It's Not Wrong That I Wanted To Clip It's Wings

I really, really, really, like really miss reading and writing posts during my down time. #FreeTimeIsAMyth #GoodThingILoveWork #AndMoney

Usually that statement would be said on Twitter but it wasn't because that thought meant so much more to me than 140 could ever get across.

Not that there wouldn't be many friends on Twitter who would instantly feel the familiar without the benefit of a post and reply with something in 'preaching to the choir' genre -- because I'm confident there would be plenty of people out there who would completely understand.

And not because my tweets are thoughtless (okay, maybe they are 90% 10% of the time) because my personal rule is to count to ten and read it again before sending anything out there -- and personal rules apply at least 10% 90% of the time. Twitter is important to me. Twitter is how I keep one toe in mah commun-i-tee. Twitter is integral to my sanity (not really). Twitter is my life-line during the day (really). But I also think Twitter killed the Bloggio Star. My comments became @s and the illusion of knowing what was going on out *there* felt like a reality on Twitter until making time for a quick flip through the reader lead me to feel more disconnected than ever.

But I digress.

That first statement didn't become a tweet because I needed to prove to myself that thoughts could once again gorge themselves and gain weight before going on a diet of editing. Also the need to prove that I could be an active participant in the blogging community by -- wait for it -- writing a post (how novel!) was badly needed.

Last year I had made a personal pledge to spend more time writing, reading, and commenting on posts just like back in the 'old days'.  I set a really realistic goal of two comments a day because we all know that reading blogs is like falling down the rabbit hole and finding a couple of posts where something can be added is easy enough. In the beginning it was easy, goals were met times five. It felt good and it felt like I was catching up with old friends because that was exactly what it was -- reading about their lives and thoughts instead of just the headlines.

Then as all things do with annoying regularity, things began to fall apart. Streaks where there was no time to read and/or comment -- much less time for write -- lasted for days which stretched to weeks and then... well like I said, it all fell apart.

So here I am, flexing my typing fingers, favoring them over my Blackberry thumbs, and not tweeting.

It's Like Amsterdam, But Cheaper And With More Wool

When I headed back to work outside the home last November, one thing that stressed me out was my commute. The idea of wrangling my daughter out the door on time, catching the bus from her school to the subway, and then making my way downtown gave me the cold sweats. How was I going to get this done? I know millions do it daily but I have trouble getting myself out the door on time, much less a child full of resistance. Thinking about it gives the shivers.

Lucky for me, my husband started working from home so I pawned that struggle off on him and he loves it. Something about exercise and getting to know her school chums, yadda yadda yadda ecetera. Whatever he loves about it, awesome, as long as I don't need to do it on a regular basis.

Never Gonna Happen

Conversation on the walk to our friend's birthday party today:

5yo: I want a poodle...

One, Two, Three, Four, Five. Senses Working Overtime. Part I.

October 4th, 2005 was my last prenatal appointment. My belly was measuring 39 weeks which in itself was a major accomplishment for a completely incompetent cervix. Referring to any body part as incompetent is demoralizing so the fact that my little pink doughnut proved them wrong? Well that made me proud. Way to go cervix.

Anyway. The doctor said my little-cervix-that-could was 1cm non-effaced and as he helped me roll my unwieldy body off the examination table he commented that the baby was going to bake for at least another two weeks.

TWO WEEKS???

Post-Op

Her surgery was exhausting.

We have decided that as a couple watching our daughter go under -- we were asked to hold her hands by her side because she was going to struggle -- was one of the worst experiences of our parenting gig. That makes us pretty lucky but it was still difficult to watch. She struggled like the fighter she is, she looked so scared, and so very, very small on the table.

It. Was. Hard.

Scared.

I'm never good at the serious chatter, it just doesn't roll of the fingertips as easily as the other stuff but here's the thing: I'm kind of scared of an upcoming situation and it's pretty much permeated my every thought.

And since the majority of my thoughts go onto the internet, it's kind of silenced my chatter which for someone who tweets whenever she farts, is pretty amazing. Perhaps you are all glad for my preoccupation since it's cleared up your Twitter stream.

Whatever. Anyway.

My four-year old is going under general anaesthetic tomorrow for surgery (well duh, it's certainly not for entertainment purposes) and it's wigging me out for a number of reasons.

Hannah Montana Syndrome: Don't Let It Happen To You.

My four year old daughter just fell head over heels for Hannah Montana and it was completely my fault. Don’t worry, my punishment is something that won’t soon be forgotten. The constant impulse to stab myself in the eyes and ears with a fork or pencil or any random object each time my daughter says that character’s name is just one of the many pay-backs currently being allotted for the crime.

The pop princess has been on auto-repeat in Little Miss Mind's Eye Jr. since early this past Wednesday and so far it seems my child can work her into any conversation.

Add that to the horrified look on Dad’s face when our beautiful child started spouting off on her imaginary mobile phone about [said in an exasperated, huffy tone]

‘MEN!’

That moment pretty much nailed that I had gone did wrong. Done wrong bad.

I Want A New Drug* (This was supposed to be a decorating the Christmas Tree post but it's not)

Yesterday at 4:45 am, I woke up in unbelievable pain. Pain that didn't seem like it could get worse yet it did. It was right under my ribs and at first it was like the worst runner's stitch ever but while I was describing it to the Telehealth nurse over the phone, it became stabbing. She said "get ye to an ER posthaste" except not in Ye Old English because that would have been weird.

So I walked back into our bedroom and said "dude, I'm going to get me some good drugs at the hospital." That woke him up fast. He bundled me out the door into a cab, with hugs and kisses and promises not to worry about the home front.

In the ride over I was trying to decide if it was a twisted ovarian cyst (been there, done that so many times but each time I'm reminded OMFG THIS IS PAINFUL) or a ruptured appendix (haven't been there or done that but I imagine it's painful). By the time we pulled into the ER, my skin colour was a mix of grey green and I was pretty much in tears. I staggered into triage like DRAMA was my middle name and I figured I must have done a great show because I didn't have to wait. I was immediately banded and told to stagger down the hall to follow the yellow line.

Yellow line in internal medicine, blue line is orthopeadics, green line is xray... can you tell I've been to this hospital many times? Thanks kid.

Anyhow, I walked down into that area and there was a young guy at the desk. I handed him my chart and he said "I'm putting you in a bed right away." Well that's not the first time a random guy has said that to me but this was the first time I was grateful to hear those words. Then he said "I'm ordering an IV right now and then we can figure out what's wrong with you". Oh my word, he was a doctor and I wanted to french him despite the searing pain that riddled my body and my devoted love of my husband.

Well I didn't french him but he made me delirious once he ordered that morphine drip.

After a brief exam, a zillion questions, and poking that resulted in me pretty much slapping him, we were both stumped. The pain was in a strange place -- maybe my gallbladder was about to blow. An ultrasound was pulled into the room and revealed nothing except my insides are way pretty.

So another ultrasound was ordered, this time with radiologists attached to it. You know, the folks who can tell me more than "you've got real purdy insides lady". But that wasn't going to happen for a while so I was allowed to wallow in my opium stupor and grab some zzzzzs.

Then I thought I need to give my family an update. I had no idea what time it was and as I fumbled for my phone with the one good arm I had left after being attacked by the bloodletters, I asked the staff member left in the room "Can I make a call?"

For the record, he was standing right by a HUGE sign that said "NO MOBILE DEVICES TO BE USED UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES" and it had a picture of my particular model of phone right next to the huge RED glaring words. All it needed was "This means YOU motherbumper" to drive the point home. But it didn't say that and the dude said "I won't tell".

So I called my husband and gave him the lowdown. After speaking for a few minutes -- I was kind of shocked at how crappy I sounded -- I decided to send an email to Catherine to let her know where the hell I was. Then I noticed that there was a whole bunch of "where the f*** are you emails in my inbox" and I felt overwhelmed. I couldn't answer these all.

Then I suddenly felt really alone plus overwhelmed.

So I tweeted.

"I'm in emerg on a morophin drip for mysterious pains. This must mean one thing: it must MONDAY. Mondays suck hard. Bah."

Grammatically incomplete but still, I got the point across. Anyone who knows me on Twitter knows I hate Mondays so it just seemed fitting.

And suddenly DMs and beautiful messages started pouring in. The feeling of alone and overwhelmed started to dissipate. My love of Twitter was once again renewed since it's been bashed beyond recognition for me by recent events.

Twitter CAN be filled with love and this renewed my faith.

I tweeted because I needed my friends and they were there.

For that I say thank you more loudly than you can imagine. Actually I will say it softly because I'm still in pain.

Oh yes, back to the pain.

Eventually I had the ultrasound where it was discovered that among other things, I had a kidney stone the size of a Buick that couldn't be treated except with drugs to facilitate it's exit and dull the pain. *sigh* They are giving it seven days to leave my hallowed halls which means knowing my luck, it will arrive just in time for Christmas.

OH JOY, IT'S THE CHRISTMAS STONE! GOD REST YE MERRY, STONE!

So now I'm home, afraid to go far for fear I'll be birthing a fire-baby stone in the streets, and taking copious amounts of boring drugs.

I love how the last one says "May Cause Dizziness". In truth it should say: Take this and fall over like a drunk kitten ALL THE MO'FO TIME. Because that would have been more accurate.

Anyhow, this is my long-winded way of retelling what happened yesterday and believe it or not, this is barely a tenth of what happened. I'm saving the funny part for another post - one that I can write when the freaking DIZZY SPELLS END. I don't do dizzy well.

* I'm quoting Huey Lewis and the News which must mean the morphine hasn't worn off just yet.

They got it wrong: Sunday's Child is Full of Face.

Because Growing Up is Hard To Do (for everybody involved - EVERYONE)

After a brief hiatus from parenting (me BlogHer, she Grandparents), we are back to being a family unit. Truthfully, it's reeking havoc with my new found sloth sleep habits.

Oh my word I could sleep all day and work all night if being a parent would let me. Sun tans never suited me and vitamin D comes in pill form, right? They wouldn't put it in pill form if it didn't work, right? Not sure who "they" really are but I know they are everywhere. Obviously my paranoia-meter is registering on high right now and I'm totally getting off topic.

So yes, I'm back in the parenting/chain gang full time and I just want to know exactly who gave my daughter permission to grow up so much during the week I was away. I demand answers right now.

This morning she set about playing by herself, -- which in itself is a miracle of sorts -- telling  me she had to set up her dollhouse. I walked away picturing us watching HGTV matharons of decorating shows together in a few years, sharing our tastes, trashing those that obviously have none -- you know, the bonding stuff.

A few minutes later she summoned me (because trust me, there is no other way to politely describe how she demands my specific attention and we are working hard on that one) and asked my opinion on her set up.

After taking it all in, I told her it was reminiscent of Charlie Bucket's set up in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory which still is one of my all time favourite films. That is some sweet and seriously, seriously f'd up movie making there and I ate it up every last morsel with a spoon.

But yes, I loved how the majority of furnishings in her four room house is crammed into the top bedroom, right down to the milk jug and flower vase. Usually my impulse would be to rearrange the furniture and set it up "correctly", but this time I didn't even feel the urge flicker. She was proud and she could explain to me the purpose behind each placement and decorating choice. And she did.

The only items not included in the room were the ninjas warming their toes next to the fire place in a rocking chair. Ninjas. Oh how I love my child, she makes me burst with pride.

A little Tarintino in da' house

After the presentation, -- where if she had been selling, I would have been buying -- we spent some time together, quietly talking and playing and before long she obviously was off in her own imagination.

So I sat back and tried to figure out, who the heck let my little girl grow up so much when I wasn't looking. Because sometimes I just don't think I can take it and I need to tell them it's not okay. Seriously, not okay.

**********

I'm over at Aiming Low today and it's my inaugural post. You may be disgusted by it, or maybe you will love my mad housekeeping skillz, or be dazzled with my relentless run on sentences. Regardless, you probably will feel superior somehow. Read it now.

little fish, big smile

Yesterday was my daughter's last day of nursery school. It was the first time in her little lifetime that she woke up and actually yelled "LET'S GO TO SCHOOL!" And yes, she said it with an exclamation point which for the record looks like a fist-pump in real life. Both her dad and I were kinda confused by this reaction and when I asked why she was so excited to go to school, she said without missing a beat "IT'S THE LAST DAY!"

Once again definitive proof that my child was not switched at birth.

It's hard to believe that the little girl who didn't know how to dress herself back in September now just refuses to dress herself. Before it was "I don't know how" and now it's just "Dressing yourself is for chumps because I know my parents will do it and if they don't, I still have no issues with public nudity." It's also hard to believe that the child who didn't know how to share back in September now knows she is supposed to share. Not that she does it but dammit, she knows it's expected. I love that my daughter is still defiant and that one of her first leaps into conformity / working for the man hasn't broken her spirit.

So for you my child, I play some Alice Cooper and try not to think so hard about how much you've grown up in the past nine months. Come September you will go to a new school filled with big fish and I really believe this last year has prepared you to hold your own. Because as much as I try not to think about it, my job is to arm you with the strength to be an independent and confident fish, even if that means I have to let you explore the oceans without me. Damn it's going to be lonely in this here anemone.

the smile reserved for candy stores and last day of school

It's definitely Monday

We had a class trip this morning, to a farm outside the city so we could show these here city kids where their brie and water crackers come from.

The highlight: The ride on the big yellow school bus "just like the big kids"

The lowlight: The mother who didn't know she was supposed to pack her kid a lunch for the trip.

The lowerlight: I was that mom.

It's Monday, I just know it is. Can I go back to bed now?

Hampered by a Facial (Alternate Title: I think the cat is trying to kill me)

It seems to be more than a week has passed since that Gigi had a dreaded eye infection. But I checked and it really was only a week ago when I noticed her eyes were all yucky. Time once again alludes me.

Anyhow, upon noticing her yuck-filled eye, I was all "ARGH -- THE DREADED PINK EYE! OMG BURN THE SHEETS! BUY A BUBBLE! YEE SHALL ALL BE CRUSTY-EYED BY DAYBREAK AND WE SHALL ALL SUFFER" because I'm totally hysterical over eye infections. Ask anyone who knows me at all -- eye infections make me so freakin' squirrelly that I need to be slapped a la Nicholas Cage in Moonstruck.

Ewwww eye infections... yucky slime and lots of overachieving germs just raring to spread pus-filled joy to any other eye it can infect. I felt so bad for my daughter and was so proud of her ability to resist touching her eyes at all. She's stronger than me.  Of course, it turns out it wasn't the dreaded pink eye -- that would be too normal for my offspring. She had some eye/ear combo that made the doctors all go hmmmmmmmmmm but not before quizzing us on all our bovine or swine relationships in the past month. I responded by objecting to my husband being referred to as swine but they didn't get it. Their loss. Anyhow, they declared "this isn't pink eye" and then went hmmmmmmmmmm she's going to be very sick for a few days.

But as usual, I'm getting ahead of the story in fact, so far ahead that last part wasn't even necessary.

So back to before my tangent, when we still thought she had pink eye and I was all OMG red alert, red alert, danger danger, it's pink eye, piiiiiink eyeeee! I set about gathering up all the sheets, pillow cases, and towels in current circulation plus anything else obvious to wash in order to purge them of their filthy pink-eye germs with lots of hot water.

Of course Murphy's Law dictated that this infection happened on the same day that I actually had ALL the laundry done for once. All of it. Every last stitch. A phenomenon that hasn't happened in years. All the hampers were completely empty around the home.

Hampers, who's contents I had only MERE hours before laundered. Hampers that made me declare outloud how happy I was for their utter emptiness because OMG! I had all the laundry done. Done. Finito. As in no soiled fabric that could be stuffed in a drum to be found on the premises. Fait accompli.

Or not.

I think my mistake was marvelling in the bleakness of the hampers and not taking into consideration how the hampers might have felt about being empty -- because what else could possibly explain this punishment of multiple loads appearing all at once? Seriously, what?

*head hits keyboard*

So now I had full hampers of laundry to do and when you are at the mercy of a laundromat as opposed to your own in home washer and dryer, it just compounds the crying more. Squares it even. Just like a trash compacter.

Between tears, I replaced all the towels in the bathroom with new fluffy ones and decided this was as good a time as any to wash my face.  Why not? After all, I felt grungy and possibly infected plus the laundry-induced rage needed cooling. So I lathered on the nice cleansing cream, rubbed my temples and made my skin feel fresh again.

After thoroughly soaking my shirt while rinsing my face (I'm a spaz with my eyes closed)(even worse in the dark)(I'm highly entertaining in enclosed spaces) I blindly reached out for something to dry my face, found the towel I had just hung on the back of the door moments before and sunk my face into it's no-name brand spring fresh softness. All was good.

But pulling away, something felt wrong and I turned to the mirror while opening my eyes to see why my skin felt even dirtier than before.

There was something greyish, sticky, and ... fluffy all over my freakin' face.

What the? These were fresh towels and it looked like dust balls all over my face. As I leaned in close, something tickled my nose... then my eyes.

My towel was covered in cat hair. CAT F*&^$ING HAIR.

Turns out someone has been sleeping on the clean towels.

What's your point woman? stop interrupting my nap

Have I ever mentioned I'm actually allergic to cats? Yes I know I have two and I've pretty much had them all my life, so I'm not highly allergic, just mildly allergic and I love them (though I'm reserving judgement on that last statement for the time being). I've always managed to live with them as long as I don't touch my face after petting them and I don't know.... stop doing stuff like drying my face with a blanket made of their fur?

It felt awful. My nose itched for hours, my eyes felt sand-filled, and I was on the verge of bringing up a furball. Beautiful.

Anyhow, Gigi's eyes & ears healed quickly and I didn't bring up a furball post fur facial despite pulling a kitten's worth of hair out of mouth. And now once again, I'm behind in the laundry.

Should Have Been Mine: Wordless Wednesday Edition

Back when I was in Nashville, I went with the crew to a store that sold cowboy boots and these, these beauties should have been mine. But the cheap and practical side of my brain talked me out of it. Damn you cheapness and for the record practicalness, I've come up with at least a dozen scenarios to wear these desert roses, so bite me practicalness. BITE ME. I'm not listening to you again.

Yup, failed again at Wordless Wednesday.

Looking for more words? I'm over at Canada Moms Blog today talking about THE HAIR WARRIOR.

spill the beans

I'm over at MamaPop today talking about my guilty obsession with the team members from Paranormal State. Please (please) come over and visit; I have this fear of getting no comments and that is a shame I cannot live with.  Strangely enough I can live with the shame of publically stating that I would have totally gotten it on with a total square given the right circumstances, but that is there not here.

Anyhow, on with the motherbumpin' show....

The other day Gigi and I were on the subway travelling to meet SB. It wasn't rush hour when we left but it was in that pre-rush hour twilight where most seats are taken on the train. In other words, the crowds had not reached sardine status yet. Gigi and I had a seat together, she was on her knees looking out the window and I sat looking forward, trying to find zen during her extended period of distraction.

Her "but why" questions had ceased for the time-being and she was more interested in people watching. It is moments like this that makes for good public transportation with a preschooler. That is, until they invent teleportation devices built into strollers. They had better be working on that one, and if a parent is in charge, you know they totally are.

Anyhow, during this lull in what I frankly consider normal, if not exemplary preschooler behaviour, Gigi started the chant. You know, the repetitive chanting of a word or two that renders the word completely meaningless and instead turns it into a weapon of mass sanity destruction.

beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad 

It wasn't loud, she wasn't yelling, she was just chanting those words in a normal voice.

I knew where those words came from: beans for lunch, daddy was waiting for her. Two unrelated thoughts just being hammered into my skull with a technique worthy of Stockholm syndrome methodology.

beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad 

Actually it would be more accurate to say that to the best of my knowledge and understanding of human physiology, this chant was being hammered into my skull and all the loverly passengers who had operational ears devoid of sanity-saving buds on car 5591 on the TTC rocket.

But I still found zen. It can be difficult to achieve sometimes but over three years practice has gotten me to this point. So there I was, in that space I found in my mind's eye.Everyone else on the train seemed to be able to block it out, or at least they didn't seem too disturbed by my daughter's mantra of paternal musical fruit.

Alas, this zen is fickle and it doesn't take much to unbalance. In fact, one errant breeze from any direction may just force me to alternate resorts - like sticking a fork in my thigh to painfully symbolize how done I actually am.

beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad

As the chanting continued, I was in a calm place that the keyboard cannot describe other than to compare it to a tight-rope many parents know too well. For me, one misstep can plunge me into an abyss full of snapping barbs that fly from my mouth without restraint. I must remind myself that everyone has a story, everyone has a reason for being cranky, even if that reason is they just are.

And so I remain balanced and focused.

beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad

Then the woman sitting kitty corner to us, turned, leaned towards us, and hissed "SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUSH" right into our faces, perhaps in case we weren't aware who she was aiming this gesture towards.

*snap* The tight-rope just shook and I'm plummeting towards the thorns.  But somehow I reach out and grab the rope above.

With that flail and recovery, I took out the aforementioned fork, stuck it in my thigh, swallowed back the barbs, and just smiled a real honest-to-goodness smile at this shushing woman. I hope the smile was just wide and not maniacal.  We locked eyes for a good ten seconds before she cast her peepers downward and retreated into what I assume was her internal zen room.  And with that, I retreated again to mine.

Finding calm may be incredibly difficult some days but always worth maintaining.  For that much I really do know.

***************

PSA shameless flogging: Last day for one lucky Canadian reader to win a basket of Johnson's products over at Drugstore Cowgirl. Enter now!

drugstore cowgirl: an explanation

True Story: About a month or two back I was sitting with another bloggy friend talking about my review site.  I know, how boring, eh?

But there I was, droning on about how I love doing reviews and love saying yes to trying new things (insert dirty joke here) but hate writing the actual review,.  I'm often left wondering if I would have actually tried the product if it hadn't been offered to me gratis.

Anyhow, as I watched my friend's eyes glaze over from boredom, I kept talking about my small quandary.  She kept quiet, probably lost in a nice daydream, but that didn't stop me talking and eventually I came up with an answer to my reviewing dilemma - all - by - myself:

I decided that I am a drugstore cowgirl and that's the way things are going to be around my review blog from here on in.

Let me explain what the drugstore cowgirl is about.  Back in 2005, I had this vision in my mind that when I became a parent, Gigi would be an all organic baby, one of those totally natural kids that would only use products that came from the health food shops.  The health food shops I frequented back when I had a steady job and income - and that really cool stuff called disposable income.  Friends had gone the all natural route and thought: "that's me, I'm doing it up all natural with my baby, baby".  Yes folks, I actually speak like that in my head.

When my baby (finally) arrived, I was trying all the new all natural creams and lotions, buying samplers from every line and trying them each out, first on myself, then on her.  And many products were good (many were also yucky but I'm not here to talk about that) BUT many of those good products were also really expensive, and my wallet didn't agree with my product choices.  Like seriously didn't agree.  Yes, yes, my baby is worth more than the moon and stars put together, but I can't make money appear like magic. Yet.

So I decided to go back to the drugstores and to the brands I grew up using, and made it my mission to find body-friendly products that don't break the bank or cause us to break out in a rash.  So began the painless birth of my inner drugstore cowgirl.  Why cowgirl?  Why not, I've always wanted to be a cowgirl plus I look good in hats and I love boots.  And I've always found comfort in moseying around the drugstore and rustling up new products to try, in fact, I love doing it in foreign countries (like the US - ohhhh exotic Walgreens) and revel in useful and affordable goods that are easy to find.

Thus begins a new era in reviews for me: stuff I actually would buy, be able to afford, and love.  Novel eh?  Anyhow,  I'm kicking it off with a bunch of giveaways for Canadian readers over the next few weeks so come on over and enter to win a basket of goodies from Johnson's.

I'm not fancy folks but I love to give stuff away, and if there is something wrong with that, well I don't want to know about it ;)

364 days until the next one

According the government, today was Family Day.  Sure.  Okay.  I'll agree to that if it means a long weekend in February.  Thank goodness we only have to do it once a year.

According to my daughter, it should have been ALL HAIL QUEEN GIGI Day but how that distinguishes itself from any other day is beyond me.

I know I've mentioned it before, but sometimes I'm shocked at the outbursts that come with the age of Three.  Many of you know how it is.  For me, it's like one minute my sweet considerate daughter is playing and singing and pretty much evoking visions of cartoon birds flitting about her head, and then the next minute Three is in possession and the child is screaming a la shrew - shattering Disney and bringing on Regan MacNeil from The Exorcist.  Small woodland creatures are fleeing and fearing for their lives, I quickly inventory all dangers and potential breakages of any kind, and anger that roars like no other I have seen from such a small vessal, bursts forth with abandon.  And I exaggerate only slightly.  Woodland creatures aren't always present when Three rears with tears and anger.

Hey, I always loved that named Regan.  In fact, when I was a teen I think Regan was on my top ten girl's name list.  Anyone else have one, or fifty of those lists? I was a list junkie - seriously, I made lists about everything.  My favourite bands, songs, albums, videos, boys, food, countries to live in, cities to visit, boys, colours, designers, models, boys, you name it, I listed it.  But listing baby names, that was a super cool one - all the girls I hung with were always trying to out-do each other for gothy weirdness.  I mostly dug eccentric English names, liberally sprinkled with nicknames like Pippa and Minty.  It was like old school New England mated with Enid Blyton characters.  I would give good money to find those old notebooks of mine, I know they are packed away somewhere.

Holy crow, I just got off topic.  Back to contemplating an exorcism.

Anyhow, that devilish Three accompanied our family on a daytime bike/walk today and had a throwdown with the bike en route to the park "STOP DOING THIS BIKE - I TOLD YOU TO RIDE", at us when we mentioned how Gigi was getting too big for her bike and would need a new one by the summer "NO, I DON'T WANT TO GROW UP!", and Three pretty much yelled at anything or anyone else who had the nerve to get in her way.

When we arrived at the park, a family was already there playing and Three demanded that Dad go and tell them to get out of her park.  She was dead serious, plus wake-the-dead loud about it, but we held our ground and didn't comply with the request.  No siree, I'll take a tantrum over getting strange looks for handing out eviction notices on public land.

But just as quickly as that crazy tantrumesque outburst occurred, we suddenly found ourselves involved in the most calm of exchanges followed by an invitation to play.  Ack.  For a split second in my head, I compared these seismic shifts to the bright lights in Lost, but quickly dismissed it because in our case, both time AND location remained the same, only the personalities had shifted.  Plus, no nosebleeds (phew).

Now that I've annoyed everyone who doesn't watch Lost...

Are many three year olds like this? I know I'm not alone on this insane train of Three, I've seen others out there.  But you know, just when you think you know Three, it throws you a curve ball - am I right, or what? *rolls eyes / breathing deeply*

Okay, seismic shift in topic... well kinda, still talking about small things as in: must find grace in small things:

1. My daughter is naming all her dolls and characters great names like "Salad", "Margarine", "Crackers", and my all time favourite "Dr. Penderdragon" - she made that up on her own as far as I know.
   
2. Good chocolate
3. Easy, no prep, and yummy crock pot recipe (beef curry)
4. A peaceful family meal out with no surprises
5. Tech support that goes above & beyond to make your day easier - yes, it really happened to me

How about you?

You'll see that life is a frolic and laughter is calling for you......

Confession: some days I dress like Mrs. Roper.

True Confession: I dress like Mrs. Roper daily.

Yah, I know, shame on me for not being truthful in my first confession but whatever.  I'm obviously working on it so give me a break.

So yes, I dress like Mrs. Roper and I'm both outwardly ashamed and secretly pleased.  And I guess if all my years of schooling tell me anything: I'm addicted because I know it's wrong, yet I cannot stop.

Why is it wrong? Holy crow, I'm barely forty yet I'm dressing like a Floridian retiree who clips coupons for Polident and then tries to pick up the bag boy at the Piggly Wiggly.  A bag boy who is trying to ignore me while he packs my cat food, denture adhesive, corn pads, and expired luncheon meat into first a paper bag, then a plastic bag as per my request (an excuse to talk to him really).  And then when I follow up with "can you carry those to my car, tiger" while reaching over to him with one hand liberally slathered in White Shoulders, I purr ~ which sounds more like a death knell thus permanently scarring this poor boy who is just trying to save up enough cash for an xBox.  Yet, I know I'll make it into his latest cheerleader fantasy because being The Roper gives me the ability to do this and I know how to use it.  Junior will be sniffing caftans and dreaming of a Walmart version of Zsa Zsa Gabor for years to come.  Rawr.

And that makes it wrong.  So very, very wrong.

Anyhow, I can't help the fact that I find mumus (mumi? mumues?) incredibly comfortable and liberating.  I never ever feel chafe from my mumu, my mumu never tells me that I ate one pint to many of Ben & Jerry's too much, and my mumu always loves me [does it or does it just enable me?].

But today I think I pushed the envelope.  Whilst prancing around the apartment doing some cleaning, ~ because if you are going to clean, you might as well prance, ~ I was wearing the most hideous (yet comfortable, oh so comfortable) of outfits.  And while a technically complete outfit is more acceptable than an undone nursing bra, I still should be a bit more considerate of my neighbours.  For today I took my prancing straight out into the hallway and down to the garbage chute (truth: the prancing was suspended, I walked like a "normal" person) and smiled and waved at no fewer than two of my neighbours.

On my way back to the apartment, the teenage girl who lives across the hall came home and while I waved and gave a friendly hello, I saw the look on her face.  The look that said "OMG, I never EVER want to grow up and dress like that".

And she was so right.

But too bad kiddo, it will happen.

Mark my word, it will more than likely happen to her.   And on that first day when she remembers me, it will probably be the same day she plucks that loose fitting, loud print garment off the rack and exclaims "this looks soooooo comfy, and it's only six dollars!".  And then she will think of me again, after becoming addicted to wearing this oh so comfy garment, for one day she too will answer the door wearing it and in her mind's eye, a montage flashback of all the major fashion violations involving unattractive loungewear will happen in a quick gut-wrenching moment. And there I will be, in my orange/black/turqoise/yellow/lime green goriness gloriousness waving hello like a crazy woman.

Perhaps I should stop scarring so many people.

Nah, I value my comfort over some poor kid's neurosis (even if I may have contributed to it) (omg, I AM an addict).

The Big Chill

This past Sunday marked the first week of Advent and in this household, the youngest always gets to light the first candle in the wreath.  Up until Gigi came along, it was my job.  Now I've been usurped by a enthusiastic little fire starter and I've grudgingly given up my place in the lighting order.   Dammit, that was my job *pouts*.

ANYHOW, Sunday dinner was obviously a big deal this past weekend because of the advent of Advent.  Now I don't know what your household is like when extended family is all gathered but my mom likes to run a tight ship (whatever that means since we have nary a sailor in our midst but she's always saying that and "your going to miss the boat" so apparently this nautical theme runs deep for no apparent reason other than you can see water from our dining room table).

Well our ship wasn't tight this past Sunday and people were being ordered to do this and that and that and this and my older brother, in the wisest of decisions, decided to hide away until the meal actually hit the table.  He's not stupid; one should not surface in this household until the whites of the potatoes eyes can be seen.

Of course, this absence made my mother spin around while shouting without taking a breath between demands: "WHERE IS EVERYONE?" "everyone to the table", "where's the butter?", "where's Uncle ____", "somebody pour the drinks",  It's quite a sight really, seeing her spin around, barking orders without the use of oxygen, it makes me feel... well it makes me feel at home [duh, because I am at home].

You know, after almost forty years of this, I'm used to her shenanigans (another word I've lifted from her vocabulary, a vocab that includes gems like "kitty corner" and "comrades" and "eat your vegetables") and in this particular instance, I was able to calmly go about my business of staying out of my mom's firing range.

But it was too much for Gigi.

Gigi stood up on her chair for maximum exposure and just as mom finished yelling (without disguising her exasperation), "for pete's sake, would someone get Uncle ______ NOW" my darling daughter thrust out her hand in a "talk to the hand, becasue the face don't understand" style, aimed right at my mom's face, and yelled "You... you must chill out NOW! ....[and then more calmly] mommy, go get Uncle _____".

When a three year old tells you the chill the hell out, trust me, you listen.

I'm so proud of her back talk but she sure as hell better not pull that shit on me.  Seriously kid, don't pull that one on me.

Also I've reviewed another game for the DS over at motherbumper's lab, the Littlest Pet Shop Garden. Go on over and check it out.

confessional

I have a horrible confession to make: I kind of like it when my child has a cold.  WAIT! Don't call social services and start screamin' "WITCH, MUNCHAUSEN, no WITCH, definitely witch... wait, no... would it Munchausen by proxy?  Ack, screw it, she's just a witch".  Seriously don't do it because I hate seeing Gigi in any stage of discomfort or pain and duuuuuude, I'd never make her sick on purpose.  That would require a lot of work and planning and I'm too lazy to do actual work.  Let's not even talk about planning stuff, I'm already making excuses to get out of the plans and work that don't even exist.

Anyhow, yes, my horrible confession of liking when my child has an uncomplicated, totally straight-forward cold.

You see, we just endured the week from hell.  I know, I know, join the club but seriously, I haven't received official notice that it's over yet and I'm probably tempting the fates and gods with this post, so have no fear, someone will strike me down and my work will go officially from hell to a double order of hell, upsized, with chili-cheese fries on the side.  But no drink and the chili is made of poo.  And to think, I just added to your torture by making you read that last sentence.  You're welcome.

Anyhow (how many times can I say that word - lots more than you deserve to read), the most current week from hell showcased a brutal cold that included all of the usual suspects: hacking cough, snot - actually, it was littered with assorted bodily fluids, take your pick, extreme fevers, crankiness, loss of appetite, and my favourite: listlessness.  It was during this limp phase that I realized I didn't fully mind this particular cold because... well because of a truly selfish reasons on my part:  my daughter morphed into the most compliant, cuddly kid ever in the history of her existence on this planet.

Yes, yes, I realize it was probably in part due to the horrible fevers and maybe some fever-induced delirium but oh my holy fish, she just wanted to be snuggled up by my side and have books read to her, and watch movies, or just plain sleep.  We'd attempt to play with her dolls or colour but those activities required too much energy.  Oh and the NAPS, glorious NAPS.  Which of course were filled with doing things that didn't get done because she wanted to cuddle every waking hour.  But then I would be totally nervous when she was sleeping while so sickly, so I'd generally cuddle up right next to her.

Oh and before I forget, a warning to all my fellow lazy speed readers: When I was researching fevers online in order to learn the warning signs for potential doc office trips, I accidentally clicked on a link for Dengue fever.  After reading about 10 lines in I totally felt my own internal organs melt into a puddle of fear.  Then I immediately thought, "geeeez how the f' did Denguy get a fever named after him?"  Seriously, how do you get some brutal monkey-bite ebola-like disease named after you and where do I sign up?  That sure beats getting a star named after you, it's like HOLY CRAP, that entire city was wiped out by Denguy fever and you don't get that kind of publicity as a star, unless that star happens to fall out of the sky and destroy a city and you know, in that case you still got ripped off because DUDE your star totally fell out of the sky.  And to think, once your star fell out of the sky, your star is gone, but a thing like Denguy fever, well that's the fever that keeps on taking and taking for generations to come.

Then I realized it said Dengue.  The end.

Totally made you forget about my horrible confession, eh? d'oh

UPDATE: So apparently I'm far from alone on this sentiment. Backpacking Dad wrote about the same thing last week and said it a hell of a lot more eloquently because he one of those philosophical dudes. Isn't it wonderful how plagues bring out the prose in parents?  Also it makes me feel a hell of lot less guilty, thanks Shawn :)