The Sun Came Out!

This was the view from my back door yesterday morning:




Spring!

It's mostly melted now, but it was snowing and grey for most of the day until about 6:00 pm, when the sun festively came out. Jake's mystery illness presented itself as a nasty headcold, and I just could not face bundling him up, running through the snow and howling winds, dropping Mark at school, and doing it all over again two and a half hours later, so I decided to keep Mark home yesterday. "If I let you stay home, we need to do some schoolwork", I said sternly, to which Mark replied, "Oh boy! Okay! What's my first assignment? This is going to be great!" So evidently my nerdy and bookwormish tendencies have been passed on to the next generation. In fact, the entire day was spent pretending our house was a school. Mark kept asking which "centres" he could play at. "Is the writing centre open? Is the dinosaur centre open? I'm going to set this book aside for the reading centre. Okay? Okay Mom? Okay?"

The other night I was premenstrually sobbing to my husband about the passage of time and how the boys are not going to want to spend time with me as they grow and how I'm just going to be the horrible bitchy mother-in-law everyone complains about and in a couple of years Jake is NOT going to want to grocery shop with me and woe is me, I'm sad. My husband replied cheerily that, not to worry, Mark will likely always want to do math puzzles and crosswords with me, which seems apt, after yesterday's events. ("Is the science centre open?").

Ah, it's all good. Of all the characters in The Breakfast Club, I have always secretly identified with the character played by Anthony Michael Hall - "In the physics club, we talk about physics, properties of physics" - although I had a huge crush on the Judd Nelson character. Ooh, the bad boy. It's funny how all of the most attractive movie characters are also the ones who would be the worst to be in a relationship with. Take the Ralph Fiennes character from The English Patient, for example. Ralph Fiennes, so yummy, so intense, and yet, imagine being married to the guy. It would be terrible! The guy hardly ever smiles, and forget about lighthearted conversation. "What do you want for dinner, honey?" "I HAVE BEEN WALKING. FOR THREE DAYS." I know this is controversial, but it would be much more amiable to be married to the jovial Colin Firth character than the sexy Ralph Fiennes character. At least he remembered their anniversary.

Huh. I meant only to write today about the snow, and my bookworm of an older child, and Jake's miraculous recovery today and how I have a very! exciting! weekend! ahead of me, but somehow I got on the topic of attractive movie characters who would be hell to be married to. So, that sounds like a great game for a Friday! What movie character do you find terribly attractive and yet, you know would not be good relationship material? Ooh, just thought of another one: John Cusack in Say Anything. I know. I know. Controversial. But really, wouldn't that lack of ambition get to you after a while? Okay, weigh in, this should be fun!

Bitch, we're coming for you.

Mark has largely recovered from his recent mysterious illness, but, in an incredible twist of misfortune, my husband is now ill. Let us all take a moment of silence on receiving that information. Not only that, but Jake – who was fine when I dropped him at school this morning – was runny nosed and headachy and exceedingly irritable when I picked him up a mere 150 minutes later. I can almost see the mystery illness pointing its slimy, germy fingers at me. “Bitch, we’re coming for you.” I am tired although I’m trying to convince myself that I’m tired simply because of all the sick people in my house keeping me awake at night.

Speaking of visualizing the mystery illness, I had a very disturbing conversation with friends who told me that a) seatbelts on airplanes have very high levels of fecal matter on their buckles, and b) headrests on airplane seats squeam them out because of the possibility of lice transfers. The next time I fly I am going to have to explain away the plastic bubble that I will have encased myself in. That, and the disinfectant that I will be using to clean all touchable surfaces.

Also? That commercial for automatic liquid soap dispensers that shows all the viruses and germs on the pump of a regular liquid soap dispenser should be outlawed. That is information I did not need, nor did I need to see it so clearly.

In other, non-freakishly-germ-phobic news, I volunteered in Mark’s class today, which I love. “Mark’s mom is here!” one of his classmates exclaimed upon seeing me. I almost corrected him with my actual name, which is MarkandJake’s mom. But I do love going to the kindergarten; the kids are so cute and enthusiastic, and I know the day will come when Mark will not happily tolerate my blowing him kisses and waving to him while he rotates through various class centres. I was helping to make bird houses out of milk containers, and in a fascinating turn of safety violation events, I sliced first one finger, then another, on the scissors while cutting out perching holes. Kids, be careful with the scissors, she says whilst holding her dripping finger and darting for the medical supplies.

So my sore fingers and my overwhelming tiredness are not being helped by the current weather conditions: a festive spring snowstorm. It is, as I write this, snowing sideways. Well, we need the moisture, as my cheery elderly neighbour says. The upside to this is that perhaps, just perhaps, soccer will be cancelled tomorrow night. Which will be fortunate if I succumb to mystery illness. Which I'm not going to. But just in case.

I'm in a bad mood!

Mark, after a weekend of seasonal allergy-related coughing, woke up this morning pale and listless, brushed his teeth, and promptly threw up. Poor guy. By mid-morning he seemed to recover, and as I write this he is playing a loud game with his brother, one of their favourites in which they are brainstorming different and exotic ways to destroy their arch-enemy, Mickey Mouse.

Fortunately we are not planning a trip to Disneyland anytime soon.

It was a tough weekend for Mark. We had Visitors, and one Visitor made it perfectly clear that, how shall I say this delicately, this Visitor has a strong preference for one of my children, and that preferred child was emphatically not Mark. It's hard to see your child dissolve into a puddle of hurt feelings, especially when the hurt feelings are caused by a person who should, I think, not have such strong preferences.

So I was stewing about this, and I've come to the following conclusions:

a) Much as I would like to, I cannot control other's behaviour, I can only control my own;

b) I also cannot control how other people feel and force them to behave more equitably;

c) If I was actually to bring this up to said person, the situation would not change perceptibly but then there would be awkwardness and emotional outbursts added to the equation;

d) I had better just blog about it rather than bring it up, which has limited upside as far as I can see.

Very, very unsatisfactory conclusion.

In other news, I received a flyer for a nearby estate sale. One of the treasures, as advertised in the flyer, is an antique cookie jar in the shape of Mammy from Gone With The Wind. Hoo boy! If that is one of the highlights, I just can't wait to get to that estate sale! That would go so great with all my other completely inappropriate and racially-offensive cookie jar related items.

Sigh. That failed to cheer me. Anyone want to share their stories about children being treated inequitably by a "Visitor"? Or a good story about a cookie jar? Either way I need cheering up.

The More Than 100 Mile Diet

The boys have been reminding me, in a very earnest way, to reduce, reuse, and recycle, in keeping with their various school-related Earth Day activities. I think we do a fairly decent job of that in our house: we recycle everything we can, we use steel water bottles and reusable shopping bags, we try to keep our house from overflowing with plastic consumables, although this is fairly relative. The boys do have plastic toys, we did – due to Jake’s incessant talking about it – receive a landfill-destined Slap Chop for Christmas. The Slap Chop: thousands of years from now landfills will be studded with those monstrosities, possibly the best-marketed piece of junk ever invented. Vince, you liar. The Sham-Wow was a useful addition to our household, but the Slap Chop? Jake talked ceaselessly about it to his indulgent grandma and was thrilled when she gave it to us, and then was subsequently saddened when it became apparent that no, kids cannot use the Slap Chop and no, the Slap Chop doesn’t actually work. Don’t even get me started on the Graty.

Terrible plastic gimmicks and toys notwithstanding, we do try to minimize our environmental impact. However, there are many things I don’t do which I could do – I could walk the boys to school instead of drive, for example, I could xeriscape more and take shorter showers, I could use one of those Diva Cups if the thought didn’t make me totally squeamish.

It’s popular now to be a locavore, thank you “100 Mile Diet”. A friend and I were discussing the fact that people who you think should be compassionate and open minded are generally the opposite of that when it comes to food. Generally anyone who refers to their diet using the word “purist” is a zealot about it; however, I would probably be the world’s smuggest locavore if I lived in a different climate. I do purchase locally grown product when it is available, although I do not think that environmentally there is much difference between vegetables trucked from another province and ones that are grown in a hothouse in Alberta in the winter. For most of the year, if I was to eat only food produced within a 100 mile radius, I would be eating a lot of beef, pork, potatoes, wheat, and corn. My fruit choices would be Saskatoon berries and crabapples. Not to mention the fact that there are no nearby vineyards or locally grown coffee beans. So I think I will stick with my non-eco-friendly-more-than-100-mile-diet, with a side order of vague guilt.

What do you do that causes environmentally-related guilt?

Thanks to my friend Rebecca for the loan of the tiara. It says Princess for the Day which is kind of how I feel today! xo

Halfway to 70, or Taking the A Train to Cougarville

Tomorrow is my birthday! I am not at all shy about telling people it is my birthday. If it didn’t make me look like I have a mental illness, I would walk around with a tiara and a “Birthday Girl” button, or possibly even a sandwich board. I love my birthday. I don’t mind the whole “getting older” part because hey, who wants to be dead? Not me. So here I am, a day away from being halfway to 70, which is pretty much taking the A Train to Cougarville.

Obviously I am on that train because yesterday I was a volunteer with Jake’s class for their field trip to the firehall! The firehall! Nicole likes firefighters! A friend was telling me about her daughter’s field trip and how great it was with the female firefighter leading the tour; inwardly I was like I am going to be so ripped off if the tour is led by a female firefighter. I mean, girl power and everything, but come on. And what do you know? The firefighters were all male and attractive, which makes for a happy field trip. Also I got to live out my lifelong fantasy of putting on the outfit – is it called an outfit? I don’t know. The boots and pants and coat and things. You know what I’m saying. - plus the oxygen tank, all of which gave me even more respect for the firefighters, male and female, because that gear is HEAVY. I could not take five steps in all that gear let alone RESCUE PEOPLE and carry those heavy hoses and whatnot. I actually said, yes I did, that the firefighters must be in good shape. I said this out loud to a firefighter, which really puts me on Destination Cougarville.

It’s a good thing my loving husband is such a confident man, to withstand my chatter about the firehall. For the record, he is way more attractive than a thousand firefighters put together, firefighting gear notwithstanding. I'm a lucky girl. Or lucky middle aged woman, whichever.

Oh yes, and the kids learned about fire safety.

Ah, but for every high there must be a come down, and so after the firehall visit I had a dentist appointment. A friend posted a poll recently: what would you rather do, have a pap test or go to the dentist. I will tell you, people, I would much rather put my feet in the stirrups with one of those awkward paper gowns on than have my teeth scraped for thirty minutes. Yikes! My very sweet hygienist said, at one point, “You really love that red wine, don’t you?” Yes. I do.

So, it’s a busy busy week, what with MY BIRTHDAY, and a firehall visit, and the dentist, and now tonight is the start of soccer season! It’s actually warm and sunny which feels strange – where is the snow? Where are the gale force winds? So I had better look out my turquoise windbreaker track suit and hop on the train to Soccer Mom Town. I have a lot of cheering to do.

It's a good thing

It’s Saturday morning, and the house is so peaceful – it’s just me and the dog; the kids are at swimming lessons, the house is filled with the scents of bread and chocolate chip cookies. Someone recently referred to me as a “Martha Stewart” and I didn’t respond right away because I needed to figure out if that person was being sarcastic or not. Apparently she was not being sarcastic but was referring to my love of baking things; clearly she was not referring to my complete inability to perform any task that requires artistic or decorative skills. Because I’m pretty sure if Martha tried to decorate cupcakes, they would look more like edible art and less like someone visually impaired and with only one hand attacked them with frosting and sprinkles.

Also I think Martha would have a much better craft supply storage solution than put everything on top of the fridge and hope that an avalanche does not occur while cooking.

Notice the various crafts and colouring pages.

The fridge is generally covered with three or four layers of paper at any given time.

As should be obvious by this point, I have one child who is really into crafts and colouring, and one who is sort of into crafts and colouring, with the result that the house is overflowing with art. So here’s my question: what does one do with it all? I have two giant containers in the basement where I keep a LOT of it, but eventually I smuggle piles out to the recycle bin. So what do you do with all of your children’s art, and how do you decide what to keep? While I'm at it, how do you deal with clutter?

I'm a baskets sort of person. Note the Bakugan stuck on the metal part of the fireplace. Classy touch.

But this is what it looks like under one of my living room end tables. NOT SO GOOD. I think the Hungry Hungry Hippos got so hungry they detached themselves from the game and died a slow death. I actually think that having an Attractively Decorated Home is incompatible with children. Or maybe it's just me and my filled-to-overflowing-with-children's-art-and-toys home.

Awww! So cute. This has nothing to do with clutter, but I think he's looking for a walk. Enjoy the weekend!

Peace, Love, and Happiness

Last week the 1973 version of Jesus Christ Superstar was on television, which I watched with interest as I saw Tim Neeley reprise his role on the last tour of the play, a few years back. Almost immediately, I had the song “What’s the Buzz (Tell Me What’s Happening)” stuck in my head, and it stayed there for several days. After a few days of this I started to consider various hippie slang that should - by all rights - make a comeback: What’s the Buzz, of course, along with its counterpart Don’t Be Such a Buzzkill, as well as the ultimate complimentary term, Far Out! As I was watching, Tim Neeley hit a very high note, and I realized that Adam Lambert’s style is completely imitative.

Is nothing original anymore?

Clearly that is true about style, given that I have noticed, disconcertingly, that it seems to be fashionable to tightly roll up your pants. Tightly rolling up your pants! I was someone who tightly folded, then carefully rolled, my acid wash jeans back in the late eighties, and the thought of that particular style coming back to the forefront is distressing to say the least. It wasn’t a flattering style then. It is even less so now. Youth of today, take a stand against this, for the good of the nation.

Back when I was an angst-ridden teenager, around the time of the rolled jeans, I thought that it would be amazing – far out, even – to come of age in the late 60’s, early 70’s; all that revolutionary thought, the electricity of change. They sure did know how to make a good rock opera back then: all the hippie singers and dancers arriving on that decrepit bus, the funky music, the obviously high and very sweaty cast. What a time to be alive, I used to think, with my rose coloured outlook and my youth and my idealism.

As an adult, however, I now look back on that time with revulsion: the promiscuity, the venereal disease, the hallucinogens, the lack of hygiene. Maybe because it’s my birthday next week, and I am officially entering what used to be known as middle age, and back then in the era of peace, love, and happiness, I would be someone who would not have been trusted, a total square, despite my very strong dedication to a life of peace, love and happiness. Maybe I’m just being a buzzkill.

Mmm...George Clooney

Have you seen the movie Up in the Air? If not, I recommend you do so; it is an excellent movie. I say this with authority because I actually stayed awake through the entire film. This is notable because I’m famous – in my own small circle, anyway – for falling asleep and missing the ending of the majority of movies I see. Last weekend we watched Sherlock Holmes and I found the plot not at all engaging, and although I think Robert Downey Jr. is QUITE attractive, I fell asleep an hour before it ended. I have seen the beginning of many, many movies but I’m generally quite fuzzy on how they end, due to my movie-induced narcolepsy. Action movies are the worst. Car chases! Explosions! Special effects! They all result in me passed out on the couch.

The last movie I saw in an actual movie theatre was – hang on to your hats! – Pirates of the Caribbean Part Two, and, of course, I fell asleep probably ten minutes into the movie, waking up intermittently to scenes of scary looking pirate-y things with the arm of the seat jammed uncomfortably in my side. A friend recently asked why I didn’t go to the movie theatre more often – don’t I have babysitters – and really, my reasoning is that my couch is a much less expensive and much more comfortable place to fall asleep.

So that was a highlight of the weekend, me watching a movie from start to finish. Also happening around my house: the Masters. Do you live with a golfer? Or a golf fan? I seem to have married someone who is both of those and the Masters takes on importance even greater than the US Open. He has been following it this weekend, simultaneously wishing he himself was on the golf course – icy winds and melting snow keeping him from doing so – and frequently calling me to the television to watch a particularly good shot. Are they called shots? I’m not sure. Paying attention to the Masters, and other sporting events, is something I do to keep my marriage vital. That is my Public Service Announcement for the day: for a strong marriage, at least feign interest in sporting events. My husband’s related PSA would likely have something to do with providing crazy wife with all the wine she wants, which probably explains why the Scouts looked so excited when they arrived at our house for their bottle drive this weekend. Hooray, our camping trip is funded! A very amusing part of the Masters has been my husband repeatedly muttering expletives about Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods: spokesperson for skankiness everywhere. Speaking of which: have you seen that Nike commercial? Ew. That is all I have to say. Ew, ew, ew.

On that note, I will sign off. Here’s to a positive and happy week! Hope you all had a lovely weekend.

Gone With The April Snowstorm Wind

Right now it’s snowing, big thick flakes; our entire yard is blanketed, the whitened trees swaying violently in the wind. After dinner the boys went outside with umbrellas and snow boots, running and screaming with joy in the wind. Wouldn’t it be nice to view an April snowstorm like that, like an unlooked-for and unexpected gift? Instead of a big giant soggy-dog puddles-in-the-mudroom power-threatening-to-go-out pain in the ass?

The boys finally came in, soaked and frozen, after the bizarre thunder and lightning started to accompany the snow, and I felt more like my normal self. All day I had been rehearsing for the starring role of Bitchy Mummy, and I think I was doing quite well at it, if I do say so myself. The problem lies within. My personal philosophy is that if you are a person like me – a stay-at-home mom with no babies or toddlers to look after – then you really should pull more than your weight in the volunteer department. My best friend, who has four children ranging in age from eight months to almost seven, is someone who I think should never be asked to volunteer ever. She is one busy woman. Someone like me...well, I’m not living a particularly hectic life, and so I think I should take on the lion’s share of volunteer work. Which is why I am rocking the role of Bitchy Mummy today.

Evidently I should say no more often. The past few days have seen me baking like a fiend and also, cruelly, refusing to allow the children to eat more than one brownie each. “Can you make brownies again someday?” Mark asked pathetically, like the Dickensian character he suddenly is, given his mother has become suddenly negligent and unreachable. I have been spending hours – HOURS – creating the community soccer schedule and I have been spending much time feeling utterly defeated with my forehead in my hand wondering if that many games can be fielded at one time or do I need to CHANGE IT AGAIN. This is my second year of taking on this job and if my husband has any say in the matter there will not be a third because my normal, fairly cheery personality is gone, people, gone with the April snowstorm wind. I initially volunteered for this job because hey, I used to create linear programs and other mathematical models, how hard could a soccer schedule be? This is called hubris. The soccer schedule is an evil, evil thing. I am having disturbing dreams about the soccer schedule. I am living and breathing the soccer schedule. And the children, the children with their Insatiable Curiosity and Natural Inquisitiveness, the children with their Need for Maternal Attention and their Nutritional Requirements, the children, they are driving me crazy.

So I’m going to go out on a limb here and incur the wrath of my neighbours and say that the snowstorm, while it is a giant pain, is also a blessing, a blessing that saw the children outside and absurdly happy, and that reminded me what it’s like to be a kid who sees excitement and fun in an unexpected snowy curveball. It took the Bitchy Mummy right out of me.

Style and the SAHM

I have a little something something up at Yummy Mummy Club. It's all about STYLE and the SAHM. Not an oxymoron. Also a brief description of a really embarrassing, and true, moment. Go check it out, and comment if you can, pretty please. xo

Happy Easter!

“I know that Santa is not real,” Mark said ponderously, “But what about the Easter Bunny?”

I considered for a moment before replying, “What do you think, honey? Do you think a bunny will hop into our house with a basket of treats?”

Mark thought for a moment. “No. That doesn’t really make sense. How would a bunny open the door?”

Is this where I’m supposed to answer “MAGIC”?

Anyway, we have been busy, people, with various egg-colouring projects and other spring-related crafts.




We're a talented family, no?

I took a cue from a much more imaginative friend and filled little plastic eggs with written clues about where various Easter treats were hidden in the house. My husband was puzzled by this method – “can’t they just look for the treats?” – but I was adamant about it being FUN and not only that, Mark could practice his reading. He looked at me like I just taped a Kick Me sign on my own back. There’s nothing like incorporating educational value into an Easter egg hunt. Nonetheless, the boys really did enjoy the hunt because that crazy bunny hid treats everywhere from the dryer to Jake’s underwear drawer. Fun!

Little bunny footprints leading to the basket o' clues.

We had Easter dinner at my parents’ yesterday, with my brothers and sisters-in-law and all my nieces and nephews. My mother made ham AND turkey, so Jake was happy, and we were combining this family gathering with Mark’s birthday so our contribution to the dinner was this:

Yes, the good people at Dairy Queen made us a giant Muk-Muk cake, which was a little too much for fifteen people and so I ate a very large leftover piece this morning, which left me feeling somewhat nauseous for the rest of the day, but oh so worth it. The remainder of the day has been spent in a rather leisurely fashion, with Mark and his dad raking the lawn and Jake surreptitiously playing with Mark’s new Star Wars action figures obtained only yesterday, and then later an outdoor hard-boiled egg hunt that fortunately did not conclude with the dog consuming said eggs.

I hope that, whether or not you celebrate Easter, you have had a beautiful weekend, this lovely first weekend of April.

I don't go out much

You know how, when you are looking forward to going to your very favourite restaurant for weeks, and you pore over the online menu and decide what you are going to order, in extreme detail, and you think about that amazing meal and you think about it and - after all you go out for dinner only a few times a year - you obsess over it and then the day is finally here and you dress up in an actual dress, the very one you bought for your husband’s company Christmas party that you sadly did not attend and you get to the restaurant, starving and drooling a little, practically crazed with anticipation, you open the actual non-online menu and the item you have been dreaming about is no longer available? And for a few minutes you just feel completely bereft, like there are no more important issues in the world than the fact that you cannot order linguine with sundried tomatoes and olives?

But then you find that, regardless of the printed menu, the chef can accommodate you and you get exactly what you want?

It’s wonderful.

All of which is to say that our anniversary dinner was a lovely success. “Can you believe we’ve been married eight years?” I said dreamily, sipping my second cosmopolitan. “It seems longer” my husband replied somewhat less romantically. “But in a good way” he amended.

When you’ve been married a while, it’s easy to take certain things for granted: like who is going to take out the recycling or who is going to wash the dishes. When you have babies or small children your relationship can be not unlike that of fellow zookeepers or perhaps roommates with particularly difficult pets, where you cease to talk about anything not related to your shared responsibilities and their food and toileting preferences. Another thing about being married for a while is that you become predictable to each other. I can, for example, predict perfectly the two things my husband finds most irritating about me: my fondness for going to sleep before 9:30 pm, and my eating preferences. “It’s a pain in the ass being married to a vegetarian,” he mutters semi-weekly. He probably also is irritated by my baby-talking to the dog, but whatever. I can also predict that, now that golf season has begun, I will see a whole lot less of him; but on the upside, I will be able to watch NYPD Blue reruns without interference.

The beautiful thing about being married a while, the beauty of predictability, is that when you come back to the table from the ladies’ room you find your husband has talked to the waitress and ordered you a contraband linguine with sundried tomatoes and olives, plus a gorgeous glass of cabernet, and you can only smile at his probable conversation with her, “It’s a pain she’s a vegetarian,” he’d say, “I’ll have the New York striploin.” It’s just what I might have predicted.