June 11, 2008

Nine years ago - seems like a lifetime ago, and yet, other times, it feels like yesterday. My daughter Angela passed away on June 11, 1999.

I think of her often, see her in the blooming flowers, in a fluffy cloud, in a tiny raindrop or feel her presence in a warm summer’s breeze. Although the pain has subsided and I can talk about her without feeling overwhelmed, there are times when my tears will fall, unexpectedly, surprising me. Losing a child is not something you ever, truly get over. You always feel it, live it, sometimes can’t really believe that it happened to you. But it did.

Later, today, when all is quiet, I will open her tiny hopechest of memories, write in the journal that was given to me by my sister-in-law, a journal that I write in every year on this day. I share my thoughts with her, let her know what’s happening in our lives, how much I miss her and let her know I will see her again one day. I look at her pictures, read the cards given to us, touch the handmade gifts made by my nieces and nephews, and hold her tiny dress and bonnet, and remember the last time I saw her and held her close. I will thank her, for because of her death, 14 months later, our second daughter, Madison was born. Her birth was bitter sweet, but she was very much wanted and I believe that part of Angela’s soul lives in Maddy.

Today Angela, you would be nine-years-old and I picture you with long, red hair, a spattering of freckles across your nose like all of your siblings, and a smile that would light the darkest day. One day I will hold you again, be well my sweet baby, and I love you.

May 27, 2008

I’ve been pregnant 845 times. Possibly only 5-ish but it sure felt like 845 times. I was overdue just about every single time, but the longest was my oldest son. I think. Let me explain.

I was 19, and pregnant for the first time (hope so at 19!) and I honestly knew not much about babies, having a baby, diapers, babies, or babies. I obviously knew how to get knocked up, knew where the baby was going to come out (HELP ME!) and assumed it would hurt like hell. However, as far as all of the technical jargon, the details, I was pretty naive.

I was sure I was pregnant in early January, but put off going to the doctor because I was afraid. By February, I was newly separated, still figuring I was pregnant but still not wanting to have it confirmed, but finally managed to make a doctor’s appointment. The obvious fact of me being with child was proven. The doctor wanted to know when my last period was.

I don’t know.

Do you have any idea?

I dunno. (at 19, I didn’t keep track of much)

A guess even?

I gave him a guess, which looking back was probably wrong, thus putting me in the upsetting situation of being 2 months overdue, or 4 weeks early, or being pregnant for 26 months (I’m getting to that).

I was given a due date of June 8th. Seemed okay I guess. Still officially spring time, so I wouldn’t be sweating up a storm with a hot, sultry summer baby. I had moved back home with my parents and siblings, worked until I was about 8 months pregnant (what I thought was 8 months pregnant) and then started my maternity leave. It wasn’t too bad - sat out and got tanned every day, helped my parents look after my younger siblings, did some shopping to get ready for baby, basically loafed around for what I thought was my final few weeks.

I went to all of my doctor’s appointments during the pregnancy, didn’t gain a lot of weight, still wore mini skirts and my hooker pumps and big hair (hey it was the 80’s) and felt okay for the most part. Of course by the first part of June, I was really, really hating pregnancy and didn’t understand women who gushed about loving pregnancy, how they felt sexy and beautiful blah blah blah. But I was comforted in the fact that my due date was June 8th and being naive, and not super knowledgable about babies and due dates in general, didn’t realize that due dates aren’t a guarantee that your baby will actually arrive on that given day.

I went to what I thought would be my last regular apointment before baby was to be born. Wrong. So very wrong. I remember being on the examining table, waiting for the doctor to come in to do that ever so uncomfortable “check of things down there,” and assuming (I did a lot of assuming back then) that he would say, “baaaabbbeeee time!” which he totally did not.

Doctor comes in and does the exam, listens to the heartbeat, checks my blood pressure, and then tells me he’ll be right back. He comes back with my chart and a “look” on his face. He clears his throat and matter of factly, tells me that although I was originally told that my due date was June 8th, he said that he was now putting me due around the middle of August.

Whaaaaaaaaaaa?

Things just aren’t where they’re supposed to be, and there’s no way that your due date is June 8th. You weren’t sure of your last period date were you? That makes a difference.

I, uh, I’m due in August? Shouldn’t you test me? My mom’s neighbor said that there’s a full moon soon, like in a few days and that the baby would come then. So, right?

Well some people believe in the old wives tale about babies being due and coming on or around the time of the full moon but since it’s only June, there’s no way that you’re having this baby now.

But I’m like due now. How can I be pregnant for like 11 months?

Doctor laughs.

I’m not laughing. My lip is quivering. I’m seriously thinking about punching the doctor in his old, fat face because there is no way I’m going to be pregnant for another 2 months. It was horrible enough that my shoes were becoming tight and my days of wearing my beloved high heels were coming to a horrible end and the thought of wearing stupid flip flops was making me nauseous. Plus, just because he’s a doctor, and an old one at that, doesn’t mean he knows about babies and pregnant chicks. Sure he was an ob/gyn and had been for 100 years, but still, he didn’t know everything. Like, my determination not to be pregnant for another 2 months was overwhelming and I was going to get this baby out.

I left the office feeling very sad, so sad that I stopped for icecream on the way home. What did doctors know anyway? They were just regular people with white coats and medical instruments in their offices. Big deal.

Since this was not the land of computers or the world wide web, it’s not like I could just go home and google shit about babies and shit. I had to call people and ask them questions. Like could the doctor be right? Could I infact be pregnant for another 2 months? Yes, I was assured that that could actually be correct. Why? Well dear, when you don’t know your dates, then the doctors can’t know your dates. Sure they can guestimate, and give you a basic idea with an ultrasound but it’s not a guarantee. It’s not? No, sadly, it’s not.

By the first part of July, I was so sick of being pregnant, I decided to become creative and make the baby fall out. Yes, I seriously thought babies could just fall out in the right circumstances. And no, not because my vagina was huge.

My friends, who by the way, were not mothers nor were they ever pregnant, gave me some suggestions, to which I gladly decided I would try. One friend told me that her mom had drank a bottle of ketchup and then a few hours later had her. I ate one tablespoon and barfed. But unfortunately I didn’t barf a baby out. Just the ketchup. I was told that skipping rope would induce labour. I had a skipping rope and after about 56 jumps, realized, that doing that was not going to make baby fall out. It just gave me heartburn. I was told sleeping on my stomach would make the baby uncomfortable and then it would want to come out. Nope. Just made me uncomfortable because what 89th month pregnant lady can sleep on her stomach? Not one. I dare you to find me one.

One friend held a “let’s get this baby out” party - which only she and I attended. The baby didn’t even make an appearance. Someone told me to watch a scary movie and that would make the baby active, thus making me go into labour. Nope, the scary movie didn’t work. Just made me pee my pants. Another person told me to have sex. Uh, I didn’t have anyone in my life to have sex with, and that’s what got me in this mess to begin with, duh, I’m not dumb.

The month of June goes by in a blur of trying stupid, not working things to try to get the baby out and before I knew it, it was July.

Monday, July 13th, I went to another doctor’s appointment. I was resigned to the fact that, at 19, I would be in the record books of being pregnant for the longest time ever. Considering most women have their babies within 9 months, give or take, I was going to be 11 months pregnant by the time the middle of August rolled around.

As I sat on the table in the office, I wondered if Guiness would be calling me and wanting photographs of the chick who was pregnant for nearly a year? Should I get a new tent to wear? The doctor comes in and it’s not my regular doctor, new doctor introduces himself and explains that my doc is away for a few days. We do the whole routine of small talk while he checks my vajayjay, he finishes (that sounds gross) and tells me to get dressed and he’ll be right back. He comes back a few minutes later and says that everything looks good and that I’m dilated and my cervix is soft.

What? I’m what? My what is what? Is that normal?

Yes, it’s normal and it means that your body is getting ready to have the baby.

Whaaaaaa? Really? Like when?

He laughs.

What is it with doctors laughing at their pregnant patients?

It means that yes, you’re very close to having the baby.

Could I have it right now? Well, I don’t mean like right in the office, but soon right?

Yes, maybe even tonight. (laughs)

For real? Like tonight?

Well, don’t get your hopes up, I was half kidding about tonight, but baby seems ready and things are moving along nicely, so it will be soon.

So, like I won’t be pregnant for another month?

No, no, no. You’ll have that baby within a week. I almost kissed this new, unfamiliar baby doctor!

Instead, I almost shit myself. I went home that day and it was sorta like winning the lottery. My water broke on July 14th around 2 a.m. and 8 long hours later, I did win the lottery. My first son was born.

To Sam, who is 567 days overdue (okay, maybe only 6, but I bet it feels like 567 days), my point is, that baby will come out eventually (I hear you’re being induced!) and that baby will be so worth the very long, impatient, uncomfortable, did I mention very long? wait. Good luck, and happy birthday to your baby.

So, I was either 2 months overdue, 4 weeks early, or right on time. Depends on who you ask.

May 4, 2008

Are you a parent going from “child” to “children?” If so, read, on.

Her Bad Mother, Mrs Chicky and Mrs Chicken are doing just that and I’m going to offer some advice on how to make that transition as easy as possible.

Sure, this “advice” might not seem very conventional, but I guarantee you’ll want to use it.

Ear plugs. Invest in some. Of course you can’t ignore baby’s cries, but once the second baby becomes a toddler, and your older child is not quite a toddler, you’ll want them. When the fighting over the Cheerios starts, the “she/he touched me,” the meltdowns from not one child but two, you will want those ear plugs. Home Depot or Walmart.

A good lock for your bathroom door. Again, we’re basing this on, when your children are slightly older (because ignoring a screaming baby is, uh, wrong, I’m pretty sure). When they’ve spilled cereal on the floor, taken markers to your freshly painted walls (uh, well not that you’ll have time to paint, but in the event that you do), when the youngest has licked the dog bowl, and when the older child has put daddy’s underwear on the younger child’s head, you head for the bathroom, LOCK THE DOOR, and start running the water in the tub. No - not to clean the kids up - it’s for you. Your TWO children will come pounding on the door, but you “can’t hear them due to the running water.” It gives you a few minutes to get your wits about you, get clean in the process and feel free to also use those ear plugs in combination with the running water excuse.

Wine. You don’t drink? Oh you’ll want to start. Of course the wine drinking should probably come in after you’re done breastfeeding your child and I don’t recommend getting sloshed while caring for your children, but a slight buzz every now and then does help you to retain some of your sanity. Now you’ll have lost some of whatever sanity you did have left during the second time giving birth, trying to juggle a toddler and a newborn and one child screaming that he or she pooped on the cat and a crying infant, demanding to be fed NOW, but you’ll want to preserve whatever sane brain cells you have left. Remember - slight buzz perfectly acceptable.

Demand that your husband/SO/partner have his cell phone on at all times, even during his important business meetings. There will be times when you’ll need to call him and ask him to GET HIS MOTHER EFFING ASS HOME NOW BEFORE I KILL SOMEONE. Think of it as your own personal “help line.” Trust me, he’ll want the mother of his children to be as happy as possible if he ever plans to get laid again.

Chocolate. Have a few pieces of chocolate hidden around the home. You’ll be out of wine at some point and you’ll want a backup. Be sure to put some in your closet - you will find yourself hidding in there periodically.

Bleach. To clean up the crime scene. Oh no, no, no, not THAT kind of crime scene. The poop one. Your toddler will try to help you “change the baby” and this will happen when your infant has had an explosive poop - you remember those from your first child. It’s just now, it’s happening to your second child and your first child has decided to take little brother or sister’s diaper off (while you’ve left the room for those precious 10 seconds) and it’s turned into the most disgusting mess you’ve ever had to deal with to date. Probably should have a hose, gloves and bio-hazard suit thingy.

Headache pills. Self explanatory.

A good, trustworthy babysitter. You WILL want a night out. ALOT.

I hope I’ve not scared you. Seriously, it’s not that hard going from one to two. You’ll be slightly more on edge for the first few months with a second child, a little crazier overall, and have less thinking ability but there are good points too. I mean, twice the love and giggles, and once your second child is no longer a newborn, you will actually start to relax a bit. Remember when your first born used to suck on a pacifier and that pacifier fell on the floor or ground and you immediately grabbed a freshly boiled, sterilized one? Well those days are gone! With your second baby, you’ll wipe it off on your shirt and say, “listen kid, no one ever died from a little dirt.” See? More relaxed. And another good point - once you have two kids, it’s way easier to get on to the third, fourth or fifth. You’ll survive the hurdle of going from one to two, and if not, I hear prison is more like a swanky camp now.

Good luck, happy birthing, and congrats on going from A CHILD to CHILDREN.

April 20, 2008

I should have known better when I looked in the bathroom cabinet, that the box was empty. I thought it was a brand new box. When I opened it and realized, to my horror, that it indeed was empty, panic set in. I run downstairs and my oldest son is sitting on the couch, watching television. I begin my schpeal.

You know what brings a mother and a son closer together?

Um, no?

And it also guarantees a spot in her will.

Um, okay? What?

They will know it’s not for you.

Who? What?

I need something from the store.

Okay, what?

You like driving your new car right?

Right.

Well then, here’s a perfect opportunity for you to drive that shiney new car.

Wanna spill it already?

I need tampons.

Oh no, that’s not happenin’.

But I need them.

I don’t buy those for anyone. No way.

The cashier will assume they’re for someone other than you - you know since you don’t have a vagina.

Not doing it. I will drive Matt over and he can go in.

Fine then.

I approach my youngest son and ask him if he could run down and tell Matt to come upstairs, that it’s an emergency. He jumps up and races down to get Matt.

Matt comes running up, a look of panic on his face. I begin my schpeal with him.

You know what brings a mother and a son closer together?

Uh, no?

When a son walks into a store and buys his gorgeous (just adding an adjective for a more interesting story) mother a box of tampons.

OMG.

What?

Geez, Ryan came downstairs and said there was an emergency - I ran up here thinking someone was, I dunno, bleeding!

*Crickets* The room went silent.

He soon realized that his words, couldn’t have been more true. I assured him, that he’s definitely in my will.

April 10, 2008

Or should I say I hated being pregnant? Ya, because I’m currently not pregnant nor will I ever be again.

I recently wrote this for work (Tori Spelling gushing about loving being preggo, blah blah) and I mentioned at the end of the post, that I must be the only woman in the world who hated being pregnant, but to my surprise, I’m not alone.

I was obviously happy to be having a child and not to dismiss the fact that I was lucky enough to conceive a few times, as some women aren’t, I’m not trying to sound ungrateful, it’s just that I didn’t get the warm fuzzy feelings that alot of women get when they’re preggo.

Some women gush about how they love their bodies, they’ve never looked better, feel fantastic, yada yada yada, and if that’s how you feel when you’re with child, fabulous, more power to you. I never did. I never felt glowy (although people told me I was), I did NOT like my pregnant body and although I didn’t gain more than 16 pounds in any of my pregnancies, I always felt fat, bloated and yucky. I did have great hair though, so that’s one nice thing.

I remember when I was pregnant with my first son, I was 19, newly single and had not a frigging clue what to expect. Sure, I knew how people got pregnant (duh), knew the technical stuff about actually giving birth, realized that I’d be shaped like some dude with skinny legs and a beer gut, but really had no idea what I was in for.

I had gone shopping - I was about 7 or 8 months along at that point - and found the cutest peach colored loafers (sure peach coloured loafers now, sound hideous, but this was the 80’s k?) and didn’t even bother to try them on - I was always a size 6.5 or 7, so never any need to try shoes on. I get them home and excitedly take them out of the bag and want to wear them out that night (was going to a movie with a friend) and low and behold, the fuckers don’t fit my feet. What? I immediately look inside the shoes at the size stamped on the side - 7. Again, I try to put my foot in, and nope, that puppy ain’t going in. I take a good look at my feet and realize that they’re SWOLLEN. No one told me that pregnant chicks get swollen feet! I start crying, going on and on how I’ll never wear a size 7 shoe or smaller again. My life was ruined. Never mind the fact that I was about to have a baby at 19 and single, living with my parents, MY DAMN SHOES DON’T FIT. Priorities people, priorities. I vowed then and there, that someday I would wear those peach loafers (oh I did wear them btw - the day I left the hospital).

Other things I didn’t know about being pregnant (at 19) - you don’t get alot of sleep in the latter stages of your pregnancy. Who knew? Strangers come up to you and mention that you look a tad too young to be having a baby and ask personal questions, like are you married (I was separated), do you have a job (I did), are you going to breastfeed? (that’s your business?), do you know if you’re having a boy or a girl (it’s one or the other, yup), can I touch your belly? (um, no), do you have a name picked out? (no), will you have more? (I haven’t even had this one yet) - amazing what people you don’t know, think they’re entitled to know.

Other things I had no idea would happen (again when I was 19) - as I was peeing at around 2 a.m., the pee just kept coming out (ah in the toilet, luckily) and it was sorta freaking me out. After a good two minutes, it clicked that my water had broken. I grab a towel and make it like a diaper and run and get my parents, tell them it’s “time.” My contractions were about every 3 or 4 minutes, and I actually took the time to sit in my room, in front of my big mirror and carefully apply full makeup. Foundation, eye shadow, mascara, blush, lipgloss - the full shebang. I even curled my hair - I mean no one told me that I’d end up looking like a drowned sewer rat after 8 long hours of labour and that hair and makeup is really not required when giving birth.

The best part though - was as I was being wheeled into the delivery room (yes way different back then, you laboured in one room and were carted off to another room to actually give birth), I was asked by a doctor if it would be okay to have some med students watch and take notes? I was high on Demerol, so I naturally said sure. I remember being pretty much stoned, but yet seeing about 5 med students with clipboards and pens, staring at my vagina. One of them was super cute, that I do recall very distinctly. And the next day, as I’m laying in my hospital bed, that same cute dude accompanies the doctor making his rounds. and although his face was in my privates the day before (and um, not in a good way), I totally wanted to ask him out. I bet he would have said yes.

It’s amazing that I went on to have more kids, and although my life circumstances did improve - I still hated being pregnant all the other times too. The heartburn, the feeling like someone (uh the baby?) was pressing on your bladder 24/7, the impossibilty of trying to find that perfect sleeping position, the morning sickness for SEVEN MONTHS, the fear that your water would break in the mall, the bizarre food cravings - how I do not miss those days. Sure I liked getting the cute baby after all of that torture, but the pregnancy itself? Never liked it. Not. one. little. bit.

My 7-year old daughter always has many burning questions and seriously, who doesn’t want to know this:

Mom is the Easter bunny like real?

Sure.

Ya but is he real? And…is he really a he? Or a she?

What do you think?

I think he’s a boy and I think it might just be some dude dressed up in a rabbit suit. I mean really, a giant rabbit going around with eggs and chocolate? Plus, rabbits poop ALOT. And I never see any rabbit poop in our house at Easter time.

True. Thank goodness for small miracles.

I think I’m going to write about this in my journal.

Good plan.

February 24, 2008

Is it every day you can say you were hit in the head by a Calgary Flames player? The answer is no! However, I can totally say that. Cory Sarich hit me in the head (ah for non Flames fans, that is a photo of Iginla, because he’s hot my favourite). As for me being hit in the head by Sarich, read on:

We attended the Calgary Flames Skills Competetion back in January (yes I’m just now writing about it because I wanted to have pictures to show you and I had taken over 200 and just got them uploaded - hey I’ve been busy) and we were lucky enough to get seats directly behind where some of the team was sitting. There are different things going on during the Skills Competetion - obviously skill stuff, duh, but also things being thrown into the crowd, because let me tell you, that takes some talent.

There are T-shirts being thrown, chunks of ice, hockey sticks - naw, I’m kidding about the ice and sticks but they do throw other things besides shirts. As I’m sitting in my seat, minding my own business, taking some photos, I’m momentarily stunned by a sharp pain on the right side of my head and ear. I look over at my husband and oldest son, who I figured would be opening their mouths to ask me if I’m okay, because, clearly I was in pain. I do see them open their mouths but no words of sympathy come out. Instead my son is oviously quite thrilled.

Woo Hoo! Wow I can’t believe that!

What? What can’t you believe? I was hit in the head by something and man does it hurt.

Ya I know! Awesome eh?!

Awesome that I was hit in the head?

Ya!

Um, no not awesome. I think my ear is going to fall off.

Probably not but holy shit, that is awesome!

Why is it awesome? Explain to me how me in pain is awesome?

Duh, you got hit in the head with an autographed frisbee! Cory Sarich signed it and threw it and it hit you in the head and I caught it! Ya!

Well then, never mind my bleeding wounded half falling off ear, just as long as you got an autographed frisbee. Glad my ear and head could help.

Woo Hoo!

Ya, woo hoo.

Anyway, got some decent photos - I still had the glass to attend with but it was cool being that up-close. My favourite player is Iggy and a close second (my oldest son’s fav) is Dion Phaneuf. Here are a few pics and there’s more HERE.

*My son Sean was able to meet Craig Conroy a few weeks ago*

February 1, 2008

My daughter is 7 going on 23. She’s alot of what I’m not - ballsy, gutsy, bold, speaks her mind, which isn’t a bad thing obviously. Sometimes she’s obsessive. Not sure where she gets that trait.

I had taken my youngest two shopping last week and we stopped at one of my favorite stores - Winners. As we’re browsing around, daughter spies a clearance bin (now I do know where she gets that trait) and sees a cute pink and purple purse which is on sale for $3. She immediately gets excited and tosses it into our cart. Our cart, by the way, had our jackets in it, my purse and some other things we were purchasing.

I find a pair of pants and a shirt that I want to try on. I let Ryan stay in the toy section and bring Madison with me to the changing rooms. I ask the lady at the counter if I can leave my cart in front of her counter, she says yes. I leave our jackets in the cart, along with our other items, taking only my purse and the two items I’m going to try on. We come back out a few minutes later and Madison looks in the cart and asks me where the purse is? I start looking through the cart, but it’s gone. The lady at the counter asks me if there’s a problem and I explain to her that the purse my daughter picked out and placed in the cart is now gone. Counter lady says she didn’t see anything.

My daughter runs back over to the clearance bin and starts looking in it, wondering if it had somehow walked back there by itself. As she’s riffling through the bin, she looks over to her left and starts waving to me, wanting my attention.

“Mom, mom, mom, mom!” Saying it in a hissed whisper.

“What?”

“That lady took my purse! Look in her cart, right there, she’s got it.”

I look over and see a woman standing by her cart, two kids in tow and her cart filled with toys. And she’s GOT THE PURSE THAT MY DAUGHTER PICKED OUT. BITCH took it from my cart.

As we’re watching her, she walks away from her cart to go look at the rack of clothes. Madison runs over to me and begs me to take it back from her cart. Now I’m in a bit of a dilemma. I want to take that purse, and give it back to my child but at the same time, I, who, do not like confrontation at all, and who also wants to think the best of people, and maybe that,that lady didn’t take it from our cart, that maybe the purse got up and walked into her cart, by itself. Because that’s plausible.

My child is not happy. I walk over to the clothing rack, the purse thief is at the other end and I say, quite loudly, “Wow, it’s really rude when people take things from someone else’s cart.” Lady aka THIEF looks over at me and glances down at my cart, which still holds our jackets and other items. I see the look on her face for that split second. She knows that I know that she took the purse that my daughter picked out.

Madison comes over to me and starts her rant.

“See? That lady is rude mom, rude! Why are you not taking it from her cart? She doesn’t deserve that purse. I saw it and picked it out and she just walked up to our cart when we weren’t looking and took it. That’s STEALING.”

“I know Madison, it’s rude and I wouldn’t ever do such a thing, but I know what you mean, I know you want it back, but technically we didn’t see her take it, so I don’t think we can just go over and take it back.”

“Why not? We had it first and she didn’t mind taking it from us. I say we march over there and take it back.”

At this point, I’m envisioning a riot, police being called, handcuffs and making a call to my husband to bail me out. Do I have an over active imagination? I’m thinking, yes.

Again, we watch as the lady walks away. By this time Madison is practically foaming at the mouth.

“If you don’t go take it from her cart, then I will. I will march right over there and take it.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I think it’s a GREAT idea.”

I tell daughter to just wait a minute so I can think about this, think about how to approach someone and accuse them of stealing something from our cart. Is there a polite way to do that? However, as I’m picturing things in my head, the decision is taken out of my hands.

“Mom, I see their cart! She walked away, I don’t see her, I’m making a run for it.” And with that, my child dashes over to the lady’s cart and quickly takes a look around, and snatches the purse.

She makes her way back to me and throws the the purse in our cart and buries it under our jacket.

“That lady was rude mom and there was no way I was going to just let her get away with that. And when she realizes that the purse is gone, then she’ll probably KNOW that I took it but I don’t care because she was the one who was wrong, not me.”

“Ah huh.”

“I’m so not letting any rude lady get away with that. NO way.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and said, “Let’s go pay for MY purse.”

Brave and bold, that’s my girl.

January 20, 2008

Who knew that taking my kids to meet Calgary Flames center Craig Conroy would be so exciting? My oldest and my youngest are big hockey fans and when my son mentioned last week that he wanted to go to the “meet and greet” with Conroy, I had no idea I’d be the one taking them.

We got to the show home (where it was being held) and listened for a bit to the radio show on Fan960, being done live. Even that thrilled my kids. Not so much me. I did take a tour of the show home just to kill time. Later on, we made our way down to the next home to wait for the hockey player that I really don’t know much about. My 7 year old daughter knows way more than I do about such things. I thought she was a princess? Princesses aren’t supposed to know about hockey and sport-ish stuff. Sheesh. And she also entered a contest for the “Junior Reporter” where the winner gets to interview players, gets free tickets, a jersey, goes to a practice and maybe gets to marry one of the players for all I know. Again, I’m pretty much in the dark about such things. Madison is convinced she’s going to win. She has as much of a shot as the next kid, but I’m sure there were lots of entries. Fingers crossed.

We waited about an hour and finally the moment of truth - Craig Conroy walks in. Holy. He was way hotter taller than I thought. All of a sudden I was wishing I knew more about him. Wait, I’m married. Oops. He is in my age range though. Not that that matters. Plus I’m sure I saw a wedding band on his finger. And again, I’m married. Did I mention I’m married. Yes.

I didn’t realize I would get so flustered. God. I didn’t even know what he really looked like before he walked in. He was so nice too. He smiled at each person that went up, signed everything that people asked him to sign, stood up for pictures if you asked, thanked you for coming and waiting in line. He really was a nice guy. And gosh, so hot tall. Just so tall. And his eyes are so blue. Very blue. Not that I was looking. I mostly just watched the wall. Am I babbling? I think I am. Anyway, it was fun seeing my kids so thrilled by it all and getting to meet a “star” in their eyes.

October 23, 2007

For the last few days, we’ve been telling our youngest children that ‘daddy’s new worker, Bubba, is coming for a visit’. Who we were referring to, was our oldest son moving back here for the next few months to work. However, we wanted to surprise the kids, so we didn’t tell them, instead, made up a fictional dude named Bubba.

I had it all planned out, bought my son fake black mustache and sideburns, gave my husband (who was picking him up from the airport) a black hat to give him so he could cover his red hair as that would be a dead giveaway for the kids and told him (son) not to wear a familiar jacket or shirt etc. I envisioned ‘Bubba’ coming in (and I was videotaping it) and we’d make a whole production out of it, the kids would ask Bubba questions (and Bubba was a hick from somewhere) and it would be this funny, fabulous video, so funny infact, that we’d send it in to America’s Funniest Home Videos and win the $10,000 grand prize. Perhaps a bit of a stretch in my overactive imagination but hell, one can fantasize right? Right.

Husband and Bubba arrive, I have the video camera all poised and ready to go, signal them to come in and my daughter runs to the door because all evening she’d been peppering me with ‘Bubba’ questions. “Where’s he from? Why is he a hick? Does he have yucky teeth? Is he married? Does he have a car? A girlfriend? Is he cute or ugly”? Oh the questions kept coming. She runs to the door excitedly and in walks Bubba, wearing his familiar hat, red hair sticking out, familiar orange hoody, familiar jeans and workboots and although he did put on the fake mustache and sideburns it was not enough with every single freakin’ thing else looking much the same as when he left half a year ago. Therefore, immediately, my child says, ummm you’re not Bubba, you’re Sean. Well duh.

Was it too much to ask for husband and son to put the getup on as instructed? No, it was not. So, it was basically a half assed effort and of course he was instantly recognized. Then, then, then to top it off, my youngest son wasn’t even in the room, which I thought he was. No. He was on the toilet, so my oldest runs up (ah not even going for the pun there) and peeks in and surprises the crap (ah ahem, er, nevermind) out of my youngest boy, who just stares at him in shock. It was a priceless moment for sure, however, it’s not one that I’m going to share with the world, since my child might not appreciate the fact that his mother is videotaping this wonderous event, you know, with the whole toilet issue thing happening.

Next time some child of mine or any other relative, is coming for a visit/stay, and I want to make it some big surprise, I’m going to make sure I’m the one who goes to pick up said person so I can dress them appropriately for the whole, you know, SURPRISE factor and fantastic video capture moment. Geez. If you want something done right, such as shocking the shit outta your family, let the crazy bitch woman do it.