This is Jeep.

Jeep is our guinea pig (and for the record, I will add that he is a male, like everything else in my house)

His name is Jeep because, well, the initials of guinea pig are GP and are pronounced like “jeep” and, coincidentally, the high pitched squeaky noise he makes sounds like “jeep jeep jeep”.

A very appropriate name.

He’s cute.  But he’s a scaredy cat and will go running into his hiding spot whenever you go near the cage.  Spewing his cage bedding, and wayward raisinette poops all over my nice clean floors.  Savage!

Good old Jeep came to us in a rather round about way.

This past Spring we bought the boys a Hamster.  What they really wanted was a dog.  But The Only Girl is allergic to anything with fur or feathers, so no-can-do on the dog.  I’m VERY sure they’d trade me in heartbeat for a dog, but honestly, dog’s don’t cook, clean, help with homework or keep the house tidy.  So for the time being, they’re getting a Mommy instead of a dog.  And considering the size of a hamster – how much of my allergic asthma could he possibly cause?

The hamster was aptly named “Speedy” because he was a real champion on the hamster wheel.  All night long.  Never in the day when the boys were awake and willing to play with him, mind you.  No.  They’re nocturnal those hamster, you know.

But alas, poor Speedy contracted “wet tail” (sounds suspiciously like diarrhea to me) which, as it turns out, is deadly to fast nocturnal hamsters.  And on day four (4!) dear Speedy sadly departed.  Tears flowed.  Hearts broke.  Apparently young boys bond with hamsters very quickly.

So back to the pet store we went.  Determined to mop up those tears, I agreed to a guinea pig for “Pet – Round II.”  The guinea pig and one of the biggest damn cages I’ve ever seen.

But he is a much better pet.  He sleeps when we sleep.  He likes human attention.  You can feed him little lettuce or carrot treats.  He “squeaks” to you and whenever you enter the room or open the fridge door.  You can hold him and pet him.  There’s certainly some interaction going on.

But he stinks – in spite of very frequent cage cleanings.  He stinks of pee and he stinks of poop.  And he clearly must shed a lot of his fur and dander into the air because I’ve been living with an inhaler hanging out of my mouth for the past 2 months.  And it’s getting worse by the day.

It’s now become a showdown.  Him or me.  One of us has to go.

But how do you get rid of the beloved pet of two young boys?

Do you think shaving him bald would help?

While around the family dinner table last night, enjoying our meat and potatoes, the 6 year old Youngest decides he has something to ask.

Youngest:  Mom – has a baby ever come out of someone’s ass?

Me:  WHAT???   (the surprise in my voice being directed more at his use of the word “ass” than it was at the question itself)

Youngest:  Has a baby ever been born out of someone’s . . . butt?!

Me:  Noooooo.

Youngest:  Not ever?

Me:  No.  Not ever.

Youngest:  Like, never ever in the history of the whole entire world?

Me:  No.  A baby has never been born out of anyone’s butt.  Ever.  In the history of the world.

Then I proceed to gently remind him, in between scoops of meat and potatoes, while The Eldest and The Husband looked on, about the general anatomy of a female.  About how she has the pee place, the poop hole and then the “ver-shina” where the babies come out of.  Not the butt.

Yes, he calls it the “ver-shina”.  I refuse to correct him.  Because it’s basically right, but sounds so much cuter.  In fact I’ve started calling it that myself.  Yes, I’m probably doing him a great dis-service, but he’s mine so I get to make the calls.

Dinner continued as usual.  But I did notice a distinct bead of sweat dripping from The Husband’s brow.  Almost as though he had just avoided a near fatal collision.

Note to self:  Review my personal teachings of “Facts of Life for Beginners” with The Youngest again sometime this week.  He clearly wasn’t listening the first time around.

My boys have been through a few different TV station phases over the years.  Not that they get to watch all that much of it mind you, what with school, sports and such.  But it does help to wind them down a bit in the evening before bedtime.

First it was the “Treehouse” channel with Caillou, Blues Clues, Dora, Max & Ruby and the others.  All very sweet and mildly educational in one way or another.

Then they progressed to the “Teletoon” channel with silliness like Bugs Bunny, Scooby Doo,  Sponge Bob, Sixteen and Total Drama Island.  I suppose it appealed to their sense of boy humour.

Then, as their innocent youth moved on, so did they.  To the “Family” channel.  Where they were educated by the likes of Zack & Cody, Hannah Montanna (yes, boys like it too – and honestly, so do middle aged Mothers), Zoey 101, Raven, Life with Derek and Wizards of Waverly Place.  Oh, and YTV’s iCarly.  Which I actually really like.  Those girls are cute, stylish, hip and funny.  And how about that big brother Spencer -  ha ha! (slaps hand on knee while shaking head)  Oh that Spencer!  He’s so crazy he’s kinda cute . . . or is just me?

But now the time has come for them to move on again.  They have found a new channel of affection.  The “Game Show Network”.  That’s right, folks!  My boys can’t get enough of their game shows.  “Deal or No Deal” is at the top of the list.  Followed closely by “Family Feud” then “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” and the others.  I mean, honestly.  Game Shows?  The station that used to be reserved for the day after New Year’s Eve when we would spend it up north at our friend’s cottage, laying on the couch all afternoon recuperating to mindless television?  Now I have Howie Mandel delivering the Banker’s offers in my Family Room every day while boys (both young and adult, I may add) sit on the edge of their seats each time a new briefcase is opened.

Seriously?  How long will this stage last?  What will come next – The Home Shopping Network?  Actually, I’m secretly hoping it’ll be “HGTV” but I know better than to dream that impossible dream.

The Eldest and I went to see “This Is It” Friday night.  A rare date for just the two of us.  One-on-one time with either boy is something that I love and always promise myself I’ll do more often.   But time, as always, is usually the issue.  So when these opportunities do come along – I really enjoy them.

Now, I’m not a BIG Michael Jackson fan, and there was that whole court case issue.  And although the 9 year old Eldest isn’t a big fan either, he is a lover of music and has seen many Michael Jackson impersonators while on our yearly vacations to Caribbean resorts.  He also recently discovered Micheal’s music this past summer when radio stations starting playing a lot of it again after his death.  So he was keen to go with me.

And we thoroughly enjoyed it.  You simply can not deny that Michael had talent.  And lots of it.  He was a true entertainer.

The movie is basically the behind-the-scenes footage of him rehearsing for his upcoming concert tour.  And what a concert it would have been.  He was going to perform every big hit he had ever had.  With the most unbelievable special effects and visuals.  Some real ground-breaking stuff.  It would have been awesome.

I would have bought a ticket.  I know it would have been really expensive, but it would have been a once-in-a-lifetime thing.  And it would have been totally worth it.

Now, I’m no expert, but he certainly didn’t appear sick and he certainly didn’t appear drugged out.  Although he was thin, he appeared completely well, and very in control of both his body and his thoughts.

But what struck me the most was how kind and humble he seemed to be.  And thankful.  Thankful for the people around him that were also preparing for this tour, and just thankful for the opportunity to be doing it.  There was no big ego.  No “mantrums”.  No outlandish demands of his “people”.  Just kind, humble, creative cooperation.  He knew what he wanted.  He knew how to create a real concert experience and he wanted to give his audience the very best.

And it certainly would have been.

What a shame.

There’s been much debate about getting the H1N1 vaccine.  Do you?  Don’t you?  I was torn, just like many other Mom’s I have talked to.  Until last weekend.  When my son’s best friend came down with it – the first person we’ve heard of so far (fortunately he’s fine now).  Then a couple days later a seemingly healthy 13 year old hockey player in our area died suddenly of the flu.  He had only been sick with it for 2 or 3 days.

And that REALLY freaked everybody out.  Especially all the parents of other seemingly healthy children.  That event, combined with the release of the vaccine last Monday evoked a mad rush to all the public vaccination clinics.  Which were really only meant for the “priority groups” in the first week.  But they quietly admitted that no one would be turned away.  So of course everyone started showing up.  All the panicked parents with their seemingly healthy kids.  And the line-ups grew.  Some people waiting upward of 6 hours or more.  Some people lining up for hours only to be eventually turned away.

And yes, I bought into the hype.  The fear of something happening to my children griped me tightly.  I couldn’t shake it.  So I quickly made the decision to get us all vaccinated.

My husband heard a rumour that a local Walk-In Clinic in our town had the vaccine.  Could it be?  A clinic with the vaccine and no one knew about it?  Nah . . . couldn’t be.  Could it?  So while The Eldest was at soccer with his Dad Thursday night The Youngest and I headed over to check it out.  Sure enough – rumour was fact.  And an mere 1 hour later we emerged.  Smiling like we had just won the lottery, with the needle marks to prove it.  I couldn’t believe our luck!

So the next morning I took The Eldest there first thing – even if it meant he’d miss an hour of school.  Just as we were about to step into the room to get his vaccine I got a call from the school.  The Youngest needed to be picked up because he had started throwing up in the classroom.  Great.  By the time he got home he also had a fever.  Fabulous.  Had he gotten the vaccine too late?  Had he already been exposed?  Was I in for a week of playing Florence Nightingale?  Were the rest of us destined to catch it?  Am I asking too many questions???

He laid on the couch all day.  He napped in the afternoon.  He certainly wasn’t himself.  And by the next morning . . . he was fine.  Fine!  Back to normal and perfectly fine.  Whew.  I still don’t know what the heck happened, but I sure am thankful it was over before it began.  I’m no expert, but I’m guessing he had some kind of mild reaction to his vaccine.

And in the meantime, the panic continues.  The vaccine is now being strictly restricted to the priority groups only and health officials have announced they are running short of the vaccine.  A shortage that likely won’t change for a few weeks.

My husband didn’t get his yet, but at least the boys and I have.  So I can rest a little easier.  Well, at least I can in 2 more weeks, when our vaccines become most effective.

What about you – is your family going to get the vaccine or not?  Can you even get it where you live?

I’m having a hard time keeping my family organized and on track through the web of weekly activities.  I never wanted to be one of “those” mothers.  The type to sign their kids up for any and all activities to “keep them busy” at the expense of just letting them be kids.  No.  Never wanted that.  But here I am.

This is our typical week for the next few months;

The Youngest
- hockey x 2
- music x 1

The Eldest
- hockey x 2 or 3 depending on the week
- soccer x 2 or 3 depending on the week
- music x 1

The Husband
- hockey x 1
- coaching both boy’s hockey teams = 4
- coaching Eldest’s soccer team = 2 or 3

Me

- blogging (oh, and in case you think I’m the one with too much time on my hands, don’t forget packing snacks & lunches, tidying up constantly, helping with homework, grocery shopping, cooking & all general family administration i.e. booking appointments, bill paying, school relations, after-school care arranging, etc . . . you know, all the fun stuff)

Fortunately I’m a pretty organized person, because you can imagine, or know first hand yourself, what’s involved to ensure everyone gets to the right place, at the right time, with the right equipment and a full belly.

But it’s what they all want to be doing.  They asked to be registered.  No one is forcing anyone into said activities.  In fact, there would surely be some tears if I got up tomorrow and announced “okay – we’re way too busy.  You’re all going to have to drop something.”  Particularly The Eldest.  He lives for sports.  He would very likely die without them.  No seriously.  I think he would.

But somewhere in there we need to fit in school work, sleeping and family time.  Separate meals at the drive-through are starting to replace eating dinner together at the kitchen table.  Which is something we’re really big on.  I think it’s important.  Those few minutes once a day were we’re all in the same place with the TV off, and can talk to each other face to face.

So hopefully the small sacrifices of today will be the big victories of tomorrow.  And I really hope those victories come in the form of a professional sports contract, a big fat stinkin’ sports scholarship, or at the very least, keeping my kids healthy and off the streets and the drugs.

I wear earplugs to bed every night.

Why?  Because my husband snores and until I find a way to legally drug him long enough to drag his limp body convince him to go to a snoring clinic for that operation minor procedure, it’s the only way I can possibly sleep in the same room as him.

And I don’t really mind.  The ones I use (above) are actually quite comfortable.  And in addition to snoring, they also succeed in blocking out any and all other background noise.  Which includes, but is not limited to; barking neighborhood dogs, hot tub parties in the next backyard, young children having nightmares and possibly smoke detectors (although I am slightly concerned about that one).

I buy a pack of 20 every couple months.  I use a pair for about a week or so before I discard of them and fetch myself a fresh pair.  Fresh earplugs, by the way, are the best.

But sometimes I drift off to la-la-land with them still in my hand.  I intend to insert them, but then I put my head on the pillow, and maybe watch the news or drowsily chit-chat with Willie, and the next thing I know I’m waking up to some snoring and the plugs are scattered under the covers beneath me somewhere.  Dang – hate that!

And last night was just such a night.  I stupidly made the fatal error of putting my tired head down on the comfortable pillow before inserting said ear plugs and before I knew it, I was asleep.

Except this time I didn’t wake up to the snoring.  No.  Much, much worse.  I was rudely awoken by a terrible, horrible, chemical taste in my mouth.

What the heck . . . ?  AHHHHHHHH!  There was an earplug in my mouth!  MY MOUTH!  And I was – CHEWING it!  An earplug that I had been using all week – IN MY EARS!!!!

Of course I immediately spat it out and threw it across the room.  Gagging in the process.  I’ve been totally grossed out ALL day.  And I just keep asking myself – why?  “Why did you put the used earplug in your mouth?  What could possibly have possessed you to do that?  How did that seem like a good idea?  How long had you been chewing it?”

Because just like “I was drunk” is no excuse for having an affair, I don’t believe that “I was sleeping” is an excuse for used-ear-plug-chewing.  But apparently that’s just the type of person I am.  A used-ear-plug-chewer.  And the sooner I come to terms with that – the better it will be for all of us.

Hi.  My name’s Cher.  And I’m a used-ear-plug-chewer.

I’ve been through a lot of “firsts” with The Eldest.  Particularly because he himself  was The First.  The first baby.  Getting his first tooth.  Taking the first step.  First, first, first . . .   It’s a long, memorable list.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when this weekend brought yet another.  It was the first time I wore my son’s shoes.

Yes, that’s right.  And I wore them because they’re actually pretty cool Nike’s.  And they were sitting right beside the front door as I was heading out.  And most importantly . . . THEY’RE MY SIZE!  My size!  And I assure you I’m not a small girl.  No, no.  I’m a solid five feet six inches.  Not quite model height, but hey, my face and body wouldn’t have qualified anyway.  It’s okay.  I’m over it.

But here’s the concern;

- I’m 5′ 6″

- we have the same shoe size

- he’s 9 years old

Is it just me???

How bloody tall is this kid going to get?!?!?!  According to my very scientific research (that consists solely of Google searches), I will tell you that boys can continue growing until they’re about 16 or 17.  And so it stands to reason that at age nine his shoe size already dictates that he will at least reach my height of 5′ 6″.  But he has a good 7 or 8 years left of growing to do.  Which begs the question – how bloody tall is this kid going to get?!?!?!?

I took The Eldest and The Youngest out for dinner the other night.  Willie was out of town on business so we treated ourselves.  I noticed a young married couple was seated beside us.  When I say young, I mean probably in their late twenties.  Which really shows how old I am if I consider that young, doesn’t it.  Whatever.  Pay attention to the story . . .

Throughout the meal my boys were amusing themselves by playing tic-tac-toe with crayons on the paper tablecloth and doing the word search on the back of the kid’s menu while we chit-chatted about our day.  Good times.  Good times.

But being the Nosey Parker that I am, of course, I stole a few glances at our neighbors from time to time.  Remembering what it was like when Willie and I were young and child-free and ate out whenever we damn well felt like it.  Whether it was the weekend or not.  Because now that rarely happens.  Dinner out occurs only a few times a year and requires much planning (if you’d like to submit your name to baby-sit two cute and generally well-behaved children for free from time to time, please email me at cher@theonlygirl.com).

But as the dinner wore on, I became acutely aware that this young married couple had barely spoken to each other.  Which was really putting a damper on my nosiness.  They just sat in silence.  Eating their ribs.  Licking their fingers.  They didn’t appear to be in the throws of a silent argument.  Neither of them appeared to have a cold shoulder.  It was like watching an elderly couple out for dinner.  But I don’t find it so sad when it’s the couple’s elderly.  Because their silence is one of comfortable companionship.  And they have likely spent the whole day together around the house so there isn’t much left to talk about.  And they’ve probably been together for decades and quite frankly, what else is there to say?  And they’re just happy to get out for a bit and enjoy a good meal.  But this wasn’t the case with the young couple.  They clearly just didn’t have anything to say to each other.  Already.  In however many short years they had been together, they were already stale.  How sad is that?

Fortunately I had brought my cube of Table Topics Conversation Starters (“these engaging questions inspire the best kinds of conversation”).

Okay – not really.  I don’t even own any.  But can you imagine?  “Um – excuse me.  I noticed that you guys don’t have anything to say to each other so I thought you might like to try this.  It’s a cube full of little cards that have conversation topics on them!  Here – pick one.  Go ahead.  Give it a try.  Oh, you’re welcome.”

Would they have been appreciative?  Or deeply offended and highly insulted?  Probably the latter.

But just for fun, let’s do one ourselves.  With the help of my dear friend, The Internet, I’ve chosen:

“what did you get into trouble for the most when you were young?”

Okay, I’ll go first . . .

Although I don’t remember much from my youth, I do seem to remember frequently getting in trouble for dawdling.   Delaying.  Wasting time.  Dilly-dallying.  I also remember hearing “STAND UP STRAIGHT!” one too many times accompanied by threats of some kind of anti-shoulder slouching brace that would be purchased for me if I was unable to stand up straight on my own.

So come on, dear Readers.  In honour of the Silent Couple, give me your best answer.

I’m getting my hair done today.  Excuse me if I don’t sound very thrilled.  That would be because I HATE getting my hair done.  Sure, I like it after the fact -- well a few days after the fact, once it’s settled in -- but I hate the actual process and sitting in that god damn chair for soooooooo bloody long.  It seems like such a waste of time to me.  There’s so many better things I could be doing.  Like cleaning out my belly button or watching paint dry.  But it’s a necessary evil.  The price to pay for being vain about your hair.

Fortunately I actually have good hair.  I’m not just bragging -- I’ve had many stylist say so.  It’s straight and very, very thick.  And it pretty much does whatever I want it to -- a quality that I would prefer to have in my husband and children, but it is a good quality to have in hair nonetheless.

And I do love my hair dresser.  And sometimes his wife also does me (in a completely non-sexual way -- don’t get the wrong idea here people).  I’ve stalked them to 3 different salons over the years.  They both do high-lights and low-lights like nobody’s business.  And they can cut with the best of them.  But neither one of them can style their way out of a wet paper bag.  Come to think of it, I have NEVER had anyone who can style my hair to my liking (yes -- I acknowledge that I could be the problem).  I always bring a ball hat with me to throw on the minute I leave the salon, then run home and re-style.  In fact I’m now at the stage where I’ll just say “I’m only going home to watch TV on the couch and go to bed.  You don’t have to bother styling me.  Just give it a quick blow-dry to get some of the wet out”.  Because honestly, what’s the point of sitting in that god damn chair a minute more than I have to for something that I won’t even like?  It’s torture.  Particularly when it’s high-light/low-light time, or the “long one” as I describe it to the boys.  The “short one” is the appointment where I just get a little trim up.  A re-shaping if you will.

And to Willie’s credit he has kindly trained the boys to systematically repeat “oh -- you’re hair looks nice Mommy!” the minute I come through the door.  Whether they’ve even looked at my hair or not.  And I know that they’re on autopilot when they say this because I, too, have looked at myself in the mirror.  For the past 2 hours that I’ve spent in that God forsaken chair as a matter of fact.  And I either a) have a baseball hat on so how could they possibly see my hair in the first place or b) it’s been styled to the hilt and froo-frooed up with so much product that my hair resembles something that should be walking down the red carpet on Oscar night -- which is in stark contrast to the jeans, t-shirt and runners I’m wearing.  And so I look completely ridiculous.  But they all get lots of bonus points for saying it looks nice anyway.

So tonight I will go for the “long one” and they will work their magic.  I will get a few high-lights and a few low-lights.  Then they will trim me into shape and send me on my way.  And I will have much less money in my account.  But tomorrow morning, after I shower and style it myself, it will look fabulous.  At least for 6 -- 8 weeks.

——————-

Speaking of hair . . . A 51-year-old chunk of hair taken from Elvis’ haircut when he entered the Army is going up for auction this week, among some of his other items.  And I LOVE LOVE LOVE me some Elvis!  It’s tempting . . . VERY tempting.  Do you think they could extract some of his DNA, mix it up in a petri dish and impregnate me?!?!?  How cool would that be?  Elvis’ Baby Momma.  That just might be worth bidding on . . .