There used to be an old leather black belt carefully positioned on top of our toilet tank as a ‘gentle’ reminder to walk the line and not aggravate our parents.

That leather belt rarely came off the toilet, but when it did, I remember diving under my bed and trying to hide from an angry father who was looking for some lily white arses to paddle.

My mother used to keep a stock of wooden spoons in a side drawer to whack our hands with whenever we misbehaved. They kept breaking on our skinny little bones so she liked to maintain an ample supply, just in case.

Boo’s dad used to make him walk to the bush and pick out a willow switch, and carve it while his father watched, all the while knowing his dad was going to use that willow switch on his poor bottom for what ever crime he had committed.

Boo said his father very rarely actually used the switch because the torture of just finding and stripping the branch more than exceeded the crime. He’d be a blubbering mess as his father watched him work, just living in fear of the moment he had to bend over and receive his lashes.

Oh, those were the good ole days. The days when kids had manners and parents were more interested in parenting their children than being friends with them.

Not that I’m advocating beating your children, but sometimes I wish I had a willow tree handy or a long black belt sitting on the toilet tank to strike fear into the hearts of my children.

Chasing them around with a wooden spoon while yelling hollow threats about how they are going to be sorry when I finally catch them hasn’t quite worked. They’re on to me. They know I won’t actually use the spoon on their rump, I’ll just wave it around like a wild woman while they roll their eyes and pretend to listen.

It’s not always the most effective discipline technique. Sigh.

It’s way more effective to duct tape them to the walls and whip them with wet noodles. Heh.

Even if I wanted to lay the smack down on my children for their misdeeds, they’ve grown up. They’re almost as big as me. I’m pretty sure my daughter would wrestle me to the ground and lay a can of whoop ass on my aging body if I even tried.

My son would just sit on me and fart.

So in an effort to maintain order and a false sense of dominance, I’ve had to find more creative ways to lay down the law lately.

Mostly, I just call their father and rat them out and watch the sniveling begin. However, that isn’t always an option. Like the other day when my son knocked a gaping hole in my pantry door because he was goofing around with his sister.

His father wasn’t answering his phone, leaving me to deal with it. I needed a punishment to fit the crime. While the willow switch beckoned, I settled on saddling him with dish duty for a week and he’ll pay for the replacement door out of his own pocket.

He also had to write me a two hundred word essay on why he needs to respect the home he lives in or he will find himself living outside in a cardboard box and acting as bear bait.

It would have been easier to swat him and yell but heck, it wouldn’t have been near as amusing as when he saw the dollars fly out of his piggy bank. Not to mention, I’m planning on collecting all of his essays into a book and presenting it to him when he finally has a family of his own.

Payback’s a bitch, my son.

So is yer momma.

For the most part, Fric and Frac are respectful, pleasant, well-behaved children who are a joy to have around. (And not just when I’m drinking my mommy juice. Wink, wink.)

But there are moments when the two of them cannot get along and it takes all of my will power not to put them up for sale on e-bay.

I don’t know what I was thinking have children only 13 months apart. Oh wait, I wasn’t thinking. I was horny. Duh.

Car rides are generally the worst. Back when their brother was alive, Bug would separate the two of them which was particularly useful in preventing them from attempting to murder one another.

Fric likes to sing. Frac likes silence. Frac likes to poke and bug, Fric likes her personal space unhindered by dirty little brother paws.

Bug’s no longer here to keep the peace. Dammit. Meaning they have free access to annoy each other and drive me bat shit crazy while I’m trying to drive them safely to our destination.

Most of the time I just yell at them, threaten to call their dad and then turn up the stereo to drown them out. The other night though, they laid one too many straws on this momma camel’s back. I broke.

I yanked hard on the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes as the car wildly veered to the side of the road and gravel sprayed everywhere.

“That’s it! I have had enough of the two of you bickering and pestering each other. I have asked you several times to either behave or just shut up! You don’t want to listen to me, well I don’t want to listen to you!” I growled.

Both Fric and Frac sat there in stunned silence and suffering from a slight case of whiplash from the car stopping so suddenly.

“Get out of my car.”

They just sat there, in stunned disbelief.

“Now. GET. OUT. BEFORE. I. LOSE. IT. ON. YOU.” I was half hissing, half growling.

“But MOOOOM. We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Frac wailed.

“You should have thought of that before you ignored me umpteen times. GET OUT.”

They looked at me and tried to gauge just how high the crazy rated in my eyes. I stared back at them just daring them not to listen.

Apparently the crazy was very obvious in my eyes because they slowly vacated the car and stood by the side of the road in the drizzling rain looking like they were about to cry.

I rolled down my window and growled, “Now, think about this moment the next time you decide to ignore what I ask and pester one another.” With that, I stomped on the gas and sped away.

Not very far. Only about 500 meters or so, but far enough to freak them out. When the kids saw my brake lights flash on , they sprinted to the car. Only to find the doors locked.

Again, I rolled down the window and growled. “I mean, just how many times do I need to ask the two of you to get along before you think I’m serious?”

“Mom! We’re soooorreeee! We’re getting soaked out here. We’ll be good. Let us in!” they begged.

I looked at them and felt a maternal tug at my heart strings. It was swiftly smothered by the memory of annoyance suffered just moments earlier.

“Too bad. Start walking. When I think you have learned your lesson, you can get back in.”

They started to argue, but the look on my face shut them up quick enough. Slowly, they started to trudge ahead, towards home.

I drove beside them, all the while lecturing them about why there are rules in the car and how safety comes first, not the need to pester one another, as they slowly marched alongside the car. In the rain.

They looked like a pair of drowned, pathetic rats.

Just when I was about to stop and let them back in, Frac looked at me and said “When I grow up, I’m never going to be as mean as you to my kids.”

Wrong thing to say, kiddo. I laughed and then barked at them to speed it up. “Faster! Faster!” I yelled as I picked up more speed.

I had those two running full speed until they looked like they were going to fall over dead with exhaustion. They were soaked to the bones and covered with mud.

Finally, mercy prevailed and I pulled over and let them in. They wisely got in without saying a word. They strapped themselves in and all you could hear was the heavy breathing from the back seat.

I looked back at them through the rear view mirror and asked if they had had enough.

“Yes,” Fric nodded and then she proceeded to apologize to her brother and me. Frac followed suit immediately.

“I wasn’t trying to be mean, you guys. It’s just you were distracting me from safely driving with your arguing and that isn’t cool. I figured if you had this much energy in the back of the car, you just needed a friendly way to burn it off. Now everyone feels better, right?”

They were too busy shivering to answer, but they nodded so I turned up the heat.

The next few miles passed in blissful silence until we were home. As Fric got out of the car, I heard her whisper to her brother, “She should have made us run farther. I was just getting started!”

Frac nodded and said, “I know! Me too! I could totally run faster than her car!”

They giggled and I pretended not to hear them. Until one of them unwisely said, “It’s a good thing Mom didn’t have to do that when she was growing up. She’d have died from the exercise.”

That’s when I got out their father’s duct tape and started boiling the noodles to beat them with.

It’s them or me, two against one. I’m thinking I may need to start looking for a willow tree.

I once (foolishly) believed that as my children got older, parenting would become easier.

I once also believed I would grow up looking like I belonged on the cover of a Victoria Secret’s catalogue and thought butterflies were a glorified public transportation system for fairies.

It’s no surprise (to anyone but me) that I have been known to be wrong every now and then.

Somehow in my head, I figured that once the kids were potty trained, could speak, and learned to read and write, my life as a mom would be a figurative cake walk. I assumed my demon offspring would always eat their vegetables, brush their teeth and do their homework with little prompting from me.

Because they are older. That’s what big kids do, right?

BWHAHAHAAHAHA! Foolish girl.

Somehow, I forgot to figure into the equation something about the apple not falling far from the tree and realizing these are my children I was dreaming about.

I can hear my mother’s maniacal cackles in my head as the curse of “I hope one day you have children exactly like YOU!” springs to fruition.

Damn.

Turns out parenting isn’t really harder, it’s just different. Instead of worry about potty training, I worry whether they’ve flushed the toilet, changed their underwear and remembered their toothbrushes aren’t just colorful plastic decorations in the the bathroom for them to gaze upon.

I still have to force feed them brussel sprouts, bribe them with candy and politely request beg them to pick up their toys.

Nope, parenting hasn’t gotten any easier.

I don’t know why I had hoped that as they grow they would start worshipping the ground I walk on and revere my every spoken word. Chalk it up to delusional fantasies and the moonshine I brew out in the back shed.

Still, there are times when I wish they would take me seriously and listen to the wisdom I am trying to cram down their throats impart. Sometimes I really do know best.

Like when I tell my daughter that no matter how hard she tries, her baby fine hair will never look like Jessica Simpson’s and if she spends any more time trying to fix it to look like the Chicken of the Sea Queen, she will miss the bus.

Guess what? She missed the bus. And she still sported a head full of stringy fly-away hair.

My darling lovelies don’t listen to a damn word I say. My husband blames this charming characteristic on my habit of sarcasm and wit. He says I screw with them so often they never know what to believe.

He could be right.

Still, what fun would a mom have if she can’t make sport with her minions? Heh.

This past week, the tables turned on my husband and for once, my children (or specifically my son) completely disregarded his expertise and advice.

I am still trying to contain my glee.

While sorting through the mountain of laundry whilst cheerily whistling and singing a peppy tune cussing like a sailor in heat, I noticed my lovely son had only deposited one pair of undies in more than ten days worth of dirty laundry.

Checking and rechecking the piles, I tried to block out the mental image of the fungus growing around my son’s man bits and wondering how the hell to approach such a sensitive topic such as bottom drawer hygiene with a pubescent boy who refuses to even tell me if he needs toothpaste.

Fack it, I thought. I’m not paid enough to deal with this bomb. I chickened out and called my husband Boo. Let him deal with it. It’s the least he can do since I take care of everything else.

Boo was as sensitive and tactful as I had hoped he would be, once I handed the phone over to my son to speak with his father. I could hear the bellowing echo through the phone lines half way across the house.

Good job Boo. Scare the poor kid into changing his shorts. Just so he can crap into them from fear. Thanks for the help. Arsehole.

Wandering back into the kitchen, I overheard my son’s pitiful excuse for his lazy hygienic ways. Apparently, he’s not wearing the right type of underwear. All the cool kids wear boxers and my poor son has been consigned to loserdom by wearing tighty-whiteys.

Tighty-whiteys with cartoon characters on them, no less. Oh, for shame. It seems my son has been towel-whipped and teased in the locker room a time or two for his Spidey shorts and now has taken it upon himself to just go commando.

Ugh.

My son wants to wear boxers like all the other boys. But instead of telling me this he has just been making skid marks in his pants. Man I love being a mom.

Handing the phone over to me with a puppy dog look on his face, Frac went to go pull on some gonch while I was left to talk with his father about the pleasantries of raising children. At this point, raising monkeys has to be easier, I teased Boo.

“I’ll just buy him some boxers and be done with it,” I cheerfully (and stupidly) told my man.

Wrong thing to say to the man who loves his shiny gold bikini briefs. (How’s that for a mental image of my man?)

“NO. Boxer’s ride up when you play sports. He’ll get a wedgie and pinch his nuts. Boxer’s aren’t practical at his age. I explained this to him and he’ll just have to deal with it.” Boo was adamant.

Not sporting a wiener myself, I didn’t really see the big deal. “How ’bout a compromise? After all, I bought Fric a bunch of bra’s that she doesn’t need because of self-esteem issues. I’ll just buy the boy a few pair of boxers and tell him to wear them on days he doesn’t have gym or soccer.”

“Doesn’t matter. He plays at recess and at home. His package will get bit. Best stick with the briefs if you want grandbabies,” Boo commanded.

Since I’m always one to listen to my husband, I did what any good mother and wife would do. I went out and bought a couple pairs of new undies for my boy with the explicit instructions not to wear them if he is going to play sports.

You would have thought I hung the moon. It was official. I was the world’s greatest mom and definitely Frac’s favorite parent.

(Neener, neener Boo!)

And with that, ended the great underwear debate. Or so I thought.

Until my son played his usual Tuesday game of soccer.

I couldn’t help but notice he wasn’t really running that hard or that fast and he was kinda standing around. He was a decidedly poor mid-fielder, making very little contribution to his struggling team.

No matter how loud I kept yelling for him to “MOVE IT!” “DEFENSE!” “GO TO THE OUTSIDE!” “COVER YOUR MAN!” my son kinda just waddled around the field.

Getting more frustrated I yelled a bit louder. And with more frequency. Because ten year old boys totally dig when their momma’s do that.

Frac, getting tired of trying to tune me out while not really move about on the field, finally had enough and stopped to face me and yell, “STOP PESTERING ME MOM!”

I, of course, am the picture of maturity and retorted, “I WOULD IF YOU WOULD STOP ACTING LIKE YOU HAD A PIANO TIED TO YOUR ARSE!”

Just then I noticed what he was doing.

He was digging his underwear out of his ass crack where it kept riding up when ever he ran.

Just like his dad said it would.

Heh.

For the rest of the game, Frac spent more time digging buried treasure out of his nether regions than he did chasing the ball. He’s such a great soccer player.

Riding back home that night, I looked at Frac in the rear view mirror and asked him if perhaps his dad was right about boxer shorts.

“Maybe,” he mumbled while trying to pretend I was invisible.

“Well, I guess you learned something tonight, right?” I said, thinking this was the opportune time to drive home the fact that sometimes parents really do know what they are yapping about.

“Ya, I guess,” he grumbled.

Feeling like pushing my luck the point home, I asked, “And what is it you learned?”

“Next time, I’m calling Justin and riding with him. His mom isn’t near as loud or annoying as you are out on the field.”

Well, at least something was learned that night.

Sigh.

It was a rainy spring afternoon and I was beside myself with excitement.

I took extra care in my appearance, squeezing into a ridiculously tight green corduroy skirt and shrugging into a matching oversized green sweater. I fluffed my spiral perm until my hair resembled a glorious poofy triangle and lined my eyes with bright aqua green eye-liner I borrowed from one of my girlfriends.

I was twelve years old and about to attend my very first spring dance in the darkened gymnasium inside my junior high school.

To the adults around me, I probably resembled a ridiculous raccoon wearing a bad leprechaun costume, but in my mind I was half-woman, beautiful and ready to slow dance with the first sweaty palmed boy who asked me.

Sadly, I spent most of my time standing next to the gym wall watching all the other sweaty teens sway to the music. Sometimes I danced in a big circle of friends as the boys raced around the gym trying to snap the bras of all the blossoming girls around them.

I didn’t have a bra to snap so most boys ignored me. I was still flat chested and pretending it didn’t matter while secretly praying to God every night to grace me with a rack Dolly Parton would envy.

I never got that coveted rack, but I did get my slow dance with a smelly, awkward boy.

His name was Jeff and I had known him since grade four. He played hockey. He went on to play in the NHL. (If only I could see into the future…I’d have played my cards better. Heh.)

I was standing by the exit, trying to look cool and ignore the scent of desperation and body odour I oozed like pheromones from an elephant in heat, when suddenly Jeff appeared in front of me and asked if I wanted to dance and pulled me out onto the dance floor.

I don’t remember what song was playing, but I remember the flashing lights from the d.j and the heat radiating from his sweaty skin underneath his thin tee shirt.

I remember placing my hands on his shoulders and wondering if I had sweat stains in my pits and praying he wouldn’t notice if I did.

I remember the weight of his hands placed on my waist and wondering if he would accidentally touch my bum.

I remember wondering if I could convince myself to like this boy, whom up until that moment, I had no interest in at all. I was pathetic and desperate and wanting a boyfriend. Any boy with a pulse and testicles would do as long as he didn’t have a pizza face.

(Thank heavens for high standards.)

We swayed to the music and suddenly one slow dance became two. I was in teen heaven. I was in the arms of a boy who wasn’t too geeky (even if he wasn’t one of the cool kids) and he wasn’t trying to stuff me into a locker.

Next thing I knew, a couple of kids approached us with a stop watch and a dangerous glint in their eyes. Jeff nodded to them and before I knew it, he was kissing me.

Or, rather, he was slobbering all over me. Saliva was every where and he tasted like pepperoni pizza. My heart was racing like a dog chasing after a rabbit and I couldn’t decide if I was thrilled or repulsed. I didn’t get a chance. Before I knew it he was pushing his thick nasty tongue in my mouth and trying to eat my tonsils.

Just when I thought I was going to faint from lack of air, he released me from his vacuum-like kiss and wiped his slobbery mouth with his hairy arm.

My lips were chapped and cut from being ground mercilessly into his braces and I had saliva all over my very red face.

I couldn’t look him in the eyes, as I was half mortified, half repulsed by what I had just participated in. Still, I wondered if I could like him enough to let him be my boyfriend.

It was hard to think while my lips throbbed and the taste of pepperoni pizza lingered on my tongue.

The circle of kids who stood around watching us trying to gnaw one another’s faces off, clapped and announced we went at it like two hungry puffer fish for twenty-three seconds. Jeff smiled and I blushed and the crowd moved on to target the next awkward couple who danced in front of their path.

Jeff and I finished our dance and then my girlfriends rushed to my side and into the girls bathroom, while peppering a million questions at me.

“What was it like?”

“Did he stick his tongue in your mouth?”

“Do you like him?”

“Is he your boyfriend now?”

Jeff later asked me out, but I couldn’t get past the feeling of his metal mouth grating my soft lips like cheese in a grater so I said no.

And I have never eaten pepperoni pizza since.

Thus was my initiation into the world of teen romance, spring dances and french kissing.

Looking back, it was a time I wish I could block out. Almost as much as I wish I could block out the memory of losing my virginity. But that’s a story for another day.

Flashbacks of wet chins, thumping music and the taste of pepperoni all flooded back the moment my darling children stood before me with hound dog looks on their impish faces, pleading for me to allow them to attend their very first spring dance.

I immediately said no and my daughter yelled that “I am so unfaaaaiiir!” and then huffed into her room to cry a river of broken tweeny-hearted tears.

My son just shook his head, half relieved not to half to attend and half disappointed that he wasn’t going to get the chance to snap some chick’s bra.

How could they be at this age already, I marveled? Just yesterday, it seemed, I was potty training and washing out sippy cups. I wasn’t ready to relinquish this part of their childhood and face the reality that my children are chaffing at the bit to grow up.

My husband pointed out the fact the dance was for 10-13 year olds at the local community hall and would be well chaperoned by teachers and parents.

He reminded me that he had some of his best childhood memories at those dark, sweaty functions in the very same hall and he didn’t grow up to be some over-sexed horn dog who knocked up the first chick who would have sex with him.

That’s when I pointed out, YES YOU DID, YOU ASSHAT!

“Ya, well, not at age eleven. And it worked out in the end, didn’t it? Loosen up woman and let them have a little fun. Besides, it’s a night free of listening to them bicker over video games,” he urged.

That’s when I hung up on him and vowed to find a good divorce lawyer. It’s easy enough for him to give permission, I thought to myself, he’s not here to actually see the aftermath. Bugger.

But listening to my daughter pout through her dinner and mope around the house while my son acted all put upon and hound-doggish, was more than my mommy heart could take.

I snapped like a dried twig and caved to their wishes.

Suddenly it was rainbows and moonbeams under my roof as my children rushed around to get ready for their big night.

Me, I was still trying to swallow the pepperoni vomit that threatened to spew out.

My babies are growing up and I am powerless to stop it. I am simply not ready to know that my daughter is swaying in the dark with some sweaty palmed punk while my son runs around trying to find a victim to slobber all over.

My head just exploded into a million pieces and splattered my computer screen as I typed that sentence.

So I did what any good mommy would do. I sucked it up and took a million photos. I inspected the premises, talked with the chaperones and publicly humiliated my children by threatening every little boy and girl I came across to keep their mitts off my children.

I stalked the parking lot, giving the stink-eye to all the preteen demons who made eye contact with me until the dance chaperones found a willing father to lift me up and forcibly stuff me into my vehicle.

Apparently, I was freaking out all the kiddies.

Still, as I drove away, while the chaperones blocked the door to make sure I didn’t change my mind and charge back into the building, I felt a twinge of pride. My kids are growing up. Just like they should be. Even with me as their mother. Doing everything in my power to screw them up.

Later that evening, I picked up my children. They were red faced, sweating and smiling so hard I feared their faces may crack. I noticed my daughter was now sporting lipstick and eyeliner.

Flash back to my own tween heaven. Good times.

Fric and Frac chattered happily about the dance and who danced with who and I smiled grimly and kept my mouth tightly shut, just happy to note there was no visible signs of road rash on either of their faces or dried saliva.

Halfway home, Frac piped up and asked why I was so quiet. Was I upset they went to the dance?

“Oh, I’m not upset at all. I’m thrilled you all had a great time,” I honestly answered. I was. I really was. My babies are growing up and I’m dealing with it.

(Picture me later that night with a bottle of red, dealing with it.)

“I’m just making mental notes about all the kids you danced with so that I can terrorize them the next time I see them,” I cackled like a crazy woman.

“MOOOOOM!” they cried in unison.

“Hey, it’s all part of growing up. You get to go to spring dances and have fun, and I get to stay at home and polish up Daddy’s shot gun.” I smiled at them.

“It’s a win-win for everyone.”

Heh.