My Son, The Psychopath

Most people who meet my 10 year old son think he is a very polite, charming boy. He loves animals and can coax even the grumpiest baby to laugh. In fact when he left kindergarten to move to grade school, his teacher cried. To be fair, when Sid left a couple of years later, she cried then too, but for totally different reasons.  What they don't know is that beneath that pleasing exterior lurks the heart of a psychopath.

When Sid was born, I spent a lot of time watching the Dr. Phil show. Not that I liked the man, in fact I couldn't stand him, but at that time of day, when I was nursing Sid, that program was the only option other than day time soaps, which will never see the light of day in my house. Anyway back to Dr. Phil and my son. One day his show was about psychopaths, or maybe sociopaths - I was sleep deprived and can't remember the exact details. However, what does stand out in my memory, was when Dr. Phil listed the seven character traits of a psychopath, I realised with horror that my son had at least four or five of them. After the initial shock had worn off, and cooler heads prevailed, I later recognised that those were attributes shared by most two year old boys.  

Now that I am older and wiser, I am beginning to wonder. Not content with owning a machete, I discovered this week that Grady has been inserting thumb tacks into his foam nerf bullets, turning otherwise harmless missiles into weapons of mass destruction. To be fair he hasn't used these on his sister - yet - but it is only a matter of time. It was Lindsay that sold him out. She showed me a box he had been using for target practice, peppered with tiny little holes. He had also been shooting his nerf gun at balloons left over from a birthday party, and although I was surprised he was able to burst them with only foam bullets, it didn't occur to me to investigate further. I was just elated no one was fighting. Stupid ! Stupid ! Stupid ! You would think by now, I'd know that the time when they are not fighting, is when they are at their most dangerous.

When I questioned Grady about his latest endeavours, he replied glibly "That's OK, Dad knows about it."  Now, why am I not surprised ? I guess it's not much of a stretch for a man who gives his son a machete (and no, I have not got over that yet) to give permission for booby trapped nerf bullets.  When I took my husband to task over this latest debacle,  he admitted that he was aware of it, but thought it was just one, bullet that had been doctored,  and only for the purposes of popping the previously mentioned balloons.  Poor misguided man or village idiot ? You be the judge. 

In Their Words

My youngest two children spent the long weekend with my sister.  They had a great time, although I'm sure if Lesley heard them describe the highlights of their weekend, it wouldn't have been what she would have picked. So here is how my children spent their weekend - in their words. The first day was spent at Peterborough Zoo.

Sidney's favorite part: "They had this huge slide, and when I was halfway down I farted and it echoed and all the kids waiting at the top heard it."  Before I could frame a suitable reply - if there even was such a thing, she followed it closely with another revelation. "We saw two turtles having sex".  This was a little disconcerting, and I was somewhat disturbed by my not-yet-eight year old having such heady knowledge. "Perhaps" I countered "They were playing leap frog?"  "Oh no" Sidney responds determinedly, "They were definitely having sex, Aunty Lesley said so".

Evidently, I must have a serious chat with my sister. Our father was old school, and we had a fairly strict upbringing, at least my three sisters did. I think by the time I came along, almost fourteen years later, my parents had all but given up. Anyway, we were taught never to lie, a virtue that to this day, Lesley takes very seriously, the rest of us not so much. However, where my children are concerned, there are those occasions where you just have to lie and learn to live with it. Turtles having sex, would be one of those occasions.  

Grady not to be bested, chimes in blithely, "Look here, I took pictures of the turtles doing it so I could show you ".  This just gets better and better, now I have my ten year old son shooting porno movies of turtles. It will be a long, long time, before they go off with my sister again.

Anxious to change the subject, I asked my son what his favourite part of the weekend was. "Well" he began "Certainly not when Sidney farted on the slide, that was sooo embarrassing. When she fell off the picnic table and hit her head on the tree, that was pretty funny".  

Sidney not to be outdone, interrupts, "Grady, don't forget to tell mum about your rash"  Then she turns to me and comments slyly "Trust me, you don't want to know where it is!".

Wow, so after spending three days at a zoo, splash pad, park, pool, Toronto Island and the movies, the best they can come up with is farting, sex, head injuries and a suspicious rash. Does life get any better than that ?.

A Rude Awakening

I think we've established Rob is working from home this week - so not only do I have to fight for computer time to blog, but I also don't get the chance to sleep in. Today was no different. He comes bouncing in to the bedroom this morning at some ungodly hour, announcing "I have to put the light on, I've got something to show you". He has the kids in tow, so it obviously wasn't the first thing that crossed my mind. Oh no it was much worse than that. I open my eyes, and there he is, holding a vase of something a few inches from my face, and it wasn't flowers. There is something in the vase, and I think it's squirming, that can't be right.  I'm squinting, my eyes adjusting to the light, trying to figure it out. Whatever it is, it can't be good.

Finally, I give up guessing and ask. "What the hell is it ?" You really don't want to wake me from my slumber for this. So, this person, formerly known as my husband, gleefully replies "It's five mice !" You have got to be f***ing kidding me. Please excuse the language, but I think you'll agree these are extenuating circumstances. The man wakes me up at 7:30 to shove a jar of squirming mice in my face. Does he have a death wish ?  Who in their right minds pulls a stunt like this ?  I just cannot get over the fact that he has carried multiple mice through the house, up the stairs and into MY BEDROOM.  Anyone who follows this blog, knows that I am not daunted by a mouse or two, after all it is usually left up to yours truly to catch them, but this is taking it a bit far.

It turns out that when he went to feed the dog, Sid must have forgotten to close the lid for the dog food bin (yet again), so it was open season. Rob said that when he pulled out the scoop, the five mice were rooted in shock. He at least had the wherewithal to plonk them into a handy vase, but that must have been when he lost the plot. Most normal people would have taken the quickest route to the garden and set the mice free, but no, this imbecile takes them on a grand tour of the house, and introduces them to his wife.

When I stumbled, still bleary eyed in to the kitchen a few minutes later, Rob looked at me in surprise. "Oh, you're up"  Nothing like stating the obvious. I'm really not sure how he thought that waking me up with a jar of mice in my face was conducive to me going back to sleep. 

Just for the record, when I read this back to my (soon to be former) husband - after all, if I am to publicly call him an imbecile on the world wide web, I'd like him to know about it first - he had only one comment. "I can't believe you're whining about not getting to sleep in." Did he totally miss the part about the mice ???  In my face ??? Unbelievable.

I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend. Monday is a holiday here in Ontario, and the youngest two kids are at my sainted sister's house for the duration. Barring any outstanding arrest warrants for justifiable homicide, I'll be back on Tuesday. 

Happy Anniversary

It is our 26th wedding anniversary today, so I should probably find something complimentary to say about my husband. Trouble is, he has been working from home this week, which means I have had to get up early, because god forbid I should get to sleep in. Then when I am up, every time I turn around, I am tripping over him. Just my luck I was looking forward to a quiet week, the two youngest in camp, the oldest working her volunteer hours, and me with the house to myself, but it was not to be.

Someone once suggested I should blog about our wedding day, so I guess now is a good a time as any.  My husband was raised Catholic, and I was raised theoretically Church of England, but more realistically, despite the fact that I once taught Sunday School - hard to believe - I ended up with more of a heathenistic bent. Anyway as a result of my godless upbringing, it was difficult to find a priest that was willing to marry us in a church, so I went to the yellow pages, picked out a non denominational minister and booked my sister's garden for the big day. She had the ideal spot, a house on a lake, in the back of beyond.

Unfortunately I had overlooked that the back of beyond was difficult to get to, and directions were sketchy at best. It was a case of "Take the right hand turn after the big blue house. Follow the signs for the small engine repair, turn off after the damaged mail box, and look for the house with a weather vane. etc etc " There were no roads names, or house numbers, so it was pretty much a crap shoot if the guests even found the place.  Fortunately most of the guests did, unfortunately the minister didn't. We had to send out a search party, and then when they didn't return, a rescue team to find both them & the minister. Remember this was before cell phones, never mind Mapquest and GPS.

Meanwhile instead of the bright sunny day that had been forecast, we ended up with a monumental storm and downpour, only hours before the ceremony was due to start. Had I mentioned this was an outdoor affair ? The tables had all been set so we are running around, me in all my finery, veil flapping in the breeze, emptying cups and saucers that had filled with rainwater.

I was starting to think that maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.  My husband to be is in the garage with his brother, slowly getting hammered on gin and tonics, while we waited for the minister. My aunty Kath, who was thrilled to be my matron of honour took her duties very seriously and used this as an opportunity to give me "the talk".  To this day I still don't know if she was trying to take my mind off the disaster the day was shaping up to be, or whether she really  thought she was imparting words of wisdom. Either way it was definitely an "Eeew ! Gross! " moment, and I was forced cut her off at the pass.

Finally the minister arrived, the guests are assembled, and it is time for me to make my grand entrance. My sister's house was built on a slope, with entrances on two separate levels. The grand plan was that we leave from the basement door and I would glide up the path to the minister. It would have worked like a charm, if my aunt hadn't let the door close behind her, and the doorknob had not come off in my father's hand. Kath, unaware of what had transpired, continued blithely on her way, while I am pounding on the door for someone to come and let us out. 

By the time it came for us to exchange our vows, I laughed all the way through it, much to my father's consternation. He hadn't come all this way to palm me off on my unsuspecting groom, to see it come off the rails at the last minute. Fortunately after quaffing the G&T's I don't think Rob even noticed. Come to think of it, I don't think he's ever touched gin again, I can't say he doesn't learn from his mistakes ! 

So, Happy Anniversary to my wonderful husband. Tune in tomorrow, and you'll see just how wonderful ! 

This One Is For The Ladies

My good friend Ana emailed me some jokes the other day, and one in particular, I thought was too funny not to share.

"I woke up this morning with chest pains, and then I realised I was standing on my nipples"

When I first read it, I laughed so hard that tears were streaming down my face, Lindsay who was in the room at the time, wanted to know what I found so funny, so I told her. She just looked at me blankly. She obviously didn't have a clue. Oh, to be that young and perky again.  

I am not ashamed to admit I breast fed three children for what felt like years, so perky isn't a term that describes any part of my anatomy. When I told the joke to Rob later, he laughed hysterically. After all he can relate, many times he has been woken during the night, with me frantically pounding on him because he has rolled over and squished an unsuspecting boob.

That has probably conjured up some kind of horrific mental picture. In hindsight, this post should probably have been prefaced with some kind of warning. "This blog contains coarse language and adult content"  There. Consider yourself warned. It's all downhill from here.

Another One Bites The dust.

Sadly our pet population has decreased by one, but that still leaves us twenty critters so we haven't lost our "Crazy Zoo" designation yet.  It was one of  Lindsay's hamsters that kicked off.  I have to admit I am fond of the hamsters, and I have always sided with my kids against my husband when they wanted to bring another one (or any pet for that matter) into the house, so I was sorry when Honey the hamster died of old age.

Lindsay of course didn't want to touch the body, and Rob wouldn't have anything to do with it dead or alive, so it was up to yours truly to find a box and dispose of the corpse. I have to admit, as much as I like the hamsters, I did have to laugh when I hauled it's cold lifeless body out of the cage, because this one was in the cliched throws of rigor-mortis (go figure, that phrase wasn't on my spell check), flat on it's back, all four legs in the air, toes curled up, and it's mouth fixed in a menacing grimace. That is my sick sense of humour showing, so my apologies to hamster lovers everywhere. Moving on, I found a small box, fill it with bedding, gently place the hamster inside, taped everything up, and leave it to one side awaiting burial.

Rob came in and saw the box sitting on the counter. "Couldn't you find a smaller box ?" he complained,. "Do you have any idea how big a hole I am going to have to dig?".  What was he expecting, a custom sized container ? Honestly, the box wasn't that big, it was about the size of two hard back novels. I tell you, considering the average age of a hamster is only two years, I think if some budding entrepreneur cornered the market in hamster coffins, they'd strike it rich. My own personal Einstein then asks why we can't stick the corpse in a sandwich bag. Honestly, that man has no class.

Finally, after much grumbling, Rob grabs the box, muttering under his breath and goes outside, with the kids in hot pursuit,  to perform the burial. The next thing I hear is Lindsay scream, and I look out to see that Rob has taken matters into his own hands, or in this case feet, and stomped on the box to flatten it. Yet it is I who have been accused of not having a sensitivity gene. Thank goodness, the tape held and the box stayed more or less intact. I can only imagine the years of therapy sessions my children are going to have to endure in order to turn them into normal functioning beings.  It is obviously way too late for my husband.

Spider In The Bath Tub

I can't guarantee that I can commit to a post a day as before, but a few stalwart fans have persuaded me to at least try posting something on a regular basis, so I'll have to see how it goes. Admittedly there were some blog-worthy moments this weekend, starting with Saturday morning when I'm in the shower.

I am not someone who scares easily, after all I have children, and spiders as a rule don't bother me, but when a big black spider lands on me in the shower, I will admit to venting a girly scream. My husband - bless him - ignored me, Lindsay was still asleep - not for much longer, but Sidney & Grady immediately rushed to determine the cause of my distress. "What's the matter mum?" Grady yelled. "It's a spider" I yelled back, trying to keep the offending creature at bay with my toe, "It's big, it's black and it has teeth".  The part about the teeth was stretching the truth a bit, but I had to justify my uncharacteristic scream somehow.

Grady peeked behind the shower curtain - let out a girly scream of his own (at the spider, not me) and raced off. He was back a moment later with the spider catcher. Yes, there is such an implement, I bought it at Lee Valley Tools a few years ago and it works like a charm.

With Sid on the sidelines, encouraging him, he was able to catch the spider, teeth and all and remove it from the bath. He's my hero. My husband on the other hand, is a different story. I turn around, and there he is with the spider catcher and it's contents, sliding it around the shower curtain. I scream again, but this time with purpose. "What the hell are you doing ?" I refrained from adding "you idiot" but believe me it was implied.  "I was going to put the spider down the drain" he explained. Really ? After all Grady's hard work to remove it, I don't think so.  "Get it out of my shower and find somewhere else to dispose of it"  I instruct him through gritted teeth. Honestly, some days it is just doesn't pay to get out of bed in this house.