I'll Bend Over, You Spank Me

I am a bad bloggy mommy. I use you, abuse you and then leave without even a note or a couple of torn dollar bills placed casually on the bed table. Shame on me.

Have no fear. I have not developed a mysterious and deadly disease, rendering me helpless and too ill to fire up the ole computer. Nor has my trusty lifeline (also known as my Mac) deserted me and left me without any connection to my blogging world.

Nope.

The last post I wrote just really kicked my ass. Add to that, I have been pretending to be mom of the year at two different schools (Fric and Frac have been temporarily separated this year. I'm looking forward to reuniting them this September and having the same lunch and dismissal times once more.) I have been running my dimpled, pasty white ass off, all for the chance to eat boiled weiners and dixie cup ice cream with my kids and their classmates this week.

Life is short. Even more so after being a track meet mom and a mini games mom. (Who ever decided to put me in charge of the accuracy toss needs to be shot.)

I'm back now. I've got a new box of kleenex in case I get another round of my little-boy-Bug-blues again and I have a keyboard just dying to be abused.

But it will have to wait for tomorrow. Because today I am performing my final duties, pretending to be Mom of the Year one last time for the grade four kiddies. This time, I am ROASTING wieners over an open fire. Which means trying to keep the kids from falling into the open fire and preventing the boys from chasing the girls around with sharp pointy sticks.

I will be back tomorrow and ready to go once more. I've got an arsenal of wiener stories to share with you.

And not all of them are of the boiled wiener variety.

Graduation Day

Shalebug would have graduated today. Sure, it would have just been a kindergarten graduation ceremony, but to me (and likely all the other parents involved) it would have meant much more than that.







It would have been a reward to us parents for putting in our time, paying our kindergarten dues. Suffering through endless hours of trying to teach your child to tie his/her shoes, learn to write his/her name, learn how to read.

It would have been a reward for time spent as the class-mom, helping kids use scissors correctly and not amputating a digit while trying to cut out turkey shapes and pink cardboard hearts.

It would have been our reward for tying shoelaces, telling kids not to run in the halls, get your fingers out of your nose, and no, girls don't have cooties. (After all, everyone knows cooties comes with age, and poor hygiene.)

It's our reward for being snack mom/dad through out the year; for remembering to slice up those apples and even for that time when you forgot you were the mom designated to bake the cupcakes and had to sell your soul to the neighbourhood bakery to let you come in before store hours to buy some treats that you would try to pass off as your own. (Not that I would EVER do that. Snicker.)

All of the patience and energy we had spent the last ten months focusing on our precious child would be rewarded with the pomp and circumstance of watching our lovely kiddies march their processional, fidget, giggle, pick their noses and act proud as they waited to hear their names called.

I would have hooted and hollered and made an ass of myself the loudest. I tend to be known for that. I'm the mom that doesn't mind walking up to the front of the gym to get the good photo, the mom who believes all children need to be applauded, not just my own.

And I would have been cheering wildly. Bug would not have grasped half of what the others in his class would have. He would not have been able to write his name, and I doubt he would have been able to recognize it in a group of letters. He wouldn't know his colours or be able to tie his shoes and I'm fairly certain the concepts of numbers to him would have been like astro-physics to me.

But yet, he would have succeeded. He would have overcome his hurdles, the ones individual to him. He may have made it a whole month with out being hospitalized. Perhaps he would have been able to stand at the water table and not recoil with fear. He certainly would have shown the other children how to love. He would have taught them all patience and understanding.





Bug working with his speech therapist.

He would have fostered a protective friendship with his group of peers, all of whom would have clamoured to give him a high five, or sit next to him at circle time. They would have wanted to help him use his computer, the one that gave him a voice, and he would have been the coolest kid in the class for it. They would sit next to him at snack time and eat his pudding for him, because that's what friends do. After all, Bug couldn't eat it, he wouldn't have minded sharing.

The really brave kids would have asked to help feed him and would have felt like professional nurses when they squeezed water through his g-tube with shakey hands. They would have filled up his syringe with water and squirted each other with it until one of the teachers took it away and admonished them with a look.

Through it all, Bug would have laughed. He was his father's son that way. A tease, a joker and always easy going.

I imagine when Bug's name was called, his dad would stand and proudly clap, while rolling his eyes at me, as I'm up at the front, telling Bug to look at Mommy so I could get a nice picture. Would he have walked to the front by himself, with a walker, or with his aide? Perhaps he would have been wheeled up in his chair if his feet were bothering him. I can see clearly in my mind his shakey hand outstretched to grasp his little photocopied diploma, his chubby fingers crinkling the paper.

Afterwards, we would have greeted the teacher and offered thankyou's for all of her hard work, and patience and understanding while working with our special boy. I would have hugged his aide while trying not to embarrass my son too badly as I smothered him with kisses.

Then we would have proudly left the school with our son, the new graduate, to get ready for his next year of academic battles.

There will be parents who never had the opportunity to know us and didn't understand my son, or his special personality and they will wonder why we cheered so loudly. After all, he didn't accomplish the goals the other kindergartners did. They will wonder why he was part of the graduation ceremony when obviously he will not be attending grade one, instead, he will be part of an individualized learning plan, carefully put together to help him get the most out of his limited capabilities.

But I would have been tolerant of their ignorance, able to simply bask in in my son's glory for the moment, before having to go back to our carefully constructed reality.

People don't always see the value of people with disabilities, especially those with mental disabilities. By allowing our son to participate like all the other children, it would have been able to foster a sense of normalcy for him. More importantly though, it would have taught those kids in his class respect and acceptance. Bug would have taught them more than they were ever able to teach his malformed little brain.

He would have taught those kids, and some of those parents, the value of life, of love and of perserverance. All of this wrapped up in one wobbly, slimey, messy blonde haired little boy.

I know this, because this is what he taught every member of his family.

I'll miss that today when I watch those kids fidget on the bench this afternoon, waiting for their name to be called, while peering hopefully out into the crowd, trying to find their parents or loved ones.

There will be one mommy in the crowd with no one looking to find her. But I'm okay with that. Bug found me. He knows where I am. And he knows that I'll be the mom whooting and hollering the loudest for all the kids, while trying to hide the tears in her eyes.

Pimp Limp

Yesterday, as my husband and I were tackling our mountain of yard work (read: he was sweating and busting his ass, while I was sipping lemonade in the shade pointing out all the work that needed to be done and gently prodding him to work quicker--he loves that. He thrives under pressure,) he noticed that Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. was limping.

"You haven't taken him to the vet yet?" he asked somewhat snotty and incredulous.

"No. I. Haven't." I responded with my Back-The-Fuck-Off-Bitch voice.

"Why not? He's been limping for months now. What kind of doggie mother are you?"

"The kind of doggie mother who actually has a life and has been busy, asshat. Watch what you're doing over there. You missed a spot." (Note how I deflected the attention from myself by criticizing his craftmanship.)

He stops painting the deck, places both hands on his hips and sneers, "BI-ZEE? Doing what? It's not like you have a job. How hard is it to run the dog in to the vet?" This sanctimonious crap from the man who will look at his child's cut, see bone and ligament and tell them to get a bandaid, it doesn't need stitches. Suck it up butter cup, Daddy's watching the game.

"I have a job. It's called picking up after your sorry ass and caring for your offspring." I say this as Nixon limps towards me. Thanks dog. Nothing like making me feel even worse. "Besides, sometimes he limps and other times he doesn't. I can't figure it out. It just keeps slipping my mind." Now I'm on the defensive. Nixon on the other hand, doesn't seem to have a problem. He just sits at my feet and licks his nuts.

Good dog. A man who licks his own balls and doesn't want me to. Gotta love that.

"Yer a bad doggie momma. Yer lucky the authorities haven't come to take him away and place him in custody while they throw your sorry, redneck ass in the clink for neglecting your children." He knows he's found my weakspot now, and he's feeling brave.

"You're a comedian. You don't even like Nixon." Take that! Just then Nixon gets up to chase a beetle and his limp is magically gone.

However, my husband's tactics were hard at work, niggling my inner mommy and playing on my sense of guilt. "Fine. I'll go call the vet right now. And when they tell me my dog is a hypochondriac, pimping his limp to get sympathy and chicken treats, and then bill me a fortune, I'm gonna remember this conversation." Take that. Asshat. Nobody calls me a bad doggy mother.

Except that I AM a bad doggy mother.

Upon arrival to the vet clinic, where Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. promptly turned into a shaking, nervous fraidy cat (what a pussy, I was so embarrassed,) the charming and knowledgeable vet immediately honed in on what I thought was my dog's fake limp.

He has a luxating patella. Dislocated kneecap. Grade 3. Immediate surgery required.







Luckily for me, the vet didn't call the doggie authorities on me and have me hauled off in cuffs, while kicking and screaming "Give back my baby! I love you Nixon! This is all a misunderstanding...NIIIIXXXXOOONNN," as the deputy shoves me into the cruiser and takes me to a dirty cell filled with other bad mommies and the odd prostitute.

After explaining the condition, the surgery, his recovery and then vaccinating my poor neglected baby against mad-dog diseases, he looks at me and sees I'm feeling overly-guilty for weeks months of ignoring my dog and his magically dislocating trick knee.

(My hound dog look and willingness to allow Nixon to lick my face must have reflected my mother's guilt.)

"Don't worry, T. The way I figure it, you are just getting what you want."

Um okay. "Just what is it that I want?"

"A crippled kid. Now you've got one. And you don't even have to deal with the adoption asshats to get him."

Clearly, somone has been reading my blog. I fucking love small towns.

Ha. Ha. Very funny, Mr. I-have-known-your-family-way-too-long-and-thereby-feel-comfortable-in-torturing-you-and-overcharging-you-for-the-pleasure Veternarian.

So surgery is scheduled. And I am now looking out for a lucrative street corner to stand on (gotta earn money somehow) to help pay for the procedure so my husband doesn't stroke out when I tell him how much it will cost to fix my dog.

Meanwhile, I swear Nixon is all smiles. He's playing this cripple thing for all it's worth.

And so is my asshat husband who is taking every opportunity to point out the fact that he was right and I was a bad doggy momma.

Keep it up Boo. There'll be no treats for you later on. Not even if you beg like my crippled dog.