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Ah yes, May 24th weekend turned geekend. Ten years ago, I was probably cracking open a six-pack on some crappy campground in rubber boots, a tube top and a scrunchie. Tonight I sit at home cracking open a six-pack… of delectable Vienna sausages.

The kids change things a tad, wha? “Partying” now entails cake, sticky fingers, and loot bags that should include a coupon for a free root canal.

But I’ll have you know, I don’t stay home during the nation’s unofficial outdoor party of the year because it’s the motherly thing to do. I stay home because the weather is like a dead hooker’s vagina. And we don’t have a 40-foot camper. And as nice as the gravel pit sounds, I think I’ll put on my jammies, curl up on the couch, watch cartoons with my boy, and pretend these sausages are not made of hooves and sphincters. Besides, if I was wearing a tube top right now, it’d be hanging somewhere between my ribs and my hips. And that, happy campers, just ain’t right.

No doubt, motherhood has tamed and softened me a little. Yesterday, I cried watching Mary Hart’s farewell episode on Entertainment Tonight. That shit was emotional! And let’s face it, I work hard five or more days a week with socialization and collaboration up the wazoo; call me a stick in the mud, but sometimes I just need to be still. But I still have a wild side, damn it. Take these toxic sausages for instance. Six little cylindrical logs of rebel yell.

For me, motherhood is about balance. A place somewhere between modesty and who-gives-a-fuckery.

I buy whole-grain Cheerios, for example. BUT! I put spilled Cheerios back in the box. In my house, the five-second rule is not only enforced, it’s encouraged. We actually rub things on the floor for five seconds before we put it on the plate. Spaghetti night at our house is like a murder scene.

I curse. A lot. I work on the creative side of marketing, so it’s either swearing or smoking, and last I checked f-bombs don’t kill you, they just sound like they might. But I am tailoring my diction to include apt substitutes like “Shoot”, “Cheez Whiz”, “Gosh darn it”, “Fick”, “Feck”, and “Fack”. It feels like my tongue is in a straight-jacket, but at least it’s not in a giant toilet.

I facebook and tweet ridiculous things, like “I am now going for a jog, with my ass in a sidecar driving alongside.” And, “Prize: baby. Parting gifts: hemorrhoids.” How unladylike. How unmotherly. Oh bite it. I type to entertain. At least I’m not a 16-year-old girl with an iPhone glued to my face and a thong halfway up my back – the future of our world, by the way. We are all, like, royally screwed.

I let Max watch Dexter. When there’s a horrendous crime scene, I point to the window and say “Look Max, a birdie!” He hardly even notices the blood-curdling screams in the background. I have a Masters degree in the art of distraction.

It’s all okay – I go to therapy. At Winners. I usually don’t buy much, because the vast majority of things are made by somebody’s blind great-great grandpa in Beijing. Most times I just walk around, smile at pretty things, hold them, then put them back. It helps.

I don’t go out very often, but when I do, I make a concerted effort to have fun. I don’t see anything wrong with dressing sexy. One day, when I am as saggy as a pillowcase full of meat, I will wish I had worked this ass a little more. But I don’t dress skunty; there’s a difference. And occasionally, I ride big giant inflated penises on party buses. After which time my mother calls and instructs me to erase the photo from my facebook. (Don’t be tagging me in your photos, people. Unless the setting is a church, or a seniors’ home, or a country meadow.)

I like to dance, but I don’t grind strange men downtown. In fact, I try not to make skin-on-skin contact with any human within a 500-yard radius of George Street. I just kinda party in my own little vodka bubble, then roll it toward a cab like a hamster in a ball.

I stay out late, but not too late, because I have a toddler who’s going to wake me up with a plastic chainsaw or power drill in a handful of hours. And honestly, I want to enjoy that day with him, not be hungover like a rack of tits. Every day has immense value in this pathetically brief life.

And I always come home to my husband, because, well, that’s where I want to be at the end of the day. Not because it’s my duty; because it’s my preference. And there’s no place cozier than the thickets of his back hair.

What’s my point? I forget, so I will just make something up. How about this: You don’t have to be holier than thou to be a good mother. And you don’t have to be constantly trying to prove that you’re a “fun mom” to be a fun mom, which is what I am doing right now. (I’m just jealous because my husband is gone in the woods with his friends and I am home bleaching my moustache, and I just found a chocolate chip melted in my belly button.)

I think we all just need to stop trying to be what we think society wants us to be. And just be someone our kids will think is a pretty decent person. I have a fridge magnet that says, “Be the kind of person your dog thinks you are.” That pretty well sums it up. Feed and guide and protect and love them, and every now and then let them chase a squirrel and shit in the flowerbed.

Disclaimer: Mother Blogger does not have a moustache. But if she did, it would be thick and bushy and magnificent.

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