I half opened one eye to peer at the alarm clock. It read 6:30. SIX THIRTY?! We have a standing policy that you pretend to sleep until seven. In an effort to stop this early wake up from spreading, I staggered to the Littles’ room to see what was the matter.
“What!?” I growled, discovering my throat was a dry and sore.
“When’s it going to be morning? It’s taking sooo long,” said the four-year-old.
“Sooo long,” echoed Little.
“Not for thirty more minutes, you need to be quiet in your bed.”
As I turned to go back to my room I saw that Big’s light was on. Great, another one up early, just going to pretend I don’t notice.
I snuggled back into my still warm bed and try not to think of my to-do list. Less than ten minutes later:
“No, YOU stop it!”
“Stop it.”
“No, YOU stop it.”
I stomped in quiet rage back to the Littles.
Through gritted teeth I told the four-year-old, “Santa won’t be bringing you presents if you aren’t quiet now. It’s too early.”
“Kay,” replied Little.
Once again I snuggled in for just twenty more minutes. Moments later I heard the steps of Big creeping slowly to my side.
“Leave. Mommy. A. Lone.” whisper-yelled Bearded Husband (my hero).
Five minutes later Littles started bickering again, probably about who stole the toddler’s belly button this time.
My sweet husband, who knows I’m not a morning person, got up to face the day. That’s when Big returned and quietly said:
“Your clock is wrong, Mommy. Every other clock in the house says that it’s 7:45.”
This alarm clock radio is older than I am.
I am the proud owner of a plug-in alarm clock radio. To reset it you have to hold down multiple buttons. We’ve had a lot of power outages due to a recent ice storm. It flashes 12 until you fix it. Around midnight the night before, I changed the time. Turns out I set the alarm for the correct time, not the clock.
If anyone is looking for a last minute gift idea, I might be in the market for a battery operated bedside clock.
I was enjoying a quiet evening at home. Just me, my M&Ms, and a few TV shows to catch up on. And then I heard it.
The bass. Thumping loud enough that I could hear it over the TV while in the back of the house.
Argh! Those neighbour kids! Didn’t they know it was Thursday? So rude.
We’ve had our share of rowdy parties in the neighbourhood. Enough so that I now have the by-law complaint number written on the wall in our bathroom to save me looking it up. Yes, I am that neighbour.
I can tolerate a lot before 11:00pm as long as the language isn’t too questionable and nothing gets thrown onto our property. But something about pounding bass really gets under my skin. So I decided to investigate. I stood in our kitchen to see which direction the music might be coming from. It was strange that it was quieter near the neighbours who typically like to live it up. But that didn’t stop my inner curmudgeon. I went out back to see if the noise was actually travelling from farther away. No, still pretty muted. Guess those guys weren’t doing karaoke that night.
By this point I concluded that it must be the neighbours who don’t really party, but who do play the drums. Once I know the source of a bass line, I can calm down a bit. So I accepted that it was our kindly drummer and tried to tune it out. I settled back in to watch my show.
The noise ebbed and flowed for another twenty minutes or so. Then I realized that it wasn’t just drumming, it was definitely party music. What’s going on?! I have to work tomorrow. I cannot sleep with that racket. It was only 8:30pm, which gave me lots of time to stew about potential annoyances to come.
I resigned myself to the fact that I might need to do some complaining inquiring next door.
You know, we pay to live here, too.
When we bought this house, I did not sign on for loud parties. Especially midweek loud parties.
We have young children. Sheesh!
So inconsiderate!
We don’t have to take this.
I won’t take this.
I HAVE HAD ENOUGH.
Wait.
Hold on.
Never mind. Someone left the music on in our basement.
—————-
If you ever need someone to yell at kids to get off your lawn, I’m your gal. How do you like them apples?
There’s this new blog, Coffee Shoppers and I am so conflicted about all the feelings. All the feelings!
Let me explain.
I visited the site and read about this coffee shop called “The Wormhole” in Chicago and so badly want to go. But it’s in Chicago and I have kids and a job and can’t just drive 9 hours to try it out. So, I’ve begun putting pressure on my Chicago-living brother to try it in my place. That coffee shop looks fantastic. They have a Delorean. A DELOREAN. My Bearded Husband has no use for coffee or coffee-related things (except me) but all the 80s collectibles could convince even him to spend a few hours there. The Wormhole clearly has “marriage building” as part of its mission statement. If only it was closer. Or in this country.
Another day I read a review of the Red Lark and I immediately thought, “I just want to spend a day there, it’s exactly the kind of place I could learn about all things coffee. I want to meet Mark and Suzanne because I just know we’d be instant coffee BFFs.” They could answer all my expresso and gluten-free biscotti questions and I’d live happily ever after.
When I read about these neat one-of-a-kind coffee experiences, I long to try them out. I picture myself spending an afternoon alone, or with a friend (preferably alone and later meet a friend) sipping coffee, reading, relaxing, taking in the atmosphere. Like when I was in university, but with less textbooks and a bit more income. Ok, probably the same amount of textbook reading, I wasn’t all that studious.
Sadly, the reality is that if I had that much free time on my hands, all evidence indicates that I’d probably waste it taking a nap. I don’t have a coffee shopper pace of life. But moms can have coffee, too! We can write reviews about new coffee experiences. It just needs to happen a little closer to home and in a shorter time frame.
Here’s what Mom Coffee Shopping looks like:
Our youngest child looked up at me with his big hazel eyes and asked, “Donald’s? Mine? My Donald’s?” And the only possible answer I could offer was “Get your shoes.” So we zipped on over to the closest golden arches to get my little con artist darling a Happy Meal. Since I was there anyways, I decided to get something for myself. I’ve heard that their Pumpkin Spice Lattes are cheaper than the competition and “yummy”, so went ahead and ordered one.
“McCafe” translated is “Desperate Mom Cafe”
And here’s the first official Mom Coffee Shopper review:
Atmosphere: The duration of my visit was spent inside our van. Music selection was tasteful, volume just right. Temperature was comfortable, although the smell of French fries was somewhat overwhelming. I felt rushed, but it was more from my small companion calling out “yeah, yeah, fries!” rather than the staff.
Taste: I really wanted to like my McDonald’s PSL, but no. No. It was too sweet with just the wrong amount of chemical flavour. I’m willing to try their plain old coffee again since past experience tells me it’s pretty good (shhh…don’t tell Mr. Horton), but I won’t be trying any “fancy” drinks again. Lesson learned.
Price: It’s a fast food restaurant. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I feel like even though it was less than Starbucks, I got fleeced.
Service: Guys, it’s McDonald’s.
Presentation/Service: I really wanted to ask for it half sweet, but felt like the machine wouldn’t allow for special orders, so I opted for skim and hoped for the best. The lid was on and the server was pleasant, so no complaints.
Brew a big pot of coffee and set up my Rubix cube, Strawberry Shortcake dolls, and watch Back to the Future in the basement. And if I dim the lights just right, it might pass for my very own Canadian Mom Wormhole. Yes, it just might.
Busses, airplanes, trains, emergency vehicles, hot air balloons – anything that can move in a big way catches our boys’ interest. So going on a train ride was a huge deal. Almost as significant as our bus trip earlier this fall.
Little was beside himself with excitement and insisted he wear his Thomas back pack. Going on a “TRAIN! TRAIN! YEAH, MOMMY!” was almost more than he could handle. I admit that I was pretty pumped, too. Now I was going to see what all this Thomas fuss was really about. We’ve had no less than four Thomas-themed birthday parties and so many Thomas-related toys around here that I already felt like quite an expert, but one can always expand one’s horizons.
It’s true that you really learn best by experiencing and doing. And you know what I learned? Thomas, Sodor, Sir Topham Hatt, and all those other engines are a total hoax.
I was a bit disappointed when we boarded that, first of all, we were on a diesel engine (we all know diesels are bad news) and second, that none of the trains spoke to me. I thought maybe we just had to wait to get to our magical destination, so I sat back on my vinyl seat to enjoy the ride. But, no, the deception continued on for the rest of the trip.
Hey, this is not Shake Shake Bridge! This is just an underpass.
No competition about who is the most Useful Engine and gets to take all of us to the Farmer’s Market?
Aside from myself, not once did I hear:
“Fizzling Fireboxes!”
“Bust my buffers!”
“Oh, the indignity!”
What’s up Rev. Awdry? You promised us talking engines. Engines who are friends. Engines who strive to chug the fastest, to stay shiny and clean, who cherish a fresh coat of paint. THIS WAS NOT DELIVERED.
Oh, sure we had a great time. The boys did not seem disappointed by the lack of eyeballs on the front of the trains and cars. I think I was the only one looking for Cranky the Crane.
The train ride was fun and we got to see a lot of nice local sites. But I was holding out hope to see some real-life train animation. And none of the conductors or staff looked even a little bit like Sir Topham Hatt (maybe that should have been my first clue).
My one consolation was that there was a bit of Confusion and Delay. But that was mostly caused by Biggest and his issue with choosing pants. Not exactly magical. Not at all. I get to see that every other morning.
I love chocolate. And peanut butter. Chocolate and peanut butter together. Whoever this Reese person is, I applaud him/her and the inspiration that is Peanut Butter Cups. Hands down, though, AMERICAN Reese’s peanut butter anything beat those found in Canada. It’s a fact. I have years of anecdotal evidence to support this claim. Not sure what it is, probably looser FDA approval processes or something, but those are so good.
Recently, I learned via Twitter that in addition to peanut cups and Easter eggs, PB Pumpkins exist.
Peanut butter and chocolate deliciousness wrapped up in the shape of a pumpkin. Be still my heart.
This is where true friends come in. One of my good friends was taking a weekend trip to the states. All it took was a quick text and another follow up explaining that they are pumpkin shaped, not pumpkin flavoured and then this happened:
If you happen to be the recipient of such plastic-wrapped delactabilityness, there are some things you need to know.
First of all, it’s best if no one else knows it’s in the house, but if that’s not possible, then never open one when small children are around. Or if you do, have decoy candy on hand. Oh, you don’t wantthis. Here, have some old jellybeans instead, aren’t they yummy?
The fact that it doesn’t look like a pumpkin is irrelevant. Who are we to criticize Reese?
Second, a treat like this needs to be savoured so wait for the right time. Brew some coffee (if it’s nap time) or pour yourself a class of wine. Light some candles, put on some music. It’s okay to wear yoga pants, PB Pumpkin doesn’t judge.
Coffee and PB are second only to wine and PB.
Third, take your time. Even though those little pumpkins are more than half your daily fat allowance, they are small. Take a moment to enjoy each little bite.
When you finish one, there’s a bit of let down. That’s when the second one comes in handy. It also helps if you tell yourself that the second one is the last one and then surprise yourself and crack open the third.
No childhood is complete without a ride on the bus. The city bus. So being responsible and caring parents, we recently packed a backpack full of water, snacks, and spare diapers and hopped in our van to begin our latest family adventure: Moyer Bus Day.
It was raining quite a bit that morning, so Bearded Husband kindly dropped the five of us off at the depot while he parked the van. As I herded my crew into the main foyer, we got to see the security guard shoo away the “greeter” from the front door. Good times, I felt very safe now.
The Bigs were quite excited to note that we would be using an escalator. Anescalator. We might not need to take them to Disney after all. The thrill of riding the escalator was only matched by their anticipation of using it again upon our return.
With bus passes in hand and our route mapped out, we went to find The Number 7 (real bus talk, guys, that’s how you say it). Littlest was quaking with fear, but I reassured him and hopped on. We found six seats facing each other and waited and watched.
Stay with the group
I forgot. I forgot what it’s like to ride the bus. I forgot about the cross-section of society that you can observe on the bus.
First I spotted Vacant Staring Guy. I smiled at him since he was staring, but got nothing so then I had to focus on not looking in his direction (but I could still feel the stare, the vacant, vacant, stare). What’s your story, VSG?
Next onto The Number 7 were The Nails. These girls had the longest fingernails I had ever seen. Even though I knew they were fake, I was in awe and kept looking. Now who was staring awkwardly? How did they get such amazing texting abilities? How do you anything without hurting yourself?
The final addition to The Number 7 entourage arrived at the first stop. This was after our 4 year old took a short fall off his seat when the driver jackrabbit-started at the same time he peeled around the corner exiting the depot. Man down!
Bluetooth was having a loud and detailed conversation with who I hoped was his addictions counsellor. In our brief time together, we learned that Bluetooth really wanted to kick his habits and stop the methadone. Detox would help, but he needed a clean start so he wouldn’t fall back into old habits when he returned from up north. No Twelve Step program for him because he wanted nothing to do with any higher power. To his credit, Bluetooth kept his language clean and only raised a few uncomfortable questions from the boys. Mommy, what’s rehab?
Guys, this was only 4 minutes into our bus ride. FOUR MINUTES.
I forgot. I forgot what the bus can be like.
Boys, look! There’s the hospital where you were all born. Oh, I see a Tim Hortons. Yup, I saw that firetruck, did you? Well-timed questions can help diffuse awkward moments like full disclosure about substance abuse.
We had a great time schlepping through the rain and checking out some local sites. Another highlight of Moyer Bus Day was eating lunch at Taco Farm. Our oldest said, “Like, it’s not my favourite place ever, but I’d eat there again.” That is high praise coming from him.
We’re going to walk in the rain and you’re going to like it.
Fed and rested, and grateful the rain had subsided, we walked to the bus stop. The anticipation was still in full force and the boys kept craning their necks looking for The Number 7. It arrived and we all piled back on. This time the bus was fuller so we scrambled to find seats. And this time, if was the 6 year old who took a short fall on the steps when the driver peeled out before he was seated.
The boys gasped and grinned and I had a smile plastered on my face enjoying their excitement. We shared a seat with a young urban professional and I broke the ice by pointing out, “This is their first time riding the bus, in case it wasn’t obvious.” Awkward chortle, chortle.
He smiled back, looked at the two boys sitting with me and replied, “I vividly recall my first time riding the bus. It was so memorable.”
I forgot. I forgot what the bus can be like. It can be an amazing adventure and that’s exactly what I hope our boys will remember.
“Hey, Jan, are you willing to go shopping by yourself for a few hours on a Saturday and have various groups of youth leaders try to find you?”
Ohhh, scavenger hunt, count me in! Shopping without my usual entourage? Yes, please. Lunch is included? You had me at scavenger hunt.
(One of my dreams in life is to be the person who hands out the yellow envelope in the Amazing Race. You know, the one who stands on the mat, smiles and welcomes the contestants? That person. Might not win a million dollars, but that’s the role for me.)
Despite my big talk at all team-building games and events, I’m not competitive. I enjoy participating in things, not competing. Our staff recently had a car rally and our team was on fire! We were checking off the tasks in warp speed. And we had a blast doing it. Does it matter if we won or not? The whole point was to have fun and get to know each other apart from work. Winners, losers, those are just words. We all tried our best and demonstrated good sportsmanship.
Find a falcon. Check.Countertop pose was optional
Yeah, WE TOTALLY WON, SUCKERS!
Back to the Epic Waldo Hunt at the mall. When I agreed to help out, I understood I’d be shopping for two hours while the kids looked for me. I figured I’d be asked to wear a certain colour or they’d be given a picture of the Waldos. I did not anticipate props. I really didn’t anticipate itchy, wool props.
I’m smiling, but itchy. So very, very itchy.
It was ironic and a tad evil that I had never worn a “teacher” vest or sweater and was required to don it for an afternoon. The fact that they matched my cords is strictly divine intervention.
Being a good sport and not one to bail even when faced with poor fashion choices (I lived through the 80s), I dashed off self-consciously and ducked into the first store I saw. I browsed the racks feeling very conspicuous. I went to pay for my purchases, wishing I had a sign stating that my outfit was for a good cause and not my usual attire, when the 20-something clerk commented, “I really like your vest.”
“What? Seriously? I’m wearing this for a scavenger hunt, I’m so embarrassed.”
“Yeah, really, it’s like a new trend going around.”
“I’m very, very sorry to hear that, but thank you.”
And off I went with my head held a little higher. I was barely out of the shop when two senior gentlemen walked by and I heard one say to the other, “I really like that vest she is wearing.”
WHAT?
And then, not two shops away, a cluster of hipster clerks were milling around the entrance of their store and called out to me, “LOVE the vest!”
They were not being sarcastic. They actually thought I was wearing it by choice and I was feeling pretty good now. Itchy, but good. I started strutting a little bit. Yup, this kindergarten teacher, mom of four is alright. I held my head high and started smiling and winking at fellow shoppers. Check it out, I’m on the cutting edge, wearing my retro vest. I was the John Travolta of that mall, I was modifying the lyrics to the Saturday Night Fever theme to customize it to my new look.
Then I ran into a few people I knew and preemptively greeted each one with “I’m wearing this vest against my will.”
There is a woman in the US who is my American counterpart. It is eery how parallel our lives are and also our fondness for laughing at ourselves. Katherine puts the extra “u” in “humour”.
You can find me over there today, pinch hitting my Five Uncomfortable Truths. While you’re there, be sure to check out her posts (might I suggest other UCT to begin). And you can find her on twitter @grass_stains
Tough Bananas 