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.

Bugs ...

I am desperately trying to overcome my completely irrational fear of spiders. Of bugs in general.

I fear that I may have passed this overwhelming hatred of all things insect, arachnid, and myriapod ... oh, lets throw reptilian in there as well ... on Bruce Lee and, occasionally, Jackie Chan.

I'm not sure if it was the high pitched, blood-curtailing screaming I would do when faced with an eight legged creature of death as I would watch it slowly climbing a wall or dangling from a ceiling or the horror that would grasp me and suck all breath from my lungs if I happened upon a centipede whilst cleaning and tidying in the basement that put Bruce Lee over the edge ... or if he was simply born with a healthy disposition to hate all things creepy crawly.

But regardless of the origination of this fear in him ... he has it. And he is completely, unabashedly terrified of bugs.

While on vacation at my parents place last week ... in the country ... with lots of bugs ... he and his brother and cousins were in the jumping castle and I was sitting in a rocking chair on the porch enjoying some coffee and butter tarts when there was suddenly a cacophony of screaming and shouting from the jumping castle. Thinking one of the boys must surely be suffering from a broken or altogether lost limb I ran to the site of the emergency only to find four boys huddled together screaming and pointing at an earwig.

Now me and my sister-in-law, both knowing that we should calm the boys down and tell them it's only a bug and not to worry, decided instead to scream and jump up in down joining in the chorus of horror and together pointed at the earwig exclaiming "Ewwww gross! A disgusting and nasty earwig, ewwww, ewwww!"

This did not improve the children's situation in the least and they screamed even louder still ...

I finally snapped myself back into reality and ran for a Kleenex and bravely climbed inside the jumping castle - ignoring the 100 lb. weight limit - and killed the offending bug and ended the temporary nightmare for all four children. (I have little doubt that my sister-in-law would have performed this brave act herself were she not, at the time, holding on to the youngest member of her family.)

There were a few other earwigs that needed to be killed and I chose to pass the noble duty on to my brother ... only because he was standing there and I felt that in my delicate condition I shouldn't be climbing in and out of a jumping castle in the heat and humidity.

I began to take notice over the remainder of our time at my parents house that while playing Bruce Lee would suddenly run from a room to find me saying something along the lines of "scared mommy, there's a spider ... scared.

Fair enough, I would think to myself, after all spiders are nasty and in some parts of the world spiders can kill you. So I would investigate.

I realized there may be a bit of problem when my investigations would lead me to a room that did not, in fact, contain any spiders, rather there would be a few house flies buzzing around the window frames ... usually on the outside of the house.

Bruce Lee would stand ... bravely ... beside me with a look on his face somewhere between complete horror and severe constipation until I assured him that the common house fly was not a deadly spider and had not been known to kill anyone and was, furthermore, on the outside of the house.

Bruce Lee would look at me doubtfully and resume his playing on the opposite side of the room.

Yesterday I got a phone call from Bruce Lee (who was at the time driving to Michigan with his brother and his grandparents) ... when I answered a little voice said "Hi mommy ... hi. There is a bug."

"What baby, a bug?? Where?? In the car?"

"There's a bug. Mommy. There is a bug. Scared"

I'm completely helpless at my desk thinking why hasn't anyone done anything about this bug ... clearly the poor child is terrified ... when Jackie Chan gets on the phone ...

"Hi Mommy"

"Hey buddy ... what's up? Is Bruce Lee OK? What is this bug he's talking about?"

"Oh, I think there was a bee outside of the window or something ... I dunno ... he's freaking out ... but there's nothing in the car."

So I vowed that I would be less of a freak when faced with any kind of spider, bug, reptile ... whatever.

This morning I was alone on the first floor of the office ... a dark office ... and just sitting down at my desk to turn on my computer. I lifted a pad of paper off my desk and a cockroach skittered out from underneath. I screamed loudly and whilst screaming and jumping, smashed the cockroach to death with my heavy duty stapler.

There was perhaps a bit of overkill on my part, but all in all I think I handled the situation in a completely calm and rational fashion.

I can totally lick this fear of bugs.

At least before I have to send Bruce Lee to camp ....

Third time around .......

I'm pregnant. Yup ... it's true. The third baby is on his or her way sometime at the end of January.

This should - for those of you who have been pregnant before (sorry guys ... you won't have the benefit of knowing what I'm going to write about ... at least as it pertains to being pregnant) - offer some explanation as to why I haven't been blogging quite as much as I would like. Pregnancy makes you dumb. Like really stupid.

I think this is especially true if you are in any way creative. It's like the little thing growing inside of you sucks up every last bit of creativity and feeds on it day in and day out. It takes whatever witty and intelligent thought you may have bubbling to the surface and grabs at it and holds on to it and steals it from you and you find yourself suddenly void of all thought.

In my case I become a really dumb, uncreative, bumbling idiot when I'm pregnant.

Aside from the obvious signs of being pregnant - extreme nausea, profound hunger, bloating, losing the waistline (given that this is my third baby the waistline vanished long before the little plus sign showed up on the test ... and that honestly, may have had more to do with the profound hunger than the tiny little microscopic baby beginning to form at week four) - I find myself, once again, unable to focus my thoughts in any kind of intelligent way whatsoever.

This does make working rather difficult. And blogging and being creative even more so ... I will however, try to continue on with my writing.

I will try my best to fill you in on the happenings and mishaps, as the case may be, that happen when you find yourself pregnant with your third baby, working full time, living in a house with an impossible amount of stairs and no air-conditioning, with two other children to care for, one of whom is two years old and has hit the "terrible twos" full on and with such gusto that the thought of bringing another child into the world seems totally irrational ...

I will do my best to write about the joys of pregnancy and this wonderful, euphoric time in my life ... and I will do my best to write about the not-so-great things that will inevitably happen.

So far all I can report at this time is that I really like orange juice AND that women (mothers themselves mostly), know right away that I'm pregnant when they see me and will ask with great enthusiasm when I'm due and how I'm feeling ... this will get old, I know, it's my third time around, but right now it's still exciting and fun to be asked.

On the flip side ... if one more male or teeny-tiny, bimbo headed, stick figure of a girl shouts "oh I had no idea you were pregnant, that's so great!!!!" I may have to drop kick someone in the shin. Yeah, that's right, the shin. See, on account of getting a giant belly thanks to the four inch wee little scrumptious baby growing inside, I won't be able to reach anybody's face to give a proper drop-kick ... and getting kicked in the shins is a fair price to pay for thinking I normally have a giant protruding belly.

Vacation ...

I've been on vacation for two weeks (more or less) ... I'm back home now and planning to write very soon.

Thanks for checking in and for being faithful readers ... I appreciate your support and will post in the VERY near future.