Category: Family

In Search of Stink

In Search of Stink

So here I am again. 9 am on a Tuesday and I am roaming around my house with a singular purpose. I’m searching for “it”. You know. Whatever is causing that SMELL.  The one you smelled faintly at 11 pm last night but were too tired investigate fully. A profoundly unwise decision because it has blossomed from aroma infancy to full blown stench overnight and will now be in your nostrils ALL DAY.

Is it adolescent athletic shoes that have seen better days? Did the dog barf surreptitiously in a corner? Is there a lunch hiding somewhere melting into primordial goo?

Only the fruit flies know for sure.

Sometimes I feel like my superpower must be olfactory in nature because I seem to be the only two legger in my dwelling to notice that something has gone terribly wrong SOMEWHERE.

The Search and Discover procedure is pretty much the same across incidents.

Step 1 – Walk around house. Nose in air, sniffing like a cocaine addict on a three day bender.

Step 2  – Continue to shuffle and sniff, muttering darkly under breath about kids. Be sure to sprinkle the grouching with regular profanity of varying types.

Step 3 – Escalate search to “Looking Under Things” level. Complain loudly about knees as you crouch down to peer under the sofa.

Step 4 – Give up briefly. Eye the liquor cabinet. Consider whether two or three fingers of scotch would do the trick or if drinking straight from the bottle is a better option.

Step 5 – Light a pine scented candle.

Step 6 – Drop head in hands as the realization hits that your house now smells like a pine tree barfed in the corner while wearing stinky soccer cleats.

Step 7 – Stop simply eyeing the liquor cabinet and hit that bitch.

Step 8 – Sigh deeply. Reevaluate all your life choices that have lead you to this point.

Step 9 – Tell yourself firmly that the stink is not going to find itself. Haul defeated bulk off couch to go look  One. Last. Time.

Step 10 – Success! Sweet success! Haul offending object out of its hidey hole. Howl at moon. Wash hands and finish off that scotch.

Back To School

Back To School

Ah September. The mornings are crisper. The days are shorter and the geese are gathering, reminding me the time has come to spend a million dollars getting my kids prepared for school.

I have mixed feelings about back to school. I will welcome a quieter, tidier house. I will relish a fridge that is not decimated by ravenous hordes every ten minutes. The bathroom wall will have less pee on it. I will enjoy not having to be the entertainment director whose ideas are always poo-pooed as being “totally lame, mom”. I will giddily eat the good snacks without having to either hide in a closet or share them.

However, even thinking about the annual school supply shopping trip gives me a migraine. I’ve considered putting a chilled vodka tonic in my S’well bottle just so I can get through it. I can’t wait till a kid can drive so I can make alcohol fueled trips to Staples. I know moms who agree that making a drinking game out of this chore would make life much more bearable. A shot for each item correctly crossed off the list. Two shots for each item you can’t find. Three shots for an incorrect item. Bam. Hammered by item five! I have visions of slightly tipsy parents falling out of a chauffeur driven limo going from one big box store to another. I feel I could make some good money from guided school supply booze cruises. DON’T ANYONE STEAL MY IDEA.

lucasbacktoschool

Someone is ready for School.

Four kids. Four ridiculously long, incredibly detailed school supply lists. With extra bonus items because we are French immersion! Yay! My favourite is the colored duotangs. There is always one colour specified on the list that I can never find, leading to a howling child the night before school. “OMG Mom – the list says CHARTREUSE duotangs. THESE ARE LIGHT GREEN. I can’t EVEN mom!” I know some of you are feeling my pain.

Once I have emptied my retirement fund paying for sparkly gel pens, washi tape, pencil boxes, backpacks and binders, I then have to fund the school clothes shopping junket. Because naturally everyone has grown 6 inches over the summer and everyone’s pants are way beyond flood level. I tried convincing them that mid calf is the new black, but no one is buying what I’m selling. I can still get away with getting Walmart stuff for the younger two, but the older ones are all about brands. And not the cheap ones. Obviously.

Then I will need to dip into whatever fund I have left to dip into – likely Peter or Paul’s, to buy a van load of lunch supplies so this year’s teachers will think I am a good mom for at least one week. Which is all the time the lunch supplies I buy will last before I am back to putting pickled jalepenos circa 1983 in their lunch. First impressions matter, people!

I have a high schooler this year, so I plan to be panicked for the entire month of September hoping things go well. My kids smell this anxiety like a pack of wild dogs and will use it to upgrade whatever outfits or item they feel will make them fit in, or stand out the most, knowing that it will help assuage my angst.

Once the flurry of buying, organizing, packing and apprehension is done, and they are off to school, I will be left with no money, a sizeable credit card balance and a quiet house. And despite the peace, I will realize I do miss them. For at least ten minutes. Then I will get out my supply of premium snacks and eat like a queen.

Feet

Feet

It all comes down to feet.

They are like the baseline. The lodestone of my existence.

They are everywhere.

When I was expecting, there were feet in my spleen. Feet in my lungs. And oh my god were there feet in my bladder.

Later on, it was feet in my hands. Tiny, perfect newborn feet.

Then those feet swiftly became entrenched in my bed, night after night. More and more of them as the years went by.

Starting out pointing at the end of the bed, as is proper, and eventually making a 180 for the nightly ritual of kicking me right in the kisser.

Feet brought socks out, never to be seen again. Feet brought mud, sand and snow in.

These same feet kicked me, and they also snuggled in with mine.

These feet have been piggies, and they have also been piglike. They’ve also been excellent hosts. We have seen our fair share of fungi, parasites and warts.

And in the end, despite the mud, the sand, the smell and the danger, these feet bring me joy.

So, I think I can sleep balanced on the edge of the bed a little more. But all bets are off if I get booted in the nose again at 1am. Two nights in a row is my limit.

There will be puke…

There will be puke…

Est Iens Ut Sit Ibi Vomitorium. There Will Be Puke. That is my family motto. I’m looking for someone to make a sigil for me. Anyone interested?

They never make it to the toilet. That’s a fact. When there is stomach flu in my house, they run straight for me. If I had a nickel for every chunk of barf I have picked out of my hair, I’d be able to pay for the highlights I so desperately need.
One of the joys of being a parent is the unconditional love your kids have for you. Unfortunately this also means feet in the face at midnight, never being able to pee by yourself, hiding in the closet to make phone calls, and the occasional lap full of vomit. It’s the price you pay for being Numero Uno.
Being a single parent of four school aged kids is a rollicking adventure. Someone asked me once – how do you do it? How do you take care of four kids, a dog, two cats, a house and also run a business? “ Organization and determination” I answered, flippantly.
I lied. And what a big stinky whopper it was.
Truth? It is mostly a cocktail of humour, coffee, sticktoitiveness, iron britches and booze.
Hence the motto. You have to laugh through this kind of thing. Life is too short to be miserable. There is going to be puke. Might as well joke your way through it.

So My Daughter’s a Bag Lady

So My Daughter’s a Bag Lady

I don’t know about you, but most of the time I open the door to my 10 year old daughter’s room, shudder, close my eyes, shut the door again and slowly back away, muttering something under my breath about rats and hoarders.

Last week, however, I was in the spring cleaning mood and somehow got up the gumption to tackle the Mount Everest of messy rooms.

Now I knew she had a thing for bags, purses, clutches and the like, but I didn’t realize that it had progressed to the level it had. Once I had everything pulled out from under the bed, on top of the dresser, from in corners and deep in the closet, I looked at it all and realized…my daughter is a bag lady.

She seems to have what amounts to 765384959 purses of various sizes, styles, colours and descriptions. I have ZERO CLUE where most of these bags have come from. Maybe they’re like Star Trek tribbles and self replicate. Maybe she has a membership to the Little Crappy  Plastic Purse of the Month Club. I just don’t know.

So I’m looking at this enormous, inexplicable pile of purses in the centre of the room and I realize – each and every one of them is jam packed. It becomes horrifyingly clear. Not only is my 10 year old addicted to bags, but she is also a hoarder.

I approach the pile with intense trepidation. I’m positive I am going to open these bags and find a lunch banana, circa 2012. Amazingly, bag mountain does not appear to smell. I get braver.  I grab a cute little clutch and open it carefully…and discover hidden treasure!

These purses are filled with miscellaneous crap, some of which I have been looking for for YEARS. Oh there’s that lipstick! OMG, my mailbox key! So THAT’S where the tv remote went! And on..and on…

Amongst the loot bag toys, candy wrappers, crumpled birthday invitations, hair ties and empty water balloons, I had hit the jackpot. I was so pleased with having my favourite corkscrew back, I didn’t even yell at my kid when she got home.

By the way, anyone need any purses?

Basket Case

Basket Case

As I scrabble around the pantry this morning, attempting to pack a lunch that will end up consisting of croutons (hey! They’re just like cube shaped crackers!), pickled jalapeños, and the same apple that has travelled back and forth from school for a week, I ponder how well I’m actually doing at this parent gig.

I remember when my firstborn arrived…things seemed to be much more…well, “normal” than they are now.

Laundry was actually folded and PUT AWAY IN DRAWERS. Now, I lay hastily balled up piles of clothes on my children’s beds, where they promptly throw it all back in the hamper.

Baby food was made by hand. FROM ORGANIC INGREDIENTS, y’all. I kept a meticulous chart of first foods tried so I’d know if baby had an allergic reaction. By the time I had my fourth child, I’m pretty sure his first solid food was a six week old McDonald’s French fry. From the floor of the minivan. That he got to just before the dog did.

Perfectly coordinated clothes were worn. These days, if we manage to find a matching pair of socks, it’s worthy of a Facebook post. Last week, one of my kids went to school in a wig for three days straight. They are still calling her Afro Steve.

Homework was done. Meals were planned. Phone calls and emails were returned. People –  I even used to RSVP for birthday parties…wait for it…BY THE DATE ON THE INVITATION.

I now find myself living in a house where I regularly find hockey balls in the fridge and the dryer being used for science projects. The only place I’ve wrapped gifts for birthday parties in the last five years is in my van on the way to the party. All my tools are in the woods beside the house. My world involves a three foot tall person who is perpetually in character as either the tenth or eleventh Dr Who. And don’t even remind me about the time the kids unplugged the deep freeze so they could plug in all the Halloween inflatables in the basement…

As I pack that well travelled apple back in to the lunch pack for the tenth time, thinking about my failings as a nurturer, a smallish, sticky person comes up and says to me- “Mom, I hate your lunches. But I love you anyway.” And I realize, that maybe, just maybe I’m doing ok at this mother shtick.

Being a bit of a basket case has become situation normal. And I love it. Give me a little nuts over a lot of ordinary any day.

Dinner at My House

Dinner at My House

When the first little bawling, bouncing babe showed up in my life, he seemed so little – so tiny! Such a delicate appetite.

Time marched on. He sprouted, was joined by his multitude of siblings, and they all grew and grew and grew. And ate and ate and ate.

The half banana servings grew into an entire banana and turned into “Mom, Lucas just ate four bananas and there are none left and I’m STARVING!”

Three sparing bites out of a yogurt cup morphed into a gangly teenager walking around with an entire carton and a spoon.

I stash the chocolate like I’d hide booze from a wino. I have literally buried myself in a closet so I didn’t have to share my Toblerone. I *may* have done this very thing yesterday…

When I held that first tiny baby on my lap, no one clued me in to HOW. MUCH. THEY. WOULD. EAT. and that they would bring their equally hungry friends over to pillage the pantry.

Had I known, I’d have started a savings account akin to an RESP. Personally, I think that my grocery bill should be tax deductible. These kids literally NEVER STOP eating. My 8 year old, whom we call “Catelli”, due to his amazing resemblance to a stick of spaghetti, eats more than I do. Ironically, people on the street always give me the side eye thinking I’m starving the skinny little bugger.

In our house, whole boxes of crackers are considered single serving. A entire can of soup is “too small, mom,” and a dozen eggs for breakfast isn’t quite enough.

I spend all my time either shopping for food or cooking it. I feel I should have a FastPass for Costco, AND Elite shopper status at Sobeys.

The biggest gastronomic mistake I have made so far in my parenting journey is instilling a love for sushi in my offspring. I just wanted to share my love for sashimi. Built in sushi dates! How brilliant!  I had no idea that one day I would have to take out a line of credit to pay for my 14 year old’s sushi order. So now, I sneak off to have a surreptitious bento box at lunch while they are at school. I can’t even post my spicy tuna roll on Instagram anymore without the fear of getting busted by my social media savvy kids.

So tonight, as we sit down to a meal that consists mostly of economy brand spaghetti, I marvel at my little tribe of gourmands and how big they’ve gotten, how far they’ve come and I’m thankful for their quantity over quality appetites. But I’m still not sharing the chocolate.