Gold Medals for All

First of all - Hooray for the Canadian Women's Hockey team! Gold! Awesome playing!

If you don't know what I'm talking, I have no idea what rock you're living under, but stay there. Please.

Ceilidh's class, and pretty  much every classroom in every school, has been using the Olympic games as a teaching tool. Today, the theme was gold medals, and figuring what activity they and their family members could claim as their gold medal sport. This was Ceilidh's assessment our gold medal talents:

If sewing was an Olympic event, her Halmunee would get the gold medal.

If being smart and wise was an Olympic event, her Habudgee would win the gold medal.

If baking was an Olympic event, her mom (that's me) would take the gold.

If dancing funny was an Olympic event, her dad would win the gold medal.

If playing with Lego was an Olympic event, her brother Devlin would win gold.

If being obsessed with cars, Power Rangers and hockey was an Olympic event, her brother Quinn would win the gold medal.

If there was an Olympic event in fake pouting, then Aisling would be declared the winner.

And, finally, if singing was an Olympic event, Ceilidh would be the gold medallist.

Or perhaps, I have a future Canadian Idol contestant and winner on my hands.

Noise pollution!

Aisling has been learning about the environment this month. Every night, we get an "informative" lecture from her regarding the wasting of power when we leave on the computer (never mind that the kids have television for who knows how long) and the need to recycle, as she cuts up another piece of coloured paper to make a craft.
The best was last night:
"Do you know what noise pollution is? It's when you make lots of noise and it's loud," explained the child with no inside voice and no volume control.

Escape into the Snow!

Another winter storm. With most of the snow expected during the day. Perfect excuse to stay home from work, right? Not for me. I chose to drive over 80kms in blinding snow, on slippery roads, chose to crawl along the highway at 40 km/hour. Am I nuts? Nope.
Leah McLaren recently did a column about her daily schedule, sort of tongue-in-cheek mocking of another important CEO of some big company and her recitation of her daily schedule and how much she gets done before most of us are awake. Yeah, it made me nauseated too.
And this was my morning today, and why I chose to go to the office:
5:20am - wake to Quinn asking for cookie, and then apple juice
5:30am - stumble to kitchen and fetch juice for insistent child
5:32am - two sips later, watch as Quinn finds his soother and settles back to sleep
5:35am - give up on trying to fall asleep, due to stench of urine filled diaper, and gaze adoringly upon my slumbering baby (without my glasses, he's even more angelic looking)
5:55am - get out of bed, into work out gear and head to basement
6:00 am - check emails and throw laundry into dryer
6:35am - finish work out, get laundry out of dryer
6:45am -enjoy my breakfast smoothie, pack my lunch, start the coffee, check the news
7:00am - give kids first wake up call and head for shower
7:01am- try to convince Quinn to snuggle in bed with his lamb while I shower
7:13am - finish shower to hear Quinn crying for Mommy
7:14am - nearly get hit in face when Quinn barges into bathroom
7:20am - hair dried after rescuing hairbrush from near dunking into toilet by Quinn, dressed and give kids second and third wake up call
7:25am - dry Quinn's tears, dole out hugs to sleepy kids
7:28am - give Aisling piggy back ride downstairs while carrying Quinn, lamb, blanket and bottle
7:32am - finish applying make up
7:33am - pour coffee and get assaulted by sound of Aisling yelling because she's being denied the ability to watch television in the morning (punishment for yesterday's misbehaviours)
7:34am -put Aisling at dining room table, ignore the angry sobs
7:35 am - grab briefcase and start to put on jacket
7:36 am - try to peel Quinn off right leg
7:37 am - try to untangle myself from Quinn's arms that are wrapped around my legs and ankles while issuing instructions to Devlin on what he still needs to do on his project
7:38 am - blow kiss to Ceilidh
7:40am - get to my car, only to be told by spouse that he snapped the windshield wiper
7:41 am- climb into the mom-mobile (uncool minivan with the cheesy family stickers on rear window) and sigh at the quiet surroundings
7:42 am - blast on the radio and peel out of driveway (okay, crawled out of driveway)

It was quiet and peaceful. Knowing that the contractors were coming to work in the basement and spouse was most likely to work from home and be underfoot, I welcomed the ridiculously slow commute to escape the chaos.

Groundhog's Day

Remember that movie with Bill Murray and Andie McDowell? Where they're caught re-living the same day over and over again? Yeah, it's like that here, except it's a cycle that repeats every 20 minutes or so.
Quinn asking for apple juice.
Ever since I successfully weaned the Quinn-meister off the boob and onto the sippy cup, he's been great about drinking everything BUT milk. Unlike his older siblings who would cannot go an hour or two without milk, Quinn could care less. We've tried every form of milk on him - cow's milk, soy milk, almond milk, chocolate milk...nada. He spits it out in disgust. Unless there are cheerios or fruit loops floating around in the white liquid, he refuses to partake. Given his otherwise healthy and varied diet, the pediatrician advised us to leave it be. So, he drinks water and juice. Lots of it.And he's learned on Friday take out nights, Daddy has something yummy, sweet and bubbly in his cup, so he's constantly swiping his dad's soft drink.
And when his older siblings bring home juice boxes from their activities, he demands one of his own. I have relented, on those once a week occasions, letting him have his own juice box.
Now, he thinks he can get a juice box all the time.

"Mommy, apple juice??" he queries.
"Yeah, it's in your sippy cup."
"Noooo, I want apple juice!"
"Here, it's in the sippy cup. Watch me pour some more," I try to re-direct, a tactic that used to work in the past.
"Nooooo! Not cup! Want apple juice!" he cries.
"Sippy cup!"
And then the drama starts, with the head thrown back, and the flinging of his body onto the floor.

I ignore.

Five minutes later...

"Mommy, apple juice?" he asks with a smile.
"Yes, it's in the sippy cup."
"Mommy, want  apple juice?" he asks while dragging me to the cupboard where I "hide" the juice boxes.
"No, you can have the juice in your cup."
"Nooooo!" comes the cry and, this times, he's starting to bang his head against the cupboard.


A little later, while standing by the cupboard, "Mommy? Apple Juice? Peeze?"
"No."
"Peeze!!!" he screams while he's trying to reach the safety lock on the cupboard.

Really, either his short term memory is really terrible, or he's ever hopeful that Mommy's short term memory is terrible and I'll forget about denying his request a gazillion times, or he's super optimistic that Mommy will change her mind if he keeps wearing her down.
Whatever. I guess I have to admire his tenacity. Or stubbornness.

Oh, and happy Groundhog's Day on this Superbowl Sunday!

The Stand-Off

Now that Quinn has turned two, he's become better at verbalizing his likes, dislikes, needs and delight. However, when he gets frustrated that he is not having his needs met to his liking, he resorts to throwing whatever items he can grab and fling. The soother will go flying, his stuffed lamb ends up on the floor, toys get tossed and books get chucked everywhere. Sometimes, instead of tossing it with force, he'll simple let the object drop from his hand onto the floor, while defiantly staring at us. Trying to correct this behaviour has been challenging.
Tonight, he wanted to watch Power Rangers. "Go go Ray" he requested. I refused as his siblings hadn't left the house. He threw his sippy cup onto the floor, and juice squirted out everywhere.
I asked Quinn to pick it up.
He refused. Shook his head.
I told him again.
He blew a raspberry. Challenged me with his baleful eyes.
I walked away. Into the kitchen. Started washing the dishes.
Quinn toddled after me. Tried to wedge his body between the kitchen cupboards and me. And had the gall to ask for a treat.
Calmly, I advised him I wouldn't be helping him if he didn't pick up his cup. (I was quite proud of myself for NOT losing my temper.) He fell onto the floor and started bawling, crocodile tears and all.
I continued with the task at hand, ignoring this display of drama.
All of a sudden, Quinn stood up and ran into the living room. I heard a thud. Then he returned and asked for a treat, "peeze."
I repeated that his sippy cup needed to be picked up.
"I did!" he stated. "Come!"
Grabbing my hand, he pulled me into the living room, and pointed proudly, "I did. On table!"
So he had.
I asked him if he was going to say sorry for his behaviour. He nodded and leaned into me, and when I didn't move, he grabbed my hand and made me hug him.
Then he looked at my face, and asked, "Candy?"
"Can you say sorry Mommy?" I asked.
"Candy?" he asked while patting my cheek with his sticky hand.
"How about no throwing," I tried.
"Candy?" And seeing the twinkle of amusement in my eyes, he laughed and knowing he had won the battle, declared triumphantly "Candy!"

To Quinn

Dear Quinn,
I'm sorry I yelled at you the other night. It was time for bed, and I had already read you 5 stories (two hockey books, one Power Rangers, two Thomas the Train), and you insisted on more books. It was quite late, and the nanny said you had only napped for two hours. Rather than settling down to cuddle, you threw your sippy cup and your soother, and carried on with a mini temper tantrum. And started the raspberry blowing with spit flying everywhere - your latest trick. So I yelled.
And finally, you decided it was time to sleep. And here's when you made me feel so low. You snuggled up to me. And took out your soother and said "kiss" or rather, "kith" and planted one on my lips. Then you threw your head back and laughed. I don't know why you thought it was so funny, but you repeated the action and laughed again. A third kiss before you popped the soother back in and headbutted me while climbing on top of me. As you fiddled with your lamb, you asked, "Where's Daddy? Where's Ceilidh? Where's brother? Where's shing?" I assume you meant Aisling.
When I answered they were sleeping, you then asked, "Mommy go work?" That's when I felt the bomb of the working mother guilt go off in my chest. But before I could explain that Mommy was going to cuddle you all night, and not do any work that evening, your siblings crawled into bed and demanded their Mommy time too.
It's been said that the youngest child gets the short end of the parenting stick. There are fewer pictures of the youngest child, especially when there's more than two kids in the family. The youngest rarely gets new clothes, unless of course, the older kids are a completely different sex.The memories of the youngest child often gets mixed up with the memories of the older ones.
I vowed to treasure each of your experiences separately and catalogue them in my memory. And so I won't forget, let me tell you, my dear Quinn, what makes me smile and laugh about you.
The way you greet me at the door, with a huge smile that lights up your entire face and eyes.
The way you laugh your delight when you're playing.
Instead of saying yes to a question, you'll laugh. If I ask you if you'd like more strawberries or apples or go-gurt (yogurt), you'll grin and laugh. And state "peeze".
How you recognize the logos of almost every NHL team in the league and shout out "Hockey!"
How you cheer on your brother at his games. "Go go go! Yeah!"
How you insist on putting on your sister's hockey gear and reach for the hockey sticks, inside the house, which makes me nervous that you'll either break the tv or mirror or smack a sibling in the face. You hate it when I try to offer you the mini sticks. Your daddy swears you'll be an NHL prospect. But your ability to throw the soother and other items makes me wonder if baseball would be a better fit.
How you can eat anything and everything. Quinn - you'll eat two whole grapefruits in one sitting. A whole bunch of steamed broccoli at dinner. Instead of the chicken wings and fries, you dine on the carrots and celery and ranch dressing. Three yogurts and you're still looking for more. You will most likely eat us out of house and home soon. And yet, you're still a light weight. Only 22 pounds at your 2 year check up. Your Uncle Billy swears there must be a tapeworm.
How happy you are to see your siblings at the end of each day.
The way you rub your forehead against mine.
The way you run - arms tucked in against your sides, but still swinging back and forth, while your little bum jiggles and your feet scamper across the floor.
The way you will simply force your way next to me whenever I'm cuddling a sibling of your's. You throw yourself on top and wedge your tiny body next to mine, and push the offending sibling out of the way, and state with authority, "MY Mommy!"
How you wake you up every morning, with a ready smile and a desire to cuddle.
The time you discovered a hole in your sock,and how fascinated you were that you could see your toes.
How you wrestle with your siblings and the mischievous laugh you have when you know I'm trying to catch you to put some pyjamas on. You look back and take off around the house or somersault all over the bed, trying to hide underneath the pillows, only to laugh uncontrollably when you're caught.
The way you go around the house, calling out "Mommy, where are youuuu?" whenever I'm out of your sight, and then laughing and stating "There you are" when you find me.
How I can still soothe your hurts and tears with a kiss and cuddle.
How you must know that by saying "Peeze" while smiling at me, I'll probably give in to whatever requests you have.

My baby boy, I love you, and I can't promise I won't yell at you again in the near future (in fact I'm quite sure, there will be much yelling and disagreements). But I can  promise there will always be lots of hugs and kisses.

Another fraudster?

We've all done this, at least once in our lives. Some of us have gotten away with it, and some of us have gotten caught. We've probably all done it for the same reason - because we were afraid of getting in trouble from the parents. If we got caught, we learned it wasn't worth it since we got into more trouble. But if we actually got away with it, well, I'd rather not think about that.

What am I talking about? Not underage drinking. Not sneaking out to go to a party. Although I'm sure I have *that* to look forward to as a parent, but hopefully not anytime soon. No, I'm talking about forging your parent's signature on a school note or report card or test.

And Devlin has done just that. At age 9. I'm quite sure I was a bit older, like high school, when I did it. Most of my friends who confessed to forging their parent's signature were in high school at the time. And so, to make me feel better, my friends point out that my 9 year old fraudster is smart and creative for thinking of this plan to escape our wrath.

Apparently, after a few phone calls, my dear spouse (and father to the fraud artist) managed to glean the following from the school staff:

- last  month, the kids had been given talks about respect and being respectful

- last week, during a fellow student's presentation, our first-born and a classmate were flinging an eraser off their rulers, and thus not being respectful

- the disrespecting students were given a warning to stop their rude behaviour

- my child and his pal did not

- instead of taking away the offending eraser, the teacher decided to send the two miscreants out into the hallway to think - without supervision

Well, putting two boys who've been banished for goofing off in a hallway, without supervision, and instruct them to think about their actions, will not result in two remorseful persons. Do you think?

Of course not!

My darling son and his pal got their hands on some paper, fashioned paper swords and started a duel.

Apparently, the teacher was not pleased with this result, so he sent them off to the "behaviour" teacher/aide.

Where they were told to write out, in their own words, why they had been sent to the behavioural aide, and bring the note home to be signed by their parents. 

My son, knowing full well that his parents would not be pleased about this, decided to take matters into his own hand, or handwriting. And, then had the balls to invite some friends over for a play date on the weekend.

My husband and I were in the complete dark about these events all weekend. I noticed my child was a tad more cooperative about doing the chores and practising piano, but mistakenly or naively thought my child was maturing.

Well, he got caught, and rightly so, since the "signature" was shaky, and in pencil.

He got in way more trouble than he would have for the original transgression. I would have taken the "being sent to the behavioural aide for play fighting with a sword" way more lightly, since it was the teacher's own doing for sending out two kids in the hallway without supervision for goofing off in class together! No, not a new teacher either.

We told our sorry looking child that had he brought the first note home to be signed, he would have lost xbox for 2 weeks. But the forgery earned him two more weeks of the xbox and computer game ban and no play dates for the said month. And to make sure the message sunk in about how wrong it was to forge our signature, I read him the punishment section from the Criminal Code for uttering a forged document. His eyes grew as wide as saucers when I read out ten years of imprisonment.  (Not that anyone has EVER actually gone to prison for that long but he doesn't need to know that.)

And yes, now that it's been a day since this all happened, and I've had some to reflect on it, I have to agree it was quite the cheeky move. I just didn't think I'd have to deal with this so soon. And yeah, it's part of growing up. We've all done it...admit it!

But here's my vent - why weren't we, as parents, not notified earlier? The moment the decision was made to send him to the behavioural aide, I should have been told. The school has that agenda for messages to parents, and every night, we're supposed to sign it. Every time, he gets sent out of the classroom for disrupting the class, I should have been made aware of the situation. Through a brief note or phone call. But there's nothing in his agenda. I know. I sign the blank pages everyday! How else are we parents to know anything is wrong, or work on improving the offending issues if we're kept in the dark? Clearly, the education system expects us to teach the curriculum to our kids these days, especially math (another vent topic for another blog post), but not assist in disciplining our kids? I guess they were trying to teach nine year old boys to be accountable and responsible for their actions. Well, my job revolves around grown men and women who can't take responsibility for their actions, so I don't know how these "educators" think children will do so.