Look! It’s Blue Day again, but not “Style Your Hair and Put Make-up On” Day
It was a typical morning. The beds were made, boys were dressed, I got myself ready and headed to the kitchen to join the family for breakfast. That’s when it all changed. One simple, seemingly harmless observation was all it took.
“Hey! You’re wearing a blue shirt and so is Daddy – did you guys plan that?” I asked Son #3 who was busy eating his cereal.
He paused, mid-shovel, looked down at his clothes, then gasped, “I’m wearing blue, too!”
“Yes, that’s what I just said.”
“I’m wearing blue and Daddy is wearing blue!”
(do I not get credit for stating that very observation ten seconds ago? Nothing? Not even a nod?)
“I’m wearing blue, Daddy is wearing blue and so are you!” and he pointed to Son #4.
“Yes, it’s almost like you planned it. Is today Blue Day?”
“So, Daddy is wearing blue, I am wearing blue, that brother is, but NOT THAT BROTHER.”
“Right, like I said, lots of us are wearing blue today.”
“I have blue on my shirt, see?!” piped up Son #1, clamouring to be included in this momentous occasion.
“But it’s not ALL blue, like Daddy and me,” retorted #3.
“It’s blue. Right. Here,” #1 shot back.
“That means one, two, three, THREE of are wearing blue.”
“And me,” #1 angry-whispered, not willing to back down.
Me: “I’m wearing a blue shirt today, too, but it’s not the same shade.” (What? Why was I still engaging in this conversation? Somebody stop me).
#3 glances at me and shouts, “Hey! You’re wearing blue, too. That means, one, two, three, FOUR of us are wearing blue.”
Are you even hearing me? Maybe they can’t see me. Wait, Bearded Husband just rolled his eyes at me, so I’m definitely visible.
#2 Son strolls into the kitchen.
“Wait, that brother has blue on his shirt so that means, one, two, three, four FIVE of us have blue on. But only me and Daddy are wearing the same blue. ACTUALLY, he has some blue on, too. So that means, one, two, three, four, five SIX of us are wearing blue today. But only me and Daddy are wearing the same blue.”
#2 shrugs and exits kitchen.
#4 randomly shouts out, “NooooooOOOO,” just to be controversial, then struts out of the room.
This will not do. #3 throws his arms up in the air in exasperation, “But it ISN’T.”
I’ve lost track, what were we debating? Is it hot day? Did I put pants on? I’m so confused.
#3, “We all have blue on, it’s like it’s Blue Day.”
If you think kids aren’t organizing, you are sadly mistaken.
Brothers, gather round. Our agenda for today’s meeting is quite full, so we should get started on time. Keith, I believe we talked about not bringing our light sabres to these discussion groups. If you feel that strongly, then you should have added that to today’s agenda.
Item one: Play Time.
We are only partway through winter and the novelty of our Christmas gifts wore off weeks ago. Let’s face facts, Mom isn’t exactly bringing her A-game when it comes to our recreation time. We all heard her recent rant about it not being her “job” to “entertain” us and if we are “bored” there’s “dusting” we can do, followed by some muttering about that’s why she gave us brothers. So we are on our own. At least until Daddy gets home.
Everyone loves a round or two of Toilet Tag, but let’s workshop it a bit to make it more fun. No, Keith – you know weapons are not allowed. Keep thinking.
Let’s hear from Littlest. His attention span is the shortest so he will likely leave before we adjourn.
Brilliant! Underwear Toilet Tag. So simple, yet so effective. Same game, but in only our underwear. All in agreement? Motion passed.
Ok, technically the Chair does not recognize Littlest again, but to avoid a tantrum, let him speak.
Another home run idea! Underwear Basement Balloon Soccer. It combines two of our favourite things: physical aggression and pantlessness. Pass him a gummi worm, he deserves it.
I move we continue to workshop this skivvies theme. All in favour? Great, let’s do this.
What else is better in underwear? Speak slowly, the five-year-old is taking minutes.
Restaurant
Pet Store
Train Station
Sibling Sandwich. Someone is going to have to get Mommy on board with us using the couch cushions. She wasn’t thrilled when we made that labyrinth last week and then “forgot” to put them back.
Air Hockey. Probably to do with aerodynamics, further study is needed.
Hide-and-Seek. I think we all remember last Thursday’s unfortunate incident, so a reminder to steer clear of folding doors.
Puzzles
Breakfast
Snack
Lunch
Snack. Yes, Keith, both snack times will be proposed.
Dinner. Let’s agree to keep working on Daddy regarding this one, he’s so focussed on “hygiene”. I think Mommy has just resigned herself, so she’s a potential ally.
Listen, we need to adjourn for Snack Time. Sorry, Keith, for now, keep your pants on.
Small children are cute, funny, energetic, and sweet. Sometimes they are exasperating, some days inspiring. But they are never, ever subtle. Of all the adjectives available to describe tiny human beings, “shrewd” does not top the list. Preschoolers would make horrible spies. However, they would make excellent super villains.
Here are my top 5 reasons that preschoolers would be fantastic at over-the-top-subterfuge.
1. They cannot keep their intentions a secret.
“Oh, I have had too many jellybeans already? Don’t look at me. No particular reason, I just don’t want you to look at me at this moment. Close your eyes. Do it. And no, I won’t be eating candy, I just want some privacy.”
2. They tip their hand far too early in the game.
“When you tell me that it is nap time then I am going to tell you that you are STUPID and to SHUT UP.”
3. Outrageous punishments for perceived injustice.
“You refuse to buy more Goldfish crackers because ‘allegedly’ we have ‘lots at home’? Watch me throw myself on the floor of this grocery store and FEEL MY WRATH.”
Evil? Who, me?
4. Outlandish plans.
“When I get bigger I will buy ALL THE SKITTLES IN THE WORLD AND EAT AS MUCH AS I LIKE and no one will stop me because I will be BIG.”
5. They are always shocked and amazed when their plans are thwarted.
“How could you have known I was emptying an entire can of shaving cream into the sink? Who snitched?”
Well, that did not go according to plan.
If we aren’t careful, one day soon these little ankle-biters could rule us all.
Another year has come and gone – can you believe it?
What a year it has been – it’s hard to sum it all up in three pages single spaced, but I’ll do my best (wink, wink).
I tried to get writing this earlier than other years, but with raising and sheering our own sheep to knit personalized mittens for our neighbours, I just ran out of time. Silly me, I should have known that I’d be stretched for spare time since taking on writing, choreographing, and directing the school musical this year, too. Something had to give, so instead of carving chocolate busts for my parents this year, we went with painted portraits – good thing our youngest has been taking “Painting for the Young and Gifted” every Tuesday. He did a bang up job.
The family is all doing well. In addition to excelling at school, the kids are thrilled with their many extracurriculars. Not to brag, but this proud mom can’t help but share some of their achievements. This year they took home first place in Competitive Pairs Floral Arranging, and are already planning next year’s submission. They also decided to give back and created a puppet troupe that performs at the senior centre on Wednesdays. Sometimes they move it to Thursdays if they are behind in making their own soap. Those crazy kids love to try different scents and can get so carried away with new recipes!
We apologize for not including our traditional Christmas popcorn balls with this letter. Unfortunately, this summer was unseasonably dry so our corn didn’t turn out as well as usual and you know the hubs – he didn’t want to sacrifice quality with store-bought kernels. Not to worry, though! We are trying our hand making cinnamon body lotion so fingers crossed it turns out
and some will arrive on your doorstep soon.
Speaking of the hubs – what a guy! He works full time, coaches the enrichment mini-golf team and still finds time to felt hats. Yes! The hats our family is wearing in our Christmas photo are all made by him! Don’t they look great with our matching boots? (I couldn’t resist trying out boot-making and I’m so tickled with the result).
Of course, no year is complete without some bout of illness. Thankfully, we avoided anything serious, but some of the family did develop a bad reaction. We narrowed it down to a bad batch of honey that we had jarred in the basement. Live and learn, right? Next time we won’t let the neighbour kids watch the hive while we run the daycamp for fetch-challenged dogs.
Well, friends, I’d love to write more, but making pasta from scratch takes more time than you’d think. Multi-tasking helps – I usually get a batch done in between dying fabric for the homemade jammies I sew each year for the kids. We are hosting the extended family this year so I’m also drywalling the basement. So glad I finished teaching my rug-hooking class last month – not sure how I’d fit it all in.
Be well, friends. Until next year!
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Dedicated to my partner in crime since 1978, Andreeeeeee.
I thought it was something everyone had to do, that is was part of my job description.
If you looked around, you’d see every staff member was doing it.
How was I to know?
Not one to rock the boat or question authority, I joined in.
It’s hard to admit this. It’s not like I really want people to know, but confession is good for the soul, so finally, after fifteen years, I will tell the world the truth.
I used to own a Christmas sweater and not ironically.
Fun, yet conservative. The collar makes it work-friendly.
It was December of my first year teaching. I walked into the staff room one morning with my Tim’s coffee in hand, to discover that all but two staff members (me and the only male teacher) were wearing thematic sweaters. But wait, it gets better. They were all the same. Not exactly identical, but a variation on a style. Blue jersey sweatshirt with a Christmas scene sewn on the front.
My blood ran a bit cold and I panicked. Did I miss a memo? Is this mandatory dress for the month of December? THEY DID NOT COVER THIS IN MY TEACHING PROGRAM.
A solution quickly availed itself. A kind parent said she’d like to make me a Christmas sweater, but something more “contemporary” as a gift. I jumped all over that opportunity. And then, within a week, I was part of the Holiday Embellished Sweater Brigade. It felt good to be part of something bigger.
Yes, it felt good to be part of this group, even if it required wearing shirts with parts that jingled and jangled. Just as I was relishing my new place in this like-minded crew, all was revealed.
No, I was not contractually obligated to wear a Christmas sweater (or vest, or necklace, or even earrings). The reason that nearly twenty people had matching sweatshirts for December was that another staff member used to make them and they all got in on it.
I kept my sweater for two more years, then I transferred.
It was just a car, but it was my first one. After many a misadventure in good old Gold Turismo, I had a teaching contract and new wheels. The goal was to have a reliable car that I would not be afraid to drive on the highway, preferably with a working radio – tape deck was optional, I’m no princess. This little beauty delivered.
It was just a car – a 1999 Honda Civic Special Edition. The “special” part being automatic, keyless entry and air conditioning which YES, I realize is pretty much standard now, but this was 1999. I was living the dream.
It was just a car, but it drove me safely as I garage-saled for toys and games for my very first classroom. It’s AM/FM radio helped me stay alert on the short, but at times tedious commute to school. It was the sole witness to countless laughs and serious debriefs with my carpool friends.
It was just a car, but it drove me to our wedding, on our road trip honeymoon, and across Canada one summer. With Bearded Husband behind the wheel, the Civic delivered me to the hospital when our firstborn decided to arrive one month early. Three days after, it brought home our family of three. Twenty-one months later, we made the same trip and came home with our second son.
My attempt to cover up the “au de smelly socks”.
It was just a car, but it transported our babies to my childhood home where we relived the magic of Grandma and Grandpa’s house. There they played with my favourite old toys, swam in the “best” pool, and explored the creek where just moments before I was climbing trees and throwing pebbles in the water.
In the beginning, I hand washed that silver beauty every weekend. I scrubbed the car mats to maintain the “new” smell. With time, it was cleaned less and less. Eventually, carseats replaced space for shopping bags and Cheerios littered the floor. In 1999 I never imagined that I would have spare clothes and diapers in the trunk or that I would wash down the dashboard with baby wipes. As with everything, the Civic’s time came to an end.
Confession: I am not that attached to “things”. I don’t really care about cars or electronics or having everything new and shiny. But friends, I actually cried when we decided not to repair the car and let it go to its final resting place. Real tears. And yes, Bearded Husband laughed at me. A lot. He still brings it up.
Here’s the good news, we bought a slightly used Mazda 5 and for a girl who doesn’t “really care about cars”, I LOVE that thing. So much has changed in the auto industry since 1999, I can’t even tell you. I don’t like driving much, but I make excuses to get out at night and “run some errands” (most days I have the oh-so-exciting-van) just so I can zip around. The sight lines! The seat warmers! The working rear wiper!
Can the Mazda hold as many memories and milestones as my sweet Civic did? Well, just last week I was strapping Little into his carseat and as I pulled on the tether strap, BH whipped open the driver door and clipped me RIGHT ON THE FOREHEAD. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to. Only kidney stones and labour have hurt more than that did. It’s possible that this car is enchanted, because even though my head developed a sizeable goose egg, it never bruised. Thus, I have dubbed November 30, “Mazda Miracle Day”.
Gathering together to enjoy a meal is a powerful pastime. It brings people closer, allowing us to pause from busyness and share stories or solve problems as a family. If not for Family Mealtime how would we know that a classmate at school can burp the entire alphabet? If we didn’t eat dinner together we’d never know about the time our seven-year-old’s class put a whoopee cushion on the music teacher’s chair. I still don’t know who broke my hairband, but we did find out who keeps forgetting to flush. But most importantly, how would we teach the boys about passive aggression?
Allow me to explain.
After a lovely meal that everyone enjoyed (as always) and praised their doting mother (me) for cooking from scratch, the light-hearted banter transitioned into Family Devotion time. It began with a simple question: How can we show God we love Him? and the answers were as follows (I wrote them down as soon as I could for the sake of accuracy).
What’s for dessert?
We’re having Halloween treats, remember?
Let me try that again, “How can we show God we love Him?”
By not saying “shut up or stupid”.
By not hitting.
Asking before you take someone’s Lego that they were only putting down for a minute to go use the washroom.
This line of response was deteriorating quickly into a laundry list of sibling infractions – they started throwing everyone under the bus.
Stop waking up so early.
Not arguing about sleeping later.
Not arguing about having no clock in your room. Ahem.
Not whining about taking off your shoes by yourself. (that was mine, I confess)
Not poking people.
Not peeking at your birthday presents.
Not breaking toys and then they are broke.
They were volleying their thinly veiled digs back and forth at a rapid pace. I tried to change the tone of responses and frame it more positively.
Maybe say ‘sorry’ if you break something?
Yeah, and not staring at people when we’re at the table.
Keeping your feet off someone else’s leg. (that was Bearded Husband, he really likes his personal space)
Not pitching a fit when it’s time to get in the van. (me again)
Letting me someone else empty the top rack of the dishwasher instead of always calling it first because it has less dishes.
Or how about not always taking the seat closest to the TV every time?
“Letting me off the swing when I said I was done”
I’m sure God appreciated the many specific examples we generated. And that we followed it up by holding hands and singing “Kumbaya” like we do every mealtime. Scouts honour.
Whenever my twitter notifications start blowing up it can mean only one thing – someone is talking about scaring people. And that someone is usually me, Cindy Warren, or Jessica Buttram. Who knew that social media would let those of us with a passion for frightening friends and family celebrate this well-honed skill together? ONLINE? It’s a technological miracle, really.
There are some among us (Ricky Anderson) who feel it is cruel to hide under your child’s bed and jump out unexpectedly, or lurk around a corner as they exit the washroom unaware that you are about to pounce. To those people we say “it builds character.”
And so, in honour of Ricky and Halloween we will share our favourite frightening stories with you, kind readers.
There’s something so rewarding about crouching in the dark lying in wait so long your muscles start to cramp and you suddenly have to pee like SO BAD. I never have to pee as urgently as I do about ten seconds into hiding.
My son is my favorite to scare. He’s ten now, and naturally skeptical. My daughter, age four and a total wimp, just cries when I, or her brother, try to scare her. Just the other day when I picked her up from preschool, I hid in the girls’ bathroom right outside her classroom while she grabbed her stuff from her cubby, and before I could even get a good crouch going she ran out into the hallway in hysterics. I’m hopeful she’ll outgrow that reaction, but meanwhile, scaring my daughter makes me feel like the terrible parent I am for hiding in the dark peeing myself.
And my husband is virtually unscareable. He’s the worst. The one time I can remember actually successfully scaring him, he just sat up a little and said, “you scared me,” so the payoff isn’t even worth it.
But my son is a FANTASTIC mark. His reactions are emotional GOLD. He is the reason just last week I crouched behind his dirty, smelly basket of laundry for like, TEN MINUTES waiting. He’s the reason I’ve bought a pack of adult diapers. (Just kidding.)
I’ve tried to get it on video for this post, but the lighting is always pretty bad, and the video always turns out shaky from trying not to pee. So here’s just a little taste of the joy I experience.
Again, he is ten, skeptical, and alllllll prepubescent boy. Timing is EV-ER-Y-THING with his scares. It has to be in a dark or dimly lit room, and I have to space them out just right so he doesn’t expect them.
Frightened rage looks a bit like this.
I realize everyone responds to fear differently. Like, I squeal and literally jump in the air. My daughter has an emotional breakdown. My husband shatters my dreams of being a professional scarer.
My son, however, screams and tenses up with a pure and unapologetic RAGE. The fury that flashes across his little face is AMAZING. I have no doubt he is more Fight than Flight, and if he were to ever TRULY believe there was a monster in his closet, I guarantee he would instinctively try to karate kick it before running away. In the split second before he realizes it’s just his sweet mother lurching out at him, I imagine his thoughts going, “I AM SO TERRIFIED AND THAT MAKES ME SO ANGRY oh wait, —it’s just you, that was hilarious, let’s do it to Dad.”
I look at it as reward for all the thankless jobs that come with parenting.
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Dear readers, Jessica is right that scaring husbands is challenging, but with commitment and stealth it can be done. Here’s my story.
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When I go for the scare, I don’t shy away from the long game. I’ve been known to fall asleep in my hiding spot on more than one occasion. Limbs going numb will not deter me. I will lie in wait with the patience of Job.
Keep looking, you’ll see it in a second.
One evening, Bearded Husband came home late from his baseball game and clearly assumed I was already in bed. I heard him unlock the front door and panicked at all the possibilities at my disposal. Do I lie on the floor and play dead? Sit on the couch and silently turn the light on? SO MANY OPTIONS. My indecisiveness forced my hand – I lurked in the living room watching him unpack his gear hoping he would glance over and then be terrified by my silent presence.
No. He was oblivious. So I did the obvious thing and just casually followed him into the kitchen and whispered, “how was your game?”
Turns out he has the same terrified range as Buttram’s son, and IT WAS AMAZING. His revenge was swift, but it was completely worth it. And rest assured, he had it coming.
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This tribute is wrapped up with perhaps the best spontaneous scaring I have heard and I tip my hat to the one and only, Cindy Warren. I wish she lived closer so I could shake her hand.
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If you can tour a church building at 9:00 PM with friends, and NOT take advantage of the opportunity to scare said friends, then we need to have a conversation about missed opportunities. My church was given a building this year, completely free of charge. One night, before it was officially ours, the pastor took several of us on a tour of the building.
Churches are not creepy after dark. Not at all.
As we walked around in the dark (why did we not have lights on- I really couldn’t tell you), I wandered off on my own and happened upon the nursery before the others did. There it was in all its glory, a terrifying room full of cribs, with the light from the moon (or maybe from street lights- who can say) coming through the window.
So I did what any good person would do. I sat in the lone rocking chair and slowly rocked while staring at the door looking like the ghost of nursery workers past. I heard the lighthearted discussion as my friends got closer.
“What’s this room? Ohhhh, it’s the nursery. That’s so creepy…I don’t wanna go in…”
*unsuspecting friends slowly push door open*
They scanned the dark room from right to left, and landed on the moving rocking chair lastly. There was screaming and genuine fear. It was glorious.
Y’all- greater joy hath no me than this: to watch my friends fight each other to get out the door the quickest.
My only regret is that I didn’t video their reactions…and that they didn’t swear. A swear is the only thing that would’ve made it better.
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We have one year, ladies – to accomplish the ultimate scare, preferably on video.
Being home full time is great, but truthfully it can also be lonely. The majority of my day is spent with a three-year-old. While he is a decent conversationalist, the content is somewhat lacking. I can only discuss the plot of “Umizoomi” for so long and he’s really not that interested in “Friday Night Lights”.
That’s why I made a new friend. I highly recommend it if you, too, are a stay-at-home-parent. How else can you make the most of nap time? By exercising or resting? No, having your own personal companion keeps you alert and helps your productivity level stay high.
There were many options for a new friend, but I finally decided on this guy, and let me tell you it has been amazing.
He is an excellent listener
We do all kinds of things together.
He has innovative meal ideas
We have so much in common
We even take our coffee the same – black, of course.He’s become a bit of a muse for me
Chores are no longer tedious.
He is a whiz at folding fitted sheets, I don’t know how he does it.
A good friend takes on those tasks you might find overwhelming.
His accounting skills are astounding.
Life is short and the days pass quickly, make the most of them with your own special friend.
Tough Bananas 