I was Smarter When I was 13

This is me at age 13. The same age my daughter will be in thirty five days. Holy cannoli. In just over a month my daughter will be a full fledged teenager.

Hold me.

When I was 13 years old, I was fairly certain I didn't yet have life by the tail but I was also equally certain that one day soon I would. Just as soon as I grew five more inches and my boobs filled out.

This is me, twenty years later at age 33. Today. This very moment. Well, okay, probably not by the time you read this, but you get the point.

As you can see, my boobs filled out. But I never did grow those five inches. I did manage to shoot up an extra two inches but sadly, I never did make the coveted supermodel height I was aspiring to.

I don't know if I have life by the tail, but I'm still equally certain that one day I will. Even if the only thing I have by the tail is a few dogs, a puppy and more cats than I can shake a stick at.

When I was 13 I didn't have a clear idea of where I'd be when I grew up but I knew one thing for certain. I was never having children.

There are days when I kick myself for not remembering my 13 year old self more often.

Ahem.

At age 13, there was one thing in life that was sweeter than ice cream. That sweetness was slumber parties. I never had many sleep overs at my own home, always preferring to escape my siblings and my parents by crashing on the floor at friends homes.

There just didn't seem to be anything better than eating someone else's food, sleeping under someone else's roof and watching television on someone else's television.

I only wish my children felt the same way.

No, instead my darling little imps prefer to herd the neighbourhood children into my yard, my house, my life and destroy the sanctity of peace I like to cultivate.

And because I am that mom, I seem powerless to stop them.

Somehow I've morphed into a pushover for puberty parties hosted at my house.

I feel it's my duty to warn all of you and remind myself what I obviously knew as a 13 year old child: Sleep overs are evil. Unless they're done at some other schmuck's house.

Sure your children are cute. They fill your heart with love every time they slather their slimy little kisses on your cheek or wrap their dirty little arms around your neck and whisper how much they love and adore you.

But then they grow up and meet other people's not so cute children and they befriend them.

That's when the trouble starts. Because it is then they start insisting on batting their big baby blue eyes at you and begging you to let their friends come over and in a moment of stupidity weakness you cave.

Those cute children you've been raising? They are not so cute when they are surrounded by other people's children. No, they morph into like-minded monsters, preying on your sanity like a pack of hyenas preys on a lone antelope.

Sure they try and butter you up by announcing to their friends that you are the best mom in the world. Sure their friends (upon seeing a breach in your defence) are quick to pat you on the back and whisper words of how you are the coolest mom in the neighbourhood.

It's all a PLOY people.

A ploy to drive you to distraction so you will cave. These pubescent children have smelled blood and like vampires, will glamour you into believing what they say is the truth; all so you will drive to the grocery store and spend a small fortune on food that isn't fit for human consumption.

While they are cramming fists full of chips and cheetos and swigging down gallons of orange pop they will say cute things to amuse you. Don't listen. Don't get charmed into thinking these people, children of other peoples, are good.

They're harbingers of evil.

Soon it will be dark and like the creatures of the night they will rise just as you are yawning and dreaming of pillows and down comforters. They will bring your children over to the dark side as you helplessly watch your children transform before your very eyes.

Filled with empty calories and the adrenalin of happiness they will bounce off your walls, your furniture, your sanity until you find yourself pleading with them for a single moment of silence.

You will do the unthinkable and agree to let them watch inappropriate movies all in a desperate bid to get them to quiet down and sit still. Every parenting skill you have accumulated and stock piled will be thrown aside as you attempt to conquer these savages you once recognized as flesh of your flesh.

Then, when you think the situation is firmly in hand and under control, you will turn your back on the pack, say your good nights and retire to the peaceful sanctity of your room to await for slumber to erase the pain of the night and for dawn to return and restore your parental powers once again.

You'll be lulled asleep by the soft murmurs of their whispers, content with the knowledge that once again you put your children's happiness before your own and created yet another childhood memory to their collection.

That's what they want.

They wait for that very moment. And once they are assured you have drifted off to the land of Nod, they will pounce.

You will be woken up to the shrill sounds of squeals and laughter as these creatures of darkness run around your lawn at two in the morning playing a rousing game of tag. You will be forced to rise from the warmth of your own bed and shrug into a cold robe and stand on a cold damp deck and bellow at them to get their arses back into bed before someone gets hurt.

They will file in with angelic faces and their false apologies and your heart will feel pangs of guilt for harshing their buzz but they will once more settle in for the night so that you can  return to your now chilly bed and pray for peace once more.

And just as you nod off you will awake to the sounds of splashing and whispered laughter and the quiet worried hushes of a preteen child you thought you knew so well as she announces, "Shhh. You'll wake up Mom!"

No good ever comes from that sentence.

Once again you will find yourself out in the dark of the night, on a dew filled deck, only this time sleep has taken with it your sanity and your good sense and you will find yourself telling the children swimming out in the pool at three am to knock it off and pipe down.

You are no longer concerned about safety. You no longer care if their growing bodies get the rest they need to stay strong and healthy.

These imps of pop culture and sugar have sapped your strength and you will find yourself grudgingly climbing back into bed for the third time that night only to find yourself wide awake as you listen to the splashing and laughter and cries of "Marco!" "Polo!"

Suddenly quiet will fall  and you will breathe a sigh of relief as you falsly convince yourself the unending energy of these creatures has finally tapped out.

It's about then, that very moment, you will hear the snickers as these children you no longer recognize stand beneath your bedroom window and make ghost sounds to try to scare you.

"Whooooo. I am a verrrry scarrrrry ghoooost out toooo geet your sooooouul."

Giggle.

"Booooooo."

Giggle.

This will continue until you are forced to threaten to beat them senseless with  a pillow if they don't leave you alone and let you sleep.

At this point, they are so out of control they can't even help themselves from the evil that is within them.

Eventually sleep will claim you, although it will be fitful and worrisome. You will be plagued by nightmares of waking up to find your child standing above you holding an axe as their friends chant softly "Do it, do it, do it" behind them.

Finally dawn will break and you will rise with optimism fresh in your heart. You survived, you think. Just a few more hours and soon your house will be yours once more.

It's then that these children go in for the kill, reaching for your soft underbelly of weakness and drive the knife of preteen power deep within you.

You will wake to find they will have robbed your pantry, emptied your cupboards and left them barren. And as they gleefully consume the last remains of all your food you will stand in front of the refrigerator and weep silently as you try to pour yourself a glass of juice only to find they have drained the jug down to the last drop and put the empty container back in the fridge.

You'll hear soft whimpers of surrender coming from your lips as you give up and hand over any semblance of dignity and sanity to the pack of pubescent people standing around you.

Tell yourself this is the price you must pay for once being a 13 year old who tormented parents around the neighbourhood.

Remember this people:

Packs of preteens should be avoided at all costs.

Sleep overs are EVIL.

Unless they are at someone else's house.

Words to live by.

Consider yourself duly warned.

I obviously knew this as a 13 year old child. Which is why I seldom inflicted this torture on my own parents. Because I was a good child.

Apparently the apples have fallen far from this tree and my children just aren't as smart as I was when I was their age.

Dammit.

Motivational Mommy

As a child, I was the definition of geek a highly competitive little girl. Perhaps it was because I suffered from middle child syndrome, over shadowed by my big brother Stretch's fantastic farting skills or my little sister, Mouse's wholesome demeanor or perhaps it was because I didn't have much else going for me other than the knobby knees, flat chest and stringy blonde hair. I had to do something to stand out and be seen in my family.

Everything I did I turned into a competition. Whether it was just washing the dishes, doing my homework or participating in sports, I was out to kill it and do it the very best.

My mother often tried to remind me that it wasn't possible for me to be the very best in everything I did.

Horse shit, I'd think to myself as I rolled my eyes at her and strenghtened my resolve to be the world's greatest citizen ever.

Sadly, my mother apparently knew what she was talking about (oh how it still hurts to admit that) and time ended up bruising my ego over and over again as I learned the harsh reality of the world: There is always someone more talented in the world than you are.

(Except when it comes to talking about dead kids and dildos and the ability to put ones feet behind their ears and walk across the kitchen floor using only their arse cheeks. I still rock that one like no one's betch. Heh.)

I soon grew up and having swallowed my pride more times than a person can count, was delighted to realize that while I may have failed at being the best at everything, I could concentrate my laser beam like talents on honing the next generation into being a better version of myself.

I mean, as a parent, is there anything better than molding your child into the person you wanted to be but failed at miserably, therefore be able to capture and RELIVE your glory days through the accomplishments of your child?

I think not.

If ever there was a reason to breed this would be it, I thought to myself as I tossed caution to the wind and convinced my husband that contraception was for sissies.

(Okay, maybe I didn't think that at the exact moment of conception. I may have been too busy moaning and telling him to hurry up. Ahem.)

Still, ten months later I birthed Tanis 2.o. A daughter destined to be the best mini-me EVAH.

*Rubs hands with glee.*

With the luck of some mighty fine genetics and years of constant indoctrination, my daughter has quite literally not fallen far from this tree. She is, like her mother, a pitbull of determination and the consumate competitor.

Praise the lawd for screwing up the first born. Can we say Type A personality anyone?

Fric loves competition. She (and this is where I bust out my mad maternal pride skills and brag her up as though she will be soley responsible for world peace, global gay rights and the cure for cancer,) is at the top of her class scholastically and one of the best athletes of her generation, er class of thirty kids.

In other words, she is just like me.

*Holds hand up for the high fives that are sure to follow.*

However, unlike myself at that age, Fric has something I never did. (Besides actual talent. Heh.) She has a mother who is has too much time on her hands and can thereby make sure she is at every basketball, volleyball and soccer game cheering her on to higher success.

Loosely translated: I pretend I'm her and drive her crazy while shaking my pompoms and acting like a possessed woman.

I had the opportunity to attend young Fric's first junior high track competition recently. Even better, I was elevated from the spectator's bench when one of the volunteers neglected to show up and the organizers needed someone to step up and grab a stop watch.

(Picture me jumping up and down, waving my hand while shouting, "Pick MEEEE!")

The day was fantastic, the weather perfect and my mind filled with long lost memories of my own track and field glory days. Visions of medals and ribbons danced through my mind as I held the coveted stop watch and puffed my chest with the power of one who timed the winner of all the field races.

Then, with little pomp and circumstance, it was my daughter's turn to chase her tail in circles all over the field. While she lined up quietly at the start line, concentrating on the task before her, I stood beside her with pride shooting out of every pore for I was sure, like me, my child would rock this 1500 meter race.

"Mom, stop, you are embarrassing me," she whined when I shouted "TEAM FRIC!!!" as the other runners lined up and waited for the gun to crack.

"Tough nuts, sugar bear, MOMMY LOVES YOU," I heckled as a group of thirteen year old boys sniggered behind my back.

Then it was business time, and hush fell over the runners and spectators, everyone braced for the starter pistol to shoot it's blank.

And with  a loud crack, they were off and my thumb eagerly pressed the start button to time what was sure to be my daughter's victory.

It was a 400 meter race track which meant almost four rotations for the runners. My daughter was in third position as they rounded the first lap.

"Smile for the camera honey," I cheered as she huffed and puffed past me, concentrating on both ignoring her mother and putting one foot in front of the other.

She smiled and then rolled her eyes at me as I looked at the stop watch in my hands and yelled at her as she passed, "HURRY UP KIDDO! CLOCK'S A-RACING."

As the other girls raced around the track, I cheered them on, each by name, offering encouragement and snapping pictures of their red faces as they passed me. I am nothing if not an equal opportunity cheerer.

One of the the boys behind me, waiting for his race to start after the girls were done, whispered to his friend, "Sheesh. That lady is LOUD."

(Oh, you little runt. Your turn is a coming, I thought to myself as I yelled even louder.)

Before I knew it, Fric was finishing up her second lap and she was now in second place and holding steady. Grabbing my camera I yelled, "Smile for your MOMMA!"

She didn't smile.

In fact, she kinda snarled as she went past.

I attributed it to her losing steam. I mean, it couldn't have anything to do with me shouting, "HURRY UP HONEY! TAKE HER! WHAT IS THERE A PIANO TIED TO YOUR ARSE???"

(I'm available for motivational speaking anytime, anywhere. Just email your requests.)

As she rounded the far corner on her third lap I glanced at the stop watch that was bouncing around my neck.

"Come on HURRICANE! YOU CAN DO THIS. SMILE FOR THE CAMERA!!!"

I am nothing if not supportive.

As she huffed and puffed past me, her face getting redder with every lap, my vision blurred and for a moment I relived every track meet I ever raced in. I no longer saw Fric, but the fragile competitive little blonde I once was.

"SMILE FOR MOMMY!" I cried as I tried to get an action shot to put in her scrap book.

"Shut UP MOM!" she hissed at me, out of breath.

"Go FRIC! GO! YOU CAN RUN FASTER THAN THIS! JUST PRETEND THERE IS AN ARMY OF ANGRY ZOMBIES ON YOUR HEELS," I yelled as she passed me.

She gave me the stink eye.

"GO FRIC GO!" I cried loudly as my daughter sprung into high gear and went for the kill.

I all but exploded with glee as she over took the lead rounding the final corner of the track and charged toward the finish line.

"GO DOODLEBUG GOOOO! THAT'S MY BABY! FASTER FASTER! DON'T MAKE ME CHASE YOU UP TO THE FINISH LINE! PUT SOME PEP IN THAT STEP! DON'T SLOW DOWN! GO! GO! YOU'RE ALMOST DONE!!!!"

With the stop watch in hand I watched as my daughter crossed the finish line first and ran straight into next week's regional competition.

"You did it!" I jumped with joy as I ran to record the winning time, abandoning my post, not caring about any of the other competitors who were still running their little preteen legs off.

"I'm so proud of you honey pie!" I said as I patted her on her sweaty back and leaned down to kiss the top of her sweat soaked hair.

She slowly looked up at me, shielding her hand from the bright summer sun.

"I kinda hate you right now."

"Ah honey. Those are words every mother loves to hear when her daughter is the WINNER," I smiled down and ignored the boys totally laughing at Fric and me.

"You are never coming to another track meet again."

"Face it Fric, I'm the wind beneath your wings. I inspired you," I laughed.

She may or may not have muttered 'Bite me,' under her breath.

"I can't wait till next week. I'm gonna lead you to victory. I'm gonna be the cattle prod that you never knew you needed. I'm gonna-"

She interrupted and said, "I'm getting some water. Don't follow me. I don't know you." And she stalked off with her friends while totally bragging about how awesome her mother was.

"Stick with me kid," I yelled. "I'll have you in the Olympics before you know it," I called after her.

Funny, she acted like she couldn't hear me.

That's okay though.

I'm totally planning on buying a bull horn for next weeks meet.

This reliving my youth bit is da bomb.

Once Upon A Time, In the Land of Toadie

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a blonde haired little princess girl, who liked to wear the Emperor's New Clothes as often as possible, ate nothing but sausages and held a plush phallus clutched tightly to her bosom most times of the day.

This was obviously a child after my own dirty heart.

(I mean, the child likes to dance naked and play with penises. I think we may have been separated by birth and 30 years.)

Corrupting a child has never been more fun.

However there were dragons to be slayed (or in my case, a credit card that needed to be paid down before flight tickets could be purchased) and time passed and the princess girl grew older and I feared I would never have the opportunity to hear her angelic laughter or witness her dancing with fairy-like grace as she played in the grass.

But as luck would have it, my very own knight in shining armour galloped in to the rescue (after growing weary of hearing his wife whine about not being able to meet this magical little princess in person) and bestowed upon me the ability to fly across the country to partake in the magical kingdom known as Their Bad Mother's House.

(Side note: Once my knight in shining armour finally arrives home this grateful damsel in distress will be bestowing her own special brand of gratitude at his feet or anywhere the knight would like. Ahem.)

It is not often that a Redneck damsel such as myself, gets to meet the princess darling of her heart friend, and I was a little nervous. I wanted to make a good impression, imprint upon this special girl a memory of redneckedness wonder to remember me by, so I did what any thoughtful and caring internet aunty would do. I prepared to bribe the princess child with candy.

I have no shame.

I needn't have worried. The princess with her phallic plushy and me, the Redneck with my phallic-minded personality were well suited to sit under the stars and dance beneath the moon.

The similarities are eerie.

We became inseparable, loving one another with each new beat of their hearts, each one wrapping around the other's soul as long lost friends are meant to do, as my beloved heart friend and the Princess's baby brother watched in awe and wonder.

All together too quickly, the visit came to an end and my Redneck self was forced to leave behind the Princess and her family, a family that is now so deeply woven into my own soul it feels like it is a natural extension of my own, and we sat beside the flowers discussing all things fairy and phallus before it was time once more, for me to leave the magical kingdom and fly home to my own special castle.

No worries J-Bone, I have my sights set on corrupting you next.

It is not often that one is invited into the inner sanctum of another's family to meet their princesses and princes and sleep on their sofa beds underneath their castle's roof, but my heart friend made sure to lower the draw bridge and invite me in. Into her heart and her home.

More importantly, my heart friend and her handsome (hubba hubba) husband only laughed and encouraged my phallic-minded personality to further corrupt their princess with the phallic plushy and never threw me out on my arse even after I encouraged their spritely daughter to ask her daddy if he liked to 'rub and tug' and if she could have some spotted dick for breakfast.

I am honored and delighted to have had the chance to at long last meet her special princess friend and thrilled to be able to corrupt her heart friend's children with my own special brand of glee.

After all, every little Princess should have a Redneck to call her own.

I am pleased to be Miss E's.

Seriously, this kid should have been born to me.

Although, I will totally understand if, after this post is read, I never get invited to another house again. However, hearing Miss E tell me how her mom likes to ride the pole put enough love in my phallic-minded heart to ride the exhaust fumes of joy forever.