But I’m tired of salmon. Every night it’s salmon, salmon, salmon. I could even settle for the cherub-looking forest ranger – he looks tasty.
He is not on the menu. Let’s go.
In a minute. So let me get this straight: this outpost has all those things plus they get free health care, Don Cherry, and ketchup chips? I don’t know what to with all these feelings!
It’s true, they do have all those things.
Do they have running water? Heat? Drive-thru Starbucks? Cable TV?
They aren’t savages. Yes, of course.
If they have all of that, why would I bother going back? What does the US have to offer that I couldn’t possibly get in Canada?
All photos are property of Burrill Strong photography. This is the second collaboration Burrill and I have done. You can check out this talented, bearded photographer at his blog and on twitter @sgtwolverine
Pure Wander is a site for families who like to travel – near and far. You can find me over there today guest posting. We might not travel far (yet) but it’s always an adventure with our crew of six Moyers.
Never trust a preschooler with a reputation for peeing his pants. Even if he did use the facilities only ten minutes earlier. Against my better judgement, I didn’t force the issue and we took off to Mom Mecca: Target.
As we pulled into the parking lot, Little says in a tiny voice, “I wet.”
So many feelings! I was irritated that he peed his pants when he is capable of staying dry. I was peeved at myself for being irritated because I don’t tend to get upset with toilet training mishaps. I felt bad for his older brother who had brought his Lightning McQueen, velcro-closure wallet with him to buy a toy.
After checking the diaper bag and discovering no spare clothes (now I had to add Bearded Husband to my list of irritants) I had a plan of action.
Well, we’re going to buy you a pair shorts and you’ll wear those. AND YOU WILL LIKE THEM.
Now it was time for the big brother to jump into older and wiser sibling mode:
Little, you are going to have to wear whatever we buy, that’s what happens when you pee your pants.
Now, Little, when you pee your pants, Mommy isn’t angry, but you won’t be getting a toy.
Little, I will get a toy because she didn’t have to spend money buying me new shorts because my shorts are dry. I never pee myself.
You know, you peed your pants.
Our shopping trip was mostly uneventful after that. The boys got into a slight altercation in the sock aisle, but it was nothing a threat issued through clenched teeth couldn’t diffuse.
We chatted and giggled while we finished up our shopping. As we wheeled towards the till, my youngest piped up:
Mommy? I get a toy?
No, Little, I spent that money on new shorts since you peed your pants.
I so sorry. Please? You buy me a toy? I not always pee my pants anymore.
It might take me a while and several seasons of preschool life, but eventually I learn: Never trust an almost 3-year-old. Especially one who has perfected using his cuteness for evil.
Don’t feel bad for him, though. He did get to ride home in a “big boy booster” instead of his car seat. Oh, that’s because – wait, did I mention this already? He peed his pants.
———
Unfortunate shopping experience? Share. Bodily functions involved? Even better.
I had already pushed my luck and stayed up later than I should have. Just as I was drifting off to sleep sometime after midnight a little voice cried out, “Mommy!” I hopped out of bed to discover my third born quietly crying in the bathroom. He was tired, hot, and the light was “too bright”. I comforted him and tucked him back into bed only to be beckoned once again a mere twenty minutes later with more tears.
This good-natured almost-five-year-old rarely complains. I did my best to find out what was bothering him and then he drifted back to sleep. This is where is all becomes fuzzy. At some point in the wee hours of the morning he succumbed to a stomach bug. My Bearded Husband and I agreed long ago that this clean-up was my department (don’t worry, he takes care of vermin and clogged drains) so he sweetly asked me for help when he discovered our boy covered in sick. It always amazes me how I can be yanked from a deep sleep and jump into decisive and efficient action. Not bragging, I’m really surprised at myself every time. I cannot recall how often this scenario repeated, but by 6AM I knew I would not be able to be an effective (or pleasant) teacher with so little sleep and a potential conduit of “bleh” coursing through my body. I called in my last remaining Family Care day.
Was up most of the night with a 4YO and the stomach flu. Come and get me, zombies. I won't put up a fight.
When I got up for the first time that day (or was it last? I was so confused) my body cried out at the injustice. I tense up whenever one of the boy is sick so my entire upper back was knotted and turning my head was a challenge (just stay out of my peripheral vision boys and the world is your oyster today). I had that queasy feeling you get from pulling all-nighters, but those supply notes weren’t going to write themselves. In fact, I wrote them twice. Once for the wrong day, and once for the correct one.
We muddled through the start of our day surprisingly well. My little guy kept down his toast and ginger ale and seemed to be on the mend. Mid-morning, however, he had that drained and pasty look and told me he was cold. Nothing a good cuddle couldn’t fix, right?
He’s a twitchy sleeper, that one.
I gladly wrapped my arms around my boy and we sat quietly on the couch together looking at the family portraits on the wall. “I wish I was sick every day so then I could always get to have pop,” he told me just moments before he drifted off to sleep. On my lap. Curled up and snoring. That hasn’t happened in at least three years. My neck started to ache, my left foot fell asleep and I had an itch I couldn’t reach because my arm was pinned under my boy who all too soon will turn five.
And it was completely worth it.
Celebrating all of you who are the special someone to someone little. Or big.
What better way to celebrate a former ruler than by having a day off work and lighting fireworks all weekend? Happy Birthday, Queen Victoria, we’re just going to have some pyrotechnics in your honour. No need to feel left out there, Canada. We’ll do the same for you on the first of July. Unless you’re our teenage neighbours who randomly fire them off throughout the summer, holiday or not. It’s 1am, people with kids won’t mind – little people sleep through everything, right?
This year we thought it might be fun to do an earlier celebration with like-minded neighbours. It might still be light out, but there’s no need to keep our young children up until well past 10 to cry about the loud noise and scary popping sounds.
Can you help?
Wanted: Fireworks Lighter Must be a fast runner and calm around fire, combustible materials, and small children. Heckling is highly probable, so only applicants exhibiting superior patience levels will be considered.
A skills appraisal will be completed before hiring. This might include, but is not limited to, matches, lanterns, votive candles, and toddlers providing realistic sound effects while also shouting “it’s too loud” and then crying.
Compensation will be provided by the delight and joy given to others. And pop. Ok, pop and chips. Alright, pop and chips and other miscellaneous snack foods.
The successful candidate is responsible for providing own goggles.
Only serious applicants, please.
Save this little beauty for the last day of school. It’s okay, we won’t tell.
What’s your story? Ever been lit on fire? Had some fireworks remnants land in your eye? Yelled at teens behind your house to “keep it down! People are trying to sleep here!”
I cannot name the hometown of grandmother. I don’t know the names of my great-grandparents. I could not tell you how many siblings my grandpa had. Those people are insignificant, too. Yet without them, I would not be here. They are insignificant, but important.
There are four young boys who call me “Mommy” and I matter to them. My attitude, choices, and example influence theirs. But their grandchildren will think of me in passing, if at all.
Every day I interact with more than two hundred students in my role as teacher. I matter to them, but their own children will not hear about that teacher who held their hand when they were scared or helped them learn to be a friend. I matter, but I’m insignificant.
I am insignificant, but important, influential. I will leave a legacy. We all will.
What will that legacy be?
Opa dancing on the back deck with his granddaughters creates memories of fun and silliness. Don’t take yourself too seriously.
Fishing trips with Dad let you know that a favourite pastime is better when shared with someone you love. Relationships matter.
Being ridiculous and crazy and uninhibited with your children teaches that life is to be lived joyfully. Small things have a big impact.
Serving others and sacrificing for a greater purpose says that there is more to this life.
Going for that bike ride with your son fulfils the promise you made. Honour your commitments and live with integrity.
What you choose to do here may seem insignificant, but it has a lasting impact. You will leave a legacy. Intentional or not. Planned or not. Purposeful or not. We will all leave a legacy.
The legacy will go on long after we have left this earth. What will yours be?
Growing up, our family of six always had two cars – one big enough to for the entire crew all at once, and the second, a smaller one (typically a hatchback) to supplement our transportation needs.
It looked just like this except with a big white stripe down the middle.
The first cars I remember were the wood-panelled station wagon with vinyl seats and optional seat belts, and one of several “second” cars, an orange and white Mercury Capri. Both cars were AWESOME. The Capri resembled the “General Lee” a bit, and you honked the horn by pressing the handle of the turn signal. What kind of engineering magic was that?! Forget getting my license, I just wanted to honk that horn.
Sadly, the Capri gave up the ghost before I was able to drive. But it was replaced by an even better hatchback: a Chrysler Turismo. And guys, it was gold. Gold. GOLD. It was painted gold with matching beige interior. That little gem was a demo car for the dealership our cousin worked at so we got this fully-loaded two door for a great deal.
I got this off wikipedia, but it could be ours, there’s a limited market for gold hatchbacks.
When I say “fully-loaded” I mean it. This 1985 Turismo came with the following features:
– AM/FM radio with tapedeck
– Swivel light for map reading (or lipgloss application, whichever need arose)
– Air conditioning
– Hydraulic action hatch
This beauty even had a hidden perk that I did not discover until I drove it myself: in a small town, a gold hatchback really stands out. My parents did not need GPS to know where I’d been or what I’d been up to – I was my own one-car parade. I drove around and people waved even before they saw who was behind the wheel, because it was A GOLD TURISMO. I may as well have been driving the Pope-mobile for all the camouflage that car provided.
Although we treated old Goldie with respect and care, it did not take long for things to start going wonky. And my parents, being financially responsible and never having to drive that car, decided it was best to avoid most repairs and just live with it.
First to go was the driver’s seat tilt option. If you were foolish enough to adjust that from the leisurely position my too-tall brother had set it at, your loss. It took a lot of prayer and tears to get it to stay in the upright position again. I spent many hours sitting up perfectly straight and clutching the steering wheel for leverage.
Next we lost the eject function on the tape deck. But it turns out I was a bit of a MacGyver – all we had to do was press eject and yank the cassette out with a pair of tweezers that became a permanent fixture in the ash tray. (Do not attempt that manoeuvre in a moving vehicle).
The air conditioning went next. And since “you only drive it in hot weather for really a few weeks, we aren’t going to spend the money to fix it”, we learned to live without it. A decision I support now as a parent of four on a budget, but COME ON – it was so hot.
Apparently the Turismo didn’t like the AC decision either and started to really act out. The clutch had always been a bit finicky, but now it took things to a whole new level. If you adjusted it one way, it would stall at every intersection or slow-down. If adjusted the other, it would run on after you turned off the ignition (hard to roll into the driveway or school parking lot incognito when followed by ca-klunk, ca-klunk). We opted to go with the “stall” option and learned to pop it into neutral regularly, earning Goldie the title of “Automatic Car that wants to be a Standard”.
This temperamental car didn’t stop there, though. Next it went on to overheat – the vehicular equivalent of holding one’s breath. Any time it was in stop-and-go traffic the engine temp would rise at an alarming rate. This was both scary and embarrassing. BUT WAIT – we figured out how to deal with that, too. All you had to do was crank the heat at maximum power to offset the heat from the engine. And good news, it only overheated in the summer so you were already dressed for the temps and had the windows down anyways (remember, no AC).
The hatchback feature was perhaps the most amazing part of this car. If you folded down the back seat you could move the contents of your entire university bedroom in one trip. The demon that possessed the Turismo decided to thwart that, too and within a few years, the hydraulic doo-dad that held the hatch open stopped working. BUT WAIT. We dealt with that, too – it was nothing a hockey stick couldn’t fix.
The university years were hard on our relationship, but we wouldn’t give up on old Goldie. The passenger side door no longer opened from the outside, so the driver would get in, then lean across to open it for the others. That was fine except for my sister with whom I shared the Turismo insisted on locking that door anyways. So that meant one lunge across to open, realize it was locked, lunge across to unlock, and a third to open the door. We did not agree on this method. Also, no one would want to steal that car.
Once winter hit, the fun really began – all the quirks of the Turismo came together. The doors froze shut so the only way to get inside was through the hatch, but remember, it wouldn’t stay open without the hockey stick technique which was precarious at best. So you always had to travel with a buddy who could hold the hatch open for you and then pull on the outside handle of the door while you body checked it from inside. Thankfully, living in student housing, there was always someone around willing to help out for a free ride to campus.
Winter was also the Turismo’s time to shine. Perhaps it was the overheating engine, or the over-running clutch, but that car would start in the coldest of weather. The Polar Vortex would have been no match for Goldie.
The attempted sabotage this car tried to inflict on me only managed to give me wizard status. As the car aged, it became more finicky and eventually only two people on the entire planet were able to get it to start and stay running. I wore that title with more pride that I probably should have.
Eventually the Turismo’s time here on earth came to an end. It was on a dark and slick highway one evening in March. The interior lights started to fade, the radio grew faint, and I barely managed to coast into a gas station to call the Clean Shaven boyfriend (who later became Bearded Husband) to come rescue me. We all had to agree that sinking any more money into Goldie was a fruitless endeavour. We had her towed to a wrecking yard and I think I received enough cash to cover the last tankful of gas I’d put in.
Oh, sweet Turismo. You never ceased to cause anxiety levels to rise. You always kept things interesting. I’ll never forget some of the phrases often spoken in that car:
It makes that smell all the time.
It’s okay, it’s when you don’t hear that noise that you need to worry.
We’ll make it, just give it a minute.
That noise is completely normal.
Hold on tight.
Open your window, we just need to crank the heat for a few minutes, then it’ll be as good as new.
Hold the steering wheel, I want to change the tape.
Gone, but not forgotten. Gold Turismo, the worst car I ever had.
Miss you.
_________
Worst car experience? Could have been in the Turismo with me, it’s okay to share that, too.
I get the Elmo colouring book. Sit at the table. No, in this chair.I colour this page and you do it with me, okay?
You got it, bud.
I’ll colour all the eyeballs. Not creepy at all.
It’s okay you can’t reach the page, Mommy, just hold your arm really benty. Yes, just like that. But don’t stop colouring. (Big Bird needs to be half-complete by the end of this, just like every other page in this book.)
No, like this. LIKE THIS.
You use the pink. Axshly, you all done with pink. I use that. Here’s a blue one. Why are you stopping? Move your colourer like this. Kay, I do this page – you do the grass. Blue is fine. BLUE. IS. FINE.
I’m just going to fix this for you.
Move over, but don’t leave. I do it. Why aren’t you colour? No, I do it myself. I do it myself. I DO IT MYSELF.
Dinner time, please put your colouring things away, Little.
Don’t jump on the bed. Remember Aaron across the street who broke his arm doing that?
If you race up the front steps, you might puncture your knee just like Daddy did that time. We spent hours in Urgent Care that day. With a newborn.
Donkey-kicking your brother is a bad idea. Just ask Auntie – she broke her arm when she was flung across the basement when we were kids. I may or may not have been involved in that.
Sliding down the stairs on your belly will end badly. Did I ever tell you about the time Uncle Rob got carpet burn doing that?
Don’t ride your bike with your eyes closed. Just trust me on that – I have first hand experience.
Do I really need to remind you why you shouldn’t run around naked?
Chasing your brothers around the bedrooms – guys, I had to call our nurse neighbour last time you did that.
Go ahead and name a questionable activity and I can give you a real life cautionary tale outlining the dangers.
Care to lean really far on the kitchen table while standing on your chair? I recently witnessed a son scrape his belly doing that. I thought he had broken a rib or done some serious internal damage.
Feel like putting some coins in your mouth? My cousin once swallowed a dollar’s worth of quarters and had to go to the hospital.
Think it’s fun to stick your leg through the spindles on the stairwell? A kindergarten student once got her knee stuck in the bars at the playground. It took a whole team of us and a bottle of Palmolive to get her out.
Want to pour yourself a nice, tall glass of milk after a sleep over at your friend’s house? Sit back and let me tell you about Gary.
Gary* spent the night at his good friend, Kevin’s house. He woke up, and as any young kid does, he headed down to find himself some breakfast. Several members of Kevin’s family were gathered around the kitchen table enjoying a selection of cold cereal.
If only there was a way to make this milk stretch a bit further
Gary surveyed the options and made his choice (probably Corn Flakes, Gary wasn’t much of a risk-taker). He topped it off with a splash of milk and dug in. Partway through his most important meal of the day, Gary realized he was thirsty so he poured himself a refreshing glass of milk. He took a swig and thought, “Hmmm, tastes kind of sweet.” Ate some cereal, took another sip, “Yes,” he thought, “Their milk tastes like they put sugar in it.”
Being the polite young man that he was, Gary finished up his cereal without mentioning the sugar-infused milk. As he brought his bowl to the sink, Kevin asked him, “did you drink that whole glass of milk?”
As Gary turned to answer his former best friend, he saw the remaining family members pour the leftover milk from their cereal bowls into the glass pitcher on the table. The very same pitcher Gary had chugged from.
My son, never, ever, drink the sweet milk.
This is perfectly good milk. DON’T WASTE IT.
___________
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent and easily duped.
This post is dedicated to the real “Gary” and to frugal parents everywhere.
Tough Bananas 