Marley

{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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. . .

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.

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

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

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!

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

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.