The incredibly mediocre pretender

J is growing up. I love it and hate it all at once. The boy who, a few short months ago, would always say "I were" is now not only saying "I was" but is actually correcting the poor grammar of random cartoon characters.

J: How come he says "I did saw a puddy tat" instead of "I did see ..."?

(My BAAAAAAABY!!!!! *sob*)

And N is getting bigger and bigger, too. Today, we packed up his old clothes. My last baby. This kind of thing makes me happy and sad all at once. I'm glad he's growing, but I miss my tiny baby. Is it good? Is it bad? It's a toss-up, really.

**********
We took the kids to the ice festival. It was only slightly affected by the uncharacteristically warm weather. A chunk of one melty ice sculpture fell to the ground with a large clunk as we walked by. But J still got to go down the ice slides. And see the ice maze. And the dragon and dinosaur sculptures, and of course the big castle which they guarded, which was quite spectacular. So he had lots of fun. Hard to push a stroller through slush and crowds, but all told a good experience.

When we left, J decided that he was going to pretend to be the ice dragon. And H was to be the dinosaur.

H: And what's mommy? Is she the castle? Or the slide?
J: No. Mommy is the Ice Princess.
H: Oh!
J: And the dragon and the dinosaur will fight each other.
H: Really?
J: Yes. But the dragon will protect the Ice Princess.
H: Okay.
J: The dragon says "ROAR"! And the dinosaur says "ROAR"!
H: Okay. ROAR!
J: ROAR! And the dragon and the dinosaur fight.
H: And what does the Ice Princess do?
J: Nothing. She doesn't do anything. She just sits there in the chair.
H: She just sits there and does nothing while we try to kill each other?
J: Yes.
T: I was totally cut out for this job.

**********
Clearly, J is really into imaginative play now. But he's not so good with improvisation. As a result, J's particular brand of imaginative play is a bit tough to take for any extended period. It goes something like this.

J: I'm going to be the Mommy Ghost. And you be the Baby Ghost.
T: Ok. I'm Baby Ghost.
J: Hi. I'm Mommy Ghost.
T: Hi Mommy.
J: No! Mommy Ghost!
T: Oh, sorry. Hi Mommy Ghost.
J: Hi Baby Ghost. (pause) Baby Ghost?
T: Yes, Mommy Ghost?
J: Can you say "Where's my Mommy Ghost"?
T: Where's my Mommy Ghost?
J: Now laugh at this!
T: Ha ha ha ha ha!!
J: Good Baby Ghost. Now you can go to preschool!

And it only gets worse from there.

J: Daddy. Can you pretend to be the wishing well with the big purple light?
H: Ok. I'm the wishing well with the big purple light.
J: No! Talk like the wishing well!
H: (in the standard very deep voice he uses for all things inanimate) I'm the wishing well with the big purple light.
J: Hi wishing well with the big purple light.
H: Hi J.
J: Wishing well with the big purple light?
H: Yes, J.
J: Why do you have a big purple light?
H: I don't know. I just do.
J: No! You say "Because I'm the wishing well"!
H: Oh. Ok. Because I'm the wishing well.
J: Oh! (pause) Wishing well with the big purple light?
H: J, can I please talk to Mommy for a minute?
J: No! Wishing well with the big purple light?

It is at this point that H and I generally consider searching for a wishing well with a big purple light so we can jump in and just really wish for it to kill us quickly. But clearer heads prevail and we continue to play. If under protest.

**********
J likes things of the same basic shape and colour to be together. Especially if they are different sizes. He groups these things together all the time. And if you try to put anything away, he will flip out about it. His logic is quite rational, really.

J: No! This is the mommy yellow ball, and this is the baby yellow ball! They have to stay together!!

**********
A kid who constantly looks for the loophole, you really have to be specific when giving J directions. It is not sufficient to just say, for example, "Don't wake up your brother" ... he will plead ignorance when he does so. He needs detail. Such as:

T: J, please don't wake your brother. Don't scream his name. Or anything else. Or raise your voice. Or smack him on the head. Or pat him on the head. In fact, smacking or patting him at all is generally not okay right now. Don't pinch his cheeks. Or his hand. Or any other part of him. Or pull on his clothes. Or his feet. Or his hands. Or his head. Or anything else somehow attached to him. And don't push his swing. Or stop his swing. Or hammer, or saw, or screw his swing. Or jump up and down in front of him and shake his swing. Or throw your toys at his swing. Or at him. Or in his general direction. Or down the stairs. Or into that tree. Or any other tree. Maybe just don't throw things in general, okay? Just. Please. Don't. Wake. Your. Brother.

But he still finds a way. Oh yes, he does.

**********
And so it goes. This is our life. It's a good life. Really.

And I guess the good thing about them growing up is that their quality of imaginative play and interpretation is bound to improve as they age. Right?

Right?

Please?

T has a baby

T has a baby.
The baby has croup.
The baby coughs and coughs.
The coughing wakes T.
And the baby is held.

The baby is held.
Cuddled close.
The baby breathes in the cold night air.
His swollen air passages shrink a bit.
And the baby drifts back into fitful slumber.
Only to awaken at the next coughing fit.
Over and over.
This can't be good.
The croupy baby needs sleep.

The croupy baby needs sleep.
Rest will help.
If the baby will sleep, he will recover.
But the baby coughs and coughs.
And the baby wakes up.
Over and over again.
With a scary sounding barking cough.
And the baby needs a doctor.

The baby sees a doctor.
The doctor hears the croupy cough.
The doctor prescribes a steroid.
The steroid will help shrink the air passages.
But the steroid causes insomnia.
And the baby does not sleep.
Ever.
So neither does anyone else.
Because the baby is sick.

The baby is sick.
The baby wants his mommy.
And if the baby cannot see his mommy, he cries.
So T cannot lie down.
Because the baby will not permit it.
The baby wants to lie down and gaze at T.
Who must be sitting up.
If T lies down, the baby cries.
If the baby is not lying down, then the baby wants to be held upright.
And T complies.
Because she loves the croupy baby.

T loves the croupy baby.
But she has a migraine.
And she is very very tired.
T has been up for the past two nights with croupy baby.
And croupy baby awoke today at 4:00 a.m.
And cried.
And cried.
And T held the baby.

T holds the baby.
Stares deeply into his eyes.
And tells the baby how much she loves him.
And the baby smiles and coos.
Stuffed up and sickly, but no longer struggling for breath.
And life is good.

Life is good.
For the baby.
But if T doesn't get some sleep soon, her head will explode.
Migraines are like that.
And a babysitter is not an option.
Because the baby is sick.

The baby is sick.
So T sits upright.
Where the baby may gaze at her.
And she tries to make him feel better.
As her head throbs.
Someday, the baby will sleep.
And then, T will sleep also.
But for now, sleep will wait.
Because T has a baby.

T has a baby.

Who do you love?

Okay. I've linked up to other bloggers for about a week now, and I feel pretty good about that. There may well be more to come, 'cause many of my favourite blogs weren't showcased there. But for now, I'm interested in hearing your thoughts and recommendations. What are your favourite blogs? Come on ... give me something to read! ('Cause God knows, I don't already spend more than enough time on the Internet.)

So, okay. You can tell me in the comments. Or you can post on your own site and just let me know about it here. But however you do it, I want to know all about your favourite reads. So tell me ... who do you love?

Gotta go. N is screaming again. One day, I'll try to record this sound for posterity. For now, just know that he sounds sort of like a cross between the attacking Velociraptors from the first Jurassic Park movie ... and Doris the Finkasaurus from The Flintstones' "Son of Rockzilla" episode. Only, you know, far louder and more annoying than either of those.

Everybody hurts. Everybody cries. Everybody spits on the windshield of a Ferrari. Sometimes.

Sometimes, I forget that life with children is abnormal to those without kids. Sometimes, I fail to notice that things are a bit odd in our household. But then my bloggy friend Mrs. Mouthy comes along and reminds me that this is just not normal. In fact, it's comical. (Thanks, Ma'am; I'd temporarily forgotten to look for the humour in the situation.)

Mrs. Mouthy is a lovely person, with a wealth of patience. She has her bad weeks too, but always looks for and generally finds the humour in her life. Honestly, she's so brilliant that I can't even link to individual posts. There are just too many of them. Yup, she's that good. Go read her, and you'll see.

Anyway ...

**********
T has an assignment due this week.

T tries valiantly to get through her readings, or at least find the assignment answers and avoid a late fee. J and N work to see which can drive T crazier. N screams and refuses to have his morning nap. J insists that he is a Jack-in-the-Box ... trust me when I tell you that this sounds less disruptive than it really is. Every time N begins to nod off, J shrieks and wakes him again. H hollers at J to knock it off, which helps not in the least. J shrieks in delight. N screams, awake again. Finally, T has a mini-meltdown. She can't do this. Through tears, she tells H: "Either you guys go, or I go. I don't care which". And H goes out with the kids.

T works on her assignment. It is nearly 50% complete, when ...

H calls. He must return home. The van has a flat tire, and the winds have begun to gust. T needs to look after the kids while H changes the flat. They return. We eat. N is fed and put down for his nap. H goes out in the cold to change the flat.

J sobs because he can't help Daddy change the flat. Locks H out. Objects with violent screaming to the door being unlocked. Runs about like mad. Shrieks. Hits. Hollers "NNNNOOOOO!!" and continually awakens N. J receives a time out. And returns, not quite as subdued as one might hope.

J heads toward the door and turns on a light, as it is getting dark in the living room. Nervous that he is about to lock the door again:

T: What are you doing over there, J?
J: (turns light off) But I want it to be bright.
T: Oh. Then turn the light back on.
J: NO!
T: Just turn on the light and it will be bright.
J: NOOOO! Not the big one!!!
T: Fine. (reaches over and turns on the small light)
J: Turn the light off!
T: No. I need the light now.
J: But it's hurting my eyes!!
T: It is not.
J: YES IT IS!!
T: No, it's not.
J: YES IT IIIIIISSSSS!!!!!
T: (in a horrible, hissing whisper) Stop screaming! If you wake up N again, I will be forced to strangle you slowly, with a hairbrush or something!

And then my head spun completely around. I swear it. My chiropractor will have his work cut out for him when next I have time to see him. At this rate, I expect that will be in about 23,867,978 years.

A few moments pass:

T: Please put N's carseat back where you found it.
J: Okay. (climbing into carseat box) But first, I have to pretend to be a mail carrier.

Because all mail carriers live inside a carseat box. Didn't you know? Me neither!

**********
The light is still on. N is sleeping again. H has headed to Canadian Tire to try and get the flat repaired. J is very much alive and, as I type this, he is sitting beside me, licking the windshield of his remote controlled Ferrari like some kind of deranged cat and pretending his spit is wiper fluid as he forces the wiper back and forth and nearly breaks the thing right off. (Once when his attention was distracted, I removed the Ferrari from the couch and hid it. But when he pitched a fit, I decided one little Ferrari wiper just wasn't worth it. Seriously. It's not.)

All's right with the world. But there may well be a late assignment fee in my future.

**********
Update: Five minutes after his Ferrari was returned to the couch, at his insistence:

J: Mommy, can you please take the Ferrari off the couch?

I'm going to throw something. Possibly the Ferrari. Which J is licking again. And scrubbing. With a hairbrush. I'm not even kidding.

Send vodka.

Hamster Rap

So, I posted a comment on another site a few days ago, and my word verification popped up as "hangstr". I speculate that this is supposed to be some rare breed of gangster-hamster. Only, you know, it's missing the "e", which I think is a sign that spelling words with missing vowels is all the rage these days. And also, that a silent "e" is really kind of an optional vowel anyway. Silent letters only complicate the world and ultimately, they lead to civil unrest. Really, we should spell all words phonetically and avoid all the heartache. And you know what word is totally not spelt phonetically? That's right: "phonetically", which, using my new and improved English, should be spelt more like "funnetiklee". But that just looks stupid and unrefined, so you just know it will never catch on even though it totally should.

And then I thought: You know who I bet could totally get behind this phonetic spelling idea? That's right ... Jenny, the Bloggess. And I'm pretty sure she could make use of a few gangster-hamsters, too. She could send them out to do her bidding. I bet a gangster-hamster could be pretty intimidating in the right circumstances. I mean, if it had an appropriate wardrobe and weaponry and such. Or maybe if it was hyped up on speed and infested with rabies or something. It could probably get some real results then.

Think about it. It could kill any snake that dares to come within 25 feet of her car. Make her many minions behave themselves appropriately. I bet it could off the Comics Curmudgeon for her and put her higher up in the running for Best Humour Blogger. At the very least, she could use its warmth to help operate her iPhone. Enough well-placed gangster-hamsters, and Jenny could rule the world!

Of course, her new puppy would probably just eat them. And then poor Mr. Pickles would die of rabies, or a speed overdose, or some such thing. And naturally, she'd sue me for giving her the idea. Yeah; she'd probably win too, given that she's wildly popular and totally influential ... I mean, she's like the world's 3,500th greatest grampa. And also, from what I understand, she's not above bribery or blackmail. Plus she can kill kittens using just her words. I like kittens. I really shouldn't get on her bad side. (Please don't kill any kittens, Jenny?)

So maybe we should just forget the whole thing. Leave the gangster-hamsters alone. In the lab. Being subjected to all those experiments. The animal testing, and all those injections of rabies and speed. Of course, that will totally be on Jenny's head and I don't know how she'll be able to live with herself. But that's the cross she'll have to bear.

Okay. Enough of this. Go visit Jenny, the Bloggess. (Just like everyone else!) 'Cause she's all kinds of awesome! *


* Fact: No kittens are killed when I say "awesome". That sort of thing is exclusive to Jenny. I don't know why.

It's in his kiss

Last night, I had a dream that I flunked my first assignment in the current class. Apparently, my efforts were so abysmal that they didn't even bother to grade it. They were actually insulted by my low quality project and just wanted me to redo it in its entirety. (This is actually unheard of; in these courses, there are no do-overs ... if you fail, you fail.) Assignment marks should be released some time today.

Now, on to business ...

**********
Today's inspiration comes from Heinous over at Irregularly Periodic Ruminations, another fabulous writer with a most excellent imagination. Heinous works hard, but still takes time out of his busy schedule to periodically answer readership questions from the male perspective. He's a good samaritan and, in his spare time, enjoys visiting with his eccentric neighbours and helping them out with their gardening problems.

See? Saintly.

The other day, Heinous posted about, among other things, his first kiss. Which of course only served to make me think. And that kind of thing can be dangerous; I don't recommend it. (I know you like humour in your posts, Heinous. Hope you aren't too upset that you inspired this little diddy.)

**********
When I was a kid, I went to bible camp every summer. A true tomboy, I marched to the beat of a different drummer, and I really didn't fit in (not that I tried too hard). But the summer I turned 12, camp was different for two reasons. Firstly, there weren't enough junior or senior highs to make up two camps, so they combined the groups into one and held a junior/senior high camp. The second change? More boys. You see, normally the camp had three cabins of girls and three of boys. But this year, there were only enough girls to make up two cabins, while the boys filled up four. In years past, the camp was divided in half, with boys' quarters on one side and girls' on the other. But in the current year, one cabin on the girls' side was relegated to the boys, and we all got to hang out in closer proximity. As you might imagine, this would work out rather well for my 12-year old tomboy self. More comfortable with the new arrangement, I became a bit more outgoing and sociable than had been the case in other years. So I got noticed a bit more.

That summer, there were at least three new boys in attendance. Tyler, Gary, and Andy all hung out together. They were great guys, but they also didn't quite fit in at church camp, and they seemed to want to hang out with me. I was reclusive and had trust issues, so that took some work on their part. Persistent little buggers that they were, they really put themselves out there trying to get to know me.

Andy was shy and quiet; we didn't get to know each other well. Tyler and Gary were both hilariously competitive and a laugh riot to be around together. Gary was hyped up and unobservant; he never seemed to pick up on my cues, couldn't tell when I was serious or joking, and he'd keep picking until Tyler reined him in. That didn't go over well with me. So Andy, Gary, and I were chummy, but we never really became friends.

But Tyler and I hit it off. We were both quiet, sensitive, dreamy kids, and I liked him a lot. He was an intuitive sort, and he understood me. No easy feat, I assure you. So he and I spent a lot of time together that week, hunting for frogs in the swamp and hanging out in the back of the group at campfire. He was a really sweet boy, known for his red-brown hair that flopped in front of his face and the fact that he wore the same orange football jersey for the entire week.

We weren't dumb, and we knew that the other kids considered us to be a couple. But we were a young, shy pair; a 12-year old girl and a 13-year old boy. We enjoyed each other's company, had a bit of a crush, and called it a day. Nothing more. He was my friend. About the nicest, sweetest, most respectful little rednecky farm boy I'd ever known. At the end of camp, we exchanged addresses and phone numbers and promised to stay in touch. We wrote back and forth a couple of times, and he sent me a school picture, signed "With all my love". It made me smile; mostly because I noticed he was no longer wearing the famed orange jersey. And then, as too often happens, we just lost touch.

One day, I was cleaning out an old drawer, and I came across his picture and address. I decided to write him, to see what he'd been up to. For all I knew, he'd moved. It had been a few years; I was now 15. But I still had fond memories of him and thought it would be nice to renew acquaintances. I mailed the letter, thinking nothing would likely come of it anyway.

A few days later, he called. Said he thought of me often but wasn't sure how to reach me these days, and thought maybe I didn't want contact with him any longer anyway. I was happy to hear from him. It had been far too long. After we hung up, Tyler decided he really wanted to see me again. I still lived in the city, and he still lived on the farm. So he hitched a ride to town, called when he arrived, and made his way over to my house. I was surprised; still a pretty reclusive sort, I didn't get many visitors.

We hung out and talked. He was still the same sweet, sensitive boy I remembered. We decided to go for a walk, down to the community league playground and tennis courts. He stopped me while we were walking through the tennis courts and said: "Can I do something I've been wanting to do for the last three years?" (Even then, I thought that was a pretty cheesy line, but it was kind of cute coming from a 16-year old boy.) And when I naively said "What?", he leaned in and kissed me for the first time.

He spent about a week in town, staying with family and hanging out with me. And then a family obligation arose and he had to leave in a hurry. Once again, we lost touch. I never saw him again.

There are some people who always hold a special place in your heart. Who you will always feel connected to, no matter how much time passes. Tyler is one of those people. The sweet, sensitive, oddly intuitive 13-year old boy who befriended me one summer. He will always be special.

Every so often, I think of him, and I wonder what he's doing these days. I hope he's happy. He deserves a life filled with good times and great possibilities. I tried searching Facebook a few times, but he wasn't there. I wasn't too surprised; social networking wouldn't really be his thing.

And then, I read that post, and I thought of him again. So I googled. I figured nothing would turn up, but I'd just like to see how he's doing these days. He should be a well-adjusted adult by now, thriving and enjoying life.

But it was not to be. I learned that Tyler passed away Halloween of 2003. Over five years ago. I kept searching, hoping it was some sick joke; hoping to see different results. Denial is a beautiful thing when it happens. He's gone. It's real. And so I mourn that amazingly cool 13-year old kid I once knew. My old friend, taken too soon.

Which is all to say that sometimes, life just ain't fair. But at least we have our memories to carry with us. Treasures we keep always. And for that, I am thankful.

**********
Okay. So now, you probably need a good laugh. Go read Heinous and enjoy. You get a mixed bag of emotion over here, but Heinous is always hysterical!

You're the inspiration

Yes, you are. All of you. You'll soon see why.

I'm glad I've got online bloggy friends. For when I get stuck for a topic, I can often find inspiration by reading others. And so it goes this week, when I have some writer's block issues. Check out the bloggers I link to for the next while, if you don't already. They're fabulous folk, I assure you!

**********
Today's post is inspired by the very awesome Goodfather. You know Goodfather, don't you? Oh, I think you do! But in case you are unfamiliar with his work, you should know that he's an excellent writer. He never welches on a bet. And he has the best blogging costume ever, which knowledge I am sure helps to keep him cheery these days while he brushes up the old resume.

The thing is, whatever life throws his way, Goodfather always rises to the challenge in search of hilarity. Plus he's just a really nice guy. Husband, dad, blogger ... pirate. If only he lived in Saskatchewan ...

Yes, Goodfather is indeed The Last Saskatchewan Pirate ... except, you know, not in Saskatchewan, which may impede his progress somewhat. They have rivers where you live, right Goodfather? You can still pillage and plunder?

Join me in wishing Goodfather well in his job quest. I'm sure he'll get something very soon. Because even in today's tight economy, companies are still eager to hire great people like him. He's all kinds of awesome!

A word on trolls

Today, I am plugging The Redneck Mommy, who I love to pieces. I'd really like to call her "my friend Tanis", but she's really more like someone I passively stalk. She's very cool, though. And wildly popular. I mean, she probably gets thousands of visitors a day.

Tanis is a mommy blogger of the finest variety. She's truly hilarious, always looking for and writing about the humour in her life. She spins her stories beautifully, and she'll make you laugh (and sometimes cry) with her. Something you should know: Tanis lost her youngest son a few short years ago, and she misses him deeply. And so birthdays and anniversaries are marked as she works to handle her grief as best she can, writing through her pain in poignant posts. She's not always funny (though humour is her norm), but you'll always feel like you're right beside her on whatever ride she's on. Yeah. She's that good.

Anyway, she's up for some bloggy award. Best Canadian Blogger or some such thing. Head on over to her site. Read. Laugh. Love. And then go and vote for her, because (as I'm sure you'll agree) she totally deserves it.

But that isn't really the point of this post.

**********
Some creep had the audacity to troll Tanis. Not only did the person post disagreeable, anonymous, unjustifiable criticisms on Tanis's blog, but she did so on a post that commemorated Tanis's deceased son's birthday. As usual, Tanis handled herself with grace and dignity, and I applaud her for it. I chose not to get involved in the flame war in her comments section, because quite frankly, that would lend credence to the troll. Instead, I will post my thoughts over here. On my own blog. Where my thoughts belong.

We all have a right to our opinions. And we certainly have the right to express those opinions. But not in any forum of our choosing. So if you have something awful to say about a fellow blogger, please, by all means, say it. Trot on over to your own blog, write your terrible, derogatory post, slam that blogger as hard as you can, hit publish, and walk away. No one is going to take away your right to do so. But hurtful, spiteful, ridiculous comments do not belong in someone else's blog. Disagree with her if you like, but be respectful about it. (Also, if you're so ashamed of yourself that you have to post your diatribe anonymously, you probably shouldn't post it. Consider your embarassment to be an indicator.)

Hiding behind anonymity makes you a coward. Anonymously insulting a blogger on her own blog, on an emotionally charged entry, on a day that is clearly difficult for her, makes you an insensitive bully. Indicating in your comment that you know you will be attacked for saying what you are saying makes you foolhardy. Continuing to visit the offending blog makes you a glutton for punishment. Repeatedly checking the comments section to see the rebuttals to your offending comment makes you a publicity hound. Continuing to post more and more offensive comments in response to those rebuttals makes you a troublemaker. And, if you don't back-pedal with might and main when the errors of your ways are pointed out to you, preferring instead to try to use your own life experiences as some kind of twisted justification for your bad behaviour, that just makes you pathetic and sad (loser). No one is infallible. If you somehow believe you are, it is indicative of a lack of intelligence.

And on the subject of "a lack of intelligence", I present a few direct quotes from your comments on Tanis's post. Your greatest hits, if you will. These are my favourites!

"You remind us of your youngest son’s death, and then pimp for an award that will profit you even more than before."
(Note the phrase "pimp for an award". Remember it well.)

"If you don’t think anyone has the right to disagree then live the rest of your life without complaint to anyone - the gas station attendant, the dry cleaners, etc. because then no one has a right to complain or voice their opinion."
(Disagree all you like. But be diplomatic in voicing your opinion. And choose your forum appropriately. The words "know your audience" spring to mind.)

"I never implied pimping ..."
(True. No implication. You out and out said it. See your first comment. Oops.)

"This stepford wife is gone."
(But evidently not, because ...)

"It is stunning that I am labeled a troll after ONE dissenting comment on the web in my entire life. Welcome to Russia."
(Don't like the label? Don't troll. And ... RUSSIA?!)

Dear Troll, you owe Tanis an apology. Not for your opinion, which you have every right to express. But for the manner in which it was expressed, and for the forum in which it was expressed, and perhaps most importantly for expressing your (truly ridiculous) opinion in a comment on a post about her deceased son's birthday. That you refuse to apologize or even to acknowledge that an apology is owed, despite the numerous people who have pointed this out, makes you rude, obnoxious, and kind of an asshat. And perhaps that is the proper definition of an Internet troll anyway. In which case, I guess you're doing a great job.

Not me! Monday: In a perfect world

Have you read My Charming Kids? If not, you really should. MckMama is a delight to read. And every week, she runs "Not Me! Monday". I wish to participate this week, 'cause ... well ...


Seriously. It's been a heckuva day.

**********
Today, J, N, and I all lived in perfect harmony. There were no interruptions in the form of multiple phone calls to various parties discussing a number of vehicle issues. And there will not be a number of expensive repairs to the van. (But even if there were, we have enough money to deal with it, so no problems there. Isn't it great that the economy is thriving these days?) In any event, the van is, and has always been, in perfect working order; therefore, we have not required a rental vehicle for the past week and a bit.

The car that we own is actually the perfect size for a family of four and is also, as it has always been, in perfect working order. It has not been in the shop twice in recent months and is not currently in need of a bit more work. We do not need to upsize one vehicle, and then do some repairs to and sell our existing car.

Because we have had no vehicle issues of late, our finances are in perfect working order. (Especially since there have been no reductions to our income.) We certainly did not have to spend several hours poring over a bunch of papers, financial calculator working overtime, trying to figure out our best financing options. (And had we done so, I would have figured it out immediately with no false starts whatsoever, just as any good accountant would.)

The Christmas tree was taken down on the weekend, as we had planned. And because that was done, J did not fall headlong into its bottom branches this morning, where he lay on his back with his feet sticking up in the air shouting "I need help!" while I briefly considered whether to provide immediate assistance or really just grab the camera. (You will note the lack of pictures, so guess which option won out.) He also did not fall off the back of the couch. Or his kitchen stool. Nor did he find a stickpin under the couch this morning, because the floors were vacuumed today. And so, J didn't hurt his foot, or head, or leg, or hand, or neck, or knee, or elbow, or shin. Nope. Not even once. He ate all of his breakfast, and all of his lunch, without any coaxing whatsoever, and made no mess at all in the process. Therefore, there is not a half-eaten peanut butter and banana sandwich that I have all but forgotten about currently in the microwave. He put all of his toys away before having a nice long nap, from which he did not awaken over an hour early.

N too was angelic. He barely cried at all, and certainly did not spend the majority of his time today screaming frantically regardless of what I did to placate him. And because both my sons were calm and sweet and quiet today, I was very productive and got lots of work done on my course. I ate a balanced diet with no junkfood. I did not spend the 15 minutes of freedom I had stuffing my face with a bag of Doritos while I vaguely attempted to read my course notes and failed to absorb anything at all. Score!

Later this afternoon, J and I baked an apple pie for dessert tonight. N did not awaken partway through the process and, if he had, I would not have left him in his crib making vaguely dissatisfied noises until I was done chopping the apples for the pie. The pie is baked to a lovely golden brown and is sitting on the counter, cooling. It is not in a state of partial doneness, filling sitting in a bowl in the (very cool) oven while we wait for H to arrive with more flour so that we can make the pastry. Actually, we had plenty of flour in the house and, when I opened the new bag that was sitting on the pantry floor, I did not find bugs crawling around in it and have to put it outside for trash day. And you see, because that never happened, I did not spend a moment contemplating whether I could just kind of sift the bugs out and still use the flour. Nope. Not me.

I am presently making dinner for the family, so I did not ask H to please just pick up a pre-roasted chicken from the deli counter at the grocery. The living room is clean, and there are no toys on the floor. And I am now sitting in my perfectly clean and organized living room, waiting for H to come home from work, as I enjoy quiet time with my boys. (Incidentally, none of us are still in our pajamas.) N is playing happily in his swing, making no noises that may or may not indicate that he is displeased with being in his swing at present. J and I are sitting calmly together, cuddled up on the couch, watching the Backyardigans, his favourite age-appropriate educational program on TV. And so, we can safely say that there is not a rerun of Two and a Half Men entitled "A Kosher Slaughterhouse out in Fontana" playing in the background as I blog this entry while J stands on a chair forcefully throwing an assortment of craft supplies behind the couch. If he were doing that, though, I would certainly stop him, as I am not exhausted and I care deeply about these behaviours just at the moment.

Updated to add:
The pie turned out beautifully. I did not have trouble with the crust, for the first time since I got the no-fail recipe. I was able to roll out two beautiful 9-inch crusts with ease, and did not continually have to add more flour to keep the dough from sticking to the surface, then more water to hold the dough together. Ultimately, I did not just give up and throw the ball of dough into the fridge to see if I might have better luck with chilled dough later. I also did not refer to the whole mess as "the freaking pie crust" in the hearing of my impressionable 3-year old; therefore, H did not reprimand me for using what he feels is an unacceptable term for our 3-year old to repeat at preschool.

I'd like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony

'Cause as much as this makes me laugh, it also makes my ears bleed a tiny bit. (Listen to the entire recording, if you can take it ... it's well worth it, I assure you.)