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

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?  

The Right to Bear Arms...

It's random story day here at Life With Bellymonster and I've got a silly one for you. Have been having a friendly convo with some American friends about the right (and desire) to carry a weapon - some of them do carry guns, some want one, others are on the fence.

Me, I'm not a gun person. I'm a "leave-my-house-unlocked-if-you've-chosen-to-rob-MY-house-over-all-the-other-pretty-ones-on-this-street-you-might-need-my-hand-me-down-TV-or-100-dollar-camera-because-clearly-you-have-bigger-issues" kind of person.

This both frustrates and amuses my husband, but even he wouldn't have a gun in the house, which, given the ferocity of some of our arguments is probably a good thing.

Anyways, a million years ago, I spent several weeks in northern Ontario, living with an older couple, as their "Girl Friday." I cooked, cleaned, ran errands, collected Dave from the local watering hole at supper time and generally made a nuisance of myself useful.

My second night there, Dave showed me where he kept his gun - I can't remember what kind it was, only that it was stubby and heavy in my hand. And cold. I remember mostly that it was cold.

In any case, I sat quietly while he demonstrated how to handle, load and clean it before finally clearing my throat to say, "Uh, Dave? This is a nice gun and all,  but I'm never gonna use it."

He frowned and sat down in the chair opposite mine, his face serious. "Liz, for as long as you live in my house, you will ABSOLUTELY know how to protect yourself, if I'm not here or Bonnie's not here. You WILL learn to use this so that you will be safe, unlike the poor young mother down the street who two years ago was brutally assaulted by an escaped convict, in her own home."

Oh.

So, he taught me. And I paid attention, but my heart wasn't in it. Besides, I thought to myself, as I shifted the gun's weight from palm to palm, I'll never have the balls to actually shoot it.

A few weeks later, I woke in the middle of the night to what sounded like someone trying to break in to the house, through MY bedroom window. I skittered down the hall to Dave and Bonnie's room, dropped to the floor next to Dave's side of the bed, my heart beating so hard, I thought the sound of it alone might wake him.

"Dave," I whisper-shrieked to the side of his face, "DAVE! Someone's trying to get in my window!"

Before I could even summon my next breath, Dave had flung back the covers, landed on his feet and suddenly, his gun was in his hand. He handed me the cordless phone from his bedside table and lifted the bed covers again, motioning for me to climb in beside Bonnie, who was awake and alert, but silent.

"You hear me yell, you dial 911," he ordered and crept back down the darkened hallway.

Minutes passed, but felt like hours while I huddled next to Bonnie, my eyes on the empty doorway, ears straining for the sound of commotion. I don't think I breathed.

And then...a sound! It started low and built to a crescendo.....of laughter.

What?!?!

Clucking, Bonnie pulled me from the bed and together we made our way to Dave, whose hoots of laughter rolled from my room, where we found him peering out my window and pointing.

"I found your burglar, Liz!" he managed, in between mirthful snorts. His gun rested lightly on the windowsill, silent and still. Beyond it, past the neatly-trimmed bushes that sat just outside my window, I saw a large, dark shape, meandering away.

It was a bear.

Apparently, the berries on the bushes had drawn him over and the thudding and deep breathing I'd heard were his bear-noises of delight as he scarfed down  a little early-morning snack.

Photo courtesy of : dreamstime.com

"Ha, ha!" I said weakly, as Dave's laughter died down. "Sorry about that!"

Bonnie patted my head kindly and wandered into the kitchen to make coffee. Dawn was breaking as we watched the bear pause in the neighbour's yard before loping off down the street, oblivious to the panic he'd caused.

Dave turned from the window, cupping the gun in his hand. "Well Liz," he said with a smile and a sigh, "It's a good thing I was here. Better me holding the gun than you, girl. Left to your own devices, you mighta shot that bear dead, eh?"

More chuckling while I pouted and huffed, "Whatever. You told me to use it if I needed to. I might have been able to, you know." At his chuckle, I scowled some more. "I might have, Dave!"

"Good thing you didn't, love." Dave moved to leave the room as the smell of freshly-brewed coffee floated in. "We'da had to charge you, Liz."

"Charge me? Why?"

"Bears are outta season!"

And you?

Tell me about your experience with things that go bump in the night!

Tale of Two Sickies

The Reds have been felled by the 'flu. Here's the whole stinkin' mess, as posted on Facebook


Wednesday evening, having written my last exam:

Thursday morning, having been woken by Matthew shortly after midnight:

And then Luke woke up, crying and complaining of stomach pain:

 By late afternoon, we were all miserable:

Later that evening, blessedly alone and wishing for Baileys:

 Sigh. Even when they're sick, they make me snort-giggle:

Apparently I get a teensy bit twitchy when my kids are sick:

And finally....wait for it....you know this one's coming......

 Apparently, I also get sick when my kids get sick:

And you? How do you deal with sick kids?

Are we friends on Facebook yet? Come and find me!

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

On Being Mum to The Reds (Or: Just Call Me, "Mrs. Weasley")

Hanging out with the Reds is kind of like hanging with little celebrities: like moths to the flame, folks seem drawn to my fire-haired children and will often stop us where we are: in the grocery store aisle, at church, walking to a park...everywhere.

The Reds, God bless them, have learned to take it all in stride. They sit patiently, smiling politely while people coo and ruffle their hair while remarking on the freckles that dot the boys' faces. Even Luke now barely flinches when people reach out to touch his head.

Barely.

Old men, especially, seem drawn to my fire-haired imps. But everyone, young, old, male or female, has something to say about their hair. The boys - and I, by proxy - get tons of compliments, "Lovely colour!", "Isn't he gorgeous?", "TWO red heads, aren't you lucky?"

 I nod happily because, well, yes, it IS a lovely colour, he IS gorgeous and I AM lucky.

The boys also smile politely and offer a cheerful, "Nope!" when asked if they're twins, and giggle when I answer, "Yep!" to the question, "Well, are they Irish Twins, then?"

 ("Irish Twins", by the way, are siblings born within 12 months of each other and while I can see why folks might suspect I had the boys that close together, I sometimes want to ask them, "What do you think I am, crazy?)

Folks also seem compelled to pass along random information pertaining to redheads, the most-spouted being that the red-headed gene is dying out and soon there will be no gingers left on the entire planet.

If we're anywhere but Belleville, I simply nod, as though it's news to me. I  have already heard this dramatic tidbit, but I never let on because this might be some stranger's first and only opportunity to share it. Instead,  I raise my eyebrows and say things like, "Well, isn't that something!" and move my shopping cart a little faster. Once we've entered the "stat-spouting" portion of a stranger exchange, it's best to move on.

If we ARE in Belleville, and someone shares the "last of the species" stat, I chuckle and say this:

"I'd have believed that before we moved, but there are tons and tons of ginger-haired kids here. When we first moved to town and went to the grocery store, I turned to my husband and said, "Good Lord! There are red heads everywhere! Finally, finally we have FOUND OUR PEOPLE!"

Some other pithy observations made by strangers and my most-used replies:

"I bet they've got tempers on 'em, eh?" 

"I blame their father for the broken windows."

"Who's got the red hair, then?"

"The mailman."

(Which was actually funnier when we lived in Newcastle, because the mailman DID have red hair. So did the garbage man.)

"My aunt's sister's half-cousin's brother was a red head."

"Well, they say every family's got one hidden somewhere."

"I guess they're allergic a lot, eh?"

"Nope. Fit as fiddles. Must be their Irish blood." (What I want to say is, "What? What the heck does that mean?")

"Love the hair. They're so adorable. Do they look like their dad, then?"

"Well, thank you. I WAS feeling adorable, right up 'til now, but now you've gone and wrecked it."

"They're really not twins?"

"Nope...there are two years between them." (What I want to say is, "I'm their mother. Is that a real question?")

And today's question, from the lady waiting beside us at the deli counter:

"Did you know that, statistically, people with red hair die sooner than people with brown or blond hair?"

Me, wide-eyed and huffy:  "Uh, not sure I really want my red headed children to think that something like that is true..." (Which was, you understand, a polite way of saying, "Shut-the-EFF-up!")

To which she replied:  "No, really. I read it on Twitter."

And you?

Any random redhead tidbit to add?  

What crazy sh*t have YOU read on Twitter lately?

Bedtime Tales and the Suckie Fairy (A Guest Post)

I've been promising my dear friend, Moe, that I will tell her "Give-Up-the-Guckie" story. Instead, I convinced her to write it out for me and am delighted to post her story here, in her own words.

Moe's warm, funny and well-adjusted kids are certainly not mourning the loss of their beloved "guckies'." I credit their awesome mum - and this lovely, magical story she spun them - for all of it.


One evening Liz and I were having a catch-up dinner when she mentioned she was talking to other mothers about the use of pacifiers. My kids are six and four, and I have successfully (without the tantrum) convinced them both to give up their suckies.

A little background on me:

I am completely PRO-PACIFIER. I used 'em, loved 'em and happily tell new moms I meet to go ahead and use 'em. Whatever works, right?

See, I was once  am currently a thumb sucker. Granted at almost 40, it now happens only in private when I'm hugely upset or needing comfort in some way. AND I don't think there is anything wrong with me (that's what my shrink says anyway).

It's a comfort mechanism, that's it. But it drove my parents crazy: they tried everything to make me stop. The biggest problem they had was that it was permanently attached to me. A suckie isn't.

Knowing the comfort I derive from thumb-sucking, I wasn't about to force my kids to stop using their suckies.  However, I do know about the dental problems, and the embarrassment that this can sometimes cause. But I made it their decision and didn't pressure them. Too much. And they had gotten to the age where they were embarrassed to have it in front of friends or family.

Instead, I told them a story, repeatedly, until they could tell it back to me.

By the way, we believe in fairies.

Here goes:

In a "Tinker Bell" movie we learned that fairies are born with the first laugh of a new born child.
In the movie "Hook: we learn that fairies can be killed with a child saying that they don't believe.
They can be brought back to life when the child claps and says "I believe in Fairies!"

Remember the Tooth Fairy? There's Suckie Fairy, too.

See, each new born fairy is so grateful for the life the new born baby has given them, s/he
 presents to the new baby a suckie -  to give them comfort and make them feel safe and loved.

The baby can use the suckie for however long they need it, but as they get bigger, they should need it less.When the baby becomes a big boy or girl, they are to put it under their pillow for the Suckie Fairy toretrieve, in return for a coin/present.

This way a new fairy can give the suckie to a new baby, as a thank-you for the gift of life.

The first time I told this story to my Tink-loving four-year-old, she was so upset at the prospect of giving up her suckie that she exclaimed, "Mommy, I don't believe in fairies!"

I jumped up and started dancing around the room clapping my hands.Startled, she began to laugh and asked what was I doing. I replied that her words had made a fairy sick somewhere and that she too, should start clapping, in order to save the fairy's life.

So we both jumped around the room clapping our hands, shouting, "I BELIEVE IN FAIRIES!"

Three months later she put her suckie under her pillow without being asked.

Moe's DH made her these memory boxes as a gift.
One box, suckies included, for each child.

And you? How did you convince your child to give up their favorite gucky/suckie/lovey?

A Message From God

Yesterday, I wrote this to God:

Dear God,

No doubt, the universe is unfolding as it should and according to Your plan. I am doing my best to let go of my controlling ways and trust that You know what's best. As always, my lessons are about patience and letting go.

I'm listening. I get it. But if You could hurry things along, just a teensy bit, that would be great.

Love,
Me


This is Life With Bellymonster  today:


I waited and waited and waited for the plumber who showed up full of contrition, explaining that he can't come today, due to an emergency elsewhere. 

Next Thursday it is.

I've been waiting and waiting for  S. from Loyalist College to call me back and she finally did, with good-ish news. My acceptance letter, though written, cannot be officially submitted until next week.

Thursday, as it turns out.

Just received an email from Luke's coach. She needs to change the date that I'm responsible for snacks, even though the date that I originally chose was the one that worked best for me and our schedule. So, instead of bringing snacks on July 14th as planned, I'll be bringing snacks next week.

Next Thursday, to be precise.

That God.

He's so funny.

And you? Heard from God lately?

Now I Lay Me Down to F*cking Sleep...

Ah, sleep. How I miss getting a full night of it.

To be fair, the Reds are pretty good about going to sleep. It's the STAYING asleep that confounds them. That they can rush about all day, full of energy and yet awaken mere hours later, ready to play confounds me. Many's a night that finds me wearing a path between their room and mine, refilling water cups, rubbing aching knees, banishing monsters, drying tear-stained cheeks.

And if by chance I don't go to them, I can rest, assured that my darling boys will always come to me.

Most mornings find Mark protecting himself with all the pillows, me clinging to the edge of the bed with someone's tiny elbow lodged in my nostril, and somebody else's whole body curled between my legs.

I drool. Two of us snore and three of us grind our teeth.

Isn't that a lovely mental picture?

It could be worse. It used to BE worse, when Luke was born and nursed every 10 minutes. Matthew kind of lost his mind and took to shrieking like a banshee at odd hours - usually after midnight and before dawn. It was, as you can imagine, a very challenging time as a parent. DH could - and still does - sleep through anything so I was on my own. How I wish I'd had this book then:

"Go the Fuck to Sleep!" by Adam Mansbach

It's pure, unadulterated, adult-oriented, parent-centric, HYSTERICAL genius.

I know you've heard of it, because it's been all over the news and discussed heatedly on parenting boards everywhere. Some parents are shocked and aghast, but they're usually the parents of newborns, who believe that they've come through the worst of the sleep-deprivation.

Ha!

Most parents cheer and applaud Mr. Mansbach's brutal, potty-mouthed honesty and this book was written for them. For all of us, really, if we're honest about it.  My friend Moe sent it to me and UPS (yay, man in uniform!) dropped it off today. I've been giggling and reminiscing and reciting it under my breath ever since.

A snippet for you because I think that you should go and buy up every copy you can find - give it as a shower gift, parting gift, gag gift, whatever. It is, quite possibly, the best bedtime story I have EVER read:

"The tiger reclines in the simmering jungle.

The sparrow has silenced her cheep.

Fuck your stuffed bear, I'm not getting you shit.

Close your eyes. Cut the crap. Sleep."

Pass it on. Genius such as this deserved to be celebrated and shared!