I have written before how toilet training wreaks havoc on a parent’s soul and challenges a grown up like no other singular parental event except for maybe finding out your 14 year old child not only stole your car but fornicated with the neigbour’s 13 year old and then dealt weed to their hoodlum friends out of the back seat .

Not that I’d know anything about that. Or am basing that sentence on any particular family member. *Cough, cough*Cousin*Cough, cough.*

But while remembering the time my son tried finger painting the walls with his own poo and then licked the tasty goo off his wee fingers, I forgot about yet another parental challenge that can easily turn the most civilized, adept parent into a whacked out blob of despair.

That would be the challenge of the babysitter. The trouble of finding a good one. Or rather, when you paid exorbitant amounts for tickets to a concert you had to beg your husband to attend, (and by beg I mean get really bendy in the bedroom), booked the sitter weeks in advance, bought a new outfit, had your hair cut and colored for the first time since you squeezed a small person out of your pink parts and even took the time to shave your bush legs in the hopes of a romantic interlude in the backseat of your minivan in the last row of the parking lot while trying to recapture your fleeting youth with the man you promised to wake up to every damn morning for the rest of your life.

ONLY to get a phone call an hour before departure time to find out your sitter is bagging out on you because that really cute boy in grade 12 finally noticed me and asked me out and he has really cool tattoos and his own truck and I think he may be the one and I’m really sorry but I’ll totally make it up to you next time if I’m not knocked up with his love child or stuck in a nunnery which is a real possibility if my dad ever finds out I’m going out with a boy who has a shiny silver hoop stuck through the base of his love nuts.

Ya. That type of babysitting challenge. Thank heavens I live in the sticks and refuse to leave my house make contact with the outside world thereby relying on fruitcakes known as teenaged babysitters.

So when my best friend called in a panic and in desperate need of a sitter, I did what any loving and generous best friend would do. I told her to call her inlaws. Then I offered her my inlaws. Any damn thing to have to avoid sitting for three children under the age of three, for an entire evening.

When my loving and gentle best friend snarled and put the fear of God into me gently reminded me of all the times she stepped in and saved my arse, there was nothing I could do but face the fact I was bound to be watching a lot of Disney movies for the next eight hours while wiping a lot of shitty asses.

After seeing my friends off (while silently hoping they would miss their children so much they would cut the evening short and rush back) and wishing them a good time, I looked around and found six beady little eyes staring back at me. Like little jackals circling in for the kill.

Time for nap, I thought to myself, even though I knew they just got up from a nap. Oh well, they’d be well rested for all that waking up in the middle of the night they like to do, I thought to myself. I’m such a considerate friend.

After getting a crash course in what it’s like to parent small people who do more than drool and play with spoons, I remembered why it is I want to parent a handicapped child and not adopt a healthy child.

Handicapped kids don’t unravel whole rolls of toilet paper and giggle like little mad men when I cuss at them while I stoop over to wind it back up as their siblings use this time to get into mom’s makeup and paint the walls with it.

Handicapped kids don’t throw spaghetti on the floor at supper time while demanding chocolate pudding and then shriek (with a shrill voice louder than an air horn and twice as annoying) about how life is not fair and how I suck.

Handicapped kids don’t insist on endless amounts piggy back rides while they slowly choke the life out of you by crushing your windpipe and try to rip off your ears at the same time.

Ya. I suddenly remembered why I love handicapped kids so much.

When I had my fill of being abused by demons who resemble little people playing the favorite aunty, I drugged the little buggers with Gravol sent them to bed.

I’m kidding. I would never administer medication to make children sleep like the dead.

He he.

But with hours still stretched out before my friends would arrive to set me free and hand back my sanity I had to figure out something to do. I had no computer and their television satellite wasn’t working. I could either watch Dora the Explorer over and over again, or I could snoop.

Guess what I chose to do?

Since this is my best friend, and I happen to know just how kinky she is, I knew what drawers to avoid. I do not need to have the mental image of padded handcuffs and an extra large sized bottle of lube in my head when I think of her.

So I sat down in her office and started pulling out photo albums. And laughed my ass off. Boy have I had some bad haircuts through the years.

Just as I was flipping through the pages of the umpteenth album, a photo caught my eye.

It was my Bug. Waving hello. In a photo I had never before seen. My breath caught in my chest and I just sat there dumbfounded. Time literally stood still and I could hear the rush of my blood humming through my body. As I started flipping through more pages, I found even more little nuggets of heaven to remind me of my life as Bug’s mom.

There is very little I have left of my son. He never told me he loved me with his words. I don’t know what his favorite colour might have been. There was so much left unsaid when he passed. So much to learn about him. The only thing I really have of him now, the only thing to remind me he actually existed and wasn’t a pleasant figment of my imagination, are photographs.

Well, those and the stretch marks on my boobs. They’re a such a lovely reminder of engorged milk sacs and the time of being hooked up to a pumping machine like my husband’s favorite Jersey cow, Beauty.

I prefer the pictures.

The moments of discovering those photos were almost as good as the dreams where I can smell and feel and hear my son. It was a gift. A gift for a family that has for too long missed a little boy who filled our hearts with laughter, love and a whole lot of spittle.

Hell, for gifts like this, I’ll babysit any damn day.

Just remind me to buy a bigger bottle of Gravol.

I have a dream.

Oh wait. I’m not Dr. King.

I had a dream. And it wasn’t a pleasant dream. This isn’t particularly unusual for me. I tend to have nightmares regularly since my son flew the coop. But last night’s dream was worse. It was so vivid and clear. I woke up disoriented and sweaty and I had trouble separating my dream from reality.

That’ll teach me to watch American Idol and munch on garlic sausage right before going to bed.

In my dream, my husband was out of town and went bar hopping with his best friend. They do this every now and then. This doesn’t bother me, for several reasons. First off, most of the women working up north tend to be more manly than my husband and waaaay hairier. Secondly, most women up there tend not to have all their teeth.

Boo always said he married me for my pearly whites. He’s not fond of the toothless look. All though, I often tease him about toothless women giving good gummers. What more could a man want?

Heh heh.

I trust my husband. I’ve spent many years instilling a deep and abiding fear of what would happen if he ever strayed from our marital vows. He’s apparently attached to his man parts and would like to keep them attached. If you get my meaning.

I also trust his best friend. He’s a good guy. And he knows if he ever encouraged Boo to stray or act inappropriately while away from his family I would think nothing of ripping off his limbs, beating him with them and them cramming them down his throat.

Funny how a guy over six feet tall, solid muscle and intelligent kinda whimpers and flinches when ever I make any sudden moves around him. Pansy ass.

But in my dream, Boo was out trolling for chicks. He was unaware that I was there, stalking his arse watching his every move. I watched him drink beer from a long neck bottle and watched his adam’s apple bob up and down.

I watched as his friend twirled a short, stumpy broad in a pink sweater with humongous boobs across the floor.

I watched everything.

And then I woke up in a sweaty panic.

Because I was unable to elbow Boo in the ribs to get him to wake up and comfort me while I bury my nose in the rug of fur he sports on his chest, I did the next best thing.

I called him. It only took six tries before he finally heard the ringing of his cell phone in his sleep and groggily answered the phone.

“What? What’sa matter? It’s three in the morning for crying out loud,” he half groaned, half growled.

“I had a bad dream,” I whispered.

“Are the kids are okay?” he asked while stifling a huge yawn.

“I have no idea. A plague of rabid frogs could be gnawing at their toes right now and I couldn’t bring myself to care. You’re not listening. I. Had. A. Bad. Dream.” I repeated.

“You always have bad dreams. Tell Bug to leave you alone and go back to bed. I have to get up in two hours,” he complained.

“It wasn’t about Bug. My dream was about you.” The hazy fog of my nightmare still clung to me and tugged at my soul.

“I’m alright. Nothing bad is going to happen to me,” he assured me. At this point he would have said anything to get me the hell off the phone so he could go back to sleep.

“No, no. That’s not what my dream was about. You were at the bar with your buddy-”

He interrupted me and said, “I didn’t go out last night. And even if I do go out, you know I’m just keeping my buddy on a leash and trying to keep him out of trouble.”

“I know. Quit interrupting. That’s not why I had a nightmare.” I was getting annoyed now.

“Then spit it out for pete’s sake woman. Some of us have to WORK in the morning.” He was getting feisty.

“I dreamt I was spying on you at a bar and you were trying to hit on two women.” The dream was coming back in full force now. I shuddered and nuzzled my dog to make it go away.

“I’m not going to hit on any woman. Let alone two of them. I can barely keep up with you. Why bring more into the mix?” He reassured me.

“No, no. That’s not what upset me. What upset me was just how lousy you were at trying to hit on them. You were like the creepy guy at the bar who just couldn’t take no for an answer. The chicks you were hitting on were obviously lesbians and yet you wouldn’t leave them alone. I was so embarrassed for you.”

“Nice, Tanis. Well, don’t worry about it, I’m not hitting on any women, let alone a pair of lesbian lovers.”

“I KNOW that. But in my dream all of a sudden everyone turned around and looked at me and started to point and laugh at what a clumsy loser my husband is. It was mortifying. You were such a geek.” I squeezed my eyes shut to erase the mental image of my husband leering like a pubescent teenager at two women. I kept seeing him following them around like a puppy dog while everyone in the bar mocked him behind his back and looked at me like I was a loser for marrying him.

“Gee, thanks. You’re twisted and I’m tired. Quit dreaming about lesbians unless you and them are naked and I’m involved. I’m going back to bed,” he yawned.

“Fine. But if you go out this week, don’t forget to tuck in your shirt, wear clean pants and try not to drool. I will not be married to the loser at the bar. Try and at least pretend you’re cool. And if a woman-”

“Good night, T. I love you too,” he interrupted.

“-If a woman shoots you down, take it like a man. Don’t start to cry like someone kicked your puppy.” I rushed to add.

“What did I do to deserve you?” Boo asked before hanging up.

I don’t know, honey. But I’m glad you found me.

Heh heh.

Growing up, my parents stressed the importance of voting and exercising your civic duty upon my impressionable mind. They made a big deal of elections and when I finally turned 18 and could cast my first ballot, they drove me to the voting station and proudly watched as I marked my very first X.

I don’t remember who I voted for but I remember thinking that it was my very first adult responsibility and I was proud of myself for participating in our democratic elections.

My party lost. But that didn’t matter to me; all that mattered was the fact I voted. My voice was heard. It may have helped if I hadn’t voted for the Marijuana party, but hey, I was 18.

After my parents had voted I remember asking them whom they had voted for. They refused to tell me because they didn’t want to influence my ideologies and they wanted me to make my own informed decision without any influence from them.

It didn’t matter how much I wheedled and needled them, they weren’t going to spill the beans. To this day, I still have no idea who they support but I’m fairly confident it isn’t the dope smokers. Just a hunch.

I’m now a bit of an election hound. I love politics. Not enough to consider tossing my hat into the ring, but enough to soak up every bit of election trivia I can get my mitts on and suck it up like a sponge. I only wish Canadian politics was half as feisty as those Yankee elections.

But we Canucks are a quieter breed. We’re still a dirty people; we just tend to keep it in the bedroom and out of the elections. Sooo boring. Mind you, after taking a look at our past and current leaders, I can only offer a prayer of thanks. I really don’t want to be imagining any of them getting busy on a blue dress. Ew.

Unlike my parents, there is much screaming and yelling civil debate about politics in our home. Boo has a wildly different political ideology than I do. If it were up to him, the world would all be doing a stiff legged march with a pert salute, as all bowed to his iron will. If it were left to me, well, let’s just say we’d all be seeing rainbows and unicorns and having a good time. Wink, wink.

Because Boo and I have such vast political leanings, it has never troubled me to talk politics in front of our children. As we shout at each other politely discuss one party’s platform versus another, our children get to hear both sides of the spectrum and form their own opinions.

I can’t help it if they grow up and choose my ideology because they love me more I am more articulate with my thoughts and better prepared to debate. Heh heh.

Recently, the beautiful and bountiful province of Alberta underwent the electoral process to elect the government. I kept waiting for things to heat up like the American primaries that I avidly follow and drool over, but it was nothing but a snooze fest. Yawn.

Still, it goes against every fiber of my being to be apathetic and I mustered up the bare minimum of interest. Come election day, I picked my kids up at lunchtime and hauled them off to the polling station with me. I think it is important that they see the democratic process in action.

I mean, all those middle-aged women volunteering to man the polls is truly exciting. Are they going to knit or will they be reading a book? Will it be a romance smut novel or a bloodthirsty mystery? Talk about the height of excitement.

After staring at a row of rural maps and trying to figure out just where the fack I live and what polling station to vote at, I gathered the troops up and marched over to cast my ballot. Fric and Frac were excited to be included in the process. Read: I promised to buy them an icecream if they didn’t act like Satan’s Spawn for fifteen minutes and didn’t induce any heart palpitations in the elderly.

As I went to mark my X in the candidate of choice, I briefly explained to the kids who each person was and what their party stood for. Of course, I remained neutral and diplomatic. I would never try and shove my own personal leftist spin down their throats. Heh, heh. They were about as interested in my highly educational speech as they are in putting their laundry away. Still, they kept their mouths shut and pretended like I wasn’t sucking their brain matter out their noses with a straw.

The lure of icecream at lunch hour on a school day is a powerful incentive.

I had to threaten them to be quiet about my left leanings inside the polling station as I was surrounded by a pack of gun-toting Conservatives who would think nothing of tarring and feathering me before burning me on the altar of their Ann Coulter loving ways.

I’m blonde. I’m not stupid.

As I drove them back to school, they happily licked and slurped their cones as I droned on and on about why it is so important to vote in an election. Even if the election is as terminally boring as this one was.

“People died defending our freedom and right to choose our leaders,” I said.

Slurp, slurp.

“You can’t complain if you don’t vote,” I continued.

Lick, lick.

“The world will come to a screeching halt if I ever discover either of you were too damned lazy to get off your skinny little arses and cast a ballot. Hot pokers in the belly button will be nothing next to the wrath of your politically crazy mother if she ever finds out you morphed into an apathetic, mindless twit who doesn’t have the sense God gave a gopher. Got that?” I promised.

They momentarily looked up from their cones and gave me the “Holy Shit! Our mother is Bat Shat crazy!” look and then promised to always vote as they resumed their ministrations at hand.

As I was shoving them out of my car to send them back to the land of teeny boppers and mean girls, Frac turned around and asked me whom I voted for.

“It doesn’t matter who I voted for Frac. It just matters that I voted,” I emphasized. “Now get to class.”

“Come on Frac, let’s go.” Fric tugged at her brother. I felt a moment of parental pride as I watched the two of them trudge off together. They’re growing up so fast.

Then I heard Fric turn to her brother and tell him, “She voted for the same party she always does. The losers. Just check to see who came in last place and you’ll know who Mom voted for.”

Damn. She’s smart, I thought as started rolling up the window.

“When I grow up, I’m voting like Dad. He only votes for the winners,” Fric told her brother. My jaw dropped as I watched them high five one another and giggle as they walked through the school doors.

Apparently, my work is NOT done here. I must get better at either selling my ideology to them or resign myself to the fact I am raising not one, but two Alex P. Keatons.

Heaven help me.