Back in the days of yore, when I first discovered I was about to become a parent, I was filled with doubts and worry. I worried I wouldn’t be a good momma, I worried my child would grow up and hate me, and I worried my ass would grow to rival the size of small country.

A country where they subsist on coffee products and baked goods. Especially honey glazed donuts.

Clearly, I was young and hormonal. After all, I am a good mom (take that you adoption asshats), my children thus far think I hung the moon and my ass may want it’s own zip code to spread where ever it chooses, but I’m determined to keep it’s sprawl limited to the confines of jeans I already own.

(Or at least until I bend over and split the seams, thereby declaring an emergency shopping day for pants one size bigger...)

Over the years I have tried to be a good mother to my spawn. All right, so some days I have tried harder than others. How many points do I lose since I have yet to throw them a birthday party? I keep them fed. Not well, but they aren’t starving. I provide them with ample resources to fuel their minds. Ok, so I supply them with Google and drive them to the public library twice a week. I make sure they exercise their bodies to grow healthy and strong. So what if I make a little money on the side renting them out to local farmers so they can spend the day picking rocks from the fields. They’re exercising.

My point is, I have done my best to be a good parent to them. Including, but not limited to, playing chauffeur and driving their asses all over hell’s half acre to deliver them to extra curricular activities which cost a small fortune; entertaining a seemingly endless stream of neighbourhood children who wander in at all hours of the day and subjecting myself to one mindless class project after another, all in the name of being a good mommy.

So what does my daughter do to repay me for my efforts? She joins band. And brings home this:

The french horn. Also known as a tool of the devil. This is what I SHOULD have worried about back when I was gestating my children. How the hell I would survive band practice.

Now, between the dog’s barking, the birds chattering, the hamster’s constant churning of their wheel, the repetitive beat of Ms. Duff or Fergie that is continuously played by one child or the other, I have to listen to an eleven year old try and learn how to play the french horn.

Which sounds suspiciously similar to an elephant in heat trying to lure a willing partner while fighting off a trio of monkeys who are trying to remove his tusks with a dull butter knife to sell the ivory to a band of outlaw poachers.

Good times at my house. Good times.

And it will only get better. Frac informed me that he intends on trying out for either the tuba or the drums next year. Then I will have two of my very own band members to serenade me with their mating calls rehearsing.

For six more years. Until they graduate. (Or go batshit crazy and steal their instruments and ransom them back to the school…)

I’m trying to find an upside to this hell. Maybe if I buy them some sequined tops and leather bottoms, I could market them as the next Donnie and Marie.

Because everyone loves the french horn and the tuba, right?

I love Saturdays. Today is the day I can kick back, crack the whip, and watch my little servants children clean my house. Of course, they don’t do a very good job, but when your vision is blurred by the mommy juice, everything just sparkles so purdy-like.

While my little slaves, and please note, I didn’t strike the word ’slave’. Why bother denying it? After all, I figure they owe me. I gestated those lil’ buggers for ten months (cuz they refused to leave the womb like normal babies), got stretch marks and a permanent hemorrhoid for my effort. When they decided to vacate the premises to explore the world awaiting them, they burst forth with such gusto that they left my poor vagina torn and tattered. And let’s not get into the horrible things they did to my nipples. I have since endured the indignities of having to clean up all manner of body fluids and solids, have been repeatedly infected with plague-like germs, have been called to the principal’s office more times than a little boy with ADD and have had to eat more ketchup-covered foods than a human should be made to.

So yes, my slaves. While my slaves scrub (half-assed, admittedly) and polish, and generally try to make our home presentable, I like to kick back with my coffee and Bailey’s, grab a book, and relax. Occasionally, I will look up, and point out where they missed a spot. Because I’m thoughtful like that.

If they are really nice to me (re: don’t whine too loudly) I will let them play music whilst they toil. Because I am a big music lover. Nothing soothes the soul of this beast like melodic harmonies blaring from my antiqued stereo system. So, when the lovely Southern Mom of 2 tagged me for this musical meme, I was delighted. And fearful.

Because now you will all know my lack of taste doesn’t just extend itself to cheap wine and smelly puns. It is awful across the board. The rules of this particular meme, if you are unaware, are that I am to list seven songs I am presently enjoying and then pass the pain along to seven more.

Well, dear internet, I am nothing if not a sentimental fool. My music tastes run the gamut but I have this annoying charming quirk of having to play the same songs over and over again, every damn day, even if I am listening to a new artist or c.d. If my stereo is on, these songs must pass the speakers and into my ears. I’m kinda obsessive about this. To the point that my husband and small children would like to hurt me when they hear these songs.

So, this musical meme is perfect to me. I can share their pain with you. And share I will. Buckle your seat belts and be prepared to be shocked and amazed at my inner musical geekiness.

I’m so embarrassed.

1. TO WHERE YOU ARE, Josh Groban. I figure this is pretty self-explanatory, but for some clarification, after my son passed away, I was struggling with facing our first Christmas only weeks after his passing. When I went through our mail, I found a parcel from his lovely Lyle. His pediatrician knew how I suffered and mailed me this c.d with a sticky on it to listen to this track. Fric, Frac and myself mourned that night; raw with our wounds, while listening to the voice of an angel. Now we listen to this song and smile and it brings us closer to our Bug.

2. RESPECT, Aretha Franklin. Words that I live by. Generally with a hairbrush in my hand while dancing around with Fric and Frac, trying to capture my inner Aretha.

3. ANIMALS, Nickelback. Gotta love any song that reminds you of the time you and your husband were 18 and parked out in the middle of nowhere, engrossed in a good match of tonsil hockey, when out of no where, a police officer appears, raps on the window and wants to know if everything is alright. And wants to hear it from the lady. The lady who is shirtless and trying to cover herself up while dying of embarrassment. Yeah, gotta love that song.

4. WHAT A GOOD BOY, Barenaked Ladies. My inner musical geek shines through here. But every time this song comes on, my hubs starts to sing and rock out and I get to giggle at him. True love at it’s finest.

5. TINY DANCER, Elton John. I discovered Elton at the tender age of thirteen. I have loved him ever since. I can rock out to any of his music and whenever I feel particularly stressed, his is the first voice I long to hear to chill out to.

6. THE TRUCK GOT STUCK, Corb Lund. Let me explain, before you stone me and hiss. First off, you can’t live in Alberta, go to live shows and avoid Corb. He is an institution. And he is so very, very nice. Really. I’ve met him. More than once. Secondly, you can’t be an Albertan farmer and not understand this song. And thirdly, my kids know every word and we like to screech it from the top of our lungs. And I live close to a Hutterite colony and it is sooo true.

7. I’LL BE THERE, Shane Young. Another lesser known Canadian gem. He also happens to be my Piano man, and provider of free booze. How could I not love him? On Valentines day he crooned all my favorite songs to me and my hubs so as to ensure Boo would get lucky that night. That’s friendship at it’s finest. Plus, he’s teaching me to cook. So my husband won’t leave my sorry ass. What’s not to love?

There you go, my inner freak revealed. I’m not going to tag anyone, cuz I’m a rule-breaking rebel that way. Now I’m going to slink off into the darkness of the interweb, plug in my earbuds and pray I don’t die of embarrassment. But not before I get the kids to scrub the floors.

Everyone is born with talent. Generally, more than one talent. Obvious talents and hidden talents, like being able to twist the stem of a maraschino cherry into a knot (yep, I can), the ability to touch their tongues to their nose (nope, can’t do that), or being able to belch out the ABC’s, twice, in one burp. (Nope, can’t do that either. But respect all who can…right, Tulip?) Some people search their whole lives to find their hidden talents, others discover it immediately. I knew when I was 15 that I have an ear for learning foreign languages. I didn’t find out until I was 26 that I am a natural born killer on a paint ball field. Men fear me. I am the surprise warrior, the one every boy figures will be an easy target, right until the moment I shoot them between the eyes. They never see it coming. I am also exceptionally talented at picking off tin cans on a fence with live ammo. Much to Boo’s disgust.

I can also draw stick figures well, and paint like Picasso. And I am exceptionally talented at spurting milk through my nose. Ask my kids. They have been sprayed. As I grow older, I discover new hidden talents, whenever I try new things. I also discover what I suck at. Which, as it turns out, is quite a few things. But no one is perfect, right?

As a small child, I harboured secret fantasies of becoming a famous rock star and marrying Michael Jackson and going on tour with him and our children. I used to listen to his music on my radio, and sing into my hairbrush while envisioning our future together. Of course, that future didn’t include him feeding his Jesus juice to young boys, or forcing his children to wear table clothes over their heads, but hey, I was eight.

That dream was quickly squashed the moment my dad burst into my room with a panicked look on his face. As I was singing my heart out to Billie Jean, my daddy thought I was torturing our family cat. Apparently my singing sounds much the same as when a cat’s tail is caught in the door.

That wasn’t the last time my budding singing career was over before it began. I was once asked to sing softer in the school choir so the more gifted voices could be heard over my caterwauling, and my husband threatened to leave me if I persisted to screech If I had a Million Dollars while I showered.

I have made peace with my inability to carry a tune or even recognize the note. I know I am horrible sounding, I accept it. That doesn’t mean that I am going to stop singing though. I just do it quieter, and generally, when I’m alone. Or trapped in the car with my kids. Because nothing is more punishing than listening to your mother belt out Respect while you silently cringe and hope none of your friends are in the car next to yours. Right?

Of course, there are millions of people who don’t accept their vocal limitations. Thus, American Idol was born. The viewing public (i.e. me) loves to sit at home and toss popcorn at the telly whenever those bozos screech sing to the judges. And it thrills me when those dopes have a tantrum when they are told they aren’t fit for human consumption. I want to ask them if they have working ears. Because really, how can you mistake that horrible squealing sound for music?

Last night, I was invited out. Tricked really. A friend called up and asked if I needed to get out of the house, have a drink, discuss grown up issues. What he failed to mention was the fact that we were going to a karaoke bar. Imagine, my horror (and secret delight) to realize I would be stuck in musical hell. And no one would laugh at me. I could finally be free with my vocal abilities, embrace my natural, God-given er, talent and let it all hang out.

Picture Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend’s Wedding. That could be me.

Of course, it wasn’t. I’m too uptight classy for that. Plus, the owner of the pub is my friend, and I wouldn’t want to be singly responsible for driving away his paying customers. Which I was not. (I wouldn’t want my access to free booze dry up.)

No, instead, I sat back and watched the crowd take turns at the foolishness. I quickly discovered there are three types of karaoke singers. The Good, the Bad, and the very, very Ugly. Every one loves watching the Good ones sing, as it inspires us, makes us sit up and take notice of that particular person and wish we sounded that good while belting out a tune. The Bad singers aren’t so bad, they just sound awful. But they are having fun doing it, and hey, that’s what counts, right?

But the Ugly ones, those are the ones to watch. These are the people who take this public singing phenomenon very seriously. They dress up for the part, totter about in their leopard print stilettos and their tight green skirt with hot pink belt, with their shoulders back and boobs out; while looking you in the eye and daring you to laugh at them.

Which, of course, I do. But only when they aren’t looking, because I am a bit of a pansy that way. These are the ones who truly believe they sound good, and they are just waiting for their big break. These are the ones it hurts to watch. Unless you are intoxicated, in which case, it is just plain fun. Especially to heckle them.

Which I would never do. At least not drunkenly. If I’m to heckle, I’ll do it sober.

I never did work up the courage to step up to the microphone. The voices of my past kept ringing in my ears. That, and the sound of a cat screeching. I decided my life was too short for that sort of public humiliation.

I would much rather humiliate myself in other ways. Like talking loudly about my vagina in a public place or walking around with toilet paper stuck to my shoe.

But you can bet your ass that last night inspired me. When I step into the shower today, I’m gonna belt out a tune. And maybe with enough practice, I can convince myself that the world is wrong. I don’t stink.

At least, I won’t when I get out of the shower.