Fric's Viewpoint

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.


P1020449


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.


P1020451


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.


P1020459


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.


P1020450


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.

Eight Years With Some Odds and Ends

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.

The 2008 Weblog Awards



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.

im_speakingtext Badges



 

I can't wait. Let the public humiliation good times roll. 

Like I said, I have no shame.

Sidestepping the Bombs of Parenthood

As a parent, I like to think every choice I make in regards for my children is well thought out, purposeful and with their very best interests always placed forefront in my mind.

This is what I tell my kids when they whine ask why they have to do the dishes or clean the bathrooms. I tell them I am teaching them the value of hard work and co-operation while giving them the tools to responsibly keep house as an adult.

"Your house won't magically clean itself you know," I sagely advise.

What I don't tell them is that I've waited over a decade to finally be able to hand over the feather duster and make the little buggers earn their keep. I consider it payback for all the times I've had to lovingly clean up projectile vomit, stray urine splatters and spaghetti coloufully tossed onto walls and the floor.

In the interests of child labour laws keeping the peace and preventing a mutiny (where my offspring corner me against the wall and start beating me with broom sticks to show me who's boss,) I equitably divide up the house hold chores between the three of us, carefully ensuring we all do our fair share.

(Fair is all in the eyes of the beholder. And I'm the beholder. Heh.)

This means every weekend I bust out the cleaning supplies and my children try to pretend they are invisible while hiding in various crevices of our house until I hunt them down and force them to start picking up.

This weekend was no different. After a playing yet another round of finding and cornering my offspring, I divvied up the chores and we commenced killing as many dust bunnies as we could find.

Fric was off in one end of the house, concentrating her efforts on the disaster she likes to refer to as her bathroom while yodeling at the top of her lungs as she bobbed her head to some mysterious beat thumping from her iPod directly into her ears. Frac and I concentrated on the other end of the house.

Frac needs a little supervision when it comes to finishing his chores, as he is a tad absent-minded. I'll ask him to wash the dishes and find him sitting at the computer in the kitchen shooting zombies or something. I like to think he's an airhead and isn't doing this to completely drive me bonkers, but you never know. The kid is wily like his mother. It may be part of his master plan to gain control of the asylum.

I installed Frac inside my bedroom ensuite, charged with the task to clean my bathroom as I changed my bed sheets and put laundry away and generally just hovered within ten feet of the bathroom door so I could continually keep an eye on my young son and covertly spy on his progress.

Every couple of minutes I'd sneak a peek to make sure he was actually cleaning the bathroom and not fencing an imaginary foe with the plunger and he'd roll his eyes at me and sigh with great heaviness as though he was so put upon by my mere existence and tell me he has everything under control.

"I don't hear any scrubbing sounds, Frac," I'd call out as I chased dust bunnies out from underneath my marital bed.

"I'm putting all your makeup away," he'd call back in an accusing tone as though I have more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker ever did.Â

"It doesn't take long to stick a tube of mascara and the blush back in the drawer," I would remind him as I fought a with a particularly vicious dust bunny.

Silence. Then the splashing sounds of water running and Frac would start cleaning before getting distracted five seconds later and we repeat the entire conversation.

Lather, rinse, and repeat. Until I either lose my mind or wear my child down into actually cleaning the bathroom.

As predicted, a few minutes later the sounds of child labour came to a deafening halt and I could tell my darling son had wandered deep into the forests of his imagination and far from the tasks of wiping behind the taps of the bathroom sink.

Just as I was rolling my eyes and about to call out to hassle my child out of his reverie, Frac walked out of my bathroom and into my bedroom with something small and white in his hand and a puzzled look on his face.

"Mom? What's this?" my precious, innocent 11 year-old boy asked as he fondled my Diva Cup.

Shiiit. So much for hiding it under the sink at the back where he wouldn't find it.

"Um, it's my Diva Cup," I replied honestly while watching him roll it around in his fingers. "You might not want to play with that kiddo," I gently warned thinking about how high his future therapy bills would be once he realized I knowingly let him play with my feminine hygiene product.

Catching the warning in my tone of voice he looked up at me and realized what that while he didn't quite know what he was holding, it must surely be the equivalent to a hand grenade without a pin.

"Ew," he yipped as he tossed it like a hot potato back into the bathroom. "What's it for?" he asked as he rubbed his surely infected hands on the tops of his pants.

Laughing at him and praying I wasn't about to be pulled into a Birds and the Bees type of conversation with my preteen son while his father was living the life of luxury working away from home, I looked Frac straight in the eyes and used my most motherly tone, "You don't want to know, kiddo. Trust me on this. Some things should remain a woman's secret."

His blue eyes went as round as pie plates as he processed this information. I could see the tiny wheels of his brain churn like clock work as he struggled to place all the pieces of this puzzle together.

He looked up at me as I tried to avoid eye contact folding a blanket and cried out, "That's disgusting!"

Thinking the jig was up; I put down the blanket and sat on the bed, prepared to have an intimate mother-son talk about the wonders of a woman's body.

"Why is that disgusting Frac?" I gently asked as he looked like he wanted to drop into a gaping hole and hide for the remainder of his manhood.

"You...you...you put that thing on your...your...your BOOBS!" he sputtered.

It took a second but then the hilarity of the situation and the complete farcking relief at having dodged this parental bullet momentarily washed over me, and I burst out laughing.

"Yep, yep I do Frac." Sure. I put my diva cup on my boobs. That's way better than explaining where I really put it. I'll totally go along with that.

(Side note: Do I even want to know what he imagines I do with my boobs? Probably not.)

"That's so wrong Mom," he griped as he headed back to resume cleaning my bathroom. "Here I thought I could use it to make a dunce cap for Deira. She's so dumb she needs one. I'm not touching that thing now though. Gross," he shuddered.

"Good idea, best just leave it alone," I warned, still chuckling at my innocent son.

For the moment, I'm totally down with letting my boy remain ignorant to the ways of womanhood. I'll admit it, I'm a chicken. I'm far too young to be sprouting the grey hairs I'm sure that conversation would lead to.Â

I'm tossing this hot potato into my husband's lap.

Here's hoping I don't find my darling puppy wandering around with a Diva Cup tied to her head before he gets home to have a testicle to testicle heart to heart talk with my son.


Heaven help us all.