresh, gooey cookies, I will be letting my inner freak out, to groove to the beats that soothe my soul. Go ahead, laugh at me. I’ll be stuffing my face with heavenly confection and jerking about like a chicken having epileptic fits. But I will be enjoying myself while doing it.

I’ll leave you this cheesy goodness as my gift to you. Since I can’t won’t share my cookie batter with you, I will at least offer you this stinky fromage. I’m thoughtful like that. Enjoy!

In my neck of the woods there are many businesses that are home to cats. One particular bar in our neighbourhood has a very well groomed resident cat who is quite friendly. In fact, the owner has a rule that no customer may order a drink without having the kitty sit in his lap and groom herself for a while.

He wants to be sure that all his customers can hold their licker.

Hee hee.

I love Saturdays. Today is the day I can kick back, crack the whip, and watch my little servants children clean my house. Of course, they don’t do a very good job, but when your vision is blurred by the mommy juice, everything just sparkles so purdy-like.

While my little slaves, and please note, I didn’t strike the word ‘slave’. Why bother denying it? After all, I figure they owe me. I gestated those lil’ buggers for ten months (cuz they refused to leave the womb like normal babies), got stretch marks and a permanent hemorrhoid for my effort. When they decided to vacate the premises to explore the world awaiting them, they burst forth with such gusto that they left my poor vagina torn and tattered. And let’s not get into the horrible things they did to my nipples. I have since endured the indignities of having to clean up all manner of body fluids and solids, have been repeatedly infected with plague-like germs, have been called to the principal’s office more times than a little boy with ADD and have had to eat more ketchup-covered foods than a human should be made to.

So yes, my slaves. While my slaves scrub (half-assed, admittedly) and polish, and generally try to make our home presentable, I like to kick back with my coffee and Bailey’s, grab a book, and relax. Occasionally, I will look up, and point out where they missed a spot. Because I’m thoughtful like that.

If they are really nice to me (re: don’t whine too loudly) I will let them play music whilst they toil. Because I am a big music lover. Nothing soothes the soul of this beast like melodic harmonies blaring from my antiqued stereo system. So, when the lovely Southern Mom of 2 tagged me for this musical meme, I was delighted. And fearful.

Because now you will all know my lack of taste doesn’t just extend itself to cheap wine and smelly puns. It is awful across the board. The rules of this particular meme, if you are unaware, are that I am to list seven songs I am presently enjoying and then pass the pain along to seven more.

Well, dear internet, I am nothing if not a sentimental fool. My music tastes run the gamut but I have this annoying charming quirk of having to play the same songs over and over again, every damn day, even if I am listening to a new artist or c.d. If my stereo is on, these songs must pass the speakers and into my ears. I’m kinda obsessive about this. To the point that my husband and small children would like to hurt me when they hear these songs.

So, this musical meme is perfect to me. I can share their pain with you. And share I will. Buckle your seat belts and be prepared to be shocked and amazed at my inner musical geekiness.

I’m so embarrassed.

1. TO WHERE YOU ARE, Josh Groban. I figure this is pretty self-explanatory, but for some clarification, after my son passed away, I was struggling with facing our first Christmas only weeks after his passing. When I went through our mail, I found a parcel from his lovely Lyle. His pediatrician knew how I suffered and mailed me this c.d with a sticky on it to listen to this track. Fric, Frac and myself mourned that night; raw with our wounds, while listening to the voice of an angel. Now we listen to this song and smile and it brings us closer to our Bug.

2. RESPECT, Aretha Franklin. Words that I live by. Generally with a hairbrush in my hand while dancing around with Fric and Frac, trying to capture my inner Aretha.

3. ANIMALS, Nickelback. Gotta love any song that reminds you of the time you and your husband were 18 and parked out in the middle of nowhere, engrossed in a good match of tonsil hockey, when out of no where, a police officer appears, raps on the window and wants to know if everything is alright. And wants to hear it from the lady. The lady who is shirtless and trying to cover herself up while dying of embarrassment. Yeah, gotta love that song.

4. WHAT A GOOD BOY, Barenaked Ladies. My inner musical geek shines through here. But every time this song comes on, my hubs starts to sing and rock out and I get to giggle at him. True love at it’s finest.

5. TINY DANCER, Elton John. I discovered Elton at the tender age of thirteen. I have loved him ever since. I can rock out to any of his music and whenever I feel particularly stressed, his is the first voice I long to hear to chill out to.

6. THE TRUCK GOT STUCK, Corb Lund. Let me explain, before you stone me and hiss. First off, you can’t live in Alberta, go to live shows and avoid Corb. He is an institution. And he is so very, very nice. Really. I’ve met him. More than once. Secondly, you can’t be an Albertan farmer and not understand this song. And thirdly, my kids know every word and we like to screech it from the top of our lungs. And I live close to a Hutterite colony and it is sooo true.

7. I’LL BE THERE, Shane Young. Another lesser known Canadian gem. He also happens to be my Piano man, and provider of free booze. How could I not love him? On Valentines day he crooned all my favorite songs to me and my hubs so as to ensure Boo would get lucky that night. That’s friendship at it’s finest. Plus, he’s teaching me to cook. So my husband won’t leave my sorry ass. What’s not to love?

There you go, my inner freak revealed. I’m not going to tag anyone, cuz I’m a rule-breaking rebel that way. Now I’m going to slink off into the darkness of the interweb, plug in my earbuds and pray I don’t die of embarrassment. But not before I get the kids to scrub the floors.

Last night, as I was scraping the burnt remains of my annual attempt at cooking into the garbage, I overheard my children whispering heatedly in the next room. I heard only pieces of their conversation and wasn’t really paying any real attention to their squabble as I was still fighting the queasy feeling from trying to digest my overly charred supper. As I was eyeing the blackened remains of our supper and pondering if I should offer them to my dog or not, Frac raced through the kitchen, into his room and then zipped back through the kitchen holding a dictionary.

My heart warmed at the site of this. (Well that, and the heartburn that was currently attacking my insides.) Nothing pleases a writer mom more than watching her offspring navigate a dictionary.

More than a little curious now, I tiptoed to the edge of the living room and tried to become stealth-like. I wondered what word they were arguing over, and I pictured them debating the spelling and definition of a variety of large words. I had visions dance through my head of attending their graduation ceremonies, both of them the valedictorians, and then, maybe one day, watching them win Pulitzer and Nobel prizes for their great works of literature.

I like to dream big.

As my stomach tossed and turned the evenings offerings around in my belly, I cupped my ear and listened.

“No Frac, you are wrong. That is not what it means,” said my daughter in her huffy, know-it-all-big-sister voice.

“Yes, Fric it does too. You’re wrong,” came my son’s biting retort.

My daughter then grabbed the dictionary and tossed it aside. “This is a baby dictionary. We need to get the big one from Mom’s room.”

“No we don’t. I’m right. And you’re a booger-eater.” So clever that boy of mine.

“No, a playboy bunny is just a rabbit a boy plays with at Easter, Frac. That is what it means. You’re stupid,” my witty girl retorted.

What the fu*%??? I thought.

“No,” countered my son, ” a playboy bunny is a rich boy’s pet. That’s what a playboy is. That’s what my teacher says. It’s a grown man with lots of money and time to waste. So a playboy bunny is his pet. YOU ARE STILL A BOOGER EATER. And I’m smarter than you,” he said in a smirking sing song tone.

Suddenly, visions of my darling children’s literary accomplishments vanished in a puff of smoke. I quickly backed away and turned on my stereo in the kitchen. There is no way in hell I am going to define what a playboy bunny is.

I wouldn’t want to give either one of them ideas.

I had disturbing visions of my son wearing a smoking jacket while my daughter wore significantly less while lounging about in a grotto.

I have resolved to no longer eavesdrop. I don’t want to know when they start trying to figure out words like blowjob and sex kitten.

I’m hiding the dictionaries.