December 1

"The Best Time of Year"

by John Rutter, and performed by The Cambridge Singers

Welcome to the Musical Advent Calendar!

For those of you new to the blog, every Christmas for the past several years, I have marked the days up to December 25th with some of the loveliest carols I have in my music collection. Tune in each day for a special gift, to you from me! It's a perfect opportunity to sit and relax for a few moments, and enjoy some holiday cheer.

It's the very best time of year, after all.

xoxo CGF

Christmastime's A-comin'!!

... and in spite of the manic schedule of my academic career (we are coming up on end-of-term, report cards, and parent-teacher interviews... Pray for me!!), I wouldn't miss spending December with all of you for the world.

Starting Tuesday, December 1, the Musical Advent Calendar will be in full swing! Drop by every day 'till Christmas for a little holiday cheer, and some wonderful, inspirational music. There will be favourites from years past, as well as a few new selections that I have found, and particularly enjoy.

The tree is up, the fire is lit, and there's a place waiting here for you.

xoxo CGF

Monday "Ain't It The Truth"...

'nuff said.

Today.

It's business as usual around here.

*SIGH*

Two for tea...

Wee Three: (jostling my elbow whilst that particular arm is holding up a cup of steaming hot liquid) MAMA! How much cups of tea am I allowed to dwink every day?

Wee Three is just barely five years old, but in the somewhat strange,English tradition of my family, she has already developed a fondness for what we used to call "cambric" tea. There is a bit of tea in the mug... just enough for warmth and flavour, but the rest of the drink is supposed to be composed of milk... and usually sports waaaaay too many spoonfuls of sugar.

While my eldest child has turned into a "Tea-Granny" at the ripe old age of thirteen, Child Number Two remains completely revolted by the taste (which is fine by me, because of all my kids, she's the one who needs that extra kick of caffeine the LEAST...)

Wee Three's little habit seems to have developed somewhat earlier than what I remember of myself, my siblings or my other offspring. Indeed, I am finding it somewhat alarming when she bounces into the kitchen at 5.32 AM each day, allowing me just two short minutes of solitude and peace after being catapulted out of bed by my alarm clock.

And then, the BEGGING begins.

"Cuppa TEA?" she inquires, racing towards the kettle...

I've created a monster, here, clearly, and I am becoming increasingly fearful of the day when she will suffer withdrawal symptoms, should we accidentally run out of our ever-present tin of Typhoo.

And so, the "limitations":

Tea ONLY in the mornings or early afternoons. And NONE after four o'clock.

Wee Three: (jostling me AGAIN, and succeeding in slorping hot tea onto my pant leg-- just enough to necessitate dry cleaning) MAMA!! I SAID... HOW MUCH CUPS OF TEA AM I 'LOWD EVERY DAY?

Mother: (cursing fluently under her breath, and leaping out of the chair) OW!! One, sweetie. Only one. One cup, filled halfway to the top. That's all.

There, I thought (foolishly). That should take care of it. A little truth-bending for the Wee One in the house... but it's for the sake of her health.

And my sanity.

Wee Three: (thoughtfully, with an angelic look on her face) So, you mean TWO cups. Right?

Mother: (sensing that the child is not as innocent as she looks. Not by a long shot.) Nope. Not two. ONE. One cup, half-way filled. No more.

Wee Three: (on to me) But I could have two cups of half, right? Two halves. Got one half. Got 'nuther half. Half isn't one. So, TWO. Two cups of tea for me, right? Two.

Mother: (acknowledging defeat. Again.) Right, sweetie. Ok. But NO MORE THAN THAT.

Got to put my foot down sometime, people.

Because you KNOW she'll be raiding my liquor cabinet next.

It's aaaaallllll about me(me).

As you can tell, I've been at a loss for words for the past few weeks... All too much energy is being expended upon my work-- it is INTENSE, and I never seem to stop talking!! By the time I get finished doing all the things I need to do in a day, I am SPENT, people. And I can't seem to muster the energy to put words down in this space, on a regular enough basis.

And so, imagine my RELIEF to run across good ol' James Lipton (and his blinding, bald pate) on television this afternoon, as I was flipping through channels during one of my breaks. James is annoying, there's no denying that-- but he also asks great questions.

Questions like THESE, which he uses regularly on one of my favourite tv programs, “Inside the Actors Studio”. Since I will NEVER be invited to respond to these questions at any other point in my life, I figured that this would be as good as an excuse as any!!

Forgive me, dear readers... Ok, James, let 'er rip:

1. What is your favorite word?

Oh, I've got a million of 'em... Most of them made up by my kids.

"Squibbet" is a food measurement, as in, "Just eat one more tiny squibbet, and then you may be excused".

"Bralella" is what we call umbrellas around here, and originates from Child Number One's babyhood. I just think it sounds better.

One of my favourite words of all time is "jolly". Not used nearly enough any more, but used liberally by my English Granny, who personified the word during her prime.

One of my favourite not-so-nice words is actually a medical term. "Petechiae" (pet-eek-ee-eye) are pinpoint flat round red spots under the skin surface caused by intradermal hemorrhage (bleeding into the skin). Ew. But, you can't deny it-- if you didn't know what it meant, the word would sound... well, JOLLY, don't you think???!

(Rats. That was more than one word. But I'm an English Specialist, so sue me...)

2. What is your least favorite word?

"LIKE". This word is sprinkled into people's dialogue, as one would sprinkle far too much salt onto food. Both can be fatal. Too much salt will cause kidney failure. And if you utter the word "like" in my presence more than twice in a sentence, I will kill you. "Like" is overused, INCORRECTLY, and carries absolutely no meaning whatsoever.

3. What turns you on?

I am turned on by people who exhibit a sense of what others need, and then do their utmost to provide it. I am impressed, not with martyr-like selflessness, but with people who have an intuitive sense of caring. Of thoughtfulness. Of generosity-of-spirit.

Why is it that it feels like those people are becoming more and more hard to find?

4. What turns you off?

I am turned off by disrespect. By people who think they are too "good", or too "fine". By show-offs. By selfishness. By mean-spiritedness.

5. What sound do you love?

A lawnmower humming in the distance.

6. What sound do you hate?

I hate it when more than one piece of electrical equipment is squawking away in my home at the same time. If one person has the radio going, and another person has the television on, the resulting cacophony is enough to drive me to drink.

7. What is your favorite curse word?

Ooooh. WAY too hard a question. I curse like a stevedore, loudly and fluently. I am a master orator of all blasphemy, and have been known to let fly in several different languages.

To give the shortest (and safest) answer, let's just say that I really enjoy listening to George Carlin's "Words You Can't Say on Television" skit, and leave it at that, shall we?

8. What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?

I would love to be a family lawyer, and fight for the rights of children in difficult divorce cases. All too often, divorcing spouses use children as pawns, or get so wound up in their own emotional angst, they don't allow their children to have a "voice" in the proceedings. To my mind, there is nothing more important in a divorce situation than to put the children FIRST. I would like to help parents and children to make this possible.

9. What profession would you not like to do?

I would not like to work in the financial industry. Ever. Again.

10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?

"FINALLY!! Everybody's been waiting for you."

Thankful.

"Happiness", from the Broadway musical,

"You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown"

A Happy Thanksgiving to all.

xo CGF

If only...

Need I say more?

File this under "Ab-so-lute-ly TYPICAL".

This? Is the divine Hugh Jackman, during a performance of his Broadway show, "A Steady Rain" last week. A cellphone went off in the audience, and Jackman responded to the unpardonable interruption, IN CHARACTER, by stopping the performance, and requesting the audience member to either answer the call, or turn the ringer off.

Bravo, I say.

Wonder if he could take care of the people who open loud candy wrappers, and engage in idle chit-chat with their elbow-partners, as well...

People??!

THERE'S A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE THEATRE, AND YOUR LIVING ROOM.

If this comes as news to you, then please... stay home.

The Soundtrack of My Weekend...

We spent a wonderful three days in Stratford with my long-suffering parents this past weekend. Especially long-suffering, since my father has just undergone surgery this week, and so was in a considerably weakened state. For the first time in my life, I EASILY won the battle for the title of "MC" (Master of the Clicker... Dad has always been EXTREMELY possessive about the television remote control. Ab-so-lute-ly TYPICAL.)

It was the perfect opportunity, therefore, to subject him to just THIS sort of High Silliness on television... even though what he claimed to REALLY want to watch was the new BBC production of "Little Dorrit".

Tough, I told him.

Because laughter is the BEST medicine, after all.

CHOPIN!!!!!

Dignity.

Not very cultural, guys... Not very cultural. Thank God.

"That WAS awful."

-- My Father

No, really...

No, not really.

When you are a mother who has resumed life as a full-time student, and also attempting to begin working at a new job, there is no such thing as being "in control".

I know that, now.

But it doesn't make "letting go" any easier, let me tell you.

A few "bullets" from the trenches:

--Going back to university has, so far, been a wonderful experience. I certainly didn't expect it to feel like this at all. After having done my undergrad at the largest and snootiest university in this country, I fully EXPECTED the workload to be completely unmanageable, the other students borderline-suicidal, campus atmosphere dismal, and the professors out-to-kill-me. In fact, in this particular post-graduate program, the workload IS ridiculously heavy, but fascinating. The other students are friendly, and happy to be a part of it all. I have had nothing but positive interactions with people of authority on campus. And my professors? Are nothing short of spectacular. They actually treat me like an intelligent human being-- a human being with a valuable life experience BEYOND academia. It's marvellous. It's incredible. Going back to school has turned out to be one of the most intense, challenging experiences of my life... but it's worth it.

--I am teaching. Grade THREE! Until Christmas. And I love it more than I can say.

--My girlies are undergoing some very difficult adjustments this fall. It's been very, very hard on all of us. But, they're coping beautifully. And I'm so proud of them, so grateful for their love and support and willingness to make these changes for me. Everything I'm doing, I'm doing for THEM, after all. They deserve a stable, secure, happy environment, and I'm determined to provide exactly that.

--Our care-giver, Mary, makes all of this possible. Without her, we are nothing. She has jumped right in, and taken over the household exactly where I had to leave off. There is nothing she won't do for us, it would seem. I am the envy of the entire village, having a woman like her helping us. In just the past few weeks, she has made herself an indispensable part of our community, and has been helping out friends, hosting little get-togethers, and putting in long hours volunteering at the girlies' school. Everyone loves her-- but nowhere near as much as we do.

--It's autumn. Already. The leaves are turning the most spectacular shades of red, orange and yellow... and overnight, my garden seems dried-out and rope-y, and ready for the big pre-winter tidy up. When did this all happen?? How did I manage to miss so many of those "golden days" of summer?? And what the HELL am I going to do with all those tiny millions of tomatoes, and gargantuan zucchinis that have appeared seemingly out of NOWHERE??

--I am slowly learning how to manage this juggling act... which is no small feat for a classic Type-AAA control-freak like me. I hate having to "let go". I hate the people who tell me I HAVE to "let go", or part with what's left of my sanity. Needless to say, I'm not sleeping much.

--It's hard. But I'm counting my blessings. I may not be "in control", but... I'm getting there, and that's a pretty damn good start.

School starts in two weeks... FOR ME.

H.e.l.p.

Update from The Funny Farm...

Forgive me, dear readers... for I have been Busy...

- The best news?! WE HAVE FOUND MARY POPPINS. I cannot believe it myself. She and I actually "met" on a nanny website (and, for the record, I HATE THE WORD "NANNY". To me, it sounds like a goat. Or something terribly chi-chi-poo-poo, non? Most of the people I hear dropping the words "my nanny" are those who spend entirely too much time getting their nails done and flirting with their tennis pro at "the club"). We were fortunate enough to run across one anothers' advertisements on the same day we both posted, and I could almost tell from the tone of her emails-- not to mention her spectacular resume and references-- that she was the one for us. My girlies adore her-- and so do I. She is everything I had hoped she would be, and more: intelligent, responsible, kind, affectionate, with a wonderful sense of humour... As I told her, so long as she and the girlies are happy, I can do anything. ANYTHING. Including acing this university degree in only eight months. Happiness at home is the key. And I am pretty sure that this delightful young woman is The Key.

- Just two short weeks ago, I turned forty. Yep, FORTY. And you know what?? NO BIG DEAL. I feel great, I look pretty damn good for a woman who has had three kids, and I am finally beginning to feel as though I'm getting my life on the right track. The thirties were hard years. Bring on the forties, I say-- I'm determined to make them some of the happiest, most productive and fulfilling years of my life.

- The garden is going CRAZY this year. I'm actually scrambling to try and keep up with it. The summer here has been cooler and damper than ones in past years-- we are so used to everything being scorched flat by this time in the season, from all the HEAT... But this summer, not so much, mercifully. Temperatures haven't cracked up past about twenty-six degrees Celsius, and that, plus all the torrential rain that seems to pass over us in fits and spurts, has caused my garden to grow like gangbusters. The new front beds are lush and green, and our vegetables are going to be positively prize-winning. The guinea pigs have been feasting for "free" on all the kale and chicory dandelion leaves we planted for them, and actually race for the doors of their hutches when they hear us coming with their dinners. The excited squeaking is positively deafening... I hope the girlies are that enthusiastic when the first harvest of tomatoes, cucumbers, beans and peas appear on our table in a few more weeks...

- And here, you see one of my proudest accomplishments of this summer. This? Is a home-made rain barrel. For months I scoured hardware stores and warehouses, searching for large barrels to catch rain water with which to water my plants... And sickeningly, like so many of the rest of the earth-saving enterprises out there these days, the average price of a rain barrel around here is between seventy and a hundred bucks. I sh*t you not. It's outrageous. It is SO outrageous that I finally jumped in my car and headed for the farm country where I was born, and marched straight into our neighbourhood Co-op.

The gentleman who works behind the counter has known my family for years. My father, one of the local doctors, delivered all of his children (he's actually delivered a good chunk of the population in my home town, interestingly... and has even delivered the babies of some of the babies he once delivered. If you get my drift.) He welcomed me through the door, and shared my dismay when I told him about my cost dilemma.

"So...." he said, as he eyed me sideways and grinned a lopsided smile. "You've come back home from the Big City for a little REALITY, have ya?"

Preferably CHEAP reality, I replied. Because I happen to know that enormous plastic barrels of the right size are plentiful on the local farms near where I was born. All kinds of strange concoctions are stored within them. Cow teat dip, for example. (Ew. And Ow, too, for that matter.)

The gentleman made a few phonecalls, rounded up a few pieces of plumbing hardware that cost me about two dollars and fifty cents, and sent me on my way. A half an hour later, my father and I arrived at an ancient general store in Winthrop, Ontario. And outside that general store were five or six huge, hideously-coloured plastic barrels... barrels that whiffed gently of garlic and pimento. OLIVE BARRELS. From Greece. This tiny little general store sells some pretty delectable foods, and the owner was only too delighted to let us take a couple of the storage barrels off of his hands. He even let us borrow a power drill and round, saw-toothed bit with which to cut the holes for the two faucets: one down near the bottom for filling watering cans, and one up above to expel any overflow.

I love my rain barrels. They are not sleek or decorator models. But they're practical, useful, and until that boston ivy creeps over them, they'll make great conversation pieces.

- We have been Cleaning again. This time, carpets. I rented one of those gigantic, growling red machines from our local grocery store, and did the top two floors of our house last weekend. The thick, black-ish brown substance that I was constantly emptying from the "used water" tank was more than slightly alarming... but I just kept going over and over each room, until it finally ran clear. Everything looks-- and smells-- lovely and fresh and clean... Now we just have to keep it that way, which is no small feat in the summertime, due to all the small feet we have running around here.

I'll give you my secret to soft, fresh clean carpets that turn out far better than if you were to hire a professional to do it for you: distilled water (which we collect from our dehumidifier), heated to almost-boiling on the stove, with only about a tablespoon of detergent, and a cup of white vinegar per two gallons of water. Yes, it is time-consuming work. It's hot, sweaty, dirty, and I think I strained my everything hauling all that machinery and buckets of hot water up and down the stairs... But oh, my, it's worth it. Next job? The basement carpets. Bring. It. On.

- We've been knitting! I have finished a gorgeous little hoodie sweater for Child Number Two, and she is loving the soft, cuddly yarn so much, she even wears it over her pyjamas in the evenings. I've also completed a beautiful cotton shawl for myself, and added a mother-of-pearl button to keep it in place around my shoulders. My last unfinished project is yet another afghan (this is the last one for awhile! I promise!! Oh, I'm such a sucker for a cosy blanket...), which I've done in a basket-weave stitch. I can't wait to get started on the NEW projects I've already lined up to clad my little family in the fall: a soft, blue alpaca shrug for Child Number One, two little tulip-shaped ponchos for Child Number Two and Wee Three... and a thick, warm sweater-coat for my mother, which I'll fasten with an antique Celtic pin, which was bequeathed to us by my very Scottish grandmother. I can't wait to see it on her...

- We are "into" tie-dying... Child Number Two came home from her horseback riding camp this summer with the most gorgeous tee shirt she had made... And the rest of us were wildly jealous. So, we sneaked out to the summer sale at "Old Navy", bought up vast quantities of white cotton apparel, and scampered home. I just hope all my knowledge of dying fabric from my olden days of costume-making comes back to me in time... I've been secretly sneaking peeks at Youtube videos, which give remarkably good instructions on how to tie up various garments, to produce different colour patterns. If I get good at this, I fear my entire wardrobe will soon look hippie-inspired. NOT GOOD. A little tie-dye goes a loooooong way. Remind me of this fact when my obsessive-compulsive urge kicks in.

- My title of "Dragon Lady" has taken on new meaning. This summer, the son of one of my dearest friends has entrusted me with the care and keeping of his Bearded Dragon Lizard, Fandango. It would be an understatement to say that I was slightly freaked out when my friend announced that Santa Claus was bringing them a reptile for Christmas last year. Indeed, for several weeks, I took it upon myself to try and talk her out of allowing the event-- I was deeply afraid that the presence of a bearded dragon in her house would prevent me from being able to visit her. Yep, you guessed it, I am NOT a snake person. Neither am I a snake-with-LEGS person, which is essentially what I deem lizards to BE.

However, to my surprise and delight, when Fandango made his appearance last December, my attitude towards creepy-crawly-slithery things changed dramatically. For Fandango turned out to be quite a little character. He blinked blearily up at me from under his heat lamp, and his eyes drifted shut as I gently scratched him on the head with one finger. The perma-smile on his face seemed to widen ever so slightly, and his soft little beard bristled.

Fandango and I have an understanding, it would seem. So much so that I don't even mind purchasing vast quantities of crickets for his dining enjoyment. The "super worms" creep me out a bit-- who knew there were actually worms that could JUMP? Gaaaa. But, Fandango only eats worms on weekends, according to the menu that his owner kindly emailed me several weeks ago. And so, I've got five days during which I can psyche myself up to handle them... and during those five days, Fandango seems very content to munch on calcium-powder-coated crickets and a leaf or two of fresh kale from my garden.

Yep, I've officially become a Dragon Lady.

And it suits me to a tie-dyed "tee".

Amen.

Today... I feel... old.

And yet.... Perhaps... not soon enough for him.

Thank you for the dancing, the music, and the fun.

Children's Literature 101

Well, she's at it again, folks...

Wee Three had out the ol' nursery rhyme book, and was doing her best to read "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep" (which is one of our favourites, being knitterly, after all):

Wee Three: Baa, baa, black sheep! Have you any wool?

Yes, sir, yes, sir! Three bags full!

ONE for the master, and ONE for the dame,

(dramatic pause, accompanied by a deep scowl)

And one for the little boy WHO IS SUCH A PAIN...

I swear, people, she didn't get this from me. (Although I THINK I know the little guy she's talking about, from her Junior Kindergarten class...)

Wee Three: (in her very best choral hooligan holler)

TAKE ME OUT TO THE BAAAAAALLGAME!

Take me out with the crooooooowd!

Buy me some peanuts and AP-PLE JUICE...

See what I mean?

If she were being fed these lines by me, she would definitely have ordered a beer.

Ahem.

Enough said.

What I've been up to...

Whew.

It's June, it's the end of school, and it's GARDENING SEASON, people!

'Nuff said?

Good.

Roll tape:

While I was stuck indoors earlier this month, disemboweling the monstrous machine we jokingly call a "dish washer", several of the people I love most in the world were outside in the sunshine...

building...

me...

the brand new raised vegetable garden boxes that I have been craving and BEGGING FOR for... oh, about the past decade or so.

God Bless Sunset Magazine, and all those who write for her!

Big Fun, people.

BIG.

Oh, and also...

Fact: There is nothing in this world-- NOTHING-- so therapeutic and good for the restoration of my weary soul than BRUTALLY RIPPING OUT horrible, overgrown, and generally monstrous hedges from the neglected parts of my garden, and then taming the space into beautiful submission.

Fact: The Wise Men at our local hardware store will still NOT, under any circumstances, sell me a chain saw. Not even a small one, not for any amount of money (even though I really couldn't afford to bribe them, and they knew it).

Fiction: The telescoping pole with the big snipper on the end that they DID sell me makes a good (read: SAFER) substitute for the aforementioned coveted chain saw.

Fact: I found the axe that my husband hid on me LAST year, and then did the job anyway.

Fact: I think I strained my Everything, I need a pedicure, a long, hot bath, and probably a psychological evaluation.

Fact: Our front gardens will soon look AWESOME.

If I do say so myself.

Tuesday. Welcome to it.

Our family's "Crown Jewel"

Our eyes finally met, and life would never be the same again!

Oh, my sweet wee one, I am so thankful to have you...

and could never have imagined that from this tiny sprout:

such a beautiful, BIG-little-girl could emerge:

Today you are five, and I simply cannot believe that half a decade has whizzed past us already.

Happy Birthday, my spritely, spirited girl.

You make our family perfectly complete.

xoxoxo proud to be your mummy xoxoxoxo

Sunday Morning Potty Humour.

Child Number Two: (bursting into the kitchen with the balletic grace of a sumo wrestler) Hiya, Mum!! What's for breakfast??!!

Mother: (blearily stirring concoction in large mixing bowl, whilst waiting for coffee to brew) Bran muffins. Bran, with raisins.

Child Number Two: (deadly serious) Bummer.

Cue hysterical laughter.

Can Wee Three pleeeze, puh-LEEZE have her training wheels off this weekend?

Ummmm... Nope.

Happy Mother's Day

When You Thought I Wasn't Looking

When you thought I wasn't looking

You hung my first painting on the refrigerator

And I wanted to paint another.

When you thought I wasn't looking

You fed a stray cat

And I thought it was good to be kind to animals.

When you thought I wasn't looking

You baked a birthday cake just for me

And I knew that little things were special things.

When you thought I wasn't looking

You said a prayer

And I believed there was a God

I could always talk to.

When you thought I wasn't looking

You kissed me good-night

And I felt loved.

When you thought I wasn't looking

I saw tears come from your eyes

And I learned that sometimes things hurt-

And that it's alright to cry.

When you thought I wasn't looking

You smiled

And it made me want to look that pretty too.

When you thought I wasn't looking,

You cared

And I wanted to be everything I could be.

When you thought I wasn't looking-

I looked...

And wanted to say thanks

For all those things you did

When you thought I wasn't looking.

--Mary Rita Schilke Korzan

Happy Mother's Day to my very own mother, who I'm sure, did more for me "when she thought I wasn't looking" than I could ever begin to imagine.

I am the woman, wife and mother I am today, because of her.

Pillow Talk

I've been absent from the blog-o-sphere (again) for a very good reason (honest!)

We're moving.

Well, not moving house, exactly... but there is a serious re-shuffling happening inside the house we already live in.

My husband is moving his office home, not only for economic reasons, but also so that he can be here next year while I return to university to complete my post-graduate studies. In order to make room for his enormous desk, filing cabinets, book cases, and maze of electronic equipment, we have had to move the girlies' playroom.

And the less said about THAT re-shuffling process the better.

Suffice it to say that my children have WAY. TOO. MUCH. STUFF.

Toys'r'us has NOTHING on our collection.

And, if I weren't so exhausted from moving stuff from one floor to another, carrying furniture to-and-from the loser cruiser and shoving it around across the hardwood floors (screeeech!!), running up and down ladders, rolling gallons of paint onto walls and ceilings, and replacing electrical outlets...

I'd have one HELL of a garage sale.

But lucky for the girlies... their mother IS too tired.

I think what finally finished me off was coming home from teaching my literacy programs at the library on Saturday afternoon, and discovering a large, white toilet sitting smack in the middle of the downstairs hallway, in front of the mudroom door.

During my two-hour absence from home, my handimaniac of a husband apparently caught the renovation bug, and decided to rip out and replace the bathroom floor.

Dust?

Check.

Sludge and slime and unmentionable bacteria-spreading that the World Health Organization would be fascinated to examine?

Oh, most likely.

The kind of disaster one wants to return home to after trying to corral 30 four-to-eight-year-olds on a gorgeous, 27-degree Saturday afternoon, and attempting to convince them that they really WANTED to be stuck in a classroom reading books that they couldn't have cared less about had they TRIED??

Ab.so.lute.ly. NOT.

Oh, it was a weekend, all right.

On the up-side, after much marital strife, battles that involved industrial-strength adhesive, large, lethal power tools, and exhausted every last syllable of my fruity and fluent knowledge of swear words...

The new floor looks fantastic.

By eleven o'clock last night, the bathroom had been put back into some semblance of order, sanity was restored (well, as good as it gets around here, anyway), and weary bones were dragged off for a long, hot soak in the upstairs bathtub.

I had just switched out the light and snuggled into bed, when I heard my husband's trade-mark elephantine thundering up the staircase. He sneaked into our darkened room, closed the bedroom door, and enveloped me in a warm embrace.

Him: (whispering tenderly into my ear) The toilet's overflowing.

It's not so hard to be married,

When two maneuver as one.

It's not so hard to be married,

And Jesus Christ, is it fun.

--"The Little Things You Do Together" by Stephen Sondheim

Overheard...

This morning, Wee Three was perusing a book of nursery rhymes at the breakfast table, whilst waiting for her peanut-butter-on-toast to arrive in front of her.

While she is making progress on the reading front, I have found that giving her books of stories and poems that she is already familiar with can often be a good "spring-board" for getting her to de-code new words by herself.

Today, however, "Jack and Jill" took a slightly different turn than usual:

Wee Three: (enthusiastically) Jack and Jill went up the hill,

To fetch a pail of water!!

Jack fell down, and broke his crown...

AND JILL JUST COULDN'T STOP LAUGHING.

I like to think she gets this from me.

Not just for bird watching...

Caught In The Act.

Child Number Two taking a sneak peek at the garden with her grandfather's binoculars, just before the family's big chocolate Easter egg hunt.

This?

Is a girl after her mother's own heart.

We will do ANYTHING for chocolate. Including cheating.

Easter, 2009

From our house to yours:

love, blessings, and of course,

CHOCOLATE.

xoxo CGF

Wherein we discover that hindsight is NOT 20/20.

Old is the tale that mothers sport eyes in the backs of their heads.

And long have I prided myself in the success of threatening my own progeny with being able to see every criminal activity that they attempt behind my back.

Yessir.

Over the past thirteen years, my rear-vision has become well-honed... I could even swear that a sixth sense kicks in sometimes, and I can FEEL one of my children about to commit wrong-doing, even if we're not in the same geographical location at the time.

It's uncanny.

And most of the time, frighteningly accurate.

SO accurate, that one afternoon a few years ago, my second child came weeping towards me complaining of a headache. When, after a hefty dose of Children's Advil, my sweet daughter was still shaking and sobbing inconsolably, I realized that there must be another reason for her distress.

I asked her if there was anything else bothering her besides the headache. At first, she shook her head no... but after some more gentle questioning, she burst out:

"DO YOU THINK I GOTS A HEADACHE BECAUSE

MY BACK-EYES ARE GROWING, LIKE YOURS???"

Poor little kid.

Once I stopped giggling, I assured her that "back-eyes" were things that developed after having children... they just kind of appeared. Like stretch-marks and cellulite, only WAY more useful.

Well, today we were roaring around town in the loser cruiser, trying to run errands in the precious few hours granted to me when the older kids are in school. Wee Three was strapped firmly into her car seat, one row behind me, on the passenger side of the car.

We were listening to some good music, and I quickly took my eyes off of traffic to glance into my rear-view mirror, to see if the Wee one was enjoying the tune as much as I was.

Instead of performing a "chair dance", as she usually does when The Groove strikes her, my littlest girlie was clearly concentrating on other things. She had her hands up around her face, and a quick glance at her furrowed brow led me to believe she was hard at work on her latest nasty little habit...

Me: (sharply) HEY. Tell me that you are NOT biting your fingernails!! They're right down to the quick, for goodness sake!!

Yep, she's a nail-biter all right. Her hands look as though they've been ravaged by a pack of wolves... and nauseatingly, I was told by my husband the other night that he caught her in a corner taking her socks off, so that she could bite her TOENAILS as well.

Ew.

We've tried it all. Taping them up with bandaids. Old Wives' Tales. Threats of bodily harm. Threats of POLICE ACTION.

Even a vile nail polish product called "Stop'n'Grow", which is supposed to make the nails taste so completely revolting, the Savage Biter quits willingly, immediately, and cold-turkey.

Wee Three, of course, proclaimed the taste, "DELICIOUS".

Her two older sisters have tried talking to her, as well. My first two children have beautiful nails, and have to remind me to file and shape them for them once a week, they grow so rapidly.

After one such earnest conversation, Wee Three questioned Child Number Two:

Wee Three: YOU ever bited your fingernails?

Child Number Two: (beaming with pride) NOPE! I never have! And just see how nice this pink nail polish looks!

Wee Three: (pausing for a moment to admire, but then reconsidering) You should try the biting. They taste REALLY GOOD.

Little twerp.

NOTHING IS WORKING. Not even bold-faced, cold-blooded bribery.

As a result, I have to keep a constant watchful eye on her, and am constantly reminding her to GET HER HANDS AWAY FROM HER FACE.

Mother: (gently menacing) I SEE YOU WITH MY BACK-EYES, KIDDO. Put your hands down!! Don't you bite nails ANY MORE, or I'll pull this car over, and I MEAN IT!

My littlest girl immediately whipped her hands onto her lap, but shouted back at me:

Wee Three: (adamant) I NOT BITING MY NAILS!!

Mother: Oh, yes you WERE. I SAW you with my back-eyes!! You can't fool The Mother!!

Wee Three: Oh, yes I can!! I NOT biting my nails!

Mother: Oh, really??? And just what, pray tell, WERE you doing with your hands just now?

Wee Three: (shrieking with glee) I PICKING MY NOSE!!! HA-HA!!!

I think I feel a headache coming on...

Final Score:

Child- 1,000,001

Mother- (still) 0

A pain in my...

The weather is swinging back and forth from "positive" to "negative" territory nearly as wildly as the stock markets these days... And that is saying something, people.

Snow just before Easter Weekend is definitely a "downer" in my books, and most certainly in those of the three little people I share this house with. However, in perusing the older posts on this blog, I have come to realize that spring is ALWAYS like this for us. We get a little teaser of beautiful, spring-like weather, and the girlies burst forth to bring out their bikes and tricycles and skipping ropes, and the begging for FRESH SAND IN THE SANDBOX!! begins...

At first, I am pretty good about approaching the Promise of Spring with caution... I try ever so hard not to get TOO excited about it. I appease the children and bring out their toys, but leave plenty of room in the garage to shove them back in there, if need be. We compromise on a new bucket of coloured chalk to make hopscotches with, rather than re-filling the sandbox...

But then, after a few days, it happens.

I get a whiff of the fresh, dark earth in my garden, and glimpse a peek of green poking up out of the soil.

TULIPS!! DAFFODILS!!

And the *^%$#@@! squirrel bandits haven't even eaten them yet!!

Spring Fever hits me hard, and the next thing I know, I'm hauling that sand, ordering top-soil to be delivered, and lining up all of my gardening tools... Sure, the ground is still frozen down at a certain depth... but that doesn't stop me from trying to turn over the soil that has THAWED, does it?!

It SO does NOT.

I ignore my long-suffering and sainted mother's Golden Rule of "NOTHING Before the End of May!!" and go-to-it with gusto.

My girlies and I shed our winter boots for wellies, our parkas for lightly fleece-lined jackets...

We clean out the car.

WE SHOVEL OUT THE MUD ROOM, AND PUT THE HATS AND MITTS AND SCARVES INTO STORAGE.

And that? Must be what finally trips Mother Nature's big ol' breaker switch out there in the ether, somewhere-- she suddenly decides that we've become waaaaaaay too cocky, or happy, or something.

She sends snow.

Not light, fluffy snow that melts upon impact with the ground.

Heavy snow, mixed with freezing drizzle, that lasts for DAYS, makes transportation treacherous, and life generally miserable.

To top it off, we've all started getting colds.

Now, no one has a fever, as yet-- we're just at the schnuffly-nose-tickle-at-the-back-of-the-throat stage. So, we're proceeding with school and playdates, and just coughing into our elbows when need be, packing extra tissues, and washing our hands till they chaff...

In short, this isn't anything a Good Canadian would complain about. As far as wintertime goes, this is pretty much business as usual.

Unless you're a MAN, that is.

I believe you've met my husband, The Sickie?

Well, I'm sorry to say that he is STRICKEN, people. He's apparently got a fatal case of The Sniffles, and he's making damn good and sure that I know all about his suffering.

AGAIN.

Picture this, yesterday morning:

Me: (madly racing around the house, trying to get beds made, laundry sorted, bathrooms scrubbed, children dressed, and off to school)

Him: (in hot pursuit) ...and my nose is dripping, and my feet are sweating, and I can't find any kleenex, and I... (breaks into a spasm of exaggerated coughs)

Me: (glaring at him, then slamming the door on the way out)

LATER:

Me: (frantically preparing dinner whilst juggling the telephone, answering e-mails, simultaneously helping two children with completely different homework, and supervising two four-year-olds with a PAINTING craft on the kitchen table)

Him: (languishing over a cup of steaming hot lemon tea I have just made him) ...and my chest feels tight, and my brain is foggy, and my throat hurts, and I think I've got a touch of tendinitis in my back, and I think I might be developing those migraines you say you get, you know the ones?...

Me: (throws bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol at his head)

You know that eternal question, if a tree falls in the forest and there's no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?

Well, I'm starting to wonder: if my husband is sick, and there's no one around to listen to his whining, does he keep complaining out loud, even when I'm not in the house?!?

Bedtime:

Me: (having just endured the super-fit-of-a-lifetime with Wee Three over whether or not she can sleep with her light ON all night, then reading just ONE MORE STORY about thirteen times, performing the almost obsessive-compulsive little ritual of lining up her stuffed animals in the correct order, hugging-and-kissing-and-high-fiving ALL OF THEM, selecting the correct lullaby, blowing on her dream-catcher to clean it out, and checking both the closet and under-the-bed for Monsters)

Him: (standing just outside her bedroom door in his rattiest pyjamas) ...and I need a little humidifier, and I can't find the Vick's Vapo-Rub, and the Tylenol bottle is empty, and I think I'm getting a little touch of tendinitis in my right knee, because I've got a pain...

Me: (emerging from the room and closing the bedroom door) I'm sorry, dearest. You've got a pain? YOU'VE got a pain???! YOU'VE GOT A PAIN???!!!

Me Again: (head splitting open and flames shooting out of my neck. Seriously.) I'VE GOT A GIGANTIC PAIN. RIGHT. IN. MY. A$$.

There was silence.

I think I could actually HEAR his sinuses draining.

And then, a little voice from behind the closed bedroom door rang out, clear as a bell:

Wee Three: (sternly) Well. DAT'S not a nice thing to tell a little girl at BEDTIME...

Mother Nature?

Give. Me. A. BREAK.

Because YOU must have a man in YOUR life TOO, right????