Here’s a few little know facts about me.

First, I am chronically lazy. At least this is what my children like to tell me whenever I ask them to fetch me a drink or take the garbage out. Generally while muttering under their breath about me possibly having a piano tied to my arse.

While my bottom may be quickly growing to piano size proportions, last time I checked there was no musical instrument tied to my posterior. (Although, sometimes when I pass gas I swear there are trumpets and flutes strategically placed back there.) Nor, as my children have been known to inquire, are my legs broken.

I just like to conserve as much energy as humanely possible as often as possible. It takes a lot of energy to be bendy when the hubs is home. I have to store up for the chandelier swinging when I can.

I like to think I’m teaching my children responsibility and instilling care giving instincts every darn time I ask them to fetch me the ice cream container and a spoon. Really. It’s practically my duty to order them to serve me.

As I like to tell my children, (generally as they whine about having to pass me the television remote which is only two feet away but would require me to actually bend and move to reach it, thereby ruining the perfect zen-like mojo I have achieved while my arse settled into the dips of the couch) I run a tight ship. They still owe me for gestating and squeezing the angry little critters out of my pink parts. I win. When they have kids they can win. Until then, be quiet, give me the remote and while you’re at it, this drink needs another cube of ice.

Ahem.

Secondly, I am a tea snob. I love tea. I can’t get enough of it. That is, if it’s loose-leaf and not that bagged orange pekoe crap my parents keep in a cookie jar collecting dust on the kitchen counter. I’d rather drink from a puddle in a parking lot than drink that swill.

I have every type of tea imaginable. Herbal, rooibus, black, green, chai and every other type in between. I have more loose leaf tea in my pantry than I have actual food. I take my tea drinking very seriously. I collect teapots and I refuse to drink my tea out of anything other than my favorite teacups.

I am, in fact, a total pain in the ass when it comes to my tea. (Or so I’ve been told. Often and by a variety of different people so I’m just going to take their word on it.)

Which leads me to the point of this post. (Shocking, I know. 500 words in and I’m finally just now getting to the point of my story. Why you all keep coming back to read me is a mystery.)

This past weekend, I was at home alone with my boys. Fric had abandoned ship, preferring to watch the movie Twilight over and over again with a girlfriend (and an obviously much more patient and caring mother than I could ever hope to be because I sat through that movie once and my eyes are still sore from all the times I jammed straws into them while suffering through those miserable two hours.)

Jumby and I were on the couch doing what mothers and new sons do. He was batting at me, annoyed from  the love I slobbered all over him. During which time I realized I became parched from all that kissing.

“Hey Frac, momma’s thirsty. How bout making me some tea? Pretty please?” I politely tacked on to the end of my demand disguised as a request.

“Oh jeez. I’m at level seven of wah wah wah (which is what I hear whenever he starts speaking video game talk to me) and I can’t pause it or I’ll die and have to redo the entire level,” he complained while never taking his eyes off the computer screen.

“That’s okay. I’ll wait. And continue to pester you with my annoying request until you comply. That is what a good mother does,” I jovially replied.

Frac exhaled loudly in what suspiciously sounded like a teenage sigh of annoyance.

Minutes later, with Jumby bouncing on my lap and happily jabbering incomprehensibly to me, I called out to Frac, “Are you done yet? My throat feels like the Sahara desert over here dude.”

“Mooom. You could make it yourself you know.” I swore I saw a demon’s tail twitch out from his hindquarters as he tested me.

“Yes, I could. But I could also put you up for sale on E-bay and use that money for a sparkly new treadmill but you don’t see me doing that either.”

“Sheesh. Fiiine.” I love when he says Fiiine in that teenage tone. Fiiine really translates to ‘Bite my arse woman’ but he thinks I have forgotten the language of hormonal tweens.  Tearing himself away from his computer game, he went to the pantry to peruse my selection of teas.

“What kind do you want?” he asked like the sweet compliant momma’s boy he is as he poured water into the kettle.

“I’m easy. Anything. You choose.” I figure beggars shouldn’t be choosers. I am nothing if not considerate when bossing my child around.

Yet another whoosh of air exhaled from my son, which suspiciously resembled a sigh. “Fiiiine. You’ll get what I make.”

“Sounds good to me Frac. You’re a good boy,” I charitably responded. I believe in positive reinforcement. All the parenting professionals keep harping on that so there must be something to it.

The kettle whistled and Frac busied himself as he made my tea. Loose leaf, boiling water, steeped for precisely the right amount of time depending on which type of tea he chose  (why yes, I have anal retentively marked all tins with the correct brewing time as to make my children’s lives easier. Really, I am a peach to live with. I swear.)

Frac walked over to the couch where Jumby and I sat, careful not to spill the scalding brew onto his hands or the floor I had just finished mopping and smiled widely when he presented it to me.

“Here you go Mom. I hope you like it. I picked a special brew just for you.”

Seriously, could this child be any more perfect, I thought to myself as I blew on the tea and the steam fogged up my glasses.

I was feeling rather smug about my child raising abilities as I took my first sip of tea. It was one of those perfect lazy Sunday afternoons, where the world outside was still with freshly falling snow and I was tucked snug as a bug in my warm house with my boys who positively oozed love for me out of them.

It took a second before my taste buds to kick into gear because of the heat of the liquid but suddenly they woke up screaming.

I choked and momentarily considered spitting the rancid brew back out into my teacup but chose the classier route of swallowing it instead. I did have an example to set for my children after all.

Sputtering and coughing I set the mug of poison down and heard Frac smother his laughter from around the corner in the kitchen.

“Frac? What kind of tea did you make me?” I ran through my mental list of tea wondering which one went bad.

“Herbal,” he giggled.

“What type of herbal tea?”

“Oregano,” he burst out and bent over laughing. “Gramma Lala says herbal tea is the best and oregano is a herb, isn’t it?” he managed to squeeze out between gust of laughter.

Just so you all know, drinking oregano tea is even worse than trying to smoke it. Not that I have any experience in that *cough*cough*.

It seems my time has come. First my daughter has morphed into a teenaged mini-me and now my son has switched to the dark side. I knew it would happen sooner or later, I had just hoped I had more time taking advantage of with his sweet compliant ways.

“You do realize you are going to pay for this, don’t you little man?” I asked him with my eyebrow raised as he wiped away his tears. It was hard not to smile over how pleased with himself he was. Somehow I managed though. It might have had something to do with the lingering taste of oregano tea in my mouth.

“It’s illegal to beat me,” he cheekily replied.

“Who said anything about beating you my boy? Just look on the calendar. April 1st is fast approaching. I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you,” I said darkly.

Frac paled and his brave face slipped just for a moment before the mask of bravado was back. “What-ever,” he called as he sat back down at the computer. I noted the giggling had stopped though.

That’s right little man. Let those wheels of worry start churning now.

In the meantime, I think I’ll brew my own damn tea from now on.