Every week I’ll write an original post followed by a series of memories/ flashbacks from Billie’s earlier life that fit that theme.

Thanks to this (http://wp.me/p4mSL2-4) lovely little starter post, our theme for this week shall be failing.

It’s OK to fail. Especially as a parent. In fact- imagine if you didn’t fail. If you were a perfect parent. Your kid would be the most sheltered, privileged little turd muffin this side of the Milky Way. And we don’t want that, do we?

So fail, ya’ll. Fail hard. And Often.

Here’s a story about that one time I jeopardized a dead rabbit, burned oil, and taught my 2 year old how to cuss:

AUGUST 19, 2011
We’ve moved to Louisiana. It’s hot here. But the people are so damn nice I can’t even explain it to you. They really, really, heartily believe in “Southern Hospitality” and will do anything to prove it to you. I’m liking it- and Billie? She’s LOVING it.

So- one of the things about this place is that it has a lot of kitchy markets. At one of these kitchy markets Doug has found his sanctuary. They serve all these weird meats in weird combonations: Like yak stuffed with lobster, crawfish, unicorn, & a sprinkle of oregano for good measure. Anyway- the foodie in Doug is absolutely through the roof about this place and he brought home all these weird meats to try and cook. One of those weird meats? Crab stuffed rabbit. Yea. So, anyways- he had orientation for LSU today so he requested I do him the small favor of searing both sides of the rabbit and then throwing it in the slow cooker.
Sounds easy right?
Like one couldn’t possibly mess that up, yea?

Hi.
Have you met me?

Anyways, I put the pan on the stove, fill it with olive oil and set it to medium (as directed by his Highness). Looking good.
And then Billie throws her breakfast on the floor… charges into the bathroom and tries to break into the pack of extra razors I keep hidden in the back of the cabinet… pours q-tips all over the floor in the process… eats a half of a bar of soap… throws her favorite stuffed animal in the toilet… and sprinkles bits of half-eaten soap all over the living room.

Needless to say: The oil in the pan burns. Smoke everywhere.
Have you ever smelt burnt oil?
It smells like diseased plastic grew hair and then jumped into a camp fire.

So, there I am- turning off the stove, opening all the windows frantically (slipping on soap bits in the process), carefully disposing of the oil, and- I couldn’t help myself- muttering “ShitShitSHIT” the whole time.

And, there’s Billie- gleefully shouting “SHIT SHIT SHIT!!!” with me. Only, she can’t pronounce her “SH” sound yet so instead its: “TIT TIT TIT!!!”

And then my mom calls. So I’m burning myself on a hot cast iron pan while my daughter’s running around screaming about tits and my mother goes: “You know, she reminds me a lot of you when you were younger.”
Awesome. This is going to be one hell of a ride.

After speaking with my mom I am now surveying the disaster that was once a nice, clean, home. I sat down to write this because I’m kinda having PTSD about attempting to cook the rabbit. I just looked at Billie and said: “Okay. Round two. You think we can try this again?”
She nodded, jumped up and down, and said: “Tit.”

Well, what do you know? She is a lot like me.