There are some moments in a family’s timeline that beg to be documented for posterity.

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.*

Dear Diary,

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.

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.