Notes from the Blue House

Months before Tim and I tied the knot, we took a pre-marital course. We spent a few of our Saturdays sitting in a circle with a half dozen couples who would soon be married. We participated in a bunch of activities and discussions about making our marriage work, led by..ahem..a  divorced  social worker but I digress. We soon discovered that we were the only couple who'd voluntarily forked over the money to give up our Saturdays, every one else was there because their clergyman said so. What a pair of keeners we were!  I confess that it wasn't long before Tim and I were placing bets on which couples may not even make it to the altar, which ones would last a year, which ones would end up in the headlines for killing each other. We're mean like that. There's one activity I remember in particular. We filled out these questionnaires, individually, about how we envisioned the day to day workings of our family. I consider myself a modern gal so I made sure that my answers r

I'm ashamed to admit this: I had a fight with a Walmartian. If you haven't wasted 15 minutes laughing at  http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/photos/ , you should. You really should. I confess that Walmart is my one-stop spot for groceries and kids clothes. That said, I refuse to qualify for a photo on that website. I DO NOT, under any circumstances, wear pajamas to Walmart. I do not wear crocs. I do not wear t-shirts that make reference to bombs, farts or trailer park boys. I may shop there but I am not a Walmartian. The monster who hooked me into a verbal altercation in check-out lane #14 was a bonefide Walmartian. Her stringy, straw like, bleach blonde hair hung limply from her worn out baseball cap. She wore ripped yoga pants and a pink rain poncho. Her rough looks weren't the issue, her bat-shit crazy behaviour was. Here's what went down. I pulled my cart loaded with a weeks worth of groceries into the check-out lane. There she stood, ahead of me, with one, single ite

Is there anything worse than rejection? OK, maybe a frontal lobotomy but I swear that's all. Rejection is a tough pill to swallow. Agreed? As if rejection in and of itself isn't sucktacular enough,  it's felt much more sharply when it comes from someone you adore. Didn't get asked to dinner with friends? Crappy. Didn't get the dream job? Terrible. Asked someone out and got the cold shoulder? Awkward. Tried to hug your kid and he smacked you in the face? Well, I can assure you that the latter is the worst. Simon's been putting me through the ringer since I've gone back to work. If he was a cat, he'd have pissed in my shoes by now. He's blatantly, and without apology, favouring Tim. When he's fallen down and scraped his knee, he'll push me away and bury his face in Tim's lap to cry. When Tim and Owen ducked out this evening for a quick errand, Simon clutched his little shoes and sobbed at the door; devastated to be left behind. I crouch

I hate change. Once I've settled into a comfortable routine, I avoid change like I avoid dental work. You can imagine how comfortable my routine had become over the past 16 months of being a stay-at-home mom. Ya, so what I'm still in pajamas at 4pm? Wanna fight about it? Sure, there were days that I was touched out, talked out, tuckered out and glancing around for the nearest escape from my kids. Those days were rare, though. Truthfully, I loved being at home. I accomplished things around my house. I watched Dr. Phil. I wore  yoga pants. I made lunch dates with people I like. Please don't rant at me about how hard it is to be a stay-at-home mom, I get it. It's not for sissies but it had it's undeniable perks and I loved the whole shebang. Now, the money's run out. I knew in July that September, and my return to work, was looming but I decided that if I didn't think about it, it wouldn't be true. I ignored it in August too, skipping through life like

I struggled with the trays of food, I dug through my massive bag brimming with diapers, board books and sippy cups, searching for my wallet. I glanced around in a panic hissing "where is he? where is he?!" Someone touched my shoulder and said "Don't worry, he's right behind you". Whew, I didn't lose Simon. That's a step in the right direction. Owen was fiddling with the zipper on my bag while I searched for my wallet "Stop it! Get off my bag right now!" We made it to the table and the anticipation of lunch was too much for a hungry toddler to bear. Simon begins screaming. "MAAAAAAAA!" In Simon's world, "MAAAAAAAA!!" means "Give it me. NOW. I'm not f***ing around here, woman." His screaming is high pitched and intense and I feel my hands start to shake as I frantically start spooning rice onto a Styrofoam plate for him. I'm so rushed by his thrashing and screaming that I abandon utensils in favour

 Last month, I flooded my basement while Tim was at work. I tossed a pair of soiled Hot Wheels undies into the big, deep laundry sink, turned on the water and then answered the phone. I strolled outside to the deck, plopped down on the chair and chatted for almost an hour. Then I came back inside and, while farting around on facebook for a few minutes, thought "What am I hearing? what's that soft and steady noise?" I walked down the hall to investigate and fell flat on my ass in a large pool of water. We've got main floor laundry so, of course, the water went through to the basement turning my neat boxes of folded baby clothes into mushy cardboard piles. Drip drip drip. Boxes of high school yearbooks and childhood photos in imminent danger! I tore around the storage room, heaving as many boxes as I could to safety before I caved in and called Tim to fess up. I was so mad at myself that I wished I could give myself a noogie, a wedgie and a wet willy. The schoolyard bul

Recently, I put myself out there. I learned of an opportunity and I leapt at it. Picture a 7 year old girl twitching in her desk with enthusiasm, hand stretched into the air, each finger straight and reaching for the ceiling. "Pick me! Pick me! I can do it!". Yeah, that was me. Well, figuratively speaking. There was no desk, no room full of competing students. I simply filled out an application with thought, with diligence and with fervor and mailed it in. I told myself that I had it. I was a shoe-in, I could totally manage this task and be of use to these people. I began making plans in my head around this new opportunity, thinking about how it would impact my family, my calendar. They didn't pick me. They picked some other person I've never met and have no knowledge of. When I heard the words "thanks for your interest, we've selected another candidate", I cried. I sniveled. I phoned my mom and wailed "It's not fair! I would've been g

We all have our own idiosyncrasies. Growing up, I was never allowed to touch the walls of my house. Putting on your shoes? Don't touch the walls. Balancing backpack, books and a bag of take-out? Don't touch the walls. Tripped on the doormat and are plummeting face first towards the tile floor? Go ahead and make the landing, your nose will heal...just don't touch the walls.  My Dad didn't appreciate finger prints all over the walls. He has other hang-ups too, the typical ones that most fathers harbour. "Why are the goddamned lights on in here?? There's no one in this room!". "We aren't heating the outside! Shut the door" or, alternatively, "We aren't air-conditioning the neighbourhood! Shut the flipping door!". He also has some over-inflated ideas about his own handiness. I think my Dad's suffered minor electrical shocks more times than he can count-he strides toward the electrical box in our family home like he's about t

I know he loves me, but sometimes my husband says things that make me want to give him a nurple. For example, I splurged on a new BB cream. Ok, Ok-so it's $23.00. Whatever, that's a splurge in my books. This cream promises miracles, I'll be dewy, radiant and flawless with one application. As I took the cream out of the box I said light-heartedly "oooooh, I hope this cream makes me really purty!" To which Tim responded "Whoa. Don't put too much pressure on one cream." Wait. Did I hear him correctly, or have I had a mini stroke? Did he actually suggest that making me pretty is far too much work for one single cream to undertake?? I'm sure that what he meant to say was "Darling! Love of my life, how could you possibly improve upon perfection?"  Hmmmpfh. Well, screw him. I rolled my eyes dramatically but said nothing more. A few days later, I was mid melt-down over Simon's upcoming baptism. We were having a sizable crowd of friends an

I live where the wild things are. They tear their clothes off before bed and drop them on the floor. They leave tears and broken Lego creations in their wake. They smell like garden soil and peanut butter sandwiches. I love them. Thanks to Maurice Sendak, I am prepared to handle them, to embrace them and to be Queen of all Wild things. I've read 'Where the Wild Things Are' so many times, I know most of it by heart. I've shared it with my boys, in hopes that they'll dream up their own adventures. That they'll create a world of their own to be King in, to be fearless and adventurous in. That's the best part of childhood isn't it? Imagination! I used to pretend that my bedroom was an apartment and I was a grown-up. When I opened my bedroom door, I didn't see a double bed and a desk. I saw a chic living room, a daybed and a kitchen. I knew the layout of my awesome bachelor apartment like the back of my hand.  I'd pretend that I was sauteeing a fanc

I love seeing a pregnant belly. I honestly have to pry my eyes away before the mother-to-be realizes that some scrawny freckled lady is ogling her in the cereal aisle. I imagine the incredible waterworld that baby is living in, it's little legs tucked up underneath it's wee bum. Isn't it understandable that the population in general is in awe of a pregnant belly? I realize, having had two kids of my own, that being bombarded by unsolicited comments from strangers can be a downer. I've heard from plenty of friends of the countless times they've been pawed by strangers who couldn't resist the roundness of the belly. It seems that being touched by strangers isn't widely enjoyed by pregnant women. Except me. I must be the exception to the rule. That was one of my favourite parts of 'showing', I'm like a Golden Retriever. Admittedly, the first few times it happened on the train or in the grocery store, I'd been a bit jumpy. Then I got to thinking.

Thirty is the best, I'm convinced of it. I understand the whole plot line of Jennifer Garner's crappy movie titled "13 Going on 30". Well, almost the entire plot line-magical wishing powder? huh?? That aside, let's be real-very few of us look back at our awkward teenage years with longing or with fondness. If you do, you were probably one of the popular kids and well..screw  you. I'd sit down to a steaming platter of pig shit before I'd volunteer to be thirteen again. Mmmm..is that pig shit?...delish! Pass me a fork. Or a spoon. I'm not sure what utensil is best suited to manure. Thirteen was the age that it became undeniable to me, though probably not to my mother, that I didn't fit in. Anywhere. With anyone. When I did manage to wriggle into a group of girls, it felt false or temporary to me. Wanna hear a sad tale? Of course you do. In eighth grade, a couple of girls from school invited me to go Christmas dress shopping w

First words. The babble of that first word fills a parent's heart with pride and anticipation. Ah, just think of all the amazing things he or she will say in the coming years. Look at how communicative this little person is becoming! Imagine the insightful conversations we'll share as they learn and grow...sigh...it's a beautiful thing. Except that not every word they say is cute. Owen's picked up the odd curse word and, of course, I have no god-damned idea where he got those shitty words from. Those little gems are easily dealt with though. When we're done disguising our giggles as coughs, we've explained to Owen that a word he's using is ugly and unwelcome in our house. Usually, he's accepted that and traded out the offending word for something cuter. Done and done. Problem solved. Aren't we just the greatest parents ever? Nope. Owen screwed me over recently and I wish it had been a swear word he'd dropped in the home of one of my friends. It

See what I did there? This post is about my kitchen, and I worked the word "cooking" into the title. You're amazed by my wit, no? Yeah, that's not a cheesy title at all. Anyhoo, when I started blabbering away on this blog, I'd intended to chronicle the renos and redecorating we were doing around this place. Of course, nothing consumes your life, your thoughts and...ahem...your blog quite like parenting, so this became an outlet for my thoughts about raising humans. A house related post is long overdue so here ya go. When we bought this place, 2 years ago, the kitchen was a sore spot for me. Our previous house had a bright, open concept kitchen that was perfect for having friends over for dinner and I've been pining for my old kitchen ever since handing over the keys. Taking a step backwards in the kitchen department to gain the extra bedrooms we needed was a necessary evil. Yes, it was a compromise we had to make in order to gain some square footage but I'

I love my kids, really I do. I love my husband too but sometimes I want to tell him to get stuffed and then dash out the door and into my car. Well, last week I did just that-minus the 'get stuffed' part. I'd had the boys for 6 days solid, and Owen's been a miserable you-know-what since having his tonsils out. I've come to realize how integral to my sanity his 3 days/week at daycare are. Tim had to visit with family in Niagara last weekend and was gone for 5 hours. I know what you're thinking, 'what's 5 more hours after 6 full days?' I'll tell you what it is-it's 2 more viewings of Cars2 with a whiny brat on your lap. It's three more Jello related meltdowns. It's another diaper change for Simon while Owen whines at my leg. It's another scrub at the cat barf on the carpet. Tick Tock Tick Tock. I've gotta get the hell out of this place. The moment Tim walked in the door, he suggested that we try to get Owen out of the house for

I've had a bad week. One of those weeks where a daily dose of Merlot is a must. I've been brought to tears on three separate occasions this week as Owen recovers from his tonsillectomy and adnoidectomy. On a side note, am I the only one who finds it funny that the medical community refers to that surgery as a 'T&A"?  At first, Owen seemed completely unaffected by surgery. For God's sake, he was ticked off with me because I wouldn't give him corn pops the morning after! I thought we were home free. The only family on the face of the planet with a child so astoundingly amazing that he was unaffected by having his tonsils out. He's basically Superman. I was wrong. Within 48 hours, he'd taken a downturn. The moaning, the whining, the crying, the restlessness, the boredom-it's been a bummer in the Crick household this week. Once or twice, I felt my patience wearing out. I snapped at him when he asked to watch Cars 2 again, I demanded that he choose s

I've been looking forward to today for a long time. With each cycle of antibiotics that coursed through my 37lb son last year, my anticipation for this day mounted. Owen was on antibiotics for strep throat 5 times in as many months last year, it seemed as though we'd finish one cycle and start another. Honestly, I'd have reached in there and hauled out those bastard tonsils myself on a few occasions.  Eventually, I was rolling my eyes each time Owen spiked a fever and whined about a headache. "Again?!? What the deuce??" The ENT doctor we saw in January was quick to agree with me, these tonsils would have to go, they were doing more harm than good. Today was the big day. We woke at 5am to take Owen to the hospital, leaving Simon at home with his Grandma and Grandpa. We lifted him onto a stretcher and stripped off his clothes, putting on a little hospital gown just for kids. Still, he was swimming in it and I tucked it around him as best I could. Suddenly, the boy

I'm afraid of some strange things. Rabid raccoons ( http://cricktricks.blogspot.ca/2012/02/my-kid-talks-to-strangers.html ), clowns, dying alone and the dentist. Most of these things can be easily avoided, I don't lure raccoons into my garage by leaving the garbage can open. I give clowns a wide berth at fairs and children's parties. It's really only the man clowns that unnerve me, thanks a lot John Wayne Gacy-you've robbed me of a simple childhood pleasure. Dying alone might be out of my control, so why stress about it? Now, the dentist. I can't avoid him. Inside my head, this is a typical visit to the dentist  I've been cursed with crappy teeth. I swear I brush them...ahem..and floss...OK, that last one was a fib. Still, despite my vigorous brushing, I seem to have a cavity at every check-up. I've even had the unfortunate experience of needing a root canal. Here's how that went down. I went for a check-up and discovered that not only did I hav

After reading Tina Fey's prayer for her daughter, (which you can read here: http://www.parents.com/blogs/goodyblog/2011/05/tina-feys-a-mothers-prayer-for-her-daughter/  ) I felt moved to write down my own thoughts, hopes and intentions in raising my boys. I'm calling it my manifesto because, well, because it sounds wicked cool. Here's the definition of the word "manifesto": MANIFESTO: a written statement declaring publicly the intentions, motives, or views of its issuer By it's very definition a manifesto must be made public, so here ya go, blogosphere. It's my hope that, by publishing it to my own wee little blog, I will feel more accountable to these goals. It's my hope that I'll remember this post when one of my kids is being a fartface, here's hoping that it inspires more patience and commitment from me during the tough spots. Kids, here are my intentions in raising you from babbling infants to bright, compassionate young men. I

Owen likes to talk, he'll seize any opportunity to chatter away to an attentive physically present audience. Generally, he'll ramble on about his various bumps, bruises, and misadventures. Most stories start with the words "Well, you know what??" or "Guess what happened to my knee!". Then, he bombards the poor soul he's just cornered with a story that may only be interesting to him. One of those 'you had to be there' tales. Owen's articulate and social, and I'm not just saying that because he's my kid. He's always been a communicative guy, happy to reach out and connect with the people around him. As he's gotten older, he's four now, I've started thinking (and stressing) about Owen's view of the world around him. He thinks that everyone is good and kind. He's sure that everyone wants to engage with him, and he confidently strikes up conversation. I love that confidence in him and I'm hopeful that, as he gr

It doesn't seem like all that long ago that a birthday meant I had an excuse to pull out a pair of heels and flat iron my hair. It meant vodka, lipstick and cover charges. My, my, my..how birthdays around here have changed. The mere mention of a birthday has me thinking of face painting and loot bags. We recently celebrated Owen's 4th birthday and we hosted his party at a play centre because we're not crazy enough to invite the kind of destruction that accompanies a herd of 4 year old's into our home. Don't get me wrong, each and every kid who joined us that day was a cutie patootie but they've got some serious energy to burn. By the time we schlepped our kids, gifts and leftover pizza home, Tim and I collapsed on the couch and moaned about how exhausted we were. It was 8:30pm. What the hell has happened to us? When we were dating in university, we were capable of rolling in at 3am and still getting up for class the next morning. Not so anymore, my friends. T

I want to like Valentine's Day but I just don't dig it.  At this point in life, it seems I have no reason not to enjoy this day of love. I'm happily married to a guy I'm really pretty nuts about. Yet, there it is-that nagging disdain I feel for this day. I hate the garish decorations that fill every store. I hate the expensive and overly-mushy cards. I hate the dust-collecting stuffed animals, but most of all, I hate the pressure. This overly-hyped holiday takes me back to the 10th grade. Like most highschools, the one I attended hawked 'candygrams' during lunch break during the days leading up to Valentine's Day. I'm sure it was a good idea on paper and I bet it's still a popular fundraiser but, for me, it was an obvious display of popularity. Some dufus from the student council would knock on the door during Biology class and announce that he was there to hand out candygrams to the lucky recipients. You're damn right I got one every year, best

An article titled "The Truth about Epidurals" just made the rounds on Facebook and, of course, like any opinionated gal I just couldn't resist the temptation to throw my two cents in. It's easy to see the epidural issue as a divisive one. One where you must pick a side. Either you're a sane, modern, reasonable woman who will definitely be open to the use of an epidural OR you're an insane, archaic, tree-hugging hippie who will be pushing your baby out while biting down on a leather belt. This topic is sure to rile women up and get us talking. We may not admit it, but we love talking about our birth stories and most people make for great audiences. Hell, our fascination with labour and delivery has given way to a bunch of successful t.v. programs. Of course, you'll need a hearty dose of drama and suspense to set an audience on the edge of their seats, so these shows take the typical birth and ramp it up a notch. There's the ominous male voice-over as th