Category Archives: Playtime

Summer, So Far

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Because of all the flood craziness around here, it feels like it’s been months since the kids were in school, when in reality it’s only been, officially, four days. It has been sunny, warm, and dry here which I am hoping will expedite the death of the billions of gargantuan mosquitoes in the city. The mosquito situation was crazy before the flooding; now they are epic. They seem to really love my bootiliciousness since they bite right through the seat and back pockets of my jeans. Forget the wisdom of wearing long sleeved shirts and pants to avoid getting bitten; these babies are so desperate for my apparently super succulent blood they go through sweaters and thick denim. My friend Nan mentioned that mosquitoes are attracted to dark colours – specifically black – which explains things somewhat. In other words, I need a whole new wardrobe. Watch for my new look, which will consist of pale pink items bought from Northern Reflections.

We headed up to my parents’ lakeside place this weekend, and on the way I saw a billboard advertising the World Plowing Championship. Before you think this is something pornographic, let me hasten to assure you that the World Plowing Championship involves tractors and other farm machinery. I immediately imagined something akin to the tractor scene in Footloose, involving non-Kevin-Bacon-like individuals. I wonder who are the winners of past World Plowing Championships and if that title is something that grants the holder of special privileges. Very special privileges, if you know what I’m talking about. I imagine this ratchets up the datability of the title holder in certain circles.

We had a fantastic weekend at my parents’, and now we are all somewhat petulant about being back in the city. My dad said something this weekend that struck me as fairly accurate, in terms of travelling with children: kids pretty much enjoy any holiday, wherever such holiday takes place. The majority of my childhood summers were spent a) visiting relatives in southeastern Saskatchewan, and b) attending Bible Camp. Neither of those things may sound all that thrilling, but I always looked forward to them with great anticipation and enjoyed them thoroughly. Spending my days with my cousins in the outdoor swimming pool that had myriad dead bugs floating in it, being evacuated due to severe prairie thunderstorms, were nothing except fun. Playing in the ice-cold lake and making crafts out of crosses and going to chapel morning and night, that was the height of summer camp enjoyment for me.

I think of my own lucky, lucky children and wonder what kind of summertime memories they will have. I wonder if they will remember the hours spent playing with a fishing rod with a stick tied to its line, christened “Sticky”, and how they made up a game and enormous backstory for humble Sticky. I wonder if they will remember how we spent our first day of summer vacation in the pool and I neglected to reapply sunscreen and they got their first (mild, I hasten to say) sunburns. I wonder if they will remember how I frantically sent their father out to drive into town to buy the cortisone cream that I forgot to pack when it was evident one of my children was having a weird allergic reaction to…something…and was covered with angry, raised red hives, and then their father got stuck in one of those severe prairie thunderstorms, unable to see the road in front of him, hail pelting the car. I wonder if they will remember the water gun fights, the trips to town with Grandma and Grandpa for ice cream, the small-town Rotary Club Canada Day celebrations. It occurred to me today that it might not be much longer that they want to play in those bouncy structured supervised by the glummest looking teenagers ever – in fact, one day perhaps they will be those downtrodden looking teenagers telling kids to slide down feet first. It’s hard to imagine.

It’s the end of the school year as we know it (and I feel fine)

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Hello there! It feels like a long time since I’ve posted, so I’m hopping right back in the saddle. Things have been busy around here. I’ve oscillated from overwhelming love for the city and all the generous and kind people in it, and overwhelming despair that it will never be enough, no matter how hard I try, I will never be able to help. It’s a silly feeling because of course change is the sum effort of individuals, and every little bit matters, and with that attitude I bake more cookies and muffins, buy more diapers, offer to do laundry, etc., etc. Things are improving, but it’s taking time, of course.

Because of the flood school was cancelled until today, which is a half day merely to say goodbye, clean out desks, and pick up report cards. It was very strange to go back to school today; almost as strange as not being in school for four days just before summer vacation.

 
 
As usual at the end of the school year I’m a little verklempt at the thought that they are now FINISHED another grade, in this case Grade Two and Three. On the one hand, it feels like all the awesomeness of having older kids, who I am closer and closer to launching into the great big world, and I feel like I’m doing well with preparing them for that. On the other hand, time makes you bolder, children get older, I’m getting older tooooooooo….
 
A while back I read this fantastic post by my friend Swistle that really summarized how I feel. It’s ALWAYS the Best and Worst of Times is extremely apt when talking about children, right? There has been some discussion lately about favourite ages and least-favourite ages and I can say, firmly, that I don’t have a favourite or least favourite. Part of this is because I don’t remember the stages very well. I think this is due, in part at least, to extreme sleep deprivation over the years 2004-2010. You would think that such sleep deprivation would lead me to say that those years were not great, but you would be wrong. Such memory lapses means that I can be like one of those sweet old ladies who only remember nice things and not the horrible ones. Sure, there were gross diaper blow outs and incessant crying and no sleep and terrible worries about introducing vegetables before fruits and would that ruin their eating for the rest of their life OMG he is trying to eat playground gravel. But there was also this:
 
 
 

And this

 
Also this
 
 


Actually, that last picture reminds me of the baby screaming while I tried to bathe him and the very young toddler falling off the stool while trying to help and everyone crying and…well…I like my biggish kids very much.

In any case, we can’t stop time so we may as well enjoy it! Here’s to another great summer!

Reasons I’m Losing My Mind, or How Did Lee Garner Jr Make You Hold His Balls?

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There have been, strangely enough, tornado warnings around here.  Tornadoes!  Where AM I?  In any case, yesterday the rain held off all day until the moment I had to leave to pick the kids up from school.  I stood in the playground, in a torrential downpour, while I waited for them.  The rain tapered off and the sun came out five minutes after we arrived at home.  I cannot help but feel somewhat slighted by Mother Nature.

Ah, June in Calgary.  The sky is pitch black and the house is completely dark in the middle of the day; this in spite of the fact that the sky is bright when I get up at 4:45, and the sky is bright long past my bedtime.  The local meterologists swear that the average June temperature is 20 degrees Celcius, but to my mind of thinking, the meteorologists are either in possession of some very flawed data or they do not know how to calculate an average.  There is no way the average temperature can be 20 degrees Celcius, I demand you show me your data source.  These are actual thoughts that go through my head every time I see a weather forecast.  It is possible I have lost my mind.

This derangement is also apparent with regards to my feelings about my neighbour across the street, who has in recent weeks set out a collection of garden gnomes beside his front door.  I am tempted, every time I look out the window, to run across the street and steal one, and then take pictures of it in various locales and costumes, leaving photographs in his mailbox.  I think about this all the time.  It’s not a passing thought, I seriously consider what kind of clothes I could dress the gnome in, how I could take him to Menchies’ and photograph him with a fro-yo with gummy bear toppings, how I could strap him into the front seat of my minivan and take him for a ride. 

What is wrong with me?  I also find myself giggling uncontrollably when I think about Mad Men and the scene with poor pirate-y Ken, talking about Chevy, and the pain-in-the-assedness of clients in general.  “A client once cupped my wife’s breasts,” says Jim, helpfully, immediately followed by Roger’s earnest statement, “Lee Garner Junior made me hold his balls.”  WHAT.  Wouldn’t you love the backstory on that one?  It’s just so random.  The conversation is so casual, yeah, this guy sexually harrassed my wife, oh, and this guy made me hold his balls.  How does that happen?  What sequence of events have to occur before a guy holds another guy’s testicles, and how does that come up in casual conversation, like it’s totally nothing?

Maybe it’s the end of school looming near that has me collapsing in near-hysterics about everything.  I don’t know how else to explain it, but this article about embracing the furry au naturel look rather than waxing has me laughing until I cry.  Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the furry au naturel look, although for me personally I would be more likely to don a knee length, sleeved, 1910-era “bathing costume” than my regular swimwear while brazenly displaying a lack of a bikini wax.  What can I say, I like my esthetician. However, this has nothing to do with – as a young man quoted in an article suggests – heightened expectations due to pornography viewing.  Women of the world, take note: if a man has an expectation on how you should look in the nude based on what he’s seen in pornographic films, then probably he is not a man you should consider sleeping with.  It’s all fun and games until he wants you to pretend he’s the pizza delivery guy.  I mean, that might be fun and all, but if his entire outlook about the female body is based on porn, then he’s probably watching too much porn.  

But why am I laughing until I cry, as I mentioned before?  It’s because of this quote, and honestly, TRUTH SISTA and fist raised in the air:

“I think most guys are so delighted that they’re about to get laid they wouldn’t notice if you had a full-on Zach Galifianakis-style beard down there.”   

Something about the term “full-on Zach Galifianakis-style beard” makes me think of the dog-beard trend, but with Zach Galifianakis in a Michael Douglas-esque, um, situation.



My best attempt at dog-bearding.  Even Barkley thinks I’m lame.
 
 

Denim skirts, non-Mama-Duggar-style

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If you can’t beat them, join them, is the somewhat defeatist attitude I took up this weekend when I went shopping to Lammles’ Western Wear.  I am a Calgary girl, I’ve lived here my whole life, and yet I just can’t get behind the concept of western wear.  This is an attitude I felt needed adjusting, since I always have a few Stampede events to attend every year, events that become more and more important to attend as my children get older and embrace the Stampede spirit.  One such event is the school’s annual Stampede Breakfast, which is coming up in less than two weeks and at which I am going to be flipping pancakes.  I have two items of clothing that regularly come out at Stampede: a straw cowboy hat, and a denim shirt dating from 1997.  I felt that my Stampede “look”, such as it is, needed an update and that is how I found myself in Lammles’.

Now, I’m no Tom and Lorenzo, but I did feel a little part of me die a little as I looked through the racks of ladies’ wear.  Everything was either a) too colourful, b) too plaid, c) too see-through, and/or d) too covered in rhinestones to suit my taste.  If I am going to pay $60 for a shirt, I would like it to be one that I wear more than a couple of times a year and that doesn’t make me look like I’m competing in the barrel racing competition, given that I am not actually a barrel racer.  I found what appeared to be a plain black button-up shirt, but on actually taking it off the rack I discovered that it was covered with rhinestone lassos.

I was feeling rather disconsolate about the whole experience, and then I saw an item that had my name all over it:

It literally has my name on it!  So how could I refuse?  It’s a denim skirt, by the way, not in the style of Mama Duggar but this:

Cute, I think.  Plus, it’s called a NICOLE.  I figure I will get some actual wear out of it, unlike a rhinestone-lasso-encrusted shirt.

I got home and realized that my closet runneth over, but fortunately I had also lost track of what day it was, and that I had a clothing donation pickup scheduled this week.  This, accompanied by the realization that the clothing pickup was for TODAY, gave me great motivation to go through my closet and purge 3 (garbage) bags full.  I was filled with a bit of disappointment in myself and my consumerism – does anyone need so many clothes? – and became ruthless in my purge.  There was none of the oh, maybe I’ll wear this again, this is kind of cute, it doesn’t fit well but it’s still in great shape feelings I normally have.

The other thing of semi-importance that happened this weekend: my husband briefly activated the multiplayer setting on our Wii, which led to our family becoming torn apart.  It was probably the single worst idea in the history of our family’s video games.  The kids have played multiplayer in Mario Kart and Wii Sports, which is evidently VERY DIFFERENT from the murder and death that came from multiplayer Star Wars Force Unleashed.  By the end of the afternoon all three of the boys, including my husband, were not on good terms, and I was miffed that no one wanted to be Johnny to my Baby in Just Dance.  It was not the time of my life, let me tell you.  I instigated a rule that never again would the multiplayer setting be activated, and peace reigned in the Boyhouse galaxy.

Field Trip Extravaganza

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Just to set the stage, here, it is 3:24 pm and I’m considering opening my SECOND beer.  Listen, I’m just impressed I made it until Friday to start drinking.  It’s been a very involved week, parenting wise, and by that I mean that I was chaperone to an all-day field trip to the museum on Wednesday, and I was volunteering for an in-class field trip all morning today. 

Let’s first discuss the Wednesday field trip.  There were two upsides to it: a) Mark was thrilled that I was on the field trip, and b) it was indoors.  The rain was coming down in sheets when we boarded the muggy, hot school bus.  I was instantly appreciative of two of the other parent volunteers: one, a dad who yelled at all the kids to shut up so the driver could talk, and two, a mom – and a friend of mine – who told two little screaming girls that their high pitched squeals were completely uncalled for and distracting to the driver.  These two were field trip veterans, and I was to become just like them before the day was through.

My group of five children seemed fine and normal until 50 minutes before lunch break, when the museum curator informed us that we now had “free time” to “explore” the museum.  I like exploring museums, with my two children who stay with me and who don’t, let’s say, try to ruin all the exhibits and/or run away and/or refuse to move when there is an educational film playing.  But with five children, including one who kept running ahead of the group and getting lost and one who kept getting distracted and lagged behind, also getting lost, it was pretty much the exact opposite of enjoyable.  The one consolation I had was that if I did actually lose two of my group of five, at least they would still be in the building.  The happy news is that all the children, under my watchful eye, ended up on the school bus at the end of the day.  The unhappy news is that I felt like I was going to lose my mind saying “Don’t touch the artifacts.  Keep up with the group.  STAY WITH ME.”  At one point I gave my group two options in a VERY FIRM VOICE: either listen to me and stay together, or stand silently and without moving for the remaining ten minutes until lunch break.  As we headed for the tipi display, I warned that anyone not listening to me would be left behind.  Yes, I threatened to leave the children behind for their misbehaviours.  It worked.  They all listened.  Possibly they also had nightmares about spending the night in the museum.  Wasn’t there a movie about that?

Did I mention that I have been – TMI ALERT – extremely premenstrual this week, to the point of “if my period doesn’t start soon, someone is going to get stabbed”?  So being at the museum with seventy children, riding a crowded school bus in the rain, and then supervising 35 children eating lunch on the floor of a tiny room, plus being responsible for four children who were not my own, two of whom seemed determined to get lost, was probably not the best plan for maintaining good mental health.

And then – THEN – today was an in-class field trip for Jake’s class, where the students would be learning about the ear and how hearing works.  It is just as fascinating as it sounds, and three hours later I was pretty tired of explaining about sound waves and pitch and OMG this is so boring I think I need another drink.  Also?  The volunteers today were the same volunteers from Wednesday’s trip, which means I think we all need a medal.  OR ANOTHER DRINK.  There are thirty-five children in Jake’s class, and quite a number of them are very behaviourally challenged, to the point of needing extra educational assistants, and all I could think of was how impressive it is that the teacher seems sane and is not an alcoholic.

Last week I told the kids that there was only three and a half weeks left of school.  Whee!  We were counting down excitedly to summer vacation when I realized, tragically, that I was a week off.  Ooops.  NOW there are three and a half weeks left of school, not last week.  We are all somewhat devastated by this information. 

I feel like I have more to say, but no more mojo with which to say it.  In other words, happy Friday, beautiful people!  Play nice, have fun. xoxo

Dogs and flowers and not much else.

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Did you have a nice long weekend?  Despite our original plans falling through, we managed to have a lovely one.  We spent a night at my parents’ cabin – the “cabin” that is three times the size of my house and has twice as many bathrooms, which is my idea of camping – and played in the garden a lot.  My husband has been trying to get action shots of Barkley to make me a “Barkley calendar”, but so far the shots have been a bit blurry:

 
 


Besides “camping”, I’ve been in a frenzy of gardening and yard work over the past couple of days.  I didn’t get enough plants on my first trip to the garden centre:

Such a teeny cartful!  I headed out yesterday to stock up and also to enjoy that feeling of youth that only can be attained by being the youngest person in a place by thirty years.  I had to make TWO trips into the store, and it’s lucky I drive a minivan:


But even so one of the containers had to ride shotgun.

I came home eager to get started, but just as I pulled into the garage, our arbourist pulled up, chainsaw in hand.  Our beautiful old hawthorn tree had contracted fireblight – which sounds dramatic, no? – and was, essentially, dead.  We’d been waiting for a couple of weeks for the arbourist to work his tree removal magic.  My plans had to be put on hold, on account of me not wanting to be crushed to death by falling branches; I went to go check my email, came upstairs, and the tree was now several piles of wood on the ground.  It was so fast, I forgot to mourn the loss of the tree.  On the bright side, our yard seems HUGE.  I feel like I’m living on an acreage.  In any event, I did get some, but not all, of the planting done.  Today it’s pouring rain and it’s forecasted to continue for a while, which is great for my new plants but puts a little cramp in my gardening plans. 

The house is dark, and it’s dark and rainy outside, but it feels cozy, like a nice morning to get some writing done and drink coffee and bake something delicious.  And occasionally stare out the window at the plants on the deck, waiting anxiously to be put into the ground and spread out their roots.

Speaking of spreading out roots, my arbourist asked how long we’ve been in this house, and I realized with some shock that it’s been thirteen years.  Thirteen years!  Long enough for us to renovate our house not once but several times, long enough for me to dig out all the old neglected gardens and replant everything, long enough for me and the boys to become fixtures in the neighbourhood, long enough for my next door neighbour to finally stop calling me “Michelle”.  This same neighbour was out doing yardwork on the weekend, along with his wife.  His wife, who was mowing the lawn and wearing a man’s oversized muscle shirt and NOTHING ELSE.  Literally, nothing else.  What has been seen cannot be unseen, if you know what I’m saying here.  And no, this neighbour is not related to the one who is famous for gardening in only his red cutoff sweatpants and nothing else.  Wow, what is going on in my neighbourhood?  Every day is interesting, let’s leave it at that.

Naked Shuffleboard

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My weekend plans got kiboshed, and so yesterday I decided that since we were staying home, I may as well get a little bit of gardening done.  It’s too early to really plant anything, I thought to myself, So I’ll just get a couple of really hardy plants.  I walked into the garden centre and immediately forgot everything except LOOK PRETTY FLOWERS WHEE.  Honestly, I almost forgot my own name for a few minutes as I meandered among the aisles, completely overstimulated and humming along to the Carlos Santana tune playing over the speakers.

I was flirted with in that jovial, harmless, elderly way by five – FIVE – old men while I filled my cart to overflowing with annuals and perennials.  It occurred to me later that none of the old men had carts of any kind, and in fact none of them actually appeared to be buying anything.  This indicates one of two things: a) the old men drive their wives to the garden centre, and then wander off looking for people to chat with, or b) the old men go to the garden centre to pick up women.  My god – is the garden centre the meat market for old people?  Think about it: who is actually shopping in a garden centre on a Thursday afternoon?  Me, a couple of extremely harried-looking moms with little ones in tow, and OLD PEOPLE.  The more I think about it the more likely it seems; after all, if an old man was there with his wife he would probably be choosing plants WITH HIS WIFE, no?  I wonder how many old people relationships start out in garden centres.  We all know that old men make out like bandits in retirement homes, almost entirely due to numbers being in their favour, but maybe garden centres are known for the place to meet the swinging singles.

I bought some eye cream a couple of months ago, given I am getting older and when one wakes up at 4:45 every day, one has a tendency to look like a crypt keeper.  I went out and chose this cream out of many others, thinking that this would be a transformative event in my life.  Eye cream!  You would think that two months would be long enough to make a difference, however, it has not.  This is probably because I constantly forget to apply it.  This is my evening beauty routine: remove eye makeup, use special exfoliating cleanser, rinse well, use tissue to remove what I hope is residual eye makeup but is often just an undereye circle, apply toner with cotton ball, brush teeth with whitening toothpaste, stare at teeth in the mirror and wonder if I should give up coffee, decide (related to undereye circles and waking up at 4:45) that this is not a feasible option, apply nighttime lotion, rub extra hydrating cocoa butter into my cracked, dry excuse for hands, fall into bed and pass out.  I seem to be unable to add eye cream to this routine. 

I ran out to the grocery store today to pick up a few things, plus some whitening strips (see also: coffee consumption.  And red wine.)  While looking for whitening strips, I noticed something extremely disturbing: right next to the denture cleansers and accessories was a display of condoms, lubricants, and medications for yeast infections.  Ew.  Now, the patrons of my grocery store are largely elderly, due to the senior’s mecca of a neighbourhood that I live in.  I thought about the garden centre and felt that this was just too much.  The signs are everywhere.  KY jelly right next to the Polident tablets?  Ultra sensation-like wearing nothing- ribbed for her pleasure multipack of condoms right next to the Fixodent?  A whole row of Monistat next to the Seabond?  Do you see a pattern here?  Life, apparently, begins at seventy.