The Streaker

funny-cute-cat-yes-noJack is definitely his father’s son.

They both have red hair and blue eyes.

They are both ardent meat eaters.

Neither of them really listen to me, unless I am talking about bacon or boobies.

Also, they are both closet nudists.

O.k, maybe it’s more accurate to say that they are the “playing naked on the street intersection” and “streaking down the apartment building hallway” nudists.

Suffice it to say, if my son were ever going to be any kind of nudist, I’d rather it weren’t the street intersection kind. That particular childhood glory can stay in the memories of my partner, his parents, the little friend he was playing dinky cars with, and the cops who hauled him home, buck-arsed naked.

Jack seized his moment of glory at 7am one morning last week. He was sitting on the training potty in the middle of the living room (because, who doesn’t go to the bathroom in the living room?), while I was sitting on the couch, brushing Jill’s hair and getting her ready for school.

Jack apparently thinks “take your pull-up off and sit on the potty” means “take off all your clothes”. He sat there on the throne, not a stitch of clothing on him, shifting around like he wanted to be anywhere but there.

Normally, I keep him sitting on the potty, until I am finished helping his sister get ready for the day. This way, I have both of them in front of me, and I know exactly what they are doing. Plus, it’s the only way I can keep an eye on Jack.

The little bugger is fast.

That morning, I was running a bit behind. Jack was shifting around on his potty, as I mentioned, so I told him to stand up. Seeing that there was nothing in his potty, I figured if I told him what I wanted him to do, we’d still be in safe territory. I told Jack to put the potty back where it goes… right in front of the front door (don’t ask- I don’t even know why it goes there). He bent over, still buck arsed naked, and picked up the potty to trek it over to the front door.

I sat on the couch, brushing Jill’s hair.

I heard the clatter of the potty being placed, not-so-gently, down on the linoleum.

I heard the lock slide, and the door open and shut quickly.

Did I mention the little bugger is quick?

I must have shoved poor Jill forward (and out of her chair) in my effort to get out the apartment door before my son reached the lobby. Amazingly, all she said was: “Mom, don’t pull my hair!”

In a matter of maybe 10 seconds, Jack cleared the 100 feet between our door and the door leading to the lobby. That little bum is going to be a sprinter, I tell you. I swear he’s hiding rocket boosters somewhere on him.

When I caught him, he had his little hand on the knob of the door leading to lobby, and an evil little grin on his face as he looked up at me. It was a stroke of good luck that nobody else on my floor happened to poke their head out the door at the sound of my son gleefully giggling as he sprinted down the hallway in a state of blissful nudity.

My little mischief maker- it’s a good thing he’s cute.

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Confessions of An Evil Parent

suspiciously-evil-sloth-meme-generator-hehehehe-all-is-according-to-plan-0229e8.jpgI had my kids by C-Section.

As I lay down in the hospital bed, carefully holding my oldest (Jill) for the first time, I was bemused and still a little addled from the morphine that they knocked me out with.

My first thought, as I looked down at this tiny little bundle that had just been literally plucked out of me, wasn’t “Wow, I’m a parent now.”

It wasn’t “Oh my god, she’s gorgeous”.

It wasn’t even “I love you”.

Really, it was more like “I’m going to apologize in advance for screwing you up royally. Your therapy is going to cost a fortune, but this is going to be so much fun!”

See, I don’t believe there is such a thing as a perfect child, and that’s in large part because I don’t believe there is such a thing as a perfect parent. We all mess up from time to time. The thing that determines just how much your child is scarred for life is both how badly you mess up and how evil you are.

Now, I’m not talking about abuse. I’m not talking about being a drug or alcohol addict with no intention getting off the substance. I’m not talking about anything that is blatantly harmful to you or your child. In my opinion, that’s not screwing up your child, it’s outright failing them.

I’m talking about the kind of thing that makes your child embarrassed to be seen with you out in public. You know: the not-so-subtle evil that only parents are truly capable of achieving.

As you may have figured out by now, I’m not a perfect person or a perfect parent. Not only that, but I pride myself in being evil.

I’ll give you an example.

One fine summer day, before there was any serious talk about having children, my man and I were out hiking an old forest here on Vancouver Island. We were bantering happily back and forth, our little bear bells jingling merrily as they dangled off our backpacks.

Being outdoorsy on this island means that having a bear bell or two… or twenty… is just plain smart. Bears are common, and therefore an encounter with one while you are hiking or camping is a very real possibility.

Anyway, back to my story.

As I walked along the trail, a little smile crept across my lips.

“You know, if we ever had a kid, they would come in pretty handy when we go out hiking,” I said to my partner.

My man, being both awesome and equally evil, naturally encouraged the obvious set-up. “Oh?” he asked. “Why is that?”

“Well, we could get them one of those little walking harnesses,” I began. “You know: the ones that look like a stuffed animal backpack, and have a leash attached? We could sew a bunch of bear bells all over it, and put it on the little tyke whenever we go out hiking. Then, all we’d have to do is give the leash a little jerk every few minutes to make the bells jingle.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” my man added. “In fact, while we are talking about scarring our future child for life, why don’t we name it Horatio Zaphod?”

The thing with the leash and the bells hasn’t happened yet. I haven’t given up on the idea- I just think it would be a lot funnier if we do it when our kids are teenagers. Especially if we’ve invited some of their friends to come along on the hike.

I all-out vetoed the name idea. I mean, I know I’m an evil parent, but that’s just plain cruel.