Postcards Never Written...

The sea was angry that day, my friends...

2012-03-05T11:32:00.000-06:00

It’s with shame and humiliation that I share this story.

Here’s some background for you. I’m a simple person. I like simple things. This mindset has served its purpose for the most part…that is, until I find myself in a foreign setting, where often I don’t think things through as much as I should. The day in question found us enjoying the last day of our holiday in Spain this past October. We had just finished packing up our bags and decided to head down to the beach for a final bask in the glorious sun. As we were heading out the door, I distinctly recall my sister stating (somewhat cruelly):

Sister: Are you really going to wear that laundry out of the house?
Me: Why, what’s wrong with it?
Sister: What’s not wrong with it?
Me: It’s a tank top and gitch set from Wal-Mart.
Sister: Yeah, and it looks like a tank top and gitch set from Wal-Mart. Which part of this aren’t you getting?
Me: I packed up my bathing suit.
Sister: Go unpack it. I’ll wait.
Me: It’s not that bad. Let’s go.

Sister: And Jesus wept.

I had no intention of leaving my lounge chair so no one was going to see this awful outfit anyway; other than the retinal trauma it was going to cause my sister, brother-in-law and husband, I wasn’t overly concerned.

As luck would have it, at some point in the afternoon, I got hot. Like hot-flash hot. Like that-time-of-the-month hot. I was panting like a dog. What to do? I was holding our four-month old son, James, and told my husband to come with us for a walk to the water to cool off. At some point during that conversation, I also asked my sister to come along to take a family photo to commemorate our last day in Spain (Clearly forgetting about what I was wearing, as that should never have been captured on film.).

It's important to note that up until this last day, all experiences on the beach and in the water had been spectacular. James and I would walk up and down the beach, enjoying the sound of the crashing waves, while my husband would hit the waves to body surf.

The sound of the waves scared James at first,

and I just loved how he snuggled up against me to feel safe.

The look on his face when he squished his toes

in the sand for the first time was priceless.

What's that cresting the wave?

Is it a whale? A seal? An endangered mammal?

No, friends. That's my husband. Talk about perfect timing.

My sister didn't even notice him there until looking at the photos afterwards...

she was like: "What the f*ck is that?"

Another thing - my husband never has both eyes open in a photo

and this is the one he manages to do it in. Mercy.

Now, back to that fateful family walk to the water on the last day of our holiday. This next batch of photos requires few words as the sequence of events as they unfolded are captured rather magnificently through the following images.

If pressed, I’d be at a loss to identify the most disturbing aspect of the story, but it'd be a toss between the following:

That my sister, albeit not a professional photographer, could not find it in her heart to warn us of the rogue wave that was rearing its ugly head behind us. Mercifully, I had handed James off to Roddy. (likely to adjust my “swim wear”)
The sea was angry that day, my friends. It hurled itself upon us with such force, that it knocked me to the ground. The initial hit knocked me out flat. As my face was getting scrubbed by the ocean floor, I recall a feeling of such fright that my baby was getting washed out to sea, that I lunged forward, clawing and flailing at my husband like a wild person. I couldn’t see a thing, as my eyes were sealed shut from the salty water, not to mention my sunglasses provided about as much clearance as staring out a window in a carwash. I had no idea if he still had hold of James, as I was certain he had gotten knocked flat as well.
That, as we were fighting for our lives, my sister continued to snap photos.
That my husband, who held our son safely in his arms, can be seen turning to watch me drown. You can just make out my ponytail as I go down for the second time. Is that a smile on his face? Yes. I believe it is.
The look of complete and utter horror on James’s face. Oh, that sadness right there…it’s a real heartbreaker. If you’ll allow me to venture a guess as to what he was thinking, it’d go something like this: “This is f*cking awful, just terrible. I’m being cared for by a pair of lunatics. I pray there’s been a horrible mix-up at Regina General Hospital, and I’ll be demanding a DNA test upon our return. That is, if these nut-jobs can pull their shit together long enough to get me home in one piece. And at the moment, I consider that to be quite a stretch.”
Most importantly (maybe not quite as important as almost drowning our son, but it’s right up there), my choice of “bathing suit” is an absolute disgrace. My sister was correct. There is absolutely no reason in the world to think it’s OK to wear a horizontal-striped tank top and gitch set on the beach, just sixteen weeks after giving birth. Check that. There’s no reason in the world to EVER wear it in public; whether you’ve given birth or not is completely inconsequential.
Prior to sharing these photos, I was going to Photoshop the pictures; maybe remove the stripes or something in a feeble attempt to smooth out the lumps. The other alternative was to replace my head with my sister’s, but I don’t know how to do that, or I totally would have. It then dawned on me that I needed to share these with you. Consider it my gift to you, should you ever find yourself tempted to wear a striped gitch set from Wal-Mart to the beach (tell me I'm not the only one...) The title of my photo gift? Cotton breathes, Wet cotton cleaves. The end.

I can't. My right nipple hurts.

2012-02-22T17:26:00.000-06:00

Attention all readers: sign up as an official follower of my blog for a chance to win a hard cover edition of Postcards Never Written...yes, it's a ~~literary masterpiece~~ book. Yes, I won the ~~Pulitzer Prize~~ Saskatchewan Readers' Choice Award.

I suck at a lot of things, including any sort of self-promotion. I loathe it. I spent roughly 2 years writing my book, and an additional 4 years contemplating whether or not I had the balls to release it. So what to do after spending almost 6 years making something happen? Spend a grand total of one minute marketing it. (a majority of this one minute involved handing the manuscript over to my parents and then running like hell in the opposite direction...)

So without further ado, allow me to toot my horn, albeit rather awkwardly. Thanks to very kind and generous friends, along with awesome word-of-mouth, I've sold out of books! It's now getting reprinted and I'll be getting more copies in early March. You can pre-order your very own copy on my website at www.janita.ca

Here's my disclaimer:

I've been told (by people other than my family) that it's funny. But really, who can you trust these days?
If you don't like it, give it away to someone you hate.
If there's no one you hate that badly, give it to your baby as chew toy.
Once you decide it's not an appropriate chew toy for baby, toss it to your dog.
If dog hates it, line litter box with pages. Cats, I suspect, have a very wicked sense of humour. Don't let their grouchy demeanor fool you. Whilst performing their daily constitution, I have a feeling they'd appreciate my humour. At the very least, they'll claw my pages, not your furniture.
I donate a portion of proceeds from the sale of my book to World Vision - to date, I've donated over $10,000. That my friends, makes the aforementioned 6-year journey to write this book worth every minute.

I'll also be randomly selecting a follower from my blog to win their very own HARD COVER version of Postcards Never Written....that's right, hard cover!!! The hard cover edition will not be available for sale - other than my Mom and a few other peeps, you will be one of the few people on this planet to own one. It'll sort of give you the feeling of what it's like to almost be extinct.

Just click on the blue button on the right hand side of this blog that says "Join this site". All you have to do is type in a valid email address, that's it. You can even use a fake name and keep the grey stalker-like image for your profile pic if you choose. I don't care. The only time I'll have to lure you from your hiding spot is if you win this give-away, and even then, I'll keep your deets private. I'll randomly select a follower and the winner* will be announced the first week of March.

*side-effects of winning may include bouts of nausea, vomiting, diarrhea and erectile dysfunction. Please see Doctor if symptoms persist. If you are in any way related to me, chances of winning are not good. Simply because I will randomly re-select someone else if I happen to pick you. But don't think you won't get anything from me. I'm not made of wood. You'll receive an all-inclusive weekend get-away package! Important note: the inclusive package part refers to my kids being shipped to you (C.O.D....have a heart. I'm paying for a new shipment of books over here), and the get-away part is in reference to me. Yeah! We're all winners.

Here's a sneak peek at the revised version of the cover:

For more information about my book, visit my website at www.janita.ca

Huge thanks go out to Lorne Cardinal (Corner Gas) and Joan McCusker (Olympic Gold Medalist and CBC sports commentator) for providing reviews for my book! I didn't even have to beg (very hard). Also, a heartfelt thank you to Kelle Hampton for writing the foreword for my book. If you haven't done so already, visit her blog at www.kellehampton.com - trust me, she'll make you want to be a better person.

And a very special thank you to the lovely and talented Yvonne Parks! She has helped me out from day one, back to the first design of my book in 2007, to business cards and other graphics in between, to the recent creation and design of my blog. She's absolutely amazing, and I can't say enough great things about her. If you're in need of any design work, whether it be for something in print or a revamp of your blog, I highly recommend you check her out. For more on her work, visit her website at www.pearcreative.ca

Incidentally, her 9-year old daughter also has a blog...I have not met Aila in person, although her random thoughts and comments leave me in stitches. My all-time favourite? When asked to help with the supper dishes, she responded: "I can't. My right nipple hurts." I totally stole her line for the title of this post because clearly, it's relevant to what I have to say. "You want me to deliver a highly-effective sales pitch to help promote my book, and bewitch you with my effusive charm so that you buy multiple copies for you and all your friends? I can't. My right nipple hurts." At any rate, she's a gem. Visit her blog by clicking here.

Now, I'm off to pack for a trip back to my homeland. If you don't hear from me for the next week, one of the following has likely happened:

After surviving 5 hours in a vehicle with three small children, and no husband to help me, I'm suffering from a nervous breakdown. I'm in such a state, that I've decided to start farming with my five brothers. Send for help. Immediately.
We're in the ditch somewhere between Moosomin and Virden. Having picked the KFC bucket clean, my children are now eating me to stay alive.
I was having so much fun in a vehicle by myself with three small children, that I decided to blow right through Manitoba and blast into Ontario.
I have smashed my parents' annoying dial-up modem through the wall, preventing me from further communication until my return.

Jack's take on Isla's magic eyes...

2012-02-20T20:21:00.000-06:00

In my quest to ensure that Isla feels at ease wearing her glasses, I decided to have a discussion with Jack about making sure he tells her he loves them, and that he looks after her if someone starts to tease her. I started by telling him that Peanut was a fairy-tale princess so she needs glasses. Here's how that discussion went down:

Me: Isla's a princess so she needs glasses.
Jack: Princesses don't wear glasses.
Me: Yes they do.
Jack: No. They don't. Only Queens wear glasses. And some old Kings, but not princesses.
Me: ~~Well, then, time to write a fucking fairy tale where they do.~~ Mommy wears glasses.
Jack: I guess mostly old people like you have glasses. You have movie glasses, Grandma Mariapolis and Grandma Snow Lake have reading glasses, Daddy has sun glasses. I guess everyone in the whole wide world has sun glasses.
Me: Yup. A lot of people have all kinds of glasses.
Jack: Why does Peanut have to wear them? She looks funny.
Me: Honey, Peanut has to because her eyes are magic. She needs them to help her see better. Her one eye isn't as strong as the other, and these glasses are going to help make it better. Most importantly, she needs you to look after her. Promise me you'll look out for her and help her out if someone's making fun of her? Pinky Square? (when we lock pinky fingers, he calls it a pinky square, instead of a pinky swear...it's too cute to correct.)
Jack: OK, Mommy. I promise. Pinky Square. Mommy, are you going to wear glasses until you're old as Grandma?
Me: Yup. And when I'm a Grandma, cuddling your babies, I'll wear my very best glasses so I can see them perfectly.
Jack: When will you be a Grandma?
Me: When you have babies. Then I'll be a Grandma to your babies!
Jack: Wait a minute...you'll be a Grandma and a Mom?
Me: Yup.
Jack: Aaaah...that's hard work.

You said it, son. The day after this discussion, Peanut was jumping up and down on a chair. Jack, having taken our discussion quite seriously, turned to her and screeched:

"Peanut! Would you quit banging around? You're going to hurt your loose eye."

And with that admonishment, they both turned back to the task at hand and went about their day. I'm not entirely sure where Jack got this idea from...I suspect the way Peanut's one eye rolls inward got him to thinking that it's actually loose. I'll have to explain to him that there's no danger of it actually falling out. I'll also have to explain that this sort of outburst of caring wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I told him to look out for her. At any rate, I suspect his intentions were good, and that's really all that matters.

As for Peanut? She's doing wonderfully with her new specs. I'll be honest, it was a bit of a tough slog at the beginning. After wearing them for one day, she wheeled up to me on her cart, handed me her glasses and stated:

"Me no want these no more, K?"

As I looked at her, my heart started aching all over again. I started the dangerous slide into a life's not fair mood. I was thinking that no two-year old should have to worry about keeping glasses up on her face. If I don't put the strap on them, they slide down her wee nose, if I put the strap on to hold them up, she gets welts. I'm told the skin will toughen up, but I hate watching her go through it.

So I told myself again:

Life's not fair. But life is good. She'll only think wearing glasses is a big deal if I let it be one. And it's not. I know that. I just want her to be happy. I want her to feel special, not different. I want to hand her the world. I want to protect her from heartache and pain and grief. I don't want her to have to worry about pushing glasses up on her tiny face while she's playing, or have the skin on her nose toughen up so it doesn't hurt. I just want her to be a kid and do kid things and run and laugh and play without worrying about keeping a pair of glasses on her little two-year-old face. I want everything to be perfect for her. But it won't be. That's not the way life works. And that's alright. We don't get to decide what we're handed, but we certainly get to decide how we make it work. That's life. And life is good.

The next day, she showed me how she's making it work. She was stringing beads on her Dora necklace. She can do that now, because she can see. In that moment, I could almost hear her telling me: Wearing glasses is no big deal, Mommy. I got this. That's life. And life is good.

Can we have it all?

2012-02-17T19:43:00.000-06:00

When it comes to making lists, I’m a complete nut job; I’ve been known to leave a note to remind myself to “make a list”. There’s something slightly sadistic and deranged about that. Mock me. My husband does. But seriously, I'm of the age now where I need to leave myself a sticky note on the washing machine if I've tossed something in there that can't be thrown in the dryer. This is usually a shirt I've thieved from my sister's closet; I have a propensity for ruining things that aren't mine. If I don't leave myself a note, I'll wander in there a mere forty-five minutes later, completely oblivious to the fact that I've put that shirt in the washing machine, and into the dryer the entire load goes. It's like I've dropped down from another planet. Forty five minutes...that's all it takes for certain parts of my brain to be wiped.

Furthermore, in my quest to do it all, I’m delusional in believing that writing out a detailed list of what I have to accomplish each week, and ticking the items off, will make me a better person which will magically equate to a more fulfilling life. At the start of each week, I wake with magnificent resolutions which include (but are not limited to) the following: start that blasted 30-day shred to eliminate post-babies paunch (formerly known as waist); morph into saucy minx and rock my husband’s world (my excuse du jour is that he hasn't visited Dr. Quick Snip yet, rendering the entire act far too dangerous...), figure out what I want to be when I grow up, have the guts to follow my dreams, spend more quality time with my children, return phone calls in a timely manner (translation: before a full year expires), find out how to keep a houseplant alive for more than three weeks (not including cacti) get all photos into digital albums, update baby journals, clean out cupboards to avoid massive trauma to the head, finish organizing the basement, paint bathroom, eat more vegetables, take vitamins, and be a better person in general, particularly to that one person who makes me want to coil into a ball and play dead whenever we’re in the same vicinity.

Let’s get right to the burning question, shall we? The one I ask myself while sorting dirty laundry, visualizing my husband’s castration as it’s apparent he’s physically unable to turn his filthy, mangy socks inside out before tossing them towards, not in, the hamper basket. The question is this – can we actually have it all? Or is it considered unforgivable to want more when we’ve already been blessed with plenty? While wiping the snot and spaghetti sauce from my child's beaming, “I-just-pooped-my-diaper-too” face, I often find myself drenched in melancholy while lamenting the loss of dreams yet to be fulfilled. And I wonder - when your dreams turn to dust, when they’ve successfully been snuffed out by years of going to work every day, monotonous chores, mountains of bills...what becomes of them? If I stopped long enough to have an intimate chat with my inner child, to ask her what it was she wanted again, I’m not even certain I would know which questions to ask anymore. And quite frankly, I’m scared of her. That little girl I remember all too well, would lay me out flat, outraged by how far I’ve strayed from what I wanted to be when I grew up.

For the record, let it be said that I wanted to be a criminal psychologist. (And I believed I had a huge head-start growing up with my five brothers.) I ended up being an agricultural economist. Hell, at least they rhyme. That’s a start. I ended up pursuing the latter because I knew it would make my parents proud. I grew up on a farm and my love for agriculture courses through my veins; perhaps not enough to foster a burning desire to farm with five brothers, though. In some cases, the high risk of insanity trumps preference. But I likely ended up being one of the very few Aggie students that used all course electives to pursue my love for psychology. While my friends were learning how to weld and inseminate a sow, two skills for which I have no idea how I’ve gotten this far in life without, I was in the throes of passion over psychology. My transcript reads like a woman on a mission to systematically destroy her brain: linear economic modelling, child psychology, price analysis, microeconomics, genetic analysis, macroeconomics, abnormal psychology, econometrics, financial accounting, social psychology, applied statistics...I need to stop now. My brain hurts. (from trying to remember what's currently in the washing machine...)

For what it’s worth, I think we can have it all – just maybe not all at once. This is an important point to remember and one that often paralyzes me...I get an idea stuck in my head that I have to do this, followed immediately by I have to do this, right f*cking now, without for a moment considering it may be wise to perhaps drop something off the already generous to-do list. Hell, no. I'm not that smart; I just add it to the pile. Then, just to add to the already momentous amounts of fun, I call myself a big loser if I don't finish everything that week. (Which quite frankly, would often require breaking the time-space continuum but hey, quit whining you loooooooooooser.) Where does that voice come from? I would love to meet the little gremlin and strangle it.

My husband is completely baffled by my ongoing list of things to do. When when find ourselves with some spare time on our hands, the discussion inevitably goes something like this:

Him: Let's watch a movie.
Me: How about we knock a few things off our list, then watch a movie.
Him: What's there to do? The house is relatively clean.
Me: What's there to do? Why don't you start by going through your boxes of shit under the bed?
Him: Why? They're under the bed. No one can see it.
Me: Yeah, but I know they're there. It bugs me.
Him: You're a freak.
Me: Yes. But you said "I do"
Him: So this is the "for worse and in sickness" part?
Me: Hmmmm...yes.
Him: Out of pure curiosity, because that head of yours sometimes frightens me, who exactly is performing the audit on your list of things to do?

Ouch. Must be that gremlin, who I suspect will never be happy. Even if I collapse from exhaustion, there will always be more. I guess that's the beauty of life, right? There's more to do than can ever be done...and I'm slowly starting to accept that. And once in a while I stop and wonder, "What would it feel like to have everything done that I ever wanted to get done?" Friends, I'd be bored out of my mind. Not to mention, I'd have missed precious moments with my children that I'll never get back. Real-life application of economics degree: work is a fixed component. It ain't going nowhere. Time with children? Variable. They're only with us for a short while. For the time being, I need to adjust the equation. I'm learning I may need to put a few dreams on hold while my kids are young, while they need me. Cause one day they won't.

In the meantime, I'm going to attempt to make amendments to how I approach life in general. I need to slow down a little, sniff some cacti. I'll start by merging my own perspective on how I approach work, with my husband's perspective. He gets stuff done in his own time, and is usually much more content in the process. To illustrate our different approaches, here's a summary:

His motto: Eat, drink and be merry, for today may be your last.
My motto: Procrastination is like masturbation. It may feel great at the time, but in the end, you're really only f*cking yourself.
Combined motto: Eat, do a chore, drink, do a chore, be merry while doing anything, ~~and fix that leaking faucet or today will be your last,~~ and enjoy every day as if it were your last.

As for those dreams of mine? I've tucked some away in an imaginary box, to be opened again and examined more closely at a later date. I believe that dreams are often all that remains of our childhood, so they should be treated like precious jewels. Every once and a while, I'm going to pull out that box and have a look. I'm going to hold one of those dreams in my hand, and decide if now is the time to go after it. If yes? I'm going to go out there and do my best to make it happen. I'm going to adjust the equation to make it work. Supply of energy, and demand for it. Ebb and flow. Finding that optimum point. (Upon reflection, perhaps I needed that economics degree after all.)

The worst thing that can happen is someone will tell me they think my dream is silly...that it's just not possible. I'll nod and smile, and I'll be sure to thank them for their profound feedback. But I'm still going to go for it. I need to, so that one day I can look my children in the eye and boldly say that I lived my life with no excuses or apologies.

In my quest to have it all, though, I've learned one tiny secret...the secret to having it all is being fully aware that, in comparison to most of the world, you already do.

Her magic eyes...

2012-02-12T15:41:00.002-06:00

We recently paid a visit to our optometrist to get Isla's eyes checked out. Seemingly overnight, she's developed a lazy eye. Or maybe two. Turns out, she's far-sighted. Apparently enough for the optometrist to warn me that her eyes were going to be noticeably magnified. Translation: she needs glasses. Really thick ones.

Remember our family photo shoot I told you about in my last post?

Turns out Terri is a magician, as well as being a brilliant photographer.

You would never know James had a huge bruise on his forehead ~~(thanks to my sister...wait...)~~.

Once again, she captured the money shots and a whole lot more.

This photo she took of Isla?

It's one of my favourites...melts my heart.

My beautiful princess.

As we were driving back home from the optometrist visit, I looked at Isla through my rear-view mirror. Her head was down, eyes closed...quite frankly, she looked like she'd been hit with a tranquilizer gun. (Which incidentally wasn't me because I wasn't carrying that day.) The drops they had put in her eyes to dilate her pupils were wreaking havoc on her vision. As I stared at her through the mirror, my heart started aching. I felt shattered. The best way to explain how I'm feeling is through a letter to her, my little Peanut. Here goes:

DearIsla,
Ifound out something today that I think we've known all along.
As it turns out, allparts of you aremagic.
Including those big, beautiful eyes of yours.
I wasn't upset about thefact that you have to wear glasses;
that's about as inconsequential as havingto pull on a pair of pants everyday.
No, that wasn't it.
Wearing glasses is not a big deal.
Losing a loved one...that's a big deal.
Facing a life-threatening illness...that's a big deal.
This is not.
We won't let it be.
Why my heart startingaching really badly is because I know that one day,
someone's going to say something to you about your glasses,
and it'll hurt your feelings.
Your heart willfeel so heavy with sadness,
that it might just feel like it's breaking.
It mighteven make you cry.
The worst part?
Their words may cut just enough to make youthink less of yourself.
Honey, please don't ever let that happen.
The worlddoes a good enough job of trying to knock you down;
promise me you won'tever do it to yourself.
Cause you know what we're going to do when that daycomes?
When you come home the day it happens,
your heart breaking,
your bigbeautiful eyes spilling over with tears,
we're going to sit down on the floor,
and we're going to hug.
Hard.
And I won't let go of you until you ask.
And youknow what else we're going to do?
~~Right after Mommy thumps the little fuckerwho hurt you,~~
We're going to say a prayer for that person.
We're going to ask God to surround that person with love.
Because often,people who don't feel enough love themselves
only feel better when they knockothers down.
Don't ask me to explain it, Peanut.
I don't completely understand it myself.
I thinkeveryone's inherently good,
butsometimes,
some people just have a hard time showing it.
People who are bulliesare hiding something else;
a pain they've felt,
or they're feeling,
and theonly way they can get rid of it,
just for a moment,
is to hurt someone else.
Life'sbeaten them down,
so if they see someone who looks a little different,
and theythink they've found an easy target,
they'll take aim and fire their uselessshot.
That's all it is, Peanut.
A useless shot.
It's their only way of feeling bigger...
better...if only for a moment.
Andthat's alright.
It's their bag of shit to hold,
not yours.
The names they call you aren't important;
what you choose to believe about them is.
So let thatache in your heart morph into compassion for them;
let that break in your heartbe an opening to feel more love for others.
But never let that pain make you think less of yourself.
Cause you know what, Peanut?
Youget to come home to us every day
and be loved something silly for the rest ofyour life.
And that's a guarantee.
Sopromise me you'll surround yourself with friends who deserve you...
friends wholove you for who you are.
Friends who know He made you perfect,
just the way you are.
Friends who don't want you to change one thing about yourself.
As for those magnificently huge, beautiful eyes of yours?
They're so full of magic we had to magnify them.
We had no choice.
It was theonly way to make them as big as that heart of yours...
big enough so the whole,wide world can see that fire burning deep within.
Hold onto that.
Don't ever let another livingsoul snuff it out.
I'll tell you this: we'regoing to wear our matching glasses and paint this town red.
That's a promise, babe.
I love you.
You're beautiful. You're perfect. Every single, precious piece of you.
If you only remember one thing I've said, may it be this.

Love Mommy

The curse of the family photos...

2012-02-06T16:56:00.000-06:00

Let me start with a few apologies. Over the past week, I've been alerted to two things:

People who have sent me a message through my website www.janita.ca have not received a response. Let me assure you Oprah and Ellen, for I have a feeling it was you cause you hound me every week, it's not because I don't love you and deeply admire what you do. It's just that it wasn't working properly. Up and restored. Send away.
After watching videos on my blog, particularly How to kill a mocking turd... and What not to do 2 weeks after giving birth..., users have been subjected to related YouTube videos popping up, particularly some good old-fashioned porn. Apparently including the words “R-rated” and “giving birth” and "this has nothing to do with having sex" in my blog post gave YouTube (solid) justification to pop a related video on my blog of a woman named Beyoncé giving birth in a bathtub (not the Beyoncé, but still...), followed by a woman...how shall I say this....being delivered...doggy style...by a man over a desk. Fair enough. Who am I to judge? At any rate, to those who were offended, my deepest apologies. To those who enjoyed, you're welcome. I successfully wasted 30 minutes of my life coding HTML to fix this problem so you'll now have to go elsewhere to get your thang on.

With that out of the way, on to the topic at hand. Family Photos....insert shudder. I'll confess, I'd rather pull out my eyelashes, one at a time, than take a family photo. Without fail, we all end up getting pissed off at each other, and look ridiculously irritated in the final snap. Getting one photo with everyone looking at the camera at the same time, both eyes open, with something resembling a smile is about as elusive as obtaining photographic evidence, or scat samples, of Sasquatch. At some point, I'll show you the highlights of our ill-fated attempts to capture love and peace over the years, because dudes, do I have some shockers. Until then, let's talk about the appointment I had scheduled for James's 6-month photos a few weeks ago. I had initially booked it for Friday, January 13th. If I wasn't suspicious of Friday the 13ths before, I'm having second thoughts about it now. Because it hindsight, the whole venture may have been cursed right from the beginning.

So remember I told you the flu virus hit our home with the wrath of Genghis Khan? Well, so happens that was the day family photos were supposed to happen. That, and James had developed a nasty ear infection; seeing as he was the man of the hour, I cancelled and rescheduled for two weeks later to give him a chance to get better.

So, fast forward to the last week in January. Over the course of the two weeks leading up to the rescheduled appointment, a few things happened. James, as if sensing I was making fun of him for not sitting up yet, decided to do just that a day before he turned seven months old. But he didn't stop there. Immediately after accomplishing that, he decided to start crawling, grew a couple of front teeth to match his bottom two, and decided to start tackling the stairs. Within those two measly weeks between initial photo shoot and the rescheduled one, he went from cute little baby (hence the desire to capture the 6-month phase) to beat up looking I-do-stairs-now-and-other-badass-things. I may as well have rolled a pack of smokes up his sleeve and gotten his (inevitably horrible) Grade 10 photo out of the way.

Needless to say, he was almost bruise-free the day before the photo shoot. I was watching him like a hawk, keeping him as far away as possible from any potential danger; it was like he was in the witness protection program. The day before the shoot, I had made an appointment to get my naturally ~~27 years ago~~ blonde hair enhanced. Translation: I looked like roadkill. A skunk, to be exact. My sister graciously agreed to watch James while I slipped out for my repairs. When I dropped him off at her house, I said something over-the-top grateful, like:

"Please don't let your kids claw at him like a pack of bush wolves."

I returned a while later to find him in good health, completely unscathed. Apparently my sister held him for the entire two hours to make sure he didn't get a scratch. I'm menacing like that. So I proceeded to bundle him up in his carseat, chatting away with my sister, blah, blah, blah, go to set him off in the corner by the door to start packing up the diaper bag, when we hear a gigantic thump. I looked over to see that the car seat had tipped, but he was still in there, trapped by the car seat cover I had snapped around the top. "What the hell happened there?" I thought. We raced over to find that I had in fact not strapped him in. Rather, clearly I was too preoccupied chatting with my sister; when I was putting his sweater and jacket on, I must have had the sensation that I was strapping him in. Please don't ask how my brain works. (Quick answer: sometimes, it doesn't) At any rate, he had flipped around in his seat, was face down and had smoked, I repeat, SMOKED his head off the top of the carseat.

"I'm pretty sure that counts as being on your watch, not mine." my sister said. There was really nothing to do at that point but laugh, because I'm such a loser. (We only laughed AFTER we made sure he was alright. I'm not entirely heartless; he's a wee baby after all, not a toddler.)

So I called our photographer that night...told her what happened. Left out the details of how it actually happened, as I'm not sure she actively books lunatics for sessions.

I sent her a few photos...tried to make the damages appear small.

After reviewing these photos, here's what she said: "I'm a photographer. Not a magician." No, she didn't actually say this. She's far too nice for that. This is something I would have said to someone like me. Hence, why I don't take people's photos for a living. She, being the wonderful trooper that she is, told me to bring the family on down, she would see what she could do. Bless her cotton socks.

But that's not all. I then had to tell her that over the course of the past two weeks, my daughter has developed a lazy eye. I told her that I didn't want to talk about it in front of Peanut, make her feel bad about it, so not to worry about getting any shots where they're all looking straight at the camera. Doesn't appear that will be happening anytime soon. I'm not sure how this happened so quickly, but friends, her beautiful big eye is stuck. More on that optometrist visit in a post later this week. Here's what I'm talking about:

All this to say, my husband now refers to these maladies as The Curse of the Family Photos...

We soldiered on and got the photos taken. Terri Schous is a magnificent photographer here in Regina; we've gone to her for professional photos for all three of our kids so I can vouch for her. If you want the money shots of your wee babies, then she's your gal. As for the rest of our clan, I was one big hot, stinky mess during the entire photo shoot. Roddy had to dash off after a few minutes (fake meeting, I assume...) leaving me alone with three kids. I don't know whether it was the hot, bright lights, my cramps or just the pressure, but I don't think it was my finest hour. You see, I'm not good with professional photographers, period. This is by no means an indication of Terri's personality; hell, she's one of the nicest people on this planet. No, it's not that. It's more to do with their apparatus. I'm very frightened of their powerful I-can-see-that-nose-hair lens and that holy-shit-it-appears-as-though-you-have-not-slept-in-47-hours mug shot. That, and the smile on my face in most of these photos has an element of: "I sure as hell hope you're not capturing my face from that angle because let me tell you, I look completely bat-shit from that angle." I swear, you can sometimes see the actual fear in my eyes. Leave it to a professional photographer to capture that, too. (I prefer to call this realism, not vanity. Work with me, here.)

In the end, my husband took a few photos of me with the kids that weekend. Mainly because I had showered and got my hair done, which in and of itself is a brief, miraculous moment-in-time worth capturing. That, and I'm much more relaxed when we're not under the bright lights in a studio. I'm at my best when the pressure is off.

Here are some highlights:

Jack's new thing is to make this ridiculous face for all photos.

Wonder who he gets that from...

Needless to say, we can't seem to take a photo without looking like a pair of fools.

Which pretty much captures the both of us perfectly.

His joyful spirit leaves me breathless, and in tears of laughter.

My little Peanut...oh, how she warms my heart. Her shy smile, her infectious giggle.

I think she knows she holds our hearts in her hands.

This little guy? He's the highlight of everyone's day.

There's usually a fight to see who can hold him and make him laugh first.

The good news? He's got a big enough heart to make us all feel special.

This picture makes me laugh. Hard.

I've heard that blowing on your child's face

will get them to look at you for photos.

That is, unless your breath makes them want to hurl.

Then they'll just close their eyes, attempt to click their heels three times

and dream of being transported to Kansas.

Jack and my own little Jimmy Dean......

I'll leave you with this video of James's first official crawl. I had just put out this green playmat for him so he could get a better grip and learn how to crawl...turns out he didn't need it. Did a few yoga moves and then crawled right off the darn thing in less than a minute. Show-off. I love how textbook his crawl is as well...no sliding around on the tummy to get used to the idea for this little guy. He decided to get right down to business. He's like a wind-up baby. Thump, thump, thump, thump. (It's also rather embarrassing to admit that his downward dog puts all my yoga attempts to shame. I may enlist him to do the 30-day shred with me...that'll give me someone else to yell at.)

p.s. if a porn-related yoga video pops up after this video as a result of the content in this post, well then, as the saying goes: "Namasté, motha f*ckas."

I may have recoded the HTML to "fix" this problem but with "me" and "HTML" in the same sentence, hell, in the same universe, there's a much better chance this blog will self-destruct. It's been nice knowing you.

A word of advice on ice cream cakes...

2012-02-03T17:45:00.000-06:00

They’re made from ice cream. They’re not really cakes. So when your lovely friends pay you a visit and hand-deliver a beautifully decorated red ice cream cake, you have to put it in the freezer. If you put it in the fridge, your poor unsuspecting husband will pad down the hallway the next morning, at the crack of dawn, to find a trail of red dye flowing across the floor. At first, his heart will stop, as he suspects his beloved has been stabbed. He’ll then follow the trail of “blood” that has leaked right up to your office door, to the pool of it deposited near the bottom of the fridge door. He’ll cautiously open the fridge, suspecting he’ll find the remains of your chopped up body, only to discover a mound of what used to be a cake. An ice cream cake.

You will then receive an email from him later that morning, stating: “Jesus. (Quit calling me Jesus...) Ice cream cakes are made out of frozen ice cream. Operative word here being frozen. They must go in the FREEZER. I damn near had a heart attack this morning. I was on my hands and knees for 25 minutes in an attempt to wipe up a 15-foot train of red ice cream juice. I thought someone had been stabbed and bled out on the kitchen floor.”

You will then pee your pants from laughing too hard, because your bladder can no longer handle this level of excitement. You will then thank Jesus that your husband woke up before you, thus saving you from mopping it up. You will also come to the sad realization that if somewhere along the way, you've incorporated the term "bled out" to your nomenclature for baseline communication, then you've likely watched far too many episodes of Breaking Bad and The Wire. The end.

The Russian River....

2012-02-01T14:18:00.000-06:00

What's new, pussycats? At this end, I've spent the past week making edits and revisions to my book...I'm fresh out of copies and need to get more printed. For those of you who aren't aware, I published a book back in 2007 titled Postcards Never Written. It's loosely based on a round-the-world trip I made with my husband back in 2001. It's about what really happens when you're travelling, along with the sanitized postcards sent home to the parents...sane people do not share everything with their parents. After all, why worry them?

Side note: this is all fine until the day you decide to write a book about it and come to the following realization: "F*ck. My parents are going to read this whole thing." Gulp. "Better make it fiction." Followed by comments like, "Of course that's not what happened, Mom! God. Who do you think I am?"...eyes darting nervously from side to side..."It's fiction, for heaven's sake. Jeez. NO! I did not shit my pants on a chairlift. Do I look like a monster?" I could write an entire novella about that discussion. In the end though, they both gave me their blessing, which to me, is as good as getting it from the Pontiff himself.

I was over the moon when it was announced that my book was the winner of the Saskatchewan Readers' Choice Award and also listed by CBC as one of the top funny books in 2009. I continue to donate a portion of all proceeds to World Vision, and thanks to your amazing support and positive word-of-mouth, I've since donated over $10,000! That right there makes it all worth while. Thank you, from the bottom of my grateful, little heart. (You can learn more about my book by clicking on the photo of the book on the top, right hand side of this screen. You can also visit my website at www.janita.ca)

So, in the process of gearing up for my next printing, I scoured my book for typos and sentences that didn't make sense. (When you, and you alone, are the writer, editor, agent, marketer and publisher, things tend to get a little hazy...there's shit I wrote in there that I have no recollection of...did I mention I used to drink? A lot.)

Yesterday, I sent the final list of changes to my printer. I told him in advance that the list looked long and grotesque...well, because it was. Furthermore, I told him that I had come this far so I wanted it to be the best it could be. He refrained from telling me if that was the case, I should rewrite the whole effing thing. Small mercies he's polite that way. I'll tell you this: after reading my book again for the first time in years, I was slightly appalled by all the drinking stories. Several times, I had to put the book down to wipe tears from my eyes, stare off into space for a few minutes and wonder, was I really this off-the-hinge, and if so, for how many years? I'm all for shaking a leg and enjoying your youth but hell, I need therapy just reminiscing about my past adventures, never mind what I must have needed back then. I believe the fancy new term for it now is intervention. At any rate, the point of writing the book in the first place was to make people laugh, and hopefully, it does just that.

I'm really excited to show you the updated cover, but it's not ready yet. Once everything's in place, I'll randomly choose a follower from this blog to win their very own updated copy of Postcards Never Written. Until then, I'll share this story from my book.

For those of you who have commented that my son will kill me when he's older for sharing this video, How to kill a mocking turd...let me assure you, he'll die of embarrassment first, after reading the following story. Should we both survive the shame of full disclosure (oh, the horror of being honest...), he'll always have the upper hand; at least he was sitting on a toilet.

I share this story for one (or all) of the following reasons:

It makes me out to be classy and sophisticated. (duh)

In case you're having a crappy day (pun obviously intended) , my hopes are that this will make you laugh.

In the off chance that you've soiled yourself today, and you're unbearably humiliated, may this give you hope that there is life beyond this disastrous moment, and you'll pull through to the other side. I promise.

Pick your poison; they all work for me.

A tale from Postcards Never Written...fact or fiction? I'll let you be the judge.
The chairlift incident…it stillgives me the shivers when I think about it. I don’t even feel safe writing thisin my journal, but chances are good that no one will ever read this. Here’shoping. It happened during my third year at university, when about ten of usdecided to head down to Whitefish, Montana for spring break. I don’t ski allthat often (or well) but the thought of a vacation at a mountain resort soundedappealing.

Once there, we promptly agreed that it was far too cold to actually ski, notto mention the effort required, so we buckled down in our rental chalet andstarted to play a drinking game. The game itself was easy. Or so I thought.There was a deck of cards and you had to guess whether the card being flippedwould be a black suit or a red suit. Not exactly a mind bender. (Hey, we were Aggies, not bio-chemical engineers. Translation: we were cool...other-side-of-the-pillow cool) But if you werewrong, you had to drink your beverage. Active listening not being one of mycore strengths, I was downing my entire beverage each time, rather than takingjust one sip. I don’t recall anyone mentioning the “one-sip” point during theinitial reading of the rules. In a disastrously short period of time, I ingested copious amounts of alcohol and retiredfrom the game rather early, finding comfort and solace face down in an empty pizzabox.

The next day, wiped but determined, we got up and hit the slopes, ready toexercise and sweat out the alcohol and vanilla-cherry cigar impurities.Truthfully, I felt like death warmed up, however I put on a brave face for thecrew. I even attempted to hit a few jumps on the way down to see if I lookedanywhere near as cool as the Olympians on television. (Scattered reports gatheredmuch later indicated that a three-legged mule strapped to skis would haveappeared more graceful.)

Does it bear mentioning that this landing didn't go well?

This photo was taken on a different ski trip although my technique across all slopes remains uniformly consistent...

there's another word for it...horrific.

I can assure you, had I stuck that landing, there would've been shin splints.

As it turned out, my shins were the least of my concerns.

I’m guessing that all the bumping about on the jumps ledto the serious loosening of my guts. As I was lining up for the chairliftafterwards to head back up, my stomach started making some very strange sounds.It felt like something was kicking me from the inside – something large. Witha violent temper.

My friend (who shall remain anonymous) was with me when I heaved myself backonto the chairlift. I was desperately trying to pay attention to her endless chattering,while all my focus was on not crapping in my ski-pants. I was in full statealarm. Have you ever tried to cross your legs in an awkward attempt to squeezeyour ass cheeks together really hard, while wearing skis that are six feet long,whilst desperately clinging to a chairlift? No? Then, I dare you. Double-dog it.

The panic thatovertook me can’t be described. Here I was, hundreds of feet in the air stuck ona chairlift, in minus God-knows-what temperature, about to ruin my brand newski-pants. Really, can it get any worse than that? Noticing my discomfort, my friendasked me what was wrong and I told her that I didn’t know exactly, but I didn’tfeel too good. I told her I had to go to the bathroom really badly, and that Ididn’t know if I would be able to make it. I vaguely remember her asking what Imeant exactly by not being able to make it. My answer came loud and clear; the sound that sliced through thecrisp morning air, and ricocheted down through the valley, confirmed our worst fears. It was meant to be a tiny harmless fart to let some of thepressure escape, but it ended up being just a little bit more. This cat shat.

As Sigmund Freud so cleverly discovered when treating patients whoexperienced puzzling losses of normal functioning, the shame was merciless. Ibelieve our friend Sigmund used the term hysteria to describe the aftermath ofsuch an event, and suggested an associated unconscious conflict. I can’tcomment on the unconscious conflict, but the conscious conflict I was having atthat exact moment was not to faint with embarrassment, for fear of plunging tomy death. My friend was laughing so hard she almost knocked the both of us off thechairlift with her incessantly shaking. As my good luck continued to run its course, she managed to catch her breath long enough toscream to our friends on the lift behind us, eloquently informing them of whathad just happened. A voice like hers really travels through a mountain range; I’m certain only four hundred fellow skiers, give or take, heard about myaccident. At least it was contained to that. When you're ready to die, four hundred people isn't that many. Did I mention I was suffering from hysteria? I made my friend ski right behind me all the way back to the chalet, justin case it was visible through my ski pants. Children don’t need to see thesesorts of things.

In the end, it sounded worse thanit was, with minor skid marks being the extent of the damage. I’ve clocked itas a small miracle. Although I did lose a few barrels of dignity that day, my ski-pants weresalvageable. And really, that's all that matters; those things are expensive.

I’ve since heard of this vodkaphenomenon being referred to as The Russian River. It was rushin', alright. Furthermore, let's be clear that the vodka company that produces Silent Sam should seriously rethink thename of their beverage. There’s nothing even remotely quiet about it.

Project Playroom...

2012-01-27T19:52:00.000-06:00

You may recall that back in December, I made reference to my quest to create a play area for my children. With that dream came great trepidation, for being crafty ain't way up there on my list of core strengths. (Please see I got skills post for more details on my lack of ability.)

The following picture captures the exact moment when I knew I had to create a stimulating space for my children to play in...I left the room for one minute to get my camera, and came back to find this:

a) Jack attempting to climb the bunk bed using only a skipping rope, b) Isla attempting a yet-to-be-named gymnast move, and c) James looked completely horrified at the thought of being crunched by a 30-pound carcass.

The time had come. I needed to take action. But what to do? We had a space in the basement that housed a majority of the toys. But friends, it was downright frightful. Hell, I didn't even to be down there, never mind sending the kids there to play. There was wall-to-wall debris; I hardly dared using the bathroom down there because that meant walking through the dreaded zone. It was all but guaranteed I would slip on a ball and/or crush my sole on an errant piece of Lego. I F***ING HATE LEGO. There. I said it.

And so came the genesis of Project Playroom, a term that my husband has come to loathe. I may not excel at execution of creative ideas, but friends, can I plan. I drew pictures, came up with spreadsheets, cut out ideas from magazines and built this wondrous display of stimulation and mind-blowing excitement in my mind.

First up? Painting old furniture. One of our neighbours recently moved to a condo and he left us a couple of old desks for the kids. They were perfect, although the old brown and teal on the school desk wasn't cutting it for me, nor was the paint colour on the other desk a shade that I would consider inspiring...shit beige doesn't bring out the best in me. I forgot to take a before shot, but you all know what those school desks look like...blech...here's the after shot:

Now let it be said, I had to leave these bad boys out on our driveway for a full week before the paint fumes subsided. You see, I had walked into the paint store with a very specific request, and it went as follows: "I don't scrape. I don't prime. I need paint that'll cover wood and metal and I need it to be in the most vibrant colours you possess. What do you have for me?"

I'll tell you what they had for me. Some oil-based chestnut sitting in the back room - a paint that no one had asked for in over five years. Paint that would give me the biggest rush I've had since University. I was higher than high. I felt no pain that entire week, which says something, cause I was crawling under those desks and contorted in some awful positions trying to paint those damn things, just weeks after giving birth. And just look at the result! How fun are those colours? (or am I still high?) If it was up to me, all schools would be required to paint their boring desks...I could even help pick out the paint. Not only would kids be more stimulated, but the little buggers would be so cut on fumes that productivity would surely go way up. Retention, maybe not, but at least they'd be quiet and pay attention.

Now where was I? Right. Desks, complete. Next up was ordering some fun stuff for the wall, specifically some letters to spell the following three words: READ, PLAY, LOVE. To me, that covers the basics of childhood - read to feed your imagination and be transported to new worlds, play like you mean it and love hard, knowing it's the most important thing you'll ever do. So I Googled wall letters, or something like that, and found this outfit in the States (sorry, totally forget the name on the place...) that created exactly what I was looking for. But all the fun was in that phone call. It went something like this:

Me: Hello! I'm calling from Canada. I'd like to order some letters however your website does not allow me to enter a Canadian address.
Him: Not a prob. I can hook you up. What are you looking for?

Important to note here that dude sounded way hung-over...like BAD. Still very polite but the voice said it all. Been there. Know it well.

Me: I'd like the word love in red, play in green and read in blue. All arial font, uppercase.
Him: That shouldn't be a problem. OK. I think I have this down. Let me read it back to you. Love - L.O.V.E in red.
Me: Yes.
Him: Play - P.L.A.Y in green.
Me: Uh-uh.
Him: Read - R.E.E.D in blue.
Me: What was that?
Him: R.E.E.D in blue.
Me: Ah, no. Not that type of reed. Although that would be extremely funny considering I'm putting it up over their library area. Hahahaha! Oooooh, hahahaha, that's good." snort.......(I have a sick propensity to laugh at my own jokes, even when, especially when, others don't find them to be funny.)
Him: So, OK, what then?
Me: Sorry. Read - R.E.A.D in blue.
Him: Cool. Done. (Did I mention he was really nice?) So now I just need your billing and mailing address. Let's start with your name.
Me: I'll just spell it for you. It's like, almost the entire alphabet. Capital J, a, n, i, t,a SPACE Capital V, a, n, SPACE, small d,e SPACE Capital V, e, l, d, e (I just had a flashback of having to call almost every single government agency back when I lost my wallet and all of my ID. You can imagine the horror on my co-workers face after round 57 of Capital J, a, n, i, t, a SPACE Capital V, ...you get the idea. Michelle, do you still spell my name in your sleep?)
Him: OK. I got up to the e. Then you lost me.
Me: Which e?
Him: Uhm, not sure really. Let me read this back to you.

This continued for another few minutes until we successfully spelled my name. And then, somewhere between my city and my province, came his mewl of horror.

Him: OK, can you spell that for me?
Me: Regina, Saskatchewan. Capital R, e, g, i, n, a SPACE Capital S, a, s, k, a, t, c, h, e, w, a, n
Him: You're killing me here. (he actually said this...he made me laugh so hard I wrote it down.) You're really killing me. (he said again, and laughed...)
Me: No worries. I'm killing myself. In fact, you had better read that Saskatchewan part back to me 'cause I'm not entirely certain I got that right. For the record, I realize it sounds extremely funny but I'm not making any of this shit up. My name is real, the name of the city is real, and the province is real. I swear it.
Him: Oh, I believe you. It's just, WOW. Of all days.

See, I knew it! Hung-over. I was dying to tell him that I was actually a Dutch lap-dancer from a city that rhymes with fun who was hired to call him up to talk really slowly and breathe heavy. But I didn't want to confuse the poor dude with another one of my bad jokes. Clearly, as it was, he was hanging on by a claw, plus I really needed those letters.

With the letters on their way and the furniture starting to take shape, we had a small matter of excess to deal with. A serious toy purge was in order. We decided to get Jack to help choose which toys would stay, and which ones would be donated to charity. We starting doing this with him last year, just after he turned four. I figured that was old enough for him to understand how blessed he was in comparison to others, who have so little. The conversation last year went something like this:

Me: Jack. We need to go through your toys and you need to help Mommy choose which ones we're going to give away.
Jack: Why do I have to give some away?
Me: Cause. There's lots of little boys and girls who have no Mommy or Daddy, or any toys to play with, that's why.

He looked completely uninterested; like that wasn't a good enough reason to give his stuff away. Clearly, I had no choice but to up the stakes.

Me: Some of these poor kids have no arms, either. It's very sad.

Jack looked at me, shocked. I felt a little bad.

Jack: Well, if they don't have arms, then how can they even play with the toys?

But this point, Roddy's staring at me, shaking his head, and mouthing: "Why did you say that?"

Me: Jack. Mommy has no idea why she just said that. I'm wrong. They actually do have arms. And anyways, that's not the point. The most important point here is that Mommy will have a heart attack if I have to look at this pile of shi...OK, let's get busy sorting through this, shall we? (WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH ME?)

Donations made, we were ready to rock and roll. The goal was to have Project Playroom ready to go for Christmas, so we could unveil their new space as their big present from Santa. It only took Santa a half-bottle of vodka and a litany of hateful obscenities to put the kitchenette together. Note: when the instructions indicate "assembly requires 2 adults, 4 - 6 hours", they are not joking. That means one clocking in 8. Hey, I was busy doing other shit. Santa'll get over it. Eventually.

The only other episode occurred when I was helping Santa space the letters to hang on the wall...I left for no more than four minutes, came back downstairs to find that he had hung the "Y" in play without my supervision. Here's a snippet from that lovely discussion:

Me: What the hell? Why is the "Y" so far away from the "PLA"?
Him: Don't know what you're talking about. Just looks that way because it's a "Y"
Me: What?
Him: The spacing is perfect. Quit being so anal.
Me: I'm not being anal. It looks like that two-headed monster from Sesame Street splitting the word to teach kids how to pronounce each syllable. However in this case, "PLA" and "Y" don't make much sense. You'll have to move it.
Him: You actually want me to rip this off the wall and move it? This is the same glue that you adhered to your skin when attempting to fix Jack's ornament. We all remember how that went down. Do you have any idea what that'll do to the drywall if I rip it off?
Me: I really don't care. It's gotta be moved. I'm going to look at that every day and it'll drive me wild.
Him: I have to be around you every day and you drive me wild.
Me: Stop with the compliments. We don't have time for sex right now. Move it.
Him: (as he yanked the "Y" off the wall, stripping a chunk of drywall with it, he uttered...) May this chunk of missing drywall always remind you of how anal you are. You're a freak.
Me: Ah, but it won't. Cause you're going to patch that up.

Oh, it was lovely. All joyful and merry and shit. But friends, the good news is that we came out the other side. I'm pleased to present you with the following before and after photos.

BEFORE:

I can't even believe I'm showing you these photos...I'm a dirt bag. More importantly, Where's Waldo?

The backhoe to the princess tent: "I will eviscerate you! Die! Die!"

Stuffed bunny, to no one in particular: "Please, I beg of you. Pull me from this hole or shoot me. Now."

Truck to the red barn: "Your barn door's open. AGAIN. Do us all a favour. Tuck that shit in and zip up."

And that's about all I can make out.

AFTER:

It is absolutely amazing what bright colours can do for a space, not to mention adding

stuff to the wall. Even when everything gets messy again, which it did within minutes,

your eyes are drawn upwards to the wall, distracting you from the carnage.

(except for the drywall damage, brought to you by the letter "Y").
The trick is hiding everything in storage containers; those bright pails all over the place
house crayons, markers, Play-Doh and "food supplies" for the kitchen.

And the Cars bed? It had to be moved somewhere when the bunk bed was required upstairs.

Rather than sell it, we decided to set it up in the basement for the kids to play on.

They love it. They love jumping on beds - who doesn't? It's one of their favourite things.

Red storage unit from Ikea; it was remarkably easy to put together and great quality.

Little desk given to us by a neighbour, chair from Grandma; both painted yellow.

Oh, did I find a flower knob and paint that green to match the other desk?

You know it. Peanut is currently obsessed with Olivia, hence the artwork over her desk.

The almost "REED" area; books are stored in baskets at the top with favourite toys in the bookshelf.

I framed a few photos of the kids loving on each other. Doesn't get much better than that.

Little Thomas the Tank Engine houses their favourite cars and trains,

and the little four-drawer bin that Thomas is sitting on has all their craft supplies in it.

It's the perfect size to store construction paper, scissors, glue, glitter, stickers - the works.

Spending $45 on a toy organizer from Costco may have been my best purchase...

the kids can now access their favourite toys from bins, rather than from a heap on the floor.

Boring, yes...but the chance of stepping on a small plastic ball and

landing on your back has been significantly reduced. Again, yawn.

The frames on Jack's desk are a family photo, a caption that reads "I love you just the way you are"

plus one of my all-time favourite Winnie The Pooh quotes:

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.

"Pooh!" he whispered.

"Yes, Piglet?"

"Nothing," said Piglet,

Taking Pooh's paw.

"I just wanted to be sure of you."

And yeah, you spotted him! Our good old elf-on-the-shelf named Sam Cooper (sitting on the easel), helped us out immensely in the week leading up to Christmas. "Oh, look what Sam Cooper did!
He must be getting stuff ready for Santa. Oh, what a cheeky little devil!"

I'm assuming as our family grows, there'll be changes to this area. But for now, we all love it. It was definitely worth the pain. And the look on our kids' faces when we showed them for Christmas? Priceless. I'll never forget their expressions of pure joy. That right there, made it all worthwhile.

Swamp People...and my very first blog award!

2012-01-23T14:30:00.000-06:00

No, the two things aren't connected. Well, they sort of are....here's some background for you. My son Jack is a huge, I repeat HUGE fan of Swamp People. If you've yet to watch this masterpiece, then may I suggest you do yourself a favour and tune it. There is of course, the network issue; you may find yourself looking for it on the Comedy Network or TLC but no, it airs on History Channel, right next to that other historically significant gem, Ice Road Truckers. Small wonders never cease. Regardless, watching these boys shoot, drag and treble-hook gators the size of their boat is a wild ride. The fact that subtitles are required, and they're speaking English, just adds to the overall dramatic effect. Recently, we received Jack's midyear portfolio from kindergarten (fancy now, eh?). In it, he was asked a set of interview questions while his grade eight buddy recorded the answers. The following slayed me:

What do you want to be when you grow up? A cop.
And if you can't be that? A swamp guy who wrestles alligators.

Dream big, little dude. There's no reason whatsoever why we can't knock out a few of your teeth, work on your slur, dangle a smoke from your lips, and set you floating out on a boat in the middle of a snake-infested swamp without a life jacket in sight. You go out there and get it! Don't let anyone tell you no. That's just jealousy talking.

What's the connection to this blog award? Well, this is my first (and most likely last...) blog award ~~for a cash prize of $1,000,000 and life-time supply of alligator meat~~ and I'm so excited about it! The darling who nominated my blog is originally from Louisiana. And I quote: "Because I am from Louisiana and actually lived in a swamp, I am frequently asked if I lived like the 'Swamp People' and the answer is NO. I know how to enunciate." A huge thank you to Britt from The Magnolia Pair for presenting me with the Liebster Award; she's hilarious, insightful and adorable and being recognized by her is a real honour. Do yourself a favour and check out her blog. Liebster in German means dearest, beloved, or favorite, and it's for bloggers with less than 200 followers. There are five simple rules:

1. Thank your Liebster Blog Award presenter on your blog

2. Link back to their blog

3. Copy and paste the blog award on your blog (you can see where this technical stuff was starting to get very difficult for me...only took me...uhm...not going to tell you how long it took me...)

4. Reveal your top five favourite blogs (with less than 200 followers)

5. Let them know you chose them by leaving a comment on their blog

6. Beg the people who regularly read your blog to become an official follower. (All you have to do is click on the blue button on the right hand side of my blog that says "Join this site") Oh, look! There it is - look to the right. There's the blue button!!! Did I plan that? Could I be that crafty? Friends, you know it. Click the button, add your email address and that's it. Be not afraid. My shots are up-to-date and I (usually) don't bite.

Without further ado, my top 5 Blog Picks for those blogs with 200 followers or less are (in no particular order), are as follows:

Da Grumpy Mudder
Mama Views
Writing...and other life lessons
Ross Knows
life is but a dream

Do yourself a favour and check them out. Have a wonderful week. xo

p.s. I totally added rule #6. I want to feel loved by you. Is that wrong? Transparent perhaps, but not wrong.

p.p.s. You can order Swamp People t-shirts from History Channel that read "Choot Em!" In my opinion, this sounds much better than shouting out "Shoot Them!" - that sounds a little too proper and pompous, does it not? Especially considering the activity in question. Without a doubt, I'll be ordering family t-shirts for our next gopher hunting expedition.
p.p.p.s. For those of you wondering "Why the incessant use of p.s.ssssss? Is this woman 8-years-old? Please see here.

Wait a minute...I'm not Jesus!

2012-01-22T10:57:00.000-06:00

Last week, I was attempting to carve out 5 minutes to myself...truthfully, I can't even remember what I was trying to do. Pay bills online, maybe, or fill out some government form for James's SIN number. Regardless, it was something where I needed just a few minutes to focus and get shit done. Isla and James were sleeping and Jack, being that he's 5, was asked (kindly, the first 47 times...) to entertain himself. But no. He kept whipping into my office, asking me to help him kick a field goal on his NFL PlayStation game. I informed him that I was completely useless in that arena, and that I hadn't kicked anything since the days of the joystick. He was like,

"What's a joystick, Mommy?"
"Precisely my point, honey. Mommy ain't got the skills."

He kept coming back, in and out, requesting the following (but not limited to): apple juice, granola bar, chocolate milk, field goal attempt, wipe my bum, new pair of pants, cookie, come watch my replay, crayons, movie, book from school, come watch my pick-off...I'd go on but it's too painful.

At one point, I got up and told him that he was going to work on his numbers and letters while Mommy finished up her stuff. So I set him up with his workbook, some markers, juice, granola bar, new pair of pants, ~~pack of smokes, vodka,~~ whatever the hell was within a 10-yard radius, and left him there at the table to get back to what I was doing.

A second later, maybe two, I heard him walking over to where I was...feeling the need to shout flag on the play, I shrieked, and I mean SHRIEKED LIKE A CRAZY PERSON:

"JACK, WHAT DID I JUST EFFING SAY ABOUT LEAVING MOMMY ALONE FOR 5 EFFING MINUTES ALREADY! I'M GOING LOSE MY MIND IF YOU INTERRUPT ME ONE MORE TIME."

Undaunted, and completely unconcerned about my potential mind loss, he turned the corner into my office, tears in his eyes, and stated: "But Mommy, I just wanted you to tell me how to spell Jesus."

It's rather easy to fall to your knees and hug your child when you feel two inches tall. Mercy. I felt like the biggest asshole on the planet...and really, of all words your child is attempting to spell when you go completely bat-shit on them? Jesus.

All this got me to thinking about a video taken a few months ago. Last September, Roddy and I were about to head off to Spain for a couple of weeks with James, our three-month old son. It's a tradition - we take our newborns there ~~to escape from our other children~~ for a couple weeks of bonding. So because we were leaving two kids behind, it was time to update the will, leave everything in order, just in case. I also made sure that we took a lot of videos that week leading up to the trip; if the plane went down, I wanted Jack and Isla to have some memories from the last time we spent together. (Very morbid thought, yes, but hey it happens...better to be prepared.)

The following is footage was taken the night before we were leaving. I'm cuddling with Jack, saying our usual prayer for the evening, which goes as follows:

"Lord as I lay me down to sleep
I pray thee Lord my soul to keep.
And the angels watch me through the night,
And keep me in their blessed sight. Amen."

This time, I wanted to say more. I wanted Jack to know how to thank Jesus for all he's been given...his family, his friends, the country he lives in and so on. Again, I wanted to get it just right as this was part of his legacy, should I not return. And so I began:

"Thank you Jesus..." and I paused, for a millisecond, because I wasn't sure how to proceed. Do I say "Thank you Jesus for my family" or do I mention everyone in the family and say "Thank you Jesus for Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle Henry....and on and ON AND ON? Mercy, that could take hours. (Belgian Catholic family...need I say more...). The reason I was contemplating this at all, is because Jack's favourite thing to do before he falls asleep is to turn to me and ask, "Can you tickle my back and count my people?" (translation: tickle his back while I recite every single family member, and dare I skip someone to accelerate the process, he'll remind me that I've messed up and I have to start over, from the beginning.) OK, Moses, no problem. That'll only take all night, but what the hell, let's do it. I digress. So in that pause, right after "Thank you Jesus..." as I was thinking of how best to approach this prayer (at times, my anal tendencies shock even me...), Jack opens his mouth and declares:

"Wait a minute...I'm not Jesus!"

I was momentarily stunned as I wasn't quite sure I heard him right. But yes, I paused just a fraction too long, and because verbal statements come with no punctuation (save for the dreaded "air quotes"), what he heard was: "Thank you, Jesus." and not my intended, "Thank you Jesus..."

Dear Jack,
I do not suffer from (full-blown) dementia. I'm fully aware you're not Jesus. But in my mind, you're right up there.

Love,
Mommy

How to survive a Prairie winter...

2012-01-19T18:00:00.000-06:00

Weather reports for Regina indicated it was minus 53 with the wind chill last night. (That's degrees Celsius, for my non-metric friends...yeah, it's as bad as it sounds. I don't even know if Fahrenheit records that sort of horror.).

My advice for surviving a Prairie winter? Don’t. Go. Outside. Animals with massive fur pelts tend to thrive in, perhaps even enjoy, sub-arctic climates. If you're of a species not born with a rug of hair covering your entire body and/or your name is not Chuck Norris, then you may have a harder time embracing Prairie winters.

My distaste for cold weather is directly linked to the following incident. I was the seventh child in a batch of eight, and I made my appearance in the fall, just as my parents were building a new house to accommodate their expanding brood. (At some point during the path of evolution, stacking three kids per bed was considered cruel and unusual punishment. The shack had to be replaced.)

My first real crisis on planet earth happened that first winter, when I was a mere wisp of a creature, barely tapping the three month mark. By the time winter rolled around, the frame of the new house was up but the basement was the only part finished. So for a few months, we all lived down there like a family of badgers. As the story goes, my little crib was tucked safely against a wall, right up under one of those sketchy basement windows. You know the type - the ones that can get pushed in very easily. The ones that when not latched properly, certainly won’t withstand a massive snowstorm. Well my friends, on that fateful night, the howling winds blew that window wide open and subsequently, my helpless wee body was covered in a blanket of snow.

As my older sister likes to recall, I resembled one of those ramps you launch a snowmobile over. She’s pretty sure I was covered for hours before anyone realized where the mewling noise was coming from. My mom swears this isn’t true. According to her, I was covered for a few minutes, at most, before she responded to my wails of terror. They’re all suspect in my mind.

Here's a photo that was taken in said basement many years ago. From the look on my face, I'm presuming this image was captured shortly after my near-death experience...I look to be about three months old so the timing makes sense. I'm staring off into space, suffering from the mother of all brain freezes. Clearly, with my head resting on my wee fist, the caption should read: "I'm praying there's been some horrible mix-up at the hospital. As soon as I'm old enough, I'll be demanding a DNA test." Most importantly, why does it look like I'm wearing snap-on Lego hair? Speaking of pelts...I likely grew that mane in genetic response to the frigid conditions.

So how do I handle the cold now? By avoiding the outdoors as much as possible. I despise glacial temperatures, and you will never receive an apology from me for that statement. And yes, I was born here, grew up here, choose to live here, blah, blah, blah. But guess what? That doesn’t mean I have to proclaim my love for a wind chill that will freeze my face in under two minutes.

On days like this, my mom will often call up and initiate a wildly hilarious discussion, which inevitably goes as follows:

Mom: Oh, what a beautiful, crisp day today! That blue sky is absolutely amazing. Have you taken the kids out yet?

Me: Hmmmm. Right. Is Manitoba, like, 55 degrees warmer than Saskatchewan today? ‘Cause last time I checked, it’s not fit for humans outside.

Mom: Oh for heaven’s sake! It’s only minus twenty-five. And that blue sky! That's the one good thing about this cold weather, it almost always means a clear, blue sky. Bundle the kids up and get out there and enjoy some fresh air. They need their vitamin D. I love seeing kids with healthy red cheeks!

Yeah. Here’s the thing. That healthy red is also known as the onset of frostbite. As for the vitamin D, it now comes in drops. That, or I can set the kids by the window – our old double-panes offer up a bit of a breeze. And lastly, for the record, here’s my definition of too cold: if today you decided to wander outside for a stroll in your leisure wear, would you be dead inside the hour? Yeah? Then stay inside.

My mom also informs me from time-to-time that I should pick up a hobby, do something with my hands. She tells me this would help pass the cold winter nights and more importantly, stave off arthritis. Arthritis? Is this what I need to start worrying about? The last bit scared me so I decided to sit down with her one evening and learn how to knit. Actually, truth be told, we started with crochet, however we aborted that mission shortly thereafter. I couldn’t really see what she was doing, and she couldn’t seem to slow it down to a pace where I could make heads or tails of what the hell was going on (translation: stop and hold for several hours so I could take pictures and make notes). It’s rather embarrassing to admit but I have this thing where I can’t figure something out unless it’s right in front of me, and I’m looking at it from the angle at which I’ll be attacking it. Like if I’m holding a map, I’ll turn it in the direction I’m actually driving, even if this means the whole thing is upside down. My husband has kindly informed me that this is an odd, rather disturbing, behaviour. (Perhaps that part of my brain doesn't work anymore as a result of lying frozen in a snow bank, left for dead by my entire family, when I was no more than twelve weeks old. Oh, sorry…did I mention this part already?) Needless to say, watching my Mom crochet from across the room was completely useless so I had to go and hover over her shoulder. Apparently my garlic breath was disruptive.

We then moved on to knitting. According to my Mom, I kept dropping the stitches, a term that makes little sense to me. If something doesn’t exist in the first place, then how does one go about dropping it? Either way, she suggested I use larger knitting needles. She then whipped out a set that were large enough to roast a coyote over an open fire pit. But still, the task proved too formidable for these (apparently arthritic) hands of mine, and after inadvertently spearing my cheek with a needle, I threw in the yarn and called it a day. My quest to make a scarf ended in a chorus of muffled sobs; mine as a result of my dire absence of ability, my mom’s from the sheer entertainment of watching me sweat. At one point, she asked me point blank if I was faking the whole thing. Faking what exactly? Incompetence? A complete and utter lack of skill? That kind of ignorance is hard to fake. (My final word on knitting? Go to Etsy, buy it, then tell your kids you made it...)

In the end, I tried to save face with my mom by suggesting that I would love for her to teach me how to bake bread. I think I even successfully faked a look of complete interest. This statement brought forth a fresh set of tears; she has yet to stop laughing. But when she does, I’ll secure a date with destiny and report back to you on what will likely be my finest (and last) hour in the kitchen. Really, how hard can it be? Yawn.

p.s. My 30-day date with Jillian has been postponed due to flu germs destroying all occupants of our household over the course of the last week. Just the thought of starting *The Shred* makes me all nauseous and queasy...or perhaps it was the large poutine I ordered from Dairy Queen last night, which seemed like an appropriate choice after not eating for two days. (My intelligence often surprises even me.) At any rate, I think it's about to repeat itself so I must dash.

A donation worth making...

2012-01-17T09:54:00.001-06:00

Some of you will remember this story I shared almost two years ago...grab a box of tissues and read it again. (Nella Cordelia - A birth story)

It's a powerful message. I've followed Kelle's blog for years now and you know what? I've learned a lot...about myself, about life, about how much we take for granted when our children aren't faced with extra difficulty. I've also learned that I sometimes say things without thinking - things that have the ability to hurt, even when it's not your intention. Example? I use the word retard. Quite a bit. Growing up, my siblings and I used the word enough to cause confusion when it came to remembering our actual names. It was just a word - we never thought too much about it. Even now, when I do something stupid, like turn around and run straight into a wall (don't ask)...I can be found muttering, "F*ck, now that was retarded."

Guess what? I'm going to stop using that word. Reflecting on it now, I don't think it made me a bad person; my intent was never to hurt or ridicule those who have Down Syndrome. To those I may have hurt in the past, I'm sorry beyond measure. But now? I know more now...knowledge grants us access to becoming a better person. Nothing is ever just a word. Words carry weight. In using that word, I'm propagating hurt and sadness, and I don't want to be part of causing someone that kind of pain. I don't want my children growing up thinking the use of the word retard is acceptable. I'm stopping it right here, right now.

So I ask you now, if you are in a position to do so, make a donation to the National Down Syndrome Society. On Kelle's blog, click on the “2 for 2” right under the header or on the sidebar. Their goal is to raise $200,000 to honour Nella's 2nd birthday...with just under a week left, they have $40,000 left to go. Think of a small fee you could give up for this week - make your coffee instead of buying one, carpool instead of cab, watch the news instead of buying the paper, eat Kraft dinner vs. ordering take-out….every little bit counts. And for those who can do it, think of doubling your contribution to honour those who can’t quite afford to at the moment. From time to time, we all need a helping hand.

All I know is this: Kelle, Nella & co. have taught me a whole lot about living life with joy, finding peace and indescribable beauty when life turns out a little differently than you expected and spreading light and goodness wherever you go. I ask you to donate to this cause so that one day, the world will embrace every single beautiful soul and not diminish anyone’s light because of their differences. Do it for Nella. Do it for your kids. Do it for you. xo

If it's stuck, have at 'er...

2012-01-15T12:25:00.000-06:00

Since Friday night, my husband and I have been taking turns wiping up vomit. In our glory days, it was usually our own however now that we've matured, we find ourselves assuming the role of responsible parenting. I tell you though, I have a gag reflex on me that makes 7-year-olds hawking loogies giggle. So when I ripped around the corner into the bathroom holding my precious daughter, who was in the throes of a heave, only to find myself 4 seconds too late, let's just say my beloved was called in to clean up the spatter, which incidentally was reminiscent of a scene from The Exorcist. How does a 2-year produce something like that?

In my bid for Mother-of-the-Year award, I share the following excerpt from the weekend.

"Jack, run, hurry! Go and grab me the puke bucket from upstairs for Peanut!"
"I can't, Mommy. I'm sick."
"You're not sick. Peanut's sick. Quit faking and run and get it. H.U.R.R.Y."

He dashed off, comes back with said puke bucket, deposits in at my feet in tears and states:

"You hurt my feelings, Mommy. What's rule #1 in this house? It's that we love each other. You're not loving me right now because I'm sick and you're making me do chores."

"Running to get a bucket for Mommy is not considered chores, honey. Stay tuned for that list."

What happened just hours later? We dashed out to meet some dear friends for supper - we were going to cancel but our sitter was like, "Dudes. I deal with much worse most days. Go. Be gone. Have fun." (Name of said sitter I shall never disclose because she's that wonderful, and we're not up for sharing her greatness...)

We arrived home a few hours later to find that Jack, the faker, had deposited the contents of his stomach onto the couch, afghan, throw cushions and everything else within a 5-yard radius. He was still up and he came running to me for a hug and said:

"See, Mommy. I wasn't faking."

Bless his cotton socks.

"Mommy owes you an apology, honey. I'm really sorry I didn't believe you. And I'm sorry for calling you a faker." You just reminded me so much of your Father providing excuses on cue when asked to help do something (other than scratch) during football play-offs, heaven forbid. What? Where was I?

And the fun continued throughout the night - let's just say, I'm officially out of sheets.

So, at the moment, the house reeks to Clorox bleach, I'm midway through the piles of laundry, and all three are blissfully sleeping. As for those house rules? Yes, we've started a list. Rule #1 is that we always love each other. We're up to 14 rules, pending revision. I'll share the final list once we're ready to frame it and hang on the wall. I'll leave you with this video, depicting the importance of rule #6...no nose-picking. When I penned the initial draft of said rules, I reviewed them with Jack, asking for his input. When I read the one on nose-picking, he countered:

"But what if it's stuck? Then you have to pick."

Fair point. If it's stuck, have at 'er. If God hadn't intended for us to head on in there, he wouldn't have made our fingers fit so beautifully, as Peanut so wonderfully demonstrates in the following video.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend, friends. Looks like winter has officially arrived. Now that's something that makes me want to hurl.

Eating naked...

2012-01-12T18:18:00.001-06:00

I recently read an article in Women's Health magazine (Subscription to said magazine was a gift from a dear friend...in all likelihood, a feeble attempt to reform me.) It happened quite by accident. I was doing my usual - cruising through the magazine rather quickly, looking for yummy recipes and/or photos of supermodels to yell at - when I stumbled across an article about Marissa Miller. For those of you who aren't aware, she's one of the top models for Victoria's Secret. There's an interview, followed by a section on diet tricks, where Marissa shares some of her stay-slim strategies. And I quote:

"Eat naked. Eating smart is all about having an awareness of your body. The most obvious way to do that is by seeing it. So when you're trying to lose weight, spend more time wearing less. I don't think I could eat a plate of nachos naked - could you?"

My response?

Dear Marissa Miller,
I could demolish a plate of nachos inside of 3 minutes, hanging upside down from a hook on the wall, eyes closed, using no hands. Whether or not I'm wearing clothes would not even factor into the equation. The only thing that would stop me from doing this is the therapy sessions that would be required for my family after witnessing this horrific event. Having said that, if I had a body like yours, I would trot around naked all day. Mostly because I wouldn't be able to stop staring at myself. I would likely park myself in front of a full length mirror and just stare at myself and eat nachos. Yes, if I looked like you, I would eat naked. Hell, I would run to the grocery store naked.

Sincerely, Janita (OK, I lie. I wouldn't run.)

The article went on to describe some exercise tips but I've long since forgotten them all...I was too busy laughing to focus. I do need to start exercising, though, of this I'm aware. I was going to title this post: "How to incorporate exercise into your daily routine..." My husband walked by and saw that title, snorted really loudly, then politely suggested I stick to writing about what I know...more on his numerous disorders later.

Simply put, I don’t exercise. Regularly. I've had many of false starts on various regimes. I last about 3 - 4 days, just to the point where I can't lift my arms to get my bra on, then I stop. Sadly, I’m not even a big fan of walking. I can safely blame my parents for this one. Growing up on the farm, they frowned upon any sort of frivolous behaviour, including the act of walking just for fun. That would have been considered a pointless waste of time and energy. When I was a teenager, there was nothing cooler than strapping on your Walkman and a pair of velour shorts to go power-walking down the main highway with some friends. When I would ask my Dad if I could go, his response typically didn’t vary from the following:

Dad: “Where are you walking to, exactly?”
Me: “To town and back.”
Dad: “What for?”
Me: “To hang out with my friends and get some exercise.”
Dad: “I don’t think that’s a very smart idea.”
Me: “Why not? It’s not like anything’s going to happen to us! It’s just a few miles away, and we’ll be back before dark. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

At this point, my heart would swell with love and gratitude; I was overwhelmed that my Dad was so worried about my safety.

Dad: “Oh, I’m not worried about that. What I am worried about is your ability to waste time. If you want to get some exercise, why don’t you strap yourself to the back of that push-mower, and power-walk your way over to those grain bins out back and clean up that long grass? You didn’t get around to it last week.”

What? Didn’t get around to it? And deliberately miss out on all that fun? Crazy cat. Who in their right mind would pass up the chance to wander perilously through waist-high grass and randomly chop up snakes and mice with a mower blade? Why on earth would I forget to do that? You can’t put a dollar on that type of fun.

To this day, I blame (well, credit really…) my Dad for my lack of a gym membership. After all, who in their right mind would walk, or worse yet, run, just for the hell of it? I'll admit, over the years, I have come to see the benefits of exercise and why it’s necessary - it can help protect you from premature heart disease and stroke, diabetes, obesity and yes, it can even help improve your overall mood, that is, once you get past the actual pain, sweating, swearing and panting. Yes my friends, I get why it’s important and I will eventually whip myself into shape. Odds are much better that I’ll whip myself into cardiac arrest, but hey, at least I’ll go out trying. My first thought was to start small and find exercise books written for people like me, the exercise impaired. Recently, I found a book that explains things in a great amount of detail; for the one-arm triceps extension, it instructs you to find a sturdy chair, put your feet flat on the ground and then hold a dumbbell in one hand over your head with your palm facing in and your elbow and wrist directly above your shoulder. And just when you’re about to lose heart because you’re so confused as to what arm is supposed to be doing what, and where the weight should even be, you read on: ”…slowly lower the weight behind you, taking care not to hit yourself in the head with it.” It's moments like these that make me smile...some people are indeed worse off than me.

Up next? Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred...I've had several false starts but this time, my husband's doing it with me. I'm not sure if this is a good idea because he's actually fit. I'll want to punch him in the face. But hey, I'm up for trying anything at this point. Our goal is to do it 30 days in a row. Some may think the title, 30-day shred, was self-explanatory. I was all for spreading those 30 days out over a 6-month period (then demanding a refund when it didn't work).

Stay tuned, ear to the ground, for a full report. Better yet, hold one of those conch shells up to your ear - not only will you hear the sound of the ocean, you'll also hear the sound of a grown woman crying.

Dude, did you skin The Grinch?

2012-01-08T12:50:00.000-06:00

Do you often find yourself wondering if you still have it? No, me neither. That would be shallow.

For those of you who have children, you’ll understand the following dilemma: when one of your friends organizes a night out with the girls, your initial excitement of getting out of the house is immediately eclipsed by the sheer panic of making it happen. Is my husband around to watch the kids? Will I have anything entertaining to talk about other than my adoooooooorable children? Is it physically possible to keep my eyelids open past 10:00 p.m.? And most importantly, how long will it take me to get ready? Nowadays, it’s a task that seems as monumental as climbing Mount Everest, or more appropriately, fastening a post-baby belly the size of a Sherpa into the folds of my jeans. This nauseating visual is immediately followed by the equally nauseating question: do I still have it? Can a completely dishevelled and out-of-touch mother of three, with permanent deposits of baby vomit on her shoulder, get back out on the scene? Or more appropriately, hit the town and not cause a scene?

To prepare for a public viewing, I start by working on my face. Some mornings I look in the mirror and could swear some of my facial features have migrated during the night; my eyes have mysteriously splayed down towards my ears, making it appear as though I’m on the cusp of morphing into a hammerhead shark. Simply put, a touch of lipstick doesn’t cut it anymore.

It's embarrassing to admit this, but recently I got reeled in by one of those coma-inducing infomercials; one with a magical voice that promised to reverse the effects of hard living (translation: university diet of vodka, Export A "Green Death" and Kraft dinner) and aging. In all likelihood, the product is made from snake venom and the collective sperm of all endangered species, but when you're desperate, you really don't give a shit. These details become trivial. In a giddy trance, I dialled the toll-free number and waited in anticipation to place my order. I was having visions of my former dewy skin reflecting back at me in the mirror and was so lost in my daydream, that I almost didn't hear what the lady was telling me. I asked her to repeat the cost. Then I giggled nervously and asked her to repeat it again. I had erroneously assumed the price I saw on the infomercial was the total cost, not four regular instalments of said amount. I politely declined and said, “For that price sweetheart, I’d be expecting you to mail me a new face.”

I recall a particular incident from a few years ago; I was ready to call my friends and back out from a night out on the town, with some lame excuse involving a highly contagious, rash-inducing, unfortunately timed illness that mysteriously surfaced in my first born just as I was about to walk out the door. One of the benefits of having children is that they provide a built-in excuse for dodging any sort of social commitment. I just didn't feel up to it...mostly because I had actually forgot how to look presentable. Seriously, you know you look rough when you laboriously spend an hour getting ready, putting some serious effort into it, start to feel pretty good about yourself, only to answer a knock at your front door to find your neighbour standing there, who takes one look at you and says: “Oh. So sorry to wake you. Can I borrow an egg?” Ooooouch.

I won't lie to you. It hurt. But fear not, my friends, I soldiered on. I journeyed into my closet to find a suitable outfit to mark the occasion. I should mention here that in regards to overall fashion, I let myself go just a touch while enjoying my maternity leaves. Nothing major. It usually starts with wearing the same pair of green sweatpants every day, followed shortly by the addition of a green t-shirt and a green sweater. May I add that the greens rarely match; in fact, offensive clash would be a more appropriate description. In my head, because I'm wearing all green, I sort of feel put together. Don't ask. I have no answer.

I would have gone on washing and wearing the exact same comfortable outfit for the entire year had my sister not intervened one afternoon with the following declaration:

“Dude, did you skin the Grinch? You look horrendous.”

Now if this had been the first reference to the Grinch that week in question, I could have handled the insult like a mature adult. As it happened, earlier that week, Jack and I were playing when he (purposefully) whacked me over the head with a metal car. I gave him my dirtiest scowl and demanded an apology. I was pissed off. He looked me straight in the face and said:

“Mommy, you look like the pwince from that movie.”

My heart instantly warmed.

“Honey, don’t you mean the princess? Mommy’s a girl so I can’t be the pwince.” (Being hit up with flattery, I instantly forgot my request for an apology. At times, my vanity knows no bounds.)

“No, Mommy! Not that movie. Not the pwince, I said the GWINCH.”

Aren’t 3-year olds adorable? Particularly when their mouth is sealed shut with duct-tape.

In the end, pulling yourself together and getting out of the house is always worth it. Bonding with girlfriends is like a soothing ointment for the soul. So even if you don't feel like it, I urge you, get out of the house once and awhile. Heck, throw on a balaclava and poncho if you must. It's one of the benefits of living in the Praires...we can wear a get-up like that and not look like a stalker. Warning though, amidst the stories and giggles, you’ll inevitably find yourself thinking that the music is far too loud, the floor of the bar could really use a good scrubbing, the young girls, who clearly raided your toddler’s closet for their t-shirts, should think about covering their kidneys so they don’t catch a cold, and as you crouch precariously over the toilet seat you wouldn’t dare sit on even if ordered at gunpoint, you’ll be tempted to tidy the bathroom stall whilst you urinate because your capacity to multi-task cannot be tamed. And at some point during the night, you’ll wistfully think of your children, wishing you’d been there to tuck them into bed, read them their favourite story and kiss them goodnight. And at that very moment you’ll realize that yes, you still have it – you have it all, plus more.

Mommy, I snipped my nuts...

2012-01-05T11:18:00.001-06:00

The title of this post ranks right up there with things you never want to hear coming from the mouth of your four-year old son. Hell, you wouldn't want to hear it at any age. Ah, one of the many joys of raising sons when you really have no idea what you're talking about.

Last year, after suffering through months of a particularly dismal winter (and a husband who continually turns down the heat because a. he's cheap and b. his people are used to running around in kilts so my guess is that they're of hardier stock), I decided to buy the kids warmer PJs. You know the ones: they're fuzzy, they're cozy, they've got feet. The ones you wish came in your size. The one's where you don't want to be messing with a classic combo of zipper and private parts.

This particular night in question, my husband was away on a business trip. Goes without saying that the first thing I did was crank up the heat. Being that I was heavily pregnant, within minutes the soaring heat threw me into a lather, but I soldiered on because I wanted the house to be warm enough for the kids. I was bathing my 1-year old daughter, intermittently laying against the cold tile on the bathroom floor in an attempt to regulate my body temperature, while my four-year son sat watching Treehouse in the living room. (You know the station...the one that makes parents want to saw on their wrists with a butter knife but we don't turn it off for fear of being physically assaulted by a toddler. I pick my battles).

Things were ticking along smoothly until I heard an earth-shattering shriek from the living room...the type that makes the hairs in your unshaven pits stand on end. I quickly wrapped Isla in a towel and went racing (waddling really, like only a heavily pregnant woman can do) from the bathroom, and rounded the corner just as my son screamed out, "Oooooooooooweeeeeeeeee, Mommy! Hurry! I snipped my nuts." As I met him in the hallway, bewildered by what he could possibly mean, I fell to my knees when I saw him clutching his tackle amidst the wreckage of a long-zipper. I had to focus, friends...I had to pull myself together quickly. All I could picture was that scene from There's Something About Mary and I tell you, I was already mentally preparing for the 911 call because I'm not good with these sorts of things. Truth be told, until that point, I'd never really stopped to consider, "Hey, would I be good in a situation where my child has erroneously clamped his genitals in a 2-foot zipper?" But now I can answer that for certain. No, I would not consider this to be an area of strength.

Mercifully, by the time I got in there to survey the damage, I could see that he had already dislodged "his nuts". I was crying. (Tears of relief streaming down my face...albeit heavily laced with tears of laughter, which I desperately tried to hide from him. Snipped my nuts? Where does he get this?)

And of course I had to ask him, mostly because I was downright curious:

"How on earth did you manage to snip your nuts?"
"I was hot and my nuts needed some air so I pulled the zipper down and it snipped my nuts."

I was without words. How to kindly tell a 4-year old that an alternate method of obtaining fresh air would be to step outside? Needless to say, I turned down the heat. And now, when the footed PJs get pulled out, there's a rule that we always throw gitch on first. Precautions, people. Shit like that should be in bold font as a warning on the footed-PJ label. In my opinion, that information would be much more useful than how to wash it. (Like really, all kids clothing is going in one cycle anyway, regardless of colour and fabric, no matter what the label recommends...that's just how this Mama rolls. I'll suck up the odd casualty.)

All this got me to thinking about nuts in general. There are so many conversations I'm ill-prepared for, so I feel it my duty to share these stories with you, should you find yourself in the vicinity of a male, forced to play a role in these nasty encounters. Around the same time of the snipping of the nuts incident, I had to have a discussion with Jack about scratching his nuts. He was doing it a lot. My final attempt at seeing progress in this arena went something like this:

"Jack, you really need to stop playing with your nuts."
"Daddy does."
"You are correct. Daddy does. But you shouldn't do it around other people."
"Just read the book, OK Mommy?" (We were engrossed in Guess How Much I Love You, by Sam McBratney...if you don't have a copy of this book, go out and get it. I'm saying this because it's an awesome book, and also because I'm about to share a photo from said book. I don't want to infringe on any copyrights and not give full credit where credit is due. Note: if I get sent to jail, I'll be bringing this book.)
"OK, I'll keep reading but you have to promise you'll quit scratching your nuts."
"What if my nuts are itchy?"
"Then scratch. Just not around other people. It's gross."

Mother-of-the-Year speech over, I continued to read Guess How Much I Love You. That is, until we got to this page:

(Excerpt from Guess How Much I Love You - Sam McBratney)

It's one of my favourite parts of the story...cute-as-a-button Little Nutbrown Hare, rubbing his eyes, getting sleepy...I'm about to turn the page when Jack states,

"Hey, look! Little Nutbrown Hare is scratching his nuts."
"What are you talking about?"
"He's rubbing his eyes, then he's scratching his nuts. See? His paws are down there and he's scratching. Look, he's smiling."

By this point, Jack was laughing hysterically and I've all but released urine in an attempt not to laugh; I wanted my message about not scratching nuts to be serious. But that lasted all of...oh...let's go with 2 seconds, before I collapsed in a helpless heap of body-shaking laughter. Seriously though, is something the matter with his brain? When I finally pulled myself together long enough to speak, I conceded:

"You're right, Jack. It looks like he may be having a scratch. For the record, I don't think he is though...I think he's just resting his paws there. But great imagination! Wow! Well done. Just remember, if he is in fact scratching his nuts, it's OK because he's in the woods and no one's around."
"So I can scratch in the woods?"
"Be my guest."
"What does that mean?"
"Go for it. In the woods."
"Thanks, Mommy."
"You're welcome."

I could not make this shit up if I tried. I wish.

Let's start the New Year off with a bang....

2012-01-03T10:00:00.000-06:00

Albeit at the expense of my son cracking his head off a light fixture. I should have downloaded these home videos months ago, they're that much fun.

Some people are just accidentally funny...I don't think they mean to be, they just are.

This video requires a little introduction:

We loaded the family into the van for a 7-hour trip to the West Edmonton Mall to celebrate Jack's 5th birthday. All this with the use of little more than prescription drugs. Jack wanted to stay in the Truck theme suite at the Fantasyland Hotel. I was all like, "Right on, little dude. It's your birthday! We'll go there for sure." Enter Scottish husband, who almost had a cardiac event after looking at the prices. (Something I should have done first, prior to making promises.) So we comprised; two nights in a cheap hotel followed by check-in to the absurdly over-priced theme suite for the big birthday night. Incidentally, I was much more comfortable having James roll around on the floor in the "cheap" hotel...not sure if 'ole Fantasyland has had a carpet update in the last, oh, let's go with 40 years to avoid the risk of over-shooting. But as for the cool factor? It's got that covered off like an ace.
You may want to skip to about 2:15 on this video...quite frankly, my running narrative up to the incident is rather embarrassing. I think I'm going to keep a roll of duct tape next to my video camera with a sticky note as a reminder: "Please adhere thick strip over lips prior to recording."
If you choose to watch the entire video, you may find yourself asking, "Is there a pair of great horned owls in the room?" The answer is no. It's just my husband and I exchanging ill-sounding ooooo, ooooos and aaaaaahs. Please, don't be alarmed. We were not mating at time of recording. In addition to sounding like a bird in heat, there's a vein of meth-addled junkie in there, with all my: "Oooooooooooh, Woooooooooow. How cooooool is that? Look, look, looooooook. Oh my gooooooodness. The green light just went on....wooooooooow. Bunker Beds. Cooooooooooool." (We've been watching The Wire. Trust me. I sound like I have a serious drug problem. If anything, I'm just a touch more animated.)
Having cleared the light fixture on his initial walk over, Jack makes the fatal error of a horribly timed turn and jump (a touch more painful than an ill-fated turn into someones burp and blow), and is caught completely unaware of the giant light fixture hanging just above his head. The way he looks up after and scans the sky to see what could have possibly hit him with such force...have mercy. I was laughing so hard, I was wheezing. I could barely squeak out the obligatory, "Are you OK?" (you MUST find a way to say this if you're the mother...if you're not the mother, you can continue laughing for days, that's OK); there was no way I dared look at my husband, who I could hear choking it back behind me. Hell, one look at his face would have done me in. As it was, it took every ounce of strength to keep from soiling myself.
When Jack turns to give me shit, and says, "Don't yaff", rather than stopping, I toss him the (very weak) low-ball, "I'm not laughing at that anymore." Not only am I cruel, I'm a liar as well. He then proceeds to jump off the bed in the most ungainly manner, at which point I was officially cooked, quite literally thinking of death to stop the laughter (tell me I'm not the only one who does this).
Little dude, you sustain me. Don't ever change. (And one day I'll have to tell you that in all honesty, I yaffed about this incident for the entire 7-hour drive home.)
And, please...no need to judge me. I'm fully aware I'm an asshole. (Which incidentally, is a bona fide medical condition. New readers, see here What not to do 2 weeks after giving birth...

Working on my edges....

2011-12-31T20:53:00.000-06:00

Disclaimer: this piece has not been edited. It's long, with enough dangling participles to make any English teacher weep, but hey, it's from the heart. Fair and square. Consider this your warning.

I woke up this morning feeling shitty, for no good reason. My husband was downstairs with all the kids, giving me a rare opportunity to sleep in. I don't think I've slept for longer than three hours straight for the past seven months. But guess what? Instead of enjoying the gift of silence and extra sleep, my ungrateful little self woke with a start, looked and the time and thought, "Shit! I can't believe I slept this long. I'll never get through my list of things to do today." You see, I had big plans for today. HUGE. They involved a full-scale assault on the clutter in our home, in my feeble attempt to start the new year...well, what's the word for it...clean. Pure. And then, somewhere in the panic it dawned on me. This here needs to be my lesson for what I need to change in the new year. Screw a clean house.

Sadly, I'm wired this way. I don't know how to be gentle on myself. Shy of going on an epic bender in an attempt to unravel my DNA strand and wake with a newly tuned double-helix, I sometimes feel at a complete loss. My focus always gets interrupted. I'm doing my best to be a wife, a mother, a friend, a sister, a daughter, a career woman, a writer and sometimes all I'm left with are feelings of frustration, sadness, anger, inadequacy, melancholy - all culminating in a storm of feeling completely undeserving of those who love me unconditionally. In my quest to be everything to everyone, I'm left feeling nothing...aside from the feeling that I'm not getting enough done. That little chestnut refuses to dispose of itself.

I think this is why I hate yoga. Loathe it. Holding those positions for an eternity without feeling like I'm getting anything done. And I told my yoga instructor this. "Why is this pose called Happy Baby?" I yelled, "Angry f*cking pirate would be much more suitable." You know what she told me? She told me that's the point. I feel this way because I'm working out some edges. And maybe mine is that I have no patience with myself, and that I get angry when I feel like nothing's getting done (ouch). She went on to say that yoga is not about getting comfortable in a position and holding it there, faking the pose; that's apparently called cheating. It's about finding the pain, just enough of it, to feel the edge, holding that edge, working through that edge, and breaking through to the other side. Being better because of it. Yoga being the backdrop, I believe she was talking about life.

This is the first time something in yoga has made any sense to me. Working on the edges. And friends, do I have edges. This is difficult to admit, but in the past few years, life has beaten me down a little. Without getting into details, I feel hard. Harder than usual. (And sadly, this is by no means a reference to my ass, or any other body part with muscle underneath.) My spirit feels diminished...my light not burning quite as brightly as it used to.

I used to laugh...a lot. I still do, but not enough for my liking. In the past, people have told me that if I ever want to be taken seriously, then I had better stop fooling around. What about the hazards of taking yourself so seriously that you forget how to laugh? I’m not sure who ever decided that you can’t be intelligent and have a sense of humour; rather, I think it’s pretty hard to have one without the other. For those people who are bothered by my humour, I extend a hearty invitation to stay clear of me (that, among other things...). 'Cause I'm back, baby. I'm going to start loving me for who I am, not loathing myself for who I'm not.

In my 37 years on this planet, I've learned you’ll have days when you feel on top on the world, and others where you want to mutter, "F*ck this. I’m going back to bed.” And that’s alright – knowing it may not be your day of crowning glory, just pin on your participant ribbon and head out for the day. If that's your best for the day, then hell, wear it proudly. I think perhaps Margery Williams penned it best when she wrote The Velveteen Rabbit back in 1922. In case you aren’t familiar with this childhood classic, two toys are having a discussion in the nursery. Here’s a paraphrased version:

“The poor little Rabbit was made to feel very insignificant and common-place, and the only person who was kind to him at all was the Skin Horse. The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out…and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it. “What is Real?” asked the Rabbit one day, “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?” “Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become real.” “Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit. “Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.” “Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?” “It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Above all, this is what I want to teach my children. Beautiful people don’t just happen, they become. It’s only after someone has dealt with life’s hardships and trials that they come out shining. Flaws are beautiful – they make you raw, real, human. I don’t want my children to ever confuse beauty with what they look like; that’s just genetics. Rather, beauty stems from that inner light that burns brightly. Beauty comes from being the best part of someone else’s day. Beauty comes from being real...from working through those edges. This is what will make you unforgettable.

I may have lost my way a little. But I'm going to find my way back..and when I get there again, I'll be staying for good. You can bet on it.

Happy New Year, friends. Stay real. Stay flawed. Stay beautiful.

p.s. here are some of my favourite moments from 2011...I have a feeling 2012 is going to be epic.

Jack learning how to wink...

Flying his super hero...

A couple of my very own super heros...

Going on an adventure with Daddy...

Making fun of Mommy and enjoying every second of it...

My first born...he made me a Mommy...and how I love him for it.

He has one of the biggest hearts I've ever seen, and how blessed I am to be on the receiving end of it.

Sweet little girl of mine...her big soft heart and zest for life...

She loves to explore everything around her...

And never wants to miss a thing...

She's already given me enough happiness to last an entire lifetime.

She's our angel, a gift from above...may she hold that in her heart all her days.

The arrival of this little bean?

Well, this little surprise, he stole my heart...

Just when I thought I was all filled up, he came along...

Be still my beating heart...I think it's going to burst.

I can't imagine my life without him.
The way he reaches for me, that smile, his eyes telling me I am enough...
I am complete.

My family...I have no idea what I've done to deserve them.

And to see them loving each other?
That's what it's all about...
love that cannot be measured, described or contained.

May they always know that their best is good enough...
may they know that they have always been loved.

My husband asked what I wanted for my 37th birthday this year. I asked him to take photos of me with the kids. Of course, they refused to sit near one another so I got some 1:1 cuddle time with each of them. Over the past few years, I've dreaded my birthdays...I don't like the reminders of mortality. I want to grab hold of everything too tightly.

This go around, I had just one wish, "I want to grow old with these beautiful souls. That is all."

The perils of over-eating...

2011-12-27T12:51:00.000-06:00

We just returned home from a gluttonous 4-day Christmas celebration in Manitoba. A fairly solid hint that you've had enough? You're experiencing violent kicks from deep within your belly. And you're not pregnant.

I'm going to have to break this down in bullet form...at this point, my comatose carb-damaged brain will not allow anything more elaborate. Top 10 signs you're at, or have recently been to, a Van de Velde family gathering:

There are 50+ people milling around, all of whom you're related to, although you'd be pressed to find one person who can assign the appropriate age and name to each person. My mom, if given a moment of rest and silence, could likely pull it off. But that'd be it. Most of us would like to blame our shitty memory on alcohol consumption, when really, we've simply tossed in the towel when it comes to keeping track of who has sired what child, never mind in what year. It's a mathematical nightmare.
With much trepidation, we reinstated the wrap something from around the house you don't use rule for the adult gift exchange (for full details of the initial disaster, click here The gift of the rooster and two hens...) In the full spirit of giving, everyone is truly terrified of picking a gift one of my brothers has brought. Therefore much attention is paid to who is carrying what gifts into the house; hugs come later. Much, much later. Conversely, there's no greater sight than one of my brothers sitting there, fuming, having just opened a twice re-gifted cuckoo clock.
Being a Godmother to some, I choose gifts with special care and attention for these adorable loved ones. Although even I have to admit, giving your 14-year old niece a packet of Dora panties is an awkward, albeit honest, mistake. Really, where did the last 10 years go?
The kids rip through the presents like a school of piranhas; paper, teeth and skin flying everywhere. I wouldn't recommend reaching into that feeding frenzy for anything; you'd likely lose a hand. In fact, it's not at all uncommon to find a small child buried in the wrapping come time to clean up.
Line-up for the toilets are long...it's best to be carrying a small, screaming child with a really dirty diaper so you have a good excuse to cut queue. If not, you may find yourself outside in the cold, dashing off to take your business off-site. Here's a tip: be sure to grab a tray of chocolates or a household plant on your way out the door, so you can easily whip into a neighbours house and say: "Why, hello! Merry Christmas! Just thought I'd pop over to drop a little something off. Where would you like this plant? No, please...not another word. It's my pleasure. I insist. You want it in the bathroom? That's a wonderful idea."
There's a large pallet of Turtles sitting in the one corner, casting an ominous shadow over the tree; Costco would be hard pressed moving that many units in a day.
Throughout the day, you'll hear shrieks of horror and assume it's coming from one of the kids; chances are high it's from an adult. This usually occurs after someone has made the heinous mistake of dropping something green onto their plate. Comments range from: "Who the hell brought snap peas? What's this...a spinach salad with raisins in it? I may vomit. Put that back in the fridge and grab that taco dip while you're in there." The idea of eating anything green only appears to be a wise choice when stepping on the scale post-holiday season. That, or when your gums start to bleed, an early warning sign that you're about to get scurvy.
My family has an insatiable need for carbohydrates, particularly mashed potatoes. This is clearly an Irish mutation that somewhere along the lines has bled into our gene pool. And we're not complaining. (This may explain the swearing as well...) My husband got stuck peeling the potatoes this year; he asked my mom when the army was going to stop by to collect their rations. This joke gets lost on my family. In fact, any joke about excess gets lost on my family.
Ever seen someone demolish a loaf of home-made bread inside of 10 minutes? Me neither. I was too busy knocking siblings and small children out of the way as I mowed down loaf after loaf. Come to think of it, who fed my kids these last 4 days? Thank God for Santa.
The senseless gorging is not considered over until someone takes a knee (à la Tim Tebow) and says, “I have a twist in my stomach. Like a cow. Fetch me a bottle of Bloat-Go.”

Any mention of the word bloat takes me back to my teenage years, to a dark, cold night when I was rudely awakened in the wee hours of the morning by one of my brothers. He was in a panic and told me I had to quickly hurry outside to help him with the cows. I’ll always remember it as the night I technically learned how to siphon gas – albeit from the gut of a bloated mammal. Apparently the cows had broken out of their corral in the back and had made their way over to a old, wooden bin full of barley, somehow gained access, and then proceeded to gorge on the grain until they reached an alarming state of belly bloat. Their poor stomachs were ridiculously stretched from excessive gas. By the time we got out there, some were already frothing at the mouth, staggering around like drunkards, while others lay on their sides, calmly awaiting the call of death (In fact, very similar to what my family looks like after Christmas dinner...)

My brother had already spoke to the vet and she was on her way with more Bloat-Go, but in the meantime, she told us to prod the cows up and force them to keep walking around. Our goal was to make them belch; it was the only way to get them to expel gas. So what to do? Save for feeding them a Coke through a bendy straw and urging them to burp the vowels, we really only had one alternative. Had we been prepared, we would have had a trocar and cannula on hand, or a sharp knife, and we could have punctured a hole through the sides of their stomachs. Truth be told, we likely could have found a knife but neither one of us had the stomach for that, pun intended.

So that left only one trick…we had to manually siphon the gas. (Translation: set up your sister, who has no idea of the level of stench and horror that awaits her, and then walk away to have a smoke and wait for the vet.) I watched as my brother went up to a cow, stared at it straight in the face, and whispered some soothing words. The Heifer Whisperer. He then inserted a rubber tube into the cow’s mouth, all the way down its throat and presumably into the stomach. He told me that within a few seconds, the insertion of the tube itself should lead to the release of gas; I just had to stand there and supervise. But if I really cared about these animals, he added, I should quickly blow on the tube to make sure it wasn’t obstructed, and then, if nothing was happening, he told me to start sucking to help get the gas out. With the gift of hindsight, I can now say with certainty that my brother had no clue what we were supposed to be doing, he just knew there was no way in hell he was putting his mouth on the tube. He said he’d help do it if he didn’t have such a weak stomach. (Cue walking away, lighting a smoke…) So I was left standing face-to-face with this mammal, both of us extremely uncomfortable with the violation of personal space. As I stood there staring into its big wet eyes, hairy jaw-line, snotty nose and very sloppy mouth, it reminded me of similar disastrous dates throughout high school.

After blowing through the tube to clear it, I counted to three to work up my nerve and then I started to suck. Moments later, the response was explosive. Success hit me with a mouthful of gas so rancid that it could be bottled and used for chemical warfare. The cow stumbled back and looked at me with such gratitude that I almost felt good about what I was doing. Almost. No kidding, I seriously thought I was going to collapse and perish from the vile vapours attacking my senses. But since I was certain my brother would tell the vet to save the cows before helping me, I resolved to stay conscious. Not that the vet and her extra bottles of Bloat-Go would have done me any good at that point anyway.

So as the holiday season grinds to a shuddering (merciful) halt, remember this...before reaching for that third helping of mashed potatoes and gravy, remind yourself there’s no such thing as Bloat-Go for humans. So unless you trust one of your family members to administer a stomach tube, just put down your plate and call it a day.

I got skills...

2011-12-22T19:20:00.000-06:00

Just not for anything remotely useful. My skills used to include drinking vodka and chain-smoking...I suspect if we go far enough back, I'm of Russian descent. As a parent, I've had to hang up my shoes in these arenas and have attempted to better myself in the areas of baking, cooking, knitting, crafts...you know, all that shit that involves heavy levels of patience, mental strength and talent. These descriptions don't bode well when stacked against my God-given natural abilities.

To give you an example of my complete and utter lack of ability, let me tell the tale of my recent trip to a Kindergarten classroom. Along with all the other parents, I was there with Jack to make Christmas tree ornaments with the kids. It was all going moderately well, however having James slung across my chest was not entirely conducive to seeing exactly what my hands were doing in my attempts to sprinkle glitter and apply glue. Wrong order. Apply glue, then sprinkle the glitter. See, I learn.

At one point, I mercifully engaged my brain-to-mouth filter just in time, and avoided uttering something to the effect of, "This f***ing kid-friendly glue is absolute shit." Seriously. Back in the day, I recall being handed a vat of contact cement, along with a pat on the head for good luck. And what was so wrong with that? At least you had something to show for your efforts once the glue dried, which was immediately. The fact that you likely had some skin nicely layered in there along with a piece of your shirt was beside the point.

Needless to say, we made it home with something that looked similar to the Abominable Snowman. Jack was terribly pleased and went to hang it on the tree. Exhibit A: Jack's face moments after he hung it.

In hindsight, this visual of Isla (known widely in our circles as Peanut), rubbing her hands together and making her way over to the area where Abominable was hung, should have been my official warning that things were about to go sideways.

This dreamy moment lasted for about a minute, that is until Peanut made a run for it and had that thing beheaded and de-limbed (Is this a word? If it isn't, it should be. If pressed, I guess amputated would work just as well.) inside of 4 seconds. Jack lost it. "Bad, Peanut. BAD!!! Mommy! You have to fix BOMBNIBLE!" To which I assured him I would do.

I went hunting for some real glue though, and found it in the form of some heavy-duty crazy glue crap. As I was preparing BOMNIBLE's parts, I was having some fun reading the instructions on the glue. It went something like this: "Do not let glue come into contact with eyelids. If eyelids are glued shut, call Doctor immediately." Well, I guess you wouldn't be able to do that, would you? 'Cause you wouldn't be able to see. I hate stating the obvious but it should likely read, "If eyelids are glued shut, immediately run into the streets screaming. That, or kindly ask your husband, who's likely sitting in the adjoining room watching sports, to drive you to the hospital." The label went on to say: "Do not under any circumstance touch glue to skin. If this happens, contact your local Poison Control Centre immediately." This my friends, was the final clue that this is the type of glue that'll stick. There ain’t no 2-year old peeling parts off anything once this gets laid down.

Midway through the reconstruction of BOMBNIBLE, I recall thinking: "How big of a loser do you actually have to be, exactly, to get this glue all over your ski...F**K! F**K! Roddy! Come here quick! This fur ball is stuck to my finger! Aaaaaaaaaaaah...hurry. Rip if off. OMIGOD, OMIGOD, OMIGOD...."

Yes, I'm reminded that in moments of unabashed arrogance, sweet baby Jesus gives me a smack to the head. And rightfully so. Here's a photo of what remains of BOMBNIBLE today.

Yes, I'm rather embarrassed to admit that in my ensuing rage, I chucked out the ball that was meant to be the left leg, carelessly tossing it into the trash along with a chunk of skin. Which is likely a good thing. That would have been throwing down some serious smell by this time next year. I really have no idea what happened to the right leg and nose. I suspect Peanut ate them.

My ill-fated attempt to repair Jack's ornament got me thinking about a recent episode in church. My sister (Fry) was holding Peanut, and they were scribbling away in Peanut's book. My daughter brings this little sketch pad with her everywhere, and can often be seen scribbling away furiously, almost like she's a journalist at the scene of whatever crime happens to be occurring at that moment. At some point, she'll usually ask someone to draw her a bunny or a kitty. Which is exactly what she asked my sister to do in church. So Fry drew a kitty. Or some mutant version of such. Moments later, all I heard ringing out in church (along with every other soul within a 50-yard radius) was, "Kitty's boobies, Auntie. Biiiiiiiiiiig ones."

I looked down at the drawing, then up at Fry and gave her a look of, "What the @#$% are you doing drawing boobs on a kitty? What's the matter with you?" She was laughing so hard, trying to contain her mirth (I ask you, why do the laughs that require this level of intense suppression always happen in church?) All she could manage to whisper back was, "They're paws. Those are paws." Yes people, apparently those pendulous abominations are meant to be paws; they are not a set of enormous Mama-nursing breasts.

All told, suddenly my artistic ability is looking pretty good. I guess it's all relative to who you're comparing yourself to. This injection of (false) confidence is exactly what I need right now as I venture to the bowels of the basement. With Christmas just around the corner, we're mounting a full-scale attack to complete Project Playroom (stay tuned...). God be with us. Knowing of my plans for tonight, a wise friend emailed me and said, "I wasn't going to contact you today as I know your to-do list involves breaking the time-space continuum to get it done. Be gentle on Roddy. More importantly, BE GENTLE WITH YOURSELF." Wise words (except for the Roddy part). I have to keep reminding myself that with anything in life, it's not about being perfect, it's about doing your best.

Merry Christmas, friends. xo

p.s. I love Jesus

2011-12-17T08:48:00.001-06:00

I have a statue. It’s a regal woman who stands about five feet tall, and she’s holding what appears to be a horn of plenty. That, or she’s fondling her left breast, I’m not entirely certain. At any rate, when I placed her out in our front yard last year, the neighbours in our bay started a pool on how long she would last. I didn’t see the problem but they were like, “Don’t you remember what it was like to be a teenager? That thing will be smashed by a hormonal, pimply-faced angry person inside a month. It’s a perfect double-dog dare. You’ll see.” Well, I chose to stick to my guns and hoped for the best, but secretly I feared for the sultry woman’s life.

And so the days passed. Months. Every morning on the way to work we’d back out of the driveway, and there she’d be, standing proud, erect, and protecting our front yard. At one point she did get kidnapped and held hostage by a gaggle of burly rugby players, although they returned her alive (well, not really) and unharmed. Apparently she was a hot ticket item and scored big points for their scavenger hunt.

But for the most part, she was left alone. That is until this past summer. I was wandering around the house in early August, gearing up to do some housework, when mercifully the phone rang thus distracting me from doing anything useful. As I was chatting with my sister on the phone, I happened to look out my front door just as two girls were approaching my statue, giggling, whispering, elbowing each other as if to say, “You do it. No, you do it!” I almost knew it was going to happen before it did. And then it came – an arm shot out and shoved my lady, and she went ass over horn of plenty into the shrubs. I went flying out of my house wearing a bright purple dress with a large patch over the top of my chest, covering the stitches from a mole I recently had removed. In hindsight, it may have looked as though I had just got home from heart surgery. Needless to say, whether it was from my outfit or me trumpeting at the top of my lungs, I must have looked completely bat shit. The girls jumped ten feet in the air and took off like their pants were on fire. I shouted out after them, “Hey, I saw that girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrls!” I wanted them to know that I had witnessed the whole thing unfold and that I could easily identify them. Sort of.

When relaying the details of said event later that evening to my husband and sister, I said they had to be teenagers, close to six feet tall if they were an inch. In all likelihood, gang members with sleeve tattoos. I rather shamelessly admitted that what I had done was extremely dangerous and brave, and should not be attempted by the average person. In my mind’s eye, I was a small-town hero, avenging neighbourhood crime and statue bullying. I boldly declared, “Now, one of two things will happen. Either my statue never gets harassed again, or by tomorrow morning, it’ll be smashed to smithereens. Either way, I’ll be here waiting.” By this point in the story, I could see I was dangerously close to losing my audience so I was about to make minor adjustments to the story to amplify my heroic behaviour, when something caught my eye. There was a letter hanging out of my mailbox. My inner detective lunged outside and greedily opened what appeared to be a handwritten note. Here’s what it said:

In the interest of protecting said juvenile, I've withheld name and photo.

Now at first glance at the spelling, I thought perhaps one of my older brothers was in town – upon closer inspection however, I realized the punctuation was far too advanced. My sister took one look at the letter, then the photo, then looked at me and declared, “So really, what you’re trying to say is that you spend a large portion of your day terrorizing small, adorable children. Nice.”

I snatched the letter back and stared at the photo. What a clever child she was, attaching a picture of herself most likely taken years ago when she was still young, dewy and innocent-looking. Point to you, Miss Petty Crime.

For some reason, this whole incident reminded me of a letter my mom recently found (Particularly the bullshit p.s. part...what's with postal scripts anyway? I hereby declare I'm going to stop using them.). While going through old boxes containing report cards and other school crap, pardon me, memorabilia, she came across two letters written to her, one from me when I was eight years old and one from my sister, who would have been five at the time. My mom had been in the hospital for a bit so my note went something like this:

"Dear Mom, I hope you are having fun in the hospitle. We are havng fun. I helped Dad do dishes. Dad took us bowlng. I did not win. We miss you. Come home son.”

Now for ~~the bootlegging pirate's~~ my sister’s letter:
“Dear Mom, I hope you are having fun in the hospitle. I am havng fun two. I helped Dad do dishes two. Dad took me bowlng two. Janita did not win. She got mad. We miss you. Come home son. p.s. I love Jesus.”

The little goober had pretty much copied my letter word for word, and then to add insult to injury, added in the clinching postal script, p.s. I love Jesus. What kind of 5-year-old does that? It was sheer brilliance on her part, one-upping me with a near perfect God-fearing statement that put her right up there with the Big Guy. It also made her look more spiritual than me, swiftly depositing her as rightful owner of the favourite child badge. Not that her competition for that has ever been fierce.

What did I learn from all this bullying? That it’s not about being perfect. It’s about being a big enough person to apologize to someone when you’ve done something wrong. (Fry: this is a direct hint...) That little girl who tormented my statue? She got it right. I wish I could meet her, give her a great big hug, thank her for the laugh, and tell her parents that they’re raising her right. I would also tell the clever little kitten that I totally got a kick out of how she dropped her friend in the shit while apologizing. There's nothing quite as entertaining as stopping mid-apology to kick someone else under the bus. But hey, I enjoy that sort of humour.

And remember, if you can’t bear the thought of saying sorry to someone's face, then drop a letter in their mailbox. Hell, attach a photo of yourself from high school to really throw down the charm...who can get mad at a mullet wracked by a Toni Home permanent? If they're still angry after seeing your un-photoshopped Grade 10 photo, then they have no heart. Move on. If it’s a particularly heinous crime, then don’t be afraid to throw in a “p.s. I love Jesus”. After all, he’ll be making the final call so best to have him on your side all the way.

I’ll be writing a few apology notes myself this holiday season...although I plan on attaching my sister’s photo to all the letters. No sense in being a damn fool about it.

Merry Christmas friends, and may 2012 bring you everything that's good.

p.s. I'm totally kidding about never using a p.s. again.
p.p.s. They're actually the perfect place to drop a bomb in an otherwise friendly email...like, "Hey, how's it going? Kids adorable as ever? Hope this finds you well! p.s. where's that f*&%ing report you were supposed to have done?"
p.p.p.s. Jesus loves Janita. It goes without saying the feeling is completely mutual.

A version of this article recently appeared in the December issue of Grainews.

What not to do 2 weeks after giving birth...

2011-12-14T21:17:00.002-06:00

Disclaimer: No, I'm not talking about having sex. For that, I highly recommend getting a Doctor's note for a 2-year pass. This type of birth-control is 100% effective. Unless your name is Mary. Then who knows what may happen.

Recently, I dumped all my videos onto my computer...I came across a few little rubies, but this one in particular had me wincing with pain, in remembrance.

Let me set the scene: I had just given birth to my third child a couple of weeks prior to this video, and I was out visiting my parents in Manitoba. Jack was hollering from the bathtub to come have a look at something they were doing, which incidentally sounded like lots of fun, so I grabbed my video-camera and ventured in. Now, because I was filming upon entry into the can, I wasn't fully aware of where I was going to sit. I had quite a few stitches and was still a little worse for wear. So I spotted something blue out of the corner of my eye and thought, "Most excellent. That's the little blue stool Mom keeps in here for the kids." So I go to sit down. Hard. Because I know the height of these stools. And tell me it's not just me, but the force at which you go to sit on something is largely based on known height, firmness and strength of said object.

Well my friends, turns out that blue thing I spotted from the corner of my eye was a miniscule and flimsy plastic wetwipe holder - the ones that sort of look like a box and could pass for a stool if you're not looking directly at it. Needless to say, I misjudged the height and strength of said "stool", sat down way too hard and, with high levels of embarrassment I admit, I crushed that thing right to the floor. It was so @#$%ing painful; I knocked my coccyx north of my esophagus.

Again, if pressed to identify the most disturbing aspect of this video, I'd be at a loss. However, it'd be a toss between the following:

Jack's interest in my well-being is absolutely zero; and he comes by this honestly. After witnessing a clumsy mishap, we're a family who laughs hysterically first, then asks if you're OK later. Much later. Like once-our-amusement-has-ended later, assuming we ever reach this point. Did I mention this affliction runs rampant in my family? Particularly my siblings - yes, I grew up with this sort of support. And I believe it's an actual medical condition. Yeah, it's called horribilus anus maximus - or simply asshole for short.
That I felt the need to shriek, "Mommy just fell!" Yeah, that's a No-Shit-Sherlock statement if I ever heard one. Afterwards, I was amused to see that because the video camera handle had twisted in my hand, it ended up capturing Jack's absolute glee at my misfortune, as I lay dying on the floor. He's laughing so hard he can hardly breathe.
It's quite obvious I abruptly spliced the video at the end. In the interest of not having my blog receive an R-rating, I felt obliged to cut. Quite frankly, the multiple f-bombs that flew out of my mouth is embarrassing, and may reflect poorly on my application for Mother-of-the-Year award, which incidentally, I'm going to win. Clearly.

How to kill a mocking turd...

2011-12-11T21:51:00.000-06:00

Warning: putting an end to a tyrant turd may require attempts to grab it out and/or asking a friend to go fetch a rope.

Let me preface this story by sharing some of the highlights of potty-training son #1. His fascination with all things deposited in the toilet has no rival, and his running commentary leaves me breathless with anticipation. His comments have ranged from, and I quote (because yes, I've written these down): "Mommy, please move. I have to drop another bomber." to "Whoa. That's a big poop to put in a little bum." to "That poor little poop. He's so little. He's all by himself. He's going to fly back into my bum to find his family." He's four. I suspect by the time he's a teenager, he'll be dictating novellas from the john.

And don't ask me where he gets his material. When gripped with need, my thought process rarely veers from (the ridiculously clever): "God, I need to hit the can."

And he always wants company. To him, privacy would be a waste of such fun. Without fail, within seconds of settling on the toilet for his daily constitution, he'll call from the bathroom: "Mommy! Come in here so we can have a chat." To which I inevitably wander in, take a whiff, keel over to the wall and say, "No, Jack. It smells like shit in here. Can we chat later?" He loves this line; it leaves him giggling with mirth, proud and ruthlessly unapologetic of his stench. He then gets all serious and says, "You can't leave, Mommy. I need to rest my head on your arm. It helps me." I suspect Freud, had he the opportunity to study my child, would have added an addendum to his theories on anal stage fixations.

The following video capture lands squarely in the "Whoa. That's a big poop to put in a little bum" category. I didn't measure it. And no, I didn't film the final kill shot. I'm not that sick. But believe me when I say, the end result was not something you'd expect a 4-year old to produce. The Loch Ness Monster perhaps, but not a child.

I'll admit, if pressed to disclose the most disturbing aspect of this story, I'd be at a loss. But it's a definite toss between the following:

That he admitted to trying to grab it out

That he suggested we get a rope (and that I do the tying)

That when summoned, I was compelled to bring along the video-camera

How to hold on tight to your Christmas spirit...

2011-12-05T20:53:00.000-06:00

Hint: It’s not about learning how to bake a batch of sugar cookies, which incidentally, is much harder than it sounds.

In anticipation of the holiday season, I herd my family outside, usually sometime in late fall, to partake in the annual torture I now call: attempting to capture a $*%@!#% family photo for our Christmas cards. There’s nothing quite like it to bring on the festive spirit. Last year’s attempt can best be summarized as follows:

“Fancy” dress shirt for spouse...$8

Hair gel to support entire clan of hairy creatures...$5

Photographer (bribed with batch of cupcakes)…$4 (Not including my donations to the swear jar, which are inevitable when I attempt to bake.)

Photo that focuses on house in background rather than family....priceless

I’ll admit, I’d rather pull out my eyelashes, one at a time, than take a family photo. Without fail, everybody ends up getting ridiculously irritated and getting a picture with everyone looking at the camera, at the same time, both eyes open, with a wide, we’re-so-darn-happy-to-be-here smile proves more elusive than obtaining photographic evidence of Sasquatch. And I find myself asking: why do we do this do ourselves? At this time of year, I often feel like I have to achieve a certain level of perfection; find the ideal gift for everyone, learn how to knit a magnificent scarf, take the perfect family photo, get cards mailed out on time, decorate our home in a way that would make Martha Stewart swoon and make resolutions for the New Year to help ensure I’ll become a better person one day. Why do we always forget what’s truly important? I swear, one minute I’m driving down the streets, enjoying the wondrous glow of the streetlights gleaming off the freshly fallen snow, humming some Christmas carols, you know, counting my blessings and really feeling my divinity, and the next I have to damn near restrain myself from attacking the person who cuts me off with their tank-sized cart in Costco to snatch the last gift set I was about to pick up.

A few years ago, my Mom instituted a new rule about buying presents. The rule was simple: we would not buy presents. When conversing with my family members, this type of simplicity is strongly recommended. Her theory was that no one needed anything, so why put ourselves through the pressure and hassle of Christmas shopping when we could be enjoying that time with our respective families instead? Fair enough. To keep things interesting though, and because secretly we all enjoy the torture, we decided to wrap up something from around our house that we didn’t use anymore. It’s important to note here that we were fully aware the gift would still be considered useless (enter submissions from my brothers), but no one would have to spend any money and we could still have some fun with it.

Game on. All of the gifts were wrapped and placed in the middle of the living room, and we picked numbers from a hat to decide the order of play. When it was your turn, you could steal a gift that had already been opened or you could pick another one from the pile. I realize this sounds remarkably simple, but like anything in our family, the explanation of how to play turned into an hour-long production, which resulted in most people wandering into the kitchen to get another drink. After an ironclad process had been laid out in meticulous detail for the A-type personalities, the three-hour hostile combat, pardon me, family bonding commenced.

Mere minutes into this ordeal, with two pending divorces on the table, one of my brothers announced that a box in the middle of the room was moving. The box did look a little odd, particularly as it wasn’t wrapped and had several holes cut through it across the top. Someone had definitely embraced the concept of not spending any money. Nevertheless, my Mom made eye contact and motioned for me to remove the remaining vodka from the table, suspecting that some of her offspring were dangerously close to overdosing on Christmas cheer.

It so happens that two of my friends from the city had joined us on the farm for Christmas that year. Just my luck, one of them decided to pick the tattered box in question. He was all smiles and in childlike delight, slowly put his hand into the box to retrieve his “gift”. Almost immediately, he started screaming at the top of his lungs (and I could have sworn I heard him squawk), scaring the living daylights out of everyone present. We jumped up and pushed though the crowd to see what all the fuss was about.

It turns out that someone, in their infinite wisdom, had gifted a rooster and two hens, alive, unharmed, claws up, chillaxing and comfortably nestled on a bed of straw (Did I mention no animals were harmed in the making of this Yuletide memory? I think PETA would be proud to know that the chickens found a good home in the city and now have a chance at a university education), thus explaining the mystery of the moving box, and the barnyard squawk. Apparently there were individuals in attendance who did not understand the seemingly obvious phrase, “Wrap up something from around the house.” This statement was not intended to include things that were found running wild, laying eggs in the barn. Did I mention that I really miss my family at this time of year?

Although our social experiment failed, I think my Mom was onto something. It’s not about finding the perfect present for everyone, or getting your Christmas cards out on time, or heaven forbid, learning how to bake the perfect batch of sugar cookies. I think the Grinch, in his moment of wondrous clarity, said it best. “Maybe Christmas,” he thought, “doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.” In your panic and flurry to make it all happen this holiday season, take a moment to reflect on the true importance of this special season. It may look a little different for each one of us, but in the end, I think it’s about shouting out a big thank you for our blessings. It’s about saying, “I love you” to our family members, even though many of us tough farm kids would agree that drinking cyanide is more palatable than showing some emotion. Well I say, what are you waiting for? Make your peace now – release your burdens, love your neighbours, forgive your foes, and most importantly, love yourself. You’ll feel a whole lot better for doing so. After all, that nasty little concoction in the Christmas punch bowl gives you the perfect excuse to get a little crazy.

How (not) to lose 30 pounds...

2011-11-09T13:56:00.000-06:00

Those looking for a sensible way to shed extra flab should probably not read this post...oh, what the hell. Go on. Read it. After all, it's my first official post and I'll admit, I crave your attention and approval.

Let's get started. I had a sneaking suspicion I was slightly overweight. Granted, it was only three months after giving birth to my second child, but in my books, excuses are for wimps. If you have a medical condition, then my grace is granted. I had just finished breast-feeding, so up until this point it’s not like I could deny my body the calories required to produce milk; the fact that I was taking in enough calories to produce milk for all the baby calves of community pastures across Canada may have been the problem. These revelations remind me that sometimes I’m smart like scientist.

The moment of clarity arrived sometime during the gruelling struggle to put on my bikini. Struggle as in to move violently and thrash about, the end result being likened to a yard sale, with fabric and body parts strewn, in no particular order, across the lawn. Simply put, the square footage of my body could no longer be appropriately contained by the fabric of my bathing suit. The peace agreement that my brain had made with my body was instantly terminated; my body was a taco stand.

So what did I do? I panicked. With the inevitable winter weight gain just around the corner, I knew my approach had to be swift and merciless. With trepidation and (slivers of) shame, I’ll share the list of steps I took to get back to my pre-baby weight. Don’t judge me. Just thank me.

1. Make a completely insane bet with someone who’s your equal in the arena of mental instability. Be sure the bet includes the promise of a financial reward. In this case, my brother and I agreed that the loser would pay the winner $100 per pound on any difference in overall weight lost. Feeling generous, we gave ourselves ten weeks to get it done. By my calculations, I had to lose 30 pounds to secure victory.

2. If you have small children in your care, or you’re expected to be semi-coherent at work, avoid any attempts to subsist on lemon water.

3. Start by purchasing a kit that promises a full-body cleanse – one that’s harsh enough to scrape your entire colon and expunge any rink hotdogs loitering in your intestinal tract since 1986. Embrace the fact that you’ll be inviting wheat germ, quinoa, kohlrabi and kelp into your home for the duration of the cleanse. Expect several magnificent bowel movements - ones that appear as though they should be baled and racked.

4. At some point, the horrifying truth will dawn on you that exercise must be incorporated into your daily routine. I started on my back, contemplating how best to do a sit-up without breaking a sweat. My stomach flopped down beside me, much like a pet walrus, panting, complete with its own heartbeat. We were both mortified by the prospect of being crunched. Frantic for another alternative, I decided to reacquaint myself with the elliptical. I worked up a ridiculous amount of sweat cleaning rubbish from around said machine, then hopped on and attempted to check my pulse after three minutes. None detected. I immediately assumed I had died from exertion. As I scanned the scene of purgatory, I realized the machine wasn't plugged in.

5. Count on callous comments from your spouse, including, “I can’t believe you ate that. That probably just cost us $200.” Dear spouse - I’m losing 30 pounds and you’re worried about what it’s going to cost? Some real thoughts, please. Other than jealousy.

6. After weeks of denying your body of carbohydrates and dairy, you’ll find yourself in a state of wondrous lucidity, one that usually can’t be obtained without the use of prescription drugs. You’ll move beyond the mundane musings of the meaning of life and start to ponder the profound questions of the universe, like, where do ravens go to pee?

7. Hair must weigh something. Wax. Everything. I fell to pieces after getting my armpits and bikini area done. I told her it hurt too much to get my entire legs done and put an end to the brutality. She informed me that it wouldn’t hurt so much if I got it done more than once every decade. To each their own. I limped out of there, went home, drew a long bath and proceeded to shave through the hedges on my legs. In hindsight, a deforestation permit may have been required. Here’s a friendly reminder, free of charge. Rinse the tub immediately after you’ve finished, mostly to avoid the following remark from your spouse: “Holy crap! Did someone pelt a monkey in here?” You can’t put a price on this type of positive reinforcement.

In the final days before the weigh-in, I was getting desperate. I had lost 25 pounds in total and knew I needed to shave off the final five. My brother was living the life of a monk, subsisting on nuts and berries (and no doubt wearing hemp sandals to prove a point) while I was in a state of binge-to-take-away-the-fear panic. Just prior to lowering myself into a bathtub of piranhas so they could feast on my midsection, I decided to do a little research on the Internet. I posed the question, “How do I lose 5 pounds in 3 days?” The responses were riveting and the top two suggestions went as follows: remove non-vital organs and seek psychiatric help. Apparently good reason is subjective.

In the end, I lost 26 pounds and my brother lost 29. As I started to write out the cheque for $300, he told me to make it payable to my children, and asked that I tuck it safely away for their future educational needs. I wept. He thought it was as a result of his magnanimous act of kindness. It was because I could have binged on fast food in those final days, all in the name of financial security for my offspring.

Moral of the story? If you decide to embark on a similar journey, and you’re betting against a man, then base the financial rewards on percentage of body weight lost. I would have cream-corned him. Of course I should have thought of this at the beginning, however during his initial ramble to set out the rules, he confused me like The Count from Sesame Street. Not only did he beat me, he’s also smarter and a touch nicer than me, too. As I’m certain you’re already questioning my level of shallowness, I won’t tell you which one hurt the most.