Behind Bars

I am a sucker for some big blue eyes. As evidenced each time I let a certain pair of blue eyes sucker me into having yet another squalling bundle of baby shit and future hostile teenager. But this time, my fondness for baby blues and the owners attached to them, delivered me not another child, but more pea brained pets.

I could handle one pet. Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever. Four little legs and one over active bladder. Within months a year we had the bladder problem resolved. I only had to strap on a diaper a couple times. How's that for progress?

Then, in a moment of monumental stupidity and grief-induced weakness, I brought home Abe and Lester. Otherwise known as the fucking birds. It's been nothing but flying feathers, birdshit bombs and swooping chickens intent on plucking out my eyes ever since.

My own little Prison Break stars routinely escape to taunt poor Nixon. They sit on the edge of his food bowl, whispering words of challenge in their bird speak and then fly out of reach just as the poor dog lunges at them. I can hear them cackling all the way to their cage.

Still, I could handle all the wildlife under my roof, until last week. When the daughter's big blue eyes suckered me into buying her hamsters for her birthday. Not just one, but two little shitting rats in my home.

All of a sudden we have two hamsters, each in their little plastic balls rolling across the floor running for their lives from Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. who is intent on having himself a hamster snack. Followed closely by Abe and Lester, my facking birds who find great delight in swooping in and shitting everywhere. Followed closely by Fric and Frac who are trying to make sure Nixon doesn't have a ham sandwich or a chicken finger; the rats er hamsters don't escape their plastic havens and run into the furnace ducts; and the facking birds don't fly into the window or behead themselves with the ceiling fan.

My house, the neighbourhood zoo. Complete with freaks and a sideshow.

Come on over, admission is free if you bring a bottle of red...

Turns out, those little rats were the straws that broke this mother's back. I set out to win back control of my house. But only after I stepped in something wet. And then a step later, something warm. Turns out, those plastic rat balls in which your rodent can freely roam the confines of it's enviroment have breathing holes. Toilet holes, really.

Like dealing with pigeon shit was fun. Now my darling children expected me to cope with rat crap? I don't fucking think so, my lovelies.

Vowing this would be the last time I wiped crap off my feet, I rallied for war. Short of nuking all animals less than ten inches tall (no, I'm positive that is chicken in your soup. I made it myself, darling. Snicker.) I had to find a more acceptable, more responsible way of handling the situation with out hearing the inevitable "I told you so's" from my dickhead darling husband.

Three hours later the war was won.

Escape this henhouse, chickens.

Ha ha ha, I jeered into their cage. No longer will you be able to shit on my lamp shades. No longer will you be able to taunt my dog. Alright, so it's too bad you can't escape to eat the rats, but you probably never would have eaten the smelly critters anyways. I'll forgive you. Best of all, no longer will you swoop down and try to yank my boob ring from my naked body as I lie sleeping.

Suckas.

However, this posed a problem. What do I do with a slightly used birdcage?

Think woman, think.









I wonder if the hubs would fit...

Everything seems Green

I have been busting my butt for the last few days trying to get ready for my daughter's eleventh birthday. I'm determined to try and win the infamous Mother of the Year award. After all, as you all like to point out, one day this chicklet is going to be in charge of changing my diapers. May as well try and score some points while I can.

In honour of the big day, I have sanded, taped and painted her bedroom walls. I have hunted for appropriate bedding, throws and rugs. I have spent hours painting circles on her bedroom walls. It was painstaking. It was tedious. It was a pain in my jiggly little ass.

And it was so worth it to see her face this morning when Frac and I did the big reveal.





So it looks like her room is suffering from the measles. So what if it is so bright in there my retinas ache when I wake her up first thing in the morning. So what if her father freaks right the fack out when he gets home and sees what I've done to her room without any discussion with him.

It was all worth it to see the sickly green glow reflecting on her skin while she grinned her gap tooth grin, stretched from ear to ear.

She's green with love.

Happy Birthday Fric. May you be a pain in my ass for years to come.

I love you always. Even if you just broke my coffee pot.

Turned Tables and Sharpened Skates

Every year, in the name of peace, quiet and the possibility of having uninterupted sex mental stimulation and physical challenge, we enlist our children into a winter activity or two. Something for them to do to while away the long winter nights and chase the parental crazy feeling far, far away.

Every year, I ask my children which activities they would like to participate in. Indoor soccer? Kung-Fu? Ballet? Jazzercise? Arm-wrestling? (Actually, they don't have that one. But I'd be all over it like snot on finger if there were.)

Every year, my little lovelies hem and haw about which activities they want to do until I feel I am going to lose my mind and finally I snap and decide to put them into what ever activity starts the quickest, lasts the longest and is the cheapest.

This year, my kids were determined to have a better outcome. They became a united front, each pestering me until they thought I would break.

"Mom, can I go into figure skating?"

"Mom, I really, really want to be a hockey player. Who knows? I may be the next Wayne Gretzky?"

For weeks, I heard nothing but how wonderful it will be if Fric is a figure skater and Frac is an NHL superstar in the making.

Freaking FIGURE SKATING, where it will not only cost me a small fortune, but I have to be up at the crack of dawn four times a week. Before I BLOG. No fucking way. I may never win Mommy of the Year award, but I'd rather sit in front of my computer and whine before I gear up and drag my sleeping daughter to the rink in the morning.

Don't even get me started on the costs of hockey. A small mortgage is required to cover the equipment costs, signup fees, donations, bingo's, and gas to shuttle your sweaty, ill-rested child around the province for a chance to skate in a rinky dink arena. All the lovely Tim Horton's commercials in the world do not make my heart pitter patter and get me excited to about dragging my child to a freezing rink in the middle of butt-fuck no where, with no rest on the weekends, while dealing with the local small town hockey dads. Especially all by myself, while Boo is off chasing the almighty dollar.

I love hockey. It runs through my blood. I should have married Mark Messier. (I love you Boo, but face it. If Marky gave me a second look, I'd kick your ass to the curb and jump on that pony so fast your head would spin. That said, I can't wait for you to come home...)

Figure skating and hockey. It was official. My children were trying to kill me.

On the way to the sign-up fair, where local officials have conveniently gathered all the local clubs under one roof to make it easier for parents to sign their lives away; I tried my damndest to convince myself I would be a great hockey mom. I'd buy a pretty hat and some funky mittens and look serene while I watched my children skate endlessly on a sheet of ice.

Meanwhile, Fric and Frac chattered on endlessly about how cool it was going to be when they became rich and famous swirling and twirling on ice.

With a huge chip on my shoulder and a bad attitude, I made my way into the fair. Signs of basketball, Guides and music lessons danced before my eyes. Bastards. Mocking me with what I wouldn't have, I thought to myself as I marched my way to the figure skating line and tried not to give any death looks at the people standing around me.

As I approached the line, I watched as other happy parents signed their children up for Cadets and football. All evening activities. Everything was an evening activity but figure skating and hockey.

Suck it up, Buttercup. This is for the kids. It's not about you, I thought to myself, over and over again. I was trying to delude myself, really.

Just as I reached the front of the long-assed line, where I had plenty of time to sweat it out and feel miserable about my future while imagining my daughter in a pair of sparkly tights and a tutu, my little lovelies suddenly appeared before me, looking evil.

"Mom, we changed our minds. I want to join Guides and play soccer," Fric happily piped up.

"Ya, and I want to take martial arts to learn to use num-chucks," said an excited Frac.

"Are you sure? Because it is okay if you want to dance like a fairy on ice or brutalize little children in the name of hockey. I'll support your decision and bitch to you every chance I get." Lie, lie, lie. Good thing nobody had a bible for me to swear on at that moment.

"Nah. We never wanted to join hockey or figure skating. We were just teasing you."

Joking. Hahahahaha. As soon as I caught my children and they escaped from the headlock I had them trapped in, we signed up for winter activities. Indoor soccer to run the little buggers ragged and Guides and Scouts to teach them how to find their way out of the woods that I plan on dropping them off in. And then speeding away.







I briefly thought of signing Frac up for ballet lessons and with his sister as his dance partner, but I thought better of it as we walked by. These kids of mine are starting to become devious. My little beautiful children. I'm so proud.

Remembering I had almost signed my life and half my savings account away fifteen minutes before, I shook my head to dispel the idea of Frac in a tutu while his father looked on and his sister danced circles around him, on her toes.

Better I acknowledge that the (very cheap) square dancing lessons I wanted the kids to take wasn't my greatest idea and learn to listen to my children.

Besides, Frac may decide he likes the ballet and the tights and then his father would murder me.

This post is dedicated to all you fine parents out there (including all of my inlaws) who choose to rise at the crack of dawn and drive their children all over hell's half acre for their kids to pursue their dreams. Thank God it is you and not me.