Sunday, 27 February 2011

He's a genius, genius...

(update from last night's misery-fest: feeling a little better, yet now possibly have an ear infection. Boo-ya. Also, am fully aware that my current scrawniness and lack of appetite is just setting me up for a slow-metabolism rebound, aided, of course by previously-mentioned alfredo pasta, etc. Can't wait.)

SO... I threw the Vaughnster onto the potty in the basement this afternoon, and he grabbed a magazine (he takes after his father), and said, I quote, "That's from Costco."

So I look, and he's holding, sure enough, Costco Connection.

"Um," I say. "Where does it say Costco?"

"Right there." He points to the word Costco.

Which leads me to believe that he's obviously a genius. And also that those marketing/branding experts sure know their stuff, since he can also "read" Walmart, Loblaws, and IKEA.

If only he'd use his smarts for good, instead of evil. After de-cribbing his crib into a Big Boy Bed a few weeks ago, I've just now taken the liberty of installing a baby gate at the door of his room, so even though he can climb out of bed and open his door, he is still somewhat contained. Loud, but contained.

"Help open gate."

"I go oooouuuut now."

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"

But stuff, as he's discovered, is not as confined. Laundry baskets, launched over a baby gate onto a hardwood floor, make a racket. Dirty laundry, however, is quieter. And Blankie and Frederick are quite loud, since once they're out of reach, the world ends... not with a bang but a howl.

Saturday, 26 February 2011

My name is Karen...and I'm a NeoCitraholic

Again, I'm sick.



For about three weeks now, I've been hacking my way to chiseled abs (keep an eye out for my new, patented, Kaff-ercise program, available soon at a gym near you), which would be awesome except for the fact that I'm cold and exhausted all the time, the nose is running like a faucet, and oh yes, I'm hacking up a lung for 65% of every day.

Yes, I still have to get up to look after the kids.

Yes, I still have to take care of myself (although I am accepting applications for Experienced and Attractive Sponge Bathers) (experience optional).

Yes, I still have to eat and drink water.


The last bit, it seems, is what isn't happening. The kids, sure, get a bit more horizontal parenting than usual, but they're fed, clothed, changed, and provided with toy-riffic stimulation, books and songs, all day long. I have my daily shower, which I dread, because there's that minute between getting out of my clothes and into the hot shower that is SO cold and awful.

And then there's the food.


I'm not hungry. Well, I am, but not for anything nutritious. I manage my oatmeal every morning, sometimes with half a glass of juice, but more likely with a sip of water, and then it's all I can do to sip some tea or my beloved NeoCitran (which I went without during pregnancy - such deprivation!) till lunch, at which time I'll nibble on the same stuff the kids get (healthy! not sufficient, but healthy), then lie still while they nap (but I can't sleep - turns out you need to be able to breathe to sleep), and maybe have some tea. And then dinner, followed by a bite or two of fruit, and maybe some more tea. Yep.

Chris called me "skinny" the other day.* Not fit, not muscular, not lean, but skinny. Anyone that knows me knows that I'm militantly anti-skinny. At my worst, when I had the flu for 2 weeks and lost 20 lbs (trust me, not a good look), I wore 2 sweatshirts and 2 pairs of sweatpants to the gym, so that nobody, including me, would have to be exposed to my weak, stick-like arms and twiggy little legs. Yick.


A woman at the gym made an envious comment to me when I picked up the kids the other day, and I wanted to shake her and say, "Do you think I WANT my ribs to be visible in my upper chest?" NOT a good look for anyone (Calista Flockhart, take note).

I'm trying to muster, of course. I'm trying to go to bed at a reasonable time (oops) and to proactively eat good, nutritious, health-and-muscle-restoring foods. In fact, we had a chicken alfredo pasta last night. Poor food choice, all around. I'm still working out (weekly/weakly), and have to film my Attack recertification video in a day and a half, despite my current miserable state.

Oh yes, and I'm even pastier white than usual.

And my teeth hurt.



Where was I going with all this? Oh yes: if you staple a St. Bernard with a cask of NeoCitran around its neck to your resume, hopeful Sponge-Bath Applicants, I might look at it more favourably...

(Next Morning Edit: Woo. Looks like I had a fever last night, eh? Feeling MUCH better today)

* I reminisce, sort of fondly, to the time, right before a competition, that he saw me getting into the shower and called me Golem. But at least I had muscles then!!!

Friday, 18 February 2011

You missed your chance

To all of those so-called savvy investors, general vacationers, and real estate mavens, well, you missed out.

The prime piece of Medicine Hat real estate that I've been shilling as a honeymoon getaway/ski lodge/summer home has been snatched up, and I'm afraid, friends, that it's your loss.


While we are no longer "house-rich", as I like to call it, nor are we "tycoons" anymore, it turns out that I had the wrong definition for tycoon all along, in that one apparently needs to make money on one's real estate, not just own a bunch of it and pay all the mortgages, etc. Who knew? But I digress. The point was that now, no longer being "house-rich", we are also no longer "dirt-poor". But...

We just sold the house that I brought my babies home to. The house in which we went from being a couple to being a family. It was my babies' first home and we just sold it!


We can now afford to spend money frivolously on luxuries such as food and heat. But...

It was the house we bought when we went on our Grand Adventure, that we decorated like fiends and made our own, with paint, flooring, and totally rockin' backsplashery. (and here, too)

And now we have to do it again. Eek. But...

We won't have to deal with the Worst Relocation Company on the Planet anymore. But...

It was sort of our one last tangible link to life in the Hat -- our park, our friends, our nightly walks. It feels that that chapter of our life has closed.

At least we still exist there, on Google Earth.

Thursday, 10 February 2011

Krazy for trying, and I'm krazy for crying...

There comes a point in every person's life, no matter who you are, when you seriously consider the value a patch of skin has to you.

For me, that time is now, hours after muttering,"I promise," to my son (after weeks of saying that I'd try to get to it), and minutes after finally sitting down to fix his matchbox tow truck and, naturally, easily, and on-the-first-try, krazy gluing the damn thing to my left middle finger.

It's not attached by much; a quarter of a centimetre, square, but enough that it's causing me to seriously debate the pain of ripping that big of a hole in my being, versus manhandling two small children, driving around and making meals, etc, with a bright yellow tow truck hanging off my hand.

The package was very helpful: skin bonding -- soak in water (this is right after the bit where it warns not to get it on skin).

That's where Chris found me, draped over the sink, head on my arm, feeling sorry for myself while trying really hard not to laugh. Not to mention the irony: really? Krazy glue comes off with just water? That doesn't sound very crazy to me. Even maple syrup requires soap.

On top of everything else (I'm sick, I'm tired, I've signed up for too many social events this weekend, Chris has to work on Saturday, leaving me without a break till Sunday, yadda yadda...), I now have to face my son, and teach him, for the first time in his two years, one month, and two days, that sometimes, just sometimes, when Mommy says, "I promise," it's not a guarantee, as I've always taught him it was.

And then I'll have to explain that he can't have his tow truck yet; Mommy's not done playing with it.

Tuesday, 1 February 2011

Quick Update: 8 months

Ailsa had her 8 month checkup/4 month shots today (a story for another day -- don't get me started), and what a difference!

At her last checkup (at 4 months), my doctorb was worried that she had fallen off her growth curve; after her superstar start (50th and 50th percentiles for height and weight), she had dropped in both categories by enough to make him worry. But maybe, he said, looking me up and down, it's genetic. Trying to choose between being relieved and offended, I made up my mind at his next comment.

Apparently, she could just be starving to death! Oh, is that all????

As soon as I got here, I made an appointment for my OWN health, and my new doctorb told me to put the bub onto a bottle, stat, and start to sleep better.*


The bub took the bottle like, well, Mommy to a bottle**, and I am happy to report that she has gained 6 1/2 lbs and 3 inches since then! (Ailsa, not me. I'm still rocking the "how tall are you?" "not very" joke.) (They were needed pounds, though - we're not working on creating a sumo baby!)

So, her 8 month stats are as follows:

Height: 27 inches
Weight: 17 lbs

She's now back on the 50/50 growth curve...(again, are you sure she's mine?) but her cuteness? Off the charts.

* I'm fine now, too. Thanks for asking.

** That part is definitely genetic.