Mediocre Mothering & Lacklustre Living

Adventures in Babysitting

2011-02-14T14:58:00.000-06:00

I'm the sort of gal who likes to give the people want they want, and apparently the people who read this blog really want puke stories, so, here we go!
Hubby and I were ahead of the game for a change this past weekend, and we had made plans to go out for dinner with some good friends to celebrate Valentine's Day. Good ol' Gramma was slated to babysit for us, and it seemed that all was right with the world. Unfortunately, Gramma was not feeling well at all, but she was trying to be brave, and not wanting to spoil our evening, she tried to keep it a secret. We figured out just how sick Gramma really was just 30 minutes before we were to meet our friends at the restaurant; it was now decision time. We could cancel, dump the children on their gravely ill grandparent,(and mom, if you're reading this, Hubby was all for that-very compassionate boy you raised there!)or try to find a replacement babysitter who would be free at a moments notice. I called over to my friends house who has not one, but two teenage daughters, and lucky me, one of them was free! I raced over to their house, scooped up the Teenager and raced back home. Having not anticipated someone other than immediate family being in my house, I was very embarrassed that Teenager had a wide eyed view of just how disgusting we all are. The floor was a sticky, gross mess, as were the cupboards. My makeup littered the bathroom counter, toys were all over the floor, and laundry, waiting to be folded, was piled on the couch downstairs. Not pretty. But, we had only 10 minutes to get to where we were going, so I had to shrug it off, and cross my fingers that Teenager would be kind when describing our zoo to her parents later on.
Hubby and I had just gotten settled into our cozy little booth when my cell phone started to ring. I gave an apologetic smile to our friends and answered the phone to hear The Boy say, rather excitedly, "Banshee just puked ALL over the place!!". Normally, I am a very good mother, and concern for my children's health is my number one priority, but here's the order of my thought process just then:
1. Crap. I hope not all over the brand new carpet!
2. Crap. These guys are never going to ask us out to dinner again.
3. Crap. Teenager will never babysit for us again.
4. Crap. I hope she's okay.
The Boy put Banshee on the phone, and she said that felt a lot better getting everything out of her system. Banshee had dipped into the V-day candy after school, and I figured the upset tummy was another case of Banshee over indulgence. Deciding that no one was in immediate peril, we figured we were safe to continue on with our evening. After supper, we all moved down the road to catch a movie not rated G, and halfway through the show, the phone rang, and it was The Boy, even more excited than before. From what I could gather, he had plugged the toilet with paper towel cleaning up Banshee's previous mess, but then Banshee came flying back into the bathroom and puked all over the plunger. (Luckily, Grandpa was available to come and help them out of the mess, but The Boy wasn't too keen on having Grandpa infringe on his alone time with the cute Teenager, pukey little sister not withstanding, so Gramps was quickly shoved out the front door while The Boy cued Barry White on the stereo.) Over the Boy's objections, I stated that we'd be home shortly, feeling the heavy burden of guilt resting comfortably on my shoulders.
At last we were driving down our street when I saw my friends van parked outside my house. Again, normally I am a good mother, but I couldn't help but to think "Great, one more person who now knows how we really live...". Of course I was also concerned about my little Banshee and practically did a tuck and dive roll out of the moving car. As it turns out, Banshee was just run of the mill tummy sick. Poor Teenager just called in her mom for back-up. I sputtered a million apologies to all involved, and got back into the business of being a Mom. I changed from my costume of pretty sweater and high heeled boots with slick hair and lipstick to yoga pants, a hoodie and pigtails; kind of like Superman in reverse. I cuddled with my little invalid, and gave her props for aiming for the bucket and sparing the carpet. She was pretty proud of that, too. We talked until she fell asleep, and then I plopped myself on the couch next to Hubby, where we chatted about the funny parts of the movie and whose steak had been bigger. (Mine was.) So maybe it wasn't the perfect way to celebrate Valentine's Day for most people, but it actually seems fairly appropriate for my family, so I'll take what I can get!

How I Changed Cable Television

2011-02-08T14:22:00.003-06:00

Normally I am not the sort of person to "toot my own horn", so to speak, but a friend mentioned to me the other day how she relies on me to keep everyone together. When I say "keep everyone together", I don't mean that my calm and soothing influence keeps everyone I know from surrendering to mass hysteria and running about frantically waiting for the world to end. She simply meant that I am somewhat good at getting the girlfriends together for coffee. Sure it's not equal to the discovery of penicillin, but it's something, right? I have to agree that my aversion to spending too much time confined to the four walls of my house drives me to suggest to my friends that we "do coffee" on a regular basis. I'd like to think that my desperation is the glue that holds our merry little band of friends together. Again, not exactly Mother Teresa comforting hoards of starving orphans, but hey, what have you done for society lately?
Anyways, this conversation with my friend got me to thinking about the various institutions I have graced with my presence over the years, and how these establishments have fallen into the dumper once I was done with them. For example, that BFF club I started in Grade 5 simply fell to pieces after I left. How they thought they could carry on without me is a mystery. (When I left, I took the club collection dues with me, so that might explain a small part of it.) Okay, maybe the grade 5 BFF club is small potatoes, but I think you'll be impressed to know that I was once a driving force behind the success of cable TV. It's true! Several years ago, when I still lived at home with the folks, I was what some may refer to as a TV junkie, though I always considered myself as more of a connoisseur. Back in my cable watching days, TV was actually good. Remember when A&E could legitimately call itself the Arts and Entertainment channel? That was because of me! Remember when TLC actually had interesting and educational shows and not freaky reality stuff? That was me! TBS used to show two reliable hours of Susan approved Little House in the Prairie morality goodness everyday-now they show hours of Dawson's Creek. Really TBS? Not even two solid hours of Pacey's "I remember everything" speech could make me want to tune into that. So what directly contributed to the decline of cable televison? Some people blame reality TV; this trash infused, cheap to produce programming began to blossom about 11 years ago, and then took over all of TV programming. But the truth is, 11 years ago I left mom and dad's house, and got one of my own. Sacrifices needed to be made. Heating bills VS cable bills in Manitoba in the winter is hardly a contest. Cable had to go, and quality went with it. So I apologize to the viewing public. I'm sorry that I left cable and that it went to crap; I guess PBS is our only hope, and as long as they continue to show As Time Goes By, we should be fine.

Just in case you're not convinced that I make everything better, here is a list of other things whose suckage meter went off the charts when I was no longer around:

1. This Blog
2. General Hospital
3. My Hometown
4. My parents house (I don't think they read this anymore, so I don't think I'll get into trouble for this.)
5. All my ex boyfriends lives.
6. The UN
7. People who used to know me.

Things that have gotten better by having me around:

1. This blog.
2. The Young and The Restless
3. The city I live now.
4. My husband's life.
5. Your life.
6. England
7. Everyone who knows me.

The proof is in the pudding my friends, whatever that means. Just be happy to have me around again! I know I'm always happy to have me around!

Thou Art Mine Enemy...For Now

2010-03-01T22:06:00.003-06:00

I have a new enemy. My list of enemies isn't overly extensive (or logical). It includes: a certain corner that I keep catching my toe on. Velcro. The railing of my bed because it snagged the pocket of my favorite jeans and ripped them. The leg of my bed because I kicked it afterward, and severely injured my foot.(Embarrassed by my lack of control, I told Hubby that a closet dwarf attacked me and stomped on my foot and then escaped back into the dark void. I don't think he believed me.) Jay Leno is on my list. So is Elmo, oddly enough. I think it's mainly because he just swooped in and hijacked Sesame Street, when we all know the heart and soul of the entire organization is Kermit; the final straw was when that little red furry menace had the audacity to sneak his way into the sequel of the beloved "Monster At The End of the Book" book; back off Elmo-you're invading Grover territory!
Back to the list.
A girl I went to elementary school with is still on my list. She tried to FB friend me, but I totally denied her. HA! Point to Susie! The neighbors cat is on my enemy list. Brian Frons is definitely on my list. Miss. Piggy used to be on my list, but she's been promoted to "frenemy". I don't always like her, but I sure as heck respect her.
I suppose after all this rambling, you want to know who is the newest addition to my enemy list. You'll never guess. It's...it's...CORNSTARCH! That's right, cornstarch. Why, you ask? Well, imagine my surprise when I walked into my bedroom to see everything covered in a fine, white dust, and a box of empty cornstarch lying on my bed. Apparently, none of my children were involved in this incident, so I can only assume that the cornstarch snagged a bottle of cooking wine and went hog-wild in the bedroom. Shame on you, cornstarch. Shame.
I am also thinking of adding my desk chair to my list. I don't deny that it provides a very comfortable perch, but that little groaning sound it's been making lately, every time I sit down, is getting a little old. Consider yourself warned, chair. Ikea is coming to town soon, and you'll be easy to replace. European chairs never make fat jokes. Keep that in mind.

Brother's Keeper?

2010-02-01T22:56:00.003-06:00

When you have six people crammed into a tiny space, quiet time becomes a coveted occurrence. I suppose I have the advantage over everyone else here, because when mommy goes into her room, and locks the door, that means one of two things; either I'm naked, or I am on the verge of a rabid, snarling, arm failing, voice raising episode. It's common knowledge when that when that door is locked, it is a knock at your own risk sort of thing, so I am pretty much left alone. My kids on the other hand do not have that kind of advantage. I do my best to enforce a "knock before barging in and annoying your sibling" rule, but, as evident by the numerous altercations going on around here lately, some people aren't really following the rule. And by some people, I mean The Boy.
The Boy, by most accounts is a wonderful, loving, and protective big brother. There are moments when he absolutely shines, and comes through for his little sisters in a big way. But, there are times when a bizarre, uncontrollable force takes him over, and he becomes the biggest pain in the butt in the history of boys. At these times, The Boy makes it his sole purpose in life to get Banshee worked into a screaming, crying, catterwallin', fist flying, hairball of rage. The shrieks of outrage that Banshee hurls at him seems to fuel his fire, and he won't stop until they have both drawn tears and blood from one another. Banshee isn't always Banshee; there are blissful, quiet times, when she is hunkered down in her room, playing with her kitties and drawing pictures of ponies; and it is at these times when The Boy's "Banshee sense" starts to tingle, and suddenly, there he is, bursting in on her solitude, and assassinating her Barbies. When called in front of the jury to explain his actions, he is usually at a loss for words. He can't explain why it is so much fun to annoy his sister to the point of rage and tears, it just is. His father, himself an older brother, gives The Boy a sympathetic, knowing smile when he thinks I'm not looking; but you see, I am also a little sister. I know the burden we bear, so I banish both the boys to the basement to clean, and to think about the many atrocities they have committed against their sweet and lovely younger sisters. And while they are working, Banshee and I plunk down at the table with a couple scoops of ice cream chased with a generous portion of hot fudge, and plot. We baby sisters take our revenge in quiet ways. I think back with glee to the time when I purposefully didn't tell my big brother his fly was open before he had to go up and speak in front of a room full of people. I smile when I think back to the time I tricked him into eating candy I had conducted a couple of experiments on before carefully repackaging it, and gifting it to him. (He thought I was being nice! HA!) My mother still resents him for breaking all the things he never really broke...yes, we sisters get our revenge in quiet ways that will leave you shaken...unless you are a girl like Banshee, she's always been the kind to leave you with a fat lip and black eye...

Susie IS Updating Her Blog!

2010-01-27T12:44:00.004-06:00

Hello fans! The worlds most erratic blogger is back! I know it's been a while since I've posted anything of decent quality, but truth be told, I've been extremely busy being lazy. It's true! My devoted family has been very accommodating in providing me with all kinds of over the top antics to write about, but the problem is that once I get some quiet time to write, I get a little distracted by this little networking thingy called facebook. I'm not sure if any of you have actually heard of it, but it's a terrific tool to keep tabs on not just your closest friends, but people you haven't spoke to in millions of years! I often find myself riveted by the golden status updates that inform me if someone is staying in and watching CSI with their spouse, or maybe someone is contemplating having a shower, but they don't feel like getting off the couch to do it (btw-I hear ya sister. Once I'm down, it's very hard to get me back up again-hygiene be damned!). I've even seen (read?) entire relationships disintegrate, and all out war break out, with the aid of the glorious status update, and after witnessing something like happen, how can I be expected to come on here to keep you all entertained when so many of my closest, (and barley familiar), FB friends are on fire over there? There's no competition. That being said, I guess I could, and should, try a little harder to be consistant with my blog. Of course, I say this now because facebook is a little slow today; the most interesting things I've read there so far is that my little cousin is growing a wicked beard, and my friends husband was hit by a semi. BORING! Come on people of the internet! Entertain me!
On that note, dear and faithful readers (Hi Gramma!) tune in next week for a little gem I've dubbed "Pukeahontis Part II"....Mmmm sounds good, right?

The Funeral

2009-10-12T22:12:00.003-05:00

This past weekend I attend the funeral of my dear aunt, Tena. Auntie Tena lived a long and happy life, slipping away peacefully at the age of 88. The night before she passed, she enjoyed an evening of good food, good company, and good stories. All of these things combined made her loss a little easier for me to bear. I went to her funeral prepared to bawl like a baby through most of it, but knowing my dad was doing the eulogy, I was also came fully prepared to laugh till I cried, as well.
Dad's eulogy for Auntie Tena was very funny. I suppose that's one of the things my family is very good at. We love to laugh, unless you make us mad, then we will destroy you, and then laugh about it later. My dad really isn't the touchy feely type. I was going to say that he isn't emotional, but anyone who has ever been at the receiving end of one of his rages would probably disagree. He's emotional yes, but never mushy. That's just not his style. You can imagine my surprise then, when dad delivered a funny, yet very heartfelt tribute to his sister. He spoke of her graciousness, her love of church, family, and friends. He talked about how much she meant to him, and that she was more than a sister, she was his friend. He even went so far as to reassure everyone in attendance that it would be a waste of time for anyone to question if they had said enough, or done enough for Tena before she passed. He told us those kind of thoughts were unnecessary. He wanted us to know that Tena's heart was full of love and appreciation for all of us, right up till the end.
Once dad had finished speaking, my mind was reeling from trying to absorb his words of love of forgiveness. In my family, we have tendency to hold on to a grudge as if it were a valuable family heirloom. If someone makes a mistake, it's very difficult for us to embrace the "forgive and forget" mantra, and if we do eventually forgive, we like to hold the offenders feet to the fire for a while first. I was ecstatic to think that maybe my dad was turning over a new leaf; that maybe the "old cowboy" had a heart after all.
After the service, I traveled with my parents to the cemetery. I was in awe of this new dad, and I was busy imagining all the Oprah-esque moments we were going to share. Unfortunately, my reverie was shattered when someone committed some sort of driving offense that ticked dad off, and Dad started to holler "Move it you stupid SOB before I run you off the road...!" And with that, the reformation was over.
So maybe he is just the same old dad. It was nice to have a brief glimpse into the center of his heart, a hidden side of him that is all mushy like over cooked spaghetti. He was able to express his love for his family when it mattered, and it meant a lot to everyone that was there to hear it. Besides, I kinda like the old dad. I've always appreciated the fact that he has a mouth so foul it can literally make paint peel. Not everyone can be so talented.

Anniversary Party

2009-05-20T12:58:00.002-05:00

My husband and I will be celebrating our 10th wedding anniversary this Friday. No, no. Hold your applause. You're too kind. I have been looking forward to this milestone for quite a while now. Ten years, in fact...oddly enough. Getting ready for marriage was quite stressful for me. I was a 20 year old, small town girl looking at a life sentence in a "big" city that I hated. I was loathe to leave my parents, my family, and my hometown behind. I found the whole "plan the wedding of your dreams because this is the most important day of your life, and this is your only chance to a princess for a day so don't screw it up" thing very overwhelming. The only thing I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was that despite how much I disliked the tornado of tulle and tacky decorations swirling around me, Darcy was most definitely worth it...(and I was absolutely correct). Shortly after the honeymoon was over, and I could breathe again, in my mind I began to formulate a plan for our 10th wedding anniversary party. I envisioned a garden party with lots of twinkle lights and an assortment of fruity wines and finger foods. I saw a grandiose house looming in the back as I floated among the guests with a newborn girl in my arms and my three year old son hanging onto my free hand. It was a great dream, planned extravagantly down to the tiniest detail...but where was the actual marriage in that dream? Was it tucked somewhere between pretty pink napkins and crisp white linens?
Come Friday, the closest to a garden party I'll get is a quick lunch at the Olive Garden. Maybe we'll get nostalgic and take a stroll past the park bench where we got engaged. We'll point out the spot to the kids, and say that's where it started; this life of soccer practices and baseball games, trips to emergency rooms, and suppers where at least two children are fighting, and something always gets spilled on the freshly washed floor. And somewhere tucked between the mess and the chaos is the marriage; a foundation of love and faith we've been building on for 10 years.
I'd like to say I've been the ideal spouse so far, and I suppose if my hubby's ideal mate is a shrill, demanding barracuda with a tendency to burst into tears with little or no provocation, then I guess I could safely say that I have been ideal. (I must not be too terrible to live with though, otherwise I would be writing a different kind of story altogether, probably from prison.)
I love being married to my husband, even on the days when I have to restrain myself from picking up the couch and throwing it at him. And I know he loves me too, because if he didn't, I'd be writing a different story altogether probably from pri...well you get the idea. There are certain risks involved when you marry a temperamental barracuda.
So thank-you darling for 10 wonderful years. It has been an amazing journey, and I thank God everyday that I am your wife.

This and That

2009-04-16T19:49:00.002-05:00

It has been a busy month for my family. I don't have much to show for all the hustle and bustle around here, aside from the usual bags under my eyes and and a general feeling of being unappreciated. Hubby is neck deep in his studies, and I can't help but feel a pang of jealousy when he picks up the books and steals away to to a locked room to immerse himself in a world of some sort of mathematical/computer-y stuff I know absolutely nothing about. The children have come to understand that his schooling is important to daddy, and they have been unexpectedly gracious about his attentiveness to his studies. I, on the other hand, tried to spend a few quiet minutes in the bathroom with my new Mary Kay catalogue, and judging from the kids reactions, you'd think I was guilty of abandonment or something. I mean, don't think I haven't thought about it, or even threatened to do it, but come on-all I wanted was ten measly minutes-ALONE! Apparently 10 minutes in people time is like a million hours in kid time. Yeesh.

Every spring I buy a pair of cheap, but funky spring sneakers-the kind that require no socks so you can easily slip them on and off, eventually turning them into odor absorbing monsters that have to be banished to the outdoors once the smell gets too overpowering. Anyways, I had purchased myself a fairly cheap pair of sneaks a couple of weeks ago, and have in return payed for my cheapness with varying amounts of discomfort. The other day, I noticed the pain was more pronounced than usual, but me being me, I didn't take the time to investigate what the problem might have been. Bear in mind that I was raised by woman who made me walk barefoot in the summer in order to "toughen up my feet". I was the only kid to have spent my summers in "foot camp." (I apologize for that lame joke. Let's just carry on like that never happened, shall we?) After limping along for an entire day, it occurred to me that I might be able to fix my problem by simply turning over my shoe and dumping out whatever it was that was digging into my foot. Genius! I wish I had thought that up years earlier. I probably could have saved myself quite a few blisters. So, I finally emptied my shoe and guess what came tumbling out? An earring. I spent a whole day walking around on an earring. The only moral I can offer up for this one is keep your kids as far away from lead paint as possible. My parents didn't, and see how things turned out?

I have been on a spring cleaning kick lately, and it's all thanks to my new mop. Change your mop, change your life. Once Darcy is finished with his course for the semester, he has pledged to do some major renovations around the house and yard, and we really need it! We are one toilet bowl in the front lawn away from being trailer park chic. Every spring we pour a great deal of sweat and effort into sprucing the place up, one little corner at a time. Unfortunately, the children can destroy it all with surprisingly little effort, one corner at a times. Maybe things will be different this year. I doubt it, but we'll see.

Richard Dreyfuss and Me

2009-03-12T14:05:00.002-05:00

* Warning* For those of you who frequent my blog (Hi Mom&Dad!), you know by now that most of my stories sometimes contain bodily function references and general complaints about my life. The following story breaks the mold in that it is quite heavy laden with bodily function references and the whining might very well be intolerable. You've been warned.

This past Monday, I was under the attack of the most ferocious gastrointestinal bug to ever hit me in my life. I woke up in the middle of the night with the strange feeling that all was not well down bellow. I tried to convince myself that I was only experiencing a touch of indigestion, but as I made my way towards the couch, I grabbed my comfy blanket, my hot water bottle, and a pail in preparation for the coming storm. I had hoped that perhaps the T.V. would help in taking my mind off my toiling tummy, and I was pleased to find that "The Good-bye Girl" was playing on one of the channels. I tried my best to focus on the charming little romance unfolding on the screen, attempting to ignore the acrobatics being preformed by my stomach. The star of the movie, Richard Dreyfuss, was as cute and hyper as ever, and considering that he is on my list of people I would like to read me to sleep, (the list also includes Peter Ustinov, Bob Newhart and Judi Dench, just in case you're wondering) I had hoped the sound of his voice would lull me into a tranquil world, free of tummy troubles. Unfortunately, I did doze off, but not into a peaceful, happy little snooze. I became trapped in a fitful delirium, an unhappy place where I could still hear the sounds of the movie, and each little sound made me feel sicker and sicker. I felt like I was drowning in the blathering voice of Richard Dreyfuss, and nothing could stop it! But suddenly, it did stop-my eyes popped open, and it become clear that sleepy time was over, and I quickly made my way to the washroom.
I don't enjoy throwing-up. I can't think of any friends or relations that do, either. I'm not sure if all people do this, but just before "showtime", I always begin frantic, last second negotiations with my stomach. I plead with it to just stay the course, to hang in there a little longer, and that I'll try to be more attentive, do anything it wants...needless to say, my offers are usually flat out rejected. This time was no different.
(I have mentioned before that my greatest fear is dying in the shower, and having a group of attractive firemen haul my naked corpse into a body bag. I'd like to change that fear to having good looking firemen pry my head out of the toilet, and then hauling me away in a body bag.)
Thinking that maybe the worst was behind me (foreshadowing, anyone?), I stumbled to the couch and fell back into my dozy world of a mocking Richard Dreyfuss, this time accompanied by part of the cast from Mama Mia (Meryl Streep refused to participate-the woman is a saint!). Once again, I was jolted from my state of unrest, and let me tell you, my body meant serious business. The sounds of my agony roused my husband, and he entered into what can only be described as a horror show. You know your man is a keeper when he can nonchalantly walk in on you when you've got (ahem) both barrels blazing, bring you a damp cloth, clean jammies and a glass of water, and then assist your feeble body back to the couch to die in peace, all without blinking an eye...or gagging.
(You know when I said that my worst fear was to have the hot firemen pry my head out the toilet? Well I've got one better, but I'm too classy to describe it here....well not really, but I think you've probably figured it out by now)
So what are the lessons learned from all this? #1. The hallucinatory version of Richard Dreyfuss is very mean. #2. The real 2:00 a.m. version of my husband is very sweet. And #3. I don't ever want to die on or near a toilet.

"Who is that lady?" "That's no lady. That's my wife."

2009-02-19T13:27:00.003-06:00

I have a secret for you, and you can't tell anybody-especially not any of my dear old relatives who live in Scotland or Ireland. Okay, here it is. I love the Queen. I do. I think she is a hard working, classy lady who inspires me to be a better woman. Last week, I was enjoying a program about the inner workings of Buckingham palace, and I made a resolution to myself to try to be more lady like, more reserved, and (much) more dignified. Unfortunately for me and my new found resolution, I miscalculated the width of my body versus the width of my hallway, and I crashed into the wall, bruising my hip and elbow. My very recent attempts at decorum and gracefulness came to an abrupt end when I in turn slapped the wall and called it a dirty SOB. It was then that I found myself confronted with the harsh truth- I am no classy lady. I barley even limp into the category of "lady". As much as I admire the Queen, or characters like Elizabeth Bennet or Elinor Dashwood, I will always have more in common with the likes of Phyllis Diller and Cloris Leachman. I will always be the comedienne, willing to take a pratfall or a pie in the face for the sake of humour.
Sometimes I worry about the legacy I am passing on to my daughters. I don't suppose they will ever be the demure little ladies I always hoped for them to be. Banshee is always ready to do battle with her mouth, or if need be, her fists, and Things 1 and 2 think that fart jokes are the best things going. I once even heard all three of them attempting to burp their ABC's, a skill taught to them by their older brother, not me, in case you were wondering. I am guilty of teaching them the "Beans" song, but that was for the purpose of introducing more fiber into their diet. Hey, it's good for your heart...
Maybe it's not too late for me or my girls. I suppose with a little more effort I could try to be a bit more lady like. It would mean having to refrain from making boob jokes and complaining about the other joys of being a woman. I wouldn't be allowed to chuckle at inadvertent ball or nut jokes, and snorting milk out of my nose will be completely off limits. I would also be forced to endure all the ups and downs of life with fortitude and forbearance, so I guess coming on here to complain about well, everything, will also be right out. So what in the world would I write about? The weather? What pants are fashionable this season? Who would want to read that?
On second thought, maybe I should just stick to admiring the Queen, as opposed to emulating her. Sure she has grace and style, but does she have to freedom to tell potty jokes? Probably not, and potty jokes are part of the inalienable rights of the class clown. So, the Queen can keep her crown, and I'll keeping making remarks about the throne, and why my kids are capable of peeing on it, beside it, and behind it, but just not in it.

Of Muses and Men

2009-02-03T22:21:00.005-06:00

I realise that I have been a horrible and neglectful blogger. I can envision you, my poor, lost public, waiting ever so anxiously for a word, a verse, or a sarcastic ditty. There you are at your computer, full of hope and optimism, only to be crushed and dismayed when you find the same darn entry from January 8th still on my blog. For this distress, my people, I apologize. Allow me to offer you a little something in the way of explanation. My creative perch from which I inspire you is, how shall I put it, a dung-heap. Seriously, my basement is, if not the worst place on earth, a very, and I mean very, close second. We have been under construction here for approximately a million years. The place is a disaster. All the furniture, even my desk and computer, is covered with clingy drywall dust. As annoying as that is, what I find to be even worse, is that the kids have completely abandoned any notion of putting their toys away, and for some reason, my family has decided that the floor makes a far better litter bin than the actual garbage can. In short, I hate it down here, and I spend as little time as possible in this area. Knowing that I have been avoiding my blog, I commented (complained) to my mother earlier in the evening that this particular environment wasn't exactly conducive to great, creative writing. Her response was something along the lines of "yes, but it's only your writing..." touche, mama. Touche.
Back in the day when I was a lovelorn, angst ridden teenager, I took my art and my creative environment very seriously. I set up for myself an elaborate backdrop of candles and classical music to inspire me as I furiously scribbled my musings on life, loss, and love. Reading over some of my melodramatic, metaphor drenched, existential crap, (er, I mean poetry) I have come to realise a couple of things. One, I was an obnoxious idiot. Two, I knew nothing about love, or loss, or life, so why the heck did I devote so many hours writing about them? I should have been out flirting with boys, and shopping, and dying my hair strange colours. That's what normal teenagers are supposed to. But no, I trapped myself in my dark bedroom with the likes of Heathcliffe, and Mr. Darcy, and the various characters from V.C. Andrews books dancing around in my head. Well, they didn't so much dance, as brood. These men were my muses; strong, angry, virile characters, longing for their lost loves and crushing any opponent who stood in their way.
Who are my muses now? Runny nosed children, who poop in their pants, and ram things with their heads, and spit their food right out on the floor. The candles are long gone, (fire hazard with this crew running around) and poor Chopin has been dumped for Rafi. As for Mr. Darcy, well, I kept him around. He's upstairs, snorting and snoring something fierce due to a nasty head cold. Believe it or not, I am actually quite grateful that I am experiencing the life I lead. I have a lot more to write about than my silly15 year old self ever did. Despite all the garbage, and snot, and inconvenient projectile vomiting, I wouldn't trade places with her for all the world. (But I sure would love to have that butt back.)
So what I'm trying to say is, I don't need the candles or gentle music, and I don't even need to be able to see the floor to keep you guys entertained. I just need my chaos inducing, house destroying, (begrudgingly) adorable children. And I've got em. For at least another 15 years.

The AppleBee's Incident

2009-01-08T00:06:00.002-06:00

There comes a time in every parents life when they endure an agonizing, but (eventually) humorous episode involving their offspring. For example, many years ago Uncle D was out and about with his two youngest children when they bumped into an old acquaintance. Apparently this fellow was of considerable girth, and the little girl, thinking that maybe the man wasn't aware of his situation, quite honestly informed him that he was "fat". Fortunately, the man didn't hear what the little darling had said (denial, denial, denial) and asked Uncle D for an interpretation. Uncle D quickly stammered that she had said "what's that" or "I see a cat" or something along those lines, when his other honest, but big mouthed child, piped up and said, "Daaaaad, you're lying!" Both men walked away from the conversation flustered and red-faced, never wanting to see each other again, but, it is a very funny story.
Apparently, even I managed to mortify my parents on a couple of occasions, though in one particular incident, my father has no one to blame but himself! My father prefers to use descriptive devices when referring to various objects, as opposed to using the proper term. For example, a napkin isn't a napkin in dad's house. No. It is called a slop rag. I inherited many of dad's quirky little phrases, and sometimes that has brought me trouble. Many years ago, I went with my folks to the funeral of a family friend. I wasn't particularly close with the dearly departed, but I was extremely fond of his widow. My parents presented me to her at the tea afterward, and she drew me into her arms for a warm embrace. Wanting to offer comfort to the dear, sweet woman, I in all innocence, asked her "Why did Uncle Frank kick the bucket?" My dear old friend didn't hear my query, so with a loud and clear voice, I rephrased my question: "So why did Uncle Frank bite the dust?" At that point my father whisked me away to the buffet table to load up on dainties, as he and mother wiped tears from their eyes and did their best to contain their laughter.
A couple of weeks ago, it was my turn to play the mortified parent in an episode that has come to be known as the Apple Bee's incident. It all began when hubby and I decided to take the family out for supper. The evening was going well. We were seated quickly, the kids were behaving as well as four children confined to a small space could behave, and all in all we were enjoying our time together when Thing 1 started to make some terrible sounds, and it became evident that she was choking. I acted quickly and tried to sweep everything out of her mouth, as I ran through a mental checklist of how to give the Heimlich to a child. Thankfully, the finger sweep did the trick, and with tremendous, almost Olympian force, Thing 1 dislodged the food caught in her throat, as well as the entire contents of her stomach. I kid you not. It was as if someone had suddenly turned on a fire hose; that child could have easily launched a satellite into space with the amount of force spewing out of her mouth. Poor Banshee, the first to be deluged, began to wail that she was 'covered in puke' at the top of her voice. The boy, who will never have a career in the medical field, found himself overcome with the domino effect, and was doing his best to contain the dry heaves that were now retching his body. Since Banshee was the one doing all the screaming, hubby hurried her off to the washroom to clean her up. Unfortunately, Thing 1 wasn't finished with her amazing display of projectile vomiting, and with the raging sound of some sort of dying animal, she brought up the last of what her poor little tummy had to offer.
10 minutes later, the hubby and I, along with our pale faced, foul smelling children sheepishly exited the restaurant after leaving a generous tip for the waiting staff. When we finally got to the car, tired, spent and humiliated, hubby and I exchanged a weary look and then burst into laughter. What we had just endured was disgusting and embarrassing, and we had a car load of miserable children anxious to get home so they get be hosed off; but what else could we do but laugh and shrug our shoulders? So we drove home with the windows open, complimented Thing 1 on her aim, and we all vowed to not go back to Apple Bee's for at least a couple of years. It wasn't a perfect night, but it was most definitely a memorable one.

Resolution

2009-01-07T09:16:00.003-06:00

I find the concept of New Year's resolutions a little bit odd; I'm not sure why people think that January 1st will fortify them against the urge to fall back into the bad behavior they indulged in for the previous 12, 24 or 155 months earlier, but whatever. Despite my criticism, I too make New Year's resolutions every year, and most of them fall by the wayside by the end of March; I'm not 100% certain why this happens, but I assume that my half-hearted attempts to modify my personality and lifestyle probably has something to do with it. I thought for a lark, or perhaps a challenge to myself, I would make my resolutions public here on my blog, that way you can all bask in my defeat when in March I throw up my hands in despair and resume eating entire bags of Chips Ahoy while watching General Hospital...

Susie's Super-Fun List of Ambitious Resolutions:

1. No more General Hospital. Ever. That show is dead to me.
Status: Active

2. No more night time snacking. Oprah has stated that night time snacking is a bad, bad thing. Listen to wise Oprah.
Status: Dead in the water

3. Exercise more.
Status: Active! (I'm as stunned as you are!!) I would like to thank my husband for buying me a Wii Fit. I plan on using it every night, even after the novelty wears off!

4. Exercise patience with the family.
Status: Well, let's categorize this one as "in fluctuation". I'm trying. I really am.

5. Read more.
Status: Very active. I have really missed books. I missed the smell of them, the feel of them, the look of them. Ah, reunited and feels so good. Not sure where the kids are or what they are doing, but I'm reading again, and that's all that matters...

6. Challenge myself to do new things.
Status: Active (ish). The husband is making plans for little trip for the two of us. I hate to travel, especially by plane, and I'm not keen on exploring new places , so I think this qualifies as a challenge. Maybe I should change it to "challenge myself to do new things and not act like a big baby about it"? Nah. If I have to try new things, at the very least I should be allowed to complain about it.

7. Be nice.
Status: Active (ish). I have a tendency to be just a wee bit sarcastic at times. (You probably haven't noticed, I'm sure.) I am doing my best to curb all my usual snide remarks, and I am making a genuine effort to say something nice and pleasant instead of rude and degrading. It hasn't been easy, but I am doing my best to exercise restraint, even if the people around me are practically begging me to belittle their existence.

8. Get more sleep at night.
Status: HA! Someone should let my kids know about this one!

9. Embrace housework. Why resent it?
Status: Not good. I still hate housework. I still get frustrated when, within mere minutes, the children have destroyed a house that took me hours to clean. It isn't fair. I am only one woman waging a battle against 4 (and sometimes more) children. It doesn't help that the 2nd law of thermodynamics is against me too. The universe has it in for me on this one, so I'll keep on cleaning, but I'm not going to like it.

10. Blog more.
Status: Active. I know that many of you have come to depend on my blog to raise your morale. You come here to read about my sorry state of affairs, and suddenly your place in the world doesn't seem so dark and dismal. My tales of woe are the only reason you now appreciate your family, your job and your life. I will make more of an effort to provide you with with the esteem and morale you need to get on with your day to day. I won't let you down, and neither will my children. I kinda wish they would, but they won't.

It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

2008-12-12T21:55:00.005-06:00

Christmas really is the most wonderful time of the year. Despite the commercialism, the stress, the weight gain, and all the gaudy decorations my dad insists on putting out each year, Christmas, for me, is a joyous time. For me and my family, Christmas is a time to celebrate the birth of Christ, and the blessings of family. We, like most families, have our own special Christmas traditions and cherished little moments that add delight to the season.
When Hubby and I were first married nearly ten years ago, we had very little money to spend on frivolous items. Since we were just starting out, we had no Christmas decorations of our own for our apartment, and I was feeling a little blue about the situation. I was homesick, stuck in a "big" city that terrified me, and I was desperate to have some little trinket in our home that represented Christmas. I managed to find a cheapish little snow globe that wound up to play "We Wish You a Merry Christmas". It was a smart buy, and very economical, as it saved me from having to buy a Christmas music disc as well. I still have that snow globe, and I play its merry little tune every year as the kids and I decorate the house at Christmas time. Sure, it's not the most elegant or expensive snow globe in the world, but to me it is a beautiful reminder of all the blessings Hubby and I have received over the years. (And yes, those blessings DO include the children...)
A special tradition I share with my dad is watching "A Christmas Carol", starring Alastair Sim. We have done this since I was child, and I can't recall a Christmas when we haven't snuggled into the couch with a bowl full of goodies to watch the show. As a kid, I was just happy to cuddle with my dad, and laugh at Scrooge when he attempted to stand on his head and moon the maid. I didn't recognize that the story of Scrooge might have held a deeper meaning for my dad. It wasn't till I was older, when I realized that dad's life is somewhat parallel to that of Scrooge. My dad, like Scrooge, was an angry man who wasted too many years of his life being mean and cut off from the people who loved him. Also like Scrooge, my dad was given the opportunity to take a second look at life, and he eagerly accepted the opportunity to reform his ways. He isn't always perfect, but dad is a man who has taken on the task of offering help to those searching for a new beginning.
I personally believe very much in the redemptive power of Christ. Luke 2:30-31 says "I have seen your salvation, which you have prepared for all people." I believe that God gave His son for all of us; a gift I cherish not just one day of the year, but every day of the year.
With that, dear readers, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas. I pray that you enjoy time with friends and family, that you receive and share in peace and charity with all those around you, and may you receive many blessings in the the year to come.

"I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year." ~Scrooge

p.s I will be back to my usual biting, sarcastic self in the new year...peace on earth and goodwill to men is all well and good, but a little twisted humor never hurt anyone either. ~Susie

Sweet November

2008-11-27T12:39:00.004-06:00

I'm back. Not in any sort of menacing, Arnold Schwarzenegger sort of way...just a "hey I took a month off but now I've returned to fill your life with light and joy" sort of way. It's been an interesting month for me. I did the single mother to four hyper little children for two weeks thing while my husband jet-setted around Europe and North America. He took two separate trips, and lost his luggage both times, plus he endured the flu during the 7 or 8 hour flight to Germany, so all in all, I think he had a bit more of a difficult time than I did. He did get home for 24 hours between trips, just in time for Halloween. The kids picked out some very cute costumes, but I went a little crazy with the face paint and somehow transformed Things 1's adorable little pumpkin costume into some sort of Heath Ledger inspired, shimmer glazed scare crow. Her cute factor was lost in a sea of face paint; to make matters worse Thing 1 finds smiling about as enjoyable as a toothache, so her constant frown really upped the freaky factor. Then there was Banshee, a little beauty who was hoping to work her little Rapunzel get-up for hordes of candy. Unfortunately for her, I once again got a little face paint happy and she ended up looking like a cross between a Parisian can-can dancer and Bette Davis from "What Ever Happened To Baby Jane". To my horror and shame, my little princess went around the block looking like a
prost-i-tot.
After the hustle and binge eating of Halloween, along came even more binge eating brought on by my 30th birthday. 30 was the age I had been dreading since I turned26; I'm not really sure why. I guess at that point in time, 30 sounded old, and well, it is old. There are things you can do, or not do, as twenty year old, and it's not a big deal. You're still just a kid finding your way. But the way I see it, when you hit the big 3-0, it really is time to grow up. Get a job with a dental plan, start planning for your retirement and of course, procreate (that's why you need the dental plan).
30 lost its sting when I came to the realization that I had pretty much spent my entire twenties acting like a thirty year old any way. Dutiful wife, martyred mother, considerate daughter...this list goes on and on. Since I kind of skipped over my "roaring twenties", I've decided to postpone the binge drinking and reckless sex till my eighties...and depending on how wealthy I am...drugs too!
So what's the moral of the story for the past month? Don't paint your kids face in a manner that will give all the neighborhood children nightmares for weeks and weeks? Maybe it's something cliche like "you're only as old as you feel" or "age is only a number". I'd like to think the moral is this "if you finally write in your blog after waiting a month, will anyone still care to read it?" I hope so! I need the money.

Oh yeah, it's a buck a read now...blame inflation.

Getting to Know Me; Getting to Know All About Me...

2008-10-21T00:38:00.007-05:00

I'm sure you all have participated in the various "getting to know you" emails that land in your in-box from time to time. I just got one tonight, so in lieu of an engaging story about my messed up family, I thought I'd invite you to take a glimpse at the real Susie. The honest, straight forward sort of gal I really am. Enjoy.

1. What time did you get up? 7:00 (in the morning, not evening)
2. Diamonds or pearls? What, cubic zirconia doesn't count? Yeesh!
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Mama Mia. Yes, I sang. And yes, Pierce Brosnan looked constipated. Handsome but constipated.
4. What is your favorite TV show? Sponge Bob. No seriously. I kid you not. I've got a thing for Mr. Krabs.
5. What do you usually have for breakfast? Oh, I usually just grind my teeth into a fine powder as I hustle my lazy children along in the morning. Mm Mm Good!
6. What is your middle name? Dianne (BOR-RING)
7. What food do you dislike? Is that a rhetorical question or a slap in the face?
8. What is your favorite CD at moment? ABBA (Even though a crazed Jan Arden fan stole it.)
9. What kind of car do you drive? A mini van, fully equipped with disgusting smells of unknown origin.
10. Favorite sandwich? I once ate a Sub shop out of business sooooo......
11. What characteristic do you despise? Sarcasm. Churns my stomach.
12. Favorite item of clothing? Whatever jeans I can still zip up
13. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? Alcatraz (and I'd throw away the key)
14. Favorite brand of clothing? Whatever crap Wal-Mart sells.
15. Where would you retire? Honey I'll be dead long before I hit 65
16. What was your most recent memorable birthday? It's coming up sistah! Suz-a-palooza November 08! Oh yeah!!
17. Favorite sport to watch? A little thing I call "Twin Fight" it's totally awesome and entertaining! (and free!)
18. Farthermost place you are sending this? Farthermost? Pretentious much?
19. Person you expect to send it back first? I dunno. Santa?
20. When is your birthday? November 6. I'll be 30. Get ready for SUZ_A_PALOOZA 08!!!!

21. Are you a morning person or a night person? According to my children, I'm not human, but actually some kind of a monster. But I'm down with that; saves me from having to shave my legs.
22. What is your shoe size? Size doesn't matter darlin!
23. Pets? Yeah, four of em.
24. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us? Pffft. Ha ha. Very funny. Why don't just rub the fact that a lead a mundane sort of life in my face a little more? While you're at it, why don't you just give me a paper cut and rub lemon juice in it too!

25. What did you want to be when you were little? A mommy. Yeah, irony is a big fugly kick in the pants.
26. How are you today? Gee super! Thanks for asking!
27. What is your favorite candy? Candy is nothing but a middle man that I eliminated loooong ago. Now I just scoop heaping amounts of sugar directly into my mouth. I'd hook to it a vein, but I blew all those in the 90's during the Cola wars.

28. What is your favorite flower? Black Eyed Susan. (I don't have a joke. Flowers are no laughing matter)
29. What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to? "Susie Goes to Rehab" day.
30. What is your full name? Mom Mom Mom Mom MOMMMMMM

31. What are you listening to right now? The washing machine. Yup, it's past midnight and I'm still plucking away at the endless heap of filthy rags my children thoughtlessly toss on the floor day after day after day....sorry. I lost my mind for a minute there. All better now.

32. What was the last thing you ate? I just finished two fisting a couple pounds of kettle corn.
33. Do you wish on stars? Yes. There is still a small part of me that remains hopeful and optimistic. Unfortunately that part will be removed in my upcoming lobotomy.
34. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? I don't know about color, but I would be broken in several places, smooshed into a wall and then my remains would be ground into the carpet.
35. How is the weather right now? Chilly. Only jerks make jokes about the weather.
36. The first person you spoke to on the phone today? My mom. She is the only one who understands my pain. Plus, she's usually drunk, so I get a kick out of talking to her.

37. Favorite soft drink? Bailey's. What? It's soft!
38. Favorite restaurant? Anything that serves meat. Cooked...uncooked...not technically dead....I don't care.
39. Real hair color? Brown. Oooo. Thrilling. Who writes these questions?

40. What was your favorite toy as a child? When I was six, I had a stick that I called "Slimer"; I would take "Slimer" and skim the slime off the big bog of water on our property. Slimer was my fishing pole, and the slime was my fish. I would spend hours doing this. That was my entertainment. The sad part is, I'm actually being serious here. Sigh.
41. Summer or winter? Right now it's fall, dummy.
42. Hugs or kisses? Honey, I'm sorry. You're very attractive, but I already picked a team.

43. Chocolate or Vanilla? Chocolate.
44. Coffee or tea? I'm switching to tea because the coffee don't make my brain run too good don't cha know?
45. Do you want your friends to email you back? Yes. Anything is preferable to the cold and empty in-box I check repeatedly, desperately wishing for some correspondence.
46. When was the last time you cried? When I was reading a book to the kids. They felt a little awkward about it, but I just don't understand why that dude doesn't like that Sam I Am! He's all "Screw you Sam I Am! I hate your flipping guts...you disgust me!" ...and poor little Sam is just offering him a rancid, foul looking meal. It's not his fault he's homeless and has to eat eggs and ham out the dumpster behind Sals.

47. What is under your bed? dead people; and about 50 Slim Jim's.
48. What did you do last night? Two fisted kettle corn and watched a painfully boring movie; but I paid .99 for that thing! No way I was going to waste that .99!
49. What are you afraid of? That someday I'll wake up and this was all just a dream, and I'll have to do all this stuff all over again for REAL! Aughhhhh!

50. Salty or sweet? Wouldn't you like to know...

51. How many keys on your key ring? One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, one ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.

52. How many years at your current job? Eight...but I'm serving a life sentence.
53. Favorite day of the week? The one that ends in a "T".

54. How many towns have you lived in? 5
55. Do you make friends easily? No, and I don't want to. There is something endearing about being a curmudgeon.

Susie & the Smoldering Adonis: A Burning Love

2008-10-14T10:28:00.008-05:00

It began as an ordinary day in an ordinary city on an ordinary street, but seemingly ordinary events were on the cusp of becoming extraordinary....
Okay, okay. I think I've waxed poetic enough now. I'll get on with the story. Sometime last week-I've actually forgotten what day it was, I'm thinking Monday or Tuesday, I slept in. I rushed my children through their morning routines, leaving myself a whole seven minutes to wash, get dressed and attempt to arrange the snarled mess of grease and split-ends that is my hair. I contemplated going for the baseball cap look, thinking to myself "it's not like the center of attention at the school anyway, so it doesn't matter how I look" (HA!), but in the last second I opted to pin my hair back in a "look, I sorta brushed my hair this morning" sort of 'do. (Smart)
I drove the whole 5 seconds down to the school and pulled into a prime location out in front. My eldest children, eager to see their friends, hopped out to play before the bell rang, and I, eager to see my friends, attempted to turn off the van so I could go play, too (by play, I mean gossip). Strangely enough, my van wouldn't turn off. It just sat there vibrating like a hamster cage on a dryer. After a couple attempts to turn the sucker off, I phoned my dear hubby to alert him of the strange goings-on. He directed me to take the van to his folks house so Papa-in-law could have a look-see. I hollered to my friend formerly known as GHL (she will now be known as "Blaze") to watch over my eldest till classtime, as it was apparent I needed to skedaddle. Still on the phone with Hubby, I became suddenly aware of the billowing black smoke pouring out from under the hood of my van. I screamed into the phone "the car is on fire" and hung up, leaving my hubby to wonder anxiously for the next ten minutes if his babies had been engulfed in flames. Blaze was quick to assist me in getting Things 1 and 2, who had been strapped in their car seats, away from the potential inferno. Another mama from the group, let's call her "Sexy Beast" or "SB" for short, helped to corral all the school children, who, despite all the training they are given, thought that it was wiser to run towards a fire instead of away from it. Smart bunch of kids we got over there...(two of them were mine, by the way. Sigh.)
At a safe distance we watched as the the black smoke continued its diabolical dance out from under the hood of my car, and I made the decision to call 911. Two seconds after placing my confusing call ("no the fire is not inside the school, it's outside the school...it's my van....I don't know the address, it's ********* school on ********* "; Geesh. It's an elementary school, they don't have the address listed on the computer or whatever?) Anyways....two seconds after placing the call, the smoke stopped.Up until this moment, mixed in with the panic and fear, I also felt like a total freak. Now I officially felt like an idiot.
Since the smoke had dissipated, a group of menfolk decided to take a looky-looky at what the problem was. As they debated over the possible cause, we heard the sirens of the Light Brigade speeding in our direction to rescue us from peril. Once again I was filled with panic. It was my van that had pretended to be on fire; I was the crazy panic stricken woman who had so poorly called 911, so now I had to explain to the Light Brigade why they were dealing with my non-fire when they could be out saving lives and rescuing cute little kittens from viscous trees. Thankfully, at that moment, I felt a slap on my shoulder, and mother #3, to be referred to as "Hot Mama" from here on in, wanted to know what kind of trouble I was in now. As the Light Brigade swarmed my non-fire, I began to explain to Hot Mama what all the fuss was about. The leader of the Light Brigade asked me a few questions, and then turned to Hot Mama, surprised it wasn't her that has caused all the trouble this time. As it turns out, Hot Mama has had her fair share of misadventure involving the asbestos clad heroes; she was practically on first name basis with most of them. I suddenly felt so much better.
As the Light Brigade continued to poke and prod under my hood (and I don't mean that metaphorically), the Adonis of all firemen stepped out of the truck. Hot Mama began to nudge me in the ribs, saying something about smoke inhalation, but I was too awestruck to move. Like a smoldering, soot covered god, he bounded toward my vehicle and fiddled with my battery. Not one to let a golden opportunity slip through her fingers, Hot Mama threw her self on the ground, gasping for air and begging for assistance. Unfortunately, by this time, the Light Brigade was already on the move, charging towards lost kittens and raging infernos.
Embarrassed, upset and disheartened, I turned and did the walk of shame toward "the coop"(the spot in front of the school where all us hens stand around talking about other people and their problems). My friends were sympathetic to my plight, and surprisingly grateful for the show. I guess Mr. Adonis and his friends caused more smoke and fire then my silly van did.
Later that evening while discussing the days events with dear hubby, I mentioned that the Light Brigade had lived up to its reputation as a group of strapping, life saving hotties. The Boy overheard this little tidbit and remarked "You know mom, I don't believe you think they are good looking. I just think you like to see them in action."
And that's all I have to say about that...

Family Pictures

2008-09-10T22:12:00.002-05:00

For years, the two mothers, aka Gramma & Grandma have been hounding me to have some family pictures taken. Not being a person who photographs well (as the great Phyllis Diller once said "My photographs don't do me justice-they just look like me") I prolonged the idea for as long as possible. Unfortunately for me, my good friend, who happens to be freaking professional photographer is back in town, so I surrendered and booked an appointment. My thinking was that if anybody could make me look good, or at least not so much like myself, she could. My main goal for the evening was to capture a really great shot of the kids; candid, fun but breathtaking. By the time we arrived at the park, the only breath I wanted to take was that of my entire family. After devoting a good hour and a half to taming Banshee's wild mane, I reiterated time and time again that she was not to run, fight, skip, hop, roll around on the floor or even blink. She listened to me for a whole two seconds and then proceeded to fight with her brother while hopping on one foot, causing her to fall and roll on the ground and all the while blinking! Sigh.
As for the boy...there is not enough duct tape in the world to keep that kid quiet. It was clear to everyone, even Things 1&2 that Mt. Saint Mama was ready to blow. They are were all treading very lightly so as to not disturb the beast. Everyone, EXCEPT the boy..."Why are we doing this? I hate this shirt. I don't like pictures. Why are we doing so much work for one stupid little picture? All you have to do is click a button and you've got your stupid picture....blah blah blah".
Then there is the hubby, who was almost as bad as the boy. He is not the sort of guy who likes to mug for the camera, so he rather grudgingly helped me get the family assembled. Being organized and prepared, he grabbed a crumpled pair of jeans off the floor and proceeded to put them on. I stood watching him in disbelief, assuming that he was planning on taking the garbage out or mowing the lawn before we headed out. It was apparent, however that he fully intended on wearing those pants. At that moment, I could actually sense that the vein in my head was about to explode, right then and there. Hubby must have realised that I was on the verge of an aneurysm and quickly ran to the safety of the ironing board where he attempted to make a silk purse out a sows ear.
With a hoarse voice and broken spirit, I herded the crew into the van. The ride was solemn and quiet. We are all angry and tired of each other's company. I had little faith that we would mange to produce one Christmas card worthy shot out of the whole night.
I'd like to tell you that once we actually got there we pulled it together and had a wonderful evening, but...no. Banshee and the Boy found a great deal of pleasure by dangling themselves at the edge of the pond, taunting us. They ran...they hopped...they blinked. Not good. The highlight of the evening was when gifted photographer choked on a bug and when Thing 1 put Thing 2 in a choke hold for the last set of pictures.
At least on the drive home, Hubby pulled into my favorite place in the world, Starbucks, and threw me a twenty. Maybe the night was looking up after all; but...no. They gave me the wrong drink, so I gave it to the kids (caffeine free) and they gave it to the living room chair. A bad ending to a bad day. Figures.

2008-09-09T10:06:00.006-05:00

Two year olds are fascinating creatures. Demanding, selfish, beguiling...they are essentially the perfect Bond villain. Toddlers are like tiny little mobsters; they know how to put the squeeze on someone to get what they want. In my case, Thing 1 has honed a crafty little trick that involves jumping up and down to get what she wants. First she begins by stating her demand. If her demand is rejected or unheard, she then repeats herself, but punctuates her demand by jumping up and down. Sometimes she'll even throw in some arm flailing for good measure. Eventually her victim becomes so mesmerised and dizzy by all the jumping and flailing, they surrender the desired item, usually cheese, occasionally gum. Very rarely a carrot or an apple.
Thing 2 is also quite skilled in getting what she wants. She has developed the old "lip quiver and blues eyes brimming with tears" technique. Her method is not quite as forceful and demanding as her sibling, but they are no less effective, particularly if a grandparent is in the vicinity. The only thing worse than an angry, surly baby is a heartbroken baby, unless of course you are a four time parent, in which case you have already been hardened by a life in the system. However, even a stone cold warden like myself will have the occasional moment of weakness when faced with a shining pair of blue eyes.
Having seen how successful things 1 & 2 are at the art of manipulation, I decided to use their carefully crafted techniques when applying for a new loan. I went with thing 2's modus operandi to open, as I thought it was best to start out slow. I ever so nicely asked the bank manager for a loan. He predictably said no. Fortunately, I was prepared for that, so I unleashed my tears and quivering lip. He then asked me if there was something in my eye, commenting that his allergies have been acting up lately as well. Realizing that "Operation: Hot Toddler" was in grave danger, I switched to plan B. I began jumping up and down demanding a loan, thrashing my arms about in a very forceful manner. At this point I was rushed by the bank security, so I don't remember much after that...I'm sorta in the remand writing this story on a deputies borrowed laptop ( the old tear stained face and trembling lip thing totally worked on him).
In short, don't follow the example set by your small children. Doing so will only lead to a very embarrassing and unfortunate time-out...and don't eat as much cheese as toddlers do either; this will also lead to very embarrassing and unfortunate incidents, best not discussed here.

Grumpy Bear

2008-08-13T16:07:00.003-05:00

My mom has on many occasion felt the need to remind me that "if I couldn't think of anything nice to say, don't say anything at all"; that quote is all I have to offer to you in explanation of my absence. I haven't been writing because I just couldn't think of anything nice to say. I was going to write a story about the fun day my family spent at the beach. I wanted to tell you about how blue the water was, how warm the sun felt and how nice it was to see my kids frolicking in the sand...but that story would have taken a turn for the worse when I got to the part where we tried to have a nice family dinner at the beach cafe and the kids ransacked the place. Then I would've gone off on a tangent about fitting into bathing suits and waxing, and how I think people who wear anything below a size 15 should be banished from the beach, especially if they have long blonde hair and cobalt blue eyes and the IQ of a minnow. Then again, who doesn't hate people who look like that? Well, I guess the people who do look like that don't hate themselves, but I'm feeling mean spirited enough to be happy if they did.
I wanted to tell you about my kids swimming lessons. I was going to talk about how fun it is to see them acquiring new skills, and the triumphant look they give me when they reach a new level...but no doubt I would have gone off the rails again, spewing my absolute revulsion of seeing any person of any size in a speedo. Who in their right mind feels comfortable walking around like that? How can you even justify it, because it can't be for speed fella; you're 70 if you're a day and you weigh well over 250 lbs. I don't think Michael Phleps views you as a threat. So buy your self a nice big ol' pair of trunks and hide the "package" where no one will ever find it again.
See? Even large, half naked senior citizens can't escape my wrath.
I would love to tell you a story about how hubby and I stole away for a weekend, and shacked up in a very expensive hotel in Las Vegas where I was brought on stage to be an extra in the big stage production of Mama Mia, but that hasn't even happened, nor will it ever happen. Frankly it makes me mad just thinking about it not happening, so what can be done to cure me? I am a grump, and no amount of fantasy, chocolate or butter is going to change that. Not even if I mix the chocolate and butter together and wash it down with copious amounts of wine...

Just now a brilliant idea has crept into my mind. I now know what I can do to make the world a place that I can actually enjoy. I am going to write a letter to the government and demand change. I am going to insist a new bill is passed, one that confines the bikini clad Barbie dolls on the same beach with the old dudes wearing the speedo's. See how brilliant it is? You think either one is really going to strut around half naked in the company of each other? Nope! World's problems solved, and I'm feeling a lot better!

Aunt Elsie's Prohecy

2008-07-30T19:44:00.002-05:00

Once upon a time, when I was a little girl, I found an autograph album under the Christmas tree with my name on it. I was delighted to have received such a treasure and was eagerly anticipating the arrival of various family members, just so I could ever so kindly ask them to pretty please sign my book. I collected the verses and signatures from my family with glee, but over time my book became less of a novelty and eventually found itself abandoned in a desk drawer. I don't see why or how I would confine that poor book to some old musty drawer when it contained some of the finest prose of all time. Take, for example, this little gem offered by my cousin:

Remember M
Remember E
But most of all
Remember ME!

Brilliant! Some verses were sad and bittersweet:

Remember me when this you see
And do not me forget,
Although we are together now,
We will be parted yet.
Love Aunt Margaret

But throughout the years, there was one particular verse that stuck in my head. As an 8 year old girl, I had a foggy awareness that somewhere down the line I would eventually bump into a boy, we'd climb up a tree and one of us would end up pushing a baby carriage. This all sounded a little strange to me, but I accepted it as being a part of my eventual fate. In my little book, one family member wrote down a verse claiming that if all the boys lived across the sea, that would somehow make me a very good swimmer. Considering we lived on the prairies, I wasn't too concerned about that one; but then I read the little ditty jotted down by my great Aunt Elsie:

When you get married and have twins,
Don't come to me for safety pins.

Two little lines that at the time, gave me both enormous delight and fright. The prospect of twins seemed to me a very grandiose idea. The thought of having one baby was frightening enough, but two? For me? Impossible. Having twins seemed as likely as the ocean putting on rubber pants to keep its bottom dry. My Aunt Elsie proved to be a shrewd prophet however, and nearly twenty years later, her words came true. As it turns out, some of the lovely and pretty things she gifted me when I was girl now adorn the walls in my girls room. In my autograph album, the general consensus was that roses are red and I was as sweet as honey; but Auntie Elsie was the only one bold enough to issue a proclamation of my future. So on the days when I have a couple of angry two years olds hanging off each of my legs and demanding milk, justice or a diaper change, I think back to the day when that crazy, sweet lady cursed my innocent 8 year old soul...
One day, if you ever find yourself confronted with the blank pages of a young girl's autograph album, avoid the soothsaying and stick with something like:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
My dog has fleas
And your brother does too.

That one delivers a laugh every time.

Love and Marriage

2008-07-28T23:11:00.003-05:00

The bible says to not let the sun go down on your anger; being a crafty and coy woman I have found my way around that one. I don't go to sleep...and I don't let my spouse get any sleep, either. I keep him awake with sharp pointy sticks until we have hashed out our issues and he, in his weary state of fatigue, finally agrees that I am right and he is wrong. Okay, well maybe I don't quite go to that extreme, but there have definitely been nights when my dear man has questioned the wisdom of slipping into unconsciousness with a crazed and raging woman laying beside him. May I add, there have also been nights when I have debated whether or not to use my pillow under my head or over his face, so his concerns are justifiable.
A few minutes ago I was reading the blog of a friend, a good and lovely person (not really my type, but we seem to get along) and she was commenting on commitment in marriage. Some of her frustration focused on love of self dominating over love of others and the promises you have made to others. Her point was that marriage is a challenge that requires effort and sacrifice, but in the end can be one of the most fulfilling experiences of a lifetime. Some people aren't willing to stick around for the long haul, and they miss out on an incredible journey.
I can't say I am "happy" in my life and in my marriage all the time. There are moments when I feel tired and worn out, and that I have nothing left to give to those around me. I find that those are the moments I have to push myself to keep giving; in the end, I receive everything I gave and more. I am rewarded with a loving and devoted spouse who rubs my feet, changes light bulbs and plays bingo with my mother on Saturday nights. I know we have built a strong and loving foundation together that is far more substantial that any fleeting happiness. We have a joyful marriage, strong and true. In twenty, thirty, forty years down the road, my spouse and I will be able to look at the life we built together with a sense of joy and accomplishment.
Assuming I use my pillow for sleeping...till death do us part and all that.

Battle of the Bulge: Round #....I lost count...

2008-07-22T11:19:00.004-05:00

It's very difficult for me to get through a shower without being a) disrupted or b) humiliated. Today I'm going to write about column B. There have been moments in the shower when I've had a roomful of crazed children burst into the bathroom, rip back the curtain, point at me in all my glory, and laugh. There have been moments in the shower when I've pretend I am wowing the crowd at Carnegie Hall with my top of the lung rendition of the best of Andrew Lloyd Webber, when what I am really doing is providing a good laugh for the pizza guy, the mail man, unexpected guests and the neighbor if the windows are open. There have been times in the shower when I have fallen and couldn't get up, but today I stumbled upon a new and horrifying discovery. I had just stripped down to the bare essentials when I remembered I hadn't lock the front door. Not wanting to go through the strain and effort of redressing, I simply grabbed my towel and proceeded to wrap it around myself. Just as the two ends of the towel where about to meet and overlap, my arms stopped with a jerk. Instead of meeting and joining as one fluid and cottony unit and censoring my naked beauty, my towel was unable to complete the journey and I was left with a very unfortunate gap where it mattered most. Being naive, I assumed that part of my towel had snagged on some sort of edge or hook. After spinning around several times, I deduced that there was no edge or hook nearby to catch my towel, so I attempted the wrap again. This time I engaged a more swooping motion, thinking perhaps physics had foiled my earlier attempt. Again, my towel stopped short. It was time to face facts. I had purchased faulty linens. Clearly my towels have shrunk in outrageous proportions these past couple of months and you can bet someone is going to get an angry letter about this! I was quite mortified to discover that ALL my new towels have suffered the same grievous shrinkage! Colour me embarrassed for purchasing shoddy material. I am very distressed by this discovery and I will have to console myself with soaps and chocolate today. Exercise isn't an option because I'm pretty sure I pulled a muscle when I engaged the swooping motion.

Welcome to the Land of the Unappreciated

2008-07-17T10:54:00.005-05:00

My good friend recently became a new mother to a bouncing 11 year old girl, and though fairly new to the game, she has a greater understanding of how it feels to be unappreciated. The apathetic stance our children have on our gallant efforts to make their particular part of the world a better place is not born out of dislike, greediness or even sloth. Just ignorance. They are completely unaware of the household fairy fluttering amongst them picking up their dirty clothes and toys, making their meals, cleaning the toilet and wiping globs of toothpaste off the bathroom sink.
I read a story a while back, and the author was complaining about how his mother was the "type to straighten the hall way carpet on a daily basis" or something along those lines. I can't quite remember the context of the story, but my impression was that it was a critique of his tightly wound mother; fair enough, but I'll bet you twenty bucks that jerk never once got off his arse to straighten anything in his childhood home.
I have no doubt that one day my children will poke fun at me and some of my more persnickety ways, but frankly, I don't care. There is a method to my madness that is unrecognizable to my thoughtless children. There will, however, come a day when they will appreciate a clean bathroom, freshly folded laundry and a clutter free floor...and that will be the day they become permanent residents in the land of the unappreciated...and I'll be laughing at them as I smear toothpaste on bathroom mirror and demand that my diaper be changed.
(My little darlings may or may not have children of their own in their future, but I do foresee a cantankerous old woman who likes to have her bunions rubbed every night...)

Call Me In September

2008-07-08T22:47:00.006-05:00

For the past week my dear darling hubby has been on vacation, so our family has spent our time together gallivanting around our fine city. The thing about vacationing with four wonderfully exuberant children is that it is not particularly relaxing, so I don't necessarily feel like I'm the one on holiday. Sure, the kids are having a lot of fun and I enjoy seeing them happy... but what I wouldn't give for a little quiet time with a good book, a hammock and tall glass of iced tea; I guess I'll just have to bide my time for what, another 15 or 16 years? Come the summer of 2024, I'll shove the last of the kids out the door, turn the deadbolt and string barbed wire around the top of the fence and have my day in the sun. It's always good to plan for the future; I've got 12 feet of wire stored in the shed all ready...
What would really be nice is, after a long day of zipping to movies, museums, amusement parks and go-carts, if just one of the kids were to say "Gee thanks, mom and dad. Thank-you for sacrificing new furniture and clothes from the GAP just so we can experience these enjoyable, enriching and expensive experiences. We love you!" Has that happened? Maybe somewhere in the universe, but sure as heck not here. What do we get? Complaints. And more complaints. We have done our best to take these comments in stride, though I find my self quite amazed that the boy can recall the time I lost my temper and flipped off a car three years ago, but can't seem to recollect going swimming and taking in a movie only yesterday. Astounding.
On the bright side, my children have been worn out at the end of each long day and go off merrily to bed each and every night...naaaah! They are whiny and over-tired by 7:30, yet fight going to sleep with an almost admirable amount of determination and zeal. If I weren't at the receiving end of their wrath, I'd be quite impressed!
So that's the first part of my vacation. Next stop is my home town so my folks can indulge and spoil my children further. Little do they know that six of us will be arriving, but only two of us will be leaving. Looks like mom and dad should have left up their barricade...it's the first thing I'll be putting up when I get back into the city! Fools!

Who's Running What?

2008-06-14T23:25:00.004-05:00

What is the saying I'm looking for? Is it "the inmates are running the asylum"? Or "mutiny on the bounty"? Maybe something like "help, my children are crazy and I'm about to join them..." There seems to be something about the last couple weeks of June that causes children of all ages to drop their baskets. My children have morphed into machines of destruction bent on destroying the earth and everything in it.
My eldest in particular seems to have abandoned any notion of civilization all together. His school work, which barley limps above average on a good day, has disintegrated to the level of of one the Ewell children from "To Kill a Mockingbird"; at this point, he's just putting in time, and I'm sure his teacher would like to see him put it somewhere else. Not only that, but it seems he is intent on wearing the same dirt stained clothes day after day. He has the ambition to wade through baskets of dirty laundry to rescue his favorite shirt from coming into contact with soap and water, but as for putting his dirty socks into the basket in his room? Impossible.
Banshee, my little tornado, was recently the honored guest at the celebration of her birth. She received many nice gifts, but now, in true Banshee fashion, those lovely gifts are now scattered throughout our house. I have tried my best to keep all these lovely things together, but I'm fighting a losing battle. Banshee has enlisted the aide of her two eager sisters to help her litter these things all over the place. It doesn't help that most of these gifts came with a million little pieces and the millions of little pieces have their own millions of little pieces, so in the end, I'm quite out numbered.
Moving on to things 1 & 2. They fight. They cry. They bite. They cry some more. They throw things. Cry. Run around a little, get hurt and cry. They watch TV, but cry if you put away the toys they are NOT using. They cry for milk if you give them cheese, but cry for juice if you give them milk. They chew their food, spit it on the table and then...wait for it...cry. In stereo!
I love my life, I do. But, to quote the brilliant Phyllis Diller "Some children will at times threaten to run away from home. This is the only thing that keeps some parents going."

Grampa

2008-06-05T21:59:00.002-05:00

"When an old person dies, it is as if a library has gone."

Darcy's Grampa passed away earlier today. He had been ill for quite a while now and I think it is a relief for his family that he is no longer in pain, and more importantly, that he is in Heaven with his Lord. In life, Grampa was a fortunate man. He spent his life loving his wife, his kids and even his work. He loved Jesus with all his heart and raised his children to do the same. He made a choice years and years ago to follow the Lord, and my own children are the fruit of that choice. Fred taught his son to believe, and those lessons were passed onto his son, and now those lessons are being passed on yet again. So thank-you, Grampa, for believing and helping your children to understand God's ways. You were a good father, grandfather and great-grandfather, and your legacy of love will continue.

"For I have no greater joy than this-to hear of my children walking in the truth" 3 John 1:4

A Letter To My Friend

2008-06-02T22:31:00.003-05:00

My Dear Friend,

Lately you have been questioning your qualifications and your ambition when it comes to joining the "mommy club". Each week you peruse my tales of misery and shudder at what the future may have in store for you. What would a baby bring into your life? Your days of lounging on the sofa, martini in hand while the best of Mozart hums on the stereo will be over and done. Instead, that martini will be replaced by a bottle of milk, Raffi will kick Mozart of the radio and there ain't no way you be lounging on anything, honey.

Well, that's only the dark side of the moon. Let me now try to illuminate the situation for you.

If you become a mother, there will be days when you will want to buy a plane ticket to Rio and head off for parts unknown. Those are the days you repeat to your self "This too shall pass. This too shall pass." Sure enough, like a kidney stone, it will pass.

If you become a mother, there will be times when you will feel a ferocious protectiveness over your kids. Don't fight that instinct. There will be times when your children will need someone to step out from their corner and fight for them. If their own mother can't get a little bloodied and bruised for their sake, who will? There will also be times when you will have to take a step back, and watch as your kids learn a lesson in consequence and humility.

If you become a mother be prepared that life will make many alterations to your carefully laid plans. You can hope and dream for your children, but they might not share those hopes and dreams. Do your best to teach them what's right and instill in them a strong moral compass; if you do, they will always find their way home.

If you become a mother, know that there will be moments when you will second guess every decision you have made since leaving the delivery room. Don't. You will make mistakes, you can't avoid it. After all, even Mary lost Jesus in the temple.

Lastly, if you become a mother, and don't like it, tough! Those little suckers don't come with any sort of return policy. On the bright side, you've probably eliminated the possibility of a nursing home from your future!

With love, Susie

C'mon Get Happy

2008-05-26T21:14:00.004-05:00

I realize that my last post was a bit bleak and panic inducing. As terrible as the day had been, I felt a lot better after I wrote about our expereince and enjoyed a great nights sleep, so thank-you everyone. To make amends for being so glum last time, I thought I'd share some pictures of my most favorite creatures in the whole wide world. So enjoy The Muppets, as you you have never seen them before!

9-9-1

2008-05-24T21:21:00.003-05:00

Our relaxing and fun filled weekend took a brief, but terrifying detour this afternoon. Our kids spent a delightful sleepover at their Grams&Gramps last night. Grams and Gramps live on a nice big piece of land off of a busy road carrying very fast traffic. We were there this afternoon to gather the kiddies and head out for family fun day. Dear hubby decided to give the older kids each a ride on the quad before we were to leave, so I took the younglings to have some fun on the swings. The boy was out with his dad and my dear, sweet banshee was waiting her turn. She had expressed a desire to me to play in the numerous big trucks on the premises and I explained to her the dangers of being trapped in a vehicle on a hot day. I felt I had made my position clear, and resumed my pushing duties on the swings. A few moments passed and my mo-in-law inquired as to the whereabouts of my daughter. Having just seen her, I assumed she had ignored my orders to stay away from the big trucks, and was now enjoying her own version of hide and seek. Calling her name, I began to make a check of the yard, and it was then I got the sinking feeling Banshee wasn't playing. It didn't take us long to realize the child was missing, not hiding. Dragging my two little twins behind me, I burst into the house, panicked but hopeful that she had gone inside. No Banshee. I began to check all the usual places with the belief that she would be just around the corner, but again and again, no Banshee.
When I first began to call her name, I used a firm voice with a "I'm not playing this game with you" voice; now my calls had unraveled into full blown screams. All my fear and panic came bursting out of my mouth uncontained. I scooped up my now belligerent twins, and ran to the dreaded road. I was horrified to see a car had pulled onto the shoulder, just outside the lane. The twins were confused and desperate to get away from my grasp, and I knew I couldn't risk taking them anywhere near that fast traffic. I turned back and alerted my mo-in-law that there was a car stopped on the road, and she sprinted to investigate, only discover the car was gone. I'm sure my heart actually stopped beating for a moment, and the knot tightened in my stomach. By this time, Nolan had taken the twins inside the house for safe keeping, Uncle T had joined in the search and Darcy had checked the circumference of the yard on the quad, and still no Banshee.
I went again to the top of the lane, looking at all the cars zipping by. A wave of helplessness flooded over me. I was tempted to flag down the drivers and tell them my baby was missing, but what would be the use? None of them would have seen anything. I felt sick thinking she could be anywhere with anyone, and there was nothing I could do about it. My mind was processing a thousand thoughts at lightening speed. I was absolutely terrified for the well being of my child, and I was horrified at the prospect of facing a future without her. I pushed those thoughts from my mind, and decided to move my search to the other section of the yard. There are two bodies of water and at least an acre of woods on the property. We needed to act fast. If she was on the property, she was far enough to be out of hearing range, and that meant she was too far out.
Meanwhile, Darcy, my usually collected and cool headed husband had decided to call 9-1-1. He knew about the car on the side of the road, and wasn't going to take any chances. Thankfully the adrenalin and fear made him dial 9-9-1 instead of 9-1-1, and just as he was about to punch in the proper three digits, he heard a glorious shout! She was found! Safe and sound, and on the complete opposite end of the yard site.
The adrenalin instantly drained from our bodies, and our appendages took on the form of overcooked pasta. Resembling a herd of newborn born baby giraffes, we all wobbled over to embrace our lost child. Banshee, embarrassed and overwhelmed by the commotion she had caused, tried to explain she had just wanted to find her dad and brother. We each took a turn exacting her promise to never do that again. Banshee scrambled into the arms of Uncle T, (who I think will be very difficult to convince to have kids after this), and rode happily to the house with him. The rest of us moved slowly after them, feeling the effects of relief flooding through our bodies.
I have decided it is time to invest in an underground electric containment fence, and everyone around me concurs. As a matter of fact, the kids are getting their collars fitted tomorrow.
All's well that ends well, or so they say.

I Plight Thee My Troth

2008-05-21T11:59:00.003-05:00

Darcy and I will celebrate our ninth wedding anniversary tomorrow. In some ways, it feels as though we've been together forever, and on the other hand it feels as though the last nine years have flown by. We started out as a couple of clueless kids struggling to make the rent on our apartment. Now we have clueless kids and we're still struggling to make mortgage payments. Not a lot has changed. Darcy is still the boy I fell in love with, and I'm still the same ol' nattering shrew he fell for.
We've certainly endured our share of hardships, and I'm sure there are more to come. The Lord has been good to us, and blessed us with with four living, beautiful, healthy children and there are definitely no more to come! All in all, the years have been kind to us. We are happy, in-love and in debt-who could ask for anything more?
Darcy will never be the sort of guy to take me dancing every week-end and remember to bring me flowers every Wednesday. That's fine with me, because he is the sort of man who takes the kids for a walk and have them gather wild flowers, and the kind of guy who grabs me for an impromptu waltz as dinner burns and boils on the stove. Those are moments I wouldn't trade in for anything.
Nine years ago, we held hands and pledged to love each other forever and journey together through an unknown future. Since then, he has held my hand through difficult deliveries, painful partings and hours of ring around the rosy; we are still on that journey together, hand in hand.

On a side note, my blog song is an anti-love song. In fact, it's one of the few songs Darcy and I both like, so I'm dedicating this one to us. Enjoy.

Why Yes, I Am Accomplished

2008-05-18T22:15:00.006-05:00

No, not really. I did manage to get a few things accomplished this week-end, but not as much as I had hoped. Can I tell you a secret? I'm a terrible housekeeper. There I said it. I realize this may come as a shock to all of you (except my mom, she wrote me off years ago!), but I really suck at keeping this place organized. I can no longer hide behind the "me versus them" theory. Yes, the kids are very adept at dismantling a clean and tidy house with olympian speed and enthusiasm, but, I could do a better job of keeping on top of things. When I take the family to see mom and dad for a few days, mom's house doesn't deteriorate the way mine seems to. Even if mom is absolutely dog-tired, she keeps plucking away and cleaning up as the day goes along. As for me, when I encounter some fresh mess deposited by my loving kids, I throw my hands up in despair and rock myself in a corner for a couple hours; obviously not a great strategy for counter-acting the Tasmanian devils who are ripping my house to shreds.
I've been trying to motivate myself to look on the bright side of life. Instead of complaining about the countless loads of laundry, I try to be thankful we have lots of clothes to wear everyday. Instead of feeling dismayed at the teetering pile of dirty dishes waiting be washed, I will be grateful that our fridge is always full... Naaaah! Who I am I kidding? That kind of optimism is for good and kind people, like Jamie or Alysson. I'm the sort of person to moan and complain about life, and then write it all down and send it into the great cosmic void of cyberspace for the whole world to read.
Well, at least my I got my blog done. If anybody needs me, I'll be huddled in a corner somewhere.

Good-Bye Old House

2008-05-13T11:54:00.007-05:00

On Mother's day I went with my parents to say good-bye to our old place. We fell into our old routines and reclaimed our old territories one last time. Dad stuck to the yard, mom the kitchen and I floated around taking pictures of every nook and cranny for the times when my memory fails me and I want to remember what some dusty little corner looked like.
It was nice that it was just the three of us, because that's they way we started there, and that's the way we left it. I offered to fall down the basement stairs for old times sake, because that's what I did on our first day there, but ma and pa declined the offer. Some memories are best not to be re-enacted I guess.

Mother's Day part III

2008-05-09T09:59:00.004-05:00

This is what Gracie made for me for Mother's Day. The little verse is a good reminder to enjoy the days of a house filled with kids, as they do go by fast. It's hard to imagine now, but there will come a day when I will miss fingerprints on the wall, juice spilled on the floor, diaper cream smeared over everything, play-doh ground into the carpet and stepping on sharp leggo in the dark of the night. I might even miss stains of unknown origin on my freshly cleaned couch, busy hands tipping over baskets of freshly folded laundry and discarded food hidden away in strange places where it rots and stinks up the house. Someday I will long to hear my kids complain about how much they hate my cooking and about how I am ruining their life and about how so and so's mom is way cooler than I am and that dad is their favorite parent. I will mourn for the lost days of dirty, stinky diapers and bad aim around the toilet. I will really miss being thrown-up on and having my shoulder used as a kleenex. Heck, I might even feel sad to never feel engorged again or the sting of an episiotomy, and don't forget about thrush! Glorious thrush!
Okay, I got a little carried away. These are, after all, the best days of my life right? Right? Someday the kiddos will all be grown and living their own lives, and I'll be left alone with my memories...and the stretch marks...and the stained couch...and the bad back... and the grey hair.

Here's the verse:

Sometime you get discouraged because I am so small,
And always leave my fingerprints on furniture and walls.
But everyday I'm growing, and Ill be grown someday,
And all those tiny handprints will surely fade away.
So here's a little handprint just so you can recall
Exactly how my finger looked when I was very small.

Mother's Day Part II

2008-05-07T21:39:00.002-05:00

For those of you who tune into the music I oh~so carefully select to accompany my blog entries, I just wanted to let you know this weeks song is dedicated to my kids. Ocean Man is lifted from the closing credits of the Sponge Bob movie, and I chose it mainly because my son really wasn't my #1 fan yesterday, and I was trying to offer an olive branch. The boy and I are a lot alike, and our similarities seem to be the main reason we butt heads. That, and he's completely unreasonable.

Banshee and I are not much a like. She is brazen and confident and eager to try new things. I am not. Not at all. Banshee is one of those gals that look good first thing in the morning, bed head and fuzzy teeth included. I, on the other hand, have always resembled some sort of sea monster rising from the lagoon. Not a pretty sight.
Thing 1 and Thing 2 have this amazing relationship that seems so foreign to me. I was basically raised as an only child, as my brother is 10 years older than I am. I am envious of anyone with a sister close to their age, let alone a twin. Sure, the twins fight like crazy sometimes, but mostly they function as the same unit. I was watching them in the rear-view mirror tonight (don't worry the car was stopped) and they were having so much fun together. I didn't understand the language, but the laughter and squeals of delight said it all. It's so neat they were born with this built in life partner. I hope they nurture their bond, and never lose sight of each other as they move into their own lives.

So back to the boy. We're both loud, and we're both Star Wars geeks (he a bit more so than me). We're both hot-tempered and say things we don't mean and have a hard time apologizing when we're wrong (he's better at that then I am), and we both love to create little worlds for ourselves that we can escape into. Things don't seem to come as easily to us as they do to DH (dear hubby) or Banshee, but we make do by mastering the fine art of sarcasm, learning immaterial facts about pop culture and singing the wrong lyrics to songs very, very loudly. It ain't much, but it ain't bad.
Immaterial pop culture fact: Did you know that the voice of Mr.Krabs from Sponge Bob is provided by Clancy Brown, who played the evil Captain Hadley from Shawshank Redemption? It's true!

Mother's Day

2008-05-06T09:32:00.005-05:00

My son's latest school project is...ME! My son has been given the task of digging deep into the psyche of his mother by asking thought provoking questions such as: what is your favorite color, food, drink etc.
If my son were to fill out this sheet right now, given the way he was feeling about me this morning, this is how I think he would answer...

My mom is special to be because she's the worst mom in the world. Making my life miserable is her "specialty".

My mom is really good at shattering my confidence and eroding my self-esteem.

In her spare time she likes to pit me against my siblings for her love and approval.

(I'm hoping that with his fathers coaching, the boy will say I'm a lot of fun, a great cook and a credit to my ancestors.)

Yes, I am out of favour with him right now. One day though, when he is older and wiser and reprimanding HIS son for throwing a rock at his little sister, he will reflect back on his childhood and whisper those three little words I've been waiting to hear: "Mom was right".

Rooms

2008-05-02T22:43:00.004-05:00

Our Life In Rooms

And here’s the babies room!
Don’t let her get into that room!
Do we have room for all this stuff?
Shhh! She’s sleeping in her room!
I don’t want to sleep in my room! Can I sleep in your room?
This rooms a mess!
Go to your room!
Clean up your room!
MOM! Get her out of my room!
It’s in your room! I said it’s in your room!
You can come out of your room now.
She’s in my room again!!
What’s wrong with you room?
Mom there’s not enough room back here!
Can you do that in the other room?
I hate this room.
*Sigh* We need more room.
We better go to the emergency room!
I can’t believe he’s moving out of his room.
What did you do to my room?
Do we really need all this room?
And here’s the new study…

Happily Ever After

2008-04-29T23:03:00.002-05:00

Last week I gave you a clue that someone was getting themselves hitched. Good ol' Dolly Parton provided the accompining music, and that leads me to this this weeks post. My girl Heather is getting married and I've been given a list of tasks by the semi-anxious bride (she hasn't turned in to Bridezilla-yet!). There is one job, however, I created exclusivley for myself. I promised Heather I would find her the perfect song for her wedding; unfortunately I don't think there is going to be a dance. However, I still think it is important for every couple to have a song. For example, my parents song would be "It ain't me Babe" by Johnny Cash & June Carter; Linda and Monty have "Night Swimming" and Dave and Jazz's song is "No Ship Coming In". Darcy and I also have a song, but you'll have to tune in around May 22nd to hear what it is. Anyways. The song I chose for Heather and Shawn is one plucked from the closing credits of a critically acclaimed, Academy Award winning film; Shrek. Since both Shawn & Heather are a little camera shy, I chose to post a picture of Shrek and Fiona since they compliment the song. In no way am I hinting any resemblence between the two couples, other than that they are in love and possibly turn into ogres when the sun goes down. So Heather and Shawn, this songs for you. Feel free to dance. Or not. It's totally up to you.

A Good Read

2008-04-24T19:56:00.008-05:00

I love to read, but finding the time and the right book has become more and more of a difficult task for me. I can usually tell after the first sentence if a book has me hooked or not, and once I'm hooked, there is no rest for me until that book has been devoured. My good friend recently lent me a set of books, and I settled in for a good read, but now what? I have certain books in my library I read at least once a year, and I would like to share them with you now, and if you have any suggestions for me, please pass them on!

Pride and Prejudice is with out a doubt, my all time favorite book. Reading P and P is like slipping into a hot, steamy bath. The two characters I love to hate are Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Mr.Collins; they are obnoxious, pretentious and utterly perfect! Jane Austen wrote another jewel, Persuasion, which is often overlooked, but no less brilliant then P and P. I've often thought that Persuasion is P and P all grown up.

Little House books are my comfort books. The Ingalls family is such a warm, close-knit family. Ma & Pa are so wise and gentle, and girls are so full of innocence and wonder; reading their stories always makes me ache for the life they lived.

My socially conscience books are To Kill a Mockingbird and Angela's Ashes. Both of these books are told largely from a child's perspective, casting light on the inexplicable things people, usually adults, do to each other. When humanity is stuck in a rut, the fresh perspective of child is just the push it needs to move forward.

Sometimes friends and family have lent me books that are pure camp. I won't pay tribute to those books here (i.e The Secret Book of Grazia de Rossi), because my gramma reads this, but to those friends I say thank-you, keep them coming. As much as I enjoy great works of literature and scathing social commentaries, there is something to be said for a little love in the afternoon. From books, I mean.

Wedding Fever

2008-04-22T13:17:00.004-05:00

Guess Who? (Not Luke and Laura obviously)
Stay tuned....

Sins of the Mother

2008-04-18T23:59:00.004-05:00

I could never walk away from my children. Yes, there are days when I feel the need to escape my house and its smaller inhabitants for a night on the town, but running away from home is not an option.
80 years ago, my great grandmother, Bella, chose to abandon her daughters, my Gramma Ivy and aunt Eva. She left them in the care, and I use that term loosely, of her Uncle Bill and his "housekeeper", Granny Cowley. Bill was an old, cheap and cold-hearted man. Granny, though not as cold, had lived a long and hard life and she was unequipped to fulfill the emotional and physical needs of two little girls. My gramma was only two when her childhood ended. I have heard many stories of the hardships the two girls endured; how they survived with any shred of health or sanity is beyond me. They were worked like hired hands and given barley anything to live off of, but what really made them suffer was the absence of their mothers love and approval.
Why did Bella walk away from her children, her babies? Money and security. She was given an offer of marriage on the condition she jettison two of her three children, and she took it. She married a Mr. Knox, and had five more babies with him and lived a very comfortable life, never once sending any money, clothes or even acknowledgment to her eldest two children.
My gramma never recovered from her feelings of abandonment. Of all the people in the world, your mother is someone you can count on to love you forever, and hers didn't. Gramma tried her best to move forward; she married and had children of her own, (that's her, with her two boys above) but that constant insecurity always crept into her life and I don't know if she has ever felt truly loved. The fear and hurt and insecurity has trickled down through the generations, and sometimes it feels like my generation still feels the weight of Bella's choice, years later.
It's crazy how much of our history defines us and how the things we do or say can have a long lasting effect on future generations. It's my hope that my legacy will be one of love and security, though I'll probably just be remembered as crazy old Granny Susie; the one with lots of cats and no teeth... the one who got into fist fight with the mailman... the one who got trapped in the porta-potty all night...you get the picture.

Baby Got Back or Stuck With My Middle

2008-04-14T10:04:00.004-05:00

I'm on a diet. It's not going so well. I'm no diet guru, but I know that gaining weight while dieting probably means you're doing something wrong. Now I'm not writing this to gain viewer sympathy; I'm not looking for compliments (well except from Heather, but that's her job). A few embarrassing, albeit funny, situations have occurred lately that have prompted me to attempt to get a bit more healthy. The first happened at Nolan's school; another school mom, attempting to make conversation, made reference to my girth and made a joke about birth control and my lack of it. The world moved into slow motion as my brain began to compute what she meant, and suddenly my pot belly morphed into a glaring beacon flashing in the night. I was tempted to play along and claim to be pregnant, but that idea was quickly dismissed due to lack of baby, though admittedly, I did consider stealing one and passing it off as my own to save face. I laughed off my swollen middle as being a consequence of lack of exercise, not lack of b.c., and all the red faced ladies in the hallway raced to find new topics of discussions as they tried desperately to avert their eyes from my belly.
The other "it's time to loose weight" prompt has appeared in the form of my four year old daughter. In not so subtle terms, she hinted that both hubby and I were just too fat. Actually, there was no hinting or subtlety about it, she just said "You're both fat". To illustrate her point she began to poke and prod at the problem zone that was hanging over my belt. Being the calm and gracious adult that I am, I explained that having kids turned a vibrant healthy 20 something into a round, grey, sluggish blob AND it was all her fault. No, I'm kidding. That's what I wanted to say, but I didn't. Instead I conceded defeat and struck a deal with her that if she ate more fruit and veggie, so would I. To celebrate my new, healthier outlook, I made a big batch of banana bread. I never knew that eating fruit could be so much fun! (insert wink here)

Girls Just Want to Have Fu-hun!

2008-04-11T09:17:00.009-05:00

Girlfriends are awesome. Once you've made a true friend, your life changes. You're perspective also changes. You can't believe you ever went to a bathroom by yourself when going in a group is so much better. You no longer feel comfortable walking alone down a hall or street-at least three abreast is the only way to go anywhere. You can count on your friends to tell you if you butt does look too big in those pants, and no, that shirt doesn't make you look cheap, just adventurous!
Friends are there for us when we need them; they help us get out of trouble and more often then not, get us into trouble!
Banshee has made herself a very good friend at school. They play, they fight, they make up-the typical friendship formula of the pre-school set. Most of the time their antics are fun and harmless, but they landed themselves in some trouble the other day. They didn't steal a car (yet) and they weren't hanging around the bad boys (yet) and they weren't furthering their plan to take over the world (yet). Being the intelligent and alert little hoodlums they are, they saw an opportunity, and they took it to make a break for it and run away!
I was busy chasing after two boys-who-should-know-better (The Eldest and his friend), and my friend Char, aka General Hospital Lover, aka GHL, took charge of our mixed bag of girls; now GHL was busy paying diligent attention to Things 1&2 and that's when the two girls-who-should-know- better decided to run. I can imagine their hurried and detailed conversation; "Hey, let's go to your house." "Okay!"
The-boys-who-should-know-better-and-who-are-blatantly- ignoring-me are just within my grasp when I am given the alert that the-two-little-girls-who-should-know-better were missing. The-boys-who-should-know-better, being older and supposedly smarter and able to fend for themselves were quickly abandoned in favor of finding those no-good-little-girls-who- should-know-better-and-never-be-alone-together-anywhere.
I have had the pleasure of being Banshee's mother for almost five years now, and her M.O is quite well known to me. The girls had been begging for a play date and I figured they decided to take matters into their own hands and have one. My suspicion was confirmed when I saw them heading in the direction of our house. Thankfully, Banshee's friend was born with a conscience and she had made the wise decision to turn herself in. Friend-with-a conscience was trying to convince Banshee that the jig was up, to admit defeat-but I saw a familiar glint in Banshees eye and I knew she was contemplating going for broke; that's when Banshee recognized the glint in my eye, and so she decided to choose life, and returned to me with a defeated slump in her step. As for the-boys-who-should-know-better, I tracked them down and nattered at them the whole way home for being the root cause of this farce. Friend-of-the-eldest was wise enough to appear sincerely contrite and went on to compliment my homemade pizza, so he is forgiven and quite possibly my favorite child. Banshee's friend-with-a-conscience was reprimanded by GHL, who nearly suffered a stroke from the incident, but recovered by watching copious amounts of General Hospital.
As for the other two, well, I just listed them on e-bay, so I'll get back to you on how things turn out for them.

You Can Never Go Home Again

2008-04-09T23:52:00.005-05:00

When I was 7 years old my mother took me to see a movie called "The Trip to Bountiful". The movie chronicled the journey of a very determined old woman desperate to see her home one last time. The main character, Carrie, comments on her longing to see her parents sitting on the the front porch of the old family home, knowing it to be impossible but yearning for it all the same. Carrie understood that time marches forward, that her life had moved on beyond Bountiful, and that she wouldn't give that life up for a moment of time.
Carrie reminded me a lot of my Gramma Jenny. Gramma shared Carrie's longing for the past; in her heart she clung to a life that had ceased to be many years earlier. This movie, combined with my Gramma's own aching for the past cemented in me an earnest sentimentality for days gone by.
Because of this trait, I am thankful that I have been very keen on appreciating moments as they happen, very aware that most good things in life are fleeting. Right now, for me, a significant part of my life is slipping away, and I am struggling to say good-bye. My parents moved out our old family home this weekend. I know that a home is more than timber and brick, but this move is closing a beloved chapter in my story. I took time this weekend to say good-bye to my past. I stopped to touch the branches of my favorite tree, wandered around the neighborhood and spied on the neighbors one last time. I went up to my old room and looked out onto my favorite view. Our house is nestled in the valley, and my window affords a very pretty view of the hills. On one hill, the landowner has erected a wooden cross. It was always a joy to be able to look out my window and see a simple but beautiful reminder of my faith. On the other hill lies the town cemetery. I suppose some people wouldn't consider that to be much of view, but to me it is a precious sight; if you'll not fail to tell me that you love me, I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me. I know why I am grieving. It wasn't just the house I had to say good-bye to, but all the hopes, tears, joy and regrets of my past. So, for one last time, I sat in the middle of my room and had a good cry. It was time to let go, and I was given the opportunity to take my little trip to "Bountiful" and say good-bye.

Shower for One

2008-03-31T10:17:00.007-05:00

My Gramma Jenny hated when her son would take a nap with dirty feet. It irked her. I myself would have been more irked by the fact that he was fifty years old and still living with mommy, but that's another story for another day. Her "dirty feet spoiling a clean bed" comment stuck with me, and so I have always made a good effort to shower before going to bed. Now that I'm a mother, my late night rendezvous with the shower has taken on another purpose-privacy.
I have discovered that I can float around the house ignored and unneeded by my kids UNTIL I decide to use the washroom. I think the sound of the bathroom door locking is what sets them off. Like Pavlov's dog, they are conditioned to beg frantically at the bathroom door the moment they hear that 'click'. "Moooommm, I'm hungry....Mooooommmm Nolan hit me.....Moooommmm the stove is on fire!"
I made the mistake of putting off my shower until this morning. I reasoned that I could put a video on for the kids, put my eldest in charge and steal away for seven glorious minutes. Hindsight, my friends. Hindsight.
The first two minutes of my shower were for the most part peaceful. I left my shampoo on the sink and in an effort to not get the bathroom floor wet, I transformed myself into a circus contortionist and managed to retrieve it. Having pulled every single muscle in my body, I began to lather. I've had short hair for almost three years, and yet by the amount of shampoo I put in my hair, I must think I'm Crystal Gayle. (That's an old school county music reference. Feel free to google her to see what I'm talking about.) Now as I'm drowning myself in suds I hear a rumble from the living room. The rumble turns into a screech and suddenly the bathroom door bursts open and the screaming banshee is wailing about getting a smack to the gob, the eldest is claiming innocence and the terrible twosome followed to see what all the excitement was about. Banshee has several types of wails, and this one sounded like a "blood has been drawn" sort of wail. Keep in mind that my head and face are immersed in blinding bubbles and I'm trying to wrap the shower curtain around myself so I can peek out and assess the damage.

Having asscertained that there was no blood, no foul, and ordering the circus out of the bathroom, I was alone again in the quiet of my shower. While barking orders at my children to cease and desist, I had unknowingly knocked over the bin of tub toys. I, still blinded by the soap and disoriented from the invasion, stepped on a sqeaky toy and began to fall. When one is falling in the shower, try to land in a sexy fashion, keeping in mind that a herd of buff fireman will be dragging your naked corpse out of the bathroom. However it appears my mortal coil is not ready to be shed, as I managed to stick my claws into something and keep myself upright.

The moral of the story? Dirty feet spoil a clean bed or Nasty children spoil a nice shower. You pick.

The Inmates Are Running the Asylum!

2008-03-28T09:40:00.011-05:00

One more sleep. I wonder if I'll make it? Darcy has been away on business trips before, but this time things are different. The "things" I'm referring to are called "Hannah and Rebekah". Thing 1 and Thing 2 were around the last couple of times he had to go away, but now Thing 1 and Thing 2 are behaving like, well, two year olds! Enjoy a glimpse of the joy and happiness that surrounded me this week.

My respect goes out to all the parents out there who are pushing through on their own. It hasn't been an easy week, but I suppose it could have been worse. We're all safe and healthy, so really, what am I complaining about?

Oh yeah. This!

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

2008-03-25T16:22:00.005-05:00

I am. Absolutely paralyzing afraid of the dark. So you can imagine how panicked I was to wake up in the middle of the night to discover that the power had gone out. I was petrified, and completely at the mercy of my paranoid delusions. When I first realized we had no power, I came to the natural conclusion that a murderer had broken into the house and was lying in wait for his victims. Now, when one is faced with the very real possibility that a crazed man with a hook for a hand has come into your house with plans of murder and mayhem, the first thing you do is arm yourself.
I didn't realize how dependent my household is on power until last night when I discovered none of the upstairs phones or even my clocks were working. So I crept downstairs armed with my trusty flashlight and nail file (if I was going to die, I was going out with a fight!). Out of desperation I called my husband in Indiana and informed him that the power was out and we were all going to die. Darcy and I have been married for nearly 9 years, and he was not at all shocked, surprised or appalled to be getting a call at 6:30 a.m (his time) from his frantic wife in another country dealing with a run of a mill problem that he couldn't do anything about anyway. He just assured me that it was a mere power outage, to not worry about fiddling with the fuse box and to just wait it out. He doubted that there was a killer in the house and and he was also quite confident that none of would freeze to death in such short time.
Feeling a little better, I took the working phone upstairs to avoid any future visits to the basement. As soon as I plugged it in, it began to ring. I had no doubt in my mind that the killer was phoning me (from inside the house) to announce our doom and with shaking hand I answered. My sleepy hubby was on the line telling me to phone hydro (duh) as probably nobody else had realized the power was even out.
What else could I do but make the call, then admit to myself that I am a complete and utter idiot and make my way back to the bedroom. I was still harboring some doubt about the relative safety of the situation, so just to be sure I moved my sleeping four year old into the bed with me. Mr.Psycho Killer might have his trusty hook, but I've got Gracie-and no one wants to mess with her!

Hey Mom, Give Yourself a Hand!

2008-03-24T21:28:00.005-05:00

I always find it odd that people assume I'm a good mom because I have four kids. I often hear comments like "you must be so organized" or "I could never do what you do" or "hey lady, you didn't pay for that!". The truth is I'm not very organized, I don't really know what I'm doing and I have four kids, don't I get a five fingered discount? (or is it four fingered? Does the thumb count?) Sometimes I want to tell them that if I were an organized person, I wouldn't be in this mess to begin with; though admittedly it is a beautiful mess (except for the bathroom-that's just plain gross).
I think most mothers keep a mental checklist of all the things they think they've done wrong; before we collapse in a exhausted heap at the end of the day, we wonder just how much therapy our kids are going to need because of our mistakes (I've already promised Nolan I'd help him cover his bills, Grace though, will have to pay for mine) . The truth is, if we were to ask our kids, they would probably tell us that we're the best mom on earth. (Have you ever noticed though, that if you have the audacity to discipline them, you receive a quick demotion to "worst mom ever"? My kids don't use that one so much, because I threaten to show them just what the "worst mom ever" could do to them.)
Anyways, I know that as a mom there are things I have done and will do that are wrong, but I've also got four things that came out just right.

And yes, I refer to my children as "things".

Easter morning Round-up

2008-03-23T10:04:00.000-05:00

My day began at 4:30 a.m. I got up to watch my husband brush his teeth, check over his luggage and walk out to the waiting taxi. I closed the door behind him, faced the dimly lit living room, and let out a sigh. It was just me now-me and them...for a whole week.
Since going to church this morning wasn't an option, I decided to read the Easter books I had been saving for the kids. In my minds eye I had envisioned a loving family cuddled together reading about the life of Jesus; a group of wide eyed children engrossed in God's teachings of love and forgiveness...
Here's how it really happened. First, my son attempted to rip me off by claiming he found $7 in his room. I haven't seen any money fairies around the place (not since grampa was here last) and I was immediately suspicious. After further pressing, he revealed he found the money on top of the washing machine. We began a lively debate on whether or not his trespass was stealing or a case of finders keepers. I told him it wasn't worth selling his goodness and honesty for $7; he agreed and relinquished his find and I pocketed the $7 that came from my husbands pants.
Moving on, after a surprisingly quiet breakfast I gathered the children for story time. I know I was in trouble when Hannah & Becky began to fight over the spot to my left, a fight that was settled quickly when Grace decided that was her spot and threw herself on top the the twins; the girls scrambled for safety and chose an adequate spot a safe distance from their sister. Finally we are all assembled, 3 girls and one pirate (pick your battles) and we began. The first book went pretty well, a few small skirmishes, but no blood no foul. Unfortunately, as I was beginning on our second book, aptly named "Love One Another", bedlam broke out. I received a terrible wallop on the top of my head, compliments of Rebekah; she was thus banished to her room and a terrible hush had fallen on the room. The moment was gone-or was it? Hannah, in concern for her sister, ran to see if she could in someway spring Becky from her prison. Becky, out of sheer disobedience was also running and SMACK-a mid hallway collision. The twins staggered about dazed and stunned, but soon they regained their bearings and launched into a full scale attack of one another. Claws and teeth were bared (some blood minor foul). After kissing all the boo-boo's, we resumed the story though no one wanted too and just when I had given up hope for my kids, a great thing happened. They made room for each other, cuddled around me and became engrossed in the teachings of our Lord. We celebrated by indulging in a little chocolate, and right now my kids are upstairs plotting my death because I am a spy for the emperor. I wanted to be a sith, but hey, pick your battles.

Memories are what you make them!

2008-03-22T15:51:00.000-05:00

My good friend Heather thought it would be a good idea for me to start a blog. She figured since I wrote so many emails detailing the ups and downs of my day, why not spread the joy? So here I am- spreading something.
We had our Easter Egg hunt early. The kids went around the house grabbing up all the little chocolate eggs that had been hidden for them. I was impressed how well they worked together; Nolan and Grace helpfully pointed out eggs that were in the reach of Hannah and Rebekah and the twins made sure that each one got a turn scooping up the treats. All in all, the hunt was quite enjoyable, something that will be looked back on with fondness and joy; but what of the fist-fight that broke out later between Nolan and Grace? Will we we remember that? I hope so. I want the kids to remember the bad as well as the good, if only for proof that their scars came from their siblings and not from me.