Sunday, 22 November 2009
Friday, 13 November 2009
His bot
Finnigan: My bot.
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...
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
More time in than out
Today Finn woke up, and his little baby brain thought about what he should do today.
"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!
Crib.
Highchair.
Playpen.
Crib.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..."
"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!
Crib.
Highchair.
Playpen.
Crib.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..."
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Heroes
I have a hero.
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.
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...
The nice thing about living right on the ocean is that every so often, when the wind blows just right, your whole house smells like dead shellfish.
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! ;)
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! ;)
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