EdenSky

I uh, don't know how to tell you this...but I may have VBS, it's pretty contagious.

2010-08-03T20:34:00.006-04:00

It's summer vacation here (wait, wasn't it May a minute ago?) right, well, anyway, moving right along... On the last day of school I brought my daughter home in tears. The idea of spending 2 months at home with me instead of at school with her friends and teacher was just too awful for her to bear.

Adam and I have no friends (fine, maybe a couple, but seriously not a lot.) While we like to get out and have grown-up fun once in a while, for the most part we tend to stay home alone, content with each others company and/or a good book. Were it not for the demands of parenting, I think I would probably live all alone and go for days or weeks at a time without any human interaction whatsoever. Adam likes people, but he's too lazy to bother leaving the house unless he has to work. When we are forced into social situations outside of our comfort zones we are inevitably the most awkward couple in the room. I loose the power of speech and sit there fidgeting in a corner until I force myself to say something I think is funny, but it turns out that after a few hours of sullen-looking silence my hysterical commentary comes off as sarcastic and bitchy and completely inappropriate. Adam, on the other hand, can't shut the fuck up to save his life. He starts to babble incessantly and is unable to detect the subtle social cues that would indicate to a normal person that the party to whom he is speaking has no interest whatsoever the the subject matter that he refuses to drop, no matter how many times they might try to politely change the subject. Alcohol helps. A lot. It helps me anyway, actually it just makes Adam talk louder.

All of this would seem to indicate that our anti-social tendencies far outweigh our honest desire to make friends. How is it then, that the two of us combined have created the most outgoing, friendly, social butterfly of a child on earth? Skylar loves people. People are absolutely crucial to her happiness on a day to day basis. She wants friends over every single day, she adores school and organized activities and she just sucks at playing quietly by herself. While all of my school report cards said " needs to participate more in class" Skylar's report cards say "needs to remember to give the other children a chance to speak" The kid thrives on company and structured activities, which, given my aforementioned general suckyness in those departments, I am simply not able to provide her with for 2 long months.

The obvious solution is summer camp. Yay! Summer camp with the friends and the games and the crafts and so on and so forth, whoo hoo! Except I'm still out of a job and summer camp is blindingly expensive, so scratch that idea. If only there was something like camp...but free.

Thus we arrive at my decision to send her to Vacation Bible School. VBS as the cool Christians call it. VBS where children play games and sing songs and make friends and are cheerfully brainwashed by Faith. I'm not an atheist, nor am I vehemently anti-christian, but I really don't have much use for organized religion as a whole. (I'm not a bigot. I think they're all equally bullshit) That being said, I do believe in spirituality and I respect every persons right to believe whatever they like. I just wish more people would put an honest effort into deciding what that is, instead of unquestioningly following their parents religion because it's the only one they know. I want my children to be free to ask questions and be given thoughtful answers. I do not want people telling them that THIS is the only right answer and you'd better get on board with it or you're going to hell. So I was nervous about sending Skylar to a place where she would be on her own with kids who have been going to church all their lives and adults who feel called upon to spread their faith like a VD to anyone they possibly can.

I wish there were more options around here. I wish I could send her to Hebrew school one week and Buddhist camp the next to balance out her theological education, but I really can't. Around here all the churches have different names, but they all preach pretty much the same dogma. Yet another drawback to small town life.

But it's free!

So I sent her off to VBS to learn about "Joseph's Journey to Egypt" Which, hey! I saw the musical! Donny Osmond kicked ass! How bad could it be? And she loved it. And apparently she had no problem with being the only kid there whose knowledge of the Bible was less than sub-par. And she came home every day singing about being a Child of God (That part bothered me a bit but damn those songs were catchy!)

The last day arrived and we all got ready to attend the show/presentation/sneak attack church service that night. The kids were adorable in their Egyptian make-up and the brainwashing songs were upbeat. Then there was a prayer. All through the hall people bowed their heads and fell silent as Adam showed Eden how to close her eyes and fold her hands. She looked around at all the quiet adults with their eyes shut, grabbed the hand of the little girl sitting beside her and yelled "Come on! It's our turn to hide!"

We're going to hell.

.............

P.S. Yes, Adam and Eden. Ha ha ha. Irony.

Classification of Little Old Men.

2010-05-27T20:22:00.003-04:00

My year of serving the public as a cashier in a small town convenience store has given me the opportunity to meet a wide variety of human beings and to judge them unfairly for my own amusement.
People generally fall into one of several broad categories- Male, female, kid, geezer etc. Which can be further divided into sub-categories such as hippy, farmer, rich bitch, hot guy, crack-head and so on and so forth. One of the most interesting and diverse groups is the one broadly know as "Little Old Men" I have classified them into six easy groups for people-watchers to spot.

1. Cute.
The Cute Little Old Man is one of my favorite types of customer. Cute Little Old Men have white hair, sparkly eyes and rosy cheeks. They may well have little round bellies that shake when they laugh like bowls full of jelly, but it's not a requirement. They mostly buy milk and lottery scratch tickets. They have adorable nicknames like Jigger, Sonny or Bear. They give change to small, stupid children who can't afford their baggies full of penny candies. They call me Sweetie, Love or even Beautiful. They may well be racist child molesters in private, but they give off an air of old fashioned gentlemanlyness which I find very endearing. They are grandfatherly in a way your own grandfather may never have been. They wink.

2. Angry.
The Angry Old Man has come to your place of business today because he wants to argue. He is an ass-hole, but you're not allowed to refer to him as such because he is over the age of seventy-five. Ass-holes grow up to be Angry Old Men in the same way puppies grow up to be dogs. It's unavoidable. The Angry Old Man is very good at finding reasons to be upset: Perhaps he feels the small jug of milk is ludicrously overpriced in comparison to the larger jug of milk but he doesn't want the larger jug of milk because it will spoil before he can drink it. He will explain this predicament to you loudly and repeatedly, secure in the knowledge that he will be able to carry on being Angry because there's nothing you can possibly do to ameliorate this situation, particularly because he is unvaryingly deaf as a post and unable to hear any solution you might suggest to him. They never call me by any name.

3. Lonely.
The Lonely Old Man is sad. He is quiet when the store is busy, but given the opportunity he will stand at your counter for hours on end talking to you about his youth. You talk to him because you feel bad for him despite the fact that you have an extensive to-do list and talking to Lonely Old Men is not on it because your manager is kind of a jerk like that. They mostly buy chocolate bars. They call me by the name on my name-tag.

4. Dirty.
Dirty Old men must be further divided into literal and figurative sub-groups.
Dirty Old Men (lit.) are old farmers and mechanics so deeply encrusted with dirt that no amount of bathing will ever get them clean again. They stink of manure, gasoline and tobacco. They are generally missing one or more fingers. They communicate mostly by grunts and hand (stump) gestures. Their overalls, shirts and hats are stiffened with sweat and filth to such an extent that they could easily maintain the form of their owners even after having been removed from their bodies. They mostly buy cigarettes and coffee. They call me *slight nod of the head* if they are in a good mood.
Dirty Old Men (fig.) are aging perverts. They mostly buy porno magazines. Sometimes they claim they are too old to climb the stepladder which is required to access the top shelf where such magazines are kept and ask me to climb up for them while they stay below, ogling my ass and giving directions such as "The one on your left...further...further...reach a little further...yeah, that's it Honey." Or asking for a description of the magazine's content, specialty or price, claiming that their eyes are no longer strong enough to read for themselves without acknowledging the fact that if their eyes are that far gone this magazine will do them little to no good anyway. They call me Honey, Baby, Cutie or Sweetheart.

5. Crack-headed Old Men.
They are usually dirty (lit.) They have long, straggly hair that is grey or tobacco yellow. They have red or yellow eyes and teeth rotted by meth. They may not actually be all that old but their faces are made of creased leather so it's hard to tell. They mostly buy penny candies or individual coffee creamers and rolling papers, for all of which they pay with pennies, nickles and the occasional dime. They smell of piss, sweat, pot and failure. They don't call me anything, Thank God.

6. Utterly Bat-Shit Crazy Old Men.
Always entertaining, the UBSCOM can usually be identified by his wild, staring eyes and the smell of goat and vomit. He may well have forgotten one or more important articles of clothing this evening. He will be carrying something- possibly a broken walkie-talkie, possibly a can opener, possibly a human foot. He believes aliens may try to communicate with him via the ATM in the corner. Sometimes they are furtive and paranoid and you feel bad for them, but other times you luck out and get an UBSCOM who has embraced dementia with open arms and he will regale you with stories better than anything you might see on TV. They usually don't bite under the bright lights inside the store. There's no telling what they might buy, but it's possible that they will try to pay with cat food. They call me Susan.

PHD, it's real.

2010-05-21T22:54:00.005-04:00

Hi! I'm back from Florida!

Right, fine, actually I've been back for like, two weeks now but I've only just got over the post-holiday depression. Does everyone else get this? It's almost enough to make me swear off vacations all together, but that's an even more depressing thought so then I figured I'd plan my next vacation right away to give myself something to look forward to, but I have no money so I really can't justify another holiday for a few years yet...I have almost decided to give in and get married just to have an excuse to take another trip. That's totally a good reason right? Stop judging me or you will not be invited to my fantasy Caribbean wedding cruise!

Basically, on the final day of every trip I've ever taken I start to get mopey and sad because it's over and I don't want it to be over and it will be I forever before I get to go away again so I have nothing to look forward to anymore and suddenly my life is so boring and I hate my job and the weather back home sucks and my house is extra cramped and messy and I hate hate hate having a routine and so on and so forth. This time it was even worse because while I was away I got to meet the family I never knew I had and (much to my surprise) I fell in love with them, hard, and I'm not likely to see any of them again for an extremely long time, sigh.

Then the night I got home I found half of my fish swimming in an aquarium full of green tea (the other half were no longer swimming) because my well-meaning aunt had decided to feed them from an unmarked Tupperware container instead of the little jar with the picture of the fish on the label so I got to spend several hours cleaning out a fish tank (FYI if you don't have fish: this is a dirty, smelly, awkward, messy, time consuming job.) after having travelled since 8 am with a 6 year old through 2 flights, 3 airports and a 2 hour drive.

The next morning I picked up my 2 year old from her grandparents house. It felt wrong. I had missed her like crazy and I just wanted to pick her up and squish her back into her place in my heart but somehow... I don't know. She was different. It's as though she has always been a part of me, an extension of my own body if you will. But by abandoning her for 10 days I had strained that connection. Suddenly she was her own little person, independent of me. I was not ready for that. Much guilt ensued.

The next day I went back to work at my crappy minimum wage job at a convenience store, which is still the best job I've ever had, only to find out that the store will be closing at the end of the month and I'll be out of a job with rent to pay and credit card bills freshly rung up from holiday making.

Soon after that I developed a massive rash. It's ugly and so itchy I want to take a potato peeler to my skin except then I would have no skin left because it's all over my body including my face: ears, nose, motherfucking eyelids I tell you...but yet not on my feet or my butt which is cool because scratching that all the live-long day might be socially awkward. My doctor's official diagnosis, corroborated by 3 other medical professionals (one of whom was googling my malady on his phone I swear) was: "Huh, weird!" He referred me to a dermatologist who called to set up my appointment: November 8th. I will have no skin left by November 8th people! Sorry, being itchy makes me grumpy.

Seriously though, it was an awesome vacation and I will totally tell you all about it when I'm in a better mood, m'k?

There's a perfectly good explanation

2010-04-12T21:56:00.004-04:00

My six year old takes a gymnastics class at the local high school every Monday evening.

Because this class starts before Adam gets home from work, I have no choice but to take her two year old sister along to watch.

Because she's a two year old, she has no interest in watching; she wants to join in and climb on the balance beams and bounce on the trampoline and run around with the cool flowy rainbow ribbon things.

Because I don't want to spend an hour and a half wrestling with her while she screams in the bleachers, I opt to take her out into the hallways of the school and let her run up and down, playing with combination locks and trying to outrun the reflections of the lights on the tiles.

Because several lockers are empty and unlocked she likes to hide in them, then jump out and yell BOO!

Because she told me to, I ran away from the locker and hid in a little alcove after she shut the door.

Because I thought it would be funny, I jumped out of my hiding spot and grabbed her when she eventually came out and ran down the hall looking for me.

Because she laughed, we did it again.

Because I had to move fast to hide before she opened the door, I stopped paying careful attention.

Because I heard little feet running, I leaped out with a yell to grab my daughter.

Because the child in front of me was not my child, he started to cry.

Because his mom was clearly wondering what the fuck was wrong with me, I apologized and explained that I had mistaken her son for my daughter.

Because my daughter was nowhere to be seen, his mother looked at me like I was on crack.

Because she has awesome timing, my two year old started banging on the inside of her locker, begging to be let out.

Because I'm a psychopath who likes to scare the bejezus out of toddlers and then trap them in school lockers.

Spring

2010-03-20T11:27:00.003-04:00

We went for our first bike ride of the season this morning. I strapped Eden into her seat in front of me on my bike and took off down the street. She began to laugh and called out:

"Da wind! I'm catching da wind in my mouf! Uh Oh, I swallowed it, now I'm eating all da wind."

Thank God for spring time.

The Price of Luxury

2010-03-18T13:27:00.006-04:00

I have had an amazing stroke of luck. March break has coincided with the best phase ever. Skylar has taken a liking to playing restaurant. Specifically, she wants to bring me breakfast in bed. Every day. How cool is that? She made a menu, with options such as: cerel, toast, waffles, watr, milk and juos. Sure, improvements could be made. Perhaps the toast could be topped with something besides air, or the waffle could maybe not be floating in a bowl of syrup, but hey, if I get to stay in bed an extra half hour, it's all good.

Yesterday, Adam was off work so he was looking forward to partaking along with me. We lounged in bed, listening to the kids fight downstairs until Eden was banished from Skylar's kitchen and came upstairs to crawl into bed between us where things might have gone on being peaceful if only Adam wore a shirt to bed.

Eden: Daddy, what's dat?

Adam: Armpit hair.

Eden: I don't got armpit hair?

Adam: Nope.

Eden: Mommy got's armpit hair?

Me: Nope.

Adam: Liar.

Eden: Daddy, what's dat?

Adam: My nipple.

Eden: I got's nipples, too!

Adam: Yep, so does Mommy.

Eden: No, Mommy have boobies. You have boobies too Daddy!

Adam: No, I don't!

Eden: Ya, you do have boobies right d'ere. See? Biiig boobies!

*Adam rolls onto his stomach to discourage further remarks*

Eden: Daddy, you got spots on your back. See? I count dem for you. One...Two...Free...Seven...Eight...Nine...

Adam: Hey, hey, hey what are you doing?

Eden: I moving da blanket. I gotta count da spots on your bum too!

Adam: No, you don't!

Eden: D'ere are spots Daddy! Spots!

Adam: I don't need my spots counted!

Eden: What dat hair is d'ere for?

Me: It's not there for anything, it's just a big mutant hair on Daddy's back.

Eden: I get it off. *much pinching and pulling ensues* I can't geddit! Da hair is stuck! Mommy you get it!

Sorry, Adam. I should have warned you. You get either breakfast in bed OR personal boundaries. Not both.

Making a Memory

2010-03-12T22:18:00.002-05:00

In my earliest memory I waddle into an enormous kitchen, squatting on my heels. My grandma is washing dishes. She looks down at me and asks if I have a tummy ache. I nod.

In my next memory we are moving. The hallway is full of boxes and I am digging through them, looking for a doll named Brenda, scared that she will not get to the new house. We moved when I was three.

I remember being in the hospital to get tubes put in my ears and being offended when the doctor told me I was going in a "big girl crib" instead of a bed. There's no such thing as a big girl crib, stupid.

And then being in the hospital again, waking up suddenly to find my bed surrounded by strangers, rolling me down the hall. Screaming for my mom.

I have a lot of fantastic memories from later on in my childhood. I know I was loved and played with and spoiled. So why are the scary or painful memories the earliest ones my mind chose to keep? I guess trauma makes a big impression. Then I wonder about the things I don't remember, at least not in any concrete form, and what effects they may have had on me.

Just after my mother brought me home from the hospital when I was born she had to take me right back again. I had meningitis and I have been told that I owe my life to baby fat. Had I been a 6 or 7 pound baby I wouldn't have had a chance. As it was, I was nine pounds and might possibly survive, although I would definitely be brain damaged and probably blind and deaf as well. I was spinal tapped and had IV's in my head because my veins were too tiny anywhere else. I got better. I'm not blind or deaf and any brain damage I suffered didn't prevent me from getting on the Honour Roll. I don't remember this, but does it explain my hatred of needles?

I learned to walk when I was nine months old. At that time my mother was working and I stayed with a babysitter. One day my mom got off work early and came to pick me up. When she pulled in to the sitter's house a little boy ran up to her and said:
"Oh good, you're here! She's been crying all day!"
My mom was worried and asked if I was hurt or sick as she headed into the house. The kid said:
"No, she wants out of her seat. Mom keeps her there so she doesn't fall down the step."
It turns out the woman had been keeping me strapped firmly in a stroller for hours every day, supposedly so that I wouldn't topple down the single, three inch, carpeted step between the kitchen and the living room. I never had another babysitter besides my Grandmother again.
I don't remember this, but does it explain why I cannot stand to be physically restrained in any way, for any reason, by anyone?

We try to protect our kids. But everyone gets hurt, or sick, or hurt by someone sick at some point in their childhood. We may not be conscious of the memories, but are they deep inside, shaping the people we will become?

Will Skylar remember me holding her down on an X-ray table as she screamed and tried to claw her way into my arms while a nurse pulled on her broken leg just before her first birthday? I know I'll never forget it.

Will Eden remember being bitten by that dog?

Are my children's first memories more likely to be of us laughing as we jumped over waves at the beach last summer or wrestled in the snow last week, or of us yelling at them for doing something bad?

I have been guilty of assuming my children are too young to remember, telling myself they are not quite real people yet. I have had bad days and told myself it wouldn't matter. I loose my patience and yell at my kids to CALMDOWNBEQUIETSTOP! and longed for the day when they will be old enough to talk to and enjoy being friends with, while telling them that no, I do not want to play hide and seek or Barbies or Snap! I have to quit this or they won't want anything to do with me when they are old enough to do the things I want to do. Skylar is six years old now and she has an awfully good memory. I have started asking myself 'Is this what I want them to remember?' when the urge to yell creeps up on me. I just hope I can put on a convincing enough act of being a happy, involved, playful mom to make up for the times when I am not, and that we can make more good memories than bad.

I Don't Know Which Way To Go

2010-03-11T13:14:00.003-05:00

A while ago Adam and I went to Toronto to visit a friend of mine, Erin (people who know how to work their Internet would make her name glowy and then you could click on it and be magically transported to her blog to read about her adventures as she lives my dream life, but seeing as how I barely know how to turn my computer on, all I can do is this: http://madhatter848.blogspot.com/ So, there ya go) who was passing through as she works her way around the world. We went to the hostel (yeah, hostel not hotel, she's that bad ass) where she was staying. It's called the Canadiana and holy shit is it ever Canadian up in here, y'all. You can tell by the stuffed animal heads on the walls and giant wooden Canadian figures and free pancakes for breakfast with real imitation maple syrup..erm, yeah. This is where they got all that shit for the Olympics closing ceremonies. Anyway, the guy at the desk presented me with an envelope marked "Top Secret" which contained the directions we were to follow in order to find Erin and the Band Camp reunion she had organized. (Band rules, tell your friends!)

Erin, like anyone who knows me at all, knew that these directions would have to be painfully detailed and clear, since I am quite capable of getting lost in my own kitchen. When I visited her in BC this past summer she had to write out step by step instructions to get me through bus/skytrain/ferry transfers that would otherwise have left me sobbing on the sidewalk or bound unwittingly for Yellowknife. Even with those instructions I failed to get off a bus at the right place and missed my ferry, then on the return trip I gave up after only the second of eight or nine steps and instead made friends with a nice young man on the ferry who took me on a bus right inside the boat that then took me all the way to the train station, where we parted ways... and I proceeded to get on a train going in the wrong direction. Yes, I'm that dumb. The point is; I require really good directions. Erin certainly delivered. I am going to share those directions with you now, just in case you ever need to get from the Canadiana Backpackers to the Hard Rock Cafe in Toronto.

Step 1: Put your party pants on.

Step 2: Remember your room key. Trust me.

Step 3: Exit hostel. You are now standing on a wee step in front of the hostel, facing the street. Get the fuck out of the way, you're blocking the doorway! You're not the only guests here for chrissake...

Step 4: Walk down the steps. At the bottom, you'll be standing on the sidewalk of Widmer street. Turn to your left and begin walking. Widmer dead-ends very quickly, with an Extreme Fitness on the right-hand corner and a parking lot ahead. The street you have dead-ended at is Richmond Street.

Step 5: Turn right. You will need to keep walking, passing Extreme Fitness, a cinema and Chapters on your right. Chapters is on the corner of Richmond & John Street.

Step 6: Look up to your right. Oooooh! CN tower! Like a freak accident between a Tim Hortons doughnut and a Juno award. The World's Ugliest free-standing structure!!

Step 7: Turn left and cross Richmond Street. Walk away from the CN tower! Flee the tower! Run, run away! You will now be walking North on John Street. Do this for ONE BLOCK ONLY. You will see a pub on your left called the Friar & Firkin. Ignore this pub. You do not want to stop for a drink. Resist the urge. You've barely begun your quest!

Step 8: After ONE BLOCK on John st. you will find yourself on the corner of Queen st. & John st. Looking to your right, you will see Much Music's famous studio. To your left will be a Second Cup and across the street is a Starbucks. Resist the urge for overpriced refreshment and walk to your right, past Much Music. You are now on Queen street.

Step 9: Pass the Condom Shack. Giggle. (*note: after exiting the shop, be sure to go RIGHT to keep yourself headed in the right direction).

Step 10: Walk, walk, walk, walk. You will pass Duncan st, Simcoe st, University Ave, The Sheraton Centre, Nathan Phillips Square, Bay street, James street and the Hudson Bay building. You will then find yourself at the corner of Queen & Yonge st. This is NOT your final destination. Do not sit on the curb and cry. You're almost there! Cross Yonge street.

Step 11: Turn left and walk North on Yonge street, AWAY from the monstrous tower. The Eaton Centre Mall will be on your left. You will be on the right side of the street.

Step 12: Walk, walk, walk. The Hard Rock Cafe is on the right-hand side of Yonge street, corner of Yonge and Dundas.

Step 13: Enter the Hard Rock Cafe. Ask hostess for the 'reunion table' if you are unable to spot me dancing on a table already.

Step 14: Get your party pants hitched up and join the fun!

Step 15: Get Erin very drunk!

Step 16: Read these instructions backwards to find the hostel again. Unless they've moved in the hours since you left. Then you're fucked.

PRETTY MAP
Follow the pencil mark route, for optimal sight-seeing pleasure.

Then there was a hand drawn map, complete with route marker and Points of Interest.

I think Erin needs to work for GPS. I would never get lost again. The best part is that the directions would be delivered in the truly fucked up Scottish/Australian/Canadian West Coast accent she has cultivated over the course of her travels. Entertainment AND accuracy? Done.

I didn't get lost! Whoo! We found the place and a good time was had by all...all five people, including us and Erin, who showed up that is. But no matter, we ate, drank, and made merry all evening and walked back arm in arm singing horrendously offensive camp songs (and this was a military camp so the songs were truly filthy) Then sat around at the hostel drinking with interesting young people from around the world for a while, until Erin got sick (she claims it was food poisoning, not booze and I'm inclined to believe her) and Adam and I retired to our private room, because having sex on bunk-beds is embarrassing enough without six other people sharing your room.

P.S. all this happened over a month ago. I'm just writing about it now because I only just found those directions in my coat pocket last night and I was pleased to find I hadn't lost them.

Yummy

2010-03-01T12:57:00.003-05:00

Eden: Mommy, I have some apple pie, pleeeease?

Me: We don't have any apple pie, Baby.

Eden: Ya! D'ere's a apple pie in da fridge. Daddy put it d'ere. Come see!

Hmm, could this be correct? Maybe that nice grandmotherly lady Adam works with has been baking again. Those cookies he brought home last week were yummy! Mmm, pie. I could really go for some pie. I wonder if we have any ice cream...

Me: Eden, this is not an apple pie...this is a pineapple. I'm horribly disappointed. Get your boots, we're going to the store.

On Raising Heathens

2010-02-19T16:21:00.005-05:00

I'm not into religion. I believe in a greater consciousness and a sort of immortal spirit and the interrelated miracles of life in the universe and doing unto others as you would have them do unto you. But I don't go in for mass religion. It's too impersonal for me and too tainted by terribly un-divine human beings. That being said, there are times when I wonder if I should make more of an effort to educate my children.

Times like when we went to a church rummage sale and my then 4 year old asked:
"Is this a jail?" as she gazed around the church hall.
"Of course not." I told her, smiling nervously at the three Mennonite ladies who were selling baked goods. "This is a church."
"Oh" she replied. "What's a church?"

Or when, just before Christmas this year, we were driving past a cemetery and the child, now aged 6, asked:
"What's with all those big lower case 'T's' over in that dying yard?"

Yes, these are the times when I wonder if I've failed her somehow. But then this week we helped to move Adam's parents from their big old farm house and I came across this composition, written by Adam while he attended a Christian School. Brace yourselves folks.
The original is in italics and my commentary is added.

Christian View on Rights

In Canada there are a lot of rights that go against what the Bible teaches. One of the people responsible for two of these rights is "Pierre E. Trudeau". Trudeau changed the B.N.A. Act the Canadian Bill of Rights and Freedoms. This new constitution gave a lot more power to the Courts and Judges. Damn you Trudeau for trying to separate Church and State!
One problem which was against Bible teachings and was legalizing homosexuals. Now, the gays and lesbians are trying to get more rights such as same sex marriages, spouse benefits, maternity leave for 2 men or women who adopt a child. They should not be allowed to adopt. It is emotionally damaging and disturbing to the child. I really don't think I can even begin to cover how wrong this is. Encouraging hatred is emotionally damaging and disturbing to me.
The second was abortion. In my eyes abortion is basically saying have as much sex as you want and don't worry about the baby. We'll just kill it! Abortion should be put up there with murder. It is just like walking up to someone you don't know but have seen and kill them. God probably created diseases like AIDS to stop abortion. Which came first? Disease or abortion? It's a chicken or egg kind of question isn't it?
By allowing too much freedom, we have started worshipping material gods. Money, gold, silver, treasures or any other material possession that is treated and thought of more often than God is a God. People used to be punished by God and probably still are but it is not made known. There is no fear of God. Freedom is never a good thing. Down with Freedom!
Canada should be more harsh with criminal penalties. Criminals are getting off easy because Canada is getting More and more whimpy. Capital punishment should be brought back in. "Those who kill man shall be killed by man." Wait, I thought we were against killing. Didn't the bible say something about not killing? I'm sure it was in there, maybe somewhere near the back?
Honouring your parents doesn't seem to happen too much anymore. The kids think that when they're 18 or 19, it's party time, no respect. Dude, if you can get past 13 you're doing great.
Keep the Sabbath day (or Sunday) Holy. Stores are open, people are shopping, working. Gangs fight, there are killings. This day doesn't seem Holy anymore. There was punishment for these things just a few years ago but they have been lifted. I don't care if you've got kids to feed! It's Sunday, get home and sit on your ass! And you gangsters can just wait until Monday for your killings like everyone else!
In conclusion there should be more respect for what the Bible teaches us.
Adam, Gr. 8

From the mouths of babes.

This, this right here? This is why I'm never sending my kids to Christian School. Things like this make me glad my daughters are ignorant, because they are also innocent. They have crazy values like not hurting other people and being free to enjoy your own life. As they get older I want my daughters to explore beliefs from around the world. I want them to remain open to new ideas but to think about the things they hear before accepting them as facts. I want them to benefit from spirituality, but not to be enslaved by it.

Teaching them these things may take more effort than shipping them off to Sunday School each week, but I think it will be worth it.

When I do good, I feel good; when I do bad, I feel bad, and that is my religion. - Abraham Lincoln

P.S. Adam has evolved, thank God (or whatever) but I'm still opposed to brainwashing children, you know, just in case it should stick.

Happy Valentine's Day!

2010-02-15T13:47:00.004-05:00

Me- Eew, what are you doing?

Adam- Uum, kissing you?

Me-Yeah, I don't think that's gonna happen. You're all sick and mucous-y and gross.

Adam- But I'm extra warm, that's a plus right?

Me- I like warmth, not germs.

Adam- We could do this without any kissing?

Me- Hmm, maybe...no wait...Does jizz have germs?

Adam-Huh?

Me- I mean, it must have germs. That's how STD's work, right? But does it have cold germs? Like spit and snot? Or is it somehow immune?

Adam- I...don't...think so..?

Me- Research that and get back to me.

..........................

Hope your Valentine's Day was super romantic too!

Just stuff your kid in your suitcase and hope for the best.

2010-01-29T17:33:00.007-05:00

In order to escape the cold...and also for some other less compelling reasons like family togetherness and shit, we're going to Disney World! Whoo Hoo! But wait! To go to Disney World we need passports. OK fine, I'll get right on it, you know, in a few weeks. Maybe after the holidays. We're not going until the end of April, after all.

I finally got down to business and downloaded the forms from the uber-helpful Service Ontario website and we began the tedious process of getting photos taken, ID photocopied, Guarantors and References signed on and so on and so forth. Then, when everything was in order, we set out for the Passport Office in person so that we could skip the waiting and potential loss of official documents (Birth Certificates) in the mail.

My paperwork went through without a hitch. Fantastic. Adam's signature was too faint. Easy Fix. Then it was Skylar's turn.

"Is this the only birth certificate you have for her?" asks the courteous government employee.

"Yes?" I was under the impression that having multiple birth certificates would be illegal, wouldn't it? "Why no sir. I have a whole bag full of birth certificates right here. Would you prefer her to have a different name? Perhaps a nice Christmas birthday would suit you? I'm afraid she's pretty set on gender."

"You're going to have to get a Long Form birth certificate. You see, these standard ones don't have enough information for us to confirm that you're her parents. You'll have to request a Long Form from the Service Ontario website." He explained and helpfully wrote the address and steps to follow on the top of our form.

"It has to be that form specifically? A copy of the birth Registration or Statement of Live Birth wouldn't be good enough?" Adam asked hopefully.

"No, this wouldn't be something you're likely to have at home. You have to request it from the government."

I went home and got online, wondering why Service Ontario didn't tell me I needed this form the first time I was here. Then I followed the directions given to me by my friend at the Passport Office and soon found out that he'd clearly never been to this site and had no idea what the hell he was talking about. There was no such frigging thing as a Long Form Birth Certificate.

So I clicked "Contact Us" and asked the invisible person on the other side of the web where I might find a Long Form Birth Certificate. The eventual reply was that what I was looking for was actually called a "Certified Copy of Birth Registration." Fine. Fuck You, Passport Guy.

I went back to stupid Service Ontario and went through the paces to order a Certified Copy of Birth Registration. I was alright with answering questions pertaining to my own name and where I was born, but then the questions got harder. They wanted to know crazy things like the attending physician's name. So I got Skylar's Statement of Live Birth out of my files and found that, luckily it contained all of the pertinent information. I finished the form and payed with a credit card and breathed a sigh of relief that it was all sorted out and then I promptly called my cousin, who would be travelling with us, and told her she'd better get one of these Long Form Birth Certificate/Certified Copy of Registration thingies for her daughter too. Then I forgot about it for a few weeks.

Do you know where I'm going with this yet?

Today I got a letter from the office of the Registrar General. Yay! This must be the Certified Copy of Birth Registration! No, it was a note telling me I had underpaid them by $10.00 and asking me to please pay up in order for my request to be processed. The fuck? I paid online. I paid exactly the amount you asked for. Why do I owe you $10? So I called the number at the top of the page and wended my way through the robots who answered until I was directed to the best possible person to handle my enquiry. The following transcript of our conversation may not be exactly verbatim:

Me- I ordered a Certified Copy of Birth Registration for my kid and now I get a note asking for more money. What up wit that?

Girl- Oh, you must have paid for a first copy when what you wanted was a replacement.

Me- Nuh uh. I don't have one, and I need one so we can get a passport.

Her- Our records indicate one was issued in 2004.

Me- Your records are full of shit. The one area in which I am organized is where it pertains to my kids legal type papers. I am all over that shit.

Her- Are you sure? It's a yellow sheet of paper with a seal type thingy in the corner and at the top it says Statement of Live Birth.

Then my head exploded.

Me- Statement of Live Birth? I HAVE a fucking Statement of Live Birth. That's where I got the information I needed to apply for the fucking Certified Copy of Birth Registration/Long Form Birth Certificate. Nowhere on my Statement of Live Birth does it say anything about Registration or Birth Certificate. Why in God's name doesn't the web site tell you that when applying for a Passport for a child you will require a Birth Certificate and a Goddammedmotherfucking Statement of Live Birth? Why did the douchebag at the passport office tell me that this was something I didn't have? Why doesn't the website say that a Long Form Birth Certificate (aka Certified Copy of Birth Registration) would in fact have a great big heading at the top of the page proclaiming it to be a Cocksuckingshitencrustedpusspewingcunt Statement of Live Birth!?

You know what, it's fine. Ive got one and that's what matters. Sorry to bother you. I'll just take the Statement of Live Birth I have here in my hand and get my kid's passport and all will be well.

Her- I'm sorry, once you apply for a replacement the original is no longer valid.

Me- What? But they refused to issue me a new one because they want another ten bucks.

Her- But it's already in the system. The one you have will be invalid and you won't be able to get a passport with it. You'll have to send the ten dollars and wait for the new one.

Me- I have to send another ten dollars, bringing my total up to forty-five dollars, for a form that I already have? Well that sucks. So can I just go back to that shit-hole Service Ontario site and add the $10 to my previous order?

Her- No, we don't offer that service online.

Me- Why the hell not? They already have my credit card information and clearly some sort of primitive banking capabilities, so why not just...

Her- I'm sorry, you'll have to fill out the form in the message you received by mail and then mail it back to us like it's the fucking dark ages before the advent of all this brilliant technology that lets us ass rape you for forms you've already got because that way we make way more money than we ever would if we pulled our heads out of our twats and asked for things by their correct titles and then told you to bring those same things when you wanted to apply for things that you need so that you can take your kid to the happiest fucking place on earth.

Me-How long?

Her-About 8 weeks.

Eight weeks takes us close to April. If you felt I might be a wee bit testy today, just imagine how pleased I'll be if we miss our vacation because we had to wait for a form that I had all along. This is why people blow up Government buildings folks.* This is exactly why.

*Disclaimer: I'm not going to blow anything up. Seriously, forget I said that. The last thing I need is to straighten all this shit out only to be shot at the airport for uttering death threats. But I did fill out the "Rate Our Service Today" survey on fucking Service Ontario very harshly.

P.S. I just called my cousin to let her know that I may have instructed her to do something really stupid and she said thanks for the heads up, but she really DIDN'T already have that form and it arrived 2 days after she applied for it. Yeah: 2 days for a new form, 8 weeks to replace the one you already have. Fuck you Service Ontario, Fuck you.

Have I mentioned my hatred of winter?

2010-01-23T21:07:00.003-05:00

I was a good mom today, if I do say so myself. This is worth mentioning because lately I honestly have not been.

It's winter up here in the godforsaken North and that really brings out the worst in me. I abhor cold. I loathe cold. I can't think of a word vile enough to express my dislike of cold. Cold makes my bones hurt. Cold makes me tired. Cold makes me a hateful bitch. I hate having to wear bulky layers of clothes. I hate wet socks and snowsuits and toddlers screaming because their fingers are cold and they won't keep their damned mittens on. I hate the pissy grey sunshine. I hate the wind whistling through the cracks in my house. I hate being afraid to drive. I hate getting out of my warm bed in the mornings so much that my kid is late for school pretty much every single day. I hate walking the dog. I hate the noisy squirrels living in my roof, I hate the dead, black skeletal trees. I hate the filthy slushy mud. I hate the dark that seems to fall just after noon. I hate scraping ice off of my car, but not as much as I hate dragging a sled or wrestling a stroller over snowbanks or carrying a 30 pound child in 50 pounds worth of outerwear or trying to coax that same child to please for the love of god walk faster, and straighter, and without stopping to climb every mound and taste every clump so that we can get wherever the hell we're going and get inside again. I hate lying awake all night because my feet are frozen and I can't sleep until they thaw out and they won't thaw out for hours.

I remember being excited about snow when I was a kid. I know I used to have fun building snowmen and forts and going tobogganning, but there is not a single trace of those feelings left. I have played outside with my children exactly 3 times since November. Instead I stay inside and lay on the couch drifting in and out of sleep all day. I let my kids watch entirely too much television and I yell at them constantly to be quiet, or calm down, or go play somewhere else, or stop making a mess, or quit bugging the dog, or stop fighting, or close the frigging door, or get their own damn juice or...

But today I was good. Today we made crafts together (paper snowflakes of all things) and I pulled my girls around the living room by the hands while they each stood on one roller skate. I got 7 loads of laundry done and cleaned the floor and did 2 loads of dishes and still had time to build a stable out of Mega Blocks and read a story and tickle them until they turned purple. I sent them out to play in the yard and watched them having fun through the window. Maybe tomorrow I'll go out with them. I didn't yell or order a single time-out. I laughed and I smiled and I stayed awake all day long.

See, my eldest daughter is 6 now and somehow she's become literate. She loves to read and write all the time and the phrase she writes most often is "I love mom." I want to deserve that. I want her to remember a mom who played with her and listened to her and enjoyed spending time with her instead of a mom who yelled and bitched and was lazy as hell. So I'm trying. I have to work hard at it, because some days it seems as though every single thing that child does or says is calculated specifically to annoy the living crap out of me. But I am trying, and I was good today.

2010-01-04T22:16:00.004-05:00

HI, I'm still alive! I know, you were worried right?

Sooo...where were we...early November. Shit. OK something must have happened since then huh?

We went to a play. An English Pantomime to be specific. My mom has some mobility issues, so she's decided that it will be her role to enrich my children's lives through the magic of live theatre since taking the girls ice skating, tobogganing, skiing, or anything else that requires walking, running, standing or any other kind of movement is pretty much out.

When she told me she'd bought these tickets I've got to admit that the words "English Pantomime" made me think of a mime with bad teeth, but it turned out to be a really hysterical production of Robin Hood where you get to yell at the actors and boo the bad guys (one of whom was portrayed by Major Bedhead from the Big Comfy Couch, parents will know who I'm talking about) and featuring some new characters like the drag queen Nurse and Larry the Snow Fairy. The kids loved it. Even Eden sat through the entire thing without getting squirmy or bored.

After the show Major Bedhead (who probably has a real name, but who really cares? Besides him I guess, and maybe his mother) called a few kids up on stage for some audience participation game type things and Skylar was one of the chosen few. As she took her place on stage he complimented her elegant dress and she responded by picking her tights out of her crotch. As he went on down the line asking names (and making fun of them) Eden noticed that Skylar was up on stage and there followed an intense wrestling match with her father as Adam tried to prevent her from running up to join her sister. Eventually the two year old kicked his ass and made a break down the aisle towards the stage. Skylar saw this and started yelling to Major Bedhead
"My sister! My sister wants to come up too!"

Since the Major knows entertainment value when he sees it, he helped Eden crawl up onto the stage and everyone "Awww"d as she took her sister's hand. Then the two of them stood there beaming and waving and ignoring instructions until the interlude was done and candy was distributed to one and all. As we walked out of the theatre they were graciously applauded and hailed as the stars of the show.

Next year's show is Peter Pan.

That's what sisters are for

2009-11-08T13:10:00.003-05:00

Overheard via the baby monitor after putting my 6 and 2 year old girls to bed:

thump thump thump...

Eden: My want snuggle, Sky'yer.

Skylar: OK, get in. I'll tell you a story.

aww, how sweet!

Skylar: You know, when you're four I won't let you sleep with me anymore. Well, not all the time. Maybe when you're scared.

Eden: My not scared.

Skylar: I know you're not scared right now, but someday you might get scared that there's monsters under your bed.

Eden: Monsters? In my bed?

Uh Oh

Big Sisters: Always there to comfort you...but probably the reason you were scared in the first place.

Terrible Two-year-old Terrifies Thoughtless Tmama (best I could do, I'm still recovering)

2009-10-15T22:46:00.003-04:00

When I put Eden down for her nap this afternoon I was sure she'd sleep for a good two hours or more, because she's a kick-ass napper. I knew I had plenty of time to go next door to my mom's place for a cup of tea. Our apartments are connected through an upstairs bathroom and Eden's room is right above my mom's kitchen, so I would be able to hear her if she woke up. But of course she didn't make a sound. I knew she was still asleep when I went back to my side an hour later.

I began to suspect she was not asleep when I saw the sofa, covered with disassembled tampons. My suspicion grew stronger when I found the cat's water dish filled with a congealed mass of kitty litter and biscuits (stirred with yet another tampon) and this theory was proven correct when I looked in her bed and found it vacant. So where the hell was she? Did she crawl into my bed? Yes, I could tell because my bed was covered in kitty litter (and tampons!) but she wasn't there anymore. Was she in the toy room? Of course not. Who wants to play with toys when there's kitty litter and tampons available? The storage room? No. The laundry room? No. I called my mom and asked if Eden had gone down the stairs to her place, but no. So now the both of us are searching, calling Eden's name, checking under beds and inside closets. No kid.

I'm getting desperate now. There's no way she could have opened the doors and gotten outside right? The screen doors, yes, but certainly not the big heavy wooden doors that adults have to slam with their shoulders to shove through their swollen frames, right? Please God?
So she's got to be in the house. But we've been yelling and shoving furniture and slamming doors and yelling louder for fifteen interminable minutes now and she hasn't made a sound. If you're playing hide and seek child I'm going to kill you. But shit, what if she crawled under a bed and choked on a marble? Omygodomygod!

I'm running around frantically now, rechecking places I've already checked twice, when I see two little legs hanging out the door of an old wardrobe shoved back in the corner of the storage room. Not moving. Not so much as a twitch when I called her name or crashed through the boxes in the middle of the room. OMYGODOMYGODOMYGOD She was climbing the shelves and she fell and broke her neck and when I pull back this door her face is going to be purple and I was sitting downstairs doing a crossword puzzle and drinking tea and why didn't I take the monitor over and ohmyfuckinggod she's dead! I yanked back the door, while reviewing CPR steps in my head (shit, is she an infant or a child?) and there she was, out cold on the floor of the wardrobe, head pillowed on an old bridesmaid dress. Her eyes popped open and she mumbled "Mama, I seepin' in da dra'wer." And I picked her up and ran to tell my mom that I'd found her, and hugged her and then put her on time out for playing in the kitty litter, 'cause that shit's gross and should be corrected, no matter how glad I am that she's alive.

Giddy Up!

2009-10-08T21:45:00.002-04:00

Skylar has been talking about her sixth birthday party since the second her fifth birthday party ended. Over the past year she has invited several hundred classmates, team mates, relatives of friends, vague acquaintances and random strangers to this party and every time she has told them it was going to be a "Cowgirl" party. Her non-stop party gibber-jabber drove me to the edge of insanity until the day that I finally snapped and forbade her to mention The Party again for the next nine months. This didn't actually work, but at least it took the round-the-clock badgering down to a more manageable tendency to mention it only when attending someone else's birthday party, seeing a party in a book or on TV, viewing a toy commercial or meeting a new friend (which happens to my child any time she is allowed out of the house)

So you can see how I could totally have forgotten to plan her a birthday party. 'Cause I suck.

OK, maybe I didn't forget. Maybe I just procrastinated due to my total lack of social skills and my inability to organize and my horror at the thought of having to communicate with other parents and my even greater horror at the thought of exposing my tiny, dingy home to those other parents and the depredations of their sugar-crazed offspring.

In the end I punked out. I just couldn't stand the thought of playing hostess and planning asinine games and decorating with a suitable "Cowgirl" theme. No way, we had to take this show on the road.

Me- So Goober, do you still want a Cowgirl Birthday Party?

Skylar- YESYESYESYESYESYYYESYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSS!!!!!

Me- Do you think we should go ride some real horses?

Skylar- Holyfuckingcrap, YES! (not exactly, but that's definitely what she meant to say)

So I embarked on a quest to find a horse.
-Hell no, I don't want you to bring horses to my house!
-Not available until November?
-How much!!!??

And eventually we found a place where we could rent a couple of horses (and a matching set of handlers) for an hour and then eat some cake in a barn. Whoo Hoo! The only down-side was that it was a 45 minute drive away.

We sent out invitations. I forced Skylar to pare down her guest list ruthlessly. I told her that since she was turning 6 she could invite 6 kids (That's it, just six. 1 2 3 4 5 6, and nooooo kindergarten!) Every single one RSVP'd in the affirmative, saying that such and such a child would be thrilled to attend, but no, the parents had no desire to come along, thanks. So with Skylar and Eden and a couple of cousins we had 10 little girls to transport. Skylar picked out an ice cream cake. We got loot bags and Hannah Montana plates and paper hats. Then Skylar told me she'd changed her mind. She thought maybe she didn't want horseback rides after all. What the hell, child? There are starving children in Africa who would give their left nut for a cowgirl birthday party and you are getting fucking pony rides and you will bloody well like it! But it turned out she had just remembered that she wanted a pinata, which had to hang from a certain tree in the yard, which would mean we would have to stay home. So we got a pinata (do you have any idea how much pinatas cost? Too much to smash with a freaking bat, that's how much) and promised to do that once we got back to the house but before the parents came to collect their kids. The spoiled, spoiled little princess was appeased and the plans went forward.

On the day of the party (a week after the real birthday, because again, I'm a slacker) the kids began to trickle in and we collected gifts and booster seats and loaded up the two vans we had commandeered for the occasion while the screaming little psychopaths ran wild after the cats. Did you know that three booster seats will not fit on the rear bench of a mini van? We didn't. We do now. Shit. We would need a third vehicle, dammit. Then at the last minute we were saved by our good friend alcohol. It turns out one mom had spent the previous night at a much more grown-up party and had completely forgotten to bring her daughters over thanks to her mind-numbing hangover. We would be two kids short, which is sad for boozy mom's kids but hella convenient for us because we could now dispense with the third vehicle.

If you can possibly avoid it you should never let yourself be trapped in a car full of six year old girls. The shrieking. The squealing. The endless bathroom humour. That road has never been so long.

We collected helmets and signed waivers on behalf of other people's children and herded them into a barn. The first two kids were mounted onto bored looking ponies and the rest were subdued with cheese and crackers. Then the handlers led those two kids outside to walk around the yard. Except as they were leaving the barn the ginormous sliding door took a homicidal plunge downward and attempted to decapitate one of the Emilys. Funny, this scenario never occurred to me while I was signing those waivers. Luckily, the kid shook it off and declined to get off of the horse, so I hopefully won't be hearing from her parent's lawyers.

We rotated all the girls through their pony rides, but the highlight of the day was the big ass pile of hay. They seriously enjoyed that hay. If you're planning a birthday party you should probably just get a big pile of hay. They'll be talking about it for years. They'll probably also be picking hay out of their ears and ass cracks for years.

We had ice cream cake, because Skylar will not eat non-ice-cream cake. Some kid decided the time had come to tell us that she was allergic to dairy and was not allowed to have milk, ice cream or cheese. Surely if this was serious her mother would have SAID SOMETHING? Meh, the child was still alive and showing no signs of distress when I handed her over and it became officially not my problem.

We got everyone home and survived the pinata and present unwrapping ceremonies without injury or loss of life and the parents arrived to whisk their sugar filled, hay covered, horsey-smelling daughters home for dinner. Good luck with that.

Basically, it was a great day. Lots of fun, lots of laughs. Almost no tears (except for that poor kid who almost got her head cut off and that's a reasonable excuse) and no mess at all in my house. Nice.

Did I mention Skylar is six? SIX. Not a baby or a toddler or a preschooler or a kindergartner or anything but a full fledged six year old, full time schooling, gymnastics taking, eye-rolling, smart-talking, joke-telling, big-sistering, breakfast-making, book reading, brilliant, awesome kid. Wow.
*sigh* well I almost made it through this post without getting sentimental. Happy Birthday, Goober.

The end of my summer, condensed.

2009-09-03T14:28:00.005-04:00

It has been pointed out to me that I have not written in a while. Whoo hoo, somebody noticed!
Sooo...let's see:

I went on vacation! It was great. I drank wine and climbed mountains (fine, I rode up a mountain in a gondola-like-tram-thing, I'm not a super-hero here) I shopped and took pictures and caught up with friends I haven't seen in years and drank more wine and splashed in the ocean (ish) and fell in love with the scenery and rode ferries and skybusses and other exotic forms of transportation. I'd tell you all about it, but in all honestly there's only like three people who actually read this and two of you were there. I'd like to thank you both for your organization, hospitality, entertainment, and all around awesomeness as well as for your patience with my public transit retardation (I totally failed to follow even your most basic written instructions) and for the phrase "Gear down, Big Rig." best delivered with a Scottish brogue. To the other one: Sorry, you shoulda been. It was boss.

I worked, but I don't get paid enough to deal with shit like this:
Stupid Kid:What can I get for this? dumping a hand full of coins on my counter and waiting expectantly.
Me: I can't do this with you today. I've got a line-up. You're going to have to count it yourself and figure out what you want. translation: you're not cute enough to get away with this bullshit.
Stupid Kid: How much would it be for a Froster and a Skittles and a Rollo and a Push-Pop?
Me: What size Froster?
Stupid Kid: What's the biggest I can get for this much money?
Me: How much money do you have?
Stupid Kid: uuuuuuhhh...less than three dollars?
Me: You can't get all that stuff.
Stupid Kid: How much is a large Froster and a bag of Skittles with tax?
Me: Around 3 dollars.
Stupid Kid: How much exactly?
Me: Here's a calculator if you'd like to figure it out.
Stupid Kid: Huh? can't you just scan it all in?
Me: No, because I only get the taxes included if I push it in as a sale and total it and then I'd have to cancel it and do it again a dozen times as you fuck around trying to spend every last penny and every time I void a sale I have to print a receipt and write the reason WHY and I can only do that so many times a day and I'm not wasting them all on you AGAIN. Do you see the line of people I'm dealing with here? Do you think this stack of porn is going to price and shelf itself? Guess what kid, porn doesn't just happen. It's my JOB. "No."
Stupid Kid: UUh...what do I do?
Me: Jesus, this twit has got to be 13 years old, what the hell do they teach them in school these days? Add the prices of the Froster and the Skittles together. 1.69+0.99.
Me, to another customer: That's $1.34, Sir. Debit?
Stupid Kid: A dollar thirty four plus what?
Me: No, not you.
Stupid Kid: Then what?
Me: multiply by 0.12 for the tax.
Stupid Kid: Divide by what?
Me, to another customer: Sorry, only the bags of milk are on sale, not the jugs.
Stupid Kid: Is that all?
Me: No, add that number to your original total.
Stupid Kid: A dollar sixty-nine?
Me: No, the Skittles and the Froster together.
Stupid Kid: I forget that.
we repeat the process, step by step, between serving customers, making coffee and pricing chocolate bars.
Stupid Kid: I got a hundred and forty-two dollars and seventy-three cents.
Me: Yes, that's exactly right.

My kid started school. Grade school. Real, 5 day a week, no longer any kind of pre-school school. Where the big kids go. Every day.
In first grade there is homework. We get a book at the beginning of the week. This week it was "Feet." On Monday we're supposed to talk about the pictures. On Tuesday I'm supposed to read the book to her. On Wednesday she's supposed to pick out a few words and so on and so forth until we're so sick of "Feet" we could just puke. Finally she's supposed to answer an asinine question about "Feet." each day. That's the procedure anyway. Except my kid read the book to me on the first day without assistance and her answer to the question "I wonder..." was:
"I wonder why I can't read a properly written book? Who says 'I keep my feet warm. I wear socks'? Why wouldn't you just say 'I wear socks to keep my feet warm? And who cares about feet anyway?"
Well done, my child.

I got a dog. Skylar has been begging for a dog for years and my response has always been: When we get a bigger house. It doesn't look like that's going to happen any time soon, but that didn't stop her from telling everyone she meets that we are going to be getting a dog. A three year old dog, with curly ears, to be specific. So I started reading adds and searching shelters and signing up for Internet dating type services where you are matched up with the pet of your dreams based on age, race, interests and astrological signs. Have you tried to adopt a dog lately? I'm not trying to adopt a baby from China here people, do we seriously need to know about my obedience philosophies, nutrition plans, household income, the lives and deaths of all my past and present pets, and so on and so forth? I'm not even exaggerating here. They wanted to interview every member of my family and come over for a house check, from Toronto, not for free either. They require references and an account with a veterinarian. And it's still around $300-$400. I was bitching about all this while my mom was on the phone ('cause I'm considerate like that) and her friend had a friend of hers in the background and she said she was looking for a home for her dog. He's a three year old Cocker Spaniel (read: curly ears) and he's free. The next day we had a dog.

More on that later.

Lil Rainbow Rides Again!

2009-08-08T21:17:00.005-04:00

I remember the day I got Lil Rainbow.
I remember bouncing with excitement as she was assembled.
I remember being awed by her perfect purple rainbowey girlishness.
I remember my Grandpa holding on to the hoop at the back of the big banana seat to steady me.
I remember riding down the road calling out to my neighbours that I had to wear this skating helmet because it was my first time riding a two wheeler.
I remember putting beads on her spokes to hear them tinkle as the wheels spun.
I remember my cousin learning to ride on her too.
I remember racing kids from school down the street when I was far too big for her and my knees bumped my elbows.
I remember pulling her out of the shed to teach the little girl I babysat in junior high.
I remember refusing to allow her to be sold at a yard sale, despite the fact that I obviously couldn't ride her anymore.

Now I get to remember this:

"Mommy, I think this bike really is magic!"

Yes, yes it is.

I have nothing entertaining to say. Luckily I have a 5 year old who never stops talking. Ever.

2009-07-29T00:30:00.005-04:00

"She lives over there. You can tell by her going that way."

"*sigh* Would you please take this seriously Eden? We're surrounded by monsters here!"

"I had an adult dream last night. I don't think it was appropriate for my age. It was just a bunch of stupid grown-up stuff. You probably would have thought it was funny, but I didn't really get it."

beware: sentimentality and TMI ahead.

2009-07-23T21:31:00.005-04:00

So like I said, my baby is 2. She is not, in fact, a baby anymore. Gone is the floppy squooshyness, the immobility, the need to remain in the vicinity of my boobs at all times, the sling sleeping, the quiet complacency, the gummy smile, the chubby thighs and the soft bald head. These things have been replaced by skinned knees, long, skinny arms and legs, dirty fingernails, scruffy hair, a chipped tooth, a rapidly growing and increasingly hilarious vocabulary and some world-class hugging and cuddling skills. She is well on her way to being a real person. The second amazingly complete and perfect person to be hacked together from pieces of me and Adam.
Two human beings seems like a pretty staggering accomplishment to me, so we're done...I think.
Another baby is just not feasible for us. We're broke. We are crammed into a tiny apartment, quite literally on top of each other most of the time. I want to go back to school. Adam wants a better job. We want to travel. We want to boot our kids out of the house by the time we're in our early 40's...

Still, permanent measures seem a bit extreme. We're young and practical enough to know that we're not ready for the big snip. If anything should happen to me, Adam would likely find a new chick who still wanted kids, etc. So last week I went to get a Mirena IUD installed (implanted? inserted? there's really no good way to say it.)

Do you know one of the worst things about small town life? It's not the lack of amenities, the isolation, the inconvenience or even the smell; it's the fact that you only have one doctor. People in cities have pediatricians, family doctors, podiatrists and chiropractors. They have proctologists, naturopaths, obstetricians and dermatologists. Most importantly, they have gynecologists. In small towns the doctor who treated your croup when you were three is very likely the same doctor who gives you a pap smear. You have to talk to the same guy about your kid's foot fungus who told your mom you had Mono.

So here I am, waiting for this guy to come in and insert some hardware up my hoo-ha. Hoping to God there will be no chitchat, while the nurse does the preliminary work on which the doctor doesn't waste his valuable time. Inevitably she asks:

"When was your last menstrual period?"
"First week of June."
"Uum, Honey? Do you know what day it is."
"Yes, yes it's the middle of July, I know. But really, this is totally normal for me. 6ish weeks is my usual."
"It's more like 8ish."
"...(mental math) hmm. Still...I really don't think..."
"You're supposed to get these in the first week after."
"Someone should probably have told me that. Anyway, Doc was on vacation. Can you run a quick test?"
"Sure, but if you got pregnant in the last week or two it won't show up yet. I'm not sure if the Doc will do it at this point."
"I really don't think..."
"Is it at all possible?"
"Well...there's always a slight possibility."

I waited, they conferred. Questions were asked on all sides and in the end we decided to go ahead with the procedure and if Aunt Flo didn't come to visit in the next week or two I was to get me to the nearest drug store for a test and if need be we'd yank out the IUD. Because while I'm all about the prevention, I'm not interested in killing anyone who might already be living in there, nor yet causing any strange and terrible mutations by having hypothetical Junior develop with a hormonal IUD clenched in his little fist. Finally I was bare arsed and be-stirruped and staring at the ceiling in the attitude of nonchalant mortification common to women the world over. Then it was done.

I went home. I waited. I thought. I got to visit the same damn Doctor 3 days later when I took my mom to the ER after she threw out her back.

I hoped, for two completely different things:

-I can barely handle the two kids I have sometimes, I don't want more!
-A boy might be nice, for a change.
-We can't afford it.
-People make do with less, and you already have most of the baby stuff.
-I want to dedicate my attention to the girls I already have.
-Never again to feel the liquid acrobatics of a baby in your belly?
-What right do we have to keep bringing people into this uncertain world?
-Tiny, fuzzy head nuzzled, sleeping on your chest.
-There's no room in this house.
-No more first baths? First steps? First giggles?
-I want to go back to school.
-A tiny little bottom that fits perfectly in the palm of your hand?
-I'll be working at fucking Macs forever!
-Shopping for tiny onesies, fluffy diapers and wee little shoes?
-Putting three children through school?
-Seeing the world through completely new eyes again?
-The crying, The whining.
-The toothless smiles, the totally unrestrained laughs?
-The LABOUR?
-The contentment on a tiny face feeding at your breast while a small hand plays idly with your hair?
-The very real fear of insanity and depression?
-The chance to pick out the perfect name?
-I'm not a good enough mother. I don't deserve any more.
-The chance to watch a new person grow?

For a week I waited. And finally it happened. I am NOT pregnant. And, for the most part, I'm glad. We're done. For the next 5 years anyway. By which time my kids will be 7 and fucking 10(!!!) years old. And I most definitely won't want to start over with all the baby crap then right? Right?

The most amazing 2 years of my life.

2009-07-16T00:25:00.002-04:00

Shortly after midnight, July 16 2007.

Shortly after midnight, July 16 2009

Happy Birthday Eden Ariana.

Evil genius in training.

2009-07-11T14:07:00.002-04:00

We were playing in the front yard when the phone rang.
"Goober, could you watch your sister for a sec? Just make sure she stays right here on the porch, OK?"
"Yep, I sure can."
"I'll be right back."
A minute later I came back outside to find Skylar quietly skooting around in a ride-on car and Eden...nowhere.
"Skylar, where's Eden?"
"She went that way." *pointing down the sidewalk beyond our house*
Note- Five years is too young to babysit. Who knew?
Ah, yes. That way. The way that leads to the park. The way that leads to the pool where my not quite two year old likes to jump off the diving board. The way that leads to Main Street.
I leaped across the lawn to the sidewalk and saw her nearing the end of the block.
"EDEN, STOP!"
She turned around and looked at me. Then squealed with delight before charging blindly across a residential street. Now she's running as fast as her pigeon toed little baby feet will take her, arms waving erratically in the air, towards the only really busy street in town. But I'm running too, and my legs are longer. She looks back over her shoulder and realizes she doesn't stand a chance.
Oh, shit. Here comes Mom and she looks pissed. What to do? What to do? I've got it!
She stops dead and turns toward me. Then she opens her blue eyes to their full round capacity and spreads her little arms up in the air as she calls out:
"MAMA, HUG?"
I defy anyone to spank that.

mini vaycay

2009-07-04T21:12:00.006-04:00

HI! It's been a while, I know. Been busy. Lots to do. Also, I'm lazy and easily distracted.

Sooo...where were we? Father's day. Right. On that day we dumped our adorable children at Adam's parents place to celebrate with their Papa and we hightailed it to Niagara Falls.

It had occurred to us (Me) that not once in seven years had the two of us gone away for a weekend. We've gone to visit friends or camp out with old buddies or gone our separate ways for a few days now and then, but never actually spent a child-free weekend alone together. I felt it was time to remedy this omission, if only out of morbid curiosity as to whether or not we still had the capacity to get along without the prop of day-to-day life.

So, yes. Niagara Falls, where we enjoyed the most fantastical hotel room our poor, lower-class eyes had ever beheld. With floor to ceiling windows around two walls overlooking both the Canadian and American falls, a king sized bed which we tried out within minutes of walking through the doors and a jacuzzi big enough for the two of us and a bottle of wine.

Fireworks at Niagara Falls. I was going to delete this picture, cause it's boring, but Adam said not to because:
"Look at all those Orbs!"
"Orbs?"
"You know, that's how ghosts look in photographs."
"Uum, we're at Niagara freaking Falls. I think that's caller Water."
"Maybe lots of ghosts decide to come here before they cross over."
"Unfortunate to come on a fireworks night then. Just imagine! Hey, don't go towards the lights! They buuurrnnnn!"

The next day we went to Wonderland and rode the kick-ass new roller coaster: Behemoth ( I highly recommend it, as a roller coaster aficionado) and generally had all the fun that theme parks can provide when you don't bring along kids to whine and complain about standing in line, and get tired and throw fits when they're too short to get on the good rides, and throw more fits because they want some over-priced crap that you'll then have to carry around for the rest of the day, and fall asleep, and slather with sunscreen, and demand to be carried, and beg for ice cream, and throw up the ice cream, and why the hell do they allow children in amusement parks anyway?

We spent that night at what turned out to be a university residence rented out as a hotel for the summer. Less grand yes, but dude, we had a microwave!

Then off to Wasaga Beach for relaxing in the sun. Which was pretty much all we could do there since the water was frigid and filled with some nasty yellow plant-life or sewage spill residue (we debated which it might be and decided we didn't really want to swim anyway) and the entire tourist district burned down a year or two ago and hasn't quite been rebuilt yet.

Then we came home, collected our offspring and enjoyed the first week of summer vacation by: Attending swimming lessons with Skylar. Going to work. Babysitting a crippled dog. Turning 24 and 26, respectively. Playing the wii my mom got us for our birthdays (thanks Mom! p.s. my mom doesn't read this). Filling a kiddie pool in the back yard. Trying to find a teenage babysitter (no luck whatsoever, know anyone?) and going to see UP, which I found hilarious but my kid found by turns terrifying and sad, except for the part about the squirrel, that she liked.

Fun in our own backyard. Happy Canada Day!

Happy Father's Day

2009-06-19T22:22:00.004-04:00

"What's your daddy's name?"

"I don't have a daddy."

"Did he die?"

"No, I just don't have one."

"Well, if he didn't die then you must have one. Everyone does."

"Well, I don't."

I had this conversation a few times when I was a kid. Not many, mind you. I was never teased or ostracized or anything old-fashioned like that. But every once in a while someone would ask.

Of course everyone does have a father, mine's name was Tom. He was a liar and a drunk and my mom left him when I was just a few months old, because it was best for me. But she never stopped loving him. She missed him. She never dated anyone else while I was growing up. Maybe because she didn't want me getting attached to someone who might not stick around, maybe because she was afraid of getting hurt, maybe because she simply wasn't interested in male companionship. Whatever the reason, she raised me alone and she did a damn fine job. I never wanted a father, never felt I lacked for anything, never blamed him for leaving. I was perfectly happy in my place at the center of the universe with all of my mom's attention focused squarely on me.

Every Sunday my aunts would bring my cousins over to our place and we would play together while the grown-up ladies chatted and played cards. I didn't have any uncles. My cousins were not the ones who asked my daddy's name. Not all of them knew their own. Fathers were an obscure concept. A little frightening, as the unknown always is. And nothing of any real importance anyway. Sure, some people had them, but they certainly weren't necessary. Children belonged to their mothers and it was as simple as that.

When I was eleven my mom started seeing Tom again. I was not supportive. As I said before, I never blamed him for leaving, but boy was I ever pissed with him for coming back. I resented the intrusion. I was a spoiled brat and I hated the thought of sharing my mom's affection with anyone, whether he happened to be my father or not. I barely spoke to him. I stormed off to my room to sulk when he visited. She was happy when it was just the two of us right? Why did he have to come and ruin everything! I hated the sound of his big stupid booming laugh coming up the stairs.

Then he got sick. My mom started spending most of her time at the hospital with him and I was alone a lot. Finally I consented to go see him.

He was more than half delirious and in his more coherent moments he declared he was going to die that night. He wanted a priest. Luckily, hospitals have some of those handy and someone went to fetch one. While we waited I stared at this stranger who was my father. He was shrunken and emaciated, with waxy skin drooping from his wrinkled face. He kept pushing his oxygen mask up onto his forehead, so his fingers were turning purple, yellow and green. He asked my mom to pick him up and shake him. He said he'd be just fine if she would just lift him up and give him a good shake to get everything back in it's proper place. She told him she couldn't. He was too heavy. I thought she was probably wrong about that. She asked me to help her move him instead. She told me to grab the corners of the little sheet he was laying on and we'd slide him up in the bed a bit. I took hold of my side and we started to lift, but as we moved him his blanket started to slip and I could see that his gown was all rucked up around his waist and his bony hip underneath and part of a bedsore and oh my god I did NOT want to see him naked and holy crap he's so light and...I let go and ran out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom. When I came back the priest (minister? padre? whatever, it was a woman with a bible) was there. She asked if I was his granddaughter and I said nothing. My mom choked out that I was his daughter. The woman asked if I was remembering all the good times I'd had with my dad and I continued to say nothing. This time Tom answered for me. "She certainly is not." The man had only the barest grasp of reality at that point, but one thing he was aware of was that I hated him. His eyes rolled around the room and he jammed a finger up his nose to get at the pesky dry itch. Then he reached out to me. "I think he wants to hold your hand" my mom explained, as I stood there dumbly. Are you serious? Did you not just see him picking his nose? I managed to overcome my raging brattishness and took his hand. It was an odd sensation. The skin was hard, calloused and cold, but it felt like warm liquid inside. Like a leather water balloon, half full and squashy. The fingertips were green from lack of oxygen. I was surprised that the overall impression was one of life. It was the first and only time I remember ever holding my father's hand.
.......

"Adam, please call me, or come to my house or something as soon as you get this message, no matter what time it is..."

"What's going on? are you OK?"

"I went to the hospital today and got a test...Adam, it was positive."

"...Well...that makes things...interesting."

...

Shit. Why did I freak out and tell him? Why couldn't I just keep my damn mouth shut and get an abortion or break up with him and then put it up for adoption. It's none of his business anyway right? This is MY life, not his! Stupid, stupid, stupid!
...

"Look, I just want you to know that I'm not expecting anything OK? I mean, you can be involved if you want to, but I don't want you to feel obligated or anything. Like, I'm fine on my own, OK?"

"What are you talking about? Of course I'm involved!"

"If that's what you want, fine. But just don't, you know, feel like you have to stay with ME or anything, you know, if you don't really want me..."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"Let's just see how things go, and see what happens."
...

I finished my senior year of high school and found a prom dress that accommodated my 6 month belly. Adam went to school in Toronto and drove back so visit me every weekend. While my friends prepared for university, I spent the summer renovating the tiny, run-down apartment we would live in. It was the loneliest summer of my life. Adam moved in at the beginning of September, when his course was over, and we had 2 weeks to get accustomed to each other before we became parents.

Despite having tried to push him away, I soon realized how glad I was that he hadn't accepted the offer. I couldn't have done it by myself. I know there are women out there who rock the single mom thing, but I'm not one of them. During those first few crazy months of adjustment, reassessment, sleep deprivation, depression and anxiety, Adam's presence probably saved Skylar's life and my own as well. I was a mess. My self-centered upbringing had left me totally unprepared to dedicate my life to someone else. I was resentful and bitter towards my baby for stealing my freedom. Instead of bonding with her I grew more and more distant. I began to hate breastfeeding her. I would spend her feeding sessions crying and fighting back the nausea that filled me as this big pink parasite sucked me dry. She would cry for what seemed like hours every evening and images started flashing in my head of just how easy it would be to make the screaming STOP. The worst part is that it wasn't any sense of love or decency that prevented me from doing it. It was just a small, bored voice in the back of my mind that told me not to bother, because I'd just end up in jail and I still wouldn't be free. To this day I still feel sick when I think about what might have happened if the screaming had gone on just a bit longer, or louder, and drowned out that voice. I used to think mother's who claimed post-partum depression made them kill their babies were lying monsters, but now I just feel sorry for them. If it wasn't for Adam I might have been one of them. But he was there. He was there pacing the floor for hours on end with an inconsolable baby on his shoulder while I hid uselessly in another room. He was there rubbing my back and telling me it was OK while Skylar nursed. He was there wearing a snuggli and carrying the baby for miles while we explored the countryside together, growing calm and happy with the physical exertion and fresh air. He was there making meals when I couldn't be bothered. He was there holding me at night while I cried myself out, thinking about what an awful, worthless person I was, making me believe that maybe there was someone in the world who wanted me anyway.

I got better. I fell in love with my baby and came to appreciate it all the more because it hadn't come naturally. Time and experience made me a better person, and while I can still be selfish and impatient, I have learned how to put others first. Adam taught me that. It still surprises me that I learned to love a man. I'm still pleasantly shocked every time he holds me in his arms and I realize that I feel completely safe and comfortable and right.

Over the next six years we grew into a real family, as opposed to a couple of scared kids and a baby unfortunate enough to be stuck with them. As a father and a partner Adam has surpassed all of my expectations. He is kind and compassionate, patient and playful, strong and intelligent. He carries the girls on his shoulders, submits to playing Barbies and dress-up. He can be trusted to care for them when I'm not around. He puts up with my shit, whereas I would long ago have punched myself in the mouth. He snuggles. He sees the humor in day to day life. He believes in magic. He packs school lunches and changes cloth diapers. He makes sacrifices for the three of us. Most of all, he loves. He just radiates love unabashedly all around him, towards his daughters, and for some reason I'll never understand, towards me as well.

I just wanted to say that I appreciate it.

Thank you for being you. Thank you for teaching me what fathers can be. Thank you for sticking out the hard times and adding to the good times. Thank you for loving us.
We love you too.

Happy Father's Day.

Twi-hard. It's sad that I even know that word.

2009-05-28T20:51:00.006-04:00

It's all Adam's fault.

A month ago he rented Twilight based on "You like vampires, right?" Yes, yes I do. I don't know why, but they make me all tingly in my special place. What can I say? Bloodsuckers are HAWT. My first celebrity crush was on Angel, who should so totally have ended up with Buffy, I mean WTF? They were meant to be together, although Spike was pretty damn nice too and.....But seriously, Twilight? Isn't that some teenybopper angsty pop shit? We watched it. I bitched and commentated and made snide remarks for the first 45 minutes as I am wont to do. It was awkward and melodramatic and predictable..and yet oddly compelling?

The next day was mind numbingly boring at work, and Twilight was right there on the bookshelf, and I'd already seen the movie so why not leaf through a couple pages while I waited for things to pick up? I bought the damn book and finished it that night.

Then I had to go to a book store for the second volume in the series. First I pretended to browse nonchalantly through the aisles, deflecting helpful sales staff in the hopes that I could find it without having to admit to anyone that I was looking for a book meant for 13 year old junior-high girls. When I got to the checkout the smart ass college kid at the till just couldn't shove it in a bag quietly, oh no.

"Ah, Twilight. You got sucked in, huh? I tried to read the first one but I just couldn't take it. They're really not well written at all. I just couldn't get in to it. I can't believe it's surpassed Harry Potter in sales"

Shut up, boy. I know that they're not "well written" I've studied English and Literature and I'm well aware that these books don't qualify as either, except in the loosest possible terms. They're awkward, underdeveloped and lacking in almost every possible literary attribute....but yet...I can't look away.

I can't explain it. Why are these characters so compelling? They are one dimensional and juvenile. They don't swear or go to the bathroom or even have sex until the fourth damned book. But for some reason, I am Bella Swan.

I devoured the second book and asked Adam to pick up the third and fourth volumes on his way home from work the next day. He can escape any embarrassment by claiming they're a gift.

Then I watched the movie again.

Then I started reading magazines when the film's stars were on the covers because although I truly wish I didn't care whether or not the actors portraying Edward and Bella are dating in real life, I do! Oh, how I do!

But wait, it gets worse!

Adam asked me an innocent question about how some element of the movie compared to the book....and we are now reading them aloud to each other every evening. We're a quarter of the way through the last book and I got seriously pissed off at Adam last night for reading ahead while I was at work and I went to bed all moody and refused to read with him anymore if he was going to CHEAT and I shut off the light and curled up in a little ball with my back to him, because obviously; I really am that immature.

It would have been a really good pout too, except for the fact that I am apparently incapable of producing my own body heat. I couldn't sleep because my feet were so cold and Adam knows this about me, so eventually he reached over and voluntarily put my icy toes on his warm leg to heat me up and it's hard to stay angry when confronted by that kind of love.

This has been my confession.

Please excuse me now while I go buy a Robert Pattinson poster for my bedroom.

Is there a law against molesting spermophiles?

2009-05-14T13:54:00.006-04:00

As I was heading to work the other day I happened to notice a dog turd squirming around under a tree at the edge of my yard. It seemed odd to me that a dog turd would be moving around under it's own power so I went in for a closer look, because I'm a freak.

It was a baby squirrel, all small and blind and helpless, wriggling around like so much cat-bait. I had to get to work so I called Adam out and told him to put it back up in the tree. Then I headed off, filled with the warm glow of a good deed well done, despite the fact that I kind of figured it was as good as dead anyway.

When I passed the tree the next day it was back down again, and this time it was actually on the road. Gotta be dead now, right? No. I leaned closer, because apparently I like to examine roadkill as well as dog shit, and saw that it was still moving. Fuck.

"Adam, come save the baby squirrel....again!"

So Adam came out, but Skylar got there first and immediately picked up the adorable little bundle of rabies. Again, I had to get to work, so I left. Once again secure in the knowledge that I had helped a cute little furry creature...well, you know, not me personally, but still. I assumed Adam would stick it back in the tree. Maybe he would even call the vet or the humane society and find out if some sort of animal rescue person would come and collect the sweet little rodent. Perhaps he would enquire as to the likelyhood of our daughter dying of Squirrel Flu or distemper. Hopefully he would prevent her from dressing it up in Barbie clothes and kissing it.

I did NOT expect to come home to find him googling recipes for "squirrel formula" and feeding our squirrels (yes, squirrels, plural) with a baby medicine dropper.

"Squirrels are surprisingly delicate, you can't feed them cow's milk or they'll die."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and you can't feed them if they're cold, or they'll die."

"Really?"

"Skylar says the black one is named Owen and the brownish one is Cole."

"After the boys across the road?"

"Uh huh. You have to feed them every two to four hours."

"I do?"

"And after you feed them you have to rub their genitals with a warm, wet cotton ball to stimulate them."

"Excuse me? Would you mind clarifying that last part?"

"According to this (gesturing towards the all knowing google search) baby squirrels can't just go on their own. They can't relieve themselves unless their mother stimulates them to do so, and if you don't they'll die of constipation and kidney failure"

"Well, that's just...the dumbest survival trait ever, isn't it? Seriously, this is a flawed species."

"Do you want me to just drown them now?"

"No! I just..."

"It's a little tricky to get them to hold still at first, but after a minute they relax."

"I'll bet."

"Have a nice day, I've gotta go to work."

So then he left. I decided to do my own research, just in case he was just trying to fuck with me and was laughing all the way to work, imagining me spending the day rubbing off infant tree rats.

Turns out it's true. So I fed them, which was freaking adorable, and I rubbed them, which was not. They're boys! Baby squirrels have bigger dingdongs than you'd expect. There, now you've learned something today. You're welcome, you sick freak.

I also made many phone calls. To the vet, who told me to call the OSPCA. To the OSPCA, who are not taking wildlife due to renovations. To the Humane Society, who wouldn't take them because we're out of the region. To the Shady Acres Squirrel Sanctuary, where I tried to leave a message, but was hindered by the fact that I was trying not to laugh hysterically at the mental image conjured up by that title ( A huge estate, run by the Squirrel Lady from Rat Race (wouldja like ta buy a squir'l?) with a sign reading "We're nuts about squirrels!" etc.) And finally, to another Humane society who agreed to take them so long as we dropped them off, since we were once again, out of their region.

Then we drove for over an hour to deliver our spermophiles (Look it up, it's not technically accurate, but isn't it an awesome word? Filthy little nut lovers.) To some experts who told me off for feeding wild animals and suggested I should have just have left them to freeze or be eaten by our cats. Not in so many words, but still.

So ya, that was my day. But doesn't this cuteness pretty much make up for it?

First Kisses

2009-04-23T22:53:00.005-04:00

I was in the first grade. I was playing with some kids in the snowy school yard and one of the other girls told me to lay down so she could make me into a snowball. She rolled me over and over while snowflakes caught in my eyelashes and filled my mouth as I laughed. Suddenly, she stopped and I looked around to find that we had crossed to the other side of the playground and ended up next to another group of kids.

"Josh!" she called out "I brought you another Snow Bunny to kiss!"

Josh came running over as fast as his sodden snow pants would allow and bent down over me. I shoved him. Hard. Then I ran away.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was in the fourth grade. There was a club for kids who were "going out" with each other. They called themselves NALA (Not A Loner Anymore) and they met behind a tree every recess to see which couple could hold a kiss for the longest. Someone asked me if I wanted to join.

"No way! I like being a Loner, thanks."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was in the ninth grade. I was camping with cadets. There was a boy there that I really liked and he liked me too. He smuggled some booze onto the bus for us and promised me we'd sneak away some night and have a party. We flirted and hugged and he told me I was beautiful and kissed my hand each night before bed. But there were scary MP's and officers around making nuisances of themselves with all of their No Fraternization! and Anyone Found in Possession of Contraband Will Face Criminal Charges and Possibly be Shot! and At No Time is Anyone Ever Allowed to go Anywhere in Groups of Less Than Four! and the opportunities for intimacy were somewhat limited.

---------------------------------------------------------------

I was sixteen. It was April. Adam and I had met between Christmas and New Years and we'd seen each other a few times since then. First on Valentines Day, then at a mutual friend's birthday and finally for a few one on one visits. He'd stopped by for one such visit and we'd taken a walk down the trail by my house. It was a warm spring day and we were lying on a hill, talking and watching the people who walked by on the trail below us. The shape of the land and the early budding bushes shielded us so that we could see down, but no one could see up, and we were having fun making up stories about the people who passed by us unawares. Adam rolled up over me and I could see that this was it, he was finally going to go in for a kiss. I panicked, just for a second. What am I doing? This is stupid! Holy shit, no one knows I'm out here and I've suddenly noticed that this is not a boy I'm out here with; this is a MAN, He's 18 and he's a lot bigger than me and a hell of a lot stronger and if he wanted to he could...Then I snapped out of it. I felt safe and happy and I wanted him to do it, just hurry up and kiss me already! This is my first kiss and I want to be the KissEE and not the KissER so just hurry up and...and then he kissed me.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

"Guess what happened at school today!"

"What, Goober?"

"A boy from the other class kissed me three times!"

*insert moment of maternal panic for 'Ohmygod, are we HERE already?'and 'You are so not MY kid.' Followed swiftly by 'How freaking cute is she, bragging with that huge smile on her face?'

"Which boy?"

"Uuuumm...Hayden, I think?"

"Is Hayden your boyfriend?"

"No. We were rolling and rolling down the hill and then we stopped and got stuck in a pile at the bottom and then he kissed me once and then we rolled again and we pretended to get stuck again and he kissed me two more times and then he said 'Aah I need a cloth' and went to go wash the kiss off"

*insert moment of jealousy for total romantic awesomeness of that story, except for the part about the cloth, maybe.*

"Isn't that funny, Mommy? I thought boys didn't even LIKE girls! Why do you think he did that?"

*insert Adam returning home from work*

"Daddy! A boy from the other class kissed me three times!"

"Where?"

"At school."

"That's not what I....never mind."

*insert moment for me giggling uncontrollably and Adam to contemplate' Ohmygod, are we HERE already?' and 'Add 'shotgun' to next shopping list.' *

The moral of the story: My 5 year old has now been kissed by as many men as I have and also her first kiss falls almost exactly 7 years after my own. How fucking sad is that?

Easter: Lessons in greed.

2009-04-19T22:11:00.008-04:00

There are several religious interpretations of Easter, but for us it was pretty much about family and chocolate. Oh, and passing on character lessons about the importance of greed.

Lesson 1: Easter at Adam's Parents. Time is of the essence!

You mean there's going to be chocolate AND blueberry cake?!

This was Eden's first egg hunt. She approached it the way she did with Halloween: Get one candy, open it and enjoy it before moving on to the next. Unfortunately, with 6 older kids around who were more clued in to the massive chocolate hoarding possibilities at stake here, this system left her with a pretty bare basket. Clearly more training was needed.

Screw eggs, there are full sized chocolate bars and flashlights to be had! (no, that's not a dildo in my kid's Easter basket)

Lesson 2: Easter Egg Hunt at the Park. Brain washing en mass.

We got to the small park down the block from our house a little early, in time to see the volunteers scattering plastic eggs about the playground with all the magic and whimsy of a chain gang at work. Skylar stopped in her tracks and went from cheerful and excited to grumpy and uncooperative in a split-second.

"Those are just toy eggs! They're not chocolate at all! This isn't going to be any fun. Let's just go home!"

I stopped her by suggesting that there might be treats at the end. Since her sense of greed is well established, she consented to stay.

The Egg Warden called the assembled townsfolk to order and explained the rules: There's a roped off section for kids 2 and under, the rest of the park is fair game for older kids. Once you get 5 eggs you take them to the Easter Bunny (aka mentally enfeebled lady in a dirty white fur suit from the Halloween clearance bin. Of course, the costume might have been at fault for the mentally enfeebled vibe.) who will give you a special treat!

Skylar took off running because she's 5 and doesn't need me anymore.

I took Eden over to the baby coral and plopped her over the rope into the pen with all the other toddlers and infants, some of whom were barely able to sit unsupported. Then they stared. Parents stood around the pit and blinded them with a thousand camera flashes. Some of the babies cried. Parents pointed wildly at the brightly coloured plastic eggs on the ground and encouraged their munchkins to get them. The babies continued to stare blankly. Eventually one of them picked up an egg, to the wild and frenzied cheers of his family. They began to catch on. They picked up eggs. They offered them to their parents with 'What? Is this what you want?' looks on their faces. They tried to eat the eggs, but alas, as Skylar had already pointed out, they were not chocolate. Older ones tried to stuff eggs in their pockets and got frustrated when they wouldn't fit. Younger ones picked up 2 eggs and got frustrated when they had no more hands. They offered each other eggs and dropped eggs into their neighbour's baskets. This, of course, had to be stopped. "In YOUR basket, Buddy! Put the eggs in YOUR basket!" Then they started stealing eggs out of each others baskets. Much better.

Ha! I'm not the only slacker mom who didn't remember to bring baskets to the egg hunt and had to make do with a plastic bag that was wadded up in my pocket from the last time I took my mom's dog for a walk!

By the time Eden was done here, Skylar had already collected her eggs, waited in line and exchanged them for a book and a ziplock bag full of jellybeans and chocolates from the "Easter Bunny" entirely without assistance. Eden wanted nothing to do with Easter Bunnies or lines for that matter, all she wanted was the free juice box.

Lesson 3. Easter with my Family. When did Easter become Christmas?

My daughters, and other family members who bloody well smile and don't put things in front of their faces when told to say Cheese!

The greed took on a whole new level here. There was no egg hunt at all. Instead there were gifts. Toys and clothes and chocolate bunnies and so on and so forth and holy crap, what am I supposed to do with all the stuffed rabbits?

Quick! She's wearing them! Take the picture now, now, NOW ! Too late.

Check out that tail.

By the time Easter Sunday arrived Eden was a pro. She put the first chocolate egg in her mouth and then carried on looking for more. She knew what she was looking for and where to put them when she found them. Greed training complete. With a little bit more speed and some search and recover skills she'll be a champion egg hunter by next year. As it was, she was still lagging behind Skylar a fair bit, but then Skylar lost her head completely and started pointing eggs out to her baby sister and even depositing a few of her own eggs in Eden's basket. Shit, now we have to re-train that one too.

Luckily, he has no idea what a blog is.

2009-04-17T14:28:00.003-04:00

My Grandpa is in his 80's. He's the only male parental figure I've ever known and he taught me to ride a bike and fly a kite and build stuff and he took me for walks down the old train tracks where the wildflowers grew. I'm trying hard to remember all that right now.

He's also the one who slapped me across the face once when I was four or five, right in front of all my little friends as we played in the back yard. He yelled that I'd left the garage door unlocked. I wasn't tall enough to reach the latch on that door.

I once read a book by Diana Gabaldon in which an old man is described as "a mule" Not precisely mean, and not precisely stupid, but incredibly stubborn and once he gets an idea in his head it's impossible to shift him off of it without a stout stick between the eyes. She put it better than that of course, but I'm too pissed off to look up the actual quote right now. Anyway, that's my Grandpa.

He's gotten old and belligerent. He can't handle a single element of change. Nothing is ever to be out of it's place and no one is to do anything without his will and consent.

I have kids. Kids equal change and noise and mess and they have a tendency to do unpredictable things at random moments.

Ever since we got here Skylar has been fascinated by the old camping trailer in the backyard. We never took it camping. It has been in the same place since we moved in 20 years ago. When we were little it was the perfect playhouse, complete with child sized appliances, dishes, bunk beds etc. We were in there all the time. Stupidly, I told Skylar as much. She's been desperate to get in there since we arrived last fall. Now the snowbanks are gone and I gave in to the pleading and let her in this morning. She had just met the neighbour boys and wanted something really cool to show them. She nearly burst with excitement as I shoved some plywood out of the way and wrenched open the swollen and distended door. The trailer has been rotting for two decades and it would surely fall to pieces if anyone tried to pull it anywhere now. It's dirty and mouldy and full of old junk we couldn't think of anyplace else to store. Mice have eaten through a seat cushion and the window in the door is broken, but it's still a pretty kick ass place to be if you're 5.

I watched as Skylar and her friends played happily for 15 minutes or so, then I took Eden inside to put her down for her nap. As I got back downstairs I could hear Grandpa bellowing at Skylar.
"YOU GET OUT OF THERE! GET OUT OF THERE, NOW!"

The little boys ran off so fast it's lucky there were no cars coming as they flew home across the street. Skylar looked stupefied and could only ask "Why?"

"BECAUSE IT'S MINE! I DON'T WANT YOU IN THERE MAKING A MESS, PULLING RUBBISH OUT ALL OVER THE YARD. KEEP OUT OF IT!"

Pretty much the same words he said to me when I was her age, right before clouting me across the head. I was outside and between them faster than I would have thought possible.

"It's just old toys in there..." I began.

"IT'S MINE, AND YOU KEEP THOSE KIDS OUT!"

It's not his, neither is the stuff inside. The kids hadn't gone in unsupervised and they weren't making a mess or bringing anything out. The whole point of the trailer when I was small was as a place to play. But there's no point telling him any of that. He just yells and thunders and turns red. He goes back to the same old arguments about how he owns this house and pays the bills (both of which are NOT true) So we can never argue with him. All we do is try to placate him, no matter how unreasonable he's being. We're always afraid he'll give himself a heart attack or a stroke, or punch someone. He's old, but he's fit and strong. Usually it bugs me, but I behave myself. I can take him yelling at Adam for some ridiculous perceived error in the sorting of the recycling, or yelling at me for somehow clogging up his toilet by supposedly flushing diapers down my toilet (um, what? Even if I did use disposable diapers, which I don't, I wouldn't flush them down a toilet, wtf?) But it took every scrap of my self control to keep my temper after that old grump made my little girl cry.

I'm not good at repressing. It makes my head ache. That's why I'm here writing this utterly boring story. So please excuse me while I vent some things that I honestly don't mean and would never actually say:

Shut the fuck up old man! You don't own this place and we do pay rent. We're the ones who just finished raking all the leaves and fixing the eaves troughs so don't give me this shit about how we're making the place look like crap because there are a few kids toys around. How dare you make my little girl cry for no damn reason at all? Do you know what she said to me when I found her sobbing on the front steps after she ran away from you? "I miss Grammy, I wish she was here. She would know how to make Grandpa be nice." It's true. My Grandma would do anything in the world for a child and she kept you from being a total bastard all the time. Keep up the crazy talk so we can put you in a home and have some peace around here!*

*I don't mean that, well not all of it anyway. I still love him, after all, he's the one who taught me to ride a bike, and fly a kite, and build stuff, and he took me for walks down the old train tracks where the wildflowers grew.

An emerald tiara, the book of Amun Ra and my SIN card.

2009-04-09T17:17:00.005-04:00

I am not an overly organized person. I accept this about myself and, for the most part, it doesn't bother me. But I loose shit all the time.

I can rarely ever answer simple questions that begin with 'Where is....' Sorry Goober, I have no freaking clue where your princess backpack is. Adam, I haven't the foggiest idea where all your socks are. Have you tried the basket of laundry I washed three weeks ago that you never put away? Mooch, can you tell Mommy where Elmo went? He's big and red and plays loud, annoying music at totally random intervals, how hard can he be to find? This has caused quite a bit of frustration around here because A) I'm impatient and I get bitchy when my plans are delayed by missing objects. C) Whenever I nag my kids to help me find something my requests are met with whining and crying and gnashing of teeth. And C)Regardless of my years of organizational ineptitude everybody STILL asks ME when they can't find something. Why? Seriously people, wtf? I don't know where MY stuff is, how would I know where yours has gone?

So, clearly my family doesn't learn too quickly, and evidently neither do I, because it has taken me five and a half years to stumble upon the magical wonder tool called the Scavenger Hunt. Why did no one tell me about this? Over the past 2 days I've found stuff I never even knew we had, and the best part is that all I have to do is write it on a piece of paper, I don't even have to get up!

Much to my chagrin, I have to thank that whiny little bastard Caillou for this discovery. Skylar saw Caillou go on a scavenger hunt with his babysitter and asked me if we could do that. It seemed like an easy way to keep her out from underfoot for a few minutes, so I scribbled down a list of household objects likely to fit in a shopping bag: a button, a comb, a green crayon, a barbie etc. Then, from a mixture of inspiration and desperation I added -Mommy's cell phone, to the list. Success! She showed up a few minutes later with a bag full of junk and my phone! Done already? How about I write some more things? OK? How about Mommy's blue earrings, my driver's license, a roll of tape, my glasses, your library book, your mittens, my keys, the TV remote, Daddy's T4, the camera and Eden's splash pants? This is awesome!

There are other applications aside from finding lost stuff too. You can list every single thing lying around on the floor and 10 minutes later the room is clean! Or you can make up a slightly more difficult list with items such as dragon scales, invisible mittens, robotic spiders, leprechauns, dinosaur teeth, fairy wings, feline scuba gear, diamonds, ectoplasm, the holy grail and Elvis and not only will your kid be occupied for hours, you'll probably be rich when she's done!

You are what you...advertise, apparently.

2009-04-04T13:03:00.005-04:00

The next Olympics are (is? whatever) happening in Canada. I personally would find it hard to care less about sports, but they've been advertising it on TV for YEARS now, so even I can't pretend I didn't know. Still, all of that is happening on the other side of this rather large country, so I never really thought it would impact me directly. All that changed last night at McDonalds.

There it was on the side of my root beer : YOU COULD BE AN OFFICIAL OLYMPIC TORCH BEARER WITH COCA COLA!

Who? Me? The one sitting on my too lazy to make dinner ass, eating cheeseburgers and fries and drinking pop? The one telling my kids to finish their McNuggets or they can't have a milkshake? You really want me to represent Canada at an event that emphasizes physical fitness? What the fuck do McDonalds and Coke have to do with the Olympics? Did you not see Supersize Me? No amount of exercising in the world is going to make you healthy if you live on this crap.

Then I thought about it and decided that it was brilliant. As previously stated: I have no interest in the Olympics, but even I would tune in to watch some 400lb tub'o' lard lumber along in a Coke tracksuit with The Torch wobbling in one fist and a BigMac clutched in the other. Just in case he had a heart attack and died in a puddle of fry grease just steps from the....whatever it is they run towards. Now that's entertainment.

I've noticed the same hypocritical bullshit at my kid's school. At the beginning of the year, and in every newsletter, they send home a list of forbidden lunch foods and snacks. According to them we can't send any nut products (no matter how healthy they may be) because of allergies, we should never send any kind of candy. No pop, no juice boxes, no granola bars, no fruit snacks, no pastries and so on and so forth. No whole fruits because kids don't finish them and they end up being thrown out, No pre-packaged lunch meals (read: Lunchables) because they're too high in salt. They sent us a sample lunch menu which included hummus on whole grain pitas, sugar free yogurt (in a reusable container of course, nothing should have disposable packaging) grapes (cut in half for kindergartners to prevent choking) soy milk (also in a reusable container) and shredded carrots. Yummy. This same school constantly sends home order forms. How many slices of Pizza would your child like every Tuesday? Hot Dog day is coming, then Grilled Cheese day. Incidentally would you like to buy an Ice Cream Sandwich on Friday? How about Cupcakes on Monday? Don't forget to return your Chocolate Milk tickets. Then there are Candy-grams for Christmas, Valentines, Easter, National Cleavage day (thanks Bloggess) and any other holiday they can dream up. Why is this? Because the school wants money! And no kid in the world is going to eat a chickpea and barley sandwich with avocados even if you paid them !

Look, we try, OK? Adam is a holistic nutritionist. We know about healthy food. We feed the girls fruit and veggies and multi-vitamins disguised as gummy bears and sometimes smoothies with wheat-grass juice hidden in them. We also feed them Mac 'n Cheese and Fishsticks. That's just life. At least we're honest about it instead of praising the virtues of Macrobiotics while slipping our kids Doritos on the side. Kids are picky! More importantly, I'm picky! I simply don't eat things that taste like crap no matter how good they may be for me. Stop the holier than thou preaching unless you're prepared to back it up.

HAHAHA, I was going to write some more, but my baby just came over to me and said
"Mama? Noo-nals? Noo-nals? Night-night?" and signed "Please" Which means she would like me to make her some noodles before her nap, so I'm off to heat up some Chicken Noodle Soup (full sodium!) maybe I'll slip her some apple slices as well.

Do the Potty Wheeze!

2009-03-26T13:24:00.005-04:00

*Warning, the following post contains parental content, by which I mean that I am a parent and as such, there are times when I have to talk about my kid's poop. Sorry, that's just the way it is. If you don't want to hear about it, feel free to stop reading now.*

So I'm sick, as I may have mentioned. Yesterday I lost my voice completely and developed a really impressive gasping, painful kind of wheeze that had me propped up with pillows and stealing hits off of an inhaler prescribed for Eden ages ago and never used until now. This morning the breathing is better, but I still nestled my ass firmly on the couch after delivering Skylar to school and let Eden entertain herself by terrorizing the cats and eating handfuls of dry Lucky Charms from the box.

This system worked pretty well for us for an hour or two, until Eden came over to me yelling "Mommy, Mommy. Poop!" and making the "change diaper" sign with her hands. So I dragged my heavy carcass off of the couch and headed upstairs to the change table. I shoved off the cat (who was hiding from Eden) and unsnapped her diaper to find...nothing. It took my fever addled mind a while to process this. WTF child? There is no poop at all, why did you make me get up? Then a totally outlandish idea occurred to me.
"Eden, do you have to poop?" I rasped. "Do you want to poop on the potty?"
She nodded at me in her grave, wide-eyed way.
"OK, OK hang on!" I whispered.

Now, this kid has been utterly uninterested in the whole potty training scene. She has never made the slightest tinkle in the potty and looks rather scandalized and affronted when we suggest it. The potty has been sitting in the bathroom for months, but seeing as how she used to cry at the sight of it, it became more of a secondary towel rack. I flung the towels off of it and sat Eden down.
"OK, big girl" I croaked "Go ahead, make poo poo in the potty"
"Mama potty" She commanded, pointing at the toilet. So I sat.
"No, no pants!" Fine. I'll sit on my potty, you sit on yours. Will you please go poop now?

And she did!

Then she stood up, pointed into the pot and proclaimed "EEEWWW!"

Still pretty surprised, I made every effort to cheer and praise, but with the state of my voice it probably came out a little more scary and growly and demonic than happy, and it was punctuated with gasping coughing spells. Perhaps this is how people develop anal complexes. She never cracked a smile, just kept saying "Eew" and waving bye bye to her turd as it swirled down the john.

I (rather optimistically) let her run bare until nap time, but there was no repeat performance. Before nap I tried to put a diaper on her and boy was she ever pissed about that! So I went with a pair of training pants and I've resigned myself to changing the sheets when she gets up.

*Sob* my baby's growing up. And I just bought that Blueberry Minky diaper too!

Day From Hell

2009-03-22T22:10:00.003-04:00

Inevitably, after spending a week wiping 4 noses, I'm sick. Being sick always sucks, but after today it's just freaking unfair.

I spent the morning trying to clean up the magnificent mess that accumulated while I was away most of last week. I realized I felt like crap after I put Eden down for her nap, so I told Skylar to put on a video and laid down on the couch with her. I woke up almost four hours later to find that the baby monitor was unplugged and Eden had been awake and bawling for God only knows how long. I ran upstairs to rescue her and changed her dirty diaper and rinsed it out as per usual. As I headed downstairs I wondered where that running water sound was coming from. Was Skylar playing in the sink? No, there she is on the couch. Then where....? Shit, the bathroom pipe is leaking and water is pouring through the ceiling all over the kitchen floor, the fridge and the stove. I set Eden down in the living room and hopped up on a chair to salvage all the miscellaneous crap that lives on top of the fridge and place bowls under the drips.

While I was thus occupied, Eden climbed up onto the kitchen table and threw a glass down to shatter in the large puddle on the floor. I'm convinced she did this deliberately to get back at me for falling asleep and leaving her trapped in her bed. I probably deserved it. When I heard the crash I spun around and saw Eden's fat little naked pink toes dangling over the shard filled puddle as she prepared to dismount the table. I yelled "NO! Stay there!" and lunged for her. She stayed put. I fell off of my chair. Then I faced the age old conundrum: too wet to sweep it up, too much glass to throw a towel on it, this just sucks.

Then we went to Adam's Dad's birthday party. Nothing spectacularly horrendous happened there, but the ride home was tragic. Normally Adam drives when we're together, but tonight he asked me to because his eyes were sore. So I was driving along all peaceful like,when suddenly there were eyes, and a thump.

Me- OhMyGod! What was that?!

Adam (aka Heartless Country Boy)- Dead.

Me-But what WAS it? Was it already dead before?

Adam- I think it was a rabbit. Looked like it was already on it's back. I'm sure it was already dead.

Me- Are you sure? What if it was a cat? Ooooh I hope it wasn't a cat.

Adam- What are you doing?

Me- We have to go back and see!

Adam- Ah Jeeze. What are you gonna do?

Me- See what it was and make sure it's really dead. And maybe see if it was already dead before.

Adam- And if it's alive?

Me- Take it to a vet!

*silence from Adam as he ponders the prospect of transporting a wounded wild animal towards a hefty vet bill*

Me- OhMyFuckingGod IT'S A CAT!!!

Adam- Well it's clearly dead.

Me- No it's not, it moved!

Adam- No it...aw shit, it did. So now what?

Me- Go see! Go see!!

Adam- Alright, alright. OK, it's alive, but it's not going anywhere.

Me- Well, take it up to the house!

Adam- Wha-?

Me- PICK IT UP!

*At this point I will now point out that the cruel jerk did pick up the bloody, squirming kitty with his bare hands and carry it to not one, but 2 farm houses while I sat bawling in the car. I'm sure he thought I'd be happy when he came back and reported that the woman at the second farm thought that it was one of her barn cats and was calling her husband to "see what could be done." He was wrong.*

Me- Who's her husband? Where is he? Can he help it? Is he going to kill it? If it's a barn cat and she's not even sure it's hers, how do we know they'll try to help it? Maybe we should just take it home anyway.

Adam- What are we going to do with a wild cat that likely has broken bones and internal bleeding?

*WTF? Does he not know by now that lying is always the right choice? Seriously, would it have been so hard to say "Yes, it's their cat, and luckily they are veterinary surgeons with their own intensive care unit right there in the barn. They say Fluffy will be right as rain in a couple of days." Even if he WAS actually thinking that the farmer was likely to go over and stomp on the kitty's skull.

Me- I DON'T KNOW!

Then I made Adam drive the rest of the way home while I cried, because I'm pathetic.

March Break Madness

2009-03-18T21:09:00.004-04:00

My arm hurts. So does my back, and my neck, and my side. How did I injure myself? I played 20 minutes of Wii sports.
Apparently bowling without a ball, batting without a bat, swinging without a club and tennising without a racket is hard damn work. Oh, and my fitness age?....80!
Yup, I have all the fitness and coordination of the average octogenarian. Nice.

I'm spending this March break babysitting Adam's sister's kids, and I'm thinking I should NOT have more kids. It's not that they're bad kids or anything. It's just that I now have twice the diapers to change, twice the noses to wipe, twice the mouths to feed (and in one case to remove dead flies from. Jesus, the child is like that nut job in Dracula: Bottle-No, dead bugs-Yes!) Nap-times to orchestrate, hands to wash, boots to find, and so on and so forth. And Eden is siiiiick, and Skylar is boooored, and Evan won't shaaaaare, and Jasmine...has another fucking fly, Dammit! Open, come on, spit it out! and...I'm going to bed.

Mother/Daughter time, old-school.

2009-03-12T19:50:00.003-04:00

Tomorrow I leave Goober and Mooch with Adam's parents and head off for some good ol' fashioned mother-daughter time, with me reprising my roll as the daughter.
My mom and I are off to Niagara Falls for the weekend. There to sit in a hot-tub, drink some wine, stare at water and NOT do kiddie touristy crap for 2.5 whole days.
The mini-vacation is my mom's somewhat spur of the moment idea (which is one of the reason's I love her) But it has not escaped me that this is the 1 year anniversary of my Grandma's passing and the Falls hold some special memories for us in that regard, so it's likely to be a bit of a bittersweet trip. I'm looking forward to being able to finish whole sentences without interruption, to not planning my day around nap-time, to never having to ask anyone to eat just 2 more bites, and most of all to living 2 whole blessed days without listening to any whining.

Incidentally, did you hear about that guy who survived going over Niagara Falls 2 days ago? Failed suicide attempt. It was on the News. Know what you don't see on the News? All the successful suicide attempts. Two years ago we watched from Table Rock as a body was pulled up from the gorge by a crane. Our friendly tour bus driver told us that it happens 5 or 6 times a year, but it never makes the news because they don't want to encourage people to try to go out with a splash, so to speak. Apparently putting the dead person's name in the paper is like giving in to a toddler's tantrum: It only encourages them. So instead we ignore it. Tourists from all over the world mug for photos (Have you ever noticed that no matter what language people are speaking they ALL say "cheese!" when a camera is pointed at them?) with the Horseshoe falls, or the everlasting rainbow, or the yellow body box suspended by a wire in the background. It's kind of surreal. People crane their necks a little as they walk by, maybe they even put a few coins in the binocular thingies so their kids can get a better look, but then they go about their happy vacations with smiles on their faces and a few more cool photos to show the family when they get home.

Oh, and speaking of death and Niagara Falls (What a happy little trip down memory lane this post is turning out to be!) The most disturbing thing I've ever seen at a family tourist destination is the delightful street exhibit right next to the Dairy Queen on Clifton Hill, where for just 2$ you can push a button and execute a man. Because if anything can keep little kids entertained while waiting in line for ice cream, it's the sight of a very realistic mannequin strapped to an electric chair with a sack over his head, screaming and thrashing around violently, complete with flashing lights and smoking ears. That's good wholesome family fun, well done tourism board, bravo.

My Hero

2009-03-09T20:21:00.005-04:00

Eden: Dude, you're upside down. That is the coolest thing I've ever seen.
Skylar: Yes, I rock. Feel free to bask in my glory.

Eden: How is this accomplished? This doesn't seem quite right.
Skylar: Nice try, Idiot.

Skylar: Here, need a little manual assistance?
Eden: Fuckin' A!

Skylar: I'm gonna let go now, try not to break your neck, m'k?
Eden: Best. Day. Ever!

Eden: TA DA! We kick ass.
Skylar: And next I'll let you eat the goldfish crumbs my hair picks up while I'm down here.

It could happen to anyone, with a penis.

2009-03-08T20:53:00.004-04:00

So that guy in Saskatchewan who left his babies to freeze to death in a snow storm got 3 years. Nice. Apparently getting loaded while you're responsible for a 3 year old and a 1 year old and taking them outside in a blizzard, wearing nothing but diapers and t-shirts and fucking loosing them and only remembering that you have offspring 8 hours later, by which time they have died what must have been a terrifying and painful death, is the kind of tragic accident that could have happened to anyone. Sure. So long as it's the father we're talking about. Of course had it been a mother there would have been outcries of "Heartless Monster! Lock her up for life!"

What is the deal? In our modern world of paternal involvement why are men still held to standards so much lower than women when it comes to the death of a child? We claim that men and women are equally responsible for their progeny but yet more often than not men still get shafted when it comes to custody arrangements. I suppose it's a logical trade off really. Men get the larger child support payments and shorter visitations, but if they should happen to kill their children they are more likely to get off with a slap on the wrist because, well obviously, men just don't have the maternal knack.

Mothers aren't allowed to make mistakes. When a child dies in it's mother's care she is a despicable baby killer. Possibly she's deranged by post-partum, in which case she's still a monster, but at least she's a crazy monster. Possibly she's a negligent, selfish bitch. Possibly she's an abusive crack whore. Rarely is she a decent woman who made a forgivable mistake.

Fathers, on the other hand, get second chances. That guy became a father again earlier this year, and the mother stands by him. He will have another chance to prove himself a worthwhile human being, as he will be out of jail by the time this new baby is as old as her sister was when she died.

Everyone makes mistakes, some minor and some major, and I personally believe that everyone deserves a second chance, but everybody should have to face the consequences of their actions to an equal degree. The double standard lives on and adds to the obvious fact that gender equality has not yet been achieved.

Not the brightest Crayon in the box.

2009-03-05T13:53:00.012-05:00

As you have no doubt noticed, my English is fairly lax. I certainly won't claim that this blog has been free from errors when it comes to spelling, punctuation, sentence structure and so on, but here's the thing: I'm doing this for my own personal amusement. It's not like it's my job to teach people to read or anything.

Every month Skylar's Kindergarten teacher sends home a newsletter, and every month the back of my neck scrunches up and my fingers itch to grab a big red pen and correct the hell out of that sumbitch and send it back in to school. I restrain myself because I don't want this person to know what a bitch I am and somehow take it out on my kid, so instead I think I will do some virtual editing. The following are some excerpts from the most recent newsletters. Bear in mind they are being written by a TEACHER not a student, and even though it's a french immersion class, English IS this woman's native tongue. The black will be direct quotations, the red is me.

February

We have enjoyed a wonderful month of January. We had lots of sunny days and studied penguins. Perhaps: January has been a wonderful month. Why the hell are sunny days and penguins in the same sentence? They HAD studied penguins? Maybe leftover penguins from some research facility were shipped in and served to the children at a BBQ on one of those sunny days?

We will be having a card exchange opportunity. That's a cheerful way to trade Valentines. Attached are a simple card template Just one IS attached.

The celebration's will take place on Feb.....celebrations

Anyone who would like to join us is more then welcome! Anyone? Really? Grandparents, cousins, the pedophile down the street? Sure! Anyone is more THAN welcome.

March

Everyday children receive a choice of three healthy items first thing in the morning. The everyday children get a choice, the special ones have to eat whatever they're given.

...the students have been asked to give something up for 24 hours. They have been asked to find a $2.00 sponsor to do so. The sponsor has to give something up? AND pay 2$? What a rip off!

Micheal Mitchell is coming to our school...He is a famous Canadian Musician. This one's not technically incorrect, it's just a lie. If he were really famous she wouldn't have to tell us who he is. Can you name me a Micheal Mitchell song? No, didn't think so.

And last but not least I will copy the entire paragraph under the rather ironic heading "Literacy" Anyone who can spot all the mistakes gets a gold star.

Literacy

The past few months, as we read stories, we would always ask good questions. Questions, help children develop their comprehension skills and strategies. Often, Kindergarten students ask "I wonder..." questions before turning the page. Try this at home when reading stories together. We will be continuing with questions, but also beginning to study visualizing. An more simpler way to explain this concept to young children, is to play a CD story (or read a story without looking at the pictures) and have them create a DVD (or the movie) in their mind. The students have enjoyed comparing their mental pictures as we have started developing this skill.

Take THAT English!

And now for some pictures that have nothing to do with this post but, you know ...cuuuute.

Elmo diaper! Gah! The cuteness, it burrrrrns!

It's absolutely disgusting, which means it must be super healthy right?

2009-02-23T21:08:00.005-05:00

Last night I was innocently playing around on my computer when my nose was brutally ass raped. I know you're wondering if such a thing is possible, but trust me it is.

Oh Shit! Noooo! Not again! Not more Rotting Sewage Soup!

This is the third time this month that Adam has brewed up this vile concoction. By the time I realized what was happening it was too late to stop it and the stench had already permeated every corner of the house. There was nothing I could do but update my Facebook Status to:

Christine is wondering why adam insists upon torturing me with stinky disgusting soup. 10:45pm

People who were out of smelling range expressed interest:

Pon at 11:45pm February 22
i'm dying to know what he is making you...lol

Christine at 11:48pm February 22
he's not actually making it for me, it's just the fact that he's making it at all that's the problem. It has onions and garlic and spinach and squash and quite possibly some donkey piss and the whole house reeks. I'm 3 rooms and a floor away and my eyes are still watering.

Melanie at 8:29am February 23
LOL!

Kristin at 3:02pm February 23
Why is he making such horrible soap?

Christine at 7:16pm February 23
Not soap, soup. And who knows why Adam does things? He's just weird, hadn't you noticed?

So I asked Adam what the hell was actually in the soup that possesses such a pungency that it curls paint and causes the hairs inside one's nose to shrivel up and die:

Adam: It's not that bad!

Me: Are you insane? Has your proximity to the soup killed your sense of smell entirely?

Adam: Well it's mostly cabbage, then there's zucchini, potatoes, celery, onions, garlic, and whatever else I feel like throwing in.

Me: What about the rancid sheep testicles, cheap cologne, hot tar and cat shit?

Adam: It's not that bad! It's just vegetable soup.

Me: That's not normal vegetable soup! Normal people make soup with carrots and tomatoes and peas and other things that don't smell like vomit.

Adam: Tomatoes tend to overpower the flavour as well as the scent.

Me: Yes! That's it! Tomatoes get rid of stink right? You use tomato juice to wash off skunk spray! For the love of God your soup needs tomatoes!

Because there is no way to post scent on a blog (luckily for you) here's a picture to help you appreciate the nastiness, and I hope you appreciate it because I put my life in danger by going near the bowl and taking the lid off:

Ya, it pretty much smells like that.

And after a day or so it goes completely black and purplish and he continues to eat it.

Now granted, I have the same sense of culinary adventurousness as the average 4 year old and I would happily live on pizza, ice cream, grilled cheese and goldfish crackers, but there's no way this is just me, right?

Kiss The Chef...

2009-02-20T20:33:00.003-05:00

Because you're not allowed to spank them these days.

There's more than one way to scramble eggs.

Note how carefully she placed the empty shells in the cup.

Nudity Yes, Hygiene No

2009-02-15T10:46:00.006-05:00

"Off? Off? Off? Off? Off? Wet? Wet? Wet? Dirty? Dirty? Off? Off? Wet? Off?"

This is Edenese for: I have spilled a microscopic droplet of water on the sleeve of my sweater and I now feel that it is imperative that we remove all of my clothing, including socks and diaper, please. (but you know, probably without the Please)

She's very insistent about it. She will pull at her clothing in ever-increasing desperation until I give in to the pathetic sight of her standing there with one arm protruding from the neck hole of her shirt and strip her off. Once she's nude she immediately clamps one hand on to each butt cheek and runs off, giggling madly and chanting "Bum! Bum! bumbumbumbummmm!" Once she gets over the joy of being reunited with her naked butt she becomes enthralled with her belly button, then she pinches her nipples and says "Ow" repeatedly, because apparently she's a massochist.

All of this is, of course, highly entertaining. If it were summer time I would let her run free in the yard to her heart's content, but as it's February this nudist phase is somewhat inconvenient. Our house is never really warm. Eden's carefree bum song is usually interspersed with random "Brrr, coooolds!" And then there are the puddles. We have pottys in various locations throughout the house and Eden even consents to sit on one from time to time, but actually peeing or pooping in them is not on her agenda. Instead she lets go wherever she happens to be standing, then very helpfully takes me by the hand, leads me to the mess and gives me my instructions: "Uh oh, clean up? Clean up! Uh oh!"

The potty is not going to waste though, oh no. In fact it's providing amusement for the entire family:

It's OK though, not like it's ever been used.

I Love You..or Not, You Know, Whatever

2009-02-12T21:10:00.004-05:00

I swear my baby said 'I love you' so I thought it would be oh so cute to tape it and post the awesome cuteness for all to enjoy on Valentines Day. Unfortunately, Eden always wants to see herself on the camera, which would require her to be behind the camera, which makes it very hard to get a shot of her in front of the camera...So here you go. Happy Valentines Day to all.

Star Light, Star Bright...

2009-02-10T22:11:00.005-05:00

Skylar: Look there's the first star! Know what I wished? I wished for Eden to be good and nice. Either good or nice, both are OK.

Me: I wish for YOU to be good and nice. (The kid has been quite the turd lately)

Skylar: (ignoring me) Eden say "Un"

Eden: (the incredible parrot girl)Uh

Skylar: Good! Now say "Deux"

Eden: Duh!

Skylar: Trois?

Eden: Twa!

Skylar: Quatre?

Eden: Catta

Skylar: Cinque?

Eden: Sack

Skylar: Six

Eden: Seece

Skylar: Sept

Eden: Set

Skylar: Huit

Eden: Weet

Skylar: Neuf

Eden: Nuff

Skylar: Dix

Eden: Deece

Skylar: Yay Eden! Good job! Did you hear that Mama? I teached Eden her numbers in French. I think I got an extra surprise with my wish. I wished for her to be good or nice, and my wish made her good AND nice AND smart too! The smart was a surprise on top of my wish!

Aww, I guess I got my wish too. At least for a few minutes.

Breastfeeding Nazis Can Bite My Left Tit.

2009-02-02T22:09:00.005-05:00

Girls Gone Child has a post up (technically a link to Momversation but whatever) that is about breastfeeding Nazis who feel compelled to call you out for bottle-feeding your baby. It's worth a watch/read.

http://www.girlsgonechild.net/2009/02/formula-is-not-f-word.html

Judging by the comments left on her post my own breastfeeding journey has not been typical.

While I was pregnant with Skylar (Goober) Adam was studying holistic nutrition and thus he was pretty gung ho on the whole idea of breastfeeding. Exclusive breastfeeding! Extended breastfeeding!! The only responsible thing a sane person could possibly do!!! Which would have worked out perfectly had he possessed mammary glands. Since I was the one blessed with the boobies though, I agreed to six months.

Far from having strangers confront me about bottle feeding my baby, I felt pressured to give up nursing. People seemed to assume that as a teen mother (read: irresponsible whore) I would naturally be inclined to feed my baby formula. For some reason only mature women are expected to breastfeed. Ha! I would show them, dammit. I was going to be a good mom if it killed me! Therein lies the problem: It was killing me.

Physically everything was fine. My milk came in. My baby latched properly. No lack of supply. Emotionally though I was miserable. I know now that I was suffering from post-partum depression, but at the time my desire to prove myself made me refuse to admit anything was wrong. I hated nursing. Instead of warm fuzzy feelings of attachment I was filled with resentment. I saw my baby as a pitiless, life-sucking parasite, feeding off of my freedom. I felt nauseated. My head was filled with the reek of sour milk 24/7. I felt trapped. I felt alone in the world with an 8 pound leech tying me down to the earth and smothering me with it's selfish neediness. Now add to that the guilt of knowing what a heartless bitch I was because what the hell is wrong with someone who hates feeding their baby? And you get a lot of weepy feeding sessions. I was a failure.

Then one day I fed her a bottle. More tears, but these were happy tears. It was a revelation moment for me. Oh my God, I'm feeding my baby! and she's smiling! and she's beautiful and perfect and not a parasitic leech at all! Oh holy Hell why didn't I do this sooner? Have I damaged her forever with all the negativity I've been sending her? Have I missed our chance to bond? There's no way the benefits of breastmilk can have outweighed the horror. I'm not saying everything was magically better from that moment on, but it was my starting point. It was a light at the end of the tunnel and a glimmer of hope that maybe I could do this and things would get better someday.

When I got pregnant with Eden (Mooch) I was under no illusions about breastfeeding. I was willing to try again, but at the first sign of the crazies she was going on formula and that was the end of it. So no one was more surprised than I was when breastfeeding worked. There was milk, there was latching, there was a much nicer breast-pump. There was closeness and bonding and Oh my God THIS is what it's supposed to be like!? (insert some more guilt about missing this with Skylar and long-term emotional damage etc. but mostly all around awesome). I nursed Eden for 13 months. I would have gone on longer, but some surgery and medications for me co-incided with a lack of interest on her part and we both knew that we were done and the experience was over. Yesterday I cleaned out the freezer and found one lone little container of frozen breastmilk. I couldn't bring myself to throw it out. I thought that this was probably my last chance to nourish my child with my own milk and I warmed it up for her. Eden snuggled with me and sucked her bottle and the sweet smell of the milk brought back all of these memories, good and bad, of feeding my babies.

So basically all of this goes back to my personal opinion that no one should judge anyone else for the way they choose to feed their baby. Breast or formula, every woman should do what works for her and her baby and not feel guilty. Babies thrive on love more than milk.

So now I knit!

2009-02-02T21:18:00.007-05:00

You may have noticed I haven't posted anything in a while. Why is this? Because I am a freak and when I get a new project in my head I don't let go until I have drained every last ounce of life from it. The project of the moment: Knitting soakers and longies! Oh yes, didn't you know I was 67 years old? Wool diaper covers kick ass, but they are stupidly expensive so I learned to knit. Take that 60$ Llamajamas! Look what I made:

I made this soaker from a decaying old pattern book of my Grandmas. I have no idea what it's called and it kind of sucks because the crotch is too narrow and doesn't cover a diaper completely.This one is from a free on-line pattern simply called Jenny's Soaker. It was easy, but it's not pretty.

These were my first longies. Made from the Tiny Bird Soaker Pants pattern. I liked them so much I made two:

Then I made some more soakers, but I looked at a bunch of free patterns then picked out which parts I liked and simplified the whole thing and came up with my very own EdenSky original soaker pattern. TaDA! I'm totally having visions of opening my own etsy shop now. My dorkiness knows no bounds, but dude I made these!

Why yes, there was a sale on burgundy and teal wool, why do you ask?

Style by Kindergarten

2009-01-17T13:54:00.003-05:00

So usually I avoid taking my kids shopping as much as humanly possible, but last week all four of us were at the mall because Adam needed new shoes.

Sweet Jesus, if you ever thought women were picky about shoes you have never shopped with Adam. We have been looking for shoes since before Christmas. We, or He, or his mommy, have been to every shoe store within 4 counties. You know the stereotypical picture of the husband sitting on a bench holding the bags, bored out of his mind while the wife tries on every damn pair of shoes in the store? Ya, that was us, except I was on the bench and Adam was the one repeatedly asking me -How about these? What do you think? Are these too formal? Too casual? Too dark? Too shiny? Too pointy? Too plain? Too elaborate? How do you like them in brown? Too old-fashioned? Does this sole seem funny? Are these laces weird? Is this leather from cows or bison? Are there any that will leave a more masculine imprint in the snow? Anti-microbial inserts? Can I get some in a 9 1/2 wide with speakers in the heels and turbo boosters on the back? While I was the one saying -Uh huh, those ones are great, can we please buy them already? Without actually bothering to look. The difference is that a woman would leave the store with 3 pairs of shoes while we left with nothing.

So finally we were at The Bay (where we'd been before, but hadn't bought the shoes then because Adam had to assure himself that no other store on the planet had the exact same shoes on sale for less) and Adam pointed up at a sign and announced: "Men's Fashions, this way."
"Daddy, what are Fashions?" asked Goober.
"Clothes" answered Adam.
"No Daddy. Not just any clothes. Fashions are cool clothes, like on Style By Jury. Fashion clothes are nicer than regular clothes."
Um, right, OK, so I do watch that show with her. Up until now I kinda thought it was cute when she would sit with me on the couch and exclaim "What is she thinking!?" but now I'm having second thoughts. Am I raising my daughter to be a judgemental snob?

My own wardrobe falls woefully short of anything that could be described as "fashion". My family is pretty much garbed head to toe in hand-me-downs, thrift-store finds and clearance rack specials. Will my influence be enough to teach Goober that cool clothes don't have to have expensive designer labels? My little fashionista is already clothing obsessed. Every day she spends ages putting together the perfect outfit and then acts like I'm ripping out her finger-nails if I suggest something more appropriate for the weather. I am always shocked when I hear about people with kids Goober's age or even older who still select their kids clothing for them each morning. Goober has been choosing her own clothes since she could walk.
On one hand I worry about teaching her that appearance is of the utmost importance and having her judge others by their clothing when she gets older, but on the other hand I want to teach her to develop her own personal sense of style and let her know that it's important for her to dress in a way that makes her feel good about herself. Materialism or individuality? Clothes aren't important, or clothes help you express yourself? It's what's inside that counts, or taking care of yourself on the outside will make you feel more confident? "Wear whatever you like", or "There's no way I'm taking you out in public dressed like that."?

It's just another of the tight-ropes we walk every day as parents. Always wondering how our actions will affect our kids in years to come, always wondering if we are leaning too far to one side or the other.
So, basically, if my kid tells you your shirt isn't very pretty, or that you look like you're trying to dress like a big kid or a grandma, I'm sorry. Feel free to set her straight, if you have some idea as to how.

Winter Wonderland My Ass.

2009-01-16T19:23:00.004-05:00

For the past 2 days it has been -29 C. Otherwise known as unbelievably-freaking-skin-blistering-eyeball-freezing-clothing-crunching-lung-seizing-finger-burning-toe-deadening-air sharpening-deadly-damn-cold. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate cold? I'm quite sure I have spent all of my previous lives in warm climates...or possibly I froze to death a few times. There is no other way I could have developed such a deep seated hatred of cold. Some people can't stand heat. I don't get it. How can being sweaty possibly be worse than the bone deep pain caused by cold? The sting of wind on your face. The ache of cold fingers and toes. The squeezing bite of cold air in your lungs that makes you wheeze and gasp to suck in yet more burning cold air. The total body fatigue from continuous shivering. To reiterate: I greatly dislike cold. For some reason I seem to be unable to regulate my own body heat. My feet in particular are simply blocks of ice until some outside heat source (generally the backs of Adam's legs) becomes available for me to steal warmth from.

Mooch seems to share my hatred. Yesterday I bundled her head to toe in a down-filled snowsuit, insulated boots, hat, mitts, the whole shebang for the 5 minute drive to drop Goober off at school. We went directly from the car into the school to drop her off because fuck waiting outside in that for the bell to ring. Then I put Mooch back in the car and went home. She cried and squirmed and wrung her poor red hands for half an hour after we got inside. I ended up cuddling with her on the couch under a blanket for an hour with her icy fingers jammed up inside my shirt before she finally calmed down. When home-time came around I left her with my grandpa rather than risk taking her outside again.

Goober on the other hand, refuses to acknowledge the cold. My girly girl has insisted upon wearing dresses rather than pants. Every damn time we head out the door I have to fight with her to put on her snow pants, then her hat, then her mitts, then to do up her coat, she beat me down on the scarf idea ages ago. Why? Why oh why must there be a battle over the same thing every day?

Look child, see all that white shit blowing around out there, lying in drifts 3 times as tall as you? It's called snow, and it's a sure sign that it is, in fact, still winter and thus bloody cold out! You have worn a coat every day for the past 4 months, and will continue to do so for another 3. Why would today be different? I admire the indomitable spirit of hope you are exhibiting with this but please, for the sake of Mommy's tenuous hold on sanity, give it up. Yes, you have to wear a hat. I don't care which hat. There is a big ass box of hats for you to choose from. Same goes for mitts. Just like yesterday. Where are your new slippers? The ones you promised you'd wear if I bought them last week. Your feet are turning blue. I can tell this because you are also not wearing socks. No, you cannot wear your Cinderella dress and nothing else. It is practically made of tissue paper. You need a sweater over your t-shirt. Yes, I can see that it is a pretty shirt, put a sweater on anyway. And so on and so forth.

It would be one thing if she had some sort of sensory integration disorder and couldn't stand certain clothes, but this is not the case. She's just stubborn.

I was planning to write more tonight, but my traitorous cat has abandoned my lap and her warm spot is disappearing. Also my feet are completely asleep because they are curled under me rather than on the cold floor. Also my fingers are becoming stiff and unresponsive on the keyboard. I need hot chocolate, preferably with Kahlua in it. I'll be back in the spring.

She Speaks!

2009-01-15T11:59:00.004-05:00

Stop what you're doing. Big news right here. Eden's first sentence, uttered at 10:30 this morning:

"Kitty in shoe."

Yes! Brilliant! All the more so because it was entirely correct. There was, in fact, a Littlest PetShop giant-headed mutant cat figurine in her shoe.

My Baby Does Tricks!

2009-01-10T13:21:00.004-05:00

Aren't children amazing? Their fantastic little brains are like sponges, thirstily sucking up knowledge from the world around them. Why, just last night my 17 month old proved herself to be every bit as intelligent as a shih-tzu!

We went to my Grandpa's house and the girls immediately set to digging for cookies and candy. The moment we walk through the door Mooch makes a b-line for the cupboard where cookies are likely to be found, while Goober begins a more intensive search, delving into shopping bags, peeking behind chairs and nosing through my mom's purse. I take no responsibility for this despicable behaviour, it is entirely my mother's fault.

After taking a cookie, Mooch settled down to the next stage of her routine: bugging the dog. She takes his toys, throws balls for him to chase, and feeds him hundreds of cookies. After cookie number 15 or so it was suggested that Mordy the dog should "Sit" if he wanted another. And thus Mordy's entire repertoire of tricks was exhausted. Goober decided that the dog had been in the spot-light for far too long (upwards of 7 seconds) and people should start paying attention to her again.

Goober-"Pretend I'm a dog! What trick should I do?"

Mom-"Shake Paw"

Goober accomplished this feat. I was ever so proud.

Mom-"Good Doggie! Here's a cookie for you!"

At this point Mooch's treat radar went off and she came barreling over to get in on this action.

Mom- "You want a cookie too? OK, Shake Paw"

Mooch shook her paw.

Mom- Good Puppy! Here's your cookie! What else can you do?

In this fashion my baby learned to Sit, Speak, Play Dead, Roll-Over and, most useful of all: Go Fetch. Alas, she's still not house broken. Her performance was so convincing that when she later climbed up onto a chair Goober yelled "Look, she's sitting up just like a people!"

Training your children like dogs provides entertainment for the whole family, but I can't help wondering if Mooch will spend the rest of her life feeling strangely disappointed whenever she meets someone new if she shakes their hand and they fail to immediately stick a cookie in her mouth.

The Good, the Bad, and the...

2009-01-08T21:10:00.004-05:00

Excerpt from a conversation I had with Adam, inspired by another conversation I had with a friend...who is basically the only person who reads this blog anyway...so, enjoy!

Me- Well, I realize I'm not the easiest person to get along with.

Adam- You do?

Me- Oh ya, I wouldn't want to be in a relationship with Me. I wouldn't put up with half the shit from Me that you do.

Adam- So, you know you're doing horrible things to me and yet you do them anyways?! 'Cause it's one thing if you just don't realize, but you're telling me you're actually aware of this....

Me- Well, not usually until after the fact....you know, in hindsight I realize I've done something crappy.

Adam- And then you do nothing?

Me- Um, well I usually try to make it up to you somehow...without debasing myself so far as to admit that I'm wrong or apologize or anything crazy like that.

Adam- Uh huh, so you make it up to me how?

Me- I dunno, I just try to be extra nice for a little while so I can mentally balance out the bad things on my little internal karma scale.

Adam-.....Wait...holyshit, is this where blow jobs come from?!

The Holidays are over, YESSS!

2009-01-05T20:36:00.004-05:00

Goober goes back to school tomorrow! Whoo hoo! Is there any booze left-over for a toast? No, damn. It's not that I don't enjoy my daughter's company, really. It's just that...uumm...I appreciate it more when there's less of it?..No, that still sounds mean. Meh, whatever, I'm mean then.
I know, I know "Treasure these moments, for they are fleeting" and "They grow up so fast and you'll miss these days when they're gone" and so on and so forth, but the truth is I can only stand so much. I am not cut out to be a full time mom. I look forward to my children growing older and gaining more independence. I'm impatient and selfish and I would rather read a book than play Barbies. The idea of homeschooling is laughable for me. It's been more than 2 weeks since school has been out and bad weather has forced us to spend most of it indoors in our very small house in our very small town. Goober is the kind of person who needs large spaces. There is simply too much of her to be contained. Too much energy, too much imagination, too much emotion, too much volume. I don't want to stifle her. I believe in the idea of self expression and acceptance, but in practice.....fucking sit still and shut up for 2 god damned minutes! The child is simply incapable of silence.

"Go and sit on the stairs! 5 minute time out."
"AAAGHBLAAAAARGNNNNOOOOWWWHHHHHYYY!!!"
"The time doesn't start until you're quiet."
"AAAAGHIHATEHAATEBBUUUTTT"
"You know why you're here, when you're quiet the timer starts."
"AAAAGH!"
"....."
"MAMA!"
"...."
"I want my blanket!"
"...."
"I want my Grandma!"
"...."
"I don't like Mommy!"
"...."
"I hate my life!"
"...."
"How much longer?"
"Five minutes. You haven't been quiet yet so no time has passed."
"BBLLLAAAAAAAGH!"
"...."
"How much longer now?"
"...."
"Don't let Mooch touch my puppy!"
"...."
"I'm Sorrry, I'm sorrrrryy! I looove you. Can I get off now?"
"...."
"I don't know HOW to be quiet!"

For the love of God child shut-up. Can you really not shut the hell up for one minute? Apparently not. It's like that scene in Fierce Creatures where Kevin Kline is holding a gun to Michael Palin's head, ordering him to stop talking or die and he just keeps on rambling, while Kevin begins to scream "He would rather speak than live!" and it's hilarious. Goober is like that, only less hilarious.

All Christmas toys and games aside, the best laughs are still produced by rolling around with the girls: swinging them in the air, spinning in circles, flying, flipping, wrestling and such, and that is as it should be. But again, I'm only human, and my endurance runs out long before theirs does. I am left a worn out shell, seeing spots while trying to catch my breath as they fight and whine and cry for more. I lay panting on the couch, thinking about how different they are. Goober is a tightly wound coil of power. Her small frame contains springy muscles and sharp bones. Playing with her hurts. I didn't notice her growing so strong and quick. Long flailing limbs and hard jabbing elbows are all the more apparent when I compare them to Mooch's squishy softness. My baby is so soft and mushy, with chubby padded knees and hands that lull you into a false sense of security. I get swallowed up by her perfect yummy skin and can't resist gobbling her chubby cheeks and round tummy. Then, once she has lulled me into a false sense of security with her harmless ways and clumsy movements and I have dropped all of my carefully built, Goober-proof, self-defence mechanisms...she head-butts me right in the nose with her rock solid forehead. Ouch.

We have played house, had tea-parties, watched movies, played cards, twister, board-games, play-doh, Barbies, School, painting, colouring, dress-up, Store, tobogganing and tag. Not to mention having baked cookies, read stories, made music, put on plays, built forts, given make-overs and played computer games and I'm out of ideas.

So bring on the public school, please God I need a vacation.

And I'm done!

2009-01-02T21:27:00.006-05:00

So the holidays have been and gone and we are beginning to resume normalcy, inasmuch as Normal is possible where ever-changing kids are concerned.

High-lights of the season:

-Dec. 21 : Headed to a Christmas party in a blizzard because Canadians (Adam's family in particular) are batshitfucking crazy and don't cancel family gatherings just because of a little snow and ice and wind and OhMyGodIWantToLive! Adam bounced my van off of a guard rail and now our gift to each other is car repairs.

-Dec. 23 : Took the girls to the mall to see Santa. Paid over 20$ for an ornament and a photo of Mooch howling with the sudden realization that her mother is a heartless bitch who wants her to be eaten by a deranged hairy freak in a red suit. Goober asked the freak (who was in fact a fantastic Santa) for a toy that she totally DID NOT put in the letter we sent off weeks ago, forcing me to brave the wilds of Walmart Christmas Madness.

-Dec. 24 : Took Goober skating, remembered I can't skate and have no business teaching anyone else. Watched her develop the oddest form of self propulsion I've ever seen and shout to passing strangers "Look! I'm doing it! I can skate all by myself!" Read my children Christmas stories by candle-light, like my mom did with me every year.

-Dec. 25 : Stayed home. Watched the girls open gifts, took pictures, ate pancakes, assembled toys, watched Christmas specials, ate chocolate, had dinner with family, a perfect day.

-Dec. 26 : Went to Adams parents for the Christmassy chaos that is wrought by eight young children hopped up on candy and drunk on presents.

-Dec. 27 : 7 years from the day I met Adam. Did nothing, said nothing, but it was.

-Dec. 28 : Went to my aunts for the last of the family Christmases and missed my Grandma so much it hurt. This was my first Christmas without her. My resolution for the new year is to try to be more like her when dealing with my kids; no child should have to grow up without my Grandma around.

-Dec. 31 : Went out to celebrate New Years hampered by sucky friends calling in sick and living in a small town with only one bar. Wound up playing board games with Adam's parents rather than dancing in a club but had a pretty good time all the same.

-Jan. 1 : Spent the entire day sorting through the toy room to make room for the new stuff. OK, so I'm a lazy ass and still hadn't entirely unpacked it from when we moved in 3 months ago. But now it's done. You can even see the carpet in spots.

-Jan. 2 : The holiday aftermath has arrived in full force with a full compliment of screwed up eating and sleeping patterns, boredom, whining and fighting. What the hell day of the week is it anyway? Can I send Goober back to school yet?

The elusive holiday card photo

2008-12-22T21:38:00.005-05:00

-Oh, you girls look so cute! Go stand in front of the Christmas tree for a minute so I can take your picture.

-Please? Just for a second.

-Do it and I'll give you ice cream?

-Look over here.

-Hi, Eden! Look at Mommy, Baby! Moochie, Moochie! BABABABABA, wheeeehooo! (blow raspberry) say cheese!

-No, just hold still for one second, please?

-Thumb out of your mouth.

-Come on, please?

-Get your fingers out of her nose!

-Please stop crying?

-Look! Look! See the pretty bell?

-Santa's not bringing any presents unless you quit whining!

-Ah, Fuck it.

Merry Christmas to All!

Shit, how do I turn it right side up?

Meh, you get the idea.

I like to talk about myself.

2008-12-20T15:45:00.005-05:00

Ok, so why bother thinking up something to write when you can just do a survey?

1. Who was your FIRST prom date? Adam, first at his school, then mine.

2. What was your FIRST alcoholic drink? Probably Baby Duck, cause we're white trash

3. What was your FIRST job? Newspaper route

4. What was your FIRST car? Grand AM, it was black, lasted a whole year.

5. Who was the FIRST person to text you today? Don't do texts.

6. Who is the FIRST person you thought of this morning? Mooch, hoping she would stay asleep just a little longer

7. Who was your FIRST grade teacher? Mlle Tavascia (no idea if I spelled that right)

8. Where did you go on your FIRST ride on an airplane? Florida, I was 6

9. Who was your FIRST best friend, and are you still friends with him / her? Kristin, and yes, I am

10. Who was your FIRST kiss? Adam, I really am a loser

11. Who was the FIRST person you talked to today?Adam

12. What was the FIRST thing you did this morning? blew my nose

13. What was the FIRST concert you ever went to?Dolly Parton, I was 3, thanks mom!

14. What was your FIRST tattoo or piercing? piercing=ears, tattoo=dragon on shoulder blade.

15. What was the FIRST foreign country you went to? Foreign? like America?

16. What was the FIRST movie you saw in the theater? First ones I remember were The Little Mermaid (was scared of Ursula) and Earnest Scared Stupid (was scared to sleep on bottom bunk for YEARS because it was like under the troll tree) I was such a wuss.

17. When was your FIRST detention? uum, I don't think I ever had a detention. I know I know: a loser, a wuss and now a browner, gee this is fun!

18. What was the FIRST state you lived in? Ah hem, Ontario.

19. Who was the FIRST person to really break your heart? Remember that part about the first guy I kissed and my prom date? Ya, still with him.

20. With whom was your FIRST date? see 19.

21. What was your FIRST pet? cats= Tigger, Zipper, Bobby and MoeMoe, they were around before me.

22. Who was your FIRST roommate?Adam again, jeeze

23. Who was your FIRST love?This is just getting redundant

24. What was your FIRST screen name? thepowersthatbe (Buffy reference, I was 12)

25. When did you have your FIRST baby?September 20, 2003. I was 18

And now for a picture of the obvious star of this survey, because Look at ME I got a new camera!~And also: My kids are cute!

Christmas give-away = free junk for anyone willing to brave the Cave of Doom to dig it out.

2008-12-20T14:55:00.005-05:00

A couple of months ago we moved from a reasonable sized house to a small apartment. In order to make this work we took multiple loads of junk to the dump, filled an entire moving truck with slightly less junky junk to donate, and rented a good sized storage shed. Still, I knew that having a family of four in this space would require a strict regime of tidiness and organization. Sadly, I suck at both of those things.

We have this tiny bedroom that we decided to use as a walk-in closet, since the master bedroom has no closet at all (it was taken out to extend the bathroom) But as we continued to open boxes, look into them and think -where the hell am I going to put that? More and more stuff has ended up in my fabulously huge closet. Today it looks like this:

Ya, there is no walking-in to this closet. There is also no door to hide this behind. There is simply a wall to wall, floor to ceiling, avalanche prone, black hole of stuff. I believe new life forms may be evolving in the sub-levels. Now, while this is irritating for many reasons, the most pressing one is that fact that in this room is a wooden wardrobe (see it there in the far left hand corner? No, didn't think so) and in this wardrobe are the Christmas presents. Of course by "in" I mean "in the general vicinity of" because as the room got more and more stuffed I eventually ended up standing in the doorway and simply heaving my lovingly selected gifts towards the wardrobe one by one as I brought them home, counting on the sheer magnitude of the disarray to camouflage them from sight. This system has worked remarkably well, until this morning when.. I snarled with a sneer; next week is Christmas. It's practically here! DAMMIT!

Not only does this mean I have a hell of a lot of digging to do, it also illustrates how disgustingly bogged down with material things we have become. We tried to purge ourselves when we moved, really we did, but still we are quite literally up to our necks in stuff and here comes Christmas to bury us completely. Spirit of giving, Good will towards men, Peace on Earth and so on and so forth are all well and good, but I simply haven't been able to tell my kids that Santa's not bringing any toys this year because Mommy has no freaking place to put them!

So, to anybody out there still looking for a last minute gift for us : Send money, we need a bigger house.

I'm thankful for...

2008-12-14T22:05:00.006-05:00

Every other blogger has a post up about Thanksgiving, well I'm not feeling tremendously creative just now so I'm going to write about how I spent my Thanksgiving, here in Canada, a couple of months ago.

We did brunch with my family in the morning, then headed straight to Adam's family's place for dinner. Our callous disregard for nap time in between actually paid off when Mooch slept through dinner and I was able to eat without her squirming on my knee, throwing food off the table, whining to get down, or any of the other joys that come when dining with toddlers. We spent the rest of the day attempting to take one photograph of 8 children, no mean feat when the eldest is 8 and the rest include 2 babies, 3 three year-olds, a sick 6 year old, and Goober.

If you came here looking for sweet stories about my kids, or if you are my mother, please stop reading now.

We recently moved back to the town where I grew up. The house where I grew up, in fact, and where my mom still lives, because we are failures. The up side to this arrangement is that Grandma is always handy and perfectly willing to babysit...if the children are sleeping.

Another nice feature is the proximity to the nature trail. The main trail was once a train track and small walking trails have webbed out from it over the years to cover a good chunk of land featuring pretty hills, bush and streams which makes a lovely setting for ... uum..."becoming one with nature" if you get my meaning. This is where I had my first kiss, when I was 16 ( yes sixteen, and it was with Adam too, sad I know). We followed it up with another big first out there several months later. So, we decided to make use of the unusually warm evening to welcome ourselves back to the old place.

We asked my mom to listen for the girls and were about to head out for a "walk" when Adam told me to wait, he had a present for me. Yay presents! I like presents. Was it chocolate? No, it was not. It was purple and rubbery and shaped like a dolphin and it had straps and a remote. Now, having been with the same guy for 7 years and 2 kids, I'm not about to turn my back on a new experience, so I put on some loose pants and strapped the thing to my thighs and off we went. Once we were on the trail Adam flicked the ON switch and...nothing happened. Bit of a disappointment really, Stag Shop return policies being what they are and all. But we continued walking, resigned to entertaining ourselves the old fashioned way.

There was a bright full moon, but we decided to be unusually bold and make use of a bench quite near the main trail. Operations were well under way when I heard the crackling. We paused to listen but decided it was probably the dry fall leaves rustling in the Indian summer breeze and went about our business. Then I heard it again. This time definitely not wind, someone was coming. There followed a silent flurry of activity in the darkness as we tried to get ourselves decent (pants, pants, where are my PANTS!) But we were sitting nonchalantly side by side on the bench when our visitor appeared. A deer. A big beautiful deer walked within 10 feet of us, shimmering silver in the moonlight. She stood still and stared at us for several minutes as we tried not to make a sound and startle her away. At that moment the damned dolphin (which was still in place) decided to come to life, scaring the bejesus out of me and causing me to jump. The deer snapped out of her trance and went on her way, followed by a friend or fawn. We finished up and walked home, having passed a very pleasant Thanksgiving all around.

I know I aced that exam...but still

2008-12-10T20:33:00.005-05:00

Goober just came out of her bedroom crying.

"There's something wrong with my head!"

"What is it, Baby?"

"I can't sleep. I can't make everything go back to normal!"

"What do you mean?"

"I keep having thoughts that everything is pretend and not real."

"That's right, nightmares aren't real..."

"NO! I'm not having nightmares. I just keep looking around and thinking that nothing is really real. Like everything around us isn't real!" (sweeping arm expansively to take in the house and world in general)

"Give yourself a little pinch, that's how you know you're real and awake because..."

"NO! I know I'm real, but how do I know if everything else in the world is real? Maybe everything is just pretend except for me!"

Seriously? Existential philosophy from a 5 year old? What am I supposed to say to that? 'hang on a minute while I consult my old university Phil 101 textbook' ? Do I tell her 'Of course everything is real'? Or say 'that's a very interesting question, you know according to Plato...' or do I say "Jeez, I don't know. Do I come and bother you when I can't sleep? Go back to bed."

Sorry kid, I can't make everything go back to normal, once you start having intelligent thoughts it's almost impossible to go back.

...

When I was little, maybe 6 or 7, my class went on a walking trip to some place I don't remember. What I DO remember is the sky cracking when we got back to school.

We were crossing the school yard towards our classroom, all in a line like good little sheep. I was trailing along at the end in some day dream when I happened to look up, and what I saw froze me in my tracks. The whole sky was covered with billions of black rod shaped things that glowed around the edges, all of them spinning around each other in a huge intricate pattern that filled the sky to every horizon. They disappeared a few seconds later and one of the supervisors called for me to hurry up. I stared at her dumbly for a minute, wondering if it was possible that she really hadn't seen that. Then suddenly I was reminded of watching Star Trek with my mom, the times when they would go to the holo-deck and worlds would appear and disappear in a small dark room. Sometimes the holograms would malfunction and they would see flashes of those checkered walls within the projected reality. That's when I hatched my first conspiracy theory. The woman had seen it all, she was rushing me into the classroom because she knew the Sky Simulator was on the fritz and she wanted me indoors before I saw any more. Was this world really real? Why were we here? What was outside?

Apparently I still don't have the answers.

Fortunately, Goober Set That Bar High

2008-12-08T21:21:00.004-05:00

Oh happy day. My sweet tempered baby has learned to throw a tantrum! I'm so proud.

Ever since Mooch was born I have been shocked by how easy she was to get along with. After the whirlwind of shrieking rage that was Goober, Mooch's infancy has been a vacation. She started sleeping 5-6 hours a night at birth and by 7 or 8 weeks she was down for 12 hours, oh yes TWELVE HOURS. She nursed perfectly and had no problem with solids whatsoever. She cried, of course, but only for short periods and only when something was actually wrong and then when you fixed it, miracle of miracles, she stopped. As opposed to Goobers penchant for screaming unholy murder for hours no matter what you did. The kind label for Goobers' disposition was "Spirited" Mooch, on the other hand, could not be described as anything but "Easy" It's entirely possible that my recollection has been skewed by the fact that when Goober was small I was a mess and I should definitely have been seeking some PPD help, but I know for a fact that Goober was throwing Grade A-dive for cover tantrums before she was a year old and by 18 months she had graduated to full blown Door -slamming-fist pounding-"IIII HHAAAAAAAAAATE YOUUUU!"-hours long- marathon tantrums of the type normally reserved for puberty or demonic possession. Mooch's first tantrum attempts at 16 months have been downright cute by comparison.

There it is, the screaming that isn't actually crying, the flailing limbs, the falling to the floor...
"Wow, she's really mad isn't she?" Adam noted, actually smiling a little at the novelty of it. But then it was over, just like that, less than 2 minutes from when it began. Oh well. I'm sure she'll get better with practice.

You had to be there

2008-12-03T21:09:00.005-05:00

Mooch was running around the house all baby commando for a while today and, inevitably, she peed on the floor. I noticed her standing in a wet spot and I asked idiotically: "Uh oh, did you go pee pee on the floor?" (because having kids turns your brain to mush and that kind of drivel really does come out of your mouth no matter how much you try to fight it.) She looked down at her wet socks and then up at me with a confused look on fer face. She made the 'change diaper' hand sign, then bent over in an attempt to look into her own crotch, muttering "dih-ter? dih-ter?" then raised both arms in her 'where?' attitude and grinned a huge grin at me before announcing "all gone!" and doing a happy little stomping dance in her puddle.
People without kids will find this story gross, but if you'd been there you would seriously think it was cute and funny. Well, I did. Sorry.
...
We took the girls tobogganing at the park this afternoon, for some good old fashioned Turn-that-TV-off-and-get-your-snow-pants-on-right-now-because-we-are-going-to-play-outside-and-you're-going-to-have-fun-if-I-have-to-drag-you-out-kicking-and-screaming-dammit! Family togetherness time. Which went really well once the initial hurdle of leaving the house was surmounted. As we headed towards home Goober shouted:
"Look! Boys! There are neighbours out there. Can I play with them, PLEEEEESE?"
There were indeed 3 boys playing in the snow on our street, but they were 4 or 5 houses down from us and on the opposite side of the road.
"You can say hi, but it's time to go home for supper." I answered.
She ran towards them and chatted for a minute and then dragged her feet after us down the block. When we were back in our own yard she sat down in a pile of snow and stared forlornly down the street.
Before we moved here in October, Goober played with the 2 boys next door all the time; hardly a day went by that those boys didn't kick the shit out of our back door to ask me sweetly if Goober would like to come out and play. If they didn't, Goober went to them. The 3 of them, and sometimes the girl from the next house beyond theirs, would play outside for hours at a time, running freely across our combined yards. I trusted their parents and we all knew that if the kids were out of our own sight, they were within each other's, and they were never out of shouting range. They had the freedom to play and explore and it was a beautiful thing.
Since we've moved, Goober has been desperate for playmates. Unfortunately, we live on a corner lot and neither of the houses bordering us contains any kids. Goober begs to bring friends home from school, but the combination of my awkwardness with meeting other parents and the fact that I can't imagine adding another shrieking child to the congestion in this tiny apartment has thus far prevented me from acceding to her requests.
So when I looked down at her, sitting there in the snow, not yelling or whining, but just staring sadly at those boys down the street, I gave in. The distance was beyond my comfort range, and I didn't know their parents at all, and it required crossing the street, and it was beginning to get dark, but I looked at Goober and said:
"You want to go play with those boys don't you?"
She nodded, with tears in her eyes.
"OK, let's go."
She sprang up and beamed at me with a happy yell. I walked her across the street and watched as she ran over to ask if she could play. I stood around feeling dumb for a while, then took a breath and made the decision to give her back a bit of the freedom she was missing so badly. I told her I'd be watching from home and that she was not to go anywhere else, including into the house and that she was not to cross the road by herself. Then I left my daughter unsupervised with strangers for 20 minutes. She was fine. When I came back for her she pouted.
"Not yet! I didn't have any time!" But it was getting dark, and I couldn't see her from home anymore, and I can only handle so much progress in one day.

Because yes, my kids are cute enough to merit this.

2008-11-30T22:11:00.002-05:00

TV warps the minds of our children.

2008-11-29T19:17:00.005-05:00

Goober: Mommy, I need to discuss something with you.

Me: This sounds serious

Goober: Yes, once you get mutated, you start to eat different things right?

Me: Mutated?

Goober: Yes, like if you turn into a giant monster spider you might not really care about eating flies anymore like a little spider. You might just see some big animal that's just a bit smaller than you, and decide it looks good to eat even if you're really used to just eating bugs. Right?

Me: Uh well, I guess if you were a giant spider you'd need something more to eat than tiny flies.

Goober: Do you think if a giant spider was eating a cat it would suck out it's blood, or just eat the whole cat?

Me: Depends how long the cat's been stuck in your web I guess.

Goober: Giant mutant spiders don't need webs.

Me: Of course not, silly me.
....

In other news, Mooch CLIMBED OUT OF HER CRIB yesterday. Dammit I'm not ready for this! I know Goober was doing it at this age, but I was really hoping I'd be able to keep Mooch locked up a bit longer, because now I have to baby-proof the bathroom adjoining her room, put up a baby gate at the top of the stairs, install the thingamajig that converts the crib to a toddler bed to prevent her from breaking her head falling off of the crib bars....gah!

Writing about my hair, feel free to skip ahead.

2008-11-27T12:58:00.005-05:00

I got my hair cut yesterday. My baby may never forgive me.

Until yesterday my hair was a little longer than shoulder length, brown, wavy, damaged, unkempt, and generally styled so as to scream 'I've given up!' to the world. But Mooch loved it.
When I held her she would take a lock of hair and gently stroke it across her cheek over and over; I was her blankie. At more active moments she would notice the wayward curls and pull them in front of my eyes, then puff at me to encourage me to blow the hair up off of my face. When I would lay her down for a diaper change she would shake her head violently from side to side to get me to lean over her and shake my hair all over her face and belly, this was apparently hilarious, or it tickled, either way.

For all of these reasons I considered leaving my hair alone and letting my scruffiness run free, but then I thought 'Hey, am I seriously going to let a 16 month old make my grooming decisions? It's bad enough that I have gone out in public after letting a 4 year old do my make-up . It's time to take back my own appearance! Also, Christmas is coming and I don't want to be mistaken for anyone's second cousin, Lurleen from the trailer park.'

So it's gone! I went short because I'm a lazy ass and I have found that if it's long I will ignore it and go for the 'Meh, good 'nuff' look. But when it's short I am forced to do something with it, or else look deranged.

Today hair, tomorrow a new sweater, next week make-up and perhaps someday I will renew my gym membership! Maybe not, I really am lazy.

P.S. Mooch has yet to notice anything different and I can still do the puffing thing a little so maybe it's OK.

T'is the season to realize your significant other is a humongous bone head.

2008-11-25T16:42:00.005-05:00

We did some Christmas shopping today while Goober was at Kindergarten. The plan here was, obviously, to buy gifts without her knowing. So how could Adam possibly have thought it would be appropriate to bring those gifts right into the god damned house after we picked her up? I mean WTF? Idiot!
"Well, weren't those ones mostly for Mooch anyway?"
Seriously? Like at 5 years old Goober won't notice if Santa brings Mooch the same freaking gifts she saw Daddy carrying a month ago? Guess those ones are from Mommy and Daddy now, huh? Forward your Christmas bonus to the North Pole, Genius.
P.S. I love you and I'd really like an ipod or a new camera for Christmas, thx.

The Only Good Thing

2008-11-20T19:59:00.000-05:00

Apparently whatever gods we pissed off feel that we have been punished enough; the plagues seem to be coming to an end, or at least pausing to let us catch our breath before the next round of germs follows us home from kindergarten and knocks us all on our asses again. Mooch suffered a nasty stomach bug that kept her out of commission for the past 10 days as a grand finale, but now even that is just about over. Goober has a couple more days of antibiotics to take, Adam's ears have cleared up and my sore throat has faded to a manageable level of scratchiness.
Being sick sucks, and having sick kids sucks worse. The sleeplessness, the whinyness, the irritability, the clingyness, and the simple suckyness of seeing your children miserable and uncomfortable. Seeing my baby tap her little fingertips together and whimper "ouch...ouch" while looking up at me with her lip quivering and her big blue eyes full of tears is definitely harder than wrestling 3 people to the ground to decant medicines into every one of their various head holes (7 holes each for Goober and Mooch and 4 for Adam) especially when her only response to my repeated "Where, baby? Where is the ouchie?" is to cry with frustration because her mother is such an idiot.
But I've gotta say... the snuggling has been great!
Yes, OK, selfish I know. But when they're healthy they are such crazy bundles of energy that physical affection is a matter of a quick hug or a kiss on the head, snatched blindly as they zoom by. They do like to be picked up and they even initiate snuggles on the couch quite frequently, but they rarely last more than 30 seconds (seconds full of squirming and frequent elbow jabs to the boob I might add) before they are off and running again.
On the sickest days I managed to orchestrate family nap time, when I would put Mooch down for her nap and then cuddle up with Goober in my bed for a few stories before falling asleep together for an hour or two. She was happy to get some one on one time and I was happy to get a little extra shut-eye. When she crawls into our bed at night she twitches and squirms and neither one of us sleeps, but for some reason in the afternoon I get to watch her become completely still and quiet before I drift off to sleep myself.
Mooch has not fallen asleep in my arms since she was about 3 months old. My kids just aren't Those Kids, you know? The ones you see sleeping against their daddy's shoulder at the mall or the park. Nor do they sleep in strollers, slings or even car seats unless driven to extremes of exhaustion. They basically sleep in their beds, crazy idea, I know.
So now I have to admit I have really been enjoying the sleepy snuggliness Mooch has been bestowing upon me for the past week and a half. Her warm body relaxing comfortably on my lap, not wiggling or bouncing, just nuzzling her soft, fuzzy head into my neck and occasionally reaching up to run her fingers through my hair or gently tap my face and explain 'nose, eye, ear... etc.' has been like having a newborn again, all sleepy and boneless against my chest, only much heavier.
Since she has been insisting I hold her every waking minute, nothing has gotten done around here all week. It became a fabulous excuse for me: Do dishes? You mean get up and disturb the poor sick baby? Christ, why not just throw her fevered little body out into the snow, you heartless jerk?! Besides, I'm sooo comfy.
I'm happy to see her laughing and playing again now, of course I am, but I will miss the marathon cuddles. I have suddenly realized that she has already grown so much and come so far from the helpless sleeping lump on my shoulder she was a year ago. For a week she was my little baby again, but now she's back to the fast paced toddler life.

16$ for babylegs and huggalugz? I think not.

2008-11-17T22:06:00.004-05:00

Here's how you can make your own funky and functional baby leggings instead of making an ass of yourself by paying for the same babylegs everyone else has.

1. Get some woman's knee-high socks. This size fits my baby and my 5 year old equally well.

2. Chop off the heels and toes so that you're left with 2 tubes, one long and one short.

3. Take the shorter tube (formerly the foot) and fold it into itself so that you have a ring 2 layers thick. This would be a great cuff, if only babies didn't have such cute little feet, but since they do: you have to make it tighter if you don't want it falling down over their toes.

4. Cut out a strip about 3/4 of an inch wide, then sew the ring back together. Adjust this depending on how chunky or skinny your baby is.
Once it's sewn back into a ring turn it right side out, so the seam is on the inside.

5. Take the long tube (formerly the leg) and flip it inside out. Then insert the cuff you just made into the cut end so that all the raw edges line up. Now you have a tube 3 layers thick at one end.

6. Sew the 3 layers together all around the ring. Stretch the fabric as you go to make up for the fact that the small ring is narrower than the long one and to keep it stretchy.

7. Reach into the long tube and pull down the cuff and voila, a legwarmer. Repeat steps 1-7 if your child has 2 legs.

P.S. the cuff you made goes at the bottom, Daddy still has trouble with this part.

The differences between mothers and daughters.

2008-11-17T09:29:00.001-05:00

When I was a kid I was "quiet". I always hated being described as "quiet." It was never said in a good way, as in "What a wonderful Quiet girl she is!" Instead it was used as though in explanation of a deficiency "Oh, don't mind her, she's just Quiet."

I knew I didn't fit in, and it didn't bother me. I was an only child and I never longed for siblings, I was perfectly content on my own. At home I was secure and content with my place in the center of my mother's universe but at school I faded at once into obscurity. I would enter role playing games within my mind, they were silent and they would last for days. The words and actions of those around me were simply integrated into the storyline. I would spend recesses alone, pacing around the perimeter of the school grounds, collecting treasures from the bits of childhood detritus that washed constantly out to the perimeter of the playground to become entangled in the fence like flotsam around the edges of a pond. Beating my wings against the bars of my cage.

I once overheard 2 women (my 6 year old mind classified them simply as teachers) discussing whether I might not be a high functioning autistic.

I always felt that I simply didn't belong here, that I was just passing the time until the day when I would find a doorway to Narnia hidden somewhere along that school fence. People would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I would give some dull, rote answer. It was easier than explaining that I didn`t really intend to grow up at all, I was just biding my time until I found my way to Wonderland, Neverland, Terebinthia, Oz, or someplace new, just for me.

I grew up, I realized that this world was pretty amazing in its own right and I started wanting to explore it rather than leave it. Although I still held on to the belief that someday something special would happen to me, to show me what I was meant to do. I was too old for Narnia, but perhaps I could still slip between the standing stones and travel through time, or be abducted by friendly aliens. I made friends, although not very many. I began to be present, rather than zoning out. I learned to share my opinions, rather than simply assuming no one would understand. I learned to be a part of the world, but I never learned to fit in.

Then, when I was 16 I met my first boyfriend, at 17 I was pregnant and at 18 I was a mother, tethered forever to this world by the weight of this person I had brought into it.

My daughter isn't quiet, I don't actually think she's capable of not speaking for more than 20 seconds. Even actuvities that might be considered quiet, like say colouring, are accompanied by a running narative complete with sound effects and periodic senseless screams. She doesn't zone out. From the moment she was born she has been Present. Not only does she actively participate in her environment, she is usually the center of attention. Where I was cripplingly shy, she is recklessly friendly. Where my games were silent and prolonged, her games are noisy and short-lived. Where I would simply accommodate whatever those around me seemed to be doing, she directs everyone around her, making them aware of the role they are to play and the lines they are to say. Where my report cards said 'Needs to be encouraged to participate more' Hers say 'Needs to remember to take turns and let others share the spotlight' Where I was happy to play on my own, she desperately wants kids to play with at all times.

Everyday after school she asks to have friends over. She wants play dates with strangers met 4 minutes ago at the park. I love that making friends is easy for her, but how do I tell her I don't want to have that kid over because the idea of speaking to his mother; with her perfectly styled hair and makeup at 9am on the playground, clutching her Tim Horton's mug in her manicured hand, pushing her 600$ stroller where her baby sleeps wrapped in Baby Gap, makes me feel like I did when I was 6 years old and I had to force myself to interact with people who were so alien from me that I simply have no idea how to relate. And I don't want to feel like that. It has taken me a long time to feel comfortable in my own skin and I hate that it still bothers me to feel judged by others, but I do. For the sake of my outgoing child, I do try. I have learned how to make simple chitchat about the weather, the baby etc. But it's still not something that comes naturally to me.

Not surprisingly I don't have any close Mommy friends. While I was having babies my friends from high school were entering university, our lives and priorities have, understandably, diverged. I still love to get together with them for child-free time occasionally, but sometimes I wish I had a friend with kids. Someone who could relate to me and talk with me about things that actually matter while our kids play together. Someone who finds playgroups nerve wracking and wants more out of life than cooking and keeping house and buying designer clothes.

Will things be easier for Goober? Probably. I am jealous of how easily she makes friends, of how clearly she knows who she is and what she wants. But sometimes I feel a little sad that she isn't a bit more like me. I wonder if she is missing anything by not spending hours quietly looking for fairies under toadstools. I wonder if her imagination will see her through tough times like mine has. I wonder if she will be my friend when she grows up.

T'is the season to make really stupid decisions

2008-11-15T22:12:00.000-05:00

So I have just about come to terms with the fact that we will never be healthy again, and if I continue to stay home and rest until we're all feeling better we will never again leave the house and by God this house is just too small to allow that to happen. So yesterday when my cousin called me up and asked us to come spend the night at her place so we could take our kids to see the Santa Claus Parade in the morning and threw in a few hours of babysitting so Adam and I could get out for a bit, I agreed.

I called Adam at work to ask/tell him about the arrangement and then I began the monumental task of preparing for a night away from home.

"Goober, want to go have a sleepover at K's house?"
"YEAH!!!!"
"OK. Then go pack up some clothes and jammies."

And that's when things went to shit.
...
"I want this dress"
"That's a summer dress. We're going to watch a parade, you need warm clothes."
"BLLLAAAGHATE!!!!!NNNNOOOOOOO!!!!AAAAAGGGGGHH!!!"
....
"UP UP UP UP UP!"
...
"Did you pack PJ's?"
"I can't find my doggie jammies. I NEED my doggie jammies!"
"Can't you take your kangaroo jammies?"
"BBLLLLLLLAAAAGHTHATE!!!!!NNNNOOOOOOO!!!!!AAAAAAGH!"
...
"Mooch, will you eat something, please?"
"uh un! uh un! UP UP UP UP!"
...
Are the diapers in the dryer dry? No of course not. Where are the overnight bags? Buried in the storage room. Got butt wipes? Nope, have to make some.
...
"UP UP UP UP UP!"
...
Packing for Adam, boy if you could ever put your laundry in the god damned drawers. No clean socks? When the hell did I last do laundry anyway? like 3 days ago?
...
"UP UP UP UP UP UP UP!"
...
"Mommy I can't get my movie to play. Mooch broke the DVDV player."
Oh No, no no no no. How will I ever get anything done without the help of Disney?
....
Get 2 minute shower with Mooch pounding on the shower stall.
"UP UP UP UP UP UP!"
...
Packing for myself. When was the last time I bought myself clothes? Years. Broken-down jeans and paint-spattered sweatshirt it is.
...
"UP UP UP UP UP UP UP!"
...
Pack up traveling drugstore necessary to get us through the night.
...
Need snowsuits. Where are they? Do they fit? Hats? Mitts? Umbrellas? Blankets? Boots? Stroller? No, Adam fell on the stroller and cracked the bloody wheels off. Sling? over snowsuit, uuum?
...
Blankies. For the love of all that is good in the world don't forget the blankies!
...
"WAAAHHH"
"What happened?"
"Mooch was too close to me."
"What did you do to her?"
...
"UP UP UP UP UP UP UP UP!"
...
Dinner? Fuck Dinner. McDonalds in the car it is.
...
Dry Hair? Why bother? It's raining. All attempts at killing the curlfrizz will be futile anyway.
Make-up? To offset my scruff wardrobe and undone hair? Nope.
...
"UP UP UP UP UP UP UP!"
...
Change diaper, why the hell did I already pack up all the wipes, diapers, cream etc.?
...
Enough seats in the van? NO. Dig more out of the garage.
...
Feed and water cats.
...
"UP UP UP UP UP UP!"
Change Mooch's clothes upon realizing she's dumped out all the cat's water.
...
Every one in the car? Yes, Good. Shit! No baby bottles or food.
...
Answer phone. "You're pregnant?!! Are you freaking insane?!"
...
We did eventually get out the door and picked Adam up from work (2.5 hours after his shift ended, sorry!) got where we were going and even managed to convince Mooch to go to sleep in the playpen.
Then Adam and I headed out to see a movie, only to find all the theaters packed up with some James Bond shit. So we went to a bar and sat and drank and even spoke to each other a little. After a couple hours of this bliss we went back and curled up together in a single bed with a bitchen Dora canopy and attempted to sleep for a few hours next to a restless whiny baby.

Two 5 year olds decided morning had arrived long before sunrise and we started a new day.

While I was driving Adam across town to work I couldn't help but notice that it was pouring rain, but maybe it would stop before the parade? No. We told the little girls that the parade might be cancelled because of the rain.
"BBBBLLLAHNNNNNOOOOOOSANTA!!!etc."
So we grabbed umbrellas and a poncho or 2 and staked out a place to sit on a soggy blanket and tried to prevent the kids from floating their boots down the stream in the gutter for a couple hours.
"I don't want my hood up!"
"My feet are wrinkly!"
"My hands are cold!"
"But I want to eat the candy cane now!"
"Do you want to go home?" please, please,please...
"NNNOOOOO!!"
I spent the last quarter of the parade sitting in the van with Mooch, but the big girls stuck it out to the very end and returned sodden and freezing only after Santa had passed by.
The kids fell asleep in the car and I headed straight home. There to deal with crankiness, tantrums and a little vomiting, just for fun.
Remind me not to leave the house ever again.

So basically, they don't know what the hell they're talking about.

2008-11-12T17:03:00.000-05:00

One morning last year I set Mooch (aged 3 months) in her bouncy chair and made Goober (aged 4) toast with peanut butter for breakfast. Then, in a fit of selfish negligence, I ran to the bathroom to take advantage of the rare opportunity to pee all by myself. When I returned 45 seconds or so later the baby was smeared head to toe with peanut butter from the slice of toast she held clenched in her fat little fists. She was chewing on it like a starving dog despite her total lack of teeth.

I'm not the type to take the ever changing recommendations of the so-called experts too seriously, but I did think that rice cereal should probably come before toast with peanut butter on the food introduction schedule so I took it away from her, which wasn't easy and resulted in a tiny baby temper tantrum. Then I congratulated Goober on her effort to share with her new sister, but explained that babies aren't supposed to have peanut butter before they're 2, and also she could choke, and also DON'T FEED HER ANYTHING IF MOMMY'S NOT THERE!

Turns out Goober might have been in the right.

http://blogs.parentcenter.babycenter.com/momformation/2008/11/02/early-introduction-of-peanuts-prevents-allergy/

According to this exciting new study, children who's parents do not expose them to peanuts during pregnancy, through breast milk or by mouth before the age of 2 in an effort to protect them from deadly peanut allergies, may actually be 10 times more likely to GET the allergy than children who are exposed to peanuts early.

I never really tried to keep peanuts away from my kids, since no one in my family is allergic and I personally love peanuts, and neither of them is allergic. But what a kick in the pants this would be to a mom who religiously abstained from all things peanut for 3 years, only to find out she may actually have increased her child's odds of having an allergy.

Experts are such assholes.

P.S. my 1 year old also eats wheat, gluten, dairy, eggs, honey and sugar!

Perhaps I should shut up, lest I jinx us even more and we all get smallpox.

2008-11-10T20:08:00.000-05:00

So you know how I was whining about not sleeping because my kids were sick? Ya, now on top of ALL the previous symptoms both kids have a stomach bug, causing Mooch to throw up and Goober to...not throw up...ya, the other one. Also, PINKEYE, just because. Also, that earache that definitely was NOT an ear infection, well now it is, and the baby has one to match. I came home from the doctors today with a ridiculously huge sack of meds including antibiotics, ear drops, eye drops and an inhaler for Mooch's cough. Guess what? Apparently the insurance company never got the paper work concerning Mooch's existence, so she's not covered. Damn.

We should all be dead by the end of the week.

On the way home Goober was asking what all the different kinds of medicine were for. When I got to the part about the eye drops she freaked and started howling that she didn't want any medicine in her eyes. Well you know what I don't want? To be woken up like I was 3 times last night because "My eye is goopy Mommy! Can you wipe it again?" So I tried to talk her down and reassure her that eye drops weren't so bad. I told her we'd do Daddy first (because Daddy has the same thing and I'm not above sharing out my kids prescriptions). When informed of this later, Daddy was less than enthusiastic. Seeing as how sick men are basically great big babies, I should have known that Daddy would blow the scheme by whining that he too did not want any medicine in his eyes. I was about to tell him to put on his big boy pants and suck it up when Goober saved me the trouble by saying "It won't be so bad Daddy, and if you be a good boy and let Mommy do your eye drops I'll let you pick a treat from my Halloween basket"

Eye drops were dispensed all around and no tears were shed.

How to dye wool with kool-aid

2008-11-10T11:22:00.000-05:00

I really like cloth diapers (Not in a kinky way you freaks) I especially like bamboo diapers with wool covers, although my stash includes just about every other type of diaper on the market, and for those of you not familiar with the world of cloth diapering that's A LOT.

The best combo for over night is a Bamboozle fitted diaper with an Aristocrats wool cover. Mooch has been sleeping in this set-up since she was about 3 months old. The only problem is this team is pricey: 20$+ for the dipe and 30$ for the cover. Therefor I have exactly 3 diapers and 1 cover that I have used in rotation for the past year. Now, after a year of being used almost every night my Aristocrat was getting decidedly yellowed (why, oh why do they only make them in white anyway?) and the regular Eucalan wash and sunlight treatment just wasn't cutting it anymore. I was scared to use bleach or oxyclean on an expensive cover so I decided to take some kool-aid to it and refresh it that way.

The results:

I think it looks great.

So, here's my method so I can remember it for later:

Get a big pot of room temperature water. Add 2 packets of Kool-aid in your choice of colour, but remember that the colour of the packet does not necessarily represent the colour of the juice. I don't actually drink Kool-aid so I was a little surprised to see red powder come out of the bright blue packet I had picked out but I figured what the hell, red's cool too. Mix until the powder's all dissolved. Do NOT add sugar. Add a bit of vinegar. Put in the wool (or any other natural fabric). Stir until the fabric is saturated to prevent colour pooling. Put the pot on the stove and turn on low heat. Stir every few minutes. Gradually increase to medium-low heat. Heat changes must be gradual in order to prevent felting. Keep stirring occasionally. It's done when all the colour has left the water, or for those lacking patience like myself, whenever you think it looks good or when you're tired of stirring, but remember it will look a bit lighter when dry. Turn off the heat and allow to cool. Gently squeeze out excess water and hang or lay flat to dry.

TA-DA looks like new. Better than new if you're not a fan of off-white.

The disappointing part is that I really can't fit Mooch into this size small any more, but hey, it was a learning experience.

Next project: Making Goober's hair purple with the packet she picked out.

Rescue me!

2008-11-07T23:48:00.000-05:00

R-E-S-C-U-E
Rescue Aid Society.
Heads held high,
Touch the sky
You mean everything to me

Repeat ad infinitum

Of all the stupid damned things to have stuck in my head THIS is the tune I can't stop humming right now!

Let mommy sleep, or everyone dies!

2008-11-06T13:48:00.000-05:00

I haven't slept through the night in weeks. I've always been a night owl, but blessed as I was with "good sleepers" for kids I was in the habit of getting a solid 5-6 hours of shut-eye between 1 am and 7am. Not anymore.

It started a few weeks ago when Mooch developed a cough. She'd be fine all day, but cough herself awake 2-3 times a night. We have tried everything from Vicks vapo rub to homeopathic remedies to humidifiers to to honey to baby Triaminic but nothing seems to be helping. As the responsible parent (aka the one who is roused by the slightest sound rather than the one who would not be disturbed by his children screaming bloody murder while the smoke alarm blared, ahem.) I would go to her anytime before 2 am, at which time I was unlikely to be sleeping yet anyway, and viciously kick Daddy in the back for his turn any time later. The system was not perfect, but we were hoping it would be short-lived.

Then Goober got an earache. She took to waking me up at least once between 3-4 am to tell me her ear still hurt and I would dope her with Tylenol and send her back to bed. We went to the doctor, who assured us that she did NOT have an ear infection, just a build up of fluid in her ear. He advised me to spray salt-water up her nose twice a day to help clear it out. Boy does she ever not like this! He did not warn me, however that the result of this action would be to cause snot to come oozing out of her ear after a couple of days to cake in her hair and befoul her pillow. Gross does not begin to describe it.

Then they both caught a cold, on top of the stubborn cough and sore ear. Add stuffy, runny noses to the fact that both sooth themselves to sleep by sucking their thumbs and you can see we have a problem- when your nose is blocked and your mouth is full of thumb you can't breath. So I started spraying the solution up both of their noses, causing fits of combined hysterics, but undeniable results. I tried to reason with them about how it wasn't really that bad, and didn't they feel better all nice and clear after it was done? Eventually they began to get used to it and let me do it without sitting on them and chaining back their arms first.

Then I caught the cold, now I can't breath either. So I sprayed the stuff up my own nose. OH MY FREAKING GOD! That's the most horrible thing anyone has ever experienced in the history of ever! Oh well, more for the kids!

Then my recurrent insomnia kicked in.

Then Mooch started cutting 2 new teeth, including her first molar.

Then Daddy got sick.

Then Goober started having nightmares.

My past weeks sleep schedule has looked something like this:
11:30-12:00= Go to bed and read.
1:30= Try to sleep, toss and turn unsuccessfully.
2:30ish=Drift off.
3:30=Mooch wakes up coughing. Go get her some sort of remedy.
4:30=Goober wakes me up to complain that she "had a bad, scary thought" and needs to sleep in my bed. For the love of God child why do you always have to get in on MY side? Go curl up next to Daddy, he'd never notice!
5:00=Get tired of being kicked and jarred by restless kid who is no more able to sleep here than I am able to sleep with her here so why does she even bother anyway? Put her back in her bed. Return to my own bed and continue to toss and turn because once thoroughly woken up I have to start the whole 2 hour getting to sleep process all over again.
6:00=Mooch wakes up crying. Kick (literally) Daddy out of bed to give her teething tablets.
6:30ish= Finally fall into a deep sleep
7:30= alarm goes off.

Why the hell am I writing this during nap time when I should be sleeping?

Here goes nothing

2008-11-05T21:38:00.000-05:00

Having left for a brief debate with myself over the merits of writing about my personal life in a public forum I have decided to run with the idea that given the size of the internet, and the relative dullness of my life no one will ever read this anyway. There now, all settled.

Halloween, sure, why not? Possibly it's a little hypocritical to tell kids all year long not to take candy from strangers, then lead them around the neighbourhood to beg in a frenzy of gluttony, but I figure it's like Christmas, a nice opportunity to let them know that people are, by and large, good and generous and not to be feared. Plus free chocolate for me! Score!

I am a big fan of dressing my kids up in ridiculous outfits, any excuse to enhance their already overwhelming cuteness with face paint and cheap fabric is OK by me. Unfortunately, my fun is being spoiled by my 5 year old, Goober (all the cool bloggers have nicknames for their offspring to throw off the stalkers) Goober is a highly opinionated and uncooperative individual with a grossly overestimated concept of her own worth. Some might say she takes after me, although I deny it, because that is my opinion and I will not cooperate with those people who clearly don't realize how great I am. Anyway, she has been refusing my advances with adorable costumes and camera in hand since she was about 18 months old. She has been a princess for 3 years running. I hate princesses; vapid, matrimony obsessed twits that they are. So I was thrilled when she announced that this year she wanted to be something different. We went to Value Village (because I like costumes, but I'm cheap and lazy) and let her peruse the aisles. From time to time I would pull out a costume for her inspection, optimistically pointing out how pretty this zebra was, or how warm that astronaut would be, only to be turned down flatly each time. Suddenly her face lit up and she yanked out the rattiest, most faded homemade felt pumpkin costume I've ever seen. On one hand I was relieved that it wasn't a princess, but on the other hand: eeew.
"I love this costume, Mom!"
"Really?"
"Oh yes! It's perfect. I'm going to be a pumpkin for Halloween!"
Come on kid, not only is it the most uninspired costume since the bed sheet ghost, it's also too small, stained and distinctly urine scented. I'm all about your freedom of expression but unless your plan is to score more candy by virtue of eliciting pity from everyone silly enough to open their door to you on Halloween night, that costume sucks. Now because I know my darling, obstinate, contrary daughter I knew it would be a mistake to refuse point blank to purchase the shitty thing. Such an action would result in a pouting strike on the floor at best and a big hairy meltdown at worst.
So I said "alright, but let's keep looking for something for your sister to wear, hmm?" Luckily, said sister is only 15 months old and still prey to my costuming whims. I crossed my fingers and thanked the pagan gods of Halloween when she caught sight of a bright green caterpillar costume complete with antenna and extra legs supported by string. Admittedly the string was broken on one side, but I was not disposed to be choosy at a time like this.
"Wow! what a cool caterpillar costume! I wish there was one big enough for me!" I raved.
She took the bait. "It will fit me mommy!"
She wore it out of the store, I wasn't taking chances on any more changes of heart.

Halloween rolled around and costuming time was approaching when I realized I couldn't find Mooch's (Mooch being the aforementioned 15 month old) black cat costume. I know a black cat isn't exactly brilliant, but my Grandma had given it to her before she passed away earlier this year and so I wanted her to wear it as a tribute, you know on the night when the dead visit and all. But after ripping the house apart (not that it was "together" to begin with) I had to admit it wasn't to be and raid the tickle chest. A few minutes scavenging found me a ladybug vest, black pants and a red and black bonnet. Success! Not only did I have a suitable costume, I even had an insect theme to make me look like a hardworking, organized mom instead of a slacker who threw something together at the last minute! Goober added a piece de resistance to her caterpillar costume in the form of a pair of wings stolen from a Tinkerbell ensemble, thus transforming into a butterfly, and we set out.

The weather was the best I can remember for a Halloween in Ontario and we even got to skip the trauma of trying to stuff snowsuits on under the costumes. As an old pro, Goober ran up to the first house with her sack in hand and a smile on her face. Mooch on the other hand was a little bewildered when I plunked her down on a strange doorstep in company with a giant insect and a dinosaur, but she got over it when she received her very own bag of chips. She dumped them in the wagon and declined to visit any more houses until she finished them all. Eventually she caught on to the idea that - No way! ALL these people are giving out candy! and started running along after Goober as fast as her little legs could carry her bulky bug suit. She would struggle her way up stairs and run towards the door with her hands outstretched chanting "TA-TA!" determined not to be left out.

Once they had acquired enough candy that I felt comfortable that their daddy and I would be able to steal some without getting caught we headed home and I ruthlessly bundled them off to bed so that I could suit up in my own costume (which included the shortest skirt I've ever worn in my life) and head out for some grown-up fun at a club celebrating the "Feast of Flesh." There to drink and dance and enjoy party favours from the Stag Shop and basically pretend to be a normal 23 year old.

In conclusion, I got the best of both worlds. Sugary trick or treating with the kids followed by a nice buzz with some friends. Halloween kicks ass.

Trepidation

2008-11-05T21:31:00.000-05:00

A blog? Sooo..like a journal, or dare I say it? Diary, but instead of locking it up with a cheap gold key and stashing it in my nightstand I leave it lying open for all the world to see? I'm not at all sure about this.