Live Life Like Crazy

***As the grand finale for Wiener's Week at Redneck's, I bring you Black Hockey Jesus. I'm always extra nice to him, just in case he has an in with the OTHER Jesus. I'm ALL about networking. Heh.***


When I started reading Attack Of The Redneck Mommy, I thought Tanis Miller was just another hilarious blogger who liked to run around naked outdoors. Generally, this is enough to hold my attention and get a blogger added to my reader. Then I figured out she has nipple rings and I was a straight up fan (Did you catch that part about being “straight up�? Pay attention. My writing has layers). Nipple rings evoke imagination about… other things. My wife used to have nipple rings. The first time I saw them, my already strong feelings for her blossomed into the love that evolved into the rock that is our marriage. I will state my moral outright: Nipple rings can change the world.

But then I kept reading and discovered that it’s been almost 3 years since her 4-year-old son died. When I learned this, Tanis took on a complexity I wanted to know more about. I wanted to know her, to drink coffee with her, and talk for hours. But then I realized this was impossible because she lives in Canada. Crossing the border into Canada freaks me out. I’m totally paranoid that I bought my used Saturn Vue from a methamphetamine addict who left a big chunk of ice hidden in some compartment I don’t know about. And then those border guards would wave their magic meth radar gun through my car and throw me in some Canadian jail made of bamboo with a dirt floor and a mangy rat would be my only companion for like 14 years. I’ll stick with email, Complex Tanis.

If you’ve ever read my blog, The Wind In Your Vagina, then you know I’m kinda creepy and obsessed with death and bones and stuff like that. You should read it. There’s a lady in Illinois who reads it every day and she really likes it. Plus my Mom thinks it’s the bomb. And people who Google shit like “ghost vagina pigeons�—they’re avid readers. Anyway, I’m totally freaked out by the inevitability of my own death. When I was 14 my buddy Chris was killed by a car and it turned me into a super broody dude who wrote kick ass poems about black stuff and nightmares. I actually asked Chris if he would let me interview him for my guest post at Attack Of The Redneck Mommy, and he happily obliged.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: So Chris, you’re dead. That’s pretty trippy. Tell us about it.
GHOST OF DEAD CHRIS: Well, being dead is a lot radder than you’d think.
BHJ: Really? That reminds me of a favorite Whitman line of mine. “To die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.�
GODC: Exactly. It’s really hard to explain. But Walt Whitman was usually on the money.
BHJ: Well that sounds comforting and all but death still makes me edgy. Here’s something I wonder about a lot. Are you like, you know, still 14? Are you trapped in 1986? Do you still think Run-DMC’s Raising Hell is the roper dopest? Because you missed out on Tupac, bro. Tupac pushed that shit to the extreme.
GODC: No, I know Tupac.
BHJ: Wait. You fucking know Tupac? Like know him know him?
GODC: Yeah I know Pac. And before you ask, yes, I dig The Mountain Goats.
BHJ: But how the hell can you dig The Mountain Goats? You’ve been dead for 22 years!
GODC: It’s hard to explain. But when you die, it’s like. It’s like you know… everything.
BHJ: Dude you’re blowing my mind!
GODC: I know I know. It’s goofy. Of course dying destroys everyone who loves you. I saw how hard it was for you and Danny and my Mom. But that destruction—it’s like its own little education about dying itself. It’s hard to die. Just like it’s hard to be born. But being dead itself? It’s fucking sweet. Trust me.
BHJ: I don’t buy it. Dude you never even got any tail.
GODC (laughing): Dude. Sex is merely the tiniest little peek at death. You’re just on your knees looking through the keyhole, my man. Mortals crack me up.
BHJ: Well I’m glad you get such a kick out of my existential anxiety, Chris.
GODC: I’m sorry, man. But really, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m serious. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trashing life. You should live your life like crazy. Live your life on the edge of a knife. I’m certainly not trying to rush you toward death. There’s plenty of time to be dead.
BHJ: Word, Chris. That was dope. But listen. I’ve got one more thing. A few years ago I ordered some pancakes for breakfast and was shocked to discover that your Mom was my waitress. And even after all these years, she still had that deep soulful sadness in her eyes. It still kinda haunts me, you know? If you could, what would you tell her? What would you tell Tanis?
GODC: Wow that’s tough. I would avoid all that trite stuff about a better place and meeting again and all that. Everybody tells them that. And I think they know all that. I would want to evoke for them a kind of huge cosmic container in which everything is ultimately OK. You know? But I wouldn’t tell them that everything is OK, because it’s not. Actually, everything kinda sucks when you think about it hard enough. Man, I’m pressing up against what language can say here. I guess I’d just say:

Mom. Tanis. Everything sucks. But that’s OK.

Terror on the Trampoline

One of the perks of living out in the country is I have a massive yard. 20 acres to be exact. Enough space that I can fulfill my desire to run through the woods buck naked when ever the desire hits and almost enough space to ignore the cries of my children as they beat each other with sharp pointy sticks.

Because of the massive size of my yard, we have more than enough space to fill it with large toys to distract my kids from video games, the computer, television and the shiny glint of my boob rings as I let my inner nudist run wild.

We have the pool, a swing set, the requisite sandbox for the neighbourhood cats to pee in, and my favourite, a trampoline.

The trampoline is nestled in a crook amongst the trees, invisible from neighbours but not far from the front of the house. We placed it there so I could putter in my large perennial flower bed or relax on the nearby gliding swing while my children jump around and try to break their necks. Because, you know, it's more comforting to be able to witness them snapping like twigs while I pull weeds.

We bought the trampoline against the advice of our pediatrician and Bug's neurologist. We listened to their cautionary tales of woe, weighed the statistics (in our area alone, between 80-100 children a year arrive in the emergency room with serious head trauma due to the big bounce of the tramp) and then quickly marched our parental asses to the nearest sporting store and slapped down 600 smackers to buy the biggest trampoline we could find.

We like to live dangerously around here. Heh.

By far and away it was the best 600 dollars we ever spent on the kids. Not counting for food and diapers of course. Fric and Frac loved it and practically lived within it's mesh walls for four summers straight. They had a whole little universe with a spongy floor created inside that trampoline.

Not to mention I was the coolest aunty in the world whenever one of my nieces or nephews came over to visit. Heh.







Some of my most cherished memories I have of my Bug are sitting on that trampoline and double bouncing him as he sat there and giggled and bumped around while giggling like a mad man. Or asking my husband where our son was after he placed him in there for safety (like a big play pen) as he mowed the lawn and forgot about him and I found Bug sweetly sprawled out on the tramp, snoring softly as the birds twittered in the trees around him.

(Ya. We are totally in the running for Best. Parents. Evah!)

Still, the time of the trampoline wonderment is quickly passing. The kids no longer bounce their day away on it, and Bug is bouncing in the big trampoline in the sky. It's time to move on and make way for bigger and better toys.

Soon the only people who will be enjoying the spring of the tramp will be Boo and I and our friends, when we drunkenly stagger out to it after a game of cards and try and recapture the lost glory of our youth with liquid courage and beer induced stupidity.

(Not that we've ever done that before. Heh. I'm just guessing.)

I was out, swinging gently on my swing, next to the trampoline, the other day, watching the leaves sway to the gentle breeze and watching my neighbour's horses graze across the road. It was a beautiful summer evening and I was reliving all my trampolining memories with nostalgia when suddenly the kids came barreling out of the house and spotted me, sitting quietly in the trees.

Translation: there was no way I could make a quick escape. I was found. Damn it.

Climbing into the trampoline, they started jumping around like monkeys and pretending to be ninjas while shouting, "Mom! Look at this!", "Mom! WATCH ME!", "MOM! You're not LOOKING!", "MOM! MOM! WE'RE GOING TO KEEP CALLING YOU AND DRIVING YOU INSANE UNTIL YOU SHOW US A SLIVER OF ATTENTION!"

I did my best to fake interest. But to be honest, once you've seen one kid nard the other in a ninja kick gone wrong, you've seen enough. Still, I mustered false enthusiasm as they bounced higher and higher and competed with one another to see who could do the best back flip, triple sow cow whatchamacall it.

"Mom, come and jump on the trampoline with us!" Fric called.

I deferred, calling out that I was just happy to be sitting on my arse, watching them and soaking in their glory.

"Mom! Come and bounce! It's fun!" Frac called.

I just shook my head and politely declined.

"MOM! Come play with us!" Frac called again. Again I shook my head and smiled and wondered how I could make a quick escape back into the sanctuary of my house without them following me in. (Cuz I'm thoughtful like that.)

"Oh, don't bother, Frac," Fric called to her brother as she bounced up and touched the clouds. "She won't come in. She's too old anyways. She'd probably break her hip or something."

Such a cheeky child. I don't know where she gets that from. Must have inherited it from her father's side of the family tree.

(Stop laughing.)

Well, with those words, the gauntlet was tossed. Dammit. I am not old. I'm in my prime. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let some two-bit blonde 11 year old sass me like that and get away with it. It was time for the DOUBLE BOUNCE. That'd teach her, I thought as I clambered up the ladder and onto the trampoline.

The kids giggled with delight and things got a little hairy for a few minutes as they tried to take their mother down. However, they sorely underestimated my own years of experience on the trampoline and maybe forgot that I have about fifty pounds on them. Heh.

It wasn't long before they were begging for my mercy. Just as they should. Heh.

It also wasn't long before I realized I may not be as young as I once was. While I could still out trick them on the trampoline and bounce so high they almost touched the moon whenever I landed, there was the small problem of my bladder.

A bladder that had been used and abused the last decade by having nine pound babies sit on it while I gestated it and they used it for a kick-boxing bag.

A few bounces in, and I knew my bladder was no longer my friend. In fact it was public enemy number one every time I landed. Between my uncontrollable laughing and the pressure of my springy steps, my bladder betrayed me, one dribble at a time.

Bastard.

I tried to act nonchalant. I tried to pretend that every time I bounced a few more drops didn't just squirt out like someone squeezing a lemon. But I knew, rapidly, that the time was coming when the flood gates would open and soon my children would be bouncing upon a wet black surface.

I knew I had to call it quits or go find a diaper. One or the other.

Damn it sucks getting old. So much for all that time spent doing my kegels. There was no amount of squeezing pelvic muscles tightly to contain the yellow flow of urinary love.







I hobbled to the net, trying not to bounce, trying not to think of the sounds of water rushing, when my kids stopped bouncing and asked where I was going, with a disappointed tinge to their voices.

"Um, you guys were right. I'm old. I hereby bequeath you the title of Best Bouncers and bow down to your greatness. I'm going in," I covered while trying really hard not to hop up and down as my bladder screamed at me for release. This was one situation where that would decidedly not help.

I should have just kept my mouth shut and waddled out while I could have, only slightly damp between the legs and dignity intact. Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

My demon spawn, intent on terrorizing me until I'm toes up in the ground, took one look at each other and read the other's mind, smiled evilly and crept towards me.

"Stay back," I warned. "I need to get out." I struggled to find the escape hatch in the net while keeping my balance.

They cackled maniacally and I knew I was in deep shit. Or deep urinary waters, as it were.

With a great big laugh, they jumped as high as they could and landed near me, sending me flying. Just as I landed from one bounce the other sent me flying again.

It was the like the little dutch boy pulled his thumb from the dike. My bladder called me a nasty name and opened the flood gates.

I lay there on the floor of the trampoline, laughing and gasping and the kids crawled over to me giggling. "Okay, guys. Enough," I tried to sound stern. Now I officially no longer had to pee, but had to change my pants.

"I've gotta go. Let me out," I begged, as I crawled towards the exit.

Just then Fric noticed the wet spot on the trampoline and squealed in disgust. Then she noticed that my pants were looking a wee bit wet and her sharp brain put two and two together.

Howling with glee, she called to her brother, "Look Frac! Mom peed herself."

Cuz I needed the public service announcement. My mortification levels weren't near high enough. I needed two punks to point out my pissy problem.

"Ya, ya," I shot back. "I had an accident. Thanks to you two." And then I hot footed it into the house as they laughed like two firm bladdered loons at their poor infirm mother.

A few minutes later, I was dry, but my ego was still bruised. Fric and Frac came back into the house, trying to stifle their giggles and the look of youthful superiority on their faces.

"We're sorry Mom. We didn't mean to make you pee. We should have been more careful," Frac condescended to me.

"Ya, Mom. It's not your fault your body is falling apart," my lovely daughter piped up. "Come back out to the trampoline and we'll play nicer. Besides, your tank has to be empty now," she added evilly.

Aw shucks. I can tell you I was just overwhelmed with parental love at that moment. Love I would have liked to express by wringing their lilly white necks like chickens.

"Um, no thanks. I've had enough. Now go play before I make you hand wash my dirty laundry," I threatened.

My children, obviously don't fear me. Because suddenly, they burst out laughing and my daughter gasped, "But Mom! We brought you something that could help you!"

And then they tossed a diaper (kept in the car for visiting babies) in my lap.

"This ought to help you!" And then they ran away like laughing lunatics, enjoying my pitiful pisser problems.

Hahaha. I was so amused.

So amused I chased them outside and soaked them with the hose. While sitting on them and tickling until they gasped for mercy and threatened to pee their pants. Take that you little beyotches! Heh.

The lesson of the day: Avoid trampolining if you've ever squeezed out multiple children through your lovely lotus of love. Remember you are OLD. Or at least your bladder is.

And always make sure you can run faster than your children to mete out just desserts.

Now excuse me. I've got some diaper shopping to do. If you see me, now you'll know why baby's got back.

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.