Gotye, Husband. Gotye.

So I said to my mother, "But, really, can't I just paint Kiddo #2's bedroom furniture? I really don't think Husband will notice."

My mother stopped cutting the carrots and looked at me.

"Well, of course he will."

"But, really? I don't think he will." I took a handful of carrots and began munching.  My mother tapped me on the back of the hand with the side of the paring knife, just like my grandmother used to do to me for stealing  her cut up veggies.

"Beth. You're going from light wood grain to chocolate brown."

"Espresso."

"Whatever. You might as well paint it lime green."
"Chartreuse."

"WHATEVER. I wouldn't do it."

My mother is the undisputed Queen of Surprise. Oh, wait. That doesn't sound accurate. My mother is the worst at keeping secrets. The. Worst.

She gets so excited about The Secret that it's all she thinks about. She starts humming tunes and changes the words to the song until the song is all about The Secret she's not supposed to tell. She does dances around the house with choreography that mimes The Secret.  She drives hundreds of miles, finds an isolated coffee shop, throws open the doors, announces The Secret to everyone inside (while giggling and being excited), and then realizes that she actually is just up the street from the Recipient's house, and oh, there I am, also buying coffee and now I know The Secret I wasn't supposed to know.  My mother gets on the phone with the recipient and, then being so very, very proud that she hasn't told anyone at all yet, she spills the beans and you find out.  There's no malice involved; as I said before, she's the Queen of Surprise, just not in the "keeping a secret" sense, in the "Surprise! I just bought a new puppy/kitten/car!"

The thing is, you can't hardly get mad that she's got the new puppy/car because she's just so dang excited, and plus, you know it was closer to an impulse buy anyway, on account of if she'd been thinking about it for weeks, everyone on the planet would know via song, dance and elaborate telephone call. 

So, when I asked her (essentially) whether I should just go ahead and paint my son's big boy bedroom furniture, I was mostly just waiting patiently for the "Hell yes! I can't believe you haven't done it already! Let's go to the hardware store and get supplies right now, before we finish cutting this carrot for tonight's dinner!"

If you've forgotten why I've been forbidden from painting the bedroom set, and to learn the cute phrase "craft bomb", click here: http://doescoffeecomeinbucketsize.blogspot.ca/2012/02/thats-lotta-bull.html

But then, with the sound of a needle being pulled abruptly off a record (or a note being played on a keyboard that happens to be in "DJ Sound Effects" mode), my plan was curtailed. My Mom told me No.

So I said, "But Mom! He's hardly ever in there with the lights on-- he's either got the lights off and putting Kiddo #2 to bed, or changing him or something in the middle of the night-- which even if the lights are ON, Husband's eyes are closed pretending he's still asleep..."

"Not gonna work." is how she chose to interrupt me. Rude.

"Dad? Can't I just paint it? I'm sure no one will even tell the difference." 

"Beth. If no one will tell the difference, then why do you want to paint it?"  Sigh. My father: World's Fastest Logician. 

I have decided that this conversation is going no where that I want to direct it (clearly Husband has paid off my parents-- but with what? And when? Hmm.) so I distract myself by cutting up some veggies. Boo.

Yes. Clearly Husband has paid off my parents to keep me from painting. Surely that is the only thing that makes any plausible sense: my parents both support me unconditionally (as long as I don't need money, or to move back in with them, or their cars, I mean.) and both of them love to see me create masterpieces. In fact, my mother has been hounding me for YEARS to paint her something for her living room.

Yet, here they are, making money off my husband, to keep me DOWN! 

Bewildered at their change of sides, it's not until I've cut up every damn carrot in the house that I realize what's really going on. 

My mother and father traded their allegiance to me for back-to-back weekends with my kids. 

What the FRICK?!?  

Husband obviously said, "Listen you two-- if you promise to keep her from painting Kiddo #2's new-old bedroom furniture, you can have each of our children."

"For how long?" my father would ask.

"All weekend long." My father would slightly change his expression, challenging Husband for a better deal. All weekend long was for amateurs. Husband would realize this and quickly add, "For the rest of your lives." nonchalantly.  My mother, trying not to scream in excitement, would simply say, "That's ... so... nice." (Incidentally, that's what she says whenever something incredible happens) to seal the deal. 

And that, my friends, is how my world is changed in the blink of an eye.

Reeling like Rapunzel when she figures out she's the Lost Princess in Tangled, I crash into the fridge and upset the carrots.  I mean, unlimited weekends, forever? That's like handing me an unlimited Visa and dropping me in Paris-- what grandparent could possibly say no to this? 

But wait. There's a flaw in this theory-- my mother can't keep a secret, and this would have to be kept a secret or I could potentially get upset. Or at least moody. 

Well, I've got a secret of my own-- here's the song I've been secretly singing in my head for the past 30 days. I've even worked out some interpretive dance moves to go with it (think Mr. Miyagi's "Paint The Fence," with some jitterbug--mostly because I've had too much coffee today.). The costume is still in the works but know it will be mostly lycra and long flowy pieces of whatever ballet skirts are made of. 

"Something That Only I Know"

(parody of Gotye's "Somebody That I Used To Know")

Now and then, I think of when we were together

And how you said if I paint bedset, I would die.

Told myself that you were kidding me,

But felt so shitty without painting

But that was love, and compromise, I still remember.

You can get addicted to a certain kind of crafting.

Like how glitter's everywhere, ever-y-where.

So when I found you did not make sense,

Cuz you said that I could paint the fence,

But don't touch the bedset, or it'll be over.

But you really have to cut that out--

Make out like I never finish a thing I've started.

And I don't even need your 'kay

but you treat me like a crazy and I feel so rough.

No, you didn't have to stoop so low

Say the ultimatum like it's nothing to remember

I guess I don't need to heed that now.

Now it's just a bedset that I couldn't paint.

Now it's just a bedset that I couldn't paint.

Now it's just a bedset that I couldn't paint.

Now and then I think of all the times you've been in and over

Kiddo 2's room, with the lights off and them on.

I don't wanna "Told you" say,

But you've seen it every day.

I painted it a month ago,

And you haven't even noticed it's a shade of espresso!

So you really have to cut that out.

Make out like I never finish a thing I've started

And I don't even need your 'kay

but you treat me like a crazy and I feel so rough

No, you didn't have to stoop so low

Say the ultimatum like it's nothing to remember

I guess that I don't need to heed that now.

Now it's just a bedset painted secret-lay.

Now it's just a bedset painted secret-lay.

Now it's just a bedset painted secret-lay.

We Bought A Zoo (Kinda)

I awoke this morning to a cold, wet nose in my armpit. No, we didn't get a puppy. Well, we sorta got a puppy-- I have a seal pup living in our house. In that same transaction, I acquired three Emperor penguins (all named Happy Feet, thanks to Kiddo #1), a Walrus and at least two polar bear teens. Not cubs, not big guys, teens. Although, I can't really tell how many we have because they are always listening to their iPods so they don't respond when I call them.

It's been a crazy mild winter, here in the Banana Belt (which is what this area is really called). It was wonderful at the time-- just a couple of weeks of boot wearing, a couple of really cold snow falls, but nothing long term. Nothing like last year, say, where people got snowed into their cars on the highway and had to shovel their way out of their homes.

What do you mean they didn't cancel school? I can't find my CAR!

It's Spring now though, and I couldn't be happier. Why you ask? Well, because after the mild winter we experienced a couple of years ago, which was followed by Random Sniffle Spring full of coughs and general cold/flu like symptoms, I decided to do a little research.  Firing up Ye Old Internet, I began reading about the aftermath of a mild winter: Bubonic Plague ensues every time. Well, not THE Bubonic Plague, but all the snot from The Stand that you can handle. Close enough, I say.

And so, this year, as it became more and more apparent that we were in for a mild winter, I began taking drastic measures.  According to my exhaustive research (on sites like www.ParanoidAboutIllness4Life.com and www.MildWintersAreTheWorst.ca) I've come to the conclusion that it's that the harsh winters are the ones that kill off all the sick bugs and clear out the body of the junk just kinda hanging around, too.

This is what your germs look like, magnified 10 million times,
after a mild winter. Gross eh?

It makes sense to that if the germs aren't killed off, they hang around, working out, taking steroids and getting tan so that they can really do amazing things in the Spring, when the warm weather returns.

So, what I'm saying is if Mother Nature insists on a mild winter that gives way to stronger, faster, tanner germs in the Spring, then I'm gonna fight back.  AND, I'm gonna do it the way Mother Nature intended (back before she go so close to retirement and stopped caring as much): the hard way!


Two nights after I got my brilliant idea, I cranked on ye old Air Conditioning down to -6C, or 20F.  I put down a tarp on the carpet and hardwoods (to protect them, duh) and then began making a make-shift, indoor arena. Once I had a good couple layers of ice, I then got out my Snoopy Sno-Cone machine and commenced to making some snow.

Scraped knuckles, sweating from
brow all for 1 cube's worth of snow. 

Once I had the place sufficiently snowy/icy, which by the way, was several hours later since I'd forgotten how FREAKISHLY hard it is to make sno-cones by putting ice cubes under Snoopy's butt and pressing down while turning the crank at the back, I went downstairs to the computer to continue my quest.

Commencing on Google, I clicked on several sites that appeared to be selling penguins, but really just took me to naughty, porn sites. Seriously people? What kind of weirdo fetish involves buying penguins or heck, penguins in any way. UGH!  I skipped the random sites and decided the best way to get the animals I need for my Winter habitat would be to open up a Zoo. I went to the Canadian Government's website and clicked the link that said "So you want to start a zoo in suburbia?"  Who knew it would be so easy?

In a few clicks, I was licenced to start my very own zoo and frozen yogurt stand (I figured that licence would be useful should I decide to actually open up the zoo and I have some hungry customers. As well, that licence would at least allow me to procure a better snow making method -- the Snoopy Fro-Yo Machine is much easier to use.).

I followed the links to some zoos in Ontario, ordered my animals and 6-8 weeks later, they were all here. Interestingly enough, it was the postal service that took the longest-- getting the licence, purchasing the animals and making the indoor habitat was a cinch compared to waiting for my crates to arrive through Canada Post.

From Toronto.

6-8 weeks.

For those of you out of the know, I can drive to Toronto in about 4 hours.

At any rate, now you're caught up. I awoke this morning to my seal puppy, named Portabello, wanting breakfast and the polar bear teens screaming at each other about how no one has asked them to the prom yet and if they fail their driver's test because of that, they are Going. To. DIE. and you're gonna have to transfer us to a different school where no one knows us because being the only ones that don't drive will be THE WORST.

I rolled out of bed and began making lunches.  This Zoo business is turning out to be a little more work than I intended. I just wanted to kill off the disgusting germs that have gone bionic with the mild winter. Now I've got three penguins practicing Kiddo #1's tap routine for the year-end recital in the living room. Kiddo #2 is climbing up and sliding down the walrus while our dog, Rizzo, barks incessantly at the giant frickin' walrus because it's a giant, and she's tiny and needs to protect us.  Sigh.

Plus, all these animals need food (and although fish are cheap, they eat enormous amounts of them! Who knew?), and I've got the pissy polar bear teenagers always wanting a better curfew AND I'm not allowed to drive them right up to school or I'll ruin their rep.  I even said, "You're only 16, you don't have a rep yet." and they just rolled their eyes and muttered how lame I am under their breaths. Nice.

Speaking of nice, however, I appear to have created a nice little environment of health-- all the neighbours on our street are walking zombies of snot and here we are, completely healthy! It looks like my plan worked!

And now that my little experiment has proven my hypothesis, it's time to close up the Zoo for at least the rest of the year-- but how to do that without looking like a fraud? I mean, I need to keep my licence available for any future mild winters. And, I certainly don't want to seem like I just couldn't keep the Zoo running due to any sort of ineptness on my part; that would be shameful.

I pick up the phone and dial the tip line.
"Hello? David Suzuki Foundation?"

That will do nicely.

Subtle Shades of Grey. Gray. Whatever.

I had a paradigm shift this morning.
Thanks, All Bran cereal.
Baa bum dum.

Ha. Seriously, I awoke like any other Monday (that is to say, I hit the snooze until 7:30 for Husband while I felt oppressed that he can neither hear nor see the alarm he set to start screaming at 6:15) and began rousing children and dog.

I had no idea my life would change with the click of the bathroom light.

For the second time in my life, I have gone too long between root touch-ups. For those of you with light hair, or blessed with dark, Liar's Hair that never greys until you're like 75, you will have no idea what this means. For those of us who have been dying our hair since the age of 15 due to greys (and to achieve a Spice Girls inspired need for red hair with chunky blonde bangs), you get it.

I used to go every 6 weeks to get my roots done. Upon my 30th birthday, however, my hair took a turn for the 45% grey tone and I had to up my trips to the fountain of youth to every 3 weeks. Let's not even get started on the new, exciting places to wax once you're thirty.  30 = Hair Rebellion Against the Empire-- I feel like Darth Lizabeth wishing I could crush and maim every stray hair, every grey hair. Obi Wan, if you help them, I will cut you. Truth.

My newest addiction is Draw Something for my phone.
If this pic was done on that, you'd know it was a  mop with whom Husband is chatting.
Instead, it looks like a brown hummingbird with the longest beak ever. Sigh.

Husband, who is blind as a bat without his glasses, says I look beautiful all the time-- but I get more back and shoulder rubs when I remind him less of Betty White, so I continue.

At any rate, I looked into the mirror this morning and realized that there are lots of women that are young and hip and trendy who also happen to be as grey as I pretend I'm not. So why do I insist on being something I'm not? What kind of thing is this teaching my daughter? Am I not showing her that being Young is extremely important, even to her normally level-headed mother? Am I not buying into the stereotypes blah, blah, blah Hollywood blah, blah?  And what about body image? Why, if I'm dying my hair, shouldn't I also be obsessing about my body and doing insane, unhealthy things to make me a size 0?

It's been 5 weeks since I touched up my roots, and 9 since
I waxed my brows, lips, chin, nose and ears.
This outfit is for the best. Trust me. 

I plugged in the little pot of wax into the warmer and continued. (I've also been waxing myself since I was 15, so I'm pretty much a professional.  I don't recommend tackling this as a new skill-set at my age now. It's one thing to mess up and leave yourself with only one eyebrow when you're 15, it's a whole other thing when you're 35. Don't ask how I know. Yes, either one.)

While the wax heated, I stared blankly into the mirror. I look bloated and tired this morning, but to be fair, I spent the last 48 hours dying of The Bubonic Plague (which I don't know what it really is except that without Advil and Tylenol, I would have checked myself into the hospital). Every 6 hours exactly, I suddenly couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow, all my joints felt like fire and I'd alternate between sweats and chills with a side of raging face-ache. The meds seemed to take the edge off, but when they wore out, oh Lordy.

Bloated and tired be damned-- for 48 hours into having The Plague, I look pretty darn good.

Kiddo #1 bounced into my bathroom asking me to help her with a zipper. Kiddo #2 is at my mother's. She, like the wonderful mother she is, called and said she was taking him for three days so I might have a chance to get better. I'm writing this blog and finishing some sewing instead. I hope she doesn't read this or I'll get a nasty phone call. No, I won't. That's not her style.  She won't say a word, but she'll send Kiddo #2 home addicted to sugar and CSI: Miami. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree; I'm afraid.

So Kiddo #1 finished getting dressed while I continued to look at my face in the mirror. I normally don't spend so much time peering at myself (who has time?) but also, I'm not usually running on Advil Cold and Sinus and Tylenol, either which makes everything take a little longer than normal; I began moving my hair around to see just how much grey was showing.

Kelly Osbourne, Pixie Geldolf, Ruby Rose and P!ink all rock the grey.
But am I crazy enough to pull it off?

And then it hit me. The paradigm shift occurred: I could just let my hair grow in grey! Just let it grow and be done with dying it every 3 weeks! Who cares? Plus, lots of very young people, women in their 20's, rock grey hair and it looks awesome. Sophisticated and cool.

See? P!nk is pretty super cool.

Oh.
Right.

These ladies, are famous and cool and just a bit out there.

Well, I suppose I'm technically a nutter compared to a lot of people. Well, at least like, some people. Is the trick to make sure your grey has some crazy pink or blue undertone? (isn't that what gets the old ladies that bad rep-- that blue undertone?) Does having grey hair mean I'll have to learn to knit and play bingo or can I still be a rockstar, with my rock moves?

I envisioned myself with grey hair all over my head. The picture looked more like Betty White and less like P!nk, however. Not quite the look I'm going for.

And then, it occurred! A second paradigm shift! If I stop dying my hair and go grey, then I will (for sure) begin obsessing about my wrinkles and other signs of aging. If I'm young and 20 with grey hair that's one thing. But once your face starts sagging, I'll be back to the salon. Screw you, grey hair.

And then, finally, it hit me. I'm Canadian! Out with the penny and in with the new Glow In the Dark Quarter!  I can ditch my dye job, but not commit to grey and simply switch to glow-in-the-dark! If you have no idea what I'm talking about, here's an article.

(http://news.cnet.com/8301-17938_105-57412545-1/canadas-newest-coin-glows-in-the-dark/)  

How much fun would it be to become a light source? This is Epic the way kids are using it now (not like, Epic poetry, although I'm sure there would be amazing poetry that comes from my glow in the dark hair).

I wouldn't need a cell phone to unlock my door in the middle of the night, or a nightlight for the kids, either. I wouldn't have to turn on a frickin screaming, blaring fluorescent at 2am when the dog needs to go out. I'd be able to go to the movies and find the napkin in my purse without sticking my hand in the adhesive that is movie theatre flooring. The list goes on and on.

... Perhaps, after time, my eyes would finally adjust to sunlight, instead of the sun making me crazy with blind rage!  The possibilities are endless.  I could even start going to Raves again; I'd be the coolest old lady there.

Fo sho, Day-Glo.

Fake Moustaches and Soccer Practice

I enrolled Kiddo #2 in Soccer this year. It was a bit more of a production than enrolling his sister, who will be 5 in June. Five is the 'legal' age for Soccer in our city, and since Kiddo #2 is only a year and a half, I had a little more work to do to make that possible.

Walk with me.

See, Kiddo #2 is the most active kid I've ever seen; I'm not the only one who agrees. His daycare provider, who is mid-twenties, super fit and is a Bootcamp Instructor on the weekends, had to give up instructing during the week because she's too tired to work with him and then lead a Bootcamp class.

I'm just gonna give you a minute to let that digest.

It was April first when I realised that Summer is coming. The blooming trees, the growing grass, the smell of BBQ's burning off the mice that hibernated inside them over the winter... it all gave rise to an undeniable panic in my heart.  I realised that Summer, the season of freedom from school, will also give rise to the season of non-stop chasing of Kiddo #2.

I looked through the Rec Centre listings for things to get him into this summer. Yes, there are always long trips to the park, but a woman can only take so much stress (http://doescoffeecomeinbucketsize.blogspot.ca/2011/08/crazy-little-thing-called-mom.html).

There's plenty for my almost 5 year old to do but do you think there's an organised sport or activity that a not-even-two year old can get into? If he swims I have to be in the pool (despite his undeniable ability and that his Butterfly Stroke is better than mine), he's too young for football, baseball and lacrosse. He's even too young for figure skating and ballet/dance lessons. He's also too young (by roughly 3 years) for soccer.

But, at 18 months, Kiddo #2 is easily as fast as Kiddo #1, is almost 40 pounds and is nearly the same height as she is; Kiddo #1 is not petite, Kiddo #2 is just ... Thor-sized.

I'm just gonna give you a minute to let that digest.  

I arrived at Soccer registration with my daughter and two birth certificates.  Don't ask where I got a forged birth certificate for my son. Just know I teach High School, so I have Connects.

...

Ok. Fine then. I offered some kid 3 guaranteed-"A" essays for the forged birth certificate. The first one I wrote about MacBeth, the second one is on the life cycle of a cell and the last one I cut and pasted from Google that is some reflection on the morality of Internet use/copyright infringement in the modern-day classroom.  I snuck that last one in there mostly because I was up all night typing the first two and didn't have time to bust out a third "A" paper. I just hoped he wouldn't look too closely.

I showed up at the Grocery Store, in the cereal aisle at 8:02. I waited for the kid in "the blue apron with a giant push-broom" to meet me by the Cheerios to say the code phrase "Do you always let your son run wild in the cereal aisle?"

In retrospect, this phrase while completely appropriate, is not abnormal enough to signal a real "drop."  I tried to give the essays to 4 different people at 8:02 by the Cheerios.

I'm just gonna give you a minute to let that digest.  

See, I thought it would be too obvious if I showed up to do "the drop" at a grocery store without my son with me and all Hell breaks loose whenever we get to that part of the store. Maybe it's the aisle with so many sugary choices? Maybe it's the amount of time that passed by the time we get to that aisle? I'll never know, but he's an absolute monkey in this aisle, every time.

But, even on this covert operation, I couldn't NOT bring him. I only grocery shop with one or both of my children, so if I came in alone, clearly it would arouse suspicion amongst the store staff.  This, of course, wouldn't be an issue if I didn't end up in the grocery store EVERY DAY for something or other I've forgotten or I have run out of in the middle of a recipe.  Yes, I bring it on myself. No, I don't really give a care.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice
to nervously sweat. 

By the time the kid with the broom showed up though, I was so flustered that I was sweating on my upper lip. My big Texas-style wig was hot and itchy, making it slip ever-so-slightly to the left, while my handlebar moustache had unstuck on the right side and was beginning to flap in and out like a party favour with every breath I took.

Honestly, being an undercover agent is more difficult than I really give Ninjas credit.

I handed the damp essays over to the boy who was more than a little grossed out when he unstuck them from my clammy hands.  He tried to shake my hand and pass the birth certificate over to me like they do in movies, but I'm hardly coordinated enough to do that, and also, Kiddo #2 chose that second to finally open a Jumbo box of Fruit Loops. It was all he needed though-- the forgery kid let the rainbow of sugar fall around us and slipped the birth certificate into my pocket while everyone else in the aisle stood shocked, staring at my son and waiting for his negligent mother to appear.

I ripped off my wig, moustache and fake glasses and tossed them into the cart. I then whistled two short blasts followed by a long one, and ran out the door alone (with the birth certificate). The whistle, by the way, is code for "Vacate now. Meet back at car in 5 minutes. Ditch any followers." I taught it to my children last year when Kiddo #2 showed a prowess at wreaking havoc on all stores. Yes, we've used it plenty before. Yes, I leave my kids unattended because when we split into two or three different directions, we're harder to catch that way.

Should've made notice of the birth date before paying
the kid with 3 guaranteed "A" essays. Dang.

With new birth certificate in hand, I dropped off Kiddo #2 at home with his father (who was blissfully unaware and therefore safe in a court-of-law sort of way) and picked up Kiddo #1 to take to Soccer registration.

Smug that I was about to make Soccer With Twins a reality, I smiled my way through a super long line to the front of the queue.  I stopped smiling only when I got to the front, handed over my daughter's card and glanced at the forgery.  Dang nabbit! My forger didn't quite get his homework right; the birth certificate wasn't for 2007, but for 1954.

I quickly changed my plan and took back my registration form for another one.

Me: I'd like to register my daughter ... and my husband for Summer Soccer.
Registration Guy: Your husband's name is Kiddo?
Me: Uh, yes. It's pronounced Kee-doo, it's Yugoslavian.
Registration Guy: I'm Yugoslavian and I've never heard that name before.
Me: Yes. I meant Cuban. Sorry. So, let's get Kiddo into the Over 35 league, shall we?
RG: Ok.

Smug again, I returned home with a little girl on the Orange team and a husband registered for the Purple team with the smallest jersey they have.  I signed Real Husband up for a Summer Volleyball league that just  happens to be on the same night Kiddo #2/Husband's games are. Oh yes, I've thought of everything.

I spend my time with my son now teaching him how to run and kick a ball, how to make small talk about sports (He's really good at the monosyllabic grunts, so he'll be fine, I'm sure.) and how to scratch his diaper to make it look legit.

I haven't quite perfected drawing on his moustache, though. I think it will be the make-or-break part of his ability to fool his teammates.

I like the light brown one, but the twirly part on the tips is really hard to draw on. The black one is cool and European, but I have to do his eyebrows too or it's an obvious fake.  Personal fave: the muttonchops with matching perv-stache.

So many possibilities and two months to try them out before the league starts-- that is, if I can catch him and hold him still for longer than a few seconds at a time. Otherwise, his moustache will be closer to run-by-inking than a work of art. If we get caught faking his age, we could be kicked out of the league altogether and then I'm back to square one: what do I do with my super-frickin'-active kid for the summer?

I'm just gonna give you a minute to let that digest.

Doing The No Pants Dance

When Kiddo #1 appeared in my room this morning wearing only a longish top and underwear announcing, "Mom! I'm ready for school!" I actually toyed with letting her go to school without pants.

And the reason I didn't will surprise you.

Oh I'm sure you were thinking "Oh, there's no way she'd let her daughter go to school without pants. That's crazy. Plus it's cold, and a little bit dangerous."  And, yes, I suppose those are all valid thoughts.

Let's rewind an hour or so to see what lead up to this moment, shall we?

7:45AM

Me: Kiddo #1. Get. Ready. For. School.
Kiddo #1: I am.
Me: Why are you still in your pyjamas then?
Kiddo #1: I'm NOT!
Me: But I can see the Dora jammies from here.
Kiddo #1: I took off my sleeping socks.
Me: Wow. That's awesome. But could you please, like, get ready for school?

7:50AM

Me: Kiddo #1-- have you brushed your teeth?
K1: No. Yes.
Me: Eh?
K1: Well, I did but I think you'll tell me to redo near the pink part.
Me: Well, if you think you didn't brush your gums properly, then why waste time. Just go redo it.
K1: Well, I did brush my teeth.
Me: That's awesome. But could you please get out of your Dora pyjamas and re-brush your teeth?

8:05AM (if you're wondering, I was putting on my make-up, brushing my teeth and getting dressed)

Me: Yo, Chiquita. What's the status of your teeth and outfit?
K1: Brushed teeth.
Me: And gums?
K1: Um.
Me: What have you been doing these past 15 minutes?
K1: Looking in the mirror.
Me: At what?
K1: At my silly faces. They're funny.
Me: Did your silly faces tell you it's time to get dressed?
K1: UGH! Mom! Get over it!
Me: Wow. That's awesome. Time out. See you in 4 minutes. Feel free to get dressed while you're in time out.

8:09AM

Me: You're not dressed. In fact, you're naked.
K1: Boo hooo hoooo (real crying)
Me: Can you at least put some panties on?
K1: Moooooom. Whhyyyyy?
Me: Because no one wants to see a crying kid trying to do a handstand without her panties on.
K1: You're MEAN!
Me: See you in 4 minutes.

8:13AM

K1: I'm ready to talk about the time-out.
Me: Great. Hold on. Your brother just crapped his brains out and I'm changing Chernobyl.
K1: Cool. Can I see?
Me:  Are you dressed?
K1: YOU. ARE. SO. MEAN! (wailing sobs)

8:21AM (It seriously took that long to clean up that diaper. Pray for me.)

Me: WHY ARE YOU STILL NAKED???
K1: (jumps because she didn't see me coming) (Bursts into tears)
Me: Frick. Well, you need to get dressed. I'm sorry I scared you, but you wouldn't've had a heart attack if you were dressed and eating breakfast.
K1: I'm hunnnnngry. Boo hooo hooo.
Me: I'll get you a Nutragrain bar. GET DRESSED.

8:27

Me: WHY ARE YOU STILL doing NAKED HANDSTANDS?
K1: Because I have to practice to get better at hard things.
Me: (silence. seriously, what do you say to that?)
K1: Anyway, I'm getting better. See?
Me: As an adult I'm pretty sure it's not appropriate for this to be happening. Get. Frickin'. Dressed.
K1: We don't say "frickin'."
Me: (Miss Piggy scream of exasperation)

8:32

Me: I'm really trying to be patient here. But you're still naked and the bus comes in 9 minutes. So, I'm gonna try something different. Last week you had to wear a different colour each day to represent the food rainbow. Let's say today it's Purple day and pick something purple.
K1: Oh! That's a great idea, Mom! Good work! Purple, purple, purple. Hmm.
Me: Why not that purple shirt with the tutu on the bottom? It's cute.
K1: Yes! I love it!
Me: Thank you, Baby Jesus. (said mostly silently while looking at the ceiling)

8:37

K1: Mom! I'm ready for school!
Me: You're not wearing pants.
K1: Yes I am.
Me: Wait. Is this that fable, "The Emperor's New Clothes" where everyone pretends to see the King's new expensive clothes, but really he's walking around buck naked? If so, I agree, you're wearing pants.
K1: I don't think so. I didn't see a King anywhere.
Me: Sigh. Yes. (smiling) That's true. What I mean is that you're not wearing pants.
K1: Yes I am. I'm wearing leggings.
Me: No, you're wearing tights.
K1: So? They're the same only with feet.
Me: ... Yes. But they're still tights. And your shirt is still just a shirt, even if there's tutu on the bottom.
K1: No. It's a dress. Look, here's the tutu.
Me: Yes, but if you weren't wearing the tights, you'd see your panties.
K1: No I wouldn't.
Me: You need pants.

(And now there's 5 minutes of straight silence and blinking at each other while I have the following conversation with myself trying to decide whether I might get away with sending her to school without pants.)

Pro: She wouldn't be hurt.  Con: She might get teased and she's sensitive. Pro: I'll pack a pair of pants that she can put on at school. Con: What if she panics and cries? Pro: Then she might listen to her mother. Con: Or this will be a huge therapy bill in 10 years. Pro: But in the meantime she'd respect my words. Con: Her teacher might call Children's Aid on me.  Pro: The shirt is longish, so maybe I could feign ignorance? Con: I'd probably have to go to classes on how to be less of a shithead and also how to do laundry.  Pro: I might have a CHANCE of getting her to school on time if we leave now, with no pants. Con: The tights she chose are beige so she really just looks super nude. Pro: She might make new friends. Con: Not the friends I'd like her to know.

Honestly, there was a ton of silence because I was so engrossed in this pro/con sheet.  So I ended up going with "Put on some pants or a skirt. You're essentially naked."
What she heard was something akin to, "I have just put you on Ebay for $3.00. And the highest bidder is currently... a Vampire. No, a T-Rex. No, a scary Witch..."  Because what she did in response is awesome.

In the old fashioned sense of the word 'awesome' where awesome meant that something occurred that left you feeling awe.

After she gathered the contents of her head, which exploded like a pinata at the thought of having to wear something on her legs other than tights, I said, "Get dressed."

Only, I didn't say it like that. I kinda, maybe lost my cool.

I'm not proud of it, and I'm really not proud to say that yelling "Get DRESSED!" made me feel better.

Truth be told, I'm not 100% sure Kiddo #1 went to school with anything on her lower half. It's dark, the kids are in bed asleep, so I can't even go up and verify the laundry pile. I feel like when I dropped her off (no bus this morning) I felt no shame in doing so. And I didn't get a phone call from the school telling me my child was naked, so I feel like this must have been rectified.  Thing is, this is turning into what "Morning" looks like more often than not-- and they're all blending together into a screaming, naked handstands type mess.

So, while she was at school and while Kiddo #2 had quiet time, I made a puzzle. Like, I made one, not put together one.  I put the four things she needs to do on one side. On the other I drew a picture of the school bus. The theory is that I'll put them on her dresser with the task side up. As she does one, she can flip over the tile and reveal a picture of the bus. Once she's done all four things, she has a new puzzle to complete-- and theoretically, we'll be on time for the bus. (here's the link to the craft if you're excited and want to try one yourself www.gluegunmama.blogspot.com)

And perhaps I won't have BP of 3000/14 between 7:45 and 9am Monday to Friday.

I'll keep you posted. Or you'll read about my demise in the obits. Either way, there should be something entertaining to read. Ha.