We are three days into a very structured school schedule.  Trying my best to get us into a healthy learning routine before we head out again.  The beauty of this next trip is that it is just us… the miscreants, the husband and me.  No more family.  No more visiting.  Obligations that do not extend beyond just our five minds, bodies and souls.  So, the fact is, even though we will be on the road some, once we’ve settled in to our final destination, there will be little to stand in the way of us and a continuing routine of some degree of structured academic learning.

However, as these last few days will attest, getting to a place where we are comfortable with this whole new set of expectations will not be easy.  The free-for-all that has been summertime has set us up for some serious transition pains.  For example:

Day 1.  Middle child, Zip, upon being asked to read a list of words containing short vowel sounds, and after refusing flat out with bottom lip protruding, decides to close his eyes.  Sitting up at the school table.  For many minutes.  Despite cajoling, urging, encouraging, and then finally getting all up in his grill and bloody well commanding he get his act together, he remained seated, upright, eyes closed.  Removed, limp, from stool, he was tossed like a sack of potatoes placed on the nearby sofa.  Where he remained. Eyes closed.  For many, many more minutes.  I actually thought he fell asleep.  OK.  I could but stare in fascination.  Was this some out of body experience I was witnessing induced by profound aversion to words with short vowel sounds?!?  After standing confused, bewildered and taken aback, completely unprepared for acting out in quite such a fashion, I assigned other miscreants some independent work and sat down with him.  I gathered up his lifeless form and snuggled him up for a good long hug.  Well… I’ll be damned.  The child perked up as though to a first, fresh morning snowfall.  He jumped back onto his stool and got down to business. Little bugger.

Day 2:  Eldest miscreant, while not nearly as dramatic as his younger brother, pulled the scrunchy, red face, teary eyes with every activity.  Everything is “just so ha-aaard….”  Uh-huh.  ”Awwwwww-wwwww.  Do I have to do this?!?!”  Uh-huh.  Slam workbook.  Slam binder.  Flip pages so as to be sure they tear from their holes. “Unnnnghhhh-ghhhhh… whyyyy-yyyyyy?!?!”  Uh-huh.  Remind me again… why the hell am I doing this?!?

Day 3:  Today is why I am doing this.  While not eager little beavers, at least productive and far more receptive.  We did some interesting stuff mixed in with the onerous… and everybody stayed pretty much with the program.  It was a great day… until….

 Zip.  Darling Zip.  Decided, in his efforts to buy a Wii, that he would not give back the money he conned out of his younger sister the day before.  As I removed a couple of loonies and a toonie from his sweaty little palms, he let out the wildest of possible yowls.  Otherworldly, without a doubt.  From the depths of his tiny, wiry little body, coins gripped painfully in his tiny hands, he screeched for the heavens, every muscle tense sinew as his face contorted with agony… before he started his path of destruction.  Anything in his reach was thrown with reckless, disturbingly aggressive abandon as sister and elder brother ran for the hills…. sent outdoors in a complete fit, adding insult to his apparent injury, he dropped one of his precious, beloved coins in between the boards of the deck.  Ack!  

Six year old tantrums are a trip.  I’ve been a lucky parent in that I’ve never had to leave Wal-Mart with a banshee of a toddler.  Tantrums have never really been our thing.  Make no mistake, we’ve had other things… exhibitionism, for example.  But never really tantrums.  But now, at six… and they are wild.  And frustrating.  Because he knows better.  

Thankfully, upon frantic Googling this evening, I am relieved to find it is not abnormal.  Incredibly unpleasant… but not abnormal.

Day 4?  I do believe I’ve seen the worst… so bring it on! I’m ready….

Bookmark Me!

Hide Sites

Mother Nature is up to her old shenanigans! It is cooo-ooold up here in the little valley that nestles our cozy, little cottage house. The only thing is… the last several mornings- and evenings- have been far from friggin’ cozy!

She’s a bitter tease, that old wench! Ahhhhh… Mother Nature!

Regardless the frosty start, things are shaping up to be a pretty good day. An early morning…. Ok, so it wasn’t spent alone as I prefer, but little Fidge has a way of making me smile. Even when she’s intruding into the sanctity of my very sanity; my buffer-zone; the peaceful silence of my first-thing-blissful-aloneliness, watching the sunrise with only the gently hum of my laptop and delicious hiss of steam from my cup o’ life-affirming joe.

Shower. Removal of offending body hairs. Head to toe. Sure the brows could use a little more work, but hey…. it’s a Thursday and the tidiness around the cankles would make even the best of electrolysis-icians proud, making up for what might be still sprouting out of place above my increasingly hooded lids….

Happiness=Hairlessness, I always say. OK, not. But to begin a day 1. actually clean; and 2. less several hundred grams of body hair…. well, it gets things off in the right direction.

Yes, things are off to a dandy start…. as I head into the ’school room’. Oh, please let the good times at least continue, if not actually roll….

Bookmark Me!

Hide Sites

See how nature - trees, flowers, grass - grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence…we need silence to be able to touch souls.
- Mother Teresa

Following a downright beautiful, hectic and so very crowded Canada Day long weekend, things calmed down a little here this weekend past- July 4th, to American friends. Enjoying a little peace and quiet for this Best Shot Monday at Slurping Life…. there’s also more of my Zip in his tire swing…

Bookmark Me!

Hide Sites

Our beach. At our lake. Has a great tire swing!!

Bookmark Me!

Hide Sites

I have no favourites. The parental mantra. And for the most part, it’s true.

But in the deepest, darkest place alone in the night, or here announcing throughout the blogosphere- assuming anyone’s reading, upon honest reflection, I have to admit it’s the one that drives me the craziest, that holds perhaps the softest spot in my heart.

He is my second child. My second son. My middle child. The child for whom, out of each of them, inspires my greatest cause for concern. Emotional. Energetic. Creative. Rebellious. He challenges me. He is bold. He’s brazen. He’s beginning to blatantly disobey me and, recently taunting me with his disregard. Laughing at me as I scold. Giggling, albeit nervously, but giggling nevertheless, as I get up in his precious, beautiful little face and demand his submission. It is immediately apparent he will not and his outright disobedience leaves me fucking unhinged. And fearful. For if he feels he can pull this off at six… how does this all go down when he’s sixteen…?

I hold him by his slender shoulders. Space shrinking to mere centimetres between our faces. Our eyes. I can see the tease of a smile glitter in their mischievious depths. I grit my teeth. I feel my nostrils expand for air. I can see his intent. And it will not be that which he knows I am requiring of him. I have no control over the situation. I don’t know to laugh or cry. When I turn my back, exasperated, I do both. I want him just to do what I ask. What I am now demanding- irate. Yelling. To absolutely no frigging avail. He’s proving stronger in his resolve than I.

I. Don’t. Know. What. To. Do.

But in the end. I submit. In the end all I can do is gather up his slim, strong little self, whether he wants to in that moment or not.  Within seconds I feel him soften- surrender into my arms. I squeeze hard. Wringing all the frustration and what’s left of resolve from both of us. I just want to absorb him back into me, where he won’t hurt. Won’t feel overlooked. Won’t feel lost, invisible, between the responsible ahead and the beautiful behind.

I don’t know if it’s his capacity to push me away that creates a bigger space for him in my heart… or if it’s the fact I know he has to fight harder to make himself heard… understood… known.

And upon reflection here, perhaps it’s not the extra space in my heart that he needs. It’s extra time, attention and love shown before the shit hits the fan.

Bookmark Me!

Hide Sites

I’m a child of the 70’s. I was raised by young, restless, self centred, largely immature and only slightly retarded parents.

But I HAD to eat what was tossed at me through the grate offered to me at suppertime. We had some good stuff: spaghetti, mashed potatoes, meatloaf, fried chicken even an occasional lobster (thanks, Granny). But we also had: liver and onions, blood sausage and cabbage rolls.

Despite parents being young, restless, self centred, largely immature and only slightly retarded they were no pushovers. When supper was served, there were no alternates. No choices. No catering to the dietary whims of a six year old. Hell, no. And I had to eat it… I had to at least try it. Eat… however many bites. Before being let from the table.

On liver and onion night, I often slept at the table. Not all night, of course. Parents were young, restless, self centred, largely immature and only slightly retarded, but not heartless.

Fast forward, the new millenium… to me, nearly forty, stable, selfless (OK, not so much), so very mature (mmmm….) and maybe more than only slightly retarded, mother of three, having long ago vowed never to ever force organ meat upon my own children. I have never had a child fall asleep at the table over uneaten shitty food. I am thinking this may, in fact, be a mistake. It appears that my children expect every meal to be perfectly adapted to their very singular palates- a party for each and every individual little taste bud. Or they refuse to eat. Because here I am, fighting over food.

I am not, nor have I ever been the short order cook type of mother. And until recently, issues regarding mealtimes have been fortunately few and far between.

However, lately… typically at least one night a week and most certainly this night, I listen to middle child, dear Zip, whine about what’s being served for dinner. He raises a total stink. Tonight, case in point. The dreaded stir-fry. Vegetables, shrimp, noodles… does this sound like friggin’ liver and onions?!?

I say, exasperated, clearly not in the mood for his BS, “Fine. This is dinner. You don’t eat this. You don’t eat.” Hah. Tough tittie, little man. Try them apples! You don’t know who yer dealing with, dearest middle child.

“Awwwww-uuunnnnnngh!” Him. Clearly not concerned about my mood. And making no move to serve up what was apparently a totally wretched meal of firm, ripe fresh veggies- cooked to crunchy perfection- plump, juicy shrimp and crispy Chinese noodles- torture!

Moments later I have to run to neighbors for a five minute errand. I kid you not. Five minutes. No more.

I come home to find him in front of toob with an open can of peaches. Little shit.

I am such not a hard ass… Maybe there’s a thing or two to learn from what were once young, restless, self centred, largely immature and only slightly retarded parents. And maybe there’s also something to be said for an occasional meal of liver and onions. Kids today apparently have no accurate frame of reference….

Edited to add: I now completely adore cabbage rolls. In fact, catch me mid-January and chances are pretty good, my teeth are laden with cabbage bits and I’m covered in sour cream stains. They are the absolute comfiest of my comfort foods.

Bookmark Me!

Hide Sites

June has come to the valley like a friggin’ dream! The weather is outstanding and any beefs I had with Dear Mother… well, March/April/May were a total bitch… but after these past several days, I’m willing to consider a truce.

The garden is getting done. We moved the last of the new load of soil yesterday. And, as a final step before planting our livelihood, we get a load of manure from neighbor farmer friend. The stuff makes the worst in weeds… weeds to scare young children and the elderly… runners like ropes extending to bloody well strangle the core of the earth… the stuff of nightmares. But the shit comes free. Kids and elderly will just have to suck it up and squeeze eyes shut as they yank.

After last weekends trip to The Island and Seattle and the pukiness that accompanied, it seems to have resurfaced with Zip. Mid-movie last night, complaining of feeling like he had to puke, Zip did just that. Little trooper had the uncharacteristic presence of mind of newly minted six year old and ran to the loo. Over and over. And it wasn’t until the last- and most dramatic- spew that he began to complain and cry a little.

Went to bed with big bowl… empty this morning. Thank God/Jehovah/Oprah/Rob Zombie….

I cannot handle the vomit. No way. It. Makes Me… Vomit. I could handle the baby puke. The spit up. White, clotted, sour smelling, sure. But not bile, chunky, of chicken bits and regurgitated Caesar salad. This is job of mi Filipes. He does puke well. He handles that of the bodily with cool aplomb.

So, mummy is very happy this morning not to be faced with bowl of bile, chicken bits and Caesar salad… revisited.

Bookmark Me!

Hide Sites

Oh my…. Honestly, if it had been my choice I’d have kept my freshly run fanny right here on my cushy, cozy sofa. Watching Oprah and the lovely, inspiring Tina Turner and the caricature of her former self, the entirely manufactured, Cher.

In fact, I even called to make sure that, in fact, it was still going on, given the butt load of rain we endured, wrapped tightly most of the afternoon in down blanket on comfy, cozy sofa, peeking pathetically out the window welcomed today. Hoping secretly, the lazy, self-involved, wanting to stay very solidly put concerned, conscientious mother that I am, in fact, that it wasn’t. You know, catching cold and all…
“Oh, it’s not raining now. And, like, there’s no wind. So, we’re on.” She said in her perky, oh so very eager, aging valley girl sort of way.

“Hmmm-mmm. Grrrreee-aaat….”

So we arrived. Zip, was of course, excited. It wasn’t raining, after all.

For the first. five. fucking. minutes.

The kids didn’t care. The coaches: Oh so active. Oh so eager. Oh so friggin’ enthusiastic. And dressed for rain, of course. Parents: not so much. After all… there was no rain.
With the rest of the miserable lot… I sat. I saw. I got soaked. And cold. I looked up. Fresh snow in the mountains.

Oh how I miss the warm, Virginia spring rains. These bitter cold, sleet-slash-rains of Canadian Rockies spring time.

Truly. Suck.

Bookmark Me!

Hide Sites

Someone please tell me… what is the required amount of time a parent must listen to a six-year-old boy’s seemingly endless account of hand-to-hand battle with Count Duku and “his dudes” ?
A battle that entails the impaling of eyeballs upon blunt spears, or sometimes light “savers”.

“I go… mmmmmmbheezzzzzzzzzz…” flailing an arm with tremendous force. Presumably this is his light “saver”.
“I just stab the wobots and gasoline comes pouwing out of ‘em. Not like the humans, cuz that’s tons of blood.”

A battle that entaills the “deadliest mission”, where “I have to kill Count Duku without anybody cuz he killed all my dudes”. It’s gonna be the bloodiest….”

“Mmmm-hmmmmm….”

Honestly, this exchange will go on forever. If feels as though it almost has. I write in between nods and mmmm-hmmm’s. Despite my less than even vaguely- here he comes again…

“Guess what happens when he whistles. His dudes. 30 wolly (rolly?) dudes and- snort, snuff, snort- and y’know 30 more dudes… and I have to kill more than a thousand dudes- waaaaayyyyy more than a thousand dudes- like a hundwed, hundwed.” Blissful pause….

“I have to go save my last dude….”

-interested responses, he continues… “I have to kill at least one more of each of their wobots. So a wolly (rolly?) dude… and this guy….”

Oh my God… somebody please save me….

“I better say ‘good luck’ to myself… D’you wanna know why?… D’you wanna know why?… d’you wanna know why?…”

“Hmmmmmm-mmmmm….”

Cuz then I can move to the next level….” Runs off.

He’s back.

“I’m on the last level.”

“Wow!”

“I know.” Runs off. Brief reprieve….

“I have no more dudes…. Am I doomed?”

“Surely….”

Oh, please let it end……

Bookmark Me!

Hide Sites

My Zip. My Guga-roo. My youngest son. My middle child.

This is the day you were born. I remember it, as the cliche goes, ‘like it was yesterday’. Really. Not because yours was my first drug-free labour. Not because yours was our only birth here in our little Rocky Mountain community hospital. Not because yours was the birth that nearly made daddy a single father.

Yours was the birth that showed me how much more my heart could grow. After years of being convinced that I was destined to be the mother of an only child. Not believing a parent could really… truly… love more than one child. Certainly never believing I could love another as deeply and profoundly as I loved my first, your brother. After months of fearing what kind of mother I could possibly be to two….
The moment your dad announced you were a boy. The moment they flopped you on my stomach. The moment you breathed your first breath. I was lost. Right then and there, I grew another heart and you filled it up.

I was only able to hold you. To see you. For only a brief few moments before all hell broke loose. But during the chaos. I just wanted to see you, know you were OK. I could see you from my place across the room- with bed being madly raised to elevate my feet, needles being jabbed willy-nilly into my arm, blood gushing forth… and the soothing, background lull of the South African accent of the lovely dark haired, blue eyed (male… ahem!) anaesthitist- being weighed, measured and wrapped…. and passed to the waiting, welcoming arms of your daddy…
I finally held you. Dozy. I held you. I stared at you. A dark shock of hair on your tiny, perfect head. Fine. Downy. Soft as a baby bunny…. from then, you were my precious little Flopsy Bunny.

You allowed me to understand that love, my love, can be limitless.

Now as such a big boy. Now, with your sister among us, the middle child. Without a doubt you challenge me. Challenge me in ways, I never know I’m actually up for. Some days I am speechless at your antics. I am frustrated beyond my own comprehension. I want to tear what’s left of my hair out by the roots. Sometimes I do. I want to shake you by your slight, tanned, perfectly formed little shoulders. And some days I do. But as I step back, in my exasperation, and take a breath or ten, I realize these challenges are just your way of reminding me… that in the busy-ness of our days and the tremendous demands of siblings, older and younger, my precious Flopsy Bunny also needs me. Needs individual time. Time that is just for him. A walk. A story. A game. A seemingly endless conversation about his exploits at Halo. A big old hug. And most recently, long, juicy smooches.
You are a special dream. A beautiful, energetic, brutally intelligent, tiny, perfect, long-haired, blue eyed dream. Sometimes, during moments. Quiet moments as you colour your crazy creatures madly; or moments when you are a fighting Ninja, you and your own compact, coordinated little body, taking down hundreds of opponents at once; or moments when I catch you laughing histerically at some crazy thing on the toob. I just stare. Mesmerized. In absolute awe.

I don’t know that I can adequately put into words what your presence in my life and this family means to me. How special you are. How without you, our lives, each of us, would be less than. But always know, regardless the day… regardless the challenges… I love you as much as anyone can possibly be loved. Doubtless, even more than that.

Even as this big, six year old boy… you are still and will always be… my precious Flopsy Bunny.

Bookmark Me!

Hide Sites