Legend of The Falls. From a High Horse

Hey ya'll. I love and adore the following guest poster. So please give her your undivided attention. Or I may have to hurt you. -Missy

Hi, I’m Heather and I write a blog called Queen of Shake Shake. Missy was kind enough to ask me to guest post on her blog, and ever since I’ve made it my mission in life to discover what she’s smoking that makes you lose all sense and throw all caution to the wind. I want some of that. What I’m trying to tell you is that Missy’s crazy and I’m going to enable her by posting here.

Today I want to tell you about a particular morning when I planned to ride a high horse, and, unfortunately, how the horse threw me and bit me in the ass.

On that morning, I sat upon a dazzling saddle of superiority. The rhinestones on this thing would blind you for life. There I sat, reflecting on a post I wrote two years ago that caused a falling out between me and a friend over something as ridiculous as my child reading non-fiction instead of fiction books.

I know. Crazy people are everywhere, so look closely at your friends. If a child loves to read, WHO CARES if he prefers non-fiction over fiction. Apparently the argument against supporting my son’s non-fiction preference had to do with the future - an educational future where kids are required to do book reports on fiction books.

To that I said again WHO CARES. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. And this is where the high horse trotted into the scene, all dolled up and ready for me to ride. Because I totally crossed that bridge. When my son, Payton, had his first book report due, he was given free reign to choose a book and he picked a Charlie Brown book – a FICTION book.

So there I was, sitting atop that high horse and mentally crafting a blog post with words like "boo-yah" and "neener neener" in it. (I pride myself on my maturity.)

But then the high horse threw me off and bit me in the ass!

It was time to get the boys dressed for school that morning and a little cold front had moved through our area overnight, leaving behind temperatures in the low 60's with lots of chilly wind.

While I know certain Canadians are probably thinking oh boy, SUMMER! down here along the Southern coast, that's winter weather, so we pull out the pants and long sleeve shirts.

But oh, not me. I didn’t do something as innocent as to take brand new pants and fall shirts from his closet. Instead, I asked Payton eat shit and die. Or so you would think by his reaction.

Normally I would have kept with my WHO CARES maternal attitude, and let him wear shorts and experience that fine thing called natural consequences. While Payton busied himself with his shorts, I would be in the barn, contemplating those natural consequences while polishing up my high-horse saddle even more, because tomorrow he would SO wear goddamn pants without throwing a fit.

For whatever reasons that day, I didn't take my normal approach. I felt this crazy, power-hungry, authority-respecting monster take over my body and found myself insisting Payton wear pants. He insisted he wear shorts. He and I stared each other down until we launched into a battle of wills that will go down in history.

History will say I won but it didn't feel like a victory.

I just want the kid to change seasonal clothes without a fight. From the time Payton was 18 months old, he didn't wear anything he didn't want to wear. If I tried to approach him with anything other than soft, 100% cotton, elastic-waisted clothes and collarless shirts, Lucifer himself possessed his body. He’d scream like a banshee and writhe on the floor; spittle would fly from his mouth and from his ass would shoot volcanic flames of damnation bent on devouring evil, sinful souls who believe in button chinos.

Or take jeans, for instance. Payton refused to wear jeans since until three weeks ago. He tried on a pair in a store, gave his stamp of approval, and assured me YES! He would wear them. Then he threw a shit fit a week later when I asked him to wear them to a public function. That crazy, power-hungry, authority-respecting monster reared up then too because I insisted he wear those jeans. He acted like an asshole until he could take them off.

Honestly, who’s the crazy one? Payton for being so stubborn about his clothes or me being so stubborn about what he should and shouldn't wear.

It turns out I wasn’t crazy the morning of that cold front. I was only hormonal.

As I took the boys to school that day, listening to Payton grumble the entire way about those pants I forced him to wear, I spent the carpool drive thinking hot damn am I glad to be taking you to school today!

And then I started my period.

Within a nanosecond my jeans that fit before no longer did. They were suddenly so tight and so uncomfortable I couldn’t bear it. I change into a pair of soft, 100% cotton, elastic-waist pants as soon as I got home.

That, reader, is how a high horse bucks you off. Most people call it irony, but really, I think God just hates me.

Thanks again to Heather, Queen of Shake Shake, for indulging my insanity. Check her out, if you haven't already.

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