I'm Losing It.

Most of the time I am laid back, easy going - although I guess it does depend who you talk to - but I also have one hell of a temper. It rarely shows itself now, for the most part because I don't have the inclination or the energy (mainly the energy) to get too worked up about something. However, it is still there, simmering just below the surface and today my children got it with both barrels.

I don't know why, but they have been abnormally fractious this week, even mutinous, so I am already on a short fuse. This afternoon they hadn't even got in the door before a fight broke out over who brought in the mail and who knocked over a lunchbox of all things. By now I'd had enough, so this time it was my turn to lose it and I pulled an "Exorcist" on them. I had the crazed eyes, the monstrous face, and the demonic voice - especially the voice, the harsh guttural sound that carries. I'm sure the neighbours heard every single word of my frenzied tirade.  I wouldn't have been surprised if I had sprouted horns and sported cloven hooves, I think I may have even managed the 360 degree head spin, all I was missing was the projectile vomit. I was a woman unhinged.

For once my children were absolutely speechless, while I spat out recriminations with the staccato of gunfire. They've seen me mad before, but I don't think ever to that degree. They kept looking accusingly at each other, none of them wanting to accept the responsibility of being the one who had tipped me in to the abyss of hysteria. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Grady mouthing at Lindsay "What the ???" Only to see her mouth back "It's your fault".  Sid being Sid, was more concerned about dinner, and was anxiously casting glances around the kitchen in the hopes of seeing some kind of meal preparation. Usually her first question when she gets home is "What's for dinner?" but she hadn't had an opportunity to ask that yet, and I could see that was weighing heavy on her mind. Too bad! . 

After I had finished my castigation, I sent them off in different directions and they all crept out of the kitchen.  I start hurling pots and pans around, banging them on the counter for effect as I prepare dinner. I resisted the urge to spike the food, but only because Rob may have to take leftovers for his lunch.  I don't think I had ever been in this high dudgeon before. ( I love that phrase and couldn't resist the opportunity to use it, might be my only chance).  On the plus side the kids were tiptoeing around me, and being incredibly civil to each other. It may have been the result of post traumatic shock but I didn't rightly care. If it meant I got a quiet evening, I was all for it

Things were going swimmingly for while, until Sid (the only one brave enough to speak) who was watching TV had the audacity to ask me if I had been on the Titanic. On a day like today, I actually wish I had.

So on that note, have a great weekend everybody, and I'll be back & hopefully calmer, on Monday.

Why Our Daughter Hates Us

Our eldest daughter is a lovely girl, but a bit of a princess. She loves her horse but is a bit fussy over when she rides, it can't be windy, it can't be cold, it can't be muddy, there can't be an "R" in the month etc etc.  When the stars align and the conditions are right, she usually has homework.  Consequently she hadn't been out to the stables for a while.

This past weekend, Lindsay was in the bathroom when the rest of us left for the barn, calling out goodbye as we departed, concluding she wasn't interested in joining us. When Lindsay emerged we were gone. Knowing how I don't like to be kept waiting, and will often pretend to leave by driving around the block, she assumed I had done it again. She sat out on the front doorstep for 20 minutes before realising we weren't coming back.  We copped an earful when we arrived home over an hour later. Tears, runny nose, hand wringing, (hormones), all in all an Oscar worthy performance. Rob felt terrible, but I'm sorry to say I just laughed. I dunno, maybe I'm just sympathy deficient.

It wasn't the first time Lindsay has had to deal with abandonment issues. One day after a swim meet she had asked me to pick her up from school. I arrived as the bus was offloading it's passengers. No sign of Lindsay, and I had left my phone behind. I sat and waited, but finally decided I must have missed her and drove back home. She wasn't there, but the phone was ringing, it was my husband. "Where are you ?" he asked  (I don't like to state the obvious but if he is calling the house phone and I answer, determining my location from that isn't rocket science ... just saying). "Why didn't you pick up Lindsay ?"  I explained I was there, she wasn't. It turned out that she had gone to her locker to get her stuff and exited the building just in time to see the my van leaving the parking lot. Thinking I was doing it to wind her up (that she can believe this, really doesn't say much for me as a parent) so she legged down the road after me. Then when I didn't stop, she ratted me out to her father.  That evening it was all over twitter & Facebook, about how I'd driven off and left her. I tried to apologize, I really did, but I think the laughter belied the sincerity of my words. It was days before she'd speak to me again, but you know with a teen that isn't always such a bad thing!.

I happened to be telling my friend Helene this story tonight, and she told me I'm missing the sensitivity gene.  I think she may be on to something. 

My Day So Far

Not a typo, this really is my day so far... at only 10:06 A.M.

I wake up, go to throw on some clothes because Rob needs me to move the van. Something's not right, I start sniffing and realise the cat - who has recently been acting out - has peed on the shirt and jeans I left on the floor. That sets me right off, f***ing cat this, f***ing cat that. I am not happy. Rob uses this opportunity to give me a scathing lecture, "If you do insist on leaving your clothes on the floor where I trip over them, yadda yadda yadda" What ? You have to be kidding me. So it's now my fault the cat used my clothing as a litter box ? Not the direction you want to be heading in darling!

I find clean clothes and head downstairs, just as Sid comes running  in the kitchen, stubs her toe and promptly drops the F bomb, in a perfectly enunciated English accent. That prompts another lecture from my dear husband, this time about my potty mouth.  He is now firmly entrenched in "Death Wish" territory. The cat pees on my clothes - obviously I haven't moved on from that episode yet - and he has the audacity to complain about me teaching Sid swear words. He should appreciate the fact she is expanding her vocabulary in such a colourful manner.

Now that I'm in the kitchen I realise something doesn't smell right. This time it's not my clothes. The smell is emanating from the wall separating the kitchen from the dining room. It is the unmistakable odor of dead mouse. Old house, plaster walls, it's not the first time a mouse has got trapped inside and died.  Believe me, the smell is like nothing you can imagine. Brilliant. We have only two options, either put up with it until it fades, usually after a few days or knock holes indiscriminately in the wall and try to locate the decaying corpse. I tried that once, it didn't end well. How was I to know it was a load bearing wall ?  So plan A it is. Spend as little time as possible in the kitchen. Suits me, I've already had to make dinner twice this week, and that's two times too many as far as I'm concerned.

By now, I should be drawing to a close, after all just how much crap can I squeeze in, in a single morning, apparently one more little episode, and we are back to the cats. This time it is the latest addition, the one I picked up on Sid's birthday when I went to buy a cake - a tale for another day. He is way overdue to go in for the big snip, but I needed to pay for the van repairs first. Anyway he is a small cat - not his testicles tho' I swear they're bigger than my son's - probably a totally inappropriate thing to say, but maybe if Grady didn't run around the house with his underwear on his head instead of where it should be I wouldn't notice these things.

Anyway back to that cat. Yesterday, despite my best efforts to prevent it he got into a fight with a local bully, and ended up with a bite on his rump. Great, the last time that happened - only a few weeks ago - the bite abscessed and cost me a small fortune in vet bills. This morning, doesn't he go out and do the same thing again. So instead of sitting down with a well deserved coffee and the Daily Telegraph crossword, (an indulgence before the daily drudgery)  I am - much to the amusement of the neighbours - running in circles around the front garden with a bucket of water trying to chase off the attacking cat. Yes, I know it would have been easier to keep my cat indoors, but try explaining that to the 7 year old who let him out.  By the way, I totally missed with the water - got my cat instead of the stray, but at least it had the desired effect. The stray cat legged it, and mine was so stunned from his cold shower he just froze (no pun intended) and I was able to kick his furry little arse back in the house, where he is going to stay from now on.

There you have it, my day so far. Can life get any better than this ?

You Don't Call Me Normal Anymore !

Today is one of those days when I seriously wonder if I wouldn't be better off in a padded cell, nice and cosy in a straitjacket. I also have to question my children. Is it better that they fight to the death ? Or have them get along and then gang up against me ?

This morning I dropped Lindsay and her friend off at high school, and return to get the others. I pull in the driveway just in time to catch Sid hot-footing across the front garden (in socks no shoes), in a desperate attempt to snitch on her brother. "Grady called me a bitch" she screams at the top of her voice. At that moment a disembodied voice floats out of an upstairs  window "She called me an asshole first". So much for keeping up the pretense of normalcy.

So now I have ten minutes before I have to take them to their school and they both want me to test them on their spelling words which are due that morning. No time to do them separately so I conduct the tests simultaneously - big mistake. Between the squabbling, pinching and name calling they learned to spell a couple of bonus words that weren't on their tests.

I had an hour or so quietly in an otherwise empty house, before I realised I'd received 4 texts from Lindsay, who wasn't feeling well and wanted to come home. Am I a bad mother for swearing a blue streak when I knew I'd have to go and pick her up ?   So much for the quiet, peaceful day I had envisioned, in which I had planned to decorate and turn our house into an Easter Wonderland, at this rate it was more like Alice in bloody Wonderland, with me as the freaking Mad Hatter.  

Long story short, I am still trying to decorate when I have to pick the other two up from school at the end of the day. Past differences are forgotten, and it would appear this is when the little sods embarked on their collaboration. Entirely ignorant of this turn of events, I go out to affix a decoration to the front door only to have the ass-wipes lock me out. I turn around to find them in the front window pointing at me and laughing hysterically. However, I soon wiped the smiles off their faces when I told them I ran over the Easter Bunny. It doesn't pay to mess with me.

What Parents Won't Discuss

Being a parent is a bit like being a Freemason, we are a secretive bunch. As such, we discuss many topics that non-parent people are not privy too - until it is too late, and they suffer through their own strange initiation of childbirth, becoming parents themselves. At that point they are welcomed with open arms.  

Most parents partake in your typical one-upmanship, if not the public and somewhat exaggerated display of, "My little Johnny was walking by 6 months and playing Beethoven by 2 years", then at least the covert kind, the condescending thoughts of  "Look at that kid, he must be 2 years old and still in diapers. What are his parents thinking ?". This allows you to take a smug satisfaction in your own parenting skills, and find comfort in the fact that there is someone out there worse than you. Believe me when another parent (other than your best friends - and possibly even then) smiles indulgently and comments "How cute !" they are really thinking "Loser ! ".

What many people don't realise, is there is another kind of strange one-upmanship that goes on behind closed doors, the kind where parents share their not so politically correct child rearing suggestions, the worse, the better, so to speak. In fact these are the type of discussions that are not really meant to leave the room.

So, with names withheld for obvious reasons, here are some of the parenting tips that I have received from my friends over the years. I should add these parents have all raised wonderful children, who have taken their place within polite society - not a delinquent among them. I stress, these are not my recommendations, however I will admit, some I have tried, others I haven't.

Ignore the small print on the medicine bottle, it is perfectly acceptable - in fact highly encouraged - to mix "Tempra" with other medications - cough, cold, gravol etc - maybe not all at once, just one or two. It knocks them clean out for a few hours.

Just last weekend, an old friend (now a doting grandmother) told me that every child deserves one good beating, so they have a benchmark, a standard from which to judge future threats and punishments.  I really think she was joking, but then again her four children were remarkably well behaved. However, there does seem to be a recurring theme. Another (nameless) friend, confided that although she had studied all the traditional books on child rearing, the only thing they were good for was to use them to smack her offspring upside the head. Again, I'm only repeating what I heard !

Harking back to my childhood - and contrary to what my son believes, I was not a cave dweller -  my elderly grandmother lived with us. She was pint sized, but with a fiery temper. She kept a hazel stick by the back door and thwacked  me with it as often as she could. Her reasoning was simple, if I had committed some transgression then I deserved it, and if I hadn't, well it was supposed to act as a deterrent.  Whenever she broke one of these sticks, my dear father went straight out and cut her another one. The funny thing is, she had 6 grandchildren altogether, and she always maintained I was her favourite ! Go figure.

One tip I can identify with, and that is to bribe your children from an early age. It doesn't matter with what, chocolate, toys, TV, money.  Whatever motivates them. After all, as they say, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.  Sometimes to stay sane,  you just have to resort to these more devious measures to get your own way.  Believe me, every parent does it, some just won't admit it.

If all else fails do the decent thing and lie. In fact do that anyway. If it makes you feel any better, think of it as creative lateral thinking. I'm a firm believer in "Do as I say, not as I do". Your children don't need to know if you smoked, (Never), partook in underage drinking (Of course not)", how old you were when you first started dating (25), or when you lost your virginity (On your wedding night). You see, if you  practice these answers in front of a mirror, you are all set. The only thing I was never able to lie about convincingly to my children was brussel sprouts, I hate them, always have and always will, I can't bring myself to lie about something as heinous that, but any other topic is fair game.

Only Boring Women Have Clean Houses

The title is not an original catchphrase, nor do I claim it to be. However, it is a sentiment that I wholeheartedly embrace. As far as I am concerned cleaning is right up there with root canals and ironing (and I think my views are pretty clear on that topic), on my list of things I don't like to do.

Unfortunately, my husband doesn't share my views, which quite honestly is really too bad for him. When he worked close by, he would often clean up as soon as he walked in the door, but now, when he doesn't get home until much later in the evening, he doesn't have the time or inclination. However that doesn't stop him from making thinly veiled references to the state of the house (utter chaos). Exactly what does he expect ? Three kids, four cats and a dog who regularly traverse the house with less than clean feet, and some of them also shed (not the children I hasten to add).  Our back yard is 1/2 acre of mud in the spring time and grass clippings in the summer - you can hardly expect a pristine floor. Of course that doesn't excuse the smudges on the walls and dust on the coffee table - that is just sheer laziness on my part.

I once had a friend (note the past tense), who positively lived for housework. Her daughter was in school full days, and she spent her time cleaning and cooking. I'm not really sure what she had to clean, because her husband and child were neat freaks themselves, they didn't have any pets, but she kept cleaning anyway. Her husband liked to boast that their floors were always so spotless, you could eat off them. But in reality, who would want to do that ? I can never understand that attitude. I invested in a dining room table and chairs for a reason. Precisely so you don't have to eat off the floor, ergo no pressing need to keep said floor in immaculate condition. I have always wanted to use the word "ergo", and I thought  there was a good a place as any!

Anyway, back to my husband's thinly veiled hints. He may think he is being subtle, but he's not. News flash honey - leaving the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the bedroom doorway where I can't fail to trip over it, is NOT subtle in any sense of the word. To be fair, I have been known to drag the vacuum out of the closet on occasion, or in this case retrieve it from where I kicked it clear across the hall this morning when I didn't look where I was going. I reluctantly dragged it through the house getting it hooked up on furniture in every room, and that was before I even turned it on. So after wasting over an hour of my day - it shouldn't take that long, because we have a small home, but I am easily sidetracked - I can report the house may not be spic-and-span, but it is clean enough, which is as good as you're gonna get.  By the time my kids get home, it won't even be that, so all in all, it was a total exercise in futility.

On the subject of kids, take this morning for example, when Sid has chocolate milk with her breakfast. She sneezed when she was drinking it and snorted chocolate milk all over the kitchen. I'm not sure how she managed that feat, unless she borrowed a move from the movie "The Exorcist" and swiveled her head around 360 degrees.  Of course, she and Grady think it is the funniest thing since the Three Stooges, but it doesn't occur to either of them to clean it up until I come down and start my "I'm your mother, not your maid" rant.  A whole roll of paper towels later - my fault for not supervising the clean up - you'd think she'd have got it all, but no, here it is the afternoon and I am still finding traces of chocolate milk, on the cupboards, counters, wall etc. 

So to sum up, this is not a clean house, and my life is never boring. Frustrating perhaps, and chaotic, definitely deranged, disorganized and tumultuous, but never ever boring!  Have a great weekend, I'll be back on Monday.

Ants In My ... Hands ???

Just when I thought I'd seen it all, my son still manages to astonish me, and not necessarily in a good way. New material for the blog perhaps, but it doesn't do much for my overall sanity.

So here is me yesterday evening, in the kitchen cooking dinner. If I'm to be absolutely truthful, I was actually reheating a meal that Rob had cooked previously and frozen, but there is no reason to get bogged down with details. Anyway, picture me at the stove, when I notice out of the corner of my eye, Grady quietly making his way to the back door, when he is supposed to be doing his homework. "Where are you going ?" I ask, and he tells me he just has to grab something from the clubhouse (aka the playhouse Rob built on stilts a couple of years ago) and that he'll be right back. Sure enough, a few minutes later the back door is flung open, the cats that were waiting to be fed, effectively scatter, and Grady runs through the kitchen yelling "I have ants in my hands".  Convinced there is something wrong with my hearing, I ignore it, close the door (I swear the boy was born in a barn) and get on with helping Sid with her homework. Two minutes later, Grady is back at the door again. "What about your homework ?" I yell after his retreating back. Too late, he doesn't answer me.

I am firmly embroiled in helping Sid with her current event (which I hate), and therefore don't pay any attention to Grady when he returns to the house. That was a big mistake.  When I finally make it back into the kitchen, I see Grady at the counter where I was still trying to prepare dinner, and I notice he has stuff scattered all over the place.  I ask him what he was doing and why all the mess ? "Don't worry mum, I'm just filling my ant farm"  he replies nonchalantly.  "You're doing what? I screech in horror. "I said, I am filling my ant farm" he enunciates his words slowly as if I didn't understand him the first time. I understand alright, there are f***ing ants running helter-skelter all over my damn counter. Why here ? Why now ?  He got the (empty) farm kit for Christmas (what in the hell was I thinking??)  and now out of the blue he decides to catch himself some ants.

Of course this commotion catches Sid's attention and any attempts at homework are forgotten in the scramble to clear the ants off the counter. I'm pretty sure that there was some extra protein in the dinner that night - if you know what I mean. I suppose I should be thankful that it was ants and not worms. I can handle mice, spiders don't bother me, but I hate worms with a passion, ever since my father told me that I used to eat them in the garden when I was a toddler. That of course begs the question, why the hell didn't he stop me ?

Meanwhile at 7:30 this morning Grady was chasing a screaming Lindsay around the house with a huge spider on the end of a long stick.  Honestly, I don't know if that boy is going to end up being a scientific genius or a criminal mastermind.

Fight On The Go

Ah, 70 degrees, in March in Canada. Definitely a sign of global warming. On the plus side I get to roll down the windows of my van, and feel the breeze through my carefully coloured hair.  Ironically, the air conditioning is about the only thing that still works in my van, but I don't like using it and prefer instead to have the windows open. However that presents me with a new dilemma. During the winter with the windows closed and the radio turned up, other motorists can't hear the screeching and hollering that goes on inside the vehicle - my children don't just fight at home, we have take out service too. Usually the fights start in the driveway before they are buckled up and chained down. Unfortunately once we are on the move, they know I'm powerless to stop the altercation, and my threat of "Someone is going to get hurt, and I'm going to do the hurting" usually falls on deaf ears.

Take this evening for instance, I have to drive Lindsay to work, Rob isn't home yet, so the younger two have to come along for the ride.  We are still in the driveway, in fact I haven't even put the key in the ignition, when in the rear view mirror I notice Sid disappearing over the middle row of seats and start wailing on her brother who is sitting in the back. I try to keep them separated for a reason. The next thing I know Grady hops out of the van, indignantly refusing to go anywhere with his sister, who by now is back in her seat looking very smug. Grady's move incenses Lindsay, who grabs hold of his shirt through the window, pulls him closer and yells "Grady, get in the freaking van, I have to get to work". (I'm not convinced the word she used was actually "freaking", but it was all a bit chaotic, so I'll give her the benefit of the doubt). Meanwhile, I haven't had the opportunity to say even one word yet.

To my surprise Grady gets in the van without further argument, but he must have done something to Sidney on the  way to his seat, because all I hear next is a long intake of breath followed by a seemingly endless ear-piercing scream that resonates through the van and echoes around the neighbourhood. My exclamation to Grady of "What the hell did you do to your sister?" is followed quickly by "Shut up Sid , the windows are open!". We are still sitting in the driveway. A quick pause for breath, and the scream continues, so I have to make a decision. Do we stay put until Sid calms down, which could take a while depending on the severity of the injury inflicted by her brother, or alternatively drive off and subject the rest of the neighbourhood to her wailing.  

Trying to determine who starts these fight is an exercise in futility, much like the "What came first, the chicken or the egg ?" debate. I asked Sidney why she was crying - because Grady punched her. I ask Grady why he punched his sister - because she kicked him. I asked Sid why she kicked him - because he "pantsed" her, and so on and so on. I never did determine who started it, but in the long run it doesn't really matter. I am convinced I am raising two little psychopaths, so I can only hope that one day I can find a good therapist, or at least a one that doesn't charge too much.  

After reading this to my husband for pre-post approval, he points out to me that the air conditioning in my van  doesn't in fact work, and according to him, hasn't worked for years - who knew ?  On the plus side he did tell me that when "The lights are on, my dingy-dingy goes off". I don't have a fucking clue what he's talking about, so I just have to take his word for it that it's a good thing. If anyone knows what a "dingy-dingy" is, pray do tell. 

The Drive-Thru Strikes Back

I'd like to be able to say I learn from my mistakes, but sadly that is not the case, and it appears I am doomed to repeat them.

Only this afternoon, with my daughter begging me to make a detour through Tim's for an Ice-Cap or whatever the sugary crap is that she drinks, I was so busy chatting that I drove right past the order speaker (again) and was almost at the pick up window, before I realised my error. I think it was the sound of mocking laughter that clued me in. Meanwhile my daughter was trying to alert me to this by yelling, "Mum, mum, mum, MUM" , but as I detest it when she interrupts me, I was pointedly ignoring her. Fortunately there was no one behind me so I was able to back up and return to the speaker, which was no mean feat in itself because that part of the drive-thru is a hair pin bend, and it is well documented how I feel about reversing in the van.

However, that first little mishap wasn't enough for me, oh no. I totally forgot I was still in reverse, and after I called out my order, I immediately headed backwards instead of driving forwards, which was probably what prompted the "Loser" comment I distinctly heard the girl mutter. Couldn't really blame her actually. I just thank my lucky stars for an empty drive-thru.

Finally, a little something I learned last week. When the asshole in the souped up pick-up truck cuts in front of you at the McDonald's drive thru (I was on a mercy mission to pick up lunch for my daughter & her friend) don't yell "Asshole !" at him, even if you think he deserves it. It turns out that when the driver's side windows are down, sound carries really well. Said asshole may be then tempted to park his overlarge truck (which I'm sure is compensating for something else), essentially blocking the exit and preventing you from leaving. Learn from my mistakes! Someone has to.

March Break Madness

Had I started this on the first day of March Break, I would have been reporting from the Twilight Zone.  My two youngest children were miraculously getting along. They were happy-skippy, almost normal little people. I liken it to a scene from "The Stepford Wives" meets "Invasion Of The Body Snatchers", it was quite disturbing actually, and I knew it wasn't destined to last.

Sure enough the next day the gloves came off, and the fights began. It started innocently enough, with the two of them playing Lego together.  I was actually beginning to think that perhaps their behaviour the previous day wasn't just a fluke or freak of nature, and March Break may go smoother than I thought. Of course, I should have known better, but I can always hope. I don't know how it started, but all of a sudden Sidney smashed Grady's Lego and war broke out. Grady was in tears because his creation was in a thousand pieces, Sid was crying because she was in trouble, and Lindsay, well I don't know why she was so upset, but does a teen really need a reason to shed tears ? I handled it in my usual calm manner, screamed, yelled and threatened them with extinction and when that didn't work, I raided the chocolate drawer (most people have a vegetable crisper in their fridge, mine is full of chocolate) and hid in the basement.  Sometimes you just have to let them duke it out. They can dial 911 just as easily as the next person.

Fast forward a couple of days and their 2 cousins arrive to stay for a few days. My kids adore them, not just to play with, but to climb on, pester, and thoroughly annoy.  Of course while Alex & Maddie take the brunt of it, I get peace and quiet. I almost feel guilty.  However, it's not all paradise, I just spent the morning in Chuckee Cheese, which as far as I am concerned is the closest thing to Hell On Earth as you can possibly get. It doesn't help that they serve the WORST COFFEE EVER ! and I have had some pretty bad coffee in my time.

Chuckee Cheese used to open at 9:00 A.M, and it was the best kept secret. We'd arrive as it opened, have an hour or so while the place was empty and head out as the crowds arrive. Not so today, it doesn't open now until 10:00, and even tho' we arrived at that time it was already pandemonium. They had actually brought kids in by the busload. The place was teeming with the brats. Runny noses, sticky fingers, they were loud & obnoxious (and I'm counting the parents in that too), absolutely my worse nightmare.  It was enough to make you want to pierce your eardrums with a pencil. And don't forget the terrible coffee. I was ready to run away screaming after only 5 minutes, but I stuck it out for an hour & a half,  I deserve some kind of medal. When we left, there was actually a line up out the door of parents and kids waiting to get in - idiots!

Somehow, I managed to survive the week,  and miraculously so did my children !

When Things Go Horribly Wrong ..

... Or in other words, a pretty normal day in our house.

There is no doubt in my mind that my family is accident prone and I totally blame my husband.  Through high school he worked at a veterinary clinic. Usually he worked with the animals but one day he was required to dig a drainage  ditch. He threw a large rock out over the edge of the ditch, only to have it bounce back and hit him square on the head, resulting in concussion and a couple of stitches. I knew him back then too, in fact I was the one that sat there mopping his fevered brow for the afternoon making sure he didn't lose consciousness, so really I shouldn't be surprised at how things have turned out. 

I could go on and on about the occasion he crashed into a truck and received a battery acid burn, or the number of times he cut sliced open his hand with wood carving tools, but I wasn't there, so it wouldn't be a firsthand account. I'll just fast forward to the day with the power tools. 

You can understand why I would  have some trepidation when he goes out to the garage to and fires up the power tools.  Every time I hear the noise of the band saw, I'm always poised to dial 911. So one day I hear him turn off the machinery, then a couple of minutes later the front door opens and a weak voice calls out "Kel, I need your help". Of course I come running, fearing the worst, and the first thing I see is his hand dripping blood. My immediate thought was how many finger tips has he cut off ? Then I look up and see blood streaming down his face. What in the hell happened to him ?

Turns out it wasn't the fault of the band-saw at all. Rob was lowering the garage door and he brought it down on his head, a piece of the metal latch had given him a scalp wound which bled like a son of a bitch, but fortunately didn't need stitches. Now you would think after one such incident, that would be a lesson learned. Well, you'd be totally wrong, because you've guessed it, he did it again, and not too long afterwards. The second time around I just threw an ice pack at him and called him an idiot. The way I see it, I have a finite amount of sympathy in my lifetime, and I don't want to use it all up at once. This is the part where all his lady friends chorus "Poor Rob!".

Finally - and I know my husband's version of these events would be totally different, but too bad, if he wants to have his say he can start his own blog - there is the fable of the Fondue Fork. This calamity took place in the pre-children years, when we actually had the time and a tidy enough house to entertain. We had friends over for a fondue. Rob was being an ass and giving me a hard time over something so I threatened him with my fondue fork - you know the kind with the really sharp little dagger points on the end. Unfortunately, he moved as I was waving the fork around and he impaled his leg on it.  He insists I stabbed him on purpose, but although he has given me plenty of cause to do that in the last 30 odd years, any criminal act on my part would be way more subtle, and there definitely wouldn't be any witnesses. I maintain he threw himself on the fork, and after extricating it from his leg (with the barbed prongs, it probably hurt more coming out than it did sinking into his flesh!) we adjourn to the bathroom. By this time - to hear him tell it - blood was gushing from a wound in his thigh. I always say I do not exaggerate in these blogs, so I'm not going to start now. There was in fact a tiny little trickle of blood, but that didn't stop him from swearing like a trooper and angrily accusing me of grievous bodily harm - as if. If he'd only sat still this wouldn't have happened.  I'm sure if I had apologised profusely it would have blown over, but do you have any idea how difficult it is to deliver a heartfelt apology when you are laughing uncontrollably ? And yet another opportunity to say "Poor Rob". 

I Drive A Minivan & Proud Of It

I drive a beat up mini van, and I'm proud of it. It's dented, it's rusting, it leaks when it rains and most of the time it smells like a stable but it's my van and I like it.  My daughter's greatest fear is that it will still be running when she gets her driver's licence (next year), so she is desperately trying to convince me to drive it into a ditch and leave it there.

My van does not run smoothly nor quietly. Instead my journeys are accompanied by an uproar of clunks, bangs, and clatters, I'm sure something akin to a Sherman tank trundling across a cobblestone street.  Normally when I hear a strange noise, and there is usually a new one every week, I just turn up the radio and hope that it drowns out whatever rattle or hum is on the agenda for that day. However, this week, I reached a point where there were just too many noises to ignore, and if I turned the radio up any louder, I was in danger of blowing the speakers, so I had to break down (no pun intended) and pay a trip to the garage.

As I am standing there listing off the complaints - grinding noise when I break, growling noise when I turn a corner, exhaust fumes when idling - apparently I don't need to be inside a closed garage to asphyxiate - broken tail light, oil leak, etc etc the mechanic is standing there writing everything down, desperately trying to keep up with my diatribe. Finally when writer's cramp gets the better of him he turns to Rob and asks "Do you hear any of these noises ?"  What ? Excuse me, what is he suggesting here ?  That maybe I am imagining these noises ? That they're all in my head ?  Bloody cheek. I point out in no uncertain terms that my husband rarely drives the van, and if he (the mechanic) was to simply drive around the block he'd hear the clamour and commotion for himself.  

I should have kept my big mouth shut. Sure enough he did drive it around the block as I suggested and doesn't he  find a knocking noise I hadn't previously heard. Just my luck. Fortunately it wasn't a death rattle, and repairs were conducted - much to my daughter's chagrin. I get to pick up my precious - hopefully quieter - van tomorrow. Of course I'm going to have to sell one of my kidneys to pay for it.

A Typical Morning In Our House

The title sums it up. My seven year old's one chore is to feed the dog. The dog food is kept in an bin just inside the crawl space. So one morning, here I am here sitting at the computer when I hear a blood curdling scream followed by hysterics. Sid backs out of the crawl space wringing her hands with tears streaming down her face.  I have no idea what has happened and as I rush to her side, she tearfully screams "A rat !  a rat !  there's a rat in there". I grab her and try and determine if she has been bitten, but no the rat just 'jumped at her".

I already suspect the rat is actually our resident mouse, which despite all Rob's efforts to the contrary continues to live (and probably breed). I say Rob's efforts as opposed to ours collectively, because quite honestly I don't think he stands a snowball's chance in hell against the mouse, and it's time to cut our losses and move on. Live and let live is my motto. Anyway, back to the crawl space, I check out the food bin, but don't see anything so I ask Lindsay to finish feeding the dog while I get Sid sorted out. 

The next thing I know there is another almighty scream followed by a few words Lindsay can only have got from me. It would appear, the mouse was still in residence.  Lindsay comes fleeing from the crawlspace and jumps up on the couch, all the while cursing me out. Somehow this has become my fault, as if I spend my spare time dreaming up ways I can assualt my daughter with a mouse. I can quite see where my son gets his drama queen tendencies. 

So I go in to check out the problem. There I am, down on my hands and knees (which is why I get the smallest child to feed the dog in the first place), with my head stuck inside the dog food bin, and then I spot this teeny tiny mouse - no bigger than a chunk of kibble - which is probably why I missed him the first time I looked.  I reach in and grab the poor little fellow, who by this time is probably deaf and absolutely terrified, only he jumps clear out of my hand and burns rubber to the back of the crawl space.

So now I have two daughters in tears, who won't venture back in to the crawl space and a son who is mightily pissed off because he wanted to keep the mouse as a pet - probably to terrorize his sisters I don't doubt. And all this before 7:30 A.M.  You definitely don't need to kick start your morning with caffeine in our house.

I'm sure we were once a normal family.  I don't recall when our slow descent into madness began, but if I had to guess it would be somewhere between the arrival of child # 2 and child #3.

My Untimely Demise

No cause for alarm, I am still alive and kicking, at least for now. I'm not taken to flights of fancy or conspiracy theories, but I am wondering if there is something up.  My dear husband approached me this week, and I didn't much care for his malevolent grin. "I've found a new way to stop you snoring" he smirked knowingly.  "It's even more effective than plugging your nose" he continued. "Oh yeah, and what would that be?" I asked somewhat uneasily, and with good reason I might add. "It's easy" he replied "I just do this" and proceeded to fling his forearm across my throat, "It works really well !"  he said, a little too eagerly for my liking. Of course it works really well, not least  because it does a bloody good job of disrupting my breathing. Brilliant.

It's bad enough I take my life in my hands, pretty much any time I venture up or down the stairs - if a cat isn't trying to impede my movement by weaving in and out of my legs, I'm just as likely to trip over an errant toy - usually Lego  left on one of the steps, now I'm not even safe when I sleep. The trouble is I sleep like the dead to begin with. It turns out that Rob has been practicing his new maneuver on me all week, and I didn't have a bloody clue.  

So loyal readers, if this blog should come to an abrupt and unexpected halt, please be sure to notify the appropriate authorities.  It's a pretty safe bet my husband did it !

And Then The Fight Began...

I have come to the conclusion that my children live to fight.  For Grady, his sole aim in life is to antagonize and aggravate his sisters. He prefers to square off with Sid, but if she isn't available, Lindsay will do in a pinch, and he'll rile her up instead. Meanwhile, Sid who is no shrinking violet, still doesn't get that if she ignores Grady he will stop it with the wind-up routine and find something else to do. He may be quick with his words, but he needs to be much quicker on his feet if he is going to dodge Sid's flying fists of fury, which for the record we do not condone, and  if anyone can offer a punishment - oops I mean consequence - that we haven't already tried, I'd love to hear it !

Anyway, this week, they must have been bored because they took it upon themselves to clean the front picture window which is covered in nose-prints from the dog, cats and yes, even the children. We don't need blinds, the window is so smudged that no one can see through it anyway.  I pleaded with them not to do it, warned them it would end in tears and bloodshed, but they were bound and determined.

Of course the window cleaning session ended just as I suspected,  the same way most episodes do in our house, with name calling, a fight and a tantrum - and that was just me. It turns out that Grady wouldn't relinquish the Windex and Sid of course kept a tight hold on the paper towels, so it was pretty much a stalemate. My money as usual was on Sid and sure enough she solved the problem the way she always does with a left hook to Grady's solar plexus. He falls off the window seat with a loud wail and she pounces triumphantly on the Windex. 

Grady is in tears, which is my cue to step in and start yelling at Sid, "How many times have I told you not to do that ?"  Like she is actually keeping track, although one time she did stop and start counting up on her fingers. I really do need a new refrain for my rant. Anyway I send her up to her room, whereupon she starts yelling how hard done by she is and wants to go and live with another family.   Right then, if that what she wants, I order her back down the stairs and toss her unceremoniously out the front door.  Instead of legging it to the bus stop which is what I'd hoped for, she sat down on the door step and started wailing again. Of course, had I put shoes on her first that may have helped. God only knows what the neighbours would think by now, (although I'm not sure much would surprise them anymore, especially the guy next door, who loves it when I get started on a tirade. In the summer when I partake in these diatribes outside, he has been known to grab a beer and pull up a chair), so I drag Sid back in and return her to her room.  

By now Grady has started crying all over again, this time because Lindsay (who was trying to help, at least I think she was ?)  put an ice pack on his back where he scraped it as he was pushed off the window seat.  All this and there is still another two hours before Rob gets home. By the time he does arrive, all is forgotten and apparently forgiven and they are as thick as thieves again. I don't think I will ever figure them out, it's just a miracle I haven't ended up in a straight jacket - yet.

They are on March Break this week. I'm still undecided if I want to spend the next few days in a drunken stupor or stone cold sober. We are adding two extra to the melee, cousins who will be staying for a while. Fun times ahead !

Return Of The Rodent

Remember our little mouse friend ? Well he returned. We are on our way to bed one night this week and notice one of the cats looking intently at the toaster on the counter. Surely not, we thought,  but yes, there was the little bastard cowering at the bottom of the toaster.

"I've got this" says my husband and reaches for the toaster, to unplug it. For one horrified moment I actually thought he was going to turn it on. He is still smarting from the previous encounters, and is determined not to suffer defeat a third time.  He marches outside with the toaster under his arm and proceeds to shake the shit of it. No matter how hard he shakes the toaster, there is no sign of the mouse, as it is still clinging on to the grill part for dear life. Lindsay and I are quite entertained by this unexpected turn of events, and being the supportive people we are, fall about laughing at Rob's latest attempts to rid us of the rodent. 

I have no idea what the neighbours would have thought had they seen him. First jumping up and down swearing at the toaster and then when that didn't work, changing tactics, swinging it maniacally around his head, like some kind of demented cowboy trying to lasso cattle.  Eventually the mouse must have been too dizzy to hold on, because he came flying out of the toaster like an ground to air missile in reverse, hit the lawn running and took off.

My husband, returns triumphantly to the kitchen, satisfied with a job well done. The toaster however, no longer worked, even if we had wanted it to.  And the mouse ?  I don't think we've seen the end of him.

Have a great weekend everyone, I'll be back on Monday. 

I Clipped It To My Weenie

I'm not sure I even know where I'm going with this post, except that if I hadn't realised it before (and I had), I do now, and that is the fact that boys are universally stupid. I'm sorry, I know that is politically incorrect but it's true. How else do you explain my son who came in to the kitchen with a pained look on his face, clutching his nether regions. I asked him what was the matter and he replied "The (clothes) peg you asked me to put away, I clipped it to my weenie". That is just wrong on so many levels, I don't know where to begin.  I found out his sister had egged him on, so I'm not sure if that compounds his stupidity or excuses it.

On another note, well actually it's all connected, my husband took the opportunity to have one of "those talks" with Grady tonight. I really, really wish I could repeat some of the conversation, but I'm thinking neither one would ever forgive me.  Oh, to hell with it, damn the torpedoes and full steam ahead, I'm going to go for it and pray that my son keeps his sense of humor. It turns out that Grady was gravely concerned about retracting his foreskin, because he thought it was the only thing holding the end of his penis in place, and if he moved it, it would pop out and fall off. I'm sorry to say, I missed much of the remaining conversation because I was laughing so hard.

I know, I'm a bad person and a terrible mother but when I have material like this fall in my lap, how can I ignore it ? To be fair to my family, I always check before I post anything about them, and this was no exception. However, my entrepreneurial son struck a mean bargain, if I want to post this, it is going to cost me a Lego set.  I think it is worth it, I hope you agree. 

Weather Warning

Here in Ontario we are usually fairly lucky with our weather, at least in our area. We don't suffer any extremes, usually plenty snow in winter and humidity in summer, but nothing that remotely compares to some of the climate changes and natural disasters that have happened elsewhere in the world.  That is until this weekend.

I was up late Friday night, supposedly working on future postings for my blog, but actually playing games on the computer. The only hours I can guarantee not to be interrupted are those after midnight.  Consequently;  I was determined to sleep in on the following lazy Saturday morning, but it was not to be. It starts with the dog woofing at some stray critter trespassing on the property. Neighbourhood cats like to sashay back & forth in front of the picture window, just for the fun of seeing the dog froth at the mouth. Anyway, with me pretending to sleep through the woofing, Rob gets up to let him out, only to come bounding back upstairs a few minutes later exclaiming "Kel, wake up you're not going to believe this" What I don't believe is that he is willing to entertain a death wish in order to disturb my sleep.

Whilst letting the dog out he had noticed that the ground underneath one of our Blue Spruces was heaving alarmingly in the heavy wind. These trees are huge, at least 30 feet tall, and for one of them to be swaying so much that the ground above the roots was lifting noticeably - like mini earthquakes running through the grass - was a concern. Not much I can do about it though, I mutter something about keeping the kids out of the sunroom (which is in the direct path of the swaying tree) and roll over and go back to sleep.

Should have known the cat would have other ideas. This one is my cat - he won't go to anyone else - and because he was spooked by the wind, came up to see me. He wouldn't settle beside me,  oh no he had to plonk his weight  (at least 15lb) down, either over my protesting bladder, or on my chest, squeezing the air out of my lungs.  Kick him off, and try again for sleep which is ever more elusive. 

Next interruption,  Grady is looking for underwear and socks, and I hear Rob tell him to check the basket of laundry on our room. The rat bastard knows dam well there isn't one, but this is his roundabout, sneakified way of making sure I won't go back to sleep. I realise at this point, there isn't a hope in hell I'm getting any peace so I reluctantly join the rest of the family downstairs watching the tree. Gotta give them credit, they are easily amused.

I take a glance out the window in time to see the ground shift beneath the tree. Holy Crap, he wasn't joking.  The tree is now at a definite tilt, and moving precariously with each gust of wind. The ground isn't just shifting, large areas of dirt and turf are lifting almost a foot in the air and then settling again as the tree sways back and forth. Now I am definitely awake, and I haven't even got my first coffee. I turn on the weather channel to hear a warning of widespread tornadoes in central & southern Ontario. We're equipped to handle blizzards, not tornadoes, was it too early for a shot of something stronger in my coffee ?

We continued the vigil on the tree, at least twice we stood there experiencing heart palpitations, fully expecting it to go over, but fortunately the winds eventually died down and the tree stayed put. We have never seen that happen before, so I don't know, maybe those Mayans and their end of world predictions were actually on to something

My Turn

I have been told it's time to shine the spotlight of shame on me, so here goes, my husband's favorite story. I've mentioned before that I didn't get my drivers license until I was older (much older), and for the longest time I hated parking. It was okay if I could pull through into a parking space, but if I had to back the van up to get out, I was toast. The first few times I went out alone, I'd panic and have to call Rob so that he could drive out to wherever I was and re-park my vehicle. He was very patient.

One day I set out for the grocery store, the parking lot was crowded and I was forced to pull in beside the cart corral. The space was a bit tight and I heard an awful grinding sound as I pulled in. I put it into reverse, and heard an even louder noise.  Uh oh, this wasn't good. Rob was at work, no way was he going to be able to bail me out of this predicament.

Fortunately a kindly man returning his grocery cart noticed my plight and offered his assistance. It turned out that I was impaled on a piece of metal that was jutting out, and I was in the process of gradually dismantling the side of the cart corral as I scraped back & forth.  Luckily with the good Samaritan's directions, I was eventually able to free myself, much to the amusement of several passers by.

The man warned me that I had a nasty scrape on the side of my van, but there was no way in hell I was going to get out and check it. I was so embarrassed I drove straight home and didn't even go into the grocery store. In fact, I wouldn't go anywhere near the place, and had to shop at a different store for the next two months.

When I got home, I got out and checked the side of the van. Holy Mother Of God. It wasn't just a nasty scrape, half the bloody door was dented in. What the hell was I going to tell Rob ? Whatever it was I'd better make it good. Then I had an Epiphany. Once I got him on the phone, I chit chatted about his day, and then asked him the all important question "Given the choice, would you rather I had brought home a kitten or pranged the van ?" Without missing a beat he answered "I hope to hell you pranged the van". Phew, crisis averted. Thank goodness for my penchant to bring home stray cats, I just knew it would come in handy one day.

According to Rob; it was my van, my accident, my problem and therefore up to me to get it fixed. That hasn't happened yet and probably never will. Even tho' the door doesn't quite close properly, and if I'm moving at any rate of speed (which is always for me) there is a loud whistling noise through the gap. I rather think the dent adds an air of mystery and if anybody asks how it happens, the answer I give is nowhere near the truth !  

The Mouse Strikes Back

I was doing a last minute re-read of Friday's post, hit the wrong key, and lost the whole damn lot. Idiots unite. So now I have to try and recreate from memory, and that's not something I would usually rely on. Now Lindsay tells me "Why didn't you just press UNDO?"  Duh, mental head slap. To paraphrase Cary Grant (in Arsenic & Old Lace) stupidity doesn't just run in my family, it positively gallops. 

Anyway here goes. Do you remember the mouse that we chased around the house and never caught a couple of weeks ago ? Well he or his stunt double came back.

We were all watching TV one evening when Grady wanted a snack. He grabs a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch or some such thing. Anyway, we all ended up having some, eating it dry.  As usual I wasn't paying attention, and it was only when I got to the bottom of the bowl that I noticed some little black bits. I won't repeat what I said, but it was a pretty spectacular string of curses, I did myself proud !

I showed Rob my bowl, he turns three different shades of green and starts choking and gagging, which under normal circumstances is always good for a laugh. You may have realised by now that the black bits were, yes that's right, mouse turds. We spend the next five minutes tripping over each other at the bathroom sink, gargling with mouthwash, dettol and probably even rat poison if we'd had any. I determined that no one had actually eaten any of the black bits, or maybe that was just wishful thinking, but that didn't stop me from thinking we'd come down with the Bubonic Plague or some equally horrific malady.

Next task, empty the cereal cupboard. Anything that was edible and even some things that weren't, got tossed in the bin. Rob noticed a small hole in the back wall, which must have been the mouse's entrance & exit, so he blocks it off. Just to be on the safe side he decides to set a trap as well. Not one of those humane, namby-pamby-don't-hurt-God's-creatures-traps, oh no, this one meant business. It positively reeked of "Death To The Rodent". Unfortunately it also reeked of "Death to Rob's Fingers", because he had a hell of a time setting it up. I'd hear a loud snap, followed by a howl of rage, a few assiduously chosen words (which do not bear relaying here) and then he'd repeat the process all over again. Each time I found it funnier than the last, like I always say if you can't laugh at your spouse, you have no business being married.

The next morning Rob eagerly opens the cupboard and there is the mouse. However it is not lying prone in the trap, gasping it's last, but instead is sitting right beside it, licking peanut butter off his whiskers. As they sat there eyeball to eyeball, neither willing to give way, I swear that mouse gave Rob the middle finger.  You can't accuse my husband of not thinking on his feet, as he grabs the nearest cat and throws it in the cupboard at the mouse. This of course accomplishes absolutely nothing, except for the furious screech from said cat as it's tail got shut in the cupboard door.

Back to the drawing board, and Rob ends up replacing the whole back wall of the cupboard.  That seems to have worked for now, but something tells me we haven't heard the last of our furry little friend. 

I really hope we don't get a visit from the Health Department after this has posted.  Maybe the fact that I lost the whole first draft was a warning not to continue ?  At this point I'd love to be able to say I took artistic license in writing this, but unfortunately every last sorry word is true.

Have a great weekend everybody, and I sincerely hope I haven't put anyone off their Wheatabix.

A Torrid Affair

Sometimes I think it is best when I have pissed off my kids and they aren't talking to me, because it has to be better than the fresh hell they are putting me through now. I think I mentioned in a previous post, about not dashing to the door to receive a delivery, lest the kids decide you have something going on with the UPS guy. Well I broke my own cardinal rule and now I'm paying for it.

A package was delivered the other day - or at least it would have been had my daughter bothered to stop texting long enough to answer the damn door. Instead I had to trek down to the depot and pick it up, which quite frankly was a pain in the ass, especially seeing as I got lost, which is not without a touch of irony, because the parcel was a GPS unit, which I badly need because my sense of direction is terrible. Rob insists I wouldn't be able to find my way out of a paper bag.

Anyway, I love books, live for books and my one vice would be buying books (and yes I'll get back to the UPS guy in a minute). I tried an E-Reader, but it just didn't do anything for me. It would be great if you were reading those "bodice-ripping/heaving bosom" romance novels, because no one would see the garish cover and your secret would be safe, but my tastes in literature tend to mirror my life, and therefore run more towards murder and mayhem. So quite honestly I feel about my Kobo the same way I feel about decaf coffee or virgin cocktails - really what is the point of them ?  Consequently, when I'm not blogging, or burning dinner, I'm online at Amazon ordering more books.

So, yesterday when I noticed the UPS truck stopped at the end of the driveway I came haring up the stairs and just about knocked the poor guy off his feet when I flung open the front door to get my latest batch of books.  Unfortunately Lindsay was around to witness this, and I compounded my stupidity by saying something like, "All I wanted was the package". You cannot imagine what trouble that one little sentence has caused. It didn't help when another order arrived today (it's free shipping, so what the hell?) and now my little darlings (plural because Grady is in on it too) have become quite the little innuendo squad. I had no bloody idea they could come up with so many jokes about the UPS guy and his "package". Even Rob has joined in the debacle, and threatened to get himself a brown uniform. 

For the record, the UPS guy (and it is the same one each time) really is good looking and very nice, but despite my daughter's theories to the contrary, I have neither the inclination nor the time (and lets be really truthful here - the energy) to carry on a torrid affair. Will this madness never end ? At this rate, I may have to quit Amazon, and actually drag myself to a bookstore instead.

And a piece of advice to my husband & daughter who were convinced I would not write this. Never ever challenge me, you should know by now I always get the last word.