And we’re off!
2011 is going to be my bitch. Well, that is the intent. The Meanie household has declared the month of 2011 to be “Dry January” in which no booze is consumed and no sugar ingested. I said it. It’s out there. Now that the DT’s are gone and I don’t want to lick sugar off of Grace and Edie’s fingers after they eat a cookie, I feel pretty good. And I’ve de-puffed. I’m not sure if any actual weight has fallen off (not the goal, really) but I’m not as puffy and squidgy. So, I don’t imagine my social life will be killer this month (hey, a sober Meanie can be fun, please still invite me places! I might suck on your wine cork though).
Early to bed is also part of the agenda, which I’ve been following but it’s really hard. Santa bought me Room which I have a VERY hard time putting down at night in order to achieve 8 hours sleep, and we were also given the entire series of 6 Feet Under. It is so hard to stop at one episode when all those little boxes are crying out to be watched. Discipline Meanie!
We also got all growed up over the holidays and bought a dresser for the Master Bedroom (sounds very important when in capitals). Seriously, my clothes were in plastic storage containers before. We also bought a bed frame for our bed, in the Master Bedroom. And curtains! And one of those blankets that goes on top of your real blanket, but you don’t actually use it, it just looks pretty. Our Master Bedroom looks like the Master Bedroom of 30/40 somethings now – not so college. Dare me to buy some useless pillows for the bed – just dare me to! I got a HomeSense gift card for Christmas and I’m not afraid to use it.
So we are off to a nice, healthy start. Oh, just so you don’t think I’m all full of myself and stuff I’m still a bit of a f*&^-up because:
a) I brought my laptop home over the holidays to do some work and forgot it at home on my first day back and
b) Yesterday I was pulled over by the police at a major intersection and......actually, that’s another blog post. Still too traumatized to write about it :)
Friday, January 07, 2011
Monday, December 20, 2010
Will I ever sleep again?
Sleep has always been an issue in our house. When the girls were wee, they slept amazingly well, but I was usually spinning with anxiety (post partum depression) and could never get a good night’s sleep. Once the anxieties were lifted, being a light sleeper oft kept me awake (I can hear a nose whistler from down the street). Finally, likely from sheer exhaustion of having years of no sleep, I became a star pupil at sleeping, until Grace developed her night time anxieties, which have awoken me most nights for the past 3 years. With some tools under our belts we are able to get her back to sleep much faster now, but some nights it was hours before there was peace.
Well, last week was a good week. No night time waking at all. Finally, an unbroken, 8 hours (if I was smart enough to go to bed at the right time) of sleep. Ahhh, I thought to myself. We will sleep again. We will be rested and that will give us the ability to laugh, play board games, talk about our feelings, wear things from the LL bean catalogue, use cloth napkins and shake our heads fondly at our childrens’ antics (what, isn’t that wall all normal families do)?
Well, my idyllic dream crashing down on me the other night when, while working at the dining room table, up past my bedtime, Grace came stumbling out her bedroom, glazed eyes and obviously not really “there”. She was sleep-walking. And she headed right for the front door, put on her fathers’ shoes (ha, that was kinda funny) and started pawing at the deadlock and door knob, trying to get out. Hmmm. We tried talking to her, with no success. Jo realized right away she was sleep-walking and was a pro in gently guiding her back to her room. I kept getting in her face trying to see if she registered me at all. It’s really strange seeing your kid in that state – it was like she didn’t even see me, and she didn’t speak, just made creepy little noises *shiver*.
Anyhooo, we happened to be up past our bedtime. What if we hadn’t been? What if we were tucked in our beds, sound asleep when Grace was heading out the door? Remember this dream? It’s a little too real for me.
That night I’m not sure I went back to sleep, pre-occupied with listening for her rise from her bed again. I even got up and checked on her a few times to make sure she was still there. Jo seemed more at ease with the whole situation, sleeping like a log beside me.
Thank god it’s Christmas time, and bells are easily accessible. We have them attached to points of exit of the house so we will hear a cheerful little chime before she again tries to enter the cold abyss.
I don’t like sleepwalking! It’s dumb, make it go away. Have you had experiences with it? What do you do about it? When will it go away? When will I sleep again?
Sleep has always been an issue in our house. When the girls were wee, they slept amazingly well, but I was usually spinning with anxiety (post partum depression) and could never get a good night’s sleep. Once the anxieties were lifted, being a light sleeper oft kept me awake (I can hear a nose whistler from down the street). Finally, likely from sheer exhaustion of having years of no sleep, I became a star pupil at sleeping, until Grace developed her night time anxieties, which have awoken me most nights for the past 3 years. With some tools under our belts we are able to get her back to sleep much faster now, but some nights it was hours before there was peace.
Well, last week was a good week. No night time waking at all. Finally, an unbroken, 8 hours (if I was smart enough to go to bed at the right time) of sleep. Ahhh, I thought to myself. We will sleep again. We will be rested and that will give us the ability to laugh, play board games, talk about our feelings, wear things from the LL bean catalogue, use cloth napkins and shake our heads fondly at our childrens’ antics (what, isn’t that wall all normal families do)?
Well, my idyllic dream crashing down on me the other night when, while working at the dining room table, up past my bedtime, Grace came stumbling out her bedroom, glazed eyes and obviously not really “there”. She was sleep-walking. And she headed right for the front door, put on her fathers’ shoes (ha, that was kinda funny) and started pawing at the deadlock and door knob, trying to get out. Hmmm. We tried talking to her, with no success. Jo realized right away she was sleep-walking and was a pro in gently guiding her back to her room. I kept getting in her face trying to see if she registered me at all. It’s really strange seeing your kid in that state – it was like she didn’t even see me, and she didn’t speak, just made creepy little noises *shiver*.
Anyhooo, we happened to be up past our bedtime. What if we hadn’t been? What if we were tucked in our beds, sound asleep when Grace was heading out the door? Remember this dream? It’s a little too real for me.
That night I’m not sure I went back to sleep, pre-occupied with listening for her rise from her bed again. I even got up and checked on her a few times to make sure she was still there. Jo seemed more at ease with the whole situation, sleeping like a log beside me.
Thank god it’s Christmas time, and bells are easily accessible. We have them attached to points of exit of the house so we will hear a cheerful little chime before she again tries to enter the cold abyss.
I don’t like sleepwalking! It’s dumb, make it go away. Have you had experiences with it? What do you do about it? When will it go away? When will I sleep again?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Christmas fail!
Saw Cirque du Soleil in Kingston on Monday night (after a massive dinner) and declared Diet Time! after watching those sinewy bodies doing things no body should be able to do while I mowed on pastries, downing them with wine. Who the buck proclaims diet time during the Christmas season?
Started heading to work yesterday, but turned around because sitting in traffic was not my idea of a day at Disney and my book on tape had just ended, leaving me no choice but to listen to the radio (ears. bleeding). Fanstastic, I thought. This will give me a chance to wrap all the gifts! Wouldn't you know that I ran out of tape halfway through? And there were no more Jersey Shore's PVR'd. What a waste of a snow day.
Read the girls the Little Drummer Boy last night and cried. Who does that? For some reason the story made me so profoundly sad, and as we were singing the pa rum pum pum part I started crying, traumatizing the 8 and under crowd. Duh.
The advent activity for last night was star gazing. I wrapped my charges up and out we went in a blizzard. I was determined to see a star, as were they. Cloud coverage hindered that activity, so I convinced them a passing airplane was a shooting star yay! lets go inside now.
And now settle something for me - Jo's Santa wrapped every freaking item in his stocking, down to a toothbrush. My family's Santa did not. What does your Santa do? (Please say your Santa does it the Meanie way!) Keep in mind there is a tape shortage at my house.....
Saw Cirque du Soleil in Kingston on Monday night (after a massive dinner) and declared Diet Time! after watching those sinewy bodies doing things no body should be able to do while I mowed on pastries, downing them with wine. Who the buck proclaims diet time during the Christmas season?
Started heading to work yesterday, but turned around because sitting in traffic was not my idea of a day at Disney and my book on tape had just ended, leaving me no choice but to listen to the radio (ears. bleeding). Fanstastic, I thought. This will give me a chance to wrap all the gifts! Wouldn't you know that I ran out of tape halfway through? And there were no more Jersey Shore's PVR'd. What a waste of a snow day.
Read the girls the Little Drummer Boy last night and cried. Who does that? For some reason the story made me so profoundly sad, and as we were singing the pa rum pum pum part I started crying, traumatizing the 8 and under crowd. Duh.
The advent activity for last night was star gazing. I wrapped my charges up and out we went in a blizzard. I was determined to see a star, as were they. Cloud coverage hindered that activity, so I convinced them a passing airplane was a shooting star yay! lets go inside now.
And now settle something for me - Jo's Santa wrapped every freaking item in his stocking, down to a toothbrush. My family's Santa did not. What does your Santa do? (Please say your Santa does it the Meanie way!) Keep in mind there is a tape shortage at my house.....
Monday, December 06, 2010
Frank Loyd Wright did not have children.
We live in an open concept bungalow. Very open. It is a late 1960’s
construction that used to have lots of little rooms that the previous owner
blew out to create one big open room. From my Station (the kitchen) I can
see all – what the 8 and unders are playing on the computer, what they are
watching on t.v., what they are eating, what caused the latest “I’m telling
on you!”. I can hear the bleeps of the DS and the blips of the Leapster.
At bedtime, I can even see who is sneaking another book when look-down has
been called. Sounds like a harmonious, idyllic situation, non? Non. It’s
driving me effing crazy. In an open concept home you have no place to call
your own. I had claimed the couch in front of the fire place as mine,
with my books, candles and special blanket my Mom made me spread out just
so. That lasted about a day until I sat on a Webkinz (oh you just know
where that rhinoceros horn went) and found a Polly pocket shoe at the
bottom of my wine* glass.
I can handle pretty much all of the above, particularly when I am self
medicating*. What I cannot handle is when my phone calls are interrupted
with 8 and under Drama (oh yes, I used a capital D). The other day I was
expecting a phone call for an update on a loved one’s operation. The call
came and as soon as I was being updated, Drama broke out. I could barely hear
the person on the phone due to the shrieks of injustice, mutilation and
torture that were going on in the background (see? Drama). I was
mortified. You would think the Angel of Death was visiting our bright
little bungalow. When off the phone, I discovered that the Angel of Death
was merely a pencil eraser crime, the eraser touching the 5 year old via the 8 year old. Most definitely no need for Drama. I was about to show Grace and Edie my
own little Drama. The scary, open a can of whoop ass kind of Drama. It is
not news to them that I want some decorum when I am on the phone or
entertaining. I reached deep into my thespian repertoire of Mom characters and opted for Scary Quiet Lady. I quietly walked over to them, phone still in hand. In my most pointed, quiet voice, I informed them that no computers would be played that night (I’m pretty sure Grace shouted out “I’m melting!” to that one) and that they would be spending the rest of the evening in the basement (to which Edie’s eyes grew even rounder).
Now one would think that medieval torture goes on in our basement. The resistance
movement against the basement is worthy of a chapter in a high school text
book. The girls avoid it at all costs. You would think that there are ghosts
clanging their chains in the closet, large spiders scurrying across the
floor and the Spectre Boredom always on the ready to pounce.
The reality is our basement was re-done with the kids in mind. A nice new berber, bright lighting, a television, comfy couches, a Wii, a play structure and an array of other toys I keep throwing down there akin to a donkey's carrot.
I know, Jo and I should be locked away for the conditions we expect the girls
play in. There’s a freaking play structure in my basement people! A play
structure!
So down they went, without a word (you don’t fuck with Scary Quiet Lady).
And lo and behold, they stayed. They played. They watched t.v. When I
told them to come up, they asked for 5 more minutes, please. When they did
come up, I’m pretty sure they were cleaner than when they went down and
with their manners re-charged. When they were in the basement, I sat on my
couch in front of the fireplace, wrapped in my blankie and genuinely enjoyed looking at magazines with pictures of open concept bungalows, in peace and quiet. And I was
re-charged as well, genuinely pleased to see them re-surface. So maybe I don't have a place I can call my own, but at least I can call 1/2 and hour my own. Sometimes.
(ugh, sorry about the layout on this - New Years resolution to clean up damn blog).
We live in an open concept bungalow. Very open. It is a late 1960’s
construction that used to have lots of little rooms that the previous owner
blew out to create one big open room. From my Station (the kitchen) I can
see all – what the 8 and unders are playing on the computer, what they are
watching on t.v., what they are eating, what caused the latest “I’m telling
on you!”. I can hear the bleeps of the DS and the blips of the Leapster.
At bedtime, I can even see who is sneaking another book when look-down has
been called. Sounds like a harmonious, idyllic situation, non? Non. It’s
driving me effing crazy. In an open concept home you have no place to call
your own. I had claimed the couch in front of the fire place as mine,
with my books, candles and special blanket my Mom made me spread out just
so. That lasted about a day until I sat on a Webkinz (oh you just know
where that rhinoceros horn went) and found a Polly pocket shoe at the
bottom of my wine* glass.
I can handle pretty much all of the above, particularly when I am self
medicating*. What I cannot handle is when my phone calls are interrupted
with 8 and under Drama (oh yes, I used a capital D). The other day I was
expecting a phone call for an update on a loved one’s operation. The call
came and as soon as I was being updated, Drama broke out. I could barely hear
the person on the phone due to the shrieks of injustice, mutilation and
torture that were going on in the background (see? Drama). I was
mortified. You would think the Angel of Death was visiting our bright
little bungalow. When off the phone, I discovered that the Angel of Death
was merely a pencil eraser crime, the eraser touching the 5 year old via the 8 year old. Most definitely no need for Drama. I was about to show Grace and Edie my
own little Drama. The scary, open a can of whoop ass kind of Drama. It is
not news to them that I want some decorum when I am on the phone or
entertaining. I reached deep into my thespian repertoire of Mom characters and opted for Scary Quiet Lady. I quietly walked over to them, phone still in hand. In my most pointed, quiet voice, I informed them that no computers would be played that night (I’m pretty sure Grace shouted out “I’m melting!” to that one) and that they would be spending the rest of the evening in the basement (to which Edie’s eyes grew even rounder).
Now one would think that medieval torture goes on in our basement. The resistance
movement against the basement is worthy of a chapter in a high school text
book. The girls avoid it at all costs. You would think that there are ghosts
clanging their chains in the closet, large spiders scurrying across the
floor and the Spectre Boredom always on the ready to pounce.
The reality is our basement was re-done with the kids in mind. A nice new berber, bright lighting, a television, comfy couches, a Wii, a play structure and an array of other toys I keep throwing down there akin to a donkey's carrot.
I know, Jo and I should be locked away for the conditions we expect the girls
play in. There’s a freaking play structure in my basement people! A play
structure!
So down they went, without a word (you don’t fuck with Scary Quiet Lady).
And lo and behold, they stayed. They played. They watched t.v. When I
told them to come up, they asked for 5 more minutes, please. When they did
come up, I’m pretty sure they were cleaner than when they went down and
with their manners re-charged. When they were in the basement, I sat on my
couch in front of the fireplace, wrapped in my blankie and genuinely enjoyed looking at magazines with pictures of open concept bungalows, in peace and quiet. And I was
re-charged as well, genuinely pleased to see them re-surface. So maybe I don't have a place I can call my own, but at least I can call 1/2 and hour my own. Sometimes.
(ugh, sorry about the layout on this - New Years resolution to clean up damn blog).
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Best reaction ever:
So Grace and I were watching Fear Factor last night (this is her new favourite show) and the contestants were twin men vs. twin women. The whole theme of the show was boys against girls. At the end, the women won all the challenges. All throughout the show everyone kept exclaiming how they couldn't believe the women were beating the men.
At the end of the show Grace asked me why everyone was making a big deal about the women beating the men. I realized it has never occurred to my strong willed, athletic, intelligent 8 year old girl that sometimes it is assumed that men are better at some things than women are.
Yesssss.
So Grace and I were watching Fear Factor last night (this is her new favourite show) and the contestants were twin men vs. twin women. The whole theme of the show was boys against girls. At the end, the women won all the challenges. All throughout the show everyone kept exclaiming how they couldn't believe the women were beating the men.
At the end of the show Grace asked me why everyone was making a big deal about the women beating the men. I realized it has never occurred to my strong willed, athletic, intelligent 8 year old girl that sometimes it is assumed that men are better at some things than women are.
Yesssss.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Fuuuuuuuccccckkkkkk.
So todays to-do list:
Deal with the fact that it is Monday - check
Ice on driveway - check
Fall on driveway with sexy boots on - check
No longer feel sexy - check
Ice all over van - check
One ice scraper, two girls who want to help scrape - check
One five year falling right on her ass in a puddle - check
One five year not wearing splash pants because I was in too much of a rush to put them on her - check
Get to school and realize the back up pants I packed are actually the 8 year olds skinny jeans - check
5 year old takes about 10 hours putting on the back up pants - check
The nice man who treats me to valet parking at my lot is not in today - check
I have to park in the shittiest pot holiest spot in the lot - check
Get home, make high caloric comfort meal, everyone enjoys it - check (yay! bright spot!)
Get jammies on, 5 year proceeds to remind me that it is her turn to bring the sharing snack tomorrow, and it has to be celery - check
No celery in house - check
Drive to grocery store with 5 year old, 5 year old falls HARD in parking lot - check
5 year old insists on checking for blood by the foggy light in the middle of the parking lot - check
I chose to go to the grocery store in the sketchiest part of the 'hood - check
Tears and snot create dreadlocks in 5 year olds hair - check
Too late for a shampoo, spray untangler spray in wet hair instead - check
Check label, what I actual sprayed in her hair was Banana Boat SPF 30 sunscreen and have to proceed with shower after all - check
Rather than support me, family laughs at me - check
How was your Monday?
So todays to-do list:
Deal with the fact that it is Monday - check
Ice on driveway - check
Fall on driveway with sexy boots on - check
No longer feel sexy - check
Ice all over van - check
One ice scraper, two girls who want to help scrape - check
One five year falling right on her ass in a puddle - check
One five year not wearing splash pants because I was in too much of a rush to put them on her - check
Get to school and realize the back up pants I packed are actually the 8 year olds skinny jeans - check
5 year old takes about 10 hours putting on the back up pants - check
The nice man who treats me to valet parking at my lot is not in today - check
I have to park in the shittiest pot holiest spot in the lot - check
Get home, make high caloric comfort meal, everyone enjoys it - check (yay! bright spot!)
Get jammies on, 5 year proceeds to remind me that it is her turn to bring the sharing snack tomorrow, and it has to be celery - check
No celery in house - check
Drive to grocery store with 5 year old, 5 year old falls HARD in parking lot - check
5 year old insists on checking for blood by the foggy light in the middle of the parking lot - check
I chose to go to the grocery store in the sketchiest part of the 'hood - check
Tears and snot create dreadlocks in 5 year olds hair - check
Too late for a shampoo, spray untangler spray in wet hair instead - check
Check label, what I actual sprayed in her hair was Banana Boat SPF 30 sunscreen and have to proceed with shower after all - check
Rather than support me, family laughs at me - check
How was your Monday?
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
At least Edie thinks I'm good at something.....
Edie cried in frustration the other day complaining that she wasn't "any
good at anything!" She was in the process of trying to draw high heels on
the princess she just drew, and, well, let's just say the shoes would
satisfy any fetishist with a thing for stilettos. These shoes were bad
ass, but completely inappropriate for a princess (shout out to you Kate
Middleton, congrats on the engagement!)
I cooed and hugged the tears away, and taught her how to draw real princess
shoes - my signature ovals on their side with a line on the back of each of
them. Very smart looking. Edie looked up at me with her big blue eyes, a
solitary tear on the cusp of dropping from her eyelash and told me that I
am the bestest Mommy ever and good at everything I do. I thanked her
graciously, accepting the compliment, but it got me thinking, and the
thinking got me a little depressed. I'm actually not really good at
anything. I'm kinda average at a lot of stuff. I dabble in arts and
crafts, I'm okay at my job, I'm a pretty good Mom (but I get cases of the
yellsitis on occasion) and my next endeavour, to learn how to play bass
guitar (thanks to HellaStella) will likely prove to be another less than
stand out effort. I'm not trying to feel sorry for myself, I just haven't
had that a-ha moment yet dictating what I am great at.
I am good at appreciating other people's amazingness. I have an ear for
music, an eye for art work (and I do consider fashion to be art), and a
great understanding of literature. And I'm good at re-arranging furniture.
Poor Jo will stumble in after hours and bruise his shin on the ottoman that
I just had to move at eleven o'clock at night. But I don't want my
tombstone to read "Good at re-arranging furniture and pretty average at
other stuff".
It makes me a little sad, the older I get, because I know with training,
education and experience I very likely could have been a great at a few different
things that I'm truly passionate about, but I really feel like it is too
late to pursue because a) I'm getting older and b) financially, I just
don't have the luxury of quitting my job to focus on a new career.
Kind of a debbie downer of a post, but this is what is on my mind today.
Edie cried in frustration the other day complaining that she wasn't "any
good at anything!" She was in the process of trying to draw high heels on
the princess she just drew, and, well, let's just say the shoes would
satisfy any fetishist with a thing for stilettos. These shoes were bad
ass, but completely inappropriate for a princess (shout out to you Kate
Middleton, congrats on the engagement!)
I cooed and hugged the tears away, and taught her how to draw real princess
shoes - my signature ovals on their side with a line on the back of each of
them. Very smart looking. Edie looked up at me with her big blue eyes, a
solitary tear on the cusp of dropping from her eyelash and told me that I
am the bestest Mommy ever and good at everything I do. I thanked her
graciously, accepting the compliment, but it got me thinking, and the
thinking got me a little depressed. I'm actually not really good at
anything. I'm kinda average at a lot of stuff. I dabble in arts and
crafts, I'm okay at my job, I'm a pretty good Mom (but I get cases of the
yellsitis on occasion) and my next endeavour, to learn how to play bass
guitar (thanks to HellaStella) will likely prove to be another less than
stand out effort. I'm not trying to feel sorry for myself, I just haven't
had that a-ha moment yet dictating what I am great at.
I am good at appreciating other people's amazingness. I have an ear for
music, an eye for art work (and I do consider fashion to be art), and a
great understanding of literature. And I'm good at re-arranging furniture.
Poor Jo will stumble in after hours and bruise his shin on the ottoman that
I just had to move at eleven o'clock at night. But I don't want my
tombstone to read "Good at re-arranging furniture and pretty average at
other stuff".
It makes me a little sad, the older I get, because I know with training,
education and experience I very likely could have been a great at a few different
things that I'm truly passionate about, but I really feel like it is too
late to pursue because a) I'm getting older and b) financially, I just
don't have the luxury of quitting my job to focus on a new career.
Kind of a debbie downer of a post, but this is what is on my mind today.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
HAPPIER TIMES
The death of Meap.
Grace's fish died over the weekend. It was suicide. We were out of town, my brother was tasked with coming to feed the fish, and it was he who discovered the body of Meap just outside the aquarium. The aquarium does have a lid on it, but I suspect Grace forget to close it before we left. Meap threw himself out of his home. Maybe it wasn't suicide - maybe he was looking for adventure (this is what I told Grace ).
Now Meap was a crazy mother f*%&er. He would bash his body around the tank, against his walls, and glare at poor Ariel (Edie's fish, in the aquarium beside him). Luckily Ariel is much like Edie, oblivious to threats and stare-downs, happy to swim around and catch glimpses of her reflection.
When we picked up Grace from her grandparents, I walked her to the gate to tell her the news. She howled noooooo! and started to cry. When coached to the van, the DS was left untouched and books unread. It broke my heart to look to the back of the van and see her tear streaked face, processing the loss of her fish. I crawled to the back of the van (ew) and sat between her and Edie, arm wrapped around Grace, trying to console.
This is Grace's first experience with death. We didn't sugar coat it, it's all part of life. We did offer to buy a new one, to which she said yes, but not for another week, as she wants to think about Meap.
Meap is currently in our freezer, awaiting his final fate. There is talk about a proper funeral, but because it is the haunting season, Grace fears his spirit may come and haunt her from the garden. There was also talk of a good old fashioned flushing, but that seems so undignified for the Mighty Meap Who Took a Leap. There is also talk of putting him under the microscope - a pretty good indication to me that the mourning session is almost complete.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Small things.
My house is like any other house with kids I'm sure. I puncture my feet on Lego that is left lying around, the sight of Polly Pocket shoes lying on the ground makes me twitch a little and while I have made the girls' dirty laundry hamper entirely accessible, welcoming and even a little fun, I still find dirty socks rolled up like donuts (one was stuck on a door handle the other day - yuck!) and underwear strewn on the ground. I nag constantly for the girls to pick up after themselves, and cackle when I hear their reaction down the hall to me putting all their dirty underwear on their pillows (yes I'm evil). I put more pressure on Grace to keep things tidy because she's older and should be helping out more. Edie I pressure, but pulling her down from whatever cloud she is visiting is too damn difficult sometimes.
The battles are not epic, but I do feel a little like Cinderella at times cleaning up after everyone all the time, with no respect or a thanks Mom youarenice comment. I also snap about once a month a show them a little crazy and get them to clean and put away their "treasures" (oh yes, everything is a "treasure", god forbid you suggest throwing it out or giving it away).
The other morning I had to pick up my boss in my van. Now, my van is a petrie dish. I don't go beyond the front seats. There is likely primordial ooze bubbling in the back seats somewhere. Gollum would be perfectly at home in one of the two rows reserved for the 8 and under crowd - I wouldn't be surprised if I turned around and saw him sitting on a booster seat playing DS. There is a garbage bag provided to them to dispose of their debris, but to rub salt in the wound, I often find wrappers on the floor, a quarter inch from the provided bag. I just don't look anymore to save me from having a complete aneuryism.
The day I was picking up my boss though, I was dropping the girls off at school first. Thinking about the boss man's comfort in my mini-van I took a quick look in the back and am pretty sure I dropped a big old f-bomb in reaction to the mess back there. Grace asked what was wrong and I not so calmly told her I was picking up my boss in 15 minutes and the state of the van could make him question the hygiene of our family. Do you know what that kid did? She calmly began cleaning the van, quietly placing all the garbage in the bag, not even complaining that she was picking up her sister's trash. It was tidy within five minutes. The only thing left to pick up was my jaw off the floor.
I love it when they surprise you like that.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
I had a terrible dream last night. I dreamt that Grace and I had a horrible fight. It was a balls out yelling and screaming match, and she threatened to run away from home. I reacted by yelling fine! You do that! She was her real age in my dream, 8 years old. She had on her pink sparkly sneakers, shorts and the little pageboy cap she has been favouring lately. I don't know what the fight was about, but it was horrible, and in my dream I rationalized my horrible reaction by saying to myself she'll turn around and come home in no time. Then it became night time in my dream, and still no sign of Grace. And a snowstorm was suddenly whipped up. I felt physically sick to my stomach in my dream. I drove around the neighbourhood, in the blizzard, looking for her. Knocking on friends' doors, asking them if they had seen her. I can't even explain the anxiety I was feeling, it was off the charts. I wanted to wake from my dream so badly, I was losing my mind but couldn't wake up. In my dream I shakily called 911, to officially report her missing, reeling with different realities that could happen to lost 8 year old girls, in shorts and sneakers, in a snow storm. I wanted to wake up so badly from this nightmare but just couldn't. And then, a little voice called out to me - "Mommy"? and again, more insistent "Mama"? I searched for her frantically in my dream, not able to find where the voice was coming from. I then realized the little voice was actually waking me from my night terror. My Grace was calling for me from her room down the hall. She pulled me from my nightmare. And she only wanted to say hi and have a cuddle.
I believe our brains work on levels that we don't understand. And last night I truly believe that somehow, Grace, in her sleep, sensed I was suffering in my own slumber and she came to my rescue.
Do you think I'm crazy?
I believe our brains work on levels that we don't understand. And last night I truly believe that somehow, Grace, in her sleep, sensed I was suffering in my own slumber and she came to my rescue.
Do you think I'm crazy?
Monday, September 20, 2010
Why I believe in bribing....
In my line of work, I have been sent on training to have the notion of bribing=bad drilled through my head. I have had to sit through hours of CPAC hearings with toothpicks propping my eyes open so I understand the evils of bribing a-la Clockwork Orange (kidding, but good visual, right?)
Just because in my professional life I don't do bribery, it doesn't mean I can't participate in my personal life .
Enter one sleep deprived Meanie and her cranky husband Mr. Meanie. Since mid-summer we have been suffering the late night calls of Grace, scared of shadows, scared of ghosts, scared of dust particles and scared of air molecules. I won't bore you more details, if really interested, just read down, I think it has been the subject matter of every second blog post.
Enter one tooth challenged Edie. She has lost two baby teeth now and a big one is growing in. And, at the mature age of 5, she is Queen of the Soothers, still taking one at bed time to fall asleep.
Severely sleep deprived, and with the fear of having a snaggle toothed daughter with expensive dental bills, we decided to put an end to some of the insanity in our household. Did we do this by talking calmly, lovingly and reassuringly to our charges? Nay. Did we do this with charts and statistics supporting our arguments for this nonsense to cease and desist? Nope.
All it took was a trip to our neighbours. Grace's dear little friend has recently acquired a Beta fish. The girls covet this fish. They want it. So. Bad. See where this is going? It's this easy folks. You want a Beta fish girls? Give me seven nights. Seven nights of no waking us up. Seven nights of no soothers. You eff up and we go back to square one, start all over again.
Heh heh. We're going to Billings Bridge tonight to get Grace's fish. Edie has three days left for her reward. I feel remarkably rested and so okay with my bribing ways.
I should write a book.
In my line of work, I have been sent on training to have the notion of bribing=bad drilled through my head. I have had to sit through hours of CPAC hearings with toothpicks propping my eyes open so I understand the evils of bribing a-la Clockwork Orange (kidding, but good visual, right?)
Just because in my professional life I don't do bribery, it doesn't mean I can't participate in my personal life .
Enter one sleep deprived Meanie and her cranky husband Mr. Meanie. Since mid-summer we have been suffering the late night calls of Grace, scared of shadows, scared of ghosts, scared of dust particles and scared of air molecules. I won't bore you more details, if really interested, just read down, I think it has been the subject matter of every second blog post.
Enter one tooth challenged Edie. She has lost two baby teeth now and a big one is growing in. And, at the mature age of 5, she is Queen of the Soothers, still taking one at bed time to fall asleep.
Severely sleep deprived, and with the fear of having a snaggle toothed daughter with expensive dental bills, we decided to put an end to some of the insanity in our household. Did we do this by talking calmly, lovingly and reassuringly to our charges? Nay. Did we do this with charts and statistics supporting our arguments for this nonsense to cease and desist? Nope.
All it took was a trip to our neighbours. Grace's dear little friend has recently acquired a Beta fish. The girls covet this fish. They want it. So. Bad. See where this is going? It's this easy folks. You want a Beta fish girls? Give me seven nights. Seven nights of no waking us up. Seven nights of no soothers. You eff up and we go back to square one, start all over again.
Heh heh. We're going to Billings Bridge tonight to get Grace's fish. Edie has three days left for her reward. I feel remarkably rested and so okay with my bribing ways.
I should write a book.
Friday, September 10, 2010
I done got beat with a boring stick!
Hey, what happened? I feel like with back to school I suddenly matured overnight. I'm 37, but for the most part have never really behaved my age. I like to giggle, have been accused of being flighty, and definitely like to have a good time that usually involves ending up dancing somewhere, sometimes all by myself, but always with a smile on my face. I used to love reading celebrity gossip, fashion magazine, uploading my face on to hair style websites to see what I would like. I used to troll Facebook nightly and spy on everyone's day. I binged regularly on junk food, would get really really hyper, then run around in circles and crash. I would stay up too late watching t.v., then wake up way too early to drag myself to work. And at work I was always happy to jump into any conversation, trade a witty comment with anyone, anything to get up from my desk.
What changed? Well, I've been going to bed at a decent hour, waking at a decent hour, exercising, eating really REALLY well, I don't turn the tv on at night, I am losing touch with celebrity (who are Blake Lively and Chace Crawford?) and I merely glimpse at Facebook, and at work my head is down, my fingers type and I rarely waste a minute of time anymore. And when I do get up from my desk it is to do those stretches that you see old people doing because my back and shoulders hurt a little. I am uber organized, prioritizing things and getting things done. I feel great, am losing a bit of the mommy tummy I have always fought with and am rested and content.
One problem, I feel so status quo and boring. It feels really strange being mature, I feel like I should have grown up a long time ago, and somehow just missed the day I was supposed to switch from immature to mature.
Will they take away my Social Distortion license plate for my conforming ways?
Warning, this blog may become really, really dull with my new found maturity.
Oh, but to liven things up I am going to pull a plane tomorrow and then go to a 40th b.d. party in Montreal - I hope end up on the dance floor!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Ahhhh memories.....
Grace's week before school anxiety kicked in last week, which results in a nightly wake up call at two a.m. for us. She calls me into her room to ask for Jo (why wake up only one parent when she can wake up two of them?) We've pretty much accepted this little glitch in Grace's system - the glitch being that whenever there is big change on the horizon, or an uber-exciting even tcoming up (think Hallowe'en, Christmas) there will be a sleep disruption.
She is entering grade 3. Apparently this is a killer year for kids, they have some provincial testing that they have to go through and from what I gather, the teacher breathes fire on them to help them prepare for this big important test and all the fun of being a grade 3 kid is incinerated.
A Facebook thread got me thinking the other day when a couple of childhood friends made comments about our Grade 3 experiences. I don't think we had standardized testing then, but I do remember it being the worst year of my life *polish drama queen crown now*.
Allow me to paint a picture of myself for you, at the tender age of 7-ish. I had legs up to my armpits, a bowl cut that resembled a pyramid because my hair is so thick, madly spaced teeth and the early onset of acne. Cute, right? I also favoured rugby pants with a wildly patterned shirts made of material you might be able to wrap food in if you had to. And so, you might be surprised that I was not the reigning queen of popularity.
Our teacher that year, Mme Bunston, had that wonderful ability (that all good, solid teachers should have) to pick favourites in her class. She saved her nicest, most serene and loving smiles for the prettiest, smartest girls. I craved her attention so badly but she could hardly hide her disdain for me. Like the abused in an abusive relationship, I worked hard at my school work, tried to tame my hair with bad bows and crooked barrettes and emulate the pretty girls as much as possible. All these efforts and I never received a word of praise or one of her beatific smiles that she reserved for her angels. My little 7 year feelings were pummelled on a daily basis by this woman in her simple act of ignoring.
One day Mme Bunston stood in front of the class with a box of chocolates. You know those Laura Secord chocolates, the mint kind? Half are brown and the other green. Soooo good. Anyhooo, she stood in front of the squirming class and asked in her most charming voice, who would like a chocolate? Hands shot up in the air, reaching for heights never before attained. My own hand reached for the speckled square tiles on the ceiling. And miracle of miracles, she called my name. Kids swung around in their chairs, and gave me that look that all kids want to be on the receiving end of - the look of envy. I made my way to front of the class, forgiving Mme Bunston of all her sins, seeing a future of popularity, flat hair and clear skin. She held out the box of chocolates and told me to choose one. I reached for a green, my favourite. She asked me what I should say and I sweetly said merci Mme Bunston. I brought the chocolate to my lips, opened my mouth and bit down.....I bit down on a hard, plastic pretend candy. Mme Bunston exploded into laughter telling the class that the chocolates were fake. The class erupted into laughter as well. The joke went on for what seemed to be an eternity, I felt shamed and humiliated and quickly put back into my place.
From that day forward I didn't give a rat's ass what Mme Bunston thought of me, I had no desire to get on her good side. Even at age 7-ish, I knew teachers shouldn't dick around little kids like that.
Sigh, I hope Grace has a nice teacher this year.
*names have not been changed in this story because she was really really mean.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Wow, that was a big bloggy break, wasn't it?
I'm rested now after three weeks off. It was the best three weeks of my
life. That may be a slight exaggeration, or maybe not, I'll have to think
about that.
Anyhoooo, here it is in a nutshell:
1) We camped, we jumped in the waves, we slept on squishy air mattresses,
we made sand castles. I fearfully trekked to the outdoor bathrooms at the
campsite in the middle of the night to go pee (the simple solution to this
would be to stop drinking after dinner, but, I was just having so much
fun!) We met up with friends in New Hampshire and met up with family in
Massachusetts. We discovered North Conway outlet shopping, and
re-discovered the girls aversion to shopping. I confirmed that I still
don't like lobster. I touched everything at Target and the Liquor Depot.
I spent too much time in potato chip aisles (soo many fun flavours in the
U.S.). We touched starfish at the Boston Aquarium and watched sharks and
penguins get fed. We waited an hour and a half at the border and prayed
thanks to the makers of DS.
2) With us back home the 2nd week and Jo back to work, the girls and I swam
everyday, I hosted (too many) playdates, organized stuff, made messes,
cleaned up messes, popped the girls in day care for a 1/2 day so I could
have a day to myself (ahhhh).
3) My third and final week my bestie flew into town and we immediately
donned appropriate attire and then wisely cabbed over to Barrymore's for 80's Night (we hit the dance floor at 9:45 and closed the place at 2:00). It wasn't pretty
the next day as I had to replace my side ponytail with my Mom hat and be
all mom-like with a terrible hangover. We did fun kid-things during the
day (Saunders Farm, Science and Tech, Mooney's Bay, Ramona and Beezus,
Marmaduke y'know, the usual) and fun things at night (old-girls dinner,
beers at the Prescott, Absolut Comedy, backyard bbq's).
Last night we put the girls to bed at a reasonable hour, knowing today we
would be back to the old grind. Jo and I flopped into bed at 9:45. When I
closed my eyes, welcoming the sweet mistress Sleep to take me, I
immediately started thinking about work and stayed awake until about
midnight. Argh! Oh well, it was a great vacation and I am so grateful at
how much it kicked ass this summer.
I'm rested now after three weeks off. It was the best three weeks of my
life. That may be a slight exaggeration, or maybe not, I'll have to think
about that.
Anyhoooo, here it is in a nutshell:
1) We camped, we jumped in the waves, we slept on squishy air mattresses,
we made sand castles. I fearfully trekked to the outdoor bathrooms at the
campsite in the middle of the night to go pee (the simple solution to this
would be to stop drinking after dinner, but, I was just having so much
fun!) We met up with friends in New Hampshire and met up with family in
Massachusetts. We discovered North Conway outlet shopping, and
re-discovered the girls aversion to shopping. I confirmed that I still
don't like lobster. I touched everything at Target and the Liquor Depot.
I spent too much time in potato chip aisles (soo many fun flavours in the
U.S.). We touched starfish at the Boston Aquarium and watched sharks and
penguins get fed. We waited an hour and a half at the border and prayed
thanks to the makers of DS.
2) With us back home the 2nd week and Jo back to work, the girls and I swam
everyday, I hosted (too many) playdates, organized stuff, made messes,
cleaned up messes, popped the girls in day care for a 1/2 day so I could
have a day to myself (ahhhh).
3) My third and final week my bestie flew into town and we immediately
donned appropriate attire and then wisely cabbed over to Barrymore's for 80's Night (we hit the dance floor at 9:45 and closed the place at 2:00). It wasn't pretty
the next day as I had to replace my side ponytail with my Mom hat and be
all mom-like with a terrible hangover. We did fun kid-things during the
day (Saunders Farm, Science and Tech, Mooney's Bay, Ramona and Beezus,
Marmaduke y'know, the usual) and fun things at night (old-girls dinner,
beers at the Prescott, Absolut Comedy, backyard bbq's).
Last night we put the girls to bed at a reasonable hour, knowing today we
would be back to the old grind. Jo and I flopped into bed at 9:45. When I
closed my eyes, welcoming the sweet mistress Sleep to take me, I
immediately started thinking about work and stayed awake until about
midnight. Argh! Oh well, it was a great vacation and I am so grateful at
how much it kicked ass this summer.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
I don't remember when it happened, but I started resenting, instead of loving. Was I eleven when it started? Or earlier? I remember revelling in walking over to my mom, after dinner, and having her rest her chin on my head. It made me feel so special, so loved. Not saying anything, just listening to the adult chatter over coffee, feeling like I was being included in something special while I lingered there. Later, she would call me over and I would reluctantly go, eyes rolling, but still going over - she would have to strain her neck a little bit to rest her chin on my head. And eventually the little ritual stopped. I grew too tall for her to rest her chin. I also grew sullen, resentful, rude and awful. The first three years of my teen years were intense, dramatic and sad. I was a bundle of insecurities with a dash of depression and I lashed out against the ones who loved me most. There was bile in my voice when I spoke to them and I did everything I could to infuriate them, alienate them, mock them and make them feel sub-human. That they put up with it is incredible. And that they decided to no longer put up with it and expel me from their home is also incredible, but ultimately what saved me from myself. My departure from home for that chunk of time returned me to them no longer full of hate and anger. A little vulnerable, a little bruised, but no longer lashing out against them.
I'm thinking about this today after getting off the phone with my parents, who are meeting us on our camping trip. We are going to the same destination that they used to take us every second year when we were kids. Those vacations where Dad didn't shave everyday and we played Scrabble at night (they still tell me that I used to beat them at Scrabble, ahhh the pride of parents). Everyone is excited to relive memories and create new ones with our kids. Sometimes it knocks my breath out thinking about those years that almost destroyed us and to think about where we are now.
I'm thinking about this today after getting off the phone with my parents, who are meeting us on our camping trip. We are going to the same destination that they used to take us every second year when we were kids. Those vacations where Dad didn't shave everyday and we played Scrabble at night (they still tell me that I used to beat them at Scrabble, ahhh the pride of parents). Everyone is excited to relive memories and create new ones with our kids. Sometimes it knocks my breath out thinking about those years that almost destroyed us and to think about where we are now.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Jo and I have camped. We've camped a lot, Jo and I. The two of us have greatly enjoyed camping. We make a great couple at camping. A flawless pair, a real dynamic duo. And we are going to do it again. But with two little edits to our past experiences. Two little edits named Grace and Edie.
Jo and I were certainly the types who stated that having babies would not prevent us from our adventures. Once pregnant, we bought one of those fancy backpacks you stick your babe in and planned on lacing up the hiking shoes. Then the kids actually came. And I became a neurotic scheduler. Naps and bedtime were to take place at a certain time in one's own crib/bed. And I became neurotic about a lot of other things (I can sterilized anything with one hand strapped behind my back and closed eyes). And I became the queen of the what-ifs (what if they cry/get sick//lost/bitten/lifted by hawks/adopted by wolves/swallowed by the earth or god forbid GET THROWN OFF THEIR SCHEDULE and so we never went.
Well, I'm happy to say that the post-partum fog lifted years ago (I don't even use hand sanitizer anymore and bedtime is merely a suggestion in the summer months), but a series of events have prevented us from taking camping trips.
This summer we are heading off. I'm excited. I'm also a little apprehensive for a few reasons, but am trying not to dwell on them. For example, for she-who-likes-to-be-swathed-in-velvet, how will she react to the humble sleeping bag? And for she-who-spikes-a-fever-upon-stubbing-her-toe, how will she navigate the tree-stump laden campsites? And of course Jo and I are a little softer now and a little spoiled; how will we-who-depend-on-the-coffee-maker-with-a-timer deal with making coffee ourselves over the little coleman stove (boil mother-effer!)? And what the eff do you cook for a family of 4 on a camping trip? Variations on the hot dog? I suppose we will learn all these things as we go along. If you have any tips though please pass them along!
*Oh, this is very important. We have borrowed a DS for Edie, who does not yet read. Do you have any game suggestions that don't require reading?
**the "effing" as opposed to the tradition f*%&ing is for Grace's benefit. She just caught on that I keep a blog.
Jo and I were certainly the types who stated that having babies would not prevent us from our adventures. Once pregnant, we bought one of those fancy backpacks you stick your babe in and planned on lacing up the hiking shoes. Then the kids actually came. And I became a neurotic scheduler. Naps and bedtime were to take place at a certain time in one's own crib/bed. And I became neurotic about a lot of other things (I can sterilized anything with one hand strapped behind my back and closed eyes). And I became the queen of the what-ifs (what if they cry/get sick//lost/bitten/lifted by hawks/adopted by wolves/swallowed by the earth or god forbid GET THROWN OFF THEIR SCHEDULE and so we never went.
Well, I'm happy to say that the post-partum fog lifted years ago (I don't even use hand sanitizer anymore and bedtime is merely a suggestion in the summer months), but a series of events have prevented us from taking camping trips.
This summer we are heading off. I'm excited. I'm also a little apprehensive for a few reasons, but am trying not to dwell on them. For example, for she-who-likes-to-be-swathed-in-velvet, how will she react to the humble sleeping bag? And for she-who-spikes-a-fever-upon-stubbing-her-toe, how will she navigate the tree-stump laden campsites? And of course Jo and I are a little softer now and a little spoiled; how will we-who-depend-on-the-coffee-maker-with-a-timer deal with making coffee ourselves over the little coleman stove (boil mother-effer!)? And what the eff do you cook for a family of 4 on a camping trip? Variations on the hot dog? I suppose we will learn all these things as we go along. If you have any tips though please pass them along!
*Oh, this is very important. We have borrowed a DS for Edie, who does not yet read. Do you have any game suggestions that don't require reading?
**the "effing" as opposed to the tradition f*%&ing is for Grace's benefit. She just caught on that I keep a blog.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Last night was peaceful, relaxing, and found me draped languoriously (ummm, it's a word, okay spell check?) on my new Couch (if you follow me on facebook, you know why the Couch deserves a capital C!) watching a documentary on the Jersey Shore (ahem).
A far cry from last Sunday.
Last Sunday, I gave Jo the kitchen pass to go to Bluesfest (I used up my pass on Joan Jett and Hole......aweeeesommme!)
I put Grace and a complaining Edie to bed. This is the problem with a child who cries wolf 24-7, complaints for her at bedtime is akin to me pouring a glass of wine at dinner. It just happens.
Anyhooo, once asleep, Edie settled for about an hour or so, and then she woke up. And her complaints were minor no more, they were positively off the charts. The poor thing was banging her head on wall, scratching herself here there and everywhere, and crying "I can't take it anymore!" (Can you imagine? These words from a 5 year old? I thought this stream of consciousness was reserved for 37 year old public servants). Now normally Edie is settled with some intense cuddling and crooning, but not that night. I was helpless. I let it go on for a little over an hour before I called Jo away from his revelry and asked him to come home (this has only happened once before, that I have called him home, on an equally dramatic night).
I ended up going to CHEO at about 1:30 in the morning, and the drive there was agonizing, with her screaming in the back, and me with two hands on the wheel trying to keep it together, trying not to cry. Once there, the bright shiny lights of CHEO and attentions of medical staff did much to distract, comfort, and if possible, energize her. The entire wait there she didn't cry, but she did pretty much ask me every question known to mankind about every possible subject. It's really hard to explain genetics to a five year old at 3 in the morning. Just sayin.
We were seen by a lovely doctor, who did not reassure me at all when he took a look at her, chewed on his pen, said hmmmm, and left the room saying he would be back in 5 minutes (we all know what 5 minutes is in CHEO-land, right?) Actually, it wasn't that bad. He did return with another doctor, who assessed Edie and said it could be this, it could be that, or maybe it could be something completely different. He wrote me a prescription for a very expensive medication, that is very powerful, that may or may not help, and whatever you do discontinue use after 5 days.
Okay.
We returned home in the wee hours of the morning, both collapsing with exhaustion. When Grace woke the next morning (and god bless the child who sleeps through all this drama and is genuinely shocked that Edie and I left the house, returned and she never had an inkling of it). Grace then got out her hot lamp, directed it at me and put me through the inquisition all the while inspecting Edie's war wounds and compiling information to assess the situation at hand (hmmm, maybe she'll be a doctor, or work for CSIS questioning questionables).
I then made an appointment to see the family doctor, realizing I wasn't completely satisfied with CHEO's, or Grace's prognosis. This visit wasn't much better, but I did get the okay to dole out some over the counter meds to help with the discomfort. That night was slightly less dramatic, but still, this is Edie, it did involve some Oscar worthy moments.
Okay, so three doctors. No answers.
My mom and dad stopped by the following day to drop of my laundry (a blog post for another day). My dad, who is really smart, took one look and said looks like chicken pox. My mom, who is also super smart concurred. They both have medical backgrounds, so they weren't just making shit up.
This made sense to me! Insanely itchy? Check. Unsightly? Check. Other symptoms? Check. It isn't confirmed by anyone, and I still want to follow-up with a specialist, but man, if this is chicken pox, and not one of three doctors we saw were able to identify it, I'm going to be genuinely freaked out with the doctors I did see.
So, send us some healthy vibes. Oh, and she didn't touch Giant Hog Weed.
A far cry from last Sunday.
Last Sunday, I gave Jo the kitchen pass to go to Bluesfest (I used up my pass on Joan Jett and Hole......aweeeesommme!)
I put Grace and a complaining Edie to bed. This is the problem with a child who cries wolf 24-7, complaints for her at bedtime is akin to me pouring a glass of wine at dinner. It just happens.
Anyhooo, once asleep, Edie settled for about an hour or so, and then she woke up. And her complaints were minor no more, they were positively off the charts. The poor thing was banging her head on wall, scratching herself here there and everywhere, and crying "I can't take it anymore!" (Can you imagine? These words from a 5 year old? I thought this stream of consciousness was reserved for 37 year old public servants). Now normally Edie is settled with some intense cuddling and crooning, but not that night. I was helpless. I let it go on for a little over an hour before I called Jo away from his revelry and asked him to come home (this has only happened once before, that I have called him home, on an equally dramatic night).
I ended up going to CHEO at about 1:30 in the morning, and the drive there was agonizing, with her screaming in the back, and me with two hands on the wheel trying to keep it together, trying not to cry. Once there, the bright shiny lights of CHEO and attentions of medical staff did much to distract, comfort, and if possible, energize her. The entire wait there she didn't cry, but she did pretty much ask me every question known to mankind about every possible subject. It's really hard to explain genetics to a five year old at 3 in the morning. Just sayin.
We were seen by a lovely doctor, who did not reassure me at all when he took a look at her, chewed on his pen, said hmmmm, and left the room saying he would be back in 5 minutes (we all know what 5 minutes is in CHEO-land, right?) Actually, it wasn't that bad. He did return with another doctor, who assessed Edie and said it could be this, it could be that, or maybe it could be something completely different. He wrote me a prescription for a very expensive medication, that is very powerful, that may or may not help, and whatever you do discontinue use after 5 days.
Okay.
We returned home in the wee hours of the morning, both collapsing with exhaustion. When Grace woke the next morning (and god bless the child who sleeps through all this drama and is genuinely shocked that Edie and I left the house, returned and she never had an inkling of it). Grace then got out her hot lamp, directed it at me and put me through the inquisition all the while inspecting Edie's war wounds and compiling information to assess the situation at hand (hmmm, maybe she'll be a doctor, or work for CSIS questioning questionables).
I then made an appointment to see the family doctor, realizing I wasn't completely satisfied with CHEO's, or Grace's prognosis. This visit wasn't much better, but I did get the okay to dole out some over the counter meds to help with the discomfort. That night was slightly less dramatic, but still, this is Edie, it did involve some Oscar worthy moments.
Okay, so three doctors. No answers.
My mom and dad stopped by the following day to drop of my laundry (a blog post for another day). My dad, who is really smart, took one look and said looks like chicken pox. My mom, who is also super smart concurred. They both have medical backgrounds, so they weren't just making shit up.
This made sense to me! Insanely itchy? Check. Unsightly? Check. Other symptoms? Check. It isn't confirmed by anyone, and I still want to follow-up with a specialist, but man, if this is chicken pox, and not one of three doctors we saw were able to identify it, I'm going to be genuinely freaked out with the doctors I did see.
So, send us some healthy vibes. Oh, and she didn't touch Giant Hog Weed.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
And now a short commercial break....
Getting married? Having a baby? Throwing a party? Just like pretty paper, ribbon and fun cards? (and all the things you can do with it)? Check out my brother's store, Urbanfête , which he opened with his friend Christine back in May. This is a unique little shop, something fresh that Ottawa hasn't seen until now. It reminds me of strolling through SoHo and happening upon a funky little shop with lots of little surprises tucked in all the corners. Kevin and Christine will welcome you with friendly smiles and walk you through the invite process or leave you to pick that perfect card for someone.
You also have to check out their paper - some of these pieces are works of art in themselves and are begging to be framed. I have big plans for the girls' bedrooms with some of the quirky owl paper.
So, you've done Westboro, you've done the Glebe, why not go for a stroll down Rideau Street to Urbanfête, tell them Meanie sent you! After your visit, you can either hit up Frenchies for a Famous Burger or to Culinary Conspiracy which is supposed to be a ridiculously good place for some fine food on the go. If you want to sit for a meal, the Sunflower Cafe sounds like another delightful, unique dining experience.
Their store was recently written up on the apt613 blog - where they write much better than I do. Read all about it there :)
urbanfête | 517 Rideau Street, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada K1N 5Z5 | 613-422-4537
Tuesday to Friday: 10 am to 6 pm, Saturday 10 am to 5 pm
Getting married? Having a baby? Throwing a party? Just like pretty paper, ribbon and fun cards? (and all the things you can do with it)? Check out my brother's store, Urbanfête , which he opened with his friend Christine back in May. This is a unique little shop, something fresh that Ottawa hasn't seen until now. It reminds me of strolling through SoHo and happening upon a funky little shop with lots of little surprises tucked in all the corners. Kevin and Christine will welcome you with friendly smiles and walk you through the invite process or leave you to pick that perfect card for someone.
You also have to check out their paper - some of these pieces are works of art in themselves and are begging to be framed. I have big plans for the girls' bedrooms with some of the quirky owl paper.
So, you've done Westboro, you've done the Glebe, why not go for a stroll down Rideau Street to Urbanfête, tell them Meanie sent you! After your visit, you can either hit up Frenchies for a Famous Burger or to Culinary Conspiracy which is supposed to be a ridiculously good place for some fine food on the go. If you want to sit for a meal, the Sunflower Cafe sounds like another delightful, unique dining experience.
Their store was recently written up on the apt613 blog - where they write much better than I do. Read all about it there :)
urbanfête | 517 Rideau Street, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada K1N 5Z5 | 613-422-4537
Tuesday to Friday: 10 am to 6 pm, Saturday 10 am to 5 pm
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Because you didn't ask......
I am feeling better, thank you! So wrong on so many levels. And my throat still kinda hurts but I am ignoring it (if I ignore my children they eventually go away, why should a sore throat be any different?) What a strange summer cold. Speaking of summer.....
The weather is glorious and I give the mighty third finger to those of you who are complaining about it. This is how summer should be. Speaking of hot.......
Our pool is clear and awesome. Do you know anyone who designs floating dinner trays? Cause it would be really convenient if we didn't have to get out of the pool to eat. Speaking of eating.....
Edie is driving me bananas with her finicky eating these days. She resists her meal then after we all done she then wants her plate back, wants be to feed her like a baby, etc etc. I hate dealing with food with the kids because I never know what the "right" message is to be sending. Clear the plate/don't clear the plate; eat some and get dessert; try something new or not...ugh. I don't want kids who end up with eating disorders because of something we did as parents that messed them up. Speaking of eating disorders.....
I clearly don't have one because I was walking the other day and felt something odd. I realize it was my thighs rubbing against each other. I am not cricket. My legs should not be rubbing together as a means of communication. I am a 37 year old woman who needs to resolve this stat! Speaking of being 37......
I am slathering myself in 50 spf these days in a fruitless effort to reverse sun damage from my mis-spent youth. Am seriously considering bringing my face into the shop for some maintenance. Have you contemplated this yet? Be honest! Speaking of being honest....
I am feeling less than inspired with the olde blog these days. Be honest, should I publish random shit or wait until inspiration hits and hit ya with doozy now an then? Speaking of blogging.....
I had every intention of attending BOLO this year (look it up you non-blog geeks) but something better came up. Seriously. A date with my dad (see item 4) and sister to go see the Gypsy Kings. For all those going, have fun!
I am feeling better, thank you! So wrong on so many levels. And my throat still kinda hurts but I am ignoring it (if I ignore my children they eventually go away, why should a sore throat be any different?) What a strange summer cold. Speaking of summer.....
The weather is glorious and I give the mighty third finger to those of you who are complaining about it. This is how summer should be. Speaking of hot.......
Our pool is clear and awesome. Do you know anyone who designs floating dinner trays? Cause it would be really convenient if we didn't have to get out of the pool to eat. Speaking of eating.....
Edie is driving me bananas with her finicky eating these days. She resists her meal then after we all done she then wants her plate back, wants be to feed her like a baby, etc etc. I hate dealing with food with the kids because I never know what the "right" message is to be sending. Clear the plate/don't clear the plate; eat some and get dessert; try something new or not...ugh. I don't want kids who end up with eating disorders because of something we did as parents that messed them up. Speaking of eating disorders.....
I clearly don't have one because I was walking the other day and felt something odd. I realize it was my thighs rubbing against each other. I am not cricket. My legs should not be rubbing together as a means of communication. I am a 37 year old woman who needs to resolve this stat! Speaking of being 37......
I am slathering myself in 50 spf these days in a fruitless effort to reverse sun damage from my mis-spent youth. Am seriously considering bringing my face into the shop for some maintenance. Have you contemplated this yet? Be honest! Speaking of being honest....
I am feeling less than inspired with the olde blog these days. Be honest, should I publish random shit or wait until inspiration hits and hit ya with doozy now an then? Speaking of blogging.....
I had every intention of attending BOLO this year (look it up you non-blog geeks) but something better came up. Seriously. A date with my dad (see item 4) and sister to go see the Gypsy Kings. For all those going, have fun!
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