Has anyone ever used the stealth method of parenting? Dances With Shrapnel still holds this one against me:

witchypoo: Time for bed.

DWS: But I’m not tired.

witchypoo: It’s DARK out. (It was winter, dark came at 5:00pm)

or

witchypoo: Eat your corn.

DWS: I don’t like it.

witchypoo? Are you kidding? Did you know if you eat lots of corn, you can see it in your poop the next day?

DWS: Really? (wide eyes as he contemplates the thrill of seeing corn in his poop)

I know you’re thinking the usual way, and you would be partly right.

As soon as the wedding cleanup was done with, my first husband and I immediately began to receive pressure from his parents to make them grandparents.

We had other concerns, like travel, non-stop sex, and naked housework. You know, things that would make the marriage kind of fun. You’re welcome.

About two years after the ceremony, we were discussing the issue in bed, where all friendly talks are held, IMHO.

We decided that we would discontinue the birth control and see what happened.

The husband removed the birth control dispenser from the nightstand and flung it out the window. All without even getting out of bed. Awesome.

The next day I bought feminine supplies in bulk because they were on sale. Guaranteed to bring on a pregnancy.

They didn’t get used for about 40 weeks.

Later that very same week, I felt something different while performing the marital duties. Something more than the usual “the earth moved”. I just knew that we had conceived Dances With Shrapnel at that very moment. Wasn’t expecting it quite so soon.

I had a repeat of the same feeling when I conceived Ass Burger Boy. Right after going off the birth control. Also? Right after buying feminine supplies in bulk because they were on sale.

Fuh-reaky.

For those who are having difficulty conceiving, I’m sorry. For those who puke your guts out, I only barfed once in each pregnancy. I’m a freak of nature.

When Dances with Shrapnel was in his teens, I foolishly asked him what he wanted for his birthday.

His only wish? A dirty T-Shirt.

I procured a T-shirt that totally cracked me up. It said: “Fuck you very much.”

He loved it. He wore it everywhere. One time, when he was waiting for his girlfriend to get off work, the manager escorted him off the premises because of his “unsuitable attire”.

He absolutely told everyone who asked where he got it: “My Mom gave it to me for my birthday!”

I learned something from this.

Fuck you very much.

My new motto.

I have a guest post up at Sarcastic Mom’s blog today. You might want the benefit of instruction I provide on the topic of “How to Blog When You’re a Lazy Douchebag Who Seldom Leaves the House.”

Can you tell I’ve been in a blog blah slump-y thing lately? Yeah. I have been home almost all day, every day, working. Tired. Uninspired. I still have stories to tell, but I can’t seem to string them together.

It’s been bad enough that during readings, I have been searching and failing to find the correct word. Trying to say “specific” sounds like “sup sup blubblubdeblub specific”. Luckily, the client finds it amusing.

I’ve been making it a point to get more sleep and drink more water. It gives me stamina. Who thought that they would need stamina to talk on the phone all day? I’ve made a commitment to work more hours each week in order to be able to take time off to visit with the clan while the Papa is still alive. He isn’t feeling so good. The only time he gets out now is to take a joyride in the ambulance to the hospital.

My liddle sister, Red, is the unifying force behind the family gathering. She’s the one who keeps us in the loop about what’s going on, and she’s the one who, for some strange reason, has great memories of her much older siblings.

(When I say much older, I mean that she is a week younger than my oldest son, Dances with Shrapnel. He used to enjoy calling her Aunt Red.)

Today, I am grateful for liddle sister, and also, for Schmutzie, who not only started Grace In Small Things, but also wrote a post about writing even when you think your writing sucks.

I come from a military family. I grew up on air force bases, and we moved a lot. Fourteen or fifteen different schools before college. My father was military, two brothers are in the air force, and I married a navy man who with me begat an army son, Dances With Shrapnel.

Dances With Shrapnel is deployed in Afghanistan, serving our country, which has NATO obligations to fulfil. That may include cleaning up the mess left by the Bush administration when they barrelled into the illegal war in Iraq. My son does not voice dissenting opinions. He knows what he signed up for. This is his second tour there.

The heat alone over there would do me in. To suffer heat in such danger? All of these men and women who serve are heroes to me. These youngsters look so tired, they suffer such discomforts, and face incredible danger with confidence born of their pride and amazing training.

I cannot bear to watch the news. When the dead and wounded are identified, the relief I feel that it isn’t my son is immediately tempered by sorrow for the families.

To all who served, and are serving in our armed forces, thank you. It’s a dirty and dangerous career, and I get weepy when I think of your sacrifices. Not just on November 11, but every day.

No matter what the dillweeds in power have decided, you have sworn to serve. You are my heroes.

Thank you.