Now, if I had force-fed them nothing but the dried up rosehips dotting the shrubs around our home, I could perhaps understand this. But since they have a healthy diet consisting of popsicles, sugar cereals and jam I’m a wee bit confused.

Or, if I locked them in their room with nothing to do but chew on their toenails I may be in agreement with their judgment. But in order to lock them in their room I’d have to drag them out of the swimming pool or off the trampoline and let’s face it, my kids are slippery little devils. For the most part I happily spend obscene amounts of money on playthings to keep them out of the house. Having them locked in their rooms would mean subjecting myself to listening to them fight and whine. Contrary to my blonde hair, I’m smarter than that.

So it was with a bit of confusion that I looked at my kids, who were standing side by side, frowning at me as I held Jumby in my arms, and asked just how I failed at parenting.

“It’s no fair!” One whined.

“You don’t play with us!” The other complained.

“Excuse me? Don’t play with you? My retinas are still blurred and my lungs are on fire from all the chlorine I ingested yesterday when you ganged up on me in the pool and tried to drown me, repeatedly. For hours. The blisters on my hand from holding the Wii remote are threatening to fester if I play anymore video games with you and might I remind you how I whooped your arses in Scrabble this morning?”

For crying out loud, the only thing I have done since my children went on summer vacation is play with them. I’m tired of playing. If I worked as hard at cleaning my house, or um, blogging, as I do at playing with my children I’m sure my life would be far more successful. Or at least my toilet wouldn’t be fuzzy.

“No, that’s not what we mean,” Frac said. “We mean you don’t play with us the way you play with Jumby.”

“Ah, well if you want sweetie, we can play Patty Cake right now,” I teased.

“Very funny Mom.”

“Well of course I don’t play with you the same as I play with Jumbster. He’s six. You’re almost 13 and 14. He’s developmentally delayed. Your report cards indicate you are on the bright side of smart. He’s a quadriplegic; the two of you walk on your hands for fun. Are you seeing the difference or shall I go on?”

“We know all that MOOOOM,” my daughter countered. “It’s just, um..” she trailed off.

“It’s just that you cuddle with him and not with us,” Frac finished the sentence his sister started.

“Ahhh. I see. You’re jealous. Of your blind, deaf brother who eats from a tube and will never walk.” I took a moment to nuzzle Jumby’s neck.

“We’re not jealous! We love Jumby! It’s just we want you to cuddle with us like you cuddle with him.”

“I cuddle with you all the time. Heck, I can’t even sit on the couch by myself because you two want to sit beside me.”

But the words sat with me, long after the conversation ended and my kids moved on, satisfied they had been heard and that I had listened.

Do I cuddle Jumby more than the older two? To some extent, I had to admit to myself, yes. For the past year I have slobbered more on Jumby than I do on my husband, whom I’m legally required to slobber on. I’ve been trying to establish a maternal bond with him, trying to reassure him through my touch that I will be his forever mommy, always.

Had I neglected the older two kids in the process? Have I made them feel lesser in my efforts to make Jumby feel like this is his home? Mommy guilt haunted me. Yes, I kiss and hug Fric and Frac every day. Our house is an affectionate household. Even before their brother Bug passed away, I dribbled my mommy love onto my kids through my hugs and kisses. I didn’t grow up with parents who openly showed affection and I have always been careful to make sure my kids feel my love through my touch.

But have I been committing the cardinal parenting sin and blatantly favouring one sibling over the others?

This called for an immediate investigation. So I called my husband.

“Do I favour Jumby over the other two kids?” I immediately asked when he answered his phone.

“Um, hello to you too. Why yes, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“I’m serious Boo. I think your kids think I love Jumby more than I love them,” I worried aloud and then explained the situation with him.

My husband, ever the rock that keeps me grounded, laughed. “Um, no. They are just being brats. You abuse them equally. You’re fairly fair in your distribution of maternal slobber. I think you are worrying for nothing.”

Clearly my husband would be of no help with this.

So I asked my Dad. He’s here almost every day and has an inside view of the maternal-child relations. He’s a straight shooter. He’ll tell me like it is.

“Dad, do I spoil Jumby? The kids think I love him more than them.”

“Ah, just put a boot up their arses and tell them to go clean their rooms and stop bothering you.”

Right. Perhaps my father isn’t the foremost authority on tactful parental relations.

This meant I only had one choice left.

Operation Slobber Puss.

I decided I would make sure every time I kissed or held Jumby to make sure I immediately shared the affection with his older siblings.

At first, my kids lapped it up. It was a free love festival around here all the time. My kids couldn’t walk past me without me stopping to hug them and lay a big smooch on them. My lips were getting chapped from all the kisses I was doling out. Apparently, I cuddle with Jumby a whole lot more than I was aware of. But since the kid doesn’t walk and requires me to carry him everywhere for his basic daily needs, he tends to be in my arms a lot. Which meant, since I was insistent on equally sharing the love, seeking out the older two for random moments of affection.

It didn’t take long for my kids to begin to grow weary with the constant cuddles. Apparently interupting their game of tag or making them stop their video games in a critical moment to kiss me can get a bit annoying. Who knew?

The weariness quickly grew into aggravation and it wasn’t long before my children would twitch every time they saw me walk towards them. At one point my kids even held up their hands in the sign of a cross and hissed at me like they would a vampire. “Enough Mom!”

Still, I persisted. It’s always been an active concern of mine that in my quest to parent first Shalebug and now Jumbster, that my kids would be neglected as my maternal efforts are swallowed by the needs of the disabled child. It’s always been a struggle to find a balance at parenting the healthy children when their disabled little brother waves his overwhelming needs in our faces. It isn’t always easy being the healthy kid in a family with a child with special needs. I recognize that and want my healthy children to know that even though I can’t always be there for them, I see them.

If my kids want more cuddles, than darn it, cuddles they will get.

Then the straw that finally broke my camels’ backs finally dropped. I was trying to be an affectionate mother with Frac as he was trying to read his book. As I leaned in and blew a raspberry kiss onto the side of his neck like I do his little brother, he stood up and slammed his book down.

“All right! Enough! No more kisses. Just leave us alone!” His sister, who was in the other room, sauntered in and nodded her agreement with her little brother.

“It’s too much Mom! You’re always touching us. It’s driving us bonkers,” she said.

“But I’m just cuddling with you like I do with your little brother!” I insisted, somewhat taken back.

“But we’re not six! And we’re not a baby in our brain like he is! It’s different!” They both retorted.

I looked at them, as Jumby rolled around on the floor in a little patch of sunlight, softly cooing to himself and then I smiled. Wickedly.

“Well, thank heavens that is over! Come on Jumby, let’s go play Patty cake,” I said as I scooped him up and into my arms.

I mean, showing maternal love is all fine and dandy. But there comes a time when giving your child raspberry kisses needs to come to an end.

Because let’s face it. No matter how much you love your children, once they have body odour and pubic hair, smooching on them while making monster noises just ain’t the same.

Since my sister, Mouse, had the week off of work, I decided to make it a real family vacation and invite her and my nephew along for the terror. I admit I wasn’t just being nice. The idea of being alone with three kids and no father figure to help supervise was less than palatable. I’ve never vacationed with my children without their father. I wasn’t quite sure I was up for the task without a little adult supervision.

Knowing me, I’d likely revert back to childhood myself and feed my children nothing but cotton candy and gummy worms for the duration. Although Fric and Frac would surely appreciate the lack of effort, Jumby requires an adult who is capable of remembering his medication schedule.

So with great excitement we piled into the vehicles earlier this week and set off on the open road with no discernable destination in mind. Because nothing says family vacation quite like wandering from one highway gas station to the next with no map, no plan and no destination in mind.

Hours later and the realities of traveling with children quickly set in. The whole ‘discover Alberta’ with no real plan was not going to fly since my children actually wanted to get out of the vehicle at some point.

Just as Fric and Frac were attempting to murder one another in the back seat and Jumby was trying to escape his car seat by gnawing through his straps, I looked in the rear view mirror and snapped, “You are acting like you belong in a zoo! Stop that!”

It was like a light bulb went off in my head. The Zoo! We can go to the zoo! And so the destination had been set. I always knew my children behaving like rabid monkeys would one day work in my favour.

The upside to taking the kids to the zoo is if they misbehave you can always threaten to leave them behind. Or feed them to the lions. The zoo is a magical place for a stressed out mommy’s imagination.

Of course, the Calgary zoo isn’t a regular zoo. It has dinosaurs. That roar. And twitch. And cause four-year-old nephews to lose their dinosaur-loving minds.

I admit, I wasn’t thinking of the swarm of screaming ankle biters that would be running lose in the zoo, alongside my children when I decided to take the kids to the zoo.  I mean, why would other parents want to take their kids to a public place to run alongside the exotic animals? Who does that?

Nothing makes a parent feel old like realizing they can’t keep up with a herd of excited, sugar-high stampeding children as one navigate the slopes of the zoo.

My children were in heaven. They have a twisted sense of humour.

Turns out if you place me in a public park with hoards of children that don’t belong to me, I tend to get annoyed. Quickly. I sucked at this road trip business. After tripping over one small child after another, I knew that an attitude adjustment was quickly needed before I threatened to put my foot up some random innocent child’s arse.

The best way to adjust one’s attitude when stuck in a dinosaur park in a huge zoo, with no coffee or alcohol and the sun is rapidly sucking the life out of you? Kiss a dinosaur. Heck, since my husband is out of town it’s the most action I’ve had in weeks. A girl can never bee too choosy you know.

Apparently all I needed was a little love because the day seemed to improve after I slipped the monster the tongue. What can I say? I enjoyed making a public arse out of myself.

We wandered the park and eventually made our way from the dinosaurs to the living-breathing animals. The kids got a kick out of seeing all the exotic animals and I got my kicks from watching all the other harried mothers wander about the park.

Misery does love company and I am a bit of a sadist.

Eventually, all the animals had been seen, all the parks had been played in and all my dollars had been spent on soggy hotdogs and snow cones. It was time to seek shelter at a family friendly hotel.

Which meant navigating a foreign city during rush hour traffic.

Have I mentioned I’m a nervous driver at the best of times? Here’s where I desperately wished for my own little GPS machine that has a Darth Vader voice. Trying to cross the freeway would have been much easier if only I had Darth breathing out instructions like “In five hundred meters turn left Luke!”

Fate was merciful though, and a hotel was quickly stumbled upon. A hotel with a pool. My children were in heaven. It became abundantly obvious as they ooh’d and ahh’d over the minibar and the pre-wrapped soaps and sample sized shampoos that my children really need to get out more often.

Somebody get on that for me, will ya?

It was hard to be jaded and cynical (and face it, completely bitchy with fatigue) when the world was just. so. exciting. to my kids.

Oh, to be fourteen (and perky) once again.

The thing is, as much as I grumped and groused and as exhausted as I still am, from all the merriment, I wouldn’t change any of this for the world. I want my kids to experience life, and I selfishly want to be there to witness when they do. They are growing up faster than I can slow them down and no family knows better than we do how quickly life can suddenly end.

My time actively parenting Fric and Frac is quickly coming to an end and I want to take advantage of the few years I have left.

Plus it is so much more socially acceptable to gorge out on junk food while watching Glee in your jammies and have a pillow fight when you are in a hotel room. If my kids tried that at home I’d likely lose my mind.

My children now know to fear my pillow-swinging prowess. Heh.

The road trip was a success. Defined by me not losing my mind, children sleeping soundly and a sister who is still alive even after snoring loudly beside me all night long.

The only down side of the trip, besides not having Boo along to share the memories with us, was realizing, I’m not as young as I once was.

There was a time when I’d stand in a hotel lobby and young men would approach me to flirt.

Now young men approach me to ask how old my daughter is and if she has a boyfriend.

She’s never allowed to swim in a public pool again.

Everywhere he’d go, people would tell him what a pretty little girl he’d make. It didn’t help that his mother would routinely pull his hair into pony tails to keep the hair out of his eyes.

Just call me Mowgli.

While his long hair covered the scars on his head and added volume to his unusually small sized cranium, the boy grew to loathe his hair. Perhaps it was because he hated having to sit still to get his hair brushed, (he was a free spirit after all), or perhaps it was because small animals routinely called his head their home.

I’m fairly sure there is some critters in there somewhere.

The birds kept circling his head, wondering if it would make a suitable nest for their offspring.

It became a tiresome game of picking twigs and grass out of the mat of hair the boy sported so in a fit of annoyance the boy’s mother declared it was time for a hair cut.

The boy wasn’t sure he liked what his mother was proposing because he wasn’t sure he entirely trusted her with scissors. After all, he’d seen what she’d done to her own hair last month when she decided to trim her own bangs.

The boy loved his momma, but love only stretches so far.

I’m not so sure of this idea, Mom.

The boy’s mother was not to be deterred. There was only so much stick pulling from her son’s hair that she could take, so she sat down to convince her son why a haircut was indeed, a good idea.

Mostly she just blew raspberry kisses on his belly and tickled his feet until he saw the light she was shining on his head.

I’m trusting you woman. Heck, you can’t do worse than the mullet Dad gave me.

Before the boy could change his mind and his mother could chicken out, he found himself freshly bathed and sitting at his aunt’s house waiting for the axe to fall.

I really am a rock star.

At first the boy wasn’t too sure about what was going on with all the activity buzzing around his ears, but suddenly, the weight of the world seemed to be lifted off his shoulders.

Dude! It’s like a free head massage!

Suddenly this haircut was the greatest idea ever!

The boy laughed and bounced and giggled as his poor aunt tried to hold him still to cut his hair. The boy’s momma watched it all and wished for a stiff drink.

When it was over, there was hair (and drool) everywhere. But the boy couldn’t get over how much cooler his head felt and wondered why they hadn’t done it sooner.

The boy’s mother sat silent, knowing she had done the right thing, but still missed his long beautiful locks.

I’m the best looking one in this family. Just don’t tell my siblings I said that.

The boy couldn’t stop rubbing his head against everything, so enthralled was he with his new follicle freedom.

The boy’s mother couldn’t stop wishing she had hair like her son’s.

The birds stopped circling the boy’s head and moved on to look for a new nesting ground.

His father sighed with relief, knowing he’d never again have to tell people his child was not a girl.

His mom can’t wait to grow it all back again.

What can she say? She misses the rat nest she called her son’s head.

Get over it Mom, and stop living vicariously through my hair.

Please read that as: there are just some decisions your husband makes that are so certifiably insane that you need to publicly mock them and document them so that you may relive them forever and hold over his head for the rest of his life.

Thankfully my husband, bless his cotton socks, has seen fit to provide me with such fodder. He’s so considerate that way.

My daughter Fric recently came home with a grade eight homework assignment. A science project.

Now back when I was hip deep in junior high science, I dreaded any type of science project I was assigned. My parents weren’t hands-on with my academics and experiments or projects meant I had to buckle down and suffer alone. I hated science, which meant I was always the kid who did a project that revolved around growing mold on bread.

Needless to say, I didn’t excel in science.

My daughter, however, loves science and proves that in some cases, the apple does drop and then roll far, far away from the tree it was grown on.

Her assignment was relatively simple. Design and construct a simple catapult. You would have thought her teacher asked her to create a weapon worthy of military use.

I admit it, being the homework-hating mother I am, I cringed when my daughter walked through the door and excitedly told me about her assignment. I’m pretty sure the blood drained from my face like some sparkly vampire was sucking at my carotid and I was immediately teleported back to the days of potatoes as batteries and mason jars filled with bits of mold.

My husband, being the over-achiever he is, took one look at the assignment and shot his hand up to volunteer to help like his life depended on it. Way to make me look bad dear husband.

To be fair to my husband, (because I’d like to ensure he remains my husband,) he was thrilled to be home to help his daughter with her homework. Working out of town 26 days of each month does not tend to lead to a lot of hands on daddy time and by golly, he was bound and determined to make the most out of what he had.

My daughter was just thrilled one of her parents was as excited about the project as she was.

For the next two days Boo and Fric sat at the kitchen counter, heads together and working through one piece of graph paper after another as he helped my daughter design her catapult blue prints.

It was rather adorable really. Especially since every time I tried to peak at what they were up to they both hissed at me and covered up their work like I was some secret agent spy looking to sell their master plans to the highest bidder in the grade eight class.

When my daughter had finally created a design my husband deemed viable, they headed off to the store to pick up building supplies to bring the project to life.

I expected them to come back with a handful of popsicle sticks and some elastics.

I was wrong.

Turns out, they had much grander ideas.

As construction of the grade eight science project began, I watched my husband and my daughter organize their tools and supplies, and I admit, I laughed at my husband.

“You do realize this design may be a wee over the top?”

“Sure, but it’s gonna be fun!” he grinned as he ordered Fric to round up some welding rods.

“But the idea of this experiment is for her to learn something. I’m a little worried you may have bitten off more than she can chew, Boo.”

“Honey,” he said in that patronizing way he does when he figures he is smarter than me, “even babies need to learn how to chew. That’s what I’m planning on doing. Teaching her to chew. While making the best damn catapult known to mankind.”

That’s when I rolled my eyes at him and went back into the house to wash my hands of the entire thing. If anyone asked, I fully planned on telling them I don’t know whom those people were outside on my front lawn.

And so the project went. Them working side by side from sun up to sun down with me inside, rolling my eyes and shaking my head.

I tend to be very helpful like that.

It turns out my husband had an entirely different idea of his own. While I only saw ‘lame annoying science project’, he saw ‘potential to introduce his child to the basic tools of his trade.’

Go figure.

After the materials had been organized and lined up, the tools carefully laid out and the safety equipment procured and fully explained, my husband set my daughter loose. With power tools. While grinning.

First there was the cutting and grinding of the metal rods that were to make the frame.

Fric (and Frac, because let’s face it, Dad was home and letting them play with expensive toys and there was no way he was going to let his big sister have all the fun) took to grinding like a duck to water. You could tell the kids were enjoying themselves because they not only sat through Boo’s safety lectures but they never rolled their eyes once.

Whose children are these and where did mine go, is what I want to know.

Once the pieces had been cut to specification, the welding fun began.

At first Boo held the torch as he guided the kids through the basic principals of welding.

Then he let them have a go at it by themselves.

When I later asked how the welds held up, he grinned and said it looked like basic chickensh!t. But the welds held and that was all that mattered.

(This of course, only reinforces my belief that any monkey can do his job, so thanks for that honey. You totally proved my job is harder.

*Cackles gleefully.*)

Once the basic frame was assembled, the two of them got down to business of putting the guts in.

I admit, by the time the frame was together and I could see the vast scope of the project the two of them had undertaken, I stopped rolling my eyes. I was too busy trying to remember to close my gaping maw. I swear I swallowed a few flies as my mouth hanged open.

Eventually, the catapult was finished. It took the entire four days my husband was home for my daughter to finish this project. Apparently, creating genius is a time consuming project, especially when one’s father insists you do the work yourself and sits on the steps with a beer as he supervises.

Welcome to your first taste of the real world Fric. Some things never change.

It took three people and an elephant to get the catapult off my unfinished wheelchair ramp (which, at this point, I have decided doesn’t need safety rails) and onto the lawn for the initial launch.

As Frac, Jumby and myself stood far, far away, we watched as Boo and Fric excitedly set the contraption up and I readied myself for the tears that would follow if the launch failed.

Apparently, I worried for nothing.

There is a dent in the side of my house proving just how effective this weapon catapult really is. Thanks guys. I will tell myself it just adds character.

In the end, my husband got to spend some serious quality time with his oldest children, my kids learned equal parts science, trade skills and the art of military tactics and I may have learned a thing or two myself.

Never underestimate your child’s creativity. Given the chance they will surprise you as they launch egg missiles half a mile down the road.

And never ever underestimate a father’s willingness to unleash his own inner 13 year old on his family. As he’s launching eggs at your house.

I still maintain popsicle sticks and rubber bands would have sufficed.

However, my band of merry over-achievers aren’t listening.

*Note: My daughter also had a partner for this project, a girl who all but moved in (and whom I forced to eat my poorly tasting tofu dinners) while she participated in the project as well. Due to privacy laws however, I didn’t include her in the post. However, if her science teacher is reading this, she can grind and weld just as well as any monkey can.*

This weekend turned out to be so, like, completely and utterly awesome!!!

It didn’t start off that way. I woke up Saturday morning to my Mom totally yelling at Dad to get his butt in gear and finish the ‘damn’ wheelchair ramp for Jumby. I don’t really know why she is bugging dad so hard to get it finished. It’s not like she’s going to be the one pushing Jumby up and down the ramp. We all know that she’ll just bark out orders for one of us to do it. Right now she makes us carry the wheelchair up and down the stairs of the deck and put the wheelchair in the back of the truck. She claims it’s too heavy for her to do it without hurting her back yet when I turn around there she is holding Jumby and like dancing with him on the lawn. *rolls eyes* She is such a faker. Jumby is like, the exact same weight as his wheelchair.

Whatever.

Anyways, her nagging totally worked  (I’m sooo filing that knowledge away for the day I managed to rope in my own husband) and Dad finally got off his duff and started putting the top boards on the deck. He must have felt lonely though, because after like two boards he called his best friend Uncle Mack to come over and help.

Mom said the only help Mack gave was to empty a new bottle of Crown Royal whiskey but I think she was jealous that Dad had a friend over and not her. She complained they only put on like, six boards, but when they went in the house to get another drink I counted and Dad and Mack totally put on 14 boards.

After Uncle Mack and Dad almost cut their hands off with the mitre saw, Mom made them stop working on the ramp. Which seemed a little contrary to me. After all, she just spent the entire day whining the ramp wasn’t getting built and as soon as they start to like, actually work on it, she made them stop. Like, make up your mind MOM.

That night, my aunty Mouse came over and the four of them played cards and karaoked until way late. I don’t know how they expected us to get any sleep with all that bellowing going on. My mom, she is no Britney Spears I tell ya.

When we woke up the next morning Uncle Mack was snoring on the couch and I could tell Mom had a headache. Dad kept asking me if I was using my inside voice. Grown ups. They get so cranky when they get old. I’m never going to be like that.

Then Dad had a great idea about taking us all fishing. Uncle Mack thought that was a fabulous idea but Mom kept reminding them about the unfinished wheelchair ramp. Dad said something about living in a democracy and she was outvoted and then told us to pack up our fishing gear. My dad is the greatest dad in the entire world.

Mom was kinda grumpy after that. She decided not to come. She said it wouldn’t be safe to have Jumby on a boat. Dad said he’d keep care of him so Mom can fish because he knows how much Mom loves to be out on the water but she just rolled her eyes. She can be such a killjoy sometimes.

I offered to help hold Jumby on the boat too but she just kept saying no. I heard her mumble something about how Jumby would just end up rolling around in the bottom of the boat, being bounced around like a ping pong ball but like, seriously. Does she not know how much Jumby would love that??? He totally loves it when we bounce him on the trampoline when Mom isn’t looking.

Anyways, she decided to stay home with Jumby and so we all got our stuff together and hopped into Uncle Mack’s truck. Man, I can’t figure out how he is so skinny with all those empty Big Mac containers stuffed in the back seat. We filled up an entire garbage bag full of fast food containers just so Frac and I could fit back there.

I guess Mom is right. He totally needs a woman. Maybe that’s why Aunty Mouse came over. I think Mom and Dad were trying to fix the two of them up. Wouldn’t that be cool if they, like got married? Then Uncle Mack would be my real uncle and Mom would quit saying how aunty needed a good man.

We waved goodbye to Mom and Jumby and drove down the drive way. I kinda felt bad that they were going to miss out on all the fun but I guess being part of a grown up is making responsible choices. I still think Jumby would have loved being bounced around on the boat.

Just as we were turning on to the road I turned around to wave good bye to them and I saw Mom trip and fall over a piece of wood while she was holding Jumby. She has a bad ankle. I hope she didn’t hurt herself. I told Dad that Mom fell and maybe we should turn around and check on her but he said she was a big girl and if she needed him she’d call him. I swear, he turned off his cell phone right then. He says he didn’t but I saw him do it.

Anyways, we got to the lake and it was sooo pretty. Frac was being kinda obnoxious but that’s cuz he’s just a little boy. He’s only turning twelve this year. I’m going to be thirteen in like a week. I’m wayyy more mature then him.

Uncle Mack and Dad caught lots of fish. Mostly jack fish but some perch too. But I caught just as many as they did. Mom would be so proud. Frac didn’t catch as many fish as we did but Dad said that’s because in order to catch fish you have to have your hook in the water. Frac kept catching his hook on everyone’s shirt! Or on the ropes. Or tangling his line with Uncle Mack’s.

Dad kept saying “It’s a good thing you’re pretty, boy,” whenever he had to untangle Frac’s line. Uncle Mack would just shake his head and say Frac was a sweet boy. I don’t know what they were smoking. Frac isn’t pretty. He’s a goober. And sweet? Puh-leez.

We caught a lot of fish that afternoon. Most of them we had to release back into the lake because they were too small to keep. We were having a lot of fun. Finally it got dark and Dad decided instead of heading home we should spend the night at Uncle Mack’s cabin. That was totally cool.

I wondered how Mom was doing with Jumby. I mean, she fell down and everything. I hope she didn’t hurt herself. Dad said he’d call her but when he tried to talk to her the phone kept cutting off.

Poor Mom. All alone with Jumby, while we got to stay up late and watch movies while Uncle Mack and Dad drank beer.

The next morning we went out on the boat again and the fish were really biting. I kept catching the biggest fish!! Dad and Uncle had to help me reel in a nine pounder! It made all of the other fish we caught look piddly.

Uncle Mack said that me catching the biggest fish of all of us was just the ‘cherry on his summer’. I think he was being sarcastic but it was hard to tell when he was looking at his one pound fish next to my giant one. I totally thought he was crying but he insisted there was something in his eye.

We spent the entire day at the lake and it was fabulous. I didn’t think about boys or school or my annoying brother Frac once (except when I almost lost my eye because he flung his cast out and his hook caught the brim of my cap,) because I was too busy catching all the big fish. I don’t care what the men said. It wasn’t luck. It was my skill as a fisherwoman.

When it started to get dark we headed for home. Our bedtime is usually nine at night (which, dear diary, is like, totally unfair because all of my friends get to stay up way later than that. Mom keeps saying she doesn’t care about my friends bedtime and that I need my sleep. I don’t think she has figured out that I may be in my bedroom at nine at night but I totally stay up until like, midnight every night reading a book under my covers with a pillow shoved under the door to block out the light,) but we didn’t even get home until after ten. On a school night! It was awesome.

But you know how I mentioned I saw my mom trip and fall? Apparently when she fell down this time she broke her ankle. She looked so tired and grouchy with her ankle resting on a stack of pillows. I wonder how she managed to take care of Jumby all by herself.

When Dad asked her why she didn’t tell him she broke her ankle she got all huffy and sputtered that she tried to call to tell him but his phone was turned off and Uncle Mack never answered any of her calls.

Dad tried to tell her that he never shut his phone off but when I reminded them that I saw Mom trip and fall and maybe we should call and check on Mom he turned off his phone.

Wow. That may not have been my brightest move. Mom totally morphed into a giant man eating monster and poor Dad got into trouble. When Mom was yelling at Dad she kinda reminded me of my giant nine pound jack fish, all angry and thrashing.

It looked like she totally wanted to chew off Dad’s head. Dad looked like Frac does whenever he does something wrong but he totally made it up to her when he handed her the stinky bag of fish. Mom loves fresh fish.

Funny, she didn’t seem too grateful.

I mean, sheesh, just because she fell and broke her ankle and had to take care of our handicapped brother with no help while we had fun out on the lake and Dad stretched an afternoon of fishing into an entire weekend away doesn’t mean Dad didn’t feel bad.

I mean, like, she totally could have come with us. I still think Jumby would have been fine on the bottom of the boat. There wasn’t even that much water down there. Only a couple of inches. I’d have made sure his nose was out of it. Sheesh.

When I grow up, I am like totally never going to get mad at my husband for going fishing with his buddies.

Well, that was my weekend. All’s well that ends well.

At least for me. Mom’s all broken and hobbling every where while mumbling about inconsiderate assholes (really, my mom has such a potty mouth) and Dad looks kinda scared.

I can’t wait to do this again!!!

Signed,

Fric.

EDIT: My ankle? It’s fine. Just a little crack. Sorta like the one my husband may or may not suffer in his cranium after I finish beating him with a baseball bat.

P.S. Just kidding about beating my husband.

Maybe.