February 4, 2011
I need something. I’m not quite sure what it is. Maybe it’s a bottle of wine, or a visit to the spa or a visit south or a visit to a hotel room by myself. I’m not sure what it is, but I know it’s REALLY needed right now. Yesterday I cursed in front of my kids. I know, those of you who know me well are probably thinking; ‘that can’t be the first time she’s cursed in front of her kids’. But really, I don’t swear or curse in front of them.
I had already been Freakout McScreamstein all day because I’m SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO tired of managing mealtimes on my own. Kevin has been working ridiculous hours and he’s rarely home for supper. Yesterday I’d stalled on serving supper just so I’d have the help dealing with the hellions once he got there. At one point during the meal both kids were up from their chairs twirling around like little friggin’ goblins and Kevin did nothing. I yelled, ‘SIT DOWN’! and then everyone, inclucing Kevin, was scared of me for the rest of the meal. Sometimes I scare myself. So Kevin says, “Do you want pyjamas or dishes?” (meaning do I want to get the kids ready for bed or tidy the kitchen). I chose kitchen, duh. So after getting her in her pyjamas (not sure what Kevin was doing at this point) I find Moira with her pants around her ankles crouching in front of the toilet with her hand in the water (she’s FIVE people) and I lose it, “MOIRA, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? HOW OLD ARE YOU? YOU KNOW THAT TOILETS ARE DISGUSTING AND FULL OF GERMS THAT CAN MAKE YOU REALLY SICK. GOOD GOD, CHILD!” and as I walk away I throw the empty egg carton I’d intended to put in the recycling against the stove and grunt, “Jesus Christ, alFUCKINGmighty” (I don’t usually use God’s name in vain, so sorry to all my Christian readers who are about to click ‘unfollow/unsubscribe’). Not sure where Kevin was during all this. Then I’m in the kitchen attempting to finish MY job when Theo is freaking out, “I want Mommy to put my PJs on! I want Mommy to put my PJs on!I want Mommy to put my PJs on!” So I abandon the kitchen to finish getting Theo ready and then read the kids 6 books on the couch and when I’m all done the kitchen is the same as I left it and Kevin is getting his ‘things’ together to go play shinny with his buddies. ARGH!!!!!!!!!!! Please, send me every contest entry form you know of that includes a prize like a trip or a spa package or therapy. My poor kids.
December 15, 2010
Dear Santa Claus,
It’s hard to believe that 2010 is coming to a close. It seems like the kids just keep getting older and bigger no matter how much anti-aging serum we put in their Shreddies.
May 19, 2010
This post was in my drafts for about a month:
I’m pretty sure I’ve been clinically depressed on several occasions in my life…basically most of highschool (come on, look at the photo in my last post, that would send anyone spiralling into a deep, dark depression) and a handful of times in adulthood. But in 2003 I was actually diagnosed with clinical depression by a professional. It’s not something very many people know. Not because I’m ashamed of it or want to keep it from people. I’m happy to share if asked. It’s like religion. No one knows what ‘religion’ I am unless they ask. Some things don’t pop up in conversation every day…like my depression, or varicose veins on parts of your body you didn’t think could GET varicose veins, or how often you think about walking down to your neighbour 3 houses over and silencing their mutt with, well, a silencer, or how sometimes you wonder what it would be like to make out with Sting even though he’s as old as your dad and has no upper lip. Okay, a little over sharing. You get the point. There’s A LOT you don’t know about me. There’s a lot I don’t know about me. So… I was diagnosed and treated for depression for just over a year. They (and by they I mean my amazing GP and a shrink) decided the best course of treatment was Zoloft and therapy. I’ve been more than a little ‘blue’ lately. Maybe it’s the weather, or the lack of professional stimulation, or the fact that my husband works 70 hours a week and I ‘parent’ on my own for the bulk of the day…but I’m really down lately. Today at the breakfast table Moira asked, “Mommy, why are you so sad?” When I told her I wasn’t she said, “Yes you are, look at your face.” Sheesh, if the kids are noticing it maybe I should do something about it. I’ll give it another week or two and then consider the ‘meds’ again.
Crazy what several weeks can do. I think the early arrival of summer and the fact that I’m keeping busy and Kevin is home for TWO days on the weekends now has turned my depression around. That’s not to say it won’t come back and I won’t ever need meds again. Until then I’ll be sure to soak up the sun, keep the creative juices flowing and enjoy having Kevin around more.
April 13, 2010
Dear  Jody,
Someday you’re going to be a MILF:
Okay, not really. And, to be fair this photo was taken before you shot two nine pound spawn from your vajayjay. (I know, right? KIDS??? Two of them.) You don’t actually look anything like this now. When you put in a little effort you still clean up okay and sometimes when you run into one of the douchebags from highschool (who wouldn’t give you a second look) they don’t even recognize you. That’s because,  Jody, you look like this right now:
You thought you were rocking this look. While back-to-school shopping you chose that hideous shirt with school photos in mind. The sad part, dear, sweet, naive, gullible, awkward Jody; it’ll only get worse before it gets better. A whole lot worse. You’ll have one boyfriend in highschool. He’s a douche but you should still date him because all the crap he’ll put you through will be part of what makes you the loud-mouthed, bad-ass, confident, no sh!t-taking, mind-speaking BIOTCH you are today. But don’t worry. You will emerge on the other side of head-gear (you’ll wear it to school; yikes!), braces (2 glorious years), acne (well, your skin still sucks but not as bad as it’ll be in grades 10, 11 and 12), bad hair choices (sadly, the photo above is not the worst hairstyle you’ll have), $59.99 rack glasses (that’s your cheap parents’ fault, nothing could have been done), endless fashion mishaps (there’s only so far minimum wage can get a girl) and an awkwardness that makes me weep. And when you come out on the other side, the one guy from highschool who WILL date you the fall after graduation will only date you in secret for fear of being teased by his friends. Boys will still shudder at the thought of what you had looked like for the previous 4 years. Your dear, wonderful, loving husband (yup, you snagged you a good one, yo!) once said that if he’d seen this photo of you before your first date he might not have succumbed to all the blatant and shameless stalking advances.
Someday you’ll embrace the former you. You’ll recognize that everything you’ve done (and what you used to look like) made you who you are. Don’t change a thing about yourself from here on out. Well, maybe ease up on the brown lip liner, avoid drinking that entire mickey of lemon gin in September 1992 and the old, chubby, short guy you ‘date’ the summer after graduation, he’s going to spread nasty and untrue rumours about you. Oh, and be a little nicer to your parents. They really do love you and they’re looking out for you.
April 1, 2010
I’m not a fan of the 80s fashion trends. I can sort of live with them. Hell, I’ve even bought a pair of skinny jeans. They don’t make me look skinny; nothing but starvation and dehydration can do that. But they’re called skinny jeans so they make me feel better about my back fat. And my lack of ass. The long shirts are nice that way. They hide stuff. I should have kept some of my maternity clothes; they’re even in style for women not growing humans in their abdomens. Some people take the 80s fad a little too far. I don’t think we should ever (EVER) go back to this:
The bright, neon colours were bad back then and they’re almost more hideous the second time around. They can cause temporary blindness, nausea, eye strain and in some cases whiplash. Good GOD this is never nice:
Ray Bans didn’t look good on Tom Cruise in ‘Risky Business’ and they don’t look good now. On ANYONE. Not than anything could look good on this socialite ho-bag:
I guess I actually DON’T hate the 80s trend sweeping the nation because I can’t help wanting all three of these outfits and they’re 80s. Right?
Aunt Becky wanted her (cult) followers to blog about things that annoy them. There are countless things that annoy me. In fact, this blog could be dedicated exclusively to things that annoy me and I’d never run out of things to write about. Aunt Becky curses a lot and she’s funny as hell. What kind of woman calls her children ‘crotch parasites’? Aunt Becky.
March 24, 2010
I won’t lie to you. Sometimes being a stay-at-home mom leaves me feeling like my brain might just turn to cheese. I’m serious. Kevin might come home from work one day to find me lying in the fetal position, drooling, twirling the few wisps of hair I haven’t pulled out, chanting “mommy, where’s my mommy?”, while the kids gorge themselves on Arrowroot cookies and figure out how to play their PVRed Sesame Street. Today was one of those days. As much as I LOVE (LOVE, LOVE) my kids, at the end of some days my sanity makes its exit some time around noon, my patience takes a coffee break at 4pm and doesn’t bother coming back and my breath is so bad (because I haven’t found time to brush my teeth) that the dog won’t even accept attention from me. Usually it takes until Friday for me to feel this numbness I’m dealing with today. Maybe it’s hormones, because God knows we lady-folk love to blame stuff on our hormones. I eat pounds of chocolate each month and blame it on a varying number of hormonal intervals; “What, I’m PRE-menstrual?”, “Dark chocolate’s supposed to be good for you, besides, I’m on my period.”, “I’m SO ovulating right now, can you please pick me up a fruit and nut dairy milk on the way home, hon? The big one.”
I can’t actually prove that my hormone levels are wonky right now, so let’s just go with fatigue and lack of brain stimuli as the reason for this bout of brain-cheesing, okay? I haven’t been taking on much work lately because I was finding it was nice to spend lots of quality time with the kids. My creative self is thinking about kicking my ass and taking over completely. Which wouldn’t be a good thing because if I let that side of me take over (fully) I’d rack up all my credit cards at HomeSense, Fabricland, and Don’s Photo.
Theo had (roughly) 3 screaming fits before we even got down to having breakfast. He’s at this lovely stage right now where he just screams things like “NO WAY!”, “GO AWAY, GO!!”, “NO THANK YOU!” (At least he’s using his manners while screaming at me?) The child is completely ruled by his blood sugar levels. This must be a gender issue because I know A LOT of boys and men who can be pretty pissy when they haven’t eaten in the last 12 minutes. I am consistent and always follow through on all of my threats, which means today he had 876 “sit downs”. Well, it felt that way. I had to hose him down first thing because the boy has one poo a day and eats like a trucker. I usually have to wash his bedding most mornings. Yeah, gross, I know. So while he’s in the tub getting hosed down and screaming bloody murder I’m just waiting for the humane society to knock on the door because I’m sure by now the neighbours have called to complain that I’m slaughtering goats in my basement. I get him out, put him in a cloth diaper (I’m nuts, I know), get him in a onesie, calm him down and get a fruit leather in his hand to buy me the time to make oatmeal. Not just any oatmeal. When I last went to buy oatmeal I decided I’d buy the old-fashioned kind. You know, the one you do on the stove top! 26 minutes! That’s how long it took. Theo ate 4 fruit leathers, 2 bananas and an apple in the time it took me to make the bloody oatmeal. (During all this Moira is happily playing away on PBSkids.org). Once the oatmeal is ready and both kids are sitting down I go and strip Theo’s crib to put the blankets and sheet in the washing machine and while I’m down there I intend to take meat out of the freezer for supper, but don’t.
Erin (my sister) drops Edie (18 months) and Willem (3) off so I can watch them while she does a bit of running around (for both herself and me). I fold laundry and hang out with the kids in the basement then drag them all upstairs to play while I clean the breakfast mess up and prepare lunch (I forgot to take meat out of the freezer while I was downstairs). I’m starving. I realize I haven’t eaten anything today. Of course I haven’t made enough lunch for me too, so I devour 4 oatmeal raisin cookies. I hardboil 3 eggs for Moira to take to school for Easter egg decorating, toss her in some clothes that aren’t too filthy, wipe her face, put a barrette in her hair and throw her in the van to get her to school while Erin watches the other spawn. I spend 20 minutes at the school discussing the plans for a bathroom renovation for M’s school with the director and head back home. When I get back Erin has tidied away the lunch stuff so I go downstairs to clean up the mess of toys in the basement (and don’t remember to take meat out, once again), then cut out the dress I’m going to sew for Moira, then reply to some business emails and a few personal emails. I fill out and organize all the fundraising plant order forms for Moira’s school. Poof, it’s time to drag poor Theo from his slumber (and Edie too because Erin’s at a doctor’s appointment with Willem) down to the school to pick M up. I toss them both in the double jogger and make my way to pick her up. Once home Erin pops in and grabs Edie, I send Spawn 1 and Spawn 2 downstairs for their 1 hour per diem of TV (at least it’s Sesame Street) while I make supper. Which means I have to dig through the freezer and totally improvise dinner. I choose chicken; always safe. When it’s thawed (in the microwave) I throw it in a corningware dish, chuck some garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, marinated artichokes, and feta on it and toss it in the oven. We’ll have leftover roast potatoes and steamed broccoli. I clean up most of the cooking dishes and am sitting on the living room floor sorting toys when Kev walks in and asks, “How was your day?”.
“Fine thanks, how was yours?”
March 19, 2010
Moira has been obsessed with death and dying lately. Maybe it’s her age, maybe it’s that she’s a little more macabre than most kids, but it’s creeping me out and I’m having a lot of trouble answering some of her very deep questions. A few months back she asked, “Mom, when do people die?” I explained to her that some people die at any age if they get so sick that the doctor can’t help them or that some people die at any age if there is some sort of accident “BUT,” I kindly told her, “most people don’t die until they get really old and their bodies get too old to be alive anymore”.
She replied, “Like Big Moira?” (Big Moira is Kev’s Grandmother, who little Moira is named after).
Thinking she thought I meant that Big Moira was old, I said, “Yes, like Big Moira.” She began crying and I thought she was upset about the prospect of Big Moira dying so I hugged her and consoled her.
I thought nothing more of the conversation until a few weeks later when I told her we were going to see Big Moira for lunch and she elatedly screamed, “YOU MEAN SHE’S STILL ALIVE?”. It just goes to show that exceptional communication skills (which is one of the skills listed on my resume) are UBER important in parenting. Jody gets a big fat F on this one.
Yesterday Kev and I took the kids for ice cream and while we were sitting having a nice family conversation Moira up and asks, “If you and Daddy BOTH die, who’s going to take care of us.” Thinking this is going to open up a can of worms I’m not quite ready to deal with, I answer honestly anyway, “If Mommy and Daddy both died, you and Theo would go live with Aunty Erin (my big sis) and Uncle Kyle.” She added, “And Willem and Edie.” I said, “Yes, that’s right.” At this point I’m bracing myself for the deluge of questions like: how will you and daddy die? Or tearful outbursts like: I don’t want you to die! Instead she replied, “Okay. But before you and Daddy die can you quickly give me Aunty Erin’s phone number. Maybe you could write in on a piece of paper and fold it up for me.”