Yesterday morning, after fulfilling my marital obligations (snicker) I was looking for something to surprise my husband with. Like the good wife I am, I had scheduled a tee time for my husband and his best friend (the one with the girlie name) to go, drink beers and pretend they were manly men. However, Mother Nature had different ideas, and opened the skies with a deluge of rain.

I could have got on my knees for him, but I was feeling too lazy. I was looking for more of an interactive activity. One that didn’t involve lock jaw and sore joints. And maybe one that my kids could participate in.

So after I made my family and the man with the girlie name a kick ass breakfast (one of the few items I can cook without worry of burning or subjecting anyone to food poisoning) I sat down and started scratching my head.

What to do, what to do…Then it hit me. The birds were starting to chirp, and the clouds had started to part. Too wet to golf, but other than that, it was a lovely day outside. Suddenly it hit me. I could get the kids and I to wash the hubs (and my) cars. After all, it had already rained. The cardinal rule of when you wash your car it will suddenly rain no longer applied.

Perfect. So the kids and I gathered up our sponges, buckets, soap and unravelled the hose, to all stand before our very muddy vehicles. You would have thought the rainstorm would have helped knock some of the grime accumulated on our vehicles off, but um, no. They were still muddy. So muddy it was hard to determine what colour the cars actually were.

After telling the kids to quit their whining and belly-aching encouraging my wee ones to roll up their sleeves, we got the job done. Sure we were a little wet when we finished (that damn hose just had to start a water fight…it had a mind of it’s own, I accept no culpability) but both vehicles were sparkling clean and nearly unrecognizable.

Between the twittering of the birds in the trees surrounding our home, the laughter of my children tossing a ball around and the feeling of a job well done, the day was darn near perfect. Until we went in for lunch and then came outside once again.

There on the windshield of Boo’s car, and on the hood of my car, was an enormous pile of bird shit. Judging from the size of the splatter, it was most likely deposited by one of the many Great Blue Heron’s that call our property home. Fuckers.

Since there was no way my darling children were going to touch the fresh shit with a ten foot pole, I had limited options. I could rewash the vehicles myself (not likely) or I could cuss and swear and ultimately ignore the goo.

Guess what I chose to do? After all, there was no shit on my windshield. He he. Boo came wandering out and stopped when he saw his car.

“I thought you guys washed this.”

“We did.”

“Well, it looks like you missed a spot. Like the whole damn windshield.”

“It wasn’t our fault. You are the one who insists we live out in the sticks. There is a price to be paid for such privilege you know,” I said as I was slowly walking backwards, while eyeing the sky, towards the house. You never know when a surprise may drop from the sky around here.

“Wuss. Only you would be too chicken-shit to clean up some bird poop.” He looked a tad disgusted with me.

“That’s not just a tiny drop of bird poop, my dear. That’s a dinosaur pond of pterodactyl crap. That does not fall under my list of Father day responsibilities. Sorry hon, we tried. Speaking of birds, I need you to fill some of the feeders. My arms aren’t long enough and I don’t trust your kids with the ladder.”

“Great. The birds shit all over my car and now you want me to feed them.” I know honey. Life really is unfair.

“Just think of the birds as your children. All they do is eat and shit too. At least the birds are pretty and they don’t sound like cats in heat when they sing.” I confess, it was hard to hide my smug grin.

Somehow, my husband was not soothed by this. As he walked to the shed (while muttering some filthy words) to find the bird seed I noticed two robins had perched on his trunk. As they flew away, one of them dropped a load. Which hit the top of his hood with resounding accuracy.

I wish I had that talent some days.

This place really is going to the birds.

****On a spicier note, if you are looking for something to perk you up on a Monday, or need something to laugh at, you may want to go have a gander over here. Racy Red has struck again.****

I’m finding that as my children grow older, my parental rewards are becoming fewer and farther between. No longer do I get to see their cute round asses streaking from the bath tub (nor do I want to,) no longer is it charming to watch them slumber in peace (unless I enjoy watching butt scratching and mouths hanging agape with drool down their cheeks,) and no longer do they look at me with adoration in their eyes.

No, the only things they like to do with them eyes is roll them at me. Cheeky buggers.

Not that it is a completely rewardless and thankless job. (Shh. I’m enjoying my delusions.) There are perks to being a parent to a preteen. You just have to know how to find them.

On Wednesday, my darling son Frac, forgot his lunch at home. So mid-morning, I received a call from the school.

“Hello?”

“Hi Mom!” says my perky son.

“Hey Frac. Are you okay?” Generally a call from the school means one of two things. He’s in the principal’s office or he needs stitches.

“Ya, I’m okay. I, um, need you to bring me a lunch.” He’s trying to sound desperately woeful. I’m not biting.

“What happened to the lunch you were supposed to make this morning? The lunch I asked you three times if you had made?”

“Well, I guess I forgot…” but then he rushed on to include, “But I have my lunch kit. I brought it. It’s just there is nothing in it.”

Ya, because I always buy magical lunch kits that automatically fill themselves. This one must have run out of pixie dust.

The way I figured it, I had two options. I could let the poor kid starve and learn a valuable lesson about responsibility while honing his begging skills as he tries to cobble a lunch from the scraps of others, or I could set an example.

“Fine, I’ll be there at lunch time. But you are getting a sardine sandwich with a side of beets.”

“That’s gross Mom.”

“You aren’t really in the position to be choosey, now are you Frac?” Hee hee.

The last time he forgot his lunch I made him kiss me in front of the entire class. While it just about killed him from embarrassment, it obviously did not penetrate his psyche enough to have him to remember his lunch. I was going to have to dig deeper into my bag of parental torture devices.

Upon entering his classroom, his teacher gave me a silent nod and then vamoosed, leaving her kids in my capable hands. It’s good to have a friend on the inside. ( Besides, this way she can’t testify to what she doesn’t see.)

My sheepish looking, and now starving child eagerly runs up to me and offers me a kiss. This kid thinks he can beat me by going on the offensive, eh? (But I still took the kiss. I’m not stupid. He’s a cute kid. Gotta take the loving when it’s offered.)

“Can I have my lunch now Mom?” as I stood dangling it over his head and out of his reach.

“Nah, I think you are going to have to earn it.” He is starting to look worried now.

“But I kissed you. In front of the WHOLE class. Without complaining!”

“Yes, but obviously you have not grasped the concept of remembering to bring a lunch, young Jedi. You must be taught. And gas is not cheap these days. You must pay the piper.” And with that I turned to the class and asked in my loud and very adult sounding voice, “Who would like to hear Frac sing for his supper?”

While every kid in that class shot their hand toward the sky, Frac was saying “No Mom. No singing.”

“You heard it Frac. The public has spoken. Your fans await you. You must not disappoint. Or… I could just eat this lunch myself…”

For a split second it was a battle of wills. He looked in my eyes, I looked in his, and his inner demons wrestled away. Was he hungry enough to endure some public humiliation? Did I take it too far?

But then he opened his beautiful mouth, and quietly the warbling notes of “You Are My Sunshine” came spilling out.

I eventually took pity on him, as did the entire class and soon we joined him for a very raucous rendition of the tune. The teachers from the neighbouring class wandered in to see what the noise was about. (Upon seeing me, they just knowingly smiled and wandered away. Apparently my reputation for a shit disturber preceeds me.)

At the end, the class cheered loudly for him and my son’s face was tomatoe red.

“Can I have my lunch now, PLEEEEAAASSSEE, mom?”

“Sure Frac. But first, give me a kiss. And make it a good one.”

Bwhahahaha. Dance my little puppet, dance. Sometimes I just love this mothering gig.

Yesterday morning started off like every other morning for me. Fric and Frac were fighting over who would take the last piece of chicken for lunch; Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever. was sitting on my bladder looking at me with hopeful eyes, willing my lazy butt up and into the pantry where we keep the doggy biscuits; and I was taking my leisurely time rolling my ass out of bed starting my day.

Did you know that parenting can be accomplished while trying to gather an extra minute of shut eye? All one has to do is bark orders from underneath the pillow.

“Fric, quit picking on your brother!”

“Frac, don’t forget to pack some vegetables in that lunch!!”

“Let the damn dog out!! He’s bugging me!”

As I was demonstrating this fine parental skill, my darling husband called for our daily bitch fest conversation filled with sweet words of love. We talk about how our night’s went, the weather, and of course, if there are any hotties around for him to oogle.

Sadly, there are no Hot Asian Chicks for him to flirt with. My heart breaks for him. Really.

Luckily, he will be home soon. Where he can oogle my saggy A’s at will and forget all about the firm young gals he works with. He will be home in time for me to burn some eggs make him breakfast in bed for Father’s Day. It is the least I can do. Seeing as he supports my ass. Even if he does drool after anything with breasts while he’s away.

(I kid, I kid. He only drools after the young ones. He’s kinda choosey that way.)

“Are you going to be home Friday night or Saturday morning?” I ask, only half-listening, as Fric and Frac were back to arguing over who’s turn it is to wipe the counter.

“Why? You have to make sure your boyfriend is gone before I get home?”

“Ya. I tell you, I have the men lining up down the road. I’ve got to beat them off with a stick. But don’t worry, your best friend, you know, the one with the girly name, has been keeping your side of the bed warm and the strange men off the porch.” Snicker. That ought to shut him up.

“Not funny.”

“I thought it was.” Giggle. Silence on the other line. “I am kidding. Lighten up.”

“Oh sorry. A girl just came on the telly wearing a skimpy bikini. I tell you, she has jugs the size of–”

“ANYWAYS, what day are you coming home?”

“Saturday morning. Why, what do you have planned?”

“Well, I ordered you a pair of sandals and I’d like to pick them up before you get home so you can wear them when we go out in public together.”

“Why? What’s wrong with my old sandals?” He sounds a tad confused and slightly annoyed that I dare buy him a pair of new shoes. How insensitive of me. Damn. I need to curb that habit.

“Um, nothing. Except that they show your toes. The new sandals are closed-toed.” Like, duh!

Now his dander is up. “What the hell is wrong with my toes?”

“Nothing, except they’re ugly as sin and you never cut your toenails and I’m tired of explaining to your children about how the long nails make snorting coke easier. It doesn’t exactly set the best example.”

“Very funny. Like you are one to talk.” (Said in that I’m rubber, you’re glue, anything you say bounces off me and sticks to you tone of voice.)

“What the hell does that mean? My feet are pretty. You’ve never complained about them before.”

“That’s because a wise man choses his battles. Because if you think you’re hairy, crooked toes are charming, who am I to burst your delusional bubble?” I can tell he’s feeling brave now.

“My toes are not crooked!” (Note how I didn’t argue the hairy point?)

“Are your glasses on? Cuz a monkey has straighter toes than you. It’s a good thing you’re cute other wise you’d have been in the zoo with the primates a long time ago.” Now he’s really enjoying himself.

“Very mature. I have to go now.” I’m examining my toes now. I never really noticed how the pinky toes curl under. And they all kinda point to the side. Hmmm…

“Why? The truth hurts?”

“No, I’m gonna go ask my boyfriend his opinion. Make sure you trim those claws before climbing into my bed on Saturday, will ya?” Click.

Just then Fric and Frac walked into my room to say goodbye before boarding the bus. “What are you doing Mom?”

“Are my toes crooked?” I ask as I wiggle them about.

“Not really,” Frac answers. “But are they supposed to be so hairy?”

Nice. The apples really don’t fall far from their father’s tree do they?