Burning

Today, being the second last day of the year, I took the kids grocery shopping to prepare for a weekend with company and all the celebrations that the New Year entail. Needless to say, the store was incredibly busy. I hate shopping when it's busy. Especially with two young children who have missed their afternoon naps due to the unfortunate timing of a doctor's appointment. As I navigated through crammed aisles trying to keep Hannah from being run over, I tried to grab the items from my list as fast as possible. This task was made difficult due to aisle-blockers who left their carts to more conveniently access items from who-knows-where. Part way through this annoying, half-frenzied shopping, Hannah announced that she had to go to the bathroom. Right now. Taking deep, even breaths, I negotiated our cart across the entire store to the bathroom. Once there, I parked Jacob in the cart, held the door open with my foot, and encouraged Hannah to be independent and fast. Jacob was trying to climb out of the cart, Hannah wouldn't let me shut the door unless I came inside, and to top it off, there was a woman shooting me evil glares while she ostensibly waited for the bathroom. Hannah, meanwhile, was singing and certainly not going fast. Eventually, evil-stare woman went to the men's bathroom. We resumed our shopping. Jacob, slightly sick, definitely tired, was falling asleep in the cart. Hannah was half-walking, half-dragging her feet, and continually coming to a dead stop right in front of the cart. Finally, we crossed the last item off our list. With a huge sigh of relief, I made my way to the long lines at the check-out. While in line, Jacob made a disturbing sound and started whimpering. Try as I might to communicate telepathically with the cashier, there was nothing I could do to make her move any faster as she gently and ever-so-slowly scanned each of my one hundred items while my son sat in a pile of diarrhea that was burning his already painfully sore buttocks, which was the reason for our initial visit to the doctor in the first place.

Ah, holiday memories.

Christmas Reflections from Hannah

Having a somewhat quizzical mind, Hannah is not one to let things go without first analyzing, questioning, or criticizing them. In that spirit, here are some of her thoughts around Christmas:

• How does Santa get past the glass in front of our fireplace? Excellent query.
• I don't want Santa to come in my bedroom (after seeing him tiptoe into a sleeping child's room in a movie). I don't blame you, it is a bit creepy.
• Why did Santa give Jacob presents even though he's bad? Uh oh, this naughty or nice thing isn't going to work next year.
• I dreamed about the reindeer last night. They were all taking the caps off their noses to see if any of them had a red nose like Rudolph and one did. Just like that, Rudolph is no longer a misfit.  
• This is not a real Santa (referring to a stuffed toy version). His beard doesn't go all the way around, he's not wearing a belt, and his bag is a backpack not a sack. Inimitable condescension. Who made this toy? It's clearly not an acceptable replica.
• Please stop singing that, mom. It's not even the right tune. And it's not Christmas anymore. Ouch. But, painfully, true.

Pride Goeth Before a Fall, Or Disappeareth After

Tonight I was talking on the phone when I heard a loud crash from above, followed by Jacob's unmistakable cries of fear/pain. I assumed he had fallen out of bed. I promptly ended my call and made my way upstairs to re-settle him. Scott, who had been asleep himself in the next room, was already there - pulling Jacob feet-first out of his laundry hamper. Confused, I tried to make sense of what my eyes were telling my brain I was seeing. A quick glance around the room offered some clues as to what had transpired.

Clue #1 - dresser drawer open
Clue #2 - drawer stuffed with dirty laundry
Clue #3 - almost empty laundry hamper
Clue #4 - Jacob stuck head-first in laundry hamper

Poor Jacob. Falling out of bed is one thing... falling head-first into your laundry hamper has to be a bit embarrassing.

Martha My Way

Last night I had an idyllic evening with my kids. We started out covering the dining room table with paper and then making a simple craft that involved glue and was therefore guaranteed fun. While our glue dried, we moved to the island and made, as a group, pizza dough. Both Jacob and Hannah made their own mini pizzas that they kneaded and rolled out. Hannah's was shaped like a twisted figure 8, and Jacob's was somewhat circular. Both objects of extreme pride. They sauced them, added pepperoni, and then topped with cheese. By the time we were done we were all covered in flour. And as I looked around at the mess we had made, at our unfinished craft on the table, at our smiling faces, I realized - this is my version of Martha.

Not quite magazine-worthy, but memorable nonetheless. And I don't think I would trade the fun we had for a gourmet meal or an exquisite craft. It was just me being me with my beautiful children. Even Martha can't compete with that.

Recidivism at its Cutest

Lately Jacob has been having some issues with keeping his little hands off of things that he shouldn't be touching. It seems like every time I look at him, he is doing something he shouldn't be doing - and he knows it. When caught, he immediately reconfigures his face into an "ooops-I-know-I'm-in-trouble-look".

Today he found it particularly difficult to behave. At the babysitter's house, he broke a mirror when he was supposed to be napping. When I told him on the car ride home that I was very upset with him for breaking the mirror, he replied: "Otay, mom. My will buy a new one." But he said it, if you can imagine, with a little bit of attitude. Then, his ever-generous sister added that she would give him the money from her piggy bank because she had "tons of money in there" since she'd been "collecting it everyday".

After we got home, Jacob committed a string of offences that eventually led him to a time-out on the stairs. When I talked to him about it, he readily offered a "sorry" and a hug. I then asked, "Are you going to keep touching things and breaking them?" He nodded. "You are?" I asked, incredulous. "Yes," he admitted. And then he hugged me again and offered another extremely cute apology.

Convinced he had misunderstood, I tried rephrasing. But no matter how I put it, he unequivocally indicated he would continue touching things he shouldn't. And he seemed so sincere. He knew he was in time-out. He knew he was in trouble. But he just couldn't bring himself to lie. So I released him. My little recidivist.

Call Me Clifford

The other day in the car, out of the blue, Hannah told me that she'd told her babysitter I call her Clifford.

"I call you Clifford?" I asked, slightly confused.

"Yes," she said, with an air of impatience. "You always tell me I'm Clifford."

I had to think. I had to translate something that sounded like Clifford into something I might actually have said. And then I had it. "Ohhh, like when I say you're smart and I call you clever?"

"Yes! See? You do call me Clifford."

Here I thought I was complimenting her by telling her how intelligent she is. I thought I was building her self-esteem. And she thought I was calling her a big red dog.

Delinquent Parent

I am a teacher. I understand the importance of sharing what is happening at school with parents. I agree with homework or extending learning at home. I know library books need to be returned. I think it is annoying when parents don't send their kids to school with the things they need.

I am a mom. I see the value in knowing what is happening with my child while she's at school. I like that she brings "home fun" home to practise what she's learning. I know her library books need to be returned. I know it is annoying when parents don't send their kids to school with the things they need.

And yet... with Hannah being in school for only a month, I have committed so many parental faux pas that I can barely keep track. Among the most recent:

1. Realizing in the morning, as I leafed through her "home fun" book, that we hadn't actually done any of it.
2. Mixing up her library days and then sending her to school without her book so that when her class went to the library she had to sit against the wall.
3. Reading that her class was going to be sorting apples and everyone needed to bring an apple. Promptly forgetting to send one with her on the apple sorting day. (She assured me later that her teacher "didn't mind".)
4. Having her walk to her babysitter's after school in the rain without a rain coat or an umbrella.

Oh, yes. I am that mom. And it's not good for my ego. Because I have these visions of being a completely different kind of mom. You know, the kind that bakes homemade cookies after school (a la Martha); the kind that sends a well-dressed, organized child to school with everything she needs neatly tucked into her backpack. The kind that doesn't have to write excuses and apologies in her daughter's communication book.

You know... perfect.

I Thought Today Was Today

A conversation Hannah had with Scott:

"Dad, when is tomorrow?"

"After you wake up."

"And what day is it?"

"Wednesday."

"You said I had school tomorrow!"

"You do."

"Then what is it today?"

"Tuesday."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"I thought today was today. But you said Tuesday."

"It's today and also Tuesday."

"Are you really, really, really sure? Because I thought today was today was today. I can't stop saying today!"

Five Minutes to Miss You

Why is it that when all I want is a break from the noise, from the whining, and from the tattling, the house is too quiet after you leave? Why do your little shoes in the front hallway, that I am so tired of tripping over, make me want to kiss your toes? Why do the books you've left lying all over the house reproach me with all the stories I've rushed to finish, or worse, refused to even read before bed? Even your sticky plates and the crumbs you spilled on the floor cause my throat to constrict.

This is not our first time apart, but I've always been the one to leave. Now, for the first time, I am the one left behind in a house filled with traces of you. And I don't think I like it. It's too lonely.

I had all kinds of lovely plans for this much-anticipated evening to myself, but I didn't know how empty the house would feel once you were gone.

I didn't know it would only take five minutes to miss you.

"Up To My Snot"

Today while watching "4 Square", a short program that I find painful, Hannah learned a new poem. It went like this:

My tongue goes out (accompanied by the action with a strange little noise)
My tongue goes in (see above)
My tongue can waggle (even weirder action)
Down to my chin (pointing with finger)

My tongue goes in
My tongue goes out
My tongue can reach
Up to my snout (pointing at nose, obviously)

Hannah laughed so hard. Then when she repeated the poem, I realized she had misheard the last line.

My tongue can reach
Up to my snot

Gross. And apparently really funny. To her credit, it does still make sense.

The Girl with the Owl Backpack

On Monday, Hannah had her first day of JK. The thought of putting her on a bus all by herself and then leaving her to navigate school life without her parents by her side was enough to twist my heart into painful  knots. She's tall for her age, but she's still so small. Thankfully, Scott was the one to drop her off at the bus stop and watch that big, yellow monster carry her away. I was already at work, trying not to look at the clock or to imagine what was going on in her little mind. As it turned out, I underestimated my beautiful daughter.

The bus brought her to the school (where she had been once before, with her dad, to visit her classroom). She stepped off the bus and looked around. Not sure where to go, she followed "The Girl with the Owl Backpack" to the big-kids' side of the school, where she entered the building brimming with... what? I imagine terror, confusion, a sense of betrayal - all kinds of unspecified horrors. But, no. According to Hannah, she wasn't scared at all. Or worried. After all, she had noticed (her word) that her classroom door had owls on it, so naturally she would follow the girl with the owl backpack. This girl, for the record, who has no name, apparently asked Hannah to be her friend and Hannah agreed. Lost? Heck, no. She was making friends!

And then her teacher found her and safely escorted her to the fold of other JK students where she spent the day happily. Her only complaint: "I don't like the feel of the story-time carpet. It's itchy."

Tomorrow will be her second day. I'm sure that seeing her off on the bus might be marginally easier for Scott; imagining her in the cavernous school will be less intimidating for me; and with time our general parental anxiety about our baby in school will lessen. As for Hannah, she will no doubt once again be more composed than either of her parents.

You Are Not Allowed to Wash Your Feet!

During our stay at the "Spiderweb Cottage"(as Hannah calls it), when we returned from the beach I would wash the kids' feet in a bucket at the front door. On occasion, at the new house, I have carried the kids to the bathroom and washed their feet in the sink after playing in the mud that is our yard. Basic necessity from my point of view. Total excitement from theirs.

And so it began that Jacob, who drags stools, chairs, etc. all over the house to reach things he shouldn't be touching in the first place, began the practice of climbing onto the counter to "wash his feet". The first time I caught him, I admit, it was kind of cute. The next time, when I also found puddles of water all over the counter and the floor, it wasn't so cute. The third time, when he was wearing pants, and soaked not only the pants but everything within a 5-mile radius, I started to get annoyed.

It's hard to stay angry though, when he looks at you with his big wide baby eyes and says proudly, "My washing my feet, mom!"

So now we have a new rule: You are not allowed to wash your feet. Period.

I don't care how cute you are.

The Face of Panic

When things don't work instantaneously for Hannah, she often reacts with unparalleled panic. It could be a shoe that isn't going on right or a wrapper that won't open - whatever the cause, the response is quick, disproportionate, full-on panic. If you're not in the same room when it happens, you experience your own heart-quickening panic as images of wild animals mauling small children flash through your mind. Racing to the scene, you discover the real problem is that Mr. Potato Head's nose wouldn't go in.

Undeniably, events in Hannah's world take on far greater significance than I give them credit for. Why else would she go into histrionics over a grilled cheese that was cut into four slices instead of two? I try to be patient. I try to be understanding. I try not to let my irritation show or to have my own disproportionate emotional meltdown of a response. But it's so hard because these fits of panic drive me absolutely insane!

My standard broken-record response goes something like this: "Relax. Calm down. There's no need to freak out." It actually helps.

Now I just need to think of what to say to Hannah.

Share? Over My Dead Body!

Hannah has experienced many of her friends sharing toys, books, puzzles, etc. with her. She understands the concept. She is a nice girl. Yet, the other day when given the opportunity to share something of hers with a friend, she not only balked, she outright went nuts.

Her friend had been given a caterpillar in a jar and was going to watch it turn into a butterfly over time. Hannah happened to have a book about this very thing with lift-the-flaps and all. It was a perfect pairing for this little boy. Even the type of caterpillar was the same. However, when I offered the book, Hannah became upset. Very upset. Possessive in a scary way. She hugged the book to her chest and cried that she didn't want to give it to them. I tried to reason with her. She didn't budge. I shrugged it off, assuming that in 5 minutes, after she'd forgotten about it, I'd just sneak the book into my friends' things. She did not let the book out of her sight or her tight grip. In fact, she was so worried about me giving them the book, she didn't want to say good-bye. Instead, she chose to stay in the safety of a chair in the office, clutching the book safely in her arms.

I was embarrassed (though I'm familiar with Hannah's theatrics), but there was not way to pry that book from her hands without causing undue stress or grief. It just wasn't worth it. An innocent spectator might have thought I'd asked Hannah to donate a kidney to her friend. These are the things that are supposed to happen to other peoples' kids so I can watch and shake my head and think, Thank goodness my kid doesn't act like that.

The Cottage - Part 2

With the benefit of a little time and distance, plus being safely installed in my new home, my cottage woes seem worlds away. I am no longer perched on the edge of a suspicious-looking couch on a blanket trying not to let any of my skin make contact with the actual fabric on the couch, nor am I intentionally ignoring something that spilled on the carpet beside my feet. Despite our somewhat dodgy accommodations, we had a nice time at the cottage. The owner made a few helpful improvements during our stay. He had the sandbox weeded and removed a leaning tower of wood from beside the slide. He installed a screen in our door. He disposed of the dead mouse in our oven.

We still got to swim, fly kites, have picnics, sit by fires, go out on a boat, etc. All the traditional, happy memories exist. They are just tempered with other memories. Hannah actually refers to the cottage as "the spiderweb cottage". As far as the kids are concerned, apart from the spiders, there was nothing wrong with the place. They had a great time. And looking back, I think Scott and I did, too.

Cottage Horrors

After packing up an entire house, loading two children prone to car-sickness into the car for a 4-hour trip, I finally arrived at our cottage destination. Our home for a week. And here is what transpired:

I pulled into the entrance, saw a sign directing me to the office, and proceeded down a one-lane drive toward said office. A truck began driving toward me. It continued to head straight for my car until we were both forced to stop – nose to nose. Confused (and a little bit ticked off), I put my car in reverse and backed out to the main road. The truck followed and then stopped right in front of me. The driver emerged and walked to my window. “And you are?” he asked, in a tone that implied I was trespassing or committing some other unidentified offence. 

I sized him up, said my name, and then added with what I hoped was some semblance of authority that I was renting a cottage here. 

“Yeah,” he answered. “Number three. That’s why I tried to stop you. You have to pull in behind.”

This guy was the owner? Not a very welcoming introduction to the premises. I found our cottage and parked behind the rear wall, or what was left of it. Part of it had been patched up and the other part was lying on the ground. Hmmm. Interesting. I opened the screen door, minus its screen, and entered the cozy kitchen. I had to lean slightly forward as the floor was listing so heavily to one side it was a bit of an incline. I herded the kids inside and tried to ignore the obvious: this place was falling apart. 

We unpacked our few belongings and Hannah had a few minor freak outs about bugs, spider webs, etc. As I started filling the fridge, I noticed that the incline of the floor was affecting everything I put into the fridge. It all rolled to one side. The whole fridge was leaning precariously. I warned the kids not to touch it since it might fall on them. Later, Scott rolled up a magazine and wedged it under one side creating some stability. 

Entering the bathroom, I noticed a sign warning me not to drink the water or even brush my teeth with it unless I boiled it first. No problem. I located the kettle. It was coated in spider webs. I emptied the dead bugs out of it and then pretended it was sterilized after boiling twice. When Scott arrived later that night, he asked me if I’d seen any mice. “No, thank goodness,” I laughed.

Of course, I hadn’t opened the oven yet…

To be continued.

Not my Comfy Pants!

Obviously, we eventually had the entire house packed up and ready to be loaded onto the truck. It was nothing short of a miracle. Although, to be honest, there were some loose items being tossed into the truck at the end of it all. My dreams of a massive purge never really materialized as every last item in the house seemed to make its way into a box, albeit rather randomly at the end.

The night we loaded the truck my main job was to keep the kids out of the way. With nothing to play with and nowhere to sit, it was not an easy task. And then, of course, there was Hannah’s superbly dramatic reaction to anything of hers going onto the truck. Tears. Flailing arms. Gnashing of teeth. When her dresser was loaded, she was beside herself. “Are my clothes going on the truck?” I replied in the affirmative. She freaked out. “Not my comfy pants! I don’t want my comfy pants on the truck!”

Her comfy pants? Out of everything to be upset about, her comfy pants nearly broke her. I had to remove her from the scene. I can’t wait to see her reunion with her beloved pants in the new house. There might be balloons. Or confetti.

Next up: Cottage Horrors.

I'm Still Using That!

I’ve been off-line for almost a month and am so far behind in my blogs and email it’s almost frightening. But I have  month left of summer holidays, a new house with a main floor office, and motivation to catch up again quickly. So, to start, I will go back in time to before the move. To the packing stage.

Packing is not fun. It starts out okay when you think you can really organize everything and pack everything in a way that makes perfect sense. Then you start having space in boxes that you have to fill with random things. Then you look around and realize even though you’ve filled 30 boxes, your house doesn’t look any emptier. That’s when panic sets in, just a bit at first. As you frantically continue filling boxes, throwing logic to the wind, the panic increases. How can you possibly pack everything, but still live in the house? Worse yet, how can you pack anything when your kids follow you around crying, “Don’t pack that. I’m still using it!” And by crying, I mean full-out hysterics.

Hannah used that line so many times that Jacob started saying it without even knowing what it meant. He would follow me up the stairs and tell me at least 6 times, “No packie that. My still using that!”

Poor Hannah was so distraught watching her beloved possessions disappear one by one. Her distress translated into some interesting behaviour, but nothing prepared me for her reaction when we actually loaded the truck. Stay tuned for the post: “Not My Comfy Pants!”

Frazzled Forever?

I used to think that being frazzled was a temporary condition that could easily be remedied with a bit of extra time. A few less things on the plate and sanity would be restored. Not just sanity, but peace and calmness. With that idea in mind, I anxiously looked forward to the summer when school would be done, and I would finally have the one thing I needed most: TIME. Full days to do whatever needed to be done. Taking care of the kids, cleaning the house, doing laundry, going shopping, making Martha Stewart-like meals, and of course, packing for a quickly-approaching move.

So why then, am I still frazzled? Why am I short with the kids as we're getting ready to spend a lovely morning at the park and splash pad? Shouldn't I be relaxed? I have more time, but don't feel like I'm getting anything accomplished. I'm off work, but still feel stressed out. I think a big part of my problem is my penchant for procrastination. I complain about not getting enough packed, but then take a nap when my kids do. Or read a book.

So, by definition, I am both lazy and frazzled. The antidote to being frazzled is having more time. Yet, given more time, I squander it. Thus, I am resigned to being frazzled forever.

Or, I could blame it all on the move. The packing. The upheaval. The absolute chaos. Yes, that must be it! Once we are in the new house, I will experience the serenity I've been seeking. Except, then I'll need to unpack. And I'll still have to cook, clean, do laundry, etc. By the time I've settled in, by the time I'm ready to embrace my long-awaited sense of peace, it will be time to go back to work...

So, that leaves me back to being frazzled forever.

Good-bye Nursery

In a very short span of time, we will be moving from our quite small house into a much bigger house. Obviously, I am excited about the move, the new house, the giant kitchen, etc. However, there is one room in the house that I'm not ready to leave behind. My babies' nursery. I had that room planned in my mind before I even met my husband. It is filled with my dreams. 

Jacob is too big for the crib and will have a bed in the new house. He won't be in a nursery at all. It will be a boy's bedroom. And just like that, I won't have any babies at all. At least now I can call Jacob my baby. I can hoist him up on the change table and re-live the hundred of diapers I've changed up there. I can lower him into his crib and see the tiny boy he once was. When I sit in the rocking chair and read him a story, I am reminded of the hours I sat there nursing both my babies to sleep. Those walls hold so many memories.

It's hard to let that room go. It's my favourite place in the house. Every other room in the new house will be an improvement. But there won't be a nursery at all. And that breaks my heart.

Stir In Some Guilt

Last night my kids tried some mango at a neighbour's house. "Do they like mango?" she asked. I shamefully admitted that I didn't know. The last time I gave them mango was when they were eating pureed baby food. And, I might add, it was homemade pureed baby food. So, apparently, for the first 6 months of my babies' lives I pay special attention to what they eat. I make sure they are getting a variety of flavours, textures, nutrients, etc. I am so diligent that I make my own food. Then, as soon as they start solids, they are stuck eating what I eat which is not even an approximation of what Canada's Food Guide would suggest for a healthy diet.

I freaked out on my sister when she offered my firstborn a cheesie at 6 months. Now, I count cheesies as a serving of dairy. Chips? Aren't those the same as potatoes? As for mangoes, well, that would require serving real fruit. And exotic fruit, to boot. We eat apples and bananas here.

But if I used to offer such an eclectic variety of fruits and vegetables, there's no reason I can't go back. Especially given my Martha Stewart ambitions (http://marthastewartme.blogspot.com/).

So instead of serving snacks that come complete with a dose of guilt, I am going to offer my picky toddlers such an array of fresh, healthy food as to erase the very memory of chips and chocolate. And the next time somebody asks if my kids like mango, I will answer with confidence. "Mango? Oh yes, they love it!"

Don't Waste the Sun

I was re-reading some of my posts, and this one made me think. (Originally posted January, 2011)

Today I asked Hannah to open the curtains in the dining room and then to turn off the lights. "Why?", she asked, in keeping with her constant need to question every utterance, sight, thought, fleeting feelings, etc.

"Well," I answered, "We don't want to waste the lights. So if we open the curtains, we can let the sun in and then we won't need to have the lights on."

She thought for a minute, and then replied, "But we don't want to waste the sun!"

I started to explain the concept of renewable resources, but then decided simply to agree with her. Don't waste the sun. It sounds like good advice, in its own right.

And the Oscar Goes To...

Right now, Hannah is recovering on the couch from a grave injury to her foot. It is a very serious injury which has her doubled over in pain - sometimes. When I picked her up from the babysitter's house, she needed a kleenex. Her injury was so severe she could only partially hobble into the house, bent over at the waist. It caused her to moan extensively. I asked to see it, but was unable to as it was completely hidden from view under a very small bandaid.

We made our way extremely slowly to the car. The car ride home was filled with such torturous sounds as to suggest some sort of amputation occurring in the backseat. I wasn't sure she was going to make it. By the  time we pulled in our driveway, Hannah was barely coherent. She asked for her blanket, but requested not to be removed from the vehicle. The thought of moving was just too much. When I suggested she should come inside and snuggle with her blanket on the comfort of the couch, she reluctantly agreed. But, oh, the short trip to the door was excruciating! This surface scrape on the top of her foot somehow made it impossible for her to straighten her body. So she limped, still hunched over at the waist, all the way to the couch, whimpering and moaning intermittently.

I was just putting some chips and dip out on the counter when Hannah appeared at my side. Standing up straight! And on her tippy toes to boot. Hallelujah! She was healed... until we finished our ultra-healthy snack. Then she made her cautious way back to the couch where she remains currently.

Oh, wait. It looks like she's up again. With no visible sign of her injury causing any further distress. However, I'm sure some of her symptoms will return when her dad comes home. Or when Dora ends.

Abducting a Cat

After dinner tonight, Hannah convinced me to go to the park "just for a little bit". I agreed, although at first I said no because a) I had yet to clean up dinner; b) it was bath night and getting late; c) Jacob was not wearing any pants.

Hannah replied that I could clean up after the park, then we could still have baths, and she would personally run upstairs and get Jacob a new pair of pants. Hard to refuse logic like that. So off we went.

While at the park (a good plan of Hannah's, I might add - the weather was perfect and both kids were having so much fun), a cat ran past us through the grass. "Look, a cat!" I exclaimed (because although we have 3 of our own, cats outside are very interesting to my kids). Then I looked again. "Is that Stryder?"

Stryder is one of our very-much-indoor cats who loves to escape every time the door opens. Usually he makes it to the edge of the porch or sometimes onto the grass right beside the deck before he is scooped up and tossed gently (always gently) back into the house. The park is very far from our house, for a cat who has never been more than 10 feet away from the nearest door.

I went over for a closer look. He meowed like he knew me. I picked him up. Yup, right size and weight. Same facial expressions. Exact colouring. He must have escaped and followed us here! Holy crap. I had to get him home!

I scooped up the cat, encouraged my children to hurry back onto bikes and into strollers so we could bring our wayward feline home. Filled with a sense of urgency that matched my own, they eagerly abandoned the park and prepared to leave. The cat, however, didn't want to leave. He began to resist me. I had noticed his sharp claws so was reluctant to allow him to struggle too much. Carrying a cat in one hand, while pushing an umbroller with the other, doesn't really work. Especially when the cat really wants down.

I urged Hannah on, "Don't stop! Keep moving. I'm going to drop Stryder." And I did. Several times. I also almost lost Jacob every time I had to let go of the stroller to regain my grip on the cat. He veered off onto the grass, onto driveways, and once right toward the road. This wasn't working. At all. One of my neighbours was getting his mail so I tried to solicit his help. He politely declined and looked at me funny. Then took the long way home. Eventually I had to put the cat down. I decided to check the house first to ensure Stryder was indeed missing and then go back for him if need be.

Upon entering the house, Hannah immediately started counting the cats. "Here's Pekoe. That's one. There's Vader. That's two. Oh no, where's Stryder?"

It really was Stryder. And I left him under someone's van 20 houses away. Before going back out, I decided to feed the cats in case Stryder was simply hiding. I dumped the food in. Pekoe came sauntering down. Then Vader. And, miracle of all miracles, then Stryder.

I hope no one (other than my neighbour who now thinks I'm insane) saw me carrying that cat. I hope its real owners weren't watching. The really sad part is: I think I knew it wasn't Stryder. This cat had too much brown in its fur and its claws were really long when I had just cut Stryder's. Yet, still, I felt compelled to make a spectacle of myself just in case.

The Truth or the Edited Version?

Last night Scott and I attended a kindergarten information night. Part of the process involved handing in a short questionnaire about our child. I understand that the information is meant to be helpful in assisting the teachers to better get to know each child. And I wanted to be honest on that form. I really did.

Q. How does your child handle frustration or disappointment?
The truth: she falls on the floor and has a massive temper tantrum.
A. At home, Hannah will sometimes cry when disappointed but around others can usually hold herself together. When frustrated, she knows to ask for help.

Q. Can your child dress him/herself independently in winter clothes?
The truth: no, not at all. I zip up her snow pants, adjust the shoulder straps, help her with her boots, zip up her coat, adjust her hat so that it fits securely over her ears, and finally I make sure her mittens are tucked tightly into her sleeves.
A. She required some assistance this past winter, but I am confident she will be able to do everything independently this upcoming winter.

Q. Describe your child in social settings.
The truth: she is so shy she becomes non-verbal and can only grunt in reply to questions.
A. She is somewhat shy initially, but once she has adjusted is quite outgoing, friendly, and funny.

For the Sake of the Children

Today was both Jacob's birthday and a national holiday. A happy coincidence which brought us as a family to the Butterfly Conservatory nearby. Before I explain the experience, I should mention that I don't like things that fly. For whatever reason, flapping wings near my face (or any part of my body, for that matter) freak me out. If it's a bigger animal, it seems to be better. I can predict what it's doing or where it's going. But little flapping things make me uneasy. Very uneasy.

Fighting back my own reservations for the sake of my very excited children, I entered the butterfly sanctuary. I was immediately alarmed. I had only taken one step inside and already things were fluttering about. I wasn't even in the trees yet. "Oh look!" I exclaimed to my young, impressionable offspring. "Look at all the butterflies. Wow!"

We continued walking. I continued to exclaim with joy over all the pretty colours, so very many colours flitting around my head. I know I ducked a few times, but I think I managed to hide the increasing fear, no make that panic, that was pulsing through my frightened veins. I told Hannah if she stood still and held out her hand, a butterfly might land on it. She wanted this so desperately. I stood to the side, making sure all parts of me were moving to discourage anything from landing on me. I smiled serenely at my hopeful daughter while silently enduring an internal panic attack. I wondered if it would be offensive to swat the closer ones away.

It's very difficult to smile and speak cheerfully when you're hyperventilating. I can't wait to see the pictures Scott took. I'm sure I look downright thrilled in every one. But the kids loved it. And in the end, that's all that really matters.

Apple Pie, Here I Come!

In my last post, I mentioned that Hannah made a comment about hoping one day I would make apple pie for her. And she's right. I will. To top it off, I will make the crust from scratch and use fresh apples for the filling.

"Isn't that outside of your realm of abilities?" you might ask.

The answer is: Yes. But not for long. Because I am starting a new and exciting project called Project: Martha Stewart Me. In the short span of one year, I am going to transform myself into the type of domestic champion I've always wanted to be. The type of mother who can make an apple pie for her daughter. Without breaking a sweat.

To follow me on this ambitious journey, visit my new blog:
http://marthastewartme.blogspot.com/

I am not abandoning this blog - I am simply adding another blog. Because that's what supermoms can do.

Through Hannah's Eyes

This is my official Mother's Day entry. Which means I'm either incredibly busy, or incredibly lazy. This year, Hannah made me a lovely little booklet where she had to finish pre-established sentence starters all about her mommy. Here is what she knows/feels about me:

My mom has brown hair.
This was followed by a picture of some brown strands of hair mixed in with a few blue ones for good measure. Hmmm, must be time for highlights. I always thought I was a blonde.

My mom has brown eyes.
I know they're not exactly a brilliant blue, but that's what my ID says. Brown? Really?

I like when my mom makes apple pie.
This was my favourite. I don't recall EVER making apple pie. When I asked Hannah about it, she said: "I know. I just thought you would one day."

I like to go for a walk with my mom.
On this page, she drew a picture of 2 stick people holding hands. Ahhh... then she informed me it was a picture of her walking with her dad.

I love you mom!
Okay, this one really was for me. I could tell by the uneven ears on the stick person she drew, brown hair and all.

Democracy... Part 2

I left off with me standing at the edge of the parking lot, half-dropping Jacob, while Hannah was having a meltdown on the sidewalk behind me. I desperately needed to get Jacob to the car, partly so that I wouldn't drop him and partly because I would be much better equipped to deal with Hannah if I had my hands free. But I couldn't go to the car because I was worried that Hannah would follow me into the busy parking lot. I continued to smile at the sympathetic passers-by while pondering what to do next.

Finally, I resorted to old stand-by from Hannah's terrible two's. I counted to 3. And miraculously, it worked! She took my hand and stumbled across the parking lot, still sobbing, still making a scene, but at least headed in the right direction. She climbed into the car and I went to the other side to buckle Jacob in. Ah, one down. I went back to her side and phase 2 kicked in. She arched her back, tried getting out of her seat, and made it virtually impossible to do up her buckles. Somehow, I succeeded, and we were on our way home.

I took the opportunity of having both kids restrained for a little lecture. I talked to Hannah about her embarrassing behaviour using language far too sophisticated for a 4 year-old. She, however, agreed with everything I said and grudgingly offered an apology. It was one of those "sorry"s that was more grunted than spoken, but I took it anyway. And the next day, when she smothered me with kisses, I knew that was her true way of asking for forgiveness.

One for Democracy, Zero for Motherhood

I had one of those busy sort of days where you feel like you're doing a lot, but accomplishing nothing. By the time I left work, I was late picking up the kids. More rushing around. Then, before going home, I planned to quickly stop at the local school and vote like a good citizen. I stopped at our house to zip in and grab my voter's card and that's where things began to fall apart for me. I couldn't find it. The kids were waiting in the car in the driveway so I felt a certain sense of urgency. And I have this "thing" where it drives me absolutely insane when I can't find something, which unfortunately happens all the time. I become obsessive about finding it, even if I no longer need it, because where could it go? It's not like things just disappear!

At any rate, I thought there was a strong possibility it was in the garage because I thought we had stored a box of "office stuff" in there while clearing the house out to make it look good as it's up for sale. So, I opened the garage door and waved to the kids in the car so they could see where I was. Mistake. Hannah didn't care about seeing me, she only cared about seeing her bike, which she now wanted to ride so she began to cry hysterically because she was trapped in her car seat instead of on her bike.

I gave up on the voter's card and headed to the school with ID in hand, hoping I also had some proof of address in my bag. I did. But it was a photocopy. Which means I obviously had the original in there somewhere, too. But, no. Apparently, I did not. So I spent another 10 minutes going through all of the crap in my bag trying to find a piece of paper that wasn't there. If you're counting, that's twice in like 20 minutes that I hadn't been able to find something. Minor annoyance now turned to major frustration.

I went into the school anyway and discovered that all I needed to vote was my driver's license. Ah, so easy. But I still want to find that #$%! voter's card and the original of that photocopy! See? Obsessive. I'll probably dream about it tonight.

As we were leaving the school, Hannah decided that she didn't want to go home. In front of dozens of good, voting citizens she had a full-out, fall-on-the-floor tantrum. It continued all the way out to the car where nice people smiled at me with that sympathetic I'm-so-glad-that's-not-my-kid smile. I smiled back. By the time we got to the parking lot I was ready to drive away without her. She had to hold my hand to get to our car safely. She didn't want to go to the car. People were watching. I was carrying Jacob and already half-dropping him. Things weren't looking good.

Alas, this post is too long... Part 2 will have to wait.

Old McDonald Had a Cardboard Bucket...

Hannah confuses Old McDonald and his farm with Ronald McDonald and his food. Hence, McDonald's is always referred to as Old McDonald's. A common misnomer, I'm sure. And sort of a cute one. At any rate, tonight, she was very excited to find out we were going to Old McDonald's for dinner and that she could have chocolate milk with her meal. The reason we were going to Old McDonald's in the first place was because were going to be out and it would be past dinner time by the time we got home. Hannah in a car around dinner or bed time is not usually a promising combination...

Nonetheless, we arrived without incident and were happily eating our meals while I thought, "This is nice. Hannah is so happy with her chocolate milk and her little toy and the great box it came in. Jacob is in heaven because he has his own little container of ketchup to dip everything into. Ah, what a pleasant family treat."

Then Hannah told Scott she couldn't eat her chicken nuggets because her tummy hurt. Uh oh. Then her face got the I'm-about-to-puke look. Ever a quick-thinking man, Scott grabbed the cardboard happy meal box and instructed Hannah to use it if she was going to be sick. She didn't want to, but after being assured that was what the box was for, readily leaned over and was sick. Then she was sick again. And again.

I watched in part horror, part fascination as the box filled up. And just as I was inwardly giving thanks for the presence of the box, the bottom fell out. I will leave the ensuing details to your imagination. Although Scott did mention a delightful feeling of warmth as the mess soaked into his legs and buttocks. I'm sure our neighbouring tables were thrilled. As was the poor boy on clean-up detail. To be fair, Scott performed most of the clean-up, but still, you should have seen this kid go crazy with his disinfectant spray.

I'm just thankful I chose to sit on the other side of the table. And Jacob? He watched the whole ordeal while stuffing fries and ketchup into his mouth with clocklike regularity. It's like he was at a spectator sport.

Another family outing. Another precious memory.

You Don't Need to Tell Me

I do many things wrong as a mother, but today I thought I was doing something right. I was building my young, impressionable daughter's self-confidence by praising the cozy bed/tent she made for her stuffed animal.

"Oh, that looks cozy!" I said, eager to laud her efforts.

Her response: "I know. You don't need to tell me that. Okay, mom? You don't need to tell me because I already know. So don't say that."

Alrighty then.

Not 30 seconds later, she asked me, "Do you like my bed I made? Doesn't it look cozy? Look at all the blankets."

Biting my tongue, I answered with glee, "Oh, yes. That looks cozy. I wish I could sleep in it."

No wonder I rarely seem to get it right. I didn't realize how often the rules changed.

Snowman Woes and Dinner Doldrums

As I was driving home from work today, I felt a little energetic. I had had a productive day and was ready to continue accomplishing things on the home front. When I picked up the kids, I made the uncharacteristic decision to actually play outside with them. I helped Hannah build a snowman... oh, wait - this is where the happy version ends.

I started to help Hannah build a snowman but apparently I was doing everything wrong as I was continually corrected by my master snowman critic. And not corrected nicely either. Eventually, I wandered back into the house to start dinner while the kids romped in the yard. Then Jacob's mitten fell off and he fell in the snow and couldn't get up because he couldn't put his bare hand on the crazy foreign substance of snow. I trekked out to help him. While trying to deal with raw chicken in the kitchen, I was summoned outside at least 5 times to rescue Hannah who was having snowman catastrophes that led to such hysterics they simply could not be ignored. At least not if I didn't want the neighbours investigating with phone calls to various officials.

By this time, I had Jacob back in the house since he was clearly not capable of navigating snowdrifts independently and Hannah was not strong to lift him out every time he got stuck. Needless to stay, in between cooking dinner and running outside to deal with Hannah, I watched as Jacob single-handedly emptied the corner cupboard, dumping cereal, crackers, and anything else with crumbs all over the house. He also cried a lot because I wouldn't let him have a granola bar.

When Hannah finally joined us in the house, she was experiencing PMS-like symptoms that led to a lot of crying over - well, I still don't really know what it was over. What wasn't it over? Then Jacob started asking for "milk/juice" and had a freakout when I gave him the wrong one.

By the time I had dinner on the table, I was ready to call it a night. The house was destroyed, my kids were emotional wrecks, and I could barely lift my fork to my mouth. So much for all that energy. My much-anticipated and long-awaited progeny sucked it out of me and left me with a deficit. All in the course of 1 1/2 hours.

The Chocolate Chips Didn't Know

The other day, after a nice bath, Hannah was a really big helper and cleaned up the whole living room. As a reward (or maybe incentive, I can't really remember now...), I let her have a few chocolate chips. Four, to be exact. I know chocolate chips are hardly the currency in which I should be trading with my 3 1/2 year-old, but they seem to work. After all, it's what I would want, too. At any rate, after finishing her reward, she looked up at me and asked for more. Being prudent, I politely refused. However, I couldn't help but comment on the mess those four chocolate chips had made of her face and hands. "And you just had a bath!" I added, for good measure.

Hannah, who usually has a reply for everything, was quick to point out, "Well, the chocolate chips didn't know I had a bath."

Putting the Yoga in my Pants

I have a pair of comfy pants that I call my yoga pants. They are not yoga pants, but it seems cooler to call them that, than say, sweat pants. At any rate, I do not do yoga. Or really any exercise for that matter, but that is neither here nor there, and certainly not relevant to this entry. The yoga component, however, is very relevant. To me, yoga suggests a calm, meditative state. Control over one's body and mind. It is purposeful and reflective. But mainly, just calm.

The reason I've begun to contemplate yoga is that lately I've been the opposite of calm. I am frenzied. I am impatient. I am sometimes irrational. I have moments where I think I might actually be losing my mind, or important parts of it at the very least. Allow me to describe one such scenario...

I put Jacob to bed and for some reason he struggles to fall asleep. This results in a few trips to his room before Scott and I finally retire for the night. I am just about to drift off when I hear him start crying, again. Reluctantly, I drag myself out from under my warm cocoon of blankets and comfort him. He snuggles against my shoulder and I am flooded with motherly love. I put him back in his crib and he drifts into slumber. I also return to bed and drift into slumber. Then, suddenly, I am rudely awakened by a crying baby. Scott goes in and does the comfort thing. I fall back asleep. Then, I hear that piercing wail again. I'm feeling something quite different from motherly love. It's my turn to go in and it's 1:00 in the morning. I settle him. I'm back in bed at 1:04. I close my eyes. He starts again. It's 1:11. We decide to let him cry. He doesn't stop. By 1:36 I'm seriously considering the idea of sound-proofing my room. Then I toy with the idea of moving Jacob to the basement. Finally, Scott goes in and gets him back to sleep. I'm so wired it takes me an hour to fall asleep again. Only to be awakened at 4:00. Are you kidding me? Forget molars, this kid better be getting his wisdom teeth!

And it was during those not-so-calm moments in the night, where my mind was racing and thinking very unfriendly thoughts, that I first courted the idea of yoga. I actually tried to meditate right there at 1:27 in the morning, with my son screaming in the next room, but it didn't work. I really think I might need to do some yoga-ish exercises to regain my equilibrium. After all, I already have the pants.

The Truth Shall Make You Cry

Last night I experienced an interesting "event" with Hannah. It wasn't meant to be a big deal, but for various reasons, it became the source of many tears. Hard tears. The kind of tears that typically accompany terror or absolute grief. And while they did make me feel some sympathy for her, I also had to hold back a smile...

The background:
Hannah brought home some chocolate hearts from daycare. I told her she could have one for dessert. She opened the wrapper anyway "just so she could see it". I reminded her she was not to eat it until after dinner. I was very clear.

The middle:
While I was cooking dinner, I looked over to see Hannah licking her chocolate heart. Upon seeing me seeing her, she put it down and said something to the effect of: "I know. I'm not eating it. I just had to taste a little piece of it."

I continued cooking. Eventually, it was time to set the table. I asked Hannah to help, and in doing so, happened to glance at the table and noticed the chocolate heart was gone. I said, "What happened to your chocolate?"

Hannah replied, "I ate - I don't know. Where did it go?" But her eyes were already filling with tears.

"Did you eat it?" I asked.

"No!" More tears welling up.

"Are you being honest with me?" I pressed. "If I looked in your tummy, would I see the chocolate heart?" (And this is where things really got messy.)

The tears spilled over. Her little mouth was quivering as she fought for control. "I don't want you to look in my tummy. Leave me alone!"

The end:
Eventually, with some more probing from my end, Hannah resolved that it must have been one of the cats who ate her chocolate. She stuck to her story. Deny, deny, deny. But those tears! And when I suggested I look in one of the cat's tummies, she cried even harder.

I was trying to be light-hearted about the whole thing, but at the same time, I wanted her to be truthful. And I still don't fully understand what all the crying was about. Was it because she knew she was guilty and she felt that awful about it? Was it because she was terrified of me "looking into her tummy"? Was it because not only had she done something wrong, but then she was caught lying about it that her conscience was just overwhelmed?

I'll never really know. But it's not often I see her that distraught. The disturbing part is, she never did cave. She maintained her innocence throughout, even while her face gave her away.

P.S. A day later, she continues to insist one of the cats must have done it.

A Rubber Room

Today I really needed a rubber room. Jacob woke up with a new personality and it was all I could do to remember I loved him. He moved from doing one bad thing to another. He was destructive. He engaged in dangerous behaviours. And he whined. A lot. Oh, and he growled, too. It might have been funny, if it wasn't so damn annoying.

At a certain point, after numerous mishaps on the main floor I took him up to his room to play. A contained room. Completely child-proofed. He immediately began climbing on his bookshelf. Dangerous. Then he started throwing his books around. Destructive. Then he tried to climb up on his new wooden barn. Dangerous and destructive. When I stopped that, he tried to pull his quilt off the wall. Just plain crazy.

At Hannah's prompting, I put him in his crib. An even more contained space. Zero hazards. But within seconds he was doing his level best to climb out. And I could see he was going to be successful, given half a chance. The last thing I wanted was for him to discover he could escape from his crib. So I pulled him out and it was at that moment that I began to wish, no long, for a rubber room. Was there nowhere to put this unruly child?

The day didn't get any better with the passage of time. On the way to Costco, Jacob had a 6 1/2 minute nap, which of course replaced his regular 1 1/2 hour nap in the afternoon. As we approached bedtime, I thought a warm, relaxing bath with lavender baby soap would lull my little monster into a sleepy haze. He got into the bath screaming (because I stopped him from climbing in fully clothed), and exited the bath screaming (because he presumably wanted to stay in the now-cold water even though he was clearly shivering). I put on cozy p.j.s and let him play for a bit before bed. He pooed his pants. For the 4th time that day. Finally, it was time for bed. More screaming. I came downstairs, turned the monitor off, and poured myself a drink. Five minutes later, blissful silence.

In the morning, in had better be a different kid that wakes up in that crib. Or I'll be the one needing to be put in a rubber room.

Don't Waste the Sun

Today I asked Hannah to open the curtains in the dining room and then to turn off the lights. "Why?", she asked, in keeping with her constant need to question every utterance, sight, thought, fleeting feelings, etc.

"Well," I answered, "We don't want to waste the lights. So if we open the curtains, we can let the sun in and then we won't need to have the lights on."

She thought for a minute, and then replied, "But we don't want to waste the sun!"

I started to explain the concept of renewable resources, but then decided simply to agree with her. Don't waste the sun. It sounds like good advice, in its own right.

Off With Her Hair!

Hannah's hair had begun to become unruly; yet, I was hesitant to have it cut. After all, those were her baby curls. It was long, and often looked messy. It was hard to comb, and looked awful if it wasn't pulled into tightly controlled pony tails. Still... to cut it off? The thought filled me with mixed emotions. It definitely needed it, but I didn't want to do it. Her long hair was part of who she was. And again, those curls - she'd had that hair since she was a baby!

Alas, we finally made the appointment and cut off a good 5 inches. And it didn't even hurt. I'm ashamed to admit it, but part of me thought I might actually cry. In the end, I hardly blinked. And really, it looks so much better! I might have a tinge of nostalgia for her long locks (mostly because my own hair has never managed to grow past a certain length), but in the end, I'm glad we did it. Actually, I kind of wish we'd done it sooner. Like years sooner.

Finally, because some people have bemoaned the lack of pictures with this blog, I am including before and after shots (taken by salon staff). Unfortunately, you can't really see how long her hair was in the before shot. But take my word for it, when wet, it reached her waist.

Cue the Hallelujah Chorus

I can hardly believe I'm writing this, but it appears Hannah is potty trained! Over the Christmas break, she started voluntarily sitting on the toilet (skip the potty - as per her Ph.D. research, she wanted the real thing). Then one day she peed on it and told Scott that was his Christmas present. Then, using her camel-esque bladder, she started staying dry all day despite not going to the bathroom until late afternoon. We don't even have to ask/remind her to use the toilet. She just gets up and goes as needed. And today, she dressed herself, including underwear. Underwear! I had to act nonchalant, but imagine, if you will, the silent rejoicing.

So it's done. And in the end, she didn't need us at all. Almost too easy, if you don't count the previous half a year (or more) of me hoping, stressing, cajoling, etc. If you erase the memories of the Helen Keller episodes, the underwear fakes, and all the other devastating missteps leading to this point.

And to all the people who said, "Relax. It will happen. Nobody goes to kindergarten in diapers." - you were right. I didn't believe it and, to be honest, I'm still pinching myself!