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.

Staking a Claim

From the beginning of time, most, if not all, of man's battles have been about real estate. One tribe battling another over land. Think of the pioneers staking a claim out in the wild west, parking their covered wagons over a plot of arable land while fighting off squatters. The more land one amassed, the more powerful. The War of 1812 was really about two nations battling for more land (Canada), both world wars that saw the axis and allies struggling to gain control over various nations, the Korean war where China tried to dominate over Japan. Okay, maybe I'm over-simplifying the intricacies of these epic battles (after all, one could earn a doctoral degree in the study of one measly war and I'm summing it up in five words), but bottom line, it was about one party taking control over another by gaining control over the acreage. Like I said, real estate.

I see that battle played out over and over again in my own zoo. Often the struggle is over the prime piece of sofa, the cushion that faces the television screen most directly. It's the section of the sofa that has a definite "sag", no matter how often I rotate the cushions. Hard to believe that my monkeys, who weigh between 24-48 pounds could cause that much wear and tear. Oh wait, I've often seen Daddy in that spot too.

The other night, I was the object of the battle. Having found a few minutes to relax in front of the television (a rare event indeed), I sat down. Only to have Quinn quickly climb on top and burrow his body into my side. Devlin and Aisling both raced over. Devlin jumped over Aisling and snuggled up against the other side of me. Aisling saw that my shoulder was still free and unclaimed, and managed to manoeuvre her body behind Quinn but angled next to me and lay her head against my shoulder. Ceilidh was out of luck. Quinn, however, was not even willing to share that tiny piece of Mommy.
"My mommy," he announced, and then raised his tiny but mighty fist and landed a blow on his sister.  

Diet time?

Sometimes I really wish I could have been there...
This entry comes courtesy of Daddy, who probably shouldn't have told me, but here it is:

As Daddy was chauffeuring Ceilidh to her weekly dance class, they chatted about different types of foods and their nutritional benefits. For example, citrus fruits are high in Vitamin C and that keeps one healthy and colds at bay. Fish are high in omega-3 fatty acids and DHA which are beneficial to brain growth. Milk and other dairy products have calcium, a necessity for bone growth and strength.
Ceilidh wondered what super-powers grapes had.
"I think grapes are an anti-oxidant. No wait, I just read it. Grapes have some special chemical that helps to burn fat," Daddy stated with authority.
Without missing a beat, his daughter replied, quite seriously, "I think you need to eat a lot more grapes."

She really WAS sick

Every parent has had to deal with the fake sick kid. It's a fine line one has to walk - you have to be concerned and not insensitive, because there might be some potentially serious emotional reason for faking the stomach ache and not wanting to go to school. But there's also the angle of "I don't have time to deal with this and get out of bed, you're going to school, and you're not really sick" because you don't want to cater to every single cry for attention. Kind of like the boy who cried wolf.
Aisling has been giving us a bit of trouble for the past few days. She's been on a food strike. Refuses to eat anything nutritious. Claims Mommy's homemade pizza, which everyone else raves about, is not as good as Boston pizza. Strawberries are yucky. Last night's noodle stir fry was gross, but Kraft dinner with the glow in the dark orange cheese is the BEST. Cucumbers are the only vegetables she will acknowledge. Bacon, french fries and cheese are the only items of food she'll eat without complaint. A walking heart attack at five years of age. Every single meal has been a struggle and frankly, I'm ready to throw in the towel!
She's been refusing to eat her lunch at school and the teacher sent home a note, concerned about Aisling's attitude regarding her lunch. The teacher requested that we speak to her. I sent a note with the spouse's contact information. After all, he's the lunch packer, and clearly I have no success with Aisling's eating behaviour.
All weekend long, she claimed her tooth was bothering her so she couldn't eat. She's got a loose tooth. We told her to chew out of the other side of her mouth.
Yesterday, she aid her tummy hurt. I told her it because there wasn't ANY FOOD IN IT!
This morning, she said her tummy still hurt. "Like throwing up?" I asked.
"No, it just hurt," she answered.
"Because you're not eating and there's no food in it!" I replied again.
I dismissed her whining and got ready for work.
Five minutes later, as I grabbed by coffee mug, I heard "EWWWW! Aisling just threw up EVERYWHERE!"
Sure enough, there was puke on the couch, the blankets, the floor. I had to move quickly to remove Quinn from the scene as he was getting curious.
I guess Aisling really was sick, and not faking it. Great, another item to add to the every growing Mommy guilt list.

Just one night?!

We've signed up our children for various, or rather multitudes of, extra-curricular activities for various reasons. Primarily to keep them occupied and get them tired out on someone else's (albeit paid) time. And obviously to give our children the opportunity to become well-rounded individuals while their parents became poorer. Thank gawd for the arts and sports tax credits! It started with swimming and gymnastics because the kids were nicely exhausted and more compliant after a session. But then, the activities started requiring more parental involvement, so that kind of backfired on us. Soccer wanted parent coaches, hockey requires chauffeuring and helping lace up skates, piano requires mom to be there assisting with mistaken notes and counting out the rhythm.
So, when the opportunity came to enrol Devlin and Ceilidh in Cubs and Brownies, we jumped at it. There are already leaders with clear criminal background checks, the meetings require no parental time, just simply drop and pick up 90 minutes later, and the chance to buy as many Girl Guide cookies as Daddy can eat. Oh yes, I'm sure they'll also learn about becoming good citizens, helping others, how to build a campfire, and and all that. Occasionally, there are outings like weekend camps and over night sleep overs. Even better, a night or two without a kid. We don't have any family close by that would take our kids for a night. Not even any family far away that would take the kids. At least, not anymore since my kids have become mobile and verbal. (Really, I do love my kids and cherish every single exhausting moment with them.)
But the nights away are good for all - the "missing" child gets to experience a special event and the remaining monkeys get some special attention from mom and dad.
Last weekend, Devlin had an outing with his cubs troop. He went to the Brampton Beast hockey game, watched a movie at the arena and then participated in a sleep over at the arena, in the private boxes. While Daddy and Devlin took in an exciting game that apparently stretched out to 12 shoot-outs, Mommy and Quinn cuddled and watched countless episodes of Transformers Rescue-Bots, Ceilidh weaved a doll out of the rainbow loom bands and Aisling flitted between colouring and snuggling up against me. It was a quiet, conflict-free evening. (Does that mean it's Daddy and Devlin that create the chaos?) I thoroughly enjoyed it, and nearly fell asleep on the couch, but for the little sticky fingers that kept poking me in the face.
As all four of us (yeah, that's right, mommy and three little people) snuggled under the covers in bed later, Aisling asked, "How many nights is Devlin going to be gone?"
"Just tonight. Why? Do you miss him?" my heart melting at the thought of how close my children are to each other.
"Just one night? Awww, I thought it was going to longer, like a week! That's no fun."