Motardmageddon: Idiot Child Apocalypse

Every single time I point out that children are like monkeys, only less intelligent and more belligerent, some flaky motard who believes in the purity and innocence of children pipes up. Because My new world order will need people around to mop floors and clean sewage I refrain from beating them senseless. Why then, one might ask, does the Master say that children are like monkeys? Simple. Allow Me to explain this aspect of the world to you, My apprentice.

Here is a story:

A couple was shopping with their child, who had two years of experience in the world. While they were pushing the cart, their child, who was cursed with their genes, was cavorting and capering from inside the cart. The danger to the child's brain was high, perforce, as the sharp and sudden contact with the ground that was likely to occur would splatter said brain all over the store. Then, in a flash of lightning and a booming thunder, the hero of this tale appears. The couple neared the meat and seafood counter of the store, and for the rest of this tale, a biblical tone will be used, as there is a lesson to be learned here:

8 And they did approach the counter where the meats and fruits of the seas were kept, and their child did continue to endanger himself, for lo, they were Motards, and with this malady did they also afflict the child.

9 It came to pass, moreover, that the Master of this place, a butcher, did see these things as they did occur.

10 This butcher was of exceptional grace, moreover, and was known for his wisdom, which did rival that of Solomon in his early years, and did leave the wisdom of certain other elders as if biting unto the dust.

11 It was noted by this man that the child was not at fault, for, verily, it is said that if a tree or fruiting body be accursed with rot and Motardness, so too must the fruits of that entity be also accursed.

12 And because he did not prophecy that all was lost, he did undertake to protect the child from its own heedlessness and debaucheries.

13 In a voice resonating with power, he did say:

14 Aroint ye, thou miscreant! Thou wast cast into the outer darkness at birth, through no fault of thine. Thus do I bring ye back into the Light! Seat thyself! And properly in thy cart, lo, for an I see but a mustard seed of foolishness my wroth will be greater still than it is now, and many will taste of the dust, and there will be wailing and the gnashings of teeth!

15 And the child did hear, and was afeared. And so did the child at last come to be seated correctly in the cart, and the danger to the brain was averted thereof.

16 The parents of the child were amazed, for they had made a feeble attempt, with but half a heart, to accomplish the same ends anon, but had been rebuffed by the child, and had thereunto ceased to attempt this feat, for lo, it is said that those with the hearts and minds of poxy sheep do behave in such a manner, and it is even as the prophets say.

17 Whereupon they did ask of the butcher, How is it that you can command our child? Long has he resisted our words; long has been our suffering. Do ye possess some grace of which we knoweth not?

18 Yes, said he, I do, for understanding hath been given to me that children are like unto the beasts of the trees, and must be commanded in a firm tone to cease that which is dangerous unto them. It is my way to know that children are not equipped, verily, to make unto this world their own decisions, and must be guided by a hand wiser and greater than theirs. If such a hand must come from outside the family then so be it, for should I allow Motardness to claim the lives of children who are innocent despite themselves, would then I not be even as are ye, a blight upon creation and all that is?

19 And all around did they hear, and were amazed, for this was new to them. And they were also afeared, for one such as this was truly a giant bestriding the earth.

20 And one of those gathered did say, Thou art truly a great man, and a lord of mysteries.

21 And he did reply, Damn skippy, muthafucka.

The lesson is thus: if you do not want to be considered a motard, be a parent to your children, and require obedience and respect. If you want to be friends with your children, be prepared to have a lot of conversations about prison food and tossed salad.

TWITCH, take note. I make this vow to you. I will personally guarantee that I will see through every stratagem, every manipulation, every ruse that you try on Me. I will always have My Burning Eye on you. I will know where you are, what you are doing, who you are with, what you say, and what you think. If it ever appears that I have missed a trick or been fooled, rest assured: I am just following a plan more sinister and complicated than you could understand, and you are just digging a deeper hole if you think otherwise. That oppresive pressure you feel on the back of your neck is Me watching you, and that oppresive pressure you feel in your ass is My foot, punishing you for screwing up. I will not raise a drooling monkey, and you will thank Me for My care when you finally understand. This will probably be on the day you strangle the life out of Me and seize control. On that day, My pride will know no bounds, and as you crush My trachea know that your Father cries tears of happiness, and be content.

Lofty Goals

Here is something you may not know about my husband and me...we are masters of pointless conversation. We thrive on inventing hypothetical questions to guide us into the most obscure possible discussions. Proof positive of this occured two years ago when we took a two week road trip to Kansas City. Over the course of the 4000 mile round trip, we never ran out of crap to talk about. It was at that point that I realized our marriage would last forever. Much has been said and written about what happens in a relationship when you've heard all of each other's stories. In our case, we just make shit up.

It is in this way that we have, over the years, finely honed our parenting philosophies. One of our favorite topics of hypothetical conversation has been our unborn child/ren. These discussions started out simply enough (How do you feel about spanking? What kind of chores are fair to give a child? What should we say when our child inevitably discovers us having sex?), and eventually evolved into longer, more philosphical inquiries (What if our child is gay? What if our child wants to become a vegetarian? What if our child is a Republican?). In this way, we have mentally prepared ourselves for whatever Twitch throws at us.

One of our favorite parent discussions, though, is who we should use as parenting role models. Of course, discussing real people here would be no fun at all; rather, we choose to analyze the parenting skills of television characters. Thus it was that one day we challenged each other to come up with our personal lists of the top three TV moms and dads. I thought it might amuse our gentle readers to see the results.

The Television Parents We Will Strive to Emulate

Tracy

1) Ma Ingalls Ma is the greatest television mom ever. Period. I accept no argument on this point as it is FACT. Raising seven children (four her own and three adopted) in the harsh landscape of 19th century Minnesota was no small feat, and yet she succeeds at maintaining a happy family life against all tragedy. She is a rock. A gorgeous, eloquent, talented, tireless rock. At the worst of times, when even Pa loses it, Ma holds it together. If her children go blind, fall down old wells, become sick with plague, get their hearts broken...whatever, Ma is still her strong, beautiful self. She is wise and well-educated. She is gentle but firm. She can whip up a fantastic pie and then go out to the fields and help Pa bring in the harvest. Best of all, she always knows the exact right thing to say to her kids to help them through tough times. Conversations with Ma inevitably end with one or more kids exclaiming "Oh Ma!" and throwing themselves into her arms. She makes great coffee; sews all of her family's clothes; and lances her own infected wounds whilst in the midst of horrendous fever. Oh, and having the hottest husband in town ain't such a bad thing either!

2) Kitty Foreman I just love Kitty, and really, what's not to love? Kitty is the type of mom who is so great that she becomes the coveted mom, collecting kids from all over the neighborhood who hang around because they secretly wish that she was their mom. Kitty is a career woman but still makes sure that her kids have hot breakfasts in the morning and fresh baked cookies when they need a snack. Much like Ma, Kitty can bake a mean pie. (Pie always works its way into any discussion of my future happiness.) She is a strong believer in the power of a mother's love, though, like any mom, gets upset when that love is taken for granted. ("You know I love my family. It's just sometimes I want to get in the car and run 'em all over!) Although Kitty can become easily frustrated, she knows when to hit the juice to get herself through a crisis. She laughs easily, yells sparingly, and gives lots of hugs. Best of all, she embarrasses her kids regularly and could care less. That's the price they have to pay for her undying maternal devotion.

3) Lois Wilkerson If Ma and Kitty lack one thing, it is the ability to inspire fear. And let's face it...sometimes you need a healthy dose of fear to keep your kids in line. Enter Lois. Admittedly, Lois is far from the perfect mom. All of her kids are seriously screwed up. Even so, she keeps them in line through a reign of terror to rival even the most bloodthirsty dictator. She is also cunning. It takes weeks of planning for any of her kids to pull one over on her. Lois' ability to sniff out a lie is spooky. Her talent at knowing exactly when one or more of her kids is getting into trouble is inspiring. It is Lois' near-psychic connection to the sick minds of each of her children that I most admire. I can only hope to someday perfect that singular look that conveys to Twitch, "I know what you're thinking and you'd better stop. Disobediance will be swiftly punished." When Twitch withers under this look, I will know I have achieved the ultimate in parenting. I don't think Lois has ever baked a pie, but I'm sure she buys them at the store once in a while.


Himself

1) Julius Rock Here is a man who knows the cost of everything, and despite this horrifying knowledge, comes home from work and raises three children anyway. His wife is constantly quitting her jobs because he has two, but he doesn't get a divorce. When he chooses to do the housework and cooking, he is three times as good at it as his wife is, but allows her the conceit that she is a better domestic than he. He is tall, attractive, and one of only three fathers on his street (and in Bedford-Stuyvesant, for that matter) who meets his responsibilities as a man, and yet he does not cheat on his wife with the stream of women who come to his door looking for a man just like him. Were I in his shoes, I'd take the one useful member of My household (Chris) and run to the hills, but he stays, works from before dawn until after dusk, pays every bill on time, raises his children correctly, loves and encourages his wife (and cedes most authority to her), and walks the line with head held high. What is his reward for all of this? Smothered chicken-fried bacon, gout, and baldness. His life is the example I would point at when asked, "Master, why choose the Dark Side?" But he chooses to live this way, and for these acts, I must anoint him as the greatest TV father ever. That's 42 cents worth of soda you're wasting, fool. Pick it up and drink it before the next entry.

2) Reginald "Red" Foreman Kitty Foreman is, as She notes, beloved by the entire neighborhood. Red, however, has only Kitty. This is all he needs. Kitty provides all of the love, support, and emotional connection that any child could need. Red provides the rest. Failing math? How about a foot in the ass. Arrested by the police? Would you like a foot in the ass? Marrying your girlfriend in spite of your parents? Hmmm, Let me think. Oh, I know! How about a FOOT IN THE ASS. Red has one job: to provide the impetus for his son Eric to succeed in the world and be a good man. He has the perfect tool for this job: his foot. Red does not need to go to church, because he and God had a heart-to-heart when his destroyer was going down in the Pacific during Korea. He need not worry about the spectre of Communism, because he has lots of experience killing Commie bastards like you. In fact, he does not worry about violence at all, because he is the only local guy who has ever killed anybody, and he will be happy to give anyone who forgets their place a generous sized helping of foot in the ass. His only regret is that he does not have 2000 feet, so that he can put 500 feet into Eric's ass and the asses of his idiot friends, who are coddled by Kitty and clearly have no idea what a hard life is. Everyone in the neighborhood loves Kitty, but they fear Red. Everyone. Even the professional wrestlers who come to visit have the good sense to fear Red. This is why Red has no problems being a father to Eric, and despite his best efforts otherwise, to all of the other neighborhood children, who, he notes, quite obviously need a tender fatherly foot in the ass. Did you finish that drink yet? No? How would you like a foot in the ass?

3) Jonathan "Jack" Donahue Bristow How do you know that Jack Bristow is a good father? Simple. He will happily kill anyone who interferes with his daughter in a negative fashion. Anyone. Including her mother. Now there is a father that can be trusted to follow through. He is a master spy, knows everything about everything, is sexy, deadly in combat, speaks almost every language, is an unsurpassed actor when he needs to be, and even in the throes of radiation-induced hallucinations is still ten times more sane and rational than anyone else. Oh, and he nailed his wife's hot sister. But this is acceptable, since they were divorced and he later had to shoot her in the face for putting a contract out on his daughter anyway. His advice to Sydney (who, despite also being a spy, and having two master spies for parents, is a complete moron) is always 100% correct, he always shows up to rescue her, he constantly monitors her like any good parent, and whatever his mistakes, he corrects them, usually by killing the cause of the mistake in the first place, to insure that it doesn't happen again. His reward? He has to blow himself to pieces to protect his daughter, who repays him by naming her first son after him. Is that all, you ask? Yes, but Jack does his duty out of love, not for the reward. Jack's love for his child is so great, that like any good father, he will commit treason and kill all of her other relatives by gunshot to the head to make sure that she grows up properly. That is the kind of father I want to be. (Do not take this to mean that I want to shoot Herself in the face, I'm merely pointing out what I find the appropriate level of devotion. I will happily shoot your interfering ass, though, so watch it). Ah, I see you finished your drink. Too bad I poisoned it to keep TWITCH safe from you.

Private Parts to the Gods Are We, They Play with Us for Their Sport, Part 2

TWITCH, Mighty Fetus, Cruel Tyrant, Crusher of Bladders, Destroyer of Worlds.

Actually, Shiva is the Destroyer of Worlds.

Fetuses (Fetii?) cost a lot of money. Babies even more so. Why then, when I tell people that I need a job and can't find one, do they always say (wait for it):

--Smiling "You'll be okay, just have patience." Sparkling sunbeams emerge from behind gleaming teeth

In a perfect world, that is, a world run by Me, this would follow:

--Smiling "Really?" Gleaming teeth emerge from behind tightly grimacing lips
--Cannibal holocaust ensues
--Raspberry Iced Tea Snapple washes down unsatisfying meal of motard
--Smiling "You know what, I do feel better." ERA detergent used to wash clothes, because protein gets out protein

I want a job, not empty platitudes. Just being this cool is exhausting, let alone all of My other reponsibilities. I don't have the energy it takes to keep on plowing through Motard Optimism with an unchanged demeanor.

In the Real(ly pathetic) World, this will have to do:

--Smiling "You'll be okay, just have patience." Sparkling sunbeams emerge from behind gleaming teeth

--"Thank you. I'm sure it will. I have to go now, swallowing this much bile is enough to sicken even My iron constitution."

Happy Third Trimester to Me!

So Tuesday marked the first day of my third trimester...only 14 weeks to go! 98 short days! Not...that...long. Um, I don't know how I feel about this. Ian asked me if I was looking forward to getting this baby out of me, to which my immediate thought was, Hell, yes! She's a mean little bugger! Plus, I'd kill for an extra large latte double the espresso and a double tall Jack and Coke. But, on the other hand, it is quite easy to take care of her while she's still inside of me. She eats what I eat when I eat it; I poop what she poops when I poop it; and, best of all, her tiny little lungs are filled with fluid preventing the operation of vocal chords. I think I prefer my daily beatings to a screaming baby.

So I'm torn between "Can't hardly wait" and "Omigod! Already?"

Well, I guess I have 98 more days to figure it out.

Private Parts to the Gods are We, They Play with Us for Their Sport, Part 1

Anybody who knows anything about Me knows that I find pointless optimism annoying. Few things gall Me more than having someone say "You'll be okay," or "Everything will work out." These things may be true, but they may also be false, to wit:

1. Bad things still happen to good people, and good things to bad people.

2. If you've ever thought that you hit the bottom I am positive someone came along and showed you just how much farther you could fall, probably by pushing you.

3. Die, optimist, if you think I had more than two things to say on the subject.

"Why are you raging about this subject, Master?" you might ask yourself. In this regard I look forward to completing your training, so that this question is never asked again.

This is the phrase I hear most often: "You'll do fine, XXXX, just be patient." I hear this all of the time. I want to strangle these people with dental floss. People with Lou Gehrig's disease, like, say, Lou Gehrig, can be patient all they want. It ain't gettin' better. Sometimes things just start in a state of suck, and progress into more advanced levels of suck. Sometimes, your miserable life unlocks the codes to access the hidden, secret levels of suck. Then, see if you have the patience to beat the game. I don't.

What does this have to do with TWITCH, you ask. TWITCH is the reason I hear this. TWITCH is what makes everyone so sure than everything will work out.

More on this to come...

Registration Please...

Okay, so I feel that it is kind of tacky to announce where and how I want you to buy things for our baby, but so many people keep asking me that I feel convenience overwhelms good manners in this particular instance. Ian and I have registered at Target for everything that we need for the baby. We chose not to even bother with Babies R Us because that place is so radically overpriced that it pisses me off. I don't want our kid getting used to expensive stuff. (Except for that stroller we registered for, which is really expensive, but I really like it!)

Much like when we registered for our wedding, I have already been asked "What do you need the most?" The answer to this question is easy. Formula and diapers. And more formula and more diapers. I know it's not a fun gift, but it is what we need the most. (We've also registered for lots of formula and diapers just to drive this point home.) Although I am a big ol' tree-hugging hippy most of the time, when it comes to birthin' babies, my environmental values go out the window. The thought of breast-feeding makes me want to hurl, and I think disposable diapers are one of the greatest inventions of the 20th century. If my liberal brethren want to reduce our impact on the landfills, I say hurray! But don't mess with the disposable diapers, dude. Find some other way. That said, formula and diapers. And if you really don't want to buy us those, then we have a whole long list of other crap we need, too.

One thing we don't need, though, is clothing. Between the pounds of clothes I've been accruing at yard sales and the wonderful stuff we are inheriting from Baby Claire, we have enough clothes to outfit the infants of a small nation. Seriously. Peruse this photo if you will...this is what I accrued in one day of yard sales in Reno. And I go every week. My point is this: if you buy my baby more clothes, you will only encourage me to never do her laundry...I will simply throw away the outfits as they get dirty. Okay, maybe that's a little more landfill damage than I'm comfortable with, but you catch my drift.

So, thanks in advance to all of those people who will eventually buy us stuff, and my apologies to those who find this blog entry remarkably tactless. If I offended you, please disregard this entire entry and just send us cash! ;)

I've Been Very Very Bad

Mea Culpa. It has been nearly a month since my last post! So sorry, for those of you who were keeping up, but there is a time every year--after I finish grading finals in May and before summer school starts in June--when I go rather brain dead. But worry not! You haven't missed anything exciting in my absence except for the fabulous news that Ian has graduated from college! He walked on May 20, with me and all our family looking on. (I think we were more excited about it than he was.) So now he has his BS in Electrical Engineering. He has been working very hard now for a few months to find a job but has not gotten any nibbles yet. It's been very discouraging, and possibly why he was not overjoyed at his graduation ceremony. Degrees are far less thrilling when they don't have jobs attached. So, if anyone out there knows of any opportunities for hard working, super smart, and devilishly handsome electrical engineers, drop us a line. It is kind of important seeing as I will be unemployed at the end of July and we have this baby thing going on and all. We'd sure like Ian to have moved up from meat cutter to engineer by then!

Speaking of the baby... Everything is well! I had my 24 week appointment last week and all was fine. I found out that so far in the pregnancy I have only gained 7 pounds! Total! (Normal weight gain by this week is 16-20 pounds.) This was not at all what I expected. I felt sure that when I got pregnant I would blow up like the Michelin Man, but in this regard the Gods have smiled on me. Apparently I am burning weight elsewhere on my body and converting it all into baby. I may end up skinnier after I've had the baby than when I got pregnant! Wouldn't that be cool! (I can dream, can't I?) We haven't chosen a name for her yet, but thanks for all the input we've gotten. We're pretty sure right now that it's down to either Rowan or Matilda, although I need to pick something soon because now when I scold her she's just "baby." Why do I scold my child in utero, you might ask? That's because she beats me! Yes, I am a victim of domestic violence. I get at least three beatings a day. So our conversations go something like this:

Baby: Whack!
Me: Ow, baby! Stop it!
Baby: Sucker punch to the bladder.
Me: OW!! Stop it baby, you're hurting me!
Baby: Side kick to the kidney.

And on and on it goes. I'm glad my daughter is ferocious; I just wish she wasn't practicing inside of me! Ian says I have 18 years to exact revenge upon her, so I'll remember this when she asks me for stuff. "Oh, you want to get your ears pierced? Remember all those times in utero when you kept beating the crap out of me...?"

Oh, also during the last month I had a birthday! I turned 33 on May 21. I'm pretty excited about 33. So far, all of the 3 years have been my favorites. My first memory is from when I was 3 (I remember coming home from Disneyland on my third birthday, a memory that sticks in my head because I was so utterly happy.) 13 was a big one, when I finally got to be a teenager and all of the priveleges that accompanied that. Up until now, I always said that my best year was 23...that was the year I traveled Europe and when I first felt like a truly strong and independent person. So 33 should be great as well. And I'm sure it will be, as soon as Ian and I can get settled and over this heinous transitionary hump we're stuck on now.

Well, that's all for now. I have to start teaching summer school soon, so my brain is rebooting and I will post more regularly. I'm sure that there will be lots more to report in the coming weeks now that I am about to enter the third trimester. I'm a bit nervous about that actually...the second trimester has been so great that I am loathe to leave it behind! But everything must move forward as we are all slaves of time...