The lights are on...

I have no problem at all admitting that lately I'm a complete wimp when it comes to being home alone at night.

I may have mentioned my extreme fear of (shudder) bats, and even though my hubby has promised me there will be no more because he figured out how they were getting into our house, I could not fall asleep last night. Every time I started to drift off, I'd jerk awake, heart pounding through my chest, my tongue thick in my mouth, and beads of sweat trickling down the back of my neck because I heard something.

Something turned out to be the dog flapping her ears. Something turned out to be a creak in the kitchen as the house settled. Something turned out to be a nighttime sigh coming from my daughter as she lay sleeping in her room. Something turned out to be my son kicking a wayward foot against the wall in his room as he was sleeping. Something turned out to be the sound of my own breathing freaking me the hell out.

I tried to calm myself down by remembering that, so far, there was nothing flying about and at this point it was after 2:30 a.m....then I remembered that the last bat to get into the house and fly by my head to land one foot away from me arrived just after 4:00 a.m.

That little bit of information, surprisingly, DID NOT HELP ME RELAX. I finally fell into a completely fitful, toss-and-turn-non-restful sleep an hour later, complete with the phone in one hand, tennis racket in the other and the large flashlight nearby.

It seems I might be feeling a little bit cranky and sleep deprived today.

Imagine that.

Epiphany?

There's something to be said about middle-of-the-week-drinking-too-much-red-wine-staying-up-late-talking-and-laughing that reminds me life can still be lived even when you are exhausted from raising kids, drained from the job you detest, and worn out from doing laundry.

And part of that something is a reminder to me, akin to a slap upside my head or a well deserved kick in the ass, I need to take care of myself, physically, mentally and spiritually.

Like many women I've talked to, it seems to be ingrained in us from the time we are little girls that we are supposed to take care of, to nurture, to cook, to clean, to organize, to remember every single little detail (Where is my favourite pencil? Where are my white socks? Nooo, the ones with the blue stripe at the top! Do we need more milk? How much money do we owe the cable company?) about those we share our lives with. We become so preoccupied by all the minute details of everyday that we forget, we put aside until later, the woman and the little girl inside, who needs love and attention too.

Lately, I've looked in the mirror and hardly recognize myself. Who are you? I am soft and doughy from lack of exercise, there are dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, and a generally haggard, tense expression on my face.

Someone recently asked me, "What's your passion?" I opened my mouth to reply, and nary a sound emerged. This struck me as sad and kind of pathetic. Doesn't everyone have something they are passionate about?

My hubby has mentioned to me a few times of late that I need to lighten up. I took it offensively because who wants to admit they might be wound tighter than a heavy-duty spring? And it stung a little to know he's speaking truth. Today, I can feel the love behind his words and for that I'm grateful.

Time to break out a new notepad and make me a list.

Beginnings

I may have mentioned some time ago that my son would soon be starting sixth grade.

Today is that day.

Putting him to bed last night, the tears started building (mine, not his) as it occurred to me what a huge moment this is. It's GRADE 6. 6. Six. Doesn't matter which way I write it, I'm still not prepared for the years to come. It's only a matter of months, really, before he will no longer allow me to kiss him on his still smooth cheek or hug him tightly in front of anyone other than family, and even that, I'm sure will be limited to those times that I beg and plead and use guilt (or candy) as a motivating factor in order to be on the receiving end of that hug.

Soon to be gone are the days of holding him giggling, in my lap, as I tuck his leggy legs in half and fold his scrawny arms inward and rock him back and forth and pretend he's still my little baby boy; all the while surreptiously sniffing the back of his neck for the smell that is his (and only his) and all little-boy - that outdoorsy-windy-sunshiney--good-smell.

This is how it's supposed to be as our kids grow up. We love them and hold them close for as long as we can. When they start to test their independence and move away from us, there is, hopefully, an unwritten understanding that they know we are only an arm's length away from them.

I get it. I don't like it one little bit. But I get it.

Bring Me Food!

I can't think of a single thing to write about that might hold anyone's interest because I am just too damn hungry and the only thing running through my mind is that my mouth is watering for a chicken caeser salad. And hot sauce to dip the chicken into.

And my hubby. Naked. Maybe dip him into the hot sauce too, but really, what's the point? He needs no extra hotness because he's smokin' as it is...

Not only is my mouth watering, now I also need to go and take a cold shower.

Is this what they mean about your mid-30's and hitting your prime? Because if that's the case, I'm going to drown in hot chicken and sex.

Which begs the question...which came first? The chicken or the SEX?

Did I Really Just See That?

Coming back from an important errand (buying princessy dresses at this time of year is a little like trying to find your lost way out of a neighbourhood of newly built homes that all look exactly the same - hopeful that you've turned in the right direction, but dismayed to find that the pink house you want isn't available in toddler size), my friend Stephanie and I saw the back end of a woman walking down the street.

And I mean that literally.

She was wearing the most see-through pair of flimsy white pants? pajamas? a scarf? It was hard to tell because we were so distracted by the fact that she was either not wearing any underwear at all or possibly the world's thinnest thong, but in either case, we could not tear our eyes away from her bouncing ass. Why bother with fabric AT ALL?

Moments after that, a shirt-and-tie-and-matching-shoes man was waiting to cross the street, directly opposite us. One hand down his pants, left leg cocked at the knee to get just the right angle. And he was scratching his balls. Digging and scratching and more digging and god, help me, would he get his hands out of his pants already?

That lead me to wonder whether Hungry Bum-girl and Hungry Balls-boy know each other and if they do? They should totally get married and have babies and they will live happily ever after as the Ballsy Bouncing Bums Family.

Clothing optional.

Princesses

My daughter has finally succumbed to the princess syndrome. I've been wondering when it would happen, and it has. I can see the days and weeks stretching ahead of us where EVERYTHING will be focused on pink and purple and stars and glitter and magic. Before having a daughter I always believed that I was far too practical a person to enjoy this, but now that it's here, I find myself just as excited as she is. Who knew?

Peering out our bedroom window at a beautiful rainbow across the cornfield yesterday, she informed me that it was "her" rainbow.

"Mine a p'incess, Mummy. Dat my 'ainbow." Yes. Yes it IS, little one.

This morning she gleefully chose to wear a pretty turquoise sundress and she wanted her hair tied up in a smart-little-p'incess-knot and she was so delighted with the world you could see the sparkles in the air and butterflies and sweet little birds chirping all around her.

Then she twirled around in a circle and stopped abruptly with an impatient stamp of her foot because her dress did not change into a proper princessy dress nor did a crown appear on her head.

"Mine NOT a p'incess, Mummy. Not work!"

It's possible we may have watched a DVD in which Dora turns into a princess, complete with hair growing magically to her ankles, one too many times.

All The Way, Baby

Tomorrow is our 6th anniversary and we are going out for an adults-only dinner followed by an overnighter at a local fancy hotel.

If all goes well checking in, before we even go out for dinner, I will probably let my hubby get to second or even third base. I might even let him have sex with me. Because after 6 years, 2 kids, a dog, a now-dead hamster, and a variety of other daily life stresses, I think we've well earned the right to a little afternoon nipple touching.

It's the little things that mean the most.

Summer Vacations are Supposed to be Relaxing...Aren't They?

I'm back at work after a month long vacation in which large amounts of alcohol were consumed, days were spent at the lake trying to chill out in the sun and warm water, moments here and there with my nose in a book, and hours and hours spent with two of the best kids on this planet. And yes, quite possibly I'm biased, but they ARE my children and nanny-nanny-boo-boo to you.

Having said that, I would not exactly suggest that my vacation was a relaxing one. It was more than a little bit difficult trying to figure out how to keep an almost-11-year-old and an almost-3-year-old entertained at the same time. Never before has the eight year age gap felt so much like climbing a steep mountain with no safety ropes.

"Who wants to go to a museum?" I figured this would be an activity that they could both enjoy and smart mummy that I am, they did. I, however, felt like I was trying to corral a couple of wild horses (admittedly there was a moment that I-oh-so-wished I had a whip) because this one wanted to go that way and the other was hell bent on travelling in the opposite direction. And that made me thankful I only have TWO children because I only have two arms and hands and that thought led me to my sisters. One has 3 kids, the other has 4. THREE and FOUR children. Each. I see them sometimes get impatient and sometimes voices are raised because in all honesty, how do you make yourself heard over so many voices babbling at once? But they almost always seem to have an infinite amount of patience with their children. I think I may have missed out on that gene though.

Not for the first time I've wondered how the hell they seem to keep their kids occupied with the same activity.

Not for the first time, I'll be sneaking peeks at their backs and sides and wondering where they hide their wings.