Trick or Treat?

It’s a good thing that I don’t get paid to write this thing, huh?  I mean, who disappears for nearly three months without a word.  Well, other than the words I’ve written on Twitter or Facebook.  Or BBM and texts and emails.  But yeah, barely a word.

Well, if you are moving to a new continent (not new to me… but new to live for Lee and the midgets) and then doing the look for a job, a house and car thing, then you sprinkle a bit of stressing over when the hell your stuff from Point A is going to arrive in Point B … you might slack in other areas too.

Especially if when you arrive you start feeling ill.

For the first weeks we were here, all I basically said was: I’m freezing! Am I getting a cold? Is that an earache coming on? Fuckity Fuck Fuck.. we have no doctor.. I can’t be sick!!  Ugh, my stomach hurts.   I need to sleep.  My back. My ovary.  I think I’m going to be sick!!

Then I peed on a stick.  I mean there was no way right?  I mean there is a way.  But chances were super-duper-practically-totally impossible.  Only, less than 2 minutes later I was met with THIS:

yes plus


YES +?!  + what?!  Plus a new car? Plus more babies?!   A simple YES would have been cool.  Though, to be honest, a NO would have also been most excellent.

So I tried to do the math.  Only one date fit and it still made no sense.  But there wasn’t any other possibility.  Unless out of nowhere I’ve developed a crazy sleepwalking habit where I slang my wares to random strangers in my sleep.  Only I think someone would have noticed.  I HOPE someone would have noticed.

With our shaky history, we didn’t want to say much.   Plus we were just about to take on a huge mortgage and having started basically from scratch when we got here, the reality of adding an extra mouth to feed and diaper was and remains TERRIFYING.  And that economic car that we bought with the astronomical insurance because I am ‘new’ … in the land where I got my license …  it doesn’t fit three car seats.

So we kept it pretty quiet.  I didn’t even get any medical personnel involved until last week, when I went to my first midwife appointment.  There we discussed the fact that stomach was out of control and I couldn’t believe how much it had grown for only 9 weeks.  So I got sent to have a dating scan to make sure that there was only one and that nothing was going crazy up in there.

It’s so not like in England.  I had to go to a generic lab where they were doing x-rays and ultrasounds for a variety of things.  They don’t have the flat screens for you to watch and they don’t tell you what they are doing as they click away on their keyboard right next to you.   Luckily for me I got a chatty technician and after she was done the official stuff, she gave me a look at all the vital parts and I made a comment about that looking more baby like than I thought 10 weeks would be and she came back with …

That baby isn’t 10 weeks.  That baby is 14 weeks.

Plus One Chillaxing

Say what?




I couldn’t figure out the math or how on earth that was possible.  I still can’t get over how it is.. but it is.

And holy shit! I have a whole less month to prepare.  This is crazy.  I am crazy.  I need time to spread out the crazy.

I sat up like a bolt of lightning. But I got drunk! Like stinking drunk! She said what was done was done and the baby looks fine and healthy.  Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t decide to start shooting up as my last hurrah before leaving England.

So I walked out of the appointment yesterday on a cloud.  A cloud made of crack.  YAY no twins!  But where’d I lose a month!?  Why the hell am I still SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO nauseous?!!?  Am I going to fit into the seats at the ACC on the 17th of December when my presence is required to cheer on my Canucks when they skate into town?  And what kind of car fits three car seats, that isn’t a minivan?!  Does it exist?!

That last one was serious.  Does it exist?!

So here, for all of the Internet to see is the tiny person we’ve been calling +1.  Though Noah has put in a demand to change his/her name to Hamster.

Hamster Brotherston.

Bebe Frontin

I know. That shot makes the baby look like a Mii. S/he has their Halloween costume already!

This one make me worry about the stomach to butt ratio.

Babys Got Back

That is one tiny bum! Perhaps this baby will finally inherit the long leg, normal thigh, non-J-Lo butt combo that has escaped the other two!

I guess we’ll see in April!

Sundays were the best days when I was growing up.  Not that I enjoyed church.  Especially in the Caribbean with no breeze coming through the window and everyone trying to fan themselves, and instead creating a very special, one of kind aromatic experience.    And not because it was Eat At Grandmom’s House day, though it was and I always loved that kind of day.   I loved Sundays because it was a definite Beach Day!  Frigate Bay, Banana Bay, Half Moon Bay … wherever! Playing in the waves, swimming, splashing, attempting to body surf, jumping the waves, eating soggy Pringles and drinking warm Coke out of hot glass bottles.  LOVED it.

What I didn’t love so much, was the mandatory hose down in the front yard afterwards.  No one lived behind our house or on either side of us, so you’d think that those options would be more suitable.  But no, it was always in the front where my Dad swore no one could see (oh they could, and those than couldn’t heard about it in school the next day).

Now that I am not naked in public with 3 perfectly fine showers inside of the house mere feet away from the puddle of embarrassment and sand I was stood in, I look back on those Hose Offs and laugh.

Unfortunately we live no where near a beach.  And in fact, this summer has been far more Autumnal than sunshine and swimming pools.  This has not given me much opportunity to create memories that will shame and embarrass the midgets while providing me with laughter.   I am failing as a parent.  Or I was until this afternoon.  The sun came out – too late to fill the inflatable pool – so I whipped the play sinks out of the shed and filled them up with water which was then carried back and forth and thrown on each other.  When the sinks were empty and their bums were covered in grass, I offered to hose them off.  They are smart.  They turned me down without a moment’s deliberation.

But they are not too smart, because they didn’t mind the offer of a bath; with no water.


1 Aug 2011


ME: 1 – Midgets 0!!!


Ying and Yang


Never has one photo captured their personalities quite like this one.



Dust Off the Award Shelf

It appears that the all of the afternoons I spent with my grandparents’ glass Mary and Jesus (I think that’s what it was) statuette, pretending it was an American Music Award or Oscar as I practiced acceptance speeches into the mirror on the dining room wall is finally paying off.

For years I wondered when I was going to get a chance to be the best soap opera actress EVER or at what age someone other than my shower head would realise that I do actually have the X-Factor.  I was just about to give up hopes of strutting down that red carpet in a dress I think is nothing short of awesome, going to the after parties where I would nibble on fancy one bite foods whilst laughing like Julia Roberts … with Julia Roberts and Vanilla Ice.

Luckily, I’ve had children.  Children who have harnessed my raw talents and in turn are honing these natural born talents ready to take over Netflix and the iTunes charts.

Beware ladies, because Enrique has nothing on Noah:


13.7.11: Wind The Bobbin from Kirsty B on Vimeo.


And right after music award season is over, we’re going to rest up and prepare for the SAGs and the Oscars!



10.7.11: The New Jamie Lee Curtis from Kirsty B on Vimeo.


The Mad Hatter!

Jerry Seinfeld owns his own parking garage full of cars.

Imelda Marcos had 2700 pairs of shoes.

Amy, if she could, would be the Queen of hats.

5.11: Princess

Not the just Philip Treacy does Princess Beatrice kind of hats (though I’m sure she’s give them a go), but anything that will fit on her head. A pasta strainer: check. Metal bowl: check. Mama’s bra: check. A towel: check.

In fact, for public outings she is quite partial to a tiara or her sunhat.  Not just your run of the mill, floppy cotton hat (RIP beautiful simple reversible hat from Jamaica, We miss you) but a lovely stripped straw number that she NEEDS to wear to pick Noah up from school or to go grocery shopping.  Most little girls have a doll or a blanket, but our daughter fancies herself as a mini Queen Lizzie and likes to have her hat and purse.  I hope she doesn’t realise that she wears gloves too.

5.11: Beach bunny


But being mostly me, with a splash of Lee, her absolute favourite hat … excuse me while I pause for a hard swallow as the pride within me rises … the humble and noble toque (or tuque if you prefer to stick with the French Canadian beginnings).

Lee Cam Misc and May 132


5.11: Logger

Seriously.  The girl will wear a toque all day.  Take it off every now and then to check just which one she is wearing and then readjust it and carry on with whatever she is doing.   The best part, to her, is that since we’ve started going through all of our belongings, we’ve discovered that we have a plethora of the fine woolen headwear.  It is Toddler Toque Heaven around these parts and she couldn’t be happier.  Yellow, red, stripes, dongles, loose, tight, soft, itchy.  One for every mood!  No, really.  There are that many!

5.11: Skier

It is an odd fascination, bordering on addiction, but the way we see it .. it could be so much worse!  So hats off (feel free to groan) to Amy’s ‘new thing’.

And let’s hope that Noah’s ‘new thing’ is more of a fad than a fixation.

Lee Cam Misc and May 175

No, that’s not a tan.. it’s a tiger. Can’t you tell? No? You mean you don’t take a blush brush and spread brown eyeshadow all over your face when you’re in the mood to ROAR?

Someone should maybe mention that to Noah.


Chicken Joy

Take two toddlers, add two parents, plus one promise of seeing cows on a drive and after nearly 3 hours of aimless, cowless driving the result is – CHICKENS!

With Noah’s 3rd birthday fast approaching we needed to get some supplies for my attempt at a cake too ridiculously ornate for a 3 year old to actually appreciate, but just right for a mother who likes to escape reality every now and always.  Because the store was about 45 minutes away and the prospect of bakeware shopping is not all that exciting to toddlers, we promised that we’d see cows and horses and sheep on the drive.

Only apparently all of the cows in the world went into hiding yesterday.  We saw sheep.  And more sheep.  We saw white sheep, black sheep, sitting sheep and standing sheep.  We saw a couple of horses through thick brush, but other than that we just saw fields.  Lots of rolling cowless green.

Ames was cool with this.  She was enjoying the ride and having a nap here and there.  Noah on the other hand .. not so much.  He was promised cows and he wanted those cows, dammit!   We tried and tried and tried and tried and used up half a tank of gas trying.  By this point it was almost getting heartbreaking, though more on the side of annoying, to hear the calls for “cows! cows! where did cows go?”.    We were lost.  Not that we didn’t know where we were, we just didn’t know where to find real* cows.

The last hope was a farm shop we’d been to years earlier where we discovered pickled onion cheese.  Now that is some serious tongue tingling, saliva producing, oh so moreish cheese!  But anyway, we decided it was that or suck it up and spend the rest of the afternoon listening to a very upset nearly 3 year old go on forever about how he’s so young and we’ve already failed him as parents.

Away we drove, pointing out all of the not cow things along the way and showing him all of the sheep as we turned the corner on to the road leading up to the farm shop.  The total disinterest in said sheep was not promising.  We pointed out the chickens running around and once again, Noah could have cared less.  In fact, all of his attention was focused on making sure that his helium balloon did anything but float.

Amy on the other hand was excited.  I am talking levels of excitement that just shouldn’t exist when you see a filthy beast of a chicken.  I hate birds.  Seriously hate birds.  Flamingos are pretty to look at, but I pretend they are not birds.  And don’t even come near me with a feather.  Dead birds are worse than live birds.  Except when they are chicken wings.  But this girl.  This girl who was born of me was running after chickens with abandon.  Balloon bopping about in the air as she took off in Crocs and no socks through mud and chicken shit to try and capture these vile creatures.  She even tried to enter their coop or “ca cas’ ‘ouse” as she called it.  And when we said no way to that idea, she waited outside somewhat patiently.

Come Out And Play With Me

Noah, upon seeing this, got full of macho and was determined not to have his 20 month old sister have all the fun.  Even if these big ass birds were kind of scary.  Plus, like in Patrick Swayze’s world where Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner, no one in Noah’s world denies his Adi what she wants!  Unless of course it is him.  So he joined her at the coop to tell those chickens to come out.

My Sister Wants To Play

Cows? What cows?  Noah started following Amy on her quest to become the world’s first under 3 ft tall Chicken Herder.  He laughed when they would run from her and would cock-a-doodle-do at them to let them know he could speak their language.  It was the smartest decision we had made that day.  Even better than the decision to drive to the shop to get the bakeware and discovering a new Soft Play area we can take the midgets (and it would have been THE smartest idea had we put socks on our children) .   And even though we left the house at 20 past 11am and didn’t wind up playing with chickens until nearly 4pm,  and I felt almost as carsick as that time I threw up Mr. Sub in the flowerbed outside of a Holiday Inn in Peterborough on an Easter weekend away with my parents when I was about 9, one look at my Mini Mr. Anxiety standing in the field with chickens running near him and it made it worth it.


As for what happened to Amy when we were consumed with happiness for Noah letting go of one fear (momentarily .. whilst clutching tightly to another) .. she decided to challenge some chickens to a duel.

Midget v Chicken

Seriously. This girl was calling out a chicken that was off camera and this malformed, mutant chicken tried to step in. She didn’t bat an eyelid, and when the object of her taunts decided to take a quiet walk in the parking lot, she took off after him laughing like a total maniac.

I guess she really is mine.


The Return of Chaos


.oO(hello hello hello hello hello)Oo.

So, I am sitting eating peanuts and liquorice torpedoes and wondering a) why am I not paying more attention to what I am picking up out of this container because both of these in the mouth at once are … gross.  b) should I risk possible blistering of my mammaries and stick those cabbage leaves in my bra to help alleviate this ridiculous pain and c) should I acknowledge the whole Haven’tBeenAroundForOhAlmostAYearBecauseApparentlyI’m … and well if I finish that thought then I guess I’d have my answer.

The thing is, the majority of those of you who ever took a look here either follow me on Twitter or are my friends on FaceBook  so you know what happens in my life  .. on a daily basis.  And those of you who don’t fall into the categories above  obviously didn’t miss me too much or I would have heard somehow.

And that thinking is what helped me put off writing this entry for days and weeks and months.

While we’re here and sort of being honest and upfront with each other (I like to think that if this wasn’t a one sided medium of discussion then you’d be honest back) I have a confession to make:  GrumpyPumps and BoxofSquawks are no longer.  It saddens me to admit it, yet at the same time it fills me will a sense of relief that I cannot explain.

Three blogs were too much.  Three blogs, when you add in other social medias and the actual raising of the little balls of crazy behind the two other blogs, was way over-reaching.  I mean, I barely kept one up to date before the pregnancy brain and subsequent baby brain settled in.  And 34 months or 19months later, depending on which child you favour, that affliction seems to have taken a firm hold on my already previously marshmallow brain.

There is some good news though.  Nooooooo, you silly fool, I’m not carrying the final part of a midget trilogy, but it is midget related.  Noah and Amy have been given the thumbs up to make posts on this account when they feel the need to vent, boast, complain or just say hi.  Trust me, Amy has a lot to say at this moment.  Or would if she hadn’t cried herself to sleep.  Don’t worry, we’re not letting her ‘Cry It Out’, I was lying down right next to her while she did it.   Oh, and all of their previous entries are available in the archives.

So with that, I welcome myself back and I welcome a whole new year to promise to frequently update the blog and of course mange not to do so.

Here is hoping 2011 is a more productive – not reproductive – and prosperous year for everyone and may we spend less time in hospitals (after this month when I’ve got an appointment), more time with each other … and may this bastard of a house finally sell.

Cheers, Big Ears!

Chin Chin

And for the midget starved in all of you …

Woody 1

Woody 2