Have a Bagel, Emo Kid

Posted on 6/21/2008 by cheesefairy

So I have a cold / flu, right? Day 4 now of the second such viral plague in 3 weeks. Happy. Mostly I’m just happy the small children are breathing better. SA is heavily medicated for his lingering dry cough and I know I’ll be better soon. But for one irritating detail: I have lost my sense of smell. Since yesterday morning I am scent and taste free. While this presents advantages in the care-of-small-children arena (think poop) it presents definite disadvantages w/r/t one of my remaining, reliable pleasures in life. Food. Because no matter what else happens in a day (and a lot can happen in a day) at least I can eat something delicious from time to time, right? At least there’s chocolate.

WRONG The mouth-feel on the Green & Black’s is good but it’s no substitute for, y’know, actual chocolate flavour.

Damn this is burning me up. It’s Saturday and I want to order some version of delicious delivery food (Mizzle style!) for dinner but not, repeat, NOT if I can’t taste it.

Instead of continuing to whine to SA, whose tolerance for such constant sorrow as I am offering up is necessarily limited at the moment and because I am a modern (pronounced “Modren,” like in Mr. Roboto) woman, I google “sense of taste cold” in the hopes someone can give me advice on how to get my flavours back. And I get to this site and I giggle and then I notice the url is “emofree” and I giggle harder and then I share with you.

It’s a site about EFT or “Emotional Freedom Techniques.” I did not delve into the site. I don’t have time. Also I don’t want to know what it means, because I enjoy not knowing. Not knowing makes paragraphs like this even more amusing:

EFT often brings relief that seems like a miracle. But a “one minute wonder” I keep marveling at is reclaiming my sense of taste when it disappears due to a cold or flu.

Now the fact is, I’m usually able to tap away symptoms of a cold or flu, but the one time I couldn’t, and the cold plagued me for a week or more, I was STILL able to tap and reclaim my sense of taste within 2 rounds of tapping. Great magic trick! I used the phrase:

Even though my sense of taste has disappeared… I might have also used: Even though I can’t taste my food…

So I am going to spend the rest of the day tapping my forehead with a small rubber mallet while thinking positively about my emotional attachment to food. This is my “for dummies, didn’t read the manual” version of EFT. If it works and I get my flavours back, watch this ‘blog tomorrow for a new manifesto. It if doesn’t, the scream you hear will be me eating jalapeno chips by the fistful because at least I can taste spicy and salt.

PS: The video of “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” is playing as I type this and it is NOT HELPING.

Posted in chips, food, funny, whiny | 1 Comment

My Inside Voice Has Its Say After The Morning’s Events

Posted on 6/19/2008 by cheesefairy

To the friendly, slightly creepy book-shelver at the library:

Yes, my children are a blessing. And yes, they may or may not be a gift from god. Sure, the little one might become prime minister some day (but would I want that, really?) but while you are talking to me, the older one has just disappeared around a corner so kindly get the fuck out of my road. And no, I do not want to come to your bible study. Still no.

To the caregiver of the 5 or 6 year old girl who keeps bringing me books to read aloud:

Please read some books to this child. I can’t keep reading to her because I have two children of my own and one of them is strapped to me and quite heavy and the other one has just disappeared around another corner, I think heading for the computers. I already have a toddler who speaks imperiously to me, I don’t need some strange kid saying, “READ THIS PAGE!” when I don’t even know her.

Yeah it takes a village and I’m sorry there’s no story time today but come on.

To my own darling son, the elder:

I couldn’t agree more, climbing the stairs to your bedroom is, in your own words, haaard woorrrrrrk. However I just pushed you, your buggy, your brother, your backpack and 10 library books up a very steep hill, chased you around the library and pushed you back down again. Now I am listening to your brother scream while you whine about climbing a flight of stairs so don’t talk to me about hard work. Suck it up and go have a nap.

To my darling son, the junior:

I’m sorry I smell bad and I’m sorry your face was wedged in my cleavage all morning. But if you would sleep or at least keep quiet in the buggy I wouldn’t have to strap you to my body. So you can stop making that disgusted face. I will shower when I’m good and ready. Let me know when you can hold your own head up and we’ll talk about alternate carrying arrangements.

Posted in Fresco, new westminster, outside, trombone, two! children! | 1 Comment

We Subscribe for The Articles

Posted on 6/17/2008 by cheesefairy

There is a small card jammed in the middle of every wonderful issue of TV Week Magazine. It displays a crazy knick knack for sale. You know; sandal pendant inspired by the “Footprints” poem (? – as in, is it a poem? Is there a word for inspirational claptrap?) or china figurine in the shape of Diana, princess of Wales, or John Wayne Commemorative Knife.

I won’t go on; you can browse the site yourself if you’re feeling strong of constitution. Watch for the purses emblazoned with your favourite breed of dog.

I thought I had seen it all. Until SA asked me to brace myself, no, he wasn’t kidding, and handed me this week’s card. It featured a small ceramic mouse figurine sitting on a plush pink pillow, wearing a very large pink hat and a long string of pearls; like the mouse had been playing dress-up in its mother’s closet, if mice have closets and who is to say they do not? And above the picture of the mouse, written in pink cursive: Hats off To A Cure!

Oh yes, me hearties, it is a breast cancer awareness ceramic mouse. Pardon. Not ceramic. Crafted of artist’s resin. $29.99 plus shipping, with unspecified proceeds to breast cancer research etc. and I quote:

This limited-edition collectible figurine is the premiere issue of a first-ever Charming Tails collection created to bring awareness to this worthy cause. Handcrafted and hand-painted in artist’s resin, the figurine is accented with pink ribbons throughout, real feathers, simulated gems and pearls, and her fabulous hat is trimmed with synthetic fur. As this subject touches people worldwide high demand is anticipated for this limited edition benefiting breast cancer charity. An inspiring keepsake for yourself or a delightful breast cancer awareness gift! Order now.

Here, I will save you some trouble and some space on your already overcrowded mantle. There is a disease called cancer. Sometimes it is in your breasts or the breasts of someone you love. Like any cancer, it can kill. Now go donate some money to the charity of your choice.

One of my favourite posts about breast cancer “awareness” and pinkification is here at i blame the patriarchy. She says it all and so much better than I could.

While you’re there, I also love this post about a cervical cancer awareness campaign involving underwear sales.

And so, nethers and nips covered, I have completed my bodily awareness campaign for the day.

PS: SA’s dad sent me a link to this article in the Ottawa Citizen explaining that working for the government makes you crazy. Spot on, Ottawa Citizen. To follow: 20 years of “strategic and proactive investigation” followed by some “committee-inspired roundtables” and some “ground-up re-invigorative approaches to synergistic improvements.” Only then will we truly know how to make it so working for the government doesn’t make you crazy.

Posted in everything, media, outside | 8 Comments

Three Posts I Didn’t Post But Saved and then Compiled Here

Posted on 6/15/2008 by cheesefairy

Friday

original title: “It’s Friday. Whatever That Means”

This guy at work, one of those good old boys who always has a shoulder-clap at the ready and who does that thing where he points at you and says “Heyyyy” like a middle-aged Fonzie, he has two kids. The girl is older, she’s 10, and the boy is 8.5 or something. Some close-in-age spread. He was keen on checking in on me when I was pregnant with Fresco, seeing how the pregnancy was going, asking me when I was due, over and over again, asking if I was ready to make the jump from one to two kids. Pretty much once a week this guy would say, “Remember: one kid is a hobby, two is a job.” He even wrote it in my going-away card.

I hate it when people are right.

I got up this morning at 5:08 when Fresco woke up. I decided to forgo more sleep and instead take the opportunity to shower while there are two adults in the house and one of the children is sleeping. I call it “home team advantage.” Washed my hair. Put on some clothes. Upstairs, where my bed is, is home and downstairs is work, so now I’m at work, having my coffee and some before-I-get-started water-cooler chit chat with the Internet. On the bright side, the commute is a breeze.

Of course the shower woke up Trombone who is now moaning and working up the strength to holler. It’s about an hour earlier than his usual wake up. Fresco, bless him, has gone back to sleep. Yesterday, he didn’t. Yesterday, he was awake and grizzling all day while Trombone tested my multi-tasking skills by standing at my hip, saying “Mommy read THIS BOOK, Mommy read THIS BOOK, Mommy read THIS BOOK,” for possibly 10 minutes I don’t know because I was laughing too hard. I felt like I was the hapless stand-in relative in an episode of Crash Test Mommy.

Oh yes laughing. The mixed blessing of a second child is that while the physical intensity is doubled, the emotional intensity stays about the same. I am mostly too weary to really take scenes like that to heart. I know Fresco won’t break from crying. And Trombone won’t break (any further…) from waiting a few minutes.

[…And then while I was patting myself on the back just there, Fresco woke up making dying cat noises and wouldn’t be shushed. Which of course will not help Trombone get any more sleep. And I am instantly in the place where I think: Fractious little fuckers both of them. I am going to lose my load. I am seriously going to lose my load.]

But then when the noise has stopped and a few tears have been shed and I have had a second cup of coffee and it looks like the sun might come out and even though he is up an hour early, Trombone’s cold is much improved so we might even get outside today, I am again convinced that I can cope, that I can do this. For one more day, anyway.

Saturday

original title: “8 Weeks Old and Boy! Are My Arms Tired!”

The Terrible Twos are contagious. Did you know that? Shut my mouth if I didn’t have a toddler-level meltdown today, complete with gnashing of teeth and foot-stomping and many tissues and all the while imagining SA, who was smiling and listening attentively, thinking sweet galloping kitty cats, this broad is insane! Through his gritted, grinning teeth, I think my car keys are in my other shorts! Dammit!

I forgot the first rule of Parent Club: You don’t count your chickens till they’re ready for the Shake N Bake. Eg: Do not tell anyone your child is sleeping through the night until he’s living in his own apartment and probably not sleeping at all. Else he’ll stop.

Here, a more relevant example: Do not tell anyone your child’s cold is better until it’s been at least 10 days. Else he’ll wake up the next day 8x as miserable as yesterday, rivers of snot and tears and The Hack in full force and he’ll wipe his nose on your mouth and stick his tongue in the baby’s eye and even though the baby probably has immunity from you it’s more likely that he’ll get this cold too and that will make this the official House of Snot for another 10 days. And somehow SA has avoided it which means just when I’ve washed all the couch cushions and put a fresh box of tissues on the counter, he’ll get sick.

Yay!

This parenting Charleston, I am a little rusty at it, plus now I’m dancing twice as fast, but I think it goes like this:

1. hate the last 10 minutes of my life
2. feel guilty – should appreciate every moment!
3. feel defensive – surely I am allowed to be unhappy sometimes, especially when XY and Z have all gone wrong lately
4. feel guilty – think how much WORSE XY and Z could be. Loser.
5. hate self.

I trip a lot over my own feet while I do this dance. I hate tripping over my own feet. So clumsy.

Now, see, usually I wash this sort of angst away with a shower, mop up my ugly tears and thoughts with a receiving blanket and lope along being OK for a while. I don’t want to worry anyone. I don’t want questions. I don’t want sympathy. I just need to let off some steam, get over myself, ride the pity train alone. It feels good to feel sorry for myself. Good like picking a scab. This time I’m putting it out there. Maybe if I put it out there, I’ll get over myself.

There will be bacon tomorrow. There’s that.

Sunday

original title: Bacon!

5:00 am: Sun is up!

5:30 – 6:30 – Coffee!

7:00 am: I love bacon, I love bacon, I love bacon. I hope Trombone’s cold is better today.

7:20 am: Negative, Ghostrider. Cold much worse. Kid looks like he lost a bar fight with a very tall virus who’s quick with his fists. However he is hoovering up the blueberry pancakes SA made. Since he’s been on the toddler diet – bread and creamcheese – for 4 days, this is progress. Mmm, pancakes and bacon. Happy Father’s Day to me!

8:15 am: Good grief, how much can one child cough? Yo, The Hack, give a 2 year old a break!

8:17 am: Wow, he just puked up all those blueberry pancakes. What a waste. At least he didn’t eat much bacon. More bacon for me! Bacon!

8:30 am: I think he must have puked up the cold virus. Because he’s about 75% improved. Huh.

12:20 pm: “Today is better than yesterday,” says SA. Apparently no one told him about Parent Club. Can’t wait to see what the afternoon holds.

12:30 pm: After 2 hours of typing with one finger in between holding Fresco underneath the range hood because he finds the stove fan very soothing, I decide to publish this post. And hope for health and better days and more sunshine and a better attitude in general. After all, I have a robot vacuum. More about that another day.

1:00 pm: Get distracted by my hair.

1:30 pm: Decide to go to the mall instead and return pants I bought 2 weeks ago.

2:00 pm: Does EVERYONE go to the mall on Sundays? Who knew? Lineups too long. I decide to return the pants another day. Like a Tuesday, perhaps. I have 90 days from date of purchase. Unless I miraculously shrink to fit them within the next 75 days. Unlikely given how much bacon I am eating.

2:15 pm: I find awesome shoes for half price! Now everything is perfect!

7:30 pm: Finally back at the computer. Fresco waking. And so on.

Posted in Fresco, the parenthood, threes, trombone, two! children!, whiny | 6 Comments

Like a Prairie Storm

Posted on 6/12/2008 by cheesefairy

There has been sickness at our house. Not as much sickness as Sarah and her family but a strange, cough-led illness descended a few weeks ago. SA’s mom had it. Then I got it. Then his dad got it. Yesterday, SA’s mom and dad attempted to leave our chilly province and go back to their own hot one. Meanwhile we attempted to make them stay forever by holding their ID hostage in the backseat of my dad’s car while he drove around town with his cell phone off. We almost succeeded; they missed their plane. But then the dastardly Westjet foiled us and gave them excellent customer service so they got on a later flight. And my dad decided he didn’t want to be the villain anymore so he returned SA’s mom’s purse so she could go through security and get on the plane. And off they went, their suitcases far lighter having relinquished approximately 400 lbs of Winnie the Pooh books, one stuffed Tigger, one talking Ranger bear and one folding wooden rocking chair.

I had woken rejoicing in the knowledge that neither of my small dependents had been afflicted with The Hack as I’ve come to affectionately refer to it. (At one point last week I was up at 3 am feeding Fresco, coughing like a bingo queen, listening to SA’s parents lose pieces of their own lung tissue in separate rooms of the house. Anyone walking by would have thought we were a convalescent home.) But when Trombone descended the stairs yesterday morning, my heart sank a little. “How are you,” I said, eyeing his bright pink cheeks. “So good,” he said, his standard reply, but within two hours he was limp on the couch with fever.

It’s always amazing how quickly illness moves in to – and out of – small children. One minute they’re grumpy and bossy and the next you are regretting thinking of selling them to the highest bidder because oh, I see, they were getting sick.

It reminds me of the first prairie thunderstorm I witnessed, on a screened-in sun porch in Sarah’s dad’s house in Winnipeg. One minute we were drinking beer and feeling exceptionally hot and sweaty under a sky clear but for millions of mosquitoes trying to get us. The next, a huge cloud began rolling in. From somewhere near Alberta, it looked like, because that’s how far you can see if you look west from Winnipeg. The world shook with thunder and the sky blazed with lightning. Huge drops of rain battered the roof and walls of the sun porch. And in the time it took to have another swig of beer, the storm had moved on.

It was so cool. Hemmed in by mountains most of the time, I do love a good sky.

In my own lungs, I am hosting the Vancouver storm version of The Hack. 10 days on and I am pretty much cured except every morning I get up and sound like that old guy. You know the one; he’s been smoking for 60 years and he’s got entire colonies of little furry animals in his lungs and he clears his throat for about 45 minutes while he has his first cigarette of the day on his front porch. Just like every morning I get up and our skies are grey and cloudy and cool. Not quite storm, not quite summer. Not sick, not quite well. Somewhere in between.

Posted in Fresco, outside, trombone | 2 Comments