Picnic In the Park

 

Every year, around this time, I load up my children and drag them to a large city park where I force them to pretend to be happy to be seen in public with me as we picnic as a family and I pretend I totally don't know they would rather be anywhere else in the world at that moment as long as it is somewhere far from me and it involved video games.

It's a tradition.

This year was a raging success, if you define success by my five year old nephew stomping around with a pre-teen attitude all day, me fighting the urge to put my foot up his arse, Fric and Frac unsuccessful in their efforts to find an escape route and Jumbster managing to not fall out of his wheelchair.

It was a picture perfect day. Ahem.

Nothing says picnic like me not combing my hair and using a cowboy hat as a lid.

Fric and Frac faced off in the potato sack races. Big sister takes her picnic racing seriously. Little brother thinks his sister is a dork. She has tenacity in her favour. He has longer legs in his. I'll let you decide who won.

There was a petting zoo. Jumbster was not keen on this. Or the guinea pig which suddenly appeared in his lap.

We did, however, learn Jumbster had a hidden skill. He is the true jackass whisperer. His services are available for a negotiated fee.

They shouldn't call this the Tub of Fun. More like the tub of puke. Note to self: Do not call your sister's new boyfriend Noodle Man and make fun of his spaghetti arms just before going on a ride where he can spin you to sickness. Also, I should probably apologize for accidentally grabbing my sister's boyfriend's testicles when I was looking desperately for a handle to hold on to. My bad. Hope they still work, G-man.

There was the Original Balloon Man. He remembered Knox and I remembered how thankful I am to this man for shining a light on my love whether he knew it or not.

Best of all, there was this guy. Laughing at us all, and spreading the joy everywhere he went. Because that is just how he rolls.

Parenting 2.0

After years of having my husband live away from our home, it's always a bit of a novelty when he finally walks through the front door.

And by novelty, I mean an annoyance, since he generally carries in a full duffle bag of dirty laundry and just drops it in front of the door.

After almost five years of my husband living away from us, we've managed to cultivate his homecoming into a bit of a science. There's an art to readjustment, really. The first night is always filled with hugs and snuggles, the next day is where we give each other a wide berth to re-acclimate to sharing our space and our responsibilities and by the third day we are operating like a well-oiled tandem machine. And then on the fourth day he generally has to leave again.

Argh.

This time, however, Boo is home for longer than his usual three days. After several calls involving me screeching into the phone that if he doesn't come home soon to supervise these wolves he calls his children I'd be packing them up and shipping them off to live with him he decided it was time to come home and take care of some family business. There is a deck to be built so Jumby can enjoy outdoor time with us safely and routine yard maintenance just begging to be done.

While Boo and I easily slip into marital grace together after his absences, the children aren't readjusting so easily. This may have something to do with the fact their father is on a manual labour kick, intent on getting as much stuff done as he can while he's home. When dad is working, that means Fric and Frac are working too.

My children, bless their cotton socks, are like me. Often useless but always pretty. My husband grew up on a farm and isn't scared to get his hands dirty. Nor is he scared of getting his children's hands dirty. Much to their dismay.

I keep telling my kids to stop thinking about their new tasks as work and rather, to think of it as spending quality time with their father.

They keep giving me the stink eye while muttering under their breath. I figure it's best not to ask what it is they are mumbling about.

Boo, for the most part, just shakes his head and wonders how he managed to get yoked to a sack of such lazy potatoes for a family. It's right about then when he starts voicing this out loud that I bring him a beer and offer to rub his shoulders. I find the art of distraction very useful in avoiding joining in on the manual labour love fest.

What's interesting to me, besides how Fric and Frac actually manage to morph into industrious little work horses when their dad is home when I can't elevate either of them past lazy slobs on my own, is the dynamic between my husband and my children.

Boo, having been gone for the bulk of the last five years, hasn't quite honed the skills required in parenting teenaged children.

Fric and Frac bob between excitement and glee that their father is home to utter distain that yet another adult is bossing them around and stealing with him a smidge of their hard won independence.

I just happily ignore them all, thrilled I am not the only adult under this roof being held hostage to the whims of the badgers we call our children.

Last night, tension mounted between my daughter and my husband. Fric wanted permission to attend a party for older children this weekend and her father wanted to have a conversation with her without her rolling her eyes at him or breaking out the teenaged attitude.

Like the good wife and mom I am, I just sat back and watched the carnage unfold. Dad being home means I am OFF DUTY. I like to be helpful that way.

Like a tennis match, Frac and I stood back and watched the ping-ponging between his sister and his dad. She'd lob something at her dad and he'd volley it right back at her. I could see the two of them were growing increasingly frustrated with one another but I wasn't going to throw myself in the line of fire for either of them. Self-preservation and all.

Apparently this apple didn't fall far from my tree.

Boo finally had enough and growled that the discussion was over and it was time to get back to work. My daughter, not liking the final verdict nor the fact she couldn't twist her daddy around her finger like she normally is able to, stomped her foot and made her final mistake.

She sassed him.

My husband stood there, momentarily stunned by her cheekiness. I think he was filled with disbelief that one of his children had the gall to give him some lip. It was like he hasn't been listening to me for the past five years all those times I whined about their attitudes.

I could see the steam suddenly pour out of his ears as him and my daughter stood chest to chest, both equally puffed out like two birds ready to engage in battle.

I braced myself, figuring there would be tears as I expected him to lower the boom and discipline her by grounding her or taking away a privilege. Heck, I wouldn't have been surprised if he sentenced her to even more manual labour than she was already doing.

What I didn't expect was for him to suddenly put his hands on his hips and bellow:

"I'm not MARRIED to you, YOU DON"T GET TO SASS ME!"

Poor Boo. He was so flummoxed I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. My daughter was so stunned she forgot to roll her eyes at him. Again.

After everyone's temper cooled off and the kids had gone off to do whatever kids do when their annoying parents aren't forcing them into contributing to household duties, I sat next to Boo as he worked through his frustration by tearing apart our old, decaying back deck.

"I'm not married to you? You don't get to sass me? Really Boo? That was the best you could do?"

"Oh be quiet. I was angry. It's not funny. They don't listen! They roll their eyes! They argue about everything!"

Snicker. "Yes, it's called being a teenager. Welcome to parenting 2.0"

Boo ripped off another board, this time more savagely than the last board.

"Don't worry big guy. You'll find your sea legs yet. They are just pushing their boundaries with you. The same way they do with me. Consider it a badge of honor. It's kind of nice to know they can push your buttons too, and not just mine."

"Very funny. Quit laughing at me."

"I can't help it." Chuckle.

"Stop it."

"No. As you pointed out, you're MARRIED to me. You have to listen to me sass," I said as I burst out laughing.

And then I ran. Because I may be mouthy but I'm not stupid.

It's a wonder my husband comes home at all.

 

Adrift in a Sea of Boobs

It's happening.

My boy is turning into a man. It's not like I didn't see it coming or anything. I woke up one morning and the child was suddenly three inches taller than me. Other clues have been dropped along the way as well. His sudden preoccupation with Axe body spray. The half naked chick straddling a motorcycle poster that suddenly appeared on his bedroom walls.

The signs of puberty have long been flashing in their garish neon hues that my middle child has purchased a ticket on the hormone train, riding those tracks straight to manhood.

I, however, as the foolish momma I am, have chosen to turn a blind eye to the loss of my Lego-building, dinky car driving, sandbox loving boy child by telling myself, "This is just another phase in his boyhood."

Boyhood my ass. Frac is a blink away from trading his boy chip in for a full-fledged man card.

If I had any doubts about that, yesterday erased them all.

It started like any other Sunday before it. The day was filled with sunshine and laughter. Our plans were to spend the day at the local community hall's carnival fundraiser. There was a bouncy house, an inflatable slide, hayrides, and face painting. Families from all over the area flocked to our community hall for some good old-fashioned fun.

It was an opportunity for me to parade my children around and preen on how lovely they are and picnic with my family alongside old friends.

One girl foiled it all.

A girl with boobs.

I finally understand my son's newly developed preoccupation with Katy Perry. I suspect it has nothing to do with the quality of her music.

Frac took one look at her and spent the rest of the day following her around like a lost puppy and refusing to acknowledge my existence.

At first I thought I was taking his behaviour too personally. I overlooked the fact this she-child was charming my son with her wholesome good looks. I told myself Frac has known this girl since before he was potty trained. He's just happy to see an old friend.

But when he and I stood side by side in the potato sack race as this girl stood at the finish line waiting to see who the winner would be, my son looked at me and said, "I'm winning this race." He said it emphatically and seriously and I laughed and adjusted my potato sack and said, "We will just see, young man. We will just see." I may be old, but if my kid thought I was going to forgo winning a shiny plastic dollar store medal alongside a lollipop and the bragging rights of being the Community's Best Potato Sack Jumper, he had another thing coming.

With a "On your mark, Get set, Go!" we were off as family and friends sat on the sidelines cheering us on.

I was winning. Age may not have been on my side, but years of potato sack racing experience were. I didn't have to battle the clumsiness of a growing body. I was sure footed in my sack, hopping as though my life depended on it.

I was in first place, set to win the race, driven by skill and spurred on by ego. There was no way I was going to let some teenager or toddler win this race. My son was hot on my heels and I was set to school the boy on how to win picnic-related activities.

And then it happened.

He reached forward and grabbed my sack and pulled me backwards. I tumbled down like a sack of oranges spilling in the produce section.

"FRAC!" I yelped as I scrambled to right myself and hop towards the finish line.

He hopped around me and yelled over his shoulder, "Sorry Mom! All's fair in the potato sack race!" As he bounced his way to victory his little friend cheered him on.

I huffed my way to the finish line, a sorry third place by now, and watched my son preen in front of the girl with the boobs.

My kid literally pushed his own mother down to impress a girl.

If he could have jumped on me too, I'm sure he would have.

The rest of the day was spent watching my son flirt shamelessly with the vixen who bewitched him with her womanly curves. He was oblivious to all else. My hair could have been on fire and he wouldn't have spared me a second glance. He was too busy mooning over her.

It would seem my son has finally received his TEENAGER stamp in his passport of life. My once intelligent, articulate son has now been replaced by some boob-obsessed puberty-addled man-child who is slave to the pheromones tossed off by any young female with chesticles in his vicinity.

My husband, however, has never been more proud.

"I always knew he'd be a boob man. The apple never does fall far from the tree," Boo smiled. I swear his chest puffed up with pride. Right before some chick with big boobs wearing a bikini on television distracted him.

What a boob.