I have been reading the Little House series to the boys for a while now, and we are now almost finished that epistle of madcap gaiety, Little Town on the Prairie. As opposed to the very depressing previous book, The Long Winter – everyone is going to die! – this book is full of exciting good times like the Friday night Literaries and the weeklong discussions following the Friday night Literaries and the anticipation of the Friday night Literaries, and also a New England Supper. I’m not entirely sure what makes it New England, as opposed to South Dakota, but maybe it’s the baked beans and pumpkin pie? I don’t know.
The Friday night Literaries start out with a spelling bee, which puts the whole town into a competitive tizzy. Pa wins the bee, naturally, since Pa can do no wrong, except for the whole moving his family into more and more isolated and dangerous places. The spelling bee was pretty exciting, though, and I’m not just saying this because I myself was on the television show Spelling Bee, hosted by former Stampede Wrestling host and Calgary celebrity Ed Whalen. I was quite the spelling star back in the day! It made up for my complete inability to do anything well in Phys Ed. Or, at least, I think it did. Spelling’s more important than being able to do a chin-up, right?
Anyway, it’s been fun reading this book to the boys, what with all the wholesome – and also offensive – entertainments. Minstrel show, I’m looking at you. But this is also the book where the romance between Laura and Almanzo begins! They exchange name cards, and Laura also accepts a ride to school from him, that hussy, and when she gets out of the buggy, they touch mitten-tips. IT BEGINS.
My husband and I were talking about what it would be like to have an old-timey romance. I use the term “romance” loosely since it seems like if you were of a certain age, and there was a man there also of a certain age, and neither of you had anything seriously wrong with you like a missing leg, then you would probably get married. This seems to be the case with Laura and Almanzo – I mean, Laura was 15 and Almanzo was 25, which is a bit squicky, but likely there were no eligible females over the age 15 and he was tired of the bachelor life. Think of all the marriages which would have started for similar reasons! Romance would boil down to a buggy ride, and maybe a heart-pounding touch of the mitten-tips.
But real life romance is very different from movie romance anyway, isn’t it? Real life romance isn’t all about rose petals on the bed or bubble baths for two with champagne. It isn’t about getting it on while lying on a beach with ocean waves lapping at your feet. Sand, ouch. It isn’t even about him standing outside your window with a boom box lifted above his head, playing In Your Eyes, although that would be awesome. Real life romance, in my mind, is personified by my husband checking restaurant menus to see if there are any good vegetarian options, even though he’s planning on having steak, or by my husband recording a late-night talk show just because the guest was Hugh Jackman. Real life romance is my husband becoming worried about my bone density and ordering calcium supplements for women 50+, even though I’m not really close to 50+. It’s sweet – he cares about my bone density!
What do you think? What’s the most real-life romantic thing that you or your spouse has done for each other lately?
Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse
Party like it’s 1979
It is, suddenly, fall. My Manitoba maple tree has yellowed overnight, it seems, football has taken over Sundays, and the mornings are very crisp and chilly. Although I cheerfully discuss with the children all the wonderful things to look forward to in every season, during the fall I very much mourn the end of summer. This summer in Calgary has been one for the record books, I think, it has been really unusually sunny and warm. It’s been perfect.
Fall, to me, is the chilly, windy precursor to a long, long winter. I like colourful leaves, apples, and back-to-school as much as the next person, but I long for that summer warmth. Perhaps if I lived in a different climate, I would feel differently. But this summer has been great, and this weekend was sunny and warm. I am especially thankful for this beautiful weekend, not just because it is one more weekend to wear my summer clothes and sandals, but also because yesterday was Jake’s birthday party! And I will say this: the party was a huge success. We walked the kids over to the playground – sidestepping a dead squirrel on the sidewalk – where they made up their own game pretending to be various Pokemon characters, which carried over into our backyard. Cupcakes, chips, and water guns filled the rest of the time, and all the little guests seemed very happy. Wet and dirty, but happy. One boy very gratifyingly told me that my cupcakes are the highlight of our birthday parties. “They’re just so amazing!” he enthused. Aw.
All in all, a great time with minimal effort on my part. I have never been good at organizing party games or activities, and so the fact that they largely entertained themselves was pretty fantastic. Jake had a great day and his actual birthday is not for another week! We should have a pretty good case of birthday fatigue on our hands by the time next weekend rolls around.
Jake himself has attained minor celebrity at school for being the kid who got barfed on, which I find simultaneously hilarious and revolting. “What was it like?” a boy asked him, to which Jake worldly answered “You don’t want to know! It was horrible!” He later told me he is getting weary of talking about it. It’s the price of fame, I guess.
Cupcakes, shopping, and Junior Mints
I am pleased to report the happy news that there have been zero barfing incidents since the first day of school. Although, writing that, I just broke out into a cold sweat thinking that I just jinxed everything and now my children will be up all night barfing. Cue the Stevie Wonder riffs.
I really, really hope this doesn’t come to pass, and not just for the obvious reasons: tomorrow is Jake’s birthday party! After the insanity of Mark’s last birthday party, I privately vowed to never host another birthday party as long as I live, but Jake very sweetly only wanted to invite five of his neighbourhood friends – whose mothers I am all friends with – to go play at the playground and then eat cupcakes. I felt I could really get behind that idea! And so that is exactly what we are going to do, and the weather is going to cooperate as well, it seems. At this very moment I have cupcakes in the oven – these cupcakes, if you’re interested – with the promise of making extra peppermint frosting just for the birthday boy. I’m also wearing my brand new apron:
Isn’t it adorable? It has cupcakes on it and I’m MAKING CUPCAKES! I’m going to feature it in an upcoming “Nicole’s Favourite Things” post, but strangely, like kale chips and 70s soft rock, I am the only one in my house who does not revile this sweet apron. What is wrong with everyone I live with? I put it on last night to show the kids, who stared at me, making “Uhhhhhhh” noises until Mark said “Mom? It’s kind of lame.” I showed my husband, who wasn’t shy about sharing his unfavourable opinion. But what does he know? He also said “I thought when you said you had a new apron, it was, you know, the kind that is black and lacy…” It’s not a French maid outfit, husband. I’m using it for actual baking, not “baking”.
That was the strangest euphemism for sex ever, no?
Anyway, so cupcakes are on the to-do list today, as well as putting together loot bags. I went out yesterday specifically to buy loot bag treats, a replacement shirt for the one that was barfed on, and shoes for Mark. I’m kicking myself a little because – I don’t mean to brag, here, people – I am the most organized person I know. Yet I fell down on this one. I bought indoor school shoes for the boys weeks ago, but since they were in sandals all summer, I failed to notice that Mark’s regular outdoor runners were a size too small until the first day of school. ORGANIZATIONAL FAILURE. He could barely walk in them, poor giant-flippered child. So I thought I would just pick up a pair while running all my other errands.
And let me tell you, by the end of the day I was so frustrated and crabby that I was ready to burn the whole mall down. I went to every single store that sold shoes and I purchased the only pair of boys’ runners in Mark’s size. THE ONLY PAIR. I have written many times about my frustration over the lack of selection for boys’ wear, but that really took the cake. I ended up paying an exhorbitant price for a simple pair of running shoes which will likely be outgrown in six months, although thankfully they can be passed down to Jake as well. BUT STILL. Then I attempted to find party favours that were not embossed with Tinkerbell or Barbie, but again, this was futile. I ended up going to the dollar store where I found not only Star Wars-themed Pez dispensers, but also Angry Birds-themed napkins and bags, and gigantic packages of candy, including Junior Mints! I hope I don’t eat all the Junior Mints before I get them into the loot bags. Who doesn’t like a Junior Mint? They are so refreshing!
So the first week back at school has been full of excitement, hasn’t it? There are a few other things going on around here that are amping things up a little, such as an in-law visit and preparing for the first school council meeting. Suffice it to say I’m looking forward to my Friday night cocktails/wine/any alcohol at all. How early is too early for a drink, really?
Back in business, baby.
“I’m back in business” Mark said the night before school started. You know how sometimes, just sometimes, you get a feeling about what your child will be when he grows up? I feel quite sure that Mark is going to be an engineer. If you know any engineers, or if you are an engineer yourself, then you know that there is a certain “engineer personality type” and Mark fits that type exactly.
It’s funny, isn’t it, how people like to speculate what children’s lives will be like when they are adults. It’s amusing. A kid plays with blocks, and we think “architect”, or they play with cars and they think “mechanic”. Personally, I thought I was going to grow up to be a concert pianist, which is funny, considering I became an economist. When Jake was a baby, my husband turned to me and said “I think Jake’s going to grow up to be an investment banker. Because he’s kind of a dick.” That makes me smile every time. Jake is kind of a dick, but in a good way.
I know I’m supposed to say that I just want my kids to be happy, and of course I do, but I kind of feel like nurturing the attitude that it’s easier to be happy when pursuing a career with good financial returns.
The kids were very excited to go back to school. The first day was kind of chaotic, what with confusion about last minute out-of-area enrollments, ensuing large class sizes, and the specter of another class being formed to take the pressure off of said large classes. Things will settle down later this week, but for right now things are all up in the air. I’m feeling fairly calm about it, with the attitude that things are going to work out fine.
I was less calm yesterday after school when I went to pick the boys up. I shielded my eyes against the sun, looking for them. Yes, there was Jake’s bright orange hat, and yes, that’s Jake, but what is he wearing? He had a different shirt on. When asked, he told me cheerfully that a classmate had barfed all over the back of his shirt, and that shirt was wrapped up in a plastic bag, in his backpack. OH.
You know when you hear the word “barf” and you get that feeling like “maybe I should strip the child down and burn all his clothes right there in the playground”? I had that feeling. I kind of froze, then started asking leading questions about where he was sitting and how much contact had he had with the barfer, and how often he had washed his hands. I asked the questions carefully, trying not to seem crazy, and then I vigorously rubbed hand sanitizer into his and Mark’s hands, and my own. I thought about the shirt, and I thought that I had probably got my money’s worth from it, as I dropped it in the garbage. Of course, this led to sadness later – “I loved that shirt!” – but yet, I could not fathom washing someone else’s kid’s barf.
There was also an unpleasant story from the boys about the children finding a dead cat in the field at recess time, which became more dramatic when it was discovered that the dead cat belonged to a friend. There were other dramatic events, which I won’t relate here, but suffice it to say it was a very exciting first day of school. I’m looking forward to less excitement, and hopefully less barf, for the second day.
First you tell me that your dog ran away, then you tell me that it took three days
I’m happy to tell you all that I made it out of the Regina airport! I know you were wondering. Well, I had a fantastic visit with my grandma – I’m so glad I went – and I also saw my beloved aunts and cousins as well. It was, all in all, a perfect visit!
I didn’t even cry or get lost. Well, truth to be told, I almost cried a couple of times, but I didn’t, so I consider that a win. The two hour drive from the airport to my grandma’s house started out quite promisingly, with the exception that I had forgotten to bring anything to listen to and so I had my choice of two music stations and AM talk radio. In the four hour round trip, I heard Dirty Deeds by AC/DC no fewer than three times, and Dancing in the Dark, Living on a Prayer, and Love Bites twice each.
I did become a little unnerved after the sun set, driving in the pitch black, along a very bumpy highway on which several skunks had apparently JUST been run over. I started worrying that I too would hit a skunk and would have to arrive at my grandmas with a stink bomb of a car. This did not come to pass, fortunately, although at one point in the dark drive I thought it was raining and put on my windshield wipers only to discover that what I thought were raindrops were actually bugs. Bugs. Smeared all over my windshield. While driving in the dark on a two lane highway with semis whooshing by me in the other lane. I was a little stiff from all the white knuckling, but the trip back to the airport, in the daylight, was much more pleasant. I could appreciate the big dome-like sky opening up all around me, with the seemingly endless prairie stretching out in all directions, studded with hay bales and pump jacks, the dust from the combines rising like a fog.
The only other issue I had was when I was back in Regina. I drove to the airport, then drove past it in order to find a gas station to fill up the rental car. I drove, and drove, and no gas stations could be found. I started to get nervous that I would drive too far and not be able to make it back to the airport – I’ve gotten lost under similar circumstances – and so I decided to turn around and head back. I thought that just paying the ridiculous fee for the rental company to fill the tank would be better than me circling the streets of Regina forever, missing my flight. But then when I turned, I saw a sign for a Husky station! Score! I drove up there, and then stopped, puzzled. Maybe there was no gas? Maybe it was just a convenience store and they’d forgotten to take down the sign?
But no, there was a tiny gas pump, hidden by the car getting gas. Double score! I perkily went into the convenience store to prepay – as the sign suggested – and the attendant suggested I just go ahead and fill up, and pay later. Now – and here comes the embarrassing part – recalling that I am a person who does not know how to flip the hood on the vehicle that I have been driving for almost nine years, and that I am a person whose coping mechanism when something goes wrong with the car, even if “going wrong” means “need more washer fluid”, is to burst into tears, I sat in the car for a solid five minutes unable to figure out how to open the gas cap. Finally, the attendant, probably thinking that I am a complete moron, came out to help. It turned out that I just needed to press the gas cap to open it. Oops! I went to go fuel up but the pump was not automatic. I stood at the car for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a couple of minutes, trying to figure out WHY the gas wasn’t going into the car. The attendant spoke to me over the loudspeaker but I couldn’t understand what was said. Finally the woman who was filling her car came over to me and said “Listen sweetheart, you need to push down this lever, like this” then proceeded to carefully watch me fill the tank, possibly concerned I would start spraying gasoline everywhere then light a cigarette, a la Zoolander. When I finished and thanked her for her help, she made sure I knew how to close the gas cap – which I DO – and then very slowly and clearly gave me very specific directions on how to get back to the airport. Thanks, strange lady! Tears averted!
I should add at this point that I’m really good at math and I can lift heavy things all by myself, so I’m not a total feminist failure.
The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful, my flight somehow missing a violent electrical storm that had shut down the airport for a short period, of which I was blissfully unaware, although my husband was waiting for me in a state of extreme stress. I also discovered that I grossly overestimate my own importance, since I came home to two happy children, a clean house, and BEDS THAT HAD BEEN MADE, INCLUDING PILLOW SHAMS ON PILLOWS, AND DECORATIVE PILLOWS ON THE BED. My word, that was almost as good as an unloaded dishwasher.
Padme and Anakin and the Five Languages of Love
Getting right into the year 2005, I watched Revenge of the Sith on the weekend. Here’s a little piece of advice: do not watch the violent end of a movie minutes before leaving the house to attend a led primary practice. You will feel all shaky and NAMASTE, BITCH. Related: it’s very, very awkward when, at the end of a led practice, you turn to your neighbour to say “Namaste” and that neighbour is looking the other direction. So, you turn to your other neighbour, who is also looking the other way, but you feel that the first neighbour is now looking at you so you turn your head quickly, only to see that they have already bowed their head to their mat. Awkward.
Anyway, Revenge of the Sith! I loved it more than all the other Star Wars movies combined, which isn’t saying much, really, since I have seen The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones a number of times and yet I cannot remember what happens because I either fall asleep or become completely bored and zone out every single time. But I really, really liked Revenge of the Sith; it was interesting and fast-paced and compelling. I have only a few problems with it, and although this makes me feel a bit like those nerds that created “Jar Jar Binks Must Die” webpages immediately following the first midnight viewing of The Phantom Menace, I will nonetheless detail them here.
First, near the end of the movie, the conversation between Anakin and Obi-Wan goes as follows:
Obi-Wan: Anakin, the Sith are evil!
Anakin: From my point of view, the Jedi are evil!
FROM MY POINT OF VIEW? What kind of writing is that? George Lucas may have well have had them having a twitter conversation:
@ObiWan IMO Jedi = Jerks #haters #SithRule #CheatDeath
Although, it would have been tremendously cool if Obi-Wan had said “Have you tried Hare Krishna?” after saying “Then you are lost.”
My second issue is about Padme’s death. All this time, I had thought that Padme died a grisly death in childbirth, which, quite frankly, would have been pretty realistic. But yet, she died of a broken heart! She lost the will to live! Padme, you just had two babies – LIVE FOR THEM. You’re not the only woman who got knocked up by a guy who turned out to be a dick. I mean, we all make mistakes. Padme’s was having unprotected sex with a Jedi. Get over it and mother your children. Jesus.
Maybe Padme and Anakin should have discussed the Five Languages of Love. My friend and I were talking about these love languages yesterday, which are Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Gifts, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch. We are now, as I told a young friend of mine who is in the stage of life when all her friends are getting married, in the stage where marital issues are starting to rear their ugly heads. My friend was telling me about a book detailing five different love languages, and how sometimes it seems like your partner is being a jerk, but maybe he’s showing his love in other ways. For example, maybe sometimes you want your shmoopie to give you some PDA, but he never does. Instead, he shows his love by always unloading the dishwasher (note: this does not happen in my house. If my husband unloaded the dishwasher, I would be so excited I would rip off my clothes and have sex with him right on the countertop). But anyway, our conversation centred around understanding how someone says I Love You. It was interesting, and it made me think that maybe Anakin was showing his love through Acts of Service (turning to the Dark Side so Padme wouldn’t die, ostensibly), but Padme really wanted some Quality Time. I don’t know. Things could have been resolved so differently.
Our discussion around the love languages got me thinking – what love language do I speak? How do I show my love? My husband would probably say that I need to work on my Quality Time. For example, the other night I was immersed in a book and he was talking to me. Instead of looking up from my book and listening, I had a “mmm, really?” kind of response. He totally busted me for not listening. Oops! But I will tell you about something really nice that HE did that is totally sweet and romantic. I was talking about how I wanted to go visit my grandma, but I didn’t want to take the whole family. The next thing I knew, he had booked me a flight and a rental car, and had figured out child care. If it was up to me, a year later I would still be saying “I want to go visit Grandma…” Hooray for decisiveness!
In other words, people, I am going on a solo trip! To Saskatchewan! I haven’t traveled by myself since 2003, I’m the teensiest bit nervous. So, I should say, is everyone around me. I have to drive two hours after flying to Regina, and, given my ability to get hopelessly lost in the city I’ve lived my whole life in, there is some concern that I will end up in Nunavut or, alternatively, South Dakota. My husband has been busy googling maps and reminding me to take the Garmin, my mother keeps asking nervously if I know how to get to the highway, and my dad is probably hand drawing me maps of the various streets around the airport as we speak. It’ll be FINE. How lost can I get? (Don’t answer that).
So anyway, I’m so in love with my husband, I get to go see my grandma, and I am going to be away from the kids for longer than I’ve ever been, which is causing me a little bit of angst. I’m pretty excited though – it helps that my kids are going to the lake with my parents, which they have told me is WAY more fun than when I come. What? Clearly, their love language is NOT Words of Affirmation.
A Farewell to Foggy
The boys and I had been planning a trip to the zoo today, with my mom, for the past week. It would be our last zoo trip of the summer, and so Jake was especially excited to see his favourite animal, Foggy the hippo. When I say “favourite animal”, I mean that Jake felt that he had a special bond with Foggy, and that Foggy communicated to him via telepathic signals, ear wiggling, and honking. Every time we visited Foggy, the hippo would inevitably wiggle his ears and honk, and Jake was convinced that it was for his benefit alone. Some of the things Foggy would say to Jake via these messages and the telepathic communications were “Hello, friend!” and “I love you, Jake!” and “You’re my favourite person!”. I did nothing to discourage this; after all, Jake is someone does not believe in the Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus, and so believing that he was special to this hippo, the oldest zoo resident and also one of the oldest hippos in the world was magical indeed.
Then yesterday, we heard the news that Foggy died.
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| Jake and Foggy, 2010 |
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| Jake and Foggy, 2012 |
You might think that the loss of a zoo animal, especially one who would be 47 in a few weeks – just two days after Jake’s own seventh birthday – would not be a huge deal. But it really was. I heard the news and then, thinking about our zoo trip, went to prepare Jake.
The Five Stages of Grief
Denial. After telling Jake, he seemed unaffected at first. He said he still wanted to visit the hippo enclosure. It wasn’t until he saw the story on the six o’clock news that he seemed to think it was real.
Anger. On the news, they explained that due to health complications stemming from his very advanced age (most hippos in captivity live to their mid-thirties, in the wild their lifespan is much shorter) Foggy had to be euthanized. Have you ever tried to explain euthanasia to a child? It didn’t go well. “THEY KILLED FOGGY!” he yelled, punching the couch.
Bargaining. After discovering that Foggy had fathered seven offspring, Jake felt that one of them should be brought to the zoo, at all costs.
Depression. Predictably, around bedtime, Jake completely broke down. “I just can’t stop being sad,” he sobbed. “It’s okay, honey,” I said, “You can be sad as long as you want.” The zoo trip started out all right this morning: Jake and Mark were happy showing their grandma the penguin display, the dinosaur park, and the Canadian Wilds. Then we went to the hippo enclosure. Jake refused to look at Sparky, the remaining hippo, and on leaving the enclosure he said that he didn’t care what animals we saw next, because no animal would ever wiggle their ears at Jake again. He was fairly listless though the other displays, he brightened only a little when Grandma bought some soft-serve, and he was heartbreakingly uninterested in the three adorable tiger cubs we saw frolicking and playing with the mama tiger. We watched the tigers and pointed out the cuteness while Jake looked at the ground, sadly. “Can’t you SEE them, Jake?” my mom and I asked. “I can see them.” he said flatly.
Acceptance. After the tiger display, we went to the gift shop – not something we normally do on a zoo trip, but then, this was not a normal zoo trip. Also, we had Grandma with us, and we all know how that goes (Grandma may or may not be a soft touch).
Not to be materialistic here, but the acquisition of not one but two hippos really turned things around. Jake said “I will always remember Foggy in my heart, and now I can snuggle my own Foggy whenever I want!”
