King Henry VIII was an Alpha Male

...and the gentle reader will have noticed that our heroine has still not figured out how to keep the beginnings of her paragraphs indented! Nor can she use the spell check! But she doesn't care! 'Cause no-one is reading this damn thing anyway!

Arghhh! The bastard got his revenge by creating a Roger Whittaker radio station!

Last week at the Thrift Store I picked up another book about King Henry the Eighth and his six wives. Ya gotta love all that beheading that goes on. I don't know, I just can't get my head around (ahar har har, get it, pun so totally intended) all the violence that went on in those days. So last night at supper I asked That Guy how he thought he would deal with being led to the chopping block.

"Would you break down and weep like a baby?" I asked.
"Oh hell, yes," he said.
"Really?" I asked, maybe a little dismayed. This is the wimp I chose to be the father of my children? I mean, aren't I instinctively supposed to go for some sort of Alpha male model? Someone who laughs in the face of adversity?
"Oh yeah. If I was about to get my head whacked off? I'd be absolutely terrified."
"Would you hide, daddy? Under a blanket?" asked little Miss High Intensity, totally in earnest.

This totally cracked us up, and we laughed pretty hysterically for a couple of minutes or so. Then I said, " in thirty years when global warming has resulted in a total breakdown of society and the U.S. has invaded us for our water and you're sitting in your cell awaiting execution, do you think you'll recall this conversation fondly?"

"Yeah," he said, "unless you guys are already dead. Then remembering it would be terrible."

Cozy, happy family moment DESTROYED! Silently, we contemplated the end of the world as we know it. The baby was sitting in her high chair smiling her face off as usual, and Miss H. I. was sitting in her chair naked, except for one of those woolly winter caps with the strings down the sides that she often insists upon wearing at the dinner table. She looked like a precocious little smart-ass from some Swedish movie, VERY pleased with herself. The thought of them dead from some sort of global catastrophe was soul-rippingly depressing. So we changed the topic to something very bland and boring. I think we talked about the dinner I'd made. (Since that damn mouse made its first appearance in the spice drawer, meals around here have been, um, a little less perky than usual.)

Last night was Halloween. (Yes, I know the date above says it's the 29th. That's another thing I've got to bloody well figure out.) That Guy downloaded a template of George Dubya's face which I spent about an hour or so carving into our pumpkin. I kind of hacked up the sides of it a bit by accident, so it ended up looking like he had horns, which was great. Lit up he looked dead evil. I thought it would frighten the snot out of the kids, but no-one even MENTIONED it. Story of my life.

The staff of life

....in which our fearless blogger listens to her child being damaged and downloads some soft, fluffy cheeze bread...


Yay! I got my first comment a couple of days ago! Boo! It was a piece of advice on how to edit my blog a little better!

Today did not get off to a promising start. Little Miss No Intensity (i.e., the baby) actually woke up in the middle of the night, and while this never really poses too much of a problem because she sleeps with us and feeding her just involves a reshuffling of positions and various bits of anatomy, for whatever reason, this time I couldn't doze off again once she had finished sucking. So I read for a bit, and then squandered an hour and a half or so of my precious short life lying in bed trying to fall back asleep. When the morning came and Little Miss High Intensity was shoving her face in mine demanding breakfast and cartoons, I felt like a dead old man. Explaining to That Guy why he would have to be the one to get her ready for nursery school despite the fact that it was My Turn required delicacy and tact, which I think I managed with only a minimum amount of shrillness and swearing. Oh sweet, sweet falling back asleep when you're really, really tired and you really, really should be getting up but have been given a really, really lovely break! I'm surprised there haven't been more songs written about it.

The sad fact is that I did NOT get to fall back asleep, though, because Little Miss H. I. and That Guy proceded to get into The Fight to End all Fights as he tried to get her dressed.

Her: NO! NO! NO! NO! NOT THAT SHIRT!!!! NOT THOSE PANTS!!!!! YOU ARE NOT A NICE PERSON!!!!YOU NEVER LISTEN!!!!!

Him: AUUUUUUUGHGHGHGHGH!!!! SHUT UP!!! JUST SHUT UP AND PUT ON YOUR PANTS!!!!!

(Sound of four-year-old buttocks being forcibly shoved into pair of pants.)

Her: WAAAAUUUUUUUUUGHGHGHGHGHGGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGH!!!

Him: $#@$!!! &*#*&$#@#$$%$###$$%%%%%$$#%$@#$%^%$!!!!!!!!

I am giving you, of course, a transcript of the fight at its climax, and have omitted the several pages of crap where That Guy was doing his best to be patient and quietly insistent, wise and firm, gentle and guiding, how else do those books say you should behave? In the end he gave in to the frustration and let her have it. Part of me was angry at him for telling her to shut up, and part of me was VERRRRRRRRRRRY sympathetic. So I lay in bed with a pillow over my head, and pretended the whole thing wasn't happening.

In other news, my friend alerted me to the existence of this Pandora site, where you type in the name of an artist or song and it creates a "radio station" that plays music of the same genre. It's FABULOUS!! That Guy and I have had lots of fun driving each other nuts with our choices, but I think I really got the best of him when I got the computer room chilling out to the smooth, mellow tones of Bread Radio. Heh heh heh. He got pretty cranky there for a while. Right now, I am rocking out to the soulful groove of Stevie Wonder Radio, and I'm typing my blog, and both m'babies are asleep and WOW! Could life get any better???!! I wrote the other day that I set up this site to complain about things, but after that false start this morning, I have to say, the day ended up being absolutely fabulous. The weather was perfect, and we took this nice long walk to the Thrift Store and I got an intact copy of The Jolly Postman's Christmas for $0.49 and then we went home and I made an absolutely fantastic vegetarian stew for supper and best of all, that damn mouse that has been tormenting my soul and my spice drawer for the last week is, as I type, rattling around in this big metal live trap we put out, awaiting his (her?) unceremonious dumping in yonder field that will occur later this evening.

No. Best of all, Little Miss H.I. just came down for her ten o'clock pee in a sleepy fog and gave me the sweetest little hug and kiss. She has this green nightgown and she looks like a cherub in it.

Winter is a comin' in

.. in which our heroine looks on the bright side of winter, feels guilty, and uses the F word twice...

One good thing, okay, the only good thing about winter arriving (and it has arrived, complete with many, many snowflakes and freaking 90 km/hr winds) is that our house really comes into its own during the dark days of the year. It is a Winter House, and if you don't know what I mean by that, you should come over some time in the middle of July for lemonade and chill out with me in the stygian gloom of my living room. Eggplant walls, maroon sofas and heavy wood furniture do not exactly serve to lighten the mood and make one's soul sing a happy spring tune if you know what I mean. I know home decorating magazines (Guilty Pleasure #1... you'll meet them all eventually) say that your rooms, like your wardrobes, should take on a new look for the changing seasons, but, well, sorry, carting my entire living room ensemble down to the basement each spring and decking the place out in light linens and wicker are just not gonna happen for numerous reasons, one being that, oh yeah, I'M NOT FUCKING INSANE.... but, um, anyway, as I was saying, this house is dark, man, and in the summer I basically hate being in here, because it's like spending time with 14 suicidal depressives, you know, just a wee bit of a downer. That's OK though, because in the summer you should be outside anyway, right? So I only go in if I absolutely have to: to use the bathroom, sleep, and toss High Intensity Child into her room for time-outs.

In the winter though, this place becomes wonderful. It's quite amazing: the walls transform from gloomy to glowing. The dark pall becomes cozy, the somber colours appealing. It's like my house suffers from reverse SAD, and every spring says, "oh fuck, here it comes again, damn bloody sunshine" and goes into a four month sulk. I can't explain. But it does make the coming of winter a little more tolerable. Thank goodness, because winter time in Canada means spending a LOT of time indoors, especially if you have little ones.

Ah yes, the little ones. Old High Intensity is at nursery school right now, and the baby, Little Miss Register-Absolute-Nil-on-the-Richter-Scale Low Intensity, is upstairs sleeping. Wow, is she a good baby. You will not believe this, but since she was born (five months ago today!), except for one night at a party which I'm not going to count because something was obviously wrong, she has cried for maybe a grand total of 15 minutes. Truthfully, it's probably been even less than that. She doesn't cry. If she really needs something she gives out something that resembles the sound of a polite little cough. If her need is really, really urgent, the cough will sound a little less polite, but no crying. It certainly works in her favour. If she does cry, wow, does that get us running. Old Miss H. I. cried so much I sometimes just had to ignore it, for sanity's sake, which of course resulted in her almost being killed on at least two occasions that I can think of. My mom bought her the Peter and the Wolf soundtrack for her first birthday, and I've played it for her about 7000 times, but the subtle lesson of that tale has not been learned, and she still screeches over the most minor of things. I'm hoping this means she's destined for greatness, although why this would be so I'm not willing to think about.

I'm gonna be honest here, I started this blog so that I could complain about things, and because of this I really need to clarify one thing before I go any further: I absolutely adore my oldest kid. She's funny and smart and already she can draw better than me. I am the model of patience and kindness when dealing with her (HA HA HA), but she can, um, wear me out, and I need a place where I can vent about that. The reality is, when you're trying to deal with a kid who will not stop screaming for love or candy, and it happens, like, five thousand times a day over NOTHING, you start to feel, I don't know, like an absolute failure, like the worst parent in the world, like something is wrong with YOU. Sitting down at this computer and writing about it is like going to a curtain-drawn room and lying down with an ice-pack on my head. Sweet, sweet relief. Sweet, sweet escape.

Yesterday, That Guy Who Lives in the House and I were squawking at each other over something, and while we were in the middle of it, she drew a picture of a girl and boy standing beside each other with a circle around them and a slanted line running through the whole thing in the manner of a no-smoking sign. "That means no mommy and daddy," she told us in a really pissed off, slightly disgusted tone of voice. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Honestly, I really do try not to argue with him in front of her, but sometimes... sometimes... Anyway, I feel absolutely terrible about it, because of course the argument was about something trivial (well, not really... he WAS two hours late...) and so what am I teaching her about controlling emotions and putting things into perspective when I myself can't seem to keep things in check? Obviously her over-reactive personality is all my fault, and, oh, boy, do I feel bad. *sigh*. I will try harder, I will try harder.

Incidentally, I am an absolute Luddite, and am having a hard time figuring out how to keep the beginning of my paragraphs indented. I also seem unable to utilize the spell check, which has me absolutely terrified, as I am a terrible speller. In Grade Two, I won a chocolate bar for Best Speller, and then along came the word "sheep" and it was all downhill from there. (Damn those ee/ea words, damn them I say!) That Guy will have to guide me through all that when he gets home. There, I knew there was a reason why I kept him around here.

Baby's coughing. Gotta go.

Second Blog Entry!!

...in which our heroine uncomfortably digests her Thanksgiving dinner, apologizes for yesterday's pithy debut and worries that she is turning her eldest child into a masochist...

Good day, and a Happy Canadian Thanksgiving to everyone! Five pounds of turkey and three pieces of pie later, and I can say that I am truly blessed for all I did receive. The sweet potatoes didn't even make it to the table because I'd miscalculated their cooking time, and we forgot to put out the cranberry sauce and yet we still had enough food to feed the German Army and then some. Oh God, why do we do this to ourselves? I feel like a bloated piece of puff pastry right now. Hmmm... maybe that should have been my blog name....

Yesterday's posting was brief because I am lousy at introductions. Hey! My social awkwardness extends to the blog world as well! Yay! As a teacher, I can tell you that my first classes are always pretty straight to the point, with not much time wasted on explaining who I am and where I come from. I jump straight into the first lesson, which makes me REALLY popular, especially in my math classes. (There's always one kid who pipes up near the end of the first week of school and asks, "um, so like, what's your name anyway?")

So...my fuzzy little fat headed baby is asleep, and my cute, bulbous bum-cheeked four-year old is tucked into bed, and I get to snatch my half-hour of Me Time before I haul my own sorry-ass self to bed, for I am tired, tired, tired. She is cute, and she does have the sweetest little bulbous bum, but oh my, she does indeed wear me out. I've looked it up, and while she doesn't quite fit the profile of The Difficult Child, she scored five out of five for High Intensity, which basically means she doesn't just need a glass of water, she NNEEEEEEEDS A GLAAAAAASSSSS OF WAAAATERRRRRR!!!! NOOOOOOOOOWWWWWW! When, for the one hundred and thirty fifth time in a day I hear myself saying brightly, in that fucking sing-song voice I use whenever I basically want to kill her, "what's the magic wo-ord?" I feel I've entered surreal hell world. Surely someone out there in the universe is watching all this and having a mighty good laugh at my expense. I mean, really, talk about nature's sick joke. You are handed this demanding, irrational, slightly sadistic creature who cannot listen to reason for love or money, and if you deal with her incorrectly, i.e., in any way that will do damage to her fragile little ego, she will turn 16, drop out of school, run away, join a cult, dye her pubes green, get pregnant, abort traumatically, marry some abusive freak, have his babies, get dumped, be penniless, look 50 when she's 30 and BLAME IT ALL ON MEEEEEEEEEE!

Truly, I have nightmares about it.

It is one of the reasons I've decided to set up this blog. All my family and friends:

1. Have sons
2. Have no kids
3. Have daughters but are too sensible/perfect/non-neurotic to worry about it

So who the hell am I going to talk to about this stuff, huh? You, oh lucky, gentle reader!

Here is the concern of the moment. I wrote above that Child #1 is slightly sadistic, and she is in the sense that if I let out an hysterical scream because she has accidentally pulled my hair or shoved a needle into my face, she seems rather satisfied with herself and, dare I say, slightly gleeful about my misery. Lately, however, we have been engaged in an activity that ends with HER sobbing inconsolably, and, let me hasten to add before you call the authorities on me, ENJOYING HERSELF THOROUGHLY! The game is called "Sing Me a Sad Song, Mama", and involves me singing softly (off key, monotone, thanks for asking) a melancholy tune of some sort. Some of the songs that have been known to send her howling include Leaving on a Jet Plane and All My Loving by the Beatles. The one that really gets her weeping is a little ditty I can modestly claim as my own composition. Its lyrics go something like this:

(Sung softly, with feeling)

Who will wipe your bum now?
I cannot say
It won't be mom or daddy....
They've gone away..

Wow, does that get her bawling. But if I think, OK, I've gone too far this time, I'd better stop, she'll look at me despairingly and choke out the words, "keep going Mama! Keep going!" And so I do. Because watching her sob is just about the funniest thing I have ever seen in my entire life. When she can't take it anymore, she runs over, arms outstretched, collapses into my arms and shrieks "I LOVE YOU MOMMMMYYYY!!! I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUU!!!!" That part is sort of amusing too, (sorry, but there's nothing like a maudlin four year old to make the corners of your mouth twitch) but it's also really darn nice, and probably another reason why I keep singing her the songs.

But is the whole thing gonna turn her into a freak????

The First Blog Entry...

... in which our heroine rues her crappy (albeit ridiculously appropriate) blog name, suffers from write-fright, and contemplates making a sandwich...

Well, um.... hi there.... she wrote diffidently.

Actually, the task of coming up with a stupid blog name has left me absolutely exhausted. I'm going to bed.

I WILL make a sandwich though.