I'll Send Her the Dentist Bills

My boy is active. Very active. He's my only child, and even though I grew up with brothers, I don't know if he's more or less active than the average 4-3/4 year old boy. I don't remember either of my brothers being quite as...busy. So if I had to wager, I'd say Ciaran would be on the more active end of the spectrum.

After spending the weekend with him I often feel as if I've just gotten off a 90-mile-an-hour treadmill without stopping to breathe for 2 straight days.

From the minute he wakes up in the morning until the very last second he can stall going to bed, he wants to be chased, play "puppy" (he climbs up and licks our faces - trust me it's just as gross as it sounds), "make" stuff, which always ends up way more complicated than the usual arts and crafts. I'm talking stages and space ships here, perpetual games of hide & seek where no one's allowed to find him (even though he always picks the same hiding place every. single. time).

You get the idea. The kid's playful but well, tiring. Like my mother-in-law often states after taking care of him for the day, "He never stops."

So, knowing this, realizing just how easily stimulated and animated he becomes, not to mention how exhausting it is just being in his presence sometimes, you would think she'd know better than to pull the crap she did the other day.

Let me backtrack, for just a moment.

Since we began this long and gruesome home renovating project, Ciaran has been staying at my in-laws a couple of nights a week, on the days they would normally come to our house to babysit when he's not in school.

Now, before you get all "Stop complaining, bitch - I wish someone would come take my kids off my hands 2 nights a week!" Yes, I know we're lucky. The in-laws have helped us out enormously and I'm very grateful to have them around.

However.

A few nights ago, MIL drops Ciaran off and right from the get-go the boy is more hyped-up than usual. He's literally bouncing off the walls - climbing the furniture and giggling hysterically one minute, then screaming and crying the next. You know, the whole Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde show. He refuses to eat his dinner and demands I give him ice cream for dessert. Needless to say that's not happening. He has a tantrum and gets a time out.

I notice a bit of chocolate smeared on his chin and figure his Nonina must have given him a couple of treats, obviously contributing to his overly-activeness.

After a long, extremely frustrating evening of this kind of behavior, I'm exhausted and the hubs and I are at our wits end. As I finally get the boy into his pajamas and settled into bed, I grab his overnight bag for his favorite blankie and stuffed bedtime toys and this is what I find, shoved in amongst his things:

Yep. Nothing like chocolate and caffeine to get a kid all riled up. And also needless to say? I confiscated the half-eaten bar and enjoyed every last morsel. 'Cause I deserved it, dammit!

He Reads Me?

Ever have someone drop a bombshell on you - something so utterly surprising and unexpected that it leaves you speechless? 

Well, that's what my husband did to me a few days ago. We were just sitting around the house, chatting about work, life and the kid, and I mentioned something about a post I'd written. I can't even remember which one I was talking about because what he said next shocked the hell out of me. It was something to the effect of, "I remember that one."

Huh? He does? And then, even more astounding, he says, "Well, yeah, I've read all your posts."

Really? 

Let me explain why this is astonishing to me: Hubs is - to say the least - not the most avid reader I've ever met. Since I've known him, he's been very open about his dislike of the written word, not seeing the point in what he refers to as "made up stories". With the sole exception of The Adventures Huckleberry Finn, that is, which he claims is the best book ever written. A fine book, yes, but he honestly doesn't have much else to compare it to.

So, in this regard, we're pretty much complete opposites. Before my son was born, I ate, drank and slept books. I would see blocks of text in my dreams, mumble sentences from them while in a deep slumber. Ah, deep slumber - something else I haven't experienced much of these days...

Anyway, the point is I'm a bookworm and he is not. So you can imagine my surprise when he started describing some of my posts. At one point, I started back-tracking in my mind - had I written anything unfavorable, something that I wouldn't have, perhaps, if I'd known he'd been reading all along? Hmm, let me think. Well, he already knows about my mad crush on Benicio Del Toro, and other than that, there's just everyday stuff he already knows about - so no deep, dark secrets here.

Will it effect the way I write from now on? Nah - I don't think so. Unless, of course, I want to start dropping hints for Christmas or birthday presents. Or, I could start making up outrageous stories to see just how much he's paying attention. But that would be kind of cruel, I suppose.

So, maybe I'll start working on my Valentine's Day wish list and see what transpires. Not that I need lavish gifts.  Just knowing he reads and likes my blog is enough. Although, honey, if you're reading,  those chocolates from Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory are always welcome. And so is pretty much anything from Lululemon. Cause, you know, I'll need good work-out gear after purging on all that chocolatey goodness!

Thanks, love, me xoxo

Okay 2011 - Can we start over?

Talk about slacking off - could this really my first post of the not-so-new year? Holy crap, it is! Let me just say it's been a hellish last few weeks, to say the least. I hate to start 2011 on such a negative note, but seriously, can I just erase the whole month of January and start fresh?

I realize there's probably no one even reading this, after me being on hiatus for so long, but I wanted to at least check in and say, hey, I'm still here - just totally wrapped up in home wreckos renos, longer-than-usual commutes thanks to the lovely wintery weather, and dealing with my son's JK debacles.

My latest downward spiral started as expected, when we began renovating back in December. Being crammed in this god-forbidden basement hasn't exactly helped my creative juices flow - I haven't had much motivation to write lately.

I've also been dealing with leaky pipes, a malfunctioning furnace, a husband with a sprained hand and a very sick cat who had to be rushed to the emergency vet clinic last weekend. Pretty much anything that could go wrong, has.

Things started out smoothly enough, renovation-wise that is, until Hubby had his hand crushed by a 500-pound cabinet at work. Understandably, all renos came to a halt. There's only so much construction one can manage with a single working hand.

After resting up for a few days, back to work he went, cutting and moving vents and pipes all over the place. Then, we sprung a couple of leaks and water was shut off turned back on and shut off again; at one point we were down to one washroom. Not the end of the world, I admit. Small problems.

But, in the midst of our plumbing issues, the family cat was struck with one of his own. His urinary system became blocked, seemingly overnight. After a very expensive visit to the animal hospital, where they did as much as they could for him, we took him home. We tried in vain to feed and medicate him but he refused to eat, couldn't go pee and we could do nothing but watch him get weaker and weaker. It was heartbreaking to see him in such pain. The vet suggested we have him euthanized; he was almost 14, had heart and kidney issues and they didn't think he'd survive a surgery.

It was much harder on me than I thought it would be. After Ciaran was born, I didn't have time for playing and petting him, like I used to. I became annoyed with having to take care of him. It seemed like I was constantly cleaning up hairballs, cat puke or litter boxes, when I wanted to be relaxing or playing with my son in a nice, clean house. I made rude comments about how I wished he would run away and never come back or how I'd never get another cat after he passed away. The few times he did escape I'd end up worrying like crazy. And the house always felt different, more empty.

We got to say goodbye before he was sedated, but he wasn't the same. He was tired and feeble, not at all the feisty feline who had lived up to his name, Dr. Acula. I guess he knew it was his time.

I'm amazed by how much I miss that little furball. I keep glancing around at the floor, half-expecting him to brush against my legs as he saunters by. I miss his little face, always looking up at me expectantly, looking for a treat, or just some attention. I only wish I'd been more receptive. I like to think he knew he was part of the family, though. Whenever he did take off looking for a taste of freedom, he always did find his way back home.

We haven't broken the news yet to Ciaran. Tony and I disagree on how to tell him. I think we should tell him the truth - he'll learn about death sooner or later and this seems like a good opportunity to teach him. Tony thinks he's still too young, and has told him the cat has gone to a special "cat farm" until we've finished renovating our house.

I'm not sure who's right, but I don't know how much longer I can answer Ciaran's questions about where the farm is and who lives there. I tear up when he asks if Acci is chasing the other kitties. On the other hand, if there was such thing as a cat heaven, I'm sure that's exactly what he'd be doing.

RIP Dr. Acula

Best Friends

Pushed to the Edge

Just when I thought my stress levels would start evening out a bit after the holidays - guess what? Surprise, surprise - they haven't. If anything I may have hit a new high on the old stress scale. What with our current kitchen reno situation and - gasp! not having a dishwasher for like 3 weeks now - things (my patience, namely) have been quickly falling to the wayside.

We've been holed up in our (yikes! unfinished) basement until the renos are complete, speaking of which, seem to be taking waaay longer than anticipated. But I did anticipate this, actually. These projects always take twice as long as you originally plan. Especially when your husband insists on doing all the work himself.

I'm trying hard to keep my mouth shut until things go really wrong. Should it come down to it -  I have Mike Holmes on speed dial, but for now, I'm zipping it. Hubs has been getting enough hassle from my mother-in-law, who insists on telling him her dreams of beams falling down and killing him instantly. At least I'm not that neurotic.

Also, being off on "vacation" this week with a very bossy, constantly-needing-to-be-entertained 4.5 year old, hasn't helped matters. Its bad enough I feel as if I've been abducted and forced to live in someone's creepy basement (without having "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs" playing repeatedly on a dusty old tube television and a kid yelling "Draw a skeleton, mouse, snail, insert random animal or object here picture, Mommy!").

After a few days of this, I've lost whatever reason I may have started out with. Like yesterday for example. In a desperate attempt to flee from the hammering, drilling & welding sparks seen flying from my home, I grabbed Ciaran and dragged him to the nearest mall, which happens to be the size of an entire city block. Not exactly clear thinking on my part. True, it wasn't boxing day, but in these parts "boxing week" gives half the city the idea to mill about aimlessly, looking for so-called bargains.

Normally, I wouldn't have braved that crowd, but my dear, delusional hubby, obviously blinded by his love for me, purchased a beautiful sweater gift for me...in a size 4!! I am definitely not a size 4 - to be honest, I don't think I ever have been.

To make a long story short, we didn't return the sweater. There was a huge lineup and I don't do well with lineups - especially with a kid in tow. But we did end up taking this beauty home:

Ciaran enjoying his latest toy catch!

There was no logical reason for me to buy this for my son. He'd just gotten a sh!tload of toys for Christmas only days before. Strangers walking by the lineup to pay were looking at me like I'd lost my mind. The thing is bigger than he is.

I suppose I had gone a little insane - at least temporarily. I was tired and sweaty and I really needed the whining to stop. Also, I felt guilty because earlier that day he wouldn't get in his car seat and I said something to the effect that if he didn't I'd beat his ass. Oh, I didn't mean it. I never even usually talk like that, but I had that anxious, over-whelmed feeling I get when I'm being pushed to my limit.

A woman getting out of her car next to us gave me a really dirty look after hearing me. But she had the privilege of going shopping with her male friend without any kids tagging along. I'm sure I've given that same look to frazzled mothers back in my know-it-all pre-child days. So I didn't take it all that personally. One day she'll understand. And maybe even end up lugging a giant fish pillow home with her.

Anyway, Ciaran thinks it's pretty cool that I bought him a giant catfish at the mall. And I decided I'm not going to live my life with regrets anymore. Besides, it kind of goes with the psycho / abductor decor we have going on right now.

Must be Santa

I just realized that every one of my posts since the beginning of November have been about Christmas in some form or another (yes, all 3 of them - what can I say - it's a nutso time of the year). And... this post will be no different. It seems the whole world revolves around December 25 - even more so when you have kids.

But you know what? I love it. Yes, it's stressful and nerve-wracking and can cause mental anguish (when you can't find that one gift your kid really, really wants) and physical pain (like the blisters on my feet from walking up and down concrete mall floors in search of a gift that will have to suffice).

But like the line from that crappy Bryan Adams song , there is something about Christmas time that makes me wish it was Christmas every day. No offense to the Bryan Adams fans, I've just heard that song one time too many, lately.

Now, I'm not one of those insane over-the-top Christmas people who put up trees two months in advance and decorates every room in their house - no, I don't take it that far. But I do adore the scent of a real pine tree and insist on dragging one home every year while my hubby complains about the sticky sap all over the car and the needles we'll find well into the coming summer months.

I love drinking eggnog lattes, and getting bundled up for evening walks to stroll the neighborhood and see the lights against the crisp, white snow. I force let my son watch all my favorite childhood holiday movies and get just a tad carried away when the Heat and Snow Miser sing their awesome odes to the winter and summer, respectively.

And in my quest to make things all magical for my son at this time of year, we've unintentionally begun another Christmas tradition: The annual Santa photo. And not just any Santa photo. This ain't your typical fake-y cotton-bearded mall Santa, ya'll. If he doesn't look like the real deal, then I don't know who does. The best part is we've been lucky enough to track him down every year since Ciaran was a baby.

My little baby Santa's clearly unimpressed, here at 9mos.

Year 2 (sporting a rather bowl-like haircut, for some reason - shame on me!)

I know, not a Santa photo, but just look at that smile!

Santa, Ciaran and the ubiquitous pig

I skipped a couple of years in between so as not to bore you with pictures of my kid (well, that's not actually true - I just don't have digital versions of them). But isn't it cool that we have a picture of Ciaran with this  I mean the real Santa every year?

The only downside is that whenever another Santa makes an appearance, like at the JK Christmas concert, Ciaran has taken to shouting out indignantly "That's not Santa, Mom! He's not the real Santa." Which doesn't make him very popular with the JK crowd, let me tell you. Apparently, I've turned my son into a Santa snob. Great, yet another thing to add to my never-ending mommy-guilt.

Happy Holidays everyone!!

Wordless Wednesday: Losing what's left of the marbles

It's official.

I've finally gone off the deep end.

Why, you ask?

For doing this:

Goodbye, ugly beige kitchen

And this:

So long puke-y parquet floor

As well as this:

Buh bye diving wall

In the midst of this:

Getting into "Reindeer mode" for the JK Christmas concert

And this:

Still in character

And let's not forget this:

Family Gingerbread-house-making night.

Not to mention all the other million-and-one-things that go on at this time of year.

If, for some reason I'm not 100% certifiable right now, I surely will be by the end of the holidays.

An open letter to Tim Burton

Dear Tim Burton,

While I'm sure you get your share of fan mail and I do love every film you've ever made (well, other than Batman - nothing personal, I'm just not into the whole superhero thing), this is not just any old fan letter.

Yes, it's true that Edward Scissorhands is possibly my favorite movie ever. That scene at the end, where Kim is telling the story to her grandchild? Makes me sob like a baby every time.

I get teary-eyed just looking at this

You might also like to know that my husband and I loved The Nightmare Before Christmas so much we considered decorating our son's nursery Jack and Sally style. But friends and family intervened - they didn't think little skeletons decorating the walls would be appropriate for a newborn. However, knowing what I do now, I beg to differ.

I know that you've recently visited Toronto, so you're aware of our dipping temperatures, overplayed holiday music, frantic shoppers and children making their yearly wish lists (not exclusive to Toronto, of course). But it brings me to the point of my letter. I need your help with something - something I'm convinced only YOU can pull off.

It's not as if I haven't tried everything I could think of. For weeks I've been combing the web, to no avail. In desperation, I even appealed to a certain jolly man with a white beard and red suit, but alas, he is not as magical as he would have me believe. There are some requests even he can't deliver on and well...that's where you come in.

You see, my little boy is completely obsessed with a creation of yours from a certain movie called Beetle Juice. Not only the title character, but everyone in it, and in particular, The House, aka Adam & Barbara's House. He knows every nook and cranny of that house, can tell you about every window, door, step and hallway, you name it, he's memorized it.

A typical evening at home

I know it's unusual, and trust me, I don't encourage it. But if I don't let him watch his favorite scenes repeatedly, there's hell to pay. Have you ever dealt with an tantrum-throwing Junior Kindergarten-er, Tim? Let's just say it makes Beetle Juice himself look like a freaking saint.

In my darling son's frenzy to re-create the Beetle Juice house, he's torn apart my home, using furniture, cushions, Tupperware - anything he can get his busy little hands on to build it. Being the artist you are, I'm sure you can appreciate his creativity.

His latest rendition

However, my dilemma is this: The only thing this child wants for Christmas is the Beetle Juice house. Yes, it's my dumb luck that his little heart is set on a toy from a movie going on 23 years ago, which to my knowledge (and I have done my homework) has never existed. Oh, I've found Adam and Barbara Maitland action figures and tons of Beetle Juice dolls, but not one house was ever constructed.

Well, except this one:

My husband's solution to all of this is to order the above. And, although he means well hubby's obviously lost his mind. This $75USD ceramic work of art just will not do. Mostly BECAUSE IT'S CERAMIC. Read: Highly breakable. Not ideal material for a 4.5 year old boy's Christmas gift.

So, what do you say, Timmy - can you help a Mama out? Call in one of your... I don't know, production people or something and have them whip up a toy Beetle Juice house? I mean, it can't be that difficult. If you can make Johnny Deep look ugly, then anything's possible, right?

One last thing - I realize you probably aren't in the habit of perusing "Mom Blogs", but who knows? Maybe on that off chance you're searching for the next #BurtonStory... also, if anyone else has any suggestions - tell me, please!

Yours truly,

Ciaran's mom.