Ever since Mark started soccer this year, he has absolutely loved it, but last night was the first time he was actually really engaged in the game – kicking the ball (in the right direction, even!) and really getting into the game. I breathed a sigh of relief, not that I particularly care about the game, but I was worried that I would pass on my genetic inability to play competently in a team sport.

My non-athleticism is somewhat legendary. In gym class, I was that girl who would scream and duck whenever the ball came in my direction, apparently foreshadowing the incident that would take place years later when I was in grad school playing slo-pitch. I took a line drive to the throat and ended up in the emergency room. I must note that the only reason I was playing slo-pitch is that there was a three-women-on-the-field rule, and the economics department was short on women. In an ironic, “even a blind squirrel gets a nut once in a while” moment, the one and only time I caught a ball in my two years of playing was on a third out during the championship game, which we subsequently won. Fortunately it was a third out, as I throw the ball almost as poorly as I catch it, and I would have had no idea who to throw it to.

I once read an article that hypothesized that people choose their partners, in part, because of traits they themselves do not possess in order to pass those traits down to their children. This may be true. I know that when I discovered my husband was the recipient of the ParticipAction Award of Excellence, I practically ripped my clothes off to procreate right there, I who only ever garnered the “Participant” stickers, I who developed mysterious “illnesses” on track and field day. I’m really hoping that his athletic genes, not mine, were the ones passed along to our children. But so far, the boys are way ahead of me in that department, so I’m pretty optimistic about it.

It was not a good start to the day. I seemed to have changed personalities overnight, to morph into a horrible shrew. It started last night when I was trying to sleep and my boa constrictor-like varicose veins became inflamed and painful. I tossed and turned and wondered WHY my husband could possibly sleep so soundly when his beloved wife was in PAIN and WHY didn’t he wake up and comfort me, dammit? This in spite of the fact that he physically cannot wake me up with his own concerns – a bedside coughing fit by him will allow me to sleep soundly, a throat clearing by one of the boys in a different room will have me flying to help them. BUT THAT’S DIFFERENT.

Anyway, I smartly figured out to get out of bed and get myself some nice nighttime aspirin, but by that time it was past eleven, and that may sound reasonable to normal people, to me it’s like four in the morning. Then I couldn’t sleep because I had such important thoughts as “Is it customary to give a gift to the soccer coach at the end of the season? Should I go ahead and organize that? Is Barkley old enough for Milk Bones?” and so forth until my body finally called my brain an idiot and I fell asleep.

When the alarm went off at five I actually decided not to go to the studio but sleep instead. Big mistake. Because when Jake climbed into bed with me at 6:10, he was like “Is it a moon day, Mom? Why are you here? Let’s go have Mini-Wheats!” Which was cute and all, and he totally has my number on the Mini-Wheats thing, but a) my husband was getting up and could have fielded these questions, b) I was still tired, and c) I like to have a little time to myself first thing in the morning and I SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN UP WITH THE ALARM. That’s when I morphed into an incredibly irritable version of myself, not at all helped by the fact that my “ladies’ holiday” has not yet been “taken”, as it were, and I’m apparently back to my whacked-out 45 day cycle with insane mood swings. I know. My husband is a lucky guy.

I tried to turn things around by making chocolate chip cookies, but ended up being completely irritated with Jake’s attempts at helping, by rolling the dough into long sausages. “But why can’t they be sausage cookies?” he asked. Because, you imaginative child, I must crush you and your spirit in my quest to make perfectly round cookies, THAT’S WHY.

However, they had preschool this afternoon and I went for my bikini wax. And this is important: if you are bloated, pre-“ladies’ holidays”, and crabby, a bikini wax may not be the ticket for you. I’m going to leave it at that.

It’s June, and looking at the calendar this morning I realized that there are only six more preschool classes left until summer break. Only one child in the class will be in kindergarten with Mark next year, and none of them will be in Jake’s new pre-kindergarten program next year, and so I feel a bit nostalgic, already, about the children in the small, cozy, church-run preschool that they are currently attending. I know all the parents and I like them all, and I know all the children and their little quirks, and I will miss them next year.

However, I have noticed a funny thing in the preschool this year, which I did not notice last year. It is the emergence of the mean girl, the girl who befriends another girl one day, and excludes her the next. This really surprised me, because it’s preschool – I wasn’t expecting to see mean girls for a few years yet. For me, mean girls really surfaced, and I mean really surfaced, around Grade Five. I was the victim of a girl who was frequently cruel and then, suddenly, friendly. Years later, when I read “Cat’s Eye”, I had to put the book down and catch my breath, the memories were so raw.

In my experience, this is a female thing. It seems like it is always the girls who are excluding and ranking. The boys, it seems, have a “more the merrier” approach to life, much more inclusive and welcoming of newcomers into their environment than their female counterparts, who need to do some major evaluation first. This carries on into adulthood, where guys will invite pretty much anyone to watch the game, but women need to have serious conversations about whether or not to allow new members into their book club.

The thing about boys, though, is that they are stupid. Or maybe it would be better to say that they do really stupid things. Or maybe, in the interest of not offending my dear readers, I should say MY boys do really stupid things. I’m not even talking about the gale of laughter that occurs when the ketchup bottle makes a farting sound or the game that Jake plays in which he is a ghost covered in a blanket, but continually smacks himself into walls, due to his obscured vision.

The other day I heard hysterical laughter, coupled with the sound of squeaky dog toys. Since the dog was outside, I just figured the boys were playing with his toys. Then came the bloodcurdling scream, and there was Jake, staggering around with a giant welt on his forehead. It seems that they were taking turns lying in the dog bed and pelting each other with the soft squeaky toys, when Mark decided to use, in lieu of said soft squeaky toy, the hard pointed rubber bone “for vigorous chewers”. His aim was perfect.

His response? “Sorry Jake! I didn’t think that would hurt.”

Jake: “That’s okay. Let’s play again!”

On Breakfast Television today (or what I refer to, in quotation marks, as “the news”) there was a shocking headline “Sleep deprived moms more likely to suffer postpartum blues”. Really? Really? That’s astonishing. Isn’t sleep deprivation used as a form of torture? They probably practice it on Gitmo. Oops, sorry, I briefly forgot my “no politics” policy. Take a look at the life of a new mom: life-changing upheaval, crying infant, massive hormonal swings, soggy t-shirts, and a house in disarray. Add in the inevitable exhaustion and sleep deprivation and yes, I suppose you could say it all equals postpartum blues. Not sleeping for more than two hours at a time will do that to you.

But this is the same “news” that brought me the following information: the key to financial success is to live within your means. I’m not sure we needed a financial expert to tell us that; we could have just talked to my grandpa.

I’ve been feeling bluesy myself today, but it’s not the postpartum kind; it’s the kind that precedes what is referred to in yoga circles as “ladies’ holidays”. At least I think that’s what it is; hopefully I’m not just lethargic and crabby for no reason. Now I’m going to go eat a handful of chocolate chips, and cry. Have a good weekend everyone!

It’s the dog’s first birthday on Saturday, and although I’m fairly indifferent about this milestone, and the dog is certainly oblivious, the boys know it’s his birthday and want to celebrate. Jake said “What if you make a cake for us and get a treat for Barkley” and this struck me as a very excellent idea. Who can argue with cake? I had to pick up dog food this week anyway, so today I did that and chose a lovely bully stick for $1.39. Perfect.

I chatted with the nice cashier, and she told me that for a doggie birthday party, I could purchase some goody bags for all my doggie guests! And for ten dollars I could also purchase a handmade doggie treat in the shape of a cake! I smiled in that somewhat alarmed and startled way you might have when someone you just met gives you information that you would rather not have. A doggie birthday party. With actual doggie guests, doggie cake and doggie goody bags. Is it me, or does that seem like an insane waste of resources?

a) I do not want many dogs in my yard peeing on my plants, digging up my flowers, and flattening my shrubs, which is exactly what happened the last time a friend came by with her dog in tow.
b) My dog would happily eat garbage off the street if I would let him, and I have actually witnessed him eating his own fecal matter, so I would hardly spend ten dollars on a treat that he would likely devour in less than a minute.
c) I expend enough energy on my children’s birthday parties; I do not need to expend any for the dog.
d) I love my dog very much, but he is, after all, a dog. Yes, he’s a member of the family, but he is the canine member of the family. Important distinction.

Today my husband went back to work after a week of vacation. Have I mentioned my boys are VERY attached to their father? Let’s just say we don’t exactly have Mama’s boys in our house. “Dad, you’re my best friend. I love you SO much” is a chorus heard often around here, relegating me to chopped liver status.

Moving on. Rob went back to work, and I was prepared for some melancholy around the house, given past experiences. So I was not really surprised to see Mark sitting on the steps, staring forlornly at the back door, tears running down his face. “I wanted to wear my T-Rex shirt”, he sobbed, referring to the shirt his father bought him during last week’s trip to Drumheller, “but it’s in the wash”. I assured him I would do laundry right away, and he could wear it to school this afternoon, but I guess he just needed to cry, which he did for about fifteen loud minutes, after which he decided to get on with his life.

Meanwhile, Jake was playing with some dinosaurs and narrating, “You know why this dinosaur is sad, Mom? Mom? This dinosaur is sad because he can’t find his dad.” I started to look around for the hidden camera, feeling strangely like I was in a documentary entitled “Very Basic Child Psychology” or similar. After much dinosaur sadness, Jake just came undone. “Everything is boring and I don’t like today!” he announced, and then dissolved into a puddle of tears.

I don’t know about you, but I find mornings like this very trying.

It’s not like I want them to be robots with no emotions whatsoever, it’s not like I want them to repress their feelings, but at times I wish young children would have a wee bit more perspective. I gave myself an invisible medal for not snapping and saying “For God’s sake, he just went to work!”, and went about my day, playing Superheroes and Dinosaurs save the Farm Animals, and eventually the boys went back to being their usual cheery selves.

Who needs Mama’s boys, anyway?

There was a woman who I knew only casually, who I bumped into every once in a while for a few years, who seemed to really dislike her child. Does that sound harsh? I know it does, but every single time I saw her I was subjected to a litany of complaints about her child and the particular stage he was at. “Terrible twos? Try terrible eighteen months!” she informed me when we first met. Then it truly was the terrible twos, followed by “I thought two was bad, but it’s nothing compared to age three! And I hear four year olds are even worse!”

I haven’t seen her for a while, but I can just imagine the conversation about horrible five year olds, bratty six year olds, all the way up to the teen years and beyond. “My child? He just turned twenty six. And can I just say that it is the WORST age?”

It’s pretty easy to dwell on negative aspects of your child’s particular stages, and forget about the benefits. Case in point: my bossy and dictatorial five-year-old (who may not be as unlike his mother as one may think) who believes that near-constant negotiation is the key to the universe. Perhaps there is a future for him in litigation, or maybe deal brokering? I can see him yelling into his BlackBerry: “Tell Miller that if he won’t move on the cost structure, then the whole damn deal is off! Just get it done!”. He’d be great at it!

Another point to ponder: if you are three and a half, you may have some very definite ideas about how things should look and work, but you may or may not have the coordination skills to make them work. Also, you may not have peed for eight hours and it may be 20 minutes until dinner, and that just might make you come completely undone. You may also resent your mother’s interference in such matters. “Honey, that’s a Lego piece, I don’t think it can fit in the Playmobil guy’s hand” is something your mother might say, innocently ruining your plan for world domination. “IT HAS TO WORK!!!! IT NEEDS TO FIT!!!” might be your typical response.

But disregarding those perfectly age-appropriate personality traits, I just have to say how happy I am that they are five and three and a half. Yesterday we went to the Tyrrell Museum in Drumheller (and if you are in Alberta or visiting Alberta, this is a must do) and it was so great. They are young enough to be thrilled every second, yet old enough not to pee in their pants or fall to the floor shrieking if you move on to the next exhibit. They are old enough to say “Could I please have my snack” rather than sobbing wordlessly while you try to figure out what’s wrong. They traveled happily in the car for two hours each way and it led me to a total epiphany.

Which was: I’m not dreading our annual summer vacation! This is a big step for me because in previous years, I was just completely worn out from the massive planning, and all the diapers, and snacks, and everything else. My “vacation” consisted of me doing all my usual household chores, just in a less convenient setting, with the added bonus of long visits with relations of my husband, who may or may not agree with my parenting methodology, if you catch my drift. The kids wouldn’t sleep well, which meant I didn’t sleep well, and I would be so exhausted I would end up shampooing my face in the shower.

But this year it’s going to be different, I can feel it. I’m excited about the beach, trusting that no one will shriek and run away when I try to apply sunscreen, I’m excited about the drive even, and that is saying something. So it’s a good stage to be in, don’t you agree?