This parenting gig is sucking the youth right out of my body like a ten year old slurping a thick chocolate milkshake through a straw. I’m starting to feel more withered and used up each time my darling preteens come up to me and share their thoughts on growing up with me.

“Mom, what does it mean when a boy pops a woody?” Fric asks.

It means your mother just sprouted another facking wrinkle, honey. Thanks for asking.

“Some kids were talking about wet dreams on the bus, mom. What are those?” Frac asks.

Um, the opposite of dry dreams?

“Why do boys masturbate? And do girls do it?” Fric asks.

Wait…I think you missed a spot when you were smacking me over the head with that wooden bat. Go on, try it again.

I’m happy my kids think I’m cool are comfortable talking about such interesting subjects with me. Back when I was their age, I either dug through my brother’s collection of playboys in search of an answer or asked my best friend at recess about such sensitive matters, instead of braving my parent’s disapproval with such questions.

I only wish my kids would ply me with liquor before they brought out the big guns.

I was really late to the puberty game and I guess I was hoping Fric and Frac would take the same slow path as me. Because I am not ready to be the parents to children in puberty.

My children, however, have other ideas. It doesn’t help matters much that they are surrounded by older children every day, on the bus and at school. Or that some of their cousins have hit puberty.

Better my in-laws than me, I say.

I kid.

No I don’t.

But recently, my darling daughter decided to take it to a whole new level. She has decided she is ready for a training bra. In grade six. Granted, she is the only girl in class who isn’t already sporting a nice B-cup, but still. Unless those boobs of hers are invisible, I’m thinking she’s jumping the training bra gun a little bit.

Thank heavens. I’m not ready for boobs yet. I’m still fascinated with my own. I don’t want to have to deal with hers.

But Fric is a much like her mother. Persistent and annoying. So in a moment of lapsed judgment I told her I would consider buying her a training bra. The time had come for me to find a few new sacks to stuff my McGuffies into, so I could kill two birds with one stone.

Remember the training bras of our past? Ugly, itchy and only good for the boys reefing on the back strap and snapping them while we howled with indignation?

Ya, they don’t make them like they used to. No. Nowadays, training bras have foam inserts and padded cups and underwire.

I thought I was in the wrong department, as I stared at rows of brightly coloured padded bras. But no, they all had tags certifying them as jail bait lures training bras.

Suffice it to say, I bought a few. For me. Some of those bras were damn sexy. Boo’s gonna be mighty pleased when he gets home. (Or with the pics I sent him. Wink, wink.)

But I did not buy any for my precious, innocent, beautiful eleven year old daughter who is as flat as a damn board. And will hopefully remain that way forever because I’m delusional and crazy.

Upon seeing the lingerie bag, Fric excitedly starting rifling through it, looking for her loot.

“These are all for you, Mom. Where’s mine?”

“I’m sorry honey. But your dad and I decided that you were still a tad young to be leaping into a training bra. Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up. Before you know it you will be old, wrinkled and withered up. Just like your dad,” I consoled her.

“But MOM! All the other kids are wearing bras!”

“Yes, and I raised you to be a lemming, just like them.”

“MOOOOOM!”

“Look, kid. I’m not saying I’m condemning you to a life of braless freedom. I promise you when you grow some funbags we can all see, I’ll be the first in line to march you off to get fitted for a big girl bra. Until then, just use your imagination.”

I could feel the grey hair start to sprout right around my temples. I swear.

“But I’ve got boobs!” she argued as she whipped up her shirt to show me her invisible chest.

“Well, you’ve got nipples honey, but so does your brother, and you don’t see me trying to wrestle him into training bra do you?”

“Very funny, Mom.” Man, if her bottom lip stuck out any more as she pouted, she was gonna trip over it.

“Listen honey, I’ll tell you what a wise woman once told me when I was impatient and desperate for boobs at your age: You don’t have boobs until they bounce up and down as you jump around,” I called after her as she stomped off to lock herself into her bedroom and wish she had a cooler mother.

I could have really scarred her and told her she could be like me and have to roll them titties up to stuff them into the cups. Boobs or beaver tails, it’s hard to tell the difference these days.

As much as I love my husband and look forward to him coming home, it’s not always smooth sailing when he walks through the front door after being gone for weeks.

He can’t understand why I’m not waiting at the front door, wearing nothing but a smile, wanting to hop on board the love train before he even kicks off his boots.

I can’t understand why he doesn’t seem to grasp that dropping three garbage bags full of dirty laundry at my feet the moment he walks in will never be considered tender foreplay.

Of course, the kids’ climb all over their dad the moment they hear him walk through the door. They each grab a leg and hold on tight, like two little dogs humping his leg that he can’t shake loose. They’re like burrs that need a crow bar to pry them loose.

Yet, once Boo’s ego has been stroked, as well as a few other body parts (his feet people…get yer minds out of the gutter), life settles back into the comfortable routine it took us more than ten years to establish.

Basically, he leaves every damn light on in the house and I follow behind, yapping at him like a small terrier.

It’s good to have him home.

At least, that’s what I tell myself when I open up the refrigerator to get milk and find an empty milk jug. Thanks honey. Or trip on his dirty socks beside the bed, on my way to the bathroom. Or finally get a moment of peace to read my magazine only to find him ripping it up to use it to start a fire.

It is great to have him home. Really. Once I get past the whole wanting-to-strangle-him phase. I am no longer the go-to gal when Fric and Frac need a referee. I am, in fact, off duty the moment my man walks in the door and makes eye contact with his wee ones. And after being trapped alone in a small house with the two of them, listening to them argue for over a week, it was a truly satisfying moment to pass the parental torch like a hot potato to my darling Boo.

Waves of gratitude rolled off me like the pheromones of a dog in heat.

After spending the day peeling the children off their father and the ceiling, Boo and I cuddled up in bed, happy for a moment of kid-free silence. It has been a month since I last buried my noses in his smelly pit shared a pillow with my man and I was intent on making the most of it.

Until he started throwing off more heat than a stoked fire.

“Holy jeepers, man, you are smoking hot!” I whined as I tossed the covers back and fanned myself for some cool air.

“Why thank you,” he leered as he waggled his eyebrows and reached over to pull me closer.

“Not on your life, buddy. Get thee to the far side of the bed before I melt,” I argued as I pushed him off of me.

“Oh, I’ll melt you honey, just you wait.”

Rolling my eyeballs, I tell him to go hop in a snow bank and then we’ll talk.

“Fine. I’ll go turn down the furnace, you big baby,” he sighs and pads out to be a good boy. Er, I mean, dutiful husband.

Later in the night, after wearing ourselves out fighting for mattress space and covers, I woke up to find my teeth chattering. My arms were sporting goose bumps the size of small mountain ranges and even snuggling into Boo didn’t help. It was like cozying up to an iceberg. Only hairier.

I momentarily considered poking him in the ribs to get him to check the furnace, but then decided in an uncharacteristically chivalrous moment to get up myself and allow him to have his beauty rest. After all, he had a long day ahead of him with the ‘honey-do’ list I had thought up.

Of course, I couldn’t find my slippers and the floor was ice cold, and I was regretting trying to be a nice wife as I walked to the thermostat.

Holy hell in a handbag, that ass turned it down to 60! No wonder I was turning blue. Muttering some creative cusses under my breath, I cranked the heat up and padded back to bed.

Mercy be damned, my feet were cold so I stuck them where I knew they’d get warm. Right between his meaty thighs.

“Shit woman! That’s not nice!” Boo cussed as he woke up to find my feet cozy from the warmth of his testicles.

“You turned the furnace down to 60 you ass! What did you expect?” I complained as I tried tugging more blankets over to my side. Poor Nixon was accidentally sent rolling as I got a good grip and tugged hard.

“You said you were hot!”

“Not that hot you arse! My toes are darn near falling off,” I said as I wiggled them deeper into his warmth.

“Cut it out,” he growled and tried to yank some of the covers back in his direction. “Besides, I never thought you’d notice, what with all the fur on your legs.”

“Ya, well, I thought I would wait till you get home and then use your razors with out telling you so you’d have something to bitch at me for,” I replied sweetly as I snuggled into his armpit.

“It’s against the law to smother your wife with a pillow, right?” he groused as he tried to find a comfortable spot with my feet in between his legs.

“Ah, honey, I love you too.” I couldn’t tell for sure, but I’m sure I heard something about a wood chipper and annoying wives as he rolled over to go back to sleep.

Wait till he finds out I ripped up his favorite shirts from when he was a teenager to use as dust rags. He’ll be so happy to be back.

It’s good to have him home.

Lately, I’ve been feeling a tad stressed and burned out. Getting through the holidays and Bug’s birthday has been more difficult than I anticipated. Stupid me for thinking two years would be enough time to allow one’s soul to fully recover from the devastating loss of one’s youngest child.

Nobody ever said I was the brightest bulb in the package.

Compound that with the fact the kids haven’t been to school once this week…that’s right…they’re playing video games as we speak because of the cold climate and a well timed teacher development day, I’m going a little stir crazy.

All right, that may have been a mild understatement. Yesterday my daughter wanted to know why I was talking to myself in a British accent while rocking back and forth in the corner. It’s time for this mommy to get the hell out of the house before I do something crazy like strap on an apron and start baking cookies.

So I’m taking a few days to get my head on straight, find my funny again and remember the heart does go on.

(Picture me imitating Celine as I wander down the grocery store aisle.)

Of course, my husband is on his way home, I have no razors to shave my legs and I currently resemble a wildebeest, so I may be back sooner rather than later, depending if he feels like getting frisky with a screechy, sad hairy wildebeesty-wife.

How’s that for a mental image to tide you over?

Be back soon. Promise.