Tough Bananas

Pesto? No.

I can’t seem to convince our family to enjoy curry (aside from our second born), but we do have a varied and mildly adventurous menu. Our boys enjoy shrimp and seafood, olives, and I do not shy away from adding a little extra heat to the main dish. We regularly try new recipes, and some have become favourites. Gnocchi with pesto is always popular with our crew.

A few years ago our toddler was quietly finishing his lunch, content in his highchair. He was always a jolly little guy, so when I heard a small voice say, “Uh, oh” I turned quickly to see what was wrong. He held up a chubby little hand and repeated, “Uh, oh.”

Poor little guy. He got pesto on his hand.

I grabbed a cloth and wiped his hands and fingers. Then I carried on with folding laundry and he continued his lunch. Or so I thought.

A moment later, “Uh, oh,” and the chubby pesto-covered hand. I wiped it off again.

Sheesh, he’s really make a mess of it today.

Laundry-folding and lunch-eating ensued again.

Two seconds later he held up his hand and beckoned for help.

Where is all this pesto coming from? Poor little guy keeps getting in on himse–wait a minute. I didn’t serve him pesto today. Where is all this pesto coming from? It’s not pesto. IT IS NOT PESTO.

——

When was burning a wash cloth your only real option?

Kids These Days

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?

Ferris Wheel Moment

Recently a kindergarten student was struggling with going to music class. His biggest concern was the noise and busyness of so many kids singing together. A coworker and I debated about how much we should force the issue. It was a tough balance between expecting him to do what the class was doing and respecting his sensitivity.

What to do, what to do.

Then I told him a story.

When I was in about grade two, my dad took me to Niagara Falls. They had the biggest ferris wheel ever. It was so high you wouldn’t believe it. Now, I don’t like heights. Being really high up makes my stomach feel funny and I get scared. My dad knew this. But he also knew that the ride might be a once in a lifetime moment. So he made me a deal. He said:

“Try it for one rotation. Just one. We’re the only ones here. I will tell the operator that if you want to get off, I will signal him to stop it after one time. But if you’re okay after one time around, then I’ll give the thumbs up and we’ll go again. Every time we get to the bottom, I’ll signal to him and you can decide when you want to get off. Deal?”

Even though I still felt nervous and scared, I got on the ride and we went around. And you know what? It was amazing. I did love it. Yes, every time we got to the top my stomach flipped a little, but my dad was with me and I trusted him. I saw things from that ferris wheel that I would never see from the ground. I was glad I tried it out.

Then I looked my little friend in the eye and said, “This is your ferris wheel moment.”

I asked him if we could make a deal. He had told me he didn’t want headphones on because they hurt his ears, so that wouldn’t help him in music class. No problem, no headphones. I suggested he could sit right at the back, close to the door. He agreed. Then I suggested we give it a try for five minutes, he countered with one, I came back with two and we shook hands. Off we went to music class. And he did it! He sat in his spot and we were both surprised when my timer beeped announcing the two minutes was over. He declined my offer to stay longer and we agreed that next week we would try for three minutes.

This is your ferris wheel moment.

Because I’m Four

Join me as we take a peek into a typical day of the average four year old kindergartener.

_________

Ah, good morning! I know it’s morning because everyone is still asleep except me. Rise and shine, family!

Seems like no one has heard my beckoning so I’ll need to go with Plan B: walk stealthily to my parents’ bedroom and stare at them silently until they sense my presence. I know they are ready to start the day when Mommy finally opens her eyes and seems surprised to see me. I have to remember to ask her what “serial killer” means.

Once the mundane task of choosing my clothes is done (no, not that shirt, no, no, maybe, okay that one, wait, let me see the first one again) we move on to breakfast. I prefer my cereal with just a splash of milk. Not too much or the whole experience is ruined. Daddy seems to have that mastered, but I don’t put much faith in Mommy.

And now we’re off to kindergarten! Oh, wait, Daddy is insisting I put on a coat. Fine. I can do the zipper myself. I got it. WHY ISN’T HE HELPING ME?!

And now we’re off to kinder —- my hood! my hood is interfering with the comfort of my body! I cannot walk to school under these conditions.

And now we’re off to kindergarten. We seem to be walking fast today and Daddy is muttering something about being late. Guess he shouldn’t have overslept.

I love going to school, but I think Daddy misses me, so I like to make a bit of a fuss about lining up, just to make him feel better. He pretends he does not want me to cling to his legs, but I know he secretly likes it. I line up and then make one or two return dashes for one final hug before the bell. You have to invest in relationships.

I wonder what we’ll do at school today? I hope the teacher got new glue sticks because the ones that were out yesterday tasted awful. I think I see some fresh play-doh, that’s good because I may or may not have sneezed on the last batch.

We finally all get our coats and shoes put away and now it’s Carpet Time. I’m not sure what “criss cross applesauce” means exactly, but if you tuck all your body parts in, you’re good. We check that everyone is present, I like to help the teacher by telling her if someone is at school or not, by calling out “not here” at random intervals. Her voice says “stop it” but her eyes are saying “thank you”.

Uh oh, I feel a booger in my left nostril. This cannot wait. As long as I don’t make eye contact with my teacher, I can extract it undetected. Almost….almost….got it! Quick and easy disposal in my mouth, mission accomplished. No, I wasn’t picking my nose, it was just itchy way high up.

Centre time! Where should I start? Sand? Paint? Blocks? Maybe the Discovery Table? No, I saw Jason lick all the pine cones yesterday. Paint it is! I create a fantastic piece using mostly swirls. It’s definitely fridge-worthy.

I think I’ll head over to the blocks. My buddy and I build an elaborate garage for the cars. It is great until Jason thoughtlessly knocks it over. The maker is the breaker, Jason.

The rest of my day passes in a bit of fun-filled blur. I spend some time writing about my snack (it is an apple and a Wagon Wheel – delicious). I rebuild my garage and put pylons around it to keep Jason at bay. Change my book at the library (yes, I’m a bit winded, but that doesn’t mean I was running in the hall). I help at tidy up time and show off my sweet dance moves. We play outside until someone pees against a tree. My teacher and I read together and now I can find the words “is”, “mom” and “me” all by myself.

The next thing I know, it’s Home Time. The day went by so fast. I get all my stuff shoved into my backpack and I’m all set. Oh, wait, forgot to change my shoes. All set! Oh, yeah, that’s my lunch bag you’re holding up, just give me a second to pack that. All set!

And there’s Daddy, waiting for me. He’s always early because he misses me so much. He gives me a big hug and rubs my head. I grab his hand and we head home.

As we avoid all the goose poop on the pathways Daddy asks me, “What did you do at school today, bud?”

I give him my standard reply.

“Nothing.”

The Mark of Stupidity

Enough time has finally passed that I can share this experience. It’s taken about thirty years, but I’m over it.

Mostly.

I think.

I was home sick (or sick-ish, it’s possible I embellished the severity of my symptoms as a child). I was camped out on the couch in the family room and in between cups of tea and reruns of “Facts of Life” I came across this popper toy I had gotten from some machine somewhere at some point. Those details are fuzzy and irrelevant. I also can’t recall why I had it at that particular moment. What I do remember is inverting it on the table beside me and watching it fly high in the air. That was fun for a few minutes. Then I discovered that if I just pushed it, it had suction cup-like properties. I could stick it on my hand, my foot, and, hey, why not try the old forehead.

I put a popper on my forehead.

This was not labelled with all the appropriate warnings

Twice.

This poorly planned experiment was followed by a nap. I was awakened a short time later by one of my sisters shaking me and frantically asking, “what happened to you?! Are you okay? Look at your head!”

I stumbled up and over to the main floor washroom to discover two overlapping circles on my forehead. Like two loonie-sized hickeys. Right in the middle of my forehead.

Unfortunately, I was nearing the end of my stay at home and there was no way my mom was going to let me wait it out for the few days it would take for the marks to fade. Thus began, Operation Cover Up.

Mom, my sisters, and I tried various make-up and hairstyling techniques, but at best we muted the red. There was no way those circles would be hidden. It was the eighties, so I had big bangs, but even those couldn’t cover the damage I’d inflicted. And so we launched the second part of the operation – Cover Story.

It’s not easy to create a plausible back story to explain why you have two perfectly round bruises on your forehead, but I did it:

“I was heading downstairs and at the same time my sister rushed up and opened the basement door and slammed it open and I whacked my head on the door.”

Completely believable.

Airtight alibi.

I rehearsed this story several times, making sure to include just the right amount of detail. I added a smidge of righteous indignation at my sister’s thoughtless door-opening with a hint of surprise that it would leave such perfectly circular injuries. It was a glorious cover story. I almost started to believe it myself.

The following evening I was at church for our girls’ group. I told my story and everyone bought it. I was home free. I was going to get out of this disaster a little wiser, but with my reputation intact. THESE FOREHEAD HICKEYS WOULD NOT DEFINE ME.

We were waiting for our rides home when my friend turned to me and said, “yeah, your sister told us. You stuck a popper on your head. Twice. There was no door. See you tomorrow.”

The real lesson here is: you can have the best cover story for why you have a hickey Venn Diagram of Stupidity on your forehead, but it’s only as strong as your weakest link. Or sister with the biggest mouth.

———-

Your turn. Dumbest injury you’ve had. Share.

Coffee Shopping Like a Mom

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" — “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.

Ratings Round-Up

Fedora Count: it’s McDonald’s

Skinny Jeans: More than necessary

Yoga pants: Also more than necessary

Signature Mediterranean Wrap Promotional t-shirts: 1

How I Plan to Spend My Next Free Afternoon:

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.

——————

What has been your best cheap coffee experience?

Sometimes “No” is Better

A giant Papa Smurf! I’m asking for that for Christmas.

No.

I’ll take Cheer Bear for my birthday, please.

No. Enjoy your Grumpy Bear glass from Pizza Hut, that’s as close as you’re going to get.

That’s not to say I didn’t receive any popular toys in the 80s. I did have various Strawberry Shortcake toys which I loved and still have (at my parents’ house, obviously). My sister and I both got Miss Piggy Babies one Christmas. We were not deprived, but my parents did say “no” more often than I would have liked.

Then along came the epitome of the 80s childhood toy. The doll that we all wanted. The doll that sold out as soon as it was stocked. It became the stuff of legends if you owned one, let alone two. And the real deal, no knock-offs.

The Cabbage Patch Doll.

Oh, how I wanted one. I wasn’t picky, hair colour didn’t matter, I just really, really wanted to have a cabbage patch doll. PLEASE.

No.

No, we aren’t going to jump on the bandwagon of consumerism.*

No, we aren’t going to line up overnight to get you the next big thing.

No, we aren’t going to spend that kind of money on something you will enjoy at first only to see it collect dust in the corner.

No.

And then, one day that no turned in a yes. Of sorts.

Mom and Dad didn’t have a sudden change of heart and rush out to buy me a Cabbage Patch doll complete with a signature on its bottom. I didn’t wake up morning to a surprise delivery of my very dream come true.

No, instead I got something better. Much better.

A family friend made me my own Cabbage Patch doll. She went to a flea market and bought clothes for her and even picked up newborn diapers.

Some might say that homemade = inferior, and that may be true in some cases, but not this one. I received a gift that took time, energy, and a lot of love and thought. Even as a young girl, I knew the true value of that doll. I never longed for a Cabbage Patch again because what I received was so much better.

I do not hold on to many things. I am nostalgic with memories and shared events, but not really things. And although my doll is still at my parents’ house, it’s more for her safety rather than my neglect. She’s special. She’s a “no” that was better.

Side note: About thirty years after ginger Amanda was christened, I met and became good friends with a new Amanda. Which just proves that God has an amazing sense of humour.

————

*disclaimer: I do not judge you or your parents if you did have a Cabbage Patch doll, those things were awesome.

Have you had a time when “no” was better?

The Duplicitous Reverend Awdry

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.

Thanks for nothing, Reverend.

It’s not Tobacco

Before matching storage containers were a thing, before IKEA became famous for it’s storage solutions, before pinterest, parents stored toys in whatever reusable vessel they could find. Our parents were “green” before “green” was even a thing.

Did you ever store your marbles in a Crown Royal bag? Then you had such a parent. A mom who bought margarine in the gigantic tub and then stored your barbie clothes inside. A mom who kept shoe boxes that were just the right space for your Rubix cube and Monchichee.

We didn’t question these storage choices, it was just the way things were done. I even do a bit of that now with our crew. The oldest stores his Pokemon cards in a gift box that once held lavender soap and foot lotion and he doesn’t bat an eye.

I do wonder about some of the choices (not the Crown Royal bag, that was the result of sound reasoning).

Don't worry, it's EXTRA MILD tobacco — Don’t worry, it’s EXTRA MILD tobacco

What could be inside this tin of wonder? Crayons? Glamour Gals? Marbles? (no, of course not marbles, those are in the Crown Royal bag). Maybe some Little People accessories? Legos?

No, silly. Isn’t it obvious? The tin that at one point held my grandpa’s pipe tobacco was the perfect vessel to house:

When I discovered this gem in my parents’ basement, my first thought was, “Who would use an old tobacco tin for their kids’ stuff?” which was followed quickly by, “Who keeps it for almost forty years?” But now I think it needs to be hermetically sealed as a tribute to all the craft projects my sisters and I never finished. Right beside all the partial rug hooking kits (don’t worry, they kept those, too).

We spent many a Saturday night together in the basement rug hooking while we watched “The Love Boat” and “Fantasy Island”. I don’t think any of us thought ahead enough to contemplate what we would DO with those hooked rugs once we finished (we never did. Not even one rug. So maybe even then we knew we lacked follow through). My favourite part was squishing the yarn packets, so there’s really no doubt as to why I never finished a project. Somewhere in my childhood home I bet there’s a pickle jar full of half-finished yarn bracelets, right beside a bunch of partially-knitted leg warmers.

It doesn’t hold tobacco anymore, but it does hold memories. I call dibs.

Risk Management

I’m not much of a risk-taker. You won’t catch me bungee jumping or hopping out of a plane. That’s just crazy. Appropriate risks include trying a new flavoured latte or buying the generic version of my preferred soap. However, once in a while, inspiration hits and I will tell that nay-saying voice inside my head to pipe down.

One evening I finished up my grocery shopping and went to the Tim Hortons in the same plaza to grab a coffee (just my usual black decaf, wasn’t feeling daring). As I got back into my car I noticed a man crouched near a pillar in a darkened corner between the drugstore and First Choice Haircutters. Most shops had closed down for the evening.

I heard a little voice say to me, “you should help him.”

Me: You know, I’m almost in the car, going over now is a little obvious. I’m sure someone else will be by soon.

Voice: Nope. You. Go.

Me: I walked by earlier and he didn’t ask for anything. We’re good.

Voice: Go.

Me: Look, he appears to have had enough cash to buy some smokes. Heading home, my coffee is getting cold.

Voice: GO.

Me: Fine.

I grabbed a five out of my wallet and nervously headed over to the stranger. I took a deep breath and boldly held out my hand.

“Here, this is for you.”

He seemed a bit startled and took his earbuds out. He paused, looked at me, looked at the money in my hand, back at me, and said:

“I’m not homeless, I’m just on my break.”

__________

Your turn – any embarrassing incidents to share? Perhaps one that required you to never wear your favourite red jacket to a certain plaza again for fear of recognition?