Category Archives: Testosterone-y

Time to Get a Life

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Last night I stood on the soccer field in the pouring rain, watching the Green Geckos run, herd-like, after the ball and slipping and falling on the soggy, wet grass. It’s cold here, as it often is in June, and it seems to be sapping my energy and also my personality. On the “news” this morning, the weatherman mentioned that the average temperature for this time of year is 20 degrees Celsius and for some reason this enraged me beyond belief. I wondered aloud how that average was derived, because to average 20 degrees, the temperature must have at some point been above 20 degrees, and when has this occurred?

Note to self: having a heated and one-sided debate with the TV weatherman regarding his data and how he obtains his “average temperature” is neither healthy nor productive. Neither is looking up temperatures for the past ten years on the internet, stopping only when a) your data source goes only back ten years, and b) realizing that you really need to get a life.

Speaking of getting a life, Today’s Parent magazine arrived yesterday and on the cover it says “Surprising Marriage Advice: Get a Life!” It spoke to me. I haven’t actually read it yet, given that I have been busy with normal daily life and also trying to figure out where the City TV meteorologist gets his data, in a crazed way. In addition, I have been writing a piece about sex and I have had a little anxiety about it – people are going to know I have sex! Like the two kids and a twelve year monogamous relationship wasn’t a giveaway. Like I’m actually sixteen years old and trying to figure out how to hide birth control pills from my parents – is a school bag better than my sock drawer? Hoo boy. I really do need to get a life. Plus it’s going to improve my marriage, apparently. Must read the article to figure out how.

The rain has not been dampening the kids’ spirits, happily. We have been busy having a living room campout today, complete with marshmallows stuck on chopsticks and pool noodles, which they have been pretending to swim across the floor with. Very fun. Too bad this wholesome play wasn’t occurring on Monday, when a sweet yogi friend came by with her adorable three-month-old daughter. No, the boys decided they would tell our guest all about their penchant for guns, battles, and killing. Nothing says good mother like having your children talk about how they want to destroy Mickey Mouse, of all fictional characters to choose. Maybe I should go read that Today’s Parent. And also get a life.

The Opposite of Toyland, or My Basement is a Recycling Plant

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In honour of Mother’s Day, posted on the wall beside Jake’s classroom is a list of all the children’s names and their response to the question, what makes moms special? I was happy to see Jake’s response, she gives me lots of hugs, as opposed to some of the children who said she buys me lots of toys. Whew. As a matter of fact I do not buy the children lots of toys, or really any toys, with the exception of birthdays and Christmas, but of course they HAVE lots of toys. I don’t know why we even have toys when we have cardboard boxes.

We just had some new furniture delivered: a new table and chairs, and a hutch, and it all came in cardboard boxes. Is this normal? I have no idea. In addition to three huge boxes which have turned into a spaceship, a clubhouse, and an airplane, Mark gathered together a large amount of packing material for his special project: a battle ship/ trap/ gigantic weapon. In other words, our basement looks like a recycling plant. I am torn between being happy that the kids are playing creatively in such an old-fashioned childhood way and also being somewhat distressed at the extreme visual chaos this has caused.

Speaking of chaos, before we sold our old table, my husband disassembled it for storage and transport.

Surfing!

I have to admit I felt completely overwhelmed when the furniture was delivered and the house was littered with giant heavy boxes and the kids were bouncing off the walls with excitement and the dog was howling outside at the commotion. I was surprised to see the table was delivered in a large, very flat box, so I asked the delivery man if the legs were inside. He replied that they were, and I would have to attach the legs myself. “Like, with a screwdriver?” I said inanely, to which he smiled and suggested perhaps I could get someone male to help me. I’m doing wonders for feminism over here, people. Wonders.


Jake also really enjoys playing with eggplants. Bizarrely, he calls them his little doggies. I was slicing one up and he was shocked. No! Don’t eat my doggie!

AND…repeat.

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I really hope my house is not bugged. Not that I think it is. When I was pregnant with Jake I was reading The Godfather in the waiting room at the doctor’s, and I came to the part where Sonny gets gunned down and the Godfather takes him to his undertaker friend’s and asks him to fix him up. “I don’t want his mother to see him like this.” Hormonally deranged, I burst into tears and called Rob to cry about it. He assured me that he is not a kingpin in some underground mafia and that it is unlikely that our children will be gangsters hunted down at a tollbooth. I stopped crying. Although now that I have written this down horrible and violent, although improbable images are going through my head.

Anyway, I do hope the house is not bugged because it would be very embarrassing, although somewhat enlightening, to hear how often I repeat myself. Perhaps I should invest in a voice recording system that would automatically spew reminders about table manners, reprimands about lacking manners, and random facts about Star Wars, which the boys seem to take me as some kind of authority on, which I kind of am given I grew up with my older brother who is, how shall we say, a FAN. The following statements are repeated countless times a day:

1) “He goes to the Dark Side. That means he is bad. He has to wear that suit because his hand got cut off and he got all burned.”
2) “Jake, you forgot to say please. Try again. No, try the whole sentence again, but with please.”
3) “Mark, sit properly at the table. No. No. Properly. Properly. Yes. Thank you.”
4) “WHO’s a good doggie? WHO’s a good doggie? BARKLEY’s a good doggie. Yes he is. Yes he is.”

Huh. It would seem like I’m playing favourites here, and the favourite is the dog. All of which is to say, I’m still a little tired, and very glad it’s Friday.

Share the Flame

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Yesterday the boys’ school held an Olympics assembly, and I don’t know if this is indicative of upcoming “ladies’ holidays” but I was completely verklempt the whole time, what with the children’s unabashedly enthusiastic singing of their school spirit song, the ribbon wielding “Opening Ceremonies” dancers, and the mock torch relay, with the ’88 theme music blasting in the background. Not to mention the song about friendship. Consider me weepy.

Weepy, and also amused at Mark’s kindergarten class and their somewhat tuneless performance of a song about courtesy and good manners, set to the tune of “I’m a Little Teapot”. Mark in particular sang like the Frankenstein monster, but with less emotion. “I was embarrassed to sing that song”, he informed me later. “I’m a Little Teapot is for babies.” The performance was in sharp contrast to the perky and sweet little emcee, who, at its conclusion, chirped “Fantastic singing! Thank you kindergarteners!”

I really enjoy the Olympic spirit, if not the events themselves. Other than some figure skating – click here to see me and David Pelletier! – I don’t watch any of the events. However, since I am married to someone who does follow every event, I generally know what is going on with them. It’s the same reason that I know a lot about the NFL. Immersion, people.

I have a feeling that my immersion level is just going to increase, as the boys are very interested in the Olympics. Currently, they are fascinated by the torch relay. This has led to some very active and loud games in which they brandish a rain stick and a cowbell, of all things, and run around the house in the manner of torch bearers. Unfortunately, depending on the time of day that they decide to run the torch relay, things can deteriorate quickly, as I’m sure you can well imagine given that the torches are a rain stick and a cow bell. Let’s just say that the Olympic spirit of friendship, solidarity, and fair play can be somewhat elusive in such a situation.

TGI Friday!

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I actually really hate the term TGI Friday. I hate it almost as much as LOL or LMAO. Nonetheless, TGI Friday! This has been a long week – not in a bad way, just in a long way. The boys’ school had a Scholastic Book Fair this week which I was helping with, which was quite fun as volunteer opportunities go – the other volunteers were wonderful and I liked getting to know them, and it was great helping kids find books that they enjoy. The downside? I am somewhat of a Scholastic book addict. Those catalogues are temptation enough, but being surrounded by those books? It was a recipe for disaster, or, if not actually disaster, than for spending more than was necessary. I am an avid reader, and so I like to buy books for the kids – especially if they show interest in those with an educational component. (“You had me at educational.”)

Unfortunately, the first book that Mark chose when his class came through was one of those horrible Scooby Doo Early Reader mysteries. Damn you, Scooby Doo and your eerie tales which have perfectly reasonable explanations! Damn you and your stupid jokes that make the children want me to read you again and again (as when Shaggy says to a lion, “Quit LION around”. Oh, ha ha HA.) Damn you!

Speaking of rereading books, I am currently rereading The Mists of Avalon. If you haven’t read this book, you should, it’s excellent, even if you are not particularly interested in the Arthurian Legend. Hoo boy, just writing “Arthurian Legend” makes me want to paint a big L on my own forehead. Anyway, it is a great book, one that I read obsessively in my long-vanished youth. Reading it makes me want to become a priestess of Avalon. I would totally smite the guy who created the Scooby Doo Early Reader mysteries.

I NEED HELP! I am supposed to be making a Christmas wish list of books to send to my mother-in-law. I’m supposed to be doing this right this minute. Instead I’m blogging about my Scooby Doo loathing and my fantasy of becoming a medieval priestess. (Note: I would not want to be one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. I believe my lack of manual dexterity would count against me. All those women seem to do is spin and weave things.) Please, please, please send me book recommendations! What are you reading, what would you recommend? Help!

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.