Mary, the Bird, and the Roses

I'm wiping the mud off my funeral shoes again.

Husband is very close to his gramma, so when her baby sister died, we decided to go to her funeral in Brampton. Oh yeah, and we were told to go. Gotta protect the queen.

We got the the church and said our hellos to the family. Gramma's descendants all sat in one pew (with Uncle Napanee, Auntie Grandma Rainbow and myself bringing up the Catholic quotient, sitting and standing at all the appropriate times and leading the others. Catholic school comes in handy).

The mass was eventful for two reasons. One was because they allowed Auntie Grandma Rainbow to deliver a eulogy, which is rare. The other was because there was a little bird that flew in. It was a humid day so the doors of the church were left open for a cross breeze. Anyway, this bird, no word of a lie, would fly and sing at all the appropriate times. It was really beautiful and moving and thought-provoking and humbling and comforting.

And if you know Rob's Aunt Grandma Rainbow, you'd know that she loves stuff like that.

She's a converted Catholic, picking up the religion when she married her first husband. She doesn't agree with everything the church says and hasn't been to mass in years but she says she prays. She and Husband's Gramma were at the bedside when Gramma's sister died. Auntie was praying the rosary silently when she suddenly got a huge whiff of roses. She commented to her cousin who just walked in that her perfume was incredible. "But I'm not wearing perfume," the cousin replied. Strange, she thought, and went back to the rosary. Minutes later, Gramma's sister died.

Husband's aunt and her cousins talked to the priest at the funeral home and discussed what a peaceful death she had. Then they mentioned the roses. "That was Mary visiting," the priest said.

This shook Husband's aunt to the core. And then the bird. Husband's gramma is a big-time athiest and thinks this whole thing is bullshit. Ironically, her name is Mary. Mind you, it is the real first name of Husband's aunt but she doesn't go by that.

Auntie planned on going to Sunday mass this morning.

I slept in.

Does This Outfit Make My Ass Look Pregnant?

I go to the gym religiously. Every weekday morning, you'll find me there at around 5:45, getting in 30 minutes of cardio before my low weights/high rep class or the yoga/pilates class. And I'm on time for the spinning class at 6:15.

I like it. I like how I feel after. I like the people there. I like how toned I am (everywhere but my surgically scarred abdomen). I like going there before my family wakes up so that my exercise for the day is done and I still have plenty of time to get everyone ready for school when I get back.

Anyway, the instructor today mentioned that these morning classes are at high risk of being dropped from the schedule. The gym manager is asking people to fill out a questionnaire regarding what classes should stay on and hardly anyone from the early group have filled out one. I did one about two weeks ago, but I filled another one today imploring them to keep the classes.

Honestly, if they didn't have these 6:15 classes, I don't think I could come. I mean, I could enroll Baby Boy in the childminding thingie but it's expensive. And what would I do in the summer? Send all three? The cost of that alone would stop me but could I really do that to Daughter? Mind you, she probably wouldn't mind being around all the babies. Middle Child, though, would go out of his tree if they didn't have enough craft supplies.

So, right on the heels of this announcement today, I had walked the kids to school. On the way there, we ran in to one of the moms at the school. She is severely Catholic with eight children and she's not done. So despite all my hard work, even getting the elbow sweats today at the gym (literally), she dropped the p-bomb on me. "You're looking great, Jen! But don't worry about being pregnant in the summer heat. It isn't that bad!"

I just smiled and walked away. Thankfully, it didn't register with the kids. I figure she'll either realize in a couple of months that I'm not pregnant or she'll think I had a miscarriage or abortion or something and she'll leave me alone. I mean, come on. Unless it's your sister or best friend or something, you don't know the circumstances. So shut the fuck up.

But then, on the way home, a mom I know from the older kids' nursery school days was walking her dog. She hardly ever talks to me though I see her all the time. Oooh, but today was my lucky day. Even though she was steps from her house and her big dog was tugging hard to go in, she stopped and asked, "Another child?"

Well, I thought she was referring to Baby Boy, who didn't go to school with any of her four boys. "Third and last," I replied.

"So when are you due?"

"I'm not."

"Pardon?"

"I'm not pregnant," I said, gritting my teeth. "I'm just fat. Don't worry - I get that a lot." And then to cement my reputation as a huge bitch, I added, "Do you?"

Help Fill an iPod

In an effort to expand her musical horizons, a friend of mine is looking for other people's opinions. Help her fill her ridiculously large memory iPod and tell me your favourite:

a) song from the 70s, 80s, 90s and, uh, this decade.
b) love song
c) break-up song
d) summer song
e) cleaning the house song
f) song of all-time

Drop 'em here or email them to me (titles only). She thanks you in advance.

How Many L's Are There In Buffalo?

Just one!

I made a poster with this for the boys in Daughter's class. She's going to hang it up by the lunchbox cubbies. For some blasphemous and unpatriotic reason, they're all big Sabres fans. Suckers.

Boys are Gross

"Mummy, spray some cologne on my wrist. Okay, now smell it. What does it smell like?"

"Um, like manly lemons, Baby Boy."

"Okay, now smell this finger. Not that one. This one. What does it smell like?"

"AGCK! Oh, God! It's awful! It smells horrible!"

"That's because I put it on my bum!"

24-Hour Party People

Baby Sister elopes and she gets not one, not two, but three receptions (of sorts).

And after all the shit she's been through, and to celebrate the happiness and new lease on life that she found and created, she's deserving of more.

So party #2 was at my parents' place last Saturday. Mum pretty much made everything and even found time to decorate with tulle and white flowers. Mum served pastizzi. The universe appeared to be in order.

I was going to make vegetables but was told, at the last minute, not to bother because there was going to be too much food. So I came over early, helped prep, and did my best to act as associate hostess/garbage collector/Mum's lackey.

A few of, er, I used to call him The Boyfriend. Now what? Let's call him Home Chef. Okay, a few of Home Chef's aunts and uncles came, along with his super nice parents. Two of Baby Sister's oldest friends came as well, which it's always great because they're so fun and warm. But, by far, the party was made up of my relatives, and lots of them.

Many people from both my father's side and my mother's side came. And they stayed! A few of my cousins come to family gatherings for a couple of hours and then leave early, but my mother was thrilled that everyone stuck around and seemed to be really enjoying themselves. The good thing is that there's history between my maternal and paternal families (no, my parents aren't cousins; that's not why I'm weird), so everyone gets along. Though they may only get together like this once in a decade, it's still very friendly. It also helps that my family (both sides) are 24-hour party people. And I mean that in the best sense.

One of the coolest things that has evolved is that the newest generation, mine and my cousin's kids, just fall in together. Some of these kids never see each other, but you'd never had known if you saw how they played last Saturday.

And there's lots of relatives. My dad is the fourth child of eight, and my mum is the second-born in a similarly relentless Catholic family. Still, we all came home with doggy bags of food.

Of course, some things didn't go as planned. I had hoped to do some party games. I even had prizes for the brave souls who wanted to participate in my Newlywed and Not-So-Newlywed Game, but I couldn't really see a break in the party to rev the sucker up. Mum had me set up all the appies in the living room but the party was obviously going on outside at that point, so I moved everything out there after a while. Mum also set up a nursing room for my cousin J but she's breastfeeding her second kid. All shred of dignity leaves women long before that second kid pops out, let me tell you. No, J nursed where the party is. I'm sure she's also at the point where she's thirsting for adult conversation. Ah, yes. I know it well...

Where these were just little blips and really not even the slightest deal, the fucking elephant in the room was my mother's black-hearted brother. He wasn't invited but he came because no one else could drive my grandmother. Mum knows quite well my feelings for this bottom-feeder, so she told me of his attendance a few days before.

"Don't expect me to even so much as make eye contact with the scum-sucker."

"I wouldn't dream of it, darling."

"And don't force my kids to be all nicey-nicey with him, either. He lost that privilege."

"Don't worry. I won't be drunk that day."

Oh, you may be thinking, "Jen, c'mon. How bad can this guy be?" Well, let's just paint the picture with the very first thing he did when he walked in the door and if it isn't enough to make you even THINK that there may be one brick short of a load in that pea brain of his, correct me.

Again, he came in and went into the kitchen where Baby Sister and Home Chef were. I discretely backed off giving him the familial hugs and kisses. If I want a disease, I'll go somewhere exciting like Africa ... or Halifax. Anyway, the guy shakes Home Chef's hand and says, "Uh, hello, er, (insert Middle Sister's husband's name here). So! You're number two, eh?"

Home Chef's eyes widened. Baby Sister turned her heels and walked out. I stood there ready to remove the fucker's vocal chords with a potato peeler.

Seriously. Okay, you got Home Chef's name wrong. Fine. You probably haven't met Middle Sister's husband either. But is the only thing you could say to Home Chef is, "You're number two"? What did you really mean?

"So! You're next in line, eh?"

"So! You bought a used car, eh?"

"So! I have the social graces of a crazed, homeless junkie with the farts, eh?"

I can only hope to God that he crawls back under that rock he came from and then we don't have to see him again until the next solar eclipse. Or ever.

But the rest of my family? I can't wait until the next time. Honest.

Unintentional Porn: Mother's Day Cactus Planters

My cousin sent me this email probably about five years ago and I've saved it ever since. In honour of Mother's Day, I repeat it here.

An elementary school class started a class project to make planters for Mother's Day. They wanted to have a plant in it that was easy to take care of, so they decided to use cactus plants.

The students were given green ware pottery planters in the shape of a clown, which they painted with glaze. The clown planters were professionally fired at a class outing so they could see the process.

It was great fun. They planted cactus seeds in the finished planters and they grew nicely but unfortunately the children were not allowed to take them home…the cactus plants were removed and small ivy replaced them and the children were then allowed to take them home instead.

The teacher said cactus seemed like a good idea at the time…

It's a thankless job, but the benefits are incredible.

Getting the kids ready for school has been not the best. By that, I mean, a little slice of hell.

I reached a breaking point with them regarding this (as well as other things that made me thisclose to just walking out for the evening. If only Husband was home). On Wednesday, I sat them all down and we talked about it. I came up with some rules, to which they agreed to, and put them in play.

And it's been wonderful. Nothing is rushed. No feathers are ruffled. We (meaning I) even have time to relax before we start our day.

So when Middle Child wanted to talk this morning, we were afforded a nice long time. We needed it.

"So, you know this Mother's Day Tea Party my class is throwing for all the mums?" started Middle Child. "Yeah, well, you'll be getting a book that I made. I had to write about why I love you and about the nice things you do. Just so you know, it was late in the day and I was tired and I couldn't think of anything. Don't be shocked, okay?"

He couldn't think of a single thing. He wanted to, he said, but it was too taxing.

I asked if he felt that I loved him. I'm his mom, he said, and I have to. So from there, I gave him leaders on a few things that I do to show that I care. It took a while for Middle to get up that hill, but then it all hit him like a ton of bricks. When I mentioned that I quit my very good job to raise my children (I didn't get into the fact that I am a high risk for stress-induced miscarriage, of course), he was dumbfounded. And then he started to cry.

"Why don't you tell me all the great things you do for me?"

"Because telling you isn't important, but it's important that I do these things."

And then I got a rare Middle Child hug. It was better than the book.

My Crucifix Scab

I live across the street from a Catholic church. They're great neighbours, really. We turn a blind eye to the "no street parking" signs and they let our kids ride their bikes on the parking lot when there isn't anything going on.

It was there when I was watching Baby Boy on his training wheels and misstepped off my wedge heels and lost my balance. I ended up scraping my hand through a shrub on church property. It stung. I looked down and saw the scratch made a crucifix.

I ought to pick off my scab and sell it on EBay!

Loving Husband. Loving Beer.

Fifteen years ago today, Husband and I got hitched.

I'd marry him again and again. Who else would have put up with me?

We went out for dinner, en famille, and then, like any good Canadian adults, we hit the Beer Store. Daughter was iPodding us out, singing aloud to Avril Lavigne (she's learning "Losing Grip" on her violin), but Middle Child desperately wanted to follow Husband into the store.

"Where's he going?" Baby Boy asked. "I want to be with Daddy, too!"

Granted, one of my fondest childhood memories is going to the Beer Store with my dad. Sad, eh? Maybe it's the cardboard and yeast smell. Maybe it's the muffled order the clerk barks into the mike, one octave lower than his or her normal talking voice. Maybe it's the chuffffff of the fresh new case of beer bolting out of the hole in the wall making a "ching, ching, ching" sound as the case rolls down the wheeled chute.

But Husband isn't my dad. When he goes to the Beer Store, it's labourious. There's waaaay too many choices for him and what took my dad two seconds (it was 50 in the '70s, Blue in the '80s, the cheapest beer available in the '90s, and now it's whatever my sisters and our husbands want), it takes Husband approximately 4 minutes. Add TWO kids into the mix and the choice is even harder to make for him.

So I did my best to keep Baby Boy in his car seat. And he cried. And cried.

Husband came back and took him out. Baby Boy smiled brightly, dried his tears and walked ahead of Husband with such purpose.

Husband said he took one big sniff and sighed, "I love beer," took his hand and walked out.