PHD, it's real.

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?

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

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?

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.

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

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.

Luckily, he has no idea what a blog is.

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.

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.

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.

Day From Hell

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

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.

It could happen to anyone, with a penis.

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.

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?

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?

Winter Wonderland My Ass.

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.