Dance, Babies, Dance

It was a rainy spring afternoon and I was beside myself with excitement.

I took extra care in my appearance, squeezing into a ridiculously tight green corduroy skirt and shrugging into a matching oversized green sweater. I fluffed my spiral perm until my hair resembled a glorious poofy triangle and lined my eyes with bright aqua green eye-liner I borrowed from one of my girlfriends.

I was twelve years old and about to attend my very first spring dance in the darkened gymnasium inside my junior high school.

To the adults around me, I probably resembled a ridiculous raccoon wearing a bad leprechaun costume, but in my mind I was half-woman, beautiful and ready to slow dance with the first sweaty palmed boy who asked me.

Sadly, I spent most of my time standing next to the gym wall watching all the other sweaty teens sway to the music. Sometimes I danced in a big circle of friends as the boys raced around the gym trying to snap the bras of all the blossoming girls around them.

I didn't have a bra to snap so most boys ignored me. I was still flat chested and pretending it didn't matter while secretly praying to God every night to grace me with a rack Dolly Parton would envy.

I never got that coveted rack, but I did get my slow dance with a smelly, awkward boy.

His name was Jeff and I had known him since grade four. He played hockey. He went on to play in the NHL. (If only I could see into the future...I'd have played my cards better. Heh.)

I was standing by the exit, trying to look cool and ignore the scent of desperation and body odour I oozed like pheromones from an elephant in heat, when suddenly Jeff appeared in front of me and asked if I wanted to dance and pulled me out onto the dance floor.

I don't remember what song was playing, but I remember the flashing lights from the d.j and the heat radiating from his sweaty skin underneath his thin tee shirt.

I remember placing my hands on his shoulders and wondering if I had sweat stains in my pits and praying he wouldn't notice if I did.

I remember the weight of his hands placed on my waist and wondering if he would accidentally touch my bum.

I remember wondering if I could convince myself to like this boy, whom up until that moment, I had no interest in at all. I was pathetic and desperate and wanting a boyfriend. Any boy with a pulse and testicles would do as long as he didn't have a pizza face.

(Thank heavens for high standards.)

We swayed to the music and suddenly one slow dance became two. I was in teen heaven. I was in the arms of a boy who wasn't too geeky (even if he wasn't one of the cool kids) and he wasn't trying to stuff me into a locker.

Next thing I knew, a couple of kids approached us with a stop watch and a dangerous glint in their eyes. Jeff nodded to them and before I knew it, he was kissing me.

Or, rather, he was slobbering all over me. Saliva was every where and he tasted like pepperoni pizza. My heart was racing like a dog chasing after a rabbit and I couldn't decide if I was thrilled or repulsed. I didn't get a chance. Before I knew it he was pushing his thick nasty tongue in my mouth and trying to eat my tonsils.

Just when I thought I was going to faint from lack of air, he released me from his vacuum-like kiss and wiped his slobbery mouth with his hairy arm.

My lips were chapped and cut from being ground mercilessly into his braces and I had saliva all over my very red face.

I couldn't look him in the eyes, as I was half mortified, half repulsed by what I had just participated in. Still, I wondered if I could like him enough to let him be my boyfriend.

It was hard to think while my lips throbbed and the taste of pepperoni pizza lingered on my tongue.

The circle of kids who stood around watching us trying to gnaw one another's faces off, clapped and announced we went at it like two hungry puffer fish for twenty-three seconds. Jeff smiled and I blushed and the crowd moved on to target the next awkward couple who danced in front of their path.

Jeff and I finished our dance and then my girlfriends rushed to my side and into the girls bathroom, while peppering a million questions at me.

"What was it like?"

"Did he stick his tongue in your mouth?"

"Do you like him?"

"Is he your boyfriend now?"

Jeff later asked me out, but I couldn't get past the feeling of his metal mouth grating my soft lips like cheese in a grater so I said no.

And I have never eaten pepperoni pizza since.

Thus was my initiation into the world of teen romance, spring dances and french kissing.

Looking back, it was a time I wish I could block out. Almost as much as I wish I could block out the memory of losing my virginity. But that's a story for another day.

Flashbacks of wet chins, thumping music and the taste of pepperoni all flooded back the moment my darling children stood before me with hound dog looks on their impish faces, pleading for me to allow them to attend their very first spring dance.







I immediately said no and my daughter yelled that "I am so unfaaaaiiir!" and then huffed into her room to cry a river of broken tweeny-hearted tears.

My son just shook his head, half relieved not to half to attend and half disappointed that he wasn't going to get the chance to snap some chick's bra.

How could they be at this age already, I marveled? Just yesterday, it seemed, I was potty training and washing out sippy cups. I wasn't ready to relinquish this part of their childhood and face the reality that my children are chaffing at the bit to grow up.

My husband pointed out the fact the dance was for 10-13 year olds at the local community hall and would be well chaperoned by teachers and parents.

He reminded me that he had some of his best childhood memories at those dark, sweaty functions in the very same hall and he didn't grow up to be some over-sexed horn dog who knocked up the first chick who would have sex with him.

That's when I pointed out, YES YOU DID, YOU ASSHAT!

"Ya, well, not at age eleven. And it worked out in the end, didn't it? Loosen up woman and let them have a little fun. Besides, it's a night free of listening to them bicker over video games," he urged.

That's when I hung up on him and vowed to find a good divorce lawyer. It's easy enough for him to give permission, I thought to myself, he's not here to actually see the aftermath. Bugger.

But listening to my daughter pout through her dinner and mope around the house while my son acted all put upon and hound-doggish, was more than my mommy heart could take.

I snapped like a dried twig and caved to their wishes.





She's thinking of romance and he's wondering if they will have rootbeer available. I love my kids.

Suddenly it was rainbows and moonbeams under my roof as my children rushed around to get ready for their big night.

Me, I was still trying to swallow the pepperoni vomit that threatened to spew out.

My babies are growing up and I am powerless to stop it. I am simply not ready to know that my daughter is swaying in the dark with some sweaty palmed punk while my son runs around trying to find a victim to slobber all over.

My head just exploded into a million pieces and splattered my computer screen as I typed that sentence.

So I did what any good mommy would do. I sucked it up and took a million photos. I inspected the premises, talked with the chaperones and publicly humiliated my children by threatening every little boy and girl I came across to keep their mitts off my children.

I stalked the parking lot, giving the stink-eye to all the preteen demons who made eye contact with me until the dance chaperones found a willing father to lift me up and forcibly stuff me into my vehicle.

Apparently, I was freaking out all the kiddies.

Still, as I drove away, while the chaperones blocked the door to make sure I didn't change my mind and charge back into the building, I felt a twinge of pride. My kids are growing up. Just like they should be. Even with me as their mother. Doing everything in my power to screw them up.

Later that evening, I picked up my children. They were red faced, sweating and smiling so hard I feared their faces may crack. I noticed my daughter was now sporting lipstick and eyeliner.

Flash back to my own tween heaven. Good times.

Fric and Frac chattered happily about the dance and who danced with who and I smiled grimly and kept my mouth tightly shut, just happy to note there was no visible signs of road rash on either of their faces or dried saliva.

Halfway home, Frac piped up and asked why I was so quiet. Was I upset they went to the dance?

"Oh, I'm not upset at all. I'm thrilled you all had a great time," I honestly answered. I was. I really was. My babies are growing up and I'm dealing with it.

(Picture me later that night with a bottle of red, dealing with it.)

"I'm just making mental notes about all the kids you danced with so that I can terrorize them the next time I see them," I cackled like a crazy woman.

"MOOOOOM!" they cried in unison.

"Hey, it's all part of growing up. You get to go to spring dances and have fun, and I get to stay at home and polish up Daddy's shot gun." I smiled at them.

"It's a win-win for everyone."

Heh.





Enjoy your kids while they're little. Because before you know it they're getting ready for dances and telling you to hurry up and take the damn picture already.

The Road to Bangability

I used to feel I would be ugly forever.

That may have had something to do with my brother Stretch always telling me that I was the geekiest loser out in the world as he sat on my chest and threatened to gob a loogey in my eye.

Big brother always had a certain charm about him.

Heh.

Thank heavens we grew up and moved away from one another. There are only so many times I could dump a jug of grape KoolAid over his head after he picked on me before he either killed me or my parents tossed us both to the curb.

As a grown up, I finally am comfortable with my crooked nose, my weak chin and my pointy ears.

I think the difference is not so much in how I look, but in how I feel about myself. Well, that and my brother no longer sits on me while telling me what twerp I am as I try to avoid the dangling spit above my face.

I missed out on my sexy twenties. Popping out Fric when I was just shy of 21 and then her brother 13 months later, I never had the chance to strut my young and nubile new body for the world. I was too busy potty training and washing off the crayon murals they had so thoughtfully coloured on their walls for me.

It wasn't until I hit the big 3-0 that I had a chance to really discover who I was. As both a mom, a wife and a woman. I never really thought I would like who I was so imagine being slapped up the side of the head with a brick when I realized I not only liked who I had become, but I appreciated how I looked.

Well, how I looked with clothes on anyways. The pasty white reflection from my spreading thighs still sort of blinds me which I suppose is a good thing when you're riddled with stretch marks and you have to jack up your boobs with fishing line tied on your nipple rings to your ears.

(The real reason I got the boob jewellery...makes it real easy to pretend I'm still perky. Heh.)

So when my good lady friend Julie asked me when I thought I was my most bangable I didn't have to think long and hard to answer that question.

It certainly wasn't in my late teens or early twenties. I wasn't comfortable in my new grown up body to even appreciate what little nature had bestowed on me. If it wasn't for the hormones and raging all consuming lust I had for Boo, I doubt I'd have ever gotten naked unless it was to shower.

Behold the sex drive of hormonal adults in the first stages of love. My back still hurts from thinking of all the um, exercise we had as we tried out our adult parts with one another.

While Boo and I could barely keep our clothes on for ten minutes when ever we were together back then, I certainly didn't feel sexy. Horny, yes, sexy no.

Fast forward a few years into my mid to late twenties and I was starting to feel better about myself. I had learned a new appreciation for my body after I watched it expand to the point of bursting with over 100 pounds of baby weight. After months of not being able to see my toes or not being able to fit behind the wheel of my van, I was thrilled to be back to a normal weight.





Thanks honey, for preserving this lovely moment in time. So thoughtful of you. I know, I'm radiant with the beauty of imminent childbirth. Jackass.

I mean, for four months I outweighed my husband by over forty pounds. SEXXXY.

But it wasn't until I had reached the big 3-0 that I finally started to feel womanly. Like I wasn't some awkward teen playing dressup and pretending to be a grown up.

There have been some missteps to my quest to find my sexy self. Some involve bad hair cuts, some a dumbass purchase of decidedly unflattering mom jeans and maybe a few bad costumes for the a themed birthday party here or there.





Nothing like sporting a dead cat on your head that keeps twisting sideways. Totally hawt.

Of course, there are moments when I'm decidedly unbangable. Moments when I'm knee high in the manure of raising small children. Moments when my mommy hat is on so tight it threatens to choke out the very existence of my inner Tanis.

Somehow though, those moments don't happen very often. I don't know if it's from my inept maternal instincts which are about as keen as a blind man's ability to drive straight on the freeway or if it's due to all the boob grabbing my husband does when he's home that reminds me I'm more than just a mom.

I'm a wife legally obligated to put out now and then to earn my keep.





Who says moms aren't sexy? Just look at that hat? Come on! Totally bangable.

Heh.

Still, with every hurdle I've jumped, from child birth to burial; from lusty couch sex to the old 'hurry up and finish already' married sex, I'm starting to feel more myself. More comfortable in the skin I'm in.





Note to self: Don't wear a strapless dress and then jump up and down on the dance floor. NOT hot.

I no longer feel the need to slap on the war paint or spend hours primping at the mirror while fussing with my hair to feel good about myself. I don't need to shimmy into a push up bra or tight jeans to feel hot.

Although, as everything slowly expands or loses elasticity, it sure can help. I'm confident, not delusional.

It is just the more time I spend getting to know myself and surrounding myself with people who love me and support me, the better I feel about who I am and how I look.





What? Come on, kiss me.

Of course, it helps that my brother is no longer following around taunting me about my knobby knees and bad hair. Now I have my children to do that for him.

Damn.

It took a long time, a few children, a loving husband and the responsibility of real life, but I finally grew up, grew out and into my skin.

I'm definitely more bangable now.

If only I wasn't too exhausted to enjoy it and my husband wasn't 400 miles away every damn night.

Double damn.





All grown up. And liking it.

Peering Into The Crystal Ball

I am a warrior fearlessly peering down danger and death everyday.

Well, the reality is I'm actually a giant pansy who hides under the bed and sucks her thumb is afraid of any sort of physical confrontations but in my mind I'm the long lost sister of Braveheart.

Facing grief and wrestling with it every damn day tends to toughen an old bird up. At least in my mind.

I sometimes forget that I'm not the only soldier out on this battlefield; that my loss wasn't strictly my own. It was also my husband's and my children's. I try to remember this, but to be honest, sometimes the rawness of their emotions takes me by surprise and feels like an imaginary cast iron frying pan whacked upside my noggin.

The other day, out of the blue, my lovely daughter was staring out into space with a faraway look on her face.

Thinking she was drooling over some boy at school or envisioning herself as the future wife of some teenaged heart throb, I poked her and asked what was running through that pretty little head of hers.

"I was just wondering what Shale would have looked like when he was a grown up."

THWACK! That'd be the sound of the ole frying pan up against my head.

"I mean, I also wonder what I'm gonna look like when I'm a grown up, but all I have to do is wait and see. But there is no waiting and seeing with Bug. He's gone. I miss him so much Mom. And, well, I just was wondering what he'd look like right now, or when he was grown up."

I swear I heard imaginary birds twittering around my head like in the cartoons and I blinked back the stars I suddenly saw.





Bug's hair always makes me smile.

I gave her a big hug and told her there wasn't a day that didn't go by where I didn't wonder if he'd grow up to look like his father or like me or some weird hybrid of both of us. I wondered all the time if his hair would have stayed curly and blonde, if he would have been tall like his father and my brother Stretch or if he would have been vertically challenged like both his grandfathers.

Satisfied that she wasn't alone in her grief, she bounced back into happy form like a damn rubberband and went to find her living brother to go fart on him or push him down a flight of stairs.





Even at an early age, Fric had to endure her mother's fascination with tattoos.

Leaving me of course, gasping for breath and wondering. Would he look like Boo? What if he grew up ugly with a big nose and a big bald spot? Would he have been thin? Or one of those potbellied drooling dudes who wheel themselves around asking for spare change to buy smokes with that you see downtown.

I snapped out of it eventually. I mean, this was my child I was thinking of, not some random disabled homeless dude on the street. Even if he was, he'd have been the best looking beggar out there. He's got his daddy's genes.

The truth is, all I have to do is look at the photos snapped through the years to get a clear idea of how he would have looked as he grew up. He really didn't change much, he was very much like his siblings. Cute from the get go.

Well, maybe not, but love will blind a mommy to even the most hideous imperfections. Right?





Frac popped out of the womb a cool dude.

I remember being Fric's age and staring at myself and hoping I'd mutate into some beautiful swan. I was desperate to look into the future and find out if I'd be pretty, or thin or tall. I didn't care much about whether I succeeded in life or had a nourishing career, I just wanted to know if any boys would finally like me.





How I miss the spiral perm. And apparently I've always macked out with dogs.

Hell, I just wanted to know if I was ever gonna grow boobs.

It's a good thing I didn't know back then that I wouldn't sprout a pair until well into my late teens and that even after popping out three babies I still would have a rather small set of girls.

It's a good thing I didn't know then that by the time I turned fifteen my twelve year old little sister would be wearing a bra that I could only dream of wearing. The only thing of mine that would fit into my younger sister's cups was my head. Not so good for the pubescent ego.

It's probably for the best that I couldn't have seen myself in the future, slouching about in yoga pants and a ratty teeshirt, still without a bra, not wearing any makeup and my hair in a pony tail, doing my best impersonation as a soccer mom. If I had known then I never would have been a supermodel I may not have had the fortitude to endure all those years of teenaged teasing about my being 'flat as a board and never been nailed.'





If I knew I'd grew up to be a geek who routinely pretends her dog is a baby and kisses his germ infested face, I may have been a tad disillusioned as a youth.

But a small adolescent part of me still wonders what the future will hold for me. I have faith in my children's gene pool to know they will grow up to be strong, happy, beautiful people. At least in the eyes of those who love them. But what of me?

Will I be a graceful elegant older lady who embraces every wrinkle, every liver spot and still manage to look striking?

Will I lose my height and become a shrunken version of who I am now, stooped over and hobbling around chasing the neighbourhood children with my cane?

Will I be a pleasantly plump elderly woman, the type children love to bury themselves in with hugs, handing out sugar the way crack dealers pimp out their drugs?

Will I keep my hair or will it grow so thin and fine that you can see my skull from underneath? Will I start dying it hideous shades of orange or start wearing a lot of ugly hats?

Will I develop a sudden love of orange lipstick that makes me look like a bad drag queen?

I guess, like my daughter, I will have to wait to find out. And pray that my friends and family keep me away from anything orange in the cosmetic's departments in the mean time.

Then I found this.




Suddenly my future self flashed before my very eyes.

Not bad. Not bad. At least I have hair and I'm not wearing any funky coloured lipstick.

I always knew I'd be hot stuff.