Aimless Adventures

Marley

2011-08-06T20:17:00.009-06:00

{This post was written by 7 year old Maya.}

Marley is my ten month old puppy. He is very big. He is very strong also and has very sharp claws. Marley is a terrier cross puppy. We don't know what he is crossed with though. We got him from the Humane Society. He was at a home and back and a home and back. We brought him home because he was so adorable. He was puppy eyes were so cute. Whenever I visited his cage he would jump up and it was so amazing.

Today there was a thunderstorm. Marley stayed out for just the beginning. When he came inside he was so scared. He was going really fast and it was like he was going "huh? huh? What's happening?" He was getting so scared but then he calmed and now the storm is over.

We are going to go on a trip and Marley has to stay home with Daddy. I am going to miss him when we are gone, but I am still going to have fun.

I'm super happy that we have a puppy named Marley. Thanks for listening!

Grammy Jammies

2011-08-05T22:17:00.001-06:00

A parcel arrived today. It was addressed to me with a return address from my parents. Suh-weet! We ripped it open on the deck this afternoon, excited to see the treasures Grammy and Grandpa sent the family.

There were a new pair of Grammy Jammies for each of the kids, a hand-knit lavender sweater for Maya, a book for each of the kids, and three new movies for the kids. Ben and Maya both cheered when each gem emerged from the package. Seconds later they sat silently, snuggling with their new jammies on their laps, engrossed in their books.

Grammy Jammies are the handiwork of my mom. Each of the grandkids has several pairs of pyjamas sewn by Grammy. She makes jammies for all weather: fleece and flannel for icy winter nights, lightweight cotton and seersucker for hot summer sleeps. Fabric is carefully chosen for each of the kids; today there were pink flowers for Maya and Thomas the Tank Engine for Ben. Maya prefers the nightgowns Grammy sews, while Ben loves to wear different patterned tops and bottoms (or as he calls it, "mich-match").

Ben couldn't wait until bedtime to get into his new threads. He quickly ran inside, changed, and proudly came back out. His friend across the street saw him riding his tricycle on the sidewalk (in his pyjamas) and came out to join him. "Like my new 'ammies? Gammy make 'em for me!" They both oohed and ahhed over the trains.

Maya waited until after dinner to put hers on. She came into the living room with a slightly teary grin on her face. "They still kinda smell like Grammy," she said. I drew her close to me and sure enough, there was the faint aroma of my mom's perfume. It was comforting and heart-wrenching all at the same time.

After seeing the kids in their new Grammy Jammies, Eric asked "so. . . was there anything in there for you or I in the package?" Hmm, maybe he was on to something. After all, the package was addressed to me.

I checked the envelope again. Nada. Yeah, they're pretty much over us. They have been ever since those two short people came along.

I can't say I blame Mom and Dad. Just look at these two little monsters. They are pretty irresistible. And I say that as a completely unbiased person.

Truly though, I couldn't have asked for better folks. And the best part of having my mom and dad as parents is my kids having them as Grammy and Grandpa.

Pompoleen

2011-05-23T16:58:00.002-06:00

Our kids had a gift from a very generous family this week. One of the incredible education assistants I get to work with told me that her kids had outgrown their trampoline. She wanted to know if Maya and Ben would like it. Gratis.

Um, yes please.

On Saturday morning Eric went out back to set up the trampoline, or as Ben calls it, the pompoleen. The tubes frame all went together quite easily. It took all of 5 minutes for Eric to put the frame together. The kids put the springs on the frame. Everything was going smoothly. Everyone was smiling. Everyone was excited to jump on the pompoleen.

Until we tried to attach the mat to the frame.

It took over an hour to attach the mat. We would get halfway done, but then the mat would pull so tightly in one direction we couldn't attach it on the other side. After about three different tries, 46 curse words, and 11 cigarettes, Eric finally relented and googled trampoline assembly. Ten minutes later Maya and Ben were bouncing happily. Eric and I were collapsed in lawn chairs, totally spent from the sheer effort.

We had a hot and sunny long weekend, so the two monsters had plenty of time to jump their hearts out. It didn't take long for word to spread through the neighbourhood that Ben and Maya have a trampoline. Soon our yard was swimming with children all wanting a turn. I innocently stepped into the backyard with a cup of coffee and my laptop, hoping to enjoy a bit of sun while watching the kids revel in their new toy, perhaps even get a little blogging and planning done. When I walked behind the house I found fourteen children back there.

Seriously. There were fourteen kids in the yard. And I only knew the names of about three of those children, including my own.

All hopes of a relaxing spring afternoon were gone as I was instantly transformed into the role of yard supervisor. To keep my own sanity amongst the chaos, I actually started a Word document to record a waitlist of names and used an online stopwatch to keep track of the time.

On the up side, I now know the names of the neighbourhood riff raff. Maya and Ben both made some new friends. After watching all of them play I know who will and won't be invited back to play.

On the down side, it was crazy, chaotic, and definitely not the relaxing Sunday afternoon I had in mind. My arm is still aching from pulling on the springs while trying to attach the mat.

But seeing how much those two crazy kids of mine love the pompoleen makes it all worthwhile.

Wise Beyond Her Years

2011-05-16T22:05:00.001-06:00

Out of the blue yesterday, Maya asked me "Mama, who's that Bin Laden guy I keep hearing about?"

Ugh. What a kick in the gut. I was hoping I wouldn't have to explain to my seven year old quite yet about the evils of the world. I was hoping to shelter her from the fact that world is sucky place sometimes, shelter her from ideas of terrorism and hatred.

However, I am a firm believer in giving age appropriate answers to all questions my kids ask. She asked, so I did my best to explain to my sweet girl about a man who claimed responsibility for the 9/11 attacks and the ten year hunt that ensued. We talked about why people choose to terrorize others and how it might feel to be on both sides of that terrorism. I told her about how the US Navy Seals had been watching a home for months and decided to swarm and kill the man they believed to be Osama Bin Laden.

She listened very quietly while I told her about how sucky the world can be sometimes and then said "but Mom, that doesn't make any sense."

Crap. I thought I had done a pretty decent job explaining the situation in terms she could understand. I needed to find out what she was confused about so I could clarify it for her.

"Mom, it doesn't make any sense that they would just burst in and kill him. Why didn't they take him to jail and then talk him through it?"

So wise beyond her seven years. Children have such a simple, innocent, and yet thoughtful view of the world and solving conflict. When do we cross over to cynical and jaded views of the world? And how can I help her hold on to this incredible judicious wisdom?

Maybe I don't need to shelter her from the world at all. The world needs to hear her seven year old voice.

Dirty Socks

2011-04-27T17:43:00.003-06:00

This month Maya's school held an oratory competition. She was a finalist chosen from her class to go on to perform her piece in front of the school. Maya did very well and won a bronze medal! We are very proud of her.

Students in the primary grades were given poems to memorize and perform for the competition. Maya's poem was "Dirty Socks" by Bruce Lanksy. She spent so much time practicing the poem that Ben learned it just from hearing his big sister rehearse.

         Dirty Socks by Bruce Lansky
         My socks were very dirty
         So I washed them in the lake.
          It wasn't long before I knew
          I'd made a big mistake.

          The water changed from clear to mud,
          Then fumes began to rise.
          And soon a cloud of air pollution
          Covered up the skies.

          When bullfrogs started croaking
          And ducks began to quack,
          Some campers started chanting
         "We want our clean lake back!"

          I've got a pile of dirty socks,
          I'm in an awful bind.
          I guess I'll have to bury them.
          I hope the worms won't mind!

Here is Maya performing the poem and showing off her medal:

Here is Ben performing the poem he learned by ear:

I asked Ben and Maya this morning if they knew how I got so lucky to have TWO kids as awesome and smart as they are. Maya said it was because I have such a wonderful husband. Yup, it's definitely due to the guy who spins stories about child-eating dragons. Whatever the reason is, the fact remains those two munchkins are awesome and they're mine.

Dad Stories

2011-04-26T12:59:00.002-06:00

One of the innumerable tasks of fatherhood is to impart knowledge to your children: teach them about the world and how to behave within it. Dads are bottomless wells of expertise. They seem to know how to do anything, build anything, fix anything. For a young child, Dad = superhero.

Safe homes for spotted owls

My own Dad is exactly that. He wired our childhood home to have a phone and stereo speaker hookup in pretty much every room. He taught us all about computers back in the days of Commodor e. He built us our own rollerskates out of old trucks and Chuck Taylors. I forgot just how smart he is when I was between the ages of 13 and 20, but since then I have remembered just how resourceful he is. When I was 22, I received a stacking washer-dryer set. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out how to install the set in the storage closet of my apartment. My dad arrived with just his toolbox and within minutes he had McGuyvered the set securely in the space. With this kind of knowledge and ability, why would I question him when I was a kid and he told me the red and white power line marker balls are homes for endangered species of birds?

Yeah, I believed that one until I was well into adulthood.

Prosperity lantern
aka Boy Eating Dragon Home

Dads seem to take great joy in pulling the wool over their innocent children's eyes. Last summer Eric and I took the kids to our favourite sushi restaurant for one last meal before moving to Saskatchewan because really, how fresh is that sushi going to be in the prairies? Our kids love sushi, so a trip to Sushi Osaka is usually an enjoyable excursion. This particular afternoon, however, Benjamin was not in any mood to sit. I pulled out all the tricks from my purse: Hotwheels, crayons, juggling sharp knives. Nothing was working. The two year ~~monster~~ sweetheart could not be dissuaded from jumping on Mom, standing on his chair, or climbing under the table. In a moment of "brilliance" Eric pulled out a dad story and told Ben that the decorative red lanterns contained dragons that would come out and eat little boys who weren't sitting nicely on their chairs. Nothing says family time like a terrifying story of being gobbled up by a fierce dragon.

This past week Maya did a great job of preparing Ben for Easter. She told him both the biblical story and the Easter Bunny story in an attempt to get him excited about the upcoming holiday. However, Ben couldn't quite grasp the idea of a bunny rabbit sneaking into our house and leaving us chocolate treats. So Maya enlisted her dad's help and asked Eric to google a picture of the Easter Bunny to show Ben. And what does a kind, loving father google to show his son the Easter Bunny?

A kind, loving father googles Donnie Darko.

Here comes Peter Cottontail
Hopping down the terror trail

Poor Ben was not looking forward to Easter. He took a look at the images Eric pulled up, turned to me, and said in his sweet, little 3 year old voice "oh, no thank you, Easter Bunny. I no like Easter Bunny. Easter Bunny too creepy." I'd have to agree with that appraisal.

It took us all week to convince Ben that the Easter Bunny was actually a cute, fuzzy bunny not a creepy, terrifying, evil rabbit who likes to go to the movies. On Easter morning, Ben discovered the Easter Bunny had brought both he and his sister lots of chocolate as well as some bubbles, sidewalk chalk, marigold seeds, and a set of elbow pads, knee pads, and bicycle gloves. "Mommy, I like Easter Bunny. Easter Bunny not too creepy anymore."

And yet he insists on wearing all that safety gear at all times.

Parent-Teacher Interviews

2011-04-02T23:19:00.001-06:00

Recently we attended Parent-Teacher Interview night at Maya's school. This is the evening where we go and listen to other adults tell us what a sweet, quiet, well-behaved, and brilliant daughter we have. Luckily for Eric and I, Maya's school does this twice a year. It's nice to have an evening like this tip the behaviour scale in Maya's favour. It more than makes up for the sassy attitude she cops at home.

Maya's classroom teacher is wonderful. She's sweet, kind, but very firm with Maya. She shared some of Maya's writing with us, which included one particularly sweet drawing of Eric and Maya on a "date" at Tim Horton's. Maya's attention to detail was remarkable: Dad was dressed in camo shorts, a black t-shirt, and a backwards baseball cap.

Her teacher went on to tell us all about what a great student Maya is. She told us how she relies on Maya to the "caboose" of the line when the class walks down the hall. Maya is quick to keep the other kids in line, telling the teacher when the arrive at their destination who was talking, running, or pushing. We had a good laugh at this, because we have long referred to Maya as our little hall monitor. She is sure to let us know when someone else breaks the rules!

"Ha ha ha, that's great! But does she have any friends?" I asked. I'm picturing Maya as an annoying little bossy pants, barking orders at her peers. Mrs. D assured me that she does, in fact, have lots of friends. She's never alone at play time and all the kids want to play with her.

After we met with her classroom teacher, Eric and Maya wandered upstairs to find her reading teacher while Ben and I popped into the pre-K classroom to check things out. Maya's school starts pre-K at 3.5 (which Ben will be in the fall) and I wanted to know how to get him enrolled.

We walked into the pre-K room Ben's eyes got very large. The toys and books and puzzles were a little overwhelming, I think. He kept turning around and taking a step towards one thing and then stop and see something else and start heading in another direction. He finally settled on the kitchen and got to work making soup with a whole chicken with a side of scrambled eggs and pizza. Looks like all the time spent watching Food TV are paying off.

The pre-K teacher was lovely and encouraging. She watched Ben play and asked him a few questions. She said he was a very cute, sweet little boy. I can't say I disagree with her. We put Ben's name on a list for her to call when they open up registration in a few months. Keep your fingers crossed that he gets a spot in the class!

It took some skill to get Ben out of that magical room, but the lure of real cookies down the hall finally did the trick. We stopped to chat with a woman at a display about ordering boxes of fresh, local fruits and vegetables. I was asking her questions about the program when it all came crashing down.

Literally.

Ben had crawled underneath the table while I was talking to the woman and one table leg buckled, sending her perfectly arranged display of pamphlets, information, photographs, water, and veggies sliding to the hallway floor. Luckily Ben wasn't hurt. He was just so embarrassed that all he could do is stand there and cover his face. The woman wasn't concerned about her display, thankfully, she wanted to make sure Ben was ok. And he was. Physically. Once I got everything picked up, dried off, and rearranged I was able to get the poor little guy out of the scene of the crime and talk to him. He came around once he saw the cookies. I'm fairly sure he immediately forgot all about the table incident. Cookies have a similar amnesia-inducing effect on me in that I immediately forget how many I've eaten.

It wouldn't be a Whitbread family outing without at least one thing being broken and somebody in tears. I'm just glad it wasn't me for once.

Sunday Morning Phone Calls

2011-02-27T14:54:00.000-06:00

Most days when the phone rings at our house, we all try to avoid answering it. I can't put my finger on why exactly we dodge the phone because we do enjoy talking to our friends and family so far away. But the fact is, as soon as the phone rings on most days we all shout "NOT IT!" and immediately try to look busier than each other in an attempt to evade the telephone.

Most days that is.

But not on Sundays.

When the phone rings on Sunday mornings it turns into a pushing, shoving, screaming race between Maya and Ben to pick up the phone first. When the phone rings on Sunday mornings they fight to answer the phone because they know it's Grammy and Grampa calling. On Sunday mornings, instead of everyone shouting "NOT IT!" we all shout "it's GRAMMY!"

It should be noted here that Eric and I stopped fighting for the phone first because even if we do reach the receiver before the short people in the house we can't have a decent conversation for the shouting in the background:

"Can I talk to Grammy? Is it my turn yet? I want to talk to Grampa! Can I talk on the phone now? How about now? It it my turn now? Can I have a turn? Why can't I have a turn? I want to talk to Grammy and Grampa! I want to talk to Grammy and Grampa! I want to talk to Grammy and Grampa!"

"Me talk? Me talk? My turn? Me talk? My turn? I talk now? I talk to Grammy? Me talk? I talk to Papa? Me talk? My turn now?"

So we just stand back and let them ~~duke it out~~ politely talk about who goes first. Maya usually wins this "discussion".

Maya prattles on to Grammy and Grampa about her week, telling them the minute, intricate details about her week, the books she reading, what she did during the week, things she is looking forward to in the next week.

They talk about how freezing cold it is outside here in Saskatchewan and how pretty Grammy's flowers are in BC. Grammy really likes to rub it in that they can be outside without risk of frostbite. Maya really likes to rub it in that it hardly ever rains here.

Ben tells Grammy and Grampa all about his toys, his favourite blanket, and the cat. He tries to show them things in his bedroom; he's only three and doesn't understand that Grammy and Grampa can't see him over the phone. They ask him all sorts of questions about his week. He babbles on and on. I'm sure Grammy and Grampa don't understand most of what Ben says, but they love to listen and chat with him.

Today, Grampa was really funny.

Being the sweet boy that he is, Ben often tries to pass the phone to the cat next. That's when I swoop in and rescue Grammy and Grampa.

They don't speak Catonese.

I try to hide away in my bedroom to chat with my mom because even though Ben and Maya have just had their turn on the phone and had been functioning just fine without my help all morning up to this point, they need my attention. NOW. I don't understand what it is about holding a phone to the side of my head that suddenly renders my children completely helpless. They require my assistance, my attention, my refereeing skills, my opinion on the economic crisis, my next breath. I tried talking to my mom about it one Sunday morning. I think she said something about how my siblings and I were the same way, but I couldn't quite hear her over the din of my children clambering for my attention.

The magic of a Grammy phone call is strong enough to overcome the family's phonephobia (that's a real word, google it) for one morning only. The next time the phone rings we are all back to calling out "NOT IT!"

Until the subsequent Sunday morning, that is.

An Afternoon Spent Sledding

2011-02-23T18:05:00.001-06:00

Or, Why I Shouldn't Ever Need a Gym Membership in Winter

It's Winter Break here in ~~the arctic tundra~~ Saskatchewan, which means a blissful week free of marking, commuting, and early mornings. A week to sleep in late (7am), lounge around (catch up on laundry), and spend quality time the fam damily.

This afternoon we decided to go sledding. Looking outside and seeing the bright shining sun we thought it would be a perfect afternoon to spend outside. Windchills of -28C won't keep us inside, we're Canadian! We don't wait for warmer days, we brave the wintry weather with smiles frozen on our faces!

Getting myself and my two kids ready to brave the boreal weather is no small feat. The task of finding enough toques, mitts, scarves, snow pants, etc. to prevent frostbite and whining is enough to exhaust anyone, never mind the job of stuffing everyone into said toques, mitts, scarves, snow pants, etc.

By the time everyone was dressed, I was sweating, panting, and weary, and we hadn't even stepped outside the door.

I sent the kids outside to play in the snow fort Eric built last week and I ran around the house like the madwoman, grabbing the truck keys, the camera, and some batteries.

I made my way outside, helped Maya get the snow tubes in the back of the truck, wrestled the kids into their seats, and we were off! And it only took 45 minutes!

I was so warm from just getting ready and being layered in my winter gear that my sunglasses fogged up.

We got to the sledding hill and Maya and Ben cheered. We were the only ones there! We had free reign over the hill. We could slide like crazy people in all directions without having to worry about running in to anyone else. Suh-weet!

Then we opened the truck door and realized why nobody else was there. It was ridiculously cold. The wind was so biting I had an instant brain freeze.

But hey, we're Canadian! We don't wait for warmer days to go play! We brave the wintry weather with smiles frozen on our faces!

Maya jumped on her snow tube and rushed down the hill. Or, at least, she *tried* to rush down the hill. Her tube stopped half way down the hill. I plunked Ben on his tube and gave him a push. He didn't make it as far as his sister.

Being the good mother that I am, I laughed hysterically at my sweet children stuck on the hill.

Don't worry, I helped them back up the hill. Eventually.

We attempted a few more slides down the hill, but the 40 km/h winds and fresh snow proved too much for my two light weights. They never did make it all the way to the bottom of the hill. After 5 minutes of unsuccessful, freezing-arse-cold sledding effort, I convinced Maya and Ben that we should head home by ~~bribing them with~~ offering a pleasant alternative activity: hot chocolate at home. They were really excited about this idea.

Or not.

The stripping of winter layers thankfully took less time than putting on the layers. All told, it was nearly an hour to get dressed and undressed for 5 minutes of sledding. Right now Maya and Ben are colouring happily, warm and content with bellies full of hot chocolate. I'm exhausted and spent, needing another cup of coffee.

I'm thinking next time the kids want to go sledding I'll trade spots with Eric. He can brave the wintry weather with a smile frozen on his face. I'll spend the afternoon the way he did - having a long winter's nap.

Saturday Morning Pancakes

2009-08-24T16:38:00.000-06:00

Parenting experts say that kids thrive on routine. Apparently those short little people are happier when they know what's coming up next. And who am I to argue with the experts? They *must* know more about raising kids than I do. This doesn't say much, however. I'm sure our family cat knows more about raising kids than I do. But he doesn't speak English and I don't speak Catonese. So I (sometimes) listen to the English speaking parenting experts.

In an attempt to build routine into our crazy, hectic week, I instituted Saturday Morning Pancakes. We sit together, talk about our week, and share a meal. And really, what better way to establish a routine than a sticky sugar high? In 10 easy steps, here is our Saturday morning routine according to Ben:

1. Wake up Mom far before a respectable hour by sweetly singing "Maaaaaaammmmmaaaa!"

2. Scream "MAMA! MOM! MOM! MOM! MAMA!" when she doesn't respond within 3.2 seconds.

3. Help Mom make coffee by pressing the button on the coffee grinder, spilling the fresh ground coffee all over the counter, and pressing the ON button seventeen times on the coffee maker. Throw up your hands and shout "TADAAA!"

4. Cling onto Mom's legs while she makes pancakes. Oscillate between asking for and refusing cups of milk.

5. Get naked. Put on a bib. Pancakes are finger food, man, and they are messy.

6. Eat 2 pancakes. Feed your hair some syrup.

7. Shout "aaaaaaahhhhh!" (me) and raise you hand when Mom asks "who wants more pancakes?"

8. Refuse to eat any more pancakes unless fed from Mom's plate. Smear syrup all over yourself, your tray, and your Mom as she tries to feed you. Throw syrup covered bowls at the cat.

9. Have a bath. Soak everything within a five foot radius.

10. Smile sweetly at Mom and wonder why she's exhausted so early in the day.

Milestones

2009-08-21T15:53:00.000-06:00

Good mothers preserve their children's babyhood in carefully maintained baby books, saving birth congratulatory cards, locks of hair, and roughly a zillion pictures of baby. Good mothers meticulously record all the glorious firsts: baby's first food, baby's first step, baby's first word. Good mothers keep these nostalgic albums up to date, rushing to the book to record the memories as soon as they happen.

The rest of us have a shoebox full of mementos and good intentions.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about making Ben's baby scrapbook - how I'd organize it, what colour scheme I'd use, which photographs I'd include. Unfortunately, Ben suffers from Second Child Syndrome. Being the second child, we did not record all those firsts on the calendar as diligently as we did with his older sister.

That's not to say that it wasn't as exciting when he rolled over, sat up, and crawled. It's more that he's a totally different baby. While Maya was a sweet, mild-mannered baby girl who loved to babble, look at books, and swing gently in the swings at the park, Ben is a sweet, rough and tumble baby boy who loves to throw toys at his sister's head, climb high slides, and generally scare the crap out of his mom. As such, Ben's baby album is more likely to have milestones like these:

baby's first love bite from a girl (June 2008, 5 months)
baby's first trip to the ER (August 2008, 7 months old, croup)
baby's first time picking his own nose (October 2008, 9 months)

baby's first poop in the tub (November 2008, 10 months, unfortunately this was during a shared bath time with Maya. Much screaming ensued.)

baby's first black eye (March 2009, 14 months)

baby's first "artwork" on the walls/floor/himself (April 2009, 15 months)

baby's first mohawk (June 2009, 17 months, thanks Eri)

baby's first Happy Meal (August 2009, 19 months)

baby's first split lip (August 2009, 19 months, stepped in front of the swing)

baby's first curse word (still to come - something to look forward to!)

First foods (oatmeal), steps (13 months), and words (kitty cat) are important, too, but the above list shows more about Ben's baby personality. I bet those of us with shoeboxes of memorabilia would be far more inclined to keep up to date with albums if they included milestones such as these.

So keep those milestones coming, Ben. As much as you terrify me with your ~~daredevil~~ confident nature, it makes for an interesting memory book and blog.

My Own McHell

2009-08-20T21:34:00.000-06:00

In university, I spent a few summers working near Vancouver in illustrious summer occupations, such as Box Packer, Internet Teacher to People Who Don't Know How To Use A Mouse, and the ever-popular Key to Deadbolt Matcher. This was in my public transit phase; I had to ride the bus and skytrain every day.

It usually took at least two transfers to get where I was working, yet no matter what time of day it was or what bus route it was, if I was lucky enough to get a window seat I was also lucky enough to sit at the window with the greasy head smear. For reasons unbeknowst to me, people seem to have a need to rest their oily heads against the window and sleep. It looked like someone had thrown a bowl of well-oiled angel hair pasta at the bus window. Napping bus riders = non-hair-washing bus riders = me barfing in my mouth.

I'd drown out the possibility of inane stranger small talk by retreating within via the help of a little Led Zeppelin II or the soundtrack to Annie on my yellow Sony Walkman. One day even my Walkman couldn't protect me from the bus riding grease stains or crazies when, thinking I could avoid the pomaded public transit porthole by sitting in the aisle seat, a man holding the bar behind my head became entangled in my hair. After some tugging, apologizing (on his part), and retching (on my part), he was free to leave the bus and I was free to relive the nightmare for years to come. Even though my bus rides these days are part of school field trips, I still tie my hair up whenever I board.

Living in a small town (that thankfully lacks public transit with greasy windows) affords few options for grocery shopping. I shop twice a month, making the 45 minute trek to The Big City (just kidding, we only go to Chilliwack) a full day event. I save all my errands for Shopping Day, but with so many stops to make I find it helps to ~~bribe my kids~~ let my kids know that we'll have a special lunch and stop at a playground. Most days we get take out and have a picnic at a park. Some days the weather fights my plans and we find indoor places to play and eat.

The most recent Shopping Day was too hot to play outside, so we went to McDonald's, to the extreme joy of Maya and Ben. Really, Maya was extremely joyous, and Ben. . .well, Ben will smile and put his hand up to agree to anything.

"Who wants to go to McDonald's?" Ben smiles and puts his hand up.

"Who wants to play on the slide?" Ben smiles and puts his hand up.

"Who wants a bath?" Ben smiles and puts his hand up.

"Who wants a kick in the pants?" Ben smiles and puts his hand up. Bless his heart. He's sweet, that boy of mine.

The play area is a separate room, sealed off so as to not frighten the non-parents who may be dining in the fine establishment. It's roughly 5 degrees warmer in the play area and smells of kid sweat. To add to the whole enjoyable experience, McDonald's lovingly pipes in non-stop kids' music. Not the stomachable kids' music, like the Jonas Brothers. The kind with banjos and annoying character voices, following three basic themes: pets, sandwiches, and weather. Maya wanted to sit at the special table with the hamburger head stools. Turns out those hamburger heads are really meant to hold children's bottoms, because I was sodomized by hamburger eyeballs all through lunch. Good times.

It was within this McHell that I was forced to relive my bus riding days. I watched Maya carefully help Ben manoeuvre the playground, lifting him up when he couldn't quite reach, coaxing him through the tunnels, teaching him to scream and pound on the playground plastic windows. And it was at that exact moment of screaming, pounding, and pressing of faces against the plastic that I suddenly noticed how absolutely filthy it was in there. Greasy, grimy hand and nose prints, like the greasy, grimy head prints on the bus. My feet stuck to the floor, like the random guy stuck in my hair. I panicked.

And so we left. Right then. And I vowed never to return. Next Shopping Day we're eating in the Jeep with the A/C and Dave Matthews blasting.

I have a love for the numbers

2009-08-14T08:59:00.000-06:00

Mr. Magorium: I've hired an accountant.

Mahoney: A what?

Mr. Magorium: An accountant. According to the word, it must be a cross between a counter and a mutant and that may be precisely what we need.

Even though it's ~~dummer~~ summer vacation, I still find myself doing complicated mathematics: feed the family, keep the lights on, have family fun all on the pittance that is called a paycheque; estimate the number of tea parties, crafting, and household chores I can finish within one of Ben's naps; calculate the number of kilometres I can drive once the gas light in the Jeep comes on. Barbie thought Math class was hard. Try being a teacher-mom on summer vacation. I need a counting mutant.

My math for the past day:
83 sweet, sloppy, wet toddler kisses and lovely (but thankfully dry) big kid kisses
8 diaper changes
4 changes that involved poop (thanks, Ben)
2 chapters of Ella Enchanted read with Maya
17 readings of 10 Little Ladybugs to Ben
2, 483 "Mama!" shouts from Ben
4 "No I won't do it! shrieks from Maya (down from at least 37 the day before)
37 hugs (beat that Charlotte Diamond!)
6 sharp toys stepped on in bare feet
1 Fisher Price rabbit found in the refrigerator
3 cups of coffee
11 interruptions while writing this post

And that adds up to . . . well, hang on, I'm not a mutant. . . carry the one. . .

All that adds up to a pretty fantastic day. I'm no mutant, but I have a love for the numbers.

All the -tion words my inner thesaurus can muster

2009-08-11T22:18:00.000-06:00

restoration - rejuvenation - resurrection

I have the sudden urge to create, to record, to write. I often get this way in August, the Sunday of my year. I realize that the sands of my summer time have slipped too quickly through my hands and I want to have something to show for the two months of blissful laziness I've spent with my kids.

revitalization - regeneration - resuscitation

My ~~obsessive blogstalking~~ casual reading of talented writers has inspired me to get my own little blog going again. I may or may not have fantasies of my children, years from now, reading my humble ramblings and exclaiming "Mom, you are so witty, so insightful, so fantastic! Here's a spa day/new car/cabin on the lake to show our thanks for digitally preserving our childhood for all the world to see."

Or not.

The reality is it'll be more like "huh, uh. . . that was. . . interesting, Mom." And then behind my back they'll choose the shoddier of the the nursing homes they were considering. Payback for the pictures I post and stories I share.

reanimation - revivification - reblogification

Long has the blog sat fallow. But no more. No more I say!

P.S. - Grown-up Maya and Ben - please choose the place with air conditioning. Mama doesn't do well in the heat.

I wasn't sure if you're pregnant, or just. . .

2008-01-07T17:52:00.000-06:00

What is it about seeing a pregnant belly that makes people say the most offensive, ridiculous things?

"Wow, are you sure there's only ONE in there?" Oh, do you mean twins? Is that something I should be concerned about?

"You must be ready to pop any day now, eh?" I've got weeks to go. You must be ready for a pop in the junk, eh?

"You must be just miserable. You look miserable." Well, I wasn't until you said so. Jackass.

"Oooh! My goodness! You ARE pregnant, aren't you?!" Oh, for crying out loud!

A few weeks ago, Eric, Maya, and I went to a friend's son's first birthday party. It was a traditional family gathering: men in the kitchen talking about trucks, women in the living room tending to the children. All the attendees were conservative Dutch folk. I was the only one there without blonde hair. I was also the only working mom there. Clutch the pearls! What will happen to my poor children rotting away in daycare?! Surely they'll grow up to be pathological liars and serial killers or have bad teeth. Or something.

One of the lovely young ladies turned to me at one point and said "so, now that Maya is four, are you guys thinking of having another one?"

I started to laugh, because surely she must be joking. But all I could say was "what?!"

"Are you and Eric planning on having another child?"

I looked down at my 14 toilet-paper-square-around belly and said, "Yeah. . . In six weeks."

"Oh!" she replied, "I thought you might be pregnant, but I just wasn't sure. You don't really look pregnant. I wasn't sure if you were pregnant, or just. . . you know. . ."

Or just what? Smuggling a turkey? Sporting a goiter? FAT?!

So I gave her the are-you-really-that-ignorant look and said "yes, I'm pregnant. The baby is due in six weeks."

She laughed and said again "oh, because you really don't look that pregnant. I wasn't sure if you were pregnant, or just. . you know. . ."

So I replied "I wasn't sure if you were stupid, or just, you know. . ."

Ok, I didn't say that. But I wanted to. I just smiled and said again "yes, I'm pregnant."

And then hurried away to cross the gender lines into Man Land (aka The Kitchen) and giggle about it with Eric.

In a few short weeks, I will no longer be pregnant, but she'll be still, you know. . .

Miracle on 6th Ave.

2006-12-23T13:20:00.000-06:00

I am officially on holidays now. Let the season of late sleeping, reading, and general slothing begin.

Yesterday, the last day of school, was party day in my classroom. We had just finished our novel study on "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe" and were planning on watching the movie on Friday. The students brought copious amounts of junkfood, I ordered pizza, and we all settled in for a long winter's movie day. We brought our pillows and blankets and wore our pyjamas to be comfy for the marathon movie (it's, like, 17 hours long). One of my students had a copy of the movie so she brought it in. All was right in the world.

Until I tried to get the video to play. Remember back in school when teachers *never* could get the TVs to work? And all the kids knew *exactly* what to do to get the movie working? And so all the student shouted their suggestions at the teacher to "help"? Yeah. That was me yesterday. For whatever reason, the stupid movie wouldn't play, so another teacher offered to take my class for a few minutes so I could run to the video store.

In my pyjamas.

So I drive like a mad woman to the Movie Gallery, obeying all traffic laws of course. They have the movie, and I wait forEVER for the slowest video clerk on earth to check out the customer ahead of me. When it's finally my turn and say "Idon'thaveanaccountherebutI'minahugerushI'mtryingtogetbacktomyclasswiththismovie." To which Ms. Slow replies "Yeeeeeeaaaaaahhhh. . . It's not that simple. We have to get things set up properly, you know." I take a deep breath and say "I understand. No problem. I had a video lined up for my class, but it's not working. I left my class so I can grab this movie." She needs my driver's licence and a credit card and a blood sample and a copy of my employment history and lock of fairy hair.

I explain that I ran out of class really quickly and only grabbed my bank card and some cash, but told her where I work. No dice. I offered for her to keep my cell phone and house keys until I return the movie. No. Fine, I asked if I could buy the movie. They don't have it for sale. Ms. Slow is getting ruder by the second, and I am desperate. "Can I please pay for the movie replacement in full now and you can refund it or even keep it when I return the movie?" Ms. Slow says "NO. It's store policy. I can't do anything for you." That's when I noticed her name tag says STORE MANAGER. "Please," I pleaded, "it's Christmas. I've got a class of ten year olds who have worked so hard on this novel study. We just want to watch the movie. You can call my school and confirm that I work there. Please."

"NO. There's nothing I can do. It's store policy. I'm sorry."

Then I was mad. She's SORRY?! "No, you're not sorry. If you were sorry, you would have helped these kids out. You're the store manager. And it's Christmas. And you're a bitch." Ok, I didn't say the last sentence out loud, but I sure wanted to.

So I ran across the parking lot (in my pyjamas) to Cooper's grocery store. There I met the two kindest women and employees ever - Theresa and Marjorie. I have never met these ladies before, and they were so kind. I asked if they sold DVDs, and they said they did. "Great! Do you have the Narnia movie?" No, they didn't. I hung my head so hard I pretty much bent in half. I explained what had happened, and they were horrified that the store manager had been such a hard ass. Theresa offered to run home and her copy of the movie for me, but she lived to far away. She looked up the phone number for evil Movie Gallery and called over there to rent the movie for me on her own account, but their phone number was incorrect in the phone book. So Marjorie walked over there with me (still in my jammies) and let me use her rental account. I was so close to tears over Theresa and Marjorie's kindness. The video store clerk wouldn't even look me in the eye.

Needless to say, my class was so excited when I returned with the movie. We agreed that when we return to school in January, we are going to write thank you letters to Theresa and Marjorie and Cooper's, and that we would never rent from Movie Gallery again. It was a Christmakkah miracle!

Maya's First Letters

2006-12-11T20:43:00.000-06:00

Remember the old claymation Rudolph movie? Such a wholesome story from 1964 about a poor baby reindeer relentlessly bullied by his peers until he runs away with a gay elf named Hermie and Yukon Cornelius, the nutcase gold miner. Maya loves that little misfit. We have a stuffed Rudolph and Yukon Cornelius that sing Burl Ives songs when you squeeze their tummies, and Maya goes NOWHERE without her Rudolph. And the red hood, of course. Rudolph is her new best friend. He was even in this year's Santa photo.

Today Maya told me that she wanted to send Rudolph an email. Grandpa would be so proud! I'm not sure what Rudolph's email address is, and really, writing paper letters is lost art these days. (And yes, I'm fully aware of the irony of that statement as I type this latest memoire into my blog.) So we sat down and wrote the letter together. Maya ran circles around the kitchen table dictating while I wrote her prose furiously:

Dear Rudolph,

I like you. You make me laugh. I like your shiny
nose. I would like you to come to my house. We could have a slumber party. If you come to my house, the deer won't laugh at you. We can go rollerskating together. We can play with my cat Sparkle, and Sparkle will say "thank you for playing with me." You are my favourite deer. I love you.

love, Maya

Then she remembered that she needed to ask Santa for her Christmas presents:

Dear Santa,

I like watching you on the movie with Rudolph. Please can I have some flashing rollerskates? I like you. I will leave you fruit snacks and Cheerios when you come to my house. Do you like fruit snacks? Rudolph is cute. Do you like crayons to draw with? I would like some new crayons please. I would draw a picture of little red riding hood with them. Thank you.

Love, Maya

The child seems to have a way with words. Perhaps she needs her own blog.

Maya meets Mr. Claus

2006-12-09T20:10:00.000-06:00

Today was the big day: the yearly visit with Santa. When I told Maya what we were doing today, she actually gasped. "THANTA?! I going to meet THANTA?!!"

I tried to convince Maya that we should dress nicely to see the Big Guy, but when I suggested she get all dressed up, she thought I meant in costume and wanted to wear her Little Red Riding Hood. Too bad she left it at Mrs. Connie's house yesterday, because that would have made for a great Santa photo.

In any case, Maya would have nothing to do with the fancy holiday dress and Audrey Hepburn-esque wool coat that her sweet Uncle Joel gave her as a birthday gift. I managed to wrestle her into some cords and a t-shirt, and only managed to get her to stay still long enough to brush her hair if I promised to put in purple hair spray. Her 3 year old fashion sense is very advanced.

We arrive at the mall at about 11:45, and there is a relatively short line up to see Mr. Claus. We are told that it is time for Santa's lunch break and that Maya will be the second last to visit before his break. The photographer was a little harried and barely friendly. Apparently his elf didn't show up. To that I say: suck it up, buddy.

When I lifted Maya up to see Santa, her face lit up. Pure Christmas magic. She waited very patiently for her turn, but when it was finally time to meet him she was suddenly shy. Old St. Nick was very kind and made small talk with her while waiting for the picture to be taken, but we could barely get a smile out of her. It was a sweet, no-teeth-showing, shy smile, and in my opinion, pretty cute.

The photographer turns to me and says snidely and completely humourlessly, "Ha. Ha. Is that her smile?"

This is one of those situations where I am left speechless. Hard to imagine me without words, but my mind is reeling from the rudeness that I can't even form a witty comeback, other than "let's try one more." We tried again, but she still wouldn't give a bigger smile. That's just fine; it's a cute photo. It's not like the picture belongs here or anything.

I remind Maya to tell Santa what she wants for Christmas. "Thanta, I want rowwerthateth with fwashing wheewwth." ("Santa, I want rollerskates with flashing wheels." Don't worry, speech therapy starts Tuesday.) Flashing roller skates. Good idea, Maya! It's at this moment that I remember that I'm a freaking derby girl, and what I should have done is turned to the guy and said "Ha. Ha. Is that your camera up your ass?" But a five-minute late comeback is worse than no comeback at all (or so I tell myself now), so we thanked Thanta and went on our way.

I tried telling myself that the photographer was just looking for a bigger smile. But you know, the way he said it leads me to believe otherwise. I decided that a five-hour comeback is acceptable, so I did a little online shopping and arranged to have the elves send him a little myrrh to enjoy in a stone-cold tomb.

A shout out to all my Christmas peeps in the stone-cold tombs!

2006-12-07T16:28:00.000-06:00

The tree is trimmed, the wreath is hung, the walnut baby Jesuses are laid carefully side by side - the joyous season is upon us. Keeping up with the holiday spirit, I googled carol lyrics today. At first, it was fun to read and try to hum along with the tunes I found, but then I found a few of the carols were less "Joy to the World" than I remembered.

"We Three Kings" is the song of the three wise men (who weren't kings at all) who travelled a long way without their portable DVD player to bring baby Jesus precious gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Each wise man describes his gift, which is all fine and good until the wise guy with the myrrh pipes up:

Myrrh is mine; its bitter perfume
Breathes a life of gathering gloom;
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying,
Seal'd in the stone-cold tomb.

"The Coventry Carol" isn't much warmer:

Herod the king in his ragin,
Charged he hath this day,
His men of night, in his own sight,
All children young to slay.
Then woe is me, poor child, for thee,
And ever mourn and say,
For thy parting not say, nor sing,
By, by, lullay, lullay.

Some carols are downright confusing. Seriously, what's a wassail?

Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green;
Here we come a-wand'ring
So fair to be seen.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail too;
And God bless you and send you a
Happy New Year
And God send you a Happy New Year.

And why should I sing "fum, fum, fum"? What does that even mean?

On this joyful Christmas Day
Sing fum, fum, fum
On this joyful Christmas Day
Sing fum, fum, fum
For a blessed Babe was born
Upon this day at the break of morn
In a manger poor and lowly
Lay the Son of God most holy
Fum, Fum, Fum!

It sounds like I should be smelling the blood of an englishman, perhaps in a stone-cold tomb.

The fun just keeps building, even in the more secular Christmas songs. Remember torturing your parents with endless concerts of "Jingle Bells" on your recorder? What a fun story to sing and play about a guy falling on his back and the good Samaritan driving by in his one-horse open sleigh and laughing at him and driving away without helping. Way to spread the Christmas cheer!

A day or two ago,

the story I must tell

I went out on the snow

And on my back I fell;

A gent was riding by

In a one-horse open sleigh,

He laughed as there

I sprawling lie,

But quickly drove away.

I had never heard of the sweet story of "The Chimney Song" before today. And I wish I never had.

There's something stuck up in the chimney

And I don't know what it is,

But it's been there all year long.

I'll been waiting up for Santa like I did last year

But my brother says, "He's already here."

And he's stuck up in the chimney

And he doesn't say a word

And he'll be there every Christmas.

And we'll have him every Christmas.

For crying out loud! Put poor Santa in a stone cold-tomb already!

Finally, nothing says Christmas season like the infidelity of marriage.

I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus

Underneath the mistletoe last night

She didn't see me creep down the stairs to have a peep;

She thought that I was tucked up in my bedroom fast asleep

Then I saw Mommy tickle Santa Claus

Underneath his beard so snowy white;

Oh what a laugh it would have been

If Daddy had only seen

Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night

Ah, yes, what a laugh it would have been for Daddy to see his sweetheart snogging a fat guy in his living room. Or, maybe Daddy *did* see, and that's why Santa is stuck in the chimney.

What love, joy, and peace we sing about in this jolly season. Merry Christmas to all from the stone-cold tomb!

They Say Luck Comes in Threes

2006-12-06T15:39:00.000-06:00

My sweet little baby is now a full-blown kid who had her third birthday. And, true to form, her uber-organized-never-procrastinating mommy is just updating the blog now, two and a half weeks after the big day.

This year, Maya had her first real birthday party. No boring adult bash for her, she wanted kids, balloons, streamers, the whole shebang. Cool, my honoured queening will surely come in handy here. "What theme do you want for your birthday party?" I ask. "Ummm.....Tharkle," Miss Maya replies. In layman terms, Maya wants a birthday party with the theme of her beloved cat, Sparkle.

Yes, her name is Sparkle. No amount of suggestions from Ma and Pa could convince this child to name the new-found feline friend something a little less embarassing to yell out the back door. Fine, Sparkle it is. Let me pause here to tell you that although Sparkle is Maya's new best friend, Maya is viewed by Sparkle as the Blue Eyed Terror and Destroyer of All That Is Holy. And by Holy, I mean comfortable naps.

Anyways, I tried once again to convince Maya otherwise; maybe she'd like a rock n roll party (she loves to yell "let's rock and roll!" as she plays her keyboard) or something else a little less girly and fuzzy. No, she wants a cat-themed party with purple balloons and streamers. So we head to the dollar store to stock up on purple and lavender party supplies and copious amounts of creepily real looking cat stickers.

So the big day arrives. Maya comes down the stairs and sees her presents and gasps. "Was Santa here?!" Not a bad guess, considering it was snowing like crazy outside. So crazy, in fact, that we had to cancel the cat party. Maya was crushed, to say the least. And then the power went out, and she was terrified. Thank goodness Santa brought her a wind-up flashlight for her birthday.

So this past Sunday we tried for Maya's party again. We decked the living room in streamers and balloons, put cat stickers on the party hats, cut the strawberries and the cheese. The hats and blowers were creepy, because no matter where you walked, those cats were always watching. Thankfully, it had warmed up enough for the snow to melt and the kids to come over. They put on cat party hats, blew cat party blowers, threw cat toys into a cat bed, ate chocolate cat decorated like a cat, and had a generally purrr-fect time. (You knew that was coming, didn't you?) Maya apparently channelled Leslie Gore and decided "it's my party and I'll cry if I want to!" She was a wee bit overwhelmed by so many kids over and touching her toys (the horror!), but eventually came around when it was time for cake and presents.

We've been really fortunate with our dear little Maya. She hasn't had any major illnesses or accidents, she's generally a well-behaved little girl, she finally sleeps and eats well. We've had a wonderful 3 years as a family. But I find myself feeling an omnious cloud looming, telling me the 3 years were pure luck, and had nothing to do with Maya's sweet temperament or our stellar parenting.

Or maybe it's just the creepy cat stickers I keep finding around the house.

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far

2006-08-09T11:30:00.000-06:00

Talk about family resemblance!

Aimless at four:

Maya at 2.5:

Potty Training Bootcamp

2006-08-08T17:26:00.000-06:00

Remember back in the '90s when talk shows ruled? When topics such as "Are you my baby's daddy?" and "When plastic surgery goes wrong" were on every show? When we thought that Jerry Springer's guests were for real? When Geraldo got fat taken out of his butt and injected into his forehead? Good times, good times.

Talk shows weren't all bad. I learned some important life lessons, such as how to spot a transexual, how big is too big for breast implants, how to determine paternity using DNA testing, and how to reform children's behaviour using bootcamp.

Eric actually had four days off in a row, so we stuck close to home and implemented Potty Training Bootcamp. It's a little different from the juvenile delinquent bootcamps I watched on Maury Povich. Instead of screaming at and freaking out Maya, we sing, dance, and cheer when she goes on the pot. Rather than blowing an obnoxious (but oh so fun!) whistle, we have the oven timer set to go off every 30 minutes. Like Pavlov's dogs, everytime it beeps, Maya shouts "Do you know what time it is? It's potty time!" Come to think of it, she sounds a bit like the Tool Time intro.

So the timer goes off and she goes and sits on the potty.

And she sits.

We read Captain Underpants (we're currently on book 4: Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants). Maya makes silly faces while we read:

When Maya is successful, she gets to choose a sticker:

Every day Maya gets a new paper heart to put her stickers on.

Then Maya gets a popsicle for her good work.

Yes, we are going crazy with the rewards and praise, but the little monkey is playing games with us - doing very well with the toilet at daycare but hardly at all at home. Today we had to make another batch of popsicles:

See? TV isn't the devil. I've learned and applied life lessons from Montel Williams and his cronies.

So while Maya is sitting on the potty next to me, I have time to look up fat injections to reshape my post-breastfeeding body. Thank you, daytime TV!

The Adventures of Captain Underpants

2006-08-02T22:46:00.000-06:00

Ah, potty training. How you reveal my secret parenting downfalls. How you dirty my once clean floors. How you expose me for contradicting my pre-motherhood "I'll never..." statements.

Eric and I made more than our share of "we'll never..." statements before Maya arrived. Some we've held true to ("we'll never spank."), others we haven't been so good about ("we'll never bribe."). I learned all the ins and outs of basic behaviour management, B.F. Skinner style, in university. I know how Pavlov got his dog to drool. But hey, this is a child, not an animal. There's no need to give treats and stickers to get a child to do what you want. If you raise them right, they'll do what you want because you said so.

I guess we're not raising our daughter right, because dammit if I can get that child to pee in the potty without some sort of reward. And worse yet, she gets food rewards (current currency is green popsicles). Nothing like planting the seeds of future eating disorders in the toddler years. She's pretty much potty trained at daycare. Mrs. Connie says that she'll even tell her when she needs to use the potty, and she's even pooping in the potty fairly regularly. But at home, no dice.

Today, Maya decided she wanted her green popsicle. Being the smart child that she is, Maya dragged her potty into the computer room where I was checking my email (and NOT checking www.perezhilton.com) and wanted a story. I looked around the room at my reading options: a slew of education textbooks, the yellow pages, May's Martha Stewart Living, and a bunch of novels. What kind of two year old wants to hear a story from any of those? Ah, but then I spotted it: my complete collection of Captain Underpants books. What better way to introduce my daughter to the love of great fiction in chapter form than Dav Pilkey's underwear superhero?

True, last week when Eric told me that he wanted to start reading Harry Potter to Maya, I told him that she was too young for it. But who's too young for a little potty humour? Potty humour MUST be part of potty learning, right?

Now she's hooked. She insisted that we read the whole book. I agreed, and we got a little pee in the potty, and a whole lot of snuggling on the couch. We're now half way through the second book, Attack of the Talking Toilets.

Mark down August 2, 2006 as a milestone: Maya's first chapter book. Thank you, Mr. Pilkey.

Tra-la-laaaa!

Get your house Hantavirus clean!

2006-07-27T17:52:00.000-06:00

I woke up Friday morning feeling yucky. Maya and I went to the beach that day, but came home in the early afternoon because I was feeling rotten. By 4 o'clock, I was stuck in the bathroom being sick. I had to miss sweet Cheyenne's first birthday because I was so sick (that and we had been exposed to chickenpox).

Seeing how we've been having rodent visitors lately, my mind starts spinning. OMG, I've got the Hantavirus - the virus that is spread by deer mice. A quick internet search revealed more than I wanted to know about those filthy buggers. A trip to Health Canada's website to read up on the Hantavirus and I was in full panic mode. Trouble breathing? Well, yes, I've had a cough that I can't shake. Bathroom troubles? Unfortunately, yes. Fever? Yes, and the 36C (99F for those of you still in the dark ages) has nothing to do with why I'm so warm, it HAS to be the Hantavirus fever. Fatigue? Hell yes, I need a nap everyday. Holy sh*t, I've got the Hantavirus. We'd better disinfect the house before Maya gets it, too.

We've probably spent about $90 on Lysol in the past few days. Most people know that I clean everything in my home with vinegar, baking soda, castille soap, and essential oils. Nothing toxic, nothing harsh. So for me to relent and bring Lysol into the house, you know I was on the verge of a breakdown.

Turns out I just had a bit of a stomach bug, a 24 hour flu of sorts. We haven't caught a mouse with the killing bar in about a week. I now have a clean, disinfected home. Our garage is tidy, we're caught up on laundry, and it's spotless behind the stove and fridge and under the sink, too. Our house is no longer in C.H.A.O.S. (Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome). Maybe Mouse Infestation 2006 wasn't such a bad thing after all.

Not that I'd ever want those filthy buggers in my house again.

See how they run

2006-07-18T18:05:00.000-06:00

Our townhouse complex is still being completed. Brand new homes on the snobby hillside. Love the home, hate the location. It's far away from everything, within walking distance of pretty much nothing. Oh, and it's got mice.

Ah, the joys of "cottage living", the phrase coined by the builders themselves. Freaking mice. We noticed them a few months ago when our dishwasher suddenly started pouring water all over the kitchen floor. Appliance guy said a filthy mouse had chewed through the drainage hose. Eric bought one of those things that emits a high pitched noise that only rodents can hear to irritate them enough to bugger off. That worked, until this week.

Friday night, Eric and I were playing Monopoly in the living room, when I hear something rustling under the sink. I peeked in there, only to see a stinkin' mouse in the garbage can, desperately trying to jump its way to freedom. I trapped it with the bottom side of a baking pan and Eric took it outside and "disposed" of it. Ok, he shook the little guy to death, but he wanted to make sure it wasn't coming back.

15 minutes later, I heard rustling again, this time from Maya's Fisher Price kitchen. I checked the little oven and fridge, no mouse. Eric lifted the kitchen off the floor, and a foul little creature went darting towards the couch. Man, that mouse ran fast. I started to shriek, and then laughed at myself for shrieking, and then shrieked again as Eric lifted the couch up and the disgusting thing ran under the loveseat. The couch lift, mouse dart, shriek, laugh pattern continued for about five minutes as we tried to get it to run out of the sliding door.

Then Eric suggested that I turn on the vacuum. Unfortunately, we don't have built-in vac, so I was worried that our little vacuum wasn't big enough to kill a mouse like Mom did in Pokey the gerbil. But the noise sure helped scare the horrid little mouse into running. Lift, vacuum, dart, shriek, laugh, repeat. It took another 10 minutes to finally get it to run out the door to freedom. At last, we're mouse free.

Saturday night, after Maya was in bed, Eric and I headed downstairs to watch a little TV. We weren't down there five minutes before I saw a mouse run across the floor. WTF?! This is getting out of hand. Sunday afternoon we went to Canadian Tire and purchased a couple of mouse traps. We weren't sure which one to buy, until Eric read the back of one of the packages and saw that this particular model had a "killing bar". A killing bar. That would be a lot more useful than what we were doing before.

So I filled the trap with peanut butter and show Maya how they worked. After two demonstrations she started to cry because it scared her. Awful, I know, but I had to make sure she wouldn't touch it. It took two days, but the killing bar finally worked. Hopefully we're mouse free now. I reset the trap and put it back in place, just in case.

I did get a bit of a chuckle this morning when I saw an Orkin truck at the neighbour's house, two doors up. Looks like we're not the only ones with this problem. Filthy little f***ers.

Death of the Hot Rod

2006-06-07T18:01:00.002-06:00

ACT ONE

Scene One - 3 weeks ago

(Aimee is driving in the car, noticing that the temperature gauge is rising steadily. She calls Eric.)

Aimee: Honey, there's something wrong with the car. The temperature gauge is really high. I've got the heat on full to help.
Eric: Good. Don't worry about it. You'll be fine. I'll take a look at it when you get home.

(Eric never really looks at the car, but says it's just a busted sensor.)

Scene Two - 2 days later

Aimee: Did you order a new sensor? The indicator says it's way too hot.
Eric: Yes. It should be here tomorrow. And the engine not's really overheating, the sensor just needs to be replaced.

Scene Three - 3 days later

Aimee: When's the car going to get fixed? I'm dying of heat exhaustion from having to drive with the heat full blast all the time to keep the engine from overheating.
Eric: It's not really overheating, the sensor is broken. I'm ordering the parts today. Should be here tomorrow.

Scene Four - 2 days later

Aimee: When's the car going to get fixed? The temperature keeps saying that it's overheating.
Eric: It's not actually overheating, the sensor is just broken. I'm ordering the parts today. Should be here tomorrow.

(This repeats over the next 2.5 weeks)

ACT TWO

Scene 1 - Driving home from work yesterday

(Aimee hears a strange pop and feels the car jerk like it's stalling. She calls Eric.)

Aimee: Eri, something weird just happened. I just heard the car pop, and now I'm losing power.
Eric: You'll be fine. Don't worry.
Aimee: The temperature needle is now above High. It's way too hot!
Eric: It's not really overheating, the sensor is just broken.
Aimee: Hey, have those parts come in yet?
Eric: Should be here tomorrow.

(Another pop is heard, followed by a large black cloud out of the back of the car.)

Aimee: Crap, it just happened again! Am I going to die?!
Eric: Nah, you'll be fine. You probably just blew the headgasket.

(Aimee drives the rest of the highway route, and gets off at the exit for home. The car pops again, more smoke billows out of the rear of the car, and smoke begins to plume from the hood.)

Aimee: Eric, the car is done. It won't work at all. Come down the hill and get me.
Eric: What do you mean, the car is done? Just restart it, you'll be fine.
Aimee: No, there is smoke coming out of both ends. Come and get me!

(Aimee hangs up the phone and tries to back the car to the side of the road, using only the emergency brake. She grabs her cell phone and her jacket from the car and gets the hell outta there, just in case it blows up. Eric soon shows up with Maya in Clifford Truck.)

Eric: Did you take a look at it and see what's wrong?
Aimee: NO! I was afraid it was going to blow up with all that smoke, so I grabbed my coat and phone and booked it.
Eric: WHY DIDN'T YOU TAKE MY GOLF CLUBS OUT OF THE CAR, TOO?!!

(Eric raises the hood and discovers the engine is covered in coolant and oil. Three of the four plug wires were blown apart and clear out of the plug bores of the cylinder head cover.)

Eric: Huh. That looks like a catastrophic engine failure due to overheating.

{END PLAY}

This theatrical presentation was brought to you by the letters ohshit and procrastination.

O Captain, my captain

2006-06-05T21:12:00.000-06:00

Last Thursday I took the day off and Maya and I went into Vancouver. We forgot our camera at Gerrit's house the weekend before, so all I had was my phone. The pictures aren't great, but they do the trick.

We got a very early start to the day, up at the crack of 9am, leaving the house at about 11:30. Maya wanted to bring about 7 thousand of her "friends" with her, including the gigantic, winged, purple unicorn, which is sometimes named Pony, sometimes named Uncle Gerrit.

We drove in Clifford truck (which, incidentally, needs about $500 worth of work thanks to the tow-job we gave over Spring Break) into Burnaby and took the skytrain downtown. It's clear I'm no longer a city girl, as I was confused about the train lines and rode the Millennium Line in the wrong direction. We got off at Clark and ran down the stairs to catch the train going in the opposite direction. And that's when I had my graceful-like-a-hippo moment. I was running up the escalator with Maya in my arms, trying to catch the train before it left the station (because really, the 3 minutes it would take for another train to come would have been unbearable) when my flip flops caught on the step and I bailed. Hard. Luckily, the mother instincts kicked in quickly, and Maya didn't fall or bump into anything at all. My knees, shins, and elbow have beautiful scrapes and bruises, just the colour of Uncle Gerrit/Pony. The station was deserted, so I didn't think anyone would have seen my escalator incident, but there was a security guard at the top of the stairs who assured me that the train was going to be waiting there for another five minutes or so, and that I shouldn't hurry or the baby might fall. His nametag read "Captain Impeccable Timing".

We arrived at Canada Place about 40 minutes before the IMAX movie was going to start, so we wandered around, looking at the boats and the Port of Vancouver displays. They had an old boat wheel that Maya drove for a long time, only bumping her head on the handles about 16 times. Then we went to see the IMAX movie, a 3D ocean flick. It was really cool, but the 3D sharks and octopi freaked Maya out.

We took the seabus across to Londsdale Quay after the movie. Maya kept telling everyone on the seabus that the sharks were trying to eat her. Maya discovered some puddles at the Quay and gleefully jumped and splashed her feet. It was a nice warm day, so I paused to take some pictures of my happy girl, when I was interrupted by possibly the grumpiest old man ever. "HEY! SHE'S GETTING WET!" Thank you, Captain Obvious. He was very perplexed by my daughter jumping in the puddle. Perhaps he is taking this whole acid rain thing a little too seriously.

We rode the skytrain back to Brentwood and stopped at Starbucks for a frapaccino. At this point, Maya is exhausted, and is snuggled quietly in my arms with Curious George, who had, of course, just put out his pipe. A woman in line decided that she would break the universal "don't talk to strangers rule" and reach out and try to touch George and talk to Maya. Maya, being tired and two, pulled George behind her back and said "MY George!" to which Captain Smart-and-Mature grunts "well, SOMEONE is in a bad mood today!" I politely let her know that it's been a long day and she's tired, which Captain Smart-and-Mature understood as "try again, you'll get better results if you push a conversation with a tired toddler". So she made some awful baby talk noises at Maya. Can't blame Maya for grunting at her for that one. The Captain replied "well, I don't like YOU!" and walked away. We just laughed at the Captain. Because really, what else can you do?

Needless to say, we had a fantastic day. In 26 more sleeps, I'll be able to have days like that without having to prep for a TOC.

So Long, and Thanks for All the Mommy Milk

2006-06-05T07:54:00.000-06:00

Stop reading here if you aren't comfortable with breastfeeding. In fact, if you are uncomfortable with breastfeeding, stop reading here and give your head a shake. That's what breasts are for.

In any case, we're done. All done the Mommy milk. Maya is weaned. I think.

The process has been slow and difficult, but I think we've got it. I've been so worried about how Maya was going to be so upset and hard she was going to cry and how I would explain weaning to her that I forgot to think about how this would be for me. Surprisingly, it's been really hard on me. We decided yesterday that she was done, so I nursed her one last time. And cried. Oh, how I cried. I can't really even put my finger on why I was crying. I'm looking forward to being able to claim my body back as my own, share the night-time parenting, and being able to wear shirts without Maya putting her hand down them.

But to all of you who have asked me "when are you going to wean her?" or "how long are you going to do THAT for?" The answer is yesterday, and 2.5 years. And no, I won't do it any differently with the next one (if there is a next one). I'll still give my baby what s/he will need for as long as needed.

And now that I'm done and don't have to worry about how what I injest will affect my daughter, I can finally get serious about developing that crack habit. Or maybe I'll just have a beer.

Sparkly Shoes and Silly Faces

2006-05-28T15:16:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, Maya and I joined my friends Jenny, Heather, Jennifer, and her daughter Abigail for some scrapbook shopping. We went to the scrapbooking garage sale here in Chilliwack, but found it grossly lacking, so we piled into Clifford the Big Red Truck and alleviated our misery with some Michael's shopping and lunch at Tim Horton's. Hooray for Michael's 50% off coupons!

Maya and I returned to find the house pretty darn tidy. I should blog Eric's promises to clean more often. :)

Andrea and Tyler came for a visit as well. That boy gets cuter and cuter every time I see him. Maya got dressed up for the occasion, wearing her Fairyland shirt, Dora big girl undies, white socks, and purple sparkly shoes. No pants for her, thank you very much. And with that, thankfully, came no accidents. Maya was very sweet with Tyler, rubbing his head and kissing him while Andrea changed his diapers. She also entertained him with her silly faces.

Maya refused to wear pj pants to bed. She also refused to take the sparkly shoes off while she slept. As of 3:30 Sunday, she's still wearing the sparkly shoes without any pants.

A Blog for Eri

2006-05-26T18:47:00.000-06:00

Eric says that yesterday's blog about my dad was like a eulogy. I guess in a way it was, but thank goodness he's still alive. The sad thing about eulogies (besides the obvious fact that the person is dead) is that most of us only say those wonderful things about people AFTER they're gone, when it is too late for them to hear how much they're loved and appreciated. Mitch Album wrote a fantastic book called "Tuesdays with Morrie." Read it. It's a true story about this man (Mitch) whose old professor (Morrie) was diagnosed with ALS. Mitch visited Morrie every single Tuesday and learned a lot about living and dying. Before Morrie died, he held his own funeral so that he'd be able to hear how loved he was. Thankfully, my dad's not dying. I just wanted him to know how great I think he is.

Really, I think Eric told me that because there hasn't been a blog about him yet. He's been trying desperately do to things that are blog worthy. And seeing how I wouldn't think it was cute or funny if HE pulled the entire roll of TP off to wipe himself, he's saying all sorts of crazy things.

Today, he promised he'd clean the house while I was out with the girls at the scrapbooking garage sale.

And now that it's been published for the world, immortalized in my wondrous blog, he's gotta do it. Stay tuned tomorrow to see if he really does it. (place your bets in the comments link)

OH, the suspense! OH, The tension! OH, the humanity!

Wayne's World

2006-05-25T19:23:00.000-06:00

Today in history... (ok, yesterday actually, because I'm talking about May 24)

1686 - Gabriel Fahrenheit, German physicist and engineer was born
1819 - Queen Victoria was born
1883 - Brooklyn Bridge opens in New York after 14 years of construction
1893 - The Niagara Fall Park and River Railway opens in Ontario
1938 - Tommy Chong was born
1941 - Bob Dylan was born
1944 - Patti LaBelle was born
1946 - Wayne Henry Ball was born

Yes, my dad, my hero, turned 60. Sixty. Six tens. Sixty ones. 600 tenths. 6 plus 2 times my age. Thirty times Maya's age.

Wow, that's a big number.

My dad is a pretty cool guy, ahead of his time, really. He was hip to the computer scene way before PCs were a big thing. Dad had the foresight to impart his computer knowledge to us kids, even bringing the Commodore 64 on camping trips, not letting us out to play until we'd done our computer lessons. He was into the Internet when it was still just bulletin boards. He's hiked the West Coast Trail 3 times, once a decade since the '70s. And now that they've got the wheelchair ramps installed, I'm sure my dad is ready to hike it again.

Dad's a pretty funny guy, too. He laughed eventually after Andrea and I (as kids) taped ourselves fighting and then played it on her ghetto blaster full volume. He came down the hallway, stomping his feet, doing the Wayne Nostril Breathe of Anger. He entertained us all in Parksville, showing us just how fragile wooden badminton rackets are by breaking each one over his knee. He even coined the Ball family phrase "p 'n s" (pound and swear), which is what often happens after a particularly enigmatic computer afternoon.

He taught us to work hard at everything we do. He taught us to commit to what we do, and to follow through on every one of our commitments. He taught us the value of family time spent together. He took us on the COOLEST family vacations in the beloved White Whale ('77 F250 long box), everywhere from Edmonton to Tofino to Disneyland and even the ever-popular family vacation spot, Las Vegas. Even though I'm sure he was sick of Ramona and Anastasia Krupnik and Amelia Bedelia, he would sit and read to me every night. Dad would sit patiently for hours while I set his hair in curlers, plastic barrettes, and the like. These days, I've watched him become the greatest Grandpa in the world.

Happy Birthday, Dad! I hope you've had a great 60 years.

Too many squares!

2006-05-24T22:38:00.000-06:00

Maya and I stayed home today. She's been feeling a little off over the past few days, and last night she started complaining that her ear was hurting. I took her to the walk-in clinic, where we "only" had to wait an hour and a half (!) to be diagnosed with an ear infection. Maya was in good spirits, though, and kept the entire waiting room entertained by teaching them her exercises. Or, as Maya says, her etherthiztheth. She taught everyone how to do cat pose, snake pose, dragon pose, and downward-facing dog pose. My little yogi.

So today was a jammie day. We watched Maya's favourite movies - Polar Express (twice), Hoodwinked, and Blues Clues. She was feeling much better in the afternoon, and decided she needed to use the potty. We went upstairs and she went right away, and thus earned a pink star on her chart and the coveted chocolate egg. 15 minutes later, she asks "Mommy, pweeth I have a chocwit egg?" I told her that she just had one for going on the potty, to which she replied that she had to go again. I was in the middle of making dinner, and didn't think she actually needed to go, so I told her to go upstairs and use the potty. I figured she'd go upstairs and forget about using the potty, perhaps being distracting by her books, puzzles, or something shiny. Up the stairs she climbed, and I didn't hear from her for a little while. About 10 minutes later, Eric went up the stairs to check on her. All I heard was "MAYA! What have you got?!.... Aim, you have to come see this."

I go upstairs to find Maya with the ENTIRE roll of toilet paper (which I had changed only an hour prior) between her legs, trying to wipe herself. She was grinning from ear to ear, so proud of herself for being such a big girl. Apparently she actually did need to use the potty, so she took off her pull-up, used the potty, and then used the toilet paper. The whole roll. "Now I have my chocwit egg pweeth?"

Happy Mothra's Day

2006-05-17T22:16:00.000-06:00

The second Sunday in May is set aside each year to honour mothers for all the hard work they do to shape the young minds of the future. It's a day that starts with fathers rushing to the store for a bouquet of wilted flowers and a heart-felt card. It continues with the proud presentation of unrecognizable hand-made crafts from school, complete with lace or glitter, or better yet, lace AND glitter. But the best is yet to come - it's a day of freedom from diaper changes.

This year was no exception.

Don't get me wrong, I definitely felt appreciated and loved this Mother's Day. I really enjoyed the white chocolate caramel machiato and chocolate fudge cake breakfast. I can't wait to bake cookies with Maya with my new heart shaped cookie cutter that was attached to the hand written card by my sweet girl. And after the weekend fresh fruit extravaganza, I was delighted to give up diaper changes for the day.

We spent the afternoon at Cultus Lake with my whole damn fam. This year was particularly exciting because a) Tyler and Cheyenne have joined the family now, and b) it was warm enough that we could all be in t-shirts, instead of the usual Mothra's Day/Cultus Lake get-up of fleece jackets and wool socks.

The best part of the day is looking around the family and realizing that I'm part of a family of great moms. Andrea has been a mom for less than 3 months, and she already is doing such a fantastic job with Tyler. Chantal has a teenager and a baby, and makes it seem effortless to raise two of the coolest girls I know. My mom is incredible. She has always worked so hard to keep everything running just so. She babysat kids during the week and worked graveyard shift at a gas station on the weekend so that she could stay home with us. She went without so that we could have things. She volunteered her time to help with pretty much everything we were involved in. She is a very strong woman and adores her kids. I want to be just like her when I grow up.

The cool thing is that Mom still likes us kids after all the horrible stuff we did to her as kids. Like when Mom had Bell's Palsy one summer, and we kept shining the flashlight in her eyes at night around the campfire because she didn't have quick enough reflexes to close them in time. It takes a patient woman to be able to laugh when your kids do that to you for the 47th time that night. It takes an even more patient woman to wait ten years to seek your revenge by sucking your daughter's gerbil up the vaccum cleaner and then claim he committed suicide. (R.I.P. Pokey)

So really, what I've learned from my Mom is that the secret to motherhood is patience and vengence. Love and compassion be damned. Bide your time patiently, and all will be made well again.

Seriously, Mom, I'm just kidding. I love you. Happy Mothra's Day!

(But I wasn't kidding about the gerbil part. She really did that.)

And by "Curious", I mean pipe smoking

2006-03-16T22:50:00.000-06:00

Yet another super fun Maya and Mama day for the books. Or the blog. Or whatever.

We went to see Curious George today. This was Maya's first movie in a theatre, and I was worried that my sweet little angel would be an awful little devil, but she was so enraptured with the movie and how big the screen was that she didn't make a peep, except to ask for more popcorn. She did cry at the end of the movie, but not because it was sad, only because she wanted "more George! I want more George!"

The movie was an interesting modern spin on the old H.A. Rey classics. The original Curious George story has the Man in the Yellow Hat actually stealing George out of the African jungle by trapping him in a bag. When they arrive in the Big City, George has a good meal (picture includes a wine bottle), a good pipe (I swear there is even a picture of him lounging in an armchair puffing on a pipe), and then he's ready for bed. Come to think of it, there is an awful lot of pipe smoking going on this book. Animal stealing, drinking, smoking. . . sounds like a prize winning kids' story. Why the hell do we read this to kids? Because that silly little monkey is always getting into some crazy shenanigans, Three's Company style.

Next we hit Michael's to find some super soft yarn and circular knitting needles to make sweet Baby Tyler a hat. Maya helped choose the yarn, and that took slightly less time than Creation itself, as we had to feel every single yarn in her reach, to make sure we got the softest stuff for Baby Tyler's head.

Today was also Maya's first trip to the dentist. We talked a lot about it beforehand, so she was fired up to go. No, really, the poor child was honestly excited about going to the dentist. I had my teeth cleaned first, and the hygenist explained to her exactly what she was doing. Then it was Maya's turn in the chair. Normally for a first visit they just count the child's teeth, give them a ride on the chair, and let them pick a prize from the prize box. But that wasn't enough for Maya. She wanted to have a full teeth cleaning, including polishing, floshing, and a fluoride treatment.

The hygenists and dentists were amazed that she sat through it all, and thus earned THREE prizes. I'll rubbing the grease marks off the wall from her pink sticky hand for a while, but that's ok. My little girl likes the dentist.

Now if only we could get Daddy to be that brave. He'd need a separate prize box, though. A prize box filled with things you'd find in an original Curious George story.

Close lid, THEN flush!

2006-03-16T01:02:00.000-06:00

Today was a blissful, relaxing family day at home. Mostly.

It started and ended innocently enough. It was declared Family PJ Day, so none of us got dressed until late in the day. Maya didn't even get dressed until 7pm when we went to the neighbour's for coffee (lazy girl!). This morning was spent by the fire, me knitting a kitchy kerchief, Eric playing the guitar, and Maya alternating between wildly shaking her booty to Daddy's music and experimenting with her slide to see how many different ways she can get down it (for those keeping score at home, she stopped when she got to 8).

Eric decided he had enough of me gently suggesting that we go out for some family fun and decided I should go shopping by myself for some new clothes, maybe even get a manicure. Really, I know that he wanted some uninterupted XBox time, but you know, part of being a good spouse is being agreeable occasionally. And today, that meant going shopping. So I oh, so begrudgingly got myself ready. And that's when it all went down the toilet. Literally.

Let's pause for a moment and flash back three years to when I was with child and accidentally dropped my glasses into the toilet as it was flushing. I couldn't get the glasses out, the toilet started to back up, and then an unnamed family member visited and made good use of said toilet. Dad came over, took the toilet apart, and with some huffing, puffing, and a few choice words, he was able to retrieve them for me. Keep in mind I was pregnant at the time and had an extreme case of pregmentia. I didn't want to wear poopy glasses on my face, so I had to disinfect them and what better way to disinfect plastic glasses than to boil them. Yeah, they melted. Let's just say that Dad did a lot more huffing and puffing and left soon after.

So what does that trip down memory lane have to do with today? Well, I was trying to multi-task and flushed the toilet while I changed the toilet paper roll (SOMEBODY in this house has to!) and the roll holder fell into the toilet as it was flushing. Maybe it's time we rethink our plan to NOT childproof the toilet. It sure seems that one of the girls in the house needs to be kept away from the flusher. And Dad, if you're reading this, don't worry, we're not asking for your help on this one.

This evening I shared a deeply intellectual conversation with Maya over fruit snacks. We decided after many taste tests that strawberry is a superior flavour to blueberry. It was during this confectionary colloquy that we discovered Maya's new talent: storytelling. Luckily for me, I had the camera handy to preserve the moment to share with everyone on her wedding day. I wish there was some way to attach the file to the blog, but until I figure that out, I'll give you the Cole's Notes version: Once upon a time, there was a boy named Robin. He got stuck in the mud. His friends helped him out. The End. True, it's not Pullitzer Prize winning yet, but the story has characters, a problem, and resolution, which is more than I can say for most of my students' writing.

What have I learned today? 1. Blogging is tasty when done with Lucky Charms. 2. Close the lid before you flush. 3. Teach my poor students how to write better stories.

Clifford Saves the Day

2006-03-14T18:49:00.000-06:00

Maya loves her mama. It's all in the little things she does. Like yesterday, for instance. She slept in until 8:30am, which gave me a little extra time to linger over a latte with Eric. Such a sweet little girl. It's a good thing I did have that extra caffeine, though...

Maya and I tried our hand at geocaching in the morning. We went to the park at the local library, which laughably is referred to as "a beautiful lakeside setting" by the hotel that is also on the park. It's gross duck pond on swampy grass where local kids gather to smoke pot and drop scads of f-bombs . Beautiful. Lakeside. In any case, we tried to find the cache, but to no avail. We searched through bushes and trees and finally left before one of the locals called the police for our suspicious behaviour. We'll have to return in the evening with Eric so that we'll blend in with everyone else and look suspicious just with our mere presence.

Dejected and hungy, we hit Save On for a quick grocery shop that may or may not have included a warehouse-sized box of Lucky Charms. Then we went swimming at the Leisure Centre where Maya shrieked with glee and I terrified young children with my cellulite. A good time had by all. After swimming, we had a quick lunch and I took my second nap of Spring Break, this time with my daughter. Unbenownst to me, my cell phone was ringing off the hook (how I missed the Beastie Boys' Sabotage three times is beyond me) and my doorbell was ding-donging away. Seems that Ted (next door neighbour) had sunk his truck in an enormous puddle on the Fraser River dyke and needed some help. When Eric came home, we loaded up in the truck with tow straps and our camera to go and help. Poor Ted was soaked up to his knees and freezing his arse off.

Clifford the Big Red Truck was able to tow out the truck with no problems.

Ted's truck, however, was so waterlogged that it had to be towed back home. It's now half way in the road, as Patricia and I pushed it out of the garage this morning, only to have it go a wee bit too far before she could get the brake to work. It's still sitting there now at 5:05pm, waiting for a tow-truck from ICBC to come and get it. Who knew that bone-headed husband stunts were covered by ICBC as a single car accident? I wonder if they'll cover an accident from someone hitting a truck that is partly in the road? Time will only tell.

Ft. Lauderdale, here I come!

2006-03-13T10:55:00.000-06:00

Ah, Spring Break. A venerable cornocopia of boozing, dancing, beaches, and general debauchary. Good, clean fun without any regrets...

Oh, wait, I forgot. I'm pushing 30, a wife, a mother, and a teacher. These days, Spring Break is a venerable cornocopia of sleeping in until 7am, catching up on laundry, playdough, fingerpaint, and the local rec centre. Maybe I'll get to sneak in a beer after Maya is in bed, but chances are, I'll be snoring on the couch next to Eric by 8:30pm.

Sounds awful? Not in the least. I wouldn't have it any other way.