If you have kids, you’re likely familiar with the up-and-down bedtime tuck in.

This phenomenon occurs when you FINALLY tuck your kids into bed for the night.  You’re tired.  It’s late.  You’ve worked all day, driven home in the traffic, got dinner on the table, cleaned up the kitchen, gone through the backpacks, made the snacks/lunches and tidied up the house.

Once they’re in bed you know that the couch, your favourite TV show and some relaxing is finally going to take place.  You can taste it.

And then it starts . . .

First it’s the sound of little footsteps that lead from their upstairs bedroom to the staircase banister.  You try to ignore it, but they persist.

Next it’s the sound of a little voice.  Which comes up with new and inventive excuses all the time to explain why they’re out of bed.  After they’ve already been tucked in.  And it’s your time to be relaxing!  The excuses might included, but are not limited to;

• I can’t sleep
• I’m thirsty
• when are you coming to bed?
• I’m scared
• my brother won’t stop singing in bed and he’s keeping me awake
• my throat / belly / ankle / whatever hurts
• I need a band-aid
• I’m hot / I’m cold

Such excuses are used to lure a parent back upstairs to re-tuck.  But this is highly annoying to a parent that’s VERY intent on getting her relax on.  So I have grown immune to such excuses.

Till The Youngest came up with a new one last night.  I will relay the conversation exactly how it happened and then you will write the ending.  Because I had no idea how to respond.

The Youngest:  Mommy – I can’t sleep
Me:  Why not

The Youngest:  A booger fell in my eye and it really really hurts
Me:  What?  How did a booger get in your eye?

The Youngest:  I was pickin’ my nose while I was laying down and it fell off my finger and landed in my eye.
Me:  You have GOT to be kidding me with this!

The Youngest:  Can you come check my eye?
Me:  Sigh

Okay folks . . . what should I have done next?  Leave me what ya got in the comments.

From our family to yours . . . Happy Easter weekend!

I’m off for a 4 day weekend.  Me, my boys, and our newly acquired egg-family will be enjoying copious amount of turkey, and possibly some chocolate.  I might even get some yard work done and maybe even a little relaxing (fingers crossed!).

(look at the intense concentration on The Youngest’s face – he’s taking this task VERY seriously)

Enjoy your time with friends and family.  Be they eggs or not.

My Eldest likes to read.  And fortunately he’s at the age (9) where cracking open a book in bed and having a little read to himself before he goes to sleep is now a pleasure.  And I couldn’t be happier about that.  Don’t we all want our children to enjoy books?  To transport themselves to the magical world of imagination that they create for us?  To just be literate?  Of course we do.

So naturally I encourage it.  I let him have his bit of reading time in bed, even if it means he’s up a little past his bedtime.  I try to make our trips to Chapters to pick out a new book a fun outing for the two of us that serves to enhance his whole reading experience.  Anything to keep the book loving fires burning.

Here’s the last few books we’ve ended up with:

The target audience of such books is clearly young boys.  Young boys who appreciate potty humour more than life itself.  Young boys who will wet themselves with laughter just reading the titles.

Which is why I’ve decided to write some boys book titles.  Not the actual books themselves.  I’ll leave that to someone else that has a better handle on grammar, punctuation and imagination, but I’ve got a list of titles that they can start with;

• Poopy Pooperson Goes Camping
• The Killer Wedgie Comes to Town
• Bartholomew Can’t Stop Burping
• The Little Brother That Wouldn’t Go Away
• How To Drive Your Parents Crazy With A Balloon
• Stinky Stinkmiester and the Smelly Feet
• Bedhead Barney Looses His Brush
• King Messy and his Dirty Kingdom
• Detective Diarrhea and the case of the Plugged Potty
• What Can Boogers Stick To?

I promise you – these books will be literary gold to the young male demographic they serve to entertain.

You can bet your whoopee cushion on it.

Got any other titles for me?  Interested in purchasing the rights to one of mine?  Glad you don’t have young boys?

The other night Willie and I were laying in bed on our new fancy mattress (mattress story here and the conclusion here).  Willie likes to have a pillow under his TV flicker arm while watching telly in bed before we go to sleep.  Somehow we got onto the following discussion . . .

ME:  Isn’t this bed comfy?! (SO pleased with my selection!)

Willie:  Yeah, but I’d like to have more pillows in it.

ME:  More?  There’s already 5 in here! (she says slightly annoyed)

Willie:  Yeah . . . like surrounded by a sea of pillows (he says in a dreamy voice)

ME:  But then there would be no room for us.

Willie:  We could get another bed and add it to the end of this one so it would be really big! (starting to wonder if he’s kidding or serious – it could easily be either)

ME:  Actually, we could probably fit a total of 4 beds in here and make one giant bed out of the whole room.  Like – wall to wall beds. (edging him on)

Wilie:  Yeah – then it would actually be a “Bed Room”! (his excitement at this whole idea increasing rapidly)

ME:  Then all four of us could sleep together in here because we would all have our own bed (like THAT would ever happen!)

Willie:  Yeah – and then we would get 4 TVs and hang them from the ceiling.  One above each person, so we could all watch whatever we wanted (he’s putting far too much thought into this)

ME:  But then each other’s shows would drown out the sound of your own show (trying to be the voice of reason)

Willie:  No – we’d each have ear buds! (he’s clearly annoyed with my thoughtlessness)

ME:  ahhhh.  maybe we could also get a fridge to hold our drinks and snacks (FISH ON!)

Willie:  Oh yeah!  Wait a minute . . . it’s never going to happen, is it? (sudden realization followed by intense disappointment)

ME:  Nope.

But it did sound like a cool idea, no?  What would you have in your “Dream Bedroom”?  Oh, and keep it clean will ya – my Mom reads this blog.

This winter has been very mild.  Which is odd and quite unexpected because I live in Ontario.  Part of “The Great White North”.  Apparently the USA received all our snow this winter and frankly, I hope you get it again next year.  No offense intended, but we’ve had our share over the years.  Your turn.

In fact we’ve barely had ANY snow this winter.  Cold temperatures, sure – hence our backyard ice rink – but not too much of the Devil’s Fluff.  In fact, the other day I noticed my daffodils starting to peep their heads up in my garden.  Unheard of this early in the year, I assure you  (love you Global Warming!).

But what the mild weather HAS brought is mud.  Dirty, yucky, messy mud.  Which is pretty much impossible for boys to stay away from.  When there’s no snow balls to throw, apparently you use mud instead.  When there’s no snow to walk through, you walk through mud instead.  Even if your Mother threatens you within an inch of your life every morning to “STAY OUT OF THE MUD”.  But they don’t listen, do they?!  Noooooooo.

So I’ve just washed their winter coats and gloves AGAIN.  For the THIRD time in as many weeks.  Fortunately their boots can just be hosed off.  But honestly boys – STAY OUT OF THE MUD – or I’m going to stop cleaning your stuff and you’re just going to have to go to school looking like this.

(source: Google Images)

Would you rather have snow or mud?  Would you bother cleaning their coats and gloves every week or just let them be muddy?  Would you like to live somewhere tropical where it’s gorgeous weather 12 months a year or do you like the changing seasons?   Can I send you one of my Mud Monsters?

Clearly there’s something wrong with me.  With my taste buds to be more specific.

It would seem that I taste things very differently from the rest of my family.

For instance, tonight I made Pioneer Woman’s “Chicken Spaghetti” from her fab cookbook.  And what’s not to like about it?  Chicken?  Spaghetti?  A creamy cheesy sauce?  It’s all delish.  I LOVED it!

And yet, the boys didn’t.

This is the way almost every new dish I try ends up.  Which really puts me off trying new things.  And which is why we only have about 10 meals in the weekday rotation.  10 meals that we keep eating over, and over, and over again (yawn).

How can I like so many things that they don’t?  Is it my taste buds?  It can’t be theirs because there’s always 3 of them saying “no likey” and only 1 of me saying “yummy”.

I’m obviously the problem.  My tongue is broken and requires immediate replacement.  I’m saving up for a transplant.  Know any good surgeons?

Does your family like to try new things?  Which tactic should I try on mine next time – Bribery?  Violence?  Tears?

Sometimes life just hands you a blog post – like yesterday morning for example.

And sometimes life teaches you to stop and appreciate the little things – like car doors that close for example.

It was a balmy -5C (23F).  The boys and I were in our usual rush to leave the house for the school drop off/drive to work.  They hopped into the car, buckled up and closed their doors.  Except the Youngest’s wouldn’t close.  At all.  No way – no how.  WTH?!?!  Out I get to investigate.  It appears that the female part of the door closing apparatus is stuck in a “the door is already closed” position.  How that happened – I have NO idea.  It shut fine the night before when he got out of the car.

Now, I do consider myself reasonable handy.  I’m no stranger to a drill, hammer, level or screwdriver.  I can even perform basic maintenance tasks on my car if required.  In fact, when Willie and I met, I had my own toolbox of stuff that I actually used.  And if I’m being honest – I actually like doing that kind of stuff.

So I figured “I can fix this.  I’ll just use a key to reach in and flick the latch back into the “door is open” position, and away we’ll go”!

Nope.  That baby wasn’t moving.

“Perhaps I’m flicking it the wrong way” I surmised.  So around I go to The Eldest’s side of the car to check out his latch.  “Which position SHOULD it be in” I’m wondering?  “Do I flick it up or down” I’m asking myself?  I’ll just flick The Eldest’s and I’ll have all my questions answered!  I’m SO smart.  I’m SO handy.  I’m SUCH a catch.

Except after I flick The Eldest’s, it doesn’t want to flick back either.

So now we have;

a) 2 rear car doors that are stuck open
b) 2 children that are now late for school
c) a husband that is already at work and can’t help
d) a Blogger that has to get to work and is now INCREDIBLE pissed
e) one pair for frozen hands (which could really end my blogging career.  And I use the term “career” very loosely here)

So I call the Dealership.  The KIA Dealership I would like to add.

“Um – just use a screwdriver to flick the latch back” they suggest.  Having already tried to “flick”, I’m somewhat skeptical, but perhaps the key I was using just wasn’t the tool for the job.  So I go get a proper screwdriver.  Nope.  There’s no flicking to be had.  My frustration level is off the charts.  I could walk the kids to school, but how the hell am I going to navigate my 45 minute drive – on the highway no less – to work with 2 rear doors that keep flying open every time I take a corner?

“Buckle up boys!” I exclaim.  “And hold onto tightly to your doors!  We’re going for a little drive!”  And with that, we set off on the 5 minute drive to the Dealership.

And honestly, those boys couldn’t have thought I was any cooler.  Driving around town as they held their doors closed.  Yahoo-ing the entire time.  Like it was an amusement park ride.  Or their mother was a really cool stunt driver.

Anyway – the happy ending is that Kia took my car in right away and had both doors fixed in about 10 minutes.  At no charge (which is what you should do when you make really crappy cars – you make up for it with good, free service).  The boys got to school, albeit it a little late, and I made it to work unscathed.

I’ll never take doors that close for-granted again.

Let’s hope tomorrow morning goes a little better.  Shall we Kia?

I got up yesterday  morning and got ready for work like usual.

You know – the mad dash to get myself showered, wake the boys, slap a little makeup on, wake the boys again, throw a fast yet reasonably nutritious breakfast out for them, yell at the boys to frickin get dressed already (!), blow dry my hair, find something in my painfully sad and bland closet to wear that matches and is comfortable (cause I’m at that age where comfort is now King – sigh), threaten the boys lives if they don’t hurry up, insist that “yes” they do HAVE to brush their teeth, and get their hair into a reasonable style.

And as we’re heading back downstairs for boots, coast, hats, gloves and backpacks, I notice “sheesh – it’s cold in here today”.  “Here” being our house.

But I did just come back from a week on the beach.  And we do live in Canada.  Perhaps I was just getting re-climatized?  Maybe a cold spell blew into town during the night?

So I turn the furnace up a degree or two because it was one of the days that my Mom (known affectionately as  “Gramma” to our entire neighbourhood) comes over to get the boys for lunch and after school and so I want to warm the house up for her.  Cause I’m thoughtful like that.

But when she arrives mid-morning I get a call at work . . .

Gramma:  I don’t think your furnace is working.

Me:  What?  Are you serious?

Gramma: Yeah, it’s colder in here that it is outside!

Me:  awww – crap!  I did think it was a bit chilly in there this morning.

Gramma:  Your thermostat shows that it’s only 16 degrees in here even though the furnace is set for 21.

Me:  CRAP!

So now I’m quickly thinking how I can get a repair guy there asap before we end up with an ice rink INSIDE the house.  And how much, exactly, it’s going to cost.  Because – hello! – just came back from vacation.

So off Gramma goes to investigate.  Furnace is definitely not coming on.  Breaker is fine.  Hydro is okay.  We just had the damn thing cleaned/service a few months ago.  WTH?!

Then Gramma spots the problem.

A large, hand-cuffed, stuffed monkey wearing Star Wars pajamas was hanging from the furnace on/off switch on the wall.  Who clearly had been part of the Super Heroes games the evening before.  Obviously said monkey had committed some heinous crime that required the hand-cuffing and hanging.  Which had inadvertently turned of the furnace.

Gramma released the imprisoned monkey and turn the furnace switch back on.

Problem solved.

Heat resumed.

Crisis averted.

Boys in trouble.

This is a scheduled re-post from Oct 2/09 to tie you over till I’m back from my Mexican vacation.  I won’t be able to visit any of your blogs during this time, but I’ll make it up to you when I’m back.  Promise.

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Last night I took both boys to Toys R Us to get a birthday present for a friend’s party they’re both attending on the weekend.  This is something we do often (my children are popular and get invited to lots of birthday parties -  clearly I’m a fabulous mother).  So they’re no stranger to Toys R Us.  And they’re always very well behaved.  Neither of them have ever had one of those “but I WANT it” temper tantrum breakdowns that I all-to-frequently witness some poor red-faced parent experiencing.  I simply remind them, before we’re even out of the car, that we are there to pick a toy for their friend – not themselves.  Sometimes they bring their own wallets if they do anticipate treating themselves to a little inexpensive something-or-another while we’re there.  And although every aisle seems to have some item that is particularly eye-catching, I usually nip it in the bud by saying “oh yes, that does look good.  Would you like me to add that to your birthday/Christmas list?” and then we continue on.  Good boys.  Good boys.

But last night The Youngest happen to spot the WWE “Money in the Bank Ladder Match Ring”.  And he was smitten.

(I know – I don’t get it either)

I’m going to stop here to mention that he has never even seen any show at all related to the WWE.  He doesn’t have any toys that are at all related to the WWE.  And from what I can figure, the closest he’s ever come to the WWE is playing with a WWE item at a friend’s house . . . ONCE.

So I suggest that we add it to his Christmas list.  Nope, not good enough this time – he wants it right now.  But since he didn’t bring his wallet on this particular outing, he suggests that perhaps I could purchase the coveted item and he could pay me back when we get home.  A fair suggestion.  I appreciate his initiative.  Except that the item is $30.  And I think that is just a little too much for an impulsive, he-doesn’t-even-know-what-the-heck-WWE-is item that will undoubtedly promote a flurry of wrestling moves against his brother.  And then things will get all crazy in my Family Room.

So I responded “No, not today.  We’re here for your friend’s gift, remember?  Let’s pay and go home.”

I decide to head over one aisle to the cash.  The Eldest (aka Octo-Boy) was still with me but The Youngest had wondered back to the WWE aisle to lovingly gaze at the object of his affection.  And he wasn’t budging.  By this point I was getting tired of calling out his name and telling him to stay with us, which I had to do at least four times already.  So I decide to give him one of those little “controlled scares” that us Mother’s must sometimes give.  So Octo-Boy and I walked away from the aisle we were in – without him.  Then we went through the cash – expecting him to come sauntering up at any moment like he owns the place.  But he didn’t.  Then we waited just inside the exit doors.  Still no sign of him.  Now I’m getting worried/angry.  I’m partially expecting to hear some kind of “could Kieran’s Mother please come to Customer Service” announcement over the P.A.  Maybe I shouldn’t have walked away.  The guilt sets in.  So I send The Eldest back in to get him while I stand guard at the exit door.

The next thing I see is The Youngest on his knees being pulled by his hands through Toys R Us by The Eldest.  And he appears to be smiling and kinda laughing.  And then accidentally, through my guilt and anger, one of those spontaneous laughs spewed from my mouth.  I couldn’t help it!  It did look kinda funny.  But I dare not let him see that laugh.  No.  He must see nothing but irate frustration.  So as The Eldest deposits him in front of the exit doors where we had been standing, I gather my composure and angrily demand between gritted teeth that he “get in the car”.  To which he grins and replies “no”.

No.  Just like that.  Can you believe he said that?!

Again, I turn and choke back a spontaneous laugh because honestly, it was such an unlikely response to my demand that I almost didn’t believe he had just said it.  So I decide I’m gonna show him who’s Boss.  “Okay then” I say “bye bye” and just before I head out the doors towards the car with The Eldest in tow, The Youngest smiles and waves and replies “bye”.

Damn him!  I’m supposed to be the boss!

So I throw in the towel.  I’m out of ideas.  He’s clearly gotten the better of me.  I’ve been defeated.

As we’re walking to the car, which by the way is parked immediately outside the store (let’s pause here for a sec and give kudos to me for the great parking spot!), The Eldest asks “Are we really going home?  Are we really going to leave him here?” to which I quickly think hmmmm, the lesson may be lost on The Youngest, but perhaps it’ll teach The Eldest something . . .

“Yes – we’re going home.”

“Without him?” he asks with wide-eyed astonishment.

I don’t bother to answer so as not to find myself in a lie.  No – of course I wouldn’t go home without him!  But I don’t want them to know that or it would have blown my whole cover.

So we get into the car as I watch The Youngest standing just inside the store’s entrance.  Just standing there.  Watching.  Probably thinking “ha – they’re not going anywhere without me.”

But then as we get into the car and I start the engine I can see on his panicked little face that his thought process has suddenly changed to “oh crap!  They really are going to leave without me!”  And out he comes.  Running towards the car.  Face flushed and eyes moist.

I have worn him down!  The lesson has been taught!  Victory is mine!

So home we go.  Where he proceeds to spend some alone time in my room.  Not in his own because it’s filled with toys and would be way too much fun to spend some alone time in there.  No – to my boring room.  From which I have removed the TV remote control.  So there’s nothing to do.  But sit and think about his behavior.  And come up with a good apology.  And promise it won’t happen again.  While I’m downstairs having a drink.

And as I’ve said repeatedly about this child over the years – it’s a good thing he’s cute.

This is a scheduled re-post from Aug 27/09 to tie you over till I’m back from my Mexican vacation.  I won’t be able to visit any of your blogs during this time, but I’ll make it up to you when I’m back.  Promise.

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I love shopping!  No even so much the buying, but simply the browsing, the looking, the wandering about.  Sure the buying is also a thrill – that perfect purchase finally stumbled upon.  But I could spend hours at a mall, not buy one thing, and still be perfectly happy having luxuriated in the wonder of it all.  But that of course, is when I’m by myself.  Because when I’m with “them” . . . it’s a whole other story.

Take, for example, my husband.  He actually becomes physically agitated upon enter a mall, or any non-grocery store in general.  His anxiety level skyrockets.  His patience, which is short at the best of times, becomes non-existent.  It’s a torturous experience for him.  One that he loathes.  One that I do not like to thrust him into, let alone be present for.

Which is why he has a very limited wardrobe.  I’ve offered my services of accompanying him and assisting, and I’ve offered to simply let him go it alone.  But no – he just won’t go.  Over the years I’ve even played “personal shopper” by picking things out for him and bring them home.  Then returning them due to bad sizing, style, colour, etc.  Only to bring the new batch of items home . . . and also having to return them.  A big frustrating waste of MY time that I now refuse to participate in.

So now, after 11 years of marriage, we have reached a compromise on his clothes buying.  He grants me approximately 20 minutes twice a year in a men’s clothing store that is not located in a mall.  He will agree to enter the change room and try on a few select items.  All the while the 20 minute clock is ticking down, and I’m running around the store like a crazy woman.  I’m sure the staff must wonder why we’re in such a rush.  If we do get any winners, be they tops or bottoms, we will purchase them in any and all colours available.  Then we will leave the store immediately and never speak of it again.

Which is why I’m trying to train my boys to enjoy the mall experience.  If not for me, then for the future girlfriends and wives that I hope will eventually thank me.  So every now and then if Daddy is busy for the evening, I suggest the three of us go to the mall.  Sure I bribe them with promises of the Food Court.  Is that so wrong?  We skip all the “girlie” stores and head straight for the fun stuff – sports stores, hat kiosks, toy stores, West 49 and the like.  Whatever it takes to make them enjoy their time there.  Cause once I got that clinched, maybe I can introduce the occasional visit to Chapters or a shoe store.  But for now I quickly and cheerfully move from one interesting display to another before any level of boredom can set in.  Kinda like trying to keep a hungry baby distracted while you work quickly to get his food ready.  Baby steps boys, baby steps.