Not Just a Boob

As a responsible young woman, there isn't much I wouldn't do for my children to show them I love them and cherish them.

I keep fresh fruit and veggies in the fridge, mostly to rot and mold; I shuttle their whiney little arses all over hell's half acre so they can socialize with other demon spawn on a regular basis; I sit through hours of endless teen movies with my kids by my side, hogging the popcorn and spilling their drinks on my sofa all the while Hilary Duff and Miley Cyrus suck out what's left of my brains with a straw poked through my eyeball.

If that doesn't scream parental love and devotion then I don't know what the hell else to do. Maybe try backflips on the trampoline while naked.

(Oh wait. I did try that. Every time I bounced my bladder would explode and soon the trampoline was a puddle of urine and my children wouldn't come near me for days except to remind me to buy adult diapers. Ingrates.)

Still, there has to be a line drawn in the sand so that I don't slip into the mindless role of caregiver and forget that before children I was actually an articulate and interesting woman. Not just a pathetic reincarnation of June Cleaver.

The line in the sand happens to be where the tile floor starts and the hardwood ends. Also known as the bathroom.

While I am in the sanctity of my powder room, I am no longer Mom. I am off duty. I am Tanis. My bowels and my bladder are my own and I choose not to wipe my ass with anyone watching other than my dog.

When they were little they'd follow me in or pound on the door and there would be no escape from them. But they are on the cusp of teenagedom. They are at the age where they want a little restroom privacy themselves. For the most part I've trained them to leave me the hell alone.

Or enter at your own risk. I can't guarantee you won't see something traumatic and life changing. I can't guarantee you will like the answer when you see my diva cup and ask what it is and what it's used for. Heh.

So when my daughter ran through the house this weekend, calling my name, I yelled the same warning I've been yelling for years in hopes of finding a moment of damn peace while I sit on the throne.

"I'm in the washroom. Leave me alone."

"Mom! Mom!" I could tell from her voice that she was getting closer to the washroom.

"I'm in the bathroom. I'll be right out." As in, 'listen here you punk ass kid. That hamburger that you convinced me to buy when you saw a pair of golden arches is not agreeing with my sensitive digestive system. Because of your baby blue eyes and unique skill of twisting yourself around my little pinky, my bowels are about to erupt and take the entire remains of the lower half of my body with them. I can't guarantee I will survive this abdominal uprising. But I guarantee if you come in here, you won't.'

Apparently I need to work on my scary mommy voice because before I could draw in my next breath, the bathroom door swung open and my daughter rushed into the bathroom.

"Mom!"

"I'm a little busy here, kiddo. Get out." As I hugged my body for dear life and prayed to the porcelain Gods for mercy.

"You stink." Her nose crinkled and she grimaced.

"Thanks for the olfactory update. Can this wait?" I growled.

"I just want to tell you something." If she could have smiled any bigger I'm sure her face would have cracked in two. Figuring at this point it was just easier to listen to her than to shoo her out, I just bowed my head and reminded myself that there will once again come a time when I can potty in peace. When I'm like 80 or something.

"What?" I figured her news had to be the equivalent that her brother is on fire or she won the damn lottery.

"I've got BOOBS!" She grinned excitedly.

"That's what you came in here to tell me. Even though my bathoom door was shut and I told you to go away?" I growled. "OUT. NOW."

"No Mom! I've got boobs! LOOK!" Said as she whipped up her shirt so I could look at her invisible rack.

(Because this is what my life has become: stuck on a toilet while preteens ignore my wishes and flash me. I know it's symbolic for something. I just don't want to know what.)

Maybe it was the light, maybe it was the fact that I was slowly losing my mind and my children take great delight in helping suck any remnants of intelligence out of me, but I looked at her beautiful face, glowing with hope and excitement and then I looked at her prepubescent chest, and I nodded my agreement.

"Yep. Those are boobs. Great big buds of boobs. Look out Dolly Parton. Here comes Fric," I rolled my eyes as she examined her flat chast in my mirror.

"I'm almost an adult now, Mom. You said once I got boobs I was halfway to womanhood." She smiled.

"Ya, but I also said when I'm in the bathroom to stay the hell out. Since when do you listen?"

She pulled her shirt down, looked at me with that preteen distain and rolled her eyes. "Whatever Mom." And with that, she was gone.

Just in time for me to notice I didn't have any toilet paper. Damn.

"Fric get back here! I need some teepee!"

Silence.

"Fric!" Nothing. She had turned up her music and was immune to my pleas for help.

Which is the sum of my life these days. Can't find peace in the bathroom when I need it. Of any sort. Toilet paper or privacy.

Welcome to parenthood. And my blog. It doesn't get any better than this.

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As a special treat and favour to my dearest friend Catherine, I've written an ode for her and women everywhere over at her blog.

Check it out if you like. And use this as a shining example why you should never hand me the keys to your castle. Heh.

Mice and Men

I am an independent woman. I travel by myself, I can change a flat tire, replace worn out brake pads, change the oil, plunge a broken toilet and even lay floor tile without any help from the male persuasion.

Heck, there isn't much I can't do by myself. I even take care of my own, um, personal needs thanks to a supply of fresh batteries, a thoughtful purchase and a vivid imagination.

Man, I don't need no stinkin' man.

I just like having one around to take out the trash and light the barbeque.

Yet there is one thing I can't do by myself, one thing I refuse to do by myself, for myself and wouldn't you know it, there is never a man about when I need him.

I don't do mice. Mice which have some how found their way into my inner sanctum, my pristine kindgom. Mice which are selling real estate to their mousy friends and taking up residence under my fridge and beneath my television cabinet.

All because my children haven't learned how to shut a door behind them with out me screeching at them "Where you born in a barn? I don't think so. Shut the damn door!"

So a few brave and rogue rodents are taking great delight in skittering on the kitchen floor at night when I surf the net or watch television. I swear, they stop exactly where they know I can see them, stand up on their hind legs and stick their tongues out at me because they know I'm no threat to the little fackers.

I prefer to sit on my couch and squeal like a school girl whenever I see them, because I apparently, am a pathetic loser.

Boo was home when I caught my first glimpse of the invading infesters. He didn't believe me. Until he was standing at the sink and felt a tail brush the back of his foot as a mouse scurried to safety under our fridge.

(It was like one of those moments when you know your car is making a funny sound and you whine about it for weeks and your darling husband just blows you off and dismisses you as some silly, imaginative woman who wouldn't know a knocking engine from the bass of dance tune. Until he takes your car to go buy milk and suddenly he hears the sound you've been bitching about for weeks and comes back into the house demanding why you didn't tell him your car was making funny noises.)

Not that Boo would ever do that. Noooo.

All of a sudden, the mouse problem I had been complaining about for weeks became a reality. I laughed as Boo started cussing like a sailor in heat and started ripping apart drawers looking for a mouse trap.

"We don't have any traps," I told him as he emptied out the junk drawer, while trying to tune out my victory giggles.

"Why the hell not?" he grumped as he peered under the fridge with a flash light and murmured something about a little bastard.

"Because I am not going to be sitting alone, in the quiet of the night, minding my own business and suddenly hear the snap of the mouse trap. I can't handle the thought of something innocent and small being crushed to death while I sit on my arse and twitter."

"Pansy ass." He snorted. "I'm buying some traps."

"Fine. You do that. And the poor dead mouse can sit there and rot and emanate a funky odour because I guarantee you there is not enough money in the world to entice your daughter or your son, let alone myself, to dispose of the carcass."

Boo rolled his eyes in manly disgust at how I was morphing his children into well, copycat versions of me, and said (in righteous, testosterone indignation) "Of course they'll do it. They'll do what they're told."

Ya. Cuz parenting preteens is just that easy. Excuse me while I stop and laugh my pretty little arse off.

Needless to say, the mouse traps never got bought. Because I refused to remind my great manly husband to buy them and they somehow kept forgetting to make their way on to the grocery list. Heh.

Stuart Little and Mickey Mouse continued to spread disease through out my floors. Until one day I found little presents they had thoughtfully left behind in my frying pan. The pan I use to feed my family with.

Then it was on. Don't mess with a mama bear and her cubs.

Screw mouse traps. I want the big guns. I went and brought home two kittens. Take that, you little fackers, I thought to myself as I dropped the kittens into my children's arms.

Not only did I just win Mother of the Year by bestowing each child with their own mouser, but I effectively declared war on the little shits who were spreading their Hanta virus among my pots and pans.







Boo of course, had a gasket. But since he's six hours away from home and weeks away from taking care of my pestilence problem himself, he was helpless to do anything but curse at the thought of cats in his castle.

(Must suck to have such a disobedient wife. Good thing I'm bendy.)

It wasn't long before my darling, fluffy kittens put their killer instincts to work and like two heat seeking missiles, started eradicating the enemies. How can you not love a kitten who kills? My heart swelled with love.

My mouse problem was being contained. Without traps or decaying bodies. And I get two little pussies to stroke and pet. Like I said, I don't need no stinkin' man.

Life was good. I am woman, hear me roar. Roar over the fact that I now have two cats, a litter box, two dumbass birds and a messy cage, a killer hamster, a jumping mouse named Steve and of course, my flatulent love, Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever.

So yesterday, the kids and I spent the afternoon taking care of our new brothel of love, cleaning cages and bitching about annoying pets and stupid mothers. (Well, okay, that last part was strictly me.)

I watched Nixon try to eat the kittens, the kittens try to eat the birds, the birds try to eat the hamster and mouse and I acknowledged to myself that maybe my husband was right. Maybe we didn't need any more pets in our house. Maybe I should have listened. Maybe.

In an effort to bribe my children to do some weed pulling for me, I offered to finish cleaning up their pet's cages and put everything away if they would start yanking the small forest of weeds thriving in my potatoes.

The kids jumped on this deal like a starving person on a Big Mac and scampered out the door. Apparently, when I said 'pull weeds' they heard 'go play.'

(I love my children, I love my children, I just keep reminding myself, over and over again like a mantra.)

Then last night, my mouse-shredding felines struck again. Fric squealed with delight when she noticed one of the kittens had caught another mouse. I was feeling mighty proud of myself. I may have even patted myself on the back for being so clever.

It was just about the same time I was congratulating the cat for a job well done, that Frac wandered out of his room and asked where his beloved Steve was. He noticed I hadn't put the lid on the cage properly and when he went to adjust it he discovered his mouse was missing.

Time stood still and my heart froze.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, I thought to myself as I raced to go see just exactly my kitty killer was munching on. Dread flooded through me and my blood had turned to ice.

Frac beat me to the scene of the crime. He noticed his kitten happily munching on something and wandered over to see what he was chewing on, just as I yelled "FRAC NO!!!! DON'T LOOK!!!."

Too late.

Frac screamed. I screamed. I tried to grab the little mouse out of the gaping jaws of his captor but it was too late. Steve no longer had a head.

Frac looked at me with tears in his big blue eyes and said "MOM! YOU KILLED STEVE!" I tried to argue with his logic, but I felt like too much of a shit.

My Mother of the Year trophy was ripped out of my clutches by angry children and the ghost of the family mouse and I know it will be a long time before I ever see it again.

Later that night, after bribing the kids with ice cream and candy, I sent them off to bed and tried to ease my guilty conscience with a beer.

I will be forever haunted by Steve.

And there is still a facking mouse hiding under my stove.

Dammit.





R.I.P Steve. Which, unfortunately for you, meant RIPPED IN PIECES. I should be sorrier. But I'm slightly relieved there is one less rodent about, one less cage to clean. And you kinda stank.

Dads and Daughters

I was 16 years old. I wore a padded bra because I was so damned flat chested I worried people would confuse me for a boy. I had one of those damn spiral perms and I looked like I was wearing triangle on my head.

In my eyes, I was freaking hot.

It was the summer and I was boyfriendless; (having already given Boo the ceremonial boot before school started,) I was on the prowl for a little romance.

Of course, romance then is a defined differently than romance now. I was more interested in french kissing and the occasional boob graze back then. Now, I'm more interested in someone folding the laundry for me and maybe taking out the garbage.

After a marathon telephone call with my girlfriend, we gathered our troops and made plans to all meet at the local hotspot downtown. A popular restaurant the older boys frequented. We'd doll ourselves up, drink virgin margaritas and hope to land a big fish.

I didn't drive yet, I was too scared to attempt to take the driver's test, so I hopped on a bus and tried to block out the image of the skeevy 40ish year old man with long stringy brown whiskers leering at me and my padded chest, as I made my way to my destination.

Dinner was uneventful. The restaurant was packed. With families. Not a teenaged boy in sight. Still, we had a good time, pretending to be sophisticated. One of my friends decided to come back to my place and I was thrilled to have company on the bus ride home.





Oh ya. I'm so sexay.

The bus was running late, so my friend and I sat on a bench gossiping the way 16 year old girls do, when two men rode by on the busy city street on their bicycles. One was blonde, the other dark and mysterious.

It was like a scene out of a low budget movie. The dark haired man took one look at me and then did a fast double take. He immediately called to his friend and suddenly they stopped pedaling their bikes and jumped the curb onto the sidewalk and out of traffic's way.

I looked at my friend, curious what this was about, why these men looked at us and stopped so suddenly. As they walked their bikes closer to us, I saw they weren't as old as I thought, they were teenage boys.

The night suddenly got a whole lot better.

The dark haired, muscular one was named Cam. He didn't stop staring at me the entire time we giggled and flirted and I felt on fire. Giddy with the power of being able to attract such a young studly dude.

Then, all too quickly, the bus arrived. I was crushed. Cam quickly scribbled my phone number on his fore arm and promised to call. Him and his friend madly pedaled after the bus, as my friend and I sat in the back seat watching them, until the bus pulled further and further away.

I never really believed he would call. He was 19. Too old to be interested in me. But it sure felt good to be a traffic stopper for one night in my life.

Except, he did call. And thus was the start of a torrid teen romance. Torrid as in a lot of french kissing and constant evasion of his grabby hands so he wouldn't discover my breasts were actually cotton padding.

My dad didn't like this boy. He was too big, too muscular and too old for me. He growled whenever Cam called or showed up at my house, hot and sweaty from his long bike ride to my house.

It didn't matter to me that he didn't have a car. Or that he worked in an electronics store instead of going to university or college. Or a loser by other people's standards. He was my summer romance, my heart and the fact he annoyed my father just added more excitement to push my teen age crush to higher levels.

One night, Cam and I sat on the front steps of my house, chatting under the stars and sneaking furtive kisses in when ever we could. My dad sat in the living room, glancing out the big bay window every few minutes in a fatherly bid to ensure my chastity, my virginity.

Fatherly delusions. Apparently he was worried I'd strip buck nekkid and hand over my well-guarded cherry on our front lawn in the middle of suburbia, with the first older boy who pedaled my way.

Apparently, I inherited my over-active imagination from my daddy.

It was 11:30 at night and my curfew was midnight. As every minute ticked past on the clock hanging above my father's head, he became more and more agitated.

I grew more and more enamored with my bicycle riding boyfriend.

At 11:35, my dad came to the front door and growled through the screen that it was time for me to come in.

I brushed him off, in that way snotty teenaged girls do, and told him I would be right in. I had no such plans on coming in. My curfew was midnight, and not a minute before.

Cam and I continued to talk and a few more minutes later, my dad increased his volume and bellowed at me to get "my skinny ass into the house, before he had to come out there and get me."

Rolling my eyes, I yelled back at Dad, "Mom said I could stay out till midnight." Like jeez dude, wtf? Back off, I'm getting my romantic rocks off out here and you are killing my mojo. Duh.

I was a cheeky little witch back then. Not at all like the docile, rule abiding woman I am now. Heh.

Several more minutes passed along with a few more stolen kisses, when the screen door banged open and my dad stood there in his robe, steaming pouring out his ears.

"If you don't get your ass in the house right this minute young lady, you are gonna regret it."

I looked at my dad with horror on my face. How dare he embarrass me in front of my boyfriend? How could he do this to me? Yet my survival instinct kicked in, and I knew I was in danger of getting my just desserts.

"Fine," I snottily replied. "I'm coming in. RIGHT now. Sheesh. I'm just saying goodnight." And then I turned my back to my dad and apologized to Cam for my dad's behaviour. As my dad stood and watched. Because I had a death wish, apparently.

Dad backed off, or so I thought, and in my hormone addled brain, I pushed. Dammit, I still had ten minutes before my curfew and he could just bite my skinny little arse if he thought I was going in a minute earlier, I thought to myself.







So I snuck in another kiss. And another. And a few more minutes rolled by. And unbeknownst to me, my dad was slowly losing his mind over my disobedience and my cheekiness and the audacity of this man to ignore his wishes and leave.

Just as my tongue was in this kid's mouth and half way down his throat, my dad came thundering out of the house, ready to kill.

Cam, knowing full well when his life is in danger, jumped up from having me inspect his tonsils, and started running. For his life. Like a weeny.

Picture a dark haired teen, running down the empty side walk of a surburban city block with a 43 year old man hot on his tail screaming at him to "Get your ass back here so I can choke the life out of you, you little shit!"

Now picture the same scene knowing my dad was wearing nothing but a pair of dirty tighty-whiteys and barefoot to boot. While chasing a teenaged boy down the block.

I stood there, stupefied and beyond mortified, yelling at my dad to "Stop EMBARRASSING me, DADDY!" while tears streamed down my face.

I was horrified. And slightly terrified, because if I incited my dad's wrath enough for him to run down the sidewalk, barefoot and in his gonch, you can bet your ass there would be hell to pay when he got back and got his hands on me.

The seconds slowly ticked by until I could no longer see either man. The last image I had in my head before slowly making my way down to my bedroom to pray for leniency was Cam looking over his shoulder with fear on his face and my dad closing the gap between the two of them.

And there may have been a skid mark on the back of his underwear.

Fifteen long minutes later, my dad came back into the house and into my room, huffing and puffing. He was out of breath from his impromptu midnight run and pissed off that he couldn't catch the little bastard who was macking out on his daughter.

I wailed at Dad at how he ruined my life. He bellered back that that was good, since I was now grounded for the rest of it.

"He's never going to want to date me again," I cried after my dad when he left the room with out a sympathizing bone in his body.

"Not if he knows what's good for him," Dad growled back.

Apparently, Cam did know what was good for him. He managed to hop over some fences and hid like a pansy ass in the bushes of my neighbour's yard and waited two hours before he slunk back to my house and retrieved his bicycle. Or so I later heard from a friend of a friend.

I never heard back from him again. Ever.

My dad was quite proud of himself. I was not.

But boy did I learn to listen to my dad after that, and not push his buttons. Heh.

My dad will never chase after another boy again, in his life. Time and disease has taken a toll on his still young body and today he's in surgery having part of both feet removed.

In an effort to prolong his life.

I didn't appreciate all that my dad did for me, for our family when I was younger. I didn't see the blisters and sore muscles he rubbed every day as he worked his tail off to support our family.

I didn't appreciate all the times my dad growled at my boyfriends in an effort to preserve my chastity. And I certainly didn't appreciate him when I phoned him to tell him Boo and I were dating and I knew he was the one. The love of my life. The man I wanted to be with forever.

Dad grunted into the phone and simply said, "He's not good enough for you."

I didn't understand a lot back then. But as a grown up, a wife and now a mother, I get it. And I appreciate it.

Thank you Daddy, for all that you have done for me. For raising me to be the person I am today.

And thank you Dad, for running barefoot down the block in your skivvies, to chase away a boy you knew wasn't worth the time of my day.

I love you. Every inch of you. Even if there will be less of you tomorrow to love.