Wednesday, 23 December 2009
Friday, 4 December 2009
Friday, 13 November 2009
Mommy: No Finn, this is mommy's spot. Your spot is over there.
F: MY bot!
M: No Finn. This is mommy's spot. YOUR spot is over there.
F: More milk mama? Weese?
M: Ok baby, mommy will get you more milk. *Gets up*
F: *Crawls up on couch* *Grins* MY bot.
M: Why you little...
Thursday, 12 November 2009
"Should I play with my cars?" the little brain thought. "Should I build a fort?"
"No," said little brain, "today I think I'll be naughty."
"First I'll pick the paint off the wall by my crib. Then I'll pour conditioner on my sister's bed. I'll mop the floor with my juice, rub jam on the cat, and smash some knickknacks.
Then I'll nap."
Little Brain spent his resting time devising new and devious ways to be naughty. He thought, and he thought, and he thought. A plan grew in the deepest recesses of Little Brain. A plan so purely evil it could only be executed by a little boy.
"I think I'll colour. On the wall. With the most expensive lipstick I can find. Then I'll flush a rubber duck, and then I think I'll go out for a walk. Should I tell mommy? Naaaaaah. She'll figure it out. Shoulda brought shoes though. Oh well. Microwaving my spoon was genius, did you see all those sparks??!?
I got banished to my crib.
Freedom! Pulling the cat around by his tail has made me hungry. What's good around here? Oh yeah, BUTTER! I'll take a scoop of that, and some cat food, there, that's better. On to mom's room! I don't like the way she organizes her armoir, I'll help her out. There! They look much better on the floor! Now to stomp on them to make sure they stay down.
Back to my crib.
Freedom! A little cereal on the floor... Oh, ok, a lot. Eh, all of it. Why not! Darn, she took the scissors away. Where did I stick that tuna sandwich? Oh well, I'm sure it'll turn up. OOOOOHHHHH! These raisins fit perfectly through the vents around here! Neat-o! Add some milk... Beautiful.
And I'm back in my crib.
Freedom! Man, gotta poop. Mom's busy, I'll change me! Annnnnd, diaper goes in the wash. What's in there? Whites? Alright. Oh, missed. Ewwww! Slimy! I'll wipe that on the carpet here. Much better. A little paper shredding... It's colourful, that means it's not important!
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
My hero doesn't wear a cape, he doesn’t leap tall buildings, and he doesn’t have a sidekick. My hero wears a polyester uniform and he fixes trucks. There are thousands of other heroes just like him. My hero is my husband Andrew, and he is a soldier in the Canadian Armed Forces.
We've all met our fair share of bullies. Maybe you've met the playground bully who would throw stones at you, or call you names, or push you down. Maybe you've met the neighbourhood bully who eggs your house and steals your mail. There are bullies at work, there are bullies on the golf course, there are even bullies standing in line at the bank. But what happens when one bully gets together with all his bully friends and tries to bully the whole world? When instead of throwing stones, these bullies start throwing bombs, instead of calling you names they call you worthless and sinful. What happens when instead of pushing you down they try to eradicate you from the very planet?
What happens when that bully is so powerful that entire countries are afraid?
It's happened before. It's happening again.
What happens is war. There is a war being fought right now, and we are all a part of it. We've sent our husbands, wives, mommies, daddies, neighbours, cousins and friends off to war, and the number of those we've lost keeps increasing. This isn't ancient history, this is real. Every morning I wake up and I try to send a message to my husband just to make sure he's lived through his day. Every night he falls asleep on his bunk in a tent and listens to the staccato of gunfire from just outside camp. Last time he came home he spent months reaching for a rifle that wasn't there every time he saw movement in the shadows of our own home. The day after he landed back in Afghanistan last month he helped put another soldier on the plane home. That soldier was dead. Too many soldiers have been sent home in boxes. Too many times has Reveille rung out on foreign soil. Too many moments of silence marking far too many losses.
My husband won't tell me the things he does over there. I know he leaves camp to bring back broken trucks. He doesn't tell me how that big hulking truck had hit a landmine that opened it like a tin can, and he never tells me about the pieces of people left inside. He's told me he's had a gun pulled on him, a gun held by a child no older than six. He won't tell me what happened next. He loves me too much to tell me that. He loves you too much to let me tell you.
Every man and woman who leaves Canada to fight in the war does it because they believe in something so powerfully that they are willing to lay their lives down for it. They believe that everyone is equal. They believe all children have the right to go to school to get an education and grow up smart and strong. They believe that every single person in the whole wide world has the right to live and laugh and love and get very, very old healthfully and happily. They believe in you, they believe in me, and they believe that good will triumph over evil. They fight when they don't want to fight, because fighting is the only language bullies understand.
Someday, hopefully, we won't need to fight. Someday all children will hold books instead of guns, and mommies and daddies will be able to stay home and hold their babies in their arms instead of holding their pictures in their pockets. Someday all the world will learn that ideas will prevail where bullets fail, and that good always, always wins. Good wins when people like my husband take a stand against all the world's bullies and say "No. Stop. What you're doing is wrong, and I'm not going to let you hurt anybody else". Good wins when soldiers don't have to go away and leave loved ones behind. Good wins when we stand up for those people being picked on, and band together for what is right and fair. Good wins when the bombs stop falling.
My husband, and all the Canadian soldiers he stands shoulder to shoulder with are heroes. They're my heroes. They're your heroes. They are the world’s heroes.
Lest we forget.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
The nice thing about having fresh clean floors is that it gives your toddler fantastic traction when he goes tearing around the house.
The nice thing about letting people merge in ahead of you in traffic is that five kilometers down the road you get to be caught behind the 5-car pileup they caused for hours on end.
The nice thing about using cloth diapers is catching a pin under your nail.
The nice thing about attending church in a big beautiful cathedral is getting first dibs on tickets to attend mass with Prince Charles and Camilla P-B. Nevermind the fact that you can attend with God every other week just by walking in off the street.
The nice thing about having children who attend the private school associated with the above-mentioned church is that they will hear about this "event" well in advance and hound you about it forever thereafter.
The nice thing about having a big fat orange tabby is waking up with a mouthful of big fat orange tabby fur.
The nice thing about being a little unknown blog is that nobody really cares when you take a hiatus! ;)
Friday, 25 September 2009
The Daddy: ...so for instance, today we played volleyball.
Lily: Today WE played bench-ball*
Rachel: Today we had a spelling test!
*I have no idea what bench-ball is. She says that you throw around a ball to each other, and then you get to sit on a bench. I think it's like dodge ball for sissies.
Monday, 14 September 2009
Sunday, 6 September 2009
- No blood = No Bandaid.
- If I can't see a mark, get over it.
If she's being particularly whiny about it, I offer the option of Home Amputation. That usually resolves the issue.
- Well -
Someone very close to us had had some issues a while back, which led to the amputation of a relatively small bit of one of their extremities. The way it was done led to other issues, most pressingly that it caused a huge amount of pain to them. Eventually, this led to the recently acted-upon decision to amputate a larger part of the extremity and just get rid of the problem area altogether. Because of the pain.
Surely you can see where this is going.
When Rachel heard about this, her eyes got wide as saucers. Someone she actually knew ACTUALLY had a part of them cut off because it hurt. In real life. For REAL. She was floored.
There was that priceless moment where you can practically see the gears turning in her head. Amputation is a real thing. Amputation due to excessive pain is a real thing. If I complain about pain too much Mommy offers to cut it off. Which really happens in real life. Whoa.
Today Finn stabbed her so hard with one of his diaper pins that it got stuck and I had to pull it out. Do you think I heard a peep out of her?
Not a peep. She looked like she was going to pass out, but I got it pulled out and disinfected and dressed and she just sat as still and silent as a stone.
It was such a golden moment.
(To whom this post is about: We love you and hope you feel better soon!)
Monday, 31 August 2009
As you can see, I had a less-than-enthusiastic model.
It's about thirty degrees out, and Finn refuses to take it off. He keeps rubbing his legs and saying "Oooooh, NIIIIIIIIIICE!" I'm glad he enjoys the most luxe diaper cover this side of Angora.
Now to gather up the scraps and make something matching for Gigi, his nightime one-armed giraffe friend.
Friday, 28 August 2009
The rods were a total loss. My curtains were salvageable once I extricated them from the twisted mass of aluminum destruction clinging to the center support hook. The set I had up is two panels of cream coloured sheers, two overlay panels of cream/gold brocade, and a two layer valance in cream/sage gingham topped with a creme-based flower-motif embroidered runner ALL SEWN TOGETHER. I made it, and I made it idiot-proof. It's all one piece - easy peasy lemon squeezy, right?
I'm too cheap to buy new rods, to leery of hanging them, and too lazy to do it anyway. So we went old school.
I took that complicated mass of fabric, and I stapled that bitch to the wall. Oh yes, I did. God bless the Staple Gun. And you know what? Looks exactly the same. It's too thick to rip through, so if they pull it down again (should I ever let them out of their rooms) it'll take 10 seconds and 1/2 a cent worth of aluminum to fix it. It's affixed to the strip of wood hung for the curtain rods anyway, so it's as secure as the upholstery on my couch. So far the only damage to that is a quarter-sized hole Lily cut out with scissors. Matches the hole in her head.
*Brushes imaginary dust off hands*
This concludes our lesson on how to decorate a grown-up home with frat-boy ingenuity.
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Sunday, 23 August 2009
I especially like that I uncovered the two huge floor grates, and Finn is totally freaked out by them. Hehehehe.
I'll try to post pics once I've cleaned all the newly-discovered crayon drawings off the walls. (walls = plural)
Friday, 21 August 2009
Sunday, 16 August 2009
I spent three hours today cleaning my kitchen, and another two cleaning my storage & laundry rooms (the storage room is off the laundry room, which is off the kitchen. This house was built in the '50's, and the layout is ridiculous.) and it occurred to me that I will never, ever run out of things to do. Allow me to 'splain.
First I did all the dishes. Then I had to put them away in order to clear off & clean the counters. Then I had to remove everything from the counters (coffee maker, knife block, etc.) to sanitize the counters. Then I couldn't very well put these things back dirty, so I had to clean them too. Then the windowsill, which is just above the counter - along with everything on it.
Then I washed the walls, appliances, and furniture. Then went over it all with bleach cleaner.
Then I noticed that the linens on the buffet bench are dirty, so they need to be washed, and the chairs got wiped down and the buffet itself.
I wiped down the cupboards, and noticed that the inside of all my cupboards are full of crumbs/pancake mix/loose chocolate chips/Finn sized chocolate fingerprints/God knows what.
I gave up on that room. I'll do the floors tonight and then I REFUSE TO CARE THAT MY CUPBOARDS ARE DIRTY INSIDE. *Sobbing*
The laundry room had a pile of junk on the floor from when I pulled everything out of the damastered storage room. Little junk too, like screws and picture hangers, and zap straps. And for some inexplicable reason, a season's worth of clothes for Barbie. Now it's swept and picked up, but I know the cat food scoop needs to be put back in the cat food bucket, and although there are only three loads left in the laundry sorter, the laundry baskets in the rooms upstairs are nearing capacity and will be needing to be brought down soon. There's a pile of stuff under my laundry sink that need to be painted before they can be put in/out/to use. So I gave up on that room.
I pulled all the junk out of the storage room, sorted it, stacked it, bagged and tagged it, and as I sit here now there are two shoe boxes full of just... SHIT that needs to be put away! I don't know where it comes from, it just appears! AAAAAAAAHHH!!!
Is there ever a point where you are really and truly done, or is there always that last box of crap that sits there mocking you? That perpetual stack of dirty dishes, that eternal 'final' load of laundry. That dirty footprint on the clean floor of my LIFE!
I haven't even started dinner yet, and there are already dirty dishes in the sink. I could just cry.
The girls' rooms are spotless. SPOTLESS spotless. They washed their walls and all their furniture, mopped their floors, and have made up their beds with fresh bedding. They even windexed and organized their closets. Awesome!
Note: If you look kind of below and to the left of the Finnigan tattoo, you can see the faint stencil of the future Rachel tattoo - The Daddy just couldn't sit through all three portraits at once. More to come!
Friday, 7 August 2009
(As an aside, if you type a naughty word, does your mama make you wash your fingers with soap?)
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
No, I don't know why. But for some unknown, karmic reason, when the TV news crew shows up they zero in on ME to interview. Meanwhile, my meds are wearing off, I can't open my jaw even halfway due to the BITCHIN' TMJ I've been rocking ever since I had my jaw propped open for three freakin' hours, and let's not even talk about my hair.
I'm sure I was totally awesome.
Hopefully all they'll show is that mouthy asshole who was demanding $100 Sprawlmart giftcards to everyone for their "inconvenience". Good luck to him.
Root canals are.
Terrible. I kind of wanted to die. I've done the med-free, 9lb baby, back labour, stitched from one end to the other thing, and root canal after pain is worse.
My appologies to women everywhere, but I couldn't keep it in any longer.
My tooth frickin' HURTS.
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
We missed the last two.
All three cans were full, plus two cardboard boxes, plus a big oversized rubbermaid container, PLUS probably a dozen loose bags. The animals had been in it, it was overcome with flies, it was oozing, it was disgusting. (The Daddy has been re-bagging as necessary, and is on a first-name basis with one of the raccoons.)
They took it all, and I only heard them swear once.
So to all garbage men out there, I adore you. You are my heros. There may be a 24 of beer in your future, if you so happen to have my house on your route.
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Not that that ever, you know, happened.
We passed all our checks with everybody, and are very cautiously optimistic about the minute possibility that The Daddy will, in fact, remain on tour. It probably won't happen, but it hasn't officially been killed yet either.
Our new kitten now has a name: Ysma (Ease-ma). Kronk is afraid of her. She does not like to have her picture taken, but I will try for you.
It's REALLY hot here. I'm sweaty, and I'm just sprawled out on the couch watchin' tv.
I discovered last night that we get free MovieCentral. I watched a lot of movies on demand. I plan to do the same tonight.
I'm so tired.
The Doc says my post-partum depression is probably gone, and all I'm suffering from now is anxiety. I haven't decided if I believe him or not.
I have an appointment with a psycologist on the 3rd re: the anxiety. It's going to cost approximately $475 for her to climb all up in my head, which we have to pay for upfront. How to solve problems, military style: To cure anxiety, go see someone who will charge you lots of money to solve your anxiety problems, so that you're a-ok except for your newfound anxiety about not being able to pay your bills this month. Winning.
I'm melting. Gah.
The Daddy is surprising me with his helpfulness. He cooks, he cleans, he reads bedtime stories. He even dries the dishes, and I only asked him once. Feel free to envy me.
The Baby and I were out shopping last week, and picked up one of those Little Golden Books about fire engines. We now have to read it about 16 times a day. We all have it memorized. We've already worn the "Golden" off it. Best $3.54 I've spent on that kid in a loooong time.
Our duvet exploded. There were feathers everywhere. It happened right before our last housing inspection. The Daddy tried to sweep it up. Shockingly, that didn't work. Kronk was afraid. Thankfully, everybody understood. Sewing up the tear was an interesting edeavour though. I'm pretty sure I've still got down up my nose.
My laundry is still not totally complete. Shameful, I know. Whatever.
Friday, 24 July 2009
Our last day of vacation, we got a phone call that the military po-po's had been in our house. Apparently the person who was supposed to be taking care of our cat, well, wasn't, and he had been yowling obnoxiously and annoying all the neighbours. The cops went in on the grounds that "they didn't know if someone was inside who needed attention". They found the backdoor unlocked, which prompted a call to Housing, and found cat shit everywhere (due to the neglect of the litter box. The cat had plenty of food and water at least), which prompted a call to Child Services. The house, of course, looked like a bomb had gone off because of The Daddy arriving home three days prior and basically dumping his shit and playing WoW until we left and my totally unorganized and last minute vacation packing. Basically there we piles of (clean) dishes, piles of clean and dirty and shit on laundry, standard little-girl messy rooms, my dumping ground of a bedroom (I spend zero time in there awake, what do you want?) and clutter as far as the eye can see. They were kind enough to take pictures and forward them to The Daddy's chain of command. Sweet, no?
At some point that night, our car was broken into. The window was smashed, and our GPS - my very lifeline - was stolen. We don't have theft protection OR damage coverage on our car insurance.
We've met with police, housing, Social Workers (plural!) half the damn military, and I have to go see a shrink because this. shit. is. not. good. for. my. anxiety.
So The Daddy is quite probably not going on tour after all.
I must have been really, really bad in a past life.
At any rate, it took us all of one day to get the place - to quote the social worker - "spotless". You can imagine how terrible it was that it could be so drastically changed in one day. So now we're doing paranoid anal-retentive things like bleaching the walls and lining everything up at precise angles in an effort to show the constant stream of people coming through here that we are NOT neglectful lazy slobs and are in fact willing and able to maintain a healthy level of cleanliness. We have three kids, it ain't always gonna be magazine perfect! But it was actually suggested to me today that it's "unusual" to go to bed with dirty laundry in your house. I really, truly must be completely off my rocker, because I think that is utter bullshit. I mean, seriously? What about the clothes you just took off? Even if it's just the outfits my family wore that day, there's a full load of dirty laundry right there! Am I totally out to lunch? Do people actually wash clothes that are still warm from their bodies?!? Whatever. This is why God invented laundry baskets.
I have long maintained that people who have nothing to hide hide nothing. I have told them all to please drop by any time, I was opening closets and storage areas for inspection despite them telling me it was unnecessary. I made the Social Workers look in the fridge and cupboards so that I knew they knew we had an suitable amount of food for our family. I'm bending over backwards to make my life an open book so that this can be as simple and easy as possible, but for such an intensely private person such as I - it stings. I have appointments with different people all over town to tell them my life story and get a support network in place. Privacy is apparently a privilege, not a right, and definitely not in anyone's best interests. Oh well, you gotta do what you gotta do - and right now, I gotta do this and play by their rules. It doesn't really bother me so much as it exhausts me. I'm so tired of talking, of explaining, or refuting, of repeating myself... I think I'll just start issuing press releases and be done with the whole thing. There is something to be said for Gov't taping our lives and tapping our conversations. Pressing rewind+play would be soooo much easier and less emotionally trying.
I always said it would never happen to me, how stuck up was I? Karma is a bitch! Note to future self: Do not leave the house anything less than STERILE and IMMACULATE, because "clean" is subjective and sometimes that can mean "never, ever good enough", and there is always justification for someone being all up in your business whether you want them to or not, and second chances have to be paid for in blood, sweat, and tears. I'm pretty sure I'll end up medicated.
Is this week over yet?
If you need me, I'll be in the bubble bath with a glass of wine and a slutty romance novel. Calgon, Cowboy, and Cabernet take me away.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Rachel fell in the duck pond at the park.
I'm not even a little bit surprised.
(The clothes belonged to a boy in her class. Her uniform was covered in duck... stuff. She'd drawn the line at borrowing his underwear though. Because THAT would be too weird.)
Friday, 19 June 2009
Step two: Cut off the green bits before the baby eats them.