Below the Line Reflections

So the Wog and I just finished our last day of 'Below the Line', with our charity of choice being UNICEF.

$1.75 is the Canadian equivalent of the extreme poverty line. Living on so little gave us a glimpse into the challenges faced by the 1.4 billion people who have no choice but to live below the line every day – for everything - food, medical care, transport, education, everything.

Our Below the Line Page

It was definitely an affair to remember. When I first broached the subject with him a few weeks ago, he was very hesitant; he felt it might negatively impact our kids. Thankfully, I think having them present [though not participating] enriched the experience.

Living on less than two dollars a day is a lot harder than it seems on paper; that was the first lesson we learnt. Just grocery shopping turned into an epic journey of frustration and compromise.
He wanted hot dogs [ew] and I wanted eggs...I conceded but only if I didn't have to eat the oatmeal.

As a side note, anyone who has read earlier posts in this blog knows that last year we nearly lost our house; it's not something I like to talk about, but it did happen, and during that period of time I was a master of the family budget. Trying to stretch things became a matter of pride for me; it didn't matter if half our food was coming from Dollarama...we were eating and that was the important thing.

It did hurt my heart a little when Goose asked 'Momma, did Daddy lose his job again?' when we sat down to our first dinner. Thankfully, after a careful explanation both he and Roux relaxed and came to enjoy that they were eating a variation of our meals.

All in all it was a learning experience, and a valuable one; it helped us remind us how close we came to losing everything we had...but it also helped us see how far we'd come.

Dance with My Father Again

No, this is not to be a 'Below the Line' post, because I'm waiting until the end of the week to gather my thoughts.

Here's what I do want to write about. I've been mulling this over in my head for days, trying to decide if I wanted to put it out there or not, and this post will be the result...if it manages to come out slightly more coherently than it sounds in my head. Probably not.

Our relationships with our parents are complicated ones. As children they seem perfect to us, untouchable, never doubted. As we become teenagers they are the opposite; disparaged, mocked and ridiculed.  I won't even touch on what manifests as we reach adulthood. No, I'm not passing judgement on anybody else's relationship with their parents...this is my blog and I'm talking about me.

My childhood with my Daddy was a love story. He was my everything, and I always thought he could do no wrong. In a way he only disappointed me once. Only once.

On May 2nd 1993 my Daddy died, in the garage of our home, alone. I found him there. I called the ambulance. I did everything they said. I screamed to God, the neighbours, and anyone who would listen; but he died anyways. It was five days before my fifteenth birthday.

The problem with this, is that in those twenty odd minutes while I waited for the ambulance, I lost nearly all the good memories I had. They were buried beneath anger, betrayal and death.

Like any good girl I've had therapy; years of it. So I built my memory palace [mine is more of a cottage but still] and I filled it with information, facts...stuff. I have a 'Daddy' room; over the years I've cataloged  and filed away every image, story detail, sense memory, everything. I have it all. It fills rows of books, all colours, textures, scents. If you were to come into the room it would seem like a shrine. It is in many ways.

Except one. There's one memory that doesn't stay on any shelf I put it one. Visually it's a box, not a book and if you made the mistake of opening it, its' howls and screeches knock everything else down.
I hate that damn box. I only open it one night a year. Thursday will be that night.

But this year, the twentieth year he's been gone from me I have an unexpected weapon. Three days ago I received a very unexpected gift from a childhood friend. Her father had been digitising their home movies and she sent me one so I could see how young we all were. It was filmed in 1988 and the quality wasn't the best, but suddenly, as I was halfheartedly watching, there was my father. In all his stupid fisherman's hat, too short shorts glory. I HEARD HIS VOICE. I hadn't heard that voice in twenty years. Twenty years.

East Hill Farm 1988

This girl has no idea how precious those three seconds were to me. To hear a voice that I had long forgotten, that I never expected to hear again. Just wow.

Oh My Daddy. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you and wonder, 'What if?'

Thank you for reading my long and rambling post. So sorry if I offended or upset anyone.

Bicycles and Blah

You know, when I first started writing this blog, I swore up and down it wouldn't be a MommyBlog; not that there is anything remotely wrong with MommyBlogs, I had just been there and done that. This was supposed to be a random, perverted something-or-rather...

But, as art [not particularly good art] tends to imitate life [not particularly interesting life] this blog is slowly becoming me and my life at its [not so] finest.

This past Sunday Goose learnt to ride his bike without training wheels. To most, this is a normal right of passage that occurs with little angst. Not so in the Mommy Mab household.

Goose, being Goose, had long had a longstanding love/hate relationship with his bicycle...he was still using his tricycle at five, and was only barely coaxed off that, when his Grandma bought him a bike for his sixth birthday. Wog and I never fought it; it didn't bother us what he rode, so long as he was having a good time.
Everything changed on Sunday though; Goose attended a classmates birthday where though he won the bowling [given that I've never taken him bowling I thought that was an accomplishment], he was upset when everyone was riding and he couldn't.

When I arrived to pick him up he was sitting morosely on the curb while all the other kids biked around. He was happy enough to explain the mathematics of bowling to me, over and over, but I noticed he kept looking at the other kids.
'
Would you like Mommy to go and get your bike?' I asked
He shook his head,
'It has four wheels; I don't want them to see'.
This broke my heart, because I've never, ever said anything like that to him.

So I asked the Super!Dad running the party to help us out...and it worked! Within half an hour Goose was zipping [well, and zagging] around with the others.

Moral of the story: Our kids will always surprise us...no matter what!

And now to share two gorgeous pictures of my Littles by Kelly Meagan Photography...

 Photos by Kelly Meagan
https://www.facebook.com/kellymeaganphoto?fref=ts

Mommy Moments and Letters to Loki

Today I had one of those Mommy!Moments.

Things have been utterly wretchedly crazy at work the past few weeks and I admit I've been kinda snarky on the home front. I always swore I'd never let work get in the way of me enjoying time with my Littles, but at the end of the day, I admit that their daycare teachers see them more than I do. It breaks my heart, but that's the way it is, and unless I win the lottery [which would mean I'd have to play the lottery], they have to stay in daycare. I know they love their teachers, but I always worry I'm missing out on key moments in their lives.

At any rate, today I arrived late to pick up Goose [which by proxy meant I was going to be late to pick up Roux as well] so I came flying into the school, when the director asked to speak with me. Heart sinking, I thought I was up for another lecture about a) My lateness, b) Goose acting out, or c) Both.

My Goose is a special boy, and I try to avoid labels when talking about him or writing about him, because I want people to get to know him, for him, and not pity him because of some label concocted by another [myself included]. But I digress...

When we got into her office she pulled out what I recognised as Goose's big notepad; he struggles a lot with printing so he likes to practise on this, where he can write as big as he likes. I immediately thought I was in for a repeat of last year's notepad incident which involved older boys and four letter words, but instead she opened it and handed it to me.

Here is what it was:

 In Case you don't speak Goose I'll translate:

Dear My Mum's Favorite Actor Loki,
Please come to her birthday party.
She will be very happy and buy me toys. And make you cake. Love, Goose.
*Please note the lovely illustrations where Loki is twice the size of Thor*

Turns out she was concerned that I had let him watch Thor and The Avengers; I haven't, but he doesn't live under a rock...and I admit I buy early reader Avengers books to try to tempt his reading. I assured her that I would not be inviting any Frost Giants to my birthday in May, tempting though it may be.

I may be the mother of one of the sweetest Gooses in the history of Geese. My beautiful boy.

Insert Year End Summary Here

This is supposed to be where my year end summary would go, and if I'd had a remarkable enough year to warrant such a thing I would gladly post it. This year was, in many ways an exercise in futility, in lows and lower lows [yes, I'm being melodramatic] in loss and betrayal...looks like it has all the makings of a romance novel or after school special.

To be fair good things did happen this year: the Wog publishing his book, Goose starting grade one and Roo finishing her potty training [okay, that one was for me] and Hiddleston did give us the brilliant Henry IV and V this summer [also for me].

But we did have to [try] sell our house, lose all our savings and scale back so much that we couldn't function without help from our families, and the Wog did lose out on three truly brilliant jobs that would have turned everything around. Topping the year off with a big ol' blah, we still haven't heard from the consolidation folks so it seems we're just where we started.

The holidays have been lack luster at best, with Goose spending Christmas Eve hunched over the toilet and Roo hacking like a two pack a day smoker...good times all around.

I'm trying to stay positive as we move into the new year; I keep thinking it has to get better because it can't get any worse. People say that to us a lot; 'It will get better'...is that what people say when they don't know what else to say?  Do they really mean, 'I'm glad it's you and not us'? Not that I blame them, some days I wouldn't want to be us either.

Happy New Year to anyone who took the time to read this and any of my other [never-ending] rants. All the best to you and yours this holiday season.

Replace Klonopin with Beer and Get...This

I'm beginning to realise that I should have subtitled this blog, 'I'm ranting again, just wait, I'll stop shortly' because, let's face it, that seems to be what I do. If this were a proper Mommy blog it would be full of sunshine and kittens and breastfeeding, and if I were younger it would include a myriad of sexual innuendo and mildly profane remarks about the Divine Mr Hiddleston and anyone else of note.
But this poor blog is neither of those things...that's why I named it what I did. It's everything and nothing and all over the place, with no rhyme or reason. Just like me. And I loves it, Precious.

This is where I should get all philosophical and talk about what the Lack has taught me about the true meaning of life. This is where I should submit myself to a public flogging because I once bought my husband a one hundred and eighty dollar t-shirt. I know I should, but I can't and won't. The Lack sucks. I'm sure it doesn't just suck for me, it sucks for alot of people. But this is my blog and not the world stage.

I love my life. I love books and plays, movies and my kids [in no particular order]. I love beer and sex and looking at pictures of Mr Hiddleston like some starry-eyed fifteen year old. What I don't like is loosing my house, my car and everything that sews the fabric of my life together. I don't like where I am right now. I hate it.
Tomorrow is the day the Lack will become a tidal wave and drown me, us. I've ducked and weaved and wheeled and dealed...I've even borrowed and stolen. But as of tomorrow none of it will matter...because of the way the dates fall my beautiful monstrosity of pick up sticks will crash and be washed away.

Yes, the melodrama is flowing...I've replace the klonopin with beer for the evening...feel free to disregard.

It's Roux' birthday in less than two weeks; she'll be three and it's all she can talk about. I feel like the worst Momma in the world because I know I won't be able to live up to the party she has planned in her head. Yes, before you point out that she's only three I will clarify: I don't even have the money to invite the family over for cake and chips...that's how badly the Lack has become. I can't find money to buy gas or groceries, how on earth can I find it for balloons?  Yes, I'm a thrifty person, so yes she has gifts [mostly second hand, but cute and clean] I started buying them months ago [hey, Christmas is only a few weeks away].  But still...it hurts, you know?

It hurts a lot.

Why Indeed

It's been a hard two weeks for Mommy Mab and her littles. First gastro, then scarlet fever, then gastro again...then Mommy Mab got bronchitis. Ickiness all around. Plus, making matters more unbearable than usual the Lack has been poking its nasty head out wherever it can. Boo on all counts.

Today I decided to engage in an activity I take great pleasure in: planning my success. Now, depending on my mood this game can take many forms; from the banal imagining winning the lottery to the elaborate-become a late in life highly sought after actress [Hey, it could and will happen...just wait!].

Given that I was plodding away at the Big Green, where for the last two days its been my job to unwrap hundreds of usb sticks and repackage them with monogrammed notebooks. I decided to re-investigate the mini executive MBA program I've been trying to borrow funds from pretty much anyone to attend.

After all my proverbial ducks were in a row, meaning I'd discovered nobody wanted to give me the money and I'd need a student loan if I decided to go through with it, I remembered the fellow I'd been speaking with had mentioned that the program was eligible for employer tax incentives. So I decided to call my lovely HR Generalist to get her opinion.

'Oh Beaver' she practically cooed. 'Why on Earth would you want to take that course?' she giggled. 'You'd never be approved anyways. What benefit would a course like that have for someone at your level?'
I admit, I'd hoped she'd be a little helpful, but I hadn't expected the saccharine, patronising, attitude. I rebutted that I'd already submitted my application and been accepted based on my work experience and existing degree. 'Oh Dear, why do you even want to bother?'  I thanked her for her time and advise.

So why do I even bother? Because I do, damn it. I bother alot. I may not rattle the cage as wildly as I did in my younger days, but I can still give it a swift kick if I'm of mind to.  Just wait Big Green, I'll show you...I'll show everybody.

Who is Watching Whom?

So today I get that dreaded call from the school saying that my Goose has fallen in the playground and hit his head. I know nobody enjoys calls from the school, but I particularly hate ‘injury’ calls; they always make me feel infinitely more guilty than illness calls, and part of me is always angry that my child got hurt while somebody else was watching them.

Immediately I jump into Dr Quinn-mode and demand to know if he’s dizzy, throwing up, how high was he when he fell etc…

The woman on the other end answers all my questions, and when I’m satisfied that there is no immediate danger I ask to speak with my son. Initially she’s reluctant, but I, being me, persist until he’s brought to the phone. Or at least until some child is brought to the phone. Here’s where it gets a little weird…

You see, two seconds into the call I realize that the child I’m speaking to IS NOT MINE. Calmly I ask the child to let me speak with the program’s Director, and when the phone is handed over, explain that, whichever child I was speaking to IS NOT MINE. No, she says, he just sounds that way because he’s shaken up, or maybe my connection is bad, but she insists, I was speaking to my blue-eyed Goose [blue like his Mommy's eyes she says]. I acquiesce, because let’s face it, I am very hard of hearing on one side at the best of times, and the phones at Big Green aren’t exactly stellar.

I call the Wog to be on the look out for head injuries when Goose gets home and go back to work.

A few hours later the phone rings again. This time the Director explains to me, laughing all the while that she did mix up the children and it wasn’t my Goose I was speaking to, but some other injured child. Goose never fell, she says, she was just confused…oh, and she’s sorry if she worried me.  Nice of her to let me know.

So apparently the people I'm paying to take care of my child, don’t actually know who my child is or what he’s doing. Which begs the question, if they aren’t watching, who is?

Waiting For Gastro

You know that feeling of impending doom you get when one of your littles has gastro [or stomach flu for those non-Quebec folks] and even though they're getting better, you know its only a matter of time before another member of your household succumbs? That's how I feel right now...some people wait for Godot, I wait for Gastro.

My relationship with gastro is long and complicated...and absurd, really but it's part of what makes me, me.
I admit it, I worry constantly about the kids getting it, the Wog getting it, even occasionally me getting it, though that's calmed down since I discovered Mommies aren't allowed to get sick, ever.

Last night poor Roux was up all night being sick, and she found the whole exercise terrifically exciting; no tears from my little Miss, just plenty of 'Momma I throw up *insert place*!' Ug. A night full of washing and rewashing, and then sanitising and re-sanitising cause it makes me feel better.

So here I sit, klonopin in hand, waiting. Calmly. I've accepted my fate.

~I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.~  

~Samuel Beckett

On Flu Shots and Jedi Mind Tricks

I'm going to let you in on a secret; I vaccinate Goose and Roux.  Shhh...don't tell anyone.  I don't have the energy to debate with the other Mommies. I could argue that both of them received the full intensity of my attachment parenting bonanza; co-sleeping, extended breastfeeding, baby-led weaning...the whole kit and caboodle. With Roux I even got more intense: *queue creepy music* she had an adjusted vaccination schedule. But I'm too tired to debate these things anymore; raise your littles your way, and I'll raise mine my way.  Live and Let Live.  Or Live and Leave me the heck alone...whichever is easier.

So, onto the point of this post. Today is officially the first day of flu shots in grand old Quebec; I get mine for free at work [one bonus the Big Green gives us along with our five sick days], so I left work early to bring the Goose and Roux to the drop in flu shot clinic down the street. Now, I don't do crowds, or germs really...but once a year I forgo my hangups and drag my littles to get shot full of attenuated flu virus.
Now I had confirmed with the provincial health folks earlier in the afternoon that this clinic was walk in only and ran until seven thirty so I figured if we arrived at four thirty that left us plenty of time...according to the big, burly security guard that barred our entrance I was very, very wrong.

Upon arriving in the subzero temperature in the growing darkness [and trying desperately to ignore Roux' demand that we play in the adjacent park instead] the big, angry man informed me that the clinic was only accepting people with appointments and I could come back tomorrow. Now, being a perfectly rational beaver I informed him that I had taken time off work, taken my littles out of school early and been told by the provincial health folks that I was able to attend this clinic. I refused to leave. I repeated my three points, again. And again. More people queued up behind me. They seemed to agree with my three points [most of them having brought their own littles]. I requested that I speak with somebody else [I'm Canadian we hate to be rude], several times...and refused to leave. Eventually he gave up and brought out a volunteer. I explained the situation and my trinity of arguments, and repeated it, twice.
As more and more people were gathering around me [including an absolutely sweet lady about to start chemo] her teen aged son and I figured it out. It was like a Jedi mind trick...they kept repeating 'We don't have appointments' but then people would arrive saying they had appointments, at which point they would add 'Unless you have an appointment', but when we requested appointments for tomorrow they repeated 'We don't have appointments'.
Eventually the head nurse came outside and repeated their strange mantra 'We don't have appointments' while still allowing people flashing their not-appointment cards into the building 'Unless you have an appointment'. No solution was reached and the littles and I went home. Attenuated virus-less.

Remind Me Why We Do This Again?

Can somebody please remind me why I would think it was a good idea to pull Halloween off by myself this year?  Was it ego? Maybe. Hubris? Very possibly. Though to be fair I did ask for help...but nobody was able to...which I thought was fine, at the time.

Le sigh. Try to picture me chasing two six year olds [one of whom, English is not his native language] and a nearly three year old through the damp, dark suburban jungle shrieking  at the top of my lungs,
'No! Stay off the street. Ignore the leaves! No! Don't ring the doorbell over and over again! Stop! Wait for me! '

I'm sure I looked and sounded positively deranged. Vanity aside, I had the brilliant [naturally] idea that I would leave my bowl of candy on my steps and visitors to my house [which I was of course not at, as I was busy howling through my neighbourhood] would each take one piece of candy in an orderly fashion and proceed to the next house. Okay, so I might have been naive...

I arrived home to find two crying children dressed as mini-cheerleader-zombie things on my doorstep peering at the empty bowl while their father felt the need to explain that 'Those wild teenagers!' had just taken all the candy, and what would his zombie-cheerleaders do now?  Apologising profusely [while trying to wrangle Roo who wanted to pee and eat her candy at the same time] I hurried into the house and refilled the bowl and distributed 'extra' candy for his children's duress.

Thus ends my Halloween.  How was yours?

A St Crispin's Day A Rant in Three parts

So begins a St Crispin's rant in three parts.

First of all, the Lack continues to rear it's very ugly head. The amount of self loathing I feel about even talking about it...well, I loath in a variety of mediums...alot. Birthdays for classmates have become an issue; how many birthday parties does Goose have to go to? I swear he has one every other weekend...
His school has an 'All or None' invitation policy; heaven forbid a child know what it feels like not to be invited somewhere! They might learn that life isn't fair or something...
At any rate, having to buy gifts nonstop for other kids isn't really my cup of tea, but I hate the idea of Goose being the kid that brings the less than stellar gift...and then I hate myself on all sides. I hate the other moms, then hate myself for not being the other moms.
Secondly, I need to address that dratted Hiddleston and his antics, which are beginning to inter fear with my day to day life. That man is far too lovely for his own good...I just like to watch him...again and again.
What becomes of fangirls as we age?  Are we supposed to retire?  Or go underground? Am I now a fanwoman? Now, I'm not terrifically old, but given how young most fangirls are I feel positively ancient...and rather creepy.  I still remember my glory days of James Marsters and Michael Rosenbaum  [some of you may have to look them up...please do. They were-and still are-lovely].  
But yes, Hiddleston...too cute for his [and my] own good.  No man should ever be able to sneeze like that and still be sensual; it must be criminal.

Today I happened to overhear several of the uppers at Big Green discussing the salaries of the incoming newbies. Image my surprise to discover that their salaries match mine. Interesting considering I've slogged away in this place for nearly nine years...four of which I haven't even been granted the standard 'cost of living' quasi increase companies give you to keep you quiet.
Well, I'm not sure if I can stay quiet [like I ever could]. I have an honors degree from one of the best universities in the country, I arrive early and stay late, I take on other jobs outside my comfort and training, I fill gaps when people leave, I put up with more shit in a week than most do in a lifetime.
All for, [wait for it]
36 400 a year.  Before taxes. 
Now, please realise this isn't intended to be one those I'm edumecated/hardworking/rescuekittens type rant, but rather a flailing of hands. Eat me, Big Green. Eat me.

Is it Thursday? Also, Porn

I don't know where time is going, but it must be going somewhere because it seems to be hiding from me. I feel like I've barely gotten out of bed and arrived at the Big Green before its lunchtime and I'm frantically trying to do errands, then suddenly its dark and I'm trying to ensure my kids are actually clean and fed before I put them to bed.
Then I read 'Avengers' porn for an hour or so before bed...okay, sometimes I branch out and read 'Supernatural' porn too.  And Hiddleston. Don't get me started on Hiddleston.
The Wog has gotten himself a job at an ultra high end steak house where people in sweatsuits and gold chains pay extra for crowding and toppling tables. This makes the lack feel like it's waiting, lurking in the corner, about to pounce and make its presence known. The house is still for sale, and the bills are still unpaid. So I read porn. Porn is simple, safe and easy. I feel like after the last two years I've earned the right for easy.
Logically I know that nothing is really easy, or simple. I know this the way I've known since babyhood that life isn't fair. But the power of self delusion is good enough for me. I'm a realist, but reality has never really suited me. Give me elves, vampires and demi-gods anyday.  Pinky and the Brain can keep their world; I've got my own.

Wednesdays and Cancer Always Get Me Down

You know what bothers me? Well, to be fair there are many, many things that bother me, but tonight I don't feel like making a list, so I'll just pick one: Cancer. Now, I can say with a fair degree of certainty that there are very few people out there who actually like cancer, but still...
Long story short, my dear old Mam has been wading through the cancer diagnosis maze for the past THREE months and yesterday it all came to a head. She was told by her specialist that her biopsy appointment would be this week, yet a week had past and nobody had phoned her. Or returned her calls. Classy yes?
So, I being my delightful self rocked the boat...alot [some may have drowned] and lo and behold suddenly she magically has a biopsy scheduled for Friday morning. Poof! Just like that.
Now I ask you, what would have happened if I hadn't intervened [or interfered-potato/potato]?  Would she still be waiting?  I'm not political or anything, but jeez...is this really how breast cancer clinics treat people?
Where are the ribbons and togetherness? The hand holding and Kumbaya?

Whines and Worries

Well, we're four days post-surgery for Roux and I think she's doing great. I know in the grand scheme of things tubes and adenoids aren't a big deal, but they were a big worry for me. That's sorta my thing...or one of my many things; I worry, alot. I worry about things that I'm sure most people don't even spare a passing glance to. From the moment my eyes open from my klonopin inspired slumber I worry through my day.
Thanks be to my years of teen aged therapy so I function perfectly well to the casual [or even not so casual] observer, but inside my mind moves in ways I can't even begin to explain. My worries range from the mundane, 'is summer over?' to the chronic 'will my kids/me/myhusband get gastro?' to the things that probably should be worried about, 'will we sell the house before the bill collectors knock down our doors and take all we have?'. I still wait for the wonderful. Oh how I wait, and worry.
Is it any wonder that I try to will my spare time with things as far from my actual life as possible?
I read more fanfic than any human should, and still crave more...so I delve deeper, darker, naughtier, and branch into things I never would have considered five years ago.And for the record, there's pretty much nothing I wouldn't have considered five years ago...I consider my tastes t run towards vanilla but have been told my self assessment is flawed. Perhaps vanilla with nuts, and gumdrops, and bourbon sauce...
I'm currently obsessed with fandoms that I never even glanced at before, both Panda and otherwise, and I love/need/crave my Panda world...
And don't even get me started on that dratted Hiddleston.

Moving Forward...sort of

The Goose started grade one yesterday; he was beyond thrilled by this. I, slightly less so. This is not to say that I'm not proud of Goose, or vaguely confused how he got to be old enough to attend grade one, I just feel...removed somehow.

When this journey into night began nearly two years ago I made a promise to myself that I would never, ever let the kids' lives be negatively affected by the Lack. But the Lack is rearing its tentacles at nearly every possible venue these days. Every time I manage to pry one off another one grows in its place.

I couldn't afford to buy Goose a new school bag that he desperately wanted, shoes or school supplies...but I couldn't let him start without them either. I don't want him to be that kid. I know I should make it a learning experience, but he's six...his learning lessons should be reading and math, not that Mommy can't pay for both his pizza lunch and the oil bill at the same time. Or that Mommy is sick to death of going to GrandMommy with a hand out. Or that Mommy's heart is broken in so many peices she can barely hold it together.

I wait so patiently for the Wonderful, and will continue to wait.  For Goose and Roux I will wait forever.

Is it so very wrong...

That tonight I worked late, felt guilty about working late, so I bought the kids Happy Meals?
Lazy [and gross -the meals, not the kids] but they [the kids-not the meals] seemed terrifically happy...and that made me happy. Then onto bubble baths and copious amounts of stories, then bed. I think I may be more tired that they are. I feel so much pressure to squeeze something meaningful into the measly two hours I spend with them every day...and what does my brain produce?  Happy Meals.
Seriously though, are Happy Meals evil?   I don't think they do anything other than emphasize my lazy parenting [and inability to cook]. 
Plus Goose wants me to pull out his loose tooth...this completely squicks me. I just can't do it...

It Begins

Believe it or not, it has now taken me over ten minutes to write these few sentences. Why?

Well, the two little people milling about my feet are most likely the cause; Goose, who is six and Roux, who is two both seem to have sixth senses which immediately inform them if I'm attempting to do something [anything!] that doesn't involve them.

After a very hectic post-vacation week at the Big Green me and the kids have all been enjoying an early [very early!] Lincoln Logs session while the Wog [also known as Daddy] sleeps in. Sometimes the times that should be the calmest are often the most chaotic...strange how that happens.