A Mom's Hobby

Today at work, I was reminded of what I used to do for a living. A child with autism faced with a broken down elevator that he could not ride, strangers' judgemental stares and comments, a tearful mom trying to explain to me why her son was behaving as he was.

A brief prompted conversation with a little boy who made eye contact with me. Brief. But a connection. A few moments of conversation with a mom whose plate was overflowing with worry and who just needed someone to listen to her for a moment or two.

Driving home, I wanted to call my Mom and tell her about it. I wanted her to tell me I'm doing what I need to for my family, that it's okay, I'm where I'm supposed to be in my life. I needed someone to listen to me for a moment or two.

But of course I couldn't. So I went home and ate a chocolate cupcake and now my gut is the one talking to me and it's telling me it's NOT ok, and actually, I am an idiot. 3 months since my surgery and I'm faced with the grim fact that I am an emotional eater who is about an intestinal foot short of being able to continue to be one.

Anywhoo...I do have conversations in my head with my Mom. Is that weird? Perhaps. But I do try and think about what she would say to me. I've been struggling with it lately, though, and even thinking about the sound of her voice gets harder to pull from the depths of my memory. A friend reminded me online tonight that I knew what she would say. But tonight I just couldn't hear her.

I took The Monkey out on an evening walk tonight. I thought it might help clear my head. But so many thoughts kept spinning in my head...the decisions I've made, the paths I've chosen and everything I've been through in the past while. Am I where I should be? Doing what I should be doing? That little guy at work...God, have I made the right choices?

I just want some ANSWERS, dagnabit.

And then tonight I randomly chose a book from the bookshelf to read for The Monkey's bedtime story. 'The Berenstain Bears Mama's New Job'. I opened the book and there was The Eldest's name written on the inside cover, in sweet 5 year old writing. So many years ago I used to read her bedtime stories and now she's 19 and growing her adult wings. So many years I've been at this parenting gig.

I started reading to The Monkey. In the book they discuss the Bear Family's hobbies. I turned to The Monkey and asked her what her favourite hobby was, as well as the rest of the people in our family. Her responses were cute and predictable...her favourite hobby was colouring and doing crafts, The Princess' was reading, The Eldest's was going out with her boyfriend, The Boy's was staying in his room and playing on his computer, and The Husband's was sleeping.

Then I asked her what she thought my favourite hobby was. She looked at me and smiled.

"Loving me."

Yes, my Keeley. Loving you and my family is my best hobby. The bestest hobby in the world.

Thanks Mom. It was so great to hear you tonight.

The Monkey's Turning 4. Help Me.

Preparations for our almost 4 year Monkey are in full swing.

There are balloons covering the living room floor. Crap from the dollar store all over the kitchen counters. Birthday cereal is in the pantry. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I am sitting here in my chair by the living room window all decked out in a pink flowery butterflied heart emblazoned pointy party hat. You need to test these things out and make sure they fit. AND LEAVE IT ON. According to the 4 year old minus one day birthday girl, anyways.

(Yes. Murphy's Law being what it is, the DINKS from next door just walked by the window. I didn't wave.)

I found myself a tad melancholy today as I realized that our family is no longer going to have a 3 year old. I love three year olds. It's one of my favourite ages. Still innocent but toilet trained and independent with so many things. And not too much lip.

The Monkey was our holy crap surprise child and I've loved 96% of these years with her in our lives. But tomorrow she turns 4.

And I know what's coming.

Attitude.

Lip.

Snottiness.

Did I mention the attitude?

In the midst of today's melancholy, I asked The Monkey what we should write on her birthday cake tomorrow.

"Hmmmmm.....how 'bout......Gimme my presents!!!"

And then I bought beer.

A Monkey Photo Shoot

The Monkey is our fourth child.

This is very evident by the lack of framed photos of her in our house.

Lucky for me, I know a wonderful lady who agreed to rectify this travesty.

Peggy Wynne, of Peggy Wynne Photography, took on The Monkey last week. In a quick 25 minute session at the studio in her home, she was able to capture our youngest hooligan's cuteness in so many adorable poses that I now have a new problem.

Which one to choose?


Not only is Peggy great at her craft, but I love that she sends you a link via email so you can preview the photos online.

Peggy has taken photos for our family, as well as captured The Eldest's graduation.

Yup. Beautiful work. If you live in the Lower Mainland, I highly recommend her.

Thanks again, Peggy!

A Movie Party

An 8 year old's birthday party. Movie style.

You needed one of these to get in.



The Princess greeted her guests with one of these.



We played games to collect a bunch of these.



So you could line up here.



And buy whatever you wanted to watch the movie.



The Eldest and The Boyfriend got in on the fun. The Monkey bought a lot of candy.



1 headache, 1 spilled pop, popcorn covering the ground, nary a vegetable eaten (and they were FREE - I don't get it) and 3 hours later, the 8 year old's movie party came to a close.

"Take your popcorn containers! Here, let me stuff them with more candy to eat on the way home!"

Then I tucked The Princess into bed and she said, "Thank you for doing all that stuff for me today, Mom. It was really good. *pause* What theme are we going to do for my 9th birthday?"

Happy Birthday, My Princess. Next year's theme is "Let's go swimming at your father's pool/skate at his ice rink". Oh, but I've scheduled a massage for that day so I can't be there.

Goodnight.

Eye of the Storm

God never gives you more than you can handle.

Right?

I found myself praying for strength tonight. Strength to help a 7 year old who was crying in her bed. She was crying because tomorrow wasn't going to be right since her Popeye wasn't going to be at her cousin's baptism.

"I just want him to come back and I know he can't. I don't like it. I just don't like this! I want it to be like it was before. And I won't ever see him again for like, 50 years at least because I won't see him until I go to heaven....and I don't want to go to heaven yet but I want to see him."

Sometimes you just have to let your children hurt. You can't fix it. You can't put a bandaid on it and make it better. And that, my friends, is a horrible horrible feeling.

The Princess episode tonight was just one of many reasons I found myself asking God for strength tonight.

The Eldest is having some major problems with her car.

The laptop is having troubles charging and every single time I type the letter 'a' I have to go back and retype it because the computer keeps putting in a space instead.

The engine light is back on in our car.

The government 'lost' The Eldest's student loan forms.

I've done something to my back and my joints are killing me today.

And we're out of lightbulbs. I'm pretty sure it is not normal to start crying when you discover there are no more light bulbs in the house.

Grieving and all that comes along with it has set everyone in the family on edge. Everyone in our family is raw. And when you pour salt into those wounds, salt being a broken car, bills to pay or a 3 year old that keeps screaming at everyone and everything and then finking that everyone is being rude to her...well....it leads a person to be crying over burned out light bulbs.

And so I pray for strength. Just get through one more day. Just let me know what to say to a grieving 7 year old and a grieving 42 year old. What to tell an 18 year old who has had more crap thrown at her in the last two weeks than an 18 year old should have to deal with in a year.

And then realize that I haven't prayed for answers on dealing with a grieving 15 year old boy who holes himself up in his room shooting at things on his Xbox. So I pray for help...not to let him get lost in all of this.

It's 10:15 pm and I have no idea what the 6 people in this family are wearing to the baptism in the morning. I'm feeling rather numb after this day and I just want to sit with this tiny kitten sleeping under my chin right now. This furry little thing is purring and giving out the odd "mmmrrttt" when it stretches and then pulls itself further up under my chin. The Dog is snoring behind me, guarding the door and giving off the odd fart.

Life goes on. So many people are going through 100x worse than our family. I pray for perspective in all of this. And I'm just going to sit here for a bit and enjoy the company of a kitten curled up on my chest, breathing on my neck and every once in a while licking my chin with its rough little tongue.

Recharge my spirit with the fluff of a kitten.

I should be writing for Hallmark. Gah.

Life Goes On

It's been a very rough week.

Grieving is hard work. It's exhausting. Mentally exhausting. Physically exhausting.

Lack of sleep starts to play with your mind and you find yourself incapable of performing the most mundane tasks.

Like supervising your 3 year old.

Case in point.

That would be The Monkey's dinner.

The wise man is a nice touch.

Diary of a Germ Battling Mother

Friday
The Princess complained of a headache when I put her bed. Hope she's not coming down with something.

Saturday
Started the day at 2 am with The Princess coughing on my face. And crying. The heat radiating off of her body reminded me of my days driving around in the old Eggplant.

Coffee was my friend today.

Sunday
The Princess took her temperature every 8 minutes today. Then started crying that she was going to miss Halloween for sure. Every 8 minutes. I assured her that Halloween was still 2 weeks away. Every 8 stinking minutes.

Note: Rum does not taste good in coffee.

Monday
Phoned the doctor at 9 am. Receptionist laughed at me when I ask if there were any available appointments. Headed to the walk in clinic. Waited for an hour and a half in a room with no toys or books due to H1N1 flu scare. The Princess had to wear a face mask and was sure she was dying. The Monkey was sure she could climb the walls. Got up 3 feet. Not bad.

The Monkey felt warm when I put her to bed. I sense some deja vu in my future.

Tuesday
Started the day at 2 am with The Monkey coughing on my face. Thank goodness for Lysol.

Baked Halloween cookies with two sick children. That was fun. As Mom would say, "I'm sure that earned some time off purgatory." Three days at least.

Ate two germ laden cookies. Drank rum to kill the germs.

Wednesday
I spent the morning circling the parking lot of clinic in a vain attempt of a parking space miraculously appearing. Lack of sleep forced me to call The Husband at work to make the decision for me to return home and try again later.

Wanted a Timmy's double double but couldn't decide whether it was worth spending the $1.53. Husband wouldn't answer his phone.

I need sleep.

I comforted The Monkey while she cried inconsolably tonight. "It Hurts. Hurts!" she cried every time she tried to take a breath and started barking like a seal. Started crying myself, wishing I could take away her pain. I wonder how mothers caring for chronically ill children do it day in and day out...see their child in pain and feel so helpless. I could hardly keep it together for 10 minutes with my child in pain. Must remember to say a prayer for all those mothers . God give them strength.

Husband got home late from work. Wanted to scream but then he showed up with beer.

I love him.

Thursday
Kids seem to be on the mend. Not sure what's worse; sick kids sweating all over me for 18 hours straight or entertaining almost better children who have had no human contact but with me for five days. I took a match to Candyland last night after they went to bed. I have no guilt over this.

Managed to hammer my hand while creating a graveyard in our front yard today. My hand looks like it belongs to the dead witch on our front lawn. But....when The Princess looked at our masterpiece, she told me it was going to be the best Halloween ever. My hand will heal.

The Eldest says she has a headache. I wonder if almost 18 year olds still wake up their mothers at 2 am to tell them they're sick.

Note: Buy lottery ticket tomorrow. Need vacation.

Puzzled

Woe to the mother who takes the time to shave her legs in the shower while simultaneously owning 40 (give or take) puzzles all meticulously kept in individualized ziplock baggies.

Mistake #2? Leaving the 15 year old in charge.

The vast majority of our baggie contained puzzle collection ranges from 12 piece to 50 pieces. All of our children have loved puzzles throughout their toddler and preschool years. I also used them when I worked with children with autism. Since I had to travel to children's homes and schools for their therapy, I always carried a box/bag of stuff to use. Puzzles in those flimsy cardboard boxes don't travel well, so I kept all our puzzles in baggies. I labeled each bag with the puzzle name, how many pieces, and a picture of the actual puzzle cut out from the side of the original box.

Nowadays, all those ziplocked puzzles are contained in several plastic bins that sit in our craft and activity cupboard. Having puzzles in baggies is a space saver too. The only problem lies in having The Monkey live in our house.

I suppose I should be grateful that she only took out one of the containers filled with puzzles. We only have about 15 puzzles worth of pieces to sort through.

I asked her what she was doing as she stood at the living room table, mixing all those puzzle pieces together with both hands.

"It's food. Here. Have one."

Imagination is a good thing. Right?

PlayDough = Hours of Non Screaming Fun

I love play dough.

I love making play dough. I love playing with play dough. I really love it when The Princess and The Monkey are playing with play dough.

Ah. The quiet while they create.

Of course, The Princess would have to make something with flowers. I think it's the law.


Yes. Those are rocks in The Monkey's creation. I'm pretty sure it's the law that anything she does requires rocks.

Although I love the real deal, I do find that I'm way too lazy to rework single drops of warm water into the name brand stuff that has dried out because some child who may or may not live in this establishment left the lid off the tub.

Plus, my anal retentive gene wants to stand around and freak out every time a child lets two name brand play dough colours touch.

Enter home made play dough.

I actually went to college to learn how to make play dough. You can't hold an Early Childhood Education Certification in your hands and not know how to make play dough. Again. It's the law.

But I have to say, I paid good money to learn how to make really crappy play dough. I learned what I really needed to know just like every other highly qualified Early Childhood Educator does; on the job.

Here's the recipe I learned. Easy. Inexpensive. Safe for anal retentive people who worry about colour smooshing. Plus, the kids can help with measuring and stirring until it's time to cook the dough.

The Best Play Dough Ever

1 cup flour
1/2 cup salt
1 tsp cream of tartar
1 cup water
food colouring
1 Tbsp vegetable oil

Mix dry ingredients together in a cooking pot. The thicker the bottom, the better.
Mix wet ingredients together.
Slowly pour wet into dry while stirring with a whisk.
Cook on stove over low/medium heat stirring constantly with a wooden spoon until dough loses stickiness and comes together in a ball.
Turn out onto counter.
Knead until smooth.
Store in zip lock baggy or air tight container to keep fresh.

This recipe is very easy to double, triple, etc. I usually triple it. This makes the perfect amount for kids to share and still have a good chunk each. The most expensive part of the recipe is the cream of tartar. But it is a must! I always purchase cream of tartar in the bulk food section. Much much cheaper than buying a box in the baking aisle and it works just as well for the play dough.

I love play dough. Creativity, fine motor skills (it's how all my kids first learned to use scissors.....huh.....maybe not such a good idea to have taught that skill to The Monkey), mixing colours, sharing toys....the possibilities are endless. Sometimes we add glitter to our play dough. Other times I might put out a handful of birthday candles for them to use. Chop sticks? Toothpicks? Tongs? I love opening up the kitchen drawers and pulling some stuff out for them to experiment with.

Do you like play dough as much as I do?

New Tap Shoes

The Monkey loves to walk the aisles of the Salvation Army as much as I do.

Check out what she found a few weeks ago.

There was no way she was leaving the store without those shoes.

$4.99. I bought my child's happiness that day.

She didn't realize that they were tap shoes. She kept calling them her dance shoes. We got home and she got ready to dance. Fortunately for me, I videotaped her first moments in the shoes (again....with my crappy cell phone. Husband. I'm begging you. A new camera for Christmas. Pretty please!). She discovered that they made some pretty awesome noise.

Dancing makes her happy.

She wants to be just like her big sister, who of course promptly started teaching her dance steps. And that makes The Princess happy. Being bossy.

Some days I just love being a mom.

Spot Cleaning

As I was wiping down the kitchen counters this afternoon, I looked up across the island and saw two perfect hand prints on the wall.

Definitely Monkey hand prints.

I rinsed the cloth I was using and walked over to the wall. I wiped off those Monkey marks and walked back to the sink.

I turned around. The Monkey was finger painting in the wet spot on the wall.

The Husband and I just looked at each other and shook our heads.

We stood and watched The Monkey draw with her fingers in that wet spot on the wall. Then she made two distinct hand prints on the wall.

She smiled. Then walked out of the room.

I left the Monkey prints on the wall.

I Have A Problem

I am flummoxed.

I have this feeling about a variety of things in my life.

Money.

Politics.

Why I shop at Stupidstore.

But this latest flummoxation (yes, I'm using that word even though dictionary.com just laughed at me) is sending me over the deep end because it has to do with children. My children. I usually have some sort of an educated answer for child related issues, but I'm finding myself in the middle of a quagmire here.

The Princess has found some new friends. This friendship started last year but for whatever reason, it quickly blew off. I'll be honest. I was relieved. It's not a good friendship for her for a variety of reasons and it was a friendship I did not encourage.

The beginning of this summer changed all that. The doorbell started ringing, and despite my gut feelings, I allowed The Princess to play outside with this sister and brother. Supervised. I sometimes make up excuses as to why The Princess can't play but the doorbell ringing is constant. If we walk past their house, they run out and ask if The Princess can play. When we drive up and are getting out of the minivan, they're calling out from their window asking if The Princess can play. They've discovered each other at school and I'm getting reports that they are playing together at recess and lunch. Plus, The Princess doesn't want me outside supervising her all the time. She's 7 and a half. She wants some independence and I can't blame her for that. But it means I'm not out there supervising all the time.

But, I spent a good portion of my summer and this month of September sitting outside watching children. And telling children who weren't mine to please stop walking all over the neighbour's garden. Please go get the The Monkey's soccer ball that you just kicked down the road. I don't think the neighbour wants you kicking the ball repeatedly against their house. Please put on a helmet if you're going to take our scooters and ride them. Sorry, I can't supervise your friend's little sister as well. You're going to break The Monkey's trike if you keep doing that. Please don't do this, please do that instead.

And I'm the one that's called when the friend has fallen and scraped her knee.

I never see their parents.

There's more I could say about their family life, but what does it really matter?

Except it does. The Husband and I have been going back and forth about what to do with this situation. We don't want her playing with these two children, but at the same time wonder about our obligation to possibly be a positive influence with these kids. It's not like we think we're saints or anything, but these children need some help.

I find myself feeling like an idiot for being all uppity and looking down my nose at another family. I'm pretty sure there are many families on our block that look down their noses at me and my backyard and my old minivan parked outside. And I've worked with children who have had such a hard time making and keeping friendships....who am I to turn and say these neighbours can't play with my children?

But what about The Princess? In the middle of writing this, she's come into the house sobbing because of how the girl has treated her. I took her back outside to help solve the problem but all that was left was paint all over my walkway, paintings, toys strewn all over the lawn. And none of it was The Princess'.

We cleaned up the mess and brought all the toys and paints back to the neighbour's house. The Princess is confused and I don't know what to tell her except it's time to have a break from playing with her new friends.

Help. Am I being a paranoid self centred parent?

How have you balanced your own child's needs with the needs of another?

What would you do? What have you done?

I'd love to hear from all you other moms and dads out there.

You Want To Be What??

This past weekend, The Husband suggested we take the girls to Canadian Tire.

Despite me shouting, "No. That sounds like a crappy idea are you INSANE you can't make me go," I found myself walking down the aisles of automotive parts and Debbie Travis home decor. It's not that I dislike the store. It's super awesome and all. It's just that The Princess was on a tangent about Halloween costume decision making. It's hard to find the right plastic bolts for a car door panel when you're being forced to converse about the need to buy blood red lipstick and agree 18,542 times that her costume will be the awesomest.

The Princess was going to be a spider. I was thrilled with that. If I'm going to have to make a costume, then that would be doable. I've made a number of costumes in this sojourn of motherhood....cat, ghost, bear, mummy....they were all great. Well. Not the mummy. That one sucked big time and The Boy ended up trailing it all over a four block radius. But the other costumes were good. Made without the aide of a pattern or directions. Just a trip to assorted Salvation Armies and stuff from the house. My mother trained me well.

But something about Canadian Tire made The Princess feel that a spider costume was not 'it'. She wasn't feeling it.

All of a sudden my 7 year old said, "What about a corpse bride? That would be so awesome!"

"A what?"

"A corpse bride! Jaclyn was a corpse bride last year and she looked so awesome. Her costume was the best. It was so awesome."

"You want to be a corpse bride??"

"Yes! Oh Mom. It will be awesome. Oh my gosh. It will be so awesome!" *squeal!*

All the while that she was blabbering on and on and on and on about it, all I could think of was, "Will I lose my mothering licence if I let my 7 year old dress up like a dead woman on the day of her nuptials? What will my mother say? What will her grandparents think of me?"

I was also thinking, "How can she talk so fast and exactly how many times is she going to say awesome?"

15 minutes of walking through the store, listening to The Princess go on about all the different things we need to do for her costume, she stopped in her tracks.

"Mom?"

"Ya?"

"What's a corpse bride?"

Aw. My 7 year old isn't as old as I feared. She may think she's too old to dress up in fairy wings and carry a magic wand, but she's still pretty innocent.

I explained what a corpse bride was.

She's thinking about it.

A Slumber Party

I've been to a number of slumber parties in my day.

I was usually 12 and they involved crying over the guy in Grease II and not watching Children of the Corn. I seem to recall some games of truth or dare which always ended up with someone asking someone else if they'd gotten what comes at the end of a sentence yet.

Ah, the cusp of puberty. Good times.

The slumber parties in my teens were usually to celebrate someone's birthday. The talk changed from who was already wearing a bra to who we were madly in love with. (A lovely shout out to my dear friends who never riled me about my love for Ralph Macchio.)

And then we graduated school. No more slumber parties and no more pining for dear ol' Ralph. We all grew up. Moved on. Got jobs. Got married. Had kids.

I moved on to supervising a whole lot of slumber parties with not a lot of slumbering, let me tell you.

Today that all changed. The Princess, The Monkey and I had a slumber party tonight. The living room is proof. A double mattress lies across the floor, smushed between the fireplace and coffee table. Junk food litters assorted tables. Bits of popcorn are on the floor. Two little girls are finally slumbering, with stuffies tucked up under their chins. Hannah Montana has mercifully finished singing the blues and there is very little dill pickle dip left.

The Princess and The Monkey sure like that stuff.

And me? I am putting off slumbering. My bed is calling out to me, but that kind of breaks the spirit of a slumber party. My aching joints are taunting me and trying to convince me that if I just set my alarm for 5 am, I could slink downstairs and park myself on the couch with the girls being none the wiser.

But I'll tough it out. I'm brave like that.

Tune in tomorrow when there will be much whining and gnashing of teeth due to lack of sleep and junk food detoxing. Plus I have a feeling I'll have a tip or two on pumping up a deflating air mattress in the dark at 3am.

'Tis the stuff that summer memories are made of.

Another Griswold Vacation

Let me start off by reminding you that I already apologized to the people of Osoyoos for the weather.

But I'll say it again. Sorry about that. I've never experienced a 5 hour thunder and lightening storm with torrential rains and winds either.

Hey. They needed the rain, what with all the forest fires to the north. Yes, that strange weather caused us to leave a day early as it was going to continue on for another whole day, but let's consider that it was a blessing in disguise. It was pretty parched out there.

The annual Griswold vacation wasn't all Clark and Ellen. We had a great four days before the weather changed. We spent our time playing at the beach, floating in the resort pool and lounging in the air conditioned 38 foot trailer. We worked on our tans, de-stressed, ate a lot of hamburgers and drank a lot of these:

My close friend and her husband (howdy KA and K!) drove down from Kelowna and we had a great visit.

There were a few Uncle Eddie moments. I am now the proud owner of a minivan with a mucked up rear bumper,courtesy of some idiot who drove their boat trailer into it and felt the need to not tell us. It's like the cosmos want me driving around a Griswoldmobile. I'm not a vindictive person but I have to say that I hope karma bites you in the butt, Mr. Boat Trailer Man.

I really mean that.

Plus there was the overheating minivan in Manning Park. That pretty much took care of all that relaxing I did for four days. There's something rather odd about it. Manning Park was also the scene of a little trip several years ago that we Mahoneys refer to as, "The Trip To Hell and Back" when the heater core, radiator and fuel pump all went on our car as we drove through the 65 kilometres that is the Park of Manning.

(There were no dents in the bumper of that car, but let's just say it earned its name, "The Beast" for a reason.)

Oh. Then we got back home (thanks to the 17 decades of the rosary I prayed the rest of the way home, thank you Mary and St. Christopher), only to try and move the car with the engine light problems and it wouldn't start.

But Troy the Fish didn't die and The Dog crapped on the kitchen floor and not the carpet, so, really, in the big scheme of life, I think the trip had more ups than downs. Yes....I have some mechanic appointments to make. Yes, the new minivan is on its way to transforming into a white eggplant. Yes, I have 8 loads of laundry to do.

But I'm choosing to focus on the fact that The Princess learned how to swim the length of the resort pool.
The Monkey made 26 buckets of soup on the beach - all of which were personally taste tested by yours truly. The Boy and his friend spent hours in the lake trying to catch trout and the attention of some cute teenage girls.

Many s'mores were made on the bbq. The Eldest baked herself to a bronze hue that would make any dermatologist shudder in grief.


The Husband played with fire and tried to catch the ragamuffins that kept turning off the water to the trailer.

I actually appeared in public in a bathing suit and although I blinded several people with my mayonnaise hued legs, I didn't care.

The kids watched Mother Nature put on a showstopping display of light and sound, water and wind like they've never experienced in their life.

We went on holidays. And we made memories.


95% of them great.

Lucky Ducks

The Monkey is still working on learning her colours. I'm always on the lookout for fun games that work on this skill (among many others). We have a 8 foot x 4 foot cupboard full of games, crafts and toys but I work with the philosophy that Candy Land causes hives, so I like to stock up on lots of choices in the hopes I won't be expected to be spending time in Snoozing Sucker Ville.

But bringing anything remotely related to children into the house requires some finesse. I don't want to paint The Husband in a bad light but let's just say, considering his propensity towards collecting lifeguard competition t-shirts, I think he could be a bit more understanding of my need to stimulate our children's brain cells. You'd think I perhaps go overboard or something.

Although that scenario is remotely possible.

It's not like I hide ALL the toys purchases. But any great relationship out there needs some mystery in it, so I'm just working on my marriage, y'all.

I did not have to sneak yesterday's purchase into the house. If you own Lucky Ducks, you know what I'm talking about. When The Husband arrived home from his hectic day at work, the first words out of my mouth were, "It was only $4. Sorry."

Sorry for the quacking, not for spending 4 bucks. I never buy stuff new. You know that.

Well, underwear. I buy that new. Food products, toilet paper, the odd candle.....

Toys? I usually do not buy those new.

Every child with autism I've ever worked with has owned the Lucky Ducks game. Oh, the memories of sitting in a consult meeting and having the consultant proclaim those dreaded words, "Get the game Lucky Ducks". The involuntary gasps throughout the room. Then the stunned silence. The tears of grief.

No. Not that. Anything but Lucky Ducks.

And that's the game I spent 4 bucks on and brought into our home.

If you haven't had the pleasure of playing this game, I give you crappy cellphone video of why I'm an idiot.



That's 17 seconds. It's been playing for 3 hours in my house.

I may have to step on it accidentally.

The Monkey's New 'Do

The Monkey Baby has a new 'do.

Again.

I took her back to the hairdresser's yesterday and asked them to even up the lopsided mess of a $15 haircut.

It took the lady 30 minutes to fix The Monkey's hair. She kept cutting and cutting and measuring and measuring and saying, "It's still not even." The Monkey actually fell asleep in the chair. I had to hold her head upright while the lady kept hacking at her hair.

I'm beginning to think the kid has weird hair. Is there such a thing? Do the future hairdressers of tomorrow learn about weird hair in hairdressing school? I'm sure there's some fancy name for it. Whatever they call it, The Monkey has it.

Weird hair.

She also has a propensity towards scissors, nail polish and the words, "Sorry Mommy! So sorry Mommy!"

She will either keep me and The Husband young or drive us into assisted living before our time. Either way, I wouldn't change a thing about her.

She's our Monkey.