The Night Before Christmas - My Version

My truncated version of the Night Before Christmas in our house. 

Twas the days before Christmas, and all through the house,

Every creature was stirring, even the mouse,

The stockings were thrown on the floor with the socks, 

None of them matched, it was a total dead loss

The children refused to go to their beds, 

Even when threatened with a slap up the head, 

Lindsay was whining, and Grady complained,

Sidney was wailing, who was too blame ?

  When down in the basement we heard a great clatter,

I jumped up from my blog, to see what was the matter, 

Down to the basement I ran with a dash,

Tripped on the stair and stepped on a cat.
 

The light from the TV cast a strange glow,

Giving a lustre of blue to objects below,

And in front of my wondering eyes do I see,

Another f***ing cat, half up the tree

With the tree coming dangerously close to the floor, 

I curse and I swear, and then I curse a lot more, 

The ornaments come crashing, those made of glass, 

The cat gets a swift kick up the arse.

I yell for assistance, in hopes to get help,
Damn dog underfoot, ran off with a yelp
My husband arrives, about bloody time, 
Takes one look at the scene and turns on a dime

"Stay there, don't move" he yells loudly at me, 
And leaves me still holding up the damn tree
He returns with his camera and says with a wink,
"Smile for me honey",  he's a total Rat Fink.

The kids are all gathered, how funny this is,
See how they laugh when I cancel Christmas,
Finally the tree is righted and tall,
Secured and tied tightly close to the wall.

Christmas is here, only two days to go, 
The children all wishing & hoping for snow,
Complaints about boredom and having to wait, 
Roll on bedtime, make it early not late.

So here's hoping your holidays are merry & bright
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night ! 

I'll be back in the New Year

The Secret Life Of Teens

Let me start by saying my teen is wonderful. She works hard, is on the Honour Role at school, has a part time job, lots of friends, everyone loves her, yadda yadda yadda. Now for the real teen that I live with.

For her Fashion Fundamentals course, yes really Fashion Fundamentals WTF ?  The nearest  I ever came to Fashion Fundamentals in school was the choice of white or navy socks with my uniform. Anyway, this isn't about me, so back to my teen. For one task, her class had to take photos of their clothes in their closet and drawers and take them into school. Not sure how that exercise is going to garner her a place in University, but still. Anyway Lindsay cheerfully told her teacher that she didn't have a photo of her closet because all her clothes were piled on her desk & chair. She wasn't kidding. Somewhere under all that is a hamster cage too.

This wouldn't be so bad, after all I can shut her bedroom door and ignore it. It's a bit of a hazard for Sid tho' who shares the room, and has more than once been buried under a sudden avalanche of clothing as she tiptoes her way through the obstacle course that has become the floor of their bedroom. My biggest fear is that maybe one day we'll need a Cadaver Dog to locate her.

I take issue when Lindsay demands to know the whereabouts of a certain item of clothing that was supposed to have been washed a week before. I explain that I have not seen said item and have therefore not washed it. Lindsay, who should know not to answer back, but has never been one to shy away from a challenge, escalates the argument to a whole new level. Rob by this time is usually standing behind me making frantic "cease & desist" hand signals to Lindsay, who blithely ignores him and ratchets it up a notch. The fight can only end one way; tearful (Lindsay) and incensed (me).  And that item of clothing ? It never did leave her room. 

PS I'm really hoping I'm not wasting my time writing this, should the world end tomorrow.  

My Pet Peeves (Part 1)

I honestly can't remember if I have done a "Pet Peeve" Post yet and honestly I'm far too lazy to scroll back through, but these are all new peeves so I shouldn't be in too much danger of repeating myself. 

First, climbing in MY van, only to turn on the ignition and have the speakers blare out some bloody awful music. Obviously my daughter & her friends have been playing with the radio on their way to school. I always know who sat in the front passenger seat, (C)rap music - Lindsay, Country & Western - Mary Clare. I am going to have to cover the dials with duct tape to prevent interference. My van, my radio, my rules.

While on the subject of my beloved mini van, nothing pisses me off more than when my husband uses it to ferry back and forth to the stables every day for a week, only to have him cheerfully remind me as I dash out the door, late for an appointment, "Your gas light is on honey!". Honey ? Honey ? Is he serious ? Does he really think that adding an endearment at the end of the sentence is going to make up for the fact that he emptied an $80 gas tank on me ? 

This is one I'm sure everyone can relate to. What's with those people who turn up late for a show and always end up in the seats at the far end of the row, so you have to get up and let them pass. Usually squeezing so close that you feel you should have exchanged marriage vows first. Why is it as soon as those same people get settled, they then decide they have to go back and get refreshments ?  If you ever squeeze by me in a crowded movie theater, you'll know who I am when I accidentally stomp on your foot. Just sayin'.

My Morning In Hospital

Not to worry loyal followers, I am fine, but I had to accompany my erstwhile husband to the hospital in order to have a lump removed from his arm. It was very traumatic - for me that is, because he had to be at the hospital for 6:00 AM. Yes, 6:00 AM, what idiot came up with that idea?. That meant I had to get up at 5:15 this morning. For crying out loud it was still dark out. I know, many of you regularly rise at that time, and good for you, but it is well documented that I do not function before 9:00 AM, so this business of being up at 5:15 did not go over well. To be fair, both my father-in-law and brother-in-law, knowing my undisguised disdain for early mornings, offered to take Rob in to the hospital in my stead. Believe me, I seriously contemplated taking them up on their offers, but in the end my sense of spousal obligation won out.

My first mistake this morning was actually opening my eyes, and secondly expecting my husband to make me a cup of coffee to go. Apparently he was just "too preoccupied"! Nothing was open upon reaching the hospital, what kind of establishment is this ?  It was actually a good two hours before I was able to ditch Rob and race down to the cafe. My in-laws had joined us by this time, so I was at least able to elicit some sympathy for my predicament and they bought me breakfast!

I had been given a card with which I could track Rob's advancement through the surgical process, via a screen in the waiting room, kind of like the Arrivals/Departures board at the airport. My father-in-law is not one to sit still, and he was up and down every two minutes to check Rob's progress, positively gleeful when the indicator turned from red (operating room) to green (post op) and finally to blue (recovery) where we were able to join up again with the patient.  After checking that their son had survived his ordeal under the knife, my in-laws had to leave for another appointment, and just when it was about to get interesting!

The nurse came by to check Rob out (and I don't mean that the way it sounds). She starts by putting his arm in a sling, until I suggested that it might be a good idea if she let him put his shirt on first! She leaves to give Rob a chance to get dressed and that was when the fun began. He had a nerve blocker in his shoulder so his arm was essentially paralyzed, and it flopped about like a dead fish. He didn't have a hope in hell of getting dressed by himself, but it sure was funny to watch him try. This is what happens when I have to get up at 5:15 AM. Payback. Finally I relented and helped him to dress. Thank goodness he had been allowed to keep his underwear on, just getting the rest of his clothes on was bad enough.

The nurse returns and tells me I have to go to the lobby and get a wheelchair. Seriously ? I looked at her incredulously. "You do realise he had surgery on his arm, not his leg ?"  I queried. She was not impressed. Hospital policy states he has to be wheeled out. Whatever.  Off I trot to get the wheelchair, and I tell you it was a lot easier pushing it without the deadweight of my husband.  Dutifully I wheel him out of recovery, and sail right past the bank of elevators. "Do you know where you're going?" he asked nervously.  (I am well known for my lousy sense of direction). "Yep" I reply "To the escalator" He's worried now, "You can't take me down the escalator in a wheelchair" he whined, and goddammit he's right, the escalator was too damned narrow. So elevator it was.  Only one problem, I hadn't quite figured out how to stop the wheelchair, and when I removed my hand from the bar it came to a sudden, jarring halt as I rammed his feet into the wall. Oops. Actually that was kind of fun, so I did it again when we reached the lobby.  Now he is whinging about whiplash. Payback's a bitch.

Later, when Rob was relaying the story of me helping him get dressed to the kids, Sid was mortified. "OMG Dad" she cried out "Please tell me you weren't naked in front of the doctor".  She actually whispered the word naked, because it was apparently too awful to contemplate. Rob's arm has to be in a sling for a couple of days, so it's fun times ahead. 

Just in case you think that Rob is not surrounded by a loving sympathetic family, you should know that upon first hearing of the date of his surgery, his mother's immediate concern was "Who is going to cook the Christmas dinner ?"  To give her her due, She didn't even bother looking in my direction.

Sidisms

While on the subject of Sidney, my daughter at years old has become quite the comedienne, in fact I'm never sure what she is going to say. Here are a few of the more recent "Sidisms".

One Sunday morning Lindsay is up in her room watching TV and I yell up to ask her if she has any homework. Sidney turns to me with an incredulous look, "Are you new here ?  Don't you know everyone leaves their homework to the last minute" The sad truth is she is right. 

A couple of weeks ago we were heading up to see my sister in Port Perry to watch the Santa Claus parade. As we reach the town, on old geezer runs a red light right in front of us. Fortunately because my husband drives like an old woman, preferring to wait for the traffic lights to turn a particular shade of green, he hadn't entered the intersection immediately, so he was able to avoid what could have been a nasty collision. However that doesn't stop my reaction; shaking my fist and yelling obscenities at the idiot driver as he sails blithely by. Then a little voice pipes up from the back of the van "Dial it down mum".  Dial it down ? Where on earth does she get this from ?

Monday morning means spelling tests for both Grady and Sidney, and as usual everything is left to the last minute (see above). A quick cram session Sunday evening, followed by a last minute run-through the next morning, the one time I have to get up earlier to help out. We are sitting at dinner one Sunday evening and Sidney is showing off (the boyfriend was over!) and so I turned to her "I know how to wipe that smile off your face, you have to study your spelling tonight"  Without missing a beat she replies "You can stop smiling too mum. You have to get up early tomorrow to test us" . Little brat.

Rob is not immune to Sid's barbs. She need to take something in for "Show and Tell" (bless her teacher for letting them off the dreaded current events for the month of December), and couldn't find anything worthy enough. Finally Rob suggested a wood carving, and he explained to Sid "Daddy carved this when he was Lindsay's age". Sid turns to him and with a pitying look asks "Why are you referring to yourself in the third person ?". Huh? the girl is only eight years old.

Finally just this week, when Sid and her brother were fighting, I broke it up and told them both to go and clean their bedrooms., As I left the room I heard Sid mutter under her breath "Like that's gonna happen".  Thems fighting words, but I just didn't have the energy. I still have the "I can cancel Christmas" card up my sleeve, I just hope I don't have to use it. 

I'm not sure where I went wrong with my children. Lindsay seems to be turning out alright, but it's my youngest I have my concerns about.

Yesterday was Cubs night and I discovered over dinner that they were supposed to perform a skit or a song. Sidney tells me brightly "I have a song". Like an idiot, I fell for it and told her to go ahead and sing it, and so she obliged:

"There's a snake in the grass,
  Stick a bullet up it's ass,
  Stick it in, stick it out,
  Like a good boy scout".

WTF ?  Did I mention Zach (the boyfriend) was over for dinner ? The poor boy just about choked, as did I. "Where on earth did you learn that ?" I asked horrified.  "Grady taught me" She glibly replies. She has no qualms about tossing her brother under a bus if the situation warrants it. I turn to her brother who realises the jig is up and is attempting a fast getaway.  He conveniently "can't remember" where he heard it. I tell them both, that under no circumstances are they to perform this little chorus at Cubs. I've already pre-paid for a whole bunch of activities, and I'm worried I might not get my money back if they are kicked out in disgrace.

I didn't think to remind Sid not to repeat it at school either. Her poor teacher pretty much has conniptions almost every time Sid opens her mouth as it is. I can't tell you how many times I have picked her up from school, only to have her teacher tell me "You won't believe what Sid said today". Sadly, I do believe it. Although I must admit I did express abject horror and surprise when Sidney was in Grade 1, and I found out she was teaching her friends to say "Piss Off". I don't think the teacher believed me when I blamed it on Grady. Her comment to Rob "Isn't Piss Off an English expression?" pretty much summed it up.  So Mrs. Gunn, when you read this, you have my heart felt apologies if Sidney regales your class with her latest little ditty.

Diary Of My Wimpy Kids

I was encouraged to learn the other day that I am still able to instill fear into the hearts of my children. For once I wasn't cross with them but was having a fight with a laundry basket which had got caught on something. My laundry room is small at the best of times, but with the addition of the jird cage (the previous location was too close to the fireplace), and some items that had to be moved to make room for the Christmas Tree (which is still standing - yay!) there is not a inch of spare space.

Anyway back to the laundry basket, I am on my tippy toes, precariously balanced over the jird cage trying to retrieve the said basket with little success. Finally, after I've sent a pile of boxes careening to the floor, I've had enough and start to swear. To be fair all I said was "Son of a bitch", certainly not up to my usual standards, but apparently it was strident enough to signal to the rest of the family that there was a disturbance in the force. 

Alerted by the loud crash caused by the boxes, Sid and Grady stood at the top of the stairs, anxiously peering down into the basement.  Says Grady to his sister "Go and down and see what the matter is". "No" replies Sid vehemently "You do it".  "Not likely" rejoins Grady, "She sounds pissed". He decides to compromise and in a faint voice calls down "Are you alright mum?". Of course I didn't hear him, so no answer was forthcoming. "There" he said "At least I did something. Its someone else's turn to go down there". At that point it becomes a game of dare and double dare, with both of them wondering aloud if I was hurt, but neither child brave enough to find out firsthand. After listening to this discourse for a few minutes, my husband steps up, calls them both wimps and ventures down to the laundry room. All I can say, it was a good job I wasn't injured, because I would have probably bled out by the time anyone came to my aid. Let's just say I won't forget this in a hurry.

Texting Tales

I got a bit of a shock the other day. I was looking through the invoice for our cell phones,  checking our usage for the month. I had 68 texts which I thought was high, while Rob's numbered 418, which which I considered a bit excessive, but nothing had prepared me for Lindsay's usage; 9,817 texts. Yes, I did a double take too. Who on earth can send 9,817 texts inside of a month ?  Apparently my daughter can. This is the same girl with whom holding a conversation is akin to pulling teeth. For example, a typical exchange goes something like this.

Me:  "How was school today ?"
Her: "Fine" 
Me:  "How did you do in your test?"
Her:  "OK"

Me:   "What did you have for lunch?"
Her:  "Usual."
Me:   "What sort of homework do you have to do tonight ?"
Her:  "Lots"
Me:   "Do you have any plans for the weekend ?"
Her:   "Yep."

So I have learned absolutely nothing from this scintillating conversation, but somehow she has enough news to impart that requires the execution of 9,817 (all outgoing) texts.  Did I miss that chapter in the parenting handbook ? 

To Snore Or Not To Snore

My husband snores and as I freely admit, so do I. However the way we each deal with this scenario couldn't be more different. As I lie there staring at the ceiling listening to the snorting, grunting chainsaw that is sprawled beside me, I approach the problem in a calm and gentle manner, starting with an elbow to the ribs, which usually results in a temporary period of calm. This is quickly followed by a renewed vigour as the snores move in to top gear.  Time to bring in the big guns and a swift kick to the shins. This almost always prompts a roll-over and if I'm lucky I won't have to repeat the process until the next night. That is how I deal with snoring. 

Rob's approach customarily results in a near death experience for me. His trick is to hold my nose and then wait for me to breathe through my mouth, which I don't. He happily sits there watching me gasp like a fish out of water and has even been known to time these episodes. There is something seriously wrong with that man. For some reason I never wake up during these attacks, probably due to a lack of oxygen to my brain. Someday I may not wake up at all. 

Turnabout is fair play, and I decided the next time I had to listen to my husband snore at 1:00 AM I would try his trick. The only trouble was I couldn't see worth a damn in the dark and flailed around smacking his head searching in vain for his nose. I didn't stop him snoring but I sure as hell woke him up and boy was he in a pissy mood - go figure !

Never one to give up, a few nights later I had a brainwave and took out the mini LED flashlight I had beside the bed, figuring I could use that to locate his schnozz and pinch it closed. Things didn't quite go as planned, and as I shined the flashlight in his face, he shot up in bed hollering "What the hell are you doing ?" Who knew those little LEDs could be so effective ?

It would appear that Rob does not appreciate being woken up in such an abrupt manner, so it looks like I may have to revert to "Plan B". I'll still use the flashlight, but I'll just thump  him on the head with it instead. That should do the trick.

The Mysterious Rash

I have the feeling that this blog will not go down in the annals of good parenting advice, especially after today. In fact if this latest episode doesn't have Children's Aid knocking down our door, then I will probably never again have to worry about them visiting us.

Grady reacts badly to mosquito bites, as do I. I think maybe he has a higher amount of tasty British blood. There was a period of a few days in the fall that he was getting more and more bites. He had to begin with, been spending quite some time outside and I put it down to the balmy October weather that we still had active mosquitoes. 

One bite on his arm turned particularly nasty and when the limb swelled to twice it's normal size, I finally relented and agreed for Rob to take him to the doctor.  I'm not heartless, but let's face it, this was the same boy that tried to stay home from school with menstrual cramps, so I kind of take the wait-and-see-if-it-drops-off-first approach before we do anything hasty. One round of antibiotics later and Grady's arm is back to normal, but new bites keep appearing.

Rob and I had a tête-à-tête to try and determine the source of these bites. We ruled out bed bugs, I think it would be more widespread and only Grady seemed to be afflicted. With four cats and a dog there is always the chance of fleas, and one of the cats does occasionally sleep on his bed, but the other cats sleep on the remaining beds, so again it doesn't explain why Grady is the only one with bites.

Just to be careful, we stripped his bed, boiled all of his bedding and his floor mat, zapped everything in the drier  and then sprayed down the mattress and the rest of his room with industrial strength flea spray. Lo and behold the next day, three more bites had appeared, so we were totally flummoxed. Rob suggested perhaps hives instead of bites, but we couldn't think of anything that was recently introduced that Grady would be allergic to.

I finally came up with a brilliant idea and suggested that perhaps we should have Sid and Grady swap beds for the night. That way if Sid got bitten (assuming it was bites and not hives) then we'd know it was something in the bed, but if Grady got bitten then it was probably hives. 

Rob explained the plan to Sidney, who was initially excited at the prospect at sleeping in her brother's room, but then the penny dropped and she turned on him accusingly "Hang on a minute, what if I get bitten?" It didn't take long for her to suss out my diabolical plan, and it would appear that Sid was not overly keen on the idea of being dished up as bug bait. Time to sweeten the pot - I told Rob to go back and offer her 25 cents for each bite.  Normally that girl would jump through hoops for less, but tonight she wasn't going for it, and the negotiations began. She was prepared to offer herself up for five dollars a bite, which was a little steep in my book. After all Grady had counted a total of eleven bites. We finally agreed on a flat fee of five dollars to spend the night in Grady's room, with or without bites. Of course, it didn't take long for Grady to cotton on to this money making scheme, and he started bartering for his share of the pot. Tough noogies to him. We decided to wait and see what happened come morning, and of course if they both had bites then we were screwed.

Post script:  The following morning, no bites on either child, and Sid was $5 richer. We may never find out what caused them, but they have stopped, so that is good enough for me.

Christmas In Our House

So today we put up our Christmas Tree, well actually our third tree, we tend to go to extremes in this house. If I had my way it would be five, but Rob put his foot down. Fair enough, we barely have room for the one we set up today. 

It goes something like this, after several days of nagging from Sid & Grady, because  they don't count the two artificial trees that are up and decorated, as far as they are concerned they want the real one, the one that their presents go under. "When are we getting the tree?", "When are we getting the tree?", "When are we getting the tree?". This goes on and on and on, you get the picture. Finally on Saturday when Rob can't take it anymore, he announces he is going to get the tree. "Who wants to come with me ?" he asks. This is greeted with complete silence. He tries again "I'm going to get the tree, who's coming with me?".  More silence. It appears that Sid & Grady are engrossed in a TV program, a repeat no less, and they're really not too bothered about getting the tree. No way was Rob going to allow that and packs them in the van under duress.  

In hindsight he probably should have gone alone. Grady was in a pissy mood because they weren't going to drive several hours out into the wilderness to cut down a tree in the pouring rain, as we have done in the past. So he just complained that whatever tree Rob picked was too small. On the other hand Sid couldn't have cared less, she had discovered a puppy, a muddy puppy at that. When she arrived home she took great delight in showing me the trail of muddy paw prints all over her clothes. Yay ! 

We had to allow the tree to dry overnight, and the grand set up was today. The tree goes up and Rob insists it was the easiest ever, a perfect size, plenty of room to navigate around it, and totally secure. However there are not enough lights. Out goes Rob, and comes home with more lights. Plugs them into the remote control, oops no batteries, out he goes again. By this time kids have gotten bored and moved off to other pursuits. Finally after dinner, the decorating begins. Decorations go on, tree falls down, pretty much a given in our house. It would appear that the tree isn't so secure after all, and the weight of the decorations has pulled the tree away from the wall and heading towards the floor. Something else not considered, with the decorations, there is now only 6" clearance between the tree and the couch. This does not bode well. So with my kitchen scissors in hand, Rob commences to prune the tree. "What are you doing ?" I shriek,  "Leave the tree alone".  He argues back "There's no room to move", unfortunately this is borne out almost immediately as Sid comes charging through the gap with Grady in hot pursuit and the tree continues to shake long after they have passed.

Finally satisfied, we pack away the boxes, and sit back to admire our beautiful, slightly lopsided tree. But wait, there is movement. The cat has gone behind the tree to throw up. Just f***ing lovely.  Now it truly feels like Christmas.

Brotherly Love

Grady and Sidney fight like cats and dogs sometimes, actually worse than cats and dogs, because the real felines and canine in our house never fight at all. Anyway despite the extremely creative name calling and the occasional knock-down-drag-out fight, I always hope that underneath it all they have each other's back. That ideal was almost borne out the other day. 

We have a huge back yard, where the kids can roam free and play on various apparatus.   Do they do that ? No they prefer to play out front instead.  Ever mindful of the horror stories of children snatched  off their own front lawn, I am oft times reluctant for them to play unsupervised. They are allowed out if they are together, but the rule is, unless an adult is out there with them, if one child comes in, then they both have to. 

Last weekend they were playing on the driveway when Grady came in for something. After he'd been inside for a few minutes, I suddenly thought to ask him if he'd left Sid outside alone. He insisted she was OK but went back out to check. Unbeknownst to both of us, Sid had grown tired of waiting for her brother and had quietly (almost an impossibility for Sid) re-entered the house and had gone to the playroom.

Grady, after not finding his sister where he left her outside, came charging into the house in a panic, racing from top to bottom looking for the erstwhile Sid. Upon locating her playing Legos he lets her have it with both barrels, yelling "Sidney, next time you come in, you have to tell me. I thought you'd been stolen, I was really worried....". Listening to this, my eyes welled up at Grady's concern for his little sister. I should have known better tho', because my happy bubble was burst immediately as Grady continued "... I thought I was gonna get blamed for it".  How touching.

Life Is Good

In my never ending quest to find things that I know are going to irritate my husband, (yes I know it's cruel, but I do it anyway), I have discovered something new, totally by accident. Yesterday we got a new fridge, which was long overdue. We'd had the old fridge for over 20 years, and unlike the stove which is the same age and is in near mint condition (due to the fact, according to my family, I don't know how to cook), this appliance was in it's death throes. As it kicked in, the kitchen lights would dim and this would be accompanied by a horrendous clunking sound. Not good at all.

So back to the new fridge which has a stainless steel door, you know the kind of door that shows every little mark, especially fingerprints. The kind of door that will drive my incredibly anal husband absolutely berserk as he tries to keep it clean. I discovered this quite by chance, as I nonchalantly leaned against the fridge only to have Rob shriek (although he would deny this) in my ear, "Don't touch that, you'll leave marks".

As soon as his back was turned the rest of us were all over that fridge like a fat kid on a smarty. There were fingerprints from top to bottom.  It had the desired effect, as Rob stood in the middle of the kitchen yelling at us. Drawing upon a colourful vocabulary we were called all sorts of names. "Idiots", "Assholes", "Jerks" and then back to "Idiots". His colourful vocabulary doesn't even come close to mine.   Of course the more he yelled, the funnier it got - at least for us, not so much for Rob. Lindsay's BF was over for dinner, and he stood horrified as the scene unfolded. My guess is he didn't know whether to laugh with us or commiserate with Rob, so he took the easy way out and left the kitchen entirely - the coward ! 

A quiet dinner followed, throughout which Rob glowered at me with undisguised annoyance. As soon as he was able, he disappeared into the kitchen with a cloth to clean off the door.   It's just all to easy to rile him up, but I don't think it will ever stop being fun.

The Boyfriend

The titular character does not refer to my imaginary boyfriend, aka the hunky UPS man, with whom my children are convinced that I am having a lurid affair - difficult to achieve such a status when my husband works from home nowadays. Instead, the boyfriend in question is Lindsay's. Yep that's right, my little girl has all growed up and got herself a man.

In the interests of preserving their privacy and saving my daughter from embarrassment,  this will be the one and only blog devoted to the subject. Suffice to say he is a very nice boy, well mannered and a gentleman and we wholeheartedly approve. Did I mention he is tall? Much to Rob's chagrin at meeting him for the first time, he had to look up, I'm sure he would have much preferred to frown down upon such an interloper ! 

It would appear that when it comes to parenting a teen with a boyfriend, Rob and I are not on the same page, in fact, probably not even in the same book ! We had an eye opening conversation the other day and it went something like this:

Rob: Maybe I'm out of bounds, but now that Lindsay has a boyfriend, don't you think you should have a chat with her ? 

Me:   (Blank look) Huh ?

Rob: You know, "That Chat!" 

Me:   Oh right. Gotcha. 

Rob: I just think it would be better coming from her mother.

Me:   Well, I really don't think it's necessary, she is pretty sensible and they are nowhere  near that point in their relationship, but if it makes you feel any better I'll talk to her about using condoms. 

At this point, mere words cannot do Rob's reaction justice.  Bug eyed, apoplectic, clutching his chest, choking on his coffee, he sputters out "Are you kidding me ? I don't want you giving her condoms, you're supposed to tell her to abstain. (There were more than a few expletives in there - talk about your potty mouth - but they are best not repeated). He continues, "I DON'T WANT YOU talking to her, EVER I'll handle it myself."

I must admit at that point I fell about laughing, who knew that my husband had long forgotten his own horny teenage days.  Suffice to say when I told Lindsay about the conversation later (there are no secrets in this house), she was mortified. "You're not going to put that in your blog are you ?" she asked. "As if !" I replied...... 

PS: When I read this to Rob - family always has right of veto with my blog - he expressed dismay. "My mother is going to read this" he exclaimed.  Right, like she doesn't remember his horny teenage years either.

 

 

Things That Go Bump In The Morning

It is a well documented fact that I am not by choice an early riser. If needs must, I will stagger out of bed, rumpled and dazed and perform whatever duties may be required to ensure a smooth running of the household, and when necessary get my children to school in a timely manner. My preference remains however, to stay in bed and delay my rising until after my husband has performed these tasks and the house is again quiet. I admit to feeling a small twinge of guilt, that while I am resplendent in slumber, my better half (ha ha ha ) prepares breakfasts and lunches and marshals whatever forces are required to get the kids out the door. 

So it is relief when the weekend roles around that I can sleep late without the guilty twinges, so I was not impressed to awaken early on Saturday morning to an almighty crash from the kitchen, followed by Grady yelling at Sid "What did you do ?" . A muffled heated exchange follows and then I hear "That f***ing cat!". That was coming from my ten year old son. It would appear the feline in question, being chased by another had skidded across the stove top and sent the element covers crashing to the floor, causing said noise. 

My more immediate concern was my husband, who by now was also awake. "Did you hear that ?" he hissed. "Yes" I whispered back, "Sounds like it came from the kitchen". "Not that" he hissed again, "Your son and his potty mouth, that's all your doing!".  Geez, all hell breaking loose and that's what he decides to focus on !