Motivational Mommy

As a child, I was the definition of geek a highly competitive little girl. Perhaps it was because I suffered from middle child syndrome, over shadowed by my big brother Stretch's fantastic farting skills or my little sister, Mouse's wholesome demeanor or perhaps it was because I didn't have much else going for me other than the knobby knees, flat chest and stringy blonde hair. I had to do something to stand out and be seen in my family.

Everything I did I turned into a competition. Whether it was just washing the dishes, doing my homework or participating in sports, I was out to kill it and do it the very best.

My mother often tried to remind me that it wasn't possible for me to be the very best in everything I did.

Horse shit, I'd think to myself as I rolled my eyes at her and strenghtened my resolve to be the world's greatest citizen ever.

Sadly, my mother apparently knew what she was talking about (oh how it still hurts to admit that) and time ended up bruising my ego over and over again as I learned the harsh reality of the world: There is always someone more talented in the world than you are.

(Except when it comes to talking about dead kids and dildos and the ability to put ones feet behind their ears and walk across the kitchen floor using only their arse cheeks. I still rock that one like no one's betch. Heh.)

I soon grew up and having swallowed my pride more times than a person can count, was delighted to realize that while I may have failed at being the best at everything, I could concentrate my laser beam like talents on honing the next generation into being a better version of myself.

I mean, as a parent, is there anything better than molding your child into the person you wanted to be but failed at miserably, therefore be able to capture and RELIVE your glory days through the accomplishments of your child?

I think not.

If ever there was a reason to breed this would be it, I thought to myself as I tossed caution to the wind and convinced my husband that contraception was for sissies.

(Okay, maybe I didn't think that at the exact moment of conception. I may have been too busy moaning and telling him to hurry up. Ahem.)

Still, ten months later I birthed Tanis 2.o. A daughter destined to be the best mini-me EVAH.

*Rubs hands with glee.*

With the luck of some mighty fine genetics and years of constant indoctrination, my daughter has quite literally not fallen far from this tree. She is, like her mother, a pitbull of determination and the consumate competitor.

Praise the lawd for screwing up the first born. Can we say Type A personality anyone?

Fric loves competition. She (and this is where I bust out my mad maternal pride skills and brag her up as though she will be soley responsible for world peace, global gay rights and the cure for cancer,) is at the top of her class scholastically and one of the best athletes of her generation, er class of thirty kids.

In other words, she is just like me.

*Holds hand up for the high fives that are sure to follow.*

However, unlike myself at that age, Fric has something I never did. (Besides actual talent. Heh.) She has a mother who is has too much time on her hands and can thereby make sure she is at every basketball, volleyball and soccer game cheering her on to higher success.

Loosely translated: I pretend I'm her and drive her crazy while shaking my pompoms and acting like a possessed woman.

I had the opportunity to attend young Fric's first junior high track competition recently. Even better, I was elevated from the spectator's bench when one of the volunteers neglected to show up and the organizers needed someone to step up and grab a stop watch.

(Picture me jumping up and down, waving my hand while shouting, "Pick MEEEE!")

The day was fantastic, the weather perfect and my mind filled with long lost memories of my own track and field glory days. Visions of medals and ribbons danced through my mind as I held the coveted stop watch and puffed my chest with the power of one who timed the winner of all the field races.

Then, with little pomp and circumstance, it was my daughter's turn to chase her tail in circles all over the field. While she lined up quietly at the start line, concentrating on the task before her, I stood beside her with pride shooting out of every pore for I was sure, like me, my child would rock this 1500 meter race.

"Mom, stop, you are embarrassing me," she whined when I shouted "TEAM FRIC!!!" as the other runners lined up and waited for the gun to crack.

"Tough nuts, sugar bear, MOMMY LOVES YOU," I heckled as a group of thirteen year old boys sniggered behind my back.

Then it was business time, and hush fell over the runners and spectators, everyone braced for the starter pistol to shoot it's blank.

And with  a loud crack, they were off and my thumb eagerly pressed the start button to time what was sure to be my daughter's victory.

It was a 400 meter race track which meant almost four rotations for the runners. My daughter was in third position as they rounded the first lap.

"Smile for the camera honey," I cheered as she huffed and puffed past me, concentrating on both ignoring her mother and putting one foot in front of the other.

She smiled and then rolled her eyes at me as I looked at the stop watch in my hands and yelled at her as she passed, "HURRY UP KIDDO! CLOCK'S A-RACING."

As the other girls raced around the track, I cheered them on, each by name, offering encouragement and snapping pictures of their red faces as they passed me. I am nothing if not an equal opportunity cheerer.

One of the the boys behind me, waiting for his race to start after the girls were done, whispered to his friend, "Sheesh. That lady is LOUD."

(Oh, you little runt. Your turn is a coming, I thought to myself as I yelled even louder.)

Before I knew it, Fric was finishing up her second lap and she was now in second place and holding steady. Grabbing my camera I yelled, "Smile for your MOMMA!"

She didn't smile.

In fact, she kinda snarled as she went past.

I attributed it to her losing steam. I mean, it couldn't have anything to do with me shouting, "HURRY UP HONEY! TAKE HER! WHAT IS THERE A PIANO TIED TO YOUR ARSE???"

(I'm available for motivational speaking anytime, anywhere. Just email your requests.)

As she rounded the far corner on her third lap I glanced at the stop watch that was bouncing around my neck.

"Come on HURRICANE! YOU CAN DO THIS. SMILE FOR THE CAMERA!!!"

I am nothing if not supportive.

As she huffed and puffed past me, her face getting redder with every lap, my vision blurred and for a moment I relived every track meet I ever raced in. I no longer saw Fric, but the fragile competitive little blonde I once was.

"SMILE FOR MOMMY!" I cried as I tried to get an action shot to put in her scrap book.

"Shut UP MOM!" she hissed at me, out of breath.

"Go FRIC! GO! YOU CAN RUN FASTER THAN THIS! JUST PRETEND THERE IS AN ARMY OF ANGRY ZOMBIES ON YOUR HEELS," I yelled as she passed me.

She gave me the stink eye.

"GO FRIC GO!" I cried loudly as my daughter sprung into high gear and went for the kill.

I all but exploded with glee as she over took the lead rounding the final corner of the track and charged toward the finish line.

"GO DOODLEBUG GOOOO! THAT'S MY BABY! FASTER FASTER! DON'T MAKE ME CHASE YOU UP TO THE FINISH LINE! PUT SOME PEP IN THAT STEP! DON'T SLOW DOWN! GO! GO! YOU'RE ALMOST DONE!!!!"

With the stop watch in hand I watched as my daughter crossed the finish line first and ran straight into next week's regional competition.

"You did it!" I jumped with joy as I ran to record the winning time, abandoning my post, not caring about any of the other competitors who were still running their little preteen legs off.

"I'm so proud of you honey pie!" I said as I patted her on her sweaty back and leaned down to kiss the top of her sweat soaked hair.

She slowly looked up at me, shielding her hand from the bright summer sun.

"I kinda hate you right now."

"Ah honey. Those are words every mother loves to hear when her daughter is the WINNER," I smiled down and ignored the boys totally laughing at Fric and me.

"You are never coming to another track meet again."

"Face it Fric, I'm the wind beneath your wings. I inspired you," I laughed.

She may or may not have muttered 'Bite me,' under her breath.

"I can't wait till next week. I'm gonna lead you to victory. I'm gonna be the cattle prod that you never knew you needed. I'm gonna-"

She interrupted and said, "I'm getting some water. Don't follow me. I don't know you." And she stalked off with her friends while totally bragging about how awesome her mother was.

"Stick with me kid," I yelled. "I'll have you in the Olympics before you know it," I called after her.

Funny, she acted like she couldn't hear me.

That's okay though.

I'm totally planning on buying a bull horn for next weeks meet.

This reliving my youth bit is da bomb.

Once Upon A Time, In the Land of Toadie

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a blonde haired little princess girl, who liked to wear the Emperor's New Clothes as often as possible, ate nothing but sausages and held a plush phallus clutched tightly to her bosom most times of the day.

This was obviously a child after my own dirty heart.

(I mean, the child likes to dance naked and play with penises. I think we may have been separated by birth and 30 years.)

Corrupting a child has never been more fun.

However there were dragons to be slayed (or in my case, a credit card that needed to be paid down before flight tickets could be purchased) and time passed and the princess girl grew older and I feared I would never have the opportunity to hear her angelic laughter or witness her dancing with fairy-like grace as she played in the grass.

But as luck would have it, my very own knight in shining armour galloped in to the rescue (after growing weary of hearing his wife whine about not being able to meet this magical little princess in person) and bestowed upon me the ability to fly across the country to partake in the magical kingdom known as Their Bad Mother's House.

(Side note: Once my knight in shining armour finally arrives home this grateful damsel in distress will be bestowing her own special brand of gratitude at his feet or anywhere the knight would like. Ahem.)

It is not often that a Redneck damsel such as myself, gets to meet the princess darling of her heart friend, and I was a little nervous. I wanted to make a good impression, imprint upon this special girl a memory of redneckedness wonder to remember me by, so I did what any thoughtful and caring internet aunty would do. I prepared to bribe the princess child with candy.

I have no shame.

I needn't have worried. The princess with her phallic plushy and me, the Redneck with my phallic-minded personality were well suited to sit under the stars and dance beneath the moon.

The similarities are eerie.

We became inseparable, loving one another with each new beat of their hearts, each one wrapping around the other's soul as long lost friends are meant to do, as my beloved heart friend and the Princess's baby brother watched in awe and wonder.

All together too quickly, the visit came to an end and my Redneck self was forced to leave behind the Princess and her family, a family that is now so deeply woven into my own soul it feels like it is a natural extension of my own, and we sat beside the flowers discussing all things fairy and phallus before it was time once more, for me to leave the magical kingdom and fly home to my own special castle.

No worries J-Bone, I have my sights set on corrupting you next.

It is not often that one is invited into the inner sanctum of another's family to meet their princesses and princes and sleep on their sofa beds underneath their castle's roof, but my heart friend made sure to lower the draw bridge and invite me in. Into her heart and her home.

More importantly, my heart friend and her handsome (hubba hubba) husband only laughed and encouraged my phallic-minded personality to further corrupt their princess with the phallic plushy and never threw me out on my arse even after I encouraged their spritely daughter to ask her daddy if he liked to 'rub and tug' and if she could have some spotted dick for breakfast.

I am honored and delighted to have had the chance to at long last meet her special princess friend and thrilled to be able to corrupt her heart friend's children with my own special brand of glee.

After all, every little Princess should have a Redneck to call her own.

I am pleased to be Miss E's.

Seriously, this kid should have been born to me.

Although, I will totally understand if, after this post is read, I never get invited to another house again. However, hearing Miss E tell me how her mom likes to ride the pole put enough love in my phallic-minded heart to ride the exhaust fumes of joy forever.

Confession

Editor's note: This post was written in the wee small hours of the night, listening to Jumby's sick ragged breath. I wasn't going to post it, because it is raw and scattered, but I made a promise to myself and my children that this blog be a record of the good, the bad, and the ugly. Feel free to skip it if you are looking for something light and fluffy because that isn't on today's menu.


There are moments, no, days really, when I feel wholly unprepared for this mothering gig.

Today is one of those days. It has in fact, been an entire week of these days.

When Bug was alive, I was younger and infinitely more naive. I didn't or couldn't comprehend the enormity of the task I faced, raising a disabled child. Fric and Frac weren't hurdling towards independence with an alarming alacrity and my husband still crawled into bed with me every night.

Three and a half years later and it feels like I've just blinked and the world has spun into something I hardly recognize. Suddenly I am alone most days and almost every night, with no husband to talk with, or to share the burden of child rearing with. Grief spun it's magic on Boo as well and his life - our lives- went in a direction I could have never had foreseen.

My husband, sweet Boo, finds peace stretching his intellect in a job that takes him away from us for more time than any of us care for.

Fric and Frac bounce towards adulthood with every breath they inhale, eager to shed their childlike skins and stretch their boundaries of independence as far as the elastic of youth will let them.

And I found Jumby, sweet Jumby who is everything I hoped for and inspires my heart to grow Grinch-like, with every laugh, every cuddle he awards us with.

But in the background of this new life I've worked so hard to build is a shadow of angel wings, hovering over my head, reminding me of how fragile all of this, this life around me, really is.

My naivete has been stripped away leaving me struggling with the hard truth that at any moment life can change and the magic of these moments I wrap myself in can swiftly turn to dusty memories as I once more swim in the quagmire of grief.

It is hard to admit and it shames me to say it, but I'm scared.

I'm scared of what the future holds for my son, my forever boy, the child brought to me by fate and luck and determination. Jumby's battle for life has been hard fought and too often he walks the precipice of death for my comfort.

I am imminently aware of how quickly his life (and mine) can go sideways with one infection, one bad swallow, one breath.

With Shale I knew this too. But it wasn't a reality, it was a concept floating at the peripheral of my intellect. Surely he could die, I'd think to myself, but so could any of us. You never know when a bus is going to come out of nowhere and mow you down.

I understood his body was wrong, built differently and more fragile than his siblings while he was waiting to be delivered from the harness of my uterus. I knew Shale was medically fragile but he was strong. Resilient. Until that very moment when he ceased to be.

My child's death has brought with it a clarity of just how very real death can be, and I look at Jumby and I worry. I worry that I will make a mistake, not notice his resiliency slipping and I will lose the boy I never thought I could love this much until I held him in my arms.

I worry for my older children and the scars they now sport through no fault of their own. I wonder who they would have turned out to be had they not had to bury their little brother at ages eight and nine. I wonder if my grief has added more crisscross scars across their hearts.

They laugh at me when I question them, gently prodding at them to reveal their feelings. They kiss me on my forehead like I'm a dotering old woman and squeeze my hand while assuring me they are fine, they will be fine, they have survived. But it is then that it strikes me, they have survived.

They're children. And they are survivors. The only thing children should ever have to survive is a fruity old aunt with bad breath pinching their cheeks too hard and the teen aged scars from middle school.

Yet my children, all of my children have survived tragedy.

Fric and Frac and Jumby, enduring perhaps the worst tragedy of all.

This scares me and I wonder if I'm the mother I can be, the mother I should be to these three precious gifts I have been blessed with.

I'm so scared I'm gonna screw it all up.

While other parents dream of empty nests and weddings and graduations, when I close my eyes each night I dream of just one thing:

Having another day with each of them.