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?

On Fridays, Baileys and Being a Domestic Goddess

It's Friday!

Around here, the end of the work/school week goes like this:

Dump kids, purse, mitts, coat and bags in the porch and let them sort themselves out. Head directly to kitchen sink, filling it with hot, soapy water. Fill sink with dishes from breakfast, toss juice into cups and rummage for apples.

Toss apples, juice and kids into family room. Ignore them to empty dishwasher from one side whilst filling it from the other. Heat oven to 300C and  place cup filled with two tablespoons of vanilla extract, two tablespoons of cinnamon extract inside. Set timer for 20 minutes.

Pour Baileys. Sip contentedly.

Shoo kids upstairs. Ignore their shrieks of laughter and thumping as they bounce on beds. Spritz couch with Febreze, fold a quilt tidily over its arm and kick lone sock underneath it.

Sip Baileys.

Turn on side lamps, bask briefly in the warm glow they cast. Scurry over to computer desk, stack haphazardly tossed papers and bills into a tidy(ish) pile. Festoon piles with sticky notes that say "To File" and "Kids' Work" so that it appears as though I will be organizing them shortly, instead of simply adding to the piles next week around this time.

Photo nostalgia courtesy of Pinterest.com

Check Facebook.

Sip Baileys.

Toss laundry into washing machine. Hide washed and folded but not-yet-put-away baskets of laundry in the boys' closet. Shut their door, just to be safe.

Head to bathroom, kicking two toy guns, a lone plastic arrow and a stuffed alligator into the linen closet along the way. Windex toilet, bathtub, sink and mirror. Pause to inspect eyebrows. Make mental note to have them waxed as soon as possible.

Sip Baileys whilst folding tiny triangle into the top of the toilet paper roll. Grin at how such a small, stupid thing can bring such delight.

Race downstairs. Wash dishes in sink. Sweep kitchen floor, hide schoolbags behind the settee, hide remnants of late-night-Halloween-candy-foraging in bottom of garbage can.


DING!

20 minutes' worth of Christmas wafting from the oven has come to an end. So too, have my chores.

Glance at clock. 5:26....in 5, 4, 3, 2....

Lean against counter, watching the side door.

Sip Baileys.

Open the side door, just in time.

Smile.

"Hello, husband! Welcome home!"

 

 

 

And you?

How do you wrap up a long week?

Any hoodwinking cleaning tips you'd like to share?  

Professor Poopypants & The Truth About Baileys

I'm gonna steal a page from Ironic Mom's blog and walk you through my week, by the numbers.

The reason for this is two-fold:

1. I'm lazy.
2. I'm lazy.

What? OK, three-fold:

3. I'm tired.


Here it is. A week in the life of a mama-student-blogger-with-too-much-chocolate-and-not-enough-closet-space:

5. Baskets of laundry that I have not even taken down stairs, let alone sorted through or washed.

1. Pair of clean panties I have left in my drawer (not including the ones that my husband insists I keep that remind him of our honeymoon but only remind me of how small my ass used to be...sigh...)

14: Times I had to call the Reds for breakfast on Wednesday. It would have been more, but I lost my voice (and my mind) during one particularly loud holler.

6: Times I called the Reds for breakfast this morning, before tossing their cereal in the garbage, like I'd threatened to do all those other times, but didn't.

1. The number of times I anticipate calling the Reds for breakfast tomorrow.

4. We're on the 4th "Captain Underpants" book around here. It includes character called Professor Poopypants. I don't know who laughs harder when I read it aloud, me or the Reds.

Professor Poopypants...bahhaahaahahahaahahaa!

32. The highest score my kids received from me (the one holding the scorecards) during their Dining Room Furniture Olympic High Jump game from last night.

2. Phone calls I expect to receive from the Children's Aid shortly, due to "questionable parenting practices."

10: Times a day I think, "I could take you home and love you forever!" about the little people I'm supporting on placement right now.

10: Times a day I think the same thing about their young mothers.

3. Glasses of Baileys I've enjoyed. Erm...make that 4.

2. Amazing kids I feel so blessed and grateful to call mine, always.

19. Tiny, perfect candy bars I've eaten since Monday yesterday.

497. Times people read yesterday's blog post and times my mind was blown away by that.

1. Love.

1. Life.

1. Need.

7. Of you who'd better be channeling Bono right now...

And you? What'd your week look like, by the numbers?

What's your favourite U2 song?

Finding the "Good" on Good Friday...

It has been a special kind of day around here. At this holy "Good Friday" draws to its blessed, blessed close, I shall tip my hot chocolate-and-Baileys to you, offer up a prayerful thanks for both and let Facebook tell the story:


This morning's status read as follows:

Sigh.

Thankfully, even Matthew cannot hold a grudge for long and came down bearing gifts for his dad: a bow and arrow, so they could play "Robin Hood and his Minions."

Heh. Minions.

In any case, I managed to tackle 328 loads of laundry before the natives got restless again, so we feasted on a brunch of bacon and eggs before Mark snagged the couch to "rest his eyes":

Desperate to keep the Reds occupied while I sorted and folded the above-mentioned 328 loads of laundry, I threw on some Norah Jones, loaded up the coffee-maker with fresh grounds and dug out some cheap paint-by-numbers kits I'd been hoarding. That kept them busy for, oh, 8 minutes or so:

Alas. Before the paint had even dried the begging started:

"Mummy, can we ride bikes?"

"Just give me a few minutes here, Matthew. You can't ride out front without a grown-up to supervise, so you'll have to wait, ok?"

5 seconds passed

"Mummy, can we ride bikes noooooww?"

"In just a minute, Matthew, please."

17 seconds passed.

"MummyyUH! It's been 12 minutes already!"

Sigh.

It was time to pull out my secret weapon:

Is there anything more beautiful than the sight and sound of children laughing? I think not. No chorus of angels has ever sounded or looked so divine (except perhaps for Luke, who somehow manages to look devilish even when he's being cute)

(Nor had my coffee-flavoured Baileys tasted so heavenly, but I digress...)

We did make it outside, I'm happy to report. We played baseball and skateboarded and rode bikes up and down the street. Well, the Reds did. I sat on the porch with my coffee, soaking up the sunshine and the moment and "supervising."

After supper, Mark took bath duty, which is better than the gift of Blurp, around here. For me, it was gift of time and blessed quiet but for the Reds, it was the gift of play. I am a no-nonsense bather - get in, get washed, get out. Mark, on the other hand, filled the tub to the brim, tossed ALL of their tub toys in AND let them use the bath crayons...

For the record? That sh*t is NOT entirely washable. Mark doesn't know that though and they had so much fun, I don't have the heart to tell him. Maybe tomorrow...for now, this:

Turned out to be a pretty good "Good Friday" after all!

And you?

How do you celebrate holy days?

 How do you bribe help your children to be especially good?

Goddess Off the Rails...

The life of a domestic goddess ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Don't get me wrong - I dig being home with the Reds and watching them move -swiftly, leaving mess in their wake - through their days and I love being the first person to see them master a new skill or use the phrase "Fer CRAP's sake!" in the right context.

It's the OTHER stuff that sort of gets me down. Meals, I've got sorted - I like cooking and the Reds aren't as fussy as they once were. We eat simply and on a schedule, which leaves me time for other stuff.

Or should.

Mostly, I ignore the pile of stuff on the kitchen table until it threatens to topple. My junk drawer is actually a "junk counter" and while I try to keep it tidy, it drives my husband loopy.

On Sunday, I learned that practically all aspects of our life drive him loopy and that the house, in particular, overwhelms him. Dude's got a lot going on, life-wise, between his job and wanting to spend more time helping out his parents. I get that.

But because he was home last week, he got to witness the cheerful, everyday chaos of life with two kids and it sort of freaked him out:

 The phone rang incessantly, friends and neighbours popped by unannounced, friends came asking if the boys' could come out to play, our street is filled with the noise and mess of construction, workmen toiled at the bottom of the driveway and needed into the basement to mess around with the water pipes or something, toys lay strewn from kitchen to front door and the boys played hockey in the house....

It overwhelmed Mark, who leaves for work when the boys are still sleeping and trudges home long after they're in bed. By the time he comes through the door the house is tidy, the toys are away and his supper is waiting on the stove. H e has control of the remote because I am usually blogging and all is quiet. Peaceful.

But not, apparently, peaceful enough.

Our house is small and old - there is very little in the way of storage and there are LOTS of things that ought to be stored away. Mostly toys, books and paper - bills, pictures, notes, etc. I think part of Mark's issue is that even the things that are put away are still visible, as our shelves are open as are both bookcases.

The boys' room looks best when I close the door and I'll admit that I am crap at putting laundry away. I could live out of a basket forever, actually, if it meant never having to put clothes in drawers again.

The kitchen, even when completely tidied up, still looks cluttered and...too full.

I am pretty good about making the bed every day and the bathroom is always getting cleaned because I live with three boys and only one of 'em has decent aim.

But that boy is NOT happy about Life with Bellymonster and the Reds.

Not. one. bit.

So, beloved readers, I need advice. And a garbage truck backed into my driveway so I can scrap it all and start fresh, but since that's unlikely, I'll take suggestions:

How do YOU control the clutter monster in your house?

Do you and your partner have completely different ways of doing things?

How do you balance the needs of everyone in the family?

Do you schedule certain tasks or tackle things as they come up?

Would you please come and heeellllppp meeeeee?

The Reality of Being a Domestic Goddess

Daydream: My home smells of something yummy to eat at any time of day.

Reality: I have Luke, whose poopy diapers carve such a vile stench into the air, visitors have been known to retch and take their coffee in the ice-box we call "the porch."

Daydream: I am the kind of woman whose cardigan-over-a-white-t-shirt-and-jeans ensemble looks fresh and casual, but pretty. Pulled together. Polished.

Reality:  I am often too lazy to shower first thing in the morning and end up grabbing a hooded sweatshirt and jamming a baseball cap over my unwashed (but pigtailed) hair. Like Red from Fraggle Rock, only fatter.

Daydream: I am the kind of woman who, when you pop by unannounced, is sipping a chai tea at the table, listening to son read aloud, whilst sunlight streams through the (streak-free) window and classical music plays lightly in the background.


Reality: Yesterday's coffee reheated in the microwave for the second time has grown cold. While  First Son refuses to sound out the word "cat" and carefully arranges his features into blank nothingness,  I am red-faced with frustration and jabbing at the letters on the page, screeching, "You KNOW this one. Yes, you do! You do SO! Sound it out, NOW!"

The classical music station is drowned out by Second Son singing "O Canada" while he bats a tin-foil ball across the living room with his father's golf clubs - ones he has been implicitly told not to use...

Daydream: My workspace is clutter-free save the pretty fabric-covered basket meant to temporarily hold bills which are paid on time and immediately filed into their appropriate and cross-referenced folders.

Reality: At any given time, our huge desk is covered with artwork, cold coffee cups, dinky cars and for some inexplicable reason, pieces of dry dog food that the even the dog won't eat. The fabric basket IS the filing cabinet and I think I put paid bills away sometime in 2008, two houses and one city ago.

Daydream: High-backed antique settee plus chaise lounge, lovingly restored in luxury fabrics grace my front room. Soft wall-sconce lighting spills onto my gleaming hardwood floors and fresh flowers from the garden brighten every room.

Reality: Aztec-design on 25 year-old couch that is a hand-me-down from my parents. Sags. Springs are shot and I cannot for the life of me get the mustard stain off one arm. Perfect for bouncing on. The floors are indeed hardwood, but are dotted with paint from the previous owner's love affair with bright, happy (read: psychosis-inducing) colour. My  floor lamps are from Sears and tilt at alarming angles by day's end.

Garden? What garden?

Daydream: Children who cover their mouths when they cough, don't giggle when they toot, sneeze anywhere but DIRECTLY AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN while snuggling as Mama types and who pee into the toilet.

Reality: Farting is hilarious to my children. I have no idea why. Their father is the same way. I can't explain that, either. Snuggles are good - I'll take 'em when I can get 'em. Luke's pee forgets to listen and poop well...it happens, right?

And you? What's your reality?