My Christmas Ditty

Twas the week before Christmas, and all through the house,
Every creature was stirring including the mouse.
The stockings are flung in the hearth with good aim,
A fire hazard just waiting, to burst into flame.
 
The children refusing to go to their beds,
While visions of I-Phones rang in their heads.
And mum with her shopping and wrapping to do,
Don't forget baking and Christmas cards too.

Sid with her mega dumps, Grady the same,
No doubt in my mind, their father to blame.
Please, less time in the bathroom, and more time spent cleaning
Dusting & polish, I want the house gleaming

Homework and spelling, current events too,
As if there wasn't already, enough stuff to do.
Buffets to bake for, the choice is made clear
Mars Bar squares called for, the teachers all cheer.

The snow keeps on falling, a fair sight 'tis true,
But shoveling the driveway, I hate to do.
The task given to Grady, to earn extra cash
He'll spend it on Lego, gone in a flash.

The best Christmas Tree ever, standing so tall,
Hasn't crashed down yet, 'tis tied to the wall.
The glass balls so shiny, so pretty to see,
'Til the fucking cat smashes them to smithereens.

Lots of chocolates I bought, I thought I was done,
But my children are pigs, haven left me but one,
They think this is funny, their laughter so mocking
Just wait 'til they get only coal in their stockings.

My ditty must soon come to an end, 
Gifts still to wrap, cards still to send,
One last thing I'd like to make clear, 
Happy Christmas to all, and be of good cheer. 

I sincerely hope everyone has a wonderful holiday season with loved ones, and I will be back blogging on January 5th.

How I spent My Weekend

Here it is the last weekend before Christmas and how did this dysfunctional family spend it ? Let me begin. 

Harken back to Friday night when we are trying to determine why there is a puddle in the middle of the kitchen floor. Spilled drink ? Wet boots ? Spiteful cat ? I wish. No, the water was actually dripping through the light fixture on our kitchen ceiling. It had been raining all day, and now it would appear we had a leak in our roof. Probably those bastard raccoons trying to gain access again. 

Saturday dawns bright, early and icy. Freezing rain overnight had put paid to any attempt on the part of my husband to head up to the roof and check on the cause of our leak. Anyone who follows this blog knows if it wasn't for bad luck, we'd have no luck at all, so Rob scrambling over an icy roof was just another accident waiting to happen.

However before we can think about this, Rob tells me to hasten and check out the back yard with him. It turned out we had a - live - possum playing dead, in our lilac tree. So at 7:30 I am in the back garden, in my nightgown and winter boots - a fetching image - checking out a possum glaring balefully at me from behind a tree trunk.  Ready to share the misery I insist that my children are woken so they to can share in this exciting discovery. Do you detect a hint of sarcasm ? I certainly hope so. I have to feel sorry for the possum, he picked the wrong house for a nap. He was probably out here cursing his wretched luck. 

By the afternoon, the leak in the kitchen which had previously ceased had started anew, and Rob, despite my entreaties  to the contrary explored the roof, without any luck, so we position a bucket and hope for the best. I am the last one to bed that night, having stayed up to put on one last load of laundry. You can imagine my horror when I hear a strangled squealing sound coming from the washing machine. Are you kidding me ? This would not be the first time that particular appliance had crapped out on me right before Christmas.  I don't have too long to dwell on this however, because the next moment the washing machine comes to a sudden stop as the power goes out.  As I read this blog to my husband before posting, he jumped to the wrong conclusion. As I got to the part about the "strangled squealing sound" he immediately thought of the guinea pig.

It is pitch black in the basement, and in my effort to make it to the stairs I was like a human pinball, bouncing off one thing after another - the coffee table - ouch - followed by the the Christmas Tree - oh fuck - as the decorations fall off and roll away. I eventually make it to the bedroom, where I know my husband has a stash of flashlights in preparation for Armageddon. One after another I fumble for the lights, and one after another they refuse to turn on. Has he even heard of batteries ?  I cannot see a bloody thing, so I dare not place any of them down in case they crashed to the floor. Finally I find one with a weak glow and use it to light the rest of my way.  I am not happy.

We wake up the next morning to find we still didn't have power. This was a result of a huge ice storm that had swept through southern Ontario during the night. The temperature in the house wasn't too bad as Rob had got up at 4:00 AM to light a fire. I wasn't actually going to mention that because it has little bearing on the rest of my blog, but Rob was quite insistent. I think he was trying to make up for his slew of useless flashlights. 

We were very lucky. Several neighbours had downed trees and damaged vehicles. Our silver birch with two trunks had bowed until each was touching the ground, and there it has stayed all day. Not broken, bit only time will tell if it will recover. I didn't mind too much about the power until it dawned on me there was no coffee. Then I was pissed. Rob had the brilliant (and for once I mean that sincerely) idea to brew coffee on the BBQ. It actually turned out quite well. My husband, the hero.

Bah Humbug

My husband is far from a "Bah Humbug", in fact he takes great delight in Christmas, and enjoys decorating the house. What he doesn't enjoy however is pulling thirty odd boxes of decorations out of the crawl space. There also happens to be a couple of other things that make him nuts, and therefore provide me with great joy.

The first would be my Santa Cuckoo Clock. I purchased this a few years ago and I love it. I am however the only one in the house that does. Every hour little doors fling open, a mini Santa pops out  and calls with great gusto "Merry Christmas, Ho Ho Ho". This is followed by one of several different - and in some cases slightly off key - Christmas tunes. It is unfortunate if you happen to be standing near it when the hour strikes, because it will scare the bejeebers out of you, and has actually been known to make me curse on a couple of mornings when I was not fully awake and functioning. 

Rob hates it, the kids hate it, even the dog hates it, although he has stopped diving under the kitchen table every time it goes off.  It can be set so that it doesn't chime through the hours of Midnight to 6:00 A.M. The trouble is when I first set it up this year - Rob absolutely refuses - I must have done something wrong. I didn't notice it not going off during the day, but Rob sure as hell noticed going off every hour through the night. He said it woke him up each time, I only have his word for that because I slept blissfully through it. Sucks to be him. 

The second thorn in my husband's side is a purchase I made this year - in the hope that it would have a similar effect as the cuckoo clock and happily I was right. It is a snowman, about six inches high that goes in the refrigerator, every time the door opens it utters - loudly - one of several phrases "It's chilly in here", "Snack time" or something equally as inane. The only other person who likes it is Grady. The rest of the family - my husband and traitorous daughters have ganged up on me and turned their evil intentions on my poor hapless snowman. He has been kidnapped, hidden and sabotaged. I have not been impressed. So much for the spirit of Christmas. Vengeance shall be mine.

Sid Is All Heart

I think it is just possible that my youngest daughter may have inherited my "lack of sympathy gene". Take this morning for example. We have three guinea pigs, one - Becky - was the class pet that Grady inherited, and he adores her. The second - Cruella - we purchased in the summer and the the third - Piggy, her offspring.  Initially we were only going to keep a baby if a girl, so they could all go in one cage. Sadly there was only one live birth, and it was a boy. 

I have to digress here, because you would not believe how you determine the sex of a baby guinea pig. You have to hold it on it's back and um, for want of a better description, massage the genital area. If something "pops out" it is a boy. You can only imagine. This was Rob's job. So there he is pig in hand, rubbing away at the nether regions, nothing is popping out, but the eyes have rolled back in its head, and it has the biggest smile on its face.  Based on that experiment we conclude Piggy is a girl. Just to be sure, a week or so later we take "her" back to Al at the pet store for a second opinion. Turns out Rob was rubbing in the wrong place - don't get me started - and as soon as Al tapped the pig, we realized very quickly Piggy is in fact a boy.   By this time, the whole family adores him, so there is no way he is going back to the pet store, plans have to be made to re-arrange cage occupation, in order to keep him.

Anyway back to my original theme. Sid has given up on the puppy idea, and is now asking for her own guinea pig when she turns twelve. Grady nixes that idea, by telling her - quite rightly - that their father will never allow four guinea pigs, (it was amazing he agreed to three). At which point Sidney turns to Grady and announces "It won't be 4, Becky will be dead by then".  That girl is heartless!  Poor Grady goes off to school, convinced the demise of his guinea pig is now imminent. I'm tempted to tell her Santa got eaten by a polar bear, that would teach her.

Wooden Spoon

More of the same. Sid and Grady got into a fight - can't remember why, and don't really care. The first indication is when I hear Grady hollering, and Sid's smug "Take that!". Oh, so not good.  

Upon inquisition, I discovered that Grady had somehow upset Sid's sensibilities and in retaliation she had "punched him in the nuts". That boy really has to learn how to dodge or duck. So as Grady staggers around, dramatically clutching his nether regions, I read the riot act to Sid, actually going as far as threatening her with a wooden spoon.  She starts to wail, totally disproportionate to the threat level.

She stomps upstairs, lamenting her lot in life, even going so far as to wishing she were dead !  A threat indeed. I yell at her to come back down and it can be arranged. Lo and behold she turns up in front of me. Lindsay is aghast at her stupidity, everyone knows when I assume "THAT" tone, you need to duck and cover, not present a willing target. Sid, however isn't finished. "What are you going to do about it ?" she accuses. Are you kidding me ? 

"Well", I begin "I can make it quick and easy, or slow and painful, what's your preference ?" Sid actually ponders this question, while Lindsay is trying unsuccessfully to choke back laughter. Grady is no where to be seen, he was off nursing his nuts. I really think at that point I could have gotten off with an insanity plea.

No More Snow Days

This is actually from last winter, but with the snowfall we had on the weekend, could easily apply to this week. 

For the record I'd like to state that my family is never, ever having another snow day. I don't care how much mother nature throws at us, a raging blizzard will not be used as an excuse to stay home.  This is Canada for crying out loud, suck it up, buckle on the snow shoes, harness the dog sled and make it to school or die trying. 

It wasn't so bad with Lindsay, she high tailed it to Zach's house as soon as she knew she didn't have to go to school. Sidney and Grady however, a different story. I think I have mentioned before we have a large back yard - 1/2 acre to be exact, do you have any idea how much snow is out there right now ? Grady wants to build a snow fort, a noble ambition, but he decides to construct it on the front lawn (not that you can see any lawn) and at the curb no less. The first run through from the snow plough and you can guess what happened - the fort is buried. I used to have such high hopes for that boy.  But perhaps that was the evil genius's master plan because he seemed awfully eager to get his sister inside the fort right before it caved in. 

You may think that having the children outside playing happily together in the fresh air, dodging snow ploughs would seem like a good idea. Think again, the dryer has been running non stop. It takes the kids 20 minutes to get soaked through, then troop through the house leaving a puddle of melted snow.  Everything is bundled into the dryer and then no sooner is everything dry, they want to go back out again. This cycle has been repeated continuously through out the day.  

By this time the snow fort has been buried no less than five times, and Grady has dutifully dug it back out - five times. He's a little slow on the uptake. When they are indoors, the little darlings have not stopped arguing. I would threaten to throw them head first into a snow bank (something I have been known to carry out in the past) but they are just twisted enough to enjoy it. I desperately need a new arsenal of threats. 

Having Rob home is no picnic either. I do sympathise that he has had to shovel the driveway no less than 3 times in 12 hours, but I would be more sympathetic if I didn't have to hear him whine about it. After all, I'm ready to call 911 if I notice him collapsed motionless in the snow. I don't know what else I'm supposed to do. On the subject of whining, the damn dog isn't much better. He charged into the snow first thing this morning, frolicking like a puppy. At that point it was only a few inches deep and he was happy. Now that the snow is up to his shoulders, it's a whole different game of soldiers. He ain't going outside now, no way no how. Not sure how long his bladder is going to hold out, but the snow shows no sign of stopping anytime soon. Rob has even shoveled a path for him outside the back door, but in vain. 

So, no more snow days !







 

My Not So Grown Up Christmas List

My youngest still believes in Santa. Touching, except that it makes the shopping and hiding of gifts so much more difficult. All stocking stuffers for any of the kids have to be stashed at the back of drawers and the tops of closets, to ensure Sid sees none of it, lest she become a non believer.

Now we come to her Christmas list for Santa. The perennial favourite a puppy. You would think after 4 or 5 years of a puppy-less Christmas she would take a hint, but no, Sid is nothing if not tenacious. I suppose 4 cats, 3 guinea pigs, 2 frogs, 4 remaining rabbits, a horse, a dog, myriad fish and a jird in the freezer are not enough for her. Do you have any idea how many of those fucking family stick figures I have on my van ? Enough to obscure the back window, that's how many. I have been known to stop traffic as drivers pause to count the menagerie emblazoned on my vehicle. I digress, no puppy for Sid.

Number two on the list - Lego. Now that at least is something I can manage. Although again, why the thousands of hard pointy little bricks she and her brother already possess are not enough is beyond me. Even one pointy little object is too many when I tread unsuspecting upon it with my bare foot. As the excruciating pain shoots through my nervous system and I let loose a spectacular string of curses, my offspring laugh uncontrollably. It would appear that mummy hopping on one foot and cursing a blue streak never gets old.

Item number three on the list caught my attention. She has requested "Something to make money".  Not sure how that would work exactly, but I'm guessing a printing press is probably out of the question. Maybe Santa could suggest she get a job, but I don't think there is much call for 9 year old Sumo wrestlers. 

Next, she has requested "Bongos". Really ? What possess this girl ? Our house isn't noisy enough, and having Sid bashing away on Bongos isn't going to slash through my last thread of sanity and send me falling into the abyss ? I sense Grady's influence here. Either way, no Bongos for Sid.

We have a few gimmes on the list, books, stuffed animals, DVDs - all within acceptable limits, but then we come to the last item. Sid has requested that Santa bring her "A Rock Star for a friend".  Why not just ask for World Peace ? But a Rock Star ? Really ? How am I supposed to accomplish that ? I tell you that puppy idea is all of a sudden looking a lot more appealing.

The Sad Tale Of The Swear Jar

My children informed me this week they would like to implement a "Swear Jar".  Ha, ha. "No fucking way". I told them. The little sods did that a few summers ago, it just happened to be the week we had friends - James & Meredith - staying with us, and between the five of them they cooked up one dastardly plan after another, guaranteed to make me lose it and start cursing. They were actually quite successful, because it took me a few days of banging my head against the wall before I clued in to what they were doing. Their ultimate goal - apart from making me mental - was to raise enough money from the "Swear Jar" for a trip to "Chuckee Cheese". That experience alone is enough to make anyone lose it.

So, no "Swear Jar" for the kids. Honestly, I can't afford it. Mind you, the rate my little potty mouthed offspring are going, I'd probably get as many donations from them as myself. When I heard last week from a teacher that the definition a student had provided for "Fruitcake" was "A crazy asshole", my very first thought was "OMG, which of my children wrote that?".  Fortunately it was another miscreant and my kids were in the clear - for now.

Push Forward

Today, for something  - actually not so - different, I am handing the post to my friend Kristy. Her Facebook entry  this morning was hilarious, so I asked her to step in and write my blog for today.  I am so happy to have found someone whose life experience is so close to mine. So I hand you over to Kristy.

Hello one and all. My name is Kristy O’Sullivan. I’m a Capricorn, a mother of an eight month old and a neighbour of Kelly’s. That’s the abridged version.  

I’m honoured to be here (at Kelly’s offer) to regale you with one of my recent escapades.

For background’s sake, I met Kelly through her business. She seemed like a very pleasant woman at first blush, and got extra points for being English and (formerly) owning a Jird which I must confess I thought was a typo for over one year. It was only after reading Kelly’s blog for the first time, that I knew it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.  You see, for about 30 years my anecdotes have been met with “It could only happen to you Kristy.”  Now I can tell them this is not the case!  I am not alone in dealing with the constant whir of sh*t hitting the fan.Don’t get me wrong, I have good days.  The problems begin when you get smug about it. Or God forbid, in this world of social media, start to brag. Such was the case yesterday when I had the gall to post this as my Facebook status “9 hrs solid sleep and armed with Starbucks coffee. It's a Christmas miracle!!". Friends far and wide gave me the old thumbs up, knowing full well the bottom would fall out and I’d soon provide some great fodder to enjoy during their next coffee break. Top of Form

Today was far from a Christmas miracle. 

It always starts with a crappy sleep. That’s the first sign sh*t is about to go downhill. I spent 8 hours listening to two Pekingese snoring. I’m a light sleeper at the best of times. My snoring husband knows enough to sleep in the other room. The dogs, however, could care less. They recline in their little fancy beds, dreaming and wheezing the most horrible sounds. I have several tactics for dealing with this. I usually begin by snapping my fingers as this requires no props. Sometimes the dogs stir and quiet down for about 30 seconds. If it escalates, I tap  my water glass up and down on the bedside table. This is good for about 2 minutes of silence. The next step is opening and closing the drawer of the bedside table repeatedly, followed only by getting out of bed and yell-whispering SHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUP!!!!!!! With this, they raise their heads, perhaps an eyebrow if they’re feeling particularly obedient and then continue, as they were, a couple of open mouth breathers. Such was the case last night. For a more immersive reader experience, may I suggest rereading this paragraph every 10 minutes and repeating 45 times. 

As is always the case, when I finally began to find a peaceful rhythm in the dogs’ snores and drifted off to sleep at 4am, I was awoken by my baby, Vivian, crying. I hopped out of bed and sprinted downstairs in an effort to make a bottle before she woke her dad up. I noticed one dog had uncharacteristically followed me downstairs and was standing at the back door with his “legs crossed”, figuratively speaking.  I know enough about elderly canines to oblige him. Old Snoopy darted outside and quickly made his way to what we call the 'back 40" of our large lot. I could no longer see him, partly because it was pitch black outside and because I had neglected to put on my glasses, without which I am legally blind. As we have coyotes in the neighbourhood, this situation required me to go outside to supervise. I threw on my parka over my underwear and slipped into the only pair of shoes available, my 6’4’ husband’s size 12 running shoes. I’m glad no one else gets up at this hour as I’m sure I was the picture of holiday glam chasing Snoopy around the yard in this getup in -15c weather, loudly encouraging him to do a nice poo-poo and pee-pee and haul ass inside. 

Dog inside, I ran upstairs with Viv’s bottle into her dark nursery only to slide 10 feet across the floor barefoot. After turning the lights on, I saw a trail of smeared dog poop trailing behind me and looking around, many similar piles all over the room. I calmly removed my screaming baby from her crib and immediately detected a new and different foul smell. Of course, Vivian, realizing it was a free for all, joined the fray and pooped up her back and all over her sleeper. I cleaned the various poos and my disgusting feet using readily available (thank GOD) baby wipes until I could make my way to the bathroom, and then went downstairs to make coffee.

No coffee. 

Argggh. If my child’s first sentence is “You’ve got to be f*cking kidding me” I will not be the least bit surprised. I handed Vivian to my now-awake husband, put on pants (as a courtesy and because I’m so elegant) and drove to Starbucks. I have to say it was a nice break. 

Home again, I decided there was really only one way to make my bad day better, to do something good for myself. Or, let’s face it, do something I would rather get over and done with so I could start enjoying my day and eating whatever the hell I  want. Today it was the treadmill. Gym clothes on, baby happily cooing in exersaucer, I stepped onto the treadmill all set for a great run....hit the ON switch... no power. I quickly realized my husband had commandeered the extension cord for his outdoor Christmas lights display. (On a related seasonal note, I know Jesus loves me because I provide hours of entertainment. )

I called my husband who found this funny (really, he & Rob should hang out), and then head outside in unflattering spandex in full view of the neighbours to search the garage for another cord. Successful, I ran upstairs, plugged in the treadmill and began to run. Moments later I realized my husband somehow compromised my treadmill when he moved it to clean the floor last weekend*. And so, as I ran forward, the treadmill slowly inched backwards across room. As I couldn’t figure out how to fix it and refused to give up on the run, this required me to get off between sprints like a participant in some bizarre strongman event, constantly pushing it forward.

And now, the moral of this long-winded story: Keep pushing it forward. 

Well, nice to meet you all. It’s now 9am and time to start my day. Wish me luck.

*Not a complaint, husband should continue to clean floor.

Part II

We have now reached Wednesday, and sadly we have to attend a funeral, but cannot dally because Grady & Lindsay are at home heaving. Sidney was most put out because she was the only one well enough to attend school. Zach somehow manages to convince his parents to let him take the afternoon off school and come over to look after Lindsay. Love is obviously not only blind but a little bit stupid as well. Zach is given fair warning he is entering a "kill zone" but he does it anyway. 

By Wednesday evening Lindsay and Grady are felling better, so Sid decides to throw a spanner in the works and promptly pukes after dinner. Where the hell did that come from ? 

Now we move on to Thursday and Sid is yet again at home. Grady, milking this golden opportunity also decides he is feeling worse again. I am pretty sure he is faking it, but if by chance he progresses like his sister, he could well end up barfing again, so against my better judgement I keep him home as well.  On the plus side I didn't have to get up early to take them to school, and when I told Grady that he could stay home, he thought it was a trick. I love the fact that I can still torture my children with mind games. 

Only an hour or so into the day I receive a text from Rob, it is now his turn to succumb to the malady, and although he is able to make it through the day, he was feeling pretty sorry for himself by the time he got home. He had booked a vacation day for Friday so we could go Christmas shopping, gainfully he tried, but it was my shortest shopping trip ever. 

Moving on to Saturday, everyone is on the mend except for Rob, who has now spent more time in the bathroom than when he was prepping for his colonoscopy. I'm not sure how I have escaped this plague, and spend every waking minute as if it's my last. Zach is over that afternoon, but half way through dinner, his face takes on a pained look, and he confesses he is not well. Half an hour later he is heading home, white-faced, clutching his stomach. I do feel very sorry for the boy, but you can't say we didn't warn him.

So now we are back at Sunday, a week has passed since "Patient Zero" or "Typhoid Sid" as I have taken to calling her. I am surrounded by boxes of Christmas decorations waiting to decorate, and copious amounts of laundry. I am sure I have not succumbed to this plague through sheer will power alone.

Down The Rabbit Hole.

I referred in yesterday's post about my week from hell. You knew it was only a matter of time before it hit the blog.

Technically it started last Sunday when Sid was up bright and early at 5:00 A.M. puking. I suppose I should be grateful it wasn't in the middle of the night. Fortunately my husband who has a cast iron stomach is able to handle such crises so much better than I. My first reaction is to feign sleep, but ever since I mentioned I did that in a previous blog, Rob is wise to it. Instead I attempt a half-hearted offer to assist, but Rob informs me he can manage, his concern was if I partook of the cleaning, I'd probably add to the mess. Oh Thank God.  Of course by "manage" he didn't necessarily mean quietly, and so there was much banging of doors, flickering of lights and thundering up and downstairs for buckets and disinfectant. It was quite a while before I could get back to sleep !! 

Obviously Sid is staying home from school on Monday, and now Grady is whinging his stomach is "urpy". That boy's vocab grows by leaps and bounds. I am hesitant to send him to school if there is any chance he might genuinely be sick so I decide to keep them both home. Horror of horrors. Grady spends his "sick" day making Lego movies on his IPod, while she of the two buckets, because apparently one isn't enough, reclines feebly on the upstairs couch. I spend my day with hands scrubbed raw disinfecting every surface of the house. 

Tuesday dawns bright and early and with no sign of puke for 24 hours I ship them off to school before heading out to Peterborough (about an hour journey) to assist a friend hosting her company Christmas function.  You can imagine my surprise when I get a text from Rob that afternoon, he has been summoned to the school to collect Grady because - you've guessed it - he puked in the classroom. By the time I return that evening, Lindsay is also down for the count. We are running short of buckets. 

To be continued ...

And They Called Me The Streak

I thought the title of this blog may capture your attention. Apologies for no posting on Friday, I was experiencing technical difficulties, and by "Technical Difficulties"  I mean last week was the epitome of hell, and I just didn't have time to indulge myself with the blog. 

So here it is a Sunday morning after the said horrendous week, and I am looking forward to a lie-in. It wouldn't be for long as we were expecting Bell to make a service call anywhere between 9:00 AM and Noon.  You can imagine my horror when the phone rings shortly after 7:30. There is a reason the phone is on Rob's side of the bed, and he answered it in a pleasant manner. The caller would have received a "WTF are you thinking calling at this time of morning?" had it been up to me. 

Turns out it's the Bell technician who gleefully announces he will be at the door in 20 minutes.  Are you kidding me, an hour early ? Does the man have a death wish ?  I leap (more stumble actually) from bed and race (crawl painfully) to the shower, muttering threats and cursing Bell under my breath.  

Two minutes (not twenty) Rob throws open the door and announces "The Bell guy is here" and takes off. Marvelous, fucking marvelous. An explanation is probably called for here, We have a small house, a side split and that means the hallway between the bedrooms and bathroom is fully visible from downstairs. No private en-suite bathroom here. So here is my dilemma when I climb out the shower, wrapped in a barely adequate towel I will be forced to deek from the bathroom to my bedroom. The trouble is "deeking" requires agilty, so my trip between said rooms would be less "deeking" and more "streaking". Hell, who am I trying to kid, streaking requires speed, my walk of shame would no doubt be reduced to full blown indecent exposure.

Fortunately my son came to my rescue, as he throws open the bathroom door - I have to start locking that - to add his announcement to his father's. I was at least able to ask him, to grab a nightgown from my bedroom. Still, scantily clad as I was, my preference was not to bump in to the unsuspecting technician, so I stood with my ear pressed against the door, listening for voices, trying to determine his whereabouts.  As I slowly nudge open the door, my son is there for me again. "Run" he hisses at me, "The guy is in the playroom, make a run for it". So with Grady's encouragement I dash - sort of - to the safety of my bedroom. 

I heartily do not recommend this as a way to start your Sunday. Rob informed me afterwards that the tech's parting comment was "I am so glad you guys are early risers!".

A Peaceful Saturday

As I sit here one Saturday morning contemplating if I have any material for a new blog, it is handed to me in the form of Grady. All is quiet the house, Rob is grocery shopping - a chore I am forbidden to do on account of the fact that I destroy his sense of order by not trudging mundanely up and down each aisle, but flit gayly from one part of the store to another, which makes him mental - so there's an upside in everything. 

Anyway, I digress, as I sit quietly, there is a blood curdling scream from the playroom, followed by a second and then a third. Before I can react - I'm awfully slow on weekend mornings - I hear Grady bellow a few choice words - not to be repeated here & thank goodness Rob was out - followed by  "Die! Die! Die!" . This was accompanied by several large bangs. My first thought, "OMG, Sid has pushed him too far and he's done her in". 
 
If that is the case, then there is no sense in racing upstairs now, what's done is done. I yell up to Grady and ask him what the hell is going on. My son answers with several more expletives and then tells me he had a wasp on his foot, which judging by the "Die! Die! Die!" has now met an untimely demise. 


However, Grady is not out of the woods yet, he may have escaped the wasp but he now has to face the wrath of his sister who was woken from a deep slumber by his commotion.
Personally I'd take my chances with an angry wasp over Lindsay any day.

Never Buy Condoms At The Dollar Store

My children continually serve to remind me that they are walking advertisements for the use of birth control. 

On the weekend we joined friends for dinner, at a restaurant no less. Sidney & Grady were invited also, despite my many warnings to the contrary.  Sadly, they were egged on by certain adults who should have known better. While Sid was away from the table, someone squirted a small amount of hot sauce in her water, which Grady persuaded her to drink when she returned. For the record I was down the other end of the table and had no idea what was happening until I heard the loud guffaws of laughter and looked up in time to see Sid with her face turned inside out, and Grady collapsed in a giggling heap. Personally I blame their father, as he had encouraged this debacle.

It would appear they were just getting started, as it was all downhill from there. You can imagine my embarrassment, when as we are preparing to leave - voluntarily, before we were forcibly ejected - I move to finish the last few drops of my wine, only to have my family sit there and chant - loudly - "Chug! Chug! Chug!"  Assholes all of them. There is a good reason we rarely get invited anywhere more than once.

The Cat House

So I spend my Thursday morning cleaning house but not sure why I bother. Everything is spotless, I have even scrubbed the floors, and feeling pretty pleased with my efforts. I notice 2 cats sitting in the basement window, one on the outside wanting in and one on the inside wanting out. I open the window, outside cat darts through. Inside cat is on his way out when the wind blows a leaf in, said cat leaps a foot in the air, falls out the window and sets off a chain reaction. Second cat bolts upstairs to kitchen, careens around the corner and sends bowl of dog cookies hurtling across kitchen floor.

Clean up the dog cookies, while I curse out the cats and my youngest daughter who filled the bowl to the brim to begin with. Our dog, unlike most, only eats when he is hungry, so Sid whose chore is to feed the dog, discovered very quickly that if she fills his bowl to overflowing, it will last him several days, and therefore she only has to feed him twice maybe three times a week. That's my daughter, always looking for the easy way out.

That mess in itself would have been enough, but no, third cat enters the fray and decided to eat dog cookies. He is partial to them, but with an inevitable result, and sure enough half an hour later I hear that ghastly sound of a cat about to upchuck and charge around the house trying to determine the source. I locate the cat mid heave, go to grab him but he dodges. The chase is on. The little bastard only stops long enough to vom, then takes off again with me in hot pursuit. I finally caught up with him, and tossed him unceremoniously outside.  Unfortunately, I was too late, and had to retrace my steps and clean up seven (yes seven) piles of cat barf, swearing the whole time.

It didn't go unnoticed that it was a Thursday !

At Least You Can Blog About It

So, here it is a Friday afternoon. I am hosting an Open House for my business and with 5 minutes to go before people start to arrive, the phone rings. It is my husband who had gone to pick up the kids from school. First thing he said was "Take a deep breath and try not to get cross", well that sort of approach is guaranteed to send me from calm to apoplectic in 2 seconds flat. "What happened?" I asked with a considerable amount of trepidation, fearing the worst. He continues "Your daughter locked the keys in the van".  I don't need to detail my exact reply to this news, but I will just say it was at top volume and contained an awful lot of "F" words. My husband then compounds the issue by offering up sympathy for his daughter, because she was embarrassed. Are you kidding me ? Embarrassment will be the least of her troubles. 

So there he is stuck at the school with all three children. Thinking about it now, that wouldn't have been such a bad evening - for me ! But I am frantically trying to determine if I have time to make it to the school with the spare keys and get back home before the first guests arrive. I think I have mentioned before that I hate driving Rob's car, I don't even like climbing in it, never mind driving it. The dashboard has more dials & lights than a 747, I switch on the wipers when I am trying to signal, I can't see the gears without my glasses and whenever I try to adjust the seat, (my legs are longer than his) I either end up with my nose an inch from the windscreen and the steering wheel in my gut, or so far back I can't reach the pedals. 

Thank goodness we are on a first name basis with most of the teachers, because Rob was able to borrow one of their cars - thank you Shari - and return home to get the keys. Meanwhile Lindsay who has now arrived at Zach's house, started texting me apologies, which I don't see because my idiot husband has taken my phone, and proceeds to text her back that "I'm" not cross,  etc, etc. That man has a death wish.  

It is only when Lindsay arrives home, and starts to apologise in person that I find out the real truth - not only had she locked the keys in the van, but she had left the engine running too. WTF? The loud alarm that goes off when you open the door to indicate the keys are still in the ignition wasn't a clue - to either of them ?  Lindsay, who was obviously no longer feeling contrite about all this, offers up  "At least you can blog about it!".

Bird Invasion

I have discussed our mice problem, our raccoon invasion and recently our chipmunk escapade, but I don't think I have detailed the attack of the birds yet. One morning during the summer I am sitting at the computer and I notice out of the corner of my eye something fly across the room. That wasn't right and I jumped to my feet. There, flapping in the window sill was a starling. It had to have come down the chimney, because there was a trail of soot in its wake. 

My first reaction is to scream for the kids - I have no issue with mice or spiders but hate birds. I would like to say that all my little darlings came running to my aid, but instead I got a chorus of "What?'s" from various places around the house. "Get down here! Now!" I screech. The only response this time is a loud discussion, while they try and determine who I am calling for.  Bunch of useless tits. 

Obviously I am going to have to deal with this myself, and I struggle to climb on the back of the sofa, precariously balanced between the arm rest and a side table and make a grab for the bird. This is going to be more difficult than I anticipated as it flies over my head and into the next window, swearing I climb down and chase after it. I might add, that despite the commotion, none of my children have bothered to come down and check on by well being.

With puma like stealth I lunge and this time my attempt is successful, and with the bird clutched tightly in hand, I clamber back down. Now at this point,  I could either open the window, toss the starling out into the bush and say Bye-Bye Birdie. Alternatively I could summon my offspring and show them what I had. One reason I have so much material for these blogs is because I am an idiot. I can never leave well enough alone.

As I head up the stairs from the basement, I summon my children, and this time they are more forthcoming and crowd around to see the now petrified bird. I opened my fingers  slightly so the kids could get a closer look, and sure enough it made a bid for freedom and flew right out of my hands. When will I ever learn ?

It took flight through the house and dove behind the buffet in the dining room. Now this is by far the heaviest piece of furniture in the house, well over ten feet long, solid wood and filled with china. This would not be moved easily. Fortunately Zach was over, so we were able to drag it out from the wall far enough to poke at the intruder with a long stick. But it obviously wasn't far enough, because as soon as the bird was prodded to within my reach, I lunged ... and discovered I was firmly wedged. This caused great hilarity among my children, who quite honestly until this point have been worse than useless. 

The damn bird has taken the opportunity during this commotion,to take off again and is flapping at the windows in the sun-room. I drag Zach in with me to move furniture and slam the French Doors shut behind us. It took a few minutes, with the furniture overturned in the middle of the room while I scrabbled on my hands and knees. The whole time, my bastard offspring, with their faces glued to the windows found this uproariously amusing. 

When I finally caught it again, I wasn't taking any chances. Gripped firmly in both hands I exited the house and set the bird free. When my husband arrived home that evening, I ask him to go up on the roof and check the chimney cap. True to form he refuses, arguing that we've been in the house 20 years and this is the only time a bird has come down the chimney. Not only do I like to get the last word, I also have to be right. Two days later another bird took a dive down the chimney, and this time Rob was home to deal with it. I would like to say I used great restraint and resisted telling him "I told you so", but everyone knows I'd be lying. 

I have to add here, that when I tried to read this post to my husband, I couldn't get passed the "..with puma like stealth.." comment, without his loud maniacal laughter.  According to him, "puma" and "stealth" are not words that immediately jump to mind when describing my actions. However it would appear that getting wedged behind the buffet is perfectly normal.

Beaten But Not Down

I have to feel sorry for my son. Last week I received a call from his teacher, to inform me that Grady had bumped his head - on another child - and had a big lump on his forehead, but he was refusing to ice it. It didn't seem too bad and she promised me she'd keep an eye on him. If he started acting or talking strangely she told me she would call me back. I had to intervene at this point, explaining that as talking and acting strangely was something Grady did on a regular basis, it would require something much more dire before I hastened to his side.

Today I received another call, this time Grady had tripped in the playground and scraped his face, he had walked in to the classroom supposedly (as Grady told it later) covered in blood. Again, I ascertained that there wasn't any serious harm, and he would be able to make it through the rest of the day.

It was this evening that he told me of his interaction with the other teachers. As some of them follow this blog, I will withhold names, but they know who they are ! The first teacher he encountered, gasped and asked him what happened. He explained, only to have her reply "Did Sid push you?".  A little while later another teacher inquired as to what happened to his face, again he explained and she responded with "Did Sid have anything to do with it?".  Finally he had to go to a neighboring classroom to fetch something  only to have that teacher take one look at his face and immediately ask "What did Sid do to you this time?" . As he was telling this tale -as only Grady can - I was laughing and expressing sympathy for Sid who has obviously developed a certain - and not undeserved reputation - around the school. Grady was not impressed and turned to me grumpily, "Never mind Sid" he complained, "How do you think I feel ? All those teachers assumed I got beaten up by my little sister!".  

He does have a valid argument.

What Are they Teaching In School ?

It always makes me nervous when I pick up my children from school and one or both of their teachers make a beeline for the van. It is even more unnerving when three teachers come to speak to me, especially when I only have two children in the school.

Last Thursday (see its that day again!) was no exception, other than the fact it was Rob picking up the kids that day. Grady's teacher catches him first and relates a story. The classroom was exceptionally warm, and Grady approached his teacher, mopping his brow and complaining of the heat. His actual comment was "I'm so hot, I feel like I'm getting decapitated".  Not sure what punishment they are meting out in schools nowadays, but it sounds pretty harsh. 

But wait! There's more! In Sid's class they had a guest speaker and the topic they were covering was Government. The speaker asked the questions and the children were supposed to buzz in. It sounds like everything was moving along smoothly until they were asked what system of government presided the US. At Grade 4 level ? Really ? The response he was looking for was "Republican", but no one had the answer. He tried a series of clues "Arrrrrrre you sure you don't know the answer?" "Arrrrrrre you able to think of the answer?" and so on, always emphasizing the "r's". Sidney finally clues in and excitedly buzzes in her answer "Pirates", she yells gleefully. I understand at that point, the teacher lost it.

How It All Began

My friend Laurie asked me the other day how I got into blogging. It started innocently enough when I would send Rob an email and describe how "My Day So Far", was going with one or more of the kids at home. These emails were then passed around his office, and after a few years of his co-workers suggesting I write a blog, I decided to give it a try.

Today I go back to the roots, as I had a morning typical of those earlier days. I'm not sure really at what point it started going off the rails, just that it did. Lindsay and Sid got into a fight over who carries down the dirty laundry. They weren't arguing because neither wanted to do it, quite the opposite, they both requested the chore. Unfortunately the fight escalated, and the inevitable happened, they got so wrapped up with their argument, neither one completed the task. 

Grady meanwhile had been listening to some old music I was playing in the van and had started singing over and over again one particular line from the 70's song "Billy Don't Be A Hero".  I did suggest that he might want to pick another song if he plans on singing at school (which I'm told he does in class), because I'm quite sure that continuously belting out a rendition of "Come back and make me your wife" is guaranteed to get him stuffed in a locker. He is a sweetheart but a bit of a slow learner. 

Meanwhile he did something to piss Sidney off, I don't know what and it certainly doesn't take much. In fact, it could even have been his singing, because god knows I was ready to pierce my eardrums with a pointy stick. She takes retribution by kicking him, and promptly earns herself a time out - which was a bit stupid on my part, because sitting on the stairs at 8:15 is hardly conducive to her getting ready for school. Obviously Grady isn't the only slow learner in the house. I figured, give her 5 minutes tops and we should still be OK for time. 

However, I wasn't ready for the blood curdling scream that came next, nor her frantic flight down the stairs. I run up from the basement, only to find her cowering - and screaming - as Grady advances menacingly, brandishing one of my bras. Are you kidding me? What did I do to deserve this ? I snatch back my garment, slap Grady upside the head and tell Sid to get dressed. Grady, who would appear to have woken up with a death wish follows Sid into her room, where upon she retaliates by spritzing him with one of Lindsay's perfumes. It is not the first, nor I'm sure will it be the last time, that Grady goes to school smelling like a Texas whorehouse.  

So there you have it, "My Day So Far". 

A Long Life, Lived.

Today would have been my grandmother's birthday. Gladys Ellen Manse was born in 1893, family lore has it that her mother was a white witch and a physic. My grandmother often commented on her mother's many premonitions, but I do not recall her ever mentioning her father and I never thought to ask why. She lived through two world wars, the death of her brother and fiance (in the trenches during WWI), and outlived both her children (my mother and uncle). She was one of the first women to join the Women's Royal Air Force in 1918, working in communications at the ministry in London. Prior to that she worked in "service", as an under stairs or scullery maid. Think "Downton Abbey" but a little less glamorous. 

That era had a profound impact on the rest of her life. Although she ended marrying a family friend, she never truly got over the tragic loss of her fiance or her brother, Eric. She christened her son after her brother, but then could never bring herself to use his name, and forever after she called him simply "Boy". 

After WW1, her husband became a gamekeeper for a titled family, and they lived in a small cottage on the grounds. Legend had it that the family treasure was buried during the time of the English Civil War, to prevent Cromwell and his Round-heads from stealing it. Summers were spent in Scotland, at the family's highland estate.  My grandmother rarely talked about her life, most of this I learned from my mother.

Her service years formed her character as well, and she had no time for airs and graces. She moved in with us after her husband's premature death, well before I was born. She spent her life in the kitchen, and refused to eat with the rest of the family in the dining room, because she felt it was "above her station".  There was only a small table in the kitchen, so meal after meal she sat by herself.  No amount of cajoling could coax her to change her mind, and only when her brother or son visited and occasionally at Christmas, did she allow herself the luxury of eating in the dining room.  There was many a time I remember my poor embarrassed mother explaining to horrified guests that the little old lady huddled alone in the kitchen, was honestly there by choice. 

My grandmother was one stubborn lady. Barely clearing 5 feet in height, with a diminutive frame, she was a powerhouse. A force to be reckoned with. She called a spade a f***ing shovel, and didn't back down for anyone. She would take an instant like or dislike to a person, there was no rhyme or reason but once her mind was set, there was no turning back. God forbid she would perceive a slight where none was intended, you didn't get second chance with her.  I always remember a close friend Joanne, growing up. She was overdue a hair cut, and my grandmother told her one day she looked like a sheepdog and never spoke to her again. Mortified doesn't begin to explain how I spent my teen years. We had a rambling old house with several entrances, so I learned quickly to sneak my friends in a little used door, in order to avoid her wrath.

The person who argued with her most of course was me. My sisters, much older had long left home, and I never knew when to shut up, so our battles were many and frequent. I soon realised that complaining to my parents about the unfairness of it all, would entail a second punishment (or even third, if I was stupid enough to pursue it) , for which ever transgression I had enacted that day . She kept a hazel twig by the kitchen door, and I had that swished across the back of my knees many a time as I tried to escape after an argument. She had bloody good aim, and I was forced to establish a nifty two-step as I skipped through that door. 

As she aged she had trouble sleeping and after the pint of beer she drank every night, failed to bring on slumber, her doctor recommended a wee drop of Scotch before bed to help her sleep. The emphasis was on "wee", however once my grandmother was given the go ahead to drink Whiskey, "For medicinal purposes only" as she informed everyone, there was no stopping her. The wee drop quickly progressed to half a tumbler. She always removed her spectacles before she poured it in the glass, and because she couldn't see, would tip in extra for good measure. I'd find her the next morning, hunched over the kitchen table, the Daily Telegraph crossword unfinished, and she with her head in her hands bemoaning a headache - headache be damned, that was a hangover!

The final straw came after she fell down the stairs one night in a drunken stupor, which I think was probably what saved her as well, because at 88 I don't know how she wasn't badly hurt. My father and I took it upon ourselves to to water down her scotch. It didn't take her long to catch on to this, and she just upped her intake. After she died in her 92nd year, my father found scotch bottles hidden around her bedroom. That was when we learned that a family friend who used to take her shopping each week, stopped off so she could buy her liquor. She told the friend it was for my father. We had no idea.  

My grandmother was a strong influence in my life.  She didn't like the name I had been given - actually Wendy - she thought it was to "highfaluting", and insisted on calling me Kelly, my middle name.  She also taught me how to read and write it, and eventually my parents gave in, and I became Kelly.  Her life was far from easy, and it is only with age, that I appreciate how much she overcame. A truly remarkable woman.

 

Sid's Blog

I'm sure some days without Sid I wouldn't have a blog. As she is getting ready for school this morning, I notice that she is spending a long time standing in front of the full length mirror at the end of the hall. She stands sideways, checking out her profile, then turns and checks again. This goes on for a few minutes while she appraises her reflection. 

Curious, I finally ask her what she is doing. "It's official" she replies. "I don't have a best side, they are both good".  WTF ? She is nine years old. Best side ? I have absolutely no idea where she gets it from.

The Big Five-Oh.

I was rather hoping to slide into obscurity this week, as the auspicious occasion of my 50th birthday loomed - on a Thursday no less ! - but my husband had other ideas and has been littering Facebook with pictures from my past - and none of them flattering, so it has been difficult, if not impossible to escape reality.  He will pay dearly for this betrayal. 

This has provided me with an opportunity to reflect and look back on the past half century - ugh. I would like to say I have learned a lot, but anybody who reads my blog knows that isn't true.

Thirty five years ago, I had but one aim and that was to join the Royal Navy as a Communications Officer. I was going to travel the world, marriage and children were the furthest thing from my mind.  I had worked hard towards that goal, taking several courses at different naval bases in the UK, competing in the brutal Ten Tors challenge on Dartmoor and even suffered the pain and indignity of having my front tooth knocked out by the muzzle of a rifle on a particularly hazardous exercise. I didn't fare much better on water, I couldn't swim (still can't)  which was a particular impediment when we went sailing, especially before life jackets became mandatory. I still recall one spectacular evening in Portsmouth Harbour, where I sailed our four person dinghy right into the side of the Royal Yacht. It was strongly suggested that I not return.

I'm not sure how or when I made the decision to put the Naval career on the back burner and emigrate to Canada as a nanny. I didn't even like children, and some days I still don't. I had first met Rob at the age of fourteen when I was here on vacation, but I was nineteen before I took up with him again and we were married two years later.  Those two intervening years I spent as a nanny. Over 800 days of indentured servitude, an experience I intended never to repeat. One family I lived with was particular violent, and I escaped each weekend to spend two days at my sister's house, dreading each Sunday evening when I had to return. It was several years before I could relax on a Sunday night, without that sinking feeling of apprehension for the next day. Unfortunately I was at the whim of Immigration, and to leave my employment - regardless of the circumstances - would earn me a one way ticket back to England. I can still remember the euphoria when I walked away from the house for the last time. I would never allow myself to be in that position now, but I was much younger then, and with age comes, maybe not wisdom, but certainly a better sense of self preservation. 

So here I am now. I swapped my dreams of becoming a Naval Officer for a career in Human Resources followed by motherhood. Probably a better choice, on account of that not being to swim thing. After thirty years, I still miss England, there is a part of me that would like to go back, but I know I made the right choice to stay here, and on Thursday when I'm fighting with Sid to put on her shoes, and cleaning up cat barf, I will take a moment to congratulate myself for surviving fifty years.

 

Open Wide

So I had a dentist appointment this morning, just a routine check-up and cleaning. Everything was going well until I heard a voice say "Are you alright ? Dear, are you alright?".  At which point I realised I had fallen asleep and started to snore. I'm not sure how that is even possible with three different utensils stuck in my mouth, but I managed it. I can't say it was one of my finest moments.

I might have got away with just a pitying glance if I hadn't compounded that faux pas with another. I had been tilted in the chair with my head way below my feet, and after the hygienist brought me upright,  I stood up, promptly got dizzy and after I whacked my head on the lamp, I walked straight into the wall. She probably thought I was drunk. It wasn't even the usual hygienist, so for all she knows that is normal behaviour for me.

Does It Get Better With Age ?

As any reader of my blog knows, I have three children - 16, 11 and 9. Ever the optimist I keep hoping that as they age their behavior will improve. You would think that at 16, Lindsay who is old enough to drive, and in 18 months legally an adult would behave in a manner befitting of her age, but you would be wrong. 

Take yesterday afternoon for instance, Lindsay and Sid get into a name calling argument over who would put away Sid's shoes. Lindsay was offering to do it for her and Sid resisted. They reach a stalemate, neither is giving in, both have a fistful of each shoe and they are in a tug of war. Incredulously I am in the kitchen listening to the fight escalate, until finally I can stand it no longer and tell them in a language they both understand to drop the effing shoes before I ram them up their arses, or words to that effect. They had definitely lost the plot. Honestly I wanted to knock their heads together, and if Lindsay wasn't almost as tall as me, I probably would have.

Everyone is familiar with the "Terrible Twos", which technically with my children started almost as soon as they each turned one. I remember an old boss of mine once told me that the "Twos" were nothing it was the "Fuck You Fours" you really had to watch out for. I had never heard my boss swear before, so that comment stuck with me, and by God he was right.

But how do you explain or describe those years between eight & ten ?  Grady who is an absolute sweetheart now, and probably the most empathetic of my children, still almost met his maker at my hand on several occasions at that stage of his development. He would deliberately bait his sisters, (actually he still does, he has yet to learn that lesson), the answer to any & every request was a resounding "No", every statement was contradicted and he would fly into a rage without the slightest provocation. He threatened to leave home more times than I can count, until I finally gave him $20 and offered to take him to the train station. That stopped him in his tracks - no pun intended.

Sid is at that stage now, as evidenced by the shoe fight yesterday. Why couldn't she have just let Lindsay put away her shoes for her ?  What is wrong with the child ?. Unfortunately as my husband persists in pointing out to me time and time again, Sid is a mini-me. She definitely has my temper, and not a day goes by without at least one WTF ? moment.

When Sid was at the "Fuck You Fours" stage, she was a little termagant, (which is also how my father was known to have described me). I remember one particular day that stood out when she decided that she didn't like any of her underwear. Screaming, slamming doors,  tears (and that was just me), no matter what, she found a problem with each and every pair.  I'd pull them on her, she'd pull them off and hurl them across the room. We were already late for school, so I gave her an ultimatum, pick a pair or go commando, because if she didn't, the third option I was ready to utilise was to leave her by the side of a deserted road, with or without underwear, I didn't really care at that point.  I think she chose commando.

Five years on and not much has changed. She is has gotten over her underwear aversion, I hasten to add, but this morning it was the shoes again. She has been adamant that she get shoes with laces, but she refuses to learn how to tie them.  Grady was trying to help her, but she wanted none of it. I finally sat her down and tied them up - too loose. Undid them and started again - too tight this time. Tough shit, I'm out of patience.  The next thing I see is a shoe flying across the living room. I hate to admit it, but that girl has a bloody good arm. Enough already, she is given 30 seconds to put on her shoes or she goes to school in her socks. Grady isn't helping by hovering on the sidelines, alternating taunts between "You're in trouble" and "I told you so". See above re; baiting his sister!  He is lucky the second shoe didn't nail him in the head.  

My children know that I carry out my threats, or as I prefer to call them, "consequences", so Sid decided to avoid the "going to school in socks" option and reluctantly donned her shoes.  She did however make it very apparent she was not happy, as evidenced by the slamming of the front door and the slow stomp down the path. If I hadn't caught on by then as to how she felt about me, the unyielding death glare that I glimpsed in the in the rear view mirror as we drove to school was a pretty good clue. 

This post goes out to my friend Shari, who is experiencing her own version of the F/U Fours. Best of luck with that !  

Sid Strikes Again

All the power to my youngest daughter, because without her I don't think I'd have much of a blog

Sid had been nagging - an exceptional ability she shares with her siblings - for new running shoes. I was hesitant as she had only her "old" pair, for four months.  Rob finally relented one weekend and took her shopping - for the record I categorically refuse to shop with my children - and she came home with a brand spanking new pair of white runners. That was mistake #1.

Three days later, despite our insistence not too, she wore the new shoes up to the very muddy barn. Mistake #2. It is pretty obvious what happened next, white shoes no more.  When we get home I stopped her as she was just about to wash them in my kitchen sink. Surprisingly, she didn't fathom my extreme revulsion at this act. 

The next day, it was pouring with rain, and as we sat at the gas (petrol) station.  I glanced over, only to see Sid happily holding a shoe out of her open window. Consequently, her arm, her shoe and the inside of my van were all getting drenched. I uttered the question I always seem to be asking of my children, "What the hell are you doing ?"  She looked at me, rolled her eyes and replied in a very condescending tone, "What does it look like I'm doing ? I'm cleaning my shoe."

"Actually.." I replied, "...you aren't cleaning anything, all you are doing is getting everything soaked.  Why not use the wet wipes I keep in the van?"  A little light bulb clicks on and by the time we reach school, her shoes are again clean and the floor is covered in grotty wet wipes.

I have to wonder if she isn't the product of a shallow gene pool. I remember during one of my pregnancies I had to go for an ultrasound and a bigoted technician expressed relief that my husband was Canadian and not British "Because of all the inbreeding that goes on in England". Yes really! I tore a strip off her then, but now I've got to wonder, at least where my children are concerned, if she wasn't on to something.

Critter Explosion

A friend asked me the other day what our current animal count was. Sadly - although that sentiment does depend on who you talk to - all the hamsters plus two rabbits have gone, and the jird is in the freezer. Said friend also thought all this time that "jird" was a typo, and it that it was actually a bird I was referring to. We still have the remaining 4 rabbits, as well as 4 cats, 1 dog, 1 horse and the frogs - which I think must be immortal, because they have long exceeded their lifespan, and the fish. We also have the addition of a pregnant guinea pig.

Grady brought home the class guinea pig - who it would appear as of next week or so, we have adopted permanently, due to allergies in the classroom - which is also how we ended up with the frogs, go figure - earlier this year, and my husband in a weak moment mused allowed that maybe we should get a guinea pig or maybe two. I don't know what possessed him to suggest that, but once those words were uttered aloud, there was no going back.

We are on a first name basis with the owner of the local pet store, and when we purchased our 'pig, he offered to provide us with a loaner stud guinea pig (I kid you not), because the children thought what fun it would be to raise a baby 'pig. They had struck out with kittens and puppies, so I guess guinea pigs were the next best option. Amazingly my husband actually agreed to this and so we trot off home with two horny guinea pigs. 

Sid was definitely the most fascinated with all the goings on. There was a little house in the cage, and thank god all the activity took place in there, because it was bad enough that Sid would announce loudly, "They're doing it again" each time both 'pigs disappeared into the shelter. At first Rob felt sorry for the stud 'pig, because he didn't seem to be getting any action, but it wasn't long before his sympathy dried up, and petty jealousy set in, as the male would sit, day after day basking in the afterglow. All he was missing was a cigarette. 

So, two months later we await the birth.  Apparently the rate of miscarriage and still births are quite high in guinea pigs - why no one told us that before we started this I don't know, so the excitement is somewhat tempered by trepidation. we shall just have to wait and see.

Mice Wars

Rob was visiting our neighbour the other day and came back armed with a mouse trap. Not any old mouse trap, but a state of the art "Humane Trap".  A shame really, because I am much more partial to the kind which requires Rob to set the bait, while we sit in the next room and silently count down to the point where it snaps his fingers, and then snicker quietly as he swears and howls with pain and then repeats the process. It never gets old. 

Anyway, our war on the mice continues. We were sitting in the basement the other evening, all else was quiet except for the party that was being thrown in between the ceiling and the upstairs floor. It was one hell of a racket, I'm not sure how many mice were up there, but they sure sounded like they were having fun. I was half expecting mini balloons and confetti to come drifting down through the gaps in the wood plank ceiling.  

Rob decided it was time to fight back, hence the latest mouse trap.  Please excuse me while I don't get too excited about this. He of little memory seems to have clear forgotten about our first disastrous episode with the humane (read useless) trap. This is not to be confused with my last posted blog on mouse catching - which I think was actually a while ago - which was another episode entirely.  

Anyway, old house, plaster walls and mice will often get trapped within them, die and then stink up the place for two weeks. Not too much you can do about it until I had the brilliant idea of cutting a hole in the wall and thus allowing the mouse to exit the wall into the said trap. You'll notice my ideas are always brilliant, his, not so much. 

That was the grand plan, but as so often happens in our house, the mouse - or should I say mice - had other ideas, because after the hole was cut in the wall and the trap positioned in front of it, not one, not two but three mice gaily trooped straight through the trap and into the kitchen. It was like a Macey's freaking parade. 

The cats - count them we have four - are nowhere to be seen. So it is up to me to take care of the mouse round up, as I frantically throw bowls and buckets around the room in a desperate attempt to trap the little rodent bastards beneath the containers. You may well ask where my husband is during this chaos ? He was in the next room of course, on top of a chair ineffectively calling out directions. If over the quarter century that we have been married, we ever came close to divorce, that evening would have been it. 

Surprisingly, I did manage to capture two of the offenders, and the cats eventually took care of the third. I'm not sure exactly what Rob plans on doing with this latest trap, but rest assured, what ever it is, he is doing it on his own. 

Authors Note: Rob of course remembers this episode differently. He insists he wasn't on top of a chair. Whatever. 

How To Carpool

I have in the past had the dubious honour of transporting members of Lindsay's swim team back and forth, and as the season starts up again, I must put into practice some of the pointers I learned last year on how to successfully carpool. 

1)  Don't communicate with your teen in any way, shape or form, lest you be mistaken for their parent ! In fact it's better if you can pretend you are total strangers.

2)  As such, you shouldn't remind her to use the bathroom before she gets in the pool.  This is a major faux pas, as evidenced by the way the van door was vehemently slammed behind her.

3)  Should one of the other kids try and make conversation with you, it's best if you pretend you're either hard of hearing or can't speak English or both, on account of the fact you may will say something to embarrass your offspring.

4)  Apparently blaring the radio to discourage conversation is taboo as well.  Any music you enjoy will be considered cringe worthy by the young.  Don't assume that pretending to listen to a "Hip" radio station is the answer, apparently that's akin to a comb-over ! It's probably best that you don't use language like "Hip" either.

6) Teens in hoodies, faces cast down as they text in total oblivion, all look alike to me. So if you do speak to one, resist the urge to use their name, because it's probably the wrong one. This social blunder is guaranteed to net you a withering look.

If you can carry all this off, with a happy smile on your face, you are well to your way to a successful carpool. I should add, that all the kids I have carpooled have been very polite, and had it been allowed, it would have been nice to get to know them better.

My Children, The Athletes.

I wouldn't say that my son excels at sports, but he certainly does try his best. He was on an inter school baseball team one term, and after his first game he came home all excited. "Our team didn't win ..." he said beaming, "... but I scored a goal". That's right a goal, in baseball. That there is maybe the first clue as to why they didn't win.

If that wasn't proof enough, Grady & Sid were out in the garden playing "baseball" again, and each time he hit the ball (which wasn't often as his sister seemed to be pitching more to the nearby tree than at him) he yells "Fore".  

His early attempts at soccer were nothing to write home about either, sitting in goal, with his back to the pitch, making daisy chains. His father was so proud. However not nearly as proud as we were of Sid, who after running halfway down the pitch after the ball, screeches to a halt, inserts a finger up her nose and proceeds to regale the onlookers with the results.  In their defense, they were a lot younger then. It just took us a while longer than most to come to terms with the fact there would be no athletic scholarships in our childrens' future. 

To be fair Grady is quite accomplished on skis, or more accurately on only one ski, as he always seems to lose the other one as he races down the hill. I still remember Lindsay's early attempts at skiing. One particular morning as Rob was capturing her exploits on film, Lindsay hurtled down the slope and forgot how to stop. Consequently, her momentum carried her back up a small hill, over the barrier and across the path, only coming to a stop when she plowed into her father. It was a case of objects in the camera are closer than they appear !

Lest We Forget

         In honour of Remembrance Day, and the men and women who have served and continue to serve their countries, I offer up a different blog today. My father was a tank commander in the 10th Hussars during WW2. This is an extract from his account of that time.

 

        ......... We formed part of a large convoy of troop carriers and merchant ships, escorted by frigates and destroyers. We had to head out to the mid-Atlantic to avoid land-based bombers and enemy battleships, because France was now home for German planes. We could not use the shorter route through the Mediterranean Sea for the same reason, and Italian submarines. The journey was 12000 miles to Port Suez on the Red Sea. The weather was pleasant and duties few. On deck, we watched dolphins and flying fish; a new experience for most of us, as was seasickness. The first 2 or 3 days were wretched. I was in the bottom of the ship, close to the propeller shaft, expecting every night for an enemy torpedo to finish us off.

           The voyage was uneventful and we rounded the Cape of Good Hope and stopped at Durban, South Africa. We had a few days ashore and were adopted by the townsfolk, taken to tea and the cinema, and shown the sights. Our next stop was Port Said after travelling through the Suez Canal, where we took a train to a camp near Cairo. The tank drivers had to go back to Suez to collect the tanks, which arrived on a merchant ship that had docked at Aden. We were allowed day trips to Cairo and I visited the pyramids.

          At this time, the Germans were in retreat over 400 miles away across the Western Desert at Cyrenaica, so we had a long journey. The tanks were loaded onto transporters because a tank is a heavy consumer of fuel, 1 or 2 miles to the gallon. We were part of a very large contingent of artillery and anti-tank units. With the other units, there would be over 100 tanks. Orders came to engage the enemy. Our little 2-pounders were ineffective beyond 400 yards and our shells just bounced off the enemy tanks, so we had to get closer to the Germans before we could attack. They could pick us off at 1000 yards with their heavier guns. All we could do was lay down a curtain of smoke to confuse the enemy gunners.

         As with the fiasco with the expeditionary force in France, (Dunkirk) the result of our engagement was inevitable. Tank after tank was disabled or set on fire. In my squadron alone, we ended the day with 10 tanks out of 12 lost. I was the lucky driver of one of the 2 tanks that survived the battle. My view was restricted to a small periscope with no lateral vision. What with the crack of the 2-pounder and the rattle of the machine gun, communication was not easy. How we got out of it unscathed I do not know. Those in the military who were responsible for arming the tank with such a poor gun have much to answer for. Several officers and many other ranks were killed, wounded, or taken prisoner.

         Other units had suffered equally as badly and when orders were issued to withdraw, the regiment could only muster 7 tanks out of an original 40 in working order. We retreated some 50 miles and the enemy was willing to let us go; they had their own wounds to lick. We had learned a bitter lesson for the second time. Without a better gun, we had no chance of winning. I was now a sergeant and tank commander.  

          The enemy was retreating westward and we were advancing slowly but not engaging, so there was a lull in fighting. An open truck would turn up with a load of bread, full of sand but a welcome relief from army biscuits. Each tank was a kind of island, with 4 men living in close proximity, all orders by wireless. My gunner was a regular soldier, while the driver and wireless operator were from civilian life, like myself. We got on well together. One day a water tanker turned up and the driver said, “Want to take a bath?” We scooped a hole in the sand, lined it with the tank’s tarpaulin, and had a make-shift “garden pool.” I carried a small vest-pocket camera and took a snap of my crew disporting in the water like a bunch of children. I had many snaps, taken at different times, ready for developing but all my kit disappeared when I was rushed to hospital at El Alamein.

            I developed a sore throat. “Nothing to worry about,” said the medical officer, “Go back to your tank and gargle with salt water.” I did as I was told and shortly after collapsed. This time, the MO realized his mistake and diagnosed diphtheria. I was rushed to Cairo at high speed, barely conscious. I still remember the nightmare ride. I was half conscious and delirious. I learned later from an orderly that two doctors argued over my fate. One said, “He’s gone beyond saving, let him die in peace.” The other said, “Give him a chance.” He won; I was given a massive dose of anti-toxin and left to nature. I was 25 years old........