I'm not READY...

I bet you thought I was going to write I wasn't ready for Christmas, right? Well, that's true I'm not, but that's not what's causing me stress. There's still 5 weeks of shopping time for the big day.
No, I'm NOT ready to answer queries about the birds and the bees, from my 8 year old!
I'd much rather answer questions about, well anything else, but last night, Ceilidh asked me "what's a period?"
I tried to play dumb, even though I had a sinking feeling where this was going.
"A period is the punctuation mark at the end of a sentence," I answered nonchalantly.
"No, I know that. But what else is a period?" she asked again.
Feeling the stress of having to explain puberty and the changes to expect to an 8 year old (my 10 year old has remained completely uninterested in this topic thus far), I tried another answer.
"It's a span of time, like a hockey period, or an era in history."
This did not satisfy Ceilidh.
"Isn't there a kind of period that makes your stomach hurt?" she asked.
"Why are you asking me?" I tried a different tactic, hoping to uncover the reason for the sudden interest, while wondering how old I was when I read the Judy Blume classic, Are you there God? It's me Margaret.
 "The girls at dance class were talking about it, and it's supposed to happen when you're older. I think you should tell Devlin because he's older than me, and he'll need to know what a period is," she stated.
It took me a moment or two to compose myself before I could look at my daughter, and say, quite calmly and emphatically, "Ceilidh, when you are ready, I will explain the third definition of a period, You're not there yet. And you have a few years still, And furthermore, Devlin doesn't need to worry because the third definition of a period? It only affects girls."


I think she was satisfied with that answer, and I've got another 18 months, maybe, before I have to give the lecture on the birds and the bees.

Ceilidh's Christmas Wish List

On the nearly hour long drive up to Brownie camp, I idly questioned Ceilidh about her wish list for Christmas. It was an enlightening conversation, and if I could compose her letter to Santa, it would go like this:

Dear Santa,
I really really really want a Fur Real dog - the ones that bark and has a leash but isn't real. My mom won't let me get a real live puppy because she says I won't clean up the poop. I promised I would, but she doesn't believe me.
Also I want a music player - I think it's called an MP3. My brother Devlin wants one too. But do your elves make electronic things? I know they can make toys, but can they do stuff with headphones?
I also would like a new scooter. I'm 8 years old, and 8 year olds do NOT ride Barbie scooters. Like the one I have. Besides, it's broken. My old one. My dad broke it - he tried to ride it or something.
My sister Aisling would like a scooter too - the kind you sit one even though Mommy says those are for babies.
But I'd really really really want an Ever After High Thronecoming Briar Rose doll. I've told Mommy that Ever After High is way better than Barbie dolls, They have more moving parts. Barbie dolls' arms don't move.
I think there's other stuff too. Like a slushie maker so that we can make slushies for my dad.
My little brother Quinn could use more cars, even though he has a million. He does like Planes Fire and Rescue. And Ninja Turtles.
Devlin wants Lego anything.
And, if I can't get the Fur Real, I would like the Beanie stuffies with the really big eyes. The Christmas penguin stuffie.
I think that's all.
I hope you're not too busy.
Thanks,
Ceilidh

Remembrance Day 2014

Remember learning about stream of conciousness in grade 13/OAC English literature? Virginia Woolf? Well, this is my attempt at this literary technique. Also known as, writing down my jumbled thoughts on what November 11th means to me.
In the wake of the recent losses of two Canadian soldiers on our own soil, there's been a movement to have Remembrance Day declared a national statutory holiday. I believe the motion passed in the House of Commons. Which means it's pretty much a done deal. While means that civil servants and bank employees like myself and my husband will have to find another day to get our snow tires put on our vehicles. I am the first to admit that I've used this day off to a get a jump start on my Christmas shopping, or rake leaves, or go through the piles of junk in my house. Back in the day before kids, we'd take in an afternoon matinee. In other words, I've used my day off wisely. But it also means, I rarely took the time to reflect on the purpose of Remembrance Day. Not since I was in grade school and watched the black and white clips of the war footages and recited "In Flanders Fields" in class. (Although I do recall getting the day off from school when I was in the primary grades.)
Today, I attended the Remembrance Day assembly at my children's school. Ceilidh was singing in the choir. But for my child's participation, I probably would have spent the morning lounging around the house, mopping the floors or hitting the malls to start on the Christmas list. Instead, after a run, there I sat, sweating and panting, in the gymnasium, watching the old black and white footage of the gun battles in the last great war. But then the movie changed to colour, and showed images of our Canadian peacekeepers in Bosnia. There were images of the soldiers we had lost in Afghanistan. Clips of the hearses travelling along the Highway of Heroes. Tears started to flood my eyes as I recalled a few weeks ago, driving along the 407, on a Friday afternoon. Gathering along the overpasses were EMS personnel, fire fighters, police, everyday citizens. The Canadian flag was draped along the concrete as they awaited the arrival of hearse carrying the body of Cpl. Nathan Cirillo. I remember then, how my chest tightened and tears briefly blurred my vision, at the thought of a small child who was now orphaned. Whose father would never return home, even though he had only been a few short hours away. Who was slain not while fighting a war overseas, but while performing the seemingly "safe" task of standing guard at the War Memorial, at the tomb of the unknown soldier. A ceremonial duty at the symbol of what this young father was upholding. Keeping the peace. At the hands of a crazed, mentally ill person.
I realized then, the serious duty that's befallen on me, to educate my children to appreciate exactly what Remembrance Day is about. While it may have started to mark the end of the war of all wars, the signing of the Armistace Treaty, it is much more than a moment in history. It is the continual efforts to maintain a free world, a free country. This responsibility placed upon our shoulders is difficult for me and others like me. I have no family members in the armed forces. I have not been personally touched by the tragedy of losing a loved one in a war, nor welcomed back a soldier from a tour of duty. Nor have I fled a country in the grips of a civil war. I am fortunate to have lived my entire life in this great country, Canada. I have enjoyed the freedoms and rights that my forepersons have fought for, but never appreciated it.
While I often joke about the lack of peace in my household (an elusive and fleeting moment  in a house full of kids), it is no laughing matter that my children can attend school without having to worry about gunfire. That they can sleep at night, having the confidence they will wake up in the same warm bed and not be spirited away at gunpoint, under the cloak of darkness. That they can attend worship services and play alongside children of other faiths without being persecuted.
It is grave burden placed on my generation to keep the conversation alive about Remembrance Day and peace, and not restrict to just one day of the year. The question is, are we up to the task?
As I drove along the 407, I remember thinking if I didn't have to rush home to my kids to feed them dinner, I would have pulled over, and awaited the passing of the motorcade of Cpl. Cirillo. And there in lies the true task. That despite the craziness and busyness of our daily lives - working and raising kids - can we remember to keep alive the true spirit of Remembrance Day?

What'd you call me?!

Quinn was dressed for church in a pair of blue jeans, a rugby type shirt and beige desert boot-like shoes. He looked like a little boy, not so much a toddler.
"He's ready to go! Take a look at him!" I said as I handed him off to his father.
"Let's go, you sharp dresser," Daddy said, holding the door open.

Quinn stopped in his tracks, and glared at his father.

"What?! I'm not a shark! I'm Quinny!" he announced.

Aisling and Quinn

It's no secret that Aisling has trouble with voice modulation. Her lack of an indoor voice is known amongst all. Sometimes I wonder if her premature birth is a factor in her inability to speak at a normal tone. It's all or nothing with her. Either she's quite loud, or it's a total whisper. Often, in a crowded venue full of strangers. It's more likely that her piercing volume comes from being one of four kids and the need to be heard.
The other night, Aisling was talking about something. I was in bed, reading the second of many books to Quinn. It was distracting, trying to read about the Gruffalo while attempting to ignore Aisling's tales about her day. She wasn't even in the same room. All of a sudden, Quinn put his hands to his ears. And then I noticed he had two tiny baby pinecones in his hands that he was trying to put into his ears.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Aisling loud!" Quinn stated while using the pinecones as his earplugs.
I nearly fell off the bed laughing.

A few minutes later, Aisling came in for a good night cuddle.
She looked up at me, with her eyes wide, and said, "Remember when I was a baby and I used to sleep with you every night? Then Quinn came along and ruined it all!"
There was a glare thrown in Quinn's direction before she left to cuddle with Daddy.

You sick? You need garbage bag?

Routine is important to children. My kids, for the most part, thrive on routine, although routine weekly schedules involving their activities somehow escape their need for regularity. It's important for them to have movie nights on Fridays with a take out meal chosen by one of the kids (also done with routine - one kid gets to choose every 3 weeks); treats of chips or some other salty snack accompanying said movie; pancakes and bacon on the weekends; xbox time on the weekends. But ask the kids to be ready for tae kwon do or hockey or dance with all of the needed equipment and water bottles, and we get met with blank stares.
Quinn is no different when it comes to routine. Whenever there's a change in the schedule, it takes a few tantrums before he falls in line with the new regime. Like encouraging him to pee in the morning on the potty. Or using a new toothpaste. But some habits are cute and endearing. Like his morning routine. When he wakes up and decides it's time to head downstairs, he must have his blanket, pillow, soother and lambie. He hands them over to me to hold, while naming each object and then jumps into my arms for the trip down the stairs. Every car ride must also include blankie, pillow, lambie and soother. If one or all are missing, it's a recipe for disaster.
Quinn's evening routines are also well established. There's the brushing of his teeth and then arranging his blankie, pillow, lambie and soother. Then there are the gazillion stories to be read. This child is NOT interested in or two bedtime stories. There is often an entire library. The fact that he loves books is one to be encouraged. He's also interested in a wide variety of characters or subjects. Some nights, all the stories are about super heros. Some nights, it's hockey night in bed. Sometimes, Thomas rules the evening. Or a mish mash of characters. It would be easier to negotiate peace in the Middle East than to convince Quinn to settle for one bedtime story.
Last night, I was exhausted and feeling the need to curl up in bed early. I was hoping the monkeys would be entranced by the weekend movie selection and leave me alone. Quinn was having none of that. He climbed into bed and demanded his stories. I tried to explain that Mommy was tired and perhaps, could Daddy read to him?
No, that would not do for Quinn.
Mommy tried to reason with him, "Quinny, Mommy isn't feeling very well. How about just one story? And then we'll cuddle and sleep?"
Immediately, there was a look of concern on his tiny face. "Mommy, you sick? You need garbage bag to throw up?"
However, once satisfied I wasn't that kind of sick, he brought over three books and demanded his nightly entertainment.

Family meals not worth it?!?!

I can't believe the latest article in the Globe and Mail's Life section that panned family sit down meals. Despite the plethora of research that links family meal times with a protective shell against obesity in children, depression and risky behaviours in teens, this article focussed on the stress of making meals to suggest the benefits are not worth the effort? Really? The article's author interviewed some lame, pansy "urban daddy" who whined about his kids' picky palates as the source of stress. Since one kid was a vegetarian and one only ate carbs, meal times meant being short order cooks. First of all, why are they catering to their kids in this fashion? And secondly, their "catering" was a monster they created. It's not like their children had serious food allergies that are indeed a source of legitimate stress to real parents who have to figure out creative and nutritious meals that all family members can eat.
Urban Daddy also whined that at least one child was unhappy with the meal that was served and this caused distress to his wife, a career woman who spent hours coming up with meals. WHATEVER! Tough Sh--!! When you read this kind of drivel, it's no wonder there is a generation of young people who have a sense of entitlement to EVERYTHING, and don't understand how minor disappointments in life build character.
In my household, we try to sit down for a family meal several times a week. It doesn't always happen because of extra-curricular activities and our long commutes. Yes, I stress over meal plans to come up with 15 minutes meals that are not pre-packaged and contain all four food groups. On weekends, I will cook that traditional dinner that takes hours to prepare, and fills the kitchen with heavenly scents, only to have one or two kids turn their noses up at it. It is a shot to the cook's ego to have roasted lemon chicken refused, but Kraft dinner eagerly accepted. But that's kids, and I love mac and cheese, so I get it. I also know that eventually, their taste buds will learn to accept green peppers and celery and condiments on their burgers.
We try to make family sit down meals as a time to chat about the day. But some meals are rushed as we've got hockey or gymnastics or Tae Kwon Do. Sometimes the kids want to watch a tv show and we relent, since they're only allowed screen time on the weekends. This gives Mommy and Daddy a chance to linger over a glass of wine and catch out breaths from the hectic week.
I've re-read that silly article from the Sop and Pail, and I'm still trying to figure out the message. Are family meals not worth the effort because kids are picky? Well, then that's the parents' own fault. There was nothing in the article about the dangers of leaving the kids to fend for themselves when it comes to ditching family meals. And if it's about the stress of cooking meals, then perhaps there could have been more said about ideas for quick meals or ordering in nutritious meals. Or some suggestions on how to create a meal to deal with picky eaters. Or behavioural techniques to deal with such pickiness.
For example, earlier in the week, I drove home at 130km/h in rush hour GTA traffic, to cook a nutritious hot meal before the kids headed off to their activities. In less than 15 minutes, there was teriyaki salmon, udon noodles tossed in sesame oil, steamed beans and a tossed salad on the dinner table. (ok, I cheated. The salad was from a bad.) One kid raved about the meal, another only ate the salmon and some salad, one cried and stated she would puke if she had to eat and the fourth licked the salmon. Instead of giving in to the whining and providing them with an alternate meal, we just send them to bed without, because eventually, they'll learn to eat what is put before them, and that we don't live in a restaurant. And one night of going without won't kill them.
And that's my rant for the week, as my kids are chirping in the background about the injustice of not getting pancakes on the weekend. Tough! Eat your toast and bacon. There are children who aren't lucky enough to even get cold cereal.

The most wonderful time of the year

Yep, it's that time of the year - when the school bells ring, the children are out the door, eager to see their classmates and meet their new teachers, and parents are celebrating the return of routine and normalcy. It's also a time for bewilderment, as in, where did the summer go? How could it fly by so quickly? And of course, really? You need new shoes already? You grew how much over the summer?
Okay, the last two lines don't really affect me. At their annual medical checkups, we learned that while Ceilidh grew by 5 cm and gained 4 kilograms, Devlin only gained 3cm in height and 1 kilogram in weight. It's sad because Ceilidh now outweighs him by nearly 6 kilograms and is taller by 7cm. However, Devlin's feet are the larger ones. We're hopeful he'll grow into those feet soon.
Aisling was full of nervous energy on the first day of school, dreading grade one as she'd been told that "playtime" was thing of the past. But she was pleasantly surprised to meet up with several of her kindergarten buddies in her class.
The weather this week seems to be summer's last attempts at holding on, finally providing us with the heat and humidity that's normally observed in July. Despite the cooler weather, I think we still managed to cram in some summer fun this year. We opted not to do the CNE this year, and spent the day at the African Lion Safari instead. The monkeys still climb the cars but now there's an awesome water park and a train ride to enjoy. Not to mention the most delicious funnel cakes.
We also took the kids to Niagara Falls for a couple of days at the Fallsview water park. We did the obligatory trek down to the falls, the slow climb up Clifton Hill to gawk at the gaudy tourist attractions and purchase outrageously priced souvenirs for the kids. Here's one thing I love about water parks- no matter how unsure I am feeling about baring my post 4 kids baby in a bathing suit, there a gazillion other women in much worse shape than me, baring it - lumps, jiggly bits, cellulite and all.
There were also glorious days at the cottage. The waves were rough, the wind was refreshing, and of course, the time spent with family and close friends unbeatable. I could have done without the bug bites. My legs look like I've been attacked by chicken pox.
And then suddenly, it's September, and kids are in school, and I'm still trying to recover from summer. I'm enjoying my last few days of vacation at home. In between potty training Quinn, and staying on top of the back to school needs, reorganizing clothes and ensuring everyone has shoes and rain jackets for the fall, registering the monkeys for a slew of extra-curricular activities and mapping out the family schedule, I am trying to find some time to pamper me. So far, it's been in those few minutes after I've read Quinn some stories and we cuddle while he falls asleep for his afternoon nap. Those are precious moments I am trying to memorize. Next year, Quinn will be starting school and naps will be forever gone. At least, regular naptimes surrounded by fluffy pillows and cozy blankets.
Picking up the kids from school, trying to hear their excited news and tidbits about their day, coralling them for snacks, supervising homework and piano practice while trying to prepare supper, all the while, despairing at coming up with suitable quick meals for when I return to work and the kids are into hockey/dance/tae kwon do/cubs/brownies/piano/etc full swing....I'm ready to tear my hair out, or reach for the bottle of wine.
But I know, that this craziness will pass much too quickly. One day, I'll be staring at the phone, waiting for the kids to call from university or whereever they are, and wondering why I ever complained the house was too noisy.
So, I bid you good night, so I can go snuggle up to a sweaty, slumbering child and fall into the exhausted dreamless sleep of all moms.

Our Big Fat Alberta Vacation

The much anticipated vacation of the year has come and gone. We all took the trek out to Alberta to celebrate the twin cousins turning one and their baptism. Everyone from Ontario - including Uncle Billy, Auntie Grace and soon-to-be Uncle Dan, Halmuhnee and Habudgee, plus our rowdy gang of 6 - descended upon Auntie Shunaha's abode for several days of chaos and laughs.
Somehow, with one hour of sleep, Daddy and I woke our monkeys up at the ungodly hour of 4am to get ourselves to the airport. We thought we'd have plenty of time to grab a coffee before boarding. After spending twenty minutes fruitlessly searching for Quinn's lamb, I found Lamb 2.0 and hoped he wouldn't fuss. Then we couldn't find the correct entrance to the parking garage. A bit of a hiccup as our boarding passes were printed and we were sent off to another counter to check in the car seats. Then the ridiculous wait for the screening. At least, we didn't have to take off our shoes. We ran to our gate as our names were being paged for the final boarding call. Of course, our seats were at the rear of the plane. The passengers glared as we bopped them in the head with our backpacks and Quinn's errant foot.
It was a four hour flight. Hours 1 and 2 went smoothly, all things considered. Aisling slept. Devlin and Ceilidh occupied themselves with the television. Quinn started to lose it somewhere over Manitoba. By Saskatchewan, he was in full temper tantrum mode. I gave him a dose of gravol. It didn't help. I think it made it worse. We were that family with that kid - the one that was screaming loud enough to be heard over the roar of the jet's engines. Twenty minutes before we landed, Quinn finally fell into an exhausted sleep.
And so, our vacation started.
The highlights and low lights of our trip out west:
- being greeted at the door by a very excited cousin Mia
- seeing a bull elk, meandering near the parking lot, no more than 15 metres away, in Banff
- watching Mommy turn green on the 8 minute long gondola ride up Sulphur Mountain
- learning that both Aisling and Ceilidh had no qualms about the high ascent on the gondola ride, unlike their brother Devlin
- carrying Quinn in my arms,up a gazillion steps, to the summit of Sulphur Mountain

- relaxing in the hot springs
- Quinn having a full on meltdown on the side of the TransCanada highway 10 minutes from our exit
- picnicking next to a stream in beautiful Lake Louise

- hiking along Moraine Lake, breathing in the fresh mountain air and filling up on the gorgeous vista
- climbing up the rock pile with Quinn on my back and realizing the view up there was worth the effort

- watching Aisling's excitement at petting a brave and fat chipmunk that crept close to her
- realizing no matter how fit I thought I was, I was wiped out by running in the hilly neighbourhood where Auntie Shunaha lives
- Ceilidh's triumph at riding her first real roller coaster, loops and all
- hearing Quinn belch, loudly, during the baptism
- having strangers compliment me on on my well-behaved kids (that's because Quinn saved his "I'm sooo tired" meltdown for after the church service)
- celebrating Jacob and Hannah's first birthday in style

- realizing too late, that despite having everyone gathered together under one roof (16 people in all), we never managed to get a family portrait, formal or informal (this is the only one of the Kim sibs)

- driving through the Alberta badlands to visit some dinosaurs

- picnicking in Drumheller, and having the prairie dogs come begging for food (one ate a chip out of Mommy's hands)
- watching the kids try to tempt other prairie dogs with chips and celery sticks
- seeing Quinn stuff a handful of food down a prairie dog hole, in the hopes of tempting one to stick his head out (see Quinn pointing to the hole!)

- visiting the dinosaurs at the Royal Tyrell Museum

- bribing the kids out of the museum with the promise of candy (and dinosaur souvenirs - the tour ends in the gift shop!)

- spending time with our extended family

- sticker shock at spending $64 on 24 bottles of beer (thank gawd for the Beer Store and the LCBO in Ontario)
- cooling off at a splash pad

- Mommy having a meltdown at the airport when she couldn't find the passports (they were in a suitcase pocket and she forgot having put them there for safekeeping)
- realizing Quinn only slept 30 minutes yesterday, and didn't show any signs of sleepiness on the flight home, and yes, he was dosed with Benadryl in the misplaced hopes he'd have a nap
- Quinn getting a black eye just before boarding (he tripped and hit his face off a metal structure)
- Aisling having the puke bag up to her face for most of the flight home
- Mommy turning green on the flight from all the getting up and chasing Quinn
- both Mommy and Daddy forgetting where they parked the car after landing at 11pm


Conclusion -
Devlin already misses Calgary. And Mommy is vowing not to travel with Quinn again, for a looooong time. At least, on a flight longer than two hours.

Devlin's summer of mishaps

It seems like every week that Devlin has had an "accident" or some form of injury.
The first week of summer, there was a bee sting. Or maybe it was a wasp. He's not allergic to insect bites but it kiboshed the afternoon outing to the splash pad because of his hysterics.
Then he tripped over his own two feet, running into the living room. I heard a crash, and then a piercing scream that had my mother and me dropping everything to run over. Devlin was curled up in the fetal position, hands clamped over his eye. When I was able to pry away his hands, there was gigantic bump that appeared to grow larger by the second. An hour or two with the ice pack kept the swelling down, but the black eye was a beauty.
Then the next week, he managed to scrape a good chunk of skin off his heel. How?
Well, in an effort to be creative while recycling, my dear children used the large piece of cardboard from the basketball net backboard and fashioned a triangular shaped tube. They taped it together with duct tape. Then they crawled into the tube and slid down the slide in the backyard.
Yup. He caught his foot on the edge of the slide and cardboard. Maybe he could have avoided the injury if he he had worn shoes.
So he missed his hockey game because it hurt to put on the skates.
I would have thought that would have been enough to teach my kid a lesson.
I was wrong.
The following week, I arrived home one evening to be confronted by Devlin at the door, pulling down his lower lip so I could see the cut up mess he had.
"How?" I asked not really wanting to know the answer, lest it involved having to discipline his younger sisters for being too rough.
Apparently, he banged his lower face, when sliding down, head first, in the STUPID CARDBOARD TUBE!
I looked at my hapless child, my first born for whom I had so many hopes and dreams, and quite calmly, quoted my favorite line from Forrest Gump,  "Stupid is as stupid does".

Quinn's latest defensive/offensive tactic

He may be small, but he's a force to be reckoned with, and not lightly either.

Apparently, Quinn did not like seeing his older brother and Aisling fight. They were likely fighting over the remote control, or who got to sit in the treasured spot on the couch. So there was some fighting - some slaps and pushes and shoves. Then Quinn got involved. He ran over and joined forces with his brother to defeat Aisling. There was definitely some kicking and pulling of hair by Quinn.
I unfortunately did not witness this first hand. Had I been there, all three would have been disciplined appropriately.

But I did get to witness another classic Quinn moment.

He was attempting to get a hold of his older brother's newest Lego creation. Devlin was not pleased, having spent considerable time putting it together. Devlin was sitting at the dining room, with one hand holding the Lego above his head, and the other hand trying to keep Quinn from getting to close.
Screaming, Quinn was trying to reach the toys with both hands but was becoming frustrated with Devlin pushing him away. Alternatively, Devlin had one hand on Quinn's noggin, holding him off from getting any closer.
Once he realized he was not going to get the Lego, Quinn decided to simply show his displeasure and extreme disappointment. He started to lick. With his tongue out, he attacked the chair Devlin was sitting on, and whatever parts of Devlin's body was within reach. Extremely grossed out, Devlin leapt away, leaving behind a few lego peices which Quinn happily picked up.

I watched, and couldn't decide on whether to be stern and discipline or give into the giggles.

Rain, rain, go away!

This weekend SUCKS! That is the refrain I've been hearing over and over again...from my inner voice.
There was a time when I didn't mind rainy weekends, but that was before kids invaded my life. Back then, I would have spent a miserable water logged afternoon curled up on the couch with a good book, a cup of cocoa and a cozy blanket.
Now, a rainy weekend means wracking my brains trying to find a way to entertain my monsters.
It was bad enough that our weekend plans were altered at the last minute. My hopes of keeping the munchkins entertained with other pint sized creatures were dashed when the other family cancelled because of a broken finger. I bounced ideas off of the spouse and office colleagues. Came up with the brilliant plan of taking the kids to a pick your own farm! Great - a day spent doing manual labour in the sun, while reaping fruits (literally) for the week - what could be better? We decided we'd treat the kids to a special brunch out in honour of Ceilidh's 8th birthday, and head out to the farm after tennis lessons. And end the day with a marshmallow roast over a bonfire in the backyard.
Unfortunately, the weather did not cooperate. Apparently the 40% chance of scattered showers became 100%. Tennis was cut short and stomping around in mud for some strawberries didn't seem so appealing after all. What to do with these energetic critters that were bouncing around the house?
Movie! We went to see the new Disney Planes movie - Fire and Rescue. It was great! AC/DC's Thunderstruck played in the background; there was a cheeky poke at the old 80's series "ChiPs"; lots of plane action for the kids - and Quinn kept all entertained with his comments throughout.
And there was hope that Sunday would be a day for the farm.
Nope. It's raining cats and dogs out there. And I've given up trying to clean the house while the monkey are running around creating a mess the moment I move away. So, I'm holed up in the bedroom trying to hide from the chaos, while my offspring are taking advantage of this miserable day. There's a kid playing a video game in the basement. Another one on the laptop playing a game on a website that will surely lead to more viruses on my computer. I think Aisling is watching a Barbie movie on the television, and I'm pretty sure I saw Quinn searching for a candy in the cupboard. The spouse is hiding in his office, surfing the internet.
At some point, I really should venture down and so some parenting. Seeking refuge in the bedroom is probably worse that not watching my kids at the park. Which is a crime in some parts of the United States. I'm sure you've heard the outrage over the woman who was jailed for letting her 9 year old daughter play in the park by herself while she worked at her minimum wage job at a nearby McDonalds. And to think that I let the two girls go to the nearby park last week by themselves, that is, without someone watching over them. Because sometimes I'm sick and tired of going to the park. Because I've got a thousand other tasks to take care of, and few other kids too. Because I know the soon to be 8 year old can be responsible at times. Because I know the park is a two and half minute walk away, and I'd rather they get some exercise and fresh air while I'm getting dinner prepared. Because they were told to return home immediately when their older brother came to give them the signal. Because at some point, I'm going to have cut the apron strings or umbilical cord and trust them. And because it's stupid to think that we can't let our kids be kids and play in a park without parental supervision.
And yes, I'm ranting. Because this weekend's weather SUCKS!

Teaching Empathy

I think the greatest lesson in life is learning empathy - the capacity to recognize the emotions that are being experienced by another, and then to act accordingly. It's not the same as being sympathetic, which is to sorry or compassion for another. I believe that when one is empathetic, one can provide a response that is more suited to the situation, a reaction if you will.It's more than giving a hug to another. It's recognizing that the other is in pain, or hurting, or happy and then finding a way to rectify or support the other during that crisis.
In kids, it's hard to teach either as children are not fully developed in their own awareness, let alone understanding how their actions impact those around them. (Yes, I've taken one or two child psychology courses in my time.)
Without getting into great details and discourses of the why, we've taught our children to apologize for hurting (either physically or emotionally) their siblings and others by providing hugs with their words. When they were very young, we made the offender apologize and hug almost immediately after the wrongful action. As they got older, and knowing the apology would be meaningless without some thought, the offender is asked to think about why they're being asked to apologize. Sometimes, they learn from the mini time-out, other times not so much as I witness the offensive behaviour a short time later.
Despite our unscientific method of dealing with our monkeys, sometimes I see moments of true tenderness and empathy from them. One night, all three older kids took turns reading a story to Quinn. Another evening as I getting ready for bed, I overheard Aisling trying to teach Quinn to sound out the letters of the alphabet.
Quinn, as the baby is often spoiled by not only me (yes I am the biggest culprit) but also by his siblings. More often than not, it's because we don't want to hear him cry. So, everyone gives into his demands, even the unreasonable ones. Just to avoid listening to the cries and the ensuing temper tantrum, his siblings will tune into the Power Rangers or Animal Mechanics, or hand over whatever toy they were playing with. I know this will only encourage his spoiled brat behaviour.
But the other night, I witnessed Quinn mimicking his elder siblings. Both Aisling and Quinn were in the tub, along with a gazillion cars. Aisling had none, and went to reach for a car. Quinn gathered them up close to his soapy body. Aisling pretended to cry, letting out a wailing sob. Quinn immediately offered her the cars.
It's not just Quinn who can be empathetic.
Last night, I fell ill with whatever bug the kids brought home. Not violently ill, but under the weather enough that I wanted to crawl into bed at 7pm and not wake up. So I did.
At some point, I felt kisses and gentle hugs from my kids. And whispers of "I hope you feel better". I felt Quinn curling up to me and placing his head on my shoulder.
In the morning, Ceilidh asked, "Did you throw up last night, Mommy?"
"No," I answered with a groan.
"Good job Mommy! You're going to be better then!" she praised while patting me on the head.

Forever in my memory - June 22, 2014

Today, my baby, my youngest child, ran up to me and launched himself onto me. As I caught him in my arms to swing him around, he laid his head against my shoulder, and said "I love my mama!" before planting a wet kiss on my cheek.
Then he ran off to either torment a sibling or find his toy.
Whatever. It didn't matter.
It was the first time he's ever verbalized his affection for mommy. Oh, there's been many cuddles and hugs. But to hear him say "I love my mama!" - the overwhelming emotions it created almost made the later tantrums bearable. His cherubic face and gleeful smile from that moment will forever be etched in my mind.

Happy Birthday Devlin

It hit me today, that ten years ago, I was labouring in a small hospital room, while my birthing coaches (soon-to-be Daddy and soon-to-be Auntie Grace) were watching a soccer game (Euro Cup). Not much has changed - Daddy watched a soccer game or two today (World Cup) and I'm still labouring, although in different ways and in different settings.
But it's been ten years, ten loooong years, since:
- I've had a decent night's sleep (starting with that ridonculously looong labour that lasted some 36 hours)
- I've put my needs before those of a small child's
- I've driven a vehicle without car seats
- I've had a bath alone,without some small child jumping in
- I've carried a purse without extra soothers, crayons, crackers and other kid friendly items
- I've been able to leave the house without checking for spit up on my clothes, saliva on legs, and random boogers here and there
- I've been able to leave with house without a child crying
- I've been able to sleep in
- I've been able to enjoy a really good cup of coffee from my favorite mug (not a travel mug) while reading the newspaper without interruption or having to re-heat the coffee some 6-7 times
- I've been able to just read a book from start to finish, in one afternoon, that didn't involve colourful pictures or rhyming or inane conversations between talking coloured bears or ponies
- that poop and pee has been part of our daily conversations
- I've been able to walk across the floor in a dark room without stepping on some godforsaken piece of lego or twist an ankle on a hot wheels car
- I've drank an entire bottle of wine in an evening (after all, one has to reasonably be sober in case there's an emergency in the middle of the night)
- a bulging diaper bag has become a fashion accessory for me
- I've come to the scary realization that some helpless thing not depended on my for sustenance and survival.

I can't believe my first-born child is ten years old. He still sleeps with his blankie, and asks for help with every minor task. He's not into girls (thank gawd) and believes in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. He gets excited over spaghetti dinners, and shrieks his delight if there's pie for dessert. He dreams of playing for the NHL but has also expressed an interest in becoming an engineer in case hockey doesn't work out. He's into Star Wars and asked me what a telegraph was the other day. (That really made me feel ancient.) He's a pretty good kid, despite the talking back, and dramatic overacting when he gets frustrated. He may have a career as a soccer player. And just like ten years ago, he still loves to cuddle with Mommy.

It's been ten years since my life changed irrevocably, immensely and indelibly. At many times during the day, hearing "Mommy" makes me cringe or wince, or reach for the nearest intoxicating beverage. But mostly, hearing a little monkey cry "Mommy" also makes my heart beat a little faster, and melt a little more.

Happy Birthday Devlin, and thank you for the past ten years of enrichening my life and filling it with an indescribable joy. From the moment you were placed in my arms, you've brought tears of joy and frustration, chaos and laughter, moments of pride and sheer desperation into our lives.
And I'm sure there's many more years of surprises, fears, new experiences and love to come.

One Upman-ship

I celebrated my birthday a few days ago. I'm not divulging my age. That's not significant. I'm old enough to drive, vote, drink and apparently, that's all that matters in this society for "milestones". Really, there should be a minimum age for having children and being responsible for another being. But there's not. And sadly, I don't if I'd ever make that cut-off age.
But I digress.
Back to my birthday celebration. It was a low-key event at the zoo. There was a cake, and there was singing. No, the candles on the cake did NOT set off the smoke detector. There were no small kitchen appliances to unwrap. No big kitchen appliances either.
The best gift of course, were the gazillion hugs and kisses and cuddles I received from the monkeys. And a shoulder rub from Devlin. When I expressed my gratitude at the gesture, he was struck with an idea. He disappeared for a few minutes, allowing me to watch Game 3 of the Stanley cup play-offs in relative peace. Upon his return, he presented me with various handwritten coupons. There was one coupon that "good for a cuddle", another that was "good for foot massage", one for "servant for a day", and my favorite - "good for one alone night". Every single coupon was set to expire on June 18 (his birthday), so I decided I had better get started on redeeming these.
I tried to cash in the "Good for one alone night" thinking I would get to watch the rest of the hockey game in peace, with a glass of wine, all by myself without any interruptions. My son rebuffed my attempts, pushing the coupon back towards me, stating that the "alone night" could only be redeemed on the weekends. Quite shrewd. Uncle Billy thinks Devlin has the makings of a successful enterpriser.
Ceilidh, seeing my pleasure at the coupons, decided to do one better. She also disappeared for a short time, and returned, also bearing slips of paper. Her coupons had no "Best Before" date and each coupon was valid for 10 services - 10 foot rubs, 10 alone nights, 10 errands, 10 cuddles and 10 kisses! (Uncle Billy's assessment - Ceilidh is generous to a fault, and will run her business into the ground.)

Why Mommy Has a Potty Mouth

I have a horrible habit of cussing. No monetary punishment could cure me of this vice. Even though I grew up in a home where "stupid" was considered a taboo word, I have nonetheless picked up this colourful method of expressing my views, emotions, opinions, whatever. It's a quite a feat for an English major and someone who relies on oral advocacy in her job. I swear though, that I've never dropped the f-bomb in court, on the record.
Despite my use of the crude English, my kids, thankfully, have not picked up on this habit. At least, not within my earshot. But they're well aware of it, and have formulated their own reasons for Mommy's potty mouth.
The other night, Daddy mentioned to Devlin that when he's a bit older (Devlin that is), Daddy will introduce him to a classic hockey movie - Slapshot. But not yet.
The conversation apparently went like this:

Devlin: Why can't I watch it now?
Daddy: There's too many bad words in it.
Devlin: Like Mommy's bad words?
Daddy: Yes.

Then thinking about it, Daddy asked if he used bad words like Mommy. Devlin stated that while Daddy did use bad words, it wasn't as frequent as Mommy.
Devlin went on further to postulate when and why the bad words came out.

Devlin: You only use the bad words when you're really mad at us.
Daddy: What about Mommy? Does she use when she's mad? At you kids?
Devlin: Yeah, but more when she's mad at you.
Daddy: Why do you think she's mad at me?
Devlin: Cuz you're not helping, with making dinner, cleaning, laundry, stuff like that. That's when she really uses the bad words.

Hmmm...smart kid. Perhaps Daddy could learn a little from his child's observations.

Images of Quinn I Carry

Most mornings, I can sneak away from the bed for my workout without rousing any of the kids. Not this morning. Quinn was restless, and the moment I left his side, his eyes opened and searched for me.
While I was donning my shorts, he was sitting up and gathering his various accoutrements (soother, blanket, lamb, pillow) and was ready for me to carry him down to the sofa when I left the room. I settled him, put on an episode of Bubble Guppies, provided him with a bowl of cereal and a bowl of blueberries, and snuck away.
Ten minutes later, I was interrupted by a request for apple juice.
Ten minutes after that, I was asked to for a different show.
Ten minutes after, he came down again, just needing to be near Mommy.

Eventually, with everyone else up and about, I was able to escape for a shower, already running late for my day.

Two minutes into the shower, the door banged open and I heard "Mommy?"

"Quinny?" I answered back.

A giggle, and then, "Mommy?"

I repeated "Quinny?" and on and on it went for the rest of my shower.

While I towelled off, he toddled over to my dresser and pulled out an outfit - jeans and tank top - for me.

"Mommy - close!" he stated holding up his selections for me.

He then laid down on his blanket, and stared up at me with wide eyes while I blow-dried my hair and got ready for my day.

And it's that image, those expressive eyes gazing at me, that I hold close to my heart, during my stress filled day, and during the thirty minute tantrum after dinner when I deny him some ridiculous request.

Men are Just Big Boys

It's been a crazy week at work, and yes it's only the beginning of the week. Last night, I advised the spouse that I would need to stay up late to do work. In other words, I was giving him ample warning that he was on parental duty and I would be of minimal assistance.
I also gave the head's up to the kids that Daddy was in charge, and they better be good.
Here is the conversation I had with Ceilidh:

Me: Okay Ceilidh, Mommy has to do some work tonight, so you better be good for Daddy.
Ceilidh: Why?
Me: Because he's in charge. Don't give him a hard time. Get in the tub for your bath, and get ready for bed.
C: But he's not very responsible, you know.
Me: Pardon?
C: Well, you know, there's four of us, and only one of him. I don't know about leaving him in charge. (very doubtful tone in her voice)
Me: When there's one of me and four of you, I get you bathed and in bed and asleep without issue.
C: Yeah, but you're Mommy. And he's a boy...
Me: Yes?
C: Remember what you said about boys? That they're dumb?
Me: I did, but you said Daddy was different. (In my defence, the boys are dumb lecture had to do with immaturity and males.)
C: Yeah, Daddy is just a big boy, and boys are well, you know...

Yes, true that.

Quick thinking Saves the Party Girl

Happy Birthday Aisling! She's had quite the celebration this year - family birthday with the aunts and uncles and grandparents on the long weekend, a special brunch on her actual birthday, and a chaotic party with her friends at a ridiculous indoor activity place.
Mommy spent the evening before attempting to create a castle cake, and a frantic morning doing the last minute decorations and loot bags on top of the usual crazy Saturday morning routine. The festivities were scheduled for late afternoon, which meant having to answer just "how many more hours/minutes until my party?" a gazillion times. To add even more chaos to the mix, Quinn has been ill with a gasteronintestinal bug. He threw up several times yesterday, and then once more puked all over Mommy in bed last night. So, he's been out of sorts and miserable and clingy. To Mommy.
We finally made it out of the house. Took a wrong turn to the party place. Still made good time. Cake only shifted a little.
Left the list of invitees at home. Couldn't remember exactly how many kids were coming. Or who.
Parents showed up and offered, quite reluctantly, to stay and help out. I politely turned down their offers, knowing full well, they just wanted to get away from the kids for two hours. I know, because I make the same offer, hoping that no one actually takes me up on the offer.
The kids were let loose into the gym - climbing structure area. Quinn refused to venture more than two feet from me.
And then disaster struck.
Devlin and Ceilidh came running to me and their dad. Aisling had peed. In the climbing gym. On the top level. A lot. Her socks were soaked. And she refused to come down.
Well, I wasn't going to climb up. And I was VERY MAD. I had told her repeatedly to go the bathroom before leaving the house. I should have known better.
I attempted to find her, only to be stopped by a sobbing Quinn.
I sent the kids to bring her down, and could hear little voices, above the noisy din, "if you see something wet, it's Aisling - she peed her pants!". Great....
I took hold of Aisling and marched her to the bathroom. She left wet footprints on the floor. I left daddy to deal with alerting the staff to the clean up required on level 3 or 4.
My spouse asked if I brought extra clothes? Yeah, for Quinn. Not the six-year-old who's been potty trained for several years.
I looked at Aisling, and instructed her to strip off her wet underwear and socks. Into the garbage they went. As we wiped her down, and I verbally dressed her down for not listening to Mommy, she managed to look both tearful and defiant at the same time.
She couldn't go climbing without socks. What to do? It was the start of the party. I couldn't have her sit out of the fun, even though she deserved it.
Quick thinking Mommy came to the rescue. I recruited Ceilidh, who was wearing shorts. Had Ceilidh give Aisling her undies and Ceilidh went commando. Had Ceilidh also hand over her socks to Aisling and gave Ceilidh my socks. See? Problem solved. A little icky, but better than a sobbing 6 year old and a bunch of 6 year olds laughing at her.
Definitely a birthday party to remember!

Extortionist

Aisling's teachers communicate with us by way of a notebook. We use the notebook to alert the teachers of upcoming appointments. They send us notes whenever there is an "issue" with Aisling. It's never a good thing when we see writing in the agenda.
Today was no exception. This evening, we learned that Aisling had been taking other kids' toys from school and putting them into her backpack to bring home. Without getting the permission of the toy owner, according to the teachers.  Her defence? It was borrowing as the pilfered items never actually remained in her possession for long. Trust me, even with the ridonculous piles of toys we own, I would notice a new toy or two in the mix. She also stated the kids were fully aware and had given their consent.
But it gets worse. In some cases, she was directing other kids to get the toys from the unsuspecting kids and bring them to her. And when they hesitated to do her bidding, she'd tell them she wasn't going to be their friend.
I was shocked and upset and disappointed at this behaviour. And very dismayed - she's got the makings of a mafia boss. I'm raising a brood of criminals!
We explained that her actions were tantamount to bullying and was it any wonder that only a handful of kids had accepted the invitation to her birthday party?
Of course, the fact that this behaviour had been going for some time without any notification to us parents is also upsetting. Why would the teachers wait so long to alert us to this potentially criminal behaviour? Did they actually think they could handle this without the parents' involvement on the home front? Yeah, that's another issue for another day.
In the meantime, time to deal with little Miss. Mafioso.

Related to the primates

It's no secret that I refer to my offspring as monkeys. When Devlin was a toddler, I'd often point to the Telus monkey and tell him that it was "Devlin". I know I was successful in brain-washing my child when - in public - he pointed to a cartoon depiction of a monkey, and cried out excitedly "Mommy - it's me!"
Then there was the time, when I wondered out loud, in exasperation, "Where are my monkeys?" and Aisling piped up, "Here I am!"
On the weekend, I overheard a serious conversation between Daddy and his two daughters.
"Daddy? Ummm, which family do we belong to? Is it the gorillas?" asked Aisling.
"Pardon?" came Daddy's reply.
"I think it's the 'ragtangs, but Ceilidh says it's not. Which family are we related to?"
"We do NOT belong to the orangutan family, nor do we belong to the gorillas," came Daddy's answer which sounded like he was struggling not to laugh.
I piped in, "Nope, you all are related to the baboon family, but not Mommy, she's the only normal one."


After all, we do live in a zoo...

PDA

Last week, I committed the biggest sin for a boy. I tried to hold his hand. And caused sheer amounts of embarrassment to my soon-to-be 10 year old.
In my defence, it was dusk, and raining, and we were about to cross a dimly lit parking lot. As we prepared to sprint to the car, I did what has become second nature to me over the past decade. My hand automatically reached out to grab Devlin's little paw. I kept grasping air. I finally looked down to see what the problem was, and there he was, feet glued to the pavement, and a look of horror and utter disbelief on his freckled face. It dawned on me then. We were leaving Cubs, and his friends were nearby. None of them were holding their parents' hands. And he's growing up. So, I urged him forward with a pat on his back and we took off.
Was it just a few years ago when he would always reach for my hand when we walked? It seems like just yesterday when he would hold onto my legs and cry, refusing to go into his kindergarten class. Now he gives me a fist bump at the boundary of the school grounds. The first time I left him for a few days with my parents, he cried while pacing the house looking for me. Last year, when I dropped him off for his first overnight camping trip, he gave me a shrug hug. The kind where he brushed up against me, shrugged his shoulders and his arms kind of, sort of came up around my waist for a nanosecond before he quickly stepped away.
But I got a nice surprise this morning. I'll be away for the next three days at a conference. And yes, I won't lie, I have been counting the hours. Of course, I'll miss the monkeys, but I won't miss the 45 minute long temper tantrums, the arguments, the nagging to get their homework done, the begging to get them to eat their meals. It'll be a nice break.
I walked the kids to school, and reminded them to be good and listen to Arlyn and Daddy. We counted down how many days before Aisling would see Mommy. I promised to pick them up from school on Friday. At the school, Ceilidh gave me a long hug and a kiss. Aisling and I shared several hugs and kisses and waved goodbye for many long minutes. And to my utter surprise and delight, Devlin didn't do his usual props with me. He gave me a hug. Not a shrug hug, but a proper hug. And I didn't have to ask for it!

Low-tech family

A few weeks ago, I read an article about the family who attempted living a retro 80's life for a year. Aside from the mullet the dad sported, the kids weren't allowed any hand-held electronic devices, cellphones were a no no, and I think the television was an old model that involved getting up off the couch to change the channel. Interesting, but I don't I think I could survive a week, let alone a month.
At the same time, I understand the reasons why we should limit screen time for our kids, and it's increasingly hard when you consider the variety of screens that exist - smartphones, tablets, laptops, DVD players, DS or other small video games, the television, etc. At home, in the classroom, at a friend's house, at a restaurant (although that's about limiting the spouse's exposure to the big screen), in the car...you have to admit it's annoying to see a family out for dinner, presumably to spend time together, and the entire family is texting away or talking on their phones. Or my biggest pet peeve - seeing parents constantly on their phones at the play centres, not paying attention, let alone playing, with their kids.
I am not adverse to technology and its various gadgets. I'm blogging, aren't I? But for kids, I'm more old-fashioned. The laptop is in the kitchen, and the kids really aren't allowed onto internet unless it's an educational, parent-approved site or its for school projects. We haven't developed any hard and fast rules regarding social media, other than "no". We do give in, and let the kids play on the Xbox or watch television, especially when we need a break from the rugrats.
The one area where we don't have such entertainment is the car. Nothing gets me more annoyed that seeing a kid watching the DVD in the car on a trip to the mall. We regularly take car trips of four hours or more. There is no portable DVD player in our vehicle. We had one a looong time ago, but it soon broke down. And I couldn't be bothered to replace it. The kids have managed to survive the long car rides. They'll read, or sing along to the radio. They check out the scenery, and count the cows/sheep/tires on the trucks. They sleep, with the aid of Gravol (only the two prone to puking in a moving car), and more often than not, they get silly and bug each other, and prompt us to threaten to leave one of them on the side of the road. Surely, the last scenario would cause us to run out and buy a tablet or two to maintain the peace? Nah. I believe in learning the skill to entertain oneself, and to be comfortable with the idea that being bored on occasion is okay. And if nothing else, it's a rite of passage of childhood to annoy your parents and your siblings. Being able to converse with each other is a life skill, even if the topic is downright silly or gross.
And we LOOOVE saying over and over again "We'll get there when we get there! Don't ask again!"

(And we do own a tablet. It was purchased in preparation for a four hour long plane trip with a 22 month old who would be confined to my lap, in the window seat, on a sold-out flight. THAT was a necessity.)

Quinn no longer needs Mommy the Defender

I've identified myself as having 3 kids and a baby. And as mommy and defender of the baby, I've always kept an eagle on the other three kids to make sure they treated him with the gentle care and attention, and lots of affection. The other three have always been very good with Quinn. From the moment he arrived in their lives, he's always been subjected to hugs, kisses and cuddles. Ceilidh was so aggressive with her affection, that Quinn would cringe and shy away from her. As he got older and more mobile, his older siblings would be careful not to leave any tiny or sharp objects lying around, after much reminding from Mommy. As he began to reach and destroy, his siblings learned to not leave anything of value or importance anywhere near Quinn. For they all knew, as the baby, Quinn wouldn't be blamed for the destruction. Rather, the older kids would be blamed for their own carelessness.
Now some  may argue that leaving the baby blameless is wrong. But I call it in teaching responsibility for one's possessions. And reasoning with a 5 or 7 or 9 year old is much easier than explaining that ripped pages are a no-no to a 2 year old. When he would hit a sibling, accidently of course, as he had no concious control over his limbs, I would soothe the wounded child while explaining that as a baby, Quinn didn't mean to hurt.
But I've come to the realization that Quinn is ready to fend for himself. He no longer needs Mommy to fight his battles with his older siblings, or provide the ready excuse "He's just a baby, he doesn't understand!"
Aside from the fact that he has truly reached the "terrible twos", temper tantrums and all, he's learned to use his little fists to express his anger and frustration. I've seen his hands grab hold of his sister Aisling's long locks when he wants her out of the way. He uses his fists to punch and push me when I don't give in to his demands. And no, I don't give in, no matter how many little blows he lands while I try to "reason" with an angry toddler that hitting isn't going to get him the desired results.
I must admit, it's quite funny to watch him in a full blown temper tantrum. Remember Aisling? She used to strip down naked in major tantrum! Quinn just starts pleading with his big eyes staring up at you. Like Puss in Boots from Shrek. When that doesn't work, he starts shouting his demands. Then he starts jumping up and down in anger. While screaming. Then he falls to the ground, and cries and screams. When that doesn't produce the desired result, he gets up and starts punching, his little arms flailing like windmills. Then he spits and wipes his drooly mouth on my legs. Yeah, gross.
And finally, he collapses and sobs into my shoulder when he realizes he's just not going to get his way, and that Mommy's will is actually stronger than his. It hasn't always been the case, but it's time to stop spoiling the baby.
As for fending for himself? Quinn is not the instigator, but he's quickly learning to stick up for himself.
The other night, Quinn was going through his usual bedtime queries. "Where's Arlyn? Where's Daddy? Where's Ceilidh? Where's Aisling? Where's Devlin?" Once satisfied that all are sleeping, he'll settle down to sleep too. But last night, Devlin decided to tease his brother by asking him "Where's Quinn?" while poking him in the ribs, most likely in an effort to tickle him.
Quinn did not like the poke. And he stated, "Stop it Devlin!" while utilizing a lightning quick side punch at his older brother's head. That shut Devlin up.

Surprise!

Kudos to my kids and spouse for doing the impossible - surprising me on Mother's Day!
It started out as any other Sunday morning, trying to get an extra hour of sleep only to be poked awake by little fingers checking out Mommy's face. And the usual war over who got more of Mommy to cuddle. And playing peek-a-boo under the pillows.
It was the usual argument over who got to watch what show on television while I changed a toddler's diaper. There was the usual whining over who got more of the blanket on the couch. I quickly made my get-away and ran out the door, plugged in my ear buds and started to run away - well, no, just went for my run.
Upon my return, I started the coffee and rummaged through the fridge for breakfast ingredients. Quinn came along, demanding the fridge to be opened ("open fridge!") so he could decide what to snack on - strawberries this morning.
And then came my kids stomping down the stairs, followed by their dad. To my surprise, they came bearing gifts. A plaque for my desk, lovingly painted in pink by Ceilidh; a list of reasons why Mommy is so great from Devlin; a tea bag for an hour of relaxation from Aisling; and a lovely sparkly necklace and earrings from Quinn (ok, from all and Daddy). So, I got my bling, and yes, I was pleasantly surprised. I truly not expecting any of it.
Thanks kids and spouse!

For My Halmuhnee

It's Mother's Day weekend, and we're bombarded with thoughtful gift ideas for the special woman in our lives. Despite the number of flyers advertising jewellery and perfume, and even brunches, I suspect the wilted flowers from school and the not-so-secretly hidden construction paper cards will be the tokens of appreciation showered upon me tomorrow morning. Not that they don't mean the world to me, seeing as it's made with love and Aisling has been bursting with excitement to show me her "secret" present. But sometimes, it would be nice to have something with a little more bling.
I remember making the same crafts for Mother's Day when I was in elementary school. The gold spray painted macaroni covered kleenex box, the popsicle stick vase, the paper plate flower corsage...and thinking back, I remember always trying to make two of each. One for my mom, and one for my Halmuhnee, my grandmother. Explaining why I needed two Mother's Day gifts to my teachers was sometimes a challenge. Back then, the nuclear family was all that most people knew, especially in a blue collar Southwestern Ontario city. Nowadays, we're aware of the various permutations families can take - 1 mom, 2 dads; 2 moms, 2 dads; 1 mom and grandparents; 2 moms; 1 mom and 1 dad (very rare)...there's no such thing as a "normal" family.
My grandmother lived with us. She came to Canada when I was a month old to help care for me while Dad studied for his Ph.D. and mom went to earn a living as a nurse. Immigrating at age 50, she left a life full of friends and relatives to a land of white faces and a strange language. Her first meal in Canada? A hamburger at Harvey's.
While others would have been thinking of retirement and taking up leisurely hobbies, my grandma was learning how to use a new fangled washing machine, chasing after an active toddler and figuring out how to make kim-chee in a land that didn't grow napa cabbage.  I remember Grandma taking me for long walks along the river in the warmer days. Air conditioning was a luxury back then, and we lived on the second floor. Car seats were also an unknown back then (just for the record - I am not THAT old, and my dad did have a car seat, but it wasn't legally enforced). So I would often sit on Grandma's lap and she'd put the seat belt over both of us. I slept with Grandma. When we moved into a new house ( the same house mom and dad still live in), I was excited to have my own room. I don't think I actually ever slept alone in the new house. That first night, I got scared and crept in next to Halmuhnee and never left her side. I hated spending a night away from my Halmuhnee. Grandma sometimes would spend a few days at a friend's. I'm sure she quite needed the break from us brats. (Having my own, I TOTALLY get it.) But to a five years old, I thought Grandma was abandoning me. Even when she was going on a sight seeing tour with the other seniors from church, I didn't understand why she had to leave. Once, in a childish attempt to stop her from leaving, I hid her over night bag.
Even when I was older, and sharing a room with my sister, I loved cuddling up next to Grandma. And she loved putting her feet on our legs to "thaw out" her feet. I never understood that, as "how could feet be frozen?", until I had my own babies. When you're up late at night getting chores and work done, and you're freezing by the time you turn in to bed, there's nothing better than snuggling up to a warm, slumbering child and wrapping yourself around them.
I have so many memories of my grandma. Every part of my childhood, teenage years and a good chunk of my adulthood are coloured by her. She was in every way, a third parent, as opposed to a grandparent. She disciplined us just as much as she hugged us. I could go on for pages and pages about Grandma, but I'll restrain myself.
When teenaged kids were being mean and gossipy, Grandma told me to hold my head up high. Then she gave me a new sweater to wear, just to give my confidence that added boost. She wholly ascribed to the motto of  "you gotta look good to feel good".
Before she suffered a series of strokes, she loved having me drive her across the border to Detroit for an afternoon of shopping. Grandma was a fashion plate. She loved pretty things, and her furs, but not in a gaudy sense. I often wished I had smaller feet - Grandma had some wickedly nice heels. Whenever she visited Korea, she would spend hours combing the markets and stores for gifts of clothes to bring back to her grandkids.
Aside from us grandchildren, her other interest or focus in life was her faith. She pored over her Bible daily. The tissue paper thin pages were marked in red for meaningful verses, and though she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, she loved to sing hymns. While Grandma was proud of our piano playing and violin caterwauling, it wasn't until we learned to play her hymns that she really took notice of our musical abilities. She taught us to pray whenever we needed strength, whenever we needed inspiration and whenever life was good to us.
She bought me my first two wheeler when I was five. She watched me get rebellious one day and attempt to ride it down the driveway before I was ready. Instead of wasting her breath yelling at me to stop, she let me go, and watched me fall and scrape my knees. Then she picked me up and bandaged my wounds and didn't say "I told you so". I really should follow her example with my own kids.
Grandma loved to celebrate, but never with alcohol. She was a tee-totaller.  Whatever the cause, Grandma was always up for "mini-party". Kentucky Fried chicken was a favourite indulgence at these events, be it a glowing report card or whatever. Like a child, she loved being our confidantes, being the bearer of a "secret".  She would tuck us into bed and check on us several times a night. She advocated exercise, and did a version of callisthenics in the mornings. She once tried to teach me the fox trot, but gave up in disgust when I fell on the floor laughing.
Even after the strokes, Grandma still had words of wisdom. When I started dating, she advised "Never tell the guy you love him first. Otherwise, he'll always be in control." When I started having kids, she counselled me to have patience, and to pick up the babies whenever they cried.
There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of my Halmuhnee. She passed away on Aisling's 100th day, and but I know she is up in heaven watching over all of us. She's probably shaking her head in disappointment every time I crack open a beer, and high fives her pals whenever I manage to make it to church with my crew. I'm sure she's struts proudly while telling all of  her grandchildren's accomplishments. I miss her every day. I think of the various ways she left her mark in our lives, big and small. I still stack the dishes in the way she taught me. Whenever I see the morning dew frozen on the lawn., I know it'll be a warm and sunny day, because that's what Grandma always said. Whenever I cuddle up to a sleeping child and draw on their warmth, I am transported back to my grandma's bed, her gentle snoring and her reassuring hand on our back.

Wet Welcome

We don't have pets. Despite the earnest pleas for a puppy, we do not own any living, breathing, moving animals - other than the four that walk on two legs in an upright (mostly) position. While some may argue that having a pet will teach children responsibility, I would respectfully disagree. We had a fish. A single fish. A beta fish, the most lowest of low maintenance pets. Except maybe compared to a chia pet. But a fish that required a tiny pinch of food every day. And yet, the task of that teeny tiny pinch fell to mommy and daddy. As did the task of cleaning out his tiny tank. I do believe a puppy would be more labour intensive than a pinch of food. And really, I have no desire to be housebreaking an animal when we can't even get Quinn potty trained.
Besides, I have a good idea of what having a four legged creature would be like. I have four creatures at home. Two of them eat non-stop. All four leave their toys everywhere, although it's not covered with drool. There was a time when they were, but they all have teeth now. My two legged creatures also make about the same level of noise as an excited puppy, and while they don't chew up shoes, my walls have taken a beating from these kids.
Oh, the benefits of having a warm furry being to cuddle up to on cold nights! Ummm, not an argument that's going to make an impression on me. I've got anywhere from two to four warm, wriggling bodies that end up in my bed every night. Electric blankets are not a hot commodity in  my house.
What about being welcomed at the end of a tiring day by an excited, tail wagging animal that covers you with wet sloppy licks? After all, there will come a time when the kids aren't so thrilled to see me walk in the house. Daddy is already complaining that the television garners more attention than his nightly return home.
There is that, I suppose.
Last night, after attending a work function, I was greeted with cries of "Where were you?", "Devlin's not feeling well, I think he's sick," and "Look at the bump on my head from when I fell at school!". For a brief moment, I questioned my sanity in deciding to leave the work function (which was becoming quite fun) early to see my monkeys.
But then, I heard a thump and splash from the bathroom, and the wet, pitter patter of tiny feet. At the top of the stairs, was a little naked toddler, happy to see Mommy. He had climbed (splashed) out of the tub to greet me with a wet hug, wriggling with excitement, and babbling on about his Power Rangers.
There's no way a puppy could compete with that!

We still Believe (Religion and the Easter Bunny, Part 2)

Grandpa was impressed with Devlin's query about the importance, or non-importance, of the Bunny and the Easter holiday. Devlin then went on, wondering out loud how Santa Claus, presents under a tree and reindeer are tied into the birth of Christ.
My dad decided not to use this time for a Bible lesson. Rather he decided to use this opportunity for a lesson in economics - his own.
Grandpa said quite seriously, "So, Devlin now that you understand that Easter is really about Jesus' death and coming to life again, you shouldn't expect to find any treats from the Easter Bunny. And since Christmas is really about the birth of Christ, you don't have to worry about gifts at Christmas time either."

My dad ignored the warning looks I was shooting him, as there were younger ears at the table. My kids still believe in fairy tales and happily ever afters, and loonies under the pillow. And I was NOT ready to deal with bursting the tooth fairy, Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus bubble at that moment. Not when I was up to my elbows in Easter egg dye.

But I shouldn't have worried.

While Devlin had a disconcerted look on his face while he contemplated what his grandpa was saying, Ceilidh quickly and blithely stated, "No, we're still children. Santa Claus still comes for the kids. And so does the Easter Bunny. When we're adults like you, then we won't get stuff."

Whew...

Religion and the Easter Bunny

We're down in my hometown, enjoying the long weekend and family. Tulips are starting to poke their way up through the flower beds, but for the first time in ages, there are still no leaves on the trees. It's been sunny for the past several days, and I've enjoyed the warm weather with long runs to and long the river. Tomorrow promises to be a sunny Easter Sunday, with the temperatures reaching 20 degrees! No, I'm not starting a new career as a weather woman - I'm just revelling in the first real signs of spring I've witnessed.
The kids have been having a blast. Last night, Auntie Grace and Uncle Dan hosted a movie night and sleep over for Devlin, Ceilidh and Aisling. They also took in the movie Rio at the theatres, with popcorn and pop, while Mommy got to chase Quinn all around the theater. This afternoon, they spent some time at the park, and visited with our previous, much-loved nanny, Rose, who was excited and happy to her former charges. McDonalds' for lunch and famous Windsor pizza for supper. What more could these kids want?
Oh yeah, the Easter Bunny and his/her special offerings. This year, the Easter Bunny announced that the treats and eggs would be deposited at Uncle Dan's. So after church, there will be a hunt at Uncle Dan's. Visions of chocolate, jelly beans and colourful eggs will, no doubt, take the spotlight in my slumbering children's dreams.
But being the grandson of a preacher, Devlin brought up an interesting question.
"What does Jesus dying have anything to do with a bunny?" he queried.
Not wanting to get into the whole big discussion about merchandising, the secular world and commercialization of religious holidays in general, and also because he really wanted to get on with dinner, Daddy answered, "I'm not really sure."
Without missing a beat, Aisling piped up,"You're not sure? Let's Google it then!"

My kids are inspired by...

For the past month at school, the kids have been learning about role models, inspiration and the like. At tonight's open house, we were able to view artwork and short compositions of what inspired the students of today. Some named prominent Canadians like Chris Hadfield, or world-class athletes like Sidney Crosby.
I was pleasantly surprised and touched when I read that Devlin inspired his class mate who wanted to become a good of hockey player as my son. Devlin, in turn, drew a picture of himself in a hockey jersey with stars around his head (still wondering about the significance of that) and declared that his parents were his inspiration "because they work hard so I work hard".
Hmmm, on another day, I will wonder if I am truly setting a good example as a working mom or if I'm feeling guilty for not spending enough time with them.
Aisling, my sweet Aisling, stated that her sister inspired her. Why? Because she can swing high, is brave and can sing really well. My heart melted when I read that sentence.
I eagerly moved onto Ceilidh's classroom. After all, she is my more mature and sensitive child. I did NOT expect that she looked up to...One Direction for inspiration. For their singing, dancing and performance skills. Since they inspired her to strive to become a better performer herself.
I guess it's better than picking Miley Cyrus.

Sobering Return to Parental Reality

It was the last game of our winter ultimate frisbee season. Despite a promising start, the loss of one of our key players meant we struggled against our opponents. Teams we had handily beat before were now making us look like child's play. So, winning our final game after battling hard the week before was just desserts for us. A celebration was in order. Beers at the Irish pub.
Knowing the monkeys were slumbering and under the watchful eye of our nanny and the grandparents, we decided to stay for a pint.Or two in my case. Sitting under the stars on the patio, sipping a refreshing beer, chatting about frisbee strategies before moving onto inane topics like the uselessness of decorative pillows, the merits of sleep training, and car camping - it was a thoroughly enjoyable post-game setting that brought back memories of life before kids.
Alas, the bewitching hour was near. I ruefully remembered I had to be in court in the morning. The kids' lunches were not yet prepared.
And if that wasn't enough to jolt us back to reality, the sight that welcomed us upon home did.
Three angelic-looking children slumbering in my bed. Upon closer inspection, I realized that Quinn had suffered a bloody nose. His tiny face was streaked with blood. The sheets were likewise, covered in blood. Despite the tipsiness, I had to aid in moving sleeping kids to another bed. Strip down the bed. Find clean sheets. Make a trip down to the laundry room. Tried to pour a steady stream of stain remover onto the soiled sheets. Comfort a whimpering Quinn. Realize too late that his nose was bleeding again. Too tired to figure out if we owned more sheets. Covered the new bloody spots (which spouse tried vainly to blot out) with a towel. Tuck a sleepy toddler back into bed.
I'm pretty sober now. I'd like to crawl into bed next to Quinn. But still sweaty from the game, and still no lunches packed. And I forgot to turn on the washing machine.

What goes in the Potty?

In an effort to get Quinn into the potty training frame of mind, we've decided to start reading potty books to him. Baby and potty, Bear goes potty, Elmo loves to potty,  etc etc.
We even found Devlin's old potty book, Once upon a potty.
Quinn seemed to go along with the idea at first. He willingly pointed out the various body parts. He was able to discern the difference between the clean diaper and the dirty diaper. He agreed with the suggestion that diapers are for babies. He got the idea that poop and pee should go into the potty and, not the diaper.
He knows one is supposed to sit on the potty. And go pee into the potty. And poop. As the book suggests.
(He hasn't yet done so. He refuses to sit on the potty.)
Except, when he looked at the picture of the potty with the poop, my baby boy pointed and exclaimed "Chocolate!"

I think we have a ways to go still on this potty training journey.

It's going to be a rough ride - for Mommy

I will be the first to admit that I spoil Quinn rotten. He's my baby, my last child, and sometimes, arguably, the most precocious. I love to cuddle him, and hold him in my arms. When he asks to be carried, I oblige willingly. Every bump of his head or scrape on his finger/knee/arm can only be "healed" by Mommy's kiss. I love the heavy weight of his sweaty noggin on my shoulder in the middle of the night.
When he comes crying into my arms after being disciplined by Daddy, I gather him close and let him sob, while Daddy rolls his eyes at my display of weakness. The sight of the fat tears spilling from his and rolling down his cheeks tugs at my heart strings. The sound of his crying reduces me to jello each time.
Even with his temper tantrums, with flailing arms and jumping up and down to assert his anger - I find adorable. Of course, not in the moment. But when he's calm, and I reflect on his ability to fling his little body onto a flat surface and sob at a moment's notice - he's got the makings of a thespian with such dramatic flair.
There is no Mean Mommy where Quinn is concerned.
But that is about to change.
Quinn is almost 28 months. It's time to get serious about the potty training (see related post), doing away with the sippy cup, and losing the soother. We may have to go cold turkey.
It's going to be tough for Mommy. Not so much because of the tears and crying that will surely ensue. But because she's met her match in a tiny being who will use Mommy's own words and twist them to satisfy his own agenda.
Mommy: Hey Quinn, are you a big boy? Are you Mommy's big boy now?
Quinn: Yes.
Mommy: Good. Then give Mommy the soother. Soothers are for babies. Not big boys.
Quinn: I want the soother.
Mommy: No, they're for babies.
Quinn: Mommy, I'm baby.
With that, he grabs the soother, pops it in his mouth, smiles and cuddles into me.

The Mystery of the Disappearing Coins

Aka How did Aisling get so rich?

We don't give our children allowances. We don't believe in paying our kids money to do chores that are expected of them, especially if they want to continue to be part of this family. No, we ascribe to the school of thought of raising independent (eventually one day, I hope, although I'd rather they first learn to sleep without Mommy) people who don't need to be paid to make their beds, put away their laundry, set the table for dinner, take out the garbage, put away their toys, etc. Really - I don't get paid to wash their dirty clothes, make their meals, wipe their poopy bums, and all the rest that comes with the job description of parent.
Besides, why would these kids need money? We buy their food and feed them, even the stuff that's of questionable nutritional value. We clothe them. For now, they have no choice in the fashion choices Mommy makes for them. We pay for all of their extra-curricular activities and the various accoutrements they require. All of their outings are covered by the bank of Mom and Dad. Every cent we have left over at the end of the month goes into their education savings plan, and not into a vacation fund for us. Really, these kids have it made!
Yes, there is the thought that an allowance would help them to learn money management and the value of a dollar. True enough, that's a life skill. But one that could be taught later in life.
Let's work on teaching these kids to become self-sufficient, productive and responsible for themselves while understanding and appreciating the value of pitching in to ensure the household runs smoothly. After all, while Mommy is viewed as Super-Mom, even the best superheroes need a helping hand. That's why there's a whole league of them. Otherwise, Super Mom quickly becomes Aggravated Mom, or B----y Mom.
But I digress.
This is about the disappearing coins. Devlin, Ceilidh and Aisling all have piggy banks. Literally, a plastic bank in the shape of pink pig. Since they don't get allowances, what goes into these vessels? Money from the tooth fairy and money they've earned from helping out with special tasks, like picking up the branches on the lawn, the detritus of the ice storm. Pennies they've found on the ground, and loose change they've scooped up from the car.
Since Aisling hasn't lost any of her baby teeth yet, she should have the least amount of coinage in her bank.
Not so.  
Somehow, she's managed to amass quite the fortune. Which Daddy didn't realize until she decided to purchase a box of Girl Guide cookies from Ceilidh. And still had plenty of money left over. While Devlin's piggy bank was woefully light, to his dismay.
Under the guise of learning how to count, I think Aisling has been dipping into her brother's stash stealthily.
So, now I've got two fraud artists and a future cat burglar. I can't wait to see what career path Quinn picks.

I think he's done

So a few weeks ago, I was boasting about Quinn and how he puts away - throws -  his dinner plates into the kitchen sink.
Today, he's decided there's another way to get his message across that he's done with dinner. While I was absorbed with the task of urging Ceilidh to finish dinner and get ready for Brownies, and feeling Aisling's forehead for a fever that may or may not have been present, Quinn had hoovered up his pasta. He may have stated "done" but I didn't hear it.
I did however, catch, out of the corner of my eye, the dinner plate with a few strands of cheesy pasta get turned upside over his head. And then for good measure, he rubbed the bowl and the remaining bits of cheese all over his hair. Yuck.
With an avid audience - his siblings who started laughing - he grinned and refused to let go of the bowl.

Grrreat!

Picking up noodles from the floor are a pain in the butt. Sometimes, I wish I had a dog. Actually, every weekend, I wish I had a dog to trail behind the kids and clean up their crumbs.

Be gone Winter!

It's the weekend, the temperatures are in the double digits, the neighbours have finally put away the Christmas decorations (our's are still up but that's not my department). It's the first time since the polar vortex that I've gone for a run outside.
I've waited as long as I can. It's time. I'm throwing the winter gear - hats, scarves, mitt, snow pants - into the washing machine. I'm packing away the too small winter boots (it's a first - I've never had a kid out grow their winter boots in a season, but told them to curl up their toes - after all, who's still selling winter boots?? in April??).
And you know what? It'll probably snow this week. I'm tempting fate, or mother nature. But I am sick and tired of winter.

Truly a boy

What are little boys made of?
Snips and snails and puppy dog tails

What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and all things nice


Remember that Mother Goose rhyme?

I'm not one of those parents that believe in gender neutral everything. I've given my children gender appropriate names. I don't dress my boys in pinks. Yes, Devlin plays hockey, but so does Aisling. In fact, she's better suited to Canada's national past time than flitting around at dance class. Her older sister is a natural at dance. While I don't think I actively encouraged my sons to play with traditional "boy" toys, and pushed princess stuff on my girls, I do think there's some merit to the nature versus nurture theory. That some characteristics are innate, and no amount of environmental factors will alter them.
For instance, despite the plethora of both boy and girl toys that have taken over house, Ceilidh has always gravitated to the dolls, even before she was exposed to the hype of Monster High and the like through her peers at school. She was the child that would cradle a stuffed bear with tenderness, rather than dragging it by its ear like her older brother. While Devlin will build forts and bunkers from the blocks, the girls construct "homes" for their stuffed animals.

Quinn, who has had the benefit of observing both his older brother and sisters playing, is all boy. It's not just that he LOVES hockey. He loves to cuddle his stuffed lamb too. But with Quinn, I'm learning that the fascination with bodily functions and the like is truly one borne from the XY chromosome.
He'll stick his little finger up his nose, and pull it out and proudly display the snot. Like a prized trophy.
The other evening at dinner, he looked up at me, and with eyes twinkling, he asked, "Mama, what's that smell?"
"What smell?" I asked, wondering if he was referring to dinner.
"What's that smell?" he again asked while sniffing the air.
Then, he looked directly at me, and announced, "I fart!"
And threw back his head and laughed uproariously. While his siblings fell over in their chairs giggling hysterically.
Yeah, all boy.