As a child, when I wasn’t being stuffed into lockers for being such a tool geek, or running around endlessly on a circular track trying to chase my teenaged demons, one could usually find me with my nose in a book.

The books I tended to like the most were the ones written in different languages or were about language themselves.

Nothing fascinated me more than learning how people around the world communicated. I sucked it up like a sponge and was delighted to find I had a knack for picking up new languages rather easily.

(Reflecting back on it now, I realize that perhaps it may have been my obvious distain for the peons who struggled in French and German class that contributed to my geek quotient. I may have had a slight superiority complex when it came to watching my peers struggle to decipher the lessons while I was reading Shakespeare in foreign languages that landed my ass in the back end of a dark locker more than a time or two.)

It probably didn’t help that I would cuss out my tormenters in French or Japanese while they tried to fold me in half and lock me up away from the student population.

I was a charming kid. I swear.

When I found myself knocked up with child unexpectedly I remember looking at baby books and envisioning my child as a multi-lingual cosmopolitan globe trotter who would single handedly bring about world peace, end poverty and solve world famine all the while being able to converse fluently with people from all over the globe.

Never mind my child would be born to a farmer and a redneck, my child would pop out of my womb requesting a tit in three different languages and go on to rise above the mediocrity he or she would be born into.

My delusions were shattered fairly quickly when Fric arrived. Turned out I would be happy if she would just stop using my nipple as her personal chew toy while she screamed at me in a language completely foreign to me. The language of baby.

As she grew my expectations slowly sank like a lead balloon. My once lofty goals of raising a bilingual child suddenly morphed into the more realistic expectations of simply getting her to tell me she had to use the potty in English instead of peeing on the carpet. Turns out, the parenting gig was a lot harder than I had imagined it.

I went from hoping my daughter would pick up a new language to hoping she would just stop picking her nose.

Fric didn’t talk right away. She waited until she was past three before she started to string words together. Her brother Frac, a year younger, was hot on her tail and almost her equal in the speech department. I began to worry I was doing something wrong. How the hell was she supposed to talk with people from all corners of the world if I couldn’t get her to tell me if she wanted a cup of juice?

Just when Boo and I were started to seriously consider banging our heads against the wall in frustration, the gates of language development burst open and all of a sudden I had not one but two toddlers who learned to speak at the exact. same. time.

God can be cruel.

Our suddenly quiet home now had a chorus of “I want, I want..” generally shouted at me in tandem, while my loving demon spawn would back me into the corner while poking at me with sharp sticks and demanding peanut butter sandwiches and sippy cups of grape juice.

I rued the day I ever worried they would learn to speak. Suddenly I couldn’t shut them up.

The bright side of this was their eagerness to learn new words. I could say anything and they would parrot it back to me. I took great pleasure in teaching them to tell everyone who walked into the door that “pwe-marital-sex is bad.”

Or their father’s favorite “Fow-ni-kay-shon is fun.”

It wasn’t until they started cussing like little sailors that I realized that I may be abusing my parental powers.

Thankfully, we survived language development relatively intact and unharmed and I was continually delighted to hear my children have sweet conversations with one another while I hid in my pantry looking for a moment of peace.

It is one of my saddest regrets to this day that I never heard my sweet Bug tell me he “wuved me” or call me Mommy.

Fric and Frac try to make up for this by talking non-stop. Even when I threaten to duct tape their mouths shut politely ask them to be quiet.

Fric has developed my love of languages as well. She is currently learning Spanish and French and takes pride in tormenting her brother with her talent at Pig-Latin. He, in turn, has picked up some cute Russian cuss words from some of the kids he goes to school with and takes great glee at hurling them at her with a sneer.

I feel so proud. It may not be the multi-lingual conversations I had envisioned while I was gestating the little suckers, but I’ll take it.

Last night, after a particularly grueling and long soccer practice with Fric and her team mates (read: I stood around and froze my arse off until I thought I was going to turn into a popsicle) I was eager to come home, put the kids to bed and zone out in front of the computer while wrapped in a soft blanket.

The kids, they had different ideas. Stupid me for raising them to be independent thinkers. This’ll learn me.

After repeatedly asking them to put their soccer gear away, get their pajamas on, brush their teeth and get into bed, my requests fell onto deaf ears. They ran around doing everything except what I had asked of them and I could feel my temper start to rise.

They took note and decided to see just how far they could push me before I snapped like a twig and went bat shit crazy.

It didn’t take long. I finally lost my temper (shocking I know) and bellowed at them. They jumped at my raised voice and then proceeded to roll their eyeballs at me and continued to ignore me.

I momentarily thought of beating them, but let’s face it. The adoption peeps frown on that and more importantly, my kids are almost as big as me. With my luck they would hog-tie me and leave me in the laundry room while they celebrated their mutiny.

Frustrated with them and myself, and really wishing my darling Boo was home (because he just has to whisper and they take heed, immediately running to obey his every command. Not that I’m bitter or anything.) I decided to change tactics. Yelling was getting me nowhere.

I walked into Frac’s bedroom where my two belligerent minions were joking and asked them if there was a problem.

“Why aren’t you listening to me? You are being rude, it’s past your bedtime and you need to do as your told.”

Because reasoning always works with preteen children.

They looked at me trying to calculate just long it would be until I went medieval on their arses while weighing the pros and cons of being obedient.

They must have decided I looked pathetic enough to grant me a reprieve so they immediately apologized and started getting ready for bed.

Satisfied, I went to the kitchen to get a bowl of ice cream (don’t judge me, I earned it) when before long they were farting around again.

I snapped. My spoon clattered into the empty bowl and I abandoned the pint of ice cream on the counter as I went to go knock some heads together. They want mean mommy, by golly, they’ll get her, I thought to myself.

“What is going on in here? Are you having trouble understanding me?” I yelled.

They stopped, stunned into silence.

“Fric, you speak French and Spanish as well as English. Would it help if I used one of those languages or perhaps tried pig-latin?”

She sheepishly shrugged and got busy examining the dirty socks on the floor.

“Frac, are you hard of hearing or are you just not understanding what I asked you to do?”

He stood there, looking miserable and took great interest in his fingernails.

“I mean, really you guys, what language do I need to use to get you to do what you are told?” At this point, I was ready to run away from home.

Continued silence as they both tried not to awaken the hidden dragon locked beneath the exterior they call Mom.

“Are you so busy learning new cuss words on the playground that you have forgotten how to understand the English language? Just what language is it that you think I’m speaking that you think you can ignore?” I persisted.

Frac looks up and I could see the impish look in his eye.

“I guess it’s the language of MOM. We just don’t hear it,” he explained.

That stopped me short. I stood there for a second, stunned by his brave show of insolence and quick thinking and then snarled, “Well I suggest you get fluent in it rather quickly.”

“Yes, Mom,” they nodded and finally got into bed.

Hmm. The language of Mom. Looks like I’ve picked up another language with out even being aware of it.

Now, does anyone have any suggestions on how to teach it to two know-it-all children who have a penchant for tormenting their mother?

In ten days I will have been married for eleven years. I have been looking at the same dirty socks strewn about for over a decade. I have been nagging at the same man to pick his wet towel off the bathroom floor for 4015 days.

Not that I’ve been counting or anything. I’m just really good at arithmetic at the top of my head.

Heh.

During these eleven years of wedded bliss *twitch* I have learned a thing or two.

Thing one: Boo has vile gas when he eats cheese. He loves cheese. He eats a lot of cheese. Consequently, I have no nasal hairs left as they have been singed off by the wickedly foul odors he likes to emanate in my direction.

Thing two: If you don’t keep score, no one can lose at the game of marriage.

I’ve learned a few other things along the way, like how a grown man needs constant nagging reminding to cut his facking toenails yet will always remember to when he runs out of beer. I’ve learned how nothing will deter a man from constantly grabbing at your funbags of love, not even having to roll up the ole beavertails to stuff them into your bra after your wondertitties have been sucked dry by the vampires you call children.

But no marital lesson has been as important as learning how to forgive and move on.

Which isn’t always easy. Especially when you are nine months pregnant, having gained over a 100 pounds, can barely fit behind the wheel of your van to drive to buy milk for your toddler demon spawn and all you can dream about is that last bit of mint chocolate chip ice cream waiting for you to lovingly devour when you finally arrive back home, only to find an empty container and a spoon sitting inside of it while your husband is burping up minty fresh breath.

It took a while, but I finally forgave and moved on.

It’s not always been easy but I have learned the fine art of forgiveness. Let’s face it, eleven years of marriage has given me many an opportunity to practice this art.

Like the time Boo gave me a can of tuna and a chocolate bar for my 26th birthday.

Or the time he gave me a shop vac for our anniversary. I wasn’t bitter. Not at all. Not even after having scrimped and saved to buy him the set of golf clubs he had coveted only to receive a vacuum for HIM to use in HIS shop.

Forgiveness allowed me to move on and not wrap said golf clubs around his neck.

I forgave you, Boo, for the time you laughingly told everyone that I was caught picking my underwear out of my arse by your boss. I forgave you for the time you announced to your family that I had to go shopping for new jeans because “the ole girl is finally filling out and putting on some weight.”

It wasn’t easy, but I forgave you.

I learned how to forgive him for making us chronically late for every family function we’ve attended in the last eleven years because of his incessant and annoying need to ‘finish the next level’ of what ever video game he was playing while I run around like a mad woman trying to get myself and the kids ready to leave.

I even forgave him for running out of gas when I was in labour with our son Bug. Sure my contractions were less than a minute apart. I understood how he may have simply forgot to fill up the family vehicle the night before I went into labour after I politely nagged reminded him we needed gas. He was dealing with a hormonal, bitchy cow and was distracted by my girth.

I even forgave him while he chatted up a storm with the gas station attendant while I had to squeeze my legs shut in order to prevent giving birth in the front seat of our van while he laughed about outrageous gas prices and how ridiculous it was to run out of gas while your wife was eight centimeters dilated and her contractions were coming every twenty seconds.

We made it to the hospital. Barely. So what if Bug just about fell on his head onto the floor. I forgave you, Boo.

I have grown to be a better person than I would have been if I hadn’t got knocked up married him. He taught me how to laugh it off and move on.

Even when he forgets to put down the toilet seat thereby ensuring my ass will take a dip in the icy waters of the porcelain throne as I fumble in the darkness to relieve my now stretched and damaged bladder in the middle of the night.

It’s not always been easy. I still don’t understand how I can send him to the grocery store with a list and he still manages to forget items that are clearly marked and underlined on the list clutched in his hands. Items necessary to the happiness and survival of his self family members. Items like toilet paper.

I forgive you, Boo, even though I know you will do it again. And again. And again. Because clearly, this is NOT your fault.

I love him. And I know he loves me. Even when he brings home monstrosities like my darling Bertha and then runs away with his tail tucked between his legs leaving me to look at the piece of shat rust bucket sitting in our yard, advertising to the world that we are the neighbourhood’s token rednecks, I forgive him.

I know you meant well. You did your best. Even if you and I have a different definition of what your best really means.

I forgive you, Boo.

Eleven years have brought about a lot of forgiveness. Not that I’m tracking it or keeping score. That would be wrong. I just want to let him know that I will always forgive him. Even when he accidentally flips over our brand new lawn tractor because he was drag racing it with his buddy.

I love you and I forgive you Boo.

Remember this when I tell you about a little accident I may have had the other day involving our atv and my car. Try and remember how much I love you and all the times I have forgiven you for misdeeds, no matter the cost to our bank book, my pride or my abused uterus.

Keep in mind that while I was cleaning our yard up and doing chores that should, by nature, fall under your pervue, I may have had a little more fun than I intended with our quad. I may have gotten carried away and in so, accidentally bumped into my car with our quad while driving in reverse.

It wasn’t my fault. Accidents happen. I wasn’t showing off for our kids and my friend fooling around. I was working. It had nothing to do with the fact I was laughing my arse off and not paying attention to what was around me.

It was an accident. Expensive, perhaps but an accident nonetheless.

The important thing for you to remember is no one was hurt and cars can be fixed. It’s just money after all. Isn’t that why you work out of town?

Don’t worry Boo. No matter what I will always forgive you.

Even if you flip out when you read this and see what I did.

I forgive you.

Growing up, I had to share a room for most of my childhood with my delightful younger sister. Note, when I say delightful I am referring to her NOW, as a grown up.

Back then, she was a big pain in my ass.

Back then, her version of being delightful was going out of her way to drive me crazy with her slovenliness and her penchant for tacking up cute pictures of kittens over top of my posters of River Phoenix.

Nothing calls for war like a fuzzy white kitten covering my future husband’s pretty face.

She took great delight in pestering me and getting me in as much trouble as humanly possible. So I did what any big sister would do who was stuck with a pain-in-the-arse little sister.

I tormented her as often as I could get away with it without my parents shipping me off to juvey hall.

In my defense, I was just polishing the art of sibling abuse as my older brother Stretch had practiced extensively on me. It’s not like I could sit on my bigger brother and fart in his face the way he had so tirelessly perfected with me. Or pin my kid sis down and threaten to gob in her eye.

Well, okay, maybe I did do that a time or two, but it was only because I never learned how to fart on command like my asshat brother could.

(And my mother wonders why I have middle child syndrome…)

I took out my middle child frustrations on the only child who was smaller and weaker than me. It was Darwinism at it’s finest in our house, and my younger sister had to learn to eat or be eaten. I like to think I was teaching her precious life skills. Survival of the fittest and all that. Heh.

One day, after coming home to find yet another fuzzy cat pinned over one of my precious boy posters, I decided to have a little fun at her expense.

That evening my parents went out shopping and my sister decided to take a nap while I sat on my top bunk and did my homework plotted. After a few hours of pussy footing around her so as not to wake her, I decided enough was enough and I turned my stereo on loudly and kindly blasted her awake with the melody of “I Wear My Sunglasses At Night.”

I was thoughtful like that.

My sister jumped up, disoriented and banged her head on the lower bunk. Heh. She looked around and blinked and rubbed her head. I figured my part as the evil older sister was done. Until my sister handed me a golden nugget too perfect to toss away.

Bewildered and disoriented, she asked what day it was. “Friday,” I replied haughtily. Like, duh, little sister. What are you, stupid? She blinked a few times, and then asked what time it was.

“It’s 7:30.”

“Oh no! I’m going to be late for school!” She cried and she hurriedly changed her clothes and made a mad dash for the bathroom to comb her hair.

I admit, I thought for a nanosecond to tell her it was 7:30 at night, not morning and the only thing she was late for was dinner. But then that middle-child syndrome kicked in and I decided to see how this played out.

My sister, (to my brother’s and my amazement,) never noticed the difference between the evening twilight and the morning dawn. She ran around in a panic to make her lunch and brush her teeth and before you knew it she was flying out the door, running across the field towards the school across the street, with her knapsack bouncing against her back in her haste to make it before the morning bell rang.

“You are evil,” my brother smiled as he looked at me with a newfound respect.

“I know,” I grinned and then ran from him as he tried to pin me down to fart on me.

A few minutes later, my parents walked through the door, arms ladled with plastic grocery bags and asked us to help bring in the groceries. “Where’s your sister?,” my dad asked.

“She’s at school,” my brother happily supplied. He was always the first to fink me out. Rat.

Just then, my sister walked across the street and glared at me. Apparently, the school doors were locked and her head finally cleared. She realized it wasn’t morning, but night time.

“That wasn’t very funny, Tanis,” she pouted as she put her knapsack away.

Sorry sister, but it really was. I still smile at the memory. It was worth the ten minute lecture I got from my parents about abusing my power as an older sister.

Heh.

It sucks being a middle child sometimes. We do what we can to survive the jungle of childhood. Frac is learning this. Poor kid. He knows first hand what it means to be the older child’s personal beyotch but unlike me, his younger sibling is no longer around to torment. He’s in middle child limbo. At least until he sprouts enough to take down his big sister and fart on her.

Fric torments Frac on a regular basis (like any good big sister should) and the poor kid has yet to find his revenge.

Until this morning.

The little bugger got up early and set all the clocks an hour ahead and then proceeded to wake his sister up in a panic, telling her they has slept in.

“It’s 7:35 Fric!!! Get up, we’re going to miss the bus!”

As Fric raced around in the bathroom to make herself beautiful, Frac wandered in my room as I was sleepily trying to pull my arse from my bed.

“Don’t worry about getting up, Mom. It’s only 6:30. I’m just playing a joke on Fric,” he grinned.

I looked at my son, standing there, not quite a man, not quite a little boy, and saw his impish grin and big blue eyes imploring me not to ruin it for him.

“Ah hell, just wake me up when it really is 7:30,” I yawned and crawled back into the covers. “Shut the door though,” I called after him as he turned to leave, “I don’t want to hear your sister murdering you when she realizes you deprived her of her beauty rest.”

Fifteen minutes later and Frac had his sister racing down the driveway to catch the bus. “You go ahead, I’ve just got to find my agenda,” he told her. “Tell the bus driver I will be right there.”

Evil boy.

The minutes ticked by as Frac played video games and giggled like a madman as his sister dutifully waited for the bus to arrive. After about ten minutes, her internal prank radar must have started to ring and she came back into the house.

“Frac! Hurry up. The bus is late and…” she stopped as she noticed the one clock in the kitchen Frac hadn’t adjusted.

“What?” she muttered and then she came into my bedroom and noticed the time on my alarm clock.

7:06. Ten minutes before I usually bellow at them to wake up.

She stood there for a moment as I watched her through my half closed eyes, pretending to be sleeping and I could see the emotions race across her face. First confusion, then enlightenment, and then finally rage.

“I’m going to kill him,” she muttered before screeching out of my room like some mad Indian wielding a tomahawk.

Admidst the screaming and the limb pulling, I smiled and yawned as I made my way to the coffee pot.

The middle child in me couldn’t help but be a little proud.