My apologies, the blog will be for a week or so, returning on August 1st.

Boredom Busters

My apologies for no posting on Friday - I was read the riot act good and proper on the weekend ! I had technical difficulties, but here goes. 

I have to mention that my children have been extraordinarily well behaved so far this summer. It must mean my threats are finally beginning to pay off.  There ius a downside - good children means less material for my blog. Can't have it both ways. 

So, last week was week three of the holidays and the kids are complaining they are bored. I thought I'd do something creative, so I showed them how to stuff the cat in the mailbox. That is always good for a laugh, and the cat already hates me, so what's the downside ? Of course, that may explain the reason why our neighbours ended up with our mail today.

By the time the kids have finished attempting to do that, they can spend the rest of the afternoon practicing their First Aid.  I highly doubt I will hear complaints of boredom after that exercise.

I told my husband what we had done, and he actually thought I had left the cat in the mailbox. I should mention for all my animal lover readers, that no animals were harmed in the making of this blog. 

... And A Funeral

The second installment of the Wedding !  The funeral in the title was very nearly Grady's.

After the service, fortunately with no more incidents, we left for the luncheon. This wedding was 2 years in the planning and was amazing. Not one single detail was overlooked.  At this point the children were remarkably well behaved. A few well aimed kicks under the table made sure of that. Grady & Sid discovered there was an open bar - for them it was pop and juice - so it couldn't get better than that in their eyes.  They were too busy schlepping glasses of Coke and Iced Tea, to think about arguing.  I figured I would deal with the sugar rush later.

We were back to the hall a couple of hours later for the main reception. Again, we had gone over what was and was not acceptable behavior, only by now as evening drew near and the sugar high crashing, Sidney and Grady were becoming more argumentative. We found our table and got settled. Grady couldn't decide on a seat and moved from one, to another to another, carrying the carefully arranged place setting with him each time. Luckily we were at the far end of the hall, next to the bar. Coincidence ? I think not! So no one was around to witness my first meltdown of the evening, as I admonished Grady and hissed at him to pick a seat and stick to it. We thought it best if Sid and Grady were separated, sadly I didn't think it through, because I turned out to be the poor schmuck separating them. Sid at least stationed herself nearest to the bar so she was happy.  When she discovered the shrimp appetizer station she was even happier, while Grady went off exploring the other stations. The highlight of his evening was when he was given a small wooden "spork" with one of the appetizers. Go figure. 

I swear my children were tag teaming it as their table manners deteriorated with each successive sugar filled drink. Unfortunately I couldn't watch both at the same time and as I am hissing at Sid to take chopsticks out of her nostrils, Grady is stabbing his other sister with a plastic sword he got in a drink. At one desperate moment when I implored Grady to behave and asked him why they were acting out, he replied in an evil voice "We are out to get you". He wasn't lying. Little bastards. Rob at the other side of the table remained oblivious to my torment. The kids were determined to hang in until more food was brought out at 11:00 - sliders, pizza and poutine. It was all I could do not to strangle Grady when after someone kindly went in search of pizza for him, he used the flashlight app on his I-Pod to check for veggie toppings. 

Revenge was mine though, when the bride came over to grab Grady for a slow dance. Remember, this was his teacher for the past two years, only now she is in a strapless gown, and watching her show Grady where he was supposed to place his hands while they danced was priceless. The embarrassment on his face as he tried looking everywhere but eyes front, as he shuffled agonizingly across the dance floor was a sight to behold. 

So this goes out to Hanna and Adriano. Thank you for including us in your special day, and wishing you both love and much happiness for many, many years to come.

One Wedding .............

We as a family don't get out much. Oh yes, we get plenty of invitations from people we have just met, but rarely - unless close family - do we get invited anywhere twice, which considering my children shouldn't be surprising. So you can imagine our delight when we are invited to a wedding. Grady's teacher was getting married, and she knows us - all of us very well - so it was with some shock when we received an invitation. Of course there was a caveat or two - Grady had to behave himself, and Sid had to wear a dress !

The big day arrives and we are all excited. Rob and I must have read the kids the riot act a hundred times; No I-Pods in church, no fighting, no talking during the service, no cell phones, etc etc.  The day almost came off the rails even before we walked out the door, when Sid in the requisite dress suddenly remembered she hadn't donned underwear.  Why me ?

First crisis adverted, we arrive at the church, and shuffle into a pew. Interestingly enough, although all the pews around us quickly filled up, ours didn't. Co-incidence ? I think not. I should mention here, that although my husband was raised Catholic, we are not church goers. As a consequence, my children have a lamentable gap in their religious education. So it shouldn't come as any surprise when Grady sorting through the hymn books in front of us, discovers a children's book about Noah's Ark. Noah is on the front cover, sporting a long white flowing beard. Grady immediately pounces upon it and loudly exclaims "Look! a book about Santa Claus".  Again, why me ?

No sooner had the service started than our little friend Eliot - one of the ring bearers - decided he no longer wanted to be part of the ceremony. Rob scooped him up before the inevitable scene, and brought him back to our pew. Thank goodness for the book on "Santa", Eliot was happy to sit on Robb's lap and pour over the colourful pages. "What are you going to do when you get to the end of the book?" I whispered to Rob. " I don't know" he replied anxiously.  I nudge Grady and asked him if he had his I-Pod. For once I was thankful he hadn't listened to earlier directions and guiltily pulled it out of his pocket. "Great" I hissed, "Now mute it and give it to me". Once Eliot saw the I-Pod he quickly scrambled over us and sat next to Grady so he could play. Sid immediately has her knickers in a knot and starts glaring at me. "What's the matter ?" I mouthed. "It's not fair. I want to sit next to Eliot" she said huffily. Are you kidding me ? I get one child settled and now another one decides to throw a snit. I throw Sid a glare of my own, and she pointedly ignores me. I remind her that her teacher is sitting in front of us, and fortunately that was all that was needed.    

I hadn't initially planned on writing about the wedding, I didn't want to appear disrespectful and offend a close friend, however as Rob pointed out, it was our children I was dissing, not the wedding itself. That, and the fact at least three of the kid's teachers including the bride herself - told me they looked forward to reading about the event in my blog. So, stay tuned for the second installment.

Summer Shenanigans

So this is how my summer is progressing. I receive an email from my friend Kristy who lives around the corner. "I saw your kids in costume as we drove down Mill Street today...the summer shenanigans have begun!".  

Yes, that would be my children. The costumes to which Kristy was referring; Grady in a rubber death mask, whipping down the road on his electric scooter, aiming a water pistol at Sid, who is sporting a big black mustache, gyrating at the end of the driveway. Kind of makes me want to shoot her myself.  Sadly, Kristy is moving soon, I will have to ensure I keep my children out of sight, if she has any hope of selling their house. 

We have a large back garden, so I'm not sure why my children are drawn to the front and the allure of the street. Last week Grady was out there wearing a huge cardboard box, with holes cut out for his arms, waving at passing cars - did I mention it was pouring with rain ? There is definitely something seriously amiss with my children. 

Long Live The Chipmunk

Our neighbours are well used to our antics by now. Those closest to us realise we are relatively harmless, but I know for a fact that there are some who speed up as they pass our house, hurrying their precious offspring along, lest something untoward happens. 

It is well documented in this blog that not all of our issues (and by that I mean fights) take place inside the house, and there has been many a day when snotty and screaming children (mine) have been booted out the front door, oft times with me in hot pursuit wailing like a banshee. Paints a tranquil picture doesn't it ?

Alas it is not always my children I have to chase and in the latest episode of "Did you see that crazy woman down the street today?",  I was after the cat. I came home after dropping the kids off at school, it is pissing down rain and the first thing I notice as I hurry up the path is our orange cat with a chipmunk in his mouth.

My first attempt to coax the cat close enough to grab the little bastard by the scruff didn't work and he scooted into the bushes with me in hot pursuit. As I dive in and out of the euonymus (where is the spell check when I really need it?) and the lilacs, the cat and his prey stay one leap ahead. At this point any neighbours driving by would only catch sight of my ass end sticking out of the shrubbery. I should also mention I am totally soaked. 

Finally, I saw an opportunity and with ninja like stealth (and anyone who knows me will be laughing at this, but I kid you not), I dove on the cat and it promptly dropped the chipmunk who proceeded to run around in circles and was immediately grabbed up again by the cat. By now I am cursing up a storm and sorely tempted to leave the chipmunk to it's inevitable fate, but I had visions of nursing it back to health and maybe even acquiring a chipmunk pet, (what the hell was I thinking ?), so I decided to give it one last ditch effort and flung myself on the cat. I'm not sure who was more surprised. The plan worked and the chipmunk was free to live another day, which was about all he did live, because the next morning a chipmunk tail was left, a bloody trophy on the front doorstep. 

Bird In The House

Only day three of the school holidays and already I'm not sure I can take it. Despite several trips to the barn to do chores and feed lambs, an expensive  trip to the book store, another to McDonald's and the ice cream store, I am still battling a chorus of the "I'm boreds".  I can't even take off and leave the little bastards stranded, because Lindsay has my van.

This morning was a little livelier, when I hear a crash in the chimney and a starling flies out into the family room, where I am working. I start screeching a warning "Bird in the house, BIRD IN THE HOUSE" , but no one comes running. Meanwhile the poor bird is hitting windows left, right and centre, while I rush around opening doors and yelling for the kids.  I found out afterwards, they are all ignoring me because they think they are in trouble.  How "Bird in the house" translates to "You're in trouble" is beyond me. Not to mention, if they are in trouble, ignoring me is guaranteed not to improve their situation.

Finally Grady ventures downstairs only to have the bird dive bomb his head as it flies upstairs.  He screams "Holy Crap!" and hits the deck, while I'm yelling at him to open the back door.  By the time I make it upstairs the girls have joined the fray and Sid, as useful as ever is calling out directions, but the bird can fly faster than she can speak, so by the time we get to the last known position, the bird has already moved on. I finally corner it in the window in the sun-room and with ninja like stealth I balance unsteadily between the settee and DVD stand and pounce.  Grady is in the background, yelling "Don't hurt the bird, don't hurt the bird". Sidney is screaming and the bog is barking. Lindsay has only just got up, so she isn't doing much of anything.  The only difference between me and the trapped bird is that he will soon be free! 

The last time this happened, I made the mistake of hesitating while the kids took a closer look at the bird and it took that opportunity to escape. I am wiser this time, and despite entreaties to the contrary, as soon as I got that bird in my hand, I headed straight for the back door and let it go.  All this on only one cup of coffee ! 

My Children Are Morons

Actually this is more geared towards my son, but the girls play a part too.

Example # 1: I had received a fancy new blender and Grady wanted to make a banana & strawberry smoothie. After Rob leads him through the process Grady has one question "Do I have to peel the banana first?" Seriously ?

Example #2: The phone rings, Sid & Grady both yell they are going to answer it, and set off in hot pursuit of a phone. They each grab a receiver about the same time, and then start squabbling over who answered it first, each yelling at the other to hang up. Two minutes later the phone rings again, this time I grab it up - issuing death threats to my offspring. It is my husband. "What the hell is going on?" he growled. Really, he should know better than to ask that. He continued "Grady & Sid both picked up phone, yelled and screamed and then hung up on me". That's right, after a fight to the death over who answers the phone, neither one stayed on it long enough to take actually take the call.   

I have 10 weeks of this. I may not make it. 

Fruit Ninja

An alternative title to this post would be "Boys Are Idiots".  Men may take exception to this comment, but mothers of those boys I'm sure will wholeheartedly agree.

Case in point, last Friday. The evening of  Lindsay's 17th birthday party. I had hoped the parties would come to a grinding halt after her Sweet 16 shindig last year, but that is beside the point.  So at the party we have about 10 girls and a few boyfriends thrown in, between 16 and 18 years of age.  All well behaved I should add.

Later in the evening we had to go and feed the lambs, and before I left I reminded Lindsay about the no alcohol rule.  Little did I know it was Grady I should have been reading the riot act too.  All was quiet when we returned, but then I noticed that Grady was sporting a large cut above his eyebrow.  "What happened to you ?" I asked in concern.  "Oh, nothing" he replied, entirely too nonchalant for my liking.  He wiped off the cut, and stuck his finger in his mouth. "Mmmm, strawberry" he murmured. My spidey senses are on full alert now. "How did you manage to get strawberry on your eyebrow" I asked suspiciously ?  "Oh" he replied as if this were an everyday occurrence, "We were using strawberries for batting practice".  "Don't worry," he added, "We only used the moldy ones, and it was a plastic bat".  I know for a fact there weren't any moldy strawberries, but I let that go. I should have guessed there was more to this story and there was.

Later on as Rob and I are sitting in the sun room (we had been ousted from everywhere else) I heard some of the kids talking outside, "That Fruit Ninja was fun" I heard.  Spidey senses tingling again, I called everyone in for a Q & A.  "What exactly do you mean by Fruit Ninja ?", I quizzed as the guys stood there shuffling their feet, no one brave enough to make eye contact. Finally one caved and said "We were using Grady's machete to chop fruit".  Are you kidding me ? More confident, another pipes up "Yes, we got it on video, want to see?" Sure enough those boys who should have known better,  have filmed themselves wielding Grady's machete (another story entirely, blame it on his father) at the contents of my vegetable crisper. So much for the plastic bat !  To think I was concerned that one of them would swipe a beer underage.  I obviously still have a lot to learn.

Chariot Of Fire

My eldest daughter received her driver's license last week. I am thrilled. Throughout the time she was practicing, she insisted on using her father's car.  Apparently my van was too dirty - true, it is hard to keep it clean, when I'm making 2 trips a day to the barn; too smelly - also true, all the riding gear is stowed in the back and the vehicle is constantly permeated with the pungent odour of horse sweat and sheep shit. Nor did she like the dents - I have yet to get the repairs completed from when I picked the fight with the bulldozer, and finally the real reason for her preference for her father's car over my vehicle - driving a minivan just isn't cool.

This mentality changed abruptly as soon as she had her new licence in her hot little hand.  I received a call from her as she stood in line at the licence office. "Hi mum, can I borrow the van when I get home?". "I thought you didn't like my van, in fact you were very rude about it". I wasn't about to let her off that easily. It would appear, now she has given it some thought, she realizes that if she holds out for Rob to get home with his car,  her freedom will be severely curtailed. No spontaneous trips to the mall, no impromptu visits to Tim's, or horror of horrors no lunch at McDonalds with Zach.

So in the span of a few short minutes, my van has gone from being the "Disgusting Barn Mobile" to a veritable "Chariot Of Fire". On the plus side, she is now so desperate to drive, that she is willing to do almost anything for the privilege. My previously grey hairs that she took great delight in pointing out, have suddenly become "blonde highlights", and whereas before a joke would be met with an eye roll, it she now finds it side splittingly funny.  Does she think I'm really that gullible?. Either way, I have big plans for her this summer.  I haven't wielded this much power since she was in diapers.

Let's Get Naked !

I thought that would catch your attention. We are babysitting Simon and Eliot tonight. I'm not sure why their mother continues to entrust them to our care (the very first time Eliot visited the kids dressed him in Build-A-Bear clothes and Grady taught him to play fetch with the dog ball) but I can only assume desperate measures and all that. Tonight my children are positively giddy with the thought of the last day of school tomorrow and their high jinks are contagious. I'm giddy too, but mine is more a nauseating giddiness, born of the dread of the omnipresent ten weeks of summer holidays looming over me.

So, tonight I have to pop out to run an errand. As I leave the house both the boys plus my own children are lined up on the couch watching TV,  with Lindsay supervising. I am not gone long, but imagine my surprise when I returned, only to find a whole gaggle of children and teens congregated in the driveway. It would appear they multiplied like rabbits. Apparently it started innocently with Simon and Eliot chalking the driveway, but quickly degenerated to a water fight. This was when the "Let's get naked" chant began.  Eliot was down to his underwear (which I should mention were on backwards) in no time flat, and was steadfastly encouraging the others to do the same.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed and the others remained clothed. One partially naked, soaking wet child crawling through the undergrowth was enough.

It was actually Grady that came in and alerted me to the fact the party had gone off the rails. "You do know that Eliot is running around in his underwear" he muttered.  "What are you going to do about it?". Talk about the fun police.  My initial reaction was "For God's sake, don't tell his mother", then I realised I'd be giving up a blog opportunity,

The house across the street has finally sold, but those poor buggers have no idea what they are in for.

For Animal LOvers Only

"I have three pot bellied pigs in the house right now, I rescued them.  One has a skin problem and needs cream on it every day, another has to be hand fed as he is such a pig he chokes. I have two dogs, one was a puppy mill for ten years so she has anxiety issues, the other hates animals and people. Also seven cats, three who are so fat they don't do anything. One is a sphinx, he has no hair so he has to have a heated bed. He hates me because I have cold hands and another cat, who when he was a kitten ate his brother. His name is Dave but we call him Dahmer"

No I have not lost my mind, this was one of the many texts I have received from an animal loving friend of mine who shall rename nameless. She has graciously allowed me to relate her tales in my blog - but only if she remained anonymous. I am pretty sure mutual friends will guess her identity, but I have done my part.  

She also has a horse, who had a difficult birth and his brain was deprived of oxygen. He is a very sweet tempered horse, but unfortunately has a tendency to get lost between the paddocks and the barn, and can often been seen wandering around in circles. 

This was another text that arrived sometime during the night ..." One my way to emergency vet. Cat thought he could fly. Jumped off the stair bannister, taking a shelf with him which whacked out his front teeth and split open his nose".  I'm happy to report, the cat is now doing fine. As long as he doesn't smile, you'd never know there was anything wrong.

Finally, my personal favourite  "I think I may actually be going insane. Last night at 3:00 A.M. I got up and was looking for my long haired orange cat, because he had escaped from my room. I looked everywhere, but couldn't find him so went back to bed. This morning my mum asked "What the hell were you doing upstairs at 3:00 A.M.?"  (I have a basement apartment) so I went to explain, and then I realised I don't have a long haired orange cat ....".

Fun At The Farm

This post goes out to my fellow barners, Laurie & Shari and to Alyssia the long suffering barn manager. 

We have been feeding the lambs, and the other evening before we ventured up we received a slightly panicked call from Alyssia. It turned out that two of the ponies - Ludwig and Thistle - had broken out of the paddock, and gained access to the barn. Once there, Thistle had managed to open the freezer where the grain is stored and the two of them had a feast. The only problem was, part of what they consumed was lamb grain - great for lambs, not so much for horses, as it could cause serious complications. Alyssia had rung her vet - who promptly put her on hold, no doubt to laugh at her latest in a long line of predicaments - but eventually gave her a list of signs to look out for; laboured breathing, unsteadiness, bloating, and so on. 

She had isolated the two of them in the front paddock, so it would be easy to monitor them. They seemed to be perfectly fine when we checked on them, not so impressed to have a spotlight shined on them, but otherwise OK.

The next day when we arrived for the lunch time feeding, I noticed immediately something was different. Thistle was on the other side of the fence, outside of the paddock. They both seemed healthy, so Rob called Alyssia and suggested we put them back with the herd, and that was when the fun began. 

Imagine if you can, two adults, one teenager and two children, all of which have a fair amount of experience with horses. We are squaring off against two ponies - the first small, and blind in one eye, and the other a Shetland, smaller still and over 25 years old. I can tell you now it wasn't pretty. 

As soon as Rob opened the gate, he was sideswiped by Ludwig who made a beeline for the barn. Sid, unaware of what was happening with the ponies, had already let the lambs out, and they were seconds from being bowled over in the courtyard. I managed to get between Ludwig and the lambs, and he veered into the barn, as Sid launched herself out of his way. 

Rob is yelling at Grady to open the gate to the paddock, but he has no intention of getting off the fence where he climbed as Ludwig barreled past him. Lindsay has gone to the tack room to grab the lunge whip and chases Ludwig back out. I am still hovering protectively between Ludwig and the lambs, hoping that when the end comes it will be quick. 

Rob has recovered by this time and has made his way to the gate. He attempts to open it and push Ludwig through, however the horses on the other side had other ideas and performed a full on assault on the gate.  Rob gives a strangled cry for help, but he is on his own.  By this time Thistle has done a duck and roll under another fence- which explains how he got out in the first place - and has joined in the fray. Lindsay tries to head him off but he takes off like a rocket - as only a fat Shetland pony can do - and heads back for the front paddock. Lindsay follows in hot pursuit, as I holler encouragement from the sidelines still trying to keep the four lambs corralled. Pandemonium doesn't begin to describe it. There is a friggin' herd of 20 plus horses just waiting to break out and we're playing twister with two bloody ponies. 

I'm happy to say we eventually got them back where they belonged. I can't say it was done with any finesse but we got the job done. Lesson learned, never underestimate decrepit old ponies.

For Alison

Sid needed a hair cut, but she decided that the usual location, "Little Tots" with the fire engine chairs was far too juvenile and insisted on going to Lindsay's hair salon instead. Alison who owns the salon is a faithful follower of my blog, and Lindsay told me how how much Alison was extolling the virtues of my blog to another customer. "At first..." Alison began, "...you think she must be making some of these things up, but then when you meet the family, you understand".  I will take that as a compliment !

Sadly tho', Alison is spot on. My family gives a whole new definition to normal. Last weekend Rob asked if the kids would help him at lunchtime, as I was going to be out. Sid, assuming the request was for assistance in feeding the lambs (which it actually was) shot her hand up right away, only to Rob decided to have a bit of fun at her expense, and proceeded to tell her that she was going to have to vacuum the house, clean the bathroom and wash the windows. With each new task he outlined, Sid's jaw dropped lower, as the horror of her predicament dawned. It was at that point Grady leaned over and in a loud whisper he told her "See ? That is precisely why I never volunteer for anything".  I think his parting shot was "Sucker", but it was masked by the sudden intake of breath as Sid delivered a well aimed blow to his ribs. 

Like Alison said, ".. when you meet the family, you understand."

What Are They Thinking ?

Explanation: This was drafted a few weeks and then forgotten. We were still in grips of winter, unlike now when it is spring and pouring with rain everyday.

I know there is a conspiracy when it comes to Thursdays. Why should the latest be any different ? Sid remembers at the last minute she has a current event due that day. I have to say my kids' teachers are amazing, but with all due respect I heartily abhor current events. I understand the reason for them, but trying to find kid friendly articles in today's papers is damn near impossible.

This month's (at least they are no longer weekly) topic was weather. Now that would have been easy just a couple of weeks ago, when here in the frozen North we were still in the grips of one of the longest coldest winters in living memory, or when the UK was suffering from catastrophic flooding. Back  then, we could have found numerous articles about the weather, but this week not so much.

I finally find an article about a woman who almost froze to death in a snow bank. That word "almost" is key here, it means she survived, so happy ending - ergo suitable for classroom discussion. I am clutching at straws here. I toss the article at Sid and tell her to get writing.

Probably the only thing I dislike more than current events is the science fair.  This year the school has decided to change things up and have an invention fair instead. The children are tasked with inventing an Eco-friendly gadget. WTF ?  Seriously ? Sid doesn't have a clue what she wants to do (and quite honestly neither do her parents) however Grady is bound and determined to invent something that combines Lego and rocket fuel.  I'm not sure how that one is going to pan out, but I'm guessing badly.

Post Script: The invention Fair was a veritable success. The school is still standing, and we talked Grady out of using rocket fuel and raw uranium.

Do As I Say, Not As I Do.

Sometimes my ideas border on sheer genius, and then there are others that leave me shaking my head and wondering WTF was I thinking. Sometimes I just shouldn't - think that is. This week was one of those times. 

One morning I just grew tired of the insults being hurled back and forth between my children and decided to institute a new rule. I don't have many rules, there is really only one, "Do as I say and don't argue". That is what is known as blanket coverage, and on the whole, if accompanied by a threatening look, is more than sufficient. This week however I thought of a brilliant idea, and told my offspring that every time they said something rude or unkind about their siblings, they had to think of three nice things to say as well.

I was very pleased with this concept and was quietly congratulating myself. This was just the start of something bigger, grandiose plans of world peace started to form. I let my imagination get the better of me.  I'm wasted here, I had visions of heading up the United Nations. Trust my children to bring me back down to earth with a crash. 

Sid uttered the first transgression as we left for school. She told her brother he was stupid - on this particular occasion I happened to agree wholeheartedly, but I bit my tongue and insisted she think of three nice things to say about Grady. This took the remaining journey to school, as Sid racked her brains trying to think of something that wouldn't get her into more trouble. After a particularly long and painful pause in the school parking lot - where I wouldn't let them out of the van - she finally pronounced her third compliment, only to mutter mutinously under her breath as she slammed the door "..but he's still stupid". I could see this would not proceed as smoothly as planned.

Flash forward a few days, and I have all but given up. According to Grady, Sid owes him sixty six compliments. If she cant think of three, sixty six is going to be damn near impossible. I think she realises that too, because she has given up insulting hm and just clobbers him instead, when she wants to make her point. The one upside of this is that Grady can now count by threes and he has learned how to duck. 

I have not escaped unscathed. The kids aren't the only family members who have had to retort with compliments. There have been a few occasions where a slip of the tongue, has resulted me in having to do the same myself.  I thought I had this covered when I combed through my thesaurus and resorted to throwing around terms like "termagant", "obstreperous" and "vexatious".  Grady called me out tho' when he told me "You can use all the long words you want mum. We may not know what they mean, but we know you are still being rude". Damn, I was so close. 

Goodbye, world peace. Farewell, United Nations.

Long Suffering

Despite the title, this post is not about my husband. This is a little tale from my sister, and I may take a bit of unintentional poetic license, but only  because I did not hear about this event firsthand.  Instead, I received a phone call from Sister #1, who had received an email from Sister #2, telling her to talk to Sister #3 (in the U.K.) and have her tell her the story about the funny phone call. Not sure why Sister # 2 couldn't just tell Sister #1 the story outright, but that is how we communicate - long winded and convoluted. 

Eventually I heard the story from Sister #2, and now that I am about blogging it, Sister #1 will finally hear about it, and Sister #3 can chime in and correct me if I have anything wrong. Trust me, two sisters were teachers, as was my father, so I have spent my whole life being corrected by someone! 

A year or so ago, or even longer, my sister was involved in a minor fender bender. Everything was sorted out and the matter was finished, or so she thought. A little while ago, she started receiving somewhat dubious phone calls from India, whereby a man referring to her accident kept encouraging her to claim compensation. My sister, suspicious of the nature and origin of these calls, insisted that she didn't need compensation. Then they asked if her husband needed compensation, again, the answer was no. Whoever was behind this was very persistent, and my sister continued to receive these calls on a frequent basis. Finally she had had enough and told the caller in no uncertain terms she didn't want compensation and they were to stop calling. He replied that the calls would continue until she agreed to claim compensation. 

My irate sister insisted on talking to the manager, who upon taking her request proceeded  to ask why she was so antagonistic, (or perhaps it was aggressive). My sister explained she was fed up with the calls, wanted them to cease and she didn't want compensation. The manager asked if she was suffering, and she answered no. He then asked if her husband was suffering, again she answered no. At that point the manager retorted "Yes, he is suffering, because he lives with you, and if I had to live with you I'd kick you".  I kid you not, my sister was gobsmacked. Although to be fair, we have all told her the same thing at some point over the years.

I'm not sure what is going to happen next, but I do know one thing, there is a call center manager in India, who had better start sleeping with one eye open.








 

The Potty Mouthed Devil Within

If I am able to catch him, I am going to pummel my son. I had spent the afternoon "helping" Lindsay with an essay she had to write for driving school - what a complete waste of time - and while we are still finishing it, Grady turns up and starts firing questions at me. I tell him to wait as I am talking with Lindsay. Totally ignoring this, he asks a second time. Again I tell him to wait and then a third time, this boy just doesn't get it. A moment later I conclude with Lindsay and turn, now totally pissed off, to speak to my son. 

"You know better than to interrupt. What do you want ?" I ask him, in a non too friendly manner.  "I need Gracie's (his cousin) number" he told me. I handed him the sheet of phone numbers and he has the audacity to hand it back to me and tell me to read it out to him. That's when I lost it . "F***ing read it yourself, you lazy little s**t" I told him. 

It is at that point I hear peals of laughter coming from his I-Pod and I realise the little sod is on chat with his friend Crispy, who has heard every single word out of my potty mouth. I'm pretty damn sure the little brat set me up. Now I have to spend next week avoiding Crispy's mum in the school parking lot, or trying to come up with a reasonable explanation as to  why her son's vocabulary has suddenly grown exponentially.

You Know What Day ....

And this is why I live for Thursdays. It is not even 8:00 and after numerous threats of grievous bodily harm, I finally have all three children up and moving. However things are not progressing as I would like. 

Sidney is dancing around the house with musical drumsticks (which are actually loud, obnoxious and not at all musical) and chanting "The power of three will set us free". She has been consumed watching Charmed on Netflicks. All I can wonder is, when will I be set free ?

Grady, who is notoriously difficult to get moving has a spring in his step this morning because he found a spider, and can now gleefully torment both his sisters.  As he creeps towards Lindsay, she spies him in the mirror and cuts him off at the knees "Get the f*** out of my room before I hurt you". Spoken with all the love and devotion that only a teenager can muster.

I do what all wise parents do in this situation, grab my coffee and escape to the basement, leaving my offspring to fight to the death. I will venture back when it is time to leave for school, to see if any are left standing. Give me a mouse over my kids any day.

The Mother Of The Year Award Goes To ....

     ... Apparently not to me. It would appear that I have been harbouring under the illusion, that despite what I admit to in my blog (and all the rest that I don't) I have more than adequate parenting skills. My children beg to differ.

     I insist our children do chores. I am always ready to chime in with the old "When I was your age ...." to make the point that I had to endure so much more in my life. The request to empty the dishwasher, feed the dog, or heaven forbid clean the bathroom, is often met with incredulous looks and the sort of horror you would expect from bamboo shoots jammed under their fingernails.

     Another bone of contention is that I although I am happy to frequent McDonald's on occasion, I am not prepared to make it a regular hangout and sometimes my kids will just have to sit down and eat a home cooked meal. I may sound like Gordon Ramsay when I am in the kitchen, but there is where any resemblance ends. I am a reasonable cook, so I hardly think it is necessary for Grady to go through the grimaces, gagging noises and general all around impression that I have served up a side order of Cyanide every time I expect hm to eat - wait for it - his vegetables. The horror.

     I was probably in my 40s before I got my first cell phone, so I'm not sure why my son feels he is entitled to one at the tender age if 12. None of his friends have one, so what exactly is he planning on doing with it if he got one ? Regardless, I am a bad mother because I won't shell out a pile of money so he can use it as an excuse to thumb his nose at his sister.

     On the subject of phones, Lindsay who plagued me for months to get her a Blackberry (back when Blackberry's were "in") had it for a few short weeks until she changed her mind and wanted an I-Phone. I however know my daughter, and had insisted the said Blackberry was insured. That is why she is on her third or maybe fourth such model after the previous devices fell down the stairs and into the toilet. Separate occasions that is, not all at once. The fact that her father has a brand new fancy I-Phone for work and really couldn't care less about it, has riled Lindsay up even more. 

      All things considered, I think my children have it pretty easy. I could certainly make life harder for them if I tried, but I haven't given up my dream of that ever elusive award.

Harbingers of Spring

     Although most people here in the frozen North re celebrating the approach of spring, I am a little hesitant to welcome the warmer weather. And by warmer, I mean any temperature that isn't double digits below freezing, everything is relative. You see, Spring means mice, birds and chipmunks. In fact, pretty much anything that our cats can hook their little claws into.

     It was bad enough that over the winter there was a small brown furry critter frozen to our front porch. Every morning on my way to the van, I would poke at it and ponder on what exactly it was. Too large for a mouse, too small for a chipmunk, it had me stumped. Finally one day Grady saw me prodding it and asked what I was doing. I explained I was trying to determine what it was. "Oh that's easy" he replied, "Its a rabbit's foot". Eew gross, it never occurred to me it would be only part of a creature, which begs the question, where is the rest of it ?. 

     Yesterday it was a mauled bird left on my doorstep, today I witnessed two of the cats playing Piggy-In-The-Middle with a mouse. Add in the resident possum and raccoon watch the fun begin.

Shut Up, Or You'll Eat it !

My parenting skills probably leave a lot to be desired, but they work for me, and no one has called Children's Aid on me yet, so I can't be doing too badly. My children know that when I issue a threat - or consequence as I like to term it - I will carry through. Head first into a snow pile, tied to a chair until homework is finished or completely empty the playroom of toys, if I've threatened it, I've done it. 

My husband on the other hand is hopeless. On one spectacular occasion when the children were at their worst, Rob burst out "If you don't stop right now I'm going to ...." There was a long pause followed by "... I don't know what I'm going to do, but I will do something". It was at that very point, he totally lost whatever leverage he would ever hope to have with our children. They are like Hyenas, they can smell fear, and they knew they had him. It is a rare occasion that Rob is able to utter a threat without one of the kids harking back to "that moment" and start laughing.     

My children never, ever run out of topics to argue about, yesterday it was bird guts. Yes you read that correctly. One of our cats had left yet another offering on our front step. He must have got hungry at some point, because all that remained were a few entrails and an indiscriminate feather, which is the only reason I knew it had once been a bird.  

My children are fascinated with this pile of gore and begin to speculate, "That's its brain" ventured Grady, "No" argued Sid "It is a stomach". Lindsay offers her opinion as a Grade 11 student who has passed one course in Biology, "Any idiot can see that's the heart", and so the fight began.  I shouldn't be surprised that my children are gathered on the front step loudly arguing about bird parts, but I am. The neighbours across the road are never going to be able to sell their house, all the time my children live here. 

The argument escalates and starts to turn nasty. These are the moments I live for.  "The next child who argues about the bird organs.." I bellow out the door, "Will be made to eat it". All conversation ceases immediately, and nervous glances are exchanged. No matter how diabolical and highly implausible the threat may be, not even Grady wants to take the chance that I will carry through, and that dear readers is how it is done.

They're Baaaack !

By they, I'm not referring to the mice - they have never really gone away - but to bigger pests - raccoons. Followers of my blog may recall about this time last year we discovered to our horror, that we had a horny raccoon living in our attic. Don't ask how we knew it was a horny raccoon, some details are best left out.

My husband was already fast asleep when I went to bed last night and as I lay there contemplating the best way to off him and put a stop to the snoring, I heard other more ominous sounds. At first I thought it was just one of the kids stumbling in the dark on their way to the bathroom, but when I received no answer to my shout out "Who is making all that noise?", I listened again and realised it came from the roof.  

It was too early in the year for Santa, no access for a burglar, so that left the only possibility - a raccoon attempting to pry off the roof tiles and gain access to the attic. Little bastard. This was definite a task for my husband, I'm so glad I didn't go ahead with my plan to off him. I hiss "Rob, wake up there's a raccoon on the roof". No response. Tried again but louder, still nothing. I crawled right up to his ear "ROB! THERE IS A RACCOON PULLING OFF THE ROOF TILES".   

That got him moving. He grabbed flashlight and was outside in no time flat. All of a sudden I heard a succession of loud thumps. It would appear that my husband was in the front yard hurling objects indiscriminately at the roof.  There goes the real estate values again. I'm not sure if he hit anything, and he didn't actually see the raccoon, so my best guess is it has moved on. We are never so lucky, I'm pretty sure there is going to be a Part II to this tale.

The Nght Of The Dreaded Semi

So here it is the Thursday of the big dance and my house was invaded my a clutch of teenagers. Lindsay assured me that they wouldn't be here until later, but when my dear sister overheard this conversation, she offered to bring in pizzas so they could all have dinner here. Yay ! Gotta love my sister.  I should mention, she dropped the pizzas and then ran ! She always was the smart one.

I asked Lindsay how they were all supposed to get ready in her bedroom - small, cramped and very messy - and she informs me they are taking over the whole floor. So guess who spent all day Thursday cleaning their bedroom - and it wasn't Lindsay! I warned Rob and Grady to stay downstairs for the duration, on account of the fact that there would be girls wandering around in various stages of undress.  Poor Grady, in another couple of years, he would probably jump at such an opportunity, but right now he doesn't know what he is missing. He just mumbled in disgust about all the perfume.

All went fairly smoothly. After all, everything is relative, and this is our house, so "smoothly" here could be the equivalent of "apocalyptic" in another abode. That is until Sid went up to bed and we heard "OH MY GOD look at this mess!" Sure enough her room (she shares with Lindsay) was strewn from one end to the other with various items of clothing, from underwear to outerwear.  I assume the plan was for the girls to gather their belongings when they came over the next night for their sleepover. In the meantime, Sid must traverse an obstacle course of under-wired bras to get to her bed. "I'm not impressed" she kept muttering. 

Next up it was Grady's turn, and as he enters the bathroom we hear another "Oh My God".
followed by cursing and then "There are curling irons and straightening irons everywhere up here". At this point I'm not sure if I should be impressed or concerned that he is aware and recognizes the difference between a curling iron and a straightening iron. I'm just glad he didn't notice the thong underwear discarded with gay abandon behind the bathroom door. Poor little bugger would have been traumatised.

I've Lost The Plot

Lindsay approached me a few weeks ago about having a sleepover this weekend. Definitely not, I told her, we have plans on Sunday and have to make an early start. She countered with Friday night instead. My Friday evenings - like my Sunday mornings are sacred - a quiet time to veg after a busy week. I asked Lindsay why someone else couldn't host the sleepover, and she assured me that someone else would, but was she allowed to go ? That I was OK with.

Fast forward to this week and Lindsay sidled up to me. "Don't forget the sleepover Friday " she said. "No problem" I replied, "Whose house are you going to?" At this point she faltered, suddenly lost for words. "Um, actually we are all coming here" she told me. "You're what ?" I squeaked. "You told me I could have a sleepover on the Friday", she complained, now getting defensive. 

"No" I explained, "I told you you could GO to a sleepover on Friday, there is a big difference".  This is where the suck-up starts. "But Mum" She pleads, "Everyone loves coming here, they always have the best time, and my friends all love you". Yeah, right, and I bet the parents love me even more, because they are all off the hook. Somewhere Friday evening, eight sets of parents will be toasting each other with a glass of chilled Chardonnay, in their quiet homes, praising themselves for dodging that bullet.

I don't know why I am the only parent who agrees to this. Probably because my parents always let me have sleepovers when I was a kid. The difference was, we had a huge plot of land and my father built me a shed at the bottom of it just for that purpose. We were never in the house.  

However back to Lindsay, it appears she isn't finished with the surprises, and as she waltzes off she tosses back "Did I mention..." and no she definitely didn't "...That everyone is coming here Thursday evening to get ready for the Semi dance". WTF ? Seriously ? Of all her friends we probably have the least amount of room, and now a whole gaggle of girls are coming over to prep for a dance. I really wasn't sure how I was going to break the news to my husband. I've definitely lost the plot !

Seriously ?

Very few people have my cell phone number, my husband, my kids, my boss and the barn manager.  There is a reason for that, I hate using cell phones, and using them to text even less, especially with my teenage daughter. I swear she is on a different astral plane altogether. Take this morning's missives. 

Lindsay:  "Can you pick me up this afternoon please"
Me:   "Yes, what time ? Are you staying late ?".
Lindsay: "Yes, a meeting for Leadership camp"
Me: "What time ? I have an errand to run, I can co-ordinate".
Lindsay: "That's good".  (Not especially helpful).
Me: "What time ?".   (Am I the only one who notices the repetition here ?)
Lindsay:  "Sometime after you pick up Sid".
Me: "I'm not picking up Sid. What time is your meeting over?"
Lindsay: "I'm not sure, the teacher is on a trip. I will know at the end or not"  WTF does that mean ? Know at the end of what ?  
Me: (Taking a very deep breath) "OK, when will you be sure ?"
Lindsay: "I'm sure now"

At this point, we are holding two very different conversations, or she is yanking my chain.  Either way, my patience is at an end. 

Me: "Just (blank) tell me the (blank) time" (I left out a few descriptive words, but you can fill in the blanks)
Lindsay: "At 4. Are you upset?"   (Why would she think that ?)

Hallelujah, twenty minutes and a dozen texts later, I finally get an answer.  This should have been so easy, covered in 10 words or less. "Can you pick me up at 4?" and my reply "Yes". I shudder to think when this generation is in power.  Bring on the end of days.
 

 

Cindersid

     We get up this morning, and Sid complains about the chilly temperature. Not sure why as today is the warmest day to date in this hellish never ending frigid winter we have experienced, but she does. Particularly she grizzles her feet are cold. I suggest she don her slippers, so she skips back upstairs and is gone for some time. Finally when she returns to the kitchen she is wearing one reindeer slipper and one purple sequined slipper (don't ask). As a general rule I do not comment on what they wear, but I couldn't let this one pass, I was far too curious. "Pray tell" I asked, "Why are you wearing odd slippers?"  "They were the only ones I could find" Sid replies.  

       At this point Grady jumps in and tells his sister that he knows where her other slippers are located and races to her bedroom to find them. Sure enough he returns quickly with the missing matching pairs.  I am thrilled, there is hope for the boy yet. Typically my children (and usually their father as well) can't find something without a flashing neon sign, even if said object in the middle of their bedroom doorway for them to stumble over.  As I commended Grady on his excellent powers of observation, he looks at me pointedly and declares, "I hope I would know where they are, after all I'm the one that hid them."

It's A Thursday When ...

Sid comes racing up the basement stairs first thing this morning, yelling at me "I can't feed the dog, there is a mouse in the kibble".  Never one to assume a task when I can delegate to my children, I instruct Grady to take care of it.  He is eager to oblige and races in to grab my kitchen tongs. I stop him dead in his tracks. 

"Where" I bellow "Do you think you are going with those". He gives me a condescending sideways glance "I'm going to catch the mouse of course". Not with my bloody kitchen tongs, he's not.  "You are not using those" I tell him. "Don't be such a wuss, grab it by the tail". After all, thats how I catch them. He looks at me in abject horror. "Seriously ?" he asks.  "Yes" I reply, "Now go do it".

Decidedly more reluctant, he heads downstairs. Sid is following close behind, eager to see how this pans out.  My son is obviously more squeamish than I thought, because he uses the kibble scoop to catch the mouse. As he backs out of the crawl space, clutching the scoop and yelling for me, the inevitable happens. The mouse, sensing freedom takes a flying leap off the scoop and burns rubber to the back of the crawlspace.

I did not have a religious upbringing, although I did teach Sunday School for a while (my husband has a hard time believing that), but I'm pretty damn sure our house is as close to Purgatory as you are ever going to get. 

Sunday Morning Going Down

It is well documented how I feel about my Sunday mornings. My Sundays are the antithesis to my Thursdays. They are to be enjoyed in a calm and and peaceful manner.  A leisurely day spent with coffee, newspaper and a good book. They are not to be plagued - as was today - by early morning phone calls (my father-in-law), more early morning phone calls (Grady's friend Crispy), and chasing the cats and a chipmunk.

If you now re-read the first paragraph, and insert the "F" bomb every 2 or 3 words, you will have a better understanding of how I really feel about my day so far.  

My husband - who normally fields any early morning calls from people who are brave enough to poke the bear, had taken Lindsay to Driving School (the one person in the house having a worse day than me) and then gone on for a ride. The first phone call (my father-in-law who is reading this and laughing) shortly after he left, woke me up and pissed me off. By the  fourth or fifth - all before 10:00 A.M. I was positively apoplectic.

Thoroughly disgruntled, I got up when Rob returned and stumbled downstairs for a coffee. As I sit nursing my nectar of the gods and bemoaning a pounding headache, I glance out the front window and see one of the cats with a chipmunk in his mouth.  Son of a bitch, this was probably the same stupid-arsed chipmunk Rob rescued from the other cat only yesterday. 

Coffee and headache forgotten I jump to my feet, and hobble to the front door. Rob has beaten me to it and by the time I get outside, is bellowing at me that the cat has hopped the fence into the back, and he is in hot pursuit - until he reaches the fence that is, he isn't quite as nimble as the cat. I head to the back door as Sid rushes past me and lays claim to my shoes, so I am forced to hop about in the sodden back garden in bare feet. The cat takes one look at my windmilling arms and wild eyes and does a 180 degree turn back the way he came. Rob by this time has made his way through the house only to do an about face and return to the front door. Did I mention that these antics are accompanied by much hooting and hollering and general pandemonium. Our neighbours love us. 

I have barely made it back into the house when I hear a shout from Rob, the cat is on his way back, but this time over the fence on the other side of the house. By this time I am freely cursing the cat and the stupid f**ing chipmunk that allowed himself to be caught. We finally corner the cat by the rabbit hutch, or at least Sidney and I do, Rob is still on the other side of the fence, helpfully calling out directions. I reach down to grab the chipmunk that is vainly trying to scamper up the glass walls of the rabbit hutch, only to have the dog snatch it out of my hand. This is one hell of an unlucky chipmunk. I scream at the dog and make a grab for his collar. He yelps and the chipmunk breaks free, across the path, over Sid's feet and in to the lilac bush where we lose sight of him.  

And that, was my Sunday morning going down.

My Idiot Children

    This comes under the heading of "my children are arseholes". I love Cadbury's mini eggs and at this time of year I buy them in copious amounts and always have a big pot of them sitting around to munch on. Tonight I came home, and first Grady and then Sidney offered me to get me some of the mini eggs. I declined and didn't think anything of it other than how gracious my children were being. They are usually fighting by this point of day so I take the good times when I can. It was only later when I grabbed a handful of mini eggs on the way through the kitchen and tossed them in my mouth, I realized I had fallen victim to their diabolical plan. WTF ? The little bastards had replaced some of the chocolate  with very realistic looking decorative foam eggs from the dollar store. They thought it was hilarious as I stood in the kitchen, choking and spitting out bits of chocolate and foam. We will see if they are still laughing on Sunday when I fill their Easter baskets with rabbit pooh.

The Silence Of The Lambs

     Last year I had great fun helping my friend Alyssia bottle feed two orphaned lambs. It isn't often one gets an opportunity like that so I was more than happy to step in and help out where I could.  I wasn't surprised to get a text from her a few weeks ago asking me if I would be willing to help out again this year and I was glad to oblige. Her friend wanted a lamb & had asked Alyssia to start the bottle feeding process for her, but she was concerned that one lamb might get lonely, so it wasn't a giant leap to suggest she get two and keep the second, however this posed another problem, once the first lamb went to his eventual home, the second lamb, too small to join the others would then be lonely.  

     What to do? What to do? What to do?. Maybe we should get a lamb too, and I put the suggestion to Alyssia. However, I thought it might be wise to seek my husband's opinion.  "What do you think about getting a lamb honey ? " I asked sweetly. "Don't be ridiculous" was the curt reply "What would we do with a lamb ?". I texted Alyssa with the good news "Rob thinks its a great idea, he's all for it."  So maybe I was stretching the truth just a little bit, but I figured he'd come around - eventually !

       That was all the encouragement Alyssia needed and we started plotting.  I then received another text, her friend wanted two lambs. No problem, let's get four I suggested. Alyssia had already sent me a photo of the 25 orphaned lambs that needed a home and I suggested we visit the farm and take our pick.  By now, Rob is getting a little suspicious of the frantic texts flying back and forth between us, and when I asked him to remove the back seats from my van he was understandably nervous and wanted to know why.  "I need more room for the lambs" I told him.  "WTF what do you mean by lambs, plural?" he squeaked.  I patiently explained that I was merely helping our friend, conveniently leaving out my part in the conspiracy. "Without the back seats we can cram in more lambs" I continued. He visibly paled, he hadn't signed on for this.

       "If you want the back seats taken out" he said, "You can do it yourself, I'm not encouraging this foolishness". If he thought that would dissuade me, he was mistaken. His parting comment was "Don't go doing anything stupid". "Don't worry" I assured him. Fortunately for me, we have very different ideas of what constitutes stupid !

       I got my lamb !  Happy Easter, and I will be back on Monday.

Back In Business

     My apologies for the interlude. It was not my intent to leave my blogging world for so long, but life (in the form of a lengthy bout of flu, orphaned lambs and work) got in the way.  For now, until I have had a chance to catch up, I am cutting back the posts to three times a week - Monday, Wednesday & Friday.  So back to my wacky world of wonderful.

     I grew up as an only child, I have three sisters but I came along much later, so by the time I had turned three they had all left home. My husband on the other hand grew up with two brothers, all close in age, so he is familiar with typical sibling rivalry and fights, I am not.

       I had once imagined a blissful family life, serene and peaceful, instead I get the Rocky Horror Show. Case in point, a typical interaction between my son and youngest daughter. 

       Grady: "Hey Sid, did you know when you look in the dictionary under "idiot" it has your name in the definition?" This is followed by loud peals of laughter, suddenly cut short as Sid aims a stunningly accurate blow to Grady's solar plexus. One day he will learn, but that day is not today. 

March Break

This past week is March Break, the week that children stay home from school, and this year it is in weather than in the most part precludes them from going outside. In addition the clocks went ahead so we have all lost an hour of sleep. The week is doomed.

Day 1.
My brother-in-law has thrown himself on the short sword and offered to take Sidney & Grady to the Science Center for the day. Yay for Uncle Guntis ! At the very last minute, Sid wants a cooked breakfast, but I'm getting dressed so Grady offers to make her eggs. He has done so before, so it shouldn't be a problem. We both learned a valuable lesson that morning. Mine was, don't assume because Grady has done something correctly before, he will do so again. For Grady, he has to remember to remove the element covers before turning on the elements.  Add element covers to shopping list. 

I knew we had some spare element covers - or so I thought, but I couldn't find one. I asked Rob about them and he was strangely silent. Lindsay however was ready to chirp like a cheap canary.  As it turned out, just a few days earlier, Lindsay had made the same mistake and Rob covered (no pun intended) for her.  He hurriedly replaced the burnt cover and disposed of the evidence, telling Lindsay "Your mother will never know".  Rookie mistake, the mother ALWAYS knows.

The Joys Of Cat Ownership

I am not totally convinced this is "blog worthy", but it has never stopped me before, and anyway my long suffering husband is insistent that I put it out there, I think perhaps he is looking worldwide for sympathy - god knows, he doesn't get any at home.

Friday night, I stumble to bed at 2:00 AM. There is a reason for this - Rob has a cold and snores like a thing possessed. He is usually up early on the weekends (the only quiet time he gets), so I figure if I go to bed at 2:00 A.M. and he is up about 6:00 A.M. I have reduced the time he is breathing germs on me to four short hours, and I may be lucky enough not to get sick.

Let me tell you, it was a hellish night. I have the mouth breather beside me, who still has the audacity to try and plug my nose, but I keep swatting him away like the gnat he is, because I am not able to sleep. The reason for this is the damn cat. She has gone on a vomiting rampage. All night long I hear that awful honking sound, in fact I don't think there is any word to truly describe it. I could hear her moving through the house, getting ever closer. I was in a bit of a dilemma, had Rob heard this commotion ? If so, why wasn't he  getting up and doing something about it. On the other hand, if he was still asleep and I woke him up then it would be obvious I had heard it and not done anything. What to do ? What to do ? In the end I did nothing. Safe in the thought that Rob would eventually be the first one up and end up having to deal with it anyway.

Turns out he was and he did. according to him cleaning up nine piles of vom. Too bad he missed the tenth pile right beside my side of the bed that I promptly stepped in when I got up. Fucking cat !! 

I Actually Chose This Life ...

Sometimes I give myself a whack upside the head, when I remember I actually made an educated choice to bear children. Today was no exception.

Normally Thursday are my day of woe, but fate threw in a Friday this week as well. Torrential rainstorms the night before, meant a dripping kitchen ceiling the next morning. I had woken up feeling like the proverbial crap, so I really wasn't in the mood to deal with well, just about anything.

I was anxious to get the children to school on time this particular morning. They were going bowling (yes, bowling, that was not an auto correct), and woe betide them if they missed the bus and I had to bring them back home with me. 

First off,  the dog decides to do a runner. Normally the back yard is contained and he can't breach the fence, however with the ice storm before Christmas and the felling of our neighbour's tree across our fence, he has on occasion been able to mount an escape. 

I had enough to do as it was, the last thing I needed now was for a fight to break out between Grady & Sid, which of course it did. Sid's concern that the bowling alley wouldn't have a washroom (thank you Grady for planting that idea into her head), prompted her to go for her second "marathon poo" that morning. Even Grady has commented, "There has to be something wrong with that girl". 

My requests for my children not to wind each other up, had obviously fallen on deaf ears, because I suddenly hear a wail from the basement bathroom. "Muuum, Grady is bothering me". How is that possible ? Grady has gone outside to feed the rabbits. I open the back door to find the culprit, knee deep in a snow bank (in his uniform trousers no less), outside the ground level bathroom window, tapping on the glass and leering in at his sister. Seriously, you want to do that now ? 

Understandably his sister, upon vacating the bathroom is righteously indignant and vows revenge upon her sibling. This prompts me to read them both the riot act to ensure they know that bowling balls and pins are not to be used as weapons. I have done all that I can, if Grady ends up sprawled unconscious in a bowing lane, it won't be my problem. 

Next week is March Break - a week to have all my children home, and too damn cold to go out. Brilliant planning. My blog will be on hiatus for the duration, as I will be living it, every blessed day. I will return on Monday, 17th. 

Don't Poke The Bear

I apologise if this is a repeat. This post was supposed to have gone out on February 20th, but apparently was still sitting in Draft. Not sure what happened. I will blame it on technical difficulties.

Grady was being particularly obstreperous this morning, not wanting to get up, not wanting to feed the rabbits, whinging about emptying the dishwasher - all chores he knows he has to do before school. 

This morning his resistance was particularly galling because I had to get him to school 45 minutes early (which meant I had to get up earlier and we all know how I feel about that) because he had a Badminton practice. I know, most of the kids his age are hockey players, this is Canada after all, but sadly he has inherited his parents athletic prowess (as in non existent) so for him, Badminton it is.

So, after repeated entreaties for Grady to get moving, and fifteen minutes later he was still huddled on the edge of the bed contemplating his bedroom floor, I decided to just get on with making lunches and then do his chores myself. 

But wait, that is not the end of it. Revenge will be mine. When Grady is sitting at the lunch table today with all his little hockey player friends, he will open his lunch box and discover his sandwich nicely presented in a Disney Princess sandwich bag. He should know better than to mess with me - on a Thursday morning no less. Bwah hah hah hah!

Part 3 - The Grand Finale

By the time I got home - windows still open - Rob was close behind me, so I left the cat in the kennel cab. There was no way in her current state that I wanted her running through the house, especially as her favourite hiding spot was under our bed.

After Rob had shown not one iota of sympathy at my aforementioned adventures, he went down to the laundry room to clean off the cat. It didn't occur to me that he may need help, but quite honestly too bad if he did, I was sorely ticked about what I'd had to endure.

It was a while later that I ventured downstairs and I thought I heard a faint cry for help from behind the closed door of the laundry room. I hollered back "Do you need help ?" No answer, all I could hear was running water and a howling cat. A couple of minutes later I heard it again "Help!" I yelled back, "I'm here what do you want?" Still no answer. At this point most people would have probably got up, wandered over, opened the door and checked for themselves. I'm not most people, and I stayed put. The next cry was louder "WILL SOMEONE GET THEIR ASS IN HERE AND HELP ME". That was my cue to call up to my son. "Grady! Dad is calling you. He needs your help". Well why not ? I know Rob didn't specifically ask for Grady, but close enough. To give Grady his due, he didn't hesitate, and went straight in to assist his father.

It would appear that Rob is standing over the laundry room sink struggling with a drenched cat. Grady stood there aghast as Rob yelled at him to get some shampoo. He obviously hadn't thought this through, if he had, he would have taken the shampoo in with him. Typical. Grady scuttles out of the laundry room, cursing "It's like frickin' Twister in there" he growled, "Poo and puddles all over the floor, you can't move without stepping in something" and proceeds to give me a demonstration, which is unfortunate, because his father is still yelling for the shampoo.   

It is a good job Grady hung around to aid Rob because I would not have been much help. It is extremely difficult to offer any useful assistance when one is consumed by gales of laughter. By this time Lindsay and Sidney had joined me, curious in spite of themselves, to see what the commotion was about. I tried to explain, but all I could do was laugh. From what I could hear, (no way was I going in the laundry room) Rob had shampooed and rinsed the cat and now needed to dry it off. You have to appreciate this is a voluptuous cat, so when Rob is yelling at his son to grab him a towel, and Grady optimistically offers up something barely bigger than a facecloth, Rob explodes "Are you kidding me Grady ? Have you seen the size of this fucking cat ?".  That was it, I lost it, totally incoherent.  The girls weren't much of an improvement.  If there is one thing we can do well, it is to laugh at another's misfortune. The worse off they are, the better, and if the object of that laughter is their poor long suffering father, then that is when we laugh the loudest. 

I'm happy to report that the cat is doing much better, and give it another day or two, my husband may actually start talking to me again.

Part 2 - At The Vet's Office

So we arrive at the vets. It is as cold as a witches tit, to borrow a somewhat colourful expression from my grandmother, but all the windows are open in the van, in a futile effort to escape the toxic fumes from the cat carrier. There is no vacant parking spot, so I send Sid into the vet's with the cat, whilst I wait to park the van. Even after I have accomplished this, I seriously contemplate staying in the van, after all it's not like I'm actually needed. However common sense prevails and I venture in. I explain the issue to the receptionist, and then again to a technician, a third time to another technician, and finally to the vet himself.

By now in a closed examination room, the smell is so bad that Sid is coughing and my eyes are watering. The vet palpates the cat's abdomen and determines the blockage is too far up for an enema to do any good, so he decides to take the cat out back for a rectal exam. Rather him than me, and we settle down to wait. 

He returns a few minutes later and proceeds to shove his gloved hand in front of my face. "Look at this" he says, as I desperately try to do anything but, "This is what I found in her rectum, fecal matter and blood". Seriously, you couldn't have just told me that, you had to show me as well ?? WTF ? Is this pay back because I'm making him shove a finger up my cat's arse, rather than spring $300 for an x-ray ? If at that point I had a concerned expression on my face, it wasn't out of concern for the cat, but instead that I might puke at any minute. I don't handle those sort of things very well, that is what my husband is for. 

The vet disappears to gather medication and one of the technicians returns with my cat, who now looks as pained as I do. They have administered fluids under her skin, and the technician was concerned because she was "leaking". "Don't worry" she reassures me "If the leaking starts again, just hug her close and it will stop it."  I look at her in abject horror. Does she seriously think I am going to clasp a shit covered, fluid leaking cat tight to my ample bosom, when I am wearing my new winter coat. "Uh huh" I manage to squeak out. "Sure I can do that". Over my cold dead body, I will.  

The cat by now, has no fight left in her - and really who can blame her, and although I am expecting another fight with the kennel cab, she couldn't get in it enough. I get the instructions for the medication - pills and syringes - jolly good fun that will be, settle up the bill, which brings fresh tears to my eyes and then make tracks for home. Little did I know it then, but the fun was just about to begin. 










  

The Blog To End All Blogs

This isn't the end of my blog, I just thought the title was better than the other options of "Constipated Cat" or "Fecally Challenged Feline", oh yes, this is shaping up to be a real humdinger.

For people just starting out with my blog, we have a house full of animals including four useless cats. One of these cats occasionally, for want of a better phrase, gets "bunged up". Probably because she eats anything and everything that isn't nailed down (except for mice, she has an aversion to mice). This is usually not a problem, as she rights herself within a day. This time around, we were not so lucky, and sparing you the sordid details that caused us to come to this conclusion, Rob determines the cat needs to go to the vet for an enema. 

"Jolly good" says I, "You just go right ahead and fix it up honey". Unfortunately he does, for 4:20 in the afternoon, when he is otherwise engaged at work, and I have no option but to catch the - reeking - cat and cart it off to the vets office myself. Bastard. 

First we have to coax it out from under my bed. Rob on the other end of the phone, helpfully suggests using a broom. I opt for shaking the cat cookies, and sure enough she slinks out into the hall where I am lying in wait. I swoop in, grab the cat, and holding her at arms length in case she squirts, yell at my kids to grab the cat carrier.

There is no response, I yell again. Still nothing. The cat meanwhile has had enough of this nonsense and is squirming like crazy. The ass end stinks, and I am doing my best to keep her as far away from my nose as possible. Subtlety is lost on my children so I scream, "Someone get the fucking cat carrier. Now!". To be fair, I had asked Grady to bring the carrier in (it was just outside the back door) when I had gone to locate the cat. As usual he wasn't paying attention and had toddled off to tear the garage apart to look for it.  

By now, the cat has clued in that this does not bode well, and as I try and lower her into the carrier, she is fighting it every inch of the way, limbs akimbo, and hissing loudly. It is always nice to know that when needs must, I can rely on my children. Sidney and Lindsay are backing away in horror, shirts pulled dramatically up over the lower half of their faces, as they let out muffled whines, "It smells, I'm gonna throw up". Grady is poking ineffectually with one hand at the cat, trying to push her legs into the carrier, while his other hand is clasped over his nose. My curses alternate between the cat and my husband, who, still at the office is blissfully unaware of the chaos erupting at home. 

I finally head for the door, and Sid who now thinks this could be a fun trip, decides to come too. We'd hadn't even backed out of the driveway before she is complaining bitterly about the stench emanating from the carrier. No going back now, she is in it for the long haul. 

I am going to pause here and continue tomorrow. Believe me, the best is yet to come. Stay tuned.

The School Years

Dad's school years...

...In the main (junior) school, we were introduced to paper, notebooks, dip pens, and inkwells. Those dip pens were treacherous. Excessive pressure would cross the nib and make it useless. Nibs were expected to last a long time so breaking a nib was a crime. Too heavy a dip in the well and an overloaded pen made a blot that could not be eradicated as we could with the slate we’d left behind. Mistakes were recorded for all time and could not be hidden. Now that we were recording all our work, accuracy and neatness were all-important.

            Handwriting, spelling, and arithmetic (much mental) were daily exercises. Reading around the class (an activity that is now derided) took a whole lesson every week. It kept you awake and concentrating because you might be the next child called upon to continue the narrative. Woe betide the child whose attention had wandered and who could not continue when called upon. He spent his playtime writing lines.
 

            What did I learn in my years at Shedfield? Being a Church of England School meant frequent visits from the local vicar and, in the infants’ school, we had a short religious service to start the day. We learned how life began – we saw pictures of Adam and Eve with the serpent lurking in the grass. No Darwinian theory of evolution for us; that came later in the grammar school. We did not question how Noah made it to the North and South poles to round up polar bears and penguins. They were clearly shown entering the Ark, along with elephants and giraffes solemnly walking up the gang plank. The teacher backed up the vicar so it must be true. We did not question how one man’s lunch stretched to feed 5000. I suppose we swallowed all these myths as true. I have wondered since if the teacher and vicar really believed all those miracles they fed us or whether they were merely doing their duty as Christians.

           The teacher had to be a complete all-rounder. The day started with arithmetic; long division was especially tricky. The bell rang. Then it was history: Julius Caesar; King Henry and his bevy of wives; Oliver Cromwell – we had them all. The bell rang. Now it’s geography. Each classroom had a large wall map and sometimes a globe, “All that red is our Empire”. We learned to pinpoint countries, rivers, and towns. 

There was an emphasis on patriotism. The school had a tall flagpole. On special nationwide days, the flag was solemnly hoisted. A day known as Empire Day was most special. The whole school gathered around the pole, the flag was raised, the headmaster gave an address, we sang the National Anthem, and gave three cheers for the King. The headmaster allowed us to stage battles; I used to enter the fray with an old bayonet. Goodness knows what would have happened if I’d put out someone’s eye, or inflicted serious damage on the enemy.

           We played football during the midday break and there were few rules. While tackling an opposing player, I had the misfortune to knock him down and break his leg. Poor Henry, he was carried into school and the doctor was called. Rumours spread: Henry might die, Sidney broke Henry’s leg; Sidney is a killer, keep away from him. I was ostracised for days. Then Henry turned up at school with his leg in plaster to be the hero of the day. We became friends again.

The playground adjoined a large area of heather common land on which was a rudimentary golf course. Finding a lost ball was an event. At the other end of the common was a small sweetshop where a half penny (old money) would buy a bag of aniseed balls which our little group would share and we’d see who could get the reddest tongue.

There was a large wood next to the common and we would make primitive bows and fire silly little arrows at passing cars. That game came to an end when a motorist stopped his car and caught us. We were too scared to run. He took our names and must have then met with the local policeman. He caught up with us as we returned to school, gave us a good lecture, and said, “Tell your Dad to give you a good thrashing.” I did not do this! Had I done so Dad, humiliated that his son had been so naughty, would have well and truly thrashed me. He was generally easy going but to be involved with a policeman was unforgivable. I think on the whole, the school did not do so badly....

.... Reading this again, with fresh insight, I see now that my daughter Sid, christened of course for her grandfather, was more than aptly named.