No Sh!t.

Independence in a child can be cute. It can be frustrating. It can be wonderful. It can be messy.

There will be no photos to accompany this post, for two reasons: a) my camera battery is charging for the trip to London and b) I like you. Most of you, anyway.

Amy is our independent child. Sure, she can be the human manifestation of Saran Wrap (read: Cling Film), but generally she wants to do everything for herself.

Not 15 minutes ago, I heard her doing something on the floor in the living room and asked her what she was doing. She ignored me at first and then came to me holding out a baby wipe. A baby wipe covered in baby poo. Not a little bit of fecal matter either. I called Lee over because I knew we had a situation on our hands and I was scared.

Turns out, I had every reason to be.

We’ve deduced that she must have done her business, climbed up on her horse which assisted in squeezing it out as she reenacted Luke Perry’s stellar performance in 8 Seconds to Glory. She then noticed and thought .oO(oh, let me get this…), proceeding to wipe it all over the floor and I guess when she thought there was too much on the wipe, relieved her cleaning partner of the weight and spread it on the couch cushion.

Guess that seals the Not Taking To Canada deal.

I love her. Really, I do. But at this moment in time, I am loving Lee WAY more because while I type this, he has her in the bath making sure all of the poo is cleaned out from between her chubby toes.

Is it weird that I just described a 65 year old’s body as ‘banging’?

Anyway, enough about her. This is about me. Me and my grey hair. Make that me and my grey HAIRS.

Last year when I turned 34, I looked through my head and found approximately 8 grey hairs. When you consider my parentage, I was damn happy and almost superhuman to have so few. But something happened between then and now. Something so frightening that I had Lee take a photo and couldn’t actually bring myself to share it with you all.

They’re EVERYWHERE! On the sides, in the front, in the middle, and luckily I don’t really have eyes in the back of my head because I can guarantee there’d be some there too.

I know that this isn’t a massive deal. I mean, I’ve already come to terms that we might have to start taking Amy and Noah to the salon when they reach 9 and 10 because they’re fighting an uphill battle now. But I am still scared. Do I embrace it (apparently my momma says I shouldn’t) and be proud of my silver foxiness or do I continue to hide beneath a petri dish of chemicals and colours a little while longer? If so, do I go back to highlights to let me live the lie longer between touch ups?!

Hello, this is important business here! I almost wish I had short hair so that I could just let it grow and not worry. Then the poor midgets would have everyone at school thinking they lived with their grandparents (no offence Mr. Clooney… err Lee)

But really, can it be that bad to just let nature take its course? It seems to work for Helen Mirren. And okay, I don’t her genetics facially or ‘banging bodily’, but still. I am a lazy person. A cheap, lazy person. I’m only fooling myself if I think I can escape the glaringly grey reality for too much longer.

While I figure out which route to take, I’ll be at the salon on Saturday giving myself a little while longer before I decide who wins in the battle of Vanity v Lazy.

What I wouldn’t give right now to be a 3 year old whose biggest decision is whether to take off some of his clothes or all of his clothes whilst he pretends to be a polar bear.


Ear Today, Gone Tomorrow

No, I’m not about to pull a Van Gogh (Van Go to my North American peeps and Van Goff to the Brits apparently).

But I am still freakin’ deaf. Seriously now, this is getting ridiculous. Do you know how hard it is to try and keep tabs on two crazy midgets with only one good ear? Do you realise the joy they get when the phone rings and I am running around like a headless chicken because I can’t tell where the sound is coming from? And to make it all just that little bit worse, there appears to be action in the ear. I’m not exactly sure if it is good action or bad action, but heyzeus it is annoying.

Currently the midgets are asleep. Out of my good ear I can hear that there are birds chirping and Amy is stirring (so now I have to sit here like a statue hoping she doesn’t clock me and fully wake up. These damn singing birds! Don’t they realise that just because I can’t hear doesn’t mean the other people in my house are suffering the same fate?! Phew… she’s out again). Out of my bad here, I don’t hear much. But inside of it I can hear the din of a small plane engine. Or actually, it sounds more like there is a toilet running constantly in my ear.

If you’ve ever suffered in a house with an ever running toilet, you know how this can get quite annoying after a while. Though usually in that case you can stop it temporarily. Mine is constant and I can’t even flush it.

I haven’t even developed any extra senses to make up for it either.

And now I’ve blogged about it twice in a row which makes it not only annoying to me, but boring to you. Let’s hope that this clears up soon so my brain can obsess about something else that I’ll feel a burning need to share with the Internet!

(I’ve just realised that I wrote this only 3 days after the last ear post. That post was a week after I’d been to the doctor. I’ve gone again this week and she’s put me on antibiotics which ‘should’ help. THEY BETTER. Lee is getting really sick of me yelling when I speak and if I don’t snap soon, he will.)

Last weekend we took Noah to the doctor because he told us he needed one. That and he had an ear infection. We’d all been suffering some form of sinus cold and had issues with the ears. He got antibiotics which we had to smuggle down his throat and he was instantly better. Aside from the needing to blow his nose thing, but he plays with bird poo, so it comes with the territory.

I, on the other hand, have not fared as well. My earache appears to have manifested itself into some sort of temporary deafness. But not total deafness. I can hear the ocean and other noises, but anything on my right sounds like I’m eavesdropping from the room next door.

Worse than that, is this more than slightly disgusting taste/smell in deep, dark inaccessible regions of my nasal cavity/throat. As if my body felt that I wasn’t responsible enough to figure out when to blow my nose, it has given this odoriferous reminder that smells like 1000 rotting skunk carcasses somehow crawled into my sinuses when I distracted by one of the midgets spilling their cereal milk all over the floor. And the only thing worse than smelling 1000 rotting skunk carcasses is tasting 1000 rotting skunk carcasses.

So nearly two weeks in I’m getting worse and the doctor’s only advice to me was to take ibuprofen. Unless they have a new kind of ibuprofen that smells like The Yankee Candle Co. Christmas Cookie when you pop it up your nose, then I’m not seeing how this is going to help the situation. Last I checked, ibuprofen didn’t help toddlers understand why their struggling to breathe, swallow or exist mother isn’t happy clapping about their recorder playing, furniture drumming or wrestling.

And then when I was changing Noah’s diaper earlier, a mini marble of poo rolled out and landed on my thigh.

Because that’s the type of day today is.

So hear me loud and clear, Monday 11th of April: JOG ON!

P.S: Carcasses should’ve totally been Carci. So much easier to type.


terrible twenty two tears

Amy is now 22 months old.   Only two months away from the big 0-2 birthday.  Unfortunately, she has been unable to hold the Terrible Twos at bay.  In fact,  I’d go so far as to suggest that she’s had them for quite some time now.   However, until recently they were more naughty and yelling and the tears were brief as she was a toughie.

Apparently when I wasn’t looking someone put her in the microwave and melted that rough and tumble tomboy princess and when the time was up they ran off and left me with a walking, not quite talking, blob of toddler tears.

Look at her wrong – cry.

Touch her (accidentally or on purpose) – cry.

Don’t touch her (accidentally or on purpose) – cry.

Ask if she wants a snack – cry.

Tell her no – CRY.

Mention ‘bed’ – CRY.

Attempt to put her in her carseat – CRY.

Say the word ‘vagina’ to her – laugh.

So I’ve found her weak spot; but I cannot spend the next year constantly saying vagina in order to prevent meltdowns.  Or I could, though I’m pretty certain I wouldn’t make it to a year before I was kindly offered a room with locked windows and friends who paced the floor talking to their giant teddy bears, imaginary friends or even worse .. to me.

Please let this be an In Like a Lion, Out Like a Lamb thing.  I beg of you.  You being anyone that can help.  Because I cannot take this ….

22 months of Terrible Two!

… for the next 16 years.

Dear Momma,

I’m sorry.  Please make this stop.

In return I’ll convince Amy that her doll’s name is not ‘fuss’.



Your Partially Deaf and Almost Fully Crazy Daughter.

Karma really is a bitch.


at least it is not heroin

I am an addict.  I have been for years.  I’ve attempted to hide my addiction, but I feel like I can no longer be true to myself without admitting my shameful secret.  We all have our vices and some are worse than others.  I’d like to think that mine is not so bad.  At least that is what I thought until recently.  Until the four of us were walking through a parking lot and I had to talk myself out of approaching some strangers to ask if they could help me get a quick fix.  You see, right on the table in front of them was what I craved and they didn’t seem to be in any hurry to use the goodness that they had.

That’s right; I am addicted to McDonald’s Monopoly.

It’s sad, but true.  In fact, we went to the Golden Arches for dinner last week as a treat for the midgets and they took so long they offered us free ‘desserts’ (can you really call what’s on offer there dessert?).  Without discussion I told Lee that we needed 4 McFlurries. He didn’t question this and went up and procured our freebies.  When he came back to the table he offered me up two flavours (Crunchie or Creme Egg in case you were wondering).  It was at this point that I confessed that I didn’t actually want a McFlurry, but they were the only desserts that came with McDonald’s Monopoly game pieces.

I was almost ashamed.  Almost.  And when we walked outside and I saw the two men casually chatting whilst their game pieces went untouched on their drinks, the urge to reach over and help myself was almost overbearing.  But I talked myself out of it.  I mean if I had gone and won the half million, there’d definitely be some sort of fight and why would I want to share my riches with two fools who weren’t ever going to use the game pieces anyway.

But then we had to walk over the pedestrian crossing in the drive-thru lane and there was the backing of two game pieces tempting me by my feet.  I didn’t know what to do.  Do I embarrass my whole family and get down on the ground to see if someone had left behind the the key that unlocked our future – or at least a weekend away courtesy of Last Minute dot com?  Do I try and convince Lee that I need him to go back and get the piece for me once we get to the car?  No, instead I just tried to kick it nonchalantly in hopes that it would flip over and show me if they were doubles or if they were much needed tickets to a winners wonderland.

And as I looked down to see what I had revealed, tears welled up in my eyes.  Not tears of shame.  Not tears of joy.  Tears of futility. All I had done was move the pieces a grand total of three inches.  I didn’t even give myself a peek.

It was at this point that I went to Lee to confess how dirty I felt.  How I was struggling not to run back and pick it up .. just in case.  He tried to comfort me by saying that they were likely just the backings and that there were no game pieces attached.  Sure, I guess that could be an option, but we’ll never know.  In fact, all I know is that somewhere behind a curtain with the Wizard of Oz sits Ronald McDonald, Mayor McCheese and Grimace and they are all having a huge laugh at my expense.

But I’ll show them.   This year I’ll make sure we actually cash in on all of our freebies.  Even the nasty apple pies.


And no, this is no April Fools joke.