I look forward to Boo coming home. Really, I do. It’s nice to have a man around to hold me take out the garbage.

But now that he’s home, I wouldn’t mind seeing the tail lights of his car drive down my driveway as he hits the road.

My loving husband is driving me nuts.

Between fighting him off every two seconds last night as he groped for my boobs, putting up with his perpetual requests for a blowjob and having to defend myself as to why there were no towels in the bathroom when he got out of the shower, I’m ready to be a semi-single mother once again.

I mean, dude. Really. It’s not like there were no clean towels. It was just that I forgot to put them away after washing, drying and folding them. They were sitting neatly folded on top of the dryer which you would have noticed when you walked into the laundry room to toss your dirty clothes on the floor (instead of the hamper neatly sitting two feet away) had you opened your eyes.

Or stopped thinking of blowjobs for all of two seconds.

Please don’t hold me responsible for the lack of butter in the house. I don’t cook. How the hell should I know if we don’t have any butter? Or milk. (Heh.)

There was beer. That ought to count for something. I should get points for thinking of you.

When I asked what you wanted for your belated birthday supper and you waggled your eyebrows and said a love taco, I thought you meant MEXICAN food. Not sex. Sheesh.

Don’t be mad at me just because as you pulled down your pants to hang your willy in my face and made lewd comments about having something good to suck on your daughter walked in. I was on the couch trying to read blogs and ignore the tube steak being waved in front of my nose. I didn’t ask you to tug the Pickle out to play show and tell.

Keep your snake in the grass so I don’t have to lie to your daughter and tell her you were just showing me how your zipper keeps slipping down.

When your son asks if I want to play with his brand new juggling balls that is not an invitation to grin like a mad man and offer me your balls to play with.

I don’t know if you know this, but our kids, they aren’t two and three anymore. They are growing up. They know what you mean. They are starting to figure out that their parents are perverts.

This is my polite way of telling you that you need to stop threatening to tie me up and spank me for being such a naughty girl when our kids are hanging on our every word.

With my luck one of our beloved demon spawn is going to start prattling on to his or her teacher about how their daddy likes to punish their mommy in the bedroom.

I’ve already got a reputation. Let’s not add to it shall we?

And when I ask you to pick up strawberries, ice cream and some whipping cream it is for the cake I baked for your birthday. It is not an summons for seduction and sex games thirty minutes before our dinner guests are scheduled to arrive.

Unless of course you are offering to scrub out the guest toilet and quickly vacuum so they don’t know we are sloths. Then I may be inclined to show my gratitude in a horizontal position.

But you didn’t offer. Too bad for you.

I love my husband. Really, I do. But somehow he seems to have mistakenly confused me for some local nymphomaniac porn star while he was away at work.

Twenty four more hours and then I’m home alone again.

It seems like an eternity.

Damn I suck as a wife.

Just not in the way Boo would like.

I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I’m trying to adopt a child.

Heh.

Besides having been dragged through the mud personally and been made to face my own personal demons as well as those of my husbands and children, this process has been decidedly delightful.

If you believe that, well, I also want you to know I have a 21-inch waist and only weigh 95 pounds. I have to fight off requests from Vogue and Cosmo to model for them all the time.

Really.

The decision to adopt was an easy one. We wanted a sibling for our Bug who was like him. Someone he could relate to on his own level, someone who understood the challenges he faced on a daily basis. Someone who would make him feel normal. We loved Bug so much we knew we would love another disabled child just as much.

Then the world turned upside down, the skies darkened and the unthinkable happened. Bug died. Suddenly and with out warning. Which brought our decision to adopt to a screeching halt.

We became a tad busy grieving. You know, the ugly cries, the constant wonderings of “What if’s” and trying to learn how to cope and love and live with two very sad and confused siblings who didn’t understand the concept of gone. Forever.

The adoption was stricken from our minds. How do you think about having another child when all you can think about is the fact you couldn’t keep one of your children alive through sheer force of will and love?

After all, we did everything right. I mean, I fed him and watered him and would try and remember to change his arse before his diaper simply fell off from the sheer weight of refuse nesting inside it’s warm plastic walls.

Eventually the question of adoption was brought back up. The biological clock that resides within me refuses to stop shrilling. No matter how loudly my tired uterus, broken pelvic bones and damaged (literally) heart tells it to shut the fack up, that clock keeps reminding me I want more kids.

I. MUST. BREED.

But since breeding the old fashioned way is an impossibility for this now barren and useless uterus, I’ve had to make do with alternate arrangements.

Which brought adoption back on to the table.

Two years later and I can see the sunshine again. (Well not right now thanks to the raging blizzard outside of my windows…how I love Mother Nature and Freaking CANADA…but still, I know the sun out is there.)

Life has leveled off into a comfortable existence between an aching heart and the joyous existence of raising two lovely little demon spawn to call my own.

I’m having so much fun horn wrangling my demons I simply can’t wait to try my hand at this motherhood gig all over again. I mean, is there anything more enjoyable than mounds of dirty laundry, unending school recitals and constantly being reminded just how very uncool you are now that you are known as a parent?

That was rhetorical. Let me live in my delusions.

But now that the rough part of the adoption ride is over (ha! I fooled them all!), my caseworker keeps telling me that the fun is just beginning. It gets easier from here. Kids will be dropping in my lap and I will have the pick of the litter.

Except the litter is awfully small. Turns out the type of child we want to adopt are as elusive as a purple unicorn that poops out golden eggs.

My caseworker was wrong. This is not the fun part. Not unless you consider riding a rollercoaster while hung over and being forced to eat runny eggs simultaneously fun. Me, not so much.

It’s not a lot of fun hearing there may be a child who matches you only to find out the child’s case worker thinks you are a nut job or your family should not be allowed near monkeys let alone children or your husband doesn’t think the kid will be the right fit.

I keep forgetting he has a say in this as well. So far, I haven’t much liked what he has said. I’m still a little disappointed he turned down a seven-month-old baby girl who may or may not have a neurological problem. She wasn’t handicapped enough for him. At this point, I’d adopt a two-headed kitten to call my own.

(We call the right head Sam and the left head Jack. Don’t they have pretty eyes?)

This may be why my husband and my caseworker are trying to ignore my maternal instincts and force me to think logically. Buggers.

We’ve been unofficially matched with a handful of kids but for a variety of reasons they didn’t work out. There is no fault to be laid, they just weren’t the kids for our family. My head understands this, but my broken heart and screaming uterus are still trying to understand why I have an empty bed in my house and no one to slap diapers on other than my dog.

Even my kids keep at an arms distance lest I get some mad twinkle in my eye and start muttering about “let’s play dress up. You be the baby and I’ll get the diapers.”

I keep repeating to myself like some yoga mantra that if it is meant to be, it will be. It’s in God’s hands. If a child never presents itself to our family we will survive. My maternal instincts will just have to learn how to shut the hell up. After all, I still have two wonderful children and a little angel to call my own. Some people aren’t so lucky.

Just when I was actually learning how to be patient with the child matching process and accept what will be, the clouds parted, the sun shone down and the phone rang.

Once again, we are on a rollercoaster journey of trying to decide if a child will fit our home. There are two little children who are in dire need of a forever family and would we consider either of them? My immediate response before my husband reached out, clapped his hand over my mouth and effectively muzzled me was “SURE! We’ll take BOTH. And can I have fries with that?”

Boo is such a spoilsport. Apparently, I’m only allowed to choose one. One has very severe mental handicaps and is able bodied while the other is smart, witty and trapped in rather pathetic shell for a body. Hmm. One is older while the other is younger. Both are very cute. Both need mommies.

When we started this process my family and friends would tell me that I would simply KNOW which child is meant to be.

What a crock of shat. Apparently they have forgotten whom they were speaking to. A woman who can’t decide between green grapes and red grapes so she buys both. A woman who couldn’t choose her daughter’s name so she just gave up and let her husband and mother decide for her. I bought the first car I test-drove because it had a bitchy looking front grill and really, isn’t one car the same as the next?

I’m not a great decision maker. I wrestle with doubt and my insecurities and I tend not to make rational logical decisions. Yet I’ve got the biggest decision of my and my family’s life ahead of me, ultimately in my lap.

Who do I choose?

The hubs, he has opinions. I try to listen to them. The fact he hasn’t scrubbed either child from the decision making process speaks loudly enough. He likes them both. If only we could take both. But that is not an option. The kids, they have opinions. But mainly over who is going to get to be the favorite sibling. So helpful.

For the past few weeks, I have been praying and thinking and basically obsessing over these children. I am confident either child will be happy in our home and we will grow to love this child as fearsome and deeply as we love all our children. Dead and alive.

But this isn’t fun. I’m morphing into a wrinkled, gray haired old woman, worrying that once we finally decide on a child something will go wrong and we won’t be able to take this child home. There are no guarantees. Not in adoption.

In true Redneck fashion, I never thought this far in advance. Much like when I was unmarried and pregnant with my first child I concentrated on the pregnancy and the delivery. I never gave much actual thought to raising a baby. When the nurse wheeled Fric in, bundled in her little bassinet and walked away I remember thinking “OH SHIT! What am I supposed to do now?”

I have for so long been consumed with surviving the adoption process and getting approved I never allowed myself to think of the time when we would start the child matching part. It seemed so hopelessly far off and almost impossible.

Almost as impossible as having to decide on a child.

Boo says for me to take comfort in the fact that once we decide, much like our other spawn, we can’t give them back. We’re stuck with them for life.

He has such a way with words.

I just wish he’d let me decide using the tried and true method of tossing a coin. Two out of three and we’ve got a match.

(This would be one of those posts I sincerely hope my caseworker isn’t reading but if she is, I’m totally JUST JOKING. Seriously. I’d never make a life choice by such trivial means. Really.)

Heh.

So this is where the adoption stands. The possibility of a child being placed in our home swirls around us and excites us. The possibility of falling in love with a child only to have it not work out sticks at our souls and prevents us from getting our heads too far up in the clouds. Or up our arse.

I’ve got big weighty decisions to make in the imminent future. Preferably with out the aids of any mommy juice or loose coins lying about.

But if I can get my hands on a magic mirror or crystal ball, all bets are off.

***Long post but true story. I have the cuff marks to prove it. Wink, wink.***

It’s never been a life long goal of mine to see the inside of a prison cell. Call me crazy but I enjoy my freedom. I like to know that if I bend over to pick up a bar of soap I dropped while showering I’m not inviting others to sexually molest me.

Unless of course it’s my husband in the shower with me. Hell, all I need to do is breathe in his direction and he’s ready for action.

So when I almost found myself on the inside of the clink last Friday, mere hours before my Redneck roadtrip, I was more than a little worried.

Hell, I was darn near hysterical. Prison orange is not a complimentary colour against my skin tone.

As I watched the friendly neighbourhood R.C.M.P. officer take the complaint, the events leading up to this moment raced before my eyes leading me to wonder what I could have done differently to avoid my future jailbird status.

Except, there really wasn’t much I would change. Except maybe I would have worn my purple shirt. And a push up bra.

I have mentioned before that my daughter Fric has had issues with being bullied at school. She is much like I was at her age, studious, gangly and eager to please. All of which ultimately lands her ass on a silver platter for the mean girl bullies of her school to munch on.

There is a vast difference between her and me being bullied. Back then I would go home crying about some girl persecuting me and my parents would tell me to suck it up. Back then there were no metal detectors and surveillance systems in schools. Back then kids didn’t bring weapons in their lunch kits and blindly shoot people like targets in a video game.

Back then I also had to walk seven miles to school, up hill both directions, in a raging blizzard with no shoes on, as well.

Still, times have obviously changed and bullying is not an issue just to be shoved on the back burner and ignored.

This was an issue that was not going to resolve itself, no matter how hard my daughter and I wished it. It was beginning to affect her soul, her grades, her very well being.

If your eleven year old daughter is unhappy, then trust me, the whole damn family is unhappy. Even the dog.

Boys are easier. They simply beat each other until someone cries uncle and then they move on. But the psychological terrorization of a few female pubescent teeny boppers is harder to deal with. Especially when it’s leveled at your most beloved daughter.

Annoyed and frustrated and more than a tad pissed off, I took the bull by the horns when I was at a school function. I decided to confront the parent of the mean girl responsible for making my daughter feel like a pile of dung. Except I had no idea who she was or what she looked like.

I thought about walking through the gym and hollering “Hey, Mean Girl’s Mom. Come get a piece of me.”

But I’m a pansy. I have brittle bones. So I just wandered around looking for a woman who looked like she was getting a beaver wax. You know, twisted up face and kinda tense. That’s how I pictured this woman.

I didn’t have to look long or very hard. Her mother found me.

A great hulking brunette who towered over me and was spewing venom from her lips and steam from her ears.

Before I could even open my mouth to introduce myself she called me a tramp (based on my baggy jeans, over-sized sweater and ponytail) and obviously my daughter didn’t fall far from the tree.

Now I’m used to people drawing assumptions about my personality because of the colour of my hair or the size of my waist. I’m used to people looking at my tattoos and nose ring and thinking I’m some punk rocker wanna be who is the scourge of society. I’m even used to being judged as an inadequate mom because I’m so young and my kids are so, well, old.

But I’m not used to my eleven-year-old daughter being called a whore. Especially from the woman who gave birth to the devil child who delights in abusing my child and has never even met me before.

You might say my hackles rose.

And when you back me into a corner, I don’t bark.

I bite.

It is a long and sordid story and one I am not particularly proud of. Luckily for me, I had the forethought (must have been the flashing neon sign blinking ‘Danger…Crazy Woman Up Ahead‘ to ask my in-laws to stay close and witness my conversation.

Suffice it to say in the span of ten minutes, I was bullied in the lobby of the school my children attend, tag teamed by the parents of the mean girl.

I was accused of (in no particular order):

-being a tramp.
-abusing my children.
-needing therapy.
-my children needed therapy.
-of not knowing just what my daughter and my reputations were.
-if I knew said reputations I would never show my face in public.
-of my daughter being the bully.
-informed my daughter is the most annoying and irritating child in the entire school.

and my personal favorite:

-it’s no surprise my son died after having me for a parent.

Good times.

During this entire tirade, my hands remained on my hips as I looked up at the jolly giants glaring down on me (damn you genetics for not allowing me to grow past 5’8…and wouldn’t you know it was the one day I chose not to wear heels out in public?) and I tried to be civil. I never raised my voice or volleyed any of my own vicious accusations.

It’s not to say I didn’t want to, but I was in a public place. And these people were making more than enough of a spectacle, I didn’t need to add any fuel to this inferno. Besides, I’ll bite back later. And I’ll leave teeth marks.

Thankfully, none of the children involved witnessed this degrading altercation.

After calling me brainless she and her husband stormed out of the school and left me shaking like a leaf in the hallway while trying to pick my in-laws jaws up from the floor.

I’m gonna guess the child who bullies my kid learned said behaviour from certain family members. Just a hunch.

It was when I had finally gathered my family around me and was leaving the school when I noticed the jolly giants talking to the R.C.M.P.

They were filing a complaint against ME. On the grounds that I physically threatened their child.

Must have been my heavy breathing and tugging at my nose ring. So threatening.

This is when I saw my future as the newest bitch in cell block C.

Turns out they spun quite the tale regarding the incident that had just occurred. Hell, I’m a real battle-weary bad ass according to them. Must be my tattoos. I intimidated them with my butterfly. Heh.

Thankfully, the R.C.M.P. had a heads up on the situation (before the jolly giants filed the complaint) from a respected member of the community who just happens to respect me. (Reminder to always be nice to strangers. You never know when they are going to bail your ass out of a legal jam.)

The R.C.M.P were in fact, more concerned with the slanderous venom my new friends just spewed and the fact that this woman was AN EMPLOYEE AT THE SCHOOL. A teacher’s aid.

What the fack? This woman works with my kids? To hell with that. Now I AM pissed. Before I was mildly annoyed, aggravated and a little insulted. Now I’m seeing red.

After speaking with the friendly (and cute) cop, he told me I could press charges if I liked. I didn’t like. That wouldn’t resolve the underlying issue: their daughter is bullying my child.

On Monday, I met with the principal of the school along with a personal army of cute R.C.M.P. officers as my body guards.

(It’s good to have cute boys with guns be on your side.)

You know the meeting is off to a bad start when the man you are meeting with confuses you for a new student looking to register. Sigh.

But the meeting was productive. I felt good about the outcome. No, I didn’t demand her head on a platter. Although I could have. I did demand a policy review about privacy issues and employees and I know for a matter of fact this woman is getting her ass spanked. But I don’t want to think about that.

I want to think about how I held myself together while my ass was being chewed. I want to think about the example I set for my kids, for my community. I didn’t sink to this woman’s (and her husband’s) level. I didn’t back down from my bullies. And while I certainly don’t relish confrontation, I would do it all again if it means protecting my children.

Things are looking up for Frac now. And the little mean girl is no longer a mean girl in my eyes. Just a kid who is confused and taught to behave a certain way. She’s a good egg. She just has her own issues to deal with. And now, because of this brouhaha, they are being dealt with. Hopefully, she will stay the hell away from my daughter.

Maybe one day they may even become friends.

Maybe one day I will sprout a third boob. Don’t laugh. It’s possible.

I want my kids to know that I will always have their backs. But I want them to know that there is a way to deal with a crappy situation with grace and dignity. Even when you’re being called a murdering, child abusing whore along the way.

The world isn’t always a pretty place. Nor is it perfect or safe. There will always be unpleasant situations and circumstances to face and overcome. Even when you are a grown up and you hear the sweet rattle of handcuffs near your ears.

There will always be people who can’t be trusted, and people who can’t be nice.

But there will always be two people who love you no matter what the pain you face may be.

Your father and me.

I will always have your backs, kids. No matter how high the shit gets piled on me, I will always come out smelling like a rose because I have you both.

But when you get old enough to buy booze, you better be prepared to pop for a bottle or two of expensive red.

I’ve earned it.