Resolutions Require Real Resolve...

It's New Years Eve, and my back is aching. It might stop if I sat up straight to type – ever. But I don't. I sit on my couch every day, editing photos and blogging, with the laptop balanced precariously on the arm of the couch, my legs pulled up to the side of me, and me leaning towards the key pad.

I expect that if I don't right this minute, sometime in my life I will strongly resemble the letter S. You will see me walking down the road and it will look like my lower half is headed east and by top half is headed west. Then you won't talk to me because I will look so confused you'll have already caught on to the fact that I have no idea what I am talking about. It will be a lonely life, in the shape of an S with no one to talk to.

So this year, I will sit up straighter.

The jeans that Jamie bought me for Christmas this year don't fit. The not fitting of the jeans happens as annually as Christmas. The man trots off to the mall, armed with a list of sizes, store and color preferences I have provided him, and then comes home wraps it nicely and sets it beneath the tree. Christmas morning I open the box and realize that even though it was me who told him the sizes, store and color preference, the box must have shrunk the clothes. Those darn boxes must be made by the dryer company that seems to be making all of the clothes I already own too tight. It's a conspiracy. I need to be proactive though and outsmart the dryer, or never wash my pants again. While never washing clothes again sounds like a very easy option, it won't bode well for popularity and I might as well walk around like the letter S if I am going to be smelly.

So this year, I will eat better.

Please God if I set these meagre goals, next year I can tell you I succeeded. Currently I can only report that in the full year of 2009 I did not in fact have the resolve to adhere to any of the lofty resolutions I set out for myself one year ago to the day.

I can tell you that I didn't open a photography studio. That was my big thing. But the economy decided to take a nosedive in the last year or so and even though photos are an awesome thing to spend money on, I didn't think it was a wise decision to open a swank new studio when I heard every day about someone losing their job. Please God, the economy will rebound and I can buy buckets of purple paint and make me a snazzy studio, but this time, I might need to plan more thoroughly than just vowing on my Blog to do such a thing.

Also on my list from last year, I am honesty reporting that I am no thinner. But I am not any taller, so I figure those things are equal. Though on a positive note, I don't look quite as wrinkly as I might. However, I should pay more attention to my regular hair maintenance to avoid meltdowns of epic proportions caused by my roots getting away with themselves on the very day the back of my hair is too long and unruly to straighten.

The straightened blonde bob is very versatile and I must admit, it did stop my mother from telling me that I looked like a soccer mom. But in reality, working from home does lend itself well to a pony tail. In fact, when your entire social life revolves around a hockey rink, I don't think it's unreasonable to have a low maintenance 'do.

So this year, I will grow a pony tail.

I have decided that 3 small goals are better than one lofty goal. You will note that I have not sworn that I will be wearing a bikini at Sylvain Lake, with perfect posture and blonde hair blowing in the wind by 2011.

But I will make an effort, and hopefully one year to the day from now, I will be happy to report that I am sitting up straighter, in the jeans from Christmas 2009 (and 2008, and maybe those ones from 2007 if all goes well) with my hair in a luxurious ponytail.

Happy New Year to all of my friends, family and followers! Best of luck on your resolutions! I would love to hear what you have all resolved to do!

Always the Photographer, Never the Bride...

You know that old saying, "Always the Bridesmaid, never the bride?"

Well, I have the 2.0 version of that. I am "Always the wedding photographer, never the bride." It's my lot in life. I have no ring and didn't have a super fun party will all of my family and friends. But I do love my life!

Just in case I was ever worried about having my own wedding, every now and then I get a reminder that comes like a backhand to the face. Like a few months ago, when Jamie and I were parked at the Swiss Chalet (cause we are classy like that) on Jasper and 109 St in Edmonton.

As we were pulling away, an actual Cinderella carriage pulled in front of our truck, led by a team of white horses. It was white and shaped like the magical carriage in the movie. It had twinkle lights, and was covered in tulle and fake flowers. It was incredibly tacky, but really, if a horse drawn carriage was your dream as a little girl, it would have been a dream come true.

So I swoon, "Oh look at that Jamie, it's just like Cinderella's Carriage," because I am a girly girl at heart.

And he says, "Oh that would be nice for someone to have at their wedding!"

And I say, "Oh yes it would!" thinking he is dropping a hint.

And then he says it, "Bet you could get some cute pictures of that!"

You see folks; Always the wedding photographer, never the Bride.

 

 

The Screaming Hockey Mom

I always said that I would never become that parent. You know the one. The one who hollers at hockey games with only the best of intentions but always attracts the sideways glances of their spouse and the eye roll of the kid they buy skates for.

My first encounter with one of those parents was not when I was a player of any sport. Early on Saturday mornings, when I sat on the freezing cold blue bleachers of the Clarenville Stadium watching small boys hustle back and forth between the nets. I had not a clue what they were doing. For as much as I might have been without a clue as to what was happening on the ice, I sure knew what was happening in the stands. I knew way back then, before I was even a teenager about that parent- because I spent Saturday mornings sitting next to my Aunt Carol.

God love her. She is my favourite relative. She looks exactly like my mother, but in attitude, she is a lot like me. We are both a little judgmental (only when we are right) and we are both spunky (but only when we need to be). We have never had a cross word with each other and I hold her opinion right up there with God and the Dalia Lama. Of course, there's an excellent chance that she may strangle me with her bare hands for reminiscing online about her, but boy I have to say it, way back then, when she got hollering at my cousin Steven`s hockey team, I wanted to crawl under the bleachers.

I decided then, cowering in the freezing cold arena that I was never going to be that parent.

When we put Daniel in hockey three years ago, he couldn't skate. Thank God for the patience of Coach Mark and Coach Dave, who tolerated him shuffling like a penguin across the ice. They promised that in no time things would get better. I still couldn't help thinking, boy, that kid is tenacious; I would have packed it in after the first practice. In hindsight, it probably was a good thing he was doing all that shuffling – there was no way he was going to stop if he did manage to build up any momentum. It was almost painful to watch, because he is one of those kids that is naturally good at everything he tries, so watching him struggle nearly killed me.

However, with tenacity that I can only admire, the dedication of his phenomenal coaches, and some power skating lessons, he can skate. Pretty well I must admit. In fact, as a defence man, he pretty much looks like a one man wrecking crew when he puts his mind to it. I am very proud of him for how his hard work has paid off.

Back when his ankles bent inwards and he looked a little like Bambi at the beginning of the book, I marvelled. Things hadn't changed much. Those parents still were around. I could hear them hollering from the benches beside me.

I will not be that parent, I reassured myself. I will never shout at a kid who is clearly trying to do something that I am not brave enough to try myself.

It's been three years, and things have changed a little. Daniel is a strong skater, a responsible checker and scores his fair share of goals. Now when I think about it, somehow, while he was making all of those transitions, something in me was changing too. Somehow, deep down inside, his little, yet constant improvements spell big victories in my heart.

I have become one of those parents. I get the side long glances from my spouse and the eye roll from my kid.

I apologize to the relatives of other children who chose to sit alongside me on a regular basis. Their hearing may not be what it was. I have become a little louder each game that Daniel has gotten a little stronger. I apologize to my dear Aunt Carol for my embarrassment and wanting to crawl in under the stands. I now understand what all of the yelling was about. I suspect (since she is so much like me) that it wasn't that she was in a race with herself to strain her vocal cords. It was probably because her heart was ready to burst with pride and sometimes it's hard to find a way to express that to an eleven year old boy.

So us parents spend all of our free time in freezing cold arenas, making a new set of friends every winter, yelling at the top of our lungs, with the hope that they will decipher just what we are actually trying to tell them.

Best Customer Service in Edmonton!

It's not often you hear a good customer service story. No one ever calls up their friends or dishes over coffee about how amazingly well they were treated while shopping. It's just how it is. If something bad happens, we tell everyone who will listen, but we take good service for granted all the time. But I think it's time we change all that.

What with Bridget having a massive hockey obsession, her 21 month old self is getting skates for Christmas. While we were shopping for other members of our hockey obsessed family, I noticed little tiny pink skates that looked really supportive for her tiny ankles. Still thinking she was too young to learn to skate, I left them where they were.

However, the 'Hockey, Hockey' shouting tot has turned into the 'Hockey Me! Hockey Me' shouting tot. Too young or not, the child wants to skate.

So yesterday, I returned to United Cycle on Gateway Boulevard in Edmonton to buy her skates. We passed Canadian Tire along the way and I stopped to compare prices. I remembered that the skates were $84.99 at United Cycle where I had first seen them and that seemed really steep for skates for a toddler. But when I couldn't find a parking space to save my life, I gave up and drove the 45 minutes across the city in snow to get to United Cycle.

It was the best thing I could have done.

I regret not making a note of the name of the lady who greeted me the minute we arrived at the skating department of the store. Seeing me with Daniel and his friend Cyrus, she didn't assume I wanted skates for the boys. We always get Daniels skates and hockey equipment there, because the place gives phenomenal service. It stood to reason that with a pair of 11 year old boys in tow, I was looking for new hockey skates. But instead of assuming, she asked me which child I was shopping for. When I told her it was for Bridget, she immediately smiled and knew what my options were.

She asked me to wait one moment, and disappeared into the back. She popped back mere moments later with a box in hand.

She then took Bridget by the hand, led her to a chair, sat her up, took off her clunky winter boots and put both skates on her feet. She adjusted them to make sure the Velcro (instead of laces for little tiny feet) was secure, and then they were off. She held Bridget's hand as they walked in circles around the figure and hockey skate department. The skates were not inexpensive by any means considering they were for the feet of a toddler, but to know that she took so much care to make sure they fit her properly, that I knew what kind of socks to put on her feet, and to know they were a quality item meant enough for me to pay what was written on the display. Realistically, I am aware of the copious dollars our family wastes on take out, pay per view movies and other junk. To buy something that she will outgrow in not such a long time may seem a waste, but I think they are an investment for her. Literally, I hope they get her off on the right foot where it comes to living an active healthy life.

It also meant an awful lot to me that she took the skates off of her feet, put back on her winter boots, adjusted her pants the way I would have around the legs of her boots and then zipped up her coat again. You might find cheaper skates, but you also don't get that kind of service at Canadian Tire or Wal-Mart.

With the skates fitted in less than 20 minutes, start to finish, and not a bead of sweat on me from wrestling with her in the aisles to get her boots off, skates on, skates off and then boots back on with other frantic holiday shoppers pushing past on the last Saturday before Christmas, we were done. I couldn't believe it. I had anticipated the process taking the better part of an hour, and ending with a screaming toddler, no skates and a migraine.

This lady even dropped the skates off at sharpening for me, while I trotted off in search of a helmet.

The helmet we purchased was for Jamie. Because it was being bought with a gift card, it came from Sportchek. Trying to find one that fit his head was an ordeal, but not because he has an odd sized head or anything. The process of searching through unorganized boxes, taking them out, trying them on, only to realize it was the wrong one, and then trying to match up which helmet belonged in which space to see the actual price and if we had the right helmet in the right box. It was a day trip. There wasn't a soul in sight to help the process. I anticipated the same fuss again.

Walking past a service counter near the helmet display, I casually said (not anticipating much of a reaction) 'Do you have a helmet to fit this little head?'

The three men around the counter laughed and one of them said they absolutely did. Before I got to where he walked, he had a helmet out of the box and was inserting the padding inside, to size it down to fit Bridget's head. They only had one kind, in black and though I wish it was white or pink, I couldn't believe it when he took the face mask off, inserted the little doo dads and jangles to make it all work and tried it on her head. Bridget lit up like a Christmas tree, yelling 'my hockey, my hockey!"

He took it off of her head and then asked me if I wanted to take the box or if he would just dispose of it for me. When I said it would probably be easier to wrap it in the box, he packed it all up for me, closed the box and put it in the cart. Oh, and did I mentioned he was smiling as he did it!? I couldn't believe it.

While I was paying for our things, I realized that it's not just a special breed of staff that makes the place special. A manager named John stopped by the customer service desk as I was being rung in and dropped the girl a gift card from Booster Juice- just for being such a great employee. You could tell it was totally unexpected, and it really made me feel good about shopping somewhere that goes out of their way to make their employees feel valued.

You can absolutely bet your bottom dollar that the next time I need anything for Daniel or Bridget's hockey, baseball or whatever; I won't mind the 45 minute drive across Edmonton because I will know that I am definitely getting the best service in town!

Vaseline

We just converted Bridget's crib into a toddler bed. I figured we might as well- she needed something else to jump on. There's not a chance she would sleep in it anyway.

Last week for about half an hour, I thought we had made a breakthrough. I was so happy when I put her and her bottle in the crib, gave her a stuffed toy, a book and turned on Treehouse super quietly so she could watch Little Bear, and then crept out of the room.

She didn't make a single peep.

I waited ten minutes, and then made my way up the stairs like one of those hot women in the latex suits in spy movies. Think Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft. There I was, in my blue flannel pyjama pants complete with skiing penguins, making my way soundlessly up the stairs.

I lean on the wall, peep around the corner, and then gasp.

There she was, sleeping peacefully, empty bottle at her side.

I make my way back down the stairs, turn off the TV to maximize the quiet experience and start to answer emails. It was wonderful. No little fingers were trying to push the laptop screen closed on top of my typing fingers. No was one thinking it's funny to unplug and plug in said laptop 72 times a minute. And no one was spilling juice on myself or said laptop.

It was wonderful. I made myself a cup of tea, put my feet up and answered emails. What a wonderful way to spend an afternoon.

Daniel arrived from school, not halfway through my cup of tea, and I asked him to check on Bridget when he went upstairs to change his clothes. He is a very good big brother and is therefore is always a good person to check on her.

That day was different though. He made it to the top of the stairs and I waited to hear him creep into her room. But I heard him yell instead.

"Bridget, NO! Amy! OH NO!"

I race up over the stairs to meet him on the landing with her in his arms.

It's a wonder he could hold her. I might not have been able to get the traction required, considering she had stripped off every thread of clothing she was wearing when I had seen her twenty minute before hand. Somehow she had managed to coat herself from the top of her head to the tips of her toes in Vaseline.

God bless me and save me.

What on earth would the Hints for Heloise lady suggest I use to remove 2 cups of petroleum jelly (the purpose of which is to repel moisture) from the body of a 20 month old child who hates to have water on her head or face?

A full package of wipes later, I had the bulk of it off. But she could still get down a water slide in the high of a drought.

The screams emitted from the bathtub as I tried to get the Vaseline out of her Elvis Presley impersonator hair, were unbelievable. She screeched her head off, crying out for help to Daniel until she almost chocked. The whole ordeal was horrifying. I can't even imagine how she felt. It rendered me exhausted and I ended up yelling to Daniel for help as well.

The next morning's bath went about as well, but I did manage to get the bulk of it out of her hair. Instead of being the slipperiest kid in Edmonton, she was now the softest. But there was no way to get the hair clean. No way at all. She still looked like a blonde haired Elvis souvenir.

It's been about a week. She still hasn't slept a wink in the bed but her hair has almost returned to normal. It's not quite as greasy, but it's twice as unruly. Now she looks a little less like Elvis Presley, but her Rod Stewart impersonator posters are due out next week.

Yet again...

Three weeks ago, I asked Daniel to go upstairs and make sure that his clothes for his Christmas concert still fit. I told him that I would not be cavorting all over town at the last minute this year looking for suitable Christmas concert attire. He went up over the stairs, where Jamie was, and after 20 minutes came back down and told me that they were perfect. His father verified the story.

It's never been my luck that the day of a big event, I am at home relaxing. No, in fact it is more my luck that the day of
an event, I am frantically driving around the city, looking for whatever it is that someone waited until the last minute to tell me that they needed.

I live a charmed life.

It was only a day or so ago, that I would have thought that Daniel learned his lesson. When his Gingerbread house that ended up being constructed of whole wheat crackers. Had he told anyone more than 15 minute prior to the store closing, he might have had better luck with building materials and his Gingerbread house may not have collapsed. (If have not yet read about the graham cracker debacle, please feel free; http://calamity-amy.blogspot.com/2009/12/poor-daniel.html)

But I digress. Three weeks ago when his father approved his shirt and pants for the concert, I should have known better. Instead, I made the mistake of putting it out of my mind- until this morning.

It was one of those mornings that started out like a train wreck. The alarm clock didn't go off. The baby eventually woke us at 8:15am and got everyone else up. We needed Jamie ready for work and myself ready for the grocery store and out the door with Daniel and Bridget in tow, by 8:30am. Jamie had a conference call, which at this point he was going to have to take while driving to work, as the rest of us ate bagels in an effort to hold tongues still until he was done.

Then I hear those words- my favourite words in the world.

"Uh oh, Aim!"

My blood pressure rockets immediately.

Suddenly, Daniel is in my bedroom with a pair of clam diggers and a ¾ length sleeve shirt on. They used to be pants and a dress shirt. If I wasn't about to have another stroke (this week) I might have laughed. He reminded me of Alice in Wonderland after she drank the first potion. He was literally bursting out of his clothes.

I shoot him the mom look. Then I shoot Jamie a similar one.

"I said I am not driving all over town today. I said it three weeks ago." I will save you the rest, but I reminded them loudly of what I had said, and why I had said it.

"Oh calm down," says Jamie. Right -calm down. "He can just wear my clothes."

So now at 8:25 Daniel is standing looking like Alice in Wonderland after she drank the second potion. It looked like he was in the middle of doing someone's taxes and suddenly shrank- A lot.

So when everyone was safely deposited at work and school, Bridget and I found ourselves at Wal-Mart in an effort to avoid Sears. I ask the nice lady in the boys department if she has any dress pants or shirts for 11 year old boys.

"No, "she says with a smirk. "All of the other angry mothers showed up yesterday."

So I find myself in the men's department, shopping for an 11
year old. I have a pair of pants and a shirt under my arm, hoping to God that this is not going to look the same as Jamie's clothes looked on him this morning. I was not optimistic.

After we survived a major toddler melt down in the cash line that was typical of a cash line a week before Christmas, we headed home. I wrapped a big pile of Christmas presents and waited for him to arrive from school.

The good news is that it all actually fit. The pants were about a foot and a half too long, but that's nothing a mama on a mission can't fix. He didn't look raggle taggle at all, which is what I was anticipating.

It's a good thing it did fit. We didn't have a whole lot of time in which to change and pack Bridget, get her in the car seat and then dash to St. Albert for Jamie. As we are driving along, we discuss hockey, the weekend, what he would like to do over Christmas break.

Then I throw it out there, again.

"Buddy, you can't leave things to the last minute. It's just too hard for me to get things sorted for you, when I don't have any notice." I bring up the gingerbread house debacle. I bring up the tantrum this morning at Wal-Mart and there not being any boy's pants left. I find a few more recent examples and throw them out there. He seems to be catching on.

We stop quickly at McDonalds and order something to eat. We discuss the Alvin and the Chipmunks movie. I ask him if he would like to go. He says he does. Then, asks if I saw the first Alvin and the Chipmunks movie. I tell him that they have been around since I was a little girl, so maybe I did get to see the first one. He rolls his eyes and informs me that he was talking about the first one in color.

Clearly, I am a 28 year old antique.

Then he says, "Hey Aim, we are having Pyjama day at school!"

How fun for him! I remember doing those things! Back when I took the horse and buggy to school and came home to watch rabbit ear TV in black and white.

"That's awesome, bud! We will have to get you some new PJ's though; yours are all pretty ratty looking." I say, thinking it must be after the Christmas break, because tomorrow is the last day of school until the New Year.

"Can you get me the Vancouver 2010 Olympic PJ's? They are at Zellers. Zellers has loads of cool Olympic stuff," this kid is like an infomercial. Except he isn't looking for a credit card number, he just takes cash. A lot of it.

I tell him that I can't see why not.

"Oh good, I thought you were going to be mad," he says happily.

I still have a crick in my neck from the massive head snap towards him. WHY WOULD I BE MAD?

"Why would I be mad Daniel?" I say in that voice that indicates that I am trying not to sound mad.

"About having to go buy me new PJ's- for tomorrow."

Well;

The good news is the concert went incredibly well. His school puts together an amazing production every single year. This year, Daniel had a speaking role and I couldn't have been more proud. A pretty awesome thing they do at his school is sell tickets at the door for 'The Best Seats in the House'. All of the money goes towards the school snack program and the winner gets to sit at the very front of the auditorium, on a nice comfy couch!

We won! We got to sit on the couch! The funny thing is, that when I was filling out the tickets, I used my name; Amy Donovan. It's been my name for 28 years. It's not the same last name as Jamie or the kids, but that's alright. It causes confusion at the Doctors office, but that's alright. People can't find us in the phone book, but that's alright. So, as you would assume, since none of that matters to me in the least, I wrote down my name.

When the principal called out "The Donovan family" I raised my hand like I was told! I was very excited. But Jamie, totally confused, hissed, "What are you doing? That's not us!"

"Of course it is," I say, irritated as I packed my camera bag, and purse and diaper bag as fast I could. It was like deplaning during a short stop over. I didn't want to lose my magic seats!

Still not moving, Jamie says, "Amy, that's not our name!"

"It's my name! It's my name!" I tell him.

He wants to know why I wrote Amy Donovan on the piece of paper. I am still gathering coats and bottles and bags.

"I wrote Amy Donovan because it's my name!" I reiterate.

I am still confused about what on earth is it that he thought I would write on a piece of paper where I was meant to write my name!

Congratulations kids and teachers! You did an amazing job tonight! After a childhood filled with music and drama, I was super encouraged to see how well you did! Of course, my costumes consisted of petticoats and our concerts took place in churches warmed with wood stoves!

Happy Holidays to you all!

Happy Holidays!

*Check out Daniel pretending to quiz Santa game show style! I love the cue card of questions he had to ask! If the hockey career doesn't pan out, he might have a future on the Game Show Network!"

Quiet Time

The cast of characters who play in the story of my life are not always loud (though barely). They are not always hungry (though rarely). They are sometimes super cute to look at. Like the other night, when Bridget refused to go to sleep in her crib- or our bed. She wanted to watch UFC with Daddy. Every mother's dream activity for a toddler.

Once she won the war, she fell asleep (I suspect from exhaustion after the big fight with mommy). It was really quite cute to look at her, all warm and cosy in her fleece jammies curled up with Daddy. I ran to get the camera upstairs and by the time I had tracked down the appropriate camera, lens and flash, Jamie had dosed off too.

So yes, dear, I do flame you online, all the time, for my amusement. But I do love you all. Especially when every one is sleeping soundly!

xoxoxo

Another Use for Duct Tape?

My child is a nudist.

She wasn't always. It used to be that she had no idea how to get her clothes off. But now, since I say, "Let's get you dressed," about 63 times a day, she calls socks, pants, shirts, jackets and winter boots all "Dress." It makes sense.

She doesn't like "dress." In fact, she runs screaming her head off saying, "No dress. No dress."

I wrangle dress onto her 63 times a day- and she takes them off just as often.

I have no idea how to get her to keep her clothes on. I even asked her paediatrician what I should do, and she suggested duct tape. I laughed when she said it. But Doctor D looked confused as to why I was laughing. Apparently she meant for me to tape shut the snaps and the tabs on her diaper.

I didn't choose to do that, because I am very willing to bet that when Child Protective Services came to take Bridget away, because I coat her in duct tape, Doctor D would have no recollection of giving me such helpful advice.

It's ok though, my house is very warm. The furnace has been working overtime to ward off -30 degree temperatures. But because it's been so long since we have ventured out into the arctic temperatures she has taken to standing in the window, watching our neighbour sweep her car with a little broom 38 times a day (it's much easier to snoop when you're outdoors).

Initially, I was concerned that the front door lets in a giant draft. But then I realized I had bigger things to worry about.

The neighbour with the very clean car is so neighbourly that she once called the police to report that Daniel, our 11 year old, had stolen all of the butterflies from her yard. She didn't understand that butterflies fly, and can get out of any yard if they don't want to be there.

She also called Animal Control to report that our big dog was scaring her little dog by looking at him through the fence. Apparently, her Shitzu was so stressed out about our Alaskan Malamute looking at him, that he had no appetite.

Of course, there was also the time the parking lot of our condo was very slippery, and my parents were visiting from Newfoundland. My stepdad hit a patch of ice and brushed her bumper with the rental car bumper. She called 911 and I heard her on the phone trying to justify the call by saying, 'but it's a brand new truck!'

So you can see how I am worried because as the days go by, Bridget is seen in the window, almost all the time, naked as a jay bird. I am expecting any day at all, Child Protective services might show up at my door, alerted that I don't provide clothing for my toddler.

I am wondering which they would prefer to see. A child with not a stitch on in the middle of the winter, or one coated in duct tape over her clothing.

Anyone else had to figure this out!? I would love to hear how you handled it!

God Grant Me the Serenity

I distinctly remember people in my childhood repeating the phrase "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I can not change."

I don't remember who said it. Or what they couldn't change. But I know why I said it this morning. And who I said it about.

(If you haven't read my previous two blog posts, please do. It will give you all of the background information that you need to understand what I am talking about in this one. Of course, I have received enough emails from blog followers sharing similar stories, that most of you might be able to just follow along. )

All of last night, I found it impossible to sleep. I saw every hour on the clock. I blame the toddler who I heard shuffling towards my bed in feety pyjamas at 1am. This child likes to sleep diagonally. This leaves very little room for Mommy since Daddy sleeps like he is encased in concrete.

So this morning, when I heard the alarm clock, I couldn't wait for Jamie to turn it off. But it kept going. It's funny about alarm clocks. The longer they alarm, the louder they seem. It's purely psychological I am sure, but it is darn annoying. So I had to get up to turn it off.

I got back in bed, happy that Bridget hadn't been disturbed and I could get back to sleep, since Jamie was in the bathroom getting ready for work.

I had just fallen back to sleep when the alarm clock started going again. I had only hit the sleep button. Well now I am mad at Jamie for not turning it off in the first place. And at me, for not being smart enough to work an alarm clock.

I get up, unplug it to avoid another mistake and get back in bed.

I had just fallen back to sleep when I am being shaken awake.

"Aim, where are the frozen dinners?" asks Jamie. I open one eye, look him in the face. He isn't kidding. He really did just ask me that. We don't have a deep freeze. We only have the tiny freezer on top of the fridge.

"In the freezer," I say, doing my very best not to hiss.

"I can't find them," he says. Did you eat them?

He is now wondering if I at 13 frozen dinners- Yesterday.

"Move the bread," I say. No sorry, that's a lie. I growled.

He disappears.

With all of the whispering about bread and frozen dinners, Bridget is now awake and racing down the hall to follow her father downstairs.

As I navigate the stairs with sleep in my eyes, I am thinking, "God grant me the serenity. Surely, they don't do it on purpose. "

Still very tired, I get juice and cereal for Bridget, and then I park myself on the couch. Everyone is getting ready to leave for school and work. So they are going through the list of things they need to remember. Hat, gloves, key, agenda,

"Wait Aim, I can't find my hat!" Daniels says. "Where did you put it?"

I didn't put it anywhere. It's a red toque; it has a hole from too much wear and tear, and says UFC in huge letters. I would much rather a cold head than wear it. I suggest the closet, his book bag, his bedroom. None of which are good suggestions.

He finally settles on a black toque with the ever trendy General Electric symbol on it as his only option. Clearly he didn't 'see the red toque on his dresser when he went to check his room. Or it magically appeared when I looked after he was gone.

While Daniel waited in the car, I got to listen to Jamie. Who couldn't find his keys (in his pocket) or his IPod. I hate IPods-just because there is a constant dialog in my house about them. Where they are, who has whose, who forgot who's at whose house, who borrowed which sibling's headset, and the all too frequent, who broke whose. It's ridiculous. I don't even listen to music, though I should, to block out talk of IPods.

So as I am sitting on the couch, furious that I am out of bed because Jamie couldn't think to move the bread to find his microwavable lunches, I hear it. His grown man self said, "Hey Aim, did you see my Ipod?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" he asks; amazed that I wasn't offering up suggestions as to possible hiding places for tiny music playing devices.

"Yes."

"Well I can't find it." Of course he can't find it. He hasn't moved from where he was standing when he first realized he wanted to look for it.

I know exactly where the darn thing is. It's plugged into my laptop. My laptop, that is right in front of him- on the couch, where he left it, after plugging in his Ipod to charge it, right before he went to bed.

I realize I am not getting peace and quiet until this mystery is solved.

"When did you last have it?" I query.

"Last night, before I went to bed," he says.

"Where did you have it?" I press.

He answers me seriously, "I plugged it into your computer."

"Did you check the computer?" I ask. This is incredible.

"It's not there," he informs me.

Do you remember that I said I was sitting on the couch? Yes. I was sitting on the couch, next to the computer. And sitting on top of the black computer, is a lime green Ipod. In plain site of where he is standing.

'Oh?' I ask, unplugging it and tossing it at him.

He swears it wasn't there when he looked.

The only explanation I can offer was that the Ipod must have been in the freezer, looking for the frozen dinners at the exact moment he was looking at the computer. At the rate he is going lately with finding things, he is going to lose his bed in the old age home after I drop him off next week.

Poor Daniel...

I finally won one. I mean it! Of all of the battles over who is the cooler parent, the one who stays at home, does the laundry, drives everyone all over town and cooks chickens instead of McDonalds, rarely wins. But today, December 14, 2009, I finally won one.

Daniel, as all kids do, left important information for the very last minute. As in, that he needs a box of graham crackers for building gingerbread houses at school in the morning. The clock rolled over to 8:45pm as he swore that his teacher only told him about it today, and that he didn’t mean to not tell me, until the last minute, again.

I must have made the face. You know, The Mom Look. That scowl that puts fear into the hearts of little boys and scares the bejesus out of husbands when they say something inappropriate at dinner parties.

Suddenly the living room was void of testosterone as both Jamie and Daniel scuttled off to Sobey’s in search of graham crackers; 15 minutes before closing. I am willing to bet they got the face from the poor woman who just wanted to get off her feet, instead of selling graham crackers at closing time.

I was changing a diaper when the door flew open and Daniel stormed in, huffing and puffing. I thought it was just too cold for him out, since it’s -30 and he wasn't wearing gloves or a hat. But then I hear him yell- Like I have never heard him yell.

“I am never going to the store with Dad without you again!” he fumes. “He is so hard to get along with! I told him that I needed graham crackers like I told you and he couldn’t find them but he wouldn’t look for them like you do! He got me these!"

With that, he grabs the bag, rustles around for a minute, and throws the box on the table.

Sure enough, just as I might have expected, he bought Stoned Wheat Thins.


“I am going to get beat up!” he wails. Being an 11 year old is a serious business. “I can’t even believe Dad. He is ridiculous! You would never even suggest I go to school with whole wheat crackers!”

I interject, wondering because Jamie is not yet in the house, if Daniel had stomped his way back from the supermarket in dangerously low temperatures leaving his father reading the nutritional information on random items.

He was plugging in the car. They had driven home together at least.

“What am I going to do?” he moans. “Dad called me ungrateful and I still have these horrible crackers. Who makes gingerbread out of Stone Wheat Crackers?” he spits, reading the box. Life really is pretty bad in this kid’s world right now- I don’t disagree. This is a predicament of epic proportions for a 6th grader.

I feel like I should point out that I have never heard of making gingerbread houses with graham crackers either, but it’s hardly the time for that.

Anyway. The crackers are in his book bag, because the store is closed. It’s too late for me to fix it now. He will for sure be made fun of tomorrow, making a whole wheat gingerbread house. But I got to win one.

Daniel yelling, “But Dad, at least Amy is cool enough to find the good crackers,” means that finally, after all the times he has thrown me out of the hockey dressing room because having a parent in there is embarrassing (though only when it’s the girl parent), I got to be the cool one.

Yup, that’s right folks. I am cool. A 6th grader who eats whole wheat crackers instead of cookies told me so.

I do though, have a sneaking suspicion ,that it’s going to be a long time before he forgets to tell me these things again. I bet you from now on; he will be calling me at recess to get me out to the supermarket, just in case. He won’t run the risk of leaving it with Jamie again.

Looking With Your Eyes Open...

A man’s eyes must be configured with a different operating system than a woman’s.

Their eyes must be manufactured at the same value brand factory that makes the toilet seats that don’t go down, the remotes that constantly flick stations, and the dishwasher doors that just don’t open. It’s a factory that makes the things that just don’t do things all the way. They make all of their almost right products and market them towards men.

The eye thing hit me tonight while I was in the kitchen, making rice to go with the chicken breast that I had the foresight to cook in the slow cooker before leaving for Daniel’s hockey game. I was on the phone with my mother at the time, and trying to Sheppard a toddler from the kitchen lest she get scalded by boiling chicken stock.

Then I hear the words that turn me into an angry bull, every single time. I bet my woman readers know exactly what I am about to say. Men, you are confused because you feel entitled to ask and have no idea why it boils our blood.

“Did you see my (please insert the name of an object there is no chance that you have a tracking device attached to here)”

In this particular instance, Daniel, having just come home from a hockey game, is looking for his NHL 2010 hockey game. He is convinced that somehow, Bridget has opened the Xbox and taken his disk and has somehow poked it somewhere just so he can’t play. Bridget is a clever 20 month old, but I don’t know how well she would do with plotting such a scheme.

I answer, “No, I didn’t see it.”

“But I can’t find it! Dad, I can’t find NHL 10” I hear him wail from the living room.

With that, Jamie sprang into action with the speed and focus of a fireman sliding down the pole on his way to a 5 alarm fire. By action, you might think that he began to hunt for the game, in the living room, near the entertainment unit, or on the mantle where we put everything not ideal for Bridget to carry around.
But he is not in the living room. He is in the kitchen-with me, and the chicken breast.

“Aim, did you see NHL 20- Daniel can’t find it.” He asks breathlessly. This is a crisis.

“Did you check up on the mantle?” I ask, already annoyed at what I know exactly what is going to happen.

“Yes. I checked. It’s not up there,” he responds, crazed now that I have only thought of one possible hiding place for such a precious item.

So I go through the list; in, on, under or behind the DVD case, DVD player or entertainment unit. Behind or down between the cushions on the couch, in the fireplace or underneath the Christmas tree.

No, it’s not there. It’s not anywhere. It’s gone indefinitely and life won’t be the same. Ever.

Not quite as traumatized by all of this, I plate supper, pour drinks and take cutlery from the clean dishes sitting in the dishwasher. I holler that supper is ready. I cut up Bridget’s and then head in to feed her.

Then I hear them. The lads have figured it out. The conspiracy theorists who live in my house have yet again reached a perfectly rational conclusion. They have received classified information from an unnamed man wearing a trench coat and hat in a vacant parking garage that; while I was in the bathroom Bridget must have taken the disk out of the Xbox, and thrown it in the garbage.

“Right. Come eat your supper, now- the two of you.” I say. Not nearly as Suzy homemakery as I could have.

But it’s no use. I hear them discussing the price of replacing the game that has been missing all of 5 minutes. I stand in the hallway to block the two of them from getting on their winter gear and heading out in -40 degree weather to dash to the nearest Wal-Mart before it closes.

“But it’s not here. Bridget threw it away!” they lament.

So I march into the living room, while my steaming chicken and rice sits on the counter, getting cold. I open up the glass doors that house the electronics and look on, under and behind them. The whole while, I hear both of them whine, like girls, ‘We already looked there-obviously, Bridget threw it away. There is no point in even looking.”

They are right. It makes much more sense to buy a new one than look for the one we already own. It’s only a week before Christmas. Money is so abundant that I have been blowing my nose in twenty dollar bills instead of Kleenex all week. It is a much better idea to buy a new one. So much sense if fact, that tomorrow, I will go to the West Edmonton Mall and park our truck in the Parkade and not take notice to which section I am in. Then I will scold Bridget for losing it, and go get a new one.

Determined, I put my hand up on the mantle. The mantle they were so annoyed that I suggested they look on because they had already thoroughly searched all four feet of it.

But amazingly, I feel something that doesn’t feel wooden. I feel something that slides across the mantle like freshly waxed skis on snow. When I see it, it’s shiny. The bounty is shiny, with a hockey player on the front and big letters that spell NHL 10.

I think I might start a business in tracking down lost things. I can track down missing persons who are sitting on their couch, or maybe art work that is still hanging on the walls of the owner. I can reunite dogs that are tied on in the backyard with their concerned owners in the kitchen.
Jamie however was made to apologize to Bridget for making such wild accusations. Hopefully, apologizing to a toddler will have taught him a lesson. Maybe tomorrow, when he can’t find his work shirts, hanging in his closet, he will know not to accuse her of wearing them to the bar and leaving them in a cab somewhere in New York City.

This is just a single example, from a random 20 minute snippet of my day that confirms my suspicion. My long standing suspicion that the reason men need such large televisions has nothing at all to do with their manhood; it has everything to do with their severely inferior eyesight.

Stop talking with your hands- literally.

I have had a terrible run of bad luck where it concerns motor vehicular accidents.

It began the first week I had my drivers license. My little Ford Festiva (only larger than a Hot Wheels car by about 2 square feet)got rear ended by our neighbor in his big Dodge Ram. Later that same year, the same little car (which made a very stereotypical cartoon style 'Neep Neep' noise when you honked the horn) got T-Boned on the Trans Canada Highway, by a Transport truck. Both times, I was really very lucky. Both times, it wasn't my fault.

In my second year of University a friend had been given an Eddie Bauer Edition Ford Explorer as a reward for going to University. I was without wheels at the time (due to the misfortune with the 18 wheeler and the Hot Wheels car). Getting picked up for a movie in this vehicle was heaven. You have no idea how many directions you could move those heated seats in! So many directions in fact that after said friend 'didn't notice' the ambulance in the intersection with the flashing lights and blaring siren and T-boned it, they had to cut me out. Not my fault. 3 broken ribs and a messy semester at University later, I am a nervous passenger.

No longer a student, I got a job at the airport and drove 30kms each way to get to work in the middle night. 3am on the highway every day, I was always very nervous of hitting a moose or falling asleep at the wheel. I never did. After agreeing to show up for an overtime shift, driving to work at 11am, the person I was passing thought to pass the car ahead of them, and because he or she (I will never know because they didn't stop)didn't check their blind spot and ran me off the highway. I flipped 4 times, and then ended up in the ditch between the east and west bound lanes of the highway. I will tell you, hot firemen are a myth, and the accident was not my fault. Thankfully there was a nurse driving behind me and a doctor behind her. I am now a very conscientious driver.

So it really makes me mad when I see people texting while they are driving. Talking is one thing. Texting is another entirely. Who in their right mine thought that it was a good idea in the very beginning to make a device that requires you to look down and type while thinking of ridiculous abbreviations like LOL, LMAO, or ROTFL. Why may I ask, are people doing all of this laughing. Surely, things are no so funny as to require all of these abbreviations about laughing. Also, why must they be telling people about it? Pick up the phone and call them- from the comfort of your living room and they will hear you laugh!

So the other day, Bridget and I were driving to pick Daddy up from work and we were singing our ABC's. When all of a sudden a Nissan Altima wanders across the lane and in front of my truck. It wanders back. Then in sort of jolts over, into my lane, drifts for a bit and wanders back. Then it does it again. I am furious. I leave off my ABC's somewhere around Q and beep my horn. Had it been any later that 4:30pm I would have assumed that this person who couldn't handle their vehicle was drinking and driving. But because it was still afternoon, I automatically assumed (which we all know to be the wrong thing to do) that the stellar driving skills were due to some teenager sending text messages about what they are wearing to school the next day.

When I speed up to get away from this person so that they don't wander in front of me and make me bump their rear bumper, they start to wander towards my truck again. I honk my horn, but can only see what looks like a clown wig as I am still only next to her back seat. Suddenly, the light changes ahead of us and I slow to a stop.

I look down into the car, honestly expecting to see some high maintenance teenager click clicking away, but what I see made me laugh out loud and then choke on righteous indignation.

There, in the drivers seat of this boat of a car that couldn't pick a lane is a better than middle aged lady, drinking an gigantic can of energy drink. You know, those giant cans, the ones that are the size of beer cans that unsavoury uncles bring back from vacations abroad. The only think larger was her hair.

She was wandering because she couldn't see past the end of the can and had no peripheral vision due to the massive head of hair impeding her blind spot.

So in fact, I was right when I jumped to my first conclusion. She was in fact drinking and driving. She couldn't manage to sip from her can and still drive.

The number of distractions on the roads these days are ridiculous. I am adding to my list of pet peeves the consumption of any beverage.

Really, with all of the bad remixes on the radio these days, I think I would personally fund a remake of the old song that says 'Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel.'

So people, could you not just eat and drink in your dining room? Could you not just talk on the phone or text from home or the office? Just drive your cars people. Not every minute of the day do you need to be proving that just because you can chew gum and walk, you can also clip your toenails, knit a toque and drive your car.

Service With a Smile!

My day started an hour earlier than normal when Jamie turned on the bedroom light in our still very dark bedroom (in our still very dark house, in our very dark city) and announced that he needed to be at work an hour earlier than normal.

Please know, that it is not advisable to spring such information on an unsuspecting, half asleep girlfriend, who is laying warm in her bed, in -30 degree weather.

My vocal cords fought with the morning breath and the dry mouth to garble the words, 'Take the truck." I throw my arm over my eyes and then the blanket over my head. I am trying to keep the light from reaching Bridget who is like a little warm bundle in my bed, with her sticky off hair and pillow marks in her chubby little cheeks. No one in their right mind wakes a toddler, so it's my mission in life to keep her shielded from light and loud noises as long as humanly possible. I know I will eventually lose the battle with the sun, but I don't need to lose to Jamie and his GE bulb in the over head light.

Then my mind hears the noise my ears don't want to hear. You know, that noise. The one like a record of peaceful music screeching to a halt. Oh wait, maybe if you were listening it would have sounded more like, "But you have to drive Daniel to hockey-remember?"

Right. Now. Let me tell you something. I couldn't be more proud of Daniel. He is a very good hockey player and I love watching his games and practices. I love our hockey day Tim Hortons trips to warm up before (and sometimes after) practice. For as good a defence man he is, he is one million times better as a brother to Bridget. I would never object to driving him to hockey. Or the moon if he asked.

However, I was not thinking about any of this an hour earlier than normal when the over head light flipped on scaring away the dark. It was 30 degrees below zero. I could feel the draft through the curtains. The baby was still sleeping. I needed to straighten my hair before I went out in public.

"Yup."

Feet on cold floor. Toothbrush in mouth. Jeans and shirt (though not high fashion, both clean). Wake Bridget. Deal with gravity defying baby hair. Wash baby face. Pants and shirt (though not high baby fashion, both clean). Snowsuit, hat, mitts, boots for baby. Sweater, coat, sneakers, car keys, cell phone for grumpy morning mommy monster.

The passenger seat was frozen. No, the seat wasn't cold. The passenger seat was frozen. Solid. As thought it was a water seat. And it was 30 degrees below zero.



The friendly voice on the radio informs me that it's not -30 after all. It's -39 with the windchill. I am glad she has given it to me straight.

We need gas before driving to St. Albert and due to the rush to get out the door an unexpected hour earlier than normal, we also need a trip to Tim Hortons.

We pull out of the driveway and up the street. When we get to the main road, we head towards the Shell station that has the Tim Horton's inside. I say my silent Thank you dear Lord for inventing drive through coffee places for mornings like these."

But then I see it. The line. You know the line. The one that weaves it's way through the drive through lane, across the parking lot, and out onto the main road where drivers are swerving around it, swearing on coffee drinkers.

Dangnamit.

There could be a natural disaster causing all of the people in the city to head for higher ground, and Will Smith and Bruce Willis could be both on their way to save mankind and there would still be a line up of epic proportions protruding from the bloody drive through.

Jamie pulls up to the pump. I know what's coming. I can feel it (and the windchill) in my bones.

Then he says it. Those words that make the hairs on my arms stand up on end and makes me think there are spiders on my neck.

"Just go in and get it. I want a bagel and a French Vanilla. Thanks."

Now, I will admit that pumping gas at -39 with the windchill is much worse than getting out of bed. I will give him that much. Because I am nice like that.

"Sure thing".

The sound of my sneakers making their way across the compacted snow was like nails on a chalkboard. I still had the hair on my arms standing straight up. The spiders were still on my neck. I could feel the air in my nose crystallizing with every single step.

The girl in the Tim Hortons was awesome at her job, super friendly, quick to get to me, got the order right. She looked me right in the eye and smiled every time she spoke. She was constantly looking me in the face. I suspected she might be a toastmasters leader in her spare time. Then I notice someone else smiling at me. I know I pull up to the window a lot, but this was really something. I flash them all my pearly whites, thank them, and bid them a wonderful day.

So I scrunch my way back across the snow to the truck. Climb in. Open coffee, open tea, unwrap bagels, distribute bagels and beverages, put on seat belt. Turn the ever hilarious 'Best of Pepper and Dylan".

We comment on the terrible road clearing. We pass the scene of an accident that happened earlier in the week and analyze how it happened. We discuss what time I need to leave to drive to practice. We discuss the amount of butter on the bagels. It's a pretty routine trip to St. Albert to drop Jamie off. We arrive safe and sound (if a bit chilly). I kiss him goodbye, flash him my pearly whites and move to the drivers seat.

I put on my seat belt, change the radio stations, hand Bridget a bottle and adjust my mirror.

It was then that I spotted it. The huge omission that I had made this morning and that no boyfriends or daughters felt compelled to tell me about before heading out into the world.

I immediately knew why the nice gals at Tim's were doing so much smiling. They weren't happy to see me at all. They were holding in giggles.

I had left the house and in all of my feet on cold floor, toothbrush in mouth, get dressed, wake Bridget and change diaper, deal with gravity defying baby hair, wash baby face, pants, shirt, socks, snowsuit, hat, mitts, boots for baby, sweater, coat, sneakers, car keys, cell phone for grumpy morning mommy monster panic, I had totally forgotten to brush my own hair- never mind straighten it.

I looked like a hippie second cousin of my popcorn box pal Orville Redenbacher. With a rooster's comb in back. Curly in the front where it was meant to be straight, matted in the back where it was meant to lay flat.

You might think I am exaggerating. But I don't exaggerate. I took a bath last night and washed my hair. Then fell asleep on it. I was out of my house, sporting short naturally wavy hair, that had been slept on while wet.

I knew you would see it my way. It really was that bad.

At first I was a little embarrassed. Just a little though- it's no use to be embarrassed when you are long since out of the embarrassing situation. It won't change a thing.

But on the drive back from St. Albert with my Orville Redenbacher perm, I came to a conclusion. If having a ridiculously bad bed head is what I have to do to get people in customer service smile at me, I might make a habit of it. Tomorrow, I am going to photograph myself and enclose the result with any correspondence which I might decide to have in the future with Air Canada, Sears or Canada Post.

The Curio Cabinet.

I don't like brick-a-brack. I don't like collections of things. I don't like clutter. Any more than 3 oranges are too many in the fridge.


So my Mother thought that I would like to have a new Snowbabies figurine every year at Christmas. God love her, they are cute. If you haven't seen them, they are tiny little bisque figures that are coated in little bisque bits the size of finely grated coconut to resemble snow. Their little chubby faces poke out of their parkas and they are always doing something very cute, like coloring on walls, or admiring their bums in mirrors. As collectibles go, they are quite sweet. If you have to collect collectables, that is.

So Jamie and I have moved quite a bit since we have been together and the Snowbabies have fared quite well. They have been all over Newfoundland. They have crossed the country. They have survived the kids playing ball in the house.

But I finally broke down and requested a curio cabinet as a Christmas gift from my mother who didn't quite agree with my initial request for a carpet steamer. It arrived with the normal fuss that I have when ordering anything from Sears. It only took 2.5 hours of my life for them to find it the warehouse while I waited outside in a snowstorm with two grumpy kids in the backseat of the truck.

After one hour of waiting for anything, you figure that it must be coming soon and you can't have wasted a full hour of your life waiting on something just to give up and go home. After 2 hours you think you have lost your mind altogether. So you can image my delight when after an additional 30 minutes, a nice young man came to the parking lot with a big box, apologized for the wait and opened the back of my truck to put it inside.

You can imagine the opposite of delight when he picked up the long anticipated box full of wood and glass and dropped it on the parking lot.

I would either have to drive back around the mall, put the hungry baby back into the stroller, go back into Sears, ride the elevator to the basement, wait in line and then request a refund, take the elevator back up, leave the store, wrestle the still hungry child into the car seat she had just waited for hours in before driving back to the house or take my chances and bring it home.

What a hard decision.

So it's been sitting in my dining room for the better part of a week. I am short on space and even shorter on patience around here, so though it was intended to be a gift from Santa, I sequestered Jamie last night and he put it together. 4 hours later, we determined there was no broken glass, thank goodness, though it did come complete with a dandy scratch.

However, after 2.5 hours of waiting at Sears and 3.5 hours of assembling, one does not then spend another 3.5 disassembling, repacking, then standing in line to deal with the biddies at Sears. I will live with the scratch. I have 3 kids in the house; something similar was destined to happen.

Now I should mention that while putting up the Christmas tree last week, Jamie and Daniel packed up the Snowbabies and Willow Tree Angels that lived on the mantle to replace them with Jesus, Mary and Joseph and the rest of the nativity posse that live up there during Christmas. The followed my directions, wrapping them carefully and putting them into a shoebox. I was so pleased that they listened to me about something.

So this morning when I was moving the little friends into their new wooden and glass home, I was dismayed to see that the little bum admiring fellow and the Naughty or Nice sign from another scene had broken. Then I noticed that the Man, Woman and Child Willow Tree Angel scene was a little upsetting to look at, what with the father's head having cracked off.

I carefully dusted them and then assigned them their new shelves, and repaired them as I went along. They look lovely in their places. The cracks happened in convenient places and you couldn’t tell if you didn’t know.

Now that everyone was in good health, I was suddenly scared for when Bridget noticed that the door opens and she can take out the "Babies".

So I said, "Ssssh, don't touch. Babies are sleeping."

As cute as a button (and cuter than all the babies on the shelves) she knelt in front of the cabinet and sssshhhh'd babies to sleep. Periodically, through the day she makes her way back to the cabinet to ensure the babies are sleeping soundly. Thankfully they are pretty quiet and she might believe they are always sleeping. But she is a very good baby minder.

So I have made an executive decision. It looks like the next time the babies need to move somewhere; Bridget will be in charge of packing the box.