Busy Bees

Soooo... I have extra kids over the summer. Some weeks more than most.

This week has been particularly busy with six kids each day and apparently I'm aiming to lose my mind, outdo myself, misbehave, launch myself into the middle of next week before I know what hits me, earn the right to wear my long weekend drunkypants...

In the last four days we have:

- baked four loaves of quick bread (one plain zucchini, one zucchini and raisin, one zucchini and chocolate chip, one raspberry banana chocolate chip), and a dozen muffins (zucchini chocolate chip)
- gone to the park four times
- gone to the pool once (it's been hovering between 17c/62F—25c/77F all week or we'd've been there more)
- painted pet rocks
- made Rice Krispie squares
- gone to the local independent movie theatre (for the $2 per person 10am matinee of Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs 2)
- eaten two and a half watermelons
- visited the local secondhand bookstore for new reads
- attempted to fly kites (Monday was windy, but apparently not windy enough.)
- cut two boys' hair
- performed science experiments à la Bill Nye [♥]
- cleaned three bathrooms (one of my kidlets was caught not flushing so the punishment was to scrub all the toilets in the house—in the interest of supervision I cleaned the remainder of said bathrooms while he scrubbed away)
- washed and hung seven eight loads of laundry on the line, folded and put them away (with kidlet help)
- gone foraging for food grocery shopping (blessedly alone)
- and (la pièce de résistance) tie dyed shirts

It's all worth it.

The days are gone before I know it, but the kids're busy and content.

And the shirts are marvelous.

Happy summer!

The Emergency Clothes Bag

I cleaned out our disgustingly filthy eight-months-of-winter-garbage van. Finally.

In the back we have a green bag. It's not pretty; its strap is broken, the sides are stained, but it holds a fair amount. It's a bag that twice a year I assess and update.

It's the emergency clothes bag.

And yes, it only comes out of the van about twice a year. Its job is to sit patiently in the event of its need, and it does its job well.

Inside it contains (for each boy):

- t shirt
- sweater
- jeans
- shorts that can double as swim trunks
- socks
- underpants
- old towel

This bag has existed in some form or another since the boys were babies.

Other things that have resided in the bag over the years:

- even more extra clothes
- pajamas
- extra hat and mitts (in winter)
- two dinky cars (one per boy, or one for each hand, depending on number of kidlets)
- wet wipes
- extra diapers (when they were small)
- receiving blanket (kind of like a panic towel, but magically made of flannel)
- change of shirt for me (back when spontaneous kidlet pukage was a more common event)

Our boys are currently aged 7 and 8, and this bag is still vital. Why? Because now that they're older we have more options of activities.

An unexpected swim? We've got it covered. Hip-deep in mud Have a spill and need to change? No problem. Decide to stick around for an unplanned bonfire? Here're some long sleeves. Weather not as cold as the meteorologists predicted? No biggie, put on these shorts.

And because despite being a planner I occasionally drop the ball find myself doing something spontaneous, and my OCD can't handle it I like to know I have this contingency bag packed. It's there, and I don't have to think about it unless something comes out, in which case I need to ensure a replacement goes back in.

Besides, I have a van. A van. A vehicle with enough room in the back to pack all kinds of emergency gear. I'd carry a porta-potty if it'd fit (true story: during the toilet training stage we had an extra potty in the back for emergency purposes. There was many a roadside stop).

So this bag? This bag is sanity, my friend. If you've got kids and enough room in your vehicle I highly recommend packing one for your family.

If you can think of anything else to add to the bag, feel free to let'er rip in the comments

Weird shit said to me this morning by kids...

There are kids here in the morning. This morning it's mine plus three. Occasionally they say odd things--earnest, adorable, yet easily misinterpreted things. Today is one of those days.

Things said to me this morning:

"Leslie, your hair looks nice today. Frizzy like a doll's." [I was going for Muppet hair, but that'll do.]

"Your eyebrows do weird things when you're making sandwiches." [Excellent.]

"Your outfit looks fabulous today." [Same yoga pants and hoodie that is the stay at home mom's uniform.]

"You talk to yourself when you're making the boys' lunches. What are you saying? Or is it not for kids?" [Definitely not for kids. Not even a little bit.]

"I like the way you roll your eyes. The back of them look nice." [Now you know how I snagged Mr Lannis...]

Doing it right.

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on July 14, 2012.]


Last weekend marked the end of a (wonderful!) whirlwind week for the Lannis family.

Our favourite American relatives (okay, our only American relatives) came to visit.

It’s Mr Lannis’ sister, Rhonda, her husband, and three daughters (ages 8, 6, and 3.5 years).

It was (naturally) psychotic around here — a little upside down to say the least.

If they weren’t sleeping here, then we were driving to see them where they were staying (an hour away at Nana’s house), and that was just to rendezvous.

The day’s actual agenda would range anywhere from local parks, to sandy beaches, to Canada Day celebrations, to monstrous theme parks (Canada’s Wonderland: despite the early-onset of gastro-intestional pain, missed rendezvouses, vertigo, nosebleeds, feared migraines, and not enough time in the day, you were surprisingly good to us).

And we’ve been riding this whirlwind approximately once a year since the kids were born — it gets easier every visit.

Years ago I learned to put a laundry basket of possibilities in the back of the van; backup clothes including PJs, bathing suits, towels, underpants, short and long sleeves for every family member, and just replacing whatever we’ve used from it each day. It’s been a godsend, not needing to pack and repack for each outing, simply replenish the snack cooler and jet...

In years past, this visit was a longer (closer to three weeks), but with all that distance between us and North Carolina, we’ll take what we can get. Those girls are absolute gems, and Mr Lannis’ sister and her husband are the kind of warm, hilarious, and laid back people everyone needs in their lives.

Truly, they make me feel blessed.

All the running around and kid-wrangling has got me thinking, though, about what makes these visits so successful. Somewhere along the line, quietly, without discussion, Rhonda and I have made an agreement when it comes to these five adventurous kids...

It has never mattered who belongs to which kid — if they are hungry or need to go to the bathroom, you feed them and take them, no question or thought about it. Granted, we establish food allergies first off, but after that there’s no, "well, go ask your mom," kind of foolishness.

We each discipline our own kids (unless, say, it's a violence-related infraction, in which case whoever is supervising the kids deals with it instantly, of course — and these issues, thankfully, are few and far between).

But food, drinks, and bathroom breaks? Especially in big public places like Wonderland? Just handle it.

We'll ALL benefit from the even blood sugar and lack-of-accidents... ha!

To our American Beavers: we love you and miss y’all already. ♥

Gift Ideas for Kids

Having trouble coming up with gift ideas for a child in your gift-giving circle?

I'm a big fan of books. (Not that this surprises anyone.)

I find a lot of the same titles repeated while perusing the bookshelves of my friends and their children. There are plenty of tried and true classics that turn up everywhere (think Dr Seuss, or Robert Munsch), and I try to avoid giving them because they are so popular.

You never know if the child already has it or not. It's a pain.

Anyhow.

Might I humbly suggest my number one go to author for kids?

Graeme Base.

He's got amazing talent, this one. Imaginative brilliance, really. Lavish, engaging artwork, and fun stories. And apparently they've published some board books of his titles aimed at little ones (though they've yet to cross my path).

He's got many titles to his name, but here's my top three Graeme Base books to gift:

The Eleventh Hour was my first encounter with Graeme Base, when my mother gave it to me for my eleventh birthday. Yes, I've been a fan that long. The book is a mystery, and the reader need decode the hidden messages to solve the puzzle. I'd say ages 10 - 12 would enjoy digging through its pages.

The Water Hole is a numbers-based story about animals across the continents and a shrinking water hole. And the animals of the previous pages are hidden within the artwork of the later pages. I'd recommend this for ages 3 - 7, and have gifted this many times.

Animalia is the alphabet done with animals (and a single boy hidden in every scene for eagle-eyed readers). This is great for ages 4 - 9, have gifted this often, and my boys have burned through two copies themselves.

The Legend of the Golden Snail, Little Elephants, Jungle Drums, and Uno's Garden have all marched through our house via our local library and also have their merits, but those first three are my top choices.

When I've been really on the ball, I've given them as teacher gifts for their classroom, too, heh.

The tricky part, though, is remembering who I've given Base books to after I've done it once... any suggestions on where to turn after that? A good picture book author that spans across age groups yet isn't so popular it's almost guaranteed to already be on a kid's shelf?

Minor Adjustments

Some days I wonder how much my kids are aware of what went on around them in the last two years.

We explained some elements of our journey in language they would understand--basically they're aware that Mom had surgery because the doctors were fixing the part of her that would make her one day have cancer.

And of course they knew I had surgery. Twice. The recovery was long and definitely affected my ability to care for them, so it was, er, noticeable, for sure.

But then I run across something like this, and it's both completely random, and particularly insightful, and so I wonder...

Family Resemblance

On Sunday I spent a good five minutes arguing with my six-and-a-half year old.

Why?

Oh, because he forgot to eat breakfast.

And it was noon.

I can’t even fathom forgetting to eat (I’m not that kind of girl), but whatever...

You’ll note, lovely parent that I am, that I take no responsibility for his lack of breakfast.

Why?

Well, because I’m raising independent kids. They know how to grab themselves cereal bowls and fill them. They can pull a stool over to the fridge and grab themselves bread, and jam, and even (gasp!) grab a butter knife to apply their own spread.

Besides all that, I reminded him. I even went so far as to tell him there was more of his current favourite junky cereal (Captain Crunch. Gag.) on the shelves in the stairwell, where we keep the pantry’s overflow of stock.

Back to the argument, though—I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what was his freaking problem?!

Seriously. It went something like this:


Me: L, it’s lunch time. What do you want for lunch?

L [shocked]: But I never even had breakfast!

Me: Well, it’s lunch now. What’re you going to eat?

L: BUT I NEED CEREAL!

Me: So have cereal for lunch.

L: BUT I DON’T WANT LUNCH. I WANT BREAKFAST.

Me: So eat cereal for lunch. I’ll get the milk.

L: NOOOOOOO! I NEED TO EAT BREAKFAST! I WANT CEREAL!

Me: Whatever. Cereal for lunch. Let’s get to it.

L: NOOOOOOO! BREAKFAST!

Me: It’s lunch time. Lunch.


At about this point he ran sobbing to his room, to howl at the walls.

You know, it took me a good ten minutes of listening to him raging to figure out he somehow felt slighted that he had missed a meal, and all it would’ve taken was the simple admission that he can call it whatever he wants, but he needs to eat.

I tried explaining that the reason I was calling it lunch had to do with the fact that it was noon, and nothing to do with the type of food he wanted to consume.

Apparently this isn’t a good enough explanation when you're six, and the idea of missing a meal is borderline traumatizing.

Whatever. It’s over. He ate.

It took an hour, but he managed to pack away a bowl of cereal with milk, a bowl of hot oatmeal, a jam sandwich, and a mandarin orange.

This seemed to satisfy him.

Anyhow, this entire incident is a symptom of a bigger problem. Our six-and-a-half year old is perpetually distracted. He’s on the ball academically, but he struggles to finish any task (be it school work, feeding the cats, getting dressed, brushing his teeth, you name it), usually because he’s too busy gabbing or hamming it up.

I have no idea where he gets it. [::shifty eyes::]

And that stubbornness that kept him from admitting that the noontime meal is lunch, despite type of food consumed?

Well, that’s definitely his father...

The Blackmail Archives: Blackmail the Fifth

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on May 26, 2012.]

In the never-ending list of weirdo-crappit my kidlets say, here’s another blackmail post!

Previous installments are here, here, here, and here (Yes, we’re actually on the fifth installment, and I still have more unused goodies in The Blackmail File! Muahahaha!)

Basic overview—I have two kids, R and L (Right and Left? Heh.). They constantly spout the silly. I record it, and one day I’ll print the file and put it in their baby books (it’s currently 16 pages long... HA!). Also? I occasionally share it, because it’s just. that. snortastic.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.

October 2011

R [almost 6 years old] to L [4.5 years old]: We’re going to silent read. Have a seat.
L [settles on a page]: Once upon a time...
R: No, no, no! Read the pictures, not the words!
L: But I am reading the pictures. I can’t read the words yet!
R: But if you’re silent reading you need to be quiet. Zip it! [L opens his mouth.] ZIP IT! Pictures only! With your eyes! Not! Your! Mouth!

R [almost 6 years old]: OW! OW! OW!
Me: What happened?

R: I stepped on something sharp! It must have been a bug with a spike on its head.
[Clearly...]


November 2011

[I laughed until I snorted, and of course it was witnessed by the 4.5 year old.]
L [dead serious]: You need to say excuse me when you toot, Mommy.
Me: I didn’t... never mind.

L [4.5 years old, singing while sitting on the toilet]: Eat a zombie! Eat a zombie! Wait, wait, wait, eat a zombie!

[Evening. I put boys to bed, return downstairs, pour drink. Hear something. Go upstairs. Find L standing on bed, belting out a song to Pigger, his stuffed pig.]
Me: Hey! You're supposed to stay in bed and be quiet, remember?
L: But I was singing a song! I'll be quiet later!
[::facepalm::]

[Watching Disney's Mulan, I absently sing along.]
L [flabbergasted]: Mommy, that's crazy! Your brain knows the words to the songs and you've never watched Mulan before!
[Yes. Yes, that's it. Exactly. ::snort::]

R [6 years old]: At lunch at school today I dropped yogurt down my shirt and said, “Disgraceful!”


December 2011

Me [to self]: Did I get my tea steeping?
L [4.5 years old]: Yes.
Me [to self]: Did I sort the laundry?
L: Yes.
Me [to L]: Did I turn the TV on?
L: Yes.
Me [looking at DVD player]: Did I press play already?
L: Yes. Why are you asking all these questions, Mom?
Me [working my shoulder, realizing it finally isn't bugging me—I’d had a knot for days.]: That's because Mommy's muscle relaxants are working. I think we're going to have a lazy day today.
L [nods, completely serious]: And I think we're going to have a forgetful day...

[In passing, I pat my 6 year old’s back.]
R [outraged]: Don’t pet me, I’m not a cat!

L [playing with action figures]: Hey, do the bad guys share?
R: No. That’s part of what makes you a bad guy. You’re not good at sharing.

R [addressing L]: Please don’t repeat and repeat and repeat ad nauseam...
[Aw, bless!]

L [4.5 years old, singing]:
Bunnies, bunnies, bunnies!
Bunnies dance!
Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm...
Bunnies, bunnies, bunnies...
Dancing bunnies!
Dance, bunnies, dance!
Just dance, bunnies, dance!
I’ll dance, too, of course I do!
Get the rope,
get the flames,
just dance bunnies, dance!
Or nobody will like you!
Save me.

[An exchange between my cousin Mandy and I, and another snippet of L, our Casanova, in action at 4.5 years old...]
Mandy: So this morning, L was sitting really close to me. He leaned his head on my shoulder, and told me my arm was hard. He then helped me lift it so I could put my arm around him and he could snuggle in closer. You are so in trouble.
Me: Yep. I know. And he’s self-taught, too. Can you tell?


[December 31st 2011]
Me: Today is the last day of the year!
R [6 years old]: And then we die?
Me [shocked]: NO! Then it’s the next year! Don’t you worry about dying, dying is an grown up thing to worry about.
R: Yeah. Because when you’re grown up you die.
Me: O_o


January 2012

R [6 years old]: If you eat too much cheese you turn into a...?
L [4.5 years old]: Cow.
R: Yes. If you eat too much mustard and relish you turn into a...?
L: Deer.
R: Yes. If you eat too many pancakes you turn into a...?
L: Manikin.
R: Wrong. You turn into someone who looks like a manikin.


R [addressing L]: Well I do not want to talk to you, my mouth is already getting dry.


February 2012

L [4.5 years old, singing]
How could I be glasses?
How can I be glasses?
I’ve never been glasses be-fooooore!
Never see you
Never see my heart
Never see you through my glasses be-foooore!


[My friend Sarah is over, and it’s been snowing heavily.]
R [6 years old, remarks on snow out window]: I HATE snow. And this snow is so bad there are skeletons coming out of the ground, and flying saucers coming out of the sky! THAT'S how bad it is.
[Sarah and I blink and look at each other.]
Sarah: This is going online later, isn't it?
Me: Oh yeah.


March 2012

L [4.5 year old]: Daddy, when will I be a superhero?
Mr Lannis: Probably not until you're in your twenties.
L: When you die you turn into dirt.
Mr Lannis: Yeah, that's about right.


And lastly...

Me: Guess what we're having for dinner?!
R [6 years old]: I dunno. A kick in the pants?

[This is what you get for feeding your children sarcasm with every meal...]

Never Stop Learning

Sometimes my kidlets are a walking lesson in lateral thinking. They come up with what I deem to be rather-random-but-it’s-logical-to-them solutions to everyday problems.

Case in point: how to transport caterpillars.

Not long ago I was working in the garage, and Mr Lannis had taken the boys on a bike ride. I was still puttering away when they returned (never ending furniture refinishing will do that do you), and my six-year-old was babbling about how many caterpillars they’d seen in the field grass.

And you know when the kids are rattling on and on and on incessantly, mind-numbingly, oh my lord just shut up already! What are you even saying...?!

(Just me? Okay. Worst parent of the world award. I’ll own it.)

Anyhow. He’s chirping away, and the content of what his piping voice is saying is vaguely registering.

Caterpillars...

To play with later...

But he was bike riding...

...

It’s about this point that I put two and two together (go me!), and out another Thing I’d Never Thought I’d Say (item #8975):

“Please take the caterpillars out of your pocket.”

My obliging six-year-old happily digs into his pocket and bodies of fuzzy, brown and black Wooly Bears begin tumbling to the floor.

(Ew.)

Never in a million years would I have thought to transport caterpillars in my pocket.

Apparently I’ve been missing out.

Of course Mr Lannis shrugs and says he didn’t bother putting his foot down on the matter—yes, he’d been aware that the child was stuffing Wooly Bears in his jeans. Yes, he’d told our youngest not to do that, but he didn’t see anything wrong with it in the long run, as he figured the kid would learn why we don’t put caterpillars in our pockets...

Spoken like someone who doesn’t have to do the laundry, am I right?

Know what else I learned? As in, not just what bizarre phrases I never dreamed would pass my lips?

I learned that Wooly Bears in a pocket will poke their fuzzy spines through several layers of cotton (jean pocket lining and underwear) to leave a scratchy patch of let’s-hope-it’s-just-irritation on a boy’s thigh.

Yep.

The things I never thought I’d know...

The Pumpkin Pile

Every year we hit a local farmer's stand for pumpkins.

This year was no exception. They do up a fancy pants display for photography purposes, and they've gone above and beyond this year.

Like, waaaaay above... specifically a giant pile of vegetables taller than I am.

You can't make this up.

Naturally the kidlets were thrilled—I mean, what young boy doesn't dream of running around a mountain of squash?—and I now have many, plenty, more pumpkin photos than any sane person needs on my cell phone.

Truth.

Including a gnarly cell pic of my box of squash—because when you're ::coughcough:: old enough to be the household grocery buyer you get more excited about cheap healthy food than a glorified pile of potential Jack-o-lanterns, natch.

Squashtastic!

The Blackmail Archives: Blackmail the Fourth

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on March 3, 2012.]

Recently Mr Lannis and I went over my blackmail file of silly things our kids say, and well, really enjoyed the insanity I’ve managed to document.

In fact, we enjoyed it so much that he suggested I post more blackmail to share with you all.

And I’m happy to oblige.

In that regard, this post is brought to you by snippets of dialogue that actually happen in my household... been keeping this list for a while, because, well, let’s face it: I’m writing baby books that will hold a record amount of blackmail material (for previous posts, see here, here, and here).

(Seriously, I’m running at 13 pages of unintentional humour that’ll one day be printed out and added to their keepsake bins. They’ll thank me. Eventually. After they’re married and have managed to repress it all and/or have children of their own and can appreciate the sentiment...)

For the ease of reading, since this list began (literally) over a year ago, and up until this point I’ve been referring to my boys by their age, I figure for the Blackmail posts I’ll use their initials, R and L, for clarity purposes.

R is our current 6 year old (y/o), and L our 4.5 year old Casanova. Hopefully you’ll get a chuckle from at least one of these... enjoy!


September 2010

[After I’ve spent a day painting the powder room a nice dramatic chocolate colour.]
Me: What’d you think, Kiddo? Look good?
R [almost 5 y/o]: Yes, Mommy, poo brown walls make sense in a bathroom.

January 2011

[Chickadees and nuthatches are in the backyard.]
Boys: Mommy, Mommy, can we feed the birds?
Me: Well, see, that’s the thing about nature, boys. If we feed the birds, we’re really just feeding the cats.
R [5 y/o]: Shakespeare’s big enough. Can’t he stop eating now?

R [5 y/o; shows me pic in book]: Mommy, this is a picture of a mean girl.
Me: How do you know she’s a mean girl?
R: Because she’s delivering cookies that will electrocute you.
Me: Yep. I suppose she would qualify as pretty mean.

R [5 y/o]: Mommy, you’re a good Mommy! [D’aww!]
L [3.5 y/o]: Nope, she’s a long Mommy. [Stretches hands wide.] Lookit how looooooong she is! [Sigh.]

February 2011

L [3.5 y/o; finally making a decision about breakfast]: Mommy, I want toast with French on it.

[L crying; 3.5 y/o]
Me: Would you like to cuddle for a second?
L: No. I want to cuddle for one hundred seconds!

R [5 y/o]: Hey Mommy, lookit my guy! [Shows me toy.]
Me: Oh! It’s a little seal. Very nice.
R: No, it’s an evil seal that flies.
Me: Of course, how could I be mistaken? [Insert eye roll here.]
R: I don’t know. It’s soooooo obvious.

March 2011

L [3.5 y/o]: When hedgehog hits the ceiling, hedgehog gets hurt.
Me [eyeing hedgehog Beanie Baby]: Yes. So maybe we shouldn’t throw the hedgehog at the ceiling?
L: Then how will he kiss the ceiling?!
Me: That’s a good question.
L: Yes. Yes, it IS a good question... [Walks off mumbling to himself.]

L [3.5 y/o; looking at a Sesame Street activity book with a picture of The Count** on the cover]: Mommy, this at-tivity book has a grampire on it.
Me: You mean a vampire. Yes, it does.
L: No, Mommy. Papa does his voice. It’s a grampire.

Me [to L, almost 4 y/o, and WON’T SHUT UP!]: You are a very cute chatterbox.
L: Mommy, you are a very cute eyebrow.

April 2011

2011’s first lesson from Mother Nature:
R [5 y/o; playing in the backyard]: Mommy! We found a bird! It was sleeping, so we put it in a cup in the playhouse so it won’t be disturbed.
L [Almost 4]: Yeah! She’s sleeping! And soft!
Me: GET IN THE HOUSE AND WASH YOUR HANDS WITH SOAP! NO, LONGER THAN THAT! MORE SOAP! SHAKESPEARE! CLEAN UP YOUR MESSES!

R [5 y/o]: Sometimes, when people have fat bellies, they pop out a baby. That’s where babies come from.
L [almost 4 y/o]: Is Mommy going to have a baby?
R: No. No, that’s also why she doesn’t like birds.
L: Yes, she really wasn’t happy to see that dead bird...

And because I have to leave off with a geeky reference...

L [almost 4 y/o]: The Easter Bunny bringed us stickers from Star Wars the Vampire Strikes Back!

The Blackmail Archives: Casanova In Action

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on January 7, 2012.]

Mr Lannis and I have been blessed with family members who help out when it comes to babysitting and giving us a night off. Grandparents, friends, we’ve been lucky in the free-childcare department.

We’ve somehow managed to make it a whole year and a half in our new town before we’ve needed to pay our local-responsible-teen to come over.

(This also speaks of how rarely we actually get out of the house as adults, but let’s not focus on that, shall we?)

Over the holidays, Mr Lannis kind of snapped — extra overtime when you’d expected glorious relaxation will do that to you. So on December 30th 2011 Mr Lannis and I got a babysitter and went on a date!

!!

I know, right?

Anyhow, the point of this post is to regale you all of the progress of our little Casanova, because... well... let’s just say it was share-worthy.


3:30pm - waiting for Miss E, the babysitter and our neighbour from across the street:

 4.5 year old [practically vibrating with excitement]: When is Miss E gonna be here?

Me: In thirty minutes.

4.5 year old: When the big hand gets to the twelve?

Me: Exactly.

4.5 year old [fist pump]: YES!

[In retrospect, we should have realized this implication.]


10pm - on the drive home from our dinner and movie (the new Sherlock Holmes, if you’re interested. Not bad, but I have issues with the fact that Holmes has been recast as an action figure...)

Me: I wonder if our 4.5 year old told Miss E that she was beautiful?

Mr Lannis: He doesn’t really make the moves on girls, you know.

Me: You didn’t see him chatting up the Toys R Us cashier yesterday...


Later, at home:

Miss E: The 4.5 year old didn’t stop talking all night.

Me [deadpan look]: I have *no idea* where he gets that. Did he by any chance tell you that you’re
beautiful, or something about you is beautiful? Your hair, your sweater?

Miss E [laughing]: Yes! When we came in from outside and I took off my glasses because they were fogging up. He asked where they were, then checked them out on the table and told me they were beautiful!

Mr Lannis [to me]: Holy shit, you really called that!

Miss E: He also told me that I was his girlfriend. And when I sent the boys upstairs to get dressed, he came down without any pants on.

Mr Lannis: ... O_o

Me: Well, clearly he’s still working on his finesse...

I think we’ve found a new subject for serial posts...

McHappy Mommy

We are not fast foodies, this family.

My kids rarely get a McDonalds Happy Meal. It's usually healthier choices.

We're far more likely to hit Tim Hortons for soup, a Pit Pit for a chicken wrap, or (gasp!) pack our own lunch than stop at (as Mr Lannis calls it) McRaunchy's.

Of course, some days there are exceptions. (This particular day it was the end of a 4.5 hour drive after a weekend of camping, and exhausted parents returning home to empty cupboards.)

And I must say, it makes me very happy to see that on the rare occasion that my kids do get a Happy Meal, they are more excited about the prospect of playing with the box than eating the food that comes in it.

 Tee hee.

The Blackmail Archives: A Song by Dictation

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on December 2, 2011.]

Yep. It’s exactly how it sounds.

My youngest is a performer at heart. Loves to sing, loves to dance, loves attention in any form, really.

And recently, he honoured me, serenading me as he lay on his back on the floor fiddling with his action figures. As he sang, he stood, threw his head back, and began belting out his impromptu lyrics at the window.

So I did what any good blackmail-collecting parent would do — I grabbed the camera, then began transcribing, so I could share it with you all.

No, I’m not claiming it makes sense (I gave up looking for sense long ago). And I’m sure this transcription isn’t nearly as entertaining as the actual performance, and I’m missing the first verse or two, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! Ha!

Bakugans, Bakugans don’t exist
because that girl isn’t my wife
red and green and yellow
planes are green and yellow
in green and yellow and red apples

In one minute
it will be a patter-erns
red, blue, yellow
because this is the patter-ern I picked
sometimes it’s fast, it’s slow, it’s light, it’s dead
Bakugans, Bakugans don’t exist
she’s not my wife

Girls don’t have rocks
and the boys don’t have rocks
that girl will be mine
that will not be in one minutes
Bakugans, Bakugans don’t exist

Get that thing before it does
never fall because I do to you

[4.5 yr old: Mommy, it’s a long song.
Me: Yes. I’m noticing this.]

Don’t look at me
I say sometimes it’s laugh or low
and sometimes it matches
Bakugans, Bakugans don’t exist

[Now with more gusto!—]

Girls do all day!
In one minute
Why? Why? In one minute!
Never on fire!
I’m back,
but I still have green eyes

And the guy says
I only like red eyes
in one minute
I will have a black tail

BE-CAUSE!

Bakugans, Bakugans don’t exist!


4.5 year old [stops singing]: Mommy, do you like my song?
Me: Yes. I loved it.
4.5 year old [grins]: I knew you would.


I love my kids.

The Kindness of Strangers and the Fickleness of Childhood

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on November 29th, 2011. Um... and I currently have no idea where Zeebee is hiding. I'm sure he's around here somewhere.]


I was purging this week. No, not that kind — the healthy kind. The kind that gets unused crappit out of your house and gives you more room to breathe.

That kind.

And in my dusty travels through our storage bins, I found this—

This would be Zeebee. Zeebee was acquired years ago on a trip to our local zoo (yes, we have a local zoo. It takes about two hours to run through the entire thing — it’s perfect for little kids — and it has giraffes. I love giraffes. So much so I really want to buy this shirt).

Anyhow, back to Zeebee. Once upon a time I had a little boy — little enough to walk on his own but not speak, or at least not any language we understood — who fell in love with Zeebee and brought him home from the zoo.

Zeebee went everywhere. Zeebee was essential. Zeebee spent more time in my toddler’s sticky hands than food.

Yes, I know, you’re looking at that photo and thinking, “that toy does not looked well-travelled-loved.

That’s because it’s not the same Zeebee.

You see, one day we silly parents did our requisite inventory list while leaving the grandparents’ house and somehow overlooked Zeebee.

Quelle horreur!

Oh yes! And the hours that followed were full of tantrums of epic, epic proportions, of the like never seen... the kind which, thankfully, I have blacked from my memory because they were that bad.*

It lasted, oh, I don’t know, some inconceivably long period of time until Papa was able to bring Zeebee back to his rightful owner and appease the toddler rage.

So. I did what any parent in need of spare sanity would do. By this time it was October. I drove back to the zoo to discover that since it was a seasonal production, they’d sold out of Zeebee’s counterparts!

YES! I mean, NO!

Yeah. Not pretty. Not, not pretty at all...

So. I did the next best thing. I collected a business card. And I went home and called the number, which was for a toy import company in Mississauga, Ontario.

And I actually reached a woman! A woman whom, when I requested a Zeebee double for future insurance purposes, said her own children were now grown, but she knew exactly what I was going through, and she would love to send us a complimentary stuffed zebra since I’ve gone to the trouble of tracking down their company.

(Yes, it was the same kid from The Secret Weapon — apparently his super powers can work over phones lines and from great distances...)

Anyhow. A few weeks later, a box arrived in the mail. Stuffed inside, were these —

A replacement Zeebee, who apparently decided to relocate his entire family!

I was so touched. And then what happens?

Yep.

You guessed it. Despite having a whole family of zebras to play with, suddenly my kiddo wasn’t that into black and white stripes anymore. Or their cuddly relatives.

But it’s nice to know other parents have your back. And finding Zeebee was a nice reminder that yes, other people have been there, and yes, they commiserate.

I’m sure this nameless woman would understand toddler fickleness, too.

So I put Zeebee back in the storage bin, where he’s destined to one-day-down-the-road remind me again that there are people out there with good hearts.

People other than those who read this blog, that is, because we all know the ones who hang out here have the biggest hearts. ♥


*Who’m I kidding? My memory is shitty and I’m 99% sure if you’re reading this blog, you probably know that. I forget everything. Apparently whole people, but that’s another (probably not appropriate) story for another day. Actually, my memory’s so crappy I’m not even sure I’ve mentioned my crappy retention before because I forget everything!. But what I do know is that I announce the faulty memory all the time so chances are good that I’ve said it here, somewhere, sometime... maybe?

A Peaceful State

So I decide to check on the kidlets, because I can't hear my noisy rambunctious one (L, 6 years old), and that's never a good sign.

I step onto the front porch to find this:

Me: Erm, what are you doing?

L: Meditating.

Me: Okay. [Explains the quiet.] Why?

L: Because meditating loads your mind with good information and keeps you calm. It's good.



Out of the mouths of babes...

The Secret Weapon

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on November 12, 2011. No, he hasn't stopped.]


Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my youngest has a secret weapon.

On top of this, he’s a flirt. A charmer. A regular little Casanova.

He’s only four-and-a-half, but he’s got women of all ages wrapped around his little finger, doting on his every whim, insert-appropriate-love-is-blind-and-easily-manipulatived-cliché-here.

The last time Mr Lannis took the boys to the rink to help them learn how to skate, the four-and-a-half-year-old was on the ice for thirty seconds before he’d roped a ten-year-old girl into holding his hand for balance.

My dear husband returned home, stumped. Apparently our youngest had not only never met this girl before, but he’d cited “I need help to balance” as the reasoning behind the hand-holding. (Mr Lannis had asked the girl—  who had declared our boy’s approach, her own age, and that no, she didn’t know him from school, as Mr Lannis had previously assumed).

And this clingy behaviour from a child who usually steadies himself on the boards, but doesn’t need much help, even though this venture into skating is relatively new.

Now, to be honest, I’m usually the one bearing witness to our little Casanova in action. I’m the one with him in the grocery store, where he chats up girls from 6 months to 60+ years, be they in a shopping cart, pushing a cart, or behind the cash register.

If she’s breathing, he’s flirting. It’s that simple.

And he’s usually the first to toss out his name, age, and where he lives, too (don’t worry, we’re working on street-proofing).

When put on the phone recently with a female (my auntie), the first words out of his mouth were “When are you coming to visit me?”

Understandably, she melted.

And over Hallowe’en, once the trick-or-treating had been burned out of their systems and the boys were home helping dole out candy while checking out the neighbourhood kids’ costumes? There was my youngest, at the door, looking every little girl in the eye and telling them, “You’re pretty. And you’re pretty. And you’re pretty, too.”

Of course these girls were more concerned with thanking me for their candy and moving on to the next house. Some tittered and giggled.

Most clearly thought he was weird.

I asked him why he was giving the girls compliments, and he threw his arms wide and said, “I want all the girls in the WORLD to know they’re pretty!”

Well, isn’t that lovely!

My mental cynic reasoned that either he’s genuinely trying to express his appreciation for girls’ beauty, or he’s tapped into a vibe of insecurity that not many males tend to notice until they’re well into puberty (and sometimes beyond).

And my exuberant little four-and-a-half-year-old is in love with life, too.

He’s bouncy, and energetic, and oozing positivity until you want to bang your head against the wall because he’s just so dang cute in his never-ending-optimism, it makes you want to puke.

He’s freaking adorable.

Which is why, when he’s told to Sshust! in a restaurant or in public because he’s yapping away in his plucky, upbeat way (and interrupting the grown ups), he usually ends up winning. Because whatever random female we’re chatting with will bend down to say hello to him, because, well, even silent, the secret weapon lurks.

(Cutest unibrow you’ll ever see. Trust.)

So hide your girls, parents. He’s got a way to go until puberty, but he’s clearly just using the time to hone those skills...

Lord save us all.

Blackmail: The Archives

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on October 15th, 2011.]


I am raising jerks.

Sorry, let me rephrase that. I am raising saucy boys.

Yep.

Don’t get me wrong, they are very polite and (for the most part) they obey and listen to what they’re told — they are children, after all.

They have manners, and they generally aren’t (I hesitate to say ‘never’) ill-behaved. If they leave this house with adults who aren’t their parents, I never worry that they will run wild and disrespect their temporary guardians — they’re very good boys.

But they’re saucy. They don’t backtalk, not intentionally, anyway, but occasionally snarky things slip out.

Let’s be truthful, now — we all know they come by it honestly. They were born with the sarcasm gene and I’ve (inadvertently) done my best to see it fostered properly.

Anybody who has friended me on Facebook has borne witness to the crazy things my kids are wont to say. I like to share — the quotes make for great status updates.

I also have a file titled ‘blackmail’ on my laptop, because Momma likes to keep tabs. Ha HA!

So today I’m sharing some of the silly and saucy things they’ve said.

Recently I cracked out the camera in an effort to make up for my sorry lack of photo-documentation lately update our snapshots. This involved me bashing my head bribing boys to sit nicely by offering a trip to the park (which I sneakily used to get more shots in). It also involved a handful of verbal gems from the peanut gallery.

Boys [to me, while sniffing our potted mum]: Is this YOUR mum?
Me: Yes.
Four-and-a-half-year-old [doubtful]: Yeah, but, it doesn’t look like you at all...
::facepalm::

Me [to almost-six-year-old, hanging upside down at playground]: Look at you, you monkey!
Almost-six-year-old: I’m not a monkey!
Me: Then what are you, then?
Almost-six-year-old: I’m a poodle!

Four-and-a-half-year-old [holding a maple leaf aloft]: I found one!
Me: Just one?
Four-and-a-half-year-old: Well, I know where the rest of them are.

And hands down, the best quote of the day? —

Almost-six-year-old [shouting at another playground kid]: I don’t HAVE to do what you say! If I do that I’ll break my BRAIN!

Note: I have no idea what prompted this outburst, but it. was. awesome.

Schoolwork Roundup

The school year is over. Do you know what that means?

Okay, yes, it means that my kidlets are underfoot for the summer...

But it also means I've a stack of their schoolwork, because they've brought it home.

Sure, some, much, a lot of it is going to get recycled. But before that happens, I do a couple of things.

First, I go through it. We've framed some of the nicer pieces of their artwork on their bedroom walls, and they're overjoy that their creations look like "real" art.

Nothing special, simply repurposed some old frames we had kicking around. I spray painted them flat black so they were uniform in finish if not in size and style, and in when the paintings/artwork and up onto the walls they all went. Everything looks better in a proper frame, and I think it's good for the boys' confidence—they feel important when their creations are treated with importance.

Anyhow. The next thing I do is I photograph (or scan, if I'm feeling particularly productive and am willing to lug the scanner out of the closet) the favourite stuff.

Here's a classic example of why I photograph it (aside from simply being a digital packrat). This lovely alpaca was made by my kindergartener... with real alpaca wool (erm, or whatever you call it), thanks to one of the kindergarten teachers with, uh, alpaca connections.

Wonderful, right? But I'm not actually going to keep this forever and ever. It lived on the bulletin board in the toy room for almost a year, and now has permission to leave.

Goodbye, Alpaca!

Note: I never get tired of listening to a 5 year old pronounce alpaca... sounds like aw-pall-ka. Excellent...

And last on the list of "what I do with their work", well, I mock, erm, I mean enjoy it.

Which is why I'm sharing a select bit of the crop. Some from last year, and a classic to reshare. All fun.

The classic. Does it really say asshole? Because an asshole would certainly keep picking his nose, yes. Either way, he earned a checkmark. Heh.

No kidding! Clearly dicking around. Not cool. But at least he's honest?

Yes. The first thing I think of are my shiny new eye sockets, too.

How teachers manage to keep a straight face, I'll never know...

Sing With Me

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on August 6th, 2011.]

Parenting truth: kids are great at showing the world how much you suck as a parent — regardless of actual suckage — because everything and anything can be taken out of context and will always look way worse than it really is.

The level of apparent atrocity will directly relate to the level of innocence behind an act. In other words: the more innocent an act, the more horrible it will outwardly appear.

Case in point: music.

One of our boys’ favourite activities is to sing lyrics of songs they love, occasionally shouting them at the top of their lungs.

Usually in public, of course.

A slightly different version of this game is to sing overtop of each other, each attempting to correct the other’s goofy lyrics... and this amuses them. Immensely.

Music as play is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for melody- and wordplay, and anything creative is a good thing in my books, but...

It’s not just any music.

Oh no, they don’t choose anything adorable and childish... no She’ll be Coming ’Round the Mountain, or Skinnamarink for them... oh, no, they wait (in ambush) until we’re eight carts deep in the not-so-express Walmart lineup, and then start to hum, then sing Raise Your Glass by Pink.

If you’re not 100% familiar with this song, the chorus goes

Raise your glass if you are wrong
in all the right ways
all my underdogs
we will never be, never be
anything but loud
and nitty gritty
dirty little freaks

Charming, yes?

And there’s another — of course four-year-old favourite — line, that goes “party crasher, panty snatcher. Call me up if you are gangster.”

Yep. The artist in question also occasionally spells her name P!nk. Seriously.

And I don’t judge. I really don’t care.

And I realize you could look at me and say that the reason my kids are singing Pink’s song is because they’ve been exposed to her music (dur).

But the thing is, they haven’t.

Let me clarify: they love this song. And it looks (sounds?) horrible, but if any one of those wide-eyed strangers in the Walmart express line asked my kids if a girl with questionable spelling sang Raise Your Glass, they’d adamantly correct that stranger and say no, it’s sung by a boy named Blaine.

Him. Not her.

Yes. My kids listen to the Glee versions of popular songs, because then I get a break from the traditional ‘kids’ music, and get to hear some fun, catchy, current, upbeat, well-produced music, without profanity.

(Okay, there’s the occasional ‘damn’ or ‘hell’ — but it could be worse.)

But I know how this looks. It looks like my kids (aged four and five) are listening to unedited pop music, swear words and all.

So, in the Walmart express line, when I saw the tell-tale hum as the four-year-old stamped his feet and pumped a fist into the air, about to burst into song, I might have acted a teensy bit like the King of Swamp Castle trying to avert the arias of his limp-dishrag son in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

But it was no use. Why do I even try?

And he wasn’t hurting anyone. He was actually being kind of quiet. And on key. Sort of. Or at least off-key and out-of-tune in a “I’m little and too cute to care” kind of way... that works, right?

I got a tap on my shoulder, and an older woman behind me all but shook her finger at me. “That song has the F word in it, you know.”

I wanted to say, “not the version my kids listen to,” or even snatch another F word from the song and fling it in her face (except my brain was choosing to be sluggish, and ‘freak’ and ‘fool’ were eluding me, unfortunately, since passive-aggressively implying she was both in reply would have been highly satisfying).

Thankfully, my five-year-old leaned in, as if on cue and in time with his brother’s singing, to belt out the lyric, “why so serious?”

And then I remembered: it’s my kids’ job to remind me who I am and who I want to be. And if that means letting people publicly question my parenting, I’m okay with that.

When it comes down to it, my boys are deliriously content to wait, singing, in a horrendous lineup with a full cart, after patiently shopping against their own wishes for the previous hour.

They weren’t touching items on the racks.

They weren’t fighting or hitting each other.

They weren’t whining, they weren’t melting down, and they weren’t asking for anything.

So outwardly, sure, this lady can question my child-rearing all she wants. But regardless of her opinion, I’m confident in my parenting skills.

Or skillz... whatever.