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Should I die, this blog will serve as my son's source of virtual mama.

If I live, I won't have to repeat myself.

sigers writes fiction and nags her son in austin, texas. 

I want you know what I'm doing with that shovel.

I want you know what I'm doing with that shovel.

On my personal list of drudgery, parenting is juuuust above ditch digging.

And Jeebus help me if sometimes I *wish* I was just digging a ditch.

A good ol’ ditch who doesn’t remain uncooperative and sprawled on the floor in the middle of his kung fu lessons.

A nice ditch who doesn’t eat the occasional booger.

And every month when I’ve spent all my disposable loot in tuition at ditch school, sat in a ditch barbershop for a total of 46 hours, kept all the little ditch’s crevices clean and wiped and trimmed, I like to imagine that my ditch would instantly understand that I would rather be drinking champagne and reading Hustler.

My ditch would say thanks if he could.

And as long as I go deep enough, my beautiful ditch will definitely fulfill his destiny, which is trapping all the drunk college students who come in the yard to retrieve their beer pong balls so I can stand over them in a hockey mask with a chainsaw.

No trespassing, motherfucker.

You, on the other hand, think that my one true desire in life is to keep you company in the bathroom while you poop. 

Dude. You gotta learn to read. 

Stakes is low on a ditch, but with you, I feel the Eye of Mordor on my back as I pore desperately over Great Schools trying to ascertain which school will be the magical school that ignites your love of learning?

On top of that? I spend my time trying to figure out how to be a better person. That is mostly for you. Because I’m 40, Home Slice. I could happily settle into every one of my jacked up personality traits and ride this life out. Either get with the fact that I sometimes don’t talk for a week or get lost, I got a Sizzler buffet to hit.

But I can’t. I have to have some sort of interpersonal skills and a will to not die of food poisoning. Because you’re watching.

Stakes is high.

But that pressure I feel, that sacrifices I make, that erratic scrambling to be a better person? I know what that is. I am unfurling and stretching toward my sun. That is hard work. That’s what love feels like. And I am quite in love with you, little boy.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

My dad has been dead for about a year. I want you to know how I feel.

My dad has been dead for about a year. I want you to know how I feel.

I want you boys to learn from what we lost.