If Muppet Love is Wrong, I Don’t Wanna be Right
Published December 5, 2011 | My son had his self-proclaimed BruthaFromAnothaMutha over for a play date yesterday. They had wand fights a la Harry Potter, defiled my daughter’s Barbies, made potions out of dish soap and recreated the Death Star out of Legos—all within an hour of his arrival.
The Serb has been battling a cold that would, according to him, kill a lesser man, so I decided to take the boys to the movies. My reasons were completely selfish: I love the Muppets and was itching for an excuse to see their new movie.
I’ve recently showed my kids Swedish Chef videos online and “Mahna Mahna” has become a weird call-and-response theme song for my family:
Me (in the kitchen, under my breath): “Mahna Mahna.” My four-year-old daughter (yelling from her bedroom): “Do Dooo Do Do Do.”
Luckily, the mom of my son’s friend is a SistahFromAnothaMistah and she joined us at the theatre. Armed with twenty dollars’ worth of confectionary goodness, my friend and I settled into seats behind our sons (this is as close as eight-years-old boys will get to their mommies in public…until it’s time to go pee).
The movie was as delightful as expected—most of the jokes flew right over the kids’ heads and had the parents giggling like fools. We came home and my son begged me to show him “Mahna Mahna” on YouTube, so I Googled the song without the “Muppets” qualifier.
The result? Porn.
“Mahna Mahna” was written by some Italian dude in the 60s for a soft-core porn movie that takes place in Sweden. It’s more “Benny Hill” than “Debbie Does Dallas”, but I’m still bummed that my favourite Muppets’ song is now as defiled as my daughter’s Barbie.
I blame the Swedish Chef: those fingers are too pervy for PBS.
School Projects Give Me Hives
Published December 1, 2011 | I have a well-documented phobia aversion to arts and crafts. Safety scissors shatter in my presence. Pipe cleaners wither in my hands. Construction paper spontaneously combusts before my eyes.
Thankfully, my children can paint works of art, knit recorder cases and carve canoe oars—all under the expert tutelage of their hippie school teachers. This allows me to keep the craftiness to a minimum at home (think Crayola markers and Play-doh).
A few weeks ago, my eight-year-old son was assigned his first at-home project: to build a shelter from a specific region of the world. Different habitat styles were picked from a hat and most of them were of the teepee, igloo and log cabin variety.
My kid got stuck with an Icelandic Turf House.
I figured if nothing else it would be a good opportunity for my son to learn about his heritage: my grandma is Icelandic and my sister visited Iceland a few years ago (although neither of them could tell me what a turf house was).
My son and I did some research online and learned it was basically a log cabin covered in grass. When he asked his teacher if we could throw Astroturf on some Lincoln Logs (my bright idea), she suggested that we dig up a chunk of our lawn.
Since it took me over a year to get my lawn to a point where it didn’t look like I’d been massacring it for school projects, I told my son we would have to think of alternatives (like slicing up the school grounds).
We decided to check out the local craft store, where we hit the school-project jackpot:
Things have certainly changed since the days of popsicle-stick rocket ships.
I was on my way to the cashier with two of the cabin kits when my son informed me that only natural elements could be used. In other words, we were screwed.
Back at home the Serb dusted off his tools (not a euphemism) and helped my son build a log cabinish-looking structure with plywood. Then my kid glued the crap out of it and covered it with moss.
The result?
While this may look like Muppet vomit at first glance, when you consider what he was emulating:
It quickly became apparent that my child is the Picasso of Icelandic Turf Houses.
The Joke is (on) Me
Published November 28, 2011 | 4yo daughter: I wanna have a baby brother.
The Serb: Sounds good to me.
8yo son: Looks like it’s time for you to get sexy again, mommy.
8yo son: Mommy! Why are that teenager’s pants so low? You can see his underwear!
Me: Because he’s a goofball.
Him: But that lady is following him and she can see everything!
Me: She’s more than a block behind him.
Him: I hope she’s carrying pepper spray.
4yo daughter: Mommy, did you marry daddy because you fell in love?
Me: Yes.
Her: What about your other husbands? Did you love them too?
Me: I wasn’t married before daddy.
Her (with a frustrated exhale): Fine. Whatever. Your next husbands after daddy. Will you love them?
Me: Erm…
The Serb: Aren’t you done that book yet?
Me: Not yet. Let me read in peace.
The Serb: Do you realize that you’re an over-reader? [NOTE: say that last word out loud a few times.]
Me: Not cool, Serb. Not cool.
4yo daughter: Mommy! You look so beautiful in that red coat!
Me: Thank you, sweetie. It’s new.
Her: Yes, just like a big, red tomato.
Me (muttering): Where’s that #*&% receipt?
Me: It’s too quiet up there—what are you two doing?
Them: Getting married!
Me: What does that mean?
Her: I put on a fancy dress…
Him: We do some dancing…
Her: Then I smack him in the head with my doll…
4yo daughter (dropping her doll): Oh sh*t.
Me: You’re saying that wrong, sweetie. It’s pronounced shoot.
Her: Okay, mommy. Oh sh*t shoot.
Me: When L comes to visit, you’ll sleep with me and daddy so she can sleep in your bed.
8yo son: No way. She can sleep with you and daddy.
Me: That would be crowded. And weird. Can you imagine if I went to Calgary and had to sleep with L and her husband?
Him: What’s the problem? Will they be having…sexy moments?
Family Portrait.
Tales from a Swim Meet: aka Where Civility Goes to Die
Published November 24, 2011 | Our family is not one for competitive sports. We don’t do hockey, soccer or baseball, preferring more solitary activities such as rock climbing, horseback riding or water-sliding.
My eight-year-old son recently joined a swim club and on the weekend he attended his first meet. I believe that our expectations for our kid—remembering to put on goggles before his race, staying in his lane and making it out alive—were realistic. We were in the minority.
To say some of these parents were intensely enthusiastic is an understatement. To say more than a few were bona fide nut jobs is getting closer. One woman, who was the size of a Hobbit, spent two hours yelling “FAAASSSSSTAAAAR!!!!!” every time her petrified tween entered the water. She sounded kind of like this (times a thousand):
There was a young boy competing who had an eight-pack. He was no more than ten-years-old and from the viewing stands I could see his muscle definition. The Serb and I were equal parts mesmerized and horrified. This kid was out of the pool collecting his ribbon before most kids reached the half-way mark. Between races, he simply stood by himself, flexing. He was in dire need of a cookie.
“See how that kid is standing?” asked the Serb. The boy was gripping his arms behind his back, flexing his abs and delts. “He’s posing. Someone taught him how to do that.”
The Serb played water polo in his homeland at a very high level and was familiar with posturing tactics. (There’s only so much intimidating one can do in a Speedo.) I couldn’t tell if the boy was posing, but I was certain he got a power bar or similar in lieu of Halloween candy.
Like this, but in a Speedo.
As I waited for the Serb and my son outside the locker room, one of the fathers approached me.
“How did your boy do?” he asked.
“OmigodIwasincrediblyproudofhimhedidsogreat!” I gushed. I really was bursting with pride. My son is a sensitive, quirky kid who has never been a fan of crowds nor competition. The fact that he was with a hundred kids he didn’t know and then stood on those starting blocks in front of all of them and their parents and dove into the water and swam as hard as he could to the other end without drowning? That. Was. Amazing.
“That’s nice,” said the father. “Mine didn’t do so good—he didn’t get better than fourth in any of his heats.”
“Oh, I have no idea how he placed in any of the races,” I answered. I only knew he wasn’t first, nor was he last. I was too busy trying not to barf from the stress to worry about placings. “But that was such a scary thing for them to do, right?”
“Right. Of course,” he said, totally not getting it.
Mercifully, the fellas appeared just then, allowing me to ditch Debbie Downer and go smother my boy with kisses.
Another parent cornered the Serb and started spewing f-bombs about the disorganization and sub-par coaching, furious that his kid didn’t swim in every heat (it should be noted that his child could’ve used water wings for the races he did manage to finish).
The Serb and I gave each other our patented “get me the F*** outta here” look and we headed for the restaurant of my son’s choice to celebrate his stellar efforts with some—what else?—seafood.
That's a Nova Scotia lobster, baby. (Mounting a baked potato, apparently.)
Fun Daddy is in Charge. What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
Published November 3, 2011 | Many years ago (2000 B.C. – aka Before Children) I had a job that involved a few business trips. Although they never lasted more than a week, preparing the Serb for my absence often took that long (highlighting takeout menus and stocking up on cereal, for example).
Now that we have kids, the Serb is infinitely more capable in the domestic arts; however he’s never been with both kids for more than one night while they’re in school and he’s working.* Until this week.
I’m currently in New York at a writer’s conference for three days and you’d think I’ve been deployed overseas for a year by the way my family is reacting, which can be summed up thusly:
Four-year-old daughter: “Mommy I will miss you so much. Please don’t go. Will you come back? Do you promise?”
Eight-year-old son: “How many presents will you bring me?”
Forty-year-old Serb: “I won’t see you for a week! What are we gonna eat?!?!”
Granted, this does make me feel somewhat appreciated (FYI, the son is getting socks), but the effort I’ve put into getting them ready has been monumental. Every moment of every day has been accounted for with directions, instructions and ministrations.
It should be noted that the Serb has a Tupperware phobia.
Does this make me a hyper, anal-retentive narcissist for thinking the world stops when I’m not around, or simply an astute—not to mention clairvoyant—household organizer?
Stay tuned…
* I don’t mean to leave the impression that my husband is clueless about child rearing—he’s very involved with his kids, home from work by 4pm and always focused completely (sometimes annoyingly) on them. It’s the day-to-day minutia that he’s not familiar with. He’s Fun Daddy and I’m Get Sh*t Done Mommy.
Crap In My Pocket
Published October 13, 2011 | Last year I wrote about crap in my bag after I pulled a mason jar from my purse. I recently had a similar experience when I reached into the pocket of my fleece jacket and whipped out a sea shell (note: we do not live near the sea).
Further investigation revealed a treasure trove of non sequiturs:
1. Pirate eye patch. So I can role play with the Serb prepare for Halloween.
2. Angel card from the woo woo place, offering me a meditation on “truth,” which is timely considering that I’m the mother of a pathological liar.
3. The aforementioned sea shell. Did I mention we live in the middle of Canada?
4. The lid of my son’s ant farm. Yes, that’s right: the lid.
5. Miniature cupcake wrapper from the cupcake boutique that opened across the street from my gym.
6. Dental floss to erase all evidence of said cupcake from my teeth (erasing it from my ass is what the gym is for…it’s a vicious circle, really…).
7. Luigi from Cars, because my pink-dress-wearing, fart-joke-telling, car-and-train-obsessed daughter is an enigma.
8. A game piece, because you never know when a Snakes & Ladders’ death match will break out.
9. A rock that my son promised not to use as a weapon.
10. Halloween candy wrapper, to help me get in the spirit of the season (or something).
11. Band-Aid wrapper, because my son lies more than my daughter (see #9).
12. Nail clippers, ‘cuz nothing says “classy broad” like clipping your nails in public.
13. Proof that I am a mother: tissues in various stages of decomposition.
14. An almond, to counteract the guilt effects of #5 and #10.
15. A two dollar Euro coin, because I’m an international woman of mystery.
16. Barrettes for my daughter, who is currently running around school looking feral with her semi-dreadlocks.
17. Mitten clip, because it’s like summer outside and I don’t need it. In two months I will find sunscreen in my pocket during a blizzard.
18. Dora, to placate my daughter when she smells chocolate and cupcake on my breath after I pick her up from school (note: it never works).
The scariest part? This all came from one pocket.
27 CommentsPretty Little Liars
Published October 3, 2011 | Four-year-old children are a work in progress: there’s the wanton nose picking; lack of anything resembling a brain-to-mouth filter (“WHY IS THAT MAN SO FAT, MOMMY? IS HE PREGNANT?”); and midnight trips to the parental bed, along with the kicks to the crotch that go with that, are the norm. But the most off-putting trait of four-year-olds is their proficiency and proclivity for lying.
At the hippie nursery school, a new boy accidentally knocked my daughter over on the first day. Her teacher witnessed the entire thing and not a tear was shed by my daughter (which is a credit to her older brother’s roughhousing ways). Since then we have had the following conversation every day after school (Every. Day.):
Me: How was your day, sweetie?
Her: Charlie punched me in the face.
Me: Oh dear.
Her: Yes, he punched me like this [punches herself in the face] and no teacher was looking out for me and he never learned his lesson about punching kids in the face.
Me: Are you sure he punched you?
Her: Yes. Of course. I promise he did.
This is often followed by exchanges like this one:
Her: Guess what, mommy? The dentist told me I should have jelly beans and chocolate milk all the time.
Me: Really? Why don’t I call her to make sure? [Pick up phone]
Her: NO! She doesn’t want you to call her because she’s eating lunch right now.
Me [Speaking into phone]: Hello, dentist? Did you really tell my daughter to have jelly beans and chocolate milk? No? Okay, thank you.
Her: You called the wrong dentist.
Or this one:
Me (to her brother): Don’t forget your cello because today is your lesson at school.
Her: I have my cello lesson, too.
Me: Really?
Her: Yes. And gymnastics and soccer and karate.
Me: You don’t say…I can’t recall you in any lessons at the moment.
Her: Daddy takes me. I will also be dancing Swan Lake.
She isn’t simply exaggerating the truth for the sake of a good story (something I do for a living and fully endorse); she is brazenly trying to con me. When I think of boys and hormones thrown into the mix, I start to hyperventilate.
Her teacher insists that lying is a perfectly normal developmental milestone, indicating healthy creative growth. This is only mildly reassuring to me and I plan on sticking a lie detector in her stocking this Christmas, just in case.
I'll take one for each stocking, Santa.
How to Avoid a Speeding Ticket Without Throwing Your Panties
Published September 29, 2011 | You know how some women complain of Dummy Mummy syndrome when they’re pregnant? When they can’t remember/find/accomplish much of anything because most of their brain power is being siphoned by a 3-ounce fetus? I suffer from a particularly virulent strain of Dummy Mummy that has lasted well past gestation, through toddlerhood, and appears to be settling in for my children’s tween years.
I can lose my keys when I’m holding them in my hand. I once put a package of mushrooms away in the dryer. My kids play Let’s Find Mommy’s Glasses on a daily basis and, more often than not, they are found on my head. My point being, I’m often operating at a level that would suggest I not operate heavy machinery.
A few years ago I was driving my son to school—stuck behind a school bus going the speed limit—and we passed a speed trap. I slapped on a mental post-it to slow down on the way home and promptly forgot all about it. Ten minutes later I blew past the police car going 45 kilometres per hour over the speed limit (29 miles per hour for you non-metric types).
The officer who pulled me over was not impressed with my Daisy Duke driving demonstration. He was even less amused when I couldn’t find my registration. After spending ten minutes in his cruiser, the officer came back and informed me that not only was I speeding and lacking proper registration, but my driver’s license had also expired. Sixteen months earlier.
At that moment I did what women (and more than a few men) have done in my situation since the first Model A Ford rolled off the assembly line: I cried.
Through my tears I explained that when the license had expired I was pregnant and on sick leave with pneumonia, impetigo (!), pink eye, strep throat and a host of other maladies, leaving me barely able to stand, let alone take notice of a renewal notice.
The policeman told me that by law he should confiscate my car on the spot and release it only when my paperwork was in order. Then he glanced in the backseat at my sleeping nine-month-old daughter, and at me with my uncombed hair and stained pajama top, and he took pity on me.
The speeding ticket was reduced from $250 and four demerit points to $70 and no demerits. Driving without registration was going to cost me a whopping $600, but he advised me to fight the fine with my medical records in court. Since I’d been stopped only a few blocks from where I lived, the officer followed me home (rather than impounding my car) after I promised to get new registration that day.
A few weeks later I showed up in court and faced the judge. With one smack of the gavel my charges were dropped. Lesson learned: if you get stopped by a cop, try crying. If that doesn’t work, blame your spawn. If all else fails, throw your undies. As a last resort, put the three together. Game, set and match.
Now this is my kind of speed trap.
33 CommentsA Parental Quandry (aka when you want to punch the neighbour’s kid)
Published September 19, 2011 | Aside from some camps and an unlimited supply of sidewalk chalk, the thing that kept me from putting my kids on the curb with a For Sale sign this past summer was the family up the street.
Our kids have known each other since birth and we get along really well with the parents. This was the first year that our son and their kids have been old enough to take off in the morning and come back when the streetlights came on. We’d see them when they burst into the house looking to fill water guns, use the bathroom or get some snacks, but otherwise they were off enjoying the kind of old-timey summer that I didn’t think happened anymore.
Then we went away for a week and when we returned things took a turn for the bizarre. A new boy, let’s call him Damien, had joined the group. Like my son and his friends up the street, Damien is eight-years-old, and while some would call him a spirited or strong-willed boy, I call him an asshole. Allow me to elaborate…
Damien makes a habit of peeing wherever and whenever the mood strikes him. Often this is at the park, which I don’t encourage but can understand. On more than one occasion, however, Damien has relieved himself in the overflowing recycling bin in the other family’s garage, which is all sorts of wrong. (Also? He tried unsuccessfully to poop in it.)
My son and his buddies like to play Harry Potter games or pretend to be wild cats living in the woods. Damien insists that they play Call of Duty, which apparently involves copious amount of swearing, particularly the f-word. He tried to make the game more palatable to the girl of the group by asking her to bring Barbies to the park so they could “do sexing on each other.” There is another boy living on the street who tried to infiltrate their game and Damien spit in the boy’s eye.
The parents found all of this out last week, when Damien was caught peeing in the recycling bin. We interrogated our kids and they spilled every nasty detail. It was mutually agreed that Damien was persona non grata until further notice. Our kids were relieved because they didn’t particularly enjoy watching him pee all over the place while barking the f-word at them.
But two days later my husband went to get my son from our friend’s house and there Damien was, enjoying a dance party in the basement with the kids. It appears that we have a different definition of “until further notice” than our friends do. Damian promised to not use bad words or violate recycling bins, so they relented and let him join in the fun.
My question is this: do we buckle and let our son play with this little turd or do we hold our ground?
Don't get too close or he'll hawk a loogie in your eye.
When Teachers Make House Calls
Published September 1, 2011 | I know that I bust the wool-lined chops of my kids’ hippie school, but it’s done with the utmost affection. To outsiders it looks like my kids are spending all day gardening, playing in the woods and knitting, but somehow they’re also learning math, spelling and amazing life skills (for instance, teaching mommy how to garden and knit).
My four-year-old daughter is entering her second year of pre-school and before the semester begins her teacher has a home visit with every student. It’s meant to be an informal opportunity to see the child on his or her own turf, but as a parent it’s the most stressful day of the year.
You see, the school has certain expectations for younger kids in particular—excessive television/computer time is discouraged, as are mountains of plastic/electronic toys—and for the most part, I’ve been completely on board. There is a noticeable difference in both of my kids when we limit their TV and two years ago I donated a dozen garbage bags of toys that they have yet to miss.
But then it happened: summer vacation. Two days in, I was going crazy. Four days in, I was negotiating reading practice for TV time with my son. Two months in, as I write this, I can hear them watching cartoons downstairs, as they shoot their plastic guns, with nary a book in sight. All of my best hippie-inspired intentions have gone down the crapper.
Yesterday afternoon when my daughter’s teacher showed up for our home visit, this is what she found:
1) Me, with my ass up in the air as I frantically swept crumbs from under the table.
2) My son, shoving his cache of weapons under his bed.
3) My daughter, proudly showing off her bedroom. Specifically, the airline blanket from our recent trip that she now uses as a bedspread, as well as the Barbie Party Bus stuffed with naked Barbies and one terrified-looking Ken.
We then sat down to discuss our respective summers until my daughter hijacked the conversation to summarize the cartoons and movies she had watched over the past few weeks.
After exhausting that list, my daughter began imitating her brother (who’d been imitating the Serb the other night) by running in circles yelling, “Fuggit!” (pronounced with a very hard G) in lieu of fuhgeddaboudit.
This was followed by a ten-minute soliloquy about her fabulous Puh-see, and since I’m fairly certain that this teacher has never read my blog, she had no way of knowing that Puh-see is how my daughter pronounces Percy, a little green train that is the bane of my existence.
We finished off the visit with my daughter introducing the teacher to a stuffed pig that—for some unknown reason*—she named Honky.
Thankfully, my daughter’s teacher is one of the exceedingly cool (or is it groovy?) hippies. She once told me that she would only believe half of what our kid told her if we would do the same.
As of yesterday, I’m going to need that deal in writing.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...Honky. (the real one is currently being held captive in my daughter's death grip)
*We do not watch, nor do we emulate, sitcoms from the 70s. I’m hoping thinking it’s because she goes around honking its nose.
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