Sounds serious

When I received a call from school at 9:30 this morning, the voice saying “your youngest is feeling sick”, my first instinct is a big internal groan (horrible mother, I know).  I don’t get paid when I don’t work, so a day at home is a day further away from my Prada somethingorather.  Then I take a deep breath, put on my kindest, Mommiest voice when they put her on the phone.  

“Sweetie?  What’s up – you aren’t feeling very well?”

*quiet little whisper of a voice, I can tell the tears are near, ready to spill*

“Mommy?  My tummy really, really hurts”.

*Crap I think to myself, as I multi-task and start composing an email to my boss telling her I will switching hats for the day*

“What kind of hurt baby, stabby or throw-uppy?”  (I always hope for stabby, usually a good poop will take care of any kind of tummy pain).

*Deep breath*

“It feels like a little man is behind my belly button and he’s knocking on it really hard, so hard it hurts – it feels like he is kicking my belly button from the inside”.

*Huh, this is not in the Parenting Manual*

“Sit tight, I’ll be right there”.

I’m dying!

Well, not really dying, but ever since I started working again, at a desk, I find I am lacking fodder to write about. It used to be that I would hear a song on the radio, and I could trip back the t 1980’s and give you an anecdote based on a split second of my life (yucky you!) Or I would think of something one of the kids said and go off on a story telling spree, injuring no one, maybe making someone smile (hopefully?)

Alas, I am in a cubicle now, four walls and a door (a door, hollah!). I have pinned on my walls images of art work I admire (from the colour printer, shhhh, we aren’t supposed to use the colour printer unless for VERY IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS). I have my iPod constantly streaming songs from Songza (why yes, I AM in the mood for Spaceage Bachelor Pad music) and I try every morning to wear something interesting and thought-provoking (I’m not sure about today’s choice of acid wash skinny jeans, and knee high boots – this is more of a jewel tones and holiday-appropriate earrings type of environment. Oh, I do have top on, it’s black and not worth mentioning, but I didn’t want you think I was walking around topless – that would take ALL the attention away from Marjorie’s Christmas light bulb earrings THAT ACTUALLY LIGHT UP! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!)
I guess it just might take me awhile to get adjusted to the office, the walls. The beige paint.

I remember I went to a handwriting analyst once and after I wrote a sample for her she looked at me like I was the Devil himself (herself? Has that one ever been settled?) and said I had so much creativity oozing out of me that she was taken aback. I’m not saying that I am particularly talented, but it makes me wish I was independently wealthy, with a heated barn in my backyard that has been refurbished into a creative space for me to create whatever the fuck I want whenever the fuck I want to while listening to Space Age Bachelor music, full blast yo. And I would be wearing Birkenstocks with legwarmers (Pinterest, look it up, I like the look) and leggings and a chunky sweater and my hair would be magically long again. Oh, and my kids would be in the loft of the barn quietly playing with non-ironic wooden toys.

Sigh. No, not dying, that was dramatic. Just a little suffocated right now.

Hmmm, that word dramatic actually made me think of an idea. I’m going to compile a list of all dramatic things that have been said in our house in a one week time frame and do a blog about it and then you can all wonder why my husband doesn’t run for the hills, the hills behind my make-believe re-furbished farm.

Tears on the toilet

I installed a blackboard in our powder room a few months ago. We have a daughter who has been struggling with reading and writing (though making a valiant effort at it) and all over the house we have or have had variations on installations of word walls, word games and opportunities to read at-level words, all in an attempt to make it fun and appealing. Our powder room was no exception – where else do you have a captive audience who would be inclined to read daily messages? These are usually silly little nothings or groan-worthy knock-knock jokes. There is a little cup of chalk easily accessible to anyone who wants to author a message. Our oldest generally pledges her undying love for 1Direction (1D? One Direction? I am resigned to being forever uncool by never getting it right). Our guests even get in on the game and they often write a little ditty about their visit to our house on the blackboard. Our youngest, who this project was really for, would take the chalk, but rather than write anything, she was locked in a world of drawing princesses and rainbows and little girls with high heeled shoes. These pictures are always a treat to see when taking care of business, but my hopes of her taking a chance and writing us a message never really took.

Which explains my tears this morning when I used the loo:

“I love you Dad and Mom an Graci”

You want to what????



In bed the other night, Jo rolled over and said the unthinkable.  Something so, so unexpected, it really threw me for a loop and made me ask myself “do I really know this man, at all”?  I could tell he was uncomfortable with the suggestion, and had to have balled up the nerve to even bring it up.

He suggested that we get rid of Vannie.

Who is Vannie you ask?  Oh, only the most kick-ass minivan there ever was to burn rubber on ANY given road.  Only the most awesome chariot to deliver me from A to B on a moments notice.  Only the most unforgiving, sweetest ride I have ever had.

Sure, Vannie liberally farts pink glitter when you sit down on any of her seats (not her fault, all Edie’s).  And sure her “magic door”, the one that glides open with a push of a button stopped working a year ago (again, not her fault, I can’t even mention the atrocities we found jamming that poor doors’ mechanical system – let’s just say for my next reno project I may knock down walls with McDonalds’ petrified french fries).  And yes, I have no idea at any given time how much gas I have in my tank because the gauge stopped working a few months ago (ummm, this one is her fault – I can’t blame it on the kids) – but this keeps me on my toes and makes for a fun guessing game at the gas pump when I decide to fill her up.

She is also getting a little rusty on the sides, but I’m probably a little grey on the sides (we will never know, though will we, WILL WE).

I still love her.  I love that when the kids are driving me bananas I can delegate them to the Back-Back (that’s what we call the last row of seats – the kids know I’m pissed when I tell them to go to the Back-Back).  I love the memories of the road trips we have taken in her, like jamming 5 grown ladies with one gay chauffeur in her for a trip to Montreal – Vannie is so bad ass she even got a speeding ticket that weekend.  The family trips we have taken in her are too many to mention, but let me say, that when it comes to border crossing, she is so messed up by the time we get to the border the agents generally just look at us in disgust and wave us on through.

Vannie is also paid for.  I sense, though she looks a little worse for wear, that she possesses a certain sense of dignity in the knowledge of this, and I can picture her saying to me “No madame, you do not have  to pay to ride me”.  I told Jo no, not yet.  And in my town, where every second car is an Audi or Mercedes, I hold my head high, blast my tunes through Vannie’s somewhat compromised speakers and hope that I have enough gas in the tank to get to my next destination.


sweet sweet Vannie

Say Hello….

My original blog has been taken over by robots and is going to die a slow, clunky, ungraceful, most dramatic, take a last shaky breath Shakespearian death.  I am thinking about shutting it down and starting anew.  Or, my ADD could be kicking into high gear today and I’m all motivated to start a new project instead of folding laundry which could very well be what is happening here.

So, if this does work out, this place will still be a place of incessant complaining about motherhood, but it will also be a place of other things, like social commentary (ummm, I mean social commentary in the what-do-you-think-about-Justin-and-Selena’s-breakup, nothing to do with my stance on helicopter parenting  (bad) or overuse of hand sanitizer (also bad).  It will also be a safe place for swearing with extra vowels (fuuuuuuuuuck) and I may or may ask for your opinion on my hair.  So, say hello to my leetle blog!