Apparently, I'm Going to Hell

Surely, I wasn't the only parent who had their back up when we were sent a letter from the principal of the school and the chair of the Catholic Education Committee.

It stated that they were encouraging us NOT to support the Terry Fox Foundation during the school's Terry Fox Run because they have ties to NCIC which carries out research with human embryonic stem cells (hEC). Despite the fact that NCIC's website states that no money from the Terry Fox Foundation is used to support research involving hEC, the school wants us to write cheques to another charity and that they were going to write a letter to the TFF outlining the school's concerns.

When I learned this was going down at the kids' school, I sat down and wrote an email to the principal. Apparently, I was the only one. It went something like this:

"I appreciate that, as a Catholic school, (the school) must maintain the tenets of Catholicism. That being said, I feel it would have been more democratic to have brought this issue up at an open-door meeting instead of having a letter, with content some may not agree with, sent to a very worthwhile organization in everyone's name. And had the majority present at such a meeting agreed with sending a letter, I would take no issue with this. Because this will be sent without discussion or option, I feel misrepresented.

"With so few true Christ-like Canadian heroes to expose our children to, Terry Fox is one that even the youngest in our school can comprehend. He suffered daily, in training and during the Marathon of Hope. He suffered physically, emotionally, financially, and he did it willingly for the benefit of all who are touched by cancer.

"If money from the Terry Fox Foundation is not supporting the NCIC's research using hES, I really don’t understand why we are diverting funds from this very important and helpful organization. It sullies the legacy of this great young man and the work of all those who choose to do good in his spirit."

The principal ended up phoning me last night. "You sent such a compelling letter, Jennifer. You raised points I didn't even think of."

Whether I'm pro or con hEC research isn't the point. I'm just pissed that such a contentious issue can be brushed under the carpet. And, uh, did they do their homework before they sent the letter or are they just going to come off looking like twits - in my name, I may add?

Anyhooo, he asked me to present my very valid points at the next council meeting. "Or I can stand for you, if you want."

Hey, I said, I'm a big girl and I've never shied away from controversy. I can hold my own, I told him. All I can hope for is that the parent council actually hears what I'm saying.

Crazy week. Got tsk-tsked by The Artist Formerly Known as Sunshine for not updating this blog. "Death to Facebook!" she wrote me. Hey, honey, I haven't updated Facebook so much either.

Anyway, last weekend, ma famille and I made the long trek into Hogtown to attend the First (Hopefully) Maltese Potluck among my paternal cousins. It was actually my idea, born out of the tailwind of a great family gathering last spring. I love Maltese food. I love my cousins' company. And there are fewer and fewer opportunities for us to get together. Getting together at funerals isn't so much fun, either. Add it up and, voila, the idea came to be.

Actually, I had mentioned the idea years ago and my youngest paternal cousin reminded me of it at the tailwind of a great family gathering last spring.

I wanted to host it, but I live too far for my Toronto-area family. Baby Sister graciously ended up having it at her new house. She and Home Chef ended up renting a 55-cup coffee maker and a whack-load of chairs, all which we didn't need.

At the last minute, we had a flurry of cancellations. So only five cousins came (with families). And it was fine. Better than fine. It was still an awesome time.

I fell in love with Youngest Cousin's two children, thrilled that they took to me and happy to give Youngest Cousin some time off. Been there; done that. Eldest Cousin scored two cases of Kinnie, bittersweet pop available only in Malta and, in my opinion, the best thing to come out of a bottle. E.C. and her sister gave me their mother's Maltese apron, which I wore proudly through the party. The grown-ups stood around the kitchen gabbing, and the kids were in the basement watching TV or playing in the backyard. It was just like what we did at our Nanna and Nannu's but the cousins graduated to the kitchen.

Everyone brought one (or more!) Maltese dish. We had pastizzi, torta, those fried spaghetti pancakes (does anyone know what they're called?), Maltese picnic salad (again, don't remember the name), stuffed eggplant, patata-fil-forn, ros-fil-forn, and pudina. The kids also got into crudité and chips, but they all ate Maltese. Even the youngest, 10 months old, tried her first pastizzi. Everything tasted great and we had more than enough food.

Eldest Cousin phoned me later in the week. "I just wanted to reiterate that you had an excellent idea and that my sister and our families had a really, really good time," she said. "We really want this to happen next year."

I want that, too. And, Artist, you can come as well if you want.

All By Myse-eh-elf

Shhh. Can you hear that? No? That's because – whoop-whoop – it's so quiet! Mmm, delicious!

Today was Baby Boy's first day of junior kindergarten. He'll be at school all day Wednesdays and Fridays and every other Mondays.

So many people were asking if I'd be all teary today, what with my baby gone, empty nest syndrome and all that. Nope! Maybe I should have lied and said how gut-wrenchingly difficult it was going to be. Maybe then people wouldn't think I have such a cold, cold heart.

But this, THIS is something I haven't had in over nine years: Jennifer time! Oh cripes, I bid the little guy goodbye (he was so excited and happy) and I got applause by two of my friends who knew what day it was for us. Anyway, so I was starting to walk home and thought, "I could plug in the iPod and jog it home. Or I could walk over a couple of blocks to the diner and order up some hash browns and not have to share." The possibilities were endless.

I made sure I have nothing to do today so I can do whatever I want until I have to pick up the kids. No meetings. No housework. Okay, Baby Sister has me going out to pick up stuff for a party we're having at her place, but even a trip to the store without kids is going to be just great. Pathetic, eh?

So, I'm going to sit in a bath this afternoon with a Manhattan, give myself a facial, a mani-pedi, wax myself silly, NOT listening to Avril Lavigne or Simple Plan or fucking Steely Dan (you can't convince me otherwise, Jules and Slowplum, that stuff is just musical wank to my ears). The hum of whatever is on Family or Teletoon or Treehouse will be off. That's not to say I won't be cranking something myself but, again, the possibilities are endless!

I probably wouldn't be like this if I wasn't 100 per cent certain that Baby Boy would have any difficulty with this new life chapter. The child has never woken up in a better mood; he has never jumped out of bed faster. He laid out his clothes the night before (frog t-shirt with yellow Hawaiian shirt with woodies and surfboards over top, jeans and his Mickey Mouse belt. Skeleton Airwalks on the feet with TMNT socks). Backpack: check. Full lunchbox: check. Hoodie if it gets chilly: check. Favourite trucker baseball cap: check. Lock and load, Mumma. And we were outta there.

Do I dare expect this day to go off without a hitch? I'm crossing my fingers while I blare some music.

Hey, Good Lookin', Whatcha Got Cookin'?

I'm kind of out of my funk now.

I had a great visit with my aunt T, who isn't much older than I am. She hasn't been over for a visit here in probably 18 months, but as I hardly get any visitors, that's actually a good track record.

My parents called from the Motherland. Mum had the accent already.

I'm feeling happy enough to really cook again. The weather is getting chillier so I'm more apt to work over heat as well.

Yesterday, I made four cheese cannelloni with fresh pasta I made myself. I bought this Mario Batali silpatish thing. I can't bake on it but it's great to roll dough on.

So I just made flat lasagne-like pasta and rolled up a mixture of ricotta, parmesan, pecorino romano, and mozzarella with a bit of egg and herbs. I used the last of my parents' tomatoes to mix in the sauce (and had to pick them all out for Middle Child) and even made a béchamel roux (actually, more of a balsamella). I used skim milk and it came out just fine. How awesome is that?

Yes, it takes time. Yes, all that cheese isn't cheap. But it was so worth it because everyone ate it and wanted seconds. I still had some left over so the kids took it in their lunch today.

Now THAT makes me happy.

Ever Have One of Those Days?

I have. In fact, I'm having one now.

They have the "easy" button. I would like the "rewind" button.

Sometimes.

On the Road Again

I need another night like the one we had last week.

Husband comes home and I get my drunk on with my friends. I am the best wife ever.

Seriously, I felt like I deserved it. Single parenting is no cakewalk, yet, even despite this, I do enough around here that I'm entitled to get out. Husband doesn't hold me back but I just don't do it.

So when Jools decided we needed a Mom's Night Out (capital letters for sure), I started counting the hours.

We had a false start to the evening. We pretty much got kicked out of one bar because it was wing night and we were only interested in drinking. So we moved down the street. Thankfully, living in a touristy town, there are no shortages of restaurants and bars.

Some of our friends came, drank and went. Some stayed until we literally closed down the bar. This was when we realized that the city rolls up the sidewalks early – and how were we to know? Collectively, we're so strung out by 10 pm on most nights.

So, Jools and I decided to take some shots of us playing in the middle of the main road (which is also a provincial highway). That's me in the pink Harriet-Nelson's-gone-insane dress with my purse that is discreetly screened, "hi. cram it."

I hope we do it again relatively soon. Not only did I have a great time, but I'm dying to get away from Baby Boy. Sounds bad, eh?

Seriously, the kid is riding on my last nerve. I need to put myself in his little shoes, though. He's gone from having a neighbourhood of playmates to none, zilch, zero. What's worse is that he doesn't start school until Wednesday.

The kicker here is that he should have started today.

You see, I received the student info form for him and the other two yesterday. It just has the kids' personal info and you need to make sure nothing changed. But I noticed that they had Baby Boy born at the end of the year when he was actually born in the beginning of the year.

I spoke with the teacher today about it, hoping to sneak him in maybe later in the week, but I can't. And, as it is, he's the second oldest kid in class. Bugger!

I know I sound like a horrible mother, wanting her youngest out of her purple highlighted hair, but I'm not. It's Baby Boy himself who finds it difficult to walk his siblings to and from school and he's not a part of it. A day for him is like a month for me, so this waiting period is just killing him.

He's watching Sesame Street beside me now and practicing writing his alphabet. And bitching. There's just so many cookies I can placate him with. And I'm wondering if it's 5 o'clock somewhere.

Baby's Got Back

Husband came home from a two week visit to his family and friends out west. He had a great time, as I knew he would.

He spent the bulk of his time with his middle brother and his family. Taught the nephews that in his world, it's perfectly acceptable to eat salt and vinegar chips for breakfast. And, as is the case after every visit with Middle Brother, Husband is on a new health food kick: smoothies. The blender hasn't seen so much work. But when you're drinking about five of them a day at the expense of chewable food, doesn't that negate the nutrition? I mean, surely you can't live on fruit and yogurt alone. But the man is also a stick. Why I married a man with a smaller ass than mine is beyond me.

Ah, but my said ass is shrinking. I went shopping for myself while Husband was gone (see? I held it together) and I have lost two pant sizes. I'm sure if I could leave Le Tigre Giant without a 44 cent chocolate bar, I would have the body of Kate Moss – with D cups and a c-section scar.

Even my former personal trainer noticed. I haven't seen him in about 18 months when my contract ran out and I switched to verrrrry early morning classes at the gym. My friend Jools thankfully took care of my kids while I went this one afternoon. I was bending over, tying my shoe, when he said, "Wow! You look great, Jen. Your whole body shape changed." I mean, the whole thing sounded like a porn script, but I took it for what it was and felt wonderful. And I don't think it was the new workout gear I bought. It wasn't expensive.

Meanwhile, Husband got in visits to old high school friends, his mother, his youngest brother and his father who is in the hospital after falling awkwardly and breaking his ankle. Being paralyzed for years, the guy is stuck in the hospital for months now. Husband initially thought this was going to be a great for him health-wise but apparently he still gets out to smoke as often as he can. He even has someone bringing him Big Macs and fries on a regular basis. And the man will outlive us all.

Husband must have had a nice visit because he still tells me stories of what happened. I just told him that the kids all stepped up to the plate and really helped out around the house. Daughter's room still looks like Dresden after the bombs. Middle Child broke a few glasses. Baby Boy decorated the side fences with sidewalk chalk (we need a big rain). But I painted another floor's worth of our ornate trim, which is no small feat when you live in a Queen Anne revival.

On another note, Husband's dad was to fly out a little while ago but couldn't make the flight since he was in the hospital. One great side of being a Junior, Husband was given his ticket because, well, it's in his name. He has a year to use it, should he want to go to Winnipeg. Um, yeah.

Who Needs Botox?

You want the Fountain of Youth? Go back to your parents' house for a few days.

Don't get me wrong. I love going there in the same way my mum liked going to her mum's when my sisters and I were little. Granny kind of takes over and the shackles to the oven are loosened a bit.

The kids absolutely love going to my parents' house. They are the creme de la creme of grandparents. They take them to the park and everywhere. They have a very fine collection of movies. They play with them outside. They always have great (and favourite) food. They even have a play room stocked with toys, books, and craft supplies.

But, as it should be, their house means their rules. And that goes for me, too. This is how a nearly 40-year-old instantly loses 25 years. They didn't yell at me for not making the bed by 8 am or anything, but I did have to mind my p's and q's.

My mum's mind is on a host of other things. Baby Sister is in the process of moving into her first piece of real estate, just a week after getting in a yucky car accident. Middle Sister has a lot going on (I live the life of Riley in comparison) and Mum just wants her to be happy. And there's my grandmother (very active but well into her 80s), my dad's health, her volunteering and now this month-long trip to the Motherland.

She and Dad are going with my aunt and uncle. Now, I don't know if my aunt is more organized or if she's just really, really excited, but Mum was all freaked because she hasn't packed yet like my aunt did. My dad is more relaxed about it. "What's it take? I'll pack two shorts, two pairs of light pants, six underwear, a bunch of shirts and I'll wear my jeans on the plane." "Two shorts? Two?! Honey, that's not enough! You're going to embarrass me." Then again, what does my dad care? I doubt he'll do the laundry.

Anyway, I got the distinct feeling that she was glad to see our backs. Initially, she wanted us to spend the week with her but I didn't want to. As it turned out, she also realized that we'd get in her way. And whenever I'm there, I never know what I can do to help. I try but my efforts aren't up to their standard. Again, feel like a kid.

No, I'm sure that as soon as our car pulled out of the driveway, she was packing.

I'm an Adult Now

Daughter is into Avril Lavigne. She's been listening to her for about three years now, but, being a pre-teen, Avril is part of her identity. She's dressing like her. She's reading everything about Avril. She's a member of her fan club. Frankly, I'd rather she'd be into her than having her singing around the house about her "lovely lady lumps."

Niece found the Beatles at summer camp this year. She's borrowed her Granny's CDs and when her brother sings along, she defiantly tells him, "You can't like the Beatles. They're MY group!" I wonder if she knows how old the songs really are.

My boys will listen to just about anything, really. They have their favourites. Currently, Baby Boy is digging on Peter, Björn and John and, since getting the Shrek 3 soundtrack for his birthday, Middle Child is just loving Led Zeppelin of all things.

So, good and groovy mum that I strive to be, I made a mixed CD of Zeppelin songs for him. And I confess here that I've been just cranking it in the car.

Yes. Led Zeppelin. Me. All of you who know me can stop laughing now.

I'm a west-end girl from Toronto (I don't usually get personal but I've learned that my efforts for anonymity on the 'net are shite). By and large, west-enders don't go east, and vice versa. Honestly, the first time I hung out in Scarborough was when I was 20 (unless you count my cousin's baptism) and, until then, I always painted that end as populated with a bunch of long-hairs who go to Laser Floyd at the Planetarium, spitting out sunflower seed shells and hanging out at donut shops. And pregnant teens. And Led Zeppelin. Lots of Zeppelin. In other words, everything I was not.

Zeppelin to me was just my cue that the high school dance was going to end. Like I wanted to slow dance to "Stairway to Heaven" with some guy with lame come-ons like, "I guess I can't hide my affection for you." I would rather cut an apple in half and watch it turn brown.

Did you see "Wayne's World"? Mike Myers said many times it was a pure reflection of living in Scarborough.

Then what of the "Bohemian Rhapsody" scene in the Mirthmobile? High school friends of mine who read this now (thanks, Facebook!) can attest that I did that all the time.

I guess it's a sign that I'm – gasp! – mature. I can look past labels now and accept things at face value. I can listen to Led Zeppelin without looking over my shoulder and play it as loud as anything else I like.

But I still can't stomach Husband's Steely Dan.

Hmmm...

This is what I don't understand: why do radio stations play Bryan Adams's "Summer of 69" but bleep out, say, in Wheatus's song "Teenage Dirtbag", the word "gun"? The lyric goes something like, "Her boyfriend's a dick/He brings a gun to school."

I mean, the whole Adams song is about, well, 69. Not the year. Not some number between 68 and 70. No, it's about THAT 69.

You could go crazy with censorship. Where do you draw the line? I don't play Tenacious D's "Fuck Her Gently" around the kids, but they've heard all of the latest Amy Winehouse CD many times in the car. And I have no problem with the un-Wal-Mart version of the Avril Lavigne disc I bought Daughter. Like she hasn't heard swearing.

It's thoughts like this that hit me like a sudden itch. "Summer of 69" was playing at the grocery store and I found it very incongruous when I saw a grandmother singing along. Mind you, she must have been in her 20s when the original "Lady Marmalade" came out. And my grandmother just loves Tom Jones. She's the mother of 8.

When it gets down to it though, I wish radio stations stopped playing "Summer of 69" because it sucks hard. And you can read into the word "sucks" all you want. Censor that.

Yin and Yang

I just want to say that I have, for the past year, kept off 13 lbs. I could still lose some more but I'm quite pleased with my bum.

Meanwhile, Husband is still thin in a pale, concave, weedy, oven-rack-for-ribs, baguettes-for-thighs kind of way. He hasn't seen an exercise machine (or weights) since watching me do my thing on the cruise last spring. He farts away these protein shakes which cost $80 per bucket to buy and have done squat for his intension of having a Daniel Craig body.

Damn!

And I say that because $80 is a crazy amount of money to spend on a protein drink when I, personally, would rather spend the money on some really fine steaks. And "damn" because I confess to seeing Casino Royale more than a few times if only for the beach scene.

See? There's always been a few blond guys in my life who have broken through the tall/dark/handsome barrier I had. Husband included.

I wonder if mild-mannered Husband ever envisioned himself with a purple-haired girl? Oh, he knew what he was getting into. You should have been there today at Baby Boy's final soccer game. Soccer Mom. Drives a minivan. Purplish hair, the t-shirt with the fondue pot on it saying "Let's Fondue It!", sweet new wave Vans, getting all nostalgic and shit by listening to Black Flag on her iPod. And 13 lbs. lighter.

Snap

My father-in-law has never been in good health for as long as I've known him. He's sort of confined to a wheelchair but he does have some movement. The wheelchair and scooter is just his transportation of choice. The guy would take his scooter in his apartment to go from one chair to another.

You can imagine our surprise to hear that he was actually standing (with support, I'm sure) when he had a big wipe out and broke some bones on his good side. Thankfully, he fell in the hall. If he was in his apartment, he may not have been able to get to a phone and, as no one lives with him or near him, who would hear his cries for help?

So Husband was told by his physician that his dad will be in the hospital for - get this - six weeks. Husband is very, very bummed out now. He's upset that his dad didn't get to go to his small Manitoba hometown, but Husband is also upset because his dad didn't buy cancellation insurance ("But think of the money he'll save on hotel and restaurant bills," I said to lighten things up. I only got a "harumph").

But I think what might upset Husband most is that this totally cramps his own style. He was to be going out west to visit his brother and friends, but now he figures he's going to have to spend more time with his father. Oh yeah, and he's resurrected the idea of putting him in a home. I don't think that idea will see the light of day, but it does ride on his mind. I think it's just that he would feel more comfortable knowing his dad was being taken care of, especially since he lives so far. But, hey, he made that choice. Anyway, that may give a glimpse of the conflicting emotions swirling around Husband these days, even though he's the king of the poker face.

He has yet to comment on my violet highlights. It's the most I've ever spent on myself, I think. Oh, and it's way more sedate in indoor light.

This is Volunteering?

I'm one of a small handful of moderators of an online group. I do it for free. I do it in my spare time. I do it because I think it's a valuable service.

On Thursday, I learned someone wanted to sue us.

It started when the person who is moderating this week approved a post that shouldn't have seen the light of day for a number of reasons. She went back to it a few minutes later, realized her error and deleted the post from the group's archives. Of course, it was already sent out; there's nothing she could do to stop that.

A flurry of really biting emails came in shortly thereafter. Who does the moderator turn to? Me. Of all the others, she came to me. Damn.

So I've been spending the last few days putting out fires. Thankfully, we moderate on an anonymous basis but when someone said they were going to sue for libel, I cracked open my university notebooks. Nice to know my legal liabilities class was good for something.

So far, so good. No one has been served with papers but this has been a stress I will be glad to be rid of.

My Accoustic Motorbike

After much procrastination, I finally took my bicycle to the shop for a tune-up. The back tire hasn't been holding air very well and, as you can see, it's probably older than me.

I bought it at a Value Village for the tidy sum of $18. It was in fabulous condition; no rust, bent spokes, nothing. There's a sticker under the seat that states the bike was bought from a shop in St. Boniface, which hints at its age. St. Boniface was a Franco-Manitoban town, but has now become part of greater Winnipeg (which is another reason to buy the bike: an homage to Husband's family).

Another clue as to the age? The store's phone number starts with two letters. Mind you, I remember my mother ordering from the Eaton's catalogue, giving our number as "Roger 9, blah, blah, blah". Perhaps that makes no sense to my friends in town because, while Bell Canada had the monopoly on home phone service here, everyone had the same first two exchange numbers. Some people still give their numbers here in five digits instead of seven.

I'm digressing.

Anyway, when I wheeled the bike in to the shop, the sweet young things behind the counter made various comments like "What a relic!" and "It's a Garry!" (which is the name brand of the bike). Of course, after they took a look, they assured me that there's absolutely nothing wrong with the bike, but that they'd check out the tire problem.

Sure enough, they oiled the chains and changed the leaky valve and it runs like a dream now. I have my little wicker basket and I ride totally upright, channelling my inner Hepburn. If only my hair could grow faster, then I could pull it back in a jaunty ponytail. Until then, I will put up with, what someone used to call it, my Ramones hair. And I'm sure he didn't mean that cute little bob that Dee Dee had. No. It must have been that bird's nest mop of Joey's. At least, that's how I feel about it now. Serious action is needed soon. Humidity is the devil's work.

I'm digressing again.

So the total cost for the tune-up was $11, bringing the total cost of my sweet ride to a whopping $29.

I brought it home, freshened up the paint on the bumpers (which I regret because now it looks too white) and I shined up the wheel rims. Lovely.

That being said, yet again, Husband retains his title as the World's Most Expensive Spouse. He brought in his bike, a racing bike he probably spent too much on in the 80s, and also wanted a tune-up. Oh, and change the handle bars to something more upright. Total for his bike? $108!!! This comes days after he spent hundreds on a new driver golf club. And he gets mad at me for bringing back another souvenir shot glass. "But it only cost 35 cents!" "Jen, it's just another piece of crap. And you don't even drink straight liquor!" I'll give him the big Margaret Keane eyes and he lets it drop.

And I know my family out there agree with Husband, so I'll let it rest.

Pedal on!

Wino-Might!

Woo hoo! My sinus infection is no more and I'm done with the "no alcohol allowed" antibiotics which cost a ridiculous $55 for seven fucking pills.

So, to celebrate, I went to the LCBO and bought some Tanqueray (the kids wanted me to buy blue Bombay Sapphire but it reminds me of antifreeze), whisky (mmm, whisky sours...) and lemoncello.

And, yes, I bring my kids to the liquor store. They don't touch and I think there's nothing wrong with being raised around hootch as long as the imbibers are using it responsibly. I've never been drunk. Never needed to be. They also know not to touch Mommy's mixers, dammit.

My kids are easier to shop with than Husband. As you all know, walking into a liquor store with him is like (no offense, Slowplum) reading The Hobbit for me. I was no better off when it was done and, if anything, it left me with that "what the fuck?!?" feeling. The last time we went out together, it took him at least a half-hour to decide. And he picked up rum. Dark rum. He doesn't drink dark rum. He doesn't drink anything but beer and red wine and only at home. My first, Husband would have drank with me, though.

Funny, I'm rereading this post. I'm upset about spending $55 on medication which I needed but had no qualms about spending, er, at least that on happy juice.

Canadian Nightmare

I was walking out of the most awesome GT Boutique (arguably, as I heard the one in Smiths Falls is rather excellent) when I saw an older woman walking with a little Asian boy. He was about 6 and crying really hard. He was also very sweaty and barefoot. It was an odd sight and I sized up the woman.

Walking by, I suppose she noticed and told me, "This little guy was left in his car, crying, with the windows rolled up. I'm letting the store manager know." She walked him into the store.

That sort of thing shakes me to the core, more so because I'm a mother I think.

There was a little gathering in the parking lot. A Mennonite family and a woman in a tank top were talking when they stopped and the Mennonite mother asked me, "Was that your child?"

I told them that he wasn't, and that the woman was taking him in to see the store manager. At that, the Mennonites muttered that they didn't want to get involved and made a quick and quiet departure. Tank top woman said, "Good! I hope they call the cops."

The manager came out and asked us which car the child was in. He walkie-talkied it in and went back.

Right after, an Asian woman came out with four bags of stuff. I mean, she must have been shopping for a while. She went to the car in question, looked in the back seat and kinda rolled her eyes.

"You looking for your baby?" tank top woman asked sharply. Not waiting for a reply, she added, "They took him in because he was screaming and crying."

"But he didn't want to get out of the car!" she protested.

Then, here's me in my Murray's Hi-Fi bowling shirt and skull-and-crossbone Airwalks (the vision of maternity!). "Far be it from me to tell people how to care for a child, but you're the adult in the situation. I would have hauled him out of the car anyway. Or, if he's that adamant, turn the car back home. Sobey's is open 24 hours. Go some other time. What you did is illegal and the store could report you. Did you need your stuff that badly?"

She was rolling her eyes again when a group of employees came out and told her to come inside the store. She bit her lip and walked away.

"Wow," I said to tank top woman. "Thankfully, you don't see that very often."

"I bet you would if you were in Toronto or Ottawa or something like that," tank top woman sighed. "You can tell she's not from Canada."

Whaaaa? Fricking small town xenophobe. This is the reason why I like taking the kids south. It's not just to see escalators!

Not letting that one pass, I smiled and said, "Well, I'm not from Canada either." A lie but not too far from the truth.

She stumbled a bit and backtracked, "Uh, actually, I meant that, uh, you don't see many Canadians anymore."

"But I'm Canadian." Pause, letting her er and em some more and then I added, "You have a nice day, eh?"

I left wondering what would be a worse case of parenting: abandonment or raising a child with racist attitudes?

Saturday Afternoon Fever

There is a rather excellent toy store, scarily, one block-ish from my house.

I love how they have educational and relatively uncommercial toys. I love how everything is organized and decorated. I love how the sales staff don't ask, "May I help you?" but "Wanna see a magic trick" instead.

Every hour, they make an announcement, "It's dance time! If you're caught dancing, you win a candy. The best dancer wins a drink from our soda bar!" Then they crank up some lively Motown or something and all the kids start jumping up and down. As they get older, it becomes more of a shy shuffle, which is why my two older kids didn't win the soda.

Baby Boy did for his rather inspired rendition of "the robot".

Where does he pick this sort of stuff up, I ask you?

Headaches

I've been battling a cold for about a month. On Sunday night, I started getting this pain behind my left ear. Great, I thought. I have an ear infection.

I went to the doctor, alarmed now because the pain was traveling to my jaw. "It's not the ear, Jennifer," said my doctor. "It's a sinus infection."

He prescribed me some antibiotics. "They're powerful," he warned.

He also could have warned me that seven pills were going to cost me about $55. And I've been getting a migraine and gut-rot every single day now.

On the bright side, my cold is gone.

My friend M, who lives in Vancouver now, brought her daughter to visit us. Thankfully, I was feeling well. Daughter got her "I-want-a little-sister" bug out while M's daughter was here. Middle Child had his nose in a book all day, but everyone else played really great.

I've known M since grade 7. We were like two peas in a pod; she was my maid-of-honour. And despite all the years, she hasn't aged. She may even be skinnier now.

Seeing her now, a mother of one, a second and happier career, a home owner in a tony area of Vancouver, attentive wife, she seemed like she had her shit together. She came to my lived-in house with the funky coloured rooms and the jumped-on furniture, three totally different but equally spirited kids, and the marriage that fits like a broken-in pair of jeans. She confessed, "If we have another child, it will kill us. And I mean that almost literally."

Middle Child will come home tomorrow after being at my parents' since Sunday. I've spoken with him every day and he's having a great time. Frankly, I don't even think he misses home at all.

When I first called, I got an "I love you, Mum. Do you miss me like I miss you?" But by the second day, and just about any other time I've called him, he has been either distracted or pissed that I interrupted him.

Mum was a little shocked at how much the kid can pack away. "I could give him a portion like I'd give your father and the little guy will eat it all!" Oh, I guess I didn't warn her about that. Don't let that oven rack for ribs, baguettes for legs look fool you.

Eldest Nephew also shared the week at Camp Granny and Granpa but I'm told he's homesick and wants to come home a little early. This is cool with Middle Child because after Daughter called him up, he's anxious to come home too. No, he's not homesick. Daughter called her brother to lord a party invitation over his head.

"Jules's Baby is having a birthday party. It's on Saturday. Too bad you won't be here to come!"

Middle Child was having none of that. Mum said he phoned Jules's house to invite himself.

Cheeky as anything, he is. Thankfully, he's being accommodated.

I missed him like you can't imagine, even if caring for two children has been infinitely easier than three (for me, anyway).
God, I hope he'll let me hug him.

Middle-of-the-Night Thoughts

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

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

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

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

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

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

Candidate for Fromage 1982

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

Middle Child's Birthday Extravaganza

Middle Child has come a long way, socially.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, my cup runneth over.

Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Now Back to Anna Nicole Smith

Hopefully, this soothes Jules's oral pain.

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

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

Someone saw her and stopped her.

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

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

Leave Well Enough Alone

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

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

I am the World's Best Mother

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

Apparently, ladies, this is all it takes.

My Memory of June Callwood

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

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

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

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

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

Single Parenting is the Shit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Country Roads, Take Me Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You took that corner too sharply."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary, the Bird, and the Roses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Auntie planned on going to Sunday mass this morning.

I slept in.

Does This Outfit Make My Ass Look Pregnant?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So when are you due?"

"I'm not."

"Pardon?"

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

Help Fill an iPod

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

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

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

How Many L's Are There In Buffalo?

Just one!

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

Boys are Gross

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

"Um, like manly lemons, Baby Boy."

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

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

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

24-Hour Party People

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unintentional Porn: Mother's Day Cactus Planters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Crucifix Scab

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

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

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

Loving Husband. Loving Beer.

Fifteen years ago today, Husband and I got hitched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm a Winner!

I figure it has a lot to do with being one of the last ones to drop in a ticket.

I don't win raffles. In fact, I've only won two (technically three) in my life. One was in 1983. I was so moved by the senior band's prize of a JVC boombox blaring Duran Duran that I bought a ticket during the dying minutes of the last period. I'm pretty sure I was the last person to drop a ticket in the box. Anyway, I won my very first stereo which got to play all sorts of fine 80s music (Japan, anyone?).

The kids' school had their annual Family Fun Night. The school doesn't fundraise, but holds these sort of things in order to get some bucks for extra school supplies.

I really hate Family Fun Night. Imagine every kid at the school, along with their family, coming out for fall fair type games in the gym. And the hall is lined with baskets that each class had made. Middle Child's class basket had an "I Love to Bake" theme so everyone donated something related to that. Daughter's class had a Family Bath Night/Spa theme.

We got to the school 30 minutes before it wrapped up. We quickly bought tickets (from Slowplum - here's your shoutout, child) and divided them up - 3 raffle tickets for each kid and one for me. Daughter and Baby Boy dropped them for the baskets they really wanted. Middle Child told me that we had a better chance mathematically to enter a ticket for a basket that didn't have too many tickets. So I put one in the Coffee and Tea Time basket. He chose Patio Days, I Love to Garden, and the autistic children's sensory toys.

The president of the council called out the winning numbers shortly thereafter. We won the coffee and the patio stuff. Husband went up to accept one of them and was coming down the stage steps when another one of our numbers was called. If you know Husband, geez, was he embarrassed.

But he said it was worth his embarrassment because the stuff people donated was insanely good.

Crackbook

I blame Baby Sister.

She was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back when she "invited" me to join Facebook.

Granted, it's been a nice way to keep in touch with my cousins whom I used to see very, very often growing up and, now, we hardly see each other at all. With the exception of a few of my younger cousins who don't want their geezer cousin Jen listed as a "friend" (chickens!), most of us have a Facebook profile.

What I hadn't expected was to be found by all sorts of people from my diverse past. My best friend from Grade 7 found me last week. A gay friend who was relentlessly teased at my high school is now in contact with me. People that I see every day are on my friend list, too. And, yesterday, one of the coolest people I worked with at one of the worst offices I worked at found me.

But what slays me is that it can be a real time-sucker. Middle Sister won't go on it for that reason, I believe.

This past week, my kids had a Turn Off the Screens week where they not only didn't watch any TV, movies, played with video games - Daughter didn't even play with her Tamagotchi - there I was feeling REALLY guilty for turning on the computer.

I'm back from my vacation and a good time was had by all.

Jules sent me off with a travel journal and a pen with the strict instructions to write, write, write. And I did, did, did. In fact, I wrote so much, I ran out of ink.

So, obviously, there's tons of detail in there. If you want to read it (and you know me), let me know. There's nothing untoward or offensive. Maybe because writing on paper is labourous and my mind works slower (or that I'm afforded the opportunity to edit in my head before I plunk it on a page) there are very few swear words, even. And if you're a regular reader of this blog, or if you've been out with me socially, you'll know that I swear like a sailor.

Honestly, the only disappointment I had was getting my period because I packed lots of white pants. Oh, and I wish there were fewer Canada-hating, US-centric Americans, but there's always a few bad apples.

I also posted photos on my Facebook page as well as many as I could on to Flickr. Again, if you have my email address and you want a link to the photos, tell me. I've detailed the photos best I could so that would be the best way to describe my trip rather than me writing about it here.

But to sum up, it was a good trip and long overdue. We were expecting lots of liver spots and Husband thought he'd have to trudge through dinner with old people complaining about their dentures, but this wasn't the case. There were lots of families with pre-teen or teen children, so most of the adults were about our age or just a tad older. There was absolutely tons to do on board. We only swam at night (the pools were salt water) under the stars. It was great and we didn't have to share the pool. I won the trivia contest. Husband learned to play Blackjack from our dinner table mates from South Bend, Indiana (they were so incredibly nice). Husband also saved an old lady who fell face first in the ocean in her all-white outfit. She was from Syracuse NY and was with 9 other friends for their 50th high school reunion. When we got back to the tour bus, they all sung O Canada in appreciation. Freaky. I still went to the gym every day. Husband ate and ate and ate and is still skinny.

My OCD is in full swing. I blame my esthetician. You see, I went for my pedicure yesterday (it's a pre-vacation rule, you know) and told me what I thought was a cracked heel was really plantar warts. I gasped because I know they're highly contagious and they're an HPV with loooong roots. Ick. Ick. Ick. I probably got them (I have two very close together) from walking barefoot at the kids' swimming lessons. You have to take off your outdoor shoes and, well, I didn't want to get wet socks!

I apologized to the esthetician, telling her that I know they're very contagious. "Oh, please. I'm not exaggerating if I say that every other client has them. I bleach everything and I think I'm genetically incapable of catching them."

Still, now I'm going to be scrupulous about covering my feet until they heal, and probably afterward so I don't catch it again.

So, from this nasty reminder about viruses came a renewed interest in ensuring I have enough Purell. I was going to anyway because of all those reports of people on cruises getting ill. I'm also bringing a bottle of anti-bacterial Febreeze. I intend to spray the bedspread. They don't wash them, you know. I don't even want my capris touching some stranger's spunkum or whatever.

Jules thinks I'm a little off, but any one in my family (extended too) can attest that we're all like this. How many outside of us were washed in Dettol as children? "But Mummy, it's buuuuurning me!" "Hush. That's just the Dettol killing all the bugs on you." Is it any wonder?!?

*********

"Middle Child is going to hell," Husband announced yesterday.

Apparently, some kid in his class was wearing a Sidney Crosby shirt and Middle Child taunted him by saying it was "Sidney Crotch-bee".

Going to hell? No, he's just a Senators fan.

See? It's stuff like that which will make me miss my kids when I'm away on vacation. I'll miss it when Baby Boy climbs on my lap and says, "I have a present for you" and then he plants a kiss right on the lips. Daughter hid love notes in our luggage. It's supposed to be a secret, I think, so I haven't read them yet.

Baby Boy is going around saying he's "going to par-tay" when we're gone. I swear, that kid really will be the president of his frat. This is why I call him Otter, people.

But they will be in excellent hands: the hands that raised me (and washed me in Dettol). I wouldn't be leaving if it were any other way. Probably.

My Ersatz Homemade BodyPump Tracklist

I know the stuff my mother says comes from total care and concern; a really good place in the heart and mind. Like yesterday, when I told her that I plan to go to the gym on vacation, she got all freaked. "Don't you be going there first thing in the morning like you do when you're home. You don't know who's in there lurking behind a treadmill or something."

As a reporter for a large daily newspaper in Toronto, I was sent out countless times in the wee hours of the night to get man-on-the-street reports on shit like gang violence and crack houses. And they didn't send me out to Rosedale either. No way. We're talking Parliament and Gerrard, Chinatown alleys, Regent Fucking Eww-Eww-Eww Park.

And my sweet mother is worried about middle-aged guys on a cruiseship?

I go to the gym at the crack of dawn at home because that's the only time I have to myself. Whether I do that when I'm on vacation is still up in the air. But I do totally intend to hit the gym every day (or so).

My workout depends almost entirely on people barking orders. I really need the classes or else I get lazy. I can probably get on an elliptical trainer and cardio out on my own, but for muscle conditioning, I can only do the BodyPump class. I've been at that for about 18 months, so I'm pretty good at it and have the choreography down for the most part. Some of the music sucks (call me old, but Trance is boring), but I figured out what is looked for in a song they choose for the classes.

So, I'll load my iPod with these and have a go at my very own BodyPump class:

Army of Me - Björk (warm-up)
Pump It Up - Elvis Costello (squats)
Love Shack - The B-52s (chest) (or Salt n' Pepa's Push It? I'm Not Dead by Pink?)
In Between Days - The Cure (back)
Take Your Mama Out - Scissor Sisters (triceps)
Pump It - Black Eyed Peas (biceps)
Castles In The Sky - Ian van Dahl (lunge - trance, I know, but I'm really good at this one in the class)
Sabotage - The Beastie Boys (shoulder)
Lose Yourself - Eminem (abs)
Bobcaygeon - The Tragically Hip (cool down and because I need some Canadiana while I'm away)

Kinda commercial, I know, and really old school but it's worth a shot. And some of these songs are from the class, too. But if you have any suggestions, let me know.

Fight the Power!

I went for a check-up this week. I'm fighting genetics, people. I'm fighting hard.

I am at the gym five fricking times a week. I do nearly two hours of cardio in those five days, as well as muscle conditioning. Yet I still look pregnant. I've lowered my cholesterol, but not nearly what it should be due to the exercising and taking those awful salmon oil pills.

Many, many tell me that I am the spitting image of my paternal grandmother, which is true. Of all her bajillion grandchildren, I took after her the most. And she was obese. Funny, though, I have no recollection of her eating. Ever. Cooking? yes. Drinking coffee? Yes. Eating? No. And Nanna had loooots of heart trouble. As does my dad (not nearly as much as she did, but enough to say he has heart disease).

Anyway, that visit made me even more determined to spend my Good Friday morning at the gym. I completed that 90-minute exercise class (props to Jules) and will be starting a new diet on Monday (more fish, less meat and no junk food until Sunday). It will be just in time for the vacation. If you have any words of advice, please comment below or email me.

When you see your kid's school on Call Display, you kind of don't want to answer because, nine times out of ten, it isn't good news.

Yesterday, I received one such call from the school principal.

"There was an altercation in the playground with Middle Child. He and his buddy were trying to get in on a basketball game with the more athletic boys in his class. Anyway, they didn't want any new players and that somehow escalated to one boy announcing, 'Let's attack Middle Child.' He was caught and another boy spat in his mouth."

Ew. And oh!

"So, Jennifer, I'm calling for two reasons. One, Middle Child has calmed down some. He spent the remainder of the lunch hour with his teacher in the staff room, but as he knows more about bacteria and viruses than the average 6-year-old, he was really, uh, grossed out. We have some anti-bacterial mouthwash. It contains alcohol. May we have permission to let him gargle?"

He could drink the whole bottle, as far as I was concerned.

"Secondly, he hasn't mentioned anything but do you think it would help if you came by the school to give him a hug?"

If it were Daughter, I'd already have my coat on, but Middle Child would be mortified if I pulled him out of class. I mean, when I'm in the school tutoring other children, he doesn't even acknowledge me! No, I think it is best that I stay home. If he can't settle down in class, then give me a call and I'll come by.

I spoke with his teacher after school. She was dry heaving while she was telling me. Anyway, he settled in and seemed comforted to have that bottle of mouthwash at the secretary's desk if he needed more, she said. But the whole incident ruined her day. She explained that after giving the kids a piece of her mind, she was so put off by the whole thing that she scrapped her plans to do something all Eastery with them. Thankfully, no one knew of these plans. As if Middle Child doesn't feel ostracized enough, imagine if the others knew he was part of the reason why the class didn't get treats or do a fun craft?

It was report card week. Daughter did excellently. Mostly As with big improvements in math (two As and a B+). Middle Child got A+s all the way through ... except gym and drama/dance. And in the "Learning Skills" section, he only got a "satisfactory" in the "patience with other students" section.

Good Morning!

This is what I woke up to.

And we're expecting 15 cm more this weekend. This is when my daffodils were just about to bloom.

We had a green Christmas, but we'll have a white Easter.

What I'm Up To

I went to the One of a Kind Craft Show in Toronto on Sunday with my pal Jules. Then we hit Lick's and - gasp! - Square One Mall, for old time's sake.

I joined Facebook and, after reading what my younger cousins are up to (they are about 20 years younger than I am), I should be ashamed to admit that my Sunday outing was the most fun I've had in absolutely ages.

I picked up the world's coolest keychain. It's made of pink marbled vinyl with a clear vinyl bubble in the centre which holds a jewelry box ballerina. Okay, it's the most I ever spent on a keychain, but this guy's work was so incredibly unique. He had these insane backpacks that, if I had $80, I would have bought one for one of my kids.

My mum called yesterday in full-out freaky mode. "You gotta find a place where you live to hold your sister's wedding reception!" Didn't she elope in order to avoid fuss? Well, yes, but now there's an apparent need to hold a party. I called a handful of places, but I don't know if anyone from, say, Toronto would want to make the effort to drive 90 minutes. I mean, every time we go to a family gathering in Toronto, we're bound to get at least one person commenting how great it is that we came "all this way." It's not a big deal to us but we're used to it.

Anyway, I found one place that seems to be a great deal. If people want to make a day of it, come visit and walk around downtown here during the day and go to the reception for dinner, it might work. But that may not work for everyone. Anyway, whatever. I did what my mother told me to do, like the good girl I am.

No laughing!

And I was told I was Mother-of-the-Year by Daughter and Middle Child because I bought those Vachon Igor muffins for their lunchboxes. Whole grain, trans fat free, with prebiotics and calcium, and nut-free, I thought it would be a nice treat. And it was on sale. Tried one. Tastes like cake. No wonder they loved it.

Speaking of eating crap I shouldn't, I've signed up for a 90-minute exercise class. I'll be doing BodyPump (weights), BodyStep (step aerobics), BodyAttack (high impact aerobics), BodyJam (a hip-hop cardio class) and BodyFlow (a mix of yoga, pilates and tai chi). I'm hoping to finish the hour-and-a-half. If I crumple to a heap and cry like a baby ... or die ... it has been a slice!

Indeed!

It's amazing what you'll find at the supermarket these days.

What a Nightmare

Could it have been any worse?

Upon Baby Boy's insistence, we went to Le Chalet Swisse for dinner. But for some reason, as we were shown to our table, Baby Boy was possessed by a demon and walked on the floor on his knees, talking - no - CRYING AND YELLING like a baby.

"I want a bookie!" meaning a book because when he plays the "I'm a baby game", every noun gets the "ee" sound at the end.

Well, he was still freaking when we sat down. Husband and I calmly told him to stop. He didn't, so I threw him over my shoulder and took him outside until he calmed down.

When we got back to the table, Husband already ordered drinks for us and Daughter and Middle Child started up. I don't know how it started, but at this point, they were in full "I got you last" mode.

"If you guys don't stop, we'll move one of you beside Dad," I threatened.

A minute later, I got up and moved Daughter, who was in the middle of the boys beside Husband. As I'm doing this, the waitress came by with our drinks.

Two drinks were on the table and I was just about to take my seat when the ketchup bottle toppled off her tray, thus tipping the tray over my way. Drinks, Chalet sauce and two kinds of salad dressings came flying off. I got up quickly but not quickly enough because my right pant leg got soaked.

And Baby Boy started freaking out again because his paper placemat got wet.

I muttered, "What a nightmare!" and as I rolled my eyes, I noticed the kids' school principal in the table facing us. He waved at me.