Monday, May 31, 2010

The Hardest Part of Love...

I read once that "making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." The website attributes the quote to Elizabeth Stone. I can't quite figure out who Elizabeth Stone is for sure -- she's probably Elizabeth Stone the author, but who knows? Maybe Elizabeth Stone the photographer, Elizabeth Stone the archaeologist (concentrating on the Mesopotamian) or Elizabeth Stone the marathon runner cut loose with a great bon mot one day. At any rate...

This week-end, my heart was in a bit of a batting slump. It's hard when your heart gets up to bat and everyone says "Whoa, it's Allison's heart -- back up! Home run!". It makes my heart tense up and forget to rely on its muscle memory and suddenly what usually happens smoothly and gracefully turns all choppy and awkward. My heart struck out for one entire game. Fortunately, my heart then pitched a shut-out inning, and by the next day my heart was back in fine form, pitching like a badass, cracking balls into the outfield and tearing up its knee sliding into third.

My heart is a ten-year-old boy who adores baseball and has really great instincts for it. He was in a tournament this week-end, and his pitching was great, but he was psyching himself out badly every time he got up to bat, and the more it happened the more it kept happening. It's so hard to watch when you know there's really nothing you can do. After the second game on Saturday, I sat with him in the bleachers for a bit and told him about when I used to do high-level piano exams and recitals, and if I started to think about it too much, I wouldn't let my fingers just do their job and everything would go horribly wrong. I told him that his muscles know how to hit a baseball with a bat, and he just had to relax and remember why he loves baseball. His next game was on Sunday, and he got a hit every at-bat -- but I don't take any credit for that.

One thing that's kind of saved me from a vast number of cerebro-vascular incidents is that at one point I had to sit myself down and give myself a bit of a talking-to. Angus was in grade one and he had forgotten to take a book to school that he needed for a story-telling thing he was doing that we'd been practicing for weeks. I had put it in his bag the night before, but my husband took it out for a quick run-through in the morning and then forgotten to put it back in (notice how smoothly and unobtrusively I blame the husband?). When I saw it lying on the table, I felt faint. I immediately saw myself in grade one, realizing I didn't have what I needed and feeling that great wave of doom close over me. I didn't know what to do -- call his teacher, drive immediately to the school with the book, call my husband and scream expletives at him? Then, in a hot revelatory rush of insight, I realized I couldn't do this. I couldn't live all of his mistakes and humiliations and failures as if they were my own. I could do my best to help and guide and commiserate, but if I kept on like this, not only was it not any good to him, I might literally not survive his elementary school years.

The world didn't end that day, for either of us. His teacher said he could do it the next day. The next day I put a note in his agenda saying "Angus's Daddy took out the book yesterday so they could practice and forgot to put it back in. Angus's Daddy wants you to know that he's very, very sorry." I meant it as a joke, but at our first parent-teacher interview she mentioned that I seemed quite anxious about things and I should probably try to relax. I blamed it on the fact that English wasn't her first language, but really -- she's not wrong. And I'm working on it.

Fortunately, my heart is also a seven-year-old girl who loves to leap out into the sunshine waving her freshly-sunscreened limbs around yelling "ha HA sun! I have foiled your diabolical plan!" So there's that.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Wordless Wednesdays: Take Me Out to the...

Really looks like she knows what she's doing, huh? (For the most part, she doesn't have a clue).

Sitting on the bench somehow turned into lolling in the shade (over 30 degrees and humid).

Well THAT was refreshing.

For once she runs home without clutching the batting helmet to her head.

Did we mention she got FOUR runs in this game? AND we beat the team that creamed us last time? Still not sure how. But yay.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Brain Fry

It's hot.

 It's hot as hell, and my husband isn't here, which means I'm the designated parent for baseball every night, in the blistering sweltering life-sapping heat, hurling water at my kid every ten minutes and hoping none of them keel over from heat stroke, while wishing fervently that I didn't have to be wearing a bra because no bra is anything but a well-wrought instrument of torture in thirty-plus heat and humidity.

 That said, Eve got four runs and some brilliant man brought a spray bottle, and we won 18-8 (VERY unusual), so really I have no cause to complain, or to throw my other kid to the wolves in a blatant sop to the blog gods because I have no time left before reading Eve a story and then reading in bed beside her because she can't POSSIBLY fall asleep without me. And it's really unforgivable and if he ever finds out I'm toast. So I'm absolutely categorically NOT going to tell you about going upstairs and seeing through the half-open bathroom door Angus sitting buck naked on the toilet and Eve in there wrapped in a towel, and opening my mouth to yell at her to leave him alone while he's, um, passing a motion, and then realizing that, in fact, he summoned her in to kill an ant that he couldn't reach from his present position. And then they both asked me pointedly what was so funny.

Friday, May 21, 2010

Friday Sorta Funny

For sad, twisted, hormone-induced bitchy funny, see yesterday's post.

Or there's this. From my Mom, and therefore not a patch on the aneurysm-inducing filth over at Crazy Town.

A Home Depot Story !

Charlie was installing a new door and found that one of the hinges was missing.

He asked his wife Mary if she would go to Home Depot and pick up a hinge.

Mary agreed to go. While she was waiting for the manager to finish serving a customer, her eye caught a beautiful bathroom faucet.

When the manager was finished, Mary asked him, "How much is that faucet?"

The manager replied, "That's a gold plated faucet and the price is $500.00.

Mary exclaimed, "My goodness, that is a very expensive faucet. It's certainly out of my price bracket."

She then proceeded to describe the hinge that Charlie had sent her to buy.

The manager said that he had them in stock and went into the storeroom to get one.

From the storeroom the manager yelled. "Ma'am, do you wanna screw for the hinge?"

Mary paused for a moment and then shouted back, "No, but I will for the faucet."

This is why you can't send a woman to Home Depot!

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Knowing Me Knowing You OR Why Are You Looking at Me Like That? F*** Off!

Anyone who read my last post and thought 'go away and have a freakin' frozen yogurt or something and come back when you're in a better mood' is going to be disappointed. Although it turns out my yawning existential Nietzchean crisis is probably just PMS, which is equally as annoying but somewhat less glamorous. I've eaten my body weight in salted cashews in the last four days. I walk around cooking or cleaning the kitchen and eating cashews every time I pass the container, then I put the lid on the container so I won't eat any more, than ten seconds later my hand hits the lid and I wonder who the asshole is who put the lid on the cashew container because the cashews are the only thing keeping me from ripping my face off and throwing it in the dishwasher that never washes anything. I took Eve to baseball last night and narrowly managed to restrain myself from bludgeoning the kid that spent every moment on the bench kicking at the gravel until a solid wall of dust enveloped the spectators, and tried to make some stupid fancy catch every goddamned time the ball came at him and then missed and had to chase the fucking ball across the outfield while the other team took two or three bases.

Yesterday there was a letter in the paper from a seventy-year-old woman complaining about an incident at a community centre where a woman was asked to cover up while nursing and then the management apologized and said it was just a single employee who made a mistake in asking the woman to cover up. The seventy-year-old woman was upset that they apologized. She said "nursing may be natural, but so is modesty" and questioned why one person would feel justified in embarrassing dozens of people.

Normally I would just write a snippy reply letter to the paper. Yeah, breastfeeding is natural. Modesty? More like a totally artificial social construction, originally meant to protect our bodies from the elements and later to protect the hysterically prudish tendencies of some. Embarrassing dozens of people? Oh, did I miss the part where the woman whipped off her shirt and danced around thrusting her breasts in people's faces? A woman uncovering one breast and sticking a baby on it shouldn't be embarrassing unless you're repressed beyond belief and/or going out of your way to examine the proceedings in minute detail, in which case I'm pretty sure YOU'RE THE ONE WITH THE FUCKING PROBLEM!!!!! But just the thought of writing a letter and having no effect whatsoever because all the people who don't agree with me are so irretrievably irredeemably incontrovertibly STUPID was exhausting. I wished I knew where the seventy-year-old woman lived so I could festoon her lawn with seventy pink boobs on spikes. I know, not nice. I am just a hot spiky ball of irascibility. I hate mirrors and labels in clothes and heat and I'm not entirely okay with the way the air is touching my skin.

1.Coffee or tea?

I hate coffee. I hate the smell of coffee. Once I was driving my husband's car and it reeked of coffee and I saw that there was spilled coffee sloshing around in the cup holder and I threw up and drove the car off the road and killed four cows and a chicken. Tea is okay.

2. Are you watching Glee?

Yes, and usually I love it but for some reason right now I want to bitch-slap all the characters and jump on their heads.

3. Do you sing?

I used to be an awesome singer. I was in the McMaster University Choir and when we moved here I was in the Carleton University choir with a bunch of skinny snotty little university students and some old people. We did Mozart's Requiem. You know, for dead people. I took singing lessons with my friend who was always just a little bit better at everything than me, but I was a better singer than her so suck it up, beeyotch. Then I started taking asthma medication and had a couple of kids and one or both of those have kind of toasted my voice. I still sing, but I'm not as good, which sometimes makes me murderously angry and I have to jump up and down on a Simon and Garfunkel CD.

4. What's your favourite John Cusack movie?

I love most of them, but Pushing Tin? Good thing there's no death penalty for disastrously bad movie choices, John. How the hell could the guy from Say Anything and the guy from Sling Blade turn out that abomination?

5. Burger or hot dog?

I usually think hot dogs are from the devil, until I'm putting together some elaborate five-course Cordon Bleu-class meal for our friends and making hot dogs for the kids, and then I want to throw the veal with pomegranate sauce under a car and eat hot dogs until I die of eating hot dogs.

Sincere apologies to Shan for abusing her meme like this. I promise to come back and be nice tomorrow, even if I have to perform a DIY frontal lobotomy first.

Monday, May 17, 2010


Things are bad. Things are really bad. Oh, that's inaccurate. Things are fine. Things are great. I'm bad though. I feel like I've slipped sideways just enough to not fit properly in my life. I can look down on it from the outside and see that it's a good life, but when I'm back inside it I can't feel it on my skin. I went for a great walk today. Eve was home sick but Matt was working from home so I walked over to the drug store and grocery store for inhalers and lettuce and salad dressing and berries and kleenex. It was warm but not sweltering, I didn't think of it as manadatory exercise so I walked at a comfortable pace and looked at people's flowers. I left my ipod behind and looked around at stuff (there are stores in that plaza I never knew were there). I came home and looked over the first part of my new course, which is another point I'm not terribly impressed with myself on. I always thought if I went back to school I would just purely enjoy the learning, and not worry about the marks, not get that twisty achy worry that I won't be a star pupil every time, not worry four years before I'm even close to getting the goddamned diploma that I won't be good enough to get a job. Low self-esteem is, like, so twenty years ago.

It's not self-loathing. I don't loathe myself. I'm not a horrible person. I have some nice qualities. I just need a little tweaking. And goddamn if I don't turn out to be stubbornly tweak-resistant at every damn turn. And I'm tired of all the fruitless tweak attempts. On the upside, the word 'tweak' is provoking some faint amusement at the moment.

This is where I wish strange things, like that I was an alcoholic or drug addict, because then I would have a clear problem set to work with. Also, since I'm not a drug addict or alcoholic, it seems like it wouldn't be all that hard to kick drugs or alcohol. This wouldn't be the case if I was, in fact, a drug addict or alcoholic. I'm sure you see that the general tenor of my current musing is unproductive at best. But they don't seem to have twelve-step groups for vagely disaffected existentially displaced compulsive readers -- at least none that are well-advertised.

Whatever. For lack of any tested therapy, I'm going to go with a liberal application of cashews and zombie stories.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Tune in next week for a hilarious malignant brain tumour!

Flipping through the TV listings on Digital Cable I come across:

Rules of Engagement: Audrey is falsely accused of sexual harassment. Comedy.

Riiight. Cause nothing says a laugh a minute like a hostile workplace environment and having your reputation ruined by trumped-up allegations. Gimme a W. Gimme a T. Gimme a F. ????

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Don't Wear it Out

I'm cranky. We had a lovely visit with family on the week-end and went out to see the great-grandparents on Monday (hooky-playing kids and all) which was wonderful, but I'm still coughing like a tubercular opera heroine and not sleeping well and hopped up on inhaled substances (prescribed) and generally feeling less than stellar. I didn't go into the school library on Tuesday which is my usual day so I could clean up my house and self-medicate in peace, but I didn't feel that much better when I went in today. Today was also the day that all the classes that missed their library period on Monday and Tuesday because of a software upgrade and a spontaneous Chinese delegation, so it was fortunate (for the library tech) that I was there since we were slammed with two classes at once for most of the day. A school library overflowing with spring-feverish first-to-sixth graders is not the place to be when you're not feeling top-notch. I was snappish. I was curt and snippy. Less than patient. Maybe even slightly persnickety. Coincidentally, a large number of the children were slow, dense and puddinglike (this is objective fact and has NOTHING WHATSOEVER to do with my mood). We were just not a good match.

I just read Lynn's post about the meaning of two of her kids' names, which reminded me of the first time she told me her children's names, which reminded me of a time when I wasn't a child-hating persnickety sourpuss, so I thought I'd share it, without revealing the actual names, since she doesn't post pictures of her kids or name them on her blog, because unlike me she actually CARES about protecting her children from cyber-predators and people like Tracy at Crazy Town (who really believes she had all those kids herself and is still that thin?). Anyway, when I asked what her kids' real names were she said 'oh, this might be hard for you.' I didn't understand what she meant until she said them and I realized she meant that her husband is not Caucasian and the kids have names from his culture, which means they're not named Billy, Cindy and Jennifer and she thought I might find the names difficult to pronounce/spell/comprehend easily. This was funny, but I never really got to explain why because then we had to start trying to answer fiendishly difficult trivia questions.

We live in a very multicultural neighbourhood, and my kids' school is the very model of the cultural mosaic. One set of twins in Angus's JK class were named Becky and Susan, the other set were named Anwar and Ismail. Names I had never heard before which I now know include Chirag, Shulini, Shruthi, Chehak and Yeabsara. We know three Puneets. Eve had one classmate with the same name as one of Lynn's kids, whose brother has the same name as another of Lynn's kids. Angus's name was at the top of the class telephone list since my husband's last name starts with A. Right under him was another child with the same last name. Her first name was Funmilayo. Before school started, the teachers speculated on whether they were twins. Twins named Angus and Funmilayo -- wouldn't that be insanely cool? .

One day when I was volunteering in Eve's JK class, the teacher had the kids sit around in a circle and then they all had to take turns guessing letters for whoever was going to do the calendar that day. When they were done, the name spelled out on the card was Nedrar. I was looking around for Nedrar to come up and do the calendar when all the kids burst out laughing and eventually rearranged the letters to spell 'Darren'. I'm sitting there thinking 'oh, you're fine with Sanskrooni, but Nedrar is funny?'

I really like this. Where I grew up classroom populations were a lot more monochromatic. The weirdest named kid was probably my friend Betty Jo. Eve has been to birthday parties where she gets to dress up in saris and get mehndi tattoos. They celebrate Chinese New Year at school. Their horizons are a little broader than mine were. That's got to be a good thing. As an added bonus, no one's kid's name seems strange to me ever.

(Although there is an Indiana Jones in our school. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that.)

Monday, May 10, 2010

(Won't You Take Me to) Crazy Town

I'm guest-posting today over in Crazy Town (funny how I feel right at home there). Notice how I said that all nonchalant-like, and not as if I'm hopping up and down with barely repressed excitement at my VERY FIRSTEST GUEST POST EVER (she's probably betting no one really reads blogs on Mondays.) I'm hoping the different setting will make my whining and ranting sound fresh and rejuvenated. Hope -- the thing with feathers that perches in the soul (Emily Dickinson). And then gets blown away by a strong wind and falls in a mud puddle and gets ripped to pieces by rabid bunnies (me).

Friday, May 7, 2010

Sense and Insensibility

Yesterday I was in my daughter's class for another Scientists in the Schools session. So far I've done Insects twice for both kids in J.K. (playdough bugs, head, thorax, abdomen -- I think we still have one somewhere), Forces with Angus in grade three (physics - hard) and Pulleys and Levers for Angus last term (in French -- hard). Smarter than a fifth grader? Well, yesterday was The Five Senses with Eve's grade one class, and I hit that one out of the park, but everyone from the second grade up can pretty much kick my butt all over town.

I had the Hearing Station. Did you know that animals who live in the desert generally have big ears because they lose body heat through their ears and it keeps them cooler, and animals who live in the arctic have smaller ears because ipso facto ergo hence? Go ahead, tell me you knew that, I won't believe you. The kids didn't know it either, so they're still not smarter than me. We looked at blown-up pictures of animal and insect ears and tried to guess which animal they belonged to (why the hell would they put a shrew in? You know a lot of six or seven-year-olds who are familiar with shrews?). We talked about sign language and learned how to spell everyone's name (Eve was easy. Marianna and Demitrianna gave us all a hand cramp). We experimented with me saying 'hello' to them with their hands in front of their ears and behind, and with small cups and larger cups with the bottoms cut out over their ears (which for some reason made all the boys say 'I come in peace').

Later on in the van on our way back to school for Eve's choir concert she was trying to tell Angus about it. "It was about the five senses. Hear, smell... see..... um, see, touch, taste.... um....see, hear, smell..." finally she said "I figured it out. It's everything on your face, plus your hand."

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Uglification and Derision: Outrage, Part 1

I just read this over at Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia's blog (I read it on a recommendation and tried not to love it, because I'm a contrary and perverse creature, but I failed. It's lovable, dammit). Apparently a St. Louis sex blogger who blogged anonymously and whose blog mentioned nothing about her job, was fired because her boss somehow came across her blog and was disgusted. That's it -- you're fired because you blog about sex and I find that disgusting.

'Scuse me? No, really, EXCUSE ME? Yeah. I know. The internet is forever. Anything you say online can and will be used to flagellate you by any asshole who comes across it in the present and future. And if your boss fires you for a stupid-ass reason that doesn't happen to be a stupid-ass reason that falls under various categories of discrimination, you have to take it up the (butt-plugged or not) ass (yeah, that's a little crude for me, but it's germane to the plot so I'm leaving it in). And I can't say I find it all that surprising. A lot of Americans, and Canadians, and Corporate America (and Canada) especially have a long rich tradition of hysterical repression and denigrating people who stand out, who push the borders of 'polite' discourse, who say words like 'vagina' in public. I just want to go on record saying I think it's... what's the word... DUMB.

Some people think the internet leads people to share too much. I think the people who share too much have always shared too much. The fact that they now have this medium to do it with and now they can share too much with waaaay more people? Yes, it does bear thinking about. But the hysteria on the part of the shared-with needs to be addressed too. Hey, everyone who's offended by sex blogs, or things people say on Facebook: there's this nifty thing you can do that should help -- it's called looking away.

A while ago there was a big kerfuffle about something a nurse had written on Facebook. A doctor had written in her status update that she was sleepy and wished the baby she was delivering would come soon. Her friend, a nurse, responded something admittedly crude and off-putting, like 'oh fuck it, just cut her'. Someone else who was the doctor's friend took great offense and described her own horrific c-section, which resulted in the nurse reacting defensively, blah blah blah. Some bloggers took up the cause, urging that someone should report her to her hospital and/or try to have her fired.

Was the comment inappropriate? The definition of 'appropriate' is 'especially suitable or compatible'. In the context of discussing a woman's labour and delivery? Pretty f*ckin' inappropriate. In the context of Facebook, a vast internet playland of frivolousness and frippery? Things become a little more slippery. Yes, the comment was stupid and offensive. People say stupid and offensive things all the time. Should she have been fired for a stupid, offensive comment that she made while not in her workplace? If she made the comment at a party or in a bar and was overheard, would people be grouping together planning to report her to her boss? Do we just ban all people with any propensity for making stupid offensive comments from the internet? Is it free speech, or is it only free speech for people who don't regularly make giant ass-hats of themselves when they open their mouths (speaking as one who has regularly been asshattish)?

To be continued....

Happy Mother's Day -- now shut up and smile

I'm still not sure about writing this post. It seems stupid that I feel like I have to write this post. But it's been spinning around like a nasty little sharp-toothed spinny thing in my head for a few days, particularly in the shower, and shaving my legs is unpleasant enough without the nasty spinny stuff, and hey -- Crazy Mayor Lady asked for a Mayhem guest post, so where better to spin off my stuff?

I read this article a few days ago. I read Suburban Bliss long before I read any other blogs, and I had heard a bit about Michele McBee, who is apparently just the epitome of churlish, venomous, ungrammatical, unimaginative bitcherness (when bitterness marries bitchiness). I don't read Suburban Bliss all that often anymore, not because it's not every bit as funny and real as it's always been, but because Melissa Summers is a total success who doesn't need or notice my readership or comments, and I prefer to spend the majority of my blog-reading time on people for whom I am part of a community instead of merely an audience. When I have time, I catch up on it. She's funny and truthful and a little wacky and loves her kids and finds motherhood rewarding, difficult and sometimes overwhelming. Because of this, thousands of people adore her blog, and a few people feel justified in telling her that she's a neglectful, ineffective, alcoholic mother who shouldn't have had children. In the article, Michele McBee says bloggers like Summers make motherhood 'a horrible, nasty experience', and 'so much harder than it has to be'. She 'worries about some of these kids', so she very helpfully and graciously offers her negative opinions on Summers' personal appearance and that of her kids, and questions her husband's sexuality -- you know, to point out how motherhood is easy and to help the children.

I know, I know -- why get mad at stupid people? Why waste my breath trying to refute the stupid vituperative ramblings of stupid people? Maybe they can't help being stupid. Maybe they're lacking some crucial gene for intelligence and we should be holding a telethon to raise money for smartness transfusions. The problem is, it's not just stupid people that are always ready and willing to chuck sh*t at mothers. There was a column I read in my local paper a few years ago, which I think I've mentioned before, because it really struck a nerve for me. It was a smug male columnist mocking one of those emails that periodically gets sent around, in which the salaries for various jobs that mothers do are added up to some fairly large number and everyone's supposed to stop for a minute and realize all the stuff mothers do for free. Yeah, it's a little cheesy, but as someone currently involved in doing all that sh*t for free, it's nice to see. This columnist made some conciliatory remarks about the fact that motherhood might be a little tough, and we should respect mothers, but 'surely not based on the putative value of diapering and sandwich-making'. The fact that he used the words 'surely' and 'putative' only made me want to kick him in the slats even more.

Motherhood is hard. Motherhood is lifelong and constant and yes, it is intensely joyful and tremendously rewarding and sometimes just downright enjoyable, but it is also incredibly freaking difficult. If it's not? YOU'RE NOT DOING IT RIGHT!!!! Michele McBee has asked Melissa Summers why she had kids. Why did we have kids if we weren't going to bliss out on every single moment? Um, because we don't live in Cartoon F*cking Fairyland where little birds carry away the dirty diapers and mice wearing little clothes sweep up the house and scrub the toilets? Nobody cares about the value of diapering and sandwich-making? That's right, they don't -- AND THAT'S WHAT MAKES IT HARD, YOU BIG STUPID STUPIDHEAD! Because no matter what Big Stuff is going on -- medical issues, bullying problems, drug problems, legal problems -- all the small, annoying stuff still has to get done. By the mothers.

According to Socrates, the unexamined life is not worth living. But if you're a mother daring to do a little examining of your mothering life, be prepared for people to say a great number of things that essentially boil down to: Nobody forced you to have kids, so don't whine about it. I know a fair number of people who have chosen to have kids. Not a single one of them wanted kids but decided to forego them for the good of the planet -- some of them imply that this was a factor in their decision every now and then, and every now and then I imply that they're full of sh*t. We decide a lot of things in life -- where to live, what to work at, what colour to dye our hair. Sometimes we complain about them.

I don't mean to suggest that this is more than a few stupid people or smart people with localized stupidity in this area. Most of the bloggers I know and read and comment on and see commenting on my blog are wonderful, supportive, understanding people. It can't be overestimated how helpful it is to know that you're not the only one who gets tired of cleaning up the same mess or answering the same question, or loves the sound of your children's voices ninety-eight percent of the time and the other two percent of the time finds them akin to the sound of a pterodactyl mating with a leafblower. And that's why it's so out of line for people to equate voicing negative things about motherhood to being a bad mother. Because if we can't talk about them, then things will get really ugly.

People slag celebrities. People slag politicians. If you get any kind of famousness thing going on, people are going to judge you, and gossip about you, and try to cash in on your reputation by riding your coattails, whether they're flattering you or vomiting their acidic bile in the comments section of your blog. In a weird way, I guess Melissa Summers could consider being targeted by Michele McBee and the other harpies a sign of success. I'm so not famous, I feel pretty safe. But anyone attacking a mother for hinting that motherhood is anything but one hundred percent fabulous one hundred percent of the time is attacking me. And beware the wrath of me -- I know a LOT of uncomplimentary adjectives.

Am now going to fire this off to Tracy and trust she will spice it up with some funny cartoons. Thanks for the loan of the soapbox. Hope you all had a great mother's day with your nearly-perfect children.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

That about sums it up

Eve and Angus eating fortune cookies.

Eve: 'Can you read me your fortune?'

Angus: 'You are kind-hearted, hospital...hospitable, cheerful and well-liked.'

(me snickering as I manage not to add 'in bed'.)

Eve: 'What does that even mean?'

Angus: 'It means I'm awesome.'

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Why I only dated football and hockey players.

Spring baseball starts tomorrow. Eve plays Monday, Angus plays Tuesday, they both play Wednesday. (Crap, I shouldn't be blogging, I should be making freezer meals. Oh well.) Angus is also glued to televised baseball every chance he gets. ("What happened? Someone hit a two-run homer? Dad, (insert name) made a great catch!") I was watching with him for a few minutes while I ate my yogurt. The pitcher threw the ball, then turned towards the camera and... did some stuff.

Me: "Oh, nice."

Angus: "I know, good strike huh?"

Me: "Actually I was referring to the fact that he spat while the camera was on him. Directly after grabbing his crotch. Classy."

Angus (indignantly): "Hey, he's got a jock on, remember."

Me: "Fair enough. And the spitting?"

Angus: "Umm... that's to keep his mouth warm. For yelling at the umpire."

And I thought French immersion was bad for having us speak two different languages.