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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 to know what to do when you realize what this really smells like.

I think about what will happen when your teenaged self comprehends my blog.

I don’t think you’ll be shocked. It’s the principle of boiling frogs. They say that if you try to put a frog in a pot of boiling water, he will fight you to the death. But if you put him in the water and slowly heat it up, he’ll go along peacefully.

Wait. I don’t like comparing you to a boiling frog. 

Okay, living with me is like a stinky room. When you’re been in there, smelling the collard greens and chitterlings, you eventually don’t notice it as much. It’s when you walk in from the fresh outdoors that the smell knocks you on your ass.

My poor readers might be knocked on their asses, what with the pleats, and the FIGHTING TADPOLES and boogers and the like.

Some families show their love for each other with cards or perhaps jewelry. When your father is pleased with us, he gets a tattoo of our names.

Not everyone functions the way we do. And those that do, have the good sense not to talk about it on the Internet. What with child labor laws and all.

Also, I don’t think this blog is going to make me a favorite among the other members of the PTA. They will be surprised to find that between your father and I, I am the more aggressive of your parents. “Why no, Suzy, I was not referring to YOUR dumb ass. I was talking about another dumb ass …”

But you? You live with the crazy, you know what it smells like. You will have grown up with my peculiar view of living and I doubt that it will come as a total surprise. 

But I’m sure I’m gonna blow it somewhere. I’ll post something that horrifies even you.

I’m going to mention an embarrassing nickname (“MUFFIN-STUFFS”). Maybe you could do without a play by play of the special sex talk we will have you’re 12 (“MASTERBATE”). And perhaps you don’t want the world to know that your mom has such a poor vocabulary for a Northwestern graduate (“AW SNAP, SHE DONE BEASTED YOU!”).

Ah yes, you’re gonna wonder what your mom was thinking. So I’ll just tell you. 

I’m thinking that this blog will help my words (even the embarrassing ones) sink in. I’m thinking that this blog will help you understand that I have always adored you, and always will. Even if I am mad enough to tear the roof off your car. I’m thinking that I’ll be able to say, “YOUNG MAN, GO DIRECTLY TO MY BLOG. August 23rd, 2009. Read it and then come back down here and put my bionic armpit in the charger.”

I have to put all this stuff down so just in case I am unable to deliver it in person, it will be here. Journals get lost. That’s why the safest place for my personal letters to you is here on the Interwebs. And copied to my hard drive. And printed out in a box in my closet. And over my mama’s house …

I want you to always enjoy your birthday. Or for the love of God, fake it for me.