Tiny Bubbles

We were blowing bubbles in the backyard yesterday. It was the perfect day for it, too: sunny, warm and a light breeze.

I blew one and everyone amazed how far it was going. "It's going straight to heaven, I think," Middle Child exclaimed.

Just then, S, his classmate whom I babysit, took the wand. "I want to send some to my dad, then," she said softly. And she did. And they went far. And she felt happy.

Sometimes the wind picked up and blew a gazillion on its own. "I guess it's your dad's turn to blow bubbles for you," I said. She laughed. "Wow! He's even a better bubble maker than you, Jennifer."

S's father died of testicular cancer not two years ago. Guys, make sure there's nothing in your bag that doesn't belong there.

Why Must Hell Break Loose at Bedtime?

I was tucking Middle Child into bed last night when Daughter came in, dragging out her own bedtime. Yeah, sure, you want to say good night to your brother.

Anyway, she found a moth kind of struggling on his bedroom carpet. Middle Child exclaimed, "Great! Put him in one of my specimen jars so I can mount him on a slide for my microscope tomorrow!"

Why not. The moth had a busted wing. Surely it's someone's dinner tonight. So I picked it up and put it away. Daughter quietly objected, environment this, living creature that. Middle Child made his retort. Gonna die eventually this. My future as an entomologist that.

I waded in. "It's bedtime. Why don't I do what I would have done if I found it first: get some toilet paper and send it to a watery grave?" Of course, I got the chorus of NOOOOOOOOO!

So as I was reading the Ripley's Believe It or Not Book of Gross to Middle Child, Daughter kept interrupting, pleading for the life of the moth.

I've been sick. I'm really tired. I relented. Just stop crying, honey.

She released the moth, tucked herself into bed and sighed loudly, "I'll sleep much better tonight."

Middle Child has been extremely pissed with me today.

Husband just alerted me to some new artwork in our bedroom. Three guesses on the artist.

Happy Jen Day

I had my first professional massage today. The kids gave me a gift certificate for a 45 minute massage with hot tub therapy and a paraffin wax treatment for Mother's Day last year. Kinda odd that Husband would buy this considering he won't so much as rub my feet. I put it on top of the fridge and forgot about it until I was doing some spring cleaning earlier this month. Oops.

Anyway, it was pretty neat. When the therapist had ushered me to the change room, she asked what results I would like to have. I replied, "If we're talking miracles, massage away about 20 lbs." Seriously, I didn't know what to expect. I was mostly there because it was time to myself.

Mind you, I wish I brought a book for the hot tub part. Nice and all, but kind of boring. I'm such an ingrate.

Afterwards, I bought myself some shoes. I contemplated getting some kitten-heeled thong sandals but, hey, who are we kidding? How can I run after Baby Boy at the park when my ankles are flopping all over the place and my heels are sinking in the dirt?

My friend Jules sent this link today. It reminds me of my father-in-law who, at last check, makes a full pot of coffee and microwaves a cup at a time, sometimes days apart. And if you knew Bobzilla, this link would explain a whole lot.

Holy

We visited the great-grandmas last Saturday. Mine fretted most of the time because, as my cousin C said, "So many men; so little time." We should all have her problems. Of course, she also stopped to praise my kids for their appetites, but I think it has more to do with her awesome cooking.

Husband's grandmother was a little tired but we didn't get around to seeing her until after 5 and she already had a full day at her seniors' group bingoing and cribbaging her 87-year-old heart out. We ordered a pizza and she solved the mystery of the big bang we heard the last time we were there. Apparently, one of our kids (Daughter later confessed to the Grande Dame) fell down the laundry chute from her bathroom linen closet. Luckily, Daughter fell on her bum onto a pile of laundry on top of the washing machine and no harm was done. What possessed her? I dunno. That's another mystery to solve, I guess.

Better than any chocolate that we could have received, Husband's eldest aunt gave him a Ziploc crammed with the letters she saved from Husband's mother over the years. We got back to my parents' place and spent hours reading them all. Oh. My. God. We read these letters and filled in between the lines with the stuff we know and, well, it was enlightening. Nice to know how she parented her kids, so if she ever has the balls to criticize me again, at the very least I can at least have a smug look. Oh, and there's no denying that Husband was conceived out of wedlock. Put it this way, if Husband didn't look so much like her ex-husband, I'd question his paternity. And I chose this family.

I still would, though. The big guy is putting the kids to bed right now. They've been putting off bedtime for an hour and I've let it slide because I've been sick off and on for a week now. Yeah, I fasted for Good Friday. I was puking my guts out.

Easter Sunday was spent at my parents' place. They dragged my ass to Mass, first telling me I had time and then not two minutes later, they're yelling at me for taking so much damned time getting Daughter's booster seat out of our van and into theirs. "We don't need it. We need to get to church now more!" "You want (Daughter) to go? Then you need the booster seat. It's the law!" More yelling at me for being such a feet-dragger, doing "everything half-assed", etc. Seriously. So I just said loudly, "How dare you talk to me that way in front of my child. You should know better and, oh yeah, what a nice way you guys started off this holiest of holy days! Good job." And then, like some freak, my mother says sweetly, "Oh look, honey! That house has all those nice Easter decorations." I knew that was my cue to forget everything that was said.

Anyway, after Mass, an old friend of mine from high school tapped me on the shoulder. The last time I saw him, he directed my aunt's funeral at the mortuary he manages. It was funny because he was all Mr. Funeral Director and then my middle sister and I got his attention and he became the little goofball he was in high school, all giddy and jokey. Anyway, it turns out the guy lives around the corner from my parents. It was weird to see him because as I was walking up for communion, I felt eyes on me and I thought, "Someone knows me here."

We got home and Mum and I got the big lunch ready. Actually, Mum had most of it prepared. She makes more of a fuss with Easter than any other holiday, including Christmas. She had new clothes for the kids, as well as figolli (jumbo Maltese Easter cookies) and a ton of plastic eggs filled with money and chocolates and notes to hunt for crackers and Dunkaroos and chips and stuff. She doesn't cook for Christmas but we had turkey and a ham for just my family and my parents. Thankfully, everyone had an appetite. Middle Child inherited his Uncle C's childhood habit of kinda moaning when he's enjoying his food. That got my mum's attention. "Are you alright, sweetheart?" He didn't even look up from his garlic roasted potatoes.

The kids waited until around 5 for their cousins to show. They played their hearts out, knowing we were going home soon. Of course, when we called them in, the girls pitched a fit. It was awful. She was still crying 15 minutes down the highway. Middle Child somehow fell asleep and Baby Boy just kept singing the Sith tune from Star Wars.

This evening, Daughter and I went to church for a first communion thing. I thought it was another meeting. Nope. It was a mass. Thankfully, at the last minute, I thought I should change her (and me) out of the grubby clothes. I just put on a white collared shirt with my jeans. Good enough. I put Daughter in a boho top and skirt. Good thing because most of the other kids were dressed nice. The priest asked a couple of questions, then said he'd give a loonie to anyone who could answer his tough question. Daughter got it (answer was "Passover" but her class just did a playfor the school last Thusday, so she had an edge). After, all the kids got a fresh loaf of baked bread. No wine though. That's waiting for me right now.

Coming Up For Air

I have a new baby girl.

For the last two weeks, and until the end of June, I am babysitting my friend's 12-month-old while she's back teaching. Bee is a sweet kid and Baby Boy gets along great with her. She already says a few words: bottle, Elmo, no, cookie and a few others that gets us through the day with few frustrations. Still, Baby Boy has this gift (of sorts) of mimicry; he can babble just like Bee in her voice's pitch. He did the same with his cousin out west. My own Rich Little.

Of course, taking care of Bee means that I can do nothing else around the house, including updating this. I hold her a lot so she can feel safe and loved while her two mothers are gone, and she appreciates it.

Yes, two mothers. And they're in their 40s. Bee is a bit of a miracle child, and I'm so conscious of that. We had a summer-like day on Thursday so Baby Boy and I took Bee outside and we all got pretty filthy. When her mum picked her up, she noticed that Bee's legs and feet had dirt on them. I started to apologize but my friend was so happy. "This means she's growing up."

Thursday night was a gift for Husband and I. My friend Jules and her husband offered to take all three of our kids from 3:30 so Husband and I could have a date night. The funny thing is that when she first made the offer, I just laughed and said, "Oh, it would never work." You see, she has two sons. K, in particular, is like a rock star in my house. Daughter and Middle Child compete for his attention and things can get pretty crazy. Jules's other son is autistic but, honestly, Baby Boy is much more of a handful.

However, she wouldn't take no for an answer and I knew she'd be able to handle any crises that came up. She is like the Fun Mom you wished you had. And everything went well. Of course, the party ended when Middle Child's eyes started to puff up from the pollen and, of course, he got all dramatic about it: screaming, crying, rubbing his eyes and walking around with them closed even if it meant bumping into walls and such. Cripes.

Jules and I have also been busy planning a fun fair for my kids' school's 50th anniversary. Get this: the head of the school board says to do it up really big, but our budget will be nada. In other words, make me look good without my help. Don't even get me started about that creep. I've had my run-ins with him before. Earlier, I went to a parent council meeting to basically beg for money, which I got. Although, I have to say I had help. My friend, the saddest girl to ever hold a martini, is the treasurer. When her kids came over to play, I showed her my plans and then asked if the council had the money. She was great and even spoke up for me at the meeting, as did two other friends who came specifically to side with me (as I learned later).

The two older kids got their report cards and they were glowing. Daughter got all "A"s except for 4 "B+"s (what is the proper way to write that?). Middle Child's report was all text, as is the case in the kindergarten years. He got words like "gifted", "talented", and stuff but also attached was a sheet requesting an interview. So Husband and I show up with Middle Child. His awesome teacher is there and then ... the principal walks in to take a seat. "You know it's bad when the principal sits in," I said to Jules. "No, he sits in for the special needs' kids' interviews. I guess (Middle Child) is special in another way!"

Anyway, I'm thinking, "Fuck. Go in grizzly bear mother mode. Protect your child." Granted, the boy has been fighting lately. Because he doesn't play with anyone in his class (he has waaay different interests), he hangs around older kids who, let's face it, don't want to be around a kindergartener. Would you? Things escalate. He gets angry and he lashes out. Earlier, one boy pinned him down so Middle Child kneed him in the nuts. For two years now, I've expressed my concern that he hasn't connected with anyone in his class. He's friendly. They're friendly with him, but nothing gels. And I've always known my child to have a temper, even as a newborn. Middle Child's teacher has tried what she could but nothing worked.

So here's the principal telling me stuff I already know. And then the grizzly mama came out. I complained that the disciplinary regulations at the school are not a one-size-fits-all thing. To send my son home because he fought is like a reward for him. He has no friends. He's above-average academically so classtime can often be an opportunity for him to show off. Going home after a fight? He's avoiding the problem! Why not set some things in place so you can prevent my kid from losing his temper in the first place? That's what we do at home. That there's no designated kindergarten area in the playground is a bone of contention too, but that won't change. And I've had this discussion informally with the principal before, don't get me wrong.

I suggested that they catch him doing "good" instead of "bad" all the time. How about extending what we do at home: if he gets seven checkmarks for "doing good" in a day, he gets a letter of the alphabet to spell out the word of a prize. The alphabet thing came from Jules. Works great. Currently, the kid is going for a Boba Fett Pez dispenser.

And how about arranging for a classmate to play with him before the bell rings? I will send him to school with some plastic binoculars and the teacher gives him a clipboard and pencil and he's to find things that start with an S or signs of spring or write down the names of the friends he can spy on through the binoculars. Well, wouldn't you know that Mumma is right. This is working out great. The teacher has run off copies of a chart that breaks down the day with a space for check marks and comments on what he's done to earn those checks. She's also bought him a huge plastic magnifying glass.

Possibly, the number one thing I have learned from the parents of a special needs child, the one thing Jules says many times, you have to be the fiercest advocate for your child. Don't leave it up to anyone else, no matter who they are. You, alone, are the one who knows him best. It seems so obvious but, scarily, I realize that I hadn't always done this.

And then all day yesterday, I had really icky pains all over. I ate nothing and remained stationary almost all day. Bad mother, I let the kids spend five hours watching TV and playing XBox while I convelesced. And where was Husband? Hmm, sunny day. Day off work. I'm home and obviously not going anywhere ... that sounds like GOLF TIME!

My Father-In-Law Looks Nothing Like Jeff Daniels

Actually, you can, indeed, live with someone for almost 20 years and still learn new things about them.

Husband and I rented The Squid and the Whale to watch when the kids were asleep. It's the story of a disintigrated marriage and how the family grapples with the divorce.

We were about 20 minutes into the movie. I'm sitting there thinking, "The parents are doorknobs. How could they hurt their boys like that?" I stretch my legs out on to Husband's lap and he absentmindedly starts tapping them. After a minute, he sighed, "This reminds me of my own parents' divorce."

We've always been pretty up-front about everything with each other, but his parents and all the crap that's associated with them are things he very seldom discusses. On one of our first dates, I had asked about his parents and he curtly said, "They're divorced. My mom remarried a guy nine years older than me and my dad is divorcing his second wife. And that's all I want to say about that, if you don't mind."

Since then, I don't touch that subject. Little by little, he tells me odd snippets of his childhood, mostly hidden within another story ("I think the last time I saw that movie was when I was visiting my mother in the hospital one Christmas...").

Needless to say, we continued to watch the rest of the movie in silence.