Category Archives: Cute Kid Quotes

My Favourite Cup

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The handle broke off of my favourite mug a couple of weeks ago.  It was a tall, lidded, blue ceramic cup with flowers on it that I had received in a gift basket from my husband’s colleagues when Mark was born.  I have used this mug every day since then, and now it is broken.  This feels like a metaphor for something but it isn’t.  It’s just a mug.

It is sad how attached I am to this mug, and it’s also sad that I went through several folders of digital pictures to see if my mug would be pictured in the background somewhere.  Since this mug was part of my everyday life and a large contributor to my caffeine habit, one would think that there would be photographic evidence of it but no.  I spent some minutes going through old pictures, becoming increasingly nostalgic as I looked at my children’s baby pictures.  My children, who have – not including today, when Jake is possibly being trampled by rampaging peacocks and escaped wild animals on his zoo trip as I write this – only two days of school left. 

I’m not at all melancholy about Mark leaving Grade One, but Jake leaving kindergarten?  I’m very mixed.  On the one hand, he’s such a big kid now, no more half days and missing his brother all afternoon, no more freezing to death in the playground where we while away the twenty five minutes between Jake’s and Mark’s lunchtime dismissals.  On the other hand, no more Mother’s Day spa treatments, no more performances of Robin in the Rain complete with air trumpets, no more adorable kindergarten program. 

But!  We cannot get caught up in it.  We must soldier on, bravely watching our kids get bigger and bigger and enjoying it.  Speaking of enjoying the changes, my husband thought that it would be a nice idea to get each boy a small gift for end of year celebrations, and for Jake, that meant fulfilling a several-months-long dream of obtaining a Lego NinjaGo Turbo Shredder.  He ordered it online and Jake waited and waited and WAITED and looked out the front door several times a day and FINALLY it arrived. 

I did not think, quite frankly, that Jake would survive the rest of the day if we waited for his father to get home to build it.  I thought he might spin off the planet.  So I took a deep breath and went outside my comfort zone and decided to build it myself.

People.  I am not exaggerating, not even a little, when I say that there were moments that I looked at the gigantic pile of Lego pieces in front of me and the thick instruction manuals on the floor and I thought of lying on the floor and saying “Bring Mom that wine bottle over there.”  But I did not.  I did not.  Two hundred and ninety eight pieces, two instruction manuals, and ninety minutes of intense focus and concentration and we now have a Turbo Shredder.  I listened to my seventies’ radio station and hummed and sang along, trying to maintain a calm exterior.  You’re having my baby!  Where the fuck am I supposed to put this brick?  What a lovely way to say how much you love me. Is this supposed to be on the third or fourth hole?  You’re having my baby!   Dammit, that was supposed to be a black piece, not a grey one.

But!  There was one missing piece, which turned out to be a crucial piece because the Turbo Shredder is missing one of its tires.  I looked and looked and swept under the couch and moved furniture and we still have one missing piece.  Did you know that you can contact Lego and have them send you any missing pieces?  YOU CAN.

After finishing this project, I felt as though I deserved much more accolades and perhaps even a parade in my honour but somehow that did not happen.

When my mug broke, I received two offers of redemption from my children.  Jake said that if I drove him to the store, he would use his allowance to buy me a new mug.  Mark said that he would register himself in a clay class and sculpt me one.  I hugged them for both of those suggestions and then dug through my cupboards to find an old, unused travel mug.  I went to take a shower and then I came back to see that Jake had taken a Sharpie to it.

“I Love You” he had written in his shaky, kindergarten printing.  That’s better than a parade, I think.

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The Wonder Pets Save the Clematis

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June is such a busy and frantic month, and it seems like everyone is off their game just the teeniest bit.  Or is that just my house?  Hoo boy, the number of ridiculous arguments that have been going on around here is epic.  Epic, I tell you.  The children have been disagreeing about everything from, unseasonably enough, the appropriate way to carve a pumpkin to the question are haunted houses actually scary?  And if you think that seems relatively benign, I invite you to listen in on these conversations and the intensity of feeling that they generate.  I am all for letting them figure these things out for themselves – I mean, really, should I be intervening on the haunted house issue?  NO. – and so after one such intense disagreement I went into my bedroom with a giant basket of to-be-folded laundry, and not-so-quietly shut the door.  This in turn generated some commentary: “Is Mom in her room?  With the DOOR CLOSED?”  “I think she’s mad at us”.  By the time I emerged, the two of them were sitting together on the couch, watching Scooby Doo and discussing in a happier, more rational way, the role that ghosts play in our lives and in those who reside in haunted houses.  

I seem to be intent on making it busier by doing things that I want to avoid during the summer – like Costco shopping with children.  So yesterday I headed to Costco and found myself in my usual Costco-induced state of loathing and desperation about the state of society, but also excitement due to the availability of a giant box of ice cream sandwiches for $11.99.  Now to avoid eating the ice cream sandwiches. 

There is also much excitement on my street right now as we are all having our gas meters moved to the outside of our houses.  My own meter is being moved on Friday and I keep eyeing my neighbour’s houses to see what I can expect in terms of garden and yard damage.  I mean, they have to drill a hole in the foundation of my house.  I cannot imagine that my garden is going to escape unscathed.  I keep wondering if there is any way I can keep the garden intact, especially my clematis which is only three inches tall right now, thanks to the very long winter and very late and cold spring.  I suggested to my husband that I tearfully and with much eyelash batting talk to the workers to see if I could get them to be careful around the clematis.  I even started planning an appropriate outfit when my husband suggested that perhaps my methodology would seem more creepy and crazy flower lady, rather than the much more appealing damsel in distress.  I suppose I will just wait and see what happens.

This is my clematis in full bloom.  You can see why I want to save it!  Save the clematis!

The upside to having the meter moved is no more doorbell-ringing meter guys.  The guy that reads my meter has a habit of ringing my doorbell either just before I’m rushing out the door to get the kids to school OR just as I’m out of the shower and in my robe, at which point he asks me to please put the dog in another room, as I try not to flash him while collaring my fifty pound hysterical dog.  This has happened more times than I would like to admit and I didn’t even get any BEADS for it, for goodness’ sake.  No matter what happens, garden wise, I am looking forward to not having those awkward moments anymore.

Beavers are very interesting animals.

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On our recent Victoria Day weekend road trip, we stopped for a break at the information centre in Golden, BC.  While my husband took the boys in to use the bathroom, I took the dog for a quick walk and potty break.
Query: why do I use the term “potty break” for a dog?  Answer regrettably unknown.
It should be noted that my husband is something of a soft touch.  It should also be noted that my children are currently obsessed with Canadian wild animals.  Mark, on seeing a photo of a big horned sheep, exclaimed “That’s my favourite horned mammal!”  So it should not be surprising that when I allowed the three of them to go unsupervised into an information centre which sells a wide variety of stuffed Canadian wild animals, the boys ended up with new toys in their possession.
Jake chose a moose:
That’s the new moose, named Moosie, in the front row centre.
Guess what Mark chose?

No, not the bald eagle.  No, not the wolf.  Not the
Vancouver Olympic mascots nor the tigers.

Here’s a close-up.

It’s a beaver!

Now, don’t get me wrong.  Beavers ARE fascinating animals, what with the dam building and beaver lodges and being the national animal of our fine country, but every time Mark informs me that he “loves beavers so much!” and that “beavers are so cool, aren’t they, Mom?” or that he is going to snuggle with his beaver, I die a little on the inside.  And by die, I mean die laughing.  Yesterday was his class’ library day, and he enthusiastically checked out a very informative non-fiction book all about beavers. 
I admire his teacher for keeping a straight face as he spews out his interesting beaver facts, or draws endless pictures of beavers, or expresses his passion for beavers.
It’s all about animals around here.  Mark, with his Grade One knowledge of endangered species, has been passing along his wealth of information to his brother, and let me just say this: it has not been especially well-received.  When Mark lovingly shared the Africa chapter from his new kid’s National Geographic Wild Animals Atlas with Jake, things went awry fairly quickly.  Minutes later, Jake was sobbing hysterically.  Upon further investigation, I discovered that Jake’s distress was stemming from the sad knowledge that hippos are endangered animals, hippos being his number-one favourite animal, to the extent that he believes that Foggy, the Calgary Zoo hippo, has a special bond with him and only him. 
“Foggy wiggled his ears at me!  He honked at me!”
We also celebrate Foggy’s birthday, which is only two days after Jake’s own.  Foggy is turning 46 this year, making him almost exactly 40 years older than Jake.  Foggy is much loved and on hearing that hippos are endangered, Jake immediately concluded that Foggy himself is knock knock knocking on heaven’s door, which he may be considering that he is one of the oldest hippos in North America.  As he sobbed about Foggy’s eventual demise and the fleeting nature of life in general, Mark added more fuel to the fire.  “Stop crying, Jake!  Tons of animals are endangered!  You know how you love elephants so much?  They’re totally endangered!  People kill them for their tusks!  They die!”  Jake: “ELEPHANTS TOOOOO?  NOOOOOOO!”
I find this kind of thing very trying.  While I am all for environmental awareness, I am not in favour of such transfers of information right before bedtime, which is when this display of brotherly love occurred.  Fortunately I was able to assure Jake that hippos in zoos live much longer than those in the wild – which is true – and that Foggy would probably live for many more years – which may or may not be true.  In any case, I sense a zoo trip in our very near future.

What does one need to wear to the Rapture?

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So apparently the term “whale tail” is not as commonly known as I thought.  Here’s a snapshot from Wikipedia:

It’s just as classy as a pair of Daisy Dukes and a crop top.

Do you remember that scene in The 40 Year Old Virgin where Andy and Cal catch a glimpse of the salesgirl’s whale tail while she is working in the bookstore window?



Andy: There’s something wrong with her underpants.


Cal: Yeah, they’re not in my mouth.

Speaking of showing your underwear to the neighbourhood and possibly earning the reputation as the creepy lady across the street, did you know that the world is slated to end THIS WEEKEND?  I don’t know how I went this long without realizing that Saturday is Judgment Day and, also, the Rapture, which I had erroneously thought was the Apocalypse until a friend corrected me.  Despite my Lutheran upbringing, from which I have clearly lapsed, I am actually a little unsure of the difference between the apocalypse and the rapture, other than the presence or otherwise of the four horsemen.  So anyway, mark it on your calendars!  World ending Saturday.  No need to stock up on groceries this weekend.


I’ve always wondered: if you predict the world ending, as has been predicted many times before, do you feel silly after the world does not end?  I think I would.

My long-awaited food processor arrived this weekend, in a very large box.  Jake immediately staked his claim on the box, which he named “Boxy”.  Or maybe “Boxie”.  In any case, Boxy has become part of his daily life.  He’s putting toys in it, rearranging its location, and spending hours a day sitting in Boxy.  This is all fine with me.  However, a game has emerged, and it essentially consists of Jake climbing into Boxy, closing the top, and calling to me.  Then, I am supposed to act surprised because Jake is not in the room; instead there is just a giant food processor box.  Failure to play along is not an option.  Along with this game is much one-sided conversation about the various Hero Factory characters that are inside of Boxy, which one I like best, and all of their different attributes. 


Here is my dilemma: on the one hand, there is less than six weeks left of school, then my afternoons with Jake will be over forever, as he starts Grade One in the fall.  I should be cherishing all of these moments.  One day, perhaps, he will not want to share every detail of his life with me.  But on the other hand, I think my eardrums are going to burst from so much loudly punctuated conversation.  “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, can I tell you something MOM?  MOM?  Did you know that Furno MOM?  Did you know that Furno is very powerful MOM?  MOM?  Guess what MOM?  I have a Breez 2.0 in my MOM?  Mom, can I tell you something MOM?”  Two and a half hours of this constant stream of consciousness and I am a broken shell of a woman. 

Yesterday after an afternoon based entirely on Jake’s talking and my planting actual flowers to go with my metaphorical mind-flowers – my thoughts are my seeds!  Jake’s just sharing his life with me! – we went to pick up Mark after school.  Mark played with one of his friends on the playground for a while, then came up to me and indignantly accused me of never listening to him, ever.  I thought sadly that maybe, given the afternoon’s events and my possible exploded eardrum, I was tuning out everything my children were saying, and I bent down to listen to what he had to say, which was, somewhat anticlimactically, “There was a ladybug on the slide.”


He went on to say that he and his friend were trying to rescue it, because if someone killed a ladybug, then Jesus’ mother would be angry.  I was completely startled by this revelation, and said that I didn’t know about Jesus’ mother, but I would be sad if a ladybug was killed, as they are very helpful bugs.  Mark nodded solemnly, and said “I guess both my mom AND Jesus’ mom would not like anyone to kill a ladybug.”

Comparing me, the creepy lady showing her whale tail in a modern day Mrs. Robinson-type way to the young neighbour to Mary, Mother of God seems a little heretical.  Maybe I should be concerned about this weekend.

Tell me now, baby, is he good to you? Can he do to you the things that I do?

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I received an invitation for the school’s Volunteer Appreciation Tea.  I smiled happily until I realized that the date coincides with the next book fair, which I am running.  I cannot attend the Volunteer Appreciation Tea because I’m too busy volunteering.
Some days are just like that.
I have not been sleeping well lately and I am feeling very, very tired.  I’ve been waking up at my usual early time and I feel great for about two hours; then it all goes downhill.  I’m pretty much mainlining coffee by mid-morning.  My poor sleep is not helped by Mark’s barking, seasonal allergy-related cough, which apparently does not affect his sleep one iota, but keeps me up at night.  Also, I heard “I’m on Fire” yesterday, so last night I lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling while the following soundtrack looped through my head:
Did he go and leave you all alone, mmmm….What if that cough isn’t allergies?  Should I do something?…Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife baby edgy and dull and cut a six inch valley through the middle of my soul…What if it’s croup?  Croup probably sounds like that….At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet and a freight train running through the middle of my head…But could someone have croup with absolutely no other symptoms?…Only you can cool my desire…Maybe I should get up and google croup.  No, that’s probably a bad idea.  Remember when I googled fifth disease and thought everyone had it?…Whoooooo I’m on fire…
Last night the boys had soccer for the second time since April 19, and it was actually quite nice.  My new goal is to not complain about freezing to death on the soccer field, and so last night I dressed up in five layers of clothing, boots, and gloves, and I felt quite comfortable.  The boys are both in teams with blue uniforms, and so the kids generally name the teams in a way that coordinates with the colour.  Jake’s team name, for example, is the Blue Berries.  One year Mark was with the Blue Bubble Gums, and last year they were both in the Green Geckos.  I happened to be listening in when Mark’s team was asked for name suggestions.  The first one out of the gate was from one of his teammates, who suggested the Burning Blue Balls.  The coach, a friend of mine, deserves everlasting credit for nodding seriously and saying, “Okay.  Anyone…else?”  Fortunately they went with another suggestion – the Blue Jays – so I don’t have to cheer for the Blue Balls. 
Since my run-in with the dog boarder-who-no-longer-boards-overnight-but-who-still-will-groom-my-dog-for-the-low-price-of-$80-plus-tip, I have been on the search for a new groomer.  Evidently this is a difficult task.  There is a place close to my house that has a two month waiting list.  To get my dog groomed.  Now, my hair salon also has a two month waiting list, but while I don’t mind making several advance appointments for myself, I would like a little more flexibility for the member of the family who likes to eat his own frozen fecal matter and roll in the dusty dead grass.  Maybe that’s just me.  So I found yet another place, which will take him next week, and I’m only slightly unnerved by the fact that I need to have a consult with the groomer.  If this consult is more detailed than “give him the kennel number 3 cut” I am going to just give up and lock myself in the bathroom with a bottle of wine for a while.  Maybe it will help me sleep.

What makes a happy couple? Not outdoor soccer.

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Last week I was applying makeup while wearing my robe and Jake peered over at my exposed legs.  “Mom, you should go put your stockings on,” he said in a voice of concern.  I assured him that I didn’t need to wear my stockings anymore!  Happy news!  He repeated his request, slightly louder.  I repeated my response in a slightly different way, simplifying it as I thought he didn’t understand, like maybe he had an issue with comprehension of the English language.  Finally, he tearfully snapped.  “MOM!  Please just put your stockings on!  Your legs are creeping me out!”
Ew!  And this is after a week of healing.  It’s like Frankenstein’s monster’s legs, but paler.
I went and put on yoga pants.
Yesterday was a lovely day and I spent the majority of it bundled up and sitting out in the sun, reading, like the elderly person I have now become.  The boys rode their scooters and bikes and dug holes in the dirt while I wondered how much longer it will be until I can clean up the yard a little, plant a few things, cut back the old dead perennials.  There is still snow on the ground although it’s trying to melt.  My husband watched the Master’s, and for those of you who are not golf fans – I suspect that I’m talking to most of my readership here – it is being touted as the most exciting Master’s EVER.  At one point there were six players who were tied for the lead, which is evidently quite rare.  Tiger Woods even was a contender – I coulda been a contender!  I coulda been a somebody, instead of just a nobody. – but he did not win.  It is a little amazing to me that he still has a large fan base and that people were clapping (in the muted, golf way) for him.  I guess this gives hope to Charlie Sheen.
It’s funny about relationships.  I’ve been reading a few articles lately that have addressed the issue of how to “keep the spark alive”, and while I have a hard time keeping the ribald jokes to myself (Blowjobs! Pornography!  Alcohol!), I think it’s an important topic.  My husband is, obviously, an avid golf fan and an avid golf player, while I, most clearly, am not.  I am a yoga practitioner, whereas my husband, most emphatically, is not.  But yet, I find that our separate interests are part of our keeping said spark alive, even if we frequently “parallel talk” – i.e., “I shot a birdie on the tenth hole, then bogeyed the eleventh.”  “My back’s a little stiff from Kapotasana.  I think I should stretch.”  There is no way that we are ever going to be a “golf couple”; I am never donning one of those little hats and killing myself with frustration.  We are also never going to be a “yoga couple”; my husband is never going to “inhale happiness exhale peace.”  We’re a happy couple, though.  Even if I know, against my will, that Rory McIlroy completely fell apart on the back nine.
Tonight is soccer evaluations, and the single greatest email I received last week informed me that the evaluations would take place indoors this year, given the plethora of snow.  I was almost hysterically happy with this news.  Next week the season starts and let me tell you a little secret: outdoor soccer in this city is terrible.  Every year I sit on my little folding chair dressed for a blizzard, with a giant cup of tea and a sleeping bag wrapped around me, and it feels like, indeed, hell has frozen over and I am living in it.  But the kids are happy out there in the fresh air and light evenings, running around, and that’s what matters most.  Now, if only that snow would melt.

It says "Let’s BEE Friends!" And there’s a picture of a bee on it.

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This weekend was our neighbourhood’s annual outdoor party, complete with skating, tobogganing, and barbeque, and by some incredible good fortune, the weather was very mild, making it a perfect day.  Mark built a snowman with his dad:
I’m basking in the glory of a snowman, whose existence I did not assist in.

Cute, right?  Until his head was knocked off by some random child, the evil murderer.

Good times.  I also baked and decorated FIVE DOZEN cookies, which I tried to photograph in an arty kind of way but either my camera lacks the proper arty settings or I lack talent in photography.  Either way, here is my non-artistic take:

Mark made me a Valentine yesterday:

So very sweet.  Not only does it include Valentine’s stickers, he also used some cute ones left over from Christmas.  Then Jake came home from school today with this:

You may not be able to tell, because of my awesome photography, but the front of the card says BEE MINE.  And there is a bee on it.  I can now die happy because – and I am not joking or being ironic in any way – I have always wanted a Valentine with a bee, saying BEE MINE, or alternately, Let’s BEE Friends!  So between those cards and the fact that my husband went to the grocery store specifically to buy me a mint chocolate truffle bar, this is the greatest Valentine’s Day ever. 

When the boys gave me their sweet offerings, I thought of that Tiger Mom and her rejection of the homemade birthday card, and in case you are unaware of this newsworthy story, the Tiger Mom’s family had forgotten it was her birthday until the very last minute, and one of her daughters made her a quick, last minute card.  The Tiger Mom was repulsed by this shabby offering and informed her daughter that she deserved better.  It was not good enough.  CARD REJECTED.  I have mixed feelings about this.  If my family forgot my birthday – which is unlikely to ever happen given that a) my husband is not a dick and he knows how much I love birthdays, and b) I practically institute a countdown and wear a sandwich board in the weeks prior to my birthday – I would be extremely angry and disappointed.  But a mother rejecting a child’s artistic endeavours is abhorrent to me. 

I, like the Tiger Mom, have high expectations of my children.  I expect them to behave well and be polite, kind, and respectful; I expect them to do well in school and do their homework and reading every day; I expect them to do their chores in the house and keep their rooms neat.  I think all of those things are reasonable.  But saying to a child that a card that they made is “not good enough” is akin, in my mind, to saying “YOU are not good enough”.  And that is a tragedy.

But on a happier note, Happy Valentine’s Day to you, my dear readers!  Let’s BEE friends!  Bzzz.