What is that thing ...

I have the biggest zit I have ever had in my life on my chin right now. It's massive and ugly and I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that if you looked at me it would be ALL you would see.

So last night I spent a while in the bathroom trying to steam it off my face.

My children, Jackie Chan in particular, thought this process was fascinating. My husband, Curtis, kept amping up the drama by asking every five minutes if I'd popped it.

Jackie Chan kept asking questions like "What is it? Does it hurt? Why does it hurt? Can't you just cut it off with a knife? Will it bleed? How did you get it? Why is it on your chin? Why are you in the bathroom? Why are you running hot water? You shouldn't run the water ...

And Bruce Lee kept piping up with, "Can I see Mommy? Can I see owey? Can I wash my hands? (The last question had nothing to do with my zit removal process ... I don't think ... unless he was afraid of "catching" my zit with his dirty hands ...)

Finally I just shut the door to the bathroom and told them to stop asking so many questions and that we'd discuss acne when they were fifteen and had their own zit problems.

I was unsuccessful in eliminating the zit before I went to bed so I gobbed on a whole pile of some hundred year old face mask I found in the cupboard hoping it would dry the crap out of the zit and I'd be done with the ugly defect by the morning ...

NO LUCK.

It was however ready to be "dealt" with (and by that I mean popped ... which I know is gross ... but so is having a giant white mountain on your chin all day) so I dealt with it and went about the rest of my business and then sat down at the table to eat breakfast with the boys.

Jackie Chan was staring at me for a while and then he said, "Oh, Mommy, your zit is gone ... sort of ... did you pop it?"

Not really wanting to discuss it over breakfast I said "yes, I did, please lets not talk about it anymore and just eat our toast."

Jackie Chan stared for a little while and then said, "Um, Mommy?"

Yes.

"Um, why didn't you pop the one on your forehead?"

*Sigh* ... "Because the "one" on my forehead isn't a zit ... it's a mole. We've had this discussion before. But thank you for that."

I know that everyone says that spending time with your children makes you feel warm and fuzzy and fills you up with good feelings and that they build your self esteem ... well ... I'm not so convinced.

But I do love them.

Daddy: "(Bruce Lee) what are you doing in the cupboard?"

"I want a cookie."

Daddy: "No buddy, no cookies. Supper will be ready soon."

"No Daddy I need a cookie."

Daddy: "(Bruce Lee) NO cookies. Not before supper. I said NO."

Pause ....

"Mommy said it."

It took us a while to figure out exactly what this meant. We've discovered that he is saying "Mommy said it" to try to convince Daddy that I said he could have a cookie. He does this when I'm in the room. When I am right there and able to stand stunned and eventually respond with "no I did not say it!"

He does this with things other than food.

For example ...

Mommy: "Hey baby, no more Yo Gabba Gabba, it's bathtime!!!"

"Watch Yo Gabba Gabba for a minute ... no bath for a minute."

Mommy: "Yeeeah ... no. Bathtime. No more Yo Gabba Gabba."

"No."

Mommy: "Yes"

"Daddy said it."

You see how this is a problem. He's two and a half and he's a compulsive liar. And he doesn't even deny it. His honest and straightforward response to "are you lying?" is "yes!"

And in the car ...

"Daddy turn up music please turn up louder."

Daddy: "No it's loud enough."

"Daddy turn up please turn up louder"

Daddy: "I said no, stop talking and you'll be able to hear the music."

"No, Mommy said it."

Mommy (who is in the front seat and who has been quite silent and most certainly did NOT say "it") turns and says, "I didn't say anything (Bruce Lee) stop lying."

Bruce Lee closes his eyes - which is his way of ignoring someone or ignoring what any person in authority has to say - and starts humming along to the music.

Apparently the music was loud enough all along.

Is it vanity if ....

I have created monsters.

I have insisted, from the first day of their lives, that my children look presentable when out in public.

I don't like dirty faces on children. Or stained clothing (not to be confused with messy clothes because they've been at the park or just finished lunch a McDonald's and are now sporting a few ketchup stains ... although even that can occasionally send me over the edge) I mean stained clothes that should not be worn on any kind of family outing. And I require shoes to be worn at all times. And I generally like clean, reasonably tidy hair.

So I have made a fuss about this with my children from day one with each of them. I strongly believe it is important to always put your best foot forward. You just never know ...

So I will tell them to change their shirts if they are stained. Or brush their teeth. Or comb their hair (or put on a hat if its a rush situation). I will tell them when an outfit isn't coordinating. Or if their shirt is too big in comparison to the pants or shorts they are wearing (this happens to be one of my big pet peeves - disproportionate attire).

And so, I have created monsters. I truly never thought it would bite me in the bum.

We have so little time in the morning to get out the door. We have so little time period. So when I'm doing my best to get us ready and out to whatever our destination at that moment is going to be, it is really irritating to have to argue with my children about how they look.

Jackie Chan refuses to leave the house if he has bed head. I'm proud of him on so many levels mind you, but my goodness, the TIME. Sometimes there just isn't time to fix the hair issues.

And lately there are shorts and shirts in his drawers that he just refuses to wear. I think they're fine so what is the problem, right? But he just says straight up, "I'm not wearing that. I don't like those shorts."

When I try to reason with him and ask him why he is suddenly so against a pair of shorts he wore the previous summer with enthusiasm, his default response is "I don't like them because they are uncomfortable."

He says this because subconsciously he knows this is an iron clad statement. No parent is going to force their child to wear something uncomfortable. Especially a parent who was forced to wear Toughskins as a child.

(Toughskins are a brand of jean that my Grandparents discovered somewhere deep in the heart of Florida and graciously brought back to my parents every YEAR so that we could enjoy the benefits of an ugly jean that needed no assistance to stand up on its own, that never wore out and only came in poo brown or navy blue denim - which was NOT cool at the time. We tried to wear out those jeans. We crawled around on gravel on our knees for crying in the sink and still those jeans held up. They never wore out or even looked old. We simply grew out of them. And, given that in all my thirty-four years on this earth I've only managed to grow four feet and eleven inches, you can imagine that I rarely outgrew the Toughskins.)

So I'm not going to force Jackie Chan to wear something uncomfortable. Can't do it. So we spend ten minutes fishing out another pair of comfortable but stylish shorts that match the shirt he has picked out for the day and are without stains.

And then there is Bruce Lee. Even he has realized he can have a say in his wardrobe.

His Uncle Mike bought him some cool t-shirts and now they are all Bruce Lee wants to wear. But we've explained to Bruce Lee that we don't want him to wear them to daycare because then they'll be stained and gross and then Mommy won't let him wear them anymore.

Bruce Lee's well thought out response to this was:

"Want to wear shirts."

No sweetheart ... Mommy doesn't want them to get dirty or ruined. They are for going out, not for wearing to daycare.

"Wear shirts because UNCLE MIKE GAVE THEM TO ME."

I'm momentarily stunned and silenced by the fact that my two and a half year old has just yelled the previous statement at me. But I hold my ground and pull out a shirt I've set aside for daycare use and cram it over his head.

Bruce Lee is less than amused and proceeds to tantrum for a full five minutes while I brush my teeth and inspect Jackie Chan's face and then the tantrum fades and I pick up a defeated Bruce Lee and head out the door.

Little victories. Clean AND obedient children. For today anyway.

They Call Me "Freeda ... "

The World Cup is on right now and I have to admit that I'm not much of a soccer watcher.

I like soccer ... but I don't watch it often so I'm not familiar with many of the players ... or teams ... or rules ... you get the picture.

I did watch a few games one year when I happened to be in Ottawa during the world cup and I found myself quite caught up in the hysteria of it all. That said, I did get a lot of threatening looks from the other people in the pubs where I was watching the games because I had decided - at that time - I should cheer for Italy (mainly because I've always wanted to go to Italy and I liked their jerseys ... and ... Italian men running around - hello - why choose any other team?) but everyone else in whatever pub we happened to be in always seemed to be cheering for the other team. Probably because that was the much more logical team to cheer for.

Right.

I totally get men, women, children who are here in Canada with different cultural backgrounds cheering on their nation's team in the World Cup. For example, Jackie Chan's "friend's" (wink wink, nudge nudge ... first crush) mom is from Mexico, so yeah, she's all about cheering for Mexico. Makes sense.

A bunch of multi-generational (read: no ethic background) Canadians passionately cheering for a team just because makes about as much sense as me picking a team because of their dark flowing hair and blue jerseys. But I found myself in the pub, a victim of jeers and clenched fists because I wasn't cheering for the "appropriate" team.

Whatever ... that's not what this is about.

The anthem for the Fifa World Cup 2010 is K'naan's Wavin' Flag. If this is something you are not yet aware of you should probably shun yourself ... even non-soccer fans know that Wavin' Flag is the anthem for the Fifa World Cup 2010.

In our house it's a pretty big deal because it's Bruce Lee's favourite song. Not because it's the anthem for the World Cup ... he loved it well before that.

He demands to hear it in the car. He demands to hear it at home. He bangs on the djambe and sings it. He plays the wooden flute and sings it. He plays his broken guitar and sings it. He plays the piano and sings it.

He watched the opening of the Fifa World Cup Kick Off Concert and saw K'naan performing (we PVR'd thank goodness) and we had to watch it about four times last night. In a row.

He sings along. Or tries to. All the words. It's really quite cute.

He's been serenading all the people in the building where he attends daycare with his own version of Wavin' Flag.

The moment we get in the car his little voice pops up from the back:

"Mommy, Daddy I want when I get older, they call me Freda ..."

"Yes, yes" we say, "in a minute."

"No Mommy, now, they call me Freda ... just like a wavin' blagg"

We put it on and before the first bar is over we hear his little voice again:

"Turn up please, turn up louder, they call me Freda ..."

So it's become our anthem of the summer as well.

Birthday Memories ...

Jackie Chan turned eight today.

It's hard to believe that he has been on this earth for eight years.

And although it seems like eight years is a long time, I have to force myself to think really hard to remember what my life was like before he came along.

His entrance into this world was less than graceful - on my part anyway - I had never really felt pain (or the loss of all privacy) until that moment.

The pain I had giving birth to him was beyond. It was just beyond. I seriously thought I might die.

Scarier still ... I seriously thought he might die on the way out. There were more people in that birthing suite awaiting his entrance than me (and my dignity ... lost dignity) would have liked. They were there to "help" him once he came out.

The fact that there were a team of doctors and nurses at the ready to aid him upon his arrival into the world was not something I found comforting in the least.

There was a lot of stress on him during the birthing process and when he "arrived" he didn't scream or cry - like babies usually do - he was silent. And because I couldn't hear him, I freaked.

I was screaming about my baby and demanding to know what was going on and I could see a team of doctors working on him over in the corner but I was also aware that my doctor and some other doctor I had never met before were working hard to fix me ... and my blood loss ... but I didn't care ... I needed to know he was OK.

My doctor kept saying things like "he's fine, they are just checking him out" but I could tell there was a little fear behind his eyes and I just kept yelling for my baby ... I just wanted him in my arms.

And then in an instant, my doctor was smiling and so was the nurse (one of the half-dozen or so that were in the room, the one that was there for me), the respiratory unit was on their way out of the room, and my little baby ... my little boy ... was safe in my arms. Staring back at me. Still not crying. Just staring.

It was the best feeling. (And no, it didn't make me forget about the pain, but it did make all the pain worthwhile, which I suppose is a fair trade.)

He is sill that way sometimes. Quiet and still. Reserved. Pensive.

And sometimes he is wild and silly and entertaining and full of silly jokes and stories.

He spent the better part of his early years rocking out singing and playing air guitar for anyone who was willing to listen.

He loves superheros and jokes about poo and pee and toilets. He doesn't see the importance in washing his hands.

He has a good heart.

He has lived a lifetime of stories in his eight years ... and I know he'll live a lifetime more.

Happy Birthday baby.

The romantic side of Kraft Dinner ...

I'm not picky. Not really. It's just that sometimes I know what I want. And when I know what I want, I don't want anything else.

I'm especially that way with food. When I want a certain something to eat it simply cannot be replaced. Or ignored.

Take last night for example.

What I wanted was Kraft Dinner. Straight up, original, yellowy goodness.

(FYI - this is not a health food blog, it's my life, for real ... so yeah, I crave Kraft Dinner occasionally. Deal.)

I wasn't going to eat white Presidents Choice Macaroni Dinner.

But, it appeared that I didn't have much choice.

(It was all we had in the cupboard and we were pressed for time because Jackie Chan had spontaneously decided that he would like to spend some of his birthday money on a movie so we were trying to eat and get out of the house to see "Shrek: Forever After" which I really didn't care too much to see but Curtis and I were both in agreement that we were so NOT sitting through "Marmaduke".)

So I grumbled about the grossness of white Kraft dinner and started to fill up the pot with water.

Curtis, in the meantime was grumbling to himself - about what exactly I couldn't be sure - and promptly picked up his wallet and announced that he was heading out to the store.

When I asked him -quite innocently - why he was going to the store now when we didn't have a lot of time, he replied "to get you some Kraft Dinner."

I smiled and said ... OH.

About three minutes later Jackie Chan came out of the bathroom (located conveniently right beside the kitchen where our brief Kraft Dinner conversation had just occurred) and was blabbing on about romantic and something starting ... I was confused but clearly he was directing his comments at me so I thought I should request some clarification.

"What are you saying baby? I can't hear you, you're mumbling."

"I said (dramatic pause) that Daddy is going to the store to get you real Kraft Dinner because you don't like the white stuff and that's how all the romantic starts because he loves you."

The grammar left something to be desired ... but his point was loud and clear.

It was a very romantic thing for Curtis to do.

And sometimes in the midst of all life's crazy hustle and bustle, it's the little gestures that mean so much.

I, from time to time, have been known to do some really dumb things.

I was asked a while back to assist a friend and her Mom with a chapel service at the Grace Hospital in Toronto. I was asked to sing, as was my friend.

I inquired about what would be most appropriate to sing and was told that the service was for the patients on the palliative care floor (or at least it appeared to me to be the palliative care floor- very very elderly patients) and she suggested just some familiar hymns of the church that would bring back memories and comfort.

I chose two hymns (largely ... well ... purely because I had accompaniment tracks for them) and was pleased that I had a repertoire that contained some old hymns of the church appropriate for an occasion such as this. I felt very professional. Since I was familiar with the hymns, and the music seemed rather straightforward, I didn't rehearse them before the service.

Off I went to sing on that morning ...

The service began and my friend sang a beautiful hymn. Her Mom read some scripture. And then it was my turn.

Now ... I'm used to singing in front of elderly and sick patients. I was provided with many opportunities - growing up in the Salvation Army - to sing in hospitals and nursing homes and retirement homes at Christmas, etc. So I was prepared (or so I thought) to stand up and sing a hymn to a small room of patients.

My music started and I began to sing ...

"Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,

Calling for you and for me;

See, on the portals, He's waiting and watching,

Watching for you and for me"

It was going well ... but I had a nagging thought in the back of my mind that something was coming that was kind of like a train headed for a public school that I couldn't shake ... but I pressed on ...

"Come home, come home;

Ye who are weary come home;"

Yup. There it was. I was singing "ye who are weary, come home" to a room full of palliative care patients.

How in the heck was I going to make it through? I didn't know if I should laugh. Or cry. Or die. Dying seemed a little inappropriate, so I continued.

"Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling

Calling O sinner come home!"

Yup. I just called them sinners.

It was a disaster beyond anything I could have possibly imagined (in order to then avoid, of course).

The absolute worst part though ... was the third verse. I couldn't skip it because I was using a track - not a live musician I could turn to and plead with my eyes silently to stop playing - a track that was not slowing down or stopping or helping me in any way.

I imagined the tape being chewed in that instant by the sound system. But instead the tape played on, strong and loud. I just looked straight ahead and continued:

"Time is now fleeting, the moments are passing,

Passing from you and from me;

(I can't make up words fast enough ... maybe I should just hum ... that would be too obvious ... I have to just keep singing ... it's a hymn, right? Maybe they aren't even listening ...)

"Shadows are gathering, deathbeds are coming,

Coming for you and for me"

(Oh dear Lord, I'm pretty sure someone just died in the back of the room. I have to live with this on my conscience for the rest of my life.)

It was, perhaps, one of the more boneheaded things I've ever done in my life.

My other hymn was Amazing Grace. When I sang "Amazing grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see" I kind of hoped that they all took it as my personal explanation and apology.

A case of the block ...

I have writers block.

It's not because there is nothing to write about or because my children have stopped saying extremely funny and entertaining things.

I think it's because there is so much junk in my head from dealing with people who are just draining me.

Draining all energy and creativity. Draining fun and life and laughter.

Every day there is a new aggravation or irritation to deal with.

I'm not talking about my family or my friends. I'm talking about others. Actually, other.

I'm a worrier. I know that. I can overreact and freak out. I bite my nails. I choose the most bizarre times to care that the upstairs bathroom hasn't been cleaned in a while and the sink has turned a strange pale pink colour around the edges.

I have a low patience level for socks left on the floor of the living room and on the landings of the staircases and I make that known ... often ...

I yell at my children to stop them from yelling at each other and I totally get the crazy in that ...

I get angry sometimes when I have to make supper at the end of a long day ... and I know that's wrong because the alternative is to have my children go to bed hungry and I wouldn't ever want that, but honestly sometimes I'm just irritated that I don't have a personal chef ... and a maid ... to help out ...

BUT ... and it's a bit BUT ...

I try to let stuff GO.

I don't think I'm a bitter person. I know that there are things that happen, past and present, that are not so great and kind of suck, but I choose and continue to choose to move beyond and be happy and satisfied with what I have. All the blessings.

So when I have to deal with a person who chooses to see the negative in everything. Who chooses to create chaos and turmoil and friction and anger. Who chooses to try, everyday, to get under my skin, it is hard to be fun and creative and awesome around that person.

So I'm left with a bit of a block.

But - in keeping with my outlook on life - I need to move beyond this block. To just let it go and ignore all the bitterness that has seeped in around me purely by daily environmental association and MOVE ON.

So here's a little story ... however small ... it's a start ...

I went to High Park yesterday with Jackie Chan's class. It was fun. Sort of.

Twenty two children on a city streetcar during rush hour ... you can see where the line between fun and insane is somewhat blurred for me.

But we made it and had a great day - Jackie Chan even touched a Canada Goose (and was immediately scrubbed and sanitized) ... he was really thrilled at his goosy adventure. He chased it all the way into the pond. I believe he felt he was doing his part to help the poor bird get "home."

It was a day of adventures and I always like to congratulate myself on spending quality time with my child while helping a teacher in need of some parental assistance on a trip. I felt I had provided Jackie Chan with some good memories and that's always a good day.

So this morning while we were walking to school he said:

"Mommy ... I was on a streetcar with my whole class. Well, the whole two classes of Grade 2. And there were all kinds of other people on the streetcar at the beginning but then it was just us ... ALL BY OURSELVES on the streetcar. Isn't that so cool?"

I wasn't really sure how to break the news to him, so I thought it best to be blunt ... I just looked at him and sighed and smiled and said:

"I know babe ... I was there, remember?"

"OH ... yeah (laughs) I forgot"

And so I move on ... making memories regardless of the impact they have on my children. Because if anything, it really makes ME happy!