Category Archives: My failing sanity

I WIN!

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I have been having a very stressful and emotional week, and that was even before it became apparent that my stressful and emotional week was exacerbated by the fact that it was coinciding with my monthly stressful and emotional week.  You can imagine the tears and chocolate eating that have been going on around here.  And this is where I make a public service announcement: if you decide to stock up on the new Peppermint Lindor with the intention of passing them out to people in a Santa-like and also join-my-cult-like way, and that stocking up coincides with an emotional and stressful week, you can be assured that you will not pass along any of those Peppermint Lindors but instead you will attempt to consume them all yourself until you resemble Santa in a physical, rather than a metaphorical way. 

That’s how my week was going, so you can imagine my excitement when Kimberly from Make Mommy Go Something Something gave me this:

It’s an award!!  I’ve never received a blog award before!  I feel IRRESISTABLE!  Thanks Kimberly!

It’s Friday, and I’m all T to the G.I.Friday.  I need some laughs, so I stole the idea of “Funny Friday” from my friend Allison over at Bibliomama.  Hey, Allison, you’re irresistable too!  I’m passing that award along to you.

I wish I had the kind of witty, dry, British humour that people tend to associate with intelligence and higher breeding, but unfortunately for me I am Scottish-Norweigan and my sense of humour tends to the low-brow or gutter variety.  Which is to say, this is one of my all-time favourite movie scenes.  That whole movie is filled with many enjoyable moments and lines, such as “We’re going streaking!  Bring your green hat, let’s go!” or “Denver!  The Sunshine State.”  Last weekend I watched You Don’t Mess With The Zohan and, while it wasn’t as funny as one might think a movie about an Israeli commando-turned-hairdresser might be, it did have some good visuals, such as the scene where he goes clubbing wearing cut-off shorts and a silky shirt.  I tried to find that picture but all I found was this:

photo from RottenTomatoes.com

If you have a dog, you may really appreciate this post on moving with two less-than-gifted dogs.  I really could identify with the dog who magically made his own food.  Good times. 

So, if you share my kind of humour, enjoy those links and have a good laugh this Friday! 

I Don’t Have Bieber Fever

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This week saw the culmination of all my book fair coordination efforts.  I have been living and breathing the book fair.  My life has been consumed by the book fair.  I was even, unbelievably, dreaming about the book fair.  Now the book fair is over and I feel empty inside.
Actually I just feel exhausted.  I’m used to my life of leisure, and this week took a surprising amount of effort.  I would like to give a shout-out to working mothers everywhere, because this simple week of volunteer work left me exhausted and overwhelmed by such things as the laundry and making dinner. 
Nonetheless I very much enjoyed it, not the least because I feel like a minor celebrity, known around the school as “The Book Fair Lady”, as opposed to my previous title of “Mark/Jake’s Mom”.  When I walk down the hall I get students excitedly waving to me and bombarding me with questions about the availability or otherwise of the latest Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and if we have any of those UV Light Pens left.  Those crappy pens became the bane of my existence.  Kids kept coming back with defective pens and buyer’s remorse.  
Adding to my feeling of general fatigue is the fact that it is bitterly cold and snowing, and getting the boys to get their gigantic layers of snow pants, winter coats, hats, neck warmers, mittens and boots on in a semi-timely fashion and getting out the door several times a day is tiring.  My kids come home for their fifty-five minute lunch hour, and the scramble to get them home, fed, and back is seriously trying what is left of my sanity.  Given that Mark takes a solid ten minutes to actually get out of his classroom with his many, many layers on, by the time we get home and peel off the layers they have approximately ten minutes to eat before starting the whole process over again.  It’s enough to make me eye the bottle of wine on the counter longingly.  (NOTE: I only eye the bottle.  I am a very responsible, non-drinking-before-bedtime kind of mother.  Don’t want to give the wrong impression here.)
Speaking of trying my sanity, the book fair was stocked with piles of books about Justin Bieber, posters of Justin Bieber, and even stickers proclaiming “I have Bieber Fever” and “I am Justin Bieber’s Favourite Girl”.  Frankly, I don’t get the appeal.  When I was the age of the girls who were excitedly pawing through the various Bieber merchandise, my pretend boyfriend was this guy:
I can still rock out to his music.  Justin Bieber, on the other hand…
I don’t like to be negative, but seriously?  What is with his HAIR?  Hoo boy, I just realized that made me sound like my father.  It’s not enough that I’ve inherited his prematurely grey hair, now I’m critiquing tween pop culture?  Sigh.

And…we’re back.

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Wow, was I just on vacation?  I have that weird, not-unfamiliar feeling that I was in a completely alternate universe many months ago, although we’ve been home for only a few days.  It’s funny how one day a person can spend hours in a complete state of relaxation, eating sublime food, walking on a beach, and reading the O list and recommendations on how to “live your best life”, and then the next day finds that same person in a state of agitation, baking and frosting eight dozen sugar cookies in varying spooky shapes, with a shirt covered in flour and a harried expression.  And getting extremely irritable should anyone attempt to sample one of the cookies that is not in the designated sampling container.
The weather has taken a definite turn for the wintry: snow on the ground yesterday, flakes in the air today, grey sky and cold, cold wind.  My current fervent hope is that it will warm up for Halloween.  Not that I am the parent on Trick or Treat duty – in fact my children have requested that I stay home to hand out candy to our (presumably, if history is any indication) few Trick or Treaters.  But milder weather would be much appreciated prior to Sunday. 
A few days ago I was relaxing in a beautiful place next to the Pacific Ocean, and right now my kids are sneaking up on me wearing vampire teeth screaming “BOO!  I’m a vampire!  Did I scare you?”, and putting together puzzles between such fearsome episodes, the television is on, and I just saw the following headline: Charlie Sheen found naked, incoherent with escort in NYC hotel room.  Surreal.  Also surreal is the fact that I don’t see that headline every single day.  I mean, is that really news?
To add to it, yesterday I heard the song Love is a Battlefield at 5:15 am and it stayed with me all day.  All day I was bursting out with “We are young!  Heartache to heartache we stand!”  ALL DAY.  That tune also followed me into the night, when I woke up in a cold sweat at three in the morning after a nightmare which involved – of all things – running out of draw tickets for the upcoming Scholastic Book Fair.  Which just goes to show, not for the first time, that I am kind of lame.
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On a serious note: someone I know is currently going through a terrible time with her very young daughter, who has a frightening, rare, and very difficult to treat illness.  This family is going through hell; I cannot even begin to imagine.  Please, if you are the praying type, send out some prayers and thoughts for them.  And if you’re reading this, know that people care about you.

Conversation at the Breakfast Table

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Jake: Is today the day that Grandma is coming for a sleepover?

Me: No, that’s tomorrow.

Both boys, in unison: Awwwwww!

Me: Remember, Mom and Dad are going on Thursday, we’ll be gone all day Friday, then we are coming back on Saturday.

Mark: Can you come back on Sunday instead?

So apparently they are going to be just fine.

I got home from yoga practice at 6:55 this morning, and since that time, in addition to my usual morning routine (shower, breakfasts, get the kids ready, school drop-off) I have also accomplished the following:

Baked a cake.
Cleaned the kitchen.
Cleaned the bathroom.
Done a load of laundry.
Scheduled doctor’s appointment for Jake.
Freaked out.
Panicked.
Called husband and left terse message regarding doctor’s appointment for Jake.
Bought and put away groceries.
Washed fruit and put away in Tupperware containers for easy snacking.
Tidied up basement playroom where, apparently, a toy bomb exploded.

It’s only 10:15 a.m.

With regards to the latter job, last night the boys came upstairs from playing a loud and raucous game in the basement.  Jake informed me that they were playing a game entitled “Thomas’ Big Day”.  “But Mom”, he said, “His big day wasn’t his birthday or anything.  It was the day his engine exploded!”  I see.  That explains the state of the playroom.

So now it’s time to get things packed and, judging from the start of this day, continue on frantically performing semi-unnecessary domestic chores.  Enjoy your week, everyone!

Crazy, I’m crazy for feeling this way…

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My in-laws were here for a visit this weekend, and they brought with them fresh-picked apples and Concord grapes, and for someone like me who lives in a place in which fresh, local fruit is limited to crabapples and Saskatoon berries, this gift was most gratefully received.  I’m mowing through the produce at an unbelievable rate.  They also, kindly, brought me a female scarecrow for the front yard, to complement the three male ones, and my husband set it up in front of the window, where it looks very cute.  Unfortunately, it keeps startling me every time I walk past the window and see a large figure in my peripheral vision.  It’s like having my very own non-threatening peeping Tom. 
I go through my closet a couple times a year and make up bags for donation.  One place I – obviously, it would seem – never go through is my bottom dresser drawer.  That drawer seems to be devoted to non-every-day-use lingerie type items, sleepwear, and the like.  Yesterday I went to look for a pair of tights, and found nine pairs of gigantic maternity pantyhose.  Nine pairs!  Since I was a jeans-clad stay-at-home mom throughout my pregnancy with Jake, that means that those are from my first pregnancy, seven years ago.  I have had gigantic maternity pantyhose taking up a large amount of drawer space for the past seven years. 
The reason I was even looking for a pair of tights is that I am getting together my real dress up clothes – not just my good jeans – because I am going on a little vacation!  My husband’s birthday is coming up and it’s a milestone one, so we are heading on a three-day-two-night vacation.  Here’s my confession: I have never left the boys for more than 24 hours, so I’m feeling a little bit anxious.  I know.  I know. 
My parents are moving into our house for the duration and I hasten to add that my mother is VERY competent.  She knows the kids’ routines and their schedules and their school doors and their food preferences and even the names of their friends.  She could certainly handle them for more than this short vacation, but despite this I seem to be a mass of nerves.  I’m flitting around the house, frantically cleaning things and preparing food because my mom has only been cooking for DECADES.  She might not be able to handle spaghetti.  Clearly, I’m crazy.
The only foreseeable issue is that my dog will become even more spoiled.  I swear, my mother spoils my dog almost as much as she spoils the boys.  When I told her about the vet appointment that found Barkley on the road to obesity, she indignantly came up with excuses ranging from “The vet’s scale must be WRONG” to “Maybe Barkley’s just big-boned.”  Yes, and maybe he’s getting his period and is retaining water.  So the only issue in going away is that the dog’s diet may be derailed for a couple of days, which is not much of an issue.

Finally Scaredy Squirrel decides that nothing horrible is happening in the unknown today.

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My neighbourhood is, for some reason, a squirrel graveyard these days.  I take my dog for a walk and there are squirrel carcasses in varying stages of decomposition everywhere.  It is quite disconcerting.  Also disconcerting is the fact that dead squirrels are to my dog what giant bags of potato chips are to me: not part of my regular diet, certainly, but irresistible when within a two-foot radius.
Disturbingly, my current favourite children’s book is Scaredy Squirrel, and when I saw a fresh squirrel corpse today I thought, calmly, that maybe it was just Scaredy playing dead.
All the dead squirrels made me a little nervous to rake the leaves.  I kept scanning the yard nervously, but thankfully my yard was corpse-free.

Unfortunately, I can’t guarantee that the leaves were free of dog urine, but some things are better left unthought.

I read a post by the Bloggess about that episode on Little House on the Prairie where Ma is all alone and has some weird infected gangrenous cut on her leg and then she reads in the Bible something to the effect that if a limb is bothering you then you should cut it off, and so she attempts to do JUST THAT.  Perhaps a less literal interpretation would be in order here.  But it reminded me of another disturbing Little House episode wherein some random girl gets raped, and is subsquently pregnant, and everyone blames her for her loose morals and her grandfather says ominously “You reap what you sow.”  Then Albert wants to marry her to, I don’t know, SAVE her, but in one of those odd Little House happy endings, before they get married she falls off a ladder and dies.  Intense!  Does anyone else remember that?  It doesn’t seem like particularly family friendly programming to me.
And what does that have to do with dead squirrels?  Nothing at all. 

My Dog Is Fat

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Yesterday on the “news” – Breakfast Television – I saw the following headline: Pediatricians say parents turn a blind eye to childhood obesity.  I know that it is a serious and sad issue, but I rarely think about childhood obesity, as I have the opposite problem; my kids are very, very skinny.  They are countable-ribs, toothpick-legs skinny.  They are sigh-of-relief-when-they-gain-a-pound skinny.  They are stomach-flues-give-me-incredible-stress-because-of-weight-loss skinny.
Remember those growth charts and percentiles we all fretted about or possibly are still fretting about, when the kids were babies?  For a type-A, competitive mother, it was all about achieving the maximum percentile on the growth chart.  That’s how you knew you were doing a good job of mothering.  You would think that the key to our children’s future success would be in becoming as gargantuan as possible, given the effort and thought we gave to the growth chart.  “Your son is in Harvard Business School?”  “Well, yes!  He is seven feet tall and four hundred pounds.  He was always in the 99th percentile.”  Anyway, my children were always, always consistently in the 60-75th percentile for height, and the 25th for weight.  Beanpoles.
I feed them three wholesome meals and three wholesome snacks a day.  They drink whole milk with chocolate syrup and smoothies made with full-fat yogurt.  I butter their bread.  I bake all the time – muffins, cookies, loaves – so that they can have homemade, calorie-dense snacks.  They eat all kinds of fruits and vegetables.  I allow them ice cream and treats.  My doctor, my dear doctor who has been practicing medicine for over thirty years tells me that they are healthy and growing well, and their weight is fine, but I know that they are one stomach flu away from being seriously underweight and so I am happy and relieved when the scale goes up.
Yesterday I took the dog for his annual checkup and discovered, startlingly, that he has gained TEN POUNDS in the past year.  Ten pounds!  I felt sick to my stomach, thinking that my two year old dog is now overweight.  He is part Labrador, and so he would eat constantly if he was allowed to.  I walk him for thirty minutes every day, but frequently when I have been busy, instead of sitting down and playing with him or petting him, I have been giving him treats to show my affection.  In other words, my dog, my poor fat dog, is now on a diet because of me.  “It’s not enough to increase his exercise,” the vet said, “You need to really cut calories.”  Which is, strangely enough, exactly what the doctor in my maternity group practice said to chubby, post-partum me six years ago.  So I feel guilty and sad.  Weight issues, one way or the other, are overwhelming.

“We may be skinny, but we are happy!”

The beanpoles.

The fat dog.