Tea and Snippets

Sometimes I think life would be easier if we had a staff of people who were invisible when not needed (read: no work making up guest bedrooms) but magically appeared when one of their unpaid tasks required their service.

It’s really just taking the whole, “I wish there were two of me” to a higher, more efficient level.

Let’s start with a full time “Turtle Monitor.” This post would be for a person to never, ever take their eyes off the windows, constantly looking for turtles so they could add a check mark to our “Turtle Sightings” chart. Who knows how many turtles we miss while engaging in trivial things like eating or sleeping or documenting raccoon sightings?

The Turtle Monitor candidate should have zero years of schooling so they could never be lured away by a flashier title that paid more (this job pays nothing). All applicants will be tested for ADD as this role will require you to sit very, very still and simply stare, document and stare some more.

The role of translator would also be helpful. Someone to let us know what exactly our kids are singing when they repeat the Hit List from the radio. I’m not so naive that I can’t figure out when Hanna sings, “I’m gonna pop some tags. This is bleeping awesome” what she means, but does she know what she’s bleeping? This position would also require someone to help figure out what Chloe means when she sings, “A ram slam slam, A ram slam slam, gooey gooey gooey gooey ram slam slam” repeatedly while tugging her ears and running in a circle.

Bodyguard. Someone to show the kids my collection of bruises so they understand how their sharp elbows during story time actually do leave semi-permanent marks on my knees.

Last night, Chloe jumped on me when I was reading with Ellie. She knocked my nose right off the hinge, I feared it was broken and bleeding and she looked me in the eyes and said, “Ow, your nose really hurt my hand!”

Family photographer. Someone who would take one picture per year with all of us in it and teach the kids there are other settings on the camera besides ‘check out my pores.’

Just when I thought cleaning day couldn’t get any more depressing, I figured out what was clogging my vacuum.

A ball of long hair with white roots.

Obviously from one of the girl’s dolls.

I overheard Hanna, our nine year old, talking to Greg last night just before bed.

Our bedtime conversations with our kids usually involve randomly assigning blame to someone for chewing the lid off of someone elses Chapstick that nobody would admit to, or what makes spagetti taste so unbelievably good, or why would Daddy want a bagger for the lawn mower for his birthday or how does a bill become a law?

This time though, I heard Hanna ask, “Daddy, have you ever heard of the twin towers? What about a hurricane called Katrina?” Do you know anything about a huge ship that sank called the Titanic?”

It was as if every horrible, natural disaster and/or news story/terrorist attack we had tried to protect our kids from ever knowing about because the ugly truth was simply too sad to burden them with was being upchucked all at once atop a paisley, purple duvet.

Greg did his best to explain all of Hanna’s questions honestly. The end result, expectedly, had a lot of “You know I just don’t know the answer to that. I don’t think anyone does.”

When Hanna finally settled in bed I was sure it was going to be one of those nights she would ask me to stay with her a little longer or talk a bit more or stall pretending she wanted to show me something or share some news she would make up as the words started to flow.

But she was really tired.

I asked her if she was okay and in an exhausted yawn thinking she might ask me something I really did not ever want to openly discuss with a sweet, innocent, young girl she whispered, “Mom, do you know what we need?”

Me stroking her hair (world peace? better weather trackers?): What’s that sweetie?

Hannna: A motorboat.

Chloe has no shortage of inappropriate comments.

She asks people, “Why are you so old?” or “Why is your belly so big?” whenever the mood should strike.

She has shifted gears away from age and holiday weight and is now solely focused on the theme of “cute boys.”

She’s learned about cute boys from her sister’s tv shows and understands the following to be true.

There are cute boys and pretty girls like to date them. Anyone can be a cute boy and dating is what cute boys and pretty girls do. Dating is when good looking people smile at each other.

Yesterday in the family change room getting ready for our swimming classes, a young boy came into the room to get ready for his own session and Chloe was quick to tell him he was a cute boy.

I’m sure it made his day, I was a little confused and couldn’t see through my cloudy goggles so was unsure if he was twelve or twenty, with the maintenance staff or a swimmer or even a boy for that matter.

There was no way to tell if I was a pretty girl or not but something tells me in my pre-washed bathing suit and foggy goggles there was no risk of Chloe suggesting the young boy and I have a smile-date.

Enter the Home Depot parking lot where Chloe and I were on a mission to pick up Greg’s birthday present. Something he’s always wanted. Something every man wants and dreams of. A bagger for his lawnmower. The excitement was palpable.

We pulled into our parking spot equidistant from the cart shaped like a car, impossible to move up and down any aisles but offering Chloe twelve seconds of germ-ladened plastic steering wheel distraction and the front entrance which ironically Home Depot, is nowhere near your exit causing no end of parking stress.

I paid no attention to the pick-up truck beside me because I had found the perfect parking spot.

Except when I got out of the van to help Chloe out of her car seat, she spotted the seven or eight construction guys that had filled the pick-up truck beside us, the construction world’s version of clowns in a mini. They were reading jokes on someone’s phone and laughing hysterically at the various punch lines, exactly the way the clowns would want it.

I assumed a representative had been sent in to find a part so they could get back to the job they were working on though the idea of squeezing another person into the truck didn’t seem possible. I think maybe one of them suggested he had a great line up of jokes programmed on his phone and they all made an excuse to walk off the job. It’s hard to find good workers these days.

When there was a lull between giggles Chloe said, “Hey Mommy, are those cute boys?” I didn’t turn around. “Mommy! Mommy!” The cute boys were far more interested in being cute than their jokes and tuned into my three year old who was pointing at each one and saying, “He’s a cute boy. He’s a cute boy.” Then skipping one, “He’s a cute boy.”

“Mommy, are you going to date those cute boys?”

“No Chloe, I am very happily married to your Daddy?” I said with an unnatural, booming frog-in-my-throat voice.

Chloe: I don’t have a Daddy. Maybe one of those cute boys could be my Daddy?

I plunged her into the cart and pretended that running through the entrance and shouting “wheeeeee!” would win us some sort of prize while I whispered, “You do have a Daddy.”

Chloe: Oh yeah. He’s a cute boy.

Greg was helping Chloe get her pj’s on last night and in her special three year old way, she spasmodically jumped directly under his chin as he was bending down, slamming her head backwards against his face, causing his two front teeth to quiver in their gums.

He was sure she had jostled his teeth loose and thought they might turn black and fall out.

His nose was also a concern. He thought it might start bleeding.

Eyes red, blurred, confused, he walked down the hall toward me to ask if he was bleeding, if his teeth were black, chipped or if his nose was broken.

Chloe looked up confused yet predictably, she walked away without a scratch.

She noticed Greg was in pain and as hard as he tried to mask it, she understood something was wrong and that her actions may have been the cause.

She sweetly reached in the direction of Greg’s leg, stroked his knee with tiny, soft fingers and looked up at the man she absolutely adores, towering over her and said, “It’s okay Daddy. I’m not mad at you.”

Our soccer coach approached yesterday’s practice/game/grass grazing in an interesting way.

After wrestling my three year olds’ mandatory shin pads onto her tiny legs, then another half hour of tears while we figured out socks, I carried her to the car to discuss the final nightmare of our soccer trifecta, the addition of shoes. We arrived at the field in stocking feet, almost on time.

I realized last week, it really just takes one three year old per team to understand the concept of moving the soccer ball with some part of the lower half of their body towards the opponent’s net and attempting to score.

This idea is completely lost on Chloe who would rather stare at her shin pads, then furl her eyebrows in my direction, then at her shin pads some more, then at the mosquito she fears has been chasing her for weeks.

I would give her the thumbs up when she walked in the direction of the ball and/or the “play” and cheer for her team when they scored. I lost track after about 29 consecutive goals by the one boy who Chloe refers to as, “boy with braid.”

I refer to him as “boy who knows how to play soccer.” Also acceptable “boy with braid who knows how to play soccer.”

The interesting part came after the warm-up (consisting of Chloe insisting, “I’m so thirsty!” grabbing her throat and running in my direction for her water bottle which ironically might have in fact been what was making her thirsty because there was no other actual running to be had) when the game got underway.

The coach presented the kids with a large tray of orange slices just as the game got started so those kids who were not on the field could have a nibble while awaiting their turn.

Except nobody went out on the field.

Why? Because there were oranges.

Anytime you introduce a snack to a group of three year olds, it trumps everything. Except for braid boy who continued to dribble down the field and back flip the ball into the tippy-top of the opponent’s net while their team stood gobsmacked at their obvious lack of oranges.

I could see kids on our team slowly making their way towards the other team’s end but each step further into the game meant one step further away from the oranges. Retreat!

The other team rallied and at one point appeared to be plotting a sneak attack on our snack tray.

At no time was anyone paying attention to the soccer ball.

My kid doesn’t even like oranges and would normally choose to eat a rubber ball over citrus fruit but that day, those oranges, spread atop a flannel picnic blanket, quartered and sometimes free of mid-morning bugs were like tiny, seedless magnets, so distracting, so juicy, so deliciously not about soccer.

Note to coaches—next time serve the snack after the game OR serve the snack to the other team.

You’ll never find that one in any playbooks but it’s a guaranteed win.

When my seven year old came home from her game later in the day I asked her how it went.

Ellie: It was awesome Mom. We got popsicles!

I was upset with Chloe’s behaviour the other night.

She decided to kick, pull my ear, scratch and scream because she wanted to watch two more hours of her sister’s swimming lessons (who wouldn’t?) rather than have a delicious dinner and sudsy warm bath at home (bleh).

I made the right decision in carrying her out of the building but was fought the entire way.

When we got into the van, I explained that I was upset at the way she had behaved and if it happened again, she would lose her favourite thing, her treasured blanket, “pink fuzzy.”

Chloe: Well, I have lots of things I like. I would still have “dot robe” (pink, polka dotted robe), froggy blanket, my books, you know I love to read my books, Mom. I like trees, air, grass, orange juice with no water. So there’s lots of things I like. I like “Good Luck Charlie” and summer sausage and riding my bike but I don’t like underwear. What were we talking about?

Sometimes my kids catch me on a technicality.

Last night after an incredibly busy afternoon/entire day/weekend, Ellie asked me three hours before bed if she could have a snack.

Of course.

Why would last night be different from any other night?

Except last night was different because she had been awake later than usual, she had been busy all day, she had eaten within the hour and hadn’t showered or even started her mandatory 200 burpees prior to getting ready for bed and midnight sleepwalk scavenger hunt.

She showered (finally) after a lot of pulling teeth, oh and teeth, we finally got around to brushing those.

The clock was ticking and it was one of those nights we were up hours past our bedtimes, including mine.

We agreed to forfeit the second book (but never the burpees) and after Ellie insisted on me typing the lyrics to yet another of her soon-to-be greatest hits (lyrics below) she had run out of ways to stall.

She asked to be carried and even agreed it was carrier’s choice meaning I could throw her over my shoulder, hang her by her heels, piggy-back her or go baby monkey style, just somehow use my body in a way that would conveniently land her in her room while inconveniencing my weary bones.

I had attempted to wash my face but stopped before applying any cow udder cream to retreat back to the kitchen to finish washing a pot and a sink full of other dishes.

I heard the dryer ding “dry bitch dry” so I knew I would want to fold a few things prior to retiring to the bedroom where my pillow was calling my name, “Lizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

I had to review copyright law before posting Ellie’s song lyrics, Chloe screamed from bed, “Mommy, do you know there’s blood in your eye?” and Hanna wandered out of her room delirious wanting to know what it meant to have junk in your trunk?

Another hour had passed, oh so tired, I felt like I did as a teenager when I would babysit for people who would come home at 3am and I had to pretend I had been awake the entire time but had fallen asleep the second Saturday Night Live finished and woke up as I heard them fumble to find a key that fit their front door lock.

That’s when I heard it, a tiny voice from a quiet, dark place, echoing down our hall, “Mommy, can I have my snack now?”

Ellie’s Song—Remember You

I don’t know where you need me, as long as I’m with you

It doesn’t matter where you want me, as long as I can remember you

‘Cause I know we were meant to stay together

Because we are perfect match

We are going to stay together

There’s nothing that can hold us apart

Even if there’s a wall in between, I can break it, you can break it, we’re meant for each other

Yeah…..

So, stay with me, forever.

I can live forever if I’m with you, oh yeah.

Yeah…..

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I know I’ve raved about my seven year olds artistic abilities in the past and have even posted a few of her masterpieces.

When she presented me with this portrait of the two of us I thought, Ellie, you have captured the inner Cyclops in both of us. Maybe, in all of us.

Nailed it.

When did grade four get to be so complicated?

My nine year old walks and talks the dramas I remember from high school yet has not mastered her multiplication tables.

She’s asking for clothes the costume department used on the cougars in the background at the Regal Beagle on Three’s Company (styles really do come and go in cycles) at the same time she’s learning to write her name in script and successfully return home with the water bottle I packed for her.

The girl drama aside, I think t.v. is in large part influencing the language of these young girls and I’m considering shutting the whole thing down.

Last night was a pivotal moment when my three year old, taking her cue from her older sibling, turned to a kid riding their bike down our street and with her hands on her hips shouted, “Hey, where are you going, you Hobo?”

Chloe laughed after she said ‘hobo’ but then looked in my direction with an expression that said, “I have no idea what I just said but I’m pretty sure there’s a laugh track playing behind one of the street lamps and I really hope my Mom didn’t hear me.”

She wasn’t quite sure why I might question her choice to shout at a happy kid out riding their bike that they were a homeless drifter, but she knew it could land her in hot water.

I called Chloe over and asked her what she said and she repeated, “I said, ‘hey, where are you going, you Hobo!” and proceeded to run away laughing.

I explained to all three girls when we went inside that name calling of any kind was not nice, that it was not acceptable behaviour and it would not be tolerated.

The two youngest “the informants” were quick to throw their older sister under the bus so my discussion turned into a one on one with Hanna about being a good role model, treating people with kindness and respect and that name calling was never okay.

She agreed. We had what I considered to be a great talk and I walked out of her room feeling like we had made great strides.

A few minutes later, she emerged from her room to ask me something.

“Mom, what is a Hobo?”