Max James Murphy, you sneaky rascal. How are you growing up so darn fast? You are four years old today. I am in awe.

When people asked how old you were today, you said: “I’m four. And then five and then six and then seben*.” (*Not a typo.) You are excited about getting bigger. You have your whole life ahead of you. Nobody knows what the future will bring, and that’s just how it’s supposed to be.

I still remember the day I peed on a stick and thought NO WAY. And now here you are turning four years old and I’m thinking the same thing. You can’t possibly be the baby I held in my arms four years ago today, straining to open his swollen eyes for the very first time. You are my endless source of disbelief and my constant reminder that anything is possible.

Your father and I can barely remember the sleepless, screaming infant you used to be. (I said barely. We’ll never fully forget, which may explain why your only sibling is covered in fur and poops in the yard.) Boy, how you’ve chilled out these last couple of years. There was a time when you wouldn’t sit still long enough to be hugged. But you’re making up for it now, distributing love and affection on demand. I love your sudden, spontaneous smooches, with your arms slung around my neck or your hands gripping my cheeks. It’s like you’ve just rediscovered that I’m your mom, you’re totally stoked about it, and you’ll burst if you don’t let me know. Let’s hope you still feel this way when you’re a teenager.

You have your fiery moments, but Turbo Ginger has geared down. I see how you look at my face when I’m speaking to you now, your curious eyes flicking around, thinking about what I’m saying, asking questions to help you understand. You are a good listener (most of the time). You are a thinker. You are smart. There’s nobody on earth I’d rather talk to.

You are a creature of habit. You have “your spot” on the couch. If someone else sits there when it’s time for some Treehouse, they will be removed with brute force. You take an apple and a frozen yogurt in your lunchbox, every day. And you must have a puppet show at bedtime – the exact same show every night – followed by daddy’s rendition of Christopher Robin. Daddy can’t sing for beans, but you don’t seem to mind.

You need to wave to us out the window every time we drive away, and we must wave back — no exceptions. Waving to daddy as he leaves for work is what gets you out of bed in the morning. If he forgets to wave, you get upset, I call his cell, and he drives back to make amends with extra waving and airborne kisses. But we both know daddy never forgets to wave.

You’re always up for adventure beyond our humble abode in “Torbag.” But your favourite place in the world is right here at home. Our house is small and cluttered. Your bedroom is a matchbox. There’s barely enough room for your train tracks. But to you, this place is a palace. Knowing you see it that way helps me to see it that way too.

You are one of the tallest kids at soccer. You scored two goals on Sunday. “I winned two times,” you said. It’s so hard to resist touching the ball with your hands though, isn’t it? I don’t know how you do it. You took me quite seriously when I said, “listen to your coach and do what he does.” During your first class, every time Coach put his hands behind his back, so did you.

You can walk on the bottom of the kiddy pool at the Aquarena now. You think that’s pretty cool. Although, I suspect you’re thinking – why learn to swim when I can just walk on the bottom?

You’ve outgrown your tricycle. When you pedal, your knees almost touch the handlebars. It’s okay — you got some brand new wheels today. A blue Thomas bike with training wheels. Yesssssssss. Fist pump.

You are starting to get freckles on your nose. And your chubby toddler cheeks are melting away to reveal the young man you’re going to be. I find myself kissing those cheeks extra hard these days, trying to convince them to stay a little longer.

Your front tooth is still loose, but it seems to be hanging in there. Not bad for taking two smacks in the mouth from the same Tonka dump truck.

Your favourite food is “noodles and broccoli.” You eat so much broccoli, we may soon start growing our own. Whenever there’s something less favourable on your plate, you say you’re not hungry and pout. But a few seconds later, you’re clearing your plate. Your father and I snicker behind your back. Don’t be mad.

No food on earth will ever compete with “pock-a-soles.”

You’re putting on your own shoes now. (No laces yet though.) And you lie down on the floor to slip into your coat – the way they taught you at daycare. Your “Go Habs” mittens are the only mittens. There’s a hole in them now, which I guess I’ll have to sew up.

You are the kid who tells the adult in the room that something’s going awry. “Aidan is jumping on the bed.” “Owen said a bad word.” But there’s no emotion about it, just facts. You’re not a tattletale; you’re a reporter. Let’s go with that.

You’re fair and diplomatic. When I ask you who’s funnier, mommy or daddy, you say: Mommy… and daddy. When I ask you who’s a better singer, you say: Daddy… and mommy. When I ask you whose boy you are, you say: Mommy’s boy… and daddy’s boy… and Splash’s boy.

You never forget Splash. It’s probably about time you start calling her a “she” though. Not all dogs are boys, little dude.

You are an expert belcher. It’s all burping and farting and peeing and pooping — all the time. You told me you chase after the “bad guys” at daycare. I asked if you fight them. You replied, quite matter-of-factly, “I punch and fart at them.” I know you’re just playing. If I ever hear that you’re bullying another kid at school, I will do as my grandfather used to say and “take you down a button-hole lower.”

When you poop (yes, I’m going there), you immediately bend over and stick your butt up in the air. I walk into the bathroom and you’re already in the “wiping position.” I think you’d stay there for hours until somebody came. We were at a party a couple months ago and I lost you in the crowd. I passed by the bathroom and caught sight of your butt up in the air, awaiting the first person to come in and give you a hand.

You’re not shy. You’ll sing the Thomas theme song upon request, the Fisher Price microphone practically inside your mouth. And you’re a clown. You take off your clothes before bath-time and stomp around the house chanting “handsome, handsome, handsome,” shaking what your father gave ya. Crazy kid.

You love the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. You crack up when Donatello says, “butt sandwich.” You say “heroes in a half-shell.” I say “turtle power.” And vice versa. This can go on for hours.

But even crime-fighting turtles can’t compete with a cheeky blue train. We thought by now you would have left Thomas behind. Not even close. You’ve never had a pacifier or a blanket or a stuffed animal, but now I realize Thomas was all of those things for you, and still is.

You love playing hockey in the basement with daddy. You especially love to body-check. Daddy is looking forward to coaching your hockey team one day. But if you don’t want to play hockey forever, that’s okay too. We’ll always have the basement.

You love ketchup. When we ask what you had for lunch, you say: “Caesar salad, chicken nuggets, and ketchup.” Ketchup is a food. Daddy gave you a bottle of it for your birthday today. You thought that was pretty funny. You’ll always remember he did that, just like you always remember who gave you everything. Who gave you those Thomas pajamas? Aunt Robin. Who gave you Gordon the train? Uncle Glenn. When you open gifts, you say WOW, even if it’s socks. Today, you even took the time to open your cards.

You are master of the iPad. And you’re finally holding a pencil properly. (Oh how the times have changed.) You can write your name now. But you don’t care that the letters are supposed to be side by side from left to right. You put the M, A and X wherever you feel like it. Freestyle, baby.

You have an unusual concept of time. You often start sentences with things like, “When I was a little boy last night…”

You like to hide. But if someone finds you right away, that’s not cool with you AT ALL.

You love being outdoors. Summer’s almost here so I expect you’ll be spending some serious time in the backyard watering the clothesline post in your yellow rubber boots.

You are going to be a fireman when you grow up.

You love blue. But you’ll gladly drink out of a pink Princess cup.

Jogging pants over jeans, hands down.

You wouldn’t be caught dead without your sunglasses on. Even when it’s not sunny. Even when it’s dark! I think it’s because your future is so bright.

At least once a day, I find myself staring at you, utterly amazed that the likes of your father and I could create something so perfect. If I could have picked parts from a catalog, I would have created you just as you are.

It’s hard to resist, but I try not to tell you you’re handsome too much. Because how you look is not important. It’s who you are. I hope you always know that. If there’s one thing I want the world to see in you, it’s not your beautiful brown eyes but the kindness behind them. I think the world is seeing it already, even though you’re only four.

I realize as the years go by, the current you will replace the former you in my mind. It’s just the way it goes. One day, I’ll be looking at a young man before me and say “I can’t believe you were ever that four-year-old little boy.” So today, when you blew out your candles (all by yourself today, as requested) I made sure to take note. In that moment – right after you blew out the flames, right before everyone started to clap, just as the smoke from the candles was slowly climbing skyward – I took a mental picture of you. My big, brave, curious, affectionate, broccoli-munchin’, train-lovin’, kind-hearted boy who is four years old today.

I brought you in from the car tonight, asleep in my arms after a busy day. You’re getting so tall and heavy, I can barely carry you anymore. But I will always carry you, in one way or another, no matter how big you get. And you can’t stop me.

As you know, I’m a blogger. Duh. You’re reading my blog. Shut up.

Come fall, I will also be a published author. Fall: the perfect time of year for a book called Motherfumbler. Get it? Fall… Fumbling… Oh shut up.

Anyway, I’m pretty stoked about it all. I’m going to be a household name — in at least four houses where I have blood relatives.

But I sometimes think — usually as my mother is wagging her finger — what happens when Max starts to read? Will I keep writing as I do? Should I curb my vulgarity to protect him? One day, is he going to be mortified by my book about tits and vaginas and what a horrible baby he was? Probably. Well I can’t take the book back now. And I don’t wanna. It’s going to be out there. For. Ev. Er. When he’s five. When he’s 15. When I’m dead. So maybe I’ll include this loving message to him at the front of the book, in case he needs a little help to deal.

Dear Max:

One day, one of your evil classmates is going to bring this book to school, hand it to you, and say: “Page 87 is all about your mom’s vagina.” In fact, I probably just ensured this will indeed happen.

It’s okay if you’re embarrassed. Children are supposed to be ashamed of their parents, especially ones who are really funny and awesome. But when that kid says his mom says your mom is “crazy” or “vulgar” or a “bad mom,” you make sure to reply with one of the following:

1. Oh yeah, well at least my mom can write more than her name on a bathroom stall.

2. At least my mom has a vagina. I heard your mom’s got an alpaca farm down there.

3. Your mom is just jealous, because your dad wishes my mom was your mom.

4. That ol’ thing? That’s what my mom was doing while working and parenting and blogging and playing football and saving the whales and stuff. What does your mom do, other than change your big boy diapers and bleach her moustache?

Now you’re all set. Of course, the best thing to do is just smile and say: Tell your mom – thanks so much for buying a copy. I’m one step closer to Disneyland. Again.

P.S. I’m very proud of you, even if you’re not proud of me (yet).

We are of that new order of families whose Sunday routine consists of lazing around in our jammies, eating cereal, and watching movies about space travel. “Church” is just a picture in Max’s Little People book.

Yesterday morning (Easter Sunday), while we were visiting my mom at the ol’ homestead in Badger’s Quay, Max came downstairs exclaiming “Jesus was back alive!” After fighting the urge to tell him that Jesus was a zombie who slowly morphed into a bunny, my straight-up bedtime story had stuck. “Jesus died,” he recollected. “But when it became Easter day, he came alive again.” My good Christian mother was tickled pink.

My atom-splitting science teacher of a husband, however, just glared at me, his thick eyebrows twisting into tornadoes. What have you been teaching our son? “Don’t worry, honey,” I assured him. “I’m not getting all Jesusy on ya.”

I went to church on Easter Sunday with my mom and Max. One time too many, I suppose, for an outspoken skeptic or atheist or agnostic or whatever the hell I am. People were moving away from me in church to avoid the projectile splinters that would surely result from a pew-splitting bolt of lightning.

I was raised in the church. My father was an Anglican lay minister for 50 years. I sang in the choir for ten. I know all the words to several hymns. I even have a favourite -- The King of Love, My Shepherd Is. It still gives me chills. Possibly because I imagine the “shepherd” is Robert Downey Junior in a loincloth, but I digress. Now, do I think it’s all a bunch of biblical bunk? Yeah, mostly. I just can’t bring myself to go to church anymore; it’s all so silly. And I can’t seem to shake the fact that some of the world’s most gifted minds thought so too. Charles Darwin. Albert Einstein. Helen Keller. Ernest Hemingway. John Lennon. Jodie Foster. Maybe I’m like David Bowie – a self-described “reluctant atheist.” I want some kind of faith and hope to hold onto, but my mind just won’t let me believe.

But I’m not one of those hypocrites who expects to get married and buried in the church but never steps foot inside in-between. Let it be known: When I go tits-up, you can throw my ashes into the cavity of an old, broken typewriter.

But I haven’t completely forsaken church. Because I guess I’m still open to the possibilities. Refusing to go – never ever ever – would be like declaring I know something for certain, and that is neither true nor possible. The burden of proof is with you though, Jesus lovers. So forgive me for skipping church and watching E.T. with my family instead. I may not be wrapped in the arms of Jesus, but I’m wrapped in somebody’s arms and somebody’s wrapped in mine. This is what’s real to me. This is my heaven. Send me a Jesus memo when you find something.

But even though I’m not all Jesusy, it doesn’t mean Max can’t be. So I took him to church on Easter morning. As his mother, it’s on me to teach him how to be polite and share and wipe his arse, but it’s not my job to tell him what to believe. Especially when I don’t have the slightest clue myself. It’s my job to guide him, and show him some of the options – like the story of Jesus and Easter and Christmas and Satan (just kidding) – and then he can decide for himself.

Besides, I reckon there are worse things to be than Jesusy. As far as I know, Jesus was a kind, gentle, compassionate man who lived humbly and judged no one. If more so-called Christians acted more like that, maybe I wouldn’t have such a distaste for the whole thing.

Anyway, even though I’m not much of a believer myself, I tell my son about Jesus. So that one day, when he realizes it’s all a bunch of horse shit, it won’t be “because Mom told me so.” It’ll be “because that is what I think.”

On the other hand, if he decides it’s all true, I am open to be enlightened.

Easter irks me. But it’s not Jesus’ fault. He’s been dead for over 2,000 years for Christ sake. It’s the rest of us. We’ve crucified Easter over the last couple millennia.

30 years ago when I was a little chick, Easter was so wonderfully simple. Birds tweeting. Lilies blooming. A feed of turkey or turrs after church. A handful of little chocolate eggs hidden around the living room. (We’d find one sneaky egg months later and wonder if it was still good to eat.) And a chocolate bunny that I’d methodically consume, bit by bit, over the next week. Ears first, ass last.

But look at Easter now. We’ve gone and complicated the hell out of it. We’ve got our kids thinking every time there’s a Jesus event – Christmas, Easter – they get a pile of crap. And then we post photos of it on Facebook – you know, so the kids in Africa can see how much we love Jesus. Jesus doesn’t equal love, silly rabbit. Jesus equals candy and chocolate and new clothes and pastel-coloured junk and a week of no school. In fact, we’ve probably got our kids loving the whole crucifixion thing a little too much: Hurry up and nail that dude to the cross already so I can get my paws on some candy!

Nice trick, Bible boinkers. I imagine, deep inside the bowels of the Vatican, there’s a candy factory where they lace little fudge bunnies with extra sugar – to fuel the addiction of the world’s kids to the sweet story of Easter. And it’s not just the Catholics. I’m sure the Archbishop of Cadbury is in on it too.

If we’re going to give our kids stuff, at least we could tell them WHY. You know, as a symbol of the ultimate gift of Christ or something. But sadly, some of us are just not that bright. Or maybe we just can’t bring ourselves to tell our kids about the lamb of god because it sounds an awful lot like the shit of sheep. So we tell them a giant ass bunny brought the goods. Because that sounds so much better.

Here’s an idea. If we insist on showering our kids with Easter crap, how about we throw in a few t-shirts? Give our kids heaps of candy, toys and gadgets, and make them wear one of these shirts to give credit where credit is supposedly due:

THANK U 4 THE IPOD, G-ZIZ.

JESUS GAVE ME SALVATION… AND SMARTIES!

JESUS DIED FOR MY SINS… AND THIS SCOOTER.

THESE LEGOS WERE MADE POSSIBLE BY THE VERY GENEROUS CONTRIBUTIONS OF ZOMBIE JESUS.

IF YOU LIKE MY NEW EARRINGS, YOU ALSO LIKE THE NAILS IN JESUS’ HANDS.

THIS EASY-BAKE OVEN – PAID FOR WITH THE FLESH AND BLOOD OF CHRIST. RED VELVET, ANYONE?

THANKS FOR THE GOOD CHOCOLATE, GOOD SHEPHERD!

MY REDEEMER IS RAD GENEROUS.

JESUS IS MY COPILOT. THAT’S WHY HE GAVE ME THIS REMOTE-CONTROL HELICOPTER.

Shoes. You gotta wear ‘em to know ‘em. Sure, they’re comfortable when you’re strutting up and down the hallway of your bungalow with your pyjama pants pulled up to your knees. Try wearing those pleather suckers on George Street for six hours and see how you feel. You be hobblin’ like Tiny Tim in drag.

Same thing goes for your kid. You never really know what kind of youngster you’ve got until you test him out in the real world – beyond your 12-foot by 12-foot living room where his audience consists of dinkies, dust bunnies and the dog.

Our recent trip to Orlando confirmed that our little junior is quite the joiner. Not one of those annoying little assholes whose hands are permanently raised in class, volunteering for everything from erasing the chalkboard to shining the teacher’s apple with his face fuzz. Max is the kind of kid who just wants to participate, see what it’s all about, and doesn’t mind that everyone is looking at him.

As soon as we arrived at Hollywood Studios, we got stopped in our tracks by one of those impromptu entertainment troops. They pulled up in the middle of the square in a funny little truck and a slew of crazy characters piled out. A crowd of onlookers quickly gathered around, each one with the kind of smile that hurts your face. After a few tricks and zingers, the actors said they’d now be giving away an ultimate Fastpass and asked for a few pint-sized prospects to come forward and compete for the prize. Max didn’t start shouting “me me me!” He didn’t know the war was over. But with a teaspoon of encouragement, he was game. “Do you want to go up there and try to win?” we asked him. Blank-faced and open-mouthed, a little stunned by all this excitement, he nodded his head. And with a gentle push of my hand on his shoulder, he was gone out there into the big, bad world. He skipped up into the epicentre of the action, stood politely in place, and said his name into the microphone on cue. Phew. I was terrified he’d say his name was “meatball” or “toaster” or “dicksmack” or something. Who really knows what’s going to come out of their mouths? Seriously. He followed his father into the bathroom the other day and said, “Daddy, your bird is disgusting.” And he did NOT hear that from me. Nor can he read thoughts.

We shouldn’t be surprised by his courage, I suppose. His nickname is Turbo Ginger for god sakes. He chewed his way out of his crib. He ran before he walked. His first crayon drawing was titled, Riptide of Emotion. But I just don’t know where he gets it. When I was little, I’d have crawled up my mother’s hole before I’d get up in front of a crowd. And his father is kinda shy. Except when he’s drinking. Geez, I don’t suppose Max was drunk the whole time we were at Disney… Hmmmm.

So our gutsy little guy didn’t mind doing his own thang during our excursion to the land of mice and magic. And thank goodness; I didn’t pay a zillion clams to have him cling to my thigh like a loser koala bear. This is a buffet of fun, dammit, get your money’s worth.

His audacity was an endless source of amusement for us. Except at the Honey, I Shrunk the Kids movie set which should be called Honey, I Lost Our Kid. Max was up the big leaf, down the dog’s tongue, in and out of giant Cheerios and tunnels. Our kid would go into a little nook, we’d watch and wait, and someone else’s kid would come out. Me nerves. I’m going to have to teach him a new word soon: kid-nap-per. It took all four sets of eyes – two parents, two grandparents – to keep him from ending up in a Columbian brick factory. “Rust hair, strong, make good worker.”

I reckon this audacious child of mine loins is my ticket to greatness. I mean, it’s not like I’m ever going to strike it rich with a bestseller or anything. In Orlando, I kept looking around for opportunities to win things, where I could shove Max up on stage to try his luck. “Remember that time you ruined mommy’s vagina? You owe me. Dance, ya little frigger, dance!”

A work friend made me laugh the other day. He said, when his mom wants him to find something online, she says, “google it up.” It’s like “look it up,” but not in a book — on the Internets machine!

You know how it works. That little box in the top right corner of your web browser, the one that says Google — that’s where you type in what you’re looking for. You press enter, and presto – you get a list of websites that best meet your keywords.

A lot of people end up at my blog this way. Some on purpose, some by accident. Those who get here on purpose, for example, enter terms like: St. John’s mommy blogger, funny mom blogs, Vicki Murphy blog, stuff like that. I didn’t just make those examples up; on my Google Analytics account, I can see exactly what visitors to my website are googling. Don’t worry, I don’t know who you are, but I can see what you crazy bastards are looking for when you wind up at motherblogger.ca and it is motherbloggin’ hilarious.

Go put on a diaper because this list is about to blow the piss right out of you. These are some of the search terms googled by visitors to this ‘ere blog luh. And take note: the following is rated R for Raunchy and PG for Pretty Gross. But remember – I am simply reporting the list of search terms. I don’t even know what half of these things mean, I swear…

St. John’s mommy blogger

Funny mom blogs

Squirrel in your mouth on fire

Tit mom

Son and his friends mom milf provide lemon juice

What is price of lofty mountain grandeur

Vagina tits

Saggy old vagina

Some kids are ugly

Proud sailor mom

Saggy bladder

Pasty white asshole

Penis dummy tit pic

My boyfriend fucked my sister and mother turbo

Mother in sperm ass

My nans massive ass

Mooning from a bus

Milf bent over ass

Mom fucking and taking something big and long

Mom ass fun

Man with boobs wig bra

Male swimmers pubes showing

Magical milfs

Human shaped body pillow

I’m Mexican and my wife is white could our baby have jaundice

Jumbo tits babes

Flapjack ugly faces

Ginger big boobs no bra

Flapjack ugly faces

Communist retro chic

Dog wife

Blogger anal maxi dilation

Brave little brothers wallpaper

Change husband’s diaper

Carrot top 1993

Baby shower cakes vagina

Beef stroking off

Naughty chair slipper

Oh yeah give it to me

Pasty white ass

What. In. The. Mother. From these terms, I draw three conclusions:

1. I have a potty mouth. Google is matching the search terms to the content of my blog, so obviously there are some similarities.

2. Google is great, but seriously – “Flapjack ugly faces”? When have I ever said anything remotely like that (except for last night when I was googling freaky pancake ideas)?

3. There are a lot of weirdos out there, and some of them are you. And filling this post with these terms again is gonna bring even more of you here. Ah well. All weirdos welcome. Except for the sicko who googled “change husband’s diaper.” Not cool.