It was my son, Shalebug’s eighth birthday yesterday. 

Eight. He would have been eight years old. This means in some alternate reality I’m the mother to a buck-toothed eight year old instead of the mom to a forever almost five-year-old angel boy. Holy mind trip Batman. I can’t wrap my head around the fact my baby would have been eight years old.

You know what this means?

It means it has been eight years since I was over two hundred and fifty pounds. Eight years since I was so damn large I couldn’t drive because I had to push the seat so far back to make room for my ginormous pregnant belly that my legs weren’t long enough to reach the petals.

Eight years since taking the kids to McDonalds (don’t judge me peoples) and not being able to fit my fat-tastic body into the booth my kids wanted to sit at. And I tried, y’all. I attempted to wedge my body between the table and the back of the chair and basically found myself stuck.

Picture a pack of pimply teenaged employees gathered around my pregnant body as they tried to unwedge me by smearing ketchup around my belly and the table. Hundreds of opened ketchup packets littered the floor as they yanked and pulled my way to freedom. Meanwhile my demon spawn merrily munched on their Happy Meals and all the other McPatrons of the Golden Arches laughed at the wedged pregnant whale and wandered over to snap pictures on their cell phones to show all their friends and post on the Internet.

Good times.

It’s been eight years since I gave birth to my last child. Eight years since it took my obstetrician yanking on the suction cap attached to my baby’s head, my husband yanking on the obstetrician and a nurse yanking on my husband in an effort to free Bug from the locked jaws of my uterus.

When the choochoo train of tugging proved effortless the doctor brought out the ole rubber mallet and cracked my pelvic bones like an egg to provide Bug with the wiggle room he needed to claw his way out to sweet freedom.

I’d have preferred they tried the ole ketchup trick but apparently I didn’t have much say in the matter.

It’s been eight years since I had to relearn how to walk like a two legged human and not waddle like a two-legged duck.

Heck, it’s been eight years since I’ve had any stitches in my cooter. 

Eight years. Damn. 

Nothing makes a parent feel the aches in their bones and see the lines on their faces quicker than watching their children grow up.

Of course, I can’t watch ShaleBug grow up but that doesn’t diminish the fact that EIGHT years ago I was threatening to rip the nuts off my husband as I panted my way through childbirth and then crying tears of sweet relief thanks and love over the birth of my beautiful boy.

Happy Eighth Birthday Bug. We miss you. Well, my cooter doesn’t but all the rest of myself does.

In other news, I am one of the ten finalists for Best Canadian Blog in the 2008 Weblog Awards. Thanks to everyone who voted to make sure I’d be in the top ten. How much will I have to prostitute myself to get you all to wander over and vote? I’m not proud peoples and I have no shame. Keep that in mind. Wink.

Make sure you check out all the other categories because there are some fantastic blogs nominated.

If you are looking for something funny to get you through your day and thinking about angel boys and my broken hoo-ha isn’t working for you, try heading over to Cynical Dad’s blog where he’s gathered some of the best bloggers out there to hack my reputation into tiny little pieces. That’s right, a Redneck Roast. Where the good times and public carving of Tanis runs all week.

You know what they say, they who laugh last has the last laugh or some such drivel. I’m sharpening my knives in preparation for my rebuttal. 

I don’t play nice either.

And for those of you who would like the opportunity to roast me in real life, here’s your chance. I’m not only attending Blissdom, but I’m speaking at it. Someone thought it would be a good idea to let the lady with the assless chaps and cheeto dust on her face have a microphone.

Silly peoples.

 

I can’t wait. Let the public humiliation good times roll. 

Like I said, I have no shame.