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.

This afternoon I’ll be leaving.  On a jet plane.  Don’t know when I’ll be back again . . .

Okay that last part’s a lie.  I’ll be back in a week.  I was just really getting into the song.

Anywhooo . . . I’m packing up my suitcase and going to spend a week with my Mexican Lover in the Mayan Riviera.  Yes, Willie knows about it.  In fact he’s coming along to keep an eye on the boys while I’m getting my fill.  No, I haven’t forgotten to pack my obnoxiously large hat and hideously ugly shoes, thank you very much.

And as much as I’m REALLY looking forward to spending a full uninterrupted, relaxing week with my boys, there will be a few pitfalls;

• living with 3 boys in one hotel room.  It’s going to get messy and smelly in there, I assure you.
• an all inclusive resort that serves beer.  And Willie – who really likes beer.
• 2 of the 3 boys are very loud snorers.  And unlike our 4 bedroom house, there’s no where to escape for quiet in a 200 square foot hotel room.
• warm weather causes me to have fuzzy hair and sweaty arm pits.  Neither which are attractive.

But I will soldier on, suck it up, and have a great time!

I will not be visiting any of your blogs during this time.  Please don’t take it personally.  If the resort has a decent internet connection I may log on once or twice, but hey – I’m on vacation.  And I have all those 100th-ish post celebratory drinks to get through.

I will however be scheduling some re-posts.  There’s a few good ones from the early days when no one but my Mom and Willie were reading.  They’ll be new to most of you and they deserve some love.

Oh, and if you were considering dropping by The Only Girl Compound in my absence and stealing all our stuff, or having your way with our backyard ice rink, I regret to inform you that I have hired a private security firm with very large, flesh eating dogs to watch the place.  So don’t bother.

Okay – adiós, hasta la vista and all that!

I’ve been at home with my boys for the past week.  Some might say a vacation.  I might say more work than, well, being at work.  Here’s my observations about this past week;

• Before you ask for a fancy webcam for Christmas, make sure you know a few other people that have one too.  Otherwise you just end up looking at video of yourself.  You can buy a mirror for much cheaper and get the same effect.

• Just because you have a fancy webcam and sign up on Skype doesn’t necessarily mean that Oprah will call you.  Trust me on this one.  I’ve been waiting since Christmas Day.

• Before you go to see a movie about blue people from another planet at 11am in the morning, be sure to have a bit of breakfast first.  Apparently the combination of Diet Coke, buttered popcorn, chocolate, 3D effects and sitting in the 4th row from the front, all on an empty stomach, can make you very, very nauseous.  And you’ll have to spend about 30 minutes out in the lobby getting some air, thus missing some crucial scenes that are important to the plot.

• I’ve been the victim of far too many “fly-bys” by 2 newly acquired Air Hog Havoc Stinger remote control flying mini helicopters.  These are awesome little toys, but did you know that they can get twisted up in your hair if you fly it too close to someone’s head?

• Although it’s nice to be at home for a week, you will spend approximate 50% of your time tidying up after other people.  All day long.  Every day.  Picking up the trail of never-ending stuff they leave behind them.  Then you will spend about 25% of your time doing laundry.  The remaining 25% will be divided between cooking, cleaning and sleeping.  Do the math – not much time left for relaxing.  Or blogging for that matter.

• It doesn’t seem to matter how many new toys and presents a child gets.  They still have the nerve to utter the words “I’m bored”.

• The older I get, the harder it is to stay awake till New Year’s.  And the less I care.

What did you do for New Year’s Eve this year?  Did you make it to midnight?

Hope you had a great holiday!  It’s back to blogging business as usual on Monday.

I walked upstairs today and encountered this . . .

In case you’re having trouble making it out, I’ll get in a little closer . . .

And in case you’re not familiar with 6 year old boy printing, I’ll translate.  It clearly states “No Girls”.

And, since I am The Only Girl here . . .  I suppose that would be a picture of me.  Please excuse my freakishly large hands.  Remember – I am the mother of Edward Scissorhands after all.

Clearly he’s trying to keep ME out.  In my own house.  I suppose he’s just trying to be polite and subtle about it by not specifically mentioning my name.  He’s very diplomatic.  And creative.

But I get his point.

I’m trying not to be offended.

It’s not really working.

When Willie and I first got married, we bought an artificial Christmas tree.  Which we still have.  It’s a real beauty.  It may not unfold like an umbrella, and it’s not pre-lit, but it’s full and lush and very real looking.  It cost us about $80 back then and we’ve had it for about 11 years.  Definitely money well spent.

And at the time I prided myself on making it beautiful.  It looked like something on display at Pottery Barn.  Well, okay, not EXACTLY Pottery Barn.  Maybe more Martha Stewart-ish.  Okay, okay – sheesh!  Maybe one of those real matchy-matchy ones they have at Sears.  Whatever.  The point is that is was a beautifully decorated tree.  Because when it’s your first one, you get to pick all the decorations from scratch.  All my ornaments were new and colour coordinated (I went with the red & gold theme if you’re interested).  I read somewhere that the key to a beautiful tree was the amount of lights – so I bought lots.  I would painstakingly arrange the lights, garland and ornaments so that all areas were covered uniformly and that no 2 ornaments of the same colour would be side by side (yes, I do suffer greatly from have a mild form of OCD).

And then the children arrived.  And then they went to school.  And my beautiful, colour coded, uniform Pottery Barn tree went all Kindergarten on me.

Because as you know, every year in school, the kids make Christmas ornaments with their Teachers to bring home and hang on the tree.  Some are made from popsicle sticks or beads.  Some are made from dried clay or macaroni.  Some are made from felt or pipe-cleaners.  All are usually covered with glitter and suspended from yarn.  And they are all beautiful in their own way because they were made by my children’s soft chubby little hands.  And I put them on my tree, year after year.  My beautiful Pottery Barn tree.  That’s not so uniform anymore.  And the colour coding has gone completely out the window.

Oh sure, I’ve had thoughts of “doing away” with some of the less attractive homemade items from the early school years.  But I just can’t bring myself to do it.  Because each year when we drag out the box and they look through the decorations they’ve made over the years they are happy.  They are happy that their handmade ornaments are in that special box with all the other treasured things.  And they like to tell me the story about how they made each one.  And they always find a special place on the tree to hang them all – which is inevitably clumped together at the bottom front section.  Only to be quietly redistributed by me once they’re in bed (the unbalanced aesthetics would kept me awake at night).

This year I finally came to the realization that I no longer have my beautiful Pottery Barn tree.  I’ve slowly traded it for something even more special.  And I’m okay with that.

What about you?  Have you ever “done away” with any of your children’s handmade ornaments?

The Tree is now trimmed.

The Christmas Village is now arranged.

The banister is now draped.

The Nutcracker display is now, well, displayed.

And I’m exhausted.  But at least it’s all done.

And now I can move on.  To the shopping.  And the wrapping.  No, there will not be any baking again this year – it’s not really my thing (but if you have any extras, I’ll gladly take them).

I am, however, slightly concerned about the Nutcrackers.

This is what they looked like after I had set them out . . .

(can you see me?  There?  In the middle?  The Only Girl amongst all those men?)

And this is what I found when I came back about an hour later . . .

Several of the men appeared to be passed out cold.  And that girl whore was chatting up two others!  Okay, I KNOW they had been boxed up for about 11 months, but really?  Out of storage for barely an hour and a big party breaks out?  Honestly Nutcrackers.  Have some self-control!  I’m so disappointed.  I swear – if I find ANY puke on my area rug . . .

Or maybe a certain little 6 year old got a hold of them and decided they were his personal toys.  Perhaps I shouldn’t be too hard on the Nutcrackers.  Perhaps I need to have a talk with the 6 year old instead.

I know there are probably some of you out there that are in the market for new furniture.  Maybe even kitchen furniture.  Kitchen furniture as in a table and chairs.  For your family to eat dinner at every night.

And maybe your family consists of some young children.  Or maybe you’d like to have some young children someday.

And maybe you can’t decide  whether to get a round table or an oval table.  And maybe you can’t decide whether you want to be able to seat 4 people or 6 people.  So maybe you think you’re going to be very clever and go for the the model that has an extension leaf.  A round table for 4 . . . or an oval table for six with just the insert of a leaf!

Very versatile.  You’re SO clever.

(not really my table, but a reasonable facsimile, in a very bland kitchen, from a furniture store catalog, with some oddly placed props)

But then you DO have 2 young children.  And a roomy kitchen.  So you decide to put the extension leaf in your table and enjoy a nice oval configuration.

BUT . . .

Every time one of those young children spill their glass of juice at dinner time, it will spread out all over your very clever, leaf inserted, oval table.  Making a big mess of everything ON the table.  But then.  THEN!  The juice will also run down into the gaps where the extension leaf is and drip down onto the floor.  Which will result in, not only a floor mop up, BUT, it will also result in a complete table dismantling in order to wipe juice-that-dries-very-sticky from in between the leaf gaps and from the underside of the table itself.

And it also results in the person that has to dismantle and wipe down said table, time and time and time again, to eventually blow a gasket.  And maybe even let out a primal scream of sheer and utter repeat dismantling frustration.  Which may or may not make the other people she lives with laugh.  Out loud.  Quite uncontrollably.  And maybe it would become the big joke of the week in their house.

So, if you’re thinking about buying a kitchen table – do yourself a favor and don’t get the one with the leaf insert.  It’s not that clever after all.

You’re welcome.

This past Saturday morning the phone rang at 8:45am.  Kinda early for a phone call in our house so I jumped up to get it.  A very soft, very high little voice on the other end politely asked to speak to The Eldest.

Turns out he traded phone numbers with a certain little Miss in his Grade 4 class.  A Miss that he’s quite smitten with, and apparently, she with him.

Now him being smitten with a classmate is not at all unusual.  He’s had a “special” girl in each of his classes since Kindergarten.  The “Annual Miss” rarely even knows she’s the object of his affection.  He often prefers to keep his admiration on the Q.T. and just enjoy her from afar.  And it’s very sweet.  He gets that goofy grin and dreamy look in his eyes whenever her name comes up.  And I’m surprised and impressed with his loyalty.  Once he sets his sites on the “Annual Miss”, his affection rarely strays.  She’s “The One” for that entire school year.  I like to imagine that he’ll make a really good boyfriend someday.

And he does always seem to pick the cuties.  Although in preparation for his eventual wife picking, I’ve been trying to put some emphasis on other qualities he should be looking for.  Less on the looks, my son, and more on the personality!  My weekend interrogation concerning the current “Annual Miss” included:

• Is she kind to others?
• Is she a good student?
• Does she participate in any sports or activities?
• Is she nice to your younger brother?
• Does she have a good sense of humour?

I thought it might be a little early to get into;

• Does she want children?
• Does she work hard at her job?
• Is she honest?
• Is she comfortable talking about her feelings?
• Does she have any addictions or bad habits?

Anywhooo . . . Once he got on the phone with her, they proceeded to talk for 45 minutes!  45 mintues!!!  About nothing but nonsense I can assure you – because I was eavesdropping.  At the end of the conversation I hear him say “I’m really hungry.  Can I go have my breakfast now?”

Well, no woman girl is going to tell MY beloved son when he can and can not have his breakfast!  No Siree – I’ll not have it!  The minute he hung up the phone I was all over him.

“You do NOT have to ask HER permission to have your breakfast!”  I exclaimed.  “You can have your breakfast whenever YOU darn well please.  She is NOT the boss of you!”  I explained.  Because we don’t want him falling into any unhealthy dependant behaviour this early in the game, do we?

“YOU are the boss of you until there’s a wedding ring on that finger Mister!  Then, and only then, can she tell you what to do!”

Fortuantely The Husband wasn’t in the room at the time or he might have tried to argue that particular point and blown the whole thing.