Tag: humour

I Can Be Your Hero, Baby

I’m currently sporting bruises and scrapes in numerous places all over my body: arms, shins, wrists, bum. You will not believe how I got them.

I'll spare you the picture of the bruise on my behind.
I’ll spare you the picture of the bruise on my behind.

The boys and I were playing at the park the other day. It was gorgeous weather,  just the perfect temperature to be outside. We’d brought snacks along and intended to make the most of the morning. Suddenly, out of nowhere comes this little boy we’ve never seen before on one of those battery-operated Jeeps for lazy kids.

“It won’t stop! Make it stop” he screamed.

A good deal farther back was his very pregnant mom who was doing her best to catch him, but the odds were not in her favour.

My instincts kicked in immediately and I swiftly dismounted from the monkey bars, quite smoothly except for grazing my left forearm against the support railing. I didn’t feel a thing because when you’re being a hero, you ignore all pain. I hurdled over the springy airplane riding feature, banging my shin in the process. I dashed to the pathway and the run-away motorist.

Have you ever tried to stop one of those mini-Jeeps? Neither had I. He was moving at a good clip, but I caught up and was running alongside him.

“Press the brake! The brake!” I shouted.

“I AM, it’s not working!”

I grabbed the back to make it slow down, but that kid clearly had cruise control locked on “fast”. He was heading towards a hill which could have been advantageous except it was on a decline. With little time to think, I did what any hero would do: I jumped in front and stopped that Jeep with my own body.

Everyone at the park dashed over, clapping and cheering. Eventually his mom caught up to us and through tears of relief thanked me for intervening.

It was unbelievable. And I have the bruises to prove it. Unbelievable I tell you.

Unreal.

Like out of a made-for -TV movie.

Alright, alright. I wish I had an amazing story to explain all my recent injuries, but sadly, I do not.

Are you ready for the real story?

We were biking down the street and out of nowhere a baby stroller came careening down a driveway. I jumped off my bike, remembering to put the kickstand down first, and bolted —-

Alright, that’s not what happened, either.

Fine, the truth. I was washing the front windows and heard a cat meowing plaintively across the street on the neighbour’s roof. A vicious, probably rabid, racoon had it cornered. I threw down my washcloths and sprinted over, dodging several cars on my way —

Ok, Ok.

We were playing Smurf Tag at the park and I slipped on the mulch, scraping my shin in the process (couldn’t shave for three days while it healed).

The bruise on my bum and the scrape on my right arm were due to falling off a stationary scooter. I wasn’t even moving.

Finally, we were playing Canadian Ninja Warrior Tag at a different park and as I tried to elude Bearded Husband (the boys were playing, too, settle down) I slipped on the wooden railing, banging my left forearm, right shin (again) and the back of my right knee.

Nothing glamourous about those injuries, but I did live to tell the tale.

————–

Best injury story you’ve got – let’s hear it.

*If you’d like to read a true and entertaining injury story, check this post “Told You So” by Amanda over at http://www.mandiemarie.com – I like to call it “Line Drive of Doom”.

Serenity Now

It’s a cool summer morning in August. The family is spending some laidback time at home catching up on some chores and starting the day slow and easy.

Mom serenely ties party favours with ribbon, anticipating the fun of the birthday party the next day. The four boys hover nearby watching her deftly curl the yellow ribbon on each package. She demonstrates the technique for the oldest son and encourages his efforts to try his hand at it. The brothers stare on in amazement as she turns out ribbon after ribbon of perfect(ish) curls. Excited banter about the upcoming party ensues: the pinata, the pizza, the games. Everyone is smiling, everyone loves each other and maybe someone starts humming “Kumbaya”.

Then the toddler spies a package of Angry Birds Gummies.

Highly addictive. May induce temper tantrums.
Highly addictive. May induce temper tantrums.

Mom gently responds to the toddlers demands for high fructose deliciousness:

“Those are for tomorrow.”

“Later, you can have a treat later.”

“Not now, treats are later.”

“I wonder what Daddy is doing? Is he outside?”

“I WONder where DAddy could be?”

“I think he might be moving rocks. Bet he could use a couple helpers. Shhh, listen, he IS moving rocks.”

“Who wants to dig for worms?”

Nope. The toddler will not be moved. Neither will any of the other three boys. Once digging for worms has Mommy’s approval, it loses all its appeal.

Mom brushes stray hair out of her face, regroups to finish the party favours, takes a deep breath and —

“Ok, what’s that smell?”

Thus begins the “Dance of the Diaper Change” which follows the same pattern every time: Accusation, Denial, Avoidance, Retrieval, Capture, Cleansing, Clenched Teeth Utterances, and Release.

The sound of a toddler protesting a diaper change is a siren call to the brothers. Suddenly, it is of the utmost importance to find out if they can have iPad time that afternoon. Or to locate a certain Pokemon card. Or to nail down the exact time and menu for Snack. Or to ask for help counting the money in their piggybanks (because nothing reminds you that you have a jar full of coins to tally like the smell of poo).

This day is like all the rest, and the moment Toddler Son starts his war cry, one brother is at Mom’s side asking questions in a very soft voice, another cries at the bottom of the stairs, while the third loudly denies any culpability in making anyone cry. So naturally, Mom leans over the banister and kindly, but authoritatively says:

“STOP CRYING I KNOW YOU ARE FAKING AND WHATEVER YOU DID TO HIM WAS NOT OKAY I CANNOT ANSWER YOU RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I AM DEALING WITH POOP STOP WIGGLING AROUND AND LET ME CLEAN YOUR FOOT EVERYONE JUST STOP YELLING.”

And then it is (mostly) quiet.

Oh, the windows are wide open.

Bearded Husband chooses 2 minutes after this exchange to return to the house and glibly remark, “Oh, that was you, I thought the crazy mom came by to visit.”

To which Mom calmly replies with expansive hand gestures, “Let me paint you a picture…”

—–

Ever have a moment that made your eye twitch? Share.

The Day Ricky Called

This adventure began with a simple tweet from a nice guy encouraging the sale of his friend’s new book:

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Obviously, I could not pass up this opportunity to hear from a Twitter friend in real-life.

photo-1

July rolled into August and I finally remembered to have my credit card handy when I was at the laptop while the boys were distracted by “Wild Kratts” or “Shawn the Sheep” or something. I ordered the book, now it was time to collect my song.

photo-2

Tweets and emails were exchanged and Ricky had my number. I tried out a few apps to see if I could record the phone call, strictly for posterity’s sake, but realized I would not remember all the necessary steps and thought I’d just record it with the camera or Bearded Husband’s phone. Blackmail Posterity is overrated anyways.

All I had to do was wait.

Friday night BH and I were having date night at home (a little thing we started to spend more — never mind, you came here to read about the day Ricky called, not date night). I turned to BH as we sat on the couch.

I said, “I might get a call from Ricky.”

He heard: “Do you wanna have a quickie?”

Later, when I stopped laughing, I got an email that Ricky would call the next day. He wrote something in Spanish, which I don’t speak (I’m Canadian, we speak English and sometimes French), so when I read “Mañana” I thought he had changed the song to that one by the Muppets. Equally good in my opinion.

Saturday. Phone call day.

Easy, Jan, a watched phone never rings.

I convinced myself that I just needed to make sure my phone was charged and the call would happen when it happened.

Dinnertime arrived. I had five boys to feed on the patio (Neighbour Kid was spending the afternoon with us) and BH was hiding somewhere in the house. We had just recovered from a milk spill and an over application of soya sauce. We thought the toddler was stockpiling basmati rice in his romper then realized it wasn’t rice shaking out of his pant leg, but rather an exploded diaper. Curse you, non-toileting child.

Here's how my day was going.
Not bad, how was your afternoon?

The phone rang and I knew, I just KNEW without even looking at the display, that the time had come. Ricky was calling. I threatened all the blood related boys with no dessert (this I accomplished with simply a dirty look) and politely said, “THIS IS MY CALL. SIT DOWN AND STOP MAKING FART NOISES, but not you, Neighbour Kid, you’re the good one.”

It was my most Lucille Ball-like moment to date. I dashed for the door to get the camera, furtively looked at my phone, weighed the pros and cons of trying to archive this moment. Decided to just play it cool and answer it. I swiped the phone screen. And swiped again. And swiped AGAIN. IT’S GOING TO GO TO VOICEMAIL!  Steady, steady, sweaty hands will do that.

This call was even more exciting than the time I spoke with Santa. SANTA.
This call was even more exciting than the time I spoke with Santa. SANTA.

“Hello?” I purred.

“Hi, is this Jan?” said a friendly voice.

“Yes, it is.” I replied (I doubt he heard my nervous giggle).

And then I heard the most beautiful rendition of “Friends in Low Places” that I will ever hear. It was like an angel singing about beer and whiskey directly from the pearly gates. And Ricky wasn’t chintzy. He sang the entire song. Be still my heart. I thought I’d see him swoop in from a zip line directly into our backyard, for real.

We all clapped and cheered (okay, mostly me and the toddler). And Neighbour Kid asked me, “was that a real person?” I know, bud, I know. How could such melodic tones be from a mere human?

I thanked Ricky for the call and reassured him that I did not record it. I’m sad about that, but maybe some things are better when they live on in your memory.

Immediately after I hung up, BH reappeared.

I said, “I just got my call from Ricky!”

And I didn’t care what BH thought he heard. I got my call. And my song.

—————-

You can find the funny and poignant Ricky Anderson at http://www.rickyanderson.net or follow him on Twitter @Arthur2Sheds. To learn more about Rob Shepherd and his book, just go to http://www.robshep.com  and follow him on Twitter, too @robshep.

———

Your turn – are you a peanut or plain M&Ms person? Bo or Luke Duke? Coke or Pepsi?

Camp Rules!

Camp counsellor in training.
Camp counsellor in training.

Trying to decide if a summer day camp is for your child? Debate no longer! The answer is “yes”.

Day camp is a great opportunity for friends and strangers to gather together for a week or more to explore a common interest. Lego, sports, nature, faith, games and crafts – there’s a camp for you!

Concerned about the qualifications of the camp leaders? Not to worry! Camp counsellors are born with special DNA programmed for this very role.  Most CCs come out of the womb chanting, “Peel bananas, peel peel bananas.” As toddlers, you frequently here mini CCs telling their playmates to “Stop, Look and Listen” – any kid who doesn’t reply with a speedy, “oh, yeah!” is stricken from future play date lists.

Still not sure? Maybe you’re worried that there won’t be enough structure and rules. Or maybe too many rules. Nope, not at camp. There is just the right balance of routines and freedom. Okay, there are a few rules, but they are important (and universal).

Camp Rules

Stick with your crew.

Follow the leader.

Keep it peanut-free.

Wear sunscreen.

Grates are not for jumping on.

Stay with your crew.

Don’t lick other campers.

STAY WITH YOUR CREW.

Socks stay on your feet.

Wait.

STAY. WITH. YOUR. CREW.

Camp is a rite of passage – whether as a camper or a leader. You start learning life’s lessons at camp. Look out for your group. Travel with a buddy. Ask for help when you need it. Take turns. And always stay with your crew.

Queen for a Day

This week I had the privilege of co-leading the story telling station for the week at Vacation Bible School. My partner felt I should be the one to take on the role of Esther. She said it was because I had done this station last year, but really, I think she sensed the royalty bubbling up inside me. That, or she recalled that I am the sole female in a house of 5 males and thought I deserved some dress-up time as a girl for once. Either way, it was a win.

It's okay to be a little jealous of my Esther costume.
It’s okay to be a little jealous of my Esther costume.

After playing Esther five times in row for the morning, I felt I really had a handle on this Queen. Then I got home and the differences between her highness and myself became quite stark.

Esther is touted as a brave and godly woman. I am not disputing that. She really stepped up when it came time to save her people and all that, to the point of possible death. But ASIDE from that, she had it quite easy. Before all the bravery and whatnot, her life was pretty cushy.

Let me paint you a picture.

For a year, one WHOLE year, she received beauty treatments. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred sixty-five days of pampering. I’m guessing no one pounded on the door while she plucked her eyebrows – nope, because someone did that for her. She probably remembered to put mascara on both eyes since there was no preschooler digging around her make-up bag and applying excessive eye shadow on himself. Probably.

If you read the book of Esther, you’ll see that she also had special meals prepared for her for a WHOLE year. That’s about 1095 meals she had that were not leftover Kraft Dinner. Or brown apples from morning snack. Or Goldfish crackers (okay, if I was Queen, I’d still eat those, they’re delicious).

Esther also had seven attendants at her disposal. This is in addition to the free spa treatments and all-inclusive meals. Vacuuming? No, my attendant will look after the rugs. Laundry? Nope, another servant takes care of that, thanks. Run out of toilet paper? Got it covered. Chances are, Esther had people laying her clothes out for her and helping her change. I’d settle for getting dressed without discovering the toddler is using my bra as a helmet or the 6 year old commenting on the size of my underwear.

Do I wish that I were Esther? No, not really. I can’t say I like the odds she faced of being killed to save herself and her people. But I wouldn’t mind being more like her: brave, wise, respectful, and humble. And a working lock on the bathroom door wouldn’t hurt either.

—-

Thanks to Carolyn Marles for the picture. I can’t seem to shake the paparazzi. 

I Don’t Mean to Brag, but…

I actually have a superpower.

Brace yourself and prepare to be amazed.

A few years ago when I did Science as a stand-alone subject and not part of learning centre time, I invited Professor Petri to come in and do a science lesson. Professor Petri looked a lot like me, but with goggles and a lab coat. Funnily enough, whenever Professor Petri appeared, Mrs. Moyer vanished! It was uncanny and just a tad unnerving. The students claimed we looked a lot alike, but that only made sense since we are cousins and she tends to copy my excellent taste in fashion (that was nice at first, but has worn on me as the years have passed – make your own clothing choices, Professor Petri -sheesh!). The students pointed out some other similarities and I have to admit, Professor does talk with her hands and says, “I know, right?!”, but don’t forget that we’re cousins and she’s a big copycat.

After her engaging and stimulating science lesson Professor Petri would have to dash off to her other job at Tim Hortons (she was always running late, something I’m thankful we don’t have in common). I’d return to class (thanks for leaving them unattended P.P.) and the kids would be so excited about the materials she left for them to explore that it made all the copycat stuff more palatable.

So, yeah, I’m pretty good at duping small children.

It's not flattering, but it's for the kids. My other alter ego, Super Moyer.
It’s not flattering, but it’s for the kids. My other alter ego, Super Moyer.

—-

This post is part of the Kindeblog13 Summer Blog Challenge. To read other posts in this series, go to http://www.kinderchat123.net

Robotic Teacher Agents – Guest Post by Ricky Anderson

Today is a BIG DEAL.

My first guest blogger! Ricky Anderson is funny. No, not funny, really REALLY funny. Still not enough. He is super really funny. Nope. Hilarious. Yes, hilarious. See for yourself over at his blog www.rickyanderson.net or on twitter @Arthur2Sheds or why not both?

Ricky is not nearly the procrastinator he makes himself out to be. Thought I’d have a lot of nagging ahead of me, but he got this post done in a timely manner. Ricky, you ARE special. Well done, Ricky’s mom.

———

It’s time we talked about it.

Everyone’s been thinking it for years, but until now it’s been the topic nobody wanted to bring up.

Robots.

You’ve failed us, Science. You pretend to know everything, what with your Mars rovers and particle destroyers and anti-aging creams.

But the truth is – you’re stuck. You promised us robots. From The Jetsons to I, Robot to The Matrix, you’ve been making us promises for years. And yet the only robot I have access to is a Roomba.

Seriously? A vacuum cleaner. How exciting. I guess it beats a colon cleaner.

We interrupt this post for a message from Ricky’s agent, Ricky (no relation).

I would like to apologize for this post. It was written in a sleep-deprived haze, fueled entirely by caffeine. Ricky has strong opinions on the subject of robots. However, his boss needed him to do some database fiddling, so he had to leave this post incomplete…

…JUST LIKE SCIENCE AND THE ROBOTS.

Note from Ricky’s agent, Ricky’s agent, Ricky (some relation, but we don’t talk about that side of the family since the Thanksgiving incident):

Oh, sorry. I just remembered that Jan asked me (Ricky, not Ricky or Ricky) to write about being a teacher’s kid.

My mom was a teacher. A fantastic and real good awesome one.

And clearly she made me special.

So take note, Science…and go make me a special robot!

Insideous

Generally speaking, I’m a pretty cautious boy. Sure, I’ve ridden in a laundry basket a tad too close to the stairs, but who hasn’t? I have fallen out of the tub, but I was young and didn’t know better. Doesn’t everyone run around a pool? It’s far too tempting.

I have done my share of jumping on the bed and to her credit, my mom has told me repeatedly to stop it. Usually she references the kid across the street who broke his arm jumping on his bed (dummy). But it is so springy. And I have some pretty great dance moves that just cry out for a mattress to showcase them.

Ok, I’ll admit that naked wrestling with my brothers showed a lack of good judgement. Ditto on naked couch hopping. But I stand behind my invention of underwear bedroom hurdles. It’s amazing.

In hindsight, I’m relieved that Mom shut down some of my riskier activities. She was probably right that box-tobogganing down the stairs was dangerous. Putting a lanyard around my brother’s neck as a dog leash did restrict his breathing so, good call, Mom.

For all her warnings and worrying, you’d think she would have foreseen the real safety hazard in our house. It’s been sitting in our cupboard for years – and she’s the one who brought that menace into our home.

I’m not talking about matches, sharp knives, or scissors. I’ve never done anything questionable with those. No, the real instrument of pain was lurking in the sewing basket all along. It beckoned me with it’s tempting blue switch and curved exterior. I admit that part of my motivation was to make the brothers laugh, but you never know the purpose of a new tool unless you test it out, right? Who WOULDN’T think it was meant for your underarm?

There was pain, skin was broken, blood appeared. And then I heard Mom say, “Next time, check with me before you use the clothes shaver on your armpit.” Too little, too late, Mom.

I blame myself. I blame the manufacturer. Mostly I blame my mom.

Do not be duped by it's size. It's gonna get you.
Do not be duped by it’s size. It’s gonna get you.

Let’s go for a “Walk”

“We’re going for a walk – get your shoes!”

I feel that instruction is pretty clear. We are about to embark in a jaunt around the neighbourhood and all you need to do is wear some shoes (crocs, sandals, runners, I am not picky).

I said “walk”, right? Oldest son decides to ride his scooter. Number 2 barely agreed to put shoes on and is sullenly waiting on the driveway. Number 3 wants his bike. No, wait, the wagon. No, no, his bike. Hold on, nope, the Little Tykes car. Toddler opts for this beat up 20 year-old push-train. I have tried to pitch that thing numerous times, but some small person always comes to its rescue. It whistles. IT WHISTLES WHEN YOU MOVE IT. And it looks like I snagged it from the side of the road. For the record, I did not. It was a kind hand-me-down from friends when our oldest was born (but it looks really sketchy now).

The Littles on wheels.
The Littles on wheels.
The little engine that will not give up despite my best efforts.
The little engine that will not give up despite my best attempts at sabotage.

We’re off to go around the corner. That’s all. Just killing some time before dinner. The Bigs take the lead and go ahead. I’m back with the Littles. Both are quite enthusiastic about the walk, especially since they are using equipment. This excitement lasts until we pass the third house. Better take a break and catch our breath from that intense shuffling. Go on without us, Bigs, we’ll catch up.

After we rally, Number 3 decides it’s just too much effort to “drive” his car so he is going to get out and push. I kindly start pushing it for him until he spots a weak moment and jumps back in and “lets” me push him in it. Parenting fail. But I plod on because he is having a really good time and won’t fit in there much longer.

I'll just lift my feet so we can go faster.
Let me help, I’ll lift my feet up.

At this point, the Bigs are a small dot on the horizon. We need to speed things up a bit. Toddler is unhappy with his train’s performance, so he decides to push it. Good choice, he’s much faster, but the whistle’s intensity matches the speed. It’s loud.

Turns out, that train is more cumbersome than originally thought, so toddler abandons it on the sidewalk. The Bigs are barely visible. I grab the train in one hand, push the car with the other, when toddler says, “Back! Back!” (translation: “piggyback, please, my sweet, beautiful mommy”). No.

Anyone see the Bigs? Anyone? 

Next time, I’m just lacing up my runners and anyone who spots me sneaking out of the house can join in.

Your turn – riding toys – love ’em? Hate ’em? Bit of both?