Great Expectations...

Sigh.

"I need your help today, boys," I said, scurrying about, spritzing the air with Febreze and kicking shoes into the porch. "Nanny and Papa will be here in an hour."

"I need you to make your beds," I said:

"I need you to put your dirty clothes in the tall hamper and take the clean ones from the short one and put them away," I said:

"Please, boys, try to do so quietly because Daddy's not feeling well," I said:

Let Them Eat...Cake?

There's to be a real estate agents' tour of my house today - they should be here within the hour.

Last week,  I received the email from our awesome real estate agent (and my Back-Up Husband), Steve about the tour.


Steve, our real estate agent.

  I immediately volunteered to make banana bread. You know, something warm and delicious to entice the other agents to bring their clients here and convince them that it's home.

Welcome Home!

I make a mean banana bread, if I do say so myself. I've made it so many times, I no longer need a recipe, I just pour and mix and mash and bake.

Easy-peasy, right?

Sigh.

As soon as I turned the oven to pre-heat, I could smell something burning.  Warily, I peeked into the oven, expecting to see a plastic spoon or cup or plates or something, because I sometimes jam dirty dishes in there when people pop by and I haven't done the dishes.

Don't judge me, people - just admit you do it, too.

Nothing. No dishes, no spoons just a sickly-sweet smell of....burning plastic.

Determined to ignore the smell, I turned up the radio and began throwing ingredients in a bowl. Then the phone rang and while I was chatting, I swept a bit in the living room and mentally replaced all the windows on the first floor...

 Time passed and then I suddenly remembered the banana mixture on the counter and rushed back into the kitchen. Dumped the mushed-up goodness into a baking pan, set the timer and waited for the glorious smell to fill my home.

Success!

Not 10 minutes ago, I pulled a slightly overdone but delicious-smelling banana bread from my no-longer-burning-plastic oven and left it on the stove to cool. In the meantime, I set the coffee-maker to brew and began gathering up plates and mugs.

Cut the banana bread into delectable slices of yummy, snuck a piece...

BLAG! GACK! PHATOOOOEEYYYY!!!!

Sigh.

Apparently, I, the goddess of banana bread, the one who makes it blindfolded and upside down?

Forgot to add sugar.

I dumped the whole stinking mess into the garbage....

...and thanked my lucky stars that we have cake left over from Matthew's First Communion this past Sunday.

And now they've come and gone, just like that, leaving me here with half a cake and some freshly-brewed coffee. I think I'll sit here awhile and bask in the glory of  a clean, great-smelling house and wait for the offers to just pour in.


Nom, nom, nom....

P.S. If you know anyone in the Belleville area - or anyone looking to move here, who wants to buy a lovely little house in East Hill, my your door is always open!

P.P.S. I am SUPER good at buying cookies and warming them up in the oven...

The door is always open...

And you?

Any angst-y "selling a home" stories you'd like to share?

Dear Proctor and Gamble...

Dear Proctor and Gamble,

I am writing to congratulate and thank you for creating a well-designed and easily-used product: the  Always "Ultra Thin" maxi pad (with wings).

Earlier this evening, I was happily cruising home from running errands with my youngest son, Luke, strapped into his car seat behind me. We were singing.

Mid-warble, a quiet voice came from the back seat: "Uh, Mummy?"

"Hmmmm?"

"I'm bleeding."

I grabbed the rear view mirror and yanked it down - sure enough, blood was gushing from Luke's nose with alarming speed. While I cast frantic eyes around the car for a tissue, newspaper, ANYTHING, Luke sat quite calmly, watching blood pool into his cupped hands.

"Did you pick your nose, Luke?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, dear."


Luke began practicing the art of nose-picking early on...

"Luke, I'm sorry. I don't have a tissue. Let me see if I've got some scrap paper in my purse..."

Digging down (while driving) I felt my hand close around a familiar product: a tampon. Grimaced at the thought of being stopped at a light and having other drivers see me toting a kid with a tampon sticking out his nose and then rummaged for the next best thing: an Always "Ultra Thin" maxi pad (with wings).

Expertly, I tore it from its pretty green wrapping and handed it back to Luke, who snort-laughed out his nose, spraying blood everywhere. Then he shrugged and jammed the pad on his nose, twisting the sticky side around so that the whole thing stuck to his face.

"OK, Luke?"

"OK, Mummy. There's a lot of blood in my nose."

"Sure seems like it. Keep that pad on your nose, OK?"

"OK. Is this for girls to use on their 'ginas?"

"Yep."

"It's sort of gross that it's on my nose, isn't it?"

"Not necessarily. It's stopping the blood from going all over your clothes, right?"

"I guess. LOOK! The blood's getting sucked inside the pad. That's  so cool!"

Indeed, it was.

So there you have it, Proctor and Gamble:

"Maxi pads (with wings) - not just for girls, not just for periods!"

With sincere thanks,
Luke's Mum

When Santa Calls...

Yesterday, wee Luke had a hard time listening to instructions. Specifically, he threw two decks of cards all over the floor and refused to pick them up. No amount of asking, cajoling or hollering was working, so, like many a desperate parent before me has done, I threatened to call Santa.

He begged me to hang up the phone and hurried to pick up, only to be distracted by dust motes dancing and hunger and Lord knows what else. Suddenly inspired, I posted this on Facebook:

 

Within minutes, my friend Jamie offered to make the call. This is how it went:

Luke: Hello?

Santa: Hello Luke, it's Santa! How are you?

 

Luke: Fine.

Santa: Are you having trouble picking up your toys? Are you having a problem? Mommy asked you to pick them up.

Luke: Yeah. But all I wanted was someone to help me pick up.

Santa: Did you ask someone to help you? Did you make the mess? If so  you have to pick it up. If you need help, ask Mommy.

Luke: Ok.

Me: If you pick up your toys Luke I will look into getting you that "Cars" guitar you wanted. You still want that right?

Luke: Yes.

Santa: Well then you pick up and be a good boy for Mommy and I will see about getting one to you for Christmas, OK?

Luke: OK.

Santa: You go clean up Luke and I will talk to you later and have a Merry Christmas.

In the meantime, Jamie and I were conversing madly on Facebook, hopping between a thread on my wall and one on his. The conversation on his had me howling with laughter, as Luke scurried about behind me:

Luke: Hello! Luke speaking.

Santa: Luke. It's Santa again. Did you clean up your toys?

Luke: Yep.

Santa:  Good boy. I knew you could do it. Now I will look at getting that guitar in the sleigh for you OK?

Luke: Ok bye.  CLICK.

My son had indeed hung up on Santa, but boy, was he proud of himself:

 The fun didn't end there. In between the picking up, hysterical laughter and mad Facebook'ing by me, Luke managed to jam his finger into the pencil sharpener, proceeded to sharpen his finger and then burst into panicked tears. In the midst of the ensuing chaos, "Santa" rang again:

Matthew:  Hello! Matthew McLennan speaking.

Santa: Hello Matthew! It's Santa! I heard you wanted to talk to me too?

Matthew: Yeah!

Santa: Did your brother clean up his toys?

Matthew: Yes.

Santa: Good, good. What happened to his finger? He tried to sharpen it? That's silly! You tell him Santa is bringing him pencils so he won't have to sharpen his fingers OK?

Matthew: ( giggling): OK Santa. ( giggling)

Santa: Now. you want a police man costume and drums?

Matthew: YES, PLEASE! 

Santa: Well I think I can get you the costume, but the drums are a bit big for my sleigh, maybe when you are older OK, buddy?

Matthew: That's what my Mom said too. So that's OK.

Santa: Because when you are older you get bigger things and I can make more room in the sleigh.

Matthew: That's fine.

Santa: Now you be a good boy and help Mommy and I will get you your presents OK? And tell Luke to stop sharpening his fingers! I will get him some pencils!

Matthew: ( Giggling again) OK Santa.

Santa: Good bye, Matthew and Merry Christmas.

Matthew: Bye! Merry Christmas, Santa.

. 

 Proof, dear readers, that the magic of Christmas is all around us: all you need is a good friend, Facebook and a phone.

With love and thanks to the awesome Jamie Terry, for playing along and for letting me plaster his Facebook wall all over the place. Merry Christmas, my friend! xo

Mark's Dreaming of a PINK Christmas...

Tonight's after-dinner conversation:

Matthew: Daddy! Mummy's making a Christmas Wish List. What do you want from Santa?
Mark: A d-a-u-g-h-t-e-r
Luke: A dog?
Liz: Ha! No way, buster. Uh uh.
Matthew: What does he want, Mummy?
Liz: A daughter. Ha!
Matthew: A daughter?
Luke: A girl?
Mark: I have two boys. Don't you think a little girl would be a great addition to our family?
Liz: (telepathically, to Mark): You. are. insane.
Matthew: A sister?
Liz: A sister for you and Luke. Would you like a sister?
Matthew: Uh...not really. I like being just Matthew and Luke.
Liz: Me too, Matthew. I don't want another baby, either.
Luke: No sisters. No babies.

Poor Mark. Another dream, dashed.

To Matthew, I whispered, "Tell you what, though. We can buy Daddy a baby dolly - a girl one. And that can be his daughter, OK?"

Matthew (laughing uproariously): Okay, Mummy! Let's buy Daddy a daughter!

"Welcome Home, Baby Emily"
from framedmemories.ca
An Ashton-Drake Doll

So, to the McLennan Christmas Wish List, I added two things:

1. Baby Girl Dolly
2. Vasectomy

Guess it's true, what the sign on our wall says:

"Remember, as far as anyone knows, we're a nice, normal family..."

Sigh. More fodder for the therapists, I say.

And you? What sort of crazy stuff is your family up to, these days?

Lose the 'tude, Dude!

I need an "Ignore" button.

Seriously.

I wish I could set my brain to simply ignore - as in, not hear, not respond to, not let my blood boil about - certain things my family say or do.

Like this:

Matthew: Mummmmyyyyyyy? Can I have some candy? (Insert whiny, petulant tone pitched so high the dog moans and runs upstairs)

Me:  Not now, Bug. It's too early. After lunch.

Matthew: It's not too early.

Me: Yes, it is.

Matthew: Mummmmmmmy, it's not FAIR!!! (Insert scowling face, thrust out lip and crossed arms here)

On a related note:

Does anyone else out there have a child who whines while adding an emphatic "UH" to the last syllable? 

Like this:

Matthew: LuuuuukkkkkkUH! Stop doooooooooooinnnng thaattUH! Mummy! He's looking at me all weeeeeeeeeeeeerrriiidUH."

Or this:

Matthew: (Insert snotty, Lord help us, SUPER snotty tone here): I'm not gonna play with you anymore, Luke. I don't want to because because you're only  fourUH..."

Me: (Not ignoring, the way I likely should, but damn it, Luke worships Matthew. It's fine if Matthew doesn't play with him all the time, but there's no need to be mean about it): Matthew, if I spoke to you that way, how would you feel?

Matthew: I don't careUH!  (and then, turning to me, sticks out his tongue!)




*Brief pause for my brain to explode *





Me: (Furiously pointing to the stairs): Time Out. NOW!

Matthew: WhhhhaatttUH? I didn't do annnyyyythingUH!

Me: Do that again and I will smack that sass right off your face! 

(Yes, I am the same mother who sends the Reds to Time Out for hitting each other. I recognize the hypocrisy here, just don't know what to DO about it.)

Matthew: (Stomping toward stairs, his voice rising, filling with tears): It's not faaairrrUH!

I got nothin', people. This petulant "uh"ing is new for Matthew and for us. It grates on my every nerve and I'm pretty sure my ears are bleeding. Is this normal? Do ALL children do this, or just mine?

If so, the question is not whether the children will survive childhood. The question is, will I?

 *Bangs own head against deskUH*

And you? How do handle it when your kids ooze sass and attitude?

A Visit From Murphy...and Santa Claus

Murphy's Law

 Loosely translated and borrowing heavily from Finagle's Law

means:

"Anything that can go wrong, will."

It's been a wild ride at ye old Bellymonster homestead. To long-story-short things, that dang Murphy  popped by for a visit, leaving an expensive mess in his wake.

It started with the furnace:

Furnace guy came. Shook head, sadly, eyeing our 42-year-old furnace. Whistled - in bad way - when he saw our chimney. Turned his palm up in an apologetic way and said he reckoned it'd be cheaper to simply start anew.

Sigh.

 I cringed, waiting for  the estimate to replace the furnace. Winced when it came. Mark did more than wince. In fact, I'm fairly certain I saw him wipe a tear from his suddenly alarmingly pale face:

We discussed things all weekend long, trying to figure out where we can cut back to see our way around financing a new furnace. On Monday, Mark called from work:

Sigh.

Yep. The WHEEL FELL OFF THE CAR! Thankfully, it happened as Mark turned into the driveway at work and not whilst he was sailing up the 401, but still. We were hoping to get one more winter out of the ol' girl. Alas...



Later that week, I received a second furnace quote - from a man who looked like Santa Claus (without the beard) and who immediately offered to bring some electric heaters by while we made up our minds.

That pretty much made up our minds, so I arranged to have an environmental audit done so that we could take advantage of government rebates, set to end in early 2012.

Spent the rest of the week bemoaning our crummy luck and waiting for the sky to fall.

Gah. Argh. Blah, indeed.

Murphy, in case you didn't know, also likes to sprinkle mischief in threes:

F*cked-up furnace? Check.

Crapped-out car? Check.

I waited. I fretted. I tweeted:

I prayed. But alas...

That Friday, the computer gave one last pitiful chug, a few coughs, a wheeze..


and died.

When Mark came home from work, looking exhausted and stressed out, I greeted him with a smile. But it was enough. He knew. Oh, he knew:


Me: "So, Murphy stopped by earlier."
Mark: "Computer?"
Me: "Yep."
Mark: "Fuck."
Me: "Yep."
Mark: "I need a drink."
Me: "Rye and coke?"
Mark: "Do we have any arsenic?"

Thankfully, we have an awesome friend who provided us with a new-to-us computer and amazingly  generous family, who've  loaned us a car, indefinitely.

On Tuesday, I called Santa Claus (aka. Brian from Rosebush Heating and Cooling) and gave the go-ahead for a new furnace. He cautioned that it might be a few days, as it's a busy time.

 20 minutes later, he rang back:

"My guys'll  be over in about 20 minutes."
Me: Uh, OK. I thought you said it might be a few days?
Santa: I did. I pulled them off another job. I hate the idea of your little boys having to face even one more day of cold.
Me: Wow. Thank you!
Santa: You take care of those boys, Mrs. They're precious.
Me: They are. I will. Thank you.

30 minutes later, I posted this on Facebook:

I called Mark at work:

"The furnace people just showed up!"
"Seriously? I thought he said..."
"He did! But he hated the thought of the Reds being cold and sent his crew here straight away."
"Wow."
"That's what I said!"
"I guess Santa Claus came to town early, eh?"


Indeed.

*And you? Got any Murphy's Law fiascos to share? Who's YOUR Santa Claus?*

On Jelly Beans and Other Things...

Monday, after school, having a grape-eating contest - who can make the loudest crunch:

I tossed out a casual, "So Matthew, how was your day?"

Mid-crunch, my boy stopped and then looked away.

"I was the only one who used my accent," he offered, a little flush of pride lighting his face before his gaze dropped back down.

"Awesome! Do you mean your accent when you're speaking French?"

"Yeah."

"Umm...you don't seem happy about that, Bug. It's a good thing, right?"

"Well, yeah. I was the only one who was listening but Madame M. didn't give me a jelly bean."

"Do you get a jelly bean for using your accent, then?" I watched as his expression soured further, all thought of grape-crunching forgotten. In a low voice, he answered:

"No, we get jelly beans for listening, but Madame M. didn't give me one."

"Ah. I see. Do you think maybe she just forgot?"

A vehement head shake, tears glistening. "No. She never forgets. She just didn't want to give me one."

Mama Bear rose up inside me, roaring even as I struggled to tamp her down. Calm down, Mama.

I took a deep breath, reached out to take his hand. "That must have hurt your feelings, eh?"

Matthew nodded.

"Maybe she doesn't like me." Though he offered it as an observation, I could hear the question in his voice, wrapped as it was in resignation and defeat.

It broke my heart.

"I'm sure you're wrong, sweetheart. I can't imagine that she doesn't like you. I'm sure she just forgot."

Shrugs from Matthew. Helpless gazing from me.

And then...a memory.

"Let me tell you a story, Matthew. When I was in Kindergarten, I had a teacher called Mrs. Major. Every morning, she filled a plastic egg with jelly bean treats and hid it somewhere in the classroom. Each student was given a chance to search for the egg and eat those jelly bean treats throughout the day."

"Cool."

"It was. But I never got chosen. One day, I asked Mrs. Major when it would be my turn. But she thought I'd had a turn and put me in time-out for telling a fib."

"Really?!?" Matthew's eyes were wide with surprise and indignation. This sort of thing sets his Libra heart aflame. Thirty-five years later, seeing indignation flare in my son's eyes soothed the ache of that memory, long-buried but clearly, not forgotten.

I nodded.

"Really. I was very sad. I wasn't fibbing, she'd just forgotten. But it hurt my feelings."

We sat quietly, letting those hurt feelings - his and mine - settle around us. And then Matthew brightened.

"Mummy! I have an idea! We can get a plastic egg and fill it with jelly beans. Luke and I can take turns hiding it and then you can have your turn finding it! Would that be OK?"



Oh, my son. My sensitive, tender-hearted son. What did I ever do to deserve you?

Out loud I said, " What a wonderful idea, Matthew!  Thank you. We'll get some jelly beans at the weekend and whenever you use your accent with me, you'll get a jelly bean, too, OK?"

"Sounds like a plan, Mummy." His own hurt feelings forgotten, Matthew leaped from the couch and began scouting for good hiding spots. I stayed seated a minute longer, trying to compose myself.

For want of a jelly bean, grace was found.

*And you? Who was your Mrs. M? Where have you found grace?*

Monitoring My Blessings

Tonight's post is brought to you courtesy of the baby monitor. (Yes, I still use one. Don't judge me.)

Matthew: 1, 2, 3, 4............94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99.......hmmmm.....Tenty. Tenty-One, Tenty-Two, Tenty-Three......uhhhh....ELEVENTY...Eleventy-One, Eleventy-Two.....Twelvty...Twelvty-One, Twelvety-Two...LUKE, there are Twelvety-TWO constellations on the ceiling!!!


Luke: Huh?

Matthew: There are TWELVETY-TWO stars and constellations. That's a LOT of stars. The reason you've never heard of that number is because it's so BIIIIIIGGG!


Downstairs, Mark and I sat rapt and  grinning as our firstborn counted himself sleepy. So cute, we said, puffing up with parental pride. But when he began winding himself into a number-counting frenzy, I urged Mark to go on up and settle him down - we have a big travelling day tomorrow and as entertaining as the show was, the boy needed to sleep.

Up Mark went, ushering both boys back into their respective beds, tucking them in. Matthew asked for "the Counting Game, explaining to Luke that "me and Daddy played this game when I was four, like you!"

Luke: Cool.

Mark: Two plus two equals?
Matthew: FOUR!
Mark: Four plus four equals?
Matthew: EIGHT!
Mark: Eight plus eight equals?
Matthew: SIXTEEN!
Mark: Sixteen plus sixteen equals?
Matthew: Uh.....Thirty-two?
Mark: Thirty-two. Thirty-two plus thirty-two equals...

And so it went until Mark got somewhere near 4000 at which point Matthew yelled, "Pi!!! That's my favourite part!"

Downstairs, I giggled helplessly, enchanted by the sheer pleasure in his voice and the fact that he and Daddy have a special Counting Game that I knew nothing about.

As soon as Mark left the room Matthew began the Counting Game on his own, getting stuck at 16 plus 16.

Again.

And again.

And again.

For almost 8 minutes (yes, I timed it) he counted from one - over and over and over again - struggling to get past 16, but never quite managing it. He ended up at 26, instead of 32, as he was - I imagine - counting on his fingers.

Finally, on the heels of one giant yawn, he proclaimed that 26 was indeed the right number.

Big pause.

Matthew: Yep, it's 26! 26.....yep.......26......I'll do 26 plus 26 in the morning, OK Luke? Right now, I need to get some rest. I'm a tired boy."

Bigger pause.


Silence.


Downstairs, grinning through my proud tears, I thought, "For these moments, I am so thankful."


And then sleepily, from the monitor: "I am so proud of you, Matthew." (Matthew, deepening his voice to mimic Mark's)

Matthew: "Thanks Dad, I'm proud of you, too."


Downstairs, eyes welling, grin widening, I began counting, too. Counting my blessings:

"98, 99...Tenty. Tenty-One, Tenty-Two, Tenty-Three...."

And you? Have you counted your blessings today?

Happy Thanksgiving, All!