(Think Of The "I Dream Of Jeannie" theme song for like, 30 seconds) Doo-do-dodo-duh-do-do (x45)

"Because it's frickin' FAMILY DAY that means we spend that day WITH our FAMILY and we SMILE and have FUN and LIKE it because we're a frickin' FAMILY!"

You know how some days you wake up and for reasons unknown, you're just in a crap mood? Ok. Well, that was Saturday. I just woke up grumbly and growly and generally feeling like a zombie-werewolf with PMS. And I didn't have PMS, which makes the whole thing worse, if you ask me.

(Did you know it's really hard to find Zombie pictures that aren't disturbing? You're welcome. Also, did you know Zombies swim whilst walking? I didn't either until I looked at the lady on the right.)

Anyway, our very good friends decided to begin a Family Day Tradition, this year. It was initiated to celebrate the first year they and their son became a family.  Last year, on August 23, the wonderful parents brought home their son from Russia. It is a beautiful, wonderful, tear-jerking reason to have a deliciously fun summer party with your kids. Win-win.

Unless you've invited me, and I woke up acting like the above-added image.

I don't know WHAT my problem was, but I was out for blood that morning. Husband, who is usually good at sensing my mood and either getting me out of my funk, or gathering the children and fleeing (whichever seems the best option), was also in a funk from his previously stressful week.

I said something snarky, he replied with a snappy tone. I was actually shocked an annoyed that HE had the audacity to NOT try and get me feeling happier. I mean, really! How rude.

Then Kiddo #1 arrived on the scene and, sensing the tension, began acting (gasp) her age. UGH! 4-year old kids are the worst! They aren't easily distracted like a 2-year old (You're mad? Oh look, there's a puppy!). They have a much longer memory and attention span than a 3-year old (the fits are longer and larger). Plus they're about to start school, so they're nervous and excited and otherwise brimming overfull with energy.

Good HEAVENS!  Normally, Kiddo #1 doesn't act like a 4-year old (despite her chronology); because of this, I have a great respect for all parents of crap kids. Rather, I have respect for parents of crap kids that don't leave said kids on the side of the road with a sign that says:

However, when I have days where I want to bust out the bristol board (poster board) and giant Sharpies for my mostly-great kiddo, coupled with my own crap attitude and Husband in a funk, I can only imagine the baby thinks this:

Oh, but wait! All four of us would've been on the curb on Saturday, because Kiddo #1 was crabby and Kiddo #2 was still fighting two ear infections-- he was clingy and, because of teething and whatnot, it was like holding Slimer from "Ghostbusters" more than it was like holding a human child.

Right, and as luck would have it, Family Day, the holiday of bonding, togetherness, of appreciation for the Family you have (lucky!) happened to fall on Perfect Storm Day, the day where all four of us are raging like separate and equally horrible forces of destruction, about to intersect at any moment.

So, after a good night's sleep, and dreaming, but not enough to wake up exhausted, I awoke in a foul mood. I think I opened my eyes and my eyebrows were already knit together like Burt's, but there was no Ernie to cheer me up by singing "Rubber Ducky" because Ernie was snotty, too. Add those freaky "Yip-yip-yip uh-huh uh-huh" things and we're talking about the scariest episode of Sesame Street EVER, and the reality of our house at roughly 9am.

The baby crawled between the three of us like the ball in a pinball machine. Every time he'd touch a person, we'd growl or buzz or send him off to some other side of the house for someone else to growl or buzz for a bit. The dog tried to help him, but babies don't understand not to get under feet, and not to cry or leave trails of slippery slobber on the floor when "The Big Ones Are Stompy."

We took turns eating breakfast-- each one secretly hoping everyone's mood would be lifted once we'd eaten.  We had to take turns because when I'm crabby, I can't stand to hear other people chew their food, and Husband can't stand to listen to me exhale with disgust that he's chewing so loudly.  Poor Kiddo #1, trying to help but only managing to get underfoot, can't even catch a break because she just slid through the banana peel that is the trail my son left behind his bulbous gums. Now she's bawling because she's hit her head on a block the baby left out and it looks like she's gonna have a big blue bruise where her bindi would lay (if she had one).

Like I said, Perfect Storm.

But, like the calm before the storm, all of a sudden, there was no movement. Husband retreated to the basement to "do something for work" on the computer. I put Kiddo #2 for first nap, which is usually around 10:30 and Kiddo #1 and I agreed that she should spend some quiet time in her room colouring while I spent some quiet time in mine (napping as well, but no one needs to know that).

At noon the doorbell rang. Bing-Bong. I cracked an eye and looked around without making a sound or even changing my breathing.  Husband wasn't in bed. Baby hadn't stirred (according to the monitor) and, uh, ooh, Kiddo #1 is snoring softly beside me. How did she ninja in here without me noticing?

I exhale and decide not to get up.

Bing-Bong. A second ring? Surely this is important, like the dog got out (which happens) or the house is on fire or something. I search around and get properly dressed and get to the hallway at the same time as Husband.  We whisper, "What? Are you gonna get that?" Husband replies, "No" to my, "Yes."

A $10 donation to some charity for something later, I'm now hopping mad that a) I donated that $$ despite the solicitor's double ring (who does that?) and b) it awoke me from my nap.  Husband is hopping mad for those same reasons, actually, and now Kiddo #2 is up and cross.  Her snotty "No!" to all communication from us makes the baby awaken.  Yeah.

If I could've Ferris Buellered myself outta there with a mannequin and some crappily recorded sounds of snoring, I would have. Believe me.

By the time 2pm rolled around, I'd made none of the salsa I'd promised to bring. My daughter was 1/2 naked, or 1/2 dressed (depends on whether you're a glass half-full or half-empty type of person, I suppose), my son was only in a diaper and one sock, Husband was completely dressed, but looked like he'd forgotten about the party and was instead going to change the oil on our cars (or was dressed for Halloween?) and I didn't have a stitch of make-up on, which effectively meant that I was no where near ready to go.  How? Why?

I think, in the future, the night before events I will do the following:

Things I will Do The Night Before Something Fun, Just In Case I Wake Up Stupidly Evil The Next Morning:

1) Dress the kids in their outfits instead of PJs the night before -- there can be no screaming death matches over changing from play clothes into party clothes if they're already in them.
2) Medicate.  My father always said if someone is cranky he needs one of three things: a nap, something to eat, or a haircut.  I would venture to say there's a fourth thing, and that would be just a little something to take the edge off teething, PMS, being four, and week-of-stress.  What that thing is would be unique to the user, I'm sure. I'm thinking, off the cuff here, chocolate or maybe some lip gloss. Or say, a dose of gravol.  Whatever. Nothing to mess up your event, just something to distract you from  your heinous, terrible attitude. This IS a family blog!
3) Wow. I just used heinous for the first time in, like, 18 years. Wow.
4) Play soothing music with happy birds and river water gently flowing while I sleep so I don't have hostile dreams.
5) Go to bed early.

After we finally (!) got our stuff together we were late enough that we should've shown up with at least one family member actually looking like a zombie so our friends wouldn't hate us. But we didn't. And they, being gracious and kind and wonderful, didn't hate us (openly, anyway).  I mean, we ended up being 2 hours late for the party. Hello? Some people have babies in shorter amounts of time. Sigh.

And, guess what happened? Being around wonderful people who care about us suddenly made us remember that we love each other, too. Our moods instantly lifted (except for the pre-schooler, and the pictures of her are proof. Sigh. Oh well. They captured the truth. Snort.) and we had the amazing time I knew we'd have.

So, Family Day next year at our house-- you can't be two hours late to your own party, right?

Doo-do-dodo-duh-do-do-do. Bah-ba-ba-BAH!
(that's the end of "I Dream of Jeannie" in case you don't recognize it)

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They Tried To Make Me Go To Rehab But I Said No, No, No.

I've been in an abstract art class this week. I had to beat up somebody to get my spot, but she was old, and I have a good elbow, so here I am.

The instructor is José Seoane (http://www.seoanestudio.com/) and he's pretty awesome.  His Cuban accent is just thick enough that when I'm listening to him discuss someone else's painting, I can close my eyes and picture Antonio Banderas, or that Bee from the Nasonex commercials, and then let my imagination take over. Well, I don't really imagine the Bee whispering sweet nothings into my ear, but whatever. If the Bee wants to take me to dinner he can nibble my earlobe all he'd like.  

And, frickin' yes, Antonio Banderas is from Spain and Cuba and Spain aren't the same, and neither are their accents. Shuddy, ok? I speak English and French. Everything else sounds vaguely similar to my untrained ear.  

Right. So José is a remarkable painter, and even more, he's a remarkable instructor. One of the classmates pointed out that none of our paintings are the same, or really, even similar, and yet, we all received the same instruction. I think that's a sign of a great teacher-- to be able to impart wisdom on his students without altering their sense of self in the process.  Cool stuff.

I have been looking forward to this class since April or May, when I beat up that old lady to get her spot. I showed up on Monday thinking, "Oh, I'm so abstract and crazy! I will have no problem feeling something and transcribing it on paper."  But, by the end of the class Monday, I was tracking down that old lady.  

I knocked on her door. She cracked it open, saw who it was, and slammed it shut.  I knocked again and said, "Hey, so, uh, listen. I'm sorry for the Brutus The Barber Beefcake Sleeper Hold I placed on you back in April. It was, maybe, unnecessary. So, uh, hey, open the door. Please?"  

"No! I'm calling the police!"  Crap. I could see her silhouette holding an old fashioned land line telephone through the sheers on her big bay window. 

"Uh, no. Please. It's just that, I uh, I know I shouldn't've like, knocked you out and then pretended to be you and called from your phone and said, "Please take me out of the art class." in my old lady voice."  

"Go on." she said, in her real old lady voice.

"Well, I went to the class. And José Seoane is amazing. He's innovative and super helpful and great. But, uh, I suck at abstract art, so maybe you want your spot back?"

"No! You make your bed, you lie in it, young lady."  So then, of course, I started to cry because first, she complimented me by calling me young, and then second, it meant that I was gonna have to go back Tuesday, despite sucking the hind tit Monday.  I sat down on her front stoop and wailed pathetic sobs. I pulled out my sketch and used it to blow my nose, since the sketch was going to get no worse with the addition of nasal secretions.

The door creaked open. A blue haired head poked out and said, gently, "Oh honey. You can do it. If you can figure out how to actually perform the Sleeper Hold on someone, when it's not a real hold because everyone knows the WWF is fake, then you can make some abstract art. Now get the f*** off my porch before I sick Marshmallow on you!" She kicked me in the back and yelled for Marshmallow. I, having been kicked in the back, fell into her shrubbery.  When I righted myself, I looked around to see whether Marshmallow was an ironic name for her dog when I realized Marshmallow was her Ostrich, and that Ostrich was pissed. 

Hissing at me and looking very, very cross, it nudged the front door open a crack. While peeing my pants, I said, "Uh, you didn't have your bird when I came over here in April did you?"  

The old lady cackled, "Oh no. I got her afterwards and named her after YOUR ASS! Sic'em Marshmallow!"

I ran to the car and rolled up the windows. Watching it would have been quite anti-climactic, since there was no actual 'rolling' that happened. I grabbed the four buttons and pressed them skyward with all my might. The windows, thinking they were in an elevator and not a high speed Ostrich chase, went up slowly while "The Girl From Ipanema" played softly in the background. I have GOT to get that off my iPod. 

My air conditioning gets fixed next week (due to the art class) which also would have aided my getaway, because I wouldn't've had to leave the damn windows down to keep my children from becoming edamame while I was talking to the old lady. But whatever, I was safe in the car with my windows up. 

It would have also been better had I googled "Ostrich information" before tearing off down the street.  

Things I Wish I'd Known Before Trying To Give 

My Seat Back To That Damned Old Lady and Her Stupid Ostrich:

1) Ostriches can run roughly 100 km/hr, or 60mph

2) Most residential areas are zoned for 40 km/hr (or, like, 25mph) 

3) Fines for racing your car 110 km/hr in a school zone, even in the summer when school is out, are outrageous. Like, impounded-car outrageous. 

4) Ostriches are tall enough to stand at your driver's door and bite you through the still-open sun roof. Stupid still-open sunroof with its own special button far from the other buttons that do up the other windows. It closes just as slowly as the windows, but to the soundtrack of "Little Spanish Flea" and the bird will peck at your fingers while you hold them up at the close-roof-button. 

At any rate, I've been painting all week. 

(The kiddos went between Grandma's and my beloved, amazing babysitter.  She took the kids on a scavenger hunt today. They went for a walk around the block looking for a dozen cool things. She left her list on the counter, or I never would've known! That's how cool she is.  You could feel envious of my sitter. I would be cool with that. I'm envious of my sitter. Oh, the pain I will have at the end of tomorrow when I have to come to grips with the fact that I no longer will have someone amazing here once a week to give me a day off.)

Let me tell you something: creating art is like creating a life-- either your own or someone else's, and ART is not as easy as raising kids. Trust me. 

When I started, I picked my canvas size and shape. I made my canvas with wood and nails and glue and staples and fabric. I stretched it. I made it mine and put a protective layer of gesso on it. While that dried, I sketched out my ideas on a paper. 

I showed José who smiled and said, "That is nice. But, what about this? This area is beautiful and real. Try and see if that can be your focus."  I looked back at the sketch I'd been so proud of and realized it was contrived and very mall-art-store. Not that there's anything bad about that, I am quite drawn to many coffee-house type prints. But if I am going to make art, it should be ME, mine, not something I could buy at Starbucks. Yes. Yes. 

But, uh, that spot that is authentic and real on my sketch pad? That was where I'd drawn some circles trying to get my pen to work right. Frick. Frickty frick frick. 

That was Monday.  Now you're caught up to the ostrich part from Monday night. 

After I iced the beak wounds on my hands and head, I was distressed all evening wondering how on earth I was going to deconstruct my ideas enough to make abstract art. I decided my original idea of "water" wasn't really where I wanted to go. I changed my focus, checked out a bunch of pictures of my new idea and felt shaky but better about going to art class on Tuesday. 

I rode my bike over on Tuesday morning (my car was impounded after the ostrich incident. Honda said they could fix my AC in the impound lot, so that's at least good.) and was eager to put paint to canvas. By lunch, I was feeling really, really crappy. Oh, not physically (don't worry, ostriches aren't rabies carriers), but about my painting. It looked horrible. I mean, really, immature, Elmo-style colours and images. Not good. No bueno as they say in other places, possibly Cuba, possibly Spain, possibly Russia.

I sped home at the end of the day and angrily stopped my bike hard in the driveway leaving a long black skid mark. I looked back and gave the skid mark The Finger and sulked inside. I loaded up the two kids in the bike trailer and put my sitter on the handlebars and took her home. I stomped around the house that night being cross and cantankerous. I couldn't sleep thinking about how my brain was gonna fix my painting the next day.

I finally fell asleep and dreamed and dreamed and dreamed. All night long my brain worked to figure out the problem of my crappy painting and how to make it better. I awoke exhausted the next morning. But, I also awoke feeling peaceful.  I knew that the more I obsessed about it, the worse things would get. I embraced the idea that the painting would be what it is supposed to be and I am simply there as an instrument to make it real.  I went back to the studio, discussed things over with my painting and set to work. I let my painting decide what needed to go where. I called José over when I needed someone to translate what the painting wanted me to do (when I couldn't quite understand) and otherwise became an instrument, instead of a creator. 

And. I feel good about what I was able to create after I just let everything go.  

In fact, tonight after class, I loaded the painting onto my bike/back like a giant, flat turtle shell, and I headed to that old lady's house. 

I propped it up in her driveway and rang the doorbell. She saw the painting and smiled. "I knew you could do it." I smiled, walked over and, upon seeing Marshmallow outside, in her pen, taking a nap, I gave the old lady a hug. We laughed at our tomfoolery and vowed to be friends forevermore. I told her she could have the painting and that I was sorry for attacking her.  She invited me into the house; we had tea and blueberry scones. We made plans to take Kiddo #1 ostrich-back riding next week, "But, I'm busy Tuesdays for the months of September and October, so it'll have to be either Monday or Wednesday."  I looked at her smiled and said, "No big deal. Wednesday is great." 

Then I walked around the table and gave her another Sleeper Hold. She, realizing her fatal error, stabbed me in the thigh with a tiny fork and broke a teacup on my forehead. I roared but held on until she went limp.  I squinted my eyes and glared at her blue hair while she snored softly into her pretty, floral china plate. Who does she think she's fooling? Did she really think I wouldn't know that the very popular pottery class is held on Tuesdays in September and October? For shame, old lady. For shame. 

I traced the cord back to her land line and dialed the number.  "Hello? Is this where I call to remove myself from a sold out art class?"  I've still got it, baby. Yeah. 

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You Don't Have To Go Home But You Can't Stay Here

Why did I ever party in clubs when all the real fun happens in Emerg on a Saturday night? No cover charge, open all night (no lame last call, either!) and the people you meet in the lounge are outstanding.

Take Christina East.
I sat down after registering and within seconds, this woman is wheeled over by her boyfriend. He puts her in the seats directly across from me (and my screaming infant). She, after he puts on the brakes, notices I'm there and says to him, "Oh no! Put me over there by her. She's a good person. Over there, over there!"

She said, "Your baby is beautiful." and then started crying at his beauty and that he was sick. In case I wasn't sure, though, the second thing I noticed was her very drunk breath. The first thing I noticed was her very yellow eyes. She said, "I've been here for eight hours. And he's so f***ing adorable! (squeals) Listen, I promise if you want, I can hold the baby. I won't drop him. I promise. He's so f***ing cute I could just s*** my pants!" I breathe out slowly and say, "Well, I think, since he's sick, I'll hold on to him."

She then told me about how her mother is one of 18 and she's one of 6, and she's "an accident-- you know how accidents happen? Well, they do. And I don't have any kids, but I'm an Auntie, and a Grandma and all that, so I can hold your baby if you want. You know, for the change." Oh, happy drunk lady, thanks for offering to hold my baby in Emerg while you wait for some sort of narcotic for your sciatic pain. I would totally take you up on it, if I, too, had been hammered.

Yeah.

But the number one reason I knew she was drunk wasn't her breath, body odour or yellow whites-of-eyes. Nope, the number one reason I knew she was drunk (and/or crazy) was that she told the nurses that if her turn came up before Kiddo #2's, she would let us have her spot. THAT is a sure sign of lunacy and intoxication right there! We spent a total of 5 hours in the ER. There wasn't one person I was gonna trade spots with, let me tell you; I'm a fairly nice person, but all's fair in war and emerg.

Take Gregory Kyle.
Gregory, as I found out, is my age, in fact, his birthday is October 24th if you want to send a card. His beard is probably 18, and I'm not entirely sure why he was there beyond announcing that his bike had been stolen. He, in fact, was on the phone with the police, describing the bike to them when I arrived. And if you see someone without a beard, driving a red, purple and grey bike with a yellow flag and 21 inch tires, knock that bitch off the bike-- it is stolen!

It was incredibly hard to focus on a screaming baby, crazy Christina and nutty Gregory, but for the benefits of your reading pleasure, I managed.

So, Gregory was talking to the police about his stolen bike when he was called back by the triage nurse. She poked her head out and said, "Gregory? Gregory Kyle?"

And, since GK was on the phone regarding a more urgent issue than whatever he'd come to emerg for, he raised his hand. Not understanding the international sign for "I'm coming when I'm good and ready," the nurse looked around the room and called, "Gregory? Gregory Kyle?" again. GK, getting annoyed that the nurse didn't understand his arm-raise-- began waving it, all the while continuing to describe his bike to the police.

When the nurse called the third time, GK waved his hand, saluted her and followed it up (finally) with a "I'm here. I'll be right there, I'm on the phone with the police."

Take Chandler
He and his two besties arrived giggling. He had his hand over his forehead although his right eye appeared to be getting darker as he signed in at the front desk. The ladies chatted about the party and how they couldn't believe Becky showed up in that skirt again! Chandler was sad when the triage nurse told him to go back to the waiting room, "I am definitely a priority case! I shouldn't've changed out of my bloody shirt into this one. They don't think it's a big deal because I'm all clean and pretty."

Maddi cooed, "Chandler! I told you that they would figure you must not have been in a lot of pain because you were able to change your clothes."

"Maddi, I couldn't exactly come to emerg covered in BLOOD! How tacky!"

Good point, Chandler. But let's remember why you're here in the first place-- you were running up to Maddi, who had just arrived at the party when you quite literally were clotheslined. You ran head first into the clothesline, but not just the rope (which left a nice superficial rope burn on Chandler's forehead) but the giant metal T pole that is used to hold the rope up and now half your forehead is wide open. And, actually, now that I think about it, you should hope that scars, because it would be wicked cool to have a sorta-lightening bolt scar on your forehead, Harry Potter!

Take Security Guards A and B
Security Guard A: Thanks for taking the place down two or three levels of hysteria. All he and his massive black mustache and goatee had to do was read a book the entire time he was there. Sit by the door, reading the book, and apparently it keeps everyone in line. Because, you see, about 10 seconds after I got there, Security Guard A went on Lunch.

Enter Security Guard B: This senior citizen not only kicked things up a notch, he promoted the crazy by giving the phone to Gregory, and by telling Christina that he was just a security guard, he couldn't decide whether or not I could take her place in line. Furthermore, Security Guard B also liked to run around emerg with a wheelchair, as though he had an invisible pregnant woman in it. Or maybe there was a pregnant woman-- I coudln't tell, really, because Security Guard B was running so fast everything was a blur.

Take Jeff Super Groomed
This guy hobbled in on one shoe. His big toe was broken in two places. I know this not because I remembered to bring my X-Ray specs with me, but because his big toe was forming a lowercase letter 'r.' On his left foot. Facing his right foot. It was a spectacular hook that kinda made a person wanna puke.

Take Family Of Five
I have always wondered why some families just beam with joy that they're in the emergency room together. I mean, if you're gonna be that excited, why not skip the illness and just play Scrabble or Darts or something. But anyway, Mom, Dad, and three daughters all came into the ER dressed to the nines. I can't actually think of a thing going on in town this weekend that would necessitate all of them to be dressed like Kardashians, but they were. Best part? The one that needed to be there probably broke her foot. Wait, that was the second best part. The real Best Part is that the broken foot wasn't wearing a shoe. So I called her Kinderella Kardashian because she hobbled around barefoot and in a clear jelly shoe. But when she marched herself into the public bathroom like that I figured if she wasn't already sick, she surely would be. DEAR LORD! Have some common sense. When I had Kiddo #2 there tonight, his un-shoed feet never touched the ground. Hello?

Take Old Farmer Couple
We talked for 20 minutes, easily, about the many milk allergies his family has. His brother, for example, was raised on Dr recommended 1 bottle of beer a day because he couldn't tolerate any sort of milk. I'd assume this must be an anaphalactic reaction, because that would be about the only thing that would make me want to give a baby beer. But maybe I'm too young and judgemental? Then he went on about how his sons both have milk allergies, and his cousins did, too, but they were raised on wine.

The thought (briefly) crossed my mind to ask him whether his daughter was Christine East, but judging from their "She was a handful, wasn't she?" remarks, I'd have to think no.
...

The good news is the staff at the hospital were amazing. Kiddo #2 has two ear infections (one in each ear) and is now sleeping (finally) and on antibiotics. The bad news is that by the time we left, only Chandler was waiting in the room. Our hoppin' club seemed to have hit some imaginary closing time ... oh, wait, no. Here come all the riff-raff from the bars now that they've turned on the lights. Two guys just limped by with gashes on their foreheads. Maybe they missed the clothesline, too?

Either way, I'm happy-- I just set up a tent in the waiting area. Did you think I'd get the script for Kiddo #2 and head home? What and miss all the action? Why fall asleep from boredom when the emergency room is better than Reality TV-- and no commercials!





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The Great Outdoors

I'm what you might describe as a Condo person living in a House. I like the idea of having an 'outside' area around our house. I love our wee garden. Pond is great. Mowing, mulching, tree-trimming? Nah-uh. Boo maintenance.

Frankly, if we had a community garden, and there was a community water feature, (pond? pool? hot tub? splash pad? trampoline with a sprinkler underneath?) I would be more than happy to pay my Home Owners Fees to ensure someone kept my lawn maintained and snow removed in the appropriate seasons.  And, since Husband is upstairs putting the children to bed and therefore has no say in this blog, I am also here to tell you Husband is in complete agreement with me.

I don't know what the deal is-- perhaps we're too lazy, perhaps we're not environmentally conscious enough, perhaps it's that we're not zoned for a lawn-mowing goat, I don't know. But, spending our precious free time sweating, weeding, cutting and bagging is just not something in which we're interested. 

That said, today I went outside to rake the mulch.  

See, we put in this beautiful mulch this year-- black as night with wee white specks in it-- made of recycled, chewed up tires, and it's truly very slick to behold. Cheap, too, because we should (theoretically) never have to replace it, unlike regular mulch that biodegrades every year or two, we all know tires are the diamonds of human creation-- they last forever.

The tire mulch does everything the regular mulch does. It prohibits weed growth, it creates an outdoor litterbox for feral cats, the list goes on and on. It just doesn't ever get less black, or less in ... uh, there-ness. (oh, and if you're really excited about it, the recycled tires come in a bunch of different colours, like that reddy-orange and brown you see for mulch, too)  At any rate, the one downfall might be that because nothing biodegrades, all plant matter that falls onto it just kinda sits there. Just kinda hangs out, making the posh stuff look messy and ugly.  

SO, I was outside raking the debris out of my mulch and feeling pretty good about it, actually, while Kiddo #1 ran around chasing a couple of Monarch butterflies and Kiddo #2 chased Kiddo #1.  Blah blah blah, it was a lovely, overcast, cool-esque day for August. 

Kiddo #1 marveled at the Monarch Butterfly, chased it from tree to tree. She called out about the big honey bees that were also (apparently) buzzing around. I reminded her not to bother them and they won't bother her. She then said, "Mom, I'm afraid of bees!"  Without missing a beat, I said, "Honey, there's nothing to be afraid of. Some people are afraid of bees, some are afraid of snakes, some, like me, are afraid of ninjas. But really, it's all pretty silly because unless you bother the wild bugs and things, they won't bother you." 

I didn't tell her that Ninjas rappel into your house in the middle of the night to avenge 1000 year old grudges, unlike the bugs, and that you won't even know what you did wrong when they attack you and leave you and your family dead, unlike bugs. I figure there's lots of time for her to figure that last part out. No need to start her ninja fear any earlier than age 9.

At any rate, she continued to blather on about bees and how scary they are and how big they are. I, harnessing my ADHD for good, continued to remind her that they're not that big, that elephants are much bigger, and that neither one of them will hurt her first, without so much as looking up, while continuing to rake and sift my mulch.  Kiddo #2 cooed his agreement with me. 

Then she was telling me about how bees attack butterflies. I said, "Oh honey, bees aren't attackers, and bees and butterflies are friends." She said that she's seen butterflies be attacked by bees and that the bees are mean. I mean really. I was starting to get annoyed with her insistence about the bees being scary and ferocious. Plus, I bought this Groupon to go to a bee farm not too far from our house-- how was I going to get her to the bee farm for our end-of-summer adventure if she's already determined that bees are horrible creatures? 

I got closer to her butterfly and finally agreed to take a break from my precious raking to check out her butterfly.  I watched her butterfly on the lilac tree and couldn't help but notice some strange behaviour of three bees on the tree. They seemed to be huddled around some white frothy substance on the tree. Eating it? And the bees were mostly black with just a little yellow on the bodies.

And then I saw it: the bee Kiddo #1 had clearly been talking about all this time.  Good LORD!  It was so big that I actually thought for a moment it must be a Queen Bee. But, again with the freakin' Groupon, I didn't want the Kiddos to get a fear of bees.  So Kiddo #1 and I, almost entranced, watched the biggest bee I'd ever seen. It was easily the size of my pointer finger to the first knuckle. In measurements it was, like, 5 cms or maybe a full two inches long. SHOCKINGLY large.

We watched the bees for a few minutes while I tried to decide the easiest, least fear-inducing way of getting the children inside.  I had everyone come in and get my phone (you can see our sweet mulch in the bottom of the picture) and we piled out again to take some pictures of the bees-- my only thought was "What if they're mean and angry?"  In retrospect, I suppose we would've already known if they were mean and nasty because my daughter who had been playing near them would be covered. Or I'd be covered, or the baby. However, I still was concerned. I'd never, for example, seen an Africanized Bee (is that even the correct name?).

At any rate, I googled "enormous bee" and got nothing of use. I then googled "africanized bee" and found that "my" bees weren't anything like that. I then thought, "Well, what if it's not a bee at all, and it's some sort of wasp?" so I googled "gigantic wasp with mostly black butt." And lo' and behold, there was "my bee."  

It's called a Cicada Killer Wasp. If you Wikipedia that (and if you pretend Wikipedia is, in fact, research) you will find it's a very non-threatening type wasp that kills cicadas (hence the name).  They also don't make wasp nests, they make burrows (like those scary trap-door spiders that eat mice and kangaroos and things). They have huge mouths that they use to paralyze their prey and drag them back to their homes for feasting and fun.

And, in the meantime, I think I've figured out what might just be slowly killing our lilac-- these dang things are biting into our lilac trunk and drinking the sap like frickin' Cullens.  Where the Cicada Killer Wasps have been harvesting has left the leaves and such wilted and dry.

On the plus side, uh, no one was stung or otherwise traumatized. As well, we've been needing to cut back the lilac tree but haven't had the heart-- now with the big dead sections there's no reason to not.  Plus, where there's Edward Cullen, there's Jacob, and that hunky, hairless werewolf can come by any day. In fact, according to the well-hung moon in the sky, Jacob might be right around the corner. 

Heeeere doggy, doggy, doggy. 

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The Greatest Canadian Hero

It may take a village to raise a child, but it took a superhero to keep my family ready and clean for my sister in-law's wedding this weekend.

I was trying on my dress to figure out any last-minute alterations I might need to have done, when I realized that the wedding is tomorrow, and not only was I the Diva of Honour, but Husband is the bride's brother and was a groomsman as a result, and Kiddos #1 and #2 were flower girl and ring bearer respectively, and HOLY CRAP the wedding is tomorrow! 

Yes, Diva of Honour-- when my sister-in-law asked me to be her Matron of Honour, I said, "Only if we can change that title. Ugh!" Seriously. Matron? Why such a crap name?  I've been Diva of Honour twice now, and I must say, it really jazzes up some of the less-than-Divaesque bits (like holding the bride's dress up while she pees).  But I digress.

Once the panic of the next day's events set in, I started running around the house in my gown. Sweating and panting, it was apparent my lack of preparation had already hit biblical proportions. I had no other choice; I got out of my dress and back into my Mommy Clothes and went into the basement.  I began wading through 25 thousand boxes of baby clothes and general baby paraphernalia, and I found our industrial spotlight, dusted it off and trucked it upstairs to the backyard.  I plugged it in and waited patiently.  After a few minutes of nothing, I went back inside to put the children to bed (life goes on while awaiting the results of a floodlight request) and just as Husband and I were sitting down to write our speech for the reception, I heard trumpets sounding outside.  Almost right on cue, Super Girlfriend appeared.

Her silhouette in the moonlight was beautiful.  Calmly she stood, cape floating gently in the breeze.  "Elizabeth? How can I help?" She asked while lifting the elephant from my shoulders with her pinky finger. Thank you, Super Girlfriend. 

While Husband and I hashed out our speech, which was meant to be funny, poignant and self-deprecating, with a side of gently-roasted bride, Super Girlfriend nodded in encouragement.  She also stopped the whole thing from becoming a full-on domestic, by saying such clever, super-phrases as, "Are you sure this is the right story for this example?" and "Elizabeth, perhaps you need to calm down."  Super, indeed.  

The next morning, when the baby started the day at 4:11, Super Girlfriend used her super-singing-voice to get the baby to go back to sleep for another two and a half hours. At 6:30, she zoomed around the kitchen preparing a breakfast buffet for our family. I can only assume she used her super powers to find waffles, an assortment of pastries, cereal, bacon and eggs, strawberry-stuffed french toast and three varieties of freshly squeezed juice; I know none of these things were in my house the night before. I was on grocery hiatus due to Hurricane Wedded-Bliss coming in from the East.  

Once we finished eating, Super Girlfriend watched the children while I had a long, hot shower. She then stopped time to give me a chance to do my make-up and hair before heading over to the salon to do the Bride's make-up.  Super Girlfriend: Where have you been all my life?

While I did my Diva of Honour duty at the salon, Super Girlfriend took care of the children; when I came back to get them ready, she got a call from Commissioner Gordon to nab some miscreants at the local bank. It was like I'd never had children before: I completely forgot how to get them primped, dressed and keep them clean after without Super Girlfriend there with her magic. 

After SG arrested the badguys (they all happened to be guys this time) and got her medal of honour, she returned. She used her super speed to chase down Kiddo #2 and then dusted him with sleeping glitter.  Meanwhile, I got Kiddo #1 into her flower girl dress. SG then placed a protective bubble around Kiddo #1 so she could run around outside without messing up her hair, (wee bit of) make-up, or dress.  

We got to the Bride's abode and took some great pictures with the other bridesmaids. Super Girlfriend, like The Barbapapas, stretched herself into a giant tent to block the hot sun without compromising the photographer's outdoor pictures.  When it came time to walk down the aisle, Super Girlfriend turned herself invisible and helped me pull the wagon carrying Kiddo #2 (not quite able to walk on his own) without bashing it into the maze of tight corners I had to take. Super Girlfriend used her laser-vision to instantly dry the sweat eking from my pores and tears streaming down my face so that my buttercream dress was kept in pristine condition, all the while keeping her third eye and both hands on Kiddos 1 and 2.

After the ceremony, she changed the baby and fed the pre-schooler. During the reception, she made sure baby was sleeping and even cut a rug with me on the dance floor. Heck, she also managed to have great conversations with many wedding guests and Husband. She didn't get her moniker randomly, let me tell you.  When a storm blew in and threatened to cancel the festivities, she, once again, stretched into a canopy and wrapped herself around the outside of the tent. She bore the storm like the pounding rain was nothing more than feathers from a pillow fight so that we mere mortals could continue dancing. 

When it was time to go home, Super Girlfriend got her invisible jet (on loan from Wonder Woman) and took all of us home. She tucked us all in bed and disappeared into the night. 

Super Girlfriend, if you're out there, thank you for saving our family. We couldn't've had a wonderful wedding without you. But, uh, I noticed that you maybe, probably by mistake, took the floodlight we used to call you. That was a mistake, right? I mean, how am I supposed to call you next week when I need to get Kiddo #2 to soccer practice? And, like, you left your extra cape-- but there aren't any instructions, so like, can you email me how to use it to keep the kids clean? And not to be snotty, but it would've been nice if you could've stayed a few extra minutes to clean out my car-- it's full of random snack foods and crap, plus the kitchen is kinda a mess from your Saturday Smorgasbord-- how did waffle get on the ceiling, anyway?

Just sayin'. I mean, ok. Sorry. Thanks and all that, but, just next time, could you stick around a little longer? Or maybe, like, move in?



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Pardon? Could You Say That One More Time?

I was called for Jury duty the other day. I opened up the official letter and read that I needed to show up for at least one day, possibly two, whereupon lawyers could choose me as a potential juror by asking me a bunch of seemingly innocent questions.

When they called me to the stand, I wheeled my barrow full of Ginsu Knives, Sham-Wows, Oxy Clean, Magic Zippers, My Booty Belts and the rest and I wistfully said, "Your honour, while I would love to be a member of this jury, I cannot, in good conscience do it. It's not that I wouldn't mind the pay (motherhood is notoriously underpaid and the union seems to have folded), it's that I am far too easily swayed by a smokey voice and repetition.

For example:
Fact: My US purchased 2007 Honda CR-V also has a (purchased) extended warranty.
Fact: Canada won't honour US warranties, no matter how pretty or smart or hilarious you are.
Fact: My air-conditioning broke and therefore needs repair, and that is covered under my warranty.

After finding out Fact #2, I began looking up Honda Dealerships that are near my favourite shopping experiences in Michigan. Since I never drive, or pay attention as a passenger, I texted a friend for the info. She replied with the details and I happily called the nearest dealership. The sweet Michigander accent that greeted me was a breathe of fresh, smiley air.
"Hall-ow. Yau have called the nicest car deal-er in Mish-a-gann. How may I direct your call?"
"Yes. Um, Service please?"
"Handa or Chevy?"
"Huh?"
"Is it far Handa or Chevy?"
"Oh, uh, Handa." (I fall into the Michigan accent the way Ginger Rogers just seems to float backwards in Fred Astaire's arms. Delicious!)

"Handa Service, thas as Rack." (why are all service telephone guys named Rick? Is it some code name that they all have so if you get mad, you'll never really know the person you talked to?)
"Hi Rick. I have a problem and I think you might be able to help me." I proceed to tell him about how my car is a Colorado Native, and that now we live in Canada and because of some arbitrary, invisible line, called a border, I can't get my warranty needs met and my air conditioning is broken. And someone needs to fix it before I loose my mind. Sweat and I are NOT friends, we had a very bad, abusive-type break-up several years ago, and I've got a restraining order against it and here I am without AC in the frickin' hottest, muggiest summer of my life.

Rack, with his crackling, smokey voice, croons that he "can definitely halp" me, and we make an appointment for me to bring my car in for assessment at 9am on Monday. Youpee! Wait. Assessment? What is this "assessment" of which you speak?

"Oh yau knaw these mak-anics. Thay wall wanna see at to make sure that's all that is wrang."
"Well, hold on, Rick, I'll just read to you what the Canadian Honda dealer told me I need-- here's the paper work, it's says, "needs to AC clutch and coil assembly. So, do you have that part so I can get it changed same day?"
"Naw. If our mak-anics decide yau need all that, then we'll order one in."
"How long will that take?"
"Two days."
"Then can't you order it in and have it here for Monday?"
"Wall, the mek-anics have to see..."
"Are you telling me that the Canadian Honda dealership would try to sell me something I don't need?"
"Well, uh..."
"So, if a Honda dealer in Canada assessed my car and said I need this stuff to get fixed, I should be able to take it to any Honda place and get it fixed, right?"
"Uh, well, uh. Why don't I let you talk to the parts guy."
"Ok." I really felt like Columbo here, I'm not gonna lie. My one eye even starting looking up in another direction and I pulled out a stogie to chew on.

Rick #2, also sounding crackling and smokey picked up the phone.
"Parts. This is Rack."
"Fantastic. I have a problem, Rick. I need a new AC coil and clutch. I'm coming from Canada and I understand you don't keep this in stock, but I really don't want to make two trips. Can you order one in for Monday?"
"Sa yau've seen are mak-anics and they said yau need this part?"

Yes, this whole thing replayed. I'll save you the repetition, because, at this point, I really wanted to just get what I wanted and be done with this phone call. Plus writing this out again, with all these letter 'A's instead of other vowels is painstaking and laborious. I'm not the cut-and-paste type of gal.

Sigh.

But here's where it gets interesting (oh, and for the record, I had my way-super-excellent babysitter here for the day, so she had the kids-- they weren't just left to their own devices to fall down stairs and paint the walls while I had this irritating conversation).

Both Rick #1 and Rick #2 re-suggested they couldn't get the part in unless their mechanics saw my car, did an exam, then sent me on my way to come back two days later. I said that was unacceptable (which is weird for me, since I'm usually a pushover) and that the Honda people here saw it, said that was the issue and they (in America) should be able to fix exactly what the people here said needed fixing, without issue. But here's the deal: it made me start questioning my local Honda dealer. Isn't that crazy? I mean, I started to feel as though, "Gee, maybe the guys here missed something and it's not the AC, even though they put it on my bill, and I've been blowing nothing but hot air on me and the contents of my car for the better part of a month now. Maybe it's something different. Maybe it's not as bad as they said here."

That wee, tiny seed of doubt began germinating during the rest of our phone call and by the time I'd convinced him to have the part en route for Monday, I hung up the phone feeling dirty, dishonest and like I was screwing some invisible system of honour. WHAT?

I have facts and evidence. He had policy and assumption, and here I am smiling on the phone, trying to make him feel more comfortable with my request. I have the problem, I began searching for a solution (which is where I found out my American warranty isn't honoured here in Canada) and with a certified Honda diagnosis, I hung up that phone questioning MY facts.

In the criminal world, I have the equivalent to motive, opportunity and evidence, and yet, The Ricks were able to plant a seed of random stupidity that turned into doubt, which did nothing to change the facts, and I'm sent reeling.

So you see, your Honour, between my air conditioning issue, which remains unresolved because Husband found some loophole in my actual warranty contract that suggests I should be able to get the car serviced here in Canada, so I cancelled my appointment in Michigan, and because I was so insistent in the first place, I feel like a jerk calling back a third time to see if they can get the part before Canada can; and my wheelbarrow full of random crap I bought from watching commercials late at night, the proof is here. I am not a good juror; I am easily swayed by nonsense instead of fact."

The Prosecutor stood and nodded knowingly at me, sympathetically even, and followed with, "I think you are right. You want to be a juror. Only you won't be a good one. You want to do your duty and be a juror. But it won't work because you aren't good at seeing fact over fiction. Being a juror is important and should not be swayed by nonsense. You want to be a good person, you want to be a juror. But you have doubts. Right? What exactly did you say again?"

And, with the fervor and excitement of a "Price Is Right" contestant, I squealed with delight, jumped up and down and said, "I want to be a juror!" 

 Good thing I packed all my gadgets with me-- this case looks like a long one.








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Running Out Of Time (and into baby gates)

Kiddo #1 crouches to the ground beside me. Our fingertips and tippy toes touch the carpet while our butts are high in the air. Kiddo #2 aims the My Little Pony high in the sky (we don't allow guns in our house) and squeals a sound that we take for "Bang!" and the race is on!

We leap over her baby gate. I crash the top of my foot into the top part of the gate, which normally would have me cursing and yelling, but we're in the middle of this race, I suck it up and move on.  

We run down the long hallway from her bedroom, and around the corner into my bathroom and begin brushing our teeth with vigor.  She, with fewer teeth of course, finishes first, rips off her Tinkerbell PJs and sprints to the kitchen. 

I, in full competition mode, spit out the last of my toothpaste and thunder after her.  I'm in luck!  The Nutragrain bars I set out for each of us have her flummoxed-- I rip off my wrapper like a groom on his wedding night and set to inhaling my breakfast as quickly as possible. While mashing the raspberry bar into my mouth in a gigantic bite and a half, I glance over to my 4 year-old who has now smashed her still-in-the-packet bar to bits. She's half panicked and is whining for me to help her. I take pity and open a new one; I toss it to her as I run to my bedroom where I now have to pour myself into Spanx. 

(You caught me, I put the Nutragrain bars out knowing she'd have trouble with the wrapper-- I knew it would buy me some time to get my extra layer of clothing on. Freakin' Spanx. When I was a kid, I bought push up bras to make my boobs look huge, now that I have huge boobs, I need some industrial wrapper for the rest of me so you can tell where they are.)

But why are we racing? Ah yes. I got caught up in the heat of the moment.

You see, next Saturday, 9 short days from today, my entire family is going to be in Husband's only sister's wedding. I'm the Diva of Honour (Matron just sounded too old and ... matronly, so I upgraded), Husband is a groomsman, Kiddo #1 is the flower girl and Kiddo #2 is the ring bearer. This means that all four of us are going to have to be dressed, beautiful and full of food by 9am so that we can spend the rest of Saturday going in opposite directions, all at the same time, where we reconvene at the church for the ceremony at 3:30. I need to teach Kiddo #1 how to walk down the aisle in her long, Cinderella gown, and I can't do that until I know we can be out the door by 9am. Hence the race.

The track is pretty simple: start in her bed, hurdle the baby gate in her door, run down the hall to the kitchen, slam a Nutragrain bar, run to my bathroom, brush teeth, wash face (although this is a step we keep forgetting, so I'm packing some baby wipes in the suitcase just in case), ram on the easy clothes (the ones you can take off without mussing hair or make-up), flip flops and be standing at the door with suitcase rolling beside you in 5 minutes.  I figure, if we can do it in 5 minutes, then when we add those crazy things that happen when you're rushing (like power outages that screw with alarm clocks, or a dog that pukes on my wedding shoes or whatever) we'll be able to get out in 45, which is how long it seems to take me to get out of the house on a normal day.

Ta da! Method, meet my good friend, Madness. 

We meet at the finish line and I look at the stop watch. 14:37.  This is not good. Very not good.  If my estimations are correct, that means it will actually take us 1.5 hours to get out the door.  Not good at all.  And, now that I think about it, how does this work with Kiddo #2? He's been busy chewing on the My Little Pony and banging/crawling around -- the kid isn't anywhere close to dressed. Or washed. Or fed. Frickty frick frick.

Kiddo #1 is also not looking great. She's got a crazed look in her eye (although she might be squinty because she has rubbed some of the bar into her eyebrow where it's now snowing crust into her eyelashes). Her dress is on backwards, kinda? Um, I think she's punched a new arm hole in the front of the dress in her panic to just get the dang thing on. 

There's a lot of me in her, you know. 

And, let's not forget about me.  Looking in the mirror, it seems I have my Spanx on, although, I didn't take enough time to pull it up to my bra. My legs are bringing Sexy back, while the rest of me is muffin-ing out the top like so much ice cream.  Dear Lord. And my yoga pants are doing nothing to help me out.  Dear Lord, and Lulu Lemon. 

Kiddo #1 and I look at each other with pity, and then we bust up laughing.  "Momma, this isn't working. (pause)  I know! Let's go to the hair salon in our PJs and just get breakfast sandwiches on the way."

Out of the mouths of babes.  Done. 

Now to teach Kiddo #1 how to run and walk in a long, flowing, princess dress and to get Kiddo #2 to walk or crawl down the aisle to a precise location.   

...

After a dozen rounds of Musical Chairs, with the two of us in our dresses and Kiddo #2 in his ring bearer vest, bow tie and white pants, it's clear we're both able to sashay in gowns.  It's also clear that I need to make another pair of white pants for Kiddo #2-- he's crawling, inside, on my (recently cleaned) carpets and has rendered them less than pristine, and we're going to be all over the in and out of doors for wedding pictures.  

But, the truest test of Kiddo #1's mobility in a princess dress came later that afternoon, when some kid showed up selling weekend newspaper subscriptions.  I had Kiddo #1 run that kid off our property. She did it, beautifully, without so much as stepping on a seam.  The only thing, is she lost one of her shoes. But that actually makes me excited;  the pumpkins we're growing in the backyard should be carriage-sized by October, and we all know how everything worked out for that other girl who lost her shoe while running in a princess gown.  

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A Crazy Little Thing Called Mom

There's nothing like the nice, cool, refreshing spray of a water park on a hot, humid summer day to make you wish your kids were still attached at the umbilical cord. 

Why do wide open spaces like parks terrify me now that I have children? 

Oh yeah, because creeps walking little dogs like to hang out at parks hoping to lure kids away. And because I'm a really crappy runner, even if Jason Voorhees were chasing me with fire and a chainsaw, it couldn't motivate me to run faster.  And, I just finished reading a book where the main character is born to his kidnapped mother inside a 12x12 garden shed and neither of them can get out because some creeper kidnapped her 7 years prior and she tried to get out but he thought of everything to keep her inside. Frick, right?

And, let's face it, I don't want to teach my children about the creeps with their little dogs and make them prematurely lose their precious innocence.  Instead, I go CRAZY at the park watching people, assessing and re-assessing who is with whom and how close that person is to my child compared to how close I am, all the while looking completely relaxed. 

I think, had I been working in Texas in 1963, JFK might still be alive. Well, maybe not today, but, like, he would have lived passed November 22nd.  What I'm trying to say is that going to the park is a very stressful little "easy outing" for me and because of that, I'm sure my kids will grow up crazy. 

Does Coffee Come With a Side Of Valium: Growing up With Elizabeth Downey-Sunnen

Co-Authored by Kiddo #1 and Kiddo #2. 

First Published in 2047 by Harper Press Ink. 

Excerpt: Pages 147-149

Chapter 4: Summer Time, Not Funner Time

I remember the day the city's new water splash pad opened. It was 2011, a year after my brother was born. The park had been closed for more than a year while the city workers pushed around mounds of dirt, dismantled and reassembled the play equipment in dozens of locations around the park, and then finally installed the splash pad pipes.  When opening day arrived, Darling Mother refused to let us go! 

She said it was for our own good-- there would be too many people, and there wasn't any grass to speak of, anyway. It would be mud, mud, mud. But really, we knew it was because she wanted to drive us around in her Easy Bake Honda, baking and delivering cakes while blowing sweaty, humid air through the broken air conditioning vents.  

She used the broken A/C trick more than once to get her way. Who could argue when drowning in a pool of your own sweat? 

A full week later, Darling Mother finally relented to our pleas for relief from the heat, and brought us to the splash pad.  

What a lunatic she was!  There were a total of about 50 people there that day-- which, if you consider a family of four, that's roughly 12 or 13 families, and still she couldn't behave like a normal human being.

We got to the park and she brought out the biggest bottle of sunscreen we'd ever seen; I don't think even Costco sold sunscreen in such a large container. She began slathering it on so thick that my brother and I were, quite literally, white from top of head to bottoms of toes. It was incredibly dangerous for us to even WALK to the splash pad, but the best part was that she wasn't doing that because of a concern for skin cancer!  No! She kept muttering over and over again, "There. Now you'll be so greasy no one will be able to steal you. You'll just slip right out of a pervert's hands and slide all the way back to mommy!" 

The lunatic grin she wore while white-washing our arms has forever been burned in my retinas. My brother was young enough-- he can hardly remember this, although he says whenever he sees an opossum bare its teeth and snarl, he shudders and thinks back to our mother on that day. 

Then, once we were mummified (mommy-fied?) in sunscreen, she put these humiliating little bracelets on our wrists that were attached to hers via, what I now understand was an ancient telephone cord? 

The picture included illustrates what the contraption sort-of looked like-- it's hard to explain without a graphic, since nothing of this sort exists anymore; now that we can travel through space to and from precise locations, kidnapping is a crime of the past. However, Darling Mother didn't have this technology, and was terrified of Ninjas and The Killers (not the band, and not the new space car, either). 

Darling Mother said that these little bracelet things kept us attached so that no Ninjas or Killers could steal us while we were at the park. What those little ropes did, besides attach us to her being at all times, was also create a long cord between the two of us, with which we took out passersby at the neck. 

I think it used to be called a "clothes line" or "dryer line" or something to that effect, but I could be wrong. Whatever the word, I would stand close to the splash pad, she would be a little behind me, and without fail, every few seconds some happy, free child would  slam into that rubber cord with his neck and fall backwards gasping for air. Darling Mother would pretend to help the fallen child, but really, I knew she was happy to not only be physically attached to us to keep us from having fun, but also able to take out potential predators.  She really was a lunatic; she would cackle for days remembering the victims of our clothesline. 

Slippery, covered in a bizarre goo and attached to her via a tightly curled cord, Darling Mother was content now that her children had again, more or less, been reattached to her like newborns.  Nothing could possibly take us away from her. 

And then, that day, it happened. The unthinkable. The cord, probably from the sunscreen, possibly from divine intervention, slipped off my wrist without Darling Mother noticing!  The freedom was intoxicating to my four-year-old brain. At first I stopped where the end of the rope would have been. Then, realizing I didn't have to stop, I squealed and jumped for joy. I careened to the gigantic water basin, filling with water until the tipping point where it would pour all of that delicious wet freedom onto my head. Screeching with ecstasy, I washed off the layers of goo until I felt the actual warmth of the sun for the first time. 

The birds' song has never been as sweet as it was that glorious, wonderful moment.  Then, as quickly as it came, it went.

Once Darling Mother realized that I had slipped out of her iron-clad grasp, all hell broke loose. In the following weeks, radio shows were consumed with talk about "Deranged Mother that went ballistic" while others thought she was a modern day, Mother-Hero for doing what she did. All I can say is what I saw and what I have pieced together from various newspaper and television reports.

Everything slowed down, like they used to do in those Movie things they used to watch.  Everything slowed down until all time seemed to stop. All I remember hearing is the high-pitched, turned lion-like, roar of my mother.  Eye-witness reports say she screamed, "Freeze!" and I'm inclined to believe the reports since I remember every single man, woman, child and dog stopping instantly.  The smell of urine burned my eyes as people lost control of their bladders in fear of my Darling Mother.  Little children clung to their parents, whimpering, while my mother, hair whipping around her head as though the Hell fires themselves were billowing below her, walked calmly through the crowd. The only thing defying my mother's demand of frozen compliance was the splash pad itself, which seemed to taunt her victims by tickling them with delicious fun and water every few seconds. 

My mother, with my empty cord trailing behind her right hand, my brother's cord (and sunblock-soaked brother) slipping through the water on her left, wove her way through the frozen people like the serpent in the Garden of Eden until she got to me. I smiled, trying to change the mood and she smiled, too. Her forked tongue flicked across her lips as she said, in a normal, happy Mom tone, "Oh, thank heaven. You're here, Kiddo #1!" In the blink of an eye, everything changed and she was the woman everyone knows and loves again. She turned to the twitchy crowd and said, with tears streaming down her face, "Oh thank you! Thank you all for keeping my baby safe from The Killers, not the band, and Ninjas. You, ALL OF YOU!, have saved her life. And for this, I thank you. Please. I beg of you, return to your normal, daily lives, and we shall return to ours."  She bent at the waist dramatically, while the thawed statues clapped for her and for themselves. 

But even then, at four years old, I knew somehow that these people had fallen prey to my mother's ability to be completely crazy and then sane in a matter of seconds.  

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I'm sure this is how part of my unauthorized biography will read, as written by my beloved children.  And, when I read it, as a reincarnated octopus, with all my children firmly attached to my suction cups before, during, and after our outings to the local park, I will smile and remember that when one loses a child in a park, a mother's best weapon is the panicked tone in her voice. 

And then I will hope that you, gentle reader, will still have access to this blog where you can read what truly went down, which goes a little more like this:

I love my children. I took them to the park. I blinked and Kiddo #1 vanished in front of my eyes. Heart-in-throat, I scanned the crowed to no avail. I looked at the playground equipment nearby as I scooped up Kiddo #2 and began the panicked walk-run around the park until I returned to the splash pad where I found Kiddo #1.  I may, emphasis on the may, have cried out in relief something like, "Kiddo #1!" And my tone may, emphasis on the may, have alerted nearby mothers to scoop up their children and then look around, wildly, for my child who had clearly done something abominable.  

All I know is that I called to Kiddo #1 and she came to me (oblivious to my verge-of-meltdown status) and I said, "If you are here and you want to play anywhere else, you MUST come tell Mommy first or you will lose your Pinkie Poodle, no second chances."  Her eyes, wide as saucers, blinked twice and she, confused, said, "Ok Momma."  

At any rate, I'm sure Kiddo #2's chapter on this event will present a third version of that story that sounds vaguely familiar but not quite right, too.  Whatever. 

Believe what you want to. I just hope that space-travel machine she's talking about in that story exists while I can use it to have lunch in Paris and dinner in Nepal. I mean, how fun would that be?!?

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