A New Look

My friend at The Saddest Girl didn't think the pink paisley thing was "me" enough, so she began to tweak stuff around a bit on my behalf. I'll be tweaking further, just to get used to the whole web design thing, but The Saddest Girl has given me great bones to work with. Any suggestions?

She came over yesterday, a planned playdate with our kids, and gave me a handy-dandy lesson on code while Baby Boy had diarrhea and didn't make it to the toilet. Welcome to my house!

Check out the melons on her!

Art by Jules at Grrraphics.

She'll make you one too, for a price. Give her an email. She could use the money, but can't we all?

What Do You Think?

Just shaking things up here. I was never one for the plain pink thing, but for months now, I've been trying to design my own space here with some crazy cool retro housewife gifs.

As you can see, I couldn't figure out how to do it.

Mind you, I didn't try that hard.

Daughter just came back from a week at my parents'. She had a blast with my niece. My sister and I agreed that it was one of the more peaceful weeks we had, just having our two younger boys at home. Sad, eh? But, in my case anyway, there was mucho cooperation going on between Middle Child and Baby Boy. They only had each other to play with and they did so incredibly well. Middle Child really got into it. "You know, it would be okay if (Daughter) died and there was just me and (Baby Boy)." Nice.

We also went to a restaurant on Friday and got seated much quicker as we were a table for four.

The restaurant thing was Husband's idea, after learning that splitting the hydro lines in the new building would cost about $7000. Yeah, we aren't going to do that now. Husband figured he saved some money there, so he came home and suggested going out for dinner. It seemed a little stupid, but I wasn't going to complain.

And we all ate chicken. So ends Husband's sojourn into vegetarianism. He thought he'd like to try it, so I humoured him. I was surprised when he ordered meat AND a side of potato salad. "You know they'll make it with sour cream and not yogurt (which is how he's had me make it for years now)." He shrugged at my comment and ate like Survivor contestants on food auction day.

Then we went to Middle Sister's house yesterday and she barbecued beef, pork and chicken, which he ate all of the above.

He's off of his "healthier lifestyles" rant, particularly after I had to wake him up when I came back from my 6:15 am weight-lifting class, where I did 30 minutes of cardio prior. I believe his words were, "I better get my lazy ass out of bed before you beat me to a pulp."

Now, the topic du jour is the suspected future airplane bombings. Oh, he's Mr. Conspiracy Theory now. It's so much easier on me. There's no effort on my part.

Starsky and Hutch's First Names

After months of arguments between Husband and I, and my on-going harassment of friends and relatives, I have learned Starsky and Hutch's first names. They would be David Starsky and Ken "Hutch" Hutchinson.

I remembered Hutch's name from watching an episode a year or so ago. Hutch was hopping out of bed and the woman called after him by his first name. She ended up getting killed, but not by Hutch. Or Starsky.

No, my question now is what was Huggy Bear's name?

Now you can answer at least one of these questions.

Click Your Ruby Slippers, Dorothy

There's no place like Rome. There's no place like Rome.

Royal Jules

I talk a lot, it's true. But I have a very good memory making me, in turn, a good listener.

I can't tell you the amount of life skills I've learned from my friends. Husband and I have the upstairs of the new building rented and the new tenant wanted some sort of lease agreement. Oh crap. We tried to figure it out ourselves, when I said, "Bah! I'm calling my cousin M." And, of course, she imparted a wealth of knowledge through her experiences. And she's so damned cool.

But lately, advice from my friend Jules come back to me in waves. "Treat husbands as if they have autism. Praise the good behaviour and ignore the bad."

Holy doodle, does that work! Yesterday night, when he got home from golfing with his apey "I've been outdoors all afternoon" stink, he kissed Baby Boy who was having a bath and then sat beside me on the bathroom floor. And he started, "I bet you had a busy day. I'll take the bedtime shift and you go relax."

Okay, he didn't smell like another woman. No visible hickeys. And then ...

"It's days like today that I realize how good you are to me."

This is after a whole week of, essentially, not cooking. It was partly because of the heat but more because no one is helping to tidy the kitchen; not even clearing their dinner plates from the dining room.

I scoured the kitchen on Sunday night, leaving me happy to make a nice garlic salmon on the grill, a Maltese recipe for thinly sliced baked potatoes, and some brussels sprouts. I had to clean everything. Fine. The next day, I made spaghetti. Husband told me to leave the leftovers in the pot and he'd take some to work the next day. The pot didn't move. For days. Wednesday, I made sandwiches and a tossed salad. I made a half dozen hard boiled eggs on Thursday. I made nothing on Friday. And I let the dishes pile up. It killed me, but I thought a sharper point couldn't be make with a knife.

Daughter totally understood and loaded the dishwasher on Friday night. But I buckled and scoured the kitchen again yesterday.

Now, Jules has made a rule in her house that if she cooks, her husband cleans and vice versa. Makes sense. I'm told this is common in most households (hello to my gym mammas ... and Ken). So if the kitchen isn't clean, Jules just won't cook. I wish. If supper isn't ready by 6, I've got three foragers pulling all sorts of food out, making even a bigger mess.

We had Jules's youngest son over for dinner once and he asked to be excused when he was done. Apparently, I beamed like a million suns. Even my little egotist Middle Child said, "Wow, you're sure happy that K has good manners like that." Yeah, Einstein, so does that give you a hint?

I have a strict rule about us all eating together at the table, and I've just broke Husband from his habit of reading the newspaper during dinner. I also came up with a game to promote conversation called "Two Truths and a Lie" where everyone has to say three things about their day. The rest of the family has to guess which one didn't happen.

But I think I'm going to come right out and tell them all to start cleaning the kitchen. If they don't like it, they can make dinner and I'll be happy to wash their dishes.

However, this week I've been strictly enforcing (think bad-ass South American police) my rule of no eating except in the kitchen or dining room. I'd be almost enticing a revolt.

Autism Rocks

"I like autism rallies!" Daughter said with a pizza sauce smeared smile, hauling her booty to the car.

We went with Jules at Grrraphics (I link to her rather excellent illustration blog), and her two sons, the eldest having high-functioning autism. We grabbed our signs and kept an eye on our brood of kids who were either playing with the Thomas the Tank Engine set or getting their faces painted.

Daughter not only got her face painted but also wrangled some Madonna-esque gloves and a fake hair scrunchie.

The speeches begun. Daughter grabbed a sign herself and left us to stand front and centre to listen. She must have been pretty attentive because she was on the 6 o'clock news and had her photo taken by two newspapers.

On the flip side, she obviously learned a few things because she asked a bevy of questions at the dinner table. Mind you, I was kind of hoping she'd see that not all autistic kids are like her friend; that her friend is doing alright because of the very hard, tenacious work of his parents and his workers. But, of course, all the kids there were super well-behaved.

Except for Baby Boy.

Ugh, the kid was screaming all through the speeches and wouldn't keep still any other time. When we went out for lunch afterward, well, my friend's boys were quite astonished by his behaviour. Yeah, it didn't make for witty banter over the pomme frites, let me tell you.

But this too shall pass.

Bat Outta Hell

A rather restful week was spent at the cottage. The kids played nearly the whole time at the sandy beach where Lake Huron was so clear and blue. Our beach had a large sandbar, so it was nice and shallow and warm.

Yesterday night, I was watching the news seeing hysterical Lebanese mothers mourning their children. "How do these women do it?" I wondered. "How can they find oxygen while they see their lifeless child?"

I looked down at Baby Boy, who couldn't sleep and was playing with his Hot Wheels in the dining room.

And there was a bat flying over his head.

At first I thought it was a silhouette from the window but...nope. So, I called Husband as calmly as I could. No rustling from the attic where he was playing Urban Dead.

Frick it. "There's a bat in the dining room!" Okay, that got him down the stairs but it freaked out Baby Boy.

We ended up opening a door and shooing it out. The whole thing took maybe three minutes.

"You were graceful and calm," Husband told me. "I was freaked because I wasn't wearing a shirt."

Daughter came down. "I heard Mum yell. Is everything okay?"

"Sure, honey. We just had one of those Ontario Little Brown bats, but he went back outside," I said.

"You sure it was a Little Brown?"

"Yeah," I said. "Thankfully, you did that project on bats so we know their not going to kill you. And they don't bite people; just bugs, so it was no big deal to me and Dad."

"Uh, Mensa applicant. Bats bite people. Remember our neighbours at the old house needed tetanus shots?" Husband reminded me.

Ignorance is bliss.

Oh My God!

I have never bought Lego for my kids. What a sin.

A Place to Live. A Place to Grow.

Middle Brother-In-Law left for home after a week with us. The kids didn't leave the poor guy alone. I think Baby Boy dive-bombed his crotch at least a dozen times.

And he emptied the dishwasher a few times. That would make two more times than Husband ever did.

We didn't really do much. Husband still worked, though he took a bunch of afternoons off to golf with his brother. The older kids had birthday parties to go to - two each - which they weren't missing for anything. MIddle Child had the choice of hanging with his friend (The Saddest Girl's son) or going to a Blue Jay game. Let's just say the lure of a Bavarian pretzel and team sports wasn't nearly as attractive. The other party, which both kids were invited to, was all about watching Pirates of the Caribbean and eating candy. Johnny Depp AND chocolate??? Why wasn't I invited? We did manage to go out en famille to the beach, which our guest thought was a great spot. Personally, I also like the drive through the country to get there.

I live in a weird city. It's a strange mix of industry and the arts, rednecks and homosexuals, abject poor and, uh, the opposite. And it's surrounded by working farms. And mennonites. I'm more and more conscious of the dichotomy the longer I live here. I wonder if a visitor notices.

I also wonder if my brother-in-law noticed the many differences between Toronto and this part of Ontario. Too often, non-southern Ontarians lump the whole region with Toronto. Smell the air. Okay, wait until the manure truck passes. Or blow your nose. See? No black specks.

A report just came out stating that, on average, it takes someone 79 minutes to commute to work in Toronto (76 in Montréal, 66 in Calgary). Meanwhile, Husband walks to work. It takes him about nine minutes. And this city is so small, I hold strong to the belief that it takes seven minutes by car to take you anywhere within the city limits.

Mind you, it has its drawbacks too. Unlike a big city, it's pretty homogenous here. City-run activities can be a little hokey. But we're really good at "quaint". Please, get some locals to discuss how much money the city spends on flowers.

But I'm happy enough to live here. I didn't want to be in the middle of nowhere. I had to be within a two-hour drive to a metropolis. I wanted the kids to walk to school. I wanted to be near a fully-functioning hospital. Outside of that, I think your home really is wherever you hang your hat.

I lived in a place where many can't believe I left willingly. Sure, the first two months I was there, I loved the mountains and the ocean. But then it was just a place to live, with pros and cons just like anywhere else. I stopped seeing the mountains. I seldom went to the beach.

And, you know, the beaches nearby where I live now are on a lake that, to the naked eye, appear as expansive as an ocean. And clean. And blue. Yeah, it's not the same, but it's home. It's not so bad.

One Day Down, Another 66 To Go

"You want to watch 'Little Einsteins' while I wash the breakfast dishes?"

"Yes," said Baby Boy, "because that will mean (the baby I used to babysit) will be here soon."

"Uh, no, honey. You'll see her again to play but she won't be staying here anymore."

"What about (Middle Child's classmate whom I babysat on Wednesday and Friday afternoons)? Will we pick her up later?"

"No. That's over too. It's summer vacation! It's just you, me, your sister and brother in the day time. We're going to have so much fun together!"

He cried. Hard. I didn't take it personally.

Should I?

Birthdays are a Drag When You Get Older

Belated wishes for a happy Canada Day to you all.

My day started with the usual watering of the garden, thanks to my very cool and city-subsidized rain barrel. It was then that I noticed some jackass broke off my flag off the door window of my car.

Then my dad called to say, essentially, that we live in the best country in the world. I didn't feel like agreeing at that moment.

The day turned out well though. The family went to Middle Sister's house for a swim and a barbecue. If anything, my sister makes incredible salads. My contribution was a paltry cake made with whipped cream and strawberries shaped like the flag. The kids thought it looked incredible and they actually ate it all.

We went home, caught up with friends and watched the fireworks show. It was at a field that was maybe a 25 minute walk, but figuring it would end sometime after 10, we thought the kids would be too tired, so we drove the car to the half-way mark. As the show ended, another show of thunder and lightning began and down came buckets of rain.

Husband went to work on Sunday and found that the upstairs tenant of the building we bought was giving us 60 days notice. She gave us the name of her sister who would be interested in moving in. We'll see if she still wants to when we tell her I want to up the rent. Currently, the two floor (second and attic), two bedroom apartment, with all utilities included is being rented for $700 a month. I don't think we paid too much for the place - frankly, Husband and I think we got a deal - but with mortgage payments and hydro rates being what they are, we may need to look at that rent.

It's bloody hot and I'm having a fat day. Although I got three pairs of shoes today (one from my birthday money and two a birthday gift), I'm not feeling better. But, hey, I got a loot bag after Canada's birthday: one per cent less on GST AND I get some extra baby bonus money. Just like that cake I ate on Saturday that I'm blaming my fat day on, I feel like I'll be paying for the Harper treats later.

P.S. Got to see Oliver! with my friend, The Saddest Girl To Ever Hold a Martini. It was good, but it was better because I got free tickets!

Sounds Like Dairy Queen For Everyone!

Yesterday was the last day of school for Daughter and Middle Child. They got incredible report cards.

"How many marks were A, A- or A+?" she asked. Ten. The other marks were B+ (all in math, so guess what we're working on this summer). She was thrilled, particularly in French because she started the year with only a B so she really buckled down. How great is it to realize at her age that you CAN be rewarded when you exercise effort?

Middle Child's report card is entirely written. Glowing. I wept. Seriously, the kid has come so far. Sure, he's blossomed into this smart geek (as I told my friend Jules, I'm hoping for Clark Kent and not Urkel), but socially, well, it's another case of being rewarded after much effort. He's making friends.

As I always do, I wrote the teachers letters of gratitude. I figure they can use it when they're up for review or something. Or just read it. Whatever. Being a writer, it comes to me like peeing. It has come to a point where my father prefers mushy greeting cards to my writing a mushy note in a blank one because I've spilled none of my blood. It's more of a joke between us; not quite so maudlin. Anyway, Daughter said it made her teacher cry.

Daughter cried last night because she didn't want school to end. Should I take that as a slap because she'd rather not be at home, or rejoice that she loves learning?

And now Husband is reading over my shoulder, giving me writer's block. See? It does shut off.

Here's a fun and freaky math game.

Two Full Bowls of Chips and a Burning Question

Middle Child had birthday-o-rama. He got his extended family party. Then the immediate family celebrated it on the actual birthday. Today, he had a few friends over to see a movie and then back to the house for barbecue (no one ate), chips (no one ate), fruit (no one ate), and cake (pretty much everyone just licked the icing).

My mum stayed the whole week with us. It was great having her around, even just to pick up the kids from school. She took each kid out individually, which they loved.

She got to see Baby Boy's year-end extravaganza at his school. He spotted us right away and looked happy and all. We were right in the front row, so he couldn't miss. But then he noticed the many, many other grown-ups in the gym and was like a deer in the headlights up there on stage.

All in all, I think the week took a lot out of her. The kids wouldn't leave her alone and her back was acting up quite a bit, particularly in the morning. The doctors still don't know what it is. Getting older sucks, it seems.

And for all of you who know my mother, yes, I cooked fish on Friday. I made a rather nice grilled mahi mahi with homemade parmesan fries and berries for dessert.

BURNING QUESTION
What is the protocol if someone sends you an email (obviously personal) in error? I get this a lot. Post what you do, should it happen to you. Please.

Attending Journalism School Made Me Sensitive

And I'm making ashtrays. I'm so witty, I'm a regular Quentin Crisp.

Crappy journalism is alive and well and seems to have made its home at Fox News.

So I'm at the gym, forced to watch either Fox news, the country music channel, an infomercial or Much Vibe. Some talking head on Fox is going on about the "terrorists in Toronto". Blah, blah, blah "... and one of them went to flying school!"

Had I mentioned how much I enjoy The Colbert Report?

It was made perfectly clear last week that the kid took a very basic introductory community college course on airplane aerodynamics and mechanics. And he dropped out not far into the class. No flying, but maybe the kid can identify components of avionics.

I've worked at a number of Canadian news sources in my career as a journalist. People got fired for less reason than that. I myself almost got canned for putting the wrong page number on the Sunshine Boy page (unintentional, I swear). I pleaded with the editor and managing editor that they couldn't hire my replacement for as little as they were paying me. They laughed and kept me on.

My cousin works in law enforcement. She drives a van, shuttling prisoners from the jail to the courthouse. She made a special trip to see the terrorist suspects but was starstruck (my aunt's words) when she saw the guards in full battle gear and handling pseudo machine guns.

Follow your dreams, my darlings.

Hot Iron

I'm on a t-shirt making bonanza. This is one I made for my dad for Father's Day. I made one for myself that reads "It's not PMS. It's you." I gave one to Daughter's violin teacher that says "I graduated summa cum laude for this" and even made it in University of Ohio colours. A diaper shirt I made for my friend's daughter says, "Does this diaper make my bum look big?"

Someone stop me.

My Son Likes Orange; He Cares Not About Oranje

My city, full of folk with Dutch heritage, is awash in orange. Apparently, World Cup fever is alive and well in southwestern Ontario.

Unintentionally, Husband dressed Middle Child, who has a Dutch name, completely in orange yesterday. He received lots of admiring looks from soccer-crazed Dutch patriots. Aardige kleren!

Retro Family Night

We went to a drive-in movie last night. Husband and I used to live in a bigger city that had a drive-in theatre not far, but that was when Daughter was a newborn. I loved being able to go to a first-run movie with Husband and not have to leave the baby with anyone.

Yesterday's theatre was about a 30 minute drive from the house, or it should have been had we not taken the left instead of the right. When we found ourselves 20 km away from Paris, Ontario, we knew enough to make a U-turn.

Of course, this didn't make matters any better from the peanut gallery in the back row booster seats. The "Are we there yets" had begun not 10 minutes out of town.

We actually got there in very good time. Baby Boy was already asleep, so the older kids and Husband went to the loo, the concession stand and had 10 minutes to play on the swings and such until the movie started.

Of course, by then, it was pretty late. The first movie ended at 11. Wouldn't you know that the kids stayed up until the end? I ended up making a screen out of a blanket so the kids couldn't see the second, more grown-up feature, The Da Vinci Code (and, by the way, don't waste your time). They fell asleep in no time, mind you.

It was a fun little outing for us. Daughter in particular found it to be totally novel ("I saw a movie in a field...in my car...and I was wearing pyjamas!"). And for a total of $27 and the opportunity to gas up in a town that sells for seven cents a litre cheaper than where we live, we might just do it again soon.

The Circus Under the Tent

My niece had her first communion last Sunday. It was probably the first day of one serious heatwave we had.

Middle Sister and her husband rented a tent with tables and chairs. Esthetically beautiful, a logistic boon. The white tent actually kept the oppressive heat away, but maybe too well because everyone stayed way late and all of her neighbours dropped in. We left at about 9 (after I dressed my nephews in their pajamas so maybe people would get the hint) and the neighbours were still in full-blast party mode. At least one of them brought their own liquor (three bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade).

But that was the guy who also mowed their lawn when we were at the ceremony.

The church ceremony was a mass with all of the Grade 2 kids from her school involved. They performed a song at the end and, in typical niece fashion, she sang it å la Celine Dion: full of gusto with lots of action. My niece does everything big. She's one of those people who grabs life by the horns and enjoys the adventure.

My parents walked us through the woods that back off to my sister's house after church. I wore kitten heels. I ended up having to take them off and walk through the pine needle and rock-strewn path barefoot, wishing I wore the Crocs that Daughter insisted on giving me for Mother's Day ("So we can be the same, Mumma!").

Back at the house, we got to work in the kitchen. Baby Sister stayed at home and heated food (all delicious), so I gladly took the tray of pastizzi around. "What are these?" Middle Sister's Italian-Canadian in-laws asked. "Maltese fruit of the gods," I replied. "You won't be disappointed." No one ever is. The only person I ever knew to hate them is a son of my dad's friend and he grew up to be a complete fuck-up. So there.

I spent most of the day working the crowd. Middle Sister was very busy and her husband pretty much kept to his side of the family, so I went around to my side. I can't complain; I love the company of my extended family. We don't get together nearly enough but when we do, we're never short on talk.

I kept away from my mother, who was in bossy mode again in the kitchen. I knew I'd just make her problems worse, and she called me the next day to thank me. Besides, Middle Sister's sisters-in-law (just the two that give me the heebie-jeebies) were also in the kitchen. Did I say my mum was bossy? Oh, no. Not comparatively. Not even close. It was when one sister-in-law pretty much unwrapped her gift to Niece to show me what she bought her that I just vowed not to even make any more eye contact with them. "I always find the nicest gift," she said.

Sorry, honey. If we're in a pissing match, I'm not squatting. Besides, I'll win. Why? Frankly, I think our niece would like mine better. I give my sister's kids the best gift I ever got from most of my aunties: time and respect for the persons they are. The bought gifts I got were pretty rockin' too, I say immodestly.

I think the highlight of the day came from my little nephew. I was swinging him around, playing rough the way he likes, stopping occasionally to hydrate him. When his mum brought out the bubble machine, he gestured that our playtime was over. "Tane too," he said to me and gave me a kiss on the lips. My first unprompted, from the heart, kiss from that boy. My cup runneth over.

Before we hit the highway, we gassed up. The sign said 95.3 but the pump was 91.5. That possibly was the cherry on Husband's Sunday.

After sitting beside my father and his sour coffee breath, I always thought a mint variety would go over well.

Maybe Fabrizio Faniello Should Scream

"So how about that Fabrizio guy, eh?" my friend asked last week as we were driving down the highway.

"Who's Fabrizio?" I asked.

Well, unbeknownst to me, the afternoon show on CBC Radio (it used to be Sad Goat, but now I dunno) has been imploring listeners to get on the Eurovision website and throw their support behind Malta's contestant, Fabrizio Faniello.

Eurovision is a European pop song contest that Abba won in the early 1970s. I've often heard about it from relatives. Apparently, the Maltese are very keen on the contest and had come close to winning it a couple of times.

But not this time. Malta came in 24th. Some Gwar-type band from Finland won this year. Maybe it was a protest vote. I've listened to a few competing songs and, like the Maltese one, nothing really stands out. Then again, I've never been one for pop songs unless I'm at a wedding or gone dancing at a gay bar (cheap liquor, great energy, lots of men who will never bother you for anything else but a light. What's not to love?).

Then again, life is different in Europe. I can't imagine The Ramones were very big in St. Julien. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

What Would Supernanny Do?

Being with kids for most of my days, one may understand my craving for adult conversation.

Husband took off Friday, thinking he might be able to golf, but it was raining all morning. He stuck around the house, like a fly on the wall as I went about my regular day.

"I'm tired just watching you," he said before the sky broke and he went to get his clubs. "And are you aware that you just watched a 15-minute show about moving like Jell-o? Now I see why you can talk on the phone with your friends for an hour."

When I told him we were invited to friends' for Sunday dinner, he knew there would be no debate.

And it was lovely. Their eldest hoovered three pastizzi immediately and, I'm told, finished off the rest this morning (and at our house, Baby Boy ate all the muffins for breakfast).

The boys all got along great but something was bothering Daughter and I think she was being a bit of a pest. I still don't know why things were thrown and words were said. It lies somewhere between not wanting to hang out with her brothers, having to share her friends, and being very aware that she's a girl amid many boys. Anyway, Daughter doesn't want to discuss it this morning. "That was yesterday. It's all okay now."

My friend sized up the situation faster than I did at the time. She had Daughter up in her office, drawing a digital picture (which I can't upload but it's a cute picture of a shepherd and a sheep). She had her alone time, then everyone apologized and, yeah, it's all okay now.

We went outside after and lit some sparklers. I started taking photos but stopped when I noticed the kids were trying to light things on fire.

And both the husbands ran out of gas early. When we got back into the car, Husband said, "I respect your friendship with (Jules) but what possessed you guys to bring out cake at 10 o'clock? I thought we would have wrapped it up once (Daughter) had her nose out of joint or even when (Baby Boy) peed on their floor."

Yes, peed on the floor. Since I've been taking care of a 13-month-old, Baby Boy has regressed a bit. Most of the time, he wants to "goo goo, gaa gaa" instead of talk, he wants to be fed, and, yes, pees at will. What would Supernanny do?

Does the kid in this ad remind you of anyone?

Mmmm....Lamb of God! (part two)

We got home from the church as I was bringing out some buns and luncheon meats, Daughter came downstairs with a balloon for me to tie. A face was drawn heavily on it with marker. "Please don't play with this. Marker on balloons can rub ink on your dress. Try to stay clean until your great-grandma comes," I asked. I noticed marker was already on her fingertips, so I asked her to wash her hands and put away the marker. And off she went.

About 15 minutes later, I went up to the playroom where Daughter was playing with my niece. I wanted to see how the marker came off. Well, they both had more marker on their hands. That would happen when they had every balloon in the house covered with inky marker. Niece looks up and hides the marker behind her back while Daughter has her "oh shit" look on.

And there's ink on the front of her dress.

"I asked you not to play this game. I told you why you shouldn't. Did you not understand?" I was calm until I tried to get the marker out and then noticed that Niece was using a Sharpie. Permanent. "Oh, this is GREAT! All this week, I asked you to keep clean until your great-grandma saw you. That was all I asked. And now this." I put all the balloons in a laundry hamper and told them, "(Daughter), you can play with these tomorrow. (Niece), take half of these home. I'm putting them away now."

I got the dress off her and tried different things to hide the stain while I left the girls to wash their hands. The fact that they got marker on the bathroom countertop didn't escape me, but I picked my battle.

Down the stairs to my bedroom I went to tuck away the hamper of balloons. Niece followed me. "We're sorry, Auntie Jen," she said. "Fine," I sighed, "but I'm really angry and disappointed in both of you. Think before you do. Now go finish washing your hands the best you can and give me five minutes to cool down."

My mum came into the laundry room to help but after getting a nail brush to the stain, she took the dress from me and told me to give up. "I'll just dry the spot we tried to clean. Where's your hair dryer?" she asked. So I took her upstairs and got her set up. I passed by Daughter's bedroom when I heard Niece exclaim, "It's Auntie Jen!" and I saw Daughter slam her closet door.

Rolling my eyes, I walked in, opened the closet and there were all the balloons. "I said you weren't to play with these today. You didn't listen. You will be punished," I said completely calm and monotone. I grabbed a tack from the wall and popped them. Oh, did Daughter scream. And then dramatically, ran to the bathroom where my sisters went to calm her down, I assume. I gave myself a moment and then kicked everyone but Daughter out of the room.

I let her cry in the corner for as long as she needed while I sat on the bathtub edge. That wasn't even a minute. Then she sat on my lap and cried a little longer. When she calmed down, she apologized. "I'm sorry we took the balloons, Mummy." "Well, do you understand why I popped them?" "Because you told us not to play with them. I wish I listened because then I'd still have them." "Yup. I wish you listened from the start. First, I asked you to stay clean. 'Play Barbies or video games when your cousin arrives.' But you didn't. When I noticed that first balloon, I asked that you don't play that game because it would ruin your dress. But you didn't listen to me then either. Then when I saw you made even more balloons, I took them away and told you not to play with them today. Again, you didn't listen to me. I trusted you but you disappointed me over and over again."

So we had a good talk about rules and about responsibility. We hugged and came to a mutual agreement, in private because this was a family matter. All was right again between Daughter and I, and I gave her the family's gift. It was a necklace very similar to the one I wear every day. She loved it. Then she gave me her Mother's Day gift. It was a pair of shoes, identical to the ones she has. I cried tears of joy because of the sentiment.

The rest of the day went very well. The tandoori chicken and maple sausages went over big time; the sushi not so well, as I had assumed, but Husband was appreciative. And we have so much pastizzi left over but the kids are thrilled because they've had one in their lunches three times this week. In good conscience, I couldn't feed them one a day. Arterial sclerosis sucks.

Anyway, my mum called me the next day. "What a lovely day it turned out to be! The food was incredible and the weather really held out. But, I just want to say that you should apologize to (Daughter). Don't let her remember the day with you being angry. It should be solemn and holy." "Nope. I won't apologize. She was wrong," I said. My mum tried to convince me, even trying to pull rank. Don't play the "I'm older and have been through this" game with me. "She's my daughter and this is my family. I will discipline as I see fit because no one knows my kid better than me. Not even you."

Hard words, I know, but it was even more difficult to convince her that the issue was over between Daughter and me; not even worthy of discussing further because we said what we had to say in the bathroom. Lesson learned. End of story. I don't think she bought it and I'm sure she thinks I'm a failure as a parent. Okay, maybe not a failure, but perhaps that I'm doing everything wrong.

Whatever. I wish she was there when her friend K asked how the day went. Daughter said, "It was great, except that I got ink on my dress but at least it didn't happen before church. And best thing of all is I got the Over The Hedge XBox game!"

Amen.

Mmmm....Lamb of God!

Daughter had her first communion on Mother's Day. That day was picked by, shall we say, higher powers who explained, "All the mothers will be there and none of them will have to cook ... except you, Jennifer."

Which was fine, don't get me wrong. Baby Sister and The Boyfriend came over the day before. We shlepped all over town and beyond and bought the food. The Boyfriend prepped the meat and still had time to barbecue us some incredible steaks. I thought Husband was going to cry, they were so good. Or maybe he was going to cry because he can't barbecue without either burning or drying everything out.

As a thanks to The Boyfriend, I asked a friend to make up a shirt for him. Which reminds me that I still have to pay her.

Husband and The Boyfriend walked over to a nearby sports bar to watch the Senators prepare for their golfing season. Meanwhile, Baby Sister tucked my kids in bed while I hemmed her new drapes.

And then Husband came home completely cemented.

I don't know how the whole house didn't wake up, but he was puking violently through the night. He now vows not to try to keep up with anyone. Or at least order a plate of nachos.

Yeah, nothing classier than going to your kid's first communion (or, heck, going to church for the first time since Baby Boy's baptism) with a killer hangover. He spent a good chunk of it with his head buried in his hands, rhythmically rocking back and forth. Thankful particularly because we had to sit at the front row, no chunks were spewed. Praise be to God, indeed.

The ceremony was nice and all. Daughter was very nervous and held my hand or my arm throughout. I spent most of the mass helping her relax. She and I brought up the offertory. It was then when I realized I forgot to put on my trademark "ho red" lipstick.

There were two other girls, from another school, who also received their first communion at that 8:45 am mass. One girl wore a communion dress from the Sears catalogue. The other wore a flowery-print dress from the Holly Hobbie collection. Meanwhile, Daughter wore a duponi silk dress I made with my mum (sort of: I was to make it on my own. Mum asked to cut it so she could have her hand on it. I got it back pretty much finished. I did the bodice and bolero). She also wore a veil my aunt picked up in Malta. She didn't feel overdressed. Besides, as my dad pointed out, all the old folks were coming up to Daughter to offer their congratulations and to tell her how beautiful she looked. Then again, they could be Husband's patients who owe him money.

I'll add more to this later. And there is more. LOTS more.

Sense and Cents

I'm telling you, this last experience is almost enough for me to end all volunteer opportunities for life.

So this party I helped plan for the kids' school had a popcorn machine rented. I arranged for the rental through, oh let's just say a Party Supply Co. here in town. I should have run away from the guy when, as I was enquiring about different services he provided, he didn't even bother to stop eating. Crap business sense, eh?

I placed an order and no notification was sent. There was no contract. There was no bill. I went to the Party Supply Co. here in town to see what was up. "Oh, riiiiggght. Yup, you're here in the book. Oh, yeah, but we need 30% down." Uh, okay. I put it on my credit card. In return, they gave me a cash register receipt. "Just give us a cheque for the balance there on the day of the party."

I went there the day before the event to pick up the rental of 50 pink flamingos, except that they only had 42, so the balance was made up of penguins, ducks and a cat. Oh, and pretty much all of the lawn ornaments had seen better days. They were mismatched, discoloured, broken, and/or bent. Pretty shabby stuff he was renting out. I told the clerk so. Cheesy business sense.

Anyway, the day of the event, I had my friend M pick up the machine. "Yeah, everything is in that box," was all the guy said. No instructions. Not even an offer of help to bring it to M's car. Again, I thought, as did M who owns and operates a store, lousy business sense.

Event over, and another friend took the popcorn machine back, along with the sad-looking ornaments. He phoned the school that Saturday afternoon asking for me. The secretary said that she wasn't at the school. She's a parent here, so I should be phoned at my home. He told the secretary that the popcorn machine was supposed to be cleaned or there was a $20 charge. "So is Jennifer coming here to clean it or should I just send her the bill?" The secretary said she wasn't going to speak on my behalf as she wasn't sure of what was agreed between him and I - which was nothing.

Frick, I didn't know it needed to be cleaned. Further, I wouldn't know what products to use and I'd be very wary of washing an appliance anyway, particularly without instruction from the owner.

I ended up calling him after speaking with the secretary on Monday. He said there was a sign on the machine, and that when he saw the machine, he tried to catch up with the other woman who dropped it off but she was gone (a boldfaced lie, my friend assured me). I told him that I didn't so much as look at the machine but maybe he could have given us some instruction before it left his shop. Even a photocopied list stuffed in the box would do. Further, buddy, look at the cheque. That's not my signature, nor do I run the school. Take it up with the school board. Oh, and if we're nit-picking, you rented me shitty lawn ornaments. And I say this all of this as a small business owner myself.

As far as I know, he hasn't called the school principal.

If push comes to shove, I'll pay his $20 - in fucking pennies - but I will never use his services again.

DEFINITELY did I not get paid nearly enough.

Which reminds me, the new President's Choice Diet Pomegranate pop mixed with vodka is lovely.

Looking for Clara-tee

I saw Brokeback Mountain on Sunday. I don't know what all the fuss was about. More interesting is that I watched it with Husband, who passed on the movie for ages. And I don't think it was worse than Crash which beat it for the best movie Oscar.

This past week, the kids' school had its 50th anniversary. On Saturday, we had a fun fair which my friend Jules and I planned the games and rides. Waaaay lot of work and I'm glad it's over. The day was pretty multifaceted with a historical display inside, a band and a slide show in the gym, and a huge barbecue that the teachers organized and ran.

And when the local daily covered it, this one, er, human being who shares the same name as a cow, took the credit for the whole she-bang. This is the, um, person who was a total thorn in the side of everyone involved. I hope she sleeps well at night.

Ironically, Jules had this great idea of sending the staff breakfast trays of pastries and fruit from this swank coffee bistro in town for Monday morning. Sent along was a card of thanks from Jules and Jen. See, it's an old family trick - of sorts - to thank people before they have a chance to thank you. This will make them think, "We should be thanking them more" followed by subsequent feelings of, I dunno, guilt and an overwhelming need for reciprocation perhaps?

But in all sincerity, we really were thrilled how everyone came together. So it's funny how that one bovine-named person was so ego-driven that she'd be ballsy enough to say she was "instrumental" in putting the celebrations together.

Jules and I do the school yearbook next. Please add an evil scientist laugh here.

Anniversary-o-rama

Husband and I celebrated our 14th anniversary this week. He gave me flowers. I gave him a warm dinner. Frankly, I don't know who got the better gift.

I mean, today, Husband cooked dinner. Wow, it really frees up your evening when you don't have to do that.

The photo was taken the day I got the bouquet. Now it's all open and in resplendent glory but I'm too busy to take another photo. I'm all tied up with tomorrow's fun fair for the kids' school's 50th anniversary. Somehow, I got suckered into chairing the committee and being chiefly in charge of organizing the fair.

I swear, I won't do that again next year.

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.

And They'll Know We Are Christians By Our Love

I like to think that I have a well-honed gaydar for a middle-aged soccer mom. It came from years of having primarily gay male friends, me being a fruit fly and all.

So when I first saw James Loney talk, I immediately thought, "He's a friend of Dorothy's! Wow, that could have jeopardized his safety and the amount of well wishes that came his way."

Sure enough, the local daily here ran a front page article confirming my suspicions about the Canadian who was held hostage in Iraq. The article went on about how the media didn't mention that Loney was gay and has a long-term partner. His family and friends feared that if his sexual orientation were made known to his captors, they would kill him for sure because homosexuality is punishable by death in Iraq.

Now I'm expecting letters to the editor about how people wasted their prayers on a sinner.

When the gay marriage legislation was brought up in Parliament, letters against it and homosexuality in general were printed every day for about two months around here. Of course, all I thought was how unchristian their attitudes were. Oh, they hid behind their bibles and all but, in this case, it will probably be so boldly redneck to say something disparaging now after local churches had prayer services for the guy who they were praising as a fine example of Christian humanity.

Woo-pee!

I think I can safely say that Baby Boy is out of diapers. Sound the trumpets!

We're still putting him in diapers at night. Sometimes he needs them; sometimes he doesn't. However, he wore underpants throughout the day since last Monday, with no accidents.

Of course, he's telling everyone he wears underwear now - the cashier at the grocery store, our neighbour, a kid at McDonald's.

And we did it without Pull-Ups (they're just 50 cent diapers) or anything available at this link.

Pay It Forward

So March Break has come and gone and, yet, I can say it wasn't much of a "break" for anyone.

Throughout the week, everyone but Husband had some kind of flu. Baby Boy seemed to get two waves of it. Daughter had the worst bout, as she was feeling ill for about five days straight. And, of course, the day before two of us came down with it, I had a friend's child over who brought it back to his house. Amazingly, my middle sister and her kids came to visit us on a good day and nobody there got sick.

Apparently, though, many kids had it during March Break too, or so I learned once the kids went back to school this past week.

And, to boot, I took Baby Boy to nursery school and notice a sign reading that there was one case of Fifths Disease prior to March Break. "What's that?" I asked one of the teachers. "It's when the child has a rash on the face, sometimes the body, that makes them look like they've been slapped."

And all that time, I thought Baby Boy had wind-chapped cheeks. Mind you, I found the Glaxal Base Cream to work...

Anyway, now that March Break is over, I'm ready for spring. I just woke up and was greeted by a vista of snow. There's always one weird snowfall late in the season around here. I hope this one is it.

We had an eventful week, though.

We are officially poor. Husband signed away everything to buy a building on the main drag so he can relocate the business. He's scared but happy. Really, it should be okay in the long run but we've cut back on tons for now. It won't affect the kids too much, but they did stop karate which was $140 a month.

For a brief period of time, I lost Daughter. Her class was at a first communion retreat at the parish hall which happens to be across the street from our house. Her teacher told me that she didn't need to come to school; just walk her across and meet the class there at 9:30. Was that ever wonderful, if you have any idea what it is like to get three kids and myself ready for school/work.

It was a Tuesday, when Middle Child also goes to school (he goes full day every Tuesday and Thursday and then alternate Mondays), so I went to pick the kids up. No Daughter. I went to her classroom and learned that the teacher let her cross the road and go home. No, she didn't wait to see if she got in the house (which she didn't because I am the only person in this town to lock my doors). No, no one noticed that there were no cars in the driveway either.

So I raced home, expecting to see her shivering on the porch. Nope. I checked the backyard. Maybe she's playing in the treefort. No. I quickly drove around the neighbourhood to see if she walked back to school. No.

Okay, calm down. Maybe she went to Husband's work. It's about a 10 minute walk for her, right downtown, but she may have done it. I'll catch hell if she's not there, but I have to call him, I thought. Then I'll call the police.

I picked up the phone and noticed there was a message. "Hi Mum. I'm at the neighbours. I came home early and you weren't there, so can you pick me up when you get this message? Bye!"

It turned out my neighbour was walking past the house to pick up her kids from school and noticed Daughter. She asked what was going on, to which Daughter explained and said that she'd just wait; that I'd be home soon. "No you won't. I'm walking you back to my house. My husband is there to take care of you." And they set her up with some apples and cheddar while she waited. They're Block Parents so they were totally cool with it, but, shit, I swear that house glowed in my eyes that day.

I brought them a Dairy Queen Treatza Pizza the next day.

Bitchiness is Hereditary

It straddles on the border of good taste, I know. However, I'm hoping my über Christian mum will like it well enough. I contimplated getting one for myself, digging the kitch value.

Yes, there's a solar light that shines from Christ's feet up to the face.

And on the other hand, this is the shirt she picked up for Middle Child from her sojourn in Texas to visit my cousin. I guess there's a reason why my mother has momentary bouts of nasty quips toward me (ie. "Your cousin has lovely decorating taste. Not like you"). Because what did I say when I first saw this shirt? "'Texas kicks ... Democrats?' You got my little boy a Republican shirt?" Of course, I'm sure she, and most people, would read it as "Texas kicks ass" but there's me trying out some high-brow humour and it fell flat.

Thankfully, she bought it in, I swear, a men's small, so Middle Child may never have the chance to wear it.

I would try to shrink it but Husband broke the washing machine last night while I went out to buy milk.

He decided to wash one pillow. The thing was banging loud enough to wake the dead. He went in to get a new toilet paper roll and noticed water all over the floor. He checked the tubes and they seem all connected so I called the repair guy this morning because it would sooo suck if I had to go to the laundromat. If it was the Sparkle Brite in Victoria with the fish 'n chips place across Oak Street, that would be fine. Barely.

Death and Taxes

My twin is dead.

Yes, Slobodan Milosevic died of an apparent heart attack in prison. Whatever.

I say he's my twin in jest, really. During one of her manic episodes, Husband's mother was listing all the ways I am an evil, ugly soul. Her words were like water drops running off a duck's ass, so I don't remember any of what she said except for the exclamation that I was "no different than Slobodan Milosevic." Niiiice. The small-town mother of three of her grandchildren and the Butcher of the Balkans. Yeah, and what a great physical resemblance, too.

It's just one of those things I'll look back at fondly until the day I, myself, die.

Speaking of dying, I had the weirdest conversation with my father yesterday when he and Mum visited. He took me aside and said, "I don't think it would be a surprise if I go before your mum. So I'm asking you, as the oldest, to watch over her finances when I die." He doesn't want her to be giving everything away and he wants me to be the one to look after that.

I shrugged my shoulders and said that I don't know if I would have that kind of power over her; that I couldn't stop her from doing anything she wanted to do with money that, legally, would be entirely hers. "I could make you and your sisters co-tenants of our will..." "Without Mum knowing? I don't think you can do that on a joint will, can you? Don't you think it would be better if you just talked to Mummy about how you're feeling? About your ideas with me and the money and stuff?"

That's when Mum walked in. "What's going on? What did you say?"

Crap. Change the subject. FAST!

"Oh, I was just starting to tell Dad that (Husband) bought a building for the business." I mean, it looks like the deal will go through, but I know Husband kind of wanted to break the news to Dad himself, more for his opinion because the "building" is really just an old house on the main drag about four doors down from his leased space.

I got "the look" from Husband for my actions but I also got a vision of eternal gratitude from Dad because, as I expected, Mum got all giddy and wanted to throw on her coat and check the place out right away.

Maybe I'm more convincing than I think I am.

Nature in More Ways Than One

Raccoon foreplay, apparently.
Dinner was served and I left the family to hunker down and watch the Oscars pre-game show up in the attic family room.

I looked out the window and saw these two raccoons on my next door neighbour's chimney. Cool, I thought. I'll call up the kids.

Then they started to mate. Middle Child wanted to know why the bigger raccoon was fighting the littler one.

Sometimes, You Have To Be Your Child's Best Friend

All this week, Middle Child hasn't wanted to go to school.

This is odd behaviour because the kid just loves learning. He has a crackerjack teacher, a nice bunch of kids in his class, and it's time away from his brother.

After many talks and some coaxing, I think the problem is that he feels he doesn't fit in. This was a problem last year, too. I volunteer to help in his classroom and I can see that he is friendly and other kids are friendly with him. The teacher is well aware of my concern and has gone above and beyond to foster friendships.

Then it all clicked yesterday.

The little girl I babysit was over yesterday afternoon. She's in Middle Child's class and they get along great. Part of the reason why I agreed to look after her was to help out her mother, a widow, but also to have a regular playdate for my kid. Anyway, she innocently asked me if Middle Child was going to Mackenzie's bowling birthday party on Saturday. Ugh, I thought. He wasn't even invited. The kicker is that he considered Mackenzie to be his closest school friend. I guess it was only going one way!

It has to be difficult for Middle Child. He isn't interested in sports, particularly team sports (which sucks because every single boy in his class plays hockey). He's very bright and in many cases is head and shoulders above the other kids in his class (mind you, the teacher discreetly gives him more challenging work). His interests aren't typical of kids his age. It's no wonder that by third recess, he's seeking out kids in Daughter's class.

I suggested that he should approach it from another direction; maybe try playing with the aforementioned girl. But he said she's different at school; that she doesn't want to be seen playing with a boy.

I am open to suggestions.

Right now, I'm just going to hug the little guy.

Adoration of the Sacrament: Praying and Preying

I'm locking my doors these days.

You do that when there was an attempted murder and abduction on your block.

I live across the street from a Catholic church. On Fridays from sunrise to Saturday's sunrise, they have what is called the Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. This is where they leave a blessed communion wafer up at the altar, thus meaning that the body of Christ is there, open for all to see. A handful of parishoners sign up to be at the church at all times; "You don't want Jesus to be alone," my mother says.

This past Friday at about 6:40 pm - not late - a woman was in the church alone when a man walked in and asked her for some coffee money. She told him she had none but instructed him how to find the priests.

He left but came back shortly with a big shard of glass and demanded the purse off the woman. After he found she truly had no money, he tried to take her. She managed to get away but he cut her on the back of her head. She called police and they found him at the park just over the bridge.

I talked to the pastor today about the incident. Apparantly, he was a drifter; not even from town nor had he any familial ties around here. "It doesn't shock me that someone would do that. What is shocking is that it would happen in our town," the priest said.

Hey, padre, if our county can be the number one crystal meth producers in Ontario, you can bet that there are a whack load of meth users too.

All the same, I wonder if the church is going to rethink the Adoration policy. I'm rethinking my own policy of allowing my children to play on the front yard.

Preparing to Say Goodbye to Superdiaperbaby

I think we turned a corner.

Since Thursday, Baby Boy has been using the potty more times than not. He still wants to wear diapers but, woo-hoo, I think he's only had six dirty nappies in four days. He even woke up dry on Saturday.

Mind you, I don't know how diligent I should be. He doesn't want to wear underwear or go commando, so I don't want to push my luck and have this be a "one step forward, two steps back" kind of exercise.

Speaking of shit, the federal government has a preliminary appointment of a new supreme court judge. Before the guy gets instated, MPs will get to ask him questions and then decide if he's an appropriate appointee.

Critics say this may lead to the American way, where it just ends up being another political game where whatever party has the majority will obviously approve of a judge that falls in line with their party's agenda.

Granted, this could very well happen, but I like the openness of it. Sure, we've elected some serious yahoos, but if the guy is some anti-choice, bigotted homophobe, wouldn't you like to know ahead of time?

Madonna, Don't Tell Me You Have Dishpan Hands Too!

Madonna told a reporter in London, "I must admit, I have to pat myself on the back. It's not easy to be married, to have a successful career, to have children." She was commenting on how difficult life can be being married to someone as ambitious as she is.

Whatever.

You think you have it rough, Madge? I just wonder, have you ever changed a diaper or mopped barf off the floor at 3 a.m. or is that the work of one of your round-the-clock nannies? Have you had to buy your family clothes or are you still relying on the freebies the scads of designers send you? Have you ever found yourself rushing to make it on time to pick up Lola and Rocco from school because of a meeting that ran late or that your minivan was stuck in traffic or because you ended up picking the slow line at the grocery store again? Do you and Guy have the money to treat eachother to date night every once in a while? I heard that's important, you know.

Yeah, you deserve a pat on the back, honey. Except when I give it to you, it'll be more like a shove into my seemingly bottomless laundry pile. Have you ever seen one of those before?

I'll Pass on That Steak For Now, Thanks.

Guess what movie we saw on Friday?

I think Middle Child drew an excellent Captain Jack Sparrow. He also drew a ton of skeletons.

It was practice for seeing the Body World exhibit at the Ontario Science Centre on Saturday with Baby Sister and her boyfriend. Middle Child couldn't have been keener. He wanted to see everything and wanted me to read every sign that accompanied the displays. There were tons of medical people visiting and a handful of them would interrupt us and answer Middle Child's questions (thank you ENT doctor from Buffalo, NY and the angioplasty nurse from McMaster-Chedoke Hospital in Hamilton).

He got to hold an adult brain as well as two livers (one diseased and one healthy). He had no qualms about viewing the pregnant woman display but had more interest in the embryos from weeks four to eight (thank you U of T medical student for the quick run-down on the neurological developments at each stage).

Daughter, on the other hand, got freaked out and left with Baby Sister. I had her calmed down initially, but other people's comments were sinking in to her and she started to walk around with her eyes shut, humming to herself.

She had the best time at every other part of the Science Centre - "That was funner than Wonderland!" - but in the car, she started to worry. "Does this mean I don't want to be a doctor?" We assured her that she has lots of time to decide what she wants to do when she's a grown-up and that, maybe in time, seeing real bones and organs won't disturb her any more. She said she was used to seeing these things covered in blood, like they're shown on TV, "but here they looked like zombie meat."

I didn't have the opportunity to get Baby Sister's boyfriend's take on it. He was a butcher.

Mother Nature is a Bitch

I am the picture of calm.

I am the picture of calm.

I am the picture of calm.

If I say it enough, will it be true?

The schools in the entire county are closed for the second snow day this scholastic year. Not too bad; pandemonium has only broken out now at nearly 10 am.

It started out as a slow burn when I asked Middle Child if he really wanted to go to the Body World exhibit tomorrow as planned. My sister emailed saying that Daughter told her he didn't want to go. As it turned out, she was trying to ditch her brother.

Now, Daughter is yelping and running around the room with Middle Child standing beside me calling her "poopy-head" and "stupid girl" and "stinky fish pizzahead".

Meanwhile, Baby Boy is rolling around in my just folded clean laundry, bare-assed naked, happy as a pig in sunshine because he used the potty twice this morning.

Now, I Must Clean

I was given some free tickets to a Carlos del Junco gig here in town (thanks Jules!) and took my baby sister. Not my kind of music, but I appreciated the artistry. Seriously, they were all supreme musicians with that wonderful ability to really tell a story out of their instruments. Baby sister loved the $4 beer and wine. Can't get that in the big city!

I had my middle sister and her family, as well as my parents and the aforementioned baby sister and her boyfriend over on Sunday to celebrate Daughter and Baby Boy's birthday. I was wondering why it felt like I didn't have enough food; that I was missing something. I was slapped with the answer this morning as I stared at the tubs of meatballs in Diana Sauce in the freezer. I now have three pounds of the stuff. I'm thinking meatball sandwiches tonight.

Baby sister's boyfriend gave all the kids rather big bags of candy. Middle sister's kids liked it well enough but my three tore right into the Pop Rocks, Bazooka Joe, Fizz, licorice, etc.

Candy, cake, cousins and gifts. It was a banner day at the house.

He Won't Grow Up To Be a Nutritionist

I give the kids the option to choose their birthday dinner. I thought Baby Boy would certainly choose McDonalds or something, but he didn't.

"I want crackers."

"Crackers?"

"Yeah, the fish ones."

"Anything else?"

"I can pick more? Okay, crackers and cinnamon rolls."

This Sucks

They're making vacuum cleaners in vibrant colours now. I came home with this one and Husband sighed, "Couldn't you have found a normal-looking one?" In all honesty, I could not.

I went to the store with Daughter. She wanted the one that was apple green with silver sparkles.

We saw Nanny McPhee two weekends ago with all the kids. It was Baby Boy's first theatre experience and he did okay; we just need to remind him about a quiet voice inside.

This weekend wasn't as much fun. We "visited old people" as Husband puts it.

We first hit his grandmother who was getting ready to celebrate her 87th birthday. She implored my kids to eat all of her food that was expiring soon.

Then we went to my grandmother's who had a wicked tikka masala ready for us. It was the first time she made it and it was the best I've ever ate. She told me her son (he's a jackass and I don't call jackasses "uncle") possibly has the beginnings of Parkinson's Disease. What goes around, comes around. I hope he suffers miserably and then dies alone.

We went to my parents' and, to our surprise, my sister's kids were there. My kids are really great about visiting people. They're very polite and they find their own fun, but I know it can be a drag for them. Seeing their cousins, even for an hour, made it all worthwhile.

It was raining when we left for the 90 minute drive home. When we got there, we were greeted with a whollop of wet snow which bent two of our spruce trees in the front yard.

"Don't make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry."

Baby Boy had a cold Monday and I gave him some medication which knocked him out after lunch.

He was resting comfortably when I got the phone call.

"Jennifer? Hi, this is (Middle Child's teacher). Um, we had a little incident and the principal needs you to come to the school immediately."

It turned out that after gym class, Middle Child's teacher annointed him with the seemingly prestigious role as "the caboose" in the line-up back to their classroom. One boy decided he'd rather be the caboose. Middle Child told him that he couldn't; that it was his turn. Then the boy pushed Middle Child to the ground.

Even when he was a baby, Husband and I nicknamed the kid "The Hulk" because he'd be all mild-mannered but then the shit would hit the fan and he'd totally lose his cool.

That's what happened on Monday.

Middle Child got up, pinned the kid to the wall and bit him on the shoulder, leaving a pretty decent mark.

The teacher and principal were great about the whole thing. "He's not entirely to blame, is he?" the principal said to me when I got there. "Yeah, but it doesn't excuse his reaction," I replied.

I took him home where he wrote a letter of apology to the boy ("I'm sorry I bit you. The next time I will solve my problem with words," he wrote. "I'm not going to say he was right or anything because he wasn't right," he explained). We agreed to a suitable punishment (no Star Wars anything for five days) and then I called Husband to concur.

When I explained what had happened, Husband proudly said, "That'll teach that kid not to mess with The Hulk."

Gian Ghomeshi turned me into a 10-year-old

My cousin used to have this husband who used to play songs he'd like over and over again. I remember once, during a ride back home from babysitting his son, he had Eric Clapton's "Tears From Heaven" (I think that's the title) on a loop. We must have heard that song fifteen times in a row.

Okay, my uncle had recently died and the guy was obviously bereaved, but c'mon. I always thought that practice was unusual and, frankly, a tad dramatic. I knew a lot of people doing it ... when they were 10.

Now I found myself doing the same with "Your Ex-Lover is Dead" by Stars the other day. I heard it on The National Playlist on CBC Radio and I was gobsmacked.

What is my attraction to the song? Is it that the lyrics are something I can relate to as I'm empathising with my sister and the on-going divorce hassles she's experiencing? Is it the odd arrangement? Is it because I'm PMSing?

Yet Another Grey Hair

Maybe I was tempting fate.

When I pick the kids up from school, most times, I let Middle Child (always out first) play in the front of the school while I chit chat with the other parents as I wait for Daughter (always one of the last kids to leave).

Today, I went to my friend's house with Baby Boy. She lives around the corner from the school so she suggested that I leave Baby Boy with her and I would go get all our kids and bring them back. When I got there, Middle Child's class was the first to be dismissed.

"Where's (Baby Boy)?" Middle Child asked.

I told him and then added we would all walk to my friend's house together with her boys, whom Middle Child thinks the sun rises and sets upon.

"Can I play outside?" he asked and, of course, I said he could, thinking he'd remember my rule of "be sure my eyes can see your eyes."

Yeah, right.

He was there one minute. The next, he was gone. Thankfully, the three remaining kids met me right at that moment, so we went looking for him. "Oh, he probably just went to my house," sluffed off the younger of my friend's children.

And he was right.

Needless to say, Middle Child has been punished.

Needless to say, I'm rethinking my allowance of letting him leave my side.

Just Pricing Really Big Bats For Now

Wanna hear smooth?

Daughter sits near this boy in class. On Friday, he asked if this boy she always plays with is her boyfriend.

"No!" she laughed. "We're too young for that stuff!" (Ah, good! She listens!)

"Well, when you are old enough, can I be first in line?"

He phoned today and asked if Daughter wanted to have a playdate Sunday. I told her he could come to our house instead.

I picked up the kids from school and was met by my friend Slowplum.

"Did you read your emails yet?"

Turns out A Million Little Pieces may not be entirely memoirific. The Smoking Gun went looking for some mug shots of the author for their large collection when, ho ho, they couldn't find much. The one they did get looks like James Frey was a little hungover but that's about it: just some preppy who smoked a little pot and drank a bit too much Rolling Rock, not some freakazoid crackhead, oozing toxic crap out of every orafice. But, whatever, looks can be deceiving.

A few things in the book had me wondering about its veritability, but they weren't the things that were picked on by The Smoking Gun. No, I questioned how a boy from the suburbs from a nice family, who was loved, could get into the shit as far as he said he did. I questioned how someone who was so fucked up from the tons of different drugs he was purportedly doing could graduate from university.

Real, fake or somewhere in-between, A Million Little Pieces is still a great read. One could question the written tales of ancient history too. I'm not one to poo-poo the author with possibly taking liberties with facts. Rather, I'm more discouraged because the author took liberties with basic rules of punctuation.

It's like grammar karma!

And the cover is gorgeous!

If you're a comment-reading person, you ought to know that my friend Slowplum was true to her word. She brought me some peppermint bath salts. She labelled the container "Bath Candy" and Middle Child confessed that he took a piece. "That was the worst candy I've ever tasted!"

She also lent me a book: A Million Little Pieces by James Frey.

I devoured it in the course of an evening and into the night, getting into bed at 2.

The book is a memoir of Frey's experiences in rehab (Hazeldon, I would deduce). It was gut-cringing, eye-blinding and even foul-smelling. The guy must have sat down at his computer and just let it flow. You can tell it's coming from a deep, dark place of the soul.

Unlike William S. Burroughs accounts of his drug-soaked past, or that 60s era diary-esque Go Ask Alice which was required reading when I was a girl, I don't think Frey intended to scare or to gross anyone out. His account of the pain he endured getting caps and root canal without anethesia was detailed enough to put you in the chair with him but not with a mirror as well. The part of him pulling out his toenail, on the other hand, I'd rather not discuss. I'm someone who can stand the sight, sound, and smell of vomit, but that was when I put the book down and got myself a glass of water.

Being a stickler for punctuation, however, I was distracted by his complete disregard for quotation marks, commas and question marks. Ditto the freedom to capitalize just about anything (someone's House, they had Kids, my Room, the Dealer). But then again, I don't think James Joyce really got away with it either.

However, I really enjoyed it. I just went to look online to find out more about the author; see what else he has written about. Well, wouldn't you know it, it was chosen for Oprah's Book Club. Yeah, I could just see someone like Husband's suburban aunt reading about vomiting up chunks of stomach.

Someone found the food colouring

and gave it to Baby Boy.

Mmmm! Cheddar!

I'll be a little lighter today.

If you're an old gal like me, you'll remember Christopher Ward doing the yearly "Fromage" show in Much Music's early days. We were discussing it over New Year's dinner with deep sighs of respect and our lament of its passing. Frankly, Ed the Sock just doesn't have it quite like Chris did.

So, if you enjoy cheese like I do, please watch this video, put out in the 80s by the Calgary Flames.

And I can't stand Brett Hull so it makes it that much sweeter.

I am woman. Hear me meow.

Husband goes back to work tomorrow after having over a week off. I can't say I've seen much of him. Our Christmas is all travel. We hit my grandmother's, his grandmother's and my parents' all in two days and there are a LOT of people at these homes. So, no, I can't say I'm by his side the whole time. And when we've been home, he's holed himself with the XBox playing Madden.

Usually, I don't mind him doing his thing. Particularly after work, I know the guy needs to wind down a bit. He never brings crap home and, after his "alone time" he is always easy-going, helpful and generally in a good mood.

But I had my mother-in-law this week. And Husband had me doing all of the entertaining.

It started off okay. She didn't really want to do much, so I just made sure the kids didn't knock her out or annoy her too much. I cooked nice meals, made sure she had her bagels, cream cheese, soy milk and a never ending supply of coffee. I kept my bathrooms spotless and Pine-Sol fresh. We had a previous engagement at my cousin's where she was hosting a big family party for her son's 16th birthday, so she came to that. I guess she was fine (I told Husband to keep her company because I was expected to help out). There was a great spread. But then she broke a tooth off her third pastizzi. Even that didn't annoy her that much.

She was in pretty good spirits, if you don't count the bitching about her mom and siblings, but that's par for the course. She brought out her fortune telling cards, for lack of a better term. I'm not into that. I don't even read my horoscope. But I played along (unlike Husband who chuffed it off, calling it "bullhooey" or something like that). Middle Child loved the illustrations and I fostered his new interest by getting him a half-price calendar of "fantasy" illustrations (fairies, dragons, wizards, mermaids, etc).

We had a kid-friendly New Year's Eve party with friends and their children. I fast-forwarded the clocks by three hours so the kids could count down midnight at what really was 9 pm. The kids had a great time, allowing us moms to be more relaxed than usual (I had five or six drinks). The dads and my mother-in-law spent most of the three hours playing Scrabble, which is MIL's favourite game ever. My friend even said she enjoyed her company out on the porch for smoke breaks.

They left and, it's a blur how it started but, as we were tidying up, MIL got on the subject of Catholic education. She couldn't understand how intelligent people like my friends and I would subject our children to such archaic, expoitative and harmful teachings. "Frankly, it's a little hypocritical of you to call yourselves feminists and then support such a hurtful organization that may very well damage your precious children."

And it got better than that. Oh yes. She cut down just about everything I believed in and stood for. She mocked my opinions. She questioned my intelligence. She refuted my culture. She even, at one point, went on a litany of, essentially, what a shitty weak-assed woman I was. For example, she insisted that I wasn't at all close to nature and that would be my downfall. "I'm the champion recycler on my block," I argued. "I turn off the lights when I leave the room. The house is cooler than it could be in winter and warmer than it could be in summer. I walk my kids to school. I buy organic and locally when possible. Why do you say I'm not close to nature? Because I don't enjoy camping? Because I don't live near mountains and an ocean? I do the best I can with what I can."

Oh, but I fraternize with the masculine too much. Okay, I admit it. I love men. So, I disagreed with her. Women are not better than men. I was raised to believe that I was any man's equal. No, but, you see, I'm just not in tune enough with my feminine side. Huh? I'm a mother. I'm a wife. I'm a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, an aunt, a neice. Go further. I'm creative. I'm intuitive. I'm fucking sensitive, or else I would have put my hands over my ears and walked away when she went on her rampage, just like Husband did. Don't tell me what I am and what I'm not. That was truly insulting, especially to a near 40-year-old. I'm not a child. I've had experiences and, like anyone else's, they have value. From my experiences, I have opinions which hold as much water as anyone else's.

The arguement or debate or whatever it was stemmed from the topic of organized religion, which is something I hate to discuss. I live in a community where it's nothing to blab about your church, and I find that weird and intrusive. Spirituality is a personal thing. To me, it's like telling me how you like to wipe your ass. I just don't want to know. Flip that around and I can also say I don't like to discuss my beliefs, thank you. How can I go to church and be pro-choice? Gee, I guess the same way you can protest government cutbacks to environmental issues and smoke at the same time.

She kept pressing but I wouldn't budge. All I would say is that, true, organized religion has had its moments of unholiness for certain, but billions of people in the past and present have found grace from it. For some, it gives them a set of guidelines on how to stand upright. "But that's common sense," she argued. "But some people need to be told. Not everyone is as intelligent as you are," I responded.

In the end, we saw that our feminism enacts in different ways. She wants to single-handedly change the world. And I just want to go through life doing no harm, teach that to my kids, and hope other people are doing the same. My wish is that she respects my decision as I respect and do my best to support hers. It's the womanly thing to do.