My daughter has become obsessed with blogging as of late. Specifically my blogging. She has this perverse desire to read my posts. Which I’d welcome if she were a smidge older. But I really don’t think she needs to read about her mother’s cooter or her father’s prowess in the sack.

Call me crazy, but I’d like for her to retain a smidge of respect for her parental units and maybe the ability to keep looking us square in the eye without blushing and knowing her parents are sick twisted human beings and she somehow drew the short straw when being assigned parental units.

After nagging me the other day until I thought my head would pop off from frustration and tumble down the dry dusty gravel road I live on, I looked Fric in the eye and asked her what her fascination with my blogging habits were.

“I just think it’s neat you can write what ever you want and people read it. It’s cool.” She explained.

I had to agree with her. It is cool.

“I want to have a blog of my own.”

“Um, no.” Emphatically. NO. For a myriad of reasons, some safety oriented, others sanity related, there is not freaking way I want my daughter, at the age of almost twelve to be spewing her guts to the internet.

“Why don’t you just start with a journal,” I suggested. “That’s what I did at your age. I wrote in a diary.”

She wasn’t satisfied with this. “But Moooooom,” she whined. And then the phone rang, it was a boy and magically all was forgotten.

Until I opened my lap top this morning.

“Mom, I want a blog.”

“No.”

“You aren’t the boss of me.”

“Actually, chicklet, the law says I am. Too bad for you.” Muaahahahahah. Still, I’m not that evil. (Read: I’m easily wrapped around her finger.)

Looking at her pouty face and not wanting to have to listen to her whine to the universe in general about what a unfair, three horned devil mother I am, I quickly wracked my brains to figure a way to appease her.

I came up empty. Until I offered her the chance to write a post on my blog. Because, you know, I have rocks for brains.

You would have thought I just bought her a sparkly unicorn with a leprechaun as her personal jockey, she was so happy. (Looks like I’m back in the race for that coveted mother of the year award. Heh.)

Besides, I haven’t had a guest poster in a while. So, with out any further ado, I introduce to you, my daughter, Fric, and her words (entirely unedited) about what it’s like to live with me. Her redneck mommy.

Hi everyone. This is Fric. That’s not really my name and I don’t really like it. I wanted to be Frac but I guess that isn’t much better either. I wish Mom had picked a cooler name for us but I can’t really complain because in real life she calls my brother and me Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. She won’t tell us which is which, she says it depends on the moment.

I think its cool that people read my mom but it bugs me that she won’t always let me read her posts. She says I”m not grown up enough yet. I can’t really figure out why she thinks that because it’s not like she can write anything worse than I’ve caught her saying sometimes.

My grandma says mom has the mouth of a gifted sailor. I think that means she can swear really well. She tries hard not to, but most of the money in the swear jar on our counter comes from her pocket. She says we are going to use that money to go to Disneyland.

I just want everyone to know my real mom. She’s been on tv alot lately and in some newspapers. She was even on the radio oneday while I was on the school bus and our bus driver, Cheryl, let us listen. I was kinda embarrassed. She sounded a bit dorky. But it’s neat having all the other kids think my mom is cool.

But they don’t have to live with her. She’s not that cool. She’s kinda bossy. But she laughs a lot and she plays lots of tricks on us. She almost made my brother pee his pants once by scaring him and pretending to be a bear out in the bush when we were sleeping in our tent. That was pretty funny.

She doesn’t like it when we play practical jokes on her though. She scares really easy and we always like to see who can make her squeal the loudest. she keeps telling us we are giving her gray hairs. I can’t see them though.

She is a bit of a sissy though. She doesn’t like it when we catch frogs and last week she said we could catch a snake and keep it as a pet but when we did she squealed and then told us to go put it back where we found it. She told us she only said we could have it because she didn’t think we’d find one. She also makes me and my brother pick up dead birds on the ground. We get a lot of those cause they fly into our decks and our windows. She says it’s too disgusting to deal with so she makes us do it. She claims it will toughen us up.

She says alot of things like that. I think we’re pretty tough kids already without having to do chores or pick up dead things.

I think it’s really cool that you all read my mom. I think you would all really like her if you ever met her. She laughs a lot and she is really fun to be around. Dad said that’s why he married her. but he also says he married her because grampa made him do it so I don’t really know. I’m jut glad she’s my mom.

If there was one thing I could change about her though it would be that she wasn’t so strict. She doesn’t let us play a lot of video games and we hardly get to watch television. She says she watched too much television as a child and it stunted her growth. I just think that’s the type of things she says wehn she wants to be left alone and get us out of the house so she can blog in quiet. She says she can’t think and write with noise and me and my brother are noisy breathers. She’s dorky like that.

That’s all I have to say right now. Thanks for listening. And thanks mom, for letting me use your blog. I can’t wait to get my own.

Then I can tell everyone I’m an internet porn star, just like you tell people.

I love you, Mom.

***I love you too, doll face. But you are wrong. I am that cool. You’re just too young to know it. Now go clean your bedroom before I go all medieval on your arse.***

My loving husband has once again abandoned me and run screaming for the hills after spending a month in my presence.

He came home with the best of intentions, wanting to take care of his half deaf wife and spend some quality time with his children.

But it didn’t take him long to realize that even with only one good ear I can still hear him mumble snide remarks about my poor cooking skills and it took him even less time to realize that children who are home constantly on summer vacation tend to run wild like chimpanzees on crack.

Needless to say, he found another job. Away from home. Far enough away that he no longer has to stand beside the kids when I decide to toss Cheerios and maybe the odd grape at their hungry squawking mouths when they want to be fed.

The problem with Boo working out of town is we tend to get lonely. We miss one another. It’s hard to maintain marital relations when 500 kms separate the two of us. I mean, his Mr. Pickle is sizable but not quite that sizable.

Wink.

I’ve gotten used to receiving dirty text messages from him at all hours of the day and I even mastered the art of sending my own. We often trade emails. I write about how I miss his arms wrapped around my body and how useful those big strong shoulders would be when it comes to packing in the groceries.

He replies back with thoughtful responses such as “I miss you too. Send me a pic of your boobs.”

The romance is never ending with us. Not even after 11 years of marital bliss.

But while we talk on the phone multiple times a day, the one thing we have never done is have phone sex. I just can’t bring myself to do it. It seems ridiculous to me. I’d rather send him a disc of porn and a coupon for hand lotion.

Boo however, is nothing but persistent. Every time he calls, he asks if I want to get jiggy on the phone. (He still doesn’t understand by even using the term jiggy he is killing any chance at phone sex. Sigh.)

It doesn’t matter what excuse I make to avoid the subject, Boo finds a way around it.

“No, sorry honey. I can’t. I have a headache.”

“Just go grab a big cucumber and picture me. Then go to the baby food aisle. Old people avoid that aisle.”

If Boo dedicated half as much time to yard work or house repair as he does to trying to convince me to talk dirty about his purple headed trouser snake, I may just have the time and energy to devote to such fetish fantasies as this.

The other morning, after getting off night shift, Boo called me like he does every day. The difference was I was still in bed, trying to motivate myself to get up and start parenting.

‘Twas much easier to hide under the covers than facing my demon spawn while I waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

But I was in bed already, snug as a bug and the kids were off in the other end of the house, so why not I thought? Live dangerously.

“Whatcha doing?” Boo purred when I answered the phone.

“I am in bed, trying to avoid getting up.” Yawn.

“So you’re naked then?”

“Aren’t I always?” I started to joke but then quickly realized that joking was not the best way to be romantic so I quickly replied, “Yes. Naked and warm. And all alone in this big bed you bought for me.”

That stopped him for a few seconds. I must have confused him by not immediately snapping at him to get his head out of the gutter.

“Um, okay. You’re awful playful this morning,” he pondered aloud.

“Just trying to please my big strong husband,” I purred.

“What the hell is going on? Is someone in there with you? Is this a joke?” he huffed indignantly.

“No you dumbass. You always bitch about wanting to have phone sex and now that I’m actually game to trying you’ve got your head to far up your butt to notice.”

Silence. I could just picture him blinking trying to adjust to this revelation.

“Oh. OHHHHH,” he grinned. Or so I imagined through the phone.

“So stud, what are you wearing?” I tried again.

“Um, dirty jeans, socks that desperately need to be washed and a sweatshirt that smells worse than day old fish. Was hot last night and ..”

“Dammit Boo. Work with me here.” How can the man be so dense yet so damn cute all at once?

“Oh, sorry. I was just getting ready to get in the shower,” he quickly amended and I could hear him shrug out of his clothes.

“Much better. A steamy shower. Sounds wonderful. Think of the soap on your skin and my hand slowly caressing your back-”

“The shower isn’t so steamy. We’ve got a problem with the hot water tank and I haven’t replaced it yet. I keep meaning to but all the damn stores up here close before I even wake up.”

I sat there, in silence, looking at my bedroom ceiling and wondering what the hell was happening with my life if I couldn’t even do phone sex right with my husband.

“Boo. Forget the shower.”

“Oh right. Sorry. Go on, my dirty girl,” he begged.

“Fine. Imagine you standing there, and I walk OUT of the shower, all wet and naked and water droplets all over my body, and I smile at you and crook my finger at you to come over.”

“Oh, I like that image.”

“Good. What else do you like?” I asked in my best porno voice.

“Um, you’d want me to kiss you.” Wow. The depths of his creativity really floor me sometimes.

“I can work with that. Okay. Imagine my soft lips slowly touching your mouth, the heat of my breath on your face.”

“You brushed your teeth, right? Cuz I hate kissing when we have bad breath.”

Are you fucking kidding me? “Yes. I brushed my teeth in your fantasy world. Jeez.” I sniped.

“Sorry. Go on,” he apologized.

“No, just forget it. This isn’t working.” I pouted.

“No, no. It just got off to a rocky start. You startled me is all. I’m ready now. Go.” He pleaded.

“Alright. I’m kissing you and you like it. Why don’t you tell me what else you like, big boy?” I breathed into the phone.

“Well, I’d kiss you and then my hand would grab your soft ass and then-”

“EXCUSE ME? My soft ass?”

“I meant the soft skin of your bottom,” he hurriedly explained.

Snort. “Fine. Continue.”

“Um, I’d keep kissing you and slowly turn you around and then I’d bend you over and bang you till you jiggled so hard you would practically knock yourself out and-”

Blink. I mean, wow. Romantic or what??

“Listen here dopey. You don’t tell your wife she has a flabby ass and then point out that her once firm body now has flabby skin and saggy tits and is actually a sexual endangerment to her well being!!!”

“I didn’t mean that honey!!!”

“Ya. Right. Why don’t you just point out the dimles on my thighs and how my stretch marks glisten like moonlight too?”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean anything. The words just came out wrong!!” He hastily explained.

“Ya. They did. You may as well have just told me I have pancake breasts and you want to pour syrup on them!” I huffed.

Just then the bedroom door swung open and Fric and Frac overhearing the words pancakes and syrup squealed with delight.

“Whoo hoo! Mom’s making pancakes for breakfast! Thanks Mom! You’re the best!” They high-fived one another.

“Great. This is all your fault,” I whined into the phone as the kids bounced on the bed, just narrowly missing landing on my bladder.

“What? What?” Boo asked in confusion.

“Pancakes. From my boobs to my kitchen, I can’t escape them. And it’s all because of you,” I said as shrugged into my robe and cinched the belt tighter.

“Here, talk to your father. I’m getting coffee.” I said as I tossed the phone to Fric.

“Wait mom, what about making us pancakes? You just said?” Frac complained.

“Tell it to your father. I’ve already got two pancakes and I’m not sharing them with anyone. Ever again.”

I overheard Fric tell her father that her mother was crazy as I padded into the kitchen.

Damn straight child, I thought to myself.

And you’re father is intent on driving me to the looney bin.

As a responsible young woman, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for my children to show them I love them and cherish them.

I keep fresh fruit and veggies in the fridge, mostly to rot and mold; I shuttle their whiney little arses all over hell’s half acre so they can socialize with other demon spawn on a regular basis; I sit through hours of endless teen movies with my kids by my side, hogging the popcorn and spilling their drinks on my sofa all the while Hilary Duff and Miley Cyrus suck out what’s left of my brains with a straw poked through my eyeball.

If that doesn’t scream parental love and devotion then I don’t know what the hell else to do. Maybe try backflips on the trampoline while naked.

(Oh wait. I did try that. Every time I bounced my bladder would explode and soon the trampoline was a puddle of urine and my children wouldn’t come near me for days except to remind me to buy adult diapers. Ingrates.)

Still, there has to be a line drawn in the sand so that I don’t slip into the mindless role of caregiver and forget that before children I was actually an articulate and interesting woman. Not just a pathetic reincarnation of June Cleaver.

The line in the sand happens to be where the tile floor starts and the hardwood ends. Also known as the bathroom.

While I am in the sanctity of my powder room, I am no longer Mom. I am off duty. I am Tanis. My bowels and my bladder are my own and I choose not to wipe my ass with anyone watching other than my dog.

When they were little they’d follow me in or pound on the door and there would be no escape from them. But they are on the cusp of teenagedom. They are at the age where they want a little restroom privacy themselves. For the most part I’ve trained them to leave me the hell alone.

Or enter at your own risk. I can’t guarantee you won’t see something traumatic and life changing. I can’t guarantee you will like the answer when you see my diva cup and ask what it is and what it’s used for. Heh.

So when my daughter ran through the house this weekend, calling my name, I yelled the same warning I’ve been yelling for years in hopes of finding a moment of damn peace while I sit on the throne.

“I’m in the washroom. Leave me alone.”

“Mom! Mom!” I could tell from her voice that she was getting closer to the washroom.

“I’m in the bathroom. I’ll be right out.” As in, ‘listen here you punk ass kid. That hamburger that you convinced me to buy when you saw a pair of golden arches is not agreeing with my sensitive digestive system. Because of your baby blue eyes and unique skill of twisting yourself around my little pinky, my bowels are about to erupt and take the entire remains of the lower half of my body with them. I can’t guarantee I will survive this abdominal uprising. But I guarantee if you come in here, you won’t.’

Apparently I need to work on my scary mommy voice because before I could draw in my next breath, the bathroom door swung open and my daughter rushed into the bathroom.

“Mom!”

“I’m a little busy here, kiddo. Get out.” As I hugged my body for dear life and prayed to the porcelain Gods for mercy.

“You stink.” Her nose crinkled and she grimaced.

“Thanks for the olfactory update. Can this wait?” I growled.

“I just want to tell you something.” If she could have smiled any bigger I’m sure her face would have cracked in two. Figuring at this point it was just easier to listen to her than to shoo her out, I just bowed my head and reminded myself that there will once again come a time when I can potty in peace. When I’m like 80 or something.

“What?” I figured her news had to be the equivalent that her brother is on fire or she won the damn lottery.

“I’ve got BOOBS!” She grinned excitedly.

“That’s what you came in here to tell me. Even though my bathoom door was shut and I told you to go away?” I growled. “OUT. NOW.”

“No Mom! I’ve got boobs! LOOK!” Said as she whipped up her shirt so I could look at her invisible rack.

(Because this is what my life has become: stuck on a toilet while preteens ignore my wishes and flash me. I know it’s symbolic for something. I just don’t want to know what.)

Maybe it was the light, maybe it was the fact that I was slowly losing my mind and my children take great delight in helping suck any remnants of intelligence out of me, but I looked at her beautiful face, glowing with hope and excitement and then I looked at her prepubescent chest, and I nodded my agreement.

“Yep. Those are boobs. Great big buds of boobs. Look out Dolly Parton. Here comes Fric,” I rolled my eyes as she examined her flat chast in my mirror.

“I’m almost an adult now, Mom. You said once I got boobs I was halfway to womanhood.” She smiled.

“Ya, but I also said when I’m in the bathroom to stay the hell out. Since when do you listen?”

She pulled her shirt down, looked at me with that preteen distain and rolled her eyes. “Whatever Mom.” And with that, she was gone.

Just in time for me to notice I didn’t have any toilet paper. Damn.

“Fric get back here! I need some teepee!”

Silence.

“Fric!” Nothing. She had turned up her music and was immune to my pleas for help.

Which is the sum of my life these days. Can’t find peace in the bathroom when I need it. Of any sort. Toilet paper or privacy.

Welcome to parenthood. And my blog. It doesn’t get any better than this.

———————————————————————————————————————–

As a special treat and favour to my dearest friend Catherine, I’ve written an ode for her and women everywhere over at her blog.

Check it out if you like. And use this as a shining example why you should never hand me the keys to your castle. Heh.