Middle-of-the-Night Thoughts

Ever wake up in the middle of the night and you're doing Grand Prix laps in your head?

I am having one of those nights. It doesn't help that my stomach has been upset almost all day and I have a cold that I just can't shake.

The only hint that I was feeling poorly was a few days last week when the cold made me lose my voice. To be honest, it freaked the kids (and my parents who phoned) to hear me talk like Brenda Vaccaro. Although I was actually feeling alright those days, Daughter in particular really picked up the slack around here and helped out.

She has these bouts of maturity beyond her years, and then there are days when she screams and cries at the drop of a hat. I'm sure we're dealing with the onset of hormones here. What else could it be? This sort of behaviour started almost overnight after her last birthday.

I'm shaking in my Blunstones, fearing those teenage years which are around the corner.

Slowplum came over the house a couple of days ago. She slapped me upside the head when she reminded me that Grade 8 is but a handful of years away. The Grade 8s at my kids' school tower over me. The girls have breasts. Slowplum swears some of them are sexually active. Shaking, I tell you.

Candidate for Fromage 1982

Is it just me or does this video remind you of Benny Hill too?

Middle Child's Birthday Extravaganza

Middle Child has come a long way, socially.

Last year, he didn't really have any friends in his class. It could have been because of the bullying. It could have been because he can have a bit of a superiority complex. It could be because his kindergarten classmates were not interested in chemical reactions, planetary sciences or were tucking into chapter books.

This year, he learned he needs to give a little and he found himself a little niche. There are even a few of the popular athletic boys who eagerly seek Middle Child to play with "because he's smart and has neat ideas." My cup runneth over.

But given the chance to have a birthday party with classmates or spending a weekend with family in Niagara Falls, Middle Child picked the latter.

Middle Child is completely obsessed with facts. The books he reads are often stuff like trivia books or the Guinness Book of World Records. More than anything, though, he loves the Ripley's Believe It or Not series.

So when we went to Baby Sister and Home Chef's wedding in Niagara Falls, he made a decision to go to the Ripley's museum of oddity for his birthday. And he talked about it on a daily basis, believe me.

Last Friday after school, we piled the kids in the car. I booked us a room at the HoJo near Clifton Hill, where all the funhouses and rides and museums are. Middle Child had his list of things he must do and, thankfully, weren't unattainable.

One thing NOT on the list was to see the actual falls, though. There were no complaints when, after checking in, we walked down to the falls. We stuck around until dusk, watching the light shows on the American Falls, but were more mesmerized by the one on Horseshoe Falls. Of course, the kids got all puffed up when we told them that Horseshoe was entirely in Canada. "Ours is the best. Ours is the best," they sang and did some funky chicken dance. I'm sure it was very amusing to the Republican American tourists nearby. They had tons of energy considering it was way past bedtime and they did all that walking. So we stuck around until 10 when the fireworks started. Walking back to the hotel, Daughter sighed, "That was so nice–and it didn't cost us anything!"

Cost was a factor the next day. We ate at the Denny's next door with their inflated prices. The kids' meals were still $1.99 but Husband's bacon, eggs, hash browns and pancakes were something like $13. I had an egg, toast and grits for $8. Anyhow, it was totally palatable despite my conviction that no self-respecting Maltese person would willingly eat at a place called "Denny".

For those reading this who are not lucky enough to be Maltese, "denny" in Maltese means something along the lines of "gut-rot". I am not joking.

After breakfast, Husband took Baby Boy to the pool while we hit Must-See #1: Ripley's 4-D Moving Theatre. Baby Boy wouldn't make the height restriction, so off we went alone. We were the only ones there, but they put it on for us anyway. We were shaken about, imagining we're on an out-of-control logging truck, snowmobile, dune buggy and a bunch of other reckless vehicles. Fake snow shot around us, steam, rain. It was fun but Middle Child left a little green. Guess we shouldn't have come so close after eating breakfast.

Back to the hotel, the kids went into the pool for about a half-hour and got bored even with the curly slide and stuff. So we went back to the room, got clean in the completely red bathtub and shower (thumbs-up on Jen's tack-o-rama meter), checked out and hit the hallowed Ripley's museum. It was lots of fun for all of us, but Middle Child was in his element. You can easily tell when the boy is happy because he has this walk, walk, skip, walk, walk, skip. Anyway, he insisted on reading - I swear - every display. We were there for almost two hours.

The building itself was a marvel. It looked like it was a tower tipped over on its side. Wicked.

Next on Middle Child's Must-Do List was eat at the Rainforest Cafe. His teacher raved about it once and he's wanted to go ever since. The restaurant is right next to the Marvel Adventure City. If you know my kid, you'd know that place was on the list as well. But, disappointingly, it was only an arcade and not even specifically Marvel either. When Middle Child stated, "This probably isn't the one they advertised. Or maybe they changed it" we took it as a cue that we could shuffle the kids out of there. And, by now, Hollow Leg Husband was hungry again, so we went next door to the Rainforest Cafe.

Ever left somewhere feeling you got royally ripped off and felt really dirty? Our experience at the Rainforest Cafe did just that, and left me in a very sour mood afterward. Not only was the prices outrageous, but the food was lacklustre. Of course, it would have been nice had we been served together. Yup, just to prove a point yet again, I get bad service almost everywhere. My food (a simple grilled vegetable panini) came to me 15 fucking minutes after the rest of the family was served. Husband was long done his burger, as was Middle Child. Was it worth the wait? It was okay, but, c'mon. It's a sandwich. AND it would have been an extra $2 if you replaced the potato chips side with a salad or fries. I'm already spending $14 on a meatless sandwich. It should be wrapped in fucking gold for that price.

They sat us next to a fountain largely emblazoned "Protect the Earth". Meanwhile, their menu was mostly beef, beef and more beef. We waited for the fountain to do something crazy when the next rainstorm happened. The maitre d' really pumped this storm up to us as we were being seated. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. We heard thunder and some of the large mechanical animals came alive. Niiiice.

Anyway, I could go on about the washroom attendant who practically held hygiene hostage for the sake of a tip (I carry Purell so shove your soap up your ass), or how the waiter threw our bill on our table with it landing between Daughter and Middle Child, but let's just leave it as one of those places we will never, ever, ever go back to. I mean, if the $78 bill wasn't enough of a battlecry, I could go on and on.

We hit the Guinness museum (world records and, unfortunately because I could have used one, the beer). That was a little dull. It was completely lost on Baby Boy because there wasn't really any hands-on exhibits. "I could just read the book," Daughter said with that pre-teen attitude just starting to bubble up.

Husband and I really wanted to go under the falls or take a Maid of the Mist ride but the kids were exhausted. We took one last look at the falls, bought some ice cream for the kids and got outta Dodge (with a quick photo pit stop at the Flying Saucer Restaurant.

And, since it was on the way, we dropped in on my parents to wish my old man a happy 63rd birthday.

Tucking in Middle Child that night, I got a very rare hug and kiss. "I love you, Mom," he said. "Thanks for making my dreams happen."

Again, my cup runneth over.

Sunday

I think we saw the last of the food from the family picnic this weekend.

Home Chef and Baby Sister brought, like, a hundred hot dogs (no doubt bought from a butcher because that's the kind of guy my brother-in-law is). They also brought news that they put in an offer on a house near Husband's grandmother's home. I think by now Baby Sister has spread the news so it's safe to say here that they got the house.

Word has it that Home Chef would like to convert the shed into a smokehouse.

Anyway, now all of my parents' kids have mortgages. Hooray for us.

Eldest nephew came in and made a beeline for the XBox. Niece and Daughter holed themselves in the treehouse.

My mum sat on her ass for the first time in a long time. I was so happy to see her relatively relaxed that I kept the wine flowing. She brought a box of chocolates so big, you could have sailed to Portugal on it. She left it on the kitchen table and Baby Boy made short work of it. I swear, the kid ate about half the box. Needless to say, he made lots of trips to the toilet.

Dad installed a new porch light for us, happily giving direction to Husband and Home Chef while Middle Sister and Lumber Guy sat in the backyard with one eye on the kids and the other on their frosted mugs of beer.

We were celebrating all sorts of June events: Middle Child's birthday, Father's Day, my dad's birthday, my parents' 40th anniversary, and - I totally forgot - my own birthday. Seriously, I forgot maybe since it passed and no fuss was made other than Jules taking me out for the world's most amazing chef-created burger and an incredible midday cocktail. So when Baby Sister (who arrived first) gave me a gift bag with Sephora cosmetics (it was a first for brown eyeliner) and a Zellers gift card (I'm buying Taboo!), I was a little taken aback. Middle Sister gave me a Lush shampoo bar that kind of smells like denture breath but does absolute wonders for my hair, and a Winners gift certificate which I'll hold on to until the one in town opens. My mum also gave me two pairs of capris in, uh, a small size.

"I thought they'd fit because you don't have an ass anymore," she explained.

Nice sentiment and maybe I have lost a bit of junk in the trunk but I still have a Falstaffian belly. She gave me the receipt.

This post is poorly written. I leave you with these awesome guys freestylin' at the McDonald's drive-thru. Sweet mother, I bet it just made the minimum-wage employee's day.

And Now Back to Anna Nicole Smith

Hopefully, this soothes Jules's oral pain.

I caught Entertainment Tonight on TV for the first time in years. Man, I used to watch that show like a religion. Then I got a life.

Anyway, turns out Paris Hilton tried to kill herself at a Robin Thicke party before she went into the slammer. She swallowed ten Valium tabs with a bottle of wine (which, I assume, was her caloric intake for the day).

Someone saw her and stopped her.

"Ten pills for her is a suicide attempt," I yawned to Husband. "But eight pills would have been Friday night."

I didn't even get a smirk for that one. He was reading his latest issue of Golf Digest. Great. See you in October, Husband.

Leave Well Enough Alone

Was it just me or did you notice, too, that my images weren't appearing?

So I fiddled around with the layout and screwed everything up. So put up with this pink for a bit and I'll try something new...when I get around to it.

I am the World's Best Mother

I was told by Middle Child that I am the world's best mother because I made bacon this morning.

Apparently, ladies, this is all it takes.

My Memory of June Callwood

Husband gets lots of magazines at work so I get to read them all.

This month, lots of them have tributes to journalist, author and social activist June Callwood, who died recently of cancer.

I met Callwood once. She was getting an honourary doctorate during my university commencement. Many of my journalism classmates wanted to shake her hand, and we did. I don't know about them, but the woman made me feel like I was the only person in the room. She looked at me so intently that it seared. And I glowed.

And as I was shaking her hand, the one thing that struck me hardest, the singular three-dimensional impression left behind, were June Callwood's hands. These hands which wrote gargantuan phrases, cleverly strung together like pearls and as beautiful as a lei, these hands which helped to build herculean organizations like Casey House, PEN Canada and the Canadian Civil Liberties Association, these hands were boney, liver-spotted, and frail. These were old lady hands.

I can still remember the feel of June Callwood's grip.

Single Parenting is the Shit

As of Wednesday, I've been single parenting. Husband is at a convention of sorts until late Saturday night.

I've been dreading it a little. He's done this before and I found it very demanding taking care of the three kids on my own.

But, don't tell him, so far, so good. I've managed to take Baby Boy to soccer, send Daughter to her violin lesson, arranged a playdate for Middle Child (they did a science experiment gathering bacterial cultures. He's six, people). We went over a friend's house for pool time. I saw the older kids off on a school and Brownie field trip to a butterfly conservatory. Of course, get everyone ready for school, but that's nothing new. I even went to Junior Kindergarten orientation for Baby Boy which was exciting for him and emotionally draining for me.

Daughter, in particular, has been helpful. Middle Child will clean up after himself without me having to tell him seven times. Baby Boy still thinks the world revolves around him. Bring on kindergarten! The house isn't nearly as tidy as I'd have liked, but it's not too bad either. I scrubbed the floors and the dishes are clean.

I ensured our tradition of staying up until 9 on Thursdays was kept. I bought some Bits and Bites and we hunkered down to watch Middle Child's new favourite show, Pirate Master (like Survivor on a tall ship). I even bought fruit punch, which I never do, to compensate their father's absence. I will buy your love!

But maybe I'm doing too good of a job.

I asked the kids as I was tucking them in last night, "Do you miss Daddy?" Daughter nodded her head and gave puppy dog eyes. I know an act from that girl when I see it and this was not quite Sir John Gielgud but not Paris Hilton either. Middle Child was busy squeezing in a chapter of his book and didn't answer me. Baby Boy, on the other hand, opened his eyes and said, "Daddy's gone?! I didn't even know he left!"

Country Roads, Take Me Home

Have you ever travelled across Canada? I have, admittedly only from Toronto to the very west coast. The furthest east I've ever been was Kingston, until this weekend. But I love seeing sleepy little towns, watching people mowing their lawns, hanging up their laundry, kids walking to I dunno. I love being in places I may never have heard of, or only knew them from maps (I'm so geeky, I simply adore reading maps). In these places, I see people who go on about their daily lives. Do they watch the same TV shows as I do? Do they use the same laundry detergent? What do they do for fun?

Taking turns with Husband, I drove my family and my parents to the Ottawa Valley, near Pembroke. We were going up there for Baby Sister and Home Chef's wedding reception number three.

Baby Sister mailed our dad Mapquest directions, but I thought I should find alternate routes. Google Earth had some great ones (and you can kind of see landmarks, too). But I know my dad. If the directions Baby Sister sent were approved by Home Chef, who lived out that way, then those directions are gospel.

It started out okay. We picked up the folks at Middle Sister's house which is right off the 401, so it wasn't out of the way for us to travel. And our first stop was at the McDonald's nearby. It wouldn't be the first time we stopped at a McYuck's, sadly. In fact, after this one breakfast, I instead chose to starve rather than eat there.

Mum called me the afternoon before to tell me she got some snack foods in the car. Of course, I didn't expect it all to be junk food. That's not like her. Thankfully, I packed some water and apples. Okay, the cheesies, cookies and licorice went first.

Husband drove through to Bancroft, about 4 hours and a bit, making one stop in a little spit called Woodview so Daughter could stretch her legs. We were hoping for a bathroom, but they didn't have any. Everyone poured out of the car at the Bancroft McDonald's and make a beeline for the can. Unfortunately, it was just a single john per sex, and I think someone was having a baby in the women's bathroom. Daughter was just about ready to burst so we took her to the men's room.

By this time, Baby Boy's mosquito bitten ear developed an allergic reaction and was swelled up and all cauliflowered. Luckily, we were within walking distance to the drugstore where we got some topical cream for the little guy.

I drove the rest of the way, with my dad navigating. We stopped, per Mum's request, at Madonna House to praise God and sacrifice ourselves to the mosquitos and black flies. Hopped back in the car. Everyone fell asleep except for me (of course) and Dad, who navigated using the archaic Mapquest directions which took us down the windiest, bumpiest backroads in the province of Ontario.

We happily pulled into the hamlet. I spotted the Chinese diner the party was going to be at. Dad shuddered. He hates Chinese food, mostly due to all the buildings he worked on in Toronto's Chinatown. He got an eyeful, lemme tell you. And he's never been one for places out in the middle of nowhere. "Vermin," he explains.

Our cottage, cabin, whatever, was great. Daughter went in first as I was talking with Baby Sister and her friend. Daughter bolted out, "Come see our cottage, Mum. It's the most beautiful one we've ever been to!" And she was right. The sheets were thin but the rest was lux.

At the last minute, I packed the kids' bathing suits. I was Mother of the Year for a nanosecond for that. The kids had a great time swimming in the lake, collecting very nice rocks and playing in the red sand. The water was warm, too.

Daughter and I played a little Taboo with Baby Sister and her girlfriends (pop culture whore that I am, I loved that game) and, before I knew it, it was time to get ready for dinner. I set out the family's clothes, slipped into a sundress, much to my mother's delight ("Thank goodness you aren't going in that stupid bowling shirt!" Never mind that I just got a compliment from one of Home Chef's drinking buddies). I helped flat iron Baby Sister's hair while talking to her friend about BodyPump classes. How neat is it that two people from opposite sides of this very large province are as equally enthusiastic about the same exercise class?

And dinner was nice! Home Chef's mum went to a lot of trouble, but you could just tell that the night meant the world to her. The woman just beamed. She made wedding favours of gourmet peanuts and framed wedding pictures for everyone, and even made special favours for my three kids. Each got a box of Smarties, a fruit leather and a magnet of their aunt and uncle.

We were shown a DVD Home Chef's mum commissioned me to do. It was a whack of photos of the couple through the years, set to music. No one could figure out how to amplify the sound, but we got the projector working. "Jennifer, you're a marvel!" Home Chef's dad said to me. "How was it that you were able to put hair back on my head?"

After dinner, we all piled back to the cabin. Baby Sister, Home Chef and some friends were right next door to us. Husband and Baby Boy were very tired, so they went to bed, as did my mum who had no interest in watching the hockey game. But the rest of us found a place to sit and watch the Senators beat the Ducks. Daughter fell asleep during the second period, pretty much curling up on the sofa. Middle Child, however, has finally found an interest in hockey. Okay, it's all about the statistics for him and not so much the moves, but he just loved watching a game with tons of fans. Oh, and that everyone was drinking. There must have been four two-fours as well as boxes o' wine. And they were all gone. Home Chef left the empties in the cabin when they left. "Nice tip," my dad told him.

We had breakfast together where Middle Child went for the buffet and had, I think, four platefuls as well as dessert. Home Chef's mother couldn't believe it. Mind you, I think my nephew D could do the same if he were there.

And then we went home. I drove four hours, putting up with my mother who is the world's worst backseat driver.

"Slow down! So what if you're going the speed limit. It's too fast!"

"Can't you find a smooth part of the road?"

"You took that corner too sharply."

This went on and on. I blocked her out for most of it, but there were times when even my dad would turn around and tell her to shut up because she's distracting. Honestly, I drove my very best. I was unfamiliar with the road and I had a carload of loved ones in my care. But when we pulled into Peterborough, everyone was pretty testy. We all needed a break. Signs for rest stops were straight, but the directions said to turn. Dad told me to turn. I turned.

"Why the hell did you do that for? Didn't you see the signs?"

So I turned off the highway at a sign that said it had every fast food joint known to Canada. I asked where everyone wanted to go, but there was no preference. "Take your pick, honey," Dad said. So I pulled into an A & W that was easy to access and looked easy to reenter the highway.

"NO!" yelled Mum. "Not here! We don't like it here!"

I jammed on the brakes, threw the car in "park" and got out of the car. "I've had it with you and all your orders! If you think you can do a better job driving, there's the wheel."

I ended up playing Solitaire on my iPod all the way back to Middle Sister's home. I could have kissed the asphalt.

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.