honesty*rain

Before we had kids Dan and I talked a lot about what kind of parents we wanted to be. That’s one of the benefits of waiting until your thirties to have kids: time to think.

Other benefits: more time to sleep and go to movies.

We’re a lot alike, Dan and I, and thankfully agreed on what kind of family we wanted to be. There’s more than one way to skin the parenting cat and we both knew the method we wanted to adopt. We wanted to be The Huxtables, only paler and with fewer years of university education between us.

Also, not so many people. We know our limits. For goodness sake, there isn’t a house big enough to keep me from going insane with so many people about.

The problem is, we’ve ended up a little more like these people:

Only thinner and totally wishing we had us some Second Becky to class the place up a little. Also, way more years of university education between us.

Parenting, it turns out, isn’t as easy as we cracked it up to be. The road to shouting like a dearranged person is paved with the very best intentions and obstacles known as children.

Yes, I blame the children for being themselves. It’s all their fault. If they would only do what the director says and play along nicely we could all break for lunch. I heard the catering truck has cheesecake. Come on, follow the script and we all get cake.

I’ll be in my trailer, let me know when the little one gets on scene.

I don’t think Dan and I realized how hard it would be to actually spend a lot of time with such completely unreasonable people. Unreasonable people who are relentless in their pursuit of the unresonable. We planned for children who are sensible and willing to bend to our wishes. We thought they’d just kind of fold into our lives the way an egg folds into a batter. They weren’t supposed to be all fold this, bitches! They were not supposed to be rebel eggs who refused to fold.

What we need is some of what Healthcliffe Huxtable up there has, whatever it is. SuperSonicPatience, perhaps, or maybe a secret stash of Bailey’s irish Cream lollipops. I don’t know. What I can tell you is this: parenting is work. Mistakes are made along the way and when that happens everyone is sent to their rooms while mom and dad regroup and talk about family meetings and how when you’re fifteen we’re going to stage this whole thing where we empty your room and get you to buy it all back with two hundred pretend dollars after you say you want to move out and get an apartment with your friend Cockroach. It’s going to be fun, you just wait.

For now stay in your room and calm down because if you come out here and hit your sister one more time I’m gonna ground you until your seventieth birthday. And be quiet, I gotta back comb my hair and go to work at the factory.

We’re watching the CFL semifinals this afternoon. I am not usually a football fan. I usually require the game reexplained to me every time I am exposed to it and when said esplanation is being given I shake my head and say no, no, no, don’t, I don’t care. Today though I appear to have a sudden rudimentary comprehension of the game. It’s very Twilight Zone.

A few minutes ago a call was made and one of the coaches got right pissed off. Like screaming and carrying on and I said to Dan, That’s a job I could do. I am exactly the right brand of cat to coach a football team with enthusiasm, my dislike and ignorance of the game notwithstanding.

Much as these samifinal games are interesting I remain a disinterested football fan. It takes a special ocassion for me to give a frick either way. And I’m sure my freakish understanding of the game essentials will disappear before my head hits the pillow tonight. It’s like calculus. Of course I could understand it but come on, why would I want to.

I prefer hockey. Jake won his game this morning and totally had a chance to get a goal. Problem is his reaction time is about fifteen minutes behind schedule. If they gave him a damned minute he’d be ruling the ice. He likes the flashy positions. Center and Goal are what he’s all about. He also likes to fight which is exactly and precisely why hockey is his game. Not that we would ever encourage him to fight. I’m just saying that if he fights no one is really going to be surprised.

He’s a scrappy center who could score a goal if he had a minute to think.

It is 703 on Saturday morning and not only are we awake but we are dressed and ready to go. On Saturday. Morning. Have been up sincec 630. On purpose. What madness this?

The boy plays hockey now, you see. Hockey is apparently an early morning activity and we (Dan and I - notoriously not 630 Satuday people) are up and mostly smiling about it. But later I expect I will display some short temper and random crying because I didn’t sleep well. Kept having weird dreams. And no, I do not think it has anything to do with the fact that my evening eating habits have been kinda like that of those thousand pound guys who can’t get out out of the house. Nothing like that.

Getting up at 630 on a cold dark wintery morning (which it is not yet but you know, for making a point) is what you do for your kids even if you’re going to have to show up at hockey looking like you drank too much the night before and possibly slept in a ditch.

Am proud of my little six year old hockey playing kid. He’s so Canadian.

1. You’re on your third spoonful of Honey Nut Cheerios when your upper lip senses something bumpy on the spoon. Something stuck and bumpy. Something not a Cheerio.

2. Coke Zero. It is not Coke. It is Diet Coke with a quick and easy name change. Like when a stripper changes her name from Susan Smith to Slutty Bigtits. Coke Zero is Slutty Bigtits: some people like her but they tend not to be very bright and have low self esteem.

3. When you pick popcorn out of your teeth and think popcorn? When the hell did I eat popcorn? And turns out it was like a month ago.

After not writing for two and a half weeks I am finally back to it. First the kids were sick and then I was sick. I was way sicker. Because I am the mom and after taking care of everyone else I am vulnerable to the flu like a drunk is to a bottle of cheap liquor. It’s not good for me but I need it just so I can get a break.

What was I talking about? Does anyone know?

30552.

Is how many words am now at. Getting back to it was hard because I felt like UH MUH GUH this sucks. I was all, ick poo I am such a poser. I suck. Plus, I saw a picture of some person who called themself professional writer and I remembered that I don’t want to be a geek who looks like they can’t get laid and honestly couldn’t ptobably string three words together nevermind write anything interesting.

Why do some people allow press photos into print when they come off looking like a band asshole instead of a literary genius? By band asshole I do not mean Tommy Lee but more the short pants loser who carries the drum around on a rope around his neck at football games. That guy. Who wants to be that guy? Does that guy even want to be that guy?

The picture I saw though was of a woman writer who looked like she ate paste as a kid and had the self confidence of one such paste eating individual. I was all, uh muh guh I do not ever want to look so paste eating and lame. If that’s a writer I want to be a ditch digger. Anything where I would appear to have a personaily and or backbone.

Weakness is uninspiring and also, repulsive.

When I get my press photos done I am going to hold and axe and have my hair done nice. Tough but attractive. That’s what I’m aiming for.

Anyhoo!

I have started writing again. Yippee.

starts today. unfortunately, it came upon me suddenly and i have nothing to say. my influenza is getting in the way. not much longer will it stay. maybe then i’ll want to play. or go for a quick roll in the hay. wait, what did i just say? holy molay. such a bad girl, i better go pray. gotta go now, no time to delay.