Thursday, January 29, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
5 laundry mysteries, mishaps and frustrations
1. The amount. Am I right? Those of you who have children and are in charge of the laundry in your house know what I mean. How does a family of four manage to generate enough laundry to keep me doing two or three loads every couple of days?? It just doesn’t add up, I tell you!
2. Pajamas. Because of my aforementioned frustration with the amount of laundry I’m constantly doing, I try and encourage the other members of the household to wear their pajamas more than once before they throw them in the laundry hamper. (And by laundry hamper, I mean floor.) I wear my pjs a few times before I wash them, why can’t they? I don’t think this is unreasonable. So anyway, one day back when my son was four and I started this battle to get him to put his pjs back in his dresser as opposed to leaving them strewn about his room or putting them in the hamper after just one wear, we had a bit of an incident. I was in my room puttering about and the kids were down the hall playing. Suddenly the two of them came over and started playing in my room. I asked them to go back and play in their rooms, to which Max replied, “We can’t Mom, it’s too smoky in there.” Oh, okay. Wait, what? Smoky?? I ran down the hall and, sure enough, his room was full of thick grey smoke. I tracked the source of all this smoke to his lamp. It was one of those tall floor standing lamps from Ikea I think, with basically a bowl on the top that houses the light bulb. You see, apparently folding up his pajamas and putting them back in his drawer was much more difficult for my son than throwing them up into his lamp where they sat smoldering against the light bulb. To this day he still leaves his pajamas lying around his room or I’ll find three pairs in his hamper after just three days since the last laundry cycle. But I’ve given up bugging him about it. Maybe this isn’t good parenting but at least my house hasn’t burnt down.
3. Tshirts. Hubby has a thing about Tshirts. He wears one under his dress shirt to work. Then he comes home and changes into another. Then he’ll have some work to do around the house or in the yard so he’ll put on another. Then he’ll be sweaty so he’ll have to get another. Then he has to have a fresh one to wear to bed (see #2 Pajamas, above). You may think at some point he would go back to one of his earlier shirts that wasn’t really dirty. But why would he go through the hassle of trying to find that shirt when he can just open the magic Tshirt drawer where shirts just magically appear all clean and folded again? I know, you’re thinking the amount of laundry mystery is maybe not such a mystery after all… .
4. The rogue sock. Everybody hates how there are always single socks left without their partners at the bottom of the laundry basket. Actually that doesn’t even bug me that much. What I find annoying is when I spend a day doing laundry, because maybe I’ve let it pile up a little more than usual (like an extra day) and I do loads and loads until it’s all done. Ah. The hampers are empty, there’s nothing on the floors, everything’s folded and in its place. Peace. Order. I go to sit down on the couch. Out of the corner of my eye I spy something dark coming out from between the couch cushions. I pull it out: a sock. Argh!!!
5. Me. Okay, okay. I can’t blame all the laundry frustrations on my family. The other day I pulled a load out of the dryer. I put it in the basket and set it down. Then I got sidetracked, I think maybe the phone rang or something. Afterwards I had one of those moments when I’m standing in the middle of my house thinking, Now what was I just doing? Oh yeah, laundry. I go back, grab a basket of clothes and start throwing it in the washer. As I’m doing it I’m wondering, why are these clothes warm? Yeah. I was rewashing the load I just pulled out of the dryer. Our clothes were extra clean that day!
2. Pajamas. Because of my aforementioned frustration with the amount of laundry I’m constantly doing, I try and encourage the other members of the household to wear their pajamas more than once before they throw them in the laundry hamper. (And by laundry hamper, I mean floor.) I wear my pjs a few times before I wash them, why can’t they? I don’t think this is unreasonable. So anyway, one day back when my son was four and I started this battle to get him to put his pjs back in his dresser as opposed to leaving them strewn about his room or putting them in the hamper after just one wear, we had a bit of an incident. I was in my room puttering about and the kids were down the hall playing. Suddenly the two of them came over and started playing in my room. I asked them to go back and play in their rooms, to which Max replied, “We can’t Mom, it’s too smoky in there.” Oh, okay. Wait, what? Smoky?? I ran down the hall and, sure enough, his room was full of thick grey smoke. I tracked the source of all this smoke to his lamp. It was one of those tall floor standing lamps from Ikea I think, with basically a bowl on the top that houses the light bulb. You see, apparently folding up his pajamas and putting them back in his drawer was much more difficult for my son than throwing them up into his lamp where they sat smoldering against the light bulb. To this day he still leaves his pajamas lying around his room or I’ll find three pairs in his hamper after just three days since the last laundry cycle. But I’ve given up bugging him about it. Maybe this isn’t good parenting but at least my house hasn’t burnt down.
3. Tshirts. Hubby has a thing about Tshirts. He wears one under his dress shirt to work. Then he comes home and changes into another. Then he’ll have some work to do around the house or in the yard so he’ll put on another. Then he’ll be sweaty so he’ll have to get another. Then he has to have a fresh one to wear to bed (see #2 Pajamas, above). You may think at some point he would go back to one of his earlier shirts that wasn’t really dirty. But why would he go through the hassle of trying to find that shirt when he can just open the magic Tshirt drawer where shirts just magically appear all clean and folded again? I know, you’re thinking the amount of laundry mystery is maybe not such a mystery after all… .
4. The rogue sock. Everybody hates how there are always single socks left without their partners at the bottom of the laundry basket. Actually that doesn’t even bug me that much. What I find annoying is when I spend a day doing laundry, because maybe I’ve let it pile up a little more than usual (like an extra day) and I do loads and loads until it’s all done. Ah. The hampers are empty, there’s nothing on the floors, everything’s folded and in its place. Peace. Order. I go to sit down on the couch. Out of the corner of my eye I spy something dark coming out from between the couch cushions. I pull it out: a sock. Argh!!!
5. Me. Okay, okay. I can’t blame all the laundry frustrations on my family. The other day I pulled a load out of the dryer. I put it in the basket and set it down. Then I got sidetracked, I think maybe the phone rang or something. Afterwards I had one of those moments when I’m standing in the middle of my house thinking, Now what was I just doing? Oh yeah, laundry. I go back, grab a basket of clothes and start throwing it in the washer. As I’m doing it I’m wondering, why are these clothes warm? Yeah. I was rewashing the load I just pulled out of the dryer. Our clothes were extra clean that day!
Saturday, January 3, 2009
5 times my kids have amazed me
(I'm going to be posting new lists soon - I promise! In the meantime, here's another oldie from Facebook...)
1. Max’s hair. Like all new moms, when I was pregnant for the first time I thought a lot about what my baby would look like. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would he have my husband’s nose? Would she have my eyes? All the regular things. One thing I never gave any consideration was hair colour. Since I’m half Japanese with dark hair and my husband is Caucasian with dark hair I never even wondered about our baby’s hair. So when, after over twelve hours of active labour, the midwife plopped our son onto my deflated belly I was …. well, I was surprised! Red. Not strawberry blonde. Not auburn. Definitely, unequivocally red. And I love it. Five years later I still field the “Where does he get his hair?” questions. I have yet to come up with a witty retort to the inevitable milkman jokes. But that hair. I look at him and it’s like a daily reminder, a little sign saying “Life is full of fun surprises and little miracles.” Don’t take anything for granted. You just never know.
2. Sarah walks. My son was fairly average when it came to hitting milestones. He could hold his head up off the floor at three months, rolled over at four months, sat up at six months, and walked at about one year. So when our daughter started striking a sort of “downward dog” yoga pose at four months, I was pretty intrigued. And then she walked. She walked when she was eight months old. I know people who didn’t see it don’t believe me when I tell them now. I’m glad I have the little videos we took, otherwise I’d start doubting my own memory. People used to stop me in the mall. I guess we were an interesting site: me and this little, teeny, tiny baby, who looked like she should still be in a stroller, walking around. Now that I think about it, it’s no wonder that, nearly two years later, she still won’t sit in her stroller. No one’s holding her back!
3. The lock. Last year we sold our house. I could rant … but I won’t. This isn’t about that. This is about the lock we had on our front door. You know the kind: it’s a combination lock real estate agents use that has your front door key inside. Well, one day I pulled into the garage with the kids and realized that the last agent who showed our house locked the door into the house from the garage and I didn’t have a key. No need to panic, though. I called our agent and asked him for the combination to the lock that held the extra key. I got the key out but couldn’t seem to figure out how to replace it and close the panel. It wouldn’t stay shut. So there I am on the front stoop of our house, Sarah trying to dig in my flower planters, Max yammering away in the background as usual, and me on my cell trying to hear the agent explain how to work the lock. “Shhhh, Max!” I snapped. “I’m on the phone and I can’t hear!” After a few more unsuccessful attempts I told the agent to wait a moment while I put the phone down so I would have two hands available to contend with the lock. That’s when I realized what my four-year-old had been trying to tell me. “Mom! You’ve got it upside down!” Oh. I turned it around. Click. It went right in.
4. The pantry. Experts say you can’t expect children under the age of three to really understand the concept of sharing because at that age they haven’t yet developed the key emotion: empathy. So at just two years old, Sarah surprised me a few months ago when I was digging in my pantry. The pantry is a bit of a sore issue. Last year when we were going over kitchen specs with the builder, I wanted pantry shelves that would pull out. My husband thought it was something he could do himself, much more economically, with supplies from Home Depot. I’m still waiting. And smashing. Smashing bottles, unintentionally, that get pushed off the edge of shelves as I manically sift through trying to find the illusive item I need at that moment which is inevitably at the very back of the pantry. So it was after one such episode, as I was crouched in front of those shelves, on the brink of tearing my hair out, muttering “Where is it? Where the hell is it?” that I felt a chubby little two-year old arm around my neck. A soft, little voice said: “It okay, Momma. Don’t worry.” Suddenly paprika was just paprika again as I regained my composure in my little girl’s hug.
5. Max wakes up. All the moms whose kids started sleeping through the night at 6 weeks raise your hands. Okay, I don’t want to hear from you. Sorry. Not to be grumpy. It’s nothing personal. It’s just neither of my children are “sleepers.” Try going three years without more than four consecutive hours of sleep and you’ll be grumpy too. It’s made me very, shall we say, protective of my sleep. That’s why one night last year when Max woke up at about 2 a.m. to use our ensuite bathroom – He always uses ours. The main one is about three steps from his room but that’d be too easy. He walks right by it to come into our room every time. – I pretended to be asleep. He went in, peed, flushed, came out and stood by the end of our bed. Oh no! Why was he stopping? Eyes closed, I willed as hard as I could. Just keep going, Max. Don’t talk. Don’t ask for a glass of water. Just keep going. I really didn’t want to spend the next hour convincing him to go back to bed. Then I heard a soft mmwah and a faint blowing sound. The sound of a four year old blowing a kiss. I surreptitiously opened one eye in time to see him wave at his “sleeping” parents as he walked out and quietly shut the door behind him.
All of my complaining aside, this is the real snapshot of my kids. Smart, funny, intuitive, full of surprises. Authentic. Beautiful.
The amazing red haired Japanese baby.
Downward dog at 4 1/2 months.
1. Max’s hair. Like all new moms, when I was pregnant for the first time I thought a lot about what my baby would look like. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would he have my husband’s nose? Would she have my eyes? All the regular things. One thing I never gave any consideration was hair colour. Since I’m half Japanese with dark hair and my husband is Caucasian with dark hair I never even wondered about our baby’s hair. So when, after over twelve hours of active labour, the midwife plopped our son onto my deflated belly I was …. well, I was surprised! Red. Not strawberry blonde. Not auburn. Definitely, unequivocally red. And I love it. Five years later I still field the “Where does he get his hair?” questions. I have yet to come up with a witty retort to the inevitable milkman jokes. But that hair. I look at him and it’s like a daily reminder, a little sign saying “Life is full of fun surprises and little miracles.” Don’t take anything for granted. You just never know.
2. Sarah walks. My son was fairly average when it came to hitting milestones. He could hold his head up off the floor at three months, rolled over at four months, sat up at six months, and walked at about one year. So when our daughter started striking a sort of “downward dog” yoga pose at four months, I was pretty intrigued. And then she walked. She walked when she was eight months old. I know people who didn’t see it don’t believe me when I tell them now. I’m glad I have the little videos we took, otherwise I’d start doubting my own memory. People used to stop me in the mall. I guess we were an interesting site: me and this little, teeny, tiny baby, who looked like she should still be in a stroller, walking around. Now that I think about it, it’s no wonder that, nearly two years later, she still won’t sit in her stroller. No one’s holding her back!
3. The lock. Last year we sold our house. I could rant … but I won’t. This isn’t about that. This is about the lock we had on our front door. You know the kind: it’s a combination lock real estate agents use that has your front door key inside. Well, one day I pulled into the garage with the kids and realized that the last agent who showed our house locked the door into the house from the garage and I didn’t have a key. No need to panic, though. I called our agent and asked him for the combination to the lock that held the extra key. I got the key out but couldn’t seem to figure out how to replace it and close the panel. It wouldn’t stay shut. So there I am on the front stoop of our house, Sarah trying to dig in my flower planters, Max yammering away in the background as usual, and me on my cell trying to hear the agent explain how to work the lock. “Shhhh, Max!” I snapped. “I’m on the phone and I can’t hear!” After a few more unsuccessful attempts I told the agent to wait a moment while I put the phone down so I would have two hands available to contend with the lock. That’s when I realized what my four-year-old had been trying to tell me. “Mom! You’ve got it upside down!” Oh. I turned it around. Click. It went right in.
4. The pantry. Experts say you can’t expect children under the age of three to really understand the concept of sharing because at that age they haven’t yet developed the key emotion: empathy. So at just two years old, Sarah surprised me a few months ago when I was digging in my pantry. The pantry is a bit of a sore issue. Last year when we were going over kitchen specs with the builder, I wanted pantry shelves that would pull out. My husband thought it was something he could do himself, much more economically, with supplies from Home Depot. I’m still waiting. And smashing. Smashing bottles, unintentionally, that get pushed off the edge of shelves as I manically sift through trying to find the illusive item I need at that moment which is inevitably at the very back of the pantry. So it was after one such episode, as I was crouched in front of those shelves, on the brink of tearing my hair out, muttering “Where is it? Where the hell is it?” that I felt a chubby little two-year old arm around my neck. A soft, little voice said: “It okay, Momma. Don’t worry.” Suddenly paprika was just paprika again as I regained my composure in my little girl’s hug.
5. Max wakes up. All the moms whose kids started sleeping through the night at 6 weeks raise your hands. Okay, I don’t want to hear from you. Sorry. Not to be grumpy. It’s nothing personal. It’s just neither of my children are “sleepers.” Try going three years without more than four consecutive hours of sleep and you’ll be grumpy too. It’s made me very, shall we say, protective of my sleep. That’s why one night last year when Max woke up at about 2 a.m. to use our ensuite bathroom – He always uses ours. The main one is about three steps from his room but that’d be too easy. He walks right by it to come into our room every time. – I pretended to be asleep. He went in, peed, flushed, came out and stood by the end of our bed. Oh no! Why was he stopping? Eyes closed, I willed as hard as I could. Just keep going, Max. Don’t talk. Don’t ask for a glass of water. Just keep going. I really didn’t want to spend the next hour convincing him to go back to bed. Then I heard a soft mmwah and a faint blowing sound. The sound of a four year old blowing a kiss. I surreptitiously opened one eye in time to see him wave at his “sleeping” parents as he walked out and quietly shut the door behind him.
All of my complaining aside, this is the real snapshot of my kids. Smart, funny, intuitive, full of surprises. Authentic. Beautiful.
The amazing red haired Japanese baby.
Downward dog at 4 1/2 months.
Monday, December 15, 2008
5 things that seem to gather and breed in my house
There’s the usual dust, toys, clothes and dishes. But what about these things that seem to proliferate around my home…
1. Blankets. I think this is from my daughter who is always tucking in her dollies, putting them to sleep. Or maybe I need to keep my house at a warmer temperature. But every morning my family room is littered with various blankets. So I gather them up, fold them in a pile and leave them sitting at the bottom of the stairs. This, as all females know, is the internationally accepted sign for “Please bring me upstairs.” But somehow men and children don’t seem to be versed in this international language. They will sidestep, overstep, take two steps at a time to avoid the thing and leave it at the bottom of the stairs.
2. Recycling. Are you the only one in your house who moves the recycling from the kitchen to the garage? Me too. When the recycling box under the sink gets full, that’s when the recycling starts to grow, like buildings in a downtown core, around my kitchen sink.
3. Lists. Well, you know how I am about lists. As I tidy my house I find my lists, my husband’s lists, and now even my kids’ Santa wish lists. Little scraps of paper littered around my house reminding me of stuff to do, stuff to buy, stuff to remember from weeks ago. I’ve seen a website dedicated to people’s discarded lists. I should send mine in. I could keep them going for years.
4. Hats. Ball caps, winter toques, cowboy hats, even princess tiaras, which I don’t think you can really categorize as a hat, but anyway, you get the idea. All these items appear one here, one there around my house until they’re everywhere. As I try and scurry around putting ball caps in closets, tiaras in the toy box, winter hats with the coats, I slip into an activity which my sister has affectionately termed “Moving Things Around.” This is when you spend an hour or more of your time moving things from one area of your house to another until you have lost sight of why this certain item has to move up your stairs until it rests in a different spot from the spot it was in before.
5. Artwork. This one is the worst. Which sounds terrible to say. What kind of a mother says her children’s artwork is the worst? Okay, here’s the thing: my children are 7 and 4 years of age. It is a special time. A magical time. A very … prolific time. And far be it for me to squelch this emerging artistry. I mean really, I love to see their fledgling stick figures, their first misspelled words, their attempts at illustrated stories. But it’s just hard to deal with all the … works of art that come at me from everywhere. They’re produced at the kitchen table, the toy room in the basement, their bedrooms; at school, daycare, camps; at Grandma & Grandpa’s house, parties and play dates. And it’s not that I don’t want them to create. I keep a cupboard full of markers, crayons, glue sticks, scissors, paper, cardboard, everything for crafting expressly because I’d much rather they create than stare passively at the TV. But what to do with everything afterwards??? Some people frame certain special pieces and decorate the toy room or child’s bedroom with their art. I should totally do that. But pretty soon it would be like wallpaper if I kept that up for any length of time. So what do I do? I let everything pile up for a few weeks – in case, heaven forbid, I throw out something only to be asked about that one certain picture the next day – and then I go on a throwing out rampage. I save a few choice pieces from each artist, in case I ever get to that framing thing, and then valiantly try to swallow up my guilt as I see their drawings, their crafts, their signs saying “I love you Mom, you’re the best” get filed in the big round file in the garage. Oh, the guilt! THE GUILT!
1. Blankets. I think this is from my daughter who is always tucking in her dollies, putting them to sleep. Or maybe I need to keep my house at a warmer temperature. But every morning my family room is littered with various blankets. So I gather them up, fold them in a pile and leave them sitting at the bottom of the stairs. This, as all females know, is the internationally accepted sign for “Please bring me upstairs.” But somehow men and children don’t seem to be versed in this international language. They will sidestep, overstep, take two steps at a time to avoid the thing and leave it at the bottom of the stairs.
2. Recycling. Are you the only one in your house who moves the recycling from the kitchen to the garage? Me too. When the recycling box under the sink gets full, that’s when the recycling starts to grow, like buildings in a downtown core, around my kitchen sink.
3. Lists. Well, you know how I am about lists. As I tidy my house I find my lists, my husband’s lists, and now even my kids’ Santa wish lists. Little scraps of paper littered around my house reminding me of stuff to do, stuff to buy, stuff to remember from weeks ago. I’ve seen a website dedicated to people’s discarded lists. I should send mine in. I could keep them going for years.
4. Hats. Ball caps, winter toques, cowboy hats, even princess tiaras, which I don’t think you can really categorize as a hat, but anyway, you get the idea. All these items appear one here, one there around my house until they’re everywhere. As I try and scurry around putting ball caps in closets, tiaras in the toy box, winter hats with the coats, I slip into an activity which my sister has affectionately termed “Moving Things Around.” This is when you spend an hour or more of your time moving things from one area of your house to another until you have lost sight of why this certain item has to move up your stairs until it rests in a different spot from the spot it was in before.
5. Artwork. This one is the worst. Which sounds terrible to say. What kind of a mother says her children’s artwork is the worst? Okay, here’s the thing: my children are 7 and 4 years of age. It is a special time. A magical time. A very … prolific time. And far be it for me to squelch this emerging artistry. I mean really, I love to see their fledgling stick figures, their first misspelled words, their attempts at illustrated stories. But it’s just hard to deal with all the … works of art that come at me from everywhere. They’re produced at the kitchen table, the toy room in the basement, their bedrooms; at school, daycare, camps; at Grandma & Grandpa’s house, parties and play dates. And it’s not that I don’t want them to create. I keep a cupboard full of markers, crayons, glue sticks, scissors, paper, cardboard, everything for crafting expressly because I’d much rather they create than stare passively at the TV. But what to do with everything afterwards??? Some people frame certain special pieces and decorate the toy room or child’s bedroom with their art. I should totally do that. But pretty soon it would be like wallpaper if I kept that up for any length of time. So what do I do? I let everything pile up for a few weeks – in case, heaven forbid, I throw out something only to be asked about that one certain picture the next day – and then I go on a throwing out rampage. I save a few choice pieces from each artist, in case I ever get to that framing thing, and then valiantly try to swallow up my guilt as I see their drawings, their crafts, their signs saying “I love you Mom, you’re the best” get filed in the big round file in the garage. Oh, the guilt! THE GUILT!
Monday, December 8, 2008
5 of my favourite Christmas songs
1. Blue Christmas, Elvis Presley
When my sister was little she entered a Christmas colouring contest at Shoppers Drug Mart and won an Elvis Christmas LP. In retrospect this seems an odd prize for a children’s contest but I think we were both just thrilled that she won. From that Christmas on, whenever we put up the Christmas tree, we had to play that album while we decorated. I particularly remember Blue Christmas. It just doesn’t seem like Christmas without Elvis warbling, “You’ll be doing alright, with your Christmas of white, but I’ll have a blue, blue, blue, blue Christmas.”
2. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Barenaked Ladies with Sarah Maclaughlin
Steven Page’s current felony drug possession charges notwithstanding, this song is a relatively new favourite. The Ladies give this tune a little folksy, toe tapping lift, while Sarah’s haunting melody give it an almost wistful feel. I totally dig it!
3. The Prayer, Celine Dion and Andrea Bocelli
This is not, strictly speaking, a Christmas song but they seem to play it every year around this time. I’m not a huge Bocelli fan, but I just love the pairing of him with Celine in this piece. It is so breathtakingly beautiful that, even though I have no idea what the Italian words mean, it moves me to tears every time I hear it. I know, I’m just a big sap.
4. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, Judy Garland
And speaking of me being a sap, this is my very favourite Christmas song. Not just any old version though; it has to be the original Judy Garland version which is much more maudlin than the later, more recognizable one that has been covered by so many artists. The major difference is apparent towards the end of the song when Judy laments, “Some day soon we all will be together / If the fates allow / Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow.” I guess since my family is overseas, being the sappy masochist that I am, I like to listen to this version at Christmas and miss them. According to Wikipedia, in 1957 Frank Sinatra asked the writer to “jolly up that line for me” and so it became the innocuous, “Hang a shining star upon the highest bough.” Maybe it’s slightly more jolly, but bo-ring! Is it un-Christmassy to have a drink and miss people during the holidays? You should hear what the writer originally wanted the song to sound like: “Have yourself a merry little Christmas / It may be your last / Next year we may all be living in the past.” Now that’s depressing!
5. Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire
I’ve always kinda liked this song but last year it took on an extra special meaning. Hubby was slated to go in for an … *ahem* … operation. You know, snip snip. The big V? Okay. So I’m driving him down there and guess what song comes on the radio? Yup. As if his chestnuts weren’t already feeling the heat, he had to have Michael Bublé singing about them roasting on an open fire. But it doesn’t end there. For about two weeks afterwards, every time we got in a vehicle together and switched on the radio it would be yet another version of Chestnuts, and never the same one. Nat King Cole, The Carpenters, Johnny Mathis, Bing Crosby, Linda Ronstadt. Who knew so many people had covered it??? But it was uncanny how that song followed him last year... and kinda funny. I’m evil! I know!
So what are your favourites? White Christmas? Rudolph? Something a little less mainstream? Tell me!
When my sister was little she entered a Christmas colouring contest at Shoppers Drug Mart and won an Elvis Christmas LP. In retrospect this seems an odd prize for a children’s contest but I think we were both just thrilled that she won. From that Christmas on, whenever we put up the Christmas tree, we had to play that album while we decorated. I particularly remember Blue Christmas. It just doesn’t seem like Christmas without Elvis warbling, “You’ll be doing alright, with your Christmas of white, but I’ll have a blue, blue, blue, blue Christmas.”
2. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Barenaked Ladies with Sarah Maclaughlin
Steven Page’s current felony drug possession charges notwithstanding, this song is a relatively new favourite. The Ladies give this tune a little folksy, toe tapping lift, while Sarah’s haunting melody give it an almost wistful feel. I totally dig it!
3. The Prayer, Celine Dion and Andrea Bocelli
This is not, strictly speaking, a Christmas song but they seem to play it every year around this time. I’m not a huge Bocelli fan, but I just love the pairing of him with Celine in this piece. It is so breathtakingly beautiful that, even though I have no idea what the Italian words mean, it moves me to tears every time I hear it. I know, I’m just a big sap.
4. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, Judy Garland
And speaking of me being a sap, this is my very favourite Christmas song. Not just any old version though; it has to be the original Judy Garland version which is much more maudlin than the later, more recognizable one that has been covered by so many artists. The major difference is apparent towards the end of the song when Judy laments, “Some day soon we all will be together / If the fates allow / Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow.” I guess since my family is overseas, being the sappy masochist that I am, I like to listen to this version at Christmas and miss them. According to Wikipedia, in 1957 Frank Sinatra asked the writer to “jolly up that line for me” and so it became the innocuous, “Hang a shining star upon the highest bough.” Maybe it’s slightly more jolly, but bo-ring! Is it un-Christmassy to have a drink and miss people during the holidays? You should hear what the writer originally wanted the song to sound like: “Have yourself a merry little Christmas / It may be your last / Next year we may all be living in the past.” Now that’s depressing!
5. Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire
I’ve always kinda liked this song but last year it took on an extra special meaning. Hubby was slated to go in for an … *ahem* … operation. You know, snip snip. The big V? Okay. So I’m driving him down there and guess what song comes on the radio? Yup. As if his chestnuts weren’t already feeling the heat, he had to have Michael Bublé singing about them roasting on an open fire. But it doesn’t end there. For about two weeks afterwards, every time we got in a vehicle together and switched on the radio it would be yet another version of Chestnuts, and never the same one. Nat King Cole, The Carpenters, Johnny Mathis, Bing Crosby, Linda Ronstadt. Who knew so many people had covered it??? But it was uncanny how that song followed him last year... and kinda funny. I’m evil! I know!
So what are your favourites? White Christmas? Rudolph? Something a little less mainstream? Tell me!
Thursday, November 20, 2008
5 of my favourite kids books
1. Red is Best by Kathy Stinson. This story is a classic that I’ve just recently discovered (thanks Dawn!). Three year old Kelly must have only the red cup, the red mittens, the red stockings. No other colour will do. As the mother of a three year old, the unwavering kid logic is immediately relatable to me. Little Kelly’s voice comes across loud, clear and with beautiful authenticity. For a mother who wants to encourage her daughter to embrace and defend her opinions, this one was an instant favourite.
2. If You Give a Moose a Muffin by Laura Joffe Numeroff. Follow step by step all the crazy occurrences when forced to appease the largest species in the deer family who runs out of baked goods. Whimsical, quirky and with great illustrations, this book shows kids what reading for pleasure is all about: fun, imagination, entertainment.
3. Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now by Dr. Seuss. What kind of children’s book list would this be without Dr. Seuss? But you were probably expecting something more mainstream like Cat in the Hat or Go, Dog. Go! And rightly so. Those are great books, maybe even better than Marvin K. But when I was two years old my parents read Marvin K. to me so often I had it memorized right down to when to turn the pages. I would try and trick people into thinking I was reading. Flash forward thirty-ish years to me reading this toddler favourite of mine to my kids. What can I say? It gives me the warm fuzzies.
4. Miss Nelson is Missing by Harry Allard and James Marshall. Permit me to go off on a tangent here that will not only enlighten you about a great book, if you haven’t heard of it already, but also tell you a lot about a big difference between my sister and me.
About this time last year my sister was visiting and we were reminiscing about a book we both loved when we were kids, a book whose title we could no longer remember. All that we could remember was that it was about a teacher, it was kinda creepy and we simultaneously loved it and were frightened by it. Cut to me, ordering a Christmas gift for my sister. This is always difficult for me because I’m a) crap at picking gifts for people and 2) never on time when it comes to shipping Christmas gifts overseas. This time I decided I would order something online. I found out from my sister she wanted kitchen gadgets: mini cheese grater, salt & pepper shaker, spoon rest, you get the picture. I found an online store in my family’s area so that they will ship for free to my mother, who had kindly agreed to wrap the presents for me and then pass them on to my sister. I finalized my online purchase thinking how clever I was, all without ever having to leave my house and brave the mall, which I avoid doing like a mammogram (which I know, I shouldn’t avoid those but geez, they don’t sound like fun, do they?). Anyway, a few weeks later I get a call from my mom: somehow I have shipped her 6 spoon rests, 6 salt and pepper shakers, 18 mini cheese graters!!! Turns out the store I was ordering from was a restaurant supplier for bulk purchases. ARGH!!
What, you may be wondering, does this have to do with the book? Well about a week later I get a Christmas package from my sister containing many wonderful, thoughtful and completely perfect gifts for my family. Among them is, you guessed it, Miss Nelson Is Missing. She somehow managed to locate the book from our childhood, a book we couldn’t even remember the title of, and send it to me. *Sigh* And now you know one of the many reasons my sister is so fabulous. She is one of those thoughtful people with the uncanny knack of selecting the absolute perfect gift.
Oh, you want to know about the book? Well, I’ll just say that this book was probably my first significant introduction to the “plot twist.” Done well, even at a children’s level, it is a thing of beauty. Get it. Read it. See what I mean.
5. The Bear Snores On by Karma Wilson. Often I’ll get children’s books from the library and think, who the heck wrote this? Do they even have children? Don’t they know that children’s books are usually read to them and therefore have to sound good out loud? Karma Wilson gets it. The Bear Snores On has all the elements of a great children’s book: funny little story, easy to follow, likeable characters, cute pictures, but best of all is the lyrical element of the words. They roll off your tongue. My children love to hear it and I love to read it to them.
Yay books! Do you have a favourite? Tell me!
2. If You Give a Moose a Muffin by Laura Joffe Numeroff. Follow step by step all the crazy occurrences when forced to appease the largest species in the deer family who runs out of baked goods. Whimsical, quirky and with great illustrations, this book shows kids what reading for pleasure is all about: fun, imagination, entertainment.
3. Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now by Dr. Seuss. What kind of children’s book list would this be without Dr. Seuss? But you were probably expecting something more mainstream like Cat in the Hat or Go, Dog. Go! And rightly so. Those are great books, maybe even better than Marvin K. But when I was two years old my parents read Marvin K. to me so often I had it memorized right down to when to turn the pages. I would try and trick people into thinking I was reading. Flash forward thirty-ish years to me reading this toddler favourite of mine to my kids. What can I say? It gives me the warm fuzzies.
4. Miss Nelson is Missing by Harry Allard and James Marshall. Permit me to go off on a tangent here that will not only enlighten you about a great book, if you haven’t heard of it already, but also tell you a lot about a big difference between my sister and me.
About this time last year my sister was visiting and we were reminiscing about a book we both loved when we were kids, a book whose title we could no longer remember. All that we could remember was that it was about a teacher, it was kinda creepy and we simultaneously loved it and were frightened by it. Cut to me, ordering a Christmas gift for my sister. This is always difficult for me because I’m a) crap at picking gifts for people and 2) never on time when it comes to shipping Christmas gifts overseas. This time I decided I would order something online. I found out from my sister she wanted kitchen gadgets: mini cheese grater, salt & pepper shaker, spoon rest, you get the picture. I found an online store in my family’s area so that they will ship for free to my mother, who had kindly agreed to wrap the presents for me and then pass them on to my sister. I finalized my online purchase thinking how clever I was, all without ever having to leave my house and brave the mall, which I avoid doing like a mammogram (which I know, I shouldn’t avoid those but geez, they don’t sound like fun, do they?). Anyway, a few weeks later I get a call from my mom: somehow I have shipped her 6 spoon rests, 6 salt and pepper shakers, 18 mini cheese graters!!! Turns out the store I was ordering from was a restaurant supplier for bulk purchases. ARGH!!
What, you may be wondering, does this have to do with the book? Well about a week later I get a Christmas package from my sister containing many wonderful, thoughtful and completely perfect gifts for my family. Among them is, you guessed it, Miss Nelson Is Missing. She somehow managed to locate the book from our childhood, a book we couldn’t even remember the title of, and send it to me. *Sigh* And now you know one of the many reasons my sister is so fabulous. She is one of those thoughtful people with the uncanny knack of selecting the absolute perfect gift.
Oh, you want to know about the book? Well, I’ll just say that this book was probably my first significant introduction to the “plot twist.” Done well, even at a children’s level, it is a thing of beauty. Get it. Read it. See what I mean.
5. The Bear Snores On by Karma Wilson. Often I’ll get children’s books from the library and think, who the heck wrote this? Do they even have children? Don’t they know that children’s books are usually read to them and therefore have to sound good out loud? Karma Wilson gets it. The Bear Snores On has all the elements of a great children’s book: funny little story, easy to follow, likeable characters, cute pictures, but best of all is the lyrical element of the words. They roll off your tongue. My children love to hear it and I love to read it to them.
Yay books! Do you have a favourite? Tell me!
Monday, November 10, 2008
5 reasons I’m jealous of American politics
1. American politicians are like rock stars. Whereas Canadian politicians are like the nerds who got beat up in high school. Come on. You know forty years ago some jock was roughing up Dion for his lunch money. I remember about nine years ago I was flying in to Philadelphia to visit a friend when the plane started circling the airport. The pilot came on and explained that we had to wait to land because President Clinton was flying in at the same time. I suddenly felt a little giddy. I was in the same place as the President of the United States. I was sharing airspace with Bill! Cool! Then I thought, what if it were Jean Chretien, Prime Minister at the time, who was the one flying in. Totally different. Then I would have just been annoyed that he was delaying my landing time.
2. The choices are clear. During our election (Yes, American friends, we did have one! I know, blink and you missed it.) I kept lamenting, if I were American I know who I’d vote for. But up here it was confusing to me. At least five different choices. And not different like Republican vs. Democrat different. The Green Party vs. NDP differences were more subtle. And then there was this notion of strategic voting: giving your vote to whichever party had the better chance of beating the Conservatives depending on what riding you were in. Huh? I know I am woefully under informed when it comes to politics in general and Canadian politics in particular but I just wanted to ask someone, if I would vote for Obama in the States then who does that translate to in Canadian??
3. The debates. Now my fellow Canadians, be honest. How many of you watched the American Vice Presidential Debate instead of the Canadian Leaders’ Debate on October 2nd? You are not alone. It was hard not to be sucked in by the guilty temptation of potentially seeing Sarah Palin humiliate herself on internationally broadcasted television … again. In the end she did alright and I felt guilty so I watched a recording of the Canadian round table discussion online. But holy Snoozeville, Batman!
4. The glamour. Whether it’s the controversy over Palin’s pricey wardrobe, the talk about the return to Camelot now that an attractive younger couple are heading to the White House or comparing Michelle Obama to Jackie Kennedy, there’s a glamour to American politics. One that is completely absent from Canadian politics. Look what we have to work with. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against Elizabeth May. I thought she came across very well, intellectually, in the debate and in fact, I even voted Green. But it’s hard to imagine anyone referring to her as a MILF.
5. Barack Obama. I can’t be the only Canadian who, swept up in the excitement of the election and the emotion of the historical democratic win, felt a tinge of jealousy over the American’s shiny new president. I mean, it was such a long run, hard fought, emotionally charged race. To see the world celebrate as the U.S., with record numbers of voters flocking to the polls, voted in its first African American president. Then to see his acceptance speech, his beautiful family, grown men and women listening to him in tears. With images of Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King Jr. rising from the past, to imagine the country forging forth on a new path, looking to this man to lead them … it was all so moving. In Canada after our own, in the words of Jon Stewart, “adorable” election, with decidedly mediocre numbers of Canadians voting, we were left with… the same damn guy. Crickets chirping. Ho hum.
2. The choices are clear. During our election (Yes, American friends, we did have one! I know, blink and you missed it.) I kept lamenting, if I were American I know who I’d vote for. But up here it was confusing to me. At least five different choices. And not different like Republican vs. Democrat different. The Green Party vs. NDP differences were more subtle. And then there was this notion of strategic voting: giving your vote to whichever party had the better chance of beating the Conservatives depending on what riding you were in. Huh? I know I am woefully under informed when it comes to politics in general and Canadian politics in particular but I just wanted to ask someone, if I would vote for Obama in the States then who does that translate to in Canadian??
3. The debates. Now my fellow Canadians, be honest. How many of you watched the American Vice Presidential Debate instead of the Canadian Leaders’ Debate on October 2nd? You are not alone. It was hard not to be sucked in by the guilty temptation of potentially seeing Sarah Palin humiliate herself on internationally broadcasted television … again. In the end she did alright and I felt guilty so I watched a recording of the Canadian round table discussion online. But holy Snoozeville, Batman!
4. The glamour. Whether it’s the controversy over Palin’s pricey wardrobe, the talk about the return to Camelot now that an attractive younger couple are heading to the White House or comparing Michelle Obama to Jackie Kennedy, there’s a glamour to American politics. One that is completely absent from Canadian politics. Look what we have to work with. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against Elizabeth May. I thought she came across very well, intellectually, in the debate and in fact, I even voted Green. But it’s hard to imagine anyone referring to her as a MILF.
5. Barack Obama. I can’t be the only Canadian who, swept up in the excitement of the election and the emotion of the historical democratic win, felt a tinge of jealousy over the American’s shiny new president. I mean, it was such a long run, hard fought, emotionally charged race. To see the world celebrate as the U.S., with record numbers of voters flocking to the polls, voted in its first African American president. Then to see his acceptance speech, his beautiful family, grown men and women listening to him in tears. With images of Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King Jr. rising from the past, to imagine the country forging forth on a new path, looking to this man to lead them … it was all so moving. In Canada after our own, in the words of Jon Stewart, “adorable” election, with decidedly mediocre numbers of Canadians voting, we were left with… the same damn guy. Crickets chirping. Ho hum.
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