Shout Out

Just wanted to point to the list of 'Blogs I Read' located on the right side of your browser window.

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That way, in case you're tired or not very bright.

These are um, blogs I read. Fairly self-explanatory. I know some of these people personally and adore them. Some I don't really know at all, but I find their blogs funny and/or interesting and/or like a train wreck I can't turn away from (well, there are no train wreck blogs in there yet, but I'll certainly add some later. I was going for dramatic flair).

I told you so!

This is one of Gutsy's favourite sayings as of late. Unfortunately, like many sayings of a three-year-old, it is not always used in context. Observe last night:

"Sweety, would you like a bath?" I ask as dark is approaching.

"Yes, mom," he replies.

"Would you like bubbles?"

"Yes, but there aren't any bubbles left!" says a worried Gutsy.

"I'm pretty sure we have some left."

"No, there aren't any. They're all gone!"

"Let's go have a look. I bet we'll find some."

Gutsy checks under the sink and proudly appears before me with a bottle of bath bubbles.

"See, mom? I told you there were bubbles!"

Oh, you're right. How foolish of me. I promise to listen to your wisdom from now on *sigh*

Obligatory Monday Morning Faux Pas

I woke up feeling ok today. By ok, I mean I didn't cough a dead animal out of my lungs this morning. Progress!

The kids were also feeling and looking less like gremlins, so I figured I would take them to get bagels. Not surprisingly, the groceries were not done this weekend and we have about as much useful food as an abandoned bomb shelter. Unfortunately, I also failed to hit a bank machine and had about two buckaroos in my purse. This does not bode well for morning bagel aquisitions.

Thankfully, Geekster had a great idea: He'd trade me the $20 in his wallet for the $2 in my purse. Um... Ooookay... Hehe, what a sucker! I thought I was finally smarter than he was. That I had finally found a way to get into the genius range penthouse, IQ-wise, and had kicked his aging brain into the 'above average' condo that my grey matter had occupied in painful mediocrity for far too long.

As it turns out, he only wanted to buy a soup today. That's about $2. He doesn't need the twenty. Hmph. There goes my ticket into Mensa.

So I head off with the boys to Tim Hortons, the painful reminder of my near rise to power burning a hole in my freely-traded purse (ah, but I am the EQ powerhouse in this family!). The Tims is quiet. In fact, we're behing only one person: a rather tall gentleman in black pants and a white dress shirt.

"Just a minute, boys," I say fairly loudly (have I mentioned that they're hearing impaired?) as they approach the counter. "We have to wait for this guy, first".

This guy turns sideways. It appears he's not a guy at all. He's a woman.

Um, crap?

How does one recover from that? That's like somebody asking when the baby's due to a lady who's blessed with bonus abdominal fat. I just called this girl a guy. A man! I struggled for the right thing to say. Something to lessen the blow. A few ideas came into my head:

"Oops, sorry about that. The mullet had me fooled."

"Does it help that I thought you were a rather effeminate guy? I mean, what's with the pattered, white dress shirt? What self-respecting guy would wear that? That totally should have tipped me off! Duh."

"You know, if you were wearing a skirt I would have known you were female hands down! The pants threw me off, that's all"

I said none of these things, or I probably would be at the dentist right now having some teeth replaced instead of blogging. I took the wussy way out. I said something nearly under my breath, like 'Oops, that's not a guy. Silly me. I wasn't even looking! Let's wait behind this nice lady for mommy's coffee. Apparently I'm not very awake right now'.

Good job, Maven. I bet that made her feel a LOT better! Wow, you sure do have a way with words. A golden tongue. She probably left with a huge smile on her face and spent the rest of the day enjoying her female charms.

*sigh* You can't win 'em all. I have a feeling I'm going to have to lease out my 'above average intelligence' condo and move on down. Way, way down. A basement apartment in the 'too stupid to blink' development would suit me just fine. Not much of a view, but I bet I'd win a lot of poker games with the neighbours.

Recipe for "Virus Surprise with a side of Insomnia"

The Maven's Virus Surprise with a side of Insomnia

Add the following ingredients:

1 sick preschooler

1 about-to-get-sick gradeschooler

1 mother with compromised immune system*

*To make compromised immune system, add pregnancy, too much housework, busy children, errands galore and out of town guests. or use any frozen leftovers of chicken with head cut off souffle.

Throw everything in at once. Mix vigorously. Um, what the hell is that? That's not vigorous. That's prissy mixing. I'm talking breaking-the-spoon-and-crap-flying-out-of-the-bowl stirring. Not this don't-I-look-cute-in-my-new-apron-and-ten-pounds-lighter stirring. Don't be a wuss.

Set aside for a while. Enjoy dinner with your inlaws (and I'm not being sarcastic for once. I actually really like my inlaws. No, really. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I gave my mother-in-law the URL for my blog and know that she could check it at any time. Nope. She's really sweet. And beautiful. And talented.)

Once the Virus Surprise hardens, it's time to add in the insomnia element. The getting sick gradechooler should now have a full-out cold. The compromised immunity should have worked into the mother as well. She should be feeling like ass at this point.

Remove 1 husband from home and send him to a geek party (I realize this is an oxymoron, but work with me).

Put both sick children to bed.

Start playing a new computer game. The gradeschooler will tell you he can't sleep.

Put him back to bed and go back to playing your game. The gradeschooler will tell you once again that he can't sleep.

Talk to someone on the phone for an hour while the gradeschooler continues to tell you he can't get to sleep. Optional ingredients at this point include:

4 tuck ins
2 glasses of water
1 trip to the bathroom
45 minutes of lights-on-so-you-can-read-yourself-to-sleep time
2 threats
2 instances of raised voice
1 now sick AND upset gradeschooler
1 sick AND apologetic mother
1 interrupted bath by a still awake gradeschooler, even after all that

Add in husband at 1am and stir in now sick AND emotionally distraught AND sleep deprived mother. Bring preschooler into bed with parents. He should pass out by 2am.

Sick mother will now be sick mother who can't breathe and tosses and turns until 4am when she finally moves to the couch and passes out.

Serve and ENJOY! Yum!

Negative Headspace

Yeah, that's me today. I don't know why. Hormones, perhaps?

Oh, wait. It could be because I spent nine hours cleaning the house yesterday and making meals and dealing with one sick and one bored child. But the good news is that I have time to post before the inlaws get here.

Is it bad that my mother calls me to complain when I haven't blogged in a few hours? I've created a monster. Here's your blog entry, The Madre. I hope you bake me cookies or something for my effort.

This third pregnancy thing has been great in some ways and not so great in others. I'm more relaxed than I was with my first two. I sometimes drink *gasp* coffee that is only half-decaffeinated (!!) and I don't obsess over every little thing I put into my mouth (don't get any naughty ideas). I have far fewer bouts of sciatica and less hip discomfort. And, unlike my pregnancy with intrepid, I haven't had this terrible, itchy feeling under my skin 24/7 for several weeks. That was by far the worst torture I've ever experienced.

However, there's a downside. What's with this pubic pain? After cleaning up all day yesterday, I feel as though I just had a traumatic sexual encounter with a fence post. I can't get over how sore I am. That rules out any future career plans as a porn star (hey, it pays a lot more than daycare).

I have one pair of pants and one shirt that fit me from Gutsy's pregnancy. I spent upwards of $500 on maternity clothes and then lost a bunch of weight postpartum. I didn't realize how much, apparently, because I excitedly took all the stuff out of storage and tried everything on at around 12 weeks, only to feel like I was the 'after' in a Jenny Craig commercial. The two items I do have are huge on me, but I can wear them around the house without them falling off.

Speaking of falling off, every pair of pants that I bought for this pregnancy starts to fall as I walk (this could be an indication that the life of a porn star is indeed in my future). Look, I know I'm having my third child and would proudly wear the Naughty Preggo Shirt, but come on, now. I have no interest in showing off my maternity panties to the world as I've almost done on several occasions. Everyone says 'You should go for more walks. It's good for you!'. I don't know if the health benefits would outweigh the social suicide I'd be committing by flashing my pregnant buttocks around the neighbourhood.

"Mommy, is that a beluga whale?"

"No, sweety. That's a pregnant lady's bum. Let's go inside, now..."

Gutsy is using Intrepid's keyboard beside me. He just randomly selected 'The Look of Love' from the demo songs. What a player. I predict at least two young women showing up at the door in about twenty years with babies that look suspiciously like him. That would be because he was born when I was 26, not 30. And as the experts have established, that spells a lifetime of trouble. Let this be a lesson to every young woman who dreams of having maternity pants that easily fall down to her ankles.

I would have posted today

I would have posted today, but I drove Geekster to a conference downtown.

Then I came home and cleaned.

And cleaned.

And cleaned.

Did I mention I cleaned?

I also made lunch and dinner in there somewhere and watched true crime documentaries on A&E while folding laundry.

I dusted every surface in my bedroom.

You can actually see the floow now in InUtero Boy's future room (which he won't use for a good while anyway because he'll be cosleeping with us, but it's a good place to store toys and clothes and lousy breastpads that don't work well that you intend to give away to someone else).

I would have posted this evening, but I had to pick up Geekster from his conference at 7pm, drive everyone home and then hit my weekly 12 step meeting while in a very pissy mood.

I would have posted this evening, but instead I listened to a really great speaker at said meeting who reminded me that sobriety is only the first step in a very long journey. That I need to to focus on other issues, too. Like my persistent anxiety problem that I'd like to stuff in the back of InUtero Boy's future closet along with the other crap and forget about. I like how I always learn something new from everyone even at fifteen years sober. Either I'm really stupid or there are many more smart people in the world than I thought there were.

So I'm posting now. I'm feeling a little more positive. This is a major feat, considering I cleaned all day (did I mention I cleaned?) and looked after one bored and one sick child and acted like a taxi driver without any of the monetary perks. Oh, and I'm pregnant and HUGE. And easily thrown into grumpy mode. I don't think I mentioned that this post.

So I think I'm going to go have a bath now and read Interview With the Vampire to take my mind off my non-existant troubles. Louis has had a much harder life than I since becoming a vampire and Lestat is a much bigger jerk than I could ever be with bigger issues than I'll ever know. Claudia is way cuter than me, but she'll never have boobs because she was made undead at the age of 5. She also gets set on fire or something later, if I recall. I have boobs (albeit rather floppy, sore ones) and the closest I've come recently to being set on fire is when I burned off half my armhair and singed my eyelashes while attempting to light the bbq. At least I didn't have to pluck for a couple of weeks.

Eat your heart out, Claudia.

Foods That Should Never Be

I was just enlightened as to a food abomination out of every heart surgeon's worst nightmare: the tater tot casserole.

It involves putting some tater tots in the bottom of a casserole dish. One then adds mushroom soup, coats with cheese and perhaps adds some ham or smokies (those little weiners in a can). Bake and serve.

But wait! I've also found some other variations of the recipe just in case that one didn't tickle your fancy. You can use ground chicken or beef, put the tater tots on the top or the bottom, and you can even microwave the entire thing instead of cooking it in the oven.

Not surprisingly, the ethnic origin of the tater tot casserole is... *drumroll*... American! And here I was thinking it was a favourite in Peru.

I don't know about you, but I can't even hear the ingredients listed off without feeling my arteries hardening. There's something about fried, chemically-altered potatoes mixed with creamed soup, oodles of cheese and fatty meat that makes this feel like coronary suicide.

Of course, I come from the land of poutine. Observe: fries smothered in cheese curds and gravy. To have the real stuff, it must have real cheese curds. Anyone who's had it with shredded cheese has been scammed and should get their money back. It's not legit without the curds, yo.

While some might argue that poutine is just as bad, let me ask you: Could so many Quebeckers be wrong?

Oh, wait. That whole separatist thing. Riiiiight.

Anyway, tater tot casserole is a frightening dish that should have never seen the inside of an oven - conventional or otherwise.

Some other frightening dishes

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In other news, Gutsy had his first speech therapy appointment today. He was a big boy and wore his hearing aids the entire time we were there (no small feat). I bribed him with a trip to the park afterwards and that seemed to work. We have another session next Thursday. I'm hoping this will help him with his pronunciation. The boy has a great vocabulary but I can't understand him 25% of the time. And I'm his mom, which means that for most people it's probably more like half the time.

I want to be in speech therapy. I want to spend an hour with a nice lady who lets me play fishing games. I want to look at pictures of things and tell her what they are. I want to play bingo. I want that nice lady to tell me I'm doing a good job.

During any appointment I go to I'm either in pain or the specialist is going to do something that causes me pain or I'm worried that if I don't go I'll end up in pain. My dentist doesn't make a game out of doing a root canal. My doctor doesn't amuse me with puppets when she administers a pap.

Life isn't fair, I tell you.

I should go make dinner. It will not involve tater tots, smokies or cheese curds. My heart beats for another day.

What a Knocked Up Woman Should Not Do

At 28 weeks pregnant, she should NEVER carry a 40lb child balanced precariously on her hip and enormous stomach because he hurt his finger and refuses to walk back from the water park. How hurting one's finger prevents one from walking is a mystery reserved for tired three-year-olds.

If this warning is not heeded, the pregnant woman should expect to feel like she were slammed in the lumbar region with a baseball bat. Once home, she should sit gently on the couch with proper pillow support and her put her feet up.

Then she can struggle to get back up again when the phone rings. On three separate occasions. And she can forget to bring the phone back to the couch with her on all those occasions because she's tired and moody and needs a hug.

Also, I mentioned Dr. Phil's wife, Robin, in a rather negative light in a previous post. I also said that karma would teach me a thing or two as a result. It took a couple of days, but it found me.

No, not just the back thing. That was pure stupidity on my part. Especially since I had able-bodied Mrs Wailing offering to carry him. Duh.

Prior to nearly throwing my back out, Mrs. Wailing and I made the long journey to the new Fourbucks by her place. I ordered a decaf Americano. The three sips I had prior to getting to the water park were heavenly.

Once at the park, I put the coffee down on the bench so I could help Gutsy and Intrepid apply sunblock. "Don't forget to take off your sandals, Gutsy!" I reminded him as he tromped off excitedly to the water sprayer thing-a-ma-doo-bob.

"Oh, right, mom!" says Gutsy and he plops himself onto the bench. His plaid-covered buttocks bumps my coffee right off the back and onto the ground.

"Oh no! I'm sorry, mommy," says Gutsy in the most regrettable tone. "The next time we come here and I sit down on the bench to take off my sandals, I'll be more careful and not spill your coffee, ok?"

God, but I love him. Even though he's an expert preschool pummeller, he has a sweet side that is simply adorable. I drank the remaining half inch of coffee with a smile and a tear in my eye.

Also, big props to my amazing nine-year-old, Intrepid. Those older kids are so gosh darn useful! He was a big help today in calming down a whine-a-riffic Gutsy. If there was a big brother awards ceremony, he'd clean up. He'd run out of witty speeches and people to thank. When I picked Gutsy up to carry him, I was scolded for doing so by dear Intrepid "You're not supposed to be lifting him, you know! I can carry him, mom".

Truly. What did I do to deserve such great kids? You'd think I actually parent them some days.

Shameless Bragfest in Pictures

Jobthingy took pictures of Intrepid, Gutsy and I a couple of weeks ago and I've done absolutely nothing with them up until now. So, I figured I'd post the boys' recent mugs here for your perusal. Am I the only one who sees trouble in those grins? Girls like the bad boys and I fear illegitimate grandbabies are in my future. What's with the evil look? On BOTH OF THEM!? Gah.

I'd tell you who's who, but if you can't distinguish the 9-year-old from the 3-year-old, I think you have bigger problems to worry about.

PS: I cropped Speedy out of the pictures because I haven't asked to post her beautiful self on my site. I'm sure Jobthingy wouldn't mind, but she's six feet tall and could kick my ass, so I'd rather get a verbal 'ok' first. You understand.