Bruce Lee on the Baby Einstein DVD (Mozart):


"I like this show.  It is not too scary for me.  Scooby Doo is too scary for me.  This is not too scary for me.  Ok Mommy?  Ok?  I can watch this movie because it is not too scary for me."


"OK buddy ... so you want to watch this and you don't want to watch Scooby Doo, right?" 


"Yeah.  I don't like Scooby Doo.  But I like Scooby Doo when it's not too scary.  But (Jackie Chan) watch Scooby Doo and he's bigger so he's not too scared."


"Yeah ... Jackie Chan can watch stuff and it doesn't scare him the way it would scare you.  I get it.  We can just watch this DVD where the music plays and the toys just do their thing and some puppets come out.  It's all very exciting."


"Uh huh.  I like it Mommy.  I like this one.  It's good for me.  Oh ... (laughing) ... look at that!  The puppet sticks his tongue out and says 'blah'.  It's funny Mommy.  Not scary"


"Yes buddy ... very funny.  Very NOT scary.  I'm glad you like it."


"Yeah, I like it.  It's not too scary for me."


"Good."


Two minutes later:


"Um, Mommy, I want to watch something else.  I don't like this movie now."


"Sure, what do you want to watch?"


"Uh ... uh ... uh ... Scooby Doo!!!!"

Hair

I can't focus on work.

I'm accomplishing nothing today.

Probably because it's the day after Halloween and I ate a LOT of chocolate yesterday.

And drank a lot of orange juice.

Or perhaps it's because baby Charlotte is moving about like crazy today and seems to have developed a bad case of the hiccups - possibly due to all the chocolate and orange juice - and the rhythmic bumping and jerking (while lovely) is seriously distracting.

It may be that my maternity pants are too big and keep sliding down every time I stand up taking my equally useless and uncomfortable maternity underwear down with them forcing me to do a weird "pant & and underwear pull up jig" every time I need to step away from my desk ... which is a lot ... so instead I'm just sitting at my desk trying to find something to do that won't require me to stand up.  Ever.

Or it could simply be that the temperature in my office is currently sitting somewhere around the thirty-eight degree Celsius mark and my nose and eyelids are perspiring.

All of the above seem to be contributing nicely toward me NOT getting anything done.

So I'm just sitting here thinking instead.

And reflecting on my wonderful, nutty, weekend ...

Jackie Chan's hair was out of control.  And so was our house.  Both of these items related because they showed serious neglect on the part of Curtis and I.

So on Saturday I stayed home and cleaned and cleaned and cleaned.  I needed to.  Early nesting I suppose.  (That and my Mom is coming on Friday and I didn't think she needed to add "potential level two hording at daughters house" to the list of things she worries about in the wee small hours of the morning.)

And Curtis took the boys to run errands and to take Jackie Chan to get his hair cut.

Huge mistake.  Huge.

When they got home I took one look at Jackie Chan and very nearly died.  It was the Worst. Cut. Ever.

If I was blindfolded, on a roller coaster, with dull kitchen scissors and stumps for hands, I could have done a better job.

I yelled a bit.  At Curtis.  Because I needed to vent and he was there and the idiot who'd butchered my child's hair wasn't.

And then I called and yelled at the place where Jackie Chan's hair massacre had just taken place.

And then we got him an appointment where I go to get my hair done.  An emergency appointment.

He's eight.

But bad haircuts are traumatic and Jackie Chan had ALREADY been a victim of one traumatic hair cutting fiasco this year and two in the span of a year is just too much for anyone to handle.

So off we went to the appointment and he now has the best hair he's ever had.

And Jackie Chan has since informed Curtis and I that he would like to continue to see "so-and-so" at "such-and-such a salon" because "he clearly knows what he's doing and knows how to do MY hair right."


Yup.  Jackie Chan is eight and now goes to a salon - where he has his own personal hairstylist - to get his hair cut.


I realize that many of you will think this is all just a bit ridiculous, but what can I say ....


... it would seem as though the times, well, they are a changin' ...

Halloween is two days away.

Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee are beyond excited. We will be escorting a little "Thomas the Train" and "Robin (from Teen Titans)" around the neighbourhood.

Halloween is two days away.

But there are celebrations to be had before the big day - at school and at daycare.  And it seems that the majority of my time the last two days has been spent on conversations about Halloween.

On Thursday - while I was going to the bathroom (you may or may not recall my post about how Mom's have ZERO privacy) - Jackie Chan opened the door and said, "is today the Halloween Parade at school?"


"Jackie Chan, how the heck am I supposed to know if the Halloween Parade is today?  Did you listen to the announcements?  Did your teacher say anything?  And really, could that question not have waited five minutes, I'm kinda in the middle of something right now ...."


"Yeah, but, there wasn't any announcements.  And my teacher didn't say when it was ... she just said there would be a parade sometime."


"I find it somewhat hard to believe that the school would plan a Halloween Parade and not tell the students when it was happening - that's kinda counterproductive."


"What?  What's counterproductive?"


"Never mind.  Do grade three's still go on parade around the school?  I thought it was just the kindergartners that did that."


"Nope ... the grade three's too ..."


"Well ... it's Thursday so I imagine that if there WAS going to be a massive Halloween Parade around your school it would probably be tomorrow."


"Why?  What's tomorrow?"


"Really???"


"WHAT??!!"


"Tomorrow is Friday.  So they'll probably have the parade on Friday.  Can I finish doing what I need to do in here in private now please buddy?"


"Um, but, can I just bring a costume just in case?"


"Sure ... whatever.  Just please get out of the bathroom."


"Ok ... can I bring my stormtrooper costume from last year?"


"Whatever!!! I need you to leave NOW!!!!"


"Ok, OK, I'm going ..."


And yesterday I thought I'd surprise the kids with a little pre-Halloween treat and bought them each a Kinder Surprise Egg.  I spent the better part of the evening listening to Bruce Lee talk about the Kinder Surprise Egg and how he was going to eat it and how he wanted to eat Jackie Chan's too and how it wasn't his only treat and that he was still going Trick 'or Treating even though he had a treat already and how he was going to get it out of the box and take the "skin" off so he could eat the chocolate and then he would ask Mommy to help him make the toy so he could show Daddy and Jackie Chan when they got home that he had a toy and wasn't Mommy nice for getting him a treat before Halloween and how Jackie Chan may not even want to eat his (to which I replied - "for the last time Bruce Lee you are NOT eating Jackie Chan's egg ... let it GO") ....


It really is amazing how many consecutive hours a two year old can spend in constant speech...


... about a Kinder Egg.


This morning the Halloween saga continued.


Bruce Lee was supposed to wear a costume to daycare.  I couldn't find an old costume for him to wear this morning and I wasn't risking the mass destruction of his Thomas the Train costume so I sent him without one thinking it wasn't a big deal.


But when I saw all the other kids sitting around and arriving in FULL costume - some even adorned with face paint and hair colour - I felt sick.  Worst. Mother. Ever.


I felt worse when the teachers all said ... don't worry, we'll find something he can wear so he doesn't feel out of place ... 


Right.  So I'm now the "Mom who doesn't have time to do special things for her kids so the teachers will take pity and intervene."  Fantastic.


So at the risk of having to wait in the "it's-a-Friday-and-its-the-end-of-the-month" line up at the bank I went to Shoppers to see if I could buy Bruce Lee a cheap costume.  


Three minutes later ... spider costume - size one and praying it would fit - in hand ... I ran back to the daycare to show Bruce Lee that his Mommy wasn't a total failure.


The kids were outside so I just left it with the teacher and begged her to put it on him for me and tell him it was from his Mommy.


And then I cried in the bathroom.  Because I'm pregnant.  And I felt like I'd let him down.  Because he deserved to have a fun costume on for the day with face paint and funky hair.  And because I work and I'm tired and there just aren't enough hours in the day I let my little buddy down and I wondered for the nine-hundredth time this month just how parents balance work and life.  


And I know I need to stop beating myself up because I'm not my Mom and I don't have time to make super-awesome homemade Halloween costumes, and sandwiches with ghosts made of marshmallows with chocolate chips for eyes, but I know how special those memories are to me and I can't help but wonder what memories I'm making for my kids ...


A much too-small spider costume brought in as an afterthought?  An impatient conversation about a school Halloween Parade while I'm trying to go to the bathroom?


I just pray that despite all my mistakes as a parent that at the end of each day they go to bed knowing how much Mommy and Daddy love them.  I guess that's all I can do.

Random thoughts with Jackie Chan ...

Thursday was a rainy, cold, miserable day.

On the way to school Jackie Chan starts up another one of his random conversations with me...

"Um Mommy."

"Yes buddy, what's up?"

"I don't like flip-flops."

"Ok.  Jackie Chan, it's raining and cold and you're wearing boots ... what made you think of that?"

"I don't know.  I just don't like flip-flops.  I don't like that people can see your feet."

"Hmmm."

"I would like flip-flops if you could wear them and there was a barrier that covered over your feet."

"Well, those would be sandals."

"No, no.  Not like that.  I would like flip-flops but if there was something covering my feet so that I couldn't see my feet but to everyone else they just looked like flip-flops."

"You don't like looking at your own feet?"

"Nope."

"But you're not bothered by other people seeing your feet in flip-flops?"

"Nope."

"Huh.  Well one day when you're a famous, rich, scientist - like Tony Stark - you can invent those and you can wear flip-flops as often as you want."

"Yup."

We kept walking in the rain a bit more, and then ...

"Um, Mommy..."

"Yes buddy?"

"I like Crocs because they are flip-flops but without the thing between your toes in the middle AND they are covered."

"Hmm ... that would pretty much make them sandals, wouldn't it?"

"I guess so, but not really because they are really more like flip-flops.  I don't have to invent special flip-flops to wear because I can just wear Crocs."

"Well ... glad we got that all sorted.  In October.  In the rain.  On the way to school.  And when you become a famous, rich, scientist - like Tony Stark - you can devote your time to inventing useful things like strollers that you can push through the snow properly."

"Yeah.  But I wouldn't invent that because that's boring to invent."

"Right.  Boring.  Not at all like semi-invisible flip-flops which have already been invented ... CROCS!"

"YUP!"

I know I'm going to miss these conversations in a few years.

And the pitch ... snore ...

My husband loves sports.  He loves playing sports and he loves watching sports.

And he loves watching sports highlights ... something I just don't get.

I try to get it.  I've tried really hard to watch and be interested and come up with some kind of thoughtful response when he excitedly tells me about some guy on some team doing something he shouldn't have, or, a guy on some team doing something something totally fantastic in some game that's potentially going to change the outcome of the season for that particular sport.

I try.  Because I care.  Not about the sports.  I care about my husband.   And I feel it's important to embrace the things he's passionate about.

But usually all I can come up with is "oh yeah ... hmmmmmm ... cool."

Because, the truth is, I just don't get it.

I like watching football - and no, it's not all about the tight pants, but admittedly, that helps - I actually find the game of football exciting and entertaining.  But I sincerely do not enjoy watching other sports.


Especially baseball.

Seriously.

I do NOT like watching baseball.

And baseball highlights kill me.  How many adjectives can there possibly be to describe catching a ball?  Or hitting a ball?  Or throwing a ball?  Really, truly, how many?

Baseball highlights suck the life out of me.  Kinda like Harry Potter when the Dementors got to him on the train to Hogwarts.

So on Saturday we were sitting in the living room as a family after being out at various places all day and we were just taking a moment to chill and relax before getting dinner and Curtis was watching sports highlights.  Mostly baseball.  The kids and I were just kinda sitting in silence ... watching ...

There was a guy being interviewed about something or other and Curtis said, "hey, do you know what's totally painful?"  (It was obvious to me he was about to comment on the interview that was currently droning away on the TV.)

And Jackie Chan - without missing a beat - said "Yeah, sports highlights."

Fantastic.

Out of the mouths of babes ...

(PS - I must take a moment to apologize to my husband for my terrible attitude on Sunday regarding his desire to watch football - namely the Patriots.  They were playing on Sunday and the game was on TV and apparently this was a really big deal because Patriots games are not shown often on Canadian TV ... at least on the channels we have.  I was a big jerk and made a fuss about him watching football.  He is a GREAT Dad and a GREAT husband who rarely zones out to watch sports when there are children to play with and/or a wife to spend time with.  I'm very fortunate that way. So ... early Christmas present ... we're going to order the Super Sport Pack with Rogers ...)

Shut up and act like everyone else ... oh, and remember you're special and unique ... ...

Let me begin this post by stating that I do not have a problem with public schools.

My parents were teachers (and principal) in the public school system, I have many other relatives and friends who currently teach in the public school system.  I understand the difficulty that teachers face trying to get through specific curriculum in a certain period of time with challenges in the classroom such as behavioral issues, children who consider English their second or even third language, parents who are ready to attack at any given moment, large classroom sizes ... the list goes on, I'm sure.

So ... I try to be supportive of every teacher that I have the privilege of dealing with and every teacher who is in an educator relationship with my child.

Jackie Chan is now in Grade 3.

It's a difficult year.  It's a "get serious" year.  In Grade 3 students have to write the EQAO (Education Quality and Accountability Office) tests.

Students have to demonstrate at the end of Grade 3 what they've learned throughout the Primary Grades by writing these "tests" - I imagine it's stressful for students, teachers, and parents alike.

Jackie Chan is in Grade 3 and it's a whole new ballgame.

Last year we LOVED his teacher.  She was a wonderful, free spirited, gifted teacher who loved children and respected each child as an individual and recognized that each child learns differently.  She encouraged children in her classroom to be themselves and fostered an environment of fun while maintaining respect between the students and her position of authority.

Obviously the scenario wasn't perfect and there were certainly some flaws within the classroom ... but it was  year where Jackie Chan learned to love school and learned to love learning.

We've spent the first three weeks of this school year receiving numerous phone calls from Jackie Chan's current teacher asking us to please speak to him about staying in his desk and respecting the other students by remaining quiet and not moving around.  We also had a phone call where she asked us to speak to him about the fact that he called her "Hunny Bunny" ....

Yeah, admittedly the "Hunny Bunny" - while seriously hilarious - was quite out of line.  We had to explain to him the severe legalities of such a statement.

I've been trying to wrap my head around these "problems" he's been having since day one.

Jackie Chan talks to much - yes.

Jackie Chan doesn't like to sit still for too long.

Jackie Chan has a very active imagination and loves to tell stories and make people laugh.

These are the "problems" he's having this year.

Last year these qualities were admired and encouraged.  They were embraced.  This year they are cause for him to stay inside during recess.  Multiple times.

I went to curriculum night last night and within a heartbeat of entering the classroom realized why we were receiving so many phone calls ....

The room was bare.  Not a single picture on the walls.  The room was void of all colour.  There was one workstation that contained two black computers and nothing else.  Even the writing on the chalkboard was one colour - white.  And the writing on the paper on the easel was black marker.

No colour.  No life.

I felt my energy sucked out the moment I entered the room.

And my heart sank.

I knew where Jackie Chan's confusion was coming from ... this was not the "school" environment that he loved so much last year.  This was a different teacher with a different agenda entirely.

While she seems kind and I'm sure she wants the best for Jackie Chan, her message last night to all the parents was:

"I will not tolerate chaos in my classroom and chaos includes children getting up from their desks for any reason unless they raise their hands and ask permission."

She also mentioned that they may or may not get around to the physical activity part of the day that is supposed to be integrated into the program because they have so much work to get through in a day it simply may not always be possible.

Jackie Chan is eight years old.  This kind of conflicting message from one school year to the next would confuse even the most sophisticated adult.  At least temporarily.

How to we as parents encourage our child to learn and grow and develop as an individual when he's being told on a daily basis to sit down, shut up and do his work ... end of story.

I've found myself actually saying to him on the way to school:

"Now buddy ... if everyone else in your classroom is sitting down and working, you HAVE to sit down and work and not talk or get up.  It doesn't matter what you want to do.  You are not special.  You do not have special privileges.  You have to be the same as everyone else or you will get in trouble."

WHAT?????

What kind of message is that for an eight year old boy?

But what other choice do we as parents have????  We can't request a transfer every time Jackie Chan is in a classroom with a teacher we feel doesn't encourage his particular style of learning ... or has major issues with colour and pictures.

And we don't have trillions of billions of dollars saved up to send him to some artsy fartsy private school where they would custom tailor his education based on personality and learning styles ...

No ... we're stuck.  He's stuck.

It looks like it could be a very long year.

(It could also explain the various injuries he's had since school began.  I'd throw myself off the jungle gym too if I had to spend an entire day in the classroom of death and boredom.)

School - week two. 

So far so good.  Sort of.

Jackie Chan has injured himself in some way every day since the first day of school (you can read about his first injury in my last post).  He most recently - today - was kicked in the face (accidentally) while playing on the play structure.  Not a big deal unless you count the shoe treads on his cheek.

Earlier in the week he ran into a pole.  Large bump on the head to show for that little mishap.

The following day I received a call from the school office to tell me Luke had smashed his head into a pole. 

Again????

The conversation with Jackie Chan over dinner that night went something like this:

"Honey .... did you run into another pole at school today?"

"Um ... I don't know."

"You don't know?  How can you not know?  The school called and said you bumped your head on a pole."

"OH, that may have been yesterday.  They called yesterday."

"No ... they called today.  Were they confused?  Did you tell them you ran into a pole - which did happen yesterday - and they misunderstood and called me today thinking it had just happened?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah ... it was yesterday.  But they called today."

"Hmmmmm."

Obviously communication is not Jackie Chan's strength at the moment.

Bruce Lee is struggling a bit as well.

We took the boys to an ultra sound on Saturday and they both had a chance to see our growing little baby girl.  They were pretty excited.  It was all very cool.  We saw her tiny feet in 3D.  Cool.

So yesterday morning Bruce Lee looked at me as I was getting him dressed and said "baby Charlotte is coming to Toronto."

I wasn't quite sure I'd heard him correctly ...

"Baby Charlotte is in Mummy's tummy."

"Yes, and she is coming to Toronto soon."

"Ok ... I see.  Good to know.  But you know that she's in my tummy right now, right?"

"Hi baby Charlotte," says Bruce Lee to my right breast, "I'm Elliot.  Hi."

"No, not in there in here," I say pointing to my belly.

"Yes."

And with that whole thing neatly sorted in his little mind he wandered off down the stairs and I was left sitting on his bed, a bit stunned by the whole conversation.

Then a thought occurred to me and I yelled downstairs ... "Hey Bruce Lee, where do we live?"

"TORONTO!"

And Jackie Chan echoed his brother's profound response with our exact address.

 ... so all is not lost ...

In times of chaos, when our family is really busy and going through some big changes - not the least of which is an eight year old who seems to have lost all sense of coordination - it's comforting to know they at least know where "home" is.

School ...

The beginning of the school year is always an exciting time.

It's a time when kids look forward to being back at school - anxious to meet old and new friends.

Jackie Chan spent Monday running around the house looking for his pencil case - long forgotten and shoved under the bed last June.  His lunch box has once again found its place on the kitchen counter where it will remain each night for the next ten months.  (And the frantic panic on Monday night of what to put in the lunch box the next day was indicative of what happens during most of the school year.)

Kids await the newness of a different classroom and a different teacher either with an eagerness bordering on hysteria or with terror.  But, regardless, it seems as though new expectations are carried in on the crisper, cooler air ... like a message of hope of things to come.

On Tuesday morning it felt to me like all the failings of the previous school year - both by we the parents and by Jackie Chan - were long forgiven and forgotten.  And in my eyes, Jackie Chan was starting fresh.  A new school year.

I vowed there would be no battles, no mishaps.

Yesterday on his first day of school he fell down the stairs at last recess and shredded his elbow.  Major cuts and scrapes.  Nasty.

BUT ... he didn't cry.  At ALL.

Good steps, I think.

I was proud of him.

Then this morning we had an epic battle.

An epic battle about "appropriate" gym wear.

It was cold this morning and Jackie Chan was standing in his room (ten minutes after I sent him in to get dressed) in his underwear holding a pair of shorts.  

I explained - calmly, keeping in mind my vow to avoid battles - that shorts were not appropriate for school given the weather and that he should put on pants ...


"But I have gym today."

"What does that have to do with shorts??"


"I have to wear appropriate gym clothes.  I can't wear jeans.  I have to wear something for gym."

"So what, in your mind, is appropriate to wear for gym?"


He throws up his hands, holding the pair of shorts in one hand, and yells, "shorts."

"Shorts may be appropriate for gym, but they are not acceptable to wear to school today because it's too cold outside for shorts.  Are you going to wear shorts when it's thirty three degrees below zero?  Will shorts be appropriate then?  Will the gym teacher take responsibility for you when you are hospitalized for pneumonia? ... who told you what to wear for gym today?"


"No one told me, it was on the board for us to write in our agenda so we would know it was gym and we would know that we had to wear not jeans."

"We would know that we had to wear something other than jeans ... is the appropriate way to say that.  Moving ON .... you need to bring your agenda home so that I know what's going on.  So that I can help you be "appropriate" for gym and class, etc.  Help me HELP you.  And I'm helping you now by telling you that you are not wearing shorts.  You can wear jeans.  If the gym teacher has a problem then I will go and speak to the gym teacher about the in-appropriateness of a teacher telling a child to dress in-adequately for the weather because the child needs to be appropriately dressed for a thirty minute class and isn't allowed time to change before the class begins!!!  Got it?????"

*Tears*

"Seriously.  Jackie Chan.  You didn't cry when you tore the skin off your elbow, but you're crying now? Over shorts?  Why?"


"I don't want to get in trouble.  I need to wear something appropriate for gym.  I can't wear jeans because I need to be able to move.  I can't move in jeans but I can move in shorts.  I don't want to wear jeans and get in trouble."

"Oh my goodness - FINE!  Wear the shorts.  FREEZE.  I don't care!!!!!  Just get dressed.  And when we get to school I will go to the office - on the second day of school - and speak to the principal about what he or she thinks is appropriate gym wear and how I should go about ensuring my child is dressed appropriately for both the weather and gym simultaneously!!!  OK????????"


"OK."

"OK."


"Um Mommy?" 

"Yes?"


"So I should wear shorts????"

"ARRRGGGHHHHHHH!!!"

And so began the second day of school ...

I don't think we'll avoid battles.  Jackie Chan battles because he believes he should stand up for what he feels is right.  I can hardly fault him for that.

Bubbles

When you're pregnant, the first few movements of the baby are very exciting.

Last night I was awake for a long time.  I was restless and I lay in bed feeling the baby move all around.  Little fluttery movements.  Almost like pushing.  It was amazing.  And weird.

In that moment I had a revelation.

Pregnant women have a lot of gas.  (That wasn't my revelation .... that's a pretty well known fact.)

Let me go back a bit ....

When I was younger and having a lot of pain in my back I went to a chiropractor.  The chiropractor ordered some x-rays and later sat down with me to explain what was happening and where the pain was originating.  It was all very stimulating.

As he was pointing things out to me I found I was less concerned with my spinal dysfunctions and found myself much more concerned with some light and dark splotches that I could see all over the area of my body displayed on the x-ray ... my lower torso basically ... and asked the chiropractor what the spots were all about and if I should be concerned.

He said no, I shouldn't be concerned at all .... it was just "all the gas bubbles."  He had a thick Swedish accent so it sounded more like "ahhhlll de gaz buebbels" ...

I - apparently - had a major gas problem.  Not embarrassing in the least, I assure you.

Fast forward to last night.  Feeling the baby squirm about it suddenly dawned on me why babies and children like balloons so much.

When in the womb they must play with all those pockets of gas.

I'm sure part of the movement a pregnant woman feels comes from the baby pushing and playing with bits of gassy air as it floats past the uterus.

So ... it would logically follow that infants and toddlers would be comforted by the sight of a balloon, right?

It's almost like they're back in the womb playing with mommy's gas.  It's like, the best thing ever!

Because really ... what is a balloon?  Rubber filled with air.  A dried pea is more interesting.  There has to be some other explanation for the fascination.

And it totally explains why Bruce Lee calls balloons "bubbles" ...

Ask Tina Fey ... she knows ...

Every once and a while a movie comes along and I think as I watch it that is totally me ... this movie is about me.

It was like that with "Girl, Interrupted".  Back when I was a little crazy.

There are others of course ... but ... well ... I'll just leave it at there are others ...

Curtis and I watched "Date Night" the other night (for a date night ...) and the entire time we just kept looking at each other and thinking ... this is totally us.

From the mouth guard, to drawers being left open (in our house it's doors), to being too tired to actually want to go out for the night without the kids, to doing the same thing every time we DO actually go out ... right down to the names of the kids ... the boys name was Oliver, the girls name was Charlotte.  The very two names we've chosen for baby number three ...

I know ... weird, right?

Even Tina Fey's meltdown in the car scene where she confesses that she sometimes she fantasises about being alone.  I've totally had that fantasy. 

(And let me just pause here a moment to sing Tina Fey's praises.  I think she is beautiful AND hilarious and just so no one is confused, I'm not saying I'm like Tina Fey ... I'm not that conceited ... only that while watching the movie I just kept thinking that her character was totally based on my life.)

I no longer fantasise about finding myself accidentally locked in a bakery overnight with Johnny Depp ... I fantasise about having a quiet room all to myself.  With a big bed.  And a TV where I control the channels and no sports or sports news shows are on.  Ever.

Where I could shower for forty-five minutes or even an hour with no interruptions or thoughts of children laying underneath a large piece of overturned furniture. 

Or read a book and get through a paragraph without having to find a toy or get a glass of water.

Or be able to sit in silence and not talk.  Or listen.  Or have to plan dinner.

I was watching Tina Fey thinking you are so right ON.

So of course I said something about how right on she was.

And hurt my husbands feelings.

And felt like a jerk.

So I had to explain all about how I just got what she was saying about needing time and space and that I knew exactly what it felt like to work all day in a crazy office and then come home to plan and make and clean up dinner and bathe the kids and then get them in bed and then do the laundry and then tidy the house a bit ... and then have energy to talk and be there for him ...

And then, just like in the movie, he said "I try to help."

It's true.  He does.  And I find it hard to let him help.  It's easier for me to just do it myself.

And when I do let him help I'm totally just waiting for him to screw up so I can jump in and say "fine, I'll just do it myself."

I am a horrible person.

He is an excellent husband and an excellent father and I need to make sure he knows that ...

So ... I'm sorry baby ... tonight you can totally do the dishes and the laundry and clean the bathrooms and I'll just sit back and read my book.  I'll let you help.  And I totally won't even look in the cups to make sure all the milk crusties are gone.

I love you that much.

Ode to the Neenish Tart

Round and yummy.

Full of gooey jam and creamy cream.

You melt in my hand.

Shiny icing - all colourful and playful.  Pink and brown ... a little of each.

Chewy and soft. 

Crispy and flaky.

Fun to eat and pretty too.

I miss you every day.

Why oh why are you so far away ...

My dreamy 

Neenish 

Tart.

Biology 101

Once, when I was younger, I remember waking up with a horrible taste in my mouth.

It tasted like the smell of mothballs.

I don't know how else to describe it.

I was terrified and thought for sure I must have chewed something awful while I was sleeping. As I was telling my friends at school that day one of them said that I must have chewed a spider and that we eat something like thirty spiders a year in our sleep.

I almost died.

We. EAT. Thirty. Spiders. A. Year.

What?????

With my desperate fear of spiders at the forefront of my mind, this news was terrifying.

(The actual statistic is more like seven to eight spiders a year ... but I didn't find this out until I was a bit older.)

Last night I woke up with a similar taste in my mouth. And I was coughing.

Not just coughing ... choking.

When I realized that I had probably had an encounter of some kind with a spider, I got out of bed as fast as my pregnant body would let me and rushed as quickly to the bathroom as I possibly could without waking Bruce Lee. I drank a lot of water. And rinsed my mouth out for a good ten minutes. And then I went back to bed.

But I couldn't get back to sleep.

I just kept thinking about the fact that I could very well have swallowed the spider whole. And that the spider could be poisonous. And that he (or she) could be swimming around in my stomach. And that the spider could bite my uterus and kill the baby.

Yup ... that's what I was thinking.

That's the thought and the scenario that kept me awake for a good forty-five minutes after my bathroom dash.

Obviously my stellar biology skills were not kicking in to ease my mind in any way - in my defence it was three-thirty in the morning and I was really, really sleepy - but still ... a little dose of common sense and I may have been able to get back to sleep.

Or, had I been able to convince myself that poisonous spiders are terribly rare where I live (unlike Australia where there is any number of deadly and poisonous creatures just waiting to kill you ... I have no idea how people survive there ...).

But no ... I was kept awake by the dreadful thought that the poisonous spider I had just swallowed whole was swimming around in my tummy trying to eat my placenta and kill my baby.

And I'm one half of the team in charge of easing my children's irrational fears.

They really have no hope ...

Morning

I crawled into bed with Bruce Lee this morning and was greeted with a soft kiss and a tiny little hand on my cheek.

"Hi Mommy."

"Hi baby ... good morning."

"Mommy? What's the song 'where they grow'"?

"Sing it again buddy ... I'm not sure ... sing it again for Mommy."

In his little voice he sang, perfectly in tune, "ummm ummm ... where they grow."

"I'm sorry baby ... Mommy doesn't know what you're singing. Do you want to sing something else?"

"No."

"OK ... sing it one more time. Mommy will listen really hard and maybe I'll figure it out."

"Laaaa laaa ummmm where they grow."

"Oh! I know what you're singing. Are you singing (croaky attempt at six o'clock in the morning singing) 'Down by the bay, where the watermelons grow, back to my home, I dare not go'?"

Big BIG smile.

"Yes!! Sing with me. Sing with me Mommy."

"OK."

So we sang:

Down by the bay,

Where the watermelons go

Back to my home

I dare not go

For if I do

My mother will say

... together.

And then he waited to see what I would say.

So I sang:

Did you ever see a bear wearing pink underwear?

And he howled with laughter. Big belly giggles.

"Do again. Sign again."

So we sang together again and I finished with:

Did you ever see pigs wearing really big wigs?

More delighted peels of laughter from Bruce Lee.

I didn't want it to end.

I started again:

Down by the bay

Where the ...

"Um Mommy?"

"Yes baby?"

"I have to go pee."

And instantly the magic moment is over and the daily routine begins.

But magic moments are not soon forgotten ...

Of Mice .. and me ...

Oh my gosh ... a mouse just ran behind my desk. Well not so much behind as beside my desk. When I'm facing my computer it's behind. When I'm facing my desk it's beside.

Like two feet away from me.

There is a section of my office - a tiny little cubby under the flight of stairs - that I've been meaning to sort out. It's become a bit of a junk pile.

Cleaning this area was going to be my project for today. I swear it was.

But that is so not going to happen now.

Because there is a mouse living in the cubby under the stairs. Making nests and all kinds of nastiness in old boxes of files and toner cartridges.

There is a book by John Irving ... a children's book ... called "A Sound Like Someone Trying Not to Make a Sound." It is a wonderful, terrifying children's book. The children in the book are being terrorized at night by an awful, horrible sound.

The sound is a mouse.

This week I've been hearing a rustling, scratchy, burrowing sound and I had convinced myself I was hearing things.

I was not hearing things ...

I am currently being terrorized by the sound and sight of a mouse ... in my office.

Where I'm trying to work.

I can't work now because I need my computer to work and when I'm working on my computer my back is to the mouse and I can't function knowing that at any moment the mouse could run up behind me and run across my feet ... or run up the back of my chair and into my hair ...

And I can't turn around and wait for the mouse to reappear because then I'm just sitting turned away from my desk staring at a wall and a printer and everyone will think I'm totally insane.

I'm now sitting in my chair with my legs up in front of me trying to type around my knees ... because that's totally less insane than staring at a wall.

Our office is under attack. So far this summer we've had bed bugs, cockroaches, epic amounts of fruit flies ... and now mice.

I know what you're thinking ... I need a new job.

One with less rodents and bugs.

I agree.

I remember one summer at our family cottage our family was staying in the boathouse. It was a tiny little one bedroom apartment. My parents got the bedroom and my brother and I stayed in beds in the dining/living room.

One night I was sleeping peacefully when I felt something plop onto my sleeping bag and then proceed to skitter down and off the bed.

I was attacked by a mouse.

After calming me down my Dad set a trap and we eventually went back to sleep. Sort of.

I didn't sleep. I was under my sleeping bag.

After what seemed like hours we heard a loud snap followed by several minutes of flipping and flopping.

The mouse was caught but the flipping and flopping didn't stop. It just kept going. Like some torturous punishment for attempting to kill one of God's precious creatures - we all just lay there in silence listening to the mouse slowly and painfully dying.

Finally my Dad had to get out of bed again and take the mouse down to the water to put it out of it's misery.

I think at the time I felt bad for the mouse.

I feel no sympathy for mice now.

I have to use the bathroom and my legs are numb (on account of being up on my chair) and I'm hungry.

I don't want to have to deal with a mouse.

... and I am totally not cleaning out the cubby today.

Cankle ...

I have "Cankles."

I've mentioned this before.

The Urban Dictionary defines Cankles as: The absence of a defined ankle on a person - whereby the calf of the leg merges directly into the foot. The calf appears to replace the ankle ...

I'm so self conscious about my "cankles" that I often include a disclaimer when I meet people for the first time.

"Hi ... my name is Erin. I'm a mom and a wife. I have cankles."

It wasn't long ago that I asked my family doctor if I could have plastic surgery on my ankles to try to improve the shape and size.

He told me I was crazy and that there was nothing wrong with my ankles and that they were perfectly lovely ankles and that I absolutely did not need plastic surgery on my ankles.

He was wrong ... I know he was wrong.

I have lived with fat ankles for my entire life.

There are certain types of shoes I can't wear. I can't wear shoes with straps or any kind of strappy shoe really ... they make my ankles look bigger.

I can't wear cute ballet flats with any kind of skirt.

I can't even get certain styles of ankle boots on my feet.

(Nothing boosts your self-esteem like grunting and sweating in a high end shoe store while trying to pull on a cute pair of ankle booties and having the seventeen year old sales girl suggest that perhaps a nice pair of orthotics might be a better fit.)

Once, when I was younger someone told me I had really cute legs. I was all like ... really, THANKS! And then he said ... "yeah, you have cute Charlie Brown legs."

Charlie Brown doesn't have any ankles.

He doesn't have any knees either, but that's not the point.

My point is that I really hate my ankles.

At a very recent visit to the doctor I was forced to see another practitioner in the office as my - wonderful - doctor was away on vacation.

After tearing a strip off me because of my weight gain in the first trimester (during which she implied that I had perhaps indulged in one to many Lemon Meringue Pies) she had the balls to ask me if my ankles were already swollen.

I sighed ... "No ... my ankles always look like this."

She looked right at me - in disbelief, void of all sensitivity - and said, "oh" ...

That's it. Just "oh".

What kind of a monster doesn't try to make a pregnant woman feel better about her cursed cankles?

My entire life I've felt alone in my quest for a better looking ankle. I've lived with the fact that people thought I was insane for dreaming of plastic surgery to fix the disfiguration.

Until I found this ...

http://media.abcnews.com/GMA/story?id=8161899&page=1

I am not alone.

There is hope.

All I need is four-thousand to eight-thousand dollars and strappy shoes here I come!

Box of Smarties 1, Erin 0.

My plan to have a few Smarties to try to satisfy the chocolate craving at two-thirty this afternoon seriously backfired.

I started with a few in my hand and left the box on the table. I figured in doing this I would avoid eating the entire box because I would have to get off the couch to get more thus preventing me from eating more because really, who wants to get off the couch?

After sucking the last small candy - held in my hand only moments before - to a state of non-existence I caved and practically ran to the table. Clutching the box in my hand like my life depended on the contents, I returned to the sofa to eat the remaining Smarties in comfort and total bliss.

Now I have the guilt.

The guilt of eating a box of chocolate candies.

The whole box.

This wouldn't necessarily be a problem if my day hadn't started with a massive cherry cheese danish ... and possibly some kind of cinnamon twist pastry as well.

(Back off ... it was pastry day at my office - unofficially of course - and pastry day is sometimes the only thing that gets me through.)

But even as I sit here experiencing the "guilt" I am telling myself over and over that it's OK because I will exercise later.

Like a tape in my mind ... Don't worry, you can exercise later and work off all those extra calories.

Exactly. And besides, how is the baby supposed to grow and be all healthy in the womb and whatnot if I'm not eating my quota of fluffy melt in your mouth pastries and boxes of candy coated chocolate.

Right.

Riiiiiight.

And the guilt is back.

But the tape kicks in again and says ... Don't worry, just remember the elliptical machine you bought. You CAN exercise.

And suddenly, the guilt is gone.

I CAN exercise and work off all those extra calories and build strong muscles and keep in shape during this pregnancy. I can work out at home and I'll probably be thinner than I've ever been by the time I go into labour.

In fact ... I should make sure I have my pre-pregnancy jeans with me when I go to the hospital to deliver the baby because I'll be wearing them home ... with a belt to hold them up.

Maybe I should even treat myself to a new pair of jeans to take to the hospital. Some cute skinny jeans.

The only problem I can see in this whole scenario is that while I've bought the elliptical machine, I don't currently have it.

It's at a friends house ... waiting to be picked up.

It has been "waiting to be picked up" for about seven months now.

Actually, it was recently moved to a new location to make it that much easier for me to get. It's literally like across the path. I can see it if I look out my kitchen window and up at my friends apartment.

Sadly, the closer proximity of the elliptical machine only adds to the delusion I've created that in purchasing the equipment I'm somehow burning calories.

I act - and eat - as though the machine sits in my living room waiting to be used every night promptly at seven o'clock ... for forty-five minutes.

I will literally indulge myself on some deliriously good sweet or salty treat because in the back of my mind I know I bought an elliptical machine that I can work out on.

I see myself on it ... working hard ... sweating. And somehow I've convinced myself that I'm burning calories.

It's beyond insane. I know.

But I'm pregnant and my ankles are swollen already and I get winded walking up the stairs.

Working out in some random daydream is really the closest I'm going to get to actually working out ... and if I've somehow managed to convince myself that I can eat whatever I want because I can burn calories by imagining myself on an elliptical machine that I own (more or less) but don't currently have and this allows me to eat delicious and satisfying treats ... well ... I choose to stay insane and happy.

The Sound of Silence ...

When you have children you realize very quickly that there is no such thing as "alone" time. It just doesn't exist.

You can ask for alone time...

You can tell your children and your husband that you are heading into the bathroom to shower or do any of the other various tasks usually reserved for the bathroom ... but it rarely has any impact.

I use the bathroom as an example because out of all the rooms in a house it's probably safe to assume that one would be alone in the bathroom.

This is so not the case when you have children.

I often used to wonder as a child why my mother would greet my entrance to the bathroom - which was of course, at the time, occupied by her - with an exasperated expression. It seemed completely silly to me that my Mom should be upset by my presence in the bathroom regardless of the reason for her using the "sacred" space ... after all, I had important questions, issues, complaints, ideas, stories, bumps, scrapes to tell her about and whatever it was that I had to say or show her obviously couldn't wait - so why the irritation, right?

RIIIIGHT.

Fast forward to MY season of motherhood and I'm beginning to realize where my Mom's frustration may have come from. And I'm beginning to understand why my "um, Mom ... I know you're in the bathroom showering/peeing/washing your face/brushing your teeth/etc. ... BUT ..." was met with such impatience at times.

Sometimes Mom's just need a TIME OUT.

And no, our first choice is not the bathroom. Pooping should not be the only "time out" we get in a week ... but the reality is, that sometimes it IS!

My husband can announce to the family that he is heading to the bathroom to do whatever he needs to do and he can be gone for hours and it's of little consequence to the children. They may ask me periodically where Daddy is, but a simple explanation of "in the bathroom" is good enough for them and they return to their activities.

When I'm in the bathroom however, it's like Grand-Freaking-Central Station. I can be in the shower and if one of the boys should wander upstairs for whatever seemingly asinine reason, they inevitably end up in the bathroom, tugging on the shower curtain asking my for my assistance.

Or, likewise, I can be on the toilet and one of the boys will wander in ...

"Um, Mommy ..."

"What?"

"Um ... at school the other day ... um ... Vedusha told me that he was mad at me because I didn't want to play superheroes on the play structure and then I was mad because I just wanted to play on the monkey bars and not play superheroes and I was really upset that he was mad at me ..."

"You do know that school ended for the summer three weeks ago right? You're just coming to me with this now??? While I'm here? In the bathroom?"

"Oh ... sorry. Um, Mommy?"

"WHAT?"

"What's for supper?"

Or sometimes there is a major crisis and all three of my boys end up in the bathroom explaining whatever incident is behind the tears and the screaming while I'm covered in soap and clinging to the shower curtain trying to preserve some shred of dignity while the details are fed to me in a chorus of shouts and chatter that I can't really hear over the rushing water anyway ...

Sigh.

I wouldn't trade the chaos but really ... I'd love a day at the Spa.

A full day at the Spa. Massages and facials and manicures and pedicures. All uninterrupted.

It would be glorious.

But in fairness to the rest of my family it seems selfish to long for a day that would eat up a large portion of our grocery funds for the month - and would only benefit me - so I would settle instead for a Saturday morning where I can spend a good two hours - uninterrupted - in the bathroom.

But even that seems unreasonable when there are stories to be told or problems to solve or questions to answer.

My pleas to my children to wait until I'm out of the bathroom have had little effect thus far ... I don't expect things to change in the near future.

So I'd even settle for just a little silence every now and then ...

A little peace and quiet where I can think or read or just be.

But even as I write this post I know that when I'm older and my kids have all moved out and have families of their own, I'll long for shouting and crying and chaos.

... and even bathroom interruptions.

And I'll miss it all.

On the other hand ... I'll probably have lots of money for Spa days.

Living without air-conditioning sucks.

I really think it should be a fundamental right.

Our townhouse is a death trap. I imagine it's like living in the armpit of the really stinky guy on the back of the streetcar who looks like he might actually sweat his skin off.

The temperature - it's epic.

But not in a "good way" epic.

Epic ... like having to watch The English Patient ... twice.

My office however; is air-conditioned. We've kept the temperature at a breezy twenty degrees Celsius today. It's glorious. We keep it really cold for all the clients who also live in death trap apartments and come in for some reprieve from the oppressive heat.

So it's pretty fantastic.

But I'm sitting at my desk dreading the evening ahead. Dreading.

I'm trying not to think about it too much because if I spend all day thinking about how hot it's going to be this evening at home and how I'll have to sit around in my underwear (only I can't sit around in my underwear because in order for us to have any HOPE of a cross breeze in our townhouse we need to have the front door and the back sliding door open so we're kind of in a fish bowl situation and people walking by do NOT need to see me on the couch, four months pregnant, eating potato chips in my underwear) ... if I spend all day thinking about this, I'll be really, really grumpy by the time I get home.

And I try really hard to not expose my family to unnecessary grumpiness from me. I try.

So the radio at work is set to Boom 97.3 and I'm grooving along listening to White Wedding and loving the Billy Idol when the guy comes on and says, "... so right about now I bet your thinking we should Canonize the guy who invented air-conditioning ..."

And I'm all like ... yeah ... that's fantastic ... just rub it in.

Have fun in your air-conditioned house.

You probably have a pool too.

You probably go home and put on a sweater after your evening dip.

Jerk.

I wanted to pick up the phone and tell him to stuff his air-conditioning where it would hurt the most.

You know what idiot???

You may have a large air-conditioned mansion with an outdoor pool and walk in freezer and a refrigerator with an ice dispenser and probably an ice cream parlour in your living room ... but David Suzuki is LOVING me right now.

Think about that before you go around casually suggesting we Canonize people all willy nilly.

Not just yet ...

Bruce Lee thinks he's a big boy.

I'm not convinced.

I know he wants to be a big boy. He's moved up to the preschool room at daycare. He can talk - usually - quite well. (Although lately he's taken to repeating a word over and over and over again before proceeding with the sentence. I don't know that it's really stuttering per say ... I'm pretty sure he knows what he's doing. It's an effect more than anything. The response it gets from me is usually a giant breath in which I release really slowly through a somewhat clenched mouth, arms folded and foot tapping, followed by the usual, "spit it out Bruce Lee ... I need to know before next week ...")

He always wants to play with the big boys. When we dropped Jackie Chan off at camp on Sunday, Bruce Lee was devastated that he couldn't stay and sleep in the cabin with the big boys.

The problem with all this is that while he wants to be a big boy, he just isn't grasping basic "big boy" behaviour very well.

Last night we were eating spaghetti and he threw an entire fork-full on the ground. When I looked at him and said "what on EARTH are you doing??", he replied, "I'm a big boy Mommy."

"Big boys don't thrown their food on the ground," I calmly reply.

Bruce Lee looks at me and then says, "I put my milk in my noodles? I want milk on it. I'm a big boy"

"NO! Big boys don't pour milk in their supper."

"Yes. I'm a big boy."

I have no idea what the relationship between being a big boy and adding milk to spaghetti is.

Last Saturday Bruce Lee and I were in his room. I was putting away laundry and he was hiding in his closet and screaming "I'm in here" at random intervals.

At one point, while I was hanging shirts over his head, he looked up at me and went still.

"Do you have to go potty Bruce Lee?"

"No Mommy. No potty. I'm a big boy."

He remains perfectly still and his eyes start to water a little at the edges.

"Bruce Lee, are you going poo? Do you need to go on the potty?"

"No."

Then very, very slowly he lowers his head and looks at the ground between his feet and then back up at me and shuts his eyes.

I look down between his feet as well.

And I see the puddle.

"Bruce Lee you peed on the ground!!!! Why????"

He opens his eyes and says nothing. And then more eye watering.

"Are you pooping???"

(Pause)

"You ARE pooping! Bruce Lee you are pooping in your cupboard while staring at me - what is that about?????"

(Grunt) "I'm a big boy Mommy" (Grunt)

"ARRRGHHHH"

And I pick up a wet, stinky, Bruce Lee and rush him into the bathroom.

There is poo everywhere. All down his legs. In his pyjamas. On the floor. On the side of the toilet.

And I'm dry heaving and yelling for back up and yelling at Bruce Lee who is sobbing and repeating "I'm a big boy Mommy. I'm a big boy."

I'm screaming at the top of my lungs for Jackie Chan or Curtis to come and HELP me.

It's not that I couldn't handle it on my own. It's just that it seemed so unfair that with two parents home at the time that I should be dealing with the poo explosion on my own. I really just wanted some company.

And I was just so angry that he peed and pooped in his closet while LOOKING RIGHT AT ME. I was so angry. I was afraid that I would totally lose it if I didn't have witnesses.

When the drama is over and Bruce Lee is cleaned up and the bathroom is disinfected (read: wiped quickly with a wet wipe) Curtis and I are in Bruce Lee's room and Bruce Lee is sobbing on my lap and sucking his thumb.

I'm holding him and saying "baby, if you want to be a big boy you can't poo and pee in your closet ... you have to tell Mommy and Daddy that you need to go potty, OK?"

And I really want him to grasp potty training. And eating properly.

But I'm not sure I want him to be a big boy yet.

I'm holding him in my arms and he's sucking his thumb and holding my hand and cuddling into me. And then he looks at me and says, "Sorry Mommy. I'm a big boy."

I squeeze him and say, "I know you are baby, I love you."

Because really ... I can't stay mad at him no matter how much pee or poo is involved. And accidents happen.

And one day he will be a big boy and I won't be able to hold him on my lap while he sucks his thumb.

... And he won't be able to pass off peeing and pooping in the closet as an accident ...

Christmas Wishes and Freezies ...

A co-worker bought some Jumbo Freezies today and graciously gave one to me. It was awesome.

It reminded me of a moment with Jackie Chan not too long ago.

On the way home from school one day in June Jackie Chan stopped suddenly on the sidewalk and looked at me and said, rather sadly, "Mommy, I have never had a Jumbo Freezie EVER. In my whole life. I've never had one and I really, really want one."

I didn't feel it would be right of me to point out that this wasn't a huge deal given that his "whole life" was only eight years ... that would have been harsh of me. So, instead, I simply said, somewhat sarcastically, "hmmmm ... well perhaps one day you can have a Jumbo Freezie and then your life will be complete."

He responded with great enthusiasm, "Really???? I love you Mommy. You are the best Mommy ever!"

I had apparently underestimated his desire and longing for a Jumbo Freezie.

And in that moment I totally got where he was coming from. I had once wanted something SO BADLY that nothing else mattered.

It was a Cabbage Patch Kid ...

It was 1983 (I think) and The Bay in downtown Toronto had every window filled with "real" nurseries for Cabbage Patch Kids. There were "real" nurses rocking the dolls and cribs and change tables. I think there was even a doctor or two. It was magical. Our family walked around looking at all the windows and I was captivated. I wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid more than anything else that Christmas.

I went to bed every night praying to Santa Claus (probably my first mistake) that he would bring me a Cabbage Patch Kid. Every night.

And then on Christmas morning I rushed downstairs and searched and searched - because certainly the stuffed Unicorn sitting by the tree couldn't possibly be what Santa had left me because he knew I wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid, I had prayed to him after all - but there was no beautiful little doll with its hard head and soft body and very own birth certificate and signed bum to be found. I was crushed. Crushed.

I don't know if I effectively communicated my disappointment in Santa Claus to my parents or not ... perhaps it was written all over my face for the next fifteen years ... I don't know ... truth be told I'm still not over the disappointment - clearly. And finding out that Santa Claus was not real, and therefore obviously not the one to blame, didn't help my trauma. Probably increased it.

And I'm not convinced any valuable lesson was learned on my part from NOT getting a Cabbage Patch Kid that year. Would I have been a spoiled brat if after seeing the glorious Christmas windows with the real nurses and real cribs and wonderful trendy dolls that lit up my eyes and warmed my heart my parents had turned around and indulged my one and only wish by giving me one that year, signed ... Love Santa?????

I don't think so.

Would I have demanded the trendiest gift every year forcing my parents to face years and years of stress obtaining the perfect gift and driving them into debt in doing so?

I don't think so.

After all, I didn't pray night after night to Santa for a Tickle Me Elmo ...

I'm not unreasonable.

I just really loved Cabbage Patch Kids and wanted one for my very own.

But the past is the past and we must move on.

So ... I will not indulge my children every time they have a wish or a fancy for some passing trend. But if a Jumbo Freezie means so much to Jackie Chan that he practically looses his mind over the thought of actually getting to eat one sometime in his life ... well ... that might be something I choose to buy for him.

And ... Mom and Dad ... I forgive you.