I am a sucker for some big blue eyes. As evidenced each time I let a certain pair of blue eyes sucker me into having yet another squalling bundle of baby shit and future hostile teenager. But this time, my fondness for baby blues and the owners attached to them, delivered me not another child, but more pea brained pets.

I could handle one pet. Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog. Ever. Four little legs and one over active bladder. Within months a year we had the bladder problem resolved. I only had to strap on a diaper a couple times. How’s that for progress?

Then, in a moment of monumental stupidity and grief-induced weakness, I brought home Abe and Lester. Otherwise known as the fucking birds. It’s been nothing but flying feathers, birdshit bombs and swooping chickens intent on plucking out my eyes ever since.

My own little Prison Break stars routinely escape to taunt poor Nixon. They sit on the edge of his food bowl, whispering words of challenge in their bird speak and then fly out of reach just as the poor dog lunges at them. I can hear them cackling all the way to their cage.

Still, I could handle all the wildlife under my roof, until last week. When the daughter’s big blue eyes suckered me into buying her hamsters for her birthday. Not just one, but two little shitting rats in my home.

All of a sudden we have two hamsters, each in their little plastic balls rolling across the floor running for their lives from Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever. who is intent on having himself a hamster snack. Followed closely by Abe and Lester, my facking birds who find great delight in swooping in and shitting everywhere. Followed closely by Fric and Frac who are trying to make sure Nixon doesn’t have a ham sandwich or a chicken finger; the rats er hamsters don’t escape their plastic havens and run into the furnace ducts; and the facking birds don’t fly into the window or behead themselves with the ceiling fan.

My house, the neighbourhood zoo. Complete with freaks and a sideshow.

Come on over, admission is free if you bring a bottle of red…

Turns out, those little rats were the straws that broke this mother’s back. I set out to win back control of my house. But only after I stepped in something wet. And then a step later, something warm. Turns out, those plastic rat balls in which your rodent can freely roam the confines of it’s enviroment have breathing holes. Toilet holes, really.

Like dealing with pigeon shit was fun. Now my darling children expected me to cope with rat crap? I don’t fucking think so, my lovelies.

Vowing this would be the last time I wiped crap off my feet, I rallied for war. Short of nuking all animals less than ten inches tall (no, I’m positive that is chicken in your soup. I made it myself, darling. Snicker.) I had to find a more acceptable, more responsible way of handling the situation with out hearing the inevitable “I told you so’s” from my dickhead darling husband.

Three hours later the war was won.

Ha ha ha, I jeered into their cage. No longer will you be able to shit on my lamp shades. No longer will you be able to taunt my dog. Alright, so it’s too bad you can’t escape to eat the rats, but you probably never would have eaten the smelly critters anyways. I’ll forgive you. Best of all, no longer will you swoop down and try to yank my boob ring from my naked body as I lie sleeping.

Suckas.

However, this posed a problem. What do I do with a slightly used birdcage?

Think woman, think.

I wonder if the hubs would fit…

The hubs and I have never been on vacation together. Alone. Sure, we’ve taken weekend trips to the mountains and went camping, but we have never really had a holiday where we can kick back, relax and pretend we aren’t married. With children.

It’s been a long time coming. Yet, after ten long happy years of marriage, three kids and a mountain of debt, the time has arrived. This winter, my Boo and I are planning on jetting off to someplace warm and tropical to do absolutely nothing but drink martinis, play in the sand and do some serious people watching from underneath our palm tree.

Good times, my friends, good times.

However, a trip such as this requires planning. Boo has yet to get his passport, we are still arguing over where our actual destination may be and we haven’t even thought about where our children are going to go while we frivously cavort on some tropical beach.

As long as they’re not with us, I’m a happy girl. I mean, it’s hard to act romantic and sexy when your ten year old son is kicking sand in your face and your daughter is playing chicken with the ocean waves.

Because time has taken it’s toll and we aren’t as young as we once were (re: I’m fat and wrinkled) we’ve both taken action to try and better ourselves. I don’t want to be the fat girl on the beach. The one everyone diverts their eyes when I walk past them.

We’ve hit the gym. Separately, of course. He pumps iron up north while I jiggle my way to fitness out here in the sticks. Boo is taking this fairly seriously. He’s not in bad shape to begin with (because the asshat never had to squeeze three large babies out of his nether regions) so he’s primarily sweating for sweat sake.

Unlike me. Whose belly button is slowly stretching across her abdomen, threatening to swallow her whole. However, unlike him, I’m not taking this so seriously. Sure, I joined a gym and am trying to quit smoking. (I could try harder I admit…) I’m actually going to the gym on a regular basis. Four times a week. Me and my geriatric fitness freaks, sweating to the oldies.

Good times.

But unlike Boo, my heart isn’t in it. Because unlike Boo, I’m physically unfit and enjoying the jiggles every time I move. They bring me comfort. I never feel alone when I’m feeling the ripple with my lard.

However, as an olive branch to my darling husband, who works tirelessly to support me so that I may sit around, read blogs and eat till my jiggle is content, I go. I bitch about it the entire time, but still, I go. After all, I’d much rather be the hot chick in the bikini on the beach than the pasty white girl who looks like an advertisement for why people should just put the donut down.

Until yesterday. The kids and I had optometrist appointments and I didn’t feel like getting up at the crack of dawn just to go and sweat. I figure Boo will be home this weekend for four days, I’ll get my exercise then. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Like he does every day, he called at noon to see how my workout went. Nothing like cracking the whip through the phone.

He handled it well when I told him I was skipping a day due to parental obligations. Or at least I thought he did, until he made some passive aggressive remark about how it was my body, and I’m the one who is going to have to walk around in the bikini, looking like that.

Excuse me? What the fuck?

“What does that mean, dickhead?” I asked, slightly hostile.

“Nothing. I would just think you would want to look your absolute best if your going to walk around wearing dental floss on some beach where other people can see your body.” He’s back pedalling now, but not nearly as quick as I’d like.

“And just what is wrong with my body, Mr. Schwarznegger?”

“Nothing. Sheesh. Don’t get all defensive. You know I love you no matter how you look.” Keep pedalling my darling asshat.

“And just how do I look? Do I embarrass you? Is my ass too wide? Because I’d like to see what you look like after carrying three kids–”

“Hold up,” he interjects. I could tell I had him by his grapes now. “YOU asked me to make sure you go to the gym and hold you accountable for your actions. I’m simply trying to be your cheerleader. You know I think you look great, I like the extra weight you’ve put on, your boobs are fantastic-”

“Did you just call me FAT???,” I screeched into the phone.

“Sigh.” There was a moment of silence on his end of the phone while he tried to evaluate where the hell he went wrong to begin with.

“Because it’s not exactly like you are Mr. Fitness yourself. You’re no Daniel Craig in a speedo my friend.”

“I never said I was. Sheesh.” He was sounding awfully resigned now. “You just said you wanted to look you best-”

“Are you saying I don’t?” I can’t help myself. I know I’m egging him on, but he just makes it so damn easy.

“No. Look, I’ve gotta go. Somebody glued their hardhat to a door knob or something. I’ll call you later. When you’re rational.” Oh, a parting shot. He’s getting feisty on me.

“So now I’m fat AND crazy, eh?”

Click.

All right. Perhaps my body image is a sensitive issue. Most thirty-something mothers don’t prance around in bikinis on a regular basis. Perhaps instead of twisting my husband’s words to watch him dangle in the wind, I should get my ass to the gym and twist my body into some yoga-like position.

But it’s just not as much fun.

Maybe I’ll just buy a caftan and do my best Mrs. Roper imitation. Let some other chick worry about stretch marks, jelly roll bellies and dimpled thighs.

After a few drinks, I’m sure they’ll all start to look the same any ways.

***Edited to Update***Y’all seem to have this delusional idea that I’m tall and thin and would rock the bikini. While I appreciate the (deluded) cheerleading, let me tell you, the rolls that hang around my middle and the dimples on my ass can attest to just how out of shape I have become. While things can always be worse, and I could look like one of my aunts (four feet tall and three hundred pounds), things could definetly be tighter, toned and more fit.

Which is what I’m working towards. Right after I have my iced cappucino and cheese croissant. Wink, wink.***

There are many reasons autumn used to be my very favourite time of year. The trees and their leaves, changing colours like some mystical fairy tale painting. I love watching the leaves float to the ground like little falling stars. I love breathing in the crisp autumn air and feeling the crunch of dried leaves crackle beneath my feet.

Autumn brings with it birthdays. Lots of birthdays. My grandmother (how I miss her), my brother – who turns 33 today (Happy Birthday Stretch!), my daughter and in a few days, my very own birthday. Quite a lot of cake for one month. I have many September childhood memories filled with chocolate frosting and wrapped in tissue paper..

Of course the birth of autumn brings with it the start of school. A parent’s personal celebration. What is there to not love about September?

Turns out, a lot.

These days, autumn and the months which follow, are brutal. It would be less painful if I just bent over and you all took turns kicking my ass.

Seriously. And not just because my arse region has recently acquired some padding.

This is the time of year my husband and I refer to as our “Season of Grief.” It is a tough time for all of us around here. We miss our kid. Our son, their brother. The next few holiday and birthday-riddled months do nothing but amp up our grief and spin it into an emotional monster which threatens to swallow us whole.

It is hard to have a birthday or holiday celebration without noticing the glaring absence of a boy long lost. I know as I put on my mommy happy face and try to make the best of this trying situation that I’m not the only one affected, the only one limping along in pain.

What does one say to their children when you know what their birthday wish is, and will be? What does one do when you watch your otherwise-very-happy child blow out her candles, close her eyes and wish her brother was home in our arms? How does one react when you hear your son pray every night to see his little brother once more?

It kills me. Slowly, one cell at a time, it’s taking me down and stomping on my spirit.

There is no escape from this feeling for the next few months either. Next month is Frac’s birthday, Thanksgiving and then the anniversary of Bug’s passing; November brings about the painful reminder of Boo’s father’s absence, only to be followed quickly by Christmas. Just when we have hobbled our way through the most painful holiday of the year, we get beat on the head by Bug’s birthday, the first week of January.

It’s a party non-stop around these parts for the next four months.

I had hoped this year would be easier. After all, we are approaching the second anniversary of his passing. The pain has to end sometime, right? Or at least slacken a bit. This choking noose that leads me around by my heart every day has to relax eventually, one would think, right?

That may be true, but I’m still waiting.

I wait to notice when my scars are scabbed over and finally healing. I wait for the seepage to stop. I pray every day that nothing comes along to pick at these wounds and releases the pain again.

All of this waiting is damn near driving me insane. Almost as insane as painting those darned polka dots on my daughter’s walls. I’m trying my best to keep it together, but I have to tell you, this sanity business is harder than it looks. All I want to do is hide in my pantry, curl up on the floor with a soft pillow and nurse a nice red into oblivion. I’d try it now, but I’m pretty sure Fric and Frac would find me and knock on the door, demanding to be let in.

I wish there was a magic formula for me to stop missing my Bug, to stop feeling this pain. I’m sick of carrying this weight on my soul and quite frankly, I resent it all to hell that this is my family’s burden to bear. This is the legacy I passed on to my children. A pain that will follow them until the day they die.

I somehow managed to find the gift that just keeps on giving. Too bad I can’t find the receipt to return it.

I just wish there was someway I could make my children’s birthday wishes come true and bring their brother back.

While I’m at it, I’ll take three magic beans and that goose that shits out golden eggs too.

Might as well reach for the stars when I blow out my birthday candles.