Rubbing the Crystal Ball

When I was 14 years old, I was tall, stringy-haired and a complete dork. My knees were so knobby that they'd rub against the fabric of my pants and start a fire while my ribs stuck out so far people constantly confused me for a starving African child.





I started off with promise. No wonder I was delusional.

Not to mention the boob situation. Or lack thereof. Oh ya. I was hot. And I knew it. I used to spend hours daydreaming about what I'd look like when my body finally caught up with my highly mature brain (heh) and I liked to imagine I'd be 5'10", lithe, with breasts Pamela Anderson would covet.





I totally look like that in my mind. Really.

Not to mention my face would finally grow into my nose, my chubby cheeks would slim out and my chin would firm up. The mental image of who I painted myself to look like was smoking hot. I was a vision. Every boy's wet dream and every girl's worst nightmare.

Sadly, my imagination was far more creative than my actual genes. But thankfully, my 'highly mature brain' caught up with my body and I grew to appreciate the body I was given and sentenced to life with.





Okay, so I am not as classy as Charlize. And as my brother recently said, the only time I may resemble Ms. Theron is when she starred in Monster.

So I'm no supermodel, as my big brother likes to frequently point out (jackass.) But I can live with the face reflected back at me in the mirror.

But when I was gestating small demons humans in my belly, I couldn't help but wonder what my children would look like. Would my daughter reach that coveted height I had always hoped for, or would she stop short an inch and a half like I did?

Would she have big boobs like some of her chestically gifted relatives? Would she have my eyes? I didn't really care what she looked like, as long as she took after her father's side of the family. He has beautiful DNA. The women are stunning and the men are gorgeous.

I spent nine months envisioning the beauty I was baking; nine months patting myself on the back for having the good sense to hop on board Boo and borrow his baby batter.

Then I squeezed her out.

She was angry, bald and fat. She looked like a Ukrainian Bubba who discovered there was no more sausage in the fridge to snack on. I couldn't get over how different she looked in reality than in my head. I honestly didn't recognize her.

If you had put ten baby girls in front of me, I guarantee you I wouldn't have picked her. I'd have picked a prettier, smaller child. Not a squalling nine pound watermelon who was already half-grown.

Lucky for me, I didn't have that choice. And even luckier, she grew into herself. She is a stunning beauty, who looks exactly like all the beautiful people on her father's side and every day she grows more beautiful.

I can live with the fact she doesn't look like me. She got something better in return. My superior intellect and my smart mouth. Heh.

After Fric was born I realized just how out to lunch my imagination really was and when Frac clawed his way out of my cooter 396 days later I wasn't surprised by his size or his appearance.

I don't waste my time worrying about what my children will grow up looking like. I can already see their grown-up selves in their smiles, in their faces.

I pity the boys who become ensnared in my daughter's future beauty and I rue the day I have to play nice with the hordes of girls who start chasing after my son, who is an even prettier version of his father.

I also try to block out the mental image of what I'm going to look like in forty years. I don't want to envision my boobs touching my knees or how the ole meat curtains will flap against the ankle bones. (That might have been an over-share. Heh.)







I used to wonder what Bug would look like when he reached manhood. When he died, I felt robbed. Robbed of his love, robbed of his time, robbed of his future. I was angry, no pissed, that I wouldn't be able to watch him morph into adulthood with the same lack of grace that his siblings are.

I couldn't predict when he was four what he would look like as a grown man and I felt cheated I would never find out. Would he be a big, hulking man or would he be slight and slim? Would he have wavy hair like his father or would it go poker straight with age?

I used to wonder what my boy would look like if he lived. I still wonder what he would have become, who he would have been, what he would have accomplished.

But thanks to a day spent surfing the net, I no longer wonder what he would look like as an adult. A gift was bestowed upon me. My oft pondered question was answered. The future Shale-man stared back at me.





As a boy. Such a sweet boy.

and his future self





As a man. Come on. You see the resemblance too, right?

I'm not a stupid woman. I know when I'm looking at a gift horse in the mouth.

I know I made beautiful babies, but hot damn.

I knew my imagination couldn't always be wrong.

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.

Joy

It's no secret why I started blogging. I've not exactly hid the fact that my almost five year old son dropped dead suddenly, leaving me adrift in the middle of an ocean of grief.

I started blogging at first, as a way to document my grief for my kids, so they would understand when they were adults why their mother is bat shit crazy.

But I quickly realized if I kept documenting my grief I was ignoring the light that was trying to shine through and lift me from the pain. So I swiftly shifted gears and switched my focus from examining my pain to reveling in the delights of life.

Cuz there is nothing more delightful than vaginal waxing gone wrong, nipple rings being ripped out and public nudity. Oh, the joys.

It's all dildos and dead kids, and I'm cool with that, because that is my reality now, whether I want it or not. Welcome to my life.

(Feel free to run away screaming. I do it on a regular basis. Heh.)

I never actually started blogging as a ways of reaching out to others. But I won't lie to you and tell you I wasn't delighted to become part of this large, fluid community and find the support I was unable to find or feel in my real life.

These relationships, some deeper and truer than others, have done what time alone, couldn't. They've helped heal my fractured soul and helped remind of the person I once was, the person I hoped to one day become once more.

Of course I realize I can no longer be the Tanis I was before Oct.21, 2005. She no longer exists. She was buried along side her son.

But I'm no longer the shell of the person I was, huddled in fetal position, staring at the sky and wondering if the pain will ever dissipate long enough for me to feel joy, to feel blessed.

Blogging has become a huge part of the Tanis of today. It has tested my boundaries, my creativity and some times, my intelligence.

The words I've read have amused me, educated me, enlightened me or even annoyed me. But what ever it was, it made me feel. I was no longer a numb carcass, pretending to go through the motions of life.

I have made some of the best friends of my life while hiding behind my computer screen. Friendships that will last the test of time and distance. Friendships that would never have been possible if it weren't for Al Gore giving us the internet and a couple of geeks building a box known as a computer.

However, that said, I also have spent more time in front of my computer screen than pulling weeds in my garden, cleaning my house or running naked through the woods.

It's hard to find a balance. I worry my kids will grow up remembering their mother's image as nothing but the back of my head reflected in the soft glow of a computer screen, instead of my laughing smile aimed at them.

I also worry that my laptop will grow permanently attached to the tops of my thighs and I will have to waddle into the emergency room, pathetic and embarrassed and have to beg them to carve it off. Nothing more prominent to point out your internet geekiness like having a laptop welded to your legs.

Gives a whole new meaning to walking bow-legged.

Heh.

I blog now, for my amusement. To kill time while waiting for my family to expand. To whittle the hours away while I sit at home, watching my children argue over who has to wash the dishes and who gets to dry, waiting for my Boo's return home to take his rightful place as ruler of this kingdom.

I keep blogging to reach out to the parents out there who are afraid of raising a handicapped child, or fearing the unknown of what the future holds for their kids. I blog to let parents know it is okay if the unthinkable happens, if one day they have to stand before a granite marker and weep.

They will survive. I did. It's not always pretty, and it's not easy, but it is possible.

Nothing is impossible.

Well, nothing except for the possibility of me becoming more famous than Dooce. Hell, it's not impossible, it's just highly unlikely.

I blog to remind myself and everyone who stumbles across my blog, there is nothing more important in life than love. To keep loving even when you feel you can't. To always remember to find joy in your day. Whether it's getting a nice email, a million blog hits or finding a five dollar bill crumpled in an old coat pocket. It's all joy.

I want people to know to that sometimes all you can do is put one foot in front of the other and try not to stumble. But joy will find you. In the most unlikely places.

Like a little blog on the internet.

You, all of you, yes, even you Danny Evans, are my joy.

Thank you for that.

Public service announcement done for the day. Go forth and find joy. I know I am.





Thanks y'all. I big bloggy love you.