I'm Trying to Write a Blog Here, Mister.

I'm sitting here thinking of the cute things that have been going on in the last few days and trying to figure out a start for tonight's installment. Rather, I'm trying to figure out a start that I can continue into a wee blog for enjoyment and laughs. 

The thing is, all I can think about while I'm typing is that I've invited the neighbour kids over for a playdate tomorrow afternoon, when Kiddo #1 has a cooking class from 10 to 11 and I have a physio appointment for my wretched, bastard back that is too cowardly to just gently tell me that it hurts, and instead just freaked the heck out and I'm half incapacitated from pain, at 8:30 AND THE CLEANING FAIRY IS ON VACATION!

I had all these grand plans to dicuss the book club that I was so excited to join that I actually even read the book (!) or maybe the birthday party my kiddo attended today blah blah blah but I'm too preoccupied with what a frickin' disaster my house is, to be able to write witty anecdotes and all that jazz.

See, because when I know the Cleaning Fairy isn't coming, I don't tidy like I normally do. It's like when you're reading for a book club, you read it for a purpose (ie: to sound relatively unstupid in front your neighbours) so you watch a little more closely to the clues the author leaves lying around in the text.  But, if you're just reading a book for fun, you can get through a whole thing without anything important to say about it. 

Right, so the house. It kinda looks like a cross between a trailer park after a tornado and "Animal House."  

So then I'm sitting here typing about the book club, but I can't focus on that because I'm also making a list of the top priority spaces: 1) the living room (needs vacuuming, tidying) 2) kitchen (needs a flame thrower) 3) the play room (needs vacuuming, tidying) and also trying to figure out about how much time each spot will take (probably all three areas could be managable in 2 hours) and --

SIGH! 

What was I thinking?

But then, there's this secret part of me that wants to just leave it all and say, "Welcome to Real House." 

Sounds intriguing, you say?  

A few years ago, my borther was having everyone over for a birthday/Christmas/general holiday and I was marveling that his floors were spotless (and this was long before they had a dog as a broom). He said, "Oh, well, this is Fake House.  We've been creating Fake House for the last four days-- dusting, polishing, scrubbing, tidying, hiding, painting, accessorizing and all that crap.  Now, if you had shown up on any day besides TODAY, you would see Real House.  That's the house that we, as a family of five, live in.  It's the house with toothpaste in the sink, homework that snuck under the chesterfield (sofa for you Americans), and clean laundry in a pile on the bed, waiting to be hung up."

Since my brother introduced me to Fake House and Real House, my life has become much less stressed. I was under the impression, for example, that all homes in Better Homes and Gardens Magazine look perfect like that ALWAYS.  

I'm sure part of that is because every time I open up my magazines, the pictures stay the same, in a static, perfect moment of peace and harmony. Of course, I always wonder if, just outside the picture frame, there are two children and giant, stinking St. Bernard, wet from a romp in the creek, that are (all three) frothing at the mouth on the other side of the baby gate, with ketchup on their fingers and the muddy, black soil of freshly planted-and-uprooted begonias in between their toes. But it doesn't matter what's going on on the other side of the baby gate, because every time I turn to page 37, the crisp white linens on the perfectly made bed, that lays on a thick, shaggy white carpet lull me into a fantasy where this, truly could be mine if I just tried harder.

But, back to the problem at hand: who am I trying to impress? Neither of the neighbour kids care whether the pictures are all straight on the wall and the refrigerator door is clean of fingerprints and smudges ... and chocolate milk.  I'm fairly certain that Mom isn't going to stay for the play date, but even if she did, is she not a parent, too? So doesn't she also have Real House most of the time?  If you stick us, do we not bleed? If you run over our toes with a scooter, do we not howl in pain? I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that yes, she has Real House and that she, also, swallows the curse words that threaten to escape when she is accosted by a remote controlled Hummer.

So why am I so bent on picking up the house for a playdate? I guess it's for the same reason I put make-up on every day-- do my kids care whether I have crazy eyebrows or not? No. I do, though. It makes me feel good and like I have a purpose.  I find if I don't put my make-up on, I don't bother putting on a proper outfit. If I don't put on proper clothes, I can't leave the house for any reason. If I can't leave the house, then I can't possibly meet my husband in Paris for an impromptu lunch on the banks of the Seine. And, now this has the bizarre sound of a Laura Numeroff book. 

So, off I go to clean and tidy, because I guess it's the same as doing my make-up every day. And while I'm doing all that, I'm going to check to make sure my passport is up to date, because, well, what if?

Easy Bake Honda

When life hands you lemons, I always say, squeeze the juice from those lemons in your hang nails and paper cuts and then you'll really have something to complain about.  Frick. 

On the hottest day of the summer, in heat and humidity that rivaled temperatures in Afghanistan (which is no joke-- it was 120F or 48C after you tacked on the humidity), on the big highway between my house and my mother's, the air conditioning quit working in my car. 

Anyone who has ever wondered how a convection oven works should try turning on MAX AC, only instead of delicious, cold air, crank the dial to scalding-hot-air instead. It was the most uncomfortable I've been in a long time, and I am constantly saying the wrong thing in the middle of a dinner party.  Yeah.

But that got me thinking about how I could harness my new Honda CR-Oven and use it to make a little money.  I'm an ok cook, or at least I can follow a recipe-- what is it that people love and can't get enough of that I can make and deliver with the amazing heat of my car? 

Cake, obviously!

I quickly turned the car around and headed toward the nearest cooking store to pick up some cooling racks, mixing bowls, spoons, and a cooler (with ice).  I also picked up three matching chef hats, aprons and fake-mustaches because, let's be honest, if you are going to start a business, you have to look the part.

Off to the supermarket I went with my team of sous-chefs.  

While my children began making the cake batter, I whipped up a website on my iPhone (yes, there's an app for that) and paid for it to be the first thing to pop up in every google search.  Sure, I had to put a bunch of nonsensical words pertaining to sex in the search criteria, but within the hour I had over 10 000 hits, and 57 orders for cakes to be delivered by 5pm! Only 5 of those cakes had a naughty theme to them, which all things considered, is pretty good.

Kiddo #2, from his rear-facing car seat, opened the cake batter boxes into bowls and add the oil and water. Kiddo #1 would then take the bowls, add the eggs and stir the batter until it was ready to go in the "trunk" of my CRV, to cook. I can honestly tell you that my car has never smelled as good as 15 cakes cooking at the same time before. And it might never smell as good again, since there are at least a few broken eggs that have cooked into the carpet and a bowl of melted butter that tipped over when I was going over some particularly feisty railroad tracks. 

My kids and I are such a great team! Each kid took his or her turn, with mommy driving and singing songs like, "How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You" by James Taylor, "Sugar, Sugar" by the Archies, and "Sugar Shack" by Jimmy Gilmer and The Fireballs, which lead to "Love Shack" by the B52s, "Supermodel" by RuPaul (who was in the "Love Shack" video) and then, just like my iPod likes to do, I switched gears completely and sang "Snowbird" by Anne Murray. 

As the cakes finished cooking, I then brought out the icing sugar and various food colours to have the kids begin making the fluffy icing. I can't begin to tell you how easy it is to run a cake business! Why oh why didn't I think of this sooner? 

While the kids were making the icing, I downloaded a credit card app for my phone so I could take money this way, as well as cash. No, I don't take cheques/checks and before you get all mad about it, hear me out: I drive around an oven and deliver fresh cakes to your home. I don't drive a TIME MACHINE to go back in time to take your cheques/checks, nor do I use said TIME MACHINE to get your faxed orders, either. Order your cakes online and pay that way, or with my handy credit/debit app and shoosh about the no cheque/check policy.  Thank you.

After we'd delivered the last of the cakes, (the naughty ones I iced myself-- no sense in exposing a baby and pre-schooler to naughty cakes on their first day of work) I looked around at my staff. We high-fived and counted our receipts over slushies. After paying for the website design I did, paying for the credit card processing I did, paying for the singing I did, as well as driving,  on top of my base salary, we did pretty well.  There was even a little left over to put into the kids' education funds.

And since the kids worked extra hard, I decided to finish our trip to Grandma's pool to wash the batter, sweat and tears off their bodies.  

I figure, if the money we made today is any indication, we should be able to get the AC fixed just in time for January.  Not that it matters much, since September is when half my kitchen staff goes off to school and people's need for fresh cake dramatically decreases (at least that's what the research shows-- I earn the salary I command, you know.).  

So this fall, be on the lookout for a mobile dry cleaner-- we pick it up, clean it with the power of steam (how eco-friendly!). I'm still ironing out the kinks of filling the bottom of my car up with water that will create steam to clean the clothes without making us into floppy broccoli at the same time.  

Kiddo #1 suggested that maybe we could use our wages to fix the AC. I was all for that until I realized she meant MY wages, too. Oh heck no, little lady.  Instead, I offered that we could drive places and the three of us could sing songs for money, like Hanson or the Jonas Brothers or that monkey from the Bugs Bunny cartoons. I guess he didn't sing though, he turned that organ grinder thing. Whatever. I'm not spending my hard earned money to fix my dumb AC, that's all I know.  

Ding! Ding! Ding!

That's the iPod telling me we have more cake orders coming in for tomorrow. Maybe the kids will get that AC fixed sooner than I thought, after all. 

Now I Ain't Sayin' She's a Well-Digger

For a great many years, secretly the centre of my brain, I have held a burning desire to go to Africa and build wells and teach orphans how to read.  It's my go-to life event when I'm feeling too tied down to my current location, lifestyle and family orientation. 

If I find myself folding laundry, for example, amidst children laughing or arguing around my legs while the dog is barking, the room gets fuzzy and I start to fantasize about giving everything up and moving to Africa where I can teach women how to build wells for clean water. Once the well is complete, I then convert a mud hut into a school so I can teach children how to read English and French. Their mothers, then, are able to learn how to farm a crop or something (I would hand the reins over at this point, since I'll be occupied teaching the children, so I haven't quite figured this part out perfectly yet). I don't know why it's Africa except that I know the most-little about it. 

Recently, while searching online for Teachers Without Borders, and Engineers Without Borders (I'm not the latter, but I figured it's the Engineers that build the wells) my very best girlfriend happened to be on facebook at the same time, so we got to chatting. 

Very Best Girlfriend: Heeeeey!

Me: Word.

Very Best Girlfriend: What's up! I haven't caught you on here in ages!

Me: Yeah, I usually mark myself as offline. 

VBG: Oh.  ?? 

Me: Well, I dunno. I'm not very good at typing really fast, so I don't want anyone to judge my slow responses.

VBG: Loser. :)

Me: Miss you too.  Anyway how's that guy you're dating?

VBG: Crazy. 

Me: Sounds perfect.  I'm moving to Africa, I think.

VBG: WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT??????? ARe you home? I'm calling you!!!

Me: Uh. BRB. Phone's ringing. 

Anyway, we chatted about how I'm moving to Africa to build wells and save the orphans and she, politely, suggested I MAY want to reconsider.  Shocked, since she IS my Very Best Girlfriend and she is usually super supportive of me and my endeavors, I said, "But, WHY?"

She groaned.  Then she said, "It's possible you don't know this, but there are three things that everyone who know you knows about you."

Three Things Everyone But Elizabeth Knows About Elizabeth

1) She wears her sunglasses when it's raining and still finds the sun oppressive. 

2) She can't stand the sight of sweat dripping down anything-- hairy backs, noses, brows, the outsides of really cold pop bottles (the list goes on).  Reading this list will make her visualize it and then gag on the image. 

3) She thinks her life is a musical.

After I did a quick Listerine rinse to get the bile out of my mouth, I came back to finish reading number 3 and was both mildly amused and instantly infuriated. How would any of these things keep me from being a good well-digger??

Well-Digger 

(parody of Kanye West's Gold Digger)

[Jaime Foxx]

She take an airplane to Afrique.

Yeah, she's flyin' o'er the sea.

Oh, she's a well-digger, in the ground,

that digs for free.

(Chorus:)

Now, I ain't sayin' she's a well-digger, 

But she ain't messin' with no poke, poke.

Now I ain't sayin' she's a well-digger,

But she ain't messin' with no poke, poke.

Dig down girl, go 'head dig down,

Dig down girl, go 'head dig down,

Dig down girl, go 'head dig down,

Dig down girl, go ahead.

Verse 1:

Cutie is gone,

got her travel Visa on,

with her rolling Louis Vuitton

at the end of her arm.

She said, "Ima dig through rock,

down on old Mac Don's farm, 

"Doodle doo" says Mac Don's cock,

Gotta water tha farm, ya the farm.

But she's doing more than one,

Can't you see it?

Her psychic told her she will also make a marina,

Genius! Jennifer Lopez' two kids

will see her on Oprah and think Beth is the big shiz.

"Ok, but the kids?" "They can live at their friends'."

She looked at her best friends, they all got a pen.

They all went to din, and they they had to say,

"If you truckin' in the world, then there's things we need say."

"You know why."

"It's too sunny and hot there."

From what she heard, "It's never rainy." and "Trust her!"

Her best friend wished her, "Good luck then, Buster."

But she don't care what none of y'all say, she's still master.

[Chorus]

18 years, 18 years,

She's had a dream to build wells since she was 18 years.

I know it's silly to have a child to support, or two little kids,

And dream of selling your crib and movin' to Ibiz(a.)

The thing is, on TV, any given Sunday,

in the climate controlled house, Africa is a fun-day,

She doesn't know she goes PSYCHO when it's sunny,

She goes crazy and does Tae Bo, it ain't funny,

She's waving her fist like a hobo at the Sun, eh,

Should not go for sure, Loco from the Sunny.

If you know this punk, holla "She's a diva!"

She's a diva, yeah.

Cuz it's somethin' that she need to have,

A better understanding of her self, oh yeah.

18 years, 18 years,

And on her 40th birthday she found out all of this?

[Chorus]

Now, I'm sayin' you ain't a well-digger, with all your needs,

You don't like a dude to sweat, perspire or bleed,

You go out to eat. No a/c? Y'all can't breathe.

There's wishin' for an act, and to roll up your sleeves. But, 

While you're wishin', watch it.

You can't make it from a Benz back to a Datson.
You may have that ambition, baby, but please hear these cries--

No way you lovin' sweat or the sun in your eyes.

So, sit down, inside.

I know the well's callin' and yeah, that's nice,

And they gone keep callin' and tryin'

But you stay here, girl.

Cuz the reality is, wells are not for this white girl.

Sit down girl, go 'head sit down.

Sit down girl, go 'head sit down.

Sit down girl, go 'head sit down.

Sit down girl, go 'head.

(lemme hear that back)




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How to 'Kinect' With Your Nephew

Dear Diary,

Being 13 sure isn't the great, happy crap my parents think it is. Is it so hard for my boobs to grow or what???? How come everyone else has giant boobs and I've got stupid nothings???? I wear puffy shirts so no one notices, because the boys call the other girls Flatso, which I think is almost as crappy as Fatso, and then they snap their bra straps. Ugh. 

Today Mike called and he taught me how to play Mary Had A Little Lamb on my phone, which was cool. I really hope he likes me. But even if he doesn't, high school is going to be so super cool. I can't wait for September!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Well except for the hard classes. I'm scared about Math class. I hope my parents will get me my very own phone line for my birthday. I'd have them put it in my room, just like Elizabeth and Jessica from Sweet Valley High have. Maybe I'll get a Fiat when I'm 16, too!! That would be so cool!!!

I'm saving up my babysitting money this summer so I can buy some new Converse All Stars. My friends call them Chucks, because they're really called Chuck Taylors, but I think a name with Stars in it is cooler, so I call them that instead. You've probably heard me call them that, Diary, so I probably didn't have to write that out. Do you like the new way I dot my letter i's? The hearts take a lot of time to do-- way more than just a dot, but it makes my writing look so sofistocated. sophistacate. cool. 

Well, I'd better go. 

Love,

Bethie

Despite having kept my diary all these years (trust me, it's as enthralling as you'd think it would be. The above entry is one of the best ones in there. Oh yeah.), I was amazingly out of touch when my nephew, age 13, arrived at our house for a 24-hour tour. 

The first shock came when Nephew grunted "Bye" to his parents and loaded up my trunk with his dufflebag. You would think he was staying over for the rest of the summer for the stuff he packed.  Mouth agape, I suddenly realized what Husband must wonder every time I go on any sort of vacation with him. 

When we finally squeezed the trunk shut and the contents of his bag quit groaning against the inside of my car, I was glad I was trading Kiddo #1 for Nephew #1, for no other reason than she and her carseat left more room for the overflow of Nephew's bags.  

When Nephew sat down, I was immediately transported back to roughly 10th grade.  I got a stupid smile on my face as I remembered some boyfriend that also wore a similar cologne. Chuckling at the memories of the two of us trying to figure out how to kiss, I said, "Nephew, what cologne are you wearing?" He smirked and said, "A good one."  

Ahh yes. 13, I remember you well.

"Right, so which one?" 

He replied Abercrombie or Hollister or some other clothing brand, but suffice it to say it was one that was more expensive than the Exclamation! and Lady Stetson I used to wear, by at least 10 fold. Times have changed, but that just means the teens of today have way cooler stuff to spend their endless money on; they're not buying anything different with the money, just much better quality. 

We head home and I put the baby down for his nap, leaving Nephew and me to hang out while Husband did yard work. I think, secretly, Husband hoped having strong, athletic Nephew around might allow him another pair of hands to get the mulch done, but I vetoed that quickly once I got out of the air conditioned car into the rainforest temperatures of our little, sea level town.  109F? No thank you. 

Down to the nice, cool basement we went in search of video games. I left him to play with the Xbox 360 while I folded the diapers from the dryer and started a load of laundry.  When I came down he'd put on the random sports pack game for the Kinect and I watched him run hurdles and play ping pong before my natural desire to beat the tar out of all opponents got the better of me.

I pulled up my avatar while he talked smack about how "old people can't play Kinect" and how "No one can beat me. I'm kinda awesome." and all this other garbage that proves he spends entirely too much time with my smack-talking brother. To be fair, I'd never actually played these games before (I stick to the jungle cat game where you can pet the jaguar and teach your leopard to do tricks), and my frickin' sciatica was killing me, but I could hardly let some 13-year-old punk trash talk me in my own house.

He let me warm up with boxing.  I beat the stuffing outta him in 1 round, with a KO. Then I kicked his hiney in two rounds (I went easy on him the second one because I'm an elder and should show kids how to win graciously or whatever), and was kind enough to say, "Floats like a butterfly, stings like a Bee-otch." 

He brushed it all off with a "Whatever, Aunt Beth. Whoop-tee-doo. Let's play Ping Pong."  After whipping him in record time with my left hand, I switched my paddle to my right one saying, "Listen, that game was too quick. I'm switching to my bad hand so you have a chance to play."  He has a really cute smirk when he's agitated.  It must be genetic. 

Once I'd beaten him in Boxing, Ping Pong, Beach Volleyball and "Summer Games" sports, it occured to me that I was really, quite crippled. I had just spent the last hour and a half: jumping, diving, twisting, and doing various over-the-top victory dances complete with pointing and random taunts including, but not limited to, "I thought you were big man on campus, but I guess you're just a minor-niner." and "Nephew, are you texting your friends to ask them for cheat codes? Cuz you should." and "It's OK you don't have to pretend you can't play just to make an old lady feel better. Oh wait, you ARE playing? Oh. Uh. Sorry."  The best part was my adrenaline was racing hard enough that I felt NONE of it; all I felt was the pain-suppressing taste of victory in my mouth. 

I discreetly texted my husband to stop doing the mulch and sneak into the house and pinch the sleeping baby so that I would have an excuse to gracefully hobble up the stairs.  Once the baby started crying, I, with a humble wave and a British accent said, "You must excuse me, Master Nephew. My triumph must be delayed whilst I change the baby. Ta!" and I slunk up the stairs, sweating and Lamase breathing until I was out of eyeshot. Oh the pain was immediate and thorough. 

I walked zombie-like to the baby's room where I could cry loudly and in peace (the baby monitor is just crappy enough that Nephew would simply think the baby was louder than before) and texted hubby to come back in and help me. He snuck me some ibuprophen and water and I checked movie listings on my phone.  Within seconds, we'd arranged to take Nephew to see the new Transformers movie with husband while I said I'd stay home with the baby.  I put the baby to bed just before the guys left and pretended the breathtaking pain in my hip wasn't actually pulsating down to my feet. Oscar worthy performance, let me tell you.

The second that garage door hit concrete, I poured myself a glass of wine and (more or less) fell into my tub. Just as I was delighting in the jets and epsom salts, when my phone started blowing up with unrelenting text messages from my nephew. One after another whoop! whoop! whoop! from Nephew taunting me, saying my husband had told him everything! 

Treasonous Husband! Off With His Head! 

(I should say that I only think Nephew was taunting me. His text messages were mostly a bunch of seemingly-random letters with a bunch of weird stuff like semi-colons and half-brackets. Hello? Semi-colon half-bracket?  What even is that?)

When the guys got back later that night, I'd Tiger Balmed the majority of my body (which gave me an odd odour AND an odd orangey-glow to my skin), the ibuprophen was running in full force and I was feeling good.  I fed the baby and the teenager an 11 o'clock snack (a bottle and a peanut butter sandwich, respectively) and everyone went to bed. 

Dear Diary,

Being 33 sure isn't the great, happy crap everyone thinks it is. Is it so hard for my boobs to stay put or what???? How come everyone else has perfect, non-sagging boobs and I've got stupid grapefruit in a pair of nylons???? I wear push up bras with underwire so no one notices, because if I don't my boobs blend in with my stomach, which is entirely unappealing. Ugh. 

Today I schooled my nephew in Kinect, and now I can hardly type this diary entry my whole self is so sore. I really hope he had fun because I might be in a full body cast when he gets up in the morning. We'll see. 

I have to go and charge my phone. I wore down the battery with the 600 text messages my nephew sent me. 

I'm saving up my money this summer so I can buy some new Converse All Stars. My friends call them Chucks, because they're really called Chuck Taylors, but I think a name with Stars in it is cooler, so I call them that instead. You've probably heard me call them that, Diary, so I probably didn't have to write that out. 

Well, I'd better go. 

Love,

Elizabeth

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Bunny Love

Kiddo #2 was in his seat chatting about the pros and cons of rice cakes when the dog scratched to come in.  She seems to know when the baby is eating and comes from the four corners of the earth to sit under his chair while he philosophizes.  He really gets his arms going when he ruminates, which often blesses the dog with random bits of food. Kiddo #1 continued playing outside.

I grabbed a hot pot off the stove and, like a primadonna, I pirouetted to the sink, bent to grab the strainer in the bottom drawer, and gracefully poured the hot water and noodles into said device. Roses fell from the sky, the baby cooed and I heard Kiddo #1 say, "Momma, how can I get this bunny back to her parents in the creek?"  

The house lights went up and there I was in my kitchen, standing before my daughter who had a baby bunny in the bottom of an otherwise empty Britta water filter jug.  "Oh crap." I exclaimed. Daughter looked up at me and repeated her request as though she knew I wasn't thinking about the answer.

"Where did you find that bunny?  Oh crap. Did you touch it?  Oh crap. Is it still alive? Oh crap. Where did you find that bunny?"

Kiddo #1 said, "It's alive. Of course it's alive Momma. That's why I want to find the parents."

"Well, the parents are probably in the burrow that the baby bunny was in, scared."

"No, they ran away when Rizzo found the baby bunny. They jumped in the creek."

And then, all of a sudden, Kiddo #1 bursts into tears. 

"Mom! Bunnies can't swim! How are we ever going to get this baby bunny back to the mom and dad if they are in the water?" Huge tears are dripping of her chin as she looks up at me expectantly.  What? Oh crap. Oh crap. I'm not ready for this conversation. I'm also not ready to have this discussion while a dead baby bunny is in a Britta water jug, in my kitchen while my pasta is cooling, my baby is chit chatting and my kiddo is bawling her head off. 

I finally look down at the baby bunny in the Britta, this bunny that my daughter has carefully placed in the empty water jug and it's breathing. Breathing. Bunnies die from hopping too fast or seeing something scary on TV. How is this little teeny bunny still alive?

OH CRAP. Now I have an entirely different problem on my hands. Er, in my water filter jug. I call for Husband, who I know isn't home from work yet, but I call out hoping he'll hear me and drive faster, like husbands do in movies.

I look at Daughter. I look at bunny. I look in jug-- the bunny seems to be wet, but there's no blood, no wound, no reason that this bunny should be in this jug. So I start to investigate while inching my way to the back door.

"How did the bunny get in here, Kiddo #1?" 

"I picked it up."

"Was it hopping when you found it?"
"No. Rizzo got it from the nest and I saw her and I said, "Rizzo! Drop it!" and I went over and picked it up."

What? Our Jack Russell Terrier won't give up a ball, let alone prey. How did she get Rizzo to give up  a freaking baby bunny? 

Crap. She for sure touched it. Crap. That's not good.

"Ok, but how did it get wet? Was it wet when Rizzo got it?" I'm watching the little chest move up and down, up and down, while I try to figure out what I'm going to do with this bunny that is wild and whose parents won't get it now because it has human scent on it, while Kiddo #2 is now screaming for dinner.  Kiddo #1's eyes get big. It's like she can read my mind or something because she grabs the jug from me and screams, "NO Momma! You CAN'T put the baby outside if the parents won't come back for it!" 

I hear the garage door go up. Thank heaven, the cavalry arrived.

I tell Kiddo #1 to go get Daddy, but she won't leave my side lest I toss her new bunny friend into a wood chipper, or whatever little kids think their parents do to their things when they're not looking. Baby is crying, but now I've touched both Kiddo #1 and the jug, and I have no idea how that bunny got in there, I don't want to touch the baby or any food for the baby.  Oh, this is quite the gooey mess when Husband finally comes in.

I give him the quick version and he, in his classic way, crouches down and looks at Kiddo #1 in the eyes and says quietly, "Honey. This baby bunny needs to get outside in the shade so her parents can find her. Let's do this together."  He does the same thing to me when I'm a snotty, tear-dripping, blubbering mess. 

Kiddo #1, now quiet and subdued puts her hat on and follows us outside.  On the way to the gate, she explains how Rizzo found the bunny parents under our tree. I look and sure enough, there's a rabbit hole by the base. She says Rizzo then found the baby bunny and brought her out. Kiddo #1 told her to drop it, and picked up the bunny, who was "covered in dirt, a little" and she then took the bunny and "washed her off" in the water table.  Say WHAT?!?  

Now I'm even more impressed with the resilience of this wee bunny.  It lived through being dug up out of its home, being in a dog's mouth, in a toddler's hands, and then a bath? Perhaps this bunny was actually part cat?

We put the bunny outside and leave it be. During dinner Rizzo finds the litter mate and plops it at my feet. I crap my pants, careful not to touch the bunny as I jump up and take Kiddo #1 to the bathroom to "re-wash your hands" while husband takes the second bunny to the shade outside our gate. Rizzo gets a stern talking to and isn't allowed outside without supervision for the rest of the night.

The thing that resonates in my brain, though, is that even though she's four, has never held a bunny before, she was able to wash that baby bunny in her water table without hurting it. Well, without killing it anyways. And I'm amazed that she would think to clean it. And I'm really amazed that she was able to get the bunny out of Rizzo's mouth.  I don't know. I guess this is just one of those times that, before I was a parent, I would have scoffed about it's authenticity.  

Before I had kids, I would never have believed a pre-school youngster could safely handle a wild animal in any capacity without being bit or hurting the animal.  Or that she would put it in the water jug because it's big enough to put the whole bunny in without having to manipulate it to get it in or out.  There was some cool thinking going on there; I never would've thought that all this could happen in 10 minutes while I was inside and Kiddo #1 was in our backyard.  

This must be why parents aren't supposed to let their kids out of eyesight, even for a second. 

Too much amazing stuff can happen while you're not looking. 

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1001 Canadian Nights

     Nothing says, "I'm teething, Momma," like coming around the corner to find your 10-month-old laying on the floor, face down, with his mouth around a giant dog bone. 
     Not surprisingly, it was the dog that came to tell me "Timmy's stuck in the well" which is all she ever learned from her Lassie Correspondence Course. Thanks for nothin'.  Our dog did her best to lead me to the baby; I followed after I finished putting away the load of Husband's socks and diapers. Ha. Uh, baby diapers, not husband diapers. Ha. 
     So, I shoved the last diaper in the drawer and followed the dog, who by this point was all but miming that Timmy needed CPR- it's funny how with the first kiddo I would've dropped everything to see what the dog was trying to tell me, with the second I've figured out the dog is a bit melodramatic. I think we'd better stop having kids lest I leave child-rearing to the dog completely.
     And that's when I heard the sound of 10 000 carpenter ants chewing on pretzels and sand. Or, the sound of my 10-month-old gnawing on a dog bone. It's a real bone, made from cow thigh that previously held bacon flavoured marrow.  It is that second that I realize how foolish it was to think my son will be satisfied with frozen washcloths and chewing the finish off his crib rails like a normal baby.
    He began his pursuit of pearly whites at the tender age of 3 months. He broke his two centre bottom teeth at 4 1/2 months-- a full month before his sister had cut her first tooth. But that's where we've been since. He's had the toothy bulbs all along, with their whiteness mostly visible beneath the surface. He'd drool, but no tooth. He'd have diarrhea and a rash on his bum (a family teething trait), but no tooth. 
     All we got were buckets and buckets of slime. He left a trail of clear snot and drool wherever he'd crawl. Picking him up was a lot like catching a pig at a rodeo; he was slippery and squirmy and the closer you got to catching him, the more hilarious he thought this was.  Once you had him, you would instantly feel uncomfortably moist.  Pulling him off your chest would create a weird Velcro-suction sound that I imagine would only ever happen again were I to remove Spongebob Squarepants from a tender embrace.  
     For five months I literally risked life and limb to see what his teeth were doing, and for five months, he would squirm away and then snap at me like Old Man Snapping Turtle. I swear he even hissed once. I have all these little white lines on my finger nails from where he'd bite down with his bottom teeth before I got out in time. 
     If my fingers were Indiana Jones, there would have been a 5 minute first movie before Indiana was squashed by the giant rolling ball that was Kiddo #2's teeth. No need for the two sequels or even to finish the first movie. RIP Indiana Index Finger.
     But then I heard it-- the sound of top teeth gnawing on that bone, and I knew the long awaited day had finally come. No more purée for this lad-- 4 teeth means Baby's First Calamari. Yes, it's rather Spartan of us, but I feel if a kiddo is gonna have to chew his way through some of the trans fats and fast food out there, he might as well start out with calamari in his own home. 
     So, I pulled the Sid the Squid out of our fish tank.
     We weren't going to name him, lest we get too attached, but we got him 5 months ago figuring Kiddo #2 would be quicker about the teething.  And, well, I dare you to look into that big fishy eye and NOT fall in love. Anyway, Kiddo#1 wanted to name him Fluffy, Husband liked Petey and I, being the voice of reason, said that Kiddo #2 should to the honors since it's his and all. He sat up tall, stretched for the squid, squealed and that's how Sid got his name.
     We watched Sid "wrestle" with our other fish.  We watched Gozilla vs. Squidman afterwards to really put Sid's capabilities in perspective. We then moved the tank away from the radiation of the microwave, just in case. 
     Sid came along to Kiddo #1's graduation from nursery school. Sid taught Kiddo #1 how to jump rope using one of his own long arms. Sid and Kiddo #2 had slime contests: which one could blow the biggest bubble with their respective secretions and which one could create the biggest splash marks on the wall.  The pock marks left from his sharp tentacles will heal; these memories will last forever.  It was really sweet.  
     Sweet, sweet, Sid-herazade even told us this long story that started on the day we got him and just seem to continue night after night. It was so cool! Saved me from having to read a bedtime story to the kiddos, and sometimes the stories were so enthralling we'd stay up until all hours of the night listening.  
     It wasn't until I realized one of the stories was a lot like Disney's Aladdin that it was clear he was just watching movies on Netflix and minorly changing character names to keep us listening.  But it's not as if a cephalopod could have such a complex thought as maybe we wouldn't eat him if he were as beloved as our dog (who can barely tell us when the kids are in trouble, let alone a complex series of stories). So, I went back to listening to his marvelous fiction.  
     And, as he lay flopping on the cutting board, I felt bad that our squid, our inky friend, Sid, was going into the boiling water just so we can teach our teething son how to use his newly acquired teeth.  But, the seafood pho I made tonight was awesome. And we still have Netflix.

What It's Like

I plunk my butt into the not-super-comfortable chair after the nurse calls my son's name into triage. I don't know. I think it's triage, as a non-hospital person, I only know the jargon because I've watched ER, Chicago Hope and General Hospital half a dozen times but whatever.

I plunk my butt into the not-super-comfortable chair as the nurse looks at her paper and writes down my son's name. She asks me what Kiddo #2's symptoms are and I begin my list: not wanting to latch or suck, puffy face, lethargic, not sleeping for more than 20 minutes and he's a good sleeper.

I plunk my butt into the not-super-comfortable chair and realize that I'm wearing very false, false eyelashes. The kind that kinda look like feathers with rhinestones glued along the edges. Suddenly, despite not looking remotely like one, I feel like a stripper. Who wears false eyelashes to the emergency room with an infant in her arms?  Women that came home from their shifts at Nudie Bars R Us to find their babies have ear infections. Nice.  

I plunk my butt into the not-super-comfortable chair and decide that my fake eyelashes could be real if I just pretend hard enough, and probably the nurse won't even notice if I don't make them an issue. I blink a few times to make sure they're still there, which makes one of the eyelashes poke me in the corner of my eyelid, which makes my eye start running.  I'm sure this makes my plight look more convincing, as mothers that cry when discussing their baby's symptoms must really be scared, so I let it go.

I plunk my butt into the not-super-comfortable chair while the nurse writes Kiddo #2's symptoms. I catch her glancing at my eyelashes out of the corner of her eye, but like a true professional, she says nothing. She takes his temperature and checks the oxygen in his blood (while he tries to gnaw off the little finger plug thing) and asks how many wet diapers he's had in the last 24 hours.

I blink twice.

"Actually," I say, "I hadn't thought about it. I haven't changed him since this morning."  Stabbing eyelash or not, I start to well up.  Not wanting to eat, dry diapers.  Puffy face, and he's been an absolute sopping sponge for the last two weeks while he teethes his entire mouth of teeth at the same time, and in the last day his shirts, diapers and pants have been dry.  Dry.

"Actually," I say, "I hadn't thought about it. He hasn't wanted to do anything much at all. Except be in my arms cuddling."  It had been driving me crazy, his incessant need to be in my arms. I couldn't put him down or he'd swing into a wild rage of painful cries. So I carried him, despite the 34 degree heat (Canadian. In American I think that's somewhere around 110F) and my many things I needed to get done. 

"Actually," I say, "I hadn't thought about it. No, I haven't tried the Pedia-pops." Our freezer is full of homemade fruit Popsicles, and 100% juice pops. Why didn't I think to give him one of those when he wasn't drinking? Of course he'll eat that. What on earth? Where has my head been?

"Actually," I say, "I hadn't thought about it-- but I think the best way to see that my baby isn't feeling right is that I'm sitting here, in Emerg, wearing false eyelashes with my normal Mommy outfit.  No Mom with a baby and a 4-year-old has time to do make-up, get dressed, do hair, AND put on false eyelashes. Unless one of her children isn't feeling well."  The nurse nods sympathetically and sends me to the high-alert path directly to the Doctor on call. 

"Actually," I say, "I hadn't thought about it-- but clearly my 9 month old isn't feeling good. He hasn't tried to pull either one of these caterpillars off my eyelids all day. Please fast track my baby. I'm really scared."

The Doctor on call seems to float into the exam room. He looks like an evil scientist from a Marvel comic book. Or DC. I never could really understand the difference. He is suffering from lack of sleep and as we talk, I learn he was also recently suffering from chemotherapy. I immediately appreciate his care all the more; he knows what it's like to be on this side of the gurney.  He assesses my son, writes a script and I toss my eyelashes into the garbage on my way out the door.

The Doctor on call seems to float into the exam room. He looks like he's been up for three days. He smiles, shakes my hand and checks out my baby. He plays peek-a-boo with the baby to get him to smile or at least react. He sees his red eardrum and says he's got an ear ache and things could go two ways: 80% of these will clear up on their own, but we don't know which percent this earache is. I suggest that I was willing to sit in Emerg on a holiday, so we decide this isn't one that will just clear up.  I toss my eyelashes into the garbage on my way out the door.

The Doctor on call seems to float into the exam room.  He is bubbly and young. His hands are warm when he shakes mine and the twinkle in his eyes is real. He tsks that the baby isn't feeling well and really seems to care about getting Kiddo #2 back to normal. I joke that a slightly less busy version of him would also do. We chuckle and he sends me on my way. I toss my eyelashes into the garbage on my way out the door.

The Doctor on call seems to float into the exam room.  I find out he's a resident. He's got expensive shoes and pants on; I can tell even through my eyelashes.  I feel like this guy could be one of my recently-graduated students even though that is impossible; I haven't taught here since we moved.  He checks my baby for measles, mumps, sinus infection. He checks the baby's reflexes, skin tone for dehydration and eye colour for jaundice. He asks me how the pregnancy was and whether there were any complications with the delivery. He finally gets a look at the baby's tonsils and ears and sees one of the canals is red. He says, "I'm going to confer with the Doctor on call here, but I'm going to say this is an ear infection that is red enough to treat with Amoxicillin."  I smile and remember what it's like to be learning and  I toss my eyelashes into the garbage on my way out the door.

The Doctor on call seems to float into the exam room.  I was expecting a woman. I guess I don't know why, except that when the issue is for my baby, I expect a woman to take care of it. I wonder why that is while he looks at the baby's ears.  He says this is an ear infection that he'll treat. Then he decides he should look into Kiddo #2's mouth to make sure his tonsils aren't swollen too. He cups his hands in front of himself after he's done writing the script and makes idle banter while I gather our stuff to leave.  I toss my eyelashes into the garbage on my way out the door.