The secret to staying young

I'm so excited to be turning 29 today!

I'm also very happy to be going out for a romantic adult only dinner tomorrow night with my hubby because good food plus good wine equals me getting laid.

Happy birthday to me!

Frustration

How do you dream and plan your way to a happier future when you can't see the light at the end of the tunnel? All that's here in front of me are dark shadows and the knowledge that tomorrow will be more of the same damn thing.

It drives me nuts to hear advice that consists of "Oh, it'll be better tomorrow" or "Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, that's all you can do." Is it? Is that really ALL there is to do? Life is too short to spend it unhappy and miserable, I get that. I just don't understand how to change it.

I am not grown-up enough to figure this out on my own.

I want to be a kid again and have my parents tell me what to do because they hand out the answers to all life's questions like cotton-candy at the local fair.

I want ANSWERS and COTTON CANDY. And my mummy and daddy to make it all better.

Tremendous-ness

I am both in awe and jealous of Jodi Picault's writing. She is, quite simply, one of the best writers I have had the pleasure of indulging in EVER.

Go. Go NOW and read one of her books.

You'll put me in your will as a way to say thank you, she is that good.

Amen.

Shakin' my world like a one-night stand

I learned new things this weekend:

#1 - Do not bruise the booze. It must slide, slither and glide.

#2 - Vodka martinis. Shaken, not stirred. 3 olives. Now my favourite drink.

#3 - I can catch and kill mosquitoes with one hand very successfully after 2 martinis.

I'm drooling already thinking about sipping at "Mummy's little helper" after work today and it's only 9:00 a.m.. That can't be good.

Next thing you know he'll be teasing wild coyotes for kicks

My son came home from school yesterday with a note from the principal and it wasn't a commendation for exemplary behaviour.

Apparently, he has been teasing an older boy on the school bus for how long now, I don't know. When I asked him what happened, he told me it wasn't that big a deal, that the other kid started it, and he really didn't feel that bad about it. When my son told me he'd called the other kid a "booger-eater" because the other kid picked his nose and ate it, I truly could not stop myself from laughing out loud - at the same time realizing that here was a golden opportunity to teach my son a LIFE LESSON, which he wasn't going to learn if I didn't squelch my laughter.

During our conversation, I tried to get answers to "Why? Why would you say that?" and "How would you feel if someone was picking on you?" and the classic guilt-inducing line "I did not raise you to treat people this way."

My son's inital response to all of these questions was "But MOM! You and Dad both told me it's okay to get in trouble once in awhile!"

O-o-k-a-a-y... Mummy needs a lesson in clarification tout-de-suite.

The principal made him apologize to the other student earlier in the day, but I also made him write a note of apology to both the principal for his crummy behaviour, and to the other kid for hurting his feelings and then he was sent to bed early to THINK ABOUT WHAT HE'D DONE.

I wanted his punishment to fit the crime, for him to realize that we must take into account other people's feelings, while still standing up for ourselves.

But seriously? "Booger-eater" is older than my prom dress...and still just as slap-my-ass-funny!

Too Long Between Cuts

I have thick hair. Unruly, will not stay straight, stick your finger in a light socket frizzy, disobedient, unmanageable hair.

I'm going to get a haircut this afternoon with my hairdresser Frank, who for years, I thought was gay because he is a MAN who works in a hair salon. Three years after finding out, um, no he's not and since then he's had two adorable looking children and I'm still kicking myself in the ass for being so assumptive and judgmental.

I'm appreciative that he keeps me on as a client because he is the only person on this planet who can tame the massive triangle forming around my head into something resembling an actual hairstyle.

Frank will blowdry my hair straight and it will be smooth, and shiny and silky to the touch and I will be petting myself on the head regularly for the next several hours just because it feels so good.

And when I wash my hair I will be sad because the soft flatness of it will be gone and it won't have hugged me or told me that it loved me or wished that it, too, could stay forever.

There will be tears after it's all over. And ice cream. Lots of ice cream.

In Which There Is Much Writing About Frustration

I'm having one of those days/weeks/months where I'm fairly certain I totally, completely, utterly suck at motherhood. Lack of a decent night's sleep is partly the problem.

My son woke up in the middle of the night because a mosquito was buzzing around his head and driving him batty because, of course, mosquitos know that you are trying to sleep and choose that moment to annoy and laugh their little mosquito butts off because, hey, look, I made the giant human jump up and down and, BONUS!, cry. I vaguely remember mumbling something along the lines of, "Go back to bed. There's nothing I can do."

He woke up the night before because of a bad dream. Something about a skull and a glowing red eye. He crawled into bed with us because he was scared, and after an hour of his gangly arms and legs smacking me in my face and stomach, I put him back in his own bed, mumbling something along the lines of "Go back to sleep. Don't think about anything scary." Ever so helpful, that little nugget of wisdom...

Then there is our daughter. I am getting my ass kicked daily by a 2 year old. Daily temper tantrums. As in, EVERY SINGLE DAY daily, in case I haven't made that point clear enough. Screaming, crying, stamping her feet, throwing herself to the floor when we try to get her dressed, get her in the tub, get her to the table for dinner, or I dunno, touch her elbow.

Logically, I know that this is a phase that will eventually pass. Emotionally, I know that I'm on the verge of a breakdown.

Every time she screams I can feel my heart beating faster, my blood pressure rising, and a red haze sometimes covers my eyes. My hands shake and I cover my ears to try and muffle the sound, which, on days when I feel stronger, reminds me of the far-off train whistle I heard every morning growing up in the small town I lived in. I go into the bathroom and shut the door to try and get away from that high-pitched, endless screech of "N-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!!".

Days like today, I'm on the verge of tears myself because I am so frustrated with her and pissed off with me that I cannot FIGURE OUT HOW TO MAKE IT STOP. Days like today, I want to run away. Days like today I question whether I'm cut out for this. Days like today, I want to stay in bed and throw the covers over my head and watch back-to-back episodes of House or Third Watch or Days of Our Lives. Days like today I can't help but say "F-U-U-C-K..."

On days like today, eventually, I think of my Grammy. She died in March of 2000, and I miss her still because she was so smart and beautiful, and her advice was always to the point and practical. I sniff the little pillow she made a long time ago and that my daughter now sleeps on to see if I can smell her. Once in awhile I swear Grammy's scent is still there in that pillow and I remember that she would always say "This too shall pass." And I can her voice saying, "You're the parent. ACT LIKE IT."

She's right. I take a deep breath and get ready to do this again tomorrow.

Victory is nigh

She peed ON THE POTTY. Three separate times. PEED! ON THE POTTY!

I am so giddy with the thought of not having to clean up Malteser poops that I might just go out and celebrate by buying her anything she wants. Ice cream? Sure! Another pair of sparkly sandals? Of course! Another Dora DVD?

I'm not that high.

Circle of Life

After getting home from my son's ball hockey game last night, he got ready for bed, and like every other night, I put Scratchy the hamster's cage in the hallway because like all hamsters, Scratchy has a habit of scratching at his shavings and crunching noisily on his seeds and carrots during the middle of the night, which wakes the boy up.

Before setting the cage down, I checked on the hamster who was still sleeping in his little house. Except that Scratchy wasn't sleeping. Or moving. Or breathing. I called my son into the kitchen where I had brought the cage and told him as gently as possible that his little pet had died.

We both started to cry. We checked again. And again.

My son didn't want a hug from his mummy, which he has always wanted in the past when something upsets him. This time he wanted to be left alone in his room. I could hear him crying, his heart hurting and with a peek through the half-open bedroom door could see the tears flowing freely down his face.

There are moments in life that always stand out more sharply than others because of the pain we feel, the sadness we show, the tears that fall and seeing him go through this experience was a crystal clear, stand-still reminder for me that my son is on his way to becoming a man one day.

I tucked him in after we decided that we will have a little funeral and bury Scratchy in our backyard.

Then he hugged me.

If I close my eyes, this isn't happening

I know my son is growing up because after showering this morning he reminded me that he needs a new 'odorant'.

And a jock strap. To protect his balls. That's right, I said it. Balls.

My therapy appointment for denial takes place a week from Thursday...

My very special day

My toddler SLEPT IN. ON MOTHER'S DAY. I'm writing this in all caps because THIS IS HISTORIC.

My son, bless his little heart, made a scrapbook page with a photo of himself and loving words scrawled on it - it was a beautiful gift.

My hubby made me breakfast in bed.

Some days, it really is the little things that make life worth living.
Little things and lots of coffee.
Little things, lots of coffee, and chocoloate.
Little things, lots of coffee, chocolate and maybe a diamond here and there.

But really, it's the little things.

Happy Mother's Day

I truly hope you understand that while I vent my frustrations in these posts about raising my kids, you get that they are my heart and soul and I would give up my life for them in a nanosecond.

My life, yes. My chocolate, not so much.

Happy Mother's Day to all of you beautiful women out there!

Foxy Trot

I saw a fox yesterday morning.

It isn't the first time one of those little fellows have bravely been wandering around the country roads near our home. At first, I thought it was a dog, and when it got closer you could easily see the red, bushy tail and dark black paws and it was oh so cute with his little triangular ears sticking straight up and you just know that his fur is soft and fluffy and I wondered, has anyone ever kept one as a pet? Because you know I could totally snuggle up to it and feed it and pet it and love it and it will love me back and we will break into song and dance on occasion because we are feeling silly and joyful and full of life.

And then I saw the dead bird hanging from it's mouth.

That kind of burst the bubble pretty quickly.

Potty training sucks

I'm beginning to think that my daughter is going to be wearing Pull-Ups under her prom dress.

She was doing quite well realizing she had to go and then sitting on her very own little potty, but she has regressed to doing it in her "couche" again. Which means she's also pooping in them. Which means I'm gagging on a regular basis. Which means her father and I are engaged in a daily battle of "I'm not doing it, I got the last one" and "Yeah. NO. I am NOT touching that."

Parenting books will tell me that it's laziness on our part, that we aren't encouraging her enough, following through, being consistent, but I believe it's because at the age of 2 and-a-half, she has figured out that she has power over her parents because neither one of us wants to still be changing a diaper at this stage. It's GROSS. And therein lies her control. Over us. The adults.

I suppose bribery is available because, you know, it works, which means it's time to stock up on Mummy's favourite vodka and Babybel cheese, which she is addicted to. (The cheese, the cheese, calm down Internet).

All I have to do is hold that little round ball of cheese over the toilet and threaten to flush, and I'm betting I can get her to do pretty much anything I want - including clean out the gutters, do my taxes or rub my feet.

One day, when she is older and constipated from all the congratulatory Babybel cheese, she'll thank us for forcing her to pee on a real toilet, in between downing shots of Maalox for her stomach cramps.

And Mummy will raise her glass and give thanks that it only took 3 years, 246 boxes of Pull-Ups and 522 bottles of vodka, amen.

How?

After working all day, and then fighting traffic congestion to get home, Tuesday night went like this: Get home from work, have dinner, clean up dinner dishes, wash the counter, the table, and any other flat surface in my line of vision, vacuum the kitchen, the bathroom, front and back hallways (the bedrooms can wait until tomorrow night), get the toddler into her bath and scrub the toilet and vanity while she's playing with the bubbles in the tub, wash her up, get her out, get her dressed for bed, start a load of laundry, sit for 5 minutes to watch "Charlie and Lola" with her, do the night-time routine with her and get her to bed. Then it's time to put the clean wash in the dryer, start another load, make lunches for the next day, argue with (!) the 10 year old who doesn't want to shower, but is going to because I SAID SO, and then it's time to do his bedtime routine and get him to bed. And then, it's back downstairs to fold the first load of laundry because it's now dry, put the second load in the dryer, and now it's 9:30 p.m. and I collapse on the sofa to fold that first load of laundry.

How in the hell do other mothers do it? You know which ones I'm talking about. The ones who have a life and the energy to go out for dinner and drinks and movies with their girlfriends? The ones who volunteer at animal shelters in their down time and the ones who belong to bookclubs and the ones who find utter joy on a daily basis in the scent of a flower or because the sky is blue.
Tell me, please, how do you do it?

I'm too fucking exhausted to figure it out.

She-Devil

I think my daughter is possessed.

What else can explain last night's total meltdown? She had her bath as usual, watched Dora the Explorer (my annoyance with Dora is another post altogether), she said goodnight to Daddy and big brother, we read a couple of short books, sang a few songs, had our cuddles, and I put her in her crib with a "Night, night. Mummy loves you. Fait des beaux rêves", and closed her door.

Twenty seconds later, she is screaming, jumping up and down in the crib, and banging it against the wall. A couple of minutes of this and I go in to check on her. "NO. MUMMY. NO DODO." Sniffle, sniffle. "Bébé, it's time for bed. I love you. GOOD NIGHT," I say firmly in my best Jo-Jo, the Super Nanny voice, and close the door once more.

And then she starts screaming, only this time with feeling. Her tone is quite good - loud and with varying degrees of screeching. The pitch - extreme Mariah Carey-esque highs, an excellent quality. She is crying and half-coughing on her own spit, all the while wailing "M-U-M-M-M-M-E-E-E-E-E!!!!!!" Bang-bang-bang goes the crib and I know, from having seen her do it before, that she has her little hands wrapped against the top rail and she is purposely banging the opposite side of the bed against the wall.

And I'm in the kitchen trying to breathe deeply and decide between a cup of decaf coffee or chugging the Crown Royal.

Take a guess which one I picked.