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.