Her Mother is a Boob

This parenting gig is sucking the youth right out of my body like a ten year old slurping a thick chocolate milkshake through a straw. I'm starting to feel more withered and used up each time my darling preteens come up to me and share their thoughts on growing up with me.

"Mom, what does it mean when a boy pops a woody?" Fric asks.

It means your mother just sprouted another facking wrinkle, honey. Thanks for asking.

"Some kids were talking about wet dreams on the bus, mom. What are those?" Frac asks.

Um, the opposite of dry dreams?

"Why do boys masturbate? And do girls do it?" Fric asks.

Wait...I think you missed a spot when you were smacking me over the head with that wooden bat. Go on, try it again.

I'm happy my kids think I'm cool are comfortable talking about such interesting subjects with me. Back when I was their age, I either dug through my brother's collection of playboys in search of an answer or asked my best friend at recess about such sensitive matters, instead of braving my parent's disapproval with such questions.

I only wish my kids would ply me with liquor before they brought out the big guns.

I was really late to the puberty game and I guess I was hoping Fric and Frac would take the same slow path as me. Because I am not ready to be the parents to children in puberty.

My children, however, have other ideas. It doesn't help matters much that they are surrounded by older children every day, on the bus and at school. Or that some of their cousins have hit puberty.

Better my in-laws than me, I say.

I kid.

No I don't.

But recently, my darling daughter decided to take it to a whole new level. She has decided she is ready for a training bra. In grade six. Granted, she is the only girl in class who isn't already sporting a nice B-cup, but still. Unless those boobs of hers are invisible, I'm thinking she's jumping the training bra gun a little bit.

Thank heavens. I'm not ready for boobs yet. I'm still fascinated with my own. I don't want to have to deal with hers.

But Fric is a much like her mother. Persistent and annoying. So in a moment of lapsed judgment I told her I would consider buying her a training bra. The time had come for me to find a few new sacks to stuff my McGuffies into, so I could kill two birds with one stone.

Remember the training bras of our past? Ugly, itchy and only good for the boys reefing on the back strap and snapping them while we howled with indignation?





Seeing these I'm reminded of being 13 and taunted for being a carpenter's dream.

Ya, they don't make them like they used to. No. Nowadays, training bras have foam inserts and padded cups and underwire.

I thought I was in the wrong department, as I stared at rows of brightly coloured padded bras. But no, they all had tags certifying them as jail bait lures training bras.





Kinda cute. For a prostitute. Or me. Not my TEN year old daughter.

Suffice it to say, I bought a few. For me. Some of those bras were damn sexy. Boo's gonna be mighty pleased when he gets home. (Or with the pics I sent him. Wink, wink.)

But I did not buy any for my precious, innocent, beautiful eleven year old daughter who is as flat as a damn board. And will hopefully remain that way forever because I'm delusional and crazy.

Upon seeing the lingerie bag, Fric excitedly starting rifling through it, looking for her loot.

"These are all for you, Mom. Where's mine?"

"I'm sorry honey. But your dad and I decided that you were still a tad young to be leaping into a training bra. Don't be in such a hurry to grow up. Before you know it you will be old, wrinkled and withered up. Just like your dad," I consoled her.

"But MOM! All the other kids are wearing bras!"

"Yes, and I raised you to be a lemming, just like them."

"MOOOOOM!"

"Look, kid. I'm not saying I'm condemning you to a life of braless freedom. I promise you when you grow some funbags we can all see, I'll be the first in line to march you off to get fitted for a big girl bra. Until then, just use your imagination."

I could feel the grey hair start to sprout right around my temples. I swear.







"But I've got boobs!" she argued as she whipped up her shirt to show me her invisible chest.

"Well, you've got nipples honey, but so does your brother, and you don't see me trying to wrestle him into training bra do you?"

"Very funny, Mom." Man, if her bottom lip stuck out any more as she pouted, she was gonna trip over it.

"Listen honey, I'll tell you what a wise woman once told me when I was impatient and desperate for boobs at your age: You don't have boobs until they bounce up and down as you jump around," I called after her as she stomped off to lock herself into her bedroom and wish she had a cooler mother.

I could have really scarred her and told her she could be like me and have to roll them titties up to stuff them into the cups. Boobs or beaver tails, it's hard to tell the difference these days.

Blizzards and Flakes

As a born and bred, true Canadian hoser, I am accustomed to whatever winter madness Mother Nature throws my way. However, that doesn't mean I have to like it. No matter how cute I look stuffed into a parka and toque.

So when the temperatures plummeted 20 degrees in two hours and the weather channel called for blizzard like conditions, I was unfazed. Annoyed, but unfazed. I just hunkered down around the fire; cuddled with some blankets and whined over who would have to stand outside with my pansy ass dog to ensure he piddled outside and not on my laundry basket like he did the night before.

(Gosh I love my dog.)

Eventually the wind quit howling and the snow stopped falling and Nature quit being a bitch. Or so I thought. Until I took the damn dog out to do his business. (That will be the last time I draw straws. Next time I'll just arbitrarily assign a potty minder for the pooch.)

It was a balmy -47 degrees. That is -53 degrees for you Yankee folks. In other words, it was facking cold and poor Nixon couldn't pee fast enough to prevent little icesicles forming around his willy.

Its times like this I really miss prancing around topless on a Mexican beach, let me tell ya.

Neither the dog nor I could get into the house fast enough. Neither of us felt like communing with the great outdoors as we breathed in air so cold it felt like our lungs were on fire. As I was brushing the snow off the dog and my boots, the phone rang.

Shit. It's the school board. That is not good news, I thought to myself, as I answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, may we speak to the breeder of Fric and Frac, please?"

"This is her," I responded while fervently hoping they were calling to tell me my children had won scholarships based on sarcasm skills and not actual academic merit.

"This is the ruler of the educational system out here in ButtFark Alberta. Please be advised that weather conditions have prompted the cancellation of the school busses tomorrow morning and seeing as your husband nominated you behind your back to be the moron who has to call all the parents on the bus route, now would be a good time to dig out that emergency phone list you buried in your junk drawer and proceed to inform all other parents."

"Do I have to?" I argued.

"Yes." Shit. Think fast Tanis, there is still a chance to turn this ship around, I thought to myself.





What??? I have to spend another day with those kids of mine???? Say it isn't so...

"But you don't understand. I just spent two whole days with my children. I took them ice-skating yesterday and sledding. All in one day. I had a Wii tournament for them and their friends. I had 13 children packed into my house for eight straight hours today and all I want is some peace and quiet. They NEED to go to school tomorrow. Can't you send a team of dog sleds or something?" I whined. Because everyone knows, WHINING works.

"We're sorry. But we are unable to comply with your request as all tax dollars ear marked for education are being used to buy the good coffee beans from Starbucks and pretty glitter pens."

"Dammit." Visions of spending the day relaxing in front of my computer vanished like a plate of cookies in front of Santa.





Shit.

As the responsible adult I am, I made peace with the situation and dug out phone list. And a bottle of wine. I needed fortification as I started making calls to parents to break their hearts and share my pain.

There is nothing worse than being the messenger. Everyone wants a piece of your ass to chew on. Over and over I explained that I did my best to change the school board's mind, but apparently icy, snow covered roads and dangerously low temperatures trump the parents need for peace and quiet.

Unfeeling school board bastards. How dare they put the safety of our children first.

"But I just spent the day shuffling my kids to FIVE hockey games this weekend," one woman whined. "I need a break."

I feel for you sista.

"But I've got to get to work and I don't have a sitter for the kids. Can you do it?" one man asked.

Not on your freaking life. I've already got to find a way to hide from two munchkins. I don't need to add more to the mix.

After robbing all those families of their joy, I vowed to find some new sucker to take over the responsibility of being the emergency caller on snow days. Life is too short to grow this many gray hairs at once.

It's not worth being ostracized at school events by a mob of angry parents who haven't forgotten YOU were the jerk who, by bearing bad news, ruined their lives on a snowy cold Monday.

I'm trying to find the silver lining in the snow day this morning as my children prance around with joy and generally step on my last remaining nerve.

The good news is, I don't have to take Nixon out to pee. It's still -47 out there with wind-chill.

The bad news is, my children may turn into ice pops if I force them outside to shovel the deck play so I can blog in peace.







Ah screw it. They're young. They'll thaw fast.

Maybe snow days aren't so bad after all.

Desperate Measures

I'm not a patient person by nature. I've never bought into the whole 'patience is a virtue' crap idea. I hate waiting for anything. The page to load while surfing the net. The commercials to end while watching the telly. The slow cashier at the grocery store who needs to call for a price check on cheese while I have to pee. Waiting sucks for an impatient chick such as myself.

So it is no surprise the whole adoption process has been a trial for me. It's been one long lesson in learning patience right from the beginning. Waiting to hear if we are granted FINAL approval is starting to drive me batshit crazy.

There is still no word.

Might as well just beat me with a large wooden club and pluck my eyes out with a spoon. At this rate it would be much less painful.

No one has any idea why signing off on an application that was already recommended for approval is taking so long.

Me, I like to think it's the government's way of torturing me.

So while I wait and try desperately not to worry that they are changing their minds and going to deny us a kid, I'm going a little baby crazy. Seems like everyone is either pregnant or packing a kiddy around these days. Except me.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.





Look! A size 5 diaper fits my dog baby!

Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, EVER. is almost as good as a human baby. After all, he gets me up in the middle of the night as much as an infant would.





So he's a little hairy and he drools. This could work.

Think of the money this would save me in tuition!





There isn't enough kibble in the world to put up with this crap.

I wouldn't even need to buy any clothes for him. I could just use my daughter's doll clothes!





That's it woman. Look for a small present in your slipper later tonight.

Never mind. He doesn't look that good in a dress and I couldn't get the little bugger into overalls. Who knew a lazy dog could run so fast while wearing a diaper?

I could always use the doll I got for my tenth birthday. I never did give her much love back then. Mostly because I had hoped to receive a red plether jacket like the one Michael Jackson rocked in his glory days. Instead, I found Esther when I ripped open my present.

Very disappointing. It's kinda hard to rock out to Thriller while packing a Cabbage Patch doll.





That's right Esther. I promise to love you forever.

Esther is sporting a decidedly unpleasant smell. I can't decide if it's mold or mouse pee. Still, with a little wine, this could work.





No. Not feeling it.

Scratch that idea. I never liked that doll. Something about the yellow yarn hair creeps me out. Can't have a baby that gives me the willies.

Still, my maternal instincts are on overdrive and I need to mother something. I tried catching my birds to cuddle with them, but the little fackers turned on me and tried to rip my fingers off. Ungrateful beasties. I NEED a child. I'm not picky. I'm not asking for a healthy baby. I don't care what the child looks like. After all, it has to be better looking than Nixon or Esther. I just need someone to love.





Coochie coochie coo.

Preferably before I get too old to keep up with a child and my mind gets more twisted.





Look! Isn't it precious?

That last picture probably isn't going to help speed up the adoption process, is it? What can I say? I'm desperate to be a mother again and I have way too much time on my hands. Time that could be well spent parenting a child in need.





Look how well a baby fits in these arms.

Instead of wandering around the neighbourhood looking for babies to hog hold, or dogs to terrorize or bottles to caress, I could be somebody's new mommy.

But in the mean time until I hear from my friendly neighbourhood adoption office, I will just continue with my lesson in learning a little patience.

While trying to find a way to get Nixon to drink from a bottle and ride in a stroller.