Things I've learned

I've spent much of my life learning. My butt was glued to a desk chair, and my nose was buried in a book (admittedly, often sleeping off the night before). Class after class, test after test - I learned the information and regurgitated it back when required. Not that I was a model student - far from it; but I was dedicated to the "learning" process, and the social life that went with it.
Nowadays, aside from the occasional inservice, my learning is limited to appliance instruction manuals and everyday-life lessons. It is those lessons, I've found, that are the most valuable.
Here are a few things I have learned:

• You can burn things in the crock pot.
• Children, like dogs, can smell fear.
• Once the toilet becomes the enemy of a 2 year old boy, there is no healing that feud. It seems some are born with an iron will.
• Diapers explode between the hours of 3-5am, and anytime you are in a hurry.
• Once stuffed into the ear, chocolate cake and raisins look a lot alike.
• With a little practice, you can breastfeed anywhere; changing a diaper on your lap as 30 000ft will always be just plain tricky.
• People on airplanes are more afraid of children than they are of terrorists or plane crashes.
• Chivalry is pretty much dead. And girls...we have no one to blame but ourselves.
• High heels are not worth the pain. But they are worth trying on every now and again so we can see our legs reach their full potential.
• Lycra is a new mom's best friend.
• Lycra is my best friend forever.
• Women in the 1920's were on to something with those swimming suits. Sure you'd drown in under a minute, but no one got a peek at anything nasty.
• Someone screaming angrily in your face is best met with silence and perhaps a "maybe they let you out of the hospital a wee bit early" smile.
• People who have absolutely nothing to do with you are somehow burdened by the fact that you have more than one child.
• Women will have fat sucked, skin pulled, hair singed and wear stilettos in an airport and still think natural childbirth is sadistic.
• If a toddler lays down in the grocery store, and you threaten to leave him, and he ignores you, so then you do leave him.....the checkout girl will bring him out to you. Whether you want her to or not.
• Drive through Starbucks is God's reminder that we are loved.
• Toys are now sold in packages designed by Secret Service operatives to ensure that two frantic adults cannot conceivably free Barbie/Thomas/Pony from their prison before a child's screaming reaches deafening levels.
• Toddlers will stare dumbly as you beg them to repeat "mommy", "daddy", "please" or any other such utterance - but the first time you break a toe on the sawhorse left in the middle of the hallway and yell "SHIT" - the little darling will embrace the English language.
• Someone used my thighs for target practice, and they didn't even ask. (think road signs in rural Saskatchewan - yep...tain't pretty).
• People in the service industry are at two ends of the career spectrum - training bras or Metamucil. I'll take the fiber-seeker any day. I cannot be ignored by another size 0 twit with her hair in her eyes. I'd rather have to yell "which aisle are the stool softeners in?" three times until Fred turns up his hearing aid, than to have Bindy, Mindy or Trixie stare blankly at me through a blanket of hair, smack her gum, and mumble "I, like, don't even know what that is..." and then return to her statue-like stance behind the counter.
• Parents are hard. In-laws are harder. A whole different strand of crazy.
• Postage stamps and stickers look the same. If you're 3. Both are equally hard to get off the glass coffee table.
• Sharpe marker on hardwood is tough to hide. Mr. Clean Magic Eraser will get it off, but you'll forever trip over the "rough" spot.
• A dad can turn purple and stop breathing for a very long time while standing over Sharpe-marker artwork on the hardwood.
• Old people are not bad drivers. Bad drivers are bad drivers. The older ones just have more practice at it.
• A slightly intoxicated 6 foot 4 inch man hell bent on "shaking his booty" will never be crowded on a dance floor.
• Slightly intoxicated 6'4" booty-shaking husbands are one of the funniest, sexiest, and most endearing sights a women would ever want to see (once you wipe away your tears).
• Peeing in the ditch when you're drunk. Easy. Peeing in the ditch when you're sober. Embarrassing.
• When applied to the bathroom cabinet, a little eyeliner can go a long way.
• There are 5 649 236 feet of toilet paper on a single roll. Enough to go through my house and around a small child 47 times (these numbers are not based on scientific fact - rather an educated guess).
• After 5 years and 3 kids my husband is still flabbergasted by my ability to produce Kleenex, seemingly, out of thin air. This I've learned. I still can't figure out why he's amazed. My grandma could hand you a tissue if you asked her for one while she was treading water.
• Life is full of lessons. I can't say I feel very smart so far.

Sleep tight...

I've shared a glance into mornings at my house...now let's talk about the nights. The nights of this past week in particular. Why this week you ask? Well, simply because it was this past week that my family was hit by a plague, making nights all the more interesting.

Ok, ok, "plague" is a teeny bit dramatic. We have been bombarded by a UTI, a breast infection, ramdom spiking fevers, raging gastritis, upper respiratory infections, diarrhea, and finally pneumonia. Now that I list it all, maybe 'plague' was fair.

Now, this litany of ailments is a bit bizzare for my family, who are normally quite healthy (ramdom otherwise-unheard-of-ailments notwithstanding). But this past week, life has changed - and the nightlife in particular.

I admit, I have been known to see 2am on more than one occasion by my own volition, but those days have passed. I now find myself trembling with anticipation at the very thought of crawling into my bed and slumbering in blissful unconsciousness for as many hours as possible. My very perky morning children are also very cantankerous little creatures when their ailments interrupt their sleep. Where are the little urchins who solicitously creep into their parents bedrooms softy whispering requests for aid or comfort?? I've got three little Banshees screaming blue murder from their room, jolting me from my bed and sending me flailing through the darkness to battle whatever evil that is attacking my child.

They often want juice.

I prepare for these nights much like an army medic prepares for battle. I begin by securing the scene. I methodically check the temperature, humidity, lighting, and availability of blankets and pillows of all three kids. I then prepare myself physically and mentally. While going through my bedtime ritual, I consider possible complications and contingency plans for the next 12 hours. If my husband is out of town, these plans become considerably more elaborate to the point where I have been known to steal gas from the lawn mower to make sure my van has enough fuel to get a sick kid to the hospital. (there's a sight at 11pm - me in my jammies funnelling gas into my Honda).

I then procure the necessary supplies for the evening- essentially stocking my "kit". I often find it necessary to use a plastic container to transport it all to my nightstand. I need a light, water, juice (for when water is refused), Kleenex, diapers, nose spray, ResQRemedy, Camilla, honey cough syrup, gas drops, a syringe, and a shot of crystal meth to keep me up long enough to apply all these treatments (Ok...I'm exaggerating again).

I stock extra pillows within reaching distance of the bed so I can simply slide over and make a new spot when bodies are added. I put on an extra undershirt. I place a pair of socks at my bedside so I don't have to walk on the cold floor, and a sweatshirt at the foot of my bed so I don't freeze to death if I'm out of the bed for more than 30 seconds. Rumour has it my circulation isn't great when I'm comatose.

I plug in a baby monitor so I can hear if one of them flutters an eyelash, and then make another round through the house making sure everything is ready for whatever the night throws at us. Is my cell phone charged? Is the stereo turned off so the house won't burn down? Could I find a bra before the paramedics got here? Is the cordless by my bed? Should I wake the snoring child to spray his/her nose or should I wait till he/she starts screaming (typically within 10 minutes of me falling asleep)?

This all might seem a bit excessive, but I desperately yearn to sleep, and my sick children are known to gang up on me in the wee hours. Preparation is my best defense.

My husband has his own nighttime ritual. He will rise from the couch, grunting something that vaguely sounds like "bed" and stumble into the bathroom. Before another nanosecond of time has passed, he is unconscious in our bed, teeth brushed, clothes strewn, often snoring loudly. If I interrupt his well-deserved respite when I crawl into bed, he might offer this sentiment "I sure hope the kids sleep tonight - I'm beat".

Hat's Off

I don't look good in a hat. Any kind of hat. Those made for fashion, function, or to hide a bad hair day - none of these were designed for my cranium. I have come close to losing my ears rather than succumb to the abysmal sight of my head in a stocking cap (or toque for the Northerners). I've analyzed this condition, and pondered the cause of my shocking descend into unsightliness when hats are involved.

I've believe I have cracked the case. My face is desperately out of proportion. As a result, I need the top half of my rather sizable melon unobscured to balance things out.

When you view my entire head at one glance, it is not particularly displeasing. Children do not cry at the sight of me; I've never been asked to wear a bag before entering a restaurant to protect other diners.
But if I don a hat - all bets are off.

It would seem that all these years, I've been blaming my head, when indeed it is my face that causes the quandary. It's always the obvious things we miss, isn't it?

I've always known my nose was a problem - too big, too wide, very squishy - rather a bizarre feature really. But as I have aged, I have quit sticking my face in front of slap shots in a effort to force the plastic surgery issue and decided that I can live with the nose God gave me.

The rest of my facial abnormalities have been gradually pointed out to me by various professionals. Let me share a few of their educated observations.

My hairstylist, when discussing style options with me, nodded solemnly and said "yes, with that forehead, you have to be really careful about the style you choose - covering that has to be a priority...of course, you don't want to bring too much hair on your face cause it will puff out your cheeks even more." Heartwarming.

My optometrist- not normally someone I look to for beauty critique- explained to me that because my eyes protrude so significantly out of my head that I will likely have no end of trouble with dry eye etc. It is very possible that I will see a day when my eyelids will no longer close over my "significantly protruding" eyeballs. The end result of my journey into bug-eyes, is exactly that - I will sleep like a bug - with my eyes partly open. Something to look forward to. That appointment was a real picker-upper. Can't wait till next year.

Then there was the facialist who told me that my skin, while not the worst she has ever seen, was critical, but salvageable. But time is of the essence. I must begin laser treatments and glycolic peels if I have any hope of reclaiming some sliver of beauty. She seemed a little dubious as to the likelihood of my skin ever being ravishing.
I just wanted to give her a hug.

The kicker might have been my last visit to the dentist. My dentist is a 60+ year old man who has cheated death more than once in his lifetime. He is a family friend, and has been known to call me pumpkin and rub my hair when I start freaking out in the dental chair. My last appointment started well - the scraping and cleaning was relatively painless, and then in walks Dr. Pauly.

He takes one look at my mouth and says, "so when are you going to let me replace your missing tooth?"
Hold your horses now- we are not talking about one of my front teeth, but rather an upper molar that was pulled 13 years ago after it abscessed. I have not missed this tooth.
I asked him -why?? He said "cause you can see it when you smile. Your teeth are small, and your gums are big, and everyone can see the hole in your teeth -you look like you are from Green Island". (I won't explain Green Island - just know it's NOT a compliment).

I told him I doubted I would ever let him hose me for a bridge, but I did want to ask him what I could do about getting my teeth to look whiter. He glanced at them again, and said "bleach them; they should be at least a few shades whiter - even if they do have a hole".
Again, I left with a warm fuzzy feeling.

Despite all the professional criticism, I am going to keep my face. If I'm spending money on any body parts (which I am not), I am starting at my chest and there will be no stopping until they hit my rapidly wearing knees. I figure as long as I can grow hair that can be chemically enhanced to offer another focal point on my head, I'm going to be just fine.

And if I really, really, have to wear a hat.....I'll just buy a ski mask!

I need to get this off my chest...

The time has come. Ready or not...the baby is ready to wean. I've thought several times over the past year as to when I might like her to be done nursing. I had one of two responses: Now, and Never. She is just now 18 months old, and nurses strictly because I pin her down in the recliner and stick a boob in her face until she latches on. I think, perhaps, it is time to reevaluate this relationship.

I have been nursing, or just finishing nursing, or again beginning a nursing relationship for nearly 4 straight years. More than once, I have yearned for a lacy push up bra designed for no other reason that to be pretty. I've been desperate to sleep wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxers. I've wanted to fly to Asia with my husband with not a thought to the nourishment of my offspring.
The other part of me would nurse these kids until puberty.

Alas, it is decision time. I am travelling solo to Sask. at the end of March. I very much do NOT want this to be the time when the baby discovers the ever-present boob is gone. I've considered taking her with me, as she has been my shadow for the past 18 months. But I've realized that I really need some time with just me and my Mom, and some serious doting time on my new niece without my trapeze-artist-in-training swinging from the light fixtures.

In the past, I've hauled my pump to every corner of the continent, but I think that too may be a thing of the past. I can't stand that thing, and the baby is not likely to be very fond of a bottle after not laying eyes on one for the past 6 months.

I never thought I'd be an extended breastfeeding kind of mom. I thought it seemed like the best thing to do, but once they're walking they could get their own sippy cup and I'd be off the hook.
Not so with this little monkey. She and I have really enjoyed this relationship, and I just never got around to ending it.

So is it time??? I dunno. I am the only one grappling with this decision. She seems perfectly fine. 48 hours and counting, and she is completely unfazed. Not a whimper, not a peep - not even that little grabbing thing she does at my shirt when I've made her wait too long.
I however, am not so sure. This seems too easy. Most mistakes are like that aren't they??? Really easy to make. Maybe not. Maybe a part of me wants her to be upset over this. Perhaps my aching chest and the lack of oxyblahblahblah is making me stupider than usual.

Speaking of my chest. Has anyone seen my breasts?? I knew they were here just a few years ago. I remember them well. Like two softballs perched there just tempting passersby to play with them. I didn't have any use for them then- they were merely something that had to be confined so I didn't get a black eye jogging.
Despite my knockers, I've never been (nor will I ever be) "bikini ready". I considered them a nuisance.
I should have been nicer to them.

They've now been well used, and they seem to have transformed. Gone are the softballs of yesterday, and instead, I am left with golf balls.....Two golf balls....At the bottom of two tube socks.
If I ever really get wise, I will quit bras altogether and just tuck them into my waistband. Save money, save time; possibly even motivate myself to get my belly flat so there's more room in my pants for my boobs.

For now, my tube-sock-swathed-golf-balls are a bit lonely, a bit confused, and a bit itchy ( I finally put on a real bra - not so comfy as I remember). We will have to see what the next chapter brings. I hope this baby knows what she is doing...

Morning Light

I am not a morning person. Shocking, I know, considering the sunny disposition I display the remainder of the day. Honestly, I don't really warm up to the world until about 10am. I should get a job working nights.
I am, however, the mother of three miniature "morning people". God has a sense of humour. To add insult to injury, I find myself bound for the duration of my natural life to a rather handsome "morning man". It's like the universe hates me, and I can't even get my eyes open yet.

The beginning of my day is dependent upon the sun. Literally. Despite my heroic efforts to block any molecule of light from entering my house before noon, my children smell the sunlight and shoot from their beds at any ridiculous hour. I have hung heinous looking roller shades, covered by room darkening curtains, and, in desperation, draped flannel sheets over the window in my kids' room in an effort to squeak out an extra 15 minutes in the morning. My efforts were for naught.

Day after day, I fight the fight of a tired woman. Day after day, I lose. My three little angels are tucked safely in their bedroom - like bats in a cave. I have made every effort to keep the darkness absolute. The night before, I will scamper around in the darkness looking for sources of light, such as that room freshener in the laundry room that some childless sadist created with a nightlight hidden in the back. Don't they know toddlers can see light through walls?? I drop into a moderate-to-profound coma satisfied that my house is indeed pitch black, and I can sleep indefinitely.

6:00 am. An hour best left to roosters and the guy who makes my morning bagels. A rather sweaty little hand pokes randomly at my face. A round, bald head smashes up against my forehead and with a waft of morning breath, I hear, "Mommy, I'm here". "I'm all done sleepin', let's got play". The voice repeats this series. I ignore at least the first 40 seconds of this, until his pitch changes and he starts the litany of reasons why I cannot remain in my blissful stupor. "I'm thirsty...I want breakfast....I need juice...I wanna watch a movie...let's go play trains....It's morning Mommy, I don't wanna sleep, you're all done sleepin' " Ahh! If he still gets the coma-mama treatment, he will play his ace and say sweetly "I love my mom - here I'll help you; come wiss me". By helping, he means pushing my eyelids open, snatching my blankets and tugging mightily on my arms, as though I may actually be physically incapacitated by sleep.
My feet hit the floor (my eyes refuse to open), and my only conscious thought is whether or not anyone has had the good sense to invent intravenous coffee yet. Millions of dollars spent on perfecting butt lifts and tummy tucks, and what for?? I say if you really want to do womankind a favor, invent coffee I can consume BEFORE I have to get out of my bed.
I stumble to the living room muttering about how it's the middle of the night, and shushing my now ecstatic son. I've been know to threaten to end his life this minute if he wakes up his sisters. My first task is to change his diaper before it explodes. I remove his pj's and say a quick prayer it is just a wet one - anything else and I'm going to be forced to open my eyes (you only make that mistake once). Next it's on to fresh juice cups, prebreakfast snack, and the shocking realization that whoever sublets my kitchen at night has left one hell of a mess - again. Now, if I can only go pee before the girls get up....