Sorry

As I get older and wiser, self-awareness has provided me the ability to admit that I'm not all that perfect. Not that I was always so self-assured and confident. Very far from that. But somewhere along the line, I started believing all those encouraging words that my parents were telling me about being strong, smart, and - as I become more like my mother - ALWAYS right.

There were hints of this as a young child. Let's take a peek at a little vignette of when I was about 6 years old, playing that classic Hasbro Game :"SORRY" with a few older kids...

"Karen, you picked that card, lucky you! Now you can take anyone else's guy and put yours there!"

Gee, this was fun. I could actually win over these big kids!

"Okay, now that you moved your guy, you have to say "SORRY" really loudly!!"

I thought, uh, I don't think so. Why should I say sorry? I didn't do anything wrong. I picked the sorry card and made the necessary move. It was part of the game.

So I said, "No. I'm not going to say sorry."

They all looked at each other and then the eldest said,

"But you have to Karen, it's in the rules." (*I just checked of course, and it isn't - almost 40 years later and it still smarts!)

I shook my head. No way was I going to say "SORRY" for doing everything right.

So they all started chanting "SOR-RY, SOR-RY, SOR-RY!!!!!!"

And I started to bawl.

I never did say sorry.

A tragic tale. To this day, it remains very hard for me to say I'm sorry.

*****

So the point of this story? Turns out my son has been a lunch monitor since the school year started. And apparently he rocks at it... so much so that when he mentioned that he might not continue into the next term, the Grade 2 class wrote him a bunch of "Thank You" cards.

Only they weren't so much 'Thank you" as "Sorry" cards (as in "Sorry I was loud", "Sorry I was bad", "Sorry I didn't listen")

I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it for myself.

I guess there is hope for the next generation.

****

A Denouement:

I recounted my "sorry" boardgame tale to my brother and sister-in-law about a week before the holidays. My brother, being more than a few years younger than me, wasn't yet around to witness my traumatic experience firsthand. They were so enamoured with my story that for Christmas, lo and behold, they gave our family this...

Thanks little bro. You're so awesome.

Friday Fragments - Simple Things

Don't forget to check out the home of glorious Fragments( Mrs. 4444)

*****
Well that was certainly cathartic.

The boy's face is fine. He's all smiles again, with a bit of a shiner and a story to share.

Today is another day. Let's celebrate the simple things.

*****

I noticed something the other day. Something quite wonderful.

My daughter doesn't just walk. She skips - everywhere.

Oh, the pure joy of being a happy 5-year old little girl.

*****

Speaking of stories, the one thing that I look forward to when my husband comes home from his work trips, (other than seeing him, of course) is the colourful tales he has to share about his adventures.

After boarding his flight last Friday, and getting settled into his seat, he noticed this odour in the cabin. The odour of someone who'd had beans or something unsettling for breakfast, apparently. The passenger in front of him turned to his wife and made a grimace that showed his displeasure of the stink as well. My husband just tucked his nose subtly into his elbow as his defense mechanism.

You would think that would be the end of it, after all, one expects some level of dissipation at some point.

However, throughout the rest of the flight, the smell was relentless. The wife of the passenger in front even took out a small spray bottle of perfume/deodorizer and gave it a couple of pumps. My husband kept his elbow close.

After the plane landed, the pilot announced: "Welcome to lovely Chicago, folks"...

and the fellow in front of my husband piped in "... and whoever has been shitting their pants the whole flight, let's have another just for good measure."

My husband could barely contain the guffaws. Even while telling me the story.

****

Colourful number 2:...

After the man had settled into his hotel, he headed over to the convention centre to check things out. He looked to his phone, to see if there were any messages any of his colleagues. On his Blackberry screen he saw a trail from one of the guys from his office, and decided to continue the text conversation (in blue below):

Hi, you all settled in?

Yeah.

So do you want to meet for dinner?

Actually, I'm meeting some friends for dinner later on.

So do you want to meet for a drink before, maybe?

No, I'm running a bit short on time.

And then he noticed this colleague way over on the other side of the auditorium...

Hey, I see you over there, don't want to shout across the room...

No, you don't see me.

Yes, I do.

I'm in my workout gear in the gym at the hotel.

No, you're not. Is this Mike?

No, this is Jane.

JANE, his FEMALE colleague from the U.S. office.

Oh my frickin' gawd. She probably thought this guy was going middle-aged conference crazy. My man, he's smooth, isn't he?

****

The girlie promptly had a tea party with her Daddy last night, just before bed. And she brought it over and shared it with me as well.

I don't really play with my kids. I just realized this - I shop for them, I feed them, I bathe and I clothe them, I talk with them... but I don't play with them a heck of a lot.

But my husband does.

So I've resolved that I need to make the time to play.

Simple things. Wonderful things.

Let's play.

The longest jump

Mom offered to take photos of the Boy at the track meet. I would have preferred that she took videos, but was afraid that she would get confused and we'd end up with one long running video clip of the lawn. So the following is what happens when I try to preset my camera to the "camera" versus the "video" function.



Catch that?

I end up setting it on video anyway. We've got about ten shots of him landing. *snort* . He finished 7th out of 18 of the region. Tyke class. Too cute. And we're so very proud of him.

Too Young

"Baby, baby, baby ohh
Like Baby, baby, baby noo
Like Baby, baby, baby ohh
I thought you'd always be mine (mine)"

The teeny bopper voice emanated from the dashboard as we drove along the highway to visit family this weekend. We could hear my little 5 year old singing along, see the top of her head bobbing with the beat.

"Guppy, do you like Justin Bieber?", asked the man from the wheel.

"No. I just like his songs. I don't like him." replied the girlie.

Good answer.

"Mommy, Katie likes Justin Bieber and says that she's going to marry him. I told her that she wasn't going to marry him, because she wasn't even going to meet him!"

"Dream crusher!!", laughed her brother.

"No. I'm just telling her the truth, right Mama? Katie said she knows, but when she says she knows, I don't think she really knows, because she says that all the time about everything and she can't know everything just because she says she does - she actually doesn't really know."

Did you catch that?

The things that come out of a 5 year old pragmatist.

When I was 5, I too, had dreams of marrying someone older.


And he grew up to be the 2009 champion of Dancing with the Stars.

I'm crushed.

We interrupt this blog post ...

for some must-bloggable moments.

I know I had promised a post related to Michael Jackson, but that will wait a bit. I just had to capture these rambling Thursday thoughts as they come to me. I can't hold them until Friday. Hmmm, maybe it's time for a Friday footwear post. Anyhoo...

The man had taken Tuesday off to be with the kids while they recover from the flu. Of course, just as I expected, he got absolutely nothing done. I suppose they've been used to me being around, so when I was working from home on Monday, I actually got some work done. But with their Dad, it was different. They were all over him.

So this morning, as we were running around getting ourselves and the kids ready, and the man says to me: "Hey, I'm looking for that really nice checked shirt that you got for me, the one with the French cuffs, have you seen it?"

And I replied, "Yeah, it's on the floor in that pile next to your side of the bed".

"No it's not, I looked."

I promptly went over and pulled the shirt from on top of the pile next to his side of the bed and handed it to him. Man search. Grrrrr. Let's call that superior wife moment #1.

Next, we went down to the kitchen. I was so exhausted on Tuesday night that I didn't have the energy to put the coffee maker and timer on. So this next morning, I put enough coffee in for a cup each, and turned the maker on, while I went to get the kids' schoolbags and lunches ready. Then I hear from the kitchen: "How much coffee did you make there, look at it!" and I ran back into the kitchen to see the pot almost completely full.

What?!

I swore I only put enough water in for a couple of cups; so I pontificated...:

"Hmm, that's weird. I'm positive that I only scooped a few spoonfuls and poured enough for two cups. I wonder if I poured some last night and forgot... or maybe I did set it for more... geez, that's really bizarre, but, hey, do you think that maybe YOU might have poured the water and forgot to make some yesterday ... well, probably not, you would have had to have been pretty darn out of it "...

... while the husband was shaking his head, no, it wasn't him. No it wasn't him. But he remained mostly conspicuously quiet.

And then as I went to pour the coffee, or rather, brown water out, he conceded with a hearty laugh, "Yeah, it WAS me!". Superior wife moment #2.

*****

The hubs is a huge fan of Howard Stern, and Howard had the comic, Dane Cook, on his show. The hubs thought he was pretty hilarious, and when he googled him he found a picture of Dane Cook's girlfriend and thought she was pretty hot.

So I countered, 'Well, Dane Cook is a pretty good looking guy himself. Interesting how that is, though. I find with funny guys, I have to think twice about them being good looking; somehow the humour makes me think of them less as sex symbols, I guess. Don't you think?"



Hubs: "Yeah, I have that problem. I mean, most of the time I'm just too darn funny, yup, yeah, that's a big issue for me."

And I countered by laughing hysterically. Maybe laughing a bit too hard.

Love and marriage.

Musical Musings Part 2

Celebration, Madonna's new single, was playing on the radio.

"How old is Madonna, Mom?", asked the boy from the backseat. At least he knows she's still alive.

"I think she's 51 this year. She's got four kids, I think the youngest are babies she adopted from Malawi."

"Wow, they're lucky kids! And can you imagine, when they're teenagers their Mom will be in her 60's!!!"

"Well, Madonna isn't your average 51 year old. She'll probably look like she's forty-something when she's that age."

"Yeah, probably. Do you think she's had plastic surgery?"

"I'd say she likely has, but it's very subtle."

"Yeah. Not so obvious. I mean, look at Joan Rivers. She's definitely got buttocks on HER face!"

I almost drove off the road.

Type A much?

I contemplated accompanying hubs on his most recent trip for business. I initially jumped all over it because he actually asked if I wanted to go (the opportunity doesn't come that often because of all the work he's got to do, and he's not always comfortable with the optics. But I take my lead from him).

But with BlogHer coming up, and our family vacay ... and the fact that I didn't think the kids would appreciate spending the week doing workbooks at Grandma's (she runs a really tight curriculum, especially during summer holidays)... I thought better of it.

And the hubs is apparently relieved with my decision too.

I got the following message this morning, letting me know that after having to switch planes he finally got there:

"Arrived safely-waiting in a ridiculously long customs line.....its times like these I am glad you aren't here :) not bc I don't love you but I don't miss a play by play account on the delay..."

Know me much?

Wordless Wednesday - "UP, yo.."

For more Wordless check it out here and here.

(Yeah, they kinda liked the movie)

Playing with the cool kids

(After too many beers and mojito mixes on a Friday night...)

"So do you think we're cool?"

"What do you mean cool? As opposed to being geeks? "I freakin' love Celine Dion*" type geeks?"

"Yeah, like that. I mean, Grant and Sophie, I think they're cool. They've got great taste in music."

" They do like a lot of what we like. What is this, high school? And who's to say that we're not geeks anyway, who just happen to like cool music?"

"Yeah. We should have a party and play the 80's music trivia game that I played at my departmental get-together. I slaughtered everyone. We ARE geeks."

"We should do that. And you watch, I'll wipe you. I mean I'll swipe your ...I mean wipe your ... wait, scratch that ... KICK your ...ASS. You know what I mean."

(And that, folks, is how drunk, exhausted and geeky middle-aged parents of young children who live in the 'burbs talk. While wishing that they had the energy to be doing something fun as opposed to sinking further into their "coma couch" trying to keep their eyes open for the 11 o'clock news...)

*****

This time, I'm not a geek. Temporarily, anyway. The 'other' me is playing with the cool folks.

My first ever guest post, at the home of the cool and beautiful JustMiss.

Check it out.

(*And I know that Miss does love the occasional Celine tune; but trust me, she's still beyond kool.)

Moobage?

Little G has been growing into a very girlie girl lately, and she was watching me with interest as I got dressed the other morning.

I had stopped by La Senza a little while ago and brought home a couple of pretty bras as pick-me-ups for spring. Little G picked out the orange and pink polka-dotted number with the pretty frills for me to wear. (The more frills the merrier when you're a sporting the equivalent of terrain of the Prairies as your boobage).

"Mommy, why do you wear a bra?", she asked.

"Well, because Mommy doesn't want to walk around just, well, hanging as it doesn't look so neat and tidy. It looks and feels better under my tops and T-shirts when I wear a bra."

Whew, was that a good answer?

Not that I have much to hang about. In actual fact I didn't want to admit that it was part of my optical illusion to make it look like I have something up there. I don't want to get into that whole body image discussion with her just yet. Hopefully the lack o' rack that her mom inherited will bypass her generation.

"Oh. Well then why doesn't Daddy wear a bra?"

Oh boy.

Next she'll be suggesting a mirdle.

A.K.A. the converter

The other night we were watching 'National Treasure 2" on DVD. Probably one of the most convoluted storylines ever written, if not the most impossible to follow. At least from my perspective. Even the boy noticed that it had all been done better in the first movie.

But the girl was really enjoying it. So much, in fact, that when she had to go to the washroom, she wanted to pause the movie.

"Can you pass me the fur-BUR-ger?"

Ian and I just looked at each other, puzzled for a second, and then like two 12 year olds suppressed a couple of smiles.

"CAN YOU PASS ME THE FUR-BURR-GERRRRRRR??!!!

The FUR-BURR-GERRRRR!!!!
I want to press the button to pause. I gotta go pee!"

Mommy and Daddy, grow up and pass it over, will ya?

*****

Don't forget about the giveaway over here...

Share and share alike

"I gave Goh-Goh TWO Arrowroot cookies, Daddy!", announced the Girlie last night as she snuck a pre-bedtime snack.

"Aw, little G, that was very nice of you, sharing with your brother.", replied her father proudly.

"Well, he said if I didn't give him two cookies he would take my black DS away."

Sibling love.

PS: I'm coming up to my 500th post - whoot! So, for that occasion, while we're on the topic of sharing, why don't you let me have it - ask me a question, any question that I haven't already answered or spilled my guts on here. Or if I already have, I'll spill them again.

You can leave me a comment, or e:mail me.

Just be gentle.

No Freedom 55 just yet...

It's White Sale season.

I haven't felt much like shopping in the last little while, for obvious reasons.

But things still have to get done. Kids still need haircuts. Trips to the mall are inevitable.

As we were passing through the venerable Canadian shopping institution known as the Bay this past week, en route to the salon, I noticed that there was a sale on House & Home linens. It's a brand I like; not too pricey, but you get that certain look.

I'm a "touch and feel" type of shopper, so I had to pause and take a look at the many colours they had on display. The kids, of course, had to stop in their tracks with me. Not wanting to delay lest they pulled out the "we're not shopping AGAIN now, are we Mommy?" whine, I stopped for no more than two minutes.

As we continued on our way, the Boy said to me: "So, are you shopping to decorate your fantasy mansion, Mom?"

I had to laugh. "Well, not really, we're just needing new sheets, ours are getting a little old."

To which the boy replied: "That's okay Mom. Think about that mansion. Dad's working on it."

Whip it, kid, whip it real good...

Papa's got a brand new 'poo bag'

So this is how I know that my blog is now part of the family.

The boy and girlie's friends stopped by (with their Dad) while walking their dog last night. Since it was dinner time, we invited them to stay. And to be honest it was long overdue, as these friends are so wonderful, they always invite us over for dinner whenever the man's away.

After dinner, since there was school the next day, the Dad hustled his kids back into their coats, got the dog and off they went for their walk back home.

And then we get a message on our phone while getting the kids ready for bed ..."Uh, sorry I just realized that we left the poo bag on your front porch. It was dark and I totally forgot. Apologies, you can just throw it into your green cycle bin."

And then another e:mail about it shortly after, just in case.

No big deal.

This morning, we open up the door to get the paper and there it was, right next to the paper. In the same type of blue plastic bag. "There's the poo-bag!" I exclaimed.

For some reason husband thought that was insanely hilarious.

And this evening, my husband said to me, "You should have taken a picture of that, what an awesome bloggable moment!"

And the boy, "Mom, that would have been great to write about "THE POO BAG" on your blog!".

And so it's done. No picture though.

What is it about boys and poo anyway?

Gotta admit, though, some poo stories are priceless...

Family conversations at the home of "Yo Gabba Gabba" *

As the rugrats are served their lunch, consisting of their favourite sandwich and fries …

The girlie: Daddy, how come a boy can eat a Girl’s cheese sandwich?

The boy: It's not a girl's cheese, it's a grilled cheese. And it was my favourite first!


*****

Typical weekend morning:

The boy asks his sister: “Do you know where Dad is?”

The girlie makes her way to a closed door. The washroom door.

She yells through the door: “Hey Daddy, are you having a hard time in there?”

Her Dad: “I’m doing OK”.

Girlie heads back into the family room to report to her brother.

“Daddy’s taking a while, but he says he’s not having a hard time in there!”

The boy: “Oh. Thanks.”

******


Talking about snacking…

The boy: "Hey Dad, do you like nuts?"

Dad: "They’re OK. Not the biggest fan, though."

The boy: "Well, I like them, especially the horseshoe nuts."

Dad: "What kind of nuts? I don’t think I’ve ever had them before. "

The boy: "You haven’t? Are you sure? Mom loves them too."

Me: "What was that? I do? What’s a horseshoe nut? I’ve never had them…"

The boy (in frustration): "MOM, you know, horseshoes, they’re amazing. I pick them out and we fight over them… "

Me (thinking ... horseshoes, horseshoes … brain cramp…): "Oh, you mean CASHEWS!! "

(* this is a weird show, even perhaps weirder than Teletubbies and I come pretty close to detesting its weirdness; but for some crazy reason it's on whenever I turn on Treehouse TV for the girlie. And I am forbidden to change the station. Maybe I should check the TV guide...)

This just in...

So apparently I DID make it to Blogher.

Who'd 've thunk?