I'm A Talented Gal

While riding the high of the adoption approval, I tried something I rarely ever attempt. I cooked, two times in the same week. Without relying on cereal, eggs or boxed noodles. Without ordering pizza or wrangling an invite to my friend's house. I was being motherly. I was being domestic. I was feeling very pleased with myself. Look at me, rocking this mothering thing, I thought to myself.

Then my kids came home from school and killed my buzz.

"What is that smell" Fric asked with her button nose all wrinkled and a look of distaste spread across her freckled face.

"Supper."

"Why does it smell so bad?" She stares at the pan in horror. "Frac! Come and check this out," she called.

"Jeez, you two. You'd think you'd never seen me cook before," I whined as I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow. This Molly Homemaker crap was a tough gig. I'm not like my sister in law, Ms. Martha Freaking Stewart, gifted with the ability to feed five mouths with whatever crumbs she finds in her pantry and still make it taste good.

I've got two mouths to fill and I still can't manage to shove a parsnip down their throats without listening to them gag and retch.

Frac elbows his way between Fric and myself and peers down at the stove. He pokes the sizzling contents of the pan and sneers, "What is that Mom?"

Sigh. Why can't they just trust that I'd never intentionally poison them?

"All right you two, scoot. It doesn't smell that bad. It's chicken stir fry. I may have burned the chicken a tad, but it's mostly edible. Don't worry about it. The smell is from when I spilled some of the sauce onto the stove and it sorta smoked a lot and stunk up the house, but it's not gonna affect how anything tastes."

I hope.

"I'm not really hungry, Mom," Fric mentions as she casually saunters to the fridge and roots for an apple.

"Then drop that apple. You're eating supper. And you're gonna like it." I warned. I had enough of these turkeys and their complaining this week. First the fight with the stew on Monday, which was actually edible (a small miracle around these parts) and now this. Where was the warmth and love a mother deserves for lovingly feeding her family?

"Why can't we have pizza?" Frac whined.

"Because I've already made stir fry."

"But it's burnt. And it smells." He countered.

"It's not burnt. It's artfully blackened and it doesn't smell. The stove smells." I shot back.

"You know, this is child abuse. I'm going to tell the adoption people about this." He threatened as his sister nodded her head in agreement and had his back.

"Bwhahahaha. Too late my friends. You had your chance. You blew it by telling them how much you love your dad and me. And being a bad cook is not the same as abusing a child. Nice try though." To be honest, the stir fry did look a little sad. Sadly black and now a tad wilted.

"Shoot," Fric replied under her breath. "Well, it may not be child abuse but it's not fair that we have to eat this. I could do better," she whined.

Touche. But then a one armed monkey with a glass eye and a flatulence problem could do better than me so that's not really setting the bar all that high.

"Why can't you just go get a real job like other moms and bring home takeout?"

"I do have a real job!!!" I reply rather indignantly. "Being a stay at home parent is one of the hardest, most unappreciated and undervalued jobs a person can hold. You two ought to count your blessings; when I was your age I only wished my mother would stay at home and not work."

"That's because Gramma is a good cook!" Fric retorted.

Damn. They had me there.

Peering down at the sizzling pan, I sighed. It did smell gross. And I did just force them to eat turnips and parsnips the other night. I could feel my parental resolve slipping.

"Tell you what, if it tastes bad, we won't eat it," I said as I reached for a fork to taste test the mess.

Their eyes followed the fork to my mouth as if their lives depended on it. You could feel the tension in the air.

Slowly, I tasted the questionable stirfry. The taste of charred chicken and some other bizarre flavours made their way to my senses and caused my eyes to start to water. I forced myself to smile and nod at the kids as I swallowed the swill.

Shuddering, I acquiesce. "All right, you win. It's gross." They could have at least hid their knowing smiles and cheered behind my back. Buggers.

As I flipped through the phone book to see what type of take out I could find in backwoods Alberta, my daughter kissed my forehead and said "It's okay Mom. You don't have to be good at everything. You're still a good mom."

Aw, my little precious. How I love you too.

"Ya," Frac agreed. "There is more to being a mom than just feeding us. You're really good at other things too."

"Oh ya? Like what?" I asked. I was kinda curious now.

"Well, you're really good at doing laundry. That's important," Fric earnestly replied.

Great. I'll go down as the world's greatest launderer. Just the epitaph I was hoping for.

"You scream the loudest when you find a bug or a mouse. I've never heard anyone scream louder," Frac proudly added. "And you taught us not to be scared to pick up the dead things you find. I'm not scared of touching dead birds!"

Wow. That is skillz, people. I scream really loud and force my kids to dispose of diseased carcasses that I, myself, am too much of a pansy to touch.

It takes a special type of person to master those talents. A screaming, phobic, poisonous cook who can separate the whites from the darks like no other.

I'm one step closer to winning the elusive Mother of the Year award and then onto global domination.

Look for me. I'll be the one screaming loudly, wearing a freshly laundered shirt.

Pimples and Parsnips

"Mom, what is a pimple?" Frac inquired as I was peeling potatoes for a stew I had stupidly thought my children would eat with out gagging and complaining.

"The dictionary describes a pimple as a small hard inflamed spot on the skin. I would call it a raging sack of pus buried in our skin which only rears it's ugly evil head whenever you are meeting someone new, important or really cute. That, or it pops up when you have to have your picture taken. Either way, it's not pretty."

As I reached for a rutabaga to hide in the stew, I looked over at him and asked, "Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering. What's a zit?" He looked at the root vegetable in my hand and shuddered.

"The dictionary defines a zit as a synonym to the word pimple. I define a zit as a raging pain in my ass, murdering my self esteem with it's appearance and immediately reminding me of what an awkward raging geek I was as a teen."

Plopping the rutabaga into the pot, I reached for a parsnip and asked "Why so interested in zits and pimples? Do you have one?" I peer over my stack of vegetables waiting to be peeled to peruse his pristine, porcelaine white skin.

"No. I was just wondering. Do you have to put parsnips in the stew?" he whined.

"Yep. They'll protect you from the pimples. And make you grow big and tall like your father. Plus they were free, I got them off our neighbour who apparently had a parsnip bumper crop and I have no other idea how to get rid of them."

"Oh." Silence. I looked over as I reached for a turnip and saw that Frac was staring intently at me. Creepy like.

"What? It's not a parsnip, it's a turnip. You like turnips," I said as I waggled it in front of him.

"Nobody likes turnips, Mom." Again, still staring at me like a zombie.

"Is there a problem, Frac? Cuz you're freaking me out. Quit staring. Now. I'll have nightmares."

"You might want to put more parsnips in the stew Mom. You need some protection from pimples. You have a big one right on your chin." That was why he was staring. He was mesmerized by the mountainous growth festering on my chin.

"Gee, thanks Frac," I responded dryly. "I should have mentioned that at a certain time of the month, women battle their hormones while turning into raging shrews and are more prone to grow a zit to call their own during this special time. We like to nurture and care for it because it reminds us of our special power...the ability to grow a human to love and torment. Pimples grown during this time are a special gift from nature," I blathered on, hoping he was buying this drivel as I peeled a carrot. "I should have also mentioned it's rude to point out a blemish to a woman. You're liable to be beaten to death for such an infraction."

"Oh. Sorry Mom," he shrugged. "I just thought only teenagers got zits. It looks painful," he said as he leaned over to poke at it.

Swatting his hand away, I glared at him and grabbed another carrot to peel away my frustration of having children that talk. Oh, how I miss the mute kid who drooled at times like this.

"Hmm. I hope I don't get any of those things. That looks painful."

"Hence the parsnips, my boy. Eat up and learn. If only my mother had taught me this wisdom," I lamented.

"Ya. If she did you wouldn't look like this now." So innocent. So clueless. So absolutely in danger and not even realizing it.

"Frac?"

"Ya Mom?"

"You're cuter when you don't talk. Learn from this."

"Fine," he muttered as he wandered away to go burn some brain cells on the X-box. "I know you don't mean that. It's just the zit talking."

Unbelievable. I wonder if I put him on Freecycle if I'll have any takers.

Frac

Ten years ago today, in the minutes it will take me to type this, I was travelling in a rusted out red car, on my way to the hospital. I was two weeks past my due date, big as a whale and the world's crankiest bitch bloated, swollen and stretched, pregnant chick.

I was 21 and even though I had already given birth thirteen months prior to my daughter, I had no idea how my life was about to change.

For the better.

(At least that is what I told myself for the next two years of sleepless nights and blurred days as I chased after two babies only months apart.)

I'll admit, your conception wasn't planned. Your sister was only four months old and we were still struggling with breast feeding when I found out about your existence. I'll admit, I may have hurled the pregnancy test stick, with it's positive sign mocking me, at your father's head when he walked through the door from work that night.

I'll admit, you were a gift I hadn't planned on receiving. (I mean, who the hell has sex when they have a new born baby? I suppose the fact I had no recollection of conceiving you means nothing as I ultimately had to squeeze you out of my uterus regardless of whether your conception was so absolutely unremarkable that I have no memory of it.) But you were a gift none the less. It didn't take long for me to adjust my attitude and welcome your existence.

Especially since you were a joyful pregnancy (I only passed out in public once!) and joy-filled baby. (Oh, the joy I felt when you popped your first tooth, clamped down on my nipple, pulled it tight and shook it like you were a dog with a bone. Such bliss.)

You've made my life easier in countless ways, as a free and unlimited source of slave labour great helper with the family chores, everything from dish duty to wood gathering.

You've kept me fed on more than one occasion. (Yum, peanut butter toast. Thanks, Frac.) You've even learned how to brew coffee for your mama thereby ensuring your survival during the early morning hours of war.





What a good boy.





This is the only time I will ever endorse sticking a knife into an electrical object. Promise.

You've made me smile and laugh through the years. Just know I laugh with you and never at you. (Wink, wink.)

You remind me on a daily basis there is more to life than sadness and suffering, more than grief and anguish. There is music to be enjoyed, comedy to laugh at, and drama to get my blood pumping.

You are growing up to be a strong, resourceful young man. Of course, that may have something to do with the fact you are being raised by a pack of feminine hyenas with very little testosterone to intercede on your behalf. Your father and I (but mostly your father) are sorry for that.







I promise I will work harder at tormenting you with my estrogen loving ways forming you into a macho, manly reincarnation of your daddy. You don't have far to go, after all. You are a spitting image of him. And from what I hear, he cried a lot on the playground. It shouldn't be hard to out-macho that.

Happy tenth birthday Frac. May this year be your best yet. You deserve it.

Plus, I need the blog fodder.