Introduction

A Man with A Plan

/ Sarah / 2 Comments

You want to know one of the things I love about being a Mom? It’s that you just never know where your life is going to take you.  A simple dinner can turn into a complex conversation about prejudice. Getting ready for school can veer off into a political debate.

Take, for example, a conversation last week, around dinner time. Second Born Son has been jonseing for some extra cash, since he has a serious “graphic novel” (comic book to the rest of us) addiction going on. He has every last coin counted out on his desk and he’s done the research for the upcoming Free Comic Book Day (May 3 cannot come fast enough!). However, the books he really wants, will not be “free” this year.

CURSE YOU UNIVERSE!!

SBS is a clever little dude, so he comes to the Mother Ship to figure out a solution to his financial woes.

“Bud, what it comes down to, is if you want extra money, you need to get a job.” I tell him.

“I don’t want a JOB!” he replies, as though I have suggested that he donate a kidney.

I can see the hamster running on its wheel and his eyes light up.

“I know, you can pay me to do chores!” he announces, with a look of excitement that is reserved for Christmas morning.

{{POW}} – DIDN’T SEE THAT ONE COMING BATMAN!

“You mean, like recycling, compost, feeding the dogs and picking up poops?” I ask.

“YES! For $20 a week!!” he exclaims, thrilled that I’m picking up what he’s putting down.

“Why would I do that? You are supposed to do that now?” I ask, almost literally scratching my head.

“I KNOW, but you wouldn’t have to TELL me to do it, I’d just do it. And I’d keep my room clean too!” he generously offers.

<PAUSE >Now, I know what you are thinking. You think, ‘Hey Sarah, the kid is asking for an allowance.’ I am in no way, a fan of allowances. I read A LOT about the concept and aside from the fact that I didn’t have one, nor did The Big Guy, I feel like the items that he’s asking for compensation for, are part and parcel of being part of this family. I understand the dynamic of teaching the child the importance of understanding how to handle money. I get that some feel it is good for a child’s sense of self to be responsible for their own currency. However, SBS has demonstrated that with proper guidance, he CAN save money, UNTIL he finds something he SIMPLY. MUST.HAVE. We have also endured his frustration with himself when the coveted item he purchased last week in the throes of desire, quells into another item for the Not So Cool bin once it’s obtained. Boyfriend likes the chase, is what I’m saying. <PLAY>

So, with this in mind, I size up the situation.

“If I was going to pay someone, and I’m not saying I’m going to, I would want a lot more than that,” I reply. At this point The Big Guy is in the room, as is First Born Son (who, by the way, has never asked for an allowance). They can tell by the look on my face that this is going to be entertaining. I’m waiting for them to break out popcorn.

“You tell me what you want me to do and I’ll write it down, we’ll have a contract!” gushes SBS.

“Well, I’m thinking you need to set the table every day, do the dishwasher, start helping with laundry,” he looks up from his note pad at this point, “and you have to help with outside work.” The pen goes down. He’s not picking up my puttin’ down any more.

***ZOINKS***

“What???”

“Well, if I’m going to pay you $20 a week, you are going to have to earn it!” I tell him.

~HOLY BANK ACCOUNT ROBIN!~

“Go for it! That’s $80 a month!” goads FBS. I shoot him a death stare.

“I don’t know,” says SBS, doodling on his “contract” post it note.

“Well maybe I should tell you about my terms for this,” I offer. The Big Guy is smiling now.

“What terms?!” asks SBS.

“Well, right now, I pay for a lot of things for you. I don’t mind doing that because of the things you do help out with. But if we are going to switch and I have to PAY for your help, then I get to cut back on what I spend.”

“Like what???” he asks, genuinely concerned.

“Well, I pay for pizza and milk at school. I won’t pay for that any more, or any pita days.” I state. His jaw drops. “When we go to the city, I treat you to snacks or lunch. I won’t do that any more. I won’t pay for movies either. And now that I think about it, your brother was doing odd jobs around the neighbourhood and he was earning money for some of the clothes he wanted. So maybe it’s only fair we do the same for you?!” My hubby and elder son are transfixed, as though watching a real life episode of Dragons’ Den.

“NO WAY, I’M OUT!” announces SBS. He packs away the note pad and pen. Said contract is in the trash.

“No, hey, wait a minute,” I call out to him, “this could really work out well for me!!

The next morning, the pad is out again.

Lordy! I don't get paid every Friday!!

Lordy! I don’t get paid every Friday!!

I note the reduced rate, as well as the omission of outdoor work and laundry. He has been asking each morning since if I’ve come to a decision about this “counter” offer.

This conversation is going to resume tonight. I have a feeling he is going to enjoy the status quo!

Gone to the Dogs

/ Sarah / 2 Comments

Anyone who knows me, knows I like to cook and bake. I actually find it quite therapeutic. I’m not intimidated by new dishes, and to me, there are fewer things more rewarding than a table full of people enjoying something you’ve made.

Unless it’s your dogs.

Confused?

A friend at work, who helped us find Cane, has two shepherds and a lab. Soon after we brought Cane home, she asked if we were raw feeding our dogs. Completely baffled, we asked her to explain, and before long, I was online researching options on how to make home-made food.

Crazy? Not so much.

When you think about it, you try to eat healthy and take care of your body. Why treat your pet any differently? Some people can spend thousands of dollars a year on their pets, and never think about the food that is in their bowls. Sure, you buy the best kibble you can afford, but what’s really in it?

<PAUSE>
I could totally tell you what’s in dog kibble, in varying degrees, from your basic bulk styrofoam, to your overpriced designer puppy chow. But gross is gross, people.
<PLAY>

This got me thinking and before long, I was over the stove, with a copy of my friend’s recipe my hand. The concoction has two components; meat, or in this case ground turkey necks, and veggies, specifically oats, rice and a blend of veggies with some fruit thrown in for good measure.

Not much to look at…yet!

Not much to look at…yet!

Within minutes, the smell from the pot was drawing attention from the two-legged members of the household, who wanted to give it a taste test.

Down the hatch!

Down the hatch!

The verdict from First Born Son and The Big Guy – a little bland, but nothing that a bit of salt wouldn’t cure. Second Born Son took a pass.

Meat and veggies

Meat and veggies

So with two hungry pups, it was time to see if they would enjoy their new menu.

A chef and her first attempts.

A chef and her first attempts.

It was difficult to keep them away from their bowls. Once they got into it….

Not a veggie guy.

Not a veggie guy.

Roman was thrilled with the idea of REAL food. He was really off his kibble, even though we always bought better than average food. He delicately removed the offensive broccoli and strawberries, leading us to believe he was not a fruit and veggie kind of guy.

Cane eats everything that isn't nailed down.

Cane eats everything that isn’t nailed down.

Cane, on the other hand, dug into it like there was no tomorrow. Our poor pup, who is growing so fast, his bones were sticking out, has finally filled out. Roman, who was getting pudgy, in spite of the fact that he didn’t eat two squares a day, is now in the best shape of his adult life.

A couple of weeks later, I made another batch,

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This time, tomatoes!

So in the month we have switched to this new diet, we’ve noticed a number of things;

a) No food sitting in the bowls, ever.

b) Cane has gained weight, mainly because we can feed him more protein, while Roman has lost weight which was necessary, because he’s eating less filler.

c) No more dog breath. Scouts honour. Dog Breath is actually a compliment around here.

d) The cleanest teeth you’ll ever see on a dog. When these guys bare their teeth, they glow in the dark!

e) More organic waste. This will be a real plus for FBS and SBS who are CAOs of Poop Scooping. It reported breaks down faster and there is less of it, since the food is absorbed better.

f) The cost is on par with what we were spending on commercial dog food. Our time is all we invest.

And when we look at all these benefits, it’s well worth it.

 

Sharp Dressed Man

/ Sarah / 4 Comments

We all have our talents.

My Dad’s? He can look at you and tell you what size suit you wear. He knows if you should bump up to the “Tall” sizes, and when to advise someone to walk away, before they alter the crap out of their proposed purchase. It came in very handy throughout the 50+ years he work in retail, specifically men’s apparel.

While he always said he was thrilled to have daughters, none of us doubted his enthusiasm when The Big Guy came on the scene. Here was a tall, slim male that looked good in just about everything he wore. Before long, The Big Guy’s wardrobe was being revamped; a shirt given to Dad by a traveling sales rep, advice on what styles he should wear. For Christmas, the year before we were married, The Big Guy hit the motherlode – a garmet bag with a gorgeous pair of khaki pants, double-breasted navy blazer, a shirt and tie.

And it ALL fit.

Dad didn’t have to lay a measuring tape on you, he could eyeball your neck measurement; your arm length, your inseam, and he wasn’t off very often.

Suffice it to say, other than some sweatshirts and shorts, The Big Guy hasn’t had to buy any clothes from the time we were married. Dad’s wardrobe was expansive and impressive, so when he received purchasing credits, or simply found a great deal, he would pull it aside in the right size for his son-in-law. He was always proud of how my hubby looked and my hubby was thrilled to be turned out so well. I think Dad liked to dress his son-in-law in fashions that he himself could not carry off, even if was the latest look. He understood the art of making a person look good.

Four years ago, another suit showed up. Beautiful dark chocolate brown with stunning accessories. The caveat was that this would likely be the last suit; Dad was retiring as a suit jockey.

This is why we were so surprised when my parents combined The Big Guy’s Christmas and birthday presents; a shopping trip for a new suit! The Big Guy was thrilled and intimidated at the same time; he literally could not recall the last time he bought a suit.

I got to tag along, why I still don’t know, but the three of us walked into a major men’s clothing chain to capitalized on a huge sale. We were soon attended by staff member who was a confusing combination of overly helpful and neglectful. He wore a gorgeous salmon colored shirt with a bold tie, however, his pants were very on-trend and so tight he may have required surgery to fit his feet out the bottom. The long, pointed shoes he wore made him a genetic link away from Ronald McDonald. He wasn’t overly tall, and the length of his kicks indicated that he would NEVER blow over in a wind storm. His suit jacket was cropped short so you could see his butt and much more fitted around the waist. Don’t get me wrong, he was VERY stylish. Just not a style that was hitting any one of us.

While he did point out the area where we could find the size of suits we were looking for, he didn’t help us look for the suits. We grabbed an armful, located a dressing room and let The Big Guy go at it. Dad was keeping his distance, not wanting to step on the saleman’s shoes (and with those shoes, it would have been really easy). Ironically, the rep was nowhere to be found.

The Big Guy steps out of the change room with a look of horror on his face; he has on a pair of pants just like the sales reps. They are slim fit and mold to his leg, which causes him to shake out his legs, trying to make fabric drape like the regular-cut pants he’s used to. To no avail. He spins back into the change room. One down.

He steps out again with the second suit on and feels much more at ease, until out of nowhere we hear;

“THAT LOOKS TERRIBLE!”

It’s the phantom sales man. He’s popped out of a clothing carousel somewhere and declares the suit as simply unsuitable. The Big Guy’s face tightens and although Dad is trying to get some feedback from him, my poor hubby is having none of it.

This was a decent shot until we heard from the peanut gallery...

This was a decent shot until we heard from the peanut gallery…

A third suit is modeled and again, the young salesman comes out with, “That’s SO wrong for you!” in a voice loud enough that people parking their vehicles are now in the loop.

The Big Guy is done. A quick tete a tete in the change room reveals what I thought to be the case; my husband doesn’t want to work with anyone else but his own stylist, my father. I agree to run interference with the sales rep while my Dad consults with my husband. They find two suits that are not only “RIGHT” but look great on him.

We move on to shirts and ties. The salesman is back in ready to roll. He brings out boring, old-looking styles because he’s picked up on the fact that this “old” customer and his “ancient” father in law are not going want anything remotely stylish.

The three of us proceed to blow his mind with our selections; purple, brown, plaids, patterns. He’s amazed at how well our choices work with both suits. I tell him that our style tends to be funky, (not freaky – okay, I left this part off!)

As we walk out of the store, we agree, that while it’s one thing to be a slave to fashion, but it’s quite another to know your own style.

And we also agree that when it comes to salespeople, my father is the last of generation.

Sticks and Stones Part II

/ Sarah / 8 Comments

I had a brilliant blog ready to go for Valentine’s Day. Unfortunately, I left it until Valentine’s Day to finish it, and my day became a little chaotic after a phone call from Second Born Son’s school.

“Hi Sarah, It’s Mrs. Awesomeschoolsecretary calling. I’ve got SBS here and he says he broke his arm again.”

“Holy shit.” was my most eloquent reply, thereby shattering my image as a polite, well-spoken, organized, respectful parent. But really, who the hell was I kidding anyway?

Within minutes I’m looking at my son, who has plastered on his face the best. poker face. EVER! We immediately leave the school to head to our hospital’s emergency room. As soon as the door of my vehicle closes, the emotion pours out of him and he tells me what happened. Snow pile at recess. Bunch of friends jostling each other. SBS falls down show pile with one of the friends. SBS makes it to the bottom first. Friend lands on him. Previously healed arm is on the bottom of said pile of 8th graders. He’s upset because he thinks I’m going to be mad at him. If truth be told, I think he’s mad at himself.

Once again, my college-level psychology class is paying for itself, as I employ the power of positive thinking and advise him I am not angry, but worried about the arm, for obvious reasons. We will deal with what happens.

An x-ray reveals what SBS already knows. It’s cracked right through the spot that broke before. This concerns the emerg doctor who also happens to be our GP. He lightly throws out the idea that surgery may be in the future, refers to how cool Wolverine is, and shoots me a look. Okaaay. Gotcha. We need to get the kid ready for this possibility.

So, armed with the knowledge (pun intended) that we have a bit of an uphill climb in the somewhat familiar road ahead of us, we buy a new collar and cuff sling from the hospital and head home. SBS refuses any pain meds, likely because he feels he deserves the pain. I decide its time to play “Glass Half Full”.

“You know,” I point out, “we can look at it this way; we know how to take care of this because we’ve done it before. No figuring out how to get dressed, or shower, you know?”

He nods, half heartedly.

“And, again, it’s your left arm, so you can still write and you won’t have to miss art class!” I try for some enthusiasm.

“I guess it was a good idea that I cancelled the drums then,” he allows.

“Sure! And you know, it could be worse; it could be your LEG!” I gasp, adding how impossible it would be for me to lug him around, now that he’s taller than I am.

“Yeah.”

It was a rough night, but the next day did seem a little brighter. We had a call in to his specialist and agreed that SBS would stay home from school until we had been to our appointment. I didn’t want to have this fracture complicated by a slip in a wet hallway or a nudge from an overly enthusiastic friend.

Because of the holiday Monday (yeah Family Day – I worked – what else is new, right??) we could only get squeezed in on the Friday – a week after the break. By the time the appointment rolled around, SBS was ready to crawl walls. He’s frustrated, sore, tired, anxious and wondering how he can go back in time and redo recess.

The Big Guy joined us for the drive to the city; all equally anxious and eager to find out what the specialist would say. I had packed an overnight bag for us, in the event that surgery was going to happen. A conversation with a friend who is a nurse reinforced the idea that surgery was in the offing. We had a couple of conversations with SBS who was naturally nervous about the idea. He was reluctant, but in favor of this possibility by the time we got to the hospital, if for no other reason than he could finally stop worrying about doing further damage to his arm. All week he had walked around as though he was made of glass. Sneezing was to be avoided.

More x-rays and waiting. Thankfully the Olympic hockey game was on and we were suitable distracted.

While our specialist was not available, her colleague was and we were in no position to complain, since we wanted to see the first doctor we could who would give us answers.

An intern came in for the preliminary chat and looked over SBS. He gives us the impression that we have done all that can be done by using the collar and cuff. The Big Guy and I look at each other. No surgery? A mix of optimism and dread hits us both. We express that we would like to be aggressive with this injury, since we were advised the initial break had healed and isn’t bone that has healed from a fracture stronger?

He gives us a smile and agrees to pass our thoughts along to the specialist. The Big Guy and I make a pact that we are not leaving this room the way we came in; with a broken kid with a broken spirit.

Within minutes the specialist enters. Her bicep is a big as my wrist and everything about her is boney and angular. Her smile is phoney and forced. Her voice has a sharp tone and her words are clipped. Immediately the energy in the room changes, and not for the better. She has SBS move his arm at the elbow and wrist and checks for pulse and blood circulation issues. Before addressing us, she’s has told SBS she wants to see him moving the arm so the elbow doesn’t seize up, and that tells us all we need to know.

There won’t be any surgery.

Now I’m not going to get into the nitty-gritty of medical details here, but the moral of this story is that The Big Guy and I should have been thrilled that our son was not being scheduled for surgery. Instead, we felt like we were being ignored. When we asked to understand her position, she immediately became aggressive and condescending; an AWESOME mix, especially when my hubby is involved. Boyfriend doesn’t always edit if you know what I mean. The more questions we asked, the more annoyed with us she became. She pulled out her god complex and wielded it with the dexterity I can only assume she  possesses in the operating room. She can do A, B and C, sure why not? If that’s what we as parents were saying we wanted to subject our son to! She then turns to SBS and unloads on him all the worst case scenarios that could take place during and as a result of surgery. He is suitably traumatized and withholds telling her how he feels about certain aspects of his situation because he just wants to LEAVE! (At this point I want to thank her face with my fist because now if we ever HAVE to do surgery for what she later stated could be a recurring issue, he gets to ponder on the very detailed possibilities she implanted in his brain. Gold star for you, Sweetheart!)

I stop her and advise that for SBS’s peace of mind, we need something done. She ROLLS. HER.EYES. Yes, yes she did; and this pretty much finishes me. After some chatter with the intern and someone from casting, she agrees to “some kind of splint for this”.

Why did I just bore you to tears of this childhood injury? Because I think it exemplifies beautifully a concept that I advocate regularly. Grab your pen and paper now!

It’s not always WHAT you say, but HOW you say it!

Blew your mind just there, didn’t I?

She had no idea of what we had been through in the week leading up to our appointment; but she wasn’t interested in hearing it either. She should have listened to all three of us, and then come back with her position, supported by heavily edited reasoning regarding risks. She should have respected our concern as parents and not simply dismissed our questions as being ridiculous. She should have parked her tone AND attitude with her ride in the underground parking. She should have remembered that even though in her world she sees thousands of broken bones every week – this is the only broken bone that matters in our world. She should have seen that while the patient in front of her is the size of an adult, he is still a child inside. She should have known that while surgery and casts were not, in her opinion, in the patient’s best interest, neither is living with uncertainty and fear.

Her only advice was if he was “that nervous” about going to school, then he should stay home for another week. What he needed was to get back to his regular routine. Thankfully, the splint we begged for has had the necessary effect; provided physical protection while offering emotional support.

It took a lot of talking on the ride home to understand that while we put a lot of faith into doctors, they are only human. Just like every other profession, there are good ones, and there are bad ones.

We can’t wait to see our GREAT specialist when she returns in time for our first follow-up appointment. I don’t think any of us needs a repeat of last week’s performance.

Floor Flashback

/ Sarah / 2 Comments

Have you ever heard a story from your childhood and didn’t know if you remembered it because you lived it, or because you’ve been told it so many times?

One of those stories, to a lesser degree, was the story of Rene and the foster-brother who came to live with us for a couple of months.

Gingham was TOTALLY what all the cool kids were wearing - and Rene didn't mind my bowl bangs....

Gingham was TOTALLY what all the cool kids were wearing – and Rene didn’t mind my bowl bangs….

You can read more about my childhood pups here.

My memories collided recently, as I was playing with Roman and Cane after dinner in the kitchen. The dogs always hang out in the kitchen with us while we eat. While we don’t engage them while we are eating, on this evening, I decided to play with them after. I’m the Alpha Dog, so I don’t often “play” with the pups, but I had a random thought.

“Do you want to see me freak them out?” I asked The Big Guy and the boys. I laid down on the floor, looking to see what they would think of me doing something they had never seen me do.

Cane immediately came over and sniffed me from head to two, probably trying to ascertain that this was, indeed, “Mom”. I start to laugh and cover my face to save myself from a thorough bathing. Within seconds Roman is over my head, his paws on either side of my head by my shoulders and he starts growling and snapping at Cane. I know this because I can sense his presence RIGHT. ABOVE. ME.

Instantly, I’ve left my kitchen. I’m laying on the grass along the lane way at the farm I grew up on. My mind is playing tricks on me because I actually FEEL small, and I have a dog above me. It’s Rene and he’s snapping and snarling and I’m covering my face. I can hear my foster-brother crying out because he’s afraid, but Rene never touches him.

The two events are so parallel, it’s unnerving. I sit up, back in my kitchen in my 42-year-old body and realize what has happened. It’s one thing to hear a recollection, it’s quite another to remember it yourself. In an instant 35 years passed and I was able to remember exactly how I felt at that precise moment.

I calmed Roman and let him see that I was okay, which was the main concern for him. He has never seen me lay down in the house (and only on rare occasions outside), and this is the first time we’ve seen him be so protective of us. The Big Guy was never in danger, neither were the boys. Roman was simply covering me and ensuring Cane didn’t go too far.

It’s a very reassuring feeling to know that today, as when I was a child, I have someone who will protect me, even when I may not be able to protect myself.

SUPERROMAN_edited-1

My very own super hero!

No! Wait! You’re at the right place!

/ Sarah / Leave a comment

Before you switch back to Facebook, you have got The Bowery Girl. I’m toying with a new look for 2014 and I think this may be it!

Until I’m decided, feel free to love it or loathe it in the Comments!

Photographic Evidence of NYE 2014

/ Sarah / 3 Comments

So. 2014 huh? New Year’s Eve. Once again, I had to work, so I didn’t get to do too much “celebrating”. Actually, it was downright boring for me.

For my guys, not so much.

It started with First Born Son. Just as we were about to sit down to an early movie night, a trio of his friends dropped by and dragged him out to his first New Year’s Eve get together. Nothing rowdy, busy or crazy. Just four friends hanging out and making memories. This left The Big Guy and Second Born Son, who had already made a pact to relive their Third Annual All-Nighter. I was planning on being in the nest by 9 p.m.

So after viewing Red 2 (SPOILER ALERT – NOT AS GOOD AS THE FIRST ONE) I called it a night. 4 a.m. comes rather early! I drifted off to the sounds of my hubby and son tearing into a brand new Lego set. While I did wake up around midnight, I had no idea what had transpired over the course of the evening, until I got to work the next morning and checked my phone…

Okay, a little blurry...

Okay, a little blurry…

Followed by…

Okay, THAT'S a little too cheeky!

Okay, THAT’S a little too cheeky!

Followed by…

Someone didn't get the memo that "Selfie" was SOOO last year!

Someone didn’t get the memo that “Selfie” was SOOO last year!

Followed by…

What. The. Hell?

What. The. Hell?

Now it’s obvious that there is a genetic link between these two, but in case you were doubtful…

Who is taking these photos?? Cane? Roman??

Who is taking these photos?? Cane? Roman??

There is a definite connection here. Genetically as well as a common maturity level.

Thankfully, adult supervision soon arrived.

Proof that he made it past midnight!

Proof that he made it past midnight!

Even if he wasn’t long out of the nest himself!

Bleepy. Very bleepy!

Bleepy. Very bleepy!

Honestly, these photos look like they have a soft focus filter on them. If I didn’t know better, I’d say alcohol was involved!!!!

Uh oh!!!

Uh oh!!!

So while I didn’t get a chance to experience a New Year’s Eve with my guys, they made sure I didn’t miss out on the fun.

Now to activate a password on my phone!!!!

Real or Fake: AKA Getting into the Spirit of Christmas

/ Sarah / 5 Comments

Real or artificial?

It’s a debate for the ages. Some suggest full and natural, the way God created them, is the best. Others think there is nothing wrong with the artificial version, and that sometimes perfection is attained through a manufacturer, not necessarily nature. This is especially true when you are particular on size, shape, uniformity.

You know we’re talking about Christmas Trees here, right?

This year I decided I’d really like a real tree. And then I furthered the concept by deciding I’d like to get one from Mom and Dad’s property. Dad was thrilled. Mom objected. Especially when I asked for one of these…..

DSC_2939

So, I relented. After all, I didn’t want to look greedy. Dad was keen to help us out, and scouted a couple of locations. The problem was, everybody had an opinion about what kind of tree we should have. We struck out with the big truck, and headed back the lane way. After a brief search, the guys decided they found “The One”.

DSC_8988

Ah. No.

So, we kept walking, and walking.

Then they found this one…

DSC_8989

Really?

Still walking. Getting cold now people!

Then we came across this one.

DSC_8993

Now we’re talking turkey! We all agreed, this was our tree. The Big Guy got the cutting started with the handsaw, and Second Born Son quickly took over.

DSC_8997

He cut,

DSC_8999

and cut,

DSC_9005

and cut. Finally, we thought we heard something!

DSC_9012

I didn’t think it was serious, after all, my father is howling with laughter. But it looked like assistance may have been required!

DSC_9013

More than just a little ham was being served here, folks.

So after First Born Son took off to locate the truck, the rest of us debated the best route to get the tree out of the forest.

DSC_9015

Why, yes, that is a water gun. Why is my father holding a water gun? Because he’s carrying it back to the house for SBS. Why do we have a water gun? Because we are looking for a Christmas tree…Do I have to explain EVERYTHING???

Finally, we are making tracks.

DSC_9022

We load up the tree and take it home. Where, suddenly, something becomes apparent….

2013-12-09 15.39.04

Yes, that’s the tree, upright, outside the house. Adjacent to the sliding glass doors. No photoshopping here, Jack. That tree is THAT TALL. Hmmmm. Wisely, The Big Guy decided to wait until I was at work to bring the tree in the house. We knew the tree would need a little trimming. The top was very spindly, so we figured nipping that off would solve the problem. What I missed was A LOT of trimming. A LOT of sap and, my favourite, a middle of the kitchen stump docking. Yes, A SAW IN MY KITCHEN.

Thankfully, when I came home, all I saw was this…

2013-12-15 14.36.53

Let’s pause for a moment and note the amount of clearance between the top of my tree and my HAND PLASTERED CEILING!!! We opted for denial and started decorating.

2013-12-15 15.31.30

Again, I’m going to draw your attention to the TOP OF MY TREE!!!

Finally, after covering ourselves in sap, spruce needles and glitter, we had ourselves a Christmas Tree! We had one last thing to do…

2013-12-15 16.17.39

Folks, if my angel were to sneeze, she’d be wiping sap off her nose. The Big Guy crammed her on so hard, she might have to go out with the tree.

With my tree lit and angel violated installed, it finally felt like Christmas had arrived!

2013-12-15 17.03.29

From our house to yours, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Baby – Teenager

/ Sarah / 2 Comments

2013-12-03 14.06.19These eyes tell it all.

You were meant to come into our family and bring your own brand of humour, love and caring. For that, I will be forever grateful.

Second Born Son, like his brother, arrived fashionably late. He was supposed to be a November baby, but held on (almost literally) until December 3, 2000. Two trips to the hospital an hour away. Twelve hours of labor YOU LITTLE BUM – but totally worth it for the dimples alone!

Now this little man was born at 5:55 a.m. and he’s been a night owl ever since. (Save for the times around 24 months when he would put himself to bed if we had company over! Boyfriend needed his beauty sleep!) He was the happiest of babies until he was PISSED. OFF. Then you needed to be jumpin’, people. You need to be jumpin’. My husband’s family is known for its blond, strawberry blonde and downright redheads. They didn’t know quite what to do with a black-haired baby. He loved the dog, and adored his brother. I need to find a way to download video of him laughing his tush off at his brother because the laughter is from another soul. SBS IS laughter.

Because we had a son already, many people thought we were hoping for a girl. We didn’t care. What was meant to be would be. We were meant to have this baby. And with his arrival, we knew we were a full family. So while his brother made me a Mommy, this little guy…

2013-12-03 14.08.51

…made our family.

Love you Tootie! Happy 13th Birthday!!!! xo

 

Raising Rob Ford

/ Sarah / 1 Comment

So, the Rob Ford Soap Opera has given me quite a pain. Right over here. No back a little bit more…

Between horrific videos, more horrific press conferences and enough drama to keep a spin doctor employed through to the end of his term as Mayor Toronto, it’s truly a train wreck and we are helpless to stop it, or look away.

 Here we have an adult male who is having, in effect, a toddler temper tantrum on the world stage. I find myself over and over again trying to explain this man’s actions to my sons, who frequently reply with, “But didn’t he learn not to do that when he was a kid?” or “Didn’t his parents teach him that?” They have come to a logical conclusion here. This man needs some discipline; perhaps some parenting is in order?

 You think I’m over simplifying? Let’s break it down. I’m pretty sure we’ve all been told these gems once or twice.

 1. Lying Only Makes It Worse.

Let’s start at the beginning. When this all started, it was about a grainy cell phone photo where Rob Ford was doing his best Whitney Houston impression. And while he didn’t come out with Crack Is Whack, he did come out with a big denial. Had he come forward with an acknowledgement of the incident and some humility (I know, it’s not humanly possible for this man), he could have slipped off quietly for some rehab, stayed in office and people would have given him the second chance he seems hellbent on. However, LYING about the video’s existence started the entire saga on bad footing. We look back now and say, “Well, if he lied about that, what else is he lying about?” Let’s remember, this man has already been temporarily suspended from office, and disciplined for using public transit for his personal use – the transportation of his football team. Prejudice exists, I’m afraid, based on previous behavior.

 2. Don’t Lie To Your Mother.

Momma Ford and sister Kathy took to CP24 to defend Rob’s “honor” (?!) and say that he has been truthful to them, that he doesn’t have an addiction problem, and that they support him 100%. Either the Ford ladies are Oscar-calibre actors, or they have tickets on a cruise down De Nial as a half-wit monkey can see what the Ford family truly is; a bunch of enablers. I’m sure Big Brother Doug Ford was thrilled to look like a moron on Rob’s behalf; DEMANDING the resignation of the Chief of Police on the grounds of trumping up allegations, less than five hours before his brother would have a media conference where he would admit to smoking crack. Ouch!

 3. Watch Your Mouth. (aka – You Kiss Your Momma With That Mouth?)

Right now my eldest son is 16 years old. He swears. If you read this blog with any frequency, you know I do too. The Big Guy can let it fly with the best of them. Second Born Son is keeping it clean, but I fully expect him to melt down at some point and “expand his vocabulary”. I don’t say this with pride, I say this to be relative. Most (not all) people have sworn at some point. Most people (not all) know when it is appropriate and with what audience. My 16-year-old hormone-laden son knows that if he were to come out with some of the crap flowing out of Rob Ford’s mouth (in private, never mind in public), he’d have his jaw wired shut. Ever since the boys were small, we discussed what kind of words were “appropriate” since media, friends, and some family, don’t have the same frame of reference, and we didn’t want our five-year-old coming out with a big “What the HELL?” just before Easter Dinner. We started with negative words like “idiot”, “hate” and “stupid”. Stupid is still as big a swear word as “asshole” in our house and will get you promptly relocated to your room with a lecture to follow. Common civility dictates some words are simply not appropriate, especially the mouth they come from is four inches above the Chain of Office.

 4. Be a Gentleman/Lady.

This may seem self-evident, but what this means is, be polite to others. Hold yourself in certain regard, and you’ll be surprised in how others treat you. If you act like a common street thug, be prepared to be viewed that way. Strive for more. This means refraining from making lewd comments about oral sex with former staffers, and even more so, don’t make that first statement seem less offense by making a followup remark that is just as visual about YOUR. WIFE.

 5. You are Judged by the Company You Keep.

Remember the first time your parents had to tell you to watch the company you kept? Remember how confusing that was to figure out? eventually, though, we did. We understood that be associating with people who broke rules, were disrespectful, caused trouble, were in trouble, were looking for trouble, were often…trouble? Ya, Rob wasn’t listening that day.

 6. Say “Sorry” Like You Mean It.

When we were kids, saying sorry was like getting a band-aid. It solved the problem immediately. As we mature and the Sorry we need to say is for bigger issues than, say, slamming the door, we understand that Sorry isn’t a band-aid anymore. It’s an acknowledgement of our error and it’s impact on another person. One of my biggest pet peeves is someone using the word Sorry with no meaning behind it. At first Rob Ford refused to say he was Sorry. Within days, he was saying Sorry so much, it began to lose its impact. He quickly moved on to say that he’s said Sorry so many times, he doesn’t know what else to say. And that, my friends, is the problem. There is nothing else to say.

 7. You Always Get Caught.

Wasn’t it freaky how our Moms knew stuff? How did they know??? Did they really have eyes in the back of their heads? Was there a Secret Mom Society?? Any time we do something wrong, bad, hurtful and try to cover it up, it always comes back to bite us. If we didn’t learn this when we were four sneaking cookies, then perhaps we have to learn it in our mid 40s, with low-grade cell-phone video to rat us out. (FYI – There totally is a Secret Mom Society – in case my kids are reading this…)

 8. You Call These People Your Friends?

Not to be confused with #5, this point is for all the people who are lining up to say they support Rob Ford and that this media circus is nothing more than a witch hunt. If you are truly part of Ford Nation, and want to see this man re-elected for another term, you will show support in him stepping aside temporarily. Because if nothing else is evident, it is this; Rob Ford has issues, demons if you will, that need to be addressed now. His passionate refusal to leave the role of Mayor is not only an issue for the City and the Province, but most importantly, is jeopardizing his well-being and his role as a father and husband. Choose your priorities wisely. Voters love a Come-Back story. Be the new and improved Rob Ford. Everyone deserves a second chance, but its hard to rally from a body bag.

 Let’s hope someone, whose opinion matters to Rob Ford, can step in and give him the sage advice he needs.

Starting with a Time Out.