Insanity Is Inherited, We Get It From Our Kids

As most of you know, my sister and her hubby welcomed a bouncing baby boy to their repertoire last week. (I don't think that's the proper use of repertoire; however, I've been drinking wine since 6:30, so sue me.) His name is Bo Michael Grant Popsicle (Pospichal) and he was born right as summer turned to fall. I've seen pictures and he looks absolutely gorgeous. (Just like his big brother) I'm dying to meet him!

Welcoming a little one into the family makes me think of how INSANE my mom must have been around 1990. Jan had it bad in so many ways. Not only did she have a 2 year old and a 2 month old, but she also had a freaking 12 year old. Now that I think of it, my older sister must have had it bad, too. Twelve years old and two baby sisters? That is about the time that the school nurse has a "special talk" with sixth graders to learn about the birds and the bees and the sugar plum trees. My sister must have been mortified to know what my parents were up to! Contacting storks to drop of baby sisters at the front door? Serious embarrassment I'm sure.

Despite the certain embarrassment we caused Gina, my madre assures me that Jacy and I were angels growing up. We never cried, we never fussed. We just ate and slept. (Kind of what I do now...) The same cannot be said for Gina. Evidently she liked to raise hell. Remember that time you scaled a grain bin? Love you, Ginaaa! Don't kill me. Anyway, as much as mom assures me we were easy kids, I really don't believe her. We were sneaky snakes. Well, I was at least. I blame it on middle child syndrome. I also blame my tattoos and piercings on that disease. Though, I must say, I don't think Jacy was too much of an angel herself. Once she bit a chunk of skin out of our friend's back at daycare after he pissed her off. Oh and she tried to drown my friend, Mary, in our crick.... But back to me and my evilness...

I think for the first 14 years of my life, I convinced Jacy to do things that I never wanted to do. I was always to ashamed/scared to ask my parents for anything, so I'd speak through Jacy. Most of my scheming involved food. Hense how I got to be overweight. Me: "Hey, Jace, do you feel like chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream tonight? I just saw a commercial for it on TV and you looked like you could use some ice cream." Jacy: "Hey MOMMMM, Can you get us some ice cream?" Bingo, worked like a charm.

But I was evil in so many different ways. I remember getting spankings. Oh, and I remember the distinct taste of Lava soap as it scrubbed my taste buds. The Lava was used for my potty mouth. You know, like calling my dad an asshole after I stole a sucker from our local grocery store. He wanted me to give it back and I thought he needed to know he was being an asshole. I was five. I do want to let you know that I did not learn my sailor language from my parents. My best friend growing up had two older brothers that taught him every cuss word in the book. He, in turn, felt the need to use those four-letter-words while we were playing at recess.

I was quite demonic towards Jacy. I'm surprised she even talks to me now. Although she was a gawky little f*ck, she was still skinny and cute and I was 100 percent jealous. She was also terrific at fishing. On one particular fishing trip, she caught six catfish. COUNT THEM! SIX! I caught none. She bragged about it. I don't care for braggarts. So, I got her back a few years later after dad gave her a real nice fishing pole for her birthday. I slammed the rod in our front door as we headed out for a fishing trips. I tried to make it look like an accident. No one believed me. I remember trying to outrun my dad. Lesson: Never try to outrun your dad (unless, perhaps, he's in a wheelchair). You will never win that battle.

Oh, and then there was the time I got jealous that Dad was taking Jacy for a ride on his snowmobile before he took me on a ride. Mind you, he was going to take me for a ride AFTER Jacy went for a spin, but patience was never one of my virtues. So, I decided to run up behind Jacy and push her off the snowmobile as Dad was about to go. I was built like a linebacker, so I'm sure Jacy's thud on the ground hurt her like a mo' fo'. Not my smartest Jess moment. Being unsafe around snowmobiles really doesn't sit well with Papa Schwag. I made it as far as our back porch before I was real, real sorry.

All of this talk about how awful of a child I was makes me really want to go out and have some little rugrats of my own in, like, 10 to 15 years. Though I honestly can't wait to shove Lava down their helpless little throats. Child protective services is probably keeping an eye on me now...