Friday Fifty: Possibly Using the Word "I" Fifty times

I may post fifty times today.
I may have fifty things on my mind.
I may feel fifty today.

I had one of those nights that lasted fifty years. Training for a new job, I had to go to the bathroom, I had brought six kids with me, I packed a broken stroller and a backpack and a wheelbarrow full of stuff to take with me. I had chili slow-cooking in the microwave in the conference room. There was a very boring church seminar going on in that room, and the boys were being embarrassingly loud, there were piles of lego and game pieces spread across the room, between chairs, and occasionally I'd look up from under someone's chair, smelling of chili, picking up lego, and recognize a boyfriend from my youth. How dorky did I turn out?!

I blame it on my back. It hurts. Brian won't massage it because of his stupid splinted finger. (handy, faking that whole ligament/snappy/splint thing..... LIKELY STORY).

Today is Sam's fifth birthday. Maybe around the forty-nineth post of the day I'll write something sentimental and poetic but not now. My back hurts. Did I mention that the backache makes my head ache? And that it would be easy to resolve- take some tylenol for the head and do my pilates DVD for the back? But I don't want to . I'm tired, and my back hurts. And I'd rather whine about my back and my fat thighs than do an exercise DVD. That's how crazy I am.

BUT.

Do rush out and buy the wpg free press tomorrow morning. Then look up the DETOUR section. You'll see a much more joyful version of joyce over there. All decked out in her red ugly sweater, surrounded by her ugly friends.

I've got a housefull of kids today, for which I'm grateful, since Christmas is coming up and I'll be taking a week and a half off. Without pay. (duh). But did I mention that my back hurts and I was running all night pushing a broken stroller with six kids needing to go pee and training for a new job?! And that I slept in, waking up exactly one minute before I heard a car pull up on the driveway to drop off the first little cherub of the day? Oh, how I hate it when I sleep in. Its a "DOOFUS of the DAY" award in the making.

And who of you has the courage to admit that you've ever watched or even listened to a Barbie DVD? I've got a kid who brings it every single day. And since she's here at an undecent hour, I'm utterly spineless and I put it on. But I hate it. It even dummer than any lame Barbie thing that you could come up with in your most depraved imaginations.

Have I whined about fifty things yet?

Life Here is Short. Make it Happy.

Jane made this plate of cookies for her grade six party tomorrow. She first made one ENTIRE batch thinking that baking soda was the same as baking powder. (Woops, I think we've all tried THAT one). Those went in the garbage. Even Sammy wouldn't eat those....) Then, whilst baby-sitting her brothers so her father and I could go buy more groceries to stuff into them.... She mixed, shaped, and baked her second batch. And my, oh, my. Were we impressed to see what lengths she went to to have fun making these treats. (The spider took eleven minutes to bake, she tells me.) And in case you are a bit slow, the letters read "Happy Halloween". There. Shove that in your pipe and smoke it. Happy.
Gosh. Its hard to say who's handsome-er.
And I wasn't talking about Jane and Eve's pumpkins, either. (A little too much candy indulgence, perhaps?)
Cast your cares aside for one day. Eat some candy with your kids. Or your neighbors kids. Or your cat. Or, even all by yourself.

But if you want to share with a spider..... wait eleven minutes, and come to Niverville.
Spider Capital of the World.

Overheard at Thanksgiving

The children have some highly favoured friends from life in that other city who have come to spend Thanksgiving Day with them. They sat down to a lovingly prepared lunch of tuna and tomatoe slices and toast. Eldest daughter offered to pray.

"Dear Lord;
SHUT
UP!

Micah! I'm trying to pray over here!
.... Thank you for this food and these friends...."

Summer

"Hi. I'm Sam. Remember?"

I guess its true what those blue-haired ladies in Safeway used to say.... "They grow up so fast..." At the time I wanted to shove my screaming, mangey crew at blue-grandma and say; "Oh, yeah?! Well how about you take them for an hour so I can shop? Or a week, if it goes as fast as you say, you romantic old biddy." But I'd twist my features into an imitation of a grateful smile and pat them on the arm instead. (Dementia. Odd what memories it melts away...)

Well, its been thirteen short years of parenting now, and we just realized yesterday that we've done a week of activities with practically no tension. No meltdowns. No peeing of the pants. No packing the stroller. None of it.

And we even had fun!

The summer list of good intentions has a few tick marks on it now. Zoo? check. Folk Fest? check. Beach? check. Fishing? check. Picking strawberries and raspberries? check. Tinkertown? check.

Maybe I'm growing over-confident here, but with this successful unfolding of events so far this summer, it seems a good weekend to take the girls and their friends on a camping trip to Birds Hill. With temperatures in the mid-thirties. In a tent. With precious few shade trees.

Where's that blue-haired lady when you need her?

oh, Those Darn Kids

Far be it from me to offer any advice on parenting because then you'd probably start watching my kids for all their weaknesses and flaws and then you might be tempted to come around and criticize me and I don't want that. (Did I sound defensive? I'm sorry; I meant to sound threatening....)

There's a funny thing that happens when you make your kids do jobs. A few months ago I had a rant about how insane I was going, how tired I was of wiping and washing and picking up after everyone, how annoying I found it to see people so relaxed in my presence. I insisted that I no longer do any supper clean-up and that I would not even involve myself in delegating duties. This was to be a war fought by the army of dad and the legions of offspring. The first few days or weeks, I had to physically remove myself from the room or the house because of the significant resistance that was met with this non-negotiable proposal.

Its still ugly a lot of the time. But there's a new dynamic emerging. There's a weird bonding that happens when these wild ones have to band together to complete a task. (and their dad is a task master. He won't accept a sloppy job. He won't do a "mommy" and do it for them.) Amidst the screaming, sometimes crying, sometimes racing around the table, there is the presence of an almost hysterical giggle. Annoying, but invaluable. Often, the craziness that envelopes dish-washing time (and I make them use the sink and not the dishwasher. I think its a good life skill.) spills over into after-dish-washing time. I'll hear them rumble down into the basement for a life-in-the-eighties costume game. Or we'll get a fashion shoot of bubble beards. Or Micah will give himself vacuum hickeys after getting the floors clean.

Its like after hating each other through the process of figuring out how to work together, they lose some of their selfishness and actually begin to like one another.

Besides, I usually forget to bath them. At least this way I know that their kinda clean. -ish.

My Kid is Gonna Be Thirteen!

She's a nice kid.

~

She and her friends are fun to hang out with.

~

There are some neural connections being made that don't always involve someone's wallet or someone's self-interests.

~

She learned to take responsibility for her own academic career this year.

She's pretty.

~

She's not a klutz like her mother.

~

She is creative.

~

She has confidence.

~

~

~

Clearly, there is a loving God.

The Difference Between Girls and Boys

Girls: Borrow elements from every board game ever invented, a few dishes from the kitchen centre, little people (but at least one or two from each and every set) , a few plastic alligators, the family's only nail clippers, tape and a ball of string, a fistful of wooden blocks from the top shelf, and small containers of cheerios.

Set up elaborate play areas and compose complex story lines.

Boys: One stick or other phallic symbol.

Feet for running.

Stuff I Hate

I hate it when people chew with their mouths wide open, displaying the wonders of digestion.

I hate it when people try to sell me something when it wasn't MY idea first. Particularily phone calls, or that psycho guy who tries to sell us meat off the back of his truck. Who came up with that and thought it was a good idea?! And why is some guy driving around with a freezer on the back of his truck? Even us Canadians way out here in the wild have grocery stores and butchers. Its probably people parts and he's selling it like its steak or pork or something....

And the kicker. I hate it when parents mess around with food and turn it into a control issue. Like the kid who gets a portion of something he doesn't like every day for breakfast, and no drink so that the loving parents can stay within their grocery budget. The said portion must be eaten quickly. No dawdling or there will be some food related punishment to go along with it. Then said child comes to daycare sniffing the air and hinting about food. Almost always. Almost all day.

And so I feed him breakfast all over again.
Every day.
While he smacks away with his mouth wide open.

Mommy Dearest

Sometimes the best you can hope for on a friday night is to get half way through a hazelnut chocolate bar without sharing with anyone.

I may be somewhat of a late bloomer, but I never seem to fully wrap my head around the fact that I cannot keep everyone happy. I admit, it doesn't help to have a chronic, self-inflicted case of thats-just-not-good-enough-itis to exacerbate the situation.

People told me that this was going to be hard. Those self-righteous, soother-grabbing, sadistic, clucking old biddies who chided me to enjoy them while they were little, for it was only going to get harder when they grew taller. Gloating, heartless, and inhuman old things.

I don't remember being warned about all the decisions that go along with this. I don't remember being told that I'd second-guess every single faltering decision that I did make. And what about this fantasy that mommy can make everything all better? Did we get any practise at that between the he-he and the hoo-hoo breathing at prenatal classes? I don't remember the lesson on "Every Wednesday, Someone Will Begin To Vomit Violently". Was I sick that day? And what about all this lip service I hear about equality? Who forgot to tell the children? When their daddy goes to bed, NO ONE EVER CALLS HIM. Mommy, on the other hand, is required to tuck, and re-tuck up to forty-two separate and complete times per nocturnal cycle. Times four.

I hear the other half of that chocolate bar calling out to be tucked in. And the wine is feeling lonely....

Clean Sweep

I have the most beautiful daughter in all of daughter-dom.

But my daughter is a pig.

P.I.G.

Being spring and all, it seemed appropriate to evict all things PIG-like. But I found I'd grown attached to that daughter of mine, and I didn't quite have the heart to drive her out.

So... since we never get a four or five hour long reality show with our cable package, we decided to do our own.

After two large garbage bags filled for the thrift shop, and two large garbage bags for the garbage truck, we found a lovely bedroom.

All that hard work paid off.

Now all we need to polish up are her manners.....