Withdrawal

As a parent, I have grown accustomed to making sacrifices for my children. Sacrifices such as giving up my dreams of being a professional five-pin bowler by day and a tap dancing lounge act by night.

Some sacrifices have to be made whether I like it or not. Waking up in the wee hours of the morning to rouse my offspring out of their beauty sleep to usher them off to school so they may receive an education (and so the office of Children Services doesn't come knocking on my door and threaten to throw my sorry, sleepy ass into the slammer for depriving my children of an academic future) is one such sacrifice.

Oh, the things I do for my children.

Yet, I make this early morning sacrifice for my kids out of love, every day. Albeit, grudgingly, but I still I do it. Beats home schooling the little rug rats.

(Not that I have anything against home schooling. Really, I admire those with the patience and wisdom to attempt such a feat. And I'm not just saying that because my best friend's parents run a large homeschooling business, and I'll be having dinner with them tomorrow night. Ahem.)

It's just I hate getting up before even the damn birds do. I'm not a morning lover. My eyes tend to be glued shut with gook, my face is covered with dried spit and my sparkly disposition is hiding somewhere in the rat's nest I call my hair. It takes me a while to get all pistons firing properly.

Meanwhile, my children circle around me with pointy spears and poke at my tired body while chanting some ancient voodoo spell while I wait for my coffee to brew.

Good times.

I have managed to find a way to make the morning more manageable as my children fight over who gets to the last fruit cup in their lunch, who has to wipe the spilled milk off the counter, who was the one who left the bathroom light on. I tune them out as they roll around on the floor, yanking at each other's hair and ears, wrestling for supreme victory, and I drink my freshly ground java while surfing the internets.

It keeps me sane. It also keeps me from having to separate the two of them and risk having my arm chewed off.

This routine has served us well for the better part of two years. As I expected it to do yesterday morning. Except when I sat down at my computer with my heavenly cup of joe, there was no internet. The little lights on my over-priced satellite gadget thingy were dark, silently mocking me. No internet.

I wiggled the connection. I unplugged the thingamabob and plugged it back in. I rebooted the computer. I cussed. I cried. I got on my knees and prayed for mercy. But alas, nothing. No internet. Just a polite note from my computer telling me the internet God has abandoned me and perhaps I should get off my ass and actually parent my children that the morning.







My children stopped tormenting one another long enough to wander over and see why I was smacking the computer.

"Maybe you should call the satellite company, Mom," Frac offered helpfully. Good idea. I knew I had kids for a reason.

So after waving good bye to my children and ignoring their protests that I was pushing sending them outside fifteen minutes too early (I figured they needed some fresh air before the bus came) I dug out the emergency 1-800 number (read: I ripped apart my filing cabinet until I found the teeny tiny piece of paper that contained the number to regain my sanity) and placed the call.

They were very sympathetic to my plight once they learned I was officially addicted to my internet and was in the first stages of withdrawal. But there was a problem with a thingamajig and I'd have to hold onto my panties tightly until it was fixed.

"Well, how long will that take? I mean, I'm in real danger of losing my mind out here," I begged.

The satellite company's response? Take a chill pill and we'll call you when the problem is rectified.

Gee, thanks. I fork out large amounts of cash every month for this? I get the same advice from my therapist. Dammit.







It was a painfully long day. I actually had to occupy my time doing something other than checking my email a dozen times a day and reading through my bloglines. Suddenly I noticed just how dusty my house was, how the laundry wasn't magically putting itself away and how my refrigerator contained more penicillin than the local pharmacy.

I moped.

I played solitaire.

I cleaned out my closet.

I phoned the internet company so many damn times they started pretending I had got the wrong number every time they saw my number.

It became increasingly clear I had a problem as I sat down at my computer and started talking to my keyboard about how I missed spending time stroking it's keys.

The kids came home from school and found me huddled in the corner, rocking my laptop and speaking gibberish.

How I missed thee, Internets.

Finally, at seven pm, a full twelve hours since I was first booted out of cyberspace, I stopped mourning and placed my final call to the satellite company.

"Listen here, punk, I pay good coin to be able to surf internet porn and share the misery of parenting with other parents and you are interfering with my addiction process. Enough of this crap, you need to fix this problem and fix it now. I don't care if you need to call in Harry Potter or Buzz Aldrin, just do it. Or I will personally fly out to your headquarters in India or Timbuktu or where ever and ensure the problem gets fixed. Trust me, sonny boy, you don't want some jacked up, angry mother who is jonesing for her internet fix breathing down your neck."

Oh, ya. That'll inspire him. Threats from a junkie mom whose kids are screaming like out of control banshees in the background as they fight over taking turns playing video games.

My threats must have worked. That or the fact I rebooted the system the proper way, not just shaking the box and yelling "A pox on your head!"

Let me just say, having the door unlocked and thrown open to allow me to enter the sweet heavens of cyberspace was almost as good as uncorking a great bottle of wine seeing my husband walk through the front door after weeks of being absent.

Okay, who am I kidding, it was better.

Besides the high from finally being able to peer into my online world and check my email, I was also pleasantly surprised to discover I made the final round for Best Canadian Blog in the 2008 Weblog Awards. Otherwise known as the Bloggies. Thanks y'all. My ego is duly stroked. So go vote for me, or don't, but head on over and check out the other nominees. There are some great blogs up for awards.

Win or lose, this will give me an opportunity to pretend I'm Cate Blanchett while I'm in the bathroom, practicing my acceptance speech and my "Damn, I lost and the camera is on me and I'm going to have to pretend that I'm not crushed and give one of those stupid 'it was just an honour to be nominated' speeches that everyone knows is fake and dear God, I wonder how much my therapist is going to charge me for whining about losing to some kid in freaking Saskatchewan and I'll never be able to show my face in public again."

I wonder if I'll still fit in my prom dress.

Talent Takes All Forms

There are few things that scar a parent for life worse than the potty training years. Eventually we forget about diaper duty, teething horrors or sleep issues, but toilet training stays with a parent long after the kid is able to reach around and wipe it's own arse.

It only takes one puddle of pee and some urine soaked pants in the middle of a crowded mall to make a mom wish she'd listened a wee bit closer in those sex education classes of her distant past.

Potty training wasn't the worst thing I've endured as a parent, but it definitely ranks up there as one of the most humiliating.

I still have nightmares about almost being arrested for letting my two year old daughter pee in the bush at a golf course and being chased down the street by a mob of angry trophy wives after my son whizzed on the edge of a McMansion's perfectly manicured lawn.

Every parent has potty woes. 'Tis the nature of the business. But not every parent (read: Boo) teaches his three-year-old son to stand at the edge of the deck to see who can pee the furthest in a moment of father-son bonding.

It took me three summers (and one angry mob) to teach that damn kid that you can't just whip it out where ever you want and let loose with the hose. Thanks Boo.

Nowadays, our biggest potty adventures tend to be the panic one feels upon realizing there is no toilet paper to be found. After the fact.

Or at least I had hoped. Until last night. When, while driving home, Frac announced he had to go to the washroom and there was just no holding it.

"Too bad buddy. I told you to go before we left the city." I tend to be sympathetic and helpful like that.

"But Moooom, I didn't have to go then. But I gotta go NOW!" he whined.

"I think there is an empty bottle under the seat. Use that," I offered as his sister groaned in disgust.

"That's gross, Mom," Frac argued.

"Well, you're going to have to wait a little bit longer, kiddo. We're almost home."

"I won't make it. I'll die. My bladder is going to explode. And then when I die my bladder will empty and I'll end up peeing all over your car and Fric," he pointed out.

Sigh. Kid had a point. I just had my car detailed.

Pulling over, I told him to get out and get 'er done.

"What? Here? There's no bushes or trees," he argued as he eyed the wide-open farm fields that stretched out as far as the eye could see. "People will see me."

"What people? We're in the middle of nowhere," I pointed out.

"The people driving by, on the highway," he said with his words. His facial expression was more like "Um, how on God's earth did I get stuck with this twit for a parent?"

"You are sadly mistaken if you think the people driving by at over a 100 km/hr are going to be able to see your willy."

Frac considered this while his sister tormented him by making sounds of water swooshing and talking about dripping faucets. That's my girl. Always helpful. Just like her mom.

"Just go out and face away from the highway and you'll be fine," I assured him. "But be quick about it. It's cold out there and we wouldn't want it to freeze and fall off."

"Very funny," he muttered as he climbed out of the car.

"What about you," I asked Fric. "Do you have to go too?"

"No way. I'd pee in a bottle before I squatted on the side of a road," she huffed indignantly. I thought about telling her about the time she did just that when she was two, but I was distracted when I noticed Frac was sort of swinging his hips. It kinda looked like he was being electrocuted.

Rolling down the window, I called out and asked if he was okay.

"I'm fine," he yelled. And then he turned around and jumped in the car.

"What were you doing out there, buddy?" I asked.

"I spelled your name in the snow," he giggled while sporting an evil grin.

Sure enough, in a lovely shade of yellow against a glistening canvass of white were the shaky letters T A N I S.

How thoughtful. Apparently I'm raising him to be as classy as his mother. His father would be proud.

If only I had my camera to bear witness to my son's creative streak. Damn it.


***Before I get any angry emails about invading my son's privacy and embarrassing him, know that he gave me his blessing to post about this. In fact, I do believe he's going to ask the bus driver to pull over so his friends can admire his art work on the way to school. Really. My heart just BURSTS with pride, I tell ya.***

Just A Mom

My best friend is building a house just down the road from me, even further into the sticks than I'm located. Why am I telling you this, you may wonder? Well, because to build a new house one needs to find and hire trades people who are willing to travel out to the middle of butt-fark nowhere to build said house.

Trades people would include plumbers.

I could hear angels singing once again. The wheels in my brain started turning (much like the wheel in my daughter's hamster cage) and before long I had a plan.

Donning my infamous purple shirt, I figured there was no way a plumber could ignore my chi chi's tale of woe. I was armed with charm, a pushup bra winning smile and a checkbook. What more could I need to fix my crapper?





If it worked before, surely it would work again.

Thankfully my best friend took pity on me. One look at my tub of shit was all it took to convince her to join me in my plans to kidnap her plumber.

I don't know if it was the purple shirt, my loud and proud girls or the fact I promised he could charge me what ever he wanted but soon enough I had managed to commandeer my best friend's plumber. He took one look at my boobs bath tub and went to work on my septic system.

Fric and Frac were amazed with his plumbing proficiency. Within an hour I had a drained pipe, a working toilet and a poop-free tub. In the eyes of my ten and eleven year old kids, he suddenly shot from being a mere mortal to a superstar, on par with the likes of Justin Timberlake and Spiderman.

They hung on his every word and laughed at every crappy (heh heh) joke he told. It was puppy love at it's finest. At one point it was so bad I shooed them out of the bathroom just to get them from underfoot. Yet they were firmly enthralled and refused to stray far, instead choosing to sit on the floor outside the washroom door and make googly eyes at their new hero.

Slightly unnerved and not used to being idolized for his shit removal prowess, my new plumber friend turned to me to make small talk as he wrote up a bill for an amount equivalent to Frac's future tuition costs.

(Sorry Frac. But I had to make a choice...the ability to shit in my toilet freely or your future as Beer Bong King of the Alpha Omega fraternity. It was an easy choice.)

"So do you work?" he asked while trying to avoid eye contact with my enamored children.

"No. I discovered a magical spell that does all the cooking, cleaning, accounting, driving and child rearing a parent could want, rendering me free to spend my time lounging on my couch, popping bonbons and watching soaps all day." Dumbass. I'd like to see a mom who doesn't work, cuz those are some skills I need to learn.

"Um, I meant, do you have a job outside of motherhood?" he asked while looking at me like I grew a third tit that liked flap around wildly on my chest.

"Oh. Ya. Well, I like to think I'm an internet porn star, but really I'm a blogger. I write online."

"So you're a writer. That's cool," he said as he handed me the bill that ensured my son's future as a Wal-Mart greeter.

We talked for a few more minutes as he gathered up his tools and then as quick as my tub filled with crap, he was gone, back to ensure my best friend's new house doesn't have the same problem mine did.

As I turned to get the bleach and the commercial grade rubber gloves to clean out the filthy mess my tub left for me, I noticed Fric glaring at me.

"What?" I questioned.

"Why did you tell him that?" she huffed.

"Tell him what?" I asked while wondering what bug crawled up her pre-pubescent ass.

"That you have a job. That you are a writer. You're just a mom," she informed me in a snotty tone.

Unfreakingbelievable. I went through almost ten months of hell to gestate this ingrate, endured eight hours of torture to squeeze her out and subsequently suffered eleven years of parenting so that she could stand before me and tell me I'm just. a. mom.

"Well, I realize I'm just a mom," I say as I use the finger quotations, "but I'm also a writer. What do you think I do on my blog? Post pictures of my boobs?" I asked as I eyed the disgusting mess in my tub.

"That's not real writing, Mom." She spoke to me as though I was a dimwitted moron. Kinda like her dad does when he tries to explain to me what he does for a living. Hmmm.

"Well, it's not exactly fake, darlin'." I don't know whether to be amused or annoyed at this point.

"A real writer writes books. Like Harry Potter," she explained.

"I'm working on it. I'm planning on writing an award-winning novel about a little girl who steps in it so deeply she is forced to clean the remains of sewage out of her mother's bathtub. She is permanently scarred with this wild injustice she grows up to be come a rich, over-educated super hero who saves the world from it's garbage and sewer problems. It is going to be a critic's delight. Movie producers will be knocking at my door, clamoring for the rights to turn it into this century's smash box office hit."

"Very funny, mom."

"Ya, almost as funny as you cleaning out my tub. Now get 'er done."

"You're so mean."

"Mean and wily. Now I've got to get to work on some real writing. I've got me a book to write."

"You're not going to tell anyone I had to clean up poo, are you?" she begged.

"Who would I tell?" I countered.

It's not like I'm a real writer or anything.

He he.

Payback's a bitch. Wait till she sees the picture I snapped as she was scrubbing away oblivious to her mom lurking in the doorway.

I've got me a clean tub, working toilet and blackmail material to ensure future good behaviour. All in all, I'm thinking it was a rather productive day.

For just a mom.