When my husband started to work out of town, I had a fearsome worry we would run out of things to talk about on the phone, grow apart, fall out of love, divorce and he would try to take Karen and George away from me. I knew he’d never try to take our kids from me, but my appliances? Now that’s vindictive. And much more his style.

However, my worries have been for naught. He has shown only a mild interest in Karen and George, while I have been caught rubbing my naked body against them and talking dirty to them more than once. Er, I mean, we have yet to run out of things to talk about during our daily phone calls, and abscence really has made my heart grow fonder.

Plus, I’m hornier than hell by the time he comes home, so he is always EAGER to return home to perform “his chores.” (Was that an overshare?)

Luckily for me, our children provide us with a wealth of conversational gold. Between the time I spend relaying their charming and dumbass moments, venting about my parental ineptitude and having him lecture Fric and Frac sternly over the phone about the values of team work and mommy’s sanity, I hardly manage to squeeze in any dirty talk or gossip. (I said hardly manage. There is ALWAYS time for dirty talk and gossip in my world.)

Yesterday’s call was no exception. While I was humped over a wheelbarrow, mixing soil and planting bedding flowers, Fric and Frac started reminiscing about their little brother.

How he loved being outside, how the grass prickles drove him buggy, how they would bounce him like a 30 pound sac of potatoes on the trampoline. Eventually, their talk migrated from happy memories to more dirty ones.

“Remember the time Bug pooped while Mom was outside and his diaper came undone and he managed to scooch down the hall into the kitchen leaving a trail of poo behind him? Remember how he fingerpainted in the poo? Remember Mom having a heart attack when she discovered it? Remember how she tried to bribe us into cleaning it up for her?”

(That’s an unreliable fuzzy childhood recollection. I would never sink so low as offering an eight and seven year old money to clean up their brother’s feces.)

Ahem. After they finished smearing my good name (get it…smearing? hehe) they moved on to more morbid topics.

“Mom, who’s going to be buried next to Shalebug?”

“Who ever dies first. We bought two plots next to him, so in theory there is one for you and Frac if you don’t hurry up and mow my damn lawn.”

“So, if we die, we will be buried beside him?”

“That is what I said. However, the intention is for you to live a long and healthy life and bury me and your father next to your brother.”

“Cool. Does this mean that when you kick it, we will be able to pick what it says on your headstone?”

“I guess. Why?”

“I was just thinking about what I would put on your marker.”

“Really…And just what do you have in mind?” I’m slightly worried now. After all, the adoption process isn’t finished just yet and there is still a therapist floating about waiting to discover how I’ve truly corrupted my small children.

I never did find out the answer, because luckily for me, her brother was stung by a wasp at that exact moment and his shrieks of pain and fury drown out her reply. The conversation was soon forgotten as I administered first aid to a puffy nine year old.

However, later that evening when I was relaying the days events to Boo, the strange conversation reared up again.

“What do you think she was going to say?” Boo asked.

“Oh, knowing Fric, she probably was going to tell me that she is going to engrave ‘World’s Greatest Mother. Ever.’ or some such thing.”

Silence. Was that the faint sound of sniggering I was hearing over the line?

“Yah,” he gasped. “I’m sure that’s it. Because she has your sweet and serene disposition. There is no possible way she would use this as an opportunity to call you a pain-in-the-ass-mother-lover or some such thing. You, my darling, have delusions of grandeur.”

“Bite me, Boo.”

“Gladly. Just ten more days before you’re wish is my command.”

People wonder why I hide in the pantry and drink. Between the kiddies who won’t stop getting smarter and the husband who is finally wisening up after a decade of abuse, it is growing harder to wield my whip authority every day.

Damn it. Maybe I need another dog.

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve posted my cheese. There have been a variety of reasons for this, most of them liquor induced and involving some small wish for the pain to stop, the Tylenol bottle to magically refill itself and a general wish for the world to stop spinning on it’s axis.

My parents must be soooo proud of me. Snicker.

Ahem, it seems I am digressing into the world of passive aggressiveness. Focus, T, focus.

This morning I woke up to the sound of the birds chirping, the frogs singing, my dog softly snoring and Fric and Frac whispering. They were actually concerned about waking me up. They were being considerate.

Damn it. The one morning I wake up early and can’t get back to sleep, they decide to act like the children I work hard to raise. Polite and respectful. Where the hell are these kids when I’m begging for more sleep, and little hoodlums are chasing each other through the house while practising their war whoops?

Ahem. I’m like a small child distracted by a butterfly this morning. Sorry folks. Back to the cheese. I have some and I’m willing to share. (Don’t you feel so lucky now??)

Now I’m off to go chase butterflies and harness the power of a ten year old and a nine year old. There’s 20 acres of lawn waiting to be mowed, and it’s not going to mow itself. Nor will it be mowed by me.

Just picture me with a lemonade in one hand, a whip in the other, a dog under my lounge chaise while I yell, bark out, er, encourage the kiddies to mow in a straight line. Yah. That’s it.

Enjoy your day, and le fromage.

A toothless termite walked into a saloon and asked, “Is the bar tender here?”

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.***