I Know Something You Don't Know

I've started my Christmas shopping already. No boos!  We're doing things differently here this year-- quality, not quantity.  I've decided there are going to be very few gifts under the tree and since the kids are small enough not to notice, I think this might be the best time to start this.  Lord knows no one in our house actually NEEDS anything for Christmas, so why buy and buy and buy just out of habit and then donate it all 6 months later? I say, figure out some big things (iPad) and a couple of small things (wooden food toys for the kitchen) and be done. Why spend the same amount of money on 10 000 toys when all you really want are three things?

BUT that said, I've started my Christmas shopping already. Mostly, I'm doing it because I get extreme anxiety when it comes to being in crowded places with jolly, cinnamon-scented people hell-bent on getting the same item I'm hell-bent on getting while Bing Crosby plays in the background. I love Black Friday in the States though. I think it's the absence of cinnamon that makes that shopping-holiday ok. Just a thought.

Right, so I started sussing out my various Christmas gifts.  In fact, I got a phone call yesterday from my sister, who lives near the Center Of The Universe, aka Toronto.

She said, "Hi, Beth?"
Me: Yeah? Is everything ok? It's 8am.
She:  Yeah. You're looking for the (I'm not going to name or describe the item I want to get for Husband because I don't want you to scoop up the very few remaining in the world, Swiper!), right?
Me: Yes. Shh! Someone could hear you!
She: Well, I think I have a lead on one.
Me: (drops the phone in excitement) WHAT?
She: Well, (hushed tone) I have a friend who collects them, and I was asking where he might recommend to go find the one you want, and he said he had one he was willing to part with.
Me: WHAT?
She: But he's going out of town for like, two months.
Me: Whaaa?
She: He's a photographer and he's leaving Thursday morning for South Africa.
Me: WHAT?
(at this point, Husband is now out of the shower and can hear my end of the conversation, which is essentially terse whisper-screams of "what" over and over.  He is wondering what is going on, so I have to distract him. I start shooing him toward the kitchen and motion for Kiddo #1 to kick up a fuss and take up all his attention.  Have I mentioned I am a freaking SUPERSTAR at Charades? Well, I am. And it works.)
She: I can have the two of you meet up tomorrow morning, if you can get here. Can you do that?
Me:  WHAT?
She: And he doesn't like kids. You can't bring Kiddo #2 with you, or he won't consider meeting you anywhere.
Me: WHAT?
She:  I know. It's weird. But you know how photographers can be.
Me: What?
She: Well, I don't know. I guess he's the only one I know like that. Good point. Can you do it or not?
Me:  What? WHAT? Uh. Yes.  I'll do what it takes. Holy crap! This is a miracle!
She: Ok. I'll arrange for you two to meet at the Starbucks around the corner from my office at 8:30 tomorrow morning.  Love ya, Sister!
Me: Love you too!

I hung up, elated that I could have so easily found the totally EPIC Christmas present I really want to get for Husband! What are the odds that just putting ideas out there and (secretly) asking for help would get me such quick, amazing results!  I think this must be why people pray, and use Craigslist/kijiji.  I think I might start doing both. Today.

Speaking of prayer, though, I now had to figure out what to do with Kiddo #2.

And, after Kiddo #1 finished distracting Daddy, I noticed she looked oddly zombie-esque. Not so much with an incessant need for brains, but more that she was pale, hot and really irritating. Scratch that-- she wasn't looking like a zombie; that's clearly closer to a Cullen. Whatever, you get the point. Her being ill could seriously cramp my need to be 3 hours away and childless tomorrow.  Hmm.

Ok. So I called my first line of defense: The Grandmothers.  Neither one was available, however. Something I don't think I will understand until I, myself, am retired (which means I should probably get working so I can get retiring but, whatever) is how a retired person, a person without employment, can possibly NOT HAVE FREE TIME. Baffling.  But whatever. It doesn't matter what the reason is, neither one was available until the afternoon tomorrow, and probably I'd be back by then.  Unhelpful.

Equally unhelpful is The Reason I needed someone to watch Kiddo #2-- I couldn't tell anyone what I was hoping to procure in my visit to Toronto, lest they (successfully) are able to drop everything and get the item I want, instead of me.  But FRICK!  Without some lame excuse, no one would be willing to watch my kiddo, right? An Emergency is one thing-- but we all know how things turned out for Baby in "Dirty Dancing"-- you don't just ask for $500 for something you can't tell your Dad about, because you'll end up having to get your Dad's help to fix the thing you thought you thought you were fixing in the first place. No bueno.

But then, I remembered that Girlfriends are Mother Nature's version of a Firefighter, Police Officer and Ambulance Driver all in one-- Good Girlfriends ARE your one-stop emergency destination.

Me: Hi. Uh, I'm not bleeding, but I have an emergency. Can you watch Kiddo #2 tomorrow morning, until say, noonish?"
Girlfriend: Yep.
Me: (pause) That's it? I don't have to tell you why?
Girlfriend: Nope. What time will he arrive?
Me: (pause) Seriously? I feel like I'm wasting this a little...

So, once I had details for tomorrow nailed down, I needed something do to to keep from screaming my secret at the top of my lungs. I'm kinda a crappy secret keeper.  It was good when I lived in Colorado because when I had a secret to keep from a friend in Canada, I could then tell everyone in the blessed state of Colorado knowing it would never get back.  I just get excited.

Anyway, so while the school day passed with Cullen #1 learning things, Kiddo #2 and I walked around the city looking smug and singing "I know something you don't know!" to complete strangers.  One guy got really pale after I said that and he started to sweat a little. Weird.

After I sang it to a pregnant lady, she demanded I tell her what the sex of her unborn baby was (I picked girl and boy, since she looked huge. Then she said she wasn't having twins. So then I said, again, "I know something you don't know!" and she also went pale and ran to the Dr's office across the street.).

Then I saw Jennifer Love Hewitt.
That. Was. Awkward.

Anyway, after dinner, I told Husband the 982 things that the kids do before bed, reminded Kiddo #1 that she couldn't be sick tomorrow morning because I won't be home and kissed them all and drove off into the dark night to my sister's.


There's nothing like a white-knuckle drive down the 401 at night to make you really appreciate life.

I mean, really, really appreciate life.  It pissed rain the entire way there, through construction which left the highway randomly cone-filled, closed in sections, shiny, slick and un-painted. Oh and my wipers are crap. I don't know if they give tickets for having windshield wipers that essentially don't work, but they should, and I should have a major fine.


So, I white knuckled it to my sister's house singing Jay-Z, Kanye, Eminem and Garfunkel and Oates the entire way.  Don't pretend you don't have a "Mom" playlist full of all the stuff you're not supposed to let your kids hear or even know you have. You do. And if you really, actually don't, ease into it with Garfunkel and Oates. It's the daughters of Art Garfunkel and Darrel Oates (like, with different moms? Do I need to write this or do you get it and are now irritated that I felt the need to clarify that two men didn't somehow breed and have singing daughters?).  They're hysterical. And completely kid inapprop. (They're on iTunes and worth the pennies. I promise.)

Just as my forearm was beginning to ache from the Nunchuk Grip I had on the steering wheel, I arrived at Sister's house.  We did the classic laugh about random stuff that if I re-wrote would sound stupid and totally un-funny, but was hilarious at the time. She went through the protocol when dealing with this photographer (how she met him is a mystery since he's weird enough to be someone that I know, but whatever. Her friends are usually more normal is all). And, after stressing a bit about getting downtown in the morning commuter traffic, I got up the next morning, got out the door and (more importantly) got my gift for Husband!

And, I still can't tell you what it is because what if he reads this and finds out before Christmas? Or what if he doesn't read it, but one of you runs into him and congratulates him on getting the vintage, MINT, [secret thing that is so awesome you would freak the frick out if you read it here]?

So, you'll have to wait, like Husband, to find out what he's getting.

Oh forget it. I can't keep a secret!! I'm the worst! Promise not to tell Husband, but I'm getting him a

...

Dang. Sorry about that. I pressed the Publish button prematurely. :( Sorry. Maybe next time.



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Next Stop: Hollywood!

I'm ready for my debut as the next Hollywood IT girl. I'm sure I have it, but more than that, I also have kids (which seems to be requisite anymore) and I can take direction. Major direction. Stanley Kubrick-style direction, or Woody Allen-type direction. Or, better yet, I can take the love child of Kubrick and Allen's direction, as a director, and not even bat an eyelash.  Wait. I'm not trying to make a weird Soon-Yi joke here, I swear.

(In case you're not a film aficionado, I'm trying to give you the idea that I am able to take unflinching, unbiased, hyperactive direction to the tune of doing each scene at least 25 times before it's perfect, and then once more just in case. We're talking days of takes just for a 10 second piece of film.)

I've been studying acting under a relatively unknown director, Kid O. Numba-Won.   Numba-Won is just about to break onto the mainstream scene, too, and I think like Johnny Depp and Tim Burton the two of us could really become an acting/directing duo and take next year's Sundance and Cannes film festivals.

Tonight alone, we spent roughly two hours just rehearsing dialogue for her new film, Eating Chocolate For Second Snack Is Ok.  Numba-Won, wrote, directed and stars in the play; I am simply a secondary character.

She is the reason for my amazing journey into International Superstar-dom. And as such, I feel like I should document this whole process from start to finish, for posterity. Or, to read on the bonus features part of the Blu-Ray disc. Or, at the Oscars when they do a tribute of Numba-Won when she dies or after she's inducted into the Oscar Hall of Fame or whatever it's called. Like I said, I'm always prepared to board that rocket-to-the-moon.

Things started out well enough. After dinner a few days ago, we went into the living room and decided to run lines (which is industry speak for: practice dialogue for the next day in the hopes you will memorize the lines with the correct intonation and perfect wording).

Numba-Won said, "Ok. I'm the Mom and you're the Kid.  And you want to go to school on the bus but I'm the Mom and you're not going fast enough, so I'm gonna tell you no. Okay?"
"Okay." I replied, eager to show my director that I'm totally worth my Million Dollar price tag.

(Never, ever give yourself away for free. If they want you for free, tell them to suck a lemon or ask Oprah. She doesn't answer her phone without someone signing a cheque over, so they'll get the point.  And if they bring up 'exposure' or 'charity' and that's why they want you to work for free, tell them you're exposing your middle finger to their charity and to call Oprah.  Then hang up because they're too stupid to live.)

"Ready? Go!"
Act 1, Scene 1: Take 1
"Hi Mom! I want to ride the bus today. To school. Let's go!"
"No. That's not how it goes. You have to say, "Mom! I can't wait to ride the bus!" and then I say, "Well, you can't because you aren't ready."  Ok?"
Shit. I've already messed up my lines.  No bueno.

"Ok. Sorry. Can we do that again?"  I ask-- I'm still excited to show her all I've got.
"Yes." When Numba-Won calls you out on your general incompetence, she is forgiving, at first.

"Ready? Go!"
Act 1, Scene 1: Take 2
"Mom! I can't wait to ride on the bus today!"
"That's not the line."

I look down and realize that, like Joey Tribiani and his epic fail at the noodle soup audition with Ben, I'm adding words that aren't in the script. Mmm, noodle soup.
"Mom! I can't wait to ride the bus!"
"Kid, you can't. You're not ready. Your tights."
"I don't understand that line, Numba-Won. What do the tights have to do with riding the bus?"

Numba-Won slaps her forehead and says, with exasperation, "You can't go outside without your tights. It's cold. You'll catch The Amonia. And when you get The Amonia, you get very sick in your chest and you go to the hospital. So wear your tights!"
"Got it. Ok. Can we start again?"
"Yes. Ready? Go!"

Act 1, Scene 1: Take 3
"Mom! I can't wait to ride the bus!"
"Kid, you can't. You're not ready. Your tights."
"Oh! Well it's still warm out. I don't need them."
"Go stand outside and eat your breakfast without your shoes. You will see it's cold."
(I pretend to go outside and eat breakfast on the patio without my shoes. I make 'Brrr' sounds and rub my hands together to make it seem really, really cold from my side of the living room.)

"KID! You have to go outside. You can't know how cold it really is unless you go outside. Plus, you're too cold. It's not THAT cold. Just wear-your-tights cold."  I get it. I have a tendency to over-act. I'm actually fortunate she's willing to work with me to get just the right amount of reaction to the cold.  I'm a very lucky woman. Not many directors would care so much. I'm talkin' to YOU, Speilberg.

"I'm not going outside. It's raining."
"Well, then I guess you can pretend. But try to make it better."
"Ok. Can we take it from "You will see it's cold?""
"Hmm. Ok. Hold on.  Yes. You will see it's cold." (she is such an amazing director/actor that she can fritter to and fro in her roles without missing a beat. It's outstanding.)

"Ok Mother. Thanks. I guess I'll get my tights on so I can catch the bus."
"Ok. But, now it's too late."
"What? Nooooo!"  I throw myself down like Maria at the almost-end of West Side Story (Natalie Woods is an acting genius. Genius.)
"Uh, Kid. Why are you crying like that? You missed the bus. Take responsibility for your actions and get in the car. I will drive you."
"Numba-Two, I have some problems with your dialogue. I mean, I can't see a four-year old talking like this."
"Mom! I mean Kid! Just do your part."

That's about all I can actually type down here for your perusal without violating any sort of copyright laws, but you can see where this is going. Amazing stuff.

After Numba-Won went to bed (she's crashing here while her trailer is being renovated) I decided it was time to update My Look.

I, critically, examined myself in the mirror. Even with my most critical eye, it was clear I had little to change if I want to make it in Hollywood. Frankly, I've got the smile, the wiggle when I walk, the flirty-throaty laugh that Marilyn Monroe made famous. I've got it all. But, my eyes did rest a little too long on the top of my head. I suppose I could use a wee update on my Mom hair.

After walking the children to the bus the next day, I arranged for Kiddo #2 to be watched by a friend of mine while I went to Hip 'N' Trendy Salon.  That's really what it's called-- I figured if the words 'hip' and 'trendy' were both in the title, surely they'd have something magnificent for me. And I was so right!

I walked into the shop and a woman that looked like she could be Betsey Johnson's small-town cousin walked over. Her hair was a very unnatural shade of blonde, considering her age (which was easily 50), her hips were very tiny, and her heels were very tall and her tan very ... non-existent. And, despite her 8-inch heels, she barely came to my shoulders, which isn't that weird, I guess.

(In Hollywood, everyone is under 5 feet tall, so, as a 6 foot tall person I know I will get a bunch of great roles that the shorties won't be able to do. Plus they won't have to build miniature sets for me so that I look 'normal' sized.  Oh yes, I've thought this whole thing through. All in all, Rhonda and Hip 'N' Trendy Salon seemed like a natural beginning to my new life as a starlet; I took it as an omen of plastic and good fortune.)

The only thing that wasn't completely fake, in fact, was her mouth; there were no collagen injections there. Instead, she lined her lips as though she put her lipstick on a Nascar and told it to start racing. She didn't want to have fake-actually-full lips, she wanted fake-thin-lips-masquerading-as-clown-lips. Hey, any good actor has a nudity clause in her contract, so I understand her need to keep it real.

I sat down and Rhonda assessed the situation.

So, I went in with Mom Hair, and left with Ah-Mazing Mom Hair!  I'm telling you, I've never looked so cool, hip and trendy as I did when I left. Jennifer Aniston and those other famous girl-next-door type actors had better watch their steps! I'm on my way and the only thing stopping me is laundry.


...


Frick.



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Where Is My Helicopter Hat, Anyway?

There has been a rash of crime in our neighbourhood-- hooligans and miscreants spray painting such phrases as, "Be The Change You Want To See In The World" (which was spread down several garages, since it's so long) and "Give Peace a Chance" and the like.

At first, I was outraged that someone or several someones, would take spray paint to write their messages on strangers' homes in the middle of the night. Then I started thinking about what kind of reality would drive a person to commit such a crime. Who would just run around doing such a thing? Who?

I've watched enough C.S.I. commercials to know how to work a crime scene-- so I went to my glassed in room, put on my white lab coat and blue latex-free gloves and set to work. I watched my centrifuge spin around with techno music playing loudly in the background, I pipette'd some test tubes, I even went so far as to click things on the computer. I'm telling you, I know who did it-- and you won't believe me.

According to the evidence I have gathered, all we have to do is look for a gang of young mommies and daddies on parental leave. Skeptical?

Proof #1
Clearly, someone who is up in the middle of the night does not have a job to go to in the morning, OR doesn't have a vocation they have to be lucid for, in the morning. I know this because I'm often up in the middle of the night now that Kiddo #2 is trying to cut all his molars at the same time.  I know for a fact that I am NOT going to any sort of paid job when I've been through a 'nuit blanche' no matter how much fun I'm having.  Clearly, the person or persons responsible for these crimes is also used to being up all night, and not having to function on all levels the next day.  Sounds like a new parent to me.

Proof #2
The slogans are all of an upbeat, positive nature, despite the use of spray paint. Only a person who has had their knees hugged on their way out the door to an important business dinner only to find a big peanut butter and jam kiss on their thighs as a result, could do that.  Before becoming a parent, I did not know how to smile on the outside (sincerely, and honestly) and have a running stream of swear words flowing in my brain at the same time. I didn't know it was humanly possible to absolutely adore something that could rip your heart out at the same time.

Proof #3
As well, there are lots of things that parents do, thinking they're teaching a very valuable lesson to their children, that end in an epic fail. I submit that this act of sunny vandalism was just one of those times.

For example, tonight on our way for dinner, Kiddo #1 asked why the flags in our town are at half-mast. She didn't use that term, though, because she didn't know there was a term. In fact, Husband and I were speculating for whom the flags were lowered when Kiddo #1 said, "That's sad. It's sad when someone dies."  Husband said, "Yes, that's true. That's how come the flags are lowered. It shows that the people there also feel sad about it." Then, out of nowhere, Super Mom flew in with a gigantic lesson on the term "Half-Mast."  

Did you know, for example, that some countries only put their flag down the exact length of one flag so as to leave space for the invisible flag of death that presides over us all? Did you know the British Royal flag is NEVER at half-mast, since the monarchy is forever, so it wouldn't make sense for death to be higher than the monarchy. It was scandalous that flags were at half-mast when Elvis Presley died, even though he was a world wide super star and respected by everyone (I don't actually know that, but judging by the number of Velvet Elvis pictures that are still around, I'll buy into that idea), but he wasn't a member of any sort of government or a police officer or a soldier killed in the line of duty. Yet everyone lowered their flags in respect.

Husband told me afterward that if I hadn't been right beside him, he would've bet the kids' inheritance that I had been reading straight from Wikipedia, I was so thorough.  Actually, about 5 minutes into my lesson, I astounded myself with my various flag knowledge. I had no idea I knew so much about flag protocol.

In fact, it really would have been impressive if, after I spouted off that amazing information, my daughter had said, "Wow" or "Neat-o" or anything except what she did say, which was, "Mother, look at that rainbow! It's beautiful."

I looked and looked. No rainbow. "Where honey?" "Right in front of you." she replied. When I looked all around in front of me, I realized she had been staring at a rainbow she'd invented so that she didn't have to listen to my boring story. Nice.  It was the Emperor's New Clothes and here I was strutting around naked.

I, deflated, looked at my husband and said, "She didn't listen to a word, did she?" He, being ever supportive and understanding said, "I love you." and then, "I was watchin' that rainbow, too!"

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes.  Just as the lesson on flag hoisting was simply noise, how to properly quote Ghandi when writing on a garage was also lost on the babies at 3am.  Although, I do profess, wrong as it is, I was impressed that the graffiti was spelled correctly with proper punctuation and correct use of quotation marks.

Proof #4
Whoever did this, did it late at night and aren't used to being awake at that time. Judging from the shaky writing on the garage doors, the writers had recently had coffee.  Being the investigator I am, I walked over to the recycle bin near the bus stop and found three empty coffee cups with the same time stamp of 3am and a sleepy face drawn on the lids. Only a parent would be drinking coffee at 3am and care enough about the future to put the empty cup in the recycle bin, as opposed to the trash bin.  Plus, there's an all night coffee shop just up the street from my house and the woman that works that shift always draws sleepy smiley faces on the lids when you get coffee after midnight. Trust me. I've been there.

Proof #5
Right, which brings me to the next round of proof that this is no juvenile delinquent spray painting this stuff-- the quotes are from Ghandi and Lennon, not random swears and drunken stupidity. It's not like the idiots wrote what could be misconstrued as L'il Wayne lyrics about bitches and hoes. No, this destruction was polite and positive.  Go ahead, give peace a chance. And while you're at it, be the change you want to see in the world. No bitches here.

Proof #6
But the most compelling evidence that this is a gang of exhausted parents was found in the bushes, across from the vandalized homes on the other side of the street.  I found both a soother (paci? suckie? binky?) and a copy of Goodnight Moon from the library. Most sleuths might have overlooked this place when collecting evidence, but I'm super, wicked smart.  See, I figured it was the best spot for a parent to take out baby and show him or her the entire phrase across the four garage doors.  Great teachable moment with great intentions.

And then, David Caruso appeared out of nowhere without his sunglasses on, so I knew he was about to say something witty and on-the-mark just before putting the shades on. So exciting!
"Unfortunately, Elizabeth, what makes sense at 3am seldom does in the harsh light of day."  Yeeeooooooow!
Thanks, David.

I was just about to crack this case wide open when I got a call on my glove-phone from Chief Quimby. Apparently Dr. Claw has some crazy looking henchmen up to no good in the amusement park across town-- the very same amusement park I was going to take my niece today. It'll be great-- I'll take her, and our dog, and solve a mystery while riding a roller coaster.  In the meantime, be the change you want to see in the world. And try peas.

Wait. That last part wasn't quite right.



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5 Minutes Can Change Everything

It was a long day. I signed up to go on Kiddo #1's first field trip; I'd never been to an apple orchard, but had romantic notions of cute pictures and frolicking amongst the trees and whatnot, so I signed the form.

I was given a group of 3 little girls, one of which was my own daughter, and I brought Kiddo#2 along, too. Everything was fun and frolicky (?) and the kids all had fun. And I, a teacher, a professional kid-minder, was the only volunteer who (temporarily) lost a child. Sigh.

So, as I said, it was a long day.

I got home, tired and having half an asthma attack from the hay barn we all played in (I have a randomly severe allergy to dust and, as luck would have it, the kids all played in the super dusty hay barn. It was fun and frolicky (? I don’t know. It’s colicky from colic, so shouldn’t it be frolicky from frolic?) so I had to be in the middle of it all taking pictures. But it made me tired from the breathing difficulties.

When I went to take Kiddo #1 home (I let her ride the bus back from the orchard to school with her friends-- I remember that being the best part of a field trip) she cried because she couldn't ride the bus home, too, which made it a longer day.

And Kiddo #2 had gone the entire day without more than a 45 minute nap twice (he's a power sleeper normally). And, frankly, I'd gone the entire day without a nap (I'm also a power sleeper normally). So, yes, it was a long day.

I got home with Kiddo #1 still kinda weepy from not taking the bus, but excited at the same time because she found, and brought home in her hand on the bus, 6 lady bugs which were transferred to one of her lunch box containers and which were now buzzing around my car because "I have to open it Momma-- there's one that isn't moving and I need to see if it's dead."

It wasn't dead, in case you care. None of the other five were, either, and they are now finding wonderful places to hibernate in my pit of a car. Lucky duckies.

So it was a long day. And I didn't have any sort of dinner plans or ideas or, as it turns out, food. But I couldn't quite get to any of that because Kiddo #2 was crying-- when he teethes he gets ferocious sores on his bum (Kiddo #1 did, too.) and I'd thought we could put him and Kiddo #1 in a bath with Epsom salts to fix his bum and to just get the hay and debris off both of them before bedtime.

I looked in my bathroom and remembered that we were out of Epsom salts. I nixed the bath for now and decided I'd send Hubby out for salts after dinner. Dinner. Yes. Frickin' dinner.

Pouring Cheerios into four bowls, I declared dinner prepared and went to snuggle the kiddos. Hubby came home. We ate. It was a long, tiring day for everyone. 

 And then, Hubby realized he needed contact lens solution so he could play his first Volleyball game later that night. And then, Hubby realized we're out of dog food (which is probably why the dog was holding her dish and pointing to the cavern of emptiness all this time, but I was too tired to figure it out). 

So he said, "Uh, Wifey, can you go get me some contact lens solution? Oh, and we're out of dog food."
And I said, "Seriously? I've had the longest day of my life. Can you please go get it? Oh and we need Epsom salts so the kids can have a bath."
And he said, "Well, sure. What kind of dog food do we get?" I looked at him and realized that I had no idea. I just get the bag with the dog on it and the aquamarine colour. I couldn't even tell him the first letter of the name. Frick. Well played, husband, well played.

I rolled my corpse into the standing position and smiled and said, "Ok. I'll get the stuff. You stay with the kids." The dialogue rolling through my head was not smiley or nice, but I was tired and when I'm tired I feel like the whole world needs to kiss my booty a little bit, and perhaps could light on fire and be hit by a big bus.

I've learned it's best to just think those things, though.

I said, "Well, can you unload and load the disher and then check on the pump for the pond? It's not working but it's plugged in. I think it's a shorted wire thing." Bwah haa haa. He couldn't say no because I was going out to get his stuff. Winner declared!

So, I went to the bulk food store and got some Epsom salts. I also walked every aisle and got some candy for a Thanksgiving craft I'm making this weekend. Then I meandered to the pet store and found the dog food bag. And, as I was giving them my phone number for their frequent buyer program, it occurred to me that I could've sent Hubby in here with my cell number and they could've looked up what we buy. Sigh.

Then I sauntered to Walmart and walked semi-quickly through that store to find the contact lens solution. I say semi-quickly because if you walk at a slow pace, you will be there for several hours. And there were roughly 10 thousand families there trying to buy Kleenex (or something for their crying, screaming children) and I didn't want to spend the night listening to that.

After about an hour, I drove home and brought in the things we needed. I came around the corner and began dumping Epsom salts into my giant bowl (I add essential oils to them so they smell wonderful). Husband came around the corner holding Kiddo #2 and looking frazzled.

"You ok?"
His eye bugged out of his head, which I took for a negative response.
"What happened?"
"Well, you may have noticed the dishes have been unloaded and loaded."
"Yes." What did he want? An award? (ok, I was still a little bitter apparently)
"Well, after I did that, the baby was sleeping, so I decided to go outside and check on the pump. I fiddled around with the plug and, yep, there's something wrong with the wiring like you thought."

"Ok. What do you think I should do? Should we get a whole new pump or try to fix it?" I was busily adding lavender and lemongrass drops to the salts and stirring them together.
"Oh wait. I wasn't finished." I looked up; his eyes got big again. "I was out there for all of 5 minutes, and when I came in, the baby was crying."
"Ok."
"Well, he was doing that "I've been left alone and my feelings are hurt" cry that he does, so I went in and changed his diaper and his butt is raw."
"Yep, that's why I'm sitting here mixing the Epsom salts."
"Well, then he started really screaming when I tried to put more cream on his butt."
"Yeah. He gets all wound up sometimes."
"Well, I finally got the new diaper on and came to the kitchen to get him some milk."
"Uh-huh."
"Well, I'm pouring the milk and I hear "Daaaaadddy? Daaaaaad?" over and over again. So I set the baby on the floor and go to find Kiddo #1."
"Ok."
"You will never guess what I found."
"Um. Did she have a giant spider in her hand that she found somewhere and wanted you to get her a container to put it in?"
"Nope."
"Am I on the right track?"
"Nope."
"Ok. Was her video done and she wanted a different one?"
"Nope."
"Was she looking for Pinkie Poodle?"
"Nope. She'd shit her pants."

"Whaa-haaat?" I started to giggle. Husband cracked a smile and said, "Yep, not only had she shit her pants, but when I came around the corner, she'd filled the bowl, too. And she was calling me for help because she knew she couldn't move because of the mess in her tights and panties."

I was on the floor doubled over in laughter. I mean, crying, can't breathe laughter. The vision of my husband, trying to fix the pond pump only to come in and have everything unravel in a matter of 5 minutes, for some reason, was KILLING me. I was even doing that Old Man wheezy laugh-turns-to-cough laugh. Hysterical.

“Oh no. She must be sick from the long, tiring day.” (she never, ever has accidents, least of all this kind, unless she’s got a flu bug lurking around.) 

And, on a side note, it’s nice to read how loving I sound when I read those words, because when I said them, I was in the middle of laughing my butt off so they didn’t sound very sincere at the time, despite the intention. 

Husband nods and proceeds with his story.

"And, as I'm trying to figure out what to do next, the baby starts screaming in the kitchen. So I said, "Kiddo #1, try and get yourself cleaned up while I get Brother some milk and I'll be right back." I got the baby some milk and put him in his high chair and returned to find Kiddo #1 standing over the toilet, not quite clean because she couldn't really reach parts of the problem, but now she's out of toilet paper and every last square of it is also in the toilet bowl." Now I'm laughing like a fire engine.

"When, my darling, was the last time YOU had to reach into a toilet bowl full to the brim?" Oh that's it. I can't handle it. Now I'm howling. I'm leaning on the kitchen counter for support. The tears are dripping down my face and ... legs (That's new. How novel. Another bonus from Motherhood methinks).

Instant Karma is all I can think about. That's what you get for not knowing what type of dog food we buy, Husband! Hardy har har!

But, 24 hours later (with several of those 24 hours spent sleeping), and I think it was something else. I was so pissy about having to go out to get dog food, contact lens solution and Epsom salts, but I think instead of instant karmic retribution unfolding on my Husband (which isn’t the way karma works anyway), I think it really was the universe conspiring to make sure I got the heck out of the house and away from this mess before it happened. The universe could sense that if I'd been there for all this, I would have first, looked for hidden cameras and second, packed a carry-on suitcase for Mexico that very minute.

I think it happened for Husband because his telling of the story would make both of us laugh at the insanity of the situation; after the long tiring week we had, laughter was exactly what the Doctor ordered. Once we got everyone bathed (in wonderful smelling Epsom salts) and into bed, Husband and I looked at each other and started laughing again. Husband got into his Volleyball gear and went out to relieve some frustrations and I snuggled into bed to play Plants Vs. Zombies on my iPod.  I giggled, replaying the story in my head, while the game loaded and promptly fell asleep. 

Like I said, it was a long, tiring day. 

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Suddenly I See Why The Hell It Means So Much To Me

As I sit at our craft table, downstairs in the basement, surrounded by: gold glitter, 1.3 million buttons and roughly 30 Styrofoam balls in various stages of being covered with chunky yarn, I feel tranquil. Kiddo #1 sits beside me doing her "music homework" which consists of colouring a fireman, gluing it onto a brown paper bag and figuring out that F on the piano is two keys away from D (the dinosaur, in case you're wondering what our last puppet was).  She is gluing and pouring gold glitter on the buttons of Fireman Fred. The two of us sit, feet swinging in crafty bliss while the baby sleeps and the husband watches some movie off Netflix.

This is significant, this moment of peace and tranquility, because since Kiddo #1 started school, her hearing and vision have taken a dive down the toilet. Oh, not in the "Call the Doctor!" kind, but in the "Holy FRICK I'm moving to Antarctica. Call me when she is back to normal," sort.

Take this morning when she sneezed three times in the span of 10 minutes. All three of those sneezes required, REQUIRED, two baby wipes each.  Had we been out of tissue, this would have seriously been a catastrophe. So, I said, "Honey, why don't you stay home from school today?"

She, in the fashion I usually reserve for 14-year old girls, recoiled in extreme horror and ran screaming and crying to her bedroom, where upon she threw herself onto her bed, bawling and wailing phrases such as "You HATE me!" and "Why are you trying to RUIN my LIFE?"

Kiddo #2 and I looked at each other, as if to confirm that her reaction could not possibly pertain to what I'd said, and I slowly head toward Ground Zero.

"Honey?"
"I'm not talking to you."  Clearly.
"Ok. So I'm not sure what just happened, but you've got to get it together if you want to go to school today."
"I SAID I WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL!"
"Ok. First: time out for screaming at me like that.  Second: once you've calmed down we'll figure out what's what."

I left her in there, yelling about I don't even know what, and went back to the baby.  I really should have "The Baby" <--- written like that, since he just turned one, and he's the size of most two and a half year olds. It's unbelievable. Kiddo #2 drank four litres of homo milk  in a 6 day span, last week.  For those of you outside Canada, that's a freakin' lot of high fat milk.

When she finally got herself together, I walked in and she said, "Momma, I'm sorry for the way I acted. It's just that I want to go to school, real bad."  (if you're wondering whether she really said that, I assure you, that's verbatim.)

So I said, "Ok. All I said was maybe you wanted to stay home because you're so congested. But, if you really want to go to school, I'll write a note in your planner telling the teacher how you're feeling and to call me if she thinks you should go home."  Truthfully, I wanted to write that in her planner so that the teacher wouldn't call Children's Aid on me for being negligent.

Kiddo #1's eyes got big again, she sneezed (we cleaned that up) and then, once we were all settled in the sneeze department, she yelled, "I SAID I WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL!"  and stomped back to her room.

(you may not wonder why we miss the bus in the morning)

I walked (calmly) to her room, opened the door and said, "That's what I said I was doing. Now you have another time out for yelling and for talking to me that way.  You will not be riding the bus this morning because by the time you get your time out done with, it will be too late."

I walked away feeling smug because I know that my child will do whatever it takes so that she can ride the bus to and from school. There's something about sitting in a giant vehicle without a seat belt that she finds intoxicating. Riding the bus is like a drug for her.  I don't remember it being that exciting, but apparently it is.

Not taking the bus, in case you're wondering, also opens up a good 20 minutes of extra time in the morning, since I can't drop her off at school until after 9am.  So I waited for her to calm down. Then she had her second time out (all before 8:40! New record I think.) and we talked about how she needs to use her ears better.  She, admitting I am the supreme ruler of the universe, calmed herself down and even got to where she could giggle at her hilarious inability to hear what I was saying.

I put the baby in the car (he was in his highchair this whole time, so don't worry and call Children's Aid on me for negligence) and came back in to find Kiddo #1 looking for her shoes-- her shoes that were directly in front of her.  I actually thought she was being hilarious and playing some funny joke on me because there were her shoes, in front of her.

I wish my body could turn into whatever I was talking about, like that 70's cartoon, The Barbapapas. Alas, this hand/arrow is simply an artist's rendition.


I looked at her and sweetly asked if she'd looked around the kitchen yet. She said, "Yes! I've looked in my room, in the bathroom, in the kitchen, in the hallway, in your room and your bathroom!"

I said, "Are you sure you've looked everywhere?"
She said, "Yes! Help me or I'll be late for school!"

So I said that I'd give her one more chance. If she didn't find her shoes before 8-5-0 on the clock, she would lose her movies and TV for three days.

Harsh? Yes.

But, I suggested to her that if she couldn't see her shoes, she probably couldn't see anything on the TV  anyway, so she surely wouldn't miss the action. Oh yes. That felt good.

Anyway, I took the baby some milk and came back in the house to find Kiddo #1 still frantically searching for her shoes, and now also needing a Kleenex possibly more than she needed her shoes. I gave her a tissue. Then, I stood in the kitchen, by the table, behind her shoes so as to not hamper her ability to see them, and called to her.

"Kiddo #1, could you come into the kitchen?"
She raced in and asked, "Have you found my shoes?"
I said, "Yes. I have. So, I'm going to give you one more chance to find your shoes before I go get them and you lose your movies. You need to look in your room, the living room, and the kitchen. They are in one of those places."

I kid you not: she took off, looked in both those rooms and returned to the kitchen with a big, pouty lip. She sauntered over to me and was about to throw herself at the mercy of the court when she tripped over her shoes.  "MOMMA! MOMMA! I found my shoes! I did it!"

Oh yes.  I smiled sincerely (despite my overwhelming disbelief) and told her to get the shoes on quickly so we could get to school on time.

When we got there I got out of the car, crossed the street with her (with baby on my hip) and as soon as I got to the actual school property, she turned around and said, "Momma. You can't come back here. It's for kids only."  She kissed me on the cheek and trucked off to her big life all by herself.

I took a deep breath and remembered that, if all else fails, and I need her to stay a kid another day or two, I can hide her stuff in the middle of the floor and play with her all day. But not too often. Just often enough.




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