My kids and I have been talking about goals and dreams and life expectations a lot lately. I think it has something to do with Fric and Frac witnessing Exam Fever in their school with all the high school kids wandering around with looks of worry and stress marring their pretty zit-filled faces.

My kids are slowly starting to realize school eventually stops becoming less about recess and eating glue and more about grades and learning.

Poor suckers. Eating paste is so much more fun than studying for physics. At least, in my world.

My daughter talks about wanting to be a doctor and helping little kids like her little brother. She is starting to put the pieces of what she will need to do to make this dream come true together and she takes her schooling very seriously. I have no doubt that whatever it is she chooses to do with her life, she will accomplish it with her laser-sharp focus and superior intellect.

She gets that from me. Heh.

My son, is less focused. He doesn’t have a specific life dream as of yet except for winning the lottery and playing video games all day. While I tell him it’s good to have a dream, perhaps you should plan on a way to you know, feed yourself. Because the pantry doors under his momma’s roof are going to be permanently closed once he’s 18.

We talk about what they like to do, what they don’t like to do, what interests them and so on. Inevitably, the conversation turns to me and the choices I’ve made with my life.

“What did you want to do with your life before you got knocked up with noodle heads had kids?” my son asked.

I wanted to be a ballerina, a neurosurgeon and a literary professor. All at once. I was always very realistic with my goals.

“Did you always want to be a couch potato, supported by the hard-earned dollars of your very own sugar daddy?” my daughter asks.

No. But I’ve since readjusted my thinking on this subject. It’s much more fun to spend your dad’s money than working for my own.

“Don’t you want to be a real writer instead of a blogger?” they wonder.

No. I prefer the fake writing status I’ve mastered thus far. Cue rolling of my eyeballs.

While I love my kids and want nothing but the very best for them, sometimes I wonder if I should have worn that iron-clad chastity belt my daddy had made for me when I hit puberty.

I keep telling my kids that whatever they choose to do, they can accomplish with a little hard work. I want them to know that their future is unlimited as of right now. All doors are wide open for them. All they have to do is believe in themselves and grab the brass ring.

They generally roll their eyes at me and tune me out. I’m just not cool enough to pay attention to. Nipple rings and a few tats aren’t badass enough for them.

Sigh.

This weekend, it’s all gonna change. This weekend, I’m finally going to be cool in my kids eyes. Or die trying.

No, I’m not going bungee jumping or anything extreme.

I’m just going to be on t.v., talking about my boobs. If there is anything my kids respect at this age, it’s the power of the television.

This weekend, I’m gonna be a rockstar in my kids eyes, proving to them that if you believe in yourself you can do anything. Including suckering a national television producer into thinking you’re cool.

This weekend, I’m gonna bask in the glory of my thirty seconds of fame. I’m gonna use those thirty seconds to cram every bit of parental advice I can think of into my kids heads while they are still listening and paying attention to their cool momma.

We all know that fame doesn’t last and children have the attention spans of gnats. It won’t be long before all they hear when I speak is “waaa waaa waaaaaaa”.

So if appearing on television is what it takes to get my kids to take me seriously and their dreams seriously, I’ll do it. Because it sure beats running down main street naked with my ass on fire, which was my next idea.

***If you would like to watch me make a public arse of myself, tune into CNN Headline News (CNN’s sister station) and watch News To Me, this Saturday and Sunday. It airs at 730p, 930p and 1230a both days. Eastern time.***

****EDIT: For us Canadians, please check your local listing. The times are very different. Darn Yankees.****