Mirror, Mirror on the Wall...

Out of respect for my husband, I don’t put Christmas decorations up until after my birthday (on the 7th of November). Out of respect for the military, I don’t put Christmas decorations up until after Remembrance Day. Once the digital clock rings 11:12 on the 11^th, however, all bets are off.

Up came the boxes of Christmas stuff, down went my husband into the basement where he claimed he could “put off Christmas until at least next week” by avoiding the glitter-soaked, pepperminty red and green extravaganza.  My kiddos, wanting only the best for their beloved father, turned up the Christmas music extra-loud so he could be included (no matter how hard he tried to do otherwise).  Ha.

The children and I eagerly opened box after box of Christmas decorations, ooh-ing and ahhh-ing over this little thing or that. Oh look, there’s the ball your grandmother gave your father when he was a child and now you can play with it during Christmas. This is the stocking my mother made me, and I made you a stocking, isn’t that special?  Oh yes, it was like The Hallmark Channel all over the living room.

It wasn’t until I opened one box in particular that I truly had the Christmas spirit all over. In fact, for a reason I can’t quite figure out, the children (sensing danger?) told me I could open that box all by myself. I unfolded the box top slowly and, like an archaeologist opening a mummy’s tomb, when daylight, 2012 hit the contents of this box, a dust bomb was triggered.  Poof!

I sneezed until I was sitting from the dizziness, rubbed my eyes and asked (once the air had cleared) what the heck was in that box in the first place.  The children looked inside and shrugged. It seemed to be empty. 

Concerned that we’d inadvertently opened some version of Pandora’s Box, I peered in. Just as they’d surmised: Empty.  Astonishing. It had weight before I opened it, I thought. What happened?

Then, my son looked at me and said, “Momma look like Christmas.” 

My daughter’s eyes got the size of Jolly Ranchers and she said “Momma! You look like Lady Gaga!”

I looked in the mirror and dusted off my hands. I was covered in glitter. I brought my hands to my face and tried to brush the glitter off. Glitter, for those of you who don’t indulge your inner Martha Stewart on the regular, is the cockroach of craft supplies.  There’s nothing that will kill it and once you get one speck of it, it’s everywhere in your house in a matter of hours.  If we added Glitter to Rock, Paper, Scissors, it would beat everything and the game would be dead. Dead.

I brushed my (surprisingly) glitter-free hands onto my face. Not. One. Piece. Moved.  I mean, it was glued to my hide like… well like someone had glued glitter to my skin. Oh, and say what? I have to get groceries and go to a Christmas open-house and … oh all in the next hour? Oh that’s fabulous. 

Unable to remove or even just move the glitter to a new location, I took my Twilight-self to the grocery with my (confusingly) glitter-free children.

By the way, Guys, I get it now. I had no idea the looks I was giving my male friends while they grew their Movember  ‘staches for prostate research.  You see, every friend I saw at the store (and there were many) kept glancing at various parts of my face, while trying to pretend they weren’t looking, and yet were listening to what I was saying.  Some friends protectively drew their children closer to themselves all while smiling a “What the heck is going on with your FACE? Do you know? You must know so why haven’t you done anything about it? My uterus is scared for whatever your problem is.” 

I got my (abridged) list of groceries, stopped in at the open house and returned home hoping I’d left a trail of glitter like Billy from the Family Circus cartoons. I even hopped on a couple of picnic benches and squirmed through a tire swing, just to leave a reasonable facsimile, but the dang glitter remained.

So, if you see me between now and the New Year, please just assume I’m either a) returning from a Theatre Kent audition and I really REALLY want the role of Mirrorball or I’m b) just super-crazy festive! Woo hoo!

Happy Glitter-mas, everyone! 

Out of This World

I have a real problem being on time for things; my husband has a real problem if we are late for things. You'd think our kids would be right.on.time.  And, probably (hopefully) they will be, but not until I stop having to get them places.

Every Fall we put the kiddos in eleventeen things to help further their brains and bodies and (in general) keep them from becoming serial killers.  So far it seems to be working, but they're only 5 and 2 so it’s a little early to call it. 

The thing is, I have been starting to think maybe all these "anti-serial killer" activities are not so much growing and help my children succeed, but instead are inching me closer to a stress-induced heart attack before I'm old enough to have one. Between prep, laundering uniforms, getting kids fed and out the door again, my blood pressure goes from 120/80 to 600/570-ish. 

Don't even get me started on my Rage-O-Meter-- this is the giant thermometer-looking gauge that tells outsiders whether they should tread lightly or continue with caution when near me. Let's say the lower the thermometer, the more peaceful I am; on activity nights, my meter is bubbling 3/4 of the way up with the chance of the mercury bursting through the top with every red light or set of lost car keys that slows us down. 

At any rate, Kiddo #1 takes dance lessons, music and swimming, Kiddo #2 take dance and swimming. It makes for some interesting after school routines in our house, since Kiddo #1 gets off the bus an hour before her first lesson starts on any given day.  While 60 minutes should be adequate, it is so SO far from enough time to get us all there. 

Basically our routine for the months of September and October were as follows:

3:50:  Get off the bus, show thumbs up/down for how day went

3:55:  Get in the house, toss all jackets/shoes/book bags willy-nilly like a sprinkler

4:00: Proclaim dire need for snackage and flop on the floor dying of hunger until said snack is on the table

4:11: I say, "Honey, it's time to get your [whatever is needed for whatever they're taking] together."

4:18: I say, "Hurry and finish your snack, you need to get ready."

4:23: We're leaving in 5 minutes. I'm getting your brother ready for Taylor's (the neighbour girl who takes excellent care of him). 

4:45: AHHH! It's quarter to 5! RUN RUN RUN we're late and we still have to drop your brother off and get there. AHHH! GAH! RUN!

Despite our routine, getting to dance includes us squealing into the dance studio parking lot. Luckily we're late enough that we won't run anyone over as we Tokyo Drift our way into a parking spot. Heart pounding, rage-o-meter through the roof, Kiddo #1 grabs her bag and we run inside. Every week. Without fail. It’s maddening!

But, possibly because we're 3 months into our "new" routine, and possibly because we're getting close enough to Christmas that I am more aware that Santa's watching (so I must be a good girl), a miracle occurred today; we weren't late! 

In fact-- wait til you get a load of this one: we were early. EARLY! 

As we pulled into the empty parking lot, I was able to slowly and calmly get an amazing parking spot. No running from 3 streets over? Man, early people catch all the breaks! 

Kiddo #1 and I walked (!!) into the studio. A dad and his daughter were behind us and the two girls started chatting about ... whatever little girls chat about. I presume princesses and hockey skates, but little girl voices are too high pitched for my concert-abused ears to hear. 

At any rate, Kiddo #1 and her friend lined up at the wall and put their ballet shoes on. I didn't even know they did that. Best part? There were no exasperated tears (from me) trying to put a ballet shoe on her sticky been-in-a-sock-all-day feet.  It was just the putting on of ballet slippers with lots of time to spare. 

I was feeling slightly dizzy, a little on the vertigo side yet not uncomfortable. In fact, it felt like tweeting birds or fireworks and cotton candy. It was a pleasant feeling that I realized afterwards was euphoria. 

Man! If dance class is this pleasant every week, just by being early, I could really get behind her continued learning! No rage coursing through my veins, no sweat on the back of my neck from the elevator-style blood pressure change... nothing but sheer joy that she's doing something she loves. 

But first I have to finish my time machine. Or at least talk to Evie from that 80’s show “Out of this World” and get her ability to freeze time by touching her fingers together. Oh, would you like to swing on a star…

Silence and School Shootings

To say I haven't be processing the Sandy Hook Elementary horror is a big, fat, lie.

I haven't allowed myself to process it. I am self-imposing a media blackout of as much information as possible, and it's not because I don't care; it's because I care too much. I am terrified that if I find out more about this incident I will lose all hope in the future and I can't do that. 

I just can't do that.

Once upon a time, I taught in Colorado. It was post-Columbine, it wasn't even in the same school district, but I assure you, we felt the ripple effects years later, every year on April 20th. The school in which I taught, for example, was a shining example of architecture in the "Post-Columbine" world. 

It was designed so that (I'm not kidding) SWAT teams could descend upon any classroom without a killer, holding kids and teacher hostage, being any the wiser. The doors were either down a short hallway that then became "blinders" for those inside-- you can't see anything in the hallway in any direction from the classroom door-- or they were off to an extreme side of the classroom making it impossible to see 1/3 of the room from the doorway window.  That 1/3 of the room, by the way, is where we were supposed to hide during a lockdown. Duh.  

If you go to school or teach in a building erected after 1999, I dare you to try and see inside the classroom from the hallway. 

Sandy Hook; Columbine; Platte Canyon; the list grows unfortunately longer every few years and I've heard a lot of people expound on why they think the school shootings keep happening.  In fact, I myself was wondering-- I'd never watched Bowling for Columbine until probably a month ago (I was living and teaching in Colorado and never thought it was appropriate).  So, I took the plunge and watched Michael Moore's film.

To say I was horrified that he used actual footage of students being gunned down is an understatement. I was sickened that someone would take the Columbine massacre, edit it, add some interesting yet meaningless commentary on whether or not Canadians lock their doors, and call it a documentary. I cried a lot while watching that film. I cry for the pain and the loss of life that happened.  That film ripped my heart open all over again. 

I tried to be objective so I kept thinking "But what is the point? What is Moore trying to tell us?"  By the time the film finished, I was less sure than when I started watching.  Perhaps I missed the point somewhere, but even now, especially now, I felt sick and used: I felt I was made an accomplice by watching that film, instead of seeing a moral or big picture idea.

Like Michael Moore, I've heard many, many adults, some teachers, some parents, some teens, expound on how the gun control system in the US is out of control and that's the reason for the problems.  Just as I felt while watching Bowling for Columbine, I hear this and wonder, "What is the point?"  

I suppose, as humans we like to classify and come up with neat little boxes to put information in: bad guys wear black, good guys wear white.  But, if you think Sandy Hook and Columbine and (insert the next horrific tragedy) happened because of guns, you are naive and not helping the situation any more than Michael Moore did. 

No, I don't think we all should have guns. True, I'm also not a member of the NRA.  Guns are not things to be trifled with and if you haven't been trained properly, I don't think you should be allowed within 500 feet of one, as far as I'm concerned. But, at the same time, when someone snaps the way that kid (those kids) snapped, it wouldn't matter if he had a gun or a bunch of hairspray and a lighter-- there were going to be fatalities that day. Period.

We know this because of the knifing incident that happened the SAME DAY as the tragedy at Sandy Hook, but in China instead of America. A crazy man entered a school there and stabbed/cut 26 little children. None of those kids died (guns are strictly controlled in China) because they were attacked with a knife, but I think that's my point-- guns are a means to an end, not the problem per se.

People argue that it's poverty, it's immigration, it's guns, it's this it's that.  Those are no different than having a rash, a fever, and burning pain when you pee; if you have those symptoms you'd better get yourself checked out for the bigger problem: Venereal Disease.  Likewise, if you have kids shooting up schools in rich neighbourhoods, poor neighbourhoods, urban neighbourhoods and rural ones, in America, Canada, China, Afghanistan, you'd better start hunting around for the reason.

If you are so mentally unbalanced that you can thoroughly plan the deaths of specific people and a variety of innocents, you will find a way to do it.  The problem isn't guns-- that's a symptom.  The problem is these kids have been so marginalized, so beaten down by parents, family members, teachers, peers that they have seriously, irreparably perhaps, lost their minds.  Insane, beaten-down, marginalized kids grow into homicidal adults unless there is a lot of therapy done to contain it. And I mean a LOT of therapy because you can't argue with a lunatic; they don't believe in the rules of engagement. 

For reasons too numerous to explain, I truly feel that this problem is one of Silence. Our children are feeling silent, out-of-control, marginalized and outcast. Our children aren't being taught how to win and lose with grace. Our children aren't being taught how to think for themselves and how to feel good for doing a job well.  Our children aren't being praised for their intelligence; smart kids are mocked and under-serviced to the point where pretending to be stupid is a more desirable character trait than becoming strong leaders of tomorrow.

Guess why? 

Oh yes, it falls back on us.

I bought these boots for my daughter about a month ago.  They were cheap, but cute, and they were available locally so I wouldn't have to wait for shipping to get the regular (3x-as-expensive, cuter, leather) boots I usually get for her.  Within 3 days the boots already had scuff marks, and by the end of week one, there were patches of fabric missing.  Yes, my daughter is hard on her boots. No, she's not THAT hard on her boots.  I looked at that purchase and thought to myself, "That's a lesson in false economy." As in, I thought I was making a good, cheaper buy, but in the end I will be spending an extra $30 on the boots I should've bought in the first place because of that "economical" purchase.

It's the same with our kids, really. Instead of making sure our kids are getting their emotional needs met at home, at school, in their activities and (again, this one is important) at home, they're filling up their self-esteem bucket with bullshit they see on TV, on Youtube, and from Bullies.  And silence. They're filling up their self-esteem buckets with a bunch of silence that should be words of praise, of scolding, of love, and of care, but instead they're hearing silence.

Being silenced or hearing silence they both end up making people crazy. And after years of my own therapy, I'm strong enough to say something if you use words to silence others in my presence.

It sucks when I have to speak up to friends.
It really sucks when those same friends point out my silencing words.
Like, it sucks a lot.

But it needs to be done no matter how much it sucks, because frankly, my being chastised for saying something that cuts another person should make me feel awful and defensive. I should feel bad because that's how the person I'm verbally cutting feels inside, too. 

When I want to say something off-the-cuff, especially when I'm angry, it takes a lot of deep breathing and counting to 10 before I will let my mouth speak. So, I breathe because I don't want the [cop who pulled me over, the border patrol guy who is just being shitty for no reason, the micro-manager...] to feel as shitty as I feel, with the flick of my tongue.

I think my ability to shred someone with words is because I was crazy-bullied when I was a kid. Truth be told, I still hear the hate-filled words and visualize the screaming disdain from their eyes when I'm having a bad day. After years and years of therapy I can still hear the echos. I have ways to quiet the sounds now, but they're still there.  I replayed, internalized, and etched all that Hate it into my psyche over and over for so many years that it still comes out in ways that occasionally surprise me. 

Adults, if you ask me, are the worst of the worst-- they know better and despite having been bullied themselves, despite knowing exactly how it feels to be powerless, they perpetuate the pain and anger and impotence to children. Sometimes to their own children. Sometimes to the children of other people.

It's gross, it's disgusting and it's a flagrant misuse of power. 

Teachers can be the worst.  

Coaches can be the worst. 

Parents can be the worst. 

If you think these shootings are because of guns, you need to open your eyes and face the real possibility that you might be an accomplice to what's going on with our children, too. 

Words are just as deadly as weapons, they just don't get national coverage.  I assure you, however, that classrooms, locker rooms, even the homes of our children are being assaulted with deadly weapons every day.

This is why bullying is such a big deal.
This is why gender and racial discrimination are such a big deal.
This is why gay marriage and equal rights for the LGBTQ community are such a big deal.
This is why inclusion and education for both ends of the intelligence spectrum and every point in-between is SUCH A BIG DEAL.

Every day that someone is hated for who they are, for things that they cannot change about themselves, even if they wanted to, is another day closer to that person hating him/herself enough to want to kill everyone who seems happy when s/he isn't allowed to be. ...is another day closer to that person wanting to inflict pain on anyone who might have silenced him or her in the past.

We can't stop the madness overnight but we can try. 

We must try.

We must or the next fatalities will be closer to our own homes.

We must.

Tattoos and Other Semi-perminant Thoughts

A few years back, when I decided to get my nose pierced, it was because I'd been thinking about doing it for at least 5 years prior, off and on. I'd weigh the pros and cons, consider where to get it done and all that jazz. I never got it done though.

And then, one day, on our 5th wedding anniversary in fact, as my mother-in-law was flying into Denver for a visit, I dressed Kiddo #1 (who was then 14 months old) and announced, in a smiley, sing-song way:

Me: Bye honey. I'm going to get my nose pierced.
Husband: We need bread.
Me: Uh, ok?
Husband: You said you are going to Costco, right?
Me: No. I'm going to get my nose pierced. But I can get bread afterwards.
Husband: At Costco?
Me: No. Why don't you understand my words?
Husband: Because what I keep hearing that you're going to get your nose pierced but that doesn't make any sense, so I figure you're getting groceries.

See how that works?  Anyway I looked at him and let him know that he wasn't having hearing issues (this, by the way, is a bit of an ongoing joke that Husband is partially-deaf).

He said "Since when?" and I was flabbergasted. I mean, I'd been considering getting a nose ring since not long after we got married! This was no fly-by-night decision, but one that was long overdue! If this decision was a library book, I'd have fines up the wazoo! If this decision was a speeding ticket, there would be a warrant out for my arrest! Why, if this decision to get a nose ring was anything at all, it was thoroughly thought through. 

(Hey, if you're learning English, you'll notice those last three words look extremely similar, yet, they each have completely different pronunciation. Thoroughly: thoroly; Thought: thot; through: throo. As a connoisseur of languages, I am sorry that English doesn't have accents. They're handy little smears.)

And yet, apparently I'd neglected to mention it, even once, to Husband. Interesting.

Off I drove with Kiddo #1 to Ye Olde Tattoo and Piercing Shoppe.  Marlene, the shoppe owner introduced me to Jaspar, the 6'4" guy with a 3 foot blue Mohawk  Kiddo #1 looked shocked to see someone whose hair almost touched the ceiling.

I brought my baby girl, who was just walking on her own, into the piercing room. She (I think) watched me get a piece of cork shoved into my nostril and a needle stabbed into it. Huh. I never thought of it, but probably that's why she didn't cry when she got her ears pierced-- she'd seen it all before and knew it was ok on some sub-conscious level.


I returned home with our baby to hang out with Husband and Mother-In-Law and things were normal like nothing had happened. Turns out getting ones nose pierced isn't a big deal at all. Why had I waited 5 long years?


Now fast-forward to last weekend, 2012 when I got a text at 4pm asking where the heck I was.

Me: Uh, the tattoo shop?
Husband: What?
Me:  I'm getting some work done.
Husband: What?
Me: Hello? Remember when I said this morning, "Hey, can you take the kids for a few hours today while I get my tattoo touched up?" and you said, "Ok."
Husband: No.
Me: Well, we did. And then you'll notice it's on the calendar. And then, you'll notice an email we wrote to each other over the past 3 days where I mention that I'm getting work done on Saturday and how you'll have the kids and here are some things you can do together.
Husband: Seriously? Really this happened?
Me: I love you. I'll see you in an hour.
Husband: Uh, ok?
Me: Love you! :D

And, when I returned home, after fretting about getting a tattoo on my inner arm by my wrist-- it's so visible and visible! What will the neighbours think!? I realized that getting ones skin tattooed  isn't a big deal at all. Why had I waited 5 long years? I am who I am and no amount of metal or ink will change that. Plus, I'm not gonna lie, I feel kinda badass for a Volvo driving soccer mom.

But, I can't win for losing: when I completely neglect to tell Husband about a plan, he doesn't know about it; when I tell him several times over a period of a month, he doesn't know about it.

(if you're learning English, the expression "can't win for losing" is an idiom that makes NO sense. Of course you can't win if you're losing. Duh!)

Maybe for Christmas I'll get some post-it notes implanted on his arm. Then I can write little letters to him that he can post all over his office and car and... never see anyway.  It'll be like that one movie where that guy tattoos his leg with important info about who to trust because he has no short term memory. Oh shoot, what's the movie called?

Either way, there's something super cool about this state of affairs-- see, I figure if he won't remember what I've told him, then I might as well just go out and buy myself whatever present I want, wrap it, and just let him take credit for it. It's win-win because I get exactly what I want and he doesn't have to do anything but reap the rewards.

We are just so dang GOOD together!

Don't you love my 7.8 carat diamond earrings?
I got them for Christmas last year...

Asleep At The Faucet

I fell asleep in the tub, y'all.

In our soaker tub, jets running, with Kiddo #1 in there playing away, I fell asleep. In fact, let's not mince trivialities: I fell, snoring-asleep, in the tub with the jets running and I didn't notice Husband get Kiddo #1 out of the tub, or when the jets stopped blowing OR when Husband came back and stuck a sign that said "Je t'aime" on the tile backsplash.

Oh, it's not the first time I've ever fallen asleep in a tub before, but those other times I was a) significantly younger, b) fully clothed, c) rather intoxicated and d) in a tub that was empty of everything except me.  

Best part: I'm pretty sure I pulled a "Toddler" which is to say I was in the middle of a sentence when all of a sudden I powered down. Full-on, dead-to-the-world.

To be fair I was rather tired, although I never would've bet I was THAT tired.  Today was the first-ever craft fair for my daughter's school. I headed up the whole thing (not by myself by any means-- without the support of Healthy Snack Momma and a few other people, there would have been no fair. No fair! Ha. Lame.) However, I did feel some pressure last night as I packed up the car with my skirts and display stuff. What if our vendors didn't show? Worse: what if nobody came except the vendors and they all surrounded me and beat me to death with the various things they brought to sell? Worse still: what if they didn't kill me with THEIR stuff, but took me out with my millions of Twirly and Sweetie skirts? Oh the humanity!

Needless to say, sleep the night before was a bust, and I was up at 6am anyway to get to the school for the 7am set-up time for the vendors; the fair was from 9 to 2, we cleaned up afterwards and had unloaded the car by 3:30.  At 4pm, Husband announced that we were taking Kiddo #1 and her Bestie bowling. At the time, I thought it was a great idea-- Kiddo #2 is at my parents' all weekend. That arrangement, by the way, went like this:

Grandpa Dee: Uh, hey. Uh, so like, uh, what's Kiddo #2 doing this weekend, or, like whatever?

Me: I dunno-- I'm doing that craft fair Saturday so I won't be around. Why?

Grandpa Dee: Well, like, uh, you know, if he, uh wanted, or like, if Husband needed a break or whatever, Kiddo #2 could come here.

Me: Are you asking him on a date? 

Grandpa Dee: Hardy har har. No, I just figured, if you...

Me: You are hilarious when you're trying to act all cool and nonchalant. 

Grandpa Dee: (laugh-scolding) Well, can he come over and play or not?

Me: Sure. (laughing) I'll text Husband and get everything arranged.

Grandpa Dee: Ok. Cool. (ultra-nonchalant)

(then he hadn't hung up the phone yet, and like a 12 year old girl, he squealed with delight) It's so funny those two!  Truth be told, Kiddo #2 pretty much walks around saying "I wanna see Grandpa!" all day long. Pray for me: I know these two are in cahoots already. 

Back to the bowling alley-- off we hustled to the bowling alley to play bowling (to bowl?) for two hours. I reckon, by the way, that at least 60 full minutes of that game was spent watching the balls of either girl roll hopelessly slowly down the lane. Standing there watching the white stamps on the ball go around once... ... ... twice... ... uh-oh, the ball just slowly grazed the side of the gutter rail and has stopped. Oh, it's ok, Husband can still reach the ball without even committing a toe-over. Awesome. Let's try that one again, ladies! Woo hoo bowling! 

Like I said, two hours later, we dropped Bestie off at her house. I got out of the car and said, "Geez. It's really nice out. I should go for a run." Husband's eyebrows perked up quizzically but was supportive.  I went into the house to get into my running gear when, instead, I decided I was cold and maybe should have a quick bath before the run.  Then Kiddo #1 wanted in on the soaker-tub action ... and now you're caught up. 

Speaking of catching up... I think I'll return to my bed and catch up on the slumber missing from my life in the last few days. Or maybe I will just close my eyes and type for a couple more paragraphs;lkna[a   asolk[[oi[as;alkw

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While My Tea Bag Gently Steeps

I sit and exhale slowly,

 releasing my day into the universe.

I sit with a cup of warm tea in my hand 

and replay bits of today

while I half-watch images in a box designed to engage me.

I sit and make a tally of the laundry not finished,

dishes not dried, phone calls not answered and 

emails destined to be lost in the limbo between "read"

and "replied to" on my phone.

I think about the harsh scolds and wonder

why I have to beg you to practice piano,

or dance, or any other thing you love to do?

(unless I'm asking you to do it-- 

and then it's a wall of

resistance

no army of 

firm words 

and scrunched eyebrows can penetrate)

And then, I exhale slowly,

releasing my frustration to the universe.

I sit beside you on the bench 

and fit your hand over my hand.

We half count, half curse.

We slow down. 

We count while we sing rhythms with a box designed to entertain us.

Slowly we both calm and fall into the pattern.

Ti-ti, ti-ti, ti-ti, ta.

Ti-ti, ti-ti, ti-ti, ta.

Ti-ti, ti-ti, ti-ti, ta.

Ta, ta,  half-note.

We slow down the world.

We make the time signature count for us. 

You and me. 

Both learning something difficult.

Both patients of patience.

I sit and exhale slowly,

releasing your forehead from my kiss.

I quietly leave your bedroom and remember 

that when you told your Daddy that your favourite part of today

was sitting beside me, 

drinking warm tea, 

that was my 

favourite part of today, too.

I sit and exhale slowly thankful for tea, and ti-ti and toi.

I hope I don't forget to tell you tomorrow morning.

I exhale slowly and let my eyes close the rest of the way.

I Got 99 Problems but a Squash Ain't One

"Excuse me, Ma'am?"
"Eek!"
"Oops. Sorry, Ma'am. I didn't mean to frighten you."
"Oh. Yes. Well, I startle easily. Can I help you?"
"Yes, can I see your licence and registration?"
"Sure. Uh, why?"

Normally, there would be any host of reasons that an officer might need to see my particulars and I would think to myself, "Dear Buddha, please don't let him catch me ______."

See, I often don't signal turns.  I occasionally don't believe in 4-way stops (just in some areas where it's scary to linger and in other places where the homeowners simply want you to gape at their huge homes, and in other spots where clearly there should be a LIGHT not a 4-way stop).  Oh, and sometimes, I speed.

More often, I have music blaring while singing with my children, and I am drinking lava-tea (which is tea you get at Tim Horton's that comes straight from active volcanoes and one tiny dot on the skin will eat a hole straight through to the other side), or am zooming home to get a forgotten Pinkie or Poochie thus ensuring I will be Late to wherever I  left early to get to on time.

Equally as frequently, however, I am returning from some terrible bank heist gone horribly wrong and Mr White is bleeding out in my backseat (after I restrained him in my son's 5-point harness for safety) while I sing "We're gonna be okaaaay."

When I got out of my car having fake-parallel parked it on King St (there were two spots open, so I just drove through the first spot and parked my car while the (unbeknownst to me) Officer of the Law parked behind me, and was told to fork over my plastics, I was flabbergasted.

I stood there thinking to myself, "He must be a fan! He must've recognized me from CK Child Magazine and wants to let me know my blogs touch his heart and funny bone! Or maybe he has seen the Twirly skirts  and wants to get one for his wee daughters? This is gonna be the coolest pull-over EVER!"

Then he said, "Do you realize your plates are expired?"
Chuckling, I said, "Oh no, my birthday isn't until November. They're just coming due."  I tapped the date on my licence and pass it to him.
Chuckling, he tapped the licence plate.

Sept '12? What the?
Oh. Yes.
Yes.

When we imported my car (upon our return to Canadia from Amerrica) there was some Title/registration glitch that required us to purchase my car outright in order to receive said documents, in order for me to, like, get a damn licence plate. And I think because of freedom of information or something equally as un-free as that, my name couldn't be on the title when we got it because I wasn't there in the office on that day and blah blah blah. Whatever. It was a very sad day for feminists everywhere.  

I then have a movie flashback of the registration notice coming in the mail with Husband's and me saying "Oh yeah, you're on the title for both cars-- and they're expiring soon. Can you deal with this; I'm sure with all the anti-fraud laws I can't pay for this because I'm not you."
"Sure." he said, "I'll get it done Monday."

So, returning to the present day, I text Husband "Hey, Honey, uh, did you get the licence plates renewed?  What about insurance?"
I wait 30 seconds and type back "Because I've been pulled over and neither one appears to be legit."
I wait 30 seconds and type back "And I remember getting the insurance card and saying "Honey, can you put this in the car for me, I'm making dinner." and you said "Sure. I'll do it right now.""
I wait 30 seconds and type back "Cuz it's not here. And the very tall, very good looking officer would like to see it. And I had to write he's good looking because a) he is and b) in case he looks at this and wants to know what I was saying, I want to suck up a little. I hope he doesn't read this last part though."

Then I get "The insurance is good. My card is good.  Oh shit. I have your card too. Sorry."
And then I get "Shit. I remember getting that notice."
And then I get "Shit. Are you getting a ticket."
And then I get "Shit. Happy Friday!"

And then, I get a ticket.

Nicely, the good-looking police officer who is at least 6 inches taller than I am (which is saying a lot since I'm 6 feet tall) didn't charge me for the expired insurance issue.  He nabbed me as a "gentle reminder" to renew my expired-by-one-month plates though, to the tune of $110. That is about as gentle as exfoliating with an SOS pad.

So, I stopped what I was going to do and drove straight to the DMV to pay for those stickers. Figuring I could only do my plates, I went over kinda annoyed. However, the Gods of the DMV smiled upon me and allowed me not only to pay for my plates, but for Husband's as well AND I was out of the office (including the time I was waiting for Husband to email me his pertinent info) in 20 minutes.

Seeing as I had all this extra time, I decided I'd drive the sticker out to his car and put it on there to avoid the potential for a second "gentle warning" today.

All the way to Husband's work I kept replaying the police officer's last remark in my head. He asked what I was going to be for Halloween, gesturing to the butternut squash bushel he could see in my backseat.

I have a slight major butternut squash buying addiction; I eat them only so I can make room to buy more. Honestly, I think they're amazingly delicious (and we eat them a lot) but mostly I just buy them non-stop in the fall. I mean non-stop. In fact, I even had a fleeting idea that the officer might be pulling me over because I was clearly hording all the best butternut squash in town.

I said "Well, uh, I guess probably Betty Rubble? Why?" and he said (this is the part I kept replaying), "Oh! I figured you' were for sure gonna be an Oompa Loompa."

Smiling (mostly to (again) suck up) I said "Oh that's hilarious!" and tried to figure out what the heck he meant.   Oompa Loompas?  How would that even work for me? Was he making some bizarre short joke? Cuz I'm 6 feet tall. I'd have to cut myself off at the knees to be an Oompa Loompa.  Was he referring to my ploofy hairstyle (which, by the way, is RUDE to say because, like, I know I need a trim!)? And how does an Oompa Loompa have anything to do with a basket full of butternut squash? Geez cops are bizarre.

I was thinking so hard about this that I had to slam on the brakes to avoid missing Husband's driveway. All my precious squash went tumbling onto the floor (and I could smell that at least one was damaged. Gah!) while my purse hit the front window despite throwing my right arm protectively across the front seat.  Luckily it was only the shell of the purse that hit the window: my wallet, 104 receipts, 3 pens, 2 pairs of sunglasses, several raisins or nuts or both, and at least 4 Thomas the Tank Engines exploded from my open purse mid-flight. Is there any wonder why my car looks like they filmed a disaster movie inside it? Sigh.

I turned in, and double parked behind his truck. I debated searching the debris for baby wipes that I know I have and gave up. I got out and licked my finger to clean off the sticker. I looked down, baffled. I scrubbed the dirt away and started to giggle. His plates expired not 1 month ago like mine, but 2 years  and one month prior. Say WHAT?  I snorted that, effectively my ticket was how much two years worth of licence plate renewals would've been anyway and shook my head.

In shaking my head, I caught a glimpse of myself in the puddle beside his tire. Then I really started to laugh.

Apparently when all you do is eat butternut squash so you can buy more butternut squash, your skin gets a delightfully, odd, orange hue. Somewhere in the distance a drummer just played the Ba-bum-bum Ching!

I clearly could be a live-in companion of Gene Wilder or Johnny Depp.

I text Husband one last time: Charlie Bucket: I found your golden ticket and pasted it on top of your expired plates. Expired in 2010, btw. What's better than an Oompa Loompa? Your wife, but not by  much. Dinner tonight is some gum I got from a fat chick named Violet. Could be fun.

He replied, "What? No butternut squash?"

It's Exhausting. We're never getting back together. Like, ever.

I need to return my glue-gun.

It seems that instead of heating up glue sticks so that I can create amazing things out of toothpicks and twine, all the glue-gun has done is left little pearls of glue stuck to our couch in a nice line between where I was sitting and our table in front of me. Oh, did I mention the game of Connect The Dots that was created by the spider webs of melty glue? It looks like a giant spider was used as an air-hockey puck between my knees and the table. Oh joy.

Fortunately, Husband continues to be more enamoured with my crafting abilities with every passing day. Wait. Oh, wait, uh, no.   

Worst part: it's so clearly obvious that I did that damage that I can't even come up with a way to blame the dog.

Rizzo, our Jack Russell Terrier, got herself a long, blonde curly wig and has been trotting around the house singing, 

"You. Are never, ever, ever, blaming that on meee! 

You-oo. Are never, ever, ever blaming that on meee. 

You try convince Husband, convince Kiddos 1 and 2, 

but You-oo are never, ever, ever, ever ... blaming that on meee."  

Like, ever.

I mean, the freakin' dog doesn't even have thumbs to work the glue gun; whose idea was it to NOT get a gleeful chimpanzee all those years ago when we opted for dogs?  Obviously my unstable crafting future did not come into play when we were at the dog shelter. 

Next time it will. Oh, yes. Next time it will.

See, we started this new "Plant-strong, whole-foods" diet, which is code for Vegan, but sounds less crazy and less extreme. If you have never given up meat or dairy at any point in your life, I tell you-- take this month and give it a try. Who gives a shit about all the obvious health benefits-- I'm telling you that the minute you start eating foods you've (likely) never had to eat before, you become a real, serious machine gun of gas.

When governments cut back army funding, they secretly change their
soldiers' diets to Vegan thus simulating the sound of assault weapons;
it tricks the other side into surrender every time. 

Machine gun. 

Of gas.

There's no such thing as a subtle vegan. In fact, I guess that's why they've kept the kinda-scary name. Nothing about being vegan is discreet or quiet, least of all the farts. 

Remember when you were 8 and fart jokes were HI-larious and you'd giggle hysterically when someone would say "Pull my finger?"  Remember how you took all that time to classify and sort all the different types of farts that exist? The S.B.D. (silent but deadly), the pfffffft (that just kinda sounds like some wind slipping through a crack in an open window, the full-frontal (which defies gravity and comes out ... well you get it)... so many names, so many varieties, so so so many laughs.

Let me tell you, if you've left your heart in grade 3, the Whole-foods, plant-based diet is right up your (stinky) alley. Sure, the toots abate after two weeks, but you'll probably die laughing long before then. 

Or asphyxiate. 

See, Rizzo is thrilled with the glue-gun incident because, possibly for the first time in our life together, I have to take responsibility for something and not blamed her.

Friends visit and leave covered in dog hair? Rizzo! (that's mostly her anyway, but if I were a good dog-mom I would get her groomed or at least vacuum her to avoid that problem)

Can't find my keys? Rizzo took them.

Visiting friends gagging at the S.B.D.? Dang it, Rizzo! Outside! 

Just farted and sounded like end of a fireworks show? Rizzo! Naughty girl! 

It's not like I don't reward Rizzo for taking the blame; she gets those no-gluten, homemade dog treats that cost more than an entire bag of dog food. She and I go for walks and she has been allowed to chase and kill two bunnies in our backyard this year, as well as jump into the pond whenever she feels like it. It's a sweet life (except for the part where she sleeps under our covers and went deaf from the Rice Krispies farts <--- those toots that go "snap, crackle, pop.")

Maybe I can make a voodoo-style dog out of the glue gun strings and dots? Every time the lentils venture forth into the atmosphere, I can push on the tummy of my voodoo-glue dog and Rizzo will know to grin sheepishly while whispering "Oh excuse me! How terribly embarrassing! Good heavens!"  

But this time, I'm telling you, I'm telling you ... I need a new glue gun.

Spontaneous Sleeping Behind The Wheel

As recently as 6 months ago, I began jogging. I'd say running, but I think some people's stroll is still faster than I run, but that's beside the point. In fact, you could say it's keeping pace with the point in an aggravating manner, but I digress.

While jogging today I had an epiphany. Exciting, non?

See, a friend of mine posted what I thought was a very eloquent article about why it's hard to be a teacher this year. Frankly, I was reading it and thinking the whole time, "Boy, this is exactly how teachers feel this year! This is an excellent article!"  The crux of the thing, by the way, is that teachers, even the peppy ones, even the ones that make differences in your childrens' lives every day, are Tired.

So I sat there ruminating and thought "Man! This is exactly how I feel. I should totally share this article."

And then I didn't.

There was something that stopped me (beyond the lack of 'share' button from my phone, which irks me), and I couldn't put a finger on it until I was doing my 4th circle around the park today.

At 28 minutes into my 30 minute run, I realized what kept me from posting that article is the same thing I was feeling right then and there: I'm tired, too.

I'm not working full time. In fact, with the amount of subbing I actually do, I'd hardly qualify as part-time. Yet, I'm tired, too.

And it occurred to me, while I was running in circles, that I think, finally, everyone is tired.

To qualify my sweeping notion, here's my idea: what if, after almost a decade of living with a completely shitty economy (in Canada and the US), living in turmoil of losing a job for fear there is literally nothing else out there, we are ALL tired?

We are all doing the heaps more work given with little or no compensation; yet the blue bird on our shoulders keeps saying "Well, at least you've got a job! Just smile and do this little bit extra and be thankful for what you've got!"

As a teacher, as a tax payer, as a parent of school-aged children, as a (seemingly) perpetual student myself, I feel inundated with a whole lot of propaganda about teachers. I'm sure there have been years where things have been so heated and emotional. I'm sure there have been other years where things haven't been and should have been. But I use the term propaganda correctly here-- there is a whole lot of information being tossed around that is meant to sway public opinion.  As a teacher, tax payer, parent of school-aged children, and a perpetual student, I'm kinda torn.

On one side, I dig it. Teaching is not the profession it used to be, even 5 years ago. The teachers who have been around for decades must be truly beside themselves for the unrealistic amounts of change required of us in our classrooms on a daily basis.

And yet.

When people say "Oh, you get summers and holidays off!" we, as a profession, go on the defense. We say things like "You could've been a teacher, too!" and "We don't mandate our holidays, the government does!" and other such things that make people feel sad in their smug exclamations. We do things like create clever charts and graphs and do crazy math (well, other teacher friends do this, I simply read it and am amazed that they did that) to prove that with all the extra hours teachers put in, we earn cents on the dollar. Sad right?

And yet.

We chose this profession. Teaching hasn't changed so much in the last 200 years that we didn't know we'd be doing, planning, marking/grading, attending functions and chairing clubs/coaching teams etc.  To that, I can't help but say "You could've been something different, too, dear Teacher."

Ouch.

The other fact is that not every teacher does things like coaching or leading a club or (frankly) prep/marking etc. Some teachers suck at their jobs, or worse, hate their jobs. Those teachers, in my humble opinion, are the reason Great Teachers feel so shafted. Why-oh-why does Shitty Teacher get to earn $$$ and keep a job they clearly suck at?  I think those Shitty Teachers, too, are the reason public opinion isn't exactly pounding down our front doors right now.

Double ouch.

Not to mention, and this is the most important part, I can't think of any person in North America who works at any career who is not putting in thousands of extra hours of overtime just to keep a job.  I mean really, let's compare apples to apples shall we? Anyone who makes a paycheque that is equal to or greater than that of a teacher, or  a career that requires at least a post-grad certificate, is undoubtedly putting in time outside of their regular day. If they're not, they're lying to you to get your goat.

I promise.

The local business owner, the big-company person, the small-company person, the engineer, the teacher, the nurse, the Dr... do you think any of these professionals starts or ends a day at a prescribed time? Sure, they're supposed to, but if something needs their attention, it gets it, 5pm or not.

In this economy, everyone has to hustle to make a buck. In this economy, everyone puts in extra hours to make ends meet. In this economy, everyone is still pretending to not have hard weeks or months... and in this economy, we're ALL TIRED.

All of us. We're tired. I know you feel it, or you wouldn't still be reading this post.

We're tired of pretending we're all billionaires. We're tired of waking up and the problems of yesterday are still here. We're tired of hearing that, for all the great things we have going on in our two countries, there are some real, tough, shitty things out there that we've tried to smile through. And the shit is not going away.

So, here's what I propose: let's all stop pretending anyone works harder than anyone else. Let's all stop pretending someone else has it so much easier than you do. Let's stop blaming, and being jealous and get to the heart of the problem: we're tired and something has to change or there's going to be a nationwide pileup on the highways caused by spontaneous sleeping behind the wheel.

There are a lot of broken things going on in each country. We need to, as countries, figure out what is True and what is False.  No one is having secret diamond parties.  No one is living it up without worries or cares. Even celebs are wearing outfits more than once. The NHL is on strike or locked out or whatever the line is. Our teachers in Canada and the US could be in the same boat (and might already be, mentally), our Doctors are feeling the same. That's not a pretty picture, folks.

Appreciate what you have. Don't worry about your neighbours or your friends across town. I assure you, they're as tired as you are.

Now go take a nap. Or take two weeks and get 10 full hours of sleep a night.
Don't lie and say you don't need sleep. Yes you do. YES. You do.

De-occupy yourself and your family-- your kids don't need to be in 10 thousand things to make them good people. They need parents that care about them and show them how to take care of themselves.  They need to see what it's like to be engaged in the here and now.  And stop over-caffeinating yourself to get through your day. Sleep 8 hours at night instead; I promise it will change your life.

Nothing seems as daunting once you're rested.
Nobody has it better than you when you've had enough sleep.
The sun isn't even as annoyingly bright and cheerful when it's not reflecting off the bags under your eyes.

It's time to stop being tired; that time starts now and it starts with you.

(don't worry-- the regularly scheduled hilarity will begin again once I've had a nap)

Do you agree? Or am I off my ever-loving rocker?

To Hear or Not To Hear: That is the Question, Hamlet.

Husband returned from work for lunch today. Strolling in with a smirk on his face, I asked him how his morning went.

Husband: It was good. So, I had my hearing tested today.

Husband's got this hole in his ear drum from excessive ear infections/tubes/grafts/damage to his ear between the ages of say, birth to say, yesterday. He is also mostly deaf in one ear as a result. This deafness, by the way, drives me to DRINK. If he's looking ahead and his left ear is facing me, he hears NOTHING I say. Nothing.  I thought maybe it was like I was under water, or like Charlie Brown's teacher, but he assures me he hears nothing if that left ear is facing me.

Rather, he can hear me if I whisper "Want to have sex?" without moving my mouth or even looking at him, but he cannot seem to hear me when I say things like, "Hey, can you load and unload the disher?" or "Will you make Kiddo #1's lunch for tomorrow?" or "Honey, I lost our St. Bernard in the grass-- can you possibly cut the lawn today?"

At some point this summer, he was standing outside at Kiddo#1's soccer game on a particularly windy morning and ended up with a doozy of an ear infection that lasted almost a month and blah blah blah. Poor Husband.

So, after finally getting that all cleared up, he was referred to an Ear, Nose and Throat Doc to make sure the damage wasn't permanent or worse than it already was.

And today was the day that he went for his hearing test.

Husband: It was good. So, I had my hearing test today.
Me: Oh?
Husband: I can hear just fine.  In fact, the hearing tester person said that I had "better than average hearing."
Me: (silence)
Husband: (now preparing his lunch with his back to me) Literally, my hearing was so good that I was sitting in the chair and I could not only hear the tones, but also when other people were walking down the hallway outside the test room.
Me: (silence)
Husband: I'm not gonna brag, but I can hear better than some dogs. They tested my high-end and low-end sound recognition, and KER-POW, knocked that one right outta the park.

I know you know what I was busy loudly thinking while he blathered on about his ability to hear. I know you understand what I was thinking, because at around this same point, Husband figured it out, too.

While I just stood there, staring at him with a smirk on my face and nodding supportively, watching him "ker-pow" an invisible baseball out of the park, Husband suddenly stopped talking, looked me in the eyes and realized his folly.

Husband: Um. So. I. Uh.
Me: Yep.
Husband: And, uh, it's, I mean, the test results aren't, like, I mean, they'll type them up.
Me: Uh-huh.
Husband: Like, so once we get the final numbers, uh...
Me: Yes. Yes. We will finally know for certain just how much you can hear and how much you... cannot.
Husband: Actually, there was a lot of wind just getting back into the car.
Me: Oh?
Husband: Yes. And then on the way home, um, someone in the car next to mine fired off a cannon.
Me: Oh?
Husband: There's no winning here.
Me: Probably not.
Husband: Is that the baby crying?
Me: I would have no idea, your hearing is much better than mine.
Husband: (loud, sad exhale) Yes. It would appear so.

Terry Fox Is a Good Person

I was mad at Terry Fox last week.

See, I was supposed to go for my first big, 20-minutes-in-a-row, run and low and behold the Terry Fox Run was going on in MY park, the park where I run.

Sulking, I returned home.

Me: I can't run today.
Hubby: Why not?
Me: Because like, there's a real run going on in the park.
Hubby: Can't you blend in?
Me: Just don't joke. I can't run and it's because real runners are running in MY park.
Hubby: Then go for a run in the world.
Me: Don't toy with my emotions. I'm not there yet.

Off to the basement I sulked. I don't even think there's a better word for what I did, which is why I used it twice in the opening of this bloggy. Lip out, sighing heavily and feeling very sorry for myself, I went down to the basement and began cleaning the toy room.

From the basement I heard Kiddo #1 ask "Where's Mommy?"  When Husband replied to my whereabouts, I heard the gentle, excited jump of her feet while she bounced "That means there's a play date coming! I'm gonna go clean my room!"

Welcome to Real House: you know we're friends when  that's what you see when you arrive. Fake House, as dubbed by my brother, is the way your house looks for holidays, photo shoots and strangers. Real House is the everyday way you live.

Then I started to really be mad at Terry Fox. I mean, here was is this guy who is a Canadian Icon, running for Cancer research, running after he lost his leg, and the running no matter what and then dying because he was running and it spread to his lungs, and HE is the one keeping ME from running (not for Cancer research, no, I run so that I can pretend that my house is clean while I'm gone).

And worst of all, I now have to do the cleaning that I run to avoid doing, because I can't run.

GAH.

I'm a bad person.

Is it Coincidence that loose change sounds like Jingle Bells?

No sooner had I put the children to bed did Husband make his triumphant return from his 4-Day business trip to Chicago. I was busy unloading and loading the disher and medium-quietly dancing around the kitchen to the music on my Ipod. I have music going the way most people have a TV on. Thing is, I can't have a TV on or I get Zombified for days on end without showering, eating or doing anything productive.

So, I'm dancing around the kitchen, unloading and reloading the disher (quit wondering what that is-- it's the dishwasher. You call the clothes washing machine the "washer" so why not the dish washing machine the "disher?")  when Husband triumphantly returns. He hangs up his keys and comes in for a nice kiss when he stops abruptly and recoils in horror.

Probably I should mention that I don't usually shower when he leaves town. I figure a) what single parent has time to frickin' shower (also if you are a single parent, and currently have showered in the last, say week, you have MAD PROPS from this lady) and b) if The Mob shows up at the front door while Husband is away, the stench of my unwashed self should make them flee in terror. I also think this would save me from ninjas and The Killers (real killers, not the band, and also not The Band. Sigh.) but I don't think the funk would save me from Zombies. Random.

Husband recoils and I smile-cringe and tell him I'll just be right back and he stops me. 

Husband: Um. Yes. So, uh, how long was I gone for?

Me: You shouldn't end a sentence in a preposition.

Husband: You shouldn't answer a question with a grammar hint.  So. For how long was I gone?

Me: Clearly long enough that I should've broken down and showered.

Husband: What? Oh. Well, I'm kinda used to that. No, I mean, what the frick are you playing?

Me: Wha?

And then I giggle. Oh. Yes. I get it now. I'm not so disgustingly stinky that he can't kiss me; I'm playing Christmas music and it's September 11th. That's a new one, even for me.

I look into his eyes and say, "Well, honey, I thought it was appropriate."

He manages to catch his jaw before it clanks on the floor. (<-- this is the universal look of utmost shock and disbelief.  In case you've never seen it before because your Husband or significant people in your life aren't complete DRAMA QUEENS, I thought I should point this out.)

Husband: Care to explain?

Me: Well....  you've been gone a really long time...

Husband: Seriously? 4 days?

Me: Well, it's like, you were gone a long time and like, I was all by myself.

Husband: Wow. Does Invisible Children know about me yet?

Me: What? No. Geez. You're such a Drama Queen.

Husband: I learned from the best.

Me: So, anyway, I was here by myself and my phone died. Like, it said "No Sim."

Husband: Right. Get to the Christmas music, Ernie.

Me: Well, so today I HAD to go out and get a new phone because we don't have a land line, and what if Kiddo #1's school called and she'd been in a ninja fight?

Husband:  (silence)

Me: ... And, see, before then, I had to get this ice cream maker.

Husband: (stunned silence)

Me: ... Cuz it was on sale and now that we're doing the Whole-Foods, Plant-Based eating thing, you deserve to have ice cream.

Husband: (every beat of his heart looks like a dollar sign pulsing on his forehead. It's kinda creepy.)

Me: And, with the whole-foods thing, like, my old food processor was good, but it was really loud and wouldn't really grind up the dates or the chickpeas...

Husband: (a weird sound like a Zombie trying to push out a difficult poop is coming from his throat)

Me: ...plus it's Kiddo #2's birthday this weekend, so I got him a bike.   

Husband: (sitting at the table) Is there any ice cream ready? I need to drown my sorrows.

Me: Uh. Well, uh, no. I mean, there WAS ice cream. The kids and I ate it after dinner. It was really good, actually. 

Husband: Of course.

Me: Well, we were celebrating because Kiddo #1 got her ears pierced tonight!

Husband: Whaaa--what?

Me: Remember how like, 100 years ago Kiddo #1 said she wanted to pierce her ears? Well, last night she remembered and so I took her to the jewellery store and she picked out her very first diamond studs! 

Did you know that a grown man who is fully passed out weighs a lot more than you'd figure?

As I waved the smelling salts under his nose to revive him, I smiled, he smiled and I whispered, "Don't worry honey, Kiddo #2's earrings aren't real diamonds. And, also, I haven't put the tree up yet."  

Weeping with unabashed joy, Husband swooped in for that kiss he owed me.  "Am I still kinda out of it? Cuz you smell a lot better."  (I don't have the heart to tell him he's been out cold for almost 3 hours, which is about how long it takes to both shower and shave after so many days of neglect.)  

I smile and kiss him back. 

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a happy back to school time. 

  

 

Trifecta Wagering Is Open

It’s that time of year again: I’ve been researching various mimosa and sangria recipes in hopes of finding the perfect concoction for the first day of school. It’s not that I’m not going to miss Little Miss, but every day of summer vacation reminds me why teachers need summer vacation. 

I’m freaking out a little lot though.

Is it just me or do the back-to-school lists look something like this:

1 white eraser

1 pencil case

1 pair of indoor sneakers

2 live monarch butterflies

5 duotangs- 1 red, 2 orange, 1 yellow and 1 purple

1 unicorn eyelash

4 pencils

A package of spoons

Not to mention the clothes shopping.

Until I had children, I had never pondered why bugs in the Rainforest are 9 feet tall.  Now that I’ve survived my first summer with a school-aged child, I realize those bugs are huge because The Rainforest is hot and humid, with lots of sunshine, 365 days a year. If our kids lived there, trust me, we’d all have basketball stars and models;  two months of Chatham heat and humidity and my daughter went from “mostly tall” to “Amazonian.” 

Nope, sorry giant kid. You won't even fit on the Magic School Bus. 

You'd think after all that growing, that my issues catching the bus would be no more-- perhaps this would be the year that Kiddo #1 no longer has to catch the bus because she's too tall to even fit inside.

As luck would have it, this is not that year.

Like any good horse racer, I checked out the leader board and the racing program before betting on our first day success-potential. 

Kiddo Numba Won

Class: Kindergarten Claimer

Kiddo Numba Won, according to the program, is using Blinders for the first time this race. This is a good thing to know because there is a real potential for her not to get distracted by toys, games, or really anything between brushing her teeth and eating her breakfast. To the average race reader, this might not be critical, but I know my horse. Er, my daughter. She will definitely have a significantly higher chance of catching the bus if there's no way to distract her from her course. Unfortunately for her, however, there have been no driver or trainer changes-- meaning I'm here and not going anywhere.  I'm both driver and trainer and I am clearly doing something wrong. Kiddo Numba Won is able to catch the bus when her father is here as driver and unable when I am; odds are she's pooched before the call to post simply because we didn't modify the driver. Drat.

Checking the race stats for Kiddo Numba Won, she didn't catch the bus in her last three starts.  In fact, she didn't even come close. It was like she thought every day of the week was Saturday, judging from her times posted. Yet, there's something worth noting on the program here-- on 2 of her 4 starts, she was the favourite to catch that bus and yet still didn't. The addition of Blinders could be the thing she needs to finally win the Race. 

Bookbag and other equipment are on and ready to go. I'm dressed, Milo's dressed and we're all ready except for shoes. This is awesome. This is amazing! This is the way to start a New Year!  Kiddo Numba Won looks at me and says "Momma, my chest is tight."  I say, "Get your shoes on, we've got 12 minutes until the bus."  She says, "Momma (horrific cough) my chest hurts (disgusting cough) when I do that. Oooh."  I say, "Well, it wouldn't hurt so much if you had your shoes on." 

That's when I realize I have to scratch her.  To non-horse folks: I didn't sharpen my claws and go at my daughter à la Wolverine-- when you "scratch" a horse it means you pull her from the race before she even goes on the track. 

It sucks for the Momma because I still have to get her to school whether Kiddo Numba Won catch the bus or not. But it only semi-sucks for the Momma today, because it's the first day of school and I was going to put her on the bus and race over to the school, anyway, so that I could walk her to the yard and see who her teacher is.

Scratched and happy, we toot on over to the school with our unicorn eyelash and various other school supplies. I find last year's teacher and feel sad that we won't have her again this year.  But, sensing my apprehension, new teacher arrived on the scene and said "Oh! Kiddo #1, you look very lovely today. I like your skirt very much."  

For the win. 

Crouching Tiger, Weeping Japanese Man

When I got into the car yesterday after Day of Champs (which is the last soccer game for the season, and for the Under 5 league in which my daughter plays, it's also the day each kiddo gets a medal for being awesome) I wondered why someone had allowed a dog to poop in the backseat.

Well, it was somewhere in the car anyway-- I didn't see any feces in the back, all our shoes (and cleats) were clean and yet my car stunk of warm dog excrement.

The thing is that even if there was a full-on Great Dane living in the backseat of my Honda CR-V, we'd never know it for the garbage dump that is the kids' seats.  The best way to describe my backseat would be an aquarium (via millions of goldfish crackers) in Chernobyl; by "best" I mean "nicest."

Husband, being kind and wonderful and generous and possibly insane, offered to clean the car out today. Well, it actually went down like this:

Me: I don't wanna run today. I'm gonna take the kids to Amsterdam and we'll go swimming at Grandma and Grandpa's instead and I'll get my run in that way.
Husband: You can't drive your car to Amsterdam.
Me: Eh? Why not?
Husband: Because it smells like dog crap. You'll die of asphyxia with the windows up on the highway.
Me: Oh. Oh yeah.
Husband: Plus you need to clean out your car today.
Me: Well, anyway, those are the same problems.
Husband: Right, so how are you gonna clean your car from the pool?
Me: Well, I was just gonna drive it in with the windows down.
Husband: Can't make it any worse.
Me: So, problems are solved. Can you help me pack the kids up?
Husband: No and yes.

We fed and watered the children (it was noon) and got them almost ready to leave when Husband reappeared and said, "I can't, in good conscience, allow the children or myself to be transported to your parents' house in your car."

Seriously-- the DRAMA in this man.

I looked at him, sighed a big sigh and said, "Well then, I guess we'll just clean out my car at my parents' house because the kids are already excited to go."

Husband repeated his DRAMA about good consciences and how we'd all die if we drove the hour and a half to my parent's abode.  Oh, Amsterdam is what I call the little town my parents live in (Amherstburg) because it's an hour and a half from Chatham and it feels like you need a passport and an international flight to get there. It's cute and all, but dang the drive is long.

Right. Drama. So I said, "Well, I suppose I could take your truck with the children and YOU can clean my car out from the comfort of your own home."

...

Down the highway I tooted-- well not really tooted-- Husband drives a truck, and trucks don't Toot, they Shart.  Off I sharted, down the highway to Amsterdam and a pool and cardio via lap swimming while my children splash around with my parents and my husband cleans my car. The kids and I made a nice little trip of it, stopping at a cute bookstore and picking up a bunch of random produce at three different fruit/veggie stands along the way.

Random: I've always wanted to get a video of a sign that says "Fruit Stand 50 meters" and then, 50 meters later, zoom in on, like, Elton John just standing there looking around. Honestly, I look for an Elton John cutout every time I see a fruit stand sign and I crack myself up every time. I even picture the scene in Family Guy-esque images. Elton John is the 1978 version of himself with his gigantic sunglasses and crazy pants and a white feather boa, in case you, too, want a visual. And in typical Family Guy fashion, the quick clip takes way too long and everyone is just staring at each other and I'm cracking up on my couch, but in my car.

Around 8pm I got a text from Husband.

"Somewhere on this earth, a Japanese man is openly weeping for what has been done to this car."

I told him that he's hilarious but that my car was made in North America so probably the factory workers in Japan don't give a care what I do to the car, and thanks for cleaning it out.  He replied "The hardest part was getting the raccoon family to leave."  I said "Haha." He said, "I managed to only get a fine from MoE."  "Who's Moe?" I asked, knowing none of our neighbours are named Moe. "Ministry of the Environment. They showed up with Hazmat suits when I opened up the back hatch."

This is what I have to live with.

I returned home (minus Kiddo #1 who negotiated to stay with Grandma and Grandpa for not one, not two, but three nights!). Sure, the inside of the car is spotless and (I checked) smelling good, but the outside is still dirty and the windows are still smeary. Boo.

I called to Hubby who groaned and said, "I can't help you bring Kiddo #2 in-- I'm sore and exhausted."
Me: You played soccer on Tuesday. It's Sunday.
Hubby: It's from cleaning your car.
Me: (silence-- mostly because I have no idea how to convey the emotions I'm feeling right now.)
Hubby: I didn't even get to wash it.
Me: I noticed that. It's gross on the outside now.
Hubby: Well, I cleaned your car for 6 hours today.

In the Choose Your Own Adventure version of this conversation, the reply would look like this:

I knew it!

Turn to page 68 if you said, "You spent 6 hours cleaning my car? No wonder your morning shower takes so long."

Skip to page 3 if you said, "Wow. That's a testament to the filth. I'm sorry  honey. I'll never do that again, probably, once the kids have moved out."

Hop over to page 5 if you looked at the wall and thought nasty and then nice thoughts and then a little bit nasty thoughts again. Not nasty like Playboy, but nasty like Dexter.

If you cheated while reading the Choose Your Own Adventure books and always looked at the three options to make sure the one you picked wasn't the Stop sign/End point and re-chose when it was, then you'll want to know which one was the 'right' choice.

Ha. Yes, you would, Cheater.  Yes, you would.

Apps, Sweat and Jeers

I started jogging in May.

I feel like I need to confess it, or come out of the proverbial closet since I've been a staunch anti-runner for a number of years now.

Yes, in the past I've said such ugly things as "The only time you'll catch me running is if Jason Voorhees is chasing me, with fire" and "Running? But why? Did someone steal your cellie and you're trying to get it back? Cuz it's got that Find My Phone app, right? I mean, you don't NEED to run. You're choosing to. Choose to not."  Oh and let's not forget the wonderful, "No one is born running. It's not a way of life unless you're a gazelle."

Oh the humanity.

See, because, the truth is that for as long as I can remember, I've known something was up. I'd watch people jogging and think "Good LORD why?" and then (quieter) "Well, maybe it's not that bad..."  I'd check out kicks (running shoes, for you laymen) and wish that I was wearing them instead of ridiculously uncomfortable shoes unsuitable for walking.

I'd watch parades of people, dressed all alike in running "outfits" (albeit some people chose to cover more than others), waving flags and posters that say such witty things as "I Run, I'm Out, Get Used to it!" I'd feel drawn to the scene yet would say things like "A Marathon! Lunacy I say!" and would snort and scoff until everyone around me was embarrassed.

And yet.

Here I was, buying an app for my phone-- Couch to 5K it is called. Wow. I drank the last gulp of my glass of water, and pressed "install."  I knew something was about to change when I let that, title and all, be on my phone for anyone to see.

I sat and stared at it for almost two weeks before I got the courage to open the app for the first time. And then, on May 15th, I decided I would try it out and timidly walked to the park.

I put in my earbuds, turned on the app and began running. I ran like it was the only thing I'd ever known. My hair, billowing softly behind me as I loped gorgeously around the park; my body easily took to running like a fish to water. My true self glowed with every step; my heartbeat sang with every breath. It's like I'd been running all my life.

I couldn't stop smiling the entire time.

Wait. No.
That's the Pinterest image of what I was doing.

I put in my earbuds, not yet wise to threading the wire through my shirt to keep it from bouncing the speakers from my ears.  My face was puffy and blotchy and my lungs were on fire after the first 10 seconds of running. I tried to pace my breathing so my heartbeat would be at the correct rate for something good (whatever that was). I quickly realized that was futile since I was, in fact, hardly moving at all and my heart was banging like screen-door in a hurricane. When the lovely British woman who narrates the run said "Just keep going-- only 10 seconds left!" I wasn't sure if she was talking about the end of the run or the end of my life.

2 minutes later, she told me it was time to start my second 1-minute run and I nearly shit. I mean, really almost shit. Who the hell is this Euro-bitch telling me it's time to run with her smiley voice and upbeat encouragement? I started running and lasted a total of 8 seconds before I dry-heaved on the pretty, green grass near the play equipment.  How can kids just run and run and run?
Eff-'em.

Reality: It's taken me 3 months to get to the 4th week of the program.

As it turns out, the App I should've bought would be called Coma to 5K because I was not even anywhere close to "couch" in terms of fit. But, in the meantime I've almost lost a toenail (from cheaping out on sneakers, but it made me feel like a real Runner, so it's not all bad). And, if Sweating ever counts for anything in the Olympics I could steal Gold from anyone, anywhere, anytime.

Do I really want to run 5K? Nah. I'm hoping to be able to chase Kiddo #2 and actually catch him. I'm running so I can dance and sing with Kiddo #1, at the same time.  Hell, let's be honest: I'm running to escape the dishes and laundry and bills and weeds and whatever else is taking over my house. I'm running to have at least 30 minutes that are only for me where the only thing dripping fluids on me is me.

Hell to the yes.

After 30-ish years, I think it's possible to say that all the anti-running sentiments and general run-a-phobia might have been a woman resisting her true self.  So, to all the runners out there: I'm terribly sorry if I (secretly) thought you were insane or any proximity thereof.  And I'm really sorry if I told you about your insanity to your face.  You were confident in who you are; I'm getting there, one footstep and bucket of sweat at a time.

She's Got The Look

I dropped Kiddo #2, now snoozing in this carseat, off at the house with his (also snoozing) father. Kiddo #1 and I had about 10 million errands to finish running-- Kiddo #2 clearly didn't care for our schedule after stop 3, because he was snoring like a hibernating grizzly bear.  (possibly snoring because he's coming down with something-- he doesn't normally snore and also he doesn't normally fall asleep randomly. Geh.)

"Can you bring me a blanket when you come back, Momma?" I stopped and considered that perhaps, even though it's 900 degrees today, plus humidex, I had the car a little too chilly.  I returned sans enfant, et plus une couette. I asked her, "Kiddo #1, are you cold?" and she said, "Oh no, Momma. It's 900 degrees, plus humidex. No, I'm going to put it in my window for the sun."

So I said, "So, who taught you how to do that amazingly smart thing?" She giggled and said, "Oh. Uh, I dunno? I forget."

Whatever. I wish when she couldn't remember, and the thing she did was awesome, that she'd just give me random credit. I don't remember a dang thing I did 10 minutes ago, so I'd be quite, happily surprised. Heck, I might even be touched or proud or something-- who knows the emotional limitations of my astounding lack of short term memory?

Off to Superstore we bopped.  I turned up the iPod and we sang and danced; we were having so much fun, in fact, that I took the long way to the store. It took us 45 minutes to get to Superstore today and it's usually about 7 minutes, give or take a red light.  Good thing gas is so mega-ultra-cheap. Ha.

We sang about bad romances, a girl who'd like some guy to call her, maybe, the new one from Train and some One Direction. When she busted out the lyrics for "Little Talks" (Of Monsters and Men) I paused the song and said, "Like, where did you ever learn the lyrics to this?" and she giggled, "Oh. Uuuuh. I dunno? I forget. Also, can you play "Paro-paro-paradise" by that one band?"  So off to Coldplay-land I went.

When we arrived, Kiddo #1 insisted on driving the cart while I did the picking out of things.  It was actually kinda cool; with her loss of tooth has come great responsibility. She wants to push the cart, take care of her brother-- last week she was so sure of herself, I let her call our Internet provider and negotiate a better rate. We're now getting unlimited Internet with 2 iPads "thrown in" for $12.99 bi-annually. I know I'm just making my life harder when she's 16 and wants a car, but I figure the money I save on Internet can be put away for said automobile. Win-win.

Yes, I'd like infinite refills, please.

 We were in the grocery store about 15 seconds before Kiddo #1 was dancing and needed to go to the bathroom upstairs by herself STAT. I watched her disappear upstairs. Outwardly, I pretended to be intently checking out the tootsie rolls, marshmallow strawberries and other random stuff the grocery packs around the only stairwell to the customer bathrooms. Smartie-pants marketers; you know parents are going to be hovering in that area pretending to be buying stuff while their young, baby, kids go upstairs all by themselves to go to the bathroom all by themselves, and these parents are gonna have to do something to avoid having a complete panic attack all by themselves.  So, why not surround us with the ultimate junk foods? Genius.

Comfort Chocolates aside, I have her down to a 4-minute bathroom break, even though there's only one way up or down. I saw this one CSI once where very bad things happened in a bathroom and I can't get the image out of my head every time she has to pee in a public place. Honestly. (oh, and I was so freaked out by that 5 minute clip that I couldn't watch the rest of the show to see how it ended, so for all I know the nasty guy is still out there lurking AHHHH!)

At what point does parenting get less insane? Like, at 8 do we finally get to not worry that they're going to be attacked by killer bees on the way to the park?
Or is it 18?  28?  88?

And if it's any of those "adult" ages, why does parenthood not automatically come with a lifetime-sized bottle of anti-anxiety meds?

She returned right on schedule and off we trotted.

Remember these little delicacies? 

"Momma, is this garbage or good?"  she said, pointing at one of those plastic fruit-filled with sourish-sugar. I raise an eyebrow and repeat the question back to her. She giggles and says "GARBAGE! Good, delicious garbagey goodness!" and laughs.

She pushes the cart and we head toward the produce section. When she ran into my ankles, the first three times, I smiled and asked her to please watch out for other people when she's pushing the cart. When she whined a "Please can I get a bologna?" at the deli I took a deep breath and reminded her we don't ask for things with whining.

When she got crazy in the cereal aisle I calmly looked at her and said, "This is inappropriate. Please stop or you will get a time-out."

Also, to reiterate a whole other blog (http://doescoffeecomeinbucketsize.blogspot.ca/2012/04/fake-moustaches-and-soccer-practice.html), why is the cereal aisle the boiling point in any grocery store visit? I've tried running through them, I've tried pretending it's a whole different aisle (which makes me look like a lunatic, btw), I've tried just not going down the damn aisle at all-- doesn't matter. The kids can sense the Fruit Loops and Choco-Sugar-Smacky-Explosion cereals and Lose. Their. Minds.

So, we're in the dreaded cereal aisle and Kiddo #1 starts about how she'd like a Kinder Egg. I say, "Oh, no not today, baby. I appreciate that you'd like a treat, but today our treat is hanging out together."

I swear she rehearsed this next part.

Kiddo #1 covered her ears and said, "If I don't get a Kinder Egg, I'm going to start yelling."
I ignored her and pretended to read the back of a Fruit Loops box.  "I SAID, if I don't get a Kinder Egg, I'm going to start yelling!"
I continued to ignore her (a little because I don't  really know what to do and a little because I had no idea how much complete GARBAGE is in Fruit Loops).  She taps my arm (gently), then quickly re-covers her ears to say, "If I don't GET A KINDER EGG RIGHT NOW, I am going to get very CROSS and YOU WILL GET IN TROUBLE."

Nice. Not bad. Pretty good parenting on her end, I must admit.

I start pushing the cart toward the next aisle as Kiddo #1 digs in her heels and says (just as we pass a hip looking granny) "I am CROSS. You are getting ME a KINDER EGG or else."  Granny raises an eyebrow and gives me what I've decided is the "We've all been there" look, which is very easy to confuse with the "I'm judging the SHIT outta you right now, and sister, you FAIL" look.

I believe strongly that the former exists so I can stop with the shame and ulcers.
Whatever lets you sleep at night, non?

At any rate, I turn the corner when Kiddo #1 ups the ante. She says, quasi-loudly, "In fact, IF YOU don't GET ME a KINDER EGG, I. Will. ..."

I inhale slowly so as to savour the next few words.

"I will not share my children with you in the future."

Say what say what? "Puh-Pardon?" I say, rapidly blinking the way Madonna does and now I know she blinks like that because she's completely astounded by the statement she just heard.

"You heard my words. I will NOT share my CHILDREN with you in the FUTURE."

You. Won't. WHAT? I break down into hysterical, sobbing, laughter. I was bent over the shopping cart, tears streaming down my face and there she was, hands still on her ears, eyebrows pinched together and smirking. Then laughing while trying to pinch her eyebrows together. Oh lordy.

The two of us were laughing to hard that the hip granny arrived on the scene to give me the "We've all been there" look again, only this time, it might have actually meant that.

When I finally composed myself and stopped replaying the incident in my head and re-busting out in laughter, I said, "Like, for reals, where did you get that thing about the children?"

"Oh. Uh, I dunno. I forget. Momma, let's sing that paro-paro-paradise song."

We sing our hearts out and I briefly consider getting her that damn Kinder Egg but hip granny is in the next checkout lane giving me the look.

You know the one.