When you have fought tooth and nail for the ability to bring home a bundle of love to call your own, you make darn sure your tie is straight, your hair is combed and there is no spinach in your teeth when you go to first meet your new child and the social worker responsible for gifting said child to you.

You mind your manners and smile prettily and pray to everything that is holy that you don’t accidentally slip up and drop a F-bomb or reveal any family skeletons that have been deeply buried for a reason.

You do everything in your power to appear polished and polite, charming and likeable.

And if you are really lucky, (or you have a husband who is capable of keeping a tight reign on the leash he’s wrapped around your neck,) you succeed.

Which results in your very own delivery from the stork.

You have one last hurdle to jump over, but you have come so far, been through so much that this tiny little bureaucratic loose thread seems insignificant now that there are plastic kids toys once again scattered through your house and the sounds of a small child making himself at home just down the hall from you.

You let your guard down, relaxed and at ease, so when the social worker with stork-like wings and the child’s foster care parents drop in to check on your child and examine your parenting skills first hand in your own natural habitat, you don’t blink or give it a second thought.

You’ve succeeded. You’ve swung at the adoption pinata and the most beautiful, charming child you could ever imagine dropped from the sky and into your lap. Your prize is a lifetime of love and you feel so blessed that one last visit from the guardians who cared for your child until you were able to claim his as your own is most welcome.

You want to show them this child was meant to be yours. You want to show them the boundless depths of your love for him and the world of possibilities and joy that wait for him under your roof.

But that’s when the moment arrives. The moment your veil of shiny parental prowess is pulled back and every dint and chink in your progenitorial armour is revealed for all to gaze upon in horror.

It didn’t even take one full hour for my perfect parenting facade to crack and disintegrate.

Not sixty damn minutes.

Oh crap!

All it took was me swooping my lovely brand-spanking new son into my arms and sweetly putting him down for an overdue nap. I kissed him and cuddled him and tucked him in tightly and with nary a thought I closed his bedroom door behind me while I beamed at the company watching my every mommy move.

I visited and laughed and served fresh made brownies and home made pastries while my darling Boo served coffee and charmed our guests, our child’s protectors, with the very vision of perfect parenting.

Until the THUD came.

A loud THUD.

The moment my perfect mommy illusion vanished with a puff of smoke.

I forgot to make sure the guard rails on the side of my precious bundle of love’s bed were firmly latched.

And off the boy rolled like a ball down a steep hill. Onto the floor.

Even worse, I didn’t even hear the poor boy hit the floor, his former foster daddy did.

Worse yet, former foster daddy raced in to the room to rescue this poor boy who is now eternally stuck with incompetent parents and lovingly tucked him back into his bed after ensuring the rail was safely latched, while I sat and hung my head in shame and Boo tarred and feathered me with a simple look.

Luckily for me, my boy, my sweet precious boy, is made of strong stock and actually laughed at his new adventure in a strange bed. The child, like his new mommy, likes to be bounced around.

(Different bouncing of course, but bouncing nonetheless.)

Also luckily, my husband is a quick-witted man with some experience cleaning up his wife’s blunders, and snake charmed the social worker so she didn’t feel the need to snatch our boy out of our hands and back into government custody.

The truth had escaped it’s locks and chains and my hopes to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes with my swell parenting were forever dashed.

Welcome to our family little man. It may be a bumpy road but I promise, you’ll always enjoy the ride.

I also vow to never forget to latch that damn rail ever again.

I make no promises about remembering to bring diapers and wipes every where we go though.

Your momma does like to walk on the wild side.

***WARNING: SEXUAL CONTENT. PROCEED AT OWN RISK***

Last week, late at night, my husband deemed it was business time. In true marital fashion, I rolled my eyes at him and groaned about how tired I was and how my back ached and it would require entirely too much energy to get my Gumby on and get bendy.

Boo, not one to be easily dissuaded once he’s had an evening beverage of the liquor variety, just waggled his eyes and offered his magic hands as a remedy to my bad back and invisible libido.

It was one of those evenings when I knew I had a choice to make. I could beat the man off and snarl at him for daring to find me attractive while he was feeling amorous or I could resign myself to one of his magical back rubs and accept the strings attached to his gift.

After all, isn’t a backrub the universal code word for ‘Let’s get it on?‘

It wasn’t a hard choice to make.

“Fine,” I grumped at him cooed romantically, “but don’t bitch at me cuz I didn’t shave my legs today. It hurt too much to bend over and find the razor.”

I am all about the romance people.

Thankfully, Captain Morgan’s was in full command of my husband’s ship and a few hairs on my tree stumps weren’t enough to deter him from his planned evening activities.

I flopped on the bed, er, sexily slinked in between the bed sheets and moaned as my back screamed in protest.

Boo climbed on board, leaned over to shut the bedroom lamp off while whispering in my ear, “I have a treat for you.”

Just then I felt something wet drip on my back.

Trying to push him off my back, I screeched, “What is that?”

“Relax love,” he laughed, “I bought some new personal massage oil. I thought it would help with your back rub.”

I would have asked what kind of oil it was he was slathering all over my backside but I quickly lost the ability to articulate any words as his magic fingers did their job and my back starting feeling miraculously better.

I knew I married a man with strong hands for a reason. That would be the ability to give good massages, you dirty minded people.

Soon I was relaxed as humanly possible and that’s when my husband decided to pounce and move further south.

“You like this?” he whispered as he continued his romantic ministrations.

I nodded my head and tried to verbalize but at this point I may have been a puddle of drool. I’m easy people. This is no secret.

“The boys at work told me this was the good stuff,” he whispered as he worked.

That statement alone should have been enough of a heads up to buck my darling husband off my back like a new stallion in a small town rodeo. But, in my defense, my mind was quickly going in another direction and I may not have been thinking all that clearly at the time.

Moments passed and suddenly I started feeling something new. Something warm.

“Um, Boo? What exactly are you using?” I asked when the warming sensation suddenly turned up the temperature and bordered on uncomfortable.

“It’s a new warming lube. Good for your back and all your pretty woman parts,” he purred oblivious to the alarm in my voice.

Just as he voiced ‘warming lube’ my crotch exploded in flames. Holy mother of God, I thought to myself as I squirmed beneath him.

My husband, half drunk and obviously playing out his own romantic fantasies in his head, was not paying attention to the fact that flames were shooting out of my nether regions.

“Boo! That burns!!” I gasped.

“That’s right baby. Feel the burn. Feel the flames of my desire,” he murmured as he continued.

“NO BOO! It burns!!! My crotch! OW! It’s on fire!!!” I yelped as I arched back and bucked him off me.

“What? Are you serious?”

Apparently the smoke rising from between the sheets wasn’t obvious to him so I grabbed the bed sheet and tried to wipe away the vicious oil flaming my tender parts.

“Oh my GAWD, I’m DYING,” I half cried, half laughed. “Boo, do something before you have to tell the coroner that you killed me with warming lube!”

Boo jumped off the bed and ran into our ensuite bathroom and came back with a wet face cloth.

Grabbing it, I realized it was hot and I threw it back at him. “A COLD FACE CLOTH YOU TWIT! I’ve enough heat here to melt an igloo!”

“Oops, sorry. Didn’t think of that,” he called as he went to remedy the situation.

Snatching the cold face cloth from him when he returned, I snarled something about how next time I was going to pour hot sauce on his wanker and watch him smoke as I writhed in pain on the bed.

“I know!” Boo exclaimed. “Ice!!”

Seconds later, he was back with a tray of ice cubes and I greedily grabbed some and applied to the areas on fire. That warming lube must have been doing its job because those ice blocks were water within seconds.

A few minutes of intense personal pain later, the burning subsided and all traces of the evil acid had been eradicated.

I laid back on my pillow, panting (and not from the way my husband had hoped minutes earlier) and watched my husband laugh hysterically.

“I always told you I thought you were hot stuff,” he giggled as I tossed a pillow at his head.

“Very funny.” If looks could kill, my children would be fatherless.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” he asked contritely as he ducked from flying objects.

Luckily for him, the fire was extinguished and I was beginning to see the humour of the situation. From his perspective, I guess it would be fairly funny to watch me shove ice cubes up my cooter while begging to be killed.

Asshat.

“Let me make it up to you, darlin’,” he purred as he reached for me.

“You. Have. Got. To. Be. Joking,” I snarled and swatted at his roving hands.

“I promise, no more massage oil!”

It’s hard to get back in the mood of things when the smell of burnt va-jay-jay lingered in the air like acrid smoke. My pink parts were a little tender from the recent barbeque sizzle they had been subjected to.

But still, a girl has to do what a girl has to do and the show must go on.

Afterwards, as Boo lay staring at the ceiling reliving the evening’s festivities in his mind, he reached over in an attempt to engage in the requisite post-coital cuddle.

I squirmed away and hopped out of bed as Boo asked what I was doing.

“I’m finding that demon lube and throwing it in the trash so that the next time the only burn I feel will be from desire and not from my cooter being boiled alive,” I huffed as I bent down to grab the lube from under the chair where it had landed when I hurled it at his head earlier.

“Oh, now, now. It couldn’t have been that bad. You just weren’t prepared for it. Next time I’m sure it will work like it’s supposed to,” he snorted as visions of my smoking hooha danced before his eyes.

Next time? I thought. Next time? Are you f*cking kidding me, I sneered in my mind while smiling sweetly at my husband from the bathroom.

“You’re right darling. I’m sure next time will be better,” I called out from over my shoulder in the bathroom. Ever so carefully I quietly snapped the lid open and poured a few drops on my fingertips before chucking the bottle into the garbage can with a grin of good riddance.

Hopping back into bed, I draped myself over Boo’s body and nibbled at his neck, careful not to wipe the lube off my hand.

“Well, at least it took my mind off my back pain for a moment,” I whispered as I tugged on his earlobe with my teeth.

Boo and his buddy Captain Morgan quickly charted a course for round two. It was right then I reached down slowly and wrapped my lubricated fingers around my husband’s lovely man stick.

“Oh T,” he breathed as I smiled sadistically in the dark and waited.

“Oh, OH..OHHHH!!! OH Shit! Oh Shit!!!” Boo cried as he pushed me off the bed and raced into the bathroom.

Picture my husband at full mast standing at the bathroom sink trying to splash cold water onto his johnson while I howled with laughter from the bed.

“Feeling the burn, baby?” I called out. “I always knew you were smoking hot darling. Maybe NEXT TIME you’ll believe me.”

Needless to say, once Boo’s flame of desire was duly put out he double checked to make sure his newly purchased massage oil was safely ensconced in the garbage can.

I knew he’d see things my way sooner or later.

Heh.

I spent a large chunk of my weekend reading blog posts while chuffing back a bottle of Alberta-made ale and snorting to my husband as I surfed the net.

What made this weekend so very different than all the other weekends I have done this exact same thing (and yes, I do realize how sad my life has become,) is that the blog posts I read were all for me.

All around the internet, scattered like little Easter eggs hidden by a fat man in a bunny suit, Redneck Shower posts were written to celebrate the arrival of our new 5-year-old son as bloggers everywhere took the time to congratulate us and show the world how they too, have a little Redneck in them.

My heart swelled as I read one celebratory post after another and my pasty white arse cheeks jiggled as I  laughed reading and taking notes about how to be a better redneck mommy.

I couldn’t believe so many people would take the time to participate in an online shower welcoming my disabled son into my family and our online community. Then I realized y’all were fighting for the chance to win a wooden dildo.

(That sound you hear? It’s the air deflating out of my ego.)

Still, redneck prizes aside, my heart still swells with gratitude and love for each and every one of you who have sent me an email, a tweet, a comment or even wrote an entire post to congratulate my redneck clan.

There are no words. (Well, there are but let’s face it, my posts tend to be too damn long at the best of times.)

Yet, as the original Redneck Mommy online and reigning queen of Rednecks in Canada, I couldn’t let this opportunity pass to show you all how being a Redneck is really done.

Why spend money on fancy toys when Big Daddy Boo has a wheelbarrow?

Better yet, toss in a few sticks and you have TOYS. Plus the toddler is actually being useful. It’s win-win, y’all. What game is more fun than a rousing version of “Pick Up Sticks?”

Need I say more? Who needs money for safety tested and government certified playground equipment when you have an old tree stump and a board? It’s a fancy teeter totter.

How many of y’all can say you lived in a house that had WHEELS on it? Complete with it’s own TAILLIGHTS. Nothing says classy like watching yer old house being wheeled down the driveway.

A true Redneck knows that children don’t need no fancy bath tubs or showers. Just toss the lil’ buggers into the nearest mud pit and watch them frolic. Not only will it wash the stink off them, but it’ll provide hours of organic stimulation for yer youngsters.

You know you’re being raised a Redneck when your momma regularly tube feeds you outside as you sit in the gravel, barefooted and dirty, looking bored.

Redneck self portrait: You see no shame in capturing this moment in time, posting it on the net or looking like this as you drive to town to drop your children off at school and fill up your vehicle’s gas tank. While wearing fuzzy slippers.

To each and all of you, thank you. From the bottom of my Redneck heart.