Admission of Blatant Pretention

It's kind of sickening.  The utter joy I get from being such an annoying braggadocio when it comes to the ages and stages of my chirrins.

Regardless of the fact that I was a baby with a baby, or because of it, I am now a 36-year-old woman who has a kid who will be 18 in a month.  Another who is 16.  And aside from the fact that Andrew is my precious wittle Drewbear baby lovey kissy-face boo-boo snuggle bunny, I have no doubt that both of them could go out into the world and be fully functional and independent members of society all on their own.  Right this minute. 

I really, really get a weird, sick pleasure out of this particular position in which I find myself.   Sure, my young'ins rock.  They're amazing.  And I love them more than chocolate.

BUT.  They are also almost all growed up!

I know we all follow different paths in life.  Having children as a teenager was not the path I chose.  But it is one I am immeasurably grateful for.

With all respect to my friends and acquaintances who have walked the opposite path- having a family later in life- I will say this.  If I had a baby.  A toddler.  Any kid younger than 15 at my age.  Holy mother of sweet baby Jesus.  I'd claw my eyeballs out.

See, I got shit to do.  Lotsa shit to do.  I had a BLAST raising my kids.  After I got over myself, of course.  I used to be a bitch, if you can believe it.  I was suck-ass Mom when my kids were little.  That is the one advantage to having kids later in life.  The virtue of patience.  Yeah.  That's pretty much it. 

But we had tons of fun.  We lived overseas for a while.  We took awesome vacations.  We got to watch them grow up within our strange little (un)social experimentations.  And then we got to revel in the afterglow when they finally reached an age where we could say.....

"SEE!!  Suck my balls, bitches!  That shit WORKED!"

And then I saw a woman in the grocery store the other day.  Sitting on the floor in the bread/soda aisle feeding her impatient l'ilun a bottle.  Her two toddlers/little chirrins sat idly by eating Lunchables while Mommy did on-the-spot baby duty.  She was very obviously my age or older.  I made small talk and commiserated with her.   Gave her the "I've totally been there" talk.  Ensured her that they do grow up, I promise.

Yes, I promise they do.  Because mine are 16 and almost 18.  She looked at me like I'd just vomited frogs.

*AFTERGLOW*

Pretentious.  Perhaps even bitchified.  Shook my ass and flashed her a smile. 

All I know is that I'm still young enough to fulfill my lifelong dream of learning to pole dance.  I know I'll never be hot enough to be a Suicide Girl, but I can still dream, right?

I'm still young enough to actually enjoy a partial early retirement, not with bridge clubs and bingo, but with kayaks and zip lines and rock climbing.

I'm still young enough to take my youngin' out for a piercing date this weekend.  Although he doesn't know about it yet.  I figured we haven't spent a lot of Mommy/Drewbear time lately.  He'll get his septum done and I'll glitter me up an eyebrow.  Then we'll have lunch.

Because.  Why the fuck not?

Although I did go all "Mom" on him this afternoon and asked him to tone down his rebel trouble-makin' shenangigans when he almost got kicked out of Food Lion for being a wascally wabbit.

ME!  Telling my kissy-face Drewbear to tone it down.

The Horror!!

Anyway.   Bah, blah, blah.   You know, the very first gynecologist appointment I ever went to was when I was 16 years old.  I begged her to tie my tubes then.  I KNEW I didn't want kids.  She laughed at me.  I asked again after Jake was born.  I was 18.  More laughing.  I asked again after Andrew was born.  I was 21.  Nope.  Finally, at 23, I stormed into my GYN's office and demanded he cut, burn, macerate, and decimate the goddamn things or I'd do it myself. 

Just my luck, some little motherfucker's gonna jump the gap and find a nice little hidey-hole in my uterus.

Fortunately, I've got a perfect flight of stairs just waiting to be tripped on.

The Bet

Okay, okay.  Some of you may call it a "bribe."  Semantics.  It is what it is.

Here it is.  I bet Jake that he couldn't go a month with only zero-calorie drinks and NO soda (not even diet soda, not even zero-calorie diet soda) and NO fast food (including sit-down restaurants and the nasty fucking Wal-Mart deli). 

That is the bet.  I pretty much gave him free reign to eat whatever he wanted as long as he bought it at a grocery store.  I realize this opens up a wide range of possibilities, like Reese's ice cream for lunch and microwave corn dogs for dinner with a snack of Cheese puffs and jar of Nutella. 

It's a risk I'm willing to take. 

So far, however, he's done quite well.  Including cooking some of his own meals.  Even some not-too-unhealthy meals! 

He went through a bit of withdrawal from soda.  Some Excedrin Migraine fixed him right up. 

But I'll be honest, it was bad.  He was drinking lord knows how much regular soda every day, and I shit you not, he was probably eating fast food every single fucking day.  When they get to a certain age, they can drive, and they have their own money, parents kinda lose their influence over dietary choices. 

I feel like I failed him.  I have no idea how since I haven't had anything but water to drink in YEARS and I eat nothing but fruit and peanut butter.  Maybe that's why he went so extreme in the other direction? 

Maybe something like, "OMG,...Mom NEVER eats and I'm STARVING!!!  Must buy tons of shit!!!  Right now!!!"

Anyway.  I have given him 2 cheat meals.  NOT DAYS.  But meals. 

Today is day #5. 

I'll keep ya posted ;-)

OH!  The bet.  Right.  If he wins......

He gets $200.