I try to blog as honestly as possible. I put my pain and my grief out there for the world to see, I try to relive my joy and my happiness through my words and I try to remember what a dumbass I am and learn not to repeat said moments by immortalizing them in the vast shiftiness of the blogosphere.

I am not perfect, nor are my children. (My husband, well he is as close to Godliness as they come. Snicker. Can you tell it’s pay day today?) While I joke, poke fun, and sharpen my self-effacement skills, I occasionally like to rip open my thin skin and bare my insecurities and tender feelings for all the blogosphere to shred. (Or all 32 of you that stop by to read. Half of which are family, friends and neighbours. But hey, I appreciate you ALL.)

I do this because I am secure in myself, my parenting skills, my love for my family. And by being honest, and funny, maybe I can brighten someone else’s day or teach them a lesson. (Like never trust government employees in charge of your immediate family size.)

Life doesn’t end just because you lose a child. It just becomes painful as hell and a little bleak for a while. Then the sun pops out, the crazy pills kick in and your dog stops shitting on the floor. Slowly feeling returns to your broken heart and you are able to breathe, even if there is a small hitch with every breath you take.

And here I am. Thus the point of this post. While I try to point out with regularity the finer aspects of child rearing and how wonderful my darling Fric and Frac are, let’s face it: They are ten and nine years old, on the cusp of puberty and being guided by a woman who thinks that vandalising her body is an effective form of pain management.

To say we may run into the odd roadblock or two on the path towards adulthood (for all THREE of us) would be a small understatement. (Kinda like saying squeezing a ten pound squirming sack of baby out of your tender pink bits hurts just a little.)

Frac has a dirty mouth. I don’t know where he gets it from. (Shhh. Stop sniggering out there.) This has become a bit of a problem as of late. Especially when he tells his big sister to FACK off! On the playground. In front of other adults. (So much for telling him to cuss in private. Dope.)

Between the cussing and the ever-increasing size of the chip on his shoulder as of late, he is becoming a rather large pain in my ass. Add to this he refuses to make his bed, flush the toilet (not to mention wipe the dribble) and drags his feet when I ask him to do the slightest chore (like move that six foot high pile of stacked fire wood from one hill to the next), I needed to find some way to effectively punish motivate him which wouldn’t leave any marks.

Can’t be too careful with all the social workers sniffing about for the adoption. Wouldn’t want to blow my chances at corrupting another young life out there.

After careful consideration, and a stroke of genius, it came to me one evening after he refused to reign in his attitude and curb his potty mouth.

I went straight to the heart of the matter. His beautiful, flowing locks. Never mind he looked like a straggly hoodlum, he LOVED his hair. It was his pride, his joy.

Now you have it.

Now you don’t.

It is now strewn in my garden to banish the deer from my broccoli. Mess with Mama and you will pay. Even if I have to wrestle you to the floor, sit on you and take the clippers after you.

***As some have pointed out, Frac does not look too upset. That would be because in the first photo he didn’t know he was posing for a BEFORE shot. The second photo he was pouting and wouldn’t smile so I told him if he didn’t smile I would email embarrassing baby photos to the girl he has a crush on in school. That did the trick and VOILA! Really, I am a badass mommy. Cross my heart.***