Bread Crumbs In The Butter

Lost and Found

Thursday, Erin returned from a school soccer tournament completely exhausted and minus one custom ordered soccer warm up suit. I had started work at 7:00am, spent my lunch hour getting my eyebrows ripped off (voluntarily) by hot wax and had come home to a filthy kitchen with no plan for dinner.

I was so close to done the fork was on it's way in. Erin's little tidbit drove the fork right where it needed to go. I was done.

At the time, I thought I handled it very well and didn't overreact because I hadn't yelled at her or berated her. What I did was calmly tell her that if she didn't find the jacket and pants at school the next day she would be grounded. The suit was expensive and I expected her to be able to keep track of her belongings. 

She stood, staring at me with those huge expressive hazel eyes of hers and cried. She was upset that she had misplaced her suit, but I could tell she was deeply disappointed in herself for disappointing me. At that point, my heart was cold to her tears. I really didn't care. I just wanted that suit back. Now.

I was ranting and raving around the kitchen about our children and how spoiled they are and how they just don't seem to get that they can't go leaving their stuff all over town! How childish! How decadent! How disrespectful!

John wrapped me in his arms and whispered in my ear. 

"Do you want to know what I think?"

Yes! Of course I wanted to hear what the thought. My champion husband, marching to my side to further drive home my point.  I wanted to know just how awesome he thought my idea to punish her was and I wanted to hear just how brilliant a job he thought I was doing as a mother.

"I think," he started very slowly, "That you just spent an hour on the phone trying to get Bell to hook up your old cell phone because you lost your new cell phone at the Bell Centre after Saturday night's concert. How can you be so mad at her, when her suit might very well be safe with her teacher and your cell phone is sitting on the floor in a hockey arena two and a half hours away?"

Crap.

I was immediately defensive and angry with him. So what? Big deal? I'm an adult and if I want to lose my damn cell phone and then spend many embarrassing hours calling all over the country to find it, why not?  Sure I had to describe my phone as the one with the chip out of the front panel and duct tape holding the battery into it, but whatever, I can do as I please. This wasn't about me it was about her. She should be doing as I say, not as I do. Right?

It was about thirty seconds later that my head crawled out of my own ass and I realized that John was right - and if you don't know how hard that was for me, you need to move on my friend.  I suppose what made me so angry is that her declaring that she lost her suit was like seeing my own worst attributes sprayed out on a chalkboard for everyone to see.  I cannot stand how careless I can be with my stuff. I lose it, break it, misplace it, replace it, get it dirty, sit on it, drive over it, leave it places, pick it up, leave it there again, drop it in the toilet, jump into a pool with it and some of the time, just plain don't take care of it.  I really do not want my children to be like that.

Thing is, she's usually quite careful with her stuff. I was tired and stressed and I went completely off the hook. Instead of helping her come up with a plan to find it and worry about the consequences should she not later, I went nuts.   That's classic parenting right there.

I'm thankful that I have a partner who can call bullshit on my parenting blips. If he hadn't pointed it out, it would have just gone pear shaped from there.  At his suggestion, I climbed into bed with her that night and told her about my phone. I apologized to her and we came up with a plan for her to get the suit back and what we could do if it really was lost for good. She went to bed smiling and so did I - even if I did have a bit of egg on my face.

She found her suit the next day.

My cell phone is still nowhere to be found.

Bullety, Edition 38; If I Hear One More Sneeze

• Everyone here has a cold. A cold that is annoying and nasty sounding, but not really warranting needing to stay home. Still, the sneezing and the "achoo!"ing and the subsequent "Ewww! You sneezed on me!" makes me want to scream. Oh, and I know I've mentioned this before but John (like every other human with dangly bits on the planet) is the biggest freaking baby when he's sick. All four kids are snug in their beds as we speak, but John, oh John, is on the couch, wearing sweat pants, wrapped up like a sausage, with Vicks on his chest and he's yelling for Neo Citran. Huge. Baby.

• Having said all that, I have to sing him praises right now. My toilet seat? It's fixed. I swear to God. I just wiped myself and nothing snapped, nothing pinched and nothing splashed. Don't take having proper toilet seats for granted, my friends. Just trust me here.

• I feel like I'm missing something with new fall TV. I'm excited about How I Met Your Mother, ANTM and So You Think You Can Dance Canada, but I gave up on Gossip Girl and didn't even attempt the new 90210. What is happening to me? I'm not turning into one of those people who just watched the news and goes to bed, am I?

• Confession time. I've never done anything to my eyebrows. I promise you I am not lying. I've never waxed or plucked and had them threaded. When I was looking at the NKOTB photos I realized that they're getting a bit unruly. Used to be I was told that my eyebrows were nice and light and a but sparce to pluch, but now, good lord, now I just don't know what's going on up there. So, tomorrow on my lunch, I'm heading in to see my good friend Vicki and she's going to wax them for me.  Will this hurt? I realize I've given birth four times, once in my own bedroom and I've waxed other more sensitive areas of my body, but this is my face. I'm really freaked out here!

NKOTB, 18 Years Later

In 1990:

We had one of our dad's throw a mattress into the back of a rented van and drove to Montreal. We slept on the mattress on the way back.

In 2008:

We couldn't really throw a mattress into the back of Lianne's family conscious and fuel economic Jeep Patriot because the car seats were in the way.

In 1990:

We were so high on anticipation that we didn't sleep for weeks before the concert.

In 2008:

We were excited, yes, but we had both been up late the night before and had had long work weeks so we needed a hit from the coffee fairy on our way to Montreal.

In 1990:

We didn't have a care in the world. It didn't matter that we would be home in the wee hours of the morning because we could catch up on our sleep during the coming week (it was summer vacation).

In 2008:

We had to carry cellphones and Blackberries. We each had a sick kid at home, Lianne has a work event to plan and we're both addicted to Facebook!

In 1990:

We were 15. So we drank Pepsi.

In 2008:

We were 33. So we drank beer.

In 1990:

I was 6 feet tall, about 130 pounds and a very very small A-Cup. My nickname was Big Ethel and I had insanely high bangs. I bought the biggest NKOTB shirt I could find so that you could barely tell I was human under the shirt, let alone female.

In 2008:

I filled out this shirt like I never could have in 1990!

In 1990:

I screamed until my lungs gave out and my throat hurt. My ears were ringing for days and I went to bed high on life dreaming that Donnie Wahlberg was going to come and take me away.

In 2008:

I screamed until my lungs gave out and my throat hurt. My ears were ringing for days and I went to bed high on life dreaming that Donnie Wahlberg was going to come and take me away.

I'll be avoiding Meet The Teacher Night in the future

Last night was "Program Night" at our school. Some schools call this "Meet The Teacher" night. We all gather in the gym, are introduced to the staff and then herded out to two fifteen minute sessions with various teachers. These sessions are great for folks with two kids, you can see each classroom in each session. When you have four, it's more of a rush. You run in, introduce yourself, rush through the story of how you and your husband are just way more fertile than you ever thought possible and have eight teachers to meet that night so provided your child had not stabbed anyone yet, you'll just keep moving on.

The last teacher I met was Alex's new teacher. She is adorable and has the most gorgeous red hair. Alex has a huge crush on her, I can tell. He constantly talks about her perfect orange hair. Hair that is nice and straight and doesn't do that "woowoo" thing (said with a finger wave and then a grimace) like mine does. In short, he loves her.

I was a bit tired at this point and running into the school from the portables left me windswept and chilled, so my eyes were watering. I couldn't stop wiping them, so I looked like a real moron.  Alex's teacher spotted me and came to talk to me.

"I have to talk to you." She said sort of somberly (and I admit, I was a bit scared that one of my children had actually stabbed someone.)  "Today was Alex's Show and Tell and I was so moved by his story."

"Oh yes!" I said. "Alex loves that marble egg. He's dropped it and put it back together with tape and glue. It's very special."

"Special because it reminds him of his sister? I'm so sorry to hear of her passing."

I think I had a stroke then. Her passing? Who passed? What the hell had Alex been telling his class?

"I'm sorry what?" I asked her.

"Well, Alex told us that the egg had belonged to his sister who died after she was born. Her name was Rebeccca. Everyone had an egg and you all buried one with her. I was close to tears!"

Okay, I admit it. I started to laugh so hard that I really was crying. I think she thought I was a lunatic!

"Wow! I can't believe he said that!" I told her. "It's not true. None of Alex's sisters have died and he doesn't have one named Rebecca."  I was puzzled, but still laughing. This kid has a massive imagination, but he usually saves it for home.

"I really did believe him. He really believed it. He made it seem so real. Well, until he said that his grandfather had stabbed the baby. I didn't believe that!"

And then I passed out.

I patted his new teacher on the arm and said "Hey, good luck with the rest of the year!"

You Shouldn't Be Afraid Of Your Toilet

"I'm afraid to wipe my bum."

I swear to God, those are words I uttered on the phone last week.

You're confused, I know. Just hear me out and let me back it up for you ...

About a month ago, on a ridiculously hot August night, I was reading late and had to pee. My tiny little book lamp was on (that John can't sleep with a light on is another post for another day), but not much else. It was dark in our room except for the night light in our bathroom. Enough light for me to find my way and sit down, but not enough light to actually take in the state of the plumbing.

As I sat myself down I heard a distinct "crack" and a pop. Let me tell you, when you're putting your ass down on something with a large hole in the middle of it and you hear a crack or a pop, it's never good. You immediately get images in your head of falling in and having to call 911 to get you out.

I jumped up and yelled out "Babe! I can't believe it! I think I just cracked our toilet seat!"

John, who had been startled awake by the sound said "Seriously?"

"Yeah," I answered. "I think I really did, I mean, I can't see, but I heard a crack! I cracked the seat."

"Way to go, Fat Ass!"  I heard from the covers.

Yes. You read that right. My husband said "Way to go, Fat Ass!" and he still lives.

It was late and I was tired so I decided to check things out in the morning, but I was pissed at John and really mad at my fat ass. I mean, I know my ass is just fine, but there's nothing like breaking your own toilet seat to really have you doubting those Oreos!

Sure enough, in the morning I saw what I had done. A crack. Right on the left side of the rim of the seat. Clear in half. Nice.

I told John to come in and witness my work. I have never seen him laugh so hard as I told him, near tears, that I had to go get a new seat. Can you see now why he was laughing?  My fat ass didn't do a damn thing to that seat. His did. He admitted that he had cracked it earlier in the evening, but enjoyed me having a whole night to agonize over thinking I had done it myself.

That's when I fell in love with him all over again.

I have harped and harped on him to get a new toilet seat. I figured since I had nothing to do with the crack, I shouldn't have to haul my ass to Home Depot and pick out a new seat. He should. And he should replace it!  But, this is John. He's a great guy, really hot and not bad in bed but he is the worst procrastinator going. So, I've had to live with the seat the way it is. Which means whenever I bend to one side to wipe myself, I get pinched. Yes, pinched. My toilet seat is not only cracked and usually covered in pee, but it bites back.

I've been a bit crabby about that.

In any case, tonight he finally replaced it. It's a nice seat, except for one thing. It's too small. Now there's no crack, but there's a gap between the bowl and the seat. So I get splashed.

Think I should learn to pee standing up? Or hit him with a shovel and bury him behind the barn?

Anatomy Lessons From A Five Year Old

My sister is pregnant. Did I tell you all that? She's about 18 weeks along with baby number two. Baby number one is almost 11, which is just another way to demonstrate to you just how different we are. Apparently, I spit out babies like log rides at amusement parks. She prefers to take it a bit slower.

Where was I going with this?

Right. Pregnant. Kelly is pregnant.

This morning, I remarked to Kristyn that today was Aunt Kelly's ultrasound and that she was hoping to find out the sex.  Kristyn wanted to know how they could tell by an ultrasound. Before I could explain Alex piped up.

"Duh, Kwistyn, it's so easy!" he rolled his little eyes. "You just look at his penis!"

We all laughed, but Kristyn managed to get out "What if he doesn't have a penis?"

I swear the expression on his face looked like if he was wondering if we had all hatched on Mars and that's why were so stupid.

"Well den! If dere is no penis. Dat's how you know!"

"Know what?" Kristyn said.

"Dat it's a girl, silly! Do you have a penis? No. You don't. So dat's how you know you're a girl!"

Grade 11 biology is going to go amazingly for this dude.

Bullety, Edition 37; We Are Awesome

• Two years ago, I took on the giant task of coaching Kristyn's team of fourteen 10 year old girls in their summer soccer endeavors. It was the right choice for so many reasons - not least of which that we wrapped up the season by winning our end of year championship. We came away feeling amazing.  This year, I took on the daunting and scary task of co-coaching twenty-three TWELVE year old girls in their first year on a full field. Let me tell you, these are loud, grabby, hilarious and amazing girls. So guess what? Yeah, we won that same championship again.

• Not to be outdone, Erin (in her first year playing competitive soccer) and her U10 Girls team won the Easter Region Soccer League's Division 1 Shield this Sunday. Not only is it rare to even make it to the final in this ongoing league tournament, it's the first time a team from Almonte or Carleton Place (male of female) has WON the shield. This, my friends, got my baby girl and the rest of her team on the cover of our local paper.

• I went for my first (ever) massage today. I fell off my bike during the last adventure race I did. it was nothing serious, it just jarred an old tailbone injury and I've been suffering with my sciatic nerve ever since. Holy crap people, why didn't you tell me how awesome massages are? My massage therapist was just the right mix of tough and gentle, chatty and shutting up. I was in heaven!  Let's be fair from now on, okay internet, don't hold out on me about this stuff.

• A few words I've heard used in context and correctly in the last few days - almost driving me to hump the legs of those who said them: "persnickety", "tomfoolery" and "aplomb".  Awesome.

Yeah, this is fun

Alex is going through a hilarious new phase.

Wanna hear about it?

I like to call it DSAETHFYO or "Delayed Separation Anxiety Even Though He's Five Years Old".

It's a real kick and it goes something like this:

Mom gets up from the table to get more water.

"Mommy!" Alex screams. "Where are you going? Are you going to die?"

"No Alex. I'm getting water."

"Otay, but come back quick!"

Or sometimes it goes like this:

"MOOOOOOOMMMMMYYYYYY!" he yells out screaming like one of his sisters cut his arm off with an Ikea butter knife.  "WHHHHHERRRREEEE ARE YOU!!!?"

"I'm in the washroom, Alex and the door is locked, so leave me alone for a bit, please." I sigh.

"Can I come in and watch you? Just to make sure you don't disappear into fin air?"

Or, when he's in the mood to give me a real treat he'll spend hours following me around the house, checking up on me in the laundry room, my room, the kitchen, the garage, you name it.  We have an intercom system in the house and he'll go to the master speaker and press every button saying "Mommy", "Mommy", "Mommy" until he hears me stirring.  His booming voice echoes throughout the entire house and it makes me want to drown my head in a toilet so he won't find me.

I realize that he's going through a thing. A delayed reaction to me working outside the house, going back to school or being brainwashed into thinking that annoying his mother so intently will make her love him more.  I love my little buddy like there's no tomorrow, but I just cannot wait for this phase to stop.

I have to go now. I'm hiding in a basement closet and he found me.