Monday, July 28, 2008

5 reasons I hate cooking dinner

1. Deciding what to make. It’s just pure laziness on my part but if someone would just tell me what to make everyday it wouldn’t be half as bad. Trying to find something that’s: healthy, tasty, quick, easy, low-fat, appealing to children, appealing to a man who doesn’t eat fish, can be difficult. Once I tried to make a monthly meal plan with coordinating weekly grocery lists. Then I had children.

2. Grocery shopping. Some of my friends say they like grocery shopping. They say they find it calming. I don’t know where they’re shopping or where they’ve stashed their children while they’re doing it but there are many things I find more calming than grocery shopping. Like a Tarantino movie, for example. My daughter sounds something like this at the grocery store: "I don’t want a cart!" (if we’re getting a cart) "I want a cart!" (if we’re not getting a cart) "I want to sit in the cart." "No, I want baby to sit in the cart." "No, I want to stand on the end of the cart." "No, I want to walk beside the cart like a big girl." Two seconds later she tears off down the aisle causing other patrons to abruptly stop their carts lest they run over a small girl whose mother should obviously know better and put her in a cart. All this while I’m pleading, “Mama just has to find one more thing Sarah! Just one more thing!” Now where do they keep the water chestnuts? With the canned vegetables? Is a water chestnut a vegetable? Canned fruit perhaps? I finally find them… with the Asian food. Go figure!

3. Nobody likes it/eats it. Here’s the dinner scenario at our house: I’ve chosen some crazy recipe off the net they’ve claimed is fast, easy and “sure to please.” I’ve braved the grocery store. I’ve managed to find all the esoteric ingredients. I’ve washed, sliced, diced, steamed, pan fried, broiled my little heart out, trying to time everything to come together so we can all sit down as a family and enjoy a nice, home cooked meal. I place their dishes in front of my darlings to a chorus of “What’s this?” “I don’t like that.” “This smells weird.” To be fair, my beloved husband (who is a very good chef and actually likes cooking) is always encouraging and the most negative thing he says is, “Um, I wouldn’t say this one is a do-over, babe.” Much better than what my father would say when we were kids. After my mother would try some new recipe she found in the newspaper, Big Al would push his chair back and pronounce, “If that’s dinner, I’ve had it.”

4. Everyone would rather be eating Sponge Bob Alphaghetti anyway. Right? I mean, who am I kidding. Nobody but me is worried about four food groups.

5. You have to do it all over again the next day. Oh joy. Somebody pass me the can opener.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

5 strange and inappropriate songs my kids love

Like so many, I love my iPod and I love that I can play it in my vehicle. One side effect though, is that my children are introduced to songs to which they wouldn’t otherwise be exposed. But thanks to my beloved iPod they continually request songs like:

London Bridge. I mean the one by Fergie. You know, with questionable lyrics like “How come every time you come around my London London Bridge wanna go down.” Not what you want to hear out of the mouth of your three-year-old daughter. Or six-year-old son, for that matter.

Hey Big Spender. Okay, at the risk of being mocked relentlessly and revealing myself as the total nerd that I am, I’m going to go way out on a limb here and admit something totally embarrassing. I like to download karaoke versions of songs and then sing them as I drive. I know! Never bring this up to me in conversation. I will deny it and pretend I made it up purely for your amusement. Anyway. This song is one of my favourites and the kids have the singing cred to prove it. Imagine one little miss Sarah suddenly belting out, “Hey big spender! Spe-eend … a little time with me” in the middle of Zellers. Freaking hilarious.

I’m Just a Kid. Simple Plan’s homage to teen angst seems to be harmless enough, if maybe a little depressing. Although, one could question my parenting skills when Max’s favourite song laments, “I’m just a kid and life is a nightmare.” The biggest problem with this song, however, is that I accidentally downloaded the explicit version. Instead of the radio version that asks “What the hell is wrong with me?” the version I have spits out, “What the f&$* is wrong with me?” Whoops! I have to have my fingers poised on the volume button each time that part comes up. Why not just download the radio edit, you ask? That would be way too easy!

Kung Fu Fighting. My sister introduced my kids to the original Carl Douglas version of this song. Shortly after Kung Fu Panda was released there was no going back. My kids just love to shout out “Hu!” and “Ha!” while making karate chop motions along to this song. But it is a lot more politically incorrect than I remember it. Aside from including the tacky oriental riff through the whole song, the line “They were funky China Men from funky China Town” sorta makes my PI radar go up.

If it Wasnae for your Wellies
. Here’s one the non-Scottish contingent may not be familiar with. It’s a little ditty from Scottish comedian Billy Connolly that I downloaded for my father about “the importance of Wellington boots in Scottish culture.” Normally Billy has quite the “blue” sense of humour (Check him out if you don’t believe me). Luckily, in this version, the worst thing he says is “Jesus Christ.” But because of his Scottish accent my children sing along with lyrics like “… you’d be in the hospital or in family” instead of “infirmary.” I couldn’t figure out what Max was talking about when he asked me what “gai-ya-bun-dun” meant until I heard Billy suggest you sing the song by “leaping into it in a mood of gay abandon.”

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

5 challenges of getting out the door with children

Choosing toys to bring. What is going to keep them occupied while I’m meeting with the financial planner / naked under the gown at the doctor’s office / visiting friends who have no children and whose house is therefore devoid of toddler appropriate items but rife with breakables and cupboards containing poisonous cleaners? Toys! When I ask them what toys they’d like to bring they inevitably make suggestions like: My dollhouse! (too big) My paints! (too messy) My whoopy cushion! (you can imagine…)

Remembering snacks. Every mom knows that ensuring you leave the house equipped with appropriate snacks can be the key to surviving an extended car trip. I have a cupboard full of granola bars, fruit bars, drink boxes and similar grab-and-go treats to aid in my quick getaway. But sometimes I just don’t think to bring them. Like the mornings when we’re not rushed and I just have to give them breakfast and make a quick trip over to Walmart. I ask my darlings, “What would you like for breakfast?” They tell me. I make it. They don’t eat it. Then we’re hurtling along the 403 at 110km/hr and they announce, “We’re hungry! We want snacks! What do you mean you can’t magically produce food in the truck??”

Others are not on the same page. As I’m running around the house like the proverbial chicken sans head trying to round up the above-mentioned items, the others in my home are likely to be doing something like: Husband: calmly shaving and showering; Six year old son: making a “really cool fort, Mom!” by pulling every cushion and pillow off every couch, propping them against each other and then yelling at me when the cushions don’t stay; Three year old daughter: dressed like a princess (despite me having spent fifteen minutes cajoling her into her beach clothes ten minutes previous), is also donning her bike helmet since she has caught a glimpse of her bike in the garage, while I was in and out packing the truck, and has decided she needs to go for a bike ride, “…RIGHT NOW, Mama!”

The Potty. What is it about the final “potty call” before heading out the door that some kids find so off-putting? My son was never like this. I’m certain, though, that my daughter could be busting at the seams, but if we’re heading out the door and I hopefully ask, “Sarah, do you have to go pee pee before we go?” she invariably says, “NO! I don’t have to go pee!” I’ve tried everything from imploring pitifully – “Please, Sarah, please go pee pee for Mama…” – to trying a tougher stance – “Sarah, the rule is everyone has to go pee pee before we leave the house. Mama went. Max went. You have to try. At least try!” It doesn’t matter. All tactics end in a huge crying fit and the inevitable outcome of being out on the highway, nowhere near a bathroom, and hearing, “Mama, I have to go pee.” And that’s the good outcome. The other is a puddle.

The illusive item no one can find. We’re going swimming, everyone’s finally ready to go, everything’s packed. On top of toys and snacks I’ve managed to remember sunscreen, towels, bathing suits, bug spray, sunglasses, cameras, everything! Except. I just bought the kids goggles recently so the chlorine won’t hurt their eyes. They were delighted; for two days they wore them everywhere. But now that we’re actually going to a pool the goggles are nowhere to be found. I’m raving like a madwoman and have everyone in the house (finally on the same page!) looking for them. While I'm hunting my internal dialogue goes something like this: No one in this house puts anything back where they’ve found it! Everyone just leaves everything lying everywhere. Nobody ever knows where anything is. Everyone expects ME to find everything! If it were up to ME I would have put them where we could find them the next time we were going swimming - with the water wings! Oh, hold on… I go to the cupboard with the water wings. Voilà. Goggles. And I almost forgot the water wings.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

5 reasons I hate shopping with my kids

Getting there. Do you have kids who are automatically lulled to sleep by the motions of a moving vehicle? Wait, no. Don’t tell me. If the answer’s yes I’ll have to hate you. My son, Max, would sleep peacefully in the truck until he was four months old. That was in 2002. Going anywhere has been a screaming nightmare ever since. We were hoping our second child, Sarah, would be the opposite. We’d paid our dues with the first one, right? Ha, ha! I laugh cynically at our naïve optimism! On the bright side, I’m now completely adept at driving while doing things like a) passing back snacks, b) retrieving sippy cups and c) refereeing arguments. All while listening to Elmo’s rendition of John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt for the 327th time.

Comments on fellow shoppers. Once at the mall, my kids never fail to notice the people around them and produce distinguishing commentary. Like when Sarah indicates the scary looking bald man and proclaims, “Mommy, that man have no hair!” Or when Max, pointing, wide-eyed and perfectly genuine asks, “Mom, is that person a man or a lady?”

The food court. We just sit down with a tray full of food when Max announces, “Mom, I have to go pee.” Option 1: Send Max into restroom on his own where possible child molester awaits. Um, no. Option 2: Take Sarah and Max and go into restroom, leaving untouched food on table to be either thrown away by food court employee believing it to be abandoned or poisoned by evil mall dweller. Also not appealing. Option 3: Continue mulling over options and Max pees his pants. Hm. Option 2 it is!

The change room. First, I have to find one that fits a stroller, an adult and two kids. Not so common in the smaller boutique stores, but almost always available at Old Navy. Hence my wardrobe. I go in the wheelchair change room to start trying something on when Max says something really loud (Everything he says is really loud. There is no other volume. There is either really loud or sleeping) and embarrassing. The other day he said, “Look Mom, this balloon is long just like your boobies!” Ah. They do say the benefits of breastfeeding last a lifetime.

The disappearing act. Picture this: I’m at the food court Tim Hortons getting my bagels, juice and coffee. I’m juggling the stroller, my purse, wallet and Sarah, who’s decided she doesn’t want to sit in the stroller anymore. I’m trying to push my tray along (difficult with the aforementioned juggling act) and then pay. Max is earnestly explaining to me why he prefers Batman to Sponge Bob. (“Batman is a hero guy, Mom. Sponge Bob is a silly guy. I like hero guys.”) I take my eye off him for a second to give the lady my money and when I turn around… he’s gone. “Max?” I frantically look around for him while trying to gather my things so the long line of people, now all staring at me, can progress with their orders. He was just here. Where could he have gone in two seconds? No longer caring about people staring, I’m yelling “Max! Max!” My voice is on the edge of panic. Finally, a group of older ladies, seeing my distress, point out that he’s seated at a table – behind a pole. “I found us a seat, Mom!”

I remember when the mall was relaxing. Sigh. So much for retail therapy.