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Epitaph
When my husband started to work out of town, I had a fearsome worry we would run out of things to talk about on the phone, grow apart, fall out of love, divorce and he would try to take Karen and George away from me. I knew he’d never try to take our kids from me, but my appliances? Now that’s vindictive. And much more his style.
However, my worries have been for naught. He has shown only a mild interest in Karen and George, while I have been caught rubbing my naked body against them and talking dirty to them more than once. Er, I mean, we have yet to run out of things to talk about during our daily phone calls, and abscence really has made my heart grow fonder.
Plus, I’m hornier than hell by the time he comes home, so he is always EAGER to return home to perform “his chores.” (Was that an overshare?)
Luckily for me, our children provide us with a wealth of conversational gold. Between the time I spend relaying their charming and dumbass moments, venting about my parental ineptitude and having him lecture Fric and Frac sternly over the phone about the values of team work and mommy’s sanity, I hardly manage to squeeze in any dirty talk or gossip. (I said hardly manage. There is ALWAYS time for dirty talk and gossip in my world.)
Yesterday’s call was no exception. While I was humped over a wheelbarrow, mixing soil and planting bedding flowers, Fric and Frac started reminiscing about their little brother.
How he loved being outside, how the grass prickles drove him buggy, how they would bounce him like a 30 pound sac of potatoes on the trampoline. Eventually, their talk migrated from happy memories to more dirty ones.
“Remember the time Bug pooped while Mom was outside and his diaper came undone and he managed to scooch down the hall into the kitchen leaving a trail of poo behind him? Remember how he fingerpainted in the poo? Remember Mom having a heart attack when she discovered it? Remember how she tried to bribe us into cleaning it up for her?”
(That’s an unreliable fuzzy childhood recollection. I would never sink so low as offering an eight and seven year old money to clean up their brother’s feces.)
Ahem. After they finished smearing my good name (get it…smearing? hehe) they moved on to more morbid topics.
“Mom, who’s going to be buried next to Shalebug?”
“Who ever dies first. We bought two plots next to him, so in theory there is one for you and Frac if you don’t hurry up and mow my damn lawn.”
“So, if we die, we will be buried beside him?”
“That is what I said. However, the intention is for you to live a long and healthy life and bury me and your father next to your brother.”
“Cool. Does this mean that when you kick it, we will be able to pick what it says on your headstone?”
“I guess. Why?”
“I was just thinking about what I would put on your marker.”
“Really…And just what do you have in mind?” I’m slightly worried now. After all, the adoption process isn’t finished just yet and there is still a therapist floating about waiting to discover how I’ve truly corrupted my small children.
I never did find out the answer, because luckily for me, her brother was stung by a wasp at that exact moment and his shrieks of pain and fury drown out her reply. The conversation was soon forgotten as I administered first aid to a puffy nine year old.
However, later that evening when I was relaying the days events to Boo, the strange conversation reared up again.
“What do you think she was going to say?” Boo asked.
“Oh, knowing Fric, she probably was going to tell me that she is going to engrave ‘World’s Greatest Mother. Ever.’ or some such thing.”
Silence. Was that the faint sound of sniggering I was hearing over the line?
“Yah,” he gasped. “I’m sure that’s it. Because she has your sweet and serene disposition. There is no possible way she would use this as an opportunity to call you a pain-in-the-ass-mother-lover or some such thing. You, my darling, have delusions of grandeur.”
“Bite me, Boo.”
“Gladly. Just ten more days before you’re wish is my command.”
People wonder why I hide in the pantry and drink. Between the kiddies who won’t stop getting smarter and the husband who is finally wisening up after a decade of abuse, it is growing harder to wield my whip authority every day.
Damn it. Maybe I need another dog.
May 28th, 2007 at 8:36 am
Every time my mom complains about how much work we all were, I tell her not to worry, I’ll put her in a real nice home someday where she can tell all the staff what a disappointment her children are to her.
How about: “Here lies Redneck Mommy: she was pretty much embalmed by all the drink she took before she croaked. Call this her Forever Pantry.”
May 28th, 2007 at 8:43 am
My seven year old son told me last year that when I die he’ll put roses on my grave every day. A sobering thought for any 28 year old!
May 28th, 2007 at 9:19 am
Ack, I just asked my kids what they would put on my gravestone.
Daughter: “I don’t know, something like, ‘Love you…’ and something else like that,” as she turns her attention back to ‘Over The Hedge’.
Son: “RIP”
ME: “You don’t want to put anything else besides JUST ‘RIP’?
Son: “I told you, ‘R - I - P’. Nothing else,” as he gives me a kinda - ’sorry, but I really wanna watch this so please stop asking me dumb questions.’
Ratbags.
May 28th, 2007 at 9:19 am
Oh - he just added that he’d put flowers on my grave regularly.
May 28th, 2007 at 9:34 am
I am too scared to ask my kids what they’d put on my tombstone. “Here lies Mommy — she never cooked. Not even once.”
Plus, I want to be cremated.
May 28th, 2007 at 11:13 am
If they put RIP in your headstone I’m guessing that it won’t carry the meaning of the latin acronym, but rather something more related to bodily functions. Just sayin.’ I, of course, would put something much more poetic, like, Here Lies Redneck Mommy; She Humped Her Washer/Dryer.
May 28th, 2007 at 11:21 am
There’s no way I’d ask my boys this question. I’m pretty sure the six year old would say “Here lies mommy. She didn’t know about trains.”
And the five year old? “Here lies mommy. I’m hungry”.
Of course, I remember a conversation about who could replace me if I croaked with them. Their general opinion was that I could be replaced by a maid. My husband made some rude remark about she needed to moonlight in another profession.
May 28th, 2007 at 11:34 am
“May Karen and George finally be able to RIP”
May 28th, 2007 at 11:43 am
“Plus, I’m hornier than hell by the time he comes home, so he is always EAGER to return home to perform “his chores.” (Was that an overshare?)”
After all the stuff you post on your blog you think that may be an overshare? Too funny!
Great post by the way. I shudder to think what my kids would put on my tombstone so I will never ask.
May 28th, 2007 at 11:54 am
You know how I feel about my appliances, so you know how much I love this post!
May 28th, 2007 at 2:57 pm
i so need to know what she was going to say.
dude.
May 28th, 2007 at 5:25 pm
“She was bad but good.”
May 28th, 2007 at 6:34 pm
If you get another dog I will personally come out there and beat your ass.
And then take your dog.
That is all.
May 29th, 2007 at 5:57 am
This post reminds me of a picture of an awesome headstone I got in an email. It said, in big letters across the front, HARV WAS THERE. And underneath that were about thirty bands listed — Dio, Aerosmith, Ozzy, Cheap Trick…it was awesome.
You could so something like that…LOL.
May 29th, 2007 at 6:51 am
You made that wasp sting him didn’t you?
I love that your children can talk so openly with you about Bug. It must make them feel safe.
May 29th, 2007 at 7:06 am
awww, a true sign of healing, i think…when reminiscence turns to poop.
i think the headstone conversations scare me, and out of fear for what Dave & O might decide to say about me, i may just request some nice scattering of ashes.
May 29th, 2007 at 7:40 am
Whatever it said on my headstone wouldn’t matter. D would still talk to me nonstop, asking questions and making demands. (it was a long 3-day weekend, can you tell?)
May 29th, 2007 at 5:35 pm
Oh…”humped over” a wheelbarrow…not humping a wheelbarrow. Sorry, the sex talk went right to my head.
May 29th, 2007 at 8:37 pm
Sounds to me like you’re raising them just right!
May 31st, 2007 at 11:47 am
If this encourages you at all, I think you converse more with your husband than I do with mine, who is home every evening. And I can almost guarantee you that you get more sex than I do (his lack of interest, not mine). Just thought I’d share in case you needed something to think about besides your headstone.
June 27th, 2007 at 12:46 pm
Thanks for this site!
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