I didn't call it "Blunderview" for nothin'

Because I am so not Mary Poppins, Mother Teresa, and Florence Nightengale all rolled up in cheery goodness and summertime games with balloons and the carcass of last Thanksgivings' turkey. That would be Martha Stewart. Well, I'm so not her either.

What is it with kids? All year they carry on about the hardships of school, and what glorious good times they are planning to have when the summertime fun rolls around. Hummmph. Bored little spawns of good intention. I suppose that if I were Mary Poppins, I'd have all sorts of games to suggest where they use detergent bottles and turn them into windsocks and roller blades. Or they'd be gifted children who grew their own herb gardens and dried their own pot pouri. Pot. Now there's an idea for an afternoon coffee break. And its practically legal. Whereas giving away game systems, burning msn, slashing phone lines, and leaving children on the end of the driveway on thursday is apparently illegal.

And husbands who happen to be teachers for ten-ish months of the year? Let's not go there.

Well , I'm the only employed collection of cells around the place. And not a very nice one. Like when one of the aforementioned offsprings mentions that we should have "something good for supper for a change", she doesn't get a friendly ruffle of the hair from her uber patient and understanding mother. Ranting banshee sort of borders on close-ish.

I don't know about this whole pseudo role I've taken on. I was having some tingles, and the next thing I knew there was a squalling baby or four at my feet, and I was supposed to know how to not damage them for the next eighteen to eighty years. Not only that, but I am supposed to be this purple-clothed, game-o-de-hour pack of joy and smiler in times of adversity. They never told me that it involved years of made-up songs about pee and poop. They never told me about all the blank stares I would get when I went on a sensible lecture about all being members of a family and a household, and how that means that we all do our share. Except the mom. She does her share, plus the shares of five others, plus the dog and the cat. Like I said. I am not Mother Teresa. No. I do feel sorry for myself, and I do openly admit to having a martyr syndrome. I don't recommend it, and if you are MT/MP/MS/FN then good for you. I hate you, but good for you.

I usually forget to buy band-aids, that's how distant I am from Florence. When I do , they come from Dollarama and don't stick all that well, which is fine by me, because they always land up glued to the only carpet in the house and nothing makes me crazier than a used band-aid. Not even petrified dog poop. And kids' tylenol? I buy the stuff by the crate, I swear. Where is it? Likely with the scotch tape, functional pens, string, and rechargable batteries that I have re-mortgaged our house for, but can never, ever locate. And common sense? Haven't got a lick of that either. So, a few months after purchasing four hundred dollar foot orthotics for my kid, it never dawns on me that she's complaining about ankle pain because its summer and she's wearing $1.99 flipflops all freaking day. Not that she'll heed my doctorly advice anyway, but if I were Mary Poppins and could pull a lamppost out of my ass carpet bag, then maybe I'd have more pull with the kid. But I think I mentioned. I am not.

I imagine that all the good moms are out there playing marathon rounds of frustration with their cherubic offspring. Well, so I am. But on my own terms.

Without the board piece. Bored children; yes. Board game, not so much. That would require me to be one of the previously mentioned perfect female types. And I think I mentioned that

I'm not.