Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

The pediatric dentist is HOT

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Was that me who was bragging about how well my children adjusted to the end of Daylight Savings? After only one day? I think in Greek mythology that would be known as hubris.

I am going to spare you the tearful, fighting-with-one’s-brother, collapsing into a teenage-angst-type-sulkiness details and instead talk about something pleasant. I took the kids to the dentist yesterday! Did I mention that their dentist happens to be quite attractive? Like, hot? I’m always somewhat surprised that the waiting room isn’t full of slavering moms in various stages of cougardom, with various degrees of cleavage showing. I myself dressed up to take the kids; by dressed up, I mean I wore my knee high boots with heels and my toffee lipstick, as opposed to the more neutral shell shade. And…we got there and were informed that the dentist was sick today, and would we mind seeing his colleague? His much older, unattractive colleague? Of course we didn’t mind.

Now, I had promised not to write about the “f” word until I actually get the “f” word, and I’m not going to, but I’m just going to say that if you go to the pediatric dentist and he is sick and every single toy and book that they use to distract kids and make the dentist’s office a happy place is being sterilized, and one dentist is doing the work of two dentists, well, you may be waiting a while doing low-tech games like I Spy and repeating silly rhymes over and over. Which is exactly what we did. And because I have boys, a lot of silly rhymes were of the gross bodily function theme. Anyway, the checkup itself went just fine, despite the fact that every time we go there seems to be at least one child being ax-murdered in the background. At least that is what it sounds like. But now that I’ve written that down, it will probably be my child doing the child-from-The-Exorcist impression next time – because that is called hubris.

Weekend Update

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1. I purchased 250 candies for Halloween, and lovingly made up twenty little gift bags with an assortment of goodies. If we got more than twenty trick-or-treaters, I thought, I would just give out the mini chocolate bars and bags of Sour Kids separately. The boys headed out to trick-or-treat and I stayed home to hand out candy, happily watching a recording of John Cusack (hubba hubba) on Jay Leno. I waited. And waited. I started to feel like some sad little debutante waiting for her date, who had obviously stood her up for a better option. (“He cometh not”, she said.) In the end I had two trick-or-treaters and now I have a plethora of candy with no home. Since trick-or-treaters were in short supply on our block, you can probably imagine the volume of candy amassed by my little pirate and dinosaur, who, technically, was an Allosaurus, not a T-Rex, because he was living in the Jurassic period, whereas the T-Rex lived in the Cretaceous period, just so you know. In addition, two very lovely neighbours actually went out and purchased special large treats just for them! Very kind, especially the neighbour who gave them candy popcorn, which the children have generously shared with me.

2. Another neighbour suggested that kids were not trick-or-treating much this year due to the swine flu, either because they had contracted it or because their parents were wary of them contracting it. If this is true, it is the last straw for me. I have reached saturation point with regards to information about the swine flu. This may or may not include helpful emails from certain people which detail that a) if you contract the flu, we are all going to die, or, alternately, b) if you get the flu shot, we are all going to die. I will write about the flu only if and when I or my family contracts the flu, and then I will simply whine about my symptoms, and NOT about conspiracy theories regarding the government, the pharmaceutical companies, and the sellers of hand sanitizers. I bet you are looking forward to that.

3. In years past, I dreaded the end of Daylight Savings Time, and not just because shortly it will be completely dark at 4:30 pm. I had the kind of children who would wake up at the exact same time every day no matter what time they went to bed, and it would take about a week – a cranky, sleep-deprived week – to adjust to the new time. There is something psychologically very bad about having a toddler wide awake at 4:58 am. “How did your kids do with the time change?” I blearily asked a mom at a playgroup, who subsequently looked at me like I was a little slow on the uptake. “Fine,” she said, “I just put them to bed an hour later and then they slept an hour later.” I looked at her, slack-jawed, like that was the most unbelievable, incredible piece of information I had ever received. But, huzzah! I am now part of that demographic! I put my kids to bed later, and they wake up later! It’s a miracle! They are not waking up at ungodly hours and morphing into crazed, sleep-deprived little goblins! And as a result, I am not a crazed, sleep-deprived, mid-thirties goblin! Hooray indeed.

Happy Halloween

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Arrrrgh, mateys. If ye are sailing the high seas, be sure to guard ye treasure. There’s pirates about!


And if the pirates don’t get you, the dinosaurs will.


I was volunteering for the Pre-Kindergarten Halloween party today, and if I was the sort of person to drink during the day, I probably would have a shot. Or two. It wasn’t that bad. But if you put a class of 21 costumed and wired 4-year-olds in a setting where the activities are “decorate your own cookie”, “pin the nose on the Jack-o-Lantern”, “bowling for witches”, and the sedate, but somewhat tear-inspiring “Halloween Bingo”, well, let’s just say an adult-only beverage would have been nice. However. I do not drink during the day (exception is when I am on vacation at my in-laws) so I will be counting down until bedtime.

Too much news

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I need to stop watching the news.

I’m sure there are a lot of interesting things going on in the world, I’m sure there are a lot of important stories to be following, but the only thing I know about is the H1N1 vaccine. Vaccination clinics opened here on Monday, and it’s been a non-stop media frenzy since then. I made the mistake of attempting to go to the post office on Monday to mail my mother-in-law’s birthday gift (Her actual birthday occurred two days earlier; I am a bad daughter-in-law. Also, we gave her socks. Socks! She requested them but still. Bad daughter-in-law.). The post office is located beside the vaccination clinic for my quadrant of the city. There were probably a thousand people lined up OUTSIDE waiting for their shot. I couldn’t even get into the parking lot. Flu shot be damned! I must get this package mailed! I’m losing points as we speak!

Anyway, the media surrounding this flu reminds me a little of Michael Jackson’s death. Like, there were other things happening when he died, but that was pretty much the only thing on the news. Even now, I will hear the occasional “New information in Michael Jackson’s suspicious death!” and I will have to dive for the remote to turn off the television. Not that there was not incredibly important information involved – for example, I did not know his child was named Blanket. How did I live before receiving that information? – but really. Really. Do we need 24 hour coverage of the death of a crazed former child star turned (allegedly) pedophile who gave the world the awesome song Billie Jean? No. We do not. Also we do not need any information with the words “Jon and Kate”. I have never seen that show but the mere word “Gosselin” releases in me the same impulse to dive for the remote.

Back to the flu shot. I find it very difficult to deal with all this information in the media. It feels like fear mongering on all sides. A bioethicist was on the news saying that everyone has a moral duty to get vaccinated, to avoid spreading the virus to high risk groups. Hmm. Then you have only to google “flu vaccination safety” to get two million results, most of them scary, some of them written by crackpots. Hmm. So what’s a mom to do?

My first instinct was to not vaccinate the kids, but vaccinate myself. Any mother who has had to care for sick kids while being sick herself can understand that. The kids have to get two doses, which seems a bit scary, the vaccine was made very quickly, which seems a bit scary, and anyway I have the luxury of being at home with them – if they get sick, I can keep them at home for as long as needed, no big deal.

No big deal except the case of the healthy Toronto boy who suddenly died of the virus. Died! My heart goes out to their family; losing one of my children is the worst thing I can imagine. If one of them died and there was something I could have done to prevent it, I would not be able to live with myself.

I was trying to think about this rationally. The percentage of deaths is small; the likelihood is small, but what if? As I walked the dog I thought about it. I stepped off the curb and a car suddenly sped around the corner, and the driver slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting me. How strange to be thinking about death from the flu and almost get hit by a car!

I just want to do the right thing for my kids. But what is that?

Jake’s Jack-o-Lantern is named Chachi!

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This is, I believe, directly correlated with the event of my brother and his girlfriend (very kindly) babysitting on Friday night, so that my husband and I could go out to dinner to celebrate his birthday. “I’m so excited!” I said to my yoga teacher Friday morning, “We have a date! We only have about five dates a year.” She smiled at me, somewhat sympathetically. Now that I think about it, five might be a slight over-estimate. Anyway, we had a lovely dinner and the boys enjoyed their uncle and aunt and now we have a Jack-o-Lantern named Chachi.

It snowed big, fat flakes Saturday morning so my plans to take the boys to a local market were quashed – I have a thing about not driving in snowstorms unless it is really necessary – so instead we decided to carve our pumpkins. Here’s me and the boys digging out the innards:


Okay, so it’s just me digging out the innards. Here are the finished products:


Chachi is the one on the left.

Later we made snowmen and I really should have taken a picture, as some sort of avant-garde photographic portrait. We decorated the snowman with random items in our backyard, and after I went inside to warm up I saw Mr. Snowman meeting his maker, as it were. Fortunately the boys were not urinating on him, no; instead they were merely kicking him down and laughing hysterically, a somewhat disturbing scenario. Soon all that was left was a pile of snow, a plastic fireman’s hat, and two water guns.

Peace, man

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I heard on the radio this morning that the public at large is now supposed to avoid shaking hands due to the H1N1 virus. Instead, the piece stated, people should do a fist bump, or perhaps an elbow slap, which I, quite frankly, find very amusing. I can just picture business people in an important client meeting, fist bumping each other like a roomful of Howie Mandells. Are you planning a wedding this season? Having a receiving line? Don’t forget to elbow slap your guests. Nothing says “Thanks for coming, Grandma” like an elbow slap. Perhaps we should just give up touching other people all together, and simply salute each other? Or maybe exchange a peace sign. It will be just like the sixties, but without the promiscuity and hallucinogens.

It’s no secret I’m a bit of a germ-phobe. Doorknobs gross me out, public drinking fountains disgust me, and I actually shuddered while watching two people swig from the same water bottle on a TV show. This latter made my husband gently suggest that maybe I should relax lest I turn into a crazy person. What do you mean turn into? I think that line has already been crossed. If my life had a soundtrack, the opening chords to “If You Don’t Know Me By Now” would begin to swell.

Anyway, despite this little quirk of mine, I am also a hand shaker. AND a hugger. In fact, if I haven’t seen you for a while, I will probably give you a huge hug upon meeting again. And if our meeting again takes place during a gathering where I have had a glass of wine, I might just give you a big kiss on your cheek in addition. If I’m coughing and hacking and running a fever, I won’t. In fact, if I’m coughing and hacking and running a fever, I’m probably still in my house. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me, but I think the majority of the population will likely not shake hands/ hug/ kiss if they are down with the flu.

I am actually very appreciative of all the media coverage of the H1N1 pandemic for one reason: handwashing awareness at schools. I clearly recall that soap was seldom available in my high school washrooms, and when it was available, it was a rock hard revolting sliver on the side of the sink. However, some of this media coverage is starting to look like it was created by people who are crazier than I am. No handshakes? No hugs? Maybe we should all just roll around in a germ-free bubble until March.

Happy Birthday Dear Husband

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Tomorrow is my husband’s birthday! The boys are giving him a box of golf balls and I am giving him two golf shirts. I’m also baking a chocolate layer cake. This is exactly the same gift and cake combination as last year, and quite possibly the year before that. I can see myself many years in the future, wearing my old-lady slacks and fancy beaded sweater, my support hose and my bright pink feathery lipstick, presenting my husband with two golf shirts, a box of golf balls, and a chocolate layer cake.

Sometimes I think of us when we are old and in a lot of ways, things will not be much different. I will still want to eat dinner at 4:45 and go to bed at 9. My husband, in the tradition of old men everywhere, already swears at the local meteorologist. “That Schulz is a (something something) idiot. Just give me the (something something) forecast already, and stop with the (something something) jokes.”

Speaking of forecasts, I saw an older couple in a garden center who showed me a glimpse of my future. The lady had an armful of boxed bulbs, which the man was eying suspiciously. “I don’t know where you think you’re going to plant them”, he said. “But they’re so pretty!” she replied. “Do you think I’m going to dig up more lawn?” he asked somewhat grumpily. The lady – and although she was a complete stranger, I admire her greatly – smiled sweetly and did the old-lady equivalent of eyelash batting. He sighed. “All right. All right. Just get them. I guess we’ll make room.”

If you substituted perennials for bulbs, and “I’m going to dig” with “you’re going to dig”, you would have the exact conversation my husband and I have every spring! And possibly the exact conversation we will have for the next forty springs! One of these days he’s going to come home and wonder where the lawn went.

All of which is to say I’m looking forward to celebrating many more birthdays with my wonderful husband. Happy birthday, sweetheart!