Mommasaurus Rex And The Ping Pong Tournament

Have I mentioned, lately, that I've been battling frickin' Mono for almost a year now? I try not to complain or bemoan the fact that the only people that can beat Mono are teenagers; teens are the only people that don't have to work, don't have to go to school, can sleep until 4pm, get up for a few hours and then go back to bed without the world coming to a halt. Sure, they should go to work, school and be awake while the sun is up, but let's face it: they are the only people that don't HAVE to do any of those things. They have an out: they're teenagers. 

At any rate, I'm feeling great lately, which makes me feel like Wonder Mom.  I think I might finally be over Mono. Or at least closer to being over Mono than I yet have been. Triumph! 

Ha. That orange thing is a crank for the
windows, not a broken penis.

I'm hunting around for the crank to close our windows. Ha. Not The Crank, as in the cranky person that closes our windows. Articles are such fickle mistresses. No, Kiddo #2 likes to take off the window crank things and use them to wind up all sorts of toys that don't wind. 

I shut up the dining room window and carefully turn down the blind.  I do this carefully because when Kiddo #2 went down for his nap and I decided to sneak in a mid-afternoon shower, I did not carefully turn down the blind. Speaking of blind... I struck several dog walkers and religious salespeople blind when they glanced in through the (forgotten) open shutters as I raced to Kiddo #2's room mid-towel dry to see why he was screaming. He was fine. Oh yes. He was. The passersby, however, fell to the ground like overturned roly poly bugs, clutching their eyes and moaning. 

Now I understand what Husband means
when he says "You take my breath away." Sigh.

Seriously? It's not THAT bad, people.  

Their various reactions were severe enough to make me think that maybe Day of The Triffids (Wyndham) had occurred while I lather, rinse, and repeated my way to cleanliness. Until I noticed the carefully forgotten blind that was wide open. Dear Lord.

"But Ponyboy! You told me you loved me!
You told me you'd always be there for me."
Yep. I'm sure he would've been, Rizzo,
if you weren't having his puppies. Sigh.

I walk to the living room and pick up the 10 thousand bits of paper, cards and drawings strewn about the place. I opened up the whole house today and put up baby gates at the front and back since we don't have screen doors. Oh, not to keep Kiddo #2 inside so much as to keep Rizzo (our Jack Russell Terrier) from heading over to the nearby park where she would meet up with nogoodnick dogs and get knocked up with a litter of puppies faster than you can say Ponyboy. Every time the wind picked up, it kicked up the contents of my living room with it. C'est la vie, right? It's the price you pay for a house that is welcoming Spring.

And speaking of Spring, I washed the windows (outside and in!) today. In the two years we've lived in this house, I can safely say this has never happened before. I was too pregnant to do it the first year, I was too nursing to do it the second. I did the outside front ones while Kiddo #2 took a morning nap, did the inside once he was up.  Brilliance. And brilliant-- I'm sure my excitement is all magic and placebo effect, but I swear you can tell our windows are squeaky clean even from the road.  (the sparkle of clean windows may, coincidentally, have blinded more passersby when the sun hit the glass around 4pm this afternoon. Honestly. I'm a black hole of chaos.)

Is that sparkle from those clean windows going to attack me?
Or is  that just a cloud of funky old food descending on me?
Hard to tell. I'd better scream loudly so it knows where to land.

I circled into the kitchen and closed up those windows, too. You know, second on my list of terrible smells is the smell of food lingering in a kitchen. I don't know why, but when I smell some food residue scent, hours after having finished eating, I feel nauseated and kinda wanna barf.  

I turn on the stove fan to suck out the kitchen stink and replace my olfactory noise with an auditory one, instead; that damn fan sounds like an airplane taking off.  Husband comes in, mouths a bunch of things that I'm supposed to understand and turns off the fan. "See?"  he says emphatically. 

Oh yes. That's about all I can do with that loud fan on. I certainly can't hear you. While I might be nodding and smiling, Dear, loving Husband, I have no clue what you just said "See" about.  I can only hope he said, "I just won the lottery and the first thing I'm gonna do is turn off this fan and say "See"."  

...

Uh-huh.  He follows up whatever his unheard comment was, with "Geez. It looks like it's gonna rain. Good thing you're shutting up the house."

Even Justin Bieber is grossed out trying to clean
my side of the bed. Frickin' milk barf.

And then it hits me: the number one thing I can't stand to smell.  I look to the skies. Thank you, I whisper to Mother Nature, for making the day both beautiful and windy so I could open the house up all day long because Kiddo #2 barfed up an entire sippy cup of milk on the bed. Yes. Not only barf, but milk barf. 

Smellicious. 

And, really, it wasn't just on the bed. He barfed on MY SIDE of the bed.  And the carpet.

But most importantly on my side of the bed. 

An Open Letter To My Children:

I feel betrayed and sickened. Mostly sickened. I thought we had a deal: all barf, crumbs and random crap (including crap) is to be left on your father's side of the bed.  The only things left on my side of the bed, which for future reference is Stage Left, include: diamonds, cute hand-drawn pictures and snuggles. All other things, including but not limited to the aforementioned articles, sand, grit, bugs, small plastic dinosaurs et al, are to be left Stage Right, also known as Your Father's Side Of The Bed.

Mommasaurus Rex does not need to wear a top.
Perhaps that is why the dinos went extinct;
no one likes to drink milk shakes all the time. 

Next time this happens, I assure you, a letter will not contain my rage. 

Sincerely,

Mommasaurus Rex

Aside: I think the more energy I have, the more disjointed my thinking gets. It's like I've been so tired that all my thoughts actually slowed down to make sense, thus crippling my normal way of thinking. This particular blog is like listening to a sports commentator cover a Ping Pong tournament on the radio. While I'm thoroughly enjoying it, I can't imagine you are.  

Sucka.

How To Pack A Lunch In 1 Easy Step.

Hair askew, missing a shoe and wondering how on earth I am planning on getting Kiddo #1 to the bus stop dressed and with a packed lunch, I sat down to converse with the mice.

"Listen guys, I've got a problem."

"Can you teach me to dance and sing at the same time?"

My little mice friends, Justinbeiber and Selenagomez, sat quietly while I gave them the Monday run-down. See, I went away with my brilliant, hot, hilarious Husband on the weekend and came home feeling just like the end-of-cartoon princess. You know, hair done, animals singing in unison, beautiful ball-gown-out-of-blue-jeans type thing. So, I didn't feel like I needed to a) do laundry, b) get groceries or c) plan in any way for Monday's arrival.

Not to be confused with shoe-making ELVIS,
cobbling ELVES are lazy as Hell. Damned  elves.

Furthermore, before chatting with my mice friends, I looked and found NO evidence that any cobbling elves had come by late Sunday night to help a sister out, either. They didn't come make shoes or pack Kiddo #1's lunch for me. No bueno.

I sent Justinbeiber and Selenagomez off to search for some berries, or a needle and thread-- anything from which a lunch (or a close proximity) could be fashioned in the next 10 minutes. Surely some of my end-of-film magic would still be around. Surely I can pull this one out for the win. Surely.

I floated gracefully into Kiddo #1's room and awoke her with a song sung in brilliant vibrato with notes that Maria Callas would envy. Justinbeiber and Selenagomez came in to do some harmonies and Kiddo #1's turtle, Jelly, did some percussion on her belly like in that other princess movie with the mermaid.

No matter what I sang (perfectly), though, nothing would rouse my sleeping beauty from dreamland. I tried operatic ABC's. I busted out Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star... In fact, until I did a parody of Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe" there was no coercing her out of bed. Luckily, I channelled my inner-Weird Al (I put on my Irish Dancing wig so as to have the proper hair curl) and tentatively began:

"Start The Day, Baby"

I sure wish I could tell.

Don't ask me-- I think it's swell,

That you're still sleeping but, well,

Time to wake up, baby.

You've got to feed your fish,

your turtle, then gimme a kiss.

I wanna know what you're gonna wear,

Time to wake up, baby.

Your hair is crazy and your teeth are glowin'

Long night? Sun is showin'!

Why are you still snorin' baby?

Hey, you just giggled,

Don't be crazy!

It's time for you to

Start the day, baby!

It's hard to get you

To the bus baby,

if you're still sleepin'

Start the day, baby!

And all the girls and boys

in your class, eh,

Are eating breakfast, so

Start the day, baby!

Singing and dancing, like a good movie princess-in-training, off Kiddo #1 trotted to brush her teeth and hair. Luckily some bluebirds were passing by-- they flew in to untangle her tresses and tame them into the perfect updo so I had a little more time to get Kiddo #2 ready to go.  Kiddo #2, on the other hand, went off to find his Poochie, blanket, baby, and woo-woo (a train, or anything with wheels that he has decided is a train). A fawn trotted in, lifted him (and his accoutrements) onto her back and gracefully returned him to his room where I sat, singing patiently for his return.

Kiddo #1 dressed: check.
Kiddo #2 dressed: check.

Two battles down. Since everything comes in threes (as all good storybook readers know), I prepared myself for the big, bad mama jama.

I steeled my nerves and readied my bow against my arch nemesis, Lunchbox Lenora. And, by bow, I mean hair bow, not bow and arrow. Arrows are no good to the steal lunchbox armour Lenora wears, but she can be blinded by the bits of bling cleverly hidden in the centre of all hair bows.  Oh, yes, I've been here before.

I see her hulking figure standing between me and Kiddo #1's empty lunchbox. I inhale deeply and smell the delicious scent of glorious, healthy lunches of the past. Oh Lenora, you are one masterful bitch.

The light catches the bling on my hair bow and hits her square in the eye. She howls in pain. My butter knife clangs against her metal body while Justinbeiber and Selenagomez head to the breadbox to get some bread. The actual breadbox, not the metaphorical word for testicles (at least I think that's what it's a metaphor for).

My knife clangs against Lenora. She wheels around laughing deeply, heartily, maniacally.

Lunchbox Lenora with spaghetti arms,
steel lunchbox body and Ursula's head. Scary, I know.

Lenora: You think you can defeat me? You? A girl with nothing in her fridge but soft cherry tomatoes and cream cheese?
Me: I'm not afraid of you, Lenora! I have my voice back from your seashell necklace, and I won't let you hurt my family!
Lenora: But I have the power of emptiness! Watch as the empty lunchbox sucks your will to live! Feel the despair trying to fill the bottomless pit that is Kiddo #1's lunch bag.
Me: I ... won't ... I won't ... look... in. I ...
Lenora: Look! Loooooook, Elizabeth! Looooooooooook!
(her spaghetti arms twist my face toward the glowing lunchbox until I have no choice but to look inside.)
Me: Noooooooo!

Then, my dog appears, wielding her bark of distraction! She begins barking non-stop. I can feel the rage filling my insides until I choke. The rage of my dog barking gives me super human strength and I'm able to pull myself out of Lenora's tentacles long enough that the spell is broken! I rush to the refrigerator and begin tossing food at Justinbeiber and Selenagomez who wrap it skillfully and place it gently into the lunchbox.

Me: I can put a cheese stick and some yogurt in there. And ... two pickles sliced up. I can cut up an apple and ...
Lenora: And what? Add some peanut butter? That's a no-no at school!
That maniacal laugh is really starting to irritate me.
Me: No, not peanut butter-- Wow butter-- that stuff made of soy beans. Ha!
Lenora's eyes get big with disbelief and she mutters "Curses!" under her breath.

I'm still so far from being done with this lunch though! The clock is ticking for the bus, I still have very little in my fridge and Lenora knows that.

Me: Ok. Cheese is protein. Yogurt is protein. Pickles are ... good against scurvy. Apple and Wow Butter is good for fruit and protein. I need two more veg or fruit and one more carb.
Lenora: HA! You'll neva find that in your fridge! Nevaaaaaaaaaa! (there's that laugh again.)
Me: Ok. Hold on. Um. Goldfish crackers. I'll put them beside the cheesestick and I can add those real-fruit snack things!  For the Win!
Lenora: What? Whaaaaat? How did you? Noooooooo!

Lenora begins shrinking, shrieking and spinning into some vortex in the centre of the kitchen. I look at Justinbeiber and Selenagomez-- the winds are pulling them in with Lenora! I leap across the vortex and place my mice friends into my pocket, safe.  As she is sucked down into the bowels of Hell, I hear one last "You haven't seen the last of me, Elizabeth! I'll be back tomorrow!" followed by that laugh again. In a puff of green and purple smoke, Lenora disappeared.

I check my mice and they're fine. Kiddo #1 appears from around the corner and collects her lunch with a "Cool: pickles." and I know my battles will not be over until the last day of school in June. I send Justinbeiber off to collect shiny things and send Selenagomez off to get ribbon. I'm gonna need a lot more hair bows if I'm gonna make it to June.

(alternatively, I could just go grocery shopping and make sure there's ample food to put in my daughter's lunch every day. I could also pack her lunch the night before, but forget that. I like living on the edge.)

The clouds are parting, the birds are singing again and my pajamas have transformed into jeans and a t-shirt (which is all my fairy godmother could muster at 8am, and I can't blame her).

And that is the sound of the bus driving by. Again. I exhale prepare a parody of "On The Road Again" by Willie Nelson. Forget the parody. I just beat Lunchbox Lenora; we will celebrate with a little iPod action. I press shuffle and ... what? Willie Nelson "On The Road Again?" Dang nabbit.

I Left My Head And My Heart On The Dance Floor

While I bang my little tin cup up and down the bars of my jail cell, I sing Lady Gaga's "Telephone." I wish I had done the proper amount of research before being jailed-- I would've looked up traditional jail songs and brought the list of them in with me to sing ad nausea. Because I didn't know I was headed to jail, though, I had to work with what I have in my head, which is to say that I had to try and remember the last video I'd seen that took place in a jail cell. 

The best I could do was Gaga. And, it wasn't until I threatened to strip down to my Crime Scene undies that the police finally decided to let me make my one phone call. 

Who to call, who to call?

Me: Hi.  Um, Dad?

My Dad:  Yeah. What's up?

Me: I'm in jail.

My Dad: What?

Me: I'm in jail. 

My Dad: I don't know what to say. Why did you call me? Is Husband on the moon? Where are the kids?

Me: The kids are... actually could you have mom go pick them up? Kiddo #1 is at school and Kiddo #2 is at the sitters.  Huh. Anyway, uh, no. I. I thought if I could explain to you what happened, you could maybe tell Husband.

My Dad: Oh. Wow. You think the story you're about to tell me sounds better coming from me than from you?

Me: Well... kinda.  You're the best story teller I know. If anyone can make this into something Husband won't divorce me for, it's you.

I learned to do this from my mom.
She can hold more than 10 straight-pins
in her mouth at a time. I am not as talented. 

My Dad: No pressure.

Me: No pressure.

My Dad: ... (exasperated sigh as he wipes his whole face from top to bottom with his enormous hand, exhales loudly and prepares to hear what I have to say) Wife! You'd better get in the car. Elizabeth Jean needs you to pick up the kids from school and the sitters... No, you need to do it. Stop quilting and go get them. I'll explain later but everything is ok.  (the sound of my mother gathering her things and muttering conversation to my father with pins in her mouth, then the sounds of a car leaving) ... Ok girl. Let me have it. And it had better be good to stop your mother from quilting.

Oh it's good.

It all started when we moved back to Canadia. See, they put in this law where you can't talk on your cellie while you're driving (or text or check email or check Facebook or anything like that!). I was, at that time, pregnant with Kiddo #2 and hopelessly addicted to chatting on my phone while driving. I'm not saying it's right, I'm telling the truth.  

I can hold many things with my body parts but I won't hold straight-pins here. 

But, I was also hopelessly paranoid of being caught by the police.  So, one day I realized I could put my new found pregnancy boobs to work and started putting the phone on speaker, upside down in my cleavage so I could continue my obsession with chatting-on-the-go.  Fast forward another year, and my magnificent hooters have gone the way of the ... deflated pool toy. No longer able to hold up a cell phone, but also not willing to shell out $120 for a Bluetooth piece, I was caught between a soft and a crap place. So to speak. 

After my mother was sick of listening to my muffled voice over speaker placed on my lap, and because both my mother and I ADORE doing 10 000 things at the same time and therefore always have our speakers on, and therefore also cannot hear a DAMN thing the other one is saying, I got a sweet Christmas present. Or birthday? Easter? I forget. Anyway, I received an amazing Bluetooth headset thing, and the best part is that it does voice recognition, so I can even type emails, update Facebook, text and all that jazz from the thing. And it'll read whatever I want back to me. 

(it's got some flaws-- sometimes I send wacky texts because I don't have the "computer accent" it's used to but whatever, right?)

So, I began using the crap outta my headpiece loving life and getting stuff done. There's nothing like talking to your Mom about fabrics while changing a diaper. Seriously. Simple pleasures.

Anyway I've taken to holding my phone at all times, too because of the headpiece-- if you're too far from the phone, it disconnects and you're stuck doing the "Can you hear me?" thing from Verizon  in very strange places.

Fast forward to last week. I was at the supermarket buying groceries. Like many four-year-olds, mine was pitching 93 fits in the middle of the coffee aisle. Rather, I have no idea where she began having a fit but it climaxed in the coffee aisle over bendy straws. After listening to her whine about bendy straws for the last 45 minutes, while trying keep Kiddo #2 in the cart, with his boots on, and without losing beloved Poochie (which could be an Olympic sport-- one I could never hope to win Gold in, though), I looked in my cart and cut my losses.

I didn't have any frozen or cold stuff, but I feel confident enough in my rage that had there been Popsicles and ice cream laying beside chicken and milk, I would've left the cart anyway. (I probably would've told some sweeper or random person that I'd left all that stuff to rot in aisle 4 and that they should put it back for me and I'm sorry, but I was feeling pretty rageful and needed to exit STAT, so I'm making no promises.)

I am not sure how we got to the car, but I remember Kiddo #1's huge eyes  begging me to go back to the store and I remember with wind whipping my hair around my head like flames. I also remember speaking to her in tongues and how the baby went so still and I knew he was using the old "Rabbit-in-front-of-a-T-Rex" trick. Sigh.

So, the kids got into the car, buckled safely. I got back out of the car and counted to 10. I counted to 10 roughly 100 times waiting for me to calm down. I more or less counted myself into meditation, and managed to lessen my rage from about an 8 to about a 5. That's significant. Feeling much more in control, I got back into the car and told the children they were in time out until further notice and if I hear so much as a peep from either of you, you will go to bed without supper.  Kiddo #2's eyes got very big, again, and I said to her, "Listen! Your behaviour was entirely unacceptable in the supermarket today. I am embarrassed that you behaved that way, but more importantly, you should be embarrassed at the thought that any of those people might recognize you in the future and remember how terribly you acted.  It is entirely inappropriate for children to be whining about bendy straws. Do you know how incredibly fortunate you are just to have been born in North America? Just from being lucky enough to be born here you are getting an education! You will be able to go to University and buy as many bendy straws ... hold the phone? Why are there lights in my back window?"

I pulled over, and so did the lights.  Incredulous, I tried to figure out what I'd done wrong.  Looking back and forth like a chicken, I relented that I must not have signalled my turn. Shocked, I prepared for the ticket.

Police Officer: Do you know why I pulled you over, Ma'am?

Me: (incredulous) No, actually.

Police Officer: You were talking on your phone.

Me: (incredulous) I was? When?

Police Officer: When we passed you going the other direction, you had your phone up to your ear and you were talking on the phone.

Me: (incredulous) I actually, for real wasn't. (shocked that I, for once, actually wasn't on the phone) Um. Can I show you my phone log?

Police Officer: Uh, ok? (checks his watch to verify a 10 minute window of call times he can nail me for)

Me: See? (showing him my call log, which, through some rare feat proved the last call made or received was at 9:28am, and it's 4:43pm)

Police Officer: Huh. Well, it was still in your hand.

Me: I was reading my child the riot act for misbehaving in the supermarket. I was holding it, waving it, that's it. Promise.

Police Officer: Well, I could still give you a ticket because technically you're holding a communication device.

Me: (eyes wide like Kiddo #2's were) Really?

Police Officer: Well, I won't this time but get yourself a bluetooth thingy.

Me: Ok. 

I decided I wouldn't tell him that I already had one or that it's so fancy it can type emails from my speech because I don't think it will help my case.  When the police leave Kiddo #1 says, "Phew! I'm glad you didn't have to go to jail, Mom, but at least we were stopped on our street so Kiddo #2 and I wouldn't have to go with you. We could walk home."

Thanks for the support.

See, but then over the last week I've been thinking about it-- it's not illegal to drive with a coffee in your hand, or a taco or an iPod playing music, so really, since there was proof that I wasn't using it as a communication device, essentially it was exactly that-- same as a taco or a coffee and just as distracting. So I've been feeling mildly annoyed that I almost got a ticket for doing nothing wrong. 

Then today, I was stopped at the end of my street waiting to turn right into the bigger street. While waiting, a police cruiser drove by-- and the driver was clearly on the phone. I turned right and felt mildly indignant -- why should a police officer be able to just drive around with her phone to her ear? If she messes up from distraction it's bound to be worse on her, or at least comparable to if I did something horrific.

Then fate smiled at me and made sure our cars were directly beside each other at a stop light. So I (at first) glanced over to see if I was mistaken. Nope. There it was, a beautiful pink-cased smart phone, up at her ear with the camera lens looking at me.  So I stared at her. Stared and stared and stared. I watched her have a heated conversation, with hand gestures and everything. I looked at her (while glancing at the light, which was taking forever to turn green, by the way) and finally she looked at me.  I smiled and put down my window.  I tapped my bluetooth and said, smiling, "Hey, you should really get one of these. You might get a ticket for talking on the phone."  

And, as fate would have it, the advance green arrow turned on and away I went feeling smug and happy and purring like a cat.   Purring like a cat with more lights in my back window. 

My Dad: Are you kidding me?

Me: Um. No. I was arrested for insulting an officer.

My Dad: Assaulting an officer? WHO ARE YOU?

Me: No, no, no. Not AH-sault, IN-sault. 

My Dad: Well, you can cool your ass-ault off in jail. I'm not telling Husband anything. You chose poorly, Indiana Jones. Good-bye.

I sit down happier than I've felt in months. Sure I have to do jail time, but let's face it: I'm in the only place in the world where I can eat by myself (and while the food is still hot), go to the bathroom without anyone else touching me (watching, sure, but I'm used to that already), sit down as much as I want and go to bed when I feel like it.  This is the crappiest, best hotel in the world and I just bought myself at least 3 more days. 

This is better than a jacuzzi. 

Sigh. 

Goin' For The Gold

Spring is in the air. I know this because, quite literally, my baby has been springing into the air.

I laid him down for his usual afternoon nap yesterday with his Poochie (newly found and laundered), his stinky blanket (which smells like BOY no matter how laundered it gets) and turned on his fan. He looked up at me, like a wee angel with sleepy eyes. I brushed his forehead and left the room. 

Then, feeling sleepy myself (as happens more often than working moms would care to know), I laid down for a wee siesta, too.  

Soon I was in Paris, sitting outside sipping an espresso. I had on a beautiful pair of black ballet flats, skinny jeans and a black and white striped top. I also had hair to my waist that had those bouncy curls in it that make women want to throw rocks at your face for achieving such perfection at 9am.  I was alone in this café. Blissfully alone. No one touching me, no one drowning me in bodily secretions (with the viscosity of your choice). I could smell the freedom, taste the peace, see the wind as it gently brushed my arm. 

Dang it. That wasn't wind. That was Kiddo #2 gently brushing my arm. Granted, he didn't run in screaming, or bawling. He didn't jump onto the bed and beat me on the head with his wooden train, or chuck his slobbered-on Poochie at my mouth. He didn't have to; he had me at the gentle brush of his wee hand on my Parisian dream.

I have a feeling I'm not in Paris anymore, Toto.

I fluttered an eyelid, "How are you here?"  He smiled. 

He said, "Heeeey."  

I, still with one eyelid shut, said, "Heeeey. How did you get out of bed?"

He laughed.

I sat up (still with one eye closed in defiance) and made Witch's Fingers, aka Tickle Fingers, which are both kinda like a slo-mo version of the Itsy-Bitsy Spider.  He squealed with delight.

"Show-a-mama how you got out of bed you stinky boy!" and I chased him down the hallway, laughing all the way. 

How I Know My Child Will Be A Gold Medal Winner In The 2028 Olympics

1) Using his mini-(hockey) stick, he pole vaulted back into his bed.

2) He then dug a wee chalk bag out of his Lycra pants (when did I get those for him?) and did the following move to "Show-a-mama" how he got out:

How To Bust Out Of a Pack and Play in 4 Easy Steps

3) After that impressive display (the Russian judge gave him an 9.5 if you can believe THAT!), Kiddo #2 then showed me how he can leap over baby gates with a single bound.

Below is an artist's rendering of the event--
the only difference being his hula hoop wasn't gold.
It was red. 

But the pièce de résistance was when he decided to pick up Poochie using only his foot. 

While lying on the ground. 

On his stomach. 

And the dog was in front of him. 

So, with his new found freedom comes great responsibility-- for me. "Boo that." I thought to myself and went to pick up Kiddo #1 from school.  

On the way home, we passed by some picketing people. That is to say there were several people gathered in front of the local Children's Aid Society, picketing how their rights as parents have been infringed. 

Hate all you want, that's as open minded I can be about it-- if you have had been visited by Children's Aid to the point where your rights have been revoked, severed or otherwise tampered with, it seems unlikely that they did that without cause, in my books.  

"What do we want? Trees. When do we want them?
In an environmentally responsible amount of time."

Just as we drove by, one of the infringed started yelling through a mega phone. I pretended not to notice because, well, frankly, it's not like they were a bunch of Loraxes and David Suzuki selling environmental responsibility and change. That, I feel like I could pitch to my child. But explaining that these people are picketing because they were such crap parents that they had their kids taken from them, and now they suddenly care enough to picket a government agency to get them back is not for me. 

Which is, of course, precisely why she said, "Momma, why are they yelling like that?"

I said: Well. (Regular pause) ... (Dramatic pause) ... (Pregnant pause) 

Kiddo #1: Momma?

I said: Well, I had to think. And. Well, those people have signs and are yelling because they are feeling like they are being treated unfairly by people that are the bosses of them.

I'm feeling pretty smug about that response, I'm not gonna lie. It took a lot of pausing to figure out how to say something that was true but that also didn't tell the whole story and take away her innocence.  Plus, I don't want to give her the idea that peaceful protest is wrong. And I don't want to give her the idea that standing up for yourself is wrong. But, at the same time, I'm also sitting here judging these people pretty severely as "Wrong," which I am also not wishing to get into with her.  I'm not feeling very good about that dialogue in my head either. Gah!

Why do people have kids again? 

Anyway, there was another pause while I relived my wickedly awesome response (Yeah me!!), and contemplated coming up with another fantastic thing to say when I realised that was it. That's all I have. 

So I followed-up with a very pathetic and mostly lame: "And I can't think of any other way to say that."  

Then there was a pause, this time from Kiddo #1, and she said, "Momma, is there a way to say it in French?" 

Sigh. 

Yes. 

There's a way. 

And that would technically be another way to say all that, and perhaps it might make the deliberately vague words seem somehow clearer to my baby four-year old. But I hope not. I translate the words but I could tell she still didn't quite get it. I feel shameful.

So, I did what every good parent does when asked something that you don't want to answer. I looked out the window and said, "Honey! Look at that teeny tiny puppy!" and then made her hunt all over to try and see the puppy that didn't exist.  "Oh Kiddo #1! It's so cute! Do you see the pretty pink bow? Oh and the bright blue toe nails? No, on the left. I mean the right. Behind that bush. Or car. That's the cutest little doggie I've ever seen!"  

Distraction, thy name is Puppy. 

We went home. Kiddo #2 flipped himself out of his carseat (which was suspended upside down in a giant vat of water, if you must know) and went inside. Kiddo #1, still dreaming of the puppy I'd described and she "missed" seeing, chattered non-stop as she crossed the threshold.  

And, like magic, before I could summon the courage to care whether Snooki is having a baby or not (and also, what would she name it? Pookums?), the kids had eaten, played and were in bed.

I sit down at the computer and contemplate tweeting, pinning and facebooking when I hear the familiar thump of my son sticking a landing and the crowd going wild. 

It's gonna be another golden night.  Which, in case you're wondering, goes something like, "Regarde! Il y a un petit chiot derrière l'auto! Oooh!"