Hardwired Mum-long

My kids think I am turning into Ray Romano's mother. 

I saw this happening a couple of years ago when Breyan and Sarah moved out to their own apartment.  I would come over and the dishes would be creating their own micro environment, the bathroom reminded me of a fifth grade science experiment and don't get me started on the last time someone changed the sheets.
It's not like I walk around with a white glove checking tops of door frames but really, I found three day old pizza under the playpen.

Yes, I'll admit, that there have been occasions when I've showed up at their door with mop, vacuum and bleach in hand.  But only because I was trying to reach them before Public Health.  I've gotten a little more tactful about the situation and try to do this only when they complain they are tired or sick, then I'm the concerned Mum, just here to give a hand.  Anyway, because of their environment they do seem to catch every cold or bug going around so yes I could claim I need to pop over once a month, or week...or day.

Okay yes I may have fantasies where I "borrow" Breyan's key to his house off his key chain, strap the ladder to the car and drive across town in the middle of the night so I can put locks on the cupboard doors and make sure all the outlets are covered and measure for blackout curtains in his daughters bedroom so that she can take her nap BUT that is not "interfering" as Breyan would call it or "Breaking and Entering" as the nice policeman may have mentioned.  It is the act of a concerned Mum who didn't want to have to bother her children while she prepared a nice surprise: an environment I can be sure my grandgirlz will be safe and healthy in.

(I knew that the cupboards needed locking and cough medicine was just sitting on the fridge shelf and that the outlets behind the thousand pound tv unit were not covered because hubby had done what he calls "An ETA; environmental threat assessment,)

And just because the last time we were at dinner I wanted to lock myself in the bathroom for two hours with a bottle of Tilex for the mold, it doesn't mean I am critical of their cleaning skills.  I was just worried that the hairballs in the sink and the wet towels might become moldy and my grandgirlz might end up hospitalized with pneumonia.  This doesn't mean I'm an interfering old bitty.  It just means I care.

I have spent the last 23 years of my life--  Half of my life making sure my kids were clean, fed and generally living in a Bubonic plague free environment.  Why do I have to stop doing that now?  How do I stop doing that now?   

Freud once said that the definition of insanity is "performing the same action over and over and expecting different results."  I don't think Freud had children.  It has become second nature to say things like, "pick up those clothes," "eat your vegys," "get off the computer."  It's hardwired into my brain.  I once asked my boss at work if he had a "boo boo" when he got a papercut.

And it NEVER works,

Caitlin still has the carpet of clothes on the floor, Breyan still doesn't stand up straight and well, they are off the computer right now because there is only one in the house and I've claimed it to vent but you can be sure the minute I get up to go to the bathroom or get a cup of tea, the seat won't have a chance to get warm before the chair is filled with some child or hubby checking his/her facebook or email.

It's just biogenetic engineering.  I became a mother; Nature rewired my system.

 I stand in line in the grocery store with a bag of milk and suddenly I find myself rocking it back and forth and back and forth in my arms.  If I'm really tired I start humming nursery songs. 

I make food for six when usually there is only me and the Mountain Man at home.

I still do the three nanosecond sweep of the grocery store.  You know, when you hear a kid scream, "Mommy" in another aisle and you  whip your head around, verify it's not yours and go back to grocery shopping. 

I go out to buy myself a new sweater and come home with some fantastic sales that I saw that would just look adorable on Caitlin or Breyan.  The last thing I bought myself was at Value Village but only because I spilled rosehip tea down my shirt on the way to a job interview.

Breyan has been moved out for four years but I still find myself half asleep going to his room at 6 am and getting ready to knock on his door to wake him up for school.

And the house is so quiet.!!!!!!

For 23 years I have trained myself to worry when the house is quiet because as a parent I damn well know that the time to worry about what your kids are getting up to is when you can't hear them.

Caitlin is now a young woman who can take out any mugger.  I know this but I can't sleep unless I know she's home safe or she calls to tell me where she is.  (She should be able to take out the entire National Liberation Army with the weapons MM makes her carry;  Short List;  Mace, Alarm Whistle, a roll of quarters, an emergency phone card and taxi Money.  I saw him eyeing up the tazers at the weapons store last week but you have to draw the line somewhere.)

And I am nothing compared to the MM when he is faced with the prospect that his little baby girl is growing up. 

When he saw the birth control pills the doctor had prescribed for menstrual pain, we practically had to sedate him  (I have to admit that the impish side of me wanted to tell him she would use condoms for protection but I hadn't done my eyebrows and I didn't want a mug shot of me with furry eyebrows.)

When MM does the laundry, he uses a pair of tongs to put her underclothes in the washer and dryer.

When she brought Keagan home to meet us for the first time, she pulled me aside and begged me to "don't let Dad be cleaning his guns." 

He once made a boy infamous at her school when the kids found out that MM greeted him at the door with, "And what are your intentions with my daughter?"  The boy turned tail and ran so fast I only know what he looks like from the Facebook pictures.

Compared to most girls over the age of six nowadays, Caitlin dresses like a nun,  but mention the word cleavage and his daughter in the same sentence and you can render MM into a gasping puddle.

If you ever want to see a grown redneck man clap his hands over his ears and start rocking singing "La La La" at full voice, just try talking to him about having to buy his daughter new bras because she's gone up a cup size.

Some of this frustration is assuaged by the fact I have granddaughters.  They are my reward for not killing my kids when they were teens.

There are inalienable rights to being a grandparent.  When they come over I can feed them, spoil them, give them candy and send them home when I've had enough,

(I may keep a candy jar for them on the bureau but MM keeps a bag of candy in his truck for visiting their house.)

I can buy pink, plastic pretty crap that won't last the day and grill Breyan and Sarah on whether they have their medicine in a locked fishing box in the fridge. 

I can still sew little baby dresses that have hope of being worn if only for family pictures. 

When I see my son yelling at his four year old it is my right as the Nona to pick her up out of the timeout chair and tell her it's okay that she just tried to put a peanut butter sandwich into the CD player.  Daddy is just a little cranky from not eating right.

I see it as my duty to question whether the girls have been eating properly or offer Breyan and his wife money for vitamins because Ivy is looking a little peaky.

Just because when I go grocery shopping I pick them up a few extra things, like fruit or cheese, they should know it's because I recognize their budget is tight and the girls need fresh fruit.  Maybe I make a lasagna or spaghetti and meatballs, you know nutritious  food and drop it by their house so that the girls will have at least one night they are not eating food that came out of a bag with the HamBurgler on it;  this should not be interpreted as critism of Sarah's ability to cook.

I'm sure in a few years when she reads the dozen or so cookbooks I gave her, including the Five Roses one that tells you how to make boiled eggs, Sarah will learn to make economical, filling, healthy food for her family.  Until then I'm just helping to make sure my grandgirlz don't get scurvy or rickets.

What can possibly be wrong with that? Even if it is maybe a little intrusive to ask why they are having another surprise child when there is a variety of birth control options as they can clearly see in the planned parenthood pamphlets I left on their coffee table the last time I was there, I see it as my duty as a parent and grandparent to support my children and insure a stable and happy future for them and my grandgirlz.

How could this possibly be described as being overbearing, interfering or any other words that are nastially used to describe the mother-in-law?

I swear it's not that I'm a mean mother in law, it's just that I'm Hard-Wired to be a Mum.

On Being Christian

September 13

I know that people people think I'm critical of Judea-Christianity.  In fact, I like the ideals behind it. The turn the other cheek, love one another as yourself idea.  It's just that I'm such a radical feminist that the idea of blindly following a religion that tells me I can't just go straight to God with my issues and has been distilled through men's eyes, men's ears, men's writing, etc....leaves me with a jaundiced eye. 

I know Catholics who use birth control, Jews who love BLT sandwiches and Muslims who think that kneeling five times a day to God is uncomfortable.  I also know Fundamentalists, that have told me I'm doomed to Hell for eternity, Witness' who turn their backs on their children when the children need them most and Sunni who tell me that anyone who is not of their religion are just walking meat. 

What I hate is hypocrisy. 

Now and again, (more often than not lately) someone will come along that reminds me of the good in religion.  Who takes their Faith and gives it their heart.  This is portrayed in their actions, their words, their demeanour.  The Mountain Man works with one such man. 

His name is Henry (his name is changed to protect his identity) and he is ancient.  Henry retired a few years ago but still works part-time.  Since you are not allowed to read, listen to the radio or any other occupation that might break down your alertness, the trip in the back of the truck to Montreal is incredibly boring.  So Henry teaches MM Dutch (swear)words, (drinking) songs and stories and he tells him about life under German occupation during WW11. 

One story he told impressed my Mountain Man so much, he told it to me.  I didn't get the perfect details but the core of the story is so scary and wonderful that I thought others would like it.

This is Henry's story.

When the Germans first invaded their village, Henry was very small.  So small, in fact that his sister and he were able to hide under his mothers skirts.  Apparently the habit for the Germans was to round up everyone in the village, take the men away to work camps and leave the women in the village.  Most Dutch citizens took their last glimpse of husbands, lovers, sons and brothers during these frightening moments.   

We've all seen the movies, we've had the heartbreak, we know the terror of these evil moments of history in black and white.  I am very impressed with a mom who has the courage to stand up to soldiers with weapons and hide her children under her skirts.  A woman who took a chance and hid her children in the face of her own death should she be discovered.  If that wasn't enough, the end of the story really impressed me.

At the end of the war, the Germans were bugging out, fleeing from the Allied forces.  There was one German soldier who had been kind to the woman and her children.  He was a German but everyone knows that while an opposing army is evil as a whole, within it are regular people who are there against their will, to serve their country and to do their duty.  They are also someone sons, brothers etc....

The German soldier approached Henry's mom and asked for some of Henry's fathers clothes.  He hoped to slip out of Holland and into Germany under cover.  She gave them to him, with food and water and her prayers.

What courage that must have taken!!!  Should he be discovered by the villagers, she would have surely had to face a mob looking for retribution.  At the very least, she could be condemned as a collaborator and shot.  She was helping one of the very people who had held her and her country captive for years!!!!

Yet, she gave him the clothes.  Why?

The answer to this is simple, according to Henry.  She was a Christian.  Vengeance is Gods.

So she let God sort them out.

It was the right thing to do and that's all that mattered.  Could we make the same choice?  I hope so but I'm such a bad tempered spirit when it comes to anyone who hurts what's mine, I honestly don't know.  I do know that to this day, Henry worries that any Dutch who hears his story will think that his mother was a traitor.  I don't and I don't know anyone who would.  Don't want to know them.  

You have to admire someone who puts what's right before themselves.  To me that makes a hero, no matter what "side" they are on.

The German soldier never made it back to Germany.  He was shot by the German's themselves when they discovered his ruse.  

If that soldier had anything in his soul or had done anything to deserve vengeance, well then, God took it through his own people.  Henry's mom however should get sparkly wings and a pink halo. 

As for me, I couldn't help it.  One of the first things I thought of when Doug told me the story was, "Didn't Dutch women wear shortened skirts in the early 30's?"  There is a fashion point in every story.

Kimberley

September 16

 

This just proves that blood doesn't matter in family.  Whether my kids are genetically related to their aunts or uncles or not, the people in their lives influence always shows in the kids personality. 

 

Usually I think of Caitlin as Sis's lost daughter.  Caitlin is a tomboy, girl-next door, strong, very practical and when she wants to focus----she can take over the world.

 

But she does have alot of Aunt Yvonne and Uncle Sarcasm King where she sees things differently than others and finds the hidden humour or pathos in a situation.  (In SK' case, her sarcastic "Whatever" comes from him.)  Anyway, she proved today that she is Greg's niece too.

 

Caitlin tried out for drama club today.  Usually they do not take grade 9's but she sweet-talked the drama teacher into giving her a chance.  (She's practiced on her dad enough.)

 

She auditioned for a musical and was asked to sing.  She was prepared and she must have done a good job because they told her to try with the microphone.  She told me, "I couldn't help it, Mum.  I looked at the mike, realized how heavy it was, that it was a real proffesional mike and it just happened."

 

What happened?

 

She covered the mike with her hand, took a breath and said, "Shhhhhhh.....Luke, I am your father."

 

She made the drama team anyway.  She's singing Oh Canada at next weeks school assembly.

 

Thanks Greg!  Your StarWars fascination is contagious!  

 

PS, she also did her "chipmunk singing" for them.  If you ever get a chance to hear her, take a listen, she sends me into tears of laughter.   

Talk to you all later

 

Kimberley

Well, we still have Mischief chewing incidents.  She's gone from chewing up the rugs to chewing up pencils and pens.  Like I say, "Other people have pet stains.  I have pen stains!" 

 

Now I remember when Lois had so much trouble with Riker.  He ate COUCHES and DOORS!  So I felt pretty petty worrying about rugs.  However, it was becoming a serious issue.

 

We had bought her a selection of chew toys.  Unfortunately, she ate them.  And did you know that pig's ears are bad for dogs?  So we went and bought her a Kong.  An oblong rubber chew toy that you put cookies and treats inside.  She was doing really well with it until she figured out the treat was on the inside and spent her time just licking out the treat.  She's not a dumb dog.

 

A few weeks ago the toy disappeared.  I looked all over the house, in the backyard and even in the car, just in case we had forgotten when we came back from the cottage.  No luck!  The toy is twenty-five bucks so I didn't want to buy another one until I was sure this one was lost.

 

"It's not penny-pinching," I thought, "just common sense."

 

Then one day, I noticed that she like to bury stuff in the back yard.  The Mountain Man often complained about Mischief digging holes but I figured that was all she was doing.  So the plan I came up with was simple---I would go dig up her holes and see if it was there. 

 

First thing!  We still have earwigs and they are right in front of the place Mischief likes to dig.  So I put on the MM's green Wellie's, a long sleeved jacket, tied up the pant legs and got some gloves.  Wasn't a fashion statement that needed to be remembered.  Every once in a while the earwigs would grab onto my pants or shirt and I would do the "freaky-bug" dance to get them off.  The little kids in the park out back thought it was hilarious. 

 

So off I go and start digging holes.  First, I found the lovely little fake flowers I had floated in my pond.  Mischief had eaten all of the petals and buried the centers.  I have to make some apologies  to the kids in the neighbourhood.  I had thought they were taking them because they were pretty.  C'mon, we are talking about people who stole the lawnmower CORD!  Not the whole lawnmower, just the dang cord.

 

Next I found a variety of garden tools, pieces of wood, unidentifiable bones and toys and finally the worst-----the head of my scarecrow!  I was a little upset.  I liked my scarecrow.  I gave him a decent reburial. 

 

What I didn't find was the Kong.  After about 3 hours and 30 holes, I gave up!  The thing was well and truly gone and I would have to buy another one.  

 

So our niece gave us an idea.  Give Mischief carrots!  They are good for dogs and hopefully they will wear out her jaw.  Unfortunately, Mischief doesn't LIKE carrots.  She's MM's dog for sure.  Meat and potatoes for this puppy!  

 

I came up with the idea that if I rubbed mesquite BBQ marinee on them, she might like them better.  It kinda worked.  

 

Now she walks around with a carrot in her mouth all day, stopping to give it a few good licks!  Looks kinda like a big fat cigar!  With her gremlin ears and the carrot, you would be forgiven for wondering if she's gonna pop up and say, "Eh, What's up Doc?"

 

Hopefully this will work.  I really hate the muzzle.  She just looks s-o-o-o-o pitiful with it on and anyone who knows me, knows the idea of a muzzle has cropped up in a few people's minds a time or two after spending an hour or so with me.  

 

Meanwhile, the city landscape guys came by the other day.  They were crowded around my backyard and scratching their heads.  I went out to see what the problem was.

 

"Uh Mam?  We think you may have groundhogs!  Look at all these holes!"

 

"Really?"I asked him.  "Do you think so?"   And scooted back into the house as fast as I could. 

 

Have a good day!

Kimberley

Grieving Parents Are Allowed...

I believe every grieving parent should be allowed to;

1. Have two days during the year when they can hide in their rooms with their heads under the cover, the lost ones Birthday and the Anniversary of the loved ones death.  No matter how many years it's been.  You don't get over it, you just get used to it.
2. Be allowed to smack people who tell grieving parents, "You can have other children."  This is stupid.  You can't replace children like puppies.
3. Be allowed to have as many candles as they want to light for their lost ones.  Even if they could burn the house down.
4. Need to be reminded that bad things happen to you...not because of you.  No matter how good of a parent you are; If you lose a child you always feel the guilt.  Don't wallow in it. There is no purpose, healing or reason. "Bad things happen to good people.  Just wish it didn't happen to you,"  was one of the most comforting pharses I've ever heard.
5. Be allowed to yell at God whether they believe in him or not.
6. Tell the Smarmy Ass Jesus freak at the funeral that I don't find any comfort that they are in the arms of Jesus.  I want them in mine!
7. Tell people they have three children.  She died, it's not like she never existed.
8. Smack people who tell women who have miscarriages that, "It's not as if you actually had the child."  Of course she did, in her mind the child was born, married and had children already.
9. Be angry, sad, frustrated all on the same day.
10. Eat as much chocolate as they want.
11. Be reminded that they have friends and loved ones who love them, are willing to listen, hug them, get them drunk and let them cry.  (I did and it was my salvation.  Thank you.)

The Coffee Incident

It's all the Mountain Man's fault really.  If he hadn't had a spectacular coffee accident, I wouldn't have been cranky and I wouldn't have yelled at Breyan and......Okay, I'll start at the beginning.

 

You see it started with the Mountain Man doing the dishes.  He was trying to put a glass mixing bowl up on top of the cupboards.  It tipped from his fingers, bounced into the regular bowls which knocked a microwaveable bowl, which then, bounced off the counter and smashed the coffee pot.  If it was on TV it would have looked great in slow motion with MM yelling "N-o-o-o-o-o-o."  (Contrary to the "Sh....".that he did yell because then it wouldn't have been family TV.)

 

So no coffee until we get another coffee pot.  We have one of those dinky little one-cup coffee makers but unfortunately, Breyan has been to the Sarcasm Kings school of coffee making and makes coffee that would shame espresso into admitting it was dishwater.  I know my brother hasn't been in the army but you'd never know it from his coffee.

 

You also can't keep it warm if you don't drink it right away so if MM makes it in the morning, it's cold before I get up and reheated coffee in the microwave is wrong.  (Grandma warms up her tea that way but after burning my hand literally to a cup that I didn't know wasn't microwavable and having to have my wedding ring cut off. I don't reheat any drink in the microwave.)

 

Now, I'm not normally a coffee drinker.  I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Tetley tea drinker but a few months ago a doctor told me to drink a cup of coffee a day to help with pain.  Caffeine ups pain killers, especially codeine----it's the secret ingredient that boosts medicine.  Not more than one cup a day he warned or I would get jittery and stressed and that would defeat the purpose. 

 

So thinking logically, I made it a habit to have coffee as soon as I woke up.  In the tradition of all spoiled wives, my hubby would make a pot before he went to work or bring me one if he knew I was getting up early.  My loving children would start pouring the minute they heard me groan as I wrestled back the covers to get to the bathroom.  Their reason?  "You're nicer after your coffee." 

 

Now, I have discovered a horrible problem.  Addiction!!!  Oh foul demon riding high on the back.  I forgot that you can get addicted to coffee.  (Well to caffeine but same difference.)  Tea just doesn't cut it.  Tea is weak and watery, no bite, no bitterness and no cream.  (Cream in tea is WRONG!!!!)  Not even tea made in the Atlantic provinces can nip those fatigue cells away.  (even if you can polish your silver with it.)  Hot chocolate is just too, too sweet, like talking to a peppy morning person before 11 a.m. it grates the nerves and leaves a coating aftertaste. 

 

Why didn't I listen to Lois a few years back when she gave up caffeine for Lent?????  (I apologize to Lois ahead of paragraphs.)  When she told me I was thinking, "Jesus wants you to give up coffee?  That's your sacrifice?"  Somehow cancelling out your morning cup of Joe didn't seem very, well, um...religious!  I just can't picture Peter standing at the Pearly Gates saying, "Oh, it's you!!  The one who gave up her Folgers.  Pink wings for you girl and an extra-sparkly halo!!!!!!

 

Afterwards I thought about it and realized that there is caffeine in Chocolate.  That meant Lo had to give up the food of the God's for forty days.  At that point I realized that they would have to bring out the Holy Choir and forget Peter---It was definitely going to be Mary waiting at the front gate saying, "My child, Welcome!  A woman who gave up her chocolate for God.  May I have your autograph?

 

Anyhow, the whole point is that without my morning coffee, I am cranky and tired and my day just doesn't work!  We are going out today to get a new one but it's still been five days without coffee except for when I use the dinky one and when I sneak off to Timmy's. 

 

There is a comfort factor with addiction.  You don't have to eat all the chocolate and cakes and ice cream, if you're a food addict but there is a comfort in knowing that it is there if you want to.  Drunks would go into panic if the LCBO decided to strike and don't even begin to talk about a smoker who realizes that they are on their last cigarette.  It's a nagging thought in the back of your head.  "If you don't go out right now and get a pack then you will not have one when you need it.  What will you do if the stores are closed eh?? Eh???"  It's the demon dancing around that forces the foodie to the grocery store, the alcoholic to the liquor store and the smoker to nearest kiosk. 

 

But I couldn't just run out and buy a new coffee pot.  I had to wait until I was well enough to leave the house.  I had to wait until I could afford one and I had to wait for MM and I to stop the silly arguments. 

 

 For example:  He wants one of those coffee pots that just turns on by itself in the morning.  I think they are ridiculous.  I don't want to spend an extra twenty bucks for a coffee pot that switches itself on when you can set it up the night before and you just flip the switch before you jump in the shower.  Mountain Man doesn't get up and drink coffee right away.  He has a morning "man routine" involving the newspaper and bathrooms.  So why pay extra for a robotic coffeepot?

 

Mind you, I'm just as bad because I want a white coffee machine to match the rest of the appliances.  MM doesn't understand why we have to go looking all over the planet for a white one that will stain anyway?  (This from a man who still doesn't understand why we can't have a camoflauge couch slipcover.)

 

So the petty arguments continue which still doesn't get to the heart of the problem. 

 

I fully admit I am cranky.  So when Breyan decided to break to his curfew, by SIX HOURS!  I was extremely upset.  Take into consideration his recent mugging, the reports of gang warfare by my brother's in Toronto and the wonderful security bulliten on CNN saying Canada is next on the friendly terrorists list.  (Which I don't understand because why would they blow up the place that does their banking and gives them free place to stash their wives and families?  Thank God most people think Toronto is the capital of Canada.)

 

So I blew up.  Yes, I yelled.  Normally this is the Mountain Man's job but hey, no sleep, no coffee and what does my son use as his excuse???   "I'm working!  That means I'm an adult!  I can do what I want."

 

After almost an hour of argument, I yelled at him, "I just don't understand you!!!!  You really must be the mailman's son."  

 

Guess who was at the door delivering our mail?  

 

Yep!  Of course.  Our friendly neighbourhood 105 year old mailman!!!!!!

 

I'm still trying to get my knee out of my throat and the mailman has a really, BIG smile for me each day.

 

I'm going to get a coffee pot now.

 

 

(Later) 

 

We got the white one and no robotics.  I only won the argument because the white ones were on sale.  I'm a happy camper now.

 

Also the reason this is the Mountain Man's fault is that the mixing bowls don't go on top of the cupboard, he's just too lazy to take them down from the cupboard and stack them properly.  See?

Buying Baby Gifts

Mine and the Mountain Man's latest argument is what to get Jordana for her new baby.  It's really hard.  We know that Andy and Ursula will have covered all and more of the basics and we want to get her something useful.  A man's list is very different than a woman's on principle but the MM's suggestions so far have been quite interesting.  Especially considering we are buying for a girl.

KIMBERLEY'S BABY SUGGESTIONS

Baby t-shirts, bottles, layette

Pink Sunglasses, baby sized.  (No rhinestones, they aren't safe)

A "Winnie the Pooh" talking Tigger

A bright pink "Princess" pillow and fleece blanket set

The cutest little pink infant construction boots.  (I wonder if they are steel-toed.)

A scrapbooking kit.

THE MOUNTAIN MAN'S BABY SUGGESTIONS

A bright orange hunting jumper, baby sized.

A cammo truckers cap, baby-sized

A night light with fish swimming around, (I agreed with this but they were out of them.  Then I noticed there was a shark!)

A little motorized ATV

A teddy bear in full deer hunting gear.

You can take the man out of Renfrew but.........

Mr. Squirrel Strikes Again

Well Mr. Squirrel has struck again!  For those of you who've never had to suffer a Mr. Squirrel story, let me introduce you.

We have a small, black squirrel that lives in our Lady tree out back.  It's a peeping Tom squirrel.  His favourite trick is to get himself outside our bedroom window and peep in on our lives.  Yvonne once let out a nice, sharp shriek when she was trying on a dress I'd made for her, only to discover a pair of beady black eyes checking her out from the window. 

I'm not sure what interests our lives hold for Mr. Squirrel?  What can he possibly find so fascinating?  Oh well, since squirrels don't have cable, I guess they have to find their fun where they can. 

His other favourite trick is to bait Ariel, the cat.  He runs up to the window and knocks on it until she comes.  Then he sits and chitters at her until she can't take it anymore and tries to jump through the glass.  I don't know how many times I've had to replace the screen when Mr. Squrrel miscalculates and the window is open.  Or maybe he doesn't miscalculate?  It's a 15 foot drop from our bedroom window and I have the only cat on the planet that's afraid of heights. 

When he does miscalculate, he skitters into the tree and laughs at her.  Oh yes.  I know he's a HE because he stands on his hind legs and puts his front paws on the window, giving us a full view of his gender.

For the past few years, Mr. Squirrel has discovered my garden.  He eats the heads off the tulips and roses, digs up bulbs, runs away with any recognizable vegetable and now today, I've discovered his latest thievery. 

Recently I've been picking up pine cones, acorns or any other fall nuts I can find as well as nice straight sticks and branches.  I'm saving them for Xmas decorations.  I've been piling them into a plant pot I have out front.  I've done pretty well so far.  I've got about half the container filled and it's a big one, the kind you use for trees. 

I leave them outside because I want to be sure there are no bugs.  Earwigs would fit just perfect between the cones leaves and I will douse them water and bleach before I bring them inside.  I should have known better.

Well, I was doing well.  That is, until Mr. Squirrel discovered my cache.  This morning I went out and found it half empty!!!!!!  Someone had taken all the acorns and most of the pine cones.  

At first, I thought it was neighbourhood kids.  You know, for their own crafts and games?  Then I noticed movement behind the pot.  Sure enough, a little black nose peeked itself over the edge of the pot.  Mr. Squirrel had struck again!  He probably considers it a take-out joint for squirrels.  Why work hard to scrounge for hibernation when you can just go pick up a quick nut or two?  I couldn't believe it. 

So I looked at him, said goodbye to my pine cones and very quietly asked, "Would you like fries with that?"

Gonna have to stash them in my basement.  I'll just pesticide them right away.

Take care

Kimberley

There was an old lady...

October 03

I have always been inordinately proud of my Caitlin.  She's a good, sweet, girl next door.  We always get compliments from her friends parents about how polite she is, how nice she is.  In fact, last week we got a phone call from her Painting and Decorating teacher saying how he wishes he had more of her in the class because she is a wonderful student.  And I totally agree with them but they don't see the girl who never cleans her room and has the most subtle wit and I get the full dose.

Example.

Last week I was chasing a spider around the living room.  (Okay well maybe he was chasing me.)  I was really frustrated because we have spiders AND fruit flies!!!!!  "This is so unfair!" I cried to Caitlin, "Aren't the spider supposed to EAT the flies?!!!"  I took my frustration out on the spider and told him, "Hah!  That's for not doing your job!  Eaten a few more of these fruit flies and you might have had the energy to run away !"

Well Caitlin thought this was hilarious and she chuckled and said, "Well Mum.  We have the fly, the spider, the cat, the dog and the old lady!  We just need the horse and the lion!" 

"Huh?" I answered.

My little, adorable, nice girl starts singing, "There Was an Old Lady who Swallowed a Fly......."

I gritted my teeth and put on my bad company smile and sweetly asked, "And where did you find the old lady?"

She just smiled, patted my shoulder and said, "Oh Mum, you're always young to us!" 

Then she ran for it.

Grown up pyjamas

October 04

 

I have got to get myself some grown up pyjamas!  As it is I have these wonderful flannel p.j.'s that have moons and stars.  They are very comfy and they make me look like a six year old.  I haven't really cared because, Hey? Who's gonna see them?  The dog?  The kids?  The hubby?  As far as he's concerned, I look like a sex kitten in a sackcloth so really, why worry?

 

This morning gave me the answer.

 

Last night we had a horrible storm.  It was one of those wonderful fall storms with sideways rain and trees tapping on the window.  You know the kind?

 

This morning I noticed that the Lady tree out back had lost a branch that was entangled right above where I put Mischeif out.  I was worried that the branch might fall on her so I threw on Hubby's slippers and went out to wrestle it down.

 

Sure I was in my pj's but I was only going to be a second.  I figured I'd dash in and out.  The neighbourhood children weren't due for the bus and who was going to see me?

 

Everyone!

 

Because I failed to notice that the back door latch was broken! 

 

 

Of course the front door was locked!  Of course every kid and their mom in the neighbourhood picked that moment to catch their bus!!!!!!!  And Of Course I have to have "Helpful Neighbours"* so the men of the neighbourhood meandered on over to see if they could help!!!!!!!! 

 

They did.

 

As I blushingly mumbled my thanks, I heard a snicker and a "nice 'jamas."

 

Man I need to go shopping.  On the other hand----the neighbourhood coffee clatch can't say that I was out to seduce their hubby's in my flannel. 

Right?  I mean, if I was in a negligee or a baby dolls, they might ban me from their morning gossip-a-thon. 

 

Mind you, since I have the hubby in the neighbourhood that thinks long underwear and Muskol are sexy, who knows?

 

*  This is how I fix my car.  I grab a case of beer and open my hood.  Then I wait for the neighbourhood men to wander on over and sniff, "What's the matter with yer car?"  Then they fix it.

Girl Gab, ghosts, grief

My sleep schedule is really screwed up right now. The other night our neighbour Marion, (the lady who had the daughter Francis that died at 23 from heart failure,) came over.  She comes to talk to me because as a parent who has lost a daughter, she feels I really do understand what she's going through.

 She brought food so Breyan let her in. She’s taking to feeding my kids. When the kids tell her I’m out of commission she whips up a casserole or lasagna and drops it by. Which, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about, I may be sick but not stupid. The problem is that she’s so lonely and I hate to lose a captive audience so she stays. And stays. And stays. And stays.

This time she was here until 3 am. We talked about her holidays—she visited friends and family. How she was coping with grief—she still doesn’t sleep and hasn’t returned to work. How she spent New Years—at a gay bar.

Now you know me, I was very sympathetic, offered her chamomile tea and Kleenex and offered practical suggestions on how to cope with the loss of a child. I gave her lots of hugs and we talked about the funeral and her ex-husbands idiocy.

Get this; After spending two hours standing by her only daughters coffin and greeting guests, Marion's started feeling woozy. (Who wouldn’t?) She quietly asks her nephew to get her a chair and holds onto the coffin for dear life praying not to faint. What does the imbecile ex do? He comes up behind her and snarks, "This is not the time for you to make a scene. Grow up Rose! (His new wife’s name.)"

Now if this was me, I would have been looking for a baseball bat, (an umbrella will also do in a pinch) told him what he could do with it and proceed straight to wailing loudly in my handkerchief, remembering all the dramatic voice projection lessons I’ve ever had and cry something like, "But George! (Her ex-boyfriend in high schools name, the one who made him so jealous in their marriage,) My baby is dead and you are telling me I’m not allowed to grieve? No wonder I divorced you!!!! Your emotionally short-changed as well as anatomically!"

But this is Marion who is a good farm girl who never talks back and always does the right thing. She just went and thanked her nephew for the chair, made sure she got something to eat and got on with her grieving with dignity in private. Poor baby.

What a lot of people don’t seem to understand is that grief this bad doesn’t really sink in until a long time after the funeral. It took me a year to really believe that Deanna was dead. I mean, you know it in your head but your heart resists the information with every fibre of it’s being. I often think that it’s the people who have their heart and their head recognize their grief at the same time that end up the suicides.

So Marion has now hit stage two which is when the heart recognizes grief. It means she has to start the whole "seven-step" grieving process over. We talked a lot and I hope that helped but also being me I brought up the stuff she didn’t think was proper to say out loud. For example; that she was getting grey early and that the grief was aging her. Someone told her the other day, "Oh my God, you look so old!" She was devastated. She kept thinking, "Can everyone see her grief? Does she look that bad?"

Now the correct answer to this is, "It’s been a hard year." Which Marion gave her with a sad smile.

The Kimberley answer to this is to smile, give the woman a nice ringing smack and go directly out to dye my hair and see a make-up artist who specializes in crow’s feet and dark circles under the eyes.

One thing I’ve really been trying to encourage her to do is get out of her house. She has no other children so she’s in the house 24/7 by herself with the ghost of her daughter. It doesn’t help that she’s been divorced for four years and hasn’t had sex for seven, which makes the divorce self-explanatory. She’s not your traditional sex kitten or cougar so she’s having a little problem with getting back into dating. She’s more your traditional Italian grandmother with a low sense of self-esteem and no wooden spoon.

Personally, I told her to get herself a vibrator and a good Bonk-buster novel but she blushed so hard I thought she was going to expire on my couch from a heart attack. (Which probably means she has one.)

 So what does this lady do for New Years Eve? Does she stay at home and sulk? Does she join a few friends at a house party where she can sit in the corner and nurse a gin and tonic and try to make stilted conversation with divorced, weird men laden down with emotional baggage and having prospective mates thrown at her by her well-intentioned match-making relatives?

Nope! She goes to the gay bar!! Boy I like this girl!!!!

Now part of this makes perfect sense to me. Why go to a regular bar where you have to compete with anorexic teeny-boppers whom you’d rather ask if it isn’t past their curfew and have to put yourself in direct line for rejection and heartache? Why not go to a place where Men are Men but they dress better than the sheep? Why not go to a place where the women compete FOR each other rather than against each other?

I admire her. This must have taken a lot of courage for a farm girl from Gatineau who is in her "Silver" years. (She’s too close to my age for me to say Golden years, it makes me nervous.) No she goes to a place where she can reject the offers from women with good excuse and not even worry about offers from men. (Unless it’s for them to restyle her hair, which, yes, I love her but her last hair styling was in the early seventies and it hasn’t changed.)

Unfortunately, she had a bit of a problem. Well, a bit of a stalker actually. She had been invited out by Francis’ best friend. (Francis is/was her daughter in case I confuse you as usual.) Now this friend, Annie, is a great girl. She loves Marion and does everything in her power to be a substitute daughter. (Or son when I think of it. She’s a manly girl, flannel shirts and all.) She includes her in holiday plans and calls once or twice a week to check up on Marion. She didn’t want Marion to be alone and Marion being one of the more opened-minded people I know for her background agreed to go to this club.

I have to admit I wished I’d seen it. Imagine this. You are in a dance club. It’s hot and sweaty and there is an overwhelming aroma of perspiration and poor choices in perfume. There are clouds of smoke hanging in the air from the smoke machine on the dance floor and the floor is littered with beautiful men/women in teeny-tiny clothes that wouldn’t cover a hamster. The music is so loud that a deaf person would not be sure if the tremor under their feet was an earthquake or ‘Frankie Goes to Hollywood.’

In this middle of this chaos, there sits Marion, hands folded neatly in her lap and posture straight, desperately trying not to look at the man who has the butt cut out of his jeans and wondering why in hell she could never have a bum like that? A fifty-four year old farm woman with salt and pepper hair, who keeps telling herself that she could lose those extra fifty pounds anytime but has been five foot, both ways since she was thirteen. There she was in her "going-out" clothes, a matching set, plum-coloured sequined sweater and pants with a fly, rather than elastic waist. I have to admit I still roar when I think of it.

It turns out that some women like other women to be "real" women. This one woman decided Marion was her New Year’s Gift and started coming on to Marion full-steam ahead. Marion was disconcerted. She told me, "I told her, ‘Thank you but I’m not interested,’ ‘I’m sorry but you have the wrong number,’ and finally ‘I’m straight.’ But the woman didn’t pay any attention and she kept trying to put her arm around me and pinch my bum." Marion takes a deep sip of her tea. "I don’t understand why she wouldn’t understand?’ But it’s not like I have a lot of experience fighting men off and fighting off a woman never even occurred to me. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings but really she just wouldn’t go away."

Meanwhile, I’m doing my best to listen with a calm supporting aura and desperately trying to figure out how to take a sip of my tea without choking. She went on. "So finally at midnight when she grabbed me and kissed me I was just stunned. I mean, I just met her two hours ago and here she was trying to put her tongue in my mouth. What could I do? I just looked at her and said ‘Thank you.’ Then I left. "

I gave up the ghost at that and pealed laughter. I told her, "Well you have two choices. Enjoy it and look at it as a new life experience or pretend she’s a guy and do what you would to a guy who did that. Kick her in the shin and leave."

Wide-eyed she answered, "Oh no!" she cried, "I couldn’t do that! It wouldn’t be polite!!!!"
I had to excuse myself to the bathroom at this point because I was sure I was going to pee in my pants from laughing.

On a weirder note, we were discussing how she was coping day to day with her grief. I was worried at one point when she was telling me how tired she was. She has locked herself into a chronic fatigue state and is having a devil of a time getting out of it. She told me at one point she was looking at Fran’s picture and she just started crying and thinking, "Fran, honey I can’t do it. I’m just too tired and I can’t take it anymore. Come and get me please."

Not two minutes later the phone rings and it’s Annie. Annie asked Marion how she was really doing when Marion tried to fob her off with the usual, "I’m fine." Annie then proceeded to tell her that she was sorry for calling so late but she had been fast asleep when Fran appeared in her dream. Fran told her to wake up and call Marion. "Fran," Annie said, had asked her to, "Tell [Mum] it’s not her time yet." So Annie did. I really admire a girl who is willing to call someone at three am to give them a message from the other side.

I admire someone more who gets the call and doesn’t shriek, "It’s 3 am you stupid git! Get a life and some psychotherapy while you’re at it."

Marion had the same reaction I had when Breyan told me that his grandmother came to visit with Deanna at night and wanted me to stop crying because she was taking care of Deanna and would see me when it was my time.
First reaction: Oh my God, he’s seeing ghosts!
Second reaction: It’s very comforting to know that there is an afterlife and that my baby is safe. Third reaction: Why the hell didn’t she tell me herself?! What am I, chopped liver?
Fourth reaction: Hey that’s kind of creepy. Is the MM’s mom able to watch us all the time? Even when we’re having sex? Ewww! Hope it’s a good show.I explained to her the theory that ghosts can’t come back to the people that are closest to them because the temptation is there for them to never leave and they get trapped in this plane of existence. I can’t stand having my live teenagers hanging around the house all day, the dead ones are better off doing their own thing.

Well finally after I dosed her with a good gallon of chamomile tea to make her sleepy she went home and I have to remember to return her lasagna dish, though Breyan washed dishes that night so I’d better make sure it’s actually clean before I give it back. I hope she’s going to make it. I’m a little worried by her health condition. She already has high blood pressure and not having a life makes her a prime heart attack candidate. I worry that she will drive herself to a heart attack so that it technically couldn’t be called suicide and she could still be buried in the Catholic church.

A letter to Yvonne, serving a tour in Afghanastan

January 12, 2006

^{Note:this letter has been adjusted from the original for grammar and spelling-sort of which I'm sure she would have appreciated before I sent the original.}

Hey Yvonne;

Well how was the trip out there? Are you dead yet? Did the plane fall apart? Guess not if you are reading this letter and if you are dead then you already know how we are and I don’t need to tell you.

Well since you are in weather that would make a goat sweat, I think I should start by saying that we just had a wonderful two days of snow and icy rain. It got really damp here and the wind was so bad that the icicles are directionally challenged. They are going sideways.

Mr. Squirrel’s favourite resting place, the divider fence, has an ice sculpture of a demented parrot on it. (You know me, for a minute I panicked when I first saw it and thought it was a frozen bird.) Outside, B-r-r-r-r that place I usually avoid like the plague, is so cold that my fingers turn blue and my nose starts running just checking the mail. The Mountain Man had to shovel our driveway twice in one day and he’s taken to parking diagonally across the driveway because the snowplow piled so much snow across the street, he can’t back out without taking off the back bumper. I think our neighbours think he’s taken up drinking.

I couldn’t blame them if they did think that because we found out the neighbour, the single mum is pregnant again and now he feels it’s his duty to shovel her driveway as well! That makes six driveways he shovels everyday; Ours, Crystal’s, Marion's, our neighbour who lets us park the extra car, Joe’s, because Joe just had carpal tunnel syndrome surgery on his wrist and "Big Guys" who has a heart condition and so does his wife and Daniel’s when he can. Daniel’s wife is terminally ill and MM’s worried that the ambulance won’t be able to get to the door in an emergency. Needless to say MM’s back is pretty bad right now.

Caitlin has come down with a wicked cold and she pulled a Mountain Man thing. She came home from school, day before yesterday and in a bright cheery voice told me, "Mum, I was coughing so hard today, I coughed up blood." She shrugged out of her school bag as I dove out of my chair for the thermometer. Being the good paramedic’s daughter that I am I started classifying and listing diseases in my head. "Oh yeah and in gym my hands turned a really neat colour of blue." She added.

“Okay, so we are looking at; blood, cough, possibly asthma which could be anything from a cold to tuberculosis; Lung infection? Pneumonia? I just got over that and it’s contagious. Maybe cold intolerance and asthma attack? No. Must be ear infection, she probably needs another surgery. It’s been six years since her last one and how much do you grow between ages 9 and 15? A lot so that’s it, no need to panic yet.” [This entire paragraph took about 3.4 seconds in my head.]

I grabbed the thermometer and before I could ram it down her throat, (I stopped using the rectal when they were two—I have very dignified kids,) she added, "I’m fine, I just can’t breathe in gym but the rest of the day, I’m fine." Sure enough, the battery was dead in the thermometer but I told myself, just run I’ll just run her over to the doctors and he can give her chest a listen. So I do.

I pack her in the car and she immediately starts complaining. Now you know me, I take more than an hour to get ready to go to the store so she had plenty of time to sort herself out before we left. We weren’t even out of the driveway when the first complaint hit;

Caitlin: "I’m hungry. Can we pick up some instant food?" (Caitlin calls fast food instant food because someone else makes it and that makes it faster than fast.)

MM: "No. We can’t afford it."

Caitlin: *Wail* "But I didn’t eat lunch today and I’m really hungry."

MM: I told you to take a lunch to school. If you’re too lazy to take a lunch then that’s your fault.

(Caitlin rolls her eyes.)

MM: Why didn’t you eat when you got home from school?

Caitlin: I would have but Mom kept trying to put the thermometer in me and besides we don’t have any food.

MM: Caitlin, I just bought groceries yesterday. There’s lots of food in the house.

Caitlin: No there’s not.

MM: Yes there is. I bought fruit too.

Caitlin: That’s all "you-have-to-make-it" food. I want real food.

MM: *To me* Man your daughter is lazy.

Me: *Eyebrow raised* My daughter?

Caitlin: Don’t fight you two, I’ve got a headache and Dad you keep that up and Mum’s going to take your license away.

MM: *in a very patient voice* Caitlin, Your mom can’t take my driver’s license away.

Caitlin: Yes she can—your Marriage License.

Needless to say, we waited two hours at the doctors to find out that Caitlin is fine and she made the MM laugh so hard that he bought her Wendy’s. Did you know that they have a big sign out on the street in front of Wendy’s? It’s for Weight Watchers. Is that mean or what? They must have taken ‘Guilt-trip Marketing 101'.

That reminds me I also have to buy peanut butter.  Yesterday I told Caitlin to make herself a peanut butter sandwich. She told me there was "no way she was eating that peanut butter."

I asked, "Why?" and her answer convinced me we need a new jar of peanut butter.

You know how Mischief has that toy, the Kong? It’s a rubber toy that you put a dog biscuit and peanut butter in the hole on the end and the dog licks it out. Well Mischief gets the biscuit out so fast that Doug shoved a whole one in there and until it disintegrates naturally or breaks down it’s not coming out. The biscuit she has in there now has been there for about three weeks and I keep planning on cutting it out because that really can’t be healthy.

So back to Caitlin.

She complained that, "Dad uses that peanut butter for the dog’s toy."

"Yeah," I answered her patiently, "But he uses a clean knife so don’t worry about it."

"Maybe he does Mother," she answered with just as much sarcastic patience. "But he puts the extra peanut butter back in and he scrapes the knife around the opening of the toy. That means that he’s putting bits of gross dog biscuit and dog slobber back into the jar."

I just stared at her and tried to hold the old gorge down as I realized I’d just had a peanut-butter sandwich for lunch. Being the good mom that I am, I calmly told her, "I’ll get some new peanut butter, have cheese."

Oh yes! I am very excited and I know that you will be too when you hear. When I was at the grocery store the other day I picked up a new product they have out—Chocolate-flavoured Cream Cheese!!!! Yee-haw!!! Snoopy dance of Joy!! It’s made by Lactancia and somebody in marketing finally figured out that "Cheese and Chocolate are food group," they managed to combine them into the perfect food! You only have to add eggs to make a cheese cake or melt it on brownies. Life is good.

I wanted to go to the psychic fair this weekend but Nat’s not going and I can’t seem to interest any other adult to go. It has to be an adult because the Mountain Man won’t let me out of the house unsupervised ever since I decided to walk home from Merivale with a temp of 104. I’m sure one of Breyan’s friends would go with me but I’m old enough to think of taking teenagers anywhere as ‘babysitting’ and they are young enough to think of taking me anywhere as the same thing.

I finally did get to see Rent! It was an awesome movie. I absolutely hated the hated anyway. It also gave me further proof that I might have married the right man.

Caitlin saw it first and warned me to bring whole box of Kleenex because people are dying. So I packed my pockets with Kleenex and off the Mountain Man and I went to the movies. He had that martyred indulgent look on him but he was being a sport so I was just grateful he was driving.

The proof of proper mate choosing came during the movie. I was on my seventeenth or eighteenth Kleenex and was running out of pockets to shove them in. What does my redneck guy do? He takes out a grocery bag and calmly makes it into a little wastebasket. That way when I left I only had to dump the bag into the garbage and didn’t go home with pockets stuffed with snotty tissue. You got like a guy who thinks like that.

It was really funny when the guy from Law and Order and Angel kissed on the screen. The Mountain Man hid his eyes. I told him he was being homophobic and silly, especially so since the Angel character made such a gorgeous girl when in drag.  What was hubby’s answer? "Law and Order is my favourite show and he plays a tough cop. It would ruin the show for me.”  Isn’t my guy so manly-man?
Well I really should stop writing you now. This letter is getting so long I’ll have to pay shipping costs. I should make dinner but I’m terminally lazy and it could be dangerous to my family's health. I just picked up a copy of Elizabeth Moon’s new book which means, obviously, I will make dinner and read while I do dinner which also means that Caitlin can probably talk MM into buying her Harvey’s?

Oh yeah, one more thing. I’ve been trying to convince Breyan to vote. Being a good parent I want him to take his responsibilities as a voter seriously. I’ve got all the candidates pamphlets; I’ve made sure he knows which party is which historically, what their standard politics are and what they are most likely to do as our countries leaders. I’ve made him watch the news and two serious discussions on PBS about what the economists and university professors think of the leaders competing in the election campaign. I was a little stuttered by the guy from Quebec who came out openly and basically stated:

"The only firearms problems we have in Canada are immigrants. Take a look at Toronto and Vancouver. It’s not the average Joe Canadian with his dads hunting rifle shooting each other in the streets. It’s the Tong, [Chinese Mafia] and the Somaliland gangs [killing each other on the streets.] We need to clamp down on immigration and send the criminals back."

Unfortunately he’s Bloc so we can’t vote for him but I seriously considered it.

Anyway, I’m really trying to educate Breyan on the issues so that he can make responsible, informed choices at the voting booth---which of course means he has to vote PC for Alan Cutter like his dad told him to.

Well I guess I should let you get back to counting tanks and trying to figure out how to stay cool in shirt sleeves and relish jars. Or did you get beige kit over there?

Hey think about it. It’s much easier to convert beige uniforms to something, "Smart and Pretty for Civvy Street*." I’ve picked up some really nice embroidery patches that could turn that extra jacket into something very chic for the redneck bar when you get home. They have cows on them. (Snorkel....)

So please, again be careful over there. I worry about you but not enough to lose sleep so that’s fine. Did you bring a case of Immodium? Do you need it? If so, I guess that would make you popular. I’ve included the new IKEA flyer so you can vicariously shop or would that just make you feel bad? Let me know or I’ll send the new magazine when it comes in.

Lots of love and big, big hugs. Love ya!

Kimberley and family.

^{*the Canadian War Museum has a copy of pamphlet published in 1945 entitled, “Change your Uniform to Smart and Pretty for Civvy Street!”  I think that’s the name of the pamphlet but as a costumer, I want a copy.}

Religious Comfort

Caitlin is still perfect.  (Where did this child come from?)  She's doing track at school, just beat all her friends in pool, making a perfect blend of Lorente/Smith-Missett genes by taking her perfect hand/eye co-ordination, (Lorente) and turning it into something morally questionable. 

She had me in tears the other day.  Having coffee we had a rather pious, horrible little woman spouting religious platitudes at my neighbour, (the one who lost her daughter Fran.)  (I wouldn't have let her in my door normally but Marion brought her here---Probably to avoid the justifiable homicide trial.)  This woman told Marion she should, "Accept God's will.  God has a plan for us, he knows everything [and he even knows] how many hairs we have on our head." 

To which my daughter mumbled under her breath, "Must be one helluva bored God, counting peoples hair."

Then the woman came out with, "He sees even the tiniest butterfly fall from the sky."

Caitlin sub-vocal answer, "But he doesn't catch it."

What made me choke on my peas was, "God knows what's best for us."

Caitlin's answer, "When was he planning on telling us?  Kind of like one of those surprise birthday parties where you're just out of the shower and you're naked."

After the (oddly) affronted lady, left my daughter turned to Marion and said,
"The only thing she was right about is that God knows what happened to you and he worries. (S) He sends you nice people like me and mummy to give to you lots of hugs."

Which we did.

I like my daughter's God.

Gotta go

Kimberley

One day I'm going to learn to be bored.

May 11

I'm really burnt out.  For example, yesterday I worked from 8 am to 7 pm on Caitlin's friend, Mike's costume, he came for the fitting and then we had dinner and ran out to find Caitlin a bathing suit, grocery shop and pick up medicine.  Then we came home and found out that Breyan has been kicked out of school for attendance. Then to top it all off, I had a freak because the kids fell back into the habit of shedding stuff all over the house and now the Mountain Man is doing it as well. 

The other stuff isn't huge stuff, just annoying.

My neighbour Marian is coming up to the first anniversary of her daughter's death and that's taking a toll.  MM's dad needs him every weekend until we go to Toronto for his garden, the stove broke,  we got the paint for the interior of the house but no idea when we have time to paint, Caitlin smashed her knee up falling out of her loft bed and is grouchy and to top it all off---Apparently we are hosting the 2006 Convention for the Spiders of the World.  There was a two-and-1/2 inch spider on the toilet! He was so big, I was sure that anyone moment he was going to offer to shake hands and introduce himself as "Bubba!"   I measured it!  And he brought a friend. Bad enough in bed but the toilet is the last place I want to feel something coming out of!

The Mountain Man is going nuts at work.  The security assessment team has been following them to assess their "security issues."

The funny thing was that the boys stop for break and hubby gets out for a smoke beside the truck.   He is allowed to but the boys were stopping at the Hilton Hotel because it has a big parking lot, clear sight lines and little places for ambush.  The security guys put in the report that my hubby is going to the Hilton Hotel for twenty minutes twice a day, they want to know who he's meeting?  They actually put, "Possible extra-marital" affair in the report! I could have told them it wasn't true because hubby doesn't have the energy to do it twice a day and still come home and chase me! 

Besides the implied insult, you have to wonder what kind of "Security Assessment Team" doesn't LOOK BEHIND THE TRUCK TO SEE HIM STANDING RIGHT THERE!" 

Then they told the crew that they can't park in the streets for lunch .  They suggested the boys have to drive back to Montreal, through traffic to take their lunch at the Montreal branch.  Considering that the boys rarely have time for lunch, don't even take the 30 minutes they are allowed because of the schedule, (they usually only get 10 to 20 minutes,) it's absurd that  they want to add 40 minutes driving time to the lunch allotment? 

What gets to me is why the security concienseness all of a sudden?  The only two answers I can think of are;

1.  They think one of the members of the crew are a risk, or

2.  They expect a hit!  The boys haven't lost any money and I doubt that even Steve would be planning to take out the other two, that leaves us with a possible hit and they haven't warned MM or the crew.  Which is normal, they never warn anyone--- which to me is the biggest security issue.  I would rather the boys get paranoid 364 days out of the year than not be on the One day that they need to be.  The last time MM's crew got hit, the police knew up to three weeks in advance, told Brinks and nobody told the crew!

It ticks me off so much! 

However, we have had funny moments this week. First, you know how I always say that Ottawa is like a small town with neighbours calling about what the kids get up to when they are out of sight?

I got a call the other night to tell me that my kids were "sword fighting in the street" and she was worried that someone would call the cops!"  The neighbour is this annoying b^)&*(^(*) whom, in my mind, is just insane.  Breyan was going babysitting and was bringing the foam rubber swords that are made for two year olds with him.  He ran into Caitlin while waiting for the bus so they thought they'd pass the time.  So Caitlin and Breyan were having a Nerf sword fight down the street but an occasion for the cops?  !

The other day Mischief was out for a pee and the neighbour let her four year old daughter out to play. 

Well I was worried that Mischief might get to active with them so I called her in but she was busy investigating an interesting pile of poop and didn't come right away, "Missy, you get over here right now!" I yelled. 

 The little girl started crying and walking toward me.  "What did I do?" she cried!  I felt like a monster and plied her with cookies and stickers to apologize. 

 I thought her mum would be mad but she came over and said, "Can you teach me how to do that?  She never comes when I call!"

The other night was so warm that I couldn't sleep. I stripped down to the my skivvies and slept on the couch to stop bugging MM with my twisting and turning.  I've taken down the curtain in the living room to wash it and wasn't too worried about anyone seeing in because it looks out on the balcony, who's going to see me?---  The birds and Mr. Squirrel I thought.  Well didn't City Living pick THAT  morning to bring contractors to look at the roof?  And didn't they set their ladder right outside the balcony window?  I woke up to see two men with a ladder doing their best to put up a ladder without looking up! 

I have to soon admit that I need glasses.  I can't even read the guide on the tv.  I can just see the signs on the side of the road and even reading library books is getting to be a bit of a chore.  I have glasses but they just aren't working.  I hate putting the 80 bucks out for the exam though.  I have to see if the insurance covers it.  I figure it's cheaper to just rearrange the furniture and move the tv closer to the couch! Ya'll know me-- Any reason to redecorate!

So it's been a weird week but it's getting under control.  Breyan is out at job interviews and studying for the GED since I don't think he'll ever stay in a classroom and has been offered a job at the Salvation Army Thrift Store.  I wonder if he gets a discount?  Hmmmmm

I should get back to work,

Why the Mountain Man won't let me out on my own

Well today  Hubby felt I was well enough to be left overnight.    And nothing really bad happened to me but I did happen to get myself involved in an ongoing police investigation and come to attention of hubby's armoured car company's security. 

It all started when I went to the library on my own.  They've built one right behind our house, a short walk through a bike path.

I was walking along when I noticed a hint of blue in a tree.  Looking further I discovered they were a pair of Brinks pants.  So I picked them up.  Doug had mentioned a few weeks ago that someone was impersonating Brinks personnel and trying to do pick ups.  Uniforms are strictly monitored.  It's a criminal offence to wear a Brinks, cops or firepersons uniform if you aren't one.  Realizing it was only the pants and thinking there might be shirt too, I started looking for more parts of a uniform.  I didn't find any but I did find an "Outdoors Canada" camouflage bag.  I figured they were together and maybe somebody dropped them.  They were yucky and I didn't want to put my hand in the pockets so I came home and called Hubby to see what I should do.  I also noted the tag and made sure they weren't Hubby's. 

I saw that they belonged to a woman about my size and I couldn't see any name.  (Because Brinks guys will apparently "borrow" anything not nailed down EXCEPT money, the guys usually write their names in their uniforms.  Kind of like going to camp with live ammuntion.)

He told me to call Brinks and tell them.  The guy who answered the phone said, "Oh well, Don't worry about it.  Just send them with Hubby on Monday."  I called Hubby back and he said, "NO, CALL JAMES MY BOSS THIS MINUTE."  So I did but he wasn't there.  I left a message. 

When Hubby got home, he called and got James and James asked for details.  Hubby asked me to take him where I found the pants and bag exactly.  We walked over and while we were looking to see if we could find a shirt, some teenage boys we know from our neighbourhood came up and told us they found a wallet.  We took it from them, the boys helped us look for anything else and we were rewarded when we found a fishing lisence with a phone number. 

Coming home, we called the lady and this is the story we got.

Her wallet had been stolen from her husbands car/truck.  Her husband is a firefighter.  The teenagers who stole it used her credit card to rack up over 300 dollars of charges, including going to a gas station and movies.  They were caught on video.  The police were investigating and she was very upset.  I couldn't get her off the phone.  I tried to ask her  whether she wanted to pick it up or have us take it to the fire station?  She asked us to take it to the police station.  

I agreed and Hubby and I drove out to the police station after stopping at the neighbours to talk to Ricky's parents about giving the police their phone number so the lady could thank Ricky for returning her wallet.  They  agreed and were very proud of their son, which they should be.  What a difference in two sets of teens.  One finds a wallet and steals the credit cards, the other finds the nearest adult and hands it over?  

However, the wallets owner seemed to be more upset over (rightly) the loss of her kids pictures, personal stuff and oddly, the woman's pants in her husbands bag.  I made it very clear to her that the pants weren't in the bag, they were seperate but she seemed quite confused about them.  Uh Oh.

Anyway, the police station was closed but a uniformed officer was getting stuff from his car.  We grabbed him and the poor guy had a look that said very clearly, "Crap, paperwork!"  

We explained, handed over the stuff, gave our names.  While I explained how I discovered the pants and bag, he said, "You noticed that these were uniform pants all the way into that tree?  That was lucky."  

He tried to cover his laugh with a cough when I answered, "I'm a costumer.  I notice clothes in my sleep.  They don't belong in trees.  Unless you're Tarzan and then it would be a loincloth, I probably wouldn't have given that a second glance."

Hubby just shook his head and with a "She's a bit tired," glance at the cop and put me back in the car and took me home. 

Gotta go help Caitlin with her first sewing project.  She's making Keegan a scarf.  She's already jammed my Serger but I'm being a good mom and keeping calm and not making "Eep" noises.

Kimberley

Now We Are Six

March 09

When I was 6 years old I was going to grow up, be the perfect mommy who stayed at home and baked cookies, with maybe a part-time job to have my own pocket money. 

(Note:  This was the 60's in CANADA.  Women didn't emancipate here until the 1970's since we always let the Americans do things first so we could see if we would look really stupid trying them.)

When I was six I was never going to shave my legs, wear make-up or tight clothes just to be a conformist to a man's ideal of "woman". 

(Note:  But I was going to shave my armpits because ew-w-w-w-w)

When I was six I was never going to tell my children, "No."  I was going to let them decide their bedtime, what to wear, when to come home and what to eat.

When I was six I was going to play my music as loud as I wanted.

When I was six I was going to eat all the chocolate and ice cream I wanted.

Hmmmm....

I'm a mom who has to have a job to help my family have food money. 

I have to bake 600 cookies a month for various club bake sales.

I haven't had time to shave my legs in two weeks or access to the bathroom for more than three minutes without some kid knocking at the door asking, "How long are you going to be in there?"

My 16 yr old daughter keeps borrowing my make-up and losing it.

At my age, tight clothes laugh at me as they turn into torture devices designed to cut the circulation to my legs.

My son now has a "wife" and child so, Who am I to give him a curfew?

My daughter belongs to a roving band of teenagers who migrate from sleepover to sleepover so I see her about 20 minutes a week, just long enough to hand her money and vitamins.  The vitamins I find stuffed down the couch or stuck to her pizza dishes.

I have to have my music loud because I have calluses on my eardrums from my kids music.

I just get so frustrated with all of it that I just raid the kitchen for comfort food-----ice cream and chocolate.

Well.....

Who says you can't live out your childhood dreams????

(Note:  But I still do demand time to shave the armpits because, e-w-w-w-w-w)

Urban Parent Weapons Kit

1.  Tylenol

2.  A cattle prod.  Caitlin's 15th birthday was very interesting.

3.  An unlisted hide-able phone line
If you think you will ever see your phone again after they turn twelve.......Hah!

4.  Food for an army
Teens and after game parties will require you to have enough food for the UN available and don't forget non-lactose/salt/peanut/yeast and kosher foods

5.  A leash
For the under seven crowd.

6.  Homing devices.
Those little homing devices they put in poodles

7.  A little black book
To keep all your kids friends phone number in and a useful tracking tool for teens.

8.  Kleenex
First for tears from the playground, then tears from school, then members from the opposite sex, (though it's hard to tell some days what the opposite is.)

9.  A DVD/VCR/blue ray player, An XBox 360, A Wii, home computer
Electronic Babysitting

10. Earplugs
Industrial Ones that are used by the guys who have stand beside screaming jets.

Being the Perfect Mom

March 28

It's the middle of the night and I've finally got a minute to myself.   (Note:  My space bar is sticking so I apologize in advance for the run on words.)

My kids said something the other day that's been stewing in my mind.  Breyan said "Sarah is going to be a perfect mom."

That is so frightening.

Why?  Because it's just not possible and wanting to be the perfect mom is going to mean thousands of dollars in therapy for my granddaughters, which if Breyan doesn't get a job soon means I'll be paying for it.

So I got to thinking....what is the perfect mom and how can you be one?    I think you need to be a cartoon.

It might be possible but you would need the following things;

1.  You must have an only child.  No more than one because each child is different and needs different responses from you. No matter how hard you try you will always do something for one that upsets the other.  Not everyday but unless you suffer from  Multiple Personalities and your name is Sybll, you're out of luck. 

2.  A hand full of prescriptions.  You will get depressed at some point in your life.  Many points in fact.  There will be days where if the kids ask you one more time where their school bag is you will consider stapling it to their backs.   Which in any case is useless as they can lose their mittens before they get out the door.

3. An encyclopedic knowledge of everything.  You must have all the answers, good guesses only work until they are three and nowadays with Dora the Explorer explaining everything not even then.

4.  Zen lessons.  You will find the ability to take a deep breath and calm yourself is pretty well lost as they become teenagers and you spend all your time sighing or counting to ten.

5.  Carbs, chocolate and cheese are highly recommended.  You will need them as you walk the floor for eight hours holding a twelve pound colicky baby, run around the  schoolyard thirteen laps for the obligatory, "Aw Mum just one more..." argument or find yourself driving twenty miles into Quebec at 3am to pick up a kid that missed the bus home.

6.  Money, A lot of it and not for the expenses you're thinking of like food and a roof, those are budgetable.  It will be the five dollars for milk money request at 8:15 Monday morning, followed by the three dollars they need for the field trip you didn't know they were going on, the four dollars for the dollar store if you want to shop in peace and the ice cream guy will become your Pavlov when the sound of that cheery little bell either sets your mouth watering or makes your neck tense. 

7.  An ability to adapt to situations at a milliseconds notice, rivalling China's leading ping pong champion or more closely related-----the Marines.

8.  Theatrical skills;  One, so you can project well enough to call your kids for supper from two blocks down or over decibels of music that  are the leading cause of ear calluses. 

Two, when you realize your kids are now bigger than you and can laugh when you threaten to spank them or send them to their room.  Then you have to pull out your inner Yenta and learn to give a convincing performance of someone who's dying of a broken heart because their kids didn't learn to pick up their own underwear off the floor.  I could have had an Oscar for my "How did I fail that my own children would disgrace themselves by going out dressed as hoboes," of 2004 performance if I do say so myself. 

9.  A healthy constitution.  You are not allowed to get sick.  If you are a mother you will be expected to drag yourself from your deathbed  to find that form for school that needs to be signed this minute or they will miss the feild trip, that you will look all over the house for--- only to find it in a mushy, coke stained lump at the bottom of their school bag.

10.  Friends.  Nothing is so bad that a few friends can't help make right. Even if it's only that you can email them at two in the morning or you will make the morning headlines. 

Ain't I lucky.....I got them all.